There were dozens of good ones to choose from so we have selected random excerpts from our list of favourites.
Final Scene - by Ariella Caira (Basics of Creative Writing)
The wet road glistened under the streetlight as Tyler, Chris and Katie sped home from the club. Although the streets were quiet, Tyler’s Alfa Spider was not. The roar of its engine combined with the heavy house music Tyler was pumping through the subwoofers would warn anyone of their approach from kilometers off.
Chris, squashed in the back seat, dropped his head between his knees and told himself to ‘breathe’. The speed, noise and heady smell of old leather, Katie’s perfume and the smoke from the club were starting to push his car sickness to a whole new level. Throwing up in Ty’s car and most of all, in Katie’s presence, would be the ultimate in ‘uncool.’
Tyler, still hyped from the night of partying, sat forward in his seat and thumped the steering wheel in time to the music. “Hey babes,” he shouted to Katie sitting in the passenger’s seat. She folded her arms tightly over her chest and turned away from him. Tyler pushed harder on the accelerator.
“C’mon lady,” he said squeezing her thigh. She pulled her leg away.
Again Tyler had embarrassed them by getting into a bar fight which in turn had seen them all getting kicked out of the club.
“C’mon babe, don’t ignore me. That dick deserved it, besides he punched me first!” Tyler tried again, rubbing the ruddy bruise on his cheek, slurring a little as he spoke. “He was staring at your ass the whole night. Can you blame me for wanting to protect your assets?”
Katie rolled her eyes and looked out of the window. Tyler grinned then, “Excuse the pun.”
Chris raised his head in time to see Katie clenching her jaw, her fingers grippng her arms tighter. She had every right to be upset. Ty had embarrassed her too many times to count and she and Chris always had to clean up after him.
Final Scene – by Krpasha Govindasamy (Basics of Creative Writing)
Ella slid off the bed, leaving behind an amorphous lump of duvet. Her body cast a slender shadow against the curtains as she curled her toes into the hairy bed spread crumpled at the foot of the bed. She stared at the letter on the dresser-table hardly believing that it was real. He was gone, taken, lost to her. She was on her own again.
She put on her robe, the purple silk cool and soft against her skin, sat down and read the letter for the third time that day. The smell of jasmine oil mingled with the humidity of the room made her head throb.
‘Dear Ella. Thank you for your letter. I am sorry for not writing sooner. I am well. This place is so beautiful - there are Black-eyed Susans everywhere. I am happy and content here with my friend. Ella, I think I have fallen in love with her. I don’t know how else to say this but I want to be with her wholeheartedly, really. I don’t know what else to say… Please, take care of yourself. Much love, Bruno.’
She turned the page over. The clock blinked 3:10AM as the flickering candlelight played off the gold-rimmed pages of Milton’s Paradise Lost lying open on her bookshelf. ‘Yeah, indeed.’ Her whisper seemed loud in the silence of the morning. She shut her eyes for a moment gripping her pen, savouring the moment before the words scratched themselves into the paper to reveal all she could not say to herself. As she began to scribble hunched over the page, the frowns on her face slowly faded. She hesitated, her back stiffening. It was happening more and more. She was seeing the characters within her own setting. They seemed to have jumped out of her head and into her world.
Final Scene – by Aimee Fouche (Basics of Creative Writing)
“Jamie, don’t fall asleep, Honey. What else can you tell me?” Mum asked. He was stretched out on the cool slate tiles, moving his bare legs only when the tiles beneath them weren’t cool anymore.
He didn’t answer. His mum knew the answer, he already told her a gazillion times. Mr. Bunny was the only friend he played with today. If Mr. Bunny hadn’t carried him to the table, he wouldn’t even have blown out the candles on his Spiderman cake! And as Mr Bunny didn’t eat any cake, neither did Jamie.
His eyes felt heavy, and itchy, but he kept them on Mum while she packed colourful plates into the dishwasher. She looked very disappointed when she saw the state of the house. Jamie also sighed looking at Niknaks crushed on the floor, brown handprints on the white cupboards and sweets wrappers all over. Luckily he was grown up by now. He wished Mum would stop inviting younger kids to his parties. They were cry-babies, and messy and not very smart.
Mum grabbed a wet cloth and started wiping and picking up, stepping over his body.
“Jamie! I’m going to clean outside, coming along?” asked Mum as she opened the glass doors to the garden.
“No, Mum. I’m still angry with Basil for stealing the Easter eggs from my hide. He’s a bad dog!” Jamie kept staring at Mum while she was collecting dishes from outside. She took big steps over balls, lego blocks and stuffed toys. She passed the hideout where he and Mr. Bunny found their ‘Bunny-brother-gang’ and planned an attack after Sam intruded with a water gun. Their flag was still hanging there; a Spiderman napkin dangling from a twig.
