Oh, THE HORROR

I am speaking on behalf of historical Ela, aka, yesterday morning at 9am.

So. You know when you work super, super hard on an assignment to get it in on time? All the planning, drafting, rewriting, and editing. All the socialisation that you missed out on (“sorry Daniel, I’d love to play Fallout 4 at yours [legit, Fallout 4 is actually awesome], but I gotta study”). You stay up late to finish the last little details and the reference list, even when you’re drained from your late dance class, then wake up early the next morning just to do one final proof read. You nod determinedly, look up the assignment drop box to hand it in (a whole day early! Yasss), when you see it.

Your eyes widen. Your jaw drops. Your hand touches your brow in the face-palm of defeat. You skim it again, daring to believe it, those terrible words which render all your sacrifices meaningless.

GLOBAL EXTENSION FOR ANOTHER WEEK.

Arghhhh, the agony! The horror! Fallout 4, how I miss thee!

Now, if only I could take that extension and use it on another assignment due this week, that would be excellent. But alas, I must hereby return to dry readings and scurried words before I get too distracted on this blog.

Farewell from a drama queen,

Ela

dumbledore

 

 

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It’s all coming together

Heyo,

Well, I have finally come up with a whole plot after a good couple of hours of essay writing and brainstorming (and excellent study music). The video below is a mash up of two songs, and I absolutely love it.

With the story, I’ve taken elements from an old skeleton plot and reinvented them into something I hope is postmodern. Even better, I’ve got it all down on a page in a clear format to reduce confuzzlement* at a later date.

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As well as this, the trees are glowing at the moment, and it’s very pretty. One of my favourite things is when you have a moody sky in the background, but it’s lit up by a golden tree. Gum trees look the best.

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Anyway, back to this essay I go.

Ela

*Confuzzlement = to be so confused about a particular matter that your head feels fuzzy. This is not fuzzy in a pleasant way, either. Can lead to frustration.

Lightbulb Moment!

Hello there,

I’m putting the graffiti/ jar of teeth girl away for now and instead am running with a rediscovered plot I created ages ago. It needs a lot of work, but at least I have a decent skeleton to work with.

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I really want to experiment with a story within a story, but am not quite sure how to go about it. Perhaps if I make it “readerly” in the beginning of the artefact? Or in second person?

There will be story-telling characters (who may potentially be ghosts, I’m working on that), but instead of them telling a story to another character, they’ll tell a story to the reader. The reader goes to the No Name Cafe (after noticing the graffiti around, and themes like that) AND THEN THE STORY TELLING HAPPENS. That’s how it works, right?

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Maybe the No Name Cafe is a book cafe or something, where you order coffee and pick out a book from the cute little library. There’s cushions everywhere and a little fireplace, with cosy armchairs and window seats. The cafe walls are the colour of blushing apples, with portraits of 18th century lords and ladies on the walls. It’s a quirky spot, a little odd and disjointed* from reality (like time stops?), but it is cheerful and welcoming, and what the heck, it’s freezing cold outside and you just need a place to hole up for the next hour or so while the storm blows out.

 

Ok, so it’s a cold, blustery day outside. You’re hurrying through the streets of your city, dodging puddles and hunching into your coat. The frosty lights of shop windows glimmer invitingly at you, but the wind bites. You shiver, scrunching your coat tighter, when you notice the name of one of the cafes. Rather, you notice the lack of a name on the cafe. You frown, curious. The wind paws at your jacket, and you nearly turn away, but then the hail starts and you’re forced to go inside, if only to avoid concussion from the icy grenades.

 

BAM. Intro of story. 🙂 Ok, it needs a lot of work, but I’m pretty happy with this light bulb moment.

Ela

*post modernism, from what I understand, is all about disjointedness and fragmentation. Barry even says that postmodernism plays around with “bizarrely colourful mixtures of imagery, viewpoint, and vocabulary” (p. 81). Thus, if I mix up the view points in the artefact (2nd person for the reader, 3rd person when the story teller starts telling stories, 1st person inside the stories), and the chronology is not linear, and the artefact shows this postmodernism, right?

 

 

 

 

Hands

Hello again,

Today in class, we were told to pick one of the topics on the board and write some paragraphs on it. I, along with the majority of my class mates, chose to write about hands.

