The new blog is up and running and my posts will take place there from now on!
Please have a looksee, click here
xo
Thursday, 7 February 2013
Thursday, 14 June 2012
All wrapped up.
As the semester draws to an end, I am compelled to write my final post.
From differentiating commercial from public media to writing of my current obsessions, this blog has been my creative outlet for the past three months. Through a journalistic lens, it has allowed me to express my thoughts, my likes, my dislikes, and what I have learnt in JOUR1111, freely. This course, and this blog, has opened me up to the wide world of social media, particularly igniting my love for Twitter and Blogger. I am now much more in-touch with what is happening in the world and have a great appreciation for the Internet's ability to share news on a 24/7 timeframe. I have discovered that journalism stretches much further than the 6 o'clock news and the daily newspaper, harnessing the developments of social media and customising the way we ingest what is happening in the world. It is an ever-changing field, moving forward and adjusting in shape and form, but never, ever losing importance. I now view journalism as a practice of storytelling, rather than a strict, dry reporting discipline. Journalists have the ability to probe deeply what is happening in our world, and inform the masses. They should convey the truths of our society, and seek to remain honest and dutiful in their role as factual storytellers, recognising the unparalleled importance of their job. My love for writing and, now, for blogging has made me want to continue a blog. Whether it be this exact one, or whether I create my own - I will most definitely continue to engage in the practice and open myself to the opportunities which come along with it.
Watch this space...
Mwah!
From differentiating commercial from public media to writing of my current obsessions, this blog has been my creative outlet for the past three months. Through a journalistic lens, it has allowed me to express my thoughts, my likes, my dislikes, and what I have learnt in JOUR1111, freely. This course, and this blog, has opened me up to the wide world of social media, particularly igniting my love for Twitter and Blogger. I am now much more in-touch with what is happening in the world and have a great appreciation for the Internet's ability to share news on a 24/7 timeframe. I have discovered that journalism stretches much further than the 6 o'clock news and the daily newspaper, harnessing the developments of social media and customising the way we ingest what is happening in the world. It is an ever-changing field, moving forward and adjusting in shape and form, but never, ever losing importance. I now view journalism as a practice of storytelling, rather than a strict, dry reporting discipline. Journalists have the ability to probe deeply what is happening in our world, and inform the masses. They should convey the truths of our society, and seek to remain honest and dutiful in their role as factual storytellers, recognising the unparalleled importance of their job. My love for writing and, now, for blogging has made me want to continue a blog. Whether it be this exact one, or whether I create my own - I will most definitely continue to engage in the practice and open myself to the opportunities which come along with it.
Watch this space...
Mwah!
12 days...
Yes, only 12 days until my jetsetting obsession is satisfied as I venture to Paris and Greece... Heaven! Here are a few little photographs to wet your appetite!
Grandma's Roses
A little darker than the previous story, but just as compelling!
Grandma's Roses
By Sarah Evans
We were clearing Grandad's place. He'd died the day before and Mum wanted to blitz the old weatherboard house with its peeling paint and rotten floors.
"This feels wrong," I said, hovering at the back door.
"It's not," said Mum. She marched passed me, clutching two plastic buckets loaded with cleaning paraphernalia.
"Grandad would be evil. He hated us invading his personal space." I stepped inside. Memories flooded back of torturous Sundays sitting at the chipped Formica table, enduring Grandad's monologues on how society had gone down the gurgler since the war. He'd ranted about the fall of morality, loose women, adultery.
We'd forgiven him, because of Grandma.
During these tirades, Mum would disappear to tend Grandma's roses. Those sweet-smelling, deep red roses at the bottom of the garden were the only concession to beauty at the austere farm.
Mum interrupted my reminiscences: "He's beyond caring. Always was. Not that we should speak ill of the dead." She quickly crossed herself.
Grandad, a tough cocky farmer, had raised three children single-handedly after Grandma had shot through with a serviceman during the war. Mum had been ten, Uncle Wal thirteen, Aunt Sylvia six.
