While visiting my brother he showed me some photos I can’t ever remember seeing. These photos were originally on slides but John had converted them to digital images and could show them to me on his television. Many of the photos were of John’s pride and joy: his tractors. He thinks he has a photo of every tractor he ever owned – except one.

While this was interesting, what really grabbed my attention was that several of the shots showed me aged between eight and fourteen. It triggered in my mind a desire to focus a little more on writing about my childhood days. Here is a largely untapped resource of experiences that I can use in my writing. It is a deep well of interesting and colourful incidents that can only enhance my writing.

A word of caution is needed. Approaching a topic like this in a dry, journalistic way would be of interest to no-one. Except perhaps immediate family. A more creative method is required if you are interest a broader readership. This is not a problem if you are only recording your experiences as part of your family heritage.

If you do desire a wider audience for these stories, why not try rewriting your life experiences as a child (or an adult for that matter) as fiction? Take that incident with the bull when you raided a neighbour’s paddock while picking mushrooms and turn it into an exciting escapade, complete with other characters who may or may not have been a part of the original story. Turning fact into fiction can release those creative juices and you will never know where the story will end up. It will surely be a more interesting read than a dry narrative account of the facts.

You never know: one or more of these stories might end up being the text for a children’s picture book, or included in a magazine or anthology.

Good writing.

I rarely have this problem. In fact, I usually have far too many things to write about. My problem is choosing which one to write about first.

There are hidden treasures lurking everywhere. You just have to open your eyes to see the possibilities for writing that can crowd in upon you every day.

Start with everyday objects and let your imagination soar:

1. Make a list of twenty (or 50 or…) objects in your bedroom. Now think about one object and how it came into your life. Change this to a really bizarre story. For example, the photo on the dresser is not your mother; it is the photo of a distant relative who was married to a famous explorer or an infamous mass murderer.
2. Describe three objects in the room where you are sitting now. Now pick just one of them and imagine you dug it up in the garden. How did it get into your garden, and how is it now influencing your life?
3. Look in the refrigerator.  Take note of one thing and write about how it came to be there. Give it a life of its own, telling the story of it existence in its own voice.
4. Go outside and sit in the garden. Write about the one thing in your garden you really like (or absolutely detest). Write a conversation (or argument) between you and the object.
5. Walk to the nearest park with notebook and pencil. Describe one person you passed on the way. Note how they are dressed – and change their attire into something very usual, like a grandma wearing pirate clothing. Use you imagination and let her sit with you to tell her story.
6. Visit your nearest shopping center with a notebook and pen and find a seat. Pick out two people in the crowd. Try to imagine what they are saying. Give them new lives, new identities. Let them tell you their story.
7. Find an old  magazine or newspaper and open it at random, picking out a photo at random. Use the photo as a starting point to your story. For example, if it is a photo of a young man advertising deodorant, imagine him doing something adventurous, or heroic or courageous. Bring the photo – and the subject – to life.

Story ideas are lurking everywhere; you just have to have eyes to see them.

Good writing.

]]> http://www.trevorhampel.com/writing-about-hidden-treasures/feed/ 0 http://www.trevorhampel.com/fun-at-my-writers-group/ http://www.trevorhampel.com/fun-at-my-writers-group/#comments Sat, 12 Sep 2009 05:03:16 +0000 Trevor http://www.trevorhampel.com/?p=1270 On Thursday of this week I attended my monthly writers’ group in Adelaide. It’s one of two I regularly attend; the other is devoted to poetry only.

We usually gather for pizza at 6pm and then start into reading and critiquing each other’s work.  The readings are based on a challenge set the month before. We limit the activity to 1000 words so that everyone gets a go at reading and having their work critiqued. A good attendance is about 6-8 people, but this week we had 12 eager participants, 7 of whom had risen to the challenge of writing a short story.

This was the fun part. The challenge we had appeared to be very hard, but we all found it very interesting. We were asked to take a poem written by a fellow student which was published in last year’s anthology. This poem had some interesting Nordic references and names, which made the task even more challenging.

