So, you think you're good at writing?
Submit a short story, 600 letters max, by contacting the creator of the blog (send a message etc.) and the winner will be chosen in a months time - and the story will be published on the blog, where people can give you feedback.
Happy writing bloggers!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Just Write
Just Write.
The day my life changed. The day when something so obvious became apparent to me. It all started off with me looking for a piece of paper to write on. Mum is constantly trying to save money because her florist business is 'secretly' going down the drain, so there is never anything for me to write on. I was looking through some drawers in mum and dads office when I stumbled upon a file with my name on it. Of course I had to look at it – It was practically addressed to me! Inside I found some documents stating I had Asbergers Syndrome. Why hadn't I realised it before? All those docters appointments which were more like counselling sessions... All those people smiling at me fakely...Star stared at the sun as she lay in the overgrown grass of Mt. Lipton. She picked up her thick pad of refill and jotted down some notes on the sunrise. Star planned to be an author when she was older - she had her life planned out, a road in front of her ready to follow. She already had 2½ manuscripts at home ready to send to Little Island Press, a New Zealand publisher in the heart of Auckland. She planned to illustrate her own books, which would be novels, short stories and childrens tales. Star tumbled down the hill, turning through the soft grass. The hill was Stars favourite place to be. Her ideas ran wild, lifting Star off her feet and into the realms of her imagination. No one was there to stop her, or make fun of her or her name. There was just her and the hill and the dandelions. At school there were 754 people to look at her strangely and judge her by her cover. So what if Star had Asbergers Syndrome - It still meant she was a human being, but this didn't worry her. Writing is more reliable than a bunch of friends.
Once Star got home she bundled her paper, pen, disposable camera and a chicken cranberry panini into her drawstring bag and headed off to school. Because Star was an early riser the streets were deserted and Star was free to take snapshots of Autumn trees, shedding their fiery orange leaves and dancing in the wind. As soon as Star reached the front gate of Lipton High she fumbled through her pocket searching for the unmistakable pink timetable. She carefully peeled the timetable apart, which was torn in the middle and reminded Star of thin feather paper. ENGLISH, RM.72 read the printed box, ink trailing like tears from yesterdays rain shower.
When the school bell sounded, Star was prepared for her lesson of Creative writing. She had her pencil case out and her english folder opened to the correct page. Star couldn't help staying still, she had to be on the go, or achieving something so she gave the occasional flick of her hair and tap of her pen. Mrs. Kaatachi walked in, her blue dress waving and her head held like an elegant swan. Her hair was flowing free, waving Hello to Star and her class. Everywhere Star looked there was inspiration, a story to be told.
At the end of the inspiring lesson Star handed in her essay on Family violence, which was due in the following week. Mrs. Kaatachi smiled at Star, her eyes sparkling and reflecting Stars plain face. Why couldn't she be as elegant and confident as Mrs. Kaatachi? Or as bold and beautiful as the schools head girl, Sandra Allice? Star was just a girl with a dream and a name everyone made fun of. "Girls and boys! Look at this! Let Star be a rolemodel for all of you! Star has handed in her Research essay a week early! Lets give her a round of applause..." said Mrs. Kaatachis soft, creamy voice. The words echoed and the class grew silent, a few feeble claps were attempted, but finished just as soon as they had started. The atmosphere of the room was silent and awkward. What a relief it was when the end of period bell rang. Mrs. Kaatachi gave a comforting smile as Star hurriedly made her way to the next lesson. She knew Mrs. Kaatachi was just trying to be nice. But why should there be a reason for her to comfort Star? It wasn't fair.
"Ha Ha. Lets give Star a round of applause shall we?" said Linda Morgan in a mocking tone. Instead of well deserved applause, Star was given a few shoves and a few more rude remarks. Everyone seemed to swarm around her, trying to get a dig at her. "Oh Star, you shine so brightly in the night sky! What a loner, Yeah, she has like, literally no friends". The comments were like salt on open wounds, each remark adding more bitter sorrow to Star. "She's just so odd, you hear that Star? You're odd!" A single tear came to Stars eyes. Star wasn't meant to care, it was in the medical description she'd seen in the Docters letter. But Star couldn't help it. It was too much to handle sometimes. She had to escape it all.
Star somehow plodded through the day. The comments echoing and growing more painful by the minute. As soon as Star got home, she slammed her bedroom door shut and grabbed out her pen and paper and began to write ... about dancing dandelions and realities beyond logic.
