Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[cxmplete]

Hi, could you please read my creative writing piece on discovery. I gave it to my teacher and she says there are some points I need to expand on, and that there are some parts that i need to review for consistency, but I'm not really sure how I could do that. Also, is the discovery element evident in my story? Thanks.

Lost And Found
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night.  My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings.

Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.

I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean.

When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.
Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust.

And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug.

I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.

I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought.

Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. But what really caught my attention, was the pimply, buck toothed girl. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. But, I was not the chaos of my room. I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punchlines. I am whomever I decided to be.

Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.

Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.

[itssona]

I'm not submitting my creative in this post- just wanted to ask if you could mark my creative based on the AOS Belonging? (im doing prelim) or is it just discovery that you'll look at?

thanks

[jamonwindeyer]

I'm not submitting my creative in this post- just wanted to ask if you could mark my creative based on the AOS Belonging? (im doing prelim) or is it just discovery that you'll look at?

thanks

We can definitely mark your Belonging piece! I did Belonging in my AoS so can hopefully be of help!

[itssona]

We can definitely mark your Belonging piece! I did Belonging in my AoS so can hopefully be of help!

Thank you so much omg!!!

My stimulus I chose out of the options was: b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
but frankly, if you think any of the other stimulus' fit, then do tell me. The other ones are;
a) There is a need for caution or skepticism in seeking a sense of belonging.

b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.

c) One consequence of an unexpected experience is that it can spark an understanding of our place in the world.


[spoilerGripping despair came over me, with it, bringing the usual blanket of emptiness. The blanket I had grown accustomed to, wrapping myself in its arms since it was the only form of embrace I had. But ever so slowly, the blanket entangles itself between my legs, inching its way ominously up my collarbone, tugging at the nape of my neck.
And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds.  I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time.  The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black.
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston.  The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life.
I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced.
My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them”
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?)
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless.
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging.
][/spoiler]

Thank youuuu!

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi, could you please read my creative writing piece on discovery. I gave it to my teacher and she says there are some points I need to expand on, and that there are some parts that i need to review for consistency, but I'm not really sure how I could do that. Also, is the discovery element evident in my story? Thanks.

Hey cxmplete! Sure thing, your piece is attached in the spoiler, comments in bold throughout (though my comments throughout creatives are normally pretty small)

Creative with Feedback

Lost And Found
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes of reminders I ought to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, and shoes. The heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, moulded by the twists and turns of the night.  My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, and earring backings. I really like this introduction! It paints a great picture, sparks interest and establishes your voice really nicely. Well done.

Something inside me began to itch as I recalled that my friends were yet to return from camp, visiting family, or some community-service trip. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every body wash and bar of soap I could get my hands on. This is a little weird (I might realise why later), normally we associate this with disgust with your own actions? I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.

I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mum on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their usual place. I told my mum that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that maybe for once I should clean my room. Dragging myself upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with the thought of organising that chaotic mess that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the Atlantic Ocean. I like that you are leaving some details out of the story to create audience suspense, but this can be a little TOO disorienting at times. I'll reserve judgement until the end, but at this point I *think* having a tiny bit more background information would be helpful.

When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. I trudged to the centre of the clutter and I had become aware of the filthy air that I had become so accustomed to. Be careful of repetition of a unique/interesting word - In this case "clutter." Just a little off putting I noticed my stuffed animal, Vanilla, on my bed and remembered how during one winter, she had fallen behind my dresser and I didn’t notice her until the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater permeated the room.

Vanilla’s state sparked my sympathy for everything buried in the room that had become consumed by age. I like the fact that a lot of your story is flow of thought and internal reflection. You've done it genuinely - It works really well. Lost items long forgotten resurfaced into my consciousness: my favourite yellow tank top, the picture of my mum and I on a boat in Jamaica, and my AFL card collection. The lost objects suffused me with an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust. I like the motif of the sailing symbolism - That's clever. Hoping that it pays off somewhere down below!

