Page After Page

Today I said some words I never thought I'd say in summer. I want some work to do. A nice English assignment or a creative writing task. Something structured to sink my teeth into. Does that make me a geek? I guess I'm bored of the endless summer already, and I still have another two months to play with. But I've been being a good student, probably a better student than I've been all year. In Creative Writing we get told that when writing, 500 words a day is a good benchmark. And through the whole year I never got anywhere really with my writing. I mean, I probably started about five potential novels that never got past 5,000 words. Lots of short stories, but not so many that I actually finished. I ought to read them all over really and see whether now I've got lots of time on my hands there are any I'd like to pick up again. But I've been writing a new story, I think I've mentioned it here before actually, and I've been sticking to my 500 words a day, with more if I feel like it. It's a good amount. And this story actually seems to be going somewhere, which is more than I can say for the other things I've produced in the last year or so. So I'm going to persevere with this one, even if or when it gets tiresome. So at the very least I can say I've done something with my summer.

Short Story - Goats.

This is a short story I wrote for creative writing, I'm going to submit it for my portfolio so if you could take just a minute to give me a little bit of feedback that would be amazing. The outline was: Write a short story in 500 words in a world that involves creatures other than humans, in a world where there are psychic abilities, with the characters partaking in a rite of passage. So here you go.. it's a bit far fetched...

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this” I sighed to the choir master. “He’s the second black spot this week. We couldn’t even finish the ceremony on Thursday!”

“Perhaps we can distract the guests, and more importantly the bride?”

“They’re bound to notice it. And it’ll grow more prominent with every lie he tells.” I turned to the window and watched as the limousine pulled up outside the church. The goat-people had been honest souls for thousands of years. Most had complex psychic abilities so lying was pointless. Lies and betrayal brought the young men of the species out in a rash that was known as the black spot. It began in the fur between the horns and could be groomed in such a way that is was not as obvious, but in consistent liars it could spread like wild fire, across the face, out over the shoulders and down over the entire body. It was common knowledge that the rashes could only be eradicated by the sinner overcoming one of the significant rites of passage of life. Hence the rise in Black Spots desperate to marry. I nodded absent-mindedly at the choir master.

“It’s time.” We left the small room and parted ways. I approached the altar and stood next to Black Spot Bill.

“You better know what you’re doing” I whispered. He gave me a sly wink and produced a top hat from behind his back. He positioned it on his head, guiding his long yellowing horns through the tailored holes. It almost completely covered the black rash growing between them. He then dug his hooves into the pockets of his tuxedo and stood nonchalantly watching as the door to the church swung open.

            The hat seemed effective for the majority of the service; his bride was far too occupied with her big day to notice the blackening fur on his forehead.

            “Repeat after me,” I said to him, “I, Bill Grayson take you, Ann Peters, to be my lawfully wedded wife”. He choked on the last word and as he turned back to face me I saw the black spot growing with every lie. He’d struck lucky, found a girl without psychic abilities so he could live his sordid, cheating lifestyle without being caught out by the power of the mind. But he couldn’t hide the black spot. It wasn’t long before she’d notice; almost his entire head was an ominous dark hue now. A couple of guests were fidgeting; they’d seen.

            “To have and to hold.”

            “To have and to hold.” His voice was shaking, he could feel himself changing.

            “For better or worse.”

            “For better or worse.” She was watching his every move from beneath her veil. Her expression concealed whether or not she had noticed; she was focused, but not furious. And it was spreading to his shoulders. I was unsure if I should carry on the ceremony; I could see him willing me to hurry up and say the words that would set him free. His large front teeth bit his bottom lip between repeating my words.

            “I now pronounce you goat and wife.” I said, hesitantly. There was a static that filled the air surrounding him, and before she had lifted the veil, the black rash had vanished. 

Sonnet

At the moment I'm feeling like my life lacks productivity, so I thought I'd share some of my recent creative work with you all. Today.. poems! Wait, before you do that 'ugh poems' face, they aren't free verse yawn-worthy poems, they all have structures, and apart from the sonnet are personal to me. The sonnet was just something I wrote in the middle of the night, I think I'll post that one first. It was constructed using the end-words of Heat by Denis Johnson, which is a really beautiful poem. My sonnet is about how love grows old.

