The Writer's Way: A Learning Journal

Who am I?

2008-11-07T10:44:00.000-08:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to tell the reader six things about a character through the actions they take and the things that they say rather than a narative.

She ducks a fraction as she enters the country hostelry. Not that she needs to; as even in the moderate heels she always wears, she would have cleared the doorway. It is an unconscious habit.

She pauses and glances around the warm environment; spots the seat she is going to occupy and walks directly to the bar. She gives the young barman a wide smile – “she always does this kind of flirtatious grin;” he thinks as he looks at her eyes sparkling at him. Despite her being at least twice his age, he finds it infectious; it makes him smile back every time.

“Good day?” he enquires, as he begins to pour a large glass of Merlot. She screws up her face and giggles “the worst! – You?” He shrugs, and asks her for the price of the wine. As always, she says “one for yourself”.

She pays with loose change that she fishes out her coat pocket, and puts the remaining copper in the charity box for Chernobyl children. She picks up her glass and makes her way to the corner seat where she can easily see the bar entrance. She shrugs off her padded jacket and hangs it over the back of the wooden bar chair. She leans against the chair and slides her bottom backwards to fill the seat space, her long black stockinged legs following in its wake. She wiggles as she pulls her shortish black skirt, down over her knees.

Almost settled, she takes a slurp of wine. In doing so, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Ugh! “You’re the spitting image of your father” – she hears in her ear. And she reflects; as always; what girl really wants to be the spitting image of their dad? He is tall like her, has poor skin like her, and is a little pigeon chested; just like her. Or is that her like him!

To compensate, she always wears her hair as big as she can in the fashionable moment, and completely unlike dad who slicks his back with oil. The 80’s was the best era for big hair but there comes a time when the poodle perm is just not acceptable. The smirk reappears and in her reminiscing, she misses her husband who enters the pub.

He too, grins at the barman who pours his usual pint. He pays, nods to two or three people he vaguely knows and heads over to the corner to join his wife. The two Labradors he has in tow slow his progress when they stop to sniff; meet and greet anyone and everyone in the way. There is one Black and one Chocolate. Each when they catch her scent launches to greet her as if they hadn’t seen her for months. She smiles benevolently, slides off her seat to greet all her boys as enthusiastically. “Good day?” her husband asks – “the worst” she replies.

The story of Songthrush

2008-09-08T15:05:00.000-07:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to write an extended metaphor and write a fable with a poignant outcome.

Prelude to the Turdidae Network:

In late spring, the Turdidae Network meets just before dawn at the edge of a wood in the south coast county of Dorset. Each chorus begins when Blackbird; striking with his yellow beak, sends out his mellow song. Then Robin and Nightingale join in and by sun up the network is in full symphony.

There are striking calls from the hungry for food and others to maintain contact with their flock, whilst other sweeter songs attract mates and discordant ones defend territories.

This is the Song Thrush Story:

Whinchat hopped along the ground, stopped, tipped his head as if he were listening intently. He didn’t stop over on the South Coast often. However, on the odd occasion it was quite the place to pick up some useful titbits of information. He had just arrived in from Central Africa. Whinchat pecked at and early insect thoughtfully.

He was listening to the Fieldfare laggards, who were poised and hopping purposely, but fruitlessly pecking at the barren earth for worms. Their social outlook was much admired in the network community.

Every so often, another chuckling flock of Fieldfare alighted at a hawthorn hedge, to partake in berries for their journey north and join in the chatter.

“Haven’t seen Song Thrush for a long time, anyone seen what’s happened to him?”

“Mmm yes!” Many agreed.

“He is such a boring bird; he has this terrible habit of repeating the same song phrases over and over and over and over”

“Mmm yes!” Many agreed.

“His eating habits leave a lot to be desired too. Whilst none of us is that keen on snails; smashing them against a stone with a flick of the head is going a bit far in polite society don’t you think?”

“Mmm yes!” Many agreed

Just then, Song Thrush appeared from under the hedgerow.

“Hello, I say, hello!” he called to the Fieldfare. “I say hello, hello, I say,” he repeated.

The Fieldfare closed ranks just a fraction and ignored the interruption.

“I say fine Fieldfare,” continued Song Thrush, “Fine Fieldfare I say, I have just flown in from a field, I say, a field, not far from here; a ploughed field, I say, where there are, wiggling worms a plenty.”

