Yesterday I decided to clear out my wardrobe so that I could accommodate the various junk I accumulated whilst at uni. At the back of the very top shelf I discovered a folder of short stories I wrote when I was little. It's nice to unearth a piece of nostalgia like that, but at the same time they make me cringe.
I used to have these three toy dogs called Rolo, Jack and Max. Every now and then I would brave the three hours it took to load up our fridge-sized grey beast of a computer so that I could happily type up stories about their various canine adventures on MS Word '97. Some of the stories are quite short, but I'm not going to recite any of them to you. Instead, here are some of my favourite literary gems, complete with butchered grammar:
I don't know where I got the subject matter for these stories. One is about a tortoise called Christopher Columbus that wears its shell upside down so that people mistake it for a bowl. Another is about a giant dog biscuit that chases the puppies around at night. In another they get detention with Mr. Dread, who proceeds to shout "LET'S PLAY BALL!" and lob a baseball at them. This last one is called "Detention is BRILLIANT!!!!!"
My mum has decided that these stories are proof that I am destined to be a writer. She thinks I should rewrite the stories and get them illustrated. "Seriously, I think you have a future in writing children's books," she says. "Children would love to read about Rolo, Jack and Max."
I know I'm lucky that I have a parent who supports my desire to follow a career that will probably see me living in a box on the street offering to write witty verbal vignettes of passers by for small change. At the same time, it can be a bit overbearing, because she expects me to write a bestseller and I don't know whether I can achieve that. Despite having praise lavished on me by my English teacher at school I have never actually won a competition, had anything published, or generally done anything to prove I have talent. I was rejected for the highly in-demand creative writing module at university and instead ended up with my last choice, feminist literature (joy). And yet she still thinks I'm a genius.
So it's dinner-time and my mum is telling my dad about our discovery. They start to discuss this new plan for my life as a children's writer in detail, while I sit and wonder why they don't plan my wedding and funeral too while they're at it.
"Of course, you're going to have to change the name Rolo," Mum says. "Copyright issues and all. Jack, Max, and...Rollo?"
"Why not introduce some diversity?" says Dad. "Jack, Max and Iqbal!"
"She can't do that! They're brothers. That would suggest they have a mother who is promiscuous."
"It would suggest they have a mother who enjoys celebrating diversity!"
I feel like burying my face in my chicken. The joys of witty dinner-time banter.
I used to have these three toy dogs called Rolo, Jack and Max. Every now and then I would brave the three hours it took to load up our fridge-sized grey beast of a computer so that I could happily type up stories about their various canine adventures on MS Word '97. Some of the stories are quite short, but I'm not going to recite any of them to you. Instead, here are some of my favourite literary gems, complete with butchered grammar:
"Yikes" shouted Max. " I hate spiders, unless they are grilled with cinnamon and garlic... Yum, yum ! ". (Presumably that was a combination of flavours I considered normal...)
"What's going on around here?" the puppies asked Calico, who was promptly sick all over them.
"Ho ! Ho! didn't you know? I do birthdays as well", chuckled Father Christmas.
Rolo suddenly rushed in,followed by a fat ghost smoking a pipe."Hi doods" said the ghost ."Would you like to hear a joke".He diddent wait for a repley."What do cats use to fight?" "catapolts!"."Shut up ghost your annoying me"said Jack.
"What's going on around here?" the puppies asked Calico, who was promptly sick all over them.
"Ho ! Ho! didn't you know? I do birthdays as well", chuckled Father Christmas.
Rolo suddenly rushed in,followed by a fat ghost smoking a pipe."Hi doods" said the ghost ."Would you like to hear a joke".He diddent wait for a repley."What do cats use to fight?" "catapolts!"."Shut up ghost your annoying me"said Jack.
I don't know where I got the subject matter for these stories. One is about a tortoise called Christopher Columbus that wears its shell upside down so that people mistake it for a bowl. Another is about a giant dog biscuit that chases the puppies around at night. In another they get detention with Mr. Dread, who proceeds to shout "LET'S PLAY BALL!" and lob a baseball at them. This last one is called "Detention is BRILLIANT!!!!!"
My mum has decided that these stories are proof that I am destined to be a writer. She thinks I should rewrite the stories and get them illustrated. "Seriously, I think you have a future in writing children's books," she says. "Children would love to read about Rolo, Jack and Max."
I know I'm lucky that I have a parent who supports my desire to follow a career that will probably see me living in a box on the street offering to write witty verbal vignettes of passers by for small change. At the same time, it can be a bit overbearing, because she expects me to write a bestseller and I don't know whether I can achieve that. Despite having praise lavished on me by my English teacher at school I have never actually won a competition, had anything published, or generally done anything to prove I have talent. I was rejected for the highly in-demand creative writing module at university and instead ended up with my last choice, feminist literature (joy). And yet she still thinks I'm a genius.
So it's dinner-time and my mum is telling my dad about our discovery. They start to discuss this new plan for my life as a children's writer in detail, while I sit and wonder why they don't plan my wedding and funeral too while they're at it.
"Of course, you're going to have to change the name Rolo," Mum says. "Copyright issues and all. Jack, Max, and...Rollo?"
"Why not introduce some diversity?" says Dad. "Jack, Max and Iqbal!"
"She can't do that! They're brothers. That would suggest they have a mother who is promiscuous."
"It would suggest they have a mother who enjoys celebrating diversity!"
I feel like burying my face in my chicken. The joys of witty dinner-time banter.
2 comments:
Oh, Emma, you've got me laughing out loud! Good thing no one else is around. Though they're probably used to me laughing at the computer screen by now.
You really are a great writer and I'm sure you're going to get published some day. Not all writers need to write a best seller to be successful, though! I know what you mean about your parents and teachers lavishing you with praise when you can't see why.
I felt so horrible when I didn't place in the writing competitions my teacher convinced me to enter. Yet I was still congratulated to no end. I couldn't understand it! I guess looking back it makes sense. They wanted to prove to me that they still thought my writing was good. Maybe that's the same thing they're trying to do for you?
"Despite having praise lavished on me by my English teacher at school I have never actually won a competition, had anything published, or generally done anything to prove I have talent." I hope you aren't beating yourself up inside because you haven't been published or won a competition. I've been so mean to myself in the past (okay, and in the present) because I'm 'no good at anything' as that annoying little voice inside my head puts it. When I'm done hating myself I feel so foolish!
I love your witty dinner-time banter. There's no question where you get your sense of humor from! If we inherit our parents’ sense of humor it also explains why I'm challenged in that area. My parents are as boring as my math classes were.
I'm glad you've got your blog up. I know you said you most likely won't start writing in it until you go back to uni, but it's going to be a wonderful way to keep in touch.
Thank you for reading and for commenting! We shouldn't feel bad about ourselves when we don't place in competitions - think about the sheer number of people who enter them. At the end of the day it's also about the judges' personal tastes; just because they don't like your writing it doesn't mean it's not good.
And if your parents are borng, you are definitely not Tori! Look at the number of people who read your blog. I think it's really interesting. And my parents can be horrendously unfunny too. I just don't write about those moments!
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