Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[elysepopplewell]

Hi! I need help with my creative writing. I'm having concerns regarding cliques, as well as the story clunky and not engaging. I'm also worried it might not directly relate to discovery. I really struggle with creative writing so any help is greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!

Hey! The way the forums works means that to have a full creative or essay marked comprehensively, you need 15 posts on the forums. Not so difficult at all, hang around, ask some questions, answer questions, you know how it is!

On a quick glance though, I notice that your story is quite short. I think that you have foundations for a great response, but they sit without being very engaging. This isn't so bad, because you've got some more words to play with still because you're on about 700. I think your writing style is good, you create a voice nicely. Remember to start a new line when a new person talks with dialogue! We haven't done that in the third paragraph. I like the circular structure, starting with the inhale and the coffee and ending it the same way, but I think we could add more to that there to show the difference of her perception changing. Perhaps she's irrational at first, only to be found very grateful at the very end. That will add to the discovery too!

[asd987]

Hi Elyse, I was hoping if you could mark my creative piece. I've had some feedback that my story is a bit confusing so can you please tell me if you understand it properly. Thankyou.

A Timeless Connection

Her wistful eyes were like jagged stones, grey as the shackles tethered around her.

Her breathing quickened as she waved her pallid hand around, the cobwebs billowing from the rafters. They were on the panes of the windows too, obscuring the little light that struggled through them. She ran her fingers over the old corrugated cardboard box, dust clinging on to her as she struggled to recall the last time she was in this room. As each flap unfolded, her heart felt butchered, bleeding her of the humanity she once had. It blanketed every other emotion, tainting all that could bring joy and respite.

Plumes of dust erupted from the old photograph, giving the air a musty smell. She clutched the feeble wooden frame tight in her hand, able to see an eerie reflection of her face in the thin sheen of glass that covered it. She looked past her own tedious eyes, staring upon the face that was captured in a moment of perfection. She focused in on his eyes; they were gleaming with the scintillate laughter she once loved. Now, they laughed at her, a reminder of what she had lost. It was the happiest memory that hurt the worst, lacerating her like shards of glass.

The vibrant colours of a land that was once inextricable with her seeped through the sepia toned photograph. The flamboyant attire and lavish dresses on display were no longer remotely similar to her monochromatic wardrobe; and the piquant curries on offer had not touched her palate in an eternity. The tranquility of the Taj Mahal juxtaposed the bustle of everyday traffic and the crimson sky made everything seem so peaceful. Now, everything was strange, quiet and different.  She was a foreigner living in an alien country, still without a sense of home.

Her mind became a carousel of gyrating fears, each one pushing her into a deeper void. She wanted to run; she needed to freeze. Voices from the past felt present. She was no longer in the body that lay paralysed on the ground.

Her son’s scintillate smile was the last thing she saw before crumpling like a puppet released of its strings...

***

In the candle lit room stood family and friends, each ready to swear a pledge to how they would support Rita. When she spoke her voice trailed slowly, her words were unwilling to take flight. She swallowed down the pain, wearing a passive face and a tentative smile. A slow religious hymn played in the background as the tens of esteemed relatives cuddled and embraced her. The taste of sweet home made ladoo filled their mouths, a custom for the longevity of her son’s next life. The ceremony was beautiful beyond measure, not in extravagant flowers or fancy food, but in the sharing of sincere heartfelt emotion. However, Rita knew that no amount comfort would ameliorate what just happened. She had to leave.

She had to escape.

Rita’s fingers fumbled over the countless crease folds of the tear-stained newspaper for the umpteenth time, its blood red ink barely visible anymore.

Hiran Khan. Number seven on the list of casualties… for the week.

With no warning, total darkness prevailed, turbulent and unforgiving. Rita’s knees stopped working as her stomach churned over.

1947 –the civil war that split everything asunder. India’s darkest blemish.

The inconceivable injustices of poverty and resentment dispersed like a disease. Now, she too felt the agony of loss suffered by the other millions of people. 

Rita cried for a minute. Or two. Or ten. As far as she knew, time had stopped completely.

***

The lake mirrored the sky above, a shade of blue that was impossible to capture in tourist brochures. Her vivacious red dress glinted in the sun, her skin feeling uneasy against the silk embroidery. She closed her eyes and let the breeze blow her long bangs away from them, bringing colour to her pale cheeks. The moist summer air was fragranced with the jasmine trees that circled the lake, a scent her nose adored for years. The forgotten taste of sweet ladoos danced on her palate, savouring the felicity that salivated her tongue. Boisterous music wafted around, tunes she could never expel caressed her ears.   

The bungalows on either side of the narrow lake had transformed into small industrial houses but she noticed that the cobblestones remained, water drizzling between the cracks and crevices. In her hands were pebbles of different hues and like a cricketer, she sent them hurtling into the water one by one. With each splash she shouted the name of the one her heart still palpitated for.

The skin under her eyes wrinkled as a smile stained upon her lips. Hope beaded her skin like dew on spring grass. She felt him breathing
down on her, watching her.

***

Rita squinted her eyes open as a warm decisive light streamed through. Her mind awoke with a primal surge of adrenaline but her cold, heavy limbs disobeyed. Unable to stand, she stretched out her hand for the photo amongst the shattered glass. His gleaming face radiated his strong personality and for the first time she was able to look at his picture without the agony of loss.

The tears… now of satisfaction.

