Building on a character - Hazel, the librarian.

I created Hazel in Week 4 and am revisiting her for this exercise.

Hazel sat on the upper deck of the number 42 bus with a barely controlled grin on her face. It was a beautiful spring morning and she'd dressed herself and Beijing in jaunty red to compliment the day. Her Pekinese always traveled better if kept restrained in her capacious handbag. Hazel bent and rubbed noses with him.
A single phrase was whirling through her head. “The first day of the rest of my life” it spun, weaving a cloth of infinite possibilities.
Retirement had been so long in coming. Freedom at last from that dusty old library which had stopped being fun the day the world discovered Google.
The bus pulled into the terminus and there, already waiting was Carol with Yangste on his lead. They too were wearing matching outfits, only they were in yellow. The two brand new pensioners greeted each other like schoolgirls with hugs and giggles, then they linked arms and strolled off towards the Heath without a care in the world.



Hazel is a 62 year old spinster. 
Born in 1953 in St Albans 
Parents: Ronald Corrigan m. Edna nee Whittaker
Siblings: Stuart 1958 m. Judith
                Robert 1961 m. Rosemary
Happy childhood, primary school, bright passed 11+ went to Grammar school
Became a librarian then moved to London
Aged 28 met a married man - had an illegitimate baby given up for adoption
                                                had an abortion aged 31
Lives in a basement flat in Camden with access to the garden


Youthful looking but concealing her greying hair by going lighter and is now blonde. 
Petite, slim but some middle age spread.
Neat clothes, quality makes, no frills but likes colours
Not extravagant.

Independent
Determined 
A little insecure
Enthusiastic
Prevaricates/Procrastinates
Young at heart

Loved her work especially research and archival work.
Likes interacting with people
Very correct at work "place for everything and everything in its place" but less tidy at home.

Pekinese called Beijing
Friend Carol with a Peke  called Yangste











Disillusioned with men she turne to women for companionship and got entangled with lesbian relationships although she is not gay. Turned to canine world for solace. Met Carol at the dog breeders and found a kindred spirit.

Post 20 - Using a different method of Characterisation

I am going to try and create a character without a back story, who is a composite of people I know.


Great Grandad Kenneth, Grandy to all the family since Adam renamed him, is a striking man.
He's over six feet tall and as upright as Nelson's column, which is surprising as he's over ninety.
He claims never to have had a days illness in his life, as long as you don't count the various hospital admissions he's had for injuries down the years. Of these the very first was the worst.

He had come unscathed through World War Two, it was nearly over by the time he was conscripted. He enjoyed the army life and decided to stay on when the war ended. He'd always been an enthusiastic sportsman and the army soon had him in one of their swimming teams. It was on the way back from a competition that the accident happened. He was in Germany. There was devastation everywhere, the roads were terrible. The jeep in which he and a fellow soldier were traveling back to barracks had to mount a bank to avoid a huge pothole and it simply toppled over on to its side. Kenneth fell out into the road and cracked his skull but worse was to follow as the petrol tank leaked and somehow caught fire. His mate struggled out of the jeep and managed to get to Kenneth pretty quickly but not before the right side of his head and his right arm had received severe burns. Months of plastic surgery followed in East Grinstead. But no, Kenneth was never ill.

The fiery red new skin eventually calmed down to a more or less normal colour but his right cheek looked a little like a patchwork quilt.  Tired of hospitals he turned down the offer of a new ear so only had a lobe. In the early days he'd grown his hair in a comb-over to hide his scars but as the years went by it irritated him so he went back to a short back and sides, always joking with the barber that it should be cheaper as he only had one side in need of attention.

The scars are not the first thing you notice about him now. His military bearing and the still twinkling blue eyes above a broad smile mark him out from the crowd. Whether it was the accident or his natural inclination but Kenneth loves life and lived his to the full. He had married Isobel, ten years his junior, who had  been his girlfriend at the time of the accident. She had stuck by him even though he told her she didn't have to. They had four children, two of each. One by one they had found partners and now there were six grandchildren and one great granddaughter. Kenneth felt blessed and gave thanks every Sunday at his local church.

Kenneth wouldn't say he is community minded but he does like to be involved and his friends and neighbours know he can be relied on to help where he can. These days, although still a great walker, his physical capabilities have diminished but he manages the funds for the Wednesday Club and uses his old electric typewriter to create notices and leaflets. He's probably the only person in Lancashire who still has a supply of carbon paper and uses it. Truth to tell Kenneth is a bit of a gossip and he needs to be part of the village scene.

Post 19 - Confidential character sketch

Week 5

It has been suggested that we write a character sketch in a style we're not used to. As I have said on Future Learn I felt that breaking character portrayal into 4 methods was artificial as I feel most authors used an ideal/mixed method. Imagination combined with bits of oneself and people one knows. I know I do. My husband tried to convince me otherwise citing Jack Kerouac "On the Road" and Catch 22, I still don't agree. Writing a barely disguised autobiography isn't fiction to my mind.

