In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Childhood Revisited.”
I had a good childhood. Mum and dad always did what they could for me and my four siblings, and always gave us love. We are a very close family.
I was taught a hard work ethic from a young age. I was taught to think for myself, but was told never to be afraid to ask for help. Sharing and caring are two values that make the world go round.
Discernment is a valuable trait as well.
If I can go some way to pass these things on to my daughter, then I think that’s a good thing. She is a teacher to me too: she is fearless at embracing everybody with love, she has no ego. My dream is for her to follow her own path, to embrace that which makes her unique; I’ll support her all the way.
Love the world and everything in it. As it was said in one of the Bill and Ted films: “Be excellent to each other”.
I’m a Lefty through and through. I use a capital L because I’m chuffed by this. It’s part of what makes me tick, how I’m hard wired; it’s what makes me – well – me.
I saw a petition online a couple of years ago that said it was time left-handers should be given minority status in the UK. At first, I thought it a bit far-fetched, but when you delve a bit deeper and see how oppressed lefties have been in history you can see a case for the argument: it’s well known in yonder times that if somebody was left-handed then they were considered a witch; there’s stories from Victorian times – and after, I think – about people being forced to write with their right hand.
On that last point, I read on a website that children that were forced to write with their right hand suffered emotional distress as a result, even mental health issues in later life. It appears to be down to the possibility that one part of our brain’s is more dominant than the other, so when somebody is forced to write with their other hand, they are basically – albeit unconsciously – going through a re-wiring process.
It all got me thinking, though: if I could train myself to write with my right hand in a stress free way, could I then bring more balance to myself as a person. This afternoon I started to write anything that came into my head and it’s helped me come up with an idea for a story. Chuffed! Writing with my opposite hand has given me another creative outlet at the very least.
I’ve since thought that if I write with my right hand too often, then it might have some negative effects on my brain – a bit paranoid, maybe? – but now and again can’t do any harm; and, in a worse case scenario, if I broke my left arm, then I would still be able to carry on righting…I mean writing.
Reading back over the above, I think it’s fair to say that there’s a kookie thought pattern to this. But if that kookie-ness comes from the same brain that makes me left-handed, then that’s okay.
It’s just good to know Righty is there in a supporting role.
…or should I call myself a WordPressian!
I feel that my writing exploits have been enriched and encouraged by other citizens of this virtual empire. Connecting with other writers really does give me a buzz for writing all the more.
Sure, I’ve had one or two gaps, but I’ve kept coming back. I wrote a couple of weeks ago that I found it important to break myself back in gently this time around. The Daily Prompts have indeed kept me ticking along. And then today….Ta Dah! I’ve finally edited a story to a level I’m happy with.
I’m going to send this to an author, Jessica Grace Coleman, who has been editing some of my work. I feel that using Jessica’s service has really benefited me as I can compare and contrast the changes made with my pre-edited piece, then incorporate the lessons I’ve learnt into my next piece of work.
(Her Little Forest novels are well worth a read as well!).
Getting into poetry has also been something that has surprised me this year. I’ve put together a little body of work. Sometimes I think my efforts can be a little bit clunky, but writing in different styles and looking at things in different ways has given my story-telling a bit of depth as well.
I love writing. I just want to keep pushing myself. Thinking back, even when I was off the website for about a month I still was writing a lot in other ways; or is that just me trying to justify my absence. Still, it doesn’t matter now because it’s the present where I’m at.
Just a little every day – there’s a lot to be learned from those words.
Cheers Everybody. Enjoy you’re writing.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Green-Eyed Monster.”
Dear Soccer Dog,
Yes, I know who you are. Popping up on either side of the pitch like the footballing hound that you are.
You may have beaten the English Premier League champions in your first movie; and won the European Cup in your second. However, your career is hopelessly flawed:
1) You do not wear regulation soccer boots. No right-minded referee would allow you on the field of play.
2) That ball you are meant to be dribbling is obviously an added special effect given the low budget of the movie. So, in fact, you are just running up and down – nothing else.
3) As a dog it is obvious that at any given moment you would not be able to resist the urge to wee up against a corner flag or goal post. The oversight by the script writers, producers and other individuals involved in the making of this film is not mind-blowing; it’s laughable.
In concluding, I suggest you stick to chasing sticks.
My cat would run rings round you.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man.”
Yep, I tend to not spend more than £20 on a pair of trousers; I spend no more than £10 on t-shirts and jumpers.
I much prefer to use the money to pay for trainers and comfy shoes – they are about my only excess in life.
I have a dilemma if I see clothes I like in a high street shop and I know that chain has links with the child labour market: do I buy an item of clothing knowing I’m funding the continuation of child labour?; or can I take solace in the possibility that a child gets a wage (even if it is low pay), somewhere (safe?) to sleep and food?
It’s something I’ve never been able to get to grips: if I do buy an item from an outlet of a company with links to child labour, then I imagine the fat cats at the top of the business and the factory owners laughing; yet, if I don’t buy an item, I think of the children having less of a (very minimal) wage and struggling to work long hours.
It’s a Catch 22 because there have been times when I’ve bought an item and times when I haven’t. I always try to do it with the kids in mind.
I try to keep informed about these sorts of things, but I’m not so sure I’m as clued up as I could be here.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Green-Eyed Lady.”
1) People on holiday when I’m at a garden centre
3) People that bow to requests written on mangoes
4) Anybody who’s got their Amazon delivery on time cos I’m still waiting for mine.
5) People who write to Amazon with requests written on mangoes demanding they get sent their delivery today
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Your Life, the Book.”
*** I often wonder what future generations of my family might think of me. Here is an excerpt from a book that will be published in the year 2090 by a descendant of Bruce Campbell after not so lengthy interviews with my great granddaughter Ruth. ***
Shards of light pierced through the tattered curtains, giving Ruth the chance to carve a pathway through the hordes of boxes and bric-a-brac. The attic had been empty a long time now, past memories buried under piles of dust.
Ruth made out three leather-bound books perched on top of a vanity table. She shone her torch, taking care not to trip over miscellaneous items strewn across the floor. As she wiped the cover of the top book, the title became clear: ‘My Memories And Other Stuff: Volume 1’.
Ruth pulled a dust sheet off a nearby armchair, settled in and opened the cover of the book. Her great grandfather’s face beamed back at her from a photo stuck down on the inside cover. Ruth turned the page, not knowing what she was throwing herself into.
After pouring through the three lengthy tomes, Ruth straightened herself up and declared, ‘My great granddad was a plonker!’
And she left, never to return.