Why do we write?
There are many reasons why people write. I asked some of the Young Writers why they
write and most of them are quite common; passes time, enjoyment and because we
have to.
But those really aren’t the reasons for a true writer. Some say that the whole process is
comforting and that it can help them analyse their thoughts and themselves. While
others feel that being in control and creating things is their main reason.
Often people write as a way of getting their opinions down without hurting anyone, as a
way of getting their point across.
There are some that have to write because their brains keep going and ideas spill out,
without writing their head may explode or go into overload. Spontaneous human
combustion.
For me personally if I didn’t write then I wouldn’t live, for to live is to write and experience
things that may not have even been discovered. I also like to please people, many
writers write in order to please people or gain a profit but if you don’t enjoy it then you
would feel empty, despite your hopefully growing bank account.
If when you write there is no passion then the words will never come to life.
Finally there are those who write to get back at someone, I call those labour party
politicians and journalists aka liars and money grabbers.
Remember there is a thin line between fiction and revenge.
Sara Sivan-Whitehouse, 16
Why do I write? What makes me write? I think it’s because I can’t face myself. Writing, I
no longer have to look in the mirror. I don’t have to listen to myself, I don’t have to watch
myself do the things I do, hear the things I hear, feel the things I feel. I don’t want to
have to face myself, because I know I won’t like what I see. I write because I can escape
being me, just for the time being. I don’t need to conform to anything, I can be whatever I
want to be. I can be somebody else, I can shape something else’s destiny. I have
control.
I can’t help feeling responsible for all the things I’ve done, whether they’ve been
intentional or not. I can’t help feeling that it’s all somehow my fault, that somewhere
along the way, I’ve been given a chance I’ve ignored. So I write. I write because I don’t
have to be me when I do. The words on the page don’t have to be mine. I can be
invisible, unneeded. I can be the blank piece of paper – I have no effect on anything. I’m
tired of looking in the mirror and seeing the same tired face every time. I’m tired of
feeling like I do for no reason, tired of knowing that I’m supposed to be happy and
friendly to everyone, when all I want to do is scream. I’m tired of feeling this sort of
sordid self-pity – that somehow, I’m not to blame at all, even though I know I am. I’m
tired of the bitter taste that seems to come with everything. I’m tired of knowing that I’m
going to do it all over again and mess up before long, so I write.
I write because it seems to offer me release. I can pour everything out onto a page,
where the ink runs into the pulp and stays forever: a constant marker. I like to think of
the pages as the ball of wool that I’ve tied to the exit; as I delve further into fuck knows
where, I can drag myself back again if it all goes too far. I want to see if it can all turn out
a little better somehow, but I seem constantly pulled towards somewhere I don’t want to
go.
I write because it looks like it’s all I’ve got. The pages don’t judge me, the ink doesn’t
laugh, and I feel like I can befriend the people I create. I can mould them into whatever I
feel, and although I feel no pride in it, no satisfaction, I like to think it helps. It seems to
show me that I can do something without making a mockery of it all, and I seem to be
able to escape reality and sink into a world where nothing has to be like it is.
I write because I can create a perfect world, where everything is idyllic, and unchanging,
or I can create a realistic world, where everything goes well, before falling on its face and
putting everyone back to square one. Where things look so good on the outside, even
the inside, but always leave a residue that seems uncleanable. Where people look at
each other with dead eyes and empty hearts, always looking for something, and never
finding what they need. Where it looks like salvation comes swiftly, but is really an uphill
struggle for anyone who has a shred of decency and integrity about them. Where all
around them, happy people can be who they want to be without any fear. I write because
I have control.
I write because I feel a compulsion. I don’t write for enjoyment – I write because I have a
burning desire to do so. I write because I can, because I am given the grades that reflect
my ability. I write because I’ve been given this ability, either by a God I refuse to believe
in, or by some other means. I write because I want to know that there are other people
who feel like me. That there are other people in worse situations. I write because I’m not
proud of myself. I write because this constant self-pity shows me how unfair and
ungrateful I am that I’ve been given all I have. I write because it shows me that I’m not
the only one, that I am one of many who feel like I do. I write because it lets me see the
other people around me. I don’t want to be the only one. I don’t want to carry on
wondering what might be if I actually tried to conform to everyone’s expectations. Maybe
I can’t. Maybe I’ve been doomed to fail from the start, an experiment to see just how far
you can push a human being before they snap.
