Deadline for TMA 2 : 02 February 2017 – 7 days from now.
TMA (tutor marked assignment )
EMA ( end of module assignment)
WRAP ( Wellness Recovery Action Plan)
I’m kind of organized. I’ve finally got my tutor speaking to me by email. I think the sun just came out.
I put on my big girl trousers and waved the white flag. I need some of her input on my final EMA project proposal.
She has kindly passed it on to a script writing colleague to look at. I am waiting for a reply.
It would be great to get a reply ……………….. NOW! 😀
Just so I can plan my life and round up the first year of this MA. Nothing Major.
I’m thinking of doing a parody/satire piece (18-minute stage script) based on a society who are afraid of people who don’t believe in superstitions and who don’t take the necessary precautions to make sure that superstitions don’t manifest in their life.
My current draft (being written in my head) focuses on the Main Character as being a bit of a rebel.
Maybe she mocks someone for walking around a ladder and gets cursed?
Then she starts to get extreme symptoms of superstitions she has ignored most of her life.
This has a massive impact on her life, mind state and how people react to her and treat her because of course, society hates dealing with things that we can’t understand ( mental health issues alert).
So, maybe she gets locked away for her own protection and for the protection of others in an asylum for the superstitious dissidents.
Where is this script going? Ah, we need a climax and resoltion?
In the asylum, they drug them so that can’t enact their superstitions and cause bedlam (even if they want to or don’t want to)
There is Drug therapy/ECT/CBT therapy – sound familiar?
Maybe an awesome volunteer arrives at Main Characters asylum and introduces the Main character to a way to help herself help herself-
I can use the the core values of WRAP for inspiration.
I can make it surreal and the dialogue will be purposeful and amazing and drive the plot and be the action.
It’s going to be fun to do. I have to try and be funny. Something I don’t really do in my writing.
My EMA will (hopefully) still be Act two to my TMA 1 piece – about the homeless couple.
The ending is bittersweet. It needs to be told. I’ve had orders from my characters and they will not shut up.
Okay, so I started TMA 2 with a crime genre then I delved into a drama/love affair betray genre
I’ve strayed into a supernatural genre – without the cliche ghost things I’ve read. I’ve focused on a simple setting and the Main Characters’ character and dialogue of how others describe her as exposition.
The time scale within the piece is set within a 3 week period. My narration/or is in the First point of view.
Plot? I have an unexppected anti climax reversal . This came about by committing to telling (and show) this characters back story towards the climax resolution of the piece.
At this point, with my MA and with all the other things I’ve got going on in my life, I am going with what feels right for me.
If my tutor hates it- oh well!
Don’t you think it’s just a bit bizarre that for this first year our marks don’t count towards the overall degree?
All we need is a PASS! what?
That doesn’t mean I don’t work like a scared elf on his last strike at work, who got doped up the night before christmas. I do worry and I do care but I also have a life to live.
I’ve written my commentary explaining why I took the decisions I have done to do write this piece.
Things I’ve focused on
not starting in media res etc…
I’m participating and doing well in the forums. I’m backing up my decisions with a an awesome free Harvard ref app. I’m in love with it.
Finally, here is the first part to my TMA 2 ( still needs more proof reading and polishing up)
My family. Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold. Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran. I find myself sitting across from Gran. An icy breathe exhales mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog. I try to swallow. Air so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me. Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune in to the conversation-taking place.
‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault. I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears- an ostentatious display of emotion.
The firework that packs the most dynamite. The one that wills itself to make the crowd notice it. A cry out for: I need attention I’m suffering the most. My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.
‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.
‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’ Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.
‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’
My husband throws a warning look at Ma,
‘Marie, for Poppies sake. Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’ Poppy shakes her head.
She doesn’t look at us. I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy. Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes- veiled shadows betray her youthful face. She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.
‘When’s Mummy coming home?’
Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart.
I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers. She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.
-Answer her! Answer my daughter.
Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s up to Eddie to mediate. My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt. It’s impossible to read his face. He clears his throat,
‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’
Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse. Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,
‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’
I roll my eyes. Of course I love her! Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.
– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!
I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own. Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.
‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’ Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.
‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to Sleeping Beauty on the television.
Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.
-There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves. We were right to take the piss.
Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.
Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat. I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:
‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?
He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.
My symptoms intensify the days leading up to the funeral. Emotions walk precariously on stilts. Everything‘s heightened. I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horror- movies Eddie and me used to watch together on the sofa.
Unheard, I bellow continuously,-Just let me go, already.
Every time I hear my name called- reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me. These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.
Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.
‘I want that picture of her on graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’
‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,
‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’
Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses
Vexed, I shriek – don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.
‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen. Another opportunity to get close to Ma again. I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum begins to shiver and tremble. Her tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room; I scarper.
‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’ They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.
HAPPY MONDAY or a bluesy one just make it your own.