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Hands

“I’m a writer,” he murmured. She glanced at their swaying fists as they shook hands. His grip was firm, authoritative. Callouses pressed at her soft palm, scratching a little. His palm was warm and sturdy, as tough as her brother’s dreadful cupcakes back when he didn’t know how to cook. Muscles and veins bunched under her fingers. This man certainly did not have the hands of one who sat at a computer all day.

“Do you have any hobbies?” she asked with a smile, trying not to show intimidation. His grip tightened, his pale eyes glimmering as he smirked back.

“I’m afraid my occupation doesn’t allow time for hobbies, dear. Deadlines, you know the drill.”

“Of course,” she stiffly inclined her head and his grip loosened. She stole another glance as he pulled his strange hands away. In horror, she noted the deep slash extending across the back of his knuckles, partially healed and scabbed over. He caught her looking and smirked again.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you,” he said softly. Unhelpful warmth scurried over her cheeks and he chuckled. He fished in his pockets for something, and her breath caught.

“Worse than a cat,” she replied as steadily as she could. He laughed, his empty voice throwing itself around the courtyard and erupting a flock of pigeons into the sky. He quietened, looking into her eye as he pulled out a set of gloves.

“You’re not dead, yet.” He gave her one last look before sliding the gloves on, hiding the strength of his fingers and the crimson slash. “Keep it that way.”

End

Character sketches ^^

Also, some more bits and bobs for funsies:

Wordsmithing

Spaghettification = the process by which an object would be stretched and ripped apart by gravitational forces by falling into a black hole.

Argute = shrewd

Frigorific = chilling, of a cold nature

Pernickity = fussy about appearance

 

Post Modern Texts

Readerly:

You there. You. Reading this. Yes you. Don’t look at her. I’m talking to you, not her. Why are you still looking at her? Don’t.

 

Writerly:

Wat. No. Nooo Now is the tiem for the misunderestimating of tiem itself. Whar then. Whar did all mei tiem go This is mei tiem, mien. Boom! Ded.

 

That’s all for now,

Ela

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Gap

I’ve done it! I’ve figured out the gap I want to write about!

It will be a story that isn’t doom and gloom, something that isn’t post apocalyptic and filled with hopelessness. I want to write something care-free.

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Don’t get me wrong, it’s not going to be airy-fairy and boring either. There’s going to be danger and excitement, the thrill of adrenaline and all that. That girl got her jar of teeth from somewhere, and people are still graffiti-hopping. Maybe that stream of consciousnesses, with the ramshackle stone ruins is one of the worlds graffiti-hopping leads to.

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Maybe these worlds only exist if their doorways do, and so ancient civilizations are at risk by the council clean up. Ooooh, the possibilities.

The first scene, I can just see it. It’s a green urban corner, down a little alleyway. There’s a cafe tucked away under the canopy of trees, and our protagonist, a young woman, is waitressing away (yes, waitressing is a verb now). The girl with the jar of teeth appears. I still need to figure out her game. I can feel it all ticking away, I just have to unravel it.

I’m so excited for this. I think post-modernism would work quite well. I’m gonna fracture up the time line of the story, to keep with the theory. There has to be something ironic in the story too. Maybe the jar of teeth girl is an ironic tooth fairy or something. Maybe not.

I’ll work on that.

I’m so excited about this! Now I just have to write this essay…

Ela

I survived!

Hello there,

Apologies for not writing in so long. I was struck down by a bad case of the flu on Thursday, and this wiped me out for a good part of the week. I even have a doctor’s certificate to prove it if you really want to see.

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That was three days ago, but my throat still hurts and I’m still coughing my lungs out, but unfortunately I have an essay to write and readings to read. So, I’ll dramatically and gallantly unsheathe my pen and march further into the swamp lands of tertiary education. I just hope this essay doesn’t turn out to be a dragon.

While sick, I have still managed to read a good couple of chapters of Beginning Theory, specifically, the one on post-modernism and the one on narratology.

I liked the post-modern one best. I think post-modernism will fit my artefact, though I still need to come up with a decent plot. But the themes (graffiti, adventure, dusty urban setting, colour, chaos) suit post-modernism alright, though I could be mistaken.

“For the postmodernist, by contrast, fragmentation is an exhilarating, liberating phenomenon, symptomatic of our escape from the claustrophobic embrace of fixed systems of belief… postmodernism… believes in excess, in gaudiness, and in ‘bad taste’ mixtures of qualities” (Barry 2009, p. 81).

