Playwriting

This week I am inspired by another co-authoring adventure. This time with my housemate for the Mullumimby Drill Hall Theatre playwriting competition called Hot Shorts.

The deal is you write a short 10 minute play and submit it with an application form. We whipped up a play over breakfast the other day and are in the process of editing the play.

Our play is about the stages of relationships and how your 'stuff' comes up when intimacy is involved. 

This got me thinking about my only other attempt at writing a play years ago for Short and Sweet. The play example below is about my days teaching and the incident described in the play was when I was teaching in England. 

It's interesting to re-read something you wrote years ago and reflect on where you are now with the story. The frustrations I experienced as a teacher seem just as relevant today. I am a lot less consumed by these frustration however, although I am still not sure how to overcome them. 

I thought it would be worthwhile to share this play as an example of how the incidents and people in our lives can be muses for creative expression. 

What you can do

1. Create a short 10 minute play about a theme that interests you. For example family, intimate relationships, friendships, sport, technology, differences in generations, etc.

2. Find a competition to enter your play into and submit an entry. The link below is for Hot Shorts:

http://www.drillhalltheatre.org.au

3. If you feel so inclined, try writing your play with a friend.

4. You may like to use CELTX, which is free downloadable software for scriptwriting. The link is below:

http://celtx.en.softonic.com

An example

Ink Blots

Act One

Scene One

The small classroom generates a feeling of depression and claustrophobia. Graffiti is on the wall. An attempt has been made to cover up the graffiti with students’ work. The students’ wooden chairs and desks are arranged haphazardly in two columns broken by an isle down the middle. In front of the students’ desks, at the top of the room, is the teacher’s desk, which is laminated on the top and has steel legs. 

The teacher walks into the room and slowly walks up the isle and dumps her books onto her desk with a sigh. A piercing bell follows her entrance closely. She cowers over in annoyance of the invasive sound. She writes a heading for the lesson on the board and goes over to the students’ desks and attempts to tidy them up and pick up the papers on the floor. She is appalled by the state of the room.   

A student comes into the room in a riotous manner. He is abusing other students.  Eventually he sits at the front of the room on a chair assigned to him on the left of the teacher’s desk.

MISS CONNORS: Okay, now, students, I want you to take your hats off your heads, take your books and pens out and write the heading on the board into your books. 

The student at the front has ignored all instructions except for the pens to be on the desk. 

MISS CONNORS: Can you take out your book, Sunny?

SUNNY: I don’t have one.

MISS CONNORS: What do you mean you don’t have one?

SUNNY: I left it at home.

MISS CONNORS: That’s the second time you’ve left your book at home. We now have a problem. Here’s some paper. I expect your book to be on your desk tomorrow.

Miss Connor begins to hand out worksheets for the lesson. As she moves around the room she attempts to settle the students.  She hears Sunny being disruptive, but ignores him.  She goes back to the front of the room and begins to address the class. She notices that Sunny has taken his pen apart. She puts her hand on his desk.

MISS CONNOR (whispers): Put that away please. (To the class) Yesterday we began to look at themes in the novel. Can any one tell me what…

What are you doing?

Sunny is blowing the ink from the pen onto the table. A blue ink blob forms.

Sunny, stand up and move to the back of the room. (Slowly) Stand up. He stands up. Move to the back of the room. 

He glares at her, looks down at the ink blob and puts his pointer finger in it. He stares at her again and swirls the ink blob in circles as if he is mixing the batter of a cake. When he is done, he walks down the isle to the back of the room and sits directly in line with the teacher’s views on a chair he picked up along the way.

MISS CONNORS (Shakily): Right. Those themes, anybody remember what they were? Right, ‘making choices’, ‘conformity versus non conformity’ and ‘violence versus non violence’. That’s it.

As the teacher continues the lesson, Sunny is making his way up the isle in jagged movements as he is still sitting on his chair. He pushes objects off the students’ desks.

Now, with ‘Making choices’, Can anybody tell me why that is a good theme for this novel? 

Sunny, get off the chair. 

SUNNY: You want me to get off the chair now.

Sunny stands up while he is still holding the chair to his backside. He moves closer to the front of the class where the teacher is standing. 

MISS CONNORS: Move away from me. I don’t like the way you are behaving. Move back.

The teacher goes to move away from Sunny, but he quickly slams the chair down onto her foot. She is stuck. She screams out and cowers over in pain.

MISS CONNORS (hysterical): Get off me. I said, get off me.

