-
Boys are . . . Girls are . . . Prompt #797
“Boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails.
Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.”
What are you made of?
What do you think of this saying?
-
Transportation . . . Prompt #796
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
-
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 Zen that there is no “I.” “I” am a figment of “my” imagination. I am nothing without everything.
I am nothing without everything
I am nothing without
I am nothing
I am
I
Patricia Morris lives in Northern California and writes on Monday nights at Jumpstart Writing Workshops. She loves road trips, the Grateful Dead, and reading Dogen.
Her writing has appeared in Rand McNally’s Vacation America, the Ultimate Road Atlas and The Write Spot anthologies: “Possibilities” and “Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year,” edited by Marlene Cullen.
-
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 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.