Choose a topic from a previous exercise and write the start of a story, using a particular genre

As the moving van wound its way through the streets, I realised for the first time that this was to be my home - my domain. These streets, these corners and traffic lights and lamp posts would be familiar to me in good time. A new life, a new start. And no men, absolutely no men whatsoever.
When the van pulled up outside number 23, I could see a few faces staring out from behind windows. I tried to ignore them as I unlocked the front door and let the removal men in. It took the better part of two hours to get all my things inside, after initially telling them to leave things near the door then having to move those things out of the way when I realised they were blocking the way. I started to get flustered by the whole affair and when they asked me if I needed help taking things upstairs I utterly failed at explaining where I thought things should go, lost the ability to speak coherently and just told them to go, thanking them for their help.
I sat down in a heap on a pile of boxes, exhausted despite a lack of any great effort, and contemplated where to begin. What would my new home look like? Did I want to reconstruct the old one, albeit in rooms of a slightly different shape? It didn't seem like a good idea. The big leather armchair - if placed close to the TV and opposite the couch - would become Tim's chair again. The memory was too strong. The top drawer would have to be filled or it would become a shrine to his shirts and underwear and worn socks. The sheets he'd made fun of would always be those sheets, the ones they'd woken up with on Sunday mornings, and stayed in, reading, fooling around, until noon. Change then, but how much?
As she lay pondering a clever new furniture configuration, the doorbell went. An unfamiliar sound, and it felt odd to get up in response to it. There was a man at the door - tall, short spikey black hair and just the right amount of stubble to look handsome without appearing lax with regard to person hygiene. "Hi," said the stranger. "I live next door and I was wondering if you needed anything."

Write a story including the techniques of repetition, dramatic present, dramatic action, habitual time, flashback, foreshadowing, starting 'in medias res'

Uncle Hogarth was in the middle of a coughing fit when I came through with the entrees. Aunt Silvia, from my father's side, was rubbing his back and trying to keep him calm. He looked worse than usual.
I was thinking about it last week, when I was putting up the tree. I always do it about a week before. If I took my cue from the tv it'd be up in October. I recalled, as I sorted the ornaments out so that the colours would be evenly spaced, how half of them had come off the previous year when Uncle Hogarth had crashed into the tree during a musical number. It was practically a tradition, his pre-lunch sherry opening an afternoon of drinking that inevitably culminated in him challenging one of the children to a game of snap, or him launching into an impromptu and inappropriate song before falling asleep in the corner armchair. He is not, I am told - year after year by Auntie Bel - a heavy drinker in everyday life. He saved his merriment for Christmas. I've never minded all that much, in fact I think I even find it comforting. Since my parents died it has been this cast of oddball aunts and uncles that have kept Christmas familial. Familiar.
By the time everyone had some food on their plates, Uncle Hogarth seemed to have settled down. He was certainly in the spirit of things - first, as usual, to offer a cracker to one of my cousin's children, first to put on a party hat, first to set a record in target shooting with the party poppers. But his breathing sounded heavy throughout, and it worried me to think that for the first time he seemed old. He had always been old from my perspective, of course. Anyone over fifty is 'old' when you're a child. But now I noticed how wiry his frame looked, how dishevelled his face, how thin his hair. His smile, however bright, threw a hundred wrinkles into relief. I realised that, to an extent, I had been living as a child for the past twenty years, preserving youth through Christmas day. When one of them, these wonderful old maniacs, passed away, the illusion would die with them. It would be the last Christmas for all of them.

Write a paragraph story with one repeating element and one repeating but altered element.

He picked up the scissors and comb, cut away a layer of the damp, grey hair, folded back, repeated. The hair dusted the floor in fine layers. The operation disgusted him. His neighbour, Beth, was doing Mrs Morland. She had better materials to work with. The scissors went up and delicately trimmed the bouncy blond locks. How I hate you, he thought.

Foreshadowing. It happens.

