Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Evasion
No posts for so long. Have I given up writing altogether? Almost. Not sure how that happened. I still try to keep the miso soup bubbling but I struggle even with that. My own writing group fizzled out. The local writing classes I went to came to an end, and I couldn't make the times of the new sessions. I've been moving house, busy at work, doing more and introspecting less, but those are all excuses, not reasons. I think what really happened was I realised I needed to refocus on what I want to write about and I've been evading that task.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
poem?
................choose............................................................
........................which......................................................
................................................worst....perfect..............
......................................good..........fun........sweet........
...smell......................new....................happy................
.......taste......................................stinky.......brilliant...
.................................................disgrace.........................
...hear..............................................................................
...................write.....................................poetry............
...........writing......words.................................................
....................................written........................................
..................................................down..............................
........................which......................................................
................................................worst....perfect..............
......................................good..........fun........sweet........
...smell......................new....................happy................
.......taste......................................stinky.......brilliant...
.................................................disgrace.........................
...hear..............................................................................
...................write.....................................poetry............
...........writing......words.................................................
....................................written........................................
..................................................down..............................
Sunday, December 09, 2007
A Ghost Story
The air was already shimmering with heat by the time we started out on our day’s hike after having lingered, full, after our English breakfast.
Mike, Edmund and myself had planned a leisurely walk along the stretch of coast between the village of Warnham and the next night’s B&B.
At the first turn of the road Mike stopped, resting his rucksack on a stone wall to consult the map. We were hoping to visit the Old Cemetery that Edmund had been reading about, and we needed to make sure we took the right path out of the village, to avoid having to cross a marshy section the locals had told us about.
Edmund leant over Mike’s shoulder and they argued briefly over the best route. At last they agreed and we set off.
We strolled along, boots crunching on the gravel. Our conversation ambled from one thing to another. The scent of warm grass was in the air, and there was an occasional drone of bees. We let our discussion of poetry lapse to listen to the quacking of ducks, and meandered on towards the distant glint of water.
Having expounded my views on a certain modern novelist I wandered on ahead, watching the water’s surface glitter in the sun. After a while I noticed that the others were loitering further up the path. I looked back and saw that Edmund had taken out his notebook and was writing something.
‘Ah! Observe! The writer at work!’ Mike said, with a sweeping gesture of his arm towards Edmund. ‘When we stop for the night you’ll be able to keep us entertained with the first chapter of the Tale of the Shaggy Dog, or whatever that is you’re writing!’
‘This is no hirsute canine fiction!’ snapped Edmund, 'This is a true story of an unearthly phantom! I have it on the highest authority – that chap in the pub told me last night. Of course I’ll have to change the names.’
‘Oh, come on’ said Mike, ‘we haven’t got all day!’ He paused, ‘Well, actually, now I come to think of it, I suppose we have! But if you want to go poking around that cemetery later we’d better get a move on.’
‘Alright, alright, give me a minute. I’m just making some notes for the background, you know, setting the scene. There’s nothing like walking the territory to really catch the atmosphere of a place.’
A lark began to sing and we shaded our eyes to look up into the bright blue. Edmund made another note.
By late afternoon we’d come to the gates of the Old Cemetery. We were greeted with birdsong, long and loud. Edmund pointed out the wren, in a curl of ivy twined around a fallen stone angel’s wing.
‘Nosiy little devil, isn’t she?’ he grinned.
With a flick of a wing the bird was gone. We walked on in companiable silence among the graves. The headstones were all askew, overgrown and bright with buttercups. I pointed out an inscription, ‘Not Here, Gone On’
‘And here we are still loitering around!’ was Mike’s response. ‘Have you found what you’re after here yet, Edmund?’
‘Yes, here it is’ He stopped to copy down some words and a date from one of the graves. ‘If only I could have met him...’
Mike gave an exasperated sigh and strode on.
‘Met who?’ I ask.
‘Jack.’ said Edmund. ‘Jack O’Leary, the Lantern Man they called him. That guy back at Warnham was telling me about him. Sounds like a real old character, just the kind you need for a good story.’
Edmund was unusually quiet in the pub that night, not rising to Mike’s frequent attempts to get him to talk about what he’d been writing. As the night wore on and darkness fell he seemed restless, and finally announced he was going for a stroll. Half an hour later Mike stood up and stretched.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and see if the lad’s wandered off and got himself lost in that graveyard!’ he said and chuckled.
