Beatroot Workshop

Well folks,

We've finally got a web presence to call our own.

Check out: http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/beatroot - beatroot's future home!

We'll keep the blog running in tandem as we're still ironing out a few issues, but everything is good to go. Have a look around and let us know what you think - your feedback is paramount.

Stay safe,

Beatroot

Ahem,

Now we're not in a position to be lecturing anyone, but here at Beatroot we are passionate about the written word and so every month we'll be recommending a piece(s) of work / writer(s) that we feel you should read (for whatever reason).
Each month will be themed - should we run out of themes, we'll just start over again, as I'm sure we'll miss out lots along the way.
There will be a few recommended tiles each month that could take the form of a novel, script, film, poem or whatever we feel like...you get the idea.

The first theme is: North American Short Fiction.

Raymond Carver

Considered one of the greats of American short fiction, Carver's work is both profound and unsettling. His work evokes the bizarre and often hilarious truth's of our everyday lives through carefully and expertly drawn characters, deft use of location and a sharp, witty use of dialogue that is hard to match.
If you want to learn how one can distill an idea or concept that could span an entire novel down into a few thousand words, then look no further than Carver.

We recommend 'Will you please be quiet, please? published by Vintage
ISBN: 978-0-099--44989-8
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Will-You-Please-Quiet/dp/0099449897/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226591856&sr=8-5

Most notably read 'Neighbors' - it's both creepy and hilarious, and good combo in our book!

Beatroot

To those of you who dabble in the screen writing side of things, here's an interesting link.
You may have seen the adverts on E4 and thought 'Ohh, that sounds good' - it is! Have a gander and you'll notice that not only do you get the chance to pen an online episode of Skins, but you also get to work with the team of Skin's writers in a workshop environment.

Criteria:

1600 words (max)
At least 3 characters (none from Skins)
No more than five locations

The rest is up to you!

http://www.e4.com/skins/writer-mini-episode.html

By the way... check out this nifty little program: http://celtx.com/ and you'll be producing professional looking scripts in no time! Word just makes us itch.

We all know that making a living from the written word is easier said than done. Give yourself a leg-up by entering some writing competitions, you never know who may stumble across your work one day. It's all about shamelessly publicizing yourself...

Here's a great list of competitions (in the UK)

