Inspired writing: Calling all aspiring writers to come forth and unveil their hidden talents

Realising they were sitting on a fruitful source of inspiration for writers, the National Galleries of Scotland launched Inspired? Get Writing! back in 2005, a competition for writers of all ages and levels of experience which is run in partnership with the English-Speaking Union and the Scottish Poetry Library.

The competition has gone from strength to strength, bringing entries from all over Scotland, from the Borders to the Skye. Writers have found inspiration in all quarters, from an iconic picture such as Titian's Venus to a relatively unknown Russian abstract.

Inspired? Get Writing is now inviting entries for the sixth year. The chief criteria is that the poem or story must be inspired by a work in the NGS permanent collection – with six galleries plus an online collection of nearly 3,000 images, that's plenty to choose from.

There is a range of prizes and (for adults) a chance to win a place on a prestigious week-long writing course. The winning entry in each category will be published in The Scotsman. So, like the writers published here, take time to seek out what inspires you. Then all you need to do is get writing…

STREET KIDS BY PHILIP MURNIN

Highly Commended in Unpublished Adults category

Inspired by Street Kids by Joan Eardley

THE baby was early. It shouldn't have been here until Halloween but it was only September and on its way. We were eating Sunday Shepherd's Pie, when mam went white and stared at her lap as if she was saying a prayer. She whispered oh like she'd made a spill and she stood up. On her pinny was redness. We stared at the growing red spot. It was as if her pinny was flowering – a red rose growing between her legs. And we sat with our forks halfway to our mouths and watched it. Paddy thought she'd only spilled the beetroot but it was coming from mam. She told us the baby was coming and sent Paddy to get feyther.

We weren't allowed into Rottenrow, feyther said, so we stayed back on Kennedy Street to wait on the baby. It was Sunday and after dinner so the street was dead. Davie McClure came to join us because he wasn't wanted at home. He slunk about the streets from morning until night.

The three of us went to see the painter in her studio – a big white room except where she'd spilled paint. Which was most places including her clothes. We told her that our wee baby brother was being born and that we were to help name it. She asked how we knew it was a boy and we told her that granny tested mam's belly with a wedding ring.

"How absolutely wonderful," the painter said and went away and came back with a name book for us to look at while we waited for the baby. She said that I must bring the baby and she might paint it. I told her I would have to see and she laughed. I saw one of her paintings once – one of some children. The baby better not look like that.

We took the name book with us back out to the street. Paddy wanted to call it Patrick. What a daftie! You couldn't have two brothers called Patrick. People would say the Murrays were eejits. He just wanted the baby to be called wee Paddy so he could be big Paddy. He felt bad because I was taller than him even though he was a year older and a boy.

Davie said that he thought that Alexander was a nice name but me and Paddy told him to shut up. He wasn't allowed to choose because he wasn't the baby's brother or sister and nobody had told him that he could help name the baby. He was just here because he wasn't wanted at home.

The book said that Catherine meant "pure". Pure Murray. Not just a bit Murray, pure Murray. That was me. I told Paddy that my name meant pure and he said there must be a word missing in the book.

"How?" I asked.

"Cos it should say – pure eejit."

So he got hit. Patrick's name meant noble but he wasn't noble because he was always picking his nose and flicking it at me. So when he asked what his name meant, I put on a voice as if I was reading it off the page and told him that it meant little flower. That kept him quiet for a while. Davie didn't know that names meant things. I told him, David meant beloved.

He said: "That can't be right."

So I showed him and he said that his mammy couldn't have known that names had meanings either. He was right. Davie McClure wasn't wanted at home. It just went to show that names were a lot of rubbish.

But the baby needed a good one definitely. Alexander meant Man's Defender. Man's Defender Murray. I couldn't wait to put the baby in the pram and take it out in the evenings to show people and to the likes of Lizzie Hamilton, I'd say,"This is my wee brother… Sandy… Isn't he bonny? He'll grow up to be a Man's Defender."

Lizzie would ask for a hold and I would say: "Certainly not. I wouldn't want Sandy getting any germs."

I couldn't get the redness on the pinny out of my head. What if there was something wrong? Paddy said it was simple business. The baby grew and when it was big enough, it came out the bum. "But the red spot, Paddy," I said.

Davie McClure said it wasn't simple. His mammy's baby had died. Now she couldn't have any more.

"That's because yous didn't look after it properly," Paddy got him told.

He didn't reply. It was true. The McClures weren't decent like the Murrays. Davie had knitting needle legs sticking out his shorts and his skin was stretched tight and white. His knees were screwed on like bed knobs. Davie didn't even wear socks and the gaps between soles and shoes snapped together like a pair of crocodiles' mouths. He sometimes chased me with his crocodiles and I screamed even though it was just shoes.

The sun was a huge red spot in the sky and the moon was a pale slit – a sideways smirk. It would soon be the first day of the baby's life. I saw feyther coming down the empty street. I waved but he ignored me. I skipped up Kennedy Street and I shouted, "Is it a wee boy then? If it is it's to be called Alexander. It means Man's defender." I skipped round feyther singing, "Mans Def-en-der Alex-ander Mens de-fander Alex–an-der Alex-fander Mens den-an-der." Feyther only said wheesht. He strode straight down Kennedy Street and didn't stop when I tripped on the cobbles. Into the darkness of the close, he strode and never said a word. I watched him from where I fell. My knee was skint and bleeding.

I sat and hugged it. It tasted of salt and metal. Me and Paddy didn't want to follow him into the darkness of the close so we stayed out on the street with Davie McClure.

HOW TO ENTER

• Entries are invited in five categories: under 12 years, 12-14 years, 15-18 years, unpublished adults and published adults

• Entrants should write a poem or story (max 1,000 words) inspired by a work of art in the permanent collection of the National Galleries of Scotland, either on display or in the Online Collection (Please note that not all works in special exhibitions belong to the NGS collection). Entries may be in English, Scots or Gaelic, but Gaelic pieces should be accompanied by an English translation.

• A winner, two runners-up and seven highly commended entries will be chosen in each category. All 50 will be presented at a public reading at the NGS in the spring. The winning entry in each category will be published in The Scotsman.

• Entries should be sent by e-mail to [email protected]. Those without e-mail access can post their entries to English-Speaking Union Scotland, 23 Atholl Crescent, Edinburgh, EH3 8HQ. The deadline is Friday 21 January, 2011. Each entry should be accompanied by an entry form, which can be found on the NGS website; maximum five entries per person.

• For more information on prizes and how to enter, visit www.nationalgalleries.org/education/competition