A Twilight Re-Write

So in possibly the greatest writing task of all time, we were given a passage from "Twilight" to read and re write. Some people did it in a horror style, others in gothic style, others even in shakespearean. I felt that Twilight is simply not worthy of tainting these genres, and so I did it like this:


The Actual Passage: 

"You know Bella, Jacob?" Lauren asked—in what I imagined was an insolent tone—from across the fire.

"We've sort of known each other since I was born," he laughed, smiling at me again.

"How nice." She didn't sound like she thought it was nice at all, and her pale, fishy eyes narrowed.

"Bella," she called again, watching my face carefully, "I was just saying to Tyler that it was too bad none of the Cullens could come out today. Didn't anyone think to invite them?" Her expression of concern was unconvincing.

"You mean Dr. Carlisle Cullen's family?" the tall, older boy asked before I could respond, much to Lauren's irritation. He was really closer to a man than a boy, and his voice was very deep.

"Yes, do you know them?" she asked condescendingly, turning halfway toward him.

"The Cullens don't come here," he said in a tone that closed the subject, ignoring her question.

Tyler, trying to win back her attention, asked Lauren's opinion on a CD he held. She was distracted.

I stared at the deep-voiced boy, taken aback, but he was looking away toward the dark forest behind us. He'd said that the Cullens didn't come here, but his tone had implied something more—that they weren't allowed; they were prohibited. His manner left a strange impression on me, and I tried to ignore it without success.

Read more: http://www.oprah.com/entertainment/Excerpt-from-Stephenie-Meyers-Twilight#ixzz1qTU1jYsA

The Re-Write. 

“Do you guys all like, know each other? Like, OMG if you do” Lauren asked in her most serious tone- from across the fire.

“OMG we totally do! Pretty much like, forever” Jacob laughed, in his giggly gay voice.

“LOL.” It didn’t sound like she was lolling though, her eyes narrowed to reveal the poor quality clumps of eyeliner.

“I’m like so devo that the Cullens couldn’t hang out with us today, did anyone like, even think about inviting them” * sad face *

The hot one who turns into a warewolf later in this whole ridiculous series turns to face Lauren and says “ They are nowhere near cool enough to hang out with our gang”.

I stare at this immensely attractive specimen, distracted by the movement in his sexily sculptured abdominal muscles. I make a mental note to dump Edward at the first possible opportunity. 

A profile.

And here is my first attempt at a profile. It is of a class mate after a half hour interview so content was limited.

Liz McGee

According to her Facebook profile, Elizabeth McGee is female, she lives in Kiama, was born on the 8^th of June and she studies at the University of Wollongong. What Facebook won’t tell you, is that Liz has always lived in Kiama, and finds it obscenely boring or that she studies a double major in Journalism and advertising and marketing. It also shows us that she has red tips in her hair, but it doesn’t tell us why.

 It won’t tell you that she; has done surf club, plays netball at a representative level, dances (not just in her bedroom with the door shut and earphones in, but really dances, does classes and performs) and plays touch football. It does not give you any information about the fact that Liz works 2 jobs, one at an ice creamery and one as a waitress at Relish, one of the prime dining restaurants in the Illawarra.  It won’t tell you that despite living in a beach town where the ocean is the main attraction, she doesn’t really like the beach and would much prefer to hang out in Sydney.  What I am discovering about Liz, is that she is not as she seems. Facebook has lied.

Liz has a boyfriend. Facebook doesn’t even tell you that! They have been together for one year. He is 22, lives in Sydney, is unemployed, and according to Liz, is “a massive stoner”. It seems an unlikely couple, given that she is the polar opposite to him. She does tell me that she was a little wild in high school though. She liked to go out and party a lot, because there was nothing else to do in Kiama.

“Once, I got caught with a fake ID in Woolworths Liquor. I spent years going out in Sydney and Wollongong, clubbing and pubbing, and I get my fake ID taken off me in Kiama,” She recalls. 

This image that Liz has created for all her friends and family during her teenage years, through facebook and her party girl lifestyle, does not hold as strongly now as it once did. She talks about her university degree being her main focus at the moment. “I have also applied for an internship with Annex. I am worried about the commitment but I feel like I need to make an effort and get motivated to do well. I am too laid back!” Liz says, when asked about whether she still likes to party.  

