So basically, you just take the sentences that the person wrote before you, keep the sentences the same and make sure that they say the same thing, but change the words into something that feels more natural to your own linguistic style. Then you come up with your own passage – preferably at least 3 sentences, preferably up to 3 paragraphs – then wait for somebody else to translate it into their own personal dialect and see what happens. Ready, and, GO!
In essence you nab more than a snippet of what's been written above. Stay on message but make the words your own. From there, get your thinking cap on and summon from your brain bank three sentences (at least) that you're happy to have bent to another('s) shape . Sit back and wait for your rewrite to appear. Set....Go! It's late, the cliched close to midnight time. My lap's pleasantly warmed by laptop, my eyes dry for the unblinking they've done today, and my elbows a-goosebumped as the -4 outside is trying to invade through the French Doors. There's a red dot neath the blacked and 'off' TV in the corner. It slumbers after an evening of beaming. Wife's asleep too—enjoying the fruits of the Land of Nod I suspect as she's breaking smiles out from her unconscious face. I want to join her, share the dream but I've undertaken a writing task that's seeing my fingers traverse a keyboard...
I'm sick of paraphrasing from English class, so gonna skip the OP's post. Also am I doing this right? I'm on a journey through fantastical lands, strange people and . . . hm. For a moment, my fingers still on the keyboard as I stop and take a look around my surroundings. It's early, but not too early. I've just got up and am having a bit of fun before I head off to work for the day. I'm enjoying the feel of the keys going click-click under my fingers, the rattling the blinds make when my inspiration wanes and I fiddle with them, the quiet ticking of the clock, the light of the two nightlights reminiscent of steady, unwavering candlelight that are the only lights on at this time. I'm at peace. Soon though, my grandmother will get up and it'll be time to finish getting ready to work. Soon this tranquil lonesomeness will be broken. But for now, I write. By the way, I like your voice SethLoki. The mixture of factual (red dot neat the blacked and 'off' TV) and poetic (slumbers after an evening of beaming) is pretty neat!
It's very late, the good old nearly midnight time. My lap is nicely warmed by laptop, my eyes stinging because of the lack of blinking the had today, and my elbows covered in goosebumps as the freezing outside tries to force its way in through the doors. The TV is dozing after an evening of constant use. The wife's asleep too- presumably having an amazing dream with the amount she's grinning. I would like to join her, share the dream but I'm doing a writing task which is putting my fingers to work... I'm going through rich lands, meeting strange people. I stop, my fingers lying still on the keyboard as I look around. It's quite early. I figured I would squeeze in a little writing before going to work. The feel of the keys going click-click is a good one, however, when my mind draws blank I can hear the blinds, forcing me to sort them, but that too is a good sound, as is the quiet ticking of the clock, the light from the couple of nightlights a reminder of steady candlelight at this time. I'm quite content. Though soon my mamma will get up and I'll have to finish getting ready for work. And then the peaceful loneliness will be broken. However, for now, I write. Not too far off, probably eastwards, was the sound of deer rutting. Their bellows echoed around the valley, like creatures that should no longer exist. I clung to the craggy mountainside, my eyes trying to spot the deer. My eyes eventually gave up, allowing my ears to take over. Down below was the trickle of a brook, up above the call of an owl. Then the clatter of antlers began and guided only by ears I reached a moor, made bright by the moon. There, two beasts fought, their breath like mine hanging in the air. The couple danced around each other, then would dive in, their eyes focused. With one finally grunt, a victor had been found and the other walked off, back sloped. EDIT: Ah, didn't refresh the page for a while. I did extra homework and added a little to mine.
This is pretty much a paraphrasing exercise: I write a passage, SethLoki paraphrased my passage and then wrote his own, you paraphrase his passage and then write your own, then IA by the Barn paraphrases your passage and writes his own, now I'm paraphrasing IA's passage and then writing my own. ... Some distance away, I think to the east, I hear the mating calls of a herd of deer. The air fills with their songs as though the landscape were a prehistoric oasis that time forgot. I double check my grip on the cliffside before turning and trying to see them without falling. I am too far to see anything, so I allow myself to enjoy the sounds instead: the cries of the deer, the dripping of a brook, the hooting of a great owl, the clatter of crashing antlers. I reach flat ground and follow the sounds of the deer, finding two bucks battling in a moor light only by the moonlight. They circle each other and charge at one each other until one grunts and walks away, back hunched in surrender. ... What exactly am I trying to do? She doesn't love me, she's never loved me, and slashing the guy's tires is never going to make her fall in love with me. Why can't I just walk away? Find someone who doesn't think I'm lower than the floor that the dirt beneath her boot steps on? The garage opens behind me. Shit. I drop the ice pick and make a run for it as the light of the garage erupts into the night.
