Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[Snew]

I really hope this helps, and definitely let me know if you'd like any of this clarified!

Hey Jamon!! I was wondering if you had any further tips about the dialogue, how to make it more realistic or perhaps not including it at all. I was thinking of having a family hug at the end or something
Thank you!

[sophiemacpherso]

Hey guys!! I was wondering if you'd be able to read my creative draft... I feel like it's far too conceptual and not eventful enough as I struggled to try to make it cover all areas of the discovery syllabus.. Anyway, any feedback would be amazing, thanks so much

The melancholy breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside.
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
 “I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey Jamon!! I was wondering if you had any further tips about the dialogue, how to make it more realistic or perhaps not including it at all. I was thinking of having a family hug at the end or something
Thank you!

Family hug is bordering on cheesy, in my opinion - It's like those movies where the whole family hugs and you think, "Bleehh," those cringeworthy moments that just don't really happen in real life. The family hugs often (not always) fall into that category

Read your dialogue aloud, and ask yourself, would this actually be said in that scenario? Is that how people actually speak? Try just randomly chatting to someone about something similar to what you want to right, take note of what they say and how they say it. I'd wager students who do Drama would be good at this! It's purely about realism, which is a really hard thing to do

[DalvinT]

Hey!
I just finished my second draft of my creative writing for Discovery!

IT'S REALLY HORRIBLE because I'm just really bad in creative writing in general ((((
But yeah, I just need a quick run through of my grammar, structure, control of language, plot/character development and the exploration of DISCOVERY.

THANKS HEAPSSS   

[elysepopplewell]

Hey guys!! I was wondering if you'd be able to read my creative draft... I feel like it's far too conceptual and not eventful enough as I struggled to try to make it cover all areas of the discovery syllabus.. Anyway, any feedback would be amazing, thanks so much

Hey Sophie! Excited to have a look at this one for you The comments are in bold in the spoiler.

Spoiler

The melancholy mmm...at first I read this and thought "I think it should be melancholic" but after doing some research, I think melancholy works.
 I'm thinking melancholic is better, because it means to be expressing sadness, whereas melancholy means to feel sadness, and I'm not sure the wind can do that. I think I'm reading too far in to this, I actually learnt something new by realising melancholy was a noun and an adjective. Perhaps check with your teacher on this, just because it's right at the beginning so it stands out, but I can't give you definitive advice. You very well could be right! breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. I think there's a lot going on in the first sentence: melancholy, disseminated, myriad, resentment, roses. It's a lot of images for me to connect and I think it detracts from whatever imagery you're trying to portray. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside. I love that you've used Grandpa and Ma - it may seem small but I find that when people do creative writing, they always go to "mother and father" and "grandmother and grandfather" which I think isn't very good for creating voice, because it doesn't sound unique. But when you have a grandpa and a ma, it's really nice, it sticks!
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me. Love the imagery of the eyes - reminds me of my own poppy.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
 “I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Looking at your use of suddenly. I've read lots of guides online by renowned authors about what they think you should avoid. Suddenly, they say, is one of them. The reason being, it's a missed opportunity to transport someone with urgency through the manipulation of language. Instead, by saying suddenly, you've just put us there and we had no invitation. But when you are forced to eradicate suddenly and bring us to the sudden platform differently,
 you invite the reader to engage with the time swap.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old I don't like the repetition of 14 - just because it's in your last sentence. Maybe try "teenager." or "young teen" or something to that end. could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.

This is so beautiful. As I was reading this I was forced to think of my own poppy the entire time! So wonderful! That's when you know you've done a good job You've included so many areas of discovery here. Remember, stories are usually plot driven or character driven. Don't fear that your plot isn't complicated, because the integrity of the characters drives it.

As for some suggestions; I think the flashback is a little jarring just because of the "suddenly" and repetition of her being 14 - it's like I'm being alerted a few times over that the flashback has begun when I've already realised. Otherwise, the imagery is perfect, even if the language is a little heavy at the beginning. I think the weight of your language for the most part works really well with a simple plot, it's a nice balance! I felt really touched by this story, and I think it will thrive really well in an exam, just like the roses

Have you tried adapting this to a stimulus yet? I only fear that because the language is so delicate, that you might be thrown when trying to engage with the stimulus. How confident do you feel with the possibility of a stimulus?

[sophiemacpherso]

Hey Sophie! Excited to have a look at this one for you The comments are in bold in the spoiler.