However, what an interesting exercise. It took me some time to think who I knew well enough to be able to write a character sketch about. Once I began though I really enjoyed the process although I found changing some of the details to protect the innocent(!) harder than I thought, which is why I am not going to publish it on this Blog. I don't know how we get to see each other's assignments on Future Learn if we are not the reviewer. We should be able to see those of the people we're following.

I have to say having done the initial character sketch my imagination took over and I was developing the whole thing into a short story before I knew where I was. I love having the community of other prospective writers spurring me on.

Post 18 - Sentimental Surgeon

With his sterile gloves held before him the surgeon strode into the operating theatre. His assistant had prepared the patient and Sister had all the instruments to hand. He turned to the anaesthetist and asked if all was ready for him to proceed. The anaesthetist nodded and the surgeon took knife to skin. With one confident stroke the skin was breached and a line of blood was swabbed. The operation was slick and efficient, the necessary part was removed. The surgeon sewed the skin neatly, satisfied that once again he'd done a good job. He turned away leaving Sister to apply a dressing. In the scrub room he tore of his gloves and threw them in the bin. His eyes filled with tears as he undid his gown and pulled it off. He used the sleeves to wipe his eyes. He hated removing organs for transplant, especially when the donor was a child.

Post 17 - Week 4.11 Hunches and personal concerns

It was suggested we write out a list of our personal "concerns'

"This exercise aims to help you build up a self-portrait of who you are as a writer, and to help you to become clearer about the kinds of things that matter to you, that are likely to be your overall subject matter or material when you write. Remember, your list will (and should) be highly personal."

• The safety and happiness of my nearest and dearest.
• Concern for the environment
• Worry about falling standards in health care and education
• Community
• Care and compassion for others
•  Love of books and reading
• Security - financial and home
• I like to see new places and new people but I'm no longer so keen on travelling
• Growing interest in social history and the development of community despite ruling elites

I was surprised and delighted to note that these are the things I like to write about most. who would have thought. I have found this a very enlightening exercise.

Post 16 - Writing character - Hazel and her Pekinese

Writing Character
Regularly reviewing past work and any ideas or observations listed in your notebook can help you generate new ideas.
Look back at the possible story idea or ideas that you arrived at in The notebook habit, and review all other story and character ideas you have noted or started so far.
You may or may not have got very far with these but consider whether asking the ‘What if?’ question might help you to further develop any of them.
Choose one character and develop it by:

• imagining more detail
• making sure you've done any necessary research
• asking some ‘What if?’ questions
• imagining some of the reasons surrounding the character’s dress, behaviour, speech or actions.
  

Write a paragraph or two about this character in your notebook, on your blog or in a Word document. There’s no need to post it here.



Hazel is a 62 year old spinster. Youthful looking but concealing her greying hair by going lighter and is now blonde. She's been a librarian since leaving school though not in the same library. She loved doing research and dealing with archives.
She lives in a basement flat in Camden
Had an illegitimate baby at 28 and an abortion at 30. Both to same married man.
Disillusioned with men she turne to women for companionship and got entangled with lesbian relationships although she is not gay. Turned to canine world for solace. Met Carol at the dog breeders and found a kindred spirit.

Post 15 - "Strike" - Edited

STRIKE

A call for help from the Delivery Suite emptied the coffee room in seconds just as Karen and Abigail wandered in. They had just delivered twins and felt they deserved a break. There were plenty of other midwives around.

"You in Unison or the Royal College?" asked Abigail, vigorously stirring her coffee.

"Unison" replied Karen with her coffee halfway to her mouth, "why?"

"I wondered if you'd be striking on Thursday?"

“Strike!” Karen was startled, “No, never, not me. I couldn't”

“So you'll be a scab then." Abigail sounded just like Karen's father. It turned out she was the union rep and was very persuasive in her arguments, just like Karen's Dad had been. It was as hard to resist as a tornado.

"The Government are taking the piss."

So it was that on a chilly November morning Karen found herself outside her hospital with a placard in her hand. A large group of hospital employees surrounded her cheering and waving when rush hour motorists blew their horns in support.

Karen still had her doubts that this was a wise course of action. She was torn between the injustice of the reneged pay deal and the inborn desire to be upstairs helping new Mums

and their babies.

“How does this strike harm the Government?” she commented to the paramedic standing alongside her. She stamped her feet as much for emphasis as against the cold."The people who suffer are the patients."

Before he could reply an old lady hobbling by butted in.

“You can say that again. My hip op has been cancelled three times! Three times already! But it's not an emergency so I don't matter, never mind the pain that's driving me mad"

“But madam, we haven't had a pay rise in four years and staff are leaving the health service in droves. Soon there won't be anyone left to care for you when you do get your operation.” the paramedic protested.

“Oh, I know, I know, but when you can't get about even to do a bit of shopping you get tired of waiting." and with that she limped away

The paramedic sighed and Karen watched the old lady, struggling to cross the busy road.

