mytbc

How can you know where you’re going, if you ignore where you’ve been?

I’ve recently been trying to work out why I want to “blog”. I originally started this blog with the idea of tying together different online personas, linking to all the content I’ve put on other websites, Youtube, Flickr, that kind of thing. There’s a problem with that though, I seldom actually add content to the internet.

I think I’ve come up with a purpose for mytbc now, though. I have always fancied myself as a bit of a writer. Never a particularly good one, but at least I wrote. Except that outside of this blog, I haven’t since, ooh, first year of university. This kind of flies in the face of my belief that I am a writer. I may have the potential to be a writer, but if I don’t write, then I’m not one

Like I say, though, I don’t think I’m a particularly good writer. Still, like the old joke goes:
Q. “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”
A. “Well, first you need to get to New York…”
It’s something like that anyway. The point is, if I want to be a good writer, I need to write more. There will be times in my life where being a good writer will come in handy. Whether that’s writing reports for a job, or even something simple like being able to make up a good story for my children when putting them to bed, knowing how to put words together in coherent sentence that attracts the reader’s, or listener’s, attention will be a good thing.

Practise, then, is the key. And if that’s the key, then perhaps this blog is the lock? I shall use this blog to refine my writing skills, become a better writer.

The problem with saying I want to be a better writer is that better is a comparison word. Better than what? Well, better than I used to be (which I hope that I am), and better than I am now. I recently discovered an old notepad which contained some fiction I’d started writing, before abandoning it after six and a half pages. It does contain two different ink colours, so unlike most of my stories at the time, I came back to it at least once. Using my forensic skills, I have been able to date it to around Spring 2001. For your amusement, and my chagrin, I have decided to share it with you, unedited. To all those who care about tiny grammatical and syntactical errors, I am sorry. This is apparently how I wrote when I was fourteen. Enjoy.

A strange woman rode into town upon a donkey. She rode up the general store, dismounted and entered

“Good evening, ma’am” said Smithson. Robert Smithson was the General store’s only employee. He had worked there since his father, Robert Smithson Sr, had unfortunately died when 10 tonnes of tinned Baked beans fell on him during a delivery.

“Hello sir. Take note. By Dawn tomorrow I wish to have A new donkey, 10 tins of Baked beans, stop Blubbering man, an assistant, 3 2 litre Bottles of perrier water and a map of the county. Think you can do that,” she almost whispered

“It’s possible, I think” he replied with a tear in his eye, “By noon tomorrow I could get it done but it’s a bit 50:50 for dawn”

“I’ll see you at noon then. Make it so”

---

The sun was at it’s highest for the day. At 12 noon exactly the stranger walked into the store. A note on the desk said something about meeting at the gallows. She couldn’t really read it because the handwriting was really terrible.

She got on her Donkey and raced to the gallows and saw Smithson standing there with everything bar the assistant.

She sighed, “I thought you said everything would be ready”

“It is” he assured her.

“Then where’s the bally assistant” she said with the evil look that woman do so well.

“I’m it.” As he said it a smile rose across the woman’s face before she burst out laughing.

“You, Ha! you. No offence but, you probably don’t know anything about surviving in the wild. I’m sorry, but” And she burst out laughing again.

Smithson showed her all his Scout badges and said, “Scout’s honour. I can help you. Please. My life here is really boring and I want adventure”

“Fine. If you’re useless I’ll drop you at the next town. My name is Stone, Rosie Stone”

“Robert Smithson. I’ll try not to let you down. I’ve already packed everything in mule packs”

They made their way out of town to the sound of a cat meowing.

---

They rode nonstop through the Desert until nightfall, except for toilet Breaks. Editor’s note: I seem to have been incapable of starting a b word with anything but a capital B. It’s really annoying me They stopped to make camp at about nine o’clock. This doesn’t add anything to the story but the chronicler, that’s me by the way, is a sucker for useless facts. If you don’t like them, tough. Just to spite you lot I’ll write ten paragraphs about Smithson’s toenails.

Ow. Stop it. My slave-driver is whipping me. Stop it. Ok, I will get back to the story, but I will put those paragraphs in somewhere. [the chronicler cackles evilly, and is hit over the head with a chair. The slave driver smiles]

---

Sorry. I’ll get back to the story now. The campfire was blazing away and smithson was flossing his teeth. Stone, our heroine who you’ve already met, was washing her hair in the river.

“You’re hair is already looked nice, so why wash it?” Smithson asked her. Editor’s note: I admit it, even I once used the wrong your. Oh, the shame. The shaaame.

“I wash it every night so that when I’m asked on a date I can truthfully say that I’m washing my hair” she replied.

“I see. So where are we headed?” He asked.

“Yonder”

“Yes, but which direction is Yonder”

“Aaah” She replied mystically. “Yonder is in no particular direction. It all depends where you are in relation to Yonder. From here it is due North, but 300 miles north from here it is due south. At dawn we head to Yonder, donkey dealing capital of Yondershire.”

“Yes ma’am.” he said, and promptly fell asleep.

“wee idiot” Stone whispered to herself, and followed the lead of her companion.

All that was heard that night was Smithson snoring and an occasional fart from the donkey

---

At Dawn they broke camp, and headed for Yonder. I would tell you every bit of conversation they had, but you’d soon get bored. To prove it, here’s a snippet

“Is that a tree?” asked smithson.

“No, it’s a flattened hedgehog.”

“How about that?”

“No, that’s my donkey.” Stone sighed.

It continued like that for three hours. Aren’t you glad I decided not to put it all in. Let’s have a hip hip hooray for me. Perhaps not, the slave driver is smiling at me again.

Eventually Smithson managed to identify a tree and Stone lowered her palm from his throat.

“Is that a tree?” asked Smithson, pointing at a road sign saying “Yonder, 3 miles”. She punched him in the mouth.

Three miles is a long way when you’re unconscious and riding on a donkey.”

So, there we have it. Am I a better writer now? Undoubtedly. Am I a good writer now? I don’t think so. Will there ever come a time when I will be satisfied with my own writings in such a way that I would use the word good?

No, probably not. But that just means I’ll ever be striving to be better, which can only be a good thing.

No related posts.