Affair To Remember

She marches through the neon tunnels of the shopping centre, the footsteps of shoppers echoing off the walls and into her head. She ignores the many storefronts, with their bright displays enticing customers through their open doors; instead her eyes stay straight ahead and focused. She takes a sharp left and finds the shop she’s looking for. She pauses for just a moment, and looks around her. Stupid to think anyone would recognise her here, but still she feels guilty and doesn’t want to be caught out, or have to make any unwanted small talk.
She crosses the threshold into the alluring pink and purple decorated space. Thankfully the shop is empty at such an early hour; she doesn’t think she could handle the laughing couples arm in arm, choosing risqué lingerie in lace and silk.
The lighting in this place is dimmed, soft and flattering, in contrast to the rest of the shopping centre. She wanders through the store, weaving her way through the rails of lingerie - reaching out and touching the fabrics, feeling the silkiness between her fingers. Tucking a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, she rifles through the clothes rail trying to find her size. She glances around her before she grabs different hangers and drapes them over her arm, ready to make her way to the fitting room at the back of the store. As she swings back past the door she gets too close to the security gate and the quiet of the store is pierced with the frantic electronic beeping of the alarm. Feeling her cheeks prickle with red, she holds the hangers high and waves at the shop assistant who looks up from the till with a frown, and nods in the direction of the changing room.
She pulls the heavy blue velvet curtain across and hangs her outfits up on the brass hook protruding from the wall. She is grateful for the soft lighting as she pulls off her clothes and lets them fall into a pile on the floor. Stood naked in front of the mirror, she looks at her body, lit orange by the lights, and tries to imagine it through his eyes. She makes herself look at her stomach; flat, but with skin puckered and etched with silvery stretch marks, the scars born of the brutality of pregnancy. She can feel familiar feelings of self-loathing bubble to the surface and she tries to swallow them down. She knows deep down this affair is just another way of her acting out, of trying to beat down her low self-esteem that has been with her since her childhood. This decision to meet up with him will only end in more pain. Her head is filled with reasons to cancel their meeting, but she knows that she won’t bring herself to make that call. This is everything she has been hoping for since their days as housemates at university; and her heart beats faster when she thinks about it. As she stands in the small cubicle pulling on silky corsets and fastening suspender belts, she lets her mind wander back to the summer, to the heady long weekend spent in the dried grass fields of a boutique music festival where they had rekindled their romance.
She thought that seeing him again after all that time would be different, that she wouldn’t feel those things for him that she had before. With so much time passed she hoped she would finally have closure. They met again around a table in a corner of the dance tent, hugging and holding each other, and she knew instantly that nothing had changed. The D.J. had started up and their group had moved as one to the crowded dance-floor. She remembered the darkened dance tent had been red and glowing like a womb and the thumping bass line had beat along with her heart. They were crushed together in the crowd of friends and strangers and she had inhaled the air, thick with sweat and smoke and heat. So many people had surrounded them, the space buzzing with voices and laughing and music, but she had noticed no one else but him. Her whole body was alert and shaking, completely aware of his body wedged behind her; could feel his heat spreading into her.
Her view of the stage had been obscured as she was squashed tight into the stranger in front of her. The smell of their sweat was making her feel dizzy and she had wobbled, panting as she struggled to take in cleaner air. Suddenly she had felt his arms around her waist and with a flurry of movement she was up above the crowd, precarious atop his warm shoulders. His hair was sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband, and she had reached out to touch it, to feel it between her fingers. Her other arm was outstretched, bare and pale white, waving in time to the music. On the stage ahead of them the chords of her favourite song had begun and she had stretched open her mouth so wide it creased up her cheeks, and sang along. Her legs were wrapped tight around his neck and he ran a thumb along the naked flesh of her thigh and goose bumps had prickled all over her body as the music and blood crashed in her head.
She opens her eyes back in the reality of the changing room, shivering at the memory of the deliciousness of his hand against her skin. She brushes out a crease in her jumper, picks up her bag and swishes out of the changing room towards the till; hanger in hand and determination on her face.

Negligee

She marches through the neon tunnels of the shopping centre, the footsteps of shoppers echoing off the walls and into her head. She ignores the many storefronts, with their bright displays to entice customers through their open doors; instead her eyes stay straight ahead and focused. She takes a sharp left and finds the shop she’s looking for. She pauses for just a moment, and looks around her. Stupid to think anyone would recognize her here, but still she feels guilty and doesn’t want to be caught out and have to make any embarrassing small talk.
She crosses the threshold into the alluring pink and purple decorated space. Thankfully the shop is empty at such an early hour; she doesn’t think she could handle the laughing couples arm in arm choosing risqué lingerie in lace and silk.
The lighting in this place is dimmed, soft and flattering, in contrast to the rest of the shopping centre. She wanders through the store, weaving her way through the rails of lingerie - reaching out and touching the fabrics, feeling the silkiness between her fingers. Tucking a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, she rifles through the clothes rail trying to find her size. She feels embarrassed, furtive, as she grabs different hangers and drapes them over her arm, ready to make her way to the fitting room at the back of the store. As she swings back past the door she gets too close to the security gate and the quietness of the store is pierced with the frantic electronic beeping of the alarm. Feeling her cheeks prickle with red, she holds the hangers high and waves at the shop assistant who looks up from the till with a frown, and nods in the direction of the changing room.
She pulls the heavy blue velvet curtain across and hangs her outfits up on the brass hook on the wall. She is grateful for the soft orange lighting as she pulls off her clothes and let’s them fall into a pile on the floor. Stood naked in front of the mirror, she looks at her body and tries to imagine it through his eyes. Not perfect, but then who is? She can feel familiar feelings of self-loathing bubble to the surface and she tries to swallow them down. She knows deep down this tryst is just another way of her acting out; of trying to beat down her low self esteem that has been with her since she was a child.

Poems poems

Been experimenting with rhyming, as it is something I have avoided until now, thinking I would be no good. I've given it a go, and am enjoying it so far. Tying it into my other coursework, the poems I've created are based on the character that I have been working on in most of my written work for this assignment so far, and the poems have really helped me clarify her in my head.

Hungry

Can you feel my hunger when I'm with you?
My heart beats loud; you must feel it too.
I can be anyone just for tonight
In the darkness I forget what's wrong or right.
Close my eyes, don't need to think about my life
Lay back, enjoy, for tonight I am the world's wife.

One Kiss

One hand in my hair, one on my face
Kiss me quick, pick up the pace!
I stop your words with my mouth
And my hands travel down, heading south.
You break off, push me away
You don't want it to be this way.

Red lipstick smudged and bleeding
My clothes are creased and slept in.
I can taste you still, on my lips
And feel your fingers touch my hips.
In the dark I lay and reminisce
About the start; it was just one kiss.

The empty bed is now unmade
One side is unslept in, unlaid.
It smells of you and I start to cry
Can't shake this feeling, how hard I try.
Love like a star; burnt out and dying
My pulse beats fast from all the lying.

