Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He's afraid to admit...
Step 2: Add a scene that takes place in a chapel
Step 3: Add this word: together
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He's afraid to admit that he feels no guilt or hesitation when he meets Noreen at the 67th Street bar in the dank back booth beside the fire exit. When he spots her across the room, she appears relieved. He walks over, slipping quickly into the seat beside her.
"No, sit across from me, " she says, inching him toward the edge with her outstretched hand.
"I don't think anyone knows us here, " he says, but obliges her by switching to the seat opposite her.
"That's not the point," she says.
"What is the point?"
"I'm not yours yet."
Two months later they stand across from each other at a little white chapel in Nevada, both wearing shorts and flip-flops. He wears a t-shirt that looks like a tuxedo shirt, and she wears a gauzy white blouse that shows a lacy black bra underneath. His brother acts as a witness and her best friend holds the bouquet and rings. No one else is invited, mostly because no one else is expected to approve.
It is an hour later when, standing together and holding hands, they jump into the motel pool still in their wedding clothes. The rusted sign outside demands proper swimwear, but it is sweltering and they did not pack bathing suits. Noreen takes off the gauzy shirt, now stuck tightly against her breasts and belly. Next she tugs off the shorts and floats in her underwear and bra.
"It sort of looks like a bikini," he says. "I think we're okay."
"We are okay," she says. "Stop thinking about it."
He nods and turns to float on his back beside her.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Day 12
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: They came and...
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: What are you laughing at?
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: Where do you come from?
Step 4: include a dialogue that begins with: Tell him I'm here
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They came and stood at the counter surrounding her desk, talking only with each other. Betty was never sure whether they expected her to join in or pretend as if they weren't having a loud conversation inches from her face. This afternoon's post-lunch discussion focused on whether Luke sucked as a salesman or whether he was a little piece of shit. The general consensus seemed to be that, yes, he was a sucky salesman and a little piece of shit.
Keeping her eyes on her notepad to avoid their conversation, Betty considered how ridiculous they sounded talking trash about Luke now that he had already gone to work for the competition. When he was here, he was the golden boy. And he had been a nice guy, she thought, at least to her. Too bad these guys will never know what he said about them before he went. The memory of it made her chuckle.
"What are you laughing at," asked one of the guys, leaning toward her.
At first she was worried that he was upset, but he winked at her.
"Be honest, was it my joke or Eddie's?" he asked.
Betty smiled, stalling. She had been temping at the company for two months now, but she still had no clue what any of the guys' names were. And she didn't care. On her first day, Luke was the only one who had introduced himself without talking at her chest, and so he was the only one whose name she bothered to remember. At first this created a challenge. Part of her role as administrative assistant was to take the down the phone orders of anyone who refused to do it online and give each order to the correct sales team member. Initially they had wanted her to bring the orders to each guy's office, but she insisted that an organized system by her desk would be much more efficient and would keep her available to answer the phone. She then started putting the orders by her desk as she'd described, and eventually each sales guy learned to pick them up there. Of course this only encouraged them to start conversations with her, so she began to pretend she was on the phone when they approached. And she never let on that she didn't know, or care, who they were.
"Both were awesome," she answered, smiling as much as she could muster.
"Where do you come from, angel?" he asked, reaching to put his hand on her shoulder. "I've never seen such beautiful eyes."
He winked at her again, and she felt a queasiness settle into her stomach.
"Are you flirting with the help again?" another guy said loudly, then chuckled.
The phone rang and Betty grabbed at the receiver.
"Carson Vacuums. How can I help you?"
"Yeah, let me speak to Jeff Corwin," said the sharp male voice on the other end.
Betty glanced at the nameless guys still gathered near her desk.
"He's not available right now," she said. "Can I take a message?"
"Tell him I'm here."
"You're downstairs?"
"Yeah, at the guard's desk. Tell him to get his ass down here."
The guys continued cracking bad jokes near her desk. Betty wondered how she could figure out which one of them was Jeff Corwin.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: They came and...
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: What are you laughing at?
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: Where do you come from?
Step 4: include a dialogue that begins with: Tell him I'm here
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They came and stood at the counter surrounding her desk, talking only with each other. Betty was never sure whether they expected her to join in or pretend as if they weren't having a loud conversation inches from her face. This afternoon's post-lunch discussion focused on whether Luke sucked as a salesman or whether he was a little piece of shit. The general consensus seemed to be that, yes, he was a sucky salesman and a little piece of shit.
Keeping her eyes on her notepad to avoid their conversation, Betty considered how ridiculous they sounded talking trash about Luke now that he had already gone to work for the competition. When he was here, he was the golden boy. And he had been a nice guy, she thought, at least to her. Too bad these guys will never know what he said about them before he went. The memory of it made her chuckle.
"What are you laughing at," asked one of the guys, leaning toward her.
At first she was worried that he was upset, but he winked at her.
"Be honest, was it my joke or Eddie's?" he asked.
Betty smiled, stalling. She had been temping at the company for two months now, but she still had no clue what any of the guys' names were. And she didn't care. On her first day, Luke was the only one who had introduced himself without talking at her chest, and so he was the only one whose name she bothered to remember. At first this created a challenge. Part of her role as administrative assistant was to take the down the phone orders of anyone who refused to do it online and give each order to the correct sales team member. Initially they had wanted her to bring the orders to each guy's office, but she insisted that an organized system by her desk would be much more efficient and would keep her available to answer the phone. She then started putting the orders by her desk as she'd described, and eventually each sales guy learned to pick them up there. Of course this only encouraged them to start conversations with her, so she began to pretend she was on the phone when they approached. And she never let on that she didn't know, or care, who they were.
"Both were awesome," she answered, smiling as much as she could muster.
"Where do you come from, angel?" he asked, reaching to put his hand on her shoulder. "I've never seen such beautiful eyes."
He winked at her again, and she felt a queasiness settle into her stomach.
"Are you flirting with the help again?" another guy said loudly, then chuckled.
The phone rang and Betty grabbed at the receiver.
"Carson Vacuums. How can I help you?"
"Yeah, let me speak to Jeff Corwin," said the sharp male voice on the other end.
Betty glanced at the nameless guys still gathered near her desk.
"He's not available right now," she said. "Can I take a message?"
"Tell him I'm here."
"You're downstairs?"
"Yeah, at the guard's desk. Tell him to get his ass down here."
The guys continued cracking bad jokes near her desk. Betty wondered how she could figure out which one of them was Jeff Corwin.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Day 11
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: includes the words: circus poet street
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: Don't go with her
Step 3: add this word: together
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Sondra stood beside her father at the center of the growing crowd and handed him the bowling pins. He smiled and held the pins to his chest. The crowd leaned toward them, elbows bumping and coats shuffling against the tightness of the circle they had formed.
"Ladies and gentlemen," her father said in a stage whisper. "More than 20 years ago, the great Russian circus star Ivan Strolovitch performed an amazing juggling act."
They leaned further, straining to hear him.
"No one else has been able to do it since. Until today!" he shouted, and raised the bowling pins above his head.
The crowd erupted in cheers and clapping, and Sondra smiled as she pointed toward her father with a flourish of her hands. Her father then proceeded to do his act, which was impressive more as a result of his showmanship than his juggling skills. Sondra stared at the audience. She knew the points at which to clap or cheer or look concerned so well by now, that she hardly had to pay attention to do her part.
Instead she watched the men and women in the crowd, wondering about their careers as bankers or teachers or cooks. It would be so wonderful to have that kind of steadiness, she thought. To know with near certainty where you will be living and working each day. Someone had once told her that they envied her life. They had called it bohemian and artistic and exciting. But as this person left in his working car to go to his comfortable home, she wondered if he would feel the same way if his parents had encouraged him to become a street poet or acrobat instead of attending college and planning for a future. She longed for the apartment in the city or the Cape-style house in the suburbs. Anything that was solid and gave her roots.
She sensed, rather than heard, that her father had started calling for volunteers. She approached the crowd and picked out a young man with green eyes and neatly trimmed black hair.
"Would you like to help the Great Tortellini?" she asked.
"Don't go with her, Todd," said a young woman, clutching his arm.
"I'm just going to assist the magician, Sweetie," he said to her. "It looks so cool."
He kissed his girlfriend on the cheek and turned back to Sondra, his face awash in excitement. Together they walked to the spot where he was to stand. She positioned him to face her father with his arms raised to his sides, ready to catch the small hoops that were now being spun in the air.
As the hoops began flying, Sondra looked back at Todd's girlfriend who was pouting in the crowd. The girlfriend glared back at Sondra, but only received a smile in return. Sondra then stepped closer to Todd in preparation for the next part of the act where they would stand back to back so that she, too, could raise her arms to offer more targets for the hoops. As soon as her father began talking to the crowd again, she slipped in behind Todd, pressing her back against his. For a moment, she felt solid and supported by roots.
Step 1: includes the words: circus poet street
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: Don't go with her
Step 3: add this word: together
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sondra stood beside her father at the center of the growing crowd and handed him the bowling pins. He smiled and held the pins to his chest. The crowd leaned toward them, elbows bumping and coats shuffling against the tightness of the circle they had formed.