And so I write.
David Jones, 18
What the Writing Group Means to Me
We realized that everybody in the group seemed to enjoy our weekly meetings, but we
weren’t sure which part of the group appealed to people most. This interested us…what
made people come every week? Why do they seem to get so much out of it? To find out,
we asked some members of our group the same question - ‘What does the writing group
mean to you?’ Here are their responses:
It means I can get my Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award! It’s helped me improve my writing
and get another piece published. I know it sounds a bit cheesy, but - more friends, more
confidence, and great fun AND away from schoolwork, which is mounting up on my
desk! Something else for my CV/reference, to try and get me into university which, at the
moment, I’m failing at! (Helen)
It’s a nice social thing, and the writing part is good as well! The food’s nice! (Ruby)
Errm…tortilla chips and salsa! Writing about random things that I wouldn’t have thought
of otherwise. FRIENDSHIP and LAUGHTER! Free notepads! INSPIRATION! (Hannah)
Meeting new people and trying new things that I wouldn’t normally get to do. Meeting
authors! (Fran)
I came to the group because I like writing and this has good opportunities for becoming a
writer. I would like to become an author who writes novels. (Laurel)
Doughnuts… mmm! Also, because I don’t have much spare time, for example GCSEs,
it’s a chance to write something other than Romeo and Juliet. It makes you feel more
relaxed by doing something you enjoy. (Ruth)
Even if I didn’t come to the group, I would still write, but here I have a chance to meet
other people that are interested in writing and to show my writing to others, and it’s good
seeing others writing. I’ve also met loads of new people and there are snacks of course,
which are a major part of the group -obviously. Also, it’s a place where no matter who
you are, you can be yourself, whoever yourself may be. (Eilidh)
Fantasy Novelists’ Opinion Column
Being a writer is the closest you can get to schizophrenia without being locked up, and
nowhere is this more true than in the fantasy genre. Fantasy writers are, quite frankly,
closet nerds; people who shrink away from a life of (apparent) teenage binge-drinking
and parties or turn on their rock music (not ‘cool’ enough for the emo scene, nor
consistently heavy enough for credibility), and daydream of angels, dwarves, vampires
and dragons. People who would rather stay in bed and muse over odd dreams, than get
up to straighten their hair or obsess over the colour co-ordination of jewellery. People
who spend their school life doodling in the backs of exercise books and attempting to
make up alien languages so that one day those cosplaying convention members will be
talking in their language - not Klingon or Tolkien elvish. They lurk around Internet forums
and dream of their own cult-based websites where they too can claim fame over ‘the
blue nowhere’ that is cyberspace. Their world is not here, and they generally breeze
through in a daze until homework drags them back to reality with a bump.
Alright, perhaps we’re not all as odd as me, but like most young writers, not only can
fantasy writers be socially awkward, but they are also afflicted with the problem that if
they ever talk about their ideas to their friends they are met with glazed, confused faces.
(I myself have given up trying to explain an entire angel hierarchy to my friends.) You
see, with fantasy there is always the suspicion that you’re reverting to childhood; that
you’re just playing at being a novelist. While family sagas or crime dramas are adult,
serious and potentially enlightening, fantasy and sci-fi can often be viewed as an
indulgence – more like a comic book than a ‘proper’ novel.
This isn’t true for me – and it shouldn’t be true for you either. Terry Pratchett put it
perfectly; he said that writing a novel is like painting a picture, but fantasy writers have a
few more colours to work with – and who would turn down more colours?
Perhaps the criticism is due to how easy it is for fantasy writers to make cringe-worthy
slips. After all, when you make up your own worlds and people from scratch, you can
also open yourself to the danger of falling into clichés or (at worst) the unreadable farce.
Even when there’s the possibility of bug-eyed monsters, you have to be careful to stay
as rooted to the real world as other novel writers.
Although I’m a young writer and have never been published, I love to write fantasy/sci-fi.
Hopefully I can share some of what I’ve learnt to help any potential fantasy writers, or at
least offer hope to the unconverted.
