Writing 101, Day Eleven: Size Matters

Tell us about the home where you lived when you were twelve. Which town, city, or country? Was it a house or an apartment? A boarding school or foster home? An airstream or an RV? Who lived there with you?

But first, consider this passage:

The man rode hard through the woods. The black horse’s effort lay in lather. The sun beat down from high overhead. Dark birds circled, drifted, and then returned. The land baked, and dust hung suspended.

Is this not the most boring paragraph you’ve read in a long time — perhaps ever? We’ve got portent, a racing rider, and a forbidding landscape. Together, these should offer excitement and intrigue, but the words lay on the page, limp and dead. Why? Sentence length. Each sentence contains exactly seven words. The repetitive, seven-word cadence lulls you to sleep instead of piquing your interest.

So write with a combination of short, medium, and long sentences. Create a sound that pleases the reader’s ear. Don’t just write words. Write music.

– Gary Provost, 100 Ways to Improve Your Writing

Mixing up the lengths of your sentences creates variety for the reader and makes for much more interesting reading.

Today’s twist: pay attention to your sentence lengths and use short, medium, and long sentences as you compose your response about the home you lived in when you were twelve.

I am lucky, I spent my childhood in one place, in one home, my mum made sure of that having had a childhood which involved relocating and changing schools often, she knew how important stability is and made sure we at least had that.

My family home was on a 1970’s estate, some lovely properties. My parents were the second people to buy the house, it was situated in a cul-de-sac, which was one of the main reasons for buying it for the children of the family they were yet to have to play out in.

It was a four-bedroom, semi-detached with a big garden at the back and a small lawn at the front. When my parents bought it there were three bedrooms and they had it extended. I lived with my parents, older brother and younger brother.

It is in a small town in the Midlands, surrounded by countryside and equidistant to two cities, a short car journey away.

Having lived all over, I have come back to my home county for family but also the location. The grass is always greener on the other side, when actually the greenest grass is that of home.

I find it funny after ten years of living away from home – all over the country that I ended up back in home county.

Writing 101, Day Ten: Happy Homecooking!

 

Tell us about your favorite childhood meal — the one that was always a treat, that meant “celebration,” or that comforted you and has deep roots in your memory.

Free free to focus on any aspect of the meal, from the food you ate to the people who were there to the event it marked.

Today’s twist: Tell the story in your own distinct voice.

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

– Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

The biggest thing that separates you from every other blogger in the world is your voice. Finding (and being confident in) our voices is one of the biggest challenges in writing, and it’s easy to lose our voices when we’re worried about being liked by everyone, or when we compare ourselves to others.

While it’s true that embracing your voice will mean that not everyone loves you, the people who do will love you a lot. Exhibit A: The Bloggess. Is she the only person who writes about parenting, mental health, and cats? Far from it. Is her style for everyone? Nope. Does she have a huge cadre of loyal readers who are drawn to her unique voice? Definitely.

Write today’s post as if you’re relaying the story to your best friend over a cup of coffee (or glass of wine — your call). Don’t worry if it feels like you ramble a bit, or a four-letter-word sneaks in, or it feels different from what you usually publish. Take a deep breath, tell the story in your own words, and send it out the virtual door.

I loved sausages as a kid, I still do, but my favourite meal was one that my mum made fairly often. I was lucky, my mum could cook really well. I just presumed all mum’s food tasted the same, a myth that was dispelled by going to friend’s for dinner.

She used to cook pork chops with apple and a crumbly topping, I have no idea of the recipe but this was the only time in our family that we were served pork that fell off the bone. I used to love the smell. Dinner and definitely pudding was always ‘wait and see’ in our house, but this one was a dinner I could smell before I saw it. I remember getting really about this meal each and every time we had it.

I need to ask mum for the recipe.

Writing 101, Day Nine: Changing Moccasins — Point of View

A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.

If point of view was an object, it would be William Carlos Williams’ infamous red wheelbarrow; everything depends on it.

Consider a car/pedestrian accident: the story differs depending on whether you’re the driver, the pedestrian, or the woman across the street who witnessed the horror. Everyone will tell a different story if asked to recount the event.

