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.

Travel Writing

Considering it's the holiday season, I figured that travel or holiday writing is the way to go.
We all have some quirky holiday experience we often share with people. It would be great to read about yours.

What can you do?
Write about an experience that stands out in your mind about a holiday or time of travel. Take us on the journey with you so we feel like we were there too.

An example

Barcelona Girls

I think someone is yelling at us in Spanish, I whisper in a groggy voice to my girlfriends. We are in a one bedroom apartment in Barcelona. It is about 10 in the morning and we have not long been asleep after another night of hedonism in the vibrant, party city. The girls are apprehensive about investigating the source of the voice. It’s quite angry, bordering on violence. I go outside onto the balcony to inspect. Our balcony looks onto other balconies separated by a thoroughfare. Below are shop fronts and people walking by and riding pushbikes, chatting to each other.  A man is waving his hands about, irate, yelling out the same incomprehensible sounds. By this time the girls have joined me on the balcony.

Our ignorance only serves to fuel his anger. He disappears and soon we hear thumping on our door. Jen runs into the bedroom and hides in the wardrobe, Michelle locks herself in the bathroom and Rach toughs it out with me. We hear scuffling outside as more men join our distressed neighbour. We presume it’s the police and freak out even more, despite our innocence. Jen rings the owners of the apartment, attempting to tell them what is happening, but their English is not good all of a sudden. She informs them that the police have been called and the phone drops dead.

The man hurries back downstairs and confronts us again on the balcony. A lodger in the apartment block joins the fray with her dog on a leash and begins to translate for us. She tells us that, as we expected, the police have been called and that our air conditioning is leaking and dripping down onto the entrance of the man’s shop. Right, now we understand. A Caucasian man appears in the balcony next to ours. He has dreadlocks and looks like he’s been out partying all night like we have been. ‘He just called you stupid bitches,’ he tells us blankly.

The police bang on the door and we open it this time. They inform us that an infringement notice will be issued to the owner, who incidentally is not licenced to accommodate tourists or travellers. Someone rushes to find our receipt.  We are frantic now that we will have to leave. Our time in Barcelona had just begun and none of us wanted it to be cut short. There were barmen to continue flirting with, bar front display boxes to pose in, paella to be eaten and dancing to the wee hours of the morning to be done. The police reassure us that we can stay. We all let out a collective sigh of relief and laugh in a kind of shocked excitement.

Poetry Writing

This week I am inspired by beauty. I see beauty and love in everything and everyone. And so it felt fitting to focus on a genre of writing that is a pure expression of our hearts.

What can you do?
I invite you to write a poem about beauty and love, whatever that is for you.

An example
Below is a poem I wrote about my time in Nepal and India. The memories still hold a deep sense of knowing about life and acceptance of the beauty it brings us in the most profoundly unexpected ways.

Patan Bridge

For months I have crossed Patan Bridge,
Stopping to watch the tent houses,
Reflecting off the liquid mud,
Like a smudged painting.
Above the rooftops, mountains cut
Like a scalpel through the plastic haze,
wrapping around the city’s rim.

For months I have watched women worshipping

Water thrown into the air with their washing,
Wind blowing sails into their saris,
Blurring the mundane,

Children clicking tongues

Sliding along the water.

On this day, men encircle the flame, blazing

from the concrete slab underneath the bridge,

Struggling for breath with each step,

Pushing each other forward, while

A baby is wrapped in linen
Tied like a gift with rope
And attached to a brick

 

Until later, in the boat, rowed to the middle

Handfuls of ash thrown like seeds in a barn yard 
Fall like dust onto the surface of the river,
Dissolving the image of the village,
As the baby is lowered like an anchor
Into the river.

Stream of consciousness writing

What is it?

For this type of writing you express what is in your subconscious through the seemingly random collection of words and ideas that come out of your mind onto the page.  The words flow without judgement or editing for ‘correctness' of grammar or expression.  Virginia Wolfe was renowned for stream of consciousness writing.

This week’s writing was inspired by a suggestion from a friend and writer during one of our writing sessions to write about 21/12/2012 – the end of the Mayan Calendar, and what that means for us and consciousness.

What can you do?

Write for about 10 minutes using your stream of consciousness about 21/12/2012. You might like to consider what you think it is about, how it will affect you and other people and your attitude to the hype.

An example

Your belly has grown full, filled with the watery waves of a new dawn. The gentle pains of healing and release of how we have been treading through the forests of our lives, scratches bare, insides exposed, dripping fluids. A growing pain, gauging your eyes out, messing with your mind, no longer able to rely on past longings of life as it should be. Into the bliss of lighting radiating purity, love in the thump thump of our hearts, free in exuberance. A glow across the globe, lighting into the cracks, opening up the heart centre. Shoooo, shooing, swishing, growing brighter with our imagination, more lovely. Hands joining, fingers clasping, skin to skin, speaking through our energy, rather than words. Knowing in our beings, believing the messages within and above and so is below, and acting on our intuition with wonder and trusting.