YR 1. The Tide - Alexandra Clifford.

Walls of blue had never been so cold before. Even in the icy months of winter, when the lakes rose three feet higher than usual, and the ice spread amongst the dock; nothing compared to the frigid stare that my little girl pursued. Her hair like fire complimented the rising flush in her cheeks. Eyebrows narrow, jaw tight, as if she was practising telekinesis. I suppose she was trying to make sense of it all. The cottage pie that was slumped in front of her wasn’t steaming anymore. Eating was probably the last thing on her mind, and as for her homework…well, I suppose I would let that one slide.
        Running my tongue over my teeth I wondered what to do. I couldn’t lie to her anymore, even more so I couldn’t keep lying to myself. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I studied her. What was she thinking? Did she hate me? A thin layer of sweat covered my palms as the silence felt longer than a decade. A sudden wave of ambivalence towards my husband swamped my body. I needed him; and I hated it. “Malcolm?” It was his turn. We had agreed beforehand that I would do all the talking; after all I didn’t want him to lose his temper. However, I was currently lost for words.
        As I turned towards my husband, my short hair hung just above my shoulders. The hairs brushed against my neck a few times before coming to a halt. I widened my eyes at him. Talk to her. Say something. Nothing but an eye role and a shitty attempt at a shrug escaped his body. He slouched back on the other end of the sofa. Resting his elbow on the arm, and his fingers just about holding his head up. His fingertips were hiding in those auburn curls I once use to adore; now dishevelled on his head. The same applied with his facial hair, there was a tremendous lack of care. The circles underneath his eyes were like dark pillows. He glowered back at me. I couldn’t help but notice his eyes, the one’s that once oozed passion every time he looked at me, now vacant. I can still recall the first time I saw those eyes, the day, the date. It was the first time Seabrooke had ever felt like home to me.

Master of The Mind by Sky Year One

This is a workshop piece for our workshop session on Tuesday 1st March. This poem was inspired by Renaissance poetics and beliefs. After doing some reading into this era, I became interested in the history and the style of thinking, in particular the concept of humanism. This piece discusses the theme of humanism, knowledge, and discovery. 


Master of The Mind

What is Knowledge?

It inspires, baffles 

And crackles,

Full of potential, full of courage.

It is a diver, exploring the depths

The dark, narrow alleyways.

In the face of danger, it retaliates

A golden sack of coins - wealth.

It re-emerges, victorious

Shining, like a pearl in the darkness.

Discover it within the pages - luxurious 

And open your eyes to the boundless

Wealth of knowledge.

Begin to break down the barriers

Of restriction and learn,

To see not with your ears,

But with your eyes.

Showing and Telling by Kayleigh Hartt and Emma Pullen

I found Show Don’t Tell the weirdest advice I was ever given when it came to writing. Due to the nature of thinking that you told a story not so much as showed the reader the story. Yet with the idea and concepts behind showing and telling I understand why such technique is important and well used.  Show Don’t Tell is the most common term for Showing and Telling, in which an author especially uses this to convey strong emotions or set the scene. However it can be used quite badly when it comes to inexperienced writers. 

 

Many people believe that you should use much more showing then telling due to more readers or even authors believing that showing creates a much better atmosphere in which this helps create the story. However this is not the case, both aspects have equal value as you can always use too much of either of them which is where the inexperience comes into play.

Show, Don’t tell sounds like an easy phrase with an easy technique to help you go forward in your writing however most of the time a lot of people may or may not spot when they are using it unless they are doing it deliberately to gain a reaction from the reader. Showing allows emotions, thoughts and feelings to be evoked with uses of changing sentence structure and words to allow a different type of sentence to form. Whereas with telling the reader something you are directly telling them about the situation and informing them of what is going on.

Like I said before both have their equal rights and Telling is very much so undermined by Showing although you can be really bad at showing. Sometimes you really do need to be straight with the reader, point out the obvious and tell them the situation that are currently reading to get the point across whether it be serious or emotional however in most case’s you can get away with showing the reader.

