Start writing a story that…
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She gave him a book…
Step 2: include this sentence: She hid the letter
--------------------------------
She gave him a book on their third date. An obscure Russian novel, unreadable by many accounts, that Lana had barely slogged through herself 10 years prior while on a mission to read everything in her college library. She didn't share its views nor care if Adam found meaning in its pages, but she wanted to know if he would read it for her, even after they went to bed together, which she already knew they would do that night.
They agreed to meet for coffee two days later. She arrived first and chose a small table on the patio where she could watch the pedestrians flow in and out of the little neighborhood shops. After ordering her espresso, she took a deep breath and took out a letter from her pocket. It was from her brother, who believed in living off-the-grid, and only sent her letters in the mail with no return address and never from the same postal code. The letters themselves were a jumble of generalities about his health and that of his dog, but with no actual details that could trace the letter's contents back to him. He also wrote complaints about the government and accused her of turning a blind eye to the dark realities so evident around her. She read a few lines, then skimmed down through the tiny cursive text to the bottom of the third page where she saw his usual closing: "When you wake up and realize your mistakes, send a letter to the parrot queen. She'll know how to reach me."
"Everything okay?"
Startled, Lana looked up from her letter and saw Adam standing beside the table and the waiter holding out the chair opposite her. She quickly smiled.
"Yes!" she said. She hid the letter back in her pocket and stood up to hug him. When they sat back down, she saw that he held the Russian novel in his hands.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Day 42
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He put on his hat
Step 2: add a scene that takes place in a big city
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He put on his hat, a gray fedora with a pigeon feather sticking out of the band, and stepped into the dark city street. He began to make his way up the block, tightening the belt of his overcoat, which he wore despite the heavy summer heat. Several cabs drove past him, but he made no move to flag them down. Lenny had a mystery to solve, and he felt the walk was just what he needed to focus his mind.
After two blocks, he came to Ritchie's Pizzeria, a favorite when he was on a case. He stepped inside and ordered two cheese slices and a root beer.
"Hey, Lenny!" said Ritchie as he slid the slices onto a paper plate. "Another case today?"
"Yeah," Lenny said. "Tough one."
"You'll get it!"
Lenny paid for the slices and soda and sat at a table beside the window. He took out a notebook and began writing some observations as he took bites of the pizza. With no Dr. Watson or other assistant to write about the details of his work, it was all on him to keep a clear record. Looking around the restaurant, he saw Ritchie working alone at the counter while Virgil cooked in the back. At a table near the counter sat a man and woman in their early 30s. They were sharing a large green pepper and olive pizza while typing on their respective phones. Lenny watched as the woman refilled her glass from the pitcher of soda, then offered to refill the man's glass, but he should his head. She put the pitcher back down and resumed looking at her phone while she drank.
Lenny wrote in his notebook:
Man and woman. Phones. Intense.
Potential 1: Having affairs?
Potential 2: Laundering money?
Potential 3: Secret identities?
Lenny recognized the potential for future business. He stood up to throw away his plate and walked an extra wide loop to the trashcans so that he could go past their table. As he did, he slid his card in front of them. "Leonard Martin, Private Eye." They briefly looked up from their phones, confused. He tipped his fedora at them.
"Just give a call," he said, and headed back out onto the city streets.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He put on his hat
Step 2: add a scene that takes place in a big city
-----------------------------------------------
He put on his hat, a gray fedora with a pigeon feather sticking out of the band, and stepped into the dark city street. He began to make his way up the block, tightening the belt of his overcoat, which he wore despite the heavy summer heat. Several cabs drove past him, but he made no move to flag them down. Lenny had a mystery to solve, and he felt the walk was just what he needed to focus his mind.
After two blocks, he came to Ritchie's Pizzeria, a favorite when he was on a case. He stepped inside and ordered two cheese slices and a root beer.
"Hey, Lenny!" said Ritchie as he slid the slices onto a paper plate. "Another case today?"
"Yeah," Lenny said. "Tough one."
"You'll get it!"