The commotion has been heard outside the classroom. The Deputy Principal walks in and sees the teacher push Sunny violently. He falls backwards off the chair. 

MR CRAWLEY (to Miss Connors): You need to go to my office.

Lights out 

Scene Two

The office is the front of the classroom. Mr Crawley sits behind his desk. Objects on his desk are neatly positioned and are in exact order. He is a man whose contents of his lunch box are neatly packed in glad wrap and strategically placed according to the time of consumption. His elbows rest on the desk and his hands are locked together. Miss Connor sits on the opposite side of the desk, slouched slightly to the left with her right arm resting on the arm of the chair. She is indignant.

MR CRAWLEY: You are aware that violence against a student is a sackable offense.

(Pause) 

MISS CONNORS: You are aware that I have applied numerous discipline strategies with the student and yet he continues to be in my classroom where his behaviour prevents every other student from learning. Not to mention the stress he causes me. You are aware that the state of public education is in disarray because classroom teachers have no control. You are aware that I feel this small. This small. And you tell me that I might be sacked. Well go ahead. Make my day.

She stands up and walks out.

Lights out

Chick Lit

What is it?

This is lots of fun. It’s kind of like my alter ego takes over and these very entertaining characters pop out. The characters are entertaining to me as they are far removed from my everyday experience. It’s like I allow that mischievous part of myself have centre stage.

So chick lit is short for women’s literature. It is usually playful and light hearted writing about the modern woman and her relationships with others, in particular men. 

The exercise below was given to me by Katherine, whom I am co-authoring a novel with. Before we started writing the novel, we had a Skype writing group where we wrote small snippets of stories together. Each week, one of us came up with an activity. Below is her activity.

What you can do

1. Choose three words from thesaurus or dictionary that are unfamiliar to you (you have never heard of, or don’t know the meaning of). 

2. Write down the meanings of these words.

4. Write a short piece in chick lit genre using these 3 words. Make sure the words are interspersed throughout your writing. 

5. Write for 15-20 minutes.

An example 

Words

Effluvium - Exhaled substance affecting lungs or sense of smell – unpleasant.

Solatium – things given as compensation or consolidation.

Inutile – useless

Chick lit writing piece

Pamela excluded effluvium, contorting her face in an attempt to remove the unpleasant smell coming forth from her mouth, invading the air. She began to panic. Brad would be here at any moment and the last things she wanted was the lingering smell of last night’s bottle of wine greeting him at the door. She banged around her cupboards looking for something to cover the taste in her mouth. Unutile. The fridge she thought. A lonely bottle of wine lay on the top shelf. As she pulled the bottle out and unscrewed the lid she thought she really should start cooking her own meals instead of eating take-out every night. 

She took a swig and jiggled the liquid around her mouth like mouthwash and threw her head back to encourage quick relief. That’s my salatium for being single. Stuff the cooked dinners. I like my life. 

The door bell rang. She waved the air about frantically over her mouth as she swooned toward the door. The door bell rang again. “Impatient bugger, isn’t he,” she said to her cat, who had been watching her dutifully the whole time. 

As she opened the door she swung her hair back, titling her head, lips pouted.

“Oh, it’s you.’ Her body relaxed and she grimaced. 'What the bloody hell do you want?”

Alfred was a regular unwanted visitor from the apartment down the hall. He stood in the doorway holding a bottle of Grange and an enormous smile, which only served to annoy Pamela further. Alfred titled his head in a gesture of implied connection. 

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” he shouted moving toward her for a hug. 

She put her hand out and pushed his chest back. “What for?”

“I got the publishing deal for my book. Don’t you read the papers?”

Pamela was dumfounded. “On the mating habits of insects?”

Alfred shook his head excitedly like a child agreeing to go on a ride at the fair.

“Wow, that’s great Alfred. Who would have thought?” 

Pamela wondered how he did it. Here she was slaving her guts away at the desk writing her novel on the misfortunes of Daisy Hall and her abominable love life and not a sniff of interest from the hundreds of publishers she sent her work to. Life really sucked sometimes. 

Alfred lifted up the bottle of Grange. ‘Shall we?’ 

Pamela grabbed the bottle. ‘Hell yeah,’ she sighed as she entered the apartment, Alfred, bobbing after her.

Humourous memories

This week is all about cheering people up, including myself, so I decided to make the genre about humour. 

The following is from Life Writing: a student e-workbook

Click on the link below for more information.

http://www.qwiller.com.au/e-resources/ebook/life-writing-e-workbook

What is it about?