“What's the alternative, that's what I'd like to know.” The paramedic said over his shoulder to Karen as he went to the old ladies aid, raising his hand to stop the oncoming cars and assisting her across to the other side. Karen grinned, the urge to care was so strong in most health care staff they couldn't help themselves.

434 words – 84 over the suggested limit. So not too bad.

I feel I have responded to my reviewers comments. I find writing authentic sounding dialogue quite difficult. Even reading it out loud doesn't help. Is there a way of expressing tone of voice, I wonder?

Post 14 - Peer review story "Strike"

 Here follows my piece for peer review. We were asked for 200 - 350 words, which I found really difficult to keep to. I wrote it in a bit of a hurry because I was getting behind on the course. I know it's not my best work and it didn't get a sparkling review which did not surprise me. I didn't edit at all at this stage as I thought the idea was that we would do that after the review.

STRIKE

“Strike!” Karen was startled, “No, never, not me. I couldn't”

“ I don't like it either but we have to do something. The Government are taking the piss.”

So it was that on a chilly November morning Karen found herself outside her hospital with a placard in her hand. Surrounding her were other health workers, ambulance staff, porters and other midwives. Rush hour commuters expressed their support with their car horns. Each time this happened the assembled staff cheered and waved.

Karen still had her doubts that this was a wise course of action.

“ What harm does it do the Government? It's the patients who suffer and our colleagues who aren't striking.” she was saying to the paramedic standing alongside her. She stamped her feet as much for emphasis as against the cold.

An old lady hobbling by caught her words and before the paramedic could answer she butted in.

“Quite right. My hip operation has been cancelled three times already. It might not be an emergency but the pain is getting me down and I'm struggling to look after myself these days. Just getting the shopping is a nightmare”

“But madam, we haven't had a pay rise in four years and staff are leaving the health service in droves. Soon there won't be anyone left to care for you when you do get your operation.” the paramedic protested.

“Oh, I sympathise, really I do, but there has to be a better way than strikes, it hurts the very people you set out to help” and with that she limped away.

The paramedic sighed and Karen watched the old lady, as she struggled to cross the road.

“What's the alternative, that's what I'd like to know.” The paramedic said over his shoulder as he went to the old ladies aid, raising his hand to stop the oncoming cars and assisting her across to the other side. Karen grinned, the urge to care was so strong in most health care staff they couldn't help themselves.

Jennifer Spencer

How was the central character portrayed and was this portrayal clear and interesting?

quite interesting, the main character was sure of herself but the dialogue wasn't very specific about what in particular provoked this strike.

What made you think this piece was a story and did you want to read on?

Yes I wanted to know what happened next. I think it was a story because their was some kind of conclusion to it, but he ending could have been stronger.

What were the most, and least, successful aspects of the writing?

I liked the writing style. The dialogue (particularly the elderly passer-by) was a bit forced, could be more natural.

Post 13 - Tax Avoidance re-edited

So I've had another shot at this and really struggled to be ruthless.

The gnawing wind scything down Castlegate had the shoppers clutching at their clothing against the onslaught.Great Grandfather Kenneth, with Lydia, his great granddaughter in tow, tackled the wind head on.

“I'm cold Grandy can we go to Starbucks for a hot chocolate?” the little one pleaded, catching sight of the coffee shop on the next corner.

“Certainly not with those tax avoiding b's” replied her great Grandfather, remembering just in time to moderate his language for his darling Lydia, “we'll go somewhere much nicer”

Two minutes later they were pushing open the ornate door of Brucciani's tea rooms and were embraced by the gush of warm chocolate-coconut scented air. A wide eyed Lydia gave a contented sigh.

From behind the counter bustled a dark haired, portly man beaming a welcome.

“Kenneth, how lovely to see you, my friend,” He said extending his hand, “and who is this lovely lady?” turning to Lydia.

Tweaking her fleecy cap of her head Kenneth replied, “ Allow me to present my great Granddaughter Lydia. Lydia meet Alberto, the proprietor of this wonderful establishment.”

Lydia smiled shyly but a magnificent display of cakes was drawing her towards the counter.

Alberto turned to Kenneth and asked what he could get them.

“ An expresso for me Alberto and a small hot chocolate for Lydia, please”

“Not small, Grandy, not small.” said an indignant Lydia, “ and one of those please.” she wheedled, pointing to an enormous chocolate eclair.

Her Great Grandfathers eyebrows rose and Alberto chuckled.

“She know her own mind, that young lady”

“ She may do but if she's going to have that huge cake she's most definitely having a small hot chocolate or she'll be sick” said Kenneth and turning to Lydia added “ You wouldn't have got one of those in Starbucks.”

Kenneth should have known better than to mention the coffee chain in Alberto's vicinity. The expression on Alberto's amiable face immediately became thunderous

“You weren't thinking of going to those thieving devils?” he spat out, “wherever they go, places like mine suffer. The first month they opened down the road my takings were halved, halved I tell you.”

