KLWG June 2014

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The June meeting of Kessingland Library Creative Writing Group met on Wednesday this week, with a slightly smaller turnout than usual.  But we still had a productive meeting, so that's all that matters.

Homework from last session was to take a walk around a graveyard and take note of the words on one grave and write a story for that person.

I had a pleasant wander around the local graveyard on a Sunday afternoon, making the most of the sunshine and the peacefulness.  Even though I managed to sting myself on some nettles, I found the whole experience rather uplifting, to see that so many people died young or alone, and it makes you realise just how blessed you are.

So while I found quite a few interesting names ...

... but chose this one to write about ...

Annie

I could have

• ·         learnt how to crawl then stumble then walk
• ·         cried all night long keeping my parents awake
• ·         tied up my shoes and buckled my belt
• ·         built a fort with my cushions and quilt
• ·         played in the snow in my pyjamas and socks
• ·         watched the school playground and wished I was six
• ·         collected bugs and eaten worms covered in mud
• ·         stamped my feet and held my breath to send my parents mad
• ·         come home drenched in glitter and paint on my first day of school
• ·         perfected my pout and secured my scowl
• ·         bruised my arms and grazed my knees
• ·         screamed and shouted and made too much noise
• ·         played and danced and made up rhymes
• ·         had adventures, explored and roamed
• ·         skateboarded head first down a hill
• ·         hid under my bed through thunderstorms and hail
• ·         spoken to an imaginary friend
• ·         kept all the treasures that I’d have found
• ·         had sleepovers and midnight feasts
• ·         thrown snowballs in winter frosts
• ·         been afraid of spiders or ghosts or clowns or heights
• ·         had my heart broken and broken some hearts
• ·         studied hard or failed all my tests
• ·         worked my way through fashionable fads and tastes
• ·         found a job, gone to university, or travelled around the world
• ·         conformed to society or rebelled, running wild
• ·         fallen in love and had our own little family
• ·         passed my driving test after six attempts, finally
• ·         taught my children to ride their bikes
• ·         written a pile of best-selling books
• ·         cut hair, flown planes, fixed pipes, answered phones
• ·         not paid my speeding fines
• ·         watched my children lead their lives and grow
• ·         dyed my hair and plucked out all the grey
• ·         lied about my age, filled my wrinkles with cream
• ·         broken the law and committed crimes
• ·         watched my husband get ill and die
• ·         got my telegram from the Queen before I knocked on heaven’s door

if I hadn’t died when I was only 3 hours old

*****

During the session, I tried an activity that I'd worked on with my teen writing group, and that was to write a 26 sentence story, with each sentence starting with a different letter of the alphabet (in alphabetical order).

Brothers

Angry, Jeremy stood at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, a furrow in his brow, shaking his head at the pile of boxes covering the hallway floor.

"Barry!" he yelled, knowing full well that Barry would still be asleep and quite possibly wouldn't wake up for a good few hours.  Climbing cautiously over and around the maze of boxes, Jeremy pushed open the living room door and pulled open the curtains, letting the morning sunlight burst in.  Drowsily, Barry groaned from the sofa and rolled over, away from the light, hugging a cushion over his face.

"Ever thought about getting a proper job?" Jeremy breathed in his brother's ear, and then planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Feck off," Barry croaked, waving his arm in front of his cushion-covered face, as though trying to swat a fly.

"Get up!" Jeremy shouted, pulling Barry off the sofa by his ankles.

Hanging on for dear life, and putting all his strength into making his body as rigid as possible, Barry managed to pull the sofa over, covering himself, and knocking the vase off the coffee table.

"I give up, I really do.  Just when I think that you couldn't waste any more space, you go ahead and surprise me by being even more useless," Jeremy ranted while leaving the room.

Kicking a small box out of his way, Jeremy dropped his head and rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand.  Life was so difficult with Barry around.

'Maybe if he took things a bit more seriously he wouldn't be such a pain,' Jeremy thought as he clicked on the kettle.  'No, that'll never happen.'

Outside, a sparrow danced on the bird table, jabbing its beak into the mesh of the bird feeder, getting its breakfast, while inside Jeremy stirred his coffee and daydreamed about jabbing his spoon into Barry's head.   'Perhaps I can do it, one night, when he's asleep, when he's dead to the world and won't feel anything,' he thought, smiling.  Quite unexpectedly, Barry appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking worse for wear.

"Right, look, I know what you're going to say, but you don't need to say it; I already know," Barry says, sheepishly, holding his hands out, apologetically, to his brother.

"Shut up, just just up, I've heard it all before.  Time and time again, the same excuses, the same apologies, but this time I don't want to hear any of it," Jeremy snapped.

"Understood," Barry said, knowing full well that he had pushed it a bit too far this time.

Vacantly, Jeremy looked back out of the window at the sparrow on the bird table.  "What's in those boxes this time?" he asked but wished he hadn't spoken.

"Xanax," Barry mumbled.

"You had better get those drugs out of my house, and any other drugs you have here, and go; I never want to see you again!" Jeremy screamed, not turning around to face his brother.

Zigzagging across the sky, the sparrow flew off into the morning clouds, leaving the earth behind to carry on turning.