Delighted with the thought of a food fest, the Fieldfare stood to attention and listened.

“Pray tell us where we might find such a meal?” They begged Song Thrush.

When Song Thrush had given them detailed directions, the Fieldfare thanked him honestly and flew off, leaving none but Whinchat in their wake.

“You heard what they said about you Song Thrush? Why did you help those hungry Fieldfares?” Whinchat chirped.

Song Thrush paused and quietly offered articulately, “Whinchat my chum; friends may come and they may go but enemies accumulate. So, make many, many friends and excuse your enemies. Be grudge not and never, never in public.”

5.1

Something Borrowed; Something Blue

2008-08-11T13:55:00.000-07:00

And now Sara challenges us to look outside a window, and to descibe what you see using metaphors. The weather she says is particularly good for metaphorical musings.

It is just before seven on a normal week day morning. I am up, dressed, and ready to go. I give my husband a quick peck on the cheek, fetch my keys and leave the cottage.

The sky is a brilliant blue, yarn-dyed taffeta. It has a wonderful crispness. The fabric is not entirely flat, it has a gentle ripple effect yet; the colour is constant. A flock of doves dart across the blue, it looks like a string of pearls against the taffeta sky. The air is damp with dew.

I take my first tentative step. It is mid autumn and golden confetti is strewn casually underfoot, so I assume great care as I walk towards the car. I slide into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition and glance at the dew drop sequins glistening on the windscreen. They gently sparkle in the early morning sunshine, as the wipers try, unsuccessfully, to flick them away.

Suddenly the country church bells peal, welcoming a congregation (that isn’t there) to God’s morning. I jump as I always do. It is seven o’clock of course!

I take a momentary look at the imposing architecture, beyond the church wall. Three rooks that had been perching in an old oak tree scream their disgust at the disturbance and flap around before settling back on their branch. I am glad they calm down quickly, they are a blot on my landscape this morning.

For some reason the continuing toll seems so much more celebratory today. Up until now, there has been a marriage between sound and vision and I want that to continue.

I thrust the gears into first and look to my right. A golden band of sunlight dances in the wing mirror, which reflects back a diamond solitaire. I check the rear view; there is nothing so I move off. As I reach the end of the road, I indicate left past the Scott Arms and turn to take the mile long drive from Kingston into Corfe.

It is then that I take my first proper look at the world this morning through the windscreen of my car, and gasp. There is the castle, a tiara sitting on top of a discarded sea-mist veil. Corfe is nowhere to be seen; just the veil and the tiara. So still; so silent; so utterly serene.

4.9

Ziggy (Starburst)

2008-08-11T13:47:00.000-07:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to look up at the night sky for two minutes. Check out a star formation and write a legend for that cluster. This is mine:

Ziggy was the faithful servant of Pasch, an Egyptian Cat goddess and protector of children and all cats of course. Most often, Ziggy could be found curled up beneath the rich tapestry chair of Pasch, her beloved goddess, in the great hall.

Ziggy was a beautiful cat in her own right. She had vibrant tortoise-shell markings that were not dissimilar to the male tabby. She had a big belly. It wobbled when she walked, but her perfect face and peaceful nature made her a must stop and pet for all Egyptian children on their way home from their schooling.

As it was, in Egypt, Ziggy often accompanied Pasch on royal hunting trips. Here, she would retrieve fish and fowl from the marshes and ward off snakes and rodents. One such late summer hunt, the Royals had flushed out some significant game. Ziggy was returning triumphant having picked up a large perch.

Her bright eyes spotted an asp within immediate striking distance of the youngest prince. Dropping the fish in a flash, Ziggy leapt between the asp as it lunged at the child. In that instant and courageous moment she bit off the asp’s head! But not before, its venom was expelled. It coursed through her small frame swiftly.

The hunting party scooped up the small prince and watched in horror as Ziggy gasped her last tormented breaths.

Later that night, the Royals shaved off their eyebrows in recognition of Ziggy’s sacrifice and their deepest grief. Ziggy’s beloved goddess, Pasch, took the shavings in her paw; and blew gently. Each shaving twinkled, as it touched the night’s sky and the infant stars replicated Ziggy’s form. They have sparkled ever since; watching intently over tiny children and other cherished cats.

Exercise 10 - The Sound of Words

2008-03-08T12:21:00.000-08:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to consider the sound of words and how they can effect the atmosphere of your writing. This is my very short entry this week.

