Speaking

Strategies for Developing Speaking Skills

Students often think that the ability to speak a language is the product of language learning, but
speaking is also a crucial part of the language learning process. Effective instructors teach
students speaking strategies -- using minimal responses, recognizing scripts, and using language
to talk about language -- that they can use to help themselves expand their knowledge of the
language and their confidence in using it. These instructors help students learn to speak so that
the students can use speaking to learn.

1. Using minimal responses

Language learners who lack confidence in their ability to participate successfully in oral
interaction often listen in silence while others do the talking. One way to encourage such learners
to begin to participate is to help them build up a stock of minimal responses that they can use in
different types of exchanges. Such responses can be especially useful for beginners.
Minimal responses are predictable, often idiomatic phrases that conversation participants use to
indicate understanding, agreement, doubt, and other responses to what another speaker is saying.
Having a stock of such responses enables a learner to focus on what the other participant is
saying, without having to simultaneously plan a response.
2. Recognizing scripts
Some communication situations are associated with a predictable set of spoken exchanges -- a
script. Greetings, apologies, compliments, invitations, and other functions that are influenced by
social and cultural norms often follow patterns or scripts. So do the transactional exchanges
involved in activities such as obtaining information and making a purchase. In these scripts, the
relationship between a speaker's turn and the one that follows it can often be anticipated.
Instructors can help students develop speaking ability by making them aware of the scripts for
different situations so that they can predict what they will hear and what they will need to say in
response. Through interactive activities, instructors can give students practice in managing and
varying the language that different scripts contain.
3. Using language to talk about language
Language learners are often too embarrassed or shy to say anything when they do not understand
another speaker or when they realize that a conversation partner has not understood them.
Instructors can help students overcome this reticence by assuring them that misunderstanding
and the need for clarification can occur in any type of interaction, whatever the participants'

language skill levels. Instructors can also give students strategies and phrases to use for
clarification and comprehension check.
By encouraging students to use clarification phrases in class when misunderstanding occurs, and
by responding positively when they do, instructors can create an authentic practice environment
within the classroom itself. As they develop control of various clarification strategies, students
will gain confidence in their ability to manage the various communication situations that they
may encounter outside the classroom.
The Importance of Public Speaking

Even if you don't need to make regular presentations in front of a group, there are plenty of
situations where good public speaking skills can help you advance your career and create
opportunities.
For example, you might have to talk about your organization at a conference, make a speech
after accepting an award, or teach a class to new recruits. Speaking to an audience also includes
online presentations or talks; for instance, when training a virtual team, or when speaking to a
group of customers in an online meeting.
Good public speaking skills are important in other areas of your life, as well. You might be asked
to make a speech at a friend's wedding, give a eulogy for a loved one, or inspire a group of
volunteers at a charity event.
In short, being a good public speaker can enhance your reputation, boost your self-confidence ,
and open up countless opportunities.
However, while good skills can open doors, poor ones can close them. For example, your boss
might decide against promoting you after sitting through a badly-delivered presentation. You
might lose a valuable new contract by failing to connect with a prospect during a sales pitch. Or
you could make a poor impression with your new team, because you trip over your words and
don't look people in the eye.
Make sure that you learn how to speak well!
Strategies for Becoming a Better Speaker

The good news is that speaking in public is a learnable skill. As such, you can use the following
strategies to become a better speaker and presenter.
Plan Appropriately

First, make sure that you plan your communication appropriately. Use tools like the Rhetorical
Triangle , Monroe's Motivated Sequence , and the 7Cs of Communication to think about how
you'll structure what you're going to say.
When you do this, think about how important a book's first paragraph is; if it doesn't grab you,
you're likely going to put it down. The same principle goes for your speech: from the beginning,
you need to intrigue your audience.
For example, you could start with an interesting statistic, headline, or fact that pertains to what
you're talking about and resonates with your audience. You can also use story telling as a
powerful opener; our Expert Interviews with Annette Simmons and Paul Smith offer some useful
tips on doing this.
Planning also helps you to think on your feet . This is especially important for unpredictable
question and answer sessions or last-minute communications.