Lying awake next to an out-dated lover

The relentless sound of grinding teeth

And overpowering stench of gin

Spilt from the glass, soaked into the bed cover

Unable to sleep in the crippling heat,

The uneasy thoughts begin.

In twenty years you’ve gained three stones

I’m forbidden from nearing your erogenous zones

The sticky humidity delivers hallucinations

Us dancing, echoing ballrooms and 80’s music.

I dream of dark December nights

Evenings gone by were full of passion,

The forgotten chemistry a form of magic

Lost now, decades on, in August moonlight.

Short Story - Feedback Please!

Right, here's a short story I wrote for Creative Writing, I've been editing it but I'd really like some constructive criticism from you all, it would really help me. Have a read and let me know what you think, what needs changing, which bits you like, which bits you hate, anything! We had to take the first line from a short story that already exists and carry the story on from there. Comment with your suggestions or tweet me at @missfranklin on Twitter! :)

Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet. She ached to sit down but she hadn’t time. She had been left, once again, to right her father’s shoddy work, whilst he lay snoring heavily in his basement bedroom. She had received a predictable phone call at 3am; her father slurring and hiccoughing between pleas for a favour. A favour that she hadn’t minded too much on the first couple of occasions, but that had become a great burden to her over time. The morning light was beginning to creep in through the windows and she knew she’d be hard-pressed to get the house cleaned thoroughly before Mr Sullivan and his perfectionist wife returned. They had been to one of their company balls and would undoubtedly return a little worse for wear a few hours after sunrise. Lily’s father had taken the rare opportunity of having the house to himself to invite a couple of his old drinking pals over for a party of their own. He had always been an opportunist. It was incredible how much mess three sixty year-olds could create in one evening.

The house reeked of alcohol wall to wall; beer had been trodden into the shagpile carpets and bottles lined the windowsills. It looked as if twenty men had been drinking there last night, but Lily knew her father didn’t have that many friends. There was a large amount of salt poured over the dining table, almost as even as a fresh blanket of snow, only three names had been traced into it with a drunken fingertip. Beside her father’s name were the names of his partners in crime, Terry and Bill. Together the three were a lethal combination and always managed to cause a considerable amount of trouble. She shook her head. Lily was used to cleaning up after her father, but this was definitely the worst she’d seen it. Her father’s drinking had become completely out of hand; she threw her bucket to the floor and decided that this would be the last time she’d cover for him.

Lily wondered how her father had managed to afford such a large quantity of alcohol on his basic wages. She rolled her eyes and feared the worst. She darted into the kitchen, where the cupboard doors were flung open, and the bare insides told her everything she needed to know. She cursed him under her breath; he was fast becoming a wreck of a man that she could barely recognise.

She scrubbed at the walls and mopped the floors, wiped the table clean and picked up countless bottle caps. She knew their game; they flicked them across the room purposely, competing on distance and sniggering hoarsely at each other’s efforts. She collected all the bottles and threw them into a black sack. She sprayed the kitchen and dining room with air freshener in a last attempt to mask the stench and rehearsed the scolding she planned to give her father. Rolling her eyes she mopped her brow and took a step back. Looking around the room she deemed it almost passable. She was just straightening the chairs around the dining table as she heard the front door swing open in the hallway and ricochet back off the wall. Lily froze in the dining room.

“David!” Mrs Sullivan screeched. “Try a lighter touch. My head is already pounding.”

“I’m aware.” He replied. “You’ve been moaning about it for the entire journey.” Mrs Sullivan sighed heavily. Lily bent down to pick up the cleaning supplies, biting her lip in an attempt to remain as quiet as possible. As she heard footsteps nearing she pelted across the room. Just as the door opened to the dining room, Lily closed the door to the basement behind her, and stood with her back against it, mop and bucket in hand. She muffled her panting with a fist and listened intently for the reaction of the Sullivans. There was a lingering silence and Lily held her breath. But after a few seconds she exhaled, hearing the staircase above her creak. As they climbed, she descended, down into the basement to yell at her letdown of a father. With each step she thought of more insults to shout at him; her anger inside her was boiling over. She’d almost been caught and she was fuming.

