Creative Writing Degree

Creative Writing: Is it really worth it? Short answer, yes. Creative answer, this:

When choosing a degree to study at university there are a lot of factors to consider, sometimes so many it makes you want to live in a hole under a rock. I had never really thought about what I wanted to study, or what career I wanted in the future, until I visited a University Fair in my final year at college. I didn't know Creative Writing was even a thing and was looking into universities that taught Journalism; although I was a little apprehensive about that. I didn't think I'd have the confidence to be a journalist, not really; especially after I found out you'd potentially have to a screen test in front of cameras and possibly an exam before you'd even be accepted into a university. No thank you. In that respect finding Creative Writing was a life saver. All the creativity and writing without an emphasis on scary public speaking and exams.

Having studied Art, English Literature and Language, and Media Studies at A-Levels I was used to the comments about 'doss subjects', and my work not being very hard. It's true, I never found it hard, not because it was 'doss' though, but because I was good at it. I didn't mind the comments as I would rather do these creative 'easy' subjects that Science or Maths, which just thinking about makes my toes curl and my body shudder.

Choosing Creative Writing for a degree didn't mean the comments stopped. Out of my home friends I was practically the only one doing a creative subject, while most of my friends did some sort of science or humanity. That was fine by me. My first semester, while hard because I was away from home, was thoroughly enjoyable and inspiring, yet when I came home for the Christmas holidays I was bombarded with the 'doss' comments again but in a slightly more condescending and passive aggressive way. My friends said things like, 'I have lectures from 9 to 5,' and then upon hearing that I had a maximum of 12 hours a week they would reply, 'What could they really teach you anyway?'. Or, 'My tuition pays for the chemistry rooms and all the lab equipment, yours only needs to pay for pencils and paper.' (the sore point being that Arts were getting cuts and my university didn't even supply that).

But while they acted like their courses were far superior to mine, I was never jealous, because I enjoyed my course; I was excited to do the work and it was easy for me. I didn't have gruelling exams which required late night revision sessions; my essays were subjective so there were no wrong or right answers as long as I had the evidence, meaning I could express myself happily without (too much) fear. Not only that, my essay subjects were interesting, too, I got to write an essay about Batman, for goodness sakes! To top it off, my set texts were (mainly) enjoyable fiction, something you would voluntarily read, not hefty books of equations and numbers, which make your head spin. While others sat in the pub and complained about the work load, or going home early to revise, or the stress of their dissertation, I would smile a secret smile to myself and think of all the brilliant short stories, poems, screenplays, comic books, first chapters I had written, and how it had been so perfect for me.


I was sad to leave university, although happy to get away from overly harsh and picky markers my lectures had become. But I definitely believe my degree helped to shape me into the person I am now. I was a bit lost before university, being painfully shy and self-doubting, with no idea where my future was heading. Creative Writing opened a world of possibilities while not restricting me at all. It's amazing where a degree like this can lead you.

Considering the current job - money - housing - life crisis our country is currently facing, I was lucky to get a job only a couple of months after leaving university, and in something relevant to my degree. My employer admitted that it was my degree in Creative Writing that caught his eye, and not a day goes by without him saying something like, 'I'll leave this to you, you're the creative one,' or, 'You probably already know this having studied Creative Writing.' He comes to me for advice on many things regarding the company, Litphonix: a brand new audiobook company, and lets my creative energies flow.

A friend who studied Chemistry is still sending out job applications daily, while
sitting at home bored, watching multiple television shows. Another friend with a degree in Engineering is stuck in an administrative job while he searches for something better in his field. A lot of the others will be going on to do Masters, for lack of job opportunities, or for the security that university offers, allowing them to put off the adult world for a little bit longer.

If you ever doubt whether Creative Writing is a suitable subject, stop doubting it right there! It's more than 'making up stories', and I know I won't be the next J.K. like everyone jokes, but it was incredible in helping me find who I was, what I am, and who I can be.

Look at all my favourite pieces of work: here.

Kit Berry - Stonewylde

Been thinking of what to write for ages and just this minute I finally thought of something, hurrah!

Lately, University has been a major downer. Every lecturer seems to be telling us that writing is impossible, difficult, and a waste of time, so what other job are you going to do? Just what you want to hear after three years of doing a degree! But yesterday in my Sci-Fi and Fantasy module we had a guest talk from Kit Berry. I admit I had never heard of her before and really wasn't in the mood for a guest talk (it was too early!) but it turned out to be well worth getting out of bed. She has written a fantasy series set in the fictional place of Stonewylde, based on places in and around Dorset. Funnily enough, one of the places she mentions is a place I've wanted to write about too. This stag gate in Dorset.

Anyway, her talk was amazing. Sure, she had difficulties like my lecturers have mentioned - she was rejected by agents and then publishers. In fact, she was rejected by 13 publishers, which I think is freaky because she believed a lot in superstitions and fate, and 13 is like the most superstitious number ever. However, this didn't stop her, it actually spurred her on to self-publishing and making her own publishing label, Moongazy Publishing. I think what really got to me was when she talked about how she had a weekend where all her readers met up in Devon (woo!) and did quizzes and workshops and just generally had a great time. It was then she realised how big a following she had and that it was crazy that she wasn't properly published because she should be. And in the end she tried the publishers again and was finally picked up by Orion Publishing, with an envious contract.

It's my dream to have a book series published and then made into a great movie. My lecturers would probably tell me that's a pipe dream and the best I could hope for is to be a journalist on my local paper, while also working as a waitress or something. How fun. And yes, even though Kit Berry has had lots of different jobs she did live the dream and is now a full-time writer.

She said that being a writer is still hard because of all the marketing, promoting and publicity but I think I would really enjoy that. At one point in my life I really wanted to be a PR. Besides, I'm always on Twitter anyway plugging this blog, it would be better with a book because I'd actually get paid for it!

