English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!

[biancadunn_]

Hi!!
This is my creative writing piece for the Romanticism elective. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
Thank you 

Dearest May,

It takes every strength within my soul to grasp such an undoing letter with the same love as I did before. I hoped to pen this letter to you, my sweetest love, in the solace of the English afternoon sunset, but rather I find myself in the anguish of fervent rainfall, attempting to evade the watery bullets as they target the marks on my page and provoke the bleeding ink to run. It is only when I receive your letters that I allow myself to become one with nature and transcend to a world beyond machinery and production. A world I knew once before. A world that knew me. I only hope this letter will fill my loneliness as I attempt to become apart of the soft roots under me and draw my connection closer to you. However as I write these words I can’t help but realise the dwindling connection I have with my world as it falls away. The dwindling connection I share with you my dear. It feels like an eternity between each moment I share with what is left of the world I once knew; a longer eternity than before. And so on this ninth day of August, I close my eyes and I wonder.

I brushed the corners of your letter with my fingertips and breathed in what could be the last physical traces of your scent from the boundless escapes within your piece. But do not be mistaken my love, they are embedded within me, and from them I will never travel far. It is truly magnificent my dearest May, the worlds you are able to so eloquently create from the confines of a home we once shared together. It makes me long for such a connection with my previous world. Within your script you have captured the very essence of my current landscape and my separation from this world which encompasses me daily. Please do tell me my love, how you understood the image of my town? How you could capture the rolling hills which have been forced to become one with the red brick establishments, which have stolen the beauty of the land. How you could capture the thick smoke which puffs from the chimneys like billies and joins with the now poisoned sky. I do so hope you do not tell me you have; as I have, faced your impending nightmare of this working world.

I began work two months ago this Sunday, but none of the sort you could imagine my fairest Lady. Rather, the prints of my hands have been stained with the strenuous fruits of our labour and the tears which cross my face at the agonising reality of my days. Truly I tell you, the smoke is a dear friend of my lungs and the thick black stain on my hand, as dark as the hull on the barge from which your farewelled me; cannot be removed. Perhaps not without the tender care of your touch to remove it. Or maybe even just the tender care of your touch to return home too. Truly I ask of you, to please not curse at my reluctance to bring you aboard with me. My sorrow eats at me deeper as the days blend into one long lifetime. I could not introduce you to an unnatural world away from the beauty of our dear farm in Saville.

We are alone here, however. Each day I stop and stare at the frame of the opening to what they call here a factory. It is my barnhouse, but not the kind you know dear May, it is cold and damp, sterile. It smells of old oils and the beaten sorrows of fathers who worked here; whose cries echoed and become trapped within the hollow metal foundations. In the privacy of my own mind, I consider it’s opening as the passage to my impending nightmare. It haunts me in my dreams, a hellish kind of prison I am bound to both day and night.  The previous tortures scream at me as I touch my hands to metal. I never wish such a life upon you. I hope your days are filled with the wonders of our previous world, are enhanced with the blessed mysteries performed by the secret ministry of the wind dancing across the blooming blocks of green on our trees.

I miss the dear rolling fields of green like a spool on your threaded wheel. I felt at one with the mountains, danced on by the midday sun, dressed with the snow of the winter solstice and washed in the autumn showers. Here, there is no such thing. You would hate it here. My mind is filled with awe at every thought of you May. It entrances me in every consideration. My old landscape encompassed you. Without such, my life is soulless. Man was not made to be alone.  It is our achilles heal, our strongest weakness, that we are nothing without the most basic human interactions.

This arduous labour draws to it a ferocious kind of master, one that is cold and ruthless; driven by the shallow gratification of wealth and power. Ours is a time of servitude and despair. The other men mirror my internal mourning for the delights of our families and the flourish splendours of the spring time heat. Day in, day out, my dearest love, we are choked by the chimney’s of change and progress which in each turn of the gears corrupt the lungs and souls of humanity; as did power corrupt the souls of those above us.