We all have funny memories. Our lives are enriched because of the humour we create or appreciate. Often when we relay stories to others, we choose funny stories because we know that people enjoy being uplifted. 

To create humour, a writer can:

• upset expectations (what we think will normally happen)
• re-invent common sayings (clichés) and plays on words (puns)
• change and alter myths (stories about the origins of things)
• turn rules in life upside down
• change human ideas of reality (what is real)
• think outrageously
• make the familiar strange and the strange familiar
• day dream.

What you can do?

1. Think of a funny memory. Imagine you are talking to a friend and write a monologue reflecting on that humorous memory. Build the story up, as if you are telling a joke. A monologue is a spoken form of writing.

An example

Below is a memory of a funny experience with a dear friend (who incidentally could do with some cheering up this week). Hope the memory brings a smile to your face Jen.

My girlfriend Jen and I arrived at a quaint cottage winery in the Hunter Valley. We entered the wine tasting area. It had more of a sense of a family bar that the formal wine tasting areas of the larger wineries in the area. 

I was a bit nervous, never having been to a wine tasting before. I watched my girlfriend for guidance on protocol. She was experienced in such affairs as she worked for a wine distribution company at the time. She was the closest thing to an expert I’d ever come across apart from family members who could easily claim that title. 

I carefully perused the wine list, looking extremely serious, trying to cover the fact that I had no idea what the difference was between a sauvignon blanc, Chardonnay and a carafe. After a while I looked to Jen for suggestions. She pointed to one of the bottles on the bar, pronouncing the name of the wine perfectly to the bar tender. He poured us a small quantity of the drink, while telling us a bit about the wine - the size of the grapes, the length of maturation time, that sort of thing. 

I picked up my glass and I gulped the whole amount down. Jen let out a bit of a laugh as she pulled me away from the bar and whispered to me that small sips are the way to go. Apparently to let the wine linger in your mouth. Oh I replied. 

The bar man asked us if we’d like to try a red. Jen suggested a variety we would like to try. She told me that I now needed to clean out my mouth with water to prepare my palette for the next wine. I watched Jen pick up a small pottery cylinder in front her and take a swig, swishing it around her mouth. I too picked up a pottery cylinder in front of me, although it was quite a bit larger than Jen’s cylinder, and prepared to take a sip. 

It occurred to me as the container come towards me that the colours weren’t right. It was a mixture of reds and browns, but I disregarded the thought as the nature of the pottery. The smell wasn’t right either, definitely wine, but I thought that was the drink I had just had. So I continued to feign etiquette and gulped the liquid fervently into my mouth. As soon as the liquid touched my lips I knew what I had done. My natural impulse was to regurgitate the liquid back up in an act of defiant refusal to accept my stupidity. It spurted out of my mouth like a fountain, sending the patrons bowing down for cover. 

Despite my extreme embarrassment, all I could do was laugh. Jen was doubled over with laughter, holding onto her stomach with one hand the bar with the other. Me, standing there with the spittoon in my hands, eyes clenched closed, mouth wide open in laughter, sucking in breath at unnaturally long intervals. It took quite some time for Jen and I to compose ourselves. I could hear the bar tender and the other patrons laughing and relaying to those who missed it what happened, this making us laugh even more. 

When the bar tender offered us more wine to taste, we humbly declined.

Intergeneric fairytales

What is it?

This type of writing is when classic fairytales inspire your writing. 

It’s about drawing on aspects of classic fairytales and in your own narrative. Your piece of writing has a sense of familiarity as the  reader is able to recognise the characters, setting/s, storyline, for example that you have incorporated into your story.

What can you do

Think of a fairytale that inspires you or resonates with you. It may be the character, storyline, setting, themes or ideas that interest you. Just go with the first thing that comes to you mind.

Write a scene for a narrative that blends this aspect of the original fairytale into the story. 

An example

The following scene is inspired by the fairytale Hansel and Gretel. The scene is about the children preparing to go to their father’s house in a typical morning scene where the family get ready for the day. I have maintained the simplicity of the setting in the woods from classic examples of the fairytale and made the parent a single mother. In this story the children decide to go off the track out of curiosity rather than abandonment. 