She also did a little book signing and it's the first signed book I've ever owned! Although on hearing my name she said: 'Oh there's a girl in this called Holly, and I'm afraid to say she's a bitch.' Surprisingly, I hear this a lot. That other Holly's are bitches, not me.

Her story of becoming an author was really moving and I haven't done it justice. But she was a fantastic woman, really inspirational! If I can write anything like her, and be half as successful, I'll be happy. I would love to prove my lecturers wrong!

Toil and Trouble

Phew! I managed to complete my Writing History Fiction assignment just in time.
This was one of the most stressful assignments I've had to do since being at university; the third year is really getting to me. Luckily, I'm ahead of the game with my ECP so that's not something I have to worry about right now.
Anyway, this piece was so stressful because writing historical fiction is surprisingly difficult (and probably not helped by the poor organisation of the module). I had never thought about it before, but there is so much research involved, and then the fact that it is in the past is very restricting - there are so many things you have to be wary of, like how people talk, what they use, what they wear, you know, everything! It didn't help that I set mine so far in the past; the 17th Century was definitely a bad idea. I had a work-shopping session with my friends and they picked out a lot things, like bad sentences, spelling errors, boring parts, lack of setting. It just sounded like my whole piece was rubbish. It was helpful, but also a little disheartening. I felt like nothing I had written was very good.
I was ready to throw in the towel and give up.
I didn't though, and I worked very hard on it. Now it's done. I can breathe again. And in the end, after all that, I actually kind of like my piece. It's the beginning of a longer novel about witchcraft and superstitions in the 1600's. And I've just realised how fitting the title is, I did have a lot of toil and trouble of this piece. I am so unintentionally clever!

So give it a read. (it's not as bad as I've made it out to be!)

Toil and Trouble

Epigraph

‘That if any pson or persons after the saide Feaste of Saint Michaell the Archangell next comeing, shall use practise or exercsise any Invocation or Conjuration of any evill and spirit, or shall consult covenant with entertaine employ feede or rewarde any evill and wicked Spirit to or for any intent or pupose ; or take any dead man woman or child out of his her or theire grave or any other place where the dead body resteth, or the skin, bone or any other parte of any dead person, to be imployed or used in any manner of Witchecrafte, Sorcerie, Charme or Inchantment ; or shall use practise or exercise any Witchcrafte Sorcerie, Charme or Incantment wherebie any pson shall be killed destroyed wasted consumed pined or lamed in his or her bodie, or any parte therof.’

An Act against Conjuration, Witchcraft and Dealing with Evil and Wicked Spirits, 1604

Lancaster, England

20^th August 1612

The wind blew violently through the trees as Isabel caught her first glimpse of the gallows. She stood as straight as her bonds would allow her. It did not matter what they said. She knew she was innocent.

ù   

December 1608

Fire crackled in the hearth. Inviting light licked the sides of the stone walls and chased shadows away. The rabbit roasting on the hot broach filled the room with delicious scents that even the fullest belly would not be able to resist. Isabel savoured the smell of freshly cooked food and the warmth on her legs. That winter had been unforgiving and she had no money for food, or any of the herbs for her remedies. Despite wearing her thickest woollen petticoat and shift, the cold air bit at her limbs. Rubbing her legs with stiff arms, she sighed with pleasure as Mary fretted around her.

‘You know you should not be here, Isabel,’ she said, her voice rising high with panic.

                Isabel looked over to her goddaughter. Mary’s slight figure and silken hair were reason for her many admirers in Windel. But to Isabel it was the beauty of her face that made her so lovely. Mary had inherited her mother’s dark eyes and rosy lips, a pairing that never ceased to trap men of all ages under her spell. Now, however, Mary’s brows met in the middle and her eyes darted to the door. She sat in her chair, stood, paced around the room, and then sat again. She repeated this motion four times until Isabel finally spoke.

                 ‘My dear, he won’t be back until nightfall. Cease your worry.’ Isabel rose and rested her hands on Mary’s tense shoulders. Her body was rigid for a moment before she curled into Isabel’s comforting arms.

                ‘He’ll be back soon, and then it will start once more.’

Isabel smoothed her goddaughter’s hair and sang softly to her:

‘And I was lost and

In her spell

I floated high

Before I fell

Into love

We lay

In the shade

Of the trees

Entranced by her I

Gave my all

Entranced by her I gave.’

Once Isabel had finished singing Mary looked up at her. She opened her mouth to speak but Isabel would never find out what she was going to say. The door flew open suddenly. Isabel and Mary turned as one to face the man in the door-place.  Cold air rushed in and the fire flickered dangerously in the hearth.

‘Peter,’ Mary began, but he did not look at her. His bleary eyes focused slowly on Isabel and she knew what was going to happen. The dark, sour stains down the front of his linen shirt that could be seen through his unbuttoned coat, the shaking hands, and bloodshot eyes made Isabel’s stomach turn. He was drunk.

‘It is true then, the devil woman has been visiting my own home whilst I have been away,’ he said, each word slurred into the next.

‘No, Peter, it’s not –’ Mary started, as she hurried to take his snow covered hat and coat.

‘Out!’ he interrupted her, pointing one fat finger at Isabel. ‘Get out of my house.’

His face was reddened with rage and too many days of drinking ale. Mary faltered, one hand holding limply onto his hat. The smell of burning rabbit filled the air as Peter stared down at Isabel. Rearranging her skirts, Isabel climbed to her feet and faced him, taking care not to breathe in the sour stench of sweat and alcohol. Peter swayed on his feet.

‘You should rest, you drunken lout, or you will be ill tomorrow,’ Isabel snapped.

‘What? Are you threatening me?’