Tip:
Remember that not all occasions when you need to speak in public will be scheduled. You can
make good impromptu speeches by having ideas and mini-speeches pre-prepared. It also helps to
have a good, thorough understanding of what's going on in your organization and industry.
Practice

There's a good reason that we say, "Practice makes perfect!" You simply cannot be a confident,
compelling speaker without practice.
To get practice, seek opportunities to speak in front of others. For example, Toastmasters is a
club geared specifically towards aspiring speakers, and you can get plenty of practice at
Toastmasters sessions. You could also put yourself in situations that require public speaking,
such as by cross-training a group from another department, or by volunteering to speak at team
meetings.

Reading- Short Story

The Story of An Hour
by Kate Chopin
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to
her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half
concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the
newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's
name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a
second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the
sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to
accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms.
When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no
one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed
down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the
new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was
crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and
countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled
one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a
sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to
sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain
strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on
one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a
suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did
not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching
toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was
approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her
two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word
escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The
vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and
bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted
perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again
when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with
love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession
of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to
them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There
would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women
believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a
cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of
illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love,
the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she
suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for
admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are
you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that
open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all
sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was
only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish
triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped
her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the
bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little
travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene
of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's
piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.

_______________________________
The Cactus
by O. Henry
The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence
is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may
review an entire courtship while removing one's gloves.
That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor apartments. On the table
stood a singular-looking green plant in a red earthen jar. The plant was one of the species of
cacti, and was provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with the slightest
breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.
Trysdale's friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard complaining at being allowed to
drink alone. Both men were in evening dress. White favors like stars upon their coats shone
through the gloom of the apartment.
As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale's mind a swift, scarifying
retrospect of the last few hours. It seemed that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that
had been banked in odorous masses about the church, and in his ears the lowpitched hum of a
thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp garments, and, most insistently recurring, the
drawling words of the minister irrevocably binding her to another.
From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had become a habit of his mind, to
reach some conjecture as to why and how he had lost her. Shaken rudely by the uncompromising
fact, he had suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never before faced --his own
innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He saw all the garbs of pretence and egoism that
he had worn now turn to rags of folly. He shuddered at the thought that to others, before now, the
garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and threadbare. Vanity and conceit? These were
the joints in his armor. And how free from either she had always been--But why--

As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an unworthy, sullen exultation
that had served to support him. He had told himself that her paleness was from thoughts of
another than the man to whom she was about to give herself. But even that poor consolation had
been wrenched from him. For, when he saw that swift, limpid, upward look that she gave the
man when he took her hand, he knew himself to be forgotten. Once that same look had been
raised to him, and he had gauged its meaning. Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its last prop was
gone. Why had it ended thus? There had been no quarrel between them, nothing-For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those last few days before the
tide had so suddenly turned.
She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had accepted her homage with
royal grandeur. It had been a very sweet incense that she had burned before him; so modest (he
told himself); so childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have sworn) so sincere. She had
invested him with an almost supernatural number of high attributes and excellencies and talents,
and he had absorbed the oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise of
blossom or fruit.
As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the crowning instance of his
fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came vividly back to him. The scene was the night when he
had asked her to come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness. He could not, now,
for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the memory of her convincing beauty that night-the careless wave of her hair, the tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words. But they
had been enough, and they had brought him to speak. During their conversation she had said:
"And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language like a native. Why have
you hidden this accomplishment from me? Is there anything you do not know?"
Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty (he sometimes did such
things) of airing at the club some old, canting Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the
back of dictionaries. Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man to
have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.
But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and flattering. He allowed the
imputation to pass without denial. Without protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this
spurious bay of Spanish scholarship. He let it grace his conquering head, and, among its soft
convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was to pierce him later.
How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a snared bird when he laid
his mightiness at her feet! He could have sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable
consent was in her eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer. "I will send you my
answer to-morrow," she said; and he, the indulgent, confident victor, smilingly granted the delay.
The next day he waited, impatient, in his rooms for the word. At noon her groom came to the
door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar. There was no note, no message, merely a
tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous foreign or botanical name. He waited until night, but her
answer did not come. His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings

later they met at a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she looked at him, breathless,
wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation. With womanly swiftness
she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and ice. Thus, and wider from this on, they
had drifted apart. Where was his fault? Who had been to blame? Humbled now, he sought the
answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit. If-The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his thoughts, aroused him.
"I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? You look unhappy as if you yourself had
been married instead of having acted merely as an accomplice. Look at me, another accessory,
come two thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way from South
America to connive at the sacrifice--please to observe how lightly my guilt rests upon my
shoulders. Only little sister I had, too, and now she's gone. Come now! take something to ease
your conscience."
"I don't drink just now, thanks," said Trysdale.
"Your brandy," resumed the other, coming over and joining him, "is abominable. Run down to
see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in. It's
worth the, trip. Hallo! here's an old acquaintance. Wherever did you rake up this cactus,
Trysdale?"
"A present," said Trysdale, "from a friend. Know the species?"
"Very well. It's a tropical concern. See hundreds of 'em around Punta every day. Here's the name
on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish, Trysdale?"
"No," said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--"Is it Spanish?"
"Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to you. They call it by this
name--Ventomarme. Name means in English, 'Come and take me.'"

The Romance of a Busy Broker

by O. Henry
Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild
interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly
entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Goodmorning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and
then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was
decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no
chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to

luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her
neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and
shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a
happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going
straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer
office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her
presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by
buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
"Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage
snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half
impatiently.
"Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about
engaging another stenographer?"
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday
afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat
or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet."
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place."
And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing
in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is
handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious
life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the
straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils
of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office
and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and
out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a
storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.
On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and
volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices.
Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe
dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a
harlequin.

In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a highrolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation
sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver
heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was
there to construe her.
"Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
"What position?" he asked, with a frown.
"Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one
sent over this morning."
"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such
instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The
place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam.
Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office
furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the
"old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a
dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were
coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled,
and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension,
going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready
and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here
was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen
over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was
open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers
of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of
lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it
was her own, and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled
suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away.

"By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it
long ago."
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the
desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and
frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands
and the pen was above his ear.
"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that
moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I
really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union
Pacific."
"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon
him, round-eyed.
"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss
Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're
calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears
flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms
slid tenderly about the broker's neck.
"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your
head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last
evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."

A Baby Tramp
by Ambrose Bierce
If you had seen little Jo standing at the street corner in the rain, you would hardly have admired
him. It was apparently an ordinary autumn rainstorm, but the water which fell upon Jo (who was
hardly old enough to be either just or unjust, and so perhaps did not come under the law of
impartial distribution) appeared to have some property peculiar to itself: one would have said it
was dark and adhesive -- sticky. But that could hardly be so, even in Blackburg, where things
certainly did occur that were a good deal out of the common.
For example, ten or twelve years before, a shower of small frogs had fallen, as is credibly
attested by a contemporaneous chronicle, the record concluding with a somewhat obscure
statement to the effect that the chronicler considered it good growing-weather for Frenchmen.

