Meeting the Text<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I first saw J. E. Moon\u2019s 1967 trampolining thesis The Techniques of Trampolining (for Coach and Performer)[1]<\/strong> <\/em>in Edge Hill University\u2019s archive four years ago. Much like the character who emerges later in my story, I was intrigued by the language and voice in the thesis. It is, on the surface, a thorough and well-structured guide to the elements of trampolining. But dig deeper, beneath the technical language and physics, and there are tiny slippages, moments where the writer, Moon, steps into the text. Examples such as \u2018Do not try to break your fall with the hands \u2013 this will only complicate things,\u2019[2] and \u2018I remember one person who had a very good baby fliffus and he did this movement quite successfully\u2026\u2019[3] showcase how the tone is authoritative, an instruction manual, yet spiking through is this personal and somewhat tender subtext. In my writing practice, I like experimenting with \u2018creative response\u2019, taking existing images, words or ideas and writing back to them. I wanted to explore who else might find some unlikely joy, support or nourishment in the document. How might this thesis become more than the sum of its parts for a character?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Collage Technique<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I have been exploring the notion of \u2018found text\u2019 in my writing for some time. I am calling it literature trouv\u00e9 (lit. trouv\u00e9) after the art term Objet Trouv\u00e9, which translates from French as \u2018found object\u2019 and describes an \u2018object found by an artist and displayed with no, or minimal, alteration as (or as an element in) a work of art\u2019 [1]<\/a>. Also referred to as \u2018collage\u2019, the concept of using cut-ups of other words isn\u2019t new. Dadaist artists created poems using similar techniques in the 1920s. Poet Adrian Henri used collage to create his poem \u2018New Fast Automatic Daffodils\u2019[2]<\/a> which spliced together lines from Wordsworth\u2019s Daffodils with text from a Dutch motorcar leaflet. Author David Shields sparked controversy around plagiarism with his work Reality Hunger[3]<\/strong><\/a><\/em> in which he collages short excerpts from multiple sources.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The concept involves splicing \u2018found\u2019 texts with my own words; editing and juxtaposing to suggest new interpretations, or so that one text will be in dialogue with the other. As literature scholar Rona Cran suggests, \u2018Collage is about encounters. It is about bringing ideas into conversation with one another.\u2019[4]<\/a> And just like any \u2018real life\u2019 conversation, when I begin working in this way, I don\u2019t know exactly how it will unfold, how the call-and-response will function and whether the \u2018conversation\u2019 will ultimately go anywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My method was to spend time with the source material in the archive. Next, I went through it forensically for words or lines that particularly resonated with me. When I\u2019m undertaking this harvesting approach I am initially instinctively searching out elegant or unusual sentences or subject-specific words, for example \u2018the radius of gyration is the same as the moment of inertia,\u2019[1]<\/a> and \u2018fliffes\u2019[2]<\/a>. I am also seeking metaphorical weight that I might be able to explore in the response writing; anything that could hold multiple interpretations. I am also investigating authorial voice in the source material, and moments of \u2018slippage\u2019 in mode, as I mention above, because these are intriguing and characterful. They help to create a framework which the secondary narrative can pull against.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once I have undertaken the harvesting process, I type the words up which allows me to feel the rhythm of the syntax and gain a deeper understanding of the language. At this point, I am deeply considering what the responding story will be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There is careful orderliness in the way Moon\u2019s thesis is structured into sections. This considered approach slows the pace of the thesis and gives it a punctuated start-stop-start dynamic. It creates an intriguing antithesis to the movement of a body if it were to actually trampolining. This slow halting pace feels deliberately cautionary. It is sectional in a way that prevents a smooth movement or the abandon of the bounce itself, the way a body feels in mid-air \u2013 the flow between ascent and descent. I found this hesitancy aspect of the work fascinating and knew it was a fundamental element that I wanted to explore in the creative response.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A key phrase enabled me to begin writing my response story: \u2018There can be a \u2018carry over\u2019 value to similar situations, for example, the relocation of the body when in an awkward situation e.g. upside down; or if falling backwards when not in contact with the ground then a person can land more safely by initiating a \u00bd twist in the air.\u2019[1]<\/a> This direct instruction felt like an invocation. The secondary narrative, about a woman who has left her controlling husband came onto the page quite quickly. The idea had already begun to form while reading the thesis, as I considered who might respond to the work \u2013 both in a physical sense, as she finds the trampoline submerged in her new garden, but also on a metaphorical level as she seeks to find support in learning to live again; to \u2018bounce back\u2019. I like how this clich\u00e9 entirely underplays the hugeness of the situation she is in. The thesis unveils the complexity of \u2018bouncing\u2019 so it felt like a potent guide for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Splicing it Together<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Next, I printed the work off and cut both the trampoline extracts and the woman\u2019s narrative into sections. I laid the woman\u2019s story out and began experimenting with drawing the two texts together. I chose to keep the woman\u2019s story chronological, charting her progression to the final bounce. I randomised the sections from the trampoline thesis, replicating how the woman might dip into it and draw down memories from it nonchronologically, analogously to how a person of faith might recall quotes from a holy text to inform, support or justify their daily experiences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Meaning Making<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Writer David Shields says, \u2018Everything I write, I believe instinctively, is to some extent collage. Meaning, ultimately, is a matter of adjacent data.\u2019[1]<\/a> This is a key concept in creative practice. The human brain, given two disparate ideas, images or words will spark for ways to connect them. We seek pattern, logic and understanding in our world. We find pictures in clouds, we seek subtext in horoscopes, we read fate from coincidence. It is a fundamental of storytelling, allowing the reader space to interpret and seek meaning. A great example of this is the Kuleshov Effect. Russian filmaker Lev Kuleshov intercut the same shot of a man holding a neutral expression with an image of a bowl of soup, a child in a coffin and woman lying on a sofa, and from this juxta positioning, audiences correspondingly read hunger, grief and desire in his neutral expression[2]<\/a>. Meaning was made by the interrelation of the images, not by the images alone. This is how I hope \u2018Location of the Body When in an Awkward Situation\u2019 operates, intercutting the somewhat inert scientific sections from Moon\u2019s thesis with vignettes from the protagonist\u2019s life to make meaning, opening space for the reader to form their own connections.<\/p>\n\n\n\n2. First Steps<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
3. Ideas Form: Structure and Pace<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
4. Creatively Responding to the Work<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
5. What did I Discover?<\/h2>\n\n\n\n