Photo by Elviss Railijs Bitāns Write about using public transportation, or private: A bus, a train, a plane, subway, a boat, a ship, a rickshaw, a bicycle, Lyft, Uber, taxi cab, etc. #just write #amwriting #iamawriter
Tag: Writing freely. Just write. Writing Prompts. The Write Spot Blog.
I am
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. I am By Patricia Morris I am made of rich black soil that grows corn and soybeans and wheat and oats and vegetable gardens. I am made of love showered upon me by parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles. I am made of tallgrass prairies and mighty rivers. I am made of grief and loss. I am made of Midwestern college campuses, of thick gray and dark green law books. I am made of courtrooms and jails, prisons and government office buildings. I am made of curiosity and wanderlust, of courage and manners. I am made of blood and bone, atoms and molecules, hair and cartilage. I am made of brain synapses and aching joints, smiling eyes and laughing mouth. I am made of love. Who is this “I” I am describing? I learn in…
Introvert? Extrovert? . . . Prompt #795
Are you, or is your fictional character, an introvert or an extrovert? Do you know the difference? It has been explained to me this way: An extrovert is energized being in a crowd. An introvert is drained of energy being in a crowd. What is your definition of introvert and extrovert? Write what it’s like being an introvert in an extrovert world. Or, what is it like being an extrovert? Are the people you spend time with mostly extroverts or introverts? How does that work for you?
Jobs . . . Prompt #794
Write about your favorite job . . . paid or volunteer. Or: Your first job or first volunteer work Or: Write about a job you would never want to do.
Writers: Open doors to flights of imagination
“. . . the urge to be a writer is a generous act at its core: we want to share our story with others, to give them a world that will open doors to insights and flights of the imagination.” — Grant Faulkner Excerpted from “Sharing stories, sharing yourself,” from Grant’s Substack newsletter on writing and creativity, “Intimations: A Writer’s Discourse.” Grant: As a boy, I spent my allowance on all sorts of pens and paper, so there was never much question I would become a writer. I received my B.A. from Grinnell College in English and my M.A. in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. It seems like I should have other degrees, such as an MFA in Novels about People Doing Nothing But Walking Around, a PhD in Collages and Doodles and Stick Drawings of Fruitless Pursuits, or a Knighthood in Insomniac Studies, but I don’t.
Best Day . . . Prompt #793
Writing Prompts: Best Day Ever! OR: Imagine a Best Day Ever #justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting
Sense of Accomplishment . . . Prompt #792
What gives you a sense of accomplishment? #justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting
Stan and the Moon Shadow
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Stan and the Moon Shadow By Su Shafer It was THE SOLAR ECLIPSE DAY! When he got out of bed, the moon was moving in the sky. As it always was, of course, but with more excitement that day than usual. It was common place for the moon to be seen in the daytime, but today It would meet the sun face to face and wear its fiery crown, as The Earth looked on, far below. It was a big day for the moon, but for Stanley, not so much. Just another passing shadow added to a life Where everything was painted with a leaden umbra. When he opened his eyes, his room overflowed with a dull gloom More than darkness, as if the blackness in his dreams spilled Out of his…
Your latest acquisition . . . Prompt #790
Write about your latest acquisition. Was it a need? Or a want? OR: Write about your oldest possession. #justwrite #iamwriting #iamawriter
The reason writers write
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Today’s Sparks is an excerpt from Sally A. Kilgore’s Blog, Daybits. Three years ago, I fed Bob Kilgore his breakfast and he hopped up in the kitchen window to sunbathe. I sat at the kitchen table with my cappuccino, wondering what we had done. We had uprooted from a place we’d been for close to twenty years, a shady place of green lawn, a hilly yard, and the comfort of good neighbors. We had decided to downsize our home and build something fresh and new while we were at it. So, I sat in the new kitchen with Bob, sunlight blazing in, a sodded backyard, boxes to be unpacked. Our home – Mildred – was an island in a construction zone, surrounded by mud, with a porta potty next door. We’d been deliriously happy, the house…