And so I started to clean. Under my bed, in a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me while I was at camp. This seems really quick for a really significant plot element. Try building it up a bit more. Ultimately, the significant moments of your story should be given the most attention. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I remembered the thrill of running through the cold sprinklers hand in hand, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feeling of his soft sweater rubbing against my cheek every time he enveloped me in a hug. Ditto here, I'd love to see you expand on these moments more. To the reader, because you've only spent a few lines on it, it seems less important than even the state of your room above.

I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.

I sat with the letter, and tried blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it again and again until I had memorised every line. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. The relief from that bizarre itchy feeling was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought. This simile seems a little awkward, a little forced. It seems a bit like a technique just for the sake of using a technique.

Wiping my tears, I tried to distract myself, directing my attention to the bedside drawer. I found the picture of my mum and me on that boat in Jamaica. I’ve forgotten the sight of those turquoise waters, and the sticky warmth enveloping the boat. But what really caught my attention, was the pimply, buck toothed girl. I was barely able to recognise this person who had drowned in the mess of her room so many years after Poppy had died. But, I was not the chaos of my room. I am the silly child who ran to the wrong plane, and the owner of the fingers that made the lightest cupcakes. I am the writer of nightmarish stories and the creator of lame punchlines. I am whomever I decided to be. This feels like a very vague realisation - The link to the real world feels a little forced/weak, and you've not really clearly explained what the big realisation is, or the impacts of it. It comes across as just trying to cram a big Discovery concept in a single paragraph at the end of your story, which never quite works as well as we would hope!

Slowly, I began to place the books, belts, and baskets in their right places. Everything will finally be where it should be. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.

Gently I framed that photo and hung it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.

Alrighty! First, just while I remember, I really like the voice behind your writing - It is consistent and genuine and natural, and that is established right at the start. Excellent work there! It lends itself nicely to your 1st person narration

To address your points - I think what your teacher is referring to plot inconsistencies. So for example, near the start you talk about things "not feeling right" about the camping trip. Nothing amounts from that, it is a completely useless plot element because it never progresses beyond that! It seems early on, with the "scrubbing myself with every soap" bit that there might be some guilt involved, but that never amounts. Basically, the key plot element that leads to the Discovery is introduced halfway through, effectively leaving the first half of the story redundant.

I'd also argue that your Discovery seems very rushed towards the end. This is a super common challenge in this section - Students will write a creative with a great voice and clever ideas, and then go "Yep, this is how what I'm writing relates to Discovery." It's very obvious, it's very blunt, and usually it sucks the power right out of the concept. This is what you've done in that large paragraph towards the end - You've done your big "Discovery" paragraph right at the end, it doesn't really emerge gradually from the piece like it should be doing

I'd advise you to really draw out the sections of your Creative that matter, the ones relating to the lost relatives, and remove the unnecessary pieces. Your Creative could simply be someone cleaning their room uncovering relics of past loved ones, slowly discovering themselves in the process. Usually, simple is powerful

You should also check out this guide to creative writing, if you haven't already!

I hope this feedback is useful!! Let me know if you'd like me to clarify anything for you

[jamonwindeyer]

Thank you so much omg!!!
My stimulus I chose out of the options was: b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
but frankly, if you think any of the other stimulus' fit, then do tell me. The other ones are;
a) There is a need for caution or skepticism in seeking a sense of belonging.
b) Developing an association with others can disturb our sense of equilibrium.
c) One consequence of an unexpected experience is that it can spark an understanding of our place in the world.

No worries! Your creative is in the spoiler with comments throughout in bold

Spoiler

Gripping despair came over me, with it, bringing the usual blanket of emptiness. The blanket I had grown accustomed to, wrapping myself in its arms since it was the only form of embrace I had. But ever so slowly, the blanket entangles itself between my legs, inching its way ominously up my collarbone, tugging at the nape of my neck. Interesting introduction! Nice personification and symbolism at play - Definitely effective use of language.

