You Take it From Here
The panhandler on the corner was well-disguised. His tanned and leathery face featured an uncombed, four-inch, beard of brown and gray. The front of his plaid cowboy shirt featured pearl snap buttons, but one pocket was half ripped off, and food stains darkened the area below his beard. A dirty gray shoe lace held his long stringy hair off his face. His jeans had stiff areas around the knees that stuck up as he leaned against the wall of the Dunkin’ Donuts with the used coffee cup raised to passersby. “Sparnge?” He seemed to have lost his ability to speak coherently. Something in his careful appraising gaze suggested otherwise.
And Then ….
I hooked my _______ on a ______. Then suddenly the whole ______ became ______, and I couldn’t help wishing I was ______. Those damn ______s. I could have gone through a whole ______ without them _______. Of course, I should have expected that _________. I pulled out my _______ and ________ before things could get _________. Thank goodness for __________! ( _______ ______ ______ ______ )
Important Announcement!
Let’s all join together in congratulating FigMince on being published in the Door County, Wisconsin Peninsula Pulse where he was one of the winners of their annual writing competition. Bravo, FigMince! It was fun for me, since as I was reading the piece (“Farewell Debut”) I kept thinking that I’d read the story before. How could that be? Where could I have read it? At the end of the story, his name appeared and the mention that he lives on an island off the coast of Australia. Ha! Our very own FigMince! He is a true winner and an inspiration to us all. I am proud to say his story appeared on this blog some time back. Very moving. I’m sure you can talk him into posting it here again, if you bug him a bit.
Battling Stereotypes
I like to do this every once in a while since it’s so easy to be writing along and suddenly realize your characters have drifted into stereotypes. You can have a great plot, lots of events, super dialogue, and urgent tension, but if your bartender is the Sam Spade, your female character is Jane Eyre, and your hero-to-the-rescue is Gandolf the White, then it’s time to rethink. They’re all great characters, but we’re all here to create new ones, not use the old ones. So here is a standard plot with fairly stock characters. Your job is to shake things up and turn these stereotypes inside out. Female lead: Wavy black hair, crystal blue eyes, a mouth that’s just a little too wide, high cheekbones. She’s a cop who looks good even in those ugly pants and tucked in shirts. College degree in psychology. Male lead: He’s in construction, with the requisite wide shoulders and slim hips. Wears flannel shirts, levis, and work boots. Sandy hair just a little too long. Deep set brown eyes. He listens more than he talks. The plot so far: He stops for a beer at the Whaler Tavern, located near the shore in a small tourist town in New Jersey. A man comes in waving a gun and shoots at the ceiling, then tells everyone to toss their wallets his way. Female cop walks by the open door and sees the situation. You can add details, but you have to keep the ones I’ve listed above. Your goal? No clichés! No stereotypes! No stock outcomes! Surprise us!
The Virtual State Fair Opens Today
The folks congregating at the Galumphing Booth at the Virtual State Fair are having a great time teasing each other and remembering the days when they sweated over a paragraph describing a burning candle. They are meeting for a non-real-time reunion held to honor of the days when they all dipped a tentative toe in an imagined spot in cyberspace where words like bricolage, lousy first drafts, goofing around, anti-cliché and even keep going! were thrown around with great abandon. Luckily the Galumphing Booth is right at the entrance of the Big Top where every famous writer from all time is gathering to honor the survivors of the dreaded short creative piece. I’m guessing that besides talking to each other (we’d love to hear those lively conversations, I’m sure!), you will also want to have a probing dialogue with one of your favorite writers inside the tent. “Right this way!” hollers Ann, wearing a top hat, tails, and waving them in with white gloves.
Did Someone Say Galumphing?
You have three characters: Rico, the owner of a pizza parlor who wants everyone to think he’s involved with organized crime. Bertha, a girl who was always picked last for volleyball in high school and is now running a second-hand clothing store. Athelstane, a granite statue in the park who has consciousness. Possible Plot Points: –The ants in the park are planning an uprising. –Athelstane has no idea what pizza is. –There is a two carat diamond in the pocket of one of Bertha’s second hand dresses. –The tomato crop failed this year. –Rico’s neighborhood is changing, and everyone now wants jalapenos, chorizo, and tomatillos on their pizza. –The pages is too small to hold these guys, and Athelstane is planning an escape, but he needs help. –Hey, whatever you want!!
Cyrus is Stuck
The face of the world famous mathematician on the jacket cover loomed over the picture of Abe Lincoln framed in burgundy matting that rested on the floor by the bookcase. Cyrus had stacked his used brown paper bags that he planned to shred next to his reading chair. His compost pile was far too wet. He rubbed his forehead and tried to think of the next line of his story, but his brain was on hold. Maybe he should don his earphones and pull over the drum pad to play along with a few of his favorite upbeat tunes. That often jarred things loose. But he couldn’t summon the ambition to figure out what was going to happen to his character. Delores Grimwald was contemplating sticking pins into the recumbent figure of her cruel, though dying, father as he lay unconscious in the hospital. She’d been a good girl for so many years, and he’d taken all she had to give. Was she going to indulge in some payback or continue to be the caring daughter? Was forty-five too late to turn over a new leaf? Heck, Cyrus wished he was still forty-five. He’d show her how to live. Maybe he’d write her out of her father’s will. Why not ratchet up the tension a bit? Problem was, Cyrus didn’t like Delores much. She had willingly taken the victim role. Could she change now? He bent over the keyboard….
Norelco
Serena put her feet up on the dark green leather sofa and leafed through her new science magazine. As she reached an article about quantum computing, a cardboard ad fell out into her lap. She figured it was an ad to renew her subscription until she picked it up. “You’re on the road to nowhere” it read in fairly large Courier New print. She turned the card over. A photograph of an old Norelco refrigerator decorated the back. She’d owned one just like that back in the day.
What Does Your Creativity Feel Like?
Mine feels like this, but I also want to hear about yours. Mine came out as a poem, but that is not required. Just shoot for as much accuracy as you can. Finding my Creativity Take all your failures Mash them into every urge to screw around anyway Throw in a cross-eyed stare A stubborn lower lip, a tongue between teeth And lay it all out, end to end, in words. Take all your happiest smiles Feel them in your chest Exhale fear, then shrug and let it back in. Say “who cares?” And start. Think of the least obvious The fourth item past the cliché Or don’t think Pretend you’re not really doing this And are actually off doing laundry or washing the floor Then hit “Record,” but don’t watch. Repeat after me: It’s okay; it’s okay; it’s okay. Then pat yourself on the knee and tell yourself You’re a good kid, And whatever you put out there today is a fine start.
On the Way
Leroy knew he had to go forward. On either side of him the cement walls ran so close that he had to keep his arms from swinging to avoid scraping the skin from his knuckles. Dripping water echoed overhead, and he sloshed through shallow puddles that soaked his Nikes and socks, freezing his feet. The only illumination came from the cell phone he held in front of him. Good thing he’d downloaded that flashlight app. He had a hard time identifying the smell over the scent of mildew, but whatever it was made him want to breathe through his mouth.