This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
etryshortstorybookrevieweurekawritersblockfeaturepoetryshortst Short Story vieweurekawritersblockfeaturepoetryshortstorybookrevieweurek Book Review blockfeaturepoetryshortstorybookrevieweurekawritersblockfeatu Eureka Moments shortstorybookrevieweurekawritersblockfeaturepoetryshortstoryb Writer’s Block vieweurekawritersblockfeaturepoetryshortstorybookrevieweurek blockfeaturepoetryshortstorybookrevieweurekawritersblockfeatu shortstorybookrevieweurekawritersblockfeaturepoetryshortstoryb vieweurekawritersblockfeaturepoetryshortstorybookrevieweurek blockfeaturepoetryshortstorybookrevieweurekawritersblockfeatu Coventry Words
ISSUE 1 Sept 2009
– Lyle Weir by Abbie Packwood
by Lyle Weir
by Pippa Collett
– J K Rowling by Emilie Lauren Jones
by Emilie Lauren Jones
by Harriet Kendrick
Coventry University Priory Street Coventry CV1 5FB www.coventry.ac.uk
welcome from the editors
Feature – Lyle Weir
Savvy student gets promising publication
Here it is the first edition of our Coventry Words magazine. The next few pages are an outlet for all the creative vibes flying around this university. In every issue you’ll find short stories, poems and prose from creative writers who want to show off their work. Along with these there will be reviews on the latest books and bios on authors, puzzles, quizzes and our tips on how to turn the creative chaos in your mind into a masterpiece. Thanks for picking up the first issue and enjoy! Alexander Lauder-Bliss E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
After enjoying my English Language A level, I decided to study English at Coventry University. I struggled to decide which path I wanted to take after sixth form, and English seemed like a natural choice. I have never thought of myself as a creative student, so I was delighted and somewhat surprised to see several of my poems appear in the Student Union’s Source Magazine and another in a Coventry Words leaflet. Originally from Leicester, I love the countryside - it is the thing I miss the most since moving to Coventry. I spend most of my spare time listening to music, which has crafted aspirations to work within the media sector of the music industry after finishing my degree. Harriet Kendrick E-mail: email@example.com
gets promising publication
First Year Coventry University English student Lyle Weir will have his poem ‘Nebula Horizon’ published in a United Press anthology called ‘Golden Days’ this summer.
Short Story by Pippa Collett
Rabbit in the headlights
Book Review – J K Rowling
‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’ by JK Rowling
Eureka moments and where to find them!
Writer’s block: don’t let it get to your head
Alexander Lauder Bliss: firstname.lastname@example.org Tom Dodd: email@example.com
A warm welcome to everyone. This is the first issue of our new Coventry Words newsletter designed by students for students. The idea behind the publication is to inspire you to be more creative by compiling the best student work from each term and showcasing it for everyone to see. We hope that it will inspire you to discover your own literary genius. Don’t forget to check out our Coventry Words website, the link is on the CU Portal (Life@CU) and Google. Thank you to everyone who has been involved so far. Tom Dodd E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
Weir, 23, originally discovered a passion for creative writing in his early teens when he started writing song lyrics. Years later, he enrolled at Coventry University on a Joint Honours course intending to study English and Journalism. After realising a preference to focus solely on studying English, Weir decided to re-enrol in September 2008 and has now nearly finished the first year of the course. Between the ages of 14 and 23 Weir estimates writing over 200 music lyrics and poetry, yet it is only recently he has found the confidence to show his work to others. With the support of Coventry University creative writing tutor Alyson Morris, Weir has developed his talent and challenged his skills, leading to a decision to approach publishers. After submitting dozens of poems to several publications, Weir heard nothing for two months. However, United Press recently got in touch to confirm they would be publishing Nebula Horizon.