Spoiler

The melancholy mmm...at first I read this and thought "I think it should be melancholic" but after doing some research, I think melancholy works.
 I'm thinking melancholic is better, because it means to be expressing sadness, whereas melancholy means to feel sadness, and I'm not sure the wind can do that. I think I'm reading too far in to this, I actually learnt something new by realising melancholy was a noun and an adjective. Perhaps check with your teacher on this, just because it's right at the beginning so it stands out, but I can't give you definitive advice. You very well could be right! breeze disseminated our myriad of resentment through the rows of blush roses. I think there's a lot going on in the first sentence: melancholy, disseminated, myriad, resentment, roses. It's a lot of images for me to connect and I think it detracts from whatever imagery you're trying to portray. Inconvenience flourished at our feet in the form of weeds, as if to rectify themselves from previous endeavors of their eradication. “You’ll never have a pretty rose garden if its filled with weeds,” he would say through an enduring grin, “Pick up a shovel. Start digging”.
A sharp gust of wind spat implacable drops of salt water onto the crimson roses. “It’s getting dark,” Emily asserted. I turned my head to the diminishing, effulgent sphere and thought about the last time he’d seen the sun. It had been 10 days since that cheerful orb, due south, peeped above his beautiful garden and dipped from his view forever.
As twilight set in, Emily and I gathered ourselves and started home, placidly observing the ripples that imbued the murky water. As she plucked one of the crumbled roses from its prickly countenance, she turned to me, “He wouldn’t have wanted it like this Sarah. He would’ve wanted us to keep busy, keep helping Mum out with the shop.” The sound of her voice reverberated in my ears but I couldn’t hear her. All I could see was the decimation of the garden. 10 days and it was almost destroyed. The soil had been eroded by the escalating tide, other crops had infiltrated the beds strictly reserved for roses. Children trampled the garden beds in search for their soccer ball and left the roses lying forlorn across the lawn, emaciated by their neglect.
Suddenly, I was one of those 13 year old children again, crusading against the monotonous perils of my naïve existence. I was helping Grandpa water his cherished shrubs as Ma cooked the supper inside. I love that you've used Grandpa and Ma - it may seem small but I find that when people do creative writing, they always go to "mother and father" and "grandmother and grandfather" which I think isn't very good for creating voice, because it doesn't sound unique. But when you have a grandpa and a ma, it's really nice, it sticks!
“Emily!” I yelled angrily, “Get me the shovel from the garden shed!”.
“Sophia, ask nicely please. You’ll never get anywhere in life by losing your temper,” Grandpa interjected. His blue eyes, brimming with knowledge and benevolence, crinkled congenially as he looked back at me. Love the imagery of the eyes - reminds me of my own poppy.
“Sorry Grandpa,” I replied, as I shrunk down embarrassedly.
Another gust of wind chilled my bones as I continued to walk, 10 years on from my 13 year old self. Tears began to sting my eyes as the amplitude of my loss emanated throughout my body in waves as we entered my home.
The mid-Autumn chill radiated throughout the living room. No amount of warmth would thaw the frost in that room. Not even Emily could warm me, as she attempted to placate my quivering with a multitude of blankets.
 “I just can’t believe he’s gone,” I said to Emily, my voice wet and cracking. As tears obscured my vision, I closed my eyes.
Looking at your use of suddenly. I've read lots of guides online by renowned authors about what they think you should avoid. Suddenly, they say, is one of them. The reason being, it's a missed opportunity to transport someone with urgency through the manipulation of language. Instead, by saying suddenly, you've just put us there and we had no invitation. But when you are forced to eradicate suddenly and bring us to the sudden platform differently,
 you invite the reader to engage with the time swap.
Suddenly, I was 14 again and Emily and I were running through Grandad’s beds of beach roses. The incessant pitter patter of our feet liberated me from the burden of school, of homework, of any struggles a 14 year old I don't like the repetition of 14 - just because it's in your last sentence. Maybe try "teenager." or "young teen" or something to that end. could have in the world. As we ran inside we would shovel Arnotts cookie clusters into our mouths, letting the delectable biscuit disintegrate into nothing inside our mouths. Grandad would sit there and listen to our troubles, about anything that was wrong, and inscribe his wealth of wisdom into our minds forever.
“It’s like there’s nothing to fill the void. We saw him almost every day for the entirety of our lives and now he’s just gone,” I sobbed as Emily lulled me to sleep.
Now, its ten years later and not a day goes past where I don’t think about him. His wry smile, his hardened integrity, a facet to the beauty and charm of the human experience. But maybe his departure was a message. Some underlying, didactic message about the inexorable nature of life. Because that’s the thing – it goes on. It continues in its perennial cycles, regardless of the ephemeral humans that encompass it. And maybe that’s where the importance of the roses lay. Controlling something external like that – it gives us space to breathe; gave him space to breathe. Opened his mind up to the multitude of opportunities we have in our privileged perception of the world. And maybe that’s the purpose of loss. To remind us of the transience of our existence, the sub-ordinance we hold in the natural environment – as transitory and evanescent as a rose.
And so Em and I started tending to our own rose garden. Grandad’s elusive roses ceased to exist, but they lived on to us. For weeks and weeks after his passing it rained. The deluge dripped perpetually from the moiling sky and the days were dreary and cold. But eventually it got easier. Our loss became more and more tolerable as we honoured the knowledge he morally instilled in us, and we grew, like the beautiful roses in his garden.

This is so beautiful. As I was reading this I was forced to think of my own poppy the entire time! So wonderful! That's when you know you've done a good job You've included so many areas of discovery here. Remember, stories are usually plot driven or character driven. Don't fear that your plot isn't complicated, because the integrity of the characters drives it.