Ghost Story

My stomach churns as I flick the indicator and turn the car into the familiar private residential drive, the wheels crunching over pink-hued pebbles. I taxi slowly down the centre of the road until I reach the house at Number 12. It’s been many years since I have been here yet every detail is the same as I remember, right down to the pattern of the ivy twisting around the window frames. All the curtains in the windows are fastened open and the grass on the front lawn has recently been cut short. I turn my car into the driveway and shut off the engine, drop my head down and take in some deep breaths. The house is built in mock Tudor style, in keeping with the other homes along this tree-lined drive that ends in open playing fields. They belong to a private school and in the term time months I remember hearing the laughter and shouts of the children drifting across the treetops during breaktime. Today there are no voices and the air is silent and still.
I rummage through my handbag until I find the bunch of keys that had arrived by post a few days ago. As I stand on the stone step and fiddle with the key in the Yale lock a gust of icy wind whips down the tunnel of the drive sending fallen leaves and a muddy white plastic bag swirling through the air before coming to rest at the garage door. There is no rain but the air feels damp and cold so I pull my wool coat tighter around my shoulders. The lock clicks open but the door must be swollen shut from moisture so I lean against it with one shoulder and push. The wood frame gives slightly and the door swings open into the kitchen. I head straight to the corner by the window and pick up the kettle. My throat is dry and a little sore after the long drive and I need some hot, sweet tea before I can even think about unloading the car. I turn the cold tap on fast; the water jets out in a murky stream for a few seconds before coming through clear and ice cold. I fill the kettle up full and click the button. It lights up with a blue glow and begins to crackle to life.
Tucked into a nook on the opposite side of the wall is the fridge freezer. It is unplugged and the door has been left slightly ajar. The front of it is completely covered with photos, pictures and handwritten notes. Some are old and curled at the edges, partially obscured by the fresher ones that have been stuck on top with fridge magnets. I move closer and look at them. A torn piece of lined paper with a phone number looks nearly new; the paper is fresh and not yet discoloured like the rest. The area code is local, written in a hurried scrawl. I wonder whom it belongs to. There is a yellowing newspaper cutting just visible beneath. It has a passport-sized photo of a girl smiling in black and white. I remember her face; it was in the news a few years ago. She was the local girl that went missing in broad daylight; her disappearance still unsolved. I wonder why Alan would have kept such a thing for so long; but then lots of things Alan did were inexplicable. I pin it back to the fridge and shiver. The air in the house is cold, my fingertips are pink and numb. Shoving my hands deep in my coat pockets I move through into the hallway, looking at the pictures hung on the walls and arranged on the tables in gold frames. I barely recognise any of the faces. When Granny was alive the frames were full of pictures of family- mainly of me; the beloved only grandchild, and the smiling faces of mum and dad and my uncles. Now the frames are filled with strangers- men and women, Alan’s friends; snapshots of his life I’d never known.
I remember the kettle and head towards the kitchen. I push open the door into steam and noise. The air is so thick and wet I can barely see as I make my way over to the kettle. It is thundering and boiling, a jet of steam and spitting water pouring out into the room. The switch must be stuck, but the metal is too hot to touch so I switch it off at the socket and pull the plug from the wall. It is nearly empty and I can smell burning where all the water has boiled away from the element. I look up and feel my breath catch in my throat and my heart pound. The window is opaque with steam, and, in clear letters as if a finger had just been dragged through the condensation, is a word written in spider crawl. A name- ‘Lottie’. I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it, when I feel the hairs raise on the back of my neck. I can feel someone else behind me and I spin around; blood crashing in my head. There is no-one there. I stay there for a few minutes while my breathing returns to normal and my eyes flick to something on the ground. The newspaper cutting of the girl has fallen down. I’m about to pin it back but instead I let it fall into the waste-bin. There’s something about the girl’s eyes; I feel uncomfortable under her piercing stare.
Cupping my hot mug of tea I slide open the French doors that lead from the conservatory straight out into the garden patio. I pull out a lighter and let the orange flame ignite my cigarette. After a few pulls I begin to feel calmer and my eyes wander about the garden, and I think of Alan. Left alone to his dark thoughts after Granny’s death ten years ago his flesh and skin had wrinkled and dried out, his body became as thin and shrunken as a skeleton. His eyes were bitter and full of hate, sunken deep in his head beneath hooded lids. His skin had stained deep brown from the sun, from the years spent pottering about in the garden; to and from his work-shed and tending to the tomato plants that filled the greenhouse. I remember his calloused fingers and knarled knuckles with rough fingertips as he used to pull me into a close embrace, and I shudder at the memory. We’d been estranged for so many years that the news his house had been left to me came as such a shock. Initially I’d been pleased at the welcome influx of money to my stretched bank account, but now, stood here in the still garden with twisted oak trees hanging down over the grass, I feel a shiver run down my spine and wish I’d not come here alone. I hear a distant boom of thunder rolling on the horizon; the sky beyond the row of treetops at the garden’s end has darkened to a deep smudgy grey and the heavy branches are thrashing wildly above the garden shed. I can hear a banging thud with each new gust of wind; coming from the direction of Alan’s work-shop. I stub out the cigarette and hurry down the paved path that weaves out of sight behind a weeping willow tree. I follow its curve until I am standing at a dusty door. The windows are tightly shut and dark, with wisps of cobweb caught at each corner. The wooden door is cracked and dirty; swinging open on its hinges, banging into the stone frame. I’ve never been in this room, as a child it was a forbidden space- always padlocked and shut tight. Now the overhanging branches are scratching along the spelt roof and knocking at the windowpanes as I stretch out a shaking hand to reach the door. My hands are clammy as I grab the cold metal handle and pull it slowly open. I step up into the room and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust in the murky light. The room is edged all round by wooden worktops, their surfaces full of metal tools and sharp cutting instruments. The back wall has floor to ceiling bookshelves, but devoid of books, instead filled with objects that take me by surprise.

On Edge

She reaches up on tiptoe and the saucepans crash and tumble out of the high cupboard as she slams them down onto the rusty metal hob. She throws the switch across on the extractor and the light pings on and bounces off the silver rim of the pan. Blowing air out of her nose she takes some deep breaths to steady her nerves and pulls the packet of pasta out of the cupboard, staring at the stream of quills falling into the pan. Brown and hard and whole-wheat- not as tasty but so much healthier, she reminds herself that she really needs to lose some more weight before the weekend. Sucking in her stomach she checks out her reflection in the grubby glass oven door. She turns away, feeling the tears pricking at her eyes but blinking them away before her boyfriend can come into the kitchen and see. She flips the switch on the kettle and the tiny room soon starts to fill with the wet warmth of the steam. The rings on the hob are glowing orange so she pours the water over the pasta and sets the pan over top. She sniffs- she can smell smoke and starts to panic, but then realises the crumbs and dirt on the cooker are red hot and burnt to a blackened crisp. A little laugh bubbles up inside but catches in her throat and comes out strangled. If she wasn’t so upset she’d see how ridiculously on edge she looks, jumping at the slightest thing and shaking. She can hear the men’s throaty laughter floating down the hall from the crowded living room and her stomach churns. She turns away and yanks open the fridge door; the salad dressing bottle comes flying out and hits the hard floor with a smash. Splintered glass flies across the tiles and the oil spreads out like a bleeding wound, seeping into the cracks and under the cupboards. The hum of voices in the living room stops instantly and their silence rings loud in her ears for a moment before they gradually start up again in whispered tones. She knows she is on the verge of making a scene but her deep breaths are doing nothing to quell the feeling of hysteria rising like bile from her stomach. On her hands and knees she tries to stem the flow of liquid with a big wad of kitchen towel, and in her hurry she feels a shard of glass slide deep into her finger. As the crimson blood spots from her finger she yelps and rushes over to the sink. Cursing to herself for being so stupid she holds her finger under the ice-cold jet of water and feels her eyes begin to mist with tears that won’t be blinked away. Suddenly she can feel warmth behind her back and hands resting on her hips. She knows it is him. She wants to push him away, frozen by terror of discovery, but her body yearns for him and leans into it; so deliciously, inescapably wrong. Rough hands spin her to face him and he pulls her finger towards his mouth, kisses it. She can feel her heart hammering at the sides of her chest, so loudly, surely he can hear it. He cups her face in both hands and they look at each other for a long moment. He pulls her into a deep kiss that fills her entire body. Her hands are in his hair; they find their way under his shirt and she is running them all over grabbing at him, tugging him close. He reaches beneath her and pushes her up onto the kitchen side and she wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer. They kiss urgently, until panting, he pulls away and steps back. He stares at her intensely, before turning and leaving the room. She drops back down to the floor, smoothes her blouse and redoes the button that has been ripped open. Her head is spinning. The kitchen door swings open and she straightens with a gasp, sure the guilt is written all over her face. She looks up, wanting it to be him again. Instead her boyfriend is stood in the doorway, face open, eyebrows raised in worry. He comes over to her and wraps her in a hug and she stands wooden and uncomfortable, as the waves of nausea and disappointment wash over her again. He kisses the top of her head, tells her she’s doing a good job; how much he loves her. Avoiding his eyes she parrots back his praise but the words sound hollow and empty, ringing false in the tiny kitchen. As he leaves to rejoin his friends in the living room she breathes a sigh, pleased to be alone again.
She pulls a large stainless steel knife from the wooden block on the side, it’s silver blade glinting in the light, and slices it through the tough skin of the leek laid out on the chopping board. The motion makes her feel better and she slices through all the vegetables robotically, trying to turn her thoughts off, wondering how the hell her life got so complicated.

