Merry Christmas to Hilda and everyone in Dunlewey Street and especially to Muse1 for all his hard work creating this site to give everyone the opportunity to display their work.
Happy Posting
Happy Posting
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
More Members
Below is a picture of Eugene Fox a member of Dunlewey Muses. Ellen kindly typed Eugene`s story and saved it to disc. From there it was upload by Muse1 and added to the blog. So now we are four. Hopefully the rest of the clan will follow suit.
Today Wednesday 13Th December was a great day in the class. The last day of term and Hilda and Christine provided the mince pies. I know Hilda won`t be offended but Christine's pies stole the day as they were made by her own fair hand.Yummy. The Pies I mean.
Jane had the class in stitches, no Pun intended, about her story of a young nurse collecting all her patients false teeth in a bowl. Trying to find the owners of a particular set of teeth was hilarious.
Margo read a piece set in an intensive care unit. I missed part of the story but the bit that I did hear was up to her usual high standard. One description was of the sound of the ward,"panting of machines blowing air into tired lungs. "
Christine read a poem "Fingers for playing the Piano" I am going to have to wrestle her to get some of her poetry for this blog. I love listening to her writings.
Each member of the group provided a photograph which was passed around the group. Each member had to do a few lines on the subject in the photographs. Margo had a relatively new photo of her in New York with the Twin Towers as a back drop. There is a photograph from the attack on the towers of a Policeman standing in exactly the same spot trying to get on lookers back as the second plane crashes into the tower. I must see if I can can persuade Margo to provide a scan of the photo to include here.
The aim of the class exercise was to illustrate how a photo can enhance a story .Hilda provided a book list of some writers that had used photographs in their books. I had read one of the list"Ring of Bright Water" by Gavin Maxwell.
Today Wednesday 13Th December was a great day in the class. The last day of term and Hilda and Christine provided the mince pies. I know Hilda won`t be offended but Christine's pies stole the day as they were made by her own fair hand.Yummy. The Pies I mean.
Jane had the class in stitches, no Pun intended, about her story of a young nurse collecting all her patients false teeth in a bowl. Trying to find the owners of a particular set of teeth was hilarious.
Margo read a piece set in an intensive care unit. I missed part of the story but the bit that I did hear was up to her usual high standard. One description was of the sound of the ward,"panting of machines blowing air into tired lungs. "
Christine read a poem "Fingers for playing the Piano" I am going to have to wrestle her to get some of her poetry for this blog. I love listening to her writings.
Each member of the group provided a photograph which was passed around the group. Each member had to do a few lines on the subject in the photographs. Margo had a relatively new photo of her in New York with the Twin Towers as a back drop. There is a photograph from the attack on the towers of a Policeman standing in exactly the same spot trying to get on lookers back as the second plane crashes into the tower. I must see if I can can persuade Margo to provide a scan of the photo to include here.
The aim of the class exercise was to illustrate how a photo can enhance a story .Hilda provided a book list of some writers that had used photographs in their books. I had read one of the list"Ring of Bright Water" by Gavin Maxwell.
Eugene Fox Post 1
On my way home from school in the spring and early summer and the weather was good I always enjoyed a quiet half hour sitting on the stone ditch that bordered the footpath at the beginning of the Camlough Road out from Newry on your right hand side. For me it was very restful and an added interest was that the railway yard stretched out before me from this vantage point. This was known as a marshalling yard where a lot of work was done to assemble goods trains before dispatching them to various towns in Ireland. My interest was in a guessing game in which I tried to guess where each wagon was being shunted to make up the completed train. You see, the shunter/driver picked up wagons from many sidings and with the help of his railway aides, he picked up wagons, pulled them along the main track and then shunted them to the required siding. I made a guess as to which siding this might be. It was a peaceful interest for me and I did not know it then, also a form of therapy after a day at school, and a different teacher every hour of that day.
Today was a bit different in that I had company. I was so intent on my calculations about the rolling wagons, I did not notice her presence until the loud barking drew my attention. She had a short stick in her mouth and was preparing to lay it at my feet. Getting ready for playtime it seemed and I soon forgot about shunting engines and trundling wagons in the marshalling yard. How long had I sat there? I had forgotten. I did not have a watch but I decided to give her a few minutes of my now “valuable” time. I say “valuable” because I had to meet a dead line for homecoming. Picking up my bag and slinging it over my shoulders, I proceeded on my way home. Except to say “shoo, its time you were on your way also”. She just looked at me but I did not give her a second glance.
I had gone about a quarter of my journey when I happened to look around to see if there was anyone I knew who would be company. No, there was no one I knew amongst those going my way. I looked again because I could not believe that the hound was only a few yards behind me, piece of stick between her jaws, vigorously wagging her tail. I had noticed her again. This was a new development I did not need. I was on my way home and in a hurry now. It is said often that home is where the heart is, and though I had not heard the phrase at that time.
