Wanted: Real Characters

  • Wanted: Real Characters

    Wanted: Real Characters

    “. . . there’s nothing more glorious than when a fictional character feels completely real. And nothing more meh than when a fictional character feels like a cardboard cut-out”

    Excerpt from Forever Workshop

    From Marlene: I agree! I love to immerse myself in writing that takes me into another world. I’m not interested in reading what a character looks like and haven’t been able to articulate why until I read this by Jo Gatford:

    “I usually don’t give much of a crap what a character looks like, unless there’s a particular physical attribute, gesture, or way they move that helps show who they are. So dive deep and look for a line that gives us a guts-first impression of your fictional person.”

    From Workshop Your WIP — Introduce Your Protagonist with ONE Line, By Jo Gatford

    Marlene C

  • Mondegreen . . . Prompt #848

    green frog resting on lily pads in tranquil pond
    Photo by Mohan Nannapaneni on Pexels.com

    Excerpt from June 16 River Teeth, “Mondegreen,” by Diane Gottlieb:

    A mondegreen is a mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase in a way that gives it a new meaning.

    Mondegreens are most often created by a person listening to a poem or a song; unable to hear a lyric clearly, substitutes words that sound similar.

    American writer Sylvia Wright coined the term in 1954, recalling a childhood memory of her mother reading the Scottish ballad “The Bonnie Earl o’Moray,” and mishearing the words “laid him on the green” as “Lady Mondegreen.”

    Diane’s piece begins like this:

    “I found a lost memory today. Discovered it inside a writing prompt: recall something you’ve misheard. The title of the 1971 Sly and the Family Stone song is ‘It’s a Family Affair,’ but I swore it was ‘A Family of Bears.’ How wonderful it felt to belt out a song about bears and more bears, a family of bears.”

    A mondegreen inspired from “Blue Jay Way,” by the Beatles:

    Misheard Lyrics: There’s a frog upon a lake.

    Original Lyrics: There’s a fog upon L.A.

    Prompt: Write about a mondegreen.

    #justwwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting

    Marlene C

  • Your Neighborhood . . . Prompt #846

    Picture yourself standing in front of the house, apartment, flat, whatever type of building you grew up in.

    If you lived in more than one place, choose the one that holds the most memories.

    Take a moment to look around. Scan from one side to the other.

    What do you see?

    What do you smell?

    What do you hear?

    Take some deep breaths as you see this scene.

    Mentally take a walk to where you often walked:

    School, library, playground, theater, skating rink, store.

    Picture yourself on this walk.

    What did your neighborhood smell like?

    What did you hear as you walked along?

    Just Write~!

    Marlene C

  • What’s bugging you? . . . Prompt #845

    Writing Prompt:
    What’s bugging you?

    Just Write!

    #amwriting #iamawriter #justwrite

    Marlene C

  • Relinquishing the Wagon

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Relinquish the Wagon

    By CM Riddle

    Many of us go through life dragging a wagon behind us. Gripping the handle, we continue to pull it along while we try grasping at things ahead of us with the other hand. Imagine how much more we could attain if only we could bring ourselves to release that dang wagon.

    What could possibly be so important in that wagon, you may ask. Well, there’s a lot of history in it, I will tell you that.

    It is packed with cherished memories and painful experiences. It gets heavier every year. The grudges weigh a lot, and the guilt slows your pace. But with every step, tugging your wrist, pulling your elbow, and making those broad shoulders, which carry the weight of the world, so weary your, grip begins to slip.

    You wonder where your breaking point will be. Will it be the next uphill battle or will you reach the top of the mountain with elation just to push it over the edge?

    Will you watch the wagon roll slowly at first, then pick up speed, to finally crash and splinter into a zillion pieces?

    Is that where you will find relief? A shattered wagon at the bottom of the mountain, there, bleeding where the colors of your life run together and you no longer recognize what is what?

    Or, what if you do this? What if you take a risk? What if you take a chance and unpack one thing to leave behind. If you do, what will it be? A bad memory, hurt feelings, or a lie you told. Might it be your distaste for Swiss chard? Are you willing to sacrifice a friendship that’s run long past its expiration, or throw out that old ratty quilt that a distant relative gave you which was in bad shape when you got it?

