A small story with a Moral.

Enjoy this short story if you wish to enjoy it. This is the introduction of this post. I put it in pink to make it look like I put a lot of effort into it. Actually this introduction only took like 15 seconds to write. Now you can read the short story. Go.

Once there was a young man who thought his life was important.

"It is," said he to his girlfriend Darrell, "Life is important."

"Yes and no but more no," his girlfriend said, after swallowing down her bite of apple. (Of course. Darrell was a sophisticated girl who never had second thoughts about speaking while having nutrition located in her mouth.)

"Why on earth no?!" the boy said. "Life is nothing but important."

She thought for a moment."Well... it is only important because it's not."

"Why am I dating you?" The boy rolled his eyes. "You speak such gibberish sometimes that I sometimes find myself talking gibberish to the people around me. Last night I had a dream about a four-headed-giraffe. Probably your fancies rubbing off on me." But he smiled, because Darrell was his favourite.

"I stand my case," Darrell said.

For a moment it was quiet. Only the bluebirds, the wind and the dry leaves created sound waves that unconcsiously penetrated the eardrums of the young, budding philosophers.

"I am quite serious," Darrell repeated.

"I know. I can hear from the tone of your voice. You meant what you said. Which is why I am quiet. I cannot make it out."

"Yes," Darrell said. She popped the core of her apple into her mouth. She did not believe in wasting food.

"You say that life is only important because it's not. And that makes sense?" The boy looked at his girlfriend with a confused look on his face.

"Absolutely," she insisted. "Because a life is only a life. It is a vapour in the wind and a wave in an ocean; it is completely useless really."

"So... life is useless. Great. Way to cheer me up."

Darrell laughed. "You are the one that says you like it when people speak their mind. It's true, isn't it? Why, I am working my socks off to become a teacher so I can work my socks off even more once I get a job. That's absolutely absurd, isn't it? What's the bally point? Why, people go through lengths and lengths of drama to finally get a boyfriend or a girlfriend only to break it off after a few weeks. Quite comical. And why, one day we weep, the other day we laugh, and then we moan, and then we smile, and then we complain. We are the most hilarious creatures in existence. How pathetic!"

"No, I don't like this," The boy said sadly. "Life... life isn't... that."

Darrell sighed. "It is the single most pathetic thing there is."

Once again it was silent for a moment. Darrell broke it. "But then I didn't say life wasn't important."

The boy lifted an eyebrow. "I don't like not understanding things my girlfriend says."

"The thing is this. What if we didn't sugarcoat life but what if we found life beyond this one? Because honestly, I'm giving up on trying to make this one sound that good. It's mostly miserable."

"How can you say that?" The boy asked. "I have never seen you this negative. You are literally the most life-loving person I know. It stuns me to see you this way."

"Yet I have never been this joyful," Darrell was quick to say. "I did not say I hated this life; I do love it. But I don't love this life because of this life. This life isn't that great. End of story. It sucks. So I went on a mission to find another life. And that's the one I'm living for and that's why I love this life that would otherwise suck. The more I live this life the more I am intent on not living for it. Yet the more I am intent on not living for it the more I find myself living this life." 

"So..." said the boy, "Paradox is the key to life?"

"Not living for this life makes you live and love this life. Yes."

The boy frowned and then suddenly smiled. "Oh, I think I know what you're talking about."

"It was about time," said Darrell.

"Jesus," said the boy softly. "You're talking about Jesus."

"Yes. How did you guess?"

"Because He's the guy that said that whoever wants to save his life will lose it. And whoever loses his life will find it."

"Correct," Darrell said, her eyes shining with deep love for her Maker; such love that no poet nor artist could ever put into words, shape or picture. "He is correct."

_________________________________________

“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it." 

(-- God aka your biggest fan; He loves you crazy much. Do this.)

8 Mini Stories

Hello readers. I hope you are well on this rainy, haily (if that's not a word now it is :-P), dark, autumn day here in Belgium. I feel like some creative writing challenge, so I'm going to challenge myself and write tiny mini stories based on pictures I found on pinterest. Stories don't have to be long; you can often fit a whole story in just a few words. They're stories. Mini stories. Hope you like them.

