great creative writing is the result of careful

What Is Creative Writing? (Ultimate Guide + 20 Examples)

Creative writing begins with a blank page and the courage to fill it with the stories only you can tell.

I face this intimidating blank page daily–and I have for the better part of 20+ years.

In this guide, you’ll learn all the ins and outs of creative writing with tons of examples.

What Is Creative Writing (Long Description)?

Creative Writing is the art of using words to express ideas and emotions in imaginative ways. It encompasses various forms including novels, poetry, and plays, focusing on narrative craft, character development, and the use of literary tropes.

Bright, colorful creative writer's desk with notebook and typewriter -- What Is Creative Writing

Table of Contents

Let’s expand on that definition a bit.

Creative writing is an art form that transcends traditional literature boundaries.

It includes professional, journalistic, academic, and technical writing. This type of writing emphasizes narrative craft, character development, and literary tropes. It also explores poetry and poetics traditions.

In essence, creative writing lets you express ideas and emotions uniquely and imaginatively.

It’s about the freedom to invent worlds, characters, and stories. These creations evoke a spectrum of emotions in readers.

Creative writing covers fiction, poetry, and everything in between.

It allows writers to express inner thoughts and feelings. Often, it reflects human experiences through a fabricated lens.

Types of Creative Writing

There are many types of creative writing that we need to explain.

Some of the most common types:

Short stories
Screenplays
Flash fiction
Creative Nonfiction

Short Stories (The Brief Escape)

Short stories are like narrative treasures.

They are compact but impactful, telling a full story within a limited word count. These tales often focus on a single character or a crucial moment.

Short stories are known for their brevity.

They deliver emotion and insight in a concise yet powerful package. This format is ideal for exploring diverse genres, themes, and characters. It leaves a lasting impression on readers.

Example: Emma discovers an old photo of her smiling grandmother. It’s a rarity. Through flashbacks, Emma learns about her grandmother’s wartime love story. She comes to understand her grandmother’s resilience and the value of joy.

Novels (The Long Journey)

Novels are extensive explorations of character, plot, and setting.

They span thousands of words, giving writers the space to create entire worlds. Novels can weave complex stories across various themes and timelines.

The length of a novel allows for deep narrative and character development.

Readers get an immersive experience.

Example: Across the Divide tells of two siblings separated in childhood. They grow up in different cultures. Their reunion highlights the strength of family bonds, despite distance and differences.

Poetry (The Soul’s Language)

Poetry expresses ideas and emotions through rhythm, sound, and word beauty.

It distills emotions and thoughts into verses. Poetry often uses metaphors, similes, and figurative language to reach the reader’s heart and mind.

Poetry ranges from structured forms, like sonnets, to free verse.

The latter breaks away from traditional formats for more expressive thought.

Example: Whispers of Dawn is a poem collection capturing morning’s quiet moments. “First Light” personifies dawn as a painter. It brings colors of hope and renewal to the world.

Plays (The Dramatic Dialogue)

Plays are meant for performance. They bring characters and conflicts to life through dialogue and action.

This format uniquely explores human relationships and societal issues.

Playwrights face the challenge of conveying setting, emotion, and plot through dialogue and directions.

Example: Echoes of Tomorrow is set in a dystopian future. Memories can be bought and sold. It follows siblings on a quest to retrieve their stolen memories. They learn the cost of living in a world where the past has a price.

Screenplays (Cinema’s Blueprint)

Screenplays outline narratives for films and TV shows.

They require an understanding of visual storytelling, pacing, and dialogue. Screenplays must fit film production constraints.

Example: The Last Light is a screenplay for a sci-fi film. Humanity’s survivors on a dying Earth seek a new planet. The story focuses on spacecraft Argo’s crew as they face mission challenges and internal dynamics.

Memoirs (The Personal Journey)

Memoirs provide insight into an author’s life, focusing on personal experiences and emotional journeys.

They differ from autobiographies by concentrating on specific themes or events.

Memoirs invite readers into the author’s world.

They share lessons learned and hardships overcome.

Example: Under the Mango Tree is a memoir by Maria Gomez. It shares her childhood memories in rural Colombia. The mango tree in their yard symbolizes home, growth, and nostalgia. Maria reflects on her journey to a new life in America.

Flash Fiction (The Quick Twist)

Flash fiction tells stories in under 1,000 words.

It’s about crafting compelling narratives concisely. Each word in flash fiction must count, often leading to a twist.

This format captures life’s vivid moments, delivering quick, impactful insights.

Example: The Last Message features an astronaut’s final Earth message as her spacecraft drifts away. In 500 words, it explores isolation, hope, and the desire to connect against all odds.

Creative Nonfiction (The Factual Tale)

Creative nonfiction combines factual accuracy with creative storytelling.

This genre covers real events, people, and places with a twist. It uses descriptive language and narrative arcs to make true stories engaging.

Creative nonfiction includes biographies, essays, and travelogues.

Example: Echoes of Everest follows the author’s Mount Everest climb. It mixes factual details with personal reflections and the history of past climbers. The narrative captures the climb’s beauty and challenges, offering an immersive experience.

Fantasy (The World Beyond)

Fantasy transports readers to magical and mythical worlds.

It explores themes like good vs. evil and heroism in unreal settings. Fantasy requires careful world-building to create believable yet fantastic realms.

Example: The Crystal of Azmar tells of a young girl destined to save her world from darkness. She learns she’s the last sorceress in a forgotten lineage. Her journey involves mastering powers, forming alliances, and uncovering ancient kingdom myths.

Science Fiction (The Future Imagined)

Science fiction delves into futuristic and scientific themes.

It questions the impact of advancements on society and individuals.

Science fiction ranges from speculative to hard sci-fi, focusing on plausible futures.

Example: When the Stars Whisper is set in a future where humanity communicates with distant galaxies. It centers on a scientist who finds an alien message. This discovery prompts a deep look at humanity’s universe role and interstellar communication.

Watch this great video that explores the question, “What is creative writing?” and “How to get started?”:

What Are the 5 Cs of Creative Writing?

The 5 Cs of creative writing are fundamental pillars.

They guide writers to produce compelling and impactful work. These principles—Clarity, Coherence, Conciseness, Creativity, and Consistency—help craft stories that engage and entertain.

They also resonate deeply with readers. Let’s explore each of these critical components.

Clarity makes your writing understandable and accessible.

It involves choosing the right words and constructing clear sentences. Your narrative should be easy to follow.

In creative writing, clarity means conveying complex ideas in a digestible and enjoyable way.

Coherence ensures your writing flows logically.

It’s crucial for maintaining the reader’s interest. Characters should develop believably, and plots should progress logically. This makes the narrative feel cohesive.

Conciseness

Conciseness is about expressing ideas succinctly.

It’s being economical with words and avoiding redundancy. This principle helps maintain pace and tension, engaging readers throughout the story.

Creativity is the heart of creative writing.

It allows writers to invent new worlds and create memorable characters. Creativity involves originality and imagination. It’s seeing the world in unique ways and sharing that vision.

Consistency

Consistency maintains a uniform tone, style, and voice.

It means being faithful to the world you’ve created. Characters should act true to their development. This builds trust with readers, making your story immersive and believable.

Is Creative Writing Easy?

Creative writing is both rewarding and challenging.

Crafting stories from your imagination involves more than just words on a page. It requires discipline and a deep understanding of language and narrative structure.

Exploring complex characters and themes is also key.

Refining and revising your work is crucial for developing your voice.

The ease of creative writing varies. Some find the freedom of expression liberating.

Others struggle with writer’s block or plot development challenges. However, practice and feedback make creative writing more fulfilling.

What Does a Creative Writer Do?

A creative writer weaves narratives that entertain, enlighten, and inspire.

Writers explore both the world they create and the emotions they wish to evoke. Their tasks are diverse, involving more than just writing.

Creative writers develop ideas, research, and plan their stories.

They create characters and outline plots with attention to detail. Drafting and revising their work is a significant part of their process. They strive for the 5 Cs of compelling writing.

Writers engage with the literary community, seeking feedback and participating in workshops.

They may navigate the publishing world with agents and editors.

Creative writers are storytellers, craftsmen, and artists. They bring narratives to life, enriching our lives and expanding our imaginations.

How to Get Started With Creative Writing?

Embarking on a creative writing journey can feel like standing at the edge of a vast and mysterious forest.

The path is not always clear, but the adventure is calling.

Here’s how to take your first steps into the world of creative writing:

Find a time of day when your mind is most alert and creative.
Create a comfortable writing space free from distractions.
Use prompts to spark your imagination. They can be as simple as a word, a phrase, or an image.
Try writing for 15-20 minutes on a prompt without editing yourself. Let the ideas flow freely.
Reading is fuel for your writing. Explore various genres and styles.
Pay attention to how your favorite authors construct their sentences, develop characters, and build their worlds.
Don’t pressure yourself to write a novel right away. Begin with short stories or poems.
Small projects can help you hone your skills and boost your confidence.
Look for writing groups in your area or online. These communities offer support, feedback, and motivation.
Participating in workshops or classes can also provide valuable insights into your writing.
Understand that your first draft is just the beginning. Revising your work is where the real magic happens.
Be open to feedback and willing to rework your pieces.
Carry a notebook or digital recorder to jot down ideas, observations, and snippets of conversations.
These notes can be gold mines for future writing projects.

Final Thoughts: What Is Creative Writing?

Creative writing is an invitation to explore the unknown, to give voice to the silenced, and to celebrate the human spirit in all its forms.

Check out these creative writing tools (that I highly recommend):

What is Creative Writing?

Discover What Is Creative Writing as we unravel the art of self-expression through words. In this blog, learn the meaning and techniques of creative writing, igniting your imagination and honing your storytelling skills. Unlock the world of literary creativity and learn how to craft compelling narratives that captivate readers.

Exclusive 40% OFF

Training Outcomes Within Your Budget!

We ensure quality, budget-alignment, and timely delivery by our expert instructors.

Share this Resource

Report Writing Course
Effective Communication Skills
Speed Writing Course
E-mail Etiquette Training
Interpersonal Skills Training Course

Creative Writing is a form of art that allows people to express their thoughts, ideas, and emotions through the written word. It is a mode of self-expression that combines imagination with linguistic skills to create compelling narratives, poems, and other forms of literature. A Statista survey found that 76,300 Authors, Writers and Translators work in the United Kingdom alone in 2023. This shows Creative Writing is a demanding career worldwide.To know more about it, read this blog, to learn What is Creative Writing, how to write captivating narratives, and discover the essence of expressive writing.

Table of Contents

1) Understanding What is Creative Writing

2) Key elements of Creative Writing

3) Types of Creative Writing

4) Importance of Creative Writing

5) The Creative Writing process

6) Tips for effective Content Writing

7) Conclusion

Understanding What is Creative Writing

Creative Writing is the art of crafting original content that elicits readers' emotions, thoughts, and imagination. Unlike Academic or Technical Writing, Creative Writing allows for more personal expression and imaginative exploration. It encompasses various forms such as fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and drama, all of which share the common thread of artistic storytelling.

Key elements of Creative Writing

2) Character development: Compelling characters are the heart of any great story. Through careful development, characters become relatable, complex, and capable of driving the plot forward.

3) Setting and atmosphere: The setting and atmosphere create the backdrop for the story. By skilfully crafting these elements, Writers can enhance the overall mood and tone, allowing readers to feel like they're living within the story's world.

4) Plot and storytelling: A well-crafted story keeps readers engaged and invested in the narrative's progression. This includes introducing conflicts, building tension, and crafting satisfying resolutions .

5) Dialogue and voice: Dialogue adds authenticity to characters and provides insight into their personalities. A distinctive narrative voice also contributes to the story's uniqueness and captivates readers.

Types of Creative Writing

Creative Writing encompasses various genres and forms, each offering a unique platform for expressing creativity, storytelling, and emotion. As you delve into the world of Creative Writing, it's essential to explore the various types and discover which resonates with you the most. Here are some of the prominent types of Creative Writing:

1) Fiction

Fiction is perhaps the most well-known type of Creative Writing. It involves inventing characters, settings, and plotlines from scratch. Writers have the freedom to create entire worlds and realities, whether they're set in the past, present, future, or even in alternate dimensions.

Novels, short stories, novellas, and flash fiction are all forms of fiction that engage readers through compelling characters, intriguing conflicts, and imaginative settings. From fantasy realms to gritty crime dramas, fiction transports readers to new and exciting places.

2) Poetry

Poetry is the art of condensing language to evoke emotions, provoke thoughts, and communicate complex ideas using rhythm, rhyme, and vivid imagery. Poems' conciseness requires Writers to choose their words carefully, often crafting multiple layers of meaning within a few lines.

Poetry can take various forms, including sonnets, haikus, free verse, and slam poetry. Each form carries its own rules and conventions, allowing Poets to experiment with structure and sound to create impactful compositions. Moreover, poetry delves into the depth of emotions, exploring themes ranging from love and nature to social issues and personal reflections.

3) Creative non-fiction

Non-fiction writing draws from real-life experiences, observations, and research to convey information, insights, and personal perspectives. This form includes genres such as essays, memoirs, biographies, autobiographies, and journalistic pieces.

Non-fiction Writers blend storytelling with factual accuracy, presenting their ideas in a compelling and informative manner. Personal essays offer a glimpse into the writer's thoughts and experiences. At the same time, memoirs and autobiographies share personal journeys and reflections, connecting readers with the author's life story.

4) Drama and playwriting

Playwriting is the creation of scripts for theatrical performances. The challenge lies in crafting engaging dialogue and constructing scenes that captivate both the audience and the performers.

Dramatic Writing requires an understanding of pacing, character motivations, and the visual aspects of storytelling. While Theatrical Writing requires a keen sense of the following:

a) Character dynamics: Building relationships between characters and exploring their motivations and conflicts.

b) Stage directions: Providing clear instructions for actors, directors, and stage designers to bring the play to life.

c) Dramatic structure: Crafting acts and scenes that build tension and engage the audience.

5) Satire and humour

Satire and humour utilise wit, sarcasm, and clever wordplay to critique and mock societal norms, institutions, and human behaviour. This form of Creative Writing often challenges readers to view the world from a different perspective.

Moreover, it encourages them to question established conventions. Satirical works, whether in literature, essays, or satirical news articles, aim to entertain while also prompting reflection on serious topics.

Master Copywriting skills with our Copywriting Course – join today and become an expert Copywriter!

Importance of Creative Writing

Creative Writing holds a profound significance beyond its role as a literary pursuit. It bridges imagination and reality, fostering personal growth, communication skills, and cultural preservation. Here's a closer look at why Creative Writing is of paramount importance:

1) Personal expression and catharsis

Creative Writing is a sanctuary for self-expression. Individuals can voice their innermost thoughts, emotions, and experiences through poetry, stories, and essays. This act of sharing vulnerabilities and joy brings about a cathartic release, offering a therapeutic outlet for emotional expression. Moreover, it cultivates a deeper understanding of oneself, promoting self-awareness and self-acceptance.

2) Cultivation of communication skills

The art of Creative Writing cultivates effective Communication Skills that transcend the written word. Writers learn to convey ideas, concepts, and feelings coherently and captivatingly.

This proficiency extends to verbal communication, enabling Writers to articulate their thoughts with clarity and eloquence. As a result, it enriches interpersonal relationships and professional endeavours.

3) Nurturing empathy and perspective

Writers develop a heightened sense of empathy as they craft diverse characters and explore multifaceted narratives. Immersing oneself in the shoes of different characters fosters understanding and tolerance for various viewpoints and backgrounds. Readers, in turn, experience this empathy, gaining insight into the complexities of human nature and the diverse tapestry of human experience.

4) Exploration of social issues

Writers wield the power to effect change through their words. They can shed light on societal issues, challenge norms, and provoke critical conversations. By addressing topics such as social justice, equality, and environmental concerns, Creative Writing becomes a catalyst for positive transformation and advocacy.

5) Connection and impact

Creative Writing builds bridges between individuals by establishing connections on emotional and intellectual levels. Stories resonate across cultures, transcending geographical and temporal boundaries. The impact of a well-crafted story can be enduring, leaving a mark on readers' hearts and minds.

Unlock your creative potential with our Creative Writing Training - register now!

The Creative Writing process

Creating a compelling piece of Creative Writing is a journey that involves a series of steps, each contributing to the evolution of your story. Whether you're crafting a short story, a novel, or a poem, here's a breakdown of the Creative Writing process in eight essential steps:

1) Finding inspiration

The process begins with a moment of inspiration—a fleeting thought, an intriguing image, or a powerful emotion. Inspiration can strike anywhere—nature, experiences, dreams, or simple observation.

Keep a journal or digital note-taking app to capture these sparks of inspiration as they occur. Explore your interests, passions, and emotions to identify themes and ideas that resonate with you.

2) Exploring ideas and brainstorming

Once you've identified an inspiring concept, delve deeper. Brainstorm ideas related to characters, settings, conflicts, and themes. Jot down all possibilities, allowing your imagination to roam freely. This stage is about generating a wealth of creative options that will serve as building blocks for your story.

3) Planning and outlining

Organise your thoughts by creating an outline. Outline your story's major plot points, character arcs, and pivotal moments. This outline acts as a roadmap, guiding you through the narrative's progression while providing flexibility for creative surprises.

4) Writing the first draft

Once you are done with your outline, start writing your first draft. Don't worry about perfection—focus on getting your ideas onto paper. Let your creativity flow and allow your characters to surprise you. The goal is to have a complete manuscript, even if it's messy and imperfect.

5) Revising for content

Once the first draft is complete, take a step back before revisiting your work. During this stage, focus on revising for content. Analyse the structure of your plot, the development of your characters, and the coherence of your themes. Make necessary changes, add details, and refine dialogue. Ensure that your story's foundation is solid before moving on.

6) Editing and polishing

Edit your Manuscript for grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, and style. Pay attention to clarity and consistency. Also, focus on enhancing the flow of your writing and creating a polished narrative that engages readers.

7) Feedback and peer review

Share your revised work with others—friends, writing groups, or beta readers—to gather feedback. Constructive criticism can highlight blind spots and offer perspectives you might have missed. Use this feedback to refine your work further.

8) Finalising and proofreading

Incorporate the feedback you've received and make final revisions. Proofread meticulously for any remaining errors. Ensure that your work is formatted correctly and adheres to any submission guidelines if you plan to publish or share it.

Tips for effective Creative Writing

Here are some of the useful tips you should consider incorporating in your process of writing :

1) Show, don't tell: Instead of directly stating emotions or details, "showing" involves using actions, thoughts, and dialogue to convey information. This technique allows readers to draw their own conclusions and become more immersed in the story.

2) Use of metaphors and similes: Metaphors and similes offer creative ways to describe complex concepts by comparing them to something familiar. These literary devices add depth and creativity to your writing.

3) Building suspense and tension: By strategically withholding information and creating unanswered questions, Writers can build suspense and keep readers eagerly turning pages.

4) Crafting memorable beginnings and endings: A strong opening captures readers' attention, while a satisfying conclusion leaves a lasting impact. These elements bookend your story and influence readers' overall impression.

5) Experimenting with point of view: The choice of point of view (first person, third person, etc.) shapes how readers experience the story. Experimenting with different perspectives can lead to unique narrative opportunities.

Conclusion

We hope this blog gave you a clear idea of What is Creative Writing, along with its process and useful tips. The Creative Writing process is not linear; you might find yourself revisiting earlier steps as your story evolves. Embrace the journey, allowing your writing to develop and transform through each phase.

Enhance your Academic Writing prowess with our comprehensive Academic Writing Masterclass . - sign up now!

Frequently Asked Questions

a) Literary Agent

b) Screenwriter

c) Video Game Story Writer

d) Copywriter

e) Website Editor

f) Creative Director

There are several resources or recommended readings which can help you to hone your Creative Writing skills. Here we have discussed some of such resources:

a) “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft" by Stephen King

b) "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life" by Anne Lamott

c) "Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within" by Natalie Goldberg

d) Joining book clubs

e) Reading a variety of authors and genre

f) Practicing writing regular prompts and exercises.

The Knowledge Academy takes global learning to new heights, offering over 30,000 online courses across 490+ locations in 220 countries. This expansive reach ensures accessibility and convenience for learners worldwide. Alongside our diverse Online Course Catalogue, encompassing 17 major categories, we go the extra mile by providing a plethora of free educational Online Resources like News updates, Blogs , videos, webinars, and interview questions. Tailoring learning experiences further, professionals can maximise value with customisable Course Bundles of TKA .

The Knowledge Academy’s Knowledge Pass , a prepaid voucher, adds another layer of flexibility, allowing course bookings over a 12-month period. Join us on a journey where education knows no bounds.

The Knowledge Academy offers various Personal Development courses , including Organisational skills training, Emotional Intelligence Training, and Report Writing Course. These courses cater to different skill levels, providing comprehensive insights into Journalism . Our Business Skills blogs covers a range of topics related to Sports Journalism, offering valuable resources, best practices, and industry insights. Whether you are a beginner or looking to advance your Creative Writing skills, The Knowledge Academy's diverse courses and informative blogs have you covered.

Upcoming Business Skills Resources Batches & Dates

Fri 14th Jun 2024

Fri 30th Aug 2024

Fri 11th Oct 2024

Fri 13th Dec 2024

Get A Quote

WHO WILL BE FUNDING THE COURSE?

My employer

By submitting your details you agree to be contacted in order to respond to your enquiry

Business Analysis
Lean Six Sigma Certification

Share this course

Our biggest spring sale.

We cannot process your enquiry without contacting you, please tick to confirm your consent to us for contacting you about your enquiry.

By submitting your details you agree to be contacted in order to respond to your enquiry.

We may not have the course you’re looking for. If you enquire or give us a call on 01344203999 and speak to our training experts, we may still be able to help with your training requirements.

Or select from our popular topics

ITIL® Certification
Scrum Certification
Change Management Certification
Business Analysis Courses
Microsoft Azure Certification
Microsoft Excel Courses
Microsoft Project
Explore more courses

Press esc to close

Fill out your contact details below and our training experts will be in touch.

Fill out your contact details below

Thank you for your enquiry!

One of our training experts will be in touch shortly to go over your training requirements.

Back to Course Information

Fill out your contact details below so we can get in touch with you regarding your training requirements.

* WHO WILL BE FUNDING THE COURSE?

Preferred Contact Method

No preference

Back to course information

Fill out your training details below

Fill out your training details below so we have a better idea of what your training requirements are.

HOW MANY DELEGATES NEED TRAINING?

HOW DO YOU WANT THE COURSE DELIVERED?

Online Instructor-led

Online Self-paced

WHEN WOULD YOU LIKE TO TAKE THIS COURSE?

Next 2 - 4 months

WHAT IS YOUR REASON FOR ENQUIRING?

Looking for some information

Looking for a discount

I want to book but have questions

One of our training experts will be in touch shortly to go overy your training requirements.

Your privacy & cookies!

Like many websites we use cookies. We care about your data and experience, so to give you the best possible experience using our site, we store a very limited amount of your data. Continuing to use this site or clicking “Accept & close” means that you agree to our use of cookies. Learn more about our privacy policy and cookie policy cookie policy .

We use cookies that are essential for our site to work. Please visit our cookie policy for more information. To accept all cookies click 'Accept & close'.

25 Dos And Don’ts Of Creative Writing

Last Updated on April 30, 2023 by Dr Sharon Baisil MD

Are you looking to take your creative writing to the next level? If so, then you’ve come to the right place! As a creative writing expert with years of experience in the industry, I’m here to provide you with 25 essential Dos and Don’ts that will help make your work stand out.

These tips are designed for writers who have an innate desire for innovation; they’ll show you how to capture readers’ attention and create stories that truly resonate. From learning when it’s best not to use pronouns or contractions, to understand what kind of structure works best for different genres — these Do’s and Dont’s are sure to give your writing a boost.

So let’s get started! Read on as we explore everything from language choices and character development , all the way through plotting techniques — preparing you for success no matter what type of story you’re trying to tell.

Do Write Every Day

Writing is an art, and like any other skill, it requires daily practice to hone the craft. If you want to become a better writer, then writing needs to be part of your routine. It’s important to write every day if you hope to see improvements in your work. Establishing regular writing time each day helps make sure that you’re dedicating enough effort towards honing your skills. The more you write, the easier it will become for ideas to flow naturally onto paper.

When creating this routine, don’t forget to include plenty of breaks so that you can take some much-needed rest and recharge. Even though it’s important not to miss days when working on improving your writing, taking small pauses here and there can help increase creativity and focus on the task at hand. With consistent daily practice and periodic self-care breaks woven into your schedule, you’ll find that creative words come more easily with each passing day!

Don’t Overthink!

Writing can be an enriching experience, but it’s important not to overthink! Overanalyzing and stressing too much about your creative work inhibits the organic process of creativity. Instead, stay relaxed and let your ideas flow freely onto the page. This will allow you to create something that is truly unique and meaningful.

Don’t bog yourself down with complex rules or expectations; writing should come from a place of joy and uninhibited expression. Freely explore different possibilities without worrying about what others may think or criticize. You are creating something special when you write–a piece of art that reflects who you are as an artist. Trust in yourself and don’t be afraid to make mistakes along the way: these moments will teach you valuable lessons about craftsmanship, which can only enhance your writing style .

Do Follow A Schedule

Creating a writing schedule is an essential part of the creative process. It helps writers to stay focused and make progress in their projects, while also allowing them to take breaks throughout the day. Here are some helpful tips for establishing a productive writing routine:

Write regularly – Setting aside time each day (or week) will help you become more consistent with your work and ensure that you’re making progress on your project.
Set deadlines – Having a goal in mind can help motivate you to complete tasks efficiently and on time. Plus, it’s always satisfying when you can check off items from your list!
Create goals – Making small, achievable goals for yourself each week or month can keep you motivated as well as measure how much progress you’ve made since beginning your project.
Take breaks – Allowing yourself moments of rest during long days of writing will help refresh your mind and recharge your creativity.
Celebrate successes – Finishing something is always cause for celebration—no matter how big or small! Reward yourself accordingly whenever possible.

Taking these steps towards creating a writing schedule not only sets up boundaries between work time and leisure time but also allows us to achieve our desired results faster and easier than ever before. Establishing this habit early on in the creative process makes all the difference when it comes to productivity and efficiency. With just a few simple measures, we can establish effective routines that lead us closer to achieving our ultimate goals.

Don’t Get Led By Someone

Having a schedule is an invaluable asset to any creative writer. It helps keep you organized and on track so that your writing can flow without interruption from start to finish. However, it’s important not to get led by someone else while following a writing routine; instead, the focus should be on doing what works best for you as an individual.

In order to create something truly unique and special, it’s essential to draw inspiration only from within. Draw strength from self-reflection and evaluation rather than external sources – use these tools as motivation for creating something extraordinary! Not getting carried away by another person’s thoughts or beliefs will help ensure that each piece stands out with its own voice and style – no matter who reads it.

Don’t Worry About The Word Count!

When it comes to creative writing, one of the most commonly asked questions is ‘How long should my piece be?’ Many writers feel pressure to include as much content and detail as possible in their pieces. However, this can lead to overwriting or even a lack of focus on the story itself.

Therefore, here are three tips for writers who want to avoid worrying about word count:

Engage in writing exercises – try out different styles and genres without being limited by a certain length requirement. This will help you find your own unique voice as an author and give you confidence when approaching longer projects.
Write down ideas that come up during your daily life – these could become great starting points for stories later on! It’s also beneficial to have a few notes handy if writer’s block strikes while working on larger projects.
Connect with other authors or friends – talking through your work with another person can really help you gain clarity and perspective on what works well and what might need editing before submission time.

In short, don’t let yourself get bogged down in worrying about word count; instead use writing exercises, jotting down ideas from everyday life, and engaging with author friends as ways to hone your craft and develop more confident storytelling skills!

Do Write It Down!

Writing down your ideas can be a great way to keep track of them and make sure they don’t slip away. Taking notes is an essential part of the creative writing process, as it allows you to record those fleeting moments when inspiration strikes. Writing down what comes to mind can also help to develop new thoughts and connections that may not have occurred without recording them. Keeping records of your ideas will give you something to refer back to later, so you can refine or expand upon existing concepts with ease.

When embarking on any kind of creative project, it’s important to take note of details both big and small in order to capture every aspect of the idea. Whether recording through the written word, audio recordings, drawings, or photographs – whatever form works best for you – capturing all aspects of the concept will ensure nothing gets lost along the way.

Take time each day (or even throughout) to write down key points and observations so these memories are captured while they’re still fresh in your mind. Doing this regularly helps foster creativity by creating a safe space where ideas can be explored freely without fear of forgetting them!

Do Learn Grammar

It is essential for any creative writer to understand the basics of grammar. A good grasp of grammar can help you convey your thoughts and ideas in the most effective manner, without any confusion or ambiguity. With correct punctuation, a reader will be able to easily follow along with what you are trying to say.

Grammar forms an integral part of every language and it is important that writers learn how to use it correctly in their work. Learning the parts of speech such as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, etc., allows one to express his/her thoughts with clarity and precision. Knowing about correct punctuation also helps in conveying messages accurately by eliminating miscommunication between readers and writers. Furthermore, learning phrases and clauses enable a writer to create more complex sentences which have a greater impact on the readers. All these skills need to be mastered if one wishes to take their writing up a notch.

Therefore, understanding grammar basics not only enhances our knowledge but also makes us better communicators through our writing; something that cannot be overlooked when striving for success as a creative writer!

Do Regular Writing Exercises

Now that you have learned the basics of grammar, it’s time to move on to more creative writing exercises. Doing regular writing drills and prompts can help foster creativity in your work while still following the rules of grammar. Creative writing exercises are designed to stimulate new ideas and allow for experimentation with structure and style. Writing drills involve a combination of free-writing, brainstorming, outlining, developing characters, and creating scenes – all essential components for great creative writing!

With these exercises in mind, take some time out of each day or week (whichever works best for your schedule) to try something new with words. Set yourself up with some simple but effective writing prompts like ‘Describe an experience using only five senses’ or ‘Write a story in fifteen minutes without stopping’ – any activity which encourages you to think differently about how you use language is beneficial.

It may be daunting at first but if you stick with it then you will start seeing results quickly as your skills improve! Remember no matter what type of exercise you do when engaging in creative writing – explore freely, express honestly, and enjoy fully!

Don’t Pay Attention To Others

The worst thing a creative writer can do is pay too much attention to others. Of course, advice and constructive criticism are important for improvement, but one should never forget that the most meaningful input comes from within. It’s critical to listen to your own voice above all else; only you know how best to convey what’s in your heart. Don’t let the opinions of others sway or confuse the message you wish to send through your writing.

When we disregard criticism and ignore those trying to impose their views onto us, our creativity flourishes unhindered by external forces. This allows us to write with freedom and authenticity; when we trust ourselves more than anyone else, our writing will carry its intended meaning accurately without being skewed by other people’s perspectives. In this way, it is essential not to focus on outside voices so that our work becomes truly ours.

It may be difficult at times but always remember: If you want your story told correctly, you must tell it yourself! Listen carefully to your inner muse and don’t let anyone distract you from expressing yourself honestly and genuinely through words.

Do Make Author Friends

Now that you’ve brushed up on the don’ts of creative writing, it’s time to turn your attention toward what you should be doing. One ‘do’ that is essential for any writer is to make author friends and become part of a writing community or author network. By joining forces with other authors, you can benefit from their knowledge, get feedback on your work, receive support when needed, and learn more about the craft of creative writing .

Make sure to join online groups and communities specifically designed for writers so you can connect with like-minded individuals who understand your struggles as an author and have similar goals in mind. Participating in forums will give you advice from experienced professionals and peers alike—both invaluable resources for honing your craft and getting inspired by others’ stories. Additionally, attending readings or events organized by local libraries or bookstores is also a great way to meet new people in the literary world while further developing yourself as a writer.

By taking advantage of these opportunities, you can expand your horizons both personally and professionally; learning tips from fellow scribes while building relationships within the industry—all at once! In short: if there’s one ‘do’ all budding authors should pursue above all else, it’s becoming part of an active author group or writing community where they can share wisdom with each other and continue growing together.

Don’t Be Afraid Of Rewriting

Writing is a process that requires constant revision. Rewriting and revising are essential components of the creative writing journey; don’t be afraid to start over! Here are some tips for rewriting:

Break it down. If you’re having trouble with an entire piece, focus on sections at a time. This can help make your overall task seem less daunting and also help you identify any parts that need improvement or reworking.
Take breaks. It’s important to step away from your work so you can come back with fresh eyes and different perspectives. Taking regular breaks will give you more energy and creativity when tackling a difficult project.
Get feedback. Ask trusted friends or colleagues for their opinion on what needs to be rewritten or changed in your piece. They may bring up issues that weren’t obvious before and provide helpful insight into how your story could improve.

Remember, rewriting isn’t a failure – it’s part of the writing process. Embrace it as an opportunity to hone your craft and create something even better than before!

Share Your Work

Once you’ve written a creative piece that reflects your innermost thoughts, it’s time to share it with the world. Publishing and promoting your work are key to cultivating a successful career in creative writing, so don’t be shy! Posting your work online will give you access to critiques from experienced writers and readers alike. This can provide invaluable insight on how to improve upon current projects as well as inform future works.

When publishing or sharing your work, remember that an audience is always present–even if they’re not directly commenting on your pieces. Craft each post carefully and consider what kind of impression the reader will have after viewing it. You want them to feel inspired by your creativity rather than put off by poor grammar or unfinished ideas. With thoughtful self-promotion and honest feedback, you’ll begin seeing real progress in no time!

Make Your Point Of View

When it comes to creative writing, making your point of view clear is essential. Whether you’re exploring a new idea or simply telling a story, having a distinct viewpoint can give your piece the edge that sets it apart from the rest. To make your point effectively in creative writing, focus on crafting an engaging perspective and delivering it with confidence.

Start by understanding what viewpoint writing is all about – this includes everything from character development to plot twists and more. Before diving into creating something unique, establish who you are as an author, how you want to tell your story, and why readers should care about what you have to say. By giving yourself ample time for reflection before beginning a project, you’ll be able to find the best angle from which to present your creative perspective.

Once you know where you stand on the subject matter at hand, start putting pen to paper and commit to expressing that opinion clearly throughout the work. When done well, developing a strong point-of-view makes reading enjoyable while also allowing readers to feel connected with the message being conveyed – no matter how abstract or unconventional it may be! So don’t be afraid to take risks when crafting something original – just remember that it’s important stay true to yourself as an artist so that others can appreciate your creativity too.