‘No, I’m – ’

‘Get out,’ he interrupted again. ‘Get out, you witch.’

Mary gasped but Isabel was prepared for the slander. She straightened as much as her aching bones would allow, refusing to show any pain.

‘I was just leaving, Chaddock.’ They faced each other, eye to eye, barely breathing, before Peter spat at her. The thick, brown drop landed on her shoe. Isabel pulled back her lips in distaste. Sneering, Peter stumbled over to a chair by the fire and started poking at the ruined rabbit. Mary stared down at Isabel’s feet; the hat now lay forgotten on the floor. With a pained look she motioned towards the door.

‘I am sorry,’ she mouthed.  Grabbing her cloak, Isabel gave her a silent nod in reply. There was no ill feeling between them; Isabel knew that her goddaughter was trapped. Opening the door, Isabel let another blast of cold air rush around the room. This time the fire went out.

‘You blew out my fire. Witch! Witch!’ Peter screamed, leaping from his chair. Mary let out a breath of surprise. Hurriedly, she grabbed at Peter, trying to pull him back down into his chair, to hush him. Isabel threw Mary a grateful look before sweeping out the door, her skirts and cape swirling around her. The door closed with a bang. Out in the street many people had gathered.  They whispered behind their hands, their eyes wide.

‘I heard witch,’ one man said.

‘Who’s the witch?’ asked another.

As they saw Isabel their faces paled. Margaret Lyon crossed herself. Jane Wilkinson grabbed her children’s hands and dragged them away, their feet slipping in the snow. Isabel walked boldly down the cobbled street. The villagers of Windel may whisper about witches and black magic but all were too frightened to face Isabel Robey and accuse her so brazenly. They would bide their time. They would condemn her in the end.

ù   

The following weeks were bitter cold and terrible storms overwhelmed the village. Trees were stripped naked and torn from their roots, the rivers had frozen over, becoming slick and perilous, and houses were buried deep under mounds of snow. This disastrous weather caused Isabel difficulties in finding the herbs she needed. She could no longer sell her remedies to the villagers, though most were now wary of her cures.  The pains in her bones were growing worse. Her back was stooped and she limped heavily on her left leg. She yearned for a fire and a tender piece of meat to cook. But she could not collect the fire wood herself, and her riches were too few – she could not afford any pigeon or fish. Stale bread and water, melted from the snow, were all she could have. Starving and pained her heart grew weary. Isabel pined for the comfort of her goddaughter. Ever since the brute, Chaddock, had accused her of witchcraft she had steered clear of him and Mary but she could bare it no longer. On good days, when the wind wasn’t so cold and snow fell lightly, she would walk the streets of Windel desperate to catch a glimpse of her.

    

One morning, when the sun had only just risen, she wandered down to Saint Helen’s chapel, the frost biting at her toes. Her grey hair whipped around her face refusing to stay in place under her coif. Few villagers were out and Isabel was grateful. Their whispers and stares affected her more than she cared to admit. She had reached the iron gates of the chapel when Mary appeared before her.

‘Oh, Mary, dear, I have been so worried.’

Isabel made to hug her, but she moved quickly out of her reach. A piercing pain struck Isabel’s chest, and she found it hard to breathe. She looked upon her goddaughter with confusion. Mary was drawn and her skin a sickly pallor. Her eyes were downcast and even though she tried to hide them with her sleeves, Isabel saw the marks that covered her pale arms.

‘It is nothing,’ Mary hastily said, noticing Isabel’s gaze.

‘Nothing?’ Isabel started, reaching out for her once more.

‘Yes, nothing. Isabel, I’ve come to warn you. If Peter ever sees you near me again he will not be pleased. He will be dangerous.’

Isabel wanted to argue but seeing the fear in her goddaughter’s eyes stopped her.

‘But I can help you,’ Isabel said and she finally grabbed Mary’s hand in her own.

‘I do not need help. I am his wife and it is my duty.’ She said it strongly, but Isabel saw her lips tremble. Pulling her hand out of Isabel’s grasp broke the bond that they had shared. With a sad smile Mary turned and walked down the road, away from Isabel. She did not look back. Isabel watched as she disappeared into the swirling snow.

ù   

Returning home, Mary met with Peter pacing in the kitchen. He stopped and turned on her, eyes flashing. The strong smell of ale burned at her nostrils. He grabbed her shoulders fiercely.

‘Did you tell her?’ he asked, spittle flying from his mouth. His fingertips pressed into the soft flesh of her arms and Mary knew she would have more marks tomorrow.

‘I told her,’ she cried out. ‘I told her!’

This seemed to satisfy Peter and he let her go. She collapsed onto the dirty tiled floor. Tears prickled at her eyes. She had just warned off her closest friend and ally. She was alone.

‘Pour me some ale,’ her husband ordered as he lowered himself into a chair by the fire. Brushing down her skirts Mary clambered to her feet. Her hands shook as she reached for the cask of ale and tankard. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she could not help the small sob escape from her lips. Across the room, Peter’s head turned.

‘Is there a problem?’ he spoke slowly. Mary shook her head, eyes on the floor. ‘Are you crying because of that crone?’

She shook her head again. Peter was up and next to her. Strong hands forced her chin up. His large, heavily-lined face loomed in front of hers, eyes narrowed. A dirty nailed finger wiped away a tear as it rolled down her cheek, a gesture of mock kindness. His hands caressed her cheek and along her jaw, then down her throat. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Suddenly, his hands tightened around her neck. The tankard dropped to the floor with a crash.

‘Do you love her more than me?’ he growled. The blood pounded in her head and she fought for breath. ‘Do you?’ He gripped her neck further.

