Hello everyone, this is Ria with a Quick Note.
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Now on to the show!
This is Ria. Yeah, welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People.
I just cleaned my studio top to bottom.
It's something I do seldomly, as I tend to receive complaints from the spiders who live in the uppermost corners of my studio.
I didn't disturb their webs, left them totally intact, though it pains me, but I'm still expecting an email in about 3 seconds.
Hmm...let me see what they have to say.
Dear Rhea, we have formed a writing committee, so we may give you professional feedback on your stories.
Oh, great. Here are several pieces of advice we developed at our last meeting.
1. Sometimes you mess up tenses.
Your tenses should be consistent.
This is highly professional advice that you should.
Okay, skip, skip, skip, skip.
Oh, this one's interesting.
Number 17, we advise you to never write a prequel.
Prequels are rarely executed well.
Since you are not the best writer, you should not attempt it.
We repeat, do not write a prequel.
Sincerely, the studio spiders.
P .S. We ask that you refrain from further studio cleaning for the next 90 days.
Thank you for the constructive feedback, but you really should have sent me this advice yesterday, or better yet, last week, specially number 17, because...
I wrote a prequel. Relax.
I think I did okay.
Today, our story stars Frog from Frog and Salamander, but takes place before any of the Frog and Salamander stories.
So we're going back in time.
Let's hear it. It's called Frog and Turtle, a prequel.
Take it away, Bailey.
Remember, there are no pictures.
You have to imagine them in your mind.
You can imagine them however you want.
Okay, here we go. Frog, you appear to be having some deep thoughts.
Care to share with the group?
What did you think of Gretel's opening?
Oh dear, Frog was in deep thought, lost in it, but nothing on his mind had anything to do with the story Gretel had just shared with The Green Writers Workshop, a group for aspiring pond -dwelling writers on the bank of Wormley Pond.
Carla, the group leader, leaned forward on her log and nibbled on the end of her glasses.
Gretel, a newt, stared at Frog with enormous round eyes and an expectant smile.
And all Frog could think was, something about a snail.
But he couldn't very well say that.
Gretel's story was not about a snail, it was about a toad.
All eyes were now fixed on Frog.
He had to say something… Well, uh, let me say this.
Frog began trying to think of something, anything to say.
It was rather intriguing, was it?
Frog would know if he'd been paying attention, and it had some very powerful imagery.
Did it, though? Frog was not sure.
Gretel beamed, loving these comments.
Frog opened his mouth to go on, but found he had nothing more to say, so he did some flourishes with his hands and wished someone would swoop in to save him from himself and… what frog is getting at is you've got some lovely imagery Gretel but the plot doesn't quite get rolling soon enough.
Someone had swooped in to save him an emerald green turtle across the circle.
Thank you, frog whispered to the turtle when the group dispersed.
For what? Turtle said, a So, Frog said, narrowing his eyes, I'm not sure what you mean.
Were you struggling there for a moment?
They both laughed. It was a lovely, late summer day by Wormley Pond and the tall grass around the clearing where the writer's group was held each week swayed in the gentle breeze.
The pond itself was alive with activity.
birds squawking on its surface, fish leaping, insects skimming the water.
It was the perfect day to meet a new friend.
It happened to me last week, Turtle said.
I was daydreaming about the book I'm working on when Carla called on me.
I managed to say something about needing a stronger antagonist. Seemed like she bought it.
The two young writers ended up walking together as they were headed in the same direction.
In fact, they were headed in the same direction in more ways than one.
Frog learned that, just like him, Turtle hoped to publish a book someday and, just like him, so far he hadn't had any luck.
They became fast friends that summer, bonding over their similar predicaments, doubts, and hopes for the future.
They developed a routine.
After their weekly writer's group, they'd walk home together, joking about the workshop.
Have you noticed Cecile describes everything as radiant?
Yes, I want to lend her my thesaurus.
Sharing their recent, professional efforts I submitted a short story to the Podley Times Prize Good for you!
I submitted one last year Didn't even make the shortlist And imagining the future When we both sell our first books We'll host a party, right over there We'll invite the workshop Carla can bring the famous mosquito pie she's always going on about Then, they'd say goodbye At Turtle's Boulder where he kept a small office with a real typewriter and a telephone.
I still can't believe you have a typewriter, and here I am, scrolling everything by hand.
Ill of a typewriter some day...
maybe. Then, Frog would hop home to his little spot inland, where he'd set about, pretending to make progress on his book.
In truth, he was stuck.
He had a glimmer of an idea for a novel, something about a snail, but he could never seem to get much further.
So he'd push his paper around and scribble thoughts here and there, daydream about being a famous author, and take comfort in the fact that Turtle was in the same boat.
He'd do that all week until Wednesday afternoon when he'd hop over to Turtle's Boulder and find him just where he'd left him, and they'd walk together to their workshop.
Summer cooled into fall and there was a long string of mild days with serene blue skies.
It was the kind of weather that was so comfortable with skies so clear it felt as though it would remain that way forever.
Until one blustery day in late fall when Frog received a letter in the mailbox by his hut.
The paper flapped wildly in the wind and it took Frog a moment to flattened it enough to see the letters.
Oh, boy! It was from the Pondly Times Prize committee.
His story, the secret of the crayfish, had been shortlisted for the prize.
He hadn't won the big prize just yet, but he was in the running for it.
This was a very big deal for Frog.
Oh, wow! Frog had dreamed of being an author for years, scribbling away in his notebooks he had had so little success, so little encouragement.
Perhaps being shortlisted for this prize was just a breadcrumb to lure him along on his way, but it was something.
He couldn't stop smiling, and he was even happier when he realized it was Wednesday and he could tell Turtle his big news.
But when Frog Frog arrived at Turtle's Boulder and saw his friend, grim -faced, hunched over his typewriter with the pond grass dancing erratically around him.
Frog was torn. He'd been excited to share his news, but seeing his friend looking so serious, he wasn't sure.
her. Since the first day they'd met, they'd been on the exact same path.
Walking, side -by -side.
I certainly don't want Turtle to feel like I'm outshining him, Frog thought, as Turtle noticed his presence.
But Turtle flashed Frog a broad smile, disarming him.
Hey, Frog. Hello, I'm being ridiculous, Frog told himself, hopping over.
He's my friend, of course he'd want to know I made the shortlist. Upon reaching the boulder, Frog opened his mouth to speak.
But Turtle beat him to the punch. I have some news to share, and...
Turtle avoided meeting Frog's eyes.
He looked as if he might blush.
I suppose I'm feeling a bit bashful about it really frog said I'm glad I didn't share my own news he thought turtle has something embarrassing to tell me you know what I'll just play the message for you and you can hear it yourself turtle had a curious smile on his face frog didn't know what to make of it.
Was he embarrassed?
Was he pleased? It was perplexing.
Frog hopped up on the boulder beside Turtle and watched as he clicked a button on his telephone.
There is so much more to this story!
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And thank you, as always, for listening in.