When they first came to couple's counselling, Anna didn't know she was pregnant again If we had known, perhaps the whole endeavour would have been pointless. On that first day, they walked sheepishly into my office as if they'd been called in for being naughty. Many couples are nervous or embarrassed, but these two seemed united in a sense of being unsure as to whether they should be there. They sat down, eyes flitting nervously between each other and myself. I asked them their relationship history and they told me how they'd met at university, how after graduating Tim had got a job in Yorkshire to be closer to Anna, and how they got married two years later. "...and we have a daughter," Anna added, as if coming to the root of the problem. "Abby. She's twelve."
A cloud of uncertainty seemed to fall upon the room after that. It's not good practice to make assumptions, however, so I asked, "And how can I be of help?"
Anna looked at Tim uncertainly. I couldn't read his expression, but he glanced at his wife and said, "Well. Go on, then."
Anna tried to start a sentence but failed. "You can't even say it can you?" said Tim. "Well I don't blame you." He turned to me. "She's jealous," he said. "Of our daughter. Of our twelve-year-old daughter."

Write the start of a story using five habitual elements of a character's life.

(Since my stories never seem to start this way, I thought I'd go with it this time:)

Sam was a simple man who relied on simple things. Simple things, as he considered them. He relied on polished shoes and designer suits. He relied on the chip shop downstairs for his Friday fish and chips. He relied on the sleeping pills he got from the chemist to knock him out before the regular train passed by his flat and messed up his sleep schedule. But if there was one thing Sam didn't like to rely on, it was other people. Other people were unknown variables in the equation of his life. Relying on them - trusting them, would mean knowing them, and that would take more time than he was willing to invest. His mind was consumed by the calculation of worthwhile investments.
This morning, however, Sam was to find that not all the things he relied upon were as, well, reliable, as he believed. The traditional analogue alarm clock that had woken him up for the last ten years at six didn't go off. The milkman, who usually came a little after six, and whose tinkling of bottles below his bedroom might have disturbed his light sleep, didn't show up. His telephone, which the office tried again and again to contact him on when he hadn't shown up by 9.30, had fallen off the bedside table and its vibrations were muffled in his laundry basket.
When eventually overwhelming fact of daytime eased him from his narcotic slumber, it was almost eleven. The realisation made him feel sick. He hadn't been late for work in almost four years, and the last time hadn't been remotely his fault. What should he do? It would be embarrassing to walk into work at this time, with all eyes on him. Calling in sick, then? A disgusting thought. He hadn't had a sick day since they sent him home that one time he'd collapsed in a board meeting. A moment of weakness he didn't want to repeat. He didn't even take regular holidays, except at Christmas, to visit his parents.

Write a short story (300 words) about a woman in crisis

"Where's dad? I need to ask him something." Sometimes it seemed that Abby looked at her like you would a butler. She herself had been a daddy's girl; that was true. Her mother had had her place, of course. When she was sick, when she'd gone through puberty - there were things for which she needed the woman's touch. But for almost everything else - bath times, bedtimes, being called in from play, being driven home from birthday parties and the like - for those things, only dad would do. Even now, as an adult, it showed. She still spent more time talking to her father than her mother when they called. In times of trouble it was her father's advice she naturally sought, and in times of triumph it was his approval she needed. It was not until she had a daughter of her own, however, that she began to think about her own nature.
She wasn't sure what age Abby was when she realised her daughter preferred her father. Tim used to work out of an office in the town, but being self-employed meant that he was sometimes able to come home in the middle of the day. On one of these days, when Abby was about five, Tim had been tasked with collecting her from school, as her mother had been pressed for time to do the shopping. When she had got home, she had found the two of them playing with Abby's toys on the carpet. They both looked so happy. After that, Abby was always asking if Tim would take her home, and if he was free, whether she herself was engaged or not, he would.
"Your father's out, dear," she said. "Anything I can help you with?" Her daughter looked her in the face, as if sizing her up.
"Never mind." Abby left the room.
She wondered why no one ever talked about this. She couldn't be the only one. And who could she blame? Not a 15-year-old girl, certainly. And not her husband, not for something that made him so happy.
She picked up the phone and dialed. "Hi Mum. No, I just phoned for a chat. No, no, I want to chat with you."

