All 8 entries tagged Icw
November 26, 2007
Well, we had to find quotes by authors on the writing process this week for ICW so here they are.
The first principle is that a poet writes his personal life in his work out of its tragedy, whatever it may be, remorse, lost love, or mere loneliness
- W.B. Yeats
I’d been having a bad week. The script I was meant to be writing just wasn’t happening, and I’d spend days staring at a blank screen, occasionally writing a word like the and staring at it for and hour or so and then slowly, letter by letter, I’d delete it and write and or but instead. Then I’d exit without saving. Ed Kramer phoned and reminded me that I owed him a story for an anothology of stories about the Holy Grail which he was editing with the ubiquitous Marty Greenberg. And seeing nothing else was happening and that this story was living in the back of my mind I said sure.
I wrote it in a weekend, a gift form the gods, easy and sweet as anything. Suddenly I was a writer transformed: I laughed in the face of danger and spat on the shoes of writer’s block. Then I sat and stared glumly at a blank screen for another week because the gods have a sense of humour.
- Neil Gaiman
On sitting down to write: It's like standing on the edge of a cliff. This is especially true of the first draft. Every day you're making up the earth you're going to stand on.
- Peter Carey
The act of writing appeases one’s memories and eases the act of forgetting. When I write, I make my memories tangible, and in this way I can get rid of them. On the other hand, writing is but a ploy to convulse memory back into life. And the more I write, the more my memories return to inhabit me.
- Jorge Semprùn
November 01, 2007
We did haiku too. They are fun and short so I did quite a few. I like the images they create in general and it was fun trying to remember enough Japanese from the course I took last year to write one in Japanese.
Reflects in the lake Smell of soil released
I like the one with rings.
As I pass through
I am growing warmer
It is mean.
Of heat and light.
And hunks of brown and green
October 25, 2007
We had to write a character walking into the Graduate and ordering a drink and the scene stops when the character gets the drink. It was to use the style we were given in class.
The girl entered the bar through the peach coloured doors with clashing yellow handles. It was called the Graduate. Inside was not dim, like the bars seen on TV full of old men or thugs, yet not bright either. She was wearing black boots, and black tights that were almost see through but not quite and had the sheen slick fabrics have. Her jean skirt was ragged on the bottom though stylishly so, at least she thought so. Style was important and skirts with cut up bottoms were in style, not that her mother would understand since she would say it’s not stylish but trashy. Adults never understood her, and she was lucky if her so called friends even did. Her black coat was unbuttoned to reveal the dark-blue, tight-fitting shirt she wore underneath. She had worn it purposely to show that she was no kid, and so she did belong there. She could handle a glass of beer. Though if you were going to get technical she technically wasn’t allowed to drink yet, since she was not eighteen but a mere seventeen years, eleven months, and two days old. Adults were so picky about things such as age and she doubted twenty nine days would make a difference in how her body processed alcohol or how she felt when drinking. Rules were so over-glorified.
Music filled her ears, almost to the point of overflowing her earphones but not, so she could properly drown out the world with My Chemical Romance’s latest emo, upbeat, drum-heavy, song without actually disturbing anyone with it, a careful balance of volume control she had mastered thanks to year of ignoring everything her parents shrilled and squawked at her, except when she needed money of course, then the answer was actually important.
Her eyes roamed the crowded room, full of not modern plastic tables but wooden ones that fit the bar feel. The tables themselves were used by many university students opening their mouths to talk to friends or drink more yellow-brown beer. She could only hear the guitar riffs and hammering drums of her music so she felt removed from the busy, yet relaxed bar scene. She however was not relaxed. She was under age and just hoped they didn’t ask for ID. There was no reason they should since she looked like any other university student, and even had a bigger bust than most of the girls, she had noticed with a smirk. And when she was with her boyfriend (now ex) at this bar she had never been asked for ID. He was three years older than her so he was legal and with her looks and the fact she was with him no one questioned if she was legal too.