Mini Story 1

Her name was Millie and she was my sister. She died when I was seven; she was seventeen. She died falling off her motorbike when she was on holiday with her boyfriend and his sister. She died wearing her favourite summer frock; the white one Mama didn't like her to wear because it was see through if the sun shone from behind her. Mama cried when she died; Daddy sobbed and sobbed. My brother ran away from home for a week because he didn't want me to see him cry. I went to Millie's bedroom and I hugged her pillowcase. It was green with purple flowers. I took it to my bedroom and slept with it.

Mini Story 2

"Why, Sarah, why," Jonie asked. Only, she didn't really ask it. She said it, like she wasn't expecting a solid answer.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to sit down and eat with me? Why did you buy me food? I literally took your boyfriend away from you."

"I didn't own him," Sarah said. "And it's just chips."

Jonie smiled her beautiful smile. "Chips are good, though."

"And so is Jonathan," Sarah nodded. "I am not blaming you for wanting him. Besides, he prefers you. That is not your fault either."

Suddenly Jonie hated Jonathan for leaving this sweet girl to be with her.

Mini Story 3

Mama always told me I shouldn't pass notes to people in school, but when someone passes you a note, what else can you do but except it? Especially when it's specially written for you. It's not every day that you get a note written for you. The teacher was explaining about African tribes and Christopher Columbus but I stopped listening to her to open the note. 

You're stupid and ugly, it said.

It was the first time someone had written it instead of saying it. Now it was written down, it became a fact.

Mini Story 4

Dear Diary, 

We are married. We got married in the mountains; it was just us two, and Bets and Dorian, and the pastor. Bets took pictures, Dorian played guitar, the pastor married us. Joe and I, we just smiled and smiled. Our cheeks hurt from happiness. Maybe when our parents see how happy we are, they will give in. Maybe they will be okay with us being husband and wife. Maybe one day. But even if they never do, we have each other. And we have these mountains and we have Michael Jackson cd's and a Bible. We will be okay. I am so happy my heart could burst. I must leave; my husband awaits. 

Yours truly, a wife.

Mini Story 5

When you have a crush on your brothers' roommate, you visit your brother often.

"Oh, hey sis," my brother would say.

"Oh, hey bro," I would say, but I would look over his shoulder and look at him. He was always at his desk, writing. Poems, books, pieces of future classic literature. He had a cup of coffee next to him and the radio played orchestral music he couldn't hear because he was so absorbed into his writing. Oh, but he looked so good in his brown waistcoat and messy hair. I was sure I could stare at him for ages.

"You're too obvious," my brother whispered.

"Apparently not," I whispered back. He didn't even look up when I came in anymore.

My brothers' roommate put his pen down and looked at me. "Yes, you are," he said. He was smiling.

Mini Story 6

Where there are large families, there are messy halls. Where there are messy halls, there are plenty of shoes. Where there are halls with plenty of shoes, there are large families. Or, of course, a single lady with an unhealthy obsession with buying shoes.

But when such a single lady comes to live with a large family; then, and only then, things get offhand. If you think your house contains too many shoes, you have not visited the Pickfords. The Pickfords' house was ninety percent shoes, ten percent other. The Pickfords had nine children, their two parents, and now, their jolly aunt Priscilla Pickford. She had two hundred and thirty two pairs of shoes and counting, and Mr Pickford felt suicidal whenever he looked at any single one of them. So one evening, when Priscilla Pickford went out to buy another pair, he held a huge bonfire in the garden with his children. 

They couldn't find any wood for the bonfire, so they elaborated with two hundred and thirty two objects they found lying around in the house. Objects they didn't think they really needed.

Mini Story 7

It had been six years ago since I'd seen her. She had put me out of the house when I was sixteen. "You don't need me to feed ya anymore," she had said. I had asked her, what do I do on my own, and she had said, go find your father. And she had closed the door in my face. I went to my Grandma. My mother didn't even know who my father was; how would I know? I was now both fatherless and motherless. Both didn't want to know me; and that was how it stayed for six long years.

But here she was. I saw her, she was standing at the side of the music floor, looking at the ground in deep thought. I stared at her through all the couples slow dancing between us. My heart beat wild and fast. It was her. The same curly hair. The same thin, white arms. The same dark eyes. Only, she was older; she was sadder. She looked weary.

"Jesus." I prayed. "Jesus, you forgave me. I am going to go to my mum and forgive her."

Mini Story 8

"You know grandma, I've always loved your fridge," Annie smiled.

"You mean all the magnets?" Phoebe asked.

"Yes, they're cool. I mean, it looks cool."

