Writing the everyday

Modernist contemporary writing balances a combination of the everyday (the mundane), minute details and the transcendental. Once you begin to notice this you will see it everywhere.

The thing about writing the everyday is that is allows the writer to contrast. It is through the contrast between the mundane and the extraordinary that the magic happens.

Let's have a closer look at what it is.

•   The mundane, seemingly boring

•   Example: a description of a person getting out of bed in the morning with a gunshot wound – an

interesting story arises out of a mundane situation

•   Signified by authentic, real life that may appear to be dull or boring, but on closer look can be

quite fascinating

An example

Below is a short scene between a mother and daughter. They are in an everyday situation like having a cup of tea in the kitchen. As you read the following scene think about a scene you could write where two people are engaging in conversation over a cup of tea or a similar ritual that brings them together.

My mother gestured with a nod of her head to sit down as she threw the linen tablecloth over the laminated table. It slipped over the shiny surface. Turning to the cast iron stove she lifted the kettle and moved it to one side. With the flick of her wrist a match flamed its yellow light and she held it over the stovetop while she adjusted the nozzle. I watched the burner catch its flame and glimmer. When the flame grew as high as it could she placed the kettle over it. She removed china for tea making from the cupboard and strategically placed them on the table as if ready for a battle. Her hands glided with such precision, an expert in the ritual of tea making.

She turned to me, ‘So Harry didn’t come home last night.’

I said nothing, but shook my head slightly, then added, ‘Went to band practice.’

‘Still playing in that band, is he?’

‘Yep. He’s taken to practicing drums in the garage. Wakes up Daisy.’ My mother shook her head and fiddled with the kettle, checking if the water had boiled yet. Satisfied she lifted it up and moved it over to the teapot on the table. She poured the water, concentrating in a distracting manner as the water bounced out the top.

‘Damn it,’ she spat.

I stood up to help her, handing her a cloth from the handle of the oven to mop up the water creating cloud-like blobs on the linen.

‘When is that man ever going to learn?’

She looked me in the eye. I sensed that it was more of a warning about me than a comment about Harry.

‘Do you want to move back in here?’

I leaned my elbow on the table and rested the side of my face on my fingertips. I stared at the pink  floral pattern on the teapot. ‘I think it’s my only option.’

‘Thought so,’ she said as she poured the tea, tusk tusking.

Exercise

a    Imagine two characters where there is tension between the two of them. Place them in an everyday setting, which involves some sort of ritual like tea making associated with having a conversation. Describe this scene using the everyday and dialogue. Use either first person narrative like the example above or third person narrative.

Before you write your piece, brainstorm the following:

Who are the two characters?

Why are they in conflict?

Describe the detail associated with the ritual.

What are they talking about?

Are there any other details?

 

Sharing Stories

In our writers’ group a member suggested we complete a writing activity that she learnt at the Grass Roots Writer’s Festival in Bellingen this year. In this activity you tell a dramatic story to a partner and they write the story for you. In other words, you hand over your story to someone else and see what they do with it. 

It is interesting to see your own story transform into something else. In some ways it is easy to write someones else's story as you already have a plot set out for you. I found it easy to fictionalise my partner’s story as I imagined what happened.

What to do?

With a partner share a dramatic moment that contains an emotional trigger. As you listen to your partner’s story, keep in mind that you will be writing this story. You can fictionalize this story or keep to the exact details as they are relayed to you. You can also write in any genre you choose.

An example

Out of respect for the privacy of my partner’s story, I won’t relay the details she told me, but I will say that it was about an incident that brought a lot of grief into the family.

Dad sat me and my brothers around a pile of sticks and wood he had gathered from the outskirts of the house around our farm. The sun was setting and light flickered off his face, highlighting the sweat that dripped onto the wood like a leaking tap. On the horizon a wallaby stood watch, like a leader in an aboriginal ceremony.

‘Stay here,’ my father spat at us. ‘Missy, you look after your brothers now. I’ll be back.’ He seemed to glide back toward the house, which was behind us.

As soon as he left my brothers became restless and stood up looking for something to do. I knew that their movement away from the pile would unsettle the careful plan my father had concocted as a way of relieving the sorrow that had descended on the house.

