Some thoughts on writing and taking criticism

Copyright @ 2008 by Paulo Coelho

The act of writing – the text (the end)
	The act of writing – the text (the end)
	In the previous Warrior of Light Online I commented on reading, pens and words. Below are some final remarks on the topic. First of all, let me repeat what I said before: everybody has a good story to tell, and it is part of the human condition to share a little of our experience with others. You might ask me: and what about the publishers? How do they publish these experiences? The truth is that nowadays there are many platforms for this (such as the Internet or the local newspaper, for example) and there will always be someone interested in what you write. So, even if that someone did not exist, write for the pleasure of writing. As the pen traces out words on the paper, your anguish disappears and your happiness remains. For this to happen, it is necessary to have the courage to look deep inside yourself, disclose this to the outside world, and be even more courageous to know that one day whatever you write could (and should) be read by somebody. And what if it’s something very intimate? Don’t worry. Thousands of years ago, Solomon wrote the following words: “Whatever has been is that which will be; And whatsoever has been done is that which will be done; And there is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9). In other words: if thousands of years ago there was nothing new, just imagine now! Our feelings of happiness and anguish are still the same, and we should not hide them. And even though there is nothing new under the sun, there still remains the need to translate all this for ourselves and for our generation. Jorge Luis Borges once said that there are only four stories to be told: A] a love story involving two people B] a love story involving three people C] the struggle for power D] a journey. Even so, throughout the centuries men and women have continued to retell these stories, and it’s time you did the same. Through the art of writing you will come into contact with your unknown universe and eventually you will feel like a far more capable human being than you thought you were. The same word can be read in different ways. For instance, write down the word “love” a thousand times and each time the sentiment will be different. Since letters, words and sentences are traced out on paper, there is no reason to feel tense. The hand that writes eventually comes to rest, and the heart of the person who dared to share his or her feelings smiles. If you pass by a writer who has just finished a text, you will feel that he has an empty expression on his face and that he seems distracted. But he – only he – knows that he has risked a lot, managed to develop his instinct, maintained his elegance and concentration during the whole process, and can now afford to feel the presence of the universe and see that his action was just and deserved. His closest friends know that his thought has changed dimensions. Now it is in touch with the entire universe: he goes on working, learning all the positive things that his text has yielded, correcting any mistakes and acknowledging its qualities. Writing is an act of courage. But it’s worth taking the risk. Us and the critics Read biographies: nobody escapes unhurt, no matter what their activity may be. From James Joyce, who was considered a pervert by the respectable “The Times”, to Orson Welles, the genius of the cinema, whom Umberto Eco classified as a mediocre person. Read on. Because writers write, readers read, and critics criticize. Inverting that order would at the very least be unadvisable. However, practically every day I receive some e-mail from people who feel personally attacked when they see something negative about me in the press. Although grateful for the solidarity, I explain that all this is part of the game. I have been criticized ever since I wrote “The Alchemist” (“The Diary of a Magus” passed relatively unnoticed by the press, except for reports that spoke about the author but hardly ever referred to the contents of the book). I have seen many writers enjoying tremendous public success but when they receive the inevitable stoning from the critics, they tend to follow one of two directions. The first is not managing to publish any more books: this was the case of “Perfume” by Patrick Sussekind. At the time, his editor (who is also mine in Germany) published two full pages in the local newspapers, one with the criticism loathing the book, the other with the book-agents saying how they loved it. “Perfume” became one of the biggest bookstore successes of all time. Then Sussekind published a collection of short stories, two books he had written before his big success, and then left the scene. In the second case, writers become intimidated and try to please the critics at their next launching. Susanna Tamaro enjoyed tremendous public applause (and an avalanche of attacks from the critics) for “Follow your heart”. Her next book, “Anima Mundi” was anxiously awaited by her admirers, then she changed the simple, marvelous poetry of the original title for something so complex that she lost her faithful readership and ended up not pleasing the critics either. Another example is Jostein Gaarder. “Sophie’s World)” enjoyed fantastic success because he was able to handle the history of philosophy in a direct, agreeable manner. But neither the critics nor the philosophers liked the book. Gaarder began to use complicated language and ended up abandoned by his readers - and still detested by the critics. It would seem from the paragraphs above that I too have begun to pass judgment. Why? Criticizing is so easy – the hard thing is to write books. In “The Zahir”, the main character (a famous Brazilian writer) says that he can guess exactly what will be said about his new book, which has still to come out: “Once again, in these troubled days we live in, the author makes us flee from reality”. “Short sentences, superficial style”. “The author has found the secret to success – marketing”. Just like the main character in “The Zahir”, I am never wrong. I made a bet with a Brazilian journalist, and I hit the nail on the head. Let me end this column with a sentence by Irish playwright Brendan Behan: “Critics are like eunuchs in a harem. Theoretically they know the best way to do it, but that’s as far as they get.” Please, gentlemen critics, do as I do: don’t take the sentence above as a personal offense