Grandma's desertion put a huge strain on the family, not least the loss of free labour. To compensate, Grandad swapped sons with the neighbouring farmer. The men reckoned they could extract more work from the boys doing it that way.
Dennis had slept in the sleep-out. It was freezing in winter and boiling in summer. He'd run away after six months, lied about his age and joined the army.
Inspired by Den's escape, Wal tried it too. But he got caught and Grandad flogged him half to death.
Mum took Grandma's desertion hard. She was forced to grow up fast. She'd had to clean, wash, cook, and be mother to Sylvia. But as soon as they were old enough. the girls left home.
Duty, Mum said, was the only reason she'd kept in touch with Grandad.
And the roses.
My job was the kitchen. It hadn't changed much in the ninety years of Grandad's life. Only the Metters stove had been upgraded. I started with the drawers. There was the usual build up of used envelopes, rusty drawing pins, perished rubber bands, discoloured lamb's teats and untidy bundles of oddment string.
I binned everything except an old tobacco tin that had something rattling inside. There were names written on the lid: May, Evelyn and Sylvia. Grandma, Mum and her sister. A deep scratch had almost obliterated Grandma's name. Age had welded tight the lid.
"Do you know what's in this?" I asked Mum.
"Bullets," she said and reached for the tin.
I lost interest. I'd found plenty of loose ammunition rolling about in the dusty drawers. What were another few bullets?
Mum traced the scratch mark. "One bullet for each of us," she murmured.
"Sorry"
"During the war your Grandad would chart the progress of both the Allies and their enemies on a big map he had pinned up there." She gestured to the nicotine-stained wall. "As the Japanese flags got nearer to Australia, he put these bullets in the tin. He told Wal that they were for Mum, Sylvia and me if the Japs invaded our farm."
"He would have shot you?"
"He reckoned it was a better fate than being taken by the enemy."
"Good job he didn't panic and use them."
She stared at me, or was it beyond me?
"He wanted us to believe that she'd betrayed us. That she had failed as a wife and mother and left us. But we knew. We were too afraid to say anything, but we always tended Mum's roses. 1t was the least we could do."
"Mum?"
"Open the tin."
After much exertion; I levered off the lid.
"Where's the third bullet?" I said.
Mum wasn't listening. She was gazing out at Grandma's blood-red roses.
Grandma's Roses
By Sarah Evans
We were clearing Grandad's place. He'd died the day before and Mum wanted to blitz the old weatherboard house with its peeling paint and rotten floors.
"This feels wrong," I said, hovering at the back door.
"It's not," said Mum. She marched passed me, clutching two plastic buckets loaded with cleaning paraphernalia.
"Grandad would be evil. He hated us invading his personal space." I stepped inside. Memories flooded back of torturous Sundays sitting at the chipped Formica table, enduring Grandad's monologues on how society had gone down the gurgler since the war. He'd ranted about the fall of morality, loose women, adultery.
We'd forgiven him, because of Grandma.
During these tirades, Mum would disappear to tend Grandma's roses. Those sweet-smelling, deep red roses at the bottom of the garden were the only concession to beauty at the austere farm.
Mum interrupted my reminiscences: "He's beyond caring. Always was. Not that we should speak ill of the dead." She quickly crossed herself.
Grandad, a tough cocky farmer, had raised three children single-handedly after Grandma had shot through with a serviceman during the war. Mum had been ten, Uncle Wal thirteen, Aunt Sylvia six.
Grandma's desertion put a huge strain on the family, not least the loss of free labour. To compensate, Grandad swapped sons with the neighbouring farmer. The men reckoned they could extract more work from the boys doing it that way.
Dennis had slept in the sleep-out. It was freezing in winter and boiling in summer. He'd run away after six months, lied about his age and joined the army.
Inspired by Den's escape, Wal tried it too. But he got caught and Grandad flogged him half to death.
