My earliest memory of my mother was watching her dance.
good, you're immediately bringing in the reader to your world. As a child, I would sit in the stalls and watch her rehearsals, craning my neck to watch her
whimsically whip her tulle tutu around her slim body this is a little bit over-the-top - think about the connotations of your words, try to avoid alliteration. It hovered elegantly over the stage, never quite touching it, but always coming close. Under that golden proscenium arch, she was incandescent
(are you building her up as perfect? If so, maybe start describing her with words like, "invincible" or "flawless" now, so that you can refer back to them later, almost like a bookend). Afterwards, we would run backstage, hand in hand. Praise and roses graced her and she soaked it all in. As did I, whisking along right there beside her.
Ballet and all its (maybe just "ballet's") prestige, regality and vibrancy consumed me.
But it was this beauty that bewildered and betrayed me as ballet began to painfully fade from my interest in the later years of my dancing life.
Run-along sentence, consider rephrasing.The baby pink ballet slipper
first (you need to indicate beginning in the first sentence, not the second) comforted and (not needed) caressed my small foot at the age of five. It was a beautiful beginning to what would be an inelegant end. Small ballerinas would line up on the barre and begin their routines. Short legs wobbled under the strain of a grand plie. We were unsteady, but eager to explore this new world, like foals unsteady on their feet.
(great imagery!) The small ballerinas looked admiringly up towards my mother, who looked down on our pitiful attempts with a satisfied half-smile on her face. Her luminous eyes
glew (glew is not a word, consider shone from) underneath the cascade of her dark hair. My mother seemed so unreachable and so far away. She lived up high, in
her (
consider a) world full of regality and beauty,
and I wanted to reach it. (a bit awkward - consider rephrasing... maybe "in a world full of regality and beauty; a place I wished to be" or something similar?) She
dominated the world with her presence as she did on the stage.
(Maybe make an attempt to show a more distinct difference between the fantasy of stage life and the reality of the normal world) Like a cherished childhood blanket, all of my earliest memories are centred around ballet. The stale smell of the shoe shop and the pure childish joy of walking away with a rosy new ballet slipper.
Filling my tote bag with all of my possessions that were sacred to me.
(Again, a bit clunky - consider rephrasing) It were these moments that determined my childhood. And my mother would look on with a huge smile on her face, and I knew she was proud.
My mother and I never quite bonded until we were both sat contorted on the floor of our living room, menthol, gauze and band-aids strewn around us. The auburn floorboards emitted a chill that seeped into our aching bones and muscles and briefly numbed the throbbing, burning pain in our feet.
With uncertainty and a soft-spoken voice I asked, “does the stinging ever go away?”
With a band-aid hanging out of the side of her mouth like a cigarette, she retorted, “I’m afraid not”.
Upon seeing the gloom overcome my expression and my dark hair encompass my face as I leant over to tend to my feet,
(I think you're using 'my' too many times. This sentence gets quite stilted. You might consider changing around the dialogue and description, such as '"But you'll yet used to it," she hastily added, correcting herself as she saw the gloom encompass my expression', then add the rest of it later) she hastily added, “but you’ll get used to it”, a reassuring smile crossing her face. I was not assured. I took a swab and alcohol from the mess on the floor and gently pressed it to the gaping, tender wound on the back of my heel. The stinging cut deeper than the wound itself. But my mother seemed numb to the pain.
(reading the next paragraph, I can't see a distinct timeline. The previous paragraph indicated that your character was older and already wearing pointe shoes, but now you're going back to the memory? Try making that distinct connection)The pointe shoe signalled the end of my childhood,
and I was reluctant to let go (of what? The shoe or the childhood? Make this clearer). The shoe was cold and wooden - not as easily accepting as the slipper that had
nurtured my childhood and my untouched, fresh feet.
(you used the word 'childhood' just before. Why not try some symbolism, like 'not as easily accepting as the slipper that had nurtured my feet in their tenderest years') I struggled to
slow down (try rekindle') my dwindling interest. For my mother, dancing was as natural as breathing,
but for me, the thought made my breathing harder and harder.
(difficult sentence. Maybe just 'made breathing difficult' if you're trying to convey stress or panic?) “You have the feet but not the heart”, she would often say to me as she moved a long strand of hair that had fallen out of my unyielding and tight bun,
tucking it behind my ear. Her words pierced my pride, especially as I looked at the beguiling pointe shoe
s (shoes come in pairs, this is plural) in my hands, shimmery, regal, and strong.
It They masked my twisted and contorted feet, pushed to conform, becoming raw and unnatural. I can recall how I dragged these damaged feet to every rehearsal. But I pushed myself harder and harder nonetheless.
My mother’s face was sullen and disappointed (about what? The feet? Again, link this to the idea you're trying to get across. Pretend the audience is knowledgeable, but stupid) and I felt immensely guilty.
I tried to muster the strength to ask the question that had been gnawing at my thoughts, “have I let you down?”.