A sudden noise came from the scullery. Jamie has always hated the scullery. It was dark and eerie. His heart was pounding in his chest. He opened his mouth to call Mum, but stopped short when remembering the talk he had with Mr. Bunny earlier. He was now a big boy. He felt strong when Mr. Bunny told him that he was ‘cleverer and braverer than all the other kids’. He could do this himself! So, he tiptoed towards the scullery, stopped at the door and peered through the opening at the wall. From the messy hair and hanging shoulders, he was relieved to recognise Dad. Dad was mumbling, stuffing things into the cupboard and being clumsy. Mum always said that Dad was as clumsy as a Chinese elephant.
Jamie didn’t want Dad to think he was scared, so he quietly returned to his spot on the tiles and pretended to sleep.
Scriptwriting Assignment focusing on dialogue – by Stanley Denga:
Lizzy. Baby I need to talk to you.
Abel. (He yawns) What time is it?
Lizzy. Midnight
Abel. Can’t this wait?
Lizzy. No, it can’t.
(Abel wakes up)
Lizzy. Baby I am so sorry about earlier, I didn’t meant to hurt you, I’m truly sorry, please forgive me.
(She starts crying)
Abel. But baby you always apologize and repeat the same thing time and time again. This thing has to stop.
Lizzy. I know my love, from now on things will change, and I promise you. I don’t want to lose you.
Abel. So what happens if you don’t change? Then what? I won’t take it any longer, if you keep on working and spending too much time at your office, I will leave this house. You are putting me in an impossible situation; you can’t carry on like this Lizzy.
Lizzy
(She continues crying)
Lizzy. I promise baby.
Abel. It’s ok baby, stop crying please.
(They hug each other.)
Lizzy. There is something else I want to tell you.
Abel. What is it baby?
Lizzy. I’m
(Pause)
Lizzy takes a deep breath.
Abel. You are what, baby? The suspense is killing me.
Lizzy. Ok, please hold my hand
(Abel holds Lizzy’s hand)
Lizzy. I wasn’t feeling well today at work, so I went to see my doctor; he took a couple of tests and then told me that I’m pregnant.
Abel. You are what?
Lizzy. We are pregnant
Abel. Are you sure, baby?
Lizzy. I am sure, baby, I tested positive.
Abel. I don’t get it baby; I thought you were on the pill, that’s what we agreed on.
Lizzy So what are you telling me, are you telling me you don’t want the baby? Huh? Tell me?
Abel. What I’m saying to you is why didn’t you take the pill?
Lizzy. I forgot.
Abel. How can you forget something like that? Baby, I told you, what are we going to do?
(Lizzy starts crying)
Lizzy. I thought you wanted to marry me and have kids with me.
Abel. I do baby, baby it’s just that…
Lizzy. It’s just that what?
Abel. You know how my father was; he abused my mother, he used to kick her in the face, I was exposed to all of that torturing, and he left. Baby, I’m just scared.
(Lizzy moves closer to Abel and touches his face)
Lizzy. Don’t be scared baby; you are going to be a good father.
Abel. How do you know?
Lizzy. I just know my love.
(They hold and kiss)
Abel. I hope it’s a girl who will be as beautiful as her mother.
Lizzy. I love you.
Abel. I love you too my queen.
Short Story Writing Assignment – by Patti Smith
The blood was pounding in her ears, but she crept behind the leather wingback chair and risked a peek around the edge of the shabby brocaded curtain. She stifled a scream. There was something down there! She could see it on the lawn, beside a pile of loose earth it had dug out from the flower bed under her window! In the moonlight the shape was distorted, the shifting shadows blurring its outline, making it difficult for her to gauge its size under the baggy clothing. She ducked back into the room again when it lifted its head to look up at the window, but she got enough of a look at the face to make her stifle a scream once more.
The long tangled hair under the cap had come loose and was hanging down, partly concealing one eye, the other eye socket gleaming faintly in the starlight. The heavily bearded face hid his mouth, but not the dark outline of the jagged scar across his nose, stopping just above his lip.
Short Story Writing Assignment – by Cornelia Booysens
I walk onto the bus and take a seat right at the back. The worn leather seat makes a squeaking noise as I shift to get comfortable. I'm not too keen on long bus rides, but I know that once I get off I'll be climbing onto a train for an even longer journey. A journey that could end in disaster. I'm actually praying that the bus breaks down.