Shifting point of view can be your best friend if you’ve got writers’ block. If you’re stuck or you feel your writing is boring and lifeless, Craig Nova, author of All the Dead Yale Men, suggests shifting the point of view from which your story is told:

Take point of view, for example. Let’s say you are writing a scene in which a man and a woman are breaking up. They are doing this while they are having breakfast in their apartment. But the scene doesn’t work. It is dull and flat.

Applying the [notion] mentioned above, the solution would be to change point of view. That is, if it is told from the man’s point of view, change it to the woman’s, and if that doesn’t work, tell it from the point of view of the neighborhood, who is listening through the wall in the apartment next door, and if that doesn’t work have this neighbor tell the story of the break up, as he hears it, to his girlfriend. And if that doesn’t work tell it from the point of view of a burglar who is in the apartment, and who hid in a closet in the kitchen when the man and woman who are breaking up came in and started arguing.

 

A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.

 

I could feel the heat of Claire’s hand in mine as we walked under the canopy of trees.

“Richard…”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember the first time we came to this park?” Claire asked.

“Of course I do,” I smiled, “you nearly dropped your lunch in the fountain.”

“Trust you to remember that.”

She nudged me sideways with elbow.

“Ow! Come here!”

I grabbed her, not caring what anyone in the park would make of it, she was giggling and pushing against me to break free. I held her close and whispered in her ear,

“Do as I say and you won’t get hurt!”

I could tell she was doing her best not to burst out laughing, as I slid my hands down her hips and loosened my grip until we were holding hands again.

As we walked down the winding paths passing joggers and dog walkers, I glance at Claire and think how lucky I am to have her loyalty after everything we have been through. I can’t help but notice the amount of strollers in the park, when I see it is a man in charge, I have to look away, it is painful enough to watch the mums.

I can’t tell what she is thinking as we make our way to the fountain to sit down.

 

It is busy, lots of people have already taken up their seats on the benches and around steps. I know Claire doesn’t normally worry about sitting on the grass, she’s not that high maintenance.

“Let’s sit on the edge over there.” I follow where she has pointed, we settle down on the cold stone of the fountains edge.

I resist all temptation to place my hands or even my feet in the water, I never could cope well with heat. Claire turned her back on me and then leant into my chest, I nuzzled her head under my chin. That’s when I saw her, the old lady, I was sure we had walked past her earlier on. She was knitting with red wool. I close my eyes and count to 10, kissing the top of Claire’s head blindly. I open my eyes and see that she is still there, clicking her grey, plastic needles together, she is knitting a tiny red sweater, baby clothes, they get me every time. So small…. I think of my mum and the opportunity that has been robbed from her to knit little sweaters in the park. I feel tears welling in my eyes and try to blink them away. I lean into Claire’s body needing every bit of solid reality I can touch, holding on to what I have. Her hands rest against my arms, still warm. I let the tears fall down my face, breathe deeply and kiss her for loving me. I would kiss every hair on her head if I could.

© N. Lewis 2007

I could tell Richard had something on his mind, the minute he suggested we stopped lying around indoors and take a walk. He wouldn’t let my hand go the whole time we walked together down the streets to the Park. I knew where we were heading. I just wished he’d been in a more chatty mood, it is difficult sometimes to get him to talk.

“Richard…” I cut myself off before the words ‘what are you thinking?’ he hates that question.

“Yes?”

Quick think Claire! What can you say that isn’t what you want to say.

“Do you remember the first time we came to this park?” I manage.

“Of course I do,” he smiles, I love his smile. “you nearly dropped your lunch in the fountain.” he adds.

“Trust you to remember that.” I nudge him with my elbow.

“Ow! Come here!”

Before I could wriggle free Richard had me in a wrestling hold. I tried to suppress my squeals and screams, I don’t know what it must have looked like he was doing to me. Well I do, that’s why I struggled so much to get free. Just when I thought it was going to start really hurting he pulled me back on his chest and whispered in my ear.

“Do as I say and you won’t get hurt!”