"Ladies and gentlemen," her father said in a stage whisper. "More than 20 years ago, the great Russian circus star Ivan Strolovitch performed an amazing juggling act."
They leaned further, straining to hear him.
"No one else has been able to do it since. Until today!" he shouted, and raised the bowling pins above his head.
The crowd erupted in cheers and clapping, and Sondra smiled as she pointed toward her father with a flourish of her hands. Her father then proceeded to do his act, which was impressive more as a result of his showmanship than his juggling skills. Sondra stared at the audience. She knew the points at which to clap or cheer or look concerned so well by now, that she hardly had to pay attention to do her part.
Instead she watched the men and women in the crowd, wondering about their careers as bankers or teachers or cooks. It would be so wonderful to have that kind of steadiness, she thought. To know with near certainty where you will be living and working each day. Someone had once told her that they envied her life. They had called it bohemian and artistic and exciting. But as this person left in his working car to go to his comfortable home, she wondered if he would feel the same way if his parents had encouraged him to become a street poet or acrobat instead of attending college and planning for a future. She longed for the apartment in the city or the Cape-style house in the suburbs. Anything that was solid and gave her roots.
She sensed, rather than heard, that her father had started calling for volunteers. She approached the crowd and picked out a young man with green eyes and neatly trimmed black hair.
"Would you like to help the Great Tortellini?" she asked.
"Don't go with her, Todd," said a young woman, clutching his arm.
"I'm just going to assist the magician, Sweetie," he said to her. "It looks so cool."
He kissed his girlfriend on the cheek and turned back to Sondra, his face awash in excitement. Together they walked to the spot where he was to stand. She positioned him to face her father with his arms raised to his sides, ready to catch the small hoops that were now being spun in the air.
As the hoops began flying, Sondra looked back at Todd's girlfriend who was pouting in the crowd. The girlfriend glared back at Sondra, but only received a smile in return. Sondra then stepped closer to Todd in preparation for the next part of the act where they would stand back to back so that she, too, could raise her arms to offer more targets for the hoops. As soon as her father began talking to the crowd again, she slipped in behind Todd, pressing her back against his. For a moment, she felt solid and supported by roots.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Day 10
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: includes the words: fantastic skull bar
Step 2: add this word: central
Step 3: add this word: napkin
Step 4: add this word: wall
Step 5: add this word: date
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Deede had heard that grocery stores, particularly produce sections, were great places to meet men. She hadn't actually heard it from anyone she knew, but she had seen it in plenty of sitcoms. And it made sense to her. If you meet someone at a bar, they could be a complete jerk with no redeeming qualities. How much can you learn about someone while sitting over a gigantic mixed drink served in a plastic skull? At least that's how she imagined a bar scene, also based on sitcoms.
But a man who went grocery shopping, especially one who bought vegetables, was sure to be fantastic. Or at least a decent person who knew how to cook and understood the importance of health. That's the kind of man she wanted to meet.
That evening after work, she had a quick dinner, put on her favorite dress—a pale blue linen shift with yellow flowers—and drove to Stop & Shop. When she got out of the car, she grabbed a cart and headed straight for the produce. In this particular store, it was centrally located with freezers and deli to one side and cereals and other dry goods to the other. She had chosen this particular store because it was large and well lit, and though that didn't particularly scream "romantic encounter," it suited her.
Deede hadn't intended to be searching for a companion in her 50s, but here she was. She had met her husband, Henry, in high school and, though it wasn't love at first sight, it was pretty close. They were each different from their classmates, although not in the same way. Deede thought that Henry would have been diagnosed with Asperger's, had these things been more known then. He had a brain for palindromes and quantum physics, and if you asked, he would explain the connections between them. He wasn't particularly interested in social matters, except when it came to a good scientific debate, and then he welcomed the conversation. Sometimes he'd be so focused on making a point or providing an explanation that he wouldn't notice his nose had started dripping or that spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth. When Deede was with him, she would take a napkin and quietly reach over to wipe his face. The first time she did it, she was embarrassed and half-expected him to slap her hand away. Instead, he paused what he was saying, smiled at her, waited until she finished, and then resumed what he had been saying. Henry was neither easily embarrassed nor shy.
Deede, on the other hand, was exceedingly shy. She had had a difficult childhood, though she didn't like most people to know about it. Her parents fought, often screaming, sometimes hitting. They never harmed her, but she couldn't get over her fear of what might happen if their anger turned on her. She learned to stay quiet, blend into the wall, if necessary, to avoid being noticed. And this carried over into school. By high school, she only spoke when teachers required it of her. But her voice was so soft and hard to hear, that eventually most teachers stopped asking. Her classmates didn't understand her, either. They had never been mean to her because of her shyness, but they couldn't comprehend why she stared at them silently when they tried to speak to her. Some assumed she was stupid. Others thought she was stuck up. Over time, they also stopped trying.
But then she met Henry. He didn't know, or care, that other students had given up on her. He saw her reading Carl Sagan's Contact and asked her a question about it. He didn't seem to mind, or care, that she silently stared back at him. Or perhaps, she liked to think, he was the only one who knew that she desperately wanted to talk and just needed the right push. He didn't get her to say anything that day, but he came back the next day with another book that he thought she might like. She took it and smiled, and he said, "You're welcome."
When she finished that book, she practiced for hours how she would return it to him and say "Thank you." She found him by his locker, organizing the textbooks on his tiny, wedged-in shelf. He saw her and paused his work.
"Thank you," she whispered, and pushed the book into his hands.
"Okay," he said, taking the book and putting it on the shelf.
Deede stood there, not wanting to leave, but feeling a knot in her stomach from the embarrassment of the interaction. She watched as he shuffled the books around, then pulled another one out.
"Try this one," he said, handing it to her.
She took the book and smiled at him. He looked at her, and she felt the knot loosen, just a bit, under his gaze.
"Do you want to go on a date?" he asked.
Step 1: includes the words: fantastic skull bar
Step 2: add this word: central
Step 3: add this word: napkin
Step 4: add this word: wall
Step 5: add this word: date
----------------------------------------------------------
Deede had heard that grocery stores, particularly produce sections, were great places to meet men. She hadn't actually heard it from anyone she knew, but she had seen it in plenty of sitcoms. And it made sense to her. If you meet someone at a bar, they could be a complete jerk with no redeeming qualities. How much can you learn about someone while sitting over a gigantic mixed drink served in a plastic skull? At least that's how she imagined a bar scene, also based on sitcoms.
But a man who went grocery shopping, especially one who bought vegetables, was sure to be fantastic. Or at least a decent person who knew how to cook and understood the importance of health. That's the kind of man she wanted to meet.
That evening after work, she had a quick dinner, put on her favorite dress—a pale blue linen shift with yellow flowers—and drove to Stop & Shop. When she got out of the car, she grabbed a cart and headed straight for the produce. In this particular store, it was centrally located with freezers and deli to one side and cereals and other dry goods to the other. She had chosen this particular store because it was large and well lit, and though that didn't particularly scream "romantic encounter," it suited her.
Deede hadn't intended to be searching for a companion in her 50s, but here she was. She had met her husband, Henry, in high school and, though it wasn't love at first sight, it was pretty close. They were each different from their classmates, although not in the same way. Deede thought that Henry would have been diagnosed with Asperger's, had these things been more known then. He had a brain for palindromes and quantum physics, and if you asked, he would explain the connections between them. He wasn't particularly interested in social matters, except when it came to a good scientific debate, and then he welcomed the conversation. Sometimes he'd be so focused on making a point or providing an explanation that he wouldn't notice his nose had started dripping or that spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth. When Deede was with him, she would take a napkin and quietly reach over to wipe his face. The first time she did it, she was embarrassed and half-expected him to slap her hand away. Instead, he paused what he was saying, smiled at her, waited until she finished, and then resumed what he had been saying. Henry was neither easily embarrassed nor shy.
Deede, on the other hand, was exceedingly shy. She had had a difficult childhood, though she didn't like most people to know about it. Her parents fought, often screaming, sometimes hitting. They never harmed her, but she couldn't get over her fear of what might happen if their anger turned on her. She learned to stay quiet, blend into the wall, if necessary, to avoid being noticed. And this carried over into school. By high school, she only spoke when teachers required it of her. But her voice was so soft and hard to hear, that eventually most teachers stopped asking. Her classmates didn't understand her, either. They had never been mean to her because of her shyness, but they couldn't comprehend why she stared at them silently when they tried to speak to her. Some assumed she was stupid. Others thought she was stuck up. Over time, they also stopped trying.
But then she met Henry. He didn't know, or care, that other students had given up on her. He saw her reading Carl Sagan's Contact and asked her a question about it. He didn't seem to mind, or care, that she silently stared back at him. Or perhaps, she liked to think, he was the only one who knew that she desperately wanted to talk and just needed the right push. He didn't get her to say anything that day, but he came back the next day with another book that he thought she might like. She took it and smiled, and he said, "You're welcome."
