Well Read

We are in week 7 of homework, week 8 of term. I had my work read out for the second time since the course started during the last class. I have to admit that while I thought I didn't need the ego boost from a public audience it is good to hear your piece. It takes on a new life and gives the writer a different perspective.

My Magnum Opus is coming along OK. I think I was sub-consciously trying to finish it before the end of term but since my reading I've felt re-energised. I think there is still a lot more of the tale to tell and so I'm going to keep letting it unfold.

One of the many great things about doing this course is that the weekly classes and homework give direction and impetus for the student to keep producing work. In my case each homework assignment has given my story direction, my characters their own voice and my writing its own style. It's great.

I still haven't got anyone to read my work but I don't think I'm ready to show it yet. At lunchtime I thought of some new scenes to fill in some of the yawning holes in my prose. Then I went on to consider how my first story could become a critically acclaimed work and turned into an Oscar winning film starring Olivia Williams. Well. All dreams have to start somewhere don't they?

Creative Writing - The Terminology

Flash Fiction, Sudden Fiction, Postcard Fiction, Micro Fiction, Nanofiction, Short Story, Novella, Novel, Poem, the list is endless. There is so much jargon. Who'd have known that you can't just write a story? Every piece of work falls into a category. Where do you start? Where does it end?

Apparently writers fall into one of three categories. Your plotter will start out with a planned story line, know exactly where the tale is going and how it will end. The discoverer starts writing with no clear direction and lets the story tell itself. Then there are those, probably the majority of writers, who are a natural combination of the two. You will start at the beginning of a journey with an idea of where it may take you but let it evolve organically, allowing natural, unplanned twists and turns to evolve. 

At the moment I seem to clearly fall into the second category. Our first homework exercise set me off on a story I had no idea I wanted to tell. Each subsequent installment is directed by our next assignment. So far I'm on almost 7,000 words. So what is that? A short story I believe.

Teacher feedback is precious. As yet she hasn't seen my project in its entirety, in fact she doesn't know it exists as one body.  I'm worried about demanding too much of her valuable time but equally I have no one else to show it to. What to do?

5 minute exercise - Autumn

The wind blows through the autumn leaves
A light south western, gentle breeze

A watery sun trickles through the trees
Rustling in the light south western, gentle breeze

Children laugh as they play in the sun
Grown ups walk, talk, while all sorts of dogs run

Because this is September, an autumn day
And somehow all the rain clouds have run away

We find our place in the watery sun
To eat, talk, love, enjoy some late summer fun

Fighting Talk

So a brief hiatus because of half-term. A break from blogging but not from writing. It seems that my 'time' to write is the beginning of the week. Give me a pad and pen Mon-Weds and I'm all over it. Life takes over on Thursday and before you know it the weekend has come and gone without a word being committed to paper.

Last week was no exception. A lot of writing, not yet typed up and a LOT of thinking. I've come to realise that I need more conflict in what I'm doing. Cracking out very short stories means that something has to give and in my case its the journey. The conflict. The meat. It happens, it's brief, it's over. A bit like a damp squib.

So my objective this week is to flesh out the fights. Give them some more impetus. A bit more feist. See where that takes me.....




9UT5G75YK3PN

It's Just a Matter of Time

So the big theme of last week's lesson was that it's all just a matter of time. About making time to write. Whether it's on the bus, tube, train, before you go to sleep, before you get up. I had a lecturer once who told me there was no such thing as 'not having the time'. It is purely an excuse and you have to MAKE time. Since he told me that (and I was making an excuse at the time so I was completely rumbled) I've always tried to adhere to that tenet, funny it's come back again.

I've tried writing on the commute, it's such a brief amount of time though, you just get into the swing of things when you're at your destination and fumbling to stuff your pen and book into your bag, pick up your coat and scramble of the train before the doors close. First thing in the morning is not an option with toddlers so for me it's evenings. And you know what? I'm enjoying it. To start with I found it impossible to concentrate because I wanted to stare at whatever tosh was flickering on the TV. Now, I'm getting so into it I couldn't begin to tell you what's going on around me. My husband is complaining that I don't respond to his ongoing commentary about his day/football/tv viewing. I can't eat my dinner fast enough because I want to get back on my laptop and research. And write.

The writer's realm is a parallel universe, one of peace, calm and serenity. I love it. If you haven't already, you should try it.

The Big Secret

I made an interesting discovery at class last week. It seems that quite a few students, myself included, have opted to keep our pursuit of literary technique a secret from everyone except our very nearest and dearest. Friends, colleagues, siblings and even children are ignorant of the fact that we are earnestly meeting in hallowed halls of learning and engaging in secret scribbling.

Is this a terribly English thing? Are we so afraid of failing before we start that we don't want to broadcast our imminent failure? Is it the fear of ridicule? Or is it our guilty pleasure? Could it be because we are  taking time out for ourselves? Time is so precious it seems over indulgent to even consider taking a 2 full hours out of a week, away from work and responsibilities to pursue a skill that eludes so many and favours so few? Shouldn't we be ironing, driving, organising, cleaning, gardening, volunteering, caring?

The thing is of course that it's not just the two hours at school. It's the surreptitious ducking out of life, excusing yourself from a room to jot down the character traits, plot lines or perfectly crafted expressions that pop into your mind while you're supposed to be concentrating on more important things. One of our lovely ladies likened it to having an affair. With a pen and paper? It could be far worse.

