Dark Angels in Conversation: Amsterdam

Gillian Colhoun and Stuart Delves ran a two-day, bespoke course for Irdeto’s marketing team in Amsterdam this January. Here’s their conversation about that experience, and a follow up email from a participant that all of us live for. 

Stuart to Gillian

Hard at work at the College Hotel

Gillian, it was great co-tutoring with you again. The first time at Highgreen Manor in Northumberland and this last time in perishing January at the College Hotel in Amsterdam. The link between the two courses, the first open and the second closed, bespoke or ‘in-house’ was, of course, Irdeto’s Solution Marketing Manager Jo Wall. Who’d have thought that six months after Highgreen she would be in touch with us asking us to tailor a foundation course for her multi-national team based in Amsterdam. It would be interesting to muse on what were the key differences between the open and the bespoke. Dark Angels have done several bespoke courses before but we’ve never really highlighted the differences. What springs to mind first for you?

Gillian to Stuart

My first thought was the group dynamic. One of the more beautiful aspects of the open courses is that people arrive as strangers and leave as something quite different. In just a few short days, they go from knowing absolutely nothing about the person sitting on their right, to sharing a bond that holds them together long after the smells and sounds of the course have dimmed. Whether it’s through tackling often poignant exercises together, or acknowledging emotions that take one by surprise, the friendships live on. Would this rather thrilling element to Dark Angels be lost in a group who already know one another? Might they be less inclined to jump in to the exercises for fear of a judgmental glance from a co-worker? Of course, I really shouldn’t have worried since all eight members of this talented team arrived with a joyful desire to be a better writer and nurture mutual understanding. Every one eager to explore underlying principles  – not to dictate or invent “rules” on writing – but to introduce ways of thinking that would make them better listeners and communicators. And from their feedback and work, they absolutely succeeded. Having done similar types of bespoke courses before, has this been your experience in the past? Where does the magic come from I wonder?

Collaborating on building a brand

Stuart to Gillian

Yes, an appetite for learning and improvement has always been there in the teams we’ve worked with before and I think that’s pretty crucial to our methodology. The Irdeto team was carefully picked and had good rapport, which enabled them to embrace the newcomers. There’s always, I feel, a greater weight of expectation on a bespoke course that the sessions will ‘deliver’, in other words help to answer key issues like tone of voice or writing within business constraints. I’m glad to say that once again we manifestly helped on this score. But I think the magic comes from the personal dimension. It always amazes me that our short course can go so deep in such a brief space of time. And I think this is because even on a bespoke course, where we apply the learning to real brand and team situations, we still run our personal writing strand in parallel. I know we get responses like ‘life-changing’ on our open courses but to get them on a closed course as well still delights me after twelve years. I know you achieved some pretty deep mining in your 1-2-1 sessions. Without betraying any confidences can you say a bit about this?

Gillian to Stuart

I felt very privileged to hear how individuals felt about their personal writing; how they could channel this rediscovered energy into their world of work. We discussed many different things; the momentum to be found in writing memoir, or the sweet liberation in tackling the most opaque technology regulation in a series of 250 word stories. We appreciated the role of graphic design and how its rules can give shape and meaning to our carefully considered paragraphs. For those writing in English as a second language, we talked about sharpening our ear to more elegant phrasing by reading more, yes, but also by listening more. BBC Radio 4 has some of the best rabbit holes to venture down where that’s concerned. And ultimately we chatted about giving ourselves permission to play with words and see where the joy of that process can take us.

The last morning was significant for me. It was fun to take a lot of what was discussed during the personal writing exercises and start to apply those learnings to the Irdeto branded content. In just two days it felt like the group achieved a significant amount as a group and as individuals. Do you agree?

