LITR 3731 Creative Writing UHCL journal / portfolio sample submission 2003

LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Journal / Portfolio Sample Submission 2003

Brandie Minchew

Introduction:

The act of creative writing carries the flavor of something very personal. Robert A. Heinlein said something to the effect of "Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards..." Perhaps the stigma attached to writers as somewhat diabolical out-of-step members of society has some element of truth to it, but not all of us are Heinleins. Many (most!!) of us need our community of fellow writers gathered around us, a kind of group solidarity in the face of a world that just plain thinks we're weird. Not to mention that it always helps to know that we aren't the only ones whose plots are full of holes, whose characters misbehave and do the most wretched things, and whose spelling would be atrocious without modern technology to assist. Despite what the artistic myth leads the general public to believe, writers need each other more than any other drug in the pharmacy. No cure has yet been discovered for the disease of writing, but at least the more uncomfortable symptoms can be alleviated through a solid community of those who share the same dreams and higher goals of their chosen art.

One of the first places a writer is exposed to writing is a creative writing class of some type. It has been wonderful for me to watch the new writers spread their wings and create wonders despite their initial hesitance to take the creative plunge. It has also been encouraging to make new contacts in the writing community and offer contacts to others as well.

To be honest, I didn't find the work for this class to be much different from the work I do on my own, in my scheduled writing time. I suppose I was expecting more active workshop exercises in class, rather than critiques. However, the class was interesting in seeing the range of material that students from different walks of life produced through the semester.

The drama portion of the class gave me the most insight into a genre that I had never worked in before, and I enjoyed it immensely. I have never constructed a drama scene, and I found myself astonished at the ease in which it allowed itself to be written. I also learned that the concept a script writer has in his or her mind can be very quickly altered once the script is in the hands of the actors, who bring to the script their own interpretation and mannerisms. Between writer and actor, the drama script becomes a living, evolving entity of three layers, adding a fourth layer, the audience, upon performance. Literary theory taught me to see a written text as an interpersonal interaction between writer, text, and reader--however, an examination of the evolution of a drama script brings that idea to an entirely new light. I really enjoyed that part of the class and would someday like to do more work in the script department, something that I would never have discovered for myself.

Poetry

LINK TO POETRY SUBMISSION

I rarely write poetry, mostly because I admit to the fact that I am a bad poet. I generally leave poetry to the true poets and save my flights of fancy for my fiction. The two poems that I submitted to the email draft exchange each have their own special story of creation. I'm not often moved to write poetry, but when I am, it is for a very particular reason, which always leaves me with a story to tell.

Comet

Comet was conceived after I finished reading Carl Sagan and Anne Druyen's book Comet, which is, as can certainly be inferred, a scientific book about comets. I had not studied comets to a great extent, and what I found in the book fascinated me. I never realized that one reason we see so few comets is because they have such a difficult time making their way through our solar system without being pulverized or drawn off course by the giant outlying planets. When a poem makes itself known to a writer, it can be with a soft tapping or a blow to the head. Blow to the head most accurately described the moment of inspiration for my "Comet". At the time, I had found myself in the middle of a kind of emotional crisis, and I discovered how deeply I related to that comet, struggling to make its way to our sun so that its history might be known. I felt the exact same way at that very moment. And so I wrote it down. I believe it was Wordsworth who declared that poetry must be a reflection of true emotion - that was my intention with "Comet" - that it be a hopeful reflection of my state of mind, which, at the time, was rather cosmic.

The first draft of the poem was radically different from the final draft. Here, the first draft - comments are in bold:

As a comet inscribes its path among the planets,
A perilous passage
Through our tiny corner of the galaxy,
So have I circumvented the giant forces
Of the Human Soul
That pull our loves to pieces before they reach the sun.

I changed the first verse to more accurately reflect the comet, not the person - I wanted the comet to be a metaphor for my state of mind, but this seemed too overt. Also, I had not, at the time, "circumvented" those giant forces. So I initially changed the verse to show my relationship to the comet in that we both struggle. In the final draft (different from the one I originally submitted), I changed the second sentance in the first verse as per Dr. White's suggestion to make it sound less cumbersome and more believable.

Many a comet dies unseen,
And but a few find balance among the Giants,
To draw near the Sun.