[Nialllovespie]

Hiya, I've edited my creative some more and I was wondering if you could please mark it

I would really appreciate it

“You see my darling, life is like an elevator. Let me explain to you” (I put this in as it's easy to incorporate into a stimulus as somebody talking to someone else at a place hence what I did in the exam)
 
 
***
 
 
The shiny silver elevator doors silently slid open revealing a petite lady, my mother, standing proudly with her husband, my father. I can see them but they cannot see me. My two-year old self is with them. As she bends over to pick me up, held in her safe arms makes me trust her without the doubts that would come later in my life. She passes me onto my father. Observing my surroundings, I cannot help but notice the smell of fresh paint accompanying a newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” sounds in sync with the closing of the doors of the elevator. We ascend to the first level where the doors smoothly open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a new born baby boy I had not seen. My two year- old self holds on to her father's leg and is told that that the baby boy is her/my brother. The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards.
 
***
 
 
Bracing to a sudden stop at level five, a joyful young girl, my ten year-old self, neatly dressed in fresh school uniform dances ahead of me, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displays her school logo; the joys of youth unquestioned by her. I smile.
 
***
 
 
At level ten a room full of HSC exam students, among them myself, is ahead; readiness and weariness across their faces. The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorator's loud high-heeled boots as she walks through the exam room delivering papers. The urge to peek at my future exam paper floods me with curiosity but I do not let the temptation get the better of me. As they scribble student numbers on the front cover, the invigorator's voice booms through the room. “You may begin now.” Adrenaline rush floods through them, through me, as they begin. Tears obscure my vision.
 
***
 
 
At level twenty the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around a twenty something me, pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace. My parents stand mute; uncertainty is in their eyes; my brother faceless. I do not understand.
 
***
 
 
Stopping at level twenty-five, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along a shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy, studded with intricate flowers throughout. Holding the hand of my now husband, I look radiant, the photographer capturing their moment. They stop and pose while kissing, the bride flashing a diamond sitting on her ring finger, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy.Is it true love?
 
***
 
 
At level thirty the elevator stops and the doors open. The young woman that I now am reaches out to grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. She brings it inside and places it in her/my husband's arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around her pinky. Her eyes glisten. The love unquestioned.
 
***
 
 
The elevator grinds to a halt at level thirty-five as the doors strike open in protest, uncovering the image of a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, my father, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see. I desperately press the level thirty button, but it is useless, I cannot go back.
 
 
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level forty; the doors open to the hallway of a retirement home. My aged mother steps out, now alone, and waves a sad goodbye to me with a solemn smile covering her face. My middle- aged self and my husband, and our now grown child wave back sadly at a future without her. The doors slam shut and the lift whizzes upwards with an echoing brrriing.
 
 
At level forty-five the elevator stops. The faded paint on its walls has begun to peel like bark off a tree. The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone left, (where is my husband and my child?) to forcefully pull the doors open. A hospital room is before me. My husband lies on a bed. Doctors and nurses support him in his last breaths. My now aged self holds his hand tightly. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts me to step back. I must go on alone…but I am afraid.
 
 
At level fifty the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering above is faint. A musty, stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age, my age. Those who have gone before me appear faintly ahead, beckoning me, and those who must live on, my daughter, behind me. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to travel.

THANKYOU so much again!! I really appreciate it

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey Nia and asd! Elyse is a little busy on a plane to the other side of the world right now, so I'll be handling your creatives expect feedback in the next 24 hours or so!

[QC]

Hey guys, if possible could you guys please mark this, it would be much appreciated. For my creative I only got 12/15 which I'm pretty disappointed with so I'm hoping to improve it. Thanks.

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi Elyse, I was hoping if you could mark my creative piece. I've had some feedback that my story is a bit confusing so can you please tell me if you understand it properly. Thankyou.

Hey asd987! I'll give your Creative a read and let you know what I think! Comments in bold

Spoiler

A Timeless Connection

Her wistful eyes were like jagged stones, grey as the shackles tethered around her.

Her breathing quickened as she waved her pallid hand around, the cobwebs billowing from the rafters. They were on the panes of the windows too, obscuring the little light that struggled through them. She ran her fingers over the old corrugated cardboard box, dust clinging on to her as she struggled to recall the last time she was in this room. As each flap unfolded, her heart felt butchered, bleeding her of the humanity she once had. It blanketed every other emotion, tainting all that could bring joy and respite. Beautiful introduction. Sets the scene, establishes an emotional state quickly, great use of technique and great style.

Plumes of dust erupted from the old photograph, giving the air a musty smell. She clutched the feeble wooden frame tight in her hand, able to see an eerie reflection of her face in the thin sheen of glass that covered it. She looked past her own tedious eyes, staring upon the face that was captured in a moment of perfection. She focused in on his eyes; they were gleaming with the scintillate laughter she once loved. A few sentences starting with the same word there - Not a bad thing, but it creates a sort of rhythmic pulse which could be misinterpreted in a negative light. To fit the style, I feel it should be changed. Now, they laughed at her, a reminder of what she had lost. It was the happiest memory that hurt the worst, lacerating her like shards of glass. Nice progression - First paragraph was an orientation, now it feels like we are about to head to the rising action.