And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds. A little awkward use of imagery there. I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time. Be careful of repetition of unique phrases like this in such quick succession - Usually (and indeed in this case imo) it comes across a little cheesy.  The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black. Feel like the power is reduced a bit in this second paragraph, it doesn't add a HEAP to what you had in the first paragraph. Might be worth condensing this second bit into the first or something?
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. I think Deston is okay! The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston.  Try to use paragraphs to your advantage - I'd break paragraphs here to indicate that you are about to reflect on this aspect of society. Like the euphemistic way you used "gained wealth" too. The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life. These last few sentences feel a bit conceptually blatant, just beyond the point where I'd go, "Okay, this student is telling me their concept directly." It's not too bad, but it could be better - Try to describe the situation in a way that SHOWS me these things, don't just tell me them.

I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced. I think it is interesting that you don't go into detail about this seemingly important plot element. It suggests that the character doesn't want to deal with/remember that aspect of their life. It seems insignificant because you don't give it much time - That might suit your purpose!

My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them” Watch that your dialogue is realistic! It was great up to here. Try and picture the conversation taking place: Would YOU, in your characters shoes and in their style, say it this way? Is that dialogue line representative of realistic speech?
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched. Love how you are playing with sentence length.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?) I think it does, and I think it works really well to paint the picture!
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless. Realistic dialogue - Watch it
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part. Realistic dialogue - Watch that you don't let the dialogue become an easy way to communicate your concepts.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected. Concept a little too blatant here.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging. Using the word belonging in a belonging creative, much like using "discovery" in a discovery creative, should be avoided as much as possible in almost every circumstance. It's just too obvious, you need more subtlety than that.

I really like your writing style sssona09! Really clever manipulation of language to create some powerful imagery, you developed some effective symbols (particularly in the intro), and I love that you play with longer and shorter sentences to create a sense of drama and tension where necessary. Super effective stuff, excellent work there!

In terms of conceptual sophistication - I think the concept is clever. The context is really cool, I like the historical place you have taken it and that makes the concept hit home that little bit harder. I know you don't specifically give a time period - I think you should. Giving this a historical context that matches the world space you are creating would take care of a lot of the explanation for you, leaving you more room to develop your characters.

I think the way you portray the concept is, for the most part, too obvious! It's either a straight explanation of the concept without much subtlety (again, using "belonging" in your creative is a big no no in most cases), or it comes as direct speech from your characters. You aren't showing me, you are telling me - You can be more sophisticated than that!! It's a classic case of show not tell, but this is much tougher, because it is really difficult to show your concepts in your events and characters rather than describe them directly. It's the main thing you need to work on

I do think you've chosen the correct stimulus - Stimulus A could also work! If, for example, you got Stimulus A in your Prelim Exams, you could have the protagonist conflicted between the warnings of her mother and the real feelings she has for a man in her village - Perhaps a tad cheesy but I think that would work, even in its current form it could work

Also watch to make sure your dialogue is realistic. It plays a large role in your story - Making your dialogue really genuine and realistic will be crucial. Have friends read it aloud to you, and be honest - Does it sound real? Or does it sound fake?

Really great stuff sssona09! Clever concept, great use of language, great context and setting - Just about adjusting how it is communicated

[itssona]

No worries! Your creative is in the spoiler with comments throughout in bold

Spoiler

Gripping despair came over me, with it, bringing the usual blanket of emptiness. The blanket I had grown accustomed to, wrapping myself in its arms since it was the only form of embrace I had. But ever so slowly, the blanket entangles itself between my legs, inching its way ominously up my collarbone, tugging at the nape of my neck. Interesting introduction! Nice personification and symbolism at play - Definitely effective use of language.

