It's all About Mood.

Have fun by creating a short story by using a story starter and then change the mood. You'll surprise yourself and it's lots of fun. We used this during our last Zoomed writer's group, Dribbles and Scribbles and we roared with laughter at the results. And we all certainly need a laugh these days. 

First of all we chose a Story Starter from a great list of story starters from Sally Odgers book, How to be an Awesome Author.  I told everyone to just have some fun and play (thanks, Jen Storer for this advice in your Scribbles Academy) and write a short story. I gave everyone 20 minutes and we were off. For the first time in a long time we all felt we had some head space to write. Let's face it, 2020 has been a roller coaster. 

At the end of twenty minutes we took turns in reading out what we had come up with. The were hoots and howls of laughter, gasps, comparisons to the feel of certain books. In other words, fun. 

We then moved on to the workshop. Mood. 

For this we headed over to LitCharts.com and read through what they had to say about mood.  

'Mood Definition:

What is mood? Here’s a quick and simple definition:
The mood of a piece of writing is its general atmosphere or emotional complexion—in short, the array of feelings the work evokes in the reader. Every aspect of a piece of writing can influence its mood, from the setting and the imagery to the author's word choice and tone. For instance, a story that begins "It was a dark and stormy night" will probably have an overall dark, ominous, or suspenseful mood.' LitCharts.com

We've looked at creating mood in all different ways many times before in our writer's group. (Some we've even blogged about.) 

• Setting
• Imagery
• Tone
• Diction
• Genre and Plot

However, this time I decided to do something different so that we had the opportunity to combine all the skills we had learned previously. So, after reading through what mood was all about, I announced to the group we were now going to use our story we had written earlier and change the mood. One thing which was not mentioned but many of us did anyway, we changed what our character focused on as we had already work shopped this a while ago. 

So here are our stories so you can see the difference.

Megan:
Mrs Perry’s garden was overgrown with thistles. Mood 1.

Mrs Perry’s garden was overgrown with thistles. They twisted and twined themselves around bushes, spread across the garden, strangling various plants as it went. It spread across the grass and up and over the washing line. It hung there like a many fingered skeleton grasping at what looked like the remnants of an old shirt and was now a piece of faded cloth. An icy breeze grasped at the material and finally ripped it from the thistles grasp and the remnants of the shirt was tossed and carried past grimy windows and up into the stormy sky.

Rory froze as he caught sight of the cloth, his hand on the rickety old gate. His feet felt as if they were cemented to the spot and his breath came in small gasps. He could feel his head starting to spin. No! He did not want to be here. He did not want to go into Mrs Perry’s and apologise to her for his ball going through her window. He did not want to apolgise for breaking the garden statue when he snuck into her yard to retrieve it. She. Freaked. Him. Out. He caught himself and started some deep breathes.

In. Hold. Out. Repeat.

‘Hey! Rory!’ a familiar voice called.

Rory jumped. Billy Dickenson, his best mate, laughed. Gah! He was the reason why he was here, and he got off scot free. So not fair.

Rory scowled. ‘What?’

‘Good luck. You’re gonna’ need it.’ And with that Billy sped off down the street, his laughter carrying on the breeze.

Rory’s hand shook. The gate groaned as he pushed it open. He stepped onto the path and started towards the front door. Overgrown tree branches grabbed his hair, his jumper. Spider webs clung to his face. He swore to cover his rising panic.

The sky overhead darkened and lightening flashed just as he reached to knock on the front door. The door squeaked open and there stood old Mrs Perry. Tall and thin wearing an old moth eaten dressing gown and what looked once were fluffy pink slippers but were now a strange grey colour. Her thin grey hair stuck up in every direction. Mrs Perry stared down at him.

‘I-I’ve come to do some gardening,’ he stammered.

‘Come in, Rory,’ rasped Mrs Perry. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
 
 Mrs Perry’s garden was overgrown with thistles. Mood 2.

Mrs Perry’s garden was overgrown with thistles. They jumped and hopped over the rose bushes in full bloom, encircled the lilac tree, and hugged the camellias.  A gentle breeze blew through the garden and carried the scent of lilacs and roses past Rory. Rory was rooted to the spot. One hand on the rickety front garden gate. The other clutching two sunset roses.    