Pong of a Cow Pat

Don’t you just love the title of this piece?

Pong is such a descriptive word,
you can almost taste the smell! Pah! Pooh!
Just think how different a pong is to a whiff.
A whiff wafts; it is hardly pungent like a pong is.
A pong impregnates your lungs
so that you really sense that you have smelt it!

A reek is quite bad but it tends to sneak up on you;
whilst a stench and a stink are totally putrid.
The pong of a cow pat however,
places you squarely in the countryside where;
when shit happens it is - merely manure.

A journal entry.

2008-02-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to describe a mundane journal activity. In this we should attempt to convey not only what we see, but what we hear, touch, feel and smell in detail.

Getting up

The alarm is searing through the early morning stillness. It’s screaming to be silenced. I get up with my eyes half closed. Being somewhat short-sighted, I think that squinting aids my ability to see this early in the morning.

Unfortunately my periphery vision is now limited and I trip over something on the floor. I land heavily with a thud and the floor boards creak. Shhh! I am not sure exactly what it is. It is likely to be a pair of shoes, disguised by yesterday’s clothing that was discarded, shortly before I clambered into bed last night.

Slightly off balance I stagger towards the en-suite and trip over something else en route. Shhh! I really must tidy up today.

Iain, my husband snuffles, rolls over and starts snoring softly.

I rebound off the architrave as I enter, so I catch hold of the sink to steady myself. After a few seconds I rub my tongue over the front of my teeth and reach for the toothbrush. I have to squint again to make sure I pick up the right one.

Steadier now, I turn to gently click the door shut. Turning back, I pick up the toothpaste, take off the lid and squeeze the tube from the bottom. The paste pops into the gaps in the tube where Iain has squeezed from the top; it then splodges from the nozzle. Half of it lands on the side of the brush, the rest blobs somewhere in the sink. Shhh! I can’t see it and mentally shrug.

I turn on the cold tap and swish the brush underneath it and start scrubbing my teeth rapidly. I turn the water off whilst I brush as global warming crosses my mind. Then I turn the cold water on again and I clean off my brush. It chinks as I put it back in its place. I cup my right hand under the gurgling stream of water and bring it to my mouth to rinse and spit out the minty residue.

I wipe my hand around the inside the bowl in the vague hope that I might whoosh away the toothpaste blob, then turn off the tap.

As I step towards the shower, I glance over to the towel rail ladder. There are four rungs one for each of the different towels we use daily. Shhh! Iain’s one is there, as always draped over the rail, not folded neatly like I want it done. But my towels, the one for my hair and the one that I wrap around my body are in one of the piles on the floor in the bedroom where I left them yesterday. Shhh! That means they will be slightly damp still.

I slide open the door to the shower which rattles on its rails and lean in to press the on button. As the water starts to pump through, red and blue lights flash to indicate that it is not yet warm enough to climb under. There is time enough to re-enter the bedroom to seek the pile with my towels in it. Each pile has had to be investigated by touch and feel. Shhh! I kick something that is solid. It’s dark and I can’t see without my glasses.

I attack a third pile and finally find what I am looking for. Triumphant, I make my way back for my shower. I am steadier this time; my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I chuck the towels on the floor in front of the shower – not much point in hanging them up neatly now is there? I reach down to grab the bottom of my night dress and drag it from the hem up and over my head. It turns inside out as I do this. So I screw it into a ball shape and lob it into the washing basket.

I glance at the red and blue lights, they are not flashing now – it is safe to slide the door open and get under the steaming cascade.

That’s it! I smile – the first one of the day. In five minutes I’ll be out the shower, spraying antiperspirant and drying my hair. Time for Iain to be getting up – me thinks.

Describe a Dream

2008-02-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to describe a dream. Describe it as it is in real time, not as you remembered it. You should not analyse or disseminate the dream just describe it as it is.

My heart is pounding!

I am sat in this rather large, black, leather chair. It has arms, but it is not an arm chair. It swivels a bit like a computer desk chair yet it is not really like one of those either. I look around; and I can see flashing computerised systems, screens, gadgets and lots of people running around, dressed in, what looks like, space-age costumes.

My heart is pounding!

“Get rid of it” people are screaming, “Before it’s too late!”

My heart continues to pound!

