The Five Second Shortcut to Writing in the Lyric Register

The writing exercise that I took on this week was one suggested by Steve Almond. He suggests that many young writers believe that if they throw enough beauty at the page, the results will be truth. In fact, he says, just the opposite is true. The effort to express complex emotional truths with precision is what leads language to rise into beauty. Steve goes on to say that writers need to slow down when their emotions are running their highest.
   The exercise is to write a scene that captures an intense moment in your life. The bulk of the scene must be no longer than 5 seconds in real time. Rather than moving the action forward, the aim is to concentrate on slowing down and moving inward.
   I chose to write about my first kiss. This is not really the most emotional piece ... almost comical. Here it goes:

His thigh was pressed against mine. He was so close. I hoped he wouldn't feel me shaking. I was shaking all over - involuntary muscle spasms, like I was shivering. But the air was so hot that my skin was covered in a fine film of sweat - or was that from nerves as well? I placed my sweaty palm flat on the concrete floor, trying to cool my body down through my hand. In doing so, I also lean closer to him, seemingly casually.
   We were supposed to be a couple. Thirteen years old, and not having spoken much to each other before, our friends all decided that we were supposed to be an item. He was shorter than me, slightly fat around the waist, albino looking, and for some reason, quite popular.
   Maybe he thought that I was quivering with desire, and that I was panting with lust. But it was the complete opposite. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, none of which brought the air to my lungs. I was gulping air, and in my mind I was puffing up like a balloon: ready to burst.
   It came so suddenly. I wasn't even looking at him - I was fixated on my best friend engaged in a passionate kiss across the room with another boy. Somehow his face is suddenly on mine: his lips are suddenly all over my mouth. My eyes stay open and I see his ice-blue irises looking straight back at me. This embarrasses me, that I'm caught with my eyes open (aren't you supposed to kiss with your eyes closed, like in the movies?), but I'm too shocked to close my eyes.
   There is a fat tongue in my mouth, and so much saliva. It is forcing itself in and out through my lips, filling my mouth with fluid. It tastes like vegemite toast. His cheeks seem to puff in and out, like a fish.
   This must be the worst kiss in the world, I thought at the time. I don't think I helped make it any better. I was so shocked, I'm not sure I did anything in response to the sucking fish on my face. I probably just hung my mouth open, and stiffened my tongue, trying to force his out.
   I was instantly disgusted. There was no rising desire, which I have felt with many subsequent kisses with other people. There was no touching, other than than the sucker fish on my lips. There was nothing but vegemite saliva.
   I kept my eyes open the whole time, not engaging in the kiss, just a passive receiver. All I could see was the ice-blue eyes staring straight at me, which I started to feel was a very aggressive stare. The false confidence of a boy who had been told in the past that he was a good kisser.
   I'm not sure if it was as bad for him as it was for me, because he broke away and gave me a dopey smile. I don't know what my face showed in response to that dopey smile (shock, disgust, amusement?), but he must have got the hint that I never wanted that kiss repeated. Because after I struggled up from the concrete floor, trying to keep my mini skirt as far down my legs as possible, he never tried to speak to me again!

You-Me-I-You in the Cafeteria

I did another writing exercise this week, to get the creative juices following. This exercise was suggested by Clyde Edgerton, in my 'Now Write!' book. The exercise is designed to get me thinking from a point of view that is not as easy for me. It's very easy to write from a point of view that is similar to your own - or is your own. In this exercise, Clyde suggests to think of someone you dislike, then imagine that you walk into a cafeteria for lunch and that persons is there. After writing from your own point of view, then turn it around and write from the other person's point of view - get into their head. Here's what I came up with:

My point of view:
   I stretched out my stride as I made my way up the hill. My heels clicked on the concrete footpath and my skirt swished around my knees. It was lunch time, and I was looking forward to a large plate of pesto fettucini at Bella's cafe.
   Reaching the antique green door, I pressed my shoulder against the wood to open the heavy weight. As usual, Bella's was toasty warm, with a wood fire blazing in the heater.
   As I uncoiled my scarf from my neck, I glanced around at the other customers. A couple of middle-aged women sat to the left of the doorway, their elbows on the table as they leaned towards each other. An older man sat at the bench set in the front window, a magazine spread out beside his bowl of soup. A young couple sat far down the back of the dining area. They were quietly smiling at each other, holding hands on the table as they waited for their meals. The final person sat his his back against the double brick wall, nestled behind a small table beside the heater. He had a newspaper spread out in front of him, and his toasted sandwich on a chair beside him, to make space for the broadsheet. It was Simon Wagstaff. 
   My breath caught in my chest, and I nearly groaned and rolled my eyes. Now I wouldn't be able to just relax and enjoy my lunch. I was already tense, just from seeing him, and I practically tiptoed to the counter to order my pesto fettucini, in the hope that Simon wouldn't notice me.
   He was the most arrogant, misogynistic, asshole that I had ever met.
   After I ordered, I chose a table near the young couple, so the direct line of sight to Simon was partially obstructed by the barista's coffee machine.
   When my meal came, I forgot for a while that Simon was in the room, I was enjoying the pasta that much. Then Simon approached the register to pay, just as I was slowing down from shovelling the food into my mouth to savouring each mouthful. He briefly smiled and nodded in my direction, acknowledging me.
   Don't come over, don't come over, don't come over, I prayed as he received his change from the waitress. He turned and walked out of the cafe, the bell jingling happily behind him.

