Photo Prompt: A Hoppin' Good Time

Photo Prompt: A Pirate's Life for Me!

9 Activities to Reboot Your Muse for #NaNoWriMo (And All Year!)

Don't throw rocks at me for that title. I know I said I'm not big on #NaNoWriMo's 50,000-word race, but I also understand that there are a ton of people who find it helpful and are hot on the keyboard this month. Whether it gets you to actually sit down and write or it pushes you to think outside of the box and write something different, plenty of people enjoy the experience. I'm not here to say any method of writing is wrong; I just know what works for me! With that in mind, those of you participating this year might get stuck. Maybe you'll read this six months from now when you've hit a brick wall. Who knows? Either way, there's no reason to sit staring at the blinking cursor on your screen. Let's try to kick that muse into high gear!

Merriam-webster defines muse as:

1. Any of the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology presiding over song and poetry and the arts and sciences
2. A source of inspiration; especially: a guiding genius
3. Poet

Take a few moments to reflect on your writing process. What is your muse?

I find inspiration in all sorts of things: what I read, what I watch, people I observe, conversations I have, news, history, science, nature...the world around me! The world is an amazing place that can trigger ideas at any moment. For this reason, my phone is my mobile notebook. Anytime I'm struck, I take note. I dictate a note to my phone when I'm in the car. I type out a few sentences, a word, a description, or a piece of dialogue standing in line at the store. You can find inspiration everywhere, but the fact is that sometimes it's simply just hard to get started writing. It's like your mind goes blank when it's time to get it all down and set those ideas free. So how do we fight that? By writing, of course!

The next time you're fighting that dreaded writer's block, try these 9 writing activities:

1. Write a set of 10 haiku poems. These may seem easy, but they'll get you thinking!
2. Try my 30 First Lines Challenge by writing the first line of a story for 30 days.
3. Be a set designer. Write about a room from a character's point of view that's not the owner of the room. Show things that might tell something important about the character. It's great to do this about characters of a work you're stuck on!
4. Write a poem or short story that describes the aftermath of a significant event in the life of a couple or family. 
5. Use a simple tool to generate a writing prompt, including first lines, general subjects, or traditional writing prompts.
6. Pick a random YouTube video and write a story or poem inspired by it. You could get the goat dressed as Elsa or Charlie Bit My Finger. 
7. We all love funny memes. Search for random memes and pick something funny or interesting to write about. 
   
8. Use a random quote. Grab a book from your shelf, open to a random page, and blindly point at a line. You can also use a random quote generator. Use it to start or end a short story.
9. Go to Pinterest! Search for writing prompts and pictures, then use them for inspiration.

With the availability of the internet, there are so many different ways to find things to write about. Tons of funny and inspiring things flow through our Facebook or Twitter feeds every day, and there's no reason we shouldn't take advantage of that to find something to punch through that wall! I even suggest gathering these things for when you need inspiration or a push to write again. Create a private Pinterest board or keep a bookmarks folder of things you come across that might be useful later. Based on my personal experience, I believe the biggest reason we hit writer's block is because we aren't in the mood to write. The best way to combat that is to take a break and write about something new or unusual. Don't be afraid to reboot! Your writing will prove even stronger for it.

Photo Prompt: Weathered Barn

"Weathered Barn" by Rodney Campbell via CC 2.0

Try this as a setting for your next poem or short story. How does it inspire you? 

Lesser Known Literary Terms: Polyptoton

Can you think of other famous examples?

Bittersweet Beach

 Written in one of my classes for creative writing in 2013.

Bittersweet Beach

     It was something I avoided for months. The pain in my chest grew and devoured, the kudzu-like vines suffocating my heart at each mention, thought, or vision of her name. Countless times we'd vacationed here—laughing, spending, relaxing—yet the recent past lingered, shadowing our every move. The innocent brown eyes staring up at me had no clue why everything had suddenly gone silent. Yawning and wiggling, she stood in my lap, placing her large paws on the window's edge to look out in wonder at her new surroundings.

      I should be excited. A first beach trip! The sand, the sun, the water, and my pudgy bulldog running through the surf. Cute overload! Pictures for grandma. A fun family memory.

      Sigh. I should be excited.

      The squeak of the driver's door pulled me to reality, sending a ball of nausea to my gut.

      “You ready?” Brandon asked as he leaned against the door. Nodding, I pulled the now heavy handle and set Aubie out the open door to explore.