Also I found that typically it shouldn’t really be named show don’t tell, it should be named Show and Don’t JUST tell as that really emphasis that fact that it is okay to tell because sometimes that’s all you can do.

 

Here is when and where you should show the readers what happened?

·         Conflict - in the mind of the character or with another character or society.

·         Setbacks or obstacles that prevent the character from achieving his or her goal

·         Turning point, such as an illness, marriage, break up and job loss

·         Crisis - such as when you or the character runs out of options and must make a painful and stressful decision.

Showing the reader what happened in areas like this are areas that can really bring out emotions. Using all five sense are one of the main aspects that helps you really develop Showing and Telling.

Here is how you can show your readers a character or what happened?

·         Sensory imagery - use language that appeals to the sense of sight, taste, smell, touch, hearing

·         Vivid details that are concrete, specific, particular

·         Metaphor and simile

·         Symbolism - something or some object that represents more than its literal meaning.

·         Personification - using descriptions, traits, adjectives applied to human beings to describe things that are not human. Example: The rock growled at us as we walked past.

 

Here is how you can show your readers by constructing a scene?

Creating a scene is one of the main aspects that need to be broadcasted in a story. You need to help the reader understand and feel the world they are stepping into when they are reading. There are a lot of details you can add that help to craft the scene you need without actually telling the reader where they are.

You can craft a scene with the following characteristics:

·         Dialogue - what is said by characters in the story, both the main character and supporting cast.

·         Action - describing the conduct of the character with significant details.

·         Sensory imagery - language that appeals to the sense of sight, smell, touch, taste, hearing.

·         Details - significant and particular details; sensory images.

·         Descriptions – Concrete and specific descriptions.

However sometimes, you’ll be required to tell your readers what happened by compressing time and leaving out many of the important, particular details. Essentially, you’ll summarize what happened. There are many suggestions or guidelines that you can use to help you determine when to show and when to tell. When telling someone it can be one of the easier techniques to slip into because you don’t realise you are actually doing it. Telling is an automatic reaction but it can also be one of the most powerful techniques to use in certain situations.

Here is when you should tell your readers what happened?

·         Backdrop of the story – setting of the story, such as time and place and context

·         Exposition - The writer provides the reader with background details about plot, setting, character, theme.

·         Interpreting an experience or event - Sometimes you will need to explain the significance of a scene.

·         Repeated experiences - such as daily rituals or events.

Also when telling you can make telling a lot more exciting in certain ways by writing a summary. Although it can become a list of things a character has done it can also show their personality in just one snippet of time.

Jane Burroway in Writing Fiction suggests that there are two ways to write a summary:

·         Sequential summary - The writer tells the reader what has happened with a condensed and compressed version of the story. Significant details are omitted.  Instead, the story is summarized.

·         Circumstantial summary - The writer uses summary to describe the circumstances for repeated details or what has happened, such as time, place, cause, effect, reasons for occurrence.

Essentially in the end you should use both. Both Showing and Telling have their equal attributes you just need to use and utilise them to their full extent, and in the end, nothing is better than telling someone point blank that a main character has died.

 

Year One Workshop Piece; Immortal by Sophie Holmes

Hi everyone, slightly later than planned (sorry) but here is my piece for our workshop on 23rd February. This piece was inspired by Jodi Picoults's Nineteen Minutes. It's also a first draft and needs a lot of improvement but enjoy!
Edit: You might have a few questions regarding the piece but I hope that I've made things clear enough.

IMMORTAL

Mother always said I was special but until now, I didn't know how or why. Everything is different now. Everyone knows how special I am.

It all started in high school. Playtime was over, it was time to study hard. I didn't have the time for friends and I saw no reason for anyone else to either. Yet cliques formed and groups merged. It really seemed like no one cared about their education, no one except me. I was always the quiet one, always had my nose in a book, always hated speaking in class. In my opinion, the worst thing a teacher could do was to force a student to speak in class, it was borderline torture. My hands would shake uncontrollably and my heart would beat a thousand times a minute. If I knew I was going to have to speak in class, I'd rehearse what I would say, perfecting my words but when the time came to speak, my words came out a jumbled mess. Again and again I'd make a fool out of myself and everyone would laugh.

