I recently filmed a video as part of my involvement with the South Gate Creative Writing School here in Denmark (link). In the video, I talk briefly about writing pitfalls, and I figured I’d share the full, unedited version here in case it might be of interest to anyone else. For the final version, check out the school’s youtube here.
I talk about three pitfalls that I myself am consistently guilty of: 1) Lacking character agency 2) Not setting the scene right 3) Not keeping the emotional dominoes in order (I’ll thank @Natalie_Crown for teaching me this one!)
Shoutout to @MEmbergerauthor on twitter for the word prompt!The 20 minutes is from the moment I jot down the first word till I write the last. I’ll sit and consider the theme and the visual imagery for some minutes beforehand, oftentimes googling images of the word.
“Keep looking!” the girl says. “This only happens once a year.” “What if it smells like rotten eggs?” the boy asks. “You’re so dumb. Why would—” “No, hear me out. What if—” “Look, look!” The bulbous pod of the cactus pops open, orange and white petals peeking out. The Queen of the Night only blooms once a year at midnight. The boy and the girl have waited for this. When the flower is full, the girl raises her hands, grinning toothily, and slaps her palms together, crushing the flower. They both laugh, tasting the smell of crushed petals.
Shoutout to @NC_kay_author on twitter for the word prompt!The 20 minutes is from the moment I jot down the first word till I write the last. I’ll sit and consider the theme and the visual imagery for some minutes beforehand. Also, shoutout to @KristynJMiller from whom I shamelessly stole Kitte.
I don’t like it when mom listens to her music. It’s an old vinyl. The sound is eerie. Hollow. I have no idea where she has the record from; the casing is blank. It has six prominent scrapes from when Kitte, our family cat, pushed it off the coffee table a week before it died at the spry age of four. I don’t like the record, but I can’t do anything about it; mom locks herself in her room when she listens to it. And now, after dad’s dead, I’m afraid to come home. I am afraid of my mom.