A Man I Know

Here he stands, central in his gallery
Still, backlit, next to twisted-copper bodies.
The sculptures on their plinths spill out the door
And hide amongst the courtyard trees.
Oiled canvas stretched tight in frames
Catches the vibrant rainbow light and gleams.
And when the clients leave he shuts up shop-
Flips the switch to kill all window light,
Removes his navy suit jacket top.
Packs away the board and signs and
Behind him shuts the iron gate, with padlock.
Now, crouched among the shells of silent cars,
Greasy insides laid out across the concrete yard,
He is bent with shoulders hunched and cap askew
Beneath a bonnet that salutes the orange sky.
We call his name and he straightens with a creak,
Smears oily hands across beige thighs,
Folds his hat into a pocket at the rear,
And cracks a smile that creases up his eyes.
He stamps his sturdy boot clad feet
Against November wind and leaves behind
A fairytale breadcrumb trail of brown
Muddy snowflake piles, so deep.
Later, at the chime, we open up our scarlet door
To find him standing with proffered wine.
Stood at the bright white island he unloads
Pieces of his life from every pocket, sets keys
And wallet, and phone upon the side while
Pots and pans steam atop the Aga grange.

Literary festival, Ghosts and Other Stories (lots of balls in the air)

Am currently staying with mother in Dorset, where there is the Bridport Literary festy in full swing, plus am trying to do lots of other things all at once and feeling a bit swamped...
Managed to organise myself some extra time for my assignment which is good, but my work for the exercises and my learning log has gone a bit askew- for Assignment 1 I worked steadily and methodically on each exercise in order, and wrote frequently in my learning log/ had regular updates on here. This time around I have done lots of notebook work for each exercise and half completed things here and there whilst barely touching my learning log. Hmm, slapped wrists I know but it's difficult trying to fit all the million and one things I have to do into the day, so this way of working in dribs and drabs seems to fit best at the moment so I guess I shall stick with it.... I shall just endeavour to write here more frequently after each piece of work I do so as not to let it slide. It's just easy to push the Learning Log part of the course to the bottom of my to-do list as it seems more important to spend time on the actual writing part of it...

Also, another distraction adding to my list is a ghost story that I am currently working on alongside my course work. Discovered a 'Halloween themed' competition in the Telegraph newspaper- a 2000 word ghost story due in by November 20th. Am trying to link it in to my current coursework by using some of the same characters/ scenes so that it will be relevant to this assignment. It is going ok so far, have written about 1000 words already but I feel that the story is not developing quick enough to be finished in the word limit. Think I need to possibly re-think the storyline....

In terms of where I am in the course- have been gathering notes on my mum's boyfriend Chris, for the poetry part of the assigment and have just begun drafting down the bones of a poem using them although I think it will need some amount of redrafting before it is usable.

Have also been thinking about the final submission for this assignment as well- which character that I want to write about the most and I keep changing my mind, am now thinking maybe I will take the poetry route about a number of different characters? Anyway, I shall keep trying things out and report back soon. Over and out...

Back Again

Well, I take back what I said in the previous entry- my roll came to a grinding halt a couple of weeks ago when I came down with (that's right) tonsillitis- again. Had it much worse and for longer this time, it completely knocked me for six. Didn't feel like I had a creative bone in my body, much less like picking up a pen! However, all is not lost, I could still pick up a book, and read a bit. So, in my hiatus from work I've managed to read a couple of novels all in the name of 'research'. Well, I say two; I'm still half way through the second.
So my thoughts- Book 1:
'Play Dead' by Harlan Coben. Hmm, what a load of tripe! This was part of the three for two deals at Waterstones, so not too annoyed about it- but definitely a waste of a couple of days of my life. Laughable characterisation and ridiculous plot with so many twists and turns it felt like a roller coaster- but not in a good way. The main characters were dislikeable and unrealistic and the word count dragged by slowly- I ended up skim reading the final half in an effort to reach the unsatisfying end. To be fair, this was Coben's first attempt at a novel written at the tender age of 20- and in my opinion this is where it should have safely stayed, instead of being released on an unsuspecting public. Good points- this 'thriller' read like a 'how not to of characterisation.

Book 2:
Sebastian Faulks' 'A Week in December'
God I couldn't have read two more different books. Faulk's prose is deliciously rich and vivid, yet the language is succinct, pointed and perfect. A Week in December is an honest and searingly accurate portrayal of our modern times. Haven't finished yet but am racing through the pages whenever I get a five minutes of reading time...

On a Roll

So, feel like I've been on a bit of a roll with this project, really enjoying the exercises so far, creating characters and backgrounds from photos and dropping them into different scenes. Initially I found the first couple of exercises hard going, but after a few attempts I feel like i've really been getting into the swing of things. I've enjoyed splicing reality with my imagination and inventing aspects of people's personalities based on people I know and strangers that I have observed when out and about.
Initially I had been doing at least an hour of work everyday, but have had a couple of day hiatus with family visiting, although I have been scribbling in my notebook ready for some of the exercises ahead of me, so hopefully am on track for my looming deadline at the end of the month...

An Old Man

His ears have kept on growing throughout his lifetime, and now, at a grand old age of seventy-nine, the lobes stretch down nearly to his chin line. His stepson and family used to joke in secret that they look like the saggy dried out bits of meat that they sell in baskets outside the pet shop.
He is all alone now in the big house on the leafy private road in Surrey. His lost his wife to cancer nearly ten years ago, and his only son followed suit two summers ago. Secretly he was pleased his wife went, it released him from the years of bullying at her hands. He was free now to do as he pleased, and he had the means to do it, having inherited all the money from both deaths. Why should he have to bother with her two other sons from her first marriage? They only serve as a reminder of her, and of a ghost of a man who came before him whose shoes he could never fill.
Left alone to his dark thoughts his flesh and skin has wrinkled and dried out, his body as thin and shrunken as a skeleton. His eyes are bitter and full of hate, sunken deep in his head under hooded lids. His skin is stained deep brown from the sun, from many years spent pottering about in the garden and going to and from his workshed. He has calloused fingers and knarled knuckles with rough fingertips. They bear the scars of a lifetime of making and sanding and creating, working as a design teacher in the nearby prep school.