Kenneth was piloting Lydia towards an empty table. She looked a little alarmed at the sudden change in the man she had instantly warmed to. She was yet to learn that Italians often have volatile personalities and Alberto was no exception.

“ And now?” asked Kenneth calmly, looking round at the crowded tables and the queue at the counter.

“ Well, yes, OK, it's better now. But it's only because good loyal customers like you didn't desert us that we kept our heads above the water.”

“Nonsense Alberto, it was just novelty. Who wouldn't come in here in favour of Starbucks. Those chains are all corporate image and “Have a Nice Day” from staff who don”t give a damn.”

Lydia lost interest in the adult conversation as she stared about the magical place to which her Grandy had brought her. It was quite unlike anywhere she had been with her mother.

Like the Tardis, it was considerably bigger on the inside than it appeared outside. At six, Lydia knew little about style but this place, with its green leather benches and bent wood chairs was much more cosy than any Starbucks.

Her reverie was interrupted when a waitress slid a plate holding an eclair towards her.

“ …...... millions of pounds, Alberto, they owe the taxman. They've paid some back but not what they really owe. I'll bet you've never tried to avoid paying your dues have you.”

The incomprehensible conversation was still going on above her head so Lydia picked up her eclair, wrapped her small mouth around one end and bit firmly. Cream and custard oozed over her fingers and around her mouth. The two men engrossed in their talk failed to notice.

“Never! Britain took us in when life was so hard in Italy, why would we want to cheat?” Alberto winked, “don't tell my Mafia cousins though!”

He rose to leave and looking across to Lydia, burst out laughing. The little girl was a mess of chocolate, custard and cream.

“I get a cloth.” pronounced Alberto “And a spoon”

I've got it down to 713 words but I already feel its lost something on the way.

I've such had a horrible thought. The topic was tax avoidance and because it didn't inspire me I have essentially avoided writing about it in favour of something more interesting! Truth to tell I don't know a lot about tax avoidance other than I don't like Multinationals which make millions anyway, failing to pay their dues just because they can.

I'm now done with this exercise. I get the point and will try harder on subjects that float my boat.

Post No. 12 Ruthless editing!

First I had to find out how to get a word count from Open Office!

That done, how to set about reducing my story from 999 words to 500?

First I analysed how I set about my initial idea for the piece. We were asked to randomly turn on the radio and make note of what we first heard and use that as inspiration for a story.

I'm afraid that an item on the news involving tax avoidance did not inspire me at all, even though I feel quite strongly about it. However that was the task so I sat and thought about it.

1st thought - Multi-nationals e.g. Starbucks
2nd thought - An old soldiers disgust at such behaviour (my dearly departed Dad springing to mind)
3rd thought - Contrast Starbucks with an established family firm.

With that I began and as usual my characters turned up and introduced themselves and the story told itself. Brucciani's is a real place, slightly embellished to suit my purposes.

How does one go about editing ruthlessly? An odd word here and there, a sentence or two or a whole sale re-write attempting to put the essence of a paragraph into one sentence.

Next move I've thought of is to reduce my story to a simple abstract or scenario. Boy meets girl. Girl ditches boy. Boy gets motorbike. Boy gets killed. Girl bereft. That sort of thing.

Tax Avoidance

A great grandfather is babysitting his 6 year old great granddaughter. It's a cold day. The child wants hot chocolate and suggest Starbucks.  Great Grandfather is disgusted by their past tax avoidance and suggests going to an old established family firm. The child is entranced with the new place and its owner. The subject of tax avoidance continues above the child's head and comprehension. She is left to her own devices and gets messy.

74 words

That suggests I need about 6 -7 paragraphs to get the correct word count. Surely Dickens didn't write like this. It feels so uncreative.

Tax Avoidance - Edited

It took me longer to get back to edit this than I hoped.  Family affairs interrupted.

I haven't shortened this piece at all but I have made some changes for the sake of clarity and better grammar.

I would be grateful if anyone would care to comment on any cuts I might usefully have made. In so short a piece everything I feel my reader ought to know must be there now as i can't expand on it later as one would in a novel.

 A gnawing wind scythed down Castlegate as if intent on stripping the Christmas shoppers of their clothes. They in their turn were holding coats and scarves close, in defiance of the onslaught. An elderly gent with a distinct military bearing was tackling the wind head on, towing a small girl behind him. Her padded jacket and trousers made her look like a large stuffed toy, incongruous next to his long black woollen coat and bright shiny black shoes.

“I'm cold Grandy can we go to Starbucks for a hot chocolate?” the little one pleaded, catching sight of the coffee shop on the next corner.

“Certainly not with those tax avoiding b's” replied her great Grandfather, remembering just in time to moderate his language for his darling Lydia, “we'll go somewhere much nicer”

Two minutes later they were pushing open the ornate door of Brucciani's tea rooms and were embraced by the gush of warm chocolate-coconut scented air. A wide eyed Lydia gave a contented sigh.

