Wednesday, 11 March 2015

Writing Exercises

I joined a Facebook writing group recently and was given a choice of writing prompts for the month of February.  I leapt into action immediately, choosing the one that really grabbed my attention, intending to get to them all during the month.  Of course, life and another novel got in the way and I didn't get to the others.  We were also supposed to share and critique each other's work.  Erm... I kinda let life get in the way of that one as well.

Since the March prompts have just come through, I thought I should finally share my writing exercise from February.  I started with the image as suggested in the prompt and wrote what was pretty much a stream of consciousness.  I stopped when I realised my viewpoint was wandering and I got fed up with myself.  The suggested writing time of fifteen minutes was up by then anyway.

This was the prompt: 
She walked slowly up the long, winding driveway, her dress trailing in the mud. 

And this was what I wrote (there may be mistakes, but the point was to just write):
 She walked slowly up the long, winding driveway, her dress trailing in the mud.  Her arms hung by her sides like branches of a tree, hanging on with their last piece of bark.  Her foot scraped the gravel as it took her one small step closer to the house.

In the moonlight, her organza dress was as ephemeral as a ghost.  The breeze caught the skirt where it had ripped almost to her waist and it fluttered like a moth, wrapping around her exposed leg.

The house was lit up in the darkness.  A warm, orange glow making it a welcoming sight.
The front door would have been the natural choice, but the light made her turn toward the vast windows where the orange light spilled out on to the terrace.

She put her heavy hand to the glass door and gazed in.  Patterns of mist appeared around her fingers.  The green blaize of the billiard table was central to the room.  A corpulent man with a large moustache and round, pinkened cheeks leant over the table with a long cue.

Balling her hand into a fist she banged on the glass, louder and louder until the men in the room looked up.  They all looked into the dark outside the window.  They couldn’t see her.

The glass shook as both fists fell upon the window followed by her body.

A younger man stepped forward and undid the catch on the door.  She fell inside, tumbling into his arms.   The others gathered around.

“Put her on the table,” one of them said.

She scratched at her prickling skin.  

“Can you hear me, young lady?” an older voice said.

The billiard table was hard.

“Get a blanket,” another said as a hand tried to pull the ripped skirt over her leg.

“Ring the bell for Mrs Kent.  Ask her to fetch some warm brandy and blankets.”

“Who is she?”                                             

“Do you know?”

“Have you seen her before?”

“Who are you?”

“She’s shivering, for goodness sake, someone get a blanket.”

Something was placed over her.  It wasn’t a blanket.  A jacket.  It was warm.

“So cold…” she thought she managed to say, but she could have just thought so in her head.

“Don’t tell the ladies.”

“Sir?” a woman’s voice, finally.  

“Mrs Kent, we have a situation.  This young lady just appeared at the window and stumbled inside.”

“I see sir.”

“Perhaps some warm brandy and blankets?”

“Shall I fetch the doctor, sir?”

“I suppose we must...

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