Prompt: Card players spend a good deal of time together.
Write a scene, short story, chapter, poem, song, essay, fiction or non-fiction, using the prompt above for inspiration. The exact prompt does not have to be found in the text. Have fun and God bless.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Writer's Aids
Writer's Aids
by Don Hurst author of the fantasy-satire Return to UKOO and Cloud Riders.
Here are some things I try to remember as I write. Some may help, some may not.
1st Draft: CREATE, don't try for perfection. Get it on paper.
Make sure the story in your head gets on paper. Then Work with what's ACTUALLY ON PAPER/SCREEN.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
You don't get in the mood to write, You WRITE TO GET IN THE MOOD!
You don't wait for an idea to write, You WRITE TO GET AN IDEA!
Write from the INSIDE out.
SUSPENSE is arousing the reader's CURIOSITY. Keep the reader CURIOUS until the end.
Prolong the CRISIS. FRUSTRATE THE READER'S EXPECTATIONS. STRETCH OUT CONFLICT. There is no story without some kind of CONFLICT.
Use ACTIVE VERBS. Direct action eliminates WAS, WERE, ING. Lazy Verbs: WALKED, STOOD, SAT, MOVED, LOOKED. SHOWING the actions eliminates: BEGAN, STARTED, CONTINUING, THEN, etc.
ACTIVE SENTENCES put the story on stage. Inactive sentences hide behind the stage curtain.
If you TELL me, it's an essay. If you SHOW me, it's a story.
TELLING is for the writer. SHOWING is for the reader.
Use the internet search engines to find examples of almost anything. For example, GOOGLE any of the above subjects.
Quote: "The life you have led doesn't need to be the only life you have."
Quote: "TRUTH is eternal, KNOWLEDGE is changeable. It can be disastrous to confuse them."
by Don Hurst author of the fantasy-satire Return to UKOO and Cloud Riders.
Here are some things I try to remember as I write. Some may help, some may not.
1st Draft: CREATE, don't try for perfection. Get it on paper.
Make sure the story in your head gets on paper. Then Work with what's ACTUALLY ON PAPER/SCREEN.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
You don't get in the mood to write, You WRITE TO GET IN THE MOOD!
You don't wait for an idea to write, You WRITE TO GET AN IDEA!
Write from the INSIDE out.
SUSPENSE is arousing the reader's CURIOSITY. Keep the reader CURIOUS until the end.
Prolong the CRISIS. FRUSTRATE THE READER'S EXPECTATIONS. STRETCH OUT CONFLICT. There is no story without some kind of CONFLICT.
Use ACTIVE VERBS. Direct action eliminates WAS, WERE, ING. Lazy Verbs: WALKED, STOOD, SAT, MOVED, LOOKED. SHOWING the actions eliminates: BEGAN, STARTED, CONTINUING, THEN, etc.
ACTIVE SENTENCES put the story on stage. Inactive sentences hide behind the stage curtain.
If you TELL me, it's an essay. If you SHOW me, it's a story.
TELLING is for the writer. SHOWING is for the reader.
Use the internet search engines to find examples of almost anything. For example, GOOGLE any of the above subjects.
Quote: "The life you have led doesn't need to be the only life you have."
Quote: "TRUTH is eternal, KNOWLEDGE is changeable. It can be disastrous to confuse them."
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
500 X 02 Lock
This prompt comes from my friend Vinny's site. 3-7-10. I think she found it on photobucket. I look forward to seeing what you come up with for this. The challenge is...500 words or less. Have fun.God bless,
shadowlight
with God all things are possible
Friday, July 16, 2010
July 17, 2010
Here's a story starter for you. I'd love to see where it takes you. Have fun. :o)
The fog rolled in over the mountains, blanketing the small village in a dense gray cloud of cold and damp. Woodsmoke, all but unseen, mixed with the mists, pinpointing dwellings lost to sight. In the distance the cliffside lighthouse sounded it's clarion call, warning passing ships of the nearby rocky coast, though its all-seeing eye hid in the shadows of the night, defeated by the ever-thickening gloom. It was a night fit for neither man, nor beast, yet in this night a solitary soul walked.
The fog rolled in over the mountains, blanketing the small village in a dense gray cloud of cold and damp. Woodsmoke, all but unseen, mixed with the mists, pinpointing dwellings lost to sight. In the distance the cliffside lighthouse sounded it's clarion call, warning passing ships of the nearby rocky coast, though its all-seeing eye hid in the shadows of the night, defeated by the ever-thickening gloom. It was a night fit for neither man, nor beast, yet in this night a solitary soul walked.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Wicked Wind (July 12, 2010)
Ok this little snippet is inspired by the following prompt which came from Daily Writing Practice (see links section). It is entirely freewrite, but was fun to write. Thanks to all who read and comment.
shadowlight
Prompt: Wicked Wind
Wicked Wind
© Marlicia Fernandez (WC 630) 7-12-10
The door slams open against the rough hewn timber tavern walls. Wet leaves swirl around the entry and the man who staggers in. The damp material of his shirt and pants cling to the sizeable muscles of his chest, arms and legs. Hatless, coatless and apparently, witless, he stands there, eyes wide and unfocused. He crouches and leans forward, his head cradled in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Deep, shuddering gasps rack his sizeable frame. What cold put the fear of God into such a man?
