A couple of weeks ago, I had the idea of a weekly 300 word story exercise for the group of six ex-A215-ers I’m in (I think they asked me to join them by mistake) who share and critique work. Last week’s theme/subject was ‘Waiting’ and this week’s is ‘Fog’. I had forgotten all about it and it’s due in tomorrow and I haven’t a clue what to write. So I thought I’d do a freewrite but it didn’t come up with much.

Here’s my freewrite.

Fog. Foggy. Grey. Swirls of fog like clouds, like spiders’ legs. Foggy brain. Can’t remember anything. Red mist. I think I have a foggy brain today as I can’t think of anything to write. Maybe write a story about someone who can’t remember anything. They call balsamic vinegar masonic vinegar. Like what I misheard on the telly last night. Oh no, the screen’s gone red. Must keep typing. Once upon a time there was some fog. In the fog lived a monster. The monster was called foggy. Foggy the monster. What a load of bollocks. Screen gone red again. Keep typing. Just 300 little words. or 300 long words, who cares. Write about fog. I was late for school once and said it was because it was so foggy I couldn’t see the school and went past it. I’m not sure they believed me. Probably because I was talking crap. 150 words. Just another 150 left to go. Dum de dum. Nope, nothing coming. What’s on telly tonight? Eastenders? What’s happening in Eastenders? Not a lot. I don’t think there’s been any fog in it either. Maybe they should have a fog story. And someone could get murdered and no one saw who did it because the fog was too thick. They don’t very often, if ever, have fog in soaps. Or any weather at all really. Considering how the British love to talk about the weather, why don’t they ever talk about it in soaps? Even when it’s snowing and they’re covered in snow, no one says ‘cold, innit?’ or anything. 262 words. Not many left. Fog and snow and rain and drizzle and sleet and sunshine and umbrellas and snowshoes and flip flops and tennis rackets and tennis balls and eight words left. Make that four. Bye bye.

I haven’t written anything except a shopping list since finishing A215 and so today on Twitter I made a plea for someone to give me a writing exercise. No one responded except Jenny (@jennykline) who said she hadn’t written anything since the course either (she didn’t even mention a shopping list so she must be getting hungry by now) and so I said how about we do an exercise together and she said ok, what about? And I said how about 500 words on a pair of old trainers and she said ok, and she started writing and I thought oh shit, I don’t know what to write, and so I decided to do a freewrite and here’s my 500 words of stream of consciousness.

Has it worked to motivate me to write something? Not really. But, it’s a start.

*****

A Pair of Old Trainers

A pair of old trainers. Kept in the back of the cupboard along with the dead mice. Usually under the stairs with other shoes, bags, and whatever else people keep under the stairs. At the moment, our under the stairs consists of records, tapes and books. All mine. And an ironing board. Shaun’s. I don’t do ironing. Ever. I can’t stand it. I iron more creases in than I iron out. Anyway, back to the old trainers. What colour are they? Orange, perhaps. Actually I don’t own any orange trainers. Yes I do. My old Ascis which are the comfiest running shoes in the entire world ever. Like walking on clouds. Which is probably why they’re called Nimbus or Cumulus or whichever ones they are.  Shaun bought me a cloud book for the Christmas before last. I wasn’t very appreciative. I asked him if he’d read a web design book if I got him one. He, unsurprisingly, said no. So I said, or along the lines, anyway, so why would I want a cloud book? Apparently there’s a cloud book on amazon for about a hundred pounds or something. I need to have a look and see if it’s still there and buy it for him. Anyway, back to trainers. Dusty, dirty, smelly old trainers. Covered in mud and dust and handbags. Down the gym the pensioners don’t wear trainers. Not the old lady pensioners anyway. They wear comfy shoes. Why do old ladies wear comfy shoes all the time? The old lady at the writing group on Thursday doesn’t even need comfy shoes as she has her mobility scooter to get her around. So she could wear bright red high heels and not have to worry about tottering down the road like a transvestite, like I do on the rare occasion I wear high heels. Not that I’d wear bright red ones. And not that I’ve worn heels since meeting Shaun, as then I would be taller than him. Still, that’s a good excuse not to wear heels. I hate wearing heels. I used to hate wearing trainers and only bought my first pair when I started running. I thought trainers were for chavs. Actually, I still think that and wouldn’t wear trainers anywhere except for out running or to the gym. Is this freewrite generating anything? Not really. But I am writing for the first time since the course finished but maybe I could squeeze a story out of the old lady in her mobility scooter wearing bright high heels. I suppose trainers are ok for doing gardening in too but I haven’t done any gardening since moving here as it’s not my garden. I didn’t actually do much gardening in my garden in London though. Oh look, my 500 words is nearly up. Just another 30 to go. Thirty words about trainers. An old pair of orange trainers were living under the stairs where they had been for many years until being unearthed by a psychic octopus.

