Writers Block.

 

I wrote this to a fellow writer to help him overcome the deadly WB:

  I understand how you must be feeling and that your problem today could be mine, Sarah’s, Amanda’s, Ken’s, or Ron’s tomorrow (nobody is immune).  

  My suggested solution stems from my method of writing.   Some people need to have a complete story in their head before taking pen in hand.   Others jot ideas in a notebook and string them together like pearls.   Yet others decide which formula/theme, and the story line they intend to use.   They decide on the characters, their ages, sex, names, and psychological profile etc.   Only then do they start to write their story.

  I am in a permanent quasi state of block.   I haven’t got a clue what to write beyond the simple desire to write.  The act of touching pencil to paper, (I always write in pencil [with rubber to hand]), starts the process and releases words into my mind.  My hand moves, and I write.    From the words I have written come other words; a lot of the time what I write is drivel, but the important thing is that I write.   I have left a record, of an idea or thought process. I suppose I’m just doodling with words, which is why I write with a pencil and rubber.   I usually do not know what it’s about or where it will lead until I’m quite close to the end; when the inspirational idea hits me.

  Here is an example:

 ‘My grandmother had a cat’

I can’t guarantee how this will turn out - but here goes:

 

  My grandmother had a cat, a true tortoise shell with long bushy fur, but I’d never figured out until today why he was so universally disliked?   He was friendly, and climbed onto your lap, purring contentedly, then after a while you felt quite at ease stroking him.   She called him ‘Flash’, which I thought was a grand misnomer; a tortoise would have given him a close race.   He was so languid; he even jumped in slomo; like the six million dollar man.   What mattered was that Grandmother adored him and he seemed completely oblivious to the universal loathing he stirred up in people.   The mystery of his name was resolved, one day when I witnessed him catching a field mouse, in the garden.   One moment he was on my left; then he was on my right with a tail protruding between his teeth.   But I never understood why he was so universally reviled, until this moment; then it just hit me in a flash.

___________________________________

Here is where the punch line came to me.

 

He was ‘BOSSEYED’ I suddenly remembered, I was three years old, he looked at me with such malevolence that my hackles rose and I experienced deep feelings of loathing that persisted, I guess he had the same affect on everybody.   Poor cat moved slowly so as not to bump into things, except when he focused on something specific, the object of his desire, like food, or grandma.

.-…-.

Well that was a spontaneous illustration of how I break my block.

Now it’s your turn, break your block by writing for ten minutes, without stopping, on  any or all of the following subjects:

‘What I really hate is…   Have you seen me dance…   My first childhood recollection…   hats I’ve worn…   When I win the lottery…    

Think of some others and do, at least, one every day.

 

Note: the hi-lited line was added after the punchline came to me.

Foxy Magic

Dusk was closing in as I headed home from work that evening.   It was cold, and all I wanted was to stretch out in front of a warm fire.   I was driving on autopilot, my mind on Marie’s beef stew.

Suddenly, there were two red eyes in the middle of the road, caught in the glare of my headlights, and closing rapidly.   I stamped on the brakes, pumping hard.  Then I felt the impact.

God, I’ve hit something!   It looked like a dog, somebody’s pet maybe?  I pulled into a lay-by to view the damage.  My front bumper was shattered, that would cost me a pretty penny.  I walked back to the still form lying in the road.   It was a fox.  

I could see the headlights of another vehicle approaching, so I grabbed its ruff and the root of its tail and dragged it onto the grass verge beside the road.   I sat on the kerb, shaken, and angry with myself.   My inattention had cost that fox its life. 

What if it had been a child?  I thought.

I heard rustling in the bushes and turned, to see two pairs of tiny eyes looking back at me, burning brightly in the glare of the passing headlights.  The car roared by and I sat motionless for several moments.  I watched as two tiny cubs waddled from the trees to nuzzle the dead vixen.   They started to suckle and I felt a lump in my throat.   My eyes filled with tears, what had I done?   I’d killed their mother and they probably wouldn't survive without her.

I pulled myself together and took out the remains of my lunch, a corned beef sandwich.  With trembling hands I broke off pieces and threw them towards the cubs.   One turned its nose up in disgust and walked away.   The other ate with gusto.

Ridiculous!  I thought, one corned beef sandwich isn’t going to fend off starvation.