‘N-no,’ she choked out. Her vision was fading when he finally released her. She fell to her knees. Before she could catch her breath, Peter yanked her to her feet again and dragged her to their bedchamber. She clawed at his hands pathetically. If he wanted her there was nothing she could do to stop him. With cruel strength he threw her onto their bed. He was on her in moments, pulling at the ties of her apron. She struggled beneath him, becoming tangled in the folds of their bed-clothes. Pinning her down with his legs, he lifted her petticoats and shift. With one hand he held her arms above her head as he reached down between their bodies to untie his breeches. Mary lay limp, looking past Peter, staring at the ceiling, willing herself to be somewhere else. She closed her eyes and waited for the moment.

And waited.

Slowly she opened her eyes. Peter was still above her, body frozen, his head bent to one side. His lips pulled back into a feral snarl, his eyes filled with hate.

‘My neck,’ he groaned, ‘it has gone stark. I cannot move it.’ He crawled off her, his neck stuck at an odd angle. Mary looked down upon her husband lying on the floor groping at his neck, relief washing over her.

‘This is that witch’s doing! She’s worked her sorcery upon me,’ Peter cried out. ‘I’ll kill her.’

ù   

A quick rap at the door surprised Isabel. No one ever visited her house. Her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it was Mary. Hurriedly, she put away her mortar and pestle, careful not to spill any of the Herb Bennet. She straightened her dress and opened the door. Snowflakes drifted in on the breeze. Isabel’s heart dropped. It was not Mary. It was a strange man she had seen before in the village; he claimed to be a wise-man. He had oily grey hair with a long beard. His body was hidden beneath a thick, black travelling cloak. A yellow-toothed grin stretched across his narrow face.

‘Isabel Robey, my name is James Glover,’ he said politely. He made to enter the house but Isabel blocked him. His smile faltered but he continued. ‘Mister Chaddock has asked for my aid, he says you have bewitched him.’

Isabel snorted. ‘That oaf deserves everything he gets, but his grievances are not by my doing.’ She made to close the door, but Glover stuck his boot in.

‘Isabel, the village calls upon me as the wise-man to sort out their problems.’

‘I know what you say you are,’ she said, but he ignored her.

‘They understand my ways, the use of my charms to help their families and livestock against any ills. But they do not understand you.’

‘I am not a witch, Glover. I have my remedies and that is all.’

‘That is not what they say in the village. Many are wary of you, some frightened. But soon they will grow angry and reckless, especially if Chaddock has his way.’

Isabel was not scared of Chaddock, or of anything he may do to her. It was Mary that she was fearful for. She nodded to Glover.

‘I am not a witch, and I did not harm Chaddock, but I shall watch myself.’

‘I am glad,’ he said as he gave her a hard stare. ‘Be careful Isabel Robey, our magic is a treacherous gift.’ He added, before walking down the hill to Windel.

                Isabel closed the door and leant against it, her chest tight.

Peter Chaddock would not rest until she was dead.

ù   

                 Mary visited her five days later.

                 Isabel’s aches had become too sore for her to leave her one-roomed house; she huddled beneath heavy woollen blankets by a meagre fire, desperate for warmth. Her stomach growled loudly and she wondered when she had last had anything other than mouldy bread. There was a knock at the door but Isabel did not move. If it was a villager asking for help she would be of no use, and she did not want to see James Glover again. She had given up hope on seeing Mary. There was creaking as the door handle was twisted. Eyes wide, Isabel watched as the door opened. The miserable fire flickered in the wind. Mary stood in the door-place, a frown marring her beautiful features. She saw Isabel lying on the floor and gasped.

                ‘Isabel, oh, Isabel. Please be well,’ she cried as she ran to her. Isabel welcomed her goddaughter’s embrace. Tears ran down her gaunt face.

                ‘Mary dear, I am fine, if not a little chilled.’

                ‘Oh, sorry,’ Mary said and quickly closed the door. Together they sat on the floor by the fire and Isabel felt warmer than she had in many days. She cried more when she saw Mary had brought slices of salted meat with freshly baked bread, and a flask of ale. Eating greedily she listened as Mary told her of Chaddock’s pained neck and how they called upon the wise-man, Glover. He had said Isabel was no witch and if Chaddock were to pray he would be better within the week. He had awoken that morning with full health.

                ‘He was in such a fine mood, he did not mind my leaving. Though I did not say it was to meet you,’ she said with a sly wink.

                Isabel finished off the bread and took a swig of ale. While Mary had been talking Isabel had been looking for the marks on her goddaughter’s arms. They were there, but faded. What scared her were the angry purple ones on Mary’s slender neck. Isabel smiled at Mary but could only think of how she was going to punish Peter Chaddock.

A pained neck would be the least of his grievances when she was done.

    

     

Witch Trials of 1612 - Writing History Fiction

The reason why I haven't been posting a lot lately is because I have so much work on right now. I have four deadlines in the next two weeks. And boy, am I panicking. My biggest reason for stress right now is the bloody Writing History Fiction module. I have two assignments due within a week of each other; one creative piece (2500 words) and an essay on why the Tudors are so popular in literature (2000 words). All together I have about 300 words written so far...it's going slow. My lecturer is so picky, and it makes me scared to write anything because she is going to analyse every single word. I really want to get another first this year but it doesn't seem likely. Every time I get back an assignment I'm with someone who does get a first and it makes me sad.
Woe.
Anyway. No time for being sad, I'm being stressed right now! So here's what I have on my creative piece at the moment, which is about the witch trials of 1612.

Lancaster

20^th August 1612

     The wind blew violently through the trees as Isabel caught her first glimpse of the gallows. She stood as straight as her bonds would allow her. It did not matter what they said. She knew she was innocent.

