Writing chalanges
I found a podcast of the creative writing class in Warwick university. (Warwick. Gah! Have you ever heard anything quite as British? And they pronounce it war-ick. I could say that for days. War-ick war-ick war-ick war-ick!! War-ick war-ick?)
So sorry, got a little carried away there (go on, try it, it's fun!).
Anyway, I found that podcast.
Basically it's a series of exercises in creative writing, a different game/challenge every time. Well, I badly need to build some literary muscle, so I took that challenge head on like a big girl.
The result?
Erm, let's start by saying that I don't write much. It may look like much when you look at this journal, but don't forget that everything here had been written in the course of years. I write once in a while when the mood strikes me. It's usually a beginning for something that will never be finished, or a short story attempting to be complete. Sometimes they're not too bad, sometimes they make me proud, and sometimes they make me tear the page into little bits. Or just close the Word file without saving, which is strangely satisfying.
The point is that I always need inspiration - that slippery little thing that goes around diving into people's heads without permission or at least a warning so they can go grab a pen. Unfortunately, the muses are fickle, and inspiration never likes to stay for too long. It's like spilling water from a bucket and suddenly realizing that you've emptied it all.
Also, I'm terribly pedantic. You know how they say that happiness is in the little things? Well, little things for me are the stuff of nightmares. What if I create a character, whose way of thinking doesn't make psychological sense, if there is such a thing? What if I write about something I've never experienced - like sword fighting, getting drunk or falling in love - and I get it all wrong? What if I write about something historical, which happens rather often, and mix up a couple of different periods? And oh, what if I write about two naturally blond parents who give birth to a brunette child, which doesn't make any sense, because blond is a recessive gene?!
Basically, as a writer, I am completely inept, however much I like to play with words. It's a little like juggling, though sometimes it can resemble balancing on a rope or even swallowing swords. Writers need to be more civil, like gardeners or carpenters. Not that I claim to be a writer, though it's a title I'd love to earn.
But I decided to take on war-ick's (yay!) challenge, just to see what I'm capable of without the help of Clio, my favorite muse, mistress of historical and heroic poetry.
The first stages of the challenge I did in my room: 1. find a bookshelf (I have two of those, very overpopulated); 2. take a random book (my fingers collided blindly with Frank Herbert's Children of Dune); 3. open a random page and poke it (that was fun) 4. copy the word you poked onto a piece of paper (it was betrothal, which is my sort of word) along with the 3 words preceding it (agree to this) and the 3 words succeeding it (Ghanima? Alia asked).
Then out I went, into the little park behind my house (something like a collective backyard), under the shadow of a tree on a little hillock. I took a clipboard, my piece of paper and some blank ones, a pen and my iPod (with the war-ick podcast). Well, no, I didn't actually take my iPod, I forgot it at home. But I listened to the podcast beforehand so I wasn't cheating.
Next instruction was to write. For five minutes, without stopping and without thinking. Take that senseless sentence agree to this betrothal, Ghanima? Alia asked, and make it into something.
Panicking slightly, I put my pen to the paper and wrote the sentence again: agree to this betrothal, Ghanima? Alia asked. Who are these people? Who's Ghanima? Who's Alia? Are thy male or female? How old are they? What do their names mean? What period are they in? Where are they from? How are they related? Whose betrothal are they talking about? Is someone else participating in their discussion?
But the birds sang in the tree above my head, and after all, it wasn't a literary masterpiece I was trying to write, it was just a doodle-y sort of thing that would never see the light of day anyway. You don't need Clio, I said to myself firmly, and the pen started flying.
"How could you agree to this betrothal, Ghanima?" Alia asked, teeth gritted, temper barely in check.
The old man, with his fragile form like a sack of bones piled on a chair in front of her, let his head bow gently, exasperation visible in his every fiber. "What would you have me do, Alia?" He said weakly. "Would you rather I sentenced our daughter to lifelong misery by allowing her to run off with her precious tramp?"
"No," Alia hissed, rather like the hiss of hot coals being doused in water. "I can't tell you what I would have you do, of course. You are the head of this house, and entitled to betroth your daughter to whomever you choose." A short lived silence followed, and then - "But him!!"
"Gereon is a respectable man, Alia." Ghanima's glance into his wife's eyes was harsh. "You will not speak ill of him. He is rich, wise, popular - "
"And five years your senior," Alia sneered. "He hasn't more than a few months left. You are marrying my daughter off to a dead man!"
Livid, Ghanima attempted to rise from his chair. It took a few attempts and the help of his cane, but he managed. "Very well," he croaked. "If you feel that I have more time left than he, you are gravely mistaken. You can keep your daughter. But in that case, neither of you will get so much as a rusty nail from this house from my will. Maybe then you'll learn to have respect for dead men."
He wobbled out as fast as he could, leaving Alia with an expression unbecoming for such a fair, young face.
That's that. Of course I've made some changes. For example, Gereon was Mortimer at first, but the detail-obsessed voice in my head told me to check what it means. Well, Mortimer is "still water", whereas Gereon is "old man". That's the biggest change I've made.
