Shadowmill

For my Creative Writing portfolio, I created three websites centred around the fictional town of Shadowmill. These websites included a local news website, a blog for a local cult leader and another blog for a teenaged boy (the son of the cult leader).

The first site is http://theshadownewsmill.blogspot.co.uk, a local news blog for the small fictional town of Shadowmill, Missouri. This blog includes four blog posts/articles, information about the staff that write and run the website and a brief explanation of what the ‘Newsmill’ paper is and where it is based.

The last post on this site is called ‘The Fellowship of the Sin’ and contains a link to the second blog, http://fellowshipofthelightanddivine.blogspot.co.uk, which is the blog of the cult leader, Abraham Jones.

The final blog is not linked or mentioned in the others, as it is the personal blog of the teenaged son of Abraham Jones and acts as more of a journal than the other two sites. Instead of reporting the news or sermonising, Isaac’s blog, http://notapartoftheflock.blogspot.co.uk, is for Isaac to privately vent about his family and includes a short ‘About Me’ section and three entries.

I wanted to make the websites seem as real as possible to attempt to bring this fictional world into the real world as much as I could. Last year I watched Mac Barnett’s TedTalk on children’s literature and in his speech, he talked about the 826 writing centre that he runs. The centre is through the ‘Employees Only’ door of the Echo Park Time Travel Mart, a store that they created and filled with fictional employees and jokes but the items are for sale and the proceeds from the shop go towards running the centre. They do this because:

You can’t find the seams on the fiction, and I love that. It’s this little bit of fiction that’s colonized the real world. I see it as kind of a book in three dimensions.

I loved the idea of this, and so I wanted to bring as much of Shadowmill into the real world as I could. I could develop it more by making Abraham’s advert clickable and creating a new site for his surgery, or continuing Isaac’s blog after he left for college and escaped his father.

Marriage and Madness: Gendered Perspectives on Mental Illness in 19th Century Gothic Literature

One of the most common themes in Gothic Literature is that of psychosis, the human psychology mixing with the supernatural and the mysticism seen in early Gothic narratives, the development of science of psychology has led to its use in many important Gothic texts. Looking specifically at the nineteenth century, we can see that the exploration of mental illness was an interesting subject, the unfamiliar and, at times, fearful capabilities of the human mind provided writers of Gothic fiction with new plots to shock their readers. However, as well as using new discoveries of disorders to terrify readers, these writers have provided insight into the ways in which Victorian households dealt with such issues.

The attitudes concerning mental health in the nineteenth century were significantly less understanding and sympathetic than would be considered acceptable to modern readers. I have selected extracts that illustrate the differing attitudes towards the mentally ill of both genders, with two instances of wives suffering from psychosis and one in which it is the husband that falls victim. The texts included in these sources demonstrate the patriarchal and heavily gendered understanding of mental illness and methods of treatment of this era.

Edgar Allen Poe’s The Black Cat, Poe presents readers with a first-person narrative of a man’s descent into madness. The protagonist gives an account of his life and eventual crimes, beginning with the assertion that ‘mad am I not’ (Poe, 1843, p.531), instantly provoking the reader to question the validity of his statement and the reliability of the narrator. In the selected extracts, readers can see the narrator’s psychosis in his most dramatic moments. While the instances of animal cruelty would have shocked readers, the blasé attitude concerning the first murder of a human demonstrates his loss of rationality and mental instability. His wife’s quiet acceptance of his ‘sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts,’ (Poe, 1843, p.536) makes readers wonder about the expectations of women in marriage during this period. It seems to be expected that the narrator’s wife – and potentially, many real women married to men suffering in similar ways – will not intervene in any way when it comes to her husband’s mental state, implying that she has no authority to do so or ability to understand the workings of the male mind. In fact, it is only due to her interference that she becomes the centre of his attention in his violent outburst.

The narrator’s fixation with the second cat is evidence of his loss of rationality, something prized by society at the time and a key feature of the ideal view of masculinity. In mistakenly trapping the cat in the wall with the corpse of his wife, Benjamin F. Fisher writes that the narrator ‘has walled up, or, in psychological terms, repressed the feminine, nurturing elements in his psyche,’ (Fisher, 2002, p.86). As this narrator is not the only man in Gothic literature to imprison his wife, or a symbol of madness, in the home, it seems that repression of the feminine is a recurring theme in this area.