The vibrant colours of a land that was once inextricable with her seeped through the sepia toned photograph. I reckon this would work well as a flashback. "As she closed her eyes, she could almost see the vibrant colours..." Just so looking at the photograph progresses to something a little more real. The flamboyant attire and lavish dresses on display were no longer remotely similar to her monochromatic wardrobe; and the piquant curries on offer had not touched her palate in an eternity. Watch for being over verbose. The word choice and structure of that sentence seems a bit over the top for me. The tranquility of the Taj Mahal juxtaposed the bustle of everyday traffic and the crimson sky made everything seem so peaceful. Now, everything was strange, quiet and different.  She was a foreigner living in an alien country, still without a sense of home. Right, so we've got the complication. Cultural difference established through a photograph reminiscence. A tad cliche - But lets see what you do with it.

Her mind became a carousel of gyrating fears, each one pushing her into a deeper void. She wanted to run; she needed to freeze. Voices from the past felt present. She was no longer in the body that lay paralysed on the ground.

Her son’s scintillate smile was the last thing she saw before crumpling like a puppet released of its strings... A bit of a forced simile there - Again, be careful of forcing techniques in. They need to feel natural, every time you use a simile it should be this "AHA" moment of, "Yep, so happy I used that." If you over-use them they lose their power.

***

In the candle lit room stood family and friends, each ready to swear a pledge to how they would support Rita. When she spoke her voice trailed slowly, her words were unwilling to take flight. She swallowed down the pain, wearing a passive face and a tentative smile. A slow religious hymn played in the background as the tens of esteemed relatives cuddled and embraced her. With this change of scenery, the picture is not set nearly as well as it was in the first scene. I'd do a tad more to establish a sense of place. The taste of sweet home made ladoo filled their mouths, a custom for the longevity of her son’s next life. The ceremony was beautiful beyond measure, not in extravagant flowers or fancy food, but in the sharing of sincere heartfelt emotion. However, Rita knew that no amount comfort would ameliorate what just happened. She had to leave. So we've got an interesting choice that the name 'Rita' is only being used now. I assume at this stage it is the same person, that we are now in a flashback. But I have no way of knowing that for sure; this creates ambiguity. Not a bad thing - Just where I'm sitting right now as a reader.

She had to escape. Nice use of sentence length to establish a realisation.

Rita’s fingers fumbled over the countless crease folds of the tear-stained newspaper for the umpteenth time, its blood red ink barely visible anymore.

Hiran Khan. Number seven on the list of casualties… for the week.

With no warning, total darkness prevailed, turbulent and unforgiving. Rita’s knees stopped working as her stomach churned over.

1947 –the civil war that split everything asunder. India’s darkest blemish.

The inconceivable injustices of poverty and resentment dispersed like a disease. Now, she too felt the agony of loss suffered by the other millions of people. 

Rita cried for a minute. Or two. Or ten. As far as she knew, time had stopped completely. Really like this last sentence here - The uncertainty in the narration carries through brilliantly to the emotional state of the protagonist. Really powerful.

So at this stage I will say that this stage of the narrative, the sequence we just explored, was vague. Not sure what the significance of the ceremony is or exactly who Rita has lost. The ambiguity does make it hard to emotionally invest.

***

The lake mirrored the sky above, a shade of blue that was impossible to capture in tourist brochures. Her vivacious red dress glinted in the sun, her skin feeling uneasy against the silk embroidery. She closed her eyes and let the breeze blow her long bangs away from them, bringing colour to her pale cheeks. The moist summer air was fragranced with the jasmine trees that circled the lake, a scent her nose adored for years. The forgotten taste of sweet ladoos danced on her palate, savouring the felicity that salivated her tongue. Boisterous music wafted around, tunes she could never expel caressed her ears. Better job setting the scene here - Your use of imagery is extremely powerful.

The bungalows on either side of the narrow lake had transformed into small industrial houses but she noticed that the cobblestones remained, water drizzling between the cracks and crevices. In her hands were pebbles of different hues and like a cricketer, she sent them hurtling into the water one by one. With each splash she shouted the name of the one her heart still palpitated for.

The skin under her eyes wrinkled as a smile stained upon her lips. Hope beaded her skin like dew on spring grass. She felt him breathing
down on her, watching her.

***

Rita squinted her eyes open as a warm decisive light streamed through. Her mind awoke with a primal surge of adrenaline but her cold, heavy limbs disobeyed. Unable to stand, she stretched out her hand for the photo amongst the shattered glass. His gleaming face radiated his strong personality and for the first time she was able to look at his picture without the agony of loss.

The tears… now of satisfaction.

Right, so getting to the end I think I have the plot. The woman at the start is Rita, who has lost her son in the Civil War, and she is retrieving a photograph. Essentially the story revolves around her acceptance with his loss. I'm with it.

Is it vague? I think it is, and I believe the reason is in your writing style. While extremely powerful, it can also be quite verbose, and details can be lost. In the funeral sequence for example, the only line that really gives away what is happening is: a custom for the longevity of her son’s next life. This is easily missed amongst the description of everything else happening, which creates ambiguity. This ambiguity prevents emotional investment because our energy is spent piecing together plot details.

So yep, I think in response to your main concern, I think the story is a tad confusing. And look, you've tackled a non-linear storyline with lots of jumps - Not an easy thing to do and even the best stories of that type will be a tad ambiguous. Try and achieve a nice balance so we are still taken on a journey and keep moving forward - But that we have our bearings as we go

Also, watch the techniques/style! 90% of the time, brilliant. The other 10% feels either a little forced or a little heavy handed/overdone. If you use a technique too much, it loses power - Kind of like seeing the same awesome movie over and over, or that song you love that is overplayed. Try to tone back a bit, remove a simile if It feels forced. Further, it is okay to sometimes just tell, not show. Of course we are told "show not tell," but sometimes a more direct approach can be powerful. Especially in contrast to descriptive sequences

I hope this helps!