As for some suggestions; I think the flashback is a little jarring just because of the "suddenly" and repetition of her being 14 - it's like I'm being alerted a few times over that the flashback has begun when I've already realised. Otherwise, the imagery is perfect, even if the language is a little heavy at the beginning. I think the weight of your language for the most part works really well with a simple plot, it's a nice balance! I felt really touched by this story, and I think it will thrive really well in an exam, just like the roses

Have you tried adapting this to a stimulus yet? I only fear that because the language is so delicate, that you might be thrown when trying to engage with the stimulus. How confident do you feel with the possibility of a stimulus?

Thank you sosososoosoo much for your help! The feedback was beyond helpful, thankyou so much again. I've only really attempted to adapt it to one stimulus but I will try for more in the lead up to trials, I definitely agree with you there though and might have to find some implicit ways to link it in so it's easier to adapt in the exam !!

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey!
I just finished my second draft of my creative writing for Discovery!

IT'S REALLY HORRIBLE because I'm just really bad in creative writing in general ((((
But yeah, I just need a quick run through of my grammar, structure, control of language, plot/character development and the exploration of DISCOVERY.

THANKS HEAPSSS   

Hey Dalvin! Creative is attached below with feedback:

Spoiler

“Mmmmm…, that’s an A ”, I mumbled as my brother presses the white ivorite keys of the ebony Steinways and Sons grand piano. I like the idea of this opening - Interesting! However, I was a little confused, because 'Mmmm' can be read in many ways. It almost sounds like you are eating. Perhaps swap to just 'That's an A.' It was always nice to hear the piano being played again… living away from home was taking several tolls within my life, but I guess it’s worth for what I will come to be. This is a HEAP of detail in one go - I know you haven't gone into much detail yet, but try and set the scene first.
As the single note continued to dissipate as I sat at the dining table. My eyes instantly caught onto the pearly white paper with my brother’s writing on it to which I quickly pulled it towards me. I skimmed through it and all that I noticed from his incomprehensible writing, such that of Dr. Wallace’s,  was the word “apple”. I wondered what it meant, sitting there staring at the negative space of the paper. Apple. Apple. I continued to repeat. 
“Bump”, as the piano hammers hit the thick iron strings. Don't use speech marks if it isn't direct speech - Just say bump.
”Mmmm. G#” I said under my breath. Again, I'd ditch the 'Mmm.'
“Prelude in C# minor – Rachmaninoff” I immediately spoke unconsciously. I then paused the thoughts of my brother’s words, and there I was. Staring at the pearly white paper where my mind travelled back to 7 years ago when I began to learn this piece. That stage in my life was when my music changed. I'd like you to put more into this flashback, it is quite quick - Try to really invest time and lines into the important bits!
Skyrocketing from the chair,  I ventured into my room in search for my old  journal. Though the search was long, I finally dug it up from the piles of notes I had from high school. Covered in dust, I took a vigorous blow at it and a mountain of dust erupted from the surface causing a tingling sensation of my nostrils  and a fuzzed vision.

 [10th March 2010] “My soulless self once again talking to myself. Was this what was written in the journal? Make sure if you are swapping forms, that you write exactly as it would be written in a journal. Today was when I received [sic] another music piece from my teacher. What's the purpose of the [sic]? I can't spot the error, you've spelt received correctly. Further, be careful putting errors in purposefully in a Creative - It backfires easily. For a piano competition that was. Nothing special and nothing exciting, just like every other piece. Why must the piano be something I must  do… and this pontless [sic]  piano compitition. I was always been called... a robotic? yet perfectonisst pianist. That didn’t bother me thouh. [sic].. “
Other than laughing at my horrible grammar, it was a  good reminder for how much I have changed. The pessimist self only looked at life downhill, to which I wondered how I was like that before.  But it wasn’t until one day, where my beloved grandfather passed away, still remembering the passing bells that rang at his funeral as I stood with death-like eyes staring at the futile soil.

Ring.
...
Ring.
…  I like the touch of the rings, but I'd like you to again spend a bit more time really creating this image for the reader. It seems just a little rushed - By trying to pack so much in it is losing its power.

Diary: [20th March 2010] “The piano competition was in a few weeks. Watch for tense - If you are writing in a journal, this should be "is in a few weeks." My only faovrtie [sic] grandpa passed away recently, and those passing bells still ring in me. He was a great man, one who challenged and escaped the terror in 1970s China. Is this how a younger character would talk, about "terror in 1970's China?"
But… Something else happened too. Something, extradoinary [sic]. It was a different experience on the piano. My grieving and solemness was separating my perfrectionsim [sic] in my playing. Again, watch for realism. A child wouldn't write in a journal this way. But for the sake of my weak state and to ploguh [sic] through piano practice. My fingers and mind. It... IIt... did something. Painting  this artwork I made.  Lively and strong, yet monotonous in its tone colours. It was sort of a story. A man… sleeping… trapped in a dream within a dream. It was unusual, but this phenonmon [sic]. It never happened to me before. I was just overwhelmed with warmth it gave me.” Really like some of the imagery here, but it just doesn't suit the younger voice you are trying to create. You don't have someone making spelling/grammar mistakes then talking with elaborate imagery and verbose word choice.

