ASSIGNMENT FEEDBACK SHEET
for MA Creative Writing assignments:
Megan Adams
210048960
CRW7001M Critical Approaches to Creative Writing
Assignment Title: Celine and its Contextual Reflection: creativity and critical consciousness of my own writing.
Total word count (excluding bibliography) *: 6198
Tutor to Complete:
Marker:
Date: MARK
Note: This Mark is indicative and may be subject to moderation and or second marking and may be adjusted up or down. *
** Please refer to the Assessment Matrix provided on Moodle for descriptions of the criteria used in your feedback
Comments on the Creative component:
Comments on the Commentary/Critical/Reflective component/s:
Priorities for improving future work (2-4 points):
* IMPORTANT: please note that the indicative unconfirmed mark given at the start of this sheet may be returned to you BEFORE second marking/moderation has taken place in order to return feedback and ‘indicative’ marks as soon as possible. The final mark is confirmed at the University Board of Examiners meetings (held at the end of each semester).
Second marking and or moderation are carried out in accordance with the School of Humanities, Religion & Philosophy (HRP) Assessment Policy and Guidelines.
School of Humanities, Religion & Philosophy Creative Writing Postgraduate Assessment Matrix
Assessed Components
Structure & Form
Imagery & Language
Point of View, Voice, Tone, & Dialogue
Engagement with Reader, Audience & Genre
Commentary: Evaluation & Reflection
Work submitted is considered to be outstanding in the assessed components
Excellent handling of chosen form, making innovative use of relationship between structure and content.
Excellent use of language which is sophisticated, original, and appropriate to form and content.
Excellent handling of point of view, voice, tone, and dialogue are all excellent.
Excellent engagement with reader, audience, and conventions of genre.
Very good handling of chosen form, with a clear relationship between structure and content.
Very good handling of language, which shows some originality and is appropriate to form and content.
Very good handling of point of view, voice, tone, and dialogue are very well handled.
Very good engagement with reader, audience, and conventions of genre.
Good handling of chosen form, with some relationship between structure and content.
Poor handling of chosen form, showing little or no relationship between structure and content.
Consistently good handling of language which is appropriate to form and content. Use of language is poor, derivative, or inappropriate to form and content.
Consistent handling of point of view, voice, tone, and dialogue. Poor understanding of point of view, voice, tone, or dialogue.
Good engagement with reader, audience, and genre, although the handling of these may be flawed.
Little engagement with or understanding of reader, audience, or genre.
NonSerious Attempt
Technical Skills & Presentation
Excellent evaluation and reflection, drawing on a wide range of creative and critical contexts.
Excellent demonstration of technical and presentation skills.
Very good evaluation and reflection, drawing on a range of creative and critical contexts.
Very good demonstration of technical and presentation skills.
Good evaluation and reflection, drawing on some creative and critical contexts. Poor evaluation and reflection, with no consideration of contexts.
Good demonstration of technical and presentation skills.
Work submitted is not considered to be a serious attempt to meet the assessed components. Or work submitted is judged to be of no value in relation to the assessed components NS (no work submitted)
Technical and presentation skills require significant development.
b.
c.
Introduction
This portfolio is composed of two parts. The first, a section of creative writing, is my own work written throughout teachings in October and November 2021. It is a single piece of work, one story, however I have included chapters 3, 4, 5, and 6. The second is a Contextual Reflection of that work, including references and citations that are grouped at the end of the portfolio in my bibliography.
Part One: Celine
CHAPTER 3
Beginning from the start
I slammed my laptop shut in frustration and threw it onto the pile of papers I’d left on the sofa. £80 it had cost, to subscribe to a family history website. £80 therefore, wasted. I was unsure what I was upset over most, the cost of the stupid thing or the fact that it had brought me no further answers. The death of my Grandad 6 weeks ago had inspired questions, and I was ready to crack them. I wasn’t close to the man, no-one in my family was, but he had died, giving me the freedom to finally start digging. For information that is, not his grave. And I was starting from scratch, considering how quiet my family had been about the topic for as long as I could remember. It was turning into quite the conspiracy.
I couldn’t ask my mum about it; she was too emotional. And my dad wasn’t much help either. I’d cornered him yesterday, whilst he was prepping vegetables for the weekly Sunday dinner at their house.