[jamonwindeyer]

Hiya, I've edited my creative some more and I was wondering if you could please mark it

I would really appreciate it

Sure thing! Your creative is attached with feedback in bold:

Spoiler

“You see my darling, life is like an elevator. Let me explain to you” I like that you are starting with dialogue. Be careful - Including the stimulus in this way only (with this dialogue) might seem forced depending on the stimulus and where you go with the story. It is usually better to include it figuratively or subtly in your text - But this can work! I'm a sucker for dialogue starting a Creative.
 
 
***
 
The shiny silver elevator doors silently slid open revealing a petite lady, my mother, standing proudly with her husband, my father. This last bit, 'my Father,' is unnecessary. The audience can deduce that themselves. I can see them but they cannot see me. My two-year old self is with them. A little too much tell here - A balance is good, but looking for some more description of the three people to set the scene in my mind. As she bends over to pick me up, held in her safe arms makes me trust her without the doubts that would come later in my life. She passes me onto my father. Observing my surroundings, I cannot help but notice the smell of fresh paint accompanying a newly fitted carpet. A lightbulb hanging from the roof of the elevator shines bright. A “ding” sounds in sync with the closing of the doors of the elevator. We ascend to the first level where the doors smoothly open. My mother picks up a small bundle of blankets covering a new born baby boy I had not seen. My two year- old self holds on to her father's leg and is told that that the baby boy is her/my brother. It seems you spent a lot less time describing that particular 'stop,' any reason why? The doors slam shut as the vroom of the elevator jolts upwards. Right, I see where this is heading now. Very interesting concept. I like your writing style, but I'm looking for description in better places. It seems like you described the environment quite well at the start, but not the characters. Not describing the characters leaves them anonymous personality wise - I don't know what the parents are like!
 
***
 
Bracing to a sudden stop at level five, a joyful young girl, my ten year-old self, neatly dressed in fresh school uniform dances ahead of me, playing tag with two others. Her green wide-brimmed hat attached with a string around her chin proudly displays her school logo; the joys of youth unquestioned by her. I smile. This change of pace to a short paragraph is really nice, especially that really nice truncated sentence at the end there.
 
***
 
At level ten a room full of HSC exam students, among them myself, is ahead; readiness and weariness across their faces. Be SUPER CAREFUL including HSC students in a story. It is done a lot, and can be considered quite cliche (that said, it's a passing thing and I see why you do it). The silence permeating the room emphasised the invigorator's loud high-heeled boots as she walks through the exam room delivering papers. The urge to peek at my future exam paper floods me with curiosity but I do not let the temptation get the better of me. As they scribble student numbers on the front cover, the invigorator's voice booms through the room. “You may begin now.” Adrenaline rush floods through them, through me, as they begin. I like the parallel emotional bridges you are creating... The memories are affecting you just as much. That works, makes the moment feel more real. Tears obscure my vision.
 
***
 
At level twenty the elevator doors open to a university lecture room. Weird comment - But how do you choose the level numbers? I think you should have them match your age at the time! This would be a subtle thing and would mean you don't have to explain how old you are every time. I watch as a tanned young adult, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes strolls in the direction of the elevator, my eyes following his every move. A toothy grin plasters his face as he enters. He wraps a muscular arm around a twenty something me, pulling me close as I sink into the warmth of his embrace. My parents stand mute; uncertainty is in their eyes; my brother faceless. I do not understand. Having read the whole story I want to come back and mention - This last sentence doesn't have any greater impact. It happened earlier too, to a lesser extent, but this is the first big one. The uncertainty of the family members never amounts to anything, never evolves into a story element. It is mentioned here then vanishes. Ensure that if you introduce something like this that it has a significance to the story at large.
 
***

Stopping at level twenty-five, the elevator doors slide open. We gaze as the white tipped waves crash along a shoreline spreading like a fine lace across the sand. I observe myself in a long white dress, strolling along the shore, my brown hair wavy, studded with intricate flowers throughout. Holding the hand of my now husband, I look radiant, the photographer capturing their moment. They stop and pose while kissing, the bride flashing a diamond sitting on her ring finger, the wedding guests cheer and clap for joy. Is it true love? This rhetorical question seems fruitless, because presumably this is all flashback - Your persona KNOWS what comes next. Be sure to adjust to that.
 
***
 
At level thirty the elevator stops and the doors open. The young woman that I now am reaches out to grab the cradle sitting on the carpet. She brings it inside and places it in her/my husband's arms. Hidden under the blankets a small hand creeps out curling its fingers around her pinky. Her eyes glisten. The love unquestioned.
 
***
 
The elevator grinds to a halt at level thirty-five as the doors strike open in protest, uncovering the image of a deadly car crash between a car and a truck. I watch the paramedics lift a deceased body, my father, covered in a white blanket, onto the ambulance bed, shutting the doors behind them. So this is the first shock moment in the story, the first kind of 'rising action,' and I don't believe it has been given enough time. There isn't any description, no emotional build up. It feels insignificant in that sense. The doors close unexpectedly, signifying there is no more to see, or perhaps no more I should see. Love that sentence. I desperately press the level thirty button, but it is useless, I cannot go back.
 