*

    Fire crackled in the hearth. Warm light licked the sides of the stone walls and chased the shadows away. Isabel savoured the warmth on her legs; the weather had been particularly harsh that winter and the cold aggravated her aching bones. Even her herbal remedies had not been able to help. She relaxed onto the wooden chair as Mary fretted around her.

      ‘You know you should not be here, Isabel.’ Her voice was high with panic.

      Isabel looked over her shoulder at her goddaughter. Her slight figure and silken hair were reason for the many admirers in Wendel. But to Isabel it was the beauty of her face that made her so alluring. Dark eyes and full lips never ceased to trap men of all ages under her spell. Now, however, her brows met in the middle and her eyes darted to and from the door. She sat down in her chair, then stood, paced around the room, and then sat down again. She repeated this motion four times when Isabel finally spoke.

      ‘My dear, he won’t be back until nightfall. Cease your worry.’ Isabel rose and rested her hands on   Mary’s tense shoulders. Mary held her body rigid for a moment before letting herself to curl into her godmother’s comforting arms.

     ‘He’ll be back soon, and then it shall start once more.’ 

Second Draft - Feedback

I hinted in my last post that I wasn't too happy with how my ECP meeting about my Second Draft went. My supervisor is just doing my head in at the moment. The last time we met she said the beginning was great, she agreed with me that boys would be put off my a female protagonist and that having Perry's part first was a good idea just to grab their attention, and she said that this part:

'The whole class groaned as one and glared at Perry as he made his way back to his chair. The only person who didn't seem to mind was Gregory, who was still drawing eyes even though his pen had run out of ink.'

had good imagery and was very effective. However, this time she was confused by this part and told me to change it; and she wasn't too sure with beginning, she thought Perry was the main protagonist and then said having his part first was a bad idea. Huh?  

I left the meeting feeling lost. She didn't say whether the piece was working well, she didn't seem enthralled by the plot and it's almost like she doesn't care at all - just another student. But this is my dissertation and I really do care. She contradicts herself all the time and doesn't seem to understand anything I do. I liked her as a lecturer, even if she was a little ditzy, but she's useless as a supervisor. I have considered asking to change supervisor. Although my friend told me yesterday that someone else tried to change their supervisor and nothing happened for two weeks. That's a long time with no supervisor. And there's no guarantee that the new person will be any better. 

Creative Writing at the University of Winchester was ranked in the top 10 for satisfaction in the National Student Survey and I'm starting to wonder how. Don't get me wrong I love it here, it's just it's my third year and I feel that the lecturers are being disorganised and unhelpful. 

Maybe I'll feel a little better once I get some grades back and realise that I'm still doing a good job. 

Gaia's Final Revenge

Here's one of my Writing and the Environment pieces. It's the one that I really struggled with and had a massive tizzy about. I was so pleased when I handed it in, those 2184 words were the hardest I had ever written. So you can imagine how distraught I was when I found out the word count was actually 2500 (10% either way) not 2000. Even if it is the most brilliant piece of writing I have ever done, which let's be honest, it isn't, then I will still lose marks for not writing enough. I'm really hoping that my lecturer is terrible at maths and can't work out that I'm way under the 10% leeway.

But by the sounds of it, I wasn't the only person that had issues with this piece. Another girl in my class wrote it all the day before just like I did. She didn't reach the word count either, so she just didn't write it down (I wish I thought of that).

This story evolved from a very dodgy Day after Tomorrow-esque piece I originally wrote in utter desperation. I admit, a very tiny part of me thought it was all right, but my boyfriend said it was ridiculous and obviously he was right. I scrapped that idea and came up with this one instead. It still has elements of the old one, but with a more personal touch.

Some of the inspiration came from this map I found on io9.com. It's a pretty funky website, you should check it out.

http://io9.com/5698758/a-map-of-the-world-that-shows-natural-disaster-hot-zones

Anyway, I'll get on to the story now.

Gaia's Final Revenge.

They’re calling it the revenge of Gaia; I heard it on the news. Gaia is a goddess of the Earth and all these disasters are her payback. We watch the news a lot now; we never get to watch Sponge Bob anymore.

It all started five weeks ago.

On Tuesday, I got back from school and Mum was glued to the telly, Travis, our Labrador, sat on the floor by her feet, ears drooping. I knew something was wrong because Mum was really pale, her mouth hanging open like a fish. There had been a huge hurricane in America. Not like the normal ones that blow around Florida, but one that had blown right across the entire country. No one had predicted it so no one was prepared. The news people said it was a hundred times worse than Hurricane Katrina, the one that happened a few years back in New Orleans.

When Dad got back from work he sat in front of the telly as well. All evening they both stared at it, and they tell me off for watching it too long. The situation was worse though, places like Canada and Mexico were now getting storms. Mum was worried because her sister, my Aunty Nicky, was on holiday in Ottawa. We never did hear from her again.

All week Mum watched the news nonstop. They had loads of scientists on, some were called Meteorologists, some were Biologists, but my favourite were the Environmental scientists. That’s where I learnt about Gaia from. A guy called Barry Commoner said that we had been damaging the world for long enough and this was our punishment – Gaia was fighting back and it was going to get a lot worse. I’d never thought about the Earth being a girl before, but Dad laughed at me when I said it to him.

On Wednesday the hurricane finally stopped. Everyone rushed to America to help. I saw on the news all the wreckage. All the skyscrapers were destroyed and loads of houses were completely flooded, they even showed a shot of the White House under six foot of water. It looked like one of those disaster movies. Mum was crying. I didn’t know what to do, parents weren’t supposed to cry. I sat next to her on the sofa and patted her on the shoulder. Travis rested his head on my lap and whined quietly.

‘There, there,’ I said copying what Mum said to me when I was upset.

‘Oh, George,’ she sobbed. ‘All those people…so many people…’

I sat with her until Dad came home. I was glad when he did because Mum was scaring me a little. Dad tucked me in that night, he said Mum wasn’t feeling well but she’d be better in the morning.