            From across the room Lily saw that the duvet was pulled up around him and the overpowering smell of alcohol stung her eyes. She blinked, adjusting to the dim light and then the thunderous silence hit her. He wasn’t snoring. She grabbed a corner of the duvet and pulled it away, revealing a large pool of vomit. It smelt vile, almost toxic. Crouching down she stared into his glassy, vacant eyes. Dropping the bucket by his bedside she offered a tentative finger out to his cheek and stroked his cold, unshaven white face. The usual purple hue had drained away. Lily gulped back her own vomit and picked up the vodka bottle from the floor. She swigged it, replaced it, and left, never looking back.

Please let me know what you think!

Impossible Task

So on Wednesday night I had to complete a writing task for creative writing, due in the next day. It was 500 words, and it wouldn't have been so hard had the instructions been less complicated. I worked on it all day and the ideas only came to me at 3am. I gave it a quick edit this morning before I had to read it out so this is the second draft. First take a look at the instructions we were given, and see what I mean by impossible. Or near impossible. But I gave it a stab.

'Describe a building in 500 words. It must be from the perspective of a woman or man who has just lost their son in the war. You must not mention the son, or the war.'


Here's my take on the task.

I stood at the bottom of a long winding driveway, the ground littered with confetti trodden into the grass. I looked up at the turreted roof and grand spire and acknowledged the intricate detail on a background of blood-red skies. I’d been here before, but never had the time to stop and really look. I’d always been rushing, usually in vibrant colours and oversized hats. Only a few times in monotone like today. But I blended in well with the surroundings; dull brick, grey stones cluttering the lawn. I wondered how anybody could observe a joyous occasion in this morbid building. How could anyone welcome new life into the world or celebrate the joining of two people in marriage surrounded by the constant reminder of death? Right now, stood just inside the gates I was just meters away from bodies buried beneath the ground. Walking over memories and lives cut short. Treading on the past.

The wind whipped up and the trees swayed in sympathy. I pulled my black coat more tightly around myself and wondered why I’d stood there in the cold for such a long time. My eyes narrowed as I watched church-goers returning down the path with smiles plastered across their faces, enlightened with a new-found appreciation for life. I sighed and doubted that I’d find any here.

A woman walked past me and leant down before a gravestone. Of all the places you could visit to remember somebody you lost, this had to be one of the most ghastly. So there were flowers and notes claiming everlasting love but these mere amenities didn’t cloud the overwhelming deathly atmosphere.

It was eerie too, and lonely. The uncomfortable pews for seats and long, echoey rooms. Such a mysterious building when you’re alone. I bit my lip. Candles lined the front wall and seemed to flicker as the sound of my footsteps filled the room. As I paced down the central aisle my eyes rose to the stained glass window casting a red haze over the sanctuary. Reaching the front I struck a match against a matchbox. It snapped in two and fell to the floor. Frowning I took out another match and struck it three times before it lit. I picked up a long white candle with the other hand and held the flame to the wick. Replacing it in its stand I forced a brave smile and sent up a silent prayer. The flame danced before my eyes but only brought distressing images to my mind. I took a twenty pound note out of my purse and posted it into the donation box. And with that I turned and left. I refused to cry as I knew the next time I’d be there there’d be no way I’d be able to fight back the tears.

Q&A Interview With Hanif Kureishi

Today Hanif Kureishi came into our Creative writing lecture for a question and answer session. Kureishi is an English playwright, screenwriter, film director, novelist and short story writer most famous for the screenplay 'My beautiful launderette' and the novel 'Intimacy' which was adapted into a film. Kureishi also wrote the screenplay 'Venus', which gained Oscar, BAFTA and Golden Globe nominations amongst others. The Times named Kureishi in their list of 'The 50 greatest British writers since 1945'. Kureishi is a naturally witty character and a very entertaining speaker who uses life as his research for his work. My favourite quote from today was 'I really like being a writer, it's a fantastic job. A lot of lying down, copious amounts of daytime television, sometimes you think, this really is the life!'

