29 April ’13
This is my one hundredth post. When I set out to complete my ‘Fifty-Two’ project at the beginning of 2011 I did not expect to keep on going past the end of that year. But here I am. Though this blog started out as a photography project, it has evolved towards my other love, writing.
Last week I read a blog post by a young man in Romania. The fact that he’s from Constanta caught my eye – we visited the city last year. It was this connection that prompted my to read his blog (there are so many, you could spend your life reading blogs without any effort at all). Cristian’s post was on the subject of writing, why writers do what they do. He mentioned that as a teenager he wanted only to write, and that school and homework got in the way. I guess I was lucky in that the assignments I was set in English class at school fulfilled that desire for me. Thinking back I realise that I have always been a writer. That’s a rather difficult thing to admit. It seems presumptuous.
My first memory that I have of a particular piece of creative writing was a poem about a rabbit who lived in a cage, all moldy with age. I think I was about eight years old, I remember being ever so proud of that rhyme.
We used to go an our annual family vacation in the May school holidays. For years I wrote a daily journal on our trips, and illustrated each page with a drawing. The journals may be around some where, I should see if I can find them. This habit, started when I was young, has followed me on two European trips. These holidays have been logged in a number of notebooks, so we have both our photographs and my words to remind us of our travels.
When I was about twelve I wrote a poem about dinosaurs. I showed the poem to my teacher, and he thought it was rather good. He asked me if he could show it to the newspaper and see if they would publish it. I thought this would be OK, so I gave him my handwritten poem – the only copy. As I recall this happened on the last day of school for the year, it may have been my last day at Waitohi School before I left for high school. I never saw the poem again.
Once I got to high school I wrote more – English class provided the perfect outlet. I think it was in my Sixth Form year that we were set a major writing assignment. I remember taking my notebook and pen, heading out over the farm and writing under the pine trees by the damn. I drew inspiration from the sound of the wind in the trees, the smell of pine, the reflections on the water, the dank undergrowth and the birds.
Years later I started writing a children’s story, Belle’s Birthday. I wrote it out Continue reading