SFD @ 2KoP

Haiku or Bust

2011-04-08T23:01:00.002-05:00

It's been a while since I posted here on SFD, but I've gotten a bit of inspiration. I belong to Off Campus Writers' Workshop (lucky me), the oldest continuously running writing workshop in the country. We currently boast about 200 members and each Thursday morning between September and early May, we host a speaker. Two-and-a-half hours of graduate level classes on topics from technique to pitching to marketing (plus everything in between) for 8 bucks ($10 for nonmembers, so if you are ever in the northern Chicago suburbs on a Thursday morning, you should drop in — we welcome all comers).

On March 31, we heard Janice Del Negro, storyteller extraordinaire. Her topic was ostensibly "Building Inspiration: The practical construction of creative motivation", but it was so much more than that. That's the thing about OCWW — you never know what you might learn from a speaker.

One exercise Janice had us try was to write the entire plot of a story in Haiku — that 5-7-5 poem format. She recommended that we use a fairytale or folk tale, since the plots are so familiar. This is not a traditional form for me by any means, and I tried Goldilocks, but didn't like the outcome. Of course, one of the points of the exercise was to avoid perfection and just do it (i.e., create a SFD), but that's not my best thing either. So I tried a different story — my favorite story, so it is very familiar to me: The Great Gatsby. Here's my effort:

Gatsby wants Daisy

Nick visits, Tom cheats, three die

Dreams live best as dreams

Whether you like my haiku or not, it proved to be a lightbulb moment for me. First, I think this is a great exercise for creating your elevator pitch for your book/novel/story/script.

Second, it showed me that I have to know my story as well as I know Fitzgerald's masterpiece — so well that I could distill it down to 17 syllables.

Third, that I need to hone my story until it is concrete enough, substantial enough in its theme and plot, to be expressed in 17 syllables.

Thank you, Janice. If you like this exercise, feel free to take a crack at it in the comments.

Winter Storm

2011-02-01T22:58:00.001-06:00

It speaks to me in sounds
I didn't know I knew
A wounded moose
Ancient radio crackles
News from long ago
Train wheels grind frozen rails
An eagle screams
A drop of well-deep quiet
A thousand hands rub
Together to keep warm
An old man rocks and hums
Deep in his chest

Weary house answers
Windows whistle
Bones grumble and groan

Every door grunts

Against the winter storm
Pipes clang
Furnace harrumphs, then heaves
Bits of plaster surrender
And spit pieces to the floor

Two Kinds of People: Second Annual 2KoP Writing Challenge

2011-01-29T16:37:00.000-06:00

Two Kinds of People: Second Annual 2KoP Writing Challenge: "[Update 1/19/11 — The ante has been upped! NY Times best-selling author Laura Munson has taken the 2KoP Writing Challenge, posting her versi..."

2011-01-10T01:28:00.003-06:00

Sample Survey

2011-01-01T01:30:00.000-06:00

Writing Prompt: Next to Last

2010-08-30T18:23:00.000-05:00

This writing prompt is from Lisa Romeo. She promised a summer of prompts, so I'm pretty sure I know what this one means. Like everything else in my summer, this is coming to an end. I didn't do as well as I had hoped keeping up with the prompts, but I've saved all her emails and will probably go back and work on some of them, posting them as if I had done them on the day she sent them. Or is that cheating? In any case, thank you, Lisa, for the inspirational summer.

Penultimate — it's one of my favorite words. When I first heard it, I thought it meant that the event or thing in questions was even more ultimate than the ultimate. Penultimate is such an elegant word, so luxurious in the mouth, that it had to mean something great. It was somewhat of a letdown to discover that it meant "next to last" or not quite ultimate. That really took the shine off of the word for me for a while.

But I've come back to it. At first, it was probably due to the smugness that wordies like me feel when we know the true meaning and usage of a word that many people use incorrectly. I've often heard penultimate used the way I imagined it as a child. Every time I hear or read the misuse, I take out my mental Sharpie pen and correct it. There's such satisfaction in being right. It turns a pet peeve into a gleeful moment of triumph.

But the real attraction of the word is that there is something hopeful about being the penultimate. It means there's still one more chance after this one to get it right; one more opportunity to enjoy something wonderful. Penultimate may not be the "ultimate", but it also isn't the final, the last, the end.

Geez, I'm a geek. Who else takes so much joy in parsing words? If you do, come sit next to me. Leave and comment and we'll discuss. Thanks again, Lisa

Just Tryin' Out the iPad

2010-08-24T20:21:00.000-05:00

I'm at the Apple Store waiting for my new computer, and just could not resist the temptation to play with the iPad. While this little goodie has gotten a pretty bad rap, I have to say that it's pretty seductive -- so sleek and small, lightweight and easy to throw in your bag and go. You can surf the net anywhere there's wifi. Way fun, and not as tiny as typing on an iPhone (but I covet one of those, too).

Writing Prompt: The River

2010-08-18T15:19:00.000-05:00

This writing prompt is from Lisa Romeo. I have never before posted a picture on the SFD blog, but this prompt led me straight to this photo from our recent trip out west.

