Katie

Lucy Taylor Michael Pryor Workshop- Writing opening sentences of a book based on a character named Lucy Taylor. Lucy Taylor never bothered to brush her hair, she liked it messy and untamed. Lucy Taylor hated wearing shoes, they made her feet feel quite angry. Lucy Taylor loved riding motorbikes, but only on Sundays.



Sadness Michael Pryor Workshop- Three short pieces on the emotion sadness. One is written in third person, one in first person and one beginning with the quote “I’m leaving.” She curled up into the foetal position and turned her back on the taunting world outside her window. She retreated further into the shadows as hot, silent tears rolled down her bruised and battered cheeks. I felt absolutely nothing at all. Not even the cold, hard metal beneath. My weary body felt lifeless. There was no point in moving, there was nothing awaiting me. There was nothing in front of me, and what was behind me didn’t matter at all; it had led me to this nowhere place. There was not one ounce of happiness left in my body and all I did was listen to the impending silence, much louder than any noise I had ever heard.

“I’m leaving,” she murmered, barely audible to someone as close as one foot away. Not that anyone would notice the broken girl with the upside-down smile and a permanent supply of tears behind her eyes should she ever need them, which was more often than anyone she knew.

Diary of a Character Sue Saliba Workshop- Exploration of a character and what they might right in their diary. The beauty in her soul that I was lucky enough to have witnessed is nearly all gone; dragged out of her by what she thinks to be an illness. It’s not an illness, it’s a mindset. As soon as the diagnosis is recieved, it becomes an excuse; easy to wallow in. She’s slipping through the system of age as mine and others' lives are travelling forward at the usual fast and unbalancing pace. Hers is stuck where it was two years ago, no progress made, the same old everyday, no matter how badly this sits with her, she makes no attempt to change it. She has slipped so far away from me that we only converse twice a week or so, passing at our lockers making stilted smalltalk. Phone calls are ignored, invitations declined and her once open door is now kept closed, maybe opened only a crack when I demand her to open it. She once helped me to heal my wounds, she took the pain and made it better, simply by remaining by my side often enough to let me know I mattered. She never left me alone long enough to doubt myself, yet she won’t let me do the same for her. She won’t let me in anymore, she won’t let me take the pain of the diagnosis away from her. I don’t know what to do.