The mornings are flippant, so my mother told me. The way I hung my head upside down over the edge of the bed and dangled my arms from side to side when I was supposed to be getting dressed for the day ahead. How my mother washed in the bucket, scrubbing vigorously the ginger soap up her arms, under her arm pits. The water splashing out suspended in the air before zooming into the rough mat that signified the washroom. Her skin shiny and sore, like a burn after months of healing. How my brother flew his imaginary airplane along the sparse furniture that occupied the single room in our cottage, leaping and bounding through the space, knocking the rickety chair that he caught with his spare hand just before it hit the ground. He held the airplane in one hand and chair in the other, still in anticipation.

‘Billy,’ my mother shouted. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ 

Her hands flung the air about as she sighed. 

My favourite dress was neatly laid out on the crocheted red rug my grandmother hand made when I was born. When I wore it I rubbed the lace at the trim so purposefully, that holes like moth bites had grown over the years. Bits of lace hung down to the ground, I refusing to tear them off even though I tripped often. My brother already dressed. Always first. 

My favourite dress was neatly laid out on the crocheted red rug my grandmother hand made when I was born. When I wore it I rubbed the lace at the trim so purposefully, that holes like moth bites had grown over the years. Bits of lace hung down to the ground, I refusing to tear them off even though I tripped often. My brother already dressed. Always first. 

My mother helped me put the rucksack on my back and tapped me on the bottom toward the door. I joined my brother, facing my mother who leaned down in front of us. She cupped our chins with the palms of her hands and squeezed tenderly. ‘To your father’s now,’ she said. 

My mother helped me put the rucksack on my back and tapped me on the bottom toward the door. I joined my brother, facing my mother who leaned down in front of us. She cupped our chins with the palms of her hands and squeezed tenderly. ‘To your father’s now,’ she said. 

My mother, satisfied, stood up as we turned to the path leading from the door to the edge of the forest. I heard her good bye as we ran down the path with our bags jiggling on our backs.
My mother, satisfied, stood up as we turned to the path leading from the door to the edge of the forest. I heard her good bye as we ran down the path with our bags jiggling on our backs.

She rose from her squatting position and put her wet hands on her hips, the liquid dripped down her bare legs. She stood there till my brother delicately returned the chair upright, patting it a little, smiling nervously at the wall, avoiding my mother’s eyes.

‘Go and get dressed, both of you.’

He placed his rucksack on his back and moved toward the front door open to the wilderness. My mother wrapped a shawl around her body and moved about the cottage, tidying up evidence of breakfast. ‘Late for work again,’ she said. ‘To the door, Rose.’

I followed her gaze to my brother’s face as she intensified her hold on his chin. ‘No going off the path, do you hear?’ My brother’s head bobbed up and down in her palm.

My mother, satisfied, stood up as we turned to the path leading from the door to the edge of the forest. I heard her good bye as we ran down the path with our bags jiggling on our backs.

Free association writing

Yesterday I went to  the Starlight Wellbeing Expo at Bangalow and participated in the ‘Power of Play’ workshop by Barbara Brewster. My housemate has been sharing her ideas on ‘play’ and how she uses play in her counselling sessions and so ‘playing’ as a means of healing and a vehicle for creativity was sounding pretty good to me (email Linda Grace for more information on sand play therapy at lindagrace11@gmail.com). So I went along and had so much fun. Somehow the serious business of life has taken centre stage for me and I was reminded that the fun side of me would like a bit more attention! 

In this workshop we played around with language and so I was reminded of the free association activities I included in the Belonging Area of Study book I wrote for NSW HSC students. These ideas originally come to me from Hazel Smith’s The Writing Experiment. 

You might also like to check out Barbara Brewster’s website - www.barbarabrewtser.com. She is available for speaking or workshops. I highly recommend her. She is a wonderful presenter and embraces the spirit of ‘play’. 

What is free association writing?

When you write by free association, you write about ‘the first thing that comes into your mind’. This technique is good for exploring ideas in your subconscious and for playing with language. It can also result in an experimental text with many different meanings. 

Word association by sound

What you can do

1 Choose one of the following words related to belonging or not belonging. What words come into your mind that relate to the sound of each word? Write down as many as you can think of. (Alternatively create your own series of words.)

• inhabit

• affinity

• secure

• abandoned

• place

• comfort

• alienation

An example

Word: alienation

Sound association: always, natural, station, lean, alcohol, elation, alfalfa, light

Word association by meaning

What you can do

2 Choose the same word you used in the last activity, but this time write as many other words as you 
can think of that relate to the meaning of the original word.

