I think if I'm honest, I've always seen myself as a writer. Admittedly, it wasn't always the fanciful, post modernist, ultra contemporary, yet slightly edgy and forthright scribe to the masses; but a writer nonetheless. Last year, I was lucky enough to be able to take a sabbatical from my day job. I thought that I'd use the time in order to, quote, find myself, unquote. Now some would say that, given my track record, I'd struggle to find myself with both hands and a flashlight and that is quite possibly true. However, undeterred, I opted to have a jolly good go anyway.
I thought that given enough time, coupled with the absence of both the nine-to-five drudge and the necessity of having to wear any clothes, I'd come up with something pretty darn amazing. As it was, I found myself writing poetry. Not particularly good poetry mind. Daft little limericks mainly, but poetry all the same. Such classics as...
I love the freezy, frosty snow
The way it sets my face a glow
My rosy cheeks and cozy toes
Tingly fingers, icy nose
Knocking knees and chilly bum
Tied of snow now roll on sun
or the ever delightful.....
On reflection Bob’s collection wasn’t all that strange,
Plastic dog pooh, postage stamps and thirty pounds in change.
When people come he takes it out and talks about each bit,
The copper coins, the penny blacks and thirty pounds of... plastic dog pooh.
and of course who can forget...
Puff pant, puff pant,
Peddle peddle, weee.
Puff pant, puff pant,
Brake… BRAKE… EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Ah! such happy memories. I have a million others you'll be delighted to know, some even stretch beyond a single verse but sadly are no less ridiculous. When blogging times are hard I may be forced to roll out a few more. Writers do that I've heard, although it's often more in the form of pulling out a 200,000 word manuscript from under the bed, dusting it off and presenting it to their ever grateful agent. Can you imagine the look of unbridled delight on the face of my agent when, after months of pleading, he finally gets:
My sister's, best friend's, brother's pet
Part Crocodile, part marmoset
The other part he’s not quite sure
Despite the terrifying roar.
My sister's, best friend's, mum and dad
Bought the pet for their young lad
He fed it milk and sauerkraut
And twice a day he took it out.
But soon the neighbours all complained
They said the pet was not well trained
It ate whatever they left out
Preferring clothes to sauerkraut.
And so my sister's, best friend's, brother
Was told to trade it for another
But just as everybody feared
He’s now got something REALLY weird.
Like all good things, my sabbatical ended all too soon. I've since tried a number of other styles and genres but am yet to find the one that truly works for me. Who knows, maybe regular, literary confession to you may help.
I thought that given enough time, coupled with the absence of both the nine-to-five drudge and the necessity of having to wear any clothes, I'd come up with something pretty darn amazing. As it was, I found myself writing poetry. Not particularly good poetry mind. Daft little limericks mainly, but poetry all the same. Such classics as...
I love the freezy, frosty snow
The way it sets my face a glow
My rosy cheeks and cozy toes
Tingly fingers, icy nose
Knocking knees and chilly bum
Tied of snow now roll on sun
or the ever delightful.....
On reflection Bob’s collection wasn’t all that strange,
Plastic dog pooh, postage stamps and thirty pounds in change.
When people come he takes it out and talks about each bit,
The copper coins, the penny blacks and thirty pounds of... plastic dog pooh.
and of course who can forget...
Puff pant, puff pant,
Peddle peddle, weee.
Puff pant, puff pant,
Brake… BRAKE… EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Ah! such happy memories. I have a million others you'll be delighted to know, some even stretch beyond a single verse but sadly are no less ridiculous. When blogging times are hard I may be forced to roll out a few more. Writers do that I've heard, although it's often more in the form of pulling out a 200,000 word manuscript from under the bed, dusting it off and presenting it to their ever grateful agent. Can you imagine the look of unbridled delight on the face of my agent when, after months of pleading, he finally gets:
My sister's, best friend's, brother's pet
Part Crocodile, part marmoset
The other part he’s not quite sure
Despite the terrifying roar.
My sister's, best friend's, mum and dad
Bought the pet for their young lad
He fed it milk and sauerkraut
And twice a day he took it out.
But soon the neighbours all complained
They said the pet was not well trained
It ate whatever they left out
Preferring clothes to sauerkraut.
And so my sister's, best friend's, brother
Was told to trade it for another
But just as everybody feared
He’s now got something REALLY weird.
Like all good things, my sabbatical ended all too soon. I've since tried a number of other styles and genres but am yet to find the one that truly works for me. Who knows, maybe regular, literary confession to you may help.
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