Just as femininity is repressed in these texts, masculinity is asserted – however fleetingly – through the use and escalation of violence as well as appealing to other men for support. In ‘Household Horror: Domestic Masculinity in Poe’s The Black Cat’, Bliss argues that acts of abuse against his wife are ignored while the grotesque depiction of cruelty towards the pets only serves to emphasise what would be considered perverse, this violence is used to reinforce his waning masculinity. The escalation of the narrator’s violent acts is deemed to be proof of maturity, as his previous actions are likened to ‘the behaviour of a prepubescent boy,’ (Bliss, 2009, p.97). This along with his ‘childlessness and joblessness [indicates] the narrator’s inability to meet biologically and culturally determined gender expectations,’ (Bliss, 2009, p.97), hinting at his immaturity, possibly even mental immaturity as his dependence on alcohol during this period suggests he is unable to cope with these expectations.

The act of murder is described as being ‘hypermasculine’ and as Bliss writes, the decision to kill the cat is made to ‘move beyond boyish cruelty,’ (Bliss, 2009, p.98), the intention is to assert himself as the patriarch and the male authority in the home. Yet in his rage, he makes himself a widow and loses his freedom – and possibly the rest of his sanity – when the cat leads to police to the corpse, thus unleashing his repressed femininity. This releasing of the feminine is evidenced in his physical reaction to the body being found, he staggers and swoons in what Bliss states is his ‘most telling, and stereotypically feminine, act,’ (Bliss, 2009, p.98).

In Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë depicts the unsympathetic view that many husbands of the Victorian era reportedly displayed towards their mental health of their wives. Mr Rochester is adamant in his belief that his wife’s mental illness is cause for other men to sympathise with him and excuse his attempt at carrying out a bigamous wedding ceremony as an acceptable decision. Rochester describes Bertha’s family as one of ‘idiots and maniacs’ (Brontë, 1847, p.289), arguing that Bertha’s madness is hereditary, thereby diverting any blame away from him and also absolving himself of the responsibility of getting her appropriate treatment. In referring to his mother-in-law as ‘the Creole,’ (Brontë, 1847, p.289), Mr Rochester hints at not only a gender bias in his perception of his wife’s illness, but also a racial or national bias, as even though Bertha is biologically British, her early life in Jamaica sets her apart from the British, feminine ideal that Jane so neatly portrays.

Bertha’s violent display in Jane Eyre supports Mr Rochester’s statement that she is not human, the unsympathetic description as ‘the lunatic’ does suggest that either Jane or Charlotte Brontë herself agree with this notion as well. In this, Bertha is directly compared with Jane and compared to a demon in another successful effort to garner sympathy from the men and deny the responsibility of a woman that he willingly married when faced with a much more docile wife in Jane.

Bertha’s violence also proves her lack of femininity, she is described as ‘almost equalling her husband’ and showing ‘virile force’, nothing about Bertha is ladylike and she antagonises and challenges Mr Rochester’s masculinity. The feminine is once again repressed as Bertha is tied down to a chair, by her husband, though this repression is not permanent as she later escaped her imprisonment and blinds Mr Rochester, her death may also be viewed as an escape from her mental torment.

This battle between masculinity and femininity is examined in ‘The Mystery at Thornfield: Representations of Madness in Jane Eyre’. In this, Beattie states that Bertha’s undermining of patriarchal authority and Mr Rochester’s masculinity are deliberate techniques for Brontë to challenge expectations of femininity. This is somewhat undercut by Bertha’s role as a romantic or marital rival to Jane, though Beattie argues that Bertha’s position as an unwanted wife is what highlights the ‘problematic conventions of Victorian romantic courtship,’ (Beattie, 1996, p.499). Beattie also notes the use of Bertha’s sexuality as justification for her husband to believe that she is mentally unstable, something supported by Diane Long Hoeveler who describes Bertha as a Gothic antiheroine by using her violent actions ‘to warn as well as punish her more docile sister [Jane] by standing as a living object lesson in the consequences of sexual excess and pain,’ (Hoeveler, 1998, p.216).

