Read, Write and Be Patient

On my return from holiday I've read an excellently inspiring blog post on The Write Practice about not being disheartened if you don't make it on your first try. The author Gorbett points out that actually it's silly to expect to get it right without lots of practice. Using pilots as an example, he says that they have to clock up 3000 hours of airtime before even being considered for a commercial plane. So why should you expect to be perfect at writing without practicing? He also says you should read a lot and use your favourite authors and styles to help you write.
You can read the blog post here.

And now for the writing practice-
Write about someone who expects to be a master at an art, task, or profession although they have little experience. Be sure to include the frustration that ensues.


I ordered the ukulele on amazon. That's half the battle isn't it- actually buying one? I've been watching some tutorials online and I have to say it looks pretty easy. There're only four strings after all, and I saw this you tube video of an eight year old girl playing mmm bop, so seriously how hard can it be? I'm excited, I think I'm gonna be a hit around the campfire and at family bbqs. knocking out classic after classic.

It arrived! So far I've learnt some of the simple chords; C, F, G. It turns out you can play tons of things with just those three notes! I started to play and sing along but then after half an hour the tips of the fingers on my left hand were hurting. You have to press down hard and I got these intents on the ends of my fingers which I'm not sure will ever actually go away. I'll practice again tomorrow.

Now that I've learnt how to play some basic three chord songs I want to move on. There are so many videos of people plucking the tune out of their ukuleles rather than just strumming like me. It sounds amazing and I want to be able to do it. I practiced the intro to 'I'll be there for you' from Friends, but it was really hard and after ages I still hadn't got it. Every time I thought I had it, I'd slip up and play the wrong string or the right string in the wrong fret. It's so annoying. And now after a break I've gone back to play it and I can't even remember how it starts! They make it look so easy and actually it really isn't. I wonder if I've even got it in me to ever be that good or if I should just give up. Clearly I haven't got the knack.

 OK so that was more like ten minutes than fifteen. It's amazing how much you can do in such a small space of time.

Small Islands Treasure Map

I wanted to try something more minimalistic, as I usually cram my maps full of stuff. I also found a picture to inspire me in a new kind of pirate ship.

Here's the map when it was first coloured in:

Then I thought I'd play around with it like I used to with maps when I was a kid.

Cue tea bag and FIRE!

I'm rather out of practice and wasn't much pleased with the result. Its seems there is actually an art to burning stuff...
I ended up accidentally losing half a piranha.

Dug up from deep under the mud!

Which map do you prefer?

Tiny Writing Treasure Map

I'm using this map template in one of my classes next week. I think the kids will have fun creating their own island. I for one really enjoyed doing it!
Something I love about teaching kids of this age (7-8) is that they're really easily pleased. They were mega impressed by my drawings here and have made me promise to impart my wisdom on how to make such a great castle. Ha ha.

 

It's taken about two months but I've finally finished draft six of my story. Now I have to face the mammoth task of typing up the changes, which will inevitably involve a lot of trying to decipher tiny sentences scrawled round the margins in pencil and being annoyed at not being able to read my own handwriting. But such is life.

It's probably also time to revisit Jack and Carla at the Lake of Colours. Although they've probably starved to death or died of boredom by now, poor things.

Have you been working on any kind-of-pointless-and-totally-time-consuming-but-fun-nonetheless projects recently?  

On Writing

 

 It's time to redraft my novel called Potion,

A process that often seems it's in slow motion.

The words are changing a lot for draft six,

Some bad dialogue and continuity errors fixed.

Map Mysteries on hold, while poor Carla and Jack

Wait patiently at the Lake of Colours for me to come back.

But alas, two projects is much harder than one,

They might have to wait till redrafting is done.

In other news, I've applied to finish my MA in writing,

Wont you agree that's pretty exciting?

Nonsense Verse

I've been sorting through old stuff at home, and have been reading lots of my old writing. Mainly diaries, which are incredibly painful and cringey to read, but there were also some other things. I particularly liked this poem, reminiscent of Lewis Carroll:

 

A man got up when he was tired

And ate till he was hungry.

He danced all night while he sat still,

 Then flew a plane to Monday.

I got some Dr. Seuss books for Christmas, which probably means I'll soon be in the mood to create more nonsense!