*****

The homework for our next meeting is to go for a walk and take note of signs (street signs, direction signs, house names, menu boards, lampposts, etc), and use the words found in a story.

Our next meeting is on Wednesday 16th July, 10:30 - 12:00.

LLTW - June 2014

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Another good turn out for the Lowestoft Library Teen Writing Group this week, with six creative writers turning up.

This session we each wrote a 26 line story, where each sentence began with a different letter of the alphabet (in sequence).  This is a bit like an acrostic/abecedarian poem, but obviously using prose.  We had fun trying to think of words beginning with the more difficult letters of the alphabet.  I think a little cheat should be allowed with X, as we could only think of 'xenophobic' and 'xylophone', which didn't really fit in with anyone's stories, so words beginning with ex- were allowed (exciting, example, explore, extend ...).

While writing this I found that I don't know my alphabet as well as I should!  We can all recite it, but when it comes to knowing which letter follows on from another, out of context, it can be quite tricky!

Anyway, here's my story.

-----

A few years ago the world was subject to a terrible catastrophe.  Bombs were dropped on all major capital cities, killing millions of innocent people.  Catharine should have been in London on that fateful day, but a power cut has meant that her alarm hadn't gone off, and she slept in till 10am.  Dragging herself out of bed, bleary eyed, she sighed as the red lights on her clock came into focus.  'Eric should have called me,' she thought, as she reached for her phone, which was sitting on her bedside table.  From the flat next door, Catharine could hear old Mrs. Jacobson sobbing and wailing like a deranged banshee.  Groaning, she pounded her fist on her bedroom wall in the hope it would quieten down her neighbour, but the crying just got louder.  Her phone vibrated in her hand, but when she looked down she was disappointed to see that it wasn't Eric, but instead her battery was dying.  Irritability started to set in as Catharine scrambled about under her bed looking for the right charger cable for her phone.  "Just how many of these things do I need?" she mumbled whilst untangling the wires.  Kneeing herself in those nose as she stood up, Catharine grumbled and flopped back onto the bed.  Laughing, she pulled a pillow over her face.  Moments later her phone vibrated loudly.  NICOLE flashed across the screen, and Catharine knew to never ignore a call from Nicole.

"Oh my goodness, where have you been?" Nicole screamed into Catharine's ear.  "Please tell me you're alive, I couldn't bear it if something had happened to you," she continued.

Quickly, Catharine opened her mouth to speak, but, as always, Nicole carried on talking before waiting for an answer.

"Really, you should let your best friend know if you're dead or alive, if nothing else.  Something like that should be at the top of your list, you know.  Talk to me Catharine, I'm begging you."

"Uumm, my alarm didn't go off, and I feel like I've been kicked in the face, which I kind of have been, but with a knee rather than a foot, and I'm a bit confused as to why you're panicking more than usual," Catharine answered.

"Vap-a-rize dropped their bombs today," Nicole said solemnly.

"What are you talking about?" Catharine asked.  Exhaling slowly, the penny dropped.

"You must remember, they've been threatening to drop them for ages, and today, this morning, first thing, they annihilated the world's major capital cities; London being one of them," Nicole blurted out.  "Zombie apocalypse annihilation would be a day at the beach compared to this."

-----

Our next meeting is on Wednesday 2nd July, 5-6pm, at Lowestoft Library.

KLWG May 2014

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We had another great meeting this week, with 9 members coming along.  We had been meeting for an hour, but I felt that it was too short to really get a lot of writing and reading done, so I suggested lengthening the session.  Everyone was in agreement, and one member suggested that we go from 10:30 to 12:00.

Homework from last session was to randomly pick a Picasso portrait and use that as a basis to write something.  Everyone approached this task from different angles, from writing from the point of view of the model, to the point of view or the canvas, to factual pieces about the artist, to fictional pieces inspired by the image, to personal responses to the picture.  

I chose this picture -

And wrote this -

Mirrors

What’s it like to be out there?

What do you mean?

I mean, how does it feel to be real?  To be out there in the world?

I don’t understand.

Ok, let me try to explain.  What are you doing right now?

Nothing really.

Yes you are.  What are you doing?

Well, I’m just looking in the mirror.

Right.  So what does that mean I’m doing?

You?  You’re me.  We do the same things.

I wish that was true, but it isn’t.

Yes it is.  Look.  I move my hand, you move your hand.

It’s not the same hand.  Move your hand again.  The right one.  And look closely at my hand.  It’s not my right one.  It’s my left.

Heh, so it is.  I’d never noticed that before.

No, you don’t notice much.

What’s that supposed to mean?

While you spend your time looking in the mirror, I spend my time looking out.  At you.

If I’m not looking at you, how can you be looking at me?  I move my hand, you move yours.  I close my eyes, you close yours.  I turn around, you turn around.  That’s how mirrors work.

Is it?  Is that really how mirrors work?

Yes.  Everyone knows that.

How?

What?

How do they know?

What do you mean?

Ok.  Turn around and look at the wall.

Why?

Just do it.

Ok.

Now turn back and face the mirror.

What was the point in that?

What did you do?

I turned around.

And what did I do?

You turned around too.

But the thing is, I didn’t move.

Of course you did.

How do you know?

Well … I …

Did you see me turn around?

No, but …

But?

You just had to.

Why?

Because that’s how it works.

Who told you?