Here, I felt a need, in the second draft, to explain why the comet often dies, and why it is difficult for it to find its balance.

My love has crossed the orbits
Of a thousand doubts,
A million fears,
A hundred second thoughts,
And twice as many differences.
You draw me on,
Your greatness to my smallness
An irresistable force.

Originally, I thought this poem was about love. The more I thought about it, I realized it was most definately not about love. So this verse had to go - I took "love" and "you" out to make the poem relate directly to me, or, in effect, to the reader as readers sympathize with an ultimate experience.

My soul is at perihelion,
Blazing in your light for all to see.

The tale of my love dazzles a thousand skies,
And though my light will dim,
A reflection only of your glory,
My passing will be marked,
Recalled in generations hence.

Again, I removed "love" and "your" and streamlined the verse a bit to make it sound more 'real'. I also felt that the final draft was a bit more true to the "shape" of a comet - but that could just be my imagination. I liked the way the verses flowed and coursed down the page.

Here is the final draft of Comet:

Comet

Shimmering,
the wayward comet
inscribes her path across the heavens
in her perilous passage
through this obscure galactic corner.
I see myself in her, suspended in her frame of stars,
struggling to overcome the giant forces
of a chaotic Universe
which seek to shatter all loves
and leave them adrift.

Many a comet dies unseen.
Gravity tears them apart,
Piece by piece.
A few find their balance among the planets,
And draw near the sun.

I have crossed the orbits
of second thoughts,
of doubt
fear
grief
anger
despair.
And still I am drawn onward,
This greatness to my smallness
An irresistible force.

As my soul reaches perihelion,
Blazing with light for all to see,
My tale will dazzle a thousand skies,
And though that light will dim,
(For it is but reflected glory),
My passing will be marked,
Recalled in generations hence.

Siren

The story about "Siren" is really far simpler. "Siren" is a poem that I've been toying with since 1995, and I put another spin on it for this class, just to see what I could do with it. I hadn't pulled it out in a couple of years. It began in an attic above the Tyler Junior College band hall. I was hiding from everyone and reading what I call a "cotton candy fluff" fantasy novel - something that entertains but has absolutely no substance to it whatsoever. It's good for the imagination but gives nothing back. The drum circle was practicing below me, and they switched from marching rhythms to a very sinuous celtic beat. I reached for pen and paper and tried to capture the rhythm of their drums with words. Since through every iteration of the poem people have been able to pick up on that rhythm, I count myself successful. I keep rewording and rewording, though, because I think the message of the poem doesn't quite live up to its potential. I'm much better pleased with this latest incarnation than the previous ones - unfortunately, I don't seem to have copies stored anywhere to put in the journal.

Fiction

LINK to FICTION SUBMISSION: "She Who Dances"

"She Who Dances"

"She Who Dances" began as part of an exercise in background story for a novel idea I've had rattling around for awhile. I needed to explore the character of Ella more deeply, and the circumstances which affected her psyche - mainly her naivety about the world, her perceived "weight problem", her family problems with her step-mother, and her negative self-image.

When I step into fiction, it is far more creative for me than poetry. Instead of paying attention to sound, rhyme, meter, etc., none of which come naturally to me, I simply delve into the character and setting and see where the story takes me. It really is about putting one word in front of the other. When I began "She Who Dances" I only knew that Ella was going to run away from picking out a bridesmaid's dress with her step-mother and sister. I didn't know where she would end up. I imagined what it ought to be like, walking down a city street, seeing yourself reflected in a thousand shop windows, over and over again. And then I got stuck - I didn't know what to do with Ella once she was out on the street. I knew she needed to have something profound happen to her to help see where she was going wrong, but I didn't know what.

I've always had a fascination with middle eastern and indian cultures and their specific and varied definitions of femininity. It constantly amazes me, the differences between our culture and theirs. Our media portrays women of those cultures as oppressed and powerless, and in many cases they are, but in just as many cases, the opposite is true. Women of that region often hold great power in their families, and much is expected of women to uphold a tradition of power. Mahta is a character from a completely different story, a girl who is rebelling graciously against the gender issues of her heritage while still maintaining her cultural identity. She was the perfect contrast for unconfident, shy Ella. So I threw them into the same room together, and the entire scene took on a fairy tale quality. Beyond the revisions I did for the final draft, I haven't had much time to work with the story. However, I will continue to polish it and see where it goes.

