Writing 101: Be Brief

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.

9:45am displayed on the clock as she glanced at it frantic. She was late again. Grabbing the yellow rain slicker that hung beside the front door, she snatched it while patting down her pockets making sure she had everything she needed with her and speed out the door.

Rain splattered down on the wet circles of the road as she single mindedly pushed herself to hurry as her footsteps splashed through water. I got to make it in time she thought to herself as she neared the bus stop. A bright pink something fluttered near the bottom of bus stop pole. Bending down, she grabs it to find a square of paper folded in half with the words “Don’t stand up” written in bold ink across it.

Just as her eyes cross the paper a gust of air strokes her cheek and the heavy scent of gas and motor oil surround her as the world shatters in squealing brakes, terrifying screams and the crunch of metal and shattering glass. Instinctively curling her arms around her swollen tummy as her baby kicks hard, she turns just her head to see the wreckage and gasps.

 

Writing 101: Commit to a Writing Practice

Writing Challenge: Write about the three most important songs in your life — what do they mean to you?

I don’t do songs. I really don’t. But don’t go sneaking over to my YouTube and checking out my playlists. That will just get you more confused than ever. Trust me.

Music to me is just moods. I want to feel happier, I pop in something uplifting. I need to grieve, I play some soulful blues and jazz. If I want to mellow out and chill, you can find some dubstep in my ears as I’m rocking out on the bliss.

How can I pick three? I never have before and I’m not going to start now. I drift along the stream of sound, drifting where ever the mood takes me. Maybe I’ll tilt the rudder a bit and swirl around in the eddies of blues just to row out into the river of rock. If I feel a breeze catch, I’ll raise the sails and coast along to folk. I’m along for the ride, the experience and the groove. How can I pick three when music colors my whole life?

Love Lost

Writing 101: Serially Lost

This title has me wanting to run away screaming. I’ve lost too much in my life already to start digging up the past and old hurts and pains. If only I could lose the loss of loss.

I’d rather lose my heart over and over again instead of the pain I have endured so far.

I love too easy, too quick and sometimes too soon. Being a hopeless romantic is a whole garden of rose bushes. Sometimes you land on the soft petals and sometimes all you get are the thorns. hehe Either way, I’ve cursed loved, begged for love and even been in the deep throws of the ecstasy of love just to watch it later end.

Strangely enough I keep my heart well guarded, fortified by strong walls and all sorts of defences. Every so often someone is waved passed all my defences to stand before the last brutal gate. sighs Why am I talking about all this? Serially lost, lost in love I guess. Is it the chase? The dream? The connection? I don’t think the why really matters at the moment.

He was a red-headed little boy with blue eyes and freckles and we were in the third grade. His smile lit up my world. I can remember just how his cheeks formed the cutest dimples at the sides as his eyes twinkled with mischief.  I wanted to have his children and he never really saw me. I was an awkward gangly weird girl who wore dresses and played with the boys at recess. I didn’t act like a girl. You could find me in the sandbox, playing with blocks or even playing tag football just like all the other boys. I was surrounded by boys who saw me and liked me and were my friends. But I never saw them because I had eyes for him. I must have made his life hell.

I’m not proud of what I did as a child. I only know as an adult that I had no way to show affection except for what I learned from the boys. I shunned him, picked on him, singled him out at every moment and no one noticed that anything was wrong. I tried hard to leave him be once I realised that we would never be friends, never play together, never be anything but a memory. It’s a bittersweet memory of my sweet red-headed freckled little boy. I still remember his name after all these years. I can say I loved him. I loved him the only way I knew how as a weird little girl in the third grade. I wonder what his life has been, if he ever had adorable red-headed children, if he ever found a love to sooth the hurts in his life. I wonder if he ever found happiness. If there was something I could tell him, it’s that I’m sorry. I had a crush on him and behaved badly.

It’s a bittersweet memory of a smile, a boy of so long ago and emotions I could not understand or express. It’s a love lost in time.

Head Space Shift

Writing 101: A Room with a View (or Just a View)

There is a place that I used to visit that no one else could. In fact it isn’t like any other place on earth at all. This place existed as a part of me, as a part of us. It is / was our head space.

