An Illimitable Field: a Practice-Based Investigation Into the Writing Process Julie Mellor

Journal of International Women's Studies Volume 5 Issue 2 New Writings in Women’s Studies: Selected Article 5 Essays from the First Women’s Studies Network (U.K.) Association Essay Contest Mar-2004 An Illimitable Field: A Practice-based Investigation into the Writing Process Julie Mellor Follow this and additional works at: http://vc.bridgew.edu/jiws Part of the Women's Studies Commons Recommended Citation Mellor, Julie (2004). An Illimitable Field: A Practice-based Investigation into the Writing Process. Journal of International Women's Studies, 5(2), 40-52. Available at: http://vc.bridgew.edu/jiws/vol5/iss2/5 This item is available as part of Virtual Commons, the open-access institutional repository of Bridgewater State University, Bridgewater, Massachusetts. This journal and its contents may be used for research, teaching and private study purposes. Any substantial or systematic reproduction, re-distribution, re-selling, loan or sub-licensing, systematic supply or distribution in any form to anyone is expressly forbidden. ©2004 Journal of International Women’s Studies. An Illimitable Field: A Practice-based Investigation into the Writing Process By Julie Mellor1 Abstract This essay will be presented in two parts. The first part contains the opening chapter of my novel, Cork Dolls. This novel, as yet unpublished, has been written as part of a practice-based PhD looking at contemporary women's fiction. Cork Dolls is set in Sicily and focuses on the psychological tensions between Rachel, an English au pair, and Susan, a Filipino housekeeper. Both women are employed by the wealthy Bruni family. As background to the first chapter, it is helpful to know that Rachel has recently had an abortion, while Susan left her daughter, Reetha, in the Philippines some years ago in order to earn money in Sicily. The second section of the essay is an enquiry into the writing process. I draw on my own work, and that of other women writers, to show how the process involves both conscious and unconscious decisions. Using the theories of C. G. Jung to examine the unconscious side of the process, I will argue that writing can be seen as part of the individuation process. Individuation is the means by which the unconscious can be integrated into consciousness, resulting in greater self- knowledge. I will suggest that this is particularly important to women, whose knowledge of themselves tends to be influenced by patriarchal definitions of the feminine. Key Words: Jung, women, writing Part one: the novel Susan's eyes are black; oval shapes where pupil and iris merge. Cut-outs like the eyes of a carnival mask, so no one knows who or what is behind them. They hold inky secrets, blue black like squid ink, that thin salt-soaked substance she removes with such distaste. The kitchen is milky with steam. So many things cooking all at once. The steam settles on her face making her cheeks shine. Above, the ceiling creaks and bounces. The boys are upstairs, playing. Signor Bruni has gone to the airport, and the Signora ... who knows where? Susan goes to the bottom of the stairs and shouts up at the boys to stop fighting, to have a wash and comb their hair. 'I come later. Inspect!' Her voice is shrill as a bird. Back in the kitchen the peppers crackle and hiss, their skins splitting with the heat. The sound makes her shiver. She doesn't like gas, doesn't trust the flames, the way they pop and splutter, yet the peppers have to be done. She scorches them and peels back their charred skins, yellow juice dripping down her apron, thick and sweet as syrup. The sweetness makes her mouth water, sets her thinking of sugary tea. Yes, much goodness in tea. But there is not time. This is what you get for being a Filipina; too much work. If she was Ingleesh, like the new girl who is due to arrive today, then it would be different. People don't ask so much of you if your skin is white. Take the last girl; Georgina. Jor-jee-nah. 1 Julie Mellor gained her first degree from the University of Huddersfield in 1996, and her PhD from Sheffield Hallam University in 2003. Her short stories have appeared in the London Magazine and The Nerve (Virago). She lives in Penistone, near Sheffield, and is currently busy pursuing a PGCE in English and contemplating her next novel, which will be loosely informed by Jungian theory. 