Affectations

He knows he looks the business in his three-piece tuxedo suit; ironed to perfection and funked up with a polka dot bow tie, worn at an angle so as not to look too stuffy. No one knows he hired it from the little old tailors around the corner from his flat in Stoke Newington, and he sure as hell isn’t about to tell them. He likes everyone to think that he’s not into this kind of event; black- tie charity balls don’t give you much street-cred back with the uber trendy crew in East London, but deep down he loves it. Once he’s qualified as a chartered accountant he’s sure to be attending these kinds of events regularly, as well as raking in the cash.
He’s been cornered talking to some girl, a friend of his girlfriend who’s married with two kids-she’s nothing of interest to him and he wishes he could escape. He shifts around, not listening to what she’s saying, looking over her head, and scanning the crowd for someone more interesting to talk to. He wouldn’t of bothered making conversation with her but she made a beeline for him, firing questions, trying to be friendly. He fiddles with the silver rings on his right hand, and runs a hand over his head. His hair is thinning and has receded back to expose a high forehead. His remaining hair is razored to fine stubble, and instead of feeling embarrassed by his early onset baldness, he thinks he looks cutting edge with his naked scalp.
The annoying girl is still talking and he looks at her and exhales snottily, replying to her questions in his nasal voice with one-word answers. He’s telling her that he is originally from Leeds and she laughs and asks what the hell has happened to his accent. He clenches his fist and replies through gritted teeth. He’s spent years trying to shake off his working class northern background and tell tale plummy accent; all for some nobody to pull him up on his affectations. His cheeks start to colour up crimson so he takes a swig of his red wine and pushes past her off into the crowd.

An Afternoon Nap

She is lying on her back on a towel spread on the grass. She is wearing only her underwear; an old black matching set, the cotton fabric bobbled in patches. Her skin is blinding white in the sun, flesh shining and sticky from sun-cream and slick with sweat. Her eyes are closed, one hand up on her face, shielding it from the sun.
At the sound of her name being called she its up and rubs her eyes awake. A fleshy white stomach folds over into three rings as she draws her knees up and leans heavily on her arm to push herself up. Her face is pale and drawn without a scrap of make up. Her eyes look naked and exposed, encircled by smudgy shadows. She yawns and looks around, face cracking into a huge smile that lights up her eyes with a sparkle.
She heads inside the house, bare feet padding softly over the tiled kitchen floor. Her hair is unwashed and greasy, held back with a grey headband. It has come loose and dark curly hairs frizz out of the ponytail in a halo. She pulls the band down over her head and readjusts it, smoothing the hairs back into place. As she bends over to unpack the freezer bags, white bosomy flesh spills over the sides of her bra. Several threads have come loose from the seams and flail about next to her skin. The bra is too small and the fabric cuts into her breast- beneath the black are angry red lines checked across her skin. The cup flips down, exposing a slice of pale pink areola and nipple, which she quickly tucks back in with a smile.

Unrequited

She thought that seeing him again after all this time would be different, that she wouldn’t feel those things for him that she had before. With so much time passed she hoped she would finally have closure. They meet again around a table in a corner of the dance tent, hugging and holding each other, and she knows that nothing has changed. The D.J. starts and the group moves as one to the crowded dance-floor.
The darkened dance tent is red and glowing like a womb- the thumping bass line beats along with her heart. They are crushed together in the crowd of friends and strangers, inhaling the sweaty air, hot and smoky and alive. So many people surround them but she notices no one but him. Her whole body is alert and shaking, completely aware of his body wedged behind her; can feel his heat spreading into her.
Her view of the stage is obscured and she is squashed tight into the stranger in front of her. The smell of sweat is making her feel dizzy and she sways around, panting as she struggles to take in cleaner air. She feels his arms around her waist and with a flurry of movement she is up above the crowd, precarious atop his broad shoulders. His hair is sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband, she reaches to touch it. Her other arm is outstretched, bare and pale white, waving in time to the music. On the stage ahead of them the chords of her favourite song begin and she stretches open her mouth so wide it creases up her cheeks, and sings along. Her teeth are straight and white perfect aside from the little gap between the front two that used to make her feel awkward and shy. Her legs are wrapped around his neck and he runs a thumb along the naked flesh of her thigh and goose bumps prickle all over her body as the music and blood crashes in her head.
She throws her head back and closes her eyes behind mirrored aviators- their surface shows nothing but the reflection of the crowd, nearly black in the dark, and a shiny red slice of tent beneath the rim of her straw trilby. Pulled down low over her head, her hair tumbles out from beneath it. Bleached blonde and crispy dry it is matted with a long weekend’s dirt and the smell of smoke and mud and sweat; and the magic of possibility in this place.

Bad Romance

They’re on the dance-floor, hot and blurry from too many drinks. The alcohol is starting to make him sleepy, his eyes are feeling heavy-lidded and hard to focus. He gives in and closes them, moving to the music and happy to feel the heat of the young girl next to him. He thinks about when he should kiss her; he’s been wanting to for so long, been secretly in love with her. He opens his eyes, looks at her. Pushing his hair off his face, it is soaked with sweat; thinning and muddy blonde it exposes a high forehead, shiny and finely lined. His face is pasty white and doughy. Pink-rimmed eyes and pockmarked skin belie the late nights, his fondness for cigarettes and boozy weekends. It’s hard work keeping up with all his friends- a good decade younger they are able to party their nights away with no ill effect.
He sniffs and wipes his long sloped nose, the tip is crusted with tell-tale white powder- the remnants of their evenings excesses. His mouth is dry like cotton and he licks his lips, which feel thin and cracked, rough beneath his tongue. His mouth tastes sour and feels furry from the sugary alcopops. He can feel the bile beginning to rise up from his stomach, sloshed around by the movement of the dance-floor. He swallows it down, pulse racing, not wanting to vomit in front of the girl. Sweaty hands grab her hips as he leans in and motions towards the toilets. Drunk, she looks at him with hazy eyes; she doesn’t understand as he pushes unsteadily through the sticky crowd and disappears.

Man on a Summer's Day

It’s the last good day of summer before autumn sets in, fresh but beautifully sunny and clear. He’s made the most of the surprising weather dressed in a thin linen shirt- white, crumpled and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat from where he pulled it out of the washing basket this morning. Unbuttoned to his chest with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, he reaches across the wooden table to give Eva her present. His long brown hair is caught up high in a top-knot, ends splayed and messy. Chisel-jawed and poster-boy handsome, he stopped many a girl’s heart during his days at art school. Smooth and baby-faced through the majority of his twenties, his chin is finally darkened with bristled hairs. Now though, he’s noticed that fine lines are starting to appear around his eyes, which today are heavy-lidded and puffy, ringed with dark circles, the result of a string of late nights and parties.
As he stares across the table at his girlfriend; at her pale porcelain skin, wide eyes and celebrating her twentieth birthday- he begins to feel old and tired. A slight frown furrows his brow as he takes a sip of his ale, ice cold and frothy, and sets the tankard back down on the table before him. Staring into the amber liquid he wonders how best to break up with Eva, without adding another broken heart to the string of them scattered behind him in his wake. Sighing, he lifts his head up, looks across the table, and clears his throat.

The Boy in Blue

The red light blinks furiously as he keeps the camcorder pointed at the affray. He is tired, but his piggy eyes- pink- rimmed, and sunken in his face, remain focused in on the scene that unfurls before him as he tries not to let his personal life interfere with his work.
It is a dreary morning, freezing cold and drizzling, the rain whipping into his face like little knives. He shivers, cold despite his ample extra flesh. He pulls the collars of his fleece, police overcoat and neon yellow flack-jacket closer about his neck. His hands clutch the camcorder tightly with chubby white sausage fingers, numb and exposed, poking out of the ends of his fingerless gloves.
The biting wind is making his nose run; he sniffs and wipes away the dribble of mucus with the back of his hand, leaving a translucent snail trail along his cheek. One of his colleagues cracks a joke to lift the mood of the downtrodden team and he sniggers, his lip curling up to the left in a half smile, exposing two yellowed front teeth that are long and rabbit-like. He shifts around on his feet, legs aching from being stood still so long. He coughs, feeling the podgy ring of flesh under his chin wobble, and he thinks again how unfit he is. All the other men on his team are lean and getting younger by the day. The old cliché about cops loving their donuts now rings tired and false. He resolves to sign himself up to that Slimming World thing that his wife Maureen keeps leaving leaflets lying around for. ‘Tonight, I’ll start tonight.’ Muttered under his breath, but he knows that it’ll be another broken promise, just like all the others.

