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Eighty Four Hobos and a threshing machine
His advice was good, and I followed it, prepared, however, if it was a “con game” the shack had given me, to take the blind as the overland pulled out. But it was straight goods. I found the car—a big refrigerator car with the leeward door wide open for ventilation. Up I climbed and in. I stepped on a man’s leg, next on some other man’s arm. The light was dim, and all I could make out was arms and legs and bodies inextricably confused. Never was there such a tangle of humanity. They were all lying in the straw, and over, and under, and around one another. Eighty-four husky hoboes take up a lot of room when they are stretched out. The men I stepped on were resentful. Their bodies heaved under me like the waves of the sea, and imparted an involuntary forward movement to me. I could not find any straw to step upon, so I stepped upon more men. The resentment increased, so did my forward movement. I lost my footing and sat down with sharp abruptness. Unfortunately, it was on a man’s head. The next moment he had risen on his hands and knees in wrath, and I was flying through the air. What goes up must come down, and I came down on another man’s head.
What happened after that is very vague in my memory. It was like going through a threshing-machine. I was bandied about from one end of the car to the other. Those eighty-four hoboes winnowed me out till what little was left of me, by some miracle, found a bit of straw to rest upon. I was initiated, and into a jolly crowd. All the rest of that day we rode through the blizzard, and to while the time away it was decided that each man was to tell a story. It was stipulated that each story must be a good one, and, furthermore, that it must be a story no one had ever heard before. The penalty for failure was the threshing-machine. Nobody failed. And I want to say right here that never in my life have I sat at so marvellous a story-telling debauch. Here were eighty-four men from all the world—I made eighty-five; and each man told a masterpiece. It had to be, for it was either masterpiece or threshing-machine.
FROM THE ROAD BY JACK LONDON, 1907
West Cork Literary Festival Teen Writers Workshop, July 2013
WORDS ALLOWED – Workshop for Teenage Writers with Dave Lordan
Fee: €100
After the huge success and impact of its young writers on the festival in 2012, Words Allowed workshop for teenage writers returns to the festival for its revamped second edition. The week-long course is designed to build the creative confidence and expressive ability of teenagers with an interest in writing. The course combines a high-energy workshop approach with talks and Question and Answer sessions on being a writer in the contemporary world where multimedia technologies and performance writing are assuming more and more importance alongside traditional book publishing. In an atmosphere of group support and encouragement for individual creativity, each participant will be facilitated to pursue their own writing interests and to generate a new work of which they can be proud. As well as learning from our experienced facilitator, participants will learn from each other through pair and group writing games and activities. They will give constructive feedback on each other’s work and learn how to apply feedback to improving their own work. The week will be rounded off with a special reading of the participants’ work, which we expect to once again be a highlight of the festival programme. Participants will also have the option of taking part in short readings before events throughout the festival. This is Ireland’s leading workshop for teenage writers and demand is expected to be high so please book early to avoid disappointment.
About Dave Lordan
Dave Lordan, renowned writer, teacher and creativity-in education advocate, is the first writer to have won all three of Ireland’s national prizes for young poets. He is the current holder of the Ireland Chair of Poetry Bursary Award and previous winner of the Patrick Kavanagh and Strong Awards for poetry. Southword, the magazine of the Munster Literature Centre called him ‘a master of the sound and rhythm of language’ while the Irish Times found his work to be ‘as brilliant on the page as it must surely be in performance’. Dave teaches creative writing at primary, secondary, and adult education levels. As well as the WCLF, Dave has recently provided workshops for Sphere 17 Youthclub Darndale, the Irish Film Institute, Dublin City Libraries, Ledbury Poetry Festival, Courthouse Arts Centre, The Irish Countrywomen’s Association, Hospital Youthreach, Youthspeaks, Children’s Books Ireland and numerous others. www.davelordanwriter.com
book at http://www.westcorkmusic.ie/literaryfestival/workshops
Jack London on fiction as an art of survival
“I knocked softly, and when I saw the kind face of the middle-aged woman who answered, as by inspiration came to me the “story” I was to tell. For know that upon his ability to tell a good story depends the success of the beggar. First of all, and on the instant, the beggar must “size up” his victim. After that, he must tell a story that will appeal to the peculiar personality and temperament of that particular victim. And right here arises the great difficulty: in the instant that he is sizing up the victim he must begin his story. Not a minute is allowed for preparation. As in a lightning flash he must divine the nature of the victim and conceive a tale that will hit home. The successful hobo must be an artist. He must create spontaneously and instantaneously—and not upon a theme selected from the plenitude of his own imagination, but upon the theme he reads in the face of the person who opens the door, be it man, woman, or child, sweet or crabbed, generous or miserly, good-natured or cantankerous, Jew or Gentile, black or white, race-prejudiced or brotherly, provincial or universal, or whatever else it may be. I have often thought that to this training of my tramp days is due much of my success as a story-writer. In order to get the food whereby I lived, I was compelled to tell tales that rang true. At the back door, out of inexorable necessity, is developed the convincingness and sincerity laid down by all authorities on the art of the short-story. Also, I quite believe it was my tramp-apprenticeship that made a realist out of me. Realism constitutes the only goods one can exchange at the kitchen door for grub.”
Jack London, from The Road, 1907