Nebula Horizon was Weir’s first conscious effort to write rhyming poetry. Although this poem was inspired by footage of Space, Weir states that most of his work has political and philosophical undertones. His long term ambition is to use poetry and music to change the attitudes of our community. “I don’t understand today’s society,” argues Weir. “War is pointless, glorified murder. I want to help change the way people treat each other.” Weir is currently editing an anti-war poem named ‘333’; some publications have been unwilling to use this piece as it contains a profanity. Weir hopes to submit this poem to more publishing companies soon. Considering his recent achievement, Weir is remarkably humble. Despite the fact that the young author hopes to motivate a change in society in the future, he is clear his writing is primarily a private way to express his personal voice. Since embarking on the English course, the talented student has found a source of confidence in tutor Alyson Morris, who in turn believes Weir has “a natural gift for rhythm and verse”. However, having barely studied conventional poetry guidelines before, Weir admits he has hit some obstacles, like learning to edit his work.
Time spent at the University has allowed Weir to explore other creative outlets; he performed his favourite piece ‘333’ at Coventry University’s One World Week, and his future plans include taking part in more performance poetry. After finishing his BA in English, Weir plans to travel, gathering experiences and inspiration from around the globe in order to fulfil his potential as a writer and performer. He is currently writing a Graphic novel with a friend. If this becomes a success it may widen the career path as a writer. Although writing is important to Weir, he is adamant that above all it should always be at least an enjoyable hobby. The likeable student expresses distaste for arrogance, and clearly states that he does not seek fame, only change. Golden Days will be published over the Summer, including Nebula Horizon. An assortment of Weir’s previous work can be found on the Coventry University creative writing website and in its accompanying poetry pamphlet, Coventry Words, plus the Student Union’s ‘Source’ newspaper. His early success is a credit to himself and his University, and an inspiration to other young aspiring writers. by Abbie Packwood
I am currently studying English at Coventry and have always loved reading and writing. I won The Guardian’s short story competition in 2006 and had it published in an anthology ‘The Perfect Lie’, I also self published a poetry book ‘One Look’ to raise money for Action on Addiction and am currently editor of Leamington Chatterbox Magazine. I really love life at Cov Uni both lessons and social and because I live at home I can still go to every football match! Emilie Lauren Jones E-mail: email@example.com
Alyson Morris: firstname.lastname@example.org
Alyson teaches creative writing on the BA English course. She is well travelled, and has written, edited and published materials for education and marketing. Alyson is also involved with a local theatre and has recently acted on stage. Alyson Morris E-mail: email@example.com Tel: 024 7688 8013
Harriet Kendrick: firstname.lastname@example.org Emilie Lauren Jones: email@example.com English and Languages Department: BA English, George Eliot Building, GE519
Contents / Welcome
by Lyle Weir
Though I am immortal I am defined by my prison, its limitations, weaknesses. My birth is denied by life whose strength keeps me dormant. I observe the earth through organic glass, my desire fulfilled by meat and bone, defiant meat and bone. Only the wise die young I wonder, they bartered their blood soaked walls for ascension.
I owe the most wonderful sight to nebula whose beauty reaches vast, on nights when nothing but tiny lights can be seen hovering far and out of reach. Colours melt into each others arms, creating patterns of other worldly origin. The remnants of violent and chaotic storms now adorn the universe like buttons. And in the space that occupies nothing, you can be sure that thousands more rest waiting to be discovered. So from a raft made of silver and wood I travel far in search of a new home. Past a thousand suns and their children planets, towards light years, secrets and undiscovered races. And tonight when my head hits the pillow, I’ll think of the many more who dream this with me. So that when I awake perhaps I’ll find, you’ve joined me here in utopia personified.
