My first fiction writing

Recently, I was clean­ing out some draw­ers, and came across the very first fic­tion pieces I wrote. They were for chil­dren, and I received rejec­tion let­ter after rejec­tion let­ter. After those fail­ures, I’m not sure what gave me the courage to attempt writ­ing a novel for adults. Twelve years, five nov­els later, and I’m read­ing these old sto­ries. One about a boy who gets stuck in a newly con­structed side­walk. Another about a girl attempt­ing a rain dance to save her mother’s veg­etable gar­den. They are not great, but not all that bad. And in ways, they were the start of something.

Here’s the first one I wrote. I researched the ori­gins of the foods men­tioned, and thought it would be a unique take on a count­ing board book. I still think it’s cute.

What’s in the Pot?

One brave bunya nut leaps into the pot.
Two jalapeno chill­ies shout it’s hot, hot, hot!
Three timid arti­chokes hide behind the spoon.
Four old rap­ini stalks com­pose a sil­ver tune.
Five care­free fid­dle­heads sway to the gen­tle beat.
Six clever snake­beans lurk beneath their feet.
Seven hairy mel­ons, do they need a trim?
Eight portly damsons hang so plump and prim.
Nine black-eyes peas shoot out a glassy stare.
Ten pretty gin­ger roots fan the steamy air.
Eleven noble cab­bage heads pro­claim, “What is this fuss?
For­get about those soup bowls, you may drink a tea with us.”

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