Brontë, Beattie argues, exploits Bertha’s madness. She focuses on the freedom that Bertha has in being considered insane and uncontrollable, Bertha can be seen to lash out and behave in ways that would be inappropriate for a sane woman in her position, but when dismissed as mentally ill, she can behave how she wishes. In doing this, Bertha prevents an illegal marriage and exposes Mr Rochester’s secret, this would be considered by Beattie to be righting wrongs with the positive ‘power’ of Bertha’s mental illness (Beattie, 1996, p.501). That is not to say that Brontë is aiming to depict mental illness in a positive light, her portrayal of Bertha is, as previously mentioned, unsympathetic and primarily focused on what her presence means for Jane.

The Yellow Wall-Paper portrays a woman who has been confined after the birth of her child due to a ‘nervous weakness’ (Gilman, 1893, p.12). What would be understood by modern readers to be a woman suffering from Postpartum Depression, exaggerated by improper treatment, would be less recognisable to readers of the Victorian era as the condition was less frequently diagnosed, though cases of Puerperal Psychosis were not uncommon. In Extract 5a, the narrator details her husband’s advice and her own wishes to escape her imprisonment. This assumption of male authority concerning medical and psychiatric treatment (even when the husband is not a psychiatrist) is something present in all three of the primary texts included here. This power over women’s medical treatment was examined by feminist theorist Luce Irigaray, she declared that ‘When it comes to knowing how things stand with women and what treatment should be prescribed them, [male practitioners] are self-sufficient. No need to listen to women, That no doubt explains their therapeutic choices,’ (Irigaray, 1981, p.532), Irigaray was speaking almost a century after Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s text was published, demonstrating the inflexible attitudes of practitioners – and these husbands – when it comes to female psychology. However, this narrator is treated with delicacy and love, unlike Mr Rochester’s wife Bertha who is forcibly restrained. John asks to his wife to ‘take care of [herself] for his sake,’ (Gilman, 1893, p.12), here he puts the blame on her for her mental illness, appeals to her to improve herself and denies her consultation with an actual psychiatrist and the possibility of proper treatment. Earlier in the narrative, the woman reveals that her husband is a physician, as is her brother, and that both of them have no understanding of psychology, yet they agree that her isolation and imprisonment is the best course of action (Gilman, 1893, p.2).

#MOOPoetry

The Museum Of Online Poetry was a public exhibition of poetry that took place Friday 12th April 2013. Originally pitched as a joke to our tutor when discussing our assessed presentations, the idea quickly became something that interested the few of us present in the seminar and so we decided (after throwing around ideas for the best part of two hours) that we would rather organise and run a poetry event than stand in front of the class with a Powerpoint presentation at the end of term.

The topic of the assessment was ‘Poetry in the Digital Age’, we drew together poetry in various forms ranging from video to audio to flash games to online publishing. We split up into sub teams, each working on a different corner of digital poetry. I worked on video, creating a YouTube account and setting up playlists to showcase clips of performances, animations and popular recitations. My partner and I scripted, filmed, edited and uploaded short videos to explain different types of video-based poetry and movements that we included in our playlist. I also created a promotional video to advertise the event which was shared on the Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter accounts created for the event as well as putting together a simple logo used across the social media sites and used as a backdrop during the event and performances by poets.

We set up the room at Old Broadcasting House by creating different stations for each section of digital poetry. One corner had mp3 players stocked with recordings of poetry both old and new, showcasing audial poetry from various websites. Another corner focused on social media, with Twitter available for visitors to tweet their own poems and look through the #MOOPoetry hashtag, created to promote the event and encourage poets on the site to contribute poetry during the evening. One Smartboard was available and used for a poetry flash game, enabling visitors to create their own kinetic poems on the board, the walls surrounding this area were used by us and the visitors to scribble our own poems on (whiteboard pens were provided for this, we did not vandalise the building). The main projector was used for a presentation on ‘Digital vs Print Publishing’ as well as the Youtube playlist which played through most of the event. During the event we each presented our sections to visitors as they moved around the exhibition, answering any questions and helping where needed.

The event was successful, with a good number of visitors and some poets read their work for us. As myself and another student had been filming the rest of the exhibition, the poets that read their work asked if we could record their performances so after most of the others had left, we stayed for another round of performances which I recorded then later edited and uploaded to the Youtube channel and shared on the Facebook page so that they could see and share their performances with others after the event.

