TMA 02 is looming.  I have an extension until 11 January due to reasons of moving house and going on holiday but I’ve only just now picked up the BRB for the first time in about two weeks.  I’ve caught up insofar as I’ve done all the reading.  I haven’t done any of the activities though but I thought reading up on the coursework might motivate me to start on my TMA2 as the damn thing obviously won’t write itself (it won’t, will it?)

I had an inkling of an idea a few weeks ago but decided to trash that idea as I didn’t think it would fit into a short story as it was too convoluted.  I kept scribbling down a few ideas about a character I had.  I think I mentioned here that I wanted a character with a pink Vespa.  Now, today I’ve sat down and gone through my notebook and headed up some pages at the back of it with headings such as CHARACTER, SETTING, POSSIBLE INCLUSIONS, CONFLICTS/OBSTACLES, FLASHBACKS, etc. and under these headings I’ve started jotting down notes and ideas.  I’ve also got a heading called METHODS (for commentary).  I’ve started thinking about POV, the amount of time elapsed, to who the story is being told, where does it start and I’ve reminded myself to use all the senses.

So, a good start don’t you think?  I think it’s a good start, albeit one that should have been started about a month ago.  And then what do I do after making my late good start?  I sit down and write my flipping blog instead of making a start on the TMA.

Can someone tell me to just sit down and write the god damn bloody thing please? 

p.s.  Is god damn one word or two?

Well, as you can see, I passed.  No mention of how well I passed, or if I just scraped through.  Just a plain and simple “pass”.  Better than a plain and simple “fail” I suppose.  And it’s in a nice happy bright red colour.  Do you think if it had been a fail it would be in big black bold letters?

This was harder than part 1.  I didn’t have a clue what to put, so just made it up and wrote what I thought they wanted to hear.

The brief

In about 300 words, describe and give reasons for your choices of:

• the narrative point(s) of view
• the tense
• any particular genre it might be written in
• the point at which your story begins
• the particular emotion or overall mood you are trying to convey

15 years is written in the first person.  I chose this narrative viewpoint as I like the directness of it and wanted to express first hand the boredom and dissatisfaction Rachel was feeling in her marriage, and how she was hankering for the past.  I felt this would come across clearer than if written in the third person.

It’s written in the present tense as I wanted it to be set in the here and now and for the action to be moving along in the present day, creating a sense of immediacy.

As the main character, Rachel, is a 30 something wife and mother who hangs out in wine bars with her best friend – Jo – the genre would be chick-lit/women’s fiction, appealing to women in their 20s/30s/40s, probably working and/or living in a big city and who will relate to the characters/situations/environment.

It begins in the middle of the story – Rachel and Jo have met for lunch in a wine bar, Rachel hasn’t received the letter yet.  I played around with different beginnings, i.e. at the very beginning when she received letter and at the end after she’d received the letter, then going back to telling the story from earlier, but this way worked best for me.

The emotion or overall mood I was trying to convey was that of dissatisfaction and a yearning for the past.  This is illustrated by Rachel feeling sad and nostalgic as she remembers the party 15 years previously when she met Jake and also when she looks in the mirror and no longer sees her 20-something year old self.  She wants to recapture some of her youth and have fun again.

This was hard, it took me ages and I still hated it when I sent it off.  I’m particularly unhappy with the ending which just kind of … stops.  Crap.

The brief

Either:

Write a short story of 1,500 words that includes some use of time-shift and some dialogue.

Or:

Write a 1,500-word chapter of a longer work that includes some use of time-shift and some dialogue.  Sketch out the plot of the novel in no more than 50 additional words.

Include in your story or chapter one or more of the following subjects:

• honour
• shame
• passion
• abandonment
• hair
• a knife
• music
• prison
• a market square
• a letter
• a musical instrument

15 Years

“I got Chardonnay, you should have seen the other stuff they have – stuff like Reesling”. Jo’s heels click-clack across the wooden floor as she makes her way back from the bar clutching a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Riesling,” I correct her.

“Whatever. Some German shit, anyway.”

I don’t usually drink at lunchtime but what the hell, it’s been a crap morning in the office and I fancy one. Or two. Or half a bottle. Jo sits down and digs around in her bag for her cigarettes.

“I’m just nipping out for a fag, back in a minute,” she says, taking a quick sip of her drink. She stands up and smoothes down her black skirt that ends just before her knees. She click-clacks her way outside and I see her light up and take a deep drag of her cigarette before she exhales, wispy smoke curling around her face.

I remember back to when Jo and I first met. We’re at a party in – who’s house was it? I can’t remember – oh, must have been early 1992, when I was 22, wearing my uniform of crimped black hair, black clothes, black eyeliner, black Dr Martens and nose ring. Jo was similarly attired and we were sitting on the floor, leaning up against a sofa sharing a £1.99 two litre bottle of strong cider and smoking dope – or had we taken speed, I can’t remember – anyway, we were at this party and we’ve been hanging out together ever since and now look at us, dressed in our new corporate uniform of black skirt, white blouse and high heels drinking Chardonnay at lunchtime.

