'Twas the night before Christmas, and a baby was crying. Father was dead, and mother was dying. A child clawed at the bricks and the mortar, Afraid of the noise, the blood and the slaughter. The dust as it settled, coated everything white, A foul choking shroud for this hallowed night. The baby fell silent, the child kept on digging, Another explosion left its poor ears ringing. That, and the hunger it had felt for weeks, Made tears carve rivers over innocent cheeks. Outside, the crackling of buildings afire, Mocked the sound of a warm Yuletide fire. With torn nails and fingers bleeding, For the child in Aleppo, no happy ending.
Tonight I have had a few too many of my wife's home made lemonade . . . and gin. I therefore beg the forgiveness of anyone whom my posts may have offended, even if the sages claim "Out of the mouths of babes and drunks come wisdom." Tonight is not a night for creativity. Well, it is I suppose, it's just that the time spent editing anything I write tonight could be better spent.
I have finally decided which of my short stories I'm going to develop into a novel. The working title is 'A Different Perspective'. The MC is the ghost of a young boy inhabiting an old house and garden. The entire story is told in 1st person from the ghost's perspective. The story unfolds over the course of a year after a new family, with two young children, move into the old house. It's not super scary, and will be aimed at early teens. (No, the ghost is not called Casper!) I made a start on chapter one over the weekend and the draft runs to just over 4k words. Of course that number could go up or down as things develop. I've got key scenes, conversations and revelations jotted down for the remaining chapters, so I reckon it's doable. I might just start off a progress journal by posting the short story version.
I have joined a local writers group. They've just reconvened after the summer recess, so I've only been twice, The first time was introductions and cake, the second involved exercises in brainstorming, flash writing and empathy. Now, when you consider that I was once told by a psychologist* that I had all the counselling skills of a Spanish Inquisitor, you might conclude I'm a bit lacking in the empathy department. Perhaps I've mellowed in the intervening years, because it all went quite well and I never consigned anyone to the rack. I can recommend joining such a group, if you can find one in your area. Writing can be a lonely pursuit and an occasional face-to-face with other writers can stop you becoming withdrawn and insular. See? Empathy! * At a business training course.
@gibble410 stated in his blog that most kids today will only read three classic books. He may well be right, but I believe these things come in cycles and classic adventure novels will stage a comeback. For example, I know of a sixth form group of boys and girls who meet regularly to watch classic black and white movies. As a writer I also believe it is our bounden duty not to let children's classics to be forgotten. I have all the books below, and many, many more, inherited from my parents. Read and re-read by them; by me, my brother and my sister; by my children, and now being rediscovered by my grandchildren. Treasure Island Kidnapped Robinson Crusoe Swiss Family Robinson Alice in Wonderland Anne of Green Gables The Three Musketeers Beau Geste Black Beauty White Fang Captains Courageous My copy of Black Beauty contains a bookmark which is my grandmother's WWII ration card. When I explained this to my granddaughter (10) she said, "So this must have been my ... great-great-granny's. Wow!" As an aside, my eldest granddaughter is always asking me what I have in my library about her latest topic at school. The Roman occupation of Britain? Vikings? The Industrial Revolution? The National Health Service? How do prisms work? Why don't spiders get stuck in their own webs? "Why don't you just Google it?" I asked her. "Because everyone does that and they all get the same answers," she said, "Your stuff is much better." Somehow my modest library always manages to come up with the information she needs and (he says smugly) my granddaughter is doing very well at school. Now she's taken to turning up with a couple of her school-chums and they'll sit for hours cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by books, researching their latest topic. It does seem to involve a lot of whispering and giggling, so I suspect they're onto biology.
and I'll be able to post something on the forum for others to tear apart critique. Since joining a little over a week ago I've read a LOT of the critiques on here, many of which sent me scurrying back to my writings. What did I find? A huge variety of dialogue tags and an distinct lack of beats. 'Orrible adverbs. Passive voice. Word repetition. Suspect punctuation. Telling not showing. And all that in short stories not exceeding 5,000 words! So depressing.
Here's an excerpt from my childhood which was published Dec 21st, 2008 • Category: Micro Fiction • Short Story Library. I was pretty chuffed as the number of submissions for the Christmas edition was high. Sadly I can no longer find the website, e-zine or forum. Has He Been Yet? I’m in the top bunk because I’m the oldest and a boy. My sister sleeps in the bottom bunk because she’s a girl and a year younger than me. I’ve got a stone hot water bottle and sometimes push it to the bottom of the bed to warm my feet on. Mummy says I’ll get chillblains doing that. My sister hugs her rubber hot-water bottle. I turn over and pull the window curtain to one side. I can’t see out the window because of the frost flowers on the glass. I can’t see out the window,” I whisper. “Why not?” my sister whispered back. “Have a look,” I told her. We kneel on the edge of our beds. She scratches at the frost flowers with her fingernails. I can’t do that very well because I bite my nails. So I melt two holes in the frost and pretend they are binoculars. “What can you see?” asked my sister. “It’s snowing,” I answered “Is it!” “No. I’m only kidding.” I like teasing my little sister. “Has he been yet?” she asks me. I look down the bed at my empty stocking. “No.” “Do you think Rudolph will like the carrot we left him?” “He must get an awful lot of carrots tonight.” “Maybe Santa takes them back to the North Pole for the other reindeer.” “Maybe.” We can hear mummy and daddy talking in the next room. “Let’s stay awake until he comes,” I suggest. “Okay.” “Do you think he got our letters?” “I hope so. We sent them up the chimney ages ago.” The bedroom door opens and mummy pokes her head in. “You two not asleep yet?” “I’m going to stay awake until he comes,” I said. “Me too,” says my sister. “Get to sleep the pair of you,” says mummy. “Night night.” I get a kiss. “God Bless.” My sister gets a kiss too. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” we chorus. Mummy tickles my sister and then me. We both giggle. The bedroom door closes. I snuggle down, determined to stay awake until he comes. My stone hot water-bottle has cooled enough for me to keep my feet on it. I wonder what chilblains are. I put my arm around Teddy. I make a tent out of my pillow so only my nose is out in the cold. “Psst!” “What?” replied my sister, sleepily. “Do you think he’ll come?” “M’hm.” “Do you think we’ll get what we asked for?” “M’hm.” I can hear my sister’s waterbottle gurgling as she hugs it to her. “Psst!” No answer. I sigh. I want to stay awake. I really do. I’ll close my eyes for just a little while. My sister kicks my bed from underneath. “He’s been! He’s been!” My hot water-bottle is stone cold.