Friday, February 19, 2016

Writing Prompts

Hold on to your hats, I'm about to tell you something without entering our share circle.

I enjoy writing.

While I wait for you to pick yourself up from the shock of it all, I'll just move this post along. I'm learning that there are things in this life that I don't care for at all. I'm looking at you, calamari, goat cheese, rooms without windows, folks who don't use blinkers, and crowds of people. There are also things I adore. Hello, hot tea, reading chairs, good books, laughter, stargazing, family, dogs sleeping at my feet...this list is extensive. For the sake of saving your eyes, I'll just let that end there.

I've recently discovered that writing energizes me. I can get absolutely nothing substantial or noteworthy accomplished during my day, but if I've added a few words to my book or worked on a short story, I will walk away feeling like I showed that day who's boss. I think we have different skill sets and abilities that make us feel fully engaged in life, something that takes living from ordinary to abundant in record time. I hope you know what that looks like for you. If not, why not make this the year that you discover what makes your heart light and your spirit zing?

I decided to really focus on writing this year to, hopefully, improve my craft and get back into the swing of things. Each morning I'm using a  writing prompt from Writers Write. I thought I would begin posting one at the end of the week to pry me out of my comfort zone. Somebody grab a crowbar....

Here is the prompt and my response:

“She knew about the strawberries and the vanilla pods, but she couldn’t remember why she needed to know.”


It tickled the back of her memory. The juicy red berries and the soothing scent of the vanilla brought a sense of comfort. In another life these meant something. In another life she would check ingredients three times before beginning to slice and measure, chop and prep. Not that she remembered that life now. Muddled thoughts ushered in frustrations and fears she never wanted to share. It was a weakness, a failure on her part, to admit that things were slipping. Things that should have a permanent hold on her, faces of loved ones, and places once known were slowly falling away. She felt the tears well up in her eyes as she stared at the kitchen counter with the chipped tile and dingy grout. Today would not be the day she let the forgetting begin. She cleared her mind of the jumbled confusion and reached a gnarled hand towards the basket of berries. If nothing else, her hands would remember. They would remember for her when memory faltered. Slowly, slowly, they took over and began to slice and create what she had forgotten.


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