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I carry a small notebook for making notes that I may reflect later on. These notes are usually facts to remind me about the situation or noting dialogue that I might not quite remember later. These notes can then be worked up on the computer (my digital reflective journal). I write in the present tense to better capture the moment. I let the words come as a spontaneous flow in the rich description, paying attention to as much detail as possible, pursuing signs, running off on tangents. As Wheatley (1999, p. 143) writes: ‘we paint a portrait of the whole, surfacing as much detail as possible’.

Recall the moment, for example – the look on the person’s face, a word said, a tear shed, a feeling, a harsh word spoken, uncertainty, the dance of the trees outside the window.

Writing is perhaps best done as a letting go into imagination rather than a rigid attempt to remember every fine detail. In this way, images and ideas emerge. Tufnell and Crickmay note (2004, p. 63) that writing: ‘may be fluent, or clumsy, abundant of brief, poetic or plain. We have to assume it will be the necessary expression for this moment’. These words offer helpful advice to the practitioner not to be over concerned about what or how they write. As we shall explore later, reflection helps to make sense, fill in detail and reveal significance.

One evening I wrote in my journal after a shift at the hospice where I worked as a voluntary therapist:

Indigo

She lies on her bed. Her arm tucked up behind her head, her eyes are closed. She makes little movements of her waxed lips. Shifts of her pelvis as if trying to get comfortable, little furrows of pain between her eyes. Her swollen abdomen incongruent with her emaciated body. The staff tell me they struggle to keep on top of her pain. The diamorphine dose has reached 160 mg. via the syringe driver. I listen to it’s regular pulse infuse its cargo into Indigo’s tired veins. For a moment technology holds the gaze and then I see Indigo again against a backdrop of flowers with white and yellow heads that adorn the bedside. A friend from church sits with her. The quiet of the waiting room in the afternoon. The aroma‐stone has gone. I find it in the clinical room ‘in soak’. I feel the conflict stir within me, mindful of the merry‐go‐round of careless action. A care assistant says it went dry, adding ‘They have not had time to replenish it’. The conflict rises inside like a malevolent energy. I would like to say ‘It is not a question of time it is a question of attention’. But mindful of the critical parent rising within me, I refrain. Bottle up the anger. Not good!

This description simply says what happened. In my portable journal, I noted ‘Indigo makes me angry they can’t pay attention outside their narrow focus!’ Writing that down was a cathartic explosion. Just writing the word ‘angry’ reduced its hold on me. I returned to the note later that evening to write up the description because the experience felt significant enough to pursue.

Writing cannot be prescribed, although teachers may try and impose some academic order on your writing. Writing is deeply personal. What you write should not be written to suit others, although there are some useful tips to help the writer.

1 Pay attention to everything that seems to impinge upon the experience, no matter how tangential it is. Do not discard anything. It may emerge as significant.

2 Write as spontaneously as possible. In reflective practise workshops, I ask people to write a story about a recent experience for 20 minutes without taking the pen off the paper. It needn’t be about clinical practice. To facilitate spontaneous expression, I assert ‘write without taking the pen off the paper’. Spontaneity is a helpful instruction because it encourages the writer not to overthink the description but let it flow as if it is the body that is writing rather than the mind. When we lift the pen, we pause and think and get stuck. Manjusvara (2005, p. 37) notes: ‘as the hand begins to overtake the brain it is amazing how often there emerges a coherent statement of what I had previously been struggling to say’.

3 Draw on all your senses. What did things look like, smell like, sound like, even taste like? What did I sense? Paying attention to detail – the colour of the walls, what noises permeated the situation? What time of day? Such things may seem immaterial at the time of writing, but on reflection, may gain significance. The more detail, the better.

4 Prepare yourself that you are going to pay attention to your experiences and write your journal. This will prompt you to pay more attention to what is unfolding moment to moment.

5 Give free rein to your imagination. Writing should be approached with a playful and creative spirit. IT is YOU! In writing, you are writing yourself, your body, nurturing your precious and unique self. In writing, you change yourself on a subliminal level. As Ferruci (1982, p. 42) says, ‘it is like cutting a new pathway in a jungle’.

6 Capture ‘talk’ that took place during the experience using actual words as recalled. This increases the sense of drama and subjectivity.

7 Ask yourselves questions. These will highlight points that can be picked up later on reflection. You do not have to answer the questions in the description.

8 Considering all the tips listed above, it doesn’t matter what you write and if you write just a few words. As you later reflect, other aspects of the experience will become apparent when exploring the reflective cues (Chapter 4).