Writing Turtles

The good news is that I've been writing this month and for the month of July & August I have written 4,168 words in probably three stories.

The bad news is that it is all over the place and so sloooow. Three stories! That's not how you're supposed to do it. Unfortunately, I'm a slave to the muse. When she says froggy, I jump.

I will say that most of that occurred in Dream Stealer so I feel a bit better about it. Honestly, I feel like I've started a new story there. I'm not writing at all on the original story, but rather, I'm writing the backstory that now feels like it is THE story. So, I have no idea what to do about that. I'm just listening to Simon and writing it all down.

The other two stories were an anthology story and a new (maybe) short story. I don't know. They just happened to present themselves so I went with it.

Does any of this ever happen to other writers? I really want to know!

I'm just so glad to be writing again, even a small amount, that I'll write whatever story my brain pulls out. I was getting seriously depressed at not being able to get the words down. Heck, I couldn't get them out of my head. They were there, sitting, gathering dust and beginning to stink. It is a relief to get rid of them.

I have some plans this week to get me moving and hopefully alleviate some of the fatigue. I don't want to go into it now. Just in case I jinks it. We'll see how that goes.

My goal this week is to see if I can get 500 words down in something that is farther along than what I've been messing with. How about Long Summer Run, whose first draft is so near completion? That's a novel idea.

Of course, I'm very aware that this sudden spate of words could evaporate if a flare hits me like a meteor shower. In a moment, I can go from feeling great to rock bottom. From 60-0. Really.

There is one other bit of good news. August isn't over for a couple of weeks. We'll see how it goes.

As I finished this post and got the title, I realized it is a play on words. Writing Turtles. Writing Hurdles. Riding Turtles. Seemed appropriate.

Don't mind me. I'm tired.

Looking Backward

Sometimes characters just don't make sense. I've been working, off and on, for several years on this story and suddenly, Simon is giving me backstory. I've been writing it down but I have no idea what it is for or how I'll use it. I already know this stuff, more or less. The real problem is that it feels like something. So, I have to write it down. Why? Because Simon says. (He said that. I'd never say that.)

Figured I'd just put some of it here and see what kind of responses, if any, it gets. Please, feel free to weigh in. And I apologize in advance for any errors. It is a first draft. You can view the story at this link.

Dream Stealer

Maybe a Short

So, I sort of have a story that I started a while back that has been sitting on the computer. It didn't have a name initially but now it does. I don't know where it is going or exactly what is going on but I'd like to use it for play. Oddly, it appears, at least on first glance, to be a ghost story... or not.

I opened it tonight and wrote a bit on it and realized I still like the opening....all 1500 words of it. Yes, that's all I've written on it. In over a year...maybe two. It wasn't anything when I started it and I was just doing one of my "exercises". Don't knock it. Those exercise have worked up into some longer stories. If you've ever read about Simon you know already he started life on a lark. He's well beyond that now.

But this one, I'm wondering if it is a short story. I don't feel a long tale in connection with it. I may post some of it at some point, just to see if anyone gives any feedback. For now, it will probably languish a bit since NaNo will demand my blood, sweat, and tears.

Morning Coffee

A month ago I issued a challenge to the writer's group to write 500 words about this:  A man finds a woman he does not know drinking coffee in his kitchen. Alas, I have been sick most of the month, especially the week of the meeting. But I promised the group I'd finish it. And I did. . . tonight. It isn't very good but it got interesting. I took the liberty of switching genders. 

The smell of coffee tugged me awake, out of the dream of a warm, sandy beach where I walked alone, waves lapping at my feet. I lay for several minutes trying to figure out if I was still dreaming. The aroma of coffee upon waking was something straight out of my childhood and I couldn't recall ever, in my adult isolation waking up to that smell in my house. 

I sat up, frowning at my feet on the brown carpet with the cream swirl. No, definitely not a dream. I could smell coffee. Downstairs in my kitchen coffee was brewing. I clenched the edge of the mattress as my heart suddenly double timed and a knot formed in my gut. I live alone.

With every muscle tensing, I eased off the bed and tiptoed toward the door. The aroma grew stronger as I pulled it toward me. For only a moment, I hesitated. Who in the world would be brewing coffee? How had they got in? 

One way to find out, sister. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and crept down the stairs. At the bottom I paused again and listened. The only sound was the ticking of the hall clock that hung on the wall facing the front door. I looked up at it. Six a.m., way too early for me. 

The front hall extended to the back of the house and the kitchen door was the last one on the right. I could tell from the way the light fell that it was opened. I always closed it. I hesitated, looking left and right, and all around the room. No weapons. Fire poker in the living room but I didn't want to risk going back. Mentally I smacked my forehead. Pistol in the nightstand drawer. I shook my head and move forward, hugging the wall. 