His face felt warm. From the beautiful spring day; and from other things. His guts felt like a gazillion lizards were leaping around in there. He sighed. Though he did not want to go into Old Mrs Perry’s and apologise to her for his ball going through her window, and he did not want to apolgise for breaking the garden statue when he snuck into her yard to retrieve it, he did want to meet ‘Her’.  

‘Hey! Rory!’ The voice of his best mate, Billy Dickinson, jerked him out of his dream state.

Rory jumped. Billy Dickinson, his best mate, laughed. Gah! He was the reason why he was here, and he got off scot free. At least he wouldn't be around to interfere. 

Billy scowled. ‘What?’

‘Good luck. You’re gonna’ need it.’ And with that Billy sped off down the street, his laughter carrying on the breeze.

Rory’s hand shook. The gate groaned as he opened it. That’s going to need some oil, he thought. He stepped onto the path and started towards the front door. A blackbird began to sing its song. Ahhh! What a romantic touch. For a moment he stood transfixed and then he remembered who was waiting for him. He smoothed down his hair and pushed his way forward through overgrown tree branches. They’ll need pruning back. He wiped off the spider webs which clung to his face as he reached the front door. I'll have to get rid of them. 

Sunlight burst through the many branches as he reached to knock on the front door. The door squeaked open and there stood old Mrs Perry wearing an old moth eaten dressing gown and what looked once were fluffy pink slippers but were now a strange grey colour. Her thin hair stuck up in every direction.

Mrs Perry stared down at him and grunted, ‘What do you want?’

The sunlight had penetrated into the gloom of the house and lit up the person standing behind Old Mrs Perry. Young Mrs Perry. All gorgeousness and sunlight with an air of melancholy about her, and it was actually her he had come to see. Perhaps, after all these months, he would be the one to put a smile on her face.
​  
‘I-I’ve come to do some gardening,’ he stammered, as he stuck out his hand holding the roses.

Melissa Gijsbers
Grapes were usually green, weren’t they. Mood 1.

Grapes were usually green, weren’t they. Or purple. Never orange. Orange was reserved for oranges and mandarins. Come to think of it, none of the fruit in Old Mrs Marshall’s fruit bowl was the colour it was supposed to be… and none of the grown ups seemed to notice, or care.

The grown ups sat happily nibbling at orange grapes, purple cheese, and bright blue nuts, along with sipping a wine in a green that looked suspiciously like it had been made from brussels sprouts.

The children thought the wine should also have been orange as it was made from grapes, but it was definitely brussels sprouts green.

Even the orange juice that was given to the children was a strange colour. It was a pale purple rather than orange. None of the children wanted to touch the food or drink offered. They felt as though a spell had been cast over the house somehow, missing the children and only landing on the gown ups, who kept telling the children not to be rude and to eat what was offered to them.
 
Mood 2:

‘Grapes were usually green, weren’t they?’ Joey whispered.

‘I guess,’ Emma looked at the strange array of food before them.’

‘Nothing is what it’s meant to be,’ whispered Callum.

‘I only eat red Food!’ declared Molly, standing as tall as her 4-year-old, one-meter body would allow. ‘I might get a tomato,’ she hissed to the others, ‘or maybe a red frog,’ The other kids rolled her eyes and wished her luck.

‘Sit down Molly,’ her mother said. She was sipping puke green wine. ‘Don’t be rude.’

‘But I only eat red food,’ Molly said. She sat down, the fight going out of her. She pushed the strange coloured food around her plate. There was no way she was going to drink the ‘orange’ juice that was actually purple.
Emma wrapped her arm around her little sister.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘You don’t have to eat it.’

‘There’s a pot over there,’ Joey whispered, ‘we can empty the juice into it. I’m sure the plant will like it.’ The other children nodded enthusiastically. ‘Watch my back.’
​
Joey moved across the floor, slowly, careful not to get the attention of any of the grown ups and emptied the first cup of juice into the plant pot.

Ester de Boer

Dear Clara, why did you steal my kayak. Mood 1.

