creative writing – Adventures of Captain Hetty

Behind the Costume

28th Jul 201927th Jul 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

You never realise what you have until it’s gone. The synthetic-blue pool reverberates around and around my head as I inhale the thick chlorinated air. It drugs my lungs and I feel drunk in a fairy-tale land. Everything is just out of reach. Chaos from the night before buzzes like a migraine; the world an impossible echo of something that used to be true. The tears I slept in are an iron mask stopping me screaming for help: Too late now.

Oblivious in the stands, my parents, grandparents, siblings all wave their flags and cheer ecstatically. Vaguely I wave back but it is like greeting the moon: they feel a million miles away. Just how much I need them in this moment hits me as I hear how hard they shout my name.

“Emi-ly! Emi-ly! Emi-ly!”

I swallow and concentrate on breathing. Inhaling for six counts, I move to the edge of the pool. I hold my breath for eight: The mass of clothed onlookers stare at my waxed body, squashed into the tightest suit. Him too. Exhaling for seven, I throw my towel onto the ground. An electric thrill of fear is conducted through my skin under the audience’s gaze. I have to repress my revulsion. I take a last swig from the water bottle and my insides are drowned with coldness. My shaky fingers snap the goggles over my plastic bald head. Clambering onto the starting block, my legs become numb jelly. A race like this would have empowered me before. But he’s broken that.

I curl the toes of my right foot tightly around the edge and crouch in the starting position, as if about to make a prayer. As if he hadn’t crushed all my faith in just a few minutes. Although I can’t see him, I sense his eyes prickling into my back. My icy insides boil over with hatred. I trusted him; my whole family did. He took us all in with his façade of giving a shit about me. My fingernails dig into my clenched fists. It all felt surreal, like some terrible story you would hear from someone else, anywhere away from your own routine regularity. And yet, here I am. I peer across the three lanes next to my own. The other girls shift on their starting blocks, smoothing down their bald heads and fixing fierce goggles over their eyes. We look like flies, so replaceable. Unable to take much else in, I gaze down at the gently rippling surface below. Neat square lines of the tiles wriggle about as if trying to escape their two-dimensional prison. I clamp my hands onto the edge. I can’t let him see his effect on me.

“I will not let him win,” I whisper.

The whistle splits my head like a bullet.

“I will let myself win,” I promise the water.

Instinct launches me into the air, stretching my body out into the optimum streamlined position, just as he ingrained into me. My hands pierce the water first, entering another world. Soaring through the water in a gentle upward gradient to the surface, my legs make frantic butterfly kicks. Tucked under my arrow-shaped arms, my head spins in this blue tinged refuge. I am poised in motion, veils of water resistance gliding across my smooth skin. But it’s tainted now. The back of my throat is on fire from vomiting last night up. If only I could expel everything he did from my body. Still I am under his control, doing just as he wills; a performing seal out on parade, jumping through his hoops for some sick amusement. I push forward into the rippling light above and leave the eerie shelter of the under-water. My hydrophobic cap snaps open the surface. Instantly, the hubbub of disembodied shouting and cheering clicks back into earshot.

The surface plunges at my ears as I pull myself along using alternate strokes. I drag my face through the water, no matter how much I need to breathe. My hands scoop through the pool with my fingers expertly slightly separated. I kick my legs as a hard as I can. But I did not kicked hard enough when it mattered. How do you fight off the man who taught you how to be strong? Desperate to breathe, I start to gulp water; head aching, muscles alight. My limbs cut silkily through the water. I think that was what provoked him. He insisted on lingering in my hotel room when they waxed me.

“Leave my star swimmer alone with you hairdresser airheads? Anything could happen!” he shouted in his poolside voice, probably an attempt at humour. Everyone in the room grimaced awkwardly. He embarrassed me. But I believed he genuinely cared. Until they had finished, packed away their things and clicked the door shut on just the two of us. Uncomfortably, I reflect, it was a game of power and control. Clearly, being applauded for training top tier swimmers does not make you a good person. Before yesterday, I thought that only villains did awful things. I would dream up far away criminals plotting malevolent schemes, but it transpires that it’s those closest you have to fear.