My body shook as I tried to suppress my giggles and play along. Whatever was on his mind I liked this diversion. The feeling of his warm hands caressing my hips was making things happen inside me. Just as I thought he was about to clasp his hands somewhere else he slid his hand back in mine and we carried on walking down the path as if the last few minutes had never happened.

As we walk past joggers, dog walkers and babies in buggies being pushed by frantic looking parents and those clinging to their youth, those with 3 wheeled pushchairs that they can run with, I know he can tell I am looking at them. I can tell he is looking at me, he will know what I am thinking if I look at him now, I look down at my feet.

I can’t tell what Richard is thinking as we make our way to the fountain to sit down.

It is busy, there doesn’t seem to be any room on the benches and the steps are looking full too. I know that Richard will plonk himself on the grass and expect me to follow, but I am wearing pale shorts.

“Let’s sit on the edge over there.” I offer pointing to the fountains edge.

As soon as we had sat down I turned my body into his and leant against his chest. I closed my eyes and enjoying his gentle strokes against my arm, I love moments like this, sun on my face, time with Richard, uncomplicated silence. I wondered when he was going to start talking. Perhaps he didn’t feel he could.

I sensed his body shifting, it felt more rigid and his heart beat felt different against my ear, he kissed the top of my head. I hold his arms in my hands, my turn to stroke him. He starts to kiss the top of my head. I love when he does that.

I open my eyes and see that some people have moved, there is space on the bench, it might be more comfortable. Then I see the old lady, there’s no hope of Richard sitting by a stranger, especially one that’s knitting. I see that she’s knitting a small red jumper and wonder how many people do this anymore. Kids clothes can be bought cheaply, my thoughts wander, what will the mum think of this gift, will the child ever wear it? Maybe it is a jumper for a toy and not a boy or girl after all. Red, could be either, perhaps she doesn’t know, although knitted booties might be more useful for a new born.

I feel Richards head against mine and it brings me back to the moment. I think he is crying, his breathing is different. I know he is looking in the same direction as me. I hadn’t realised that he felt so bad about it still, nothing could be done, not on his part at least. Is this why he brought me to the park?

 

I love being outdoors, I am trying to maintain as much independence as I can, I have seen far too many friends wheeled off to Nursing Homes over the past few years because they didn’t keep themselves active enough, and that’s friends who still had family to rally around them and help them. My family support comes from the Church so I like to be able to give back. There’s not much I can do nowadays but I am proud that I can still knit, that my hands and eyes are still working well enough to manage, so when Joy and some of the W.I ladies told me about the latest mission I had to get on board. Knitting jumpers for children less well off across the other side of the world seemed like a good idea. I am on my third one now as I sit basking in the sun in the park.

I don’t have to watch my hands, they seem to knit on auto pilot, I can people watch, another of my favourite things to do. I like to make up stories about the people I can see. like that lovely young couple opposite me, sitting on the edge of the fountain. They seem so much in love, something I never found myself. The people I loved didn’t love me and vice versa, I was destined to be a spinster, it’s not so bad. I get to do what I want when I want, I am selfish and doubt I could survive the routine and managed time in a Nursing Home. Maybe one of the W.I ladies will let me move into their annex, they are all sure to have big houses.

 

 

© N. Lewis 2007

 

Writing 101 – Day 8 Death to Adverbs

 

Go to a local café, park, or public place and report on what you see. Get detailed: leave no nuance behind.

Thoughtful writers create meaning by choosing precise words to create vivid pictures in the reader’s mind. As you strive to create strong imagery, show your readers what’s going on; avoid telling them.

Today’s twist: write an adverb-free post. If you’d rather not write a new post, revisit and edit a previous one: excise your adverbs and replace them with strong, precise verbs.

The sin of telling often begins with adverbs. Author Stephen King says that, for writers, the road to hell is paved with adverbs:

The adverb is not your friend.

Adverbs…are words that modify verbs, adjectives, or other adverbs. They’re the ones that usually end in -ly. Adverbs, like the passive voice, seem to have been created with the timid writer in mind….With adverbs, the writer usually tells us he or she is afraid he/she isn’t expressing himself/herself clearly, that he or she is not getting the point or the picture across.

