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The Writer Awoke before Dawn (standard:humor, 1677 words) [1/2] show all parts
Author: Ian HobsonUpdated: May 03 2004Views/Reads: 2910/1354Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A slanted look inside the mind of a short story writer.

About the Author 

Born in 1903, in the tiny hamlet of Hogs-Bonking on the south-west coast
of Corset, in England, best-selling author and pig farmer, Ian Hobson, 
is relatively new to writing, having taken it up only the day before 
yesterday.  His many literary achievements to date include his 
remarkable 500,000 word epic 'A Day in the Life of a Lettuce', his 
anthology of single word poems titled 'This is an Anthology of Single 
Word Poems and That's Why it's Not Very Thick', and 'Mistaken 
Identity', a heart-rending true story about his father's hysterectomy. 

His latest novel 'The Day I Killed Mr Smith', is causing a sensation in
literary circles, as well as looking likely to reopen the investigation 
into the death of one Josiah Smith, one-time Mayor of Hogs-Bottom and 
Crouchdown-in-the-Marshes, who died in suspicious circumstances; his 
body having been found shot, stabbed, garrotted, and hanging 
upside-down in his outside toilet. 

Ian has now moved to Florida, where he lives with his wife and two pigs.
 He still loves to write but now devotes most of his time to the 
cataloguing of his rare Antarctic cockroach collection. 

The Writer Awoke before Dawn 

©2003 Ian Hobson 

He put his boots on.  And tied the laces.  At school, he was taught that
he shouldn't start a sentence with the word ‘And'.  But he knew that 
that was an outdated rule.  ‘And in any case,' he reminded himself,  
‘rules were made for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of 
fools.'  He pondered the use of the word ‘men', wondering if, in this 
age of political correctness, he should say ‘wise persons'. 

He hefted his rucksack and slipped out of the back door... coming down
hard on his tailbone and uttering the two vilest expletives in his 
vocabulary of vile expletives.  That was twice in three weeks that that 
slippery doorstep had caught him out, and his bottom was still sore 
from the first time.  He quickly deleted the expletives - not daring to 
offend potential readers this early in the story - picked himself up, 
locked the door, and, adjusting the position of his rucksack, he set 
off carefully along the garden path, which was also quite slippery in 

The writer - he flattered himself with that description – opened the
garden gate and stepped into the road.  He was actually a retired 
postman; not that he had wanted to take early retirement, but he had 
been offered a generous ‘package'...  No, that sounded ridiculous; a 
postman being offered a package. He was actually a retired bank clerk.  
Not that he had wanted to take early retirement, but he had been 
offered a generous ‘package'. 

His main pastimes were gardening, hiking and reading, but recently he
had taken to writing short stories, partly for his own amusement, and 
partly in the hope that he might actually get something published.  Out 
of habit he crossed to the right-hand side of the road, preferring to 
face the oncoming traffic.  Not that there was any this early in the 

He liked this time of day; just enough light to see by, but no sign of
the sun yet, and no one else around.  And living in the countryside 
certainly had its advantages.  And he had been very lucky to buy the 
cottage before property prices had soared. 

He was about to say ‘And something else' but he thought three ‘Ands' in
a row might be pushing it a little. 

He passed through the gap-stile in the wall and followed the well-worn
footpath down towards the stream where he crossed the footbridge.  This 
reminded him of his daughter, as when she was small she had always 
looked under footbridges to see if there were any trolls.  At the head 
of the valley, the first rays of the sun, but not the sun itself, were 

Leaving the stream behind, he began to climb towards a distant farm,
leaning heavily on his walking stick...  Which was more than a little 

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