Creative Writing Course

[Draken]

Well I finally decided to do something to get myself writing more regularly and signed up for a Creative Writing Course. It's just a ten week evening course, no formal qualification at the end of it or anything, but I'm really doing it for the fun of it!

Thought it might be fun to share the exercises we're set each week, so you can try the exercises if you want? Will post what my effort was each week as an example. Feel free to jump in, contribute, criticise, whatever.

[Draken]

The first exercise was to write a monologue by a character built around three things. The idea is that the reader starts to build up an idea of what the character is like from the monologue.

My three things were the description "Former child star", a picture of a beach and the phrase "The itch has gone."

My effort is on my other computer, so I'll post it tomorrow!

[Draken]

“On the Beach…I quite like this song. Haven’t heard a Chris Rea song on the radio for a long time. This one always reminds me of that film…now what’s it called? Ah she’s tuned it to Radio Two, that explains it. Radio Two, the place Radio One DJs go to die. Know that feeling: from Saturday evening prime time to Pebble Mill lunch time, that’s my career in a nutshell. Anyway that film…it wasn’t The Beach, modern Hollywood rubbish…it was in black and white I’m sure. And with a sad ending. Hmm, On the Waterfront rings a bell…that was the one where Marlon Brando says “I coulda been a contender”. Know the feeling mate. Two and a half years on Doctor Who and they replace me with a bloody robot dog. I mean acting was all I’d known: stage school, theatre, adverts, those train rides to London for TV auditions. I was hungry for performance, I had an itch to act. I was the youngest ever male assistant to the Doctor! The only one to kill two cybermen in the same episode! How could they take that away from me in favour of a talking piece of tin? Oh I remember now, it wasn’t Marlon Brando…it was Ava Gardner. And it was set in Australia. And they all died at the end. What WAS it called…oh of course! On the Beach: the same name as the song, silly me! Bloody hell, am I REALLY having this conversation? With MYSELF? I need to go out and get my life back. Maybe I should call a couple of agents, I still have friends in the business. Oh, who am I kidding? The hunger has passed, the itch has gone. Ava had the right idea in that film: find a nice beach somewhere and resign yourself to your fate. Not that it’s an option for me: it’s started raining again, for a start. Hopefully somebody has left that damn robot dog out in it to rust."

[katya]

I like your monologue! I don't have one of my own, but just wanted to let you know that I'm listening and I hope you keep posting.^^

[Arat-Falathion]

Yes, I ditto that

[Draken]

Thanks guys, if it's being some use/interest I'll keep posting!

The next exercise was to talk to another course member about the character in their monologue - how did they picture him/her, what were the details of their life etc. Then - working alone still - we had to write a dialogue between our own character and the other. It was a pretty good exercise in building up a feel for characters from what they said and how they said it.

I chose a lady who had written a monologue about an aging joke shop owner who had just lost his business, as he seemed a good foil to my somewhat whiney ex-star!

Oh yes, they had to meet over a meal as well. (Not sure why!)

[Draken]

And here's my effort!


Dialogue

Having finally decided to dip my toe back in the water, as it were, my first part was not exactly Earth shattering: Spear Carrier Number 3 in a provincial production. Still it was a start, and it meant I was in the right place at the right time to step into the breach when the celebrity booked for a charity gig had to cancel. No fee of course, but there was a free meal in it and the local press would be there: as my new agent so kindly put it “Man, do you need your profile raising!”

The venue was the town’s Royal British Legion. They had raised a few thousand quid for some hospital or other, apparently. I got there in good time, did the usual meet and greets then settled down to the free scoff ahead of the outsize cheque handover ceremony.

He was sat across from me. A rather crumpled looking old chap with a discontented air to him. Something about him told me I would not be enjoying a quiet meal.

“So,” he said as I buttered my roll. “I wonder what happened to the ‘star of stage and screen’? There was supposed to be some fellow here to grin at the cameras. Keith Chegwin, I think his name was.”

“He couldn’t make it,” I answered before trying out my most charming smile. “You’ve got me instead.”

He looked at me askance. “Well don’t think me rude…but who are you?”

My smile never faltered. “I’m not on the TV so much these days. My name is Martyn. Martyn Rowan.”

“I see,” he answered. “I’m Frederick.”

“Pleased to meet you, Fred,”

“That’s Frederick, if you don’t mind,” he said brusquely. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of you,” he added. “But then, I’m not sure I’ve heard of Keith Chegwin either.”

“You don’t watch much television then?” I ventured.

“Some. Question Time, Newsnight, University Challenge. Students these days…!” He rolled his eyes and reached for the water jug.

“Well I’ve never been on any of those,” I assured him. “Nor has Keith Chegwin, I would guess.”