When she finished that book, she practiced for hours how she would return it to him and say "Thank you." She found him by his locker, organizing the textbooks on his tiny, wedged-in shelf. He saw her and paused his work.
"Thank you," she whispered, and pushed the book into his hands.
"Okay," he said, taking the book and putting it on the shelf.
Deede stood there, not wanting to leave, but feeling a knot in her stomach from the embarrassment of the interaction. She watched as he shuffled the books around, then pulled another one out.
"Try this one," he said, handing it to her.
She took the book and smiled at him. He looked at her, and she felt the knot loosen, just a bit, under his gaze.
"Do you want to go on a date?" he asked.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Day 9
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: begins with this sentence: When they knew she had died…
Step 2: add a character who receives a gift
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: We have to go now
Step 4: add this word: shy
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When they knew she had died, they pulled out handkerchiefs and wiped cheeks, some wet and others bone dry. They sniffled and sighed and lamented her loss to the world.
Gregory, her nephew, consulted with the physicians to ensure that all paperwork was taken care of without bother to her children, now deep in their sorrow.
Her daughter Julia, Gregory's aunt, handed the head doctor a tie-pin that had belonged to her father. He tried to refuse, but she placed it in his palm and closed his fist around it.
"Mother would have wanted you to have it," she said. "I know she appreciated all that you did during these last few months."
She spoke loudly and the assembled family, about 20 people across three generations, nodded in agreement, echoing Julia's gratitude for the doctor's efforts to make their elderly matriarch comfortable in her final days. The doctor thanked everyone and briefly spoke of his patient's warmth and strength in the face of death, before leaving the room.
Left alone, the family looked to the body on the bed, then back and forth at each other. The sniffling slowly died down and everyone began to shift in their seats or shuffle from foot to foot, as if waiting for instructions on what to do next.
"We have to go now," Molly, Julia's daughter, spoke first. "The kids need lunch or I'll have a mutiny on my hands."
There were hugs and kisses from the family as everyone said their goodbyes to Molly and her two children. When they had reached the doorway, Molly stopped and looked around at everyone. They looked to her and waited. Molly's daughter, a shy 3-year-old clinging to her mother's black pants, noticed that they had stopped and proceeded to pull her mother towards the doorway, but Molly stayed.
"I'm sure this is a terrible thing to say, but we're only in town for two more days, and it's not easy to fly all the way out from California." She stopped then to give others an opportunity to jump in, but they stayed quiet. Some looked at the floor while others continued to stare expectantly at Molly. When no one said anything, she rolled her eyes and spoke again.
"What I'm asking is, has anyone contacted Grandmother's lawyer? I'm just wondering how soon they plan to do the reading of the will. I don't want to sound greedy, but it's good to get these things settled."
"We haven't even buried her yet, Molly," Gregory said.
"I don't mean to be insensitive, but I know I'm not the only one thinking it. We've known she was going to die for weeks. I'm sure she got her affairs in order and would want us to benefit from her generosity."
Molly's daughter tried to pull her toward the hallway, but Molly pulled her leg away and stood in the doorway.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: When they knew she had died…
Step 2: add a character who receives a gift
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: We have to go now
Step 4: add this word: shy
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When they knew she had died, they pulled out handkerchiefs and wiped cheeks, some wet and others bone dry. They sniffled and sighed and lamented her loss to the world.
Gregory, her nephew, consulted with the physicians to ensure that all paperwork was taken care of without bother to her children, now deep in their sorrow.
Her daughter Julia, Gregory's aunt, handed the head doctor a tie-pin that had belonged to her father. He tried to refuse, but she placed it in his palm and closed his fist around it.
"Mother would have wanted you to have it," she said. "I know she appreciated all that you did during these last few months."
She spoke loudly and the assembled family, about 20 people across three generations, nodded in agreement, echoing Julia's gratitude for the doctor's efforts to make their elderly matriarch comfortable in her final days. The doctor thanked everyone and briefly spoke of his patient's warmth and strength in the face of death, before leaving the room.
Left alone, the family looked to the body on the bed, then back and forth at each other. The sniffling slowly died down and everyone began to shift in their seats or shuffle from foot to foot, as if waiting for instructions on what to do next.
"We have to go now," Molly, Julia's daughter, spoke first. "The kids need lunch or I'll have a mutiny on my hands."
There were hugs and kisses from the family as everyone said their goodbyes to Molly and her two children. When they had reached the doorway, Molly stopped and looked around at everyone. They looked to her and waited. Molly's daughter, a shy 3-year-old clinging to her mother's black pants, noticed that they had stopped and proceeded to pull her mother towards the doorway, but Molly stayed.
"I'm sure this is a terrible thing to say, but we're only in town for two more days, and it's not easy to fly all the way out from California." She stopped then to give others an opportunity to jump in, but they stayed quiet. Some looked at the floor while others continued to stare expectantly at Molly. When no one said anything, she rolled her eyes and spoke again.
"What I'm asking is, has anyone contacted Grandmother's lawyer? I'm just wondering how soon they plan to do the reading of the will. I don't want to sound greedy, but it's good to get these things settled."
"We haven't even buried her yet, Molly," Gregory said.
"I don't mean to be insensitive, but I know I'm not the only one thinking it. We've known she was going to die for weeks. I'm sure she got her affairs in order and would want us to benefit from her generosity."
Molly's daughter tried to pull her toward the hallway, but Molly pulled her leg away and stood in the doorway.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Day 8
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who reveals a secret
Step 2: add this word: law
Step 3: add a character who is angry
Step 4: add a scene that takes place in a school
Step 5: add a character who breaks something
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Dear graduating students, parents, and faculty of Quinnipianoc High School class of 2015,
I was asked by your principal and my old friend, Mr. Darren Olson, to come here today and speak to you on this day of your graduation about the world you are about to enter. I am a successful former graduate of this very high school, and so I am in an excellent position to know where you're coming from and where you may be going. And to that end, I had a very thoughtful speech all planned out. Except, and I probably shouldn't be telling you this, I lost it somewhere last night on my pub crawl.
You see, my life isn't as amazing as I might let on over Facebook, and so I often resort to drinking, especially when I'm stressed about something. You'll learn that eventually. Right now drinking is all about fun and showing you're a tough guy by skirting the law by being underage, which you know the cops in this town don't even bother with. Hey, Danny! I see you there in back! It's a credit to you that you can wear that uniform with a straight face, right? Joe, you know what I'm talking about!
Anyway, right now the drinking is all about fun and partying, but eventually you'll need it to deal with stress and the unbearable weight of your responsibilities, which are massive and crushing. Sure, you may become a successful marketing executive someday like I did. But what if you don't get the promotion to marketing director? What if the guy who gets it is, like, five years younger than you are? Do you scream at everyone and risk losing yet another job? Or do you go drinking? Well?
Darren, I see you look a little angry. No, wait, don't come up here. I know this isn't what you had in mind when you invited me, but seriously, isn't it better that they learn now? No, I'm not still drunk! Well, maybe I'm still hung over, but my thoughts are as clear as last night's vodka. This place, this high school standing right behind me that I was so damn anxious to escape, was where I experienced some of the best times of my entire life. Sure, college was fun at the start, but it got so serious eventually. But not here at good ol' Quinnipianoc! I goofed off ALL the time. And I drank and smoked pot. Not at school, of course. And stay off drugs kids! Except pot isn't really a drug, is it?
But I digress, and I see Danny making his way up here, so I need to wrap this up. It's probably too late for most of you, but I'm sure there are a few of you who still have one last chance to stop this graduation insanity and stick around for another year. Maybe you have a class to make up over the summer. Or your diploma is contingent on you completing some final project. My advice to you: don't do it! If at all possible, try to fail! Stay here. Have another senior year. Do more stupid shit. Don't buy into the college and career thing, because it's not like they say. They lie! And I'm here to set things straight!
Oh, hey, Danny. You really do wear that uniform well. No, please don't take the mic. I'm almost done. No, Danny, let go of my arm. Danny, I"m still talking! Danny, I... Well, now look what you've done. You broke the mic stand. That's on you, buddy. Yeah, don't try to blame me, I was just talking!
Okay, I see how it is. Darren, you don't need to grab my arm. I said I'm fine. I can get down off the stage myself I just want to finish my thought... Stay in school kids. Seriously, don't ever leave. Ow! Okay, I'm going. I'm going!
Step 1: has a character who reveals a secret
Step 2: add this word: law
Step 3: add a character who is angry
Step 4: add a scene that takes place in a school
Step 5: add a character who breaks something
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Dear graduating students, parents, and faculty of Quinnipianoc High School class of 2015,
I was asked by your principal and my old friend, Mr. Darren Olson, to come here today and speak to you on this day of your graduation about the world you are about to enter. I am a successful former graduate of this very high school, and so I am in an excellent position to know where you're coming from and where you may be going. And to that end, I had a very thoughtful speech all planned out. Except, and I probably shouldn't be telling you this, I lost it somewhere last night on my pub crawl.