"When I was a young girl," Phoebe said, her old hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. "I once made a long journey around the world. I was hopelessly in love with this guy, but because I thought I would never have a chance with him, I went on this journey to try to forget him. Well, every country I was in, some stranger randomly came up to me and gave me a magnet. When I came back home the next year, it turned out he had given them all to me."

"That is so cute,"Annie gushed.

"It was the sweetest thing someone ever did to me."

"Did you date him?"

"Darling, he's grandpa."

Which Mini Story is your favourite?

(For the record this is so much fun to do. My favourite is 5, because he looks like Gilbert Blythe and you can't go wrong there.)

PS MINNIE AND ALFIE IN LARK RISE ARE THE CUTEST COUPLE EVER

You are beautiful in a non-cliché way.

Confession time: I roll my eyes at stuff like, "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL." And "BE YOU." And even the plausible "YOU ARE UNIQUE."

When I was fourteen, I used to hang these kinds of words up on my wall. I was all about the positive-Pinterest-y-Naomi's-da-bomb-because-she-says-she-is-phase. I was like 'boo yeah I'm Me' and honestly, I was getting excited about nothing. I was doing it in selfish la-di-da-feelsies and I needed those words to make me feel good. I needed constant convincing.

Then I realised that wow, God, I need to humble myself; I am a sinner; and I should not be who I am by human nature because without you, I am nothing. I still agree with all of this, of course, but I had a phase where I swung a little too far in the opposite direction. I was like, nah, we shouldn't be ourselves because what if you're selfish by nature? We should strive to be who God wants us to be.

THAT IS ALSO TRUE. We all naturally have sin and the 'BE YOU' phrase should not mean 'be who you aaaaarrree and get druuunk and steaaal and sleep arouuund because that's who you aaarrreee.' In a sense, we should, therefore, not be who we are as humans in a world of sin. We should strive to be as non-human-like as possible.

But I took this idea too far for a while, I think. We are creations of God and to disregard the 'you are perfeeect' message is saying that God does not create people perfectly. I mean, God made us unique, right? So now I'm sort of re-learning the non-cliché-ness of the cliché message: "You are beautiful just the way you are. You are unique. Be yourself."

Yes, I still roll my eyes at that. Because let's be real, it is overdone and it's pretty stupid when you forget about the Maker. It is stupid when you leave out the Very Reason Why we are beautiful and unique and the Reason why we can achieve amazing things and why we should be confident in our own quirks and our personal dreams and talents. If you're just like, drumming it in yourself: I am epic. I am cool. I am hashtag queen.... then I'm like, "OKAY. WHY."

And the reason why is God. And theeen it all makes sense. Then self-love becomes a beautiful, important thing rather than this selfish cliché thing for 'positive vibes's sake. Yes, socially, some are prettier than others. I'm not going to deny that. Some are more talented. Some are in better condition. 

But isn't everyone worth the same sacrifice of Jesus?

If you're think you're not unique and special and beautiful, then you're saying God's not a good artist. AND HE MADE THIS:

(random picture from pinterest duh)

I want to quickly change the subject and talk about mountains. I love love love mountains. There are literally no ugly mountains in the world. Each one is different and each one is wretchedly perfectly gorgeous. Why... WHY are they so beautiful? "Just because they... are." No, no, not satisfied with that answer. WHY ARE THEY SO RIDICULOUSLY GORGEOUS. Why did my heart fill with this swell when I stood on one last year at the Alps in France; looking down on clouds and sunshine and rocks and white tops and trees. WHY. Why is rock and tree so beautiful? WHY. Why. 

I'll tell ya why. God. It's a snippet of God's glory.

And us then? Aren't we snippets of God's glory? Aren't we? Aren't we the one creation made in God's image? 

WHAT IS WRONG WITH US. Why do we not think we are beautiful?! Unique? Each and every one of us individually and specially designed with a different purpose?!

Today I wrote a kids book. It's only 16 pages and 500-something words; with tons of blank spaces for pictures I haven't drawn yet (and will probably not be that pretty.) It's written in rhyme (bringing out my inner Dr Suess here ya know) and it's about this 'perfect' mountain who tells all the other mountains that they're not good-looking with their weird shapes and rocks sticking out in odd places, and then a girl comes along and she can't believe that these mountains believe that they're not beautiful. 

Have you ever seen an ugly mountain? Well, God has never seen an ugly person. 

