Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[Snew]

Hi! I was wondering if I could possibly get an estimate mark out of 15 for this, and any feedback to improve is welcomed Thank you heaps! <3

I was a victim of classical music. I winced, each mournful strain of Handel’s Minuet heaved out, sounding as painful for the cellist as it was the audience. And not forgetting the poor accompanist. She sat on the piano stool, rigid, and bored as she produced one block chord after the other to go along with the flat melody. I firmly believed it could pass as some kind of medieval torture method. I wondered if I was the only one whose neck was beginning to strain, as the front row forced me to tilt my head back unnaturally. I began to turn to my mother, intending to grace her with the grimace that without a doubt was plastered all over my face, but I thought better of it. I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital… I felt a sharp dig to my ribcage, and came face to face with my mother’s sharp gaze. She didn’t had to say a word. Her reprimanding look was enough to direct my resentment back to the floor. With the final bar of the minuet and the audience’s short burst of half hearted applause, my heart began to quicken its thuds against my ribcage, and my breaths gradually began to shallow. I delved into my handbag, shakily retrieving my water bottle and glugging it, the sudden realisation of dehydration overwhelming any sense of propriety. With the curtain’s reopening, my body seized up, frozen in place as I watched my younger sister walk onto the stage, violin in hand.

I tried to reason within myself. Stop being so silly! I silently scolded. There was no reason for such a turmoil of emotions running through me. It was a primary school recital, for heaven’s sake. The music was certainly not the stuff of Paganini and Tchaikovsky. I sank back in my seat, trying to relax as the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. My sister lifted the instrument, casting a petite, narrow shadow across the stage. I saw her chest rise, then fall, and she begun. The subdued melody rose and fell smoothly, the audience awash with it’s beauty, even if for only a few short minutes.

Before long, there were tears silently cascading down my cheeks, ones that I had stubbornly refused to shed for so long. My father’s favourite violin solo floated around the tiny hall, conjuring up images I had pushed to the back of my mind for so long. His wide, warm smile.  Teaching me to gently pluck the strings. The last time I ever heard his voice, imploring me never to give up on what I loved. And now, confronted with them, centre stage, I realised I had never truly grieved. Not just the loss of my beloved father, but the music that brought such light into my life. The tunes, that accompanied and comforted me through my youth, that had been torn away, alongside my father. I turned to look at my mother, but I could see she was lost in the piece, reliving a sorrow that would never truly leave us. My heart ached, as I recalled all the times over the last two years I had slammed a door in her face. Screaming for my sister to go away. Shutting them out, when we needed each other the most. When I needed them the most.

With the violin’s final refrain, I felt the smallest of smiles forming, even through my misty eyes. The small school hall audience, packed with beaming parents and teachers, clapped enthusiastically. My sister’s deep bow to the audience expressed a deeper gratitude than anyone else in the room could discern. Trembling, I got to my feet, and locking eyes with my sister, clapped until my hands stung. Her eyes widened, and my mother looked between us with apprehension. As the applause died out, the audience began to make their way out of the room, resuming previous chatter and reliving day-to-day life stories with one another. However, I could feel a change deep within, reopening me to life and love and the beauty of the music that is weaved amongst it, transforming the darkened, heavy heart I had carried. I began to move, my only quest to reach my sister. My mother trailed along behind me, unaware of the sea change that had taken hold of me. I had almost reached my sister, who was standing off the stage, fingering her violin bow aimlessly. She caught my eye and turned to face me. Her eyes began to glisten, and I knew she understood. Reaching out to each other, we folded into an embrace. “Brook, I’m so so...” I began, but she gently cut me off, and held me even tighter. “There is nothing to apologise for. I love you Maya.” I felt an arm slip around my waist, and I turned to face my mother, her face softening. Clutching us both, I could feel her exhale, and I did too. We had finally re-discovered the love and loss that bound our family together, and found our way back to each other.

[Bubbly_bluey]

Hey I just got my english creative back and I got 9/15 (for me this is not great. I'm terrible in creative). The comments were about how I was changing tense between the past and present (caused confusion), but I was trying to show that it was like a flashback to her past. Also the historical aspects  were not accurate. 
"Is this in or after WW2? There are too many questions I am left with at the end. The neighbours and the death by conscription did not add any meaning to the story. It feels like years that the father distances himself- this mromise doesn't sound very believable. The narrative itself is hard to follow."
I was wondering if you could suggest a way to address these issues because the story appeared to flow well in my head but maybe it was not expressed in my writing properly. It took a long time to come up with the idea so I didn't really want to change my storybut if it is best to change to a new story then I will.

