Anja Boersma
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Hi Paula,
I love your Plan A! The Muskian satellites!
Tbh I don’t think your faux science is all that extreme. Didn’t Bill Gates have plans to spray something into the atmosphere?
Anja
Hi Lucia,
We used to travel to London by boat. When I got out on deck I was overwhelmed by the vastness of the North Sea, I was terrified. So I went inside and that felt much better, just pretend the Sea’s not there … And I’m never seasick. I think it’s like agoraphobia, it’s the bigness that feels scary.
(And I have no trouble taking the Eurostar and going UNDER the Sea instead, love the Eurostar! Anything to get to London :))
Hi Katie,
Incredible how you could grow in just six week to become Flynn-esque! (I purchased the book and read it breathlessly).
I really do NOT want to be jealous but wow! I mean WOW.
CONGRATS!
Oh, and your name is DAY! Ha!
Anja
Hi Gillian,
Sorry to be late but: better late than never … (I was frantically reading “Dark Places”, the book all you people talked about, I couldn’t stop!)
Anyway, my thoughts: I love how the workplace can be a place of drama, hate, jealousy, and people being sensitive, people being agressive, everything. Stupid Simon, having been rude to a judge … Nice setting up for a character change here in this easy-flowing chapter. Where exactly is this in the story?
Debi commented on the “one hand in his lap”. I think the other hand should do something, play with a pen or a paperclip, just something that’s part of an office desk. Maybe, come to think of it, something less obvious … How about a stapler?
Gillian, you say a lot with few words, it’s quite remarkable! You nailed the subtext but Debi wants more internal emotions … I struggle with PD5 myself also … At a US writers’ conference, one agent/editor said she didn’t want to be inside the protagonist’s head, she wanted just action and behaviour. This was in the US and I do think the UK/Debi’s way makes all our work stronger so I’m inclined to follow Debi’s example. But I do think that men worry a lot less about what other people think … So their emotions would be different, I imagine? More ‘rational’?
Does Debi have anything to say about “subtext”?
Anja
Hi Kate,
Glad to hear you’re not blue-haired either!
We used to watch ‘Are You Being Served’ with an either lavender or blue-haired Mrs. Slocombe …
And nowadays certain young women do it in real life!
‘shimmied’ is another good suggestion. I’ll make sure Hubert will do that next time he pops up!
Thanks for sleeping on it! 🙂
Anja
Hi Lucia,
It’s an intense six week, for sure!
But yes, we’re learning A LOT.
Anja
Thank you, Julie!
Yes, PD issues are still a thing for me …
But it was fun to write.
Anja
Thank you, Steven, for your feedback.
No, the salon is not important, I think! Last year, I’d finished my whole (new) first draft without it …
Two weeks before this course started, I realised I needed to show Wendall’s broken heart as part of the story instead of a backstory with flashbacks, I don’t know why I wanted to do it the hard way. So this is all new chapters but maybe Hubert’s salon will come back again should new intelligence need (or a perm) to be gathered by Jacoba. We’ll see. Thank you for the suggestion!
Anja
Hi Chithrupa,
Question: do your friends call you ChiChi? I feel we are friends because of the intensity of this course!
I think it is always Xander’s voice, even “jerk” would be Xander’s voice if Xander said it … “Moron” for me has a bit of a medical/lack of intelligence vibe to it, you know, it’s people with an IQ that’s incredibly low … But it is used, agreed.
Goodness, “retched” sounds so funny!! I think it sounds funnier than “vomited” … Sorry!
An
Hi Alison,
Oh, you practised on your husband! LOL!
That’s what we call Himalaya salt! On account of its colour … [insert wink emoji here].
Hi Paula,
I loved your previous homework so much! But this week, I can’t get into the scene as you described it. I’m so sorry! You give a thorough description of a lab in the past but in the present, there are fewer details.
My thoughts:
She thinks back to the lab in the loft of Dr. Boyle’s house in London. The cosy dark wood, the brass telescope, and walls lined with books. (It sounds more like a library than a lab?) That oaky, dusty, papery smell became synonymous with a feeling of safety. It was a haven where she and the Doctor puzzled out problems together. (This sounds slightly generic to me. Maybe specify a particular scientific/climatic issue?) A respite in the storm that had been her life until then. If only she could go back to that time.
Here, she’s exposed in the harsh desert light, with the glare of Lionel White’s green eyes and the media cameras always on her. Slow and clunky, losing her natural flair. Constantly afraid of making a wrong move.
Her thoughts are rudely interrupted when the door flies open, and Lionel White marches in. ‘Regina, I need you.’
Hah. What words from such a man! But it’s a turn of phrase. Nothing to do with him needing her as a person. (These sentences don’t work for me, I don’t want to be inside her head all the time … I think I want to see ACTION first and then her thoughts. So maybe switch the orders of the previous sentence and the next?)
