The Pond

     The bird stands by the pond, and I don’t know what kind of a bird it is. The pond is at the end of an irrigation ditch, and so far, and for the past couple of years, that little body of water has been really popular with the feathered population.

     I see them sitting out there in the water, and I see them hanging around the ditches and fields: fleet roadrunners, burrowing owls, duck, geese, egrets, blue herons, and best of all, magnificent soaring raptors. I don’t know if they are hawks or falcons.

     The bird by the pond last week was about 18 inches tall. It had a short body and long neck. It was brown. I haven’t seen a bird like that before.

     Out there by the pond, I see them hanging around. Webbed-footed birds floating on the water. I see quail scurrying along the ditches, running through the fields, faking injury to sacrifice themselves for their fleeing young.

     Several months ago, four ugly buzzards took a couple of weeks to eat the carcass of what appeared to be a dead porcupine. I don’t know if it was a porcupine. The smell kept me at a distance. Not to mention I didn’t want to disturb the vultures that so diligently feasted on the shrinking rodent.

     But still, there’s beauty out there at the pond and along the artery that feeds it.

     The pond always has water. Occasionally, the pond gets thirsty, but then a great burst of rain fills it again.

     The pond holds enough water that migratory birds of all feathers make it a point to drop by and float awhile. At least until they see me.

     Out there by the open fields where farmers grow their crops, there is beauty, even in the carcass of a porcupine and the ugly birds that feed upon it.

 -- David Madrid --

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Be a writer; be a reader

There are three things you must do to become a good writer.

First: Read.

How can you do something well if you don’t understand how it’s done? You can’t. Read so that you may write. Read everything you can get your hands on. Read books. Magazines. Newspaper articles. Comic books. Jokes. Read stuff on the Internet. Read something.

Occasionally read something hard. Many literary classics are hard to read. But the artistry of that writing is unmatched. That is why they are classics.

If something sounds really good when you read it, read it again. Read it out loud. Why does it sound good to you? Read for fun or for information, but sometimes analyze the writing you read.

Second: Practice.

Practice. Practice. Practice. Write something almost everyday. I have been writing professionally for 20 years, and I write virtually every day, and still, I learn something new all the time. Once you know all there is to know about writing, then you have become a mediocre writer. That’s because writing is fluid. It is not rigid. It cannot be done by formula.

Sometimes rules change. For example, we were once told that we could never begin a sentence with the words “and” or “but.” But now, it’s OK.

Third: Study the fundamentals of writing.

Learn punctuation. Learn grammar. Study what you read to see how sentences are put together, how paragraphs are crafted. Take a class if you can.

Two additional points: Never be afraid to make mistakes and have fun.

We learn from our mistakes. And most of all, writing should be fun.

FabulousFables.com offers writing tips and lessons on its forum. The forum is interactive and easy to use, so you can ask for personal help. In order to access the forum you must be a member of the club. If you need help writing, I will help you.

David Madrid

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Why write? 

     I want you to write.

     Why write? There are many reasons why you should write. You hear from your teachers and your parents that you have to be able to write in order to have a good education. Writing will help you get a good job, they say. They are correct. Writing is one of the most important things you can learn.

     But there are other reasons to write. I write for a living. I am a journalist. But my favorite reason to write is that writing is an act of creation. With writing you can create entire worlds. What you imagine, you can create on a piece of paper, on a computer screen.

     I write because I love stories. I make up stories and tell them to you. And when I do that, my act of creating becomes an act of sharing. What good are stories if you can’t share them? If you like my stories, that makes me happy, because I made you feel better.

     So I have three payoffs for writing a story.

     1. I created a world that didn’t exist until I put it into words.

     2. I shared this world, my story, with you.

     3. I made you feel better.

     I encourage you to write. I want you to create your own world. And I want you to share that world with somebody. If you want, you can share it with me.

     I think it will make you feel better.

David Madrid

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The Dog and the Bone

By Aesop as told by FabulousFables.com

     A mangy dog swaggered past a butcher’s shop one day. He saw a pile of tasty-looking bones still covered with meat on the counter. He was a fast dog, and he knew he could easily outrun even the swiftest of people. So he ran into the shop, jumped on the counter and greedily snatched the most attractive bone. He ran out of the shop.

     The furious butcher grabbed his knife and chased the mutt, who was not to be denied his ill-gotten bone. The butcher was slow; he soon got tired, and the dog escaped, snickering as he lengthened the distance from his pursuer. He really was fast.

     As the dog headed home, he walked across a bridge over a deep river. Halfway across he noticed a dog in the water staring up at him.

     The thieving dog thought ‘That’s one ugly old mutt,’ but he couldn’t help notice the juicy bone in the dog’s mouth.

     The swift dog sized him up. ‘He doesn’t look so tough. I’m fast. I can grab that bone and run just like I did at the butcher shop.’

     In order to muster an intimidating snarl, he opened his jaws wide and bared his fangs. That would frighten the poor homely mutt, he reasoned. The bone fell out of his mouth. It hit the water, shattering his reflection. The bone disappeared into the deep.

Moral:

Be content with what you have.

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

By Aesop as told by FabulousFables.com

     A young shepherd boy stood on a hill tending his father's flock of sheep. He was bored, so to amuse himself he yelled to the village below: “Wolf! Wolf! The wolf is coming!”

     The villagers grabbed their farming implements to use as weapons against the wolf, and they ran up the hill to help the boy.

     The boy laughed at the villagers. “Fools,” he said. He thought he was funny.

     The people were not amused.

     “Don’t every do that again,” scolded the red-faced village elder. The grumbling people returned to their homes.

     Once again, the boy was not content to sit and watch the sheep. He was bored and lonely.

     “Wolf! Wolf!” he cried. He ran around and flailed his arms to make his yells more believable.

     Again, the villagers ran panting up the steep hillside. Again, when they reached him, the boy laughed at them. They were angry and humiliated.

     “I warned you not to do that again,” said the village elder, now redder and angrier than before.“Next time you do this, I’ll take a belt to you.”

     “I’ll tell my dad,” the smug boy threatened. The unhappy villagers returned home.

     After about an hour, he felt the pangs of boredom. ‘There is no way they will fall for the same trick,’ he thought, but lacking the imagination to think of a creative way to relieve his boredom, he thought ‘Why not?’

     “Wolf! Wolf!” he screamed as he fell to the ground crying and kicking his feet. The villagers didn't much care for the boy, but they thought surely this time he wasn’t joking, and they ran up the hill again.

     “I would have never believed that people could be as dumb as you,” said the laughing boy as the now-tired villagers reached the flock. “Want to buy a bridge in Brooklyn? Ha Ha Ha. You people are just plain stupid.”

     This time the village elder didn’t say a thing. He knew he couldn’t spank the boy, and he didn’t know where the boy’s parents were. The thoroughly upset villagers returned home.

     On the next day, which was overcast and drizzly, the wolf came up the hill. The beast wasted no time attacking the sheep. He tore into them and scattered wool and blood in every direction. The horrified boy cried out in fear: “Wolf! Wolf! The wolf is here! Help me! The wolf is here! I’m not joking this time.” He ran to and fro flailing his arms. He fell and cried on the ground kicking his feet.

     But no one came. The villagers thought it was just another of trick. Meanwhile, the wolf killed most the sheep, and ate as much as he wanted. If he had the room for desert, he would have eaten the boy.

     The boy ran to the village elder’s home crying: “Why didn’t you help me? I lost almost all of my family’s sheep. My dad is going to kill me. Waa.”

     The old wise man looked at the boy and said: “You’ve learned a lesson today, but you learned it too late, and that is that liars are not believed even when they tell the truth.