      Sniff. Sneeze. Sniff. Sniff. Scratch. She explored the sand as though it was hiding a yummy treat beneath its depths. A warm breeze hugged my body as she lifted her flat nose to smell the ocean air.

      She sniffed the new scent and tugged at her leash, pulling me to the big pool she desperately wanted to taste. Her tail wiggled and feet danced as she begged me to hurry and follow.

      I quickly handed the yanking leash to Brandon and watched the two make their way slowly toward the whispering waves. Tossing my flip flops into the floor board, my feet hit the pavement and I drifted toward a sea of memories.

      I could feel each grain between my toes as my feet sloshed through the sand. Sand flew up as the bounded toward the water, her nose to the ground with every step. Finding the perfect point of view, I dropped upon the warm blanket of beach with camera in hand. I spotted them many feet down the beach, drifting between water and sand as Aubie tugged to each new fascinating sight and sound. The brick-like device in my grasp magnified their actions and the pressure in my chest with each snapped moment in time. Turning back towards me, I saw the twinkle in Brandon's eye and the excitement in hers. A silent exchange. Clap! Bark! And they were off. As feet and paws sailed swiftly over wet sand and incoming surf, every click of the shutter brought forth a similar image and memory from months past.

      “Aubrey,” Brandon laughed as she dragged him forward, the two streaking toward me full of smiles and out of breath. Two feet and four paws cut through the lapping waves with splash after splash. The pounding of his feet and gentle thump of hers echoed through my ears as they raced down the beach. As they came closer, she took a sharp left toward the water.

      Whack! Splash! Water splattered my face and lens. It was a snapshot of my memory: dog dry on the sand and man wet in the water. My lips tasted the salty liquid with each gasp for breath.

      Aubrey stood panting, mocking the soaked, dripping man struggling to wring out his clothes. Huffing as though I was part of the race, I felt the lines in my face as though they'd be permanently etched. The taste of saline water and wind stained my throat while I tried to calm my amusement. The innocent brown eyed wrecker walked over, asking for his forgiveness with a big lick. I laughed harder.

      I dropped back onto the sand, covering my eyes and vibrating in attempt to hold in the hilarity bubbling up my throat. Suddenly, hands wrapped around my ankles and began dragging my body over the lumpy beach, slobbery jowls sliming the fingers I tried to use as anchors in the sand. A double team! Cool water rushed up my back and itching sand gathered in my clothes. Kicking and shrieking, goosebumps covered my limbs while a warm little tongue warmed my face. A satisfied smirk covered his face, my legs now free to drift with the waves.

      Laying my head down, the gurgling water filled my ears, such easy sound lulling me to silence. Lumpy white sky screened the sun, leaving the sea's breath to cool uncovered skin. My fingers drifted softly over silky ears.

      Wind dried our wet skin as we sat side by side on the snug sand. Petting her soft head, her tongue reached out for a quick kiss every few passes. No sound but the crashing of waves met our ears, but inside our minds were screaming. In only two days we'd be waiting by the phone while they attempted to find out why she's so sick. Why she was skin and bones. The peaceful moment was anything but.

      Tears fell silently toward the water as I opened my eyes. A wrinkly face peered down at me, soon met by a paw on my shoulder. My face took a life of its own as those etched lines returned and a giggle escaped my lips. A little pink tongue assaulted my chin, reminding me of the present. Of the happy pup that captured my broken heart.

      Lifting from the surf, I rung out my clothes and headed to the car with Aubie in tow, our feet kicking at the sand during our race up the beach. The dry towels became a game of tug and growl while I rubbed and scrubbed at her soaking fur.

      We spent the last few moments sitting together on the sand, Brandon and I silently stroking her head and back. The clouds overhead drifted past allowing the sun to dry our damp clothes while Aubie lay between us, our healthy girl sleeping soundly after her busy day. The sight made me smile. A new memory was made. A bittersweet beach now holds more than pain.

      We made plans to visit again soon and a promise to take advantage of every given day.

Literary Devices: Anagram

Lesser Known Literary Terms: Circumlocution

Sometimes you just wish someone would say what they mean. No frill, no dancing around the topic, no circumlocution. While this device can improve a story when used carefully and sparingly, too much circumlocution can lose your reader and make reading more tedious than fun. Use circumlocution to have your characters dance around a subject, avoid stating something, provide an important hint, persuade the audience, or amplify humor.

