In the Victorian (my home state, not the era) school system, Year 12 English is assessed by a combination of coursework (primarily, a writing folio) and an end-of-year exam. The coursework, called School Assessed Coursework (SAC) when I went through, is done under exam conditions throughout the year.
The creative writing SAC came towards the end of the year. At my school, we were allowed to bring in a half page of notes to help get the stories started.
I remember my friend Julian thought I was crazy, but I decided not to bring in any notes—or even to consider a topic. Other kids had planned out their entire piece; a few even wrote it at home and tried to memorise it. I figured I didn't need to do that. I believe I may have said, "I'll think of something."
We had four periods split over three days. I spent the first one brainstorming and sketching out a rough plan, then put together a more complete plan at the beginning of the second period. The story came together in the equivalent of two periods (I had time to spare), with ALL of the inspiration coming from around me—I literally looked around the room to see what I could do to the character in the story, and how his story could develop.
I was later awarded the school's senior writing prize. According to the teachers, I was the best writer in my year level—even better than the girl who won the Australasian Schools Writing Competition (I got a high distinction the one and only time I bothered to enter that competition). This story got me the award.
Writing a story can be difficult at the best of times, but on one fine afternoon in May it was the most difficult thing Trevor had ever done.
It was a beautiful sunny day at the end of a week of almost-constant rain. And he had to spend it cooped up inside writing a short story on a topic of his choice. Not being much of a thinker, this seemed an impossible task—Trevor had never been one to sit down and create other worlds with his imagination.
He even wondered to himself whether he possessed an imagination at all—raised by TV and video games, he never needed to entertain himself; there was always something that could capture his attention, allowing him to stare vacantly at a screen for hours on end.
Trevor looked around the room. Five minutes in and most of his classmates had begun writing vigorously, seemingly without even stopping to think. "It's as if they were robots," Trevor thought to himself. He was dumbfounded that they could so easily think of a topic for their piece, and then so shortly after be writing it as if there were no tomorrow.
One girl, whom he did not really know, had somehow written half a page in the opening five minutes. "She must be possessed," Trevor concluded, for such an effort seemed inhuman.
He looked at the clock: five minutes to two—only a little more than an hour to go, and still he had no topic.
Seeking inspiration, Trevor looked out the window. The sky was clear and blue; not a cloud could be seen. The leaves on the trees glistened in the breeze, as nature swayed gently from side to side. It seemed so peaceful; so tranquil—so beautiful.
To Trevor this was a revelation, for he had never stopped to admire even the most stunning of landscapes. Suddenly he understood why the environment had to be preserved, and that we could not take nature for granted. For all its power and might, it was actually vulnerable.
This he could see in the simple intrusion of buildings and a nearby car park upon nature, which seemed at the mercy of concrete and steel—and all things symbolising civilisation.
Feeling suddenly inspired, Trevor began to jot down ideas for his story. It would be a descriptive piece, remarking on the beauty of simplicity. And it would follow the journey of an object in nature. What object?
Once again stuck, Trevor looked around the room. His senses heightened, everything seemed new and alien—as if he was seeing for the first time. He saw the near-imperceptible imperfections in the paint coating on the walls. The ceiling formed an incredible pattern—like one of those 'magic eye' puzzles he had never been able to work out.
Trevor looked at the clock: ten past two. Exactly one hour to go.
He cursed the blindness placed upon him by the quick-fix entertainment solutions he used so readily. People had told him all his life that there was a beautiful world outside, waiting for him. But he had never believed them.
Now forced to view this world of wonder and discovery, Trevor could not believe he had not noticed it all these years. He had never noticed the hidden wonders in taking a walk, or the amazing detail in every blade of grass or the bark on a tree.
Now he knew exactly what his story would be about. It would be a descriptive piece about the world on the other side of the window, which ran along the wall opposite the door to the room he was in. Trevor would fashion a story out of the leaves glistening in the breeze, and the warm sun shining down on the adjacent building. And he would be in this story, for it was a story about his discovery of a world away from his TV screen.
A feeling of relief passed over him; Trevor finally had a story in mind. But how was he to write it? A quick glance at the clock told him that he had just 45 minutes to write one thousand words.
A feeling of panic rushed over him. Trevor started to sweat. Even with inspiration he thought it an impossible feat to write so much in such a short time.
Looking at the clock, the seconds seemed to tick by at an ever-increasing rate. Strange, he thought to himself; before they had seemed to linger on forever.
His mind in overdrive, Trevor simply could not think. Panic turned to despair. Half the class had finished and the teacher now allowed them to leave. He looked around the room. Six people appeared to be checking their work, three were writing madly, and one was inhumanly calm.
He studied the calm one. They seemed detached, somehow in a world of their own. They were totally focused. The sound of a drill in a nearby classroom startled everyone—but not the calm person sitting by the wall. They did not even acknowledge the sound. Trevor was sure he could throw something at the person and they would not even flinch.
He wondered how it was possible to enter a state of composure such as that which he now witnessed. Only half an hour to go, and Trevor had still not written even a word of his story. He had only a quarter page of brainstorming, which made no sense whatsoever as he read over it. Looking out the window did nothing to ease the anxiety and despair which now totally gripped Trevor's body and mind.
Another two people finished and left. One saw Trevor's work as they walked past, and said "good luck."
"I'm gonna need more than good luck to get out of this one," Trevor thought to himself. This story was more important to him than to everyone else in the class, for he had to finish it. Not finishing would mean failing English, and he could not bear the thought of that. Overwhelmed by panic, he closed his eyes. He thought he was going to faint.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at his paper. A strange feeling of calm passed over him. Only he was in the room, sitting at a single table; and all was quiet. He did not even notice of the sound of the window breaking a little more than two metres from where he sat.
Trevor picked up his pen and began to write.
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