My project for course: Creative Writing for Beginners: Bringing Your Story to Life

The initial idea of my project, inspired by the History of My Feet Exercise, was to use the examples of three different places I had been to, describing what they were like and what made them unique, hopefully composing an atmospheric read. Alongside this, I was to also discuss a handful of universally human characteristics and desires, through personal memories, from each destination. I was, therefore, aiming to create a juxtaposition of these two notions, i.e. uniqueness and universality.

I started off with writing in the 1st Person and a wholly non-fictional account. However, after some back and forth in the forum, and reading other people's submissions, I changed the perspective to the 3rd Person Singular, gave the heroine a name somewhat similar to mine, and allowed myself to add a few fictional elements; not many but a handful. I think this version works better; it feels more exciting (to me anyway) and less predictable, monotonous. I am not sure I achieved my aim to juxtapose uniqueness and universality, though, as the narrative took its own shape. I have the majority of the first draft in the original perspective, if I ever considered changing back and / or re-purposing some of the material that did not make the below final cut.

Shaun, I know you advised avoiding the start of the story being about something or someone who would not make an appearance later on - exactly what I ended up doing! - but this seemed the strongest, most mysterious segment within the piece; I hope the second sentence, which does make an appearance later on, salvages the situation!

I am also aware that there are some temporal issues - the protagonist being in Nice one paragraph and Milan the next. I used a sentence to try and link the two destinations, or her journey from one to the other, but I wanted to stick to the word count. It was less of an issue in my original draft (1st Person) but the discrepancies became a bit more obvious in the 3rd.

Lastly, I have attached the pictures I took for the two writing exercises.

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Original Version

Gérard, the old gentleman, had a morning coffee to drink, a home-made pastry to enjoy and a daily newspaper to read. Sienna’s feet had taken her to Nice, one of the most beautiful places in the world, and yet she was enamoured with the simple things in life.

At the beach, right on the edge between sand and sea, many people had gone for their morning stroll: lovers, loners, old friends. It was mid-April, and the weather did not permit dips yet. Crystal clear water, undisturbed by non-existent waves, extended as far as the horizon and beyond. But the beyond was outside her field of vision and she could only guess what wonders lay there. The bus ride along the French Riviera had been nothing short of breath-taking and one was spoiled for choice of remarkable sights to devour.

Only she was not admiring the magnificent scenery. What she was taken up by was this old man, whom she had named Gérard, for the sake of her narrative. Easily in his late 80s, he had been walking on the Nice’s promenade and headed towards a café. The local enterprise was completely empty, none of its tables appealing enough to attract the attention of a single tourist. Either oblivious to this, or ignoring it altogether, Gérard was very purposefully moving toward one particular table. His table. As he sat down, the proprietor or barista came out with an order and greeted him heartily; the hot drink at 8am must have been an espresso. The tray also carried a pastry of sorts. A croissant? The woman returned a minute later, handing him a newspaper. All was good in the world. It was true, Sienna had not lived long, but there was not a single doubt in her mind, the man had been observing this ritual for decades, rising early in the morning and crossing the sleepy, cobbled streets to the unpretentious café on the waterfront of his hometown. Never mind the loud tourists, never mind the flashy cameras and the orchestrated posing, never mind the hubbub. Our biggest, most precious richest were often hidden in plain sight in the simplicity of our ways, Sienna thought forcing herself away from this charming scene. She had to go, she had to keep moving or else she would be left behind.

The piazza was bursting with commotion, people were talking in big groups or one on one; some were on the phone to their friends, family, boyfriends, girlfriends. Key chains, scarves, fridge magnets were a few of the items on offer to bring home and keep as mementos, street sellers enthusiastically shouting to anyone who would listen. The distant sound of car horns was humming, a constant background noise; the unmistakable smell of coffee beans and that one-of-a-kind Italian dough was always in the air. It was earlier that same April - 2nd April 2005 - and the Pope had just died; Duomo di Milano was closed and was not to reopen. Despite the hustle and bustle of the metropolis, in Milan one could be utterly invisible and at the very core of the action, all at the same time. The cathedral towering over her, its steps stone and cool and old, Sienna was sat wriggling her toes in her pumps. An Italian guy was handing her a red rose, repeating ‘You are pretty’ slowly after her, in heavily accented Bulgarian. She looked around, a young woman was tipping something out of her left shoe, and Sienna was sure she had a little stone in it. She inhaled deeply, allowing herself to absorb the energy of this city. How lucky was she to be here, in Italy, in this historic moment? Sienna’s feet had taken her to Milan, one of the most magical places in the world, and yet she was in awe of how ordinary even the most extraordinary of days could be.

