Tag: creative writing

Discovering Absurd Moments in Travel: Racing Trains

Racing Trains is the first in a series of travelogues which celebrate the foolishness of travel in all its outrageous forms and revels in travel’s unlikely catalytic effect. This book of micro-stories explores the surprising and absurd moments of travel I’ve experienced in my time travelling to, around and from Nottingham by bus, train and plane.  No boat stories yet, but it will just be a matter of time.

This week, I’m serialising the lead story, Racing Trains, to coincide with an exciting announcement later this week.  Want to know more? Just read on and keep your eyes open…

Huge thanks as ever to Paul Warren for his generosity and illustrations.

Racing Trains

Have you seen him? Have you seen the Racing Man?

Looking out of the train window a lone figure chases over brambles, roots and concrete inertia alongside the rail track but the train eventually outpaces him stride for stride. But still he races, hopping, bounding, stumbling, throwing himself forward, reaching out to grab the doors, the woodwork or something else, invisible to us commuters in the train but visible to himself, the man who races trains.He races every morning, never from a standing start, but he’s always there as we take the wide curve out to East Midlands Parkway, racing long the path next to the lake, coursing through the water, sometimes running along its surface, always catching up, sometimes in line with us seated commuters, sometimes if we slow down on that arc, getting ahead of us. We’re too far away to see the look on his face but you’d be sure he is staring in delight as he races by us, water splashing, trails leaving ripples marking where he’s been.

And when I say ‘racing’ I mean racing: not ambling, jogging or sprinting. I mean really racing at full pelt. On a good stretch racing man keeps up with the train and must be doing at least 90mph. This is no Usain Bolt at work. Racing Man is a true one off, a force of nature that no-one I’ve met can yet explain. You can’t be sure of his age; the Lycra gives nothing away and his pace, likewise. His frame is slight but muscular and toned. But the track suit hides everything else. Sometimes he waves at us as we speed away but he doesn’t slow down but just banks off to the left, racing towards the distant woods.

The Racing Man running against the trains. Who else sees him? I’m never sure because no-one comments on him, no-one smiles at me in recognition when I look back to the carriage.This morning though was different. I looked away from the Racing Man and saw a woman look at me at the same time. We smiled briefly at each other but then both looked back outside. Looking for the Racing Man disappearing into the woods. Well, I was. I’m not sure what she was looking at. The next moment we’re into a railway tunnel and the Racing Man will not be seen until tomorrow.

Racing Trains: a Travelogue

Racing Trains: a Travelogue

“Racing Trains” is the first in a series of travelogues which celebrate the foolishness of travel in all its outrageous forms and revels in travel’s unlikely catalytic effects.

The foolish traveler is when…

… You leave your passport at home because you’d left your laptop bag in the back of a van in …

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Advice from the NOP Werkshop: how to make a daily micro story funny.

Think of an incident in your life and ask the following questions:

1 How old were you and when did it happen?

2 Where were you? Be specific.

3 Who were you with?

4 What can you see and what can you hear?

5 What are you doing?

6 What are you feeling on the inside?

7 What was the outcome?

Meld and compile these separate lines into a short story of no more than 100 words.

Now do something to it that will make you laugh, chuckle, smile or guffaw. Anything that tickles your funny bones which might be anywhere in your anatomy.

Don’t worry about whether it makes anyone else laugh. It has to make you laugh first of all.

You could do all sorts of things: change perspective, modify the language, make fun of yourself, subvert cliches – the list is probably endless. There are loads of websites out there which will ask you to fork out to join a course to hear the words of wisdom from a humour expert: when the truth is, you know what makes you laugh. And you can bet your life it will make it other people laugh too. As we’re only too fond of quoting William Goldman, ‘No-one Knows Anything”. So you’re in good company!

Voila, your short funny story for the day!

Please feel free to share your stories with us here!

Advice from the NOP Werkshop: how to make a daily micro story.

Think of an incident in your life and ask the following questions:

1 How old were you and when did it happen?

2 Where were you? Be specific.

3 Who were you with?

4 What can you see and what can you hear?

5 What are you doing?

6 What are you feeling on the inside?

7 What was the outcome?

Meld and compile these separate lines into a short story of no more than 100 words.

Voila, your short story for the day!

Advice from the NOP Werkshop: 21 tips for better writing in a digital age

1. Psyche yourself up to write something that needs writing.

2. Write it out as a word or pages document – or use any other relevant software.

3. Don’t save it at all.

4. Close the doc without saving it.

6. Watch your hard wrought efforts disappear.

7. Try and write it again.

8. Admire it, second time around.

9. Don’t save it again.

10. Close the doc, watch it disappear again.

11. Continue this process for as long as you can bear it OR upgrade your computer to the newest operating system and carry out steps 1-6. The effect is the same.

12. When you feel like abandoning it, print it off.

13. Don’t save the doc. Shut down the app.

14. Scribble all over your hard copy, make amendments, cut it up with scissors. Get closer to what it is telling you.

15. Re-type on your computer – or better still, non-correcting typewriter.

16. Throw away the tippex.

17. Print again, despair again.

18. Discard computer, typewriter and anything with a memory. Apart from yourself. Buy a Parker. And some nice parchment.

19. Write with physicality, with full body attention.

20. Sweat, breathe hard, ache.

21. You are now a better writer.

Mmm peachy. Lord AJPGR Murray confesses.

I’m not a little relieved that my impersonator has been reunited with his plimsolls over night.

The accusatory looks I was getting from my so called neighbours was all getting a bit too much.

“The scent of peach around your legs is a bit of a give away” remarked one local wag, as his dogs kept on sniffing sniffing sniffing around my nether regions.

Just cheap aftershave I explained, trying to shoo them away in the process. The dogs weren’ t listening though and it soon became clear that I would have to take drastic action.

Fetch! I threw my trainers over the railway crossing as the gates came down, hoping those infuriating hounds would leap on to the railway track about the same time that the 15.47 Liverpool train was passing.

Jump they did, fetch they did but true to British Rail form, the 15.47 was 2 minutes late and they were able to bring me back the trainers intact, albeit covered in a slime of dog slobber. I held them up, scrutinised them and held them to my nose. Mmm, still peachy.

I put them back on my feet and marvelled at their perfect fit. My impersonator had clearly done his homework. Quite how he had found out about my size 16 feet is anyone guess – and quite how he thinks he can get around a tennis court carrying those barges at the end of his legs is quite beyond me too but I have to admit, they felt comfortable, well worn in and clearly had many tales to tell about their owners trials and tribulations on the world’s tennis courts.

I luxuriated in them for a bit longer before reconciling myself to the fact that they would need to be returned to their rightful owner, even if he was unwilling to return the title of Wimbledon champion and Sports Personality of the Year to me.

Timing is everything I mused as I posted them through the outsize postbox on the front door of his bungalow. I rang the doorbell and scarpered away as fast as I could back home. I wasn’t in the mood to confront my imposter, even if his plimsolls reminded me of the Algarve.

More insights from Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray here.