Writelink Arena

The opening chapter in a non-fiction work detailing how I have come to the state of failing health I now enjoy.

Feedback welcome.

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Now I’ve always been overweight. Well, at least that’s what I’ve always thought. No one ever actually said to me ‘Hell Margo, you’re overweight’ I’m a fairly regular size. I can walk, and run on a good day, without getting too breathless. I suppose what I’m saying is that I’m not clinically obese but I’ve always seen myself as being overweight, whatever that may be. Okay my husband did walk out on me for another woman, but she was neither younger nor slimmer than me. Not sure if that makes me feel better or not, but that’s another story.
Anyhow, after he’d left and I was on my own again I decided that perhaps it was time for me to tidy myself up and maybe loose a bit of weight. Not for the purposes of finding another man you realize. No, these days a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit in front of the tele is my idea of heaven. And a hot water bottle is the only thing I want to accompany me to bed.
Where was I? Oh yes. So off I went to one of these health farms with my friend Kath. I say a friend, she’s actually someone I work with, but she was keen like me to smarten herself up and loose some weight, after her husband kept commenting on her love handles and squidgy bits. So, we spent two days having steam baths, laying covered in mud, and having our tense bits massaged, all on a diet of 30 types of lettuce.
The following week Kath and I compared notes. Don’t ask me how but she’d managed to put on weight. I’d lost just a few ounces but I had the bug. I wanted to continue. And continue I did. I walked to work now instead of catching the bus. And I changed my diet drastically. A cup of sugarless tea and a rice cake in front of East Enders didn’t have quite the same appeal but I stayed with it. And slowly over time the weight started dropping off. I went down a whole dress size. I couldn’t afford to buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes but the charity shop did quite well out of me.
When I saw my ex husband in Tesco’s he commented on my appearance, he said his new bit of stuff (my word, not his) was going downhill fast. That pleased me. Not that I’d have him back, wouldn’t go near him with a barge pole but it was nice to have him notice me again.
I even went to the hairdressers and had highlights put in, can you believe it? I had to work extra shifts so I could afford that. So there I was with my new hairstyle, my slimmer figure and my Oska baggy jeans, courtesy of Sue Ryder. And then, I suddenly realised that I still felt overweight. It was a habit I supposed. It was who I was. Margo? - O.k. really, just a bit overweight. That was how I saw myself no matter how I looked. When I did look in the mirror I could recognise the difference and was pleased with what I saw but I was still me and that was o.k. too.
So nowadays? I still eat healthily most of the time but the rice cakes have gone out the window. I no longer walk to work, but I do go for walks at weekends. I’ve got myself a dog now so no excuses. I over indulge at Christmas, who doesn’t? Overall my weight is steady but I don’t think about it so much now. I’m happy with how I look, but more than that, for the first time in my life I am happy with who I am.

Write it down.

Write something down every day,
I’ve read it in all the books.
To succeed as a writer,
Is harder than it looks.

From when I was seven,
In Enid Blyton heaven.
I’d made up my mind,
To write books of that kind.

Rupert Bear lived his life in rhyme,
Talking poetry all the time.
It looks easy, so here we go,
I don’t know what to put though.

If I wrote as much as I read
About writing, I would have written
Ten novels by now.

So keep writing things down,
Even if it doesn’t make sense,
Just put words onto the page,
Grow up and act your age.

But I still like those fairy stories of long ago.
That began with once upon a time.
Perhaps they’ll make a comeback,
Like nougat and ginger wine.

I’ll enter a poetry competition,
And read up on the judge.
Maybe she’ll be like me,
And love vanilla fudge.

Or perhaps she’ll have gone to sleep,
Reading the heaps of bleep bleep bleep.
She must get paid lots of money,
Or like pooh bear, gets paid in honey.

Or the judge could be a man,
Reading poems as fast as he can.
To get to the end of the slush and gub,
Then to get off to the pub.

This writing game is wonderful,
It clears my mind completely.
I only hope to completely, complete
My novel one day.

But for now, I enclose this.

The subconscious still works as we sleep,it creates a jigsaw,buy putting pieces together to create a dream.
It also has a clever way of alerting us when something is about to happen!

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This is a Chapter of a childrens story I'm working on.
Its also available on writelink..
However, I have made some adjustments to the grammer on this one.
would really love some honest feed back.