Lenny paid for the slices and soda and sat at a table beside the window. He took out a notebook and began writing some observations as he took bites of the pizza. With no Dr. Watson or other assistant to write about the details of his work, it was all on him to keep a clear record. Looking around the restaurant, he saw Ritchie working alone at the counter while Virgil cooked in the back. At a table near the counter sat a man and woman in their early 30s. They were sharing a large green pepper and olive pizza while typing on their respective phones. Lenny watched as the woman refilled her glass from the pitcher of soda, then offered to refill the man's glass, but he should his head. She put the pitcher back down and resumed looking at her phone while she drank.
Lenny wrote in his notebook:
Man and woman. Phones. Intense.
Potential 1: Having affairs?
Potential 2: Laundering money?
Potential 3: Secret identities?
Lenny recognized the potential for future business. He stood up to throw away his plate and walked an extra wide loop to the trashcans so that he could go past their table. As he did, he slid his card in front of them. "Leonard Martin, Private Eye." They briefly looked up from their phones, confused. He tipped his fedora at them.
"Just give a call," he said, and headed back out onto the city streets.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Day 41
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: takes place in an invented country
Step 2: includes this sentence: Then, he visited a fortune teller
Step 3: starts with this dialogue: "Why are you so late?"
-----------------------------------------
Carla's flight had been uneventful, though somehow off-putting in ways she couldn't enumerate in her first email home to her parents. She sensed, rather than knew, that she was the only American on the plane to Murlinia, and she assumed that everyone else had the same thought: why was she there?
The man sitting beside her had been pleasant and tried to engage her in conversation. When he realized she didn't speak his language, he shifted to English, though his look told her it was incumbent on her to have learned Murlinian as she was traveling there. He chatted about his children, who were anxious for his safe return. Before he left, his wife had had a terrible dream in which he died in a terrible car accident while in New York on business. Then, he had visited a fortune teller, and she also saw his death, but in a mugging. He said felt fairly secure now that he was off of New York soil and headed back home, but how does one really know? Carla had no answer for him, and so they continued the rest of the flight in silence.
Walking into the airport terminal, Carla felt her foreignness radiate from her body like a shiny force field that both attracted attention and pushed people a certain distance away from wherever she stood. She wandered among the gates until she finally understood from the drawings on the signs where to go to meet her ride.
Outside stood a row of orange cars that had the appearance of taxis, and beyond them a row of black official cars with drivers in uniforms holding signs. The sign furthest to the left read "Carla Bickford" and she made her way toward it.
"Why are you so late?" the driver said, grabbing her single bag and shoving it into the trunk. He made no move to open the door for her, so she began to open the passenger side door.
"In the back!" he said as he opened the driver side door and slid inside.
She climbed into the rear seat and sat diagonally from him. The car peeled out from the curb as she struggled to buckle the seatbelt.
Step 1: takes place in an invented country
Step 2: includes this sentence: Then, he visited a fortune teller
Step 3: starts with this dialogue: "Why are you so late?"
-----------------------------------------
Carla's flight had been uneventful, though somehow off-putting in ways she couldn't enumerate in her first email home to her parents. She sensed, rather than knew, that she was the only American on the plane to Murlinia, and she assumed that everyone else had the same thought: why was she there?
The man sitting beside her had been pleasant and tried to engage her in conversation. When he realized she didn't speak his language, he shifted to English, though his look told her it was incumbent on her to have learned Murlinian as she was traveling there. He chatted about his children, who were anxious for his safe return. Before he left, his wife had had a terrible dream in which he died in a terrible car accident while in New York on business. Then, he had visited a fortune teller, and she also saw his death, but in a mugging. He said felt fairly secure now that he was off of New York soil and headed back home, but how does one really know? Carla had no answer for him, and so they continued the rest of the flight in silence.
Walking into the airport terminal, Carla felt her foreignness radiate from her body like a shiny force field that both attracted attention and pushed people a certain distance away from wherever she stood. She wandered among the gates until she finally understood from the drawings on the signs where to go to meet her ride.
Outside stood a row of orange cars that had the appearance of taxis, and beyond them a row of black official cars with drivers in uniforms holding signs. The sign furthest to the left read "Carla Bickford" and she made her way toward it.
