Starting As We Went On?

Many writers say that to be a good writer - or indeed any sort of writer - you need to do a lot of reading. In a previous post, I asked you what your earliest memories of reading were. The definitive answer seemed to be Roger Red Hat. Anyway, it is my humble opinion that to be a good writer, you probably need to do a lot of writing too.

So here's a question: what memories of writing do you have as a child? This one's not just for writers - we all had to write about our weekend on a Monday morning at school in order to give the teacher time to drink their tea. Tell me something you were really proud of - or really embarrassed by. Then we can all laugh at you.

I have so many memories I want to write about. But to keep this post short(er), I'll stick to just one. Every year, my primary school ran a creative writing competition which would be judged by members of the Burma Star organisation (Veterans who fought in Burma during World War Two). It alternated between stories and poetry. I won one year with a story called 'The Pendulum'. (I know, I know. Give me a break, I was nine.) But the previous year, in a shamless attempt to woo the judges, I wrote a poem called 'My Grandpa Fought In Burma'. In my defence, my grandpa did actually fight in Burma.

Well, it worked because I won the prize and my poem was published in a children's anthology. My friend Robert had a poem in the anthology too, which he wrote it from the point of view of being a bubble. There was a line in it about how all the children tried to pop him except for me, because I was nice and gentle. I imagine he wrote it on a day when it was our turn to be best friends or something - I remember being pretty chuffed at the time. Mildly embarrassing for both of us.

Anyway, in a bid to get the ball of shame rolling on this topic. I will now reproduce my earliest published work for you. Please remember I was eight. Eight.

My Grandpa Fought in Burma

My Grandpa fought in Burma, he was very brave.

He fought on and on because he had England to save.

There was lots of fighting and lots of blood

Worse than a fire, worse than a flood.

He must have been relieved when the war had ended

And lots of wounded people had to be tended.

But the main thing is, and it's added to my pride -

He's my grandpa, and he's alive.

Yeah baby. Autographs later. (Did I mention that I was eight years old?)

Sadly, those last few words are no longer true. But I like to think that Grandpa can be part of my journey as a writer by being my muse for my early successes. (Eight years old. Don't judge me.)

Over to you again now...