The cub headed away into the trees as I carried out temporary repairs to my car, with gaffer tape.   Five minutes later I drove home, belatedly observing the 40mph speed limit.

.-...-.

 “Yer an eejot, Calum!” Marie yelled next morning, her cheeks flushed, and her red hair tousled, “Why should we waste good food on Vermin!   Dat’s what dey are, foxes, don’tcha know?”

“Just give me some slack on this one Marie,” I said attempting to defuse her Irish temper.  “If you’d just seen those eyes…”

“I can see the hole in yer head, fer sure I can!  Why I put up with ye is beyond me,” then, she placed an extra sandwich in a brown paper bag and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.   “Dis is a one off mind yez!”

.-...-.

On my way home that evening I stopped off in the same lay-by, and entered the small stand of trees.   I sat on a patch of dry leaves, beneath a sturdy sycamore, breaking the sandwich into small pieces.  I threw pieces so as to make a trail from where the cubs had appeared the previous evening, and waited.   Five, ten, fifteen minutes. 

I lay on my back gazing up through the trees, into the clouds and the sky beyond.   Breathing slowly and deeply, allowing the ripples of my presence to dissipate.   I listened to the whispers in the long grass and the rustling in the canopy overhead.  Then as my mind relaxed I felt calm and at peace, in a cocoon of solitude.   Finally just as I was about to leave, I heard a familiar rustling sound; I’d heard it the previous evening, and many times in my restless sleep.

Two bright eyes fixed on me.   A moist black nose quivered, and it rushed towards the first piece of chicken in the chain that ended within two feet of my shoes.   Five minutes later there was nothing left.   I felt sad, only one of the cubs had returned.

.-...-.

“Yer as soft as shite, Calum!   Sure I can smell ye from here; Mr Softy!”  But, there was a playful edge to her voice and a sparkle in her eyes.  I think she was secretly pleased she'd discovered my feminine side, even if she didn’t agree with what I was doing.

“Marie, I don’t have time, I’ve got to get to work!” I protested in vain.  She kissed me and I kissed back, and… I was late for work.

.-...-.

Night followed day, and each evening found me sitting with my back against the bole of that sycamore.   Sometimes she came, sometimes not.   But, I left my offering anyway, and it was never there on my return.  

The routine was established.    Monday to Friday I visited the copse, and at the weekend she was left to fend for herself.   Marie drew the line at weekend visits. 

Two months on I was regarding the cub as a friend.   It seems strange now, that I never gave her a name.

One evening I pulled into the lay-by feeling tired.   As usual, I sat down to wait, and felt myself relaxing.   I must have dozed off, because I was awakened by a gentle tugging at my side.   She’d obviously waited a while, then when I didn’t move decided to help herself, by picking my pocket.   I remained still and observed her, through cracked eyelids, as she jiggled and wrestled the lunch bag from my pocket.   She opened it daintily, with teeth and paws, removed the sandwich and withdrew to a safe distance to eat.  Encouraged by her boldness I decided that in future she could work for her supper.   I no longer fed her, instead I allowed her to take the package herself.   This became our routine for the following month, come rain come shine, and there was plenty of rain.

My colleagues at the office had heard of Calum’s folly and tooted their horns as they passed, if my car was parked in the lay-by.   This didn't aid my meditation, but it was good natured and it made me smile.  

Then one evening in March, I wasn't feeling so good.   I felt tired, and generally deflated!    I remembered sitting down beside the tree.   I couldn't honestly say if I was awake or dreaming but I thought I heard a dog barking, and then it seemed to fade into the distance.

I awoke in hospital, thirty six hours later.

“You’ve had an extremely lucky escape Mr O’Maley,” said the doctor, a bright eyed young Indian woman.

“What happened,” I asked.

“I do believe there is a copy of the local newspaper somewhere around, yes her it is,” she said.  “You know you’re quite a celebrity since the story was published. 

“So, what have done?”

“Vell, you collapsed from a combination of exhaustion, and a nasty viral infection.   You may also have suffered a mild heart murmur.”

“So, what made that news worthy?”