"Why are you so late?" the driver said, grabbing her single bag and shoving it into the trunk. He made no move to open the door for her, so she began to open the passenger side door.
"In the back!" he said as he opened the driver side door and slid inside.
She climbed into the rear seat and sat diagonally from him. The car peeled out from the curb as she struggled to buckle the seatbelt.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Day 40
There it sat on the cream carpet at the bottom of the stairs, its black eyes fixed on hers and its whiskers frozen. Then its tail twitched, and she watched as Mrs. Fluffbottom emerged from behind the couch, causing the mouse to jump a foot in the air and then zig-zag into the kitchen. From the stairs landing where she stood, Jemma could no longer see the cat or the mouse, but she heard thumping and high-pitched squeaking at short intervals. Upstairs, the newborn, home only two days, began his call, a chirpy "eh eh" that sounded like he was trying to reach something just out of his grasp but really meant that he was hungry. Then came the stomping sounds of the four-year-old coming down the stairs.
"Mommy, what's the noise?" Mia said, blinking her eyes against the light and tugging at her pajama shirt, now curled up above her belly.
"Just the cat," Jemma said.
"Is Mrs. Fluffbottom okay?"
"Oh, yes, she's fine. Go back up to bed." Jemma tried to turn Mia back toward the upstairs. She felt rooted in her spot, not wanting to engage in the battle playing out below nor to leave her vantage point above the fray and expose the upstairs to the panicked flight of the mouse.
"Can I check on her?" Mia said.
"No, back to bed." Jemma lifted her and took her up the four steps to the upstairs hall. She set her down in the bedroom doorway, then closed the childproofing gate at the top of the stairs.
"Goodnight," Jemma said and hopped back down to her spot on the landing. Sounds continued to come from the kitchen below where she couldn't survey the action. She could still see Mia standing beyond the gate, eyeing her with the distrust of a toddler who has learned that parents keep secrets.
Then came the simultaneous wail of the baby upstairs and the yowl of Mrs. Fluffbottom below. Jemma's feet sprinted into action before her brain was conscious of the direction they had chosen. In two large bounds she was through the gate and inside the children's bedroom. In the crib, Jacob flailed his arms and cried between short gulps of air. Jemma felt around the crib until her hand landed on the pacifier, lost between the folds of the small blanket. She placed it back in Jacob's mouth and swaddled him in the blanket again, fighting against his angry arms. He sucked on the pacifier briefly then knocked it out before his arms were close at his sides again. Jemma placed the pacifier in once more, but she could see his face growing red. There was no stemming the tide. She felt her heavy breasts respond to his cries and begin to release drops into the small pads tucked inside her bra.
"Stay here!" she said to Mia, who still stood in the doorway.
Jemma ran down to the landing and surveyed the floor below. The squeaking had grown louder and the thumping more frequent. She moved down the remaining four steps, pausing at each one, waiting for the sounds to change. Before touching down on the carpet below the last step, she peeked around the corner. The cat, her tail slicing side to side like a sword, sat at the entrance to the pantry. Her right paw darted beneath the half-open accordion door, generating a thumping sound each time she rattle it. Loud squeaking came from just behind the door, and then Jemma noticed the light streaks of red in the carpet where Mrs. Fluffbottom's paw had rubbed as it plunged in and out of the space underneath. Jemma's stomach turned as her hands began to shake, her fingers suddenly cold as if plunged into ice water. Then she heard Mia's cry behind her.
"What's wrong with Mrs. Fluffbottom?"
"Mommy, what's the noise?" Mia said, blinking her eyes against the light and tugging at her pajama shirt, now curled up above her belly.
"Just the cat," Jemma said.
"Is Mrs. Fluffbottom okay?"
"Oh, yes, she's fine. Go back up to bed." Jemma tried to turn Mia back toward the upstairs. She felt rooted in her spot, not wanting to engage in the battle playing out below nor to leave her vantage point above the fray and expose the upstairs to the panicked flight of the mouse.
"Can I check on her?" Mia said.
"No, back to bed." Jemma lifted her and took her up the four steps to the upstairs hall. She set her down in the bedroom doorway, then closed the childproofing gate at the top of the stairs.