Some years later Blackburg had a fall of crimson snow; it is cold in Blackburg when winter is on,
and the snows are frequent and deep. There can be no doubt of it -- the snow in this instance was
of the colour of blood and melted into water of the same hue, if water it was, not blood. The
phenomenon had attracted wide attention, and science had as many explanations as there were
scientists who knew nothing about it. But the men of Blackburg -- men who for many years had
lived right there where the red snow fell, and might be supposed to know a good deal about the
matter -- shook their heads and said something would come of it.
And something did, for the next summer was made memorable by the prevalence of a mysterious
disease -- epidemic, endemic, or the Lord knows what, though the physicians didn't -- which
carried away a full half of the population. Most of the other half carried themselves away and
were slow to return, but finally came back, and were now increasing and multiplying as before,
but Blackburg had not since been altogether the same.
Of quite another kind, though equally 'out of the common,' was the incident of Hetty Parlow's
ghost. Hetty Parlow's maiden name had been Brownon, and in Blackburg that meant more than
one would think.
The Brownons had from time immemorial -- from the very earliest of the old colonial days -been the leading family of the town. It was the richest and it was the best, and Blackburg would
have shed the last drop of its plebeian blood in defence of the Brownon fair fame. As few of the
family's members had ever been known to live permanently away from Blackburg, although
most of them were educated elsewhere and nearly all had travelled, there was quite a number of
them. The men held most of the public offices, and the women were foremost in all good works.
Of these latter, Hetty was most beloved by reason of the sweetness of her disposition, the purity
of her character and her singular personal beauty. She married in Boston a young scapegrace
named Parlow, and like a good Brownon brought him to Blackburg forthwith and made a man
and a town councillor of him. They had a child which they named Joseph and dearly loved, as
was then the fashion among parents in all that region. Then they died of the mysterious disorder
already mentioned, and at the age of one whole year Joseph set up as an orphan.
Unfortunately for Joseph the disease which had cut off his parents did not stop at that; it went on
and extirpated nearly the whole Brownon contingent and its allies by marriage; and those who
fled did not return. The tradition was broken, the Brownon estates passed into alien hands, and
the only Brownons remaining in that place were underground in Oak Hill Cemetery, where,
indeed, was a colony of them powerful enough to resist the encroachment of surrounding tribes
and hold the best part of the grounds. But about the ghost:
One night, about three years after the death of Hetty Parlow, a number of the young people of
Blackburg were passing Oak Hill Cemetery in a wagon -- if you have been there you will
remember that the road to Greenton runs alongside it on the south. They had been attending a
May Day festival at Greenton; and that serves to fix the date. Altogether there may have been a
dozen, and a jolly party they were, considering the legacy of gloom left by the town's recent
sombre experiences. As they passed the cemetery the man driving suddenly reined in his team
with an exclamation of surprise. It was sufficiently surprising, no doubt, for just ahead, and
almost at the roadside, though inside the cemetery, stood the ghost of Hetty Parlow. There could

be no doubt of it, for she had been personally known to every youth and maiden in the party.
That established the thing's identity; its character as ghost was signified by all the customary
signs -- the shroud, the long, undone hair, the 'far-away look' -- everything. This disquieting
apparition was stretching out its arms toward the west, as if in supplication for the evening star,
which, certainly, was an alluring object, though obviously out of reach. As they all sat silent (so
the story goes) every member of that party of merrymakers -- they had merrymade on coffee and
lemonade only -- distinctly heard that ghost call the name 'Joey, Joey!' A moment later nothing
was there. Of course one does not have to believe all that.
Now, at that moment, as was afterward ascertained, Joey was wandering about in the sagebrush
on the opposite side of the continent, near Winnemucca, in the State of Nevada. He had been
taken to that town by some good persons distantly related to his dead father, and by them
adopted and tenderly cared for. But on that evening the poor child had strayed from home and
was lost in the desert.
His after history is involved in obscurity and has gaps which conjecture alone can fill. It is
known that he was found by a family of Piute Indians, who kept the little wretch with them for a
time and then sold him -- actually sold him for money to a woman on one of the east-bound
trains, at a station a long way from Winnemucca. The woman professed to have made all manner
of inquiries, but all in vain: so, being childless and a widow, she adopted him herself. At this
point of his career Jo seemed to be getting a long way from the condition of orphanage; the
interposition of a multitude of parents between himself and that woeful state promised him a
long immunity from its disadvantages.
Mrs. Darnell, his newest mother, lived in Cleveland, Ohio. But her adopted son did not long
remain with her. He was seen one afternoon by a policeman, new to that beat, deliberately
toddling away from her house, and being questioned answered that he was 'a doin' home.' He
must have travelled by rail, somehow, for three days later he was in the town of Whiteville,
which, as you know, is a long way from Blackburg. His clothing was in pretty fair condition, but
he was sinfully dirty. Unable to give any account of himself he was arrested as a vagrant and
sentenced to imprisonment in the Infants' Sheltering Home -- where he was washed.
Jo ran away from the Infants' Sheltering Home at Whiteville -- just took to the woods one day,
and the Home knew him no more for ever.
We find him next, or rather get back to him, standing forlorn in the cold autumn rain at a
suburban street corner in Blackburg; and it seems right to explain now that the raindrops falling
upon him there were really not dark and gummy; they only failed to make his face and hands less
so. Jo was indeed fearfully and wonderfully besmirched, as by the hand of an artist. And the
forlorn little tramp had no shoes; his feet were bare, red, and swollen, and when he walked he
limped with both legs. As to clothing -- ah, you would hardly have had the skill to name any
single garment that he wore, or say by what magic he kept it upon him. That he was cold all over
and all through did not admit of a doubt; he knew it himself. Anyone would have been cold there
that evening; but, for that reason, no one else was there. How Jo came to be there himself, he
could not for the flickering little life of him have told, even if gifted with a vocabulary exceeding

