It was a sunny but cold walk to the station this week. Thankfully the trains behaved and I got to uni in time for the usual jacket potato and beans with a black coffee. Sue and I discussed our creative writing as well as catching up on personal goings on.

Today’s Session – Plot, Narrative arc including premise and dramatic structure.

I was very excited about this session as our university course leader, Dr Jess Moriarty, had organised a treat for her MA Creative Writing students. A Masterclass run by Beth Miller. Beth is an inspiring author, journalist and teacher. Her enthusiasm bubbled and was very infectious.

(What is Plot, Narrative arc and what makes a good story, provided by Beth Miller.)

What is Plot?

Plot equals cause and effects– what happens?

A plot needs character and conflict.

What is Narrative arc?

Narrative arc is how the characters move from A to B. Each main character should have one and even minor characters should have a small one.

What makes a good story?

Starts with a bang

Quickly accelerates to level action

Moments of drama and suspense

Sustains a high pitch

Levels off and gradually comes down to earth                                                                                             

Story Endings 

Jeanette Winterson says this about endings:

‘There are only three possible endings to a story – if you put aside And They All Lived Happily Ever After, which isn’t an ending, but a coda.

The three possible endings are:

Revenge          Tragedy          Forgiveness

Shakespeare knew all about revenge and tragedy.’

You can find Winterson’s full essay at:

 http://www.jeanettewinterson.com/book/the-gap-of-time/essay/    

Beth favoured ‘Forgiveness’ as an ending, which is the route I normally take. How about you? What sort of ending do you like?

As part of our preparation for the class we were asked to bring along a plot for our piece of writing. I chose The Heir of Granville. I haven’t quite decided everything that life has in store for our poor George but I took what I’d done so far. Beth gave me the thumbs that it worked, she also offered some suggestions for ‘What happens next?’

We looked at Premise. What is Premise?

Premise is summing up what your story is about in one sentence. It isn’t that easy. With the help of student feedback, I was able to come up with a premise for The Heir of Granville. Beth was satisfied it worked.

Fifteen year old George, raised by unaffectionate noble grandparents, pines for the loving home of his earlier years when he discovers his life has been a lie and begins a long slow process to rebuild a relationship with his mother.

If you’re writing a novel or a long piece of writing and you haven’t already completed a premise, why not give it a go?

We are fortunate enough to see Beth again in April and she has offered to give feedback on 1000 words of any writing. At the moment I’m intending on producing the first 1000 words of The Heir of Granville. I will post that up in the future.

I’ve a lot of reading to catch up on to bring me up to date. I’ve almost finished Doris Lessing’s, The Grass is Singing, half way through The Writer’s Voice by Al Alvarez and need to re-read Audrey Niffenegger’s, Time Traveller’s Wife. I read this many years ago with my reading group and thoroughly enjoyed it. Have you read it?

This week I’ve been working on the interior monologue which needs to be ready for Tuesday. It’s been quite liberating. Once I’ve had feedback and had it confirmed that I’ve completed this exercise correctly I’ll post it up on the blog. You’ll have to excuse the language though as one of the characters does need his mouth washing out with soap!

Other creative writing activities this week were:

I visited Southbank’s to see David Mitchell and Kazuo Ishiguro come together to discuss the writing process. Readers will probably know Ishiguro best through The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go. I’ve read both of these through my reading group and have to say that Never Let Me Go still haunts me today. If you haven’t read it then do so. The Remains of the Day is an excellent read too. Through my reading group we are about to embark on Ishiguro’s brand new novel, The Buried Giant.

David Mitchell is best known for The Bone Clocks and Cloud Atlas. I haven’t read any of these yet but I did watch the film Cloud Atlas and it was one of the best I’ve ever seen. A friend has lent me a copy of Mitchell’s, Number 9 Dream and I am looking forward to getting better acquainted with his writing. Has anyone read it?

What I found very interesting with this duo was their answers to the following questions.

‘Do you know the endings of your book before you start writing?’

Mitchell answered that he didn’t know his endings but Ishiguro said he couldn’t write a book without knowing. When I wrote House of Grace, I knew exactly what the ending was going to be before I started, even if I wasn’t quite sure of the in-between, however as I said earlier, I’m still unsure as to exactly what will happen at the ending in The Heir of Granville.

Which is the right way I wonder? Is there a right or wrong way? How do you tackle your stories?

The other question that was answered that stuck in my head was about music.

Did you like to listen to music when writing?

Here Mitchell answered yes as long as it was instrumental or in another language. A clash again because Ishiguro said he needed silence, if he listened to music he’d be listening out for chords and cadences. Personally I like classical music in the background, it’s just there and doesn’t interfere with my writing at all, in fact I’d go as far as to say it inspires me. However, I do know other writers that like complete silence.

