Writing prompts on The Write Spot Blog are designed to encourage writing that takes the writer on a journey of discovery.
Our freewrites can refresh our memories and remind us of times past. It’s like excavating — digging deep and dredging up memories.
You can start writing very simply — with pen or pencil and paper or keyboard.
To go deep into your writing — rest both feet on the floor, rest your hands lightly on your lap or on the table. Take in a deep, nourishing breath and slowly let it out. Another deep breath in and s-l-o-w-l-y release. Sink into your breath and relax on the out breath.
Review the prompt and start writing. If you get stuck and don’t know what to write next:
~ Write the prompt . . . sometimes re-writing the prompt brings up new ideas.
~ Write “I remember. . . ” and go from there.
~ Write “I don’t remember. . . ” and see where that takes you.
~ Write “What I really want to say . . . ” This is my favorite to inspire deep writing.
Whatever methods you use . . . just write.
Ke11y
What I really want to say…well I guess it’s not important. Truth is, money never ever bought me those things I love most in this world. Not one. So when I read the morning paper I figured there was nothing left to say, and if there is ever going to be, then it can be said in my poetry.
Everywhere else today I’d been turned away.
I can’t remember her face very well, nor do I remember much about her except the morning’s milk that was her skin, a white-collared woman of the church; while me, I’m broke, homeless, a poet. She, on the other hand, had nobility, coming to me at midnight wearing a ponderous frock of black and finding me sleeping in Macy’s doorway, warm under a wet cardboard blanket before I felt the touch of her hand on my shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do for you,” she asked.
I explained that I am a visionary.
She smiled.
“Another romantic,” she responded, her face aglow from the reflection of these rain-glistened, poorly lit streets that side up to Union Square.
“I am yet unknown,” I confessed.
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “I admire all poets, in love with ideal beauty. This is you, I think, homeless, without food, or a change of clothing! What else can you be, but a poet?
I could neither tell if she were Liberty or Muse.
“Now jump up, let’s get you some fresh clothes and something to eat.” I followed with the gait of a disciple.
“All you poets…you love, you hope; that is all. Here, hold out your hand to me,” she said. Between my palms she placed a cup of soup. “I was once a poet, too,” she continued, “I wrote down my dearest beliefs, my hopes, my feelings, all the things that poets do. I lived my youth in an age of hopes and fantasies. Like you, touched by the finger of muse.” She paused again to hand me dry clothes.
“Change into these and I will fetch you some food for later.”
It was at that moment I knew what I would do. She turned from me, not away, and I saw the way her hair was pinned to the nape of her neck, just a few short strands escaping. I reached into my pocket, pulling out yesterday’s lottery ticket, which I placed on the chair and left before she returned.
Poetry is infinitely more acceptable than wealth. She will make better use of these six numbers, the same ones that just made headlines in the morning paper.
mcullen Post author
Wow! Gorgeous writing and then the surprising ending. Really well-written. I love the pace which reflects the tenderness in this piece. The slower pace also contributes to the old-timey feeling in this short story. You bring new meaning to poetry with your refreshing word choices: visionary, Liberty or Muse, her face aglow from the reflection of these rain-glistened, poorly lit streets. I enjoy the energy in “Now jump up . . . ” And lastly, the look he gives, so that the reader also sees it:” I saw the way her hair was pinned to the nape of her neck, just a few short strands escaping.” LOVE your writing, Kelly.
Ke11y
Always so kind and generous with your comments. Thank you, Marlene.
mcullen Post author
My pleasure, Kelly. It really is a treat to read your writing.