No-one.  Some things just happen.

Do they?  Do they ‘just’ happen?  Does the sun ‘just’ rise?  Does the rain ‘just’ fall?  Are babies ‘just’ born?

What’s that got to do with this?

Weren’t you ever taught to think?  To question?

Yes, but …

But?

I never thought I’d need to question the workings of a mirror.

Why would you?  It serves a purpose, and when you’ve finished with it, you forget about it.

How dare you?

Everything you see in this mirror is a reflection.  It’s not the truth.  It’s a palatable version of the truth.

What’s that supposed to mean?

I don’t think you could handle seeing the real you, the way I see you.  You’re more concerned with the way you look than the way you are.

Are you saying that I’m vain?

I’m saying it how I see it.

You don’t know what you see.  You’re just a reflection, remember.  You’re not real.  You don’t exist in the real world.  Everything you do and everything you are is because of me.  I move my hand, you move your hand.   And when I turn around, so do you.  You’re nothing without me.

What would you do if I left, right now?

You wouldn’t.  You can’t.

Just watch me.

*****

In the session we spoke about writing 'faction' which is a combination of fact and fiction.  A lot of writers draw from personal experiences, but fictionalise everything.  Writing faction means that a real person will exist in a fictional setting, or fictional people will exist in a real setting.

We each wrote a piece of faction, about a real person in a fictional setting.

Tony looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, peering closely at the hair growing out of his ears.

'Why does hair sprout out of every part of my head other than the top?' he pondered.

The reflection of the clock behind him caught his eye.  He was late, as usual.  He splashed some water on his face and walked downstairs, drying his skin with his sleeve.  An alarm sounded.  He was going to be in trouble.  One more late mark against his name and he would be up in front of the commander.

Tony put on his hat, to cover his hairy ears, straightened his tie, and placed his palm on the pad by the front door.  The alarm stopped and the door slid open.  Sergeant Noble was waiting for him, with a strong hand held at his temple in salute.  Tony reluctantly raised his hand and touched his eyebrow before waving at the young boy standing nervously in Noble's shadow.

"And who do we have here?" Tony asked.

"Corporal Andrews, Sir!" the young boy asserted, with a salute.

"And what can I do you for?" Tony asked.

Andrews looked confused.

"He'll be accompanying us on patrol today," Noble said.

"Jolly good," Tony said, smiling.

"You're late," Noble said, walking away from Tony's house.

"When am I never not late?" Tony asked.

"It doesn't set a good example for the new recruits," Noble tried to say out of Andrews' earshot.

"It's ok, Sir, I'm always late for everything," Andrews said, perking up.

"Andrews!" boomed Noble.  "You will only speak when spoken to!"

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir," mumbled Andrews, looking towards the ground.

"Leave him alone, Noble.  Remember, you were new once," Tony said.  "So Andrews, so you like football?"

"Excuse me?" Andrews responded.

"Football, the greatest game England ever invented," Tony said.

"I'm sorry Sir, I'm sure I don't understand," Andrews said.

"He was born way after the collapse of England, so there's no way he'd remember football," laughed Noble.

*****

Homework for next time is to go to a graveyard and find a name that stands out.  Look at all the information (their age, if they had family buried there, etc.) and write a fictional story using this information.

Our next meeting is on Wednesday 18th June, at Kessingland Library.

KLWG April 2014

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Today, the Kessingland Library Creative Writing Group met.  And we had a great turn out, with 11 people.  The group really has grown, and new people keep coming, which is great.

Last session, I handed out a copy of Wilfred Owen's poem 'Exposure', which contains half-rhymes.

Homework was to write a half-rhyme poem.  A lot of people found it difficult but gave it a go, and the results were extremely impressive.

Here's my untitled piece -

a sight, a glance, a fleeting look

a quickening pace for a lonely heart

breaking ice with bursts of heat

a key is needed for this rusty lock

a smile, a nod, a nervous wave

a tingle wandering over skin

blinking eyes afraid to scan

a crowded room through which to weave

a walk, a glide, a twisted turn

a sudden gasp of mottled air

counting seconds passing by the hour

a jerky movement to a jumbled tune

a palm, a hand, a friendly touch

a shudder surging through the blood

merging moments becoming blurred

a match to light this fading torch

a taste, a lip, a secret kiss

a closeness shaped with bodies bound

quivering fingers form a bond

a freedom flight from a single curse

a space, a path, an open door

a venture taken with life at stake

following eyes silently stalk

a memorable minute forever held dear

*****

In the session, I wanted to talk about different narrative perspectives in writing.  I think most people are familiar with 3rd person perspective and 1st person perspective, but 2nd person perspective is something that not many people had heard of or even read.  I managed to find a few novels written in 2nd person, and gave the group excerpts of these to read and respond to.

'Winter Journal' by Paul Auster

'Stolen' by Lucy Christopher

'Why We Broke Up' by Daniel Handler

'Rule 34' by Charles Stross

'Ablutions' by Patrick deWitt

'Bright Lights, Big City' by Jay McInerney

So the task in the session was to write to yourself in 2nd person perspective/narrative.