“You ok Rach? You look miles away,” Jo’s returned smelling of smoke. I gave up three years ago when I had Thomas.

“Yeah, I was just thinking back to that party where we met, whose house was it?” I ask.

“Oh god, that was years ago. Can’t remember whose house it was. Good party though. Wasn’t that where you met Jake?”

I feel sad at the sound of his name. One of my first ‘proper’ boyfriends. In the good old days. Where has it all gone? Where’s the fun? Now I’m just a wife and mother and live in the land of drudge. I want to party. I want to drink strong cider for £1.99 and smoke dope and take speed.

“Yeah, it was,” I say, my voice tinged with regret.

“Wonder what he’s doing now?” she says.

“Probably sitting around drinking strong cider for £1.99, smoking dope and taking speed,” I say.

Jo laughs, “yeah, probably. Some things never change, eh? Well, apart from you, Little Miss House on the Prairie, with your perfect husband and perfect son.” She drains her glass, puts her cigarettes back in her bag and stands up, “back to the grindstone, see you later,” she say as she kisses me on the cheek and click-clacks her way out of the bar.

I remember back to late 1994. Jake kissed me goodbye at the front door, he was touring Germany with a band he’d joined and would be gone for a few weeks. I’d just started a new job and couldn’t get the time off to go with him.

“I’ll give you a ring,” he said.

I never heard from him again.

“Rach, there’s a letter come for you. Handwritten envelope and a stamp and everything, addressed to you in your old name, not your married one. Must be someone from the olden days who doesn’t know you moved out of here some time last century when you did the getting married and having a baby thing,” Jo says on the other end of the phone.

“Ooh, I wonder who that’s from?” I say. “Can you bring it over, I’ve just got Tom down and don’t want to wake him up.”

“Course, I’m as curious as you!” Jo says as she puts the receiver down.

Someone from the olden days. I look at my reflection in the hallway mirror. A wife and mother with mousey brown hair and wrinkles looks back at me. A far cry from the carefree twenty-something with perfect skin from long ago. Jo knocks at the door. I open it and she hands me a crumpled envelope, my former name and address written in a hand I instantly recognise. With trembling fingers, I open it.

“Oh my god, he’s coming back.” I stare at the letter in my shaking hands.

“Who?” Jo asks, reaching for the letter.

“Jake. Says he’s playing at the festival in the market square at the weekend. Wants me to go. Says it would be good to catch up. ‘Catch up.’ Right. What an idiot, he was supposed to ring me 15 years ago.” I stare at the letter not quite believing what I was seeing.

“Sorry I haven’t been in touch …” Jo laughs, “what an idiot. Are you going to go?”

“No, of course not. I’m a married woman. What’s the point of dredging all that back up?” I put the letter back in its envelope, folded it and shoved it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Cuppa?”

“I think this deserves something stronger. Got any wine?” Jo heads towards the stainless steel fridge in the kitchen, opens the door and peers in. “Ah, cool, this will do,” she says as she takes out a bottle and reaches in a drawer for a corkscrew.

The front door opens. “Afternoon ladies, bit early to be on the bottle isn’t it?” My husband Derek has come home.

“Hi Del, never too early, you know that,” Jo says, pouring him a glass.

“Not for me, thanks Jo, got work to do,” Derek says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing into the second bedroom, or his office, as he likes to call it.

“Boring old git, isn’t he?” Jo says pouring the contents of Derek’s glass into her own.

“Works hard, nothing wrong with that,” I say, sticking up for my husband. Inwardly though, I agree with her. Derek is boring. Jake was never boring. Wonder if he’s married now, with a kid, two kids, maybe more? No, he can’t be, he wouldn’t have written. Wonder what he looks like? Wonder what he’d say if I told him I don’t smoke anymore, he hated me smoking. I feel the letter in my back pocket. Maybe just … No, I put the thought out of my head. Let the past remain in the past. He wouldn’t fancy me now anyway, I’m just a boring old middle-aged wife and mother who’s a few pounds overweight. He wouldn’t even recognise me.

“Rach?” Jo’s looking at me.

“Sorry Jo, did you say something?”

“Said I’ve got to go now, going to the hairdressers, going to get some extensions put in.” Jo picked up her red leather bag, swung it over her shoulder and blew me a kiss, “see you later” and left through the front door.

I lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, thinking. The headlights from a passing lorry momentarily fill the room with light and Derek wakes for a second, sniffs, coughs, rolls over and resumes snoring. I look at my husband’s sleeping face and think of Tom in the next room.

