For Writers
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For Writers
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By Writers
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Ascriber / Writers Eyes Workshop - 8.
By Jacki Jackson,
(Jax) is a freelance copywriter, copy-editor and proof-reader. She lectures in Journalism and related subjects at Keele University, Staffordshire, England, UK.
She's also a published writer of articles, short stories, reviews, interviews, BBC local radio story series and more and you can find her website at www.creativetalentdirect.co.uk .
This is the first lesson of her short story writing course.
The purpose of this worksheet is to provide guidance, inspiration and topics for study. You can do the different exercises in any order you like, whichever part appeals to you the most, start that one first! Print out all parts of this worksheet before you begin the study, and file them for reference later.
Insert:
Andrea Douglas
The year was 1956. My parents were recent immigrants from
Germany, and one of their first missions upon moving to Ottawa was to find a
piece of property on a lake. They had been introduced to cottage life in the
Laurentians while residing in Montreal during their first few years in Canada,
and they were smitten.
That first summer, my parents would pack the car, my older
brother in tow, and drive to as many lakes as they could, all the while keeping
their eyes open for the perfect spot. One fine weekend, they found themselves
at the end of a dusty dirt road, at the top of a hill overlooking a beautiful
lake. They asked the resident farmer if he knew of any land for sale.
'Well,' the farmer replied, 'old Mr. Chambers owns about two
miles of frontage on the north side. Talk to him.'
So off they went in search of Mr. Chambers. He soon was spotted
in the middle of the lake, partaking of his fondest pastime - fishing. And
since his cottage on the north side of the lake was accessible only by boat, my
Dad took matters into his own hands and swam to where he was fishing.
As Mr. Chambers reeled in his line, he was greeted not by a big
pickerel but by a grinning young man with a pronounced German accent. So
intrigued was the crusty old American from Pennsylvania that he offered my Dad
his choice of property (even at a dollar a foot for 250 feet of frontage, it
was still a princely sum for my parents), and the rest, as they say, is history.
The first few years of ownership involved a lot of hard work.
Felling trees, clearing the land and readying the site for construction. Then
there was the matter of getting the lumber across the lake - by rowboat and
canoe. But bit by bit, the cottage was born and began to evolve.
By the time I arrived, a few years later, the one-room 'garage'
had grown to include another room, which housed the 'kitchen'. Here, my mother
toiled over a log burning stove to cook and to warm the water that was carried
by bucket from the lake. And while my mother admits the very basic arrangements
made for some hardship, she claims that even my first summer as a new baby was
no problem.
As I grew, so did the cottage. First a screened porch and then a
bedroom were added. And that was how things remained for a number of years.
Oh, there were improvements from time to time - like the pump my
Dad
installed to eliminate the drudgery of hauling buckets of water from the lake.
That was great, until it was left in the lake a little too late in the fall and
the early frost claimed it. There were the new (newer) gas appliances. But I
always was convinced, as I lay flat on the floor holding a match under the
fridge to start the pilot light, that it was only a matter of time before it
exploded in my face.
Eventually, my parents neared retirement, and that was when
things really started to change. There was a major addition that boasted not
only a cathedral ceiling but also a Palladian window. Then came the wrap-around
deck. And finally, what my mother had dreamed of for more than 30 years - a
big, new kitchen.
The whole 'new and improved' cottage is powered by electricity,
provided by an underwater cable run across the lake. Dad still keeps the
kerosene lamps, because he always was convinced that electricity would rob the
cottage of some of its quaint charm and romance. But on those 30-degree summer
days, when it just doesn't cool off at night, I notice he's pretty happy to be
reading by electric light instead.
He did draw the line, however, at installing an indoor toilet.
The outhouse, with its windows and full screen door, lets in not only fresh air
but also a beautiful view of the lake. Dad remains firmly attached to his 'loo
with a view'.
Other things have changed, too. I now bring my family to enjoy
the most beautiful spot in the whole Rideau Lakes system. Well, at least that's
how I see it. My family includes my hubby, three-year-old and new baby.
As I look around the cottage, I wonder how my mother ever
prevailed in those early years. In the kitchen is the microwave that I can't
live without. In our bedroom stands the fold-up playpen and baby monitor, along
with bags of disposable diapers and wipes. In the living room is the wind-up
swing. And strewn everywhere are both big kid toys and other baby paraphernalia.
Could I have managed parenting at the cottage like my parents
did? No way. Not even close.