That's the little moral of the story. Anyway. I made it on a whim because it is an important message, and I'm kinda proud with the way it turned out, so I'll show you the last two verses.

No matter how spotty, different, dirty and sooty 

Listen to God because He should know about beauty 

He made those mountains, and He also made zillions of stars, 

He made little lambs, colourful flowers and huge planets like Mars 

 

And the One that made all these gorgeous things, 

The lions, the colours, the rainbows, the birds’ tiny wings – 

He also decided to make you; I know, it’s kinda bizarre, 

But that means that you are beautiful just the way you are.

Yes, you are beautiful. Yes, you should accept yourself and embrace your quirks.  Yes, you are more beautiful in God's eyes than mountains are to your eyes. Yes, you are a sinner and probably not that beautiful on the inside. But you're covered by a huge love; your worth is tons and you are crazy beautiful as a result.

But please remember who to give the credit to. 

4 Things in a unified 1 Post.

This post consists of four things: 1. A random Call the Midwife The New Christmas Special picture. 2. A story snippet of some random thing I started to work on last week which involves a proposal and a refusal. 3. A random picture of Trixie Franklin looking glamorous as usual, and 4. Very deep life advice.

THE CALL THE MIDWIFE THE NEW CHRISTMAS SPECIAL PICTURE:

THE STORY SNIPPET OF SOME RANDOM THING I STARTED TO WORK ON LAST WEEK WHICH INVOLVES A PROPOSAL AND A REFUSAL:

         One autumn day – in fact, last week – when he had greeted me with his usual “Hello, Holly Mae Webster” after I had visited the post office, I turned to him and told him, “Excuse me, sir, but there is no need to repeat my full name every time you greet me. I am fully aware my last name is Webster.”

         I should not have spoken of last names. He took it as a resounding hint and an unambiguous begging for a proposal.

         “You are fully aware?” he asked.

         “Of course! Who is not, pray, fully aware of their own name?”

         “I bet you must be,” he smiled nicely, “As a young girl. I bet young girls are always extra aware of their last names.”

         The inward groan I made at that point could have risen dead from their graves, but before I could properly process what was going on, he had grabbed my hand and said, “I could change your last name for you!”

         And this is where I finally addressed matters.

         What I said to him then I cannot fully remember, but I shall write down what I remember I (and he) said, rely on my imagination and then elaborate somewhat. I do fully remember that it was on the public road and that we happened to be wearing matching outfits which, he pointed out innocently, was another sign – sent from heaven!

         “Mr Smith,” I said, “I am eighteen years old – why would I be interested in you?”

         “Why – why – we’re both writers! We’re of the same sort! We’re the same kind! We understand each other!”

         Very much offended by this jaunty remark I proceeded to say that no, I did not understand him.

         “But we’re both writers!”

         “Napoleon and Wellington both led an army but they managed to be each other’s biggest enemies.” (I admit I was proud of this slick response.)

         “You should be thankful,” Ben Smith said.

         “What? Thankful? Yes, I am thankful for many things but that does not include your proposal to me, Mr Smith.”

         At this point, he started to get angry. “I am RICH! I am a famous, PUBLISHED author! You’re just a little magazine writer!”

         “Oh and? That will make me jump off my feet for joy, will it?”

         “Yes! If you marry me –” (in which I shudder inwardly) “– I could, why I could make you a famous author! Your books would be in the shops.”

         “Excuse me, Mr Smith, but becoming a famous author is not –”

         “You’ve seen my house! I have footmen waiting on me, chandeliers dangling from my ceiling, and bedrooms by the dozen! I host the towns’ biggest parties; I own dozens of farms; I employ tenants and I could offer you wardrobes bigger than the Titanic.”

         “I don’t want –”

         “Why, I have seen your house! That little bucky old thing. You have a small attic room. Your father is a mere – pardon the blunt talk – a mere merchant.”

         “I’m afraid I am not convinced or attracted in the least,” I dryly said, secretly outraged by his comments on my house. My house, dear readers, is a beautiful little brick thing with charming turquoise windows and a turquoise front door. It is home and I cannot imagine life without it.

         “Also, I want to marry you because I love you.” He didn’t sound sincere at all, but for a fleeting second, I felt bad for him.

         “Well the attraction is not mutual, Mr Smith.” I eyed him angrily. “That is all.”

         Then I marched home.

