Internal Windows: A Reflection on my Creative Writing MA

 By Anna Walsh

I started writing poems as a creative outlet when my children were small, and I occasionally performed them at spoken word events in Leicester.  When I became Word! Poetry Slam Champion 2022, part of my prize was a paid gig at the Attenborough Centre. One of my neighbours who came to the gig is an English lecturer at the University of Leicester and she encouraged me to consider the Creative Writing MA. 

It was intense but fun to return to studying as a mature student and the first modules, on climate change and poetry, suited my experience and interests. The second-semester course on fiction was a steep learning curve, but I was keen to challenge myself and I developed a good writing routine with excellent support from tutors and classmates.  

My final MA dissertation, Internal Windows: 42 Micro Memoirs, is a collection of memories from childhood, adulthood and parenthood which vary widely in form. It was inspired by Beth Ann Fennelly’s Heating and Cooling: 52 Micro-Memoirs, which includes memoirs of a single sentence, others which are lists or short paragraphs with joke-like punchlines, and the titular "Heating and Cooling" which is a five-page personal essay.

I was excited to discover a new genre which suited my writing style, as I discussed in my reflective commentary:

"I experience life in fragments. Each shard is glittering, and compelling. The inputs of my surrounding environment; sounds light and smells, images, words and textures, shine unfiltered into my brain. This feature of my neurodiversity can be an asset for Creative Writing. I notice detail and am fully immersed in every experience. I find interest in the ordinary. As each location is all-consuming, moving from one room to another is like travelling between different worlds. The recent past quickly becomes a distant memory and the future is unimaginable. Life is a set of disconnected segments rather than a connected continuum. This works well for writing poetry, dense and intense around a single metaphor. Longer-form writing and narrative structure is much more challenging for me. I found that micro-memoirs suited my ability to craft short pieces which are complete in themselves." 

I had no shortage of material. It was just a case of collecting up the scattered post-it notes, the unnamed documents from the corners of my computer, the "notes to self" on my phone and some older memories from the depths of my brain.  I spent a lot of time on editing and applying my new learning to craft these pieces into effective stories in a wide variety of forms. 

Arranging the forty-two pieces in the most compelling order was an important but potentially overwhelming process. I followed my supervisor’s advice and printed them all out. I then infiltrated the Engineering block and enjoyed several hours rearranging my pages on their large, tiled landing with windows overlooking the park.

I am delighted that I will be returning to the University of Leicester in September to start my PhD as part of the EM-SLAM programme focussed on sustainability, storytelling and mental health.

Below, you can read three of the micro-memoirs from my MA Creative Writing Dissertation. 

Cheating death

I have written poems for one wedding and three funerals. My relatives message me memories and I connect them with rhyme. My dad says he’ll be sorry to miss the funeral poem I write for him, so we agree that he can have it in advance. I send him instalments, a verse for every birthday. He gets to cheat death by hearing his own eulogy and I will never have to say, "I wish I’d told him while I had the chance." 

Saturday mornings 

"Can we have icing sugar on our breakfast?," we shout towards the mounds of our sleeping parents. One of them mumbles a muffled syllable and neither of them moves. I will take that as approval. My brother is already on his way to the kitchen, jumping down the last two stairs. 

He places the pink box on the kitchen table, the cardboard flaps flipped up, and the inner packet open. We climb onto the wooden stools, dangle our legs and wait for several seconds in respect of the ritual. My brother hits the packet and a white cloud rises.  We lean right in and inhale the sweetness, coating our throats and noses with the soft powder particles.  

Once the magic has settled on the surfaces, we abandon the sticky kitchen to eat our sugar topped Weetabix in front of far too much TV. 

Years later I come across a newspaper article: a health study into the benefits of glucose for respiratory illnesses. It suggests inhalation therapy as a treatment, but they have yet to address how sugar might be inhaled. 

We are the pioneers who have the answer. Those Saturday mornings spent in research will not have been in vain. I message by brother to congratulate him.

The Tidsoptimist

Sorry I’m late I was thinking about my cheese plant.

Sorry I’m late I was working out the meaning of life.

Sorry I’m late but I genuinely believed that if I cycled fast enough, I could catch up with time. 

It's Never Too Late

By Sushma Bragg

It’s been 35 years since I graduated with my BA (Hons) Degree in Humanities (Literature & History Of Ideas), then life got in the way. Priorities changed, and I got stuck in the day-to-day humdrum of working 9-5. I had to, I had bills to pay. And I wanted a family.

My passion had always been to become a writer. I always had my head in a book from the age of 9. Thanks to my teacher at primary school (I am forever grateful to her), it had become a challenge for her to find me a book that I would actually read and finish. I had no interest in any of the children's books at school. Then she hit on a jackpot! She introduced me to a world of fantasy, magic, and make-believe in the form of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. I was forever lost to this world since that day! Every break, every lunchtime, you would find me in the cloakroom, my nose in a book. I surreptitiously read way into the night too and quickly turned my light off if anyone woke to go to the bathroom. I dreamed that one day, people would read what I had written. It was a pipe dream. I did not have the belief in myself. However, I did have to go to University, it’s a cultural thing, an unspoken rule in our family. But back in the day, there were no Creative Writing degrees, hence my degree in Humanities.

Now 35 years on, life has given me the opportunity to pursue that dream. My children are at university, and I am relatively a free agent.

I grew up in Leicester, my mum still lives here and I spend a lot of time here in the week to help care for her. So the obvious choice had been to apply to the University of Leicester for the Master's Degree in Creative Writing. At the time I did so (I was a late applicant for the September start) I really didn’t think I’d get a place. But I did to my surprise!

I was apprehensive, thinking what on earth am I doing at this late stage? My twins had just started uni and they were only 18! I’m in my late 50s! I also had that niggle in the back of my mind, “Am I good enough?”

But with the support and belief of my family, I came to be a student again. Even got myself a studio in student accommodation.

I can’t describe the emotion I felt on my first day. But it definitely made me realise how much I missed the whole academic environment. The uni life, the seminars, discussions and of course the creative art. This is where I was meant to be. All my life this is the path I was meant to take. And the time was right for me now. I was literally buzzing.

I am enjoying the whole process, from attending seminars, making new friends, both classmates and tutors,  meeting and attending lectures by guest writers. The opportunities have been endless. I even enjoy reading the copious amounts of set material and of course the WRITING! 

My heart fell when I realised that part of my degree was poetry! I’d never written a poem in my life before. I most definitely was NOT a poet. Yet to my surprise, my first few pieces of writing were poems - even for the non-poetry modules. Just goes to show, how if given the chance and the willingness to try new things, that whole worlds can open up to you. I’m not saying I am any good, but I can now say I have written poetry, and enjoyed doing so.

I have come home, to where I was meant to be. I am living my dream. It’s never too late …