The Imaginings of a Creative Writer: Experiments

I recently received my grades for last semester and while they are good I am disappointed with the comments I got. None of them were particularly constructive. They were like 'Good story, but I would have written it with this person as the protagonist'. Well, I didn't, so please mark my work by what I've written not how you would have written it.
This was especially annoying for my Margaret Jones and the Weedy Dealer piece as the marker wrote: 'What occurred to me on reading it again was it could make a great teen (young) book if only Margaret was at home/base camp and Andrew (something I can't read) was the protagonist - doing his mother's bidding because she was (something else I can't read)'.
It's annoying because he's missed the point of my piece entirely! Margaret is this eccentric botanist on the run from a drug lord, it's weird and funny. Having a teenage boy do it is so mundane.
I always used to think I was better at the creative pieces but strangely it appears I am actually better at the essays. I only have one semester left and I am going to try my hardest to get a First again. Hopefully in my ECP.

Friday, 16 November 2012

Writing History Fiction - Little Snippets

The module I'm find least inspiring this term is Writing History Fiction. I'm not sure whether it's because the subject is boring, the set texts are boring, the lecturer is boring, or I'm just awful at history, but the whole thing is just tiresome. Right now I should be writing my creative piece as well as researching for my essay, both of which make me feel bored. I go to the lecture and just want to fall asleep (although that might have something to do with the fact that I always go out the night before). However, we have done a few interesting writing tasks during lectures.

The first one was writing an opening sentence that would hook a reader as well as letting them know that it was a historical piece. Here was mine:

Andrew Walker knew that a decent woman would not have known how to do that.

Surprisingly, I got a few laughs for this. It's not too historical but because I used the phrase 'decent woman' it sounds a little old fashioned.

The second task was to write a short piece that began with speech which is later on repeated. This was in relation to Wolf Hall, as that begins with Thomas Cromwell's dad beating him and saying 'So now get up.' which he says again later. It also had to be in historic present, which basically means present tense, but because it happens in the past it's historic, if that makes sense?

'You're dead.'

Frank stumbles through the door of the Anderson shelter and falls onto the damp cot. His breath comes in short, sharp bursts, his heart is pounding in his chest.

'If this was a real air raid, you'd be dead,' his dad tells him. 'You have to be in here in less than a minute. None of this dawdling business.'

Frank finally catches his breath and opens his mouth to reply but his dad is already walking away, making sure the shelter door is securely locked.

He doesn't mind if his dad thinks he is a dawdler, he was slow for a reason. Opening his jacket, Frank peers in. The little kitten nestled inside stares back at him and meows weakly.

I thought that story was quite cute. Whether it full fills the brief is another matter. It's hard to write well in the ten minutes or so they give you in lecture.

The last task was to write a piece where someone walks in someone who is upset. These task are all pretty random, but this one was inspired by Wolf Hall yet again. There is a scene when someone walks in on Thomas Cromwell when he is all teary eyed over a book his dead daughter used to own. It would be emotional, but I really hate the book.

Gillian pushed on the kitchen door, it swung open easily. James was already sat at the table, his head lowered, narrow shoulders shaking. Gillian stepped into the room, unsure whether to let him know she was there or not. The longer she waited the more pronounced the silence grew. She padded quietly over to him and it was only once she was stood behind him did she see the tear-stained letter in his hands. Her soft gasp finally alerted James to her presence. He started and crumpled the letter in his fist. His eyes, red from crying, darted guiltily.

'I'm sorry,' he sniffled.

Gillian cast her eyes over the table. Torn apart roughly, was the letter addressed to her. The return address made her heart stop.

She held out her hand, 'Give it to me.'

James gently unfolded the letter, smoothing it out on the table, before passing it to her with trembling hands.

'Mother...' he sobbed. Tears streamed down his cheeks and a glistening trail ran from his nose.

Gillian scanned the letter. The first line was enough to make her knees buckle.

Mrs Stanely, we regret to inform you that your husband, Howard Stanely, has died in combat...

She couldn't read any more. She dropped the letter to the floor and collapsed into a kitchen chair. She opened her arms and welcomed James's embrace.

They mourned in the kitchen together.

Obviously, when doing historical writing a lot of research is needed. I'm not sure what the condolence letters would have said, so for this task I just made it up. I think out of the three tasks my favourite is the second, only because it features a kitten.

