Creative Writing GCSE Tuition Phoenix Writers with Georgina Parfitt ( English Tuition Bolton Manchester)

Georgina Parfitt an Exercise. (Georgina Parfit is a wonderful writer and Creative Writing tutor who works independently and for Unthank writers too.)

Rewrite the following description of movement showing who the character is and what they really want.

Rachel got up from her chair, straightened her skirt and walked through the lounge, into the kitchen to the window. She walked to the sink and rested her chin on the sill so she could see the garden. 

The woman was awake but where were her flowers?  Their blue was essential to her, had resurrected something long dead inside. Their petals had beckoned her soul alive again because in here everything rinsed out her heart with metal grey. Hadn’t the architect always disdained colour as an irrelevant distraction for the vulgar?
So grindingly over time, so much time,  she’d acquiesced,  had accepted her dull cloak of grey and forgotten colour palettes ever existed. But once upon a time, she’d been a woman called Rachel.
Rachel. The teal blue flowers had called her back like benevolent sirens. 
The architect had designed the house for privacy. Even the thin oblong windows offered little glimpses of the outside world. Now she acknowledged they were Lifeless Windows taunting her with their reflection of a  monochrome world,  dedicated to stainless steel and pristine anonymity.
But that defiant blue was something else,  wasn’t it?  No one had ever bought her blue flowers, brought them inside the house before. No one had dared.
 Am I childish? She murmured tugging opening the French Windows, frozen with disuse. 

Yet in the physical effort, she remembered how much her body disagreed., how much her body craved what the blue flowers meant.  She’d responded to the unexpected gift like someone washed up, assumed drowned,  on a rocky shore., given oxygen.  I’m alive again she said.. So she fell out of the relentlessly grey lounge and into the garden’s damp night air. She breathed deeply, independently, sidestepped her fear, even her disdain for the one who had obviously exiled the blue flowers.
But where were they? Where were the teal blue petals?  Her eyes adjusted to the soft-bellied darkness and miraculously she was rewarded:  for the slumbering security light took pity on the lonely woman and intervened to help.


The woman who used to be Rachel saw the flowers and even across the diamond lawn she could tell they were still intact, uncovered, beckoning to her again. And their stems remained unbroken.  An unwashed jar of scarlet jam had been substituted for the expensive Crystal vase. A wedding gift. 
The woman took off her housewife slippers, felt the cold,  wet lawn beneath her toes and approached the abandoned summer house with reverence., as a lover. 

On the old green table were the bluest flowers she had ever seen. The Teal petals still looked fantastical despite their new home,  as if they had been painted by an artist with unearthly fingers., whose spirit consorted with those living on the edges of the imagined world. 

‘Thank you” she said to the flowers and the now warm, night air and to the summer house. too.
My name is Rachel., she said because it was. And even though time or maybe someone with no heart had broken the only window and splintered the only door, she knew she could repair it for it had always belonged to her.
And the blue flowers grew taller and became more turquoise as the fresh dawn approached.