You see, my life isn't as amazing as I might let on over Facebook, and so I often resort to drinking, especially when I'm stressed about something. You'll learn that eventually. Right now drinking is all about fun and showing you're a tough guy by skirting the law by being underage, which you know the cops in this town don't even bother with. Hey, Danny! I see you there in back! It's a credit to you that you can wear that uniform with a straight face, right? Joe, you know what I'm talking about!
Anyway, right now the drinking is all about fun and partying, but eventually you'll need it to deal with stress and the unbearable weight of your responsibilities, which are massive and crushing. Sure, you may become a successful marketing executive someday like I did. But what if you don't get the promotion to marketing director? What if the guy who gets it is, like, five years younger than you are? Do you scream at everyone and risk losing yet another job? Or do you go drinking? Well?
Darren, I see you look a little angry. No, wait, don't come up here. I know this isn't what you had in mind when you invited me, but seriously, isn't it better that they learn now? No, I'm not still drunk! Well, maybe I'm still hung over, but my thoughts are as clear as last night's vodka. This place, this high school standing right behind me that I was so damn anxious to escape, was where I experienced some of the best times of my entire life. Sure, college was fun at the start, but it got so serious eventually. But not here at good ol' Quinnipianoc! I goofed off ALL the time. And I drank and smoked pot. Not at school, of course. And stay off drugs kids! Except pot isn't really a drug, is it?
But I digress, and I see Danny making his way up here, so I need to wrap this up. It's probably too late for most of you, but I'm sure there are a few of you who still have one last chance to stop this graduation insanity and stick around for another year. Maybe you have a class to make up over the summer. Or your diploma is contingent on you completing some final project. My advice to you: don't do it! If at all possible, try to fail! Stay here. Have another senior year. Do more stupid shit. Don't buy into the college and career thing, because it's not like they say. They lie! And I'm here to set things straight!
Oh, hey, Danny. You really do wear that uniform well. No, please don't take the mic. I'm almost done. No, Danny, let go of my arm. Danny, I"m still talking! Danny, I... Well, now look what you've done. You broke the mic stand. That's on you, buddy. Yeah, don't try to blame me, I was just talking!
Okay, I see how it is. Darren, you don't need to grab my arm. I said I'm fine. I can get down off the stage myself I just want to finish my thought... Stay in school kids. Seriously, don't ever leave. Ow! Okay, I'm going. I'm going!
Day 7
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She gave him a kiss
Step 2: add this word: craftsman
Step 3: add this word: mirror
Step 4: add a scene that takes place in a bedroom
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She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and watched as he promptly wiped it off with his chubby hand.
"Ha, ha!" he said, then giggling pulled away from her to climb into his father's car.
Rachel smiled at their little joke and then watched as the car pulled out of the driveway. As it turned onto the main road and drove out of her line of sight, she looked at the list in her hand. It was Saturday and she had learned over the past six months of separation that the only way to handle the days that Jacob went with his dad was to stay busy. So she had bought her first toolbox and tools, and made a list of things to tackle.
When she and David had first bought the house, an older Cape with peeling blue trim and loose floorboards, David set about to fix it up. Although Rachel had offered to help, David had said it made him nervous to let anyone use his Craftsman tools, which he had inherited from his late father, so he insisted on doing all of the remodeling and fixing himself. At first Rachel felt lucky to have a husband who was so handy that they didn't need to hire anyone to fix up their new house. Even as David grew busier at the office and got less done around the house, she didn't make any efforts to step in and do the handiwork. She believed he would get to all of it. But as David immersed himself more and more in work projects, and the house continued to fall apart around them, Rachel couldn't avoid the warning signs. When David moved out, she resigned herself to accepting the home's flaws.
That was until two weeks ago, when Rachel found herself alone again without Jacob and with nothing planned to fill her time. After a bout of crying, she went to the bathroom to rinse her face and found herself staring in the mirror. Her wet, angry eyes stared back at her and she hardly recognized herself. In the same reflection, she also saw the old peeling wallpaper behind her. It was decorated with cartoon anchors and mermaids, and she had always hated it. And now, she thought, it would never go away! After another bout of crying and a movie-esque confidence-building pep talk to herself in the mirror, Rachel found herself googling how to take down old wallpaper. A week later, she did it, and started a new chores list.
This week, the list had her moving on to the bedroom. There she would replace the wall sconces and start to pull out some old carpeting to look at the wood underneath. She carried the toolbox into the room, and pulled out her Craftsman drill, her first tool purchase. She then stepped up under the one of the fixtures and began removing the screws.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She gave him a kiss
Step 2: add this word: craftsman
Step 3: add this word: mirror
Step 4: add a scene that takes place in a bedroom
----------------------------------------------------------------
She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and watched as he promptly wiped it off with his chubby hand.
"Ha, ha!" he said, then giggling pulled away from her to climb into his father's car.
Rachel smiled at their little joke and then watched as the car pulled out of the driveway. As it turned onto the main road and drove out of her line of sight, she looked at the list in her hand. It was Saturday and she had learned over the past six months of separation that the only way to handle the days that Jacob went with his dad was to stay busy. So she had bought her first toolbox and tools, and made a list of things to tackle.
When she and David had first bought the house, an older Cape with peeling blue trim and loose floorboards, David set about to fix it up. Although Rachel had offered to help, David had said it made him nervous to let anyone use his Craftsman tools, which he had inherited from his late father, so he insisted on doing all of the remodeling and fixing himself. At first Rachel felt lucky to have a husband who was so handy that they didn't need to hire anyone to fix up their new house. Even as David grew busier at the office and got less done around the house, she didn't make any efforts to step in and do the handiwork. She believed he would get to all of it. But as David immersed himself more and more in work projects, and the house continued to fall apart around them, Rachel couldn't avoid the warning signs. When David moved out, she resigned herself to accepting the home's flaws.
That was until two weeks ago, when Rachel found herself alone again without Jacob and with nothing planned to fill her time. After a bout of crying, she went to the bathroom to rinse her face and found herself staring in the mirror. Her wet, angry eyes stared back at her and she hardly recognized herself. In the same reflection, she also saw the old peeling wallpaper behind her. It was decorated with cartoon anchors and mermaids, and she had always hated it. And now, she thought, it would never go away! After another bout of crying and a movie-esque confidence-building pep talk to herself in the mirror, Rachel found herself googling how to take down old wallpaper. A week later, she did it, and started a new chores list.
This week, the list had her moving on to the bedroom. There she would replace the wall sconces and start to pull out some old carpeting to look at the wood underneath. She carried the toolbox into the room, and pulled out her Craftsman drill, her first tool purchase. She then stepped up under the one of the fixtures and began removing the screws.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Day 6
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who meets a childhood friend
Step 2: add this word: helmet
Step 3: add a character who writes a book
Step 4: include a dialogue that begins with: why are you crying?
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"Welcome to Sir Paints-a-lot! Are you here for a birthday party?"
Jana hardly looked up as she gave her greeting. There were a lot of details to track on the computer and customer service didn't really matter until the painting started. She just had to get them in and settled as quickly as possible to keep things moving.
"Jana? Jana Koepler?" said the woman who approached the counter.
Jana looked up and saw a familiar-looking face, now 20-years-older, staring at her with raised eyebrows.
"It's Karen Jacobson," the woman said. "We were in Mr. Murphy's senior English class."
Jana searched for a memory to connect the time and place. Karen? Karen! Right. The girl most likely to succeed, who was also so nice, no one hated her for being so amazing. God, she was the worst. Jana looked at Karen's leather jacket and heels, and the adorably dressed 6-year-old in tow, and assumed that Karen had, in fact, succeeded. And here was Jana, wearing a rainbow-colored helmet and earning minimum wage for guiding preschoolers through painting tantrums in a room that looked like a dragon swallowed cans of paint and threw them all up on the castle walls.
"Wow, it's been a long time," Jana finally said. "How have you been?"
"Great. Busy, but great! You know how it is: career, kids, the whole thing. I just published a new book about the neuropsychology of childhood trauma for Harvard University Press. So glad that's finally done and I can "relax!"
Karen said relax with air quotes. Jana nodded.
"That sounds great," Jana said. She smiled, not sure if she could move things forward on the painting to avoid the misery or if she was expected to admit to what she was doing.
"So what have you been up to?" Karen asked.
Jana was silent. She couldn't actually pretend this wasn't her life, but how much did she have to admit?
"I want a color helmet, too!" the little boy beside Karen shouted. "Now!"
Karen leaned down on her tottering heels to bring herself to his eye-level.
"Mommy knows this lady from long, long ago. We were still in school when we met. Isn't that amazing?"
"Helmet, Mommy. Helmet!" he cried, dismissing the amazing coincidence.
"Don't fuss, Sweetie. We'll get you set up soon."
She stood back up and gave Jana a small eye-roll followed by another smile.
"Patrick loves to paint! So, I'm sorry, you were saying?"
Patrick saw that the grown-up conversation had resumed with no change in his situation.
"Hellllllmeeehhhht!" he screamed. "Nooowwwww!!!"
Karen leaned down again and put her hands on his shoulders.
"Why are you crying? Sweetheart, did you forget your calm-down countdown?"