Survey this land around you all drenched in blood, your hands like mine bare the guilt and the shame Yet together we feel no loss. Green pastures turned crimson and it’s not enough, it is never enough. What you have I will take, what you covet I will destroy. When you know love I will corrupt with my dogma. Now when you stand at my side I seek opportunity, while your eyes and mouth wander, my betrayal cuts deep. Pragmatist, you self riotous murderer; in the end we are both still the same. There is no place for compassion and regret in our bloodbath, but tickets are on sale for any journalist lacking taste. So spin these words in print... ‘Go stuff yourself world we no longer care’ You can’t see through our veils, those books are burning behind us you know...Every single one of them. And yet we remain brothers you and I, and we eat the same flesh. If you trace our beginnings you’ll see identical functioning appendages. Don’t ever tell me we lost our way, lest our empires come crashing down. You’ll never forget, and I still remember... Underneath an innocent dreamer’s clear blue sky two children run for miles without losing breath. They finish at a familiar house and exchange smiles, outside my mother and my father are throwing grenades at children from the neighbouring town. They give vague reasoning and rant, and rant, and rant...
Sometimes my hand will glide across paper like a painter possessed who has no idea what he is creating. The words are my imagination, possibly in true form, or as fictional creations. Every word is written in invisible blood, my blood. If you ever need an example of the soul I can provide it with pen and paper, like a passion shared between two lovers. On white canvas my voice can be heard as a soft compliment to the universe, or a violent roar against injustice. I was born with nostalgic eyes, they capture the world and hold onto a billion images, I’ll see beauty in the sunlight as it burns through the shade of tree branches, or find humour in the way water reflects a human image and is as transparent as the meaning Of life itself. I love the way the rain makes everything real, everyone becomes aware of nature when it rains. When I write for my guitar we bring ideas to life, When I perform my poetry I pierce my heart so That every word you hear is true. I am a writer, I am an artist and I am free.
rabbit in the headlights
The upstanding members of society avoided downtown New York. Those unfortunate enough to live in this dystopia jailed themselves in their homes when thugs began prowling the streets with their oversized weapons. A heavy cloud hung above the city tattooing the streets a dense grey. The only traces of colours were those left by gangs marking their territory. Law and order were foreign words. Like the cloud, there was only one omniscient ruler of this concrete jungle. Disappearances and brutalities multiplied in his presence. He was elusive like an eel, slipping between the fingers of the law when the net got closer. Holding the net in this urban hell was Rainie. A 23 year old who could rough and tumble with the boys and knew how to defend herself with the knife, stashed in her boot. Rainie put her life on hold whilst she combed the streets for the most wanted man in New York - Dicipriani. Today was her pay day. She could taste it in the air. Winter was a cleansing ritual to Rainie and here she was, watching the biggest rat about to get flushed out. Rainie adjusted herself on the bench where she had been put for her ‘protection’. ‘Protection’ she thought, ‘pah! I’ll give you protection’ she grumbled to herself. Not content with the world, she snuggled into her hand me down parka thumbing the knife in her boot. She had grown a callous on her ankle from it, this was her comforter. It was a limpet on her skin, refusing to leave. Rainie felt lost without it, parallel to the absence of a watch or phone. The wooden handle was stained from age and the silver etches were smooth like a pebble worn away from the sea. The silence was ruptured by glass shattering. The dull drone of the taxis and boom-boxes failed to mask the echoes of women hysterically shrieking and gruff voices roaring. A smile played on Rainie’s lips. The crumbling skin snagged on a tooth and tore. Her tongue licked up the blood that melted from her lips. In