Writing lesson #25 by George Orwell

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Renewing my passport

 At the beginning of the year I realized my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
 Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
 Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
 For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
 "Don't be silly," said my wife, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
 I couldn't argue on either of those points.
 "In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
 And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.

Unifying force

 I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.
 It is claimed sport will turn out to be this country's greatest ever unifying force. While I agree the big games and national and provincial rivalry put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and band behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
 Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
 Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
 It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
 A coloured woman with a toddler hanging on her skirts and peering at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
 "How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
 "It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
 "This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
 By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
 If we'd just thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
 She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
 When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!
 "I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.

Joking

"You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."
 I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.
 "But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.
 He was not joking.
 "There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."
 "But what about my wife and son?" I asked.
 He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who've suffered head-traumas. It was just so damn obvious and I couldn't see it.
 "They'll have to come in," he sighed.
 "But they work and can't take time off."
 "We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."
 Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.
 But I was not easily swayed.
 "This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."
 "Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."
 "That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."
 I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.
 Earlier this week, while watching television, my wife suddenly turned to me.
 "Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.
 I thought for a moment.
 "I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."
"We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.

Writing lesson #24 by Ernest Hemingway

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Writing lesson #23 by John Green

Micro Fiction: Vasectomy

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Writing lesson #22 - Stephen King

Writing lesson #21 - William H. Gass

How to make your stories memorable

 As English author, Philip Pullman, wrote: “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”
 From the moment humans made sense of their primitive grunts, they told stories, to entertain, educate and communicate.
 Our lives are filled with stories, which is why people in the US spend an average of 444 minutes (7.4 hours) every day, looking at screens. A study by Mary Meeker, Morgan Stanley internet analyst and current partner at Kleiner Perkins Caufield Byers, broke that number down to: 147 minutes spent watching TV, 103 minutes in front of a computer, 151 minutes on a smartphones and 43 minutes with a tablet.
 And the US only places sixth on the screen-time list! In Indonesia, people spend nine hours a day on their computers, TVs, laptops and smartphones.
 While some of that time involves non-story activities, working on spreadsheets or databases etc., the fact remains, the world wants good stories.

Good news and Bad news

 That is the good news.
 The bad news is, there are more stories out there now than ever before and the competition for eyeballs, as well as the din of the clutter is overwhelming.
 Today it is easier than ever to fling your story to the world. Want to publish a book? No problem, you can do so for free in digital format with Amazon and Smashwords. Old-style paper publishing? Again free if you use Create Space and Lulu - they'll print and deliver directly to your readers and pay you a cut.
 It is an exciting time to be a writer. It is also a difficult time. The democratization of publishing has opened the doors to all and, as a result, there is an enormous amount of literary detritus on offer that previously was filtered by traditional publishing houses and never saw the light of day.
 Now, readers 'pays their money and takes their chances' and filtering comes in the form of reader-reviews. Negative reviews can destroy months of hard work and stories that aren't memorable, will get negative reviews!
 So how can you make your stories memorable?
 According to Udemy, the leading marketplace for online education, there are 13 Great Storytelling Techniques To Make Your Stories Memorable:

1. Show it
Great and influential stories do not “tell”, they “show”. 

2. Length mattersStories can be really short or as long as a book but your long story ceases to be a story the moment it becomes boring.

3. Likable characterCharacters can be and should be flawed because this is what makes them real.  Your character also needs to be likeable because you want your audience to be pulling for them to succeed. 

4. There should be a plotA plot serves as the guiding force in your story.  It helps ensure there is a beginning, middle, and end, and all of the fun stuff in between.

5. Foreshadowing
Nothing is more exciting to a listener or reader than realizing that the storyteller or author is revealing clues throughout the story.

6. Keep the dialogue real
 A good way to check and see if your dialogue sounds good is to read it aloud. 

7. Conflict
Will the main character succeed?  How will the conflict be resolved?  This is the reason your audience will stay engaged.

8. Use a model
There are many common narratives most stories follow.  These include the hero’s journey, the coming of age tale, and an anecdote.  Try taking a common narrative and applying it to your own story.