Use Literary Devices

Now it’s time to take your writing to the next level. That means sprinkling in some literary devices like similes, metaphors, and alliteration. These devices can add depth and interest to your writing without being too overwrought or distracting. For example, a metaphor might be used to compare one character to another; an alliterative phrase could help set a tone for describing a setting; and a simile may be employed when you want to draw attention to two characters’ similar behavior.

Using these tools is not only creative but also effective–it gives the reader something interesting that they haven’t seen before. They won’t expect it either, so make sure you use literary devices sparingly and judiciously! Don’t just stuff them into every sentence, as that will become tedious quickly. Instead, pick out the right moments where using such devices would really drive home your point and evoke strong emotions from readers. This way, your audience will be captivated by what you have written instead of feeling bogged down with too many bells and whistles.

Prefer Carrying A Journal With You

Carrying a journal around with you is an essential part of the creative writing process. It can help to capture ideas, express emotions, and inspire creativity. A journal provides a safe space for you to explore your passions without judgement or fear of failure.

With this tool at your disposal, you will be able to make significant progress on any project faster than ever before. Allowing yourself time each day to write down thoughts and reflect upon them can provide clarity in times when focus seems elusive. Furthermore, it’s important to remember that there isn’t one single correct way of using a journal; everyone has different needs and preferences in regard to what works best for them personally. So take some time out of your schedule every day to spend dedicatedly on carrying and utilizing your journal- it could prove invaluable!

Describe Body Language, Actions, And Reactions

The ability to describe body language, actions, and reactions accurately is essential for creative writers. By successfully conveying these elements in your writing, you can enhance the reader’s emotional responses and create a vivid story world.

Body language includes posture, facial expressions, gestures, eye contact, and more. Pay attention to the physical cues of characters in order to bring them alive on the page; consider how their underlying emotions may influence their movements and words. Actions are what characters do – whether this be walking down the street or making a cup of tea – while reactions involve how they feel about it: fear, excitement, anger, etc. Through carefully crafted descriptions of body language, actions, and reactions readers will gain insight into each character’s motivations and feelings as well as gain a better understanding of the world they inhabit.

Use Active Voice Often

Using active voice in creative writing is an essential tool to make your work more engaging and effective. When you write in an active voice, you are effectively telling a story with greater clarity and focus that readers can relate to. Active sentences also help create tension and suspense, as they take on a sense of urgency that drives the narrative forward.

Active writing encourages dynamic sentence structure involving vivid verbs and concrete nouns; this helps draw attention from the reader and makes them feel like they’re part of the action. Moreover, using active voice often allows for fewer words overall which add impactful efficiency to any piece of writing. This gives writers more room for creativity when crafting their stories without sacrificing readability or quality.

Writing in the active voice brings life into your work and can really elevate it beyond what’s expected – so don’t be afraid to embrace it! Whether you’re drafting up poetry, fiction, non-fiction, or even scriptwriting – utilizing the power of active sentences will keep your audience captivated while adding a unique flair to your writing style.

Hook Your Audience

Engaging your audience is the key to success in creative writing. Crafting an effective hook can be daunting, but with a few tips, you’ll be well on your way to captivating and enticing readers.

The most important thing when creating a hook is being mindful of what type of story you’re telling and who it’s for. Consider the genre, tone, and voice – all these are essential factors that play into crafting a successful hook. The best hooks draw readers in by introducing them to characters they will relate to or plotlines they can’t ignore. Make sure whatever opening line you choose makes sense within the context of your story so that it piques curiosity without giving away too much information right off the bat.

Hooking your audience doesn’t have to involve grandiose scenes or flashy visuals; sometimes simple language and subtle hints at deeper meanings can be even more powerful than complex descriptions and big reveals. Keep things interesting and unpredictable as you open up your world – this is how great stories start!

Don’t Use Adverbs Often!

Writing with adverbs often makes your story feel over-stated and cliched. Instead, focus on no-frills language to make sure your writing isn’t predictable or dull. Use creative word choices to amplify the meaning of what you are trying to say without using an adverb. When done right, this can create a more profound impact than relying solely on adverbs.

It’s important to remember that too many adverbs in a single piece of writing can overwhelm readers rather than intrigue them. The key is finding the perfect balance between being descriptive while still allowing the reader room for their own interpretation and imagination when it comes to understanding the scene or narrative at hand. Adjectives should be used sparingly so as not to diminish the power of each one by saturating them throughout your work; instead, use other techniques such as similes and metaphors that allow nuance within your descriptions. This can help draw the audience further into the story than if they were simply bombarded with adverbs alone.

Be careful not to rely too heavily on these types of words—they may sound interesting but will ultimately limit how much creativity you’re able to demonstrate in your writing. Focus more on crafting unique phrases and dialogue that reflect upon who the characters are and how they interact with each other naturally in order for readers to connect with them emotionally. Showcase your talent by bringing out layers of detail through carefully chosen words that engage all senses rather than filling up space with empty adjectives or unnecessary descriptors!

Don’t Take Pressure

It’s important when engaging in creative writing to not take any pressure. Pressure can lead to writer’s block, and that is the enemy of creativity. Instead, you should focus on your own individual creative flow—allowing yourself to write freely without expectations or constraints. Don’t put anything in front of your words; let them come out naturally, just as they are meant to be expressed.

Writing blocks occur when we overthink our ideas or force ourselves into a certain direction with our work. This makes us feel stuck and unable to express ourselves creatively. To avoid this, it’s best to practice no-pressure writing; allow yourself time away from the page so that you don’t become overwhelmed by what you’re trying to create. When you get back to the task at hand, give yourself permission to explore new directions and experiment with different approaches until something resonates with you. In order for creativity to thrive, it needs space—so make sure that you provide it for yourself!

Build Your Personal Opinions

Now that you have freed yourself from the pressure of writing and embraced a new, creative approach to your work, it’s time to build up your own personal opinions. Share your thoughts with others in an effortless manner. Expressing feelings through words is a great way to express yourself without any hesitation or second-guessing. It is important to consider how your opinion may be perceived by the readers and ensure that it reflects the overall purpose of your writing piece.

Always remember that having strong foundations for your ideas can help reinforce the credibility of your message. Make sure to take into account any potential biases when forming these foundations as they will ultimately shape what you intend to communicate. Use language that speaks directly to readers and resonates with them on an emotional level; this helps build trust between you and the reader which creates a sense of connection throughout their reading experience. Ultimately, forming solid personal opinions within creative writing pieces allows for more meaningful conversations around topics and encourages further exploration among writers and readers alike.

Write Something That Speaks To You

Writing something that speaks to you is a great way to express yourself and write your own story. It can be intimidating but it doesn’t have to be! Here are some dos and don’ts for creative writing:

Consider elements like theme, tone, setting, character development, etc. when creating your narrative.
Utilize different literary devices such as imagery and metaphors to create vivid scenes.

Don’ts

Avoid clichéd themes or characters which do not reflect the true emotions behind your work.
Refrain from using long sentences with too many conjunctions or unnecessary details; keep it simple yet captivating.

By following these tips, you can craft an inspiring piece of work that will speak volumes about who you are and what matters most to you. Writing should be enjoyable and freeing so take this chance to explore new ideas while expressing yourself authentically through your creation!

Proofreading is an essential step in the creative writing process. When you’ve finished your piece, it’s important to go back and look at what you’ve written with a critical eye. Make sure that your grammar is correct, spell check for any mistakes, and edit sentences as necessary.

No matter how well-thought-out or interesting your story may be if there are too many errors readers will be put off by them. Keep an eye out for typos and clumsy language choices; these can really take away from the overall impact of your work! It helps to have another pair of eyes comb through what you’ve written – even experienced writers need someone else to review their work sometimes. So don’t overlook this crucial final step: proofread!

Avoid Over-Explaining

It is important to avoid over-explaining when writing creatively. Too many excessive details can distract from the main point of your story and take away its impact. As a creative writer, you should make sure that every sentence serves a purpose in advancing or explaining your plot or characters. Long-windedness won’t do any favors for your work; instead, strive to be succinct yet effective with your words.

Additionally, it’s essential to trust that readers will fill in some of the gaps themselves. Rather than providing all the answers up front, let them draw their own conclusions by leaving out certain bits of information—this creates more suspense and allows them to become invested in the narrative. Think of yourself as a master puppeteer guiding the reader through an emotional journey rather than spelling everything out explicitly; this way they can use their imagination and have fun while reading!

Write Abstract Words Or Emotional Words!

Writing abstract words or emotional language is one of the most important techniques in creative writing. These elements add depth and complexity to your work, allowing readers to connect with you on a deeper level. To make sure that this technique works for you, here are some dos and don’ts:

First, do think outside of the box when it comes to describing emotions. Instead of just saying “happy,” try out words such as ecstatic, euphoric, jubilant, or blissful. And instead of “sad” use more abstract terms like melancholy, despondent, or disheartened. This will give your story added texture so that readers can feel what the characters are feeling without having to be told directly.

Second, don’t forget about using metaphors and similes! They’re powerful tools that allow you to paint vivid pictures with few words–which is exactly what creative writing needs. For example, if you want to describe someone’s sadness you could say something like “the sorrow was heavy around her like thick fog”. By doing this you create an image in the reader’s mind which helps them become immersed in the story even more deeply than before.

Ultimately, by utilizing abstract words and emotive language in your stories you will be able to capture the attention of your audience and create meaningful connections between yourself and their subconscious desires for innovation. So take advantage of these tips today and watch as they help elevate your writing style!

As a creative writing expert, I would like to conclude by saying that the dos and don’ts of creative writing are essential for any aspiring writer. Writing every day and following a schedule is key to becoming an accomplished author. Moreover, it’s important not to get led by someone else or worry about word count when crafting your story. Sharing your work with others can help you understand how to make your point of view more pronounced and gain valuable feedback. Also, adding literary devices will give life to what you write! Finally, always carry a journal with you – this way, you’ll never lose sight of that brilliant idea that came out of nowhere! Creative writing requires both discipline and imagination; however, if done right, its rewards can be truly remarkable!

Most Read Articles in 2023:

Hi, I am a doctor by profession, but I love writing and publishing ebooks. I have self-published 3 ebooks which have sold over 100,000 copies. I am featured in Healthline, Entrepreneur, and in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology blog.

Whether you’re a busy professional or an aspiring author with a day job, there’s no time like now to start publishing your ebook! If you are new to this world or if you are seeking help because your book isn’t selling as well as it should be – don’t worry! You can find here resources, tips, and tricks on what works best and what doesn’t work at all.

In this blog, I will help you to pick up the right tools and resources to make your ebook a best seller.

Home For Fiction – Blog

for thinking people

There are no ads, nor any corporate masters How to show support

June 30, 2020

Why Imagination and Creativity Are not the Same (and why It Matters)

Fiction Writing Tips , Writing

creativity , fiction , imagination , memory , writing

In writing, is imagination the same as creativity? If the answer were “yes”, this post wouldn’t exist. But imagination and creativity are two very different concepts, as we’ll see in more detail, and confusing them can have far-reaching repercussions in your writing.

Indeed, it’s particularly in the field of creative writing that confusing imagination and creativity can be damaging.

Imagination versus creativity. Creativity versus imagination.

Even the order is important, and so in this post I’ll refer to the pair as “imagination and creativity”. The reason? One of the major differences between these two concepts is their temporal order . Imagination comes first and creativity follows, in a different form.

But, as usual, the story doesn’t end with that; it only begins there!

The Role of Imagination in The Creative Writing Process

In my post on the role of memory in creative writing , I mentioned how “great novels materialize not because you remember what you ate last week, but because you remember how you felt on your first day at school”.

That is to say, great creative writing is a result of recalling emotions , thoughts, and states of mind; in other words, affect .

But remembering how you felt on your first day at school is only the starting point. Many people likely remember that; few of them write a novel about it.

But here’s an even sadder possibility: There are likely many people who might remember the feelings of their first day at school, might begin to write a novel, and either never finish it or feel very disappointed with the result.

One possible reason for this is a lack of imagination .

The Disconnect between Personal and Collective Experiences

In this context, lack of imagination refers to a disconnect between the recalled feelings and how they relate to the present reality.

In other words, not having imagination in devising a story signifies an inability to link between the personal experience (what you felt, there and then ) and the collective experience (what one might feel, in some place , at some point ).

Imagination in creative writing is your understanding of how your own experiences allow you to situate yourself in a context: other people (and their experiences), the world, life.

And so, in this sense, imagination is not so much “coming up with stuff out of nothing” – a rather persistent but fallacious concept of creative writing – but rather “coming up with ways to connect existing stuff to other existing stuff”.

Creative writing is a connection game , and that’s where imagination plays a major part; in helping you see the connections.

But just as memory is only the starting point of imagination (in a sense), imagination is not enough on its own. The next link in this chain of the creative writing process, which comes after imagination, is creativity .

After Imagination, Creativity; and You Better not Confuse the Two

Let’s take a closer look at this chain of writing process I referred to above.

Memory of Feelings → Imagination → Creativity

Now, let’s try to flesh out some more details, using a possible example – let’s take the “first day at school” theme that I used earlier.

“On the first day at school, I felt anxious. And then I felt scared when another kid who was really angry and aggressive bullied me and others”. → “Why would a kid be angry on the first day at school? Did he perhaps feel something else and was trying to mask it? What if people express anger instead of what they really feel ? A lot of misunderstandings can occur because of that”.

Notice how with this second link – which is imagination – this prospective author connects their memories to a wider context. It’s no longer about “I, there, then”. It’s about “others, elsewhere, often”.

So far so good. But where does creativity enter the picture? And how does confusing imagination with creativity lead to problems?

Creativity Is to Build the Bridge Designed by Imagination

What this cryptic sentence means is that creativity, as the next link in this chain, needs to provide the author with the way to actually express the connection envisioned by imagination.

Let’s return to our example above. We’re at the second link in the chain, with the author (using imagination) having wondered whether people express anger to mask something else.

Notice how there is no story yet. Perhaps the author has thought “hmm, this would make a good story”, but there is no story yet.

The problem is, if you think imagination and creativity are one and the same, you don’t see that.

There are many people who, having reached this second link in the chain, believe there’s a story there and they begin writing it. “Once upon a time, there was a man who would shout to everyone when he was scared. He was angry at his children and his wife, and he became miserable. All his friends disappeared , his wife left him, and his children hated him. The End”.

It might sound as if I’m oversimplifying, and the example itself is a bit simple – for teaching purposes. But humor me and read again what I’ve said about linear narratives or narrative pacing . Most mediocre fiction out there involves a point-A-to-point-B storyline, with characters flatter than a paper sheet, and things happening to them, not because of them. (For more on this, see my note on adventuristic time ).

In plain English, imagination without creativity leads to narratives without a soul .

Without creativity, there is no narrative tension . Without creativity, there is no connection. In the end, without creativity, the bridges imagination designed to connect your “existing stuff” with other “existing stuff” are ghostly.

So, How Does Creativity Work?

Or, what is the third crucial link in the chain of the writing process? How do we “translate” imagination into creativity?

Let’s get this out of the way immediately: It has nothing to do with plot. All plots have been discovered already , so forget about the plot.

To construct this bridge that will connect your “stuff” with others’ “stuff” and create a commonly shared meaning , you need to figure out how whatever you have to say will be something your audience Just to clarify, this refers to an intended audience , not any particular audience. In other words, I’m not telling you to worry about how your audience will "get it". An intended audience can be one or two specific people, your own self , an alien race, or whatever fictional entity you imagine reading your book. can relate to.

Remember the caption of the first photo accompanying this post? “ Imagination is wanting to take a photo of a woman in a forest; creativity is deciding what the photo should look like”.

And so, to return to our earlier example, if the story revolves around people using anger to mask another feeling, the author needs to figure out how this idea will resonate with the intended audience.

Again, I really must stress that the plot is entirely secondary. It could be that your character is angry because of a past trauma he needs to face. Perhaps he’s angry because he was raised by a tyrannical father – who perhaps is now terminally ill, forcing the character to balance between confusing feelings.

There are endless options plot-wise. What’s more important is your authorial style , comprised of all the strategies you deploy to convey a message – and if you look for inspiration on how to be creative, here’s a handy link to all my fiction-writing tips .

Imagination and Creativity Are about Empathy

Although I spent the post pointing out the differences between imagination and creativity, it doesn’t mean the two concepts don’t share commonalities, too.

The most important such common element is empathy . Deep down, both imagination and creativity are about empathizing with other people. They’re about understanding how your experiences are similar to other people’s or, to put it in its properly empathic perspective, how other people’s experiences are also your own.

Ultimately, writing fiction is about shattering the illusion – no matter how persistent – that humans are separate from one another. We all share common fears, common dreams, common hopes and anxieties. The thoughts of an old Indian woman or of a child in the Philippines could be just like yours.

And this is an emphatically empathic attribute of writing.

One comment: I think imagination and creativity are intertwined somewhat. They help and reinforce each other. If I have imagination, it can help me imagining how I can take that photo of the woman in the forest in a creative way. If I have creativity, I can think about a different and startling way of taking photos and then my imagination might kick in, trying to find a subject that would be perfect for the new creative method of taking pictures. Then I might remember seeing a woman in a forest and see if I can make her float like she was a butterfly. Anyway, let me know if I simplified the connection too much.

I think you put it quite nicely, actually. I guess what makes such concepts difficult is that they are flexible. They can mean different things to different people, or even to the same person on a different occasion. There’s definitely an interconnection between them. In this post I attempted to define them in a way that highlights the difference between the concepts described, using “imagination” and “creativity” as the two starting points.

From my background, I’d say imagination is devising images (stuff that concretely affect the senses) and creativity is piecing things together (anything really). Imagination, thus, provides the raw material for arts, whilst creativity manipulates and glues it all together to make an artwork. An example of imagination: I walk around the house, doing daily chores, whilst making musical sounds with my mouth (and hearing “sound ideas” in my mind). Shaping them to fitting them together and fitting them together to make a song would be creative. Yes, I am stressing the etymology of imagination from image, but alas, that was my decision. Creativity always reminds me of Eros on Hesiod’ Theogony, which is more of a uniting element(s to other elements).

Ah, yes; the imagination <> image emphasis is an apt one. And equally true, creativity is about putting it all together. Sometimes I see texts that, for all their quality, feel disconnected; a bit like collections of stories, rather than a story, with a grand unifying theme and style.

Comments are closed for posts older than 90 days

Home › Study Tips › Creative Writing Resources For Secondary School Students

What Is Creative Writing? Is It Worth Studying?

Published October 31, 2022

great creative writing is the result of careful

As loose as the definition of Creative Writing is, it’s not always easy to understand. Sure, writing a story is Creative Writing. What about poems or personal essays?

Also, how does Creative Writing even help one succeed in university and career life? We empower our Creative Writing summer school students to grasp the power of creative writing and how to use it.

How? By giving them access to personalised tutorials with expert Creative Writing tutors from prestigious universities such as the University of Oxford and Cambridge.

Creative Writing doesn’t have to be confusing or intimidating. In this article, we’ll take you through a simple explanation of what Creative Writing is and why it’s helpful and relevant.

What is Creative Writing?

The simplest description of Creative Writing is what it’s not: it doesn’t revolve around facts like technical writing.

Technical Writing vs Creative Writing

You encounter technical writing in your daily life. You’ll find it in newspapers, journal articles, and textbooks. Do you notice how the presentation of accurate information is necessary in each of these mediums?

Because the goal of technical writing is to explain or relay information as it is .

But in creative writing, such is not the case. The primary goal of Creative Writing is not to present complex information for the sake of educating the audience.

Instead, the goal is to express yourself. Should you want to share information via Creative Writing, the objective becomes persuading your readers to think about it as you do.

Hence, if you contrast Technical Writing and Creative Writing within this context,

Technical Writing: share information without biases
Creative Writing: self-expression of how one feels or thinks about said information.

If reducing personal opinion in Technical Writing is virtuous, in creative writing, it is criminal .

Self-Expression in Creative Writing

One must express oneself in Creative Writing to entertain, captivate, or persuade readers. Since Creative Writing involves one’s imagination and self-expression, it’s common for Creative Writers to say that they “poured a part of themselves” into their work.

What are the different ways you can express yourself in Creative Writing?

Types of Creative Writing: 2 Major Types

The two major umbrellas of Creative Writing are Creative Nonfiction and Creative Fiction.

1. Creative Nonfiction

“Nonfiction” means writing based on actual events, persons, and experiences. Some forms of creative nonfiction include:

Personal Essay – here, the writer shares their personal thoughts, beliefs, or experiences.
Memoir – captures the writer’s memories and experiences of a life-changing past event.
Narrative Nonfiction – a factual event written in a story format.

2. Creative Fiction

The bulk of Creative Writing literature is found under the Creative Fiction category, such as:

Short Story – shorter than a novel, containing only a few scenes and characters.
Novel – a full-blown plot line with multiple scenes, characters, and subplots.
Poem – uses specific rhythm and style to express ideas or feelings
Play – contains dialogue and stage directions for theatre performances.
Screenplay – script to be used for film production (e.g. movies, video games.)

In short, Creative Fiction involves stories . Do you want more specific examples of Creative Writing? Then, you may want to read this article called “Creative Writing Examples.”

Why Is It Important to Learn Creative Writing?

It’s essential to learn Creative Writing because of the following reasons:

1. Creative Writing is a valuable skill in school and work

As a student, you know well why Creative Writing is important. You submit written work in various situations, such as writing essays for assignments and exams. Or when you have to write a Personal Statement to apply for University.

In these situations, your chances of getting higher grades depend on your ability to write creatively. (Even your chances of getting accepted into a top ranked creative writing university of your dreams!)

What about when you graduate? Do you use Creative Writing in your career? Convincing a recruiter to hire you via cover letters is an example of creative writing.

Once you’re hired, you’ll find that you need to write something up. It depends on your line of work and how often and complex your writing should be.

But mundane tasks such as writing an email response, coming up with a newsletter, or making a PowerPoint presentation involve creative writing.

So when you’ve practised your Creative Writing skills, you’ll find these tasks manageable. Even enjoyable! If you want to study creative writing at university, we put together what a-levels you need for creative writing .

2. Creative Writing enhances several essential skills.

Do you know that writing is thinking? At least that’s what the American Historian and two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize, David McCullough said.

Many people find Creative Writing challenging because it requires a combination of the following skills:

Observation
Critical thinking and analysis
Reasoning skills
Communication

Many of these skills make you a valuable employee in many industries. In fact, Forbes reports that:

Critical Thinking
and Emotional Intelligence

are three of the Top 10 most in-demand skills for the next decade. That’s why Creative Writing is a valuable endeavour and if you take it at university there are some great creative writing degree career prospects .

3. Creative Writing Is Therapeutic

Do you know that Creative Writing has a significant beneficial effect on your mental and emotional health?

A 2021 study in the Counselling & Psychotherapy Research reports that Creative Writing brought significant health benefits to nine people who worked in creative industries. Writing helped them in their cognitive processing of emotional difficulty.

Result? Improved mood and mental well-being.

A plethora of studies over the decades found the same results. Expressing yourself via creative writing, especially by writing in your daily journal, is beneficial for your mental and emotional health.

4. You may want to work in a Creative Writing-related Career

Creative employment in the UK grows 2x faster than the rest of the economy. In fact, did you know that jobs in the creative industry grew by 30.6% from 2011 to 2018?

Compare that to the average UK growth of 10.1% during the same period, and you can see the potential.

How about in the US? The Bureau of Labor Statistics estimates a 4% increase in employment for authors and writers from 2021 to 2031. Resulting in about 15,200 job openings yearly over the next 10 years.

The median yearly salary? It was at $69,510 as of May 2021.

So if you’re considering a Creative Writing career, now would be a great time to do so!

How To Be A Creative Writer?

You want to be a Creative Writer but don’t know where to start. Don’t worry! The best way to start is to learn from Creative Writing experts .

That’s why we ensure our Creative Writing summer school students have access to 1:1 personalised tutorials with expert Creative Writing tutors.

Our Creative Writing tutors come from world-renowned universities such as the University of Cambridge and Oxford. So you’re in excellent hands!

Here you’ll learn creative writing tips and techniques , such as character creation and plot mapping. But the best part is, you’ll come out of the course having experienced what a Creative Writer is like!

Because by then, you’ll have a Written Portfolio to show for your efforts. Which you presented to your tutor and peers for receiving constructive feedback.

Another surefire way to start becoming a Creative Writer is by practising. Check out this article called “ Creative Writing Exercises .” You’ll begin building a writing routine if you practice these exercises daily.

And trust us, every great writer has a solid writing routine!

Creative Writing is a form of self-expression that allows you to use your imagination and creativity. It can be in the form of personal essays, short stories, or poems. It is often used as an outlet for emotions and experiences. Start with creative writing by reading through creative writing examples to help get you in the mood. Then, just let the words flow daily, and you’re on the road to becoming an excellent Creative Writer!

10 Types of Creative Writing (with Examples You’ll Love)

A lot falls under the term ‘creative writing’: poetry, short fiction, plays, novels, personal essays, and songs, to name just a few. By virtue of the creativity that characterizes it, creative writing is an extremely versatile art. So instead of defining what creative writing is , it may be easier to understand what it does by looking at examples that demonstrate the sheer range of styles and genres under its vast umbrella.

To that end, we’ve collected a non-exhaustive list of works across multiple formats that have inspired the writers here at Reedsy. With 20 different works to explore, we hope they will inspire you, too.

People have been writing creatively for almost as long as we have been able to hold pens. Just think of long-form epic poems like The Odyssey or, later, the Cantar de Mio Cid — some of the earliest recorded writings of their kind.

Poetry is also a great place to start if you want to dip your own pen into the inkwell of creative writing. It can be as short or long as you want (you don’t have to write an epic of Homeric proportions), encourages you to build your observation skills, and often speaks from a single point of view .

Here are a few examples:

“Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

The ruins of pillars and walls with the broken statue of a man in the center set against a bright blue sky.

This classic poem by Romantic poet Percy Shelley (also known as Mary Shelley’s husband) is all about legacy. What do we leave behind? How will we be remembered? The great king Ozymandias built himself a massive statue, proclaiming his might, but the irony is that his statue doesn’t survive the ravages of time. By framing this poem as told to him by a “traveller from an antique land,” Shelley effectively turns this into a story. Along with the careful use of juxtaposition to create irony, this poem accomplishes a lot in just a few lines.

“Trying to Raise the Dead” by Dorianne Laux

A direction. An object. My love, it needs a place to rest. Say anything. I’m listening. I’m ready to believe. Even lies, I don’t care.

Poetry is cherished for its ability to evoke strong emotions from the reader using very few words which is exactly what Dorianne Laux does in “ Trying to Raise the Dead .” With vivid imagery that underscores the painful yearning of the narrator, she transports us to a private nighttime scene as the narrator sneaks away from a party to pray to someone they’ve lost. We ache for their loss and how badly they want their lost loved one to acknowledge them in some way. It’s truly a masterclass on how writing can be used to portray emotions.

If you find yourself inspired to try out some poetry — and maybe even get it published — check out these poetry layouts that can elevate your verse!

Song Lyrics

Poetry’s closely related cousin, song lyrics are another great way to flex your creative writing muscles. You not only have to find the perfect rhyme scheme but also match it to the rhythm of the music. This can be a great challenge for an experienced poet or the musically inclined.

To see how music can add something extra to your poetry, check out these two examples:

“Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen

You say I took the name in vain I don't even know the name But if I did, well, really, what's it to ya? There's a blaze of light in every word It doesn't matter which you heard The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Metaphors are commonplace in almost every kind of creative writing, but will often take center stage in shorter works like poetry and songs. At the slightest mention, they invite the listener to bring their emotional or cultural experience to the piece, allowing the writer to express more with fewer words while also giving it a deeper meaning. If a whole song is couched in metaphor, you might even be able to find multiple meanings to it, like in Leonard Cohen’s “ Hallelujah .” While Cohen’s Biblical references create a song that, on the surface, seems like it’s about a struggle with religion, the ambiguity of the lyrics has allowed it to be seen as a song about a complicated romantic relationship.

“I Will Follow You into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark

You can think of song lyrics as poetry set to music. They manage to do many of the same things their literary counterparts do — including tugging on your heartstrings. Death Cab for Cutie’s incredibly popular indie rock ballad is about the singer’s deep devotion to his lover. While some might find the song a bit too dark and macabre, its melancholy tune and poignant lyrics remind us that love can endure beyond death.

Plays and Screenplays

From the short form of poetry, we move into the world of drama — also known as the play. This form is as old as the poem, stretching back to the works of ancient Greek playwrights like Sophocles, who adapted the myths of their day into dramatic form. The stage play (and the more modern screenplay) gives the words on the page a literal human voice, bringing life to a story and its characters entirely through dialogue.

Interested to see what that looks like? Take a look at these examples:

All My Sons by Arthur Miller

“I know you're no worse than most men but I thought you were better. I never saw you as a man. I saw you as my father.”

Arthur Miller acts as a bridge between the classic and the new, creating 20th century tragedies that take place in living rooms and backyard instead of royal courts, so we had to include his breakout hit on this list. Set in the backyard of an all-American family in the summer of 1946, this tragedy manages to communicate family tensions in an unimaginable scale, building up to an intense climax reminiscent of classical drama.

💡 Read more about Arthur Miller and classical influences in our breakdown of Freytag’s pyramid .

“Everything is Fine” by Michael Schur ( The Good Place )

“Well, then this system sucks. What...one in a million gets to live in paradise and everyone else is tortured for eternity? Come on! I mean, I wasn't freaking Gandhi, but I was okay. I was a medium person. I should get to spend eternity in a medium place! Like Cincinnati. Everyone who wasn't perfect but wasn't terrible should get to spend eternity in Cincinnati.”

A screenplay, especially a TV pilot, is like a mini-play, but with the extra job of convincing an audience that they want to watch a hundred more episodes of the show. Blending moral philosophy with comedy, The Good Place is a fun hang-out show set in the afterlife that asks some big questions about what it means to be good.

It follows Eleanor Shellstrop, an incredibly imperfect woman from Arizona who wakes up in ‘The Good Place’ and realizes that there’s been a cosmic mixup. Determined not to lose her place in paradise, she recruits her “soulmate,” a former ethics professor, to teach her philosophy with the hope that she can learn to be a good person and keep up her charade of being an upstanding citizen. The pilot does a superb job of setting up the stakes, the story, and the characters, while smuggling in deep philosophical ideas.

Personal essays

Our first foray into nonfiction on this list is the personal essay. As its name suggests, these stories are in some way autobiographical — concerned with the author’s life and experiences. But don’t be fooled by the realistic component. These essays can take any shape or form, from comics to diary entries to recipes and anything else you can imagine. Typically zeroing in on a single issue, they allow you to explore your life and prove that the personal can be universal.

Here are a couple of fantastic examples:

“On Selling Your First Novel After 11 Years” by Min Jin Lee (Literary Hub)

There was so much to learn and practice, but I began to see the prose in verse and the verse in prose. Patterns surfaced in poems, stories, and plays. There was music in sentences and paragraphs. I could hear the silences in a sentence. All this schooling was like getting x-ray vision and animal-like hearing.

This deeply honest personal essay by Pachinko author Min Jin Lee is an account of her eleven-year struggle to publish her first novel . Like all good writing, it is intensely focused on personal emotional details. While grounded in the specifics of the author's personal journey, it embodies an experience that is absolutely universal: that of difficulty and adversity met by eventual success.

“A Cyclist on the English Landscape” by Roff Smith (New York Times)

These images, though, aren’t meant to be about me. They’re meant to represent a cyclist on the landscape, anybody — you, perhaps.

Roff Smith’s gorgeous photo essay for the NYT is a testament to the power of creatively combining visuals with text. Here, photographs of Smith atop a bike are far from simply ornamental. They’re integral to the ruminative mood of the essay, as essential as the writing. Though Smith places his work at the crosscurrents of various aesthetic influences (such as the painter Edward Hopper), what stands out the most in this taciturn, thoughtful piece of writing is his use of the second person to address the reader directly. Suddenly, the writer steps out of the body of the essay and makes eye contact with the reader. The reader is now part of the story as a second character, finally entering the picture.

Short Fiction

The short story is the happy medium of fiction writing. These bite-sized narratives can be devoured in a single sitting and still leave you reeling. Sometimes viewed as a stepping stone to novel writing, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Short story writing is an art all its own. The limited length means every word counts and there’s no better way to see that than with these two examples:

“An MFA Story” by Paul Dalla Rosa (Electric Literature)

At Starbucks, I remembered a reading Zhen had given, a reading organized by the program’s faculty. I had not wanted to go but did. In the bar, he read, "I wrote this in a Starbucks in Shanghai. On the bank of the Huangpu." It wasn’t an aside or introduction. It was two lines of the poem. I was in a Starbucks and I wasn’t writing any poems. I wasn’t writing anything.

Creative Writing Examples | Photograph of New York City street.

This short story is a delightfully metafictional tale about the struggles of being a writer in New York. From paying the bills to facing criticism in a writing workshop and envying more productive writers, Paul Dalla Rosa’s story is a clever satire of the tribulations involved in the writing profession, and all the contradictions embodied by systemic creativity (as famously laid out in Mark McGurl’s The Program Era ). What’s more, this story is an excellent example of something that often happens in creative writing: a writer casting light on the private thoughts or moments of doubt we don’t admit to or openly talk about.

“Flowering Walrus” by Scott Skinner (Reedsy)

I tell him they’d been there a month at least, and he looks concerned. He has my tongue on a tissue paper and is gripping its sides with his pointer and thumb. My tongue has never spent much time outside of my mouth, and I imagine it as a walrus basking in the rays of the dental light. My walrus is not well.

A winner of Reedsy’s weekly Prompts writing contest, ‘ Flowering Walrus ’ is a story that balances the trivial and the serious well. In the pauses between its excellent, natural dialogue , the story manages to scatter the fear and sadness of bad medical news, as the protagonist hides his worries from his wife and daughter. Rich in subtext, these silences grow and resonate with the readers.

Want to give short story writing a go? Give our free course a go!

FREE COURSE

How to Craft a Killer Short Story

From pacing to character development, master the elements of short fiction.

Perhaps the thing that first comes to mind when talking about creative writing, novels are a form of fiction that many people know and love but writers sometimes find intimidating. The good news is that novels are nothing but one word put after another, like any other piece of writing, but expanded and put into a flowing narrative. Piece of cake, right?

To get an idea of the format’s breadth of scope, take a look at these two (very different) satirical novels:

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata

I wished I was back in the convenience store where I was valued as a working member of staff and things weren’t as complicated as this. Once we donned our uniforms, we were all equals regardless of gender, age, or nationality — all simply store workers.

