All I can say is thank the goddess I decided to spend time studying while signed off work. I think I might have lost my mind if I wasn't researching for my SVQ3 assignments in Social Care and working on my DIY MFA in Creative Writing. Huge thanks to my study buddy Paul who has enjoyed our discussions about this month’s text or indulged me at least.

To avoid boredom, I devoured this month’s text in less than two weeks. I grabbed something from my additional reading list rather than skipping ahead to next month’s book. I may write a new blog post about the second book when I finish it. With regards to Wordsmithery (August's set text) I’m including some of the things I’ve learned, quotes that resonated with me, and a few of the exercises I worked on. My work is rough and first draft, for fun rather than publication, but posting them here isn’t akin to saying this is my best work. Indulge me or don’t read them. Either is perfectly fine.

Apart from melting from the heat, studying frenzies and trying to walk as much as my laziness allows – exercise classes are easier to get motivated for but a no-no while my shoulder heals – I’ve experimented with ordering new food items in my grocery shop. I'm currently obsessed with chimichurri, an Argentinian marinade. I used it with roasted veg and grilled tofu to make a subtly flavoured but delicious dinner, and have been drizzling it over cheese on toast. Two slices of gluten-free bread are topped with mature cheese, slices of tomato and drizzles of chimichurri then stuck under the grill – heavenly. It’s like pesto, but more exciting.

My next x-ray is in two weeks. If the shoulder bone is healed, I can start strengthening my arm with exercises and physio – here’s hoping.

DIY MFA Creative Writing August 13th update:

This month’s text was Wordsmithery: the writer’s craft and practice, edited by Jayne Steel. I’ve also read the first third of The Writer’s Journey: mythic structure for writers, by Christopher Vogel.

In chapter one we were asked to provide a list of favourite and least favourite things – place, time of day, time of year, piece of music, book, and word. We were then told to make a two-stanza poem from our favourite and least favourite words plus those of four fellow students. As it’s currently just me and my study buddy Paul, I asked three other people for their words and produced a weird little poem that I don’t hate but am unlikely to touch again. Prose is my love, and I have no talent for poetry. Not sure whether it’s a neurodivergent thing, but I don’t hear the beats properly. Sorry about the line spacing. I can't seem to remove the gaps between new lines.

First blossoms of spring herald

Juxtaposition between sleep

And wakefulness – eclectic

Bulbs of daffodils and light

Ancient technology of the universe.

Lady of summer and sleepless nights

That leeches all energy from body and soil

As she ratchets up the blistering furnace

Over rubbish-strewn, crowded beaches

Smelly and rotting – sweat and oil.

My main take from the first chapter was “write into the risk rather than away from it.” I think it’s a useful thing to remember, and it allowed me to play with poetry – a big risk for me.

Chapter two’s exercise was to write three or four different introductory paragraphs to a story, with each version having a different function. This was what I produced:

1.     Current opening paragraph – its purpose is to set the scene through wide lens:

The borrowed, red Ford Escort entered Fyfield Street from the north. Slate roofs and attic windows glowed in the late-September sun, while the street itself was drenched in shadow.

2.     Alternative: provides a snapshot of the world before the call to adventure.

April waited at the edge of the crowd. Results day. Some turned from the board with grins, but most wore veils of disappointment. She felt a presence behind her right shoulder. It was Mr Chalmers, her English teacher. His broad smile reassured her that, whatever the actual outcome, she had met or exceeded his expectations, but would it be enough?

3.     Alternative: its purpose is to amuse readers while also showing the relationship between mother and daughter.

Charlotte’s fingers tickled the steering wheel. April tried to imagine the tune -something frenetic to match her mother’s mood. Already the woman had climbed and descended the graffitied concrete staircase a dozen times, returning with a single frying pan, felt tip pens, a potted plant – things she claimed, April would need at her new home. If they didn’t leave now, April feared her mother might unmoor the kitchen sink and throw it into the boot.

Chapter three was about structure, and it was because of this chapter that I started The Writer’s Journey. Different ways of structuring a novel were discussed, including: Three-Act Structure, Journey, Story Arc, Succession of scenes – 12 main scenes with mini scenes forming the connective tissue between them. A quote from this chapter that resonated with me was: “If a scene was reduced to a single sentence, how much would the story lose?”

Chapter four was about foregrounding the things that make our stories unique through defamiliarisation. If you don’t know what defamiliarisation is, why not read up on it? Unfortuantely, it’s too complex a concept to adequately cover in this blog post. However, if you want me to write a post about defamiliarisation, leave a comment below. I can probably make time to write one for you.