 
The flickering of the elevator light illuminates level forty; the doors open to the hallway of a retirement home. My aged mother steps out, now alone, and waves a sad goodbye to me with a solemn smile covering her face. My middle- aged self and my husband, and our now grown child wave back sadly at a future without her. The doors slam shut and the lift whizzes upwards with an echoing brrriing. As above, although your tone has adjusted slightly to signify these negative changes, I think you need to devote more time to these occurrences. Doing them so quickly makes them feel unimportant.
 
At level forty-five the elevator stops. The faded paint on its walls has begun to peel like bark off a tree. The doors jam halfway through opening, requiring the combined effort of everyone left, (where is my husband and my child?) to forcefully pull the doors open. A hospital room is before me. My husband lies on a bed. Doctors and nurses support him in his last breaths. My now aged self holds his hand tightly. The thundering crash of the doors closing alerts me to step back. I must go on alone…but I am afraid.
 
At level fifty the worn carpet is patchy and the light flickering above is faint. A musty, stale odour lingers, signifying its use and age, my age. Those who have gone before me appear faintly ahead, beckoning me, and those who must live on, my daughter, behind me. I wave goodbye to my loved ones as I step out of the elevator and watch as the doors close behind me, carrying the others on the journey they have yet to travel. I feel like you should stop at "the doors close behind me." As soon as those doors close, the story should end, because yours (the persona) has ended.

Right, so I really like the idea you have here. Very clever, very unique, very interesting. Definitely Band 6 potential in terms of places you could go with it conceptually. Some masterful writing in there; nice use of techniques that doesn't feel forced! Very nice work

I have two main pieces of feedback:

- First, what is your Discovery concept? I'm not getting it very clearly after a few reads. Now I didn't do Discovery, so maybe I missed it, but just letting you know that the story doesn't communicate a clear concept on Discovery to me. To me it is more of a statement on the unpredictable nature of life. This could be extended to Discovery of course, but right now, a little conceptually obscure in my view.
- There are some really powerful moments you are trying to explore in this Creative. Marriages, deaths of family members, and so on. However, I feel like the most significant ones actually got the least amount of writing space. The death of the father should have been multiple paragraphs; the persona should have seen the crash, walked up to the window, seen the blood trickle from their fathers mouth - There should have been build up and power in that paragraph above all others! But it didn't quite get there for me, and other paragraphs felt rushed too. I feel like you need to trim down on less important moments (EG - HSC paragraph felt a little insignificant) to give more time to these. Essentially, less stops on the elevator!

Oh, and as a technique tip, I feel like the constant opening and closing of the doors of the elevator is begging for some use of repetition. Even, since you set it up at the start, use "Bing" (the elevator noise) as a separator between the sections instead of the dotted lines. Separators that actually exist in the text work better than just, as an author, using dots to signify that the scene has changed

I hope this helps!! Let me know if any of that feedback is unclear. Again, I REALLY love your idea, it's really clever. Now it's just about improving the execution a bit more

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey guys, if possible could you guys please mark this, it would be much appreciated. For my creative I only got 12/15 which I'm pretty disappointed with so I'm hoping to improve it. Thanks.

Hey Aroon! Sure thing, I'd be happy to give your Creative a read and see if we can work on improving that result for you

Spoiler

I sat there in the front pew, eyes transfixed on the photo at the altar.  A face I knew more intimately than any other. I personally think you could add a bit of description here, paint a bit of a picture for the reader. My father. My role model. Since my mother had died, we’d become inseparable, except for his tours of duty. A figure who stood taller than all else in my mind. He was always one of the good guys, whether in service or in his day to day life, working for charities, giving up his time to help the little guy. I like the tone you are establishing here - Quite colloquial, feels very natural which works for the first person. Just looking for a little description to balance it.

Last time he’d returned from mission, his battle scars were obvious. Not physical but mental. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder they said. He was forced to undergo cognitive behavioural therapy as he couldn’t reconcile with what he’d seen. At home, he was worse. He couldn’t sit still, fidgeting as he sat in his rocking chair. He kept repeating words out loud, satiated his pain through liquor. Brandy, beer, wine. Nice playing with sentence length here - Again I'm looking for a bit more description! Really describe the actions/appearance of the father in this state to put it in the readers mind properly. I research PTSD and was alarmed. Fifty returned service personnel suicides already this year in Australia! And twenty-two a day in the US! These exclamations are the first time I feel the immersion was broken - You've got quite a blunt and bleak tone up until this point. The exclamations sort of ruin that and inject a bit of energy that isn't synonymous with the topic or the style. A voice broke into my thoughts. ‘We are assembled here to pay a last tribute to a beloved comrade, George Westinghouse, who served in defence of our nation,’ the military chaplain intoned, his voice monotone and unnerving like he had performed this service many times. I feel like you should have broken to a new paragraph here - Just to make the cut away more clear.  I turned to see the casket, covered by the Australian Flag, carried by its bearers whose faces were twitching with pain. How does the protagonist feel? Have you purposely left this out?
***
Two weeks later, a box arrived at my front door. This was all that was left of him, just a box filled with possessions. A picture of my mum, him and I, his engagement ring. Really love your style of writing - Saying it a bit but its great. I came upon a novel, The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemmingway. I couldn’t help a wry smile as I recalled the irony of its anti-war message. I flicked through the pages, some stained by dirt and water, some clean like he had bought it yesterday. I saw a small dog ear. I turned the page to see a note, concealed inside, like it had been waiting for me all along. Hmm, a little corny that last bit, a little forced.

