This blog is an attempt to extend creativity beyond the classroom, encouraging writing by providing challenging stimuli. The title of the blog is taken from a poem by Seamus Heaney, 'Personal Helicon', in which the poet explores some of his motivation for writing. I hope that by 'setting the darkness echoing' the followers of this blog will themselves shine.
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts

Saturday, 23 June 2012

Writing History

I found it relatively easy, in Early Scribbles to explore my reading history and feelings towards books.

Writing is as much a passion for me as reading is, but my relationship with writing is more difficult to chart. Perhaps this is because it is much easier to share favourite books and characters than to discuss preferred pieces of writing.

I don't know if this is a real memory or one of those stories that is passed down in family folklore and becomes, by default, a memory. On my very first day at school, aged three, I wrote my name on a drawing I had done.  The nuns, (for it was a Catholic school) were in raptures, amazed that I was capable of such a thing.  I didn't really understand what all the fuss was about; I had been writing my name for a while. But they insisted on giving me a small cuddly toy in recognition of this 'feat', and my mother glowed with pride when she came to collect me.  There indeed was an early confirmation of the transforming power of the written word.

I wrote a story called 'The School Caretaker' when I was about five, that I also mentioned in that first post.  The narrative was simple: I wrote in the first person as the caretaker and described incredibly mundane tasks that I performed through the day - like changing a lightbulb and sweeping up in the locker area.  Again, my teachers enthused.  My grandmother kept the little exercise book in which the story was written until the day she died. There was further validation of how powerful writing could be in the reactions of the adults around me.

I recall gaining the final credit I needed for a Headteacher's Award for an essay on Maximilian Kolbe, and then a second one for an argumentative piece on the channel tunnel (before it had been built).  In the final year of middle school I won the History Prize for my 100-page project on the history of my local village.  I'd presented it chronologically, showing how it had grown from its first entry in the 1341 census, moving right towards the present day and including taped interviews with elderly residents who had talked about their own memories of the place changing. The prize was a book token, and I chose a book on British wildlife that I still have today.

So those amount to my early writing triumphs.  If there were public disasters, I have blotted them out. I was a furious diary writer from my early teens to my early twenties and I would have been mortified had anyone found and read those entries, so personal were they.  I no longer keep a journal but I do have a notebook that I am often scribbling in, though with nothing as formal as diary entires. And I have always written poetry, sporadically at times, but it is always there in the background.  I am also, in spite of this digital age, an avid letter-writer.  Nothing beats a hand-written letter.  Nothing shows quite how much you care for the recipient.  I have had pen-pals since school-days, and sustained a teenage romance by weekly letters when the object of my desire was at boarding school in Wales.  These have bee replaced now by  friends in far-flung corners of the earth.  Most of them in parts of Australia, where I was lucky enough to teach for a year, and tempting though it is to use email to keep in touch, I try as far as possible to write letters. 

I have had many fountain pens over the years. I prefer to write in real ink, but I don't have a special affinity with one particular writing implement.  I just replace my Parker every few years as it goes missing at school or starts to leak.  If I'm working on something creative my favourite place to go is a local cafe, sitting near the window. Well, it worked for J K Rowling, so who knows?

So, there you have it: some of my earliest memories to my current practices, and the kinds of writing that have played the most important part in my life.  How do you recall your own writing history?

Friday, 4 May 2012

Fiction in a Flash: Bound

'Flash fiction' is an increasingly popular genre, with many well-known lifestyle magazines publishing examples and a great number of competions running at any one time. It is, literally, fiction 'in a flash': a whole story in a very short space of time, say 100 words or less. You may have encountered it as 'mini sagas', though through Forward Press these are limited to just 50 words.

But a story must have a beginning, a middle and an end, and this is very difficult to do in such a short space of time! Now, I've promised not to ask you to attempt anything I'm not prepared to have a go at myself, so here's an example of mine, entitled Bound:

Gradually, she came to.

Her mouth was dry and she ran her tongue over cracked lips. The darkness was disorientating, and there was a strange numbness in her legs. Pinned back into the chair, bound and blind-folded, the fear pulsed quickly through her body. She was aware of movement around her, though helpless in her own immobility.

Suddenly, her captor spoke. “We will shortly be coming into land. Please ensure that your seatbelts are fastened…” intoned the tinny voice. She removed the air-line eye mask and smiled groggily at a fellow passenger. “Sorry, was I snoring?” she asked.

You can see that the beginning attempts to create tension: Where is she? What has happened? Has the protagonist been captured? Starting with 'Gradually, she came to' suggests that she may have been unconscious.

I am playing with the reader's expectations in the middle part of the story. The description of her dry mouth and aching limbs, reference to a blind-fold and being 'bound' reinforce the idea of capture or kidnap.

I am trying to surprise the reader at the end. She hasn't been kidnapped at all and is merely asleep on an ordinary flight. Were you fooled?

The title is also a play on words. She is bound by her seatbelt but also 'outbound' on the flight.

Now your turn. Have a go at writing your own flash fiction story. Make sure that the whole narrative takes place in 100 words or less (mine is 98!) Remember to comment to let me know that you've had a go.

Good luck!