The old man was obviously a well known and respected customer as the staff greeted him with waves and smiles. From behind the counter bustled a dark haired, portly man beaming a welcome.

“Kenneth, how lovely to see you, my friend,” He said extending his hand, “and who is this lovely lady?” turning to Lydia.

Tweaking her fleecy cap of her head Kenneth replied, “ Allow me to present my great Granddaughter Lydia. Lydia meet Alberto, the proprietor of this wonderful establishment.”

Lydia smiled shyly and wondered if being “the proprietor of the wonderful establishment” was the reason he spoke differently, in the same way that her friend Anita spoke differently because “she was an immigrant from Bangladesh”. The wondering didn't last long as a magnificent display of cakes drew her towards the counter.

Taking his admiring gaze from the little girl Alberto turned to Kenneth and asked what he could get them.

“ An expresso for me Alberto and a small hot chocolate for Lydia, please”

“Not small, Grandy, not small.” said an indignant Lydia, “ and one of those please.” she wheedled, pointing to an enormous chocolate eclair.

Her Great Grandfathers eyebrows rose and Alberto chuckled.

“She know her own mind, that young lady”

“ She may do but if she's going to have that huge cake she's most definitely having a small hot chocolate or she'll be sick” said Kenneth and turning to Lydia added “ You wouldn't have got one of those in Starbucks.”

Kenneth should have known better than to mention the coffee chain in Alberto's vicinity. The expression on Alberto's amiable face immediately became thunderous

“You weren't thinking of going to those thieving devils?” he spat out, “wherever they go, places like mine suffer. The first month they opened down the road my takings were halved, halved I tell you.”

Kenneth was piloting Lydia towards an empty table. She looked a little alarmed at the sudden change in the man she had instantly warmed to. She was yet to learn that Italians often have volatile personalities and Alberto was no exception.

“ And now?” asked Kenneth calmly, looking round at the crowded tables and the queue at the counter.

“ Well, yes, OK, it's better now. But it's only because good loyal customers like you didn't desert us that we kept our heads above the water.”

“Nonsense Alberto, it was just novelty. Who wouldn't come in here in favour of Starbucks. Those chains are all corporate image and “Have a Nice Day” from staff who don”t give a damn.”

Storing the “damn” way for later use, Lydia lost interest in the adult conversation as she stared about the magical place to which her Grandy had brought her. It was quite unlike anywhere she had been with her mother.

Apart from anything else it was a regular Tardis, considerably bigger on the inside than it appeared outside. The table at which they were sitting was one of many arranged around the walls of the bigger section at the back of the shop. Lydia was sitting on a green leather bench whilst her great grandfather sat on an old fashioned looking chair with a curved back. The chairs looked really old. The whole place looked old, but in a nice way. Comfortable, somehow. Above the benches were panels of mirrors and above those there was writing on the walls. At six Lydia hadn't mastered many long words but was able to easily read Tea and Bovril, but Speciality had her foxed. On one wall there were three flying duck ornaments soaring towards the ceiling.

Lydia had noticed that covering the walls of front of the cafe were black and white photographs of celebrities. She was about to ask if they'd all been customers when a waitress appeared and slid a plate holding an eclair over the table to her.

“ …...... millions of pounds, Alberto, they owe the taxman. They've paid some back since all the fuss but not what they really owe. I'll bet you've never tried to avoid paying your dues have you.”

The incomprehensible conversation was still going on above her head so Lydia picked up her eclair, wrapped her small mouth around one end and bit firmly. Cream and custard oozed out of the sides, over her fingers and all around her mouth. The two men engrossed in their talk failed to notice.

“ Kenneth, my family is so grateful to Britain taking us in in the 1930's when life was so hard in Italy why would we want to cheat?” Alberto winked, “don't tell my Mafia cousins though!”

He pushed down on the table to raise his ample bottom from his chair and looked across to Lydia and burst out laughing. The little girl was a mess of chocolate, custard and cream, she was pushing cream from her cheeks into her mouth and desperately licking her fingers.

“I get a cloth.” pronounced Alberto “And a spoon”

And that's 999 words. Oh dear if I'm to follow Derek"s instructions to the letter, half of them have to go. I am going to struggle with this. A whole re draft is called for. Arrgh.

Building on "Tax Avoidance" awaiting editing

A gnawing wind funnelled down Castlegate as if intent on ripping the clothes off the Christmas shoppers. They in their turn were holding coats and scarves close to deny the onslaught. An elderly gent with a distinct military bearing was tackling the wind head on, towing a small girl behind him. Her padded jacket and trousers made her look like an over large stuffed toy, incongruous next to his long black woolen coat and bright shiny black shoes.

“I'm cold Grandy can we go to Starbucks for a hot chocolate?” the little one pleaded, catching sight of the coffee shop on the next corner.

