Assignment 5 – Reflective Commentary

The aims of the Writing 1: Writing Skills course were to learn to write effectively, drawing on sensory experience and observation; show development of language, style, and expression within my writing; draft, redraft, and edit self-generated texts with discrimination; and reflect on my own learning experience. I have provided three assignments that show how I have fulfilled the aims of this course.

My second assignment, Grace, is an extract from a larger story about my grandmother. Her husband has abandoned her. This extract features Grace coming home to an empty flat.

First, I free wrote about Grace, listing her features, clothes, and characteristics. Then, I started to play with these details, using imagery to bring uniqueness to this character. For example, I showed Grace’s posture by comparing her with the sofa: ‘She took her black coat and hat off, and placed them on the slumped sofa. Its shoulders drooped like hers.’ Goldberg states in Writing down the Bones: ‘You have all these ingredients, the details of your life, but just to list them is not enough… You must add the heat and energy of your heart’ (2005:50).

Next, I built the scenes, layer upon layer, adding detail and personification that would blend Grace’s mood with her surroundings. For example, she counts the steps as she walks up to her flat. There are thirteen. This shows her fear as she comes home alone to an empty flat. Her doorknocker sneers down at her, which highlights her shame at losing her husband.

Reading and writing poetry inspires me when describing characters and scenes. Writing poetry requires me to describe their essence and to be succinct. For example, in Out of the Dust, Hesse describes Billie Jo as having ‘cheekbones like bicycle handles’ (2007:9). This not only describes her face, but also her age: young girls like to ride bicycles.

My fourth assignment, Sid, is a short story about my grandfather. In WW1, my grandfather climbed a hill with horses that were hauling a gun to its position. When he got to the top of the hill, he turned around and all his friends were dead.

As I remember my family stories, I write them in my notebook. Writing classes and books suggest keeping a notebook or a journal. For example, Fairfax and Moat state in The Way to Write: ‘They make painless the priceless discipline of regular writing. And… becomes a memory to you, a storehouse of material, and a growing delight’ (1981:7).

The plot and scenes were developed by freewriting them to my Ideal Reader. Stephen King asserts in On Writing ‘someone… once wrote that all novels are really letters aimed at one person… I think that every novelist has a single ideal reader’ (2012:256). My Ideal Reader is my mother and this story is about her father. Therefore, I wrote the first draft to her. Then, I mapped the plot using the list method. The list method works for me because I write using a computer. Listing the plot enables me to move sections around with ease.

Paying close attention to time and place, I followed the examples of other authors. In Englby, Faulks describes where his protagonist is in simple terms. For example, at the beginning of Chapter 5, he writes: ‘I was walking up Sidney Street yesterday and this beggar came towards me’ (2008:109). In Sid’s story, I followed this example by letting the reader know every time the scene changed. For example, as Sid moved from the barracks to the front line, I wrote: ‘A week later, we caught the train heading for Flanders. We went right into the thick of the fighting.’

David Lodge explains in The Art of Fiction: ‘The simplest way to tell a story… is to begin at the beginning, and go on until you reach the end. But even in antiquity, storytellers perceived the interesting effects that could be obtained by deviating from chronological order’ (2011:74-75). I chose to start this story on the day after the climax. This showed the effects of the culmination of events and provided a hook. Then, I went back to Sid’s childhood. I ended the story at the climax, after I had developed the main characters.

When choosing how to develop Sid’s persona, I decided that he was the best person to tell this story. He is the only one of his friends left alive at the end. When deciding on what point of view to choose, I considered Boehmer’s questions: ‘Whether to write a work in the first person – close-up, comfortable, intimate, too intimate? Or in the third – rounded out, out there, objectified, remote?’ (2001:154).  I sought to illustrate close-up the agony of war. Also, first person would give the impression of a memoir. Mary Karr has suffered greatly in life and shows this in her memoir, The Liar’s Club. When her mother’s insanity finally breaks, Mary states: ‘Then a dark shape comes to occupy that light, a figure in the shape of my mom with a wild corona of hair… And swooping down from one hand is the twelve-inch shine of a butcher knife’ (2015:156). I wanted to bring this intimacy with suffering to my story.

For my fifth assignment, Maggie and Doyle, I started with dialogue. Recently, I have spent time listening to my neighbours argue. They often do not make sense nor do they listen to each other. I used these snippets of real dialogue as a base for my fictitious arguments. Then, I added description and action. The Writing Skills Course Book maintains: ‘Dialogue doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It’s usually broken by action, interior thought processes, and description’ (Mort, et al. 2013:119).

In Catcher in the Rye, I found examples of dialogue amid description and action. Holden is an angry young man and fights with everyone. For instance, he is furious with his roommate, because he thinks Stradlater has abused his friend. Stradlater throws Holden to the floor and kneels on him.

‘He said it over again. “Holden. If I letcha up, willya keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes.”

He got up off me, and I got up too. My chest hurt like hell from his dirty knees. “You’re a dirty stupid sonuvabitch of a moron,” I told him.

That got him reallymad’ (Salinger, 2010:47).

The character of Doyle started with the idea of a wild, wolf man. Eventually, I changed the metaphor to a hyena. This was more appropriate to the characterisation of Doyle, because hyenas are scavengers and unromantic. In Lolita, Nabokov describes Quilty as a goat rather than the substantial ox to show us how skinny and effeminate he is: ‘We rolled over the floor… He was naked and goatish under his robe… and elderly readers will surely recall… the Westerns of their childhood. Our tussle however lacked the ox-stunning fisticuffs…’ (2015:299).