An example

Word: alienation

Meaning association: alone, sadness, isolation, loneliness, separate, quiet, freedom, strange

Association by disassociation

What you can do

3 Choose the same word again, but this time write as many other words as you can think of that do not 
relate to the meaning of the word.

An example

Word: alienation

Disassociation: happiness, connection, jubilation, freedom, belonging, together, purpose, meaning

Combination of associations

What you can do

4 Now put all these ideas together by mixing the three strategies. When writing and combining the 
ideas, try to engage the audience by showing your personal beliefs about belonging and/or not 
belonging in our society. (Alternatively, come up with a different concept other than ‘belonging’ that 
interests you.)

An example

Word: alienation

Association combinations

together a purpose of freedom from alienation to belong to 

jubilation without the strangeness of quietness and sadness 

that connects meaning and prevents isolation natural light 

breath elation free from alcohol together always lean

Putting it all together

What you can do

5 Write a paragraph of about 60–70 words using a mixture of the word association strategies. From the 
previous activities, there should be some associations, sounds and thoughts related to belonging (or the 
concept you have been focussing on) that you particularly like. Draw these out in your writing and try 
to turn these ideas into a piece of writing. You may also incorporate traditional forms of writing. Try to 
incorporate your childhood memories, experiences, senses and fantasies that relate to your perception of 
belonging (or the concept you have been focussing on).

An example

There is a strange quietness in the kitchen at the back of this old house where I have lived since childhood. I join the dots of my life from jubilation to sadness to alienation. Empty beer bottles scattered on the floor. Alienation and quietness. Nobody is home. I am free to leave the isolation and lean toward the light. 

Intergeneric Writing

Intergeneric writing is when you combine genres (types of writing, e.g. romance, fantasy, etc.) in your narrative. You can incorporate seemingly unrelated genres together to tell the story. The type of genres you choose will enhance the story in some way. 

What you can do

1. Write a news report about the facts of a narrative you have been writing.
2. Brainstorm the following for your report:

1. What happened?
2. Who was involved?
3. When did the events occur?
4. Where did the events occur?
5. Why did the events occur?
6. How did the events occur?
7. What is expected to happen in the future?

An example

The following extract written as a fictional news report comes from a narrative titled The Maisy Hill Witch Trial, and is inspired by Arthur Miller‘s The Crucible, about innocent people being charged with witchcraft for heinous crimes. Fear of the ‘witchcraft ring’ is really a metaphor for fear of ‘terrorism’ in contemporary society. Report writing has been used in the narrative to accentuate the power of the media in positioning the reader to view people and events in a particular way. 

         

MEN CAUGHT IN RAIDS TO BE TRIED FOR WITCHCRAFT

Three Maisy Hill men accused of planning a witch attack have been ordered to stand trial. The men are charged with belonging to a witchcraft sect. Two are charged with funding or providing support to a witchcraft organisation or possessing items connected with an act of witchcraft.

Their alleged leader, James Divine, 38, of Maisy Hill, is also charged with directing the activities of the alleged witchcraft cell and recruiting for the group.

After a six-week hearing, the magistrate, Donald Eggly, said yesterday there was enough evidence for convictions to be possible.

The men sat calmly as Mr Eggly announced his decision. One of the accused refused to stand when asked to by Mr Eggly, but the magistrate continued to read the charges and ask for their pleas.

Police say the men were in the early stages of carrying out an act of witchcraft when three of them were arrested in pre-dawn raids in Maisy Hill last December.

The arrests were part of a one-year counter-witchcraft investigation called Operation Eradication of Evil. An undercover police agent had infiltrated the group and discussed details of blowing up the barn of Mr Fraser, a respected farmer and local council member, the court was told.

The officer, known as “security operative 69”, had accompanied Mr Divine to his farm to witness a trial explosion, the prosecutor, John Darling, SC said.

Mr Darling said the group was inspired and influenced strongly by the witchcraft group and the teachings of its leader Nicole Carla. 

All three men committed to stand trial pleaded not guilty. They are James Divine, 38, of Maisy Hill, William Cox, 37, of Lidcoat and Brian Fanning, 35, of Maisy Hill.

Outside court, Divine’s estranged wife, Alison Divine, said the men were innocent and the case was a “trophy trial”. 

She said her estranged husband was a good father to his children and that he had been locked in solitary confinement for 200 days.

‘The local government has a lot to answer for,’ she said.

Several of the men would appeal for bail in the coming weeks, their lawyers told the court.