The seat in front of me is riddled with cracks. I catch myself, realizing that I've been staring at it for god knows how long. I glance outside the window on my right, watching the autumn leaves fall, and I imagine being one of those dead leaves on the ground.
Now the nerves are acting up again. My stomach is doing back flips and I quietly curse myself for letting the situation get to me. I remind myself that I am a soldier now. Unwillingly drafted to aid in the war effort, but a soldier nonetheless. I sigh, my breath fogging up the window.
Short Story Assignment – by Tessa Ainsbury
Daniel had not wanted the high wall, or the electric fence, when they moved in.
“There is a greater probability of criminals harming you behind closed walls – how would the neighbours know you were in trouble, Becks?”
But Becky was cautious about everything.
Thus far her caution had paid off. At school, she had worked diligently at all her subjects. Extramural activities like drama afforded genuine enjoyment, sport less so. All aspects were carefully managed to ensure a sparkling testimonial and University bursary. Yes, there were gaps. No social life, for a start. Becky was a social misfit. Dances were a nightmare. Camps even worse. It did not matter, though. Becky always looked to the future.
University was a cinch. Unlike her peers, she started, and finished, her sensible commerce degree. She allowed herself to have a steady relationship with a nice, reliable man, who was three years older and a varsity senior. A couple of stable friendships formed. Becky always carried an air of disapproval about her, however, earning her the nickname “Mary Poppins”. She had no pregnancy scares, no drunken parties, and no heartbreak.
Portion of a novel - by Ami van Zyl (Write a Novel Course)
It wasn’t weird that mom was on the phone, she was always on the phone – the prayer groups called, the Parent’s Organisation at school, my teachers, sometimes dad from work, the strange voices that try to sell you money for when you’re dead, mom is always running to the phone, smelling of soap and coffee.
But she never gets angry on the phone, not even at wrong numbers or people selling things, she says ‘sorry’ or ‘no thank you’ or ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken’, but never ‘that can’t be right’, ‘are you serious?’, ‘what right do you think you have?’ and ‘please, please, never - do not ever call again.’
That’s why I lifted myself from the carpet and followed her, so quietly she couldn’t even notice. I even tried not to breathe, to hold all the air I would need behind my salty-sea-bottom-bruise ribs. I stepped with the toes of my socks barely brushing the floor. I held my elbows to my sides with my arms dangling like heavy wings, like I was an owl tired from hunting all night, pulling in my feathers to hide me from the light.
‘Theo, really. Don’t do this now.’
The smell of soap and coffee stepped further away, to the bookshelf, and I let the caged air out of my lungs. It tasted weird coming from so deep, and I got a bit lost in that, so I missed mom leave for her room.
She’d taken a few of the fullest books with her, all with green and cream and pink and cheerful yellow covers. The sticky notes in mom’s books always look so sad to me, even though they are the happy colours of a really bright circus. The way they hang at their tips, it’s like they could be the petals of a dry old flower.
I didn’t know what to do with myself, now that mom had gone to her room. I thought about phoning dad, but that wouldn’t be good. I thought so long about what to do that my feet started tingling and getting all hot and cold and my knees became hard to move.
NEWS FROM THE TRAVEL WRITING COURSE
Recent travel writing students have drawn their inspiration from all over the world, but you don’t have to go far for inspiration; it might be right around the corner, writes Carrie Hampton.
Jeanette Lochner set her article close to home in the Stellenbosch University Botanical Garden, which unbeknown to most people, is full of medicinal plants.
“Among the indigenous plants and close to the main bed of aloes, there grows a lesser-known edible plant. The spekboom (‘fat tree’) has succulent leaves with a tangy taste, great for quenching your thirst if you are lucky enough to stumble upon one in the bush. It also works well in salad and as a tea.”
While exploring the herb garden, Jeanette met a botany student who told her that his field is specifically edible and medicinal plants. “…..he studied botany so that he could look after himself if society fell apart. This might have been in jest, but learning how to take care of your own needs directly from nature is a great experience and worth the effort.”
Karen Forrest wrote about the Buddhist nuns of Tiger Cave; “Cloaked in silence, inside a mysterious mountain cave in Southern Thailand”. While managing to set the scene and create a dramatic sense of place, Karen also delved deeper into the life of the nuns, who are called mae chee.
“Mae chees in Thailand are not considered monastic and therefore do not have the same status as monks. Women, although allowed to become a mae chee, are only permitted to take eight vows, whereas monks take 227 vows. They are generally not allowed to go on alms rounds as giving alms to a mae chee does not provide for any advantage in the spirit world.”
This single insight could have provided a platform for the author to be judgmental, but Karen avoided this and continued to tell the bigger story in the context of Thai culture.