Three arm-strokes in, I can finally breathe. I turn my head slightly to the side. My mouth levels with the dip my speed makes against the waterline. I wrench at the air, gulping in as much as I can before submerging my face again. It reignites my lungs. Another three strokes and I turn my head the other way, then the other, and this way and that way and soon I am spinning in my own vortex. The nausea kicks in again. I taste the faintest hint of metallic saltiness trickling onto my tongue. I close my eyes. The taste triggers the memory of his assault on my mouth. I reopen them almost immediately, not affording the smallest mistake.

Aware of the bubble streams from the other competitors encroaching into my peripheral vision, I decide I must win this race. Every fibre of my being is a swimmer, my family pumping all their support into my career. My birthday presents were club memberships, new suits, fins to replace the ones my feet had out-grown. There was no joy on earth greater than the look of pride on my parents’ faces when I brought home more medals; my little sister pointing excitedly at how shiny they look aligned on the wall. But last night, I saw the truth behind the person who had spurred all this on. I can’t bear to imagine going home with a part of him tinting the people I love’s view of who I am: I don’t want a shiny wall flashing with his true colours. I will do anything to scratch off my coach’s glossy reputation, even if it means cutting short my own swimming career.

“I will let myself win,” I promise the water.

I imagine my applause, picture a smooth ascent out of the water and tossing my towel hard at my coach as I walk past him. His mouth hanging open in surprise, hand outreached as if to touch me: to shake mine, to clap me on the back, to hug me? Nausea courses through me at the thought. The strings of his control over my every breath, his eyes scouring my form for any minute slip up, scrutinising my very being. I decide it is over. The assumption that he would ever assume his skin could touch mine again repulses me.

Pushing, kicking, fighting with every atom of my being, my mash of fingers slam against the edge of the pool, my head crashing after them. Touch down. It all goes black for a moment. My life as a swimmer melts away; schedules, diets, restrictions dissipate. I am reborn.

If you have been affected by any of these issues, please contact SupportLine. This story is based on fiction and only intends to raise awareness in a sensitive way.

creative writing

Unknown Caller

9th May 20198th May 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

Eleanor crouched in the library, hunched over. The gnawing ache of stooping above books all night caught up with her. Every muscle whined for a horizontal bed. She let out a long, strained sigh. As if breathing out all her deadline torments. She stretched away from her desk cubicle and rubbed her eyes. It was hours ago she had splashed off her light make up in the ladies’. Her phone screen lit up. Unknown caller. If you knew Eleanor, then you’d know that she never ever answered withheld caller IDs. Or oftentimes known callers. Who even spoke over the phone anymore nowadays; unless it was for work or sorting out forms? She hated it. There was just something about not being able to see the other person, having to listen in on their every word. Being so close to a stranger. She shuddered. It rang silently until the screen went dark and the caller was sent to voicemail.

Eleanor looked at her keys, longingly thinking of going home. She checked her watch. It was so late it was beyond early. Eleanor hit save on her laptop and scooped it into her bag; along with the smattering of pages her pen had scribbled illegible notes over. Stifling a yawn, Eleanor pulled her wool long-line coat on and shouldered her rucksack. Whilst heading down the stairs she negotiated the knotted earphones. Damn string theory. The screen lit up again. Under her breath, Eleanor swore with tired frustration.

All-nighters were becoming all too regular for Eleanor, deadlines fast approaching. So the dark walk back didn’t faze her anymore. The route home through the uniform streets was so imprinted on her mind, her feet did all the work now. Instead, she calmed her overworked mind with Florence and the Machine. A sorry compensation to its sleep-deprived abuse. Tonight, the streets were vaguely lit by the first thought of sun-rise. Looking up at the sky, smoky clouds were dusted faintly with a thin violet outline. Longingly, she thought of those missed evenings curled up on the sofa with Edwin watching some sitcom; sacrificed for these all-nighters. Eleanor was exhausted. She wondered whether to head for bed or the coffee maker when she got in. But her thoughts of a steaming hot cup and hitting back against clean white linen were intruded on.