Still at the Big Old House

“It’s so good!” she said through a mouthful.
Jack’s caution faded then and gave way to a need which he was powerless to stop. He picked up a knife and began carving the pig, its crispy skin cracking as he plunged in. He put some slices on a plate for Carla and one for himself and then the pair of them scooped mounds of vegetables and everything else on top and covered it all in thick gravy.
Hardly even remembering to breath as he ate, Jack was in heaven. It was definitely the best food he had ever eaten.
A few minutes of pure bliss passed by, but then something made Jack stop still, fork midway up to his mouth. There on the table, between the plate of stuffing and the boiled potatoes, was a massive grey rat.
Jack hastily put down his food, nudging Carla in the ribs to get her attention.
“What?” she sprayed potato out at him.
The rat was now holding a stuffing ball and knawing on it with big sharp teeth, oblivious to the children’s presence. You could almost have imagined it was harmless, except for two things. 1. He was a big massive scary rat and 2. He had bright red eyes.
Unlike Jack, who knew rats only as disgusting city pests that live in the sewers, Carla had a different perspective.
“It’s hungry,” she said, going closer. “Hey little ratty, there’s plenty of food here for you.”
“Don’t go near it,” rushed Jack, not feeling for a second that they should trust the rodent.
“It’s only a rat,” said Carla, ignoring Jack and going closer still.
“With red eyes,” muttered Jack, annoyed that once again he was more scared than Carla.
The rat stopped knawing then and looked straight at Jack. It made a noise, somewhere between a squeak and a snarl, high pitched and fierce.
“We should go,” said Jack, already edging towards the door.
What happened next happened in the space of a few short seconds. Tens, maybe hundreds of rats poured into the kitchen from the far door, the cupboards, in fact from every corner and hole and pipe possible.
Each one had red eyes, and each one was looking directly at Jack. The noise that the first rat had made was now multiplied, earsplitting and terrifying.
“Run!” Jack shouted, lurching towards the door as quickly as he could.
Carla was close by him but they weren’t fast enough. The rats were already in the hallway and had swarmed to block off their exit back into the ballroom. The other doors were swamped too and there was no way Jack was going to attempt to get through them, so they had no choice but to rush up a small set of stairs, as the army of rats chased close behind. As fast as they could, the children dived through the first door they could find, shutting it fast and leaning up against it hard.
“What if they’re stronger than us?” Jack voiced the incredible fear he felt as he listened to the squeak-snarls and scratches coming through the door. “Not so harmless now.”
Calra’s forehead creased. “You wouldn’t understand. We haven’t turned our backs on nature.”
“I just don’t like big rats with red eyes!” argued Jack.
“They knew where you’re from,” said Carla.
“So you’re saying it’s my fault?”
“No, I…”
“Whatever,” Jack said angrily.
It was only then that Jack actually noticed the room they were now in: a girl’s bedroom. The furniture was in keeping with the rest of the house- old and cobwebby, except this time it was all white. There was a four-poster bed, a rocking horse, a big dolls house with the front open so you could see all the rooms, and a dressing table. On the dressing table, amongst other things, was a music box. As the children stood there with their backs pressed against the door, the lid of the music box lifted slowly open and a ballerina popped up. She started to turn around as music plinked out.
Both children stared, wide eyed.
“It’s the dance of the sugar plum fairy,” said Carla, to which Jack shrugged.
He didn’t know if he was imagining it, but as the music played it drowned out more and more the scratching and squeak-snarling of the rats. But whether the rats were giving up, or the music was simply getting louder, he couldn’t quite say.
They waited, frozen, for the music to stop, which seemed to take forever. Eventually it got slower and slower, until it finished with one last loud ‘plink’ and the lid closed with a sharp thud. After that it took Jack a moment or two to realize that it was now completely quiet.