Barry Washkansky found himself ‘Getting high in the Swiss Alps’ for his final article on the Advanced Travel Writing Course.
“Snowshoes don’t look at all like the tennis rackets I remember from old comic books; far more high tech and effective in spreading the weight of the hiker over a larger area to prevent sinking to your knees in the soft snow.”
His attempt to summit The Allalinhorn is recounted in this article; “After about three hours hiking and still a good way to go, time was running out and my water with it. … We turned and headed down, myself disappointed, but relieved, André simply disappointed. … An hour later we all hurried for cover as a thunderstorm descended on us; the temperature plunging as dramatically as the downpour. I glanced up at the now invisible Allalinhorn and wondered about our fate had we attempted to reach the summit.”
Jenna van Schoor travelled to the Karoo to escape into a world of dry, endless space and a night in the homestead of an old family friend.
“The landscape is arid, with scratchy scrub vegetation and lonely windmills whirring in the distance. If I had longer hair, an A-Track, and the Eagles “Hotel California” playing in the background, I would be a vision straight out of my father’s memories….When I round the corner I see a faded, but beautifully maintained Karoo homestead, sheltered by a cluster of trees. It does not seem like the right place, too easy to find. I then notice an unfamiliar elderly couple, clearly the owners of this hidden abode, who are slowly staggering up the adjoining pathway into view. This is clearly not where I am meant to be. They regard my unexpected arrival with some bewilderment; a blonde sporting an untamed mane and black heart-shaped sunglasses must be a rarity this side of the Orange River. Visibly marked by hard work and years in the unforgiving semi-desert sun, the couple’s tanned complexions are in stark contrast to their pale and faded farm clothes - a humorous juxtaposition to a spoiled, city bimbo with manicured fingernails on a quest to experience Karoo life.”
The journey that Francis Brady and her tutor, Carrie Hampton, took together ended with a final article worthy of publication, about cycling around the rice paddies of Thailand.
But now Francis and her husband Barry (both retired), are on another journey of discovery and in her words borrowed from John Denver, "I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again…”. They are setting off on a world trip with no time limit and no reasons to hurry home - in fact I think they sold their home! If you would like to read about their journey, their blog is up and running: www.gypsytales.wordpress.com and it looks as if South America is first on the list.
Adriaan Odendaal, the youngest student ever on the Travel Writing Course, showed great promise and had his final article published in Country Life this month. He didn't have much travel experience, so he took the advice that there is usually something worth writing about around your own corner, and wrote an article about his home town of Malmesbury. He successfully managed to make a town that people usually pass through, into a place worth a stop.
TUTOR NEWS
-
Alex Smith ('Write a Novel' tutor) has been shortlisted for the Sanlam Youth Literature Award. The results will be released in March 2010.
-
Lisa Lazarus’s The Book of Jacob got stellar reviews, among them:
-
Ginny Swart (Short Story Writing tutor) has continued to write for discerning women’s mags in the UK, Scandinavia and Australia. She added three new magazines in the USA to her sales list. “This is a personal breakthrough for me, although I haven’t hit the Holy Grail yet, which is Woman’s World USA. I keep subbing and hoping,” says Ginny. Since January she has published 42 short stories, which takes her total number of stories sold to well over 400.
Ginny has published three stories in literary anthologies this year, as well as had her third romance novel, Under the African Sun, published by Linford Romance Library.
SPOTLIGHT ON: LISA LAZARUS
Lisa Lazarus has written articles for magazines, including Mail & Guardian, Men’s Health, Psychologies and Shape for the past ten years. She is also the author of the memoir, The Book of Jacob (Oshun), and is currently working on her first novel. Lisa has tutored the Magazine Journalism Course since 2005 and will be presenting the 'Write a Memoir' Course at NZWC.
Q. How did you become a writer?
I’ve always loved writing (and even more so, read
ing). As a child and teenager, creative writing was the only homework that I enjoyed and was most likely to do. I must confess, though, that I did reuse my high school essays quite frequently. I always thought that the idea of a creative writing exam was rather a problem – how could you have a time-limited exam when it came to writing creatively?
During my early adulthood I didn’t do much creative writing, although I did a lot of business writing in a management position. With my husband’s encouragement, I started writing for magazines, later memoir, and now creative writing.