“Dad?” I’d asked, hopping up onto the workbench of their kitchen, something that I knew annoyed him.
“Yes? Oh, for crying out loud, get off the kitchen side Francesca you’re almost thirty.”
I gasped theatrically.
“Very rude of you to forget the age of your youngest child. I’m 26. You can’t say I’m almost 30 for another 3-and-a-half years. And no, I don’t think I will. I’m rather comfortable.”
Noting the look of growing irritation on his face, I continued before he could launch into one of his infamous hour-long rants.
“Tell me about my Grandma, Mum’s mum. I’m trying to find her.”
I tacked a “Please?” on the end, remembering I was trying to avoid a preaching to about manners.
“Your Grandma?” He paused.
“Helene?” He turned, calling my Mum’s name as he looked through the kitchen door, into the hallway. She had a nasty habit of earwigging into other people’s conversations, and my dad and I had been caught out many a time. Seemingly he’d learnt from past mistakes.
Satisfied my mother was beyond hearing distance, he went back to chopping the potatoes.
“No idea. Your mum never really talks about her. Saying that, your Grandad never did either, not that we ever had a conversation long enough for her to be brought up.”
I widened my eyes.
“Bitchy much.”
“You hardly knew the bloke. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he was a proper cock. She went missing, didn’t she? I reckon your mum was 2-ish when it happened, so she can’t remember much of her.”
He paused, gesticulating the knife at me with every syllable he uttered next.
“And don’t you dare bring this up to her.”
“Yeah, Dad. I get your point.”
I eyed the sharp tool, wondering if he’d get the joke. He didn’t. Putting it down with a sigh, he continued speaking.
“She’s very fragile at the minute, your mother is. Keeps flapping about the house. I haven’t seen it this clean since we moved in. She’s on about turning my TV room into an arts and crafts room for God’s sakes. Arts and crafts!”
The potatoes regained his attention as his tone of voice turned mopey. Deciding this conversation was way too close to couple’s counselling for my liking, I tried to steer it back to the topic in hand: my mysterious Grandma
“Well, I assume she’s trying to take her mind off it, Dad. She’s technically an orphan now. I’m just trying to do a little digging, that’s all. It’s the oldest unsolved disappearance in our county you know. They have a proper task force and everything. Call them ‘cold cases’. Haven’t you seen that TV show? I’ve been telling you to watch it for months.”
“What, with whatshisname in it? It’s on my list, but life… fine – as long as you keep it away from your mum, I’ll tell you everything I know. Have you got a pen – ah yes, ‘course you do. To the best of my knowledge, she was called Celine –“
“Spell that for me?”
“For Christ’s sakes Francesca, C-E-L-I-N-E. No, without the accent. She was last seen in, wait, when was your mother born, 1957? It’ll have been ‘59 then, that she disappeared. Don’t quote me on that, though.”
He’d finished with the potatoes. Onto the carrots.
“Celine was married to your Grandad at the time, and it was thought by everyone in the village that he’d killed her! The police cleared him, obviously, but it never sat right with me. She was 25, same age as you are now. That’s as much as I know”.
“Dad, I’m 26.”
“I know, I was being facetious.” I got the potato peeler pointed at me this time. “Kitchen side, off!”
I did jump down that time. Best not to try my luck.
“To be honest, there’s probably a box in the loft with all the newspaper clippings and stuff if you want it, and I reckon there’s probably more at your Grandad’s, too. I don’t think he was ever the same, after she vanished… it’s rude to leave midway through a conversation, you know!”
I held up a hand in farewell as I left him standing there with his veggies and made my way upstairs. That’s how I found myself the first clues of my investigation, in that little brown cardboard box, the contents of which were now strewn over my sofa.
CHAPTER 4
The Little Brown Cardboard Box
Officer Dickinson sighed.
“Francesca – Miss Knowles. I really don’t see how this is relevant. We already know all of this.”
“Sir, I’m trying to set the scene for you. You really had to be there.” I could practically smell his blood pressure rising.
“Fine. What was in the box?”
I took a sip of my coffee, before continuing. He was humouring me after all. This one had a funny bone. Mind out of the gutter, please.
“Nothing useful, really. Wedding photos of my Grandparents, newspaper clippings of her disappearance, stuff like that. It told me what I already knew. Name, Celine Roberts. Age when reported missing, 25. No, I needed the juicy stuff. That’s where your friends at the Met come in. I requested the case files, and as I’m a family member and it’s a cold case, they emailed it over.”
