# My Grandma. Creative writing



## G-RaCeR

Hi, 
this is a piece of writing about my grandma, 
any editing/assistance would be much appreciated especially with the ending 

Here is the brief 
Thanks 

You will write a description about a person you know well. Before  beginning your own writing you will read several descriptions and  explore features of this genre which you could then incorporate into  your own description. 
Your description will highlight how you have structured your writing and  selected details effectively which 'reveal rather than tell' about your  subject and your attitude towards them. 



You will be assessed on 
• how well you express and develop your ideas about your subject 
• your ability to craft your description and to select details carefully 
• how well you structure your writing 
• your accuracy in spelling, punctuation and paragraphing. 

“Brrriiinggggg!” The doorbell jolts me out of my seat, a long, deafening  tone.  I sigh. Even though Grandma has her own key she still pushes her  signature ring, sending my brother running for the door. 
“Hi Grandma” She ambles down to the lounge, the protracted scuffling of  her feet echoing down the hall. Hunched over, unsteady, a hidden burden  upon her back. No longer does she tower over me; she is stooped, slowly  shrinking. A gash on her leg from a recent fall has left her skin like a  mottled kumara. Mum’s concerns were hastily dismissed, her cane remains  a museum piece, a symbol of ageing not yet acknowledged.  
Hair, ash grey falls in wispy waves upon her head. She was not your  typical Nana, who had her hair permed every week; she didn’t darn socks,  knit jerseys, nor do puzzles or bake; reading is her favourite pastime 
Her eyes seek out the paper from beneath the piles of the dining table.  She is scanning the headlines even before she is seated. Grandma got  through books faster than the four of us put together. Reading was also a  distraction from the many worries bubbling inside her.  
Mum was an expert at the everlasting game of worry-whack-a-mole,  alleviating each concern as they popped up one by one. “I’ve been  thinking...” she began as usual, emerging from the paper, another  problem on her mind. Mum hit it on the head 

Every so often she glanced at her watch before eyes darted up towards  the kitchen, more frequently with each passing minute. 5:58, News on  6:20 goes to the toilet 6:39pm Dinner was late. Old people ran like  clockwork and my Grandma was no exception 
At the table hands, gnarled and calloused rub against mine as we give  thanks, they are rough like bark from a lifetime in the garden. Every  last drop of gravy is scraped onto the knife and licked with delectable  satisfaction. Habits of a time long-ago, a war-time, a poverty-time  still engraved on her mind. “what lovely roast meat” she always  remarked, even if it wasn’t 
Her face reads a road map of age, every wrinkle embed with a memory. 93 years of both hardness and happiness.  
Still, her eyes sparkle; milky blue stars lost behind thick blemished  lenses. I am reminded of years ago when those same eyes search for me in  endless games of hide and seek. Or when, early in the morning, I crept  into her bed to hear stories of piglet and pooh as I am enveloped by her  familiar musty smell. 
Still her mouth bears that same shy smile, thin lips hide yellow teeth,  blemished from toffee and tea; which she now gulps back so quickly it’s a  wonder she doesn’t scald her throat. 
She grabs her handbag, a polite signal yet well all know what it means- ‘take me home please’ 
Her uneasy footsteps echo back down the hallway, but for how much  longer? Is her expiry date past the milestone of 100 years? But age is  just a number; there are some things time will not change, she will  always be my Grandma, youthful in spirit


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## Divus

G Racer
There is something about your piece that I like.  So here I venture into critique

QUOTE:
“Brrriiinggggg!” The doorbell jolts me out of my seat, a long, deafening tone. (Not really 'long' - how about 'sharp'
 I sigh (why re you sad?)

. Even though Grandma has her own key she still pushes her signature (can a bell be as individualistic as a signature?)
 ring, sending my brother running for the door. 

“Hi Grandma” She ambles down to the lounge, the protracted  (???? leave it out) scuffling of her feet echoing (not unless she has still tipped shoes and the hall is empty)down the hall.     
Hunched over, unsteady, a hidden burden upon her back.  (Next time look at an old person - it is their spine that is bent and their stomach muscles have gone) 

No longer does she tower over me; she is stooped, slowly shrinking. 
A gash on her leg from a recent fall has left her skin like a mottled kumara  (what is a kumara??)
. 
Mum’s concerns were hastily dismissed, (Is Mum in the house?) 
 her cane remains a museum piece,- (not an object really worthy of exhibiting)  a symbol of ageing not yet acknowledged (by Grandma)
 ( Folks in their nineties are well prepared to accept ageing but using a walking stick is  giving in to ageing. Which is why she fell over and gashed her leg)
Hair, ash grey falls in wispy waves upon her head. 
She was not your typical Nana ( by using 'was' you suggest she is dea use 'has been'.
 , who had her hair permed every week; she didn’t darn socks, knit jerseys, nor do puzzles or bake; reading is(has always been) her favourite pastime. 

