The Ten Minute Writer

I started the second of my 2 writing courses tonight.

The reason I am doing these courses, is largely, to get more out of my time here in Amsterdam, experience new things, and also, to meet new people, and add another dimension to my life here, other than, working, sleeping, lazing and exploring.

I am also trying to get used to the idea of exposing my writing to people that don't know me, to get different opinions on my writing style and structure, which is highly daunting, and something I have never done before. And also, to have a bit of fun, and not take it all too seriously.

I came to a startling realisation tonight which simultaneously scared me, and surprised me.

Given the same writing tasks, all 7 writers came up with 7 very different interpretations and vastly different types of prose - and I couldn't help to compare what I wrote about (subject matter) and the way I wrote about it (style) to the others, and I suddenly felt very out of my league.

"Write something autobiographical, and in the story, slip in 1 lie. We're all going to take turns guessing the lie later when you read each of yours out. You have 10 minutes. Start... now!" my writing leader announced.

10 minutes later, I am listening to some seriously good stories - a variety of eloquent, descriptive, highly visual, tragic, personal, whimsical, flippant, and deep stories... all very very diverse.

Topics that were raised in prose around me included death of close family members, moving cities, coming of age, and multifaceted family relationships.

What did I write about?

A ham and cheese toastie I really wanted to eat last night but didn't, and the bung eye I woke up with this morning.

I'm not kidding. Really. I'm not fucking kidding.

This leads me to question whether

a) I am really a shallow human being, with no more concerns in life than my next meal, and my looks, and ultimately, if I am going to become - or worse, if I am already - a writer with the creative potential and depth to that of a glossy Paris Hilton poster.

b) I am going to be any good as a writer.

c) Trying to make writing my living is really such a good idea.

Granted, I have actually done this sort of writing exercise before. Actually, the same one, with my writing teacher, at another function that he invited me to attend. With many people, on the night, stuck for what to write about, he suggested writing about the day we had just experienced, or the day before that. I decided tonight to follow the same formula.

Anyway, here is the story I wrote as my "Ten Minute, One lie, Autobiographical" story.


Instantly, I knew what it was.

I couldn't believe it.

When I had gone to bed earlier that night, everything was fine.

Ok, well, that's not true, everything wasn't fine.

I had come home from my cooking class quite late, after having post class drinks with my classmates for the first time, and wobbled into my apartment, desperate for something to eat. Ever since it has started getting warmer here, the light always deceives me, and one drink always turns into..., well, multiple. Rummaging through my fridge, I can only see the last remnants of a loaf of bread, a packet of english ham, and a slice of Gouda cheese. I am immediately racked with guilt at the singular thought pulsing through my mind - making a toastie at 11pm at night was not cohesive with my self induced pact to only eat healthy food at reasonable hours.

Luckily, my flatmate walks in and we start talking about the ins and outs of religion, and afterwards, I am distracted enough to forgo the toastie and head straight to bed. But now, I feel as if my body is punishing me for staying out too late, drinking on a Tuesday night, depriving it of dinner - it clearly really wanted that toastie - and all the while I'm fighting off some sort of Northern European hybrid strain of hayfever and a pesky cold.

I had woken up in discomfort, and my hand touched my face to sense the source of the grievance - The Swollen Eye.

It always happens when I'm stressed out or behaving badly and amazingly, without any prior warning. It appears suddenly, like a crazed hitchhiker in the headlights, on a stormy night.

Next time, I'll just give in and eat the damn toastie.