The next step in the challenge is to take a sentence from this story and make another one out of it. But I figured that's like going in circles, and am moving on to the next challenge. If I have any results, you'll be the first to know :P
So sorry, got a little carried away there (go on, try it, it's fun!).
Anyway, I found that podcast.
Basically it's a series of exercises in creative writing, a different game/challenge every time. Well, I badly need to build some literary muscle, so I took that challenge head on like a big girl.
The result?
Erm, let's start by saying that I don't write much. It may look like much when you look at this journal, but don't forget that everything here had been written in the course of years. I write once in a while when the mood strikes me. It's usually a beginning for something that will never be finished, or a short story attempting to be complete. Sometimes they're not too bad, sometimes they make me proud, and sometimes they make me tear the page into little bits. Or just close the Word file without saving, which is strangely satisfying.
The point is that I always need inspiration - that slippery little thing that goes around diving into people's heads without permission or at least a warning so they can go grab a pen. Unfortunately, the muses are fickle, and inspiration never likes to stay for too long. It's like spilling water from a bucket and suddenly realizing that you've emptied it all.
Also, I'm terribly pedantic. You know how they say that happiness is in the little things? Well, little things for me are the stuff of nightmares. What if I create a character, whose way of thinking doesn't make psychological sense, if there is such a thing? What if I write about something I've never experienced - like sword fighting, getting drunk or falling in love - and I get it all wrong? What if I write about something historical, which happens rather often, and mix up a couple of different periods? And oh, what if I write about two naturally blond parents who give birth to a brunette child, which doesn't make any sense, because blond is a recessive gene?!
Basically, as a writer, I am completely inept, however much I like to play with words. It's a little like juggling, though sometimes it can resemble balancing on a rope or even swallowing swords. Writers need to be more civil, like gardeners or carpenters. Not that I claim to be a writer, though it's a title I'd love to earn.
But I decided to take on war-ick's (yay!) challenge, just to see what I'm capable of without the help of Clio, my favorite muse, mistress of historical and heroic poetry.
The first stages of the challenge I did in my room: 1. find a bookshelf (I have two of those, very overpopulated); 2. take a random book (my fingers collided blindly with Frank Herbert's Children of Dune); 3. open a random page and poke it (that was fun) 4. copy the word you poked onto a piece of paper (it was betrothal, which is my sort of word) along with the 3 words preceding it (agree to this) and the 3 words succeeding it (Ghanima? Alia asked).
Then out I went, into the little park behind my house (something like a collective backyard), under the shadow of a tree on a little hillock. I took a clipboard, my piece of paper and some blank ones, a pen and my iPod (with the war-ick podcast). Well, no, I didn't actually take my iPod, I forgot it at home. But I listened to the podcast beforehand so I wasn't cheating.
Next instruction was to write. For five minutes, without stopping and without thinking. Take that senseless sentence agree to this betrothal, Ghanima? Alia asked, and make it into something.
Panicking slightly, I put my pen to the paper and wrote the sentence again: agree to this betrothal, Ghanima? Alia asked. Who are these people? Who's Ghanima? Who's Alia? Are thy male or female? How old are they? What do their names mean? What period are they in? Where are they from? How are they related? Whose betrothal are they talking about? Is someone else participating in their discussion?
But the birds sang in the tree above my head, and after all, it wasn't a literary masterpiece I was trying to write, it was just a doodle-y sort of thing that would never see the light of day anyway. You don't need Clio, I said to myself firmly, and the pen started flying.
"How could you agree to this betrothal, Ghanima?" Alia asked, teeth gritted, temper barely in check.
The old man, with his fragile form like a sack of bones piled on a chair in front of her, let his head bow gently, exasperation visible in his every fiber. "What would you have me do, Alia?" He said weakly. "Would you rather I sentenced our daughter to lifelong misery by allowing her to run off with her precious tramp?"
"No," Alia hissed, rather like the hiss of hot coals being doused in water. "I can't tell you what I would have you do, of course. You are the head of this house, and entitled to betroth your daughter to whomever you choose." A short lived silence followed, and then - "But him!!"
"Gereon is a respectable man, Alia." Ghanima's glance into his wife's eyes was harsh. "You will not speak ill of him. He is rich, wise, popular - "
"And five years your senior," Alia sneered. "He hasn't more than a few months left. You are marrying my daughter off to a dead man!"
Livid, Ghanima attempted to rise from his chair. It took a few attempts and the help of his cane, but he managed. "Very well," he croaked. "If you feel that I have more time left than he, you are gravely mistaken. You can keep your daughter. But in that case, neither of you will get so much as a rusty nail from this house from my will. Maybe then you'll learn to have respect for dead men."
He wobbled out as fast as he could, leaving Alia with an expression unbecoming for such a fair, young face.
That's that. Of course I've made some changes. For example, Gereon was Mortimer at first, but the detail-obsessed voice in my head told me to check what it means. Well, Mortimer is "still water", whereas Gereon is "old man". That's the biggest change I've made.
The next step in the challenge is to take a sentence from this story and make another one out of it. But I figured that's like going in circles, and am moving on to the next challenge. If I have any results, you'll be the first to know :P