Spoiler

The kettle whistles the clock ticks and the radio stutters. The sun washes its warm glow around kitchen, upon the frail figure of my mother who sat alone, completely unaware of my presence. Watching, as she caresses the spine of the album, that holds all of our precious memories. One by one as the pages flip, times that were long buried deep within our hearts unravel. I hear her chuckle as she reveals a girl with bright red cheeks, happily slurping the spoonful of strawberry jam whilst sneaking a gleeful glance at the camera.
 
"I remember you used to always hit your head on the wall until you could have your strawberry jam! What a troublemaker you were then!”  Startle that she notice me, I couldn't contain my laughter as I begin reminiscing the days before her illness, where I would frantically dive under her dress, wedging myself between her legs whenever I got to school.
 
Those days quickly went by, the nights turned into distant memories. Reality hit hard when Mother had the first of many strokes. How ignorant I was, unaware of the illnesses that could have slowly deteriorated her closer to death. There was nothing to do, as I helplessly watched neighbours giving freshly ironed clothes, blankets and meals.

I remember dashing  outside  every morning, a sound recorder at hand, reporting every bit of detail; from Mr Parlio painting his porch to the weather forecast. Replaying the messages and interviews, brought a new life of news reporting that was other than Hitler's Nazis. It was much to Mother’s relief, that I had unfortunately lost the device, ending my journalist career.
 
Turning the pages, a black-and-white photo revealed a lanky figure, awkwardly standing like a soldier, arms side by side, behind my elegantly smiling mother. The man was handsome in his suited attire, and hair combed perfectly back. His distinct jaw line, freshly cleaned for the occasion revealed that he was at the prime for his age. Despite this, he still had the same stone-chiselled face he would always put on whenever I tried to talk to him when he came home. Was I that much of a burden that he could not acknowledge my own existence?
He was a stranger in our house. Mother could never hold an entire conversation with him; he simply nodded and with a sigh trudged to his room and disappeared the next morning.
 
Conscription had been called and I remember watching Mr and Mrs Parlio embracing their farewell whilst Mary was swollen in tears. But not a word was exchanged between us: only a brief kiss before picking up his case and a nodded farewell. That was the last time I ever saw him. But despite this, there was not one tear shed, nor a sharp pinning of remorse. In fact it only felt natural that he left, being that he spent most of his time at work. That was the first time the realisation hit; that I never really loved him, nor found any interest to involve with him sentimental behaviour.

Yet, now, as my eyes wander to his enigmatic presence, I can't help but sense that I had once known this stranger.
 
My mother, with her thin shaking fingers, delicately  traced his outline.
"You two… look so much alike," she whispers almost choking in her tears.
All I could do was nod. It was true; anyone who saw us would agree but those living in this house will know otherwise. With each flip, I couldn't help but search for him through the group of people and finding out that he was once in the Junior Choir. Each photo became enticing as I began to discover more about him. Why had it taken this long?
 
"Cindy, your father... I’ve kept this from you for all these years.” My eyes widen, as Mother tried turning around in her chair, forcing a smile.

That cannot be good.
“In the bedroom cupboard on the far right hand corner there will be a safe. Bring it down for me please."
 
Quickly dashing up the stairs, my mind buzzing with curiosity that I had to run my hands along the walls for support. Never had I felt so disorientated with my trembling hands when I pry open the knob of the cupboard. Feeling my way through the laundry pile, my hands wove into the very back corner until they cup around a tiny safe. I ran my fingers through its cold rusty edges and the excitement and fear crept throughout.

Suddenly, my fingers slipped. My heart freezes as the safe’s hinge shatters, it contents sprawling  out.

Sweat trickles down my spine, cheeks burning bright red. The dim light from the bedside table fought against the darkness of the night swallowing the room.
 
"Have you found it yet?" The sound of Mother drowned away. There lies on the floor, piles of dirty letters, all crumpled and torn. In elegant cursive writing, they were all addressed from Berlin to Mother.

