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Writtin' Thread

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Eris:
It has been a while since we had a writing thread around here (other than the furry smut one), so I figured I might as well start one and try a few things. So to get this off and running I thought there could be a theme for the stories, if people are having trouble thinking of stuff then they can use what I provide as inspiration. I also have a book of writing exercises which I can put up for people to try out if they want.

A few rules, though:
1. No pointless smut. We had enough of that in the other thread.
2. There has to be some effort involved. No rushed 30 second job just for the sake of posting, unless you are really good at that kind of thing.
3. No novels. There isn't a set word limit, but as is the internet, a wall of writing will probably be skipped over, so maybe keep it around the 400 mark?


Ok; Theme! When looking through my new Dictionary and Thesaurus I found the word Ostentation. Say it, it rolls off the tongue in quite a way that makes you get a feel for the word (The definition and synonyms are linked back there). Use your new found knowledge of a word to write something (at least partially) to it. Here is mine!

     Desiderata

      I always wanted to be on the television. When I was little I would dress up, wearing my mother’s clothes and make-up, singing into the hairbrush along with the popstars smiling out at me. Once I even took the TV apart to work out how the people got in there. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to put it back together. As a teenager I would watch my soaps, like a little old lady, adamant I could do a better job of acting than those on screen. I would perform to the bathroom mirror and reassure myself I was made to be on TV.
      After they finally caught me I embraced the role. My lawyer said I needed to act innocent to increase my chances at trial, so I did. Oh, how I acted the part! It was my only chance to fulfil my dream; I wasn’t going to let it go without showing my full potential. As we walked out of the courthouse the media swarmed around us, pressing in from every side, slowing our progress to a crawl. I shone; I really did. I smiled broadly and gave them my best star expression.
      Of course they found me guilty; we all knew it was going to happen. “Showed no remorse” was what was said. So now I am locked up in this room, away from the rest of them, and only you for company. Can you even see me, all the way up there in the corner of the ceiling? I know you can see me, that’s your purpose. Dear little camera, keeping an eye on me.
      I always wanted to be on the television…

fatty:
Excerpts from my Blog: http://aka-fatty.blogspot.com/
Just a bit of writing I do. It's not bloggy, but it's not fictional, it's my personal type of expression I guess. Just a few paragraphs, or I'll drown people in text.

In Defence of Architecture

I’ve a lot of thoughts about the nature of the profession of architecture, and the practice of design. In some ways, the study and practice of architecture is a very closed profession, it is not much discussed or understood outside of the profession or academia. I’ve named this ‘in defence of’ not because I think architecture needs to be defended for lack of relevance, but because the mere act of architecture is sorely under-appreciated and misunderstood, that a little bit of insight will clarify this. I’m not sure where to start, but I will start somewhere, starting with my broad ideas over a few posts, before I go into things which are more specialised.

An interesting starting point lies in the semantics of the word ‘design’. For an architect/designer, ‘design’ is an action and a process. It embodies what we do as a discovery or exploration of many things, the eventual honing and narrowing of focus, and finally, a conclusion that is influenced by all these things. But the real pride comes in the process, the act of designing as a means of creating something a machine can not. For a designer’s client, the ‘design’ is a product. Something they can touch and feel and something that is finally finished, when the designer has done all their arm waving and talking. To have a client really understand and appreciate the design process, they must be involved from the beginning and brought along on the journey.

Experience of Art

There is a beautiful place in Sydney known as the Finger Wharfs, near the Rocks. It has beautiful restored wharf buildings, a view of Sydney harbour and the bridge, quaint terrace houses and lovely views. It also has the Sydney Dance Company, where I go to do open dance classes – just for fun and exercise, and the Wharf Theatre and Sydney Theatre Company. It also has a tiny art gallery called ‘One of a Kind’. Inside, are the works of Arie Levit; self proclaimed ‘greatest artist in the world.’ Okay so maybe he is over-confident, egotistical even. But as an artist, I think you need a good dose of self belief to get anywhere.

Art is an experience, it’s something you take in and interpret; you let it take you where it wants to go. You have to open your eyes, see what you can, look harder than you’ve ever looked before. Sometimes you see it, sometimes you don’t. But an artist always has a story. He or she pours something into that work, to tell you something. When I see this guy’s work, I see what he’s thinking. He gave me some introduction, guided me through some of them; told me their story. The thing that struck me was that this guy had vision. He had short and long term goals. Art wasn’t his hobby, it was his livelihood. He believed that his art was going to transform Sydney, and that he would be famous. It takes a lot to self-promote; maintaining his own gallery means that he has to be the one there selling his work every day. He even wrote a song, played it twice every day, about how people walked past and never came in. Then he did a painting about that story.

Oli:
This is a load of nonsense I wrote a few weeks ago (maybe longer, who knows!), about making a pot of tea. It didn't really fit into the theme very well, but god damn I can make it.


Tea!

