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hannahboardman98:
Hi this is my creative writing draft for discovery area of study. I have included comments within the document in regards to where I'm struggling. Thank you! :)

jamonwindeyer:

--- Quote from: hannahboardman98 on March 18, 2016, 09:18:43 am ---Hi this is my creative writing draft for discovery area of study. I have included comments within the document in regards to where I'm struggling. Thank you! :)

--- End quote ---

Hey Hannah! I've attached your Creative below with some feedback  :D

Spoiler‘Discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes’

Lightning strikes through dark clouds and thunder shakes the neighbourhood. Climbing onto my motorbike, I thrust myself into the murky night. On the freeway, heading towards Rammington Bridge, I only have one intention. The wet road reflects my hideous appearance in rapid strokes on the black tar beneath my bike. Accelerating, I pass a tree whose branches crumble to the ground. Lightning strikes again. The tree, a symbol of my life falling apart. Skidding to the side kerb and launching myself off the vehicle, I stride purposely towards the bridge’s edge. In response to your comment, I would say just saying 'kerb' works here! Sweat drips down my face and an excitable anxiety runs through my body. Overlooking the channel, a thousand memories flood my mind, however one overpowers them all. Pain. This wrenching torment needs to be over. The cold night air brushes against the misfortune on my face. I am resolute. Silence. Moments from plunging into the depths of my painful release, a jolt like no other sends streams through my body. Yep, this makes sense! Every artery, muscle, nerve, ligament and tendon screams. Lightning.  Extreme heat courses throughout me, bringing forth excruciation and exhilaration simultaneously. Within a fleeting moment, my surroundings transform. Really nice imagery in this paragraph. Be careful not to over do it though, otherwise it becomes imagery for imagery's sake.

I am in my room. The familiar items that I remember are somehow unfamiliar. Same smells, but altered shadows. Confusion fills my head as my feet lead me along the well-worn pathway to my living room. Tracing my finger along the dusty wall, I create a wonky line all the way from my room to here. My body ceases. I see her. Her golden hair radiates the room as she sits comfortably on the lounge. I hear a murmur of the voice I have replayed over and over in my head for the last two years. Hearing it again, it gets louder, and louder. My spine tingles with anticipation as the slow, mellow sounds of her voice echo in my ears, where it finds itself grasping onto my emotions, leaving me in a nostalgic state.  My body becomes numb as my thoughts focus on just the soothing sound of her voice, the voice that I have been dying to hear for 2 years. My eyes begin to well and I can no longer feel anything as my emotions take control of my body. ‘Mum!’ Remember, dialogue lines must take a line of their own. I also actually think this paragraph would be better without this last dialogue line, lets the reader figure out for themselves the role this woman plays. Reader drawn conclusions are always more powerful than your own: Show not tell.
The woman who I have not been able to touch for two years is now stroking my face with her soft, delicate hands. The warmth of her presence overwhelms me as I begin to feel myself fall back into the old life I once lived. The easy life. The life where I had a loving mother and father and no pain filled my body. But after that one day, the day my mother was ripped out of my arms, I was no longer pain free. I think the paragraph that follows could benefit from a slightly more euphemistic tone. This is a traumatic experience for the protagonist, so it makes sense that (especially given you are writing in first person) he could not directly re-live the event. Hint to what happened, rather than directly recount it. The recount style could be contributing to the 'cliched' tendency you are noticing.
It was a windy night, mum and I wanted to go for a drive so that I could get driving experience. We cautiously cruised along Rammington road whilst discussing how quickly time flies. Gushes of wind took control of the car and lead us over the bridge. The car sank rapidly. I acted quickly and knew that I had to force the doors open before any more water filled up the car. I managed to escape and take a grasp of air from the surface, just before I went back under to save mum. I swam back to the car door, where I see her eyes gazing into the distance as if she’s seen a ghost. Screaming ‘Mum!!!!!!!!’, but nothing escaped her gaze. It was too late. Her body was as blue as a blue-bottle. She was dead. Mother Nature insensibly took my mother from me. I never believed in heartbreak, until that very moment. To see my mother not being able to draw a breath of air killed me internally. My chest filled with no air, it was like suffocating, and however I was surrounded with so much oxygen. This was my life from here onwards. The pain never went away. Until this moment, right here, as my mother begins to speak to me again.
‘You have to stop blaming yourself Rick. I was the one who couldn’t get myself out of the car that night, not you. You saved yourself and I am so proud that you did. You have so much ahead of you and I will not let you throw your dreams away just because I’m not there in plain sight. I am always by your side, I never left. Remember that, okay?’ Be careful with your use of dialogue, it is very hard to keep dialogue realistic at this length. Further, it loses its impact: Dialogue is powerful when used right.
My dad interrupts the conversation that I have needed to have in two years, ‘It’s time to go now son’.
I feel the same confusion and blurriness that I experienced when I arrived here. ‘Wait, mum where did dad just disappear to?’ I turn to claim reassurance from mum, however she’s gone as well. ‘No!!’ I scream and run through the house looking for mum like a child who’s lost their favourite teddy bear. This can’t be happening again. Yes, I think cutting this dialogue would benefit the story at large. The scene begins to fade before my eyes and a much darker image appears before me. At this point my face is soaked with tears and I feel my body begin to overheat. I’m drowning, with no one around. Memories flush back into my head and I comprehend the strange events that have just occurred... I hear a voice in my head. ‘Don’t throw away your dreams’. Water pushes me down further and further, taking me under its power. However, the next thing I know my body is swimming to the surface. I try to make sense of everything that is happening, but there just isn’t enough time at this particular moment. I must save my life; I must make my mother proud. I paddle to the side bank, slumping my body at the first chance I get. I lay, in a state of bewilderment, looking up at the stars as I notice an enormous scar on my chest. It was formed like a tree with hundreds of branches expanding from the roots, like several hands trying to reach out to me. The lightning has provided me with this life altering experience. The scar and all its power, symbolises the strength my mother had just provided me with. The strength to turn over a new leaf, the strength to see my life through a new set of eyes. A fresh start. I find the juxtaposition between the realism of the theme of loss, and the supernaturalism of this ending, a little unusual. I'm not saying I don't like it, but it is definitely a contrast, and you may want to consider if this is intentional.
Your use of imagery and emotive language is extremely impressive! I really love what you've done in some parts, some very clever pathetic fallacy and figurative language, re-enforced with effective word choice.