But my sweetest love, all I can seem to ponder is the corrupted love of ours, tainted by our separation and the harsh reality of our very days, alone.  Love is merely the absence of hate and yet all that is absent is the truest of true loves, ours. Once I was defined by my love for you, but my world has encompassed me and sent me to a realm of new perspective. Love and consolation are not one my dear. It was through my love for you, that I was consoled. My love for you is no longer merely an emotional reciprocation of your love, but rather based on your greatness; the life you lead; my desire for you. I imagine a corrupted landscape. If our love for one another is based on the lives we lead in our physical world, evergreen and built through us; then why can all I see are ruins and a destroyed world. I cannot help but allow my mind to ponder around this very world, analysing the rolling rubble rather than the rolling hills, the broken foundations and wonder if maybe my dearest May, all we are is but the same. Rubble, broken foundations. Please in your next letter tell me it is not so. That I am wronger than wrong. That you too are consoled by my love. The detriment of our physical environment matches with the detriment of our love and our emotional landscape and that is a world that I do not wish to live in.

I beg of you to remember that I work in the name of you sweetest May. So I may come home to you one day and bear children with our love. So we may escape in the boundless lands and become one with the mountains which stare at us when we wake and when we rest, and the trees that sustain themselves for our living breath.
I must rest now, to arise in the cool dawn of morrow. Please hold me closer to you now more than ever, so I may feel your warmth through the kindness of nature.
Look at the moon my dearest may, so for a brief moment we may be holding our gaze through the same moon; and the boundless escapes of the sky.

Yours,
Thomas ‘Saville’ Easton
   xx

[elysepopplewell]

Hi!!
This is my creative writing piece for the Romanticism elective. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
Thank you 

Heya! My thoughts are in bold font throughout, and then some comments at the end

Spoiler

Dearest May,

It takes every strength within my soul to grasp such an undoing letter with the same love as I did before. I hoped to pen this letter to you, my sweetest love, in the solace of the English afternoon sunset, but I'd start this as a new sentence, it adds suspense and prevents it from being an overall too-long sentence. rather I find myself in the anguish of fervent rainfall, attempting to evade the watery bullets as they target the marks on my page and provoke the bleeding ink to run. It is only when I receive your letters that I allow myself to become one with nature and transcend to a world beyond machinery and production. A world I knew once before. A world that knew me. I only hope this letter will fill my loneliness as I attempt to become apart of the soft roots under me and draw my connection closer to you. However as I write these words I can’t help but realise the dwindling connection I have with my world as it falls away. The dwindling connection I share with you my dear. It feels like an eternity between each moment I share with what is left of the world I once knew; a longer eternity than before. And so on this ninth day of August, I close my eyes and I wonder. Loving this so far!

I brushed the corners of your letter with my fingertips and breathed in what could be the last physical traces of your scent from the boundless escapes within your piece. But do not be mistaken my love, they are embedded within me, and from them I will never travel far. It is truly magnificent my dearest May, the worlds you are able to so eloquently create from the confines of a home we once shared together. It makes me long for such a connection with my previous world. Within your script you have captured the very essence of my current landscape and my separation from this world which encompasses me daily. Please do tell me my love, how you understood the image of my town? How you could capture the rolling hills which have been forced to become one with the red brick establishments, YASSSwhich have stolen the beauty of the land. How you could capture the thick smoke which puffs from the chimneys like billies and joins with the now poisoned sky. I do so hope you do not tell me you have; as I have, faced your impending nightmare of this working world.

I began work two months ago this Sunday, but none of the sort you could imagine my fairest Lady. Rather, the prints of my hands have been stained with the strenuous fruits of our labour and the tears which cross my face at the agonising reality of my days. Truly I tell you, the smoke is a dear friend of my lungs and the thick black stain on my hand, as dark as the hull on the barge from which your farewelled me; cannot be removed. Perhaps not without the tender care of your touch to remove it. Or maybe even just the tender care of your touch to return home too. Truly I ask of you, to please not curse at my reluctance to bring you aboard with me. My sorrow eats at me deeper as the days blend into one long lifetime. I could not introduce you to an unnatural world away from the beauty of our dear farm in Saville.