Creative Writing Examples | Book cover of Convenience Store Woman

Keiko, a thirty-six-year-old convenience store employee, finds comfort and happiness in the strict, uneventful routine of the shop’s daily operations. A funny, satirical, but simultaneously unnerving examination of the social structures we take for granted, Sayaka Murata’s Convenience Store Woman is deeply original and lingers with the reader long after they’ve put it down.

Erasure by Percival Everett

The hard, gritty truth of the matter is that I hardly ever think about race. Those times when I did think about it a lot I did so because of my guilt for not thinking about it.

Erasure is a truly accomplished satire of the publishing industry’s tendency to essentialize African American authors and their writing. Everett’s protagonist is a writer whose work doesn’t fit with what publishers expect from him — work that describes the “African American experience” — so he writes a parody novel about life in the ghetto. The publishers go crazy for it and, to the protagonist’s horror, it becomes the next big thing. This sophisticated novel is both ironic and tender, leaving its readers with much food for thought.

Creative Nonfiction

Creative nonfiction is pretty broad: it applies to anything that does not claim to be fictional (although the rise of autofiction has definitely blurred the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction). It encompasses everything from personal essays and memoirs to humor writing, and they range in length from blog posts to full-length books. The defining characteristic of this massive genre is that it takes the world or the author’s experience and turns it into a narrative that a reader can follow along with.

Here, we want to focus on novel-length works that dig deep into their respective topics. While very different, these two examples truly show the breadth and depth of possibility of creative nonfiction:

Men We Reaped by Jesmyn Ward

Men’s bodies litter my family history. The pain of the women they left behind pulls them from the beyond, makes them appear as ghosts. In death, they transcend the circumstances of this place that I love and hate all at once and become supernatural.

Writer Jesmyn Ward recounts the deaths of five men from her rural Mississippi community in as many years. In her award-winning memoir , she delves into the lives of the friends and family she lost and tries to find some sense among the tragedy. Working backwards across five years, she questions why this had to happen over and over again, and slowly unveils the long history of racism and poverty that rules rural Black communities. Moving and emotionally raw, Men We Reaped is an indictment of a cruel system and the story of a woman's grief and rage as she tries to navigate it.

Cork Dork by Bianca Bosker

He believed that wine could reshape someone’s life. That’s why he preferred buying bottles to splurging on sweaters. Sweaters were things. Bottles of wine, said Morgan, “are ways that my humanity will be changed.”

In this work of immersive journalism , Bianca Bosker leaves behind her life as a tech journalist to explore the world of wine. Becoming a “cork dork” takes her everywhere from New York’s most refined restaurants to science labs while she learns what it takes to be a sommelier and a true wine obsessive. This funny and entertaining trip through the past and present of wine-making and tasting is sure to leave you better informed and wishing you, too, could leave your life behind for one devoted to wine.

Illustrated Narratives (Comics, graphic novels)

Once relegated to the “funny pages”, the past forty years of comics history have proven it to be a serious medium. Comics have transformed from the early days of Jack Kirby’s superheroes into a medium where almost every genre is represented. Humorous one-shots in the Sunday papers stand alongside illustrated memoirs, horror, fantasy, and just about anything else you can imagine. This type of visual storytelling lets the writer and artist get creative with perspective, tone, and so much more. For two very different, though equally entertaining, examples, check these out:

Calvin & Hobbes by Bill Watterson

"Life is like topography, Hobbes. There are summits of happiness and success, flat stretches of boring routine and valleys of frustration and failure."

A Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. A little blond boy Calvin makes multiple silly faces in school photos. In the last panel, his father says, "That's our son. *Sigh*" His mother then says, "The pictures will remind of more than we want to remember."

This beloved comic strip follows Calvin, a rambunctious six-year-old boy, and his stuffed tiger/imaginary friend, Hobbes. They get into all kinds of hijinks at school and at home, and muse on the world in the way only a six-year-old and an anthropomorphic tiger can. As laugh-out-loud funny as it is, Calvin & Hobbes ’ popularity persists as much for its whimsy as its use of humor to comment on life, childhood, adulthood, and everything in between.

From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell

"I shall tell you where we are. We're in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind. A dim, subconscious underworld. A radiant abyss where men meet themselves. Hell, Netley. We're in Hell."

Comics aren't just the realm of superheroes and one-joke strips, as Alan Moore proves in this serialized graphic novel released between 1989 and 1998. A meticulously researched alternative history of Victorian London’s Ripper killings, this macabre story pulls no punches. Fact and fiction blend into a world where the Royal Family is involved in a dark conspiracy and Freemasons lurk on the sidelines. It’s a surreal mad-cap adventure that’s unsettling in the best way possible.

Video Games and RPGs

Probably the least expected entry on this list, we thought that video games and RPGs also deserved a mention — and some well-earned recognition for the intricate storytelling that goes into creating them.

Essentially gamified adventure stories, without attention to plot, characters, and a narrative arc, these games would lose a lot of their charm, so let’s look at two examples where the creative writing really shines through:

80 Days by inkle studios

"It was a triumph of invention over nature, and will almost certainly disappear into the dust once more in the next fifty years."

Named Time Magazine ’s game of the year in 2014, this narrative adventure is based on Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne. The player is cast as the novel’s narrator, Passpartout, and tasked with circumnavigating the globe in service of their employer, Phileas Fogg. Set in an alternate steampunk Victorian era, the game uses its globe-trotting to comment on the colonialist fantasies inherent in the original novel and its time period. On a storytelling level, the choose-your-own-adventure style means no two players’ journeys will be the same. This innovative approach to a classic novel shows the potential of video games as a storytelling medium, truly making the player part of the story.

What Remains of Edith Finch by Giant Sparrow

"If we lived forever, maybe we'd have time to understand things. But as it is, I think the best we can do is try to open our eyes, and appreciate how strange and brief all of this is."

This video game casts the player as 17-year-old Edith Finch. Returning to her family’s home on an island in the Pacific northwest, Edith explores the vast house and tries to figure out why she’s the only one of her family left alive. The story of each family member is revealed as you make your way through the house, slowly unpacking the tragic fate of the Finches. Eerie and immersive, this first-person exploration game uses the medium to tell a series of truly unique tales.

Fun and breezy on the surface, humor is often recognized as one of the trickiest forms of creative writing. After all, while you can see the artistic value in a piece of prose that you don’t necessarily enjoy, if a joke isn’t funny, you could say that it’s objectively failed.

With that said, it’s far from an impossible task, and many have succeeded in bringing smiles to their readers’ faces through their writing. Here are two examples:

‘How You Hope Your Extended Family Will React When You Explain Your Job to Them’ by Mike Lacher (McSweeney’s Internet Tendency)

“Is it true you don’t have desks?” your grandmother will ask. You will nod again and crack open a can of Country Time Lemonade. “My stars,” she will say, “it must be so wonderful to not have a traditional office and instead share a bistro-esque coworking space.”

An open plan office seen from a bird's eye view. There are multiple strands of Edison lights hanging from the ceiling. At long light wooden tables multiple people sit working at computers, many of them wearing headphones.

Satire and parody make up a whole subgenre of creative writing, and websites like McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and The Onion consistently hit the mark with their parodies of magazine publishing and news media. This particular example finds humor in the divide between traditional family expectations and contemporary, ‘trendy’ work cultures. Playing on the inherent silliness of today’s tech-forward middle-class jobs, this witty piece imagines a scenario where the writer’s family fully understands what they do — and are enthralled to hear more. “‘Now is it true,’ your uncle will whisper, ‘that you’ve got a potential investment from one of the founders of I Can Haz Cheezburger?’”

‘Not a Foodie’ by Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell (Electric Literature)

I’m not a foodie, I never have been, and I know, in my heart, I never will be.

Highlighting what she sees as an unbearable social obsession with food , in this comic Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell takes a hilarious stand against the importance of food. From the writer’s courageous thesis (“I think there are more exciting things to talk about, and focus on in life, than what’s for dinner”) to the amusing appearance of family members and the narrator’s partner, ‘Not a Foodie’ demonstrates that even a seemingly mundane pet peeve can be approached creatively — and even reveal something profound about life.

We hope this list inspires you with your own writing. If there’s one thing you take away from this post, let it be that there is no limit to what you can write about or how you can write about it.

In the next part of this guide, we'll drill down into the fascinating world of creative nonfiction.

Join a community of over 1 million authors

Reedsy is more than just a blog. Become a member today to discover how we can help you publish a beautiful book.

We made a writing app for you

Yes, you! Write. Format. Export for ebook and print. 100% free, always.

1 million authors trust the professionals on Reedsy. Come meet them.

Enter your email or get started with a social account:

image-a1a4fe90a826aa920a212bd42d973a05e77162aa-160x12-png

Bedrock Learning has won the Best Secondary EdTech Resource award at the BETT Awards 2024!

How grammar can deepen creative and literary experiences

By Sara Snelling

06 Feb 2023

In this article:

How knowledge of grammar can unlock creativity

Developing a deeper understanding of the world, enjoying the written word on a deeper level, writing creatively and playfully, how bedrock nurtures this link between grammar and creativity in its learners.

Grammar is a set of structural rules with the power to unlock creativity. It can deepen our understanding of the world, make reading a richer experience and unlock creative writing skills.

In this article, we focus on grammar’s role as a mechanism for meaning-making through literacy experiences.

Grammar describes the patterns we use to combine words to make meaning. As with most patterns, there is scope for creativity.

From a structural perspective, grammar rules define how we put together words to form phrases, clauses or sentences. When everyone uses the same rules, it’s easier to understand each other, through the written and spoken word.

Looking beyond its function as a form-making, structural tool, grammar also plays a prominent role in creative meaning-making. As children develop through primary education, they gradually make this association. They are first formally introduced to grammar in its form-based guise through SpAG instruction, and later move on to understanding the creative impact of grammar and vocabulary choices and how they can deepen literary experiences .

It’s this understanding of the link between grammar choice and effect that can inspire creativity. A playful approach to experimenting with form and structure demonstrates grammar’s potential – paving the way for deeper understanding and giving writers access to a universal tool to create and share meaning.

Here are a few examples of grammar that can be used creatively:

Contractions can create urgency in how someone speaks, building pace and suspense.
Prepositions and conjunctions feed into literary techniques, such as the simile’s use of ‘like’ or ‘as’.
Punctuation can add irony or hyperbole to a sentence.
The comma is a hugely versatile punctuation mark that can direct the reader’s attention to key pieces of information, illustrate relationships between words, phrases and clauses, and add emotion and tone.
The traditional subject-verb-object word order of sentences can be turned on its head. The writer and director George Lucas famously used this in his ‘Star Wars’ series for his Yoda character. The ‘object-subject-verb’ word order in many of Yoda’s sentences – “Much to learn you still have.” – identifies him as a character of mystery who stands apart from the other characters.

Some researchers point to the wider knowledge-related benefits of teaching grammar. These include understanding how language works, deepening understanding of the human mind, and facilitating students’ reasoning and stimulating critical thinking skills .

There is ongoing research and discussion around the merits of non-literacy-related reasons for teaching grammar, but most would agree that literary experiences themselves help develop a deeper understanding of the world around us. Literacy elements, such as grammar, help unlock that literary experience.

In this context, literary-related outcomes can be achieved by using grammar and other literary devices to open up new worlds, provide intellectual insight, and create a roadmap for thought.

Take J.B. Priestley’s play, ‘An Inspector Calls’, as an example. It is a moralistic play set in 1912 that highlights the inequalities of society and conveys the author’s socialist views.

It features the Birlings, a powerful and wealthy family from the higher classes. Their status is evident through the self-assured speeches of the patriarch, Mr. Birling. Priestley used long, complicated sentence structures to reflect Birling’s position of privilege and his expectation that people would listen and make the effort to extract his intended meaning.

Following are examples of Mr Birling’s long-winded sentences:

“Why, a friend of mine went over this new liner last week – the Titanic – she sails next week – forty-six thousand eight hundred tons – forty-six thousand eight hundred tons – New York in five days – and every luxury – and unsinkable, absolutely unsinkable.”
“But the way some of these cranks talk and write now, you’d think everybody has to look after everybody else, as if we were all mixed up together like bees in a hive – community and all that nonsense.”
Inspector Goole is the character through whom Priestley delivers his moral message. In contrast to Birling, he speaks plainly and bluntly in short, simple sentences. This gives him an air of authority and power over the other characters.

Following are some examples of quotes from Inspector Goole:

When he describes the victim’s death by drinking disinfectant, his speech is harsh and to the point: “Burnt her inside out, of course.”
In response to Birling’s affront at being questioned about his actions, he asserts his position of power: “It’s my duty to ask questions.”
He knocks back Birling’s daughter’s belated wish that she had helped the victim: “It’s too late. She’s dead.”
The contrasting grammar structure between the Inspector and the Birlings throughout the play helps subconsciously embed the class divide of the time. It gives power to the Inspector, who is used to convey the author’s views on the upper classes and capitalism.

Grammar is the glue that joins words, sentences and paragraphs together to create meaning. Understanding grammar helps learners access that meaning, and results in a deeper literary experience.

Grammatical structures and punctuation create cohesion of ideas, signposting key information, and softly pointing out other relevant details that contribute to the inference process (I’m looking at you, embedded clause). When a reader reaches fluency, they’re reading with accuracy, automaticity and prosody , and grammar knowledge contributes to each of these skills.

Understanding grammar, therefore, leads to a more rewarding literacy experience during which readers access deeper meaning. For example, they can:

Find the internal logic of a novel or poem through patterns of language use
Understand a situation from different characters’ perspectives.

Mark Haddon’s book, ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’, is an example of how grammar knowledge can give readers an understanding of a character and experience the world from their perspective.

The book is written in the first person, with the protagonist Christopher Boone also the narrator. Fifteen-year-old Christopher is autistic. This is not explicitly stated in the book but is conveyed through Christopher’s narration of his interactions with the world as he investigates the murder of his neighbour’s dog.

Some sentences are very short and precise, reflecting Christopher’s matter-of-factness and frank manner. Others are long and rambling and have a childlike quality. Many begin with a conjunction, such as the repetitive use of ‘and’ in the quote below, reflecting his dry style of communication and logical reporting of events that might be expected to elicit more emotion.

And Mrs. Alexander said, “Your mother, before she died, was very good friends with Mr. Shears.”

And I said, “I know.”

And she said, “No, Christopher, I’m not sure that you do. I mean that they were very good friends. Very, very good friends.”

The flow of the sentences shows us that Christopher is reporting in a detached manner and misses the key connection between Mr. Shears and his mother. The reader, on the other hand, is left in no doubt.

Grammar usage throughout the book cleverly takes the reader through the story from Christopher’s perspective, while facilitating coherence and inference that goes beyond Christopher’s perception of events. The reader experiences the story from and beyond the narrator’s point of view.

Research links creative and meaningful teaching of grammar with enhanced writing skills.

The key to unlocking the creative writing benefits of grammar is to teach it within a writing context, not as a separate topic. Professor Debra Myhill and the team at the University of Exeter talk about introducing young writers to ‘a repertoire of infinite possibilities’ . This involves explicit demonstration of how choices in sentence structure and word usage generate different possibilities for meaning-making.

Playing with different grammar structures demonstrates the possibilities and can help young writers find a distinctive voice. It can help them:

Avoid cliches by having the grammar knowledge and confidence to explore their voice and style of writing.
Improve imagery by understanding how descriptive language and grammar interact; for example, through interesting sentence structure, use of strong nouns, verbs and modifiers, and careful selection of punctuation.
Think deeply about word choice and how to place their chosen words within sentences in such a way as to create their desired effect (or as Yoda might say, Meaning they will make! ).

Michael Rosen, poet and Professor of Children’s Literature, suggests that ‘imitation, parody and invention’ are great ways of using grammar to improve writing. With this in mind, exposing learners to examples of grammar within creative texts demonstrates its potential and provides the basis for imitation and parody.

Charles Dickens is an example of a writer who used grammar creatively and with a distinctive voice. ‘A Christmas Carol’ is a lively text bursting with strong imagery. Written in the Victorian times, when reading aloud was common in families, there is a musical pace to the ‘Carol’ and throughout its ‘staves’.

In the opening line, he makes innovative use of well-placed punctuation to build curiosity - Marley was dead: to begin with . The order of the sentence and the pause in the middle grabs the reader’s attention from the start and hint at the supernatural theme to come.

Shortly after this, he uses alliteration through repetition of the adjective ‘sole’ to hit home the extent of the solitary life Marley had lived.

“Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner.”

Conventional writing instruction might suggest students refrain from over-use of adjectives and focus on strong nouns, but as this example shows grammar can be used cleverly, creatively and unconventionally to great effect in writing. We must master the rules in order to break them.

Creativity and gamification are great vehicles to reinforce literacy skills in learners, whether they are in primary or secondary education. However, providing sufficient creative resources to learners to ensure grammar skills are mastered can be time-consuming and tricky to maintain.

Bedrock teaches its explicit grammar curriculum through creative tasks, teaching videos and bespoke texts . We recognise the importance not only of equipping learners with the skills to understand and recreate grammar rules, but also to think creatively and critically about how grammar is used. Learners experience grammar embedded into real texts and situations, and are encouraged to analyse the purpose of certain grammar techniques.

As well as this, these grammar techniques are taught alongside explicit Tier 2 and Tier 3 vocabulary , giving learners the skills and the confidence to express themselves through literacy.

Emotional literacy: why it's key to improving outcomes, common grammar mistakes and how to avoid them, unlock great grammar instruction, the uk's #1 literacy solution.

Intelligent, data-driven vocabulary and grammar instruction, without the marking.

Don't forget to share:

You might also discover…

Two parents speaking to a child about emotional literacy

15 Jul 2021

10 Oct 2022

Writing Courses Online
Course Testimonials

latest posts

How to Improve Your Writing in Three Easy Steps

Verbeter Jou Kans Om ʼn Kortverhaal Kompetisie Te Wen Só

Topics to Write About: How to Choose

Free Writing Competition – My Writing Journey

Logical Flow: The Key to Compelling Writing

Can You Make a Living From Travel Writing? We Ask Travel Writer Gabi Logan

Four Habits of Successful Writers

Famous Quotes on Writing

Creative writing excerpts from The Writers College students

The following unedited snippets of creative writing come from students’ assignments on our Short Story Writing Courses, Novel Courses, Scriptwriting and the Basics of Creative Writing Courses.

There were thousands of great pieces to choose from, so we randomly selected excerpts from our list of favourites. enjoy, written by diandra ter haar, (short story writing for magazines course).

All around him, lonely crickets are calling for company and in his chest, his heartbeat is slow and steady, even though his mind is working overtime. After a while the same voice speaks again, but more distant, like it’s traveling with the wind now.

‘Come darling one. I’ve been waiting for you.’

Even though Jack is still convinced that no one is really talking to him, he can’t resist asking the voice a question, although he really doesn’t expect an answer.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am your destiny.’

‘You’re my destiny? Do you mean to say…’

This time the only answer he receives is the faint sound of jingling bells.

‘Of course’, he murmured, ‘I can’t be alive anymore. I would’ve never been this brave in real life. But if this is Heaven, why is it so dark and cold?’

All of a sudden, a smoky blue light appears in the distance. Magical and mysterious, it lures him to something he could not yet see, but he could feel in his bones that he’s been there before.

‘Jack?’ the voice called.

Warily he answered: ‘Yes?’

‘Come here, Jack.’

Frantically he turns in all directions, searching for the owner of the voice. Could it possibly be an angel?

He really didn’t picture death to feel like this. ‘Where are you?’

‘Come closer, come sit with me.’

Following the sound of the last words spoken, he looked up and saw the silvery blue light emerging from around a willow tree in the distance. It was the most majestic weeping willow he’d ever seen in his life. Instead of the average 12 meters, this willow was so tall that he couldn’t even see the top from afar. Its lanky branches hung lazily to the ground, covered in leaves of sea foam green.

As he stood with his one hand cupped over his eyes, trying to see more clearly, he heard the sound of tiny bells ringing again, as the branches swung around in the breeze. Was it possible that the tree was talking to him, as he always heard the bells when the voice spoke to him? But that would be impossible, right?

Written by Kerry Montgomery

‘Mum, wake up! I can hear someone upstairs shouting,’ said Anaru. ‘I think it’s the crazy lady.’

Pulling on her dressing gown, Ria raced to the outside stairs.

‘Mum, where are you going?’ shouted her younger boy, Jason.

‘Upstairs, won’t be long.’

‘But breakfast,’ whined Jason.

‘Man, you’re always thinking of your puku,’ his older brother teased.

‘Cut it out you lot,’ said Ria. ‘Start making the porridge, Anaru. I’ve shown you how.’

Halfway up the stairs Ria was hit by the smell of rotting food that was spilling out of bags onto the landing. With one hand holding the hand rail and the other covering her nose and mouth, she gingerly made her way to the door. There she found an unkempt large woman with a bandaged leg lying on the floor.

‘Who are you?’ the woman snapped.

‘My name is Ria. I live downstairs.’

‘You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t like Maoris, or solo mothers.’

‘Well you had better like this one. I’m your only hope at the moment,’ said Ria sharply. ‘I’ll help you back onto your bed. Would you like me to ring someone, maybe your doctor?’

‘No way. He’s a religious wowser. Doesn’t like me having a drink. Says it affects my diabetes. Cruel devil won’t up my painkillers either; maybe if he did I wouldn’t need a tipple.’

Hmmm, thought Ria, she had heard these stories before. ‘So you are Phyllis?’

‘Mrs Henderson, if you don’t mind.’

‘Ok. Mrs Henderson, I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ said Ria, checking the date on the milk carton. ‘Then I’ve got to go down and get my boys off to school.’

‘Huh, you’ll be lucky. Half of them around here don’t go. They play the wag and hang around the streets annoying folk. Where are the truant officers these days?’

‘Right, I will be back in about an hour and see what you need,’ said Ria.

‘I hope you don’t expect any money, because I haven’t got any.’

‘That makes two of us, nor have I, but I’m bringing a bucket and disinfectant to clean those stairs before the flies take over.

*You’re an uppity young woman, aren’t you? I’ll have you know I can’t get down to stairs with the rubbish because of my bad knee.’

‘We’ll sort something out when I come back,’ said Ria.

Written by Jeanette Bester

The fresh sea wind grabbed Alana’s hair and bundled it into a seagrass knot. Standing on the upwind side of the rock one could almost forget what lay ahead.

She knew as soon as she walked around the outcrop that the stench of rotting sea life would stick its octopus-like tentacles into her nose, making it vibrate in protest. The face mask did not do much to filter the stench.

Stepping around the rocky outcrop, Alana could see most of the team had arrived.

The massive upheavals in the sea bed caused by the earthquake had resulted in more than a change in the landscape; it had changed lives – her life.

An old fashioned doorbell dances its happy jingle as Johnathan opens the door. The cool air from the fridges mingles with the salty smell of the water bubbling in the tanks. Being the first at work means responsibility but also the joys of solitude, a feeling Johnathan loves.

Johnno, as his friends call him, has always been a loner. It is not that he dislikes people or company, but his mind functions so much better in silence. He closes the door and puts his backpack behind the counter.

First, he has to check the live crayfish tanks.

Hi there guys, are you all ok? Filter good? Temperature ok? Great!

He loves chatting to the crayfish. He knows they end up as food, but they are awesome creatures never the less. He loves the fact that all the crayfish here are caught with nature in mind – harvesting is just as bad as over-harvesting.

He knows the local fishermen are very proud of their occupation, their town and their ocean. All of them function as a unit to create harmony that visitors notice and comment on during a first visit to Murray’s Cove.

It has become a favourite town for a stopover, whether buying fresh seafood, enjoying lunch at the tavern or a day at the beach. The Murray’s Cove Fishmonger did well all year around and being a part-owner in the business makes Johnno very proud.

To his parents, Johnno was a normal little boy from the word go. What does an extra chromosome mean anyway? Life is sacred and babies are a gift so his parents raised him to be the best he can be.

Alanna noticed Johnno as he arrived at the site on his bicycle. She knew he had been up since crack of dawn to prepare the Fish Monger for the busy day ahead. His arrival had a pattern to it:

First he would set his bicycle down at the edge of the new high water mark, then he walked over to the edge of the rocks and stared into the wide ocean ahead. After a good long look he would turn around and amble back. His odd stride was worsened by the uneven rock surface as he made his way over to the team.

Ever since she had come here to assist as a professional marine biologist she had not only studied sea animals but also gotten to know the human side of the change that happened when an earthquake struck. The most amazing part of it, to the city girl, had been the reaction of the locals to the tragedy. They stood together as a unit, shoulders pulled back, chins lifted, facing right into the stormy gale. They made her very jealous of the fact that she had grown up in a city, and missed so much.

Since her arrival she had become intoxicated with the style, attitude and spirit of never-give-up that was portrayed by everyone she met in town and at the rocks.

They have changed her mind, her heart.

Three weeks ago the proud, think-she-knew-it-all, professor of marine biology came to conquer and educate the sea village bumpkins. Like a super hero she came to save them, it turned out they were here to save her.

Written by Nelanjini Govender

Recognizing that now was the time for redemption, if ever, I appeal to Annie to look at me. As she lifts her tear-streaked face to mine I make a simple plea, ‘Please forgive me,’ I say.

‘Oh! Daddd!’ wails Annie. ‘Of course I forgive you! I love you! I don’t want you to die Dad, please!’

She is a little girl once more, in need of my protection. I am overwhelmed with a love I never thought I would feel again, a father’s love for his daughter. I am overcome with gratitude for my only child whom I had so cruelly cast away and who was still opening her heart to me. She forgives me and she loves me! These thoughts fill my mind, heart and soul with unspeakable joy so much so that I too am now reduced to weeping.

Clasping my daughter and grandson in my arms I make a solemn vow to fight my illness and live to love another day. My traitorous heart might have let me down before but that was only because it had nothing to live for. Now I can feel its strength and the life-giving blood coursing through my body as my heart rallies to live again! I know myself, and I know that my indomitable spirit is determined to conquer this condition like I have so many other dire circumstances in my life! I will emerge victorious or I am not Alfred Robert Matthews!

At the age of 62 I have finally learned a powerful lesson. I have learned that the wealthiest man is not the one with the largest bank account or a string of glamorous beauties on his arm; he is not the man with a chain of mansions around the world and a private jet to take him there. The wealthiest man is the man who possesses the sincere love, devotion and loyalty of his family. Love of family is more priceless than any material treasure and without it the world is an empty, barren place indeed.

Once my daughter and grandson have left, my doctor appears for my daily examination. After checking my vitals and reviewing the scans on the heart monitor he lets out an incredulous whistle.

‘Mr Matthews! I am quite baffled,’ he exclaims. ‘Yesterday you were in a critical state but today your heart looks healthy enough to keep you going for another 10 years! It’s a mystery!’

Giving the doctor a contented and blissful smile, I reply, ‘It’s no mystery Doctor. It’s the most under-rated thing in the world. The healing power of love, the healing power of love.’

Basics of Creative Writing Course – Studying with Helen Brain

Extract: from a scene by sigrid birk.

My boyfriend is examining the one hundredth desk in IKEA: he’s very thorough. He doesn’t want a chair that squeaks and the drawers must open fluidly and be large enough for all his papers and his giant metal ruler. The metal ruler in fact seems to have sabotaged the last ninety-nine desks, as the ruler won’t fit. I ask him about the use of this ruler at desk number 52, and then about its emotional value at desk 80, but he just grunts.

I see my boyfriend at the next desk, pale skin, determined mouth, bright eyes that scream intelligence. He opens the drawers slowly and inspects them inside by touching the bottom and the sides, as if he were reading them in Braille.

I wish he wanted to feel me like those drawers. I sigh. He’s not like that. It is all about deeper things with him, true friendship and all the knowledge I am gaining about important things in life thanks to our conversations. I don’t always pay attention when he’s speaking, though. I just stare into his eyes trying to look seductive and wonder when he will want to have sex with me again. He has such beautiful eyes.

“This place is shit.” He says. “I’m not going to find anything here.” He looks at the desk with disgust. He has a way of making one feel with just a look that he’s been let down, and I feel that if the desk could, it would apologise.

Write a Novel Course – Studying with Alex Smith

Extract: from a novel by gareth ward.

Russet ironwork columns spiralled skywards supporting the Corn Market’s unique and much acclaimed flurohydrous roof. Created by the eccentric inventor Nimrod Barm, a turquoise aqueous solution swirled between two ironglass sheets providing an ever-changing vista.

Sin meandered through the market, soaking up the atmosphere. The smells of science wafted from the booths, the sulphurous results of chemical reactions hanging in the air like a pungent perfume. He pushed into a crowd gathered around Phileas Pines Technological Timepieces, the press of warm bodies a fleeting moment of companionship. Soft velvet and wool brushed his bare arms, the expensive fabric’s touch exquisite compared to the rough sackcloth of his own rags.

From the booth Phileas Pines held forth. “Ladies and Gentleman, witness the chronological magnificence of our new ‘Radiant-Active’ watches. Using only the finest uranium these luminous masterpieces are to die for.”

Sin jostled past a ruddy-faced punter in a tweed jacket and he sensed a promising bulge from the jacket’s inner pocket. The world quietened, drowned out by his quickened pulse. Time slowed; something Phileas Pines would have told him was impossible. Sin slid his hand under the jacket’s lapel, smooth silk caressing his palm. His fingers touched cool metal, sensing the shape of the fob watch, exploring for a securing chain or pin. None found, he grasped his prize and eased his hand clear. The bustle of the market returned. He thrust the watch into his pocket and darted away.

Write a Novel Course – Studying with Andrew Salomon

Extract: from a novel by abdussabur kirke.

“Stop!” comes a shout. “Police! We’ve caught your colleagues…”.

Then I jump off a low wall into the river. Under the water it’s brown and cold and silent.

But I have to come up. Something is hurting my arm. I call out, swallowing oily, soily water. There’s so much splashing. Then out of the water comes a dark, fanged muzzle and it bites my face and rips off some of my eyebrow. I grab at that hairy muscular snapping thing and it grabs me back ten times harder driving twenty ivory nails into my hand.

“I give up!” I shout.

“Leave him! Leave him!”

The water is smooth again and I’m standing in mud. My shoes are lost. Two black seals are swimming gracefully to the bank powered by their tails. When they clamber out they shake off the water.

Six or so human figures are standing on the low riverside wall against the skyline; I cannot see their faces. They’re wearing items on their belts, two have other dogs straining leashes. Warm blood is in my mouth. Then one of the figures speaks in a kind commanding voice:

“Come in now, we’ll not hurt you as long as you don’t fight. Come on. It’s over. Come.”

So I drag myself up through the mud and commit myself to their mercy and justice.

Skryf ‘n roman kursus – Studying with Wilna Adriaanse

Extract: from a novel by jo nel.

Dit is nie so seer die beelde wat hom ontstel nie. Die donker beelde kry hy al vir maande: Mevrou Malgas. Die tienjarige Elden Bruintjies. Nosipho Boniswa. Vandag is dit Yolinda Booysen. White trash. Dom gesig. Grimering oral. Tande vrot. Drie huilende snotneuskinders in die wagkamer.

“Gaan jy my inspuit? Ek háát tandartse. Julle is die mees terribleste mense op aarde.”

Die naald wat tussen haar oë tref en buig. Die blink vlekkelose staal tandartsspuit wat die skedel hard tref. Bloed. Sy hand wat weer oplig en ondertoe kap. Haar oë groot. Haar skok eers stom. Kop wat spartel onder sy linkerhand. Dan die gille. Harder houe. Bloed op sy handskoene. Op sy gesig. Versterk sy greep. Druk hard af teen die stoel. Nog harder houe. Harder, harder, hárder. Dan stilte. Hemelse fokken stilte.

Nee, dit is die sagte klemming van sy vingers wat hom vandag ontstel. Die doelbewuste bedwang. En die moontlikheid van stilte.

Short Story Writing Course – Studying with Ginny Swart

Extract: by elvira tadevosyan.

Kevin hadn’t heard from Mitch since last night and he was beginning to hope that he had changed his mind and called the whole thing off. He had never done something like this before, or at least ‘planned’ to. He sat on end of the cold bed and placed his face beneath his sweaty palms. It was seven in the evening and he still had one hour to think about what he was about to do. He knew he wasn’t ready. He thought of a mother bird throwing its baby off a cliff to teach it how to fly. In this case, he was the baby bird, and Mitch was the merciless Mommy bird. Not that his nature allowed for any motherly associations.

He couldn’t back out now. He knew what he had to do to make this problem from the past go away. He opened the drawer of the old dressing table in his room and pulled out a sharp, shiny object. He placed it in his front pocket. It felt uncomfortable. The last time he had carried around a weapon ended up being the biggest mistake he ever made. A very small part of him felt better knowing that the man was old and lonely, that he no longer had his job at that Bakery. He knew that doing this meant freedom for himself and freedom from Mitch.

Kevin heard a knock on the front door of his little cottage, and headed outside. Mitch was waiting for him. They greeted each other with a nod and both headed towards Mitch’s beat up old Chevy. They got in and sat for a few brief moments of silence.

“We can’t mess this up today. I need you to grow a pair, Kevin. You look pale as a ghost.” Mitch spat out coldly.

“I won’t mess up.” He responded sheepishly.

“You have to understand there are no second chances. We need him out.–

Write a Novel Course – Studying with David Jester

Extract: by monica serban.

It is pouring outside, cats and dogs style. I love that expression, although its original meaning has long washed out. Nowadays, the four legged creatures are the first to look for shelter when their sensitive muzzles get a whiff of stormy air. Even though you might see a vagrant dog now and again, drowning his fleas in a puddle of diluted mud, don’t expect to see a cat engaging in such crude behavior.

While humans are desperately running for cover, those sneaky felines have already found a cozy, dry spot and are licking themselves pretty.

There is an exception to any rule, and one very rainy day I was lucky enough to witness it: a rain-drenched cat, dark slate grey fur cleaved in spiky, dripping clumps, waiting outside my neighbor’s house.

Write a Novel Course – Studying with Sonny Whitelaw

Extract from a novel by ann wickens.

Lord Eth-Gradon did not look up as Damon stepped into the room. The only sound was the rustle of paper as he read. The light from the candles reflected off the ring he wore, but his official circlet teetered on a stack of papers. Faryn perched in the corner behind his lord, his writing slate balanced on his stomach. His clothes, always neat, were rumpled and greasy. He tried to stifle a yawn.

Damon swallowed. “You wanted to see me?”

“Sit.” His father looked up, gesturing to a chair.