Tip 1 – Keep it real
The great thing about fantasy is that it can take you anywhere; however, readers are
rarely interested in complete flights of fancy into cloud cuckoo land. That’s not to say you
can’t be creative, but often the weirdest things can be the most effective because
authors ‘keep it real’. If a reader can’t see something they recognize in your fantasy
creatures, then they will quickly lose interest. Even the weirdest looking deep-water fish
is affected by the laws of nature and physics. Just look at the structure of your hand, for
example. You have 5 fingers and a bony mass for your palm. You can see this structure
in a fish’s fin, a horse’s hoof, a bat’s wing. The best fantasy has these consistencies – it
is based in fact. I remember researching the fantasy/sci-fi novel I’m trying to write. I
spent a whole day figuring out how many times the speed of light my space ships would
have to travel to reach Pluto in a few hours. The readers will probably never even notice,
but attention to detail is an important component.
Tip 2 – Characters: even if they’re an alien, they’re still ‘human’.
In drawing your characters, realism is key. If a reader doesn’t have any characters they
can empathize with, then the story is list. Be your character a vampire, elf or alien, they
must have a degree of humanity. How would you characterize a normal human in any
other genre of writing? Any writer should know to avoid 2D characters; characters must
have hopes, fears, hobbies and insecurities, drives and reasons behind their actions.
Heck, even the angels themselves had doubts - just look at Lucifer! Dean Koontz is an
author I always look to for realism in fantasy. No matter what happens to his characters
(be it a dimension-hopping boy or a serial killer) they are always very grounded,
interesting and usually likeable. Another master of this is Terry Pratchett in his Discworld
characters and settings. Although his settings are extremely imaginative, both the places
and people maintain realism (and are often hilarious parodies of humanity). Balance is
key and can give life to your fantasy stories.
Tip 3 - ‘Xyzdenqzksr’ is not a name…
One of the biggest bugbears for fantasy writers is names. They can make your story
either interesting, perhaps exotic, or pretentious and confusing. You can easily get
carried away with weird names; after all, you don’t have as many restraints as most
‘normal’ writers. If you’re making up your own cultures and races, then who makes the
laws of language? You do. But – and this is a big but - you can easily end up looking
like a fool if you ignore these points:
• Don’t make your names too long – the reader doesn’t want nor need a name 17
syllables long. It’s boring, confusing and oh so pretentious.
• Don’t just slam your hand on the keyboard to make a name. It actually helps if you can
pronounce it. ‘Xyzdenqzksr’ is not a good name! No, I don’t care how weird your alien is
– don’t do it. You just won’t be taken seriously.
• Try to link your name to established words, or at least keep it within the normal scope
of human language (preferably English, if your audience will be primarily English
speaking.) For example ‘Qu’ would be preferable in most cases. Again, say it out loud,
get a friend to read it and say it out loud, and check that it’s easily understandable. If
your reader can’t pronounce a name in their head, they’re falling over hurdles, therefore
slowing down the pace, and getting frustrated.
For example, I tried to keep my names in my fantasy/ sci-fi book relatively simple, and I
think they’re pronounceable (so far I haven’t had troubles in my writing group). Here they
are:
Kaisa Smith: Her first name is a bit exotic (in keeping with the futuristic setting) but is
limited to two syllables. ‘Kai’ is a relatively well-known Japanese sound. Her second
name is so bog standard, it balances out her name. People seem to like it – they can
relate to her more easily. Though she is set 400 years in the future, she is human.
Human surnames tend to carry across centuries too – don’t be afraid to use them.
Kero: Again simple. It links with ‘hero’ too, which is useful.
Tyran: A ‘proper’ alien character. Nevertheless, his name is simple and links nicely to
‘Tyrant’ which is what I based it on.
Veretrix: a longer name, but the syllables are relatively simple and pronounceable. The
name is more detailed and gives some indication of his intelligent, reserved character.
Xenon: I used this directly from an English word. Xenon is an unreactive gas, which is
ironic considering that this is my explosive, insane baddie character.
I would say that these rules also apply to alien/non-human languages you create, but to
a lesser degree. Remember that less is more. When characters are using your own
language in the book, don’t constantly drag your readers to appendices – they need to
know what you’re talking about quickly or they lose interest.