For two of these tasks I wrote about war time, as it's the only sort of history I partially know. Yet for my final creative piece I'm writing about the 1600's and witches. God knows that's going to require a tonne of research! Hopefully I will be more inspired by the time I write because I am really not feeling it at the moment and the creative piece is due in three weeks. Aaaaah!

Sunday, 26 February 2012

Creative Voice - Little Snippets

In Creative Voice we have to do lots of bits of writing, usually only a couple of lines long. So here are three little snippets of the work I have done.

Voice
For this piece we had to choose a famous person and write a small paragraph in their voice. Can you guess who it is?

Oh, I do love birthday parties, and I've been to my fair share of parties. I just love the idea of dressing up beautifully. I mean, I just don't know what dress I am going to wear tonight, maybe the white one that makes my breasts look bigger or the blue one that makes my waist look smaller, or maybe even that sequinned one that makes me look naked. I guess it all depends on what men are going to be there; the better the class of men the more alluring yet sophisticated the dress should be. And with this class of men you can't afford to look too cheap. It is the President's birthday party after all.

Marilyn Monroe with Bobby and John Kennedy

An Author's Message
For this task we had to write a piece with a very obvious meaning as we were discussing the quote: 'The author's audience should actively seek the author's meaning.' Can you guess the message of my piece? I hope so it's pretty obvious!

Mr Wolf loved his new coat. It had a large collar, five big shiny buttons, and huge bottomless pockets. He had bought it from Milan and it was the height of fashion. Unfortunately, on the first day he wore it proudly out in public, a group of common dogs accosted him. They threw buckets of red paint at him and cried, 'Wearing humans is murder!' As the dogs ran away from him, Mr Wolf looked sadly at his beautiful tan leather coat. It was completely ruined.

Writing Similar Things
We had talked about whether it was possible for people to write exactly the same thing without realising. My lecturer said it wasn't possible as we all have completely different ideas. So what we had to do was all write a piece with a character called Joe who was 16 and another character called Cecil aged 45, who lived in Berkshire and were in a stable at night time. It had to start with the sentence 'it was a wrong number that started this.' My lecturer was right and we all wrote something completely different, some were about aliens, some were even about sordid relationships! Here's my piece:

It was a wrong number that started this. Joe now knew to always check who he was sending his texts to before he sent them. He meant to send it to Danny not Dad. And now he was paying the price. But his Dad choosing to yell at him in the stable was a bit over the top, and just so Mum wouldn't hear. This was typical Dad. Joe had sent the text earlier in the evening, it had taken him ages to get the guts to send the text and it had been to the wrong person. The most wrong person he could have possibly sent it to. Joe waited patiently as his Dad stormed up and down the stable, pausing briefly now and then to mutter at Joe angrily under his breath. Joe just wanted it to be over with.
'Look Dad, I'm sorry.'
'Sorry? Sorry!' his Dad stormed.
'Well, at least you know now,' Joe said helplessly.
'Yes, finding out your son is gay via text message that says he loves you is fantastic!'
Trying to lighten the situation Joe said, 'Better hope Mum doesn't see it, she might think you've having a very interesting affair.' Joe's Dad threw a fistful of straw of straw at him. It got him right in the face.

Ironically, this Friday I wrote a piece that had a man at a bar playing with a bar mat, drinking a double whisky, when a lady in a red dress spoke to him, and so did another person! So much never writing the same as another person. Though I suppose, that scenario is very cliché!

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Gaia

Men have used me. They still use me. They look upon my body with greed. All they think about is what they can gain from using me. They think I exist only for them, that without them I would be useless. As if all I can offer is pleasure and if they weren’t around to receive it there would be no point to me.

They want so much from me but are never ready to give anything back. When I am ill they watch on with little interest, waiting for when I am better. When they hurt me, or scar me, or burn me they feel no remorse; they think it’s entirely my fault and why should they help at all. They continue to hurt me, as if this is supposed to happen, this is the natural order of things. They think that maybe if it happens enough I’ll get used to it, grow a harder skin; become immune. Over the years men have found new and more interesting ways to use me. There is no denying that men are smart and inventive and yet so deadly and cunning.