“Your friend, Jeffrey Marchant, left the office half an hour after you.   He saw your car parked in a lay-by...   Here, read it for yourself.”   She smiled and handed me the local rag, and there was my ugly mug staring back at me, centre page.   The headline read:

Returning a Favour

Mr Calum O’Maley of Hullbridge, Essex spent the last three months feeding an orphaned fox cub.   But, on one of his feeding visits he collapsed.   The vixen ran out into the road and stopped a passing car driven by Jeff Marchant, Calum’s work colleague and friend.

 The damned thing stood in the road yapping like a dog and refused to move out of my way.   So, I got out of the car and it ran into the trees.   I went to get back into my car and it came out again to see if I was following; all the time it was yapping like Lassie.    So, turning my hazard lights on I followed her, and found my friend Cal lying unconscious under a tree.   I put Cal into the recovery position, and stepped away from the tree to get reception on my mobile phone, to call an ambulance.

Then, as calm as you like, the fox took a packet of sandwiches from Cal’s pocket.   She looked at me as if to say, I’m not a thief, this is my reward for saving his life.

I smiled at the story, but I was still pretty groggy.   So, I went back to sleep.

I could hear voices and somebody said let him sleep; then I smelt the food and opened my eyes, I was ravenous.

“Can I smell food?” I asked. 

Our celebrity is awake,” said the lady with the trolley, returning with two covered plates, a napkin and eating utensils.  “Shepherds pie, steamed broccoli and carrots,” she said with a smile, “would you like some gravy?”   I nodded.   “The pudding is stewed prunes and custard.”   Both plates were left on the tray at the foot of my bed.   I would have to get out of bed to eat.   I ate as though it were Marie’s Lamb stew with dumplings, then I dozed off again.

When next I opened my eyes Marie and Jeff were sitting either side of my bed.

“Damn it!  He’s awake, Marie.   S’pose that means we can’t eat his grapes?”   Jeff reached over and took a handful anyway and proceeded to pop them into his mouth one by one.

“I owe you one pal,” I said, “you saved my life,” I offered him my hand.  He popped the last few grapes into his mouth, wiped his hand on his shirt front and shook my hand.

“Not guilty Cal, if it hadn’t been for your pet fox I would never have stopped!”

At the mention of the cub I jumped up in alarm.    “She’ll be starving by now how long have I been out…”

“Ye’ve no worries on dat score, Jeff and the lads have been taking turns to drop off food fer her,”

Jeff chuckled.   “Last night it was Aziz Khan.   I heard he left Bombay potatoes, Keema naan, and lamb curry.”

I laughed, “Wonder what she made of that?”  

The bell rang, to mark the end of visiting time, so Jeff grabbed another handful of grapes and ran.   “I’ll call in tomorrow Cal, could you get him some black grapes tomorrow Marie?”

Marie leaned over to kiss me. “Do dey allow conjugal visits?”

“I’ll have to ask,” I said, she left me, smiling...

.-...-.

When I was allowed home, I tried to return to the old routine, but the cub was no longer a cub, she was getting bigger. Her visits became less frequent as time passed.   Then one day, towards the end of May, I heard a rustling in the bushes and saw a tiny cub looking back at me.   Its mother appeared and I suddenly realized that she was now full grown.   She pushed the tiny cub with her muzzle, and it approached me, nervously, on unsteady legs, looking back several times.

 What came next was pure magic; there are no other words for it.  The cub thrust its head into my pocket, grabbed the sandwich bag and ran.   So fast it tripped over the bag and turned somersaults in the high grass.   It returned to retrieve the bag, running back to its Mother who had now been joined by an adult male.  They gazed back at me for several moments, then they were gone.

I visit the glade occasionally, but they haven't returned.   I feel sad but elated, because life goes on.

Looking back, that final visit was her way of telling me she was fully grown, with a family of her own and didn't need my help anymore; a final farewell.  

When I told Marie, she said, “Tank god, I don’t have to share yez any more.   Maybe now ye’ll even get home in time for yer meals?  Now dat would be magic!   But, I tink ye’d still be workin overtime.”   She gave me that look.

“Marie, I’ll be late for work!”

She kissed me…

Another failed magazine snippet:

How old are you?

You may be surprised to learn that the person standing before you today didn’t exist eighteen months ago and bears only a passing resemblance to a person you met sometime in the past.