Girl in the Crowd

She is precarious atop the shoulders of a boy, his hair sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband. One of her arms is outstretched, bare and pale white; the other hidden, clutched tight around the waist of her friend on the left as they sway unsteadily above the crowd. On the main stage ahead of them the band strum out the chords of her favourite song and she stretches open her mouth so wide it creases up her cheeks, and sings along. Her teeth are straight and bleached white in the sun; perfect aside from the little gap between the front two that used to make her feel awkward and shy, but now she loves how it sets her out from the crowd.
She throws her head back and closes her eyes behind mirrored aviators- their surface shows nothing but the reflection of the crowd, and a shiny white slice of sky beneath the rim of her straw trilby, pulled down low over her head. Her hair tumbles out from beneath it, bleached blonde and crispy dry, matted with a long weekend’s dirt and the smell of smoke and mud and sweat.

Part 2: Writing About People

Well, handed in my first assignment a week or so ago and just received my feedback from my tutor. Feeling pretty pleased, as overall, it was pretty positive, with a particular note about being good at showing and not telling. There was a few helpful pointers about how to improve my poetry as well, so I shall endeavour to dredraft them and repost as soon as possible. NB, I have removed 4 of my poems from the blog as I submitted them into a poetry competition which is still running, so will repost as soon as it closes.

Anyway, back to the task in hand.....Have just begun work on Part 2 of my coursework, and been given a preliminary deadline as the 27th October; so a lot to get through before then! EEk! Have made a start on my notes for exercises one and two and these are my initial feelings:
Really looking forward to this chapter of work, as I love observing people, so this part should be fun and exciting. The first two exercises that I have attempted revolve around writing about a person in a photo, one known to me, one unknown. I have only written notes in my notebook so far, no redrafting yet. Finding this surprisingly hard even to find a good photo to work from! Most are posed or of more than one person- I wanted to find photographs where the subject is unaware that a camera is on them- as if it is just a snapshot of a moment in time. However decided not to procrastinate too much, so have done both exercises twice, and can already see some nice images....off to type them up now.

Another Holiday Moment

We arrived at the hotel in the late afternoon after a long drive from London. After we left the motorway the Friday traffic crawled lazily along the country roads for many miles. Abandoning my reading once the winding road began to make me queasy, I watched the scenery change out of the back-window and shifted around on the plastic seat, eager to get out of the car and stretch my cramped legs.

We pulled up outside a huge building, sparkling in the sun. The hotel was set up on a hill, white against bright blue skies, its many windows thrown wide open to catch the fresh sea breeze that blew straight in from the promenade. Stone steps at the front led down to a huge expanse of green lawn spattered with putting holes and marked with red flags, fluttering wildly in the wind. Bursts of red and yellow flowers lined the car park and their sweet fragrance combined with salty air felt almost tropical. Eager to get outside we checked our bags into our room and raced straight to the hotel’s leisure centre. The August sun was low now, starting to turn the sky a brilliant orange. The air was warm and the paved tiles were baked hot beneath my feet, so we dove straight into the rippling blue aqua of the outdoor pool. The water was heated, but still, the coldness was a shock and we all let out gasps and shrieks of delight. My mother lay on her back in the shallows, eyes closed and floating with her arms out as her muscles relaxed from the drive.

The pool was large and curved around underneath a little white bridge leading to a cluster of tables and chairs, empty now in the evening sun. Dad and I swam under the bridge and the water grew much colder and deeper and led up to a high diving board at the pool’s furthest edge. Hauling himself up the little metal ladder at the side of the pool, Dad made his way to the steps of the diving board, shedding droplets of water that darkened the paving slabs. My mother shouted him a warning to be careful which was ignored as he made his way purposefully to the very highest diving board. He stood at the top for several minutes and gazed down at the pool, before hurling himself off the board toward the sparkling water below. He fell heavily, hitting the water stomach first in a huge belly flop with a slap that crackled around the pool area. His head broke through the swirling water spluttering, hair plastered over his eyes and cursing. His paunchy stomach was covered in curly hair, but we could see the tomato red skin smarting underneath, and we all fell about laughing.

We stayed in the pool until clouds began to darken the sky and the first drops of rain hit the surface of the water, slicing ripples through the blue. The rain tickled my face, but my body was warm and protected by the water of the pool and I didn’t want to get out. I stayed until Mum’s voice became edged with impatience; I climbed out into the chilly evening air and was gratefully wrapped in the huge fluffy white hotel towel. The paved floor had quickly turned slippery with rivers of rainwater and Mum held my arm tight as we slid our way back to the hotel. At the door I paused and looked back and saw a herring gull stood on one of the white plastic tables, dry beneath the open parasol, picking at the cold chips on an abandoned plate.

Descriptiv Prose- A Holiday Memory

The little airport bus pulled up outside a row of tall houses stood next to the road, dark, with the shutters at the windows pulled tightly closed. We unpeeled our sweaty legs from the plastic minibus seats and gratefully tumbled out onto the baking tarmac. My clothes were creased from the long flight and I felt disorientated in this brilliant light and heat. Mum and Janice pulled our wheeled cases from the trunk and paid the friendly driver, who sped off in a cloud of dust to rejoin the other cars on the little road. I squinted up at the tall house as Mum fiddled with the lock of the iron front gate. “It doesn’t look much, does it? I thought Frances said it was right on the beach?” We ascended up some steps to the front door. With a creak it swung open and a burst of light streamed around us as we clattered into a huge white-tiled kitchen, gleaming and airy. The wall opposite had floor to ceiling windows set in distressed wooden frames, that reminded me of driftwood, and a door that we rushed straight over to. Jangling through the bunch of keys until she found the one labelled ‘back-door’, she threw it open and we tumbled out onto a wooden patio area, decked with huge slats of thick oak wood. We all stood still and let out little gasps of air as we took in the view. The decking jutted straight out over an endless beach of brilliant smooth white sands so bright they left a dazzled imprint on my retinas when I closed my eyes. At the shore a turquoise sea sliced through the white, choppy waves caught the sun’s rays and sparkled. The sea changed colour in stripes, moving through all the shades of blue, translucent at the shore, darkening to a deep navy far out in the horizon. As we stood on the decking I noticed movement on the white; little crabs, nearly invisible against the sand scuttled in and out of tiny holes in the ground; their black beady eyes swivelling all around.

We spent our holiday basking out in the sun until we could stand the heat no longer and our skin dripped with sweat and sun cream. Running, we’d plunge straight into the blue surf and submerge our heads in the crystal water, floating weightlessly on the waves. Then, dripping wet, we’d retreat beneath the welcome shade of the striped awning on the decking, the breeze quickly drying our skin. We sat at the big round table, sipping on Bajan rum cocktails in tall glasses that smelt of sweet and spice. The ice cubes melted quickly in the heat, condensation soaking the glasses and leaving dark wet rings on the wooden table. We smoked roll up cigarettes down to the filter, talking and laughing and playing endless card games until the sun had slipped its colourful descent through the sky.

The Five Senses Explored

I close my fist around the object but pieces of it escape between my fingers and dangle and sway and hang down, pulled by gravity toward the ground. I try and scoop them back into my palm and bunch it up into a ball so it fits snug and tight but the snakelike pieces; long and thin and bitty are alive and move back down. The coldness begins to disappear and, reptile like, it absorbs my body heat and grows warmer beneath my touch. Attached to a long chain are round flat shapes, paper thin and smooth beneath my fingertips, like shards of glass worn soft from the ocean's waves and washed ashore anew. I fiddle and touch and explore these lovely confetti shapes and their music rings out loud and tinkling, jangling, clanking bell like sounds tumbling out and over each other; jostling to be heard. Their smell is thick and pungent in the air, becoming stronger as the metal warms in my hands- a musty, salty fragrance, with overtures of sweet. Throws up memories of copper coins smelt on my fingertips; a grazed knee from childhood as a drop of red blood oozes out and trickles down my leg.
I lay it down and spread it out in front of me, untangling it's many legs and leaving it exposed upon the wooden top. A necklace, in flinty gold, patchy and dulled with dirt. Unclasped and straight, the metal petals twist over and under, tangled in the chain. And here and there, watery light hits the metal and a kaleidoscope of gold catches light.