“Close the door, you fool,” bartender snapped. “You’re wasting heat the heat and lettin’ in the weather.”
The barkeep is a good man at heart, patient, kind and understanding. But when it comes to money, either the making or the losing of it, he becomes another person entirely. A real “Mr. Jekyl” to his normally mild mannered “Dr. Hyde.”
The man in the doorway didn’t move.
Barney, that’s the barkeep, slams down the shot glass he’s cleaning , throws his bar towel onto the counter and stalks toward the far end of the bar, fists clenched. I guess I should be thankful he just didn’t vault over it. He’s been known to do that.
“Take it easy, Barney, I’ll get it.” Barney scowls, but returns to polishing the shot glasses lined up along the back of the bar beneath the mirror. I slide off my stool and ease around the immovable mountain man to shut the door. On the way back, I grab the newcomer’s arm and hope he doesn’t take it into his head to resist. He could probably throw me across the room without half trying.
To my relief he follows without protest, his face pale, his expression slack—except for his eyes. Those eyes reflect terror. “Sit down, I’ll buy you a drink,” I say when we reach the bar.
He sits and nods.
“What’ll it be,” Barney asks. “Scotch, Whiskey? Ale?”
The man’s mouth works but nothing comes out. “Scotch,” I say. I drop some money on the table. “Better make it a double. He looks like he needs it.”
Barney grins and nods. “Sure thing G. R. . Whatever you say.”
I turn to the man, sitting, shivering beside me. “Want to tell us what happened?”
Barney arrives with the drink and plunks it on the table in front of our guest. The big man curls his great fingers around the glass and tosses it back in one gulp. The color returns to his cheeks and his breathing eases. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Tis a wicked wind that bodes no good. It howls through the night like a banshee looking for an unsuspecting soul to snatch. Can’t ye hear it wailin’?”
“So you be Irish, be ye?” I lean against the bar, careful to keep my features in the shadows. “What be your name?”
“Sean O’Connor.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out several coins. He waved to Barney. “Get me another, straight up.”
“Well, Sean-O. You needn’t be afraid of a little wind. Nor the Banshee neither. She be me friend don’t ye know.”
The wicked wind wails louder and I ease into the flickering lantern light. “Ye recognize me know, don’t ye boy? Ye can’t run from me, but ye knew that.”
Sean drops the glass onto the counter, or where the counter would have been, had it been solid…but spirits don’t need solid things, and we be spirits. I smile and lean into the light. “Ye should thank the Banshee for leading ye here. Not everyone gets their final drink.”
I reach out to touch the terrified man with my cold, white fingers. His heart stops. He doesn’t even scream.
shadowlight
Prompt: Wicked Wind
Wicked Wind
© Marlicia Fernandez (WC 630) 7-12-10
The door slams open against the rough hewn timber tavern walls. Wet leaves swirl around the entry and the man who staggers in. The damp material of his shirt and pants cling to the sizeable muscles of his chest, arms and legs. Hatless, coatless and apparently, witless, he stands there, eyes wide and unfocused. He crouches and leans forward, his head cradled in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Deep, shuddering gasps rack his sizeable frame. What cold put the fear of God into such a man?
“Close the door, you fool,” bartender snapped. “You’re wasting heat the heat and lettin’ in the weather.”
The barkeep is a good man at heart, patient, kind and understanding. But when it comes to money, either the making or the losing of it, he becomes another person entirely. A real “Mr. Jekyl” to his normally mild mannered “Dr. Hyde.”
The man in the doorway didn’t move.
Barney, that’s the barkeep, slams down the shot glass he’s cleaning , throws his bar towel onto the counter and stalks toward the far end of the bar, fists clenched. I guess I should be thankful he just didn’t vault over it. He’s been known to do that.
“Take it easy, Barney, I’ll get it.” Barney scowls, but returns to polishing the shot glasses lined up along the back of the bar beneath the mirror. I slide off my stool and ease around the immovable mountain man to shut the door. On the way back, I grab the newcomer’s arm and hope he doesn’t take it into his head to resist. He could probably throw me across the room without half trying.
To my relief he follows without protest, his face pale, his expression slack—except for his eyes. Those eyes reflect terror. “Sit down, I’ll buy you a drink,” I say when we reach the bar.
He sits and nods.
