Showing posts with label writing prompts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing prompts. Show all posts

November 26, 2014

It All Started with a Purse

Whenever I'm asked for advice on how to get started writing a novel, my response is pretty simple: "Start writing." The only way to do it is to, you know, actually do it. You can't sculpt anything without the clay. There is no novel to polish and perfect without the first draft. A really rough, rambling, rookie first draft. That's what you cut your teeth on.

Easier said than done, perhaps, when you don't have any idea what you want to write about. My answer is still the same: Write. Write about everything; write about nothing. Writing a novel isn't about facing a blank computer screen and starting at Chapter One, Page One. Before there's a first draft, there should be an outline. But even before the outline, there are usually chicken scratchings jotted down on any surface you can get your hands on: notebook paper, a journal, an envelope, a napkin... You need to brainstorm ideas and simply stretch and flex your creative muscles by writing about anything whatsoever. Writing prompts work for me when I find myself in a rut, whether from an actual book of them or based on a random thought I might have while out walking or in the shower. Watch people and things; observe behavior and sensory detail. And when you write something down about it, don't put the pressure on yourself to make it perfect. That all comes in due time. For now, just let go.

Reflecting on my own path to publication, I'd like to look way, way back--before I ever attempted writing a novel, before I was remotely close to having an idea for the first manuscript I wrote, let alone the second one that was actually my first to get published ("debut" novels are so rarely the first that a person writes!). As you might have seen in my website's Thrift Shop, there's a little black purse that I purchased several years ago at a vintage sale. I was busy full-time teaching back then; my time was too filled with lesson-planning and grading and barely grasping my sanity to even fathom carving out more for writing novel-length fiction. But I liked to dapple in short stories and vignettes, just to give my imagination somewhere to wander aimlessly. And for whatever reason, that little black beaded bag sparked my fancies enough for me to sit and dash off this freewriting:
She heard the drain from above release from some lucky gal’s late-night bath. Flipping through the pages, she paused for a moment’s thought, and her eyes unconsciously drifted to the evening bag still setting on the floor where she had left it several nights prior, nesting in the original brown bag of its purchase. She found even when she became conscious of the object of her line of sight and was plucked from her pensive pause, as her eyes focused they still did not seem to do so...enrapt were they in the celestial body of the beading, as though staring into the milky heavens, a private observatory of unrestricted skies, free of constellation form and twinkling the more for it. With a zoom-in motion, her eyes and mind were lured, and it was only then that she became aware of the increasing volume and intensity of the water trickling through the piping above, though it did not seem of the direction of the general vicinity of the bathroom, but encompassing her, about her, around her, within her, deafening her, the drops streaming then beading on her skin, the blood trickling through her veins with a new coolness. The zoom-in was no longer a stationary movement as she found she had risen from the sofa and approached the dazzling hexagon, swept open its glittering lid and stared into the reflective remnants of the former mirror’s backing, seeking out that which sought, until, in a flicker irretrievable, she saw them. A pair of fogged green eyes glaring back.
I didn't worry about grammar or if what I was saying even made sense; I just wrote without stopping. And now six to seven years later, an adapted version of this rough sketch appears in the third chapter of Seven for a Secret--not because I was feeling unoriginal and wanted to lamely rehash whatever I'd already written, but because that very last sentence (that spewed out off the top of my head without thinking about it very hard) ultimately gave me the idea for this book.

Just goes to show how those random observations are worth the time you give them. And those scraps of paper you scribble on are worth holding on to as pieces of an as-yet unknown puzzle. You never know if or when their time will come to develop into something much more. So what miscellaneous little whimsy might you pen some words about in the next few minutes? On your mark...get set...GO WRITE!  

April 29, 2014

A to Z: Hardy-Har-Har

 
It's no joke--the A to Z Challenge is almost ov-ah! Getting a little slap-happy here toward the end, but cheers to all of you whose A to Z posts have cracked me up through the month. What a lovely community of bloggers, where there's no brewhaha, only bwahaha...

Laughter is the best medicine, so they say, so let's administer this next healthy dose of 1920s slang:



~*~  YOU SLAY ME!  ~*~
Meaning: That's funny!

"Sir, what day is it?"
"Thursday."
"So am I. Let's go have another beer."
"Ha! Fella, you slay me!"

April 22, 2014

A to Z: Put This in Your Pipe and Smoke it



New to the A to Z Challenge or my blog? Don't huff and puff--just take a long, smooth inhaaaaale and exhaaaaale and take the edge off with some background info:


Now that we've cleared the air on that, let's get our daily fix of 1920s slang...



~*~  SMOKE-EATER  ~*~
Meaning: A smoker.
(According to some sources, specifically a female smoker)

If you liked Snakes on a Plane (did you? Really?),
you'll love

Smoke-Eaters on a Train



April 15, 2014

A to Z: Bringing out the Big Guns


If you stepped out a moment to powder your nose, don't muss yourself over what you may have missed. You can brush up on the A to Zs of 1920s slang from here: Talk the Talk for Walking the Walk.

Or simply gloss over that and pick up from here, the heavy artillery packed with some of the flapper's most powerful ammo...



~*~  MUNITIONS  ~*~
Meaning: Face powder & rouge.

"Drastic times call for drastic measures.
Bring out the munitions, darling."

April 14, 2014

A to Z: You Have it Comin'...or Do You?


There's an overwhelming number of participants in this year's A to Z Challenge, so if you haven't made it over to my blog until now, don't worry. I don't blame you. I haven't gotten around to many blogs myself, so I don't feel owed anything.

But today's slang of the 1920s is dedicated to those crummy times when we don't get paid what's due to us or, even worse, must pay the price for someone else's folly.



~*~  LEFT HOLDING THE BAG  ~*~
Meaning: Getting the blame. / Being cheated out of your fair share.

"I didn't do it, I swear! Harvey killed 'im and left me holding the bag, that lousy rat!"

April 11, 2014

A to Z: It's All Good


First joining me for the A to Z Challenge? Don't worry, be happy! Because you can still catch up from here: A-Z, and all that jA-Zz.

We cool?

You see, today is all about hakuna matata, my friends. The flapper finds her freedom in always feeling good and feeling fine. So ev'ryting be irie for this little nugget of Twenties slang:



~*~  JAKE  ~*~
Meaning: Cool, fine, great

Everything's jake until someone looks down.

April 10, 2014

A to Z: The Colder Shoulder


Welcome back to the April A to Z Challenge, where my blog shall not spurn your advances should you wish to shower it with comments--even if today's topic is devoted to the sad affair of unrequited love...

*sigh*

Like a fickle lover who dost not warm to your tender embrace, this next 1920s slang term only puckers its lips to deliver the kiss off.



~*~  ICY MITT  ~*~
Meaning: Rejection

"Blast you, temptress! I gave you my heart, only to receive the icy mitt."