Rusty!

Well, have had a bit of a hiatus from working, as you can see! You could say I had taken a little break from reality for the past couple of weeks; been busy festival-ing, and London-ing and lots of other things that equal 'not much work done at all'! However, am back now, if feeling a little bit rusty, but ready and raring to go. So the poems, 'Bearded Pigs' and 'Richmond Park' are composed from notes that I took when out and about visiting Dad in London. This trip coincided well with where I was at in my course work- I was to record a landscape scene, and observe a live animal; so both of these were achievable in London. BP came from notes taken at a trip to London Zoo (very handy!) and RP is pretty obvious really- a nice stroll in one of London's loveliest open spaces. I am surprised that I chose these notes to make a landscape poem actually, as I rather thought I would enjoy describing a more urban scene, but in the end, my notes on Richmond Park just drew me in creatively more than any of my other descriptive passages. Am pleased with how they have turned out, I didn't actually spend that long working on them- only a couple of redrafts and tweaking. I don't know if this is because I am getting better at poetry writing or just that it was the way in which I structured my original notes, but whatever it is, I'm not complaining!

Imperial Bedrooms

So last night me and pa went to the Southbank Centre and saw Brett Easton Ellis talking about his new book Imperial Bedrooms. It was a really great experience to hear the author's perspective on his own books, and getting to know him, it gave my view of his work a whole different dimension. He mostly discussed Less Than Zero, and how it's original characters have progressed in regards to his new release Imperial Bedrooms. It was very interesting to gain insight on the way he works and how his writing comes about- he sees it as a slow, natural experience- his battling personal demons and the cathartic nature of writing are an integral part of the process for him.
The most interesting part of the evening for me was his reactions to the audience Q ad A. One of the most relevant questions was relating to how Ellis felt bout being labelled as a misogynist due to the high level of violence against women in his books. His answer was typically droll as he made light of these accusations, but he also raised some interesting ideas about the nature of labelling written works or the authors as misogynistic, racist, etc. 'Does it matter?' he says, 'Does it make the book more interesting or less?' "If you took out all the parts of great novels that were deemed too much one thing or another, what would you be left with? Hemingway and Fitzgerald ad many other 'greats' have been labelled just the same, so do these labels even matter? " This debate could rage on and on, but I think I'm firmly with Ellis on this point.
On the flipside, the danger of letting the audience free to ask questions willy-nilly is that you inevitably get a halfwit loose with the microphone. For example, there were so many bloody questions about 'The Hills' tv show that I nearly lost the will to live, and so did Ellis and probably half of the audience who wanted to take this opportunity seriously. Unsurprisingly all of these questions were posed by giggling 20-something women that should know better, but don't. If I have to be fair, then I guess this is how Imperial Bedrooms was sold to a young female audience- I noticed various reviews in trash-bat gossip magazines and even slightly more highbrow glossies that referenced 'The Hills' in relation to the book, as if we are all so shallow and vapid that we have to be lured into literature by having it likened to reality tv shows and shopping to pique our interest. On the other hand, maybe they're right, maybe Ellis's characters do have more in common with Heidi, Lauren et al than I give them credit for. I think most are missing the point somewhat- the fact that he was dripping with irony when referencing The Hills was largely missed by an audience of my peers. Shame on you.

Back from the Brink!

Hi all, as you can see, there's been a bit of a time out blogwise- have just recovered from a nasty case of tonsilitis, or to quote my doctor- 'your tonsils are covered in pus'. Mmmm. Yummy. Anyway, I had been slogging away at the poetry section of work up until I was struck down with ill, and consequently had really been struggling with it- probably as a result of my brain shutting down to fight ze germs. So, feeling better yesterday, I got stuck back into it, and everything just happened much easier- and so the results of my redrafts are the two poems posted below 'He Never Drank Again' and 'West Bexington'. Very pleased with the results. They are both based on some quite personal memories, and I think the results are quite powerful. Having a couple of days away not thinking about the poems really helped, and when I looked back at my rough drafts with fresh eyes it only took a couple of tweaks to get the poems right. Very happy! Right, onto the next job.....

My Writer's Eye

On Sunday I snuck away from the house for a few precious hours to work on project 4- entitled writing as seeing and is all about developing my writer's eye. I think mine must be a bit short- sighted because I really struggled with these exercises. The point of them is to get me to 'see things with a fresh, imaginative slant.' and to be able to write about the most mundane object as if I am seeing it for the first time. As I worked through the exercises I felt my descriptive powers gradually increased and soon my words were flowing out freely as I recorded things that I was seeing. These took me a couple of hours, but when I reached the end the notes said that it was recommended to spend at least 4 hours for all four exercises. Woops. So then I decided to spend some time doing each exercise again, but picking different objects/scenes. This seemed to work ok initially, but towards the end of exercise 4 I think my mind was shouting "No More!" as my words suddenly dried up. As a result, on a read through I am pleased with my notes at the beginning, but towards the end the images and language seems more contrived and not as fresh. Over the past couple of days I've been working on redrafting my notes for all the exercises into the beginnings of poems, some of which I feel are quite successful, some parts not quite so. I'm not sure if I have been jumping ahead of myself a bit as they already seem poem-like in style, rather than just being like lists of descriptions which is what was specified in the course directions, but it felt like the right progression as I was working on the drafts, so I just went with it. Anyway, here is a taster of my favourite produced as a result of this work:

Plastic container of free liquid,
Transparent smoothness of the light
Reflected, refracted though and round
Encircling the lipped rim
And moving down inside
These belted bands of light
Meet the clear still water
Filled to the halfway, marked
Only by a single line
And shallow ripples touching
The surface, the reaction to
An outside world, the
Movement and vibrations
From all around.
Translucent printed words
Maroon, they shine through the sides
Suspended in the water,
Twisting bending upside down
in crystal liquid.
The beautiful teardrops left behind
Cling near the inner rim,
frozen there for now, untouched.




The citrus orb upon the table top
Sits shining bright,
Acidic colour pops
A flaming fire-ember glow.
Its waxy rind of
Close up pimpled imperfection
In porous skin
Gaping open wide
A minutely cratered hind
Is met by starfish tag
The secret sealed tight inside
Unpeeled, unbroken.


Can you guess what describing here?!

Hemingway

I have been thinking a lot about the act of writing in a notebook, and that it's something I have been doing all my life at on time or another, without realising it. I have usually only kept a diary when emotions have been rife; when I've been living life at the extremes- day to day mundanities have not been chronicled. My diary therefore consists of a string of highly charged, passionate entries connected inately to the ups and downs of my emotions. As Nicole Ward Jouve says on what her diaries have been for her in 'On Keeping a Diary', that they are 'the beginning of a voice of my own...I could hang onto a sense of self. In the choices one makes to write this or that in one's diary, year after year, out of the flow, the shape of who one is appears.'