awe of something that was an unquestionable success, Rainie levered herself off the cool damp bench and began pacing her way home happily blind in pride. The sun was sinking by the time Rainie made it to her street. The steam from the sewers looked majestic in the flickering street lamp - the one that kept Rainie awake whilst she persistently asked for the bulb to be replaced. She scowled at it. The tattered carpet in the hall was suspiciously stained. Rainie had seen it all before. The ongoing battle with apartment door commenced. Rainie’s hands were sore from jabbing and twisting her keys aggressively. Fumbling, she staggered into her haven. The light fell through the netted curtains casting jigsaw pieces on the carpet. A familiar smell invaded her nose. She felt safe and at ease. Buttons began religiously weaving through her legs meowing for food. The lights came on. Pivoting on her back foot her heart drummed faster as she inhaled second hand smoke. Behind the door was a stocky man – a classic so to speak. His black mane was gelled perfectly into place. His steel blue eyes were framed by Mediterranean eyelashes. The 1940s style white pinstripe suit was perfected with a red carnation. There was a sense of familiarity about him. The faded photos at the office were out dated but she instantly knew it was Dicipriani. ‘Rainie, Rainie, Rainie…’ His voice was coarse. Slowly lifting his face into the light, his wrinkles deepened. His sallow skin was too old for his youthful eyes. She felt his bones grind in his neck from looking at her. The silence reminded her of a lover’s tiff. ‘If I’m honest, I feel a little let down.’ Rainie squeaked. Her throat swelled as she failed to stutter a response. The sweat from her brow carved its way down into her eyes, stinging them. The vulture circled the carcass. He moved his face closer to hers. His breath was stale from decayed cigarettes. ‘So do you want to know how? Family ties and all that. Blood is thicker than water.’ A dry laugh thundered around the apartment. Dicipriani cracked his wizened fingers and his henches appeared from behind her tattered furniture casting angular shadows on the floor. Time hung in the balance as the room span. Rainie’s antelope like eyes widened and tears washed away her vision. Bile stung her throat. A heavy weight smashed into her temple. Falling to the floor like a doll, she could taste the familiar irony tang of blood filling her mouth. A man towered over her holding a thick rope. Rainie’s eyes flitted around the room. The light distorted their faces into crude crooked angles. ‘No’, Rainie thought. Stabbing her teeth into his ankle, she made him shriek; ‘Stupid bitch!’ He stretched like a cat, holding something. Everything went black. Straining her eyes into focus, Rainie’s breath misted the floor. Her hands and feet were knotted together and a strip of linen gagged her. The thumping of the henches feet made her head ache as it lolled from the vibrations. Buttons was cowering in the corner. A burlap sack was strewn across the chair. Dicipriani sauntered across the room sparking up. He stood at the window and deflated himself. Smoke masked his face. Fingers were clicked. Rainie was shoved into the bag like clothes into a laundry machine. The woven fibres scratched her face to what felt like ribbons. ‘Someone must see me in the hallway.’ Nothing. She heard the air become clearer. Cold metal sounds echoed as doors were slithered shut. The vehicle spluttered into life. They were laughing and joking. The violent acceleration caused Rainie to topple over smashing her nose. The blood congealed and set into a crust when they reached their destination. All was quiet. The doors were painfully wretched open. Rust grating on rust. Rainie was slung over a padded shoulder. Her carrier was raking the air in with
short story by Pippa Collett
