creative syllable construction
recently, our screenwriting teacher gave us 10 minutes to write about a
character and to develop him/her as much as possible in those 10
minutes. i must have been in a silly mood, because here's what i
wrote:
'Marm Willysnitch O'borington is a 68 year-old retired piano teacher. Father of twelve, he has children from five seperate marriages, with their ages ranging from fourteen months to 43 years. He is currently unattached, his most recent engagement having ended several months ago.
Marm was born on the cold side of a very high mountian in the Yukon Territories to Irish-born, Italian-raised, Canadian-loving parents. As an only child, he was lavished with attention from birth, At the age of 22 he joined the army, and was moved to a base outside Quebec City. After discovering a severe allergy to gun-metal, he left the army to pursue his dream of being a musician.
All but one of his wives were dancers that he met while playing in nightclubs to support his expensive eucalyptus-diet. The other wife, the last wife, was a student.
Marm spends his days playing tennis against a wall, inventing new, "better" pianos, and yelling at birds for not sharing with him their secret of flight.'
and that's about as far as i got. good ol' tense-changing!
In one of my recent psychology classes, one of the one's i actually attended, i staved of boredom by attempting to write a shakespearean sonnet. it took me most of the class, but i got it done:
A Psychological Day
I'm sitting in my psyc class taking notes.
Well, truth be told, I've yet to write a thing.
I think if this whole class could cast their votes,
A premature dismissal it might bring.
On second thought, these students aren't too bright;
Forever asking questions with no point.
Methinks they feel that speaking is a right;
I'd like the right to force them from this joint.
The prof we have is really not that bad;
Although the films she screens are rather old.
The exodus this causes is quite mad,
And leads the prof to stop some kids and scold.
So this is how my afternoons are spent.
My chance for taking notes just came and went.
I'll admit that a thorough understanding of the nature of my psychology class, including both the stupidity of the students and the impatience of the professor, is needed to fully appreciate the poem.
'Marm Willysnitch O'borington is a 68 year-old retired piano teacher. Father of twelve, he has children from five seperate marriages, with their ages ranging from fourteen months to 43 years. He is currently unattached, his most recent engagement having ended several months ago.
Marm was born on the cold side of a very high mountian in the Yukon Territories to Irish-born, Italian-raised, Canadian-loving parents. As an only child, he was lavished with attention from birth, At the age of 22 he joined the army, and was moved to a base outside Quebec City. After discovering a severe allergy to gun-metal, he left the army to pursue his dream of being a musician.
All but one of his wives were dancers that he met while playing in nightclubs to support his expensive eucalyptus-diet. The other wife, the last wife, was a student.
Marm spends his days playing tennis against a wall, inventing new, "better" pianos, and yelling at birds for not sharing with him their secret of flight.'
and that's about as far as i got. good ol' tense-changing!
In one of my recent psychology classes, one of the one's i actually attended, i staved of boredom by attempting to write a shakespearean sonnet. it took me most of the class, but i got it done:
A Psychological Day
I'm sitting in my psyc class taking notes.
Well, truth be told, I've yet to write a thing.
I think if this whole class could cast their votes,
A premature dismissal it might bring.
On second thought, these students aren't too bright;
Forever asking questions with no point.
Methinks they feel that speaking is a right;
I'd like the right to force them from this joint.
The prof we have is really not that bad;
Although the films she screens are rather old.
The exodus this causes is quite mad,
And leads the prof to stop some kids and scold.
So this is how my afternoons are spent.
My chance for taking notes just came and went.
I'll admit that a thorough understanding of the nature of my psychology class, including both the stupidity of the students and the impatience of the professor, is needed to fully appreciate the poem.