I run my tongue across my bottom lip. It is dry and cracked. I am dehydrated at my extremities, whilst moisture is poring out in rivulets down the middle of my back and the centre of my front. It is making me feel extremely uncomfortable. I want to rub the sweat away; but I know there are too many people watching who will notice my distress.

“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”

I look out the space craft window to my left. I see myself looking back. I shake my head and blink twice. I look again. This time I see past my reflection and observe stars twinkling back at me. I think that it looks just like it does, from earth.

“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”

My heart continues to pound!

I know that I won’t do it. I have already told them that.

I recall the times I have been here before. There are two of them.

I picture Phil Board, the finance manager of Excel Clothing:

“Get rid of it” Phil shouted “Before it’s too late!”

I see the aged, yellow 1980 style personal computer that he is referring to. Phil, I remember, taught me how to use it in a quick and dirty way. I learned to upload my personal pictures and they remain there because for some reason, it is impossible to import those pictures from this monstrous antiquity to modern-day gadgets. That is why I keep it.

I consider the time when Phil exploded. Excel Clothing was in severe financial difficulties – if I had ditched the computer I could have saved the company and the 240 jobs; including his and possibly my own.

I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.

It is thumping now but not pounding!

Then I recall another time:

“Get rid of it” Deborah Wyatt quietly asserted “Before it’s too late!”

There are emails on my 1980’s yellowing computer that she doesn’t want others to see. But all my memories are uploaded on this computer. Additional pictures of all the people I love, my friends from school, Liz and Chris are on there, and my mum and dad who are dead now. My dog Wilbur and all of the BusinessXchange members I have cared for. Sure; there were emails that incriminated me. It was the best job ever – and I lost it because I wouldn’t or couldn’t get rid of it.

And still I can't do it won't do it.

It is still thumping and I feel sick to my stomach!

This is the only piece of myself I had been allowed to take on this outer space exploration that I had been recruited for. It is the only thing that I had from the past. Other than my memories this is all I had left of those I love. No no! I'll not let it go.

“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”

The black hole looms. It is getting larger and larger and larger.

“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”

“Be quiet!” I shout back.

“Reverse thrust”

It is impossible to distiguish the individuals on board. They are rushing about so much as the ship is lured into the hole.

Too late - we are gone!

Write a portrait

2008-01-14T13:42:00.000-08:00

Chose a photograph. Write about the character. Write whatever you can think of - what s/he its thinking or what s/he looks like. Feel free to make up past lives, psychologies, even conversations.

A Portrait in Time

Slowly; so very slowly she opens her eyes. In contrast she darts a glance around her. Had anyone noticed the passion that had suddenly and uncontrollably coursed though her body?

Her dress ripped from her shoulders leaves her barely shivering. She is slightly damp between her breasts and her form is glistening. The cooler air makes her nipples stand erect in anticipation of greater excitement to come.

With some, but not much relief, her darted glance tells her she is, still fully clothed.

Yet she may have well been stark naked. This is how vulnerable she is feeling right now. The tall, brooding yet handsome man, whose grasp is firmly around her waist has taken her there in less than four minutes; and reduced her to this wonderfully sated figure.

Why? She has not known this man until tonight.

Her hand moves fractionally down his back. As he frowns, his eyes glowers into hers deeply distained. Now is not the time to let go. Now is not the time to be faint.

Rewrite a well known story

2007-12-09T12:52:00.000-08:00

In this exercise Sara asks us to rewrite a well-known story, legend or fairy tale in our own words. This is my offering, which is based on Helen Aberson's well known story Dumbo and one or two other offerings.

Sean the Flying Sheep.

Once upon a time in a field far, far from here, Mrs. Sheep a round pug-nosed curly haired variety had just given birth to her very first litter of lambs. The flock was gathered around supporting Mrs Sheep, fussing over the occasion as only sheep know how. It would be another sheep’s turn in the following few minutes; the lambing season was upon them, but right then it was Mrs Sheep’s turn.

Most sheep give birth to one or twins at best; but after Mrs Sheep’s second birth a third little lamb pushed its pug nose into the spring sunshine – this bundle of fluff she named Sean.

Three lambs! Murmured the flock in much merriment but the turn came for another ewe further up the field and the sheep headed off to support the next new mother leaving Mrs Sheep to nestle and nurture her new threesome.

As the lambs started to grow up Mrs Sheep noticed that her youngest, Sean had an extra pair of ears. “Oh dear!” she thought. “This is not good”. Sheep can be a little bit tough on those who look at bit different. Sure enough as the ‘extra ears’ began to notice through his fleece, the other sheep started teasing him mercilessly calling him Big Ears after an Enid Blyton character.

