Story Idea

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

“Haven’t we heard this story before?” Richie asked.

“Dad, come on that is so cliche.” Connor made a face.

“Mom! Dad is trying to be a weatherman again.” Duncan yelled.

“Listen to your father boys. He is trying out a new story idea.”

“Where was I?” Dad clears his throat. “It was a dark and stormy night. Conan threw the tent flap open and…”

“Wait. Are we talking the Conan? Like The Cimmerian Conan? Or TV dude Conan?” Connor asked.

“What? Yes the real Conan. Why would TV guy be in one of my stories?”

“I think you should Dad. Conan vs Conan.” Duncan giggled.

“Honey, where did we put the boys? These are heathens. And critics. No respect at all for the arts.”

“Oh dear. Did we not get the right ones? I told you we should have picked the other three.”

“Mom!” Connor, Duncan and Richie chorused. “We are your sons.”

Dad clapped his hands. “Back to the story. Conan stepped out of the weather. His advisor handed him a towel…”

“Remember to keep the naughty bits out. Your audience is still in the PG category.” Mom called out. “Just in case you forgot who was listening.”

“Aww Mom. Those are the best parts. Don’t listen to her Dad. Fellows gotta stick together.”

“Boys this is a learning moment. Moms are always right,” he leaned close and whispered “until they’re not.”

“I heard that dear.”

“This is an ill omen for the battle tomorrow. Slogging through mud gets men killed”. His advisor said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Bad weather drives man and beast inside. Guards are down. Bad weather is the thief’s friend.” Conan muttered to himself thinking.

“What are you thinking old friend?”

“A small force sneaking into the camp and causing chaos. Perhaps if they’re lucky they’ll get the one in charge. Men won’t go into battle without a leader.”

“Who will you pick? We can’t afford to lose you. So you must pick someone to lead this merry band of lunatics.”

“Hurry up Dad. Get to the good parts.” The boys chorused.

“Dear you had best pick up the pace. Your audience is getting restless.” She peaked into the bedroom. She hid a smile, the boys were scattered around the bed surrounding him. Even the dog was listening intently.

“Fine. Fine. Screaming trailed through Conan’s camp. “What is all this ruckus?” Conan roared. The camp fell silent. The wet bedraggled woman landed at his feet. His men were bleeding and panting with the effort. She growled at him. He looked at her.

“Who is this? Looking at her curiously, he noted the bruises and cuts on his men. The woman didn’t look to have been misused or abused. Her clothes were muddied and soaked, but she was otherwise unharmed. He frowned at her. Had one woman gotten the better of his men?

“Who is she Dad?”

“What happened to taking out the bad guys’ leader?”

“How come she beat up the good guys?”

“All in good time boys, all in good time. It takes time to build a story. And not everything is as it seems.”

“Mom! Dad is talking in cliches again. Make him stop and just tell us who she is.” The boys pouted.

“Now, now my loves. Sometimes storytellers have to take a moment and regroup. Is that right dear?” She stepped into the room and lightly massaged his shoulders. A quick peck on top of his head and she left the room.

He watched her leave. Clearing his thoughts he said let’s get back in the story.

Quote of the Day: Carl Sagan

NaNoWriMo

I am a few days late on this post. NaNoWriMo started November 1. I would like to say “Go get ’em writers.”

To the folks standing on the outside looking in, “You can do this. Writing is letting the emotions and story in your soul out in a physical manifesation.”

To all of you I wish you the very best. May your words come fast and furious, your plots ride dragons into battle and your fingers not cramp.

Cheers and Happy NaNo. Now go put your fingers to writing. james

In the Days of Magic

When I was a child my mom read stories to us at bedtime. A fairly common practice, although I have no clue if electronics have stolen those precious moments. I can hope that bedtime stories are still sacred times when child and parent come together over the pages a book. Another discussion for another post. Anyway my favorite stories came from a book of fairy tales that is now ragged and showing its age. I believe my imagination and love of magic came from this book. There were many hours I spent listening to my mom read and then spent more time reading the familar stories on my own. My favorite was a story called the Patchwork Quilt. 

In the story which took place in a land of snow and cold an old grandmother spent nights telling her grandson stories while she sewed the quilt for his bed. An there was an evil wizard who stole the quilt for the magic the old grandma had sewn into every stitch. Needless to say good trumps evil and the quilt finds its way home. 

These stories had the classics, Red Riding Hood, The Frog Princess and others. And other less familar tales like the Patchwork Quilt. All of these stories had bright pictures, magic and a moral, important elements for holding a squirming child’s attention. I believe this book and these stories have more teach me, not just about letting my imagination and magic, but about writing and story construction. The words are simple easy for a child learning to read. Those same words are vivid and bring these stories to life. So many nights my dreams were filled with the weavings of this book. 

I hope to inspire you to reach back into your childhood and recall a book or story that fueled your wonder and awe of the written word. Take a new look at the fairytales people have been telling and see what they can teach you about our writing craft. Cheers, james