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Hi. I know I should post more often, and I hope those that come here find something of interest.
At the moment I have a job. I am writing the one hundred year history of Shepparton High School. I put in a tender for the job. At the interview I said that I would write the human history of the school. First draft by July this year.
A word of warning, if you should ever consider such a job, be sure its what you really want to do.
Consider the parameters of this job.
100 years of history starting in 1909.
Maximum of 250 pages.
Basically two and a bit pages per year. Several thousand people attended the school during the last hundred years. Almost everyone from the period from 1909 to 1940 has passed away as they say, or, tend to be a bit vague, confused, senile.
250 pages is not enough. What to include, leave out? I really have no idea. There is just so much to tell, so many people with stories, shit, the sports alone would take up a couple thousand pages.
Then there is the question of history itself. History is what really happened, what the people got up to. Should one only write what the powers that be want to hear, or, do you write the truth?
Little things that come out of interviews, like the story of the young female student that was making a start in free enterprise by introducing the male students to sex education on a pay per lesson approach in the packing boxes of the fruit cannery which backed onto the sports field. And this was the forties too.
Would the school council really want the truth in this case? Perhaps not.
The other side is gathering the information, I mean, in this case there is a guy who resembles Sanity Clause walking around the town, stopping people in the street and asking if they attended the high school. (And everybody knows there is no such thing as a sanity clause, thank you Chico Marx)
John Cleese may be the minister for funny walks, but, Id have to be the minister for funny looks.
The other day I went to a reunion in Melbourne and interviewed some fifteen sweet old ladies who attended the school in the fifties. When I got back to Bendigo the car had a flat battery and when I finally got home I found that the microphone had suffered premature death and there was nothing on any of the recordings.
So, you want to be a writer?
The Beginning
It all started when Da'Wayne was born. His mother looked down at the
small bundle the nurse had put in her arms and said `Oh dear! Don't worry
my little man I am sure you will become important one day.'
As Da'Wayne grew up he dreamed of greatness. When he got his first
job he just knew that he was on the path to fame and riches. Standing at the
sink, up to his elbows in dish water, scrubbing pots and pans he would plan
his future. He could see it all...
...He steps out of his Hummer ready for work. He is the
best known trouble shooter for BP Solar. Today's job is a cinch. The worlds largest
solar installation has gone off line and Da'Wayne must find the problem before
the
President's ice cream melts. He opens the back door of his vehicle and puts on
the Solar Power Technicians tool belt, the one that was guaranteed to be just
like the one used by all the top notch tradesmen, slips on the special Solar
Power Gloves and grabs his Wattsup Meter. Walking over to the nearest rack of
panels, he plugs in his metre and... A slap to the head and the angry voice of
his employer saying `Wake up ya dopy bastard, you're fired.'
A New Beginning
As Da'Wayne pushed his broom along he just knew that he was on the
right track for promotion. It was only a matter of time...
...Da'Wayne was proud that his country had called on him for this job. After all he was the best dozer driver anywhere. The army was relying on his skills to get this road through the desert. He would not let them down. Riding the bucking beast
across the trackless waste was just his cup of tea. He was right on schedule,
it had been rough though. He wasted at least an hour when he had to stop and
rebuild the head on the engine with nothing more than a bit of wire and his
trusty Leatherman all purpose tool. He made up the lost time by driving all night
despite the sand storm.
At last, he could see his destination in the distance. Just twelve
more hours and he could rest for ten minutes before he started on the air
strip. He set his square jaw and with a glint in his steel blue eyes he rammed
the throttle full on and... With a slap to the back of his head, the boss
said. `Asleep again you fuzz brained drongo. You're fired.'
Another New Beginning
First day on the job and already Da'Wayne had his own plunger. As he
was plunging away at a blocked toilet he was thinking that the could do
anything. After all if you get your own plunger on the first day you must be
slated for bigger and better things. Yessirie, you don't often get a chance to
learn hydraulics from the ground up every day. Why I bet that
I...