My experience with this event is what encouraged me to consider working in the arts in a more ‘involved’ capacity, before this, I had thought of writing as a solitary activity yet this exhibition helped me to realise the social aspect of a personal and often quite difficult art form. Since then I have found more events such as the Leeds Big Bookend Festival which I volunteered with in 2015 and am looking for more ways to become involved in the literary arts world.

Touch

He can’t remember when it started. It was a slow fade that left him devoid of all sensation. There was no trauma or shock that fried his nerve endings, scans and tests showed no evidence of any defect.

He didn’t know when or how it happened, but at 8 years old, when the doctor pulled the shards of glass from his feet, all he could say was: “Huh…”

He could feel once, he knew that. He had felt the pain of skinned knees on asphalt, paper cuts and the burn of drinks that were too hot. But this wasn’t like the dead arm that a boy in his class gave him one day, it was a complete absence of feeling. No tingling or heaviness, no awareness at all, just a void.

Memories of sensations were maddening when it had been years since you felt the warmth of the sun on your skin, since you felt the touch of another, since you weren’t scared of what you couldn’t feel.

Because not being able to feel the cold doesn’t mean you can’t get hypothermia, not feeling how hot it is won’t protect you from heatstroke. A few years of obsessively checking weather reports throughout the day and keeping an assortment of both light and heavy jackets in the back of the car soon calmed down to glances at the barometer and weather app alerts, though the jackets didn’t all make it back into the closet.  Electric shavers don’t do the job as well but a wet razor may lead to a self-inflicted Sweeney Todd-esque moment which would not be in the least bit fun, so it’ll have to do.

But the dreams and memories didn’t compare to actually being able to feel the pressure of her kiss. When Audrey pecked his cheek before leaving, she didn’t see him fall off the edge of his desk in shock. How could it be that something that she didn’t even think about, something she did automatically, was the first thing in decades that he had felt? He kept his hand to the spot for hours after she had gone, leaning his head on his hand while he finished his paperwork as if he wasn’t trying to trap the heat of her touch on his skin.

He checked the thermostat before he went to bed that night, still trying to think of a time that she had touched him, surely it hadn’t taken the six months since she had moved to his office for them to make some kind of contact. He couldn’t remember one tap on the shoulder, or grazing her hand at all, only a chaste goodbye kiss that left him in a heap on the floor.

The next day, the shock of her touch on his arm still surprised him, making him jump and spill his coffee. But when she rushed to apologise and fretted over his scolded hand with paper towels, he smiled happily, warm with something that definitely wasn’t coffee.

Statements

The pitter-patter of Monty’s paws beating down on the pavement beside him was the only other sound he could hear over his heavy breathing, all around them was quiet and still, the streetlamps glowing dimly ahead of them. Anthony slowed down as he reached his gate, and he hesitated in pushing it open.

Since Callie had died, the house was somewhere that Anthony tried to avoid as much as possible. That meant long days at the chambers, late night runs that lasted for hours until he was so exhausted that he didn’t have the chance to see the traces of his wife that were left untouched throughout the house. It might have been easier to move, as his father suggested, but his home was exactly how he liked it, even if he couldn’t bear it at the moment.

The gate whined as he pushed it open, hinges protesting loudly in the night air. Monty bounded up the path and straight up the porch steps, then to the door and waited. Anthony followed, feeling a little bit pathetic after being herded by the ten month old Border Collie, and opened up the house. He slipped off his trainers and headed straight upstairs to shower, the practically empty house now somehow filled with the sound of Monty crunching away at his food in the kitchen.

His home was just how he liked it, meaning that he could get through his nightly routine while paying the least amount of attention possible; avoiding the gels and shampoos beside his own without thought, picking up the blue toothbrush to use, not looking at the hollow eyes reflecting back at him. It was automatic.

He emerged from the bathroom quickly, and saw the glow of his mobile phone on his bedside table. He pulled on his clothes before he read the message, not knowing who would be texting him at this time.

00:26 – Anders: Need to tlk abt Dunby, check ur email.

Anthony walked to his desk and pulled his laptop open. He was in the Family division, so why would Anders need his help with a criminal case?

00:34 – Anthony: Why? I thought it was simple?