This summer, we traveled together for nearly weeks — six of us in an eight-year-old minivan with a Sears car-top carrier. Between Chicago and Seattle, we encountered countless bodies of water, from the Great Lakes to the Pacific Ocean. We learned about dams and hydro electric power, and the how engineers and conservationists are revising and rethinking how damming our rivers impacts our environment.

We crossed the mighty Mississippi early on, at LaCrosse, WI. It was only then that we felt like the trip had really started. Wide and meandering on that border between Wisconsin and Minnesota, the Mississippi was a sleeping giant, lazing along in the heat of the northern summer. It split and reconnected around fingerlike islands, bent at an elbow and slipped passed the I-90 bridge, oblivious of the oily mess it would meet at its delta.

When you start with the Mississippi, how can other rivers compare? I discovered that rivers don't compete. They're content with their own personalities. Creeks and brooks, rivers and streams, mere trickles and pushy waterfalls — we saw them all — and each was thoroughly engaged, a study in movement, some walking, some skipping, some running, but all inexorably going forward to some unknown destination.

The power of water is can been seen in even slightest trickle. Flowing water both shapes and is shaped by the land formations and obstacles in path. While we watch, we see only the later, how a protruding rock forces the water up, around and over it, changing the shape, color and sound of the water when they meet. We don't see that the water is simultaneously sculpting the rock, smoothing it, scraping and carrying it's minerals downstream. It will take months or years or decades before the human eye can see the water's impact on the rock, but the water's influence over the rock is more permanent and significant than the rock's power over the water.

Many of the rivers we met were suffering the heat of summer. Wide banks seemed like big-brother hand-me-downs to creeks that had retreated from their edges during weeks of 100+ degree days.

The true power of moving water could be seen best in the rivers that weren't — or at least weren't any more. The magnificent coulees carved by long-dead ancient rivers bore the scars and patterns of gushing waters that have escaped the bonds of human memory. This dry river bed, this river of rocks and mountain detritus stood probably 25 or 30 feet wide, a lasting memorial carved like a sculptor's self-portrait; a still, unmoving replica of a once-formidable force.

I think this passage meanders more haphazardly than any of the rivers we saw, but hey, it's just a SFD, right?

Writing Prompt: Sin City

2010-08-15T15:56:00.000-05:00

This writing prompt from Lisa Romeo's blog, where you can sign up to receive daily writing prompts in your inbox. I usually give myself 10 minutes for these prompts.

To say he wasn't much of a gambler is an understatement. Joseph was a planner — someone who contributed regularly to his 401K, who made sure his bills were paid on time and that his sole credit card was paid off monthly to avoid interest charges. In fact, the only reason he had a credit card at all was to help develop his excellent credit rating and because his job required a lot of traveling, which in turn required a credit card rent a car and reserve his hotel rooms.

Joseph traveled at least two weeks a month, staying in modest, virtually indistinguishable hotel rooms. They tended to be clean, but boring, ranging in color from beige to taupe to tan — more than neutral, the decor (if you could call it that) was practically invisible. Joseph preferred it that way. No surprises, no need to adjust your sensibilities or compare one hotel room to another. Blandness bred contentment, which was more consistent than happiness.

Last week, Joseph was stunned to attention when he checked into a newly remodeled hotel in the heart of an undistinguished mid-sized city in middle America. His records indicated that he had visited this hotel before, but other than the receipts he kept and the Excel spreadsheet where he listed expenses and tracked his experiences (if you could call them that).

When he drove up to the hotel, he was not surprised that he did not recognize the facade. He was surprised by that this hotel, one he had presumably stayed in before, did not sport the ubiquitous brick or stucco front with a canopied driveway. Instead, he pulled up curbside and was greeted by a liveried valet, who took his rental vehicle God knows where and left Joseph staring after him with the valet ticket clutched in his hand.

Turning slowly, Joseph took one step toward the doors, which automatically slid open to the left and right. The familiar Formica clad concierge counter had been replaced by a stand-alone semi-circle desk in polished aluminum. The entire lobby was shiny metal and red lacquer, lit by a galaxy to tiny, pinpoint lights. The mirrored elevator doors reflected the lobby as he saw it, with the exception that it also showed a beige man in a rumpled suit, with hair and skin that had greyed before its time. It took Joseph almost a minute to recognize himself.

Joseph was brought back to reality when the shiny concierge flashed a digital camera in his face. Her hair was black and blunt cut, and her flawless white skin was bisected by a cut of red lipstick. She smiled and said it would be just another minute and he couldn't help but notice how young she looked, even though he was not yet 30. Her black suit was perfectly tailored and the collar of her red silk blouse seemed to cradle her delicate face. Suddenly, she walked out from behind the semi-circle, pressed a key-card into his hand on top of the valet ticket and guided him by the elbow into the waiting elevator.

"Tenth floor, suite B," she smiled, taking his key card and waving it in front of a small screen inside the elevator where the button panel should have been. "Enjoy your stay," she said, and as the doors closed, the last thing he saw were her implausibly high red patent leather pumps.