A bearded man turned from the bar. ‘You don’t want to go near there, not tonight, haven’t you heard? It’s the Lantern Man’s night!’
‘I’ll be fine’ said Mike. ‘I’ve got a map, and a torch…’
‘No!’ The man said loudly, and the pub fell silent. ‘Don’t go carrying a light. Not on the Lantern Man’s ground. He’ll come at you if you do. Knock you down and kick your light out. Often enough it’s not just the light he’ll give a kicking either. If you must go, then go without a light, he may let you pass then - if you’re lucky!’
Just then Edmund appeared at the door, Mike’s torch in his hand. He was dusty, bruised and disheveled, but with an odd gleam in his eye.
Mike, Edmund and myself had planned a leisurely walk along the stretch of coast between the village of Warnham and the next night’s B&B.
At the first turn of the road Mike stopped, resting his rucksack on a stone wall to consult the map. We were hoping to visit the Old Cemetery that Edmund had been reading about, and we needed to make sure we took the right path out of the village, to avoid having to cross a marshy section the locals had told us about.
Edmund leant over Mike’s shoulder and they argued briefly over the best route. At last they agreed and we set off.
We strolled along, boots crunching on the gravel. Our conversation ambled from one thing to another. The scent of warm grass was in the air, and there was an occasional drone of bees. We let our discussion of poetry lapse to listen to the quacking of ducks, and meandered on towards the distant glint of water.
Having expounded my views on a certain modern novelist I wandered on ahead, watching the water’s surface glitter in the sun. After a while I noticed that the others were loitering further up the path. I looked back and saw that Edmund had taken out his notebook and was writing something.
‘Ah! Observe! The writer at work!’ Mike said, with a sweeping gesture of his arm towards Edmund. ‘When we stop for the night you’ll be able to keep us entertained with the first chapter of the Tale of the Shaggy Dog, or whatever that is you’re writing!’
‘This is no hirsute canine fiction!’ snapped Edmund, 'This is a true story of an unearthly phantom! I have it on the highest authority – that chap in the pub told me last night. Of course I’ll have to change the names.’
‘Oh, come on’ said Mike, ‘we haven’t got all day!’ He paused, ‘Well, actually, now I come to think of it, I suppose we have! But if you want to go poking around that cemetery later we’d better get a move on.’
‘Alright, alright, give me a minute. I’m just making some notes for the background, you know, setting the scene. There’s nothing like walking the territory to really catch the atmosphere of a place.’
A lark began to sing and we shaded our eyes to look up into the bright blue. Edmund made another note.
By late afternoon we’d come to the gates of the Old Cemetery. We were greeted with birdsong, long and loud. Edmund pointed out the wren, in a curl of ivy twined around a fallen stone angel’s wing.
‘Nosiy little devil, isn’t she?’ he grinned.
With a flick of a wing the bird was gone. We walked on in companiable silence among the graves. The headstones were all askew, overgrown and bright with buttercups. I pointed out an inscription, ‘Not Here, Gone On’
‘And here we are still loitering around!’ was Mike’s response. ‘Have you found what you’re after here yet, Edmund?’
‘Yes, here it is’ He stopped to copy down some words and a date from one of the graves. ‘If only I could have met him...’
Mike gave an exasperated sigh and strode on.
‘Met who?’ I ask.
‘Jack.’ said Edmund. ‘Jack O’Leary, the Lantern Man they called him. That guy back at Warnham was telling me about him. Sounds like a real old character, just the kind you need for a good story.’
Edmund was unusually quiet in the pub that night, not rising to Mike’s frequent attempts to get him to talk about what he’d been writing. As the night wore on and darkness fell he seemed restless, and finally announced he was going for a stroll. Half an hour later Mike stood up and stretched.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and see if the lad’s wandered off and got himself lost in that graveyard!’ he said and chuckled.
A bearded man turned from the bar. ‘You don’t want to go near there, not tonight, haven’t you heard? It’s the Lantern Man’s night!’
‘I’ll be fine’ said Mike. ‘I’ve got a map, and a torch…’
‘No!’ The man said loudly, and the pub fell silent. ‘Don’t go carrying a light. Not on the Lantern Man’s ground. He’ll come at you if you do. Knock you down and kick your light out. Often enough it’s not just the light he’ll give a kicking either. If you must go, then go without a light, he may let you pass then - if you’re lucky!’
