Creative Writing

Last night in creative writing we were given a list of titles to pick from and had 45 minutes to write a short story.  This is mine.

Shopping with Mary.

‘Milk, tea, bread, eggs.  I fancy a nice pork chop for lunch, would you like that love?’ Bill sat at the kitchen table writing the shopping list. Thursday morning the routine is always the same, bus into town, post office to collect pension, do the shopping and then get the bus home to make lunch.  Bill pushed his chair back from the table and it squeaked on the faded lino

            ‘sorry love’ he says, Mary hates that he slides his chair rather than lifting it.  He clears the breakfast things from the table and puts them into the sink

            ‘we can do the dishes later, can’t we princess?’ he says and smiles at Mary.  Mary doesn’t say much these days, although she was never much of a one for chatter.  That’s why Bill fell in love with her. That friend of hers, Marjorie, was courting his friend Harry and they suggested a double date.  Marjorie never stopped talking all evening and when Bill walked Mary home she had said

            ‘you must think I’m awfully dull compared to Marjorie’ and Bill had confessed that he found Marjorie’s chatter annoying.   Mary had smiled then, a beautiful smile that made her eyes twinkle.  Six months later they married and had celebrated their 55^th wedding anniversary in August.

Bill stood at the sink as he rinsed the tea pot, Mary always liked a cuppa as soon as they got back with the shopping – kettle on even before taking her hat off.

            ‘looks like a cold one today, dry though, but I’ll make sure to get our gloves’ Bill dries the tea pot and puts it onto the work top next to the tea caddy for later.

He went into the hall and reached their coats down, he picked Marys hat off the shelf above and paused.  He looked down at her worn, plum, felt hat and smiled ‘shan’t be needing that today old chap’ he said to himself.

The bus journey into town was uneventful, 15 minutes all told if the traffic was good.  Bill and Mary always kept themselves to themselves, not like some of them mind.  Some days it was like a trip to the seaside with the laughing and chatting that went on.  Today it was quiet  though, Mary preferred it that way.  She liked to look out of the window and watch the fields roll by.  As Autumn had faded into Winter the countryside had been leached of colour, the sky, the fields and the hedgerows blended together in varying shades of grey.  Bill hated this time of year, he loved Spring and watching for lambs, green shoots and the first day the sun warmed his face through the window of the bus.

            ‘roll on Spring’ he said to Mary.

The Post Office was only a short walk from the bus station, uphill, but as Mary liked to point out better to be walking down hill with the shopping than up. She’d always been a half full sort of girl and practical with it.

            ‘looks like there’s not much of a queue today Mary love, not like last week.  Tax disc week, do you remember? Had to stand outside in the cold didn’t we?’ said Bill as he pushed the door open.  The queue moved quickly and once Bill had the pension safely in his wallet it was time to do the shopping.

The supermarket stood where the old Fine Fare had been.  Bill used to like Fine Fare, for one thing they didn’t move everything around at every whip and flip.  He could be in and out in ten minutes on a good day.  This place though, bread went from one end of the shop to the other without warning, he spent more time hunting for stuff than actually putting things into the trolley.  Sometimes it was enough to make him swear, but only quietly under his breath: Mary didn’t like language.

            ‘eggs, bread, milk’ Bill read from the list ‘tea, musn’t forget your tea now lovely.  And how about a nice bit of batenburg for this afternoon?’  Bill put the tea and cake into the trolley. 

‘pork chops! I nearly forgot the pork chops, losing my marbles I reckon.’ Said Bill as he doubled back to pick up a tray of chops.

‘right then girl, I think we are done here, let’s get this lot aid for and get home for a nice cup of tea.’

The bus home was noisy.  Young girls with babies and push chairs, some of them didn’t look old enough, and the language!  A couple of times Bill heard Mary tut and he wanted to tell the girls that they didn’t ought to use language like that round other people, but he didn’t Mary wouldn’t like a scene.

Bill pushed the door open with the shopping bag and, with a groan, lifted the bags onto the table.  He reached over and flicked the kettle on.