Chapter five was about narrative point of view. I was asked to write a two-hundred-word piece in first person then rewrite it in third person limited, third person omniscient and third person objective. You can read my attempts below:

1st person:

As I glared at her smug face and watched the creases around her eyes deepen, resentment bubbled in my chest. Louise had stolen my childhood as well as my mum’s. Somehow, this dull, grey woman had wormed her way into my grandmother’s life and grown fat on the spoils. I wanted her to suffer as we had suffered.

“Let me through,” I demanded.

Miss Miles’s distress echoed through the hallway. I shuddered, wondering what terrible things Louise had been doing to the old woman to have frightened her so.

“Miss Miles does not want company,” Louise said this in the same tone she’d used while denying me access to the lift on the afternoon of my arrival.

Well, it wouldn’t work this time. I didn’t want to use force, but if she refused to move, I would. “She’s my grandmother,” I said. “If you don’t let me through, I’ll call the police.”

The threat hit home. Fear replaced the look of superiority – her eyes widened, and she drew her bottom lip into her mouth. After studying me for a moment, perhaps trying to decide whether I was serious, she moved aside.

I reached for the doorknob, turned it, and entered my grandmother’s bedroom.

3rd person limited:

The creases around Louise’s eyes deepened. Resentment bubbled in April’s chest as she studied the housekeeper’s smug expression. This woman had stolen April’s and her mother’s childhoods. She had wormed her way into Miss Miles’s life and grown fat off the spoils. April wanted Louise to suffer as she had suffered.

“Let me through.”

Miss Miles’s distress echoed around the hallway. April shuddered, imagining what things Louise had done to cause such anguish.

Miss Miles does not want company,” Louise said, her tone identical to the one she’d used when denying April access to the lift.

It wouldn’t work this time. April didn’t want to use force, but if the housekeeper refused to move, she would. “She’s my grandmother. If you don’t let me through, I’ll phone the police.”

The threat hit home, Louise’s look of superiority crumbled. Her eyes widened and her bottom lip disappeared inside her mouth. The older woman studied April for a moment then moved aside.

April reached for the polished doorknob, turned it and entered her grandmother’s bedroom.

3rd person omniscient:

The creases around Louise’s eyes deepened as a self-satisfied smile stretched her lips. This was her domain, had been for the ten years since her mother passed.

Resentment bubbled in April’s chest. The house and everything inside it belonged to her by rights, her and her mother. Yet this woman had wormed her way into Miss Miles’s life and grown fat on the spoils.

“Let me through,” April demanded.

Miss Miles was screaming. The old woman’s distress echoed around the hallway.

“Miss Miles does not want company.” Louise blocked the doorway. It was her job to protect her stepmother’s honour. The illness waxed and waned, and she had promised to protect her dignity.

April bristled. That arrogant tone reminded her of her arrival at the house. It was Louise’s refusal to let April use the lift that caused the first rift between them. Well, it wouldn’t work this time. She didn’t relish the idea of using force but would if necessary.

“She’s my grandmother. If you don’t let me through, I’ll phone the police.”

Louise’s confidence withered. Her claim on the elderly woman, her position in the house, and even her right to live in this country might not withstand legal scrutiny. Reluctantly, she moved aside and watched the teenager reach for the doorknob. Perhaps it would do April good to witness what lay beneath the surface of this fragile household.

3rd person objective:

The creases around Louise’s eyes deepened.

April balled her hands into fists as she glared at the housekeeper. “Let me through.”

Screams crashed through the bedroom door and echoed around the hallway.

“Miss Miles does not want company,” Louise said sternly.

“She’s my grandmother. If you don’t let me through, I’ll call the police.”

Louise’s eyes widened and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. For a moment, she stayed where she was. Thirty seconds passed before she stepped aside.

April reached for the polished doorknob. She turned it and entered her grandmother’s bedroom.

Chapters six and seven provided quotes for consideration:

“even the details have details,” Sandra McPherson

“Life is full of contradiction and paradox. Writing can and should reflect it,” George Green.

Chapter nine was about writing food and using it to activate memories at a sensory and emotional level. Chapter ten was about using childhood items and memories as a resource for fiction, revealing the difference between a child’s perspective at the time and the adult’s later reflection about what it symbolised. Chapter eleven was about writing home. Using the home as both setting and character or to fuel conflict. Chapter twelve was about intense experiences, emotions and feelings and how your own can be transferred to a character even if the situation is not the same. And chapter thirteen was about writing landscape, using unique details to build authenticity.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to for the past two weeks. I hope you’re managing okay with the weather, and are enjoying your free time, whether you like walking, dancing, reading or writing – or all four like me.

Until next time, Carmilla.