Since the beginning of this year, I have been teaching Creative Writing classes at the Brentwood Library for children ages 8-12! I’ve loved writing since I was 8 years old, and I’ve picked up a lot in the past 8 years. So I wanted to organize these classes to share what I’ve learned to young writers, or even spark an interest in writing in others. We have classes once a month, from 1 to 2 pm, with around 15-20 kids coming in each time. The sign ups for the classes are usually posted on the Brentwood Library’s calendar (here: https://brentwood-tn.libcal.com/)! If you have any questions about these classes you can contact me at diamanoj2120@gmail.com . I also wanted to put up what I’ve gone over in these classes on my website, so that all that content is available. Here’s a general overview of a few of the classes we’ve had so far, and some worksheets that might help you:

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CLASS 1: VIVID IMAGERY + THE FIVE SENSES

For the first class, I wanted to go over something simple but very essential- descriptive imagery. We’re usually taught to analyze this in other stories, but it can be difficult to write up vivid details on our own. As an activity, the class thought up of their favorite place to be at- like the beach, or the mall, or something like that. Then we used our 5 senses to try and describe this place without ever saying what the place was. For example, if you chose to write about the beach; you could talk about how you can hear the waves crash on the shore, how you can feel the sand in between your toes, etc. Then, we read aloud our descriptions to the rest of the class and tried to see if they could guess what place we were describing. Descriptive imagery in your writing can be important to grab your reader’s attention, and really make it easier for them to be able to picture your setting.

CLASS 2: WORLD BUILDING (WITH WORKSHEET)

For class number 2, I wanted to go over one of my favorite parts of planning a story- world building! World building can be more essential for some genres than others- especially Fantasy. Many popular Fantasy books are popular for their deeply thought out, magical worlds. To be able to more easily write a story in a made up place, you have to really know that place, and by that I mean you need to know everything about it. You also have to make your world believable to your reader. And how can you make a place believable if you don’t even know enough about it? Many books have maps of their worlds on the first few pages (one example is Cruel Prince by Holly Black). To help the students make their own, I brought giant posters and some markers, and split the class up into groups of 3-4. Each group came up with their own world name, and then drew a giant map of their world on the poster. They added mountains, and cities, and forests. At the end, they had a beautiful, detailed map of the world they just created together. Then, to plan even more specific things about their world, I gave them this worksheet (that I made myself, actually!):

https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/1mq47FAlQHVLUUX9Qro4gFSVqq48tuIQio8i5xJhgMuU/edit?ths=true

Of course, this is a very simple worksheet, because it is for younger writers, and we only had about an hour of classtime. But I encourage you to look up some more detailed world builders online. At the end of the class, we wrote stories from the perspective of someone important in their world.

CLASS 3: GRAPHIC NOVELS AND COMICS

At the end of the previous class, I asked the kids what they wanted to go over in the next class, and a large majority voted for comics and graphic novels. The reason why comics are probably so popular, especially with children, is the artistic freedom that comes with it. Writing in large amounts with long descriptions might not be for everyone, and graphic novels give you the option of instead drawing out the details. For the class, we folded up our own comic books with some printer paper, and grabbed inspiration from story prompts we found online. We learned a lot about the process of making comics- how the comic panels/ boxes don’t always have to be rigid squares. And how dialogue can pop out of the boxes. There really is a lot of freedom in the style. We ended up with many superhero comics- and most notably “Sumo Baby”.

CLASS 4: CHARACTER BUILDING (WITH WORKSHEET)

Similar to class number 2, in class 4, we went over building- but this time we built characters. The reason why some of our most beloved characters are our favorites is because they make us care about them. To care about a character, you have to be able to truly understand them and their situation. Bland characters with no moral dilemmas and no dreams will make your reader give up on your story immediately. External conflict is definitely important, but internal conflict can be argued to be much more important, because it can also bring some relatability from your character for your reader. If not relatability, at least empathy or a will to root for your character. For the activity in class, I let them come up with their own characters or use a character they previously created. Then I let them plan out all the details about their character on this Character Builder!