Pulling it over to the table, Damon sat and watched his father break another seal. As usual, his gaze moved up to the portrait that hung on the wall.

The woman stared down at him with grey eyes, her lips curved in a smile, her face surrounded by dark hair the same colour as his. She was not beautiful, but her smile was appealing, her eyes kind. His mother had been twenty, younger than he was now, when she had vanished from their lives. Often he searched his memory, saddened that he could find nothing of her, not her voice, the smell of her or the feel of her touch. The only thing he had was this image.

The sapphire in the signet ring flashed in the candlelight as his father sat back. “That piddling bastard Pravus knew we couldn’t hold him and he sent most of his force to the river banks. Gargoth’s balls, we lost too damn many last night.” He rubbed his unshaven cheek. “Somehow he knows our bloody tactics.”

“What? How could he?” Why did he feel as if his father was blaming him?

His father’s face clouded, neck and cheeks flushed.

“Do you think he has a man in our castle?” Damon added.

Extract: ‘Contaminant’ by Natasha Bannerman

Sasolburg was beautiful at night, Jacob thought, watching the flares burn like giant birthday candles against the inky blackness of the sky. Being perched on top of the cold storage tank gave him an unrestricted view of the industrial plants which surrounded him and stretched into the distance. Clouds of steam, rising from the cooling towers, diffused the glow from hundreds of lights into softness, giving the plants an almost ethereal quality. Jacob considered that the darkness allowed even the harshest of environments to hide its less than pretty side. Pity it couldn’t do anything about the smells, he thought, wrinkling his nose as a pungent whiff of some or other noxious chemical drifted to him on the breeze.

He preferred working night shift it was always a lot less hectic than days, with the added benefit of no obnoxious plant manager hanging over your shoulder watching your every move. At night he would sometimes get the opportunity to escape outside for a while. He hated being stuck in the control room staring at numbers on a computer screen for an entire shift. He was a physical, hands-on type of guy and he preferred being out on the plant getting a feel for how it was running. Stuck in a control room you couldn’t hear the whine of a motor working too hard or the hiss of escaping air indicating a leak. Next to him his two-way radio buzzed to life.

Extract: Jacques Theron’s novel ‘Orfiel’

I found what was left of Orfiel’s body swinging languidly from a gnarled branch. The leather noose creaked rhythmically, eerily; his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Those pensive eyes stared out before him lifeless, but not without an expression of peace. His skin was ivory white, drained of all blood. Both arms and the right leg had been ripped from his torso. Only bloody sockets remained, the blood, darkened with time, running down his sides. The limbs were not on the ground nearby.

I should have begged him not to make the journey alone , was all I could think as I stood – horrified – before his dangling corpse.

The low-hanging sun painted the land in the last swathe of rose-coloured light. Blackness would engulf the heavens and I knew I was vulnerable, for the forest crones rampaged in the shadows of night.

I could not leave his body. Not like that. I was too heartbroken to believe that the butchered figure in front of me was really Orfiel. But I could not leave him swinging. I cut the leather belt knotted around his neck. His body fell, a heavy thud on the carpet of leaves soaked with his blood.

Extract: Salma Haq’s novel with working title ‘Not for Oneself but for All’

After Yusuf was sentenced, Imran felt numb as events reeled in his mind, slotting into gaps. Then anger took over. Anger at his ignorance and at his complacency over his pious and studious son. He stopped going to work. He barely left the house, sustaining himself on tea and an occasional biscuit. His stamina diminished and with it his anger dwindled. Weakness led to tears; copious, obese drops emptying his soul and eroding his faith. And then came self-pity, which was inescapably followed by the reality of life. He knew that if he stopped now, he would shatter; he needed to hold together the mosaic of his life. He needed to get up every morning. He needed to go to school. This was to be his therapy. The ritual, the routine of it all kept him secure. For this he was grateful.

He had travelled the road to teaching reluctantly, but once there, he was happy. He liked the vibrancy, the challenges, and the exchanges with his students. He marvelled at the changes in attitudes of the children over the years. The openly racist taunts of the eighties had changed into more subtle and irregular teasing, mixed race children were more common, girls were more ambitious, consumerism had increased, and discipline had slumped. Mohicans had been flicked, then curled, then waved, then highlighted, then straightened and then curled again. Trousers had flared, then tightened, then turned, then ripped. And he was in the middle of it all.

Extract: ‘Family History: The Boy in Black’ by AJ Neilson

The first rays of dawn broke behind the farmhouse, birthplace to four generations of Neilsons. Wonderful reds and pinks accompanied the emerging shades of blue. Sitting on the dewy grass, John tried to bring to mind his mother’s description of the flora, the fauna, and the quirks of the people, of their valley.

His gaze fell to small purple-leafed flowers by the hedge: ‘Violets … common dog violets,’ he said uncertainly. The dawn chorus piped up from the woodland. He listened intently: blackbirds, blackcaps, finches—don’t know which kind. Is that a linnet or a lark? The soft pulse of cooing pigeons provided a clearly interpretable and familiar backdrop. The knowledge his mother had tried to impart was going. At least the words were fading. But sitting in their picnic spot beneath the pinky-blue sky— that’s what she would have called it —the rhythm and tone of her voice was still vivid. He could hear Charles laugh and see Mother smile as they sat here together and watched Rebecca find her feet for the first time. Mother never lived to see Martha walk, and he couldn’t recall anybody else taking much notice. Even here, looking down over their valley, the memory of her face was now hazy; only her smile was in sharp focus. How long until that too was gone? Tears flowed soundlessly down his cheeks, their tracks leaving a visible trace through the grime of the night. Their warmth, and origins, testimony to his coldness.

It would be the last time John would cry for other people: for his mother, and for the son she would have had him become. Smoke was beginning to rise from the whitewashed cottages which dappled the lower slopes. John stood up; it was time for his last day of farming. Turning for one last view of the panorama he plucked a violet for his lapel—just as she might have done—and returned home.

Write a Novel Course – Studying with Fiona Ingram

Extract: from a novel instalment written by tineka vieira.

Ida remembered the first time she had done something sinister, if you could even call it that. She’d gone out to get Cathy, her colleague at Interesting Snacks, some lunch. Interesting Snacks had been her first employer and the place that had launched her career.

Cathy had been her senior and one of the most pedantic individuals she had ever met. Not only was Cathy constantly peering over her thin framed glasses to glare at Ida’s computer monitor, inferring that Ida was up to no good, she also spoke to Ida with such condescension. Ida disliked Cathy immensely, which made it all the more fair to set her up when the opportunity arose.

“Cathy, I need to step out quickly to buy some lunch.”

“Of course you do,” commented Cathy, not looking up from her computer screen. “As the one with time for lunch, I’m sure you won’t mind picking me up something to eat?”

Ida had stepped out to a local deli and was about to pick up two pastrami sandwiches when she noticed a sandwich that had fallen between the fridge and a rack of potato chips. The sandwich looked like it was at least a day old and presumably had been unrefrigerated since the previous day. Ida picked it up and was about to take it to the manager when a thought crossed her mind. Cathy had a huge presentation to the management team tomorrow, most of which Ida had spent sleepless nights putting together. Ida had thought about what would happen if Cathy was ill – would the meeting be cancelled or would there be the opportunity for her to step up and fill in? Even though the sandwich had no trace of cold left in it, she concluded that she didn’t really know how long the sandwich had been there so chances were good that Cathy would be fine. And if Cathy wasn’t fine, at least Ida would have the opportunity to put her name out there. She took the sandwich, added lashings of dressing and gave it to Cathy, who was too busy stressing about the presentation to notice anything was wrong with it.

Cathy was sick the next day and Ida saw it as fate. She was meant to do that presentation to the management team and to be recognized for all her hard work. Ida still felt that it could have gone either way and it was just proof that she never let anyone take credit for work that she had done. Unfortunately, Cathy didn’t fare so well in the end; the management team had not been understanding about her calling in sick. Ida, of course, not only filled in but she went one step further and admitted that she had also eaten the same pastrami sandwich from the deli and, even though she felt terrible, she knew how much the presentation meant to the company. Even now recalling the memory of the event, Ida felt no regret. The feeling of standing up in front of the management team and taking control, playing the audience like the puppets they were, had given Ida the feeling of supremacy, a feeling that she could sense now deep in her being.

That single moment of decision between a bad sandwich and a good one had taught Ida to rely on fate, on her gut feelings and, even though she had aided fate, fate, overall, had prevailed. Fate had always been in her favour, until this moment as she stood in the street alone and abandoned. A bodiless soul. The chaos that had surrounded her had dissipated and she now stood on the sidewalk, staring at the spot where her body had been, while the last of the lingering spectators left the scene. Even the litter of recyclables seemed to move away from her until the streets were completely deserted.

Extract: From a novel instalment written by Feroza van der Merwe

She blended and she brewed and selected the best with which to bless them.

Interest in the lottery reverberated throughout the spirit realm. It had been a while since most of them had been actively involved in earthly events. Some guardians had given up the close watch and retreated to the spirit realm to observe from afar.

“A spirit lottery, you say. What would I have to give of myself?” asked a sceptical tree nymph.

“It’s more than just a lottery, Hildee. We would give the best of ourselves to participate. Compatibility will be very important for the recipe to blend effectively,” replied a kindly water nymph.

With the veil lifting, Atlas’s mind was as clear as the crystal spring water flowing in the Valley of Ro. For the first time, he could feel the rock that he had become a part of for infinity separate from himself. He felt the creatures scurrying along the peaks and the insects moving in and out of the crevices.

Rheiea was up early as usual. She enjoyed the solitude and peace that came with the latter part of the night bleeding into the early morning. She hummed as she opened the door to welcome the day. Rheiea would miss the little house and the large family that it contained. She pushed her wooden boat into the water and peered into the depths of the lake, marvelling at the little fish trying to escape her net. The calm surface broke as she dipped her fingers into the cool liquid. A hand reached out to her. She grasped the hand without hesitation. The two opposing bodies tugged and Rheiea in the boat tumbled into Rheiea in the water and they became one.

With each falling star, heaven and earth fell further out of alignment. The earth heaved and spluttered, protesting; the ground split and the oceans groaned. Dense thunderheads of pink and blue raged above a stormy mountain.

Atlas felt water beneath his feet. He could feel his feet. As he flexed his wrist, the spine of seventeen peaks flexed in reply.

She has always been there in the void. She watched while creation unfolded, while wars were fought and nations fell. She was there through it all. Watching and waiting. Watching and creating in the void. Things had changed much in the aeons that had passed. She had evolved and moved beyond chaos. She was no longer only a womb of darkness.

Rheiea opened her eyes and saw beyond the velvety darkness. She felt weightless and strangely satiated. The afternoon had passed swiftly. She tethered the boat and walked back to her house with the money from the fish neatly tucked into her pocket.

“Rheiiiiiiiii,” screamed Madika as she rushed toward her. “You’re all shimmery. Why do you look all shiny? That is a really pretty bangle.”

Rheiea removed the intricately threaded gold and platinum snake from her wrist and handed it to her seven-year-old sister. If you looked closely enough, you would find its partner adorning her left ankle. The bracelet fervently coiled itself around Madika’s tiny wrist as if it belonged there.

Extract: From a novel instalment written by Nick Prinsloo

Ga’el couldn’t handle the silence any longer. With a string of cuss words that would have made a fourteenth century pleasure worker feel dirty, he sprang to his feet and started pacing the small cabin.

“Where’d you go, Hag?” he asked. “Are you trying to punish me? ’Cause it’s working. I feel properly chastised.”

“Fern? Please? Say something? Anything?”

Ga’el hurried over to the water room where he kept a piece of reflective metal. Taking a flint from his pocket, he lit a lantern and soon had enough light to work with. Using the reflection in the metal, he looked over his shoulder. The tattoo was still there. He tried not to look at the tattoo too often; it made him remember what he had done all those centuries ago. But now he was worried. Living with one’s curse for as long as he had … it had become an addiction.

He tried to recall what life had been like before the curse. He couldn’t. The hag and her strange menagerie had become his family.

What in the lost names of the seventeen dead gods is she doing ?

“Mistress Fern? Witch? Where are you?”

Something must be wrong.

He checked the mirror again. Fern was still there, tattooed on his back where she always was. And she looked as she always did, hunched over, a shrivelled crone perpetually smiling as if she was laughing at him. Her silver hair was tied into the same severe bun that always pulled at her eyebrows, giving the impression that she had just been startled.

Why are you so quiet? You never shut up, not even when I’m asleep?

But now, silence.

“Please speak to me. You’re being cruel. Mistress Fern.”

Ga’el pulled up the leg of his pants and slapped the growling wolf that lived on his thigh. “Bear. Hey, Bear. Wake up. Bear? Please? Come on, I need help.”

In response, the ink on his skin started swirling. Ga’el clenched his teeth. It felt like the skin was being peeled from his body.

“What?” asked the huge black wolf, now standing in front of him. “Are we being attacked?”

“Oh, thank the gods,” breathed Ga’el. “Listen, Bear, Mistress Fern has stopped talking to me. Can you find out if she’s all right?”

Bear’s lips peeled back in a rictus. Ga’el couldn’t help noticing how sharp the wolf’s teeth were. Bear growled in a deep, rumbling sound that made Ga’el shiver.

“Mistress Fern is in a trance right now. She did this all the time before you messed things up. Be patient, human.”

With that the beast became ink on skin and nothing Ga’el did would make Bear return.

Eventually, he took the wolf’s advice. He lay down on his cot, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But, sleep was evasive. Something big was about to happen. Something big and bad.

Then—just as he began to succumb to exhaustion—he felt a new sensation: the tattoo on his back was swirling. Mistress Fern had never left his skin before.

This can’t be good.

Extract: From a novel instalment written by Marine Fourie

Eric heard shouts coming from below. He looked down and saw people staring and pointing; guards were ushering people from the courtyard as the guards armed themselves.

Eric scowled and said, “I don’t have time for this.”

“I hope you weren’t expecting them to just let you walk in and see the king,” Nadia pointed out. Eric was aware of Nadia’s arms wrapped around him.

Is it really a good idea to bring her along? Not that she gave me much of a choice.

“No, but did they have to arm themselves? Slowly, Zio. Let’s not give them any more reason to attack us.” He nudged the beast groundwards. The mighty flapping of Zio’s wings was comforting and successfully drowned out the commander’s orders.

Zio’s paws thudded heavily on the stones and then the griffin crouched down. Eric swung his leg over Zio’s back and slid off the griffin, landing much harder than he anticipated. Nadia followed suit.

Eric was sore from the flight, but still tried to stand as proud as he could. Nadia was no different. The setting sun passed over the large towers of the castle, casting monstrous shadows. If he were home now, the library would be filled with warmth. Here in the courtyard of the palace, he was facing down pointed spears, sharpened swords and notched arrows.

“I need to see the king,” Eric said in a firm voice.

“It is customary to introduce oneself before making demands.”

The sound of a stern voice parted the guards. Justice Nikolai. The man had a menacing presence. Dressed in a black military uniform with six gold circles stitched to his right cuff, he smoothed his greying hair back with his left hand while his right tightly clutched the cane supporting his weight. His intimidating gaze matched the stern expression carved into the mask covering the right side of his face. Angry red scars were visible under its edges.

“I know who you are; the blue jacket too big to be your own, the five silver rings adorning your cuff, the griffin, the messy hair from your travel here, and half a wedding suit. Why are you here, Lord Blackburn?” Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. “Is it revenge or information? Be careful with your answer, and even more careful if you choose the path of the dishonest.”

Eric’s throat was dry. “Information,” he croaked.

Eric heard the shuffling of feet as the soldiers glanced surreptitiously at one man with three gold circles on his cuff. His grey hair was neatly tied back. He had bright blue eyes and a thin grey beard running along his chin.

“Your orders, Justice?” the man asked.

“Captain, please remove any weapons from Lord Blackburn. If he resists then his intentions are clear.” Justice Nikolai’s gaze remained on Eric.

Extract: From a novel instalment written by Stephanie Brown

Behind them a braying roar. A signal from one creature to its companions. Their quarry had taken flight. The trees blurred past in eerie shadows as they ran. Aderyn keeping her sister’s white shift in view as she followed, her breathing hoarse and ragged as her legs carried her. There was a quarry nearby; their father often paid his dues there in mining. How far had they run? Were they close?

She turned her head to look, to gain some sense of where she was and saw men running either side of them. Her heart leapt to her throat. She watched through a patch of moonlight in the trees as a near-naked man in hinged chest armour and fur loincloth ran through the trees a few meters beside her. His short sword banged against his leg as his legs strained. The man held her eyes long enough to snarl at her, before throwing his head back in a roar and flinging himself on all fours. His legs stretching and contracting, changing shape as his kneecaps changed place. His hands balled into fists as he ran on all fours. The man disappeared back into shadow, but she could hear his breathing now, coming in rapid snorts. On all fours he would be faster. They all would be.

Literary Short Fiction Course – Studying with Andrew Salomon

Extract: from a story written by petrus kruger.

“He’s a real menace, Charly, like Dennis the Menace,” Mrs. Winkerton said to her husband as they lay in a slightly rickety bed in their over-expensive apartment. It wasn’t exactly that smart, but it was lofty for the Winkerton’s income class.

“But, my Queen…” Mr. Winkerton had moved away from “my Princess” when Mrs. Winkerton felt that at forty, she had become too old to be a princess any longer.

“It really is true, Charly. He pushed that red-haired boy for no reason, right from behind. The red-haired boy didn’t even have a chance to defend himself.”

“Queen, I understand that makes him a trouble-maker, perhaps one with discipline issues, but you said yourself that he doesn’t ever make a mess in the restrooms or smoke behind the chapel or let mice out among the girls during choir practice. That would be menacing. I know Larry Brown and he’s doing the best he can with that boy. Being a backyard mechanic and paying for Liverpool Lutheran Academy takes some doing. Perhaps the kids tease him.”

“I know they do, Charly. I’ve seen that, but they tease him because he pushes them. Why doesn’t he just realize that he will be more loved if he is less violent?”

“Is he really, Queen? I thought you said he just does some pushing and this time was a little rough. That doesn’t sound like outright violence. And maybe he pushes kids around because he wants attention. I know what that feels like. I was a bit of a bully myself when I was in school, but I wasn’t menacing.”

“Yes, I know. You still pushed me in primary school.”

“Yes, you pushed me in primary school, because I kicked a soccer ball into the back of your legs during recess.”

“I don’t even remember that, but you see, I turned out okay.”

“Only because your dad married again.”

“And that brought some love into our house. That made all the difference. And perhaps that’s what little Larry Brown needs. Perhaps we should make a point of being kind to him and showing him some real Christian love.”

And so the Winkertons spent the night on their rickety bed, hatching a plan, until they fell asleep.

Extract: From a novel instalment written by Meggan McCarthy

I began wondering why my parents were both home so early when my mother’s “One day I’ll just leave the whole lot of you. You’ll all die without me!” howled through the open window. The familiar jolt of fear surged through my tiny conductor-like ribcage that could barely control the current.

My brother, weighed down with a school bag almost bigger than himself, was chewing the shards of his nails. He looked up at me for an answer: “What should we do?” I, being only a head taller than him, with my missing front tooth and blue sherbet-stained mouth, had to make a mature decision.

I felt my spine spasm into a debilitating paralysis. If we went inside now, they could turn their anger on us, or worse, use us as leverage in the argument—when you’re desperate to shift the blame, you’ll latch onto anything. I cringed as I imagined us standing there between them, incapacitated by the loud words and feeling as insignificant as air.

But if we stayed outside and waited for them to calm down, we’d get into trouble for coming home late and that would spark a different inferno.

Right then I loathed my stupid parents, and I loathed myself for loathing them.

“I think we should go inside,” I said while staring firmly at the ground.

“No, Evangeline, let’s wait, they too busy fighting to know we’re not home,” he pleaded, the little crease between his dark eyebrows becoming deeper and his blue eyes misting up.

Skryf-‘n-roman kursus; Studieleier Wilna Adriaanse

Uittreksel deur ilze dijkstra.

Hy waai vir oulaas uit die motorvenster toe hy wegry. Sy kyk hom agterna soos sy motor deur die verkeer vleg en verdwyn. Sy ril toe ’n gevoel van verlatenheid soos ‘n koue donker kombers om haar vou. Sy voel alleen tussen die pendelaars wat oor die plein voor die stasie stroom. Die refleksie van die buisligte uit die stasiegebou laat die mense almal siek lyk. Sy sluit aan by die massa en voel net so siek soos hulle lyk. Binne die stasiegebou gaan staan sy in die lang tou voor die kaartjie kiosk. Dit gaan verbasend vinnig en met haar kaartjie in die hand stap sy weer uit na die plein voor die stasie. Die koue reuk van uitlaatgasse hang in die lug. Sy staar peinsend na die karre wat almal aan die verkeerde kant van die straat ry asof Terrance se Citroën enige oomblik weer gaan verskyn. Die reuse silhouet van die Orleans katedraal verkleur van donker na grys-pienk soos die dag breek. Sy weet dit sou vir hom ook mooi gewees het en draai weg. Sy stap om die blok en kry ‘n straatkafeetjie. Dis die geur van koffie en varsgebakte viennoiserie wat haar aandag getrek het, nog voor sy eers die kafee gesien het. Die eienaar groet met ‘n vrolike “Bonjour Madame!”

Basiese Kreatiewe Skryfkursus; Studieleier Wilna Adriaanse

Uittreksel deur maryke deist.

Niekie en haar boetie Stefan speel met karretjies onder die groot ou doringboom op die werf. Hulle het net na brekfis begin paaie en landerye maak, bome geplant en ‘n dorpie en plase uitgelê. Haar bene is al moeg gehurk en sy is bly toe sy oom Soois se kenmerkende grt-grtok!-grt-grtok! op die los gruis hoor aankom. Sy kyk op. Hy’t ‘n leë streepsak en ‘n sekel by hom wat hy onder sy linkerarm vasknyp, duidelik op pad om te gaan lusern sny vir die koeie. Keiser, wat vroeg-vroeg al die skadu van die boom opgesoek het, swaai sy stert.

“Kan ek saamkom, oom?” vra sy hard dat hy kan hoor.

“Ja. Sê vi’ jou ma. Ik willie lat sy worrie nie. Of kwaad issie,” kom dit stomp, so in die loop. “Ik wag by ‘ie sloot.”

“Kom jy ook, Boetie?”

Stefan skud sy kop. En sy is heimlik bly, want sy is nogal jaloers op tyd saam met oom Soois.

Sy draf agter hom aan nadat sy vir haar ma gesê het – of eintlik, sommer deur die sifdeur by die kombuis geskree het – en sy kry hom by die leisloot waar hy wag. Hy staan oudergewoonte met homself en praat, maar sy kon nog nooit uitmaak wat nie. Toe hy haar sien, bly hy stil. Die leisloot loop van die dam skuins onderkant die huis na die groentetuin wat so vyftig meter verder is. Partykeer skuur Sanna potte langs die sloot, maar vandag is daar nie water in nie. Die stukkie paadjie anderkant die sloot is weerskante dig bebos. Hier sê hy net:

“Kyk wa’ jy trap.” Elke keer. Die hekkie self is ‘n bekslaner, te styf vir haar om oop te maak. Oom Soois sit sy sekel en streepsak neer, maak die hek oop en hink deur. Daarvandaan dra sy die sekel en die sak. As sy so agter hom loop, wonder sy altyd oor daai linkervoet.

Uittreksel deur Riaan Marshall

Hy loop om-en-om in die kryt en hou toesig oor elke deel van die gym.

“Lig jou hande Gert, daai peerbal gaan jou stukkend slaan! Eddie seun, twee vinnige linkers en ’n right hook op die hart en bring jou linker direk terug, anders kry jy die harthou! Jy’s te regop Lukas, buk bietjie vorentoe en beweeg jou bo-lyf saam met jou hou, dan het jy meer punch . . . “ weergalm oom Ig se stem soos ’n generaal s’n tussendeur die houe wat ontplof teen die slaansak, die ritmiese doef-kedoef-kedoef van die peerbal en die tik-tik-tik van die springtou. “Jou rondte Eddie. Draai nou hotklou, slaan reguit regters en linker uppercuts. Sy maag is heeltyd oop.” Oom Ig druk Eddie se mondskerm terug en die nat spons nog ’n keer op sy nek toe die klok lui.

“Seconds out, round two,” klink die hoofbeoordelaar se stem.

Jasper se bonkige figuur is dadelik voor Eddie, en windmeulhoue tref hom oral. Eddie hou sy handskoene voor sy gesig en elmboë voor sy maag; daar waar mens punte score en waar dit seermaak. Jasper val Eddie vas en slaan hom met mening op sy niere. Die ref kom tussenbeide.

“Break! Red you’re hitting behind the back, first warning. Box!”

Jasper se asem blaas en sy hande hang laag. Hy swaai sy bolyf uitdagend en Eddie skiet een, twee en drie reguit regters op Jasper se neus. Toe hy sy hande lig om te keer, haak Eddie hom vol in die maag. Jasper se gesig word wit en Eddie plant haakhoue weerskante van sy kop. Jasper se teenhoue is ver mis en na nóg ’n uppercut in sy maag struikel hy agtertoe. Sy hande val langs sy sye. Die ref kom tussenbeide.

Three people talk about a murder at the factory – by Janette Stratton (Short Story Writing for Magazines Course)

First, the secretary.

To: Alice Abrahams

From: Sylvia Abrahams

Subject: Keep this to yourself

Alice, Something really terrible has happened here today. Mr Griffin is dead. And I found him. Oh, it was awful. He was just lying there. I shook him and shouted at him. But he didn’t move. He was all floppy and soggy, like a huge rag doll.

I was so scared that I just started screaming and screaming, and everyone came running. But no one else cares. Not like I do. In fact I think they’re glad he’s dead.

I phoned 999. And now everyone’s here. Police. Ambulance. Lots of men in white coveralls. They’re like bugs, on their hands and knees, crawling over everything.

It’s awful to think that while I was at lunch, Mr Griffin was dying in here all by himself. I feel terrible about it. I’m sure I’ll have nightmares.

And the police want to talk to me. I don’t know what I’ll say. I wish you were here to hold my hand. You make me braver.

I’ll probably be late home. Can you cover for me? I don’t want mum to know yet. She’ll only freak out and charge down here and I couldn’t bear it. Please just lie if you have to.

Hugs and hugs

Then the policeman in charge of the investigation mutters to himself

My first day in charge and this is what I get, a man dead on his warehouse floor, without a mark on him. It looks to me like something medical, a heart attack or stroke. But everyone seems to have hated him, and Simon, the SOC boss, has ‘a feeling in his water,’ so we’re treating it as a suspicious death.

Sod Simon’s bloody water.

His water has a team of 10 men wasting their time, clambering around this huge warehouse, looking for evidence. It’s one of those 19th century monstrosities – wheels and chains and unidentifiable bits of metal hanging everywhere. More like a torture chamber than a factory.

I hear rumblings that the business is in trouble, and I’m not surprised. The place is a relic.

I’ve spent my afternoon interviewing a procession of surly uncommunicative men who are all trying and failing to hide their relief that Graham Griffin is dead. The only person who admits to liking him, is his secretary, and she’s all of 18. Not exactly a reliable witness. Even his wife could hardly manage a tear when we told her. If the man was murdered, it was a damn clever job. And, any one of a hundred people could have done it.

On the bright side; if I can solve this one, I can solve anything.

Finally, the factory manager who calls his wife

Hello love. It’s me, Andre. I just wanted to let you know that I might be a bit late home tonight. There’s been an accident at work.

No, no. I’m fine. Sorry to frighten you, love. All the lads are fine too.

It’s Graham Griffin. He’s dead. Yes, dead. Just lying there on the workshop floor. Poor sod. No one knows what happened.

The lass from the office found him when she came in from lunch.

Yes, she’s pretty cut up about it. Sobbing away in the office, she is.

There’s no accounting for taste. He was as nasty to her as he was to everyone else.

Well, it’s true. He was a real piece of work and I won’t miss him. No point lying about it.

Yes, the police are here. They’re nosing around all over the place, trying to decide if somebody offed him I suppose. I won’t lie to them either. They’ll hear soon enough that we were at loggerheads over the layoffs. If I come over all sad and sorry, they’ll only wonder what I’m up to.

It’s okay love. I know you’re just looking out for me.

Don’t worry. I’ll be home as soon as I can.

Excerpt from Quarantine – by Michel van Eck (Short Story Writing for Magazines Course)

‘Did you hear that?’ Jack asked.

‘I don’t hear anything.’

‘Exactly,’ Jack said.

The wind sliced through the forest canopy, leaves rustled and the pines creaked. Everything seemed normal, except there were no birds, no crickets, and no beetles that Jack could hear. There was nothing. There wasn’t a sound except the trees and low howl of the wind. ‘It’s too quiet. This place is giving me the heebee jeebees.’

Jack gingerly put one foot in front of the other, aiming the barrel of his R5-assault rifle in the front of him as they made their way deeper into the forest. The trail ahead of him was rough, overgrown with underbrush and littered with moss in various shades of green He slipped, his boots gripped at the last moment and he recovered his footing. He continued down the path until it faded into the forest floor and there was no track left to follow.

‘What now?’ Danny asked. ‘The hikers could’ve gone any way.’

Jack looked to his left and then to his right. Danny was right, the hikers could be anywhere. The forest looked all the same from where he stood. If it wasn’t for the sun peering through the canopy, Jack wouldn’t have known in which direction they were going. It was then that something caught his attention.

He frowned, moving forward. It was concealed by yellow pine needles and shadows of the fading day. What is that? He took another step forward and the whiff of rotting flesh hit his nostrils and made him gag. He pressed his gloved hand over his nose, but the smell permeated through it. Death. He had never gotten used to that smell.

Writing excerpt by Kelvin Jaffs (Short Story Writing for Magazines Course)

Yes, a normal person, a person who wakes at six in the morning waiting for the alarm to go off, a person who loves someone unconditionally, a person who doesn’t waste their money.

I mean, this person isn’t normal, he writes his work in his office fuelled by Rock n Roll, we can almost hear howling and growling, for God’s sake man he’s the wild man of Borneo.

He comes into the office with his curly hair down to his shoulders, his boots are worn out, he looks like he’s just come back from Woodstock, starry-eyed and a little optimistic.

He looks at me like a wild beast laying in the sun but with a peaceful demeanor, I can’t work out where he comes from: the north, the south, the east, the west. I know he once wrote for an underground music magazine in Amsterdam after graduating from university, but that’s all I know.

He tends to come into the office at any time he likes, doing whatever he likes, listening to whatever he likes, he’s an irresponsible man, a barbarian, one of those free-thinking poets.

His wife comes in once in a while carrying their baby in her arms, looks around the office as if she’s never seen one before, smiles at me then disappears around the corner. She kind of reminds me of an old 1950’s French actress, smooth but edgy, cool but neurotic, beautiful but hazy, she definitely fills the room like the queen of the gypsies, with a little baby in her arms.

Excerpt from ‘The Swarm’ – by Susan Green (Literary Short Fiction Course)

The marriage was over. I delivered my valedictorian speech to him in the morning, just after he had punched my daughter in the stomach for not passing the butter when she was told. You could call that punch the straw.

Coincidentally it was the day the bees got the wanderlust. They arrived on a fence near the house and arranged themselves into rows like maniacal toothy grimaces. He wanted to gather the swarm and return them to the hives. Rather than put on the proper gear, he went ahead and performed the job in his overalls.

I was busy packing the children’s things when he rushed into the house like a rampaging beast with the swarm following. He had a thick ginger beard, which I once had marvelled at. Today, dozens of bees were caught in it, stinging him. His face was already as swollen as a summer melon. He was yelling at me get the fucking bees out of my beard . I wasn’t sure how because he was running around the lounge followed by angry bees and the dog barking at his heels. He kicked her and she scuttled into the corner.

“Don’t just stand there, help me!” he shouted. “Get a knife. Flick them off with a knife.”

I went to the drawer and got out a large carving knife, yelling back at him, “Sit down, I can’t reach you.”

He sat, eyes half closed, doped out by so many stings. His head flopped back and he arranged it so that I could get at the bees and begin flicking them off.

There I stood over him, with the knife at his throat.

Excerpt from ‘Ten Days’ – by Arun Jeram (Literary Short Fiction Course)

It had been ten days since Margret went into hospital. What had started as a routine check-up had quickly deteriorated into a bed-side vigil. By then, the plaques that had been taking over my wife’s body were attacking her nerves.

Not able to speak, I could only watch as the grimace on her face deepened. We had faced difficult times before — my greying hair was a growing testament to that. But the strands that now lay strewn on the bed sheets were from a worry of a different kind. There was nothing left to do now but to wait.

Like waiting for a plane to depart, sitting in a hospital affords you time. The same amount of time outside of this building would be filled with productive tasks. Planning my week, cleaning my car, or doing something that I thought had to be done. All of that seemed trivial now. More than trivial: none of it had any relevance anymore.

The room was white but poorly lit, and if all the lights weren’t on, my aged eyes had trouble reading my book. Not that I cared much for reading at a time like this. My thoughts stretched to my old students who were now adjusting to a new teacher. It had been my job to teach them about the world. What was fact, what was once fact but now fiction, and what we didn’t know. I wondered if my replacement would have the same commitment to the truth.

I thought I heard Margret groan, and I looked up, startled. But she hadn’t moved.

As a kid I thought I knew everything – at least most things that were worth knowing – but no amount of knowledge gained over the many decades could help me understand what she now felt. Was there anything that I truly knew?

“Excuse me, Mr Irving,” the nurse said. “We need this room for the next thirty minutes.”

“Oh…okay. Should I get out of your way?”

“Maybe it’s best if you don’t go too far.”

“Don’t worry.” I got up to leave. “I’ll only be downstairs. I should probably get a coffee; I think it’s going to be a long night.”

Sitting by myself in the empty cafeteria, I nearly spilt the contents of my polystyrene cup when he spoke.

“Excuse me, mister, do you mind if I join you?” I turned around to see a boy in his early twenties. “You look familiar,” I said, “were you in one of my classes?”

He shook his head. “It’s just so quiet and lonely around here, and I could do with some company. And from the looks of it, you could do with some as well.”

As he sat, I couldn’t help but admire his long brown hair. I’m sure I had a just as impressive mane at his age. I wanted to tell him to take care of it otherwise it would end up shrivelled and thinning, like mine.

“Who are you here for?” asked the boy.

“My wife–she’s upstairs.” I didn’t feel a need to ask him the same question. We sat there for a few minutes without talking.

“So what kind of teacher are you then?” he said, finally breaking the silence.

“I used to teach science—I retired this year.”