One after another without a single blink, each sentence was haunted by the bloodiness of the war; from widespread diseases to sleeping next to piles of rotting corpses. My nails dug deep into my palms as I stared in dismay.
Every inch of muscle froze when I laid my eyes on the last of the letters:
“At the moment you read this, I may not have made it. It is an unfortunate fate that us men must live to die in war like our fathers did. Endless heartache from the disappearance of loved one is something I would never dare for dear Cindy to ever feel. As cruel as it may seem my every intention to distance myself from any affection possible proved a success as you say she’s coping abnormally well.
If I hurt her in any way, it was not intended to be, rather to ensure our child's happiness. This is by no means a sacrifice made against my will nor do I need pity for it because it was done out of genuine love.
However I am guilty of a selfish act in the hope to keep my sanity. So I will return this to her before I’ll never get the chance to.
Deepest sincerelys, Edward Harper”

The anger after the initial reading quickly turned to utter shame and guilt. However, as I unravelled the final parcel, there was no control of anything so overwhelming. Not realising my mother was standing outside, the tears blinding my vision and my heart screaming when the tiny recorder I thought lost  18 years ago, replayed the recording of the same voice I'll never hear again.
 
"I love you."
 

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi! I was wondering if I could possibly get an estimate mark out of 15 for this, and any feedback to improve is welcomed Thank you heaps! <3

Hey Snew! So sorry for the delay, I had a butt-tonne of assessments this week and so haven't been able to do a heap of marking - Your creative is attached with comments in bold!

Spoiler

I was a victim of classical music. Really interesting opening line - Definitely attracts attention. Also personifies classical music a bit which I like. I winced, each mournful strain of Handel’s Minuet heaved out, sounding as painful for the cellist as it was the audience. And not forgetting the poor accompanist. She sat on the piano stool, rigid, and bored as she produced one block chord after the other to go along with the flat melody. I firmly believed it could pass as some kind of medieval torture method. Really like the way you've started! Sets the scene and tone really nicely. I'd add a paragraph break here though - Shorter paragraphs tend to be easier for the reader to digest! I wondered if I was the only one whose neck was beginning to strain, as the front row forced me to tilt my head back unnaturally. I began to turn to my mother, intending to grace her with the grimace that without a doubt was plastered all over my face, but I thought better of it. I set my jaw and stared hard at the floor. Why did I even bother coming? All for this stupid little recital… I feel you need something to accentuate this. Maybe even just a new line where you say "Ow!" or something - The interruption to the train of thought just seems a little lackluster. I felt a sharp dig to my ribcage, and came face to face with my mother’s sharp gaze. She didn’t had to say a word. Her reprimanding look was enough to direct my resentment back to the floor. With the final bar of the minuet and the audience’s short burst of half hearted applause, my heart began to quicken its thuds against my ribcage, and my breaths gradually began to shallow. I delved into my handbag, shakily retrieving my water bottle and glugging it, the sudden realisation of dehydration overwhelming any sense of propriety. With the curtain’s reopening, my body seized up, frozen in place as I watched my younger sister walk onto the stage, violin in hand.

I tried to reason within myself. Stop being so silly! I silently scolded. There was no reason for such a turmoil of emotions running through me. It was a primary school recital, for heaven’s sake. The music was certainly not the stuff of Paganini and Tchaikovsky. I sank back in my seat, trying to relax as the lights dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. My sister lifted the instrument, casting a petite, narrow shadow across the stage. I saw her chest rise, then fall, and she begun. The subdued melody rose and fell smoothly, the audience awash with it’s beauty, even if for only a few short minutes. I feel you should do a little more to set the tone of this player - Try and draw comparisons with the previous performance for the character. Really delve into this, because it is interesting and significant that the attitude has changed so dramatically and so quickly.

Before long, there were tears silently cascading down my cheeks, ones that I had stubbornly refused to shed for so long. My father’s favourite violin solo floated around the tiny hall, conjuring up images I had pushed to the back of my mind for so long. His wide, warm smile.  Teaching me to gently pluck the strings. I think you'd benefit from putting an actual, fully formed flashback in at this point! Perhaps extend the section of the sister playing and have it interweave with memories of the father? The last time I ever heard his voice, imploring me never to give up on what I loved. And now, confronted with them, centre stage, I realised I had never truly grieved. Not just the loss of my beloved father, but the music that brought such light into my life. The tunes, that accompanied and comforted me through my youth, that had been torn away, alongside my father. I turned to look at my mother, but I could see she was lost in the piece, reliving a sorrow that would never truly leave us. My heart ached, as I recalled all the times over the last two years I had slammed a door in her face. Screaming for my sister to go away. Shutting them out, when we needed each other the most. When I needed them the most. I think you are doing a little too much "telling" of the concepts, rather than showing.