Derrybeg House had an acre of land around it, half in orchard and the remainder in cultivation, my fathers pride and joy. The image of him eyeing a mongrel at my heels did not bear thinking about. He did not have to say it aloud, but it was there unspoken. No, you cannot, cannot have a dog here. So, gently patting her on the head, picking up the piece of stick, I threw it as far as I could over the high hedge of a garden and ran for dear life. That got rid of her, I thought. I was near the Egyptian Arch at this time, within a quarter mile of home. The arch which I mentioned was built high over the Camlough Road, carrying the Belfast to Dublin railway line. I was looking forward to seeing mother soon.
But my joy turned to consternation when I spotted that the dog ahead of me was struggling through a gap in a hedge, about three hundred yards from where I had fondly thought I had got rid of her for ever. As she bounded towards me, I gave her a quick look, looking for some redeeming feature that might appeal to my fond parent. By now I knew there was no turning back, I was being taken over without any doubt. Images came to mind, those straight and well kept furrows or drills, the neat beds of lettuce and spring onions, cabbage and sprouts, turnips and other kinds of vegetables, all planted with loving care and almost ready for harvesting. I was part of the care, not so much the loving, because I could be at those said veggies at 6.30 am also. A dilemma of magnum size was heading my way, I foresaw in my minds eye. Anyway I tried again to shoo her off at the bottom of the lane, but no, she had no sense of obedience at all. I looked at her again and when I saw those big brown eyes looking at me so expectantly I hoped they would make some impression on another, higher up the scale.
I would have prayed also had I known about the efficacy at that time, but it did not seem a matter for which to get onto your knees. The dog was at my heels, still wagging that tail and my mother opened the front door. Brothers and sisters gathered around excitedly and that four legged creature must have thought to herself, I have arrived. My mother was easy, wanting to know if it was hungry? I still had misgivings, my father was on the late. He would not be home until 10 o’clock and now it was only 4.30 pm It was a long wait and I would be in bed. We all decided to make a bed for her in one of the outhouses as far away from our sleeping quarters as possible and await the verdict in the morning, hopefully.
Strangely enough, my dad took one hard look at her, seemed to weigh up the possibilities, and looking at his small children surrounding him. There were too my pleas and he threw in the sponge.
Today was a bit different in that I had company. I was so intent on my calculations about the rolling wagons, I did not notice her presence until the loud barking drew my attention. She had a short stick in her mouth and was preparing to lay it at my feet. Getting ready for playtime it seemed and I soon forgot about shunting engines and trundling wagons in the marshalling yard. How long had I sat there? I had forgotten. I did not have a watch but I decided to give her a few minutes of my now “valuable” time. I say “valuable” because I had to meet a dead line for homecoming. Picking up my bag and slinging it over my shoulders, I proceeded on my way home. Except to say “shoo, its time you were on your way also”. She just looked at me but I did not give her a second glance.
I had gone about a quarter of my journey when I happened to look around to see if there was anyone I knew who would be company. No, there was no one I knew amongst those going my way. I looked again because I could not believe that the hound was only a few yards behind me, piece of stick between her jaws, vigorously wagging her tail. I had noticed her again. This was a new development I did not need. I was on my way home and in a hurry now. It is said often that home is where the heart is, and though I had not heard the phrase at that time.
Derrybeg House had an acre of land around it, half in orchard and the remainder in cultivation, my fathers pride and joy. The image of him eyeing a mongrel at my heels did not bear thinking about. He did not have to say it aloud, but it was there unspoken. No, you cannot, cannot have a dog here. So, gently patting her on the head, picking up the piece of stick, I threw it as far as I could over the high hedge of a garden and ran for dear life. That got rid of her, I thought. I was near the Egyptian Arch at this time, within a quarter mile of home. The arch which I mentioned was built high over the Camlough Road, carrying the Belfast to Dublin railway line. I was looking forward to seeing mother soon.
But my joy turned to consternation when I spotted that the dog ahead of me was struggling through a gap in a hedge, about three hundred yards from where I had fondly thought I had got rid of her for ever. As she bounded towards me, I gave her a quick look, looking for some redeeming feature that might appeal to my fond parent. By now I knew there was no turning back, I was being taken over without any doubt. Images came to mind, those straight and well kept furrows or drills, the neat beds of lettuce and spring onions, cabbage and sprouts, turnips and other kinds of vegetables, all planted with loving care and almost ready for harvesting. I was part of the care, not so much the loving, because I could be at those said veggies at 6.30 am also. A dilemma of magnum size was heading my way, I foresaw in my minds eye. Anyway I tried again to shoo her off at the bottom of the lane, but no, she had no sense of obedience at all. I looked at her again and when I saw those big brown eyes looking at me so expectantly I hoped they would make some impression on another, higher up the scale.