What gives, man? That bird don't fly, not for me, never for me. And a switchblade in that birdman's rubber ain't gonna change no damn thing. Never touch a man's wheels, that's what my daddy said. Well, fuck him, and fuck her too. Why do I cry so? Why do I let that bird dive me like some hook-beak eagle, talon-claw huntress? Birdman's in the house, in the garage. Damn birdman's opening his big damn door, bathing me in his middle-class, white-collar light. Fuck him too. I take my pick. I run. Daddy always said that... run, boy, you better run. In the club I lean that pick on Harvey's drums. Later I'll cut me some ice. But now I'll play my sax. I forget that bird when I play my horn. Or maybe I play her out of me, into the dark, into the dirty people. They love me here, love my horn, my sound, they dig me, y'all, dig that sound so pure that rises up from ancient times and calls them close and gives them hope. I ain't got no hope for myself. Hope's for fools, my daddy always said. In the club when the people go, I am alone... 'cept for my pick and my horn... and my whisky. Daddy always drank too much whisky.
I get into the club put my pick down against Harvey's drumset. I can get back to work ice-sculpting later, but right now I need to unwind. Saxophone, that always helps calm me down. All my problems fade away once I start playing. Everything wrong with my own life vanishes when the people around me hear the music, when I see that for no logical reason, they hear the notes and the chords and feel that there's still some good in the world. I miss feeling like that. I miss being able to hear Papa telling me that the world is empty and meaningless, but my being able to disagree with him. Everybody listening to me thinks that we're sharing something. Being the only one who knows how alone we all are, that we're only experiencing this night next to each other instead of with each other, only makes me feel even more alone. At least Papa turned out to be right about how good whisky is at keeping it buried. *** What was Andy supposed to write about? She couldn't come up with any characters she hadn't used already, she couldn't come up with any plots she hadn't used already, she couldn't come up with any real-world messages that she hadn't told already. Why couldn't she just use one of her old ideas in a new way for the homework? No great writer ever became great by only writing one-off novels and never writing sequels or series, so why was Andy's teacher so adamant that she had to come up something completely new, completely from scratch, in only the next 24 hours and not have it be complete and utter garbage?
True, but the second part is creative (therefore fun) writing. 'Professional' writing isn't so much fun, so I like to avoid it. Anyway, this is fun so I'm gonna try again! ------- Urgh, this was hopeless. 'Come up with something new' she said, 'make it completely from scratch, and while your at it, you've only got 24 hours!' How did Andy's teacher expect her to do this!? Andy had plots up to her eyeballs, a variety of characters to fill them with, and even had real-world messages to throw in for good measure! And she couldn't use a single, solitary one of them! What was the problem with mixing some of her old stuff up to make something new? After all, the great writers would write sequels and series. No one ever became great just from one-novels. So why did her teacher think that if she did that, it would end up being utter trash? ------- He was late. Frowning, Phil looked at his watch and tapped his foot against the pavement. Honestly, couldn't he ever be on time for anything? Phil looked up and scanned the bustling crowd, looking for any sign of his wayward brother. Still nothing. Someone bumped into him. "Watch it!" Phil snapped, clutching his briefcase tighter. New Yorkers, so rude. He couldn't wait for this transaction to be over with so he could go home. For a moment, Phil visualized it. Instead of a mob, there was cornfields. Instead of the harsh, irritating blares of horns, there was the low rumble of a single tractor. The building at his back wasn't a bland structure of stone and glass, but a cozy little farmhouse. That it was his wife, coming to see him with a smile, instead of his brother, with a frown. Well, it was about time.
There was this geezer called Phil, right? Waiting, he was, in a crowd, in New York, people everywhere, bumping him and such. Anyways, Phil's got this briefcase, right? And he's hanging on to it like it's full of Nazi gold or something. He wanted out of there, Phil did. His head was full of some poncey shite or other, countryside bollocks, it was. Then his bruv turns up, only Phil wished it'd been his wife. Phil was always daydreaming like that. That's why we done him, see? That and his Nazi gold (I wasn't shitting you when I cracked that joke). Anyways, we done him good and proper, and oh my gosh did he scream or what? Took us all morning to get the stains out of me nan's carpet. We done his bruv after that. I've still got his eyes in a jar. You wanna look, mate?
Oh. That looked like part of the re-write instead of an extra one when I wasn't reading carefully You kidding? Phil always had his head in the clouds, we didn't have a choice but to kill him. Though all the gold helped, that was definitely a factor. Anyway, no way he's coming back from that, you would not believe how loud he got and how much blood got everywhere we had to clean up. Plus we killed his brother next. You want to see the eyes we popped out of his head? *** Josiah said we should try listening to something heavier this time. Can't imagine I'll ever say this again, but the guy's right. "Eye of the Tiger's" not bad for workouts, but using it practice an actual fight, it felt like both of our movements were more jerky and methodical than they would've been if we'd been listening to something less mechanically rhythmic. Rhythm is OK for boxers, probably why Survivor wrote it that way, but MMA is supposed to more frenetic and spontaneous than that. Maybe Drowning Pool has something? "Bodies" would just be a bigger version of the same problem as "Eye of the Tiger," but they have to have other work to their credit, right?