(Yes, making alien languages is fun - I know, I spend far too much time on them, but be
sensible in using them.)
My tips are perhaps simplistic, but I hope any budding fantasy writers find them useful.
The greatest part of fantasy writing is that you can really use your imagination and enjoy
yourself – it’s pure escapism. After all, you have a full spectrum of literary colours to play
with. I know I do my best to use them all. I hope you will too.
Leanne Williams, 18
Arvon Residential
A week to just focus on writing sounds pretty great doesn’t it? Spending that week in a
lovely old house in the middle of beautiful countryside makes it even better, and so does
having workshops with interesting writers that make you try new things with your writing.
Jean Sprackland has written two books of poetry, with a third out later this year. She has
also worked with Mandy Coe on a book about working with schools. David Armstrong
has written several crime novels and a book called How not to write a novel, about
getting published. Jean and David were our tutors, and both ran workshops every
morning.
Jean’s first workshop was to write a poem that showed what an object was thinking,
what it dreamed of, how old it was etc. As we were allowed to choose anything from the
house to write about, the poems were very varied. One that particularly entertained
everyone was an interview with a kettle and a plant, but they were all interesting.
We were also shown poems where something we take for granted changed, and we had
to write our own. Beverley and Zoe really liked this workshop, as they liked the poems
that came out, and Zoe thought it was an “inspirational” workshop. Everyone else did
deep and meaningful poems about people never dying, or not being able to talk, or it
being day all the time. What did I do? Toast now lands butter-side down. Yes, that was
the best I could think of, but hey, I liked it.
Animal poems were another workshop. There were quite a few cat ones, and I am going
to blame Ted Hughes for that. Not the writer, who lived in Lumb Bank where we were
staying, but Ted Hughes the cat who lives there now. Several cats called Ted Hughes
have lived there since the person. The current incarnation is a girl, but she’s called Ted
anyway.
After a journey where the coach got lost, a long walk down a hill with heavy bags, and
the prospect of a week with people who I was sure were nice, but I didn’t know, I wasn’t
feeling that great. But when a small black cat appeared, I felt better. Ted was always
hanging around, enjoying the warmth of the fire and so many laps to choose from.
Anyway, back to the workshops. Big Dave, as he became known (so he wasn’t confused
with Medium Dave and Little Dave) had several writing exercises to do with newspaper
stories about deaths and robberies. Adam enjoyed it, and River liked having an
opportunity to do some detective work, as she normally sticks to poetry. What a
murderer might think as they wait to be caught, or a conman might think as he drowns,
aren’t the easiest things to write, although Hannah thought the second one was fun, but
they are interesting pieces of writing once they’re done.
He gave us the beginning of a story where a woman knocks over a boy in her car but
doesn’t call anyone and drives away, and we had to carry it on. Sara said it was “fun,
interesting, and people had good ideas”. Mine didn’t work too well, as it went in a
direction I hadn’t really planned. She started as a grief stricken woman and ended as a
bloodthirsty murderer with a body in the boot. Ah well.
Jean and Big Dave would also read any work we had brought with us and give feedback,
which was very helpful. They ate with us, spent evenings with us by the fire and watched
our play. They really helped to make it an enjoyable week, and I’d like to say thanks.
But wait, I hear you cry, what is this play that you speak of? Well, a few people were
interested in script writing. As there were no workshops on script writing, they decided to
write a play. A group of us, about five, wrote a twenty minute play in two hours. We
rehearsed as we went along and performed the evening after we wrote it, which was the
last night. It was “fantastic” and “spectacularly performed”.
The play was called Thank god for control + z, which had nothing to do with the story at
all. Kai asked for a name, and Callum was at the next computer. Someone had written a
poem and not saved it, and by leaning on the keyboard, he had managed to delete most
of it. However, by using control + z, he got the poem back. Just after Kai asked for a
name, Callum said “Thank god for control + z” and the name was decided.
So, Thank god for control + z was a comedy murder mystery, which begins at a poker
game (to have an excuse for all the poker we’d been playing in the evenings), where
four of the characters are introduced. After the scene, one of the poker players, Sarah
Jane, is brutally murdered in the night. Well, you can’t be gently murdered, can you?