Men find it so hard not to destroy things, they feel power over it. In truth, I am more powerful than they are but they don’t want to think that, that thought scares them. If they think that way they get angry and then destroy more, just to prove that they are strong and I am weak.

Some men don’t like the natural look; they want new and modern, things that are only possible through science and technology. I have been altered drastically. I look so different from when I was younger. I am nearly unrecognisable. I have unnatural things in my body; chemicals and artificial materials smother my supple skin, where things should grow unashamedly is now completely bare. Metal has even pierced my most precious and secret areas. I am bigger in some places and much smaller in others, it’s almost unhealthy. But this look pleases the men, they are proud of what they have done.

I hear them talk about me, as if I have no opinions or feelings of my own. They agree on what they can do to me, they settle on their price. There have been times were parts of me have been sold for a very high price. And then, there have been times where the price was so little, so degrading. The most dreadful times are when I have been unfairly shared or simply taken.

Of course, there are times when I feel an immoral sense of pride as they fight over me. Men think they own me. They hate it when they see others touching me, touching their property. Blood has been spilt across my skin many times. Sometimes it is just two men, or a group, but there have been times when hundreds have died for me. It has been this way for years and I doubt it will ever truly stop, for as long as my body is bright and fresh people will want it.

Yes, men have used me and hurt me. But the women have hurt me just as much. They think that men are the worst culprits. They will readily point at them, blame them, scream at them, but they are just as much at fault. Women try to look the best, smell the best; be the best. But none of them can rival my pure, natural beauty and this angers the women. So they take it out on me. They try to destroy me and then blame it on the men.

Some men believe themselves to be heroes, as if they can whisk me away to some better place. They believe they’re the ones that will fix me. And yet, they’re still here using me. Men won’t stop coming to me because truthfully they don’t want to be the one missing out. Just because one man stops using me doesn’t mean all the others will. And if one man can have me they should all be allowed to. So the hero who thinks he can save me, he’s in denial, he wants to use me just as much as the others and that hurts so much more.

But I guess I don’t blame them, the men or the women. I started this myself, in a way, I invited them, enticed them. I knew what I had, what I could do and I wanted to show off to everyone, it just didn’t go the way I expected it to go. But I don’t think it’s possible for me to take it all away now, the men wouldn’t be able to cope, they’d go mad, and it would destroy them. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I did leave. Would they give up? Would they die? Would they just get on with their lives? Or worse, would they move on and find another to satisfy their needs?

I have heard talk of another place that they could go to when I have dried up and burnt out. They talk as if I cannot hear, as if I won’t be hurt. They have made big plans already; they have spent so much time, attention, and money. They act as if I will be gone very soon and they must hurry with their schemes. But I do not feel ready to die yet, I want to go on living and have them be with me. I have seen where they want to go and I am so much better. I am not usually a jealous being but this angers me. How dare they leave me before I am ready? I have given so much to them and they just used me, they got all they can out of me, changed me, defiled me. What can I possibly do without them? After all these years it’s not like I can create anything new, I cannot bring life anymore, they made sure of that. Well, I will not be abandoned. I will make them sorry that they ever got involved with me.

I will make them pay for ruining Earth.

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Another Experimental Piece

This is quite an old piece, written in my first couple weeks of university. It was done in my module Language, Writing, and Reading. This module was about understanding the basics of writing including punctuation, grammar, sentence structure, how we read, how we write etc. This module also encourage us to explore these things and how by changing a certain aspect of our writing we can change its reading completely.

Anyway, for this piece we had to choose 8 nouns, 4 concrete (Physical objects) and 4 abstract (Not physical but still something you can possess). Mine were: Dog, Man, Table, and Tree. Then: Strength, Sadness, Fear, and Love.

After we had chosen our nouns we then had to write a story including each of the concrete nouns, here's mine:

It was late and everyone had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made in the electric light. He had been there all day, sat in the same wicker chair at the same table without moving. The waiters had asked if wanted to order anything, but he only ever asked for tap water. The man sipped at the water until the glass was empty, and the waiter would bring another. Men and women had walked by and still he did not move. Dogs ran up to him and wagged their tails; begging to be petted and still he did not move. He was as still as an old tree on a windless day. Everyone had left the cafe and still he did not move.