That got his attention.
“I read up on the case when you called earlier.” He shifted in his seat, leaning his forearms on the metal table and interlacing his fingers.
“As far as I’m aware, there was no evidence of foul play in her disappearance. That’s why your grandad was cleared as a suspect. She just upped and left. She took belongings with her, namely her purse and ID cards, and changes of clothes. A body was never found, or linked to her, hence the case being unsolved.”
“Well, that’s where the story gets more interesting. Another coffee, please?”
I turned to Jordan, who had been standing by the door, holding my pastry. Affronted, he looked toward his superior who shrugged. Thrusting the paper bag of goodness toward me, he turned on his heel and exited the room, letting the door slam in his wake.
“Who pissed in his cornflakes?”
“He isn’t used to relatives taking unsavoury information in such a benign way. Especially not when they’re in a Police interrogation room discussing a double murder.” I opened my mouth to retort, but he cut me off.
“Please continue. Try to only include the relevant information. I don’t need to know what you had for breakfast, or how your Mother is coping, for example. Just case facts.”
I assured him I’d try my best.
CHAPTER 5
Breakfast
Tuesday started much like any other day.
Awoken by an alarm set for 06:25.
Crawling out of bed.
Ending up in the kitchen trying not to fall asleep into my bowl of cereal. Coco Pops, by the way.
The case file from the Met had pinged into my inbox late last night, startling me in the midst of my CSI Miami marathon. I’d whiled away the early hours of the morning skimming through and compiling information. And googling terminology that I didn’t understand. Penal code means completely different things to the Police and I.
To say I’d never met Celine Roberts, I could probably write a biography for her.
‘Celine Marianne Roberts (nee Begnaud) was born January 21st, 1934, to parents Delphine and Hugo. She spent the first three years of her life in the small French town of Barbizon, before immigrating to Liverpool, England alongside her Mother after her Father was drafted to aid the French effort against Hitler’s crusade. He was killed in battle, and Delphine later died during the short Flu epidemic of 1951. With her parents’ small savings to fund her, Celine began training to be a primary school teacher, relocating to the North of England. This is where she met Ralph Roberts, whom she married in 1956. Their daughter, Helene, was born in 1957. Celine was reported missing by her husband in October of 1959. She was last seen by her neighbour, Ronnie Johnson, leaving with a small travelling bag, and has not been seen or heard from since.’
I saw the photo they’d included for her missing report, and thought she resembled myself. Or rather, I resembled her. No wonder my Grandad hadn’t much liked me.
Mum called around 8, to ask my opinion on what colour paint she should buy for her new arts and crafts room. I stifled a grin, forgetting she couldn’t see me, as I enquired what Dad had said.
“Oh, you know him, he said whatever will make me happy. He doesn’t know the difference between seafoam and mint, so I don’t even know why I bothered! Can you remember when I repainted the hallway and he never noticed?”
I mumbled something of a response.
“I was thinking of putting his TV into the living room and getting rid of the one in there. Contrary to what your father thinks, we don’t need one in every room of the house. Do you want it?”
I’d answered with an affirmative and stupidly asked about just what sorts of arts and crafts need a whole room dedicated to them. She’d then babbled on for fifteen minutes about her friend Harriet, who’d invited her to join a knitting club. My mistake for asking.
“Oh wow, you must have some huge needles then.” Silence. “To take up the whole… never mind. Mum, if you start knitting, I think that officially makes you old.”
“Frankie! It’s just something to do, isn’t it? I have all this time off work, and I just don’t know what to do with myself.” A brief pause.
“What are you doing today?”
Shit. Think fast.
Nope. Nothing. Brain empty.
“I don’t have any plans, Mum.” Damn my lack of social life.
“Oh! That’s fantastic!” Here we go. “I need to head to your Grandad’s to pack up some more stuff, around 11-ish.” My ears pricked up.
“To Grandad’s? What stuff?” Well, would you look at that. Maybe my investigation could continue today under pretence of my being a helpful child.
“Clothes, ornaments, things like that. I’m still unsure on whether I want to sell. I grew up in that house, you know. It would be a shame to see it go.”
“Isn’t Emma looking to buy?” My sister, 3 years older than me.