Just then Edmund appeared at the door, Mike’s torch in his hand. He was dusty, bruised and disheveled, but with an odd gleam in his eye.
Guilt
I've become aware of a sneaking sense of guilt in the back of my mind over this blog. The writing group that it's named after went off the boil a while back. Busyness, lack of inspiration, all the usual excuses. I don't suppose anyone cares. I am aware though, that the blog gets the occasional visitor, probably quite at random, but even so. I feel guilty to offer the occasional random visitor nothing new.
But I don't have anything new, so I thought I'd post something old. Something I wrote as an exercise in one of my other writing groups. I don't recall blogging it anywhere before, so it may as well see the light of day, even though it is a dark little story. I hope it may serve as a warning to writers who may be tempted to take their search for inspiration to dangerous extremes.
I'll make it the next posting.
But I don't have anything new, so I thought I'd post something old. Something I wrote as an exercise in one of my other writing groups. I don't recall blogging it anywhere before, so it may as well see the light of day, even though it is a dark little story. I hope it may serve as a warning to writers who may be tempted to take their search for inspiration to dangerous extremes.
I'll make it the next posting.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
People who may be offended by Equus
Well, as I said before, I went to see Equus. I throughly enjoyed it, and I’d highly recommend it to everyone. Hmn, well, maybe not quite everyone. So, as a public service, here is my list of…
People who may be offended by Equus
People who may be offended by Equus
- Animal lovers. "In London, Equus caused a sensation because it displayed cruelty to horses; in New York, because it allegedly displayed cruelty to psychiatrists." Peter Shaffer (Playwright)
- Anti-psychiatrists. The R.D.Laing over-simplifiers who are offended by the way the boy is 'cured' of his unique personal experience of life.
- Anti anti-psychiatrists. Those who dislike the previous lot and are offended at their view being represented at all, even if the boy is 'cured'.
- Anti-smoking campaigners. No chance to be offended by anything else, as they walk out in disgust after the first minute.
- Atheists. Offended that the Atheist father is being blamed.
- Christians. Offended that the Christian mother is being blamed.
- Harry Potter fans. Offended at ‘Harry’s’ behaviour.
- Harry Potter fan haters. Offended by the presence of all those teenage girls who never usually go to the theatre at all.
- Harry Potter haters. Offended at ‘Harry’ appearing in a serious play.
- Heterosexuals. Offended by the presence of all those gays who never usually go to the theatre at all.
- Homosexuals. Offended that the boy's attraction to those nice men in tight trousers playing the horses is seen as deviance in need of cure.
- Horse fetishists. Who feel really got at by the whole thing.
- Normal people. Offended by the psychiatrist's rants against the mediocrity of normality.
- Pagans. Offended by the psychiatrist's rants against himself.
- Psychiatrists. See: Animal lovers and Pagans.
- Prudes. So offended by the constant harping on about sex, the men in tight trousers, the swearing, the smoking, and the violence that they drop their opera-glasses at the vital moment and miss their chance to be offended by the nudity.
- Puritans. See: Scottish lady dentist puritans
- Scottish lady dentist puritans. A minority group viciously attacked without so much as a two-line character with which to defend themselves.
- Socialists. Offended by being called 'old type'. In a 1970's play, no less.
- The easily offended. Probably offended by this list.
Something remarkable about Equus
I went to see Equus. I thought I’d mention it here as this is a writing blog, even if not much writing is going on here at the moment.
Something struck me about the writing of the play: there’s a thing it does so well that you hardly notice it. It handles the different time sequences that are going on within it effortlessly and elegantly. The psychiatrist’s present time musings are layered in with his memories of conversations with the boy and his parents and other characters. The boy also introduces some of his own earlier memories within these conversations. All this happens in a perfectly natural flow of words, with never the slightest doubt about what point in time someone is speaking from, even when they overlap within the same scene. At times characters in different time layers seem almost to be responding to each other, but it never gets confusing. It’s quite remarkable, so I thought I’d remark on it.