Halloween

Note: I have been in real life to the Avebury 31 Oct ceremony, and of course this is inspired by that and the people there. But that is as far as it goes. It is in no way representative of the real Archdruid or anyone else! 

We stamped our feet on the ground in an effort to stay warm.

It had seemed such a good idea when we were in the nice, warm cosy pub. The jolly chap with a beard turned out to be the Archdruid of Avebury and was going to lead the Hallow’een ceremony just before midnight.

Gee-ed up with cider and laughing at the clots with enwhitened faces and silly witch outfits, we said yes to stumbling out in the perishing cold and finding our way in the dark up the Avebury Avenue.

A little group of people were hanging around the stones trying to avoid sheep poo.

Some clearly knew what they were doing, others were touching the stones to get themselves in the mood and others, like us, were trying not to look out of place; mentally whistling, gazing at the stars, taking the odd peak at the rag tag bunch of people.

It was 11.30pm. Towards us walked the Archdruid. Now he was garbed in his white robe he no longer looked like Santa on his day off.

Giving us a cheery greeting, he explained where we were going. “We’re going to cross the road and head up the Avenue,” he said. “We’re lucky enough to have permission to cross the Marlborough College Master’s garden today, so we can follow the original route all the way to the Sanctuary.”

I looked down at my feet. Okay so at least I had trainers on but they were for fashion rather than anything like training. I didn’t have all the accoutrements of a midnight excursion into the countryside either such as hat, gloves, scarf. But I did have drink induced insanity, so that helped.

We headed off. I must admit, there was something quite atmospheric about walking alongside those ancient stones. And at least it was clear moonlight, and not the usual rain.

A mile or so up the field, the stones were becoming fewer and far between. From my limited knowledge I knew at some point there were the large stones all the way to the Sanctuary. This was the most sacred part of Avebury: a smaller ring that, today, only existed in small marker stones and in the hearts of those who held Avebury dear.

How ironic that this monument, built by superstitious Stone Age people, survived for thousands of years only to be torn down a couple of hundred years ago by more modern superstitious people.

I guess it’s easier to take out life’s frustrations on a few stones than face up to the problems in ourselves.

Gosh. I guess I must be at the philosophical drunk stage. For goodness sake, steer clear of politics, religion or otherwise – I’ll bend your ear for hours.

Our aching feet eventually carried us to the small ring of stones. People were filtering off to the left around the stones. My friend decided it would be quicker to go right. “Stop!” Called one of the other druids. “Don’t go anti-clockwise around the ring.” My friend’s arm was grabbed and led in the opposite direction.

She caught my eye and I grimaced in a comedy fashion. “We may turn into frogs!” I whispered. Jo giggled and then stifled it quickly with her gloved hand. How I envied her gloves!

We surrounded the ring and the Archdruid began his speech. Most of it went by in a blur… ‘All Hallows Eve is the thinnest veil between life and death…we use apples to represent our loved ones who have passed over this year….’

The next bit made me concentrate: “ Most people have heard,” explained the Archdruid, “that we like to share booze and cavort naked round the stones. Well it’s far too cold for that so we’ll keep our clothes on and share a bit of cider and biscuits.”

Great! More drink! It may take off the chill.

After the communal food and drink we were invited to remember our loved ones. Each person put an apple in the centre of the circle for each soul.