With the violin’s final refrain, I felt the smallest of smiles forming, even through my misty eyes. The small school hall audience, packed with beaming parents and teachers, clapped enthusiastically. My sister’s deep bow to the audience expressed a deeper gratitude than anyone else in the room could discern. Trembling, I got to my feet, and locking eyes with my sister, clapped until my hands stung. Her eyes widened, and my mother looked between us with apprehension. As the applause died out, the audience began to make their way out of the room, resuming previous chatter and reliving day-to-day life stories with one another. However, I could feel a change deep within, reopening me to life and love and the beauty of the music that is weaved amongst it, transforming the darkened, heavy heart I had carried. I began to move, my only quest to reach my sister. My mother trailed along behind me, unaware of the sea change that had taken hold of me. I had almost reached my sister, who was standing off the stage, fingering her violin bow aimlessly. She caught my eye and turned to face me. Her eyes began to glisten, and I knew she understood. Reaching out to each other, we folded into an embrace. “Brook, I’m so so...” I began, but she gently cut me off, and held me even tighter. “There is nothing to apologise for. I love you Maya.” Watch that your dialogue is realistic - It breaks the realism of the story if it isn't. I felt an arm slip around my waist, and I turned to face my mother, her face softening. Clutching us both, I could feel her exhale, and I did too. We had finally re-discovered the love and loss that bound our family together, and found our way back to each other.

So the comments throughout your creative are quite limited, because I LOVE your writing style! You set a great mood early on and it carries through nicely, your style is interesting and it maintains reader interest. As a writer, you are doing extremely well!

My main piece of feedback concerns how you are presenting your concepts, it's a little deus ex machina. What this means is, a lot of the plot details are sort of just 'brought up,' and not adequately explained. You have that one paragraph that covers the father and his death, the significance of the violin, and the issues the family is experiencing. That's pretty much every significant plot element, contained within a single paragraph. As a result, it feels a little rushed, and the details aren't fleshed out as well as they could be!

Indeed, on the whole, this means your concepts are presented in a very simplistic and direct way. They are all told to the audience, rather than presented to us in a more subtle way as the text develops. This is the biggest area of improvement for your piece right now.

I'd extend the section where the sister is playing, have that encompass most if not all of your short story. Have flashbacks weaved in that SHOW the relationship with the father, how the violin plays in to that. Have flashbacks to conflicts with the mother and the sister, perhaps even that afternoon before the recital there could have been a significant argument. But you need to show these things, not just say "There was conflict." It's a really tricky thing to go to that next level of abstraction, but once you do, you'll notice the quality of your writing increase massively!

Right now, I'd wager your Creative is in the upper mid-range, maybe 10 or 11 out of 15? I could never say for sure, especially without stimulus and criteria. To push higher, it's all about that conceptual sophistication, because as I said  - Your writing itself is phenomenal!

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

[Snew]

Hey Snew! So sorry for the delay, I had a butt-tonne of assessments this week and so haven't been able to do a heap of marking - Your creative is attached with comments in bold!

No worries at all, thanks for taking time to give such great feedback!! Thank you for the kind words, and especially the advice for the flashback, I can definitely improve on that. Thanks again
Random side note: I got the opening line from one of the creative writing stimuli that Elyse put up! Really helped me get a decent idea

[legorgo18]

Hello, im about to finish off editing my creative and am not very comfortable posting it online. I know this is against the conditions but i would love some feedback, can we do like an e-mail type of feedback if thats alright?

[jamonwindeyer]

Hello, im about to finish off editing my creative and am not very comfortable posting it online. I know this is against the conditions but i would love some feedback, can we do like an e-mail type of feedback if thats alright?