Something struck me about the writing of the play: there’s a thing it does so well that you hardly notice it. It handles the different time sequences that are going on within it effortlessly and elegantly. The psychiatrist’s present time musings are layered in with his memories of conversations with the boy and his parents and other characters. The boy also introduces some of his own earlier memories within these conversations. All this happens in a perfectly natural flow of words, with never the slightest doubt about what point in time someone is speaking from, even when they overlap within the same scene. At times characters in different time layers seem almost to be responding to each other, but it never gets confusing. It’s quite remarkable, so I thought I’d remark on it.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
6 words
Cabbage Soup is still off the boil, I'm afraid. It has stirred slightly though, just enough to set a challenge, to the workplace in general, to write a six word story, like these in Wired magazine.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Not so new writing: The Alchemy of Haiku by Alison Williams
The Alchemy of Haiku
[Originally published in Blithe Spirit Vol.13 No.4 Dec 2003.]
Alchemy is much misunderstood and, it must be admitted, much of the reason for this lies with alchemists themselves. There is a long tradition amongst them of obscurity and indirectness, of anything but plain speaking. Some might say of deliberate obfuscation. They claim that their work is derived from basic truths and that it is a practical art rather than a theoretical philosophy, and yet they seem unable to state plainly what the truths are, or what the practice consists of in such a way that others can emulate their skill.
This is the first point of similarity between alchemists and writers of haiku. I would like to suggest that there are two further aspects of these subjects that bear comparison. A particular kind of symbolism and, perhaps, the goal of the practitioner.
Alchemical symbolism is dependent on a world view which was taken for granted in medieval times, but which has been widely discredited by the modern materialist and scientific orthodoxy. There are three interrelated aspects of this world view. One is that the world of matter is transient, and that there is an eternal reality beyond the natural world. The second is that symbolism is not of a merely metaphorical nature but is concerned with discerning real correspondences or equivalence, in the light of which seemingly very different things can be recognised as sharing essential qualities. The third is that these essential qualities are graduated from the lowest to the highest and are capable of transmutation.
The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistos [1], the nearest thing to a straight¬forward statement of alchemical principles that exists, begins, ‘In truth, certainly and without doubt, whatever is below is like that which is above, and whatever is above is like that which is below.’
dawn -
the rising mist
turns to gold
To the medieval world view it is obvious that the sun and gold share qualities and that these qualities also have their counterpart in the human body and soul. Today these correspondences, if they are noted at all, are seen as either archaic poetic fancy or as coincidental. Thus a BBC science web site [2] recently noted: ‘Mars, the Roman god of war, has always had a special fascination for us. Indeed, there is even a slight connection as both blood and Mars owe their red colour to iron and oxygen.’
R. H. Blyth [3] denied that haiku was symbolic: ‘… it is necessary to state with some vehemence that haiku is not symbolic, that is, not a portrayal of natural phenomena with some meaning behind them... There is no separation between the thing and its meaning... One thing is not used to imply another thing. ‘I would suggest that what he is denying here is that haiku is symbolic in the limited, metaphorical sense. If there is a symbolism in haiku, and surely there is, it is of the kind that seeks to discern the shared essential qualities in natural phenomena and in the human being’s inward experience.
a chained bike
up to its hubs
in yellow leaves
Perhaps the most common misapprehension about alchemists is that they are concerned with the transmutation of lead into gold as a means to wealth. It is true that, throughout the history of alchemy, there have been those ‘charcoal burners’ who wanted only to discover a formula to get rich quick. This was not the concern of the alchemist who was inclined to devote a lifetime to his work and to have more in common with a hermit or monk than with seekers after worldly riches.
The true goal of the alchemist depends upon an understanding of the concept of correspondence discussed above. In this context the physical transformation of lead into gold can only be achieved in parallel with a corresponding transformation of the alchemist himself
Is our goal to discover the formula for writing the golden haiku? Or is there some other goal which, if diligently sought, will transmute our leaden efforts into something of a higher grade?
[1] Titus Burckhardt. Alchemy: Science of the Cosmos, Science of the Soul. Fons Vitae, 1997. Translated from the German by William Stoddart. (First published by Walter-Verlag Olten und Freiburg im Breisgau, 1960) p196
[2] http://news.bbc.co.uk/l/hi/sci/tech/3093693
[3] RH Blyth. A History of Haiku. Volume 1. The Hokuseido Press, 1963. ppl3-14
[Originally published in Blithe Spirit Vol.13 No.4 Dec 2003.]