“It might be a trap,” he said cautiously.
“They’re only rats,” Carla repeated her words from earlier. She took her weight off the door then, standing up straight.
Warily, Jack did the same. His heart was thumping, as he prepared himself for the evil rodents to burst in and attack them. But they didn’t.
Carla was in the middle of the room now, on her way over to the doll’s house near the window. Maybe she was just acting, but it was like she wasn’t scared in the slightest. She sat down in front of the house, inspecting all the different rooms.
“Come here,” she said to Jack, without turning round.
Jack wasn’t keen to stay in the creepy bedroom, let alone start playing with the toys, but if Carla wasn’t scared then he had no reason to be either. He went over to join her.
“It’s a replica of the Old House,” said Carla. “There’s the ballroom,” she pointed to a big room with the same mosaic floors and mirrors. “And there’s the kitchen.”
There were tiny little plates on the table, bursting to the brim with food. There was even a miniature roast pig.
“No rats though,” said Jack.
But Carla didn’t hear him, she was preoccupied looking upstairs at the little girls bedroom. “It’s exactly the same,” she said.
All the furniture was white and in the same places, including the rocking horse and a tiny version of the doll’s house.
Carla gasped as the door opened and a little girl came into the miniature room, twirling round and round. She wore a white dress and had long blond hair, braided into two plaits. And she was distinctly transparent.
Jack quickly looked behind him into the room, but there was no one there. Back in the doll’s house the little girl smiled and waved at them, then sat on the rock horse.
Exactly at the same moment, the real rocking horse began creaking backwards and forwards.
Jack leapt up. “We really should go.”
“Wait,” said Carla, as the rocking horse stopped. She was still looking at the little girl. “She’s trying to tell me something.”
The girl was speaking, but her words made no sound. Then she drew an imaginary square shape in the air and pointed to her right.
“I don’t understand,” said Carla. “Please show me what you mean.”
The little girl twirled her way out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the right, past a master bedroom and to the end where there was a small study. Tiny books filled the shelves and there were overflowing stacks building up on the floor too. The girl went over to the table and pointed at one of the drawers.
“What’s in there?” asked Carl, but the girl was already twirling her way out the study and back down the hallway to her bedroom.
“She wants us to go to the study,” Carla told Jack.
“Where’s this Mr. Old though?” answered Jack. “Surely we can’t just go prying around without his permission.”
“She’s given us permission!” argued Carla. “She lives here too.”
Jack wasn’t sure if being a tiny ghost in a dolls house really qualified as ‘living there’ but he decided to keep that thought to himself.
“Thank you little girl,” Carla spoke softly. “It was nice to meet you.”
The little girl curtseyed and waved goodbye.
Carla was at the door now, and not wanting to be left behind, Jack quickly went after her.
Out down the hallway to the right, they went past one door which had to be the master bedroom. There was a large family portrait hanging on the wall.
“That’s the little girl,” Jack pointed to a blonde girl sitting on the floor in front of her Mum and Dad.
At the end of the corridor there was a closed door.
Jack knocked, all too aware that they hadn’t actually been invited at any point into the Big Old House.
“There’s no one in there,” said Carla. “You saw the doll’s house.”
“Yeah, but…” Jack started. He was going to say that that there was a little girl in the doll’s house and not in the real room, but then he remembered the rocking horse, moving all on its own.
Despite there being no answer, he knocked again. Carla’s expression was a little smug as she pushed the door open and went inside the room.
The study was exactly as it was in the doll’s house, except of course, bigger. Books were crammed onto shelves and were forming tall piles on the floor. A desk in the middle was also piled high with papers and books.
“It must be Mr. Old’s study,” said Carla. “I wish we could find him.”       
  