9. Add a personal touch
If you are creating a story to entertain, draw on your own life experiences to add to the story as this will make your story feel more authentic.

10. Point of View
If you find your story lacking, try changing your point of view.  Third person point of views tend to be the most common.  Try telling your story from a first person point of view. 

11. Start with a bang!
Get your audience involved right away by starting your story with a bang.

12. Know what you are trying to convey
What is the purpose of this story?  Is it to entertain?  To relay a message?  To teach a lesson?

13. The delivery
The final delivery method matters.  You might have to change your story up a bit to ensure it is being told in the most beneficial manner.

Writing lesson #20 - Margaret Atwood

Writing lesson # 19 - Isaac Asimov

Is flatulence ruining your love life?

 Throughout history there have been some discoveries and inventions that have truly changed our lives.
 Fire, the wheel, the printing press, the steam engine, the telephone and internet spring to mind.
 But now there is something even more profound and earth shattering.
 It has come about because there is a problem in the marriage bed that no-one wants to talk about. It is a problem that is sometimes silent but almost always, deadly. But fear not, the solution has arrived.
 No longer need you tremble in your jammies, worried you may cause a stink. This is a truly mind-boggling invention that uses cutting-edge military technology to promise to restore marriages and at the same time fire up stagnant, rotten, sex-lives.
 And, judging by the fact that over two million people have viewed the advert on You Tube, there can be no doubt, there is a need for the Better Marriage Blanket.

 
 Yes ladies and gentlemen, for less than $40, excluding postage, you will no longer have to answer "yes" to the age-old question: "Is flatulence ruining your love-life?"
 I don't know about you, but it's a topic that comes up regularly at our dinner parties and, no doubt, you too have likely spent many hours discussing the problem with family, friends and work colleagues.
 But now, with the arrival of the Better Marriage Blanket, the acrid, foetid smell of your bed-partner's farts will no longer leave you gasping for air, like a landed mackerel, while you desperately flap the sheets and struggle to open the window.
 According to the manufacturer, "flatulence molecules pass through a cotton layer and get absorbed by the carbon layer, leaving you to experience fresh air and added under-blanket warmth!" Actually I added the bit about the warmth - it's a selling feature they probably didn't think of.

Chemical weapons

 Available in different sizes, the Better Marriage Blanket is said to contain the same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons.
 It's also touted as a "great wedding or anniversary gift too."
 I wish it had been around when my wife and I tied the knot more than years ago. That way we'd probably still be sleeping in same the room - and maybe even in the same bed.
 She's a strange girl, my dear wife. She's not amused by the same things I am. For example, I find it difficult to get her to crack even the smallest of a smiles when, lying together, I trap her head under the blankets and fart.
 What can I say, I find farts - particularly mine - funny. I laugh so much I can hardly breathe, yet strangely she fails to see the comedy.
 That, and my snoring, has seen me moved to a room down the passage and now I am forced to keep the clouds of gas I emit from my bottom trapped firmly beneath the blankets until she comes into my room in the morning with a cup of coffee.
 Then, with a flourish, I'll fling back the bed-clothes and hope for the best. Once I got lucky. She dropped the cup in the middle of a choking fit but, in truth, it's just not the same. It's a poor substitute for the genuine "Dutch Oven" or "Covered Wagon."

