2018

TASK 1: CREATIVE WRITING

dUE WEEK 8 TERM 4 / Semester 2 2018
LITERATURE ATAR 12 UNIT 1 / MR BEST
Rojin Moradi Zaniani – Task 1: Creative Writing – Literature ATAR 12 Unit 1 – Mr. Best

TABLE OF CONTENTS
STATEMENT OF INTENT 2
‘ME AND MICHAEL’ 3

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Rojin Moradi Zaniani – Task 1: Creative Writing – Literature ATAR 12 Unit 1 – Mr. Best

STATEMENT OF INTENT
a. Which story/stories have you drawn inspiration from?
b. What do you aim to achieve with this piece? What effect do you hope to create? How do you
hope your readers may respond to it?
c. What techniques or conventions from your chosen text will you adopt and why?
d. What challenges do you anticipate you might face and how might you deal with these?

For this task, I will produce a creative prose piece in the form of a pastiche-style exposition titled ‘Me
and Michael’, drawing inspiration from Tim Winton’s ‘Big World’ and ‘Aquifer’, both from his novel
The Turning (2004). ‘Big World’ is considered to be of the Bildungsroman literary genre, exploring
the narrator’s efforts to make meaning out of his adolescent experience, as he searches for freedom
beyond his mental entrapments of disappointment and failure. ‘Aquifer’ also conforms to the
Bildungsroman genre, however places a larger focus on the corrupting effects of the suburban setting
on the mechanisms of growing up.

During the creation of my piece, I will aim to replicate the Bildungsroman genre by similarly
examining the complex and distant nature of the relationship between a brother and sister, and in
which divisive tragedies from early childhood, such as the growing presence of divorce in twentieth
century suburban Australia, has plagued the potential for an emotional and mental connection
between a young girl and her older brother. However, an opportunity for the narrator to catch a
glimpse into the personal perspective of her older brother, through the simple presence of his
belongings and objects, provides her with an impetus to a confounding ‘turning’ in which she grasps
an overwhelming sense of understanding into the staggering mental and emotional resemblances of
her brother, which have been ultimately shaped by their childhood traumas. I hope to evoke an
empathetic response from the reader, in which the effects of childhood trauma can be seen through the
angst in the narrator’s thoughts and dialogue. I also hope to position the reader to view a sibling
relationship as powerful and significantly influential to one’s maturation and mental state despite any
physical or emotional distance.

In order to achieve this purpose, I will adopt several conventions from ‘Big World’ and ‘Aquifer’.
Firstly, I will adopt the juxtaposing and oscillating language form, by incorporating both colloquial
and sublime language into my piece. The mixture of such two contrasting forms combines the
relatability and empathetic effect of colloquial slang on the reader, with the use of sublime language
portraying rich and romantic representations of broader societal mechanisms and forces, and
concurrently evoking a reflective response from the reader. I will also adopt Winton’s stylistic
references of specific icons and nouns, such as his identification of a “Kombi” rather than a general
description of a car in ‘Big World’, which emphasises the realist qualities of the text in connecting
with the twenty-first century Australian reader and their personal context.

I anticipate finding a particular challenge in effectively combining colloquial and sublime language
styles and preventing textual disorder, or in preventing the over-exaggeration of slang by trying to
replicate the Australian colloquial language depicted by Winton.

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Rojin Moradi Zaniani – Task 1: Creative Writing – Literature ATAR 12 Unit 1 – Mr. Best

ME AND MICHAEL
PASTICHE OF THE TURNING, TIM WINTON

Michael pulled over by the mailbox. His tires screeched to a stop and crunched the gravel underneath.
His little head bobbled behind the blue Ford that sputtered to a stop.

Jesus, Michael. Let the whole world know your moving out. We get it.
The boxes are in the back, he said.
You need to shave.
You need to shut up.

He trudged up the porch with heavy, tired steps.

He had a nice charm to him like that. Would go off for days or weeks or months and come back
whenever he liked. Leaving me at home with Susan so she could lecture me tirelessly about ‘dignity’
while her black eyes enlarged to the size of saucers, and thankfully distracted the eye from the rapidly
moving wrinkles on her magenta-stained lips. I don’t know what’s worse, the awful screech escaping
that lizard’s tongue, or seeing Michael’s bearded face after a month of doing God knows what.
Soon I wasn’t about to have a choice, as Michael was eager and ready to fly out of Angelus in a death
wish disguised as a blue Ford.