What kind of writer are you? Do you like music in the background or do you need that absolute quiet?

Another novel I’m looking forward to getting stuck into is Paul McVeigh’s, The Good Son. As McVeigh uses a child narrator, I’m hoping it will help me in writing The Heir of Granville. Later this year I intend to attend an event ‘Amongst the Grownups’ which looks at novels written using a child narrator.

Well I think that will do for this week’s blog. I hope you’ve enjoyed it and do some of the exercises yourself at home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stepped out of the house to a gorgeous blue sky with fragments of fluffy white clouds. Cherry trees boasted early blossom, the sun shielded my face and ears from the wind’s bite. Everywhere was calm, in fact, almost silent, except for birds tweeting and chirping amongst the trees. A stationery car engine rumbled, an occasional motor vehicle hummed as it drove by. An aeroplane flew over, it’s drone joined  the orchestra— the birds, definitely the solo, soprano part.

I divided my walk to the station into six legs as I listened to my character’s voices chatting in my head. I’d just passed leg three when I came to an old tubby red Royal Mail post box. We don’t see many like this these days. When I think of the changes in the past fifty years it seems a tremendous jump. I wonder what my grandparents would have made of it all. The days  when we had tin baths and outside toilets like featured in House of Grace. Of course a home such as Granville Hall where Grace lived before marrying Jack, had luxury bathrooms and inside toilets. What a struggle it must have been for Grace to come to terms with her new life when she became a coalminer’s wife, yet she never complained.

After having lunch with my student friend, we began this week’s Prose/Fiction seminar. First a freewrite, followed by looking at Voice and Style, starting with Alvatrez’s, The Writer’s Voice. When I read through this at home it brought up old familiar names like Ezra Pound, prompting me to think of Hilda Doolittle, or H.D. Imagiste as otherwise known. H.D. was a big inspiration to me when I studied poetry last year. Henry James jumped out and I thought of my friend and fellow student, Sue, who draws from him in her gothic work.

We moved on to discuss readings from various writers. Out of this we drew on the effects created from using nouns, verbs and adjectives. For instance: strong verbs create a sense of movement so ideal for an action scene and adjectives can form a dream like quality.

After looking at interior monologue and free indirect style we were given a writing challenge to produce small passages on both. I failed miserably. However, for our homework we were  given a 1000 word assignment to write using an interior monologue or free indirect style. Having started this work, I think perhaps I’ve grasped it. Or as Henry Higgins from My Fair Lady would say, ‘I think she’s got it.’ Let’s hope so.

The second half of the session we split up into two groups and read our writing homework assignments given last week. We offered feedback to each other. I re-wrote a scene from my current novel, The Heir of Granville. The feedback was very encouraging. I enjoyed listening to the work of the other members in my group and impressed by the overall quality.

Here is the scene when George first arrives at Granville Hall: 

Martha wiped her hands down her pinny before hauling me up the winding staircase. Grey hair hung down from the cap that circled her lined face. 

            ‘Stop pulling me,’ I said.

             The batty old hag took no notice, just kept tugging and then pushed me into a large bathroom. She turned on the gold taps, they were really posh. The bath was clean and white, unlike our old tinnie that had to be dragged in from the backyard. Mam had to boil buckets of water on the stove to fill it. 

            The patterned window reminded me of church and shiny green tiles and pictures covered the walls. We had flowery wallpaper in our house which Da decorated before I was even born. Martha took a bottle of brown liquid off the shelf and added some to the running water. The smell reminded me of school when I mopped up Smelly Susie’s wee. I wished I was home in Wigan and at school with Miss Jones.  

             Martha turned the taps off. ‘Get undressed.’ 

            ‘Not with you looking.’ 

            ‘Do as you’re told, lad.’ 

            I just stood there, so she ripped off me clothes, even me underpants. I put me hands over me privates and squeezed me eyes shut so she couldn’t see me cry. 

            ‘Get in. I haven’t got all day.’ 

            I climbed into the smelly warm water. Big boys shouldn’t cry but I couldn’t help it. I turned my head towards the door, a girl dressed like Martha stood in the doorway. She waved to me. I wanted to wave back because she seemed nice but I couldn’t because I was in the nuddie. What would Da have said if he saw me like this? 

            ‘Annie, don’t stand there gawking.’ Martha pointed. ‘Pass that carbolic soap.’ 

            She grabbed the slab of soap off Annie and started to scrub me like Mam scrubs the floor. Me skin was going raw like Smelly Susie’s face. Martha’s hands moved lower so I quickly covered up me willie but she wasn’t having any of that, she shoved me hands out of the way and sank hers down into the water to scrub. 

            ‘Stop it,’ I said, ‘You’re hurting me.’ 

            Annie bit her lip. 