I am stuck for inspiration for my TMA2.  I have a couple of story ideas but I don’t think they’ll fit in a short story.  I have a character though.  She’s called Emily and she rides a pink Vespa.  That’s as far as I’ve got.  I thought a freewrite might help.  It didn’t.  But at least I wrote ‘something’.  Here it is.

So, there’s this girl with a pink  Vespa and she has a matching helmet but what does she do?  Does she trawl the internet dating sites looking for men to write about on her blog?  Can that be a short story?  I don’t think so.  My chewing gum story won’t work either.  I need something to write about for TMA2 which is going to creep up on me really really soon and there’s moving house and going away for my birthday beforehand too and I don’t think I’ll be doing much writing on my birthday in Naples.  Ok, then, I won’t be doing any writing on my birthday in Naples.  Just drinking.  And eating pizza.  I’ll probably see lots of Vespas in Italy too.  When I was in Bologna there were LOADS of scooter drivers or are they riders?  Anyway, there were loads of them and they all drove like complete wankers.  I’m lucky to be alive I think.  They don’t seem to have a highway code.  Just drive and ride all over the place.  Street lights?  What are they?  Traffic lights, I mean.  They don’t care about them.  I paused typing but this write or die thing didn’t do anything.  Shouldn’t it have shouted at me or something?  I need some inspiration.  Not easy after drinking too much wine last night.  Sunday drinking must stop.

I’m not entirely sure what morning pages are.  Are they just whatever comes to mind when you first wake up?  I’ve been writing down my dreams, but I decided to write down what I saw out of the window  this morning, which turned into a freewrite.  I like freewrites.

Mist, can’t see in the distance.  On a landscape, desolate.  Morrisey’s bicycle.  Cars with their headlights on.  One cottage stands out above all the others.  Two windows.  A green hedge.  A gold car.  Cars going slowly.  Brake lights on.  Yellow chimney pots.  An empty bus.  Golden headlights.  Beams.  Rays.  Sunlight.  Blue sky.  Just getting light.  No streetlights.  Cat hungry.

Now, had that not been a freewrite, I could have utlised my new Dictionary of Colour and looked up something more descriptive than “green”.

How about:

mushy-pea green
sludge green
spinach green
swamp green
ocean green
olive
rifle green
porret (a yellowish green – a porret being a baby leek)
smaragdine (emerald green)
mythogreen (a brilliant yellowish-green)

I could go on, there’s loads of ways to describe green (and every other colour of the spectrum, it’d be a bit of a crap book if it only contained words relating to to the colour green).

It’s a great book.  With 520 pages in four parts, it covers:

1. A listing of colour phrases (e.g. blue funk)
2. The colours (over 1100) arranged in alphabetical order
3. The colours arranged according to colour groupings
4. Adjectives of colour (over 800)

I will never describe something as plain as green again.

Right, I’m off to buy a pair of smaragdine shoes.

I was at the train station 15 minutes early, so like a good A215-er, I got out my trusty notebook and pen and did a freewrite.