It was here that the softest summer green grass I’ve ever seen covers a wide sports field, pristine and untouched under the clearest blue summer sky. The bright sun was placed up high, casting no shadows anywhere without blazing heat as a cool spring breeze moves the air gently, stirring the grass lightly as it moves across the field. The air itself is filled with expectation, as if an excited crowd just vanished leaving behind the sense of excitement palatable in the air itself.

Facing the field, a lone aluminium  bleacher stands back drop to the endless  grass and sky. It is there that I sit,in the very middle of the bleachers, not at the bottom and not at the top, just right there in the middle watching the sports field as it lays out spread before us. I sit there, as do I and as do I and as do I. We sit there side by side, huddled on the warm metal as if there was a crowd all around us but for us, only we exist, the field, the sky and the bleachers. I always got the sense that if I so much as blinked, this moment would be filled with people excitedly watching a game in play.

My eyes look up into the sky watching for a moment as soft puffy cumulus clouds lazily drift across the sky from right to left disappearing beyond into an expanse of unknown. We sit here watching the field, chatting, arguing, debating with great emotions. We wave our hands at each other in disagreement and even shake our fingers as we point out at the field in dismay at the players out there we can not see. The heckling calls we give our voice to echo around us amid the din of noise from the greater beyond, yet here we can hear each other clearly. It is all very surreal.

I miss this place of excitement, of anticipation being held deep in the essence of it’s creation. I woke up one morning to find it gone and replaced with something unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable.

The clear blue sky was gone and replaced by a great white canvas of an expanse that was almost bright enough to hurt the eyes if I stared long enough. I found myself sitting on a soft thick colorful persian carpet, surrounded by familial arms and legs entangled in an all-encompassing hug as we all murmured soothing comforting words of encouragement and calm. All of us sitting there in an endless hug, hung somewhere in the bright white expanse, far from the green field that we had grown to think of as our home, as a barely audible thump thump of a collective heartbeat pulses though each of us connecting us as one.

Unlocking, Unblocking the Mind of the Writer

Writing 101, Unlocking the Mind

I’m doing the both of The Daily Post‘s comps, blogging 101 and writing 101. I think of this as the stretching warm-up for nanowrimo for me. I have a head full of words, all of them screaming to get out and fly on the wind.

Writing has been a passion of mine ever sense I was introduced to writing poetry in the third grade. I had a teacher who encouraged me, nurtured that aspect of myself when no one else had. You see, back then I was writing what my imagination brought forth. Which was rather unusual when I think of this, I had not been allowed to read fiction or chapter books beyond what was required in school. My mother’s firm beliefs that anything not real, not true extended into the realm of fiction. So I was committing a great sin in writing, not just writing but in writing the stories that swam in my head day in and day out.

Even at a young age I thought poetry may be the way to somehow walk both worlds, my mother’s and my own. Poetry isn’t exactly fiction, but the unique positioning of words to express an universal truth about emotions, life and humankind.

So this exercise isn’t just about Unlocking the Mind. It is Unblocking the Mind, unblocking the roadblock I’ve held before me for so long as almost impassable. I suffer from guilt in writing and it’s beyond time for me to take back that piece of personal power and grow up!

I love my mother and even thought she’s been gone from this world for many years, I have no trust that she would understand or even accept me for who I am. I know she would love me no matter what but I know I would be an outcast and a sinner in her eyes. I can only hope that if she had lived that life would have caused enough change in her to allow her to see me as I that I am and still worthy of her love, not just as her child but as a person as well.

It’s time for me to stop making excuses that derail my writing. Its time for me to push past the roadblock that her rejection of the part of me that I hold dear. It’s time for me to pursue my dreams with the passion and dedication I know I hold inside me.

I still have that first poem I wrote somewhere. My third grade teacher laminated the entire classes decorated work of word art. It was on green construction paper with a decorated cut out of lined paper with the words on it. I had decorated the background with bees and flowers. The title I still remember was “Amber Bee.” It was so childishly cute. And if I really think hard about it, I recall the hidden story in the poem. I had a major crush on a girl and this was my Ode to her. Not that I would ever tell her or even understand that part of myself until I was much older.

It’s funny that so much of the forbidden in my youth was tied to writing and reading. I still am a voracious reader. Heck I prefer a good book over television, unless it’s Dr. Who..or WWE or any of the educational PBS programs like NOVA or Into the Universe. I like to learn even if it is entertainment.