THE PICTURE OF TRIXIE FRANKLIN LOOKING GLAMOROUS AS USUAL:

THE VERY DEEP LIFE ADVICE:

Make week resolutions rather than year resolutions (better still - daily ones; hour-ly ones... because those are actually keepable), get excited for Call the Midwife Season six, email random emails to people, read Chasing Jupiter by Rachel Coker and try not to cry when Frank stammers his love and when Cliff is no longer Cliff (WHYYYYY), eat healthy, and listen to the following two soundtracks because I just(ish) discovered them and I love them: La La Land Soundtrack and Top Hat Soundtrack. The former is an exquisite ice-cream on a blossoming spring evening and the latter is chique thirties with rythms and waltzies to make you pine for better dancing shoes. Highly recommend both. Although they might make you wish your life was a musical. Maybe.

(Bonus life tip: Read Psalm 19. It's beautiful.)

Story Snippets

What do you do when you're running out of time but really feel like posting something? And when you need to be writing but need to do something to encourage you to write one some more? Well, you post Story Snippets on your blog, of course.

(None of this is properly edited, but I thinks it's good enough for Public Eye Judgement.) (Tell me what you think!)

{Character inspiration for Tom}

------

And Tom… well, Tom. Something sad happened to Tom. It wasn’t like with Esther and Susanna; who I sometimes forgot had ever even existed. In fact, I had to be reminded by someone; or the family Bible records, that I had two little dead sisters buried in some strange graveyard. That was okay; no-one really needed to talk about it. 

Tom’s disappearance (he ‘disappeared’ when I was nine) wasn’t talked of, but it was a gap that screamed screamed screamed to be talked of. I yearned to talk about it. So did Laura; I knew she did. But our parents never did. They never explained the reason for the silence either; so for years and years I just didn’t understand, and that annoyed me more than anything else has ever annoyed me in the entire length of my childhood.

------

In 1949, Laura turned thirteen. In those days, the term ‘teenager’ was just starting to become the fashion, so of course she used it endlessly. Laura vocabulary was very up to date. She said words like ‘tickety-boo’ and ‘heebie-jeebies’ and ‘bee’s knees’ in practically any sentence that exuded from her throat. 

Also, she said, ‘Mercy!’ The. Whole. Time. She thought it was cool or something.I contented myself with words like, ‘great’ and ‘fun’ and ‘nice.’ My vocabulary would have killed mice with boredom.

 ------

{Character inspiration for Laura}

------

He had the looks, of course. Inevitable – it comes synonymous to popular. Good-looking = Popular. Popular = Good-looking. How sad society is. 

He had a wave in his rich, dark hair, swept back with gel his mother sent him from America. (I wondered why he wouldn’t just go back. Go, sir. Bye. Buzz off. Now.) He had luxuriously dark eyes and well yes, he was divinely attractive. It could not be denied. 

 ------

Laura was easy to spot. She was sitting on a high chair at the bar, her yellow dress looking all gold and shimmery in the light of the darkening room. She was drinking; most likely Babycham. Her first time drinking Babycham – something she’d been dreaming of for ages. For months and months, she’d talked about one day drinking Babycham in high heels. Why didn’t she want to share this moment with me?!

------

{Character inspiration for my main character, Martha}

------

We would peek through the window and watch the lovers walk through our street as dusk gathered, their arms wrapped around each other. We would wait for this man who always walked through our street around 20:15 – we called him Pete Butcher, because he looked like a Pete and he looked like he was a butcher by trade – and then we’d wave at him. He never waved back, he always sent us a long scowl. Laura thought it was hilarious, and we always laughed about it. Once I dared Laura to stick out her tongue at him, and she did. Oh, how much we laughed!

 ------

Mornings. 

They are odd things. They are new beginnings, but then they aren’t. They are like hope and dread rolled into one. Hope, because it’s a new day, and something wonderful might happen. It’s a new day and a new opportunity to start all over; fresh and new, like fresh morning breakfast rolls. 

But dread, because you know it probably won’t. Life goes on. If day no. 53 is a bad one, chances are big that day no. 54 won’t be that stellar either. Good and bad times come and go in long slow waves; generally, and everybody knows that.

------

Have a wonderful Sunday, dears!