And then my throat tightens. Snaking itself around my throat persistently, I make out through my blurred vision, that the blanket’s length is reaching an end. My head is thick with sounds. A little awkward use of imagery there. I count seconds; my life slowly reaching an end, reducing to dust in the fabric of time. Losing myself in the fabric of time. Be careful of repetition of unique phrases like this in such quick succession - Usually (and indeed in this case imo) it comes across a little cheesy.  The last thing I feel are my airways tightening, and then everything reduces to black. Feel like the power is reduced a bit in this second paragraph, it doesn't add a HEAP to what you had in the first paragraph. Might be worth condensing this second bit into the first or something?
***
I prepared my tea, looking out into the dreary fog encompassing Deston (I need a better London village name omg) this morning. I think Deston is okay! The usual hackneys tread past, their hasty veering giving way to the billowing dust. I go for a ‘London Fog’ to suit the perennial abyss of sadness around and inside me. I wasn’t one for grandeur, let alone specialized teas, but I indulged from the tea-box I had been gifted by my late grandmother who gained wealth the moment she turned 19- as per standards in Deston.  Try to use paragraphs to your advantage - I'd break paragraphs here to indicate that you are about to reflect on this aspect of society. Like the euphemistic way you used "gained wealth" too. The arrival of the wealthy and noble Marquis every year was a moment of compliance, where each young woman would seemingly have no choice but to marry these men. Procedural and granted, women bought in to the idea that marrying a man of noble class and engulfing themselves in their riches, would be a better life than an easygoing one at home. But more than that, their desire to conform to the “standard” overshadowed their internal desires and they succumbed to the pressure of leading such a life. These last few sentences feel a bit conceptually blatant, just beyond the point where I'd go, "Okay, this student is telling me their concept directly." It's not too bad, but it could be better - Try to describe the situation in a way that SHOWS me these things, don't just tell me them.

I too, would have bought in to living in a façade of splendour, admitting myself to my pre-determined fate, just like every young woman in Deston. But since my mother Peyton’s sudden death, which in my memory is tainted with flashes of blood, and her attempts to conceal her agonisisng pain from me before she said goodbye to the world she thought she lived in, and ended it all. I know better than to accept this fate which will lead me to a harrowing struggle with identity, just as my mother faced. I think it is interesting that you don't go into detail about this seemingly important plot element. It suggests that the character doesn't want to deal with/remember that aspect of their life. It seems insignificant because you don't give it much time - That might suit your purpose!

My last conversation with my mother opened my eyes to the fallaciousness of being involved in this “ritualistic” ordeal that had become the ‘done’ thing in Deston.
“Priscilla” my mother started, staring absentmindedly at the makeshift fire we had going on. I smiled politely right on through, encouraging her to continue when she got carried away in thought.
“I wish I had known better when I was young” she admitted, her gaze still fixated on the fire. I felt uneasy as I awaited her next words and let out a cough. An otherwise small cough which reverberated in the silence that was in the space between us.
“But how could you have known better mother. In actual fact, I still am inching towards the prospect of marrying one of them” Watch that your dialogue is realistic! It was great up to here. Try and picture the conversation taking place: Would YOU, in your characters shoes and in their style, say it this way? Is that dialogue line representative of realistic speech?
“PRISCILLA!!”
I flinched. Love how you are playing with sentence length.
She lowered her tone and shakily retracted, “sorry, I’m just so ashamed of myself” and faltered as a sob constricted her throat.
“But you left him, and you are the best mother I could’ve asked for” I smiled solemnly, digging my nails into the crevases between my thumb and finger to help reduce the urge to cry. A wave of sorrow hit me, and a sharp ache started to fill me- one which could not be shaken. She really was the best mother I could ask for, especially given our circumstances. Many late nights, she would come home, tattered and somewhat displaced as she vented to me about the ill treatment she received from her ex-husband. I didn’t know any better than to offer her hugs and close embrace to make up for my lack of knowing how to console her emotionally. To this day, I can feel her clammy touch and warm alcoholic breath releasing warm wisps into my ear, as she breathed heavily in tears whilst I stood still, seized with impotence (does this make sense?) I think it does, and I think it works really well to paint the picture!
“That doesn’t change the fact that I let myself be mistreated and bought” she cried helplessly. Almost like dejavu, I looked on, motionless. Realistic dialogue - Watch it
Abashedly wiping her tears, she cleared her throat and quavered, “Listen baby, you can’t let others influence you. It can be dangerous otherwise. I should know. Only then will you discover your selfhood, and only then shall you feel the agonizing screams in your head, quieten. Quieter screams” She laughed at the last part. Realistic dialogue - Watch that you don't let the dialogue become an easy way to communicate your concepts.
And this conversation replays in my head all the time, consuming all my thoughts and leaving me perplexed and in awe. Perplexed at how easily we comply with majority. And in awe of my mother for experiencing such difficulty and yet making sure to warn me of this gullible way with which the young women here, accept the Marquis false promises and how the relationship of power and submission ultimately leads to our internal destruction.
Because of my mother, I know better and I will seek a relationship of mutual affection and equality. A relationship built on underlying respect and one which empowers me, instead of leaving me feeling disconnected. Concept a little too blatant here.
Because which is worse, to comply with majority whilst rejecting your true self, or experiencing your true self yet being rejected by majority? Because of my mother, I know that belonging is about being accepted for your true self and if you reject your true self, you are throwing away any prospects of belonging. Using the word belonging in a belonging creative, much like using "discovery" in a discovery creative, should be avoided as much as possible in almost every circumstance. It's just too obvious, you need more subtlety than that.