Nails hair and the surface of my skin is composed of dead tissue.   Blood and plasma cells live for about six months, soft tissue for approximately a year.  The cells making up bone live slightly longer, for up to eighteen months.  In fact, the only non-renewable tissue in the human body is in the brain.   When brain cells die they are absorbed by the body and the brain shrinks by an equivalent mass.   All the old tissue is absorbed and excreted or reused in a cannibalistic colony of cells that we know as a human body.   In fact, the only living tissue you can see, when you look at me, is my eyes.

So, if you haven’t seen me for eighteen months you are actually looking at a different person, one you have never met before.   Yet we recognise each other despite the changes; wrinkles witness that many cells occasionally replicate imperfectly.   As you and I grow older, all the cells in our body will stray from the perfection of youth, their original stem cells.   The process is known as ageing; it is why we only have a finite time on this earth and cannot live forever.   Each successive new cell becomes a little less like the original, each mutating slightly from the pattern until the body is no longer a viable colony capable of sustaining life.   The brain cells could live longer because they do not have to continually replicate, but even they cannot live forever.
 

Every time you get drunk, approximately a thousand (non-renewable) brain cells are destroyed – and the brain mass diminishes.

So, now you know why I hesitate, before answering, when asked how old I am…    How old are you?

I wrote this a few months after Nick Leeson brought Barings Bank to it's knees around 1996, tongue in cheek, it's full of flaws and past it's Sell-by date ~ but it still makes me smile:

Backup

Pete crouched over his ancient laptop watching the Windows Screen Saver, repeating over and over until it finally shut down.   He got up and made himself a mug of coffee. 

 “Aaah!”   The strong hot liquid scalded his tongue.  He tapped angrily at the space bar with his thumb impatient for the page to refresh.   Re-reading a dozen lines of 10 point Arial his expression soured.   Hi-lighting the text he pressed the [DEL] button.   After a second more tentative sip of coffee, he sat composing his thoughts, then began to type:

        If he had survived a worse predicament Jake Standon really couldn’t remember when.   He backed towards the edge cutting left and right with his machete, keeping the wild eyed tribesmen out of range.   But, there were seven of them.   As he turned left they closed in on his right, spears levelled, they inevitably drove him closer to the precipice…

“Think Jake,” he said his desperation evident as he willed his key character to come up with some inspired course of action.   He felt a pair of hands come to rest on his shoulders.

“Hit a sticky patch hon?”   Suzie’s husky voice asked.   Her hand reached over his shoulder to pick up his, still steaming, mug of coffee.   He turned and watched in amazement as she drained it in one go.

“How do you do that?”  He asked with incredulity, folding his burned tongue in half, sucking it gently to ease the pain.

She grinned and tousled her short dusty blonde hair.  She was wearing a flimsy figure hugging little black thing with matching slippers.  

She looked so inviting, in the moonlight, in silhouette, against the French windows.

“I’ll get some more coffee,” she offered avoiding his question.  

With two steaming mugs on the table he began to explain Jake’s predicament.

“Usually I write and he seems to find his own way out of these situations.   But, this time nothing!   It’s as if he wants to fall over that cliff.”

“Then let him,” she answered, “just see what happens?”

“But…” he began.

“Do it!”  She said.

He swayed from side to side narrowly avoiding their penetrating attacks, as they relentlessly pushed him backward, his heels were on the brink.   He dare not look down or he would loose his balance; he was close to exhaustion.   He knew in his heart this was the end.   His rear foot slipped right over the edge; he grinned as a sudden, icy calm, acceptance pervaded his mind.   He slashed out attacking; all hope gone.  Staggering forward he fell to his knees but instead of finishing him off his attackers drew back.   The ground shook beneath him.   A crack appeared in the earth, describing an arc around him.   As he watched it widened, edge to edge, separating him from them.   The world tipped at a crazy angle and the lip passed his eye level, in slomo, only then did he glance down…

“That’s good,” said Suzie.

“But, he’s going to die...”

“Maybe, maybe not Pete, have a little faith.   The three of us have been through a lot of late nights together.   We’ve put a lot of miles on the clock but he’s still alive and breathing; figuratively speaking.   I just know he’ll find a way out you’ll see.  Tomorrow is another day.  Now for goodness sake, save it, and let’s go up to bed,” she said.

He looked at her, with admiration and followed without further protest.