Dear Clara,
why did you steal my kayak?
We were three hours away from camp by river, but now I have to climb down on foot, and the terrain is tough! Tree branches grab at my hair and clothes, and under the canopy of the jungle, I lose all sense of direction, not to mention the insects… did I mention the insects, Clara?

Dear Clara,
Seriously, my insect repellent? It’s one thing to nick the boat, but to leave me, stranded in the jungle at the mercy of Argentine killer ants and what the heck? Is that a spider? No way! Clara! I’m covered in bites and they burn and itch like crazy and there are spiders…SPIDERS, CLARA! Big, scary buggers with legs that resemble gnarly, hairy-knuckled fingers dangling above my head, creeping into my backpack. I’m terrified one’s going to creep into my swag and get me in my sleep.

Dear Clara,
Why did you steal my sleeping bag and replace it in my backpack with a sack full of rare, spiked, poisonous Bayara leaves? I put my hand in to pull it out and now the skin is peeling from my fingers and it’s making me insane. I know we’ve had our ups and downs. I feel like you’ve never forgiven me for that incident with Deidre. How many times do I have to tell you that she was teaching me an ancient Mayan yoga technique? Oh my god I feel sick… and these ant bites are kind of swelling and ohhh my stomach… I’m just going to have to wrap myself in the swag and sleep best I can…

Dear Clara,
I can’t find the medicine case. It had the antiseptic cream, Phenergan, anti-malarial tablets… I think these insect bites are beginning to fester. I want you to know that, no matter what I’ve done, it was always you, Clara.

Dear Clara,
It’s raining. I’ve scrunched myself up in  the swag for the night, but the rain finds places to trickle in. My hands have gone an alarming shade of green where I made contact with the bayara leaves… I’m not sure now if I’m still wet or just sweating profusely. Babe, I missed you so much.

Dear Clara,
Couldn’t you at least have left the Imodium?

Dear Clara,
Why did you dig a large pit in the ground, fill it with sharp objects and poisonous snakes and cover it with palm fronds? In my delirium, I stumbled right into it and now I am lying, impaled, waiting to be finished off by what looks very like a Guatemalan spitting asp.

Dear…. Clara……..     Why???
 
 
Mood 2:

Dear Clara,
why did you steal my kayak?
The walk down from the mountain is slower, much slower, than the trip by river, but I know how to bide my time, Clara.

Dear Clara,
I have discovered more things missing. You really have been a nasty girl, but I am patient… I am suffering, of course. That is what you wanted, to make me pay. That’s what you do, Cara, but I forgive you.

Dear Clara,
I could hardly believe you would be so petty, so spiteful, but it’s part of what I have always told you about yourself. Sometimes you harm yourself and blame me, but this is the proof. You took my sleeping bag and set a deadly trap to poison me? You made me very angry, Clara. But I’ve calmed now and am ready for us to work things out. You’re confused and don’t know yourself- you have a lot of trust issues and this is your way of showing it,
But I’m patient, Clara. I’m very patient.

Dear Clara,
I barely slept, with the stinging of the insects and the driving rain and mud. I’d ask why you do these irrational things- steal, sabotage our relationship, try to control the situation, but I don’t believe you know yourself.
But I do, Clara. Which is why you need me- why you can’t survive without me- I wish you could understand the torment it puts me thorough when you do these things, when you make me so angry, when you make me do things that hurt you.
It’s because I love you Clara.

Dear Clara,
You took the medicines
You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you? Yes I’m hurt and angry, but I forgive you Clara. you’re a sick person.
But when I get back down to you, we can work it all out. I’ll be setting a few new rules, Clara, but know that they’re all for your good.

Dear Clara,
I can’t wait for us to be back together. The jungle has cleared and I can even see you, frantic, buzzing back and forth around the cabin- I’m having a little laugh to myself. Did you discover that the car doesn’t start Clara? I could be there is less than an hour, but it’s such a pleasure to watch you, my little Clara. And I am patient, very patient…

Have fun and let me know how you find this exercise. And maybe you may know some kids who may like to try this out, just for fun. 

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