Class work example 2

CRIMES AND MISDEMEANOURSWrite a 500-word story about a crime (or misdemeanour), totally from the perspective of the criminal/perpetrator. Then write a 500-word story of the same event, from the victim's point of view. It shouldn't be a simple 'repeat' -- there should be new and powerful insights we gain from the second version of events.


Version 1:
Almost pissed my pants when I realised there was someone there. Fucking terrified. There’s no feeling like it. I’m a superhero – hearing magnified a thousand times. I swear I could’ve heard my own hair growing, it was that quiet. If I had any, of course.

I’d already had a good look around and there was plenty of good steals. Big stuff to come back for later, but things that fit in your pocket too. Nice little shiny things to sell on easy. Everything’s smaller nowadays. Flat little phones and ipods, ipads. icats and dogs and ichildren’ll be next. Hundred quid a pop, job done. They had a massive telly too – bit big for the room, if you ask me. But then I’m no interior designer. Helped a few people out with removals over the years though, if you know what I mean.

So I was in their living room, sussing out the PSP and slipping a pile of computer games into my rucksack when I heard it. Just a squeak, not something just anyone could’ve picked up. But that’s one of my talents. See, people think it’s just raping and pillaging, but there’s skill involved too. Not just anyone can do break-ins and not get caught. Maybe she rolled over in the bed, or maybe he was pushing off the duvet. Either way I had to make a quick-sharp decision, and the haul was too good to overlook.

I thought I’d take my chances. Stopped for a minute, heart pumping a million break-beats till I was struggling to hear anything else. Cold sweats, clammy hands, but on top of that great big bloody shot of adrenaline. Once the house was definitely still again I carried on filling up the bag. Piles of games, dvds, cds and pocket-sized mp3s; an Aladdin’s cave of electronics and trinkets. It’s funny being in someone’s house uninvited. The room looks homely, the sofa practically begging me to have a quick sit down. Pictures on the walls to show off to all their friends, but only lets me know how rich and posh they are. Holidays on a boat, elephants on safari. I’m Robin Hood, me. Their stupid sons in stupid hats and mini-me ties. Should be outlawed. What’s wrong with a Man U shirt? Kids should be kids, that’s what I think. And our Jack would’ve killed for that Xbox Kinect.

I was just clearing the sideboard – load of silverware, ugly but might be worth summat – when the noise started up again. So close to finishing I didn’t stop this time, until I heard the footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, not cautious like most of the time. I’ve been caught before. I said it’s skill, but there’s luck involved too. Most people are too pussy and hang around till all they see is the back of you leggin’ it down the road. Usually with a sack full of their bling. This guy didn’t give me time to make a run for it. I should’ve checked the photos on the wall more carefully, now there’s a wedding photo in front of me and he’s a rugby toff type. And either his wife’s a midget or he’s fucking stacked. Maybe my luck’s running out.

Version 2:
It’s not the Things that bother me. It’s the principle, the cheek that someone can just walk into my home and take what isn’t theirs. What if I hadn’t been there? I shudder to think that Miriam and the kids would have slept right through. Or worse. If Adam or Jake had got up to use the loo, or for a glass of water. What would he have done then? Since the boys were born I don’t think I’m ever fully asleep, I spend nights in a half-slumber just in case one of them calls out. That’s probably why I woke up, but I don’t remember hearing a noise. I just got a feeling that something wasn’t right. I started to fall back asleep, but then the cabinet in the lounge opened with a distinctive glass tinkle.

