Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Sept 11, 2006 12:47:11 GMT 1
I am not usually inclined to tell tales, but this came to light recently and is simply too good not to share, although there are aspects and language used that may cause offence to some members. If you feel that may apply to you, please DO NOT read on further.
A few years ago I set the following exercise to a few members of a TRPD Junior Writers' Group. Below you can see what one of our members, then aged eleven years, produced.
CDT Juniors’ Group Exercise.
Write a short, illustrative piece about a fictional book that has influenced you in your life and writing. (Remember to give the title and author.)
**************
Riders by Jilly Cooper will always mark a turning point for me and feels synonymous with my coming of age as a woman.
Mom and Dad had gone away for a few days holiday, leaving my brothers and me in the care of our uncle. Alas, yes, a far from perfect scenario for fate to land a girl in when her first period decides to descend, but fate has such habits where my family is concerned. Okay, so I knew what was happening and what had to be done, and the obvious place to look for sanitary protection seemed to be in Mom’s drawers. Being naïve, I’d not then realised that, having had a hysterectomy, Mom was unlikely to need such ghastly things. Just as well, for that is where I found it – Riders by Jilly Cooper – lying in the top drawer of Mom’s dressing table and nestled amongst her knickers. It struck me as an odd place to put a book. Not unlike my eldest brother’s habit of hiding his illicit wanking magazines under his mattress. However, despite the cover, it did not dawn on me that it might be other than a book about horses. Did Mom really read horse books? It was too tempting and besides, I wanted to find out something of her taste in literature. Could we possibly find some common ground in that direction? There was precious little in most others.
Secreting the novel under my pillow for later, I drew a blank on the more pressing needs of the moment and, eventually, it fell to my cousin, Kat to furnish me with the necessary and for me to thank god I’d been wearing dark jodhpurs that day.
“If you are planning to ride, you’d better not tell Gran you’ve come on, or she’ll stop you,” said Kat.
Stop me riding? Nothing would do that, I thought, vaguely wondering why it should make any difference? It was at that point I recalled the book’s cover and became more than a little self-conscious. How could a bulky sanitary towel not show when wearing tight jods? The sooner I was in the saddle and sitting on it the better! That especially if Gran was rising from the previous night’s alcohol stupor and wearing her grizzly head.
Now, if you have ever straddled a hard leather saddle in similar circumstances, you will know exactly how uncomfortable it is at such times. Something had to go and I chose the saddle. Sparky’s bare back was preferable, being broad and well cushioned but, boy, was he on his toes that day. In fact, he was all over me. Nuzzling and showing his manhood but, in my naivety, it never dawned on me that his extra show of affection could be connected to him scenting my condition.
Going down the track towards the hills beyond, and with him fooling around and behaving more like a stallion than the little Welsh Mountain pony gelding he is, meant I really had to sit into him. To put into practice the lessons my uncle had given me, and to imagine myself a famous show jumping rider. Sitting tight and going with him as Sparky leapt the ditches, bracken and little gorse bushes in our path.
It is debatable at what point during our ride that I became acutely aware of the amazing bursts of intense electricity that seemed to pass between us that day. Several times I had to halt him and stand still for a few minutes to force my thigh muscles to relax. There were even times when the potency of its charge seemed to surge like waves through my whole body, leaving me breathless and with muscles pulsating from its strength. That was some ride. Intense and exciting in a strange new way and, when it was over, I had my other great passion, reading, to look forward to in the form of Jilly Cooper’s book.
I left a rampant Sparky screaming at me over the field gate and headed for my bedroom and the book. What a page-turner! What an education! Orgasmic, one might conclude - and the timing was perfect for me to have encountered it.
Up until reading it, my ambition had been towards a career with horses, preferably as a show jumper or event rider, but it put me off that idea. A life spent amongst such emotionally sick individuals, with their petty jealousies and mammoth egos, held little appeal. Horses may well have egos, but it is easier to consider that as character, whereas those in the book came across more like defects looking for characters. But yes, I could see why they would appeal to Mom.
After reading it, the desire to become a writer, in preference to a career with horses, emerged as a wiser and, perhaps, more fulfilling option. With a dysfunctional family like mine, I would not need to look far for inspiration for characters.