http://www.literacytrust.org.uk/whatson/writingcomps.html

Beatroot

The delivery will be here any minute, Miranda thinks. It’s already 12:16 - by the clock in the hall - and she is still missing half of the decorations and most of the food. This was in no way a party. With the way things looked, Miranda felt uneasy about letting guests walk up the path, let alone in the house. You can’t have a half dressed room, she thinks. You can’t have guests walk down a hallway that looks skeletal with the lack of decorative flourish. A table for twenty people looks ridiculous with food only for ten. Miranda squeezes her arm tightly. It’s Saturday.
‘Miranda?’ Comes a voice from the kitchen. Miranda waits 3 seconds before responding.
‘Yes?’ Miranda’s clear, crisp response soars through the passageways of her parent’s house. Built in 1764, an imposing Georgian townhouse with duel aspect windows, arranged over five stories.
‘I don’t understand this bloody cooker, a little help? Please?’ The voice echoes down the corridor.
Miranda checks the time, 12:19 - by the clock next to the phone – she feels her body temperature rise slightly. The flowers don’t look right as she passes an arrangement of tulips in the dining room, she thinks.
The dining table is lavishly decorated: fine Villeroy & Boch porcelain plates sit atop soft gold chargers, Dartington crystal wine glasses stand adjacent to every plate, dark blue napkins sit central to each setting, held in place with gold napkin rings. She stares at the tulips intently as she walks towards the kitchen. Why did she choose a tinted blue vase?
‘Miranda. Help. Please?’ Comes the impatient voice from the kitchen.
Miranda pauses by the door to the kitchen, checks her watch – 12:21 – then enters.
‘There you are, can you help me out with this thing?’ Says an alarmingly petite blonde girl from somewhere in the corner of the vast kitchen. The surfaces gleam. Spotless. Slabs of flawless black granite span the perimeter of the room; an enormous range cooker stretches across the entire rear wall. Miranda stumbles, and grabs onto the worktop. A row of low hanging brushed aluminium lights lead down towards the range like a runway. 12:22, Miranda checks her watch.
‘What’s the problem?’ Miranda asks the girl.
‘I can’t turn it on.’
‘What do you mean you can’t turn it on?’ Miranda blurts out.
‘There’s just nothing. No heat.’ The girl looks embarrassed now as she pulls her straw-like hair back into a ponytail, and rests her hands on her bony hips. Ignoring the girl, Miranda walks over to a drawer under one of the three sinks – it glides out and comes to a slow, calculated stop. She closes the drawer and opens it again. She rests her hand on the granite and watches the drawer like there is nothing else in the room. The slow, punch-drunk motion of the drawer mesmerises her. The girl looks at her. Miranda doesn’t look back. She takes out a neatly bound book and hands it to the girl.
‘The manual,’ Miranda says, ‘any problems, let me know.’
‘Thanks. What time are people getting here?’
‘Just deal with the cooker. Please?’ Miranda replies curtly.
Back in the hallway, the clock reads 12:27. The delivery still isn’t here. Miranda can now feel a slight tingle in her left hand. She squeezes it firmly.
She walks briskly into the drawing room and over to an old oak bureau. She opens it to reveal row upon row of perfectly polished vases, in size order, equidistant from each other. She looks at each one carefully, assessing their suitability for the job at hand. Should she keep the tulips in the one vase? Should she divide them into two separate vases? Does she even need the tulips? She takes out two small crystal vases. A geometric design snakes around the base of each.
In the dining room, the tulips look ridiculous in the two smaller vases, Miranda thinks, and she curses herself for doubting her original arrangement. She pulls out a chair and sits down, plays with the stem of a wine glass and smiles at imaginary guests.
She hears a van pulling up outside. The tingling in her left hand is more intense this time. She grabs the tulips and stuffs them back into the larger vase, picks up the smaller ones and hurries into the drawing room. With no time to rinse them out she places them back into the bureau, still filled with water. The doorbell rings, and echoes throughout the house. Sarah would be here by 14:00, she reassures herself. She repeats her mantra: ‘Simplicity is the secret to a successful gathering’, silently. The doorbell rings again, this time with more fervour.
‘I’m coming.’ Miranda calls brightly as she adjusts her blouse in the mirror in the hallway and opens the door.
‘Delivery. Sign here?’ Miranda winces at the overweight deliveryman’s intonation. He wears a name badge: Steve.
‘Where’d you want the stuff?’ he asks, snatching the clipboard from Miranda before she has the chance to finish the ‘d’ of her surname: ‘Boyd’. The boxes pile up in the hallway. Miranda checks each one off in her head. Six boxes. There should be seven. There should be seven, shouldn’t there? Miranda panics, recounts the boxes and turns to Steve.
‘There should be seven, shouldn’t there?’ Her voice quivers.
‘Only six on the invoice. Six in the van. Six here.’ He replies, nonchalant.
‘Yes I can see that but I distinctly remember being told it would be seven boxes.’
Miranda gently traces her fingertip across the rough cardboard of box number five. Steve doesn’t take any notice of Miranda as she takes a deep breath and massages her neck to regain her calm; he simply shrugs and walks out leaving the door wide open. Miranda rushes to close the door behind him and takes a moment to gather herself. The guests will be arriving at 19:30 for drinks, then appetisers, then starters, then the main. Vegetarian options covered. Vegan option too. Desserts sorted. The white is in the wine cooler; the red has been expertly selected and arranged to compliment the flavours of the food. Does she have enough ice for the San Pelligrino?
‘Miranda?’ The girl in the kitchen screeches.
3 seconds pass. Miranda checks her make-up in the mirror and picks up boxes one and two which she knows contains some of the food, and heads to the kitchen. The tulips still don’t look right, she thinks. Why did she choose white tulips? They’re so morbid.
‘Yes?’ She calls as she enters the kitchen and places the boxes neatly on the worktop.
‘It’s on.’ The girl says proudly.
‘Great, Pierre should be here any moment and he can begin.’ Miranda smiles. Everything is under control.
‘So do I?’
‘Go upstairs and stay out of the preparations? Yes, if you would.’ Miranda says as she opens box one and takes out a selection of fresh meats. Blood drips between her fingers as she unwraps a large steak. She watches it work its way into the fine wrinkles in her hand.
‘I’ll be in my room then.’ Miranda doesn’t look at the girl as she leaves, but stays transfixed on the meat.
‘Don’t wear the Miu Miu dress. Wear something more, demure.’ Says Miranda. The girl doesn’t respond but throws the manual down on the worktop and leaves the kitchen, Miranda listens to her footsteps as they ascend the stairs until they become so muffled that she could be on her own in the house.
Miranda remembers the first time she went to the doctor. She remembers feeling a mixture of confusion and disgust as he deconstructed her life piece by piece. She wore an elegant silk blouse by Yves Saint Laurent teamed with a tight black pencil skirt of her mother’s. The doctor wore what looked like a mismatched suit from a charity shop, she remembers studying the appalling stitching on the lapels. The tablets, one a day with each tablet marked with the corresponding day, he gave her she refused to take for weeks. Now though, she likes the dull buzz they give her. She likes the regularity too.
13:13 says the clock in the study as Miranda spreads out the list of guests in front of her. 20 in total. Her mother would be coming and it was most important to impress her. Miranda knew she would judge everything about her party. She knew her mother would arrive, decked head to toe in diamonds like she was royalty. This had to be perfect. Her father would be there too, she wanted to show him how far she’d come as a woman like all daughters do. She runs her hand across the paper, across each name.
The seating arrangements looked adequate, not perfect, but they’d do. Just don’t sit Beatrice next to Andrea she thinks; we don’t want another New Years Eve like 2002. Satisfied she can do no more, Miranda collects up the name cards she had picked up that morning and hurries back into the dining room then carefully places each card at each setting. She places her own name at the head of the table. Her left arm begins to tingle again and she squeezes it firmly. Miranda thinks about Isabel.
Miranda wonders, how after all that has happened today, she can possibly feel so calm. She asks herself why she isn’t calling the delivery company to complain about the abysmal service she has received, why she isn’t checking on Isabel and why she isn’t calling the most vital guests to double check they are coming. They have RSVP’d, of course, but one can never be sure. She cannot concoct an answer to these questions, and wonders why she is second-guessing her meticulous planning. She knows the party will be perfect simply because it has to be. There is no other option. Miranda starts to think that maybe she has taken on too much today.
Exhausted from the trials of the day, Miranda decides to rest. There is no point fretting over details now, she thinks. She’s done all she can, and all she need do now is get ready. She climbs one flight of the grand mahogany staircase to the first floor and collapses onto her Egyptian cotton sheets. 14:00 races by and Miranda forgets about Sarah.
Miranda cannot remember what time she falls asleep, and forgets to set her alarm. Hours pass, and Miranda lies still in her bed. A floor below her, a deserted house gets itself ready to host a plethora of Miranda’s closest friends and family. The light begins to dim outside and casts long, bony shadows throughout the house. Something in Miranda wakes and a deep, unconscious part of her knows that it is time. A glass of water half empty stands on the dresser. A crushed packet sits next to it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday for next week are empty.