Instead of using adverbs as a crutch, rely on strong verbs to convey emotional qualities that imbue your writing with nuance, allowing the reader to fire up their imagination. Consider, for example:

“She walked proudly out the door.”

Remove the adverb “proudly” and replace it with a strong verb to denote how she walked:

She strutted out the door.

She sashayed out the door.

She flounced out the door.

Each example connotes the emotion with which “she” moved, creating a more vivid picture than “proudly” ever could.

The restaurant was busy, only we could decide to go for steak on Father’s Day, of course neither one of us marks this day, so it was only by chance I realised. The plan was to do the Garden Centre shopping first and miss the lunchtime rush. It worked, well we got a table, the restaurant was still packed!

The man sitting on the table behind us was mid-sixties, his skin was the colour of tan leather and he had some fading old blue tattoos, the sorts you see sailors with in fiction. He didn’t look that impressed by either the food or the company, his wife (I presume) and daughter. His wife spent the first ten minutes jumping up to go and read the specials board to him as he frowned over the top of his glasses, perhaps he was ill or in pain and not just a grumpy old man forced out of his armchair on Sunday afternoon.

He hadn’t dressed up for the occasion, wearing an old, worn out, faded polo short and khaki coloured trousers, the sort you find in mail order catalogues, he had scuffed brown shoes on and nylon socks. He shuffled his legs under the table and then sat with his knees bent, his feet by the legs of the chair. His hair was fine and thinning on top, it was mousey brown.

Writing 101: Day 4 – The Serial Killer

Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more.

This doesn’t need to be a depressing exercise; you can write about that time you lost the three-legged race at a picnic. What’s important is reflecting on this experience and what it meant for you — how it felt, why it happened, and what changed because of it.

Today’s twist: Make today’s post the first in a three-post series.

Our blogs are often made of standalone posts, but using them to take readers on longer journeys is an immersive experience for them — and you. It allows you to think bigger and go deeper into an idea, while using a hook that keeps readers coming back.

A series can take many forms:

• Recurring features of the same type of post, like The Stakes’ Game of Thrones recaps or Chronicles of an Anglo-Swiss’ responses to daily prompts.
• Posts on the same topic, where each builds on the last, like Literature and Libations’ multi-part posts on becoming a beer writer.
• Fiction, where each post gives readers the next chapter or a new story, like the work at Flashes in the Pan and 300 Stories.

We also have advice that might help. If you decide to go serial, we’ve got days scheduled for parts two and three, so don’t worry about writing everything now or having to shoehorn the other posts in.

A Loss:

I have lost so many things, I could write some dark material from this prompt. My mind immediately heads to people I have lost first, then things, of which I have lost many pinnacle material items, then parts of myself – I have lost along the way, battles I have lost, people I have lost who are still very much in the world, pets I have lost, beliefs I have lost, lessons I have discarded.

I am trying to gain material from joining Writing 101 – the main focus is writing practice – a daily dose and beyond that a hope of up-cycling something, even if it’s the odd sentence or idea. This is my reason for trying to stay positive, that and it is better material for you to read than all the things I have survived, I am sure.

When I was thirteen I started to write to people all over the world through a pen pal scheme. I loved receiving letters and getting to know people in other countries. A few of us are still in touch which means the world to me and some I have since used the internet to search for. Enjoying the irony of meeting back up online (now we have pretty much killed the postal service, if it wasn’t for ebay/ Amazon orders) – I have always been unsuccessful in finding them, many were girls and probably have different surnames by now.

I remember the first time I lost a penfriend though, because we were still very much in communication and suddenly the letters stopped coming. This worried me, Melinda lived in the Philippines and I had no way of knowing if she was okay. We had grown up together and we were turning 17, maybe she had got tired of writing, but knowing her as I did- I know she would have sent a card to tell me she didn’t want to keep writing letters anymore.

I have never been able to trace her and the letters just stopped. Nothing. I don’t know why it happened. Perhaps her college studies had taken all her time. I think about her often and the different culture she was brought up in.

