YAYDAY Countdown [3]

[I'm writing my own prompt today.]

(What’s Stopping You?

What do you want to do, what are you doing to get there, and what problems are you facing?)

I know I want to be a writer. I feel it, deep down in my gut. I want to write all kinds of stories and not be stuck in a niche. I have all sorts of creative ideas that I want to put onto paper. Sometimes I want to write a comedy, other times I want to write the modern day Metaphysics. Almost all of the time I want to give factual information to my readers. You haven’t read any of that writing yet because I’m still trying to figure out what to write about and how to go about it. I’m planning on getting my degree in journalism. I think it would be a great step forward for me. This blog was put together as an outlet for my creative fire but I’m starting to feel that by sticking to prompts, I’m having a harder time coming up with my own stories. Also, by writing almost everyday I have noticed a barricade. When I sit down to write a story I have a hard time getting past about 550 words at one time. I always seem to wrap it up right around there. It’s almost as if I need a mental break after I put down that amount. Then after a while I can get back to it and put down another 550 words. Writing dexterity is something I really need to work on. On the journalism side of things, I just can’t find the right topic. I have been really apprehensive in writing in that style due to the fact that I don’t want to write about car crashes and burning buildings. I know I have to start somewhere but I feel there has to be a better way. Maybe there isn’t and I’m trying to put the cart before the horse. What do you think? There are so many subjects out there that I would like to cover. Maybe I just need to pick two or three and set full steam ahead. Maybe I’ll wait for some guidance in my journalism classes that I’m going to be taking. I think my want of writing something impact-full is infringing on my want of writing. I don’t mind doing research, in fact, I thoroughly enjoy it, learning something new. I just need to figure out my topics. It could also be a matter of figuring out where or who I want to write for? Do I want to pump out my own e-books all day and fill my own blog? Or do I want to write for Politico and culture magazines? I’s still trying to figure all of this out. Until I do, I feel that my writing may be hurting. 454 words.

 

OH MY! Is it the 1st already?!

OH MY! Is it the 1st already?!

[So of course I am completely unprepared for the novel I have said I'm going to pen. It wasn't until this morning that I selected an idea to write about. I have so many. I get an idea then add it to my 'Bradbury List'.(In his book 'Zen and the Art of Writing' he gives wonderful advice for compiling ideas, which I have dubbed my Bradbury List.)  Hopefully I can mold it into some form of novel. Wish me luck]

YAYDAY Countdown [4]

[I skipped 5 because I was busy for Easter. I'm not going to lie, these prompts are getting a little sad. Spoiler alert: Tomorrow I have decide to quite and have to write my resignation to someone for something. Then the day after my tire pops and I write about breaking down. What happened to these prompts? Ever since they asked me to kill my hero they have become slightly depressing. Maybe I'm jaded. Today's prompt isn't too bad.]

(The Stranger

You’re walking home from work one night and taking shortcuts through a labyrinth of dark city alleyways to meet someone on time. Suddenly, a stranger parts the shadows in front of you, comes close and asks you to hold out your palm. You oblige.)

“You dropped this,” the hooded figure in front of me said in a mystic tone as he placed something in my hand. I held the object up to get a better view in the dim light. It was a quill filled with ink.

“I…don’t think I dropped this. You must be mistaken.” It felt comfortable in my hand.

“You dropped it. Not recently, but it is yours.”

“So when did I drop this quill? I don’t remember having owned a quill before.”

“No, you wouldn’t remember, but you have dropped that quill many times, in many different places.” The figure stood still and I was unable to see his face, but I could tell he was waiting for me to understand.

“Alright, I’ll play along Mr. Mystery. Tell me more, I don’t get your cryptic meaning.”

“Perhaps if you were to think harder.” His voice had a hint of a smile. Is he messing with me?

“I’ve had enough of this. I have a place to be, if you will excuse me.” I started to walk away when he placed his hand on my shoulder. Visions flashed in front of my eyes, my past lives.

“You have written great, important books, stories, and philosophies with that quill. It is time for you to pick it up and write again.” After he finished speaking he took his hand from my shoulder and the visions passed. When I spun around to confront the mystic, he was gone, leaving me alone in a dark alley way. After a moment I sat down and pulled out my notebook. Apprehensively I held the quill naturally in my hand and placed its tips to paper. Flooded with ideas, I began to write.

YAYDAY Countdown [6]

[What a depressing prompt. Damn you Writers Digest.]

(Obit for your Favorite Character

Write an obituary for you favorite fictional character (literary, television, ect.) including how the death occurred.)

[I'm Sorry, I just couldn't kill off my hero's. Who would I look up to if I was the one to murder them on paper?]

YAYDAY Countdown [7]

[Halfway done!]

(Full Disclosure

They toured the house with the real estate agent. “We love it,” he said. “Is there anything we should know about the house’s past?” The agent looked down.)

“Yes sir, there is a history,” the sales agent answered in a hushed tone. “I said earlier that this house has been renovated several times, but still retains most of its old architecture.” The husband and wife were now leaning in towards the sales agent, listening intently. “The original owner was considered a madman. He was a painter, inventor, writer, chemist, and a recluse. A hermit.” The sales man walked into the kitchen and opened a door. “Please follow me to the basement.”

“But what about the man?” The wife asked in a worried tone.

“I’m getting to that, but I think it would be easier if I showed you something first.”Apprehensively the couple followed the agent down rickety old stairs into a dimly lit, damp empty basement.

Looking around confused the husband remarked, “There’s nothing here.”

“I have tried very hard to keep that illusion. However-” the salesman walked to the far wall and depressed an off color brick, “there is.” The wall opened into a dark room. As the agent pulled out a lighter and lit ancient candles he continued the story. “I was never sure what to do with all this stuff so I left it here. In all this time no one has found it, so I don’t mention it unless asked, and no one has asked either.”

“What is all this?” The wife asked as the couple looked around in awe.

“This was the owners study. He conducted experiments using different plants and chemicals with that chemistry set.” Beakers, vials, test tubes, and other scientific things lay on a table in the center of the room. “Over on that wall is where he did his paintings. As you can see they are very dark, reminiscent of Kafka’s writings. And that desk in the corner  is where he wrote his letters, poems, short stories, and made his inventions. In one of his diary’s it states that he enjoyed creating things to help around the house instead of buying them in town.”

“So what happened to the man?” The husband asked.

“As we walked across the front porch you remarked at how different it looked than the rest of the house. The towns people despised the man and his reclusive ways. He also sent them letters degrading them and condemning their beliefs. One night the towns people came to the house to arrest the man for being a witch. He refused to come out, so they set the porch on fire. Worried that his work would be lost he shut the brick wall and gave into the peoples demands. Shortly after they all left it started to rain saving the house but the porch was destroyed. The next day he was burned at the stake.”

The couple stared at the man, then looked around the room at all the interesting odds and ends, then at each other. Simultaneously they spoke, “We’ll take it!”