***

Standing in the hallway now, Miranda waits. Her Chiffon dress cuts perfectly under her breasts, then falls in an a-line half way down her calves. Decked out in her mother’s diamonds, with her father’s wristwatch fastened loosely around her left wrist, she stands motionless.
‘Isabel?’ she calls with no obvious inclination of where she is shouting. ‘The guests will be here soon, are you ready?’ Miranda hears no answer.
‘Isabel, please come down at once. Do not embarrass me.’ Irritation filters into her voice this time and she walks into the dining room to have one last check. Everything is up to standard; except those damn tulips still don’t look right. She picks up the vase and hurries off into the kitchen. On the worktop lie row after row of rump steaks, uncooked. The oven is untouched, silent. Pierre is nowhere to be seen. Miranda looks around approvingly.
‘Well done Pierre, it smells wonderful. The guests will be here soon.’ Miranda smiles. With the tulips still in hand, she leaves the kitchen. Miranda feels that buzz that she likes.
19:15 - by the clock in the dining room - and Miranda suddenly finds it so difficult to breathe as she thinks about how the guests could arrive in such a disparate manner that the appetisers just won’t be timed correctly, that she places the tulips on the end of the dining table and clutches her stomach.
‘Oh God,’ she moans ‘what if I haven’t done enough?’ She panics. The doorbell rings. It’s only 19:16, why are they early? The invite clearly said 19:30 for drinks. For a moment Miranda seems to lose her grip on the table, and on her mind and she collapses onto the floor taking the vase with her. The crystal shatters, sending razor sharp shards across the room. Water seems to seep into everything and the tulips lie flaccid on the oak flooring. Miranda watches the chiffon turn a dark, muddy colour as it soaks up the water. She feels a tear roll down her cheek.
The doorbell rings again.
Miranda claws at the floor, and pulls herself up. Her makeup smeared, and running down her face she shuffles awkwardly to the hallway.
‘Isabel?’ She moans.
She hears no response.
Her vision blurs.
She straightens her dress. Scrapes her hair back into place and wipes a hand across her face. 19:21 - by the clock in hall - and all Miranda can do is wait. A light, inoffensive jazz permeates through the halls now. The lights are dimmed and Miranda feels ready. Her dress continues to drip onto the hallway carpet.
19:32, by the clock by the phone. Miranda hears a car drive past, but it does not stop. A moment of panic comes over her and all she can think about is where Isabel is.
A photo of a young, slightly more brunette Isabel sits next to the phone dated, July 1995; next to this sits an elegant ceramic urn.
Miranda climbs the stairs, to the first floor and scans the landing for any signs of life. The next flight of stairs to the second floor are pitch black, Miranda fumbles to find a light switch. She walks up to a door ‘Isabel’ is stuck on it with alphabet fridge magnets. She knocks, but hears no answer. After 10 seconds there is still no reply. She slowly turns the door handle and walks in. The room is empty.
Miranda stares at a space over by the window, just above the radiator.
‘Come down, Isabel.’ She says softly. She waits a few seconds, then turns and leaves.
19:47 her father’s watch says. Waiting again in the hallway for her guests to arrive, for the party she’s been planning for weeks.
Miranda waits.