"Prologue: By Any Other Name"

LINK to "PROLOGUE: By Any Other Name"

This scene is from the first draft of one of my many unfinished and currently un-worked-upon novels. As is probably obvious, it's a mutilated parody of "Romeo and Juliet", a play that I hated before I started the novel (I hated it so much I wanted to do a parody of it) and then reread to get the background material I needed and ended up falling in love with the play all over again.

What I wanted to do with "By Any Other Name" was give a twist to the traditional story while addressing issues about the nature of love, the nature of obsession, and the culture of suicide in reference to thwarted love. I've always been a big fan of the non-linear story, so the natural place to start seemed to be in the tomb, where Juliet wakes to find Romeo dead. I attempted to create a dark and tragic atmosphere, which will contrast to the first chapter of the novel which is light and fast-paced.

"Nissa's Story: Untitled"

LINK to "Nissa's Story: Untitled"

This story is a bird of another feather from the other two. It sprang up like an unplanned pregnancy - I have never written anything with science fiction or even modern fantasy elements before - I never even considered the idea! Yet one day I was sitting in front of my computer, staring at a blank sheet of Word, and out of nowhere this image of a grave young schoolgirl with Iranian features appears before my inner eye. And so I just started typing. I had no idea in the beginning as to why things were about to go so suddenly southward for this girl - only that they were. Then the ideas came so quickly that I had a difficult time arranging them coherently. When I finally finished, I immediately went back over the first scene and restructured it until it is as it appears now. This is the scene that I elaborated on to begin my novel for National Novel Writer's Month. In light of that, I've included the first scene of that novel in this journal, so that the contrast may be examined. I also admit to being heavily influenced by Quentin Tarantino's "Kill Bill" during the writing of the Nano-novel.

"Nissa's Story: Untitled - Nanowrimo 2003"

The gold-embossed envelope lay on her dressing table, somehow escaped from the neat stacks of fan mail that always adorned the writing desk. She turned it over and ran slender, delicate fingers across the raised gold letters of the address. "Zephania Amon", it said. No return address was visible, no clue evident to tell her who might have sent it. Indeed, nothing indicated how it had come into her dressing room and not been put with the rest of the mail in the first place. Unless it was from the management.

Her fingers trembled and she let the envelope fall back onto the dressing table. Her body folded itself into the cushioned armchair at its own behest. She seemed to collapse in on herself. Weak, as always after a performance, she could hardly summon the strength to reach for the bell-pull which would let her attendants know she was ready for tea and some marginal refreshment. The envelope glared at her from its place, and she closed her eyes.

Unable to concentrate on a solitary thought, she slipped into a troubled doze, her shining locks of black hair working their way out of their perfect arrangement to tumble around her face. A light touch on her arm woke her with a start, heart beating wildly. The young maid, who had obviously not been warned about touching, blinked owlishly at her, holding a tray with tea and a bowl of broth.

She motioned the girl to set the tray down on the dressing table and leave. She would speak to the catering mistress about instructions to new attendants later - tonight she was too tired. She reached for the tea and sipped slowly, feeling her strength returning little by little.

It had been a stunning performance, one of her best, and she had surprised and surpassed even her own expectations tonight. Moved by the powerful combination of the most highly skilled orchestra in Fialdor and her own exceptional vocal resonance, the timbre of her voice had taken on an ethereal quality that she feared she would never again be able to duplicate. Her teachers would have said this was nonsense - what had been done before could be done again. However, she felt that something had moved through the music this night that could never come again. Perhaps. Time would tell.

Whatever had moved through her certainly had drained her far more than usual. She set the teacup back on the tray and laid two fingers on the crystal nestled just above the curves of her breasts. It pulsed under her touch, like a heartbeat, faint, struggling. She closed her eyes and ran herself through a meditation until the pulse strengthened and steadied.