Lesser Known Literary Terms: Caesura

Yes, there is a term for that! You use caesura in your writing without even knowing it every time you place a colon, semicolon, dash, or ellipsis. These pauses are important. They offset, they interject, they emphasize.

"The Pit and the Pendulum" by Edgar Allan Poe is an excellent example of caesura. Poe utilitzes this device to show his narrator's character, his train of thought, and his madness.

I WAS sick --sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence -- the dread sentence of death -- was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears.

I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness was lost. What of it there remained I will not attempt to define, or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber -- no! In delirium -- no! In a swoon -- no! In death -- no! even in the grave all is not lost. 

These shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down -- down -- still down -- till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. 

Down -- steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the right -- to the left -- far and wide -- with the shriek of a damned spirit; to my heart with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I alternately laughed and howled as the one or the other idea grew predominant. 

By using caesura carefully and intentionally, you can help your reader paint a clearer picture of your intent and, as in Poe's story, of your characters. This device is more powerful than you might have thought.

Word Prompt: A Piece of This, A Piece of That

Practicing 2nd Person: Escaping the Horde

     You cringe at the sound of your boots hitting the pavement and look around quickly to gauge the scene. So far so good. The old bus's door squeaks closed behind you, shutting you off from your only shelter and setting your body in high alert. The wind blows quietly from the west, waving your long red hair in your eyes and you quickly pull it back to clear your vision. Cars are piled over the horizon you're scanning, their wreckage hiding dangers you know are sitting in wait. The woods on each side of the highway are empty, but you know it's only temporary. A distant moan startles you, setting you into motion toward the two waving figures ahead. A soft click behind you is a reminder of the armed man watching over you. You take a deep breath as you wade into a graveyard of vehicles and dead.

      You start forward, bending your knees to duck down below the tops of the wreckage. Each hulking form blocks the breeze, keep your scent close and out of the reach of the hungry dead hiding yards away. The once distant shuffling of corpses creeps closer with each of your hurried steps. You constantly eye your surroundings from left to right as you keep a steady, fast pace toward your target. Every few cars you stop to lean against the safety of cold steel and aluminum and listen. With no unwanted sounds nearby, you start forward again. Two figures atop an RV lay low in wait as you close in.

      As you pass a large SUV, something suddenly yanks your shirt, pulling you backwards toward a rotten stench. It's moan sends a shiver up your spine, and the front of your collar digs into your throat sending nausea and fear to your gut. The sound of its clicking teeth echoes in your ear as you struggle to pull forward from its grasp. Your left hand pulls against your shirt to give you leverage against its firm grip while your right hand reaches for the cool steel stored against your hip. Just as your pistol comes free, a loud bang rings throughout the landscape and the pressure instantly releases from your neck. A quick look reveals the wasting woman at your feet, her dirty nurses uniform more evidence of her actions while dead than any living act of heroism. You turn toward Mike and give a quick thumbs up before sprinting toward the RV.

      The reinforced camper housed the young couple who had waved you down when they heard the bus's motor approach. You saw them sitting on the camper, arms waving silently, frantically, in hopes of rescue, and you knew you had to act. As you finally approach, you see evidence of their survival. Dark blood and scratches cover the sides of the RV and bodies of the dead litter the ground nearby. You smile as their feet touch the ground and waste no time turning back. Your eyes widen as you register movement all over the highway.

      Mike's shot had awakened the hibernating dead throughout the highway. The moaning, shuffling corpses bob and weave amongst the wreckage, honing in on the loud sound that disturbed their slumber. The dead wander in your path, their moans growing to a loud chorus as more begin to move and salivate at the smell of dinner. Your blood runs cold as they begin to notice the living in their midst and you immediately reach for your weapon. Aiming your pistol forward, you move toward the bus, mouthing a silent prayer and steeling yourself for a fight.

      A stream of loud bangs begin as you start forward. The sounds of your steps echo over the highway, but there is no time to stay quiet. You step over the corpses grounded by Mike's shots, black liquid oozing from the holes in each head. Businessmen, repairmen, teachers, children. One by one they drop to clear your path. A loud scream tears through the air as you whip your head around to the couple behind you. A tatter-suited man has the young woman by the arm, his gaping, black mouth inching toward her as she struggled from his grasp. Just as you aim toward its head, the corpse drops, revealing the young man bringing up the rear. A woman in military uniform has him pushed against the door of a red Cadillac, her mouth reaching for his throat but not faster than the shot that tore through her rotting head. She drops to the ground as you yank the woman forward and hope the young man follows.