Stuart to Gillian

I do. The group achieved a lot as a team, in particular furthering their articulation of their tone of voice – not only getting guidance from us but, as importantly, having their discussions moderated.  This is a key aspect of closed courses and in-house day workshops. The opportunity to have searching explorations convened and sometimes steered is as important as experiencing the Dark Angels exercises. The group also seemed to get a huge amount out of the two days personally. Ellen, the boss (who the others described as a fierce but caring mama bear) said the course ‘had opened doors I didn’t even know were there’. In her follow up email she also said-

“The words from the last two days just keep swishing around in my head… Everyone I spoke to has found this to be the best training / workshop / learning of any kind of creative writing they’ve ever come across, too.”

Luckily the air in Amsterdam was icy those two days, as it helped to mask our blushes as we left the hotel for the tram stop.

Gillian to Stuart

It strikes me that this format lends itself rather superbly to the needs of a corporate communications team. That gentle balance of exploring the individual as well as the organisation means we were able to nurture the flowers and get to the worms – lovely.

Stuart Delves, Gillian Colhoun and the Irdeto team in Amsterdam

Quotes

“Thanks again for the great course. It was insightful, intense, exhausting and fun!”

~ Julia Broere, Global Marketing, Irdeto

“Thank you. It was a life-changing experience.”

~ Melinda Mattei, Irdeto

Fiction is the true alternative

by John Simmons

I cannot imagine that anyone reading this blog is a supporter of Donald Trump. The new president glories in the absence of books in his life, revels in his lack of reading. That might be the scariest fact about him, and it’s not an alternative fact. The adapted version of the classic Penguin 1984 cover speaks to me about the times we are currently enduring.

I’ve blogged here before that art and creativity have to be the best counters to dark forces like Trump. I’m just reading Colson Whitehead’s brilliant novel The Underground Railroad set in slavery-era America. It’s impossible to read that novel then support Trump. Fiction really is the most powerful antidote to Trumpism because it nurtures our empathy for other human beings.

Last week I was proofreading my novel Spanish Crossings that will be published in April. The story involves the 1930s rise of fascism, the Spanish civil war and the child refugees from that war. When I began writing it I had not anticipated that it would have such an uncanny relevance to our current times. If I had anticipated that, I might have recoiled in horror and become more polemical. I’m glad I didn’t because the novel – any novel – has first to be a human story not a political treatise.

Proofreading has given me this strange experience. I finished writing the novel nearly a year ago and since then I’ve been concentrating on other work (including another novel). So I came to the proofreading task with fresh eyes and open mind, and I read the book as if it had been written by someone else. It’s a very weird feeling. When I came to the ending I had tears in my eyes. Am I allowed to cry at my own book? I remembered Jamie Jauncey’s favourite quotation from Robert Frost: “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” Here I had been both writer and reader.

If you want to pre-order the book you can do so here >> I’m pleased to say early readers of proof versions have been very enthusiastic.

So 2017, for me, promises to be a creative year, my own antidote to Donald Trump and all his works. It is appropriate in a way that I will be running the first American Dark Angels course in New Bedford, Massachusetts in October. I’ll be doing that with my good American friend Richard Pelletier and you can read about it here >> The location has literary links to Herman Melville and Louisa May Alcott, fiction writers who linger in the minds of millions who have read them over the past centuries.

Out of the blue, and so appropriately, I was sent the image shown below by Anita Klein, who collaborated with me a few years ago on The angel of the stories. She calls this new linocut ‘Angel protecting an acorn’. It seemed to me the perfect image for our Dark Angels venture.

Straight Outta Uni

A couple of months ago, Dark Angels offered the younger contingent of 26 the chance to win a scholarship place on the celebrated creative writing in business course. Jamie Delves was the 26er under 30-years-old, not long out of university, who went to the magical Moniack Mhor to spread his writing wings.

by Jamie Delves
“Straight Outta Uni” is a funny time. The first question that occurred to me was whether I would have to reference anymore. I did a few jobs for my dad, a copywriter in Edinburgh, and found myself looking to confirm this uncertainty. I told him that some of these strange things in my head just lived in the public lexicon and I would struggle to tag them to original sources or places. They had no intellectual homes. They belonged to everyone. To my deep relief, he told me that I could discard the syntactical practice of referencing and trust the intelligence of my audience. But this question evolved in the company of others. Not just how I referenced material work, but how I referenced myself: who I am, where I want to go, where I’ve been, and why I’ve been there.