I am really interested in looking into what other authors' notebooks contain, and my research arrived me at Ernest Hemingway's 'A Moveable Feast'. This is a memoir of Hemingway's time spent as a struggling young writer in post-war Paris, when he lived there as part of the American expatriate circle of writers in the 1920s. In 1956 Hemingway discovered an old trunk full of the notebooks he had filled during his time spent in Paris, so he had them transcribed, and he worked on this manuscript during his later years, rewriting key passages and had produced a final draft at the time of his death in 1961. 'A Moveable Feast' was published posthumously by Scribers in 1964.
It contains Hemingway's personal accounts, observations and stories of his experience of Paris. So detailed is his description that many of the cafes, bars, hotels and apartments can still be found in the modern day city. On the Moleskin notebook website it says Hemingway spent much of his time as a struggling young writer sitting in Parisian cafes watching the world go by and recording it in his Moleskin notebooks. In the memoir he reflects on this simple act- ordering a cafe au lait, pulling out his notebook and starting to write; 'that comfortable feeling that even whilst in the the midst of a bustling cafe one can immerse oneself into writing.'
The writing in "A Moveable Feast' is considered by some critics to be his finest ever produced- perhaps because it is taken direct from his very own notebooks, themselves rich with first hand imagery and thought.
Today I just bought a copy of 'A Moveable Feast' and on a quick flick through it has got me itching to get out my pen and write... so off I go to Telford to sit in Costa coffee house and do some people-watching. Hey, it's not Paris and it's not the 1920s, but it's all I have so it'll have to suffice!

The Waiting Room

The surgery waiting room is nearly full, yet there hangs that familiar, stifled quietness that is so quintessentially British. The thirteen people that occupy these seats in their uniform rows fall into two different types- those that are frequent visitors to this waiting room; on first name basis with staff and wearing their ailments like a rosette of pride. The other half are those that still have that Victorian custom of keeping a 'stiff-upper-lip' and soldiering on despite knocking at death's door. Here they smother their bronchial coughs into embroidered handkerchiefs, stifling their splutters and sniffs; yet they fool no-one.
The room is speckled with the silvery grey heads of the older occupants, permed or neatly combed into that familiar style of the over sixties. The airless space is thick with the musty fragrance of stale cologne, mothballs and tobacco, remnants of odours caught in the fabrics of the people's clothes. Outfits are creased and crumpled, the colours faded through time. Some are ill- fitting and would not look out of place hanging on the rails of the Oxfam shop next door. They sit together in couples, men staring into space, lined hands resting on the worn wooden handles of their walking sticks. The women's handbags all rest primly in their laps. Some tightly clasp and fiddle with the straps as they absentmindedly pass the time until their turn with Doctor Bird. Eyes gaze unfocused at the tatty noticeboard where posters are pinned haphazardly, curling in at the edges.
A woman sits alone, set apart from the rest. Her clothes are crisp and bright; the colours are vivid and unworn. The woman's figure is lithe and slender for her age and her smooth, unlined skin suggests good care has been taken of herself. There are no outward signs of illness; she sits still and calm and straight-backed in the cheap plastic chair. The only movement comes from her fingers twisting and turning the gold ring on her left hand, round and round. A door opens with an almighty creak and there is a sudden rush of movement; heads turn in unison to greet the messenger. A name is called and the well-dressed woman stands slowly to her feet. Her eyes are steely with determination as she makes her way toward the open door to receive her dreaded news. She leaves behind her the rabble, sat comforted by their minor aches and pains.

Re-reading through my notebook, I found I kept returning to a piece of description that I had written whilst sat in the Doctor's surgery the other day, so it was this that I chose to work on for exercise 2. Whilst moving it from page to computer screen I found that I immediately became absorbed in the act of redrafting- changing its format; adding in extra details, deleting some parts and reordering the sequence of events. I also found that I remembered things from the scene that hadn't been
apparent at the time. As a first attempt at descriptive prose, I am pleased with the result. I'm surprised at how long the exercise took as the resulting passage is very short-I spent a lot of time trying things out whilst redrafting. I feel that it has been successful in re-creating the stuffy atmosphere, and setting the scene. Obviously this is a first attempt at writing prose, so some of the sentences seem slightly stilted, and possibly there are some grammatical errors, but with some extra work and practice I will hopefully make good progress. I really enjoyed writing about people and describing them in detail; I find people-watching endlessly fascinating. I love observation, it was one of the aspects I enjoyed the most about my Illustation degree, so this is an area I really want to explore further in my writing. This weekend my plan is to go out on my own with only my notebook for company and get some serious observation and description practice in; hopefully this will provide me with a whole load of interesting material to work from at a later date. Look out people of Telford- I'll be watching you..

A Dream Remembered

Bus
Magic
Double-decker, old
London.
The colour blue, jade
Open back, hop on and off.

Mum and Dad, I can't see them.
They are with me.
Young, eight or nine
Step on the bus
Dark
Toys, brightly coloured seats
And soft play.

People, here, but I can't see them.
Outside vision, blurred darkness
Not scared.
Parents, here, protecting me.
Stairs
Many levels
Magic.
Up and up,
To the atmosphere.

Top room, so small.
Lighthouse
The view, a panorama
Theme park, rides everywhere.
Families I know
Through the window, dive,
Down, like a bungee jump.

This is actually my second attempt at exercise 1, creating a poem from a recurring childhood dream. The first draft I didn't feel was worthy of putting onto screen. On a read through it felt disjointed and there was a lack of continuity of language. I hadn't followed the brief: rather just copied words straight from my notebook and set them on different lines. So for my second attempt (above) I have pared things right down, stripping it back to just singular words or short phrases. This works much better, the minimalism creates quite an abstract atmosphere which is quite visually interesting. Overall I am pleased with this, my first attempt at poetry. Even though in parts, the arrangement is abrupt and clumsy, there is the beginning of some promising imagery.

For my second draft (below) I took what I had written already and added things to it- more words, more language and more description. I rephrased things and shuffled words around to try and create a more detailed, atmospheric piece of writing. I really enjoyed doing this- once the bare bones of the piece were in place it was fun messing around with it to create something similar but new. The results of both drafts are quite dark and sinister, with a recurring theme of darkness and the image of this big bus. This is surprising as I didn't set out to create this; it's just where the language has taken me. Overall I am pleased with the results- also surprising as I was convinced that I was going to hate anything I wrote at the beginning of this course, especially seeing as it is poetry! Which just goes to show that I mustn't have preconceived ideas about things beforehand, and just throw myself into everything. On a more technical side, I feel that some of the verses are beginning to fit together nicely, but I don't feel confident about the correct grammatical layout of poetry and how it is all supposed to fit together, so perhaps this accounts for the disjointed feel the poem has in parts. I feel the poem works best in the first and last verse due to the strong imagery of the double-decker bus and the figure jumping into the final panorama. This has taught me the vital importance of creating strong images in my writing- it will make both prose and poetry from now on far more interesting and exciting for both me as the author, and for the reader.

Draft 2:

The bus from Nowhere
Arrives, as if by magic.
Old double-decker,
London Retro
Not red but bright blue-jade.
The open back-
Hop on. Hop off.

Mother and Father, here they are,
But I can't see them.
They are with me.
Inside the darkness
Of the bus.

Here is the Funbus
With toys and brightly coloured seats.
The people here, I can't see them.
Exist outside my vision
In the blurred darkness.
No feelings inside, just empty void.
Not scared, they are with me.

Go up the stairs
Up and up,
High into the atmosphere.
Very small, this room atop.
The view- a panorama
Of huge theme park and rides.
Friends and family,
Laughing voices float up from down below.

Out the window now, diving
Down, down
A bungee jump to join them
On their rides, below.