She caught the eye of a skinny guy with glasses who had glanced at her as she walked by. He had a geek aura that wasn’t just there, but radiated off him like heat waves off the blacktop in summer. As if she’d ever go with him, even if she was desperate, and she wasn’t, not really, not enough to do anything with that nerd. She hoped she didn’t have an ‘I’m under eighteen’ feeling coming off her. Then she wouldn’t get her drink and would get thrown out. That would be horrible. She would not just turn red but melt from the self-confidence-evaporating heat of embarrassment. She rearranged her shirt as she glanced around, eyes darting rapidly. She tugged at the hem of her skirt. It wasn’t even new, but old and boring she now thought. Her skirt was so lame, it was a year old and her mom had only given her a hundred pounds to go back to school shopping, so she had splurged on her cool, new, black, calf-high boots and not had enough left over to buy any new skirts. When she had asked for more money her mom had told her no, she already had perfectly good clothes. Obviously, her uncaring mother did not understand the importance of having this year’s styles.
Walking past the foosball table she saw a guy sitting on one of the couches in that corner who was not just cute but gorgeous. She quickly turned away to not seem like an awkward gawking teenager. She had to act like a cool university student, not an underage girl.
She knew that ordering a drink was no big deal, but a simple request, yet she felt her heart beat a bit faster and herself grow warm. With a motion which she thought was laid-back and cool, but was somewhat hurried, she pushed back her light brown hair, pulled out her earbuds, stuffed them into her coat pocket and walked to the wooden counter with determination. Standing there she decided not to order the sweet fruity sort of drink she usually got, but a Fosters to look like she drank all the time and knew what she was doing. It was a bit of a wait.
“What will you have?” the bartender asked in a voice that wasn’t kind but polite.
“A Fosters” she said, glancing at the triangular, metal, taps under circular labels.
Grabbing a glass the man put it under the tap to fill her drink. The alcohol didn’t gush out but streamed slowly from the nozzle. She wished it would hurry up so she could pay and be done with this before she got caught.
“Two pounds ten,” the man said, the drink nearly full, but not quite.
She took the money from her purse and gave it to the bartender, who rang the purchase up at the till to the side. Then he topped off her drink and set it on the counter in front of her with the hard thunk sound of glass on wood.
October 21, 2007
We had to take a dialogue based piece a classmate wrote and write it from another POV, so I did. I really liked the piece I had to work with so I had ideas easily.
I lay on the soft carpet in the sleeping, talking, bed in the middle of it cave. I have sandy coloured hair, and brown eyes and am about as tall as Food Giver’s thighs, though if I stand on my back legs I can reach the counter where there is food. The carpet is dark coloured and ooh is that food? Oh, no, it’s just a hairball. Snuff. My owner, (I call him Food Giver), and his mate, Say-rah, whom he has deep feelings for are talking in here. I know he feels deeply for her because he gets happier when she is around or nervous, I can smell it, and he puts his mouth on hers a lot so she must have food in there so I would like her too then if she gave me food.
and as you can see, it is from teh POV of a dog :D I love dogs.
October 14, 2007
Here is the dialogue we had to do for ICW prose section. I couldn't think of a good secret so I feel it is weak, though I do like writing dialogue. Characters are fun to create and diologue helps to make the character. Oh and I forgot to do single quotes, but I'm from California and double quotes are normal there. :O
Dim orange light of the afternoon sun pierced the windows and spread out across the hard tile floor. Rows of tan orange lockers, similar to the colour of apricots but not at all appetizing, lined the almost deserted hall of the school building. It was almost empty for there were two girls of about seventeen standing in the hall, talking. One was tall and thin, like a giraffe for she had that awkwardness about her too such as when the giraffe has to spread its legs tripod-like to be able to lower its head enough for a drink. She was always slouching as if embarrassed by her height and wanting to be smaller, to slip away into the shadows such as the long, gray ones created by the lockers that were partly shading her, making her shoulder-length, straw coloured hair seem dark brown and her hazel eyes gray. The other girl was short and stocky in comparison, yet petite would be a better word for she was not overweight, just small and so the pounds showed more readily. Her long, brown hair that frizzled down to her waist was her most notable feature, yet to look at her face the thick eyebrows she couldn’t be bothered to pluck, glasses, freckles and rather large nose stuck out as well.