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I'm not quite sure where Joseph came from, but the hotel is much like the one my brother recently stayed in when we met up in Seattle. My family and I were stuck in two tacky rooms at a national chain, paying $185 a night per room; he stayed in an edgy, newly remodeled place just a few blocks away for a mere $60 a night with free parking.

Writing Prompt: The Dance

2010-08-14T12:23:00.000-05:00

This writing prompt from Lisa Romeo. I've been away from writing for several weeks while we traveled. I always think I'm going to do a lot of writing on the road, but it never works out that way. My writer friends tell me it's important to take a break and refill the well, so I'm going to pretend that I did that. But now that I'm home, seems a writing prompt is a good way to get back into the swing of things. 10 minutes.

Without question, the longest two hours of my life. Longer than the time I was stuck on the tarmac in Cleveland during a snow storm. Longer even than any two hours of labor. It was the time I chaperoned the middle school dance.

Just to prove how bad this dance was, the principal decided to cancel all dances from that point forward, so it wasn't just me who that it was bad. It was bad.

I'm no prude and with four kids and two step kids, I've done more than my fair share of chaperoning. How bad could it be? thought I. Two hours in a middle school gym — a little sweaty, a little loud, a little boring, but I could take it. I was a veteran.

My little sixth grade twins had no idea what the whole dance thing was about. Like all the other sixth graders, the formed a circle around the periphery of the gymnasium, mostly running around and playing tag.

The seventh graders formed another ring, inside the circle of sixth graders, but not at the center. Here the girls primped, gossiped, giggled and pointed. Totally expected behavior. The boys stood in awkward clumps, hands shoved deep in their pockets, standing on tiptoe to see the real action that was going on in the very center of the room.

The eighth graders closed ranks in tight knots that formed the nucleus of the three-ringed cell. They were the only ones "dancing", if you could call it that. A single girl stood, bent over at the waist, buttocks high in the air. She was surrounded by a group of between six and 10 boys, who took turns bumping and grinding into her from behind, simulating (quite graphically) a variety of sex acts.

Again, I'm not a prude, but I was seriously shocked. These were 12 and 13 year old kids. I know that jitter bug was considered obscene in its day; my mother wasn't allowed to even listen to Elvis the Pelvis because of his lewd hip movements; and belly dancing, often considered an art, clearly has sexual overtones. But this was overtones, undertones and overt, in-your-face sex. And it was gross. I could understand what the boys liked about it, but I kept wanting to ask the girls "What are you thinking?"

The principal instructed chaperones to physically walk through the circles to break it up. At one point, he turned the lights up to full power to discourage the behavior. I spent two hours as a vice cop before the whistle blew signaling that it was time to go home. I never knew the shrill sound of a whistle could bring such relief. I grabbed my twins and headed home for a much-needed long, hot shower.

Time: Oy, that was such an awful night. Wonder how I could use this in fiction. That dance was six years ago. Have shows like Dancing with the Stars changed school dance behavior? Would I have been as bothered if it had been a high school dance?

Writing Prompt: Cake or Pie?

2010-07-18T13:46:00.002-05:00

This writing prompt, from Lisa Romeo, just begs to become a Two Kinds of People post. For this SFD, I'm just going to list the things I want to touch on in my post and see where it takes me.

There are two kinds of people in the world: cake people and pie people.

Not a big fan of cake. Cake is too dry, except truly decadent cakes like those molten chocolate things.

Cupcakes are a pain in the ass to make. Tell the story about the little boys eating the tops off of all those cupcakes. Molly's black-bottom pies and how the recipe calls for frosting, which seems redundant.

Then there was the time when Al Segretti inadvertently made my favorite pie for dessert on my birthday for the progressive dinner.
Cindy Fey's pie from last year. What a treat. Not many people will bake for mere acquaintances.

Making pie with Amy up at Michigan Tech. It was my first effort and a complete disaster. Pie is tricky, even though there are only a few ingredients. The dough is sensitive to ambient conditions and overworking it can make it tough. Also mention baking pies with Grandma. Cindy and I used to get the trimmings to make tarts, but we usually just made a mess. Interesting that some people who like to cook don't like to bake, and vice versa.

Pie song from "Michael".
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So, this was interesting. Writing my thoughts down just as they came without molding or shaping them. Oddly, it did not feel freeing to write this way. I think part of the fun for me of writing Two Kinds of People post is shaping all these random, barely-connected ideas into a cohesive whole. Here's a pun for you: I like kneading the randomness into a workable shape. Which is what I'm going to do right now. See the finished product over at Two Kinds of People. I'll leave it cooling on the window sill.

Writing Prompt: Infected

2010-07-17T12:54:00.000-05:00

Today's writing prompt, from Lisa Romeo, reminds me of a game we used to play in college that involved the use of creative insults. We were big into Shakespeare back then, and our everyday vernacular began to sound quite flat in comparison. It's one thing to call someone an asshole — anyone can do that, but it doesn't even compare to one of the Bard's famous insults, like this one from King Lear:

"Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood."