The Christmas Truce

If there's something that makes me cry, it's the Christmas Truce that took place during the First World War. The more I think about it, the more it strikes me as one of the most beautiful and one of the saddest things that ever happened in history. Every Christmas, I find myself sitting in this trance, thinking about what it must have been like - what those lads must have felt. Last Christmas, it was mentioned several times, even in Queen Elizabeth's Christmas speech, because it marked 100 years since it happened, and since then I just can't get over it. It must have been amazing, emotional, terrible, beautiful; all at the same time.

Imagine you are a soldier in the cold, stony trenches. You've seen people die, you've suffered. You've shot men of the other side, doing your duty. You've probably seen some of your very own school-friends die; you've seen wounds, heard screams of pain and nightmares. I know life in the trenches must have been ghastly. My great-grandfather served in WW1, and my father says that he would never talk about it. People were traumatized for life.

I am currently writing a story, which has a thick chapter about a soldier telling his war story. I suppose this is a good excuse to show you some snippets. 

Douglas got killed. I saw him fall down. Part of an explosion bomb hit him on the chest. I saw his hat fly into a puddle, and I saw his khaki vest drenched with blood. I thank the Lord that I didn’t see more than that. I am traumatized enough.  

Michael and I clung on to each other. But he died, too. In the gas. The last thing I saw, Jane, was his face, yelling, getting more distant in the gas. I heard him yell. “Lionel! Lionel!”

And then you had that one Christmas, in the middle of it all, when several hundreds of men decided to have peace and get together in No Man's Land. They sang Silent Night Together, the British lads and the German lads. They played football together, gave each other gifts, swapped coats and hats, lighted each other's cigarettes. They took photographs of them together, casually giving each other hugs. They wished each other a Merry Christmas.

You see now why this makes me cry? The men weren't at war, the Countries were. The men so weren't. They were just doing their duty - they could totally be best friends with the Other Side.

"First the Germans would sing one of their carols and then we would sing one of ours, until when we started up O Come, All Ye Faithful, the Germans immediately joined in singing the same hymn to the Latin words Adeste Fideles. And I thought, well, this is a most extraordinary thing — two nations singing the same carol in the middle of a war."

"I walked across to my man and shook hands, I asked him how he liked it. ‘Terrible, I wish I was back in Germany’ (in Good English!). I wanted a souvenir so I took my knife out of my pocket and he let me cut a button from his coat. I could only give him a few old biscuits from my pocket."

"Eventually the English brought a soccer ball from their trenches, and pretty soon a lively game ensued. How marvellously wonderful, yet how strange it was. The English officers felt the same way about it.

Thus Christmas, the celebration of Love, managed to bring mortal enemies together for a time... I told them we didn’t want to shoot on the Second Day of Christmas either. They agreed."

"Really you would hardly have thought we were at war. Here we were, enemy talking to enemy. They [are] like ourselves with mothers, with sweethearts, with wives waiting to welcome us home again. And to think within a few hours we shall be firing at each other again."

"They say they won’t fire tomorrow if we don’t so I suppose we shall get a bit of a holiday — perhaps. After exchanging autographs and them wishing us a Happy New Year we departed and came back and had our dinner. We can hardly believe that we’ve been firing at them for the last week or two — it all seems so strange." 

"Even as I write, I can scarcely credit what I have seen and done. It has been a wonderful day."

(Actual WW1 letters about the Christmas Truce.)

War is so pointless - so ridiculously pointless. The Christmas Truce shows that more vividly than anything else can. These chaps were just... chaps. They fought against each other, killed each other - while they should have played football together every day. Imagine what they must have felt like, when they said goodbye after their time together in no-man's-land. They must have felt so emotional; they must have looked at each other and thought, "Tomorrow I might kill you."

It just breaks me, okay? Shush. Don't talk to me. Just watch this beautiful Christmas ad about it. You will probably cry, because I always do, and I've watched it loads of times. (And the music is from 'True Grit', if that makes some of you want to see it. Heh, heh.)

"Thus Christmas, the celebration of Love, managed to bring mortal enemies together for a time..." (A WW1 letter.)

In which I show you a story snippet because I don't have time to write a real post

I've started a new story. The kind that I'm better at. (Yes, I'm still writing the WW2 one, but there's no harm done with two projects at once.)

Well, the title speaks for itself. It's a lazy excuse for a blog post, I know, but here it is, anyway. I wrote it several minutes ago, and I hope you like it, and all that.