Then, I left this story to germinate for a while. As Draycott states in Creative Writing: Writers on Writing: ‘I had to wait for the rest to present itself… This scanning, waiting for the additional layers of imagery and narrative to stick ‘like burrs’… seems important. A subject won’t give itself up to you stared at straight on’ (2014:38). Also, the Writing Skills Course Book recommends doing the following before editing: ‘Put the piece away for a relative length of time… Retrieve it. On reading through… you will find you are looking at something that doesn’t feel quite so much like your own work’ (Mort et al., 2013:197). Other ideas surface when I leave a story alone. For example, in the first draft, Doyle was on his own when he came home. In later drafts, to exacerbate Maggie’s irritation, I invented Terry to play the harp and argue with Doyle.

In Moon Palace, Paul Auster uses specific nouns and strong verbs that help the reader to be in the story. For example: ‘Eventually, it got so bad that I could even smell my feet – a horrific stench that came right through the leather of my boots, invading my nostrils like a cloud of poison gas’ (2004:66). When I returned to Maggie’s story, I changed parts that were telling the reader what was happening rather than showing the reader by involving them in the story. I achieved this by scanning for abstract nouns, clichés and adverbs, and an excess of metaphors and similes. For example, I changed ‘Eventually, her stumbling brought her crashing to her knees’ to ‘Maggie stumbled and fell. Her knees smashed onto the flagstones.’

In conclusion, throughout the class I have practiced writing description, developing language and style, and redrafting and editing my texts. Specifically, this reflective commentary shows in assignment two, how I wrote effectively, drawing on sensory experience and observation; in assignment four, how I developed language, style, and expression; and in assignment five, how I edited my text with discrimination. Through these examples, I have shown how I have fulfilled the aims of this course on Writing Skills.

 

 

 

Bibliography

Auster, P. (2004) Moon Palace.London: Faber and Faber Limited.

Boehmer, E. (2001) ‘Writing in the First Person’ In: Bell, J. & Magrs, P. (ed.) The Creative Writing Coursebook.London: Macmillan. pp. 154-157.

Draycott, J. (2014) ‘The staircase’ In: Chatterjee, A. (ed.) Creative Writing: Writers on Writing.Newmarket: The Professional and Higher Partnership Ltd. pp. 37-44.

Fairfax, J. & Moat, J. (1981) The Way to Write: A Complete Guide to the Basic Skills of Good Writing.London: Penguin Books Ltd.

Faulks, S. (2008) Engleby.London: Vintage.

Goldberg, N. (2005) Writing Down the Bones. (2^nded.) Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc.

Hesse, K. (2007) Out of the Dust.London: Frances Lincoln Children’s Books.

Karr, M. (2015) The Liar’s Club. London: Picador.

King, S. (2012) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.London: Hodder & Stoughton.

Lodge, D. (2011) The Art of Fiction.London: Vintage.

Mort, G., Milton, N. & Flower, T. (2013) Creative Writing 1: Writing Skills.Barnsley: Open College of Arts.

Nabokov, V. (2015) Lolita.UK: Penguin Classics.

Salinger, J. D. (2010) Catcher in the Rye. London: Penguin Books.

Assignment 4 – Reflective Commentary

Part four in Writing Skills covered style and language. The assignment was to work on a short story paying attention to the development of my voice, the persona I used for my character, and the imagery I used. With the tools learned, I used imagery to develop a character from naïve teenager to broken man. The story was in first person; therefore, the development of the persona was also the development of my voice.

Style is the genre of a story. At present, my genre is short stories based on family stories. While doing an exercise that suggests reading work aloud from my notebook, I read an old family story about my grandfather during the war and decided to use that story for my assignment.

Stephen King thinks “that every novelist has a single ideal reader; that at various points during the composition of a story, the writer is thinking, ‘I wonder what he… will think when he… reads this part?’” (256). During an exercise where I free wrote to an “Ideal Reader,” I wrote to my mother about her father. I wrote all the ideas in my mind and created the first draft of my assignment.

The Writing Skills Course Book states that an author’s voice is not necessarily their own, but could be the persona that they take on to tell the story (133-137). Moon Palace by Paul Auster is in the first person. This helped to build intimacy with the protagonist, Fogg. Because of this, I chose to write my assignment in first person. Auster clearly indicates where Fogg is in the story: “I came to New York in the fall of 1965. I was eighteen years old then” (1). This is also a useful tool to transition between different times and space and move the story forward. I imitated this in my assignment, for example: “Last year, at the age of 16, I left home for king and country. Home was Tottenham in London. It was 1915 and I was ready to pick up a rifle.”

Language should be simple and clear. During redrafting, abstract concepts and flowery language should be edited to help place the reader in the story rather than telling the story. The Writing Skills Course Book states that “Fowler, of Usage and Abusage fame, had some definitive things to say about simplicity” (142). Using Fowler’s preferences, I tightened the assignment. For example, I changed the long words to the short by replacing “the trench is unusually empty” with “I am alone.”

Fairfax and Moat state that “a writer is interested in grammar in so far as it can help him to write more effectively” (25). While discussing grammar, Fairfax and Moat recommend concrete nouns over the abstract: “Tell her you are in love with her. It sounds grand, but what on earth does it mean? Give her a string of racehorses… or a kiss… Then she knows exactly what you mean. “ (27). As an example, when editing my assignment for abstract nouns, I changed “I feel heavy” to “My heart is so heavy it seems to pull my shoulders to the ground.”