Serendipity

Friday was a day of revelations. College was brilliant and afterwards I had an epiphany. I realised why I was really doing this course. I am a mother of two beautiful children with my own business.  On Friday's I 'work from home' but the reality is 50% of the time I need to go into the office. This means we have a full-time, daily nanny (the lovely Kerrie).

If I'm honest when I am at home on Friday's I feel like a spare part. The children and nanny have their own routine and their own set of friends who I don't know. I've increasingly struggled with what to do with myself when I'm 'working from home' which with two young children is impossible anyway. When I found this course on Friday mornings it seemed serendipitous.

The guilt of deliberately going out when I feel that I should be spending time with them is overwhelming, but equally I feel its unfair to dip in and out of their weekday routine at my own whim and convenience. It seems so selfish.

So here I am. Lonely. Guilty. Inadequate. Insignificant. Being a parent is such a big job but at times it can make you feel so small.

The lsland

Back then I was a writer who....
... read a lot
Now I am a writer who....
... wants to be a writer when I grow up
Soon I will be a writer who...
... will find out if this is going to work out

OK so not the most auspicious start to our first lesson. On the plus side I arrived on time, I got the right room and the natives (well regulars) seem friendly. The other newbies - and there were a lot as our class is over subscribed - seem to be in the majority middle aged, middle class women (like myself). I'm wondering whether this is the first indication of a mid-life crisis or simply whether this is how it's been since the birth of the written word. When was that anyway?*

SO lots of ladies who don't look too dissimilar to me with varying aspirations which all vaguely allude to a hope that at least one of us is going to be the next BIG THING. I say that in caps because it was like the elephant in the room. The unspoken hope. The big dream. That thing we cannot say aloud.

We had a lovely chat, it seems that part of this course is going to be a pretty touchy, feely voyage of mutual discovery. Some participants are a lot more vocal than others, there's the lady who makes up bedtime stories for her children, the mature lady who recently returned from back-packing and the lovely gentleman with a disabled son who having spent a career in science and technology is now looking to explore his creative side. Oh and a yummy mummy who is on maternity leave and looking to keep the old grey cells churning so they don't turn into baby brain baby mush.

It's a tentative, hesitant atmosphere which is bolstered by the presence of a handful of creative writing stalwarts. They've been doing it for years, clearly love it and lend the weight of experience to the class. Our learned leader is a published poet who is also a 'life writer' (that's biographies and stuff).

After a couple of timed, warm up exercises we scribble, read out and share (back then I was a writer...) we get to our first 'proper' challenge. Firstly our teacher reads a poem to us. It's called 'The Island' and was written by Langston Hughes. A couple of students take turns to read it out to the class so we can hear the different nuances that different readers lend to it then we discuss how it makes us feel. In the main it seems optimistic yet depressed simultaneously. We're then given 10 minutes to write about our own island.

Ermmmmmmmm.

The class bow their heads, cover their writing with one curved arm (no copying) and all you can hear is the sound of pens scratching on paper. That's weird really isn't it? You don't really hear people write anymore. Well apparently you do if you go to a writing class. I guess the clues are there.

I clearly want to start by making literary history by creating the perfect 10 minute novelette but after a couple of false starts, some pen chewing and 5 minutes of time wasting I decide instead to take my lead from the man Langston and write a poem which personally I think is pretty catchy. For a Hallmark card ad.

The lady next to me has also written a poem which she is very keen to read out. Its good. And dark. And runs circles round mine. I'm thinking about ripping the page out and throwing it away but don't want to spoil my perfect bound note book.

The teacher sets our 'homework' - we have to come up with a character no story as yet, we're going to talk about that in our next class, a full side of A4 'should be sufficient'. We need to know what they eat, where they shop, what they sleep in, where they come from. Oh yes and they need to live on 'our island'. Time to come up with a new island I think. Then onto my homework.

Until next week....

*A quick check on google indicates it's cuneiform which according to wiki is one of the earliest forms of written expression.

Picture 'The Island' (c) Little Voice

Che Sera Sera

There are a few things I think you should know before we go any further. Just so you know who we're talking about here.

• 41
• Female
• Married with 2 small children (3.5 and 2)
• I love my husband and children
• Employed full-time
• I love my job
• I go running twice a week during my lunch hour
• Our family includes 2 rabbits, 2 goldfish (which aren't gold) and an aquarium with a variety of tropical fish, a sea cucumber, starfish and hermit crabs
• My husband is a graphic designer who goes kick-boxing 3 times a week. His biggest dream when he was growing up was to be a ninja

A couple of months ago, when the children had gone to sleep and we'd just opened a nice bottle of Red, Mr Me asked what I thought the future held - What happens when we retire? It had never occurred to me. I enjoy my job and my life and can't imagine what I'd do if anything changed. But change is irrevocable and unavoidable. In the words of Van Halen 'you've got to roll with the punches to get to what's real'.

Wise words and a philosophical wisdom I'm about to experiment with. In anticipation of said punches I've enrolled in Creative Writing Levels 1 & 2 at our local 'Adult Education' centre. At 41 I'm returning to the hallowed halls of academia - the same year that my firstborn takes her first tentative steps into her own academic career. If you can refer to preschool in that way.

I'm unsure how this is going to pan out, and apprehensive about my first class but you've got to put yourself out there right? Right. Here goes....