Her eyes (no, she'll have to turn her body to turn her neck)seek out the paper from beneath the piles of the dining table. 
She is scanning the headlines even before she is seated. 
Grandma got ( dump the word gpt, get gotten and all its forms+ through books faster than the four of us put together. 
Reading was also a distraction from the many worries bubbling inside her
. 
Mum was an expert at the everlasting game of worry-whack-a-mole,( how do you play this game - with a bat and ball?) alleviating each concern as they popped up one by one. “I’ve been thinking...” she began as usual, emerging from the paper, another problem on her mind. 
Mum hit it on the head  - so Mum is in the room but 'hit it on the head' - no find another expression'

Every so often she glanced at her watch before eyes darted ( Old peoples don't dartup - their clocks run slower than those of a young person.

towards the kitchen, more frequently with each passing minute. 5:58 9 where is the pm?, News on 6:20 goes to the toilet 6:39pm Dinner was(is) late. Old people ran like clockwork and my Grandma was no exception .

At the table hands, gnarled (with arthritis) and calloused (why did she do her own gardening? Her skin by now will feel like satin.) 
rub( how about 'brush'?  against mine as we give thanks, they are rough like bark ( no, no, go feel them again and think of another expression)from a lifetime in the garden. (My guess is that in her medicine cabinet there is a skin cream which she uses every night before going to bed.

Every last drop of gravy is scraped onto the knife and licked with (delectable - delete)  satisfaction. 
Habits of a time long-ago, a war-time, a poverty-time (a time of poverty) still engraved on her mind. “what lovely roast meat” she always remarked, even if it wasn’t.   I presume traditional Sunday lunch)

Her face reads a road map of age, every wrinkle embed with a memory. 93 years of both hardness (no - seek another adjective)  and happiness
( maybe 9 experience?).

Still, her eyes sparkle (sometimes) ; milky blue stars( not really)  lost behind thick blemished lenses. I am reminded of years ago when those same eyes search(ed) for me in endless games of hide and seek. Or when, early in the morning, I crept into her bed to hear stories of piglet and pooh ( perhaps another word would be better in this context)   as I am enveloped by her familiar musty ( No, 'musty' is mould, fabrics, stale food) smell. 

Still her mouth bears that same shy ( shyness is for the young) smile, thin lips hide yellow teeth ( she is lucky to still have them), 
blemished from toffee and tea (not together and English toffee doesn;t stain); which she now gulps back so quickly it’s a wonder she doesn’t scald her throat. 
She grabs  her handbag, a polite signal yet all know what it means- ‘take me home please’ 

Her uneasy (unsteady) footsteps echo(????) back down the hallway, but for how much longer? Is her expiry date(No! she is not a packet of bacon) past the milestone(centenary?) of 100 years? But age is just a number; there are some things time will not change, she will always be my Grandma
(and) youthful in spirit.
UNQUOTE

Comment
I wonder if she is your Great Grandmother rather than your Grandmother?

When working through your article  I kept trying to work out your age and your Nationality - you don't indicate in your CP either fact.  So if you are 
a young woman then please accept my criticisms in the spirit that they have been made.  

One comment I have made is that you have not respected continuity of tense - go back and decide whether you are writing in the past or the present.

Secondly and more a sign of your experience at writing, reconsider some of the adjectives which I have marked.  Borrow a thesaurus and look for some more pertinent words to describe what you saw.

What I like I realize now is the subject matter.   It is good to read your observations as a young person but go back to Grandma and double check your first impressions. 

Divus - a battered, creaking, cynical, ageing pensioner, maybe a great grandfather at the age of 73.​


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## Divus

G Racer
I hope my critique did not offend a new writer.     After I had posted yesterday I thought back to when I first started to post on writing forums.
Criticism of one's baby is always hard to take but submitting  work for editing or worse, cutting, by an editor is always a thing one does tentatively.  However it is important for the writer to do it.

Your story about Grandma has a 'warmth' which the two stories I have written in the past do not have.    By criticising your work yesterday and by re-reading my own, I could see better what was wrong with my story.      I did not post on this forum my stories about my Grandma who was borne in the 1890s - but I can.  The question is on which thread.     If you would like to compare one of mine with yours, then let me know.     That way you can get the red pen out and criticise my composition.

By the way, welcome to the Forum.


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