Drawback

 That, I think is one of the drawbacks of the Better Marriage Blanket. It will do away with those intimate, fun-filled moments that couples, enjoy in bed and have so much fun remembering. It's also going to make Two-and-a-half-Men a lot less funny.
 I am also afraid, if they ever start making baby diapers from the new wunder-fabric, it's going to mean the end of that endearing Mommy ritual where - usually in a restaurant - some mum sticks her nose against her little-one's butt, takes a lung-filled sniff and loudly announces "someone's made a stinky poopie!". But at least the old finger up the diaper's leg-hole is likely to remain.
 Before anyone gets the wrong impression, let me place on record that I am not solely responsible for producing noxious odours in my home.
 My dear wife must also bear some responsibility. Consequently, a nice pair of sweat pants in activated-carbon fabric in her size would indeed be welcome.
 When it comes to rear emissions I tend to be noisy - and, if I may be so bold as to say, quite musical.
 My wife, on the other, hand is covert and sneaky. The first indication that something is horribly amiss comes from the dogs.
 When they are suddenly startled from their slumbers on the TV-room carpet and slink away, you know what's coming.
 You see, my dear wife, kind and sweet as she may be, is by no means above blaming the dogs for her odoriferous indiscretions. With noses (thankfully) hundreds of times more sensitive than mine, they know an undeserved scolding is only seconds away, so they get the hell outta Dodge.
 "Blah, blah, blah," my wife has just said, while reading over my shoulder.
 "No one will believe you because everyone knows women don't fart."
 "Yes, Dear," I replied meekly.
 I didn't have the guts to show her the comment from someone called PyroRob69 who recently wrote about the Better Marriage Blanket on a chat forum. I think he summed it up quite nicely when he said:
 "Women don't fart because they can't keep their mouths shut long enough to build up any back pressure."

P.S. Yes, the Better Marriage Blanket is a real product!

Writing lesson #18 - Kurt Vonnegut

Writing lesson #17 - Stephen King

Writing lesson #16 - Ray Bradbury

Writing lesson # 15 - Anton Chekhov

Writing Lesson #15 

“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
― Anton Chekhov

Writing lesson # 14 - William Faulkner

 Writing lesson # 14

“Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it.
Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window.”
― William Faulkner

Writing lesson #13 - Henry David Thoreau

Writing lesson # 12

Writing lesson # 11 - Philip Pullman

Changing his Wife

Changing His Wife

Changing His Wife
Copyright © 2013 by Hilton Hamann

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Coffee Break Tales are complete short stories designed to be read whenever you are able to grab a short break, like taking time off for a cup of coffee or a cigarette. They are ideal for mobile phones and tablets.

***

 He could not stand her bitching any more!
 It never stopped. From the moment she woke and pulled on her sour face, to the time she left for work, she had something to complain about. Mostly about him.
 The only respite for John Carlyle was when she was at work and he could sit at his desk picking at his computer keyboard, trying to build a fiction-writing career.
 When John first met his wife, Gay, she was just that. Not in a modern, lesbian way but rather the way the "gay" was used when his grandparents were young and the word meant "happy" and "cheerful." Now she was neither.
 Gay felt she carried the weight of her world on her shoulders and made sure everyone knew that.
 Her husband knew he shared some blame for the slow erosion of their once-happy relationship - he was not easy to live with but, where he withdrew and became taciturn, she bitched. And he couldn't stand it!
 The decline started years earlier when John's company retrenched him.
 Normally he could have expected to quickly find another job but that was the world had entered the worst recession since the Great Depression of the 1930s and it was the perfect, catastrophic, financial storm for John.
 His creditors wasted no time. Quickly they descended upon him, stripping his carcass of its assets. When done, he no longer owned a house or car and everything  saved for retirement was gone. he knew, renting even a tiny house in the city was no longer something they could afford and there was no option but to move to the country, where rental prices were still affordable and where they could live according to their means.
 After much searching, John signed a rental agreement on a run-down, small holding on the outskirts of a town that'd seen better times. The house was old and the roof leaked. The fields were unharrowed and overgrown but at least they could afford the monthly payments, it had promise and there was an option to one day buy it.
 For John, it was an opportunity to start over, unemcumbered by previous financial baggage. They could live like young, newly-weds once again. Restart their lives on a blank canvas, waiting to be painted just the way they wanted. It could be a whole new life they could design for themselves, and the prospect and possibilities excited him. He felt free for the first time in many years.
 He planned to plant crops, grow chickens and maybe keep a few cows. He believed it was an opportunity to become self-reliant and self-sufficient and was convinced, if he could make the land feed them, then the loss of his retirement savings was irrelevant.
 In addition, he was going to strive to create a career as a fiction writer.
 But Gay wasn't convinced. She hated leaving the city and worried constantly about what would happen when they were old. How would they feed themselves and pay their medical expenses? And her husband's fantasy of writing books and selling them on the Internet...well that was exactly what it was...a fantasy! How foolish he looked when he showed her his first quarterly sales report. $12.46 doesn't make you a professional writer!
 He was always like that - a dreamer without a practical bone in his body. Plans about the future and dreams were one thing but Gay wanted results... now! And so she hectored him whenever he presented an idea to her.
 "Yes, but...how will you market it? How are people going to get to know about it? How long before it makes any money?"
 She fired questions like a machine-gunner defending an outpost in enemy territory.
 John learned long ago there was no point in debating anything with Gay. Once her mind was set, nothing would change it.
 Her role, she believed, was to mold her husband and motivate him and she honestly believed, if she bitched enough, he would cave in and that would do it.
 But John dug in his heels this time. He'd abandoned his dreams too often before and, on more occasions than he cared to admit, her carping made him change direction. But not again! With nothing left to lose, he was no longer afraid and he focused on his wonderful new adventure and tried to shut out her complaining.
 Three months after moving to the country, Gay found a job in town and was appointed as the Mayor's personal assistant. The pay wasn't much but Gay got to rub shoulders with the mayor, the town's elders and prominent business people and it made her feel important.
 She immersed herself in her work and it soon consumed her and became the most important aspect of her life. Every day she seemed to push John deeper into the background.
 She worked on weekends, attended meetings at night and brought work home that she justified by telling John, "someone around has to do real work and bring in the money!"
 She absolutely loved her new-found status and she was busy - of that there could be no doubt - but she wore her busy-ness like a badge of honor. When asked how she was, her standard reply was, "busy!" It became her email signature and her identity.
 And she firmly felt, her time was more important than that of her slack-assed, dreamer husband. Errands or chores were, as a consequence, delegated to him.
 "You're at home every day," she indignantly exclaimed when one day he complained he had writing to do. "I'm the one around here who has to work!"
 And the bitching and nagging grew worse.
 Unhappiness and discontent oozed from her pores and even when she was happy, she was unhappy.
 She scolded him when he snored, scowled when he coughed, told him what he should eat and how much of it and hounded him to get more exercise.
 "I don't want to have to look after you and clean up your shit when you have a heart-attack and are stuck in a wheelchair," she said.