The Challenge

The writing task was as follows:

1. Take the first word of the poem and use that as the first word of the first sentence of the story.
2. Take the second word of the poem and use that as the first word of the second sentence.
3. Take the third word of the poem and use this as the first word of the third sentence.
4. Follow this pattern until you get to the end of the story – or the poem – whichever comes first.

The variations were wonderful. Using the same words we came up with seven quite different stories. These included:

• A recount of a classroom teacher grappling with unusual student names in the class.
• A stream of consciousness account of someone justifying why she should murder her mother.
• An account of the arrival home of a Viking raiding party.
• An snippet from a Shakespearean like scene written almost completely in iambic rhythm (this was my effort).

Reader challenge

Try it for yourself as a writing challenge. Take a poem – any poem – and try it. Last year we used a Robert Frost poem. Use one of your own poems. Whatever. You could be pleasantly surprised at the result.

Have fun with your writing.

Good writing.

George

George didn’t know why he was there. Or how he had got there. Well, actually he knew the method of getting there – several plane flights and then non-stop climbing for several weeks. Though it seemed like an eternity. The guides had said it was a trek. What an understatement. It was a trial, an endurance test, massive torture and very demanding.

If I had to guess it probably started several years ago. His best friend Kevin challenged him to go on this crazy trip. It had taken all his resources to get to this point; money, time, physical effort and mental capacity. Climbing a mountain in this country didn’t come cheaply. The essential equipment was heavy and they needed extra helpers to get all their stuff up the mountains.

Time had been the biggest expense. Nearly two years of specialty training took huge chucks out of his already tight schedule. Physically it had cost him about ten kilograms of weight, not that he minded that part of the preparation. Emotionally it had been a roller coaster. Gradually the days of doubt were outweighed by the days of eager anticipation.

George stood on the edge of a rocky outcrop. He was trying to catch his breath. The crisp, cold air made that just a little harder. The air felt super chilled against the sweat from all that physical exertion. He lingered a little longer than the others in his party.

“Is it worth it?” he muttered softly. He stared at the peak in front of him. He took in all the crags and rocky outcrops, the brilliant snow-covered peak, the deep shadows in the gullies and the azure sky above.

“Yes,” he answered to himself. “Yes, all that effort has been worth it.”

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel

Read more of my short stories here.

Scene from our lodge in Monjo, Nepal

Charlie
Charlie stopped. He looked up, then ran to the window. Gloria had just driven into the driveway.
Charlie knew he had some explaining to do. He ran the door, waiting anxiously while Gloria rattled the keys into the lock.
“Hello Charlie. You’ve been a good boy then?”
Charlie skipped around her ankles. “Of course I’ve been good,” he thought. “I’m always good.” He thought of the thousands of times Gloria had told him how good he’d been.
Gloria dumped her shopping on the kitchen table and flopped into her favourite chair in the sun-room.
“Oh Charlie – what have you done? Look at my jig-saw puzzle? The pieces are all over the place, on the floor, under the table. Oh Charlie, can’t you leave my jig-saw alone?”
Charlie was perplexed. Why was Gloria so angry with him?
“But Kitty was sitting right on top of the coffee table,” thought Charlie. “I thought you’d be pleased that I chased Kitty away.”
Gloria ignored him. She was already busy fixing up her precious puzzle, gathering pieces from all over and struggling to get them back into place.
Charlie waddled over to his little bed by the heater, tail between his legs.

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel.

Read more of my short fiction here.

‘Stop getting under my feet!’ she yelled. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Mum never yells at me. I’m so perfect.

So I went to my room to let off some steam. I picked up my favourite joke book. Soon I was laughing my head off. I laughed so much I soon had a frog in my throat.

Later that day my cousin Pete came over. He’s a real pain in the neck. Anyway, we decided to play a game of cards. I knew at once that this was a huge mistake. He started cheating and wanted to change the rules all the time. I couldn’t hold my tongue.

