Right. Step one for applying to uni is to get my old tutor to review my work, my statement and my portfolio. Sorted - happening on Monday.
Then send in the application and cross my fingers.
What if they don't want me?
What if they don't even want to interview me?
Aaaaargh! Can't think like that.
Quick - divert, divert, do something pro-active.
Bought this book to aid my journey - The Creative Writing Coursebook. It is both terribly good and utterly terrifying. Have been doing the exercises and will try this one now.
Deconstructing Beds... by Alison Fell.
Write 100 words prose description of a bed you slept in as a child. It needn't be perfect Virginia Woolf-type prose, as it is only raw material, but write in sentences rather than note form, as the verbs will be important later.
Right, here goes then.
My bed was the bottom bunk in a room shared with my elder brother. I liked the enclosed space of being on the bottom - rather like I imagined a four-poster bed would feel, and besides, I was scared of falling out of the top as I had seen Adrian do. Next to my pillow hung a curtain that covered an alcove housing an old harmonium. The curtain had strange, abstract patterns on it, and each night I would stare at the blocks of bold colour and imagine myself and the bed shrinking down, down, down, until my bed was the size of one of the blocks. Then the air currents would carry my tiny bed drifting up towards the ceiling. I was always asleep before I reached the top, the weightless sensation lulling me unconscious, and the patterns seeming to pass below me like vast, multi-coloured elevators.
Right, that's more than 100 words but I reckon that's OK.
Next step.
Write another 100 words on the bed you currently occupy, what's in it, what surrounds it, what do you do in it, etc.
Well now, some of that is none of your business, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
My bed is a king size over soft yummy monster that takes up almost the whole room. This is fine because we have a dressing room elsewhere, so sleeping in and 'sleeping with' are really the only things that need to happen in this room. I made the headboard and covered it myself with a scrap of William Morris fabric bequeathed by Joe's granny. I have lots of extra pillows, feather of course. I know they don't hold their shape as well as sponge, but when did life become too short for plumping? My cat sleeps all day on my bed so there is always a warm patch waiting for me, which is a shame because I like it cold.
Ouch! Just went to bathroom to fill up my glass of water and got a static shock off the tap because I have been on the laptop. S'not fair.
Write a final 100 words on a fantasy bed, a bed where money is no object, a bed that can be made of anything you like.
I used to dream of a bed made of hot air when I was a child. Strong jets of warmth held you up about a foot above the surface, and massaged you like a jacuzzi while you slept. This is no longer my fantasy. I don't want warm air anywhere near my face. I want an open window and a soft breeze permanently billowing the gauze curtains that drape near the head of my extra-large bed. There is room for the cat and a dog at the bottom, miles from my feet. The view of the Mediterranean/Adriatic/Aegean/Pacific (I don't care which), shimmering violet in the dawn light and framed by the forest/mountains/bougainvillea etc., makes this my favourite place to be. The pillow cases stay air-conditioner chilled all night, and the patchwork quilt was made by Kaffe Fassett last time he dropped by, but most importantly, in this bed, no one ever, ever snores - least of all me.
Now print this out and cut it all up into small words and phrases. Make sure you separate cliches like 'book' and 'shelves' or 'chest' and 'drawers. Spread them all out and PLAY. See what short sentences you can assemble without worrying about meaning or narrative. Be intuitive. Keep normal syntax as your only guiding rule. Keep an open mind and allow themes to emerge. If you can, use all the words.
Ok, now I've spent about an hour (should take two) and used half the words (should use more) but this is what I've come up with so far.
My cat, my favourite coloured monster,
chilled, unconscious, sleeping in a scrap of patchwork, snores.
Strange - all day I like the sensation, while you, below me,
seeming made of shrinking forest feel always abstract.
Stay.
I was strong, rather like feather mountains,
my bed a warm fantasy,
drifting permanently on the hot, night air.
In this room I want a child,
bequeathed by an all night billowing, plumping, down, down, down,
in a bed of weightless sponge.
My want colours the whole room violet.
A soft harmonium gauze dressing the bed,
and the patterns that covered it - blocks of Bougainvillea - the only shared thing.
When I was sleeping with my pillow,
housing the cat, Adrian, and enclosed,
I imagined my tiny room become too lulling,
and jets of scared shame the size of space, of being, framed my view.
I held you, waiting so cold, like a king on my bed.
When did life, like vast Adriatic elevators
carry my feet towards the curtain, the open window, out of my self.
Always asleep, of course,
I made the bed before I reached the fine, four surface.
You, like me, had to pass the time on it.
Well that's my stab at it - why don't you have a go?
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