Hey legorgo! Sorry my friend, but if we do it for one we do it for everyone, so unfortunately we can only offer feedback on the forums

No reason to be uncomfortable posting it online though! We don't bite

[elysepopplewell]

Hey I just got my english creative back and I got 9/15 (for me this is not great. I'm terrible in creative). The comments were about how I was changing tense between the past and present (caused confusion), but I was trying to show that it was like a flashback to her past. Also the historical aspects  were not accurate. 
"Is this in or after WW2? There are too many questions I am left with at the end. The neighbours and the death by conscription did not add any meaning to the story. It feels like years that the father distances himself- this mromise doesn't sound very believable. The narrative itself is hard to follow."
I was wondering if you could suggest a way to address these issues because the story appeared to flow well in my head but maybe it was not expressed in my writing properly. It took a long time to come up with the idea so I didn't really want to change my storybut if it is best to change to a new story then I will.

Hey! I'll have a look at this. If I feel like I'm losing the plot at any point, I'll stop and point it out. So if it's slipping away from me, I'll identify the point so we can look at how to make a more smooth transition.

Spoiler

The kettle whistles the clock ticks and the radio stutters. We need some more punctuation in here - I suggest a comma after "whistles" unless you'd rather make each part a tiny truncated sentence, but the comma works well. The sun washes its warm glow around kitchen, upon the frail figure of my mother who sat alone, completely unaware of my presence. Watching, as she caresses the spine of the album, that holds all of our precious memories. One by one as the pages flip, times that were long buried deep within our hearts unravel. I hear her chuckle as she reveals a girl with bright red cheeks, happily slurping the a spoonful of strawberry jam whilst sneaking a gleeful glance at the camera. I like the imagery here, it's very vibrant and I am really catching on to it all. It creates a nice, happy, picture in my head.
 
"I remember you used to always hit your head on the wall until you could have your strawberry jam! What a troublemaker you were then!”  Startled that she noticed me, I couldn't contain my laughter as I begin reminiscing the days before her illness,Fullstop where I would frantically dive under her dress, wedging myself between her legs whenever I got to school. This is a really cute image
 
Those days quickly went by, the nights turned into distant memories. Reality hit hard when Mother had the first of many strokes.  Do you actually want to call her mother? Mother suggests we're in a very posh setting, or mother suggests a stance of distance. Otherwise, "mum" is the best word to use,
 I think, to show the relationship and the endearment. How ignorant I was, unaware of the illnesses that could have slowly deteriorated her closer to death. There was nothing to do, as I helplessly watched neighbours giving freshly ironed clothes, blankets and meals.

I remember dashing  outside  every morning, a sound recorder at hand, reporting every bit of detail; from Mr Parlio painting his porch to the weather forecast on the radio. (Otherwise it sounds a bit like Mr Parlio is giving the forecast.. Replaying the messages and interviews no need for a comma here, brought a new life of news reporting that was other than Hitler's Nazis. It was much to Mother’s relief, that I had unfortunately lost the device, ending my journalist career. This last sentence just seems a bit odd - you lost a device and you lost your career at the same time? It just seems like a bizarre escalation that makes me question the story a bit. Not that this couldn't happen of course, I suppose it could. But there's not enough context for me to accept this, instead I'm wondering why leaving your recorder on the park bench means your career as a journalist ends. Also, I didn't recognise the person was a journalist, and I think what gave me this impression is the way they recorded the weather forecast. I thought they were just a child recording everything they could for their mother. If this was about being a journalist, I'd swap out that part about weather forecast and give another example of an interview you'd given.
 
Turning the pages, a black-and-white photo revealed a lanky figure, awkwardly standing like a soldier, arms side by side, behind my elegantly smiling mother. The man was handsome in his suited attire, and hair combed perfectly back. His distinct jaw line, freshly cleaned for the occasion revealed that he was at the prime for his age. Despite this, he still had the same stone-chiselled face he would always put on whenever I tried to talk to him when he came home. Was I that much of a burden that he could not acknowledge my own existence? Similarly to the last sentence I commented on, this just seems a bit dramatic and bizarre. Given the context, this seems so odd and hard to follow - because I see a photo of a distinct jaw law, and then suddenly we're talking about the same person not acknowledging existence. Of course, this could very well be true and believable, but we need to consider the best way to go about it, and for me, this is too much of a jump. Perhaps showing instead of telling is better here. I think the last sentence needs to be more subtle, more soft. That way we are invited to experience empathy.
He was a stranger in our house. Mother could never hold an entire conversation with him; he simply nodded and with a sigh trudged to his room and disappeared the next morning.
 