In addition to her ambitious dreams involving a career in marketing, her work commitments, her study schedule and her hectic extra curricular activities timetable, Liz has still found time for travel. Her most recent adventure was with friends to Thailand and this is a fond memory. If facebook is in any way an accurate profile of a person, this is where it lives up to its reputation for profiling people. We flick through the photos of Liz in Thailand and we come to one that catches her eye. She explains that “On our first day in Thailand I stepped on a sea urchin and ended up in hospital. That was fun”.  It’s the cheeky little stories like this that throw hints in the air that there is more to Liz than meets the eye.

Elizabeth McGee is a classic example of life as a teenager today. Her story is not extraordinary, but it represents the majority of teens living in small coastal towns.  She is an example of someone who is very different in their Facebook profile, to in person and she admits that “This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Facebook might be considered a profile of someone, but how much can we really learn about someone on Facebook? Even if they are willing to share almost their entire life. We can’t help but judge someone, literally by their cover, when what really counts, as Liz has shown, is the person themself, not what they chose to share with their ‘friends on Facebook’.

And regarding the red tips in her hair? “I just like them,” she laughs. “It’s just a part of me now.”

The anxiety of interviews

The day is fast approaching where I will need to conduct a real interview. Face to face. Cyberspace will not be in between my subject and I, nor will there be an opportunity to hang up when it gets awkward, or sign out when I get bored. I am in the process of thinking about who I might like to profile, and what a good topic for my feature article later in the session, might be.

 I am tossing up as to whether I want to interview someone a little more well known, such as an athlete, or a politician, or whether I want to focus on something closer to the heart, like my family. My grandmother for instance has travelled around the world alone for more than 20 years. She has a story that would blow the mind of just about anyone and yet no one hears it, because she is on her own. Perhaps it is those stories that need to be told. The stories that are hidden away in the depths of an old lady's house. A lady who spent the majority of her life working harder than I have ever worked in all my life, and probably harder than I ever will. Who has spent years travelling around the world, seeing and doing amazing things, and who would give you the shirt off her back if you ask for it. I think it is people like this, who are the really interesting people. These are the people who's stories deserve a little limelight.

I only hope, that with my inexperience and "under construction" way with words, I will be able to do a story like this justice.

Rainy Days.

He is so beautiful. The way that he hunches himself over her, is perfect. His green and red arms stretch out to ensure she is comfortable. He is obviously protecting her, and only her. She holds onto him tightly, his smoothness apparent, she has no problem with maintaining a comfortable grip. She looks at him with the kind of desperation that one would certainly be saving for a rainy day.

 They splash through the rain together, without a care in the world. He lovingly takes the harsh raindrops, and lets them drip off him. A sacrificial gesture that no normal person would be willing to allow.

As they arrive in the safety of the Mckinnon building, her attitude changes. She shakes him, looking angry that he is so soaked. Embarrassed that she will have to sit with him through her lecture. The decision is made, she will leave him outside. He is abandoned. Alone. She walks into the lecture theatre and glances back only once. There is only one thing she could possibly be thinking.

Bunnings sell a damn good umbrella. 

Ice baby.

You didn't really break my heart. It's not possible. It's like an ice brick. Not pack, Not one of those squishy things that melt after a couple of hours. Im talking hardcore ice brick. Lasts for days. Years. That's what my emotional spectrum consists of. Ice. Really though, that isn't the point. We had a conversation. You told me how you got so hurt, how you would always want to take things slowly because you were so afraid. You told me how you couldn't trust people and how you were so worried about going overseas in case they hurt you while you were gone.  You told me about your family and how important they were, and how honest of a person you were. I believed you.

See the problem is,  people know who I am. People tell me things. My life is like a real life gossip girl episode. People tell me things, because I am honest. I don't tell secrets if people don't want them told. I don't gossip about people, mostly because I don't care about the "gossip". I don't hurt people. Certainly not on purpose, if ever. So here's the thing, when you decided to fuck me around, you picked the wrong person. And for someone who was so intent on not getting hurt, you sure do a good job of being a hypocrite. Cool, glad we cleared that up.

Image from: weheartit.com