The phone, sitting in her inside pocket, tickled against her chest, pausing Florence. Crossly, she tore it out of her coat, jabbed at the green button and held out in front of her mouth.

“Hello?” Eleanor asked gruffly. Her earphones fed her the long silence. Any remnants of her patience snapped. “Hello?! Do you know what time it is?” No answer. She took a deep breath.

The feeling her tired anger ebbed away, an unnerving prickly sensation taking over instead. She didn’t say anything else, her tongue felt knotted in some way. Her steps slowed down. To her horror, she heard the noise on the phone. As she slowed down, she was falling out of rhythm. Out of rhythm with the identical sound on the phoneline. Footsteps. Brisk, consistent paces. Trouser material rubbing against itself. And hard soles against pavement. The distinctive click of the sole of suit shoes. A horrible wave of nausea swept over Eleanor. The prickly feeling crawled up her back. She felt her muscles tense up, rooting her to the ground. The phoneline continued to walk. This couldn’t be Edwin, he just didn’t do things like this; none of her friends would for that matter. They knew she was hard pressed with her thesis right now so wouldn’t find a prank like this amusing. And this couldn’t be a butt dial. Who walks around at this time? And in expensive suit shoes? A butt dial wouldn’t have a withheld caller ID.

Thoroughly confounded, Eleanor wanted to talk. If she could just get a response out of whoever this was. To hear their voice.

“Hello? Who is this? Where are you?” she asked, spinning around.

A clear sense of her own vulnerability dawned on her. Alone, on an empty street. The uniform houses all had their windows curtained. No one in sight. She wasn’t close to home, or near enough to turn back to the library. Fuck. All the while the footsteps marched on. Eleanor’s stomach clenched, the prickling sensation consuming her skin: down her legs, over her shoulders, across her arms.

Feeling watched, her primal instincts took a hold and she began running. Not caring that the phoneline picked up the sound of her flimsy mustard dolly shoes pounding pathetically against the street. Turning this way and that way along familiar streets leading her home: if she could just get there. All the while her earphones beat out the steady, unchanging footsteps.

Her thick coat became an iron sheet against the wind. The ache from hunching over all night bit into her shoulders. Her legs felt like they couldn’t move fast enough, like long wads of floppy jelly. As she turned a corner, her house came into view. The sight of the row of little redbrick terraces seemed to hug Eleanor. She panted harder, betraying her exhaustion to the unknown caller. But she couldn’t stop. Her muscles were alight, lungs stinging. As she came closer to the house, she saw a comforting amber light from the bathroom: a lighthouse calling out in a storm. Just like Edwin to be up this early, no doubt thinking about a fry up before the commute to work. That bubble of normality seemed strange to Eleanor, thrown into this sudden tangle of panic and confusion. If she could just get to the door. Away from whatever this phone call meant.

All the while, Eleanor hadn’t once dared to look behind her. She needed speed. She didn’t want to know anything but that she was almost home. The idea of being watched tingled hotly through her body. Her hands frantically fumbled in her pockets as she pounded the pavement, the sound of the stranger’s march still tattooing her eardrums. A jumble of fingers found the door key. She tore over the small garden gate and reached the front door, hitting the key in the lock. It wouldn’t go in. Shit. She pulled out another silver key and tried that one. Not now for God’s sake.

In some subconscious field, she saw a vague movement flickering under the streetlights at the corner of her eye. Her head turned. A figure. A black figure. Striding in time to the rhythm on the phone. Her stomach plummeted and the hand holding the keys froze over.

As if possessed, Eleanor slammed on the door with all the strength left in her shattered body.