Imagery uses metaphors and simile to show the reader what is happening. In Lolita, Nabokov uses imagery to show Lo as excited about new clothes as a hunter is about finding a rare bird: “very slowly stretching it between her silent hands as if she were a bemused bird-hunter holding his breath over the incredible bird he spreads out by the tips of its flaming wings” (120). Hunting is an image used in Lolita to highlight Humbert’s abuse of 12-year-old Lo. To highlight Sid’s youth in my assignment, I used two similes from the circus/funfair. One described a man looking like the strong man in a circus and the other described the wheels on the gun like the big wheel in a funfair.

In conclusion, I have learned to develop my voice, the persona I used for a character, and the imagery I use. I produced a story that developed a character using imagery. In future, I need to continue to practice effectively weaving description into a story. With these tools, I created an assignment that met the requirements of Part Four.

Bibliography

Auster, Paul. Moon Palace. Great Britain: Faber and Faber Limited, 1989.

Fairfax, John and John Moat. The Way to Write: A Complete Guide to the Basic Skills of Good Writing. Great Britain: Elm Tree Books, 1981.

King, Stephen. On Writing. Great Britain: Hodder & Stroughton, 2012.

Nabokov, Vladimir. Lolita. Great Britain: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1959.

 Open College of the Arts. Writing Skills, 2016.

Assignment 5 – Maggie and Doyle

Maggie stumbled and fell. Her knees smashed onto the flagstones.

As she knelt on the pavement, rain fell onto her bare shoulders, breasts, and thighs. Goose pimples sprung up on her body. Her blonde hair stood in spikes against the wind. Blood dripped onto her thighs from the wounds on her arms.

It was 12 o’clock on a cold, autumn night. The noise of the London traffic was reduced to a drone until a siren pierced the quiet. Lights flashed like a cool, blue beam from a lighthouse. Maggie heard footsteps stomp towards her. A blanket came round her shoulders. She looked up into the face of a policeman. He frowned.

‘What’s your name, love?’ he said.

Maggie giggled.

‘Your name, love. What’s your name?’ he repeated.

‘What’s yours?’ she said and giggled again.

‘We need your name. We’re going to take you to hospital. Do you understand?’

She nodded.

‘Maggie,’ she said. ‘My name’s Maggie.’

She was guided to a white van parked by the pavement. I’d love a beer, she thought as she noticed the red line that ran its length. It reminded her of a can of Red Stripe. She giggled and snorted. The snort made her laugh hard.

The side door was open. She stepped up into the van and sat down.

‘Move over, love,’ the policeman said as he climbed into the van and sat down next to her. ‘Who can we call? Is your husband home?’

She couldn’t give them Doyle’s name. Not because of his arrest record – that was bad enough – but because of his threats. He’d cut himself. That’s what he’d said. He’d cut himself if she did that again. She shook her head.

‘No one,’ she lied.

The sway of the van lulled her into a black out. Having swallowed half a bottle of Southern Comfort on top of Seconal, she remembered little of the journey to the hospital.

Coming round to the smell of disinfectant and cabbage, she found herself lying on a bed. It was hard. A tall machine stood on the floor by her side: its face dark and its tendrils falling to the ground. Blue curtains surrounded the bed. There’s always a hook missing, Maggie thought as she looked at the space where the curtain sagged. Her arms were bandaged.

She could hear two women whispering.

‘How’s Mr. Kent?’ one asked.

‘Doctor has increased his medicine,’ replied the other.

‘And we have a new one?’

‘Yes; suicide.’

‘Wait till morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. You heard Jamie’s having a party?’

Maggie listened, as the whisper became a cackle.

‘I know. Any chance to show off her big house and her husband’s money.’

‘Snooty cow. You going?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah.’

Maggie looked up at the stained ceiling tiles.

She thought about Doyle. They had been married for five years. It’s his fault I’m unhappy, she thought. If he wasn’t always drunk, I’d be okay.

It was about six months ago when Doyle had threatened to cut himself. The day had started, as usual, with an argument. Then, he’d gone out with some friends and left Maggie alone in the flat. She had hoped he would never come back.

The flat was on the first floor of a Victorian tenement block. From her usual spot on the stained, floral sofa, Maggie looked round the front room.

The floorboards were grimy and aged. A square of concrete sat at the foot of the chimneypiece where the hearth used to be. To the right of the fireplace was a wing-backed, Chesterfield armchair: Doyle’s throne. Red and gold swirls dipped between worn patches and dirt. The seat sagged.

A tatty bookcase leaned against the other side of the fireplace. Between the paperbacks, nestled a radio. Boy George sang out, ‘Karma-karma-karma-karma karma chameleon…’ Funny bloke, Maggie thought.

The air in the room was stale from tobacco and sweat. Maggie got up and crossed the room. She pushed open the window. The rusty pulley crane on the warehouse over the road reminded her of Bill Sikes: she imagined hearing the creak of a rope as he swung from the end. What a way to go, she thought. I wonder if it hurts.

The door that led into the kitchen was open. Maggie eyed the draining board piled up with dirty plates and pans. They’d argued about that earlier.

‘Can you do the washing up?’ she had asked.

‘I’ll do it in the morning,’ Doyle had replied.

‘No you won’t. You’ll forget. Do…’

‘I’ll do it in the fucking morning,’ he snapped.

‘You never do anything,’ she snapped back. ‘I’m always the one that cleans and cooks and washes. I’m sick of it. Just go and…’

‘You are such a fucking nag. You’re always on my case. I said I’d do it in the morning and I will.’