Right now, every conversation is an interview, and everything waits to be revealed. Unless you lift the curtain. The first big curtain I discovered myself lifting was a Dark Angels foundation course in a removed valley just above Loch Ness at October’s tail.

We sat in the belly of a converted cowshed, two unshifting stone walls facing each other, with a fire under our arm in the hearth, the hobbit house down the hill behind us in the darkness, and the unending lines of primeval trees crawling up the mountain on the other side, whispering to each other. But still, we were in an anxious horseshoe, flexing over the most succinct ways to communicate ourselves to each other and asking all those questions again. Why were we here? Not simply existentially, but very practically, what had brought us between these two stone walls in the Highlands to learn about creativity in business writing?

I knew exactly why I was there, but because of its barbarous simplicity it was difficult to articulate. There would be no other opportunity for me like this, to spend a week among intelligent people who are a mile or so further down the track than me, who I could enjoy meeting and learning from in a comfortable, residential environment.

We drank wine and whisky and beer and water together, two people would cook each evening, and every day we’d sit in the hobbit house with its grass roof and two log burners side-by-side, playing fun literary and writing games, one including a knife and a dictionary, and by the evening, all unfurled and meditative, our notebooks at rest, too, we’d stretch out listening to Jamie (OJ – I’m YJ) playing songs on his guitar that he’d written when he was 22 in Peru, remembered word perfectly.

Every day would start with music, too. Music made by us, all together, in chanting an early Christian incantation in either Latin or Gaelic. We would stand in the middle of the hobbit house in a tight circle, following choirmaster Jamie, and we’d stop when he stopped – the length of time we chanted was decided in the moment. Take time.

Dark Angels in Conversation December 2016

lucy
Lucy Beevor at Loughcrew, Ireland on an Intensive Foundation course.

Dark Angels Associate Partner Gillian Colhoun chats with student-writer, Lucy Beevor.

Gillian to Lucy

It was wonderful to spend those few days with you at Loughcrew. Tell me, did you have any expectations of what you wanted to get out of the course?

Lucy to Gillian

Ah, Gillian, they were magical days! It was fantastic to meet you, John and Mike – three of the Dark Angel magicians – and my fellow white rabbits, Mike, Fiona, Emily, Olive and Megan.

My expectations?….I tried not to have any expectations at all. I often imagine myself forwards into all sorts of situations and then get disappointed when what I’ve convinced myself will happen doesn’t (I obviously haven’t mastered the technique of visualisation, ahem). So, this time, I made a conscious effort not to anticipate what I would get out of it.  It would be a step into the unknown. 

Having said that, I did get rid of a concern early on – that ‘it was a course for people writing for business’. How would that be relevant to me, when here I was, turning my back on 20 years of writing for organisations, and wanting to dig deeper into my own fictional writing, poetry etc? I was really lucky to speak to you about the course well in advance,and of course was inspired by Thérèse Kieran, who writes poetry and has done the Foundation and Advanced courses.  She assured me that the course was as relevant to me as it was to two marketing consultants, a strategy director, start-up business leader and mobile app developer (my fellow white rabbits).

Gillian to Lucy

You’re right. Dark Angels is like a lighthouse to many kinds of writers. Perhaps that’s part of its magic, not knowing how the mix of experience, exercises and sensibilities will work together.  I was particularly interested in your thoughts since I know you’ve participated in different kinds of creative writing workshops and courses. How did the Intensive Foundation course compare with those?

Lucy to Gillian

The immersiveness of the Foundation course sets it apart from other courses I’ve done. You created a ‘bubble’ for us – a beautiful location, we didn’t have to think about any practicalities – food and drink were all provided (copiously) – and you rolled us on from one writing exercise to the next.  We didn’t have space to hesitate so I kept leaping in; there wasn’t time for me to let those gremlins jump into my mind and undermine what I was doing so I kept going. I thought the course was beautifully planned.

