Category Archives: Struggling Writer

Yippie Ki Yay Breakthrough

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Photo By Nev P

Daily Prompt Breakthrough

 

Yippie Ki Yay!  A breakthrough, I am writing.

What happened? I had writers block, and touted this previously enjoyable pastime, tedious.

Well, Saturday evening between bites of bratwurst and sauerkraut, a friend commented that she missed my blog posts and enjoyed my writing.

Sunday morning I awoke to write something. I am ready to get back on my horse and go for a wild and crazy ride. You know what I am saying. I love to play with words, cut and paste incomplete sentences to make complete sentences and obsess over where to place the comma or maybe it should be a semicolon.  

My breakthrough . . . . listen to what I tell myself about a favorite activity, writing.

There is nothing more enjoyable than fixing a dangling participial.

. . . . Seriously just saying

 

Shiver in Thought

 

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    Daily Prompt

     I shiver to think about it. The way the door slammed behind me with a hollow metal sound and the echo of heels tapping down a distant hall, surrounded by quiet, a deafening quiet.

     I pulled my coat close around me against the unknown cold, and shook, questioning why I agreed to this.  I trembled at the touch of a hand on my shoulder. My knees quivered with palsy wondering how this would end.

     I turned around jittery and he inquired, “What are we having for dinner?”

. . . . seriously just saying

Learning to Write

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Daily Prompt Learning

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write.

Let them think you were born that way.” 

Ernest Hemingway

I  learned to write secretly. The year was 2009. My husband and I retired to Florida. Characters, words, and sentences began to dance in my head.

One day I sat at my desk, my back to the office door when my husband asked, “What are you doing?”

Sheepishly I replied, “Writing.”

Slowly I gained the confidence to participate in writer’s groups, joined FWA and write my blog, claudiajustsaying, posting regularly, until recently.

I have gotten out of the habit of writing. My mind no longer word streams about ordinary life events. I am pretty much brain-dead. I contribute this to the vertigo or constant dizziness I have experienced for the past year and a half.

This void is an aspect of writing I am learning about.

I miss writing; taxing my mind to find just the right words, agonizing over where to place a comma. Deciding whether to say “place a comma” or “put a comma.

. . . .  Seriously Just saying

The Whistler

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Recently it has been a real struggle to write so I have returned to a daily writing exercise. I randomly flip through the dictionary and point my finger at a word, then use as many of these words in a story/paragraph.

June 10th Writing Exercise:

Use these ten words to write a story; Transport, discrimination, estimate, collection, chance, whistle, layer, best, provide, and forth.

The Whistler

     Tanya turned around when she heard the whistle. It came from a man sitting on a wooden box turned sideways. His butt overflowed on the top while his feet straddled its sides. It was the kind of box featured in a Norman Rockwell painting. You know the kind, usually had some colorful lettering on it advertising Borden’s Milk or another dairy or produce company. Sometimes the lettering was in bold block letters done in black ink.

     This box was weathered, like the man who sat on it.

     Tanya put her hands on her hips and wiggled back to where he sat. Her high heels scratched the pavement as she walked. She said, “Mister here’s your only chance to apologize, so give it your best shot.

     The man wore a week old beard but smelled of day old cologne, possible Old Spice. He drank coffee from a white Styrofoam cup after blowing a circle of steam aside. Then slurped and said, “Ah . . . .” signifying the caffeine provided some relief. “Now why would I do that? That would be discrimination. I whistle at every pretty girl that goes by, regardless.”

     Tanya’s layered thoughts confused her. She was flattered while offended. She pulled at her too tight too short skirt and turned her chin to say, “Well this pretty girl wants to be the exception . . . discriminate me. I won’t be part of your collection. “

     The man nestled his coffee cup between his knees to free his hands and wrap a coat of sadness around him. “Collection? Never thought I was collecting anything, but now that you put it that way, guess I have a collection of sorts, a collection of memories.”

     Tanya watched the man as he stared into space, got a faraway look in his eye. The sadness he wore fell to the ground. Then a smile appeared on his face and when his eyes met hers said, “Well Miss whatever your name is, I don’t have bad intentions. Just like to whistle no need for you to be part of my memory collection.”

Me A Sandwich

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “You, the Sandwich.”

If a restaurant were to name something after you, what would it be?


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                                  The Crunch

It would be a sandwich, not a hoggie, hero or sub.
Something simple and delicious, to take on the run
My mouth starts to water and I lick my lips
Thinking of this everyday pantry item, always a hit.
Smooth and creamy it sticks to the roof of your mouth
Not to worry a thick slice of apple is packaged inside
That’s why it’s called  the “Crunch”

Recipe

2 pieces of rye bread, or any soft mushy bread of choice

Lots of creamy peanut butter

Slices of Granny Smith Apple

Cut the apple first than, than spread peanut butter on bread, layer apple inside.

Idyllic Not Heaven

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Idyllic.”

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     I wrap my hands around a hot cup of coffee for warmth and wander outdoors. The morning temperature is cool, not more than sixty. I have on socks and a sweatshirt. Our back yard views the golf course. The sounds are peaceful, tranquil or some prefer to say, serene. The trees rarely move. The manicured greens create a sameness that is boring when there is nothing to do. The community not gated nor age restricted, is idyllic.

Then frenzy, a frantic fluttering of leathers and squawking, starts. High above hawks swoop down on a crow’s nest eager for breakfast. Squeals and squalls erupt, like a distress signal, and numerous crows appear as words do in a television screen warning. Alert; heir young will not be eaten.

Over the next hour, crows perched in trees, change watch as the hawks linger eyed for a weakness. The crows have a larger extended family. I wonder if there is a situation room in which their strategy was discussed then conclude it was idyllic and natural instinct.

Mommy’s Jumping Jelly Bean

thDaily Prompt; Write about your worst fear

A pounding heart filled this apprehension, trepidation and fear guides my outstretched fingers, almost touching but not reaching my daughter who is ever so near. She has climbed out a window, her chubby legs dangle enjoying the view. Her eyes twinkle and when she sees mommy, claps her hands repeatedly, as a two-year old will often do. I signal quiet with a finger to my lips as panic replaces subdue. Then shake and shiver petrified of any move. The drop is disastrous if not fatal, but not the only view.