“Well, that’s beside the point. It’s full of junk, and since you’re free….”
Three and a half hours later, I was regretting every single life decision that had led me to this point. If you’ve never been traumatised by having to dig through your deceased grandparents’ underwear drawer, keep it that way. In the end, all of Ralph Roberts’ worldly possessions had fit into 11 bin bags. Sad, actually. Turns out he’d given most of his furniture away before he’d died, and what was left was in no condition to sell. Together, mum and I dumped the last of the bags into the freshly cleared space in the living room and paused for a breather. The majority of their contents were clothes, headed now for a donation bin in the Big Tesco car park.
“I’m going to have to call your dad, there’s no way this will all fit in the Mini.”
I bit my tongue to hold back a witty retort about people who drive Mini’s. As she stepped out of the front door to speak on the phone, I seized my opportunity. Knowing my father, something would have happened, and he’d hold Mum on the phone for a good 10 minutes. 10 minutes to snoop, then. I closed my eyes to think. Where would Ralph keep any of Celine’s things? I’d already covered all 3 bedrooms, the living room and dining room. The kitchen? Not likely. I popped my head in anyway.
The room, clearly, had once been high-tech and expensive. Possibly in 1994. The cabinets were stained a dark wood, with unintentionally off-white fronts, and the backsplash tiles were an awful maroon colour that my mother would probably call Plum. There was no familiarity, no homeliness, it felt utilitarian and bare. I tried to imagine Mum’s childhood, growing up here, and it seemed impossible. She’d moved out at 16, leaving her father and their complicated, fractured relationship behind. I was beginning to understand why.
“Frankie?” Mum’s voice floated from the front room.
“Helene?”
I could almost hear her scowl.
“You know I hate it when you call me that. I’m Mum, to you.” Cue my eyeroll. “And don’t roll your eyes at me. The wind might change, and your face would be stuck like that.”
As she’d rambled on, I’d made my way back toward her, realising as she spoke that I probably spent too much time with my parents and not enough time out doing things that normal 26-year olds should be doing. Like, for example, spending their every waking moment investigating the disappearance of a relation they never met.
“Your dad had a mishap with the garage door hoist – you don’t even want to know. He can’t come to help. What about George?”
I dropped the ornamental turkey I’d been fondling, and it shattered at my feet.
“George?!” “Oh Francesca! That was vintage!”
“Mum! Why on EARTH would you want me to ask George for help?” My voice had embarrassingly risen several octaves, and my Mum raised an eyebrow.
“Well, desperate times and all that! You haven’t been seeing anyone else, so I just wondered if you were still moping over him! And now you owe me £70 for that swan.” She crouched with a huff to retrieve the shattered and unidentifiable… Swan? No, definitely a turkey.
Unfortunately, I am as pathetic as she makes me sound. George was – is – my ex-boyfriend, of 3 years.
If there was a prize for spending 8 months in your parents’ spare bedroom crying over a man-child who didn’t wash his legs in the shower because ‘the water spray would get all the dirt’, well, I’d win it.
“Absolutely not. I have way too much self-respect for that.” But not enough self-respect to refrain from calling him every time I so much as smelled alcohol. I digress.
“And he’s probably at work. Look – there’s 11 bags. Take 6 in the first run and come back for the rest afterward. I’ll stay here and hold down the fort.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mum. I know you hate being here.” And she couldn’t argue with that. Together we loaded the rest of the bags into her tiny, tiny boot, and she was off.
Game time!
Ok. Kitchen, living room, Master bed, spare bed, and box room were all misses. The bleeding loft it is.
“Christ! Who put that beam there?”
Mourning the loss of a few valuable brain cells whilst rubbing the absolute welt I’d given myself; I ascended the last of a set of stairs that would send OSHA inspectors crying back to their work vans and thanked every deity I could think of that I hadn’t fallen straight through them. I hoped I wouldn’t have a concussion.
Holding my thumb to the screen of my phone filled the small space with harsh light. It illuminated a grim representation of 1920’s architecture: beams everywhere, with cladding that looked suspiciously like asbestos. Using my free hand, I raised the collar of my T-Shirt over my nose and mouth.
False call, I think. Better make this venture quick. Moving my arm sent the light beam sweeping across the attic space, drawing my attention to an old wardrobe set against the supporting wall of the house.