I lost interest in writing letters for a while, Melinda was one of the first and she was no longer sending me mail. I then realised that as far as other pen pals were concerned, I had now disappeared too, so I started writing letters again.

I still enjoy writing letters and fortunately have a few friends in this Country and others who like to write back. The joy of having things in the post which aren’t bills or statements is a wonderful thing.

 

 

Writing 101- Day 2: A Room with a View

 

 

 

Writing 101, Day Two: A Room with a View (Or Just a View)

We’re all drawn to certain places. If you had the power to get somewhere — anywhere — where would you go right now? For your twist, focus on building a setting description.

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.

– Joan Didion

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

The spaces we inhabit have an influence on our mood, our behavior, and even the way we move and interact with others. Enter a busy train station, and you immediately quicken your step. Step into a majestic cathedral, and you lower your voice and automatically look up. Return to your own room, and your body relaxes.

Today, choose a place to which you’d like to be transported if you could — and tell us the backstory. How does this specific location affect you? Is it somewhere you’ve been, luring you with the power of nostalgia, or a place you’re aching to explore for the first time?

Today’s twist: organize your post around the description of a setting.

 

This challenge is hard because I can’t choose where to go, although I can go anywhere in the world my initial thoughts have gone to places of simplicity. So much as I love world travel and been to many countries and have lists of places I long to visit, I am going to take you somewhere local. A place from my past, my childhood. A place out of bounds during school time, but an area local kids knew well.

The pond on the school field. The school field was private land as they all are, but the railway used to run alongside and eventually some houses were built on the border. There was a small, white farm house complete with pecking geese and a cantankerous old farmer, but if you made it up the alley by the side of the school and across the tracks (avoiding farm animals) to the gate, the field was one easy climb away.

We weren’t the only group who used it, many of the locals walked there dogs there (and this was years before the poop/scoop laws had been created, let alone enforced)! The school field was vast – it consisted of a rugby pitch, an area close to the pond used for field events, the embankment and around the corner a full size running track, with an old oak tree in the middle and then an extra rectangle of field we didn’t use because there was another school and they used that part of the field. Around the edge there was a fence separating us from the farmer’s land and lots of shrubbery, bushes and trees. It was very green and very flat.

Behind the field event area were a group of Weeping Willows and a few Silver Birch trees which hid the pond from view. That’s what made it such a great place as a child, it was den like and saved you from having to drag sheets and blankets out with us to play. You could pull the branches aside like curtains and duck beneath them.

The pond was very small, just a few metres across and wide. It wasn’t particularly deep, the water was always murky but you could see in it. Frogs lived there. We never went in the water – we were girls, it didn’t look clean and we believed in the lessons taught to us about water safety. We didn’t include danger in our games. There were some logs, two small logs, wide enough for children to sit on, pushed up to the edge of the pond. We used to sit on these and chat and play. I don’t recall the games, it was mainly a secret den away from the boys. Who used it too, but not when we were there.

I liked the privacy nature provided, the overhanging branches, camouflaging our existence. The tranquillity felt here, the feeling of safety of the real world being miles away. Our own haven.

It also felt good because we knew we were in an out of bounds area of the playing field. There were no teachers or parents to tell us otherwise.

I have no idea why this is the place that came to mind first, but it was. I hope I have given you enough visual description for you to imagine the peace of this place. I am not sure if I want to go back there for the physical space or because it offers me memories of a simpler time.

 

 

 

Writing 101 – Building a Blogging Habit

Brought to you from THE DAILY POST Writing 101

 

JUST WRITE

In this inaugural assignment, let’s loosen up and just write. We’re so excited you’ve joined us — let’s get started!

I am very excited, the weekends are unprompted so we have 20 days of writing activities ahead, they are also cite Natalie Goldberg, who I love, her books gave me my first nervous strokes into the waters of writing beyond poetry.

Last year I put myself through so much study; workshops, day events, toolkits, lectures, online courses – this year I have concentrated on producing work and the study has taken a back seat, spurred on by my workshop this weekend I am ready to give over to this daily event and will do my best to post daily regardless of work and weekday busyness!