I would say that your story is suffering a little bit from "over description." Try to be a bit more vague/euphemistic in some areas. This is especially true given the fact that you are writing in first person.

When you assume a character, you need to do one of two things. Adjust the character to suit your writing style, or adjust the style to suit the character. I like the character development, we start with the view of them as a tough, insensitive "biker" character, but then we are immediately shown the opposite. Perhaps tease this transition out a little bit more. Now, what isn't coming across is the hurt in this scenario. Describing the whole event in such detail does not suggest any personal grief, it suggests the opposite actually. If you cut and trim your imagery and dialogue to the essentials you will create something more powerful, in my opinion.

I don't think you have a cliche story here either, even though you suggested so in the document. However, if you are concerned, perhaps the first thing to address would be the ending. It is here where I am expecting some large crescendo. The character has gone through this reflective process, which is beautifully constructed, and then the "discovery" is done very quickly and with much less technicality. And part of this is the catalyst being somewhat supernatural in nature. If you want to do this, awesome, I really like the difference in it, but maybe explore the idea a little more and make the ending a little more significant. So, I don't think the issue is cliche, I think the issue is not properly fulfilling a climax, and using something supernatural as an easier escape from an internal emotional climax, which would be more suited to the story.

Keep in mind these are major nitpicks, this is a fantastic story! Really powerful use of language and some excellent themes throughout, with nice character development to boot! I think the ending is what you are concerned about, you may want to re-think the 'supernatural' nature of it, if the cliche concerns you. I think this idea is great, just the execution could be improved slightly. Fix this up and I think you are on the start of a real winner here  ;D

znaser:
Hi. This is my creative writing. Thank you for your time :)

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: znaser on March 21, 2016, 06:47:48 pm ---Hi. This is my creative writing. Thank you for your time :)

--- End quote ---

Hey there! Usually I asked people who post PDFs to repost in a word doc, just because the line spacing goes a bit awkward. You'll realise this below. However, I've kept yours as a PDF because you've made good use of scattered line spacing. So I'll give it a go!