This is how my entire high school career went. Everyone knew me but no one knew my name.  But I knew all of their names. Every single one of them. I knew every couple, every friendship group and every pair of enemies. I knew who was failing what class and those who cared more then they let on. I knew everything. I had the power to end them all.

When the final exams came around, everyone changed. Panic hung around in their air like a bad smell. The library was always filled with dozens of frantic students, flipping through textbooks hoping to find the answer to all of their problems. Social lives were paused and 'study groups' actually became study groups. People were actually caring about their education, they had finally become a part of my world. 

But they were unwelcome in my world.

I wasn't about to let these idiots into my world. They were all so different compared to me. Jocks, musicians, scientists. They didn't fit in with me academically. Socialites, sluts, groupies. I didn't fit in with them socially. So why were our worlds colliding into one? And how was that fair?

It wasn't fair, nothing in life ever is. 

So, like the good little student I was, I helped everyone. I colour coded their revision notes, I wrote their revision notes. I answered every last question that was thrown at me. But they still didn't learn my name. They still didn't care about me. And it hurt like hell. But at the same time, that period in time was a real eye opener. I knew exactly what I had to do.

Fast forward three weeks (that's twenty one days for those of you who can't count) to the final exam, English Language. Four questions on a random text and then the freedom to write whatever you wanted, as long as it was fiction and as long as it was good. I breezed through the first four questions, they were easy, too easy but hit a wall when it came to the creative side. I just didn't know what to write. Panic flooded my veins and terrorised my mind. This was the one thing I was good at, why was nothing happening?

And then it hit me. There was a reason no one liked me, I was worthless. They all thought I was expendable, they all thought I was nothing.

Why did they think I was nothing?

Like the flip of a switch, the panic inside me vanished and was soon replaced by an explosion of rage.

I liked the idea of explosions.

An explosion was exactly what I needed to make them see who I really was. But it had to be done right. If I messed up, they wouldn't think any different of me.

I wanted to stop them from thinking at all.

But if I succeeded, I would become immortal. 

I wanted to be immortal.

Reaching into my blazer pocket, my fingers closed around a lump of cold metal. It was my father's lighter, given to me shortly after he died, I never went anywhere without it. I'd never used it before but there was a first time for everything. All I had to do was make a few objects catch fire. This exam paper, the jumper of the bitch in front of me, anything that had the potential to explode.

I was stupid, I actually thought a tiny lighter could cause an explosion, I should've paid attention in science class.

Within minutes, several tiny fires had broken out around me and screams began to echo around the hall. For once, I was the centre of attention and people were looking at me. They were noticing me.

They keep telling me that someone died that day. I don't see how, it was just a story, a story the examiners wanted me to write. I was only doing what they wanted. I wrote a good story.

You look at the girl before you, she is a broken mess. Yes, she wrote that story for her exam, yes she fantasised about harming her classmates but no, she doesn't think she killed one of them. She thinks she is innocent, she swears on it. But she did kill one of them, set them on fire. She never fit in and she wanted someone to pay for it, she never did see that it was her choice not to fit in. You sigh, it's going to be difficult explaining this to her but you try. 

As predicted, she doesn't listen, instead her eyes glaze over and she seems to fall into a day dream. You see a sudden spark of anger in her eyes but you react seconds too late. She stands and charges at you, scissors in hand. You feel a sudden burst of agony and a warm liquid running down your neck. The last thing you see is the girl, hands covered in blood, shock on her face. 

I am immortal.

Dialogue – by Kevin Kissane, Bethany Ashley, and Lydon Colston

  

Dialogue can be difficult to write effectively, and as a result difficult to read effectively. Have you ever wondered how writers successfully create dialogue that reads well? 

Dialogue in written work refers to the words spoken between characters in a short story, or a novel/novella. It further refers to a character speaking to themselves within a story. Writers often use dialogue to reveal the personality of characters, as it’s a great way of “showing” characteristics or describe setting without “telling” them. Dialogue is often used in writing as a way to portray conflict between characters to the reader, and as a way of advancing the narrative. When writing effective dialogue, it’s imperative to develop conversation between characters that the reader recognises as natural, realistic discussion.