We are alone here, however. Each day I stop and stare at the frame of the opening to what they call here a factory. It is my barnhouse, but not the kind you know dear May, it is cold and damp, sterile. It smells of old oils and the beaten sorrows of fathers who worked here; whose cries echoed and become trapped within the hollow metal foundations. In the privacy of my own mind, I consider it’s opening as the passage to my impending nightmare. It haunts me in my dreams, a hellish kind of prison I am bound to both day and night.  The previous tortures scream at me as I touch my hands to metal. I never wish such a life upon you. I hope your days are filled with the wonders of our previous world, are enhanced with the blessed mysteries performed by the secret ministry of the wind dancing across the blooming blocks of green on our trees.

I miss the dear rolling fields of green like a spool on your threaded wheel. Good contextual link. I felt at one with the mountains, danced on by the midday sun, dressed with the snow of the winter solstice and washed in the autumn showers. Here, there is no such thing. You would hate it here. My mind is filled with awe at every thought of you May. It entrances me in every consideration. My old landscape encompassed you. Without such, my life is soulless. Man was not made to be alone.  It is our achilles heal, our strongest weakness, that we are nothing without the most basic human interactions.

This arduous labour draws to it a ferocious kind of master, one that is cold and ruthless; driven by the shallow gratification of wealth and power. Ours is a time of servitude and despair. The other men mirror my internal mourning for the delights of our families and the flourish splendours of the spring time heat. Day in, day out, my dearest love, we are choked by the chimney’s of change and progress which in each turn of the gears corrupt the lungs and souls of humanity; as did power corrupt the souls of those above us.

But my sweetest love, all I can seem to ponder is the corrupted love of ours, tainted by our separation and the harsh reality of our very days, alone.  Love is merely the absence of hate and yet all that is absent is the truest of true loves, ours. Once I was defined by my love for you, but my world has encompassed me and sent me to a realm of new perspective. Love and consolation are not one my dear. It was through my love for you, that I was consoled. My love for you is no longer merely an emotional reciprocation of your love, but rather based on your greatness; the life you lead; my desire for you. I imagine a corrupted landscape. If our love for one another is based on the lives we lead in our physical world, evergreen and built through us; then why can all I see are ruins and a destroyed world. I cannot help but allow my mind to ponder around this very world, analysing the rolling rubble rather than the rolling hills, the broken foundations and wonder if maybe my dearest May, all we are is but the same. Rubble, broken foundations. Please in your next letter tell me it is not so. That I am wronger than wrong. That you too are consoled by my love. The detriment of our physical environment matches with the detriment of our love and our emotional landscape and that is a world that I do not wish to live in.

I beg of you to remember that I work in the name of you sweetest May. So I may come home to you one day and bear children with our love. So we may escape in the boundless lands and become one with the mountains which stare at us when we wake and when we rest, and the trees that sustain themselves for our living breath.
I must rest now, to arise in the cool dawn of morrow. Please hold me closer to you now more than ever, so I may feel your warmth through the kindness of nature.
Look at the moon my dearest may, so for a brief moment we may be holding our gaze through the same moon; and the boundless escapes of the sky.

Yours,
Thomas ‘Saville’ Easton
   xx

I hardly commented throughout the story and that is simply because I was just taken on a journey the entire way through. I was really following the story closely and emotionally. You've certainly captured the language of the Romantic period really well, and channelled in on nature and love as a muse. I didn't study romanticism, so I'm not sure which other conventions you are or aren't ticking. I can say, that you've created a wonderful voice. It was really authentic and smooth, and the narration was conveyed beautifully because of that. This comment could be ignorant because I didn't study the course - but, would your creative be lifted by references to romantic scholars/philosophical notions? I'm only suggesting this because I read a creative that was about a young girl who learned to think in ways outside of the romantic, strict, notions her father taught. So, I'm wondering if that is something you'd be interested in to elevate the work - bringing in a philosophical dimension? Again, take this with a grain of salt because I studied ATB and not romanticism, but overall, I think this was really great!