Conscription had been called and I remember watching Mr and Mrs Parlio embracing their farewell whilst Mary was swollen in tears. But not a word was exchanged between us: only a brief kiss before picking up his case and a nodded farewell. That was the last time I ever saw him. But despite this, there was not one tear shed, nor a sharp pinning of remorse. In fact it only felt natural that he left, being that he spent most of his time at work. That was the first time the realisation hit; that I never really loved him, nor found any interest to involve with him sentimental behaviour.

Yet, now, as my eyes wander to his enigmatic presence, I can't help but sense that I had once known this stranger.
 
My mother, with her thin shaking fingers, delicately  traced his outline.
"You two… look so much alike," she whispers almost choking in her tears.
All I could do was nod. It was true; anyone who saw us would agree but those living in this house will know otherwise. With each flip, I couldn't help but search for him through the group of people and finding out that he was once in the Junior Choir. Each photo became enticing as I began to discover more about him. Why had it taken this long?
 
"Cindy, your father... I’ve kept this from you for all these years.” My eyes widen, as Mother tried turning around in her chair, forcing a smile.

That cannot be good.
“In the bedroom cupboard on the far right hand corner there will be a safe. Bring it down for me please."
 
Quickly dashing up the stairs, my mind buzzing with curiosity that I had to run my hands along the walls for support. Never had I felt so disorientated with my trembling hands when I pry open the knob of the cupboard. Feeling my way through the laundry pile, my hands wove into the very back corner until they cup around a tiny safe. I ran my fingers through its cold rusty edges and the excitement and fear crept throughout.

Suddenly, my fingers slipped. My heart freezes as the safe’s hinge shatters, it contents sprawling  out.

Sweat trickles down my spine, cheeks burning bright red. The dim light from the bedside table fought against the darkness of the night swallowing the room.
 
"Have you found it yet?" The sound of Mother drowned away. There lies on the floor, piles of dirty letters, all crumpled and torn. In elegant cursive writing, they were all addressed from Berlin to Mother.

One after another without a single blink, each sentence was haunted by the bloodiness of the war; from widespread diseases to sleeping next to piles of rotting corpses. My nails dug deep into my palms as I stared in dismay.
Every inch of muscle froze when I laid my eyes on the last of the letters: I really loved this part, I found myself racing through the sentences because I was so excited to know what happened next. I especially love, "Berlin to Mother" instead of "from Father to Mother" simply because its archaic and I love that. But, I think it's just too convenient that you picked up the last and most important letter straight away. Again, it is possibly, but unlikely and just too convenient. Perhaps if there's only one on yellow paper, or there's only one still in the envelope, or something like this. Rather than just knowing it's the last letter and it will apply to you, there needs to be some kind of mundane reality to the exceptional circumstance.
“At the moment you read this, I may not have made it. It is an unfortunate fate that us men must live to die in war like our fathers did. Endless heartache from the disappearance of loved one is something I would never dare for dear Cindy to ever feel. As cruel as it may seem my every intention to distance myself from any affection possible proved a success as you say she’s coping abnormally well.
If I hurt her in any way, it was not intended to be, rather to ensure our child's happiness. This is by no means a sacrifice made against my will nor do I need pity for it because it was done out of genuine love.
However I am guilty of a selfish act in the hope to keep my sanity. So I will return this to her before I’ll never get the chance to.
Deepest sincerelys, Edward Harper”

The anger after the initial reading quickly turned to utter shame and guilt. However, as I unravelled the final parcel, there was no control of anything so overwhelming. Not realising my mother was standing outside, the tears blinding my vision and my heart screaming when the tiny recorder I thought lost  18 years ago, replayed the recording of the same voice I'll never hear again.
 
"I love you."

I really enjoyed this creative, I loved to read it. I didn't actually struggle with the tense changing at all, I was never lost, I always understood. So my suggestion now is to give this creative to another English teacher at your school for his or her opinion, simply because I understood, your teacher didn't, so one more opinion will help. I suppose you could use *** between lines of flash backs but it made perfect sense to me! In terms of the story line, I thought it was easy to follow and I was engaged enough, at the beginning the imagery is beautiful and rosy, which is a nice contrast to what comes throughout. There are three parts of the story that are just too convenient, as I pointed out. But, I want to talk specifically about the recorder. So the recorder becomes really important in the story, very important. But I'm just thrown by the "journalist career" thing - did you mean it in a more colloquial version of career rather than as an actual career? Like I'd say, "My shopping career was over when I went into debt." I think my confusion about that is what lead me to question things later on, rather than being able to accept the full story.