Simon's point of view:
   I really didn't want to go back to work, so I was taking a long lunch break at Bella's, reading The Age and eating my toastie slowly. The place was practically empty, and so warm that I was soon drowsy. 
   The bell on the door jingled, and I briefly glanced up to see Jacqui standing in the doorway, unwinding her scarf. The wife of one of my colleagues, I had come across this confident professional young woman a few times before. She was younger than me, but she made me feel like a child. She was unlike most of the women that I usually dealt with, and she didn't react to my charm like other woman did. In fact, I thought she was attracted to me, and hated it.
   I pretended to keep reading my paper, ignoring her. I sensed her go rigid when she noticed me, and then listened to her clipped walk across the tiles to the counter.
   I almost grinned to myself at her discomfort. I knew she wasn't up-herself, because I had seen her interact with all sorts of people. She fascinated me, and I watched her surreptitiously whenever I had the chance.
   She chose a table where she wouldn't have to look at me, and I was extremely conscious that she hadn't at least said 'hello'. If she had said 'hello', I might have decided immediately to leave her alone. But as it was, for the rest of my lunch I thought about going over and sitting with her, just to annoy her. I knew she would already be sitting and hoping that I wouldn't say or do anything.
   In the end, I decided to leave her in peace. I paid and left with barely a nod in her direction. She gave me a faint smile, and I couldn't wait to see and torment her again.

Animating the Inanimate

I have started writing the first chapter of my novel this weekend. As a warm up, to get me motivated to write, I decided to do an exercise to get myself motivated. From the book Now Write, I decided to do an exercise by Joan Leegant called Animating the Inanimate.
   Joan suggests that ascribing feelings and behaviours to inanimate objects can add surprising elements to fiction. As well as illuminating a character, it can also add depth and texture to the world of the story by suggesting that all things - living and otherwise - play a role in our lives, even if we are not aware of it.
   The exercise is to try to give a physical object some emotions or behaviours of its own, and see what it does for your character and story. The writer can be as tentative or as full-throtle about the object's feelings and behaviours as they want, and be open to what it can show about the world of the story.
   Because I wasn't writing as part of my story, but using it as a warm up, I decided to write a quick piece from the point of view of the first physical object I saw. Here it is:

Unlike some of the others, who are brought out when they're needed and promptly put away, I have pride of place in the kitchen. I never get put away, because I am needed many times each day.
   Therefore, I am well positioned to know what is going on in my house. It is around me that the morning routine rotates. I am there when the happenings of the day are discussed as the sun goes down and the white florescent light shines on. I am privy to the financial discussions, the arguments, and the expressions of love. I witness many embraces, many tears, and many celebrations. I know all the family secrets before anyone else, because I alone am listening when no one else is around.
   They place a lot of trust in me, and they love me for it. It is me that they listen for as the dawn light filters in. It is my side that they cup tenderly, sometimes pulling their hands away with a shock, feeling my warmth. It is I that gets lifted gently, and then replaced in my cradle when they are done. I am indispensable ... I am a kettle.


It feels very childish - like something I would have written in primary school. But it did the trick, and got me motivated to right. I have completed the first draft of my first chapter.

Once Upon A Time

To become a professional writer, I need to make sure my writing is good, if not great. Well, we all know that practice makes perfect.
   The latest exercise I assigned to myself was again from the book Now Write! The exercise is entitled "Once Upon A Time" and was suggested to the editor by Elizabeth Graver. The exercise uses the classic fairy tale, "Little Red Riding Hood," as a springboard for exploring how experimenting with time in fiction can help you explore your characters in more depth. There a four short exercises within this exercise, each of which should only take about 10 minutes. Elizabeth Graver starts each exercise, and then we need to take over the story from where the ellipses end.