And on… and on…

She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. A shoop of gas crept up her nose as she turned on the stove. When the kettle whistled, she made a cup of tea. She threw a handful of Valium in her mouth and chewed.

She was in bed by the time Doyle came home. It was about one o’clock in the morning. She stirred as The Bold Fenian Men screamed out from the front room. Irish rebel music. That was as far as Doyle’s Irish rebellion went. Oh God, she thought. How long is this going to last? She heard murmurs. Doyle had brought someone home with him.

Maggie crawled out of bed. The moon shone through the window. A cold blast of wind shot through the broken pane. Fumbling around for her dressing down, she found it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She hesitated a while. She didn’t want a fight. Sitting on the end of the bed, she listened.

As the music got louder, she went out of the bedroom and dithered in the hallway. She looked out of the window at the council estate across the car park. A single lamp lit the scene below.

A harmonica wailed from the front room.

She pushed open the door.

Doyle was sitting on the floor hunched over a mirror with a razor in his hand. Opposite him, sat crossed-legged on the floor, was a fat man playing the harp: Doyle’s mate, Terry.

Doyle looked up at her. He was like a hyena snarling. His mop of black hair unfurled above his long face. A scar on his upper lip shivered as he gnawed on his cigarette. Beneath his blue shirt, silver flashed from his necklace. It was a moon and star hung from a bootlace. He always wore it. Maggie thought how wonderful it would be if it caught on something and he would sway in the wind, like Sikes.

‘Can you turn that down?’ she asked.

‘I can hardly hear it,’ Doyle answered. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and swigged a mouthful of whisky.

‘I’m trying to sleep,’ Maggie replied.

Doyle turned the knob on the boom box.

Maggie returned to the bedroom. She sat in an armchair, in the recess, by the bed, and looked out of the window opposite. Her hand tingled as she remembered the time she smashed it through the glass. She could still hear the music from the front room.

Returning to bed, she pushed her head under the pillow. She managed to doze off for a while only to be woken by the sound of arguments. She jumped out of bed and stormed into the front room.

‘Please be quiet; I’m trying to sleep,’ she shouted.

Doyle and Terry looked up at her through lowered lids.

‘Okay! Keep your shirt on,’ Doyle said.

She went back to bed and lay there looking at the ceiling. Doyle’s voice droned on next door. Anger rose up from her stomach like vomit. She didn’t know what to do.

‘Fucking hell!’ Doyle said as Maggie stumbled into the front room. Blood streamed down her face. She slumped down onto the floor. He staggered over to her and looked at her.

Images of what she had done flitted through her mind like an ancient black and white film: flickering with shadows and stains.

Walking into the bathroom, Maggie picked up Doyle’s razor. She sat on the toilet opposite the sink and looked at it for a while. With her thumbs on either side of the cartridge, she cracked it open and pulled out a blade. Blood dribbled from her thumb.

She stood up and looked in the mirror over the sink. Slowly, she pulled the sharp edge down her cheek. Red beads broke through and followed the metal down. She did it again. It hurt.

After following the blade’s track down her face for the sixth time, she heard a vague voice in her head. You ought to stop now. You’re scaring me. She placed the weapon down on the ceramic sink. It was then that she had lurched into the front room and freaked Doyle out.

Doyle stared at her for a while. Then, he swayed to the kitchen and came back with a checkered tea towel. He put it on her face.

‘Hold this,’ he said.

As they waited for the ambulance, he told her that from now on, if she cut herself again, he would cut himself too.

A twinge of pain in her arms brought her back to the present and the hospital bed. She was lying on her side, playing with the edge of her blanket. She turned on her back and looked up at the ceiling. Some of the tiles were cracked.

If Doyle wasn’t such an idiot, I would be happy, she thought. If he helped around the house and was not an embarrassment to my friends, all would be good. She didn’t take him out with her friends any more. In fact, she really didn’t have friends any more.

A few years ago, her ex-boyfriend had died. She had taken Doyle with her to the funeral.

The wake had happened at David’s home. It was a terraced house on a street that ended at a bend in the road. Trees lined the road that, a few weeks ago, had flamed red with autumn leaves. Those same leaves now crunched black and dusty underneath their shoes. A queue had formed at the front door, as guests filed past David’s family. When it came to her turn, Maggie hugged his mother’s small frame. She had not seen Meg for some years and was taken by how white her hair was. ‘Sorry for your loss,’ she said and followed the other visitors down the corridor into the front room.

Two windows filled one side of the room and looked out to the street below. The wallpaper was covered in pink flowers and the carpet was navy. Vol-au-vents and French Fancies sat on an oak table in the middle of the room. People whispered to each other and clasped their hands together, as if in prayer.

Maggie stood in the corner of the room with Doyle. She knew he was already high. His breakfast has been a handful of Tuinal, washed down with bourbon. It wasn’t long before he left her side and flounced over to the drinks cabinet on the other side of the room.

As the day wore on, Doyle became loud. He shoved her friends as he weaved around the room. He swore and made crude jokes. Maggie saw Meg look at him and roll her eyes. Eventually, he stumbled his way to the bathroom.

Maggie followed him into the room and slammed the door. ‘You’re just so embarrassing! All my friends are here and you’re drunk.’

Doyle lent over the toilet and threw up. He wiped his face with his shirt.

‘I need you… I need you to help me.’ Doyle pulled his jeans down and sat on the toilet. ‘I can’t find my weed. I put it down and it’s gone. One of those fuckers has nicked it.’

