A while ago, a friend proposed a writing exercise that was really cool. I'd like to suggest people try it out here.
Here is what he suggested:
What we need are 1-3 consecutive paragraphs--one if it's exceptionally long--from a great work of horror. And by 'great' I mean that the author is generally held to be one of the 'masters' in the genre. Even if you don't particularly like the author or story we get the paragraphs from, you still agree with the general consensus. In practical terms, this will mean stuff that's in the public domain. Poe, for example.
We can do this a couple ways. The way I prefer is that we all agree on the paragraphs to be used for the exercise. However, we could also each pick our own paragraphs and go with that--as long as the originals are freely available to the other participants.
Note that whichever way we do this, you need paragraphs with solid exposition. Not dialog. And they should be relatively substantial paragraphs. Not one or two sentences. The best way to do it is decide on a few paragraphs that we find particularly memorable or stylishly written.
He ended up using Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Here is the paragraph we were given:
He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.
I had a story that I had written I never published and decided to use that in this exercise. This is how I transformed my writing to "imitate" this paragraph from The Picture of Dorian Gray:
She entered in silence, leaving emptiness behind her, as if nothing could fill the space she once occupied, and filled the room with her hardened gaze. A whine of joy and excitement escaped from her. I saw no change in her posture, except in her nub of a tail which moved in slow metronomic arcs and her ears which swiveled in my direction. The room fell silent—every mouth sealed, each ear bent, all eyes locked—and the deformity that curved her muzzle seemed to stretch, as if she were attempting an impossible grin. Someone gasped. Was it because of me that Princess was acting so out of character? Or was it simply that she was finally ‘coming round’, as the vet suggested, with his assured smile? Or had she finally broken years of stony passivity in a pivotal conscious act of self awakening? Or, possibly, a combination of all these things? And why did she suddenly stop wagging her tail? A horrible keening warbled up from deep in her throat. Her ears slowly flattened to her head, as though pressed down by an invisible hand—a hand that simultaneously pulled back her black lips into a misshapen grin. “Princess? Princess are you ok?” Was this reaction all because Tammy had placed a hand on her dog’s back? She withdrew. Princess perked up and padded towards me. Panic, every muscle in me tensed for action, but if she attacked what could I possibly do? There was no sense of malice in her gait. Every qualm inside melted away at the pleading in her eyes. I lowered myself to her level and held out my arms. Everyone in the room must have thought me crazy. Princess lowered her head and stepped into my embrace.
It was an eye opening experience. Suddenly I'm writing way above and beyond how I have always written, and even though it is based on another's work, I still managed to make it completely my own. I didn't just change the words to match what I wanted them to say, but actually used his structure and style--his beat--to write my own story.
Anybody interested in giving this a try?
MLD
Here is what he suggested:
What we need are 1-3 consecutive paragraphs--one if it's exceptionally long--from a great work of horror. And by 'great' I mean that the author is generally held to be one of the 'masters' in the genre. Even if you don't particularly like the author or story we get the paragraphs from, you still agree with the general consensus. In practical terms, this will mean stuff that's in the public domain. Poe, for example.
We can do this a couple ways. The way I prefer is that we all agree on the paragraphs to be used for the exercise. However, we could also each pick our own paragraphs and go with that--as long as the originals are freely available to the other participants.
Note that whichever way we do this, you need paragraphs with solid exposition. Not dialog. And they should be relatively substantial paragraphs. Not one or two sentences. The best way to do it is decide on a few paragraphs that we find particularly memorable or stylishly written.
He ended up using Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Here is the paragraph we were given:
He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.
I had a story that I had written I never published and decided to use that in this exercise. This is how I transformed my writing to "imitate" this paragraph from The Picture of Dorian Gray:
She entered in silence, leaving emptiness behind her, as if nothing could fill the space she once occupied, and filled the room with her hardened gaze. A whine of joy and excitement escaped from her. I saw no change in her posture, except in her nub of a tail which moved in slow metronomic arcs and her ears which swiveled in my direction. The room fell silent—every mouth sealed, each ear bent, all eyes locked—and the deformity that curved her muzzle seemed to stretch, as if she were attempting an impossible grin. Someone gasped. Was it because of me that Princess was acting so out of character? Or was it simply that she was finally ‘coming round’, as the vet suggested, with his assured smile? Or had she finally broken years of stony passivity in a pivotal conscious act of self awakening? Or, possibly, a combination of all these things? And why did she suddenly stop wagging her tail? A horrible keening warbled up from deep in her throat. Her ears slowly flattened to her head, as though pressed down by an invisible hand—a hand that simultaneously pulled back her black lips into a misshapen grin. “Princess? Princess are you ok?” Was this reaction all because Tammy had placed a hand on her dog’s back? She withdrew. Princess perked up and padded towards me. Panic, every muscle in me tensed for action, but if she attacked what could I possibly do? There was no sense of malice in her gait. Every qualm inside melted away at the pleading in her eyes. I lowered myself to her level and held out my arms. Everyone in the room must have thought me crazy. Princess lowered her head and stepped into my embrace.
It was an eye opening experience. Suddenly I'm writing way above and beyond how I have always written, and even though it is based on another's work, I still managed to make it completely my own. I didn't just change the words to match what I wanted them to say, but actually used his structure and style--his beat--to write my own story.
Anybody interested in giving this a try?
MLD
, so here are 2 proposed paragraphs from The King in Yellow. (Most of what I've read so far is 1P narration with not a great deal of description, and this is the longest section I've come across in a while.)
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