Sean’s siblings were the worst. After one particularly ribald ribbing, Mrs Sheep got so mad and had to be separated from the flock by a puzzled Shepherd. Now alone, Sean wandered off to the far end of the field where the bramble bushes were thick enough to hide him away from the rest of the flock.

This is the same place that Timothy Wolf most frequented. Far from being a danger, Timothy Wolf turned into the best friend that Sean never had. Their unlikely friendship grew and Timothy Wolf inadvertently set about building up Sean’s confidence. They spent a lot of time laughing over nursery rhymes like Baa Baa black sheep and fairy stories with big bad wolves in them but every so often Sean would waggle his second ears and then trip over his big bottom lip.

“What on earth’s the matter” asked Timothy Wolf one particularly pleasant summer’s day. There had been a light shower in the early morning but the warmth of the sun had dried the grass and most of the hedgerow already.

“Fancy being born with extra ears” – moped Sean. “With two sets of ears it means I can hear all the bad things that people say about me twice as much. Pah! It’s just not fair.” Puzzled Timothy Wolf said “Two ears? They are not ears! They are wings. Have you never heard of flying sheep? Every once in a while they are born into the farm for a very special purpose.”

“But I can’t fly with these” wailed Sean. “They are far too small (they look like ears) and he flapped the wings to prove his point.” Together the two spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon trying to get Sean airborne but to no avail. Then early evening Sean and Timothy Wolf strolled around the perimeter of the field, away from the rest of the flock to the small enclosed paddock where Mrs Sheep was being held.

After relating the revelations of Timothy Wolf and trying to cheer Mrs Sheep up with light-hearted stories of the afternoon’s activities; Sean and Timothy Wolf drank long and hard from a nearby animal trough. Little did they know that the draft had be spiked with Moondust and soon they were weaving their way back to the field, two steps forward, one step sideways, one step back; giggling as they went. Eventually both sank to the grass almost too inebriated to count the flying sheep that were dancing across the sinking sunset.

“Ouch – my head!” moaned Sean as a flock of crows cackled early the next morning, rudely waking the two of them up.

“Whoa! Don’t look down Sean, we’re up a tree” exclaimed Timothy Wolf far too loudly.

“Don’t be so stupid” said Sean who wobbled precariously as he looked over the side of a thick branch where he was perched.

The crows thought this was hilarious and cackled even more. They explained to the two of them that the only way that Sean and Timothy Wolf could possibly be up a tree is, if they had flown there. Sheep and Wolves can’t climb trees after all. Sean waggled his wings and looked at the crows. How can I possibly have flown here with these?” asked Sean.

The crows considered the dynamics of Sean’s wing span and the size of his rather rotund body. After much deliberation the chief crow explained.

“Aerodynamically bumble bees ought not to be able to fly. Their body weight mass is beyond the capacity of their wing span. But first of all they bee-lieve they can fly and so they do. The second trick is that the bee's wing muscles don't expand and contract; so much as vibrate, like a rubber band.”

When he saw Sean’s eyes glaze over the chief crow presented Sean a feather that he had plucked from his tail. He explained that holding onto the magic feather, and vibrating his wings, he would be able to fly down from the branch he was sat.

It was at this very moment that the shepherd was approached at the gate by a property developer, wearing a pin striped suit and a bowler hat. The ensuing conversation has been recorded by the Monty Python Flying Circus team, but suffices to say they were considering the commercial possibility of the land and the vague possibility that sheep could actually learn to fly.

The property developer, of course, didn’t believe in the possibility that sheep could fly and was quietly much more interested in building on the farm lands. The crows were incensed. “Sean you have to save the day” they said. Where else are we going to reap enough corn, if a housing development takes the place of these farmlands?”

Sean took the feather in his mouth, flexed his wings faster and faster and felt his body lift from off the branch where he was perched. Timothy Wolf yelled “Go Sean Go!” and Sean manoeuvred himself away from the tree hesitating only slightly whilst he took a deep breath. The shepherd and developer did not have this tree in their sights. So Sean took another deep breath, sucked on his magic and flung himself off in the direction of the two humans. He was coming in a quite a steep angle when the shepherd turned and spotted Sean the Sheep.