Revisit the earlier character's backstory and intersperse it with dialogue.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" she asked, after a time. Grandmother was not a hard person, though the war had made her resilient.
"Aggie..." was the only response the stranger could muster. But to her, there could be no word more telling. She was not accustomed to being address so, had not been for forty years. Her husband had called her Agnes, she could remember him calling to her on the day he died. Another life, it seemed. The life of Aggie, yet another. But that was what he had always called her, something she resented him for at first.
They stood in silence, Grandmother not daring yet to acknowledge him. Finally, he said again, "Aggie. It's me. Did you not get my letter?" There was something there, she thought. Something in the voice. Which was strange, because the accent was German now, and carried the huskiness of old age. But a tonal quality, something unmistakable, was familiar. The last time she had heard it was so long ago. A lifetime ago - hers and her husband's. She had said goodbye to it and had never thought she would hear it again. Now it was in her front room.
And before she knew it, there were tears in her eyes. She was not immediately aware of a sensation of sadness. But the body remembered what the mind could not grasp, and it wept. It wept for the report of his death in France, it wept for her loneliness, it wept for her husband, who had lifted her from that misery. And now it wept because the boy who died forty years ago was now a man in her hallway, with the same light in his eyes.

Take a sentence from either "The Dream" or "The Artist" and write it as a 'play script' story, as in "The Black Cap"

 (The thieves climb over the wall of the mosque and into the adjoining house)
Merchant: They are so loud, I wonder they do not wake the neighbourhood! Wait, it sounds like...yes - the have woken the household. I had better not more, or they will think I am one of them. But they are calling for help. Perhaps I should go...but no, I can't afford to get involved. They are coming back this way!
(The thieves climb back over the wall and make their escape)
Merchant: It would appear it is all over. I hope they didn't take anything of value.

Write a brief passage of backstory related to a character, including a movement in time.

Not 100% sure about the description on this one, but whateverface.


Grandmother had never been a hard woman. They say that when the men went off to war, the women had to take control and got used to being in charge. When the men came back, they found their wives had changed. They ruled the household with an iron fist. Grandmother had never been like that. But she had lived through the war and was strong in her own way. She didn't talk about it now, though. She had loved, as many had, a soldier who didn't come back. None but her husband knew that her first child, her son, wasn't his.
Forty years later, she received a letter that changed everything. Her husband had died by then. His lungs had been bad for a while, but despite the forewarning it was no easier to lose a man the second time. She looked at the letter with curiosity. She knew the hands of everyone who was accustomed to writing to her, or at least to sending her Christmas cards. Not only was the writing unfamiliar, but the stamp was foreign and the postmark was from Munich, Germany. Seeing this, the envelope dropped from her hands.

Show don't tell - "She waited with her sister, drinking tea, seeking reassurance."

Her sister came in with two plastic cups of tea, putting her own down before carefully handing over the other. Her sister looked at her expectantly, and she pretended to take a sip. She felt too ill to drink anything, almost too ill to move at all. Staring at corners of the room kept her grounded, kept her from falling. She couldn't help but sneak glances at the clock every now and then, but she no longer understood what the hands meant. Her sister sat back in her chair, but occasionally reached her hand over to pat her knee. She appreciated the sentiment but the contact threw off her fragile balance.

Evicted clown. Stream of consciousness.

