Category Archives: Writing
I’d move to an island far from these shores.
I’d build me a small house on a beach.
I’d offer up my troubles to the sea.
Sending them off on the tides and let my heart be free.
I’d soar on the wind.
I’d dance on the waves.
I sing to the moon and laugh at the sun.
I’d bury myself in the sand.
For about a week now I have had an opening line buzzing around in my brain. Nothing else, just an opening line.
Not an idea, well… maybe an inkling of an idea, but not much else.
I did write it down.
I’d hate to lose it because I rather like it.
One of the perks of being the wife and caregiver of an MS patient is the level of daily stress you have.
It affects my writing, I don’t do much these days.
I also find that I lose words often. I can be in mid sentence and the word I intended to use disappears.
Poof, it is gone and I can’t find it so I stutter and stop while my brain goes through its search engine. However, more often than not that search comes up error 404.
I miss the peace and quiet of nights where The Curmudgeon actually stayed in bed and I could write uninterrupted. Now I tend to stay in a waiting-for-his-door-to-open stasis, not daring to open a book file and start writing, because invariably as soon as I do, his door opens and he comes downstairs.
I’ve lost many words.
My cousin suggested “It was a dark and stormy night” which gave me an idea…just how many variations can we come up with on that infamous line?
- We stumbled in the darkness while the wind lashed the trees and rain pelted off our heads.
- Headlights reflected off the raging flood before us.
Through the mist, she saw the lights of the harbor.
Empty, deserted, eerie, a ghost town.
Not one boat remained, not a single human.
The only sound she heard was the splash of her paddle and the bell on a buoy.
Why was she the only one?
I thought it might be fun to do some writing from prompts given to me by my readers.
Let’s have some fun and see if I have any skills left.
Is one still a writer if one hasn’t been able to write for a long time?
If my brain refuses to relax enough to keep on track long enough to string together more than a few paragraphs, I feel extremely lucky.
Most days my mind is in neutral and refuses to get into gear. It is driving me crazy.
My dear friend Dave asked me to do a critique of his synopsis. (Yes, Dave I am working on it when I get a chance to.) I am doing it, but I am doing it line by line. Not sure if this will make him happy or ready to kill me.
There’s nothing a writer hates more than writing a synopsis. This is where we are all at our most insecure. Ask any writer about doing a synopsis and you’ll see fear, dread, and horror dash across his/her face.
A professional (and good) synopsis writer could very well make a fortune. Too bad there aren’t any out there.
Oh Dave, Give me a few more days. I hope to have it done by then. Things were a bit hectic around here as usual.
My muse jumped ship a while ago. I guess she decided I just wasn’t giving her enough time.
Therefore, I am now taking applications for a new muse.
All muse applicants must keep in mind that I am a night person and the dogs and The Curmudgeon come first. You must like dogs.
Winged muses need to make sure they can fit through a 32 inch door before stopping by for an application.
If you are a dark muse please keep in mind that I do not read or write horror.
Any muse that can make excellent coffee has an automatic foot in the door.
I’m thinking that in order to get my muse hopping I’m going to need to get out more. Do some people watching and stuff.
There’s a little coffee shop not far from here, but not within summer heat walking distance, that I don’t often get to because the parking there is a bitch. However, I think I found a nearby side street that I can park on that is easier than trying to park close to the place. A little walking never hurts.
I also need to get out fishing to relax and get the ideas flowing more. There is something about sitting on a river bank with a fishing pole that relaxes me completely.
She held my hand. We walked down the road at a pace only an old woman and a toddler would understand. As we padded along she would stop from time to time to point out a plant, describe its use and how to remember what it did.
It is the single memory of my father’s mother that I have left. I never knew her well, we seldom saw her in later years. Most times when we visited she was shut in her room too ill to deal with young ones.
First Sentence stick pick:
My only defense was to write down every word they said.
If I didn’t I’d never remember all the crazy crap that fell from their mouths. No one would ever believe me, but I’d found the best place in the world for crazy dialogue. I sat there sipping cup after cup of coffee scribbling down line after line of the funniest conversations I’d ever heard.
Drew a Non Sequitur stick:
“If you don’t take chances,” said the man in the striped pajamas, “you might as well not be alive.”
I put that statement in my truths column and waited to hear how his companion would reply. Then I realized he was talking to me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at zebra pajamas man. So I stared into my cup. I knew if I looked at him I’d start to giggle and I knew if I started to giggle I wouldn’t be able to stop.
Chose a last straw stick:
His companion walked out the door leaving him waving the bill she forgot to pay at her retreating form. He grumbled and growled a bit over her leaving him to pay her check.