A stupid Detective Inspector is called in to solve the murder, accompanied by his
assistant and his dog Lassie, who he pays more attention to than his long-suffering
assistant, Flopson. DI Spiggot interviews all of the suspects, but he arrests the wrong
person. However, Lassie the dog, who can speak French, use computers, drive cars and
fill them up with petrol, although not the right kind, works out who the real villain is.
Unfortunately, after being released from prison by Lassie, the wrongly accused Tarric is
murdered by Hubert before he can reveal that Hubert is Sarah Jane’s killer.
Hubert is taken away, while Crystal cries over Tarric’s lifeless body. And that’s the end,
apart from a random disco scene, where Tarric’s body is still on the floor. People have
said it was “intriguing”, that they “laughed their socks off”, and Hannah (who was Sarah
Jane and Flopson), said “I was the star, of course it was good”. Although many people
have said that Lassie outshone everyone on stage, and she never even comes on it. So,
I reply to your cries, that is the play that I speak of.
Ruby Osborn, 14
Residential
(for Bethany)
On Wednesday we walked three miles to buy
lemonade.
Through the bright woods we skip
and leap off each others’ nonsense.
We spin out German, Spanish, French,
Norwegian, because we all smile
laughing
in one language,
so it doesn’t matter.
Waking up together we
sprint excitedly through mornings,
delighting
in the ordinaries the every-days of everyday.
Faces seem softer now you know them
creased up with early and worn out with
sleep.
In the evenings we sprawl, piled like sleepy
cats nuzzling and
dozing on each other.
We don’t grab at scraps,
racing through borrowed allotments
to find the time.
We’ll never know each other like this again,
but there’ll be space enough tomorrow
to say what was missed today.
Faye Green, 18
There’s something strange about this place. Maybe it’s the atmosphere. Maybe it’s the
simplicity. Maybe it’s the fire. But something brings the people into a different state of
mind. People seem to change here. This world is a friendly one amid a sea of troubles.
The hills and the track and the river and the village. It’s what gives this place value.
We hide here. From the thunder and flashing brightness of the world in which we live.
And we live here.
From the sunrise over the hills - the first bright catch of orange beauty, and when the air
is clear and fresh and clean from the night, we live here.
Sitting around an old used table, with computers and work and the outside world
forgotten, we live here.
This place is where the pen and the paper and the flow of words into stained white
means everything.
This place is where music comes even without instrumental help. Where we hide from
the world.
This is where we find a place to make our own world a tiny place. The whole earth is
just a house on a hill and a sunrise that radiates life and living.
And it pulls us away from the tasks we have and makes the weight of living a life a
bearable task and brings us closer to the words that we write.
David Jones, 18
The following piece was written while on the Arvon Residential Course during February
2007.
The Spider
The spider is a timebomb,
Concealed in its own transparent web.
It exists in its own bespoke world.
Interlocked vines disguise its intricate home.
It waits A unique moment!
Insects wander along,
It scurries and scatters until it captures its food.
The bomb goes off!
Adam Bradford
Arvon Review
“There’s something about this place … maybe it’s the fire” (David Jones) and with those
words the heart of Arvon was unlocked. The fire. Not for what it was but for the power is
had on us all. It brought people together in opinions and sparked debate. The lighting of
the fire each night united us and burned new ideas and inspiration into our skin. When it
breathed the whole house breathed and when it slept, we did.
We all went to Arvon with different expectations, each searching for a personal outcome.
Yet most came away with more than they bargained for. For some it was just how they
thought, and for others it was beyond any of their initial expectations.
It was a perfect place to just escape and forget about the outside world. The country
setting was beautiful, with views you could stare at forever. Totally entranced. Even the
nearest shop was a good walk away, through the mischievous terrain and endless
forest; the journey offered another fuel for humour. It was the perfect escape, the perfect
place. The history of the building seemed to raise new ideas; some even believed the
spirit of Ted Hughes lived on through the cat!
But the part that stood out most in my memory of Arvon, was the evenings. Whether this
was the cheerful, even festive tradition of the nightly poker game, or the re-occurring
dispute over music choice (a topic which some how involved all present in the room at
that moment). But there was one image that really springs to my mind each time I
reminisce on this experience. The room is dark and the fire is burning feverishly and
greedily. Every person in the house is brought into the close proximity of this one room.
