Oh, and some writing:
My assignment for Showing & Telling class at uni. We had to write the same situation (based on the theme of 'leaving') twice -- When demonstrating the art of showing, one telling.
Telling
She lay beneath the covers, stretched out so that her limbs covered the narrow mattress. Sunlight fought against the dingy curtain that she wouldn’t have picked if this were her house. Dave was in the kitchen. She could hear him talking to the cat as he fed her.
She knew she should get up and leave the warmth of the bed. There were a hundred-and-one more constructive things she could be doing. But it was so soft and inviting beneath the covers, and such a rare opportunity to have the space to herself. The air outside felt cold.
“Are you asleep?” Dave called from the kitchen.
“No, I’m getting up,” she replied, leaning over the side of the bed and groping about for her clothes.
“You don’t have to, you know. It’s your day off.”
“Yes, I do,” she called back. Underwear pulled on, she hunted untangled her shirt and jeans from the bundle on the floor, quickly before the cold could set in. Dave’s portrait stared at her, propped against the wardrobe. It wasn’t finished yet. She hadn’t got the nose right: Dave said it was too big, but then he would. She didn’t know, couldn’t tell. “I have things to do,” she muttered to herself.
Showing
She lay with the covers up to her chin, body star-shaped beneath the comforter. A cat-like smile graced her lips, and her eyes were closed, content. A dull glow from the low winter sun lit up the golden highlights in her hair, but was not bright enough to rouse her.
Her eyes opened and glanced about the room, alert. Clanking and cooing from the kitchen, muffled words she could barely hear:
“Katkins. You like that one, don’t you? Yes! Plenty of that one! And maybe some chicken later.” Then louder, “Are you asleep?”
She rolled to one side, her splayed arms coming together and grasping the pillow beneath her head like a life-line. Her eyes automatically fell on Dave’s unfinished portrait, its sweeping lines and daring colours. She screwed up her nose and frowned at its imperfection. “No, I’m getting up,” she promised.
She lent out of bed, the outside air hurrying her hands and raising the faint blonde hairs on her arms. But it was a lost cause, and she was half out of the bed when all was gathered together.
“You don’t have to, you know. It’s your day off.”
She dressed beneath the covers, eyes still scanning the painting’s vivid colours. “Yes I do,” she called back. Distractedly she added, “I have things to do.”
My homework for The Novel was to write a brief synopsis of an epic, roughly following what we studied in class. I've done something based around the Romans' non-invasion of Scotland. When the Romans start to take over the rest of Europe, the Scottish Celts go, 'Shit! That ain't gone be us, muthafuckas!' and send a champion to the Gods. The story would be about the trials the champion is put through, in order to grant their country immunity from the bastard Christians.
This was divised at midnight on Saturday, after I was very crying and whiny at Dave along the lines of, "I'm so shit, I can't even write an epic!"
Telling
She lay beneath the covers, stretched out so that her limbs covered the narrow mattress. Sunlight fought against the dingy curtain that she wouldn’t have picked if this were her house. Dave was in the kitchen. She could hear him talking to the cat as he fed her.
She knew she should get up and leave the warmth of the bed. There were a hundred-and-one more constructive things she could be doing. But it was so soft and inviting beneath the covers, and such a rare opportunity to have the space to herself. The air outside felt cold.
“Are you asleep?” Dave called from the kitchen.
“No, I’m getting up,” she replied, leaning over the side of the bed and groping about for her clothes.
“You don’t have to, you know. It’s your day off.”
“Yes, I do,” she called back. Underwear pulled on, she hunted untangled her shirt and jeans from the bundle on the floor, quickly before the cold could set in. Dave’s portrait stared at her, propped against the wardrobe. It wasn’t finished yet. She hadn’t got the nose right: Dave said it was too big, but then he would. She didn’t know, couldn’t tell. “I have things to do,” she muttered to herself.
Showing
She lay with the covers up to her chin, body star-shaped beneath the comforter. A cat-like smile graced her lips, and her eyes were closed, content. A dull glow from the low winter sun lit up the golden highlights in her hair, but was not bright enough to rouse her.
Her eyes opened and glanced about the room, alert. Clanking and cooing from the kitchen, muffled words she could barely hear:
“Katkins. You like that one, don’t you? Yes! Plenty of that one! And maybe some chicken later.” Then louder, “Are you asleep?”
She rolled to one side, her splayed arms coming together and grasping the pillow beneath her head like a life-line. Her eyes automatically fell on Dave’s unfinished portrait, its sweeping lines and daring colours. She screwed up her nose and frowned at its imperfection. “No, I’m getting up,” she promised.
She lent out of bed, the outside air hurrying her hands and raising the faint blonde hairs on her arms. But it was a lost cause, and she was half out of the bed when all was gathered together.
“You don’t have to, you know. It’s your day off.”
She dressed beneath the covers, eyes still scanning the painting’s vivid colours. “Yes I do,” she called back. Distractedly she added, “I have things to do.”
My homework for The Novel was to write a brief synopsis of an epic, roughly following what we studied in class. I've done something based around the Romans' non-invasion of Scotland. When the Romans start to take over the rest of Europe, the Scottish Celts go, 'Shit! That ain't gone be us, muthafuckas!' and send a champion to the Gods. The story would be about the trials the champion is put through, in order to grant their country immunity from the bastard Christians.
This was divised at midnight on Saturday, after I was very crying and whiny at Dave along the lines of, "I'm so shit, I can't even write an epic!"