"Goodnight," Jemma said and hopped back down to her spot on the landing. Sounds continued to come from the kitchen below where she couldn't survey the action. She could still see Mia standing beyond the gate, eyeing her with the distrust of a toddler who has learned that parents keep secrets.
Then came the simultaneous wail of the baby upstairs and the yowl of Mrs. Fluffbottom below. Jemma's feet sprinted into action before her brain was conscious of the direction they had chosen. In two large bounds she was through the gate and inside the children's bedroom. In the crib, Jacob flailed his arms and cried between short gulps of air. Jemma felt around the crib until her hand landed on the pacifier, lost between the folds of the small blanket. She placed it back in Jacob's mouth and swaddled him in the blanket again, fighting against his angry arms. He sucked on the pacifier briefly then knocked it out before his arms were close at his sides again. Jemma placed the pacifier in once more, but she could see his face growing red. There was no stemming the tide. She felt her heavy breasts respond to his cries and begin to release drops into the small pads tucked inside her bra.
"Stay here!" she said to Mia, who still stood in the doorway.
Jemma ran down to the landing and surveyed the floor below. The squeaking had grown louder and the thumping more frequent. She moved down the remaining four steps, pausing at each one, waiting for the sounds to change. Before touching down on the carpet below the last step, she peeked around the corner. The cat, her tail slicing side to side like a sword, sat at the entrance to the pantry. Her right paw darted beneath the half-open accordion door, generating a thumping sound each time she rattle it. Loud squeaking came from just behind the door, and then Jemma noticed the light streaks of red in the carpet where Mrs. Fluffbottom's paw had rubbed as it plunged in and out of the space underneath. Jemma's stomach turned as her hands began to shake, her fingers suddenly cold as if plunged into ice water. Then she heard Mia's cry behind her.
"What's wrong with Mrs. Fluffbottom?"
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Day 39
The lipstick tube was black and reflective, like the hood of a Corvette or a patent leather handbag, and Maura had to have it. It was only $6.99 at Rite Aid and had nothing in common with the expensive items it brought to mind, but when Maura saw it on the shelf, it called out to her. She knew if she were to pull this lipstick tube out of her purse and reapply it at a party, it would add to her entire look. No one could say she didn't belong.
She looked around her on all sides and quickly pocketed the lipstick. Then she began walking down the makeup aisle, examining assorted blushes and eye shadows. When she reached the back of the store, she turned into the next aisle and, pausing to show interest in one item or another every few feet, made her way back to the front of the store. Just before she reached the counter, she grabbed two packages of spearmint gum and put them in front of the cashier, a young kid about her own age with dark red hair and freckles so thick they lay in patches across his nose.
“Will that be all?” the red-headed cashier said. Maura looked at the gum on the counter then back at the cashier, noting the name tag pinned to the left-side pocket of his white collared shirt.
“That’s it, Dave,” she said, smiling. He scanned the gum on the register and placed it into a small plastic bag that he took from behind the counter. Then he paused.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, like I said, that’s it.”
“You sure?”
Dave looked over his shoulder at a large mirror hanging along a wall that jutted out into the photo processing area. A short set of stairs led up to a small door that stood just beyond where the mirror ended. Dave turned back to Maura.
“The store is set up with mirrors everywhere,” he said quietly. “That one up there is a one-way mirror to the security room. My manager is up there. He probably saw you.” He said the last part with his voice so low Maura wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
“Saw what?” she said, smiling again. She put her hand on her chest so that she could feel her rapid breaths push against her ribcage.
"He's had someone arrested before."
"For buying gum?"
"For stealing."
Maura bit her lower lip as her excitement drained. If the police were called, there was no guarantee she'd be released with only a warning again. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the lipstick, placing it on the counter. She watched as Dave rang it up, his fingers rubbing against the shiny black tube. Now it looked lifeless and dull. It wasn't what she wanted.