Today, my parents took my three-year-old to the cottage with
them, as they often do. Several hours later, a 'first' occurred. I answered the
phone in the city and heard my daughter's little voice announcing the arrival
of a telephone at the cottage. We really have come a long way.
Hey, do you think they'd deliver pizza across the lake?
Exercise 1: The study of published short stories
Now you're getting a picture of what a short story should have as its main ingredients. There's a beginning, middle and end. The beginning is meant to arouse interest, to entice the reader to carry on reading. The middle is where the plot gradually unfolds and the story is revealed. The end is where the story finishes – at least for the moment. The best stories are those that stay with you long after you've finished reading them.
Incidentally, you've just conducted your first (albeit small) Market Study. I cover this further in my course. Market study gives you a complete picture of the stories a particular publication has accepted and that is the insider knowledge that gives you the edge over amateur writers when it comes to acceptance of manuscripts by editors and publishers.
Exercise 2: Go ahead and write something yourself!
I can hear you from here – arrrgh! What shall I write about?
Let's do a few small exercises to start with.
© JJ/2002
Prose: Send us what you've written, you've got a pretty good selection to choose from, the only restriction is to keep it below 3000 words.
Poets: Using the same Exercises, we'd like to see your poetry. Your restrictions are - no more than three poems of a maximum of 40 lines each.
Submissions
We are always grateful for your comments and will be pleased to display them, or should the writer prefer, e-mail them on.
By
Wilson Irving
Through the Window.
Bob had slept late after a painful night. His breakfast was on the table. He
sighed, washed the sleep from his eyes, with dry fingers, stretched and looked
through the window -past the sizzle of the frustrated fly that was angrily
trying to fly through the glass- to the small patio, that sat silver, with
granite chips, in the summer sun. It always managed to look smaller than its
measurements suggested, hemmed about as it was with the, 'garden fence brown,'
stained rail that edged the wheelchair ramp that led up to it from the main
path. He thought the three terra-cotta flower tubs that sat at the foot of the
rail were glorious in the summer sun. They were crammed with, his favourite,
brilliant deep blue lobelia plants, as large as footballs. The flowers
reminded him of delicate bright blue humming birds in flight. They nodded up
and down to the rhythm of a gentle breeze that kept all the flowers, in the
garden beyond, nodding in agreement to whatever suggestions it was lazily
whispering in there ears. Begonias, pink, and rich red peeped through the
thick green foliage of those healthy plants. Bees and their hover-fly
look-alike danced, to their own portable music, in sudden jagged patterns
around them, whilst, more sedately, a couple of Red Admiral butterflies did a
“pas de deaux” amongst the flowers.
Across a narrow, decorative, stone path, beyond the patio rail, Anna's long rose garden sat, scented and blooming, in the golden summer light. The rose garden required a lot of work but the rewards were overwhelming. Well ordered, with a profusion of peach, and gold, and blood red blooms, velvety to the touch. It was always a stunning vision: a pleasure to the eye, and a virtual pond of perfume for the nose to swim in. Both he and Anna, his wife, loved to wallow in its sensory pleasures day or night as they enjoyed the garden on balmy summer evenings.
He could see that the large sun patio, that dominated the centre of the garden, had been power-hosed. The soot-black stains from the winter rains and the growths of lichen were gone now. The patio sat sparkling white and inviting in the lazy summer heat. An army of ants marched across it carrying all sorts of minuscule piece of garden debris as gifts to their queen. The sun-beds and the large patio umbrella hadn't been erected yet but he could hear Anna rummaging around in the garden shed where the sun-beds, lived with all the other garden equipment, in the winter. Anna would soon have the beds laid out and he'd be able to get out and enjoy the summer heat and inspect the rest of the garden. The large patio was surrounded by flowerbeds of marigolds, red and maroon, and purple-blue Argentium and had, like the small patio, sets of glazed pots planted up with deep blue Lobelia and Begonia. A summer seat of ironwood sat forlorn at one side. Behind it a trellis gave some privacy from neighbours eyes. The trellis, still in need of a coat of paint this season, was covered with climbing roses of red and yellow, which vied for space with purple clematis and large spikes of maroon Hollyhocks. The perfume was intense in the evening.