“Duck” he shouted and Sean just skimmed the top of the bowler hat, knocking it off the property developers head. “Good Grief” said the property developer, “That was no duck surely”. “Amazing” cackled the crows. “Yippee” yelped Timothy Wolf.

The raucous attracted a lot of interest from the flock in the adjoining field. They had been listening aghast to the Shepherd and the property developer’s conversation. They had no idea that they were going to be eaten shortly! But the thought of having to spend what few months they had left in a compound rather than roaming freely in the fields went beyond their wildest imagination.

Then just when they had no hope left, Sean hovered over their heads. Hurrah for Sean! Sean couldn’t believe his ears – and as he beamed from ear to ear the magic feather whipped out his mouth and floated earthward.

Shocked and horrified Sean was in the middle of nowhere; there was nothing to grab hold of. His eyes widened in panic, he forgot to hover and started to flap. As he began to plummet Timothy Wolf yelled “You don’t need the magic feather, spread those wings and hover.”

Timothy Wolf had always believed in Sean.

So Sean spread his short wings and hovered. As his decent slowed dramatically, he looked up to see his best friend, on the branch, in the tree he had left ten minutes earlier. He smiled warmly and hovered towards Timothy Wolf. When he got close enough, he whispered “Climb aboard Timothy Wolf!” which Timothy Wolf did. He held on tightly as Sean hovered slowly but surely towards Mrs Sheep’s solitary pen. Tonight they had a great story to tell her.

77.4 – 6.1

With thanks to:
Helen Aberson who wrote Dumbo
Monty Python’s Flying Circus http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vkw2DdoskPYhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vkw2DdoskPY
The unimaginative man in the gift shop in Ludlow where I bought Sean the Flying Sheep who couldn’t give me a reason for buying Sean for my Christmas tree.

Write about an Object

2007-09-08T15:47:00.001-07:00

There are two parts to this exercise. First Sara asks us to describe an ordinary object that is small enough to hold. She asks us to concentrate on it for a few minutes, then put it to one side and write about it, like you really love it. Then Sara asks us to have another look at the object, adding to or rewriting what has been previously written.

The first part of mine you will find written in Brown. The words in Black are those I have added the second time around.

Honouring Connor!

Connor was born prematurely. He had been plucked unceremoniously from a horse chestnut tree one gusty pre autumnal night and now he lay nestled among the tired hand-like leaves that had fallen early, with him. The hands weren’t yet crisp or golden; it was far too early in the season. So here he was lying forlornly wet - still partially cocooned in his green prickly womb. It had split open in the blustery hustle during the night and now in the early morning light, a glistening brown streak was the first glimpse of Connor, the conker.

Connor was without doubt a perfectly formed pebble of a conker. The non symmetrical shape, true to more robustly natured conkers, had not failed this smaller specimen. But he was small; his circumference merely the size of a thumb nail. Yet he was oblong and perfectly formed and balanced. Whenever he was set off kilter gravity rocked him back so that the rough underbelly was, indeed, under his belly. The shiny, smooth, crisp coat that resembled walnut veneer was all you could see. This was his armour and his amour.

The moment he was spotted his captor fell in love with his youthful beauty and adoration assumed. Sadly, Connor was not going to become a horse chestnut tree but then not many conkers ever do. He was not going to become a champion in Children’s games, but then not many conkers ever do. He was however a cherished nut; sourced and given in love – therefore an endearing remembrance. What could be better than that, for a premature horse chestnut?

71.5 6.2

Purple Musings

2007-09-08T15:46:00.001-07:00

Purple Musings

Purple it’s such a majestic colour. It’s the colour of Edward de Bono’s riding boots – one of six styles of shoe that describes the way one takes action in a given situation. Purple is the traditional colour of duty and authority – no wonder it reminds one of the monarchy. I think of this colour as being rich and magnificent, deep and meaningful. I am not sure why I should think of this but … African Violets – my mother grew them a lot in my youth – of course the blooms as I remember were not violet but a deep, deep purple.

It is the colour that depicts my youth. Before I got to the age of reason it was the colour of my bedroom. My dad painted the furniture purple and white – the colours of Donny Osmond’s onstage costumes. I had the most wonderful night dress case; a Cindy doll dressed in a magnificent purple ball gown, my Granny made that. She will always be remembered for being nifty with a needle, my mother was too. My somewhat un-attractive and childish night attire was stuffed up the belly of the ball gown every morning; plumping the purple finery and smoothing out the creases in the crinoline. But how can I be sure that my addiction to purple at that age was due to Donny; I had thought I was more in love with David Cassidy.