“Certainly not with those tax avoiding b's” replied her great Grandfather, remembering just in time to moderate his languauge for his darling Lydia, “we'll go somewhere much nicer”

Two minutes later they were pushing open the ornate door of Brucciani's tea rooms and were embraced by the gush of warm chocolate, coconut scented air. A wide eyed Lydia gave a contented sigh.

The old man was obviously a well known and respected customer as the staff greeted him with waves and smiles. From behind the counter bustled a dark haired portly man beaming a welcome.

“Kenneth, how lovely to see you, my friend,” He said extending his hand, “and who is this lovely lady?” turning to Lydia.

Tweaking her fleecy cap of her head Kenneth replied, “ Allow me to present my great Granddaughter Lydia. Lydia meet Alberto, the proprietor of this wonderful establishment.”

Lydia smiled shyly and wondered if being “the proprietor of the wonderful establishment” was the reason he spoke differently in the same way that her friend Anita spoke differently because “she was an immigrant from Bangladesh”. The wondering didn't last long as the magnificent display of cakes drew her towards the counter.

Taking his admiring gaze from the little girl Alberto turned to Kenneth and asked what he could get them.

“ An expresso for me Alberto and a small hot chocolate for Lydia, please”

“Not small, Grandy, not small.” said an indignant Lydia, “ and one of those please.” she wheedled, pointing to an enormous chocolate eclair.

Her Great Grandfathers eyebrows rose and Alberto chuckled.

“She know her own mind, that young lady”

“ She may do but if she's going to have that huge cake she's most definitely having a small hot chocolate or she'll be sick” said Kenneth and turning to Lydia added “ You wouldn't have got one of those in Starbucks.”

Kenneth should have known better than to mention the coffee chain in Alberto's vicinity.

The expression on Alberto's amiable face immediately became thunderous

“You weren't thinking of going to those thieving devils?” he spat out, “wherever they go, places like mine suffer. The first month they opened down the road my takings were halved, halved I tell you.”

Kenneth was piloting Lydia towards an empty table. She looked a little alarmed at the sudden change in a man she had instantly warmed to. She was yet to learn that Italians often have volatile personalities and Alberto was no exception.

“ And now?” asked Kenneth calmly, looking round at the crowded tables and the queue at the counter.

“ Well, yes, OK, it's better now. But it's only because good loyal customers like you didn't desert us that we kept our heads above the water.”

“Nonsense Alberto, it was just novelty. Who wouldn't come in here in favour of Starbucks, with its corporate image and its “Have a Nice Day” from staff who don”t give a damn.”

Storing the “damn” way for later use, Lydia lost interest in the adult conversation as she stared about the magical place to which her Grandy had brought her. It was quite unlike anywhere her mother had taken her.

Apart from anything else it was a regular Tardis, considerably bigger on the inside than it appeared outside. The table at which they were sitting was one of many arranged around the walls of the bigger section at the back of the shop. Lydia was sitting on a green leather bench whilst her great grandfather sat on an old fashioned looking chair with a curved back. The chairs looked really old. The whole place looked old, but in a nice way. Comfortable, somehow. Above the benches were panels of mirrors and on the walls there was writing. At six Lydia hadn't mastered many long words but was able to easily read, tea

and Bovril but speciality had her foxed. On one wall there were three flying duck ornaments soaring towards the ceiling. Lydia couldn't see them easily from her seat but covering the walls of front of the cafe were black and white photographs of celebrities.

Lydia was about to ask if they'd all been customers when a waitress slid a plate holding her eclair over the table to her.

“ …...... millions of pounds, Alberto, they owe to the taxman. They've paid some back since all the fuss but not what they really owe. I'll bet you've never tried to avoid paying your dues have you.”

The incomprehensible conversation was still going on above her head so Lydia picked up her eclair, wrapped her small mouth around one end and bit firmly. Cream and custard oozed out of the sides, over her fingers and all around her mouth. The two men engrossed in their talk failed to notice.

“ Kenneth, my family is so grateful to Britain taking us in in the 1930's when life was so hard in Italy why would we want to cheat?” Alberto winked, “don't tell my Mafia cousins though!”

He pushed down on the table to raise his ample bottom from his chair and looked across to Lydia and burst out laughing. The little girl was a mess of chocolate, custard and cream, she was pushing cream from her cheeks into her mouth and desperately licking her fingers.

“I get a cloth.” pronounced Alberto “And a spoon”

First draft of "Tax Avoidance"

Inspiration from randomly turning the radio on and writing about the first thing I heard. This is actually my second attempt as turning on Radio 4extra produced the following "Martian Martians. Riding Martian bicycles." SciFI is definitely not my genre, so I turned to Radio 4 News and there was an item on tax avoidance. Not sure if I could make anything of that but gave it a shot

A gnawing wind funnelled down Castlegate as if intent on ripping the clothes off the Christmas shoppers. They in their turn were holding coats and scarves close to deny the onslaught. An elderly gent with a distinct military bearing was tackling the wind head on, towing a small girl behind him. Her padded jacket and trousers made her look like an over large stuffed toy, incongruous next to his long black woolen coat and bright shiny black shoes.