Also you ‘magicians’ didn’t critique our work at all. That was another difference. The writing courses I’ve done – weekly classes, one-off workshops and a weekend workshop –  have had an expectation of the tutor judging participants’ work, to varying degrees. You, John and Mike were very supportive but you weren’t there to tell us if our writing was good or bad. Instead, it seemed that by managing the different experience and sensibilities of the participants, you created a space – a laboratory perhaps – in which we could each experiment and test and pull and stretch our own styles of writing, see where it took us.

Gillian to Lucy

Your analogy of experimenting in the laboratory feels like an accurate one. I’m glad you felt that Dark Angels provided a safe space to go and explore aspects of your writing without fear of judgment. 

I always think that a testament to any kind of creative immersion is if it inspires us to write more freely. Have you managed to find time to write anything since you have returned?

Lucy to Gillian

Yes! And the freedom I’ve found has come from the constraints I learned on the course.  Particularly summarising what I’m trying to write in 12 words.  That really helps me get to the nub of the pieces I’ve written since.  Oh and I’ve just completed a prose sonnet (inspired by yours) that I’m submitting to a competition. So yes, definitely writing. Thank you.

Ed. note: Lucy’s prose sonnet, inspired by Gillian’s prose sonnet, was inspired by Jamie Jauncey’s prose sonnet, which was inspired by Richard Pelletier’s prose sonnet, which was inspired by Sherman Alexie’s utterly amazing prose sonnet, called Sonnet, with Bird. You can read it here —>

A Highland writers’ retreat where guests learn to bring the outside in … and onto the page

 

Moniack Mhor, Scotland's Creative Writing Centre
Moniack Mhor, Scotland’s Creative Writing Centre

James Morgan, Deputy Sports Editor of The Herald

THERE is the beginning of a grey mizzle, and the scrunch of autumn resonates underfoot as a few cars park up, their lights briefly illuminating a house in the distance. There is a figure in the doorway then it disappears into the warmth inside. And, now, I am that figure outside the front door of Moniack Mhor, a writing retreat of some renown whose luminaries include Liz Lochhead, Carol Ann Duffy, Val McDermid and Christopher Brookmyre, just a tentacle-length from the banks of Loch Ness.

It took me almost four hours driving north to reach this converted steading near Kiltarlity in the Highlands. And looking back now, a fortnight later, I can’t quite remember what that door looked like. In any case, it has far greater symbolism than the mere components of its form. I took my clothes off on the step outside and stood naked in front of it, the late October chill nipping at my shoulders. Figuratively speaking, of course. Inside I found the marrow-warming embrace of fellow men and women, who had similarly left their inhibitions on this doorstep. It was not what I had expected from a five-day residential course in business writing. But then this wasn’t just any business writing course, this was a Dark Angels production.

Formed in 2004, Dark Angels was the brainchild of John Simmons, Stuart Delves and Jamie Jauncey, a trio of writers who were alarmed at the growing tendency to tangle up words in jargon-infested webs. The latter is the author of five books, a natural storyteller and an inspirational figure who will guide us during the week.

“On one hand we think management speak is, at its very worst, toxic,” Jamie says. “It’s bad for people’s emotional health. Yes, it’s a crusade against that but we prefer to laugh and throw stones at it. The biggest sin of management speak is that it alienates rather than connects.”

Jamie is joined by Neil Baker, a former Fleet Street journalist who fell out of love with newspapers, if not crafting words themselves. Today, he says he writes what he wants to write and for whom he chooses.

There are six students: John, another Jamie, Lana, Sarah, Cameron and myself. We will bare our souls to each other as we pick over parts of our lives like scavengers searching for untold treasures. I find myself asking what all this has to do with business writing but it is clear Jamie and Neil are following a tried-and-trusted formula.