“I used to watch more telly. With the kids. White Horses in the summer holidays, and The Clangers before the news. When they got older it was the Six Million Dollar Man and The Goodies.” His eyes grew wistful. “I liked The Goodies. Those three knew how to work a gag. They never repeat any of the GOOD stuff on the telly, do they?”

“No,” I concurred with some feeling. “They don’t.”

“Course,” he continued. “They’ve all flown the nest now. The kids. Long since.” The wistful look faded into one of sad resignation.

“Well, I was sort of in kids television. I mean, I had parts in Albion Market and El Dorado – and an early episode of Casualty. But mostly people remember me from Doctor Who,” I explained. “If they remember me at all,” I added.

He nodded. “Doctor Who? My lot used to watch that. My youngest especially, she used to love it.”

“I used to love being in it,” I confessed. “I never really enjoyed acting as much once I left it. I think I was a bit too young to deal with the rejection, to be honest.”

Frederick gave a little snort. “Well both of us have been made surplus to requirements, in our way. The difference is, losing my joke shop happened near the end of my life. You leaving Doctor Who happened near the start of yours. Unlike me, you’ve had a long time to put it right.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I sipped a spoonful of tepid soup before managing: “Well, it can be hard for a former child star.”

He looked disapprovingly at me. “I dare say. But, I would guess, not as hard as it is for a former miner, or a former steelworker, or even for a former shopkeeper who’s lost the family business. Seems to me, if I may be so bold, that you don’t really have that much to complain about.”

“Erm, thanks,” I stammered. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Anyway,” he continued. “Who were you in Doctor Who?”

“Daxlan,” I said with a heavy sigh. The need for further explanation was so inevitable that I trotted it off automatically: “I was the Doctor’s assistant for two and a half series.”

Frederick leaned back in his chair, regarding me contemplatively. “Hmm yes,” he mused. “You know I see it now. I DO remember you.”

“Really?” I asked incredulously.

“Oh yes. My youngest thought you were wonderful. Cried all evening, she did, when you returned to your planet.”

Again, I didn’t know what to say.

“You see,” said Frederick, a kindly tone in his voice. “I think if you can mean that much to a child, even just the once, then you’ve achieved something. I’m not happy I lost my shop, but if I look back to the times it meant something to the children round here – well it makes it bearable. Maybe that’s how you should think about your time as Daxlan.”

I smiled. An honest one this time, not the practiced one for public consumption. “Maybe you’re right. Thanks for the advice. Did your daughter REALLY cry when I was written out?”

He nodded. “She did.” His eyes misted as he recalled his memories. “Of course, by the next week she thought the robot dog was MUCH better.”



(Apologies, if you didn't grow up watching British TV some of that might not make much sense!)

[IronParrot]

I've always been curious about Creative Writing courses of any sort, mostly because I hear mixed messages about them. On one hand it's been said that they're a scam, you'll never get your money's worth of publication or agency or what have you, even at the university level. At the same time, I like how it forces you to regiment your craft by writing constantly and under deadlines.

Keep us updated with your results.

[Draken]

What I liked about THIS course was that it doesn't make any claims about getting you published or offer a 'qualification'. And at £26 for ten 2-hour lessons it's pretty affordable! It's run by the local college, and the tutor is one of the leading members of a local publisher. Which is interesting, as she has that view on what makes something publishable. Not necessarily commercially successful, but of a publishable standard, at least.

For me there are three benefits:

1) Tackling set exercises that I wouldn't otherwise try.
2) Getting back into the habit of writing regulalry to deadlines (as you said IP)
3) Hearing how other people tackle the same sort of writing tasks.

I'm finding it worthwhile - if I was coming to the course expecting to get a guaranteed publication at the end of it, maybe I wouldn't.

[Draken]

Anyway the next exercise: I was given a greeting card (mine had 16 cats on it) and a phrase ("pillow talk"). Here's my effort:

16 Degrees of Cattiness

Kevin woke up half fearing last night had been a dream. His life could best be described as exasperating, in the main, and to meet the woman of his dreams, whisk her off her feet and end up at her place, all in the same evening – well that was lucky beyond belief. There was, he started to recall, one flaw in all this perfection: she had just applied for a job somewhere far away. But then again she HAD said she might not take it even if it was offered her.

Kevin suddenly realised what had woken him and frowned. He might have known: she had a cat. Women with cats always seemed to click with him. He sat up in bed to look for the source of the soft mewling that had stirred him: to his surprise he saw a large and rather mangy tabby cat with a torn ear and a nose bearing several ancient scars. Selina had seemed much more the sleek house cat type rather than the owner of a raddled tomcat.

The divine brunette beside him awoke and looked up. “Good morning,” she smiled. “I see you’ve met Binky.”