I took out two lollipops my mother had given me as a prize for cleaning the dishes seven days in a row and resentfully handed them over to my brothers.

‘You must stay here,’ I demanded. ‘Sit’.

Content with their sweets, they sat and began their feast. That should keep them busy for a while, I thought, looking over my shoulder, wondering when my father was coming back.

I could see my father returning with a wheelbarrow overflowing. It was only as he came closer that I could make out the contents. It became clear to me what this special bonfire was really about. I could see the remnants of my baby brother’s possessions¾nappies, hand-me-down toys and Bonds playsuits. My father picked up each item and carefully placed them in between the bits of sticks and wood so that eventually the colourful pieces dotted the pile like a chocolate cookie with smarties. He removed an old newspaper from under his arm and scrunched up pieces of paper and inserted them underneath.

I became transfixed by a rubber doll that sat on top of the pile and I wondered how it got there. It was my favourite toy as a child. It had been mixed up with my brother’s toys and now its rubbery skin was about to melt in the funeral fire. I was horrified and felt to stand up to recue it, but the intensity of my father’s face, who was now standing with a fiery piece of newspaper, stopped me in my tracks. We watched the pile catch fire in one ferocious blast. The flames flickered in and out of each other, growing towards the sky as if competing to be the first to reach the clouds. Still I could see the creamy body of my doll morphing into half cooked biscuit batter. Still I could see the doll’s black eyes staring up into the heart of the flames, as the wallaby kept a restful vigil.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/elentir/3663267501 

Freewriting

What's it about
If I haven't written for a while, one thing that will get me going is to free write and allow the subconscious to come through. A friend of mine, Rich, is making a song for me, so I've been searching through my writing for some lyrics for him to transform (as well as my voice). I naturally thought of the free writing I have done as the subconscious comes up with far more interesting phrases and ideas than I could think of. I do love how things are not clear (as life can be), but there is mystery and wonder in the collection of words. I love the playing with the sounds of words and even the look of them together on a page.

So see how you go, set yourself free and play with language.

What you can do
Freewrite for 5 minutes about whatever comes to mind about the following statements:

I remember
Do you remember?

An example

I remember

I remember the underground tunnel that lead to our father’s shed deep in the garden. He called me several times, but I ignored him. His voice irritated me, more and more since his wife had positioned herself in my chair at the dinner table. Could he not eat with his mouth open and chew his food like a carnivore. It repulsed me. She was just as bad. Although she made quaint little crackling sounds in her mouth when she munched the exquisite meal she had spend hours preparing. I have to say, she was a good cook, much better than my mum. Steak and two veg was all my mum could muster in the late evening when she arrived home buggered from work. She’d say that constantly. Jezzz I’m buggered love. They work me like at dog at the compound. Making French fries is no place for a woman. And so I wondered what she was doing at home on her own without me and my brother. Would she be turning on the TV, flicking through the TV guide? Perhaps she might tidy up the lounge, put our school uniforms in the laundry basket, and fluff up the pillows on the lounge, that kind of thing. After the meal, we were allowed to speak, mainly about our day at school, what we learned. Learn anything interesting today love. What they teach yaw, tell me. Noting much, I’d reply nonchalantly, looking sideways at my brother as he politely ate what was left of his sautéed steak.

Do you remember?
Do you remember the sound of the hollow breath that rested beside you as he touched your forearm carelessly? I wouldn’t be able to remember. His memory flowed out of his body and stood beside him like a constant companion, waiting in the wings to intrude when the body commanded attention, or maybe even a little love. So he told me one day hence that life would be easier if he kept his memory in the shadows and forgot to be lifted up by the spirits that follow us through our lives. I suggested, coaxed him into love, but not very successfully. He peered into the solitude of loneliness and I could say no more and so I didn’t, but found his loneliness infectious, difficult to resist. We sat at that table and hardly said a word, for years I listen to the movement of digestions and wiped the spit from my face. Sometimes the way to a heart is through the lingering eye, the tornado of publicity that invariably came despite our will to hold some semblance of you back. What could you do, tease the current flowing through your fingertips, but submit and stop fighting. When you’ve been challenging for some time, release is possible. Through his soul voice, I could hear a mutter, but could make out no words that made sense. Just the flowing of a jagged rhythm, uneasy in this world. Could you please sleep here, beside me so we keep warm? The blankets are thin and I couldn’t bare another windy night with the air tickling my skin.