Sitting on a bench at the station platform.  The wind’s blowing my hair, it tickles my face.  My pink bicycle is propped up on the wall where the back door of the cab office is.  I’m not blocking it as the sign says to use the front door.  I can hear men in the cab office.  Chirpy cockney cabbies or whatever the Kent equivalent is.  People are crossing the footbridge to get the train going towards London.  I’m on the Ashford bound one, off to a job interview for a job I don’t want.  The thought of sitting in an office all day again depresses the life out of me.  The woman on the tannoy is announcing the train on the other side.  The 14:40 to Charing Cross.  It’s only 14:05 so she’s a bit early.

My train is going to be a minute late.  It’s warm today, the sun is heating my face and I’m glad I didn’t wear my heavy jacket as well as my suit jacket.  I have to leave the jacket unbuttoned as I’ve put on weight since the last time I wore it and I’m bursting out and it looks crap.

I stand up to look at the screen.  It now says it’s going to be 3 minutes late.  Fuck.  I’m cutting it fine as it is, as I’m cycling from the other side.

They’re calling my train now but it’s not here.  If I don’t get lost on the way I should be ok for time.  There’s a train on the other side.  She must have said 14:14 not 14:40.  At least she’s clearer than the London ones.  Someone else is crossing the footbridge but she’s not hurrying, even though the train is there.  They must take it easier round here.

There’s people coming down the footbridge from

Train here.

I’m on the train with my bike, I hope it doesn’t fall over.

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I had so much fun with the first Write or Die that I decided to do it again, this time writing a mini-story. I have edited this slightly by putting in the quotation marks and giving each speaker a new line to make it easier to read. Other than that, it is unedited.

Ding dong.

“Can I come in?”

“What’s that in the parcel?”

“This parcel?”

“Yes, that parcel.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my parcel, not your parcel.”

“But I want to know what’s in the parcel.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do but I’m not going to tell you.”

“Oh ok then. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

“Yes ok but only if I can have it with milk.”

“I have milk.”

“I hope it’s proper milk and not that soya stuff.”

“Yes I have proper milk. From cows. You know, those things that go moo.”

“They don’t go moo, they say moo.”

“Whatever. You’re so pedantic.”

You’re so full of the wrong grammar.”

“Do you want tea or not?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Ok come in then. Bring your parcel. The secret mysterious parcel.”

“Do you want to know what’s in it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Ever?”

“Maybe not ever but definitely not now. At least not before my cup of tea anyway.”

“Do you want sugar?”

“Yes. But not if it’s that stupid brown stuff.”

“It’s white sugar. You’re very fussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Fussy is good. You want to know what’s in my parcel?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“You’re like a broken record.”

“You’re like a Barry Manilow record.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Crap.”

“Oh I see. Very funny. Not.”

“Can I have my tea now?”

“Do you want a biscuit?”

“Yes but only if it’s a proper biscuit and not a stupid digestive biscuit or god forbid a Rich Tea one.”

“I have chocolate hob nobs, is that ok?”

“Yes, chocolate hob nobs would be fine but only if it’s milk chocolate and not that stupid dark chocolate.”

“They are milk chocolate.”

“Do you want to know what’s in my parcel?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Really really.”

“I will tell you if you want to know.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Oh don’t start that again. You’re like a broken record.”

“You already said that. Now who’s the broken record?”

“Oh shut up.”

“Ok.”

“What’s in the parcel?”

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

“I don’t, I’m just making conversation.”

“I’m not going to tell you what’s in the parcel.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my parcel, not yours.”

“So?”

“So that means I’m not going to tell you.”

“I bet there’s nothing in the parcel.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re weird and would carry a parcel with nothing in it just so people ask you what’s in the parcel and you can say I’m not going to tell you. And then you can call them Barry Manilow records and weird shit like that.”

“You are a Barry Manilow record though.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Fucking hell, round and round.”

“Oh, you swore, I’m telling.”

“Who are you going to tell?”

“My parcel.”

“And that’s not weird?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Really really?”

“You speak to parcels?”

“Yes.”