(consider the structure of the dialogue. It looks unprofessional right now)She stared emotionless into my eyes, and her response was a void...“no.” (what does the 'void' bit mean? I don't understand this bit. You also use oxford commas a lot! Here's a way you could change it up: 'emotionless, she stared into my eyes, her response a void, "...no".) In the middle of an old and empty studio, I stood. Pointe shoes hanging from my hand, feeling
a my world crumble
around me. (not necessary)I recall lying in my bed
(when? A day? A night? describe),
feeling the cold tears run down my face and dampening my hair. (This bit is a little bit jarring, it messes with the tense of the story a little. Consider rephrasing) My eyes felt raw as the chill
in the air stung them. Silently, I made my way towards my mother’s room, down the corridor and to the left. Her door was slightly ajar
, and a warm yellow light, cosy and welcoming, seeped out into the hallway. My steps were
deliberately and cautiously light (maybe just 'cautious and light', the word 'deliberate' indicates a firmer step) on the dark auburn floorboards, yet they still groaned under my weight.
I stood before her door, heart pounding, whilst the slither of light casted long shadows upon the wall behind me, which was covered in a maroon colour, covered in a never-ending swirl of red flowers.
(A lot of info for a reader to take in at once - try using ; or - , or even just cutting it down a little.) But when I pushed the door open
and it whined in protest,
(not necessary, maybe try describing the room instead, like, "But when I pushed the door open to that neat and flawless room...") it revealed my mother, sat before her dressing room table, legs pulled tightly into her chest
, and sobbing into her knees. She wasn’t perfectly tall and straight as I always saw her.
(Maybe say something about flawlessness - good place to tie in something about her 'light fading' after describing her as 'incandescent'.) Upon hearing my arrival, she lifted her head to reveal swollen, red eyes that matched my own. The image silenced and stunned me. My mother was always so regal and untouchable. But sat before me, this image was deflated
, and she was now full of flaws and brokenness. (maybe something more like, "...this image was deflated; a broken shadow of the flawless woman I thought she was."? This would make the beginning of the discovery much clearer.)“I’m sorry
,”
she said as her voice cracked and she extended her strong arms out towards me.
(Maybe put it here, in the next sentence: "...she said as her voice cracked. She extended her strong arms out towards me...") I forced my legs to move towards her, but it was hard to walk into the comforting
arms of my mother when all she seemed was a shell of herself. She wrapped her
arms tightly around me and it felt unnatural. Her clothes were wet with her tears and they were cold on my skin.
(you've used the word 'arms three times in a short paragraph. Why not try for a synonym, or rewording?)Meekly, I asked, “For what?”.
Full of regret and pain, she strained the words, “I used you to hide myself from my own fear”.
Confused, I asked, “And what is that?”. (your dialogue almost feels back-to-front - you're descriptions are all at the beginning, making the reader forget what was previously said because they're focusing on your descriptions too much. I won't highlight everything, just consider how you've displayed it.)A long ten seconds of painful
silence passed, until in a
fragile and frail (they mean the same thing! One of these is redundant) voice she revealed, “that I’d lose interest in the only thing that holds something for me”.
Her words swam around in my head in the
silence, “lose interest in what?”.
She was quiet. In the
silence I offered my words like a beacon of light, “I hold something for you”. She laughed at my
innocence naivety. My world revolved around her, and hers revolved around ballet.
“I know you do. And I’m sorry I never saw it.” For a moment, within a world that moved so fiercely and prided itself on being so prim, we were able to be still and bent.
(never saw what? You've lost your reader again. You can imply things, but this is a little too vague! We know her mother is stuck in a life of painful dance, but what has this got to do with our narrator and her mother's relationship?)It became clear to me that like myself, my mother’s perfectly shimmering ribbons tied her to a life she didn’t want to lead. She was unable to unbind them from around her calves. (I feel the emotion and I understand, the sentence structure is just a but off... your descriptions such as "unable to unbind them from around her calves" seem to need something. Think about it.)
And there would be no stage lights to shine, no grand symphony to play, and no golden arch for the mother and her daughter who sat so still, so gracelessly and
so unceremoniously, entwined in
a remorse for a dance that once seemed so promising.
(good, that made me sad!)Okay, so some things to consider:- Remember the placement of commas and breaks in sentences. Read it as if you were speaking it out loud, and follow the natural lilts and rhythms of the voice.
- Make your points clear, and keep your continuity steady.
- Keep varying your words. Sometimes you were repeating the same word over and over. Change it up!
- You have some absolutely amazing imagery in there, why not try using that more? Not to the point that it's flowery, but definitely tie in some symbolism and subtle repetition of ideas.
- Believe in yourself! Your writing is captivating and enjoyable to read through. I sympathised with your character, meaning you developed them quite well. A beautiful story - it was good already, I'm sure with some more practice you'll smash it. 
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Topic: My crap creative piece (Read 2288 times)