Mum took Grandma's desertion hard. She was forced to grow up fast. She'd had to clean, wash, cook, and be mother to Sylvia. But as soon as they were old enough. the girls left home.
Duty, Mum said, was the only reason she'd kept in touch with Grandad.
And the roses.
My job was the kitchen. It hadn't changed much in the ninety years of Grandad's life. Only the Metters stove had been upgraded. I started with the drawers. There was the usual build up of used envelopes, rusty drawing pins, perished rubber bands, discoloured lamb's teats and untidy bundles of oddment string.
I binned everything except an old tobacco tin that had something rattling inside. There were names written on the lid: May, Evelyn and Sylvia. Grandma, Mum and her sister. A deep scratch had almost obliterated Grandma's name. Age had welded tight the lid.
"Do you know what's in this?" I asked Mum.
"Bullets," she said and reached for the tin.
I lost interest. I'd found plenty of loose ammunition rolling about in the dusty drawers. What were another few bullets?
Mum traced the scratch mark. "One bullet for each of us," she murmured.
"Sorry"
"During the war your Grandad would chart the progress of both the Allies and their enemies on a big map he had pinned up there." She gestured to the nicotine-stained wall. "As the Japanese flags got nearer to Australia, he put these bullets in the tin. He told Wal that they were for Mum, Sylvia and me if the Japs invaded our farm."
"He would have shot you?"
"He reckoned it was a better fate than being taken by the enemy."
"Good job he didn't panic and use them."
She stared at me, or was it beyond me?
"He wanted us to believe that she'd betrayed us. That she had failed as a wife and mother and left us. But we knew. We were too afraid to say anything, but we always tended Mum's roses. 1t was the least we could do."
"Mum?"
"Open the tin."
After much exertion; I levered off the lid.
"Where's the third bullet?" I said.
Mum wasn't listening. She was gazing out at Grandma's blood-red roses.
The Red Rose
This and my next post are two of my favourite very short stories. Weirdly enough they're both about roses, maybe it's a subconscious thing of mine I'm not too sure... But their storylines are both so compelling despite the paradoxical moods they portray. Read them if you will, they really are fabulous.
The Red Rose
Author - unknown
John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell.
With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II. During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
"A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips." "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. "Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.
I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment."
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go ahead and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell.
With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II. During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
"A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips." "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. "Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.
I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment."
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go ahead and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
Power Performance
If you haven't read this book, or even part of it, you have to! I am a strong believer that journalism is a practice of storytelling. My interest in the discipline lies in its ability to convey a person's story to the masses. I see journalists as storytellers, rather than mere 'reporters'. This book revolves around the idea of storytelling in journalism and public relations. This is an extract from the introduction to the book by Tony Silvia and Terry Anzur - both notable journalistic educators in America:
'The constantly changing universe of multimedia is the focus of much study and endless debate. This book is about what does not change: the basic human need for a good story. As a storyteller in the present day, your tools may be a camera, a microphone, and a computer. But you are carrying on a tradition that dates back to the first person who used the wall of a cave and piece of charcoal to draw pictures that might point the way to a successful hunt, or the first sculptor using stone as a tablet to record the outcome of an epic battle. From the beginning of human history, we have depended on storytellers to pass on our legends to the next generation, to share practical information needed for survival, to encourage our sense of community and to inspire our faith in something greater than ourselves. And, yes, we also want to be entertained while we are being informed.
Effective storytelling has long been a blend of words, sounds and pictures. In the days when most people could not read, religious stories often came to life through images and music in a house of worship. Wandering minstrels spread the news of the day while performing their songs. Playwrights and actors gave us insight into the human condition by portraying archetypal characters and dramatic situations on a stage. The printing press made it possible for storytellers to reach a wider and more educated public, leading to the development of worldwide mass media in the present day. What all effective storytellers throughout history have in common is the ability to engage the audience, not merely capturing attention, but challenging the users, viewers, listeners or readers to process information and apply it to their own lives.'
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