Suddenly, Doyle jumped up off the toilet. He shoved Maggie out of the way. ‘I’ve had enough! I’m going home!’ he said and opened the bathroom door.

He pranced towards the kitchen with his trousers around his knees. Maggie grabbed him. He turned and tried to push her away, but fell over instead. He shook in a puddle of giggles. Maggie’s face felt hot. People were watching. Vomit fumed in greens and yellows on Doyle’s shirt.

‘Don’t you fucking judge me—you and your snooty friends—like you’re better than me. They’ve nicked my weed. They’ve fucking nicked my weed,’ Doyle shouted.

He tried to get up off the floor. His trousers kept him from being able to get the leverage he needed. He collapsed in giggles again and then shouted.

‘Fucking hell! Let’s go. Let’s get out of this shithole. Get a taxi!’

Maggie shuddered. Helping him up off the floor, she tried to pull up his trousers. He pushed her away and heaved his jeans up over his arse.

‘Where’s my fucking weed?’ he shouted at a couple of people who were staring at him. ‘What you fucking looking at? Wankers!’ He stumbled back off to the toilet with his shirt poking through his fly.

Maggie entered the kitchen. It was stuffed with people; some looked up, but most continued their conversations. She looked around the room for a phone. There was a table in the middle of the room. Along the wall were worktops and cupboards. On a bench, in the far corner of the room, she saw a phone.

As she made her way over to the phone, Doyle called out, ‘Maggie!’

She ignored him and pushed on through the throng of people.

‘Oh, Maggie!’ he sang. Heat rose up her face.

‘MAGGIE!!’ His demand exploded in her guts and tears pricked her eyes.

She pushed back through the crowd and headed to the bathroom.

‘What?’ she muttered as she entered the room. Doyle was standing by the toilet.

‘Where were you? Why didn’t you stay with me? I can’t pee. I need to pee. I can’t pee. Help me get my flies down. I need to pee. Help me.’ His words drilled into her.

Maggie started to help him, but he urinated down his trousers and on to the floor.

‘I want to go home. I feel sick,’ he moaned.

‘Stay here and I’ll go phone for a taxi.’

‘All right… I feel sick… I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Put your head over the toilet.’

Doyle threw up on the floor and over the bath. Maggie sat down on the end of the bath. Tears poured down her face.

‘I need a tissue. I’ve got it on my face.’ Doyle grabbed a fleecy towel and wiped his face.

‘What you crying for?’ He dribbled spit down his chin. ‘What you fucking crying for? I’m the one who should be fucking crying. I’m sick and someone’s nicked my weed. I should be fucking crying.’

Maggie wiped her face with her hand. ‘I’m going to phone for a taxi.’

‘Okay.’

‘Stay here till I get back.’

‘Okay.’

Another round—another bout—another endless round was over. Until they got into the taxi and the driver told them to get out. Until they got home and Doyle wanted to listen to Irish rebel songs and open a bottle of Scotch. Until the next day, and the next, and the next.

The sky had grown light as Maggie lay in the hospital bed. She continued staring at the ceiling tiles. There was one with a hole in the middle of it. What’s that stuff they’re made of? she thought. Oh yes, polystyrene! She giggled. Oh bondage! Up yours!

The curtain rustled and parted. Maggie watched as a nurse look in. Her blonde hair was trapped under a small, white cap with two hairpins. Retreating, the nurse said, ‘She’s awake.’

Maggie heard another woman answer, ‘Who?’

‘The suicide bird. The one who cut up her arms.’

‘She sober?’

‘Should be.’

Maggie saw a hand came around the curtains and pull them open. The nurse pushed a metal trolley in. It was covered in bowls and instruments wrapped in plastic. Ripping open the plastic wraps, she placed a needle and a pair of scissors on a kidney dish.

Another nurse entered the cubicle. She pursed her lips and took up the needle. Her full figure pushed the curtains wide as she circled the bed.

They did not talk.

Standing either side of her bed, they removed the bandages from her arms. They dabbed her wounds with antiseptic wipes and started to sew.

A tear dropped down her face. This hurts, she thought. Maybe they’ve forgotten to numb me. Maggie tried to move her arms, but the nurses pressed down hard. Tears poured down her face.

The nurses ignored her and continued to sew.

Assignment 4 – Reflective Commentary

Part four in Writing Skills covered style and language. The assignment was to work on a short story paying attention to the development of my voice, the persona I used for my character, and the imagery I used. With the tools learned, I used imagery to develop a character from naïve teenager to broken man. The story was in first person; therefore, the development of the persona was also the development of my voice.

Style is the genre of a story. At present, my genre is short stories based on family stories. While doing an exercise that suggests reading work aloud from my notebook, I read an old family story about my grandfather during the war and decided to use that story for my assignment.

Stephen King thinks “that every novelist has a single ideal reader; that at various points during the composition of a story, the writer is thinking, ‘I wonder what he… will think when he… reads this part?’” (256). During an exercise where I free wrote to an “Ideal Reader,” I wrote to my mother about her father. I wrote all the ideas in my mind and created the first draft of my assignment.

The Writing Skills Course Book states that an author’s voice is not necessarily their own, but could be the persona that they take on to tell the story (133-137). Moon Palace by Paul Auster is in the first person. This helped to build intimacy with the protagonist, Fogg. Because of this, I chose to write my assignment in first person. Auster clearly indicates where Fogg is in the story: “I came to New York in the fall of 1965. I was eighteen years old then” (1). This is also a useful tool to transition between different times and space and move the story forward. I imitated this in my assignment, for example: “Last year, at the age of 16, I left home for king and country. Home was Tottenham in London. It was 1915 and I was ready to pick up a rifle.”