            ‘nice cup of tea before I put the chops on’ he said as he unbuttoned his coat.  He went into the hall and hung his coat next to Mary’s.  He stopped and ran his hand over the familiar grey wool of Mary’s coat.  He resisted the urge to lift the coat down and bury his face in the collar.  The last of her perfume was long gone.  The wool now smelt old and slightly damp.

Bill walked back into the kitchen and looked at Mary’s chair.  Mary’s empty chair.  He sighed.

            ‘pot of tea for one’ he said.

Creative writing course

Open

You know when you are waiting for a letter, the contents of which could change your life, and every morning the Postman brings your usual array of bills and circulars so that after a few mornings that little lurch of disappointment in the bottom of your stomach when it hasn’t arrived almost doesn’t happen?  Well, that’s pretty much where I was.  Two long weeks of waiting and still no sign of the letter that could change my life.  You probably think I am being overly dramatic when I say that, but seriously I’m not.

So, Thursday 19^th May when I heard the click of the latch on the gate and the slap of the post falling onto the mat I was pretty much resigned to there being no news.  I grabbed the post in a big bundle, sipped my coffee and dropped it all onto the dining room table.  Don’t be fooled, this was a calculatedly casual response, a completely dramatized “devil may care” sling of the post designed of course to ensure that it splayed across the table’s polished surface without me having to root in desperation through the junk to reach my crock of gold. Or not.  Like every morning before I barely glanced at the letters, almost turning my back whilst allowing one eye to very casually glance across the surface,  that way, if the letter wasn’t there no-one would know that I was bothered.  Not that anyone would have known, there was no-one watching me.  Annoyingly the white corner of an envelope was sticking out from beneath a brightly coloured frozen food leaflet and I could now either calmly finish my coffee, brush my teeth and then nonchalantly slide the leaflet off  the envelope or I could dash straight in and have a look.  I was rather alarmed to note,  as I reached out, that my heart began to pound and there was a familiar racing sensation in the very middle of my chest.  Almost definitely too much caffeine.

And there it was.  The letter I had been waiting for.  Not just for the last two weeks but really for eighteen months, since I had first come up with the plan that what my life needed was a complete overhaul.  No more living in a quiet village fending off the increasingly frequent suggestion of marriage and babies from my long suffering partner, no more comfortable familiarity but a grand gesture,  pack my bags and head off on an adventure.  I hadn’t quite envisaged the slew of rejections from cruise ships, airlines and VSO – who knew you needed a degree to dig wells in Africa. With every rejection my partner’s insistence that I should just give up on the whole crazy idea and stay at home with him grew stronger, until when I posted this last application back in February I had made him a deal, this one would be the last.  If I didn’t get the job with this cruise line I would accept that it wasn’t my destiny to sail the seven seas and I’d stay home and make him a happy man.  Not a bad fallback position in all honesty.  I loved him and was more than happy to become his wife, the mother of his children.   Just, not quite yet.

That initial application had resulted in an invitation to attend an open day of interviews in London and the inevitable round of sulking from the man.  Once I pointed out that this one was almost certainly not going to come to anything he snapped out of it and was almost supportive, but I knew that really he was thinking that the sooner I went to London, the sooner I’d get that letter of rejection and the sooner he’d have himself a wife, bless him.

So, I’m stood there with the envelope in my hand and suddenly for the first time in eighteen months I am wondering if I have made the biggest mistake of my life.  What if I leave and he doesn’t wait for me like he promised?  What if I come back after six months because I am sea sick every day and he’s taken up with someone new and doesn’t want me anymore?  Maybe the grand gesture of just applying to change my life was all I needed, not actually changing it.  I could say “oh yes I’ve lived here all my life, I wasn’t going to mind – I applied for lots of overseas jobs and they never came to anything” and everyone would know that I hadn’t stayed at home because I’d had no ambition but only because I hadn’t had the chance to do anything  else.  My face felt flushed and there was a rushing sound in my ears. Oh my God, what had I done?  If I open this envelope and the letter says “welcome, come with us and change your life” I am going to have to go, leave behind everything safe and familiar, pack up my life and head off to God knows where.  Could I lie?  Could I just say “by the way, that letter came this morning, it was a No. Fancy nipping down the pub for last orders?”.   I knew I couldn’t, he’d see right through me and it would always be there, nagging away “what if?”