You try.  I know you do.  It's not easy but you want to make a difference.  You want to make the world  better place, you want to make people happy, but it's not easy.  For some reason, people don't want to be happy.  For some reason they like to find problems in everything and you can't understand it.  You like to spend your time watching people, trying to work out what makes them tick, but they're complicated creatures.  You've tried to be like them but you didn't like it.  You found it unnatural to be so mean, so selfish, so rude.  You knew it wasn't you, but you persevered even though it was making you miserable.  You often wondered how people could be so mean, so selfish, so rude, and still be smiling.  Perhaps they didn't care about others as much as you did.  You tried to talk to them, to see if they could see things from your point of view.  You didn't expect them to agree with you, but you'd hoped you could open their eyes to the bigger picture.  But for some reason they didn't want to know.

*****

Our next meeting is on Wednesday 21st May, 10:30-11:30, at Kessingland Library.

Homework for next time is to use one of the following Picasso portraits to inspire a piece of writing.

KLWG January 2014

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Today was the very first meeting of Kessingland Library Creative Writing Group.  The Friends of the Library in Kessingland (FOLK) have started up a few new groups at the library (book group, art group) and I'm in charge of the writing group - eeps!  I was very pleased with the number of people who came along.  My dad came with me, and there were five other people, who all had something different to bring to the group.  I'm really looking forward to hearing what else they have up their sleeves.

I started off by introducing myself and asking everyone else to introduce themselves, explaining what they like to write.  Most hadn't written before and were hoping to come away with ideas and inspiration.

I set everyone a task to write non-stop for five minutes as a way of getting the creative juices flowing.  It doesn't matter what you write about, as long as you keep writing.  Some found the five minutes fairly short, and others found it far too long.

*****

Writing is difficult when your pen doesn't want to work as soon as it hits the paper, but a few angry attempts will usually get the ink flowing.  Oh what a lovely allegory for the writing process.  Sometimes I have to scream at my computer for a few minutes before writing in the hope that a few words appear on the blank screen but that never happens.  I often think that it might be a good idea to slam my head down on the keyboard and write a book that way.  Don't they say that a million monkeys with a million typewriters could take a million years to write the entire works of Shakespeare?  Maybe if I smashed my head on the keyboard a million times then maybe I could write a masterpiece.  Or perhaps it would just end up as the normal gobbeldigoop that I produce when I'm fully conscious.  At least the p

*****

I then explained that a good piece of advice when writing is to write what you know.  It's a good idea to use your own experiences as a basis for a story, as you can make it realistic.  You can obviously embellish the truth, but you'll always have a starting point if you write about what you know.  So our next task was to write about something that had happened to us over the past week.  It didn't matter if it was really boring or really exciting.  It was just to write about what we knew.

*****

I'm a sale shopper.  Most of the clothes in my wardrobe came from the sales.  I'm not bothered about fashion or about what's this season and what's last.  They're clothes.  As long as I like them that's all that matters.  So with the January sales I bought a big old load of new clothes, and saved over £90 in the process.  One thing I bought was a pair of dungarees.  Now I know that dungarees are only worn by pregnant women or three year old children, and I also know that I'm not pregnant, nor am I three.  But I added them to my online shopping basket nonetheless.  When they arrived I wasn't sure, but I've adopted the mantra of 'New Year, New Me'.  I'm taking a more positive outlook on life and trying not to worry about what other people think.  It's easier said than done, but it's about time that I was happy.  So I put on these dungarees and I loved them.  They are so comfortable.  But I'd forgotten what a pain they are when you need to go to the toilet.  I remember when I was little, nearly wetting myself while my mum tried to unclip the straps from the body of the dungarees.  I'd be hopping from one foot to the other while she fiddled and faffed with the metal hooks and buttons.  And this fiddling and faffing transpires into adulthood.  I was at work and I needed a wee.  I managed to tangle myself up inside my cardigan with straps running down my sleeves.  One false move and I would be wearing a straight-jacket.  Going for the wee didn't cause any problems, but trying to get myself dressed afterwards was a bit of a feat.

*****

Homework for next time is to write up to 500 words about a place using all five senses.  The next meeting will be held on Wednesday 26th February, 10:30-11:30 am.

LLWG - December

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I know, I know, I really have been slacking.  These past few months have been a bit all over the place, but I think I'm back on track so I will be posting about the writing group again.

We met on Tuesday 10th December, and we had a pretty full group.  We keep losing people and gaining others, but it's great to see that interest in the group is still so high.

Homework from last session was to write something about memories.  I don't normally write things this personal, but after a month with heightened emotions, this kind of came spilling out.

-----

 

I remember when, I remember when I lost my mind.  Hang on.  Wait.  No.  That’s not how this story begins.  That’s the start of a Gnarls Barkley song.  It is, however, how this story ends.  But we will get to that bit in due course.

I remember being in love.  It has only happened once.  I was 19 years old.  Maybe you think that was quite young to be in love, but you tell that to our grandparents who got married in their late teens or early twenties, and never got divorced.  Nothing has come close to that feeling since.  And whenever I think about it, I fall headfirst into the age old question, whether it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.  I can’t answer that now.  Maybe things will become clearer in time.

Some of you are lucky to be in love now.  I don’t resent you at all.  I’m extremely jealous, but I don’t begrudge it.  We all deserve to love and be loved.