As I raised my eyes above the horizon of the book, I was reminded of the 14 year old self, to which I began to recognise and appreciate what I have accomplished and come to. This is who I am now, a developed and mature young man. I have continued to let go of everything of my past. And finding the true purpose for me to live, to live as a lawyer. I suppose my mind and world determined my clear vision.
As my pride fulfils my ego, I pondered on what else I could begin to appreciate more. I flicked to a random page and continued to read my darkened experiences. I like the structure here, of these frequent journal entries and subsequent reflection. But it just seems like some of these reflections are a little rushed, some of the pictures you are painting and fully painted. Right now, I'm thinking, "Oh, he's a Lawyer." Would have been great to lead up to this, have the character working hard at Law School, or whatever. Not so abrupt.

Diary: [1st April 2012] 2 years since I wrote in this impeccable journal… And I’ve got to say, I’ve become a better person. I realised that life is full of nice things. Music has become the roots to my existence, and as I am writing this… I see that, I hated music a lot before… Again, watch realism.
To me, letting go truly is the answer to becoming a better person. But it wasn’t that easy to discovery something that we cannot go searching for. The mind is our enemy yet our foe. It is the poor expectations and assumptions that blurs the lenses of our eyes.
You see, I now appreciated that having a wider approach to life will make us happier. I now appreciate - Watch for tense issues. Reading a book won’t do much, but living those words will. It’s like hanging those inspirational quotes in your room, but just leaving it there for designing. But you’ve only taken its significance as a minute fraction to your life. As I begin to mature more, it is that these are the important moments. The rollercoaster of human experiences become the valuable aspect in our life. Trust Me. GO. RUN.” Again, I like the idea behind this - But it just doesn't quite suit a journal entry.

As I finished reading this, I took a deep breath and released it without holding it for more than one second, when a sudden burst of urge triggered me to swiftly grab my car keys. 
I had the need to drive somewhere…
 “My grandpa’s graveyard”,  my mind immediately suggested.
It reminded me that I haven’t visited in decades, to which the thought transformed into guilt that shivered every part of me. In a spontaneous manner, it continued to find an answer to why I haven’t visited ever since. Yet, no answer came to mind... only that concreted thought that only made me want to get their faster.

[PORTMENTON CEMETERY]
As I walked upon the uneven path to my grandfather’s gravestone, I noticed a string of bleakness that thrived through the rotted lifeless leaves, veiny branches and dead grounds. This is a really significant scene - Describe it more!
“16th March 2010… Xulao Xian – beloved father and grandfather.” – engraved within the spirit of my grandpa. 
My eyes scrolled left to right vigorously at the gravestone not knowing what to do as my fingers paced back and forth, on the rough textured wooden bench staring at the grave undisturbed – observing every detail and revisiting the fond memories I had as a child.
“Apples are indeed the culture of life” – the gravestone further read.
My mind fixated on those words, repeating it over and over again  as if I expected to find the answer the more I said it.
Within the next breath, I froze staring obliviously at the gravestone.
Those words… my brother… the apple. It all makes sense now. My grandpa always said he adored the apples. Though, he never really explained what it meant… only hinted that being one who took the apple could only understand the true human nature. This seems like a bit of a force to make that symbol fit - That piece of paper earlier didn't form a big part of the plot. So the symbolism playing such a big part at the finish seems very awkward.
The Apple,  was a fruit of wisdom and knowledge that only came with rebellion. A sudden rush of thoughts ran through my head, but slowed down as I took deep breaths. My mind settled as I realised I had mistaken the way life was meant to be.  It was then I knew that the differences within people was the foundation of human capacity, rather than letting go of the history. This seems like a really big conceptual dump - Getting all your concepts out at the end. It's a little forced, more subtlety is going to serve you better!
…
Diary: [12th May 2019]
“This day embarks the turning point of my life. It is the significance of today that shapes my life from  today on.. Seeing life beyond now to a place of true fulfillment. Through the process, I am ready to encounter new surprises and places. It is strength of relationship between us and the world that drives us to  the right journey and to the right places.
My grandfather once said,

DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE TO INCLUDE AS THE GRANDPA’S QUOTE
 [ “It is growth of the stars that matter, rather than the full shine of its form ”. ]
[ “ It Is that those that come and continue that matter. Rather than the shining stars of the journey” ]
[ “It is the stars that you see on your journey, rather than the star you see at the end.” ]
[ “It is the experience of enjoying the apple that allows you to understand the core of your life”. ]
The stars links to the milestones of the process within discovery OR  I could bring back the symbolism of the apple again.
To me, I like the last quote because it shows how we need to actually understand what is going on in our journey rather than just mindlessly going through it for the sake for it. So therefore, it links in how discoveries of any kind → self-discovery, physical etc. are necessary for individuals to progress further. It is the first step to everything…  That way,  the individual is then able to gain understandings and perspectives that broadens their world and enriches their relationships between their self and places. I personally think the third one is the best, purely because the fourth one tries to make a link back to the apple symbol, but it doesn't quite work properly imo. Still feels a little forced.

So I really like the ideas behind this Creative, lots of cool concepts and great elements - There are two things I'd raise as potential issues:

1 - Your Creative is very busy. Lots of plot elements, lots of sections. The symbolism of the apple, the grandfather, the piano/music theme, and lots of other little things thrown in too. Plus, it is 1500 words - Do you think you can write this in 40 minutes? I would work on really simplifying this, because with so much happening it is hard as a reader to hone in on the important pieces.