            ‘What’s your problem?’ Martha said to the girl. ‘Lady Granville wants him deloused. This is the best way.’ She tutted. ‘Make yourself useful, get his clean clothes.’ 

            I looked up into the old witch’s face. ‘I don’t have louses.’ 

            Annie winked at me before she left the room. Maybe I’d made a new friend.

            The witch slapped me. ‘Of course you do, all poor people do. Now shut that bawling, you’ll have her Ladyship up here.’ 

            ‘I don’t, I don’t. Mam checks me hair every week after bath night.’ I pointed down in the water. ‘I don’t have any down there either.’ 

            Annie dashed in and plonked me clothes on a stool. 

            Martha finally stopped scrubbing. ‘Girl, pass that nit rake, will you?’ She snatched the metal comb from Annie and tugged it through me hair. ‘Now go and get his room ready.’ 

            The girl dashed out. 

            Once the witch was happy I didn’t have louses, she threw a white towel on top of me clothes. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’ She left the room huffing and puffing. 

            Me skin was stinging, and red like a cooked lobster. Miss Jones taught me what happens to lobsters when they’ve been cooked. I drained the bath and the water whizzed down the plughole and made a rude noise. Mam would like a bath like this instead of having to heave the tinnie out into the yard to empty it. Sometimes I helped now that Da had died. What was Mam going to do without me? Who would help to feed Betty and cook the sausage and mash? I wrapped the massive towel around me belly, it was soft on me sore skin and I dabbed meself dry. I was climbing into the clean shorts just as Martha and Annie wandered back in. 

            ‘Good God, look at those rags,’ Martha said to Annie, ‘he can’t possibly meet his Lordship like that. Miss Elizabeth better take him to town in the morning to buy new clothes.’ 

            I lowered me head. There was nothing wrong with me clothes, why did she say that? She sounded just like Grandma. 

            ‘Is his room ready?’ she added. 

            ‘Yes, I’ll take him. George, if you’d like to follow me?’ Annie smiled before marching along the landing making me run to keep up. 

             ‘This is your room. Cook will prepare your dinner and just for tonight you can eat it in here.’ In the morning come down to the kitchen and meet her, she’ll make you breakfast and make a big fuss of you. Martha’s not that bad either once you get to know her. Chin up Chicken.’ 

            Left alone, I explored the huge room, running me fingers over the silky blue cover on the bed. In the mirror of the tall wardrobe I could see the matching chest of drawers. I remembered Mam sitting at her dressing table putting on lippie for Da’s funeral. She just sat staring in the mirror. She didn’t even know I was there. 

            I stomped over to the other side of the room to look out of the wide window. Bees were buzzing over gorgeous purple and pink flowers. A pigeon plodded around on the grass, he must be hunting for worms. I hunted for worms when we used to go to the park with Da, Mam was too sick to come when she was expecting our Betty. I sank me fingers into the gold curtain and brought it up to me face to wipe me eyes. 

            The door opened, I quickly jumped away from the curtain. What was the old witch going to do now? I shivered. Mam, I want me mam.

 

 

 

Sorry to have been so neglectful. It’s been a rough few months. The Research module is finally finished and it’s on to pastures new…

A new module, Prose Fiction – Part of the criteria is to keep a blog. So I thought I’d best get back to mine.

Prose Fiction

Week One

Tuesday 9^th February 2016

Because I’d planned to meet a fellow student for lunch, I left the house around 11:00am and power walked to the station. I used to be able to run part of the journey but since my hip broke I’m limited to fast walking, not just to get there quickly, but to keep warm from the chilled wind.

I arrived at the station to discover my train was delayed by almost half an hour. I’d still be on time to meet my friend but I didn’t fancy sitting in the cold shelter for that long, even if I did have a novel to finish before class.

Luck was with me, the earlier train was also delayed and due to arrive in two minutes. The train pulled in and passengers boarded. I got settled on a window seat and took out Doris Lessing’s, novel, The Grass is Singing. It was a slow train, giving me more time to try and get through the book.

Once at uni, my friend and I checked books into the library before making our way to the Student Union cafe for a light lunch, jacket potato with cheese and black coffee.

It was time to meet our new tutor, Umi Sinha. It was in a room we used last year when studying Narrative. This brought back fond memories. Students arrived and we introduced ourselves.

Part of the criteria for this module is to include a 3500 word piece in prose fiction. My plan at the moment (although subject to change) is to use sections of The Heir of Granville, a sequel to House of Grace, but can be read as a standalone. Don’t worry I haven’t forgotten about Grace, I’m hoping to use the next few months to find an agent or publisher and get her out into the big world.

Our first task today was to discuss The Grass is Singing. Have any of you read it? It took me a while to get into it but once in, I found it enjoyable, although ‘enjoyable’ is probably not the right word. We discussed settings and Doris Lessing certainly manages to achieve this with her visual descriptions of the world she creates in the story.