a hundred words. From the way he stared about him one could have seen that he had not the
faintest notion of where (nor why) he was.
Yet he was not altogether a fool in his day and generation; being cold and hungry, and still able
to walk a little by bending his knees very much indeed and putting his feet down toes first, he
decided to enter one of the houses which flanked the street at long intervals and looked so bright
and warm. But when he attempted to act upon that very sensible decision a burly dog came
browsing out and disputed his right. Inexpressibly frightened, and believing, no doubt (with
some reason, too), that brutes without meant brutality within, he hobbled away from all the
houses, and with grey, wet fields to right of him and grey, wet fields to left of him -- with the rain
half blinding him and the night coming in mist and darkness, held his way along the road that
leads to Greenton. That is to say, the road leads those to Greenton who succeed in passing the
Oak Hill Cemetery. A considerable number every year do not.
Jo did not.
They found him there the next morning, very wet, very cold, but no longer hungry. He had
apparently entered the cemetery gate -- hoping, perhaps, that it led to a house where there was no
dog -- and gone blundering about in the darkness, falling over many a grave, no doubt, until he
had tired of it all and given up. The little body lay upon one side, with one soiled cheek upon one
soiled hand, the other hand tucked away among the rags to make it warm, the other cheek
washed clean and white at last, as for a kiss from one of God's great angels. It was observed -though nothing was thought of it at the time, the body being as yet unidentified -- that the little
fellow was lying upon the grave of Hetty Parlow. The grave, however, had not opened to receive
him. That is a circumstance which, without actual irreverence, one may wish had been ordered
otherwise.
______________________________________________________________________________

Writing- Creative Writing

Creative writing is any form of writing which is written with the creativity of mind: fiction
writing, poetry writing, creative nonfiction writing and more. The purpose is to express
something, whether it be feelings, thoughts, or emotions.
Rather than simply giving information or inciting the reader to make an action beneficial to the
writer, creative writing is written to entertain or educate someone, to spread awareness about
something or someone, or to simply express ones thoughts.
But there are two kinds of creative writing: good and bad. Bad creative writing cannot make any
impression on the reader. You dont want to do that, do you? Of course not. So whether youre a
novelist, a poet, a short-story writer, an essayist, a biographer or just an aspiring beginner, youll
want to perfect your craft. But the question is: how?

When you write great fiction, poetry, or nonfiction, amazing things can happen. Readers cant
put it down. The work you wrote becomes a bestseller. It becomes famous. But you have to reach
to that level first.
The best way to increase your proficiency in creative writing is to write, write compulsively, but
it doesnt just mean write whatever you want. There are certain things you should know first it
helps to start with the right foot.
An Introduction to Creative Writing

By Idrees Patel
What is creative writing? Is there a correct definition anywhere? That is what I hoped to find
when I Googled the term creative writing a while back. But the answers were disappointing for
me as a pure beginner, and puzzling. Heres what is written as a definition for creative writing in
Wikipedia:
Creative writing is considered to be any writing, fiction, poetry, or non-fiction, that goes outside
the bounds of normal professional, journalistic, academic, and technical forms of literature.
Works which fall into this category include novels, epics, short stories, and poems. Writing for
the screen and stage, screenwriting and playwriting respectively, typically have their own
programs of study, but fit under the creative writing category as well.
Yeah well take that for creative writing But its clear that even Wikipedia does not give a
clear definition but only says that it is considered any writing which is outside the bounds. To
rephrase that:
In any subject, concepts can only be understood by examples. Fiction, poetry and non-fiction are
all examples of creative writing. Well look at them in detail in future instalments of this series.
For now, lets see what constitutes creative writing.
The Work Which You Can Recognise as Creative Writing