The first voice was American. “I’m an ex-soldier.” He said. “I’d like to remember all my friends who’ve died in the gulf and especially in Iraq. What a stupid war. Please let us make up with Iran.”

A few more remembered friends and family. Next up was the Archdruid himself. His story was about a broadcaster I recognised from Radio 1. Apparently they shared a love of vintage bikes.

Then a voice next to me spoke. It was Jo. I hadn’t known her for that long. A drinking buddy really and our friendship revolved around, well, drink.

“I’d like to remember my mum. We didn’t get on really. Actually she was a shit mum. But she was still my mum and now she’s dead. Rest in peace.” She tossed her apple onto the pile.

I chanced a look sideways and saw her wiping her nose with her glove. Then the Archdruid cleared his throat. “I think someone has a message for you.” He sounded less jolly than before, in fact, a bit, well, scared?

Jo looked at him, puzzled. He pointed at the space above the pile of apples. We all looked where he indicated. Nothing. What was he playing at?

Again, Jo spoke: “What, mum? Tell me?”

I looked at her then back at the apples. Still nothing.

“Dad did for you? No! No! He loved you! He loved me! You led him to hell and back.”

What the hell was going on? Jo looked distraught. She was on her knees, crying, her hands held out to the space over the apples.

“Okay. Okay. You’re right – what have you got to win by lying? I’ll bring him justice. I promise. Please don’t go, please! I didn’t mean about you being shit. I’m sorry! Please, no!”

Jo collapsed on the cold grass. The Archdruid slumped and his druid helper rushed to him. The air was a buzz. What the hell had happened?

 

“Are you all right?” I asked helplessly. Jo didn’t answer. She just sobbed. “Um, we should be getting back.” What the hell else could I say? 

 

“Mum she was here. Dad, he did her in. I have to sort it – for Mum.”

 

“Come on. We need to get you back home – to a big coffee,” I said, still way out of my depth.

 I picked her up off the floor and we made our way back, leaving confusion and amazed chatter behind us.

 

© AgentLouisa

The Vicar and the Burglar

This was written as part of the 30 Nov timed exercise. Basically I had 20 mins to write a story around the following random elements: vicar, burglar, praying, getting old!, children’s dance class. See ‘Writing exercises’ for more info.

 Rev James locked the front door and jangled his keys on the way to the car.

 “Hope I’m not late,” he thought. “Parishioners do pick their moments to ring!”

 He had been 5 minutes away from leaving for his son’s Dance Revue, when the phone rang. Foolishly he picked it up. Many rambling sentences later, he learned that the parish supper next Thursday did NOT have enough chairs for the people likely to attend. Susie, who organised them, was well meaning but a bit of a fusspot.

 Rev James started up the car and set off.

 As he left, a figure peered around the corner of the vicarage.

 “Thought he was never going to leave,” the man grumbled to himself.

 He had been watching the house for weeks. He knew that there was a valuable commemorative plate stored in the vicarage and it was his for the taking. It was worth a good few bob: solid silver and over five hundred years old. He’d already lined up a dealer with a reassuring lack of morals and no particular attachment to the police.

 He’d picked out the right window to gain entry. Thank God (haha), he thought, for old houses and a lack of alarms. He eased his chisel into the window casing and pulled gently but firmly. It came away with ease.

 Hauling himself up, he made his way through the window and – got stuck!

 He looked at the offending area that was making entry difficult. The grim realisation of recent Christmas set in. His stomach had grown just enough to be bigger than the window. “I’m getting too old for this,” he puffed. After pushing and pulling a bit he realised he was like a fox in a noose – getting more stuck the more he tried to escape.

 After a few minutes he was beginning to worry.

 After 20 minutes he started to pray: “Please God, I promise to go straight if you let me go.”

 A few minutes later he heard a voice behind him and his heart sank.

 “Hey – are you stuck? Thieving from the good Rev?”

 “No of course not!” the burglar protested. “I was fixing the window.”

 “Yeah, right!” the young voice laughed.

 “Tell you what I’ll share the spoils if you help me.”