    Is there a piece of you that you will let fall away? Your stubbornness, or maybe your inclination to argue over every little trigger? Might you exchange those traits for peace, and if you do, will the wagon weigh less? Perhaps.

    Are you carrying around a decision that has yet to be made, or did you make the wrong choice and you ruminate over it? No matter. Each day presents the opportunity to begin anew.

    A wise man once said, “Make the choice, if it’s not right, another avenue will present itself. Then choose again. Time is what’s valuable, don’t waste it with indecision.”

    Those words of wisdom keep my wagon mobile, but there are days I still find stuff to lug around. 

    I hope you will take this advice from me; there is always another wagon filled with crap. They are all over the place. Many people have abandoned their wagons, and you can too.

    The method is to let go with the hand holding the past and to reach out with both hands to grab the future. Your future, the fresh clean page of opportunity, gifts, optimism, growth, light, and empowerment are before you. Don’t be afraid to extend both hands, to fill them up. You will be amazed at what you can do once you relinquish your wagon. And, if for some reason you need to get anything from it, it will be there along the path, right where you left it.

    Now go. Grasp life with both hands.

    Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. An author and creator, Tina has published several articles and books, including those about rituals and ceremonies. She is a High Priestess who leads a variety of Women’s Circles. A mother and grandmother who lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.

    Marlene C

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  • A contest you won, or almost won . . . Prompt #844

    Write about a contest you won

    OR came close to winning

    OR wish you had won

    #justwrite #amwriting #imawriter

    Marlene C

  • Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile

    By DSBriggs

    My hair is what? Old, graying and instead of wiry, fine. Since I have been retired my hair style is whatever takes no work and usually in need of a trim or cut. 

    Haircuts, however, are so darned expensive that to save money I used cut-rate clip-joints. I decided to let my hair grow out. It eventually came down to my shoulders. I tried to wear it back with a French braid or bun or even a pony tail. This dream came crashing down when I no longer had the hand strength or coordination to use rubber bands designed for fine hair. Too klutzy to use hair accessories like combs or claws or barrettes, I resorted to clips. My friends were too kind to tell me that really wasn’t working either.

    So, I decided to splurge. Go to a real salon that shampoos and styles. 

    I met the hairdresser. She seemed really nice.  When she offered me coffee or tea. I thought, why not? Part of the splurge.  She sat me in front of a full-length mirror and left. 

    Off she went to get my coffee. She was gone so long I thought maybe she had gone to Starbucks. But she re-emerged with a cup. I apologized to her for the hassle of having to brew a fresh pot. (What else could take so long?) She said that the coffee was already made but she had been so busy she hadn’t had time to pee. I could understand that scenario perfectly. She also admitted that her mom had called with an update about her sister who was hospitalized the night before.

    We finally settled in for the haircut. We looked at pictures of haircuts because she wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I wanted a long pixie with feathered bangs and some height on top. Several of the styles we looked at were what I had in mind. The only style I did not like was an angular, very short cut with long bangs swept to the side. I specifically said I did not want that type of cut. Hair in my face drives me nuts. She said that she understood and went to work.  

    I noticed my hair kept getting shorter and shorter as she talked about her sister. Since it was in the back I wasn’t too concerned as inches came off and hair piled up around the chair.

    It wasn’t until the sides started disappearing that I commented that it was a bit short.  After the fact was a stupid time to point that out. I was still hopeful my bangs would be okay. No. She cut my hair exactly like the picture I did not like. Heavy glop of hair over one eye. 

    The dastardly deed was done.  I paid and over-tipped because while I was disappointed, I didn’t want to make her feel worse since her family was in melt-down.

    As I write, I’m wondering if my lack of communication with the hairdresser and my doctor the day before was my fault? I used to pride myself on explaining so clearly that people understood. When had I lost that ability? Have I lost it or is the world so crazy now that people do not listen carefully? I certainly can’t listen to the news at all. If I listened carefully, I would just want to get on an iceberg and float away.

    So while I sort of have forgiven the hair cutter, I have not forgiven myself for allowing her to ignore my wishes. 