He collapsed in a heap onto the lavender couch opposite mine, the embroidered paisley prints
distorting into inanimate shapes under the weight of his grown body. The dried planks of the porch
shook precariously beneath him. I got a good look at him for the first time since he arrived. His ashy
brown hair was almost covering his eyes now, chunks of it resting on the peeling white gates behind
his head. He had on the flannel he always wore, the one that looked more grey than red each time he
came around, and further away from the colour it was when Dad gave it to him right before he pissed
off.

I’ll bring the boxes in and say hello to Susan while I’m at it, you can just start sorting my things into
bundles, he said.

I swung my legs around my spot on the couch and plodded through the front doorway. I was blessed
to have avoided an encounter with the lizard as I slid my socks through the hallway until I reached
Michael’s room at the end.

I was greeted with the scent of dust and old Pizza-flavoured Shapes. The scratched white walls stood
the same. In the middle of the room sat a heap of Michael’s things, sprawled bits and pieces almost
reaching the suspicious brown stain near where his desk used to lie. The lizard’s cries and declarations
of love were muffled but still audible through the walls, as I let myself fall next to the heap while
narrowly avoiding the brown stain. I let out a deep breath and sprawled my limbs out, slowly lifting
my arm over my shoulder. Weak gusts of air blowing from a crack in the window threatened to push
my arm, as I examined the chips of lilac on my nails blur from soft motions and sway in front of the
small cracks in the ceiling.

I cocked my head to the side, inches away from a peeling football. Flakes of red leather gave way to
the pinkish-flesh beneath with flailing bits of white string. I turned my body to face it, carefully
picking up the ball. I slowly turned the ball in my hands, finding the chunk of missing flesh on the

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Rojin Moradi Zaniani – Task 1: Creative Writing – Literature ATAR 12 Unit 1 – Mr. Best

underside of the ball from the time Michael kicked it into the Andersons’ yard, right into Duke’s
enclosure. I had a hand gripped on Michael’s shirt as we had slowly trudged to the Andersons’ gate,
me behind Michael, the sound of Duke’s merciless growls and rumbles almost as uninviting as the
creaking gate which stood between us and the ball. Michael’s face scrunched up and soaked with
tears as soon as he saw the shreds of red leather hanging among strands of drool from Duke’s snout.
Dad got him a new one that afternoon. I don’t think Michael kicked the footy within a twenty-metre
radius of the Andersons’ house again.

I placed the ball back down, shifting so I was sitting on my two shins. My eyes glazed over the cluster
of metals and cotton and plastics but lingered on the guitar pick lying close to the stain. I carefully
leant over and picked it up with my two fingers.

The speckles of tortoise-shell shimmered under a sliver of sunlight, almost hiding the roughly etched
‘M’. He was eight when he did it, busted by Dad when he found the kitchen knife hidden behind
Michael’s guitar. It was a beautiful light brown, the sound of its strings constantly echoing past his
pale walls and filling the hallways and rooms. The dreaded first notes of Smoke On The Water were
all we heard for the weeks on end, conditioning me to shriek in disgust whenever those notes were
played through the radio. It wasn’t all Deep Purple thankfully, to Dad’s delight Michael had trooped
through a Powderfinger number as his small hands strained to reach all the strings without fault. A
toothless grin had covered his face after playing it perfectly for one of Mum’s birthdays.

Heavy steps approached until the door flew open, Michael looking as dishevelled as the lizard on a
hot summer’s day.

That stupid lizard get to you?

Awh c’mon leave her alone, he said.

I quickly tossed the pick back into the pile, a light clunk sounding from its collision with a dollar coin.
I sat back in my spot and looked at Michael. His hair was swept to the side now, exposing the small
scar on his right eyebrow from falling off the shed in preschool. I looked at the remnants of dirt on his
hands move slowly as he picked things up and put them down.

The soft outline of a mouth in rosy lipstick sat smudged on his left cheek.

You okay?
Yeah, I’m fine Michael.

I slowly picked up to the guitar pick, the ball, a coin, and began to pack.