By Eva Wyles
The day my life changed. The day when something so obvious became apparent to me. It all started off with me looking for a piece of paper to write on. Mum is constantly trying to save money because her florist business is 'secretly' going down the drain, so there is never anything for me to write on. I was looking through some drawers in mum and dads office when I stumbled upon a file with my name on it. Of course I had to look at it – It was practically addressed to me! Inside I found some documents stating I had Asbergers Syndrome. Why hadn't I realised it before? All those docters appointments which were more like counselling sessions... All those people smiling at me fakely...Star stared at the sun as she lay in the overgrown grass of Mt. Lipton. She picked up her thick pad of refill and jotted down some notes on the sunrise. Star planned to be an author when she was older - she had her life planned out, a road in front of her ready to follow. She already had 2½ manuscripts at home ready to send to Little Island Press, a New Zealand publisher in the heart of Auckland. She planned to illustrate her own books, which would be novels, short stories and childrens tales. Star tumbled down the hill, turning through the soft grass. The hill was Stars favourite place to be. Her ideas ran wild, lifting Star off her feet and into the realms of her imagination. No one was there to stop her, or make fun of her or her name. There was just her and the hill and the dandelions. At school there were 754 people to look at her strangely and judge her by her cover. So what if Star had Asbergers Syndrome - It still meant she was a human being, but this didn't worry her. Writing is more reliable than a bunch of friends.
Once Star got home she bundled her paper, pen, disposable camera and a chicken cranberry panini into her drawstring bag and headed off to school. Because Star was an early riser the streets were deserted and Star was free to take snapshots of Autumn trees, shedding their fiery orange leaves and dancing in the wind. As soon as Star reached the front gate of Lipton High she fumbled through her pocket searching for the unmistakable pink timetable. She carefully peeled the timetable apart, which was torn in the middle and reminded Star of thin feather paper. ENGLISH, RM.72 read the printed box, ink trailing like tears from yesterdays rain shower.
When the school bell sounded, Star was prepared for her lesson of Creative writing. She had her pencil case out and her english folder opened to the correct page. Star couldn't help staying still, she had to be on the go, or achieving something so she gave the occasional flick of her hair and tap of her pen. Mrs. Kaatachi walked in, her blue dress waving and her head held like an elegant swan. Her hair was flowing free, waving Hello to Star and her class. Everywhere Star looked there was inspiration, a story to be told.
At the end of the inspiring lesson Star handed in her essay on Family violence, which was due in the following week. Mrs. Kaatachi smiled at Star, her eyes sparkling and reflecting Stars plain face. Why couldn't she be as elegant and confident as Mrs. Kaatachi? Or as bold and beautiful as the schools head girl, Sandra Allice? Star was just a girl with a dream and a name everyone made fun of. "Girls and boys! Look at this! Let Star be a rolemodel for all of you! Star has handed in her Research essay a week early! Lets give her a round of applause..." said Mrs. Kaatachis soft, creamy voice. The words echoed and the class grew silent, a few feeble claps were attempted, but finished just as soon as they had started. The atmosphere of the room was silent and awkward. What a relief it was when the end of period bell rang. Mrs. Kaatachi gave a comforting smile as Star hurriedly made her way to the next lesson. She knew Mrs. Kaatachi was just trying to be nice. But why should there be a reason for her to comfort Star? It wasn't fair.
"Ha Ha. Lets give Star a round of applause shall we?" said Linda Morgan in a mocking tone. Instead of well deserved applause, Star was given a few shoves and a few more rude remarks. Everyone seemed to swarm around her, trying to get a dig at her. "Oh Star, you shine so brightly in the night sky! What a loner, Yeah, she has like, literally no friends". The comments were like salt on open wounds, each remark adding more bitter sorrow to Star. "She's just so odd, you hear that Star? You're odd!" A single tear came to Stars eyes. Star wasn't meant to care, it was in the medical description she'd seen in the Docters letter. But Star couldn't help it. It was too much to handle sometimes. She had to escape it all.
Star somehow plodded through the day. The comments echoing and growing more painful by the minute. As soon as Star got home, she slammed her bedroom door shut and grabbed out her pen and paper and began to write ... about dancing dandelions and realities beyond logic.
By Eva Wyles
A top ten finalist in the New Zealand Puffin short story competition.
“Goodnight my little puffin”
One sunny Thursday afternoon July skipped from school. She dodged the smudged chewing gum blots on the pavement and hummed the tune of the yellow submarine.
She had an anxious look on her face as she thought back to period 3, her art teacher; Miss Thompson had exclaimed that July had a ‘character’. Ms. Thompson had an urge to do these sorts of things, last week she had told Lilly Thompson her hair was like a golden reef, and the only fault with this was that Lilly was a brunette.
Every day, after school July walked down to the shops on Cuba Street , she’d pop into all the beauty pharmacies and use a drop of tester perfume that stings as it enters your nose but smells as sweet as lavender. July would go through the same routine every day, she would buy a frozen raspberry fanta from an almost always crowded McDonalds, then she would browse the old vintage op shops – July had made up her mind that there was no point buying anything from a store that sells brand new clothing, because everyone ended up with the same outfit. And lastly, after two hours of wondering through shops, July would enter her favourite bookstore, the sign above her head dangling with a glorious title in scripted: ‘Sumner’s books’. The shop sold brand new and old books, explaining why July loved it so much, books were dirt cheap.