  His descent was abruptly interrupted.   He felt a sharp pain between his legs.   The world rotated, through one eighty degrees, but he clung on grimly, with his calves and crossed legs. Raising his hands he grasped the stunted bush that had arrested his fall.   Instinctively he edged in, towards the cliff face, as rocks and other debris hurtled past too close for comfort.   His eyes stung from the excruciating pain, but fortune smiled, and nothing actually hit him.   At the face he realised just how precarious his situation was.  Several of the roots, anchoring the bush, had already torn free from the sparse soil.   He needed to transfer as much of his weight as possible, from the bush, by establishing finger holds on the rock face itself.   For minutes he clung on, sinews stretched and aching; beyond pain.   He could no longer be seen from above, and the silence suggested his attackers had moved on; there was no profit in chasing him, other than to get him out of their territory.   They’d seen him fall so he was no longer an issue.   He cast around, for new finger and toe holds.   He still had to climb back up at least twenty feet.   His machete had gone, with the cliff edge, but he still had the knife sheathed at his hip.   The rock was crumbly, not ideal for climbing, but he was able to make steady progress by cutting into the face with his blade.   Just below the overhanging lip he realised that, because of the unstable nature of the stuff, it wouldn’t bear his weight; another collapse and a fatal fall would be a certainty.  Possibly he could dig in and tunnel up?   He worked on it for close to an hour then, without warning, the face collapsed inwards.  

“Aaah!”   He yelled, falling into a dark oblivion…

                                           .-…-.

“Coffee and muffins, on the table Pete, come and get it!”  Suzie yelled.

“Shit shit shit!”

“What’s up Hon?”

“Stupid laptop won’t boot up.   It just says ‘FATAL ERROR - hardware fault’ - OK!   It’s not bloody OK!   What am I gonna do.”

“Use the machine in the study,” she suggested.

He ate hurriedly gingerly sipping cool coffee as he took the floppy disks into the study.  There was silence for several minutes…

“Shit!”   Two minutes of silence followed his outburst.   “Shit – Dung in a bucket!”  The angry curses continued, like a scratched CD, until Suzie went to investigate.

“What’s happened?”

“The backups are BLANK!” he moaned.

“Hard copy?”

His anguished blank stare spoke volumes.

“Men!”  She said under her breath; shaking her head as she returned to her breakfast.  

.-…-.

Jake hit water, sinking into the deep cold, fast running underground stream; it saved his life.   He was chilled to the marrow and almost out of air when finally he surfaced.   There was light above and as his eyes became accustomed he realised he was in the middle of a river.  

But, at last he’d escaped.   No more Pete throwing him into impossible situations, sending him on crazy missions, at last he could live a normal life.   He’d always fancied himself as a dealer on the Hon Kong, London or New York Stock Exchange; now there’s excitement, he thought.

Its a bone of contention whether this is a scenario, a plot, or a flash fiction story?   Any suggestions...

The Syndicate

   She didn’t really want a job but they needed the money.  Unemployment benefit barely paid the rent it didn’t stretch to putting food on the table.  She was a good mother to her two year old Geoffrey and his six month old sister Allyson, and their well-being was her prime concern.  Money had been tight since Des got laid off when the call centre moved two months earlier.   His job went to India, and he’d been unable to find other employment since; so Tina decided it was up to her.

  Mum had promised to help out by minding the kids while Des was attending interviews.   Her mum was a gem, they would have starved long ago without the money and groceries she provided.

 “I was just passing and I thought you might need something from the shops,” she’d say, but she’d never ask for or accepted any payment.

    The job wasn’t demanding, she was a computer input clerk, dealing with customers and suppliers.   It was a relief from changing nappies and clinic visits, and mum always helped out in any way she could.

   ‘Same-Day Deliveries’ was a small but successful distribution company.   Good work was rewarded so the employees were loyal and committed.   She had been there three months, and proved to be an asset to the business. So, when a mature colleague announced she was due for retirement, and another was promoted, in her place, Tina received an offer of a job in Sales.   It would pay more money but with it came more responsibility.  With little hesitation she decided to take it!