Typically, there are two main types of dialogue in storytelling, inner dialogue and outer dialogue.

In inner dialogue, the characters speak to themselves and reveal their personalities. Writers use inner dialogue by employing a stream of consciousness for the character, or by using a dramatic monologue. This can be seen in the works of authors like Virginia Wolf, who regularly employs linguistic techniques like these, in order to show certain traits of her characters.

Outer dialogue is a simple conversation between two characters, and is used in almost all types of writing works, whether that be fictional or non-fictional work. However, writing effective outer dialogue is not as simple as it seems. In “The Art and Craft of Storytelling,” author Nancy Lamb explains that “the goal of writing dialogue is to not mimic how people speak; the goal of the writer’s dialogue is to create the illusion of authenticity.” There are many great ways to create an illusion of authenticity in character’s dialogue.

Dialogue is a literary device that can be used to advance narrative in a way that no other literary device can. Literary writers employ many different linguistic techniques and devices in order to develop their narratives, and portray their characters’ personalities. These include: exposition, description, characterisation and so on. However, dialogue is perhaps the most valuable tool for a writer, as dialogue can successfully portray setting, location and even the age or education level of a character.

Accent and Dialect

Using a particular accent and dialect for your character will allow the reader to determine what location and time the story is set in. Through particular choices of lexis in characters’ dialogue, the reader can also decipher what sort of lifestyle the characters have. Accent and dialect also adds authenticity to a conversation, and helps writers to achieve a conversational, realistic dialogue between two characters.

One example of a story which has successfully used accent and dialect to advance their narrative and reveal information about characters, is 'Of Mice and Men' by John Steinbeck. This novel is often considered to be difficult to read and understand, but there's no doubt that the chosen dialogue captures the authenticity of the characters, their education level, their mental health, and their birthplace. Steinbeck successfully creates indirect characterisation through his use of dialogue. A character's traits, such as personality, are defined through the character's actions, dialogue, or through the dialogue of other characters. 

Example:

"Lennie looked timidly over to him. "George?"

"Yeah, what ya want?"

"Where we goin' George?"

The little man jerked down the brim of his hat and scowled over at Lennie.

"So you forgot awready, did you you? I gotta tell you again, do I? Jesus Christ, you're a crazy bastard!" 

In this particular example of Steinbeck's dialogue, the reader is able to determine the setting, character, conflict, and the relationship between Lennie and George. By using a particular dialect, words like "ya" and dropping g's, it can be inferred that the characters are from the Southern United States. From this conversation between the two characters, the reader can also observe that Lennie forgets things very easily. George's aggressive response leads the reader to believe that this isn't the first time Lennie has done this, suggesting that Lennie's character possesses a learning disability. George's response also portrays to the reader that he is short tempered, being quick to lose his patience. Just from this section of dialogue, the reader is now aware that the two characters have conflicting personalities, all without having ever been told. 

Radio

The link below contains and audio file of an 'Of Mice and Men' radio play. 

Read along with a script version to note the translation of text into spoken word. 

http://www.kristaprice.com/Krista_Price/Final_Scenes_2_files/OF%20MICE%20%26%20MEN%20SCRIPT%20(scene).pdf

This play demonstrates the importance of dialogue, as the actors have to describe what the audience can't see. With the absence of visuals, dialogue is crucial, as the actors have to use their voice to portray every aspect of the script. This enforces the idea that dialogue is important for communicating to the reader or audience what is happening. It is an important tool for crafting character and revealing narrative.

Alex Pritchard Year 2- Going Back

“Does it even matter?”

They ask themselves,

Hiding behind the night.

Ghoulish creatures nearby,

Devouring the streets,

Life becomes meat,

What glitters is maimed.

There is no future.

Illuminating the crimson,

Malevolence drowned by sun,

Indigo bleeds from the horizon,

Spikes across the sky,

Stakes penetrating hearts.

Yes, please,

Oh saviour return us,

Utopia where nothing changes.

You must go back,

There is nothing left.