Jana looked at Karen soothing Patrick and wondered if she could check them in now.
Step 1: has a character who meets a childhood friend
Step 2: add this word: helmet
Step 3: add a character who writes a book
Step 4: include a dialogue that begins with: why are you crying?
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"Welcome to Sir Paints-a-lot! Are you here for a birthday party?"
Jana hardly looked up as she gave her greeting. There were a lot of details to track on the computer and customer service didn't really matter until the painting started. She just had to get them in and settled as quickly as possible to keep things moving.
"Jana? Jana Koepler?" said the woman who approached the counter.
Jana looked up and saw a familiar-looking face, now 20-years-older, staring at her with raised eyebrows.
"It's Karen Jacobson," the woman said. "We were in Mr. Murphy's senior English class."
Jana searched for a memory to connect the time and place. Karen? Karen! Right. The girl most likely to succeed, who was also so nice, no one hated her for being so amazing. God, she was the worst. Jana looked at Karen's leather jacket and heels, and the adorably dressed 6-year-old in tow, and assumed that Karen had, in fact, succeeded. And here was Jana, wearing a rainbow-colored helmet and earning minimum wage for guiding preschoolers through painting tantrums in a room that looked like a dragon swallowed cans of paint and threw them all up on the castle walls.
"Wow, it's been a long time," Jana finally said. "How have you been?"
"Great. Busy, but great! You know how it is: career, kids, the whole thing. I just published a new book about the neuropsychology of childhood trauma for Harvard University Press. So glad that's finally done and I can "relax!"
Karen said relax with air quotes. Jana nodded.
"That sounds great," Jana said. She smiled, not sure if she could move things forward on the painting to avoid the misery or if she was expected to admit to what she was doing.
"So what have you been up to?" Karen asked.
Jana was silent. She couldn't actually pretend this wasn't her life, but how much did she have to admit?
"I want a color helmet, too!" the little boy beside Karen shouted. "Now!"
Karen leaned down on her tottering heels to bring herself to his eye-level.
"Mommy knows this lady from long, long ago. We were still in school when we met. Isn't that amazing?"
"Helmet, Mommy. Helmet!" he cried, dismissing the amazing coincidence.
"Don't fuss, Sweetie. We'll get you set up soon."
She stood back up and gave Jana a small eye-roll followed by another smile.
"Patrick loves to paint! So, I'm sorry, you were saying?"
Patrick saw that the grown-up conversation had resumed with no change in his situation.
"Hellllllmeeehhhht!" he screamed. "Nooowwwww!!!"
Karen leaned down again and put her hands on his shoulders.
"Why are you crying? Sweetheart, did you forget your calm-down countdown?"
Jana looked at Karen soothing Patrick and wondered if she could check them in now.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Day 5
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who is angry
Step 2: add this word: wait
Step 3: include dialogue that begins with: There's nobody here but us
Step 4: add a character who: falls asleep
Step 5: add this word: buzz
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I spent two minutes putting the spare pillow over my exposed ear to drown out the noise. I know it was two minutes because I was facing the clock and staring at it the entire time, doing my slow breathing exercises and counting backwards from 100. It usually calms me, but you know how there are certain sounds, or more specifically, certain voices, that just get under your skin and scrape at your eardrum until you want to drown them or yourself just to stop the sound? That's the voice that was having a conversation outside my hotel room door last night.
I tried to wait it out. I used the pillow. I counted. I shoved the blanket over my head. But nothing I did could protect me from that grating sound outside my door. I could feel my blood pressure rising, and I'm not the Hulk or anything, but it's never a good thing when I get angry. Things get thrown. Unfortunate words get said. People get arrested. And by "people" I mean me, so I do try to avoid it.
I had begged the guy at the front desk not to put me in the room close to the main lobby. I know how these things go. People remember to lower their voices in the depths of the labyrinth, where all rooms look the same and a general silence has fallen over everything except the humming ice machine in the hidden vending area. But it takes them a while of walking past closed doors to recognize the quiet. When they are in the lobby, their voices are high. Those first hallways are just an extension of that communal lobby space, where loud conversations are the norm and no one remembers that there might be someone else sleeping nearby.
"There's nobody here but us," I had said quietly. "Can't you just book me into another room? No one has to know they've been switched."
I hand him a folded $20 note and smiled, hopefully. The guy, a kid not much older than my 18-year-old, looked at the money as if it were a dirty tissue and pushed it back at me.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't reassign the rooms," he said. "It is strictly against policy. Here's your key. Second door to your left."
And so there I was, waiting for the high-pitched foghorn outside my door to finish discussing her daughter's busy extracurricular schedule. The worst part is that I had been asleep for about an hour before she showed up. I'd flown in on the red-eye, so I was exhausted by 6 o'clock. I barely made it through the client dinner and was finally able to pour myself into bed by 8. I must have dozed off immediately because I remember nothing from when I put my head down on the pillow to when I first heard the screeching in the hallway describing tryouts for soccer and modern dance.
I checked the clock again. It was 10:30. She'd been out there for half an hour, talking about nothing at a volume that had to be disturbing the entire hotel, but seemed to be centered exactly outside my room. My head began to buzz, and I felt the anger rise up in my throat. As part of my anger management course, I had learned quite a few exercises. But they tended to involve dealing with short-term irritations or how I could avoid or walk away from certain situations. None of that applied here. I decided to give her one last minute. And then, well, either here or in jail, I planned to get some sleep.
Step 1: has a character who is angry
Step 2: add this word: wait
Step 3: include dialogue that begins with: There's nobody here but us
Step 4: add a character who: falls asleep
Step 5: add this word: buzz
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I spent two minutes putting the spare pillow over my exposed ear to drown out the noise. I know it was two minutes because I was facing the clock and staring at it the entire time, doing my slow breathing exercises and counting backwards from 100. It usually calms me, but you know how there are certain sounds, or more specifically, certain voices, that just get under your skin and scrape at your eardrum until you want to drown them or yourself just to stop the sound? That's the voice that was having a conversation outside my hotel room door last night.
I tried to wait it out. I used the pillow. I counted. I shoved the blanket over my head. But nothing I did could protect me from that grating sound outside my door. I could feel my blood pressure rising, and I'm not the Hulk or anything, but it's never a good thing when I get angry. Things get thrown. Unfortunate words get said. People get arrested. And by "people" I mean me, so I do try to avoid it.
I had begged the guy at the front desk not to put me in the room close to the main lobby. I know how these things go. People remember to lower their voices in the depths of the labyrinth, where all rooms look the same and a general silence has fallen over everything except the humming ice machine in the hidden vending area. But it takes them a while of walking past closed doors to recognize the quiet. When they are in the lobby, their voices are high. Those first hallways are just an extension of that communal lobby space, where loud conversations are the norm and no one remembers that there might be someone else sleeping nearby.
"There's nobody here but us," I had said quietly. "Can't you just book me into another room? No one has to know they've been switched."
I hand him a folded $20 note and smiled, hopefully. The guy, a kid not much older than my 18-year-old, looked at the money as if it were a dirty tissue and pushed it back at me.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't reassign the rooms," he said. "It is strictly against policy. Here's your key. Second door to your left."
And so there I was, waiting for the high-pitched foghorn outside my door to finish discussing her daughter's busy extracurricular schedule. The worst part is that I had been asleep for about an hour before she showed up. I'd flown in on the red-eye, so I was exhausted by 6 o'clock. I barely made it through the client dinner and was finally able to pour myself into bed by 8. I must have dozed off immediately because I remember nothing from when I put my head down on the pillow to when I first heard the screeching in the hallway describing tryouts for soccer and modern dance.
I checked the clock again. It was 10:30. She'd been out there for half an hour, talking about nothing at a volume that had to be disturbing the entire hotel, but seemed to be centered exactly outside my room. My head began to buzz, and I felt the anger rise up in my throat. As part of my anger management course, I had learned quite a few exercises. But they tended to involve dealing with short-term irritations or how I could avoid or walk away from certain situations. None of that applied here. I decided to give her one last minute. And then, well, either here or in jail, I planned to get some sleep.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Day 4
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Who took this photo?
Step 2: add this word: persian
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: I don't wanna go to work
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"Who took this photo?" the girl asks as she wanders over to my booth. "Is that really her?"
Amateur. I turn to her but don't move away from my spot near the front of the booth, near the main aisle.
"Yep, it's Madonna, " I say, adjusting my tie and shifting my jacket into power position. Never too early to freak out the competition. "Our executive director was having drinks with her to celebrate the book release and they took that selfie with the first edition. Pretty rad."
"Wow, that's intense. My company doesn't have anyone that major on the author list. Well, good luck with your pitch." She smiles and walks back to her booth. When she gets there she turns back, thinking she's caught me watching her walk away and that I'll be embarrassed. But I nod toward her and wink, then turn back to the front of my booth. Power, man. Power.