Now they say gaudiness, I say funky and colourful, but beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, right?

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Alright, I’m off to look at this course outline and make a start on this essay. It’s due next week, the horror. At least I’m not battling dragons.

Ela

Edit: Forgot to add before, here’s some notes and advice that Roy gave us last class to put in our blogs:

1: Creativity is about making the complicated simple

2: There are three protagonists in the writing process

  • You – your mind and imagination
  • The world – your room, town, country, the planet
  • Words on the page – one to infinity

 

 

 

 

 

Stream of consciousness

Listening to one of my favourite songs, Hell and Back by Kid Ink ft. Machine Gun Kelly. It’s just that music at the beginning, I love it so much.

Here’s a stream of consciousness I wrote while listening.

driving up a curving road, with golden sunlit trees swaying around us. we are laughing, thinking about rose gold memories. we laugh and joke, being gangstas. we come to a valley, with puddles of mist. It’s beuatiful and peaceful and mysterious, but in an adnventurous way. we luxiousriouly stretch and kiss, unbuckling our seatbelts, our hands getting tangled in each other’s hair. then he stops kissing me with a grin and jumps out he car. we walk togeher, playfully shoving and teasing. we come aacross an old cottage, ade of stone. bright, colourful graffiti stains the walls and it’s lonely and bueatufil and wonderous. we climb the walls, my hair getting tangled. we’re smiling at each other. we climb to the top of the wall and strethc, our fists to the sky, victorious and triumphant together.

Apologies for the terrible spelling. I won’t fix it. I like the spur-of-the-moment feel.

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There’s something about adventures and urban settings and graffiti that I absolutely love. I really want my artefact to display these qualities, though I’m not sure how I could write 4,500 words just about that. I need storylines. Maybe graffiti battles.

I don’t want it to be messy and political though. There has to be an innocence, a playfully dangerous adventure. Maybe that girl with the jar of teeth is a character. Maybe they use graffiti and street art as doorways to jump from street to street, or is that cliche? Why would they do that anyway, where would they be going? Maybe it’s a code. Maybe the painted animals and figures come alive at night. Or perhaps the graffiti splashed on trains are like a travelling code.

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I want the feeling of my stories to be the same feeling you get when you finally get that trick on your skateboard. The same feeling when you wake up and the sunshine is peeking over the horizon, and the flood of possibilities tingles your nerves. The feeling when you’re awake at 2 in the morning and you feel like you could do anything because nobody but the stars will see. That feeling when you climb to the very top of that tree and can see the land spread out before you and freedom tugs at you. The feeling when you can’t help but smile because your life is in front of you and you can do anything.

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I want all those crazy, exciting, adventurous feelings in my stories. It’s just coaxing them inside that’s the tricky part.

Ela

 

 

Write Me A Story

Hello, hello.

In class today, Roy gave us two starting sentences to and told us to pick one and write a story. This is my result.

Write Me A Story

‘I turned the corner and there coming towards me was…’ a girl with a jar of teeth. she gave me a polite nod as she passed, the teeth rattling a little with every footstep. I glanced at her again as she confidently strode around the corner and disappeared. I paused. This was that same girl I’d seen at the No Name Cafe, the one with a little green skirt and red gumboots. She can’t have been much more than eleven. Curious now, I turned and ran back to the corner, glancing cautiously around. She was standing at the other end of the alleyway, staring intently at the orange splash of graffiti staining the brick wall. She carefully tucked the jar of teeth under her arm. I crept around the corner, thankful of my earlier decision not to wear clacky heels.

“What’re you doing down here?” I called out as maternally as I could. The girl turned and blanched at my presence.

“What’re you doing down here?” she asked in horror. “Don’t meddle with things you can’t handle.”

I frowned and took a step towards her and she squeaked fearfully. Panicking, she pressed her hand to the wall. Light shone around it and the wall groaned, sucking her inside.

I yelled and sprinted towards her, but the wall rippled one last time and the girl was gone.

Don’t meddle in things you can’t handle, the girl’s voice echoed in my mind.

End

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I’m not sure why I drew a mask, because it’s not even related to the story, but it kinda looks cool. Anyway, time for fooooood,

Ela