HERE is the child-friendly version that I edited for my class (with 60 questions):

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VnUcR8ywp6Go8ARQcjtnbvSrb5lOZvsQJOUhdaEAD34/edit

and THIS is the incredibly helpful website where I found the questions (with 100 questions):

https://www.miniworld.com/adnd/100ThingsAboutUrPCBackGround.html

At the end of the class, we wrote diary entries from the perspective of their characters. Not their actual stories with any drama or major plot, but a simple diary entry of a day in the life of their character! I find this to be very helpful in getting to know your character, and it can be pretty fun to do.

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I hope this was helpful or interesting in any form. Thank you!

Hi, I’ve done a lot this month so I thought I should do an update on that. From June 5 to June 11 I went to the Humanities Tennessee Creative Writing Camp. I went to the camp virtually in 2020 as well, but this time it was in person, which was fun. We stayed at East Tennessee University for a week, and learned about different writing styles and techniques. I learned how to do Spoken Word poetry with Taria (an instructor there) and Flash Fiction with Bradley (also an instructor)! At first, I was kind of skeptical about spoken word poetry and poetry in general, I didn’t think it was for me. I also thought Flash Fiction was too short for there to be really any substance. But once I really started working with it, I began to appreciate the styles. Especially flash fiction- Bradley showed us how to make fun twists at the end of the stories and revise them so we don’t have a bunch of unnecessary details. Here’s the Flash Fiction story that I wrote at camp. It’s called “Ghost Hunters”:

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“Ghost Hunters” by Sanjana/Dia Manoj (436 words)

Two boys, no older than 12, sat on the pavement and licked their cherry popsicles, completely synchronized. They choreographed each taste. This was all a conceited effort in trying to seem like twins to passerbys. They had always thought that the idea of identical twins was eery. And being eery seemed to be their ultimate goal in life. They often stayed up at deadly hours of the night, hunting ghosts and watching horror films.
Suddenly, while they were trying to figure out how to blink at the same time, they heard a loud CLANG! from far away. They paused, and continued talking, before they were interrupted again by a BANG! They decided to investigate, walking down the street. Their parents had never let them go that far from home before alone, but they were much too intrigued to notice or care. Finally, in front of them stood a little house. It was gray, with moss climbing up the walls. The broken windows were shut off, with some glass shards scattered on the ground. The roof caved in, and the long chips in the paint looked as if someone scratched it off. It seemed isolated, yet they could still hear ominous sounds coming from within. The door was slightly open, which lured them in even more.
They stepped up to the front door, but before they could step inside, one of them said
“Don’t worry, I’ll go in first to check if the coast is clear.”
The other frowned, “No, it’s okay, I got this.”
“C’mon let me do this, I know you get scared sometimes with this stuff.” he chuckled.
“Hey! What do you mean by that?” the other retorted.
“I mean that you’re a big chicken.”
Soon, the two boys were bickering over who would go inside first and who was the bigger wuss.
“You couldn’t even watch The Conjuring!” one boy laughed cruelly.
“Yeah, well you’re scared of damn clowns! What are you, 5?” the other screamed.
“How dare you bring that up, you know their noses freak me out!”
Their fight escalated until finally one of the boys had a fit, and pushed the other into the door,
“Fine, go first then idiot!” he yelled as the other fell backward into the house. Inside, an elder man kneeled in front of an air conditioner, banging on it with some sort of tool. The boys looked at each other in confusion.
“Are you a ghost?” the boy tilted his head.
The man rolled his eyes, and turned back to the air conditioner,
“This house is up for renovation. It’s a closed off space, boys.”

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And that’s the story. I wanted to find a way to do a plot twist like the flash fiction he read to us at camp. I don’t know if I did the twist well, but I do like how the story came out. Also, before you tell me that I needed to give more background info on the characters (like their names)- no I don’t. It’s flash fiction you don’t need to do that, I think. Or at least that’s what Bradley said. Okay, that’s it for now, bye.

