Saturday, 15 March 2014

#001 - The Write Practice

I stumbled across a site yesterday that encourages 15 minutes a day of writing, using prompts and re-creations as the inspiration.  I recently had to do a controlled assessment for my English exam based on exactly that.

Therefore, it seems like a good idea to continue.  Following my other controlled assessment for just plain old creative writing, my English Tutor, Biddy, told me to get off my butt and start exercising my writing muscles - over and above the usual blog post and review writing - and submit some of my work for publication.  It is something that I have thought about for the longest time, and now I've decided to shift my large behind into gear and get on with it.

This is my first piece, and I just started the timer and hit the keypad - I know that I have a harsh reputation for talking about mistakes, but this is not edited, re-worked or checked for spelling/grammar, it is just my first Write Practice piece (it goes without saying that it's copyright and all rights reserved to me, Kym Bolton):

What did I know best that I had not written about and lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?” ~ Ernest Hemmingway

Ernest Hemmingway said “What did I know best that I had not written about and Lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?”

In my case one of those things would be my mother, and it's a story that is tragically simple, or simply tragic, depending on which side of the coin you view it.

From my side it is tragic, and funny I guess because of the things I will do to not talk, or indeed, write about my feelings, and I admit it, some of the things I have done.

For instance, I would rather wash up a whole load of dirty dishes; mop the floor; clean a bathroom after a slobbering 20 year old male – who, by the way has the worst aim in the history of man. I could walk the dog, clean up dog poop in the garden, rod the bloody drains … anything, but have to talk about her.

Explain just why I feel so angry, disappointed, furious, and {taking a deep breath and heaving a big sigh} JEALOUS. There, I've said it; it's out in the open for all to know now. Of course, I would never actually admit that to the old cow.

Actually, I would never admit anything to her, just because Mr Ernest Hemmingway has prompted me to write about it, and admit in some small way that word “jealous”, still doesn't make it easy to explain to you the reason.

I suppose the time is now ripe to explain a short portion of why my mother and I don't speak, let alone communicate. Did I mention that we live next door to one another?

Bloody hell, there are still 6 minutes remaining on this bloody timer that was set for The Write Practice. How the hell, can I prevaricate a bit more to stall explaining the whole sorry story. Especially, when I know for certain – like the kind of certainty that England is crap at football, and will never win the World Cup again certain, that it will, and does, make me look bad. Never mind that if viewed from my side, it also makes her look pretty bloody shitty too.

Can I just put it out there, in case you were wondering, I really am not a horrible person. She, my grey haired 76 year old mother, and her 60 year old creepy toy boy lover make me behave like a truly horrible, disgusting and vengeful person.

So, let me explain why our 50 year old loving (in the most part) mother/daughter relationship has gone from happy, or happy'ish, to I could kill you, and be happy to spend the next 17 years in jail celebrating the fact.

Why, oh why Mother dear, did we choose to move to this village of the damned?

On the outside it seems a perfectly normal, middle class, exceedingly polite, friendly even … in the case of my neighbour, too bloody friendly ….


Feel free to rip it apart, or be kind, just let me know what you think.



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