A blackbird raced around the beds looking for its breakfast. It raced across
the patio and suddenly stopped to jab angrily at the ground, then glaring, as
if angry at something, cocked his head to one side then tore off in another
direction to loudly scold another bird for trespassing on its patch. Sparrows
squabbled over the sand baths that they constructed in the rose garden and the
patio border. Screeching at each other like noisy school children, only to fly
off with a piercing warning when Anna poked her head around the shed door to
see what all the commotion was about. Bob could see that the border shrubbery,
which ran the full length of the garden boundary, was in full bloom. It was
still in the early morning shade of the Rowan and Silver Birch trees in the
next door garden. Rich golden flowers, Day Lilies, caught his eye as, looking
like bright yellow stars, in the dappled sunlight; they nodded to the breeze,
as to a passing acquaintance. The large Flower of the Forest was already
starting to show some scarlet leaves on its top-knot, an indisputable sign
that, already, some of the plants were aware that autumn was just around the
corner. Nearer to the window, in the deepest shade of the border, Bob admired
the fat clumps of Hostas, with their blue and yellow-white striped leafs, or
yellow and green striped leafs, or green and white striped leafs, they all
threw large purple-flowered spears to the sky like Olympians. Bob could see,
from where he sat in his wheelchair, that Anna's war on the slug population was
going well: the Hostas' leaves were all intact. The slugs loved them, so
Anna's beer traps were working well. The image of drunken slugs holding a
midnight orgy in the garden made him laugh.
He watched as Anna walked down
the garden path to the low ranch fence at the bottom of the garden. She tipped
a trug of cuttings over the fence onto a waste heap behind the fence. Anna
smiled her great beaming 'happy to see you' smile when she saw him through the
window. She mouthed a “good morning,” and indicated for him to look
at the fence. The wild rose that they had removed from the garden, three years
before and that they'd planted behind the fence, was a mass of magenta flowers,
Brilliant in the sun, it was creeping over the fence again as if it missed the
garden and wanted to get back into it. Bob nodded as Anna indicated that she
would have to trim it back again. Beyond the fence and the rose, Bob knew,
there was a narrow path then the ground fell away rapidly. Twelve feet below
the path there was a stream that gurgled away all day. Unlike a Victorian
child it could be heard and not seen from the garden. It was welcome
non-the-less, Bob thought, there was something quite calming about the sound of
running water in the garden. Every now and then welcome visitors, frogs, or
toads, from the stream would appear in the garden. They could be found under
the Hostas' leaves. Anna hated them and Bob laughed, to himself, as he
remembered her reaction to the frog she'd suddenly come across last year, Anna
had screamed and ran into the house. It gave them a chance to have a cuddle
until Anna's heart stopped racing. The frog was unimpressed.
The two fields beyond the garden and the stream were completely different from one another. The field to the left ran uphill from the stream, its skirt and feet were in a bog whilst its head was high in the air. It wore a fence, like a crown on its head, to stop anyone falling onto the railway that ran through a cutting that had been forced through the hill. The other field lay at the same level as the stream. It was as permanently boggy and often had water lying about it in the rainier months. Bob could remember several winters when ponds had formed and wading birds had taken up residence for several months. Both Bob and Anna loved that field and its wildness, hawks quartered it searching for a meal. Foxes fouled in it and chased each other through it. Birds nested in it. Cats hunted in it. Children walked their dogs in it. Drunks collapsed in it, when using it as a right of way (sway) from the pub behind the dark green trees at its border. The field had been allowed to lie fallow for several years and was quickly reverting to its natural habitat. The fence that marked the boundary between the two fields also marked the end of the range that the fallow deer (no pun intended) ran. In the winter months of fogs and frosts and snows the deer often came timidly to that fence and eyed, enviously, any plants they could see in the garden. The far boundary of the low field was marked by the hard straight edge of the railway line as it shot out of the cutting. The railway had been built on an embankment, twelve feet above the boggy field, and headed south to London. The scene came to an abrupt end beyond the railway line, in the summer months; a dark green frieze of trees blocked any further view down the valley. Enticing patches of colour suggested that there was life beyond the trees but Bob felt he'd explored enough this morning and he turned to put the kettle on as Anna came through the door saying, “the garden's looking great today. Fancy just lying out and having a lazy day at home?”
“Yeah,” Bob smiled,
“that sounds just great.” They both laughed, for no reason, as
lovers do. Then, contented, turned and looked again at the garden through the
window. “It's amazing,” Bob whispered to Anna, “what you can
see just looking through a window.”
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