So, this is where today's writing prompt is taking me — to insults. Probably not quite what Lisa had intended.

Wound
Infected wound
Infected, foul-smelling wound
Infected, foul-smelling wound on a corpse
Infected, foul-smelling wound on a rotting corpse
Infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse of your soul
Oozing, infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse of your soul
Oozing, infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse that had been the soul of mankind.
You are an oozing, infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse that was once the soul of mankind. You represent the final stages of decomposition, the seething remnants of our former glory, the pathetic ruins of our great potential scuttled by corporate greed and human arrogance.

Red
Flaming red
Infected, flaming red
Infected, flaming red mound
Infected, flaming red mound of pus
Infected, flaming red mound of pus-filled boils
May you be infected by a flaming red mound of pus-filled boils
May you be infected by a flaming red mound of pus-filled boils that render you hideous to those you wish to impress.

Maggot
Infested with maggots
Filthy, infested with maggots
Filthy bottom feeder, infested with maggots
Filthy, bottom-feeding parasite, infested with maggots
Useless, filthy bottom-feeding parasite, infested with maggots
Useless, filthy bottom-feeding parasite, infested with disease-spreading maggots
You are nothing but a useless, filthy, bottom-feeding parasite, infested with disease spreading maggots, and I will use every tool, every weapon at my disposal to rid the world of your plague.

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So much more fun than simply calling someone an asshole. Cathartic, really. Feel free to give my little stream of consciousness game a try in the comments below.

Writing Prompt: Putting Out Fires

2010-07-16T19:08:00.003-05:00

Today's writing prompt is courtesy of Lisa Romeo's Summer Writing Prompt Program. You can get free prompts from Lisa, too. Here we go — 10 minutes on putting out fires.

It seems all I do these days is put out fires. There's no time for planning, thoughtful contemplation, cool assessment of the situation. I just aim the fire extinguisher at that flare up, blast the hose on this flame, and spread the chemical foam on those dangerous crash and burn fires.

The little flare ups are caused by my two youngest boys, who are a combustible combination these days. Prior to adolescence, they were best friends. Now that can't seem to be in the same room together for more than five minutes without igniting a simple bicker into a big blowup.

The visible flames come from our robbing-Peter-to-pay-Paul financial strategy. We haven't intentionally increased our spending, but our income has been cut (like everyone else's), our healthcare expenses keep rising, and every time I turn around, there's a new bill burning to be paid. Just when we get one fire under control, a new hot spot shows bursts into flames.

The slow, undousable burn stems from my inability to stop time (or at least slow it down a bit). Children are heading off to college, step children are getting married, little boys are turning into big boys, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. This particularly deadly fire is complicated by my tendency to burn the candle at both ends, leaving me vulnerable to the shifting winds of middle-age mood swings that provide endless fuel for this fire.

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10 minutes. I know. I know. I took this poor metaphor and squeezed it's guts out. But, that's what shitty first drafts are for.

Writing Prompt: Bolt

2010-07-15T22:38:00.005-05:00

Lisa Romeo has once again offered to send daily writing prompts to your (and my) inbox, so I'm picking up the SFD blog again. Ten minutes is all it takes, because that's all I'll allow. Go.

Bolt out the door. Bolt down the block, around the corner, into Cassie's backyard. The hammock is empty, swinging slightly in the breeze. No Cassie.

Bolt down the alley, through the hole in the chain link at the end and climb the fire escape up to the roof of Sully's Garage. There's a pretty good view of the neighborhood from up there. Sully's working on that heap of his in bay #1. I can't see him from up here, but I can hear the clank, clank of his tools and then him swearing as he finds yet another problem. It's like a mechanic's symphony down there:

Clank, clank "Shit"
Clank, clank "Fucking piece of junk"
Clank, clank "Got it"
Clank, clank "Dammitalltohell"

He should dump that car.

Like I should dump Cassie. Every time I turn around there's drama and more drama. Back to business. Vince and Capo are on their boards at the skate park. I look for Cassie and the yapfest she calls a dog. No pink leashes to be seen.

Bolt back down the fire escape, jumping the last 10 feet when the ladder sticks. Bolt down Jackson into Murphy's Drugs. I check the aisles. There she is, holding yappy under her arm and staring at a little box. Like she senses me standing there, she looks up and turns the home pregnancy test toward me.

I bolt.

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10 minutes. Don't know why this teenager popped into my head with the prompt, but all I could see was a skittish, wiry kid in black jeans and a white t-shirt looking for his on-again, off-again girlfriend. Strange what pops into your head with a writing prompt.

Day #25 — Who Would Like to Go First

2010-01-31T21:46:00.001-06:00

Prompt: Who Would Like to Go First

Tapping the edge of the yardstick on the floor between her splayed feet, Mrs. Cumberman looked around the room, slowly sliding her eyes up one row of desks and down the next. Tricia could feel the beady black eyes scorch the part in her hair as Mrs. Cumberman passed by her downturned head.

"Who would like to go first?" the teacher asked, taking a deep breath and holding it while she waited for a volunteer to come forward. "No one? David Anderson? How about you?"