So now we had to:
Swap the concrete nouns for the abstract nouns we chose,
Make all the sentences under 19 words long,
Replace he/she for the word 'it',
Cut out all punctuation.
And this is what I got:

It was late and everyone had left the cafe except an old sadness who sat in the shadow the leaves of the love made against the electric light it had been there all day sat in the same wicker chair at the same fear without moving the waiters had asked if it wanted to order anything but it only ever asked for tap water the sadness sipped at the water until the glass was empty and the waiters would bring another men and women had walked by and still it did not move strengths ran up to him and wagged their tails begging to be petted and still it did not move it was as still as an old love on a windless day everyone had left the cafe and still it did not move

How about you give it a go?

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Experimental Piece

For one of my first assignments at University we had to write a short experimental piece. In this piece we had to experiment with grammar or punctuation or sentence structure etc. For my piece I was greatly inspired by 'A Clockwork Orange' and as you read it you'll probably guess how. But my question for you is: can you guess what this story is about?

Experimental Piece

It was morning and time for the yenobeck to get up. He hated Ponjedjel-niks; but everyone hates Ponjedjel-niks. It was dark still. He also hated getting up at six o’clock, but that couldn’t be helped, pagotab started at nine. He showered and dressed; putting his Brjuki on backwards and his rubaska on inside out. He really hated Ponjedjel-niks. He brushed his volosf and his zubistitb, taking extra care with his zubistitb. After all, he pagotabed with zubistitb; it was his duty to make sure his looked perfect. He then had to wake the rjebjonoks, and of course, that was a struggle. His zjena was no help when it came to these things; she was not a morning person. It was up to him to feed the rjebjonoks and the sobaka, then take the rjebjonoks to skola and walk the sobaka. Then finally, off to pagotab.

The yenobeck, while he hated many things, did not hate his pagotab. In fact, he loved his pagotab. Many people may think it’s boring to pagotab with zubistitb, but he loved it. Every morning was a pleasure. He would walk in, take of his wapka – which today had blown off in the wind – and say good morning to Barbara, the receptionist:

- Morning, Barbara.

- Morning, Mr Bingley, your kofje is on your stol.

And then he would smile pleasantly and drink his kofje in peace and quiet, before his first patsient came in.

Ponjedjel-niks were a busy nik. The zubnoj vrat was closed over the v-xodnble, so any zubistitb related problems had to wait for Ponjedjel-niks. And many things can happen over the v-xodnble. Knocked out zubistitb, loose zubistitb, chipped zubistitb. Zubistitb that needed taking out, zubistitb that needed putting in. Binning old zubistitb, getting new zubistitb, and needing fake zubistitb. And yet, he never grew bored of seeing zubistitb. He especially loved his own zubistitb. Straight, white and perfect. All thanks to his beautiful plastinki. But his rjebjonok‘s zubistitb, now they needed plastinki. And his zjena. Though he didn’t dare bring that up again. Not after last time.

So, all nik long he pagotabed with zubistitb and he never felt better. But then it was five o’clock and time for the zubnoj vrat to shut. He tried to stay as long as possible but then Barbara would come in:

- Good night, Mr Bingley, you can go rodina now.

- Good night, Barbara.

And then he would smile pleasantly, but not really feel it, grab his wapka and leave, before the rush-hour avtomobilb.

He was not so lucky. The avtomobilb was bad, and it took him half an hour to get rodina. He finally got rodina only to have the rjebjonoks screaming and the sobaka peeing on the kovjer. In the kitchen he saw his zjena smoking out the window. She put it out when he came in. He shook his head and went upstairs to get some peace. But within moments both the rjebjonok and sobaka followed him upstairs. His rjebjonok stuffed sweets into their rots and grinned with their dreadful zubistitb.

- Guess what, dad? It’s Ponjedjel-nik that means sugary pontik for dessert!

Yes. He hated Ponjedjel-niks.

***

Did you guess? It's about the day in the life of a Dentist!

The Imaginings of a Creative Writer

Pages

My Bookshelf

Saturday, 19 January 2013

University Grades - The Final Semester

Friday, 16 November 2012

Writing History Fiction - Little Snippets

Sunday, 26 February 2012

Creative Voice - Little Snippets

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Gaia

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Another Experimental Piece

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Experimental Piece