2- The language in the journal entries doesn't seem real. It isn't how a character of the younger age would express themselves in that form. Their writing would be less verbose, based more on events and personal reflection rather than more general/conceptual thoughts. As a result, it comes across unnaturally, very forced, and takes the audience out of your story. Writing journals/diary entries properly, in a way that seems realistic to the character voice, is a very hard thing to do.

I do, however, really like the idea of flashing back to the younger versions of yourself, and I think the journal entries are the right way to do that. I think the entries should be shorter, and there should also be less other stuff jumbling the story up - Make it more focused. Hell, it could even be your character walking down the path to the Grandfather's Grave, reading journal entries as they go, with brief interludes in between. Something simple like that.

I also want you to consider what Discovery concept you are pushing here - There should be one big one. Yes, others might be there, but there should be one that overrides the others and it should be the one you focus on communicating to the reader. Right now, I don't get one strong one coming through

I hope this feedback helps!! Oh, and I marked areas worth a relook for grammar/expression/spelling in red - Just the ones I spotted

[DalvinT]

Hey Dalvin! Creative is attached below with feedback:

Spoiler

“Mmmmm…, that’s an A ”, I mumbled as my brother presses the white ivorite keys of the ebony Steinways and Sons grand piano. I like the idea of this opening - Interesting! However, I was a little confused, because 'Mmmm' can be read in many ways. It almost sounds like you are eating. Perhaps swap to just 'That's an A.' It was always nice to hear the piano being played again… living away from home was taking several tolls within my life, but I guess it’s worth for what I will come to be. This is a HEAP of detail in one go - I know you haven't gone into much detail yet, but try and set the scene first.
As the single note continued to dissipate as I sat at the dining table. My eyes instantly caught onto the pearly white paper with my brother’s writing on it to which I quickly pulled it towards me. I skimmed through it and all that I noticed from his incomprehensible writing, such that of Dr. Wallace’s,  was the word “apple”. I wondered what it meant, sitting there staring at the negative space of the paper. Apple. Apple. I continued to repeat. 
“Bump”, as the piano hammers hit the thick iron strings. Don't use speech marks if it isn't direct speech - Just say bump.
”Mmmm. G#” I said under my breath. Again, I'd ditch the 'Mmm.'
“Prelude in C# minor – Rachmaninoff” I immediately spoke unconsciously. I then paused the thoughts of my brother’s words, and there I was. Staring at the pearly white paper where my mind travelled back to 7 years ago when I began to learn this piece. That stage in my life was when my music changed. I'd like you to put more into this flashback, it is quite quick - Try to really invest time and lines into the important bits!
Skyrocketing from the chair,  I ventured into my room in search for my old  journal. Though the search was long, I finally dug it up from the piles of notes I had from high school. Covered in dust, I took a vigorous blow at it and a mountain of dust erupted from the surface causing a tingling sensation of my nostrils  and a fuzzed vision.

 [10th March 2010] “My soulless self once again talking to myself. Was this what was written in the journal? Make sure if you are swapping forms, that you write exactly as it would be written in a journal. Today was when I received [sic] another music piece from my teacher. What's the purpose of the [sic]? I can't spot the error, you've spelt received correctly. Further, be careful putting errors in purposefully in a Creative - It backfires easily. For a piano competition that was. Nothing special and nothing exciting, just like every other piece. Why must the piano be something I must  do… and this pontless [sic]  piano compitition. I was always been called... a robotic? yet perfectonisst pianist. That didn’t bother me thouh. [sic].. “
Other than laughing at my horrible grammar, it was a  good reminder for how much I have changed. The pessimist self only looked at life downhill, to which I wondered how I was like that before.  But it wasn’t until one day, where my beloved grandfather passed away, still remembering the passing bells that rang at his funeral as I stood with death-like eyes staring at the futile soil.

Ring.
...
Ring.
…  I like the touch of the rings, but I'd like you to again spend a bit more time really creating this image for the reader. It seems just a little rushed - By trying to pack so much in it is losing its power.

Diary: [20th March 2010] “The piano competition was in a few weeks. Watch for tense - If you are writing in a journal, this should be "is in a few weeks." My only faovrtie [sic] grandpa passed away recently, and those passing bells still ring in me. He was a great man, one who challenged and escaped the terror in 1970s China. Is this how a younger character would talk, about "terror in 1970's China?"
But… Something else happened too. Something, extradoinary [sic]. It was a different experience on the piano. My grieving and solemness was separating my perfrectionsim [sic] in my playing. Again, watch for realism. A child wouldn't write in a journal this way. But for the sake of my weak state and to ploguh [sic] through piano practice. My fingers and mind. It... IIt... did something. Painting  this artwork I made.  Lively and strong, yet monotonous in its tone colours. It was sort of a story. A man… sleeping… trapped in a dream within a dream. It was unusual, but this phenonmon [sic]. It never happened to me before. I was just overwhelmed with warmth it gave me.” Really like some of the imagery here, but it just doesn't suit the younger voice you are trying to create. You don't have someone making spelling/grammar mistakes then talking with elaborate imagery and verbose word choice.

