My Writing Journey-Part 3 By: Annette O’Hare

Flunkies?

Me: I remember when my brother Paul and me used to make flunkies.

The Hubby: Flunkies, what do you mean you used to make flunkies? Do you mean a person who performs relatively menial tasks for someone else, especially obsequiously? Like a minion, a lackey, a subordinate, or an underling?

Me: Yes, exactly, and by the way, when did you become a dictionary?

The Hubby: Never mind that. You can’t just turn people into flunkies.

Me: No, no, you don’t understand. Flunkies aren’t people. Flunky is the name we gave to the clay figures we molded to act out the scenarios we made up.

The Hubby: Wait a minute. Is this another one of your writing journey blog posts?

Me: Why yes it is. How did you ever guess?

The Hubby: All right then, is this the part where I ask you to tell me your story?

Me: I thought you’d never ask. And please don’t roll your eyes at me. First of all, let me say that it wasn’t me, but Paul who invented flunkies. Their shape was generally the same as Spook from Wizard of Id comic strip. If you aren’t of a certain age or perhaps a comic junkie you probably don’t know what Spook looks like. That’s why I’ve included a picture. That’s generally what flunkies looked like; only they weren’t covered with hair.

Paul and I formed the clay into these capsule shaped figures and snapped toothpicks in half for their arms and legs. After we finished making the flunkies they took on a life of their own.

A few flunkies realized they were musically talented and decided to form a band. They heard about another flunky who could sing. The lead guitarist flunky asked Paul to make them some instruments. Paul knew a lot about instruments back then. As a matter of fact, he still does. He tediously formed the clay into tiny guitars, drums, keyboard, microphones and amplifiers. He even made cords for everything using yo-yo string. There were a couple flunkies left. And while they loved music, they didn’t have any musical talent. They became flunky roadies.

The flunky band was amazing! They produced covers of songs by such bands as The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel and The Rolling Stones. Their whirlwind Texas tour went on for probably three whole days before Mom told us to stay out of the toothpicks and to get our clay band off the kitchen table.

The Hubby: Okay so you made these flunkies…they formed a band…they went on tour then they ended up at the back of your closet. What does any of this have to do with your writing journey?

Me: Can’t you see the amazing story world we created? This simple exercise might have been child’s play back then, but now I see it was a precursor to my love of story and my love of writing.

The Hubby: Oh. I can see how you came to that assessment. But…

Me: But what?

The Hubby: Well, do you think maybe you and your brother just might have an affinity with clay?

Me: You just don’t get it…

All images and characters Copyright their respective owners, no copyright infringement intended.

My Writing Journey-Part 1 By: Annette O'Hare

This week has been filled with lots and lots of editing on my contracted historical novel, Northern Light. It's been a fun experience going through the suggestions provided by my editor and making those changes. I don't have a release date yet, but things are moving along as planned. 

Last week was the release of the anthology, Out of the Storm by Chalfont House Publishing. My story, Tempest Tossed placed fourth in the contest and earned a place in the book. The great thing about the anthology is that a portion of the proceeds go toward scholarships to the ACFW national conference in Dallas this year. I hope you'll order a copy and support this great organization. 

http://www.amazon.com/Out-Storm-Crystal-Barnes-ebook/dp/B00T3AZADA/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1423794917&sr=8-3&keywords=out+of+the+storm

How It All Began…

I suppose you could say that my love of writing goes all the way back to when I was a small child. I remember it well…queue the dream sequence music.

My first writings came in the form of poetry I’d lovingly write for my mama. I remember one particular poem that went something like this.

Roses are red.

Violets are purple.

I love you more than,

Pancakes with maple surple.

Okay, now be nice…remember, I was just a little kid. Yes, my poetry was always a big hit with Mom. Bless her heart, she always has been and always will be my biggest fan.

My love of verse grew even more when Mama let each of us three kids purchase a book through the Scholastic Book Club program. The one I chose was a book of poetry meant to appeal to young people. I can attest to the fact that it did and it still does today. The book is titled, Reflections On A Gift Of Watermelon Pickle And Other Modern Verse. The work of poetry the book is named for is the one I fell in love with. It’s the one that sang to me. It became the theme of my pre-teen years. It still speaks to me and to my generation.

Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts
   

   (Hollowed out
    Fitted with straws
    Crammed with tobacco
    Stolen from butts
    In family ashtrays)

Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;

During that summer--
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was--
Watermelons ruled.

Thick imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

John Tobias