Against my better judgement, and every lesson learnt from every horror movie I’d ever watched, I approached.
It was a beautiful piece of furniture, heavy-set, walnut, with 3 doors, set atop clawed carved wooden feet. Briefly I felt for the unlucky soul who’d landed the job of lugging it up here, then supposed that’s why it had remained. Sending another prayer to the previously mentioned deities that opening it wouldn’t curse my family for seven generations, I cracked one of the doors. Why are the handles so tiny? Did they have minute hands in the ‘40’s?
I flashed my light inside. Nothing to write home about. Various women’s clothing, hung crisply, untouched. I felt cold, then, and it didn’t have much to do with the temperature inside the room. The middle door opened to reveal shelves, many of which were empty. I reached to the top and pulled out a silver ornate picture frame. Sighing, I wiped the glass front clear from the dust that coated it. I hadn’t seen this photo of Celine before.
She truly had been beautiful, even more so, captured here in black and white. Short blonde curls permed into a classic pageboy style framed her heart-shaped face and strong cheekbones. A perfectly straight nose sat in the centre, above a pair of full lips, rouged to match her cheeks. She bore a striking resemblance to Lana Turner, an actress popular in the 50’s. She’s in The Postman Always Rings Twice, if you’ve seen it.
My Mum always compared Celine and I, but this photo outshone me by tenfold. I decided to take it with me. Closing the cupboard door, I prepared to open the one that was furthest right.
Little did I know it, but the final door would reveal things that would send my investigation on its head.
CHAPTER 6
Behind the final door
“So, you see, I wa’ shitting it.” I reiterated, brushing the evidence of my pastry breakfast onto the tiled floor of the interrogation room. Both officers looked in disgust at the crumbs which now littered the area around my feet.
“I thoroughly enjoyed that”. I smiled at the now surly Jordan who shook his head, settling into his original seat as Officer Dickinson spoke again.
“Francesca, for the purposes of this investigation, I have to ask. Please state for the recording what evidence you found, and why you haven’t turned it in yet?”
“As I’ve already said, the rest of the wardrobe didn’t contain much of interest, unless you collect old ladies’ outfits. Do either of you? No? Okay, continuing.”
The officers exchanged a look.
“The last door was locked. I know, shocking. So, I gave up as a bad job and went home.”
I took a sip of coffee as both men stared at me, the picture of impatience.
“Miss Knowles, I think you’re failing to understand the importance of this interview. If you continue being unhelpful and contrite, we can and will prosecute you for obstruction of justice.”
Wow, Dickinson didn’t come to play. Fair enough.
“I’m joking!” I held both hands up in a mock defensive position.
“The wood was so old, the door snapped straight off.”
I paused to let them imagine it, me, Hulk style, snapping a solid piece of wood in half. When I felt they’d got the mental image, I ploughed on.
“There were no shelves, just a box on the floor of the empty space. I thought it was strange, to lock up the contents of a cardboard box. But it made sense when I opened it. And I’m turning the evidence in now, am I not?”
Delving into my rucksack, I pulled out a Tupperware container. Jordan’s eyes lit up, probably thinking it was biscuits. Fat git. I placed the box on the table and pushed it over to where Dickinson’s hands remained stoically in place. Playing along, he picked it up. I indicated with a head nod for him to open it. He silently removed a set of gloves from the inside pocket of his suit, pulling them on.
The box contained three things: and I watched as the officer investigated each of them in turn, before handing them to his counterpart to do the same. The latter then held each up to a corner of the room where I assumed a camera was pointed toward us.
“I’ll tell the camera what we’re looking at. What you’re holding there, Jordan, is my Grandmother’s engagement ring. A solid gold band crafted to look like a vine. The gemstone sitting inside the four prongs is a morganite. A BTEC diamond, if you will. This ring set my Grandfather back a pretty penny or two, ‘cos he couldn’t afford the real deal. Makes you wonder why she left it behind.” I raised an eyebrow at the two men before me. They stared back, mouths unmoving.
“Fine. I suppose I’m to do all of the heavy lifting of this conversation, then? There is a letter in there too, yes, under your left hand. Shall I read it, or would you like to do the honours?”
Wordlessly, Jordan handed me the envelope, yellowed with age. There was a single word written on the front. Celine. I opened it, cleared my throat, and began.