“Oh wow.” The boy seemed impressed. “I bet you know all kinds of things.”

“Funny you should say that. I was just sitting here trying to think of everything that I know. I mean, know to be completely true, without any doubt.”

“I’m not sure I know of any.”

“Really? Isn’t that what science is all about? That’s what they told us at school.”

“We get told a lot of things,” I said.

Excerpt from ‘Giraffe’ – by Tania Terblanche (Literary Short Fiction Course)

“Mr Erasmus?” I yelled, knocking on the door of number nine. No response but the faint sound of horse racing on TV. I banged harder.

“Mr Erasmus, it’s Angie from number twenty five?”

Something rustled inside, and then a creaking sound like someone had just stood up from a rocking chair. It took ages before the door finally opened to reveal the old guy’s face. His trousers were held up by navy-blue suspenders, but he always seemed to be shrugging like someone wading through a swamp – as if expecting the pants to fall down at any minute anyway.

“Mr Erasmus, I’m really sorry to bother you, but… Well there’s a giraffe in my garden,” I said and laughed expectantly.

He blinked a few times, as if trying to wipe away the milky films over his old eyes. He scratched at a haphazardly shaven spot on his chin.

“We don’t allow pets,” he mumbled.

“No, I know that. It just… appeared! Could you maybe come have a look? I’m kind of in a hurry,” I said, glancing at my watch. My parents would be coming in four hours.

He eyed me suspiciously, his lips quivering as if he had also helped himself to something in my garden. Or maybe he was just looking for his teeth in there.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said and retreated back into his lair of old magazines and yesterday’s soup.

Excerpt from ‘Lepidoptera’ – by Tania Terblanche (Literary Short Fiction Course)

I tiptoed through to the living room. The huge cage loomed there. You could hear the hundreds of violet wings fluttering desperately.

Each butterfly had mounted over its feelers a silver muzzle. Was that a needle at the end? Their hairy yellow trunks were barely visible under the malevolent gleam. I coughed.

“Who’s there?” I said. “What have you done with my butterflies?” Something creaked upstairs. Then a soft giggle.

“ His butterflies,” someone whispered. I jerked around. A girl was floating towards me – you couldn’t see her feet under that long dress. And there was a turban in her hand. Where had I seen her before?

“Who… who are you?” I said and took a slow step back. A single tear rolled down her face. Her eyes were sunken, her hair falling out in patches with red welts on the bare skin. The butterflies started banging their snouts against the rusted bars of the cage.

“You really don’t remember?” she said. I almost had to read her lips. Her eyes floated up to a point above me.

Excerpt from ‘Into Darkness’ – by Hayley Barrett (Write a Novel Course)

“Alexandra Spencer, how do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?”

The Judge’s voice rang out through the silence, his microphone giving a high-pitched squeal of disgust at the volume of his voice.

In a semi circle around the fire, their features partially illuminated by the dying embers, six sets of eyes stared at me. They were certain what I was going to say. They expected me to plead guilty. Everyone always did, whether guilty or not. I could almost read their minds— hurry up, so we can climb back into our beds .

I lifted my chin defiantly and passed my eyes over each face, stopping finally at the Judge.

“Not guilty,” I said, my voice echoing into the night.

In unison, a thousand gasps sounded around the amphitheatre, but before anyone could utter a word, the Judge yelled, “Silence!” His voice reverberated through the speakers. I looked out at the audience with contempt. My father’s private view was that most of the people of New Phoenix were little better than villagers. The fact they were here at three in the morning, watching my trial, proved it. They wanted to see a ballot draw, a once in a lifetime opportunity. But they weren’t going to see one tonight. This trial would never get that far.

I wondered where Marcus was sitting. I knew he was out there somewhere, but with most people sharing their seat with a friend, it was next to impossible to make out faces in the dim light.

“You are aware,” said the Judge dryly, “as per the city law, that a plea of not guilty will carry a harsher penalty should you be found guilty, than a guilty plea.”

I nodded, knowing that should I be found not guilty, as I was certain I would be, I’d still be better off. Besides, I didn’t have any choice. Marcus had told me this was the only way.

“Very well.”

The Judge turned toward the five people seated around the fire.

“Council of Leaders, you have heard all the evidence. You must now make your decision.”

Excerpt from ‘Belgrade Railway Station’ – by Dajana Little (Write a Novel Course)

The train station was busy despite the early hour. The information board displayed the first train arriving at 06h45 and the first departure scheduled for 07h25. Heavy snow that fell during the night had obviously impacted the time order of the train traffic. Even in the best weather conditions punctuality was not the strongest aspect of the railway service.

In the waiting room two cleaners moved around with an air of utter desolation while their mops left a greyish trail on floor-tiles that long ago used to be ochre. Metallic banks were all occupied and the air was filled with a musty odour of wet cloths and boots. With every opening of the only door to the waiting room, a gleeful ramble of cold would make those sitting or lying on the benches closest to the door pull their coats and caps tighter.

As the waiting room got fuller, the cleaners fiercely moved the mops over the floor catching the passengers’ luggage, shoes and occasionally even bottom of someone’s trousers. While some would grumble asking the cleaners to be more careful, others would just move a little away from flying mops trying to preserve as much of warmth as possible. And cleaners, unmoved, continued their mopping.

Mila walked in slowly and looked around the waiting room for a place to put down a heavy suitcase she was pulling, avoiding the murky stares accusing her of letting iciness in. Dim light falling from the ceiling lamps, half of which were not turned on, did not make it an easy task to find a free space in the crowded waiting room.

Mila proceeded to the far corner on the left side of the room and let the suitcase handle out of her grip with a deep sigh. Her hands were aching from lifting and pulling the case along the uneven cobbled pavement to the station and trying to avoid dirty slush sprayed by passing vehicles. Her back was also sore from leaning to one or the other side as she changed hands while pulling the suitcase.

Uittreksel: ‘Die Silinder’ – deur Juan Botha (Gevorderde ‘Skryf-‘n-roman’ kursus)

Gavin draf oor die pad en stap by die polisiekantoor in. Knip sy oë vir die helder neonligte en dit neem hom ‘n oomblik of wat om daaraan gewoond te raak. Sien dan eers die toonbank waaragter ‘n fris geboude, bles polisieman sit. ‘n Groot stapel lêers lê aan sy linkerkant, langs ‘n wit koffiebeker. We’re all born bald, Baby is in skuins, vet gedrukte letters daarop geskryf, bokant ‘n prentjie van ‘n baba.

Daar is ‘n kort ry voor die toonbank en hy val agter in. Hy bekyk die binnekant van die gebou. Buiten die vrou met ‘n grys poniestert, ‘n kort entjie agter die bles polisieman, is daar nie veel ander mense nie. Net ‘n polisieman wat naby die deur sit.

Die vrou met die poniestert het skaars die telefoon neergesit, toe lui hy weer. Haar skril stem trek tot waar hy staan. Hard en duidelik en hy probeer dit uitsny terwyl hy wag.

Dit voel soos ‘n ewigheid voor hy eindelik beweeg en toe hy weer kyk, is hy tweede van voor. Dit lyk of die poniestert-konstabel haar telefoon vir ‘n handradio verruil het. Klink of sy sagter daaroor praat as oor die telefoon. Vreemd. Dan lig haar stem en hy hoor ‘n deel van haar gesprek wat hom laat frons. Dit klink of daar iewers aksie is.

“…verdagte het van die tik-huis af weggejaag in ‘n wit of beige Corsa. Volgens die registrasienommer behoort die kar aan ‘n Adriaan Van der Westhuizen.”

Hy lag amper. Hoe toevallig. Dis dieselfde naam as sy oorlede pa. Dit prikkel sy nuuskierigheid verder en hy draai sy kop effens om beter te hoor.

“Wag ‘n bietjie. Rekords sê die eienaar is oorlede. Die laaste adres, 67 Tarentaal singel, Durbanville.”

Hy sluk. Daar moet ‘n fout wees. 67 Tarentaal singel is sý adres. Wat het sy alles gesê? Iets van ‘n tik-huis? Onmoontlik! Hy drink skaars. “Nee,” ruk die vrou se stem hom uit sy skok. “Die arrestasie bevel het sopas deurgekom. Ja. HK.” Sy kyk op. Haar blik val reg op hom. Asof hulle hom nét daar wil vaspen. Hy voel hoe die bloed in sy gesig opstoot. Hoe die gevoel uit sy bene verdwyn. Meteens voel dit of almal in die gebou vir hom kyk. Is dit een van daai drome waar die vreemdste goed met jou gebeur? In daai geval, is dit wragtig tyd om wakker te word. Hy knyp sy bobeen, vir ingeval. Niks gebeur nie.

Finale Toneel – deur Riaan Marshall (Basiese Kreatiewe skryfkursus)

Die Ford Escort brul deur Republiekweg. My vriend Léon se ouboet is met sewe-dae pas uit die army en het ons by die skool kom kry. Van hier waar ek ingedruk op die agtersitplek langs sy army balsak sit,sien ek hoe Christos se kafee verbyflits. Dan vlieg ons om die hoek, links-op in Van Deventerstraat.

Randgate is ’n werkersbuurt aan die buitewyke van Randfontein. Die erwe hier is klein en die huise is bykans op die sypaadjie gebou. Party dateer uit die veertigerjare en mens stap van die sypaadjie direk op die voorstoep, dan die voorhuis links en die hoofslaapkamer regs. Ons huis is ’n nuwerwetse platdak.

“Dankie Matewis, laai my sommer voor die Oosthuizens af, dis die huis net voor ons s’n,” skree ek bo die donderende laaste note van Hotel California. Dit klink of die Eagles uit die kattebak sing! Die Ford se neus duik af en die bande skree soos Matewis rem.

“Dankie!” Ek wurm myself by die passasierskant uit, agter Léon verby. My skoolsak is op my rug en die skoenboks soos ’n rugbybal onder my arm.

“Moerse plesier pêl!” Matewis se handdruk voel soos ’n knyptang.

Die Oosthuizens is met vakansie en ek stap sommer by hulle erf in, spring oor die heining en deur my kamervenster. Ek hoor hoe Matewis se Ford derde rat haal nog voor die stopstraat; dan skree die bande weer. Binne-in die boks voel ek aan die sagte leer en skiet die boks dan diep onder my bed in.

My mond is droog en ek gaan gooi vir my ’n Coke in die kombuis. Mable se kos ruik heerlik; ’n mengsel van kaneel en gebraaide boerewors hang in die lug. My maag grom.

Die gebrul van die Ford Escort het Mable laat wakker word waar sy indut. Haar middagete is altyd so teen eenuur gereed, en dan wag sy op die agterdeurtrappie in die son. Die skoolbus se dieselenjin dreun ook nou in die verte weg, en die stemme van kinders kom nader in die straat soos hulle mekaar groet en skerts. Mable staan op en kom die kombuis binne. Sy skrik toe sy my sien.

“Is jy nou soos Father Christmas wat deur die chimney in ’n huis inkom?” Haar groot lyf skud soos sy lag.

“Mêddagete!” roep sy oomblikke later en klingel die etensklokkie. Ek hoor hoe Suzette die voordeur oopmaak, en ek loop vinnig eetkamer toe, enduik vir die stoel in die warm son . Die koel windjie druk die kantgordyn boeppens na binne. Buite ritsel die herfsblare. Dis ’n heerlike April-middag op die Hoëveld.

Excerpt from a work in progress by Angelos Troizis (Write a Novel Course)

Outside a bohemian café on Long Street, under a green canopy and by a small brass table, sits Bernard Bloch, alone, twitchily pretending to read today’s paper. A drizzle has wet the ground and now the air is cold and moist. His coffee, untouched, goes cold too while he takes hurried sips from his half-jack of whisky, kept in the inside pocket of his long coat. He glances over his shoulder to see if the waitresses are looking. They are not.

Excerpt from an assignment – by Michele van Eck (Write a Novel Course)

Kira bolted upright and took a haggard breath. She squeezed her eyes shut waiting for her heart to calm. Slowly the screams faded into the recesses of her mind and she felt as if she could breathe again. It was a dream – just a dream. But it was more than that. It was memories. The head doctors tried to justify it but they couldn’t. These memories were the type that no pills or counselling could cure. She ran her hand through her hair. She could not remember the last time she slept.

Excerpt from an assignment – by Gustav Puchert (Write a Novel Course)

It was seven years ago. Reba was in her second year of college and her best friend, Jemma, had talked her into going parachute jumping with her. The first time she saw Deek Torrance was during the ground training class for the inevitable jump from a perfectly serviceable aeroplane. His eyes were bluer than an Arkansas summer sky and combined with the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled at you, it was enough to chase the feelings of absolute dread from Reba’s mind. That was until they were all sitting at 10,000 feet and Reba was clinging to Deek Torrance’s powerful arms crying and begging him not to make her jump!

Excerpt from a work in progress by Grant Sieff (Write a Novel Course)

At home, Ben yanked off his tie, ruthlessly shedding the adorned skin that stood for his bank persona. The top two buttons of his Hugo Boss silk shirt popped off their pricy threads as he freed himself from the compromising deceit. Normally meticulous, Ben left his suited self crumpled on the floor. He trampled over his clothes for good measure, driven to re-costume into running togs. He had to get out and pound the promenade, punishing the elements as they punished him, cleansing him, and infusing his core. Desperate to reframe before depression set in.

Just as he reached his front door, Ben’s iPhone called out to him with Jen’s personal ringtone. No-one else would have received even a flicker of consideration, but Ben needed Jen, now more than ever.

Excerpt from a work in progress by Brian Greaves (Write a Novel Course)

Lucien’s brother, though younger, was much stronger. Something Lucien was often made aware of. After all the times he had been awoken by him, he thought he would have become accustomed to the ritual flick on the ear – though evidently not.

Lucien threw off his covers and dragged his feet over the bedside and straight into his waiting boots. He rubbed his throbbing ear hoping the pain would abate. He was fully dressed – something the boys were accustomed to. Eon was already waiting with a glass of water in hand.

“Thank you.” Lucien said, taking it from him. He had a sip and tossed the rest in his own face to wake himself up. He dried his dark, dripping mop of hair and unshaven face on his dull, two-tone bedding while reaching under his pillow for his short sword. He fastened it in the small of his back as Eon was checking his bow and quiver.

Excerpt from a work in progress by Frank Vos (Write a Novel Course)

When the lights in the house behind the bar went out, Wisaka moved to the church grounds, sniffed the air and listened carefully. No other villagers had chosen to roam about with or without dogs or bicycles. Graves from villagers of old days past filled these grounds that surrounded the church almost entirely. Since it was a Catholic church steeped in tradition, the graves were adorned by a large variety of impressive tombstones, each of which carried engravings that expressed the grief of those left behind. Most of the dates carved into the sand stone and granite markers went all the way back to the middle ages. On others, time had made the carvings simply unreadable.

As any graveyard in the middle of the night, the atmosphere was serene. The air was filled with many smells, mostly soft florals and earthy, but if your imagination took the better of you, less pleasant odours seemed to rise from the younger graves.

Ilse van der Merwe se manuskrip, Belhar speel af in die sestiger jare op die Vrystaatse platteland. Vir die nuwe sendeling op ’n klein dorpie is dit gou duidelik dat alles nie so rustig is soos dit aanvanklik lyk nie. Daar word vanuit ’n interessante hoek gekyk na die rasseverhoudings gedurende daardie jare.

Ilse van Der Merwe: Belhar (Skryf ‘n roman kursus)

“Ek is oppad om hospitaalbesoek te gaan doen. Ek kom sommer daar by jou aan dan spaar dit jou die trippie.”

‘n Paar minute later klap die voorhekkie. Pollie bring vir Johan deur na die studeerkamer.

“Tee vir jou, Johan?” Wessel beduie vir Pollie om nog ‘n koppie te bring. “Het jy al ontbyt gehad, jy moet Pollie se krummelpap met biltong proe.”

“Ek is reg. Dankie, nou net geëet.” Hy kom sit op een van die stoele voor die lessenaar en maak keel skoon.

“En waaroor die vroeë oproep? Ek hoop nie daar is iets fout nie?” Wessel staan op om die tee te skink en sit sy pyp in die asbakkie neer.

“Nee, maar het jy al met Giep gepraat?” “Gaan dit oor die lyk?” “Ja, ek – ” “Wessel, ons het mos hieroor gepraat. Gee nou in hemelsnaam vir Paul kans om sy werk te doen.”

“Dan weet jy nie? Daar is gister ‘n liggaam op Giep se grond gekry.” Johan sit sy koppie versigtig neer.

“Nog ‘n liggaam?” Hy vryf sy hande en en sit vooroor. “Wat bedoel jy nog ‘n liggaam? Nee, nou is ek heeltemal verward. Het hulle Frans Mokoena se liggaam gevind?”

“Wel, dis nog nie duidelik nie. Ek veronderstel die polisie sal die liggaam probeer identifiseer. Giep en Kerneels sê dit lyk nie of dit Frans kan wees nie. Frans se pa lyk onseker.”

“Ja, jy het nou nooit vir Frans geken nie. So, jy kan nie help nie.” “Johan, die probleem is, die lyk is so ver ontbind. Ek weet nie of dit gaan moontlik wees om ‘n positiewe identifikasie te doen nie.”

“Hoe het hulle die lyk gekry?”

“Ons het die lyk gekry nadat ‘n toordokter ‘n uitwyssing aan Frans se ouers gemaak het.”

“Waarmee hou jy jou op, my vriend? Uitwyssings deur ‘n sangoma?”

Juan Botha is besig met die Gevorderde Skryf-ŉ-roman kursus en vorder baie goed. Hy skryf ŉ spanningsverhaal en ons hoop sy manuskrip sal vir publikasie aanvaar word. Dit behoort veral goeie aanklank te vind by die jeug en sal ŉ welkome toevoeging tot daardie mark wees.

Juan Botha: Die silinder

“Maak oop.” Basson se stem is dringend aan die ander kant. Hy trek dadelik die handvatsel af en sy vlieg die vertrek binne en druk die deur weer dadelik agter haar toe.

“Three down. Two to go,” sê sy uitasem. Haar kort, rooi hare is deurmekaar en daar is nou sweet teen haar nek en voorkop.

“Ek het net twee skote gehoor?”

“Dit was hulle,” sê sy met ‘n halwe glimlag. Sy lig die pistool op. “Die goed is net vir ingeval. Ek het nie ‘n clue wie hulle is nie maar as hulle undercover polisie is, is ek in groter moeilikheid as jy as ek een doodskiet.” Sy kyk weer na die portret. “Dis jammer ons kan nie nog ammo kry nie. Dan het ek hier ‘n stand gemaak en het ek gesê dit was self defence.” Sy loer weer vinnig na die skerm.

“Oukei. Dan moet ons maar ‘n ander plan maak.” Sy stap deur toe, pluk dit oop en loer vinnig uit. “Kom!” beveel sy sonder om terug te kyk. “Ons moet nou wegkom voor nog mense kom.”

Hy aarsel. “Jy het gesê daar’s nog twee, behalwe die twee by die hek?”

Sy knik. “Sal met hulle deal as ek moet. Bly net by my.” Sy leun vorentoe en neem die pistool uit sy hand. “Gee. Jy maak my senuweeagtig.” Sy verdwyn om die draai en sonder enige wapen of ander idees, is hy gedwing om die vertrek se veiligheid te verlaat. Hy skrik toe hy die man aan die punt van die gang naby die ingangsportaal sien lê en gee ‘n halwe sprong. “Toemaar, hy is nie dood nie. Maar hy sal nie nou pla nie.” paai sy. Dan kyk sy vinnig op. “Ek dink die ander twee is dalk eers terug kar toe om nog ammo te kry.” Sy glimlag weer. “Hulle het duidelik nie gedink hulle gaan resistance kry nie. As ons wil uitkom, is nóú die tyd. Kom!

Aniel Botha het vanjaar die Skryf-‘n-roman kursus met lof geslaag. Sy is ‘n baie goeie skrywer en het reeds ‘n digbundel uitgegee. Hierdie verhaal van haar behoort beslis ook op die boekrakke.

Aniel Botha: Sophia (Skryf ‘n roman kursus)

Teen die Maandagoggend van die groot afspraak is Sofia se motor steeds nie gereed nie. Kan dit waarlik so lank neem om ‘n enkele venster te vervang? ‘n Mens sal sweer die glas word op Mars vervaardig. Sy stuur ‘n SMS vir Jean-Pierre, maar hy kan haar ook nie kom oplaai nie, omdat hy dringend by die winkel benodig word – een of ander apokaliptiese krisis wat veroorsaak is deur ‘n aflewering van verkeerde kleur lampskerms – kadmiumrooi in plaas van karmosynrooi. Die beste wat hy kan doen, is om haar in die stad te ontmoet. Daar is nie ‘n manier dat sy die afspraak nou uitstel of kanselleer nie – sy sál vir Wihan Smit vanmiddag drieuur by die Vinyard-hotel sien, kom wat wil. Publieke vervoer, kom sy gou agter, is ‘n ingewikkelde besigheid. Daar is nie ‘n enkele treinstasie in die hele Durbanville nie en sy kan ook nie ‘n bus kry wat tussen tienuur in die oggend en twee-uur in die middag direk van Durbanville af stad toe loop nie. Dit lyk asof haar beste opsie gaan wees om ‘n bus of taxi te neem tot by Bellville-stasie en van daar af die trein tot in die stad. Busse en taxi’s was vir haar tot dusver net struikelblokke op die pad wat haar bestuurstaak verder gekompliseer het. Nooit het sy gedroom dat die dag sou kom wat sy bínne-in een van hulle sit nie. Maar dit is veral die gedagte aan ‘n treinrit wat haar ontsenu. Die enigste trein waarop sy nog gery het, was ‘n plesiertreintjie in ‘n pretpark toe sy vyf was. En as sy reg onthou, het sy ná die tyd oor haar ma se nuwe vakansieskoene opgegooi. Maar nou stap sy, met haar handsak styf onder haar arm geknyp en haar pepersproei byderhand, na die naaste bushalte. Dit reën gelukkig nie, maar dit voel asof die wind dwarsdeur haar waai. Sy bind haar jas stywer om haar lyf om die snydende koue buite te hou en daarmee saam sommer ook die ewe geniepsige vrese. Teen die tyd dat sy by die halte kom, het die wind behoorlik met haar klaargespeel. Haar stewels is vol modderige grond waarvan sy probeer ontslae raak deur haar voete hard op die sypaadjie te stamp. Sy is seker dat sy soos ‘n voëlverskrikker lyk. Selfbewus probeer sy haar hare met die hand gladstryk. Oomblikke later arriveer die Golden Arrow bus.

“Bellville,” skyn dit in oranje letters op ‘n swart skermp aan die voorkant van die bus. Daar is nog heelwat oop sitplekke. Sofia gaan sit agterrond langs ‘n venster wat met ‘n was kan doen. Sy beveg die impuls om die vlootblou vinielsitplek met ‘n tissue af te vee voordat sy gaan sit. ‘n Groot swart vrou met ‘n bottelgroen melton beret, denimromp en spierwit tekkies kom sit uitasem langs haar.

“Joe-joe-joe!” sê sy en dan iets in Xhosa. Sy ruik na StaSoft. Die meeste van die ander passasiers in die bus is swart vroue in kleurvolle uitrustings en kopdoeke. Waarskynlik halfdag-huishulpe wat nou op pad is om hulle eie huise te gaan versorg en vir hulle eie gesinne te gaan kosmaak. Hulle klets kliphard in Xhosa. Heen en weer, soos ping-pong balletjies, trek die klapgeluide deur die bus. Al wat Sofia verstaan, is “hayi” en “yebo”. Sy weet nie of sy so lekker sou lag en gesels as sy die hele oggend lank iemand anders se huis moes skrop nie. Veral nie as sy dan weer die helfte van haar dag se inkomste aan onbetroubare publieke vervoer moes bestee om by die huis te kom nie. Tussen die gesels deur, sing sommige van hulle gospel-liedere. Weer word sy getref deur daardie skuldgevoel wat sy saam met haar middelklas-status geërf het. Sy neem haar voor om meer blymoedig te wees.

Haar nuutgevonde blymoedigheid word egter sommer vinnig op die proef gestel wanneer hulle by Bellville-stasie arriveer. Die plek is beslis nie bevorderlik vir ‘n vrolike stemming nie. Dit is vuil, lelik, lawaaierig. Die sypaadjies is oortrek met vullis. Leë koeldrankblikkies, lekkergoedpapiere, chipspakkies en plastieksakke waai die wêreld vol. Sy klim huiwerig uit die bus. Voordat sy kans het om haarself in dié kras nuwe omgewing te oriënteer, word sy deur ‘n krioelende massa mense ingesluk. Hulle skuur langs haar verby, steek reg voor haar voete vas, stu haar voort van agter terwyl sy probeer om ‘n weg na die kaartjieskantoor te baan. Sy klem haar handsak nog stywer vas. Iemand blaas ‘n wolk sigaretrook in haar rigting. Dit vermeng met die reuk van ou sweet en urine wat reeds die lug versadig. Sy probeer hard om nie soos ‘n verskrikte dier te lyk nie – sy wil nie hê die sakkerollers en messtekers, wat ongetwyfeld hier rondhang, moet dink dat sy ‘n maklike teiken is nie.

By die kaartjieskantoor koop sy ‘n eenrigtingkaartjie stad toe. Dan vind sy stadig, maar seker, haar weg na die perron, sterk onder die indruk van die verwaarlosing en verval om haar. ‘n Klomp stukke vaal lap wat eens op ‘n tyd kledingstukke en beddegoed was, hang oor die stasieheining gedrapeer. Oorkant die stasie is ‘n nagskuiling en ‘n brug wat waarskynlik dien as onderdak vir dié wat nie gelukkig genoeg is om in die skuiling plek te kry nie. Twee bergies, duidelik stormdronk of vol gom, is besig om vloekend en skellend oor ‘n stukkende kombers te stry. Langs hulle lê ‘n derde een, skynbaar onbewus van al die aktiwiteit rondom hom, besig om ‘n tydskrif wat hy iewers in die hande gekry het, deur te blaai. Sy vermoed eers dat dit pornografie is, maar wanneer sy nader kom, sien sy dit is ‘n ou uitgawe van die Finesse. Iewers speel iemand kliphard popmusiek oor ‘n stereo. Op die maat van Beoncé stap sy deur ‘n duikweg, wat skerp na Jays Fluid ruik, tot op die perron.

Jacqueline Moran writes an emotional conversation between father and daughter (Short Story Writing Course)

“Larena, love.”

“Dad, why didn’t you tell me?” He sighed. I hoped he felt bad. Was that wrong? This could be the last time we spoke. I didn’t want to be angry at him, but I was.

“I didn’t want you to worry. It’s only a small thing.”

“Small thing? Dad, it’s cancer . Why didn’t you tell me? I need to know what’s going on with you. I love you. Why didn’t you tell me ?”

“I’m so sorry love. I should have told you.”

A large wet drop dribbled down my chin. I couldn’t utter a word, choking back a sob.

“’Rena? Don’t cry, love. It’s going to be alright.”

I tried to stifled a cry, but it came out as an ugly moaning wail.

“Larena,” His voice was quiet, kind. “Don’t do this to yourself. It was better that you didn’t know, we didn’t want to upset you. Not with your research, it’s important.”

“Not as important as you. I didn’t know you were sick. I want to be there with you, I don’t want you to be by yourself.”

“I won’t be on my own. Your mum’s coming back in the morning.” “How big is it?” “What did your mother say?” “Not much, just that you have more surgery in the morning.” “It’s been this way for a while, love. It’s… there’s a lot. We’ve been treating it for a while, but nothing’s made it go away.”

“A while? How long have you been having it treated?”

“Eighteen months.” “ Eighteen months! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Making you worry wouldn’t have made it any different; I’d still be having surgery tomorrow. Think of your scholarship, do you think that would have happened if you’ve been worrying about me. I’ve lived a long life, and I haven’t always done it well. You are God’s gift to me.”

Shaking, all I could do was weep without words. “Don’t cry. Come up next week, we’ll spend the weekend together.”

“I love you, dad.”

“I know you do, love. And I love you, very much.” Silence. Both of us quiet, but together.

Petronel Geyser writes about a suspected crime at a retirement home… (Short Story Writing Course)

“Mrs Brown, I see you are turning 80 tomorrow, congratulations .”

Susan put the first page of the police report down on the desk in front of her and surveyed the tiny lady sitting across from her. She was wearing her best Sunday dress and clutching a square bag in her wrinkled hands.

“Thank you Sergeant, but you can call me Martha. I have been blessed with good health, a child like you will understand that someday.” She looked Susan straight in the eyes. This woman’s gaze could let grown men whimper and cry.

“Ok Martha, I’m going to have to write down your formal complaint in this statement. Please give me the details of the alleged crime?” Susan bent down over the report with her pen ready.

“Those people at the Sunshine Home are up to something. Something illegal. John, Albert, Frank, Rosie, the lot of them.” Martha sat back as if she just revealed the names of a terrorist organisation. She nodded her head knowingly and pointed in the direction of the report.

“There, write that down.” I hope this isn’t going to be one of those complaints.

“What exactly are they doing?” Susan put the pen down on the desk, folded her arms over her uniform and frowned. “It started last week Thursday. I could see them forming little groups behind my back and exchanging whispers. At first I thought I am imagining things, but then I kept my eye on them…” She tapped her nose with her bent forefinger. “I would go sit on the bench in front of the home in the afternoons. From there I have a nice view over the grounds and the sun can bake my feet under my knee blanket. I pretend to take an afternoon nap, but I peek at them from under my eyelids.” She smiled sideways at Susan whilst nodding. “So I saw the pattern. John, who has a car and is still allowed to drive, would casually walk to his car and wait in the passenger seat. Rosie would then walk across the lawn with that embroidered basket of hers. She always hides that alley cat of hers in the thing, so she is a practised smuggler.”

“Yes, I see,” Susan smiled. “Well, Frank would be the lookout. He would stand on the lawn and pretend to study the flowers. That dentist has never done a day’s gardening in his life!” She tapped her finger on the desk in front of her.

“Ok,” Susan put a serious face over her ever widening smile. “So Rosie and John would lurk behind the car and stuff things into that basket of hers. Frank would be keeping an eye on me, seeing that I am the only other person around to witness their atrocities. They would then all bundle into the kitchen with Albert waiting for them to close the door.”

“And what do you think they are doing in the kitchen?” Susan asked.

Martha threw her hands in the air. “Making drugs, of course.”

Heather Walden experiences a bush fire but is rescued by a water-bombing helicopter (Short Story Writing Course)

“No Titan, stop, stop! No run!” And with the command fresh in the dog’s ears she took the first step. The dark night raged over her head and heat sucked at her skin. Thick hot air swirled around them. And a fear more tremendous than she could have ever imagined, gripped at Amber’s belly. “Please someone, someone, somewhere, help me, help me and Titan now.“ She pleaded aloud. It was many years since her mother had taught them prayers. With eyes smarting she searched for what she thought would be north. But the fire was eating at the pathway. Frantically she scanned backwards and forwards. Her head nodded one way and then the other. There was no obvious opening to be seen. The red wall had grown higher and Amber had no idea which way to go. “Oh Mumma,” she cried aloud, “Mumma can you help us? Please Mumma, please…” It was then, that she heard it. Interrupting her plea. A loud, thump, thump, thump. Followed by a huge swish, splat, crackle. Water filled the air. The hotness sparked back yelling in protest..The noise was frightening. And the small ball of fluff tucked so safely in her shirted wriggled with all his might. Plonk, from her shirt and he was gone. His short legs running hard at the small opening that had miraculously appeared on her right. “Stop Titan, stop!” she yelled after the dog. “Titan wait boy!” But he wasn’t stopping. Not this time. And in a flash Amber was after him. Carefully picking her way through the narrow space the pup had headed for. Her eyes hunted amongst the smoke-thickened air. Titan was hidden but not his yap. “Woof, woof.” With quick feet she reached him. Smudged dirty face waiting. “Woof, woof.” A gigantic relief surged into her. “Oh baby I thought I’d lost you.” Moments later her legs were pumping again. Pounding forth. Crunching twigs broke under her runners. Further and further they went until her lungs ached. Hungering for an easier pace. For a few seconds she slowed. But with the smell of fire still rushing into her nostrils, now, wasn’t time to stop. With several more hundred metres behind, she eased her pace. At the same time searching the landscape. Hoping to recognize at least something though she didn’t know what. Nothing except fire reddened tree. Angry tears crossed her cheeks for the umpteenth time. Desperation was catching her flight. More seconds, turned into minutes. Her muscles were twisted. Sore from dodging the hot- breathed flames. “Surely we must be almost there… soon…” “Oh Titan, we must be lost!” The tiny frightened whimper pinged at her heart. If it wasn’t for the pup she might have stopped completely. Thud, thud, she’d heard that noise before. Confusion blocked her senses. Thud, thud, thud, it went again. Followed by the noise of a great swishing and then a wet splashing.. Lights shone down upon her. Titan whimpered. Afraid, he began to wriggle. “Amber, oh Amber, thank goodness you’re safe.”

‘Wooden Hills’ – By Andy Evans (Excerpt from piece written in the Literary Short and Flash Fiction Course)

I take a deep breath. My breathing is slower now. I creep up the Wooden Hills. Those words again. Stirring memories in me. Deep memories. I’m careful to keep my distance from the railing, careful not to step on one of the steps that creak, which would give my position away. For one wild moment, I think about running as fast as I can to the top of the stairs, but that would be silly. If I did that, I know the monster would be waiting for me around the corner. I can imagine those horrible eyes, the thick fur, and the teeth. A wide mouth, full of sharp spikes and blood. All this would happen in a split second and I’d have nowhere to run. What a stupid idea! I reach the corner and peer around it: still no sign of the monster. But I’m not out of danger yet. There are still so many places it could be. I pull up level with the landing. There are more shadows. Three doors are slightly open (there’s nothing freakier than a door that’s slightly open). It’s the perfect place for a monster to lie in wait. And when it attacks, there’s no warning, no creak, nothing … no time to react. There are five steps left. Grabbing the handrail, I edge forward. Is my escape route still clear? Is the monster creeping up behind me? Or will the attack come from above? I take another step. I forget this is the step that creaks … Time slips, slows down. I’m falling down the Wooden Hills, but it’s another staircase, in an earlier house, at an earlier time. I wait for the pain to assault me, to rip through me, as I fall. I watch as the steps, the teeth, grow larger and closer. Nothing there to break my fall. Surely, death has me this time, and what, I wonder, will the pain feel like?