Upon opening her eyes once more, she again saw the letter, peering out from underneath the silver tray. Ignoring it, she picked up the bowl of broth and drank it slowly, savouring its restorative warmth. Not until she drank it all did she replace the bowl and then reach for the letter. It, too, seemed to pulse with some sort of energy. Perhaps she should not open it - there had been trapped letters before, from rabid fans. Still. It had come from someone with enough clout to have it delivered to her dressing table, not into the piles of general fan mail.

She pulled one of the silver hair sticks out of her elaborate coif, which was already falling, anyway, and, using the keen edge, she slit the envelope across the top. She drew out the heavy piece of paper, eyes darting across the lines of smooth, even handwriting. Pen and ink. Hardly anyone used pen and ink anymore, not even for fan mail - most people simply spoke or typed the words into their personal notepads and printed them in the handwriting or print of their choice.

She quickly forgot about the curiosity, however, as the words on the page caused her body to pulse with chills and her mind to teeter on the edge of darkness.

To our dear "Zephania",

You have, for ten years past, been allowed to believe yourself hidden, safe. It is now time for you to pay for the years of peace that you have enjoyed at our expense. Do not think to escape us, and do not think you can pay us off as you have so many others. We know who you are, we know how to find you, we know your strengths and weaknesses, so do not challenge us. We also have proof of your true identity. Turned in to the proper hands, you understand, you will be destroyed. As bright as you are, you must realize that you are solely in our power, so do be a good, obediant girl and mind what we say. Enclosed is the proof mentioned, so as to remove all doubt. Copies of it, of course. The original documents are safe with us. Unless, of course, you prove uncooperative.

You must wonder what we want from you. Nothing more than your presence at a meeting of sorts. For now. You will be contacted. Burn this letter once you have read it, unless you want it to fall into the wrong hands.

-X

The last was a stylized letter, a rune of sorts. It had a meaning. Nissa bit her lip, trapping the word behind her teeth. It was a language she dared not even think, not here, not now.

Her hands shook weakly and her stomach twisted into knots as she shook the tiny data chip out of the envelope. Dragging herself out of the chair, she moved to the reader on the far wall and inserted the chip. Document after document scrolled past her - birth certificate. Mother's family tree. Father's family tree. Search warrants. Pictures. Newspaper clippings. And a document trace.

The trace detailed a convoluted paper trail, leading from the name "Zephania Amon" through several exchanges of identity bracelets and documents, shady dealings and names of notorious "i-dealers" until a single name flashed on the screen before her.

Nissa Al'alMahdi.

She managed to remove the chip and clutch it tightly in her hand, and to use the last of her power to cause the handwritten letter to burst into flames in her fingers before she collapsed in a tangle on the floor.

* * * * *

"Dona? Dona, please, wake up."

"Do not touch her." The second voice was a calm counterpoint to the rising hysteria of the first.

"She is burnt! She's bleeding! You must help her!"

"Her standing orders are that no one touch her. We will try and awaken her before we invade her privacy."

A pungent odor underneath her nostrils catapulted her into consciousness again. Dazedly, she sat up. Blood ran from her right palm where the data chip had cut into her, so tightly was she clutching it. Her left hand was burned at the fingertips. The ashes of the ill-fated missive scattered on the carpet. She shook her head and reached up with the burned hand to remove the second hair stick, which was stabbing into her scalp.

The wide-eyed maid stared at her, as did the catering mistress. Both faces held expressions that indicated an explaination was being craved. Wincing at the pain in both her hands, Nissa pointed at the ashes. "A letter exploded. I should not have opened it."

"The people responsible for letting it pass through unnoticed will be immediately discharged, Dona," the catering mistress said, her forehead settling into sharp, angry lines.

"I am sure of it. I have no fear that the proper actions will be taken. Little harm has been done, nothing that cannot be repaired." She pulled herself up, surreptitiously tucking the data chip into a pocket fold of her gown, wishing with all her might that the words she had just spoken could be true. She knew that the reality could not be repaired at all. "I will need my burn and my cut attended to. Please send the house physician in to me."

"At once." The catering mistress dragged the newest maid away by the arm. Zephania - no - Nissa - heard her scolding furiously as they moved further down the hall.

Moments later, her wounds were skillfully dressed by the physician, and her dressing suite swarmed with security officers. She refused to be questioned until tomorrow, allowing her weakness of body and spirit to show plainly. A minor amount of manipulation arrived at the effect she aimed for, and she was let alone to return to her chambers after giving the promise of a full statement on the morrow.