“I'm cold Grandy can we go to Starbucks for a hot chocolate?” the little one pleaded, catching sight of the coffee shop on the next corner.

“Certainly not with those tax avoiding b's” replied her great Grandfather, remembering just in time to moderate his languauge for his darling Lydia, “we'll go somewhere much nicer”

Two minutes later they were pushing open the ornate door of Brucciani's tea rooms and were embraced by the gush of warm chocolate, coconut scented air. A wide eyed Lydia gave a contented sigh.

A different perspective

Why, why, why? I don't ask for much but just once in a while it would be nice if  someone gave me their undivided attention. This morning I thought today was the day. Amanda's at Uni, David's at CCF camp and the twins are sleeping over at Auntie Gwenn's. When I woke this morning the house was eerily quiet, I lay absorbing the silence. Bliss. Don't get me wrong, I love my family, it's just that sometimes there's just too many of them. At breakfast Mum suggested we go into town to shop and have lunch. Brilliant. Then Dad asked if he could come too. Double Brilliant. So I take care with my outfit and put on my new Uggs. On the way Mum's phone goes and before you know it she's invited Gran and Grandad plus Auntie Lynne's lot to join us at Booths. I never, ever get them to myself.

Adding detail

 In the middle of the cafeteria a large family group have pushed two tables together and are sitting, oldies at one end and teenagers at the other. At the youngsters end a young lady is holding court. To keep the attention of at least one of her companions she is gesturing flamboyantly, her fingers constantly on the move. She has curtains of long dark hair which she alternately flings behind her shoulder or grabs a hank to twist and interlace her fingers.
One of her companions, another dark haired girl with glasses appears mesmerised by the widening of the eyes that accompanies every comment. The blonde, being diverted by a small boy to her left, appears to have forfeited her right to attention as the talker turns slightly away from her to point out her Ugg boots to the other girl. Something is said and both girls laugh and simultaneously cover their mouths. As the party rise to leave, it is the blonde girl who stands out, in her pale coat and the grey fur bandeau she pulls over her hair. The two dark girls are mostly in black, black jeggings, dark shirts and black quilted jackets, the uniform of youth.

Note:
As I felt I'd already given quite a lot of detail about this girl in my first piece I found this exercise quite hard and feel I've done the opposite by providing less detail although i think it's a more readable piece. 

Week 2.4 - Writing spaces

 The table in the corner was the furthest away from the other customers so Sally made a bee-line for it. She sat down reluctantly and placed her coffee on the tacky surface, grimacing. From her bag she took her notebook, a couple of propelling pencils and her laptop. She tried to gather her thoughts as the computer gathered its folders and apps and eventually illuminated it's screen. Sally clicked on the folder entitled NOVEL and stared at the last thing she'd written. It might as well have been in Sanskrit. She read the last three paragraphs several times but in this alien environment they made no sense. The hubbub was mounting around her and the smell of coffee and bodies was making her feel sick. It was no good, builders or no builders, she could only write at home, at her own kitchen table.

Tom had taken the dog and announced he was going for a long walk. As the motorhome door clicked shut Amy gave a contented sigh. She turned and put the kettle on, then dropped a teabag in the pot.Having erected the table she placed her tatty exercise books and a selection of pens and pencils. From a carrier bag by the door she fished a brown paper bag and removed a brand new, pristine A4 notebook. This too, she laid on the table opening it at the second and third pages and smoothed it down lovingly. The kettle having warbled it's little song, Amy brewed a cup of tea and with her mug strategically placed out of harms way she took up a pen and wrote Chapter 1 at the top of the page.

Downloads from the Course

What is fiction?


Fiction is all about characters.

Writing – trying to find and create characters – can be full of surprises; a person’s imagination is a powerful force.

Start Writing Fiction will help you to make the best use of what you already have ... and what you know.

You’ll be able to draw on your own experiences, and what you’ve read – your observations and imagination, your language and ideas.

You’ll come to discover – as you start to create stories – the best rules and lessons for you, the best ways for you to create characters – the best way for you to write. 

Fiction is all about characters. Make the best of everything you already have and know – your unique ‘material’ and ‘equipment’ for creating characters:

• your experiences (including your reading experiences) 
• your memories and personal history 
• your feelings and desires 
• your language, imagination, observations and ideas.

Week 1 - Looking at Felicity from 2 different perspectives.

1.

The girl is shy. The girl has no self-confidence.

The girl is young and has a lot to learn.

This girl tries too hard to hide her shyness. This girl overcompensates for her lack of confidence. This girl will grow.

I will teach her.

2.

"Fizz, pop." That's my daughter, christened Felicity but renamed Fissity by her older brother and inevitably shortened to Fizz. Did the name find her, or did her personality grow to suit her nick-name? Was she always going to be like a glass of Prosecco, full of bubbles and joy?