Cosy, the air has a friendly odour and all have been reduced to a lazy calm. It is our time
to listen, and listen we do. There seems to be a look on some of the older members that
makes it seem that this is a living to them. Each crafted word sinking in, stripped to the
bone so all its meanings are clear. I feel like we are children at story time within the
family. I feel all that is missing is a pipe in David’s hand!
Each night, we would sit in this room and listen to different readings. Work from our
workshop leaders, sometimes work from others.
Then there were the nights when we read from our favourite authors’ work. Extracts we
felt connected to. And towards the end, we read from our anthology. Sharing our own
personal reading from some of the pieces we had managed to craft! It was exhilarating
to finally share the outcome of our visit.
But the thoughts we all had at this point I cannot say. It would be a sin even to attempt to
generalize because I feel everyone reacted differently to everything the house arose.
The personalities of each person were so varied, and so wonderfully intriguing that
individuality was accepted and not shunned for once. Even to wake up in the morning to
the kind melody of the piano and the harmonious solo would be enough to strike awe
and envy into any outsider.
Yes, Arvon truly was a place where anything could happen. A tone that could not be
captured anywhere else. And even if we went back and repeated the week exactly the
same, down to the very last word. I am sure there would be new surprises.
When asked what their thoughts on the trip were, the young writers had a range of
responses. From the “atmosphere, and lack of distractions [aiding with] writing” to an
overall “peaceful and fun experience”. Many enjoyed the experience of the cooking of
the evening meals, a responsible and hilarious event. It seemed working “head to head
with other writers” and spending time to “listen to others work, and be with them as they
were crafting it” were some of the other aspects which made Arvon such a success. But
it all boiled down to being a fantastic and memorable event all round. Quoting from
many: “It was a pity we couldn’t stay longer!”
And with those words I feel I can accurately conclude how our journey to Arvon helped
to develop our confidence and skill as writers, but also our social enjoyment. It was one
hell of a week!
Zoe Cox, 16
Eating with the neighbours
The people who live next door
Eat at very funny times
Supper at the crack of dawn
And elevenses at nine.
They start to get quite peckish
When it comes to three or four
They always have two helpings
And often go back for more.
Lunch is served at half past five
And usually means toast
Soon followed by nothing short
Of a full-on Sunday roast.
And some nights you can hear them
If you listen really well
As they eat their midnight feast
Of strange cakes that shops don’t sell.
My mother says it’s madness
Though I really can’t agree
I think it’s a super plan;
Can’t wait till they invite me!
Jennifer Durrant, 15
192.169.0.1
I am not a number. I am a letter.
I don’t have a whole or decimal place
I don’t have a multiple or mathematical grace.
I am not divisible
Into my constituent parts
I need only ink
To create my marks.
I am on my own - I need no sign
Multiply, add, subtract - they’re not mine.
I have no way to give myself value
But I need no equals to show it to you.
A number will always need others to be
But I am a letter - I need only me.
Numbers try to give the answer to you
But all I ask - “Is the question true?”
A number is either right or wrong
A number cannot make a song
Or break a heart - but a letter can
A number only follows a plan
One plus one must equal two
But with a letter - that’s just not true.
David Jones, 18
Winning the Photofiction Writing Competition
By Laurel Quinn, age 12, 29 March 2007
There was a mysterious letter on the table. A postcard with my name on it. I don’t usually
get mail, so this was a surprise. I picked up the card wondering if it was one of those
junk mail cards you get through the post about the new window-cleaners down the road
or when your next charity collection will be. But it wasn’t.
It had a picture of some library on it and when I flipped over the side there was a sticker
which said: “You have won the 11-13 category for the Photofiction Writing Competition.
Congratulations. You will receive your prize at the presentation in November.”
I stared at the paper in my hand. I’d won the Cube magazine story-writing competition!
The one where you had to look at a picture and then write something about it. I
remembered picking one of the photos - one with an elderly couple sitting on a bench
looking out to sea. This gave me inspiration - I imagined they were in Cornwall, and that
the photo had been taken almost as a mistake, or by a small child. My family had said
the story was good - but never in a million years did I think I’d win!