[biancadunn_]

I hardly commented throughout the story and that is simply because I was just taken on a journey the entire way through. I was really following the story closely and emotionally. You've certainly captured the language of the Romantic period really well, and channelled in on nature and love as a muse. I didn't study romanticism, so I'm not sure which other conventions you are or aren't ticking. I can say, that you've created a wonderful voice.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read it and let me know your thoughts! I did a lot of research and spent a lot of time developing the character's voice so I'm really glad it's payed off and you were able to follow along the way you did (especially because you did ATB!) I love that you were able to feel as strongly as I do about this story. I'll definitely take on your advice and incorporate a romantic scholar, I had been trying to think of all different things to add in but couldn't think of anything. I think that'd work really well and is such a great idea, thank you! xx

[elysepopplewell]

Thank you so much for taking the time to read it and let me know your thoughts! I did a lot of research and spent a lot of time developing the character's voice so I'm really glad it's payed off and you were able to follow along the way you did (especially because you did ATB!) I love that you were able to feel as strongly as I do about this story. I'll definitely take on your advice and incorporate a romantic scholar, I had been trying to think of all different things to add in but couldn't think of anything. I think that'd work really well and is such a great idea, thank you! xx

So stoked to help! You have done a wonderful job with the piece, you must feel really proud. The scholar or something of that nature has potential to really lift the work

Best of luck!

[cmbarnes]

Hi!!
This is my creative writing piece for the Romanticism elective. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
Thank you 

I love it B! (Not stalking you I swear  ) X

[elysepopplewell]

I love it B! (Not stalking you I swear  ) X

You're so full of the ATAR Notes spirit

[elysepopplewell]

hello! I was wondering if someone could please have a looked at my creative and give me some feedback? I do Module C- Elective 2 Language and Gender. I can see that my story is nowhere near the standard it should be for extension But with the exam tomorrow, I realise that it's too late to worry bout it so I was wondering if you could give me some pointers on how to fix this up and push it into a B range or so? THankyou so much!

Hey! What did you think of Language and Gender? It looks like a super interesting mod/elective!

Here's some feedback in bold font:

Spoiler

Fresh garlands of white jasmines, yellow and orange chrysanthemums and red roses hung, weaved across the hallway. Chairs covered in rich, red silky material were arranged in meticulous circles around the hall. The loud chanting of Vedic mantras could barely be heard above the chatter of the guests as they caught up. Screaming little children ran around the hall, playing hide-and-seek with the tail ends of the women’s saris, occasionally running to the entrance where a mini mountain of sugar crystals lay on a brass plate.  Wonderful - so much rich imagery. The colours are so vibrant here.
Meera, a young girl, of thirteen years, stood smiling on the stage, surrounded by a flock of women gushing over her. Though she didn’t understand why a celebration had to be held to mark her coming of age, she didn’t question what was happening and obeyed all the instructions she was given. That was the one thing she had observed from the puberty ceremonies she had attended- the girl’s only responsibility was to smile and look pretty.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of the festivity, Rani, Meera’s mother stood near the periphery of the stage, leaning against a pillar coated in cheap metallic paint. Her face glowed with a sense of achievement yet the long look of her eyes spoke of haunt almost.
The haunt soon crept over the woman’s tender face. Her daughter’s body no longer ceased to be an object. Her daughter was now a decorated object, fixed and identical to the determined shape of a traditional Indian woman. And as a mother, she had done nothing to stop that.
She glanced over the stage, where her mother stood besetting over Meera, as proud as a peacock. Love this. Rani’s breath fell short for a moment as she recalled her own mother’s quest to objectify her.
***
Rani had awoken to the rambunctious blasting of the auto rickshaw’s horn that day. The sound of her mother’s chappals slamming against the linoleum tiles had warned the twenty-year-old that her mother was heated. The door adorned with mango leaves and neat lines of sandalwood flung open, letting in Indian sun’s amber tinged rays which bled like fire, before it was slammed shut.
“WHY Rani? Why are you like this? Why are you doing this to me?” yelled Rani’s mother, frustrated. “Every girl in this town has gotten her period. I'm wondering - is this the best language to use? Would they says menses, menstruation, bled, etc? Is "period" colloquial Western terms? Even the babies you carried have now had their ceremonies. Yet you …” she paused, pacing to the window to shut it to ensure their neighbours wouldn’t hear the conversation.
“You’re twenty donkey years of age and you’re still yet to hit puberty.” Dejected, the woman slumped down against the pillar, with her small head in her hands. “People are asking Rani; I can’t do this. A daughter yet to hit puberty is worse that a daughter that eloped with a boy from a different caste. At least people will say that daughter is a female. You ... I don’t know any more Rani ... I … I… I… really don’t know.”
Her mother’s words and the silence crept onto through or under? I think this works nicer with "poison" because I imagine poison as a liquid, so this brings the imagery of it running through her veins. Rani’s skin like poison.
For a moment, everything stopped. Then slowly, her mother’s words and the silence crept through the Rani’s skin like poison, seeping into her blood, turning it cold.
Still faced, Rani had motionlessly walked out to the tea stall nearby. She reached into the fourth plastic jar and picked out a biscuit. Handing the owner a few paisa’s, she gently hummed along to the yesteryear melody playing from the stall owner transistor radio, picturing the actress dancing in the movie. She wondered how the actresses did it. How they performed so … desirably feminine. Explain their movements - soft elbows, raised chins, subtle smiles?
Lost in her own thoughts, Rani solemnly walked back home. 
“Aii Rani! Raaanii!”
Startled, Rani turned around to locate where the sound was coming from. A lanky boy seemed to be the one calling her. Stopping, Rani gestured ‘what?’ As the boy came closer, Rani recognised the boy to be Shekar, from the neighbouring town who had tried to speak to her on numerous occasions.
“What, do you think you’re Aishwarya Rai or something? Do you think you’re that beautiful that all the boys in town will chase after you like dogs?” asked Shekar, rather timidly. “The men know of your problem- so be a good little girl and accept my proposal,” he demanded, smirking before riding off on his cycle.
Rani walked up to the terrace that night. Surrounded by various pots of blooming flowers, she laid down on the yoga mat. She looked up at the night sky which resembled a blank ocean, blanketed by a canopy of shining stars. Not a single star looked odd. Each shone in the same way, creating a perfect uniformity- which Rani desperately yearned for.
***
As Rani looked back at the stage to see the ladies doting on Meera, she felt relief. She was thankful that her daughter wouldn’t be ostracised like she had been, by the very women who stood proudly beside Meera.
Rani melancholically reminisced the trip she had made as a twenty-one-year-old to her mother’s native village. The names, the gossip, the slurs and the curses. It had hurt; to hear such things from her own relatives. Day by day, she was forcibly transformed.
They had taught her how to speak; how to walk; how to talk and the list went on. When they realised that she was inept to conventional femininity, Rani was told to act. “Pretend it’s a performance.”
The women had succeeded. They had managed to mould Rani into shape. Yet Rani stood on the stage today, feeling defeated and depleted. What little she had, she had lost. And today she merely became just another mother. Just another strand of hair that could be destroyed in one go.


* are the hyphens needed?

I think that this is actually a really wonderful piece - the impact of gender is so clear. This if the first piece from this elective I've given feedback on (I've been so excited for one!), so I don't have a lot to compare to in terms of what the best creatives look like. But, I do think it's wonderful. You've really planted the female experience into a cultural experience - and that's powerful. I don't know if this is a suggested thing for your elective, is it suggested to compare male and female experiences? The menstruation thing is powerful, it brings in not only the experience of the 20 year old, but also the way that the mum experiences her gender.

I love your reflection at the end - although I don't understand the last bit about the hair?

I think it's ironic that she wants to be amongst the uniformity of the stars, yet by being a girl, she is just a part of a plain platform: the same archetype repeated over and over. That's powerful- and I think you could emphasise it a little more even!

[bholenath125]

How long would it typically take for the creative to get marked?

[jamonwindeyer]

How long would it typically take for the creative to get marked?

Normally between 24-48 hours, allow more during busy times like half yearly exams and stuff like that!

[QC]

Hi, I was reading the HSC EE1 Creative question for ATB and I was thinking wth. How on earth would you use a person from your prescribed text as a character if you pre-prepared a creative without someone from a prescribed text. I'm assuming that was like 99.999% of the candidature, what could anyone have done? Just write an entirely new creative on the spot?

