#andrewcowan

[ladybugmeat]

29. A place

Take a few moments to locate in your memory some small physical object that held a particular fascination for you as a child. You may have played with it, or simply held it, or merely looked at it (perhaps you were forbidden to touch it). 

In my case, it would be the tiny brass golfer in a floppy tom-o’-shanter and chequered plus-fours who stood on my grandparents’ mantelpiece. Ignoring the wider location, begin to describe the object. Imagine first that you are looking at it: how would you describe its appearance? Then pick it up: how would you describe the feel of it? Consider its size, shape, material, texture, weight. It may make a sound; it may even smell. 

Now begin to pan out, as if your mind’s eye were a camera. Describe the immediate location. This could be a location. This could be a shelf, a mantelpiece, a table, or the corner of a room. Is the surface patterned, varnished, coloured, reflective? Hard or soft? How does the light fall?

Pan out a little further and begin to describe the room, which should be empty of people. Is it spacious or cramped, tidy or cluttered? How is the space arranged? What do you see on the walls, the floor, the back of the door? Describe the furniture, the ornaments. How does the light fall? 

[ladybugmeat]

Lately, sitting down to write has been arduous. Distracted, cloistered in a draughty kitchen I eat fruit bowls and have my fingers on my face. I’ve flittered between books, jot down arresting images, neat turns of phrase, unusual details, and these have formed, Unwillingly, a loose conglomeration of pieces. 

Seeking respite and focus from the brain ache I’ve decided to work through Andrew Cowan’s writing exercises from ‘The Art Of Writing Fiction’. I’ll post the exercises alongside my feeble stabs. If any one of you gregarious species could stray from foraging this cyberspace, from your flocks, colonies or roosts, to have a dip or dabble, I would like that. 

Poke out my eyes. 

[ladybugmeat]

11. First thoughts

Think of the person you are closest to in the world, the person whose life you know the most intimately. You are going to write for fifteen minutes, describing in detail what you imagine that person to be doing (and thinking and feeling) at this very moment. Write in the present tense, and address it to ‘you’ - e.g. You are humming to yourself. Standing on tip-toe, you are scanning the top shelf of the cupboard for the pistachio nuts I hid there last night …

The rules are these:

You are free to write illegibly and ungrammatically. 

You are free to be clumsy and clichéd. 

You are free to repeat or contradict yourself.

You are free to write rubbish. 

You are free to write anything.

You are free to go completely off the point. 

But you must write without a moment’s pause for exactly fifteen minutes. 

No one is going to read what you write - not your teacher or your classmates, and especially not the person you’re describing.