Years later, somewhere else entirely, both far away and not far enough, she would remember the various majestic spots she had seen and experienced during that high school excursion. The impressive buildings she had stood in, the preserved history she had witnessed, the natural miracles she had gaped at, the delicious food she had eaten, the influential paintings and photographs she had studied, the interesting people she had met. In the autumn of 2009, these were comforting reminders that there was good in the world and the melancholy she suffered was only temporary.

The watchtowers were empty; there were no guards either up there, in the oppressive rectangle boxes, turning their heads left and then right, or down here, marching up and down, batons at their hips and firearms slung across their shoulders. There was no one to guard, for Sienna and the others were simply visitors. Everyone wandered around aimlessly, wordlessly, apologetically; no eye contact was made, and no amateur pictures were taken. The enormity and splendour of the Vosges Mountains were lost on each of them, never to be immortalised in their own photo album or reminisced about at family dinners; the rolling hills, with their ancient pines, beeches and maples, were a mere backdrop. Sienna felt exposed, closely observed although she was aware of how deserted and isolated this site now was; the evil force might no longer be physically present here, but its wicked spirit lingered.

Yet, almost seventy years ago, many a foot had shuffled across these grounds which now, in the French autumn, were drowned in a thick fog and the persistent drizzle of October, heavy grey clouds suffocating everything and everyone.

‘Shuffled’, not ‘walked’, or ‘stamped’, or ‘crossed’, or ‘beaten’. ‘Shuffled’ might still be wrong, she had no way of knowing, but the dragging motion it inferred, the slowness of the act, the lack of vivaciousness seemed to reflect well how the strangers’ feet had moved across the surfaces. Shuffled because they were starved; shuffled because they were tortured; shuffled because they were forced to work in disgusting conditions; shuffled because medical experiments were performed on them; shuffled because the final destination for many, the majority, was the gas chamber. Sienna’s feet had taken her to Natzweiler-Struthof, one of the most terrifying places in the world, and she was empty.

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Revised Version

Years later, somewhere else entirely, both far away and not far enough, she would desperately long to return to the majestic landmarks she had seen during that high school trip, if only for one brief, coveted moment; the impressive buildings she had stood in, the preserved history she had witnessed, the natural miracles she had gaped at, the delicious food she had eaten, the influential paintings and photographs she had studied, the interesting people she had met; the contents of her two-wheeled dark green suitcase, the older brother of the four-wheeled luggage invention that would simplify people’s lives soon after, and her pull-out map, its edges folded onto themselves, some inwards and others outwards, the result of being shoved out of the way in deep pockets or a busy handbag. At the bay window, her mind eye was working furiously to lead her astray, let her drift into the depths of her …

And there she was.

At the beach, where sand and sea met, many people had gone for their morning stroll: lovers, loners, old friends. It was mid-April, and the weather did not permit dips yet. Crystal clear water, undisturbed by non-existent waves, extended as far as the horizon and beyond. But the beyond was outside her field of vision and she could only guess what wonders lay there. The bus ride along the French Riviera had been nothing short of breath-taking and one was spoilt for choice of remarkable sights to devour.