 “Well…” The youngster considered his offer. “I’ll get a ladder to help me.”

 “The footsteps made off. A few minutes later they returned. Breathing a sigh of relief the burglar started to speak – and then stopped in surprise.

 The voice was pulling down his trousers and pants!

 Soon after, the vicar returned to find a half naked burglar hanging out of his window – with a big smiley face painted on his bare rear!

 The vicar quickly covered his young son’s eyes and raised his face heavenward.

 “I always knew you had a sense of humour!” he smiled.

 © AgentLouisa 

Innocence and Experience

This was a time of change and upheaval in my life. From a warm, unpretentious family, and a village school, I was sent to a smart boarding school for ‘gels’. It was a case of sink or swim at the age of 13. What I felt set me apart was my Scottish accent, which made me feel like a crow among larks. I decided to keep my head down, to listen and learn, and try to keep up with the bells and time tables that regulated all our lives.

I got on well enough with the other girls. Everyone had to have one special friend or partner because most things were done in pairs. You walked together to the games field, or for walks in the town if the weather was too wet for the grass. You were never alone. Of course, this was the fifties, when teenagers were treated as children, and schoolgirls were kept ignorant of sexual matters. Pandora’s box had not yet revealed The Pill, and we were all so innocent.

My partner was called Anne Martin. She was very pretty and quiet; a tiny bit dull in fact, but I didn’t care. She was my best friend. That first year she invited me to her home for a weekend during the Christmas holidays. It was to be my first long train journey alone. Anne and her mother met me at the station. Anne was happy to see me, though her mother was less so. She frowned a lot, though she might have been beautiful if she would only smile. I couldn’t help comparing her with my own cuddly mother, who I knew would bake a cake for Anne with her name in icing when she came to stay with us.

Anyway, we drove through their home town of Preston, where everything, including their large house, was built of red brick, very different from Edinburgh’s grey stone. Mrs Martin didn’t talk much, even to Anne. But it didn’t matter; everything was new and exciting. We were going to to a pantomime too!

Anne’s older brother Gerald opened the door to us. He was good-looking, but he didn’t speak much either, and soon shut himself in his room. There was no sign of their father. Their home was a surprise. I thought it very fine, with large and lofty rooms, but the furniture was dark and heavy, as if it belonged to a different family. The bathroom was like nothing I had ever seen before. The bath itself was like a wooden battleship, with brass taps and spouts all over the high raised front, but there were patches where the bath enamel had broken off. It was great fun though, and I had a wonderful bath the first night there.

The next day I met Anne’s father for the first time. Her mother said he was a very busy doctor at the hospital, and could only spare time for coffee. We were all, including Gerald, in the ’snug’, waiting for him. He arrived, rubbing his hands together, and booming: “Where is this young Scottish friend of Anne’s?” He clasped my shoulders and smiled down at me with his twinkly blue eyes, radiating good humour. He played with my long blonde plaits, told me I was a pretty girl, and bade me sit on his knee - so I did. To my amazement, I felt his hand groping my bottom, and jumped off. Soon after that Dr Martin left for his work at the hospital.

Later that afternoon we were getting ready for the pantomime. I was still wearing the new dress I had been wearing the previous day. Clothes coupons were still needed after the war, so a new dress was something very special. This one was a soft greeny-blue, with a neat collar and long sleeves. Suddenly Mrs Martin was calling me.

“Elspeth! You neck is dirty. It’s black! We can’t go to the theatre with you looking like that!”

“What?” I said “It can’t be dirty. I had a bath last night.”

“Don’t argue!” she said. She went into the kitchen and returned holding a dripping flannel. She pulled open the top button on my collar and proceeded to scrub angrily at my neck with the cloth, soaking the top of my dress as she did so. I was completely mystified, but not as angry as I might have been. I only knew that my neck was not dirty. That accusation upset me more than the assault on my dress and my dignity. I told nobody about the episode, and it faded at last from my memory.