As July entered the shop, the bell dangling as she closed the door, a smell of dust and old paper filled her nostrils and a giant smile spread across her face, this made July’s eyes twinkle and sparkle. This was July’s home, July’s place. She walked down the isle and pulled out a musty edition of peter pan, the puffin logo still gleaming from the old light bulb above July’s head, despite the dust and the ancient look of the paperback. July collapsed on an old sofa at the back of the store and lost herself in the book. Peter Pan was soaring in the sky when Mrs. Sumner shuffled past pushing an old supermarket trolley packed with books with split binding. July took a glance at the old plastic clock over by the purple bookshelf with new lonely planet guides. It was 6.00pm. July walked up to the counter, covered in sticky notes and price stickers ready to go on books. She let out a tired yawn stretching her arms behind her back. Mrs Sumner emerged from the back room and July placed the crumbling peter pan book on the only bit of spare space on the crowded counter.
Mrs. Sumner went to a lot of trouble inspecting the book for its worth, flicking through for any missing pages, and she even duck taped the side of the book to prevent anything bad happening to the book in future. Mrs. Sumner tapped the space bar a couple of times on the old humming computer then told July she could have it for 30 cents. July fumbled through her shirt pocket and eventually retrieved the correct amount.
July walked out of Sumners books clamping her book to her chest as though she was hiding a winning lottery ticket within the faded pages. July slumped onto a bench with pealing paint and began the treacherous wait for the number 24 bus. Hundreds of people waltzed past, each of them doing their own proud and beautiful dance. The men, in their fancy business suits and gleaming gold watches reminded July of Captain Hook, Tall and proud. The woman with their high heels that stretched up to the sky were like Tinker bell, off on a mission for Peter Pan. Some had a cell phone glued to their ear, speaking an alien language only someone as intelligent as Peter could understand.
July loved the city. The lights, the freedom, the buzz… Far better then being at home where Julys mum and dad argued through the walls night and day. The only thing July loved more then the city was her books. Under her creaky old bed at home was a cardboard box piled with puffin books Mrs. Sumner had given her dirt cheap.
The bus pulled up and July clambered on. Her ticket reeled out of the machine and July stuffed it into her pocket, adding to the growing collection of bus tickets. She sat next to a twenty year old something man with orange spiky hair and an ACDC t-shirt. Muffled heavy metal rock music flowed into Julys ears from spiky hair guy’s earphones. July opened her book to the page she was on, marked by the receipt from Mrs. Sumner. July escaped yet again and followed the lost boys through the jungle. The bus ride was over by 7pm.
Her father had crashed on the sofa, the TV still buzzing with ‘Close up’. July paced down the dimly lit hallway to her bedroom, consisting of a simple crumbling fireplace and a wobbly bed perfect for the earthquake game.
July crouched down on her knees and heaved the Bonita banana box from under her bed. The sides were splitting, revealing many layers of thin paper. The box was overflowing, each still with the puffin logo gleaming. After checking on her beloved storybooks given to her at Christmas time two years ago by Aunt Lou, July pulled Peter Pan from her packed schoolbag and continued her adventure through never land. Captain Hook was so close, Peter pan pulled off a daring flip and Tinker Bell is only moments away from drinking the fatal poison. “I believe in fairies” July chanted. “I believe in fairies. I believe in Fairies” Peter pan was chanting too. “We believe in fairies”. July’s voice gathered speed. The door snapped open and July hurriedly clicked the torch off. The light went. July continued whispering, only quiet enough for her to hear. Her mum shuffled over to her bed, coughing hoarsely with every step. “I believe in fairies”.
“Goodnight my little puffin”.
Written by Eva Wyles
Why not?
I decided I was going to write a novel yesterday. I started off with a dramatic introduction and then it all went downhill. I have no training in writing. I had practically written an entire chapter book on an A4 page.Hopelessly, I gave up. But I still have the want to write and be successful - then why can't the thoughts that occur in my head that seem so intelligent and so smart just flow out of the finely tipped point f the pen creating a masterpiece of literature? because I have no experience. So, why don't we just do it for fun, not that need to impress people and become famous? Why not? Why do hundreds and thousands of people hide potential talent inside them in an office writing non fiction pieces for a newspaper?
Every day our mind explores new worlds, new possibilities, sometimes we try new things and see the consequences - and learn new things. Why can't we create a written record for others to look and share advice and enjoy the creativity expressed on a simple piece of paper?
Why did it have to be so hard for me to withdraw all the brilliant ideas, quotes and plots - and put it into a novel. Because I need the persistence and the training. But in the meantime - we should all explore new worlds knowing you don't need to impress anyone, only explore your options.
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