difficulty and the floor shuddered underneath. Her thoughts were heavy and docile but there was a comforting smell from the carrier. She could hear snippets of cursing, it was a gruff voice. A seagull’s cry broke the silence. She tasted the unmistakable sour air and it hit her. She was at the pier. Catching and ripping her hair the carrier dutifully unwound the bag. Rainie’s head hung as if disconnected from her body. Her eyes bored out from underneath her skull and she saw a familiar twinkle in his eye. His face was damp from sweat and the spray from the water. It was The Boss. ‘Sorry kid, it’s just that he’s my step-brother … ’ Rainie’s eyes burned into him with hatred. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ He bit his bottom lip and kissed the top of her head. Her long hair was matted from blood and sweat. He seemed to revile at the taste of her. ‘I’m sorry that it’s come to this, you’re a good cop, but you’re too close.’ He lingered a moment, studying her face with a sense of pity. He pulled the bag over her head and tightened the cord. The heat from her breath warmed her face as she began shaking uncontrollably. ‘Oh no, oh no, no, no.’ Her screams were muffled. The Boss grabbed the top of the sack and dragged the body. Rainie rhythmically jolted from the slats in the pier. He halted. It was the end. The boss pushed her gently, like pushing a child on a swing. Her weight double crossed her and she plunged into the abyss. The silence numbed her thoughts and for a moment, she felt briefly happy. The water stung her skin like needles. Her body keeled like an unborn child’s. Panic took over as she peeled open her eyes. The salt impaired her vision and the pressure was crushing her bones. Her mind screamed for a way out. There was the comforting rub on her ankle. ‘The knife!’ Doubling over, she pulled the knife out with her teeth. The knife nicked her ankle as it shook from the mismatched grip. Slowly moving to an upright position, the knife jumped out of her mouth. ‘Fuck.’ She was grateful for being stuffed in a bag, it’d saved her. Fumbling within utero she managed to find the knife. She was sinking further into the void. Gripping it between her teeth she began viciously hacking her bound hands to freedom. Harder and harder, faster and faster. The ropes dissolved apart. Repeating herself, she began pulling apart the ropes from her ankles, Rainie started to shred the bag with the knife, cutting a hole to swim out of. The bag clung to her like wet clothes. Instinct woke and she began to furiously kick. The murky water dragged her down, as if it was working for Dicipriani. Her veins and lungs were tightening and her legs started rebelling against her command to swim. She could hear her late mother bellow; ‘Don’t give up, don’t give in!’ The pressure began to loosen its muscular grip. The water bit her body. Her long hair and elf like features were distorted, making her like a mermaid. Looking up, the grey surface became transparent. The lights from the pier made the putrid water dance invitingly. Her head ruptured the calm surface sending cascades of water around her. She gasped for air - snatching it into her body. Panting heavily with disbelief she began to cry with relief. Her lips were navy blue from the bitter cold and her eyes etched red from the salty water. Her bones rattled within their cage. Hair stuck to her face making her look like a drowned rat. Her senses were heightened like a newborn as she listened for Dicipriani’s men. There was nothing, only the groan of a buoy. Rainie’s joints and muscles ached and her vision was drunken and distorted. Rainie clawed at the muddy embankment trying to scrape her way out of the water. It stuck to her fingers like dough as she failed to clamber to freedom. Searching frantically she saw a faint neon glow of civilisation. The moon was interrupted by sky scrapers, in this light the culture was nauseating. Shutting down her mind she began to kick. The way was led by her hot breath and her arms slapped the smooth surface of the water sending shudders of pain down her long body. Her hair began to freeze in clumps and her face was white and drawn. The stillness of the water was stolen by a faint rumble. Fog lights showered her. Rainie squinted and a sinking feeling washed over her. ‘Dicipriani, no not after this.’ It was a life boat. The bellows from the hearty crew filled the stagnant air. Crying with relief, she heaved her way to the orange boat. The burly crew wrapped her up and attempted to mother her. Rainie growled at them. Curled up on the deck, she thumbed her knife. One name on was on her list – Dicipriani.
biography - J K Rowling
by Alexander Lauder-Bliss
One of the main problems faced by writers, whether beginners or otherwise, is finding a good idea.