She looked around her on all sides and quickly pocketed the lipstick. Then she began walking down the makeup aisle, examining assorted blushes and eye shadows. When she reached the back of the store, she turned into the next aisle and, pausing to show interest in one item or another every few feet, made her way back to the front of the store. Just before she reached the counter, she grabbed two packages of spearmint gum and put them in front of the cashier, a young kid about her own age with dark red hair and freckles so thick they lay in patches across his nose.
“Will that be all?” the red-headed cashier said. Maura looked at the gum on the counter then back at the cashier, noting the name tag pinned to the left-side pocket of his white collared shirt.
“That’s it, Dave,” she said, smiling. He scanned the gum on the register and placed it into a small plastic bag that he took from behind the counter. Then he paused.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, like I said, that’s it.”
“You sure?”
Dave looked over his shoulder at a large mirror hanging along a wall that jutted out into the photo processing area. A short set of stairs led up to a small door that stood just beyond where the mirror ended. Dave turned back to Maura.
“The store is set up with mirrors everywhere,” he said quietly. “That one up there is a one-way mirror to the security room. My manager is up there. He probably saw you.” He said the last part with his voice so low Maura wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
“Saw what?” she said, smiling again. She put her hand on her chest so that she could feel her rapid breaths push against her ribcage.
"He's had someone arrested before."
"For buying gum?"
"For stealing."
Maura bit her lower lip as her excitement drained. If the police were called, there was no guarantee she'd be released with only a warning again. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the lipstick, placing it on the counter. She watched as Dave rang it up, his fingers rubbing against the shiny black tube. Now it looked lifeless and dull. It wasn't what she wanted.
Yep, Still Here
I ran into a friend at work yesterday—a fellow writer in the off hours—who knew about my blog and asked me how how it was going. I told him that I hadn't done anything on it recently.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Life happened," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. Not in sympathy, of course. No, he was showing his disappointment. And I completely, unequivocally deserved it.
Not that I haven't done any writing. In fact, I took one of the freewrites I started here and fleshed it out into a full story, which I then submitted to a journal. (Fingers crossed...) But, happy as I am to have accomplished that, I'm also aware that I have not done anything even close to daily writing. And that was the big goal.
So here I am again. I've decided to follow the advice of one of my many writing books and made a chart with my daily writing goals. I'm starting small—500 words per day. And until I decide which story to prepare for submission next, those 500 words may as well be freewriting.
Side note: I thought a lot about how to resume numbering my entries because of the gap in time since I last wrote. Do I continue numbering where I left off? (But that implies continuous writing.) Do I skip numbers for the days that I didn't write? (That would be so annoying to keep track of. And does that imply I've done MORE writing than I have because the number is higher? And what about the days that I wrote, but not in the blog?) It made my head spin. Of course then I realized that I shouldn't be wasting my time thinking about how to number these entries. It's just another way to give in to the procrastination. And with that, my decision was made. I will resume the count where I left off! (If you ever wanted to know how my brain worked, that's a small, scary peek into the abyss. You're welcome.)
"What happened?" he asked.
"Life happened," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. Not in sympathy, of course. No, he was showing his disappointment. And I completely, unequivocally deserved it.
Not that I haven't done any writing. In fact, I took one of the freewrites I started here and fleshed it out into a full story, which I then submitted to a journal. (Fingers crossed...) But, happy as I am to have accomplished that, I'm also aware that I have not done anything even close to daily writing. And that was the big goal.
So here I am again. I've decided to follow the advice of one of my many writing books and made a chart with my daily writing goals. I'm starting small—500 words per day. And until I decide which story to prepare for submission next, those 500 words may as well be freewriting.
Side note: I thought a lot about how to resume numbering my entries because of the gap in time since I last wrote. Do I continue numbering where I left off? (But that implies continuous writing.) Do I skip numbers for the days that I didn't write? (That would be so annoying to keep track of. And does that imply I've done MORE writing than I have because the number is higher? And what about the days that I wrote, but not in the blog?) It made my head spin. Of course then I realized that I shouldn't be wasting my time thinking about how to number these entries. It's just another way to give in to the procrastination. And with that, my decision was made. I will resume the count where I left off! (If you ever wanted to know how my brain worked, that's a small, scary peek into the abyss. You're welcome.)
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