***

 One Saturday afternoon John decided to visit a nearby neighbor and they sat on the back verandah drinking beer.
 "Don't you sometimes wish you could change your wife?" Phil suddenly asked out of the blue.
 John smiled wryly. "I think she's beyond changing. She's too set in her ways."
 He took a sip of beer.
 "But if you mean changing her for someone young and nice, then I guess, yes I do."
 Phil lived alone. A few years ago his wife suddenly left him one night. Some say she was sick of rural life and fled to the city but, ever since, people noticed Phil was calmer and happier.
 "No, I mean change her into something useful like... for example ... a horse."
 John laughed.
 "Hell, yes! A horse would be good. It could pull that old plow on my property and get some crops planted."
 Of late, John had been thinking about farming, using the old, primitive methods of his forefathers. Maybe such a project could be turned into a book or television series, he thought.
 "Yes," he nodded, "a horse would definitely be useful... if only."
 "If you're sure, I may be able to help you," said Phil.
 John laughed. He figured Phil was a little drunk.
 "I'm serious," said Phil and John saw he was. "My wife didn't abandon me. I changed her into a dairy cow and she's since produced three fine calves. I can take you to her and show you."
 John was taken aback. Phil, was always so level-headed and sensible, yet, here he was, spouting insane nonsense. He wasn't sure how to respond.
 "Yeah, sure," he said weakly. "You're shittin' me."
 "No," said Phil, his voice even, "I'm not. I've never told anyone this before but I can see you need help. One of my great, great, great, grandmothers was burned at the stake for being a witch - which indeed she was. She compiled a book of spells that's been handed down through the generations. I now have it and I'll pass it on before I die.
 "There's been a family witch or wizard - I like to think of myself as a male witch - for almost five hundred years."
 John concluded his friend must have spent too much time in the hot sun and his crazy talk was the result of a mild case of sun-stroke. He decided to play it cool, humor Phil and get out of there as quickly as possible.
 "You don't believe me?" Phil cocked an eyebrow then fixed a piercing stare on John.
 "No!... No! Of course I do. It's just you took me by surprise, that's all." He was concerned his voice might sound unconvincing. "So you really could turn Gay into a horse?"
 "Yes, if that's what you want."
 "How would you do it?"
 "I can't reveal the specifics but it involves blending and burning animal skins, furs and ancient potions - and there are secret chants."
 "Okay..."
 "Are you sure you want me to do this? Once she's changed into a horse there is no reversing the process."
 John was convinced his friend was slightly mad. He felt a prickle of unease scratch at the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to risk was upsetting Phil.
 "Er... yes. Go ahead. Change my wife into a horse."
 "Good, if that's your final decision, I'll need a photograph of her. Do you have one?"
 "I have a picture of both of us. It was taken fairly recently, it's in my wallet."
 John retrieved the image and handed it to Phil, who examined it closely.
 "I need to tear you out of it, don't want you ending up as a horse as well." He snorted and smiled at the thought.
 "Okay..." said John. His voice hesitant and unsure.
 Phil ripped the photograph and handed the piece containing John's image to him.
 "Go home now. I'll do the rest."
 John nodded. At last he could flee from his nutty neighbor. He wondered if he should call a doctor on the way home, as there was no doubt, Phil needed help! But he decided against it.
 As he pulled Gay's car into the driveway he expected to see her working in the garden but she was not there.
 "She probably inside lying down," he thought.
 He parked the car, entered the kitchen and... walked into a horse standing in the passage!

