I don't do Creative Writing...

OK, I don't do Creative Writing. I do read; creatively sometimes, perhaps. Why did I join the BCWG then? Well, who knows, it might start something for me. Get some ideas going. Could do with some of those; I don't have very many.
I enjoy doing the bits of homework, but that's all I do. Stu seems to put quite a lot of emphasis on getting published or entering competitions. I think that's some distance off for me. If I can be bothered with it at all. On the whole, the activity itself of writing gives me enough satisfaction at present. I can imagine that that could change, though. Just as in a performing art (I have some experience there) there's a better buzz if you've got an audience -- provided they're not yawning, booing or throwing things. And yes, even the homework exercises feel more complete when I get to read them out to the group.

AW: 4th exercise: viewpoints -- 1st person, 3rd person, 'omniscient'

No, I... I don’t remember the place... There was... I think there was a tall dim ceiling, with a moulded rose and cornice... single bulb on a wire... No, there wasn’t a lampshade... I think there was a picture-rail... cream-painted, like the ceiling... and the wall below was green... plain mid-green sort of colour... I could smell something... sharp in my nose... vinegar, was it? I don’t know... The floor I was lying on was a long stretch of bare boards... old, worn, grubby... no paint or varnish except round the sides of the room where they were stained dark... Furniture? I don’t recall any... There was a tall sash window, no curtains... dark outside... No, I don’t remember any moon... quite black, as if outside there was nothing... nothing at all. Ah, wait a minute... yes, there was a chair... sofa, was it?... chaise longue... right next to me... didn’t see it till I moved my head... old, battered-looking turned legs, I could see the worm holes... no castors... worn faded gold brocade, turning greenish, with horsehair or coir or something busting out here and there... ah yes, that’s what I could smell, it was all musty... then looking under it, I could see the door... several yards away... big double doors, painted a dull matt eau-de-nil colour, with panel mouldings that might once have been gold... you could see the marks where the finger-plates had been, and the handles should have been ornate but seemed to be just round brown plastic knobs... I think... that’s what I seem to remember but... I don’t know... I’m not... really... sure...

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Slowly he began to be aware that what he was looking at was a ceiling -- high and long. And that what was dazzling his eyes was the light from a bare bulb dangling from a moulded central rose. And that what he was lying on was a floor of bare boards between tall greenish walls, stretching away to a far high sash window that gave onto... nothing, as far as he could see. The darkness outside gave him no clue as to where he might be. Turning his head, he found that he was lying next to the worm-eaten legs of a dilapidated chaise longue; bits of stuffing were spilling out of its musty green brocade. Beyond it he could see high double doors, with mouldings that were no longer gilt. For handles, they had plain brown plastic doorknobs. When later he hazily recalled this, he thought it strange.

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They lugged him in from outside and carried him up the broad stairs and into the room that had once been so grand. After laying him down hurriedly on the dilapidated chaise longue that was now the only piece there, they withdrew and locked the door behind them. As they went up the stairs to the room above, they were already urgently discussing what they should do about him.

Of all this he knew nothing. It was the bump as he slid off the chaise longue onto the bare floorboards that revived his awareness; slowly then he began to take in his new surroundings.

AW: 3rd exercise: setting

No, I... I don’t remember the place... There was... I think there was a tall dim ceiling, with a moulded rose and cornice... single bulb on a wire... No, there wasn’t a lampshade... I think there was a picture-rail... cream-painted, like the ceiling... and the wall below was green... plain mid-green sort of colour... I could smell something... sharp in my nose... vinegar, was it? I don’t know... The floor I was lying on was a long stretch of bare boards... old, worn, grubby... no paint or varnish except round the sides of the room where they were stained dark... Furniture? I don’t recall any... There was a tall sash window, no curtains... dark outside... No, I don’t remember any moon... quite black, as if outside there was nothing... nothing at all. Ah, wait a minute... yes, there was a chair... sofa, was it?... chaise longue... right next to me... didn’t see it till I moved my head... old, battered-looking turned legs, I could see the worm holes... no castors... worn faded gold brocade, turning greenish, with horsehair or coir or something busting out here and there... ah yes, that’s what I could smell, it was all musty... then looking under it, I could see the door... several yards away... big double doors, painted a dull matt eau-de-nil colour, with panel mouldings that might once have been gold... you could see the marks where the finger-plates had been, and the handles should have been ornate but seemed to be just round brown plastic knobs... I think... that’s what I seem to remember but... I don’t know... I’m not... really... sure...

AW: 2nd exercise: characters

A tall man. Gaunt. Face like creased parchment. When he spoke, it was like sandpaper on slate.

In her light graceful laugh there was an underlying note that said “Beware”.

“Hey, mind where you’re going, mate!”

“You looking for a mouthful of knuckles, granpa? Just watch it.”

A little, bald, active man, always pecking at this and that, like a wren.

Does it matter what Graham was like? Nobody will care in a hundred years’ time. But I care, now.

Since we were tiny boys he had led me. Good or bad his notion might be, he always knew how to impose it. We must have looked an odd pair: he short, robust, packed with purpose, and I lanky, gangling, vague, ever a step or two behind.

Which was what saved me. To explore the old tin workings seemed one of his better notions at the time. It turned out to be his worst, and last.

I still follow him, all these years later. He still leads. But I have had to learn to work out for myself what his next notion might be.

AW: 1st exercise: 'flash fiction': A Visit to A&E

aaaow!! stop it mend it sew it up chop it off it’s sticking out sticking in stuck on falling off get it off put it back

ah about time ow get off get away gimme a drink gimme a break put me out put me away put it away take it away

ahhhhhh... thank you

AW: I don't do Creative Writing...

OK, I don't do Creative Writing. I do read; creatively sometimes, perhaps. Why did I join the BCWG then? Well, who knows, it might start something for me. Get some ideas going. Could do with some of those; I don't have very many.

I enjoy doing the bits of homework, but that's all I do. Stu seems to put quite a lot of emphasis on getting published or entering competitions. I think that's some distance off for me. If I can be bothered with it at all. On the whole, the activity itself of writing gives me enough satisfaction at present. I can imagine that that could change, though. Just as in a performing art (I have some experience there) there's a better buzz if you've got an audience -- provided they're not yawning, booing or throwing things. And yes, even the homework exercises feel more complete when I get to read them out to the group.