I have great faith in the power of words to influence and endear. My relationship with Greg actually grew from letter writing: we met, he returned to the UK and we corresponded via email for a few months. When he returned to Cape Town, we decided to marry after only five days. In essence, we’d fallen in love by writing to one another... so never underestimate the power of words! PHOTO: BookSA
WEB BYTES FOR WRITERS
-
The 10 Best Books of 2009
After so many years, and so many lists, you might think the task of choosing the 10 Best Books would get easier. If only. The sublime story collections alone created agonies of indecision. So did the superb literary biographies we read — and deeply admired. But in the end the decisions had to be made. Not that drawing up the list — or rather, whittling it down — was a wholly painful exercise. One of the pleasures it afforded was the chance to resample the sometimes surprising chemistry of reviewers and authors, particularly when it came to fiction. Jonathan Lethem, whose “Chronic City” made our list, reviewed Lorrie Moore’s novel “A Gate at the Stairs,” which made it too, while Curtis Sittenfeld, whose novel “Prep” was one of the 10 Best in 2005, reviewed Maile Meloy’s story collection “Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It,” a winner this year. Any book review editor will attest that persuading fiction writers to assess other people’s fiction can be a struggle. These were heartening exceptions to the rule. May more novelists review for us in 2010! More..
-
Beyond Borders: the future of bookselling
Borders has gone belly-up, Amazon thrives, and doom-mongers are proclaiming the death of literature on the high street. But this could be the opening of a fine new chapter… Contrary to popular belief – or at least to those dullards who swear by Amazon – shopping for books is like shopping for clothes, or a husband: sometimes you don't know what you want until you see it, and this is where a good store comes in. When I woke up last Friday morning I had not even heard of a book called Women Who Read Are Dangerous but later that same day I made a trip to a new shop, Lutyens & Rubinstein in west London, and there it was, sitting in the window, calling out to me at the top of its voice. Women Who Read Are Dangerous. What a title! I don't mind admitting that I would have bought it for that alone. But once inside, I found it was my perfect book in other ways, too, containing, as it does, a feast of beautiful paintings of women reading by artists such as Felix Vallotton, Edouard Vuillard, Henri Matisse and Duncan Grant, and a politely fiery text which serves to remind one that, in the not too dim and distant past, for a woman to be seen absorbed in a book was considered at best a selfish act and at worst a subversive one. More...
-
Sue Guiney: Writing Life: The Death of the Novel, or Worse
Basically, Smith talks about her new book of essays, and how more and more fiction writers are turning away from the novel and towards more "realistic" forms -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Margaret Drabble, Chinua Achebe, Michael Clabon, to name a few. ... Plenty of people are still writing novels. Plenty more are still buying them in one form or another -- regardless of what the publishing industry proclaims. I do believe that one of the key differentiations that can be made ... Read more...
- Publishing is as easy as one, two, $599 and up | Murder She Writes
How many times have we heard: “Writing's easy.” Really? Easy? Finish a book, edit the book, get an agent, sell to a publisher (who pays you) and then tell me it's easy. And I have news for you (okay, not YOU, faithful readers of MSW, who already know this) but it doesn't get any easier. ... New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award winning author Allison Brennan has published twelve romantic thrillers with Ballantine, plus a novella and two short stories. Read the rest ...
ENTER THESE COMPETITIONS
Amazon and Penguin Novel Competition
Between Jan. 25 and Feb. 7, 2010, writers with an English-language novel manuscript can submit their work at www.amazon.com/abna. Up to 10,000 total initial entries will be accepted, with up to 5,000 each in the general fiction and young adult categories. Amazon.com editors will select 1,000 entries from each category to advance to the next round. In the subsequent round, Amazon.com editors and at least one top reviewer on Amazon.com will read excerpts of the 2,000 entries and narrow the pool to 500 quarter-finalists (250 in each category). Reviewers from Publishers Weekly will then read, rate and review the full manuscripts, and 50 semi-finalists for each category will be selected. Penguin editors will evaluate the manuscripts of the 50 general fiction and 50 young adult semi-finalists, and choose three finalists for each award. Read more ...
The Stanford University Libraries and the William Saroyan Foundation jointly award the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing, a competition for newly-published books.
The prize commemorates the life, legacy and intentions of William Saroyan - author, artist, dramatist, composer - and is intended to encourage new or emerging writers, rather than to recognize established literary figures.
Two prizes of $5,000 will be awarded, one each in fiction and non-fiction. Poetry and other literary forms will not be considered.
Only works published in book form between January 1, 2008 and December 31, 2009, available for individual purchase by the general public, and primarily in English are eligible for the Saroyan Prize in 2010.
Completed entries must be received by Stanford University Libraries no later than January 31, 2010. Entry form and details are here or contact Sonia Lee on
This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it
Nichola Meyer: Principal
Liesl Jobson
Helen Brain has consistenly achieved all-excellent feedback from her students. She is working on a follow-up course called '
capability in such a positive way; being tutored by Helen on this course did just that. 