“Ed! Open the door! Let me in! Let me in right now! Ed! EDWIN!” her voice screeched out, panic pulsating in her throat. The figure was getting closer. So close now that she could make out his clothes. He wore a smart black trench coat over a crisp white shirt. His legs were obscured by the front garden hedge she looked out over. Between the glare of the streetlights and the softening dark sky, she could make out the beady gleam of black sunglasses.

Fuck. What is this?

Eleanor rapped on the door again, whilst scrabbling to find a key she hadn’t tried yet. His footsteps hadn’t picked up pace, even though he was so near and undoubtedly saw Eleanor wrestling with the door. If he could see her behind the overgrown driveway and those sunglasses when it was this dark? As she held up her last key, Eleanor looked over her shoulder once more. She let out a shout. The man was right outside the house. He strode swiftly, turning into the front garden, the little gate screeching open. He was meters away, crunching across the drive towards her. Screaming, she stabbed the key into the door. It worked. He was an arm’s length away as she turned it, expecting at any second to feel his fingertips on her back.

She punched open the door and slammed it shut. And pulled across the security chain for good measure. For a split second she heard the last gravelled steps but then radio silence. The small semi-circle of wavy glass on the top of the front door showed a shadowed head. Eleanor breathed heavily. They could have stood like that, separated by a door, for hours.

creative writing

The Poison Bed: Book Review

27th Apr 201930th Apr 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust,

Like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust. –The Duchess of Malfi

Love, politics, truth and lies: E.C. Fremantle’s newly released book ‘The Poison Bed’ is ravelled around the secretive nature of the 1615 Jacobean court. Frances, from the old and prestigious Howard family, has been raised to survive the politics of power. Robert, her husband, has the influence and trust of the king. So as the story unfurls the backlash of stepping too close the flame of King James, the stakes of the couple’s lives get higher. They are accused of murder and someone will pay the price.

At first sceptical of a fictional historical book, my doubts were soon ridiculed as Fremantle takes you by the hand and introduces you through life under James I and VI like you have never seen it before. Following the recent troupe of opening the female narrative of Early Modern history, Fremantle gives us the spectacular character of Frances. She is strong, the victim of her great-uncle’s survival training. Echoing Philippa Gregory’s eye-opening ‘The White Queen’ series, it is refreshing to see women’s history reaching the fiction shelves. Moreover, Robert’s homosexual character and lucrative relationship with James reaffirms LGBTQ+ history. Fremantle delicately hits a lot of literary considerations, without disrupting the carefully laid out historical aspect of her book.

‘With every page I turned, I found myself becoming more and more glued’

As an English and History BA student, this is something I can really sink my teeth into. With each page I turned, I found myself become more and more glued, the stakes getting higher, and the extent of the threat Frances and Robert are under becoming more increased. It was pleasing that Fremantle nurtures historically accurate, or at least plausible, narrative and provides a satisfying scope of aristocratic life in 1615: unlike the modern twists that somewhat tainted Reign.

With desire, fear, and threat running throughout the increasing tense plot, I feel that we have a lot to learn from this book, Brexit considered. How close dare you stand to flame of power without getting burned?

creative writing

The Midnight Ballet

4th Apr 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

“Where were you last night?” she asked Malcolm, picking him up by the stomach and holding him against the familiar soft fur of her dressing gown. As she stroked his cheeks, his ears and expertly under his chin, he reflected on her question, obediently purring.

Of course, it all started with the ginger tab, recently moved in two streets over. Malcolm had been picking up that strange, foreign scent all of yesterday on his daily prowl over his domain, Baker Street to Whiteshilling Way. He decided to go out that night. He only occasionally did this, to keep the other neighbourhood cats on their feet. Usually he liked spending time with his human at night time: It was night time when they had taken his brother away from the pack. They had been closest, playmates. But when he woke up, his brother was gone. When she was asleep, he’d keep an open eye on the house: setting up patrols. For good measure he’d run laps to keep himself awake, especially before settling down for a few minutes on the bed. He liked to check up on the human. To make sure she was still warm and breathing. But last night, he had ventured out.