“What’ll it be,” Barney asks. “Scotch, Whiskey? Ale?”
The man’s mouth works but nothing comes out. “Scotch,” I say. I drop some money on the table. “Better make it a double. He looks like he needs it.”
Barney grins and nods. “Sure thing G. R. . Whatever you say.”
I turn to the man, sitting, shivering beside me. “Want to tell us what happened?”
Barney arrives with the drink and plunks it on the table in front of our guest. The big man curls his great fingers around the glass and tosses it back in one gulp. The color returns to his cheeks and his breathing eases. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Tis a wicked wind that bodes no good. It howls through the night like a banshee looking for an unsuspecting soul to snatch. Can’t ye hear it wailin’?”
“So you be Irish, be ye?” I lean against the bar, careful to keep my features in the shadows. “What be your name?”
“Sean O’Connor.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out several coins. He waved to Barney. “Get me another, straight up.”
“Well, Sean-O. You needn’t be afraid of a little wind. Nor the Banshee neither. She be me friend don’t ye know.”
The wicked wind wails louder and I ease into the flickering lantern light. “Ye recognize me know, don’t ye boy? Ye can’t run from me, but ye knew that.”
Sean drops the glass onto the counter, or where the counter would have been, had it been solid…but spirits don’t need solid things, and we be spirits. I smile and lean into the light. “Ye should thank the Banshee for leading ye here. Not everyone gets their final drink.”
I reach out to touch the terrified man with my cold, white fingers. His heart stops. He doesn’t even scream.
July 12, 2010
Here's the prompt for today. It's a picture prompt by Rembrandt called the Philosopher. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.
Have fun.
God bless,
shadowlight
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Alien
Four line poem topic this fine, smoking hot Saturday: aliens.
This came from Daily Writing Prompts (see links section) . I wasn't sure if he meant four actual lines or if he meant sentences. I came up with four sentences and so I'll post it here before I post it there, in case it doesn't fit the bill. :o) Feel free to comment or to try your hand at it, whether it be four lines or four sentences.
The Alien
by Marlicia Fernandez (7-11-10)
Bright, flashing light chases the darkness into hiding--out of sight.
A low rumble fills the silence of the night--fading abruptly into nothing.
Soft tapping draws attention to the window--to the golden eyes peering through the glass, reflecting curiosity--like mine.
Silver moonlight glints off the oval head, alien in many ways and yet so strangely, achingly, familiar.
OR A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT VERSION
The Alien (2)
by Marlicia Fernandez (7-11-10)
Bright, flashing light chases darkness into hiding--out of sight.
A low rumble fills the silence of the night--fading abruptly into nothing.
Soft tapping draws attention to the window--to the golden eyes peering through the glass.
Silver moonlight glints off the oval head, alien in many ways and yet so strangely, achingly, familiar.
AND A THIRD VERSION
The Alien (3)
by Marlicia Fernandez (7-12-10)
Bright, flashing light chases darkness into hiding--out of sight.
Low rumbles fill the night--fading into nothing.
Tapping draws attention to the window-- golden eyes peer through the glass.
Moonlight glints off the oval head, alien in many ways and yet so strangely, achingly, familiar.
This came from Daily Writing Prompts (see links section) . I wasn't sure if he meant four actual lines or if he meant sentences. I came up with four sentences and so I'll post it here before I post it there, in case it doesn't fit the bill. :o) Feel free to comment or to try your hand at it, whether it be four lines or four sentences.
The Alien
by Marlicia Fernandez (7-11-10)
Bright, flashing light chases the darkness into hiding--out of sight.
A low rumble fills the silence of the night--fading abruptly into nothing.
Soft tapping draws attention to the window--to the golden eyes peering through the glass, reflecting curiosity--like mine.
Silver moonlight glints off the oval head, alien in many ways and yet so strangely, achingly, familiar.
OR A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT VERSION
The Alien (2)
by Marlicia Fernandez (7-11-10)
Bright, flashing light chases darkness into hiding--out of sight.
A low rumble fills the silence of the night--fading abruptly into nothing.
Soft tapping draws attention to the window--to the golden eyes peering through the glass.
Silver moonlight glints off the oval head, alien in many ways and yet so strangely, achingly, familiar.
AND A THIRD VERSION
The Alien (3)
by Marlicia Fernandez (7-12-10)
Bright, flashing light chases darkness into hiding--out of sight.
Low rumbles fill the night--fading into nothing.
Tapping draws attention to the window-- golden eyes peer through the glass.
Moonlight glints off the oval head, alien in many ways and yet so strangely, achingly, familiar.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
July 8, 2010
He does not enjoy fun.
Use the phrase above as an inspiration for a scene, chapter, short story, poem, essay, or for song lyrics. The prompt itself does not have to appear in the piece.
Have fun.
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