But now, all these years later, it has re-emerged, and with it some understanding of what happened. Did I play the sweet little innocent leading him on, as I’m sure Mrs Martin believed? No, I did not. Her husband was handsome, successful and - I now realise - an habitual drinker and ladies’ man. That scene, or ones like it, where the good doctor could not keep his hands off a young female, had been played out many times before. This time she thought she could take some kind of revenge. I wonder if it made her feel better.

To my sorrow, my friend Anne was removed from the school after only one more term. It was rumoured there was family trouble at home. A letter I send to the house was returned by the Post Office marked: No Longer At This Address.

By Gwyn Mary Bell

Create a Character

Anne Tucker has agreed to coordinate Riverbank Writers (thanks Anne!) and from November is going monthly - last Wednesday of the month. The next one is WED 28 NOV 6-8pm, still at the Sun Inn, Marlborough.

If you would like to come along, please email or phone Anne on 01672 512 866, or just turn up on the night.

Our next excercise is to think about the main skills for effective writing. Why are they important? What do you need from a piece of work from the beginning to the end.

Of course you don’t have to do this - turn up with your latest piece of writing - story, poem, fiction, fact, whatever - and read to a sympathetic audience!

On Oct 31 we were supposed to do something on Halloween but none of us managed it (though I have some ideas now that I want to get on with). Gwyneth wrote a thought provoking tale from her childhood. Anne gave us an excercise from her writing course (mine and my husband’s efforts below!)

If you fancy doing it, here it is. Email the results and we’ll upload it! Or write it as a comment to this post.

The idea was we created a character profile which we used to flesh out a simple description of someone washing up. I don’t have the pictures we used but basically one was a woman (late 30s, blonde shoulder length dyed hair, summer top with black bra staps showing and, from her face, a bit plump, unsmiling) and the other a man (55+, glasses, mouth slightly open, neck chain, T-shirt, balding close cropped hair).

The character profile asked: Name; What’s his/her role in life? Who are his/her immediate family? What does s/he love doing best? What does s/he hate doing most? What makes him/her jump for joy? What makes him/her cringe in despair? What’s his/her most immediate problem? What’s his/her secret ambition? what’s his/her passion? What does s/he secretly dread? What’s his/her most treasured possession? What would s/he like to throw away? What one word describes you character? What is her/his quirk?

Adapt the following using your character profile:

S/he washes the dishes slowly and carefully, rinsing the suds from each one before placing it in the rack to drain. S/he dries each plate, cup and saucer carefully with a clean, white tea towel and stacks them all neatly in the kitchen cupboard. Only when everything has been done will s/he switch off the kitchen light and go to bed.

Perhaps you can guess mine and Pete’s character profile from our stories?

(Louisa)

Derek

Derek watched as his new neighbour climbed from behind the wheel of his Nissan Bluebird and made his way up the drive to his front door, his fat fucking wife and three - three! – f***ing teenage kids in tow.

At the same time, Samantha made her way up Derek’s drive. His hands tightened as Sam – barely making her curfew - shot a sexy glance at the oldest of the three brothers, his tattooed knuckles turning as white as the dinner plate.

He picked up a white cloth and started to dry the plate, placing it carefully on a pile a similarly white plates in a cupboard of white crockery. He ran a finger around the St Christopher necklace that hung around his neck and allowed himself a smile, remembering the fun he’d had at the game that afternoon.

He felt a nudging against his shin. He reached down and tickled the pitbull behind the ears. “Good boy Tyson,” he said. At least someone in this f***ing family was loyal. He flicked the light switch and headed off to bed.

(C) Peter Davison

Pete doesn’t go to the Writer’s Group, mainly because someone has to look after his and Louisa’s son so both can’t go! However he thought it fun to do the character excercise after hearing Louisa’s story (next).

Chocolate

Charlie scrubs at the plate until it is spotless; then scrubs some more. She wants to remove all traces of the chocolate cake , hoping the scrubbing will eradicate the calories from her body, her lack of will power from her mind and the longing for the next treat from her mouth.

Tomorrow is another day, she told herself. I won’t have any more chocolate. Not ever. Not in any form.

She lifted the plate from the suds and placed in the drainer. She could still see the chocolate confection there in her mind’s eye. She could taste it in her mouth - and wished there was another in her cupboard. “I will get rid of the chocolate bars I bought today,” she told herself. “I will go to my bag, open it and throw the offending articles straight in the bin…”

“…Later.”

