writing is a dodgy profession..
My writing course was a little sporadic on tuesday night.
On the one hand i got there early, therma-cup of java in hand, and sat by a radiator in the freezy bristolian winds (sliding doors are still broken ergo the reception resembles a wind tunnel) chatting to another classmate while she doodled and we both shivered.
When the class began we had to bring in excerpts of writing that best portrays atmosphere i handed in my example (page of 'Hand of Prophecy' by Severna Park) and the tutor went away to photocopy. 10 minutes go by, tutor returns, hands out the printed extracts, mine's not there.
OK, calm down, maybe mine was too.. i don't know.. dark or visceral or something. It was after all the scene in the story where Freya, the protagonist, goes for a nighttime explore around the gladiator arena she's been sent to and finds the skulls of the fallen embedded in the lintels - maybe a little too OTT for an English Bristolian writing course.
My head goes to bad places at this point.
Then, on the second part of the course we have to swap snapshots (we each brought in pics as inspiration for a writing exercise) and the lady I'm sitting next to wants to do her own and not swap.
Isn't writing what you DON'T know, what you AREN'T comfortable with part of the idea of improving as a writer?
Apparently not. So with no one to swap with, and already feeling a little dejected from having my example of atmosphere withheld i write something about an idea in my head and submit that. Here's hoping no one wants to see the picture.
Then after the tea break the tutor returns with my extract. She left it at the photocopier. That's ok, but for a second it really fuked my up a bit cos, once again, it makes me feel left out.
Then the same lady who refused to swap photos with me gets partnered with me for an examination of opening sentences exercise and we get on like a house on fire. Very yeshiva-esque, pulling apart single sentences in an attempt to distill the meaning of the author. I tell you now, I had no idea how much work goes into the opening line of any novel.
Then, in a weird addition to an already odd situation on Thursday one of the registrars I work with told me that he's ordered Hand of Prophecy on my recommendation (and after reading the blurb).
EH?!?
Someone did something on my recommendation? wow.
I rock.
anyway, back to trying to craft that perfect opening line...
On the one hand i got there early, therma-cup of java in hand, and sat by a radiator in the freezy bristolian winds (sliding doors are still broken ergo the reception resembles a wind tunnel) chatting to another classmate while she doodled and we both shivered.
When the class began we had to bring in excerpts of writing that best portrays atmosphere i handed in my example (page of 'Hand of Prophecy' by Severna Park) and the tutor went away to photocopy. 10 minutes go by, tutor returns, hands out the printed extracts, mine's not there.
OK, calm down, maybe mine was too.. i don't know.. dark or visceral or something. It was after all the scene in the story where Freya, the protagonist, goes for a nighttime explore around the gladiator arena she's been sent to and finds the skulls of the fallen embedded in the lintels - maybe a little too OTT for an English Bristolian writing course.
My head goes to bad places at this point.
Then, on the second part of the course we have to swap snapshots (we each brought in pics as inspiration for a writing exercise) and the lady I'm sitting next to wants to do her own and not swap.
Isn't writing what you DON'T know, what you AREN'T comfortable with part of the idea of improving as a writer?
Apparently not. So with no one to swap with, and already feeling a little dejected from having my example of atmosphere withheld i write something about an idea in my head and submit that. Here's hoping no one wants to see the picture.
Then after the tea break the tutor returns with my extract. She left it at the photocopier. That's ok, but for a second it really fuked my up a bit cos, once again, it makes me feel left out.
Then the same lady who refused to swap photos with me gets partnered with me for an examination of opening sentences exercise and we get on like a house on fire. Very yeshiva-esque, pulling apart single sentences in an attempt to distill the meaning of the author. I tell you now, I had no idea how much work goes into the opening line of any novel.
Then, in a weird addition to an already odd situation on Thursday one of the registrars I work with told me that he's ordered Hand of Prophecy on my recommendation (and after reading the blurb).
EH?!?
Someone did something on my recommendation? wow.
I rock.
anyway, back to trying to craft that perfect opening line...