I look  down and I am still holding the envelope.  The coffee in my stomach is making me feel a bit sick.  Then suddenly, there it is, the little flicker of excitement that I had always thought would be part of this moment - you took your time!  My hands are feeling tingly and for just a moment I imagine myself putting my suitcase on the train, tears and hugs goodbye, promises to write from far off exotic lands, lingering kisses and promises to come back and get married but with tales to tell the grandkids and then finally, as the train pulls out of the station a moment to relish “brace yourself World, here I come!”

I sit down, still holding the envelope.  OK.  Here goes nothing.  But it doesn’t seem right just to rip into the envelope, what if I rip the letter and render it unreadable, unlikely I know but it could happen.  I put the letter on the chair as if it were a baby, or a pound of Semtex and go to the kitchen for a knife. 

Sitting back down I take a deep breath, snatch up the envelope and before I can change my mind slide the blade of the knife under the flap and there, it’s done. 

As I unfold the letter I scan the contents and I know.  I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I let it out in a rush.  I had my answer, I knew my destiny. 

I smile and slide the letter back into its envelope; I was going to need to open the really good bottle of wine with dinner tonight.

I need a nom de plume cos Bunty just ain't working for me.

Last night was the first session of my creative writing course which I decided to do to give me something to focus on other than the guest house and work.  I had no idea what to expect but had anticipated that the group would all be middle aged ladies with time on their hands.  I was wrong.

First up there is a young girl, who has recently quit college, is working in Asda and is writing her first novel, she lives at home with her mum.  She speaks really quietly, from behind her hands if she can.  Then there’s the guy who has a degree in one thing and a Masters in another but is wanting to work more creatively and is working on a film script but the feedback he is getting is that the structure of his writing isn’t good.  Jane* is in her early 30’s, pretty and confident.  She has a Law degree and taught English in Beijing for five years before coming back to England.  She is now working for one of the large Banks and part of her job requires her to write copy, hence the course, although she is in the process of writing her first novel.  Tim has OCD and taking this course is part of his Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.   Sue is in her late 60’s and wearing brightly coloured skater trainers and a bright red scarf.  It is quite apparent that she has some hearing issues and when she reveals that her career has been spent as a singer in a rock band it’s easy to see why, although she doesn’t seem to think there is a problem with her hearing and keeps telling everyone how quietly they speak.  She has also worked as a journalist so is taking the course to unleash her more creative side.  Finally there is Bunty the middle aged, menopausal housewife who has never written anything and is just doing the course for fun. That last one was me in case you were wondering.

This first session concentrated on grammar, punctuation and some writing rules so I now know where to sling an apostrophe and am avoiding “ for speech as they are old fashioned!  Oh and keeping exclamation marks down to a dull roar, apparently they are the canned laughter of the writing world.  Finding it hard to resist though, generally I am liberal with my exclamation marks *slaps hand away from keyboard*. I want to write a colon related pun at this point but cant think of one.

I don’t know what I had expected but it wasn’t that we would be giving 40 minutes in which to do a piece of writing.  We each had two bits of paper on our desks on one we wrote something or somewhere that was special to us and on the other we wrote a place, nothing too specific.  We then held on to our special place or thing and swapped the other.  Weirdly the script writer’s special thing was a particular Ferrari and the place he got in the swap was a motorway, my special place was the sea and I got “a beach wedding” in the swap.  Whilst what I wrote wont be winning any prizes I was surprised at how easily one word followed another, it was a little  unnerving as when I started writing I had no idea how it was all going to hang together but it just seemed to write itself.  I could post it as a blog post if anyone thinks that might be interesting? 

One thing that I have discovered is that typing makes me write in a much more formal way than writing with pen and paper, the piece I wrote in class was much better than the piece I typed to give in last night.  I am re-reading this blog post and thinking it sounds very stiff and not at all like me, might have to resort to writing my blog posts long hand and then typing them up.   The course is six weeks long and I intend to post the very first piece I wrote “Open” which I gave in last night and the final piece which will show how much I have improved, or not, at the end of the course. Bet you can hardly wait. (insert your own exclamation mark) btw brackets are passe too, apparently.

*none of these are their real names.