I decided I'd share a piece from my Writers Bureau assignment actually. You guys, unless you've helped proof read The Wedding Favour and other bits and bobs, don't really see what I write. Okay, you probably have an idea of my voice through this blog - I do tend to write like I talk. No, no, not waffle!
Okay, well, yes, probably waffle.
Usually my assignments are articles, features - or even short stories now that I'm doing the fiction part - I'm aiming to get published, and even paid for, so I don't like putting them on my blog.
I liked this assignment. I was given freedom to write without the constraints of having to research a market and write it for them. I was chuffed with my tutor's feedback, so maybe it showed in my writing how much I enjoyed this assignment.
There were three parts to it and the third part I had to select two of the six circumstances provided and write a descriptive piece for each of them (about 300-500 words each). I went for describing how you'd feel coming home to find it had been burgled, (I can always share this another day) and a viewpoint from someone who hated skiing and is there under protest.
I will share the skiing piece as it's my favourite. It comes from the heart, though I have never been skiing, there is a little bit of me there. It's around 340 words. Hopefully it's funny too. Tell me what you think, and I've got thick skinned - I'll take constructive criticism.
Oh and I decided to title each piece, and did so very quickly.
Things I Hate About You
by Teresa Morgan
I absolutely, completely, and utterly hate skiing! I mean, I just hate it. I hate snow, the cold. I could be kitted out – for all I know – in the best bloody snowsuit on the Alps, but I still feel like I’m the Abominable Snowman. The only way I like ice is in my rum and coke. Or Frappes. Ice cold coffee for scorching hot days.
I’m someone who was born to sunbathe by a pool, in a very hot climate, sipping cool, thirst quenching drinks, relaxing with my nose in a book. When I get too hot, I dive in the pool, cool myself off, then get back on the sun bed and let the sun dry me. Sexy, dark, handsome waiters come around and top my drinks up. That’s the holiday I want!
Skiing is not relaxing, or even exhilarating. Not for me. They’re all nutters! Laughing, screaming and crying out with joy as they reach the bottom.
I’ll need a bloody hot bath to thaw me out. This can’t be good for my bones, joints or skin. The sun is out admittedly, but I can hardly get my bikini on. My nose and cheeks feel dry, and I’ve had to put sun cream on. My eyes are watering. My head aches from breathing cold air, like I’ve eaten ice cream too fast. Ice cream! I hardly crave that here.
And I’ve twisted my bloody ankle, and it won’t’ be long before I’ve broken my bloody leg! Or neck. Wouldn’t surprise me, my bones feel so brittle.
I hate heights too. Those ski lifts, are they even safe? That tiny piece of metal is supposed to support my weight. Seriously, I have to look up into the sky, and at the mountains, not down, not into the snowy slopes below, and cling on for dear life. It may look picturesque but the slightest jolt and I’m almost wearing my breakfast. This is not fun, it’s suicide.
When I get home, I’m booking two weeks in the Caribbean, just to get over this ordeal.
© Teresa Morgan