“My darling Celine, The time has come for us to leave. Every minute I spend away from you causes irreparable damage to my heart, which I have signed yours. I fear that if we don’t leave now, we shall never do it.
Seeing you with Ralph each day kills me, he cannot appreciate and love you as I can, as I will.
I promise I will forever care for you.
I told Ronnie that we’re to leave. She was silent, which terrified me more than had she had a row with me. She is the darkness, whilst you are the light.
What you and I have done is unforgivable, so why does it feel like the most natural thing in the world? The arrangements have been made, darling. Meet me at our spot, tonight, at 11pm. You know the place. Bring your passport, and your favourite possessions. I will buy you a dozen of what you leave behind. I will anticipate seeing your beautiful face. I love you, eternally, Your Elliott.”
“Well, I don’t know about either of you, but that letter makes me feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.”
“Who is Elliott?” Dickinson spoke, finally, after a long silence.
“Isn’t it salacious? There’s another letter in there, addressed to my Grandad. You can do this one.”
“Ralph, my dearest. I write this letter as you’re playing outside with our darling Helen. It is the only time I have, to be alone, and to sit with my thoughts. It pains me to think of the heartache I shall be putting you both through, but I must be selfish. I am hurting you both more if I stay.
You must know, by now, how unhappy I am.
My doctor sent me to the coast, for fresh air, but that didn’t much help. I spend my days with no more company than a two-year old, when you arrive home from work, you’re often dismal, and refuse to talk to me.
I am incredibly privileged to be blessed with this wonderful house, a hard-working husband, and child, I know, but for what feels like eons I have felt as though there is something missing.
You deserve somebody who can tolerate this life of mundanity. You and I were married when I was only just out of childhood myself.
I want to live, I want to see the world, and not just by listening to the travel segment on the wireless. You know where I’m coming from, you travelled to Cyprus with your regiment in the Army.
That’s further than I will ever go, if I stay.
If I stay, I fear I will go mad. The seeds of which are already beginning to grow.
I do not intend for this letter to hurt you, but I have only stayed this long for Helen. It will kill me to leave her. I will return soon, once we are settled, to collect her. Then you will be free of us both. I can only hope that you do not hold too much contempt in your heart for me and tell her every day how special she is.
Please, if you have any love for me left as you reach the conclusion to this letter, do not look for me.
The ring is Helen’s now. I only hope it brings her more happiness than it brought me.
Speak to Ronnie Dupont, she can fill you in on the details. I cannot bear to do it this way.
Yours,
Celine x”
The words sounded alien, coming from his mouth, the deep gravel of his voice contrasting with the beautifully written prose from Celine. As much as this letter was ancient, the feelings it could evoke in oneself were downright ruining the mood of the interview room.
“She’d left this letter with her ring, that night. She left of her own accord but planned to return. She’d never have left my mum for good. She was having an affair… I’m not as qualified as you two but I’d say that counts as a motive, wouldn’t you?”
Officer Dickinson ran a gloved hand through his hair.
“We’re going to have to get a team in for this.”
Part 2: Contextual Reflection – Who am I as a writer?
From the short segment of Celine included above, there are a number of writing techniques used that are interesting. Some of them conscious, others ingrained into my writing style, all combined to create a piece of work that says as much about myself as it does the main character. In this section of my portfolio, I will discuss three main factors: developing my critical consciousness, reflecting on my influences, and the process of my work.
Developing my critical consciousness
I believe a huge part of a writer’s own techniques come from the consummation of other works –for me, personally, this is crime fiction. Until recently, this was the only genre I typically read into. Frustratingly, I found it difficult to find an interesting mystery novel with a strong, witty, female lead. Hence the creation of my main character, Francesca. My writing is almost innovative in this way –there are not many crime novels with a working class female lead. Whilst writing I often pour a small amount of my own personality into Francesca’s speech and mannerisms, meaning I found it easy to just sit and write, as it is almost a stream of my own consciousness – or how I’d like myself to be. The obvious downside to this is the recreation on paper of my own shortcomings and flaws. Interestingly, sarcasm and an unbalanced social gauge are my personal dislikes about myself, however these features come across very strongly in the character of Francesca. Writers have to be critical, as Steinbeck said, “The writer is charged with exposing our faults and failures” (Steinbeck, 1962), and many writers are often their own biggest critic. In brief, I would say my writing style is humorous, self-depreciative, and perhaps reflective. I like to make people laugh, and to think, and I am often on my political moral high horse which comes across through my characters words and actions.