‘Hold your horses!’ I said. ‘Have you got rocks in your head? You can’t do that.’

Well, Pete was really burned up by my little outburst.

‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Have you lost your marbles? Are you as nutty as a fruitcake? You are really getting in my hair.’

‘And you are driving me up the wall!’ I yelled back at him. ‘And now I’m starting to get a splitting headache!’

‘Don’t scream your head off at me!’ Pete screamed.

‘And don’t bite my head off!’ I shouted.

We stopped yelling as Mum came into the room. We knew that we had really blown it. I knew by the look on her face that we were in the doghouse. This made me feel down in the dumps. I was up to my neck in trouble.

‘Oh, well,’ I thought. ‘No use crying over spilt milk. I might as well face the music. I really am in a pickle.’ But Pete just spat the dummy. He swore at Mum!

‘You are grounded for two weeks,’ Mum said, pointing to me. ‘And Pete, you will not be allowed to visit for a month.’

‘Yes!’ I thought to myself. ‘A whole month without Pesky Pete. That was as easy as falling off a log.’

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel. All rights reserved.

]]> http://www.trevorhampel.com/short-fiction-what-a-day/feed/ 0 http://www.trevorhampel.com/short-fiction-well-ill-be-blowed/ http://www.trevorhampel.com/short-fiction-well-ill-be-blowed/#comments Thu, 26 Jul 2007 20:30:25 +0000 Trevor http://www.trevorhampel.com/short-fiction-well-ill-be-blowed/ You could have knocked me down with a feather when Suzy came to visit. I hadn’t seen her for donkey’s years. In fact, she only ever visited us once in a blue moon. Now the reason she rarely comes to visit us is that we really don’t see eye to eye. In fact, she thinks I’m off my rocker and I think that she’s gone bananas!

The truth is – she really is a pain in the neck. You see, Suzy loves the sound of her own voice; she never stops talking! Even telling her to put a sock in it doesn’t help. The last time I saw Suzy I said that she was as nutty as a fruitcake and that she was driving us all up the wall.

Now, the day that Suzy came to visit was a red-letter day. I’d had a splitting headache all morning and it felt like I had a frog in my throat. But I soon forgot how ill I felt when Suzy knocked on the door. The first thing I noticed was how she was dressed. Normally she is so untidy in her appearance, but not today. She was done up like a Christmas tree.

The second thing I noticed was her behaviour. Normally she is really off the planet. But on this day she was as quiet as a mouse.

‘Please,’ she whispered with tears in her eyes. I could tell at once that these were not crocodile tears.

‘I need help,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been shaking in my boots all day. I think I’ve really blown it.’

I’ was standing there like a stunned mullet. This was definitely not like Suzy. She wasn’t one to cry over spilt milk.

‘P-p-please, come in,’ I stammered. ‘Here, sit down and spill the beans to me.’

It’s like this,’ she began. ‘I was going to surprise Mum when she came home from work. I decided to make the house as neat as a pin. Then I was going to cook up a storm for tea. I thought it would be a breeze, as easy as falling off a log. How wrong I was!’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Well you know how it’s been raining cats and dogs all day. So that meant my little brother Sam had to play inside. It wasn’t long before he was getting in my hair. He was constantly getting under my feet. I even asked Sam to lend me a hand. That was a big mistake. Because he had been trapped indoors all morning he was ready to let off steam. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he tried to give the cat a shave. Later he tried to give all the pot plants a haircut with Mum’s best dressmaking scissors. Boy, were we in a pretty pickle.’

Suzy stopped for a moment. A tear rolled down her cheek.

‘I nearly screamed my head off for him to stop,’ she went on. ‘I nearly blew my top. I knew our goose was cooked when Sam decided to spray paint his room – BLACK! So I spat the dummy and came to you for help. I think I’m going round the bend. Any more of this and I’ll be round the twist for sure. All my friends already suspect I’ve got marbles in my head; now they will be certain. What should I do?’