And so the next few weeks all I could think of was the prize-giving presentation and the
fact that I’d won! I didn’t even think about the fact there was an overall prize.
On the night of presentation I was really excited. It was a Take the Mic event which
meant any young writer could go and perform their work in front of a microphone. I
listened to people read their writing - they were all very good and soon it was time for a
break. Afterwards was the presentation of the awards.
I was so nervous. When my name was called out, I received a writer’s kit - loads of cool
pens and notebooks for budding writers. Then Beverley Ward stood up to announce the
overall prize. It was me! I was amazed, I couldn’t believe it! The prize was a silver iPod
Nano, something I’d always wanted! Then Beverley told me to perform my winning
piece, which was called Janet. I’m a bit shy so I wondered what people would think of
my piece. It was all right though, everyone liked it!
So, to all those young writers out there – don’t give up - you never know - you might win
something!
Winning entry
We often used to sit here, in Cornwall. It is peaceful. I like it. The soft splash of the sky
blue sea - not too far away, we could walk to it. The colourful wild flowers growing,
untouched, behind the bench. Janet used to love those pretty flowers, especially the
golden marigolds and these other flowers, purple ones – I don’t know their name, I’m no
gardener, not like Janet.
When I was younger, I’d run down here and pick her a bunch of marigolds and she’d
laugh and say I spoilt her. When our children were small and still lived at home, we’d all
walk down here. They would play on the white sands and paddle in the calm sea while
Janet and I would sit up here.
Janet would watch them, but I would wonder… if you had life again what would you have
changed?
I still wonder that as I walk down here every day in her memory.
We have a picture of this very seat. Not a very good one, mind, but at least of me and
Janet. Our granddaughter took it. Eleanor she’s called. Was a couple of months ago
when they came to visit. So our Ellie borrowed my old camera and took it from in the
flowers. A photograph of us from behind. My daughter, Gemma, took loads more, proper
ones of our faces, but somehow I just liked Ellie’s blurred picture.
After Jan passed away I had it framed and I put it on the dresser. Makes me smile as I
thing of the good old times.
I got another photograph of all the family and put it on her grave today along with some
marigolds, all in full bloom. Wonderful!
As I walked back afterwards I thought, Janet’s in the sea and in the flowers and in her
prize garden. So all the way home I said goodbye to her, my Jan, and as I did so I said
goodbye to all my worries too, because I knew Janet was still here, somewhere.
Laurel Quinn, age 12
How to be different and exciting
At the age of fourteen I was reading the modern poetry section of a Marshall Cavendish
weekly encyclopaedia when I came across these lines:
‘What is that noise?’
The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
Nothing again nothing.
This? Poetry? That’s not what they’d been telling me at that school. That weekend I went
out and bought a £3.99 Faber edition of The Wasteland and other poems with my pocket
money. Despite not having the foggiest what it was all about, I was hooked. It was
different; it was exciting.
Being a gawky, acne-ridden fourteen year old, I wanted to be different and exciting too,
so I stole a blank exercise book from the school store cupboard and began writing my
own poems, albeit mostly about masturbation. They were rubbish, but I was already
beginning to think about rhyme, rhythm and what I wanted to say. I was also beginning
to read more modern poetry. Around the anthology poets, Hughes, Duffy and Armitage,
I began to read others such as Michael Longley and Charles Simic and that hardy
teenage perennial Sylvia Plath.
My friends found the poems I was writing funny and encouraged me to show a couple of
them to my teachers. It would be easy, after all the other people who have helped me
become the writer I am today, to downplay the importance of these teachers in my
development. But it was they who kept me informed of competitions I could enter and of
readings given locally. While they may not have had the practical know-how to offer me
much in the way of constructive criticism, they helped me get in touch with those who
could. And, if the creative writing tutors are the literary equivalent of A&R people and
record producers, then teachers are the talent scouts, often being the first to spot and
encourage new talent.