40 Journal of International Women’s Studies Vol. 5, No. 2 March 2004 Such a long name, Susan could hardly be bothered to pronounce it, so she called her Jeenah instead. Surely that was enough of a name for anyone? Georgina hadn't liked it. Susan could tell by the way she twisted her long red curls around her finger, as though she was winding in her anger. All the Signora asked of Jeenah was that she speak Ingleesh to the children. Easy. But one month later she said she wanted to go home. Said she didn't like the food. Susan stabs her fork into another pepper and holds it over the flame. Now there is a new girl. She cannot remember this one's name, although the Signora has told her twice already. The heavy slam of the front door, the sound of boots being dumped in the hallway; the Signora. Dirty boots with dust lodged in the creases and filth stuck to the heel. Susan scowls. Another job to do. The boots have to be polished smooth with a little piece of bone, up and down over the leather until they shine. 'Sono io,' the Signora shouts. 'It's only me.' Her footsteps on the stairs as she dashes up. At least there is water for her bath. The ceiling pounds again as the boys hear their mother and race to greet her. Good. They can stay with her while Susan finishes down here. But two minutes later they come marching down, enter the kitchen to a smell of burning. Hot fat and purple smoke. 'Hungry,' says Santino, open mouthed, like a chick in the nest. Not Susan's chick though. She curses, moving the pan off the ring, burning her finger in the process. The boys press close to the wall as she spits on her hand. 'Chocolate in fridge,' she informs them. She doesn't have time to make them a panino. Anyway, children prefer sweet things. Everyone knows that. There is a fight for the cool block of chocolate. Franco elbows Santino out of the way and Santino yells. 'I trying to cook,' screams Susan, brandishing the fork. Though the mauve steamy haze she looks like a witch from their storybooks, black hair hanging in limp tails round her face. She pulls a grubby cotton scarf out of her apron pocket and winds it round her head to keep her hair back. Now she is a genie. The boys run away in fear, taking the chocolate back to their room. Rachel stood in a scented cloud of perfume, residue of the Signora's embrace. Beyond it was a smell of burnt fish. Then she became aware of two faces peering between the dark turnings of the banister. The children came down cautiously. Both had tight little grins on their faces, as though they were trying to stop laughing. Signora Bruni presented the eldest first, Franco. Deep brown eyes and a mischievous smile. He gave a perfect English 'hello' accompanied by a faintly embarrassed giggle. Then the youngest, Santino. The little boy fidgeted. He had brown eyes like his brother, but softer features, and a sticky smear of chocolate round his mouth. He held out his hand at his mother's prompting, and Rachel took it, charmed by his elegance. After shaking her hand, he seemed confused. He looked up at his mother as if waiting for another prompt, but none came, so he took hold of the hem of his shorts between thumb and forefinger, and Rachel watched bemused as he performed a little curtsey. She held in her laughter, but Franco and his mother both fell about, open mouths echoing each other's sound, their harsh laughter resonating in the hallway. Santino tried to join in, but the loud insistence of his brother, showing off in Rachel's presence, prevented him. His face puckered. 41 Journal of International Women’s Studies Vol. 5, No. 2 March 2004 Oh no. Not tears. Not five minutes after her arrival. Rachel took the hem of her skirt, and returned the compliment with a curtsey of her own, low as she dare considering the shortness of her skirt. The little boy smiled. At that moment, Signor Bruni struggled into the hall with her cases. 'Come on ragazzi,' said the Signora, virtually ignoring her husband, 'we will show Rachel her room.' Rachel followed them up the staircase, a wide sweep of worn marble with a green carpet held in place by brass rods. The boys chattered in Italian, then switched to English, trying to get her attention. She was amazed how good their English was. Behind them came Signor Bruni, weighed down by the cases. Rachel felt acutely conscious of him following her, of him looking at her legs, bare and pale, a dab of sweat making her thighs stick together. Her room was light, with a tall window, two large wardrobes, and a dressing table with a glass top. The boys immediately jumped on the bed and started to fight with the pillows. 'I think they will be tired later, after all this excitement.

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