Books by Glenda Young

Saturday, June 04, 2016

Slag

It's been a very long time since I was at school, but this week I remembered something my English teacher said to me, once.  After reading a short story I'd written, he told me: "Your style of writing leaves me wanting to read more."   And I remember thinking to myself: "Well, I'm not doing any extra homework, for you, mate. I've got Bay City Rollers tapes to listen to."  But, embarrassed as I was by the teacher's praise in front of my class mates, I got the gist of what he meant.

This week has been a rollercoaster of a week, in terms of writing. And my English teacher's remark has returned to rattle around my head.  It turns out that my English teacher wasn't the only one who likes my style of writing. Two major writing opportunities came my way this week - one by phone and one by email. I've said yes to both, of course.

And that short story my English teacher liked so much? I based it on my walking route from home to school. The ex-pit village I was brought up in was well known for its slag heap on a disused coal mine.  But my walking route to school avoided all of that. The route I chose to walk took me from the back fence at the bottom of our garden through a park with rose bushes. I remember writing in the story that I stopped every morning to smell the roses although I'm not sure that I ever did, back then. 
 
I do, always, now.
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Glenda Young books

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