Alchemy is much misunderstood and, it must be admitted, much of the reason for this lies with alchemists themselves. There is a long tradition amongst them of obscurity and indirectness, of anything but plain speaking. Some might say of deliberate obfuscation. They claim that their work is derived from basic truths and that it is a practical art rather than a theoretical philosophy, and yet they seem unable to state plainly what the truths are, or what the practice consists of in such a way that others can emulate their skill.
This is the first point of similarity between alchemists and writers of haiku. I would like to suggest that there are two further aspects of these subjects that bear comparison. A particular kind of symbolism and, perhaps, the goal of the practitioner.
Alchemical symbolism is dependent on a world view which was taken for granted in medieval times, but which has been widely discredited by the modern materialist and scientific orthodoxy. There are three interrelated aspects of this world view. One is that the world of matter is transient, and that there is an eternal reality beyond the natural world. The second is that symbolism is not of a merely metaphorical nature but is concerned with discerning real correspondences or equivalence, in the light of which seemingly very different things can be recognised as sharing essential qualities. The third is that these essential qualities are graduated from the lowest to the highest and are capable of transmutation.
The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistos [1], the nearest thing to a straight¬forward statement of alchemical principles that exists, begins, ‘In truth, certainly and without doubt, whatever is below is like that which is above, and whatever is above is like that which is below.’
dawn -
the rising mist
turns to gold
To the medieval world view it is obvious that the sun and gold share qualities and that these qualities also have their counterpart in the human body and soul. Today these correspondences, if they are noted at all, are seen as either archaic poetic fancy or as coincidental. Thus a BBC science web site [2] recently noted: ‘Mars, the Roman god of war, has always had a special fascination for us. Indeed, there is even a slight connection as both blood and Mars owe their red colour to iron and oxygen.’
R. H. Blyth [3] denied that haiku was symbolic: ‘… it is necessary to state with some vehemence that haiku is not symbolic, that is, not a portrayal of natural phenomena with some meaning behind them... There is no separation between the thing and its meaning... One thing is not used to imply another thing. ‘I would suggest that what he is denying here is that haiku is symbolic in the limited, metaphorical sense. If there is a symbolism in haiku, and surely there is, it is of the kind that seeks to discern the shared essential qualities in natural phenomena and in the human being’s inward experience.
a chained bike
up to its hubs
in yellow leaves
Perhaps the most common misapprehension about alchemists is that they are concerned with the transmutation of lead into gold as a means to wealth. It is true that, throughout the history of alchemy, there have been those ‘charcoal burners’ who wanted only to discover a formula to get rich quick. This was not the concern of the alchemist who was inclined to devote a lifetime to his work and to have more in common with a hermit or monk than with seekers after worldly riches.
The true goal of the alchemist depends upon an understanding of the concept of correspondence discussed above. In this context the physical transformation of lead into gold can only be achieved in parallel with a corresponding transformation of the alchemist himself
Is our goal to discover the formula for writing the golden haiku? Or is there some other goal which, if diligently sought, will transmute our leaden efforts into something of a higher grade?
[1] Titus Burckhardt. Alchemy: Science of the Cosmos, Science of the Soul. Fons Vitae, 1997. Translated from the German by William Stoddart. (First published by Walter-Verlag Olten und Freiburg im Breisgau, 1960) p196
[2] http://news.bbc.co.uk/l/hi/sci/tech/3093693
[3] RH Blyth. A History of Haiku. Volume 1. The Hokuseido Press, 1963. ppl3-14
Haiku article online
The Australian poetry journal Yellow Moon have now put online the article called Haiku Lessons that I originally had published in Summer 2005. It's partly a 'how to' guide for new haiku writers, but it's also a guide to the lessons haiku can provide for writers generally.
Seeing it again reminds me that it goes rather well with an article I had published in the UK journal Blithe Spirit back in 2003. I think I'll put the text of that up here as the next entry so I have one place to go to find them both.
Seeing it again reminds me that it goes rather well with an article I had published in the UK journal Blithe Spirit back in 2003. I think I'll put the text of that up here as the next entry so I have one place to go to find them both.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Loose leaves
Sharon Bakar (Bibliobibuli) says that
[BTW I'm on holiday, and Cabbage Soup is also on its summer break. Normal soup will resumed as soon as possible.]
"“The Old Farmer’s Almanac,” whose pages were often ripped out by people in outhouses and put to practical use, has always come with a hole in its upper left-hand corner for easy hanging."That explains why loose-leaf updating comes with those little holes in it...