The next morning I look at the flyer Jake sent with his letter. His band is playing at the festival in the market square at 8pm tonight. Tonight. My heart raced. Would I dare go?

7pm came. “I’m meeting Jo tonight for a quick drink, is that ok?” I ask Derek over dinner.

“Bit short notice isn’t it? Who’s going to look after Tom?” he asks me as he forks a bit of sausage into his mouth.

“She’s got men problems, you know how it is. Tom’s asleep, he’ll be fine,” I say.

“Hmph,” I take this to mean yes.

I go upstairs and get changed. But into what? What do people wear to gigs these days? I’ve only got office clothes, that won’t do. I put on a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt that doesn’t show too many lumps in the wrong places. I dig out a pair of trainers, that will have to do.

I get to the market square and make my way over to the stage. They’ve already been on a while but I recognise Jake immediately. He plays his final note of the second encore and the stage lights are switched off. His eyes scan the crowd, is he looking for me? Will he even recognise me after all these years? The crowd disperses and I stand alone looking up at the stage. His eyes meet mine and he jumps down and stands in front of me. He hasn’t aged well, too much fast living and cheap cider I suppose. I’m expecting butterflies but I feel nothing. I make my excuses and go home.

I hated this one, and it shows.  But the deadline was looming …

The brief

In 500 words, write a story or part of a story that fictionalizes something that is mentioned on the radio when you go to turn it on now.  Choose a setting which you describe somewhere in your 500 words, and tell this mini-story from the narrative point of view of a man or woman (a character) whom the story directly affects.  Do not use any dialogue.  Write in either the past or present tense.  Try to use clear, vivid language so that your reader can see the setting and character(s).  Avoid clichè.

The Volunteer

Peter was a short man in his 50s, with a wiry frame, his kind face topped with salt and pepper hair which was balding at the crown.  He was the manager of a charity shop in the small town he lived in which he’d been running single-handedly for a couple of years but recently had enlisted the help of a volunteer, Karen, who, after retiring from her job as head teacher at the local primary school, was pleased to have something to do.

As he did every day except Sunday, Peter pulled up outside the shop in his battered old blue mini, patted his jacket pocket to check he had the keys and went to open up.   He tutted and sighed as he saw the contents of a couple of black bin liners full of donations left by local residents that had been rifled through overnight, strewn over the pavement.  It didn’t matter how many signs he put on the windows asking people not to leave the donations outside when the shop was shut, every morning there was another load.  Stepping over a Kenwood Magimix and some brightly coloured children‘s clothes, once inside, Peter looked around.  He lived in quite a wealthy town and this was reflected in the donations; there was an immaculate Chanel suit hanging up next to a beautiful ivory Vera Wang wedding dress, complete with flowing train.  Peter wondered what the background to the dress was.  Did the bride it was intended for make it up the aisle?  Was she jilted at the altar?  One of the things he loved about the shop was that every item in it had a story to tell.

Karen, a tall, slim woman with auburn wavy shoulder length hair, arrived for her shift and headed straight for the small kitchen at the back of the shop to make them both a cup of tea; milk and one sugar for her, no sugar for Peter.  As she waited for the kettle to boil, she absent-mindedly picked at the yellowing woodchip wallpaper that was coming away from the wall.

As they drank their tea, they put the new donations on to the shelves.  Dusty and dog-eared cookbooks from the 70s, their covers showing photos of fondue and joints of beef sat next to books on how to use Google.  Sparkling evening dresses and shimmering ball gowns went on the rails, china tea pots depicting country scenes and other breakables went on the high glass shelves, away from the clumsy fingers of the school children who liked to come in at lunchtime.

Karen took her place behind the till while Peter went out the back to work on the accounts.  He switched the radio on to Radio 4 and settled down in his favourite brown leather armchair.

After a few hours, Karen’s shift was over and Peter came back into the shop to say goodbye and thank her for her help.  He cashed up, locked the door and drove home.

The brief

In 500 words, write a mini portrait of a character, in either past or present tense.  In this story, note, there needn’t be any signficant plot; concentrate instead on describing both character and place, and on conveying a particular mood – and state this mood as the title of your story.  (Forexample: Happiness: Jane had short red hair and …).

Resignation

Dan got out of bed, knocking the empty Smirnoff vodka bottle off the bedside cabinet.  He didn’t need to get dressed, he was still wearing the same faded blue jeans and grubby white t-shirt from yesterday.  He shunned the shower in favour of heading straight downstairs to the kitchen, turning his nose up at the stench of the remains of last night’s curry, switched on the kettle, unearthed his favourite chipped Arsenal mug from the sink which was surrounded by the rest of the washing up that had been there for longer than he could remember and made himself a mug of strong, black instant coffee.  He scratched his stubble (which was ginger in contrast to the thick jet black hair on his head, a fact that annoyed him immensely) and looked at his nails, raising his eyebrows at the amount of grime under them.  He went back upstairs and braved the mirror.  A grey, lined face belying his 33 years stared back at him with a slight look of regret in his green eyes.  Dan ventured into the guest room which acted as his office.  He didn’t even know why he called it the guest room, he never had any guests and he threw the futon out ages ago to make room for the stereo and DVD player.  The only visitors to the room were his dog, Muffin, and Monty the cat who was currently sleeping on top of his black swivel chair, casually half opening an eye as he walked into the room.