Excerpt from a scene by Brett Shand (Basics of Creative Writing Course)

András came from the windows and sat down beside Angela. He picked up his bow and tapped it on his music stand. “Time to go to work again” he called. “Tomas … Hakeem.” He looked around and waited until he was sure they were all settled “Bar sixty-three please. We’ll try the triplets a little slower.” They played. Then as the music began to run Angela’s thoughts began to run as well. She did not need to be in this God forsaken country. The others would not have minded if she had said she needed a break; they had been travelling for almost six months and they were she knew, as sick of hotel rooms as she was. And that was of course, why she had come. But, dear God, this place frightened her. Her military father had called especially to underscore the need for Americans to be cautious and watchful. She could not remember the last time her father had called her on tour. He had just made it worse, which was about normal for her father. It was all so foreign, she could not even read the damn signs and those lizards or whatever they were, running along the walls. Then the muezzin from the mosque nearby begin to call the azan. Angela stumbled. A missed entrance, a bungled note. They all stopped in surprise and looked at her. Angela stood and said “How do you expect me to play with that all that singing outside.” “It is not singing.” Hakeem looked at her. “He speaks of the greatness of God. A good thing to be reminded of, perhaps?” Angela sat down and looked around at them.

Excerpt from Chapter Two of China – a novel in progress by Mark Scheepers (Write a Novel Course)

“Shit!” “What?” China looked over at Spider and realised immediately what was up. “Cops. What do we do?” They were standing in front of Christ the King Anglican Church in Hamilton street, waiting to meet a guy who had promised Spider a Blackberry for 100 bucks. The police van had come down Harmony street. They weren’t doing anything wrong and had nothing on them but they could be picked up all the same. In the township on any given day it was a coin toss whether just hanging out with friends would get you thrown in jail. “Nothing.” Spider didn’t make eye contact with him. That was strange for him. China had only been working the block with him for a week but he knew he was jumpy. This guy was being way too cool for his liking. He watched the police van slowly snake past them. He recognised one of the officers; he was in Mouse’s pocket. He wouldn’t worry with them. The other guy looked new. He wasn’t even paying attention to his surroundings. The van made its way to the end of the block and then turned around. The headlights flashed a moment before Spider bolted. He took off running down Harmony street towards Slovo Park informal settlement, a few meters behind Spider. The closer they got the more pungent the smell of raw sewerage and the lingering smell of wood and paraffin fire became. The settlement had nearly burnt to the ground recently. He knew better than to keep up with Spider. It was every man for himself.

Excerpt from a work in progress by Lerato Motsoaledi

This democracy was a limitless well of generosity. It flung Mr Nkosi’s glory to the finish line faster than he could fathom. Promoting so many he had no room to revel in his success. Small boys, some of them looking younger than Sifiso, became his big bosses. No doubt they were gulping breast milk while he queued for buses at daybreak. Now they headed the salary queue, earning more money than he thought was possible. While shaking hands of factory royals. They threw words like fast-tracking around when speaking about these youngsters. Like they were cars on a race track. Maybe their fancy sports cars reminded people of racing cars. He wished he was born much later. So he could at least sit in Mr Blignaut’s old office overlooking the imposing buildings lining the beach front. Other times he was proud of them and said their success was his too. He found solace knowing that his offsprings would too dine at the fast-tracking table. Especially Nozipho who never let anything pass her by. But this democracy was a moody eighteen year-old. Sometimes it gloated about its epic feats. Other times it recoiled into a foetal position as it bewailed its incurable woes. When this happened, some said it was better in the past. He dragged his feet to the hall. His eyes set on a seat in the last row. To shield himself from meeting fanatics whose attendance records could earn them awards.

The Maybe and the Camp – by Kevin Blignaut (Advanced Creative Writing Course)

A gust of wind curled around the huge boulder and the flames flattened. The wood was dry and the camp fire soon crackled again in the desert night. Brogan unfolded his arms and flipped up the hood on his jacket, tucking his chin into his chest; then he shifted to rest his bare feet closer to the blaze. His socks hung on a branch nearby, as they had every night for the past week. The fire would exorcize the damp, but was powerless against their increasing stiffness and smell. He stared into his pot of instant mash and soya mince bubbling on the fire. His wife, Helen, had laughed at him when she bought it, saying “I think you will struggle to digest this after all the fine cuisine of the boardroom you’ve grown used to”. He had meant to buy the food himself, but he couldn’t get away from the office. He had expected an objection to his weeklong sojourn, especially with only a month until their first child, a girl, was born. But after eight years of marriage, she still surprised him. “You have choices to make Brog, I’m with you whatever, but unless you make the choices you will always hold someone else accountable. And I don’t want that someone to be me, or our daughter. Go… explore…think… but decide.” He looked across at the scuffed brown hiking boots placed at the entrance to his tent. He hadn’t used them in over five years, since before he started working at the management consultancy. He hadn’t done many things in that time. Well that wasn’t the whole truth, especially if you considered his latest performance evaluation. It contained comments like, “goes from strength to strength”, “unquestionable dedication” and “the sky is the limit, although even that probably won’t stop him.” Before he had left on his holiday a senior partner had called him in and said, “I see a bright future for you with us Brogan, I’ve been chatting to the other partners and we all agree you will go far. Keep up the good work.” But that was exactly the problem, he didn’t know if he wanted to. He had made the plan five years ago. They knew he had to put in these hours to accomplish it. But then why was he questioning whether he was doing the right thing?

Harry meets Charon on a boat ride in Barry Ger’s story (Short Story for Magazines Course)

“I’m saved,” Harry thought when he spotted the rowing boat. It was only about a few metres away from him but the dense fog and trees that blanketed the riverbank rendered it almost invisible. He just needed to draw its occupant’s attention somehow. “Hey, hey!” he hollered, scrambling over the verge and down the slope of the bank. “Wait up!” He waved his arms furiously. It worked. The small, rickety vessel halted and changed course towards Harry. As it approached, he was able to observe it and the figure aboard more clearly. The boat seemed to be a cross between the gondolas Harry had seen on a holiday in Venice and those punts he used to sail on during his university days. Whatever it was, it badly needed a paint job. Its captain, a grizzled, rake-thin old man, was similarly worse for wear. He was leaning against the prow, clutching a long wooden oar which he now plunged into the mud as an anchor.

An excerpt of writing from Tanya Halse (Short Story for Magazines Course)

But he does feel a bit bad after nights like last night. The proverbial black-out as they call it. Not knowing exactly who he was with, or what was said. Lots of drugs had done the rounds. He did not mean for the night to turn out like that. In fact he had been tired when he arrived home and was planning an early night until Joe and his clan pitched up. He liked Joe a lot. Maybe Joe was a lot younger than him, but he could relate to Joe, saw himself in Joe. He was trying to take Joe under his wing and guide him not to make the same mistakes as he had done, but that seemed to be biting him in the ass. More often than not, Dan ended up smoking Joe’s joints as well as anything else that Joe’s mates’s had brought along, just to wake up feeling like a haggard old man. At 35, that is what he was heading towards.

Angelos Troizis, Write a Novel Course

He turns around and walks into Ari’s restaurant It is almost empty except for an old man sitting behind a small table at the back watching him like an octopus behind a rock. The place smells of cockroach disinfectant. Florescent lights bright and white tangle from the ceiling reminding Bernard of a hospital ward. On the second floor, behind a steel door is his ‘Stalingrad’. A fat face, round and red, smiles from the glass peek window behind the door. Bernard wonders whether in this battle he will be the Germans or the Russians. The door opens wide and he walks in the room thinking that inStalingradeverybody lost. “Ten big ones, buy-in.” “I got it,” says Bernard. “Yeah but we don’t allow thieves,” says the fat man with an insane smirk in his face, his eyes look empty, dark, and dead. Bernard keeps quite. The door has been opened for him and he is already inside the dim lighted card room. “Just joking, just joking. Have a sit. Phew. Drinking a little bit?” “A little bit,” says Bernard.. “Want another?” “Yeah I’ll have a glass. Whisky. Straight.” “Okay,” says the fat man and, then, turning towards one of his goons, “Give this crippled thieving malaka his drink.”

Erika Frouws – Advanced Novel Course

Ant nodded. “And you want me to do what, exactly?” “Well, I want you to lead them, obviously. I know that you don’t want people to know, but it’s clear that you cannot get hurt or die, so you will be fearless in battle. A true leader that they can all look up to.” Ant shook his head. “But I’ll simply be leading them to their deaths. I don’t have any military training. Maduma rumbled laughter. “No matter. We are bound to lose a few. We are doing our best now to improve the lives of these orphans, but it is likely that a few of them will die for the cause.” Ant turned to Maduma. “And what, exactly, is the cause?” “Why it’s simple. We need to establish a new government for our country. We need a government that can build things, that can get us to start moving forward again. The virus outbreak has passed. We need to get things under control again. “ Ant frowned. “A noble ideal, but why do you need an army to do this? Especially an army of children?” Maduma extended his hand and placed it on Ant’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to my house and talk there. Dasha Colchek said you might need some convincing, but we really want you on our side.” “Dasha Colchek?”

Grant Sieff – Write a Novel Course

‘Do you have to, Bob? It’s your second and you haven’t been home an hour.’ Bob glared at Wendy, Tanqueray bottle in hand. ‘Do you have any bloody idea what I’ve been through today?’ Bloodshot eyes swirled up to the generously elevated ceilings before his gin bottle steadied on the triple shot being sloshed over the ice and into the beer glass. ‘Ben James is out to destroy me with his fancy strategy and the CEO’s blessing. I’ve worked for Rob Kartovsky for 25 years, and this is all the bloody thanks I get. He supports some young naive Turk who knows bugger-all about banking. That, plus I work my fingers to the bone keeping us in Constantia-style while you play bloody bridge all day. Do you have any idea, woman, what it costs to keep up the charade of all this?’ Everything in Wendy narrowed and tensed. Lips pursed, jaw clenched, eyes like slits, readying herself for a contained but devastating come-back. Poise and good breeding weren’t about to be undone by the stinking slob of a man that Bob had become. It was one thing for clear judgment to have been clouded by the intoxication of romance, but how could her sober father and picky mother have been charmed senseless by that garrulous, excessive young banker, despite his working class roots. Bloody Bob must have talked banking, money and big deals to her father. Damn convincingly too, given the glib liar that she had discovered her husband to be. As for her mother…

Ralph Peterson (Basics of Creative Writing Course: excerpt from final assignment)

Jeff paced the lobby of the animal clinic. The receptionist stepped out from behind the sliding door after a while. She lifted a plastic envelope containing a bottle, a needle and a syringe, and laid it on the counter. “That’ll be one hundred and fifty,” the stocky woman said. “Have you ever done this before?” “No, I haven’t.” Jeff wondered where he should have tranquilised a dog before. “Take the injection―” the receptionist mimed the injection― “and connect the needle. Fill the syringe, and tap it―” she tapped with her finger― “to loosen the bubbles. You know the skin at the back of the neck?” Jeff wasn’t sure he wanted to know more. “Lift it, and inject there―” she showed with her hand― “just under the skin.” Jeff stood still a moment. “I want to ask: is this drug now going to knock the dog out properly? Because the pills you gave me earlier didn’t work at all. I’ve got to drive with it for an hour (I’m moving to Willow Park today) and, like I said, it’s a dangerous dog, it’s attacked a number of people. I don’t want it waking up in the car and killing me.” “He shouldn’t wake up. But if he does, he’ll be too―” she looked for the word― “Drowsy,” said Jeff. “Yes, too drowsy to want to do anything.” “ Shouldn’t wake up”? “But if he does “? Jeff sighed. “How long does the drug last?” “About two hours.” “ About “? And only two hours? “That doesn’t give me much time. Can’t you give me something stronger?” “The thing is, you’ve already given him pills. You can’t give an animal too much, because you can harm it.” Jeff thought for a second. “And the vet’s still unavailable?” “He’s still in surgery. He should be out by five. I’m sure he’ll come out in an emergency, though. Even if it’s after-hours.” Jeff gripped the bag. “Thank you.” He looked at the package lying on his passenger seat as he drove home. His dog had looked like a ball of wool with legs that night four years ago, when he’d given it to his daughter for Christmas. It had made the two-year-old girl laugh, the way it had wrestled with the ribbon he’d gotten a florist to tie round its neck. His wife had named it “Leo” because of its bushy mane.

Haylea Silverwood (Basics of Creative Writing: excerpt from the final assignment)

Hannah peered down at the waves crashing against the cliff then back up at the castle set precariously on its peak. “They couldn’t have chosen a more convenient location?” Henry, who was snuggled down somewhere under her scarf, snorted. The constant rain and harsh lashings of the sea had made every surface slick and green tinged. The crumbling track looked near impossible to climb. “And you are entirely sure we need a Merlin?” A sharp pair of claws dug into the tender flesh of her neck. Hannah yelped and started trotting up the path. “You’re lucky I’m a cat person,” she grumbled under her breath. “You’re lucky I’m a human person,” he retorted. “Wake me when you get to something you can’t cross.” It didn’t take long; there was a huge chunk of path missing around the third bend. Henry scoffed, and with Hannah struggling to hold a cat-sized umbrella in place, hacked into the puzzle system through a terminal hidden under a sword in a stone to cancel it. This cut out all the ridiculous heroics but still left Hannah with a long jog in the rain. She was glad for William’s coat, which kept out the worst of the weather and seemed to have some sort of in-built heater. Despite the help Hannah was a gasping panting wreck by the time she got to the top. A shadow in a three-piece suit sat knitting in a small patch of clement weather by the gate. He gave Hannah a disapproving look (which must have been difficult without eyes) and lowered the drawbridge. Three steps into the courtyard and the rain gave way to a balmy spring day. Hannah blinked for a moment then shucked the coat and tried to wring out her hair. Henry yawned and jumped from his perch to clean his paws.

Fiona Coward (Basics of Creative Writing Course: extract from the final assignment)

It was late afternoon before Ab stirred. The effort of cleansing the big stone house of its poisonous energies had drained him and he was loathe to leave the sustaining embrace of his oak tree. “I’ve got to force the last of the negative energy from the child’s room and then work on the rest of the house. It’s all I can do until I’m sure about what James needs from me.” As he entered the house, he heard James rattling around in the kitchen and decided to go straight up to the boy’s room to carry on where he had left off. He sat on the floor again and began the process of pushing away the vestiges of the horror perpetrated in the room. He deepened his focus and streamed light, love and peace into the slowly responding space. There was a loud crash and Ab was startled back into the present. He heard it again and rushed down the stairs. James had flung open the patio doors and was lurching out onto the flagstones. He almost tripped over an uneven section and started giggling. Ab stared. “What’s wrong with him, what’s he doing?” James was talking to himself in a loud voice but his words blurred into each other. “Loser, schmooser, you are the empty man, empty, empty empty.” His voice rose and fell and he started giggling again. “Whatcha going to do now, empty man? Drown in the river like mum and dad? Or maybe I should dig a hole in the garden and fall in?” He propped himself against the balustrade and peered groggily out over the gardens. “Pretty gardens, so pretty but I don’t like them.” His loud voice became sing song and he crooned the names of the long ago memorised plants. “Azalea, roses, jasmine, pela…pelagon…oh something. See James, you can’t remember, cos you’re empty,” he sang and then stumbled down the stone stairs into the garden. Ab gaped as he watched his precious charge behaving so oddly. He was terrified that James had finally gone mad. He stared wildly around looking for inspiration when his eyes fell on the empty whiskey bottle. “Oh for goodness sake. He’s drunk. Rip roaring drunk! The man who never lets go is now singing and shouting and falling all over the place.” Ab couldn’t help himself, he started to laugh. He watched James’s erratic progress and laughed even harder. If the man didn’t fall into a rose bush or crash into a tree, it was probably the best thing for him right now, a total letting go.

Guenter Prinesdom (Basics of Creative Writing Course: extract from the final assignment)

Asa pedalled up a hill. The sun beat down on him and the smell of dust and hay filled his nostrils. How he hated this life. How he hated his father, when he called him a failure, a wimp. He pushed into the pedals a little harder. How he hated his brother for bullying him, and his mother for having died too soon, leaving him stranded in a world where he had to fight to survive. Hunched over the handlebar, he thrust his weight into both wheels. If he could just escape his family, the fights, the fear. If he could just forget. And forget he did. After a few slopes, he already felt like riding waves. And what waves they were: rolling along for as far as he could see, chequered with fields of green and yellow. Never once pressing the brakes, he bolted down and floated, trees blurring past him, and shouted, “I am free!” He saved the highest hill until last. There, upon the crest, he waited and listened. The air was thick with the song of crickets. His eyes shining, he kicked his feet off the ground. He rolled on, faster and faster, bouncing and pitching as he hurtled down the hill, ploughing up clouds of dust from under the wheels.

Pam Ferla (Excerpt from a Short Story Course assignment)

He was more like a dwarf than a man, square shaped with chunky legs and a shiny bald head that looked too big for his body. He had beady black eyes that seemed to go a shade paler when he spoke, as if the energy from his eyes was sucked in to his voice box. He wore a brown Chairman Mao suit, something Mabel had insisted on. She didn’t want a nude wandering about the house. “He’s a little unnerving,” she thought as she sat on the sofa watching him ironing Colin’s office shirt. He worked with precision, sharp creases down the sleeves and no wrinkles on the collar corners. He hummed cheerfully as he worked. Of course, Colin had selected the tune, so appropriate for the day. Hum-hum-hum-hum-hum-huuuum (happy birthday to you). Her husband had also selected the tone of voice, soft yet servile, and when Marcus said “Yes, maadam,” Mabel felt a shivering thrill down her fat arms. “It’s like having a real servant,” she giggled gleefully. “Oh, I can’t wait to show you off to the croquet club girls when they come round for afternoon tea.” Today was her 55th birthday and she’d made a special effort with her baking. “Now I just need to buy a good wine, something that will impress,” she told Marcus. “Just wait till snooty Jean watches you passing the cake around. And when Marg sees you she will be speechless, for a change.” Mabel was a size 18 brunette with frizzy permed hair and a kind chubby face. She yearned for acceptance in the posh neighbourhood. In an effort to make friends she had recently joined the Uppermarsh Ladies Croquet Club and after a couple of glasses of wine at the club she’d invited the girls to her birthday afternoon tea. “I’m getting a very special gift from my husband,” she’d told them. “Come to my birthday and you’ll see it.” Now that gift was busy getting through a pile of ironing. “Marcus, when you’ve finished that shirt I want you to empty the dishwasher.” “Yes, maadam,” said Marcus as he whirred around and hung the shirt on a coat hanger. “Ironing finished, maadam. I will now empty the dishwasher.” Last night, when she’d first talked to the robot, she’d felt a bit silly. But now she was getting used to giving him orders. It was empowering. What a dear Colin was to give her such a unique gift.

Sally Ann Fisher (Excerpt from a Short Story Course assignment)

As she sat in her armchair in front of the dying fire, Isabella clenched her fists. Alone in the house, she looked across to the heavily curtained windows, the rich, red brocade long since faded to the colour of that dull, sad, washed out pink so often favoured by old women. As her body strained to detect the sound again, Isabella absentmindedly wondered if she too would eventually succumb to the lure of the faded pink cardigan. God forbid. There it was again. Closer, bolder. She wasn’t scared; she was filled with rage. What else would she have to do to ensure there was absolute silence when the night dark descended? She had arranged to have the perimeter of the house completely stripped of any sort of garden. She wanted nothing to feel it had a claim on her house, or her attention. Not a bird, not a rodent, not a neighbourhood cat – and certainly no human being; especially a human being. Isabella Gordon had not had a meaningful conversation with another person in almost five years. She had always been particular with whom she shared her time and her thoughts, but now she shared them with no-one. Well, there was Dan, but those stilted, awkward exchanges of words didn’t really count as connection. Far from it. They were painful for both parties. She kept them to a minimum. At 45, Isabella Gordon was a beautiful woman, sharp and quick witted. She daily smirked at the irony of that. What point being quick-witted when the only witnesses to that were the walls and furniture she moved around each day? It amused her anyway. Never vain about her looks, she did admire her intellect. She carried herself with a grace that couldn’t be taught. She moved as if there was a mist around her she was determined not to disturb. Each long legged step so languidly rhythmic. All so at odds with her rather caustic sense of humour and stilted attempts at friendships. She had not one drop of empathy in her body. But who needed empathy when one had one’s own glorious intellect? Isabella reached for the candlestick on the side table to the right of her chair. She slowly lifted it onto her lap, reassured by the weight and coolness of the family heirloom. Heavy enough to cause injury, cold enough to keep her focused on what she would do next.

Ayesha Ally (Excerpt from a Short Story Course assignment)

Sarah is flying now. There is nothing between her and the clouds and she feels that she could fly forever, but then, she is falling. Gravity is impatient and she cannot breathe. She hears scratching. Her eyelids fly open. Before she knows it, she is running. She runs until she finds herself outside her bedroom window. It is hard to spot him in the darkness but when he turns to acknowledge her presence his black eyes hold hers and his skin is ash. He turns to walk away. “Stop,” Sarah’s voice is echoing through the howl of the wind and hard rain. He does not turn, but he stops moving. “You need as many of these as you can get ma’am. Protects you, from things unwelcome in these parts.” He is pointing at something, and Sarah is trying hard to see but the rain is blurring her sight. Eventually, everything is clear and there, at the lowest part of the concrete wall is a line of crosses carved deep into it. Suddenly her heart is all that she can hear. “Stay away from my son. You stay away from him or I swear -,” Sarah looks up. He is gone. No. Sarah’s legs are pulling her forward even though she feels numb. She is leaping over fallen trees and she is stepping in puddles of mud. She pauses at the sight of a half open door. There is a frame on the wall. The man in it is young, he is pale, and his eyes… oh his eyes. It is him. An old lady appears. She is using a walking stick. Her white hair is a neat bun. “Can I help you, child?” Sarah is pointing at the frame. “That man, who is he? Please ma’am, I need to find him.” The old lady is no longer smiling, her eyes turn cold. “That’s my boy. He ain’t here no more. They killed him for his faith.”

Extract from The Tenth Wave by Corlette Grobler (Write a Novel Course)

He was not ready to return to the dungeons and he was certainly done with ‘the rack’ which seldom stood idle in the cages below. It was usually placed near their entrance, where the light was most and men could see the suffering. Dirty hands would stretch out toward the victim to bid him God’s peace while long, mournful wails witnessed his strapping – supine – to the frame. Then, as soon as the wretched man’s wrists and ankles were fastened, the notary would proceed with the questions to which the answers were desired. Edward was put to the rack in this way but his frame proved too tall for the carnivorous beast of the Vatican dungeons. A day later, an older, sturdier rack was rolled in. It was soiled with blood and excrement when they strapped him to it and the notary bared a callous smile while he cleared a rotting limb from the ropes. He tossed it, jaded, down the dark corridor behind him. ‘You will like this one,’ he taunted, ‘this one comes from the tower.’ It was an older, sturdier model indeed. But it was different too. On this rack was no bed. Consequently, Edward was strapped to ropes on the floor amid the rotting smells of decay, excrement, blood and vomit that had been washed from their dungeon the day before. They hoisted him by pulling at his ankles and wrists, winding the rope around the crossbars at his head and feet. The pain was agony. He gasped for breath and swore he heard loud popping noises of snapping cartilage. They were sounds the men in the dungeon knew well – sounds they had often heard when the first victims were stretched. A sudden jerk of the wooden handle yanked the ropes around his arms and ankles even tauter: ‘ – you heard the king say that he wanted riddance of his meddlesome priest?’ Silence deafened him while the ropes pulled dastardly on his arms. Pain shot through his breast, belly, arms and hands and he was almost certain that all the blood in his body had burst out at his fingers’ ends. Then the ropes relaxed and his blood rushed back. A distant voice urged him to answer. He nodded ‘yes’ while his senses returned. He could hear again. ‘- speak up Edward.’ ‘Yes!’ he yelled, ‘Yes!’

Excerpt from Janette Stratton’s final assignment (Basics of Creative Writing Course)

Professor Lambton followed Teri as closely as he dared. He could see her wonderful hair moving in time with his breath and smell her shampoo. Murmuring “Behold, thou art fair,” to himself, he leaned even closer. Too close. He knocked her backpack and she staggered. He tried to catch her by the elbows, but she was already out of reach, flowing down the stairs in a fluid, loose-limbed rush that he couldn’t hope to emulate. He fancied himself in good shape but he had never been an athletic man, preferring intellectual pursuits to sporting ones. He persevered though, drawn on by her hair and the glimpses he caught of her hips swinging down the stairs. By the time they reached the ground floor he was blowing hard and could feel runnels of sweat on his cheeks and neck. He was wearing one of his good shirts, the one with the snaking blue paisley pattern, and he hoped the colours would conceal any clammy patches. Teri hurried on outside, forcing him to rush after her. “Teri, wait. I just want to talk to you about your last essay. You make some fascinating points about Shakespeare’s sexuality and I thought we might discuss them over coffee at my place. It’ll be warmer there.” “Thanks for the offer Professor, but I have to go. I’m meeting friends.” Teri peered around her. He wondered what she could find so interesting about the courtyard. All he saw was the concrete barbarism of the Arts building, the grey paving stones that some philistine of an architect had thought would enliven the courtyard, and a few benches that no one ever used because of the winds funnelling around the Arts building. Even the water feature was predominantly concrete. Teri bumped up against the stone of the fountain’s edge and paused. Lambton stepped towards her and patted her arm. “Teri,” he said in the orotund voice he usually saved for reading poetry aloud, “I want to talk to you.” It wasn’t the place he would have chosen to make his declaration. It was too ugly, too exposed, too liable to interruption from some student or other. But he knew that he might not get a better opportunity.

By Kerryn Campion (Scriptwriting Course)

Beginning Title fades to black There is no visual yet, but the audio is that of a distant, jeering, and tauntingly eager crowd. The black fades into the visual. The camera hovers over a massive symbol that is glowing through a marble floor. Two pairs of sandaled feet stand on either side of the symbol. A throat is cleared high above one of the pairs of sandals: And whosoever bears this symbol shall end all suffering, shall end all strife and be the saviour to us all. The visual fades to black again, the crowd continues with its jeers and taunts. The foreground audio is that of a number of authoritative, echoing footsteps, a key is placed into a gate. The black fades into the visual. The camera is extremely low to the ground; a pair of boots enters through a heavy gate into a filthy cell. The camera zooms past the boots to three pairs of naked, dirty feet all connected to each other by heavy chains. The feet stand unsteadily and are led out the cell by the boots. Switch to the feet of a running child, the camera pans slowly up his body, but only to his hands. There is a soiled envelope in his right hand. Switch back the shuffling chained feet being led over muddy cobblestones by the menacing boots. The jeering is becoming increasingly louder. Switch to the running child. His breathing is becoming ragged and is full of emotion. He pushes on through the long sharp grass. The boots are now standing to attention along the front of the wooden platform as the six grubby feet shakily ascend the creaky wooden steps. Large stained boots move towards the first pair of feet, and then to the next, and then to the next, performing tasks above the view of the camera shot. The child is running up a hill, his breathing full of fatigue and desperation, he pushes to the top of the hill. All the while the sounds of the mob increase as he nears the apex. The stained boots come into view; a grunt of effort comes from their owner as they take the stance of exertion. The dirty, naked feet fall through the platform. They twitch at first, but then just swing lifelessly. A cry escapes the child as he drops to his knees. Ending Title fades to black

By Shelley Kirton (Short Story Writing Assignment)

The air in the hair salon is heavy with a perfumed, chemical smell. Sophia takes a seat, puts her handbag down then flips through the magazines. She has a choice; an out-of-date Woman’s Weekly or Hairstyles for Today , dated six months prior; also somewhat tardy she thinks. She opts for the Woman’s Weekly. “Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?” Angela, on reception, asks. She is wearing an odd assembly of short black garments one on top of the other and her hair is deeply black and silver-tipped. Her slim legs are bare and her feet are sheathed in spike-heeled boots; Sophia wonders how she manages to trit-trot around all day in them. She is youthfully beautiful. “No, thanks, I’m fine,” she answers, hoping that whoever did Angela’s hair is not going to do hers. “OK then, Jenine won’t be too long now.” Angela resumes her position behind the reception desk. Sophia reads, glances up at the stylists, sees snips of clients’ hair falling in wispy swathes on the floor. Angela comes and sweeps an efficient broom-full of this debris behind a door that reveals glimpses of a table strewn with cups and the remnants of a birthday cake; several candles remain poised on a small slice that oozes cream. Sophia continues reading: a grandmother announces her love for her grandson and they are having a baby. Really? She feels ill. Reaches for the Hairstyles magazine instead. Sophia’s hair is difficult and she has despaired of it, always. She’s never had the sort of hair that swishes, and envies those who do. She wonders if Jenine will today bring about the miracle that will see her with swishable locks. Knows that she won’t. Can’t. “Ready for you now”. Angela flicks a midnight-blue and silver cape around Sophia’s shoulders and secures it with a zippy Velcro flourish. “Jenine will be with you in a moment. Sure you don’t want a cuppa? Water?” “No, thank you”. Sophia takes off her glasses and earrings, puts them on the shelf in front of her and next to the jars of shampoo and conditioner that are stacked neatly to her left and intended for her purchase. She remembers when she went to the hairdresser just for a haircut but now she is importuned to buy ‘product’ and additional ‘services’ and sundry ‘treatments’. Too many choices she thinks. She is tired of making choices, decisions. She is perhaps just tired. It’s all been very difficult lately. Jenine arrives in a twirl of black tulle and sequins. She looks as though she is going to the theatre rather than to do my hair, thinks Sophia. Why do hairdressers wear such extraordinary black clothing? All the same, she envies them their apparent carefree insouciance. “How’re you today”? enquires Jenine. “Colour and a trim, right?” “Fine, yes, thank you”. Sophia wears her hair in a tidy but undistinguished way. She is not a flamboyant woman. Jenine looks at Sophia and again at her hair and wonders aloud if she couldn’t just style it a little more this time, just to strengthen the line a little? And the colour, wouldn’t Sophia like it just a little more daring? Just a little. Sophia looks at herself in the mirror, sees that she looks tired, all over, not just her hair that has become too long for her face. She feels, well, a bit reckless, a bit giddy in the moment. Why not? Yes, she’ll be daring. For a change.

Tina Kitching unveils the thoughts of a pole dancer (Short Story Writing Assignment)

I see them at my feet. Howling – a pack of hungry wolves through the smoky mist, that is my stage. Every night. As I step into the spotlight. I lose sight as my eyeballs adjust to the brightness. I feel them drooling for my naked flesh. I meet their eyes, just as they’re about to tear my costume to shreds: flashes of pink. Their claws paw into me as they make their deposits. But it is here that I become their master. It is here that I tame them, that I whip them with my leathery lingerie. It is here where I am in control, and my centre of gravity – a pole. The alpha she-wolf. If you look hard enough, you can see my reflection in the bloody Marys, sloshing around in their hungry open mouths. It’s dirty. I drip from their teeth in the black of the back. Bleeding on the glass tables, drenched in their spit and fibres from their Armani-suits. Drop by drop, down their hairy chins. Every night is the same. I dance for the wolves. I strip for the wolves. I drag one to my cave in this forsaken oasis of my being.

Christie Williams reflects ‘On Love and Loss’ (Short Story Writing Assignment)

The bus rounds the corner of Glouston Street far too quickly. I brace myself with one arm against the seat in front of me. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, not since… I try not to think about last night as the images come flickering through in broken pieces. Each memory cuts me with its serrated edges and I wince in pain as I feel my heart begin to break all over again. Her voice begins to replay itself again for what feels like the hundredth time this morning. I just don’t love you anymore. I take a deep breath in. It’s time to move on. I try to distract myself with what’s outside the window. Francois is my future now. It doesn’t work. Goodbye, Tom. They met through me. Francois was the visiting French teacher at the private school up the hill. The kind of school so posh they could afford to fly in their language teachers for a more ‘authentic experience’. Anna and I took him out to dinner one night. It was a favour to the said school’s principal who was an old mate of mine. We ended up becoming close friends and Anna and I would catch up with him at the local pub a couple of days a week. Francois and I would share work stories and Anna would have us in stitches with some hilarious tale… I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I look half awake and the heavy bags under my eyes aren’t doing me any favours. We were supposed to be getting married this summer. She even had the dress already picked out. First thing she did was buy that damn dress. I should’ve known then that she was more interested in the wedding than the actual marriage. I feel like a pimply sixteen year old getting his heart broken for the first time all over again. The bus has come to a stop. It’s raining and there’s been an accident up ahead. The road is blocked. We wait for what seems like ages. I should have called in sick today. It’s not too late to change my mind, I tell myself. Just get off and take another bus home. But I can’t do that to my students. Final exams are approaching and they’re already stressing over them. Up ahead the ambulance has arrived. A siren in the background is still screeching but I hardly notice. The driver gives up and we veer off into a detour. The more I think about the whole thing the more I begin to hate Anna. I sit there finding new things to despise about her: The way she flicks little bits of food onto the mirror when she’s flossing; the way she laughs at nothing when she’s had too much to drink; the way she flirts with everyone. I try to convince myself she wasn’t that great after all.

An excerpt from a piece by Kay Wilson (Short Story Writing Assignment) He looked up from his book. Jean’s hair glowed. The late afternoon sun had struck the back of her head turning the thick auburn curls into a vibrant halo. Her dark eyes smiled at Dave. At first, that was all he could see, against the deepening orange brightness of the sun in his eyes. Dave stared at her. Something was different. Yes, the small face was very familiar, the pointy nose he knew well, the quirky painted-on eyebrows in their place, but, something was different. He looked more closely, then turned away so quickly that his body jerked and his book fell to the ground. “How dare she.” he thought. “How dare she just come here without warning me. That’s not fair.” As he bent down to pick up the book he felt a quick burst of shame at his reaction. Dave stood and looked down at Jean. She smiled at him again. ‘It’s a bit of a shock the first time,” she said. Her wide smile twisted the misshapen side of her cheek. The taught and ragged new skin, that surrounded the edges of a scar, stood out raw and white. “I never was much of a looker anyway.” Jean shrugged. “They’re going to fix it you know. They’re doing plastic surgery when this has healed a bit more.” Dave felt ill. He wanted to run. He wanted to be back in a place where there were no scars on brave faces. “I didn’t visit you,” said Dave. “I tried but they wouldn’t let me in.” He hesitated, and then said bitterly. “They thought it was me. The police I mean. They came in to the library and took me in for questioning.” “I know.” Jean shook her head. “I told them it wasn’t you. He was taller and heavier. I couldn’t see much to start with because he jumped me from behind. I fell down and rolled over and there he was, like a mad gorilla standing over me.” She bent her head. “I can’t forget his eyes… Dark eyes, glaring at me, like black holes in his face except he didn’t have a face, just a scarf and a hoody and eyes.” Jean spoke quietly. “The police are still looking for him you know. He’s still out there, waiting for things to die down before he attacks someone else.”