Something took over and I sprang out of bed in a second, without even thinking. Miriam stayed asleep, barely stirring, and I made my way down the stairs. Passing the coat rack I fumbled for a golf club standing upright underneath. I’d be lying if I hadn’t said I’d thought about this before. It might be old-fashioned but I feel my role is as protector. I am the man of the house, and even if there’s no more hunting and gathering I’d fight with every last fibre to keep them safe. I’d known the golf club was there, and my plan had always been this. Clutching it tight in both hands I pushed open the door. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, but I was momentarily thrown by the pin-prick torch positioned above the tv cabinet, casting a spotlight onto my wedding photo. This only displaced my apprehension with out-and-out rage. How dare this man, this scum, thrust himself into my life. To stamp over my sons’ toys, to empty out drawers of personal letters – birthday wishes and sympathy notes strewn across the carpet. He looked at me for a split second as though it were me who didn’t belong. I quickly surveyed him, noting he was about my age and just as stocky as me, but shorter and hunched. In short, I could definitely take him. ‘Get out’ I told him, through gritted teeth. He went to move forward, whether it was towards me or towards the door I really couldn’t have told you but I panicked all the same. Raising the club over my head I took a swing, as though he were an enormous golf ball, and felt the connection with a thud right up to my shoulder blades. There were screams, by this point Miriam was awake so it may have been her. It might have been him screaming, but I don’t know if he was able. Or the screams might have been me.

Objectives and homework

Week one of CSM intermediate creative writing course was great. The tutor, Elise Valmorbida, is excellent. She was also the tutor on the beginners course, and the main reason I signed up for the intermediate despite it being shockingly expensive. The group has a really different vibe to those on the beginners course I took. The last group was much more ecclectic; a hotch-potch of Shoreditch trendies and SW yummy-mummies, but all kookily dressed, with successful careers and admirable writing skills. This group seems much more shy with their work, and less confident in their abilities. I find this difficult to deal with, as the main thing about these courses is you shouldn't apologise for or explain your writing. It's ok to be embarrassed, but it is what it is. If you publish a book you can't explain what you meant by it. Once writing leaves your pen it's no longer yours to narrate, and if someone misconstrues your meanings you can't take it back and explain. I'll be interested to see how the class dynamic works out.

To start with we each discussed what we'd been working on since the beginners course (to take the Intermediate you have to have successfully completed the beginners course) and what our aims for this course are. My primary motivation for taking these classes is to motivate me to work. In addition to that I want to get inspiration and get out of my comfort zone. I also want to work on technical aspects of my writing such as dialogue integration, structure and planning and tenses.

I talked a little about Senses, the script I completed last year. For me there was some glaring problems with the plot that I felt were unsurmountable, however talking them through made me realise there's still potential. I need to tackle issues like:

- why did Elise Stuart go missing? If she was kidnapped then why? Perhaps it's an act of misguided chivalry. Maybe the caretaker who kidnaps her knows about Tom's affair and wants Elise to overhear them.
- I need to complete a short biography of the caretaker, to understand why he's doing what he does. Is this a new thing or has he done this before?
- is there a trigger event to make the caretaker do it?
- Biogs of all the other characters would be useful too. eg whay are Emily and Tom together? Why are Tom and Elise together? Are Emily and Elise similar or different?

I've largely ignored the character of Elise because she doesn't appear much throughout, however even though she isn't physically there her presence still looms large over the action. A good example of this is the character of Maris in Frasier, who is constantly alluded to throughout the show but whom we never see.

My next steps on Senses are now to write biogs of all the characters, and really get to know them. In addition to this I'm going to write narrative monologues of the action from each of the main character's POV. Then I will leave the old draft to one side and start again as a stage play. For the first time in months I'm really excited about the script again.

Describe a flower with violent fear and loathing

First there was the shame. It mingled with the hangover – the dirty taste, my grubby hair and the clothes from last night. When the delivery came the morning’s retching threatened to overcome me, acidic vomit clawing at the back of my throat. ‘Who’s a lucky girl?’ the receptionists clucked. Both of them came to my desk, practically skipping with glee. I uncurled myself from my slump, unplugged earphones and raised a smile. ‘Who are they from?’ they crowed. ‘I..I don’t know.’ The lie came easily into my head but stuck in my throat, perhaps held down by the nausea and the coating of fur on my teeth. ‘Open the envelope!’ Came the chorus. But there was nothing, so I was saved that indignity at least.