I really like your writing style sssona09! Really clever manipulation of language to create some powerful imagery, you developed some effective symbols (particularly in the intro), and I love that you play with longer and shorter sentences to create a sense of drama and tension where necessary. Super effective stuff, excellent work there!

In terms of conceptual sophistication - I think the concept is clever. The context is really cool, I like the historical place you have taken it and that makes the concept hit home that little bit harder. I know you don't specifically give a time period - I think you should. Giving this a historical context that matches the world space you are creating would take care of a lot of the explanation for you, leaving you more room to develop your characters.

I think the way you portray the concept is, for the most part, too obvious! It's either a straight explanation of the concept without much subtlety (again, using "belonging" in your creative is a big no no in most cases), or it comes as direct speech from your characters. You aren't showing me, you are telling me - You can be more sophisticated than that!! It's a classic case of show not tell, but this is much tougher, because it is really difficult to show your concepts in your events and characters rather than describe them directly. It's the main thing you need to work on

I do think you've chosen the correct stimulus - Stimulus A could also work! If, for example, you got Stimulus A in your Prelim Exams, you could have the protagonist conflicted between the warnings of her mother and the real feelings she has for a man in her village - Perhaps a tad cheesy but I think that would work, even in its current form it could work

Also watch to make sure your dialogue is realistic. It plays a large role in your story - Making your dialogue really genuine and realistic will be crucial. Have friends read it aloud to you, and be honest - Does it sound real? Or does it sound fake?

Really great stuff sssona09! Clever concept, great use of language, great context and setting - Just about adjusting how it is communicated

Thank you for the amazinnnng feedback!

I shall work on everything you said and polish it and I'm actually so happy with the extensive feedback you gave so I can make this one real good

I find it hard showing instead of telling, because I sometimes feel like the teachers would think my story has no relations to Beloning unless I explain the aspect of Belonging. And I wanna really tell them how exactly belonging makes up my story but yeah, I guess I need to work on that :/ Thanks for pointing that out and explaining how I work with it!

[mcheema]

Hi,
I just wanted to know how long roughly does it take to receive feedback if I post my creative writing?

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi,
I just wanted to know how long roughly does it take to receive feedback if I post my creative writing?

Hey hey! No guarantees, but we usually get to it in 24-48 hours, but if the markers happen to have exams/assessments or it is a busy period it could be a little longer - Best to upload a decent amount of time before any due dates to make sure we've got time to give it great feedback and you've got time to implement that feedback

[mcheema]

Also I just wanted to know if there is an atarnotes article that provides any tips to help improve creative writing skills. If there is can you please link it
Thanks

[jamonwindeyer]

Also I just wanted to know if there is an atarnotes article that provides any tips to help improve creative writing skills. If there is can you please link it
Thanks