She picked up a tea towel. To her disgust there was a chocolate stain on the edge. Just a little smudge against the white cloth but enough to make her feel guilty about yesterday’s treat.

Picking up the plate she started to dry it but stopped half way. Her distant sad eyes were framed by lines of years of disappointment. She started to sway around the room with the plate clasped to her. Head jerked back, Charlie’s movements became more staccato as she moved into a single partner foxtrot.

“Only 2 more days til Saturday,” she thought. Then she could imagine herself as one of the glitter clad vague stars of the small screen, showing off their learnt ballroom moves in the ‘celebrity’ TV dance show.

Coming to a halt, Charlie looked at her plate. “Stupid fat cow,” she cried, smashed the plate against the wall and stormed off to bed.

(c) Louisa Davison

Murder Next Door

The detective inspector strutted around the scene of the crime, her head jerking backwards and forwards as she walked.

The body lay stricken in front of its pen with little sign of injury, its head lolling, beak open and eyes staring. DS Flight tried not to think how long it would be before the maggots would make those eyes disappear. She hated the way bodies were eaten from the ground upwards so you would think they were only just dead – until they were rolled over and nothing was left underneath.

Hopefully the owner would come by soon and clear up this poor victim.

Flight felt she probably had all the information from the scene she was likely to get.

To be honest, the bird was out of her jurisdiction, but the pigeons from the other pen were of poor breeding stock, bred for speed rather than wit, and had no law enforcement to speak of.

“When did he get back from his trip out?” Flight asked a concerned hen, her feathers a quiver with fear. “

“We were all asleep – we don’t know,” the hen replied. “To think he was only ruffling his feathers at me a few hours ago. It could be any of us next.”

“Stay inside your pens for the time being and only go near your owner,” advised the DS. “I’m going to make some more enquiries. I’ll be back later.

As Flight headed towards her cage, she heard the door open at the top of the tower block where the pigeons’ pens were housed. She quickly spread her wings and flew into her coop.

Two humans emerged – her owner and a young boy. It was her owner’s offspring. He was trying to interest the youngster in pigeon racing and so far it was working. The young boy spotted the dead body on the floor and ran over. “Dad!” He cried. “See this!” He bent over the bird. “Don’t touch that!” His dad warned. He walked over to the crime scene. “Oh look at that! Bloody poison!” “Dad!” Cried the child, shocked at the turn of language from his parent.

“Humm - just as I thought,” mused DS Flight. There were several racing pens on the top of the tower block. Pigeon racing was a popular sport for the inhabitants and becoming extremely competitive.

“We just like to fly and get back for a bit of easy nosh,” thought the bird. “But sometimes that comes with a high price. Must be to do with the argument the other owner had with the dead bird’s owner. Mentioned something about ‘gambin’? Not even sure what it is. Must be extremely tasty!”

The limp pigeon was picked up by Flight’s owner. “We’ll take it down to Dave,” said the human, sadly. “One of his best birds. This used to be such a friendly sport.”

Flight decided she’d had enough excitement for one day and pecked at her food. She’d report back tomorrow. She stuck her head under her wing and within minutes was asleep.

This was the ‘homework’ for 17.10.07. Please let me know what you think! PS It was inspired by indi-pop band, The Pigeon Detectives. I wonder: are they detectives for pigeons or are they detectives who ARE pigeons???

(C) Louisa Davison

The Angler

The Angler Albert skulked out of the house and headed for his favourite fishing spot; he was in no mood to meet anyone. When he arrived he forced his way angrily through a tangle of sedge and nettles towards the river. How could he have been so stupid? From his concealed pocket he took out the worn tobacco tin containing his tackle and placed it carefully on an area he had stamped flat; he didn’t want to lose that as well. Then he assembled his collapsible rod and began to set up. Still shaken by his recent experience, he took an age to tie the first fly to the tippet then attach the dropper to the leader – one to attract the fish, the other to catch it on its concealed barb. It required all his concentration to persuade his arthritic fingers to tie the fine thread so that the fish would be taken in just as he had been by the crisp uniforms and identity cards.   He had come to this remote stretch of the Kennet to escape the ignominy of what had happened as well as the attentions of the river bailiff; he certainly couldn’t afford a fine now. It was going to be difficult to cast from here without snagging his line on the alder branches dipping out over the water.  With a practised arc of the arm he cast smoothly across the river, which broadened out at this point into a shallow gliding sheen that polished the gravel of the river bed and tickled through vegetation on the water margin. The fly landed perfectly as Albert intended, sank, then dead-drifted invitingly with the current towards a darker spot under the far bank hidden by a mass of bramble fronds. Albert looked intently for a sign of the trout that he knew from years of poaching would be lurking there protected from the glare of sunlight and hidden from its prey, hidden too from its predator. Yet even as he watched the spangles of sunlight refracting in the stream, an image of the empty money tin on his mantle piece assailed him. Irritably he tugged on the line. With a flick of its powerful tail yet causing barely a ripple, a brown trout darted at the fly. Albert was too experienced a fisherman to move at once. He allowed the fish time to take the bait then when he was sure of him he struck and hooked him firmly. Skilfully he played the fish letting it run before gradually reeling it in. Albert smiled bitterly. The trout twisted and glittered as he pulled it from the water. Holding it firmly he removed the hook from its lip. It was a good size and normally he would have dispatched it quickly and stowed it in his poacher’s pocket. But as it lay on the bank flapping ineffectually and gasping for air he pitied it. Tricked by a clever subterfuge, conned by an expert, the fish was not to blame. He took the smooth, shining trout tenderly in both hands, gently lowering it into the cool, clear stream. For a moment it remained still then shot away to the security of its hiding place.  

With a lighter heart Albert packed up his gear and set off home.

by Michael Cope (copyright reserved)  

Homesick

 

Jawara sat by the strange river on a hard, wooden bench watching a mother duck leading her brood of ducklings as they swam line astern towards the grassy bank. Despite the bright spring sunshine a chill wind shivered the surface of the river into flecks of silver. He pulled his loose robe closer around him, the hot colours of the Gambia burning amongst the greens and browns of England.

 

He thought of his dear children at home in the compound just outside Kemolo. They would be missing him he was sure. He was worried about little Penda. She was only a month old – a weak child struggling too soon to enter the world. She was not gaining weight as she should and Jawara had not wanted to leave her. But all the arrangements had been made for him to come on this exchange visit to England and he reassured himself in the knowledge that Abibatu, his second wife, was a good mother.

 

His reflections were interrupted by a commotion on the river. One of the ducklings was unable to follow its siblings out of the water. Whether the bank had become too slippery or the duckling was too feeble was unclear. But it was still in the water piping plaintively to its mother, who called back encouraging it to try again. But each time it scrabbled at the bank and failed it became visibly weaker.

 

Jawara watched as it lost the battle and began to drift like a leaf with the current. The mother duck called to it urgently but she was compelled to stay with the rest of her brood. Jawara could not bear to witness the impending tragedy. He rose from the bench and gathering his long robes to his knees slipped down the bank into the river. The water only came up to his calves, but the cold numbed his skin almost making him cry out. He waded across the river his toes searching for the smooth stones of the riverbed.

 

But the duckling had been taken under an overhang of branches that prevented Jawara from approaching it. He willed the scrap of life to fight for its future. Peering into the undergrowth he lost sight of it and for a second or two the river seemed to stop flowing. Then he could see it again, struggling up through a tangle of tree roots till it reached its frantic mother. Relieved, Jawara stood like an exotic wading bird in the clear stream and for the first time since arriving in England felt a sense of connection with this land.

 

In his imagination Jawara traced the journey of the water that washed his legs, over the stony bed of the Kennet chalk stream, past the park where children played as children everywhere play, past alien houses built of brick and stone, past sluices and the sites of ancient mills into the Thames, across the ocean and up the wide, warm, familiar River Gambia carrying his love and the strength of his spirit to keep his little one safe.

 

by

Michael Cope (copyright reserved)