I remember the day I realised I was in love.  I can’t remember the exact date but the scene plays over and over in my head.  I’d woken up first.  This is something to definitely make note of, as I never wake up first.  Even if I was the last person on earth, I wouldn’t wake up first.  I like my sleep.  It takes a lot to stop me sleeping.  So I’d woken up first and I turned over to see him lying on his side, his head heavy on the pillow.  I watched him sleep.  Not in a weird stalker kind of way; more in a ‘I’ve woken up early and I’ve got nothing better to do’ kind of way.  His hair was wild, which wasn’t really out of the ordinary as his locks were always reasonably unkempt.  He still suffered with bed-head though.  His eyelashes were crusty with sleep, and he had a little bit of dried dribble in the corner of his mouth.  He looked far from his best.  But I looked at him.  I looked at the way parts of his face flickered and contorted, and realised that if he can look this bad and I still want to be with him, it must be love.  It was a bit of an epiphany moment; I’d said ‘I love you’ but it wasn’t until then that I really felt it.  It was one of those ‘the world could end right now and I will die at my absolute peak of happiness’ moments.

I remember being romanced and wooed and courted.  I remember feeling comfortable and safe and connected.  I remember feeling special and treasured.  I remember feeling excited and nervous.  And above all, I remember making someone else feel that way.

In no way am I looking at my relationship through rose tinted glasses.  It wasn’t perfect.  We irritated each other and we fought (not physically I hasten to add), but we always worked it out and got over it.  Well, always, until the last time.  And it is here that I remember when, I remember when I lost my mind.  And I lost my love.

----- 

We had a couple of writing tasks.  The first was - what would you do if you were Santa?

If I was Santa I would buy everyone in the world a dictionary, and employ a select team of grammarians to test people before they were allowed to post anything on facebook.  This would reduce unemployment and also keep stupid people off the internet.

-----

The second task was to write about something happening to a Father Christmas in a department store or a snowman.

There he is.  Look at him, standing there all smug, that coaly black smile, grinning.  I bet he thinks he's so great, all high and mighty like he's the king of the garden.  'Oooh, look at me, I don't get cold in the snow because I'm made of snow.  I'm so great.'  Well actually, no you're not so great.  In fact you're rubbish.  You're an overgrown popsicle.  Call yourself a man.  You haven't even got any legs or feet.  You've just got a really fat body.

Yeah, yeah?  What are you staring at?  You want to start something?  Any time!  Any.  Time.

(WALKIES!)

Ha!  You're in for it now.  Don't you try and run.  Oh, I forgot, you can't, you legless wonder.  Here I come, ready or not.  Now, which leg should I cock?  Aah, that's better.

-----

Our next meeting will be on Tuesday 14th January 2014, 7-9pm, in the Navigator Room.  Our homework for next session to write something based on 'new beginnings'.

LLTW - December

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I have to apologise for not posting about my teen writing group.  It is still going; I've just had a hectic few months and time has escaped me.  But I will find time from now on.

So we met on Monday 9th December, and I had two of my regular girls and a new girl.

I've stopped setting homework as they weren't doing it.  They have a lot of homework from school and college so I don't really want to add extra pressure.

As it's coming up to Christmas, I thought we would try our hands at writing a Christmas song.  I'm not particularly musical myself, but I managed to scribble down some lyrics.  I don't have a tune for them - maybe someone could help me out with that.

Oh, and it's untitled.

Wrap yourself up inside of your coat

And pull your hat down on your head

Or stay inside where it's nice and warm

And snuggle up cosy in your comfortable bed

It's winter, it's cold

Ice drips from your nose

But that's how it goes

When it's nearly Christmas

Stock up your cupboards with mountains of food

And eat it all until your gut explodes

Sitting on the sofa, watching specials on the tells

Hibernating while the gritters blanket the roads

It's winter, it's cold

Ice drips from your nose

But that's how it goes

When it's nearly Christmas

Do your shopping online to escape the queues

And have your gifts delivered to your door

Spend your evenings in your pyjamas

Wrapping presents, sprawled out on the floor

-----

That's as far as I got.  Perhaps I shouldn't give up my day job!

Anyway, our next meeting will be on Monday 13th January 2014, 5-6pm in the library cafe.  If you're interested in coming or you'd like some more information you can e-mail me at rebeccah.giltrow@suffolklibraries.co.uk   

LLWG July

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Sorry for the delay in posting this.  I've been a busy little bee, and finally have a few minutes to get this done. On Tuesday 9th July, Lowestoft Library Writers' Group met.  Di, our fearless leader, was on holiday so I stepped into her shoes.

Homework from last month was to bring in 3 pieces of our best work which will be used for a display in September, to coincide with the Lowestoft Library Literary Festival.  Di wants us to showcase our talents.  I took along two poems and a short piece of prose.  I read out this poem.

Need Feeding

My brain isn’t working,

No poem can it find,

The tumbleweed is lurking

Inside my empty mind.

The rhythm isn’t ready,

The structure isn’t right,

The line length isn’t steady,

The metre isn’t tight.

Poem, poem come find me,

Glide from my pen to page,

Present yourself most kindly

At the forefront of the stage.

Let a sonnet be your starter

Followed by your best dressed haiku,

Then a limerick just for laugher,

Main course is a free verse stew.