Language should be simple and clear. During redrafting, abstract concepts and flowery language should be edited to help place the reader in the story rather than telling the story. The Writing Skills Course Book states that “Fowler, of Usage and Abusage fame, had some definitive things to say about simplicity” (142). Using Fowler’s preferences, I tightened the assignment. For example, I changed the long words to the short by replacing “the trench is unusually empty” with “I am alone.”

Fairfax and Moat state that “a writer is interested in grammar in so far as it can help him to write more effectively” (25). While discussing grammar, Fairfax and Moat recommend concrete nouns over the abstract: “Tell her you are in love with her. It sounds grand, but what on earth does it mean? Give her a string of racehorses… or a kiss… Then she knows exactly what you mean. “ (27). As an example, when editing my assignment for abstract nouns, I changed “I feel heavy” to “My heart is so heavy it seems to pull my shoulders to the ground.”

Imagery uses metaphors and simile to show the reader what is happening. In Lolita, Nabokov uses imagery to show Lo as excited about new clothes as a hunter is about finding a rare bird: “very slowly stretching it between her silent hands as if she were a bemused bird-hunter holding his breath over the incredible bird he spreads out by the tips of its flaming wings” (120). Hunting is an image used in Lolita to highlight Humbert’s abuse of 12-year-old Lo. To highlight Sid’s youth in my assignment, I used two similes from the circus/funfair. One described a man looking like the strong man in a circus and the other described the wheels on the gun like the big wheel in a funfair.

In conclusion, I have learned to develop my voice, the persona I used for a character, and the imagery I use. I produced a story that developed a character using imagery. In future, I need to continue to practice effectively weaving description into a story. With these tools, I created an assignment that met the requirements of Part Four.

Bibliography

Auster, Paul. Moon Palace. Great Britain: Faber and Faber Limited, 1989.

Fairfax, John and John Moat. The Way to Write: A Complete Guide to the Basic Skills of Good Writing. Great Britain: Elm Tree Books, 1981.

King, Stephen. On Writing. Great Britain: Hodder & Stroughton, 2012.

Nabokov, Vladimir. Lolita. Great Britain: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1959.

 Open College of the Arts. Writing Skills, 2016.

Assignment 3 – Reflective Commentary

 

Part Three in Writing Skills showed how to create speech using monologue and dialogue. The assignment was to expand an idea making use of direct and interior monologue. With the tools learned during this project, I produced a story that included speech.

Monologue helps build detail. I practiced monologue with a character in a setting. It added depth especially as there was action and noise in this particular piece that dialogue could have slowed down. I had difficulty making the monologue sound realistic. For example, my character was sinking in mud and cursing in his mind: “Looking up the hill, he tugged at his leg, his foot stuck firmly in the mud. Bloody hell! As he heaved again on his leg, the other foot sank further in the sludge. Jesus!”

Stories written in first person point of view such as Sebastian Faulks’ Engleby are written mainly as monologue. This can help us to become more intimate with the main character, but because we only receive input from him, it is difficult to know what is real and what he fabricates.

Dialogue has various rules attached. The Writing Skills Coursebook states that Anthony Trollope’s advice on dialogue includes “No character should utter much above a dozen words at a breath – unless the writer can justify to himself a longer flood of speech by the speciality for the occasion.” (99). That is a challenge and required a similar streamlining that takes place when writing poems.

Further rules include the use of speech attributions. Stephen King in On Writing claims the best speech tag to use is “said.” (142). In addition, if it is obvious who is speaking, do not use speech tags (OCA 97).

Dialogue would be boring if it was dictated from real speech. To help hear the rhythm of dialogue, I practiced writing down snippets of real dialogue. I then added description and action to develop the story. For example, one line was “Sam’s not giving me any [inaudible].” When action and description were added, it became “She came towards Lizzy’s desk with a big smile. ‘Sam’s not giving me any…’ she mumbled and pushed her long auburn hair up in a band with a sweep of her hands while looking at Lizzy through her fringe.”

When practicing dialogue, I placed a previous character with a character chosen from a list. This piece was interesting so I used it in my assignment. I changed the tone of the piece as it was bright and my assignment is darker. The beginning of the assignment grew when I practiced playwriting. I set Betty in with her doctor discussing why she was unhappy. As it was a play, when I changed it to prose, I had to add action and description. Reading Engleby helped me to see how description can be added without stopping the action. Some times he writes very simple building layer upon layer. For example he describes a Turkish bus station thus: “There were sodium lights over the grimy tarmac and the glass-sided shelter. There was that wailing Muslim music turned up louder than the cheap speakers wanted, so their tinny shuddering was added to the vibrato of the singer.” (Faulks 38).

 

But then he describes something quite poetically; so much so that it is unclear exactly what he means, but you get the feeling from his words. For example, “Whoosh goes the chestnut-amber tide up the side of the straight glass as I tear the cellophane from a silver packet of Sobranie Virginia.” (Faulks 92).

 

During the draft process with my assignment, I cut down some of Betty’s dialogue in her discussion with Jones as some of them were 20/30 words long. Doing this, I could see that the words removed were redundant. I had difficulty with taking Betty back in time to when her husband left her. I am still not sure that I have done this smoothly.