For the rest of the morning the bouquet squatted on my desk. Eleven roses sat firm and upright, their high stalks holding their heads fortunately above my line of vision. The twelfth bud of the dirty dozen had flopped and hung down, taunting me. Its fat bloom was too big and greedy for the wiry stalk. Each time the air conditioning whirred back into life the thick velvety petals tremoured. This caught my eye in the periphery of my computer screen. Against the office greys the deep red stood out like smears of blood, thick and almost black in places. The rose hanging down was the darkest, overripe and flabby. Shadows of veins stood out, criss-crossing messily over the crumpled petals and I imagined I could see them throbbing with sap. Dotted indents of decay clung to the rough hewn edges of the flower. The rot must have been spreading inside, the red outer layers hiding a core riddled with soft putrefying mulch. Perhaps an insect had buried deep inside and lain eggs, waiting to burst out. Scenes from Alien sprang to mind, and the thought of what lay dormant inside me made the sick feeling return. Another gust from the air con exposed the stigma nestled inside the bloated bloom, thick with orange pollen and protruding like a tongue. Mocked by its exposed organs I reached out and tore the stem with a woody snap.

Once the rose lay in my hand I smelt the aroma. Rotten like lettuce left at the bottom of the fridge, or bin juice leaked onto kitchen floors. I closed my fist around the flower, tightening and squeezing until it oozed into a sodden mush. When I opened my hand the petals were bent and limp, and a scarlet dye seeped between my fingers.

Describe a disease with loving lyricism

Looking down her stomach forms a concave; a valley rolling down from the crumpled peaks of her too-big t-shirt. On either side ribs form troughs in uniform lines. She tilts her head, admiringly, looking at the work of art she created in the nine days since food passed her lips. Boredom is no longer a problem, as it had been for the first week. Hours could pass and she no longer minded staying still, but relished in the focus an empty room brought. Hours would pass examining a toe or a finger, a new shape exposed as the flesh melted away. She could re-sit, and no doubt pass, the failed biology exams of last summer with the new-found knowledge of the skeleton. Each movement can be tracked, as knuckle tweaks fibrous tissue up the hand, wrist, and then forearm with a domino effect. She traces maps of sinews and tendons, clenching and unclenching each part in turn as if in yogic relaxation.

Raising a leg pushes the cavernous stomach in deeper. She lifts the half full glass on the bedside table, tiny bubbles formed up the sides of the glass hold her attention for a moment as they cling on in perfect spheres. She sips gently, holding herself back from lapping and gulping down in thirst. Holding the water in her mouth it tastes of metal, like blood. She swallows slowly, savouring the flavour which is really only the taste of her own arid mouth. swallowing the water she can feel it travel cooly down her throat, snaking its way down, gurgling as it drops and splashes into the empty space. Curiously she examines the water left in the glass and slopes the sides downwards, towards her body now propped up slightly on a pile of pillows. The water runs slowly at first, then drains out with a ‘plop’ onto her belly. The valley of her stomach holds the water as the cup did previously, sloshing around as she rolls gently, hypnotically from side to side. The cool water has given her goose bumps. The flesh puckers. She watches affectionately as the skin tightens, contracting around her ribs. Pale golden hairs stand to attention as obstacles for the water, causing it to split into rivulets ebbing and flowing in their new vessel.

Ted Moor tries to die

I have recently been involved in a writing relay for Ozon magazine, a kind of hipster's international style bible. This started of with the editor contacting three writers with a theme for the magazine and a suggested start to a dark story. The first writer, Sarah Dodd, then emailed me with this:

Ted Moor turned the key in the door of his high rise flat and entered. It was cold and part of the hallway carpet was damp; a burst pipe. He kicked the piles of bills and junk mail from the door mat and shuffled through to the kitchen where he dumped his meagre groceries and began to roll a joint. He hadn’t received any Christmas cards this year and since Sheila, his second wife, had left him in December he’d spent most of Christmas day at the care home with his mum. He sat back and contemplated the oven, thick with dust and grease and littered a top with pizza boxes and take away wrappers. ‘Why not?’, he thought, ‘there’s no point to it anyway’. Stretching across to the hob he twisted each dial in turn up to full. There was a hiss as gas filtered into the room. Ted fastened down the window and laid a towel across the bottom of the door. He switched on the radio and the tinny wailings of a recent hit sprung into life. Coughing, Ted settled back into his chair and brought the tightly rolled joint to his lips with a sigh. This was it. Now he would wait. Abruptly, there was an imperceptible whirr and a click and the kitchen light flickered and went out. The stream of gas weakened and stopped. Confused, Ted fumbled his way out into the hall and by the green light of his mobile squinted at the metre. 0.000. Nil funds. Cursing, he turned out his pockets scrabbling for coins. Nothing! Leaning back against the wall he searched his trousers for something to light the joint; at least he could smoke in peace and wait until morning. His jeans were empty. Tears welled up in Ted’s eyes as he lashed out into the darkness. No light, no life and no lighter.