Adrian Magson from ‘Writing Magazine’ explains that “ideas rarely hang around unless you write them down as soon as they occur,” this is brilliant advice. Personally, I have lost count of the amount of times that I’m lying in bed, nearly asleep when a wonderful idea enters my head but instead of proclaiming “Eureka!” I go to sleep and am left with just a vague memory that I once had a world changing, ground breaking idea. However, if you’re struggling to find any inspiration in the first place then the best place to start is by looking and actually seeing. Writer Adele Ramet, in her book ‘Creative Writing’ says; “the next time you go to the supermarket, for example, observe the behaviour of the other customers. Take a few seconds to chat to the checkout girl or the assistant who packs your shopping. Listen not only to the words they say but to how they say them.” This theory can apply to any situation – in a lecture, at a sports match, church, nightclub or even as you pass people on the street. Watch what they do, how they speak, their mannerisms and let the ideas flow – are they happy? Married? Do they have pets or children or do they live alone? Are they a victim or a master criminal? The possibilities are infinite! One of the best ways to feel inspired is from your own thoughts, beliefs and experiences. By injecting this passion into your work you can come up with some great pieces which can touch the lives of others as well as relieve you of your own troubles. www.poem-and-poet.com is ‘a free poetry site where every poem is accompanied with an insight into its origin.’ The site includes categories such as ‘real life,’ ‘dreams’ and ‘sport.’ So if your team has just been knocked out of the FA cup by Chelsea, for instance, then this could be the best place to express your feelings.
and where to find them!
Some of the best pieces of writing have been inspired by actual events which have been recorded in the media, for example, Robert Frost’s poem ‘Out, Out’ was inspired by a story he read in the newspaper. Of course, many interesting factual pieces are written this way too, for example, articles, blogs, etc… As briefly discussed already, a good place to start is writing about your own hobbies and interests, whether this is an interesting guide to healthy eating or a short story based on a Frisbee tournament. Liz Gregory from Writing Magazine sums it up well by advising writers to “consider all your areas of expertise: hobbies, interests, work experience – anything you feel knowledgeable enough to write about.” However, that doesn’t mean that you can’t write about things you feel you don’t know about – as long as you do your research! So whether it’s a picture on a postcard or a controversial government policy, everyone can feel that ‘Eureka’ moment, just write about what appeals to you. Article by Emilie Lauren Jones
‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’
by JK Rowling Book Review by Emilie Lauren Jones Harry Potter fans - both Wizards and Muggles! You can still get your fix of the Wizarding World with J.K Rowling’s latest book ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard.’ This charming book, illustrated by the great JK herself, tells the stories of the fairy tales referred to in ‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows’. These original tales (as translated by the one and only Hermione Granger with notes from Albus Dumbledor) bring together the intriguing, the comic and the brilliant to captivate and teach their reader. Whereas with original Muggle fairytales magic is seen as a bad thing, here magic is represented as something awesome and life changing, which can be used for good or evil, however, the book also touches the soul on a more basic level as we journey with the characters and watch them learn important lessons; follow three brave witches and Sir Luckless on a quest to find true happiness or fall into the dark and profound world of the Three Brothers and their encounters with Death. Overall, even if it is just a bit of fun, this new edition to the Harry Potter collection is a both welcome and thoroughly enjoyable one. Just to add to the book’s appeal; Rowling is using the money raised from sales to give to the children’s charity ‘The Children’s High Level Group.’ And another brilliant thing is that no one is too old to enjoy these classic fairy stories with a twist! By the way, if you are fortunate enough to be one of fifteen people lucky enough to have an original, hand-made version of the book, one apparently sold on Amazon last year for a staggering £1.95 million!!!
J.K Rowling is one of the most pivotal authors of this century. Perhaps the most famous of her work is the extremely popular Harry Potter series that has spawned games, movies and now even a new area of Universal Studios with rides dedicated to the wonderful world of wizards and all things Rowling. Rowling was born in Bristol and spent a few years in Winterbourne on the outskirts of Bristol with her sister, and her parents. Close to where she lived was the Potters and Rowling always liked the surname but that’s pretty much where the influence stopped for Harry Potter. She was never a fan of her own surname saying herself in her autobiography; “I wasn’t very fond of my own; ‘Rowling’ (the first syllable of which is pronounced ‘row’ as in boat, rather than ‘row’ as in argument) lent itself to woeful jokes such as ‘Rowling stone’, ‘Rowling pin’ and so on.” At nine, Rowling moved for a third time to a village, Chepstow, in Wales. Her mother was diagnosed with MS while Rowling was a teenager but soon after she went to Exeter University to study French. After graduating at Exeter she moved to London and worked with Amnesty International to campaign for human rights. Soon after, along with her boyfriend, she decided to move to Manchester and after flat-hunting she had the idea for Harry Potter on the train back to London. When she first started having ideas for Harry Potter she couldn’t write them down because she didn’t have a working pen. She always thought that helped because perhaps having to slow down her thoughts to write them down might have stifled them. The first time she sent it off to an agent it came back straight away but her second try had more fruition. After a year Bloomsbury made an offer to have Harry Potter published and J K Rowling has proceeded to become a household name. For more information on JK Rowling go to her website: www.jkrowling.com
Biography / Book reviews
writer’s block: don’t let it get to your head
by Harriet Kendrick Ever get the feeling that you’ve hit a brick wall? It’s one thing that all writers and students have in common; but what exactly is ‘writer’s block’, and how can you overcome it?