      Your heart sinks as you gain a clearer view of the bus. The dead crowd it three bodies deep and even from afar you can see the terror in Mike's eyes. You see him shouting as you continue sprinting with the others in tow. Head continue to explode around you as the movement on top of the bus increases. Suddenly, you see Mike motion for you to hit the floor as a corpse falls at your feet. Yanking down the woman behind you, you drop to your hands and knees and brace yourself.

      A loud boom hits, followed by a second. Your ears begin to ring as you see debris rain upon the men hugging the roof of the bus. Mike waves you forward and you hesitantly rise to your feet, waiting for some of the straggling dead to pass toward the blasts before streaking toward the bus. The door flies open just in time and you climb aboard, letting out a long-held breath and urging your heart to slow its hectic rate. Your fellow survivors begin checking you over, but you brush them off and drift in a daze toward the nearest empty seat. You drop down and lean against the back, watching the group take care of the newest members and listening to the bumps of the dead hitting and squishing beneath the bus.

      Just as your eyes close, you hear someone drop from in from the roof. Mike crawls onto a seat a collapses into a tired heap. You gather your last bit of strength and go to him, laying your body upon his and taking in his comforting warmth. You lean in and kiss his lips, his eyes opening to meet yours.

      “Never again, woman,” he sighs sleepily. “You're going to be the death of me.”

      You smile shyly and lay your head on his chest, the sound of the dead beneath the tires lulling you to sleep.

13 Quotes On Writing You'll Want to Remember

When I'm in a writing funk, I find it helpful to remember all of the important and interesting things successful writers said about writing. These experienced creative minds understand the ups and downs of getting ideas onto paper. They understand disappointment and frustration. They completely get all of the obstacles beginning writers face, and it makes me feel better to I remember there are people out there who succeeded when all I want to do is bang my head against the wall.

Right now I am in a creative writing slump, so I made a visit to Google. Here are the results of my search. If you're a writer, you're not going to want to miss these. They'll give you hope. They'll guide you. They'll remind you of the most important thing: just keep writing.

But then your writing flows and you know: "I've got this."

You know what that means. JUST WRITE!

Take a chance! Write with abandon! Try something new!

Just keep writing, just keep writing...

Nope, it's not only you.

Your writing is a part of you.

This is something some writers forget.

Remember why you write.

Be more creative than that.

Show. Don't tell.

It's the verb that's often hardest.

What makes the better impact? What really paints the picture?

A writer's life.

The Creative Mind: A Paradox

Have you ever wondered how a musician can go from a superstar, large stage presence to trapped in mousey-quiet during an interview? How an introverted author goes from spending long days avoiding people to talking openly, animatedly about their work to an audience? It may be old news to us creative types, but according to an article from from Fast Company, creative people are a paradox.

(creative quote by Sean MacEntee via CC) 

Creative minds are full of contradictory personality traits that may not appear on the surface. Like the musician who blossoms as they step on stage, we can be both introverted and extroverted. I can fully relate to this as I can turn it on and off depending on the situation. I am confident and in charge while at work, but I am quiet and introverted in my personal life. I am animated when speaking of my creative pursuits, but I am reserved when speaking of my ordinary hobbies.

In my opinion, the truest point about the paradox of creative people goes to good ole number 6: "Creative people are humble and proud at the same time." Creative types can be self-effacing and are often hardest on themselves. As a writer, rarely am I ever satisfied with my work. Even if I know it's good, if I know I've coined the perfect phrase or built a beautiful scene, I know I can do better. I find myself wondering if it's a blessing or a curse because that same drive that makes me want to do better also makes me second guess everything. I guess we just call that editing. At the same time, I am proud of what I write and love to talk it up to anyone who is interested. I'm hard on myself because I want to be proud of my work.

So, creative types speak up: which paradoxical trait do you most embody?

A Bittersweet Goodbye

It strikes a chord to see you go,

Yet the tune is airy and light

Each note ringing high and free.

This chorus is merely filler.

Your next verse is sure to reverberate,

line by line.

40 Ways to Strengthen Your Writing and Avoid a "Very" Weak Word

Writer's often hear a simple, yet vitally important, piece of advice:

Never use the word, ‘very.’ It is the weakest word in the English language; doesn’t mean anything. If you feel the urge of ‘very’ coming on, just write the word, ‘damn,’ in the place of ‘very.’ The editor will strike out the word, ‘damn,’ and you will have a good sentence.

