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.

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.