So, I had this idea to share my writing journey with you all, but as I sat down to write today I was feeling a bit doubtful about writing this blog. But then I remembered, why not? It’s all about having fun and enjoying the creative process, right? So, I put on my self-deprecating hat and got back to it!
This week we covered Realisim. When I first started this course, I wasn’t entirely sure what realism meant in a literary sense. I’d heard the word before, of course, but mostly in everyday contexts “be realistic,” “that’s not realistic,” “keep your expectations realistic.” It wasn’t until we began exploring genres that I realised realism in creative writing is its own specific, intentional style. And it was one I hadn’t truly considered writing in before.
Realism, as a genre, is all about portraying life as it is; unembellished, relatable, grounded, and honest. Instead of dramatic plot twists, magical elements, or heightened suspense, realism focuses on the small, everyday moments that reveal something true about human experience. It pays attention to details: the way people speak, the way environments feel, the subtle emotional undercurrents that shape ordinary interactions. Realism doesn’t try to idealise or exaggerate life; instead, it aims to reflect it faithfully, showing how meaning often hides in simplicity.
What I’ve come to appreciate is how much discipline and awareness realism demands from a writer. You can’t rely on shock or spectacle. Instead, you observe. You listen. You zoom in on something that might otherwise go unnoticed and allow it to speak. Writing in realism felt like learning to see my own memories differently, with clarity, gentleness, and a willingness to be honest about what was there.
For this week’s exercise, I wrote a piece drawn directly from my childhood: a small, vivid snapshot that has stayed with me over the years. It’s grounded, ordinary, and emotional in its own quiet way, exactly the kind of moment realism invites us to explore.
Below is the piece I created for this week’s writing exercise titled Jone’s Rock.
I grew up in a small country lane, third oldest of seven siblings,. “The town” was only two miles away, but our mum believed town children would corrupt us, so we behaved as best we could and stuck to playing near home.
Close to where we lived was Jones Rock, a giant stone on an overgrown hill, forgotten by adults but adored by us kids. You could get to the top of Jones Rock by climbing over two ditches before crawling on your hands and knees to reach the top. At the top was a flat space big enough for us children to sit and watch the world below.
I never knew why it was called Jones Rock. Maybe a Jones family once owned it. It was 3 fields from our house, it was our playground. In spring it was a sea of green ferns, so tall they towered over us as we ran and hid beneath them. By May the ferns gave way to bluebells, a sea of blue, untouched by chemicals or man, only the marks of small feet skipping through its heart disturbed its living particles.
Uncle Chris brought us there often. He was like the pied piper of our childhood, except Chris was kind never deviant. After a day working on the roads, he’d barely be in the door before we were knocking, begging to go for a walk. Most adults would say, “Not now,” but not Chris. He’d scoop his dinner into a brown paper bag, stick in a fork, and eat as he walked down the lane. Sometimes he stopped at the shop for a bottle of Fanta and six small tubs of ice cream. At the rock, he’d pour the Fanta over the ice cream, and we’d watch it fizz and bubble into an ice-cream sundae.
Sitting on Jones Rock, you could see the road twist through the countryside. Each year, when the rally cars came, we’d watch from our perch, the cars like toys darting through the bends. We cheered and waved, and Chris would laugh, pretending to know every driver. Jones Rock was our secret garden.
Years passed. We grew up, moved away, and lost touch with that part of our childhood, but it stayed special, the joy of childhood never forgotten. A couple of years ago, after Dad died, we came back Jones Rock to scatter his ashes. We climbed the path as before, slower and quieter now. The ferns were still there, smaller, or maybe we were just taller. The bluebells weren’t yet in bloom, but I could sense them beneath the soft earth, waiting to break through.
At the top of Jones Rock, where we’d sat with our ice creams, we gave Dad’s ashes to the wind. The ashes caught the sun light before disappearing. I like to think they settled among the ferns and bluebells, forever alive. I thought of Uncle Chris, Dad’s brother, long gone too, walking up that same lane with his brown paper bag and easy laugh. It’s funny to feel loss and happiness at the same time, it’s also a privilege.
The End
Feel free to share your 500-word story now, and I would love to hear it.