You got it! Feel free to ask any follow up questions there as well

[Zxqn]

hiii so this is my unfinished creative it hasnt been edited or anything i was wondering if you could just give me some rough feedback hopefully it'll end in a discovery which leads to renewed perceptions due to what the old man tells her

*******************
The smell of fire was poignant; overwhelming my senses, distorting my vision even weakening any sort of physical movement attempted .The sky appeared gloomy and despondent with clouds that seemed to strangely manifest themselves into a sort of peaceful melancholy. Bloody bare feet and torn clothes had become a symbol for the constant dejection we faced on a daily basis. Figures of fear-Figures of sorrow- Figures of despair ran hopelessly in search of some tranquility where the incessant onslaught of missiles had become the soundtrack to our lives. I stared at the barren burning desolate land, my surroundings were driven by the need for answers, the necessity of closure where mothers sobbed for their children and children ached for their mothers.

But I ached for something different,
I ask the heavens why?
Why were the innocent tormented while the guilty enjoyed life?
Why we were the victims of mans desire for power?

The sound of gunfire remained and echoed throughout my ears...

**********************

Fluorescent lights flickered over the dashboard of my mother’s car as we entered the harbour. The illumination of a never ending land full of mini-markets and unwavering happiness picked at an aching part of me I did not know existed. A feeling that my child-like inner peace would never return. A feeling of perpetual fear and emptiness.

“Sarah”
My mind wandered elsewhere
“Sarah!”
Suddenly the serious contemplation was disrupted
“Okay! I’m coming”

While we dodged through crowds’ part of the gaiety; strangers laughed endlessly as they ate previously unheard of foods and appeared devoid of any sort of past or present heartache. It was exceedingly loud.But it was the type of loudness that comforted you in a way a cold eerie silence could never achieve. My worn-out sneakers caused a slight chuckle to escape me as I stood near a woman who owned a fifteen thousand dollar Hermes handbag.

"I don't think I have ever owned anything that costs that much even our car is worth less than that" my mother said in her somewhat judgmental tone.

"That’s the way the world is - what do you expect?"  My brother replied exasperated while chewing on an already finished corn cob.

"The poor get poorer and the rich get richer"

Ignoring his initiation of a political discussion I left him to an unnecessary rant. Admiring the different vendors and the individual stories their markets tell. There is something about discovering the live of strangers that is truly fascinating. Vast amounts of spices, vegetables, fruits, antiques and jewelry each represented a unique and unknown tale. As I observe aimlessly a merchant catches my eye. The man had a fringe of white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. A scarce grey beard yet his eyes had warmth that radiated love and hopefulness.

“How are you darling?” he spoke in the gentlest tone yet somehow full of grace
“I’m good thanks”
“Are you really?-” The old man paused
“You see the eyes are the mirror of the soul and will always tell the truth even if your mouth is telling a lie”
A blast of cold air passed through my coat and prickled along my skin raising the hairs on my neck.

[jamonwindeyer]

hiii so this is my unfinished creative it hasnt been edited or anything i was wondering if you could just give me some rough feedback hopefully it'll end in a discovery which leads to renewed perceptions due to what the old man tells her

Welcome to the forums Zxqn!

Thanks for posting your essay - Our essay marking rules require you to have 15 posts for each essay you'd like feedback for. This is just to make sure the markers can keep up

If you hang around the site a bit, I bet you'll reach that threshold in no time

[selinayinz]

Hi!! This is my creative writing piece (it got 13/15 and the teacher commented on adding more sensory imagery to build ambience but that's pretty much it.) How can I improve it?

At the heart of London, amongst the drivel of everyday life at the train station and the shuffle and drag of feet and the incessant wails of cumbersome trains, there is a tune that soars above the raucous din. At platform five, George stands expectantly amidst the busy train life, clutching a bowler hat and a wooden instrument case. As the station clock sings its monotonous melody to indicate midday, the young man stoops over, gently placing the case on the ground as if it were a precious child. Expertly, he fiddles with the latches; he knows the left one can get jammed on cold days such as today. When the case finally opens, he eases out the instrument with care; a magnificent violin, his pride and joy. With a flourish, he brandishes his bow like the master of a sword, ready to defeat the mundane with a tap of colour, through music. Poised and ready, with nimble fingers he manipulates notes, sliding swiftly and franticly along the fingerboard, while an expert hand draws the bow, varying from feather-light strokes to strong strikes upon the strings.