The kettle is still warm so I use the remaining water to warm my pot. I quickly swirl the water in my little brown pot with my left hand as I push the spout of the kettle around the tap with my right. Then I set my pot down on the surface and twist the tap, water gushing out into the kettle. I'll need about a litre and a half. After about 20 seconds I stopped the tap, check the water level and move the kettle onto it's base where I flick the switch and instantly I can hear the wooshing sound of the appliance in action. Electric kettles really are the best thing about modern living.

Picking up my pot I pour a little of the hot water into my cup. Warming the cup prior to use is important and I guess this also warms the spout of my kettle which will probably improve my tea immesurably, obviously. Deciding between my loose leaf PG tips, un-named "dust" tea I bought for a pound in egypt and my newly aquired Darjeeling leaf tea that my mother bought me in India is arguably the hardest descion I've made all day, but I opt for the PG tips because I'm in the mood for a strong tea. The Darjeeling is rather fruity, almost herbal, incredibly delectable it must be said. The dust tea is nice in it's own way, although ultimately not too different from the PG tips. I pour out the hot water, through my strainer of course, and scoop two spoonfuls out of my tea caddy, a metal jar with an ornate thistle design, and into my pot. The kettle's nearly boiled now - the steam wooshing out of the spout as a whine fills the air. As the wee red light clicks off I pour the boiling water into my pot, place the lid on it and give it a good shake. Setting it down on my tea-tray and fitting the tea-cosy (knitted by someone's Nana and bought for a pound at a jumble sale) I consider the option of a biscuit. 'No', I conclude, 'there's only a few digestives left.' I open the fridge and pour a dash of milk into my metal milk jug. The bottle's run out so I rinse it under the tap to get rid of the dregs and put it in the bag for recycling. I throw the lid into the bin.

After 5 minutes I pour the hot water from my cup - through the strainer of course - and then place my strainer over it. I pour out the hot hazel coloured liquid and sniff the air. Aromas sweeter than any perfume. The nectar of the Gods. As I splash milk into the cup I gaze, as I always do, at the milky mushroom cloud exploding beneath the surface. The billowing of milk in the bronze deeps. This is the sight that fills my heart with expectant joy. This is a cup of tea.


Then I pretensiously juggled with my tea pot, cup and milk jug in order to impress guests.

allison:
I don't really write for any reason, but sometimes there's a scene in my head and I have the urge to write it down.

--

Eight o’clock on a Saturday night, the pub is teeming with people and I don’t know if I can go through with this. The air is stagnant and stale, and the beer in my hand is warm. I feel somewhat uncomfortable with my choice of clothing, because it seems that my shirt collar is shrinking around my throat. I undo yet another button and quickly check my watch, realizing that my entire body is shaking uncontrollably. I’m aware that I have less than ten minutes before I have to walk onto the stage in front of this crowd, and I suddenly have the urge to vomit.

Suppressing it, I pick up my guitar. Holding it seems to calm me a little, and I take that as a good sign. For the fifth time tonight I tune the six worn, comfortable strings. They’ll have to be changed later tonight. The guy on stage finishes his mediocre cover of an old Lightfoot tune, and says that’s all for him tonight. As he passes me, he puts a hand on my shoulder and wishes me good luck. That doesn’t really help my nerves at all, and so I do my best to but one foot in front of the other and walk out into the pool of light around the tiny stage. Because I have no idea what else to do, I down the last of my pint and put the glass on the floor. It feels like all the eyes in the place are on me, and I think I just might pass out. I pull myself together.

After what seems like ten years, I adjust the microphone and confer with the sound guy. “A little more vocal in the monitor?” I ask, and he obliges. Test, test, checkcheckcheck, one, two, three – my voice resonates through the dimly lit room and I feel cripplingly self-conscious. The sound is fine, and I think I’m just buying time. I squint from the few bright lights focused on me as I lean forward, and I introduce myself because the MC seems to have disappeared. I think I saw him leave with the woman who’d sat all night at the bar. She looked lonely and tired, and a little bit desperate. She needs him more than I do.

I take a deep breath, and I hear someone in the audience clear his throat. A sneeze. Every sound around me is amplified and I do my best to block it out. I give a preamble to my song, one that I thought was quite witty – apparently not, according to this crowd – and I begin to play the intro. My voice cracks on the first note I sing. I play another couple bars on my old Martin guitar, hoping that I can pull myself together. Again, I start to sing. When I reach the first chorus, all I can feel is the chord progression playing itself on my fingers and all I can hear is my own voice, weaving itself into a melody.  I close my eyes and I see the words in front of me.
By the end of my set, the crowd seems pleased, and I think I’ve done a fair enough job. I muster up a smile, and dip my head quickly, then I walk off the stage as quietly as possible. The applause dies away, and the din of conversation buzzes throughout the space again. I let the adrenaline rush die away, and I fade back into the crowd.

Eris:

--- Quote from: Oli on 17 Aug 2008, 07:30 ---It didn't really fit into the theme very well, but god damn I can make it.

--- End quote ---

You don't have to use the theme if you already have something written. It was just a way to start things off if people wanted to participate but were having trouble coming up with ideas.

Both Oli's and Allison's stories are lovely (I had read Ali's before when reading her blawg) and emotive. I quite like them!

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