The phone rang.  Dan stared it for a few seconds, then picked up the receiver and spoke to his editor while doodling squares and circles on a notepad with a chewed pencil he’d bought at the zoo he had taken his son to years ago.  He replaced the receiver and sighed.  Each time the phone went, he hoped it was her,  saying she wanted to come home.  But why would she come back to this mess?  Not just the mess in the house, but the mess he’d also made of his life?  Muffin ambled in and put his head on Dan’s leg, looking at him pleadingly.  He supposed he wanted food, did he have any?  Dan went downstairs to the kitchen and looked in the cupboard whose door was hanging by a single hinge, threatening to come away any second like a child‘s tooth.  He didn’t have any dog food so gave Muffin some of Monty’s Go Cat instead in an old cereal bowl.

Back upstairs again, Dan turned his computer on and settled down to do some work.  His desk was covered in stained coffee cups, empty vodka bottles and overflowing ashtrays.  A pile of unopened correspondence lay on the floor, he only opened ones that promised cheques inside.  The computer screen flickered into life and Dan checked his email, scanning the inbox for one from his wife.  He shrugged with resignation and started up his word processor and started to type his latest assignment, hoping to meet that deadline.

The Open University’s A174 Start Writing Fiction course is a short 12 week course that I completed in July this year.  It’s an online course, with a tutor and tutor group, three online tutorials (where your tutor sets exercises separate to those in the coursework) and two eTMAs (Electronic Tutor Marked Assignments).

I wasn’t going to post any work on this blog, being far too self-conscious and self-critical (i.e. I think my work is crap) but I’ve decided to be brave.  So here is Part 1 of eTMA 01, unedited.

The brief

In 500 words, write a complete mini-story where the central character is a child.  Write it from the child’s point of view (using ‘I’), and in the past tense.  Pay attention to the kind of language a child might use; and to the observations particular to a child.  Use as your setting: a busy city street, where something has just happened, before the story actually begins.  Use some dialogue.

The Doll

We had been outside the toy shop when my mum stopped to talk to our fat neighbour with the ginger cat who digs up our garden. I’d gone into the shop to get a closer look at the doll with the lovely long blond hair in the window.

There was a bang, glass smashed, then I was standing on the pavement.  I could smell burning but not like the smell of burnt toast when my mum’s making breakfast.  People ran out of the shopping centre screaming and shouting.  The sound of distant sirens got closer as police cars and ambulances came screeching round the corner and pulled up outside.  I looked around for my mum but couldn’t see her.  I started to panic, worried that I’d get told off for wandering off by myself.  “Mummy!”  I shouted.  “Mummy, where are you?”  I bit my trembling lower lip, trying not to cry.  Something warm ran down my face, I wiped it with the back of my hand which came back red.  “My head‘s bleeding! MUMMY!” Hot tears streamed down my face and a man wearing a uniform came over and asked if I was ok.

“I’ve lost my mum, she’s going to tell me off for wandering off and my head’s bleeding,“ I spluttered in between sniffs and gulps.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to look after you,” he said as he took my hand and led me off to an ambulance.  As we walked across the street, I trod on something and looked down.  It was the doll’s head from the shop.  I bent down and picked it up and held on to it getting some comfort from the cool plastic while the ambulance man gently dabbed my head with ointment.

“Now then Miss, what’s your name?” he asked me.

“Amy, um, Amelia.  I mean my mum calls me Amelia but my friends call me Amy,” I tell him.

“Well then Amy Amelia, where did you last see your mum?” he asked as he put a bandage on my head.

“She was talking to our fat neighbour with the ginger cat who digs up our garden.”

“And were you next to her the whole time?” he looked at me and I didn’t know if he was going to tell me off or not but he seemed kind so I told him the truth.

“No, I went into the toy shop to look at a doll”.

He loosened my grip on the doll’s head.  “This doll?”

I nodded. “I was hoping my mum would buy it for me.”

“Like the one that lady over there’s holding?”

I followed his gaze.  “Mummy!” I jumped up and ran over to her unable to contain my relief.  “I’m sorry Mummy, I didn’t mean to go off on my own,” I wrapped my arms around her neck as she leant down to inspect the bandage on my head.

“I’m just glad you’re safe.  I bought you this doll while you weren’t looking, come on, let’s go home,” she said as she handed me the doll and gripped my hand, never to let go again.