Chelsea Haith, Short Story Course, Assignment 1 Later I sit down at my desk, seeing not the empty table top but a desk ruled by the laws of organized chaos and covered in manuscripts and notes from a life I recall was once mine. The rain has broken and a steady pattering taps across the roof. I look around me. I do not want to leave this place. This study is my sanctuary, this house my home. I love the quirky clock, the smell of aged wood and the corrugated iron roof that allows the rain to lull me to sleep. Should I give this up for a job I enjoyed and a city life I knew? I shake my head. No, it’s not that. Could I give up the life that was over and weave my own anew; effectively start over? The rain becomes a downpour and drums heavily upon the roof. I watch it wash down through the leaves of the tree outside and remember the invitations, the dinners, lunches, parties and meetings that I’d declined. I remember too the long nights in the weeks after the funeral when I’d cried in grief and then out of relief and shame. I remember the year past and realize that while I’ve spent a year dealing with my loss and finishing up what was left of my husband’s life, I’ve avoided this last step, remembering him. The memories come. Harold had loved the rain. It had rained that night, angrily pounding on the roof. I was angry too, as I so often was then. Late in the evening he called quietly for me. His voice was as weak as his body and I’d had to bend close to him to hear the words. “The last… of… the,” an unsteady breath, “morphine.” I remember my heart sinking and rising as I nodded, knowing what he was asking me.

Yael Barham- Smith, Short Story Course Assignment 5 “What’s going on, Rob? You expecting someone?” “What?” asked Rob. The heavy footsteps came back into the room. “There are two plates set out in the kitchen, Rob,” Anna heard the rough voice say. “Who are they for?” “Umm… er, no one, I just thought maybe you guys were hungry.” Rob sounded strained. “And what’s with the heart made of strawberries?” the rough voice asked. Anna gasped remembering how she had decorated the plates for Rob. “I bet you’ve got someone coming over,” the rough voice accused. “I’ve told you before about keeping this secret. If someone finds out about this, I’ll…” the voice stopped and Anna strained to hear. “What’s this?” the rough voice came again, but this time it was quieter. Anna could hear the deadly anger in it. “Oh, that?” Rob’s voice shook. There was a pause. “That’s just my girlfriend’s bag. She left it here when she came over last time.” “Really? Only I don’t remember seeing it earlier” “Maybe you missed it and …” “You know what I think? I think you’ve got your little whore stashed here, haven’t you?” “No. No! I don’t! There’s no one here.” “I don’t believe you.” “Bill, please, I swear, there’s no one else here.” “So you won’t mind if I look in there.” “Bill!” Anna sprang back from the door. She looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. The room was too small. The door crashed open and a huge man loomed in the doorway. Anna backed away but her legs bumped against the bed and she fell heavily on the mattress. The man strode across to her and grabbed her hair, dragging her to her feet. “Well, what do we have here?” he sneered.

Tina Kitching reveals the dark side of the MacDonalds meat supply. (Short Story Writing Course) Later that evening, Dave waited in front of McDonalds. He checked his watch ten times when he didn’t see her. “Pssst… Dave, come in through the back door by the kitchen.” He walked around the building and shoved down the handlebar of the back door. It was a bit tight. “Maureen?” It was too dark to see anything. “I’m here. Follow my voice.” He fell over something heavy on the floor and bumped his head on pans that were hanging from the ceiling. She led him into the back of the kitchen. There was a passage. “Come down the stairs.” “I can’t see anything. What stairs?” “Wait a while until your eyes adjust then.” The place had a rotten smell. It definitely wasn’t old food. Maybe something raw. “I .. eh .. I don’t like this. It’s weird.” “Fine, I’ll come get you, you big mole. Wait there.” “Fine.” His head was throbbing from the pans. “Hey Dave, sorry about that.” She threw herself into his arms and hugged him. She also smelled rotten. “Let’s just lock up and leave. It’s creepy and I want to go home.” Her hands stroked up and down his back. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Dave.” He could feel her nails steadily scratching his back.

Patti Smith deals with a stolen wallet. (Short Story Writing Course) It’s when I’m third back from the counter that I spot it and now I know why today is so special: it’s a wallet on the floor hard up against the kickplate. I’m mesmerised by it and can’t understand why nobody else has noticed it. It’s bright red, for goodness sake, how hard can it be? I casually look around, taking in the surroundings. I might look dopey but guess what? When it comes to money, I’m no slouch. The people at the front have moved away with their burgers and I edge further forwards. Still no-one has spotted it, so when I move up to the front I drop my shoulder suddenly so Ichabod is thrown off balance. He’s used to this trick so he screams and leaps onto the table behind me. While the people in the queue behind me try to catch him, I lean down and scoop up the wallet in one easy movement. I’m so good at this that even if you had been watching you still wouldn’t have seen it. By the time I place my order Icky is back on my shoulder and we find a seat outside in the sun to share our burger. A quick check to make sure no-one is looking and I open up the wallet to see what I’ve scored. Hmm, not much. Credit cards, absolutely no use at all, unless I’m ordering on line, and as I don’t have a computer or even a cell phone, they’re no use to me.

Kirti Ranchod… a young boy deals with the death his brother. (Short Story Writing Course) “I know that Sean’s death has been hard for you. We’ve just been so caught up in our misery that we forget to comfort you. I’m sorry for that.” “It’s okay, Dad, I understand. I can see what it’s done to you and Mum.” “If you need help, you need to let us know. I guess, though, today has shown us that you do.” His Dad ruffled his hair, like he used to when he was five. “Your Mum told me a little about your conversation earlier. None of us will ever understand why this happened. I know that telling you not to feel guilty won’t help. I think all of us feel it – all the things we should have and could have done, all the ‘What ifs’. We can’t change any of it, though.” “But Dad, I was his big brother. I should have been nicer! I remember telling him that he was too ugly to date Nicole, and that he was just so stupid, he should give up trying to play chess!” He replayed these scenes every nightas he tried to go to sleep, hoping that he could somehow change what had been said. “Did you do nothing nice for Sean, at all, Robert?” “No, Dad. I can’t think of a single thing. I’ve been trying for months to figure out if I did anything to make him happy. I’ve got nothing! Nothing!” “I know that you always let him have the front seat if he wanted it. You always knew which flavour of ice cream to get for him, and you let him wear your favourite T-Shirts.”

Final assignment by Bianca Wright (Basics of Creative Writing Course) Dimitria giggled as Koos kissed her nose. His lips moved up to her eyes and then back down to her mouth. He tasted like Doritos and Coke. Lately, all of their arguments had evolved into passionate make-out sessions – and tonight had been no different. She had shooed her mother and father out of the door as soon as closing time had announced itself on her father’s old clock, and promised to do all the cashing-up herself. Koos had arrived as soon as Maria and Stavros crunched out of the parking lot out back – parking down the street so that nobody saw him arrive. “Mmm … all this arguing has its benefits.” Dimitria smiled between kisses. “You need to tell them, Demi – we need to start making plans.” Koos relaxed his grip around her waist and opened his eyes to look at her. Her pale yellow sundress glimmered in the moonlight that shone through the slats on the windows like a detective’s torch. He loosened one hand to untie her curly pony-tail and gently twisted a few strands around his index finger. Her hair was soft and smelt like conditioner. “I will, Koos.” Dimitria pulled him closer. “Soon.”

Final assignment by Yvonne Erasmus (Basics of Creative Writing Course) Where is Pat, Dale wondered. Could it take so long to get a drink? Dale felt alone and anxious without her at his side. He threw a quick glance at the door to see if he could spot her, but could only see strangers standing around in the corridor. He smelled the stale cigarette smoke sticking to their jackets as they came back into the courtroom. Dale was afraid to look around, but he could hear the whispering behind him. What did these people care, he thought, feeling anger pushing up from the pit of his stomach. These vultures would go back home, and he might lose everything. As the sun shone down on his face he had forgotten for a moment where they were heading and why. But now, the warmth and welcome of the summer sun did not reach the inside of the courtroom. A fluorescent light in the middle of the room was twitching, throwing intermittent shadows in the corners. Dale looked at his watch. It was one o’clock exactly. He knew he was supposed to be hungry, but how could he be when all he felt was numb.

Juanne de Abreu, Short Story Course Assignment 1 He stands there moving the jasmine bushes, beating them slightly with a stick. The smell bursts through the cracked open window. A familiar smell and the comfort of memories rush through the soul, in the blink of an eye. Frosty tipped shivers dance up and down my skin thinking back to times when he was not just a dark figure in the garden. It’s fairly dark outside yet his eyes are clearly staring up towards me. Who is the hunter and who the hunted? I cannot let him inside! I cannot let him inside. I have to get rid of him quickly. He is not welcome here…he has this burly chest covered in soft hair? And strong arms? He is a total Adonis! Maybe I’ll just go outside and hear what he wants. It’s been six years since the first time we met. The first flirtatious bump into each other on the dance floor and the first “Can I buy you a drink?” Few words were uttered that night. The music vibrated my veins and he swayed his hips into mine. Staring into the colours of a fire, with its blend of red and orange, white and blue, is staring into his eyes, the colours flicker and blend so effortlessly. Nothing else exists except the amazing blue colour pallet. But he knows not to come here. He knows never to contact me. With a cigarette in his mouth he lights it and the bright flash of fire confirms it’s him.

Jane Scobie, Short Story Course “Can I take Dad’s new car?” his face brightening, imagining a detour to his girlfriend’s house on the way. “No,” replied Alison, holding out the keys to her aging hatchback. “Aww c’mon Mum, Dad’s new car is awesome. The sound system is sick.” Towering over his mother, Robert put his arm around her shoulder and bestowed his most endearing smile. “Aren’t I your favourite son and aren’t you the best mother in the whole world?” Alison smiled despite herself. Placing some cash, her keys and empty pastry case packaging in his hand she said “You are my ONLY son, you can take my car or walk. You choose, but you had better be back in 20 minutes and make sure you get the same brand.” “You don’t have a car,” said Robert with a wry smile, “It’s a motorised shopping trolley, my skateboard has more grunt. What are you trying to do to my rep?” “19 minutes. Goodbye Robert”, said Alison dismissively. Robert expelled an exaggerated huff and shuffled off, resigned to his mission. ……. Alison busily set to finishing her food preparations and was pleasantly surprised when Robert duly returned with the correct pastry cases. She was just commending him on his good timing when Lucy stormed into the room. “Robert! How dare you,” she punched her brother in the arm. “You hacked into my Facebook page.” Robert couldn’t resist a jibe at his sister’s recent gothic makeover. “Hey MORTICIA,” he chuckled as he rubbed his arm, “I didn’t HACK into it, maybe you left it open? You’ve no proof it was me, you need to be more security conscious. Anyone could have done it.” he smirked. “You changed my status to single and wrote on my wall that Steve dumped me because I have halitosis!” She lunged again at her brother. “Whoa! Back off sis,” Robert flapped his hand in front of his face, “you seriously have bad breath.” “You shit for brains arsewipe -” “Cut it out you two,” called Alison from the kitchen. “Your Dad will be here with his boss any minute. Lucy, watch your language.”

Tessa Ainsbury, Short Story Course Assignment 6 I only ever read about this place in the news. I normally drive past it. Today I drive into it, navigating my way past a myriad of pedestrians, buses and taxis. As I trudge up the hill towards the entrance, I contemplate the building. It is a sprawling medical metropolis; a mismatched marriage of old and new architecture situated at the foot of a magnificent mountain. The effect is discordant. I equate it to a slum in the middle of a picturesque painting. Outpatients, the sign above a grubby swing-door proclaims. I smile wryly. I am a patient alright, and I am “out”, in a manner of speaking. Too poor to afford a battery of expensive tests, and too rich to access State assistance. I am a taxpayer on medical aid, and, in this instance, totally screwed. So I’m here to try to my luck. I look like a frightened blowfish, swollen and prickly. I have cut out every conceivable allergen, and am living on air and over-the-counter medication. My employer has stopped sending prospective clients to me. Colleagues avoid me. I have no significant other, and won’t get one at this rate. I am Quasimodo, and desperate to fix it. Through the swing-doors, and into a dark and doleful corridor. It looks funereal; meagre shafts of sunlight penetrate smudged windows creating dark shadows on mustardy yellow walls. The bright and sunny day is banished from this place. I have stepped into a different world of muted gloom.

David Hamilton, Short Story Course Assignment 1 Rose had started keeping a knife close to her bed. She reached out and gripped the handle tightly, drawing comfort from its weight. “Who’s there?” she called. She tried to make her voice sound commanding but it quavered just a little. She drew back the curtain and looked out into the black. For long moments there was nothing. Then a large shape sprang into view, filling up the window. Rose screamed and dropped the knife. The shape paced back and forth on the windowsill, then sat and regarded her with two huge yellow eyes. Her heart beat a fast rhythm in her chest and she sucked in a big breath as the fright faded away. She opened the window and the big cat jumped in onto her bed. It padded around, clawed the covers and sat down. It was jet black, its fur seemed to drink the light in. Its eyes were bright and reflective. It watched her for a few seconds, then slowly closed them. Rose put out a hand and ran it down the cats back. It was soft, cold on the outside from the night but warm from body heat closer to the skin. It began to purr. She felt its ribs as she stroked it, it was lean despite its size. “You must be hungry, poor thing,” she said. “I think I’ve got some tuna around here somewhere,” she said, searching the pantry, “Dan doesn’t like it so we never eat it. Aha.” She pulled out a blue can with a faded label. “Expired six months years ago but that won’t bother you will it?” The cat rubbed its head against her legs, purring loudly. An excerpt from the novel ‘Conspiracy’ by Hazel Carlstein, from the Advanced Novel-Writing Course. Chapter 29. Deidre lies next to Simon, sniffing. She can smell the strong camphor odour of the Vicks Vapour Rub, a thick daub on her chest and throat. She swallows to pop her ears and her throat is so sore and tender that it feels as if she has scraped her skin across an unplastered brick wall. She reaches towards the tissue box and pulls out a wad of tissues and blows her nose, raw and red. She hears the agitated rise and fall of a siren and the rolling sound of tyres on tar and a soft scraping sound. She lies, unmoving. A swirling sound of an aeroplane circling in the distance blocks out the sounds outside on the steps or at the window. Her eyes dart from side to side. The shadow on the ceiling is like a gigantic tarantula. The body next to her in the bed snores. A car door is closed. She lifts her head from her pillow. “Simon.” A soft crackling sound drifts towards her. Something falls down; a thump outside. “Simon! Wake up!” and she digs him in his side, below his ribs. He rolls over. “What? What the hell is going on, Deidre? I’m trying to sleep.” “There’s a noise; someone’s around outside.” “There’re always noises outside, Deidre,” but Simon gets up and walks around the flat, checking the doors and windows. He returns to the bed and he tosses and turns trying to get comfortable again and erase from his mind the scribbles of concern. Now he listens and he watches Deidre, the mole on the side of her neck rising and falling with her laboured breaths. He hears nothing unusual and his head falls backwards and he sleeps. As Deidre opens the door of the flat the next morning, the wind cuts through her scarf and thick black coat and she screams, “Oh my god! Oh my god! What is this on the mat, Simon?” And she bobs up and down, shaking her gloved hands, as she steps back into the lounge. “Take it away! Take it away, Simon.” Simon looks down at the tiny staring, unseeing eyes. They are as unmoving as black pearls, set in the fox-like face. He sees the small clawed feet and the wings, like stiff, thick plastic, that encase the frozen body. There is a hook on the end of each wing. The nose is pointed and the blood from the mouth is congealed. The chest with brown fur and the shoulders with white tufts of hair are broad; the body of the bat surprisingly large. Simon fetches a Checkers packet and picks up the dead bat. The note is under the body, DON”T CARRY ON! Dried blood has stained the mat. He pulls a tissue from his pocket and picks up the note and places it on the table inside his flat, determined to bag it and send it for analysis. Then he walks down the stairs to the outside bins and throws the bat away. He looks over his shoulder and he walks around the block of flats and behind the concrete pillars of the parking bays. The morning air is freezing. He thinks about the note but he can only feel his father’s thick hand swiping his ear and he can only remember his father’s voice from so long ago, “Hau, you must be the most stubborn child God ever made.” And Simon knows that he won’t stop, at least not yet.

Final Assignment by Daniel Andrews, Basics of Creative Writing Course John pushed the car door shut and leaned back on the bonnet, taking deep breaths as the latest wave of pain faded from his chest. ‘Damn feeble body,’ he grumbled to himself. Checking his gold Rolex, he saw it was only two o’clock and cursed under his breath the hours of lost work this afternoon’s sick leave would cost him. Stress, he thought, that was what was afflicting him, and keeping his fling with Angela, the new secretary, secret was stressing him more than usual. ‘Damn it!’ he cursed, ruing the day that his business partner, Marty, had gone against his advice and hired that tart. John was sure that Marty had been lured by her copious cleavage of silicon which her push up bra thrust out the top of her shirt and her scandalous thigh length skirts, but ironically it had been him that had ended up in her clutches. Now she was threatening to tell his wife unless he paid her off. That one night was the single most regretful incident of his life, ‘God, don’t let Sarah find out,’ he prayed, thinking again how devastated he would be if Sarah had cheated on him. Putting past mistakes out of his mind, he turned up the collar of his business shirt against the cold and wiped the mist from his glasses before sizing up the path to his house. Firstly, a dash over the curb and footpath, both covered in a carpet of red and gold leaves still wet from last night’s rain. Second, through the old iron gate and up the drive lined with oaks on either side, and finally, through the front door of his splendid two storey white house, where a warm fire would be waiting and his wife would be able take him to the doctor.

Final Assignment by Kara Netzler, Basics of Creative Writing Course Marcus couldn’t work out what was going on. Josh had instructed him to meet with him behind the school gymnasium at 3.35pm on the dot. It was now 3.40pm, Marcus was there, Josh was there, and also there… their entire class. No one said a word. Perhaps they didn’t want to compete with the howling of the wind swirling around them. Marcus shivered as it snaked its way down the back of his neck and beneath his shirt. C/mon Marcus shake it off. It’s just a bit of wind, no biggie… What’s Josh waiting for? Everyone’s here. He’s such a drama queen. Maybe he wants us to pass out from the stench of that cheap ‘deodorant’ he insists on wearing. Yeah that’ll be it. Marcus would never have the guts to say any of this aloud – he wasn’t scared of Josh, he knew he could take him down if he had to. He was scared of the repercussions that such action would have on his image. There was nothing more important to him than that. What else is there? The location seemed odd to Marcus. What was the significance of meeting behind the school gym? Marcus looked around, taking in the imposing barriers around him – the concrete block wall of the gymnasium, the line of tall trees so dense that you couldn’t see through them to know what was on the other side, and the high barbed wired fence; not to mention the bodies of the children who had formed a tight semi-circle around him. Ordinarily Marcus would have counted each and every one of them as his friend or at least someone he could have a laugh with; looking at their faces today though Marcus could see only their obvious indifference towards him. Today they were uncompromising and a force to be reckoned with. It dawned on Marcus that if he had to make a quick getaway for whatever reason, he would be hard pressed to do so.

By Shelley Blignaut (Short Story Writing Course: Module Three Assignment) “Robert Anderson, what were you thinking?” Anne said as she ran her trembling fingers over the dent in the car. “Is it that noticeable, Mom? Maybe he won’t even see it; it’s on the passenger’s side door and he’s either hung-over or trashed when he walks out of the house, he can’t even see straight.” Anne’s eyes widened in fear as she looked around in panic. “Ssshh, Rob, the neighbours are already suspicious, the last thing we need are more social workers poking their heads around here, remember how your father reacted the last time” Robert jerked his head away as if some imaginary hand had slapped him. A moment later he turned his face back to her, now etched in determination. “Yeah, and that’s never gonna happen again, Mom. If he ever lays a finger on you, I swear I’ll…” “Okay Rob. Let’s just calm down.” Rob put his fists down and breathed out heavily. The thickness of the night hung around them and he suddenly realised what he had done: he had given the monster inside his father a reason to rear its head. He had made his mother vulnerable again as he knew she would take the fall for him. How could he have been so stupid? Anne must have seen the despair in his eyes, “We are going to handle this without your father’s temper flaring up.” She walk toward him and gripped his defeated shoulders, she lowered her voice and said steadily, “We both need to have the same story, with the exact same facts to make it sound believable” Robert could see she was petrified; even though she was trying to keep it together, he could feel her hands shaking as she held him. “Mom, I am so sorry. I’m such a dumbass for getting us into this; it’s just with starting this new school and all, I was just trying to cut it with the other guys. They all drive their dad’s wheels and I couldn’t pitch up on my bike, all of them would have been like ‘Who’s that loser who can’t drive yet?” Anne dropped his gaze and let herself smile a little. For one brief moment she felt like this was normal, this is how it should be, her teenage son apologising for something stupid he did, explaining the need to fit in, succumbing to peer pressure. And she allowed herself to think about what should happen. She should ground him of course, a month would be fair, and then he would work shifts at the video store down the road to pay for the panel beating of the car. He would moan and curse and hate her for a week, but he would learn valuable character-shaping lessons. But this was not a normal family and she hated her husband for that. She could take the beatings and verbal abuse, but to rob her of these opportunities to be a mother was inexcusable….

The Character – by Venisa Chinnasamy (Short Story Writing Course: Module Eight Assignment) My name is Mpho-Sanna but Madam calls me Sanna. She says it’s easier on her tongue. I hope someday to build up enough courage to insist she calls me by my full name. As I hear the cars zooming past our chugging bus. I realize I’ll be late for work again. Eish, this life is not easy. I cringe at the cold creeping through the crack in the windowpane and penetrating my arthritic joints. Although the corrugated iron sheeting of my shack is also not weatherproof, I’ve not yet adapted to the Johannesburg winter. I hear the rest of the passengers on the bus, all domestic workers like me, boisterously making jokes at the expense of their employers. Usually I join in. I’m a pro at mimicking Madame Naidoo’s shrills. This morning I need the time to sulk. I am at my wits end with my fifteen-year-old son, Vusi. He has stolen the entire contents of my coffee tin. I have been saving to buy a brick house for the last five years. It is my dream to own a house like the one father built. Tears prick my eyes. I refuse to cry. Crying won’t help me. To come up with a plan to get the money to pay Thuli’s school fees is what I must reserve my energy for. Except for bus fare for the rest of the week, I don’t have a cent. I still find it difficult to believe that boy spent two thousand, five hundred and fifty rand on shoes, and clothes. I pull at the threads straying from of seams of my only set of work clothes, curl them around my forefinger, and snap them out. This outfit has deteriorated way beyond my skills as a seamstress. I admit I’m an angry woman but I have grounds to be. After one and a half decades, I still feel the rejection of my father. He died without forgiving me for running away from home at sixteen. Both Vusi and Thuli’s fathers have abandoned me. No wonder Vusi behaves so badly. His father is a worthless drunkard. Now, Thuli’s father leaves me in the lurch again by reneging on his promise to pay her school fees. The final straw is Vusi demolishing my hard-earned savings. I try to stop moping and think about something pleasant. Thinking about Thuli always makes me smile. My nine-year-old is an easy child to please, always pleasant, taking pleasure in the simple things in life. She seldom complains.

What Makes a Great Writer?

Put 1,000 self-proclaimed writers in a room. 750 are merely typists. Another 249 are only able to commentate on simple phenomena in their copy, or may as well be soulless, stenographic AI bots.

Only 1 is a writer.

Answering this question first requires two key distinctions: 1) There’s a difference between great stories and great writing. Great stories have beautiful bones – the right skeletons – strong enough to carry any kind of delivery. In contrast, a great writer can make any story interesting, regardless of its contents. 2) There are many important writers throughout history and in modern times, but important writers are not automatically great writers. E.g., Upton Sinclair and Betty Friedan are both important writers. However, neither is a great writer. The opposite (great and unimportant writers) also exist, and so do great and important writers.

In describing what makes a great writer, we acknowledge the monumental toll that great writing takes on its most profound practitioners. As integral components of a world-class writer’s process, creative immersion, self-sabotage, and the numerous sacrifices of isolation have rendered many great writers into states of madness. If life’s objective is to find what we love and let it kill us as Charles Bukowski (a great but unimportant writer) posited, great writers have fulfilled their lives’ objectives as fully as anybody. Great writers embody so many skills and facets of original thinking that the most apt way to begin defining their work is by explaining not what they do, but what they don’t do.

Writers’ Toolkits as Vehicles for Your Message

Before I begin, I’d like to state that I’m not a car guy. In fact, I don’t care much for cars at all. In our culture, cars symbolize things I don’t care much for, such as gaudy materialism and social status. Cars do, however, serve as a great, kaleidoscopic analogy through which to analyze various kinds of writers and the writing they produce.

Additionally, transportation into narrative worlds is a recurring theme in building brands, entertaining audiences, and finding the right words to deliver an audience to its destination. Thus, a writer’s message is meant to bring a reader’s mind to a certain destination, much like a car brings a driver to its destination. For the sake of this section, think of a writer’s ability much like the following components of a car: transmissions, gears, fuel, and engines.

The Transmission

A writer’s ability to transmit the right message hinges in part on whether their transmission is manual or automatic: If you hire a writer with a manual transmission, you’ll save money on up-front costs like fuel, but the quality of the driving experience (and the extent to which you have to intervene to make the writer’s transmission operate) will be a major expense in opportunity cost for you as a client.

In contrast, a writer with an automatic transmission doesn’t need to be micromanaged, or even told what to do – he or she simply does what’s needed, without you having to manually intervene in their process of chauffeuring your audience to the desired set of perceptions, actions, and outcomes. All cars need periodic maintenance and tune-ups, but investing effort in the engine’s process every time one turns the ignition makes for low-value experiences. So, for the purpose of this analogy, we’ll proceed in favoring the writer with an automatic transmission to one with a manual transmission.

The gears of a car determine a) how many speeds at which the vehicle operates between 0 miles per hour and its top-end speed, and, therefore b) the number of different terrains it can smoothly handle while driving. Similarly, the more gears a writer has, the more equipped they are to smoothly deliver your audience to their intended destination, and in accordance with the surrounding terrain.

Even if there is no roadmap or template for a project, a true writer with more gears carves one out for you and your audience, and in careful consideration of data and evidence. The number of gears a writer has also enables varying degrees of ability to write in different tones and for different platforms, purposes, and audiences.

While compensation is a necessary component of labor, and motivates true writers and imposters alike, compensation is never the primary fuel source of elite, world-class writers, or even any writer worth hiring. Upon what sort of fuel does your writer subsist? Passion, or merely earning a paycheck? Obviously, the prior is preferable.

An enduring, high-performing fuel source (passion) makes the writer’s destination (a paycheck) subordinate to the driver’s (reader’s) experience in reaching his or her destination, which also factors into the engine’s performance.

The more passionate a writer is about the process of writing, and without preference as to which mode or platform for which they’re writing, the more versatile and cost-effective that writer is. While there’s something to be said for specialization, understanding different mediums and platforms is not as important as sheer brainpower in finding the right words, which brings us to the vehicle’s engine (the equivalent of the writer’s brain).

A writer’s mind is the equivalent of a car’s engine. The size of the engine in a writer is his or her capacity to deliver the intended experience, independent of all other variables. While a larger engine with more horsepower is more expensive, it delivers the best driving experience. When coupled with an enduring, high-performing fuel source (passion), the engine makes the destination (a paycheck) subordinate to the driver’s experience. The result? The driver doesn’t care where the vehicle takes them. They just want a seat for the ride, regardless of where the vehicle is headed.

The Writer and the 2 Imposters

In this section, we’ll explain why organizations and individuals alike should be careful in hiring “writers,” because 99.9% of all writing job applicants are merely typists or commentators posing as the true writer you actually need. Why does this matter? Simply put, typists document others’ observations. Commentators make observations. Writers’ observations make their audiences more observant.

Imposter 1: Typists (75% of “Writers” and “Writing Agencies”)

When a typist tries to write, the results are cringeworthy. While well-intentioned and usually embodying a range of skill sets fit for other occupations, the typist represents the lowest level of “writer” available in today’s marketplace. There is writing, and there is typing. Typing isn’t writing, and writing isn’t typing. However, most people can’t distinguish one from another. In fact, part of the typist’s credo is to hide their shortcomings in busy traffic jams, hoping the freeway won’t open up and expose their inadequacies in helping brands, people, and organizations reach their messaging and storytelling destinations.

The Typist’s Transmission

The typist places a significant burden on the driver (client) with a manual transmission, literally making the completion of a writing project a “hand-holding” process given the fact that the driver must shift them into the proper gear to see any improvements.

The Typist’s Gears

A typist has two clumsy gears between which they can shift, and the first is nearly indistinguishable from the second. They’re responsive to requests to drive a writing project to faster completion, but only because that’s the only thing for which they’ve been built. In either of these gears, a typist can spend one hour or five hours on typing an article, and the quality of that article will not improve with additional labor. This makes typists a bad investment for organizations in true need of an actual writer. The low up-front cost of a typist may seem appealing, but they’ll leave you wishing you hadn’t hired them to do a writer’s job upon the project’s completion.

The Typist’s Fuel

Whereas the commentator posing as a writer subsists both on a paycheck and his or her level of acceptable competence as sufficient fuel sources to complete writing projects, the typist is driven only by the paycheck, because they have no writing competencies in which they can take pride. The result? Again, that low-grade 85-octane fuel (the typist’s reason to get up and go), is as uninspired as the fuel’s ability to help its vehicle perform.

The Typist’s Engine

Think 1.2-liter three-cylinder, bottom-of-the barrel engines and frequent trips to the repair shop for edits that the manufacturer should’ve engineered correctly at the beginning of the journey. If you hire a typist to do a writer’s job, you can expect everyone to honk at you when the typist tries to take your story to the highway, driving the engine temperature gauge into the red zone while trying to do 60 miles per hour. the typist begins making egregious mistakes, as the engine begins to sputter out.

When Should You Hire a Typist for a Writing Project?

The typist is a byproduct of lowly content farms, content spinning, and black hat content marketing practices. Thankfully, very few of these writers become published authors or established writers. How do we describe the typist posing as a writer in terms of our car analogy? A trip to the junkyard would suffice as a visual depiction. These typists should not be hired for anything more than the most basic typing tasks. I.e., stenography, typing meeting notes, or other basic administrative tasks. Simply put, you may as well hire a free, brainless AI writing tool or content spinner for the work of a typist.

Imposter 2: Commentators (24.9% of “Writers” and “Writing Agencies”)

When commentators try to write, they may be able to fool the masses about their status as non-writers. However, in doing so, they fail to persuade their audiences with their words, and therein rests a key distinction between the writer and the commentator. The commentator is the lesser evil between the two primary types of writing imposters. We describe the commentator not to besmirch the reputation of actual commentators in industries like politics or sports broadcasting, but to emphasize a key distinction between commentating and writing.

When a sports broadcaster or news anchor provides commentary, their labor is fit to the desired outcome of the work for which they were hired: In commentating, ideas are delivered on-the-fly, in real time, and with an appropriate degree of analysis fit for the platform and audience. However, in writing, a reader expects a performance on par with the luxuries of a content creator’s medium fully leveraged.

When reading, they want to see a line of words delivered on-screen or in-print, which reflect behind-the-scenes legwork in careful reasoning, accurate word choice, fully developed narratives, and various revisions, all of which are imperative to great writing. As writing imposters, commentators are above the typist in many of the same ways an actual writer is, with several exceptions.

The Commentator’s Transmission

The commentator’s transmission can range drastically, but usually has at least 3 gears helping them navigate limited nuances in a small number of different driving terrains. Low-grade commentators have manual transmissions with 3-4 gears. High-grade commentators have automatic transmissions with 4-6 gears.

The Commentator’s Gears

Commentators offer very little independent reasoning or unique idea productivity. They can shift into an additional gear or two in both quality and speed with which the work can be completed and may be better at hitting deadlines without sacrificing quality, but their quality is limited and may dwindle or abate entirely at the point of having completed 2-3 hours of work for the same project we described in the above typist section.

The content may be written at a higher level than the content of the typist, but the commentator producing it may not know how to further edit, optimize, or scale the quality of the project. These kinds of writers should not be hired for greater than medium length or medium importance projects.

The Commentator’s Fuel

The commentator posing as a writer subsists on two primary fuel sources: a paycheck and his or her level of putative competence in scraping by as writers. This means they’ll hit their deadlines, but upon lightly tapping the body of a commentator’s written work at the edges of the gas tank valve with a hammer, a hollow noise emerges, casting a shadow on the fact these commentators are always running on fumes. The body of the vehicle may look acceptable, but the interior, from the engine to the transmission, are lacking in various mission-critical elements.

The Commentator’s Engine

While difficult to identify, the commentator’s engine is driven by conniving and insidious factors that fail to do justice to the written word, and these frailties are more prevalent than ever. Even if a commentator never expresses it, he or she is driven by the idea that cheap, unoriginal tricks have a place in great writing, and this mentality couldn’t be further from the truth. In short-form, their words are replete with misleading, clickbait-driven titles. Their articles stuff keywords into a piece at the expense of the user experience and readability. Above all, commentators are conniving about their finished work: they turn a blind eye to the undeniable gaps in their commentary, hoping nobody will notice its shortcomings. However, they are well-versed enough in writing methods to be manipulative, which is arguably a lower tier of persuasive tact than the ones of which only true writers are capable.

When Should You Hire a Commentator for Writing Projects?

While there are true writers who craft press releases, news reports, and other strictly observational pieces of content, a commentator is at their maximum capacity in completing those kinds of writing projects. While hiring these writers for these kinds of projects won’t cause harm, it certainly won’t add value. Commentators posing as writers are common fodder, and are unfortunately the vast majority of content producers and writers on freelancing platforms like Upwork.

If commentators wish to become actual writers, they must learn to distinguish between the world according to them and the world according to their audience. To attain the status of an actual writer, commentators must also strive to capture the world in their words as the world actually is, not how they desire it to be. While many commentators are convincing in claiming they’re true writers, they are not passionate enough to put in the work necessary to make their written content memorable, influential, and capable of fulfilling its intended purpose.