More Intergenric Writing

I am inspired this week by the idea of texts reflecting on each other. I came across some writing I completed for an MA in Creative Writing at UNSW a few years back. The activity was to create a text where the main character reflected on the genre they belong to. 

Exercise

Take a generic form – fantasy, detective, romance, etc. – and try to write a piece which inverts, parodies or plays upon the recognisable conventions of the genre. Try using a narrator or protagonist who is themselves aware of the generic expectations, ie. a self-reflexive narrator or a self-conscious character who wants to enact his or her life according to some filmic of fictive template.

In the modelled response below I chose a Pinocchio type character and combined fantasy with reflection. I use third person narration and interject with first person to show the character's ability to reflect on the conventions of the fantasy genre he belongs to. 

Try it, it's a bit of fun. You can do anything with this. 

Modelled response

Harry pushed himself up off the ground and brushed the gravel from his pants. All the way down the tunnel he felt his head bounce like a ping pong ball from one side of the wall to the other.  He felt a pang on his forehead and rubbed the lump, which had slowly appeared. Harry squinted his eyes and clenched his teeth like a Cheshire cat. Grin and bear it thought Harry. He knew that by the end of this sentence the pain would gone and sure enough it had.

Harry looked around him. Where was he now? So far today, he’d tackled a dragon, chopped off its tale and ate it for breakfast, and outsmarted a talking eagle with a clipped wing. Not that it was that hard for him. He did have an extra long nose, which doubled up as a sword when the need arose and as you can imagine in a fantasy story, that was quite often. His breath was a deadly vapor which could send even the liveliest of beings into a deep sleep. They were handy, thought Harry, these special gifts that is, for he really wasn’t that brave after all. Nine times out of ten, Harry got out of trouble through pure accident. He would turn around at the right moment and casually knock out his enemy with his nose. Heaven forbid he actually had to be brave and fight for real.

By the end of his very adventurous days, Harry’s nose would get a little bit sore. One day while he was walking back to his village, he rubbed his nose soothingly and wondered why it had grown so big. It wasn’t always this way. A friendly man with a grey moustache running down his chin stopped him and said that his nose was so long because he told lies. Lies, thought Harry. Of course I tell lies. I live in a fantasy world. Everything is a great big lie. I tumble down tunnels, fly on the backs of eagles and body surf down waterfalls, all before breakfast. I never expected anyone would believe all that. But they do.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinocchio#mediaviewer/File:Pinocchio.jpg

Dialoguing in prose poetry

The prose poem as dialogue comes from Hazel Smith's The Writing Experiment and is about writing a short narrative in poetry form through two people speaking to each other. The focus is on what the characters say to each other and how they interact rather than the characters behind the voices. We do however get a good sense of the characters and a storyline through their exchange.

What you can do

Think of 2 characters. Write a short dialogue between the 2 characters about a subject that is important to them. Think also about the message you might like to convey through the exchange between the 2 characters.

Write down the page and incorporate natural elements of speaking. In other words, don't be too concerned about writing grammatically correct sentences. Try to mimic speech.

Sometimes when we start a dialogue in our heads, the characters start talking to each other. You can actually hear them. Go with your characters and let them lead you when you are writing.

Each time a new person speaks, start a new line. This will help the reader to follow who is speaking.

An example

The present

Can you stop that?

Stop what?

Tapping your fingers on the table like you’re playing the piano.

I am playing the piano.

Well can you stop it?

If you like. 

What’s that you’re doing now?

Tapping my feet.

Why are you tapping your feet?

Too much energy I guess.

Why have you got too much energy? Are you nervous?

A bit.

What’s making you nervous? You don’t get nervous.

Not normally, no.

What’s different about now?

A couple of things.

Like what?

Can’t say right now.
Why can’t you say?