Finally, I have learned to write dialogue that has a function and keeps to the point. To support my further education in writing, I need to read more fiction that shows how writers seamlessly move between time and place. With Betty’s story, I created an assignment that met the requirements of Part Three.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

Open College of the Arts. Writing Skills, 2016.

King, Stephen. On Writing. Great Britain: Hodder & Stroughton, 2012.

Faulks, Sebastian. Engleby. Great Britain: Vintage, 2008.

 

Assignment 2 – Reflective Commentary

Part Two in Writing Skills covered describing characters and placing them in settings. The assignment was to describe a character and to let this character’s life drive the narrative. With the tools learned during this project, I produced a story that showed the character in a setting that supported her mood and situation.

Describing characters is about building them one detail at a time. Moving from a list of physical descriptions to something interesting is challenging. Within the list, I found original ways to describe physical attributes, e.g., “her swollen belly bore deep stretch marks like crocodile skin”. I also learned to describe personalities without using abstract nouns, e.g., for depressed I chose “she sits like a sunken garden in winter”. Ongoing, I need to remember to incorporate all five senses and gestures.

Placing a character in a setting can develop the character’s emotions and story. My practice produced pieces that did not flow well. In one exercise, I created a feeling of impending danger but the writing was jagged: “A whiff of rancid oil hit his nose. The traffic hum was pierced by a siren. Lights flashed from oncoming cars as he approached”.

However, when placing characters with their possessions, the flow began to improve. In one exercise, I described a photo of a character and her husband. Then, I listed all she would see coming home to an empty flat. Using the tools gained describing a character in a setting, I described the flat in ways that would reflect her mood. I made a conscious effort to slow down and allow the character to tell this story. The result was satisfactory and used as the draft for my assignment.

In an exercise about motivating your character, I chose to develop a story about a person who survived the Ghost Ship fire in Oakland. It was difficult to write because I became emotionally involved. Indeed, Natalie Goldberg in Writing Down the Bones infers that writers can avoid taboo subjects because of fear: “Underneath, while you write you are a little nervous, not knowing how to get to what you really need to say and also a little afraid to get there”.

For the assignment, the first draft was created when placing characters with their possessions. This is a family story. Grace has lost her husband and has two children. The spooky element came about when the story wrote itself through free writing. It helped to show Grace’s fear. In the second draft, the point of view was changed to gain more intimacy. However, having Grace describe her own possessions sounded contrived. In the third draft, some descriptions were moved, as there was too much description in the beginning and this slowed the action. The story was finished after I had checked the rhythm of the sentences and paragraphs.

In conclusion, I have learned to describe a character and place them in a setting that supports their mood and personality. In future, I need to remember to use gestures. In addition, I need to introduce senses other than sight. Further, I must not get mired in details. Apart from this, I created an assignment that met the requirements of Part Two.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston: Shambhala, 2005.

 

Assignment 1 – Feedback – Reflections

For this assignment, the feedback was positive. Comments were made regarding improvements to the poems and prose. The main areas of improvement were given with regard to the reflection essay.

The first suggestion was that there should only be one idea per sentence. In practicing this, the sentences sound abrupt and choppy. It is hard to improve the sentences so that they have only one idea in them and do not all begin with “he.” More practice is needed.

Another idea was to not allow description so floral it overwhelms the reader. Freewriting has provided many unique ways to describe an object, person, or animal. It is very easy to be carried away and want to use all the descriptions. At the revising stages, these descriptions need to be whittled down. Too much description can stop the flow of the story. It was suggested the books “Engelby” and “Lolita” were read as strong examples of how descriptive prose can be used without slowing the story down.

Misuse of tense was pointed out. This is a matter of proofreading accurately and being more careful.

It was further proposed that the story clearly shows the reader where the character is in the scene. It takes practice to take a vision in the mind and recognise if this image has been shown precisely in written stories and poems.

Finally, feedback was given regarding the reflective essay. The comments were very useful, particularly regarding removing pronouns. Especially, helpful was the example of what a reflective essay should look like. This example was followed in this essay. Continued practice should improve future essays.

To conclude, the feedback given was straightforward and easy to follow. Going forward, practice is needed in order to assimilate the tools learned in Assignment 1 and the tutor’s feedback. The challenge will be to integrate these along with the new tools that will be acquired in Assignment 2.

First Assignment

How did I do? Hmmm… So I need to review how I think I have done against the criteria and make notes… Let me go look at the criteria… I’ll be right back…

Okay so I am to be assessed on the following:

Presentation and technical correctness

Because of my job as a secretary my grammar and punctuation are good (but working in the USA for many years has introduced variations from the UK way). While writing sentences so full of description, I think I might have left out a comma or two. I am a little unclear when writing sentences that are unusual if they follow the same rules or if rules can be a bent a little (for example, poetry can be written without a capital letter at the beginning of a sentence).

Language

I have an ear for language and rhythm. I can tell when it is working and when it is not. The problem at times is I can hear it is not working but I am not sure how to change it. In Steam Train for example, I feel that the beginning was full of description but then when we got on the train, it feel it goes into more telling instead of showing. I still am not sure how to change that. I guess I need more practice.

Creativity

I definitely experimented with the pieces in this course and I think I tried to let go and bring something different than what I usually write. I am pleased with the creativity in them especially with Meerkat. I think I was able to bring that animal alive with my words which I found quite exciting.

Contextual knowledge

Reading Patti Smith’s M Train inspired me during my assignment, but I am not sure that this shows in my writing. Except for the fact that I was inspired by how she brought poetical language into her stories – into her prose. The same with Lauren Slater’s Welcome to my Country. And I have tried to do the same.