The meandering melodies transform from mournful tunes to light-hearted ditties, from lilting waltzes to upbeat polkas. At his feet lay a battered case, the red velvety lining already faded from use and age. As the music courses through the station, the young man loses all concept of time. He is enthralled; completely entranced by his own art and oblivious to the world around him. He no longer hears the sounds of the station; he hears only the beauty of his own refrain… until a single discordant note interrupts his bliss. Confused, he continues to play, only to notice the dissonant harmony which accompanied his music, faint but growing stronger. Minor sevenths and diminished tunes erupted around him and he could not fathom why. It sounded like an argument, sharp and clashing with his own song. As he stopped to inspect his violin, a sweet lyrical sound pierced the din of the station. He paused.

 Another melody.

A pretty euphony of note passages contrasted with his own classical tunes. They were strangely alluring, a combination of chromatic tones and diminished sevenths created a bizarre musical cacophony which was confusing yet enrapturing. As another train rumbled away from the station platform, he turned and noticed a girl standing on the opposite side.

She was young, possibly fifteen years old, and is dressed in a smart yellow frock. She stood, elegant and poised with her violin, grinning mischievously at him. Smiling, she lifted her bow as if initiating a challenge, an unspoken dare which beckoned him to a duel of melodies.

He accepted her invitation, and imitated her action, preparing to strike.


I do not play with any guidance, no score nor script.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled the cool smoky air of the station, imagining the incessant chugging of wheels and the roar of the engine, the calls of station managers and the chatter of voices. The hubbub around me translates in my mind, into a collection of sounds, forming a song of many voices. To some, it may sound strange, as it was not a traditional sort of composition but the melody was a foreign language that could only be understood by some. It was fascinating, the way phrases and bars, rests and singular notes created a living melody, sung with bated breath.  As I opened my eyes again, a new sound unfamiliar to the racquet of the station pervaded my senses.

Him.

He played with such rigour, completely opposite to my own sense of flair, that I could not understand it. As I tried to continue my own story, his passages interrupted mine, creating a confrontational engagement of chords which were unpleasant and discomforting. I paused, allowing him to conclude his performance, a complex arrangement that showed more skill than representation. However our differences do not deter me from my narrative.

I continue my tune, revelling in the intricacy and delicacy of song, an expression of pleasure and happiness, as opposed to his speedy virtuosic nature. I feel the swell of each bridge mimic the low timbre of the horn, I capture spiralling chromatic chords depicting the trails of smoke in the fresh morning. My song dances sweet and true, joyful and enrapturing. This was my story…

Would he understand the elaborate words that were woven with the dip of my bow…?
 

Duelling voices echoed above the racket of the station, compelling melodies from two instruments.

The young man listens intently to the girl’s story, memorising and learning. Once her refrain is over, he begins to play once more, this time, he adds little flourishes, embellishing the melody with a new note or passage as if implementing new words of a foreign language. It was a strange new melody that was created, and was more enthralling than the last.

A sudden miraculous discovery; the music echoed about the station, dancing melodies singing in perfect harmony with each other. The performance shined, captivating melodies woven with the dip of the bow, a polyphony of voices to create a single narrative.

As the last of the melody fades away, a vibrato of sadness, there is a moment of silence, save for the rumble of passing trains and pattering feet. A moment passes.

Then, he raises his bow again.

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi!! This is my creative writing piece (it got 13/15 and the teacher commented on adding more sensory imagery to build ambience but that's pretty much it.) How can I improve it?

Hey Selina! Thanks for posting your Creative - I can see you also posted a module essay! Which would you like us to mark first? You'll need 30 posts to qualify for both to be marked