[BTW I'm on holiday, and Cabbage Soup is also on its summer break. Normal soup will resumed as soon as possible.]
Monday, July 03, 2006
work/life life/work
I wasn't sure where to put this blog entry. It's about writing so maybe it should go on my writing group blog, but it's about work, so perhaps it should go on my work blog. Sometimes life is not so neatly compartmentalised!
I've found that creative writing and ordinary, everyday writing are more closely related than you might think. Since I've been doing writing exercises (fiction and non-fiction) I've found it easier to write anything. I'm not so daunted by word counts. I have an idea how much I can convey in 500 or 1000 words and what kind of structures work. I've some experience of how to write differently when the words are to be spoken aloud, which helped in writing the same paper for delivery at a conference and for subsequent submission for publication.
Having to read out my writing group exercises - something I hated doing at first - has helped to get me used to the idea of public speaking to a wider audience.
I'm pretty sure that blogging contributes to this as well. It's a form of regular writing exercise that helps me focus on how to express thoughts and record events in a reasonably concise format.
I've found that creative writing and ordinary, everyday writing are more closely related than you might think. Since I've been doing writing exercises (fiction and non-fiction) I've found it easier to write anything. I'm not so daunted by word counts. I have an idea how much I can convey in 500 or 1000 words and what kind of structures work. I've some experience of how to write differently when the words are to be spoken aloud, which helped in writing the same paper for delivery at a conference and for subsequent submission for publication.
Having to read out my writing group exercises - something I hated doing at first - has helped to get me used to the idea of public speaking to a wider audience.
I'm pretty sure that blogging contributes to this as well. It's a form of regular writing exercise that helps me focus on how to express thoughts and record events in a reasonably concise format.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Homework
I wonder if this would do as my next writing group exercise? I'm a bit worried about this one...
Worry
You worry too much,
he said, I know how
to prove it.
I'll suggest something
that's nothing to worry about,
and see how you react.
Imagine -
he smiled at me - imagine
you're a statue.
I stared at him,
not quite able
to believe it.
That isn't worrying,
I replied, it's simply
terrifying.
Imagine this, I said,
you're fully conscious
but can't move.
Can't see or hear,
or feel a pulse, or heartbeat,
can't ever touch.
All you can do,
all you can ever do,
is think.
He thinks
I'm a worrier, but I know
he's turning to stone.
Worry
You worry too much,
he said, I know how
to prove it.
I'll suggest something
that's nothing to worry about,
and see how you react.
Imagine -
he smiled at me - imagine
you're a statue.
I stared at him,
not quite able
to believe it.
That isn't worrying,
I replied, it's simply
terrifying.
Imagine this, I said,
you're fully conscious
but can't move.
Can't see or hear,
or feel a pulse, or heartbeat,
can't ever touch.
All you can do,
all you can ever do,
is think.
He thinks
I'm a worrier, but I know
he's turning to stone.
Monday, June 12, 2006
The motivation to write
With an imminent (as in tomorrow morning) deadline for a three act play (who'd join a writing group?) hanging over me I've been reading a biography of Spike Milligan. At one stage he was writing a new episode of The Goon Show every week for broadcast on the BBC. Now there's pressure, and what it can do for productivity! Mind you, it didn't do much for his mental health, so perhaps I don't want quite that much motivation!
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Happy Birthday to us!
Cabbage Soup is a year old sometime around now. It came into being in May 2005 and this blog started in July 2005. It's taken us almost exactly a year to work through all the exercises in Teach Yourself Creative Writing. We've just got the last one to do.
[Muffled scrabbling noises in background.]
I just tried to lay hands on my copy of the book to check what it is, but I seem to have misplaced it at the moment. Anyway it's something about coming up with alternative titles for books, I think. Nothing too strenuous as a final exercise. Just as well after the last one - the play writing. That was a tough one, but it was fun taking parts and reading them out loud.
What will we do now?
[Muffled scrabbling noises in background.]
I just tried to lay hands on my copy of the book to check what it is, but I seem to have misplaced it at the moment. Anyway it's something about coming up with alternative titles for books, I think. Nothing too strenuous as a final exercise. Just as well after the last one - the play writing. That was a tough one, but it was fun taking parts and reading them out loud.
