Our first Gloriously Gothic taster workshop - success!

We're delighted to report that our first 'Gloriously Gothic' taster workshop went down a treat! Thanks to all those who came along; your input was much appreciated. Here's a taste of what we got up to...

Our morning workshop was all about writing ghost stories; we shared spooky tales... we were in character, writing letters from a ghost... we explored writing technique, such as using dynamic verbs; slowing the pace with listing; powerful simile and personification, in a great collection of extracts from writers, both classic and contemporary... and we experimented with 'telling it slant'.

We're proud to share our feedback:

'Really enjoyed the morning. It was valuable to go through the published texts.'

'Really enjoyed the workshop and would love to do more... it was great to pick apart other authors' work. Nice to connect with other writers face to face.'

'I enjoyed the pace of the course and felt very relaxed and inspired.'

'Positive, creative, engaging and enjoyable -  more please.'

Thanks also to #Cavecastle for suitably gothic surroundings! Find us on www.thoughttree.co.uk #writingresidentialcourses #thoughttree - do get in touch if you'd like to join in the next one - needless to say, plans are already in place!

Taster Gothic Writing Workshop

Morning all! At Thoughttree we are delighted to announce the first of our Taster Gothic Writing Workshops.

We have a couple of places left... why not join us for a morning of fun and ghostly frolics... and all that with just pen and paper!

Where? Cave Castle
When? Thursday, October 23rd 10 am - 1
How do I join in? Contact us by email on the thoughttree website: www.thoughttree.co.uk or phone Ali on 01759 305392

#thoughttreeresidentialwritingcourses

And now for some fog!

Wonderful stuff, fog. Turns any setting into something atmospheric... Susan Hill, in the Woman in Black, uses it very well - the fog in which she immerses her streets is positively Dickensian.  So how about a touch of the real thing: here's Dickens' own fog, from Bleak House, of course:

'Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.'

Love all those verbs: rolls; creeping; hovering; drooping; pinching. Dickens was ever the master of repetition and listing, wasn't he? Love also the way he moves from long range to close up here, starting with the wider, river landscape and finishing with fog 'in the stem and bowl' of a pipe. And adding, for emotive effect with a touch of pathos, the 'shivering little 'prentice boy'.

Conan Doyle does a neat job with fog too in the Hound of the Baskervilles... but that's for another blog!

The Weather AGAIN!

Then yesterday, the rain appeared to ease. Just as I let my dog out of the car (at the top of a particularly lonely and exposed hill I might add), there was an almighty flash and crack of thunder. Dog shot back in the car. As did I. Tempted to climb in cage with her for extra protection. Resisted - got in drivers seat, with quivery legs.

It struck me (no pun intended!) how quickly a gentle, sweeping hill can change to menacing, brooding darkened landscape within a few moments - and how, therefore, pathetic fallacy continues to be a great tool at the fingertips of the Gothic writer!

Here then, is my 'weather change' moment, classic Gothic style:

'That evening, coming as I did to the summit of that gentle, sweeping hill, I saw that the landscape before me was touched with hues of red and gold as the sun threw out her last heavenly rays. How did I not observe, then, the bank of cloud building, dark, ever darker upon the far horizon? For soon - all too soon! - the sky was a black menace that turned all to night; it pressed heavily upon me until I feared I could no longer draw breath! I fell back before it, but it came relentlessly on until field and lane were in deepest shadow; the hairs upon my neck rose; fear clutched at my very soul as I sought shelter - but there was none.

Then the storm hit, and suddenly, all around me was a blaze of white light; a sharp crack of thunder sent me stumbling, crouching beneath its abhorrent blast! I looked, aghast, towards the heavens, fearing for my very life - my shivering soul cried out for mercy! Dear reader, I cannot begin to describe the sinister nature of the change that had swept over those dear hills. I am sure that, if at that moment, I had chosen to let my eye fall upon the woodpile, I should have seen something extremely nasty!'

Quick quiz then: can you spot... Jane Eyre? Frankenstein? Cold Comfort Farm!

For the Rain it Raineth...

Yes it's that time of year again and, satirical wisdoms of Shakespeare's fool aside, it is just jolly well tipping down. The sight of all that wet stuff has brought to mind that splendidly climactic chapter of Shelley's Frankenstein, where the unhappy Victor discovers the body of his dear wife, 'the murdeous mark of the fiend's grasp' still on her neck.

Not only that, but the grim discovery is followed by a classic Gothic tableau: Victor explains how...

'I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed toward the corpse of my wife.'

Such melodrama in his narrative! A semantic field of death and horror: 'hideous; abhorred; monster; fiendish; corpse'. The moon echoes the notes of decay and death in its sickly 'pale yellow light'. And the creature is depicted in the most horrid, leering demoniacal terms:' grin, jeer, fiendish'.

So what about the rain then? Oh yes... he goes on to say that 'the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents.' Knew it was in there somewhere!