As said before, fiction, poetry and non-fiction are the examples of creative writing. They are
examples because they are obviously creative and not necessarily true (with the exception of
non-fiction). Fiction is written to entertain and educate. We love reading stories. Although there
are some true stories, most stories are nothing but fiction. Then there is poetry, of which there are
many forms. Poetry books, sonnets, haikus, pantoums, etc.
The above examples are obviously creative writing. But now we come to more subjective
material. Ever heard of an autobiography or a biography? Im sure you have. Then there is its
distant cousin the memoir. Famous people make millions by publishing memoirs, and some of

them are popular reading material. Famous personalities also write autobiographies or pay
someone to write their biography. This is also constituted under creative writing.
The fact is that these types of writing are not written to entertain (and personally Im bored to
sleep by them) but to educate (in some cases) and to inform (in most cases). In bookstores,
biographies and autobiographies are sold along with stories. If I may be honest, I have never seen
people buy them. Then again, this may be because Im too busy checking out the latest novels.
And so that is what constitutes creative writing in a nutshell. Now lets look at the work which
you can recognise as not creative writing, and to use its technical term, technical writing.
The Work Which You Can Recognise as Other Professional Forms of Writing

Most of the writing written in the world falls under this category, technical writing.
Advertisements. Web copy. Copywriting. Product descriptions. Textbooks. Reference material
such as encyclopaedias. Letters (of a certain kind such as formal letters to get an interview etc).
Words which appear everywhere, on your TV screen, on the computer and on the paper. All
technical writing. Technical writing is in some ways easier to write than creative writing. But it
too is governed by rules, and has its own dos and donts.
A further comparison of creative writing and technical writing will be made in a future post.
Writers which compose the material of books are called authors regardless of the content and
style of the material. This is one area where creative writing and technical writing share a
similarity.
It goes without saying that technical writing is not written to entertain therefore I find it rather
boring to read and so do other people. Surely youve read the Terms & Conditions of some
website. How boring it is to read. Though you see words that make sense, you are not moved by
them. Whereas in creative writing if its really good you cant put it down.
Creative Writing Means What You Believe It Means

Is creative writing an art or a craft? Of course, the debate will never finish. But I do believe that
it is both. Therefore it is something special of an art and a craft. Forget about definitions. Use
your own creativity and find your very own meaning of creative writing. Somebody said that
writers have a gift. Especially creative writers. Creative writers have the power to entertain
someone, to make someone laugh, to make someone cry. To make someone think.
And so we see that creative writing does not deserve a clear definition, but attention and a special
meaning. I love creative writing. I love reading it and I love writing it. Are you like me? If you

are, then what are you waiting for? Open that word processor, and start typing. You never know,
you might find a hidden masterpiece.

1) to express yourself.
Share the best of yourself. Cut through the small talk and the chatter to what's important; express
the secret feelings and perceptions that don't fit into polite conversation. Show your personal
vision of the world, which is unique.
2) to entertain yourself.
Writing is a challenge, an adventure. When you're in the thick of it, you can feel thoroughly
absorbed. Write to add color, excitement, and meaning to your days.
3) to keep yourself company.
You never have to feel lonely as long as you can write. Writing is a conversation -- with yourself,
with your future reader, with the books that have inspired you. You can also create characters
who come alive in your imagination.
4) to live other lives.
In real life, there are limits. In your writing, you can be anyone or anything. You can try on
different lives, become a different person for a while, transport yourself to another place or time.
5) to touch other people.
Offer your writing as a gift to others. Your writing can move people, make
them feel intense emotions, keep them up all night passionately turning
pages. You can create characters to keep them company. You can make their
lives richer and more beautiful.