Get my muse hopping

     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.

 

Using Yoga for the Brain

Describe a small memory that involves someone older than you.

     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.

What were you watching when…

Watching Retro TV last night, Cold Squad.  I realized that we’d missed a good series, and now I wonder what we were watching here instead.  The show aired from 1998 to 2005 in Canada. The American counterpart, Cold Case Files, began airing in 2003 to 2010.

Makes me wonder how many truly ‘original’ TV series the US writers have come up with over the years and how many they ‘borrowed’ from Great Britain and Canada.

It’s sad to me that so many of our shows were not originals.

Experiment # 5

First Sentence stick pick:

My mother was doing that thing she did.  That thing with the rag in the sink.

She was OCD about the drain and would wipe it down six times after every use of the kitchen sink.  Not three times, nor five times, always six times.  She used the same rag each time too.  The rag was nasty and full of holes but she wouldn’t replace it with another one.

“Put the rag down, it’s time to go.”

Drew a Non Sequitur stick:

The plane was two hours late.

No wonder she was more off her rocker today than usual.  She hated flying.  Waiting made it worse.

Chose a last straw stick:

The last time they saw a movie.

It was the same darned movie they were showing in flight.  She didn’t like it back then and had made loud, snide remarks during it.  Maybe finding her book in the carry-on would be better.

 

Experiment #4 timed

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.  

 

 

 

Experiment #3 timed

     For those of you interested in The Writer’s Toolbox, you can find it at the link below.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0811854299/ref=oh_details_o02_s00_i02?ie=UTF8&psc=1

Using the timer tonight.

     First Sentence stick pick:

I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people.  That is what made me salesman of the year every year.  It worked at selling cars and any sales job I’d ever had.  The problem was, I hated selling cars.  I was bored, bored, bored out of my mind.  I began to imagine different ways to commit murder whenever I had to deal with an irate customer.  I even joked about it once with a friend of mine.

Drew a Non Sequitur stick:

He told me, “You could make a living doing that kind of thing.”

I suppose I could, but I had never thought about it, until then.

Normally I am a patient and gentle soul.  However, on the day that jerk, my ex husband, David Hennessy came into our showroom and announced that he’d bought the dealership, all bets were off.  I knew exactly what he was up to and felt the target on my back.

Chose a last straw stick:

I cut the brake lines on the Honda  when I left work that night.  Hearing about his fatal accident on the news in the morning had me grinning while I sipped my morning coffee.

End of Experiment #3

 

Adventures in writing… experiment #2

     First Sentence stick pick:

     After only two months, Helen decided to become an exotic dancer.

College life didn’t suit her.  She loved seedy bars and raunchy men.  Yes, there was something wrong, deeply wrong inside her.

Her first kill made her feel whole.  Finding another victim never became a problem in her profession.  With her tits and ass she could crook a finger and they’d come running to the slaughter.

As she tied his hands to the headboard she told him about her other victims and what she would do to him.  His heart leapt about in his chest like a heifer on a rope.

“I actually went to the cops more than once.  They just stared at my tits.”

     Drew a Non Sequitur stick.

“There you go making up lies again.”

“That’s what they told me the last time.”

It’s fun to walk in there, tell them what I did, and have them not care or believe me.

Ends second experiment.

Writing experiment #1

     Two new books and The Writer’s Toolbox, time to see if I can jump start my writing.  Using The Writer’s Toolbox today. 

     I drew one of the The First Sentence Sticks. 

     I was dressed in a completely inappropriate shade of pink. 

     I didn’t give an effing damn and I thought the stiletto heels and neon green, marabou feather boa were a good touch too. 

     My family didn’t want me at my Mother’s funeral, so I figured I’d shake them up.  I had no fear and no regrets after what they did to me.  They’d cut me off from her for years.

     Who doesn’t tell a family member about their mother’s death and funeral until the night before when said person lives a thousand miles away?   Thank the heavens my lover owned his own jet and they didn’t know about him.  No one keeps Jimmy Flynn from his mother.  I sucked in a chest popping breath and stepped out of the stretched limo.

End of first experiment.

Oh muse, wherefore art thou?

     The writing well is still dry.  I’m hoping things change soon.  This is so frustrating.

     I know…. breathe.

     Sometimes it’s difficult to take my advice.  Breathe some more.

     I plan to drag out one writing book at a time and re-read them all.  Maybe, among all those books, I will find inspiration and my muse who has gone into hiding.

Hesiod and the Muse (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Missing Pennwriters

     If this were a normal year, I would’ve arrived in Pittsburgh yesterday and be enjoying the company of my many Pennwriters friends at the Pennwriters conference. 

     This is not a normal year.  The Curmudgeon has had seizures and because of that I stayed home this year.  I feared being clear across the state with no one here to check on him.

I got rather snarky with the MS society recently.  I think it’s good I did.  I am beginning to get some help that I wasn’t getting before.  I should have done it sooner.  If I had, I would probably be at the conference enjoying my four-day working vacation.

     To all of you people attending the conference this year.  I desperately wish I was there.  I REALLY NEED A VACATION!!  And most of all, I miss everyone!!!

     You all have a good one!

What vacation?

     All my writing friends are preparing to go to the Pennwriters Conference while I, sadly, will miss it this year.  Since it is in Pittsburgh and The Curmudgeon is still having the occasional seizure, I don’t feel comfortable going that far away for four days.

     Oh darn, no baskets for me this year.

     However, I am truly going to miss my vacation this year.  Those four days were my decompression days.  The only time I get a break from being a caregiver for an entire year.

     I’d kill for four days of indulging myself.  Four days of not having to figure out what to make for dinner, cooking it, and then washing dishes.  Four days of not having two dogs and The Curmudgeon depending on me for everything.

     Hey, my Pennwriter friends, if you think I am nuts each year, imagine how I’ll be next year without my break this year.  Hehehehe!

     You all have a good one!

Fairy tale continues…

     Cragger crept forward through the thick undergrowth.  Mavelle and McDougal followed close behind.  Heavy vines, bushes loaded with thorns, and moss-covered ground made the going slow.  More than once Mavelle’s feet slipped out from under her and Cragger helped her to her feet.  Their conversation limited to grunts and groans by the effort they put forth.

     Before long, they had a view of Lovena and Sarah’s prison.  Mavelle’s gaze swept over the heavy stone that kept her sisters prisoner.

     “How will we ever get them out of there even when we kill the troll?” 

      “You forget, I’m a dwarf, and we dwarves have a way with stone.”  He pointed to a thicket ahead of them.  “We can take cover there until he appears.”

      Mavelle pushed to her feet and continued.  Once they reached the thicket, they used hand signals to position themselves.  Cragger watched one direction while Mavelle watched the opposite.

      McDougal growled.  The rumble came from deep within his body.  He raised his lips to show his teeth, and stared at a pile of rubble in front of them that began to move.  In an instant Mavelle was helpless in a grip of stone.  The last thing she saw was Cragger’s limp body flying through the air.  The last thing she heard was McDougal’s howl of pain.