The aim was that in each paragraph of around 250 words the character would attempt suicide and fail. Thanks to the first writer for handing me the high-rise block on flats on a plate! So I returned with the following:

Opening the door to his flat Ted staggered out into an equally dark hallway. Instead of pausing to lock the door he left it to swing open with a faint sense of rebellion. The end of the corridor led to an open balcony which from the outside looked like a multi-story car-park. It was the only flat he could afford now Sheila wasn’t around; the sort of place where people urinated in the stairwells. The smell of vomit cloyed from where someone, months ago, had puked, only for it to seep between the open steps and hang in semi-solid drips. He leant over the balcony and winced as he imagined his prone body slumped broken on the ground. Seconds from launch there was a loud shout. ‘Move away from the edge’ Ted turned backwards, almost overbalancing, but saw no-one was there. The voice shouted again, louder and more hysterical this time. Ted’s heart briefly sang, until he saw the owner of the voice peeking down from the balcony above. A large lady in a too-tight vest clutched a tiny, dirty child in her bulging arms. ‘You saw her there’ she accused. Barely stumbling out a protestation Ted backed down from the edge but the lady continued. ‘Sure you did – you see a little girl headin’ into a death-trap and you do nothin’.’ Ted turned to leave but the shouting continued ‘you were too busy creeping round down there with your drugs.’ He noticed the wet joint still clutched between his thumb and forefinger and hung his head. ‘Get out of my sight!’ the woman hollered, and Ted obsequiously obeyed. Sliding back over the balcony wall he sank into the corner of the mucky, sodden piss-stained corridor, defeated.

And passed onto the final writer, Sonali Hindmarch, who closed with the following:

He sat heavily, feeling fat ripple around his thighs. He threw his spliff on the ground, watched it float in a puddle. He heard the music before he heard them. It was played on a mobile phone. The bass sounded choked, stronger than the device could handle. Voices followed. Then clomping feet. Kids. They were walking up the stairwell, swearing echoed off the walls. Ted didn’t look when they turned onto his corridor, but he felt them there. A dog sniffed Ted’s face then grunted. One of the kids said something, but Ted couldn’t lift his head to acknowledge. They spoke again, but it was like Ted was watching TV out of the corner of his eye with the volume turned down, everything blurred at the edges. Until he felt a sharp stab - a kick - against his thigh. The noise and action rushed into focus then, the volume turned back up. There were three of them, no faces, just hoods. One had his leg lifted, still shouting, ready for another blow. The foot came heavily down onto Ted’s face, he felt his teeth loosen, a smack of pain. Is this how? he thought, slumping the rest of his body onto the ground as another kick slammed against his head. His world turned to static. Indistinct. The dog, shouts, running, then rain. He felt his phone ringing before he heard it. When he finally eased it out of his pocket he’d had three missed calls. It rang again in his hand. ‘Ted Moor?’ Ted thought he mumbled a reply. ‘This is the police, you’ll need to come to the hospital. It’s your wife … there’s been a fatal accident.’

I really enjoyed the challenge of writing to a specific theme and with strict timings and guidelines. The hardest part was keeping within the word count and still managing the play out the attempted suicide for your paragraph. This exercise made me realise I relish some kind of structure to write within, as sometimes sitting down with a blank page and a full head is the worst combination. So this Thursday I'll be starting my second Central St Martins' writing course and will blog work and feedback as I do it.

Greenlight script award

Excellent opportunity to have your script read and potentially produced. Must try and enter this one, as it's only a ten-pager so definitely worth a go.
Full details and entry requirements here, with the initial deadline May 2011 and a second deadline in October - but it's cheaper to enter sooner!
Will add this to the list.