She didn’t look better though. She was sickly looking, and her eyes were all red. She hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek like usual, but her lips were cold and hugged me too tight, it hurt. At school I could barely concentrate, my friends, Bobby and Max, kept going on about the hurricane. I wished they would stop talking about it, it was over now.

Only when I got home it was worse.

‘George, George!’ Mum screamed as soon as I was through the door. ‘It’s happened again!’

I ran into the living room, Travis trailing after me, tail between his legs. Mum was sat on the floor right in front of the telly, her hands on the screen. ‘Look, it’s wiped out half of Asia.’

On the news the reporter man was talking.

‘The earthquake measured in at 10.8 on the Richter Magnitude Scale, something that has never been recorded before in all of history. The massive waves hit China, Japan, Korea, Australia and Russia within hours…’

I stopped listening. I knelt down next to Mum and hugged her again. This time I couldn’t help but cry too. This was wrong. We had learnt about natural disasters at school, I was pretty sure they weren’t all supposed to happen at once.

Dad came home early and hugged us both.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘England, and most Europe, is safe from these types of disasters. That’s why we’re one of the oldest civilisations in the world.’

I nodded. Dad was always right.

*

A few days later our electricity cut out. Mum wailed as the telly snapped off with a buzz. She’d been sat in front of it for days watching every news channel, day and night. The whole city was down, and we soon found out it was a nationwide blackout.

Dad lit candles in the living room and gave me a torch for when I went to bed.

‘Don’t keep it on all night though, besides you have Travis to protect you,’ he said as he tucked me in again. Travis lay on the bottom of my bed, tongue hanging out. I smiled at Dad, which he returned faintly. Dad looked rough as well. He had huge bags under his eyes and he hadn’t shaved for a few days, his chin was prickly when he kissed me goodnight.

Within days of the blackout our local shops were smashed and ravaged, every scrap of food taken. People were panicking now the power had gone; they thought a freak disaster would hit us next. Mum wasn’t getting any better so me and Dad did the shopping instead. I thought it would be all right but I was scared the whole time. Hysterical people kept grabbing and pushing, snatching things out of your hands. I clung to Dad, begging to go home. The next time he went out shopping he left me with Mum.

Even with the telly down we knew when the volcanoes erupted. The sky was covered in ash, mixing with the storm clouds. It rained black for days. We were forced to stay indoors, not that there was much to do outdoors anymore. It rained constantly; I had forgotten what the sun even looked like. The small stream down the road, the one I used to build damns across with Bobby and Max, was now a river. The surrounding houses were completely flooded. The owners, Mr and Mrs Drayton left weeks ago. So have Bobby’s family. Many people have left our street now; I don’t know where they’ve gone though. Maybe to be with their families.

It was after the volcanoes that the first immigrants started to arrive. People from mainland Europe had braved the stormy seas in poorly made boats in hope that Britain would be safer. While at church, as Mum now insisted that we visit God in these desperate times, we heard about the volcanoes. Pastor Fredrick had heard from friends in Dover that Mount Etna had caused a Mediterranean tsunami. France, Spain, Italy had been hit as well as parts of Africa. Europe wasn’t safe from natural disasters anymore. The town’s people panicked. Mrs Robson burst into tears. Mr Grison, who was one of the few people to still live in our street, went red in the face. And I heard Dad say a very bad swear word. I was shocked when Mum didn’t scold him. Surely swearing in the house of God was a sin? What I gathered from the meeting was that we didn’t want more people here; we could barely survive as it was.

Mum cried all night. I could hear her from my room. I hid under the duvet and buried my head in Travis’s fur but it didn’t block out the noise. Dad was probably downstairs. He always seemed to be in the kitchen nowadays. If I went downstairs in the night time for a glass of water he was still there, with one of his grown up drinks. He would get back from work and just sit in the kitchen, staring at nothing. I really hoped this would end soon. I wanted everything to go back to normal. I wanted my normal Mum back, the one that cuddled and kissed me. And I wanted my normal Dad back who played cars with me and taught me how to kick a football properly. The only normal one around here seemed to be Travis, he never changed.

*

I didn’t go to school anymore; I hadn’t been in a week. Mum was supposed to be teaching me instead, but all she did was stare at the walls and bite her nails. I tried to talk to her a few times but she’d only whimper or mutter about dead people. It used to freak me out but now I ignore her. I feel bad but there’s nothing else I can do. Dad seems to feel the same way. They never talk now. Dad tries with me, but I can tell he’d rather be anywhere else than our house. It’s why he still goes to work, in these terrible storms, even when he doesn’t have to. The only one I spoke to now was Travis, we played with each other even when I was supposed to be doing school work.

One day I was playing catch with Travis in the hallway. Mum used to tell me off for playing with a ball in the house. I had broken one of the glass ornaments that Mum loved so much, but I didn’t think she would care anymore. I was pushing the broken pieces behind the other ornaments when Travis gave a pained bark. I turned and saw him collapse to the floor.

‘Travis!’ I screamed as I ran to him.

I fell down next to him and patted his head. His nose was dry and he panted heavily. He whined and coughed, blood spattering across the carpet. I screamed again.

‘Travis, what’s wrong boy? Travis?’ I petted and stroked but Travis had gone still. I hugged his stiff body and tears fell down my cheeks. My only friend was gone.

Mum came running then. Finally broken from her dreaming. She tried to cheer me up. She made my favourite meal, spaghetti meat balls, on the little camp fire we had instead of our oven. I wanted to like it but it was flavourless lumps in my mouth. She even tucked me at night, and kissed me on both cheeks and the nose like she used to. But it wasn’t the same without Travis sleeping at the end of my bed. Dad didn’t come home till much later but he must have seen the bundle covered in sheets on the front garden, because he came to my room straight away.