- William Allen White

"Very" often serves as a go-to word for many, but it simply leaves writing flat. Good writing draws the reader in and creates the writer's world in the reader's imagination. People imagine things with various differences, but when an author really paints a perfect picture, it helps readers to better "see" what the author "saw" when drafting the novel or poem. Compare the following three descriptions of the same scene:

Some rights reserved by Nick Kenrick.

1. Vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges blew very slowly across the sidewalk.

2. Vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges blew lazily across the sidewalk.

In this example, the idea is the same, but the presentation stands stronger because the word is stronger. As an intensifier, very is a modifier that provides no real meaning except to enhance or add force to the words that it modifies. Simply put, it's lazy filler. Admit it: it's easier to say something is very tall instead of thinking of a more descriptive word (such as towering) or thinking creatively (maybe using a metaphor or simile?). Shortcuts don't always breed success, however, and a good writer understands that readers desire substance, thought, and ingenuity.

The next time you find yourself writing that damn word very, sit back and reconsider. The English language overflows with synonyms for the simple word you chose. That's what makes writing so wonderful: the only limit is your imagination. Be creative! If you find yourself stuck, try one of the 50 very good  excellent replacements below.

very	bad	Awful	Atrocious
very	cold	Frigid	Freezing
very	wet	Drenched	Soggy
very	expensive	Costly	Pricey
very	sad	Depressed	Melancholy
very	fun	Entertaining	Delightful
very	happy	Ecstatic	Pleased
very	cute	Adorable	Precious
very	hot	Sizzling	Suffocating
very	painful	Agonizing	Excruiciating
very	tired	Exhausted	Pooped
very	comfortable	Cozy	Snug
very	boring	Monotonous	Tiresome
very	bright	Radiant	Vivid
very	dull	Dim	Witless
very	dark	Murky	Somber
very	clean	Immaculate	Unblemished
very	deep	Profound	Fathomless
very	young	Youthful	Juvenile
very	late	Belated	Delayed
very	tall	Lanky	Towering
very	short	Condensed	Abbreviated
very	small	Minuscule	Petite
very	big	Gigantic	Substantial
very	hairy	Fuzzy	Bewhiskered
very	shiny	Sparkling	Lustrous
very	calm	Harmonious	Serene
very	angry	Furious	Enraged
very	dry	Arid	Parched
very	long	Elongated	Stretched
very	gentle	Amiable	Tame
very	harsh	Bitter	Coarse
very	loud	Roaring	Boisterous
very	quiet	Muted	Hushed
very	nasty	Noxious	Vulgar
very	good	Favorable	Pleasing
very	smelly	Fetid	Rancid
very	bloody	Grisly	Crimson
very	thirsty	Parched	Droughty
very	hungry	Ravenous	Starved

The Stairwell

Week after week I saw him. He slowly descended, step after step, holding onto the railing for dear life as people absently rushed past. The elevator in our crumbling complex had failed some time ago and now this stairwell buzzed with activity. People raced and skipped over steps and puddled landings to reach their destination before the dank smell settled firmly in their noses. But not him. 

I watched him from the top one morning. Briefcase in one hand, the other attached firmly to the rusty rail, he creeped down the concrete steps with wide eyes and slow breaths. His once pressed suit hung wrinkled from his stiff shoulders. He pulled into himself more with each person who brushed past. I wondered briefly why he was alone. Many times we'd shared the elevator to our floor, his smile wide as he tightly grasped the brunette's hand and kissed it sweetly. 

As I descended behind him, he stopped and waited for me to pass. I stood beside him under the flickering overhead light. Our feet rested side-by-side, toes hanging over the edge to shadow the next step. He glanced quickly in my direction then stared right back toward the floor.

“Good morning,” I greeted, leaning forward to catch his eyes. “I saw you walking and thought we might walk the six flights down together. It's a long way to the bottom when you're alone.”

A shy smile graced his face and he nodded slowly. I stepped down and waited. He hesitantly eased his right foot out and let it drop to the next rest, allowing his left to carefully follow. And so it repeated until we reached the first landing. He timidly eyed the next step as we edged forward.

“I'm Rachel, by the way,” I grinned, holding my hand toward him.

“John,” he mumbled, eyes glued downward with his hand still fused to the railing.