Three days ago, I took a trip up to Georgia- in Atlanta. I didn’t do much that was very memorable except for one very harrowing experience. And that was the Panther Creek Hiking Trail. We were trekking from 10 AM to 6 PM! And let’s also note that the pathway was definitely not made by sensible or patient people. We had to crawl over a log, jump over rocks, and take off our shoes to cross streams. Also, so many people left their dogs unleashed (and I have a huge fear of dogs)! Why even bring your dogs here at all, people?! At some points, I felt my entire body pull me down. All of me hurt so much, and every minute I was praying that the trail would be over. But also, I will say that there was an aspect of the trail that was wildly interesting, and that was the adventurous feel of it. I knew I was only maybe a few miles away from the nearest freeway, but it felt like I was an explorer in the middle of nowhere, in incessant danger. It’s almost thrilling if you think about it that way. But mostly, it was just exhuasting. The waterfall at the end was pretty though. Was it worth hiking for like the entirety of my day? No, but it was pretty. Anyway, here is the first part of a story I started on today. I’ll post the second part tomorrow, because otherwise this post would be like a million scrolls long. It’s called ‘The Wilting Witch’ (honestly, a working title) and it is about a witch and her relationship with her daughter being severely jeopardized. Or really was it already jeopardized to begin with…? Oooo. Enjoy. (1320 words)

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Delicate, honed little brambles were placed just perfectly so that each one stung her legs in a different place. Each prick she felt at her soul, and yet she sat, picking buds. That day, it was roses, for the love serums. Love serums for the desperate boys and girls who longed for each other’s devotion. Edith did not sit there in coercion, or in torment; there was no room for bitterness in a life resolved to solicitude. Because what was a wilting witch, with so much light in her heart and power at her fingertips to do, other than devote herself to others? And that’s not to say her history was completely faultless. Once, she had so much hatred in her- an acidity that came from a place of youthful pride, a will for destruction. But, when she had her Mireya, all of her resentment for the world tumbled out of her. Mireya was her miracle, her life, the needle of her compass. Mireya was such an important part of Edith’s own self, that she often failed to recognize her as her own being. And as oblivious to this fact she acted, she knew that one day Mireya would want to grow up, leaving her to regress back to the broken mess she used to be. Each day she felt her beloved daughter slipping away from her, and she did everything in her power to stop it- or even just to slow it down, to let her hand grasp at the water for it to eventually slip through her fingers. What a sorrowful life it is, to await your coming decrepicy. 

Soon, she had gathered enough roses, and her feet were covered with a deal of pricks, so she walked back down the mossy cobblestone to the cottage. Once she got inside, the blazing fire’s warmth rushed at her face, and she sat down on her rocking chair. She swung back and forth, pushing off her toes lightly, each movement releasing a cry from the old wood. She flipped through the pages of her book, as she waited for Mireya to arrive home. She waited and waited. The words started getting blurry, it was so late, but she kept on waiting. Finally, she was about to doze off when the door flung open with a slam. She heard inconsistent footsteps and unkept giggles. She lifted her head to see her daughter staggering in, flinging herself on the couch. It was 3 am, and there was a flush to her cheeks to the likes of which she’s never seen before. Her eyes were bright with excitement and something else entirely. Edith wondered what had her so shaken. 

“I’m in love, Mama!” Mireya breathed out. Her voice tinkled and chimed with bells of pure, young affection. Edith smiled at her daughter,

“That’s lovely, dear.”

No part of her felt that it was lovely, but what else could she have said?

Nonetheless, it was still very late, and so Mireya’s eyes were slowly dropping. She almost automatically got up, resisting the urge to scold her for getting home so late, and covered her with a woven blanket. “What am I going to do with this girl?” she sighed.