Those Who’ve Attained True Writer Status (0.1% of Actual Writers)

Put 1,000 self-proclaimed writers in a room. 750 of them are typists. 249 of them are commentators. 1 is a writer. Those who’ve attained true writer status are true luminaries of language, harnessing an unbelievably broad and deep command of the written word. The writer is capable of doing everything the typist and commentator can, but elects not to because completing work with these imposters’ standards of performance usually doesn’t do justice to the written word’s importance as the seminal framework for the organization of ideas and language. Writers endow commonplace things with startling, extraordinary power.

Writing is more than a job to a true freelance writer or writing agency: it’s how truth is discovered, verified, and shared. These writers are willing to descend into madness so their readers can experience states of awe, belief, and possibility. In staying consistent with our car analogy, think lightweight frames, A true writer can spend 1 hour or 5 hours on a project, and write at a higher quality level in their first gear than the commentator does in his or her mid-gear level. A writer can also complete projects of exhaustive and grueling lengths with style, sophistication, and maintaining fidelity to the purpose of the written work.

The Writer’s Transmission

Much like the other elements of content produced by those who’ve reached true writer status, a writer’s transmission is not just automatic–it embodies the silence and subtlety of a Rolls Royce Phantom, making it easy for the reader to forget the writer even has an engine, making the magnificent engineering of the vehicle look easy and making the reader feel as if the medium of expression isn’t language–somehow enabling them to feel as if they’re standing inside the wording itself. What’s more, a true writer can navigate as many terrains as there are surfaces, much like a Jeep. Regardless of the mode or platform, a true writer’s ability to transmit their message is made apparent by their ability to write anything well, from lengthy technical documentation to short creative works.

The Writer’s Gears

Much like a 7-gear vehicle establishes a range of different tones in driving experience, the number of tones upon which a writer can draw to convey the right message for an audience is one distinguishing variable between true writers and the wannabe imposters. If someone becomes acquainted with a writer solely through his or her body of written work, they may feel that the writer is either schizophrenic, or 7 different people given the range of tones in which they can express their ideas in writing.

The Writer’s Fuel

True writers subsist on their passion for writing, and things like a paycheck are just mundane necessities to them. Writers are not only capable of writing without pressing their ego into the ideas and desires of the assignment; they also empathize with the target audience, which enables them to convey the words that will move an audience to take the desired course of action. Actual writers, much like the best brands, do not write simply to earn a paycheck. Earning an income is merely the byproduct of a true writer’s labor, and these are the only kinds of writers who work with and are worthy of the WordWoven Mission .

The Writer’s Engine

Operating in concert with the fuel, gears, and transmission of a noteworthy message, the very ideals and causes by which a writer is driven are as pure as they come. This makes for a ride so beautiful it doesn’t matter what scenery accompanies the trip: The v12 engine in a writer’s brain impels them to forego expressing the quiet corners of their mind for the sake of shedding light on the larger corners of the human imagination, upon which shadows have been cast by the various typists and commentators of the time.

The result? You as the driver (as one of WordWoven’s clients ) are so emboldened by the power of the experience, you can’t help but share the insights of the writer’s words with your audience. Once the audience has received the message, all it wants to do is hop in the passenger seat alongside you, without a care in the world about where you take them, because they wouldn’t miss out on this ride for the world, and there are a limited number of seats.

When Should You Hire a Writer for a Writing Project? Right Now

Sometimes it’s difficult to know when you should hire a writer. For starters, you can fill out the form below to book a free consultation, in which we can help you establish whether a writer is needed for your company or cause. WordWoven only hires true writers for our 6 writing services .

Our baseline standard of performance for being called a writer is to fit into this one-in-one-thousand category. Given WordWoven’s ability as a 0.1-percenter, we price our services accordingly, but can work with organizations on sliding fees depending on their tax status and classification.

International edition
Australia edition
Europe edition

Finding time for creativity will give you respite from worries

Drawing, singing, writing, knitting… lose yourself in something creative to find inner calm. You might also come up with solutions to problems

W hen the first lockdown began in March, my son developed a persistent cough. I was anxious and when I couldn’t sleep I would write. Inspired by the author Elizabeth Gilbert , whose soothing Instagram I would turn to in the ungodly hours, and reassured by her pragmatic take on creative endeavours, I poured my anxiety on to the page and lost myself in my story.

My son’s cough wasn’t Covid-19 as it turned out, but writing about it had helped me manage my fears around the pandemic and given me direction. Now it’s New Year, and lockdown, in some shape or another, is still a reality while most of us wait for the vaccine. There is light at the end of the tunnel, but until we get there, I have a strong feeling that making something might just help.

At the beginning of the pandemic we were hyped up; it was scary, but it was novel and many of us even enjoyed the slower pace of lockdown life – wider traumas not withstanding – and the chance to work from home. Now that it’s almost a year ago, we’re more likely to be fatigued and listless, wrestling with financial worries and whatever else may come our way.

In these circumstances, taking up a new creative pastime could bring the tangible sense of achievement we seek, injecting some much-needed novelty into what could otherwise be a bleak January.

Psychotherapist Josh Hogan began drawing landscapes in the first lockdown. “It gives me a sense of peace and calm,” he says. “When I’m focused on that one activity I’m not worrying about things that might happen in the future; it brings me back into the present moment because I have to pay attention to what I’m doing.

“There’s a sense of accomplishment and I may feel like I’ve really said something,” he says. “I’ve used art and creativity all my life to express myself and make sense of the confusing vagaries of life. But it wasn’t until I began my counselling training I realised that art could be used as a powerful therapeutic, tool. Expressing oneself and making sense of life are two important processes in therapy. When I began training I realised I had been doing a lot of therapeutic things without knowing it.”

Hogan also recommends creative pursuits to clients who are overwhelmed with anxiety. Art is widely recognised as a helpful way to boost wellbeing in so many different was: to aid communication, to alleviate depression, to uncover hidden meanings and conflicts, but it doesn’t have to be a big cathartic expression of inner turmoil to have healing benefits. Even a small amount of creativity is good for us.

As a study led by Dr Daisy Fancourt, UCL senior research fellow for BBC Arts found, getting to grips with something new and creative is good for our mental health regardless of skill level. The research, conducted between March and May 2018 among a sample of 47,924 respondents across the UK, found that doing something creative can help people see problems in a new light.

“While activities such as creative writing can help you vent your emotions, other things like knitting or crafting can give us some space and a safe haven away from our stresses, which might provide a chance to think things through and find solutions,” says Fancourt.

Making something new is also great for our confidence. “People can be surprised by what they achieve and this can spill over into other aspects of their lives,” says Fancourt. “A great example is the Choir with No Name , which is a choir for people affected by homelessness: 70-80% of people who take part go on to volunteer or find housing and leave the streets.” While real-life choirs might be out of bounds for the moment, that shouldn’t stop us from flexing our vocal cords in one of the many online groups that have sprung in the pandemic.

Getting busy with your sketchpad or journal can protect us in all sorts of ways. According to one study examining the links between art and health, a cost-benefit analysis showed a 37% drop in GP consultation rates and a 27% reduction in hospital admissions when patients were involved in creative pursuits. Other studies have found similar results. For example, when people were asked to write about a trauma for 15 minutes a day, it resulted in fewer subsequent visits to the doctor, compared to a control group.

Why we see these responses isn’t clear, though when we’re really into our creative “flow” many of us fall into a state similar to deep meditation. Hours flash by in minutes and for once we’re free of that nagging, critical inner voice. This flow state can even bring about changes in our body, as shown by a 2010 Swedish study on classical pianists, which found that heart rate slowed, breath deepened and, rather wonderfully, the smile muscles were activated when the musicians really got into their groove.

But what about sharing our creation with others? Can this make our creative endeavour more powerful?

“When it’s shared, parts of us that were once invisible, hidden, obscured, become known,” is how musician and writer Jeff Leisawitz , explains it, writing on his Tiny Buddha blog. “There are seven billion people running around on this planet. It’s easy to feel lost, invisible and inconsequential. It’s a big world. So creativity helps us be seen. Perhaps you’ll get your 15 minutes and become popular with the masses. More likely, it’ll be with your extended gang or just a few close people. And sometimes your creation will only be for yourself. Even if no one else checks out your work, it’ll still help you see yourself. Become better known to yourself.”

In lockdown, many of us wrote more than ever before, colouring-book sales skyrocketed and we saw a spate of online creative courses spring up as artists and other makers shared their skill-sets to help us stay sane. Isolation Art School , set up by Keith Tyson, who won the Turner Prize in 2002, offered free video tutorials, which you can still find on its Instagram page, with portrait painting demos from Jonathan Yeo, and Tim Noble showing you how to build your own shadow portrait out of rubbish and household items – and much more.

But what if your rubbish shadow portrait is, well, rubbish? If we don’t have an artistic bone in our body, can creativity still help our mental health?

Tyson’s own series of lessons, Painting for Absolute Beginners, challenges the idea that there are artistic people and non-artistic people. “I think the most important things you can learn from this is that there are no wrong answers. There’s no way you can make a mistake,” he says reassuringly.

Gilbert is similarly inclusive. “Creative living doesn’t mean you need to become a poet who lives on a mountain top in Greece, or that you must perform at Carnegie Hall or win a Palme d’Or at the Cannes film festival,” she says in Big Magic , her self-help book for creatives (although if that’s your dream by all means go for it). “Creativity is simply a way to live a bigger more fulfilled life.”

It’s akin to unearthing buried treasure, which each of us has deep within us; we just need the courage to look for it. And what better time than now?

Artistic expression: how to bring creativity into your life

1. You can’t experience “flow” if you’re constantly being interrupted, so switch off your phone and laptop.

2. Do something you enjoy. Whether you’re drawing, writing or designing, you’re likely to achieve higher “flow” if you’re doing it for its own sake rather than for an extrinsic reward, like money or applause.

3. Don’t wait for inspiration or a big epiphany. Set aside an hour a day for creativity and just show up for it.

4. Try following an online course, like the free classes on Isolation Art School or one of the online courses from Writers HQ , which promises to help you “Stop f***ing about and start writing.”

5. Suspend judgment. If you don’t think your creation is good enough, give yourself a break and keep going. As Gilbert says, in her podcast for Big Magic: “The only thing that’s going to get you back to work on day two is if you forgive yourself for how bad your work was on day one.”

Life and style
Self and wellbeing
Health & wellbeing

How to Cultivate Curiosity for Creative Thinking

Albert Einstein once said, “I have no special talents, I am only passionately curious.” From Stephen Hawking to David Bowie, Walt Disney to Marie Curie, many great minds have hailed curiosity as the driving force behind creative thinking, innovation, and discovery.

As a species, though, we have quite an uneasy relationship with our curiosity. We are weaned off daydreaming and constant questioning from an early age. We are told curiosity was what killed the cat .

However, without cultivating curiosity, we risk becoming complacent. Without curiosity, we passively rely on the status quo and cut ourselves off from potential sources of inspiration. Whether you’re a designer, a marketer, or the CEO, embracing curiosity will boost your range and quality of creativity. It will help you find inspiration, approach your projects from fresh angles, and empathize with your audience and colleagues.

Here’s a brief look at how cultivating curiosity can help you adopt an inquisitive and creative mindset.

Defining Curiosity

Scientists have been closely studying curiosity since the 19th century but still struggle to agree on a precise definition of what curiosity is and how it works.

In 1954, Daniel Berlyne furthered our understanding of just how wide-reaching curiosity can be by highlighting the different forms it can take:

Epistemic Curiosity: The urge to acquire new knowledge.
Perceptual Curiosity: The urge to experience new sensations.
Specific Curiosity: The urge to find out about one topic.
Diversive Curiosity: The urge to learn or experience things in general for the sake of being stimulated.

A popular theory posited by George Loewenstein in 1994 is that curiosity occurs when we become aware of a gap in our knowledge and are motivated to fill it. He believed that what set curiosity apart from other forms of learning or exploration, was the fact that the urge to “find out” came from inside us, rather than being triggered by an external pressure (like the instinct to survive). The problem with this idea is that it is impossible, especially for the outside observer, to classify if a behavior is internally or externally motivated.

Contrastingly, a review in 2015 concluded that we don’t yet know enough about the mechanics of curiosity to make distinctions. Scientifically, instead of “curiosity”, terms such as “play, exploration, reinforcement learning, latent learning, neophilia, and self-reported desire for information” are used. The review adopted a simpler, more generalized definition of curiosity as ‘a drive for information’.

Wherever you draw the line, there’s no denying the important role the urge to gather new information plays in how we interact with the world.

Statue "The Thinker" in bronze in front of white brick background - cultivating curiosity

Curiosity and Creativity at Work

“Curiosity about life in all of its aspects, I think, is still the secret of great creative people.” – Leo Burnett

Curiosity is an asset in many professional contexts, whether you’re brainstorming, responding to a problem, or presenting a project.

The close link between creativity and curiosity is vital when it comes to idea generation. Ideation involves forming fresh connections between bits of information . By exploring and pushing the limits of your knowledge, you gather more information to draw on during this process, while exposing yourself to varied sources of inspiration.

The open-mindedness that goes hand in hand with curiosity is particularly useful when it comes to creative problem-solving. Not only do you have more knowledge to draw from but it expands your cognitive flexibility while making you less defensive in the face of setbacks.

As Francesca Gino, writing for Harvard Business Review, put it : “Especially when under pressure, we narrow in on what immediately seems the best course of action. But those who are passionate about continuous learning contemplate a wide range of options and perspectives.” Gino also believes that remaining curious means we’re less likely to fall prey to confirmation bias.

Curiosity can also help you cultivate empathy . It drives you to learn about the people around you and to understand how they think. Whether you’re giving creative feedback , doing product research, or putting together a presentation, being actively interested in your audience will help guide your work.

How to Be More Curious

Is it possible to make yourself more curious? Curiosity is often considered a personality trait: something which certain people have in abundance and others don’t.

A 2020 review of the scientific approach to studying curiosity acknowledges this but adds that “curiosity, while varying across individuals, also fluctuates within individuals”. So, even if you don’t feel like a naturally inquisitive person, there are likely times and contexts where your curiosity flourishes.

Here are 8 strategies to help you develop your curiosity:

Indulge Your Interests

If you want to encourage a more curious outlook, make time to explore those subjects that naturally spark your interest, without worrying that they’re frivolous or unhelpful.

Maybe you’re curious about how someone came up with the idea for a tool you’re using, or have a sudden interest in reading about the history of the Roman Empire. While not directly related to your productivity at work , these topics could provide you with creative inspiration.

“Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent, and original manner possible.” – Richard Feynmann

Ask Questions

This can be a scary one. We often think of asking questions as a waste of time and possibly a sign of incompetence. However, asking questions reduces misunderstandings and gives you – and everyone else – a more nuanced view of a situation.

As an exercise (especially looking at my fellow introverts) try to get yourself used to asking questions in friendlier environments and then challenge yourself to work them into more intimidating contexts.

Embrace Aimlessness

Professors Stephen Eppinger and Marek Kowalkiewicz recommend changing our critical attitude toward aimlessness . As Kowalkiewicz puts it: “You should make space for a certain amount of aimless exploration — aimless, which is not the same as pointless.”

Being curious means acknowledging that not everything we learn or do will be useful. The act of exploring and enquiring without an expressed endgame gets us into a mindset where we leave preconceptions behind. You also never know how something you learn might be of use later.

Bright sunny blue sky filled with colourful hot air balloons - cultivating curiosity and aimlessness

Use Different Techniques

Calculators should’ve eliminated the need to do any math in our heads. But math is still taught – and still an important life skill. Not because we need it to function, but because the process improves how we think.

The same is true of our reliance on search engines. If every question you have is answered within seconds, you don’t need to speculate or properly think the question through. Receiving a pinpointed result also means you miss out on supplementary knowledge and context that you might have gained if you’d had to manually look for the answer in a resource.

Maybe delay your search until you’ve at least attempted to figure out the answer or try making your search deliberately broad at first. If you have time, browsing a library or bookstore could be even better. It’s like playing Scrabble with a physical Oxford or looking something up in the old-fashioned encyclopedia set. It turns simple information seeking into a more curiosity-fulfilling experience.

Be a Curious Conversationalist

The most interesting people in the world have at least one thing in common – they are great listeners .

Whether you’re chatting to a colleague about a project or to a client in the hope of better understanding their needs, try to listen carefully to what someone is saying and use it to formulate questions that will draw out more interesting information. You’ll get a better understanding of the person, possibly learn something new, and as a bonus, make a good impression.

Seek Out (New) Experiences

By increasing your exposure to new experiences, you deepen your knowledge base and lessen your natural mistrust of unfamiliar things.

This doesn’t necessarily mean taking up extreme sports or traveling to another country (though it could!). Just changing your usual walking route or switching up your coffee shop is a start.

Pay Attention

Try to focus on everyday activities and sensations. You may notice things you hadn’t thought about before, like the way your fingers flex as you type or the complex processes that go into making a single cup of coffee.

Attention to detail not only pushes you to discover new ideas but also trains you to find inspiration in places you wouldn’t usually expect.

Read (and Watch) Widely

Challenge yourself to try a book, show, or film that you wouldn’t usually pick. Not all of them will set your world on fire but you might still discover something valuable. And more directly, there are great books out there to further inspire creativity .

Develop, Train, and Use Your Curiosity

“What you learn today, for no reason at all, will help you discover all the wonderful secrets of tomorrow.” – Norton Juster

Viewing curiosity as a vital part of the creative process enables you to find inspiration anywhere. It could also help you think in more non-linear and innovative ways , whether you’re creating a new product, developing a new app, or launching a marketing campaign.

Curiosity is something that needs nurturing. By making time for your curiosity and allowing for a more relaxed approach to aimlessness, you’ll cultivate a natural sense of wonder. Curiosity has the power to help you discover a brilliant idea or approach in a place you’d never have thought to look.

Share This Article

Other articles you might like, how procrastination makes you more creative , the danger of the creative comfort zone: how to do things that scare you , creative with limits: how intentional constraints help you work better, the creative sweet spot: not overthinking your ideas .

Uncreative Writing: Redefining Language and Authorship in the Digital Age

By maria popova.

A recent interview on The Awl reminded me of a wonderful book by Kenneth Goldsmith — MoMA’s first poetry laureate, founder of the massive grassroots audio archive Ubu Web , and professor at my alma mater, UPenn’s Kelly Writers House — titled Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in the Digital Age ( public library ; UK ). Much like Vannevar Bush did in 1945 when he envisioned the future of knowledge and presaged the value of what he poetically termed “trail blazers, those who find delight in the task of establishing useful trails through the enormous mass of the common record,” Goldsmith examines the importance of sorting existing ideas and makes a case for the cultural value of stealing like an artist , particularly as we’re building our new literary canon.

Goldsmith writes in the introduction:

In 1969 the conceptual artist Douglas Huebler wrote, ‘The world is full of objects, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more.’ I’ve come to embrace Huebler’s ideas, though it might be retooled as ‘The world is full of texts, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more.’ It seems an appropriate response to a new condition in writing today: faced with an unprecedented amount of available text, the problem is not needing to write more of it; instead, we must learn to negotiate the vast quantity that exists. How I make my way through the thicket of information — how I manage it, how I parse it, how I organize and distribute it — is what distinguishes my writing from yours.

He samples a beautiful concept that broadens our definition of genius :

Literary critic Marjorie Perloff has recently begun using the term unoriginal genius to describe this tendency emerging in literature. Her idea is that, because of changes brought on by technology and the Internet, our notion of genius — a romantic isolated figure — is outdated. An updated notion of genius would have to center around one’s mastery of information and its dissemination. Perloff has coined a term, moving information , to signify both the act of pushing language around as well as the act of being emotionally moved by that process. She posits that today’s writer resembles more a programmer than a tortured genius, brilliantly conceptualizing, constructing, executing, and maintaining a writing machine.

(Though, one might argue, information is only valuable when it’s synthesized into knowledge, which is then in turn transmuted into wisdom — so, perhaps, an even better concept would be moving wisdom .)

Goldsmith goes on to examine how technology has sparked a new culture of transformation as authorship :

Today, technology has exacerbated these mechanistic tendencies in writing … inciting younger writers to take their cues from the workings of technology and the Web as ways of constructing literature. As a result, writers are exploring ways of writing that have been thought, traditionally, to be outside the scope of literary practice: word processing, databasing, recycling, appropriation, intentional plagiarism, identity ciphering, and intensive programming, to name but a few. […] There’s been an explosion of writers employing strategies of copying and appropriation over the past few years, with the computer encouraging writers to mimic its workings. When cutting and pasting are integral to the writing process, i would be mad to imagine that writers wouldn’t exploit these functions in extreme ways that weren’t intended by their creators.

Except, of course, none of this is new. We already know that as far back as the Middle Ages, authors were making remarkable florilegia , the Tumblrs of their day, by literally cutting and pasting text from existing manuscripts to create entirely new contexts.

Still, Goldsmith is careful not to disparage traditional literature but laments the stale values it has instilled in us:

I’m not saying that such writing should be discarded. . . . But I’m sensing that literature — infinite in its potential of ranges and expression — is in a rut, tending to hit the same note again and again, confining itself to the narrowest of spectrums, resulting in a practice that has fallen out of step and unable to take part in arguably the most vital and exciting cultural discourses of our time. I find this to be a profoundly sad moment — and a great lost opportunity for literary creativity to revitalize itself in ways it hasn’t imagined. Perhaps one reason writing is stuck might be the way creative writing is taught. In regard to the many sophisticated ideas concerning media, identity, and sampling developed over the past century, books about how to be a creative writer have completely missed the boat, relying on clichéd notions of what it means to be ‘creative.’

For the past several years, Goldsmith has been teaching a Penn class after which the book is titled, inverting the paradigm of traditional “creative writing” courses. His students are penalized for any semblance of originality and “creativity,” and rewarded for plagiarism, repurposing, sampling, and outright stealing. But as counterproductive and blasphemous as this may sound, it turns out to be a gateway to something unusual yet inevitable, that certain slot machine quality of creativity :

The secret: the suppression of self-expression is impossible. Even when we do something as seemingly ‘uncreative’ as retyping a few pages, we express ourselves in a variety of ways. The act of choosing and reframing tells us as much about ourselves as our story about our mother’s cancer operation. It’s just that we’ve never been taught to value such choices. After a semester of forcibly suppressing a student’s ‘creativity’ by making them plagiarize and transcribe, she will approach me with a sad face at the end of the semester, telling me how disappointed she was because, in fact, what we had accomplished was not uncreative at all; by not being ‘creative,’ she produced the most creative body of work writing in her life. By taking an opposite approach to creativity — the most trite, overused, and ill-defined concept in a writer’s training — she had emerged renewed and rejuvenated, on fire and in love again with writing.

Goldsmith echoes legendary designer Charles Eames , who famously advised to “innovate only as a last resort,” and writes:

Having worked in advertising for many years as a ‘creative director,’ I can tell you that, despite what cultural pundits might say, creativity — as [it has] been defined by our culture with its endless parade of formulaic novels, memoirs, and films — is the thing to flee from, not only as a member of the ‘creative class’ but also as a member of the ‘artistic class.’ Living when technology is changing the rules of the game in every aspect of our lives, it’s time to question and tear down such clichés and lay them on the floor in front of us, then reconstruct these smoldering embers into something new, something contemporary, something — finally — relevant.

In addressing the most common contestations to his ideas about accepting all language as poetry by mere reframing — about what happens to the notion of authorship, about how careers and canons are to be established, about whether the heart of literature is reducible to mere algorithms — Goldsmith seconds a sentiment French polymath Henri Poincaré shared more then a century ago when he noted that to create is merely to choose wisely from the existing pool of ideas:

What becomes important is what you — the author — [decide] to choose. Success lies in knowing what to include and — more important — what to leave out. If all language can be transformed into poetry by mere reframing — an exciting possibility — then she who reframes words in the most charged and convincing way will be judged the best. I agree that the moment we throw judgment and quality out the window we’re in trouble. Democracy is fine for YouTube, but it’s generally a recipe for disaster when it comes to art. While all the words may be created equal — and thus treated — the way in which they’re assembled isn’t; it’s impossible to suspend judgment and folly to dismiss quality. Mimesis and replication [don’t] eradicate authorship, rather they simply place new demands on authors who must take these new conditions into account as part and parcel of the landscape when conceiving of a work of art: if you don’t want it copied, don’t put it online.

Ultimately, he argues that all of this is about the evolution — rather than the destruction — of authorship :

In 1959 the poet and artist Brion Gysin claimed that writing was fifty years behind painting. And he might still be right: in the art world, since impressionism, the avant-garde has been the mainstream. Innovation and risk taking have been consistently rewarded. But, in spite of the successes of modernism, literature has remained on two parallel tracks, the mainstream and the avant-garde, with the two rarely intersecting. Yet the conditions of digital culture have unexpectedly forced a collision, scrambling the once-sure footing of both camps. Suddenly, we all find ourselves in the same boat grappling with new questions concerning authorship, originality, and the way meaning is forged.

The rest of Uncreative Writing goes on to explore the history of appropriation in art, the emerging interchangeability between words and images in digital culture, the challenges of defining one’s identity in the vastness of the online environment, and many other pressing facets of what it means to be a writer — or, even more broadly, a creator — in the age of the internet. Complement it with the equally subversive How To Talk About Books You Haven’t Read .

Photographs: Cameron Wittig (top); Grand Life Hotels (bottom)

— Published February 13, 2013 — https://www.themarginalian.org/2013/02/13/uncreative-writing-kenneth-goldsmith/ —

www.themarginalian.org

PRINT ARTICLE

Email article, filed under, art books creativity culture kenneth goldsmith technology writing, view full site.

The Marginalian participates in the Bookshop.org and Amazon.com affiliate programs, designed to provide a means for sites to earn commissions by linking to books. In more human terms, this means that whenever you buy a book from a link here, I receive a small percentage of its price, which goes straight back into my own colossal biblioexpenses. Privacy policy . (TLDR: You're safe — there are no nefarious "third parties" lurking on my watch or shedding crumbs of the "cookies" the rest of the internet uses.)

IMAGES

Creative Writing For Beginners: Unlock Your Creativity
What is Creative Writing and How to Use it for Specific Academic Level
How to Write the Best Creative Essay
21 Top Examples of Creative Writing
0
How Creative Writing Has Changed the World for the Better

VIDEO

answer writing result #upsc #ias #bpsc
Is Writing Columns Lucrative? My HK Experience #selfgrowth
Great creative work with motorcycle wheel inner tube
Math copy front page decoration 🟡#becareful #shorts#pragyajiartandcraft #motivational#Mathcopyfront
Calligraphy
How to tell whether your writing is good . . . or not

COMMENTS

What Is Creative Writing? (Ultimate Guide + 20 Examples)
Creative writing is an art form that transcends traditional literature boundaries. It includes professional, journalistic, academic, and technical writing. This type of writing emphasizes narrative craft, character development, and literary tropes. It also explores poetry and poetics traditions.
What Is Creative Writing: A Complete Guide
Creative Writing is a form of art that allows people to express their thoughts, ideas, and emotions through the written word. It is a mode of self-expression that combines imagination with linguistic skills to create compelling narratives, poems, and other forms of literature. A Statista survey found that 76,300 Authors, Writers and Translators ...
25 Dos And Don'ts Of Creative Writing
Here are some dos and don'ts for creative writing: Do's. Embrace the opportunity to tell a unique story in your own words. Consider elements like theme, tone, setting, character development, etc. when creating your narrative. Utilize different literary devices such as imagery and metaphors to create vivid scenes.
Creative Writing 101: Everything You Need to Get Started
Creative writing is writing meant to evoke emotion in a reader by communicating a theme. In storytelling (including literature, movies, graphic novels, creative nonfiction, and many video games), the theme is the central meaning the work communicates. Take the movie (and the novel upon which it's based) Jaws, for instance.
Why Imagination and Creativity Are not the Same (and why It Matters)
In my post on the role of memory in creative writing, I mentioned how "great novels materialize not because you remember what you ate last week, but because you remember how you felt on your first day at school". That is to say, great creative writing is a result of recalling emotions, thoughts, and states of mind; in other words, affect.
How to Boost Creativity and Improve Your Creative Writing
A creative writer strives to tell unique stories in a distinctive voice. Yet with all the fiction writing already out there in the world, it can be hard to feel that your work is legitimately creative compared to the competition. You could be a first-time writer completing in a high school creative writing course, a hobbyist working on your ...
What is Creative Writing? The Medium of Self-Expression
Creative Writing is a form of self-expression that allows you to use your imagination and creativity. It can be in the form of personal essays, short stories, or poems. It is often used as an outlet for emotions and experiences. Start with creative writing by reading through creative writing examples to help get you in the mood.
7 Ways to Improve Your Writing Skills
Here are some strategies for developing your own written communication: 1. Review grammar and spelling basics. Grammar and spelling form the foundation of good writing. Writing with proper grammar and spelling communicates your professionality and attention to detail to your reader. It also makes your writing easier to understand.
10 Types of Creative Writing (with Examples You'll Love)
A lot falls under the term 'creative writing': poetry, short fiction, plays, novels, personal essays, and songs, to name just a few. By virtue of the creativity that characterizes it, creative writing is an extremely versatile art. So instead of defining what creative writing is, it may be easier to understand what it does by looking at ...
8 Reasons To Explore Creative Writing (Even If You're Not An ...
Creative writing is how I make sense of the world around me. My husband does this by taking photos and making videos. This is great because when we're visiting a new place, my phone stays in my bag.
The motivations that improve the creative writing process: what they
Writing is a complicated activity that involves the mingling of a great number of social, cognitive, behavioural, environmental, and bodily factors, and an incredible number of these factors have ...
How to Develop a Productive Writing Process
Level Up Your Team. See why leading organizations rely on MasterClass for learning & development. As a novice writer, figuring out what a writing process is and what it should entail can be a daunting task. New writers can use these tips to develop a productive writing process that works for their daily routine.
In these target-driven times don't forget about creative writing
Bulking it into such a specific time frame means that the children are more likely to get fully absorbed in the story writing process, feeling like mini-authors, developing plot and character. And ...
8 Tips for Getting Started With Creative Writing
Action: In creative writing, action should occur for a reason—characters' actions should be based on their motivations, their points of view, and their previous choices. A protagonist's actions should always propel them toward their main goal in a way that is related to the plot events at hand. A character's goals affect their character ...
How grammar can deepen creative and literary experiences
In this article, we focus on grammar's role as a mechanism for meaning-making through literacy experiences. Grammar describes the patterns we use to combine words to make meaning. As with most patterns, there is scope for creativity. From a structural perspective, grammar rules define how we put together words to form phrases, clauses or ...
Creative Writing Benefits And Ways To Improve
Creative writing has many benefits, both for the writer and for the reader. For the writer, it can help to improve problem-solving skills, foster a better understanding of language, and increase ...
Creative writing excerpts from The Writers College students
The following unedited snippets of creative writing come from students' assignments on our Short Story Writing Courses, Novel Courses, Scriptwriting and the Basics of Creative Writing Courses. There were thousands of great pieces to choose from, so we randomly selected excerpts from our list of favourites. Enjoy!
What Makes Great Writing and Great Writers?
Answering this question first requires two key distinctions: 1) There's a difference between great stories and great writing. Great stories have beautiful bones - the right skeletons - strong enough to carry any kind of delivery. In contrast, a great writer can make any story interesting, regardless of its contents.
PDF The motivations that improve the creative writing ...
Cognitiveandeducationalpsychologistshaveidentiﬁedanumberofmotivationalcon-structs that seem to improve the way in which people perform tasks, in general, and
Finding time for creativity will give you respite from worries
Other studies have found similar results. For example, when people were asked to write about a trauma for 15 minutes a day, it resulted in fewer subsequent visits to the doctor, compared to a ...
How to Cultivate Curiosity for Creative Thinking
"Curiosity about life in all of its aspects, I think, is still the secret of great creative people." - Leo Burnett. Curiosity is an asset in many professional contexts, whether you're brainstorming, responding to a problem, or presenting a project. The close link between creativity and curiosity is vital when it comes to idea generation.
Uncreative Writing: Redefining Language and Authorship in the Digital
The rest of Uncreative Writing goes on to explore the history of appropriation in art, the emerging interchangeability between words and images in digital culture, the challenges of defining one's identity in the vastness of the online environment, and many other pressing facets of what it means to be a writer — or, even more broadly, a ...

What Is Creative Writing? (Ultimate Guide + 20 Examples)

What Is Creative Writing (Long Description)?

Types of Creative Writing

Short Stories (The Brief Escape)

Novels (The Long Journey)

Poetry (The Soul’s Language)

Plays (The Dramatic Dialogue)

Screenplays (Cinema’s Blueprint)

Memoirs (The Personal Journey)

Flash Fiction (The Quick Twist)

Creative Nonfiction (The Factual Tale)

Fantasy (The World Beyond)

Science Fiction (The Future Imagined)

What Are the 5 Cs of Creative Writing?

Conciseness

Consistency

Is Creative Writing Easy?

What Does a Creative Writer Do?

How to Get Started With Creative Writing?

Final Thoughts: What Is Creative Writing?

What is Creative Writing?

Training Outcomes Within Your Budget!

Share this Resource

Understanding What is Creative Writing

Key elements of Creative Writing

Types of Creative Writing

1) Fiction

2) Poetry

3) Creative non-fiction

4) Drama and playwriting

5) Satire and humour

Importance of Creative Writing

1) Personal expression and catharsis

2) Cultivation of communication skills

3) Nurturing empathy and perspective

4) Exploration of social issues

5) Connection and impact

The Creative Writing process

1) Finding inspiration

2) Exploring ideas and brainstorming

3) Planning and outlining

4) Writing the first draft

5) Revising for content

6) Editing and polishing

7) Feedback and peer review

8) Finalising and proofreading

Tips for effective Creative Writing

Conclusion

Frequently Asked Questions

Upcoming Business Skills Resources Batches & Dates

Get A Quote

Share this course

Your privacy & cookies!

25 Dos And Don’ts Of Creative Writing

Do Write Every Day

Don’t Overthink!

Do Follow A Schedule

Don’t Get Led By Someone

Don’t Worry About The Word Count!

Do Write It Down!

Do Learn Grammar

Do Regular Writing Exercises

Don’t Pay Attention To Others

Do Make Author Friends

Don’t Be Afraid Of Rewriting

Share Your Work

Make Your Point Of View

Use Literary Devices

Prefer Carrying A Journal With You

Describe Body Language, Actions, And Reactions

Use Active Voice Often

Hook Your Audience

Don’t Use Adverbs Often!

Don’t Take Pressure

Build Your Personal Opinions

Write Something That Speaks To You

Avoid Over-Explaining

Write Abstract Words Or Emotional Words!

Further Reading

Most Read Articles in 2023: