For this task, begin by thinking of a house, or maybe just a room you remember: or you could choose a workplace or an office - anywhere, really, that means something to you.
Draw a rough sketch plan of the place. Then annotate it: eg This was where my sister and I listened to records; The sitting room where we watched TV together and I first saw... etc.
Then choose one of the memories/notes, and use it a a springboard for a piece of writing: could be a story, could be memoir.
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I am Helen Bridgeman, helen67bridgeman@gmail.com
ReplyDeleteWhen and where do you hold you classes please.
In Cheddar, on Thursday mornings. Sorry, Helen - I've only just seen your comment.
DeleteFrom my university student magazine, 1971/72.....
ReplyDeleteDefinition of a family.
'A loose association of self seekers, held together by a television set'.
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That picture also reminded me of something...
In 1964, my family lived in Stranraer, Galloway. There was a council 'enclave' of houses for professional council employees, for example, teachers, library managers, roads and water engineers etc.. My father was a teacher. Next door, on one side, was his boss, head of department. They had a son, friends with my younger brother. Two doors up, on the other side of our house, music teachers and their son Alan. He and my brother were friends, both 8 years old. Alan was a lovely lad, cheerful and bright. Everyone liked him.
At some point, my father's boss's family bought a house in a village a few miles out of Stranraer, and moved away.
Shortly after, one Saturday, Alan and his mother went to visit. They took the bus. It dropped them off directly across the road from his friend's new home. Alan, eager to see his friend, stepped out from the behind the bus, into the path of a car, and was killed instantly.
Later that day, I came home from wherever I'd been. Through the side door, into the kitchen. My mother was there, making dinner. She told me that Alan had been killed. I walked through the dining room, into the living room. My father was there, in his armchair, behind the large newspaper. I noticed that the paper seemed to be shaking. I went across to him. Behind the newspaper he was crying. The only time in my life I ever saw him cry.
My mother in the kitchen. My father in the living room, behind the newspaper. My brother and I sitting on the stairs in the hallway, wondering what to say or do.
Sorry, Andrew - I've only just seen your comment. I'm so sorry - what a sad story.
ReplyDelete