Category: writing exercise

Word Shed on the road

picture of a young man adding a line to the poem

Rochester’s longest communal poem (probably)

The sun came out and we temporarily transformed the smoking lean-to at the Good Intent into the Word Shed for the afternoon of 14 July 2013.

Writing activities to try out included:

* contributing a line to Rochester’s longest communal poem (probably)

* Cut-n-paste poetry

* Roll the dice poetry or prose.

A great afternoon was had by all and we will post some of the poems – including probably Rochester’s longest – in due course.

Advertisements

Walderslade Village Library WordShop

We had a fun WordShop at Walderslade Village Library yesterday. Thanks to all attendees and the library staff.

Here is one response to one of our creative writing exercises from Jane Coaker. The exercise involves choosing a historical figure from Medway, then choosing a word from the WordPot, and writing a dialogue or a monologue from that character’s point of view. Jane chose local man Charles Dickens, who is musing about the topic of ‘festival’ with a friend.

This exercise gives rise to some fun juxtapositions!

Picture of words in a pot

Wordpot!

“I believe that the good citizens of Rochester may have festivals in my name.”

“Don’t be silly. The locals would never allow that. The very idea of people parading through the streets dressed as your characters is utterly preposterous.”

“And why not? They will have them twice a year, and the people will eat burgers with melted cheese and in winter a special machine will create snow.”

“Snow?”

“Yes, so that if there is none laying on the ground already, the streets can be made to look more like scenes from my books.”

“Mr Dickens… are you feeling all right?”

Capturing a mood, inspired by a photo…

One of the exercises we did at the Strood Wordshop was to write inspired by a photo of Medway.

Here is one of the photos and the response to it from D Singh.

Picture of an abandoned ship.

Medway hulk

‘The sun strangely shone faintly in the middle of a winter morning, like a time warp or portal, a square mile of land that arrests you, and reflects ruins.

A place I’ve wanted to stop, to stir something, to rekindle innocence and wander, and toy with the idea of remaining there. To be near something that is always just out of reach.

Home can be no man’s land.’