But there’s nothing there,

It was all supposed to be here.

Live no more,

I belong to dreams.

“No, nothing ever mattered.”

Bathroom Border Patrol By Kevin Kissane Year One

Workshop piece 9/2/16 This is a performance poem written in response to a current event in the U.S. right now. A couple of weeks ago Virginia lawmakers introduced a bill that would give teachers permission to verify the "anatomy" of a student suspected of using a bathroom opposite of their "birth gender". This bill would be designed to target transgender students. Additionally a student found using a bathroom not approved by the staff can be fined $50. This includes students from elementary to high school. I wrote this poem in response to this injustice in the voice of a transgender student. 

 

In the break between period seven and eight

my stomach begins to tighten and lurch

in that usual way you come to expect

when you’ve half drowned yourself on diet coke.

I make my way to the second floor bathroom by Lab B,

ready to relieve myself, when the algebra teacher,

Mr Doyle, latches onto my shoulder.

His talon fingers gripping hard like

I am a field mouse, and he is a bird of prey.

“Hey!” he says. “I know what you were about to do.”

It’s a bathroom Mr. Doyle, how many things

could I possibly have to do in there?

“You think you’re funny?” he asks.

You would think after twenty

long years as an educator he would know

that if you ask a teenager a rhetorical question

you will get a rhetorical answer.

I do think I’m funny Mr. Doyle, but

that wasn’t meant to be a joke.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

Grip growing tighter, buzzard eyes fixed,

of all the places he could look, squarely on my groin.

“That is the girls’ room you are headed for.”

What is your point sir? I have to ask.

I am crushed under the weight of his hands.

“Young man,” he says. “No amount of fabric

sewed up in those skirts could ever disguise

what is hiding underneath.”

Sir, I say, if I could pull out an X-ray,

I would let it show you the true shade of my insides.

If I could paint the mirror to reflect not the flesh

between my thighs, but the colour and shape

of the soul behind these eyes I would.

But this is Virginia, where school kid’s privates

are made into public property.

House Bill 663 would have me prove my anatomy.

Bathrooms now barricaded with border patrol,

stripping down students in the hallway as if

their identification is really something

that can be found dangling between their legs.

The colours of the world are changing.

What was once only seen as black or white in hue

is now categorized girl pink and boy blue.

This is what we’ve come to.

Children are appraised like automobiles.

School boards pulling us over for inspection

verifying that our pre-approved design

matches the sex of our undercarriage.

They never think to check inside.

They neglect our interior finishes.

Even now as we leave our doors unlocked,

the windows rolled down, our lights

flashing, sirens flaring, screaming

there is more to me you cannot see.

I am genderless and free. 

Jump Training by Zoe Chisengalumbwe - Workshop (Year One)

Jump Training 

Most of these people don’t see. 

Sleep is a mistake. It holds

A promise of cardiac arrest, with every swish of carriage doors.

I can’t think of anything drearier.

Mystic lands to glancing up at some string-bearded freak.

I would be armed with excuses. 

First of all, I had it worse than all

These other passengers. 

There was only half a minute, the machines malfunctioned. 

Of course I was prepared to pay. 

Not entirely sure 

(Actually I was certain) of where you were. 

I’m buying my ticket now. 

And if that doesn’t work

another excuse, 

which in part, 

holds more truth. 

I can’t find it

I never bought it 

In my pocket, It was never 

I must have lost it.

Excuse 

one, 

stop away 

would you, dismiss this 

I’m 

under-age 

terribly 

frightened  

I

                                                                               Jump 

the train. 

Untitled - Cesar Badillo Year 2

Dead skin dancing in my bedrooms stagnant air, illuminated by the faint light coming from the half closed curtain in front of my bedroom window. I woke up late today, as the day was ending and the sun was setting my eyes barely began to open. I feel the itch in my throat, the void in my stomach and the cloud in my head; symptoms that mark the excess of dreams and the presence of sloth. I thought of the few reasons I had to get up, I went through them ad nauseam, making the short minutes feel like hours. Despite the atrophied synapses caused from the torpor of sleep, I managed to remind myself that it was a weekend. There were no responsibilities today, nothing to pull the chains with enough force to start the engine of routine. The monotony of labour would be replaced with the possibility of self-realization – opportunity so tightly scheduled that it itself becomes another routine.