‘Hey, buddy,’ he said as he sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t say anything else but he let me cry on his shoulder.

*

The next day Dad was already at work, and without Travis I didn’t know what to do. I trudged around the house looking for something to do. Mum was in the living room, lying on the sofa like usual. I played around with a few of my toy cars before quickly growing bored again. I slouched into my parent’s room, which is normally off limits, but I didn’t care now. Nothing was very interesting in there. Just parent things. Then I noticed a book peeking from beneath the bed. Cautiously I picked it up. Making Peace with the Planet, by Barry Commoner. The environmental scientist I saw on the telly. He knew this was going to happen, maybe he how to save the planet, too.

I was sitting at the table, reading the book by candlelight. I didn’t understand most of what it said but I liked how some of the long words sounded. The book was talking about a war between something called the ‘ecosphere’ and the ‘technosphere’ when Dad burst through the front door. He opened his mouth and spluttered, ‘Plants…toxic…air…’ before blood spewed out.

I cried out as Dad collapsed to the floor, just like Travis. His eyes bulged, and his whole body seemed to collapse in on itself. I was petrified, stuck on a chair as Dad’s blood, still gushing from his disfigured lips, pooled around me. I sat there for what felt like hours. Finally, I stood on my chair and hopped onto the table. It was then I thought about Mum. She didn’t come when I screamed. Yesterday she came instantly. I felt a shudder of fear down my spine. I dropped down off the table and edged towards the living room. I peeked around the door. In the candlelight I saw her. She was slumped on the sofa, blood smeared down her dress, across the cushions and seeping into the carpet.

I vomited. Over and over until nothing but pathetic spittle came up.

Then, I felt a twinge in my heart. A stabbing in my chest. My skin burned all over. I fell to my knees. I gasped for air, each breath cut my throat. Soon I was throwing up again. Not sick but blood. Tears streamed down my face and I knew this was the end. I was dying.

This was Gaia’s final revenge.

EDIT 01/2013: My lecturer didn't realise I was 500 words short and it didn't affect my grade, although it wasn't my best grade in the first place.

Revenge of Gaia - Why the Earth is Fighting Back and I can't Finish this Assignment.

I've gone mad.

I've been trying to write this stupid Environmental creative piece for so long that it's made me bonkers. I can barely type any more.

Let me give you some background info on this assignment. It has to be 2000 words long, easy enough, or so you would think. It has to be inspired by one or more of the four set texts, of which I didn't finish reading. That's right, I confess, I didn't finish reading any of them! That probably explains why I'm finding this so difficult. Also, it has be handed in on Tuesday, in five days time. So that's three reasons for why I'm still awake at 2 in the morning. And yes, I could be writing the assignment instead of writing this, but I need a break at some point, right? Right?

Okay, let me put the sane head on. Take a deep breath and calm down...

I've been writing this piece for over three hours now. I was finding it difficult so I decided to just do some free writing and see where it went. I thought of the premise this morning while I was in shower (ideas come at random times) and started it this afternoon. It's supposed to be inspired by The Revenge of Gaia - Why the Earth is Fighting Back and How We Can Still Save Humanity by James Lovelock. The couple of pages I did actually read were about Earth and how we have destroyed it, yaddah yaddah. I found the book preachy and somewhat boring, so I never finished it. You can just tell by the title what it's going to be like!

The idea of my piece was literally the Earth fighting back. The Earth is living and starts serving us with every natural disaster possible, hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes, everything! Only it started sounding a bit like a Day After Tomorrow or 2012 spin-off, with endless disaster after disaster. I'm not sure if it is something my lecturer will appreciate. Oh, also, plants become poisonous. I know that sounds a bit like that film The Happening where plants start being deadly and evil but that wasn't my intention. Anyway, eventually, after 1000 words of disaster drivel I actually came to some sort of plot. A boy that survives all this stuff. Him being able to survive the toxic plants reminds me of I Am Legend, you know, where he is immune to the crazy vampire disease, but again not my intention. That just slipped through as I read the book recently (that's right, it was a book first). So, the boy survives the disasters and poisonous plants and meets a woman who is also immune, and works at CERN, which was (conveniently) prepared for all these chaotic events. Together they travel to CERN and...something happens.

I haven't got that far yet.

I'm totally stumped. All together it's 2787 words, way over the limit, and it's no where near an ending.
I thought maybe if I wrote this blog post out an ending would come to me, but nothing has so far. This piece has changed from pathetic ramblings to at least a 30,000 word novel. I wanted to go with my original Revenge of Gaia piece but I couldn't stretch it out to 2000 words. I think my best option right now is to go to bed. Maybe I'll dream up a good ending. If not I may have to start again. Or maybe I'll post it here and you can give me a few pointers.

Anyway, wish me luck!

That Sinking Feeling...

It doesn't seem likely but the night time is the most inspiring time. It's when I'm lying in bed, desperately trying to sleep, that most of my ideas jump out at me. It is also a time of realisation. And last night I finally realised what a comment on a certain piece of coursework meant. For one of my sketches The Armani Assassin I wrote a somewhat ambiguous ending. I wanted to keep the audience guessing. But I now realise that sketches are supposed to be self-contained pieces. They have to make sense on their own. I was kind of writing as if it would be part of a bigger story. But that's wrong. And the piece has already been handed in and marked...

This is why I try not to think of my writing once it has been handed in as I always realise what I could have done better. I am really dreading getting my grades back at the moment, particularly my Fiction for Children piece. If I get a rubbish mark for it I am going to feel really dejected and my enthusiasm for my ECP is going to plummet. I want to write a Young Adult Novel for my ECP and if I'm crap at writing for children then what's the point?