Oh, look… a new SHINY badge!

You write because you have an idea in your mind that feels so genuine, so important, so true. And yet, by the time this idea passes through the different filters of your mind, and into your hand, and onto the page or computer screen — it becomes distorted, and it’s been diminished. The writing you end up with is an approximation, if you’re lucky, of whatever it was you really wanted to say.

– Author Khaled Hosseini, “How to Write,” the Atlantic

 

To get started, let’s loosen up. Let’s unlock the mind. Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.

Keep typing (or scribbling, if you prefer to handwrite for this exercise) until your twenty minutes are up. It doesn’t matter if what you write is incomplete, or nonsense, or not worthy of the “Publish” button.

And for your first twist? Publish this stream-of-consciousness post on your blog.

The sun is shining through the blinds, which are shut, the brightness plays havoc with my eyes, squinting at the computer screen doesn’t help. I can hear traffic on the road, cars racing home before rush hour begins, although it is Monday, at the beginning of the week the traffic jams start around 4pm.

I have spent the whole day feeling washed out and glazed over, tired. I had an early enough night but woke at 5:30 this morning, before the larks I think! I couldn’t get back to sleep and it was after 7:30 before I set my alarm for quarter past eight. I woke up at 10.

I panicked as I was expected to take hold of a delivery and also I knew I had the whole day to write and sort the kitchen and I wanted an early start. I have been treading through treacle ever since.

The delivery came, two sun loungers with multi-coloured stripy mattresses, ready to relax on this summer, or hopefully before, if the weather picks up. The weather last week was particularly dreadful. I had the week off work, typically my plans to sun myself outside for the week were scuppered! The first weekend of the holidays my friends and I all took off to the South coast – in torrential rain and Bank Holiday nose-to-bumper traffic, the epic journey took over 5 hours of driving and it was over 4 before I unfolded my body, stopped driving and got out of the car. I realise anybody reading this from larger countries will think nothing of this journey but we can get to Scotland in seven hours and this journey took more than double the time it should have.

We had a great time but it wasn’t a long enough break, although I was happy I didn’t have to go back to work on Tuesday, like everyone else. Have only had a few days to relax since though. So busy, always so busy. I think it’s better that way, it keeps my mind off things, stops me thinking too deeply.

After spending the day alone writing (and cleaning), I am now adjusting to sharing the room again. The TV remote is in action and the channels are being flicked faster than I can type. The TV programme chosen is one that I won’t worry about missing from our (almost always full) planner. I find it hard to focus on free writing when there is a script and visuals that I can see just over the top of the laptop.

It is a film.

I love films. Love relaxing ready to watch one at home. Feet up on the settee ready for a whole world to open up around you, going places without ever having to move. I like them in cinemas too, the sheer luxury of it as it has become an expensive night out. We have a surround sound system but it’s not Dolby or attached to the walls and to have popcorn, we’d have to microwave it first.

My fingers tap lighter on the keys, so the narrative can be heard, I wouldn’t be able to watch a film with some tip, tapping away. It’s funny what affects some people has no impact on others. And yet sometimes if we are both watching something, even a shuffling foot can burst his audio visual bubble of focus.

I am aware of time now, I have been checking without stopping typing two or three times, I can glance down to the computer clock. But now it reads 17:05 and I know I have just 5 minutes of this un-interrupted free write left. I find it easier to free write by hand, something about the flow of ink, but I realised that part of the point of this assignment was to post our free writes and I know it would take me at least the same time again to type it up and I have a kitchen to finish cleaning. There is another load of washing up and rubbish to get rid of after a busy weekend. I managed to almost get on top of the laundry. Funny how there is only ever a window of a few hours before you are no longer ON TOP of the washing again!

In the last few minutes I find it amazing that this post is now over 1000 words (including the prompt itself) – we can work all day to get this many words written. Whether any of it will be useful is another question.

Leave your thoughts, I would love to hear which bits of this free write stand out and speak to you. I am going to read some from fellow Blogging /Writing 101 students when I have finished.

The clock tells me it is 17:10 – my 20 minutes is done. Deep breath now as I hit PUBLISH!