It was she who was speaking. “So, how did you do on last Friday’s Spanish test?”
“Eh, it was ok,” the other said, unenthusiastically, shrugging a little. “I passed at least.”
“That’s good,” the shorter girl replied with a smile. “I did horrible,” she slashed the air with her hand. “Our teacher is a grammar Nazi,” the girl’s hands spread palms up shaking at the ceiling, “she doesn’t care about ideas at all, just do you have subject adjective, verb, whatever, agreement,” she shook her head. “So annoying.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I wish I had a better teacher. Mrs. Lackso is sooo frustrating.” The girl bent her hands like claws. “Something should be done about her.”
“Done about her?” the taller girl said quietly. “Like what?”
“I mean like make her retire or something.”
“Oh,” the taller girl let out a nervous chuckle, “that.”
“I’ll have to ask my cousin for help if this keeps up.”
“Help? Isn’t that going a bit far?” she raised her eyebrows.
“Well, my cousin is studying Spanish at university so she should be able to help me.”
“She’s a university student,” she said surprised.
“Yeah, what did you think I was going to say?”
“But now you have me curious, Michelle.” She bounced on the balls of her feet a bit, “Tell me.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Come on. Now I want to know.”
The girl was silent for a moment. “I just only ever saw your cousin Rocco.”
“Oh, him? He’s no good at Spanish,” she waved her hand dismissively. “He’d be better at wrestling a bear than saying oso.”
Michelle glanced at the milti-coloured floor and then the lockers. She shifted her weight to the other foot. The silence filled the corridor.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” the shorter girl asked.
“Nothing much,” Michelle replied. “Maybe we could get together.”
“Yeah, you should come over to my house.”
“Oh, um, wouldn’t it be easier for you to come to mine?” Michelle looked at the shorter girl eagerly. She’d heard, uh, things about the other girl’s family.
“It’s no problem for you to come to my house,” the dark haired girl told her. “We’re having a family dinner.” She smiled. “So there will be great food, like spaghetti and ravioli and rizzoto,” the girl closed her eyes as if imagining all the delicious things to eat, “so good.” She nodded her head in satisfaction. “We Lipari’s know how to cook.”
“Ah.” Michelle nodded and then asked, “What sort of name is that?” just make sure.
“It’s Italian. Lipari Island is just off of
“Heh, interesting.” Michelle gave a half smile. There was small silence.
“So, can you come?”
“Well, actually,” Michelle glanced sideways nervously, “I have a lot to do this weekend. You know Mrs. Lackso assigned us that paragraph to write in Spanish and then I have physics homework and I really should practice my sax,” she tried to look like she was sorry, giving a fake grimace. “And my mom wanted me to clean my room and I have to watch my little sister I think when my mom has her breakfast date with a friend.” The words sped out.
“Oh,” the long haired girl shrugged. “I understand. You’re busy.”
“Ok. Well, I guess I’ll see you Monday then.” The girl put her hand up in a half wave and turned to start walking down the hall.
“Right.” Michelle turned towards the door and pushing it open let out a sigh as relief washed over her like the cool air of the late afternoon.
Here is the poem we did interrogating a flower. I know the rhyming needs work, but I hope to improve. I just thought rhyming would be fun since the poems I write on my own never rhyme. I like the ideas I came up with though since one does not usually associate a flower with crime. We had to come up with a new style for this poem so here is what I did.
It happened by the river.’
And the wind whispers all alone.’
And I tell you I witnessed no crime.’
He looked at her accusingly.
There’s no reason to question me; there’s nothing to find’
For indecent exposure’
To jail you really should be sent!’
You’re a criminal.
I tell you I did not touch the boy!’