I'm taking a 5 week creative writing class through work. A proper real live published author is the tutor and there's only 8 people in the class and I'm really enjoying it.
In the first class we did an exercise and we had to think of a place from our lives and then we took it in turns to think of a way of describing this place. For example, if this place was a part of the body, what part would it be? Others were if this place was a colour, what colour would it be, what kind of drink, what kind of food (yeah, that one was mine), what kind of car.
At the end of the exercise we had a list of about 20 descriptions and our homework was to expand on this list and to use it as a base to write a story of 200-300 words
The place that I chose was the street that I grew up on in St Albans.
The Street
The sky is clear, the wintry sun provides no warmth as the starched net curtains of the street twitch, welcoming the new arrival. The immaculately turned out housewives clutch their pearls to their throats as they strain to catch a glimpse round perfectly trimmed hedges. Lips are pursed and tuts almost audible as the front door closes.
These houseproud women neglect the vacuum and the dusting as imaginations work overdrive. Tea is drunk with cucumber sandwiches as the afternoon's event is disected, analysed. A full report is due as soon as the company cars arrive on the driveways.
Phone lines buzz as calls are made, notes compared, opinions shared. I didn't think they'd really do it, I didn't think it was possible, those boys are bad enough, what were they thinking? The same comments resonate in houses up and down the street. The chattering classes are alive and well in the street and nothing draws neighbours closer than a feeling that the carefully crafted facade of perfect suburbia might be under attack.
At her new home, she is blissfully unaware that her forever family is responsible for bringing down the tone of the neighbourhood.
She cries.
Welcome ... home.
In the first class we did an exercise and we had to think of a place from our lives and then we took it in turns to think of a way of describing this place. For example, if this place was a part of the body, what part would it be? Others were if this place was a colour, what colour would it be, what kind of drink, what kind of food (yeah, that one was mine), what kind of car.
At the end of the exercise we had a list of about 20 descriptions and our homework was to expand on this list and to use it as a base to write a story of 200-300 words
The place that I chose was the street that I grew up on in St Albans.
The Street
The sky is clear, the wintry sun provides no warmth as the starched net curtains of the street twitch, welcoming the new arrival. The immaculately turned out housewives clutch their pearls to their throats as they strain to catch a glimpse round perfectly trimmed hedges. Lips are pursed and tuts almost audible as the front door closes.
These houseproud women neglect the vacuum and the dusting as imaginations work overdrive. Tea is drunk with cucumber sandwiches as the afternoon's event is disected, analysed. A full report is due as soon as the company cars arrive on the driveways.
Phone lines buzz as calls are made, notes compared, opinions shared. I didn't think they'd really do it, I didn't think it was possible, those boys are bad enough, what were they thinking? The same comments resonate in houses up and down the street. The chattering classes are alive and well in the street and nothing draws neighbours closer than a feeling that the carefully crafted facade of perfect suburbia might be under attack.
At her new home, she is blissfully unaware that her forever family is responsible for bringing down the tone of the neighbourhood.
She cries.
Welcome ... home.
I love it Mel - I wish I could write like that.
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