A private transport delivered her to her dwelling, a large Fialdoran city home, seperate on its own lot, screened behind a lush hedge and a veritable forest of trees, shrubs, and gardens. From the inside, it had the illusion of being much larger than it really was, as one could not see the boundaries. It certainly was larger than most standard or even super-standard residences, many of which had no space for greenery at all. Still, she had the credit available for it, so she fully enjoyed her private forest and garden. At least, she had enjoyed it, until tonight.

You will be contacted, the note had promised. Had threatened. How? How did they find her, how had they compiled so much information on her? It was nigh impossible to trace the i-dealers with the precision that the trace document had shown. It was as if someone had been aware of every movement she had made for the last ten years. If that were so, why had they not come forward or turned her in before?

She lingered in front of her mirror, contemplating her reflection. Lustrous black hair fell away from her brush like tiny strands of silk, to rest against golden-skinned cheeks. Her cheekbones were high, her nose long, slender, and aquiline, her mouth well-shaped. Her eyes were large, set wide apart and fringed with thick, dark lashes. She had always been stunning, and had grown more so with age. She reached up to her neck and unclasped the crystal on its silver chain.

Her image seemed to waver, rippling with a kind of light. She seemed to gain a kind of translucence, a sort of luminescence, akin to the hauntingly beautiful play of light when the golden harvest moonbeams of autumn poured themselves over an early new-fallen snow. Only here, in her own chamber, curtains drawn, was she free to show her true nature. Her fey nature. Her forbidden nature. It had been her secret for ten exhausting years.

Until now.

"An uliecle Nissa hial..." she said softly. The game is up, Nissa.

But not over. Ten years had taught her much. Her life, her studies in the Fialdor Conservatory of Music and Performance, her aspirations that had taken her to the very top of her career in popular music and performance, each experience had held some lesson or other for her. Patience was not the least among these lessons. She would wait. She would watch. She would remember.

Rising from where she knelt on an elaborately embroidered cushion before the full length mirror, she moved to the panels of carved wood that covered and formed the entire wall behind her bed. Roses, fantastical beasts, and stylized trees combined to form scenes pleasing to the eye and soothing to the heart, or so it had always seemed to her. Gently stroking a particular rose petal, she caused a panel to rotate inward.

Inside the space behind the panel, a cache of weaponry glinted warily at her. She drew out the sword, a perfectly balanced and cannily crafted specimen. Drawing the weapon from its sheath, she leaned down reverently to savor the almost inaudible song of the blade which reverberated softly throughout the small, sparse bedchamber. The alloy of the blade shimmered in damasked waves. The hilt was plain but for a single design in the pommel - a rune that only one of fey blood could read.

"Vengeance." She spoke the word aloud, and the sound of it, the feel of it on her tongue made her shudder. She had locked the weapon away and thus had locked away her purpose for ten years. She had hidden herself, veritably. While not peaceful, as the letter had claimed, the years had been filled with a success of sorts, if not happiness or truth. Now she was being told to pay.

It seemed the time of reckoning was near. She would prepare herself against it, for it. She returned sword to sheath and replaced the weapon in the cupboard.

The room was sparsely furnished for a reason. Slowly, gently, Nissa warmed up her muscles, working herself through exercises that she did every day. The energy expended in keeping up her appearance exhausted her, and to all the folk in the music and performance world, she was known to be delicate and sickly, rising above her frailty to achieve unparalleled success in the vocal arts. Yet, when alone and free from the energy drain, she possessed a strength that they could not conceive of.

First, the usual exercises. Then, she would see how well her body remembered the song and dance of the blade.

Destiny would run its course, Fate would play her hand and play it well, but this time, Nissa Al'alMahdi would be prepared for the game, making her own rules if necessary.

Drama

LINK to "The Affairs of Writers"

The drama scene was pure fun for me. When I sat down to write it, I knew exactly what I wanted to do and how I wanted to do it. I had a little trouble with the ending, but at a suggestion from my roommate (living with another writer can be such a help), I worked it out easily.