We looked at the conscious and unconsciousness processes of writing and discussed dreams. For me I see a dream as a gift as most of my writing is derived from when I sleep. If I’m having problems with a scene in prose or a particular subject in a poem then I think about the idea before sleeping which sows the seed. During the night the idea sprouts and starts to blossom once my pen hits paper.

It’s was then time for practical work. I always get a bit apprehensive at this point. What happens if I can’t do it? Silent panic stirs within me. Umi announces that she would like us to do a piece of writing about a familiar place—

but wait for it…

‘Write it as a blind person,’ use all senses except sight. Have you ever tried this? It’s really hard to write without using sight but it makes you concentrate on the other senses. It was fun and I relaxed because I had a subject to write about. I turned to one of my favourite places, a park close to my home.

Write about a familiar place without using sight senses.  (A first draft without edits.)

I strolled along the crunching footpath; my nose itched as I took in the fragrance of  spring flowers. Children shrieked with laughter whilst lads roared ‘goal.’ Something pounded at my knees. I bent down to lift it up and threw it back into the field.

‘Thank you,’ returned the yells.

Heat from the sun forced my cardigan off my shoulders. Raindrop Prelude echoed in my ears. Chopin’s storm was a complete contrast to now, it was so still with no sign of breeze. The taste of pineapple swilled around my mouth and quenched my thirst.

By doing this exercise I am homing in on the conscious, concentrating on senses other than sight. This has taught me to make sure I make use of all senses and not just sight when writing in future. Why not have a go yourself?

Following completion of the task, it was time to take turns reading out our work. Nowadays this isn’t an issue for me but I remember when I first started creative writing with the Open University that I sat silent and just listened to the other students because I was too scared to join in.

Oops, I got so engrossed in writing this blog that I almost burnt tonight’s dinner, Spinach Lasagne. Phew, thank goodness it was only almost.

Back to Prose Fiction Session…

The next exercise was to ‘describe a character waking up, they don’t know where they are and it’s pitch black. What do they do next? The idea here is to create tension and a hook. Well that was eerie, as quite often the way with prompts my writing turns dark. Maybe I should give up writing family saga novels and start writing horror. Food for thought.

Describe a character waking up – they don’t know who they are – It’s Pitch Black – What do they do next? (again unedited)

I opened my eyes but all I see is black and hear a trickling sound. A cold drip hits my forehead. My arms are tied? My head throbs.

‘Where am I?’ I shout but no one comes.

Something scratches the walls. My God what is it? And what’s that running up my legs? I can’t lift up to see or shake it off. It’s so black and chilled. I want to go home.

A door slams. Heavy footsteps crunch towards me…

This exercise brings home that I need to make sure that I leave the reader with a hook to make sure they turn over the page. I aim to end each chapter of my novel with a bit of tension to keep the reader interested.

The final exercise was a choice. We could either ‘describe a room where the occupant of the room is absent.’ Or the other option was to write a journal entry for the day’s session. I chose the first option:

Describe a room where the occupant of the room is absent. (unedited)

The rich plum drapes hung down from the pelmet, brushing the skirting boards. My fingers sank into plush fabric. You don’t see curtains like this anymore…

I perched on the bed. Softness of the matching eiderdown beckoned me to lie down, the pillow hugged my head. The sun reflected on a glass box on the dressing table. Curiosity got the better of me. I rolled off the bed and lifted the lid on the box. A ballerina danced as Brahms Lullaby played.

I gazed into the triple vanity mirror but didn’t recognise the face that stared back. My eyes were drawn to the oil portrait on the wall. I stared back into the glass. The faces matched. I touched my face, my skin was smooth. I ran my fingers through my hair; it was still short and spiky. This mirror lied. Here in front of me was a woman with lines on her face mapping her years. Her faded, almost grey hair, snatched back in a bun.

Who owned this room? How did I get here? Had the woman in the glass, stolen my soul?

And that was the end of the exercises. Here’s a breakdown of what we covered during the session.

What we covered:

 (Supplied by Umi)

1. Finding the balance between control and allowing your writing to flow. Balancing the conscious and unconscious processes.
2. Creating a world for your story – geography, rules, social mores and attitudes, way people speak.
3. Building tension and suspense – how to keep the reader hooked.
4. Using the senses.

Not bad for the first session, eh?

And that was the end of the first seminar. I enjoyed meeting a new tutor and students as well as old friends from last year.

I had a good journey home with only a few minutes to wait for the train. It was pouring with rain by the time I reached my destination so I shot up my umbrella and started to power walk, arriving home wet, cold and hungry.

The day wasn’t over, I had reading group. Here, we discussed Colm Tóibín’s novel Brooklyn, a much lighter read than Doris Lessing’s.