So, I've officially been to my first Writers Workshop EVER! Surprising? Yeah not really. I tend to shy away from the whole writer workshops and outings usually because I worry that it would feel awkward or even worse, I find out that maybe I'm not a writer after all. I mean, it does happen right? So when the Brisbane Writer's Festival came around this year I bit the bullet (So to speak) and signed myself up for two writers workshops.
Today was workshop No 1: From Harry Potter to Tim Winton: How to Write for Young Adults. My verdict? I freaking loved it. I hadn't read anything of Belinda's before but she was so lovely and down to earth. It was a pretty packed room and everyone were so friendly and quite a few were willing to share the work they had written during the workshop. I was among the few that didn't. I did have my hand almost up until I heard some of their writing and HOLY CRAP these people were good on the spot, so I was quick to retract my hand LOL.
After a fantastic three hours I ducked down the the bookshop set up and grabbed myself both of Belinda's books to read. I look forward to being able to sit down and read some of her work. I also had a handful of titles to check out too. There were a few names dropped so I couldn't help but write these down: The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk-Kidd, Broken Glass, One Foot Wrong, That Eye The Sky by Tim Winton and Riding the Red Cockatoo by John Danalis. I'm even willing to pick up The Book Thief by Markus Zusak and give this another crack. Um.. sometime in the future lol.
I also couldn't help picking up a copy of Good Reading a great magazine for book reviews and articles etc.
... and obviously I love my pamphlets and all sorts LOL.
... and lastly the awesome bag that my books came in. This was seriously that good of quality that I was contemplating going back just to buy another book.. to get the bag LOL... okay yes I know.. but I liked it that much. Have I ever told you about my bag obsession???? lol
Okay so that is all from me for now.. I will leave you with a bit of my dreadful writing I did today.
If I could just grasp the words. Really hold them in my hands and feel the weight of them, maybe then I could understand what he wanted.
His eyes pierce me in my place. With every word he punches out, spittle flies along with it. I don't dare look up, for fear that one of those words would hit my face.
He points to the door, leans back, his mouth set in a firm line. I take the hint, grab my things and pay slip and go. I don't know where I'm going, just that it's out of this room and away from the grotesque word spitting man, and into the unknown.
After three wrong turns I'm out in the sunshine. More harsh sounding words fly around from passers-by. Never directed at me, just in conversation with those they're walking with. I pull my hoodie over my face and venture in the direction of the train station I can see. I notice the words of those I pass slowly changing. It's not until I'm at the station that they sound more like home. Words I can understand and soak in. My own language.
I've modified it a little so that it makes more sense and gets what I wanted to say down.