Why Do I Write?

My earliest recollections of listening to a story go back to my very early childhood when at the tender age of four years my sister and I would sit either side of my grandfather who would be tucking into an egg and bacon breakfast. Between mouthfuls, he would tell us a story, made up as he went along and we would sit enraptured and hanging onto every word. He always began with the words,

"This is the story of Johnny M'norie who lived up three steps and in a wee doorie .."

From then on, even in my subconscious, I realized there was something that was great fun about stories. It was not until the age of about eight that I began to write my own, using very simple words progressing to more elaborate sentences and a vastly expanded vocabulary, by the time I had reached eleven or twelve. Our English lessons at school were divided into three sections: English Grammar, English Literature and English Composition. I could hardly wait for the Composition lesson to come round each week and would spend literally hours writing stories for the homework we were given.

Several years later I was studying Art in London. Although one could express emotions and ideas through the medium of paint, I felt a strong urge to write as well as paint and would carry a notebook with me on my journeys into and out of London. When I reached twenty, I spent a month living on the island of Iona. I wrote every day, more perhaps in the form of a diary, although I did write some poetry too. I found then, and I still find, that writing is such a fulfilling way of expressing ones feelings, whether one is overwhelmed, passionate, frightened or deeply saddened about events in life. The list is never ending.

Any benefits in writing? Yes, one of the main ones being that I am so fortunate in belonging to a really lovely group of writers here in the village of Aynho!

What is the point of it? Well, what is the point of anything? I think it is a deep-rooted human desire for fulfillment in some aspect of one's life and I feel rewarded that I have found this fulfillment in the enjoyment of writing.

Before ending I must mention the importance of prayer writing during my adult life. Again, these are strongly felt emotions that I have felt must be put down in writing.

I should like to read out two short prayers; the first I wrote during one Summer when I was a helper at a Quaker Camp for children in 1961:

Oh God, I thank thee for this beautiful night, For the pureness of the sky,

For the light of the moon and her sisters the stars,

For the peace which is here and lies like the morning mist

Between the hills and trees and up to the eternal sky.

For your infinite love and goodness, which is everything to man and without which man would be nothing.

Father, accept our love, poor and unworthy as it may seem,

For without you we are nothing. Amen

.

The second, a prayer I wrote soon after the birth of our second daughter in 1977:

7.00am in a room at the Horton Maternity Hospital. One vicar, three mothers taking Communion.

Dear God, thank you for this simple, beautiful time at the beginning of the new day and for the good Minister who came to administer your Body and Spirit into our beings. Amen.

A Member

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Someone Said It Couldn't Be Done

Somebody said it couldn't be done,

I tried and tried: it wasn't much fun.

Away for a week, down at the sea,

I thought I would take my laptop with me.

The forecast predicted that rain would set in,

So I would open my laptop, think hard and begin.

The forecast was wrong, not even a shower,

So my laptop stayed shut for hour after hour.

We were walking the coast path along the cliff top,

When all of a sudden Carol's hand made me stop.

There in the water, far far below,

A seal; his head bobbing up in the ebb and the flow,

Flippers and tail curve and slide as he plays,

Only seen in this bay on the rarest of days.

At St. Anthony's Head, we paused, hot and tired,

Sat and relished the view we'd always admired.

As I chewed on my pasty and swallowed my beer,

An idea for writing almost came clear.

A small sandy cove was left by the tide,

Which also disclosed a cave in its side.

What if some smugglers in centuries past

Had brought in their contraband lashed by the mast.

And what if the customs boat rowed up astern,

Set light to the lugger and left it to burn.

Then chased the smugglers up a path strewn with rocks

As they struggled to climb with many a box.

No it wouldn't make sense; it's just not my style,

It wouldn't deserve the space in my file.

Somebody said it couldn't be done.

They were right.

Keith McClellan

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IF ONLY....

If only I could find a way

To take me back to when

We'd sheltered under treetops from the rain

The words I'd said were from the heart

Intending to confess

Of jealousy stillborn of fear

Of loss and loneliness

Your lovely eyes reflected

In an instant all the pain

I wouldn't have inflicted

If it wasn't for the rain

So like a fool I stood there

And watched you walk away

Our joys of many colours

Washed into shades of grey

Oh, would there were by some strange force

A way to travel back

I'd hold you close for evermore

And nevermore be lonely

And I wouldn't have to use the words

If only....

Derek Wadsworth

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Lincolnshire Sunrise

Dawn breaks across the furrowed fields,

Penetrating shafts of light illuminate

The level landscape;

The rising sun slowly turns darkness Into rosy day.

Statue-like, distant trees stand, Silent and still,

Giving sanctuary as yet, to slowly Awakening birds.

Dew upon the grassy meadows Gleams in a bejewelled riot of Rainbow colours and the first Birds begin to sing.

Across the river, mist still hangs In a curtain of moist translucent Silver light.

Two swans drift eerily past, A majesty of elegance

In their snow-white shrouds.

By now the chorus of singing birds Challenges the increasing light, Then scintillating sunlight salutes Another glorious summer day.

Pam Parrish