Here are a few of the questions that Kureishi answered today, two of which were from me, that I found really interesting. The whole session was very writing-based, so I hope you enjoy!

Do you read your own reviews?

"I don’t read the reviews anymore; I don’t have to if I don’t want to. I don’t feel obliged to. But then someone always sends you a text, you’re lying in bed on Sunday morning and you think, ‘I know there’s going to be some reviews in the papers today, I’ll have to avoid the papers,’ and then you look at your phone and someone says, ‘I wouldn’t read the observer today’, ‘Oh for God’s sake shut up!’. So people do let you know, usually your friends. But you don’t have to read anything you don’t want to. And why should you? With films it’s slightly different. You would read the reviews because you really need to know about the box office. With a movie you really want to know how the movie’s going to do on the first weekend. Otherwise by next weekend it’s dead, it’s gone, it’s out. So you might want to know about that, or how it’s doing in America, or how it’s doing in Denmark as opposed to Spain. But you don’t have to take any notice."

How do you deal with criticism?

"Well it depends on what criticism it is, doesn’t it, whether it comes from somebody you respect who has something to say; somebody who might say to you ‘You could have done a bit better with that’, that’s a better idea than you saw, that would be an interesting thing to say. If someone says ‘I think your writing is no good at all, it’s sort of hopeless’ you wouldn’t take any notice of that. You wouldn’t be interested in that. So really it depends on who you’re listening to and whether you want to listen to other people. I think you should listen to other people but that’s not the same as reading the newspapers, where they say ‘Hanif Kureishi’s career has been in decline for a long time’ and you think, that may be the case, but I have to carry on writing."

With novels do you prefer to write in patchwork style or in chronological order?

"I do it in patchwork. What you’re doing really as a writer is you’re surfing, you’re trying to find a wave and get on it, and that wave is your own excitement and your own interest. If I’m interested in something in the morning then I’ll do that, because I know there’s a bit of libido there, a bit of excitement there, there’s a bit of enthusiasm. And then when that runs out I’ll look for another bit of libido and enthusiasm and I’ll get onto that bit. And it’s that that drives you. If you’re sitting there doing something and you think ‘I don’t want to do this, it’s awful, this is dead, it’s boring,’ there’s absolutely no point in you doing it, so you’re looking for a bit of buzz, and you might think, oh I’ll write a bit from the end, a bit from the middle, a bit here and there and eventually you’ll link it up, it doesn’t matter as long as you’re working. And everybody has their own process. That’s how I work now, I didn’t work like that when I was 25, but I work like that now."

Have you ever had a moment where you thought 'This isn’t working; I give up'?

"I’ve had some really bad times. Some really bad times where I thought the game is really up.I’ve written say, two or three things, and neither of them have done very well; they weren’t very good. I wasn’t going to make a living and I thought ‘Fuck it, what am I going to do now? I’m going to have to become a teacher.’ Times were really hard. And then I recovered, but it was touch and go. There are times when you think, ‘I can’t, I’ve got three kids, I can’t support these kids doing this, I just can’t get them through it. I can’t earn enough money doing this, and I haven’t got any ideas and it’s just not going well.’ It’s really tough to do it, not be a writer, but to make a living as a writer, they are different things. We can all sit at home and write but not everyone can make a living from it. So it has been really tough at times, really difficult. But last night I was having dinner with two friends, two male friends, really bright men, and I was talking to them and I thought, ‘Both of your lives have been really difficult.’ Both of these men have been though things that would really stretch you and I thought ‘Living in the world is really difficult, for everybody.’ And these men are really bright and capable, two blokes but they’ve had really hard times, but they’ve come through. So it’s seems to be that living in the world, and it being really difficult, and it being extremely painful, with a lot of suffering involved was the natural state of things. It’s really just your capacity to deal with that. It seemed to me touch and go but I got through. I was lucky, and grateful when I got through as a writer. And it’s to do with my talent but it’s also to do with circumstance, and also to do with luck. It’s fantastic to have been a writer, and to be a young writer, that’s bloody hard. There’s so much self-doubt, and nobody wants you; nobody wants new writers, there’s no necessity for there to be another short story. You’ve got to make the world aware that it needs this. You’ve really got to sell it. You’re selling stuff to people that they don’t want. But you can get through it if you work."