Amongst other dictionary definitions, writer’s block is described as a period of time when a writer finds it almost impossible to start or continue with a piece of work- such as a novel, poetry, or a play. However, it doesn’t just affect those involved in literature. It can creep up on any one person at any point in time; many of you may have experienced writer’s block in your exams, or when you realise that you have three hours left until your coursework is due in (even I’m experiencing it whilst writing this article!). Writer’s block has also been described as a ‘brief psychological incapability to write’; in which case it has been closely related to anxiety and even depression. One of the most common times when writer’s block occurs is when a piece of work has to be done - as opposed to writing something for pleasure. Forcing yourself to write can trigger feelings of boredom, fatigue, a willingness to give up, and can make you more vulnerable to distractions (yes, I’m appealing to all you Facebook lovers out there). Just like forcing a child to eat their vegetables, forcing yourself to write something can sometimes end up being a waste of time. Getting bored or distracted can easily take you away from that particular piece of work, and it ends up unfinished, waiting for you to put yourself back in the mood to attempt to tackle it once again. If you find the work challenging, then this can also trigger anxiety - which then leaves you with writer’s block. Feeling stressed or worried about a particular piece of work can delay the writing process overwhelming the mind with thoughts of failure rather than concentrating on the work at hand. Some people can start obsessing on a particular piece of work, drafting and redrafting as nothing seems good enough. This ‘perfectionist’ attitude is another ‘no-go’ area - there is a limit on how much you can obsess on one piece of work, and it may also begin to trigger anxieties (all leading to writer’s block). Creativity has its time and place, so if you’re not in the mood then come back to that piece of work later when you feel more relaxed or more energised; depending on what suits you best. Try following some of the top tips to beating writer’s block, and don’t let it get to your head.
Key tips for beating writer’s block: 1.) You need to be in the right mood to work, so make sure you’re feeling positive and are in the right atmosphere before you begin to write. Clear yourself a space, and concentrate on the work at hand. Also make sure that you have a good night’s sleep before attempting to work. If the brain is exhausted then any piece of work could take twice as long and be of a lesser quality. 2.) Positivity is key when attempting to write; don’t try and foresee the end of the work before you’ve even begun - just take it one step at a time. 3.) If you’re also finding the work challenging, then hand writing a plan can usually trigger some inspiration, and can make the piece seem much more achievable. 4.) Try not to get distracted from work - especially if you’re at the peak of your writing. Make sure there are no distractions, as it may become almost impossible to get back into the ‘zone’. 5.) Don’t obsess on one piece of work too much, as long as you meet the deadlines. Of course you only want to produce the work to your best ability, but being a perfectionist isn’t necessarily a good thing.
CUES (Coventry University English Society)
A society for students doing either single or double honours with English, or
who just have an interest in the topic! Guest speakers, plays and socials all to help you with your course and to meet more people. Currently recruiting the new committee for the academic year 09-10,
have you got what it takes?
Find us on Facebook by searching for: ‘Coventry University English Society’ Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org
This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?