Our first day begins in what Jamie refers to as “the hobbit house”, a white rotunda propped on stone bricks and adorned with a grassy roof. It is straight from the pages of Tolkien and will be our writing base for the week. Our eyrie provides an astonishing vista, overlooking the mountain ranges of Ben Wyvis and Strathfarrar. In the foreground Highland cattle and sheep graze on the surrounding moorland.

A Red Kite rises and falls on the wave of a northerly wind. We are encouraged to bring the outside in. The great philosophers understood that if we can empathise with our habitat we can come to know truth and truth is not found in the mangled wreckage of a soul-crushing press release or company mission statement. Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, however, were strangely silent on the nuances of tone and clarity in business communication. And that’s where the Dark Angels, who take their name from Milton’s Paradise Lost, step in.

The Angels set a frenetic pace as they chuck ideas at us: from discussing our favourite books to writing the introduction to someone else’s. A pattern is established: one emphasising verbal gymnastics, quick-thinking, impossible deadlines. The key is not to overthink things – overthinking leads to ambiguity, to contrivance and self-censorship.

The tasks become quite personal. We are mining the deposits of memories long since forgotten. Under duress, it is disconcerting to rediscover those lost truths. And yet, it is cathartic, too. There are tears, most suppressed to the rims of eyelids. Others are unable to withstand the flood. This feels unsettling but it also feels necessary. We are unburdening ourselves and relearning what it is to feel empathy in what we write.

Neil quotes the poet Robert Frost’s thoughts on writing: “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”

After a hard day’s craft, the wine and beer is brought out. Dinner is cooked by the students. I have been paired with Lana, who works for a community foundation in London. She wants to enliven her writing in a way which contrasts with my efforts to spruce up some cod in breadcrumbs. With enough wine in their bellies, the rest of the group graciously admit that dinner has been a success.

Nights follow a familiar pattern: a log fire and a dram, ghost stories, life stories, travel adventures in far-flung corners and sing songs until the early hours. John even hosts a wine-tasting evening.

After a day of fresh Highland air, I retire to my Spartan chamber. It is monastic: a tiny bed, one table, two lamps. But this is a place for reflection and, crucially, sleep. On most nights, the former triumphs over the latter but there is a simplicity to life here that is as reassuring as the blanket that is too short to cover my feet.

The next day, the deeply personal recollections are locked away in tea chests and the Angels focus on business. There is a realisation that the navel-gazing had to occur. There has been a cleansing of the mind, a silencing of the noise in order that we can be more attuned to the task at hand. And, there is a new-found sense of what it means to appeal to the reader’s emotions.

The other Jamie, a recent graduate, has come to Dark Angels for some direction on where he might go next in his career. It is clear from the off that he has a great gift for words. During one task, he replaces a vast tract of tedious copy about the environment, waste disposal and its impact, with the word “rainforest”.

Sarah, a public sector employee, says she has become stale in her work because of the constraints it places on her writing. She wishes her employer would give thought to sending people like her on a similar course. John, a former senior officer with a local council, continues the theme.

“Everything came to be seen through a single lens and reports all came to read like each other,” he adds. “It is unconsciously Orwellian. I think people have been clogged up in the machine. It ultimately affects the way you think.”

In the afternoon we are free to stroll the single-track roads or hire bikes to traverse the surrounding area. We are on the edge of a forest; to the east, a llama farm stretches out before us.

I am suddenly aware of how little I know of the flora around me. My companion, Cameron, a former journalist and now a translator, agrees that it would be beneficial to know the names of the trees we see. There are certainly fir trees but others are yellowing, some are brown, and they appear to be dying. I’m struck by the idea that I have been hearing but not listening to the world around me, looking but not actually seeing it.

As the week ends, I sense I have changed. There is a resolution to adhere to the principles the Dark Angels live by: to write more, to think more, to breathe more cool air and to fly high above the trees I will soon know the names of.

I have been given wings, after all.

1 2