“June 7th 2010. As I walked through the dusty streets of Kandahar a small boy, carrying a backpack approached me. I shouted at him to stop but he kept coming, I shouted again but he still persisted. So I did what we were trained to do. I shot him before he blew us both up. But he was just a boy. With an empty backpack. Innocent. Maybe 13 years old, the same age as my son. I keep telling myself the bullet did it. The bullet killed him. But my brain knows that I pulled the trigger. When I die, I want it known that this is what I’ve done. Not the ‘I’ who lives and breathes the streets of Sydney, but the ‘I’ who has been created by this brutal war. Is this our ultimate destiny, self-preservation at any cost? Despite living my life honestly and ethically, always fighting for what I believed was right, no matter how I try to rationalise my actions, I am guilty of murder.” Interesting inclusion of diary passage. I like the idea. I don't think the style quite works for a diary entry - It needs to be a little more... Spaced out. People write in diaries to express themselves, so there is ultimately more description than this. More lingering on weird small details. You might also want to add line breaks and paragraphs - Unless you want to keep it in one as more of a 'rushed' piece. In any case, just doesn't quite sit nicely to me as a reader. Feels a little forced, especially towards the end.

This was my father’s handwriting. I sat and stared at his words, trying to assimilate this information. The gentle man I knew had murdered an innocent boy.

I read his words over and over, looking for answers. But all I could think of were more questions: Are we more instinct than reason? More utilitarian than ethical? These sorts of broader conceptual questions are a little forced - And not what the character would be thinking. They need to be veiled in more practical questions, questions about the father and his character that act as SYMBOLIC of these grander conceptual questions.

The Defence Public Affairs had announced it an “operational incident” in which he’d sacrificed himself for his platoon. He was later awarded the Victoria Cross, which many were saying was a cynical ploy by the government to appeal to patriotism, in order to counter the growing rejection of our troops’ deployment in Afghanistan. I’d returned home still no wiser to the specific details. They wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t know how I could put my father to rest without knowing.

I was completely wrong. War doesn’t show the strength, bravery and courage of mankind but rather strips us to a fight for survival, it’s not about tactical assaults but rather each soldier stripped of rational thought with nothing but animal instinct. Again - Watch for forced conceptual statement. Like, it works! But it isn't subtle, it is obvious in reading this that, "Okay, this is the concept." Now you'd think that's a good thing, but in the process, you've broken immersion. This isn't what the character would be thinking - This is what you as the author want to say. You need to try and say those things, but without losing the immersion with the character. It needs to be more natural.

And what were the circumstances of my father’s death? His note had said, “when I die” and not “if I die”. I recalled those nights broken with his screams. I could only imagine the pain he suffered.  A question kept nagging at me: was it a sacrifice or was it suicide? I wondered how many other soldiers had thrown their lives away once they’d discovered this truth about themselves. Soldiers whose numbers were not in the officially published figures. But, I couldn’t reveal this. I couldn’t have my father’s name and award tarnished.

I sat on this knowledge, unable to share it with anyone. Then, a few months after the funeral, a letter arrived, addressed to my father. It was from the Indira Gandhi Children’s Hospital thanking him for the bequeathment of his military pension. He’d put it in his will. I contacted his fund and made the arrangements but realised that all the questions that I had for my father could never be answered. All I knew was that he was a great man, and still was. I visited the grave again, and couldn’t help but feel relief, my dad had escaped his cage.

First of all, you are a brilliant writer. You've got such a nice style, a great free flow of consciousness. It sounds very natural - The persona is characterised well because the internal dialogue you present feels real. That's awesome! You've also got some great use of technique - Clever manipulation of sentence length and clever choice of words in key places. All of this with a nice concept to boot - This is great!

I have two main comments - First of all, the forced nature of your concept in some areas. Many of the rhetorical questions and conceptual statements don't relate to the story directly. The problem with this is, when you write them, it breaks immersion. Your persona isn't going to be asking complex questions of existence and politics - They are just coming to terms with their dads death. The concepts need to be hidden in the story itself, not thrown in addition. For example, the persona questioning the change of his fathers identity acts as a commentary on the loss of individualism in war. You never mention that grander consequence - Only hint it. This is more subtle and almost always works much more effectively. Let me know if this makes sense, because it is a little hard to explain, aha!

Second is easier - More description. A lot of times I would love for you to slow down and describe things for a little longer, paint a picture in my head. Right now it's a bit, "This happened, then this happened." In places this worked well, in others I would love to see a little more time spent getting the reader into the scene to allow them to be emotionally invested. More description of the father, of the funeral, even really describe that note and the process of opening it in detail.

On a flick of a page a stain of yellow caught my eye. Turning back I found a note, tucked neatly into the lower left corner of the 175th page. Peculiar. Casting the book aside I carefully unfurl the mysterious package, and to my surprise was greeted by the sight of familiar black handwriting. In a jolt I smooth the message against the desk and begin to read:

Like, that was a random attempt at 2am from an electrical engineer, but you get the idea! More of a picture painted to make certain things in the story more significant - Because they should be! If you don't do this, you don't escalate. You don't accelerate. Things just kind of happen, then the story is over. You need to build up a climax, establish an emotional investment, and this is done by providing additional details for the audience to cling to

I hope these bits of feedback help! I think you have a great writing style and a great concept - Just a little more description and a little more subtlety in conceptual approach would benefit you great work!