Nursery rhyme at wine time,

Tongue-twister for dessert,

And after our dinner pantomime

I guess a ballad wouldn’t hurt.

Poem, poem where are you?

Why won’t you come and play?

Perhaps you have something to do,

Perhaps I have nothing to say.

I wrote this poem a few years ago when I was at university.  I was rudely awoken in the middle of the night by people being stupid outside of my flat, so rather than go outside and beat them to death with my shoe, I decided to put pen to paper and write, and this is what I came up with.  Well, this is what I came up with after quite a bit of editing once I was lucid!

***

To start the session, I asked everyone to write for 5 minutes about anything they could think of.  It didn't need to make sense or have a theme.  They just had to write and keep writing.  I tried to set the alarm on my phone to let us know when the 5 minutes were up, but I managed to set the alarm to go off an hour before the group started, which meant that it didn't go off when I wanted it to.  Good job I kept an eye on the clock!  Don't ask me what I did wrong!  I'm not technologically minded!  Anyway, this is what I came up with in the 5 minutes.

Why does it take me so long to do anything on my phone?  I'm supposed to be from the age of technology and yet my sausage fingers still aren't flexible enough to use the buttons on my phone properly.  Perhaps I should give up.  Perhaps I should become an eco-warrior living in a tree, with pigeons living in my dreadlocks, and worms between my toes.  But then I do like a shower and I do like my bed so I don't think I'd be very effective at promoting the 'save nature' cause.  And although I do like nature, it can be quite scary, with all those creepy animals making strange noises at night.  Do they make the same noises during the day.  Perhaps they're like people.  We tend to make strange noises at night.  I had a boyfriend once who said that I snored.  I don't believe him.  Women don't snore.  Well, my mum snores, and it sounds a lot different to my dad snoring.  But I know I don't snore.  I do talk in my sleep but that's probably more coherent than some of the guff I come out with during the day.

***

I handed out a sheet of lined paper to everyone in the group and asked them to write a word at the top.  We then passed the papers to the right and wrote the first word we could think of in relation to the word on the page.  We then folded over the paper so the first word was hidden, and passed the paper to the right.  We continued this process until our papers had gone around the table twice.

My words ...

Book

Worm

Dogs

Cats

Meow

Buzz

Bee

Sting

Police

Car

Jack

Ripper

I asked everyone to write a story which included every work on their list.

Jack the book-worm munched happily on an old copy of Harry Potter that he'd found discarded in the back of the wardrobe.  He didn't really like Harry Potter; he found it a bit hard to swallow, but he was hungry and didn't fancy chowing down on a mouldy old sports sock.  He licked his wardrobe home.  It was dark and comfortable, and above all it was safe.  He shared a house with four cats, two dogs, and a big old bunch of humans.  The humans were all right, but it was those inquisitive, sniffy animals he couldn't get on with, always shoving their big, black, slimy noses into every nook and cranny.  Why can't they just eat books like normal animals?  The worst bit is when Jack has a post novel nap and the cats fill the air with a glass-shattering meow.  There's no need for it.  It stings Jack's ears and sets his teeth right on edge and then he finds it difficult to chomp through his tasty pages.  They sound like defective car alarms or drunk police sirens or a swarm of asthmatic bees.  But on the quiet days, Jack can be happily found crawling around bookcases, scouting out the books that haven't been read in a while.  While some book-worms are page rippers or page tearers or page suckers, Jack is a page nibbler.  He tastes each word, each letter, each piece of punctuation.  It gives him a buzz to choose his words carefully and make up his own story.

***

The homework for this month is to write a story in either first or third person ...

You wake up one morning and find ... (choose 3 things from the following list) ... next to you in bed.  What happened last night?

• a plate of food
• a body part
• an animal
• a piece of sports equipment
• an item of the opposite sex's clothing
• a set of Polaroid photos
• a bag of jewellery
• a street sign
• a plant
• a wad of cash

We will be meeting again on Tuesday 13th August, with Di back in the helm. 

LLWG - June

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Yesterday was the June meeting of Lowestoft Library Writers' Group.  We had a full house plus the return of a member who left about a year ago, which was a lovely surprise (although I didn't recognise her at first from a distance as her hair had grown a lot!)

Homework from last month was to write a piece which included the line "The strange noises got louder."  We also had to show the meaning of the cliche 'a bundle of nerves' without actually using the cliche.

I'm afraid that I left my homework until the last minute, so only wrote a very short piece.

Jim heard a low growl.  He slowly turned his head to look behind him but no-one was there.  He shrugged his shoulders and returned to reading his book.  The growl turned into a louder rumble.  Jim put his book down and walked over to the window.  The street was empty.  He sat on the windowsill with his back to the world and looked towards the door.  The rumble became a grumble, followed by a louder growl.  Jim picked up a remote control from the coffee table and crept towards the door.  He switched off the light and peered into the hall, holding the remote control in front of him.  The strange noises got louder.  He squinted through the darkness, and tip-toed along the hallway, keeping close to the wall.  He held his breath as the grumbles and rumbles and growls filled his ears.  Jim slid down the wall and clutched the remote control to his chest.  His eyes widened and his heart thumped.  He began to rock back and forth, mumbling to himself.  The sounds got louder and louder, and Jim couldn't take it any longer.  After counting to three in his head he jumped up, wielding the remote control like a knife.  He took a deep breath in, opened his mouth to scream, and let out the loudest burp he had ever heard.

