Feedback? Please?
So I have to write another exercise for Creative Writing, to be posted by today. I don't like this one as much as I like last week's. I think the problem is that these ideas always come to me as part of whatever story I'm currently obsessing over. At the moment, that's my planned NaNo-novel, the beauty and the beast retelling. So Noelle makes an appearance again, despite the fact that I should possibly think about starting some freewriting that might lead me to the short story that I'll eventually be required to write for this class anyway?
But enough of that. Here's the prompt, and below it is my response. And hopefully below that, in the comments, will be things I can do to make it better, or assurances that it's already better (I can write more--I haven't gone over the word limit yet--but it seemed to naturally stop where it did).
Imagine that some characters you have invented are going somewhere they've never been. Describe what each one is carrying in his pocket, purse, briefcase, or backpack. Let the objects be as odd and distinctive as you like. What's he doing with that kumquat? Why does she have a screwdriver? Use the idems to explode stereotypes and individualize your characters. Why is that atheist packing a Bible? Should it be a Snickers bar or Cadbury chocolates? A fountain pen or a golf pencil? A Zippo lighter or matches? Write for ten minutes.
The things she planned to carry were few. A small loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, a flask of water. Some coins from her personal savings. A spare set of clothes. And a book, tucked into the last remaining space in her rucksack, the binding loose and the pages worn.
The food and money and clothing Noelle would need to survive. The book was the least necessary item. It wouldn’t help her find room and board; it wouldn’t keep her warm at night. But it was the only part of home she could take with her.
She pulled the bound pages out of her bag, the once-stiff leather of the cover now soft with age and use. Opening it up, she breathed in the musk of old paper, conjuring up images of the long years spent at her father’s press, helping him print books and leaflets, flyers and folios. Noelle felt blocks of type, smooth and cold beneath her quick fingers, heard the stubborn creaks of the typecase drawers as she opened and closed them. The smell of ink was everywhere-her clothes, her hair, even her skin.
No one would care about the knowledge she carried. Why should a young woman need to read? At this age, those of her sex were good for maid’s work or marriage, nothing more, and in either position, knowledge would be a hindrance.
And yet it was the one thing that could never desert her, the one thing she could never leave behind. Noelle might run out of food and money, her clothes might wear with age and hard travel, but she would always carry what she knew, and her pride in knowing it.