I am writing this book for me, and for people like me. I would like to say my target audience adult fiction readers and perhaps young adult, but this isn’t binary, as by some market estimates nearly 70% of all YA titles are purchased by adults between the ages of 18 and 64 (Peterson, 2018). Some of the themes in the novel include ‘bad’ language, and sexual themes, meaning the content wouldn’t be suitable for a YA genre reader as young as 12. There is arguably an overlap in readership between middle-grade and young adult and stating that my book is young adult could expose children as young as 10 to these themes, which is why I chose an older target audience I want the consumer to have an immersive experience where they are allowed to feel emotive, allowed to relate to difficult family dynamics, and not feel bad for laughing at a segment of dark humour: for example, ‘digging. For information that is, not his grave’. By using humour in this way, it allows the reader to have a deeper connection with the character and begin to trust her more –something that is paramount for the ending of the novel and subsequent plot twist. My work doesn’t
challenge the conventions of the typical crime genre novel in terms of plot; however, I think the characterisation is very interesting.
I don’t have much, if any, writing experience, and Celine is my first short novel. This insecurity was difficult for me to overcome, as I suffer with imposter syndrome. This is widely known as the sensation of feeling that one’s competence and success are fundamentally fraudulent and inauthentic, and it is popularly understood as an individual problem of faulty self-esteem (Breeze, 2018). I have read an insane number of books, and I am chronically picky with the authors voice and writing standard. This is the same standard that I hold my own work to.
Reflecting on Influences
It is almost impossible to write an original ‘whodunnit?’ free from influence. Notable contemporary works from this genre include The Thursday Murder Club, by Richard Osman (and subsequent sequel – The Man Who Died Twice), The Stranger, and Win, by Harlan Coben, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie. These are just a few of many that I can pinpoint influencing me to want to write about crime. According to Abrams (2015), crime fiction, detective story, murder mystery, mystery novel, and police novel are terms used to describe narratives that centre on criminal acts and especially on the investigation, of a serious crime generally a murder. These novels are typically lumped together under crime, or thriller fiction. Realistically, my novel may not appeal to many seasoned crime readers – compared to Christie, Conan Doyle or Cornwell, my writing is fresher, my characters younger, my voice as an author perhaps not as well-defined. However, this is not all negative – I know that readers are constantly on the look for new authors and books – and as my writing is inspired by many of the greats, many would enjoy it.
Many of the works I mentioned earlier are a part of a smaller sub-genre, named ‘cosy mysteries’. These novels are typically sex and violence free, with an amateur ‘sleuth’ investigative main character, who is likeable (Price, 2019). My novel almost fits within the confines of this sub-genre – save for the crude humour of the main character, and references to sexual themes. The influence of these works upon mine tells me that there is an audience and readership for my novel, as well as room for adaptations for film and TV Osman’s work defined, for me, a new age of crime novels. The gore and shocking scenes described by many crime writers are a far cry from the gentle investigative leading in his cosy mysteries. Knowing how popular his books have become left me feeling inspired toward creating something in a similar vein, as I know there is a readership for it.
I also consume a lot of true crime content, be it books, documentaries, or films. I read The Stranger Beside Me, by Ann Rule, a book about Ted Bundy with whom she had a personal relationship
This instigated within me a morbid interest in serial killers and those who society deem as too dangerous to be released. This definitely inspired me to write crime, be it fictional crime, as I have a personal interest for it. This interest into true crime is also how I have sound knowledge of the judicial system within the UK – crime readers will be the first to pick up on mistakes made by authors describing police, as they know what they are reading about!
The Process
The process of workshopping within the module was very interesting for me. This opportunity was unbelievably important, as it was the first time I was writing work that other people would read. It completely boosted my confidence and allowed me to let my guard down with my writing. Going into the workshopping sessions I had a rough idea of what I wanted to write and submitted a couple of chapters from Celine that were somewhat polished but still very much a first draft. I am by no means a grammar expert, so I hugely appreciated the corrections my peers provided. This set the basis for my editing process which in turn hugely shaped my work – I wrote drafts and didn’t feel the need to polish as I went. This enabled me to play around with alternate dialogue, circumstances, and character interaction. Originally, Francesca would ask her Mum about her Grandma, rather than her Dad, but I switched it out to create a scene between father and daughter, and also to be to save that awkward conversation for a twist later in the novel.
