Back in 2009, I was taking a creative writing course at university, which I loved. As you may have guessed by the content of this blog, I really want to be a writer, but the truth is, I’ve got this weird “thing” about being critiqued. For many years, I was scared of putting my stuff out there and having someone destroy my dream by saying it’s crap. But as I’ve gotten older and realized that opportunities in life are fleeting, I’ve become more willing to take risks. I also figure if I’m going to be a writer by profession, I have to eventually allow my writing to see the light of day, because, good or bad, it’s got to be read, otherwise, what’s the point? And the other thing I’ve come to realize is, negative feedback doesn’t necessarily mean that I suck, it just means that I’ve got room to improve. And who doesn’t really? So that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
So in keeping with my personal resolution to “put my stuff out there”, I decided to post this. It’s an assignment I did for my creative writing course. The assignment was to describe “addiction” in a story format, and if possible, without using the same two adjectives. The assignment is not to start and complete an actual “story”, but it’s primarily focused on the aspect of “description”. As someone who enjoys describing images with words, this writing exercise was right up my alley.
Also, I should mention we were allowed to plagarize one sentence from a book we’d read, so long as the sentence was to be used as a point of inspiration. My line was: “The stench of gin fumes and bile made her eyes water”. In fact, most of the first paragraph is paraphrased from my source, “Tent of Blue”, by Rachel Preston as my jumping off point. Anyway, if you’re interested in reading further, here it is (see below):
“She stood rooted at the door to the bathroom. The stench of gin fumes and bile made her eyes water. There was no hiding her addiction anymore. Not that she had bothered hiding it for quite some time. Nor had she tried to sanitize it, tone it down with a glass, a slice of lime, a splash of tonic or orange. She drank the warm, bitter liquid straight from the bottle, always alone and with the curtains drawn.”
“A carnivorous ache began to form in her belly, even as the taste of her own vomit tinged her swollen tongue. She closed her eyes and visualized the photo of her infant son, held neatly under a magnetic frame, attached to the refrigerator door. She bit down decisively on the soft tissue inside her cheek. The pain drove away her shame for a moment as she took a clumsy step forward, her thick toes curling against the smooth ceramic tiles. She stumbled, her soiled knees buckling underneath her lumpish frame as she fell, hard, like a solid leaden slab plummeting against concrete.”
“She lay there, sprawled out and motionless, her bloated legs twisted beneath her, her reddened jowls pressed against the cool enamel floor. She savored the salty taste of blood in her mouth, twirling the tip of her tongue into the sunken pockets of her decaying teeth, as if feeding off her own self-hatred brought her a corrupt sort of pleasure. Strands of sweaty hair matted against her face, but she didn’t care. Instead she closed her eyes, hoping to find refuge in the sweetness of a gentle dream. She envisioned her son, with his tuft of blond curls shaping his ethereal face and crooked smile, his eyes the color of warm maple, his chubby little hand pressed against her palm. She smiled, her tight lips curled upward as she breathed a deep sigh of relief. But as quickly as the moment came, it went, scurrying off into a sliver in the floorboards like a timid little mouse. She began to choke, suddenly aware of a smell more acute than stomach bile and gin.”
“Her face began to burn and her throat closed. There, next to the bathtub was a pile of denim and baby blue cotton. She reached for the trousers and dragged them across the floor. The smell made her gag. She looked up and there it was; a large wet patch across the backside, and in the middle, the darker stain of excrement. She shrieked, angrily tossing the trousers into the bathtub as she crawled across the floor, curling her fat fingers around the lip of the tub to pull herself up to her knees, her pendulous breasts cushioning her weight as she leaned forward to reach for the steel water tap.”
“It was stuck. She grunted, twisting the tap furiously as it slipped underneath her clammy palm. The dismal stench of thick mould clung to the air. She tasted her own pungent odor as a bead of sweat dripped off the crest of her upper lip and slid onto her tongue. She swore at the trousers, loudly, as if their current state was somehow a direct result of their own stupid negligence. The familiar ache was eating at her insides, her hands trembling as she turned to the wastebasket. She began to paw frantically through the garbage, desperately searching for a discarded bottle that contained one last burly swig of whisky. Elbow-deep in discarded tissues and empty cardboard paper rolls, she gasped as she felt the fluent shape of curved glass underneath her fingertips.”
“She picked it up and pulled it into her chest, cradling it against her body for a moment as she began to cry. She gave in for just a moment, hot tears slipping down her cheeks and dropping onto her naked skin, like grease sizzling over a temperamental flame. She glanced down at the silver bottle and quickly brushed her tears away, promising herself that this would be the last time. Tipping it forward, she simultaneously tilted her head back as she sat, slumped against the tub, her soggy hair still sticking to her neck like thin, dark leeches, her arms convulsing in anticipation.”
“And then, there it was; the hot painful liquid engulfed her belly and seeped into her pores. Her cheeks flushed until they hurt, her eyes lit with euphoric, self-indulgent pleasure. All the pain had once again melted away, carrying with it all of her crippled dreams and broken promises. She smiled.”
This was a fun writing exercise and great way to practice descriptive imagery. What I enjoy most about description is finding the best way I can to create a connection from the reader’s mind to the same images that are knocking around in mine. I know as a reader, I feel a kinship to a writer who is able to incite my imagination by effectively building a bridge between their thoughts and mine. I can easily recall some of my favorite descriptions in books that I’ve read over the years; Margaret Atwood’s “Lady Oracle” is the one that most readily springs to mind, but there are many others. This is definitely a topic I will be discussing more in future blog posts.
I also find that keeping a thesaurus on hand, especially for writing exercises like this one, can be hugely helpful. So many times I would get stuck in my head and wouldn’t know where to go next, and having a thesaurus at my fingertips would spark new images and oftentimes take my writing in a better, more suitable direction.
So, should you feel so inclined, I would encourage you to give this a try and see what interesting & innovative descriptions your creative mind can conceive! Happy writing! 🙂
Does that descriptive piece have a title? If not, you should probably call it: “Shae.”
By the way, I changed the Administrator e-mail from my address to yours, so from now on, you should receive all of the requests to approve comments!
Sweet! Thank you! And thanks for setting up this site for me! 🙂