writing prompts

As writers, meant to be on constant lookout for ideas for stories, novels, anything.













Today, up to whiskers in Granny Elena's diaries, suddenly felt craving for fish - fresh fish, I mean, not dried form in Science Plan diet.










Whilst scampering up to fishmongers, heard lady at bus stop muttering: 'Fornicating taxi drivers, think all women are prostitutes'. She smiled at me, as she finished smoothing in her rouge.
















Bought fish and scampered back via same route. Bus stop now empty.










Been perched at writing desk since, trying to devise story based on today's experience. Think it would be easier to return to diaries.















Purrs

Bakhtin

My work begins

Yesterday meant to be first session of study group about understanding connection between literary theory and creative writing. However, group leader, Oscar, texted me to say he'd finally succumbed to the winter flu bug doing the rounds, and was incapacitated by the unthinkable. Very gentlemanly, is our Oscar. For the uninitiated, the lucky few who haven't experienced the norovirus, the symptoms are vomiting and the squits.














Anyway, ashamed to say that despite powerful dream related in previous post (see February 1, The influence of dreams) was enormously relieved and decided to get started on major project for masters in creative writing. Blogged before about intention of writing about Granny Elena, daughter of famous Mikhail Bakhtin. Mouse flatmate, Neville, keen to participate, and worthy, he assured me, due to intense relationship with Granny: at a distance by communicating via rusty pipes under kitchen floorboard, and in person when he taught her to breakdance. Had to tell him that as this is course assignment, he can't take part. He was devastated, as apparently been unsuccessful in finding someone to back his project to produce a follow up sequel to his DVD on breakdancing for elderly cats, and has rapidly escalating problems of self esteem and general identity. He hid for rest of day in old sock left by previous occupants of flat.















At 10 o'clock last night, as we were watching nightly news for cats, he scuttled out of flat and hasn't returned. If no sign of him by this evening, Saussure and I will go in search of him. Notsaussure - as always - unconvinced we'll find him.

















Anyway, back to writing. Had profitable morning - after row with Neville - replanning sections of memoirs, with chapter headings and summary of contents. Today delighted to receive by special delivery, Granny Elena's diaries, sent by her daughter, Aunt Mischa.












Feel very motivated by this project and aiming for a distinction. May have to return to Moscow at Easter to conduct interviews with people who knew Granny. Most importantly, several members of a handpicked group she ran, who attended a fortnightly soirée to discuss Russian poets and philosophers, accompanied always by caviar and highly potent form of catnip. These evenings, seemingly, were the envy of any Moscovite cat intellectuals. Certain cats known to move to the city in the hope of eventually being invited to participate in this prestigious association.





























Have decided to devote section 2 of memoirs to this group, whose ideas, once translated into language that average cats could understand, were quite influential in helping to decide governmental policies around city-based cats.

Back to work....

Purrs

Bakhtin

The influence of dreams

Last night dreamed I was the castaway on Desert Island Discs. Must be due to recent publicity about 70th anniversary of programme. Anyway, had no problem selecting eight favourite pieces of music, pleased to finally have opportunity to demonstrate eclectic taste. When I was asked - and this is where dream became strange - what book I would take with me to my desert island, was about to say The Complete Works of A.A. Milne, when I became aphasic.












At this point, the delightful presenter, Kirsty Young, had to rescue me, and did this by saying ' The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism', would this be your preferred choice?' All I could do was nod.















When woke up and recalled dream, had to reckon there was message there. Message being that this term I should endeavour to get head round scholarly treatise of people such as: T.S. Eliot, Hélène Cixous.
















And there's only one person who can help me with that: Oscar. Haven't written about my fellow student chimp for some time now, partly because don't see him much apart from classes. In fact, Oscar is working at two jobs, in order to send enough money back to Burkina Faso, to allow his family to escape the ever increasingly danger from poachers.

Anyway, texted Oscar, and offered to pay him to help me understand the scholars who are meant to make me better writer. Oscar texted back immediately and said this would be great because he could then ditch one of his jobs - probably dishwasher one at Edinburgh Zoo.

Arranged he will come round to flat once a week. Might be kind gesture to invite Cindy, Maya and Véronique to join in as they struggle with literary theory also. Potential saboteurs to be banned from attending workshop, include white mouse Neville, and guinea pig Henri. Once group gone through traditional processes of forming, storming, norming and performing, (ref. Dr. Bruce Tuckman,1965) might be prepared to lift ban.




Purrs
Bakhtin