00:35 – Anders: Need u to read what I sent u. 

Anthony opened the email attachment and read the police report. He dropped the phone and wrenched his desk drawer open, rifling through the files until he reached the one he needed. The victim reported a man, the defendant, intentionally ramming into her car and fleeing the scene. Trevor Dunby denied this, yet Anders had found evidence of him fleeing the scene or attempting to flee multiple crashes in the past three years.

He looked down at the open folder on his lap. The pictures were hidden at the back of the file, he didn’t need to see them anymore, he had looked at them enough to remember the way that the car had wrapped so messily around the tree, glass and blood on the ground surrounding the wreck with no sign of the other car apart from the huge dent in the driver’s side. If he believed the witness descriptions of the other car from that day, which he wasn’t sure if he wanted to, it looked as though Trevor Dunby had not only hospitalised one woman, but killed another.

01:22 – Anthony: Did he kill Cal?

Bridging The Gap

“Trick or treat!”

George looked down at the smiling little girl, as he answered the door. He remembered when Libby was this small, though he had never got to have a Halloween like this with her.

“Well hello there, Alice! I’ve got some-”

“I’m not Alice, I’m Rosie,” she interrupted with a confused pout.

“Um…your…” he looked at her blue dress and white apron, then back to her puzzled expression.

“He means your costume, Rose,” came an amused voice from behind her. George looked above Rose to see a woman holding another child, a little boy who, according to the giant pocket watch that he was chewing on and the bunny ears, was the March Hare.

“Oh! I forgot, that was silly,” Rose giggled. She turned and moved closer to the woman. “Mummy? How come-”

“Rose,” her mother interrupted. “Don’t ignore the nice man…” she trailed off and shot an apologetic and exasperated smile at George.

“Oh!” Rose squeaked and rushed back to the door. “I’m sorry sir! Trick or treat!”

George chuckled and crouched down to hold the bowl of candy out to the little girl who thought hard about her choice before selecting a red lollipop and putting it in her plastic pumpkin basket.

“You sure that’s all you want? Most of the trick or treat-ers came here earlier, so I’ll have all this leftover…” he winced as if the thought pained him.

Rose bit her lip again and pulled out a blue lollipop and looked back up at his face.

“Grandad says we shouldn’t eat too much sugar,” she told him quietly. “Or else he’ll have to give us pretend ones and I’ve seen Great-Grandma Beth’s and she puts hers in a glass at night and that’s yucky.”

George laughed and stood up, putting the bowl down on the entry table as the child continued to talk about teeth.

“And Robby’s just getting his teeth so he can’t have too much, or else they’ll-”

“Rose, please! I’m sorry, we should be getting home now, this is our last stop.”

“So you live close by?” George asked.

She nodded, “Yes, we just moved here last week, our house is just around the corner.”

“Right,” he nodded. “The old Butler house. That’s been empty for years, I heard someone moved in but I’ve been busy at work all week. You’ve escaped the town gossips so far,” he smiled.

She chuckled and adjusted the boy on her hip, “Yes, thankfully. With all of the work that needed doing around the house it’s been a no-go-zone, I think that all the construction is keeping people away for now. We just needed to get away from it all today so we’ve been exploring while we trick or treat.”

“I know it’s a small town but it’s easy to get lost. If you need any help, just ask, even down at the station. Like I said, it’s a small town and it’s quiet, so there’s always someone there that can help.”

“The station?” she asked, a confused pout appeared that matched her daughter’s.

“Oh right, sorry! I mean the police station, it’s right in the centre of town. I’m the Captain, George Devin” he introduced himself and held out his hand.

“Arden Wainwright,” she told him, as she shook his hand. “This is Robby and of course you’ve met Rose-”

The little girl bounced slightly as she waved excitedly, “Hi!”

“We’d really better be going, this one’s ready for bed,” she nodded to a sleepy Hugo. “It was nice to meet you Mr Devin.”

“Please, call me George,” he smiled.

Arden smiled, “Alright, goodbye George. Say goodnight Rosie…”

“G’night Mr George!” she waved.

He waved back and watched as the three of them walked down the garden path. He shut the door and let himself think of Libby. What time was it in Little Rock? Was it too late to call?