Contemporary Fiction

A friend and I have committed to co-authoring a novel this year. We are in our early stages of writing, mainly having some fun coming up with characters and themes and so forth.

So this week I thought we could write contemporary fiction, which is really another term for writing about people and society as you see them in the present.  

What can you do?

Think of a person in your life who you could easily transfer to a character in a story. Let the image of that person waft around in your mind. Consider:

What is their personality?

How do they treat other people?

What is their attitude to life?

What are their disappointments and goals?

Now, imagine this person in a situation that represents the essence of who they are at this point in time. They may be frantic like my character below, chilled out in the face of danger…

Just go with the first thing that comes to mind and free write a scene with this character in it.

An example

Olivia pulled out of the driveway in her new BMW and immediately put into the stereo her Deepak Chopra meditation CD. She knew it was unwise to meditate while driving, but time was scarce, and boy did she need to meditate. Deep breath in, throw away the thought of the divorce papers filed on me today. Concentrate on my breath. 50/50, he’s got to be kidding. I‘m looking after Sophie. She's studying for her exams for goodness sack!

Olivia catches Deepak’s voice and repeats “I hold infinite possibilities within me. I am the source of my own happiness.’ Her chests puffs up like a peacock and  she nods her head deliberately in agreement. She yells it out loud with great pride. I hold infinite possibilities. And louder still, looking to the other cars, shouting out her mantra forcefully for the driver in the passing car to see. He is startled by her, snarls and hurries past. Olivia, chuffed with herself for a second, breathes deeply into her nostrils and switches off the car stereo hastily, slumping into the steering wheel. But 50/50. That bastard! I will not accept anything less than 70/30. My way!

Olivia enters the driveway of her lover’s apartment block and parks the car in the visitor’s car space, thankful for a place to park for free in the middle of the city. James is returning tonight from another overseas jaunt to China, checking his manufacturing factories apparently. He makes and sells thongs to chain supermarkets like Coles and Big W. He has a huge rubber thong sprawled across the lounge room.

She takes out the key he gave her and unlocks the door. He will home in 30 minutes and that gives her some time to freshen up. She plonks her bag on the kitchen and takes out her make- up. She looks around. The view of the harbour is particular exquisite today. Ferries pull into Circular Key and people constantly flow up and down the passageway to the Opera House. She notices an empty bottle of Cognac on coffee table. She goes to investigate. Two glasses are on the floor. She wonders, but dismisses the uncertainty with the promise of a logical explanation.

In the bathroom, Olivia takes out her make-up and spreads it out on the bench. She slips off her clothes, admiring her underwear as it's revealed and scrunches her breasts up into a more flattering cleavage. She moves her face to the mirror, lifting the side of her eye to eradicate the fine lines. She smiles falsely and notices the folds in the skin under the eye, then she unsmiles and smiles again, disappointed in the image in front of her. She looks down at her chest and sees folds of skin. She picks her arms up and squeezes the flabby bits. Then she looks at herself in the mirror and sulks, feeling a dread lurking from inside her. An unlovable dread.

 

Fantasy Writing

I’ve been thinking about rewriting a fantasy children’s book I half wrote several years ago. I love this genre as it allows you to explore the depths of your imagination, whether you are writing for children or adults.

So I am curious to read your thoughts about the excerpts from The Readers below.

What can you do?

Write a short (or long) excerpt from a fantasy story. In you writing, express the following:

-          a time period

-          who your characters are

-          possible conflicts that could drive the story

-          your imagination.

An example

In The Readers I am using different genres, such as fantasy and non-fiction writing. I’m combining the story about the Readers family with extracts from the children’s parent’s academic writing. The children’s parents are Egyptology archaeologists who research and write about the reign of Arkhenaten, the possible father of Tutankhamun.

Excerpt 1

Charlie tucked the Book of the Dead under his arm and made his way toward the door at the back of the chamber.  Just then a slight grumble could be heard. Alice caught Charlie’s arm, knocking the book onto the floor as she said, ‘What’s that noise?’

The sound stopped and the chamber was still.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Charlie, leaning down to pick up the book. A tattered piece of paper peeped out from the middle of the pages. He pulled it out and unfolded it carefully so as not rip it any more.

‘What’s that?’ said Alice.

‘It looks like a newspaper article. A very old one, I’d say.’

Charlie smoothed out the ruffles on the paper and read slowly.

The Times

December 15 1932

‘Book of the Dead’ stolen from Tutankhamun’s tomb

An ancient book called the Book of the Dead has been stolen from Tutankhamun’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt today.