Calm down, calm down. Down the cheeks, over the brow. There's places I can go, calm down. Round the lips, the nose. I could ask Andy....maybe not, he's got a girlfriend now. Now the black, the eyes, delicately now. Damn, forgot the neck. Amateur! It's a process, gotta keep an order to it. How much money do I have left? Maybe I can avoid paying those last bills. Maybe Danny - he's got a nice place. Still, haven't spoken since July. That's it, now the eyes. We could meet for coffee, it'll come up, he'll have to offer. Bugger! Smudged it. Calm down, it's going to be okay. Just, let's stop for a moment, let my hands relax. No! They're watching - can't show weakness. Cardinal rule. It's for the kids. Mum and dad? Last resort. Let's try again. Sweeping vertical lines, good. Is dad ashamed of me? Can't think about that now. And completing the cross. Excellent, I'm in control. Where's the red? God, where's the red, where's my fucking red there it is. Calm down, it'll work out. Whoever heard of a homeless clown - it doesn't happen. Can't happen. Danny, that's the way. If not Danny, then who? Easy around the cheeks, gotta keep it even - blast! Right, where's the white again? I can get a new place. Might take time. How long have I got? A week? Shit! Ten minutes! Okay, easy with the red this time. Good, great. I'm ready to roll. Stay still, legs. Stop shaking. We'll be fine.

Write a list of satirical or intimidating instructions in the second person about how to be a writer

First, you need to come up with a character. Any character will do, but you have to make him interesting. Or her. You have to give them a past. And there has to be a source of conflict. Maybe your character has two personalities. Maybe more. And you have to give them a family, friends, something to fight for. Or not fight for - that's the conflict, you see. You also need to think about setting. You can't have a character without a place. That's where they do things. You want to make it a nice place or a not-so-nice place, but you have to remember that people don't want to read depressing things all the time, so go easy on that sort of thing. You'll probably want a villain or something in the same place. Conflict - that's what it's all about. The villain wants the girl - or maybe the guy - that's up to you of course, it's a creative process. Maybe your villain hates the hero. One of the hero's personalities. Maybe all of them. You have to make them think maybe the hero won't win. Maybe he doesn't win - how's that for a twist? You've got to have a twist. Maybe the villain is the hero. Or the girl. It's up to you, like I said. The most important thing is, you've got to be original. You have to make it new, put your stamp on it. Just do everything I've said and you'll do great.

Using the second person, describe a good memory from a character's past and contrast it with their current predicament

You don't come to visit me any more. Maybe that's for the best. I don't like to remember you like that. You're not good at hiding your feelings. I remember my birthday, the year after we came back from Spain. You and Dave had organised a surprise party. You must have worked so hard to plan it - you got numbers off my phone when I was in the shower. You got the caterers to call you back at work so I wouldn't answer the phone to them. You even came up with the idea to get Mike to call me out on a job that morning so you'd have time to prepare. But you couldn't hide it in your face. I knew something was up. There was grin dancing in your eyes, even when you were trying your best poker face. I loved you for what you'd done, but I think I loved you more for failing so miserably at pretending to have forgotten. I just smiled and got in the car. You must have known I'd cottoned on. I, of course, played the dutiful dupee. I may have known something was up, but I couldn't have imagined how much work you'd put into it. I hope you know how much I appreciated it. I thanked you at the time but I always find it hard to say as much as I mean.

Where are you now, I'm left to wonder. Are you still here, or have you sought warmer climes. Bright sun suited your complexion. Do you remember the quiet area we found, up the beach? Three palms, a few rocks and the bare sunset. It was like a postcard. I like postcards now - they're a way to look at the world without looking outside. The brief glimpses - the windows and the yard - they're punishing. So much stretches out beyond these walls, the world in here is so small. But postcards, photographs - they're confined, like us in here. There's nothing beyond, their whole world is visible. Would I be happy if you sent me one now, from where you are?