Notebookin'

My Notebook work has built up quite rapidly in only a handful of days, which is pleasantly surprising. I have found that the words have flown out very easily on the most part as I was worried that I would find the blank page hurdle difficult to overcome. I haven't read through what I have written yet- I want to let the material build up a bit first before I look back through it, and before I begin any of the exercises in earnest. I do feel slightly doubtful about the content of the Notebook- most of what is in there is quite personal and I'm afraid it reads much like a diary rather than a collection of words for the basis of prose/poetry. Maybe this is ok; perhaps my personal thoughts will later become internal dialogue for a character. Must worry less and just see where the writing takes me.
Overall I have found the experience of writing everyday very cathartic, especially when I have unloaded my thoughts at the very end of the day into my Notebook. It definitely helps to clear the mind; my head doesn't feel quite so jumbled. So far I have particularly enjoyed the section on recalling dreams- especially the recording of a recurring dream from my childhood. I'm looking forward to using this as the basis for Exercise 1 as there is some nice imagery to play around with.
As for the other forms of notetaking, I'm beginning to worry that all my Notebook material is going to be very mundane and routine as my life on a day to day basis is pretty similar- there's not much opportunity to go to new places and get fresh ideas for inspiration. Perhaps to overcome this I will have to focus on the 'creative diary' use of the notebook and become a bit more imaginative with truth. This will help to develop my description and imagination anyway, so will be quite a useful tool.
My aim for the next couple of days is to try and complete exercise 1, the poetry exercise using my remembered dreams that I have recorded so far. Will report back on my success... or failure! Over and out.

An American Psycho in London

Am bursting with excitement- have just booked tickets to see Bret Easton Ellis at the Southbank Centre in July. He's one of my favourite authors, his books totally encapsulate that feeling of irreverence of youth and the vacuity of modern society. This year it will be 25 years since Ellis's debut novel, Less than Zero was published and it feels as fresh, current and relevant as the day it was written. I read this novel, and it's successor, The Rules of Attraction whilst I was at University; Ellis's minimalistic prose spoke to me and his imagery remained in my head to this day. As an author he is the equivalent of Marmite- people either love or loathe him. I'm firmly in the former camp; the influence he has had on modern literature, particularly with the publication of the ever controversial "American Psycho", is undeniable- as Stuart Evers writes in the Guardian blog:

If you've read American Psycho, you probably have a very strong opinion either way. If there's a more divisive novel out there, I've yet to read it. Even love-it-or-loathe it classics such as Amis's Money, Lawrence's Sons and Lovers or Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles don't come close to engendering the levels of admiration or utter revulsion reserved for American Psycho. Personally I think it's one of the key novels of the last century, though I've spent hours arguing with people who believe it's nothing more than cheap exploitation, misogynistic violence and some pointless – if funny – asides about rubbish music. Whichever side you stand on, though, it's impossible to ignore the book's huge cultural impact.

Easton Ellis is at the Southbank Centre on the 13th July talking about his new book, Imperial Bedrooms, the much anticipated follow up to Less than Zero, which revisits the lives of Clay et al, as they approach middle age. This is one of only two Uk appearances and tickets are selling like slices of fried gold. See you there.

Me Me Me, (My Student Profile)

Originally from London, my family and I decamped to West Dorset when I was 11, where I attended a pretty good Grammar school. It was here that I excelled in English and Art, both of which I studied through to A' Level. It was a close call between which to study at degree level; and my passion for picture making and drawing won over eventually. After finishing my Ba (Hons) in Illustration at the AUCB in 2007 my intentions were to take a year out to travel the world and gain inspirations for my work and experience a different sort of lifestyle. However, life took a different turn as its oft to do; and whilst working in a nightclub to fund my travels I met and fell in love with my husband and proceeded to get married and give birth to two beautiful daughters; although not necessarily all in that order! During our time together my husband has joined the RAF, so now we live in the married quarters in a little village called Albrighton near Wolverhampton whilst my husband gets his qualification and I am a stay-at-home-mum of two girls under two. Very hectic! In fact as I write this I have won baby on my lap and the other tugging at my clothes vying for attention!
Previous experience:
English Language to GCSE level and English Literature to A'Level. My degree required the writing of several essays, and a dissertation, so hopefully my written skills aren't too rusty...
My Expectations of the Course:
I've always loved writing and reading; I devour books with a passion and my head is filled with stories and characters and ideas. But so far that's where they have stayed- in my head. I'm hoping this course will help give me the tools to get my thoughts onto paper and get me working rather than just daydreaming- I want to be a writer, not a thinker. Mainly, I'm pleased to be doing something that's just for me. I feel the past couple of years I've put my thoughts and feelings on a backburner whilst raising my new babies; but now I feel the time has come to start thinking about my future as an individual, not just a mum. I feel excited about venturing into the realms of education again, and also nervous. As of yet I'm undecided about assessment and working towards a degree; I just want to get started on this course and see where my writing takes me. As I have a degree qualifiction already I don't feel the urgency to work toward that as the end goal, although I am interested in some of the other courses; again as a more personal undertaking.

Hopes and Expectations

I am a self-confessed literary nerd. I am at my happiest curled up with a good book and there are mountains of novels stacked in great piles around our modest abode. Ever since I was little I've had ideas for stories of my own, fragments of scenes and even the echoes of different characters' voices swirling around my head. I've never really made the most of these thoughts before, and before you know it, they've disappeared. I'm hoping this course will really help me get my ideas down onto paper, clarify my thoughts and give me the skills to shape my notes into something more coherent and workable and real.

In The Beginning

On Friday I filled out my student profile and emailed it off to my assigned tutor- Jane Rogers. I briefly summarised my background and previous experience plus my expectations of the course. The booklet emphasised briefly, so I couldn't waffle on for pages, but once I started writing I felt like there were so many things that I wanted to included and put down on paper that my words and thoughts were all coming out in a jumble. I had to mentally reign myself in for fear of overwhelming/boring the poor woman to death! This made me realise that: a) obviously there are lots of things in my head that have happened that I want to write about and b) my favourite subject to write about is myself! What a Narcissist. Indeed, when flashes of characters and ideas for stories and bits of scenes have come into my head, most often they are influenced by things I have done, seen; places that I have been. After all there is that saying- 'write what you know.'
After sending off my profile to my tutor, I googled this Jane Rogers, like you do, and was instantly struck down with self doubt about myself and my silly little blurb I'd written. Her CV is very impressive, filled with the titles of various novels, lecturing posts and awards that have been won. Good job I did the nosing after I'd sent my profile off!

Time Planning, or Not Enough Hours in the Bloody Day.

I'm not going to lie to you; am feeling some trepidation about my 'time-management' skills for this course. Mainly my fears lie in pondering how I am going to get really stuck in to the different projects and assignments with the constant interruptions that come with having small children. Mine come with an in-built sensor that kicks in when I'm trying to focus my attention elsewhere. Hopefully this is where Cbeebies (during the week) and my husband ( at the weekends) will come in handy. My plan of action is to sneak away for a couple of hours on a Saturday or Sunday (or both, depending on how generous the husband is feeling.) I will flee the house to the child free sanctuary of the Library if I am doing an assignment; or the nearest indoor shopping centre, abundant with cafes and benches from which I can people-watch, observe and practice my detailing skills in my notebook. During the week I shall endeavour to fit in a sneaky hour a day of work in between housework and baby duties- most probably when they are safely ensconsed in their beds, the little lambs.

Older and Wiser

Just sent off my Student Profile to my new tutour. Argh, it's Official now. I quite like being a student again! Much more different this time round though.... hopefully I'm older, wiser and more responsible than the days of all night drinking, all day sleeping and Not Much Work being done. Well, I'm definitely older- I keep plucking these damn grey hairs and they keep on growing right back....

Hello There Peeps

Welcome.
I will let you in on a little secret. This is actually my third attempt at keeping a blog; although in all respects I still consider myself a blog-virgin. So go easy on me! My other attempts have all failed miserably- started up enthusiastically on a whim before sputtering to a slow death a mere handful of posts later. You see, the problem before lay in the fact that I didn't really believe that I was doing anything interesting enough to merit being blabbed all over the internet. And in fact, I probably wasn't. But now. Now things have really hotted up. I've only gone and enrolled myself on a Creative Writing course, haven't I? ( So you see the blog name. ) Yeah. So it's my intention to use this blog as a way of 'getting my words out there' for want of a less cheesy line. I shall endeavour to post as frequently as possible, and we'll see what happens. I'm terrified. Let's get started!