“Do they speak back?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do they say?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would be breaching owner/parcel confidentiality. It’s a trust thing. You wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a Barry Manilow record.”

“I’m going to hit you in a minute.”

“Swearing and violence, most becoming on a young lady.”

“How long have you had your parcel?”

“About two days.”

“And you’ve been carrying it around with you for two days?”

“Yes.”

“Have you finished your tea and biscuit?”

“Yes.”

“You can leave now if you want to.”

“Ok then.”

“Take your parcel with you.”

“I might leave it here but you must promise not to open it.”

“I don’t want your parcel. Take it with you. Close the door on your way out please.”

“Ok.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

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lab.drwicked.com

Today I Writed or Died.  Is that the worst misuse of grammar you’ve ever seen?  No.  What I wrote was.  Check this out (there will be typos, I haven’t corrected/edited it):

Once upon a time there was a little girl.  She was born with black hair, then it went blonde and then it went mousey.  This really pissed her off so since the age of about 11 she started dying it.  First with those wash in wash out things and then more permanently.  Mostly red and then got more adventurous and dyed it black in her goth days and then pillar box red and pink and she loved having pink hair but she left her job and had to get another job and didn’t think anyone would employ her with pink hair so she just kind of left it and dyed it more normal colours out of boxes bought in Boots and places like that and then she got a job where she couldn’t even wear her nose ring and so that went and slowly over the years she started looking more and more normal and even started wearing blue jeans when once she thought that only chavs or whatever chavs were called in the 80s and 90s wore and she even started wearing white clothes for fucks sake and now she doesn’t have a proper job and she could dye her hair pink again if she wanted to but doesn’t want to look like mutton although Claire still has pink hair and doesn’t look like mutton at all and now she doesn’t know what to do with her hair but doesn’t think she’ll dye it pink again as she is approaching 40 and approaching it very rapidly, in fact just under three months, eek and when she’s 40 that is like proper old (sorry people who have just turned or are just about to turn 40) and maybe she’ll have to get a proper job again and stop pretending to be a web designer and maybe one day she’ll be a famous writer but she will probably have to start using punctuation like full stops and things.  Like that one and maybe some commas too, although she doesn’t really have a problem with commas but the lady on A174 kept faulting her use of commas and she was a self-professed grammar nazi but I only found her annoying really and now I’ve changed tense or person or narrative or something and I should know what it’s called as we learnt it in A174 and now I’m going to be doing A215 which is the next step up from A215 and I’m going to have to learn punctuation before I get pulled up on it by the grammar nazis again but I’m very excited about starting it and it starts next Saturday and the Saturday after that is the first tutorial and I have to go to Tunbridge Wells which apparently has good shopping and I did ask Shaun to come down after and we can go out and he said yes but then he remembered that he has the Royal Parks Half Marathon the next day and I should be doing that half but I’ve done fuck all training so am going to stay in bed instead and get the train down to London and meet him after the finish and meet up with Leighsa too and then we’re going to get pizza.  Pizza is my number one favourite food.  With mushrooms, chili, olives (but only on my half,  Shaun doesn’t like them) and I make my own pizza.  In my bread machine as I am not a domestic goddess.  I’ll leave that to people called Nigella.  I do not simper and pout either.  Actually I do pout. I can sulk good.  Like my cat.  Last night my cat attacked me and she was concentrating so hard on attacking me she had her tongue sticking out and it was the funniest thing ever and I even laughed about it this morning when I remembered and it was a shame the camera wasn’t close to hand and my camera is going to need charging I think and I want to take it to Amanda’s 40th do tomorrow in Bromley where I’m going to see old schoolfriends that I haven’t seen since I left school 22 or 23 years ago.  I didn’t go to school much in the last couple of years.  I hated it and couldn’t wait to leave and left before the exams which means I don’t even have a CSE to my name but I’m not stupid, just uneducated.  In fact, I hardly know anything.  I can spell though and sometimes use punctuation but I like this stream of concsiousness thing.  It’s fun.  And a good way to practice typing.  Not that I need much practice.  100wpm.