‘Well,’ I began, not quite sure what to say. ‘The fat’s really in the fire, isn’t it? The problem seems to be with Sam. He really is out of line. He needs to turn over a new leaf. He is up to his neck in trouble this time. You need to talk firmly with him. Call a spade a spade. Don’t beat around the bush. Pull no punches. He has to hold his horses. Sam needs to pull his head in and stop monkeying around. If we don’t stop him now he will continue doing this until the cows come home.’

‘Yeah, monkeying around,’ said Suzy bitterly. ‘That’s all he ever does. And that’s where he belongs – behind bars in the zoo with the monkeys!’

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel. All rights reserved. First published in “Freexpression” March 2005.

The Birthday Gift

The small group of family and friends gathered around the table. The glow of the candles lit my face. One puff and they were out, to the cheers of everyone in the room. The flash of my daughter’s camera momentarily blinded me.

“Happy Birthday!” they all shouted and they launched into a shaky rendition of the traditional song.

“C’mon, time to open your gifts.”

I took the first present. I knew it was from my wife. It had sat taunting me for days on one end of the coffee table. I ripped open the beautiful wrapping paper. I think my next expression said it all. It was not the birthday present I was expecting.

I had been giving solid hints for weeks about the latest best-selling novel I wanted to read. The wrapped up parcel looked exactly right. Surely she had heard my heavy hinting?

My gaping mouth said it all. This was most unexpected, and a little embarrassing. As I showed the title to all in the room, I heard a few gasps.

“An Illustrated Guide to Pig Farming,” boasted the cover.

Totally bemused I flipped through a few pages. My puzzled look intensified. There seemed something wrong; no illustrations. I thumbed back to the title page. Now I understood. She had tricked me.

“Thank you darling,” I said as I kissed her cheek. She’d bought me the novel after all. “Nice trick to put on a false cover.”

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel.

Peter was puzzled.

He was not used to his commands being refused. His sharp, authoritative voice usually brought instant obedience. If that failed – and it rarely did – his glaring eyes and his lowered black eyebrows intimidated to the point of quick compliance. This time it didn’t work. He tried several different commands, his barking voice becoming more and more strident with each attempt.

There was no reaction.

The target of his wrath merely stood there staring with great interest at a beetle scampering across the lawn. Peter, not known for patience, suddenly snapped. He yelled a stream of commands that neighbours two streets away surely heard. The subject of this tirade turned from him and wandered aimlessly across the lawn. Peter stood there dumbfounded. For the first time in his life he experienced defeat. It was a new sensation for him and he didn’t know how to handle this rejection.

Emily came out of the house to see what all the yelling was about.

‘Peter,’ she said softly. ‘It’s no use using your parade ground voice on poor little Butch. Puppies need to be trained to obey commands.’

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel

Emily strolled along the riverbank. The breeze teased her golden hair, covering her face and tickling her nose. She brushed it aside. Finding a sunny spot she sat on the grass. It felt as soft as her woollen blanket at home. Rolling on to her stomach she cupped her chin in her hands. Two ducks swam closer. They softly quacked an enquiry of her, but they quickly realised that no food scraps would be coming, so they just flopped down on the sand nearby.

The warm sun on her back was soothing. Her eyelids drooped. Soon her head was cradled on her arm. Sleep drifted in stealthily.

An hour passed.

Emily woke groggily.

Something was wrong.

As she tried to sit up she realised the problem. All feeling had disappeared in her hand, her arm. The sudden rush of blood brought a painful prickling throughout her arm. She rolled over letting the circulation bring and end to her discomfort. A passing cloud shrouded the sunlight from her face. The air chilled quickly and she shivered.

Splat!

She sat up. Her hand felt her forehead. The creamy white substance now covered her fingers. She screwed up her face in disgust as she looked skywards.

“You dirty, filthy sea gull!” she yelled.

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2007 Trevor W. Hampel.

Silver Gull