***

 Initially John believed he'd miss Gay's human presence and worried about being lonely and alone but he soon realized he'd, in fact, been alone for years especially  when she was there. And tranquility trumped loneliness on any day.
 He converted a shed into a stable, made sure it was warm and changed the hay daily. In an ironic twist, it was he, who picked up her shit.
 "Funny isn't it," he said one day, as he shoveled a steaming horse-turd into a bucket. "This is what you always feared you'd have to do for me."
 Gay flared her nostrils and rolled back her top lip, baring a set of yellow equine teeth.
 He smacked her rump.
 John put Gay to work. Sometimes he rode her to Phil's farm and tethered her to a verandah railing so she could hear them talk about how peaceful their changed lives were. Often she stamped her front hooves or neighed, glaring at them and they laughed but mostly they just ignored her.
 And John hitched her to old the plow and started harrowing his fields. From early morning until late afternoon, she dragged the heavy impliment while he steered it. When she slowed down or seemed to protest he smacked her smartly across the rump with a driver's whip.
 "Come on!" he urged, "You always said you like being busy!"
 In the evenings when they were done, both were wet with sweat. He rubbed her down and made sure her feed-trough was filled with fresh oats and that her stall had clean hay. And while he groomed her, Gay saw how all the hard work they did together had seen him lose weight and hone his body. He looked 20 years younger.
 When the first crop of vegetables was almost ready for harvesting, John was visited by a reporter from Mother Earth Magazine. She'd heard about his traditional farming efforts and planned an article about it for their summer edition.
 She was a pretty young thing in her mid twenties. She wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that displayed her curves. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cropped short and somewhat scruffy, in a sexy sort of way.
 John showed her around the small-holding and she took notes and photographs. Then they went to the stables so she could meet and photograph Gay. The horse stamped and snorted and, when the reporter attempted to stroke her nose, she tried to bite her and reared up.
 "Feisty, isn't she!" exclaimed the journalist, as she retreated behind a fence constructed of wooden poles.
 "She doesn't like other women, especially pretty young women."
 The reporter giggled. It was sweet and coquettish and reminded him of Gay, many years ago. She brushed a fleck of hay that was stuck to the side of John's face. Her finger-tips were cool.
 "Let's go and have some tea," said John, steering her towards the house, with his hand on the small of her back.
 "Sounds good," she said and slipped her arm around his waist, "and while we're there I'd love to read some of your fiction."
 As they headed for the house the horse pawed the ground and its eyes blazed red.

The End

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Writing Lesson #10 - Robert Frost