Write about a conflict between two characters using three points of view

1. Third-person limited omniscience
He walked through the portrait-lined corridor and knocked on the door to his father's study. There was no answer, at first, and Anthony was on the verge of leaving when a voice on the other side said, "Well, come in then." When he went inside his father was at his desk, pen in hand and apparently intensely interested in his work. "Don't know why you bother to knock," said his father, without looking up. "You never used to."
         "Well I used to be a child. And we used to talk to each other, sometimes."
The old man said nothing for a while. Anthony wasn't sure if what he'd said had made an impact, if something had finally penetrated, or if his father had decided to ignore him. "Well?" was the eventual response. "Did you only come in here to complain about what's passed?" He sounded agitated, but Anthony couldn't tell if it was because of what he had said.
         "I just came in to tell you I'll be leaving soon." His father looked up from his work at last. There was another pause.
          "Fine," he said. Then, "I thought you were staying until Wednesday."
          "I was, but I really don't see the point in hanging around any longer. I don't think it's good for your blood pressure." It was a joke, but a pained expression seemed to fleet across the old man's face for a moment.
          "Least of my worries, Anthony." The usual note of sarcastic triumph was gone.
          "What d'you mean?"
          "I mean I'm sick, boy. And I'm not going to get better."

2. Third-person omniscient
He walked through the portrait-lined corridor and knocked on the door to his father's study. There was no answer, at first, and Anthony was on the verge of leaving when his father, conflicted and frustrated, called him in. William Astor hadn't written anything for days, and when he was in his study he spent most of his time reading, or pacing around. Before he called his son in, he had sat down and taken out a pen, pretending to be intensely interested in an old phone bill that was lying on his desk. "Don't know why you bother to knock," he said, without looking up. "You never used to."
         "Well I used to be a child. And we used to talk to each other, sometimes."
The old man said nothing for a while. Anthony tried to discern the expression on his face. William was wondering if it was a waste of time, telling him. The gulf between seemed so great. "Well? Did you only come in here to complain about what's passed?" was the only response he could manage, though he hated himself as he was saying it. Anthony wondered if his words had made an impact.
         "I just came in to tell you I'll be leaving soon." William looked at his son
         "Fine," he said. It was all to be for nothing. Then, "I thought you were staying until Wednesday."

         "I was, but I really don't see the point in hanging around any longer. I don't think it's good for your blood pressure." It was meant as a joke, but it cut close to where William's mind had been dwelling for so long. He couldn't hide it in his face.
          "Least of my worries, Anthony." He didn't like using the name. It had been his wife's choice.
          "What d'you mean?"
          "I mean I'm sick, boy. And I'm not going to get better."

3. Third-person objective
Decided not to do this one. Couldn't be bothered. It would just be the same as 1. but without access to the son's thoughts.

Cast a memory into the third person. Don't aim to write it as a strictly 'truthful' account

When the plane landed and they all passed out through the gangway, there was relatively little fuss. It was a small airport after all, and seemed only to have a few gates and one main building. As Tim walked with the rest of the group through the upper level, he was vaguely aware of his nerves of meeting the people he would be working with for the next year. By that point his senses had been assaulted by so much that was new that his feelings seemed distant, as though stretched to their limits. As they descended the stairs they could see the various welcome parties, some with banners, gathered by the entrance. When they got downstairs, the lady from the board of education who had flown back with them immediately brought a man over to speak with him. This was Mr Onishi, his new supervisor. He was alone and didn't have a welcome banner.He seemed to be in a hurry to depart, so Tim was dragged outside into the oppressive heat without the chance to say goodbye to the others. He didn't know them well, but there had been a kind of safety in numbers up to that point; they were all going through the same thing.

Tim followed Mr Onishi to his car - box-shaped, like many of the vehicles in the area. The interior was like an oven, and Tim wondered how long it had been baking in the heat. Perhaps Mr Onishi was so eager to leave because he'd been waiting a while. His haste made him seem unfriendly, which did nothing for Tim's unease. He needn't have worried, however, because as soon as they got in the car, Mr Onishi became very talkative. He asked about Tim's country, its culture, its film stars. It was all very friendly, but Tim got the impression Mr Onishi talked mostly about what he knew, and to let people know what he knew. Still, it put Tim at ease, as far as that was possible.