Da'Wayne climbed into his Dodge Ram and set out for an emergency
job in the desert. The call had just come in as he was about to leave for his
vacation. He wanted to say no but the call was from the Governor himself.
`There was nothing for it, the states cactus plucker was broken. Two of the
workers were trapped under a thousand tons of prickly pear. It seems that
there was no pilot operated check valve. Heads would roll,' the Governor said.
At the scene of the catastrophe Da'Wayne grabbed his hydraulic tool
belt (the one that Abercrombie and Fitch guaranteed to be just
like the one used by all the top notch tradesmen) from the back of his truck
and calmly assessed the carnage. `Why lookee there', he said to no one in
particular, `Who would have thought... ' Alas when the boss showed up it was
too late, for Da'Wayne had fallen head first into the toilet and drowned.
While we are on the subject of writing exercises Handed a piece of paper with the words "Purple Envelope" in the class for short stories. Again twenty minutes for a story.
Yeah, it sounds silly and the chances of a master piece are slim. But, as a workout for your imagination it does what it is meant to do.
Give it a try with the words "Purple Envelope" You have twenty minutes.
The Purple Envelope
As I stood there watching as Sara walked down the isle on the arm
of her father I knew I had made the best decision of my life. Her father gave
me her hand and stood to one side as we faced the preacher. I have been
assured that I made all the correct responses, even getting the ``I do'' out
on the first attempt. There was the reception, the telegrams and speeches and
all the rest. But for all the pomp and carry on, of that our wedding day, the
only clear memory I have is of my new brides face and the joy of life shining
in her eyes.
We spent the next two weeks at a ski lodge in Idaho doing what
newlyweds do. We even went out in the snow a couple of times.
The only down side was that when we got home it appeared that we
had had a break in. As far as we could tell nothing was taken but it was still
bad feeling to know that someone had been in our home.
In the next five years we had five children. At this time we
bought a larger house. As I was dismantling the bed for the move to our new
home I found a purple envelope stapled to the under side of it. I pulled the
staples out and opened the envelope. Inside was a silver disk about
seventy-five mm across. It was a master piece of the engravers art. In the
center was a hexagram of intricate design with superb detail. Around the
outside of the hexagram was engraved ``To my friend, may you prosper''.
Old man Bercht, one of the best engravers that ever lived, had died the year before. His daughter, Sara, had won gold
for the marathon at two consecutive Olympics. I carefully replaced the silver
disk in the purple envelope and put it in my pocket. In the end we bought a
new bed for the new house and while I was putting it together I stapled the
purple envelope to the underside. We had four more children. We prospered.
Was it cheating? I don't know.
When I finally decided that I should actually learn something about the craft of writing and signed up for the Professional Writing and Editing course, little did I know what insanity awaited me.
For one thing I thought we would be taught. Silly me. What I actually found was that I was expected to teach myself
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Mr Inigo Charles Jones.
Thats right.
I am your late grandfathers solicitor and pursuant to his wishes I am to deliver this letter to you by hand
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Back again.
First I would say a bit about Orble. I received an email from Orble asking if I required help with anything as I had not posted for awhile
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He found himself, scarce knowing where, nor, even why,
A pilgrim upon a road of red dust near the town of Gundagai
It was a long road for the drovers quest
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Writing poetry has been described as various things. From, A gateway to the heart/soul to manic depression.
Me, Im a reluctant poet, probably because poetry is driven by lifes experiences. Not all are sweet and light. There are the dark, the things that eat at your soul, defile your inner being. And yet, these things from the darkest pits can inspire love poems
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Slip on the leathers and wheel out the bike
turn the key the beast comes to life
the road sings its siren song
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Comments (2)
Comment by Bullamakanka
on Random Transmission from Bells Clearing
Hughie's Ziff
Bagman's Gazette
I have half a book and a deadline in July for the first draft. A new tale of "Woe is me" at Bagmans Gazette.
Some days it is better if you just stay in bed!
George