[elysepopplewell]

Somewhere, anywhere, someday unfailingly, accidentally you will find yourself, and that, and only that, will be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
*continues*

Hey Olivia! We're so happy to have you here on the forums. We do have a policy that requires 15 ATAR Notes posts to get a full piece marked to ensure the feedback is at a high standard and feasible for the markers! You can read more about it in the link in my signature below. The good news is that it doesn't take long to get up your posts!

At a quick glance, your creative is very long, presumably about 1400 words? Unless you're a very fast writer, or intending to shave time off another section of the exam, I suggest bringing down your word count by about 200 words if you can!

Let me know if we can help you find anything here online, we're here to help!

[SSSS]

Hey guys!! I am really struggling for my creative. So what my story is about is a women who is on her lunch break, smoking at a local public. A laugh catches her attention. A small family of a young boy and his parents enjoy the day, which leads her to be triggered of another boy that is simillar to the boy. The other boy she is reminded of was part of a case that she had to complete within her job, who is a refugee. She remembers him and his family, and how he understands the reality around him and the hardships one must conquer which evokes empathy as in contrast to the boy in the park, who is oblivious to the lifestyle he is granted with. She concludes that even though she is put in a moral dillema to push their case and enable them to stay, she realises that there is little she can do hence stays with her intial stance and goes to complete the cancellation of their visa.  The problem is that my creative is sitting at an 11/15, which I believe is because there is no motif tying it together. I wanted to embed a closed door that is symbolic of the inevitable nature that the family is unable to enter. Yet, I don't know how to do this. Other things it that I am really bad at adapting to the stimulus. Thank you!

[elysepopplewell]

Hey guys!! I am really struggling for my creative. So what my story is about is a women who is on her lunch break, smoking at a local public. A laugh catches her attention. A small family of a young boy and his parents enjoy the day, which leads her to be triggered of another boy that is simillar to the boy. The other boy she is reminded of was part of a case that she had to complete within her job, who is a refugee. She remembers him and his family, and how he understands the reality around him and the hardships one must conquer which evokes empathy as in contrast to the boy in the park, who is oblivious to the lifestyle he is granted with. She concludes that even though she is put in a moral dillema to push their case and enable them to stay, she realises that there is little she can do hence stays with her intial stance and goes to complete the cancellation of their visa.  The problem is that my creative is sitting at an 11/15, which I believe is because there is no motif tying it together. I wanted to embed a closed door that is symbolic of the inevitable nature that the family is unable to enter. Yet, I don't know how to do this. Other things it that I am really bad at adapting to the stimulus. Thank you!

Great plot! To me, it seems clear that if you want to use a door, then you need to move into a building because the only door in a park is that belonging to a public toilet. So perhaps she could be in a cafe, a restaurant, a shopping centre, the local GP, anything like that. Choose an ordinary place for an extraordinary circumstance. To me, I'd lean towards something like a GP office waiting area than a cafe, it's just a little more ordinary and less scripted. Kids can still be laughing in the medical centre... Or a shopping centre, or at the local library. Do you think that moving the setting would enable you to incorporate that motif or are you looking for something deeper?

[SSSS]

Hey. Thanks for advice. I feel like the park is really good, but I understand that I am unable to use the door. I don't know to be honest where it should be! I'm thinking either a shopping centre, which is around closing time. Or I could do a library! In a similar fashion, its near closing time.

[Kaan709]

If you'd like your creative piece marked, you won't be able to post it until you make an ATAR Notes account here. Once you've done that, a little 'reply' button will come up when you're viewing threads, and you'll be able to copy and paste your essay and post it up here for us to mark!

Hey everyone!! Welcome to the English Creative Writing Marking Thread. This thread is here for you to get feedback on your creative pieces from a Band 6 student. This resource exists to help you guys make huge improvements on your writing... Too often, teachers just write "good" or "needs more creativity" or "expand on this idea". SUPER. FRUSTRATING. This is a place to properly improve

Before posting, please read the essay marking rules/rationale here.

To get your piece marked:

- Post it in this thread
- Include whether you have any particular concerns about the piece. E.g., "Can you please check to see that my story makes sense" and things like that.

Marking can take a few days during busy periods, but is usually done much faster than that.

Note that we now have a new post exchange system for essay marking on all forums. Every 15 ATAR Notes posts qualifies you to get marked for a single essay/creative. This is to ensure the system remains practical for the active members of the ATAR Notes community. More detail at the link above 

Post away, and happy studies!! 

Hey Elyse, Jawline boy here 
I received my creative writing back, which was from last term. The assessment was 40mins Comprehension (4/15 ), 40mins Essay (9/15), and 40mins Creative Writing (9/15). We could bring a sheet of handwritten notes. For the creative piece, we had to "Compose an original narrative that explores the creative and emotional impacts of discovery." Also, we had to choose a "starter", and I chose "The bridge appeared to step out into the clouds." However, on the day an unseen visual stimulus was given, and was a picture taken from a New-York High-Rise, looking down at Central Park in the Autumn (red leaves...) I thought the unseen stimulus worked perfectly with my text already.

My results were given, and included the teachers side notes of my 'cliches'. If you do pick up on any bad 'cliches', please let me know. She had also circled words, in which she didn't understand, however they were simply onomatopoeia. I am bad with my tenses, and it was a major flaw in my piece. I'm going to ask for it to be remarked, because the "English Studies" teachers marked it, and numerous people (including advanced) are asking it to be remarked.

Thank you so much, and please contact me if you're unsure of anything.
 