Can you stop with the questions? You’re making me nervous.

You were already nervous. It’s not my fault you’re tapping your fingers and toes.

Ok, I’ll stop tapping. I’ll put my hands under my legs. Go back to reading your book.

It’s a good book. Mr Pip.

I know I’ve read it.

You’ve read everything.

Not everything. I haven’t read War and Peace.

Who has time for War and Peace? Are you tapping again?

No, just got a twitch. I have something for you.

What is it?

It’s in the bag.

What bag?

The bag at your feet. Here.

You got me a present. That’s so sweet.

Open it.

Ok, this is so exciting. You never do stuff like this. Why did you get me a present?

Just open it, you’ll see.

Ok, oh my God, it’s not. It’s not is it? You wouldn’t.

Wouldn’t what? Oh my God no. 

Oh, I thought maybe. You know it’s been 3 years.

Can you just open the present?

Okay, it’s something soft and squishy. You got me something soft and squishy.

Can you just open it?

I’m trying. You wrapped it real good.

Yeah, I got a bit excited with the sticky tape.

Nice paper.

I wanted it to be a bit fancy.

Oh that’s so sweet. A tightly wrapped squishy thingy in fancy paper. Here, let me give you a kiss.

I hope you’re okay with it. Like, I hope you’re ready.

I don’t quite know what to say.

Oh, don’t be upset. I want to make you happy, not sad.

You got me a squishy toy for a puppy.

Yeah, I thought we could.

Could what?

Well, you know, get another one.

Another puppy?

Yeah, maybe a golden retriever like you wanted last time.

Not a staffy?

Not a staffy.

What if it gets out again? 

I don’t know. Don't worry about that. Look it squeaks.

You’re making me cry now.

Am I?

But in a good way.

A good way.
Yeah, a good way.

Fragments

Today I am inspired by an activity we completed at the Bruns Writers' Group. The idea came to me from a writers' retreat I participated in in Ubud, Bali with Sarah Armstrong and Alan Close. The idea for the activity came from Michael Ondaatje's 7 or 8 Things I Know About Her (A Stolen Biography). You might like to check out the original. It is so good it's sublime. The link is below:

http://exceptindreams.livejournal.com/289600.html

What you can do

You can complete this writing activity from many different perspectives. For example by thinking of a character, or a setting, or a scene. let yourself come up with random headings. Free write about these headings. These become your fragments. They are also great for getting to know your characters/settings/scenes. You never know when some of the ideas will find their way into your story.

An example 

For the activity below, I was thinking about Gracie from the novel I am co-authoring with Katherine Pratt. 

The butcher shop

She remembered the butcher shop at the end of the main street and the sawdust on the floor and the swinging door that knocked her out when she was not watching one time she entered. She was mucking around too much she was told later and deserved sense to be knocked back into her.

Sanity

It’s under the bed hiding from the masses who believe in certainty and logical order.

Dog chain

Clumsy refused to wear one. He’d squish and squirm whenever someone came near him with anything that vaguely resemble a leather strap, falling over his paws as he tried to get away. Not that it was needed much on the farm. He had to wear one when we went into town to collect personal supplies from the local store. We would tie him to the side of the ute and he would moan at passers by. He snapped at a girl’s fingers one time when she put her hand in to pat him while he was sleeping. He was so startled that he reacted as if he was biting a fly off his back. 

Cow in the barn

Early in the morning, in the darkness before the day broke, Maisy the cow, howled like the wind for Gracie to come milk her. Gracie had had the cow since she was a calf, born from Old Billie’s cow on the neighbouring farm some 10 years before. Maisy was given to Gracie as a birthday gift. Gracie embraced her like a mother would to her newborn baby. On this day, Maisy fell ill, heaving a violent bile out of her mouth onto the dirt floor she had laid on all her life. The vet was called and a decision made. It was as simple as that.  

A farewell

Gracie shivered. The night was as cold as she could ever remember, her feet stiffened and her finger cramped as if she were hyperventilating. Ollie’s hand touched the glass and spread out further as the bus drove off. She could see mist escape his mouth and cloud up the window. He disappeared into a white fog.