"No, ma'am," David said.

"No, ma'am what?" Mrs. Cumberman tapped hard on the last word.

"No, ma'am, I would not like to go first. I had the flu till yesterday and just go the assignment from my brother last night, so my project is not ready."

"I see. How many days did you miss?"

"Six school days."

"Then you have until Monday to complete your project. You will go first on Monday. Patricia Bailey. I have just volunteered you to go first, since the rest of the class seems to have suddenly contracted stage fright and Mr. Anderson is just back from sick leave."

Tricia stared at her desk. Every hair on her arms was standing on end, like the time when she rubbed it against her birthday balloon. Her feet were itchy inside her shoes and socks, and she couldn't bring herself to look up as she grabbed her poster board and headed to the front of the room.

"Class, Miss Bailey will be your teacher for the next five minutes. What topic will you be enlightening us about today, Miss Bailey?"

"The bmermer," Tricia mumbled.

"Speak up, Miss Bailey. The students in the back of your classroom cannot hear you. In fact, the students in the front rows cannot even hear you. Ricky Balsam, can you hear Miss Bailey?"

Ricky cupped his hand behind his ear. "Eh? Did you say something, teach?" he said, and the class giggled. Tricia glared at him from under her lowered eyelids.

"The BEAVER," she shouted so loudly that the sound ricocheted off the back wall and bounced back so loudly into her own ears that she had to cover them with her hands.

Time: 10 minutes

They say that public speaking ranks in the top three things that people fear the most. I think most people remember feeling terrified at the idea of making a fool of themselves in front of classmates, especially if they had a teacher who they perceived as mean. If I were to spend time rewriting this scene, I would concentrate on how Tricia was feeling.

Day #24 — Required Reading

2010-01-31T00:36:00.001-06:00

Here's a poem for you. My initial reaction to this writing prompt ("Required Reading") was to do a rant about the stupid Accelerated Reading program and why it makes children hate reading. But instead, here is my feeble attempt at a poem, inspired by the continuing news from Haiti.

Prompt: Required Reading

Required reading
Bodies bleeding
People pleading

Required reading

Children needing

Love and feeding

Required reading
Hope receding
Helpful heeding

Required reading

Some still breathing

Not conceding

Required reading
Plans proceeding
Time impeding

Required reading
New news leading
Superseding

Time: 14 minutes

As I say, I'm not a poet. I'm immature when it comes to using the tools of poetry, but this was an exciting exercise in that it reminded me again how just a few words can tell a story with great impact. It took much longer to write this way than when I follow my usual path. It certainly stretched me more than my typical response pattern would have done.

Day #23.5 — It finally happened

2010-01-29T12:06:00.001-06:00

So if you've been paying attention — and not many people have — I broke my streak. After 22 straight days of SFDs, I missed yesterday. But, to quote my son, it's not my fault. Really. I spent the entire day at the hospital figuring things out for my mother in law who was having some issues after surgery. Now, don't you feel bad that you thought less of me? I woulda if I coulda. Really.

So, here's what I've decided. I'm granting myself a Mulligan, a do-over. I'm turning a blind eye and extended my "day" from yesterday to include this 10-minute free-write and I'm going to date it as if I had written it yesterday on 1/29 (aren't the publishing options offered by blogger great?). Then, I will do another 10 minute free write based on a different prompt and date it today, 1/30. Brilliant, right? I'll be all caught up and only you will be the wiser. If only all my problems were this easy to solve. So, here we go with one of the final prompts from Lisa Romeo.

Prompt: Report Card

My mom is going to kill me. She is flat out going to kill me. I'm doomed. A C- in math. Math. I've never gotten less than an A on anything, and now a C- in math. How is it going to look when the son of a professor of Applied Mathematics at MIT is practically failing math. She is going to kill me.

The thing is, I hate math. I always have. Ever since I got that plastic placemat with the times tables on it and my mom started quizzing me at breakfast every morning, I have hated math. I like words. I like books. I like to read, but I really, really hate math.

I guess I could be good at it if I tried. I mean, if genetics plays a part in the equation, then a math professor and an economist should have produced a son who could do math if he tries, right? But what if I can't do it? What if I tried everything, and did all the homework, and studied before the tests and quizzes and then I still flunked. Then my parents wouldn't just kill me. They'd hate me.

Maybe my mom will forget that it's report card day. Maybe I can say I forgot it, or lost it. Maybe I can say that they are mailing report cards home now and that it got lost in the mail. That sounds perfectly reasonable, since half of my bar mitzvah invitations never made it the the right mailboxes. I think I'll go with that one. At least it will buy me some times. If I could put my mom off track for four more days, then it's fall break, so that gives me another week, but then it's parent-teacher conferences that Wednesday. Hmm, four days, plus seven days, plus three more days — that gives me a full two weeks before I really have to worry.

Time: 11 minutes

I wonder why I always find it so much easier to write from the point of view of a boy than a girl when I write for children. That's so curious to me. Perhaps it's because I have three sons and only one daughter, or maybe because I'm so different from my daughter. Still, you would think I would be tapping into my own sensory memories from childhood.