She sat back down in her chair, stopped swinging, and rested her eyes. Her jeopardized love and grief clouded her dreams. The next morning, she would talk to Mireya about staying out so late. But the soft chirping of birds awoke her the next morning, and Mireya was nowhere to be found. All the disparaging ladies in her town wondered why she lets her get away with everything, why she doesn’t just forbid her to be so reckless- she is a witch for goodness sake. But what they do not understand is that as much as Edith wanted to keep Mireya safe and well, she also did not want her to hate her mother. That would only drive her further away. 

So, with not much else to do, she began making her love serums. She counted 1,2,3,4,5,6,7 bottles on her countertop. Each bottle filled with soft pink, glowing liquid. She went back out to her garden to pick more herbs for her next batch of potions. She spent the whole day outside, till she came back in at 10 pm. She looked at her countertop and counted the love serums once more. 1,2,3,4,5,6. 

Mireya. Almost as soon as she thought it, Mireya ran inside the door, and into her room, crying. She slammed the door shut, and Edith could merely guess what had occured. She thought about going in her room as well, to comfort her distressed daughter, but she decided that the need of some alone time was likely implied. Worrying about her precious Mireya all the way, she began to walk to their village’s market. She turned the corner to the little stand of fruit, and placed a few glossy plums in a basket. Surely, a little treat would help cheer Mireya up from whatever was causing her all this anguish. As she brought the plums to the front of the stand to pay, she heard the troubling whispers and mumbles of the town ladies. She sighed in an act of exasperation, but her ears betrayed her to listen in.

“Dear, I don’t know what would even move her to do such a horrid thing!” one woman tutted.

“What a disgrace…” another remarked, “and to think- all the rest of our lovely girls! Their utter patience and obedience.. just for that spoiled daughter of magic to wreck havoc!”

Edith felt her body freeze up as she realized who exactly they were muttering around about. 

“Well, I’ll say one thing. The girl will get her comeuppance, that’s for certain.” the stand keeper chuckled, “You don’t go around casting faulty love spells and murdering a Castelle boy. His family’s all in a riot now, from what I hear.. There’s no recognized crime without a consequent punishment here, ladies.”

“And just what kind of comeuppance do the Castelle folk think my daughter deserves?” Edith’s nervous voice seemed to awaken them, and bring out some fruitless apologies. 

“Death, I reckon..” the store keeper mumbled, and one of the ladies jutted her elbow at him.

Edith didn’t want to believe the stand keeper, or any of those ladies. She wanted to convince herself that it was simply a part of the silly gossip that got passed around daily. But a small pit planted itself in her stomach, and she had no will to stay in the market, or away from home for any longer. She rushed back up to her cabin, so quickly her feet stumbled over the stone pathway. Just as her anxious feeling had foreshadowed, there was the Castelle boy’s father, Richard Castelle, right on their doorstep. His firm fist banged against their door in a manic sort of way, with no pause. He didn’t even seem to notice her arrival. Edith shuddered, but she knew she had no right to be afraid. What she was thinking when she made those love serums, she did not know. Cautiously, she approached him, and as soon as he heard her, he turned around. He looked enraged, and a chill ran up her spine. She had never felt more remorse and regret in her life. He insisted that action must be taken against her daughter. She will pay for her crimes, he roared. And deep down, she too knew that it was only just and fair that she have consequences to her actions. But her mind’s gears ticked, and spun. She then realized how it really wasn’t her precious Mireya’s fault at all! It was Edith who made the faulty love serums in the first place. So who was this man to threaten her innocent daughter? She couldn’t bear to lose her compass, her rope that holds her to sanity. And so, finally, Edith knew what she must do, and smiled.

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Well, that’s it for now. Don’t take this story in at the surface level please. Or, well, maybe I don’t have to tell you that. Maybe it’s obvious. It should be- I hope it is. I hope you can tell what I’m trying to do in this story. Or what I’m trying to mimick, at least. Hint, hint: Edith is not the gracious hero of this story, people! Ah, I’ll go more in depth about this tommorrow, I guess.

💛 Dia