*****

Di brought along a play she had written a while back.  It was a Victorian melodrama with a dastardly villain and a swooning heroine.  We all took a part and read the play aloud; some even slipped into lovely accents when reading their part.

Following on from that, Di asked us to write our own play.  Mine is currently untitled.

Characters

Amelia Lovecrest

George Lovecrest (Amelia's father)

Dirk Stronghold (Amelia's love interest)

Nanny Goodchild (Amelia's grandmother)

William Fibmerchant (Amelia's betrothed)

Scene 1

Amelia sits at her window gazing out into the night.  She hears a rustling outside.

DIRK:  Amelia!  Amelia, my love!

AMELIA:  Dirk!  What are you doing down there?

DIRK:  I just had to see you, my love.  My life is empty without you.

AMELIA:  Are you crazy?  What if my dad hears you?

DIRK:  I don't care.  I want the world to know that I love you!

A dog barks and the porch light goes on.  George opens the front door.  Dirk hurries into the shadows.

GEORGE:  Nanny, get my gun.  We have an intruder.

NANNY:  Not now George.  It's probably just birds or badgers or something.

George mumbles to himself.

GEORGE:  If you want a job done properly you have to do it yourself.

George goes back inside the house.  Dirk hoists himself up onto the porch rood and shimmies up into Amelia's bedroom.

AMELIA:  What are you doing?  My dad will kill you if he catches you up here.

DIRK:  I won't let him catch me then.

Suddenly, Amelia's bedroom door flies open.

AMELIA:  Nanny!

NANNY:  And what's going on here?

AMELIA:  Please don't tell Daddy.

NANNY:  Don't tell him what?

DIRK:  Please, Mrs. Goodchild.

NANNY:  Any why ever not?

DIRK:  Because I love your granddaughter and I want her to be my wife.

NANNY:  But you know she is betrothed to William Fibmerchant.  She will be his wife within the fortnight.

Amelia falls onto her bed.

GEORGE:  Nanny!  What's going on up there?

AMELIA:  Nanny, please.

*****

It's obviously unfinished, but it was quite fun to write so I'm going to keep at it and see what I can come up with.

Our next meeting is Tuesday 9th July, 7 - 9pm, in The Navigator room at Lowestoft Library.  Our homework is to collect together 3 pieces of our best work which will be displayed on a board in the library.

LLWG - May

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Last month, our homework stemmed from the group activity.  In the session we had to write the first chapter to a book entitled 'April'.  The papers were then mixed up and given out, so that we all ended up with a chapter written by someone else in the group.  My opening chapter was about a girl who was going to visit her family for the Easter holidays.  The opening chapter that I was given was about a woman who murdered people ...

April

April was a bird who was never heard.  She had thoughts that could make skin peel.

This secret serial killer was a mini Lego figure keeper.  She left a woolly hat always after her crimes.  She was dubbed "The Woolly Hat Wonderer".

Mummy never loved her.  Daddy wanted a boy.

All April wanted was a normal life but she didn't get it.

As a teenager she thought squirrels would steal her ideas, as they stole everything, according to her parents.  April was a dark girl with a mind so sharp it could cut wood.

As a child she was quietly deceptive as that was how things got done.  As a teenager she was just deceptive.  Now an adult she is more dangerous.

Never year the yellow papered sweet of Quality Street chocolate, as you might find yourself dead next to a woolly hat.

I won't tell you how she kills people but they are force fed cereal til they pop and in the background is heard playing Monty Python's "Always look on the bright side of life".  This chick will make you sick.

The crime of her not being heard has sent her berserk.  Then teased at school for her mottled legs.  Cruel teachers made a contribution.  Parents and authority figures as well.  This all was like hell.  What had she now become?

***

And I followed it up with this:

April wipes the dust from her mirror and peers at her face.  She flinches.  Her skin is so grey.  She leans in and tilts her head from left to right, staring at the lines that circle her eyes and run along her brow.  She scrapes her fingers through her hair.  Sand?  Where did that come from?  She thinks back to what she did yesterday.  The tips of her fingers find their way to her temples.  Remember.  Remember what you did yesterday.

Giving up, April makes her way to the window.  The sun is shining.  People are out walking.  Children are skipping along the pavement, singing, shouting.  Having too much fun.  A squirrel appears in her garden.  Panicked, April drops the blinds and paces the floor.  She chews a fingernail until her finger bleeds.  Her finger doesn’t leave her mouth.  Her eyes dart from side to side as she walks from her bedroom to the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” she shouts.  “I know you’re there.”  She picks up a frying pan from the hob and waves it around.  “I know you’re there.  Come out.”  No-one’s there.  She sits down at her kitchen table and picks up her knitting needles.  Over the next half an hour she knits three hats.

“Three hats, three people,” she says, smiling.  She picks up her bag and carefully puts the woolly hats into a side pocket.  She opens her pantry and scans the walls.

“What cereal is going to be our killer today?” she says, tapping her fingers on the door.  Her hand reaches out and grabs a box of cocoa puffs.  She opens the flap and takes a deep breath.