As I raised my eyes above the horizon of the book, I was reminded of the 14 year old self, to which I began to recognise and appreciate what I have accomplished and come to. This is who I am now, a developed and mature young man. I have continued to let go of everything of my past. And finding the true purpose for me to live, to live as a lawyer. I suppose my mind and world determined my clear vision.
As my pride fulfils my ego, I pondered on what else I could begin to appreciate more. I flicked to a random page and continued to read my darkened experiences. I like the structure here, of these frequent journal entries and subsequent reflection. But it just seems like some of these reflections are a little rushed, some of the pictures you are painting and fully painted. Right now, I'm thinking, "Oh, he's a Lawyer." Would have been great to lead up to this, have the character working hard at Law School, or whatever. Not so abrupt.

Diary: [1st April 2012] 2 years since I wrote in this impeccable journal… And I’ve got to say, I’ve become a better person. I realised that life is full of nice things. Music has become the roots to my existence, and as I am writing this… I see that, I hated music a lot before… Again, watch realism.
To me, letting go truly is the answer to becoming a better person. But it wasn’t that easy to discovery something that we cannot go searching for. The mind is our enemy yet our foe. It is the poor expectations and assumptions that blurs the lenses of our eyes.
You see, I now appreciated that having a wider approach to life will make us happier. I now appreciate - Watch for tense issues. Reading a book won’t do much, but living those words will. It’s like hanging those inspirational quotes in your room, but just leaving it there for designing. But you’ve only taken its significance as a minute fraction to your life. As I begin to mature more, it is that these are the important moments. The rollercoaster of human experiences become the valuable aspect in our life. Trust Me. GO. RUN.” Again, I like the idea behind this - But it just doesn't quite suit a journal entry.

As I finished reading this, I took a deep breath and released it without holding it for more than one second, when a sudden burst of urge triggered me to swiftly grab my car keys. 
I had the need to drive somewhere…
 “My grandpa’s graveyard”,  my mind immediately suggested.
It reminded me that I haven’t visited in decades, to which the thought transformed into guilt that shivered every part of me. In a spontaneous manner, it continued to find an answer to why I haven’t visited ever since. Yet, no answer came to mind... only that concreted thought that only made me want to get their faster.

[PORTMENTON CEMETERY]
As I walked upon the uneven path to my grandfather’s gravestone, I noticed a string of bleakness that thrived through the rotted lifeless leaves, veiny branches and dead grounds. This is a really significant scene - Describe it more!
“16th March 2010… Xulao Xian – beloved father and grandfather.” – engraved within the spirit of my grandpa. 
My eyes scrolled left to right vigorously at the gravestone not knowing what to do as my fingers paced back and forth, on the rough textured wooden bench staring at the grave undisturbed – observing every detail and revisiting the fond memories I had as a child.
“Apples are indeed the culture of life” – the gravestone further read.
My mind fixated on those words, repeating it over and over again  as if I expected to find the answer the more I said it.
Within the next breath, I froze staring obliviously at the gravestone.
Those words… my brother… the apple. It all makes sense now. My grandpa always said he adored the apples. Though, he never really explained what it meant… only hinted that being one who took the apple could only understand the true human nature. This seems like a bit of a force to make that symbol fit - That piece of paper earlier didn't form a big part of the plot. So the symbolism playing such a big part at the finish seems very awkward.
The Apple,  was a fruit of wisdom and knowledge that only came with rebellion. A sudden rush of thoughts ran through my head, but slowed down as I took deep breaths. My mind settled as I realised I had mistaken the way life was meant to be.  It was then I knew that the differences within people was the foundation of human capacity, rather than letting go of the history. This seems like a really big conceptual dump - Getting all your concepts out at the end. It's a little forced, more subtlety is going to serve you better!
…
Diary: [12th May 2019]
“This day embarks the turning point of my life. It is the significance of today that shapes my life from  today on.. Seeing life beyond now to a place of true fulfillment. Through the process, I am ready to encounter new surprises and places. It is strength of relationship between us and the world that drives us to  the right journey and to the right places.
My grandfather once said,

DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE TO INCLUDE AS THE GRANDPA’S QUOTE
 [ “It is growth of the stars that matter, rather than the full shine of its form ”. ]
[ “ It Is that those that come and continue that matter. Rather than the shining stars of the journey” ]
[ “It is the stars that you see on your journey, rather than the star you see at the end.” ]
[ “It is the experience of enjoying the apple that allows you to understand the core of your life”. ]
The stars links to the milestones of the process within discovery OR  I could bring back the symbolism of the apple again.
To me, I like the last quote because it shows how we need to actually understand what is going on in our journey rather than just mindlessly going through it for the sake for it. So therefore, it links in how discoveries of any kind → self-discovery, physical etc. are necessary for individuals to progress further. It is the first step to everything…  That way,  the individual is then able to gain understandings and perspectives that broadens their world and enriches their relationships between their self and places. I personally think the third one is the best, purely because the fourth one tries to make a link back to the apple symbol, but it doesn't quite work properly imo. Still feels a little forced.