Should a story have a hidden meaning?

"The problem is that everything is a metaphor. You try and write it literally; someone writes a story about an alien and then you think, ‘Why do you feel like an alien? You’re the alien, why do you feel that way? Is it for instance to do with your family?’ So you couldn’t help that. There’s always a multiplication of meaning, you can’t fix the meaning. That’s the problem. You say something to somebody and they take it the “wrong” way. And in that space, there is creativity, people begin to think. So you can’t fix the meaning, even Gaddafi can’t fix the meaning. You can’t hold the meaning down, it just slips away all the time, I’m afraid. So there will be hidden meanings, other people will interpret things differently, about what you say, about who you are, everything, about your dreams; meaning slips all the time. And that’s what it is that enables people to be creative, they hear things. If you told me a story about an alien, I’d hear it in a way that would make me think what an alien was, for you, and you couldn’t stop me thinking that, you couldn’t pin it down. So you will have communicated to me more than what you meant. But that happens in all human interaction too, so I could see something in what you say that you couldn’t see yourself. That would be interesting, but it would be hell for you. Because you can’t fix the meaning. That’s what dictators do, dictators want to fix the meaning. They say, ‘That’s the meaning, and there aren’t any other meanings, you’re not even allowed to think of the other meanings’, and that is fascism. That’s not what we do as writers, we try to create meaning, and to create works of fiction, that create more meanings, and multiply meaning, and that is really what it is to be creative."

Blindness

Today she text saying that the weirdest thing just happened. And I got really scared that she'd found this blog; seen what I'd written about her. I'm far too paranoid these days. Sometimes I look at her and I think I can see it in her eyes that she's read everything. But then I flick the reality switch back on, and know that she probably hasn't. It turned out someone we know, but not overly well had rung today, just being really strange on the phone, and with no real reason to ring up. Very odd. But it got us talking. I spent twenty minutes on the phone with you. Which was nice. That's what friends do. I went to the opticians today; my eyesight's got worse again. Whenever people try my glasses on they're always saying how blind I am; so today I asked what my prescription was, and apparently I'm a -4. I don't know why but I was under the impression that once you get to -10, you were declared officially blind, but apparently not! My optician is -10, and the secretary is -16(!!!) in one eye. CRAZY. I still have so much uni work to do, but I'm gradually getting through it. Piece by piece. I only have one book review to go now, and I've been working on the take-home test for English in Action today. I'm almost through it, just got two questions to go. Tomorrow I'm going to have to work solidly all day. I can't wait til it's all handed in though. I plan on catching up with Grey's Anatomy, I've been doing season 6 this week. I need to catch up with Kristina! Right. Back to studying, fun fun fun!

REVIEW: This Boy's Life - Tobias Wolff

Here's another review for my creative writing course, comment if you have any constructive criticism!

Tobias Wolff tells a story that can only be described as twisted truth in his minimalistic memoires, ‘This Boy’s Life’. Powerful description immerses the reader in an adolescent tale of an ambitious boy who changes his name to Jack, after his hero. The reader follows Jack through a number of escapades, through gun-play, fist fights and the realisations of the ins and outs of life as it is. Many of his tales are hard to believe, due to the outlandish content and the excessive amount of detail used to describe them, however Wolff manages to create an amusing and captivating representation of the essence of growing up. We follow Jack as he is integrated into different families that his mother becomes involved with, including a cruel father-figure Dwight, who only complicates Jack’s childish dreams of escaping.

Wolff displays an incredible ability to use description and emotion in his writing to demonstrate the repercussions of the events in his youth. The reader follows the young narrator as the story strays from being simply memoires and borders on the genre of thriller at times.

I believe that the author’s intention was to relive his teenage years through wiser eyes, but in doing so some of his memories have been enhanced for the reader’s benefit. Nevertheless ‘This Boy’s Life’ still captures a raw and entertaining view of Wolff’s coming-of-age story. I thoroughly enjoyed ‘This Boy’s Life’ and would certainly recommend it to any reader old enough to look back and appreciate these adolescent adventures.