Photos!

I've uploaded a whole bunch of photos onto Flickr. Thought I should seen as I haven't done so for quite a while now. Some of the photos are pretty recent, and others are from waaaaaay back (well, a year or so anyway...)

Enjoy!

What upsets me

I simply hate that I live in a world where this can happen.


*EDIT* 30/11/07

It just gets worse...

Dialogue

In tonight's Prose Workshop we studied dialogue, something that normally I SUCK at. Actually, that's not strictly true, which has been kind of the point of the last couple of classes. We're all learning our strengths and weaknesses as writers; what to focus on and what to ignore. Me; I tend to write to much internalisation. And when I do, I get away with not writing much dialogue, so I never know whether I'm any good at it and, more to the point, never practice it.
So, if I cut out the internalisation, I'm going to need more dialogue. And, although I'm not very good at it, what I'm learning is that I can get better at it. It just takes practice. Writing, like anything, takes practice. I can already do it fairly well, but I can get so much better. And, I think I'm getting there.

Anyway, I wont subject you to the first excercise of tonight, because I really struggled at hinting at subtext through dialogue. But the second exerciseI really, really enjoyed. In it we had to focus on the main character of something that we are working on at the moment (in this case, my story about a miserable Parisien flower seller) and have them express a strong desire to a secondary character. However, the secondary character fails to help them fulfill their need, as they are too obsessed about something else. In this way, we can create a scene where the needs of the protagonist are shown indirectly rather than told directly, which makes for much better writing.

(insert bad French and Australian accents if desired)

"So, you can help me, Monsieur?"
"Sure man, whatever." The young student flicks open his lighter, then closes it again. "There won't be a trace of the place left, and I'll be in Amsterdam..."
"Do it now! There's no one here!"
"... have you ever been to Amsterdam?"
"No, but..."
"Honestly, the girls... better than here. Okay, Paris is a more beautiful city, I'll give you that. But the girls in..."
"I don't care about girls! I just want..."
"...and I'm not talking about the ones you pay for, either. If anything, they're the ugly ones."
"But..."
"Man, you should come with me! Ah, but wait... you gotta run this place, right?"
"NO! That's what I'm talking about! If you just..."
"I'd hate to be tied down to a job, man. Love the flowers, don't get me wrong. But I can see flowers anywhere. Hey, you don't have any tulips here? In Amsterdam they have... well, I'm sure you know that, right? Not that I'm going there for the flowers though. You know what I mean..."
"SHUT UP!" the flower seller screams, and grabs the man's lighter. "I'll do it myself!" The man takes his lighter back instantly.
"Sorry, can't have that. This baby's been all around the world with me..."

Distant Writing

'Untitled'
An exercise in distant writing (that is, shunning all adjectives, metaphors, similies, thoughts, emotions and feelings.)

I'm lying on my bed next to her. The clock says half two in the morning. She is holding a book near the lamp by my bed, reading the collection of comic strips. Every so often she bursts into laughter. Sitting up I look up and down her body, and then over at the strip she is reading now. She laughs out loud again, and I smile. She turns the page.

"I don't get this one," she says. So I explain it to her, and then she laughs again.
I get up and step over her and off the bed. "I'm just going to the toilet," I tell her. She makes a noise in response. Looking at her I smile again before leaving the room. I turn on the bathroom light and relieve myself, leaving the door open.

The idea of this type of writing is to avoid the overuse of internalisation (writing the thoughts, feelings and opinions of the main character), and this exercise that we did on Monday was very useful for me because I have a nasty habit to internalise A LOT. Authors who write like this, such as Raymond Carver and, of course, Ernest Hemingway, use this technique to create emotion through refusing to engage with it. It also allows the reader to find emotion and feeling beneath the surface, instead of being told how to think by the writer. I really like this way of writing; expect more of it from me.

Scene Writing

Over the past few weeks, I've come to realise something. This Masters is really, truly and honestly improving my writing. I mean, I know that sounds obvious, but it needs mentioning. I can literally feel myself, week on week, learning more and getting better; writing more and writing better. Especially yesterday, when I (and I think everybody in the class) really discovered something about their own style, and their own strengths and weaknesses. We also tried 'Distant' Writing, which I loved. More on that in a few days.

One of my favourite things from this course so far, is this checklist; designed to help you to write scenes that are more engaging and interesting. And on top of that, it actually gets you (well, me) sat on my arse and writing. The checklist was originally written as questions, but I simplified them...



... to fit conveniently on a 3"x5" index card...



... which fits even more conveniently in the accordion pocket of my Moleskine notebook.

Love it. Thank you, Margaret.

Simulation

Those footsteps again; coming back. No-one is talking. We’re all being kept separate; to isolate us – designed to make us feel bored, scared, controlled, powerless. Why don’t I just tell them that I want out. I volunteered, so I should be able to do that, right? I have that power, right?

The footsteps stop in front of my door. The guard looks through the glass again. He looks bored, but not in the same way that I am.

"Tell Dr. Zimbardo I want out. I’ve had enough of this. I want to go home.”

He looks straight at me, barely moving, a robot with black reflective panels instead of eyes. Then he laughs at me. Certainly not something a robot would do, but it doesn’t sound very human either. Would I laugh like that if I was him and he was me?

“You’re not getting out of here any time soon. I say when you leave.”

I stammer, exasperated. “You don’t have that power! Nowhere in the forms did it say you get that much power!”

The guard removes his shades. I don’t think he is supposed to do that. It probably violates the standardised elements of his side of the experiment; that he signed. I think back and remember it. Guards must wear the shades provided at all times when dealing with prisoners, so as to prevent eye contact between the groups.

“You do know you aren’t meant to do that… don’t you?”, I told him.

The guard looks me straight in the eyes. I preferred him with the shades on.

"I can do whatever the hell I want. Because I’m a guard, and you’re a prisoner. That’s how this fucking thing works. Got it?”

- Excerpt from 'Simulation'; a short story based on the Stanford Prison Experiment.
Written for my Literature of Incarceration module.

"Just cut it into cubes..."

Pablo Picasso got his hair cut in Sheffield in November 1950, whilst visiting to attend the second World Peace Conference.

Kier, just accept it...

Sparklers kick ass...

I know Bonfire Night was over a week ago, but I've only just been able to upload these. And they're too cool not to be posted.

For Abbi

'The Insomniac'
A Drabble

It’s 3:29am.

I’m lying in my bed; eyes wide open.

It’s 3:53am.

I’m sitting at my desk, staring at the computer screen.

It’s 4:10am.

I’m screaming at the top of my voice. I hope I wake the neighbours.

It’s 4:38am.

I’m sat on the front doorstep, smoking my 6^th cigarette in a row.

It’s 5:12am.

I’m lying on my kitchen floor; my tears forming a tiny pool by my cheek.

It’s 5:23am.

I don’t need sleep anymore. But I need someone to hold me.

It’s 6:01am.

I’m standing in the back garden, watching the sunrise.

And it is so beautiful.

Here I am...

... back on Blogger.

(Yay for Comments!)