So I really like the ideas behind this Creative, lots of cool concepts and great elements - There are two things I'd raise as potential issues:

1 - Your Creative is very busy. Lots of plot elements, lots of sections. The symbolism of the apple, the grandfather, the piano/music theme, and lots of other little things thrown in too. Plus, it is 1500 words - Do you think you can write this in 40 minutes? I would work on really simplifying this, because with so much happening it is hard as a reader to hone in on the important pieces.

2- The language in the journal entries doesn't seem real. It isn't how a character of the younger age would express themselves in that form. Their writing would be less verbose, based more on events and personal reflection rather than more general/conceptual thoughts. As a result, it comes across unnaturally, very forced, and takes the audience out of your story. Writing journals/diary entries properly, in a way that seems realistic to the character voice, is a very hard thing to do.

I do, however, really like the idea of flashing back to the younger versions of yourself, and I think the journal entries are the right way to do that. I think the entries should be shorter, and there should also be less other stuff jumbling the story up - Make it more focused. Hell, it could even be your character walking down the path to the Grandfather's Grave, reading journal entries as they go, with brief interludes in between. Something simple like that.

I also want you to consider what Discovery concept you are pushing here - There should be one big one. Yes, others might be there, but there should be one that overrides the others and it should be the one you focus on communicating to the reader. Right now, I don't get one strong one coming through

I hope this feedback helps!! Oh, and I marked areas worth a relook for grammar/expression/spelling in red - Just the ones I spotted

YESS!! Thank you Jamon for the help!! HEAPSSS! I definitely reduced how much was going.

So I took away the graveyard scenery and had all events occur in the the lounge room.
allowing the diary entries to somewhat drives the plot.
I took away the symbolism of the apple and just had the piano and the music piece as the symbolic motif.

[jamonwindeyer]

YESS!! Thank you Jamon for the help!! HEAPSSS! I definitely reduced how much was going.

So I took away the graveyard scenery and had all events occur in the the lounge room.
allowing the diary entries to somewhat drives the plot.
I took away the symbolism of the apple and just had the piano and the music piece as the symbolic motif.

Awesome to hear! I reckon making it a little simpler will definitely help your conceptual clarity

[Zainbow]

Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?

Thanks in advance

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?

Thanks in advance

Hey! I'm sorry to be a bit of a downer, but poetry puts you at a significant disadvantage. There's a few reasons:

- Poems are shorter. You have less space to develop your concepts and less space to show you are a strong composer.
- Poems are often very open to interpretation, it is unpredictable as to the sort of reception of it will get.
- Poems are harder to write than pretty much any other text type. It takes a very effective writer to pull off properly, especially under time.

The blanket advice I've always received, and that I pass on, is that you can attempt any text type. Feature article, short story, speech, diary - No disadvantage for not writing a narrative. But poetry is tough - It is too difficult and too short; the length is the big thing that markers won't like. Now as much as I tend to agree with this stance, you can be the exception, but know that it probably isn't the easiest course of action, at least in my opinion

[elysepopplewell]

Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?

Thanks in advance

Adding on to Jamon's advice: Consider writing poetry amongst a short story? That way, the poetry can still be a brilliant feature, but you have the story to cushion it, to adapt to the stimulus, as a back up, etc. You get to show a few writing techniques this way which is great!

[Wales]

Hey!
Put simply, I'm terrible at short stories. I just can't write the plot into intelligible sentences that are both clever and not boring, so I've decided to test out poetry. At the moment I have a first draft complete, but I'm not sure how long it should be or if it's good enough. Is there a disadvantage to not writing a short story? I was told by someone that its safer to have a short story because that's what the markers will be expecting. Also, if I were to submit my creative as a poem, what would the general expectation of it be?

Thanks in advance

I suggest sticking to a story also.

Find a film, show, book you enjoy. Take ONE scene out of it and try bring out the syllabus requirements out of that scene. It's a good starting ground There's plenty of exemplars around here and the amazing guide Elyse wrote. Have a look.

Poem is certainly unusual but Jamon and Elyse have provided you with the downsides. It's incredibly hard to compete against a short story when you write a poem.

[Zainbow]

Hey! I'm sorry to be a bit of a downer, but poetry puts you at a significant disadvantage. There's a few reasons:

- Poems are shorter. You have less space to develop your concepts and less space to show you are a strong composer.
- Poems are often very open to interpretation, it is unpredictable as to the sort of reception of it will get.
- Poems are harder to write than pretty much any other text type. It takes a very effective writer to pull off properly, especially under time.

The blanket advice I've always received, and that I pass on, is that you can attempt any text type. Feature article, short story, speech, diary - No disadvantage for not writing a narrative. But poetry is tough - It is too difficult and too short; the length is the big thing that markers won't like. Now as much as I tend to agree with this stance, you can be the exception, but know that it probably isn't the easiest course of action, at least in my opinion

Adding on to Jamon's advice: Consider writing poetry amongst a short story? That way, the poetry can still be a brilliant feature, but you have the story to cushion it, to adapt to the stimulus, as a back up, etc. You get to show a few writing techniques this way which is great!

I suggest sticking to a story also.