(TRPD – Junior CDT Writers’ Group – written 1999.)
No prizes for guessing who wrote it!
A few years ago I set the following exercise to a few members of a TRPD Junior Writers' Group. Below you can see what one of our members, then aged eleven years, produced.
CDT Juniors’ Group Exercise.
Write a short, illustrative piece about a fictional book that has influenced you in your life and writing. (Remember to give the title and author.)
**************
Riders by Jilly Cooper will always mark a turning point for me and feels synonymous with my coming of age as a woman.
Mom and Dad had gone away for a few days holiday, leaving my brothers and me in the care of our uncle. Alas, yes, a far from perfect scenario for fate to land a girl in when her first period decides to descend, but fate has such habits where my family is concerned. Okay, so I knew what was happening and what had to be done, and the obvious place to look for sanitary protection seemed to be in Mom’s drawers. Being naïve, I’d not then realised that, having had a hysterectomy, Mom was unlikely to need such ghastly things. Just as well, for that is where I found it – Riders by Jilly Cooper – lying in the top drawer of Mom’s dressing table and nestled amongst her knickers. It struck me as an odd place to put a book. Not unlike my eldest brother’s habit of hiding his illicit wanking magazines under his mattress. However, despite the cover, it did not dawn on me that it might be other than a book about horses. Did Mom really read horse books? It was too tempting and besides, I wanted to find out something of her taste in literature. Could we possibly find some common ground in that direction? There was precious little in most others.
Secreting the novel under my pillow for later, I drew a blank on the more pressing needs of the moment and, eventually, it fell to my cousin, Kat to furnish me with the necessary and for me to thank god I’d been wearing dark jodhpurs that day.
“If you are planning to ride, you’d better not tell Gran you’ve come on, or she’ll stop you,” said Kat.
Stop me riding? Nothing would do that, I thought, vaguely wondering why it should make any difference? It was at that point I recalled the book’s cover and became more than a little self-conscious. How could a bulky sanitary towel not show when wearing tight jods? The sooner I was in the saddle and sitting on it the better! That especially if Gran was rising from the previous night’s alcohol stupor and wearing her grizzly head.
Now, if you have ever straddled a hard leather saddle in similar circumstances, you will know exactly how uncomfortable it is at such times. Something had to go and I chose the saddle. Sparky’s bare back was preferable, being broad and well cushioned but, boy, was he on his toes that day. In fact, he was all over me. Nuzzling and showing his manhood but, in my naivety, it never dawned on me that his extra show of affection could be connected to him scenting my condition.
Going down the track towards the hills beyond, and with him fooling around and behaving more like a stallion than the little Welsh Mountain pony gelding he is, meant I really had to sit into him. To put into practice the lessons my uncle had given me, and to imagine myself a famous show jumping rider. Sitting tight and going with him as Sparky leapt the ditches, bracken and little gorse bushes in our path.
It is debatable at what point during our ride that I became acutely aware of the amazing bursts of intense electricity that seemed to pass between us that day. Several times I had to halt him and stand still for a few minutes to force my thigh muscles to relax. There were even times when the potency of its charge seemed to surge like waves through my whole body, leaving me breathless and with muscles pulsating from its strength. That was some ride. Intense and exciting in a strange new way and, when it was over, I had my other great passion, reading, to look forward to in the form of Jilly Cooper’s book.
I left a rampant Sparky screaming at me over the field gate and headed for my bedroom and the book. What a page-turner! What an education! Orgasmic, one might conclude - and the timing was perfect for me to have encountered it.
Up until reading it, my ambition had been towards a career with horses, preferably as a show jumper or event rider, but it put me off that idea. A life spent amongst such emotionally sick individuals, with their petty jealousies and mammoth egos, held little appeal. Horses may well have egos, but it is easier to consider that as character, whereas those in the book came across more like defects looking for characters. But yes, I could see why they would appeal to Mom.
After reading it, the desire to become a writer, in preference to a career with horses, emerged as a wiser and, perhaps, more fulfilling option. With a dysfunctional family like mine, I would not need to look far for inspiration for characters.
(TRPD – Junior CDT Writers’ Group – written 1999.)
No prizes for guessing who wrote it!