Only Sienna was not admiring the magnificent scenery. What she was taken up by was this old man, whom she had named Gérard, for the sake of her narrative. Easily in his late 80s, he had been walking on the Nice’s promenade and headed towards a café. The local enterprise was completely empty, none of its tables appealing enough to attract the attention of a single tourist. Either oblivious to this, or ignoring it altogether, Gérard was very purposefully moving toward one particular table. His table. As he sat down, the proprietor or barista came out with an order and greeted him heartily; the hot drink at 8am must have been an espresso. The tray also carried a pastry of sorts. A croissant? The woman returned a minute later, handing him a newspaper. All was good in the world. It was true, Sienna had not lived long, but there was not a doubt in her mind, the man had been observing this ritual for decades, rising early in the morning and crossing the sleepy, cobbled streets to the unpretentious café on the waterfront of his hometown, to be seated at his self-selected spot. Never mind the loud tourists, never mind the flashy cameras and the orchestrated posing, never mind the hubbub. Gérard had a morning coffee to drink, a home-made pastry to enjoy and a daily newspaper to read. Our biggest, most precious richest were often hidden in plain sight in the simplicity of our ways, she thought, forcing herself away from this charming scene. Sienna’s feet had taken her to Nice, one of the most beautiful places in the world, yet she was enamoured with the simple things in life. And now she had to go, she had to keep moving or else she would be left behind.

The piazza was bursting with commotion, people were talking in big groups or one on one; some were on the phone to their friends, family, boyfriends, girlfriends. Key chains, scarves, fridge magnets were a few of the items on offer to bring home and keep as mementos, street sellers enthusiastically shouting to anyone who would listen. The distant sound of car horns was humming, a constant background noise; the unmistakable smell of coffee beans and that one-of-a-kind Italian dough was always in the air. It was earlier that same April - 2nd April 2005 - and the Pope had just passed away; Duomo di Milano was closed and was not to reopen. Despite the hustle and bustle of the metropolis, in Milan one could be utterly invisible and at the very core of the action, all at the same time. The cathedral towering over her, its steps stone and cool and old, Sienna was sat wriggling her toes in her pumps. An Italian guy was handing her a red rose, repeating ‘You are pretty’ slowly after her, in heavily accented Bulgarian. She looked around, a young woman was tipping something out of her left shoe, and Sienna was sure she had a little stone in it. She inhaled deeply, allowing herself to absorb the energy of this city. How lucky was she to be here, in Italy, in this historic moment? Sienna’s feet had taken her to Milan, one of the most magical places in the world, yet she was in awe of how ordinary even the most extraordinary of days could be.

The watchtowers were empty; there were no guards either up there, in the oppressive rectangle boxes, turning their heads left and then right, or down here, marching up and down, batons at their hips and firearms slung across their shoulders. There was no one to guard, for Sienna and the others were simply visitors. Everyone wandered around aimlessly, wordlessly, apologetically; no eye contact was made, and no amateur pictures were taken. The enormity and splendour of the Vosges Mountains were lost on each of them, never to be immortalised in their own photo album or reminisced about at family dinners; the rolling hills, with their ancient pines, beeches and maples, were a mere backdrop.

‘There is good in the world’, the whisper almost inaudible. The past few days were comforting reminders that the melancholy she suffered was only temporary. Sienna felt exposed, closely observed although she was aware of how deserted and isolated this site now was; the evil force might no longer be physically present, but its wicked spirit lingered.

Yet almost seventy years ago, many a foot had shuffled across these grounds which now, the turn of the weather almost symbolic, were drowned in a thick fog and a persistent drizzle, heavy grey clouds suffocating everything and everyone.

‘Shuffled’, not ‘walked’, or ‘stamped’, or ‘crossed’, or ‘beaten’. ‘Shuffled’ might still be wrong, she had no way of knowing, but the dragging motion it inferred, the slowness of the act, the lack of vivaciousness seemed to reflect well how the strangers’ feet had moved across the surfaces. Shuffled because they were starved; shuffled because they were tortured; shuffled because they were forced to work in despicable conditions; shuffled because medical experiments were performed on them; shuffled because the final destination for many, the majority, was the gas chamber. Sienna’s feet had taken her to Natzweiler-Struthof, one of the most terrifying places in the world, and she was empty.

[Emerging out of her reverie, the taste of salt on her lips, Sienna was grateful for the memories she was able to hold onto still, the good, the bad and the ugly. For some, a life without memories might be a relief, the novelty of the blank page exhilarating. For Sienna, walking down Memory Lane was all that was left.]