  “Hi Tina, I’ll be the new Team manager starting from Monday, and you will be taking over my responsibilities here,” Janice smiled, “don’t worry you’ll soon get into the swing of things.  Oh by the way as the newest member of the sales team you will be responsible for running the departments’ lottery syndicate.   It’s £2 a week plus you get 10% of any winnings for doing the job.   You will need to collect the money from the girls each week and buy the tickets on Saturday morning.   There are five members and these are our regular numbers,” Janice handed over the list.  “I’m off home now, see you tomorrow.”

  It was Friday evening, when she went to look she found all her colleagues had gone.   She was unable to collect the money for the lottery tickets.   She ran out into the car park in time to watch Janice drive away.   She wondered, should she use her own money, money she could ill afford, to buy the lottery ticket, or should she hope they didn’t win anything?   She checked her purse; she had just enough money to cover the cost.   She didn’t want to alienate her fellow workers before she’d even joined the team so she paid the £10 and stayed home on Saturday. 

 

  At 8pm she sat in front of the TV and wrote down the numbers.   One by one she checked them against the syndicate tickets.   Five – yes, eleven – no, twenty one – yes, twenty nine – yes, ten pounds she thought.   Thirty seven – yes, seventy five pounds, forty three – yes!   Bonus number seventeen – no.   Five numbers, how much would that be she wondered?   If it’s £500 that would be £50 for her, if the winnings are £5000 10% would be £500.   She began to think what she could do with that kind of money.   A new TV would be nice but the kids needed new shoes and Des needs new tyres for his bike.  it would be nice to buy mum something for a change and it would be great to reduce their credit card debts by paying them off.

   She arrived at work on Monday, and all her colleagues were ecstatic. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to buy the tickets if she hadn’t done so her name really would have been mud!   

 

 “Hi Tina,” said Tracy, a broad grin on her face.   “We’ve won the lottery, £7,250, and I get £725 of that plus my one fifth share of what is left!   What a great finish to my last week as syndicate organizer.   But, don’t worry I’ll buy you a drink or two at lunchtime to celebrate our good fortune.”

   At the first opportunity Tina slipped away to her coat and took out the tickets she’d bought.   She checked the numbers again for the hundredth time kissed them and gave herself a little hug; thinking of all the things she would buy with £7,250.

I wrote the following a few years ago, togue in cheek, but it seems appropriate Heh heh!:

Does Writing Pay?

 A silly question!   If it didn’t, nobody would do it would they?

You research your target journal or magazine; get to know the house style by subscribing to, at least, three issues.   You read them from cover to cover analysing their format, content, and target readership.   You get a copy of the contributors’ guidelines then phone to confirm they will accept your submissions.   You work up ideas, writing a synopsis then full length article/story, pull them apart and rewrite two or three times until you are happy they are the best you can do.

   You submit a 300 word article and wait and wait and…   Sometimes you’re lucky you eventually receive an acceptance letter and, a while later, a cheque.   You receive £30 (10p a word) for six hours work that’s £5 an hour.   But you had three other similar articles rejected so that will reduce your hourly pay to £1.25.   The cost of magazines, phone calls, paper, electricity, typewriter ribbon (just kidding) and postage, let’s call it £10 in all.   That makes it 83p per hour, less tax and NI (National Insurance) of course, that's 40%, let’s see that leaves you with just 50p per hour.   But, you know you loved it really, the late nights, the dogged persistence;  Think I’ll keep the day job.  

[But, alas there is no cure for this writing sickness!]

I started this blog at the request of a MOOC course but don't know how it connects?   Watch this space: "Crafting an effective writer: Tools of the trade".  Must be a group thing.
It seems strange to look out a window & see, five feet away, Begonia's in full bloom partly obscured by mist.   The weather forecast says it will be a sunny day; par for the course.

Exercises  Week 2:

Choose one of the sentences listed below to expand by adding logical additional parts of speech (nouns, pronouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositional phrases). Your sentence should be a minimum of twelve unique words.

• The children play.
• The woman walks.
• The sharks swim.
• The flowers bloom.
• The wind blows.
• The computer hums.  

The sharks swim effortlessly around their prey, an injured fellow shark, whose life expectancy can now be measured in a matter of moments.

Exercise Week 3:

Drawing from your observation notes and sentences from Journal Writing Assignments 1 and 2, write a description of the scene you have observed. Use action verbs and active voice in your sentences. Also, keep your verbs in the same tense and maintain correct subject-verb agreement. Your description should consist of 8 or more sentences.