I shrugged internally and stepped down to begin the next descent. He followed. 

“I remembered you from the elevator,” I spoke, breaking the unsettling noise of the failing light and constant drip, drip, drip to floors below. Another step down. “You're three doors down from me, I think. Where's the woman you're usually with?” 

He stopped and turned toward me, his eyes screaming and body rigid. “I...”

My face heated. “No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so nosey. We've only just met.” Backpedaling, I smiled shyly and started again. “So, umm, where do you work?”

It was like pulling teeth, but with each easy tug, he relaxed and opened up a little more. When we finally reached the bottom, the sight of daylight streaming through into the stairwell brought a slow sigh from his lips. His face brightened as we stepped out and the sun shimmered over his messy golden hair. We waved goodbye as we went our separate ways.

The next morning I caught up to him at the fifth floor entrance. After a short greeting, we descended to the sound of scattered chatter and echoing steps. Our mornings began the same for the rest of the week. 

On Monday, he was waiting for me at our entrance. His suit had been pressed and hair combed in attempt to tame its wild ways. As we started down the steps, I noticed his movements quickened. His knuckles remained white as he gripped the railing, but his feet were ready to move forward. Our conversation flowed easily and he cast his eyes toward me rather than toward the next drop.

When we reached the final step, I was so lost in chatter that I failed to notice the slick puddle underfoot. I stepped down and felt my pump slide forward as if on ice. My foot slid from under me as my body tumbled backward, but thankfully I only injured my pride. John acted just in time to catch my waist and break my fall. 

“Did you know,” I howled between giggles and embarrassment as I stood and reached out my hand, “that two-thirds of all falls on stairs happen on the first or last three steps?” 

He shook his head as he took my outstretched hand.

“Did you know,” he smiled while rising to his feet, “that thanks to you I have to go change my stinking wet pants?”

Our laughter echoed up the empty stairwell. 

“Thank you,” I grinned, wrapping my arms around his neck and resting my lips shyly on his cheek. 

After a sharp intake of breath, he sighed. “Thank you.” 

John squeezed my waist tightly and turned toward the stairs. I stepped back and picked up his discarded briefcase, dusting it off and handing it to him.

“Do you want me to walk with you?”

He waved me off. “No, I don't want you to be late. It'll only take a minute.”

I nodded. With a quick embrace, he turned and moved swiftly, taking the steps two at a time. As his footsteps drifted away, I smiled.

Upon return from work the next evening, there as a group huddled in front of the elevator. The light above the door descended: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. People packed into the small room like sardines, content to infiltrate one another's personal space just to avoid the sticky, moist stairwell. My heart sank when my mind drifted to John. What would happen to our mornings? Would he take the stairs? Wait for me by the elevator? Our morning chats would be significantly shortened with this new development.

A hand on my shoulder jarred me. “Hey there,” he smiled, messy mane blowing in the breeze. “Finally fixed, huh?”

“Yeah, finally,” I rolled my eyes.

The ding of the door opening caught my attention, urging us to enter the shiny square. I punched our floor and leaned against the wall with eyes closed.

“Long day?” he asked from my left.

“Always,” I snorted with a shrug.

A few seconds passed before I felt warm fingers lace with mine. My eyes opened slowly to see John's shy face redden.

“Is this ok?” His eyes widened as he started to withdraw his hand.

I squeezed tightly and inhaled his woody scent, a pleasant change from the musty stairwell. My smiling eyes met his. 

“Always.”

Completion and Continuation

I'm done! Late nights spent with busy fingers and a sleep deprived brain produced a July 1st conferral and, more importantly, eight chapters and a complete outline of the novel growing in my mind. Next challenge? Finish it! When I set to outline the rest of Dead Highway (working title), I quickly found that it would have to be a Stephen King novel type length or split into a series. Chapter by chapter, each brief summary moved my characters forward, but in the end I was left with an undeniable truth: my characters were far from finished.

The biggest challenge I will face is not what I will write but that I will keep writing. I've spent the last two weeks enjoying my freedom and making up for lost time by reading book after book after book. The more I read, the more I feel it: an urge to let loose my characters and see where they take me next. I set goals at the end of my thesis and I will to stick to them.

1. I will write when the urge strikes.
2. I will write when I think I can't.
3. I will write when it's the last thing I want to do.
4. I will take risks.
5. I will "kill the neighbor's dog" and I will own it.
6. I will never settle for easy.
7. I will always let my characters lead and surprise even me.
8. I will set goals, by chapter or by word, and I will meet them.
9. I will finish my novel in the next year.
10. I will finish the series.