SpoilerAll tangible memories are but an illusion…
The lens captures the earth but drains the life.
The ink enshrouds the evidence, blurring what is real and what is not.
The powers of retention is one to be guarded… tended. For without memories, we are
devoid of identity, deeming us living but lifeless. For without the power to venture in time,
we are devoid of the faculty to discern how our past moulded our present… to reminisce
the branching off of our incessant labyrinth. My fingers clutch the mellow fringes of my
journal… its tenderness enlivening my despondent core. Imprinted within the interior in
pronounced, ebony ink: (At this point, what I like is that you have a really impressive vocabulary yet it seems to suit very well without being showy. I imagine that the persona is a very intelligent person, so this makes a lot of sense.)
“Life without memory is no life at all.”
I riffle the pages… pondering between the print,
and I rekindle with treacly sentiments.
November 11 2014
I was seven.
I was entranced by the puffs of white that roamed the sky, the myriads of ants that capered the
verdure, the pearls of white that perished to survive and the sun that died for the moon to be alive.
I was seven. Wide-eyed. Seduced by the beauty of life. (Imagery wise, I'd like to clarify. I don't know what the pearls of white are? I thought clouds, but you'd already discussed them as being puffs of white. Just something to think about :) )
Your garden embodied the pigments of life… It was YOUR garden that gravitated your soul to my
mind,
and I enquired with my entreating eyes, “How is it that a single rose petal can enfold so much
beauty, so much life?” At this point, I'd like to tell you how I imagine this piece. This piece, to me, based on vocabulary, is either written from the perspective of a historical and intelligent persona, or a persona who lives in a different culture to our Western culture, because a far greater emphasis is placed on expression of language and ideas.
and you replied with your benevolent psyche, “The rose is a token of amity.
‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’ ”
I was seven when you bestowed a burgeoning rose into my avid palms… when you whispered,
“Nurture this rose and it will blossom with you.”
and it did.
 But
 you
 lied. This is really powerful. Really, really powerful.
I was fifteen when I espied the illusion:
The rose’s redolence is a pretence that veils its haughty scent… and as
your orange door became tinged with grey… your garden untended,
the rose wilted.
A trail of crimson stains the parchment, brushing the tattooed crystals in dolour. My tainted
fingertips clench onto the glass remnant, enwreathed with impressions fountained from my
soul… and I inhale mist of yore.
***
The quivers of the earth resonate the monitor and echo through my bones. Their city
crumbles, yet they tower above the rubble abreast, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand,
restoring soul to the withered ambience. Amidst the destruction,
blooming life.
I avert my gaze and observe through the transparency — oblivion… an illusion: fabricated
life veneering the lingering stench of death. My pen slides harshly over the smooth page,
marking in anarchic script —
Structure: A pretence for our disunity.
Her garden becomes defined within the compass of my vision… its once zealous character
drowns in apathy and I mutter under my breath, “Why did you leave me?”
A Nepalese child, ‘Mahavir’, casts my hearing in a trance, re-focusing my sight to the
display. He sounds in a stout, quivering airing, “We are blessed because we are alive and
together. We are blessed… we have each other, our ancestors.”
He proceeds, resting his calloused palm on his heart, “Their spirits are here. They are with
us, nurturing us… gravitating our souls to each other.”
Mahavir gestures to a budding rose anchored to his shirt, “The kind Australian gifted us
with this treasure, ‘A token to remind you that they are here, with you. Even though you are
unable to see them, they are with you…’ ”
I murmur with him, “…and they will always be with you.”
***
My fingertips strum the frail rose petals, tuning soothing melodies within me…—
conducting me to the glass remnant on the page. Piece by piece, I weld the segments of
the photograph, unchaining Xantara’s spirit within me… The scarlet tint in her cheeks, my
entreating eyes and the vibrancy of her garden become more pronounced… and the
memory ceases to bear a mirage. My pen tattoos the parchment in orderly print,
“When life throws thorns; hunt for the roses.”
I pry the iron chest and rest my journal within its interiors, hauling a quivering whisper,
“Goodbye.”
My grasp steers to Xantara’s film and quill, reigniting the glister in my eyes. I peruse a
notebook void of impressions and observe the roaming puffs of white through the
transparency. The mellow feather soars over the interiors of the binding, printing in large,
neat script,
"The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."
My fingertips rekindle with the rose and I turn a new page.
Ok so I didn't edit the last bit, because I couldn't fault it. That's great for you! I mean, this is wonderful. Your writing shows a sophistication with being a show-off. I think it comes from the fact that the persona's voice is so vulnerable and humble. Like I mentioned before, I either imagine this being set in another culture or in a past time, still potentially in a different culture. The language expressed here, the parchment, the calligraphy, none of it screams Aussie. Which I really think is great. It is so unique and wonderful. I honestly imagined an Aladdin type scenery, and I imagined the humility of sacred virtues. This really transported me to another place, I'm so impressed, moved even. It takes a skilled writer to use impressive vocabulary consistently and still show humility in their ideas.

What I am also interested in, is how you will craft your word-art in the exam? Will you write bloom in increasing size? Will you still write things from the right hand margin? You've created a wonderful art work with words, I'm curious about how you will emulate this in an exam.


Further, you explicitly say the word discovery in your piece. A lot of people recommend not doing that. I mean, it didn't stick out to me in a way that made me think "uhh...." or anything. However, perhaps you can find a synonym suitable. I suggest this because you don't know for sure that from another perspective, that it may look like "hello! here is my discovery aspect! Notice it!" Like I said, to me, it doesn't appear like that. But it wouldn't surprise me if another person perceived it that way. This is just food for thought.

You should be very proud of you work :)

znaser:
Thank u sooooo much. Im glad u liked it. With the layout, I'll try my best to replicate it the way it is but I have really bad handwriting so I guess I just have to practice getting it right. Yeah I was a bit iffy about the last quote as well but I thought it really tied everything together so maybe I'll just think of something else. oh and the pears of white are baby teeth :) Thanks again for taking your time to mark it. I really appreciate it  :)

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