An exercise to write a scene from an important/dramatic event in your life. This is only dramatic because I, as a child, was dramatic and made dramatic statements. I wanted to write this because the memory came back to me recently was was sweet in the way little kids who think they understand the world talk and worry.
Since I’ve yet to figure out the exact plot of Violet’s story, when given the assignment on “epiphanies” - both true epiphanies and false epiphanies - I did some of my own.
I’m baffled when people say writing fantasy is an excuse to avoid research. My stories have gotten me knee-deep into physical geography, cartography, astronomy, linguistics, history, oceanography, anthropology, and a million other topics that I might never have touched while writing mainstream fiction.
Just a thing to point out why Sue is sexist.
Looks like this essay was needed, so I went ahead and did it. Not sure I said everything I wanted to say, but I tried.
So, there’s this girl. She’s tragically orphaned and richer than anyone on the planet. Every guy she meets falls in love with her, but in between torrid romances she rejects…
Nothing to do with DEMONS, just some drabbles to work our descriptive muscles.
The following exercises were given to understand our characters and make them seem real to us, more complex. The first was a list of things they carried, the second was quantitative descriptions of their lives - how many days since they did X, etc. - and the third was 3 “X is the type of person who Y” statements, and a brief list of what the character wants and what they need.
An in-class exercise in which we had to write our characters doing something for reasons they don’t understand. I place this WAY before the psychiatrist or the piece titled DEMONS.
It’s twisting in my stomach, crawling under my skin, making my head pound and my mouth bitter. Bile rises and I close my eyes against the onslaught of visual stimuli that just yesterday was soothing and safe. Suddenly my bedroom, with its light blue walls, neutral beige carpeting and bedding in the pattern of a frothy, active sea seemed hostile and disturbing. I run outside my parent’s house to the shed where my mother keeps boxes and painting supplies. Filling a large plastic tub with packing boxes and various paints, I run back into the house and tear apart my room. The bedding is stripped, thrown into the closet. My shelves full of memorabilia - photos, trinkets my father gave me, and diaries - are emptied, and tossed into the tub with little care or worry. My bedroom is soon emptied of little things and furniture is shoved into the center away from the walls. Opening paint cans at random, throwing whatever I can find on the walls; mulberry from the accent wall in the foyer, light grey from the kitchen, hunter green from Micheal’s soldier phase, anything to cover up the offending robin’s egg on the walls.
My mother may have tried to stop me, grabbing my shoulders to pull me away but she didn’t, couldn’t, and pulled away. In a few hours everything is different. The walls are a modge-podge of color, both house paint and spray paint. At some point my white enameled bed-frame became bronze, the light wood bureaus and shelving became black. Father came in with rugs and helped me cover the floor.
They held me. Mother kisses my temple. “Violet, why?” she whispers.
“I don’t know. It was wrong. I couldn’t look at it anymore.”
Mother and Father gave each other meaningful looks, I don’t care. I’m so tired. I stretch out on the bare mattress, paint in my hair, streaking my face and arms, and I pass out. My little brothers and sisters couldn’t wake me up for dinner. It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t eat anyway.
These are super nifty awesome people I follow who write super nifty awesome things. They’re probably all better than me since they’re doing this for a career. ;)
WRITING BLOGS
MEMES ABOUT WRITING
Uh I totally mind. Shit’s copy written under CREATIVE COMMONS- you can share it but you can’t sell it/pass it off as yours/ use my characters and plots to make money and fame. My babies, not yours.
