An assortment of tales

It was my writing group this afternoon. Each time we meet I have a theme and we talk about it and then i give suggestions for something to write for next – they are only suggestions, it’s up to each to write whatever they fancy. So last month…

We are going to be thinking again about writing in a poetic way – it doesn’t have to be a poem, but it might be fun to try (John and Mary can maybe try writing prose in a poetic way. Today we are going to use random objects as stimulus – pick one or two and connect them in a poetic form – either a first draft poem, or written in a poetic style.

The objects were:

  1. Old penny
  2. Portuguese pot with lid
  3. Wine glass
  4. Red pepper
  5. Olive dish
  6. Box of dates
  7. Kaleidoscope
  8. Drinks flask
  9. Old cricket ball
  10. Gingerbread man
  11. Christening spoon
  12. Mobile phone
  13. Jute bag
  14. Australian cloth with Aboriginal design

We met today and shared a variety of different pieces, each of them very good. There were two poems, a moving tribute to a lost child, and a lighter but thought-provoking poem about kisses. The writer who has been chronicling the imaginary lives of people in a rural area of Norfolk, following them in individual stories all connected by location, had really taken on board my suggestions and written a description of an early summer morning in Shropshire. My fellow dragon who is focusing on climate change at the moment shared his story ‘There is no Planet B’ – as usual humorous and witty but with a serious and thought provoking message.

The piece which got us all talking was the story of a true event, a meeting at a funeral with an unexpected  outcome. It recalled an event some years previous, in which a glorious few days had been spent at the seaside in lovely sunny weather. It was a complete story but we all had sudden ideas – was the a body under the beach-hut?  What had happened to one of the characters which had changed her so completely? Was the person at the funeral the real individual remembered from childhood, or was she an impostor? Was the summer memory false?  We were so full of ideas… what had been an evocative piece about a mysterious encounter, and how people remember the same events differently became a mystery novel waiting to be written!

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