The best and worst places to write

Feylight Park has a hidden garden not twenty minutes away from the great birch where children play during the school holidays. The garden has a renaissance air to it and it is adorned with fake Greek statues and well-trimmed bushes. At the far end, there is a long marble bench that has been deemed a suitable latrine by all birds in the vicinity. The beautiful surroundings of the garden, surrounded by tall, ancient trees creates a vacuum by which air is blown into the garden at incredibly high speeds. My fingers are cold and I struggle to keep the pages of my notebook in place. The rain starts to pour down all around me. I wonder what possessed me to try to write outside in the middle of winter. It won't let up today. I shiver. Ah, the great outdoors!

A dog is curled up in one of the corners of the bed. The woman stretches and reaches for the notebook on the small desk that is next to the bed. Inside the book is a pen. She takes it in her hand and slowly starts to write. The dragons, swords and battles that live in her head are imprinted in the notebook. Later there will be time for the right words, the dictionaries, the thesaurus, the collocations. Now language doesn't matter, all that matters is the burning images and the loud imaginary voices of characters that are yet to be born into the world.

Developing a Character 2.0

There is a grand piano at the train station. It is black and imposing and ready to be played by anyone – which mostly means ready to be played by any three-year-old with more enthusiasm than sense of musicality.

It was three O’clock when a particularly sadistic mother with a particularly rambunctious son started to approach the piano. The mother, a white middle-class woman stopped halfway as a tall dark young man approached.

The young man was in his early twenties. His body swayed from side to side with the natural grace of someone who spends a great amount of time listening to rap music. He gave the mother a short bow, a half-smile and a friendly wink. The mother's arms wrapped protectively over her child and gave a step back. The piano stood free.

The man sat slowly on the black, slick piano stool. His white sneakers squeaked on the station's floor. He wore black, baggy pants and a puffy winter jacket which had tiger prints on it and matched his baseball cap. He wore his baseball cap backwards. Around his neck hanged a set of red-colored Beats by Dr. Dre. His long hair was slick with a month's worth styling gel, all combed back. It shined almost as much as the fake diamond earring in his right ear. His posture behind the piano was impeccable. A confident, wild smile touched his thin lips as he brought his hands down to caress the keys.

In the millisecond it took for him to strike the first note, the world changed. His coat, his dirty pants, even the strong smell of patchouli that reeked from his neck didn't matter anymore. There was only him, his long fingers and the sound of Chopin's Etude Op. 25 No. 11.

The melody intensified in a mad, descending cascade, and he brought his head up. A triumphant look graced his slightly slanted eyes and then wrinkled to match his perfect, beautiful, wild smile. Daring the world to judge him by his looks.

Developing a Character

Task: Write a short character sketch – no more than 200 words – in which you concentrate on appearance and any particular mannerisms you noted.

There is a grand piano at the train station. It is black and imposing and ready to be played by anyone – which mostly means ready to be played by any three-year-old with a Machiavellian mother ready to slaughter all passerby's ears.

This time was different.

On the black, slick piano stool sat a young man in his early twenties. He had white sneakers and black baggy pants. His puffy winter jacket had tiger prints that matched his baseball cap, which he wore backwards. Around his neck hanged a set of red-colored Beats by Dr. Dre. His long hair was slick with a month's worth styling gel, all combed back. It shined almost as much as the fake diamond earring in his right ear. He sat upright, his arms in a perfect arch and from his chocolate colored fingers flowed Chopin's Etude Op. 25 No. 11. His head was triumphantly looking up, his slightly slanted eyes wrinkled to match his perfect, defiant, wild smile. Daring the world to judge him by his looks.  

Three Facts, one Fiction; Three Fictions, one Fact

Three facts, one fiction:
Maddie jumped into my arms without a warning, as she usually does. My task was simple: I needed to get her to wear her gloves, else the cold would get to her frail body. She preferred to be carried like a baby rather than to stand while I battled with her tiny gloves. As I tried to convince her to stand so I could fulfill my task, her wandering eyes focused for a second on mine. For the first time I saw recognition in her eyes, and she smiled. It was the most beautiful smile.

Three fictions, one fact:
The book tells of the first disobedience of mankind against God, say the scholars. In truth, hidden within its free verse is a book about the love between a fallen angel and a woman destined to be with another. It is a book about how her beauty and innocence turned even the lord of darkness into an honest man and how God himself punished them for breaking the rules and falling in love. For man is made to obey only God, but woman to obey God and man.