I attended the Spire Writing Group last year for a short while and found it stretched my 'writing muscles' - it was good to share with like minded people; have a chat and a cuppa and write some more....
I had a few months break from the group to continue with our 'everloving character building home' we are so fondly renovating (this is me being sarcastic!) - but now I have returned to be welcomed by everyone at the group once more.
I like a challenge, love writing, like being different and non-conventional - whatever that means.
My favourite writings are short and moralistic - possibly for children (or adults who are still children!). I've self-published a book and am currently nervously passing it around the group for feedback - which I greatly appreciate. Honestly...?
I'd like to share this weeks homework with you taken from the book,
A Series of Unfortunate Events – Lemony Snicket
(I chose this book because I love the way Snicket writes in such a ridiculous and strange way.)
We took the first and last line of the book and wrote a story around it. Hope you like it.
First line: When my work day is over, and I have closed my notebook, hidden my pen, and sawed holes in my rented canoe so that it cannot be found, I often like to spend the evening in conversation with my few surviving friends.
Last line: Even as count Olaf’s automobile slipped out of view, and the caravan began to slip on the bumpy road, it seemed the Baudelaire Orphans that they were all slipping into the belly of the beast, and that time, I’m sorry to say, counted very, very much.
An Undiscovered Discovery
As my beautiful pen tremors with intrepedation I feel the surge of inspiration warming my boots….and even as count Olaf’s Automobile slipped out of view, and the caravan began to slip on the bumpy road, it seemed the Baudelaire Orphans that they were all slipping into the belly of the beast, and that time, I’m sorry to say, counted very, very much.
Who was going to clear the clouds away each morning and dust the broccoli. I have to say the Count was distinguished enough to have disappeared without a sausage!
And oh my goodness, he appears to have taken the sunshine away too. This pen can only write in the sunshine. The broccoli may go brown and even begin to rhubarb.
Oh my, one supposes it may be like the event when he wanted to know the way to Deepdeepingtonton – it was a very small village inbetween two quite large mountainous mountains.
On top of each was an incredibly small building. One filled with horses and rabbits and the other full to the brim with carrot toppings. Everyone who visited each of the buildings felt really strange and unusual afterwards.
Now, the count wanted to go directly to where he needed to be because he had an important parcel to deliver to the Baudelaire Orphans. He knew they lived around here, not specifically where. And when the Count said he was going to do something, he certainly did, hence the slippery caravan. You could certainly take the Count’s word.
This day, there was no one about to ask which direction to go inside, so his natural instinct was to knock on the door of each incredibly small building where someone or something may reside. He hoped they would not only know how to get to Deepdeepingtonton, but also exactly where the Baudelaire Orphans lived – to ensure he got the parcel there as safe as can be.
The incredibly small buildings could not be missed – they were right at the front side of each of the mountains – so off the Count went to ask directional directions – when an unusual undiscovered discovery happened. Instead of getting the instructions, he felt a need to find it for himself.
As he looked across from the second mountain he and himself felt it easier to fly, but the beast of the air said no. He climbed the high paths upwards; he should find a new route back down again and go forth at once.
So with a tutter and flum he ran back down as fast as my sinking canoe.
Parcel in tact and soon to be delivered.
Rushing along with the beast to follow, he ushered the Count to be true. The parcel was delivered henceforth and complete – opened by the Boudelaire Orphans with such a gleeful glee. A bright sunshine belonging the sky, lit up and bounced rays pushing their caravan with instructions for rhubarb once more to be deluged within the bumpy road of doubt.
And when my work day is over, and I have closed my notebook, hidden my pen, and sawed holes in my rented canoe so that it cannot be found, I often like to spend the evening in conversation with my few surviving friends.