Some of these seem very simple. Yet, it can be very easy to fall into the trap where you write what you think will be successful rather than what will be challenging and more rewarding. Do we always measure reward by books sold? I'd like to think that as writers our reward comes from staying true to ourselves, true to our work, and true to the muse that motivates us. Everyone wants to be loved. Successful. A gigantic hit! But how do you measure success if you lose part of yourself to obtain it?


Me? My characters lead. They surprise me. If I can read my own work and be gripped through action or emotion despite knowing what's to come, I know I'm heading in the right direction.

Mother Knows Best

I had to write many short stories in one of my courses last year. This is one.

Mother Knows Best

     Once the sound of rushing water met my ears, I released a breath I'd been holding for days. My pounding heart eased to a slow, steady beat as I kicked off my shoes, dropped onto the couch, and finally let the tension drift away. The worn leather wrapped me in a cool cocoon, a sharp contrast to the heat building in my cheeks. It's odd how months of worry, stress, and heartache can evaporate once it's done. When they're gone. My face flamed, ashamed.

     A friend told me this was how it would be. Bessie shared her husband's horrible last months. Bed-bound. Struggling for air. Wasting away, body and mind. Screaming and thrashing. Morphine. Even though I'd witnessed it in family after family, I never believed that death could be anything more than a crushing cinder block, making each breath heavy and beat of the heart weak. No. After begging for a miracle or a quick final slumber, it's more like a void. Conflicting emotions have canceled out and now there's just something missing. Sighing, I let Bessie's wise advice wave away the shame.

     “She will be just as relieved as you are that her suffering is finished, so remember her fondly and smile when those good memories show their face,” she patted my hand as she glanced toward Harry's photo on her nightstand.

     I took a ragged breath and met her kind eyes. “But how do I help him do the same?”

     She grasped my hands tightly in hers and squeezed as hard as her frail hands would allow. “For now, just be there. When the time comes, you'll know.”

     My feet tapped absently against the hard wood floor as I took in his apartment for the first time. The many times I'd visited the past six months had always been heavy and distracted, and I never noticed the things around us collecting a heavy layer of dust. I shuffled in sock-covered feet toward the kitchen and searched under the sink for his cleaning supplies. Armed with only an old rag, I began dusting every surface. Tables. Shelves. Frames. The television. The-.

     I stopped in my tracks when my eyes registered the familiar image. The large canvas sat on the wall by the hallway, its black frame polished and dust free. The black and white photograph of us had always been one of my favorites. Well, it wasn't really of us. It was a memory from our graduation trip: our feet brushing as they hung over the dockside. A view from his mom's lens.

     The sound of the shower stopping barely registered as I stared. We'd been best friends since childhood. Instead of going on our class trip, we begged our parents to take us somewhere different. Somewhere special, just us. Ever since we were kids, our folks vacationed together at Spigner Lake. When I decided to go to college in New York, my parents decided to sell our vacation home to pay for it. They kept the lake house long enough for one last trip. Gavin's mom took us for an entire month that last summer. I spent the whole time pining over him, and it was on that dock that we shared our first and only kiss. We went our separate ways the next week.

     “That seems like so long ago,” a deep voice solemnly offered, startling me. Gavin rested a hand on my shoulder and rubbed his thumb along my collar bone as I placed my hand over his.

     “Ten years, “ I trailed off simply, lost in my own thoughts.

     I hadn't registered his absence when he returned and offered a steaming cup of coffee despite the late hour. Graciously, I took my mug and followed as he nodded toward the couch. Sitting side by side, we stared forward in silence, my hot cup the only anchor holding my seasick heart. I tried to focus on the heat and aroma filling my senses, but I could only worry about the heartbroken man by my side. The sound of his mug meeting the table brought my eyes to his, offering him a small smile.

     “The service was beautiful. I think it was exactly as she wanted,” I started, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly in my lap.

     “I think so. Or, at least I hope so,” he smiled softly. “I'm glad you were there. I couldn't have done this without you.” His eyes watered slightly before he grabbed his cup and took a quick swig, awkwardly trying to cover his emotional reaction.

