BEWARE: This post contains extreme randomness.
My exams are over! Yaaaaaay! 🙂 Granted I still have coursework deadlines coming up that need to be completed, but the worst is over. I revised by butt off, so I hope it pays off. My cat even helped me write out my notes on some days.
Anyway I digress, the real reason for this post is that my revision technique is to write out my entire course onto flashcards, and to do this I reach into the deep depths of my cupboard and take out one of the gazillion of notebooks I was given as a child for Christmas/Birthdays to use. This time round I picked one with a purple flowery pattern (can be seen in the picture above, the little notebook on the far right) and as I begun making my notes in it, I came across a long lost story I had written when I was younger called The Prince, Princess and Frog. I proceeded to read it and found myself laughing at my bad grammar and terrible spelling. Upon reaching the last few lines of my story I stopped surprised. What was this? A pro-feminist message from the mind of a seven year old? Possibly.
I have never considered myself a feminist. I tend to associate the word with extremist views, and to some extent, slightly hypocritical people as it seems many feminists only want to be feminists when it suits them. I do not mean to offend anyone, it is just something that I have observed over time. However, I have always been very aware of the portrayal of females in films, music videos, books and advertising and have often been angered by it. I do not expect females to always be portrayed as strong and practical as this obviously isn’t always the case, but at the same time it is also unrealistic to portray every female as useless, or flighty and a slave to their emotions. The best example I can think of on this is the film Six Days Seven Nights starring Harrison Ford and Anne Heche. I literally could not sit through that movie without pulling out my hair in angered desperation. It was the most angering and frustrating portrayal of a female I have ever seen. Anyway, before this post ends up as a feminist rant, which was really not the aim of this post at all, (although if you would like to read more on feminism you can pop over to the post Blogging from the kitchen: On Sexism) I will get back on topic. Whether my story could be called feminist is probably up for interpretation, but I would prefer to look at it that way. So without further ado, I present a story from my seven year old self for you entertainment:
Once upon a time there was a princess called Lucy, now Lucy wasn’t like normal princesses, she was ugly. She had orange frizzy hair, bright blue eyes, round glasses and she was wearing a black polo neck and trousers. Lucy had a pet frog named Bog. This was Lucy’s only friend because she lived in a tower.
A most handsome Prince was sipping Seven-Up with one hand, and running his other through his fine hair. All the girly girls would faint if they heard or saw him. One lovely day the Prince heard a rumor that there was meant to be a gorgeous Princess locked up in a tower 10 miles away from the Palace. So on Tuesday when the grass was as green as a broccoli, the Prince set out to find the Princess. But soon he came across the most awful foe, the thing was what some people called The Bomb. This is because he’s red and black with a square head, which is very ugly. He also throws sparklers and bombs at you if you come too close.
”You have crossed my path” The Bomb bellowed “now I must destroy you.”
The bomb slithered forward, slowly increasing speed; the Prince dodged taking a swipe with his sword. He missed, suddenly the monster knocked the Prince over. The Price got up and sliced the monster in two. Feeling pleased with himself he walked on until he found the castle.
* * * * * *
The Prince found some ivy to climb up, and finally he climbed up into the window.
”My Princess I have come for you”
The Princess slowly turned around and looked at him.
”Dear Princess will you marry me?”
”Why does everyone always ask that? For the third time in my life, I don’t need a Prince to take care of me, I can take care of myself, and I like living with my mum.”
”What? I thought you were being held captive by a witch?”
”My mums a witch DUUUUU!!!”
”But will you marry me?”
”You? No way, I don’t need a Prince to save me” said the Princess in disgust.
And with that the Prince climbed out and down the ivy laid window.
So readers, if you’ve recovered from my badly written story (although I was seven!) the question I pose to you is this: At what age did you begin writing your own stories, did they have any specific themes e.g. feminism, and do you still own any of them today?