[AnnaB]

I was wondering if you could please look over my first draft for my advanced english creative.
We were provided with a stimulus image of a key whole frame, which acted as a vector for the salient image of a white rabbit in a lush green forest:

The God like creature strides, flaunting inconceivably faultless golden locks, with a sheen that screamed pricey. Immaculately dressed, stark white from head to toe… the assistance of “Scotch Guard”, out of the question. Her vibrantly un smudged, red stained lips cause speculation as to whether, or not she has ever eaten. 
I observe, slumped on the edge of my porch, her crimson heels... the height of fashion; far from sensible, black and flat, like my own. The puppeteer’s strings that stem from heaven keeps her posture arrow straight, as she seamlessly glides in sync with every green light. The hordes of pedestrians, seem to lift their gaze clearing space to allow her to continue, on her uninterrupted way.
My dullness, naivety and lack of wisdom concludes that she is the vision of perfection.

She reaches the end of her journey, in alignment with where I sit. I open my newspaper for protection, continuing to glare without a hint of suspicion. Entering the gate of a white picket fence, expectations do not disappoint; humbly large, a designer’s haven... her home was all a jaded housewife could imagine. Evoked by a concoction of wonder, curiosity and necessity, I continue to watch, now without hesitation; I am certain her elegance can distort the importance I place on caution.

I look in awe at her garden, contrasting it to that of my own untamed forest. As she walks along the coble path, a shift in stride is evident. The puppeteer has dropped his threads; the invisible book fell off her head. Before I can feast my eyes any further, I am jerked by small children with grotesquely loud and whiney cries that I have learnt all too well. I am pulled and tugged until I fall back into the paralyzing, monotonous routine of dinner and dishes, forgetting about my glamorous neighbour.
…

“Jane! Did you hear the boy’s art teacher is leaving?” one parent calls, interrupting my tactically constructed plan to drop and run and forcing me to enter the school gates.
 “We didn’t see you at netball on Saturday morning… we had to make do without any oranges!” the self-appointed, playdate secretary of the group, sniggers with a sting in her tongue.

I scan around the circle of parents, observing them with blinkers off. With un kept hair they stand, trapped in the politics of the playground world. Unable to bring themselves to the brink of realization that a realm without children or even their husbands could truly be one of the greatest pleasures…. one that is far more enthralling than Timmy’s dad’s refusal to give him vaccinations.

“Ummm Hello…any one there?”
 I wake from my judgmental reverie, with the apprehension that I could not pity them as I too was one of them. Losing my ability to string words together, I quickly turn and exit the cage, marching towards my car; what began as a purposeful walk rumbles to a storm that I had no control over. Slamming the door of my hatchback, I race back home.

This is not normal. This is not normal. A pounding mind searches for reasons to have such illicit thoughts. You have a beautiful family whom you love very much …. Why must I remind myself?

Forcefully kicking the mound of shoes compiled on the floor, I hobble through the doorway. I am stunned by the lack of comfort I sense after desperately fleeing in the hope to fall into a sanctum.
As I continue to walk, I am agonizingly uneased by once familiar surroundings.
The previously charming knick-knacks that covered every surface, now leave a nauseating taste to the mouth. Unapologetically silly family photos poorly imitate capturing a sense “quirkiness” in our mundane household. And my children’s hand drawn “artworks” that line the walls of this home we built… they disgust me. Why should we be venerating such little talent? … for it is not Van Gogh… it’s splattered paint for heaven’s sake! The rage I build, as my starving eyes digest the distasteful surrounds, acts as the fuel to destroy the diminutive sanity I have left.
I attempt to locate splendor in the colorful works in front of me. No control, no minimalism, no clarity, completely un remarkable…. Like me they hang around unwillingly.
And with that in mind I began to tear, break, smash… whatever it took to destroy the unpolished.
I flagrantly shred the paintings, reminding myself that these suffocating walls that surround me like a border contrast starkly to those protecting the creature who breaths next door to me.

And suddenly I halt…. as mortification floods. Observing the now permanent consequences of my actions… the floor resembles a battlefield.  A woman of such style and sophistication next-door would be utterly horrified to have consumed a millisecond of her luxurious life in the presence of this “soulfully” clichéd brick, 3 bedder. The embarrassment I embody is the result of my failure.
And with that I continue to destroy before falling to the floor like a wounded deer… quickly and with little resistance.

Grasping my breath, I notice the one thing that I had not abolished; on the center of the hallway table lies a clock. Best get dinner on.
…
I observe, slumped on the edge of my porch, her crimson heels... the height of fashion. Numbing my lips with gin and a dash of tonic, I watch her in her element. Confidence oozes as she instructs the young men on the importance of care when transporting the purchase from the van to her haven. Completely enthralled, I grip my drink and take two steps closer; whatever is in this Sotheby’s truck could only be as equally dazing as herself.

“Straight from New York Madame… it is one of a kind!” exclaims a gentleman, stepping out of the truck. As the two men lift the item up, she rips the brown paper to insure it is was what she was longing for. The item is unveiled; I squint my eyes creating enough focus to see…. It is a painting.
Obnoxiously colorful with no control, no minimalism and no clarity, it is completely un remarkable.
Her sheer excitement is revealed with a joyous squeal, crying “this is what I’ve been searching for!”

This flawless life filled with glamour and unstained white, was far from its reality.

[sudodds]

Hey Elyse, Jawline boy here 

wait is this jawline boy as in general maths lecture jawline boy omg. not really qualified to mark your creative soz (though I'm sure you'll get an incred response soon - I know I did last year, 10/10 would recommend!),  just wanted the opportunity to talk to a celebrity