Ten years after the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb, the now famous child pharaoh of the New Kingdom, the Book of the Dead has been stolen from his burial chamber.

Howard Carter and his team of archaeologists have been working on the tomb since its discovery in 1922. It has taken his team 10 years to remove, record, preserve and return all objects taken from the tomb.

On the last day of the project it was discovered that the Book of the Dead had been taken from the burial chamber. The book usually rests on top of the chest of the deceased and is used to recite spells in the underworld. 

‘This is very disappointing,’ said Howard Carter. ‘My team has meticulously worked on this tomb. It was our aim from the beginning to return all objects to the tomb after accurate recording and preservation procedures were followed.’

Mr. Carter said that it was important to return all objects as the Ancient Egyptians believed that all objects stored in their tombs were required for successful transition through the underworld.

Police are interviewing a number of suspects who were in contact with the tomb. So far no one has been arrested.

Investigations are continuing.

Charlie wiped his fingers over the cover of the Book of the Dead, coming to understand its significance in their lives. ‘This book’s been stolen.’

‘Not only that. Our parents knew about the theft and didn’t return it,’ said Alice, remembering her parents boasting about their treasured discovery of Tutnkhamun’s Book of the Dead.

‘Maybe, it is up to us to return it.’

Alice sighed and looked at the wall of the chamber with the boat on the river that she had earlier integrated into and met her father as the Pharaoh of Egypt. ‘Maybe,’ she mumbled, uncertain of the significance. ‘I think our parents knew quite a lot that they didn’t tell us.’

Alice hesitated before she continued. ‘There’s something I need to show you.’

She led her brother over to the wall with the image of the boat. Alice leaned down and pointed to the people in image. As she did a slight grumble like an engine warming began to develop.

Charlie squinted. ‘That’s you,’ he gasped.

‘Umm,’ she said.

Charlie looked over the image like a detective. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That looks like…’

‘Yep, that’s our father alright,’ said Alice.

‘What is he doing in there?’

‘He needs our help,’ she said reflecting on the request her father gave her to return the Book of the Dead to Tutankhamun’s tomb before he is locked out of the underworld for all eternity.

‘What for?’

But before she could answer, the grumble turned into a roar. The image of Alice and her father in the barque began to shiver, shaking like the beginning of an earthquake. The roar became louder and out of the water came a huge black serpent, shiny like a whale. It glided in and out stealthily, causing the water to rise up like a wave in the ocean. The force of the wave propelled the boat forward, almost tipping the picture of Alice and her father into the water. They both held onto the cobra guardians, at each end of the boat, as their bodies flew into the air, landing with a thud when the wave came to an end.

‘That’s Apep,’ said Charlie in horror. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Water began to spout out into the chamber from the image like a broken water pipe, immediately turning the floor to mud.

Alice and Charlie ran into the other chamber until they reached the screen Isis had previously ushered them toward in the hope that they would enter voluntarily. Water seeped down from above, swaying the screen back and forth as if a gentle wind blew over it. Alice put the palm of her hand over the image of the King and Queen on the chariot. ‘I can’t go in there,’ she said.

Charlie looked behind them. The water gushed into the chamber. ‘Quick, Alice. We don’t have much time.’

Alice pushed her hand into the screen and nearly fell inwards. She quickly pulled her hand out.

‘I can’t do it.’

‘Yes you can,’ said Ruben.

Alice took a deep breath. ‘You go first.’

Charlie held out his hand. ‘Let’s go together.’

Alice placed her hand in his, and they both stood in front of the screen. They fell forward in sync like a kite coming in for landing.

Excerpt 2

PREFACE.

________

For Egyptologists and lovers of Ancient cultures, Akhenaten’s reign has long been one of the most complex and intriguing of all the pharaohs. Using the great wealth and power afforded him by his predecessors, Akhenaten made a bold departure from traditional Kingship by attempting religious reform when he created a new and simpler cult. He declared that the Aten, the sun god, was to be the only god to be worshipped. The Aten, represented by the sun disc, created and cared for mankind. Akhenaten banned the other gods and closed or destroyed their temples. It is not surprising that the pharaoh was portrayed as a heretic after his death, and all mention of his name on monuments was destroyed by officials.