It's only a week away and I guess the nerves are building. It doesn't help that I still have three assignments to complete and hand in by next Tuesday. I love being at home but it is not an inspiring place to write. I'm too lazy here.

But positive thinking, that will help get me through it! I might post some drafts of these three assignments so tell me what you think. Work shopping is key!

The Worst Essay Ever - Grade.

Last Friday I recieved my grade for the Worst Essay Ever. Outside the faculty office everyone was upset or mad; their grades weren't very good (but they had also received so Script Writing grades, too) so I was nervous to get my grade.The lady took ages finding my work, I was scared they had lost it again - it happened to me last year. But then, when she handed it to me I saw at the bottom of the page 67% hurray!

The marker was impressed by my bibliography, which she should be, it was a lot of books. And the only bad comment was that I needed to be more judicious with my use of quotes. Admittedly, I put in lots of quotes to make me seems smarter, also because sometimes I just don't know what to say!

Either way I am a very happy bunny. Let's hope that my creative piece is equally good, or better! 

Mark De Sade Idea

I haven't posted in ages, and believe me I feel awful about it. But I'm just finding it so hard to write at the moment. Well, anyway, here is a piece of writing that I have struggled through. I'm not feeling too pleased about it but I would like you to read it despite that. Maybe you can give me a few tips as to where I should take it next. Just a hint, it's based on Bluebeard and The Bloody Chamber. 


Mark De Sade

I sat on Mark’s bed awkwardly. I had never been in a boy’s room before. It had blue wallpaper with clothes all over the floor, school books thrown on the desk, and a poster of a girl just wearing a lacy thong. I now regretted wearing the plain white knickers that I had had for years.

I waited for a couple of minutes before checking my watch; Mark was taking forever considering he was only getting drinks. I got off the bed and wandered around the room. I peeked in his wardrobe and nosed at some of his school books. He was not doing too well at Trigonometry - all D’s. I scanned the rest of his books on a small shelf, not that there were many. I picked a footballer’s autobiography off the shelf and another book came out with it. It landed with a thud.

I picked up the book; it looked like a scrap book, although I didn’t imagine Mark was very creative. I turned the book in my hands and one of those old Polaroid types of photographs fell to the floor. A photo of Amber. I scowled; this was probably a scrap book she made for Mark on Valentine’s Day or something. Irritated, I opened the book.

The page was covered in photos of a busty blond with a dazzling smile on her face. Mark’s ex-girlfriend, Vicky. Her name was written in pen at the top of the page along with the date 27^th August. I remembered her distantly. Mark had gone out with her for ages a few years back; they were the ‘It Couple’. But I guess they weren’t that great together as he dumped her and she changed schools instantly. I ran my hands through my shoulder length brown hair, would Mark like it better if I was blond? Absently, I turned to the next page. There were more photos of Vicky. But in these photos she was dead. Her body was naked, mutilated, and covered in blood.

I dropped the book in shock and stifled a scream. I closed my eyes but I could still see Vicky’s disfigured corpse in front of me. I counted to ten before looking back at the book.

It had fallen open to another page. These photos were of a girl I had never seen before. Joanna was written at the top along with 20^th May. She was wearing a tight bikini and had sun bleached hair with beautifully tanned skin.

I didn’t want to know what was next but I couldn’t stop myself. My hand shaking, I knelt down and cautiously flicked the page over. Joanna’s skin was now a deathly grey and her hair was matted with blood from all the cuts on her face. I leapt away from the book as if Joanna’s massacred corpse was decaying in Mark’s bedroom. I lay on the floor, breathing quickly, my hands covering my face. After a moment I sat up.

My heart racing, I looked back at the book, trying not to see the photos. With a quick glance at the bedroom door I turned the page once more.

Amber 14^th March.

Amber’s beautiful face stared up at me from the photos; her auburn hair curling around her freckled face and her mouth frozen in the perfect smile.

My heart stopped. The 14^th of March was only last week. The day before Mark asked me out. Thinking about it, I hadn’t seen Amber in a while. That’s when it hit me. These dates were the day they died. The day Mark killed them.

I dreaded to see what was on the next page but I couldn’t control myself. I reached for the book when I heard a creak on the stair. He was coming back. I snatched the book off the floor, shoved it back on the shelf along with the footballer’s autobiography, and leapt onto the bed. Mark opened the door just as my head hit the pillow.

‘Hey, we only had water, hope that’s okay,’ he said as he entered the room. He stopped as he noticed me lying on his bed breathing quickly. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just thirsty.’ I sat up and took a glass of water from him. As I drank I saw him looking at something on the floor.

The photo of Amber that had fallen from the book.

My glass slipped from my fingers with a crash.

‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry.’ I sprang from the bed and headed for the door. ‘I’ll just get some tissues.’

‘It’s fine, it’s just water,’ Mark said as he grabbed my wrist. I stopped suddenly, unsure about what was going to happen. He led me back to the bed and sat me down. He then stood in front of me.

‘You’re really pretty, did you know that?’ he asked. I shook my head dumbly. He gave me one of his lopsided smiles, more predatory than it was charming. ‘You really are. Would you mind if I took some photographs of you?’

My heart stopped as Mark reached under his bed and pulled out an old Polaroid camera. I tried to get off the bed but he shoved me back down.

‘I think on the bed will do.’

Before I could move again he snapped a picture of me. After it was printed he looked at the photo.

‘Try not to look so terrified this time,’ he said as he took another photo.

I lay on the bed, my whole body tense. I smiled tersely as Mark aimed his camera at me. I looked about the room. He was stood too close to the door; if I was to run he would definitely catch me. I could try the window. We were on the first floor, but I would rather risk broken legs rather than death. But how did I even know if the window was unlocked.