Day #22: Money, Money, Money

2010-01-28T22:28:00.000-06:00

Today I am writing on my laptop from the discomfort of my mother-in-laws hospital room (she'll be fine). It's been a long day and I'm tired. And hungry. But neither exhaustion nor starvation nor dry contacts shall keep this writer from her appointed writing prompt, once again courtesy of Lisa Romeo.

Prompt: Money, Money, Money

Ka-ching. That is the exact sound I heard when my 8-year-old bumped his face while going UP the playground slide and broke his front tooth exactly in half. You might have expected me to hear a thump or his cry, but all I heard was the sound of how much it's going to cost me to have that tooth fixed. He couldn't have done this last summer when he still had baby-teeth up front. No. He had to break off his brand new shiny white permanent tooth -- the one right in front.

I heard ka-ching again last Friday when his older brother accidentally threw away his retainer. We were eating at one of those disgusting all you can eat buffet places (his birthday choice). Apparently, he wrapped the damn retainer in a napkin and the waitress cleared it with the dishes on one of the 23 or so trips he took to the buffet. That boy can eat!

We pawed through six bags of disgusting garbage before finally waving the white flag and giving up. Called the orthodontist the next day. Now he needs another impression taken and a new retainer. Do you hear that sound? It's the sound of my tiny little bank account leaking like a sieve.

Ka-ching went back tire of the mini-van as it blew running over our the remnants of the of the set design workshop my daughter and her theater groupies had erected behind the garage. I backed out over nails and whatnot left on the drive and that was that for my tire. It was only six months old and still had a lot of miles left in it.

This is the story of my life. Money bleeding from every pore. Money escaping through every door. I'd call in a specialist to stop the hemorrhaging, but I'm out of money.

Time: 10 minutes

Time to check out. Good night, folks.

Day #21 — Free

2010-01-27T23:33:00.002-06:00

This prompt strikes me as more than just a little ironic, given that I have spent the last couple of hours trying to figure out financial aid information for my daughter who will be heading off to college in the fall. Right this minute, it doesn't feel like there is much in life that is free. We'll see where the prompt (once again from Lisa Romeo) takes me.

Prompt: Free

Ezra escaped today. Ever since he started walking, he has turned into a regular Houdini. Trying to change his diaper is like trying to do a Rubic's cube with your hands tied behind your back. He is just so wiggly! I won't even try to change him on the changing table or bed, for fear he'll land right on his head.

So this morning I spread the changing pad on the floor and managed to wrestle him flat. With my forearm pinning down his chest, I managed to remove his dirty diaper and clean him up reasonably well with one hand until he twisted away, jumped up and ran around the room laughing … at me! My beautiful baby boy was pointing and laughing at me.

I struggled to my feet, then slipped on the changing pad and landed flat on my butt, which set Ezra into a fit of giggles. He started running around in circles saying: "Boom … damn! Boom … damn!" For the first time since he was born, I was furious. Just furious. My tailbone was killing me, I let out a epithet when I fell and now this little traitor was going to rat me out. Unbelievable. I thought we were a team.

At this point, I turned into a crazy woman, chasing him around the room and barking orders like a drill sergeant: "Ezra Michael Stern, you come here right this minute. I mean it now. Stop running and come here. If you don't come here right now …"

I have absolutely no idea how that threat would have ended, because before I could finish it, my socks slid on our newly buffed hardwood floor and I fell — again — this time doing the splits before rolling out of them in complete agony.

I pulled myself to a sitting position, trying to determine whether anything was broken, besides my spirit. This little one-year-old alien monster had brought me to my knees in less than 8 minutes after waking from his morning nap. I burst into tears. If I couldn't handle him as a toddler, what on earth was I going to do when he was a teenager and bigger and stronger than me? I rolled back onto my side in the fetal position and wept.

I was in such a state of self pity that it didn't even occur to me that the baby might have gotten into real trouble. Suddenly, if felt his wet, sloppy lips on my forehead and opened my eyes to see his worried face pressed close to mine. "OK Mama? Awbetter Mama?"

I sat up, wiped my eyes and gave him a wobbly smile. "All better, Ezzy-man."

"Good," he said with a grin. "Get up!" Then he giggled and started running in circles around me, still naked, his arms flapping and his little penis bobbing as he chanted: "Get up, get up, get up!"

This time my smile was genuine. But I wonder, will I ever feel that free again?

Time: 12 minutes

I don't know a mom in the world who hasn't been brought to her knees by an infant or toddler. It's a completely overwhelming feeling. For me, the first time it dawned on my that my freedom was gone was when my twins were napping and I realized that I couldn't even walk the block and a half to White Hen. It's good to be able to tap into those feelings at such a primal, visceral level. Sort of like method acting. Using this scene in a kind of "method writing", I could help my character feel trapped, stuck, completely not free … a common obstacle to throw in the path of your hero.