The cat flap passed over his head and he gracefully leapt up the garden wall. Malcolm barely registered what he was doing: He had lived here for almost as long as he could remember, after he lost his brother. Instead, he was preoccupied contemplating his furry little problem. All the cats in the neighbourhood knew how things were. Every cat each had their own quarter. Admittedly some larger than others, but how else would you know who ran things around here? It’s every cat for himself nowadays. His own quarter was not the largest, but considerable enough to be avoided by his neighbours. Over time, he had worked hard expand around his plot, reducing that of the cats around him. Reputation was important. It kept things ticking over soundly. Keeping other cats away from your human in the street. They knew Malcolm wasn’t to be messed with. So tonight, he’d have to show the new cat in town the way things worked around here.

There he saw it. Over on the fence of three doors down, an orange flash of bushy tail. On his territory. Something had gone into the nice old lady’s lawn. She always left out her left overs for him every other day without fail. Usually no one would dare touch his food, so it was alright until early morning – before the birds started snooping around. Usually he’d kill a particularly brave one for effect but there’s only so many times you can do that before it gets boring. Easy prey. Occasionally, swatting the odd unsuspecting victim and sinking your fangs in as they squirm has its perks. It certainly left his mark in the neighbourhood. Still, as he slinked across the little maze of fence tops, he saw the ginger newbie go in for the kill. On his left-overs bowl.

He pounced, and the ballet began. Soundlessly, the air barely fluttering against his ears, he flew down from the fence. Landed on his front two paws, he pulled his hindlegs through and started to sprint towards the ginger. His back to him, unknowing of the danger gathering pace behind him as he tucked into the gravy covered chicken. Only the ginger tab’s ears quivered, the ground betraying the slightest vibration. The light pounding of feet. The tab barely registered this information before something shot into his back. Pinning him to the ground. A stomach-wrenching war cry filling his ears.

Right off, Malcolm sensed something jarring. His readiness to cat fight, claws out-stretched in the cool night air, paused. He saw the tab’s face. A jolt of familiarity sparked in Malcolm. What’s more, the tab’s wide headlamp eyes spoke of something more than fear: Recognition. The two felines were poised like statues for what could have been an age, Malcolm pinning the helpless ginger tab beside the bowl of leftovers, the other paw splayed open above his head. The smell pausing the whole scene. Something faintly resonated from somewhere deep. Something old and important lay within this cat’s scent. Never had Malcolm felt anything as deep and overarching as this before, as if a thread was gently pulling him towards this cat.

“Brother?” The ginger cat said, relaxing under his grip slightly. Malcolm was speechless, his mouth lolling open. He too, slackened his hold. “Is it you, brother? It is, isn’t it?” The tab rolled back over on his paws, coming to Malcolm’s eye level.

“You… can’t be,” Malcolm was aghast. After all these years.

creative writing

Writing Prompts

30th Mar 201929th Apr 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

Sit down in front of your notebook. Close your eyes for a few seconds and take yourself away. Picture your happiest memory; your highest point and warmest feeling. What was around you? How did you come to be there? Were you with anyone? Who was around? Why were you happy? How did it feel? Get it down. Whether you were on the beach, your arms outstretched embracing the wind as it blows through your hair, sprinting down the street in a rainstorm with the love of your life, or opening an envelope, your family looking at you with bated breath. Capture your feelings and how they came to be, bottle them into the page.

On the beach, your arms outstretched embracing the wind as it blows through your hair

Now write about the last time time you cried. Did you cry in front of anyone or were you alone? Where were you? What made you crack? Tell your story. Let it flood out from your memory, down your arm, your hand, through the pen and splash out onto the page. Know that your notebook is your closest friend. It will keep your secrets. Hide it under your mattress if you will, learn to break the seal on what you’re afraid to write. Introduce yourself to your notebook by writting down 10 things nobody knows about you; then 10 secrets you’ve promised to keep; and the top 10 lies you’ve told. This is your initiation. Learn to detach yourself from your bonds of secrecies when you write. Your writing becomes an infallible piece of art, detached from your own world of promises.