 

   

The Old House

 It seems that I am, just as Carla and Jack are, stuck in the haunted house. Get me out!

 

Jack was numb. Why was the gravestone there? What did it mean? He’d only seen his Mum a few days ago; she couldn’t be…

Then Carla stopped in her tracks and fell to her knees in front of a small headstone.
“No…No….” she started crying, reaching out to touch the writing.
Jack looked.

Freddie Cat

Son of Fredrick the Furious

1984-2012

Forever one of us

Carla was sobbing in to her hands. Seeing her like, knowing it was his turn to help her, gave Jack a jolt of strength. He pulled her up.

“Like you said, it’s all lies,” he said. “They’re messing with our heads, ignore it.”
Slowly he managed to move Carla away, although she kept looking back at the little grave as she continued to cry. As Jack tried to focus on the mist ahead, he told himself to believe his own words.
A few steps later Jack could now see the house. The grey stone was ancient and falling apart in places, and there was loads of ivy climbing up the walls. The countless windows were tall and dark.  For a second he thought he saw an outline of a figure in the top left one, but then it vanished.
What with the swirling mist and the shadows, there was an undeniably sinister feel to the place. Without realising it, both children had come to a standstill and were looking up at the house. Carla reached for Jack’s hand.
“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,” said Jack, trying to sound brave.
“We have to,” replied Carla. “I don’t know what else to do.”
They moved forward then, the house now looming over them, threatening. The hair on the back of Jack’s neck stood up, getting the feeling they were being watched. He glanced back up at the top left window, but nothing was there.
On the mist was the hint of a whisper, “Come, come.”  
Carla’s grip on Jacks hand tightened.
They reached the stone steps up to the front door and paused again. The sky had darkened and suddenly there came a piercing howl from somewhere in the wood.
“I’m glad we’re out of there,” said Jack, trying to see towards the dead wood through the mist. 
They climbed the large steps, having to put both feet on one before getting to the next. One, two, three, then on the fourth one Carla slipped as the step beneath her crumbled away into a landslide.
Jack grabbed her and pulled her back up. “What happened there?”
Beneath Carla the entire half of the step had disintegrated to nothing.  
“I didn’t know I was so heavy,” said Carla, smiling slightly for the first time since they’d entered the graveyard.
The wooden front door was a least two metres high, with a gothic-faced knocker in the centre. Jack reached forward and lifted it, letting it fall back down with a boom that blasted out far and wide into the quiet around them.
Then, very slowly, the door creaked open, to reveal an empty corridor.
Not wanting Carla to know how scared he was, Jack stepped boldly over the threshold.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” said Carla warily.
“They opened the door for us, didn’t they?” Jack replied.
Carla followed Jack in, and then the behind them the door slammed shut, making them both jump. A single standing lamp with an old, frilly lampshade, dimly lit the entrance hall. Ahead to the left was a grand staircase, which curled up and around to the right. Its banister would be perfect for sliding down, but Jack didn’t fancy it.
There were cobwebs everywhere: on the lamp, the side cabinet and even between the railings of the stairs. The whole place had the look of somewhere that hadn’t been touched for a many, many years. Along the walls were lots of paintings of people long ago. Women in big dresses, men in uniform and babies in long, white gowns. As they walked, Jack felt like each and every person in the paintings was watching them. Out of the corner of his eye he was sure he could see each pair of eyes following them, but when he looked directly at them they appeared just as normal.
There was an open door to the right which led into a massive, high ceilinged ballroom. There was a glittering chandelier in the center and the floor was a beautiful mosaic of flowers and ornate patterns. Two of the walls were lined from end to end with mirrors. Jack looked in the ones on his right and nearly jumped a mile. In the mirror he could see, behind him, a scene of men and women dressed in fine clothes, dancing a waltz around the room. He turned around quickly, but the room was empty.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing at the long mirror.
Carla gasped and moved closer to him.
“What is this?” whispered Jack.
Then he looked at the other wall of mirrors and things got worse. As if the phantom dancers weren’t enough, this time the room was filled with the ghosts of the same people still transparently dancing round and round, their faces skeletal.
Jack turned away, just as an icy wind passed through him.
They hurried through the ballroom then, neither daring to look into either of the mirrors again.
The double doors at the far end of the room led to another hallway, with more portraits peering down at them.
“Do you still want to find this guy?” said Jack, who was still holding Carla’s hand.
Carla nodded.
“Let’s try in their then,” Jack pointed to a slightly ajar door to their left. As his hand went out to push it open, somehow it blew open of its own accord, as if there was a sudden gust of wind.
The first thing Jack saw was the fireplace, whose flames roared up from the hearth. A couple of antique armchairs faced it, around a rug with a bears and paws round the edges.
No one was there.
Just like the hallway, the dark furniture was covered in cobwebs.
Then there was the sound of knocking on wood. Four times, sharp and fast. Then again. It was coming from a chest in the corner over by the window. Then again, followed by a muffled scream.
Jack and Carla didn’t wait to see who or what had screamed, but hurried out the way they had come.
Back out in the hallway Jack’s heart was beating hard.
“Maybe we should see what it is?” said Carla in a small voice.
Jack shook his head. “We came to see Mr. Old. I don’t think he’s in. Maybe we should leave.”
Carla shook her head back at him. “I want to look for a bit longer.”
Jack wanted nothing more than to get out of the weird, creepy house, but he knew Carla was right. He sighed and pointed at another door. “In there then.”
He paused before touching the door knob, wondering if the door might open on its own. When nothing happened, he turned it with a creak and pushed.
It was a kitchen with a big table in the middle, full to bursting with plates of hot food, including a whole pig, an apple in its mouth. There were potatoes and parsnips and carrots and balls of stuffing. There was a gravy boat, peas, Yorkshire puddings and sausages. There were also cakes and other deserts.
The smell was amazing and Jack became suddenly aware of how very hungry he was.
“Why’s it here?” he said. “There’s no one in the house.”
Carla had moved closer to the table and was staring longingly at a bowl of fluffy mashed potato.  
“We shouldn’t,” warned Jack, but as he said it Carla dug in with her bare hands, eating the potato with the desperation of someone who hasn’t had a meal in days.