“Yep, that’s the one,” she says, stuffing three boxes into her bag.  “And now for the pièce de résistance.”  She picks up her tape player and presses the play button.  “Some things in life are bad, They can really make you mad, Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle, Don't grumble, give a whistle, And this'll help things turn out for the best,” Eric Idle says.  April chuckles.  She stops the tape and puts the player in her bag.  She looks at herself in the hall mirror.  Some colour has appeared in her cheeks.  She pulls her own woolly hat over her dishevelled hair, wraps her body inside her coat, and creeps her fingers into her gloves.  Watching every series of CSI taught her about fingerprints at crime scenes.  She wasn’t going to slip up and make a mistake.

Pulling her bag onto her shoulder, April walks outside and stands on the pavement, watching people pass her by.  The voices in her head start up.  ‘That one.’  ‘No, not that one.’  ‘Why not?’  ‘He’s too young.’  ‘Well that one looks really old.’  ‘No, the right one will be along in a minute.’  ‘Take your time choosing.’  ‘Why do you have to be so impatient?’  ‘Why do you have to nag me all the time?’

April taps the side of her head.  The voices die down.  She knows who her first victim will be.  She crosses the road and walks with determination through town.  She takes note of the people she sees, and makes a mental list of people she doesn’t like the look of.  Walking across a zebra crossing, April finds herself outside her old school.  She looks at her watch.  It’s nearly 12:30.  The bell for lunch break will be sounding soon. 

The doors fly open and children swarm out.  They walk past her but don’t notice her.  April keeps her eyes focussed on the car park.  A few teachers follow the students out.  April straightens herself up.  A man walks out of the gate and away from her.  She follows him.  He scuffs his shoes as he walks, hands deep in his trouser pockets.  He hurries to the corner shop.  April stands outside, looking through the window.  She sees him pick up a bar of chocolate, a can of Coke, a newspaper, and he takes them to the counter.  He asks the woman for a packet of cigarettes, gives her some money, and walks out of the shop.  He walks along the road and turns into the churchyard.

April stands by the gate and watches him walk to a bench and sit down.  He opens up the paper over his knees, and takes a cigarette out of the packet.  She watches him blow smoke rings into the air, and take bites of his chocolate bar in between puffs.  Taking a deep breath, April walks towards him, and stands in front of him.  He doesn’t look up.

“Mr. Johnson,” she says.

“It’s lunch time, I’m having a break, can it wait until we get back to school?” he says, not looking up from his paper.

“Mr. Johnson,” April says again.

“What?” he says, sighing, and looking at her.

April takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and lunges at his face.  He struggles but the chloroform does its job.  His body goes limp, and the newspaper falls to the ground.  His cigarette slides from his fingers and burns the edge of the paper.  She stamps it out, before holding up her former teacher and dragging him behind a World War II memorial statue.

Laying there with his eyes closed, he looks so peaceful.  She places the tape player on the grass and presses play.  She leans over him and kisses his forehead, then takes a box of cocoa puffs out of her bag, and pouring the brown pieces of cereal into his mouth.  His eyes dart open and he lurches forwards.  April pushes him back down and climbs onto his chest.  For such a small girl, April is unbelievably strong.  She forces handfuls of cereal into his mouth.  His stomach gurgles. 

“Five, four, three, two, one,” she says, jumping up, holding on to the tape player, and running behind a tree.

Mr. Johnson explodes.  April laughs.  She tosses a woolly hat at the mess on the ground.

“Always look on the bright side of life, Mr. Johnson,” she says, skipping off towards the main road.

*****

Last session we were asked to bring along a favourite book to this session, but we all forgot *tut tut us*, but we still managed to do the planned activity without the books.  We were asked to choose a memorable character and write a story for them.

Matilda picks up the pile of books covering the coffee table and carries them over to the bookcase.  She looks at the shelves hoping that some space will appear somewhere but there's none.  Books piled on top of books.  Books lying flat.  Books resting at jaunty angles.  But no space for more books.  She walks the excess books into the kitchen and puts them down beside a pile of books on the kitchen table.  She puts her hands on her hips and takes a deep breath.  Staring intently at the cupboard doors, they all burst open.  Books adorn the shelves.  Matilda sighs.  The front door flies open and Matilda's children hurry in.  Twins Charles and Charlotte dump their school bags at their mother's feet and run upstairs.  Matilda opens the backpacks to discover that her children have taken out more books from the library.  She smiles to herself as she knows that these ones will be taken back in a few days, and she won't need to find space for them in the house.  Her children giggle at the top of the stairs, and the library books float in the direction of the laughter.  Matilda rolls her eyes and closes the front door.  She loves her children but wishes they'd stop being lazy and only use their powers in serious situations.  She walks back into the kitchen to find the pile of books where she left it.  With no space to store the books, she picks one up and starts to read.

http://www.puffin.co.uk/static/cs/uk/15/minisites/dahlday/matilda.html

I was criticised (tongue in cheek) for aging Matilda, and taking away her innocence by giving her children, but perhaps she adopted them as Miss Honey had adopted her...

*****

Homework for next time is to write a story that includes the line 'The strange noises got louder'.  We also have to include the meaning of the cliche 'a bundle of nerves'.

Our next meeting will be on Tuesday 11th June, 7pm-9pm, at Lowestoft Library.