You’re warmed up. Now lie. Jot down two big fat lies and a truth. Note down little details. For example, I had:

Once I leaned back on my chair and into my math’s teacher’s crotch. Twice. Without realising: In year nine; my friends were laughing and I didn’t know why; after the first time they told me and I slid down my chair embarassed then stretched back again, hence the second time.
On my first shift working at a theatre I almost spilled wine on Arlene Philips: It was a private event for choreographers and contacts seeing the annual performance of a dance show; she was the first person I had ever served; tripped on something behind the bar but I just saved it; I don’t think she noticed.
My mother once left me trapped in the car for two hours: after doing the shop; I was four-years-old; I banged on the door; it wasn’t locked but I didn’t have the strength to use the door handle.

Tell them to someone. Get them to deduce which one is true and which is a lie. Pretend you’re on Would I Lie To You.

Spoiler: No.1 was my truth (And I’m still mortfied!). As an appalling liar, I like to use white lies. On my first shift I did almost spill wine but it wasn’t on Arlene Philips (although she was around!), and I was once trapped in a car because I wasn’t strong enough to open it but my mother was outside laughing. My point is, if you can’t think of where to begin with writing, use what you know. But then distort it. Make it believable, bizarre, fun and unique.

creative writing

Freewriting

28th Mar 20191st May 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

So you’ve got the itch to write. You want to tell a story fabricated by your own narrative, interweaving a sense of meaning through the piece with imagery, sense of place and characterisation. It may be intimidating to know where to begin all this. You’ve opened your notebook to a fresh, untainted page, biro in hand. And nothing. Have no fear. There is a simple remedy.

Controversial opinion: there is no such thing as writers block. Certainly, there are periods where ideas and word don’t seem to roll together and acculumate as easily. But as per my first ground rule (in the previous creative writing post), there is no such thing as bad writing. It is important to write everyday: oil the cogs so to speak. The key is a little thing called ‘freewriting’.

Simply, this is where you just write, pen to paper, non-stop for a set amount of time. Usually I would say 10 to 15 minutes is enough to wet your appetite, but of course keep going if you feel like you are getting somewhere. This may sound intimidating, however it is a highly beneficial and method advocated in many creative writing workshops run by authors of varying forms. Choose a subject to write about: your earliest memory; what you did last week; the weather outside. Get words down on the page and if they don’t come, write ‘nothing’ until they do.

Not only will this get rid of the scary blank new notebook feeling, it will form the basis of your sense of direction. It sets down the bare bones of something you can build up. For example, when I was writing about my experience of swimming at a young age, I mixed it with another story about a charcter getting drunk for the first time. These culminated into a story about a swimmer competing in a race as she examines her distorted relationship with her coach (which I may publish on here at some point). Think of what you want to write about. Prompts may include:

Your own experiences: the first time you rode a bicycle, baking as a young child, your first relationship. They say ‘write what you know’ and memories are the best way to do this (just be ready for them to change as the writing is reworked later on).
Evocative objects: look around the room . What strikes you? Pick it up, how does it felt, what does it smell like, how heavy is it, what would happen if you let go of it? If you are struggling to connect with anything, shoes can be extremely evocative. Where have they been, who might where them, what size are they and what does this indicate about the build of their owner?
Opening sentences: a strong opening to a story is crucial in order to capture the reader from the word ‘go’. Here are a few that have been extremely effective for me: ‘The key to hiding your identity is not something I will ever understand’; ‘Why did you bring me to the bloody circus?’; ‘They say the first thing you fall in love with are their eyes, but …’. Use these and come up with a few of your own.

Good luck with your writing, you never know where it will take you!

creative writing

The First Page

26th Mar 201927th Mar 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

Welcome to my first creative writing segment. If you’ve read my first blog post, then you’ll know that through a series of fortune events, I accidentally took a creative writing module this semester: and I cannot recommend creative writing enough.