[more:]

A white blanket of snow covered the hills that surrounded the village of St Nicolas. Children's laughter filled the air as they whiz through the fur trees on their sledges. John and his pal Jack were having fun they raced each other to the bottom of the hill. "I won again!” said John very proud of himself. "Maybe this time, but you will not next time.” said Jack. "I will always win." boasted John. "Come on then, one more go.” said Jack with determination. The church bells rang in the distance."Sorry Jack, but it is seven o clocks, I have to go home- tomorrow; maybe?" ''Your on." said Jack. Both boys said bye to the other kids on the hill and headed home. Throwing snowballs at each other and laughing as they walked, the warm glowing lights lit up the path ways to the village. As the boys approached the village, Christmas carols could be heard from Church of St Nicolas. Five Streets lead into the centre of the village. A tall fur tree covered in gold lights stood in the centre. Shops, cafe and the village Church surrounded the tree in the shape of a circle. Each street had stone cottages. The gardens were perfectly displayed with fairy lights and fur trees, decorated gold and red. The image of a fairy tale, illustrated the festive season.
John teased Jack about this sledge as they walked through the village. "Yours is crap; you need one like mine, its light and comfortable to carry!" "Yours is plastic!" said Jack “It is better than being big and bulky; you have to pull yours home! And it gets stuck in the snow!" John reached the garden leading to his home "I will see you tomorrow Jack.” ''Yeah, I will call on you for School." said Jack as he carried on walking home. John opened the garden gate and walked towards the front door. A wreath fell as he opened door. John picked up the wreath and placed it back onto the wooden door. He kicked the snow off his shoes as he entered. Mum had been baking. The aroma of cinnamon and apple made John hungry. John took off his shoes and put away his sledge. He then made his way to the living room. His mum was sewing. She was making Christmas stockings for the village fair, she had been making them since September. "What’s for tea Mum?" said John with a lick of his lips. "Beef Stew, followed by apple pie and custard!” said Mum. She stopped sewing and went to get John his tea. John Sat next to the open fire and rubbed his hands warm, for a few minutes. He stared at the brightly coloured Christmas tree. The excitement of Christmas began to overwhelm him. His imagination started to run wild at the thought of presents under the tree. "Come on John, your tea is ready!” said Mum. John tucked into his stew, and soon felt warm. After wards he went into his bedroom. He looked out of his bedroom window. The night sky was drawing in. The stars twinkled and the moon shone brightly onto the snowy covered hills of the rural setting.

Could I take a moment of your valuable time? Come
Underneath the shadows of this virtuous rhyme
Not a word to say in loud gratuitous fiction
The word I love’s poetic – pure secretive diction.

Can I love it? Really? Mrs Greer thinks I should. ‘cause
Underneath we’re all the same my Little Red Riding Hood
Not used here to cause offence, but subtlety expose it
Tune it in; turn it on. Don’t use then abuse it.

Criticised and abhorred by polite society.
Underneath social convention, gross misogyny
Never just a wallflower, a throbbing pulse inside
Terrified and wide awake. Still, feeling it should hide.

Some time ago, I put up the first chapter(s) of a piece and then abandoned it in favour or writing non-fiction for the time being. I’m between drafts of a piece, so I’ve rewritten that first chapter, with a different slant.

As you read this, it is hot off the word processor and doesn’t even have a proper title. No development work has been done. As ever, I would be interested in any feedback. It’s about 1600 words.

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This is re-write, as requested .
would love some honest critic.
hope you like it

If I could tell a story, the greatest would be told.
My premature baby, his heart was made of gold.
When I remenice, to the day that he was born.
I didn't know how to cope,my heart was really torn.
His body was covered in wires, from his head to his toes.
His features looked different, even his little nose.

The nurse said "we dont think he will last 24 hours".
I cried ,cried and cried ,like the spring showers.

That night , I remember clearly,
I prayed the lord would hear me
let him live, let him fight.
But please don't take him, not this night.

I stayed by his bedside all night long.
I even sang him a little song.

Months went by, he was stable.
I couldn't hold him, I wasn't able
I stroked his hand and his face,
I wanted to take him out of that place,

Then one day God sent me a sign.
A porceline hand, in a shop window, with a long life line.
I ran to the hospital as fast as I could,
washed my hands, as we should.

There was my baby,waiting for me, his hand in the air.
Dare I look , dare I stare.
What if it wasn't there.

Then I saw it, saw it right there, a long life line for me to see.
This was the message that was sent to me.

Two years on, he's growing up strong.
The days of the turmoil have all gone.
He strokes my hair as he sleeps.
Now I know he's here for keeps.

My Dad told me a story,
Its funny and it’s true.
He lived in a house with a chimney.
Back in 1952.
He didn’t have any money.
He was out of work and poor.
But he did help the little old lady
Who lived the house next door.
My mum was home from hospital.
My brother had been born.
He made the house look really nice,
He even cut the lawn.
He told my Mum” go next door and have a cup of tea.”
“Have a chat and I will come for you at three.”

He’d just sat down; there was a sound coming from the door.
One, two, three knocks or maybe even more.
“Your chimneys on fire Sir.” The fireman said “I have to put it out.”
He put the hose in the next doors chimney
My Mum came screaming out.

Her clothes and her face were covered in soot and she was pouting too.
My Dad cried with laughter, there was nothing he could do.

The old lady stood in her garden she cursed and she swore.
“Don’t come near me or my bloody door.”
“Look at my dress, look at the mess.
“I’ll give you what for.”
“Look at my face, look at my eyes,
My whites are not white any more.

My dad belly laughs, when he tells this story
There’s a twinkle in his eye.
My Mum stares, pouts and yells
“Don’t you bloody lie."

The Complete Walkies from 1 -8

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