[elysepopplewell]

Hi, I was reading the HSC EE1 Creative question for ATB and I was thinking wth. How on earth would you use a person from your prescribed text as a character if you pre-prepared a creative without someone from a prescribed text. I'm assuming that was like 99.999% of the candidature, what could anyone have done? Just write an entirely new creative on the spot?

Extension 1 creative writing questions in the HSC are notorious for causing you to have to change important elements of your prepared creative! It's all about being able to adapt - it isn't enough to have a prepared piece for Extension 1, the standard is higher in this course. Of course, prepared pieces are wonderful, but only if you are willing to adapt enormous sections of your work. It could be that the question forces you to change your setting entirely, or it could be that you need to adjust your characters - or hell, even your plot or text type! It's sad news that I deliver, Extension 1 creative writing requirements in the HSC are difficult.

I had a prepared speech, and in the lead up to the exam I looked at all the past papers and prepared adjusting me story as much as possible. Testing out that flexibility before the exam is super important for Extension! I hate that I can't offer you fool-proof advice, and that's because Extension 1 isn't fool proof. It's really tricky! Perhaps the more alternate endings you can prepare, the better. Or, alternate beginners. Flexibility is key, and that comes with being a confident writer, and being confident with the era you're writing about!

[carolinewang206]

how many creatives do you recommend having prepared? I have 2 but at the moment one is way better than the other and its the one that I wrote for half yearlies.

What are your thoughts?

[elysepopplewell]

how many creatives do you recommend having prepared? I have 2 but at the moment one is way better than the other and its the one that I wrote for half yearlies.

What are your thoughts?

In AOS, I recommend only one and having it very adaptable - like preparing alternate endings and what not! But In E1, I see why students would be interested in preparing two texts. The creative prompts in the HSC are notoriously difficult to prepare for so maybe you'd have better luck adapting if you have two to choose from. However, I only prepared one! It's really about what will make you feel most confident in the lead up to the exams. If you prepare one, and then the day before the exam you can see yourself panicking and reaching for another creative, then save yourself the stress and prepare that creative from early on. But, if you think you can predict you'll feel safe with the one, then go for it Being so early in the year, you have the luxury to plan out what you'll commit yourself to! But in the end, y'know, towards the final exams, it's far more limiting what you can apply yourself to. So make the call now

[Lizzy999]

Hey!

I do After the Bomb. I am working on three creative writing pieces and am not very happy with any of them. All feedback welcome!

Thanks!

[bsdfjnlkasn]

Hey there!

I'm just working on the beginning of a creative writing piece about post-WWII Japan (not assessed or anything, but would like to produce something i'm proud of) and was wondering if I could get some feedback on the introduction. The prompt is detailed in the attachment 

I'm thinking of structuring the piece in 3 fragments where the first and last will both be set in the remains of Hiroshima, as if continuations of one another. The middle section will probably involve some scene at home as it'll allow me to examine US influences after they occupied Jap, in particular changing gender roles and intergenerational conflict (which i've tried to hint at in the beginning). This will help me weave in a discussion of guilt as I can capture the youths' resent (and general disillusionment) for older generations as they were thought to have "wasted" the lives of the younger generations in the war efforts (a common theme in Ishiguro's An Artist of the Floating World). Wow, maybe I could include a diary entry, but that might restrict how well I can exhibit the creative part of creative writing. A diary entry will probably just tell too much - thoughts?

I'm having the most difficulty with establishing a consistent voice that elaborates on the setting to capture the despairing mood without telling too much. Let me know if you get lost when reading - I know I definitely have a few convoluted/unnecessary sentences and I'm finding it difficult to streamline them but still communicate the same meaning. So, if you could suggest some alternate ways of writing these sentences, or suggest ways of improving what seems unnaturally phrased/difficult to read I'd really appreciate it. This is by no means a refined piece but i'd like to get the foundations set before I pursue any further writing. If any ideas spark for new direction of plot, I'll definitely love to hear your suggestions, because as you can probably tell, I haven't got a solid vision yet and am very flexible at this stage

Thank you so much! (I'm happy to give 15 posts for this )