Day #20 — Just a Little Something …

2010-01-27T00:02:00.004-06:00

Today is my 20th straight day of free writing to a prompt. That's more discipline than I've shown … well, ever. I'll see how long I can keep up the streak. Maybe I should find some lucky socks or something and wear them every day until the streak is broken. Today's prompt is one of the few remaining in Lisa Romeo's month of writing prompts. Your job — see if you can guess which parts are true and which are pure fiction.

Prompt: Just a Little Something to Take the Edge Off

"Are you going to the pool today?" Allie asked me at 6:45 in the morning, in what would be one of at least 10 calls for the day. We don't even bother with salutations anymore.

"Not now," I said. "Remember, it's Wednesday. Swim team day. The pool doesn't open until 1:30."

"Shit, that means I have to entertain the little darlings all morning. Any ideas?"

"Sorry, we're going to the dentist."

"All of you?"

"Yep — he's blocked out the whole morning for us. Then Cassie has gymnastics, so we won't be ready for the pool until at least 1:30 anyway."

"Be there at 1:30. And us bring a little something."

"What do you want?"

"You know, just a little something to take the edge off. I'm going to need it."

Two hours, five cleanings and $700 dollars later, we were done with the dentist. I dropped Cassie off at the gym and told her I would pick her up on the way to the pool.

"Bring my pink bikini — not the hot pink one, the other one with the butterflies," she ordered.

Generally speaking, I'm not the world's most organized mom, but after 10 years, I've got the whole pool thing down to a science. The mesh boating bag is packed with sunscreen, goggles, a few pool toys and Max's epi pen. Even at the pool somebody might have nuts. I keep the pool passes in a little zipper pocket on the outside of the bag. Woe to the child who fails to return his or her pass to the pocket.

We have a perfect size cooler that is unpacked immediately on returning home from the pool. The ice pack is returned to the freezer, the big zip lock bag is refilled with gold fish or pretzels, and the water bottles are rinsed. There's no glass allowed at the pool, but plastic bottles are fine. Sometimes I pack some grapes or cherries. I'm always astounded at how hungry everyone is after they cool off in the pool.

I was closing up the cooler when I remembered Allie's request. What on earth did she want? Chocolate? No, she's the only woman on earth who doesn't have a chocolate monkey on her back. Oooh, I know. I opened the cupboard with the water bottles and pulled out the only two left — red and blue teddie bears with flip tops. I forced a couple of ice cubes through the small openings and filled the sippy bottles with premade margarita mix. Smiling a guilty little smile, I stuck them into the cooler and headed for the pool.

Allie looked at me like I had lost my mind when I handed her the blue bear-shaped bottle. Then her eyes widened and she took a sip.

"That's it," she said. "I'm dumping Tom and eloping with you to Vegas."

Time: 13 minutes

So, can you figure it out? I like this scene. It could be exaggerated to be really funny.

Day #19 — Late to the Party

2010-01-26T00:37:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, IRL, I joined Twitter, which seems to fit in perfectly with today's prompt from Lisa Romeo:

Prompt: Late to the Party

Some days I think I'm pretty up on this whole technology thing. I have several blogs and there are those in my circle who even consider me a little bit of an expert. I strongly believe that that's because my circle is old (sorry, friends) and we are in danger of missing the new tide of technology completely.

Yesterday, I signed up for a Twitter account. I know I'm a little late to the party, but that's nothing new. I only started my blog two years ago and it took me quite a while to figure things out. I still don't really know how to drive traffic to my site, even though I've dabbled in StumbleUpon, de.li.ci.ous (or whatever that is), blog catalog, ping-o-matic and a few others. It's just that there's so much that it's overwhelming.

I'm not a complete Twitter virgin. My husband's pet store has a Twitter handle and I'm the only one who posts to it or his Facebook page (or his blog, for that matter). I seem stuck in this chair in front of my screen. I can't keep up with the blogs I follow, or my Facebook page and now Twitter. Whatever will I do?

Still, it's exhilarating to learn something new. I know it doesn't seem very risky to those under 30, but to those of use a little (ahem!) older, each new step into the Interwebs feels like a giant dare.

A few weeks ago I created and launched my own writing services Website. It was a thrill to see it go live and I'm terrified that they are typos and missing links. On the other hand, the site only gets a couple of hits a day, so I don't know what I'm so worried about. I have plenty of time to make corrections.

Since starting this free-writing project 19 days ago, I've struggled with the idea that it could be just a waste of time (or should I say "another" waste of time, now that I'm Twittering?) I also felt that way after three weeks of improvisation at my regular writer's workshop.

What does all this have to do with my writing? Is it making me better? Will it get me published? I never have writer's block, so I don't need help breaking through it. If anything, I want to write too many things (evidenced by too many blogs).

But wait! Today I had a breakthrough of sorts. I got a Tweet about a writing contest that I probably never would have heard about if not for Twitter. It struck a chord with me, and I remembered something that had come up during the improv session last Thursday. I started free writing and created a draft essay, then went back and molded it to fit the parameters of the contest. Now, it's out to my readers, and I will make revisions based on their comments and submit it.