I have to admit, I'm not psyched to be stuck at this educational publishing convention on a June Saturday. You'd think a Comic Con would be the dorkiest place to push stuff. But those actually get celebrities, if the event is big enough, and the girls doing cosplay give you something to look at. But this place is where the nerds who weren't cool enough to read comics wind up. I thought it'd be more like that old Van Halen song "Hot for Teacher," but it's more boring that the DMV. Nobody's even shouting here.
But that's where I come in. Bringing something less traditional, less boring to the table. The publisher I work for is small. We get a tiny booth toward the back end of the convention center, far away from the massive 500+ sq. foot areas that the big publishers cover in carpet and displays. But we've got the coolest shit this place has ever seen. Case in point, we published Madonna's latest book, Persian Pussy: A Celebration of Iranian Cats, and I just know that the sad, lonely women who come to these things must love cats.
I can see that the teachers have been let into the convention center, and I watch them begin wandering into the back section. I flash the smile and wait to call out to the sheep that get separated from the pack. When they approach my booth, I can see their eyes light up at the poster, but then their gaze lands on the book and they keep walking. Prudes.
"I don't wanna go to work," a voice says. "I actually hate sales."
It's the girl from the neighboring booth, back in my space.
"Don't you hate the false smiling?" she continues. "And pushing teachers into spending the few dollars they've been budgeted for supplies on our crap? Neither of us is selling anything they really need."
"I don't know about that," I say, then increase my volume. "I think they could really enjoy this amazing book from Madonna!"
"I bet they could," she said. "But they don't really need it, right?"
"I think you underestimate their 'need,'" I say, then louder…"I don't think anyone has ever gotten far underestimating the needs of our exceptional American teachers!"
She rolls her eyes, and I can see I'm losing her. I turn back to the aisle and watch the next group of teachers, 40-something-year olds wearing jeggings and sweatshirts, approach. I put on my smile.
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Who took this photo?
Step 2: add this word: persian
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: I don't wanna go to work
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"Who took this photo?" the girl asks as she wanders over to my booth. "Is that really her?"
Amateur. I turn to her but don't move away from my spot near the front of the booth, near the main aisle.
"Yep, it's Madonna, " I say, adjusting my tie and shifting my jacket into power position. Never too early to freak out the competition. "Our executive director was having drinks with her to celebrate the book release and they took that selfie with the first edition. Pretty rad."
"Wow, that's intense. My company doesn't have anyone that major on the author list. Well, good luck with your pitch." She smiles and walks back to her booth. When she gets there she turns back, thinking she's caught me watching her walk away and that I'll be embarrassed. But I nod toward her and wink, then turn back to the front of my booth. Power, man. Power.
I have to admit, I'm not psyched to be stuck at this educational publishing convention on a June Saturday. You'd think a Comic Con would be the dorkiest place to push stuff. But those actually get celebrities, if the event is big enough, and the girls doing cosplay give you something to look at. But this place is where the nerds who weren't cool enough to read comics wind up. I thought it'd be more like that old Van Halen song "Hot for Teacher," but it's more boring that the DMV. Nobody's even shouting here.
But that's where I come in. Bringing something less traditional, less boring to the table. The publisher I work for is small. We get a tiny booth toward the back end of the convention center, far away from the massive 500+ sq. foot areas that the big publishers cover in carpet and displays. But we've got the coolest shit this place has ever seen. Case in point, we published Madonna's latest book, Persian Pussy: A Celebration of Iranian Cats, and I just know that the sad, lonely women who come to these things must love cats.
I can see that the teachers have been let into the convention center, and I watch them begin wandering into the back section. I flash the smile and wait to call out to the sheep that get separated from the pack. When they approach my booth, I can see their eyes light up at the poster, but then their gaze lands on the book and they keep walking. Prudes.
"I don't wanna go to work," a voice says. "I actually hate sales."
It's the girl from the neighboring booth, back in my space.
"Don't you hate the false smiling?" she continues. "And pushing teachers into spending the few dollars they've been budgeted for supplies on our crap? Neither of us is selling anything they really need."
"I don't know about that," I say, then increase my volume. "I think they could really enjoy this amazing book from Madonna!"
"I bet they could," she said. "But they don't really need it, right?"
"I think you underestimate their 'need,'" I say, then louder…"I don't think anyone has ever gotten far underestimating the needs of our exceptional American teachers!"
She rolls her eyes, and I can see I'm losing her. I turn back to the aisle and watch the next group of teachers, 40-something-year olds wearing jeggings and sweatshirts, approach. I put on my smile.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Day 3 - Round 2
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: Begins with this sentence: The wolf was his favorite animal
Step 2: add this word: eye
Step 3: add this word: son
Step 4: add this word: cellar
Step 5: add this word: museum
Step 6: include this sentence: Her dream was…
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The wolf was his favorite animal. Mandy took that as a bad sign at first. Who wants a man whose favorite animal is ugly and aggressive? What does that say about him? But then she remembered that she was Team Jacob, and he wasn't the least bit ugly, even when when he was being aggressive, so that seemed okay.
The next guy's profile said that he had an eye for beautiful things. Wait, she thought, did that mean he was gay? Or that he was rich? The one thing she definitely understood from TV was that every stylish woman needed a gay BFF, so even though she was trying to find a guy to date, it wasn't a bad thing to consider. But then, why would he say he was interested in women? Did gay men look for fabulous women on dating sites to find their BFFs? Mandy wasn't sure. Maybe he meant that he was rich and liked to own beautiful things, or maybe he just wanted to be rich someday so he could buy beautiful things... This was a huge difference that she'd need to figure out. Guy #2 already seemed like a lot of work.
He also described himself as a devoted son, raised by a single mom, who appreciated women's needs. Oh, god. She wasn't in the mood to compete with a mom who had no husband to keep her busy. They always called, wanting to be involved. It's like the moms wanted to date their sons. Seriously creepy. And he was definitely sounding gay. Delete.
Guy #3 used the word "cellar" when describing what he loved about rebuilding old houses. Total serial killer. Next.
The next guy listed "going to the museum" in his likes. Either he was pretentious or boring or old. Or, even worse, all three. She'd dated an old guy once and she couldn't bear to do it again. He wore sweatpants after dinner and used it as an excuse why he couldn't go out again. She could change her entire outfit three times to find the perfect thing to go out dancing, but he couldn't be bothered to take off one pair of pants and put on another. That was the last time she'd date a 34-year-old.
Her dream was to find a guy her own age who was totally handsome and fun and on a career-track, but not too busy to do stuff at the drop of a hat. He would be ready to talk about marriage and kids when they saw a cute family at a restaurant, but totally wasn't into having them anytime soon. She knew it wasn't too much to ask because Debbie at work was dating someone just like that. Mandy hung on her every word as she described their awesome sex and amazing nights out. He never brought his parents around, and his buddies were not total assholes. Sure, she wasn't an idiot. Debbie probably talked it up better than it was, but Mandy worked in marketing with Debbie. Debbie didn't have a creative bone in her body. She could only make up so much and still sound convincing.
Step 1: Begins with this sentence: The wolf was his favorite animal
Step 2: add this word: eye
Step 3: add this word: son
Step 4: add this word: cellar
Step 5: add this word: museum
Step 6: include this sentence: Her dream was…
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The wolf was his favorite animal. Mandy took that as a bad sign at first. Who wants a man whose favorite animal is ugly and aggressive? What does that say about him? But then she remembered that she was Team Jacob, and he wasn't the least bit ugly, even when when he was being aggressive, so that seemed okay.
The next guy's profile said that he had an eye for beautiful things. Wait, she thought, did that mean he was gay? Or that he was rich? The one thing she definitely understood from TV was that every stylish woman needed a gay BFF, so even though she was trying to find a guy to date, it wasn't a bad thing to consider. But then, why would he say he was interested in women? Did gay men look for fabulous women on dating sites to find their BFFs? Mandy wasn't sure. Maybe he meant that he was rich and liked to own beautiful things, or maybe he just wanted to be rich someday so he could buy beautiful things... This was a huge difference that she'd need to figure out. Guy #2 already seemed like a lot of work.
He also described himself as a devoted son, raised by a single mom, who appreciated women's needs. Oh, god. She wasn't in the mood to compete with a mom who had no husband to keep her busy. They always called, wanting to be involved. It's like the moms wanted to date their sons. Seriously creepy. And he was definitely sounding gay. Delete.
Guy #3 used the word "cellar" when describing what he loved about rebuilding old houses. Total serial killer. Next.
The next guy listed "going to the museum" in his likes. Either he was pretentious or boring or old. Or, even worse, all three. She'd dated an old guy once and she couldn't bear to do it again. He wore sweatpants after dinner and used it as an excuse why he couldn't go out again. She could change her entire outfit three times to find the perfect thing to go out dancing, but he couldn't be bothered to take off one pair of pants and put on another. That was the last time she'd date a 34-year-old.
Her dream was to find a guy her own age who was totally handsome and fun and on a career-track, but not too busy to do stuff at the drop of a hat. He would be ready to talk about marriage and kids when they saw a cute family at a restaurant, but totally wasn't into having them anytime soon. She knew it wasn't too much to ask because Debbie at work was dating someone just like that. Mandy hung on her every word as she described their awesome sex and amazing nights out. He never brought his parents around, and his buddies were not total assholes. Sure, she wasn't an idiot. Debbie probably talked it up better than it was, but Mandy worked in marketing with Debbie. Debbie didn't have a creative bone in her body. She could only make up so much and still sound convincing.