He casts his fly with a practiced flick of the wrist.  His young female companion, sits on a groundsheet content to look on.   Deep in concentration, he is barely aware of the girl, the frost, or the mists rising from both river banks; because the trout are rising.  For the umpteenth time his rod tip dips, just as the sun broaches the false horizon of the forest canopy. He strikes, and the fish runs for the reeds on the far bank.  He carefully eases it away, and starts to reel in slowly; gently, so as not to break the two pound line.  The girl looks on smiling.  She is anxious because they are to breakfast at a delightful local restaurant within the hour.
 "This will be the last one Vera, so would you help me pack away the gear?" He asks.
"Of course Charlie," she smiles again her anxiety gone, "how many did you bag?"
"Three were underweight and had to be thrown back, but these two weigh close to three pounds each, that' a pretty good haul."
She gazes up into the bright cerulean sky, "Oh Charlie it's going to be a gloriously wonderful day!"  

Exercise Week 4:

Discuss in one paragraph the advantages and disadvantages of the place where you live. Use at least one each of the clauses and phrases you studied in the unit. Also, be sure that you include one each of the four sentence types in your paragraph.  Using your knowledge from Unit 3, use action verbs and active voice, keep your verbs in the same tense, and maintain correct subject-verb agreement. Your description should consist of 9 or more sentences.

I live in a village called Hullbridge whose population is around 6,500, it was built in 1614, but there was a bridge over the river Crouch as early as 1240.  We still enjoy open countryside, when work permits,  it's really pleasing to see wild and domesticated animals living side by side in apparent harmony.   I like to rise early most mornings so I can watch as many as a dozen species of birds feeding off my bird table.   However, sometimes invaders from North America, the grey squirrels, make forays into my garden to steal peanuts from my feeders.   In larger communities, towns and cities, the local taxes are higher than they are in villages where the smaller population results in lower expenditure.   Villages seem quieter too, even though people tend to gossip more, they are genuinely friendly and helpful.  Even if farmyard smells are part of country life they are not really too unpleasant; most people tend to get used to them, or move away.   The nearest school is in the next village so the children have to rise early to catch a bus.   The library has a limited choice of books and video's, but there is a much larger selection in the nearby town of Rayleigh.   However to travel you do need a car because the public transport is unreliable.   To eat out you could visit the local public house the Anchor, and we also have an Indian and a Chinese takeaway.   There is no bank, cinema or nightlife in Hullbridge, for those you will need to visit towns nearby such as Chelmsford, Basildon, Colchester or Southend. 

Exercise Week 5:

Choose one of the following four topics to write your final paragraph about:
Topic #1
Discuss at least four (4) short term and/or long term effects that finishing Crafting an Effective Writer: Tools of the Trade will have upon you personally, academically, and/or professionally.
Topic #2
Identify and describe a favorite activity or interest and provide at least four reasons why this activity or interest holds your attention and/or is enjoyable to you.
Topic #3
Identify and describe at least three (3) ways a person, male and/or female, is recognized as an adult in your culture.
Topic #4
Identify and describe a traditional ethnic food from your culture. Provide at least four reasons why this food has remained an essential, primary food in your culture. While you may include the recipe, this topic asks you to discuss the importance of the food in your culture.
First Draft:

For my favorite activity I will choose painting.

Because it's a universal pastime that transcends sex, race, nationality and religious beliefs. 

We have been painting since cavemen first inhabited caves, some would say painting predates language.

Paintings create emotional responses, deep feelings of joy, happiness, and evokes memories in the viewer.

Anybody can paint, even a talentless dauber like me.   What is better than to sit down with pencils and paper to make representational marks that actually resemble something.  Adding color, adds a whole new dimension to the drawing.  Good or bad, it is a deeply satisfying pastime, and if your unhappy with the results you can simply throw them in the bin, knowing that you have still gained something from the experience.

You can progress from colored pencils to soft pastels, oil pastels, watercolor, acrylics, and oils.   All are engrossing and satisfying.  

There are people who have a phobia against art "I couldn't draw to save my life!".  Yet they are happy to draw a map to show a stranger how to get from 'A' to 'B'.