    Ironically, I have received many compliments. I have also been reminded that:

    Hair grows back and any haircut is better with a smile.

    DSBriggs and her hair live in Northern California. She has been writing with timed prompts for over ten years. Her writing has been published  in  Marlene Cullen’s The Write Spot  Anthologies.  The books are available through Amazon and your local bookseller.

    When not writing, Donna enjoys reading, thinking about quilting, and walks with Moose, her 12 and a half year old hound. She also enjoys travel and time with good friends. 

    Marlene C

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  • Grandma Carrie

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Grandma Carrie

    By Robin Mills

    I remember the scent of my grandma Carrie, slightly sour mixed with ivory soap. I remember the click of her heels, the kidney shaped metal cleat meant to prolong the life of shoe soles tapping on the cold hard tile floor of their Palm Springs apartment. I remember seeing the white hoop cheese she used to stuff her home-made blintzes, nestled between her front teeth when she leaned in to whisper something in my ear, and her thick toenails covered in shiny red polish.

    Grandma Carrie came across the ocean as a child with her mother, from Kiev, fleeing pogroms and leaving behind some of her ten siblings who would never follow, only to be lost to concentration camps. They settled, living in a New York walk-up, likely shared with more people than there were bedrooms. As a young woman she took secretarial courses and was a member of the American Socialist Party.  She married Morris in 1924, and they moved out west where the weather was friendlier.

    My parents often dropped my brother and me at their home and went off to have kid- free time around an oval shaped pool full of shimmery blue water, under the hot desert sun.  My mother, in her black and white zebra bikini and dark cat-eye glasses, lounged poolside in the quiet.

    Carrie toted us around the desert in her blue Buick, to air-conditioned malls, miniature golf and parks full of cool grass where we laid down under shade trees until the moisture soaked through our clothes.

    At night we slept on the fold out couch in Carrie’s living room, sleeping sideways to avoid the cold hard metal bar that otherwise poked our backs. In the morning, the earthy scent of cracked wheat hot cereal wafted from the kitchen. We sat at the round table covered in a sticky plastic tablecloth rimmed with roses. My grandfather Morris ate soft boiled eggs and read the newspaper, folding it longways in thirds, flipping from section to section. His days were spent hunched next to the radio listening to KCBS news and weather on the hour, wringing his hands or staring off into space. He suffered from “undiagnosed pain in the bones” and lived Palm Springs summers in a wool cardigan and hat.

    My father in passing once mentioned Carrie was married, before Morris. He had a name, Meyer Lesowitz, even pictures of this man. Pictures of them, hiking with friends, posing with her stylish short hair, head band and knicker hiking pants. They were often arm in arm, or close enough to be, atop a boulder or mountain peak.

    We were told it was a short marriage. A year. And that he had died in 1924, a young man.

    In going through boxes of photos and memorabilia I found an autograph book dated the year of this man’s supposed death where he was mentioned as a good friend and wished best of luck. And a College of the City of New York yearbook. And a letter in the New York Times, April 25, 1944 signed by Meyer Lesowitz Teacher of the Blind, 20 years after his “death”.

    My grandmother had all this in her box of memorabilia that was passed from her to my father to me.

    That autograph book still sits on my desk, waiting for me to find more mentions of him online, or a family member to surface and tell us everything of his life. So far, nothing.

    Robin Mills lives in Petaluma California. By day she is an American Sign Language interpreter. Her non-work hours are spent writing, swimming, hiking, photographing the world around her, traveling, playing in various art forms and swing dancing. She has work published in Underbelly Press, The 200 Word Short Story and The Write Spot and was a finalist for publication in Big Brick Review.

    Marlene C

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  • What are you tired of? . . . Prompt #842

    Writing Prompt:

    What are you tired of?

    #justwrite #iamwriting #iamawriter

    Marlene C

  • Dastardly Deeds . . . Prompt #841

    Pete Suitcase

    Writing Prompt:

    Dastardly Deeds that someone did to you.

    Dastardly Deeds you did.

    Have you forgiven them?

    Have you forgiven yourself?

    Can you?

    What would it take to forgive?

    Marlene C