What will we do now?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Blogs and writing
I'm going to so many writing group meetings I don't have time to write! No, that's not really true, it's just an excuse. Going to writing group meetings gets me writing things I never would have done off my own bat, and dredges up all sorts of ideas that would never see the light of day otherwise. Maybe just as well in some cases, but there's the odd good one amongst them. Occasionally.
I think what has caused the slow down in blog entries is the sheer number of blogs I've been trying to keep up with writing or contributing to lately. (Not all visible through my Blogger profile.) It reminds me of my phase of subscribing to poetry journals. At first I signed up for all sorts, partly to get an idea what was about and what I liked, partly as a general learning experience. Then I slowly cut it back to managable proportions.
I'm thinking about which blogs I want to keep going and which I might retire, or retire from. I haven't made any decisions yet.
I think what has caused the slow down in blog entries is the sheer number of blogs I've been trying to keep up with writing or contributing to lately. (Not all visible through my Blogger profile.) It reminds me of my phase of subscribing to poetry journals. At first I signed up for all sorts, partly to get an idea what was about and what I liked, partly as a general learning experience. Then I slowly cut it back to managable proportions.
I'm thinking about which blogs I want to keep going and which I might retire, or retire from. I haven't made any decisions yet.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Fun
Cabbage Soup had fun today. Having just done an exercise which involved writing a childrens story we went to the childrens section of a local bookshop and looked at the books to see how our efforts matched up. (There were no children there, just us!) My favourite was Lost and Found by Oliver Jeffers. A wonderful book, even though I thought it really should have ended a couple of pages before the not-quite-believably-happy ending.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
New writing - Shoozle by Alison Williams
Shoozle was not a dragon. He looked a bit like a dragon, but his dark red wings were feathery, rather than leathery, and his paws were big and soft and he didn’t have claws. He got a more dragonish look about him if you annoyed him though. Then he'd turn his bright eyes on you, narrow them to slits, and stare and stare until you went away, or at least changed the subject. It was rather rude, but dragons aren't expected to have good manners.
One day Shoozle was snoozing in his cave. He almost always snoozed with one eye half open, just in case anyone tried to creep up on him and steal his hoard of gold. He didn’t actually have a hoard of gold, but it seemed like the sort of thing that a dragon should do. So when the man in the grey suit with the small suitcase started up the path leading to his cave he noticed at once, and growled quietly to himself.
When the man got to the top of the path he stopped to catch his breath and cool off before he approached the cave. He knew that dragons are quick to spot signs of weakness, and he thought they might even eat you if you irritated them, especially if you looked particularly hot and tasty.
“Good morning Sir Dragon!” he said to Shoozle politely, bowing.
Shoozle opened his eyes and slowly raised his head.
“Tell me, Sir Dragon, are you ever embarrassed by your fire breathing? Ashamed of your scales? Mortified by…”
He dodged quickly to one side. A patch of grass shrivelled and smoked.
“Ah, well yes, I see that fire breathing is not a problem for you, but…” the man looked more closely at Shoozle, “perhaps the scales?”
Shoozle’s body was covered from chin to neatly pointed tail with velvety red triangles. The man set his suitcase down on the grass, opened it, took out a small green bottle and held it up.
“Just a few drops of this potion every day, and in no time at all you’ll have the shiniest, toughest scales of all the dragons in the world!”
Shoozle eyed the little bottle, then he yawned. When he’d finished yawning he spoke.
“Go away.” he said and gave the man one of his narrow-eyed looks.
The man looked surprised and a bit worried.
“But, with those velvety soft scales of yours, whatever will you do when George comes along?” he asked. “He’s got a sharp sword you know, and he doesn’t like dragons much at all. I really think you should… consider…”
Shoozle kept staring, and staring, and it’s not easy to keep on talking to a dragon, or even something very much like a dragon, when it’s staring at you like that.
“Well… perhaps… if you should… change your mind… just… let me know…”
With that the man put the little bottle away in his suitcase, and hurried off down the path.
Shoozle settled down for another snooze, careful to keep one eye half open. Which was just as well, as it meant that he spotted George’s sword glinting in the mid-day sun while he was still quite a long way away. It did look like a very long, very sharp sword, and George was heading straight for the path that led up to the cave.
When he saw this Shoozle opened both eyes, got up, and padded on his big, soft paws to the very back of the cave where he gazed down at the king’s daughter who was curled up there, fast asleep. Then he padded back out of the cave and started down the path that George was coming up.