For the historian, due to inconclusive archaeological evidence, it has been difficult to determine whether Akhenaten was an effete ruler or a despotic madman. He attempted to increase the power of the pharaoh by declaring that the King and his family were the sole intermediaries between God and the people. The new cult offered no channel for personal piety amongst the people. Public displays such as the royal chariot drive provided the few opportunities for the people to communicate with the world of the gods. Archaeological evidence suggests that Akhenaten was constantly flanked by bodyguards headed by the chief of Police of Akhenaton, Mahu. It is therefore not surprising that Akhenaten's assassins took an opportunity such as one of these public displays to show their disapproval of his restriction on god worship.

After futile efforts by Egyptologists from the past to find the mummy of Akhenaten, our team was overjoyed to locate the body in the cliffs to the east of the city of El- Amarna 200 meters from his tomb. At this stage of the investigation, it can only be concluded that his body was removed from its proper burial place by dissidents who opposed his monotheistic approach to religion. Further evidence of this can be seen in the numerous monuments built during Akhenaten’s reign, which have been ruined and defaced by consecutive pharaohs, including his heir to the throne and child, Tutankhamun.

The mummy was buried deep in the desert, without any proper burial procedures adhered to, like mummification, as was customary for a pharaoh. Over the years the desert sand has dissipated, eventually uncovering a skeletal hand. After carefully removing and recording the evidence from the site, a CT scan of Akhenaten’s mummy was conducted, showing that he most probably suffered injuries to the head of a catastrophic nature. Markings along the back of his body suggest that he was dragged for an extensive period across the desert. Indentations around both wrists suggest that he was tied with rope, which pulled the body through the desert to his place of burial. Curiously, traces of horsehair and plumes from the horse’s regalia were also found in Akhenaten’s mouth.

Further excavation around the mummy has uncovered a book similar to the Book of the Dead, which was usually buried with the body of the deceased. This book however is strange in that it reads like a diary of Akhenaten’s life. Somebody must have gone to great pains to ensure that Akhenaten rested for eternity with this book as it was not only found in a golden box bolted like a vault, but was buried deep into the desert, some 100 meters below Akhenaten’s mummy.

Annie Reader, Charlie Reader, ‘The Discovery of Akhenaten’s Mummy,’ Oxford, 2003

 

Poetry Prose

This week I have been thinking about the injustices we experience as a child and the impact this can have on us throughout our lives.

I was reminded of a poem I wrote as poetry prose and how I enjoyed combining the elements of poetry and prose together. It kind of gave me a bit of freedom to draw things into each other without adhering to more regimented guidelines associated with each of the genres.

What is it?
Poetry prose is essentially poetry, but it’s written in more of a prose (as opposed to verse) style. It is a heightened piece of writing as it tends to have more of the figurative language we associate with poetry that appeals to our deepest emotions.

What can you do?
Write a short piece of poetry prose (about 250 words) about an injustice that you experienced as a child. Draw out your feelings about people’s behaviours and the impact this has had on you.

An example
The following poetry prose example was inspired by Judith Beveridge's 'The Two Brothers', which is about how two brothers tormented her as a child by exposing themselves to her and putting salt on snails and generally being cruel to insects to see how they would react.

So in my poem I have followed a similar style of writing, in particular a similar beat to create the same rhythm. I also wrote about the injustice my brother and I experienced from 2 girls when we were children.

I chose to write poetry prose to bring together moments from different times and weave them together as a story that seems like it happened concurrently. Memory is a bit like that where time meshes into one space.

The Laundry

I only wanted to keep my brother away from those two sisters, the ones who locked him in the laundry in the depths of the backyard, looking vacantly at each other as one pinched under my arm, the other tearing the leg off my doll, then tossed it over the fence. They stood at attention like soldiers when an adult arrived. I read their Golden Books under the withered tree on the concrete path, sailed along the ocean in a tug boat, went fishing with big bear and baked cakes with mother hen. When I turned the page, it smiled back. But these girls, great in their minds, would coax me to play with their dolls, chalkboards, sharp pens. When they scribbled in their books and blamed me, I clenched my nails into my fists, held my breath and counted backwards from ten. I knew this as injustice slicing the spirit and that next they would graffiti more books if I made a sound or objected. Instead the laundry door thumped like a horn blowing. And I was forced to write ‘I will not graffiti’, a hundred times over, starting again when I wrote repetitively individual words instead of sentences. These sisters, who had shut my brother in to keep me out, doubled up in laughter. But when they unlocked the laundry door, releasing their aloneness as my brother cried blue murder, they cried out for their mother, not quite sure what would be done to them, and held each other through the loneliness of their power.