By the time I was seventeen and studying for A-Levels, I had two teachers who were
regularly reading my work and looking out for opportunities for me. One day one teacher,
Jan Kennedy, thrust into my hand a flyer for something called the Writing Squad, saying
she thought I should apply. The closing date was two days away, so I threw together
some of my best poems, a short story and a covering letter and posted it the next
morning without really thinking any more about it. If I’d known then how important the
Squad would become for me, I would probably have taken more care over my
application, but then it probably would have been worse for it.
Being accepted onto the first Writing Squad gave me the sense that writing was
something more than just showing off to your teachers and friends (though it is a bit of
that as well). Through the workshops and invaluable one-to-one sessions with Danny
Broderick, I began to question what it meant to be a writer and what made good writing.
It also improved my writing a hell of a lot and my involvement surely helped secure my
place on Warwick University’s prestigious English and Creative Writing degree where I
had many more literary adventures.
However, what the Squad gave me more than anything, was the knowledge that writers
needn’t and rarely do work in isolation. My early enthusiasm to be different had subsided
into a feeling of artistic loneliness and social weirdness. Suddenly I was in the Squad
and surrounded by fifteen other people who also wrote. Hooray! I was no longer
different, but then I was no longer exciting either and I still wanted to be that. I suppose a
good product of getting young or, indeed, any writers together in one place is that a
certain level of friendly competition develops, which often leads to more writing, better
writing and a greater amount of risk taking; think of the magic realists in Mexico and
South America, the Elizabethan playwrights, the Oulipo and the Troubadors.
So I did the Squad, did university, did half a Secondary English PGCE, did an Arts
Council placement to see what arts jobs were out there, made lots of writer-artist friends
and then what? I did a whole lot of nothing. I was unemployed for almost a year,
deciding that the arts jobs I experienced while on the Arts Council placement weren’t for
me. During this period my writing also began to dry up. At one point I even thought about
giving up writing altogether and doing something more 9 to 5. Writing, though, is a
persistent and mostly faithful lover.
I unexpectedly received an email from Beverley Ward, asking if I would like to offer my
services to an oversubscribed Sheffield Young Writers. I had worked with children and
young adults before in a school setting and she’d heard of this through Steve Dearden,
who ran the Writing Squad. (Yes it is all a bit incestuous I know, but in a good way.) For
the first few sessions I just sat and helped the older members of the group run their own
workshops, chipping in my own writing tasks if theirs finished early and offering what I
hope was useful criticism.
Since I first began working with Sheffield Young Writers, the way the groups are divided
and run has changed. My role is still mainly to facilitate the older group members run
their own workshops on alternate Wednesdays. I sometimes find myself quite frightened
at how skilled at this they already are and being with them certainly keeps me on my
toes. It also gives me the chance to steal ideas for workshops (sorry if any of you are
reading this) as well as try out new ideas of my own. Most of all I see the group as
allowing the young writers to meet other young writers, in the same way that the Writing
Squad worked for me.
My best memory of working with Sheffield Young Writers is the reading we gave for Off
The Shelf. In a library basement, so overfull and hot that it was probably breaking
numerous fire and health and safety regulations, several of the writers got up to read
their stuff alongside adult and more seasoned performers. It reminded me of the
readings the Writing Squad used to give for the same festival. Sure the audiences are
mums, dads and nans, but it’s exciting to see nervous, awkward teenagers become
confident writers and performers. It was also at this reading that I bumped into Vicky
Morris, editor of CUBE magazine. This proved to be a vital contact and led to my first
paid creative writing tutoring job at Rawmarsh CLC, where I teach Digital English
Communication (creative writing on computers to you and me) at their Saturday school.
I flippantly said above that the writing world can seem a little bit incestuous to outsiders,
and it’s true there is a little bit of not–what–you–know–but–who–you–know, respect me,
respect the family involved. There again, how I see it is that you have to get yourself
involved in the petty crime in order to meet the Dons. I’ve been lucky that I’ve had these
chances to work with professionals and non-professionals, but I’ve also had the nous to
take up the offers that came my way. It is this attitude that I hope teachers and projects
like the Writing Squad and Sheffield Young Writers are able to go on instilling in the upand-coming crop of new writers. It gives them the self-belief to break into the Creative
Writing Cartel on their own merits and hopefully, like me, they’ll want to help the next
batch of children and teens become different and exciting too.
Gavin Hudson