1. First person, Subjective Time:

   "What great teeth you have, Grandmother!"
   "The better to eat you with, my dear," shouted the wolf, and with one bound, he sprang out of bed and would have gobbled me right up, had not I been to quick. I ran screaming out of the cottage, and as I ran, all my fears ran close behind me. I saw ... the mill, its stone foundations like a fortress. If I could just make it inside, I knew I would be safe.
   My lungs burned, and I didn't realise until later that I had screamed the whole way to the mill.
   At first, the hot breath of the wolf was blowing on the back of my neck. His paws were thudding on the ground right behind me, it seemed. I can't remember the precise moment when the wolf wasn't chasing me anymore, but by the time I reached the shade cast by the mill, the wolf was gone.
   It was in the shadow of the mill, with my hand reaching out to touch the blue stones, that I finally stopped running and turned around.
   A small crowd had gathered around what looked like the wolf on the ground. But part of its snout and its ears were separated and lying a few feet away. The people were all looking from the wolf to a man who was leaning on an axe handle. Despite everyone congratulating him, the man was watching me.


2. Future Time:

   Little Red Riding Hood was very much frightened but not hurt. Karl took her home to her mother, and after that day she was not allowed to go through the woods alone. What she could not know then, but would learn may years later, after she had a daughter of her own, was that ... wolves were not the only predators to fear. 
   Riding Hood had moved to the city with her husband, and lived in a cottage that was identical to all the other cottages in the street. None of the neighbours spoke to each other, and Riding Hood's daughter was kept in doors to keep her safe. If she went outside, there were many bad things that could happen; being hit by a car, falling out of a tree, bitten by a snake, or even kidnapped by a stranger.
   Riding Hood often wondered if moving back to the village near the woods would give her daughter more freedom, a more relaxed way of life. But there were more opportunities in the city - the best schools, the best piano teachers, the best hockey coach - so they stayed.


3. Animal Time:

Little Red Riding Hood lingered on in the wood, gathering posies for her old grandmother, who could not get out and see the spring flowers grow. At last, tired with her play, she set off to reach her grandmother's cottage. While the girl played, the wolf shambled off through the forest. His legs felt ... energised and springy. His stomach growled with anticipation.
   Once Little Red Riding Hood was out of sight, he took off at a run, stretching his legs and letting the wind whip his lolling tongue against hist cheek.
   As he approached the mill from the woods, he saw immediately the little cottage where the old lady lived. Despite the carefully tended flowers surrounding the little house, the wolf could pick up the musty scent of the elderly on the breeze.
   He paused just inside the tree line, cautious of open spaces and large groups of humans.
   But his hunger exceeded any fear that he felt, so he padded out of the dappled light into the sun. Quickly crossing the open gravel space to reach the white picket fence surrounding the little house, the wolf then raised himself precariously onto his hind legs to knock on the painted green door.


4. The Grandmother's Time, or Time Collapsing:

   "Pull the bobbin and the latch will lift up," called out the grandmother. And the wolf pulled the bobbin, lifted the latch, and entered the cottage. Now the grandmother had lived for ninety years and had seen a great many things. What happened to her next threw her back upon her past, flung her far into the future, and froze her solidly in place, all at precisely the same time. She ... felt like she was in a dream, when your movements are painfully slow, and the danger was racing towards you.
   She thought of the day she had met her husband, and the blue of his smiling eyes. She thought of the eight children that they had raised together, the laughter and joy, and the struggle it had been to feed them all. She felt the happiness that had enveloped her each time one of her children married, and left the cottage to make their own way in the world. She remembered the birth of each of her grandchildren, and also the death of her husband.
   The thought of death jolted her - not her own, but of Little Red Riding Hood's death whom she now knew was on her way to this very house.
   All she could think of to do was try to cause as much damage to the wolf as she should, to give Little Red Riding Hood a chance to escape. She grabbed her knitting needles, and held one in each hand, facing the wolf with resolve.


This was a fun exercise, and could have taken my many directions. For the next five weeks, I will be doing the second creative writing course with the Sydney Writers' Centre, so I will have their assignments to complete. I will post those, instead of doing my own exercises.

Enjoy.

Now Write!

Whilst I'm in between courses, I am trying to keep up with short writing assignments. I bought a book called "Now Write", which is full of fiction writing exercises. Here's the exercise that I flicked open to:

Wedding Cake Assignment: an author called Debra Spark had heard of another writer's (George Garrett) experiment. He had chosen "the wedding cake in the middle of the road" as an image that is unlikely, but needed explanation. The assignments were turned into an anthology. Debra now has her own students brainstorm for puzzling images and then vote for a favourite for them to write about. She suggested the following images as exercises in "Now Write": the fish falling from the sky; or a lawn sign that reads "Wife Wanted, Inquire Within".