Day 3
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Are you alright?
Step 2: add this word: imaginary
Step 3: add this word: ghost
---------------------------------------------------------------
"Are you alright?"
Shayna heard the voice from above her as she felt the shadow fall across her face.
"Ma'am? Are you okay?"
Someone patted her shoulder. Shayna pulled open her eyes and saw that she was on the ground. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot from her wrist, and her head felt heavy. Wasn't she supposed to be jogging?
"What happened?" she asked the voice above her.
"I think you passed out," the voice replied.
Shayna tilted her head to the sound and saw a girl, maybe 22, leaning over her. The girl looked concerned, and Shayna was herself feeling confused about the situation. Maybe she just needed to close her eyes and this strange event, this imaginary situation, would dissipate in a dream, and she would wake up in her bed where everything made sense. She closed her eyes. She imagined the scene.
"Do you need me to call someone? Should I call 911?"
The girl's voice cut through the air and jammed into Shayna's thoughts. There was no escaping it. She opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up.
"So are you okay?"
The girl was getting annoying. Shayna nodded.
"Yes," Shayna said. "Thanks for your help. I've got it now."
She propped herself up on her knees and stood up slowly. She still felt dizzy and the sharp pain in her wrist now stretched up her arm and into her brain.
"I think you need a doctor," the girl said.
"I'm fine."
The girl looked uncertain, but she started to step away. Shayna waved and turned her back to the girl. She then looked around to get her bearings and discovered she wasn't far from home. She began limping in the direction of her house, taking stock of each ache and pain as she moved.
When she finally reached her driveway, Ron's car was already there. The kids were running around the yard, making her wonder how long she'd been lying on the sidewalk just down the street. She had planned to be back 30 minutes before they were due to be dropped off.
Ron stood by the car, talking on his cell. He wore a blazer and tan slacks, the picture of a suburban dad. She realized she hadn't seen her ex-husband in person in over a month, at least not outside and fully put together. In the rush of taking the kids back and forth, they usually waited in their cars while the kids ran out and into the house. So she was always either in the house or the car. They communicated by email and text. What need was there to meet and talk?
Ron saw her approaching and raised his finger to indicate he was finishing up a call. It was as if Shayna was seeing a ghost of the past, a version of Ron from before things went dark between them. He had lost weight, and his clothes seemed new. Even his face, now cleared of stubble, looked younger.
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Are you alright?
Step 2: add this word: imaginary
Step 3: add this word: ghost
---------------------------------------------------------------
"Are you alright?"
Shayna heard the voice from above her as she felt the shadow fall across her face.
"Ma'am? Are you okay?"
Someone patted her shoulder. Shayna pulled open her eyes and saw that she was on the ground. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot from her wrist, and her head felt heavy. Wasn't she supposed to be jogging?
"What happened?" she asked the voice above her.
"I think you passed out," the voice replied.
Shayna tilted her head to the sound and saw a girl, maybe 22, leaning over her. The girl looked concerned, and Shayna was herself feeling confused about the situation. Maybe she just needed to close her eyes and this strange event, this imaginary situation, would dissipate in a dream, and she would wake up in her bed where everything made sense. She closed her eyes. She imagined the scene.
"Do you need me to call someone? Should I call 911?"
The girl's voice cut through the air and jammed into Shayna's thoughts. There was no escaping it. She opened her eyes and forced herself to sit up.
"So are you okay?"
The girl was getting annoying. Shayna nodded.
"Yes," Shayna said. "Thanks for your help. I've got it now."
She propped herself up on her knees and stood up slowly. She still felt dizzy and the sharp pain in her wrist now stretched up her arm and into her brain.
"I think you need a doctor," the girl said.
"I'm fine."
The girl looked uncertain, but she started to step away. Shayna waved and turned her back to the girl. She then looked around to get her bearings and discovered she wasn't far from home. She began limping in the direction of her house, taking stock of each ache and pain as she moved.
When she finally reached her driveway, Ron's car was already there. The kids were running around the yard, making her wonder how long she'd been lying on the sidewalk just down the street. She had planned to be back 30 minutes before they were due to be dropped off.
Ron stood by the car, talking on his cell. He wore a blazer and tan slacks, the picture of a suburban dad. She realized she hadn't seen her ex-husband in person in over a month, at least not outside and fully put together. In the rush of taking the kids back and forth, they usually waited in their cars while the kids ran out and into the house. So she was always either in the house or the car. They communicated by email and text. What need was there to meet and talk?
Ron saw her approaching and raised his finger to indicate he was finishing up a call. It was as if Shayna was seeing a ghost of the past, a version of Ron from before things went dark between them. He had lost weight, and his clothes seemed new. Even his face, now cleared of stubble, looked younger.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Day 2
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: starts with the dialogue: Do you think it's possible to live like that?
Step 2: add a character who is chased
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: What's inside?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Do you think it's possible to live like that? Do you? I just can't handle the normalness of it, you know? The suburban righteousness and sanctimoniousness. It's all bullshit!"
"I know, babe. We've gotta get out of here. Just pack our bags and hit the road."
"Yeah, you're right. Let's do it. Come here, sugar."
Lola watched Lead Actor and Lead Actress mash their lips together while keeping their faces pointed to camera. Their skill at always being front and center, no matter the scene, never ceased to amaze her. She tried not to drop the boom mic as the usual nausea crept up her throat. They slobbered and petted their way to the bed with Lola and the camera crew staying close until the director yelled, "Cut!"
Five takes later, the make-out session was over and they had moved outside the house to shoot the final scene. Lola sat on the porch, trying not to smoke her second cigarette of the day. It was already an improvement over yesterdays' three cigarettes by lunchtime, but she had a feeling the yard scene might top that.
Suddenly, one of the extras charged across the lawn. She was smiling and clutching a white cloth in her fist. Just behind her was Lead Actor. He, too, was laughing and, it seemed, shirtless. Lola watched the extra fall to the ground so that she could be caught and the white t-shirt reclaimed. Now they both rolled around in the grass as the grips stepped over them to prep the next scene. Lola lit another American Spirit.
"Hey, Jake!" Lead Actor called out when he saw the director step outside. "I've got a brilliant idea. What if we do an homage to Seven here, you know? He's looking for her and he can't find her, but he finds a box. And so he start's saying, 'What's inside? What's inside the box?'"
"Brilliant, man." Jake smiled and squeezed Lead Actor's shoulders. "Fucking brilliant. This is going to kill at Cannes."
Lola lit a third cigarette with the second.
Step 1: starts with the dialogue: Do you think it's possible to live like that?
Step 2: add a character who is chased
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: What's inside?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Do you think it's possible to live like that? Do you? I just can't handle the normalness of it, you know? The suburban righteousness and sanctimoniousness. It's all bullshit!"
"I know, babe. We've gotta get out of here. Just pack our bags and hit the road."
"Yeah, you're right. Let's do it. Come here, sugar."
Lola watched Lead Actor and Lead Actress mash their lips together while keeping their faces pointed to camera. Their skill at always being front and center, no matter the scene, never ceased to amaze her. She tried not to drop the boom mic as the usual nausea crept up her throat. They slobbered and petted their way to the bed with Lola and the camera crew staying close until the director yelled, "Cut!"
Five takes later, the make-out session was over and they had moved outside the house to shoot the final scene. Lola sat on the porch, trying not to smoke her second cigarette of the day. It was already an improvement over yesterdays' three cigarettes by lunchtime, but she had a feeling the yard scene might top that.
Suddenly, one of the extras charged across the lawn. She was smiling and clutching a white cloth in her fist. Just behind her was Lead Actor. He, too, was laughing and, it seemed, shirtless. Lola watched the extra fall to the ground so that she could be caught and the white t-shirt reclaimed. Now they both rolled around in the grass as the grips stepped over them to prep the next scene. Lola lit another American Spirit.
"Hey, Jake!" Lead Actor called out when he saw the director step outside. "I've got a brilliant idea. What if we do an homage to Seven here, you know? He's looking for her and he can't find her, but he finds a box. And so he start's saying, 'What's inside? What's inside the box?'"
"Brilliant, man." Jake smiled and squeezed Lead Actor's shoulders. "Fucking brilliant. This is going to kill at Cannes."
Lola lit a third cigarette with the second.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Day 1
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place in a museum
Step 2: add a character who is injured
-------------------------------------------------
Stella walked toward the Impressionists room, avoiding eye contact with the security guard. She kept her pace slow and measured, looking around her with suitable awe at the floor to ceiling works adorning the entranceway. Eric shuffled behind her, hands in pockets, head down.
"Stop looking so suspicious," she hissed, turning to point at a work as if commenting on it. "Beautiful lines!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said, looking to where her finger pointed.
"You're an idiot," she said. "I'm trying to look like I belong. You are sticking out like the sorest thumb there ever was."