Find a film, show, book you enjoy. Take ONE scene out of it and try bring out the syllabus requirements out of that scene. It's a good starting ground There's plenty of exemplars around here and the amazing guide Elyse wrote. Have a look.

Poem is certainly unusual but Jamon and Elyse have provided you with the downsides. It's incredibly hard to compete against a short story when you write a poem.

Thanks guys
I've started working on a short story now, I might post it here when it's finished

[Zainbow]

Hey!
I took your advice and wrote a story, but I'm really unsure of it. Can someone read over it please?

Spoiler

The baby slept.

His soft features delicately moving with each breath. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands innocently fisted on his stomach.

From above, I watched.

Gently bubbling in his slumber, the baby slept soundlessly. He lay in the centre of the room, where the drawn curtains stopped any light.

He let out a soft, short cry, like a meowing kitten.

Mindfully I looked over, searching for any sources of discomfort. He quickly fell asleep again. His posture radiated his innocence; ignorant of the quiet world immediately around him, too invested in his doze to care.

Gently stirring the air from above, I hung from the ceiling rotating, simply fulfilling my duty of ventilation and observation,

She lingered at the door, watching him like me, a smile tugging at her lips. Gracefully she made her way beside him and looked down in admiration. Behind her, a photo of his similarly peaceful face stood on the shelf.

He too enters the room, standing at her side and mimicking the radiation of love.

The baby unconsciously basked in his parents’ awe. There they stood, watching over their baby as I watched over all of them, bestowing
them with gentle zephyrs of air.

She averts her eyes and looks at him, quietly uttering her words.

He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot. The baby responds with a soft hum.

He mutters a reply and in her confusion to turns to him. I return to admiring the innocent child that slept oblivious to his parents. I busily went on my merry way atop the room, fanning the air gracefully.

He turned towards the door but a firm grasp on his arm hindered him, pulling him back to the baby and the room and her firm questioning.
Sighing a short reply, he provokes her staggered astonishment. Behind her I see the baby continue his nonchalant nap, his arms and legs stretched all comfortably without a care of his surroundings. His small hands, his small lips, his small nose, all resting emotionless in peaceful slumber. I watch as a brief flutter of his nose disrupts the motionlessness of his resting face. I observe this isolated peace as the frustration of her newfound shock transforms the softness of her eyes to disbelief.

He leaves the room and, with a glance towards her peaceful baby, she follows in barely concealed disturbance.

The room returns to its peace, the baby once again consuming it with his soundlessness.

His photo on the shelf offers a past replication this moment.

And, I continued to watch.




The baby slept.

His repetitive breathing evoke a synchronised movement of his features. Laying there lazily, his hands fisted on his stomach, the baby offers no reason for excitement.

In my boredom, I watched from the side of the room.

Except for an occasional drool in his mindless state, the baby slept quietly in the centre, the drawn curtains keeping any light out.

A whine escaped his lips.

Uninterested in him I looked about the room, resting upon the monotonously spinning blade at the ceiling. 

She stopped at the door watching him, barely contributing to the ever-so exciting scene before me. In unnecessary awe she made her way to him, this meaningless moment reminding me of the similar occasion of his sleep framed and placed on me.

And just when I thought no one could possibly wish to join this boring enclose, he enters, joining her side and contributing to this endless and mind-numbing encounter.

And all the baby did was lay there, absorbing his parents awe effortlessly.

In my quiet disgruntlement at this scene, I notice her mumble a question, facing him expecting a reply.

He shifts on his feet and rests his hands on the baby’s cot.

He looks at the baby as she awaits the answer, and he finally mutters a brief reply. Apparently this answer wasn’t good enough as she now turns her full attention to him, demanding a clarification to his response. At sight of this my interest perks. Yes! Something other than a sleeping baby!

Hesitantly he looks at her and sucks in his lips, his prolonged contemplation driving me mad. Do something! Say something! Don’t make me wait here, you have my attention now.

As if reading my mind, she reaffirms her need for an explanation.

With frustration, he rakes his hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her, though she continues to persist, her tone getting louder and my excitement now growing. I wonder at what has caused this scene. Did he do something? What did he say? What will she do now?

He aims for the door in attempted escape, but, in last-minute reflex, she grips his arm and pulls him back to her persistent questioning.
With a strained face he lets out a fleeting remark, short but enough to have her let go of him. She stands unmoving, looking at him, new uncertainties now flashing in her eyes. I too wonder how she’ll react to this newfound provocation. Will she get angry? No, that’ll wake hr baby up. Will she let it go? No, I can see it in her eyes she won’t. I look on at the two and the situation that now confronts them, or more so, challenges them.

But alas, the gripping scene ends too quickly as he swiftly exits and she, too, at his heel.

I feel my interest slip away as I am left with the dull room, the indolent baby, the droning fan. Once again I find myself facing a monotonous existence, any exhilaration short-lived My surroundings mock me, reminding me I hold a frame of a similar situation to this.

But in my aimless observation of this inaction, I ponder the excitement of before, wondering if it will ripple this quiet again.

Regardless, I'll be taking it in to the exam because rn I'd rather a story than a poem as my creative. (Also, our english trial is this Monday )

Thanks