I think the discovery is strong, the emotions are high, and I actually think this is quite wonderfully written. This is the first time I've genuinely not been able to empathise with the comments of a teacher at all, so I'm sorry that this puts you in a bit of an awkward spot. I suggest getting a third opinion on the plot and tense flow, because to me it really flowed quite nicely.

Hopefully this gives you a hand instead of confusing you more. Happy to answer any more questions you might have

[selinayinz]

Hey Selina! Thanks for posting your Creative - I can see you also posted a module essay! Which would you like us to mark first? You'll need 30 posts to qualify for both to be marked

Hi Jamon! Sorry only just saw this reply. Can I have my essay marked first

Thank you!

[AnnaBethy]

Hi I posted this on like the blog version of your first post but am unsure if it is regularly checked.... Do you have anymore conclusion/resolution tips? I am up to that part in my story and a bit stuck on how to resolve without sounding too child-like.

[elysepopplewell]

Hi I posted this on like the blog version of your first post but am unsure if it is regularly checked.... Do you have anymore conclusion/resolution tips? I am up to that part in my story and a bit stuck on how to resolve without sounding too child-like.

Hey AnnaBethy! Are you writing a short story or different type of text? I suggest staying away from all things "and then I woke up" or "and then I realised it was just a dream." That might go without saying Students are always looking for ways to avoid being cliche, which is absolutely wonderful. Although, I've marked over 100 creative writing pieces on this forum and have rarely thought "wow, cliche!" Every story has been told before, it's about the way you tell it that makes it different. You could write a few alternate endings and show them to your friends and see which gets the best reaction!

If you get 15 posts on the forums here, we'll give you some feedback on your entire creative But, if you need more immediate help, feel free to give me more specific details about your creative and I'll try and help out

Hi Jamon! Sorry only just saw this reply. Can I have my essay marked first

Thank you!

I'll do this shortly for you! Won't be long

[Max Kawasakii]

I for Isobel is a text about Identity, self discovery, abuse and a whole lot of other things. Basically for my creative sac I want to be able to implement this idea of mine that Isobel was an unwanted child. Hence why the following is a very short piece because it has to be adaptable, but regardless the general Idea will remain. (In case that didn't make sense, our creative sac will be prompted, hence my idea's have to be adaptable.)

The following is an extract from the text I For Isobel(pg.46);

‘If I’d been allowed to know how sick he was…’ Aunt Noelene was shouting now.
   ‘Allowed to know. Didn’t want to know. You and Yvonne have never wanted to know anything that didn’t suit you.’
‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten a thing or two, too. You haven’t always been an angel.’

=>(The small creative idea comes here, offering insight to the implications of Aunt Noelene's statement.)
 
Hearing those words sent May’s mind into disarray, it was as if thousands of cogs that were spinning together simultaneously had stopped, frozen in time, she was remembering. Remembering a time before Isobel.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was as warm and lively as ever, there were smiles, laughter, and an elephant.

Rob was fiddling with the red and white Hornypohn radio whilst talking of his plans for tomorrow.
   ‘I say we start off the morning with a game of tennis, the court looks as good as ever these days. Then we can take Margaret into town to have a look at the shops, and after that…’.
He was so entranced by the radio that be was oblivious to the interjections.
   ‘Rob… Rob… Rob! Can you sit down we need to talk.’ He turned around with seeming mildly bewildered, then sat at the table across from May.

‘Rob, I am with child.’ Her face conveyed a shame face smile.
   ‘Oh isn’t this good news, we’re going to have another child….. Rob?’

He sat there white faced, ‘May, we discussed a year back, that we could not afford another child. How is it now that we are expecting. How is this possible.’

‘Why don’t you remember, it was that night, you know that night when you came home, I’m sure we, don’t you remember..?’

Rob sat with a set face and luminous glare, he pushed away from the table, straightened up and drew breath. The ear piercing sound of his open hand across the side of her face broke the silence.

She burst into shrieks of lamentation ‘Rob, tell me you love me, say you love me, I want to hear it, say it Rob!’ Silence followed her soft sobs of despair.
   ‘Know this you spiteful, malevolent creature, my sisters will hear of this sinful act, they will know and they will never forget.’ He hissed.


