They say that if you want to be a writer then you need a blog to showcase your writing skills. Well, i thought about starting up a new blog, just for that and then i thought, hey! Wait a minute! I already have one, quite a nice one actually with funky flowers and calming colours. Why not resurrect that one from the dying ethers in which it currently lies?
So here we are, a third of the way through my first year of a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing course with the Open University and i have never written so much in so short a time. I have also never received so much critique about my writing ability in so short a time either, but i am happy to report that it has largely been good and, strangely, people seem to like what i write and the way in which i write it. Maybe i am onto a winner here? Ha, only time can really tell on this one, but i’m willing to keep on trying.
I’m not saying that everything i have written is good, some of them are imminently forgettable as the exercises they are planned to be. Just an exercise in writing to a specific prompt or using a specific technique, some of which gel with the writer and some of which are, frankly, just not my cup of tea.
One that has stuck in my memory though is the following exercise where the brief was to write around 500 words using colloquialisms and language of your home town or Country. Now, i am Cornish, and very proud to be so. I absolutely loved coming up with this one, i hope you enjoy it too.
‘Tis no good,’ Jess said as she slammed the pastry down onto the floured board, ‘I’m gettin’ sum teasy with these bleddy emmets down ‘ere all the time with their bleddy upcountry ways.’ She pointed towards the bowlful of peeled potatoes that were sat on the table, ‘Pass us them teddy’s over will ‘e maid?’
Amy did as she was bid, ‘here you go Gran. You really shouldn’t let them get to you, you know.’
‘Aye, I naw’s that, but they really get me goat and they ain’t gotta bleddy clue wasson ‘alf the time.’
Jess had finished rolling out the pastry and was deftly turning a large potato in one hand whilst chipping small bitesize chunks off with a knife in the other and placing them in a line in the middle of the pastry.
‘I don’t know how you do that without cutting yourself. ‘Amy said, trying to deflect her Grandmothers temper.
‘Tis easy tis, jus’ like drivin’ down the bleddy lane is. I thought she were gonna start squallin’ when she had to reverse up the ‘ill. Turmits next me ‘ansome.’
‘It’s swede Gran, turnips are white and these are yellow,’ Amy smiled.
‘I’ll give e swede! They’m all turmits to me. Beef and onion from that bowl there next.’
Amy watched as her gran flipped the outside of the pastry over the filling and quickly crimped the edges together in a fingers over thumb movement before placing it onto an opened butter wrapper and putting it into the oven.
‘You know, we do have greaseproof paper these days. You don’t have to save all your butter wrappers anymore,’ Amy chided.
‘I’ll give e bleddy greaseproof paper an all! When you’ve bin makin’ pasty’s longer’un me then you ken tell us about bleddy greaseproof paper! Aye, you’m a booty you are.’ She laughed, shaking her head at her grand daughter.
‘Fancy a cuppa tea Gran?’
‘Aye, me cups over there. Jus’ top’un up. When this pasty comes out, I’ll wrap’un up an e can take un to work for yer crib later.’
‘Thanks Gran, You’re the best. My mates are well jealous of my pasties on my break.’