
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.

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.

“. . . 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.

Writing Prompts:
Best Day Ever!
OR: Imagine a Best Day Ever
#justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting

#justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting
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 head and flooded the air, staining the carpet like an oil spill,
Turning white walls a dirty gray.
Flipping the light on, the shadows scattered like roaches,
Cowering behind the dresser, huddling under the chair.
Dispersed but not dispelled.
But still, this was a victory. Always the goal of his day.
There’s no way to rid oneself of shadows,
But he could, if he tried, keep them at bay.
They were loitering everywhere:
Swirled into the black of his coffee,
Pressed between the newspaper pages
As he breakfasted on granola and obituaries.
They peeked out of the cat kibble as he poured it in the bowl.
Every step on the porch covered the one below with a cold carpet of shadow.
His hand grasping the rail for balance sent a dark portrait of his frailty
To the concrete canvas of the patio.
He felt the shadows growing around him, lurking.
Hovering over him like a Stygian claw,
Then slipping back to nonchalance when he turned.
But they would get him one day, he knew.
It’s what happened to people his age.
One day, perhaps soon, he would blink or sneeze,
And a shadow would rush in like a sneaker wave
And swallow him whole. And he’d be gone.
Alone and lost in a dark endless void of nothingness.
He didn’t need to look up to know when the trickster moon stole the sun’s blazing crown.
The day darkened and became the moon’s shadow. Then the show was over.
The moon took off the golden crown with a quick bow and moved off stage.
That’s all we get, Stanley thought. Even the moon. Just one little minute to shine in the sun.
Su Shafer is a creative crafter, fabricating bits of writing in poetry and short stories, and other bits into characters that appear in paintings or sit on various bookshelves and coffee tables.
She lives in a cottage on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, where the tea kettle is always whistling and the biscuits freshly baked.
One never knows who might stop by to share a rainy afternoon.
Su Shafer’s writing can be enjoyed on the Sparks pages of The Write Spot Blog, The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year.

Write about your latest acquisition.
Was it a need?
Or a want?
OR: Write about your oldest possession.
#justwrite #iamwriting #iamawriter
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 complete, papers signed, movers bringing in our furniture. The rude awakening was, I had this pretty house, in a new place, and knew no one; the prospect of next-door neighbors several months down the line. I’d spent time over the winter drawing a garden plan, ordering drapes, and light fixtures. Now there was a lot on my plate and nothing to do but plow through. A moment of doubt and despondency washed through. I bowed my head for a moment, gathering myself and seeking patience, endurance, and hope.
As I lifted my head, something caught my eye through the patio door. I’d seen a flash of brilliant color just outside the glass and I wondered what I was seeing. On the patio was a blue, red, and green bird, so bright I thought I was imagining it. It was a mirage, perhaps a colorful angel dropping in to give me a boost. The creature stayed but a moment, flew to the fence post and perched long enough for me to see a bit more colorful plumage. And it was gone. I sat in that moment and thought, “I’ve been sent a wonderful affirmation of encouragement.” Later, I looked up birds and discovered I’d sighted a Painted Bunting. Extraordinary. Incredibly, I was granted another sighting the following spring, and the next.
This past week I received several emails and comments about the blog. People are reading Daybits and sending notes to share that my words bring smiles, encourage, allow peace to settle. Joyful affirmations which made me mentally sit up a little straighter and lifted my spirit, which for unknown reasons has struggled a bit the past week. Your words reaffirm why I continue to write my brain workings down and share them out to the world.
The reason writers write is for someone to read. Putting forth words out into the unknown, feels like jumping into the big, blue ocean, with no dock in sight; invigorating and scary. Imposter syndrome is a browbeater. My brain likes to send messages down the pike that having folks who look forward to reading Daybits each week, a column published, a piece published in a journal; such occurrences are flukes. Some days I speak softly to myself in silent reminder that, someone is receiving my words and benefitting in some way.
“Affirmation” was originally posted on Sally A. Kilgore’s Blog, Daybits.
Click on “Affirmation” to read the rest of this blog post.
Sally A. Kilgore lives in Texas and is nearly a Texan, after all, she’s been there for fifty-five years.
When not pounding on the keyboard, you’ll find Sally gardening, filling in at the local flower shop or hanging out with grandkids. She is married to her longtime flame, sometimes referred to as the Big Old Bear, (B.O.B.)
Sally’s work has been published in The Dallas Morning News, The Blue Ribbon News, and Persimmon Tree.
Follow her blog, Daybits, and see what develops with her writing. It’s goofy, sometimes gritty and always pretty!

Are you, or is your fictional character, caught up?
Caught up with current slang
Caught up with current events
Caught up with something that takes too much of your energy or time
Caught up with TV shows you want to watch.
Caught up with correspondence: letters, emails, texts, phone calls, messages
Caught up with things that need to be done? If yes, how does that feel?
If not, what would it take to be caught up?
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
A Memorable Day
By Cheryl Moore
We had arrived in Mashad, a city in north east Iran, the night before. It is the site of the holy Shrine of Imam Ali Reza, the eighth Imam, a site where the followers of the Shi’a branch of the Islamic faith make pilgrimage.
The mosque was a beautiful, gleaming white structure with four minarets, one at each corner. Women must cover up with a chador to enter. As I didn’t own one, I had to borrow one, but it only came to my midi-calf, not my ankles, as it did on Iranian women. My pale skin and blue eyes gave me away as a foreigner. I couldn’t just blend in. Before entering we had to take off our shoes and leave them outside on the steps. I hoped mine wouldn’t be stolen, I didn’t fancy walking barefoot on the sun-scorched ground the rest of the day.
It was beautiful inside, the walls decorated in glowing geometric patterned tiles of dark and light blue, white, tan, yellow, black and green. No human or animal images are allowed. Many heads turned to stare at me as we were swept along around the central Imam’s tomb with the flow of pilgrims. I hadn’t ever been in a mosque before even though there was a tiny neighborhood one very close to where I was living in Tehran. Coming out into the daylight, I was happy to retrieve my shoes.
Later that day we drove further into the Central Asian steppes to visit an outdoor market where live animals were bought and sold. Turkoman tribesmen dressed in sheep skin and domed hats still used moveable yurts as they followed their herds, speaking a Turkic language unlike the Farsi I was more familiar with in Tehran. For me it was as close as I’ll ever get to the famous Silk Road trade route. I imagined traders crossing these dusty plains day after day with camels, donkeys and their swift ponies, occasionally camping near caravansaries at oases. Such vast open spaces probably unchanged since Marco Polo came this way.
All too soon it was back to big city Tehran with its crowds, street vendors calling out their wares, and the morning and evening blare of a loudspeaker calling the faithful to prayer.
When Cheryl Moore came to California in the early 1960’s, she realized she’d found her home. Then moving to Petaluma in the 70’s, she was as close to paradise as she’d ever get. Travel has taken her to Europe and the Middle East, including living four years in Tehran. She has written on these memories as well as on the flora and fauna of the local river and her own garden.

What are you currently reading, or have recently read?
Did you have an epiphany, a realization, or learn something with this reading?
The Write Spot Series of Books
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