“Binky? He doesn’t look like a Binky.”

She yawned. “I know, it’s sort of an ironic name. He adopted me about a month ago: just moved in, more or less.”

“Hey we have something in common,” said Kevin. “That’s how long I’ve been in town.” He studied the cat, noting the intent look in its wild green eyes. “Oh dear,” he muttered. “4D.”

“4D?” asked Selina. “What do you mean?”

Kevin sank back down into bed and turned to face Selina. “Well you might not know it but there are 16 types of cat.”

Selina stretched while she considered this statement. “You’re nice to wake up next to,” she replied eventually. “But your pillow talk needs some work. Anyway there must be more than 16 types: you know – Siamese, Manx, all those.”

Kevin shook his head. “No, they’re breeds of cat. I mean types of cat. As in types of personality.”

Selina looked at him quizzically and wrinkled her nose. “Oh alright I’m vaguely intrigued. What on Earth are you on about?”

“People think cats are deep, but really they only have two basic characteristics,” explained Kevin. “Independence and attitude. They have four main classes of independence, ranging from Clingy, which I call Class 1, to Feral; Class 4. For attitude you’ve got a) playful, b) cool, c) unfriendly and d) psychopathic. That gives you 16 basic cat types. There are subgroups of course but the 16 types are really all you need to know. Binky has 4D all over him.”

Selina looked at him as if she was starting to regret the night before. “How many subgroups then?” she asked.

“237.”

“Maybe you need a hobby,” she advised.

He sighed, then shrugged. “I guess I notice a lot of things about cats.”

He did indeed. For though he didn’t realise it, Kevin was the male reincarnation of Bast, the Egyptian cat deity. So while he didn’t exactly like cats, they loved, worshipped and adored him. While cat gods no longer sported cat heads, there had been tell tale clues in Kevin’s life. He was obliged to remain clean shaven after his first attempt to grow a moustache had resulted in a set of strangely horizontal whiskers. He had uncanny night vision and had never once fallen on his backside. But Kevin was not given to self-analysis, and remained unaware of his true identity.

Binky meowed, jumped up to the partly open bedroom window and squeezed out of it. Selina dug Kevin in the ribs. “The kitchen’s thataway. Black coffee for me thanks, strong, one sweetener. I’m going to grab a shower.”

*

Across the street the sleek Persian cat looked up as her visitor arrived. While she was the undisputed ruler of This Street And The Next And The Next Up To The Recycling Bins, she was obliged to receive and even show a degree of deference to her guest. For he was the High Priest of Cat-kind, the Most Reverend Pangthandangonaldringom. Or Binky, as Selina called him.

“It is done,” he growled, in a language that sounded like a series of mews and meows to human ears. “Our Lord…”

“Kevin be His name,” responded the Queen automatically.

Binky nodded impatiently. “As I was saying, “ he continued. “He is settled among us. His long years of wandering in the Wilderness are over. My travelling in His footsteps is done with. Blessed are you for He will make your Queendom His home!”

“That’s nice,” replied the Queen, wondering how this would affect her status. “I suppose we should mark the occasion?”

“Of course,” rumbled Binky. “In the time honoured way. Inform your subjects. I shall await you.” With that the High Priest departed abruptly.

*

“Erm Kevin…could you come here for a sec?” Selina’s voice held an uneasy tone. He walked through from the kitchen, a mug of coffee in each hand. She was dressed now and standing at the window, fumbling to shut it, staring through it with wide eyes.

He followed her gaze and felt a familiar sinking feeling. Outside, neatly arrayed in rows that filled Selina’s postage stamp of a garden, were cats. Old ones, young ones, thin ones, fat ones, groomed pets and matted strays. All were sat looking in at the window, unblinking, a low, purring hum emanating from nigh on a hundred feline throats.

Selina looked sideways at Kevin. “You know, you go on about cats and then THIS happens …it’s …um …sort of creepy, you know?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.” This always happened. He had been stupid to think this time would be any different.

“Look,” she said, backing away toward the hallway. “I need to pop to the shops, ok? I might be a while…the lock’s a Yale, just close the front door behind you, ok?”

“Ok,” he said heavily. She smiled apologetically and left. He heard the front door open and suddenly realised he had forgotten something.

“Selina!” he called urgently. “Mind out for the….”

He heard her stumble, followed by the inevitable shriek.

“Mind out for the pile of headless mice,” he muttered to himself.

*

“She’s gone! And now He has left!” spluttered Binky to the Queen. “Why does this always happen? Now I’ll have to follow Him again.” He scowled in the direction Selina’s car had departed. “Woman thou art fickle!” he growled.

“Oh that’s right, blame the female,” commented the Queen dryly. “Maybe if you weren’t pursuing Him so relentlessly He might find a nice mate and settle down properly. Ever thought of that?”