"We should have kept driving," he muttered, glancing briefly at the large scene of women standing on a beach, their long summer dresses blowing behind them as they held onto their hats.
Stella pulled Eric toward her, whispering in his ear.
"No one here knows about the hold-up. They will be looking for us on the road, not hiding in plain sight at a museum. So stop being such an uncultured asshole and pretend to like the damn art."
She smiled at him, her lips stretched thin, then turned to walk into the next gallery room. Eric pulled his hand through his hair, but removed it quickly when it caught on a shard of glass hiding near his scalp. They hadn't intended to shatter the store door as they made their getaway, but he had been running on adrenaline and had somehow managed to put his boot right through the glass front door. They had immediately shaken off the glass that clung to their shoes and pants, but it hadn't occurred to him that pieces could have flown as high as his head.
He began to brush at his head, trying to shake loose the big shard of glass, and any others that might be hiding in there.
"Ow!" he cried, as a shard scraped against his scalp. He plunged both hands into his hair, then, but could not find the offending pieces of glass. When he pulled his hands back out, he saw that they were covered in blood. He also saw the security guard turn to look at him, so he tucked his hands into his pockets and turned his gaze to the paintings. When the guard looked away, Eric dashed toward the room where he last saw Stella disappear.
Step 1: takes place in a museum
Step 2: add a character who is injured
-------------------------------------------------
Stella walked toward the Impressionists room, avoiding eye contact with the security guard. She kept her pace slow and measured, looking around her with suitable awe at the floor to ceiling works adorning the entranceway. Eric shuffled behind her, hands in pockets, head down.
"Stop looking so suspicious," she hissed, turning to point at a work as if commenting on it. "Beautiful lines!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said, looking to where her finger pointed.
"You're an idiot," she said. "I'm trying to look like I belong. You are sticking out like the sorest thumb there ever was."
"We should have kept driving," he muttered, glancing briefly at the large scene of women standing on a beach, their long summer dresses blowing behind them as they held onto their hats.
Stella pulled Eric toward her, whispering in his ear.
"No one here knows about the hold-up. They will be looking for us on the road, not hiding in plain sight at a museum. So stop being such an uncultured asshole and pretend to like the damn art."
She smiled at him, her lips stretched thin, then turned to walk into the next gallery room. Eric pulled his hand through his hair, but removed it quickly when it caught on a shard of glass hiding near his scalp. They hadn't intended to shatter the store door as they made their getaway, but he had been running on adrenaline and had somehow managed to put his boot right through the glass front door. They had immediately shaken off the glass that clung to their shoes and pants, but it hadn't occurred to him that pieces could have flown as high as his head.
He began to brush at his head, trying to shake loose the big shard of glass, and any others that might be hiding in there.
"Ow!" he cried, as a shard scraped against his scalp. He plunged both hands into his hair, then, but could not find the offending pieces of glass. When he pulled his hands back out, he saw that they were covered in blood. He also saw the security guard turn to look at him, so he tucked his hands into his pockets and turned his gaze to the paintings. When the guard looked away, Eric dashed toward the room where he last saw Stella disappear.
Howdy
When I was 10 or 11 years old, I wrote a story about a boy who had a bicycle. I don't recall the plot, in fact, I'm pretty sure there wasn't one, but I do remember that I liked having written it. And I felt good enough about my writing that I kept doing it.
When I was 13, someone came to my school to talk to us about suicide prevention. They showed Billy Joel's "Second Wind" video—I was fascinated. It hadn't occurred to me prior to that day that someone could be depressed enough to kill themselves. For my next English class writing assignment, I wrote a story about a teen boy who commits suicide. I got an "A." My confidence as a writer was now teacher-endorsed.
This confidence carried me through high school and college where I wrote plays, short stories, newspaper columns, and TV scripts. (I was a communications major with a concentration in television.) But something happened after college. I made career and life choices that pulled me away from creative writing. My writing efforts grew sporadic and I lost confidence, often to the point of editing my ideas before they hit the page, killing them instead of taking a chance.
Now it is spring of 2015—many, MANY years after high school and college—and I am still making only sporadic attempts at writing fiction. I am a single parent with two kids and a full-time job, all of which means I have a multitude of excuses to push writing aside day after day.
But there is also something about this spring that has been transformative for me—I feel as though I've come out of a mental hibernation. I have started organizing the house (I've joined the cult of Marie Kondo, I'll admit it), watching what I eat, finding new levels of patience with my teenager, and generally feeling capable of almost anything.
Except creative writing. There I am still blocked, or I was until just this week. It started with yet another attempt to find inspiration. I decided to look for a writing prompt app on my iPhone. Sure enough, I found one that got me writing twice in as many days. But with no real deadlines or expectations, I found reasons not to continue on the third day.
That's when I made the decision to start this blog. I want something that will keep me writing regularly, and if that means putting myself out there and feeling an obligation to keep producing something in case someone might read it, why not? And I need to get over the fear that everything I write might suck. It probably does. So why not accept it and roll with it.
Some may wonder if this is yet another gimmick in a long line of "something-every-day" challenges that have permeated the Internet. Of course it is. The idea of writing every day is wholly unoriginal, as is doing something every day and telling strangers about it online. I'm not the first, nor will I be the last. But, if this benefits my stalled fiction writing efforts and crisis of confidence, while at the same time either entertaining someone or making them feel better about their own skills by comparison, then it has served a purpose, gimmick or not.
I hope you'll read my attempts and comment. I am a fragile egg, but I'm ready to put it all out there. I know that it will suck for a while, but I hope it will improve. Let's see how this goes.
When you press "start," you go to a screen that says "Start writing a story that..." followed by the Step 1 writing prompt. For example, "Start writing a story that... starts with this dialogue: I have an idea!" You can accept the prompt or ask for another. Once you accept the prompt, you write for one minute (or for however many minutes you chose in the app setting). When the time is up, the screen shows the Step 2 prompt, which has you add an idea, word, character, sentence, place, or action to your story. At each step, you can accept the prompt or ask for a different one.
When I was 13, someone came to my school to talk to us about suicide prevention. They showed Billy Joel's "Second Wind" video—I was fascinated. It hadn't occurred to me prior to that day that someone could be depressed enough to kill themselves. For my next English class writing assignment, I wrote a story about a teen boy who commits suicide. I got an "A." My confidence as a writer was now teacher-endorsed.
This confidence carried me through high school and college where I wrote plays, short stories, newspaper columns, and TV scripts. (I was a communications major with a concentration in television.) But something happened after college. I made career and life choices that pulled me away from creative writing. My writing efforts grew sporadic and I lost confidence, often to the point of editing my ideas before they hit the page, killing them instead of taking a chance.
Now it is spring of 2015—many, MANY years after high school and college—and I am still making only sporadic attempts at writing fiction. I am a single parent with two kids and a full-time job, all of which means I have a multitude of excuses to push writing aside day after day.
But there is also something about this spring that has been transformative for me—I feel as though I've come out of a mental hibernation. I have started organizing the house (I've joined the cult of Marie Kondo, I'll admit it), watching what I eat, finding new levels of patience with my teenager, and generally feeling capable of almost anything.
Except creative writing. There I am still blocked, or I was until just this week. It started with yet another attempt to find inspiration. I decided to look for a writing prompt app on my iPhone. Sure enough, I found one that got me writing twice in as many days. But with no real deadlines or expectations, I found reasons not to continue on the third day.
That's when I made the decision to start this blog. I want something that will keep me writing regularly, and if that means putting myself out there and feeling an obligation to keep producing something in case someone might read it, why not? And I need to get over the fear that everything I write might suck. It probably does. So why not accept it and roll with it.
Some may wonder if this is yet another gimmick in a long line of "something-every-day" challenges that have permeated the Internet. Of course it is. The idea of writing every day is wholly unoriginal, as is doing something every day and telling strangers about it online. I'm not the first, nor will I be the last. But, if this benefits my stalled fiction writing efforts and crisis of confidence, while at the same time either entertaining someone or making them feel better about their own skills by comparison, then it has served a purpose, gimmick or not.
I hope you'll read my attempts and comment. I am a fragile egg, but I'm ready to put it all out there. I know that it will suck for a while, but I hope it will improve. Let's see how this goes.
The Rules
It's pretty simple. I will write for at least 15 minutes every day in this blog. I will start with the Writing Challenge app (see below), but I may move onto other free writing inspirations later. I'm allowed to make simple changes as I am writing, but I can't go back to edit later. (Well, except if I spot a typo. I can't let those go…)The App
I will start my free writing with the Writing Challenge app (produced by Literautas.com). Here's a quick explanation of how it works.When you press "start," you go to a screen that says "Start writing a story that..." followed by the Step 1 writing prompt. For example, "Start writing a story that... starts with this dialogue: I have an idea!" You can accept the prompt or ask for another. Once you accept the prompt, you write for one minute (or for however many minutes you chose in the app setting). When the time is up, the screen shows the Step 2 prompt, which has you add an idea, word, character, sentence, place, or action to your story. At each step, you can accept the prompt or ask for a different one.
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