George, seeing Shoozle, gave a loud cry of “Dragon!”, and started to run up the path towards him waving his sword. Shoozle opened his mouth and shot a blast of fire that made George duck, but he recovered quickly and began swinging his sword wildly again. At this Shoozle reared up, spreading his feathery wings, and flew into the air, circling just beyond reach. Then, suddenly, he swooped down, grabbed the sword out of George’s hand, and carried it off between his great paws, disappearing into the distance as George stared after him, empty handed and with his mouth open.
Shoozle took the sword far, far away, dropped it down a deep, deep pit and then, as the sun was setting, he returned to the cave and padded right to the back to find that the king’s daughter had woken up.
Shoozle was tired out after fighting George and flying such a long way, so he curled up next to the king’s daughter and she stroked his feathery wings, his velvety scales and his big soft paws until he fell fast asleep.
One day Shoozle was snoozing in his cave. He almost always snoozed with one eye half open, just in case anyone tried to creep up on him and steal his hoard of gold. He didn’t actually have a hoard of gold, but it seemed like the sort of thing that a dragon should do. So when the man in the grey suit with the small suitcase started up the path leading to his cave he noticed at once, and growled quietly to himself.
When the man got to the top of the path he stopped to catch his breath and cool off before he approached the cave. He knew that dragons are quick to spot signs of weakness, and he thought they might even eat you if you irritated them, especially if you looked particularly hot and tasty.
“Good morning Sir Dragon!” he said to Shoozle politely, bowing.
Shoozle opened his eyes and slowly raised his head.
“Tell me, Sir Dragon, are you ever embarrassed by your fire breathing? Ashamed of your scales? Mortified by…”
He dodged quickly to one side. A patch of grass shrivelled and smoked.
“Ah, well yes, I see that fire breathing is not a problem for you, but…” the man looked more closely at Shoozle, “perhaps the scales?”
Shoozle’s body was covered from chin to neatly pointed tail with velvety red triangles. The man set his suitcase down on the grass, opened it, took out a small green bottle and held it up.
“Just a few drops of this potion every day, and in no time at all you’ll have the shiniest, toughest scales of all the dragons in the world!”
Shoozle eyed the little bottle, then he yawned. When he’d finished yawning he spoke.
“Go away.” he said and gave the man one of his narrow-eyed looks.
The man looked surprised and a bit worried.
“But, with those velvety soft scales of yours, whatever will you do when George comes along?” he asked. “He’s got a sharp sword you know, and he doesn’t like dragons much at all. I really think you should… consider…”
Shoozle kept staring, and staring, and it’s not easy to keep on talking to a dragon, or even something very much like a dragon, when it’s staring at you like that.
“Well… perhaps… if you should… change your mind… just… let me know…”
With that the man put the little bottle away in his suitcase, and hurried off down the path.
Shoozle settled down for another snooze, careful to keep one eye half open. Which was just as well, as it meant that he spotted George’s sword glinting in the mid-day sun while he was still quite a long way away. It did look like a very long, very sharp sword, and George was heading straight for the path that led up to the cave.
When he saw this Shoozle opened both eyes, got up, and padded on his big, soft paws to the very back of the cave where he gazed down at the king’s daughter who was curled up there, fast asleep. Then he padded back out of the cave and started down the path that George was coming up.
George, seeing Shoozle, gave a loud cry of “Dragon!”, and started to run up the path towards him waving his sword. Shoozle opened his mouth and shot a blast of fire that made George duck, but he recovered quickly and began swinging his sword wildly again. At this Shoozle reared up, spreading his feathery wings, and flew into the air, circling just beyond reach. Then, suddenly, he swooped down, grabbed the sword out of George’s hand, and carried it off between his great paws, disappearing into the distance as George stared after him, empty handed and with his mouth open.
Shoozle took the sword far, far away, dropped it down a deep, deep pit and then, as the sun was setting, he returned to the cave and padded right to the back to find that the king’s daughter had woken up.
Shoozle was tired out after fighting George and flying such a long way, so he curled up next to the king’s daughter and she stroked his feathery wings, his velvety scales and his big soft paws until he fell fast asleep.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Fun, but a little scary
Next tuesday I start my WEA Creative Writing course. Will I be able to keep up with Cabbage Soup exercises and the demands of this new group? We shall see! It will also be fun, if a little scary, to meet new writers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
