Posted by: writingwitch2013 | March 22, 2013

Young ambitions.

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A life time of writing ambition.

Here’s a bit of synchronicity.
I was clearing out, what used to be, the children’s garden play house to use as a writing studio when the weather warms up, if it ever warms up, when I opened a box that I didn’t remember having and found an old school book in there.
The work book was dated 1970 so I would have been eleven years old when I wrote in it. It brought back memories.
I had always wanted to be an author. It was the only one of my ambitions that never changed over the last fifty years. As soon as I could read and write, and make up stories, I wanted to be an author.
Over the years I have attended many creative writing courses and workshops and I am still waiting for that ambition to be fulfilled. I have been published in magazines but that was for craft projects, which is very different writing from fiction.
So, back to the work book. This was my English work book and along with exercises in grammar and punctuation, which I am ashamed to say never got full marks… Thank goodness for spell check now … were a handful of completed stories.
I groaned when I read them, but then I checked myself. I was only eleven at the time, just out of junior school. If I was to compare them with some of my latest efforts I could see that I have improved over the last 43 years… I wouldn’t say, however, that my improvement was 43% let alone forty three times worth.
I sat for a while, after I read them, wishing I had taken my dream of publication more seriously than just flirting with workshops and courses over the years. If I had gone to uni and taken english and creative writing, like my son did, I might have already fulfilled my ambition many times over. But I’d got a summer job in the holidays between fifth form o’levels and starting in the sixth form to do A levels, and in that six weeks of working had earned a decent amount of money , enough to tempt me away from school and into full time employment.
I did go to uni eventually, when I was thirty eight, but not for English and creative writing, but to teach textiles. I graduated when I was forty.

I will finish clearing out my writing studio.
I feel it was synchronicity that I found my young writings there. My dreams back then are the same as I have now, the difference being that I am determined now that I am going to be a published author if only not to let that young girl down.
Below are two of the complete stories in the work book, typed out, but as they were written originally….untouched.

 

Everything but the kitchen sink

Well it’s here again, those mad two weeks of the summer, when the whole family seem to lose their composure and adopt the appearance of a kindergarten.
I have been seriously thinking of hiring a removal firm for our future holidays. Talk about taking everything but the kitchen sink, I often think that if it wasn’t for the fact that it is fastened to the wall, that would come with us as well.
“Jack, have you seen my hair spray? I’m sure I left it on the dressing table.”
“It’s in the bathroom love.”
Now take my wife for instance. She has packed the shower spray, two hair dryers (Incase one breaks) a box of heated rollers and a bag full of various shampoos, sprays, gels and brushes.
“Dad, have you got that kagoule I lent you?”
“I thought you’d already packed one. Why do you need two?”
“Incase I fall in and get wet of course.”
I should have known. It happens every year, were ever there is water Tony takes his fishing tackle, including the stool, wicker basket and numerous pairs of Wellington boots each varying in length.
“Dad, don’t forget to pack my stuff.”
My daughter takes every conceivable beach aide. Lilo’s, windbreaks, sunglasses, creams of every strength for sun protection, beach robes, and mats. Then she leaves them in piles, for me to load, where I invariably fall over them.
“Did you or mum move my pack of bandages?”
If you happen to feel queasy on the ferry, then sit next to my eldest son. I’m sure he starts dosing himself with Kwells days before the trip. John will have packed anything you could possibly need on the voyage. Talk about a nervous passenger, he always sits by the life boats, he can put on a life jacket in thirty seconds and he has a mini first aid kit incase of accidents.
Me, well I travel light. I have to, I’m the one who has to carry it all. I’m always glad when the holidays are over so that I can put my feet up and have a good rest.

 

Bargain buys

Joan was very keen on budgeting and when, one day, she decided to hold a buffet for her keep fit class and she discovered that she didn’t have enough tablecloths to cover the table, she planned a trip to the jumble sale.
The next Saturday afternoon, Joan stepped out of her role as orderly housewife and gave way to her masochistic self. She took the bus to her nearest jumble sale, paid her five pence to enter and ran to the nearest stall, thankful that she had put on her flat walking shoes.
The stall was piled high with various jumble and as Joan reached out to root through it all she was immediately surrounded on either side by wild uncontrolled women, pushing, shoving and bartering over the goods.
She found herself wedged between two very incredibly stout ladies who were fighting over a size 44D cup bra. She was smothered on either side by hot sweaty bodies. She was elbowed in the ribs by enthusiasts and there were hands coming from behind through all possible gaps.
Then she saw it.
A lacy embroidered table cloth just peeping out from beneath a very well worn pair of long johns. She grabbed the corner, only to find it wouldn’t budge. She gave a hard tug and it moved slightly towards her, and then moved away again. After another hard tug she heard a strange tearing noise and lo and behold the table cloth was free. Well half the table cloth, for someone else on the other side of the stall was buying the other half.
Gripping her purchase tightly in her hand she made her way to the coat stall, where she had noticed a smart looking jacket. After checking it for damage and the size, she tried it on.
She admired it for several minutes before paying for it and found to her surprise that her own coat had vanished.
“Oh that coat?” Said the lady behind the counter, “yer too late luv. Sold it t’old sole fer 10p.”
Joan sighed. It wasn’t much of a loss, she thought. She’d only paid 5p for it at the last jumble sale.

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