Mark that it has not yet been properly edited, please. And if you happen to stumble across one, tell me if there are any painstakingly embarrassing typos. Thank you; you really are a good sort. :-)

It was a marvellous occasion, Nathan Rum – or, as we called him, Rummy –’s engagement party. My good friend, Parker, and I were remarking on it on the duration of it. We were standing somewhere on the side, with a glass of champagne in our hands. I was also nibbling on a home-made jam biscuit; made by Rummy’s mother. They could have been better. 

“Nice party, right?” Parker started. 

“Yes? Um, oh, yes,” I said. I kind of half-woke up, as I was musing over my neighbour’s dare to his twin brother, which, I thought, was a very unreasonable dare and which, I decided, I had to tell him when I came home. 

“Oh yes,” I repeated. “Jolly nice party.” 

“Rummy looks very happy.” 

“Ghastly shoes, though, he’s wearing,” I remarked randomly. Because they were rather odd. Red and white; the tapping-kind. 

“I thought the same,” Parker agreed. “He’s not, after all, Fred Astaire. He has no right to wear tapping shoes to his own engagement party.” 

“Ah, but ‘right’ he has. He has every right. It’s just that I happen to think nothing of them.” 

“You don’t?” 

“I don’t.” 

“I think they make a gorgeous couple. Look how their smiles match!” Parker smiled broadly, looking rather oaf-like when the smile was at its broadest point. 

“Ah!” I chuckled. “Nonono – I didn’t mean that I think nothing of them – as in, Rummy and Laura. I think nothing of them, as in, his shoes.” 

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” Parker smiled again, although he didn’t reach the oaf-like part. “So you do think something of Rummy and Laura.” 

“Oh yes, of course, yes.” 

We looked at them together for a moment. It was an awkward moment, because Laura just happened to kiss him as we looked, and Rummy just happened to stroke some hair behind her ears. Parker blushed. I don’t know if I did, but I don’t think so. I might have. 

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Very nice. Jolly sporting couple. But I disagree with you about their smiles. Laura’s smile isn’t half as crooked as Rummy’s smile.” 

“I suppose,” Parker mumbled. But he was thinking of something else. I asked him what, and he said, “I want to get married, too!” 

He looked like he was about to burst into tears. 

“Cheer up,” I awkwardly said. 

“No! I can’t!” 

“What do you mean, you can’t? Of course you can.” 

“But I want to get married!” At this stage, Parker reminded me of a spoilt one-year-old, with yellow curls and blue eyes, who was fed on caviar. 

“Oh, of all the things, Parker. Of course you can get married.” 

“How?!” Parker gasped, realising things he had never realised before. “How can I? No girls like me. No girl has ever liked me.” 

“Mmm,” I mused. He had a point. He had a reason to worry. 

“Do you want to get married, Marty?” 

“Me? Married?” I gave a scoff, and choked ever so slightly on a bit of Rummy’s mother’s home-made jam biscuits which could have been better. “Oh, nonono.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well. Well – I. Welll.” I spluttered a little, suddenly realising that I did, in fact, want to get married. Or engaged, at least. I looked at Rummy and Laura again, and saw how Laura’s arm was so snugly tucked into Rummy’s arm, and how they laughed so happily. 

“Well?” Parker asked. 

“Well!” 

Parker simply looked. He always had been one of my more patient friends. 

I finally found my voice. “Well! I suppose – yes. Yes! Yes, old chum. I’m on the same boat as you, old chap. I want to get married too!” 

Parker and I shook hands. It felt like a special occasion, so we drank on it, re-filled our glasses, and drank on it again. “How jolly!” Parker exclaimed, and he smiled some.

Well? What say you?

And let's finish off with an adorable picture, just because.

Re-writing my novel.

For months I was working on this WW2 novel. I was typing on fast, almost with my eyes closed, leaving all the editing till later. I wanted to write something epic; something huge; something fussy. Something like GWTW. (Snort. I thought I could do that.) I made my heroine swoon and I made her do things that they made heroines do in those old movies. (You know, exclaiming 'oh's' and 'ah's'. I know. It's ridiculous.)

And then, when I was about half-way, I re-read it all.

And some bits were AWFUL.

Some bits were mighty good - I was still in love with my characters - I was still super proud of my plot. So I didn't want to quit it once and for all - t'was too precious to quit. So I left it at rest for quite a few weeks and then decided to start all afresh. I read some Lynn Austin treats of books and got inspired to write in a style which is slightly more pleasing to the ear than my attempt to make a Vintage-sounding novel.

