this week

Oops. The year has gone by and now I'm waiting results (due this week)I feel ambivalent about this course, as my marks haven't been that good. (67, 68, 79,66, 81)I learnt a few techniques, but were they worth £600?
Well now I'm being silly, as this course will give me my degree. There wasn't much work inolved either - we just had to write. Well, I'm exaggerating I suppose, as we learnt new techniques, mostly writing for radio, telly and film, and some of the techniques were really good. e.g. using (in writing) the film techniques of changing from long shots to close-ups.
Oh what a long sentence. Not very elegant. Have I learnt anything at all.

1st week

Well, first week has been and gone, and I have nearly finished the second week's work. I've done most of the exercises, but only first drafts and nothing very polished. I just don't want to fall behind. Nothing I've done so far grabs me as worth developing, so I'll just leave it all in my A363 folder for future perusal. I did, however, quite like the following poem.

It’s hard here waiting on letters.
Lonely, longing for phone calls.
No trace of a place of our own yet.
Are you really trying?
I almost forget how to be with you.
I’m a mother now, more than a wife.
Aileen wakes me at six,
And the bed is wet with her,
Not warm with you.
When will we be together?
When will we be a family?
I am longing for it.
But I warn you. I shall be shy.

We had to find an old letter or something, and search it for signs of contrast, conflict or tension. I found a letter that mum wrote to dad in 1946. She was stuck in Sedbergh while he went to London to find work and somewhere to live. The bit that says, 'Are you really trying?' is not evident in the letter, but I used poetic license to add tension.

A Month Later!

Here I am. A month later and nothing written. I'm not sure what to post, to be honest, as I intended to post my OU work here, but we've been advised not to. Oh well! Here's the latest news.
The course started on Saturday, and for some strange reason we had our first tutorial that day too. It was good to meet everyone. I think we're going to have a really active group. Ten turned up, one poor soul gave up as she couldn't find us, and there were two apologies. That means only five that haven't made any contact yet. We're hoping to have informal meetings too, if we can agree on a time and place. Everyone seems really busy. I feel guilty that I've retired and have no responsibilities, but John pointed out that I have had my share of being busy in the past. I got the OU Reading Diploma when I was teaching full time and had two kids.

STUDY
I completed Chapter One when I first got the material, so have just revised that today, and started on Chapter Two. We have to take a letter, which may have unpromising material in it, and look for ideas for contrast and conflict. Then we must list the potential for writing that it has.
I've picked up a letter from my mother to my father, written in 1946. I have (literally) hundreds of their letters, cos whenever they were apart (war etc) they wrote daily. I don't know what the letter contains. I'll let you know. Anyway. Off to work on it now! Bye.

My desk

Well, I haven't done any OU work since the last post. Told you it wouldn't last. Anyway, here's a piccy of my desk before I tidied it up. I suppose I'd better take a piccy of it tidy before it all deteriorates again.

Oops.

Apparently I shouldn't be publishing any work here, as I might want to use it for my marked work, and if the OU anti-plagiarising tools trawl the 'net and find it I could be accused of plagiarising my own work.
So I'll just have to use this blog for recording feelings about the course I suppose.
I'll keep the offending two posts on, and make sure I don't develop them into stories until after the course finishes.

By the way, any fellow OUers who are reading this. I won't stay ahead for long. I always start off enthusiastically with any new project, then slow down as new interests grab my imagination.
I chase this dream of being perpetually and perfectly organised and wow is it a battle.
New inks arrived yesterday, Noodlers' Ebony Blue and Private Reserve's La Coleur Royale. I got my fingers covered with ink filling my two pens.
This reminds me of my messy school exercise books. Blots everywhere. (I'm left handed) I wouldn't mind but I do most of my writing on the computer.
But you see, having some good pens and inks gives me an illusion of perfection. I AM A WRITER.

just testing

2nd exercise

We are looking at genres, and how the author can play around with them. We had to write 500 words for the beginning of a story (and playing with genres) I decided to do post-apocalyptic cum fairy tale. Here it is.

Activity 1.5 (Start story (500 words) in one of the genres mentioned. Go with and/or against the grain of the genre.

Post-apocalyptic (Seafaring)
Tanda picked her way over the dusty rubble, cursing her lack of footwear. Dust choked her mouth and dried out her eyes. Where was she? There were no landmarks left. Only this desert of brickwork beneath an orange sky. And where was Pauoro? He would know what to do. Where to go.
But Pauoro was gone. How did they get separated? She could remember little. One minute they were walking along the uncannily deserted street. She remembered shivering, and tucking her arm into his. And there was a face at a window, peering at them. Then, the explosion, and nothing more.
A voice made her jump. ‘Hey. Here. Come down here,’ it whispered. There was a hole. Tanda lay down and peered in. An old woman crouched there, gnarled as wire. ‘Come down’, she urged. ‘They’re afraid of the dark. You’ll be safe here.’
‘Pauoro. I need Pauoro,’ Tanda whimpered. but she clambered down obediently. What else was there to do?
‘You’ll see Pauoro again’, the old crone consoled. ‘I was watching from the window. He’s a brave lad. He hid you beneath the rubble before they came, but they took him away. They won’t hurt him. They need young men like him. They’ll feed him and woo him and maybe even brainwash him, so it will be hard for you to win him back, but you will. I know you will.’
‘But where is he? Who are they and what do they want him for?’ Tanda cried?
‘I will tell you. But first, some history. This land that you chanced upon wasn’t always bricks and mortar. It was once the milk and honey of a promised land. Rivers and streams refreshed the meadows and children played happily while their parents worked the land. I was old even then, and watched and listened when they thought I was asleep. There were greedy men among them. Contented wives and healthy children meant nothing to them. They were restless. They wanted more. They had heard of the Gorgoids, living in metallic splendour far across the sea. They wanted the same. To sit on thrones, with lesser beings waiting on them. Six of our men set sail one night, when the moon was full. Yes, it was madness. They had no map. I tried to stop them, but they just laughed. One of them grabbed me, and said I would do as a cook, and so we went, ploughing a path across the silver sea.
I won’t tell you of the hardships we endured, of the horrors we saw. Many a time we nearly died, and I longed for the comfort of my narrow bed at home. But one day, as the sun was rising, our boat scraped rock, and we found ourselves up against an enormous cliff, studded with silver and emeralds. Some evil god had kept us safe, and guided us to this place. And now our troubles really did begin.'