I should feel good; I should be filled with the spontaneous ecstasy that comes at the realization of opportunity and rest. Or I should rejoice at the fact that at least for a day I would not be obligated to walk the usual daily rut. That at least for a day I would not have to deal with the hordes of vacant eyes or smell the diabetic breath coming out of my managers’ tired mouth. But as I stare at the pale pastel shade of my bedroom’s ceiling I feel no joy or sorrow. I am stuck in the profound inertia of my apathy, lacking in absolute, any subtle, minuscule, extract of ambition.

My bowels groan.

***

Autumn is a faint season. People dislike the early darkness of the day and the silent cold that follows it. The narrow village streets are lonely; few brave the solitude of fall. But when I pass by the occasional traveller I feel the distant warmth of sympathy; knowing that for a second we are levelled to the same plane of struggle. For a short instance our beings mirror in recognition and solidarity.

Apart from the periodic lights produced from the approaching vehicles in the obscure horizon, I am left with the arithmetic illumination of the parallel series of street lights. Their warm glow not only light the way forward, but also invoke a false sense of security within me. Like a child that fears the darkness of night until the first light of dawn, the electric light of the torches mocks the radiance of the sun. The perfect orbs of light bordering the heavy umbra, feel invasive; a constructed artefact interrupting the smooth, natural silence of the night.

The stranger’s walk is quick and unorganized, he is in a hurry. His hands are cocooned inside his coat to shelter them from the lifeless frost in the wind. A subtle hunch deforms his shadow and projects an outline reminiscent of the occult. He faces me, and heads the other way, over to the suburbs, back to warmth and comfort. A quiet farewell – he disappears, and I am left alone.

News in Creative Writing: Working with actors and motion capture adventures!

The second term rolls around in the barrel of time and things have been very busy. I’ll be putting two interesting events together in this post as this is the only time (on the train to Farnham) that I’ll have a chance to write about things.

               

Writers and Actors Workshop

Yesterday CWers linked up with Acting and Performance students in our first workshop designed to give both cohorts a chance to peer in the world of each other’s craft. Acting and writing stand in relation to one another the way that a blueprint and a building do and we worked from this idea to help get scripts on their feet and to consider if another parking space was required or another stairwell needed to be built (extended metaphor here, don’t ya know).

After a warm-up led by my colleague Sian Rees, actors and writers were separated in order to have a discussion about the difference between the practices. Writers and actors were then pared off to begin exploring their scripts with a basic read through. The read through though has a different temperature and pace to even a basic reading with movement, so we then setup stage spaces to see how the scripts looked in action and time.

This process was perhaps the most interesting, as it showed some writers the difference between the page and the stage. While it is easy to emphasise the importance of the difference between the two, the best way to understand it is to see something played out and feel, perhaps with a red cheek or two, how ‘what is in your head’ might or might not translate to the acted environment.

After some more work and play with the scripts, we shared some of the initial results and I can honestly say I was impressed by what had been achieved. In every case there was a clear and interesting beginning and a real diversity of styles and tones. A great experience that will be repeated in a few weeks, where we will work more on these scripts and see how they have developed after a rewrite.

Motion Capture at Shepperton Studios

I’m a moderately busy person and while I spend too much time playing computer games, I do in fact get some writing done. One project I’m currently trying to get off the ground in a fantasy storytelling show called ‘The Book Garden’. The idea was fortunate enough to come to the notice of Phil Stilgoe who runs the motion capture company Centriod 3D, based at Shepperton studios. Phil is very interested in digital puppetry and its applications within a MoCap environment, so he invited us in for an R+D day to help develop the character pipeline for one of the lovely characters in the show. Here’s some very bad photographs to prove we were there and people were running up and down flapping their wings like a bird.

See the kind of interesting things Centroid do here: http://www.centroid3d.com/

Watch this space for more news as the project develops.

That’s all for now!

Craig