And then - which was, heh, yesterday - I rewrote the first chapter. And now it's so much better; I flatter myself. I'm going to show you the before and after's.

These are some paragraphs in chapter one of the original version. CRINGE. I can't believe I'm showing you this. I can't believe I actually wrote it, hehh. (These aren't actually the absolute first paragraphs of the first chapter - just some of the worst ones. :-P)

Harper bit her dry, wind-blown lips so hard that they started to bleed. She wasn’t allowed to cry. She had to be like the ten-year-old girl and go around to cheer up all the little children. Harper felt so guilty again, thinking about not doing anything but complaining while a seven-year-old girl was smiling to everyone in a thin shackle dress. Harper felt guilty about her own dress – a beige dress; ugly, but warm – about just minding her own business, about sitting when there were about ten toddlers who didn’t have a place to sit, about everything! She was such a horrible person, and the war was making her realise it every day, more and more. Oh, if only there wasn’t a war!

Then suddenly an image came into Harper’s head, which promptly made her burst into tears. She thought of her mother, going back to their little house, alone, after standing on the quarry of Dover, gazing at the ship carrying her only child until it was only a dot on the horizontal sea-line in the far back. She was probably crying right now, about everything that had ever happened in her life – about her darling husband who had died one month after their marriage, about her daughter who hated her for sending her away, about being all alone on the tattered mustard sofa without her daughter under her arm. Oh, Harper couldn’t bear the thought of her mother being so unhappy, she just couldn’t bear it! 

Oh my goodness.

I apologise for that. :-P See why I thought it was awful? All the Oh's and the exclamation marks and the bursting into tears. It's so weird and... blehh. Also, it's not a relaxing read. The paragraphs are too long and wrong. Blehhhhhh. My first draft is driving me nuts. 

So I closed the file and re-wrote it. And these are the first few paragraphs of the re-written chapter:

I wasn’t scared, like some children; I was one hundred percent upset. 

Don’t cry, Harper. You’ll see me again. The words of my mother rang in my ears, but they were of no comfort to me. I was upset, and I had to cry. That was how it worked in my young fourteen-year-old emotional self, and I must have cried more than any of the other children on board, which made me even more miserable and ashamed because I was definitely one of the older ones. 

Think of it as an adventure, dear. Look at the ocean you’ll be travelling on and get excited. You’ve always wanted to travel, Harper; please be happy. I looked down at the waves stretching all around me, but the wind only stung deeper into my eyes, making my eyes water in pain. 

“Ma’am?” 

I turned around, sniffing like a horse. “Yes?” 

It was a girl – about ten years old. Her clothes were too small for her and skin-tight, and she wore a straw-hat that looked like it had been nibbled by mice. “Please don’t cry.” 

“What do you mean, Please don’t cry?" 

The girl shrugged. “I don’t like it when people cry.” 

“Well, do you think I enjoy crying?” I stared in unbelief. Then I realised that the girl must be scared or upset as well, and I sniffed resolutely. “Okay, I’ll try to stop.” 

“Why are you sad?” 

“Same reason as everyone.” I found a handkerchief and began to blow my nose and wipe my eyes like a mother on her daughter’s wedding day. I hoped the girl would leave – I felt very silly talking to her. 

“I suppose you mean you’re sad because you’re leaving your family?” 

I gave a sigh and a fake smile. “Yes, that’s the reason. I will miss my mother, and my friends, and loads of other things.” 

“I’m not sad about leaving my mum,” the girl said unexpectedly. “I’m really glad. My mum is always cross with me.” The girl held up her arm and peeled off the fabric off her sleeves. She showed a pink bruise that looked like it had once been nasty. “See? She did this to me. I’m glad I’m going to America. I’ve heard it’s absolutely gorgeous and beautiful.” 

My smile was more genuine the second time. “I hope you land in a lovely family. I’m so sorry about your mum.” 

“It’s okay. I hit her back.” 

I almost laughed aloud. “You did?”

What do you think?  

It still needs some tweaking - for example, the 'my mother's words rung in my ears, but they were of no comfort to me' is a bit cliché and over-done - but I think it's much better than the original style. I hope this is a more fresh and comfortable read. (Also, I've learnt that I'm better at first-person writing than third-person.)

I'd love your feedback.

Also, wish me luck on the complete re-write! It's gonna be a long journey.