From the start she was always such an enthusiast, ready at the drop of the proverbial hat to try something new. Not much of a sticker though, horse riding one month and ice skating the next. At the moment it's drama. She could have been born for it, a natural Drama Queen if ever there was one. I am so glad modelling has gone by the board, biased though I'm bound to be and lovely though I think she is, she is not beautiful or exceptional in looks, her eyes are too small for a start.

Since she joined The Players it's as if everything she hears or says is a huge surprise and she must make her eyes as wide as possible. It's getting a bit irritating if I'm honest. As for all the arm waving and flamboyant gestures; she knocked the marmalade off the table this morning. Her eyes were genuinely pretty wide then, I can tell you.

I do wonder though, if she's offered a part in Cinderella, how she'd cope. Underneath all that bravado she's quite a shy girl and it doesn't take much to knock her confidence. Who knows? The Players may be the making of her.

Week 1 - A short character sketch concentrating on appearance and any particular mannerisms.

Felicity is a typical teenager, entirely focussed on herself. Her clothes are the current teenage uniform, black jeggings, an overlarge plaid shirt in shades of black and blue and on her feet, genuine Ugg boots, despite the fact that it's a beautiful warm autumn day. Over the back of her chair is a black quilted jacket with a blue woollen hat poking out of the pocket. She is practically identical to the two girls on either side of her.

She is holding court with at least one of them, who appears to be hanging on her every word. The other girl is being distracted by a small boy on her other side. Felicity is using most of her lithe young body to maintain her companions attention. Her kohl lined eyes widen with every comment she makes and her hands and arms are as vocal as her voice. More than once her hands cover those wide eyes to express distress. She never covers her mouth when she laughs, rather she throws her head back in a gesture of great, good humour. Felicity is far more concerned about the impression she is making than the actual content of the conversation.

Week 1 - Using my notes from watching the video

It was busy this morning. It looked as if half of London was heading out of town. Every other person seemed to have a wheely case. It was quite an obstacle course getting to the bus stop. Once I got there I settled down to some serious "observing", my notebook and pen at the ready. 

The first person to attract my attention was a young woman sitting alone nursing a sleeping bag. That was all she appeared to have with her, no handbag or backpack. Where was her other stuff? Why did she look rather sad?

At that moment a man in a blue Puffa jacket and black trilby gathered up his stuff in front of me and I realised that my bus had arrived. I followed him on to the bus and up the stairs to the top deck. It's not the easiest thing to do, people-watch on a bus, all you can see is the back of their necks. For instance the chap two seats away, from here he looks a rather clean cut young man, neat hair and smart coat. He's on the phone but seems bothered by it, he keeps looking at it as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. Either that or he hasn't got a decent signal.

I must concentrate and really study somebody, anybody. The guy in the camouflage jacket will do. From the back he looks like quite a large man but I doubt he's ever been in the army. The long hair and beard don't fit with an ex-soldier, as for that pink bungie band, what's that all about? Perhaps his employer's a woman and she got fed up of seeing him with his hair all over the place and handed him that with orders to tie it up. I expect he thinks that jacket makes him look tough.

My stop coming up I'd better put my notebook away.

Coffee break. I haven't had time to take any more notes until now, in the canteen. I like this canteen, it's a great space, airy and full of light. Those big windows look out on Euston Road with all the traffic crawling past, the red buses, the lorries and cars, and of course the ambulances and police cars, wailing past, blue lights flashing. You can't hear much in here though, the double glazing mutes all the outside noises.

I wonder if I look a bit weird, sitting here scribbling away, trying to look as if I'm not looking! There aren't many folk in here and they all seem engrossed in their own affairs. That Japanese girl for instance, she hasn't looked up,from her Apple laptop since I sat down. She's got her earphones in and she's oblivious of anything around her. Her fingers are busy, busy on that mouse. She's not doing any typing. I wonder what she's doing? Maybe editing a video? I'll never know.

Those two young guys are intriguing. The Asian boy is doing all the talking and his friend in the blue jumper is just listening, nodding now and again. On the other hand those two men by the window, with all those papers strewn about, they are having a pretty enthusiastic exchange of views. There's a mobile phone much in evidence though as if the one man is expecting a call any minute.

At one of the round tables there are a couple of women. I think the older one, the blonde, is a tutor, I'm sure I've seen her about. The younger one, with the glasses and that crazy ring must be a student. I've got a feeling they are going over the students project. The student doesn't look as if she agrees with whatever the tutor is saying. I know that feeling. 

Talking of tutors I suppose I'd better get going to my seminar with these notes and return Barbara's keys or I might forget.

Introduction

 The following pages are exercises undertaken for the Future Learn course "Starting to Write Fiction", nothing more, nothing less.

I have written since I was a small girl. I not only wrote the books, I typed them up and bound them too. The only thing I didn't do was sell them!

That early confidence has since evaporated and although I still love to write I feel my writing has short comings, not least that my characters are rather flat. I have come to this course to try and improve this aspect of my writing.