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.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Saturday, 8 September 2007
Write about an Object
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
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
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
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?
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)
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)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)