Writing, of course was foremost in my mind when I began the scene. I had had my bad Nano-experience - 7,000 words that were so irredeemably bad that they had to be tossed out. Like the main character in my scene, I got a little melodramatic. All of the characters in the scene are exaggerations of people I know. Enrique's character was a little jab at my arch-nemesis (aka boyfriend) in Florida, who seems to be able to churn out words by the thousand-weight. Laurie's character was the voice of reason, because Moliere's plays always had a voice of reason, and so should mine, hahaha! The incessantly cheerful writer is ever-present in every writing group you might participate in. Each have their strengths, each have their weaknesses, and none of them are what they seem. Basically, I just felt like making fun of the whole NaNoWriMo culture at that point, so I did. My concept sentence speaks for itself. My theme sentence is exactly what I learned from the terrible disappointment of those first 7,000 words. I realized that even though I suddenly found myself very much behind everyone else (especially my arch-nemesis - OH how that rankled!), I still had to press on and keep a vision for myself. Later, I learned that my arch-nemesis wasn't nearly as "together" or as "confident" as he seemed, and we eventually stopped competing and helped each other instead. That's really how the writing world ought to work - competition should be saved for the publishing companies not between writers. And even when the going is rough, writers have to continue to believe in themselves - we are the most highly self-critical bunch of people on this planet, and that works against us, but we have to learn to make it work for us, instead. Like channeling all the negativity into writing light, cute, funny little drama scenes for creative writing class.

Final Summary

As I stated in the introduction, the way the class emphasized creative work outside the classroom rather than writing workshop exercises "in-class" caused the work I did for LITR 3731 to deviate very little from my usual writing practices. I have no difficulty turning out a poem as needed (bad poetry, usually), or a fiction scene - it is simply a matter of sitting down and getting started. While I did enjoy seeing other people's work presented, and I enjoyed presenting my own, and while the critiques I received were very valuable, this is not much different from my own critique circles on LiveJournal and through Houston Writers Group. While the book was helpful in some ways, it rarely spoke of anything that I have not read in other books before. The most helpful parts of the books were the writers' accounts of how manuscripts were conceived and constructed, as hearing other writers talk about writing is always most helpful to me.

My strongest genre is fiction, without a doubt. I am very much at home in my created worlds. I was glad of the opportunity to branch out from my usual fantasy genre into both general fiction ("She Who Dances") and science fiction ("Nissa's Story"). My goal as a writer is to continue to sharpen my storytelling abilities. My weakest point is dialogue, so for the next few months I will be focusing my attention on that aspect of storytelling - the part where the characters tell the story, not me, the author, and not the narrator.

I remain fascinated by the way other writers work. I am constantly amazed at the different ways to tell a story, even the different ways one can tell the same story over and over again in a completely new form. The most valuable tool for a writer is his or her awareness of the literary world. A writer must read to become familiar and comfortable with the written word of their chosen genre, and I will continue to expand my reading horizons in order to push the edges of my own writing envelope.

Appendix

Email exchange with Robert Andresakis on "She Who Dances": I will forward the email to you - for some reason, it will not let me copy and paste the comments into this document - I think it has something to do with the format of the email itself.

Email poetry draft exchange with Robert Andresakis on "Siren":

The poem flows fairly well, and I like the structure and, for the most part, the rhyme scheme. Here are a few corrections that I would make if I had written the poem. 2nd line 1^st verse- a comma after harp. Why? Something seems to want to make me pause here.

Poetry is written with complete sentences, for the most part. The first verse line 5 is a enjambment from the previous line- the subject is the reader implied, or is the writer implied? Do you mean for the ambiguity?

Im not sure If I like the last two lines of verse 2- the use of thus- it seems the line could be structured more “poetically”.

Overall, sense there is not much in structural error at first review, I have a few other questions to ask. Would this poem be better written with repeating writing scheme to symbolize the rhythm of the music? As it stands now the poem is filled with interline rhymes- slant rhymes, but maybe a few line rhymes in a order would be nice to represent the rhythm that you are talking about.

This is my initial review. I would like to make one more. Just to see if I can come up with something. Again the poem is filled with imagery that is great. You utilize a style of interline rhythm that I like- the repeating consonants: “Swift, surreal, and strong.” I use it frequently in my poetry.