So the chances are, whoever you are, you have some interest in creative writing, however vaguely. For starters, you are reading this blog. If you can read, then you can write. I came into my first creative writing session having not written a story for five years. All it takes is the desire to get something down and to stick with it.

Firstly, I should make clear that there are no rules to writing. It’s a fluid, uncontainable disease. That being said, I have made a quick list of top tips I can wholly recommend if you’re starting out, getting back into writing, or fancy looking over my take on it all.

Read everything you can lay your hands on

Ground rules:

Nothing you write is ‘bad’: Everything you write in the initial stages of storming ideas is useful. Things you don’t like can be redrafted, the important thing is to just get your ideas down on paper and let them take their own shape. You’ll be surprised at how much detail works itself out through your pen onto the paper. Characters fall out, setting, dialogue, storylines. Of course, this won’t happen all the time. The key is to keep going, doing writing exercises, redrafting, getting inside the character’s mind (I will be posting writing prompts and exercises at a later date, keep your eyes peeled).
Try to write everyday, or as much as you can: The only way to improve at something is to practise. Luckily for us, writing is completely free and accessible. Try to write in the morning before breakfast, on your lunchbreak or just before bed. Whenever you have time to spare. Although I would recommend using pen and paper over typing on the computer at first, do what feels best.
Pay attention: Keep your eyes open. Watch the world working around you. Listen to interesting conversations (whilst being mindful of people’s privacy!). Often the best source of inspiration is things that happen to us. Seeing how people and dialogue play out in real life leads to real characters. Notice people’s oddities, what makes them stand out, the first thing you notice about them. For example, when you’re doing your shop at the local supermarket, did you hear the beautiful, strong voice from the next aisle over talking on the phone about her holiday to the Alps and how she climbed the mountains last summer; only for you to find an old woman when you went over? Take your earphones out and listen to the world passing you by.
Read as much as you can: Read whatever you can lay your hands on: newspaper artiles, columns, poems, short stories, novels, essays. Find what you love. Absorb the array of different styles. See how different authors handle their characters, setting, themes. Jot down phrases you like, words that grab your attention, good openings or endings.
No creative writing notebook is neat, a scruffy notebook with ideas is better than an empty one waiting for publishable work to be neatly written out.

Feel the writing itch yet? Grab yourself a notebook. It doesn’t have to be fancy. In fact, the less intimidating the better. Open the first page and see what comes out. (Or keep your ears open for my next freewriting post!)

Miscellaneous

Diary 2.0: A Fresh Page

6th Mar 201926th Mar 2019 theadventuresofcaptainhetty

Hi! Nice to make your acquaintance! You can call me Captain Hetty. Welcome to my blog.

Over the past few years, I have been trying to keep a diary, but between university work, a part-time job and pretending to keep a social life of sorts, I have failed miserably. So what better way to keep up with recording my life than a blog? (Famous last words?)

“Who I am?” I hear you ask! Well, like any other sane being, I am a big fan of cats. And dogs. I grew up with three cats and later a dog. Since our yorkie sadly passed away, I am ‘pet-broody’, so there is a 99% chance I will steal your pets if you’re not careful!

This is Maurice, he will probably crop up now and again

Kidnapping threat aside, I am also from the South West and have moved down even further South to study English and History at undergraduate: Don’t worry though, I am in no sense pretentious. In the same way Hamlet’s inability to act was his fatal flaw, writing is mine. I know, who takes humanities and can’t even write? Well, that would apparently be me. It is true, ever since I first encountered exams, my love for writing and reading has been very much neglected, I am ashamed to say. But have no fear, this semester I am going through a spiritual quest to find my inner writer again.

Talking about my inner writer, this semester I am taking creative writing. By accident. Turns out selecting a ‘Short Stories’ module because you think there will be less reading has its comeuppance when you’re the one writing the stories! As I haven’t done creative writing in half a decade, I need all the practise I can get my hands on. Therefore, I hope to use this blog as a diary, place to air some stories, rants alike. And I hope you will join me on the way!