When I reached the doorway I stopped again. My heart was pounding like a pile driver and I had to force myself to slow my breathing. I sounded like a marathon runner on his last legs. With a final deep breath I stepped around the door frame and into the kitchen and came to an abrupt stop.

He smiled slowly, a steaming cup halfway to his mouth. Leaning against the counter, his hands cradling the cup he looked perfectly at home. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he winked one of the green eyes at me. “Morning beautiful.”

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I frowned and shook my head. 

“I've made a fresh pot of coffee for you and there's a fresh danish in that white bag.”

I looked at the small white bag lying in the center of the table and then quickly back at the tall man leaning against the counter in my kitchen. I had no idea who he was or how he got in and while I thought it was a nice surprise to find something so delectable in my kitchen, it was more disturbing than nice.

“Who are you?”

He laughed, tilted his head slightly forward and gave me a chiding smile. “You do know you're running late for work?”

I gasped and turned to run back up stairs. 

With some annoyance I slapped the buzzing alarm with one hand and with the other, threw the covers back and, in one smooth motion, I sat up and frowned at my feet on the brown carpet with the cream swirl. I yawned and shook my head. What had that been about? I hated coffee.

The doorbell sounded and I shook my head. Who in the world came calling at, I squinted at the clock, 9:00 a.m.? I gasped. I was late for work. 

I darted across the room and ran down the stairs two at a time. Whoever it was was standing on the buzzer. When I reached the door I yanked it open, ready to give the miscreant a piece of my mind. I looked up into the face of the man who'd been standing in my kitchen, what.. moments ago? 

“Good morning. You wouldn't happen to have any coffee on, would you?" In his hand he held a small white bag.

The One Left Behind

For a week now I've lain here, in the dark and waited for someone to extend their hand and lift me from my squalor. The dust is thick and it feels as if I'm coated from one end to the other. Occasionally a shaft of light filters underneath my prison entryway. Shadows come and go and then the light is extinguished. 

It started at least seven days ago. Gavin came home from ball practice and without a thought he shoved me under the bed with my twin. It wasn't intentional. Really. It's just that he was in a rush and when faced with the decision on what to do with us, he balked, throwing us onto the floor and then, kicking us beneath the edge of the spread that dragged the floor.

We stayed there until Mary actually pulled us out with the vacuum. First my twin and then I was drawn up into the hose. It felt as if we'd be shredded to pieces but Mary acted quickly and turned off the machine and unplugged the hose. She fished us out with care, stared at us, crinkling her nose and uttering a soft grunt. Then, she tossed us into a large wicker receptacle that sat just outside the bathroom door. I don't remember much after that but sometime later, someone dumped several sheets on top of us. Breathing would be impossible for anyone else.

Several days later I could feel the container moving and I knew that someone was carrying it to the sanitization facility. This was a radical event and I wondered if my twin knew what was happening. I had no way to ask and I couldn't see where he was or if he was still here.

The fall, when it came wasn't as bad as I expected. The world seemed to turn on its head and I fell, end over end, until I landed into a large metal container. What came next still give me chills. The sound of running water filled the metal room and soon I could feel the cool waves lapping at my toes. With torturous slowness it crept up until if covered everything in the place. Then something clicked and a motor started and I was swirling around and was pulled and pushed and twisted in every possible direction. It was a nightmare. Twice I bumped into my twin and we tried to hang on to one another but the force of the waves ripped us apart. 

Finally, the water drained away, leaving us beached piles of sheets. I breathed a sigh of relief until I felt the room begin to spin. It went faster and faster until I was slammed against the metal walls and flattened. I couldn't move for what felt like an eternity. When the horror ended, I slid down to the bottom of the room.

I don't know how long it was before we were released. They put is in another room and it whirled around and became very warm. I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember was lying on a bed in a dark room. It was cool and I let myself enjoy the feeling of air as it moved gently around me. My twin lay quietly nearby. We lay there all day and finally the room grew dark, the house grew quiet, and everyone slept. We'd survived another day.

I heard Gavin's feet as he ran down the hallway. "Mom, I need my socks!"

"For goodness sakes, Gavin, you'll wake the whole neighborhood. The socks are on the bed in the spare room."

The door was flung open and the overhead light came on. Gavin reach over and grabbed my twin and then me and raced down the hall.

And it began again.




This was a prompt I found somewhere. Write from the point of view of a sock. 

Generating New Ideas

I thought this was a very good slide show on creativity. We all need help sometimes. I like to share when I stumble across something that looks good. There are some really good ideas  here.

15 ideas on how to generate new ideas from Harish Kumar