I decided to write on neither of the images that Debra Spark suggested, but when back and wrote on the wedding cake in the middle of the road. Here it is:

The main street of Lockingbarr is wide, with shady verandahs stretching out over the dusty footpath. The two blocks over which the shops march side by side are divided by a bridge spanning Frog's Hollow. The townsfolk all have their favourite end of town - the older residents and those who have lived their whole lives in Lockingbarr prefer the end south of the bridge, and those new to town preferred the north.
   A breeze blew some dry leaves down the quiet street, but there was no other movement. Two cars were parked along the curb north of the bridge, their shadows extending far down the road in the early morning light. A bell jingled and a young woman stepped outside, pushing aside plastic streamers. She was followed out by a thin, short man who battled with the streamers that swung back at him.
   The young woman took two long strides on her dainty heels, her skirt swinging around her calves as she pivoted around to face the short man.
   "Thank God that's organised," the woman said briskly. The man nodded, causing some strands of fair hair to flick forward. "I'll tell Mum to cancel her order with Gaffney's Bakery down the south end. There's no way we're having that fusty fruit cake for our wedding."
   The man had stopped abruptly, but now hurried to catch up as the woman pivoted again and strode off towards one of the nearby cars.
   Inside the bakery, Amy was still trying to recover from her consultation. She stood with her hands extended in front of her across the shoulder-high cabinet full of pastries and slices. She chin rested on her chest and her whole body quivered.
   Her business partner emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her white apron. "You ok, love?"
   Amy raised her head and straightened up. "Guess who that was?" Amy didn't wait for Rachel to reply. "Megan Wright. Ordering a wedding cake."
   Rachel's mouth fell open, and she moved over to the cabinet beside her friend. "Did she recognise you?"
   "Of course not!" Amy snorted. It had been nearly fifteen years since Amy had been terrorised by Megan Wright in Lockingbarr Primary School. Amy had been a chubby child, to say the least. She had escaped Megan when they had gone to different high schools, and then Amy had left town to get her business degree. She'd met Rachel at university and they'd been inseparable ever since. Recently, Amy had convinced Rachel to move to Lockingbarr and open this bakery up the north end of town.
   "What are you going to do?" Rachel asked.
   "I'll make the friggin' cake! Double chocolate mud. Three square tiers. White icing. Red roses," Amy reeled off the directions she'd been given.
   "Fine," Rachel shrugged. "You should have told her to piss off. But, anyway. When does she need it?"
   "Two weeks."
   "Jeez she's leaving it a bit late."
   "Her mother had ordered a cake from Gaffney's, down the other end of town." Amy gazed across her counter. She shook her head. "She hasn't changed at all."
   "Lucky guy!" Rachel's sarcasm was like a mist that lingered after she had returned to the kitchen.


Amy rotated the cake slowly, tweaking a rose here and there, turning her head from side to side. Megan Wright was due to collect the cake in an hour, to take it to the function centre before she went to Tiffany's Salon to get her hair done.
   Rachel had wanted to push the cake to the back of the fridge the night before and put a box of lamingtons on top. To hell with the cake - there's nothing Megan could have done about it, anyway. But Amy couldn't wreck her creation on purpose.
   But as she continued to rotate the cake, making tiny adjustments, some of the terror and helplessness crept back into her. She remembered her bruised scalp and trying to cover bald patches where her hair had been yanked out. She remembered being sneered at and pushed aside. She remembered getting surrounded and pinched all over. Most of all, she remembered being the terror of being chased and always knowing that she wasn't fast enough to get away. All at the hands of Megan Wright.
   An hour later, when Megan was driving north across the bridge, she could see something sitting in the middle of the road. She couldn't make out what it was. It was about level with the bakery, so she was slowing the car down when she realised it was a cake. White, three-tiered, with red roses. Her cake!
   She stopped the car in the middle of the road, gripping and wringing the steering wheel as she peered through the window, unable to fully comprehend ...
   Eventually, she shook herself and threw the door open. She stomped up to the cake - was it ok? Someone was going to pay for this!
   The cake would have been beautiful, if it wasn't for the ants trailing over it, and the bees eating the sugar icing.
   Megan swept the cake up and stalked towards the bakery, ignoring the cars trying to negotiate hers, still sitting where she had left it, with the door open.
   Amy stood in the window, watching. Megan wasn't distraught, that was clear, and this annoyed her. As Megan approached, Amy slowed turned the lock over in the door, and displayed the "closed" sign in the window. She know Megan had seen her, and heard her call out, but Amy slowly turned away and walked behind her display cabinet, into the kitchen.
   The cake hit the window with a squwelshing thud.


Please workshop my piece, and give me some feedback.