Craft of writing

In Steam Train, I like how I was able to go from the garden to the train via memory. Meerkat shows movement and the way that the animal stands proud – I was able to do this with describing a line at a time – adding layer upon layer. My favorite is York Minster – those eight lines came from about 30. Continuing with free writing even though it is tough and frustrating, I have found some gems. I do think I am at the beginning with this craft and have a lot to learn.

Reflective Commentary – Assignment 1

We have covered a fair amount in Part One. It was a rocky start and I felt a little inadequate, but despite my constant perfectionism I have produced writing that shows a loosening up and an ability to describe objects and scenes uniquely.

I read M Train by Patti Smith as an author’s notebook and found it inspiring. She is always writing (sometimes on napkins) and uses the perfect words for her story. She shows me how writing poetry can help with writing stories.

In Clearing your Throat (the coursebook), Julia Bell likens writing in a notebook to exercise and limbering up. This made sense to me and helped me through the times when my notebook seemed to be full of rubbish. Freewriting is also a form of that limbering up.

My first experiment with freewriting was frustrating. Having continued with this practice, I started to see progress and a reason for doing it. My problem is that I try to write stories or at least something interesting rather than just describing or making associations. I need to stop taking myself so seriously and have fun with this. I have difficulties letting go and trusting in the process.

I have never used a commonplace book before. I have started clipping stories and pictures from magazines but am a little sceptical about this because I think I can probably find all the photos, ideas, and stories that I need using a search engine on the Internet. I will try to remain open-minded.

When writing descriptions, I find it halts my stories. I need more practice with this. The exercises in describing objects and scenes were difficult but I found myself getting into the swing with wild descriptions, e.g., the nave of York Minster as “Ladies clothed in cream silks and golden taffeta lifting up their arms in praise and ecstasy.” Paul Magrs in Clearing Some Space (the coursebook) says, “What tends to hold people up in the first placed is their determination that the first line they write down be brilliant.” That describes me perfectly.

I have difficulties with this course’s instruction on creating drafts; highlighting the good and a line through the bad. It stops my creative flow. How I usually draft feels more organic. I write a story and save as draft one. Then I make revisions: reading what I have, moving parts around, adding bits, taking bits away and save as draft two. As this works for me, I feel bound creatively when I try to do it the college way but I will keep practicing.

To sum up, I am finding I am a little resistive to taking on these exercises on a daily basis; some of this is to do with discipline and some is to do with having a fixed writing practice already that works. I am willing to remain open however and practice these as I have seen how especially with description they are producing interesting pieces of writing.

Steam Train – Assignment 1 – Prose

Cobwebs tickle my ears as I rest amid smoky creosote in the shed at the bottom of my garden.  Watching the foxes’ forsaken playground while aeroplanes howl above like tempests: one fades away into silence as another snarls. Light wind strokes my face like walking through fine silk and icy air slips up my nose attempting to obliterate smells. I chew on my cigarette.

The heating outlet hums vapour above a window wherein orchids of yellow and pink speckles pose. A sudden car alarm twitters. Insects buzz as the leaves faintly rustle. Soft scuffles trip through the air like lovers dancing or sweeping and the warmth of wintery sunshine tickles the tip of the trellis.

My eyes follow the stone flags that roam randomly stacked unevenly along the ground. They bump into an abandoned iron birdbath that drips rain water onto dusty compost putrefying. Birds chatter quickly and hop over dark earth. The birch steps among box and yew and weeds ready to be plucked.

Dirty green plastic chairs, discarded until summer, sit in the corner where the ivy-laden fence leans. Lichen spreads at the edges of this dank world: moss perfume that smells like a damp coat after a bonfire or rain on the platform of a steam train. Almost immediately I am drawn back to happier times: the day we travelled vintage style.

Under a cream, maroon overhang on Platform One, the adventure began. Thrilled to be travelling back in time, we dashed to a compact, wooden hut on the platform and ordered tickets. The air smelled of smoke and tar: fragrances of a 1930s film.

Suddenly there was a whistle and a choofing. Wooooo! It wailed. Wooooo! It rattled and huffed into view. The engine was a brute of a machine: black with silver pistons pushing furiously as charcoal steam blasted from the funnel. The cabin was sturdy and colossal with chains and knobs and levers and bolts. Blood red, shiny carriages with curved doors tilted towards us and we chased the curtained windows. The beast came to a halt and the engineer piled coal into the fire. Clambering on board, we were greeted with wood panelling and musty pongs and sat on thinly padded chairs; brass luggage holders, too small for our backpacks, sat above our heads.

The train moved slowly out of the station repeating its song – a long, low whistle. Steam floated by the window and the station slowly receded; replaced with oaks and Yorkshire grey-stoned houses, and flat streaky clouds in cool cobalt. Wandering, we come upon the old restaurant car with pine dining tables and chairs. A curved bar leaned at one end where Bob served tea. Bald and retired, volunteering on the railway was Bob’s life. He guided us to a sturdy table covered with Fat Rascals the size of a man’s fist, éclairs oozing cream, and sugary triangles of spongy delight. We dripped red jam onto our Rascals and munched. A gentleman spread opposite, who spent his days traveling the railway drinking beer and talking with travellers, informed us that the entire train is like it was back in the day and even has a proper loo with ceramic toilet and sink! 

At Haworth, we waved goodbye to the gentleman and the train and exited the station. Walking along cobbles over a curved bridge, we watched the train puff underneath us leaving a sooty muss on our clothes.