When she answered the phone, it was bittersweet. He was happy just to hear her voice, mad at himself that they didn’t talk more, so thankful that she wanted to speak to him too.

It didn’t hurt like he thought it would, when she gently told him that Mallory was seeing someone, and that it seemed serious this time. He wondered when that had happened. When did he stop remembering the day he came home so see Libby in her car seat, suitcases and boxes in the back? When did he first stop in his tracks just missing his daughter, and not his family?

The next day seemed brighter. He powered through the backlog of paperwork that he had put off, energised by Libby’s promise to come and visit him that summer. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he had told the new woman, Arden, that it was quiet at the station. It was only just past noon when he finished the last report and leaned back in his chair, half wishing someone would call, yet half hoping no one would.

Deciding to go out for lunch, he picked up his jacket and headed out. He opened the door and stepped out, only to bump into someone about to enter the station.

“Oh, it’s you,” someone said.

George looked down to see Arden smiling up at him with Robby by her side, fiddling with the strap of her purse as she waited for a response.

“Ms Wainwright, hi,” he smiled. “Robby,” he added.

“Hello George,” she greeted. Her accent crept in as she spoke, a Southern twang standing out where he hadn’t noticed it last night. “I was just coming to see if you-someone, if someone could tell me where the dance school is,” she said. “Rose is at her first day of school so I thought we’d come and check it out before we sign her up. You’re probably busy, I’m sure we can find-“ he reached out to stop her as she turned to move away.

“No no, it’s fine. I was just about to get lunch; it really is quiet around here,” he laughed. “You looking for Miss Penny’s?” she nodded. “Well I’m heading out that way, so I can take you there right now.”

“It won’t be any trouble?” she asked, picking up Robby.

“No trouble at all,” he shut the door behind him and walked out, gesturing for her to follow. He smiled, somewhat shyly now, “I can even show you the finest cuisine that Brookfield has to offer, if you have the time?”

Writing: Extra Parts

A sound at the door,

Not a knock, but a thud.

Captain Kidd threw it open,

Then he froze where he stood.

On the step, a small bundle,

With inky black hair.

He set eyes on its’ legs

And knew who’d left it there.

When she smiled, he was lost,

Wrapped right round her tentacle.

William Kidd was a Dad now,

And he caused quite the spectacle.

With an influx of advice,

From nearly all local mothers,

He raised her, adored her,

And kept her legs covered.

Word spread through the town

Of his softened demeanour.

Since his daughter arrived,

The ex-pirate was sweeter.

She soon learned she was different,

Wasn’t quite like the rest.

She’d climb walls with her suckers,

“Keep it quiet, that’s best.”

With her long skirt and boots,

She went outside and walked.

But she slipped on some ice,

Someone saw, and they talked.

You know, kids can be cruel

If they find something odd.

Seems they’re downright sadistic

To cephalopods.

She refused to hide out,

She’s as tough as can be!

Uncle John fixed his hook on,

Smirked, “Leave ‘em to me.”

But it’s lonely at school,

Children laugh and they grin.

Sarah Kidd, some parts squid?

Well, she’ll never fit in.

So she goes on alone,

‘Til she spies in the copse

Outside of her house,

There’s a girl who’s half fox.

With her ears and the tail,

It’s too hard not to show.

The Kidd’s welcome this little kit

In from the snow.

Things get better for both,

As it’s hard on your own.

Maisie Knox, some parts fox,

Found a place in their home.

Writing: About Extra Parts

Extra Parts was written in 2014 for my Creative Writing portfolio. I tried to think of the poetry that I liked and what it was about those pieces that I enjoyed and I found that I prefer stories and the simply structured stanzas/rhymes that are commonly found in children’s poetry.

I decided to use a somewhat strict structure, using stanzas with four lines and an ABCB rhyme scheme, which I think helped with focusing my attention. This also meant that I had to carefully pick my words, leading me to keep reconsidering Sarah’s parentage and choosing another animal because it was hard to work with ‘tentacle’ and ‘cephalopods’ is not the plural of cephalopod, another word which was hard to deal with.

I decided to try writing a half-animal child after rereading Tim Burton’s Robot Boy, which features the lines ‘but we think that its father/is a microwave blender’ (Burton, 1997, p.6). I had also been drawing as I was writing the poem and so included these around the text.