I would have prayed also had I known about the efficacy at that time, but it did not seem a matter for which to get onto your knees. The dog was at my heels, still wagging that tail and my mother opened the front door. Brothers and sisters gathered around excitedly and that four legged creature must have thought to herself, I have arrived. My mother was easy, wanting to know if it was hungry? I still had misgivings, my father was on the late. He would not be home until 10 o’clock and now it was only 4.30 pm It was a long wait and I would be in bed. We all decided to make a bed for her in one of the outhouses as far away from our sleeping quarters as possible and await the verdict in the morning, hopefully.
Strangely enough, my dad took one hard look at her, seemed to weigh up the possibilities, and looking at his small children surrounding him. There were too my pleas and he threw in the sponge.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Victim employed as engineer - The Montreal Massacre - CBC Archives
Victim employed as engineer - The Montreal Massacre - CBC Archives
Yesterday 6th December wasthe anniversary of a Massacre that took place at a college in Montreal. Fourteen women were murdered because they were studying engineering. The gunman percieved them to be feminists. The above link is a interview with one of the survivors who went on to become an engineer. Bravery at its best.
Yesterday 6th December wasthe anniversary of a Massacre that took place at a college in Montreal. Fourteen women were murdered because they were studying engineering. The gunman percieved them to be feminists. The above link is a interview with one of the survivors who went on to become an engineer. Bravery at its best.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
A little slice of Christmas
http://ecard.ashland.edu/2004admission/index.html
The above address was posted on a writers forum. Take the time to have a look and take a few moments to relax in a Christmas Scene.
The above address was posted on a writers forum. Take the time to have a look and take a few moments to relax in a Christmas Scene.
First Book Review
The Creative Writing Course Book. ISBN-13: 978-0-333-78225-5 Published by Macmillan.An excellent book to browse through or study. It is formulated by 40 authors who share their advice on creative writing.Topics range from getting started to characterisation, plotting, revising and workshops. The main theme ,as in the majority of writing self help books, is to write and keep writing to exercise the brain
One of the more memorable passages is called "Writing fom Experience" by Nell Dunn. In this she asks the reader to close their eyes and imagine themselves back in a childhood bedroom. Remembering the wallpaper, furniture,smells, and noises. Personally not so sure of the smells bits. I remember nappies and smelly feet. Try to write about yourself as a six-year-old from the perspective of a six-year-old using a mix of reality and fiction.
In my opinion this would make for a thought provoking piece.
Anyone else out there that has read this or indeed any book please share your thoughts with us.
Updating Blog
I havent updated the blog in a while. I was hoping others from the class may join and post their own muses. Alas that doesn`t seem to be the case. Apart from Ellen and Margo the rest have been very quiet.
There are other writing classes in both Dunlewey Center and Whiterock Centre so I will open the blog to anyone that wishes to join and post their work ,discuss writing or any topic that will get us talking or writing.
Over the next few days I will get the chance to post info on web sites of interest and a couple of book reviews. Julia Cameron has written loads of books on writing . These are worth a read.
Taking For Granted
I posted these links to illustrate what others are going through in the course of their learning. Tank shells fired at school children.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Welcome
Welcome To Ellen. The first member of the group to add a blog. This illustrates the importance of recording our writing.
Muse1
Muse1
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
I had my first Photograph published today by a local newspaper. I was annoyed though as they added a byline quoting me. I had made no such quote. Anyway its a first, hopefully not the last . Copy of the photograph enclosed. A helicopter had landed on playing fields close to where I live. It had flown in from Galway on Irelands west coast.
The First post from Dunlewey Muses a mixed group of writers on a part time creative writing course at the Dunlewey Centre just off the Falls Road in Belfast Northern Ireland. Any e-mails can be sent to mrd56@hotmail.co.uk please keep the e-mails clean and constructive . Thank You.
The group is mixed in that it has been established for some years. The members are from a wide range of backgrounds and abilities. Some of the members have had their work published. A few of the members are new to writing and learning their craft or even just finding a direction for their writing. It is intended that this blog can be accessed by all the members of the group to place items of their work for all to see.
The group is mixed in that it has been established for some years. The members are from a wide range of backgrounds and abilities. Some of the members have had their work published. A few of the members are new to writing and learning their craft or even just finding a direction for their writing. It is intended that this blog can be accessed by all the members of the group to place items of their work for all to see.
Each week pieces of work are read out for the group. Some of the writing is of such a high standard that its a shame for it never to see the light of day again. It would be great if it was posted here for all to share.
Hilda is our group tutor. leader. moderaterator, all round guide. I can feel her blush from here.
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