It is an attractive colour for songsters – don’t you think? Purple Rain is a song by Prince. I never really understood the attraction of this one, I think I was out of my Purple phase or should I say Purple Haze at that point! As I grew up, I was more into Deep Purple than the Prince of Pop. Chances are smoke on the water had a purple heart at its fire. Have you ever noticed that?

In my late teens I was diagnosed with insulin dependant diabetes. I get the most vivid purple bruises when on the odd occasion, the needle is a little blunt and I draw blood. The resulting bruise, whilst painless, is belied by its colour. The most purple is the centre.

The deepest parts of the Scottish lochs, I love, are purple. The deepest loch in the UK is in Morar and this is my favourite place in the whole wide world. I wish my ashes to be scattered there - eventually. By the way, and on this point, when you go to Scotland – you don’t go for the weather, so look up into the clouds – you’ll see the heart of the storm is always at the pulsating purplest point.

75.5 – 6.7

Why do I want to Write?

2007-09-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

Part of the reason why I have not committed to writing in the past is that I was not sure that I have anything special to say, or anything that is new, or even that interesting. So I joined up with some Blog buddies and have been Blogging for about seven months. The idea was that if I just get started I might develop my creative writing style and more importantly my imagination.

Now I want to learn the art of writing creatively some more; so having picked up Sara’s book, here I am sharing my learning with you. I suspect the reasons why I want to write will be much like many others. Let’s see.

I had an inspiring English teacher in the fourth grade, Paul Grosch, who seemed to think I had something a little different to add to the class. I certainly wasn’t ‘excellent’ at English language or literature, scraping by with a C-grade O’level. However, neither was I a box-standard student; and Paul seemed to think I could do something with language and often challenged me in ways that, I had no idea at the time, would be so forming.

I wrote a few poems and short stories that I sent off to magazines in my late teens which were never published; and soon boys became much more interesting. Then there was my career in the retail trade. I continued to read a lot, mostly fiction, in my early 20s. I had, then, a particular fascination for fantasy fiction. One of my most favourite stories is the Thomas Covenant double trilogy by Stephen Donaldson. I am always so amazed at the sheer imagination that writers of such novels have. An early colleague, Alan Taylor, was writing a story much along the lines of Peak’s Gormanghast Trilogy. As he completed each chapter he relayed the progress of his character which I avidly followed. He and I played Dungeon and Dragons for a year with several other enthusiasts; down the pub on a Thursday night.

As the years went on I found my continuing progress up the corporate ladder, lead me to write more, and more commercially. I developed a skill for writing newsletters, minutes and training notes that were actually read. My reading material for quite a long time was almost exclusively on management development. Some of my favourites include Carnegie’s, How to Win Friends and Influence People, The Lightening of Empowerment by Byham and Cox, and Lockyer's Be the Most Effective Manager in your Business.

For a brief time during the mid 1990s I had an urging to write my own fantasy novel. I wrote an outline and jotted notes of fascinating things that I noticed around me; like the tree in the south of France that smoked a pipe in the early hours of morning. I watched wondrously, for what seemed like hours, the wispy puffs from a broken branch of that Rowan. The notes still remain tucked away in the recesses of my imagination.

At the beginning of the new century I did a teaching qualification which resulted in my teaching at the College for a short time; reading and writing then took a significant role in my work. Also my interest was piqued in grammatical and communicative language.

Nowadays, I write summaries of business development topics on a regular basis. I would like to think that some of these will form the basis of a non-fiction publication at some point in future. I would like to develop a creative style that becomes my material and resonances with my reader. At the moment I feel that my style is pretty eclectic; maybe that will become my unique style but then, maybe not. I still read quite a lot; and because of my work, it does tend to evolve around business development. Due to the emergence of 2.0 there is such a wealth of material available to satisfy my thirst for knowledge and stimulation – too much for the time I can devote to it, sadly.

Of course, at some point I would like my work to be published. I like the idea of others enjoying what I have to say and the possibility of having made a mark in history, however small that might be. If I am honest that that is the main reason for writing and if I can earn a little money at the same time then better still. So here goes …

Now it is your turn – what do you think so far? or why do you really want to write?

(67.2 – 8.0)