     I cleared my throat. “Bessie wanted to tell you she's sorry she couldn't come. You know, her-”

“We'll go see her tomorrow,” he quickly interrupted, stopping the conversation in its tracks. These past few months Bessie'd been our rock, a second mother to us both. Now her health was deteriorating quickly, and with the recent events, the idea of losing her brought a wave of fresh anxiety. The wounds from Anne's death were too raw. We were too drained.

     Reaching for the remote, I turned on the television to relieve the need to fill the silence. We sat staring at infomercials, my head leaning on his shoulder as a familiar comfort to us both.

     “She never understood, you know,” he cut through the silence.

     “Understood what?” Confused, I sat up and eyed him in question.

     His eyes remained glued to the television. “Why I let you go.”

     My heart fluttered at the mention. “You didn't let me go, Gavin. We both drifted apart and let life get in the way.”

     “She thought I did. She thought I should have begged you to stay that summer...” he trailed off as his green eyes finally met mine.

     “She also thought I should have begged you to come with me. She said 'oh, that boy can learn photography anywhere',” I revealed, rolling my eyes and smiling at Anne's antics. “She wanted us married before we were out of diapers.”

     A grin broke over his face. “You know it's only because you were the daughter she never had,” he teased. “I think she would have traded me for you if given the chance.”

     “Oh please!” I waved him off. “You were Anne's golden child! Her photographer protege!”

     Gavin smiled and stared down at his fidgeting fingers. “She never thought I'd be a corporate man.”

     “She was so proud of you, photographer or not.” My hand squeezed his. “She told me so every time we talked about you.”

     His arms snaked around my waist and he hugged me tight, trying to mask a small sniffle. When he finally pulled back, his hand reached up to cup my face as his eyes found mine. I offered a small smile and covered his hand with my own.

      “Manipulative or not,” he whispered, “mom was right.”His lips gently touched mine.

Checking in on Chapter Five

It's been a long while, I know. I've been really focusing on writing, particularly my thesis for my graduate degree. The last two courses for my MA in Creative Writing focus entirely on writing a piece of fiction, whether part of a novel or a collection of short stories. I'll admit it: I was intimidated to actually begin writing a long work.

After I pushed and pulled and yanked and begged that very first chapter out and created the vision I had of the beginning of my novel, I felt a satisfying relief. I can do this! When I read the feedback from my classmates and professor, something clicked and that nail biting, painstaking where do I go from here was gone.

I'm not a writer who outlines everything before I start. Or really much at all period. I know where my novel is heading. I know the big events, the major turning points, and a few of the pit stops along the way, but I write best when I don't box myself in to certain ideas and allow all of that to change as I go. Most of my ideas come as I am writing and I honestly think it makes my writing flow better, both for myself and my readers. The best way I can explain it is that I see each scene playing like a movie and my muse is continually adding on before I fully register what's happening. I see my character creeping down the hospital hallway as I've written, and before I know it, BAM! Movement to his right. It's someone he knows. He's running in the parking lot, passing people with no idea of the danger they're in and suddenly I hear him screaming in warning because he couldn't live with himself if he didn't try, despite the odds against them.

After four chapters and over 11,000 words, I get it. I get the connection with each character and the emotionally draining aspect of living through them. I get the writing, re-reading, re-writing, that's not good enough, that's not how I pictured it, how do I make this clear, would I feel this emotion if I was the reader, did I show instead of tell, etc, etc, etc. I can't tell you how many times I re-read my work to make sure its just right even though I know I'm going to be doing it all over again later. 

I definitely have action down pat. One aspect I am working hard on in my novel is theme and emotion. The whole beginning is a whirlwind of happenings that take place in a very short time span. A couple of hours, tops, and its one of those things where the characters don't have much time to think or second guess their actions because of how quickly things spiral down the toilet. I just reached a point where everything hits my main character like a ton of bricks but he only has a minutes to process it. It's proving very difficult to find that balance of action and emotion and I am eagerly awaiting my professor's feedback now that those realizations have started to hit.

Tonight I will be beginning chapter five and my characters are on the move. I'm finally loving it and feeling the excitement of where I'm going next. Don't get me wrong. Writing is hard. It consumes your thoughts and eats at you when you're not sitting with your fingers on the keyboard. But when you see it coming together and you're finally making good progress, you're on top of the world.

Haunted

Deep dark hugging
     blinding
          hiding
fingers caressing
goosebumps rising

Each heart racing
     creeking
           squeaking
noises blaring
wide eyes staring

White shape gliding
     stopping
          fading
heavy breathing
disbelieving.