Getting up, she checks her hair is tidily pinned and straightens her white coat. ‘What is it, Lionel?’
‘Dr. Boyle is dead. Last night, someone shot him.’
She folds forward slightly, her hand going to her stomach as if she’s been punched.
‘I know, it’s a shocker.’ He reaches out, but she turns aside, and he pats her shoulder awkwardly. ‘That’s not all.’
She sees the flicker of excitement in his eyes.
‘The ice is breaking up in Antarctica, and I mean fast. Everything’s going up. Literally.’ He emphasizes each syllable of the word.
‘It’s time for the White Light Show.’
[PS. only later we discover that she in fact murdered Dr. Boyle]
Paula, I don’t get a real feeling of where we are in the desert. Is the air-conditioning whirring or is the sun devastatingly hot, shimmering through the blinds? Maybe it’s because we are limited to only reading 250 words that her office lacks sensory descriptions, sounds, flavours, colours, etc.?
Your previously posted scene was so visceral! I’d like to see more of that! I don’t think it was just the “better than Viagra” bit … It was vibrant!
More of the visceral you, please!
Anja
Hi Lucia,
I read everyone’s comments and was glad to hear the explanation of the tin foil or I never would have guessed!
My comments and thoughts:
Rising and sinking. Up and down. Only this time there was something solid beneath her. (Tbh I thought the solid thing beneath her was a seamonster at first! I have serious thalassophobia. Glad that wasn’t the case) Dead, she thought. I’m dead. Best to keep my eyes closed. Splashing. Swishing. Birdsong. Agree with everyone: seagulls screeching might work better. The smell of seaweed. It certainly wasn’t hell. Her fingers touched something smooth, like tin foil. Yes, that was it. Her whole body was wrapped in tin foil. And a man’s voice, from long ago, yet the speaker so close she could feel his breath on her face.
‘Anna, wake up,’ the voice said. ‘You’re safe.’
Not dead. Dreaming. No need to wake up yet. There would be pain, she was sure of that, but not yet. Lie still and stay in the dream.
‘Jack,’ she said. ‘You’re here.’ He wasn’t real. She knew that.
‘Anna, thank goodness.’
Why was he laughing?’
Arms reached under her, raising her up. She opened her eyes and pressed her hands into the earth on either side of her body to steady herself. Not dreaming, she thought. He was real. Jack. He was here. Her hand touched his face. Solid and rough. He laughed again and held her gaze. He’s laughed twice now. Maybe one laugh is enough and one moment where he says he’s so glad she’s safe?
‘Let’s get you off this island,’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘I’ve got you.’
She lay her head on Jack’s chest and allowed him to lead her towards the shore, where the waves slapped the sides of a well-travelled fishing boat, and across the fjord, the glinting peak of Mweelrea pointed heavenward in an uncharacteristically cloudless sky.
Lucia, since I have thalassophobia I would never swim alone AT NIGHT!!! For me, I’d need a very strong reason of Anna’s to make this risky undertaking plausible. But I know, there’s only so much you can squeeze into 250 words!
I agree with everyone that this is a touching and beautifully written scene.
Anja
Hi Katie,
I love your cult and how you make life difficult for Mary …
My comments:
You blame yourself,’ Ida said, her voice low, private. It wasn’t a question, but it was an invitation (or maybe say: It wasn’t a question; it was an invitation). Mary had not spoken since she’d arrived (maybe say: since her arrival. That way you avoid using another “had”). Within a month, the women stopped trying to elicit conversation from the strange new girl, but not Ida.
Mary continued to stare up at the manor and the ivy that snaked its exterior. She wondered how deep the roots burrowed into the stone, if they would prise them apart. It will fall, she thought, without a doubt. Is there a PD thing going on here? I’m not sure, such a difficult subject still. Collapse on the women as they sleep. Didn’t they know how dangerous it was? It’s beautiful writing how Mary focuses on – even obsesses over – some minor detail that hides the real issues she’s facing. (Alright, not that minor, I’m just saying.)
And then, she was wrenched away from the estate, back to the night of the fire. Watching the caravan hollow and blacken as though for the first time. She just stood there, didn’t she? Let the stinging air beat her back. Listen as her home shrieked in pain. How it seemed to call out to her, told her it had waited as long as it could, to see her one last time, before it caved in. Ah, her home as a live and suffering character … I love this whole alinea.
‘Look at me,’ Ida said, hooking a cool finger under Mary’s chin.
‘Would your mother blame you if she were still alive?’ It was a question, one Ida would expect an answer to. Mary had none, but she was listening now. The manor could crumble, land in dust at her feet, and she would not notice. For me, this feels repetitious after both the “snaking ivy” and the “caravan blackening from the fire”.
‘Blame is not real. It’s manufactured. An attempt to organise chaos. It has its place in society, but you are too young to understand. One day, you will.’
Fantastic chapter, Katie.
Anja
Hi Kate,
It was my pleasure!