The feedback was overwhelmingly positive. My peers complimented the characterisation of Francesca, sophisticated dialogue, and the ease of which they could read the piece and see the image of the scene in their heads, much like how I visualise when I write. The section where Francesca is in her Grandad’s attic had a lot of praise, mainly for the descriptive detail of the space, and how Francesca interacts with that environment.
Techniques
A few stylistic writing choices by myself as an author include the use of short paragraphs and chapters, similarly to The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (Haddon, 2003). This is intentional – my story is only a ‘short story’, with a total of around 17,000 words. However, if I attempted a longer novel, I would continue the use of short chapters. Written as an inner monologue, Francesca’s retelling of the events to Police officers, gives the audience a more intimate perspective of the events of the case, not only first-person retelling, but Francesca’s thoughts, feelings and personality are shown as well. Swapping between past and present each chapter gives the Police officers to recap the events for the reader, and for Francesca to offer more
information. This use of intimate characterisation is, to me, necessary in a short crime novel. This is because there is no time to add huge amounts of depth, and filler chapters of character development wouldn’t make sense. As my work is a retrospective retelling, the audience has to trust in what the narrator is telling them.
The use of shorter chapters also links to another stylistic choice I made. I am a very visual writer: when I am writing, I am picturing a scene in my head. My descriptive storytelling gives a film-scene like flow to the reader, and the way I write character dialogue, movement, and expression, is very attentive to detail. For example, Francesca’s conversation with her dad in the kitchen. Her dad turns, looking for her mum, then Francesca explains to the reader why. He points the knife at her when he talks, in a jesting way, much like something my own father would do – really getting ‘the point’ across. Feedback from readers in workshopping sessions highlighted the use of narrative voice like this, laid-back and humorous. The dialogue between characters is very realistic also.
I have specific and rigid standards for parts of my work such as speech – I despise the use of dialogue tags such as ‘he said’. A reader of mine would be hard pressed to find a sentence where I have written such a tag, preferring instead to write the dialogue into the text via character highlighting. I do this as to make the “scene” flow easier. I use jargon and dialogue for characterisation, and this is a technique that makes my work strong.
Interpretation
Something I would change about my work is that there is a lot of information being told to the reader via a secondary character. If I ever wrote a longer version of the story, with more ‘filling’, I would endeavour to imply information to let the reader work things out for themselves. I would also like to use stronger vocabulary. For Francesca’s character, using flamboyant words or expressions wouldn’t fit her character, so I didn’t have the opportunity to do that within this piece of work.
Bibliography
Abrams, M. H. (2015). A Glossary of Literary Terms , Cengage Learning. pp. 69. ISBN 9788131526354
Breeze, M. (2018). Imposter Syndrome as a Public Feeling, Feeling Academic in the Neoliberal University, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham. pp. 191-219. DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-64224-6_9
Christie, A. (1926). The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Fontana Books. ISBN 9780007527526
Coben, H. (2016). The Stranger, Orion Publishing Co. ISBN 9781409144632
Coben, H. (2021). Win, Cornerstone. ISBN 9781538748213
Haddon, M. (2003). The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Doubleday RandomHouse. ISBN 0385-50945-6
Osman, R. (2020). The Thursday Murder Club, Viking Press, Penguin Books. ISBN 978-0241425442
Osman, R. (2021). The Man Who Died Twice, Viking Press, Penguin Books. ISBN 978-0-241-42542-8
Peterson, V. (2018). Young Adult and New Adult Book Markets, The Balance [online]. Available at: https://www.thebalancecareers.com/the-young-adult-book-market-2799954
Price, T. (2019). What Makes a Cozy Mystery?, Novel Suspects, Hachette Group [online]. Available at: https://www.novelsuspects.com/articles/what-makes-a-cozy-mystery/
Rule, A. (1980). The Stranger Beside Me, W. W. Norton & Company. ISBN 978-0-393-05029-5
Steinbeck, J. (1962). John Steinbeck – Banquet Speech , The Nobel Prize [online]. Available at: https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1962/steinbeck/25229-john-steinbeck-banquet-speech-1962/