-----

Super short I know! It will just be a small part of my essay, but I have to nail it, feedback will be greatly appreciated.

[Wales]

Hey Wales!! Sure thing, I'll pop the Creative below with some comments throughout:


So this is a REALLY effective story to be telling for Discovery. It is simple, the premise is powerful, and it is super character focused. Don't you dare change the idea unless you absolutely have to for a stimulus, because if keep working on this piece, you will get 15. The story is there, the concepts are there - Now it is just about execution.

Well today I got my assessment back. 15/15 My teacher was very impressed at my creative. The only one to receive 15/15. Really regained my rank for english after my term 1 bomb ahah.

Wouldn't of been able to have done it without you Jamon my man, you were a fantastic help.

Cheers, Wales

[jamonwindeyer]

I for Isobel is a text about Identity, self discovery, abuse and a whole lot of other things. Basically for my creative sac I want to be able to implement this idea of mine that Isobel was an unwanted child. Hence why the following is a very short piece because it has to be adaptable, but regardless the general Idea will remain. (In case that didn't make sense, our creative sac will be prompted, hence my idea's have to be adaptable.)

The following is an extract from the text I For Isobel(pg.46);

‘If I’d been allowed to know how sick he was…’ Aunt Noelene was shouting now.
   ‘Allowed to know. Didn’t want to know. You and Yvonne have never wanted to know anything that didn’t suit you.’
‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten a thing or two, too. You haven’t always been an angel.’

=>(The small creative idea comes here, offering insight to the implications of Aunt Noelene's statement.)
 
Hearing those words sent May’s mind into disarray, it was as if thousands of cogs that were spinning together simultaneously had stopped, frozen in time, she was remembering. Remembering a time before Isobel.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was as warm and lively as ever, there were smiles, laughter, and an elephant.

Rob was fiddling with the red and white Hornypohn radio whilst talking of his plans for tomorrow.
   ‘I say we start off the morning with a game of tennis, the court looks as good as ever these days. Then we can take Margaret into town to have a look at the shops, and after that…’.
He was so entranced by the radio that be was oblivious to the interjections.
   ‘Rob… Rob… Rob! Can you sit down we need to talk.’ He turned around with seeming mildly bewildered, then sat at the table across from May.

‘Rob, I am with child.’ Her face conveyed a shame face smile.
   ‘Oh isn’t this good news, we’re going to have another child….. Rob?’

He sat there white faced, ‘May, we discussed a year back, that we could not afford another child. How is it now that we are expecting. How is this possible.’

‘Why don’t you remember, it was that night, you know that night when you came home, I’m sure we, don’t you remember..?’

Rob sat with a set face and luminous glare, he pushed away from the table, straightened up and drew breath. The ear piercing sound of his open hand across the side of her face broke the silence.

She burst into shrieks of lamentation ‘Rob, tell me you love me, say you love me, I want to hear it, say it Rob!’ Silence followed her soft sobs of despair.
   ‘Know this you spiteful, malevolent creature, my sisters will hear of this sinful act, they will know and they will never forget.’ He hissed.


-----

Super short I know! It will just be a small part of my essay, but I have to nail it, feedback will be greatly appreciated.

Hey Max! Sorry for the late reply friend, been super swamped with assignments this week so have been neglecting the marking threads a little I see you are in VCE, if you still needed help with this, best to pop it here to get it looked at by a VCE marker! All the markers here did the HSC in NSW, I don't think we'd be as helpful as our friends south of the border

[jamonwindeyer]

Well today I got my assessment back. 15/15 My teacher was very impressed at my creative. The only one to receive 15/15. Really regained my rank for english after my term 1 bomb ahah.

Wouldn't of been able to have done it without you Jamon my man, you were a fantastic help.

Cheers, Wales

Ayyyyy!! Congratulations Wales, legendary stuff, well done! Really awesome to see you persevere and be rewarded for the hard work so glad I could help, but it's all you my friend, you earned it 

[Wales]

Ayyyyy!! Congratulations Wales, legendary stuff, well done! Really awesome to see you persevere and be rewarded for the hard work so glad I could help, but it's all you my friend, you earned it 

It was rather enjoyable too. Time to polish up my essay for my trials and correct a few minor errors in the Creative and Band 6 here I come