What you can visualize you can paint.  Take a bottle, narrow at the top and wide at the bottom; picture it in your mind, (visualize it), and put it on to paper.   Next think of something a little more complex, a chair.   Visualize it, Draw it, then draw a bottle resting on it, and you have a complex drawing, add color and you have a still life painting.

I find that I become engrossed in a piece of work, the planning, rough drawing, putting it onto paper, board, or canvas.   Then the real work begins.  

In watercolor I do a rudimentary outline in pencil, then color lightly.  Watercolor is transparent, so you have to lay down color light first then progressively darker, finishing with the darkest colors.

Acrylic and oil paint are both opaque mediums, colors can then be laid down in any order.  Acrylic is fast drying, in five minutes it will be capable of being over painted.  Oil paint dries slowly over a matter of days, sometimes longer.  The advantage is that you can scrape off layers and repaint while it is still wet.   Pastel is dry pigment, a delight to work with, you can spread it onto any color paper and spread it with a finger or rolled up paper.   you can overlay or use a putty rubber to remove pigment.  It's the ultimate finger-painting experience, a joy to be involved with.  Especially in collaboration with young children who have no inhibitions; they get it on their hands, face, and in their hair, but it washes off without tears.

Painting is also a form of therapy, it calms nerves, lowers blood pressure and relaxes you.

If I were in a position to choose one occupation to fill the remaining days of my life it would be painting, and all who have experienced the inner peace it brings would heartily agree.

Exercise Week 6:

Revision/Final Submission of your paragraph deadline (your work): Friday Nov. 1 by 10:00 p.m. PST 

An Activity of universal interest.

For my favourite activity I have chosen painting, because it's a universal pastime that transcends sex, race, nationality, and religious beliefs; painting predates language, and people have been painting since men first inhabited caves, and now I will attempt to share my passion with you:

·        Good paintings stir memories in the mind of the viewer, evoking emotional responses, deep feelings of joy, and sadness.
·        Anybody can paint, even a talentless dauber like me.   What is better than sitting down with pencils, and paper to make representational marks that actually resemble something.  Adding color, gives a whole new dimension to a drawing.  Good or bad, it is a deeply satisfying adventure, and if your unhappy with the results you can simply throw them in the bin, and know that you are the richer for the experience.
·        You can progress from colored pencils to soft pastels, oil pastels, watercolor, acrylics, and oils.   All are engrossing, satisfying, and unique.  
·        There are people who say, "I couldn't draw to save my life!"  Yet they are happy to draw a map to show a stranger how to get from 'A' to 'B'; because they already have the journey visualized in their minds.
·        What you can visualize you can paint.  Take a bottle, narrow at the top, and wide at the base.   Picture it in your mind, visualize it, and draw it on to your paper.   Next think of something a little more complex, a chair.   Visualize it, Draw it, then draw a bottle resting on it, and you have a complex drawing; add color, and you have a still life painting.
·        I find that I become absorbed in a piece of work, the planning, rough drafting onto paper, board, or canvas.   Then the real work begins:

      a.    In watercolor I do a rudimentary outline in pencil, then color lightly.  Watercolor is transparent, so you have to lay down your light colors first then get progressively darker, finishing with the umbers and blacks.
      b.    Acrylic and oil paint are both opaque mediums, so colors can be laid down in any order.  Acrylic is fast drying, after five minutes I am able to add another layer of color to my painting. 
     c.   Oil paint dries slowly over days, sometimes weeks.  The advantage is that you can mingle new paint with old or scrape off layers, and repaint them whilst the surrounding pigment is still wet.
     d.   By contrast pastel is a dry pigment, a delight to work with, you can apply it to any colored paper, and spread it with a finger or with rolled up strips of paper known as torchons.   you can overlay color, or use a putty rubber to remove it.  It is the ultimate finger-painting experience.   It's a joy to be involved with, especially when collaborating with young children, they have no inhibitions; they get it on the paper, their hands, faces, and in their hair, but the good thing is, it's easily washed off.

·        Painting is also a form of therapy, it calms my nerves, lowers my blood pressure and helps me to relax after a stressful day.

If I were able to choose one occupation to fill the remainder of my days, I would without a doubt choose to be a painter, and I know that all who have experienced that inner peace would wish to join me, as one. 

I will post my grades when they arrive/...      91.6%