Write from the opposing side of an argument, using third-person limited omniscience.

Karen felt that Will was missing the point. It's not about when the money has to be paid back, it's about the amount expected. £27000 is a lot of debt for any young person to have hanging over their head. They were asking students to gamble with their education. How many could afford to find out if it was worth it? It didn't matter that the debt only applied to those earning over a certain amount. It was like the bomb waiting to arm when you go over 50. Will made the argument that you might never earn that much. Big comfort, that was. And planning an arts degree, Karen had resigned herself to never being rich, but had hoped she might eventually be able to live comfortably. That wouldn't be easy once she hit the magic number. And it wasn't like the economy was thriving. She might not get a job in her field. She imagined herself four years down the line, sending CVs out to one dull company after another, knowing that the lasting legacy of her degree was a future of contributions to the government. But she couldn't expect Will to understand. His parents would pay for everything up front. He would be free at the end of it.

Write first person narratives by two people in conflict. Try to make them sympathetic.

1
He's done it again, and he's gone too far this time. A ruddy great tree at the front corner of the garden. Must've brought it in on the back of a truck, the size of the thing. Thing casts a shadow right into our sitting room. Used to be able to see over the streets into the hills from our bedroom window, but now you can't see anything beyond that eight-foot conifer. I don't know what his problem is, I really don't. He doesn't talk to people, not even when you pass him on the street. If we're not in to sign for a package and it gets left next door, he waits until we get back then dumps it on our doorstep. Don't know how his wife puts up with him. Still, she might be as bad as he is. Haven't seen her much the past few years. Never seems to leave the house without him. Secretive sorts, never know what's going on there. She's a mousy little thing, anyway. He probably has as little respect for her as he does the rest of us.

Anyway, I decided I wasn't going to stand for it this time. I put up with the fence and the wall at the back at the time because it wasn't that much bother, even if he didn't consult us. I went round there, told him he had no respect and he has the cheek to get angry with me, tells me to quiet down cos his wife is sleeping - a likely story in the middle of the day. I said I'd be contacting the council and left it at that. There's no point wasting your time and energy on these people.

2
Sarah's not doing well, lately. She needs rest but she insists on getting up. I don't blame her, and I don't have the heart to tell her to play the dutiful invalid. Still, she's very sensitive to the light which made it hard for her to be in the sitting room in the mornings. She likes the back bedroom - she watches the birds while she reads or sews - but the TV's downstairs and she won't let me move it for her. Might be able to afford a small one for her to use if my bonus comes through. Things are a bit tight with the bills for the specialist. In the meantime, I thought maybe there was a way to cut out some of the glare in the front room. We can't afford blinds, of course, but I've got a friend who runs a garden centre, and he was able to get me a tree to put out the front. He knows about Sarah and did it as a favour. We've put it in just the right place so it blocks the sun when it's shining through the gaps in the houses opposite.

Just as I was feeling pleased with myself - like I was actually able to do something for the first time in ages, a new problem arose. The guy from next door called by to complain. Half an hour after I'd managed to convince Sarah to get some rest. I opened the door and the yelling started immediately. I had to ask him to keep his voice down. I was surprised at him - I'm sure the whole street has been gossiping about Sarah's condition and for him to come screaming at my door, well, I'm ashamed to say I got angry myself. After a few obscene remarks he told me he'd be taking it up with the council and in my frustration I wished him good luck with that.

Intro

I've started this blog as a place to dump some of the output (much (if not all) of which will be worthless) brought about by my creative writing course. I find myself frequently frustrated by the volume of writing expected in each chapter in the form of short exercises, none of which I have the intention of developing into anything substantial. "Write 500 words about a character who is in a happy place but thinking about something sad". Fuck off. I thought if I felt like I was putting it 'out' into the world I might feel more motivated to do them. We'll see how that works out.