*

Kevin got the card some five weeks after his arrival in Swindon. His last landlady, bless her, was more diligent than most. It came in a padded envelope along with a pair of his socks that she had found behind the chest of drawers. There was no message of any kind on the front of the card, but something about the artwork – a collection of cartoon cats – made him pause: after a few moments he realised there were 16 of them, more or less arranged in a four by four square. Inside there was a brief hand written note:

“I took that job. I’m Assistant Warden of the North Ulfsay Bird Reserve. Why not wander up this way sometime soon?”

It was signed by Selina, with a telephone number. At the bottom of the card was a PS: “We’re miles from the mainland and there are NO CATS.”

[katya]

Too funny! A little...too many cats, maybe. Funny though.
I'd personally love to take a creative writing class. I never plan on getting anything published (well, maybe), but I'd like to improve my techcnical skills. I was never really taught how to write, unless you count this year in English 11.

[Draken]

Uh huh well cats were sort of integral to it, I suppose!

For the next exercise we were all booked tickets to a book launch at the local literature festival - both were poetry books - and asked to write something inspired by it.

What I came up with was inspired by it inasmuch as it's a poem at least, about something that's been preying on my mind of late!


Impending Crisis

So now the big ‘four-oh’ approaches
It never used to bother me,
But the way people go on about it,
Well it’s making me edgy, you see.
But therein lies the danger
Of falling into the trap,
Of trying a little too hard
To wind time a few years back

So…

Don’t read much in the receptionist’s smile,
She’s just being polite, you know:
She doesn’t find you worldly wise,
She just thinks you’re getting old.

Stay faithful to Pink Floyd and Nirvana,
Don’t pretend you like hip-hop or rap,
Don’t dress like you starred in The Matrix,
DO NOT BUY WIDE-BRIMMED LEATHER HATS.

(As a general rule, if you think it looks cool,
It will just make you look like a prat).

Step away from the motorbike salesroom,
Honda Goldwings and Harleys are worst,
If you’ve never before had a tattoo,
Now’s a bad time for your first.

Don’t resort to the usual clichés
To prove you’re less old than they think,
But then, that receptionist’s smiling again:
I might ask her out for a drink….

[Draken]

Next exercise: write a descriptive piece that makes something disgustingly horrible sound beautiful. It has to be in tomorrow night and I'm stuck!

[Last Child of Ungoliant]

the cat one was exceptional
well done - i can't write half as well as I should like, and I do so half as well as i deserve

[inked]

Originally Posted by Draken

Next exercise: write a descriptive piece that makes something disgustingly horrible sound beautiful. It has to be in tomorrow night and I'm stuck!

You could try describing the finding on the sole of your shoe as the truly delicious 16 course meal someone had before over-imbibing resulted in a bodacious hurl on your front step!

[Earniel]

Originally Posted by Draken

Next exercise: write a descriptive piece that makes something disgustingly horrible sound beautiful. It has to be in tomorrow night and I'm stuck!

*just thinking* You can do something with technology, it can be used for horrendous things but it can come in a nice package.

[Draken]

Ta LCoU!

And thanks for the ideas folks. In the end I went for an idea I'd been kicking over all week but only just got finished by the lesson. It's very short!

Assaulted Slug

I set free a cascade of crystals, tumbling and turning, tiny facets sparkling in the evening sun. They arc earthward, gravity defining the chaos of their descent into precise parabolas. The first brittle impacts: ricochets from the flagstones, a haphazard scattering. Then the target is found: gleaming in the twilight, a sheen of iridescence encasing ochre-flecked autumn brown. Like chips of melting ice the crystals disappear into the dewy shroud. The surface trembles, then bubbles, transformed into an undulating fluid that suddenly flowers into a crescendo of smooth yellow-greens that burst out like breaking waves. Liquefied, the rich insides flow, vivid against the stone grey. A slowly blossoming pool of summer colours lingers in the dwindling daylight.

That will keep it off my lettuces.

[Last Child of Ungoliant]

that is brilliant!

simply, brilliant

[Draken]

Thanks again Chrys!

The next exercise has been causing me problems again. It's something called a 'skeleton story' - we're given a random collection of words and phrases and these are the 'skeleton' that we have to hang the story from.

Was deeply stuck until last night as I wanted to avoid the light hearted approach for a change and write something darker. Have finally made a start, will post the phrases we were given and my effort later.

[Draken]

Ok the phrases for the 'skeleton story' are:

Hallelujah
I've lost it
Not my problem
Snowflake
No sugar
Give her a leg up
This is ridiculous
Dressing gown
A full report by the end of the week
Dead cert
Get out

Have done something but I'm not really happy with the ending, will try and finish it and post it tomorrow.