Even late to the party, I have things to learn. Even late to the party, I still might strike an important match and light my career on fire. I guess the moral is still better late than never.

Time: 12 minutes

I have no idea what this rambling mess is in terms of following the writing prompt. This is exactly what I don't do on my "real" blog — take a giant brain dump. But this is where the prompt led me today. Maybe it was a chance to see that all these disparate efforts and seeming distractions are what I'm supposed to be doing, to get me moving down the right path. Or, maybe it was just a brain dump. Time for bed.

Day #18 — I Know All About It

2010-01-25T00:31:00.001-06:00

Today I joined Twitter, and Kim Moldofsky told me to "say goodbye to productivity." I'm lying to myself committed to using my Twitter account only for writing good, not procrastination evil. To prove it, I will now continue my uninterrupted streak (18 consecutive days) of 10 minutes of free writing per day. This writing prompt comes from Lisa Romeo:

Prompt: I Know All About It

I do not want to hear one more freaking word about Ellie and Nate's wedding. I know all about it. Gawd, it's all my mother can talk about. She tried to talk me into going to the shower. Like that was going to happen. All those happy, sparkly people talking about tulle and shit. I don't even know what tulle is.

I know, I'm Kate the Bitch, capital B, for not going. But I have good reasons — excellent reasons for avoiding that freak show.

I hate that Ellie and the whole fam-damily still insist on calling me "Katie". I'm Kate, damn it. I've been Kate since the eighth grade. My business card says Kate. Just because Ellie is an "Ellie" and not grown-up enough to be Eleanor, that does not mean they can all revert to the diminutive when addressing me. I'm an adult for God's sake.
I. Can. Not. Stand. Nate. Just hate him. He was a pompous ass when we met at college. He's still a pompous ass. And the way my mother fawns over him. It's embarrassing. "Katie, sweetheart, I only hope you find such a nice boy some day." Ugh, it makes me want to rip out his eyeballs.
Showers are a pointless waste of time. Why can't people buy their own stuff? And don't even get me started on shower games.
It was a couples shower, which means that people brought dates. Can you imagine a worse date than going to someone else's wedding shower? Talk about pressure. Talk about scrutiny. Talk about the shortest relationship in history. I would never submit anyone I was dating to such torture.
My dad was probably there. I don't know that he was there, but since it was for couples, my mother probably forced him. 'Nuf said.

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for Ellie. Really, I am. I mean, we've been best cousins since she was born 15 months after me. This is what she's always wanted, and I'm happy for her. But if I have to hear one more time:

"You're next, Katie!"
or
"Is there anyone special?"
or
"I just know you'll find someone, dear. Maybe you should try losing a little weight. Or online dating. I hear it's the latest thing for single gals like you."

The Aunts are marching one by one — all over me.

Time: 11 minutes

So, this is the other side of the relationship I first wrote about on day #4. I thought it would be fun to explore the same situation from a different character's point of view. You can see the relationships beginning to flesh out; how no matter who you are or what the situation, it's always all about you. That's a good thing to remember when writing; a good perspective when choosing a point of view.

Day #17 - Food and Whine*

2010-01-23T23:33:00.001-06:00

Today is Day #17 of my 2010 free writing challenge for myself. Proud to say I haven't yet skipped a day. Maybe this will get me charged up for NaNoWriMo in November. We'll see. Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo is:

Prompt: Food and Whine*
*spelling intentional

"Join Me for a Little Food and Whine". That's what the e-mail invitation said. Though it turned out to be the night I met my best friend, I can't begin to tell you how turned off I was by the invitation.

"What do you make of this?" I asked David, forwarding the e-mail to him at work.

"Sounds like a hen party," he zipped back.

"Ugh, no thank you." I had always had guy friends, not girl friends. With six brothers, there were more guys hanging around my childhood home than at a college frat house. The boys used to call it the Mu Omega Mu fraternity — or the House of Mom. I don't know how she fed all those boys all the time. That's half the reason the entire neighborhood loved my mom — she always had great snacks in the house.

Now, with two boys of my own, a kindergartner and a two year old, I found myself being pledged by the sorority of Mommies, a club I had absolutely no interest in joining. This whole mom thing was way more than I had bargained for. Thank God for David, a real co-parent in every sense of the word. He has never once backed away from a dirty diaper or a snotty nose.

I stared at the email for a while. Food and whine, I thought. Jesus, wasn't having a toddler enough whine for anyone? Why would I want to put on real clothes and shoes to listen to a bunch of women I didn't know whining about … I don't know, whatever women whine about?

I was about to send my regrets when I read the rest of the e-mail. "I'm a single mom new to the community and finding it a little hard to meet people, so I'm reaching out to all the moms in Kyle's kindergarten class. This is totally casual. We'll meet at the Martini Bar, have a little nosh, have a little drink, get to know each other and get away from our kids for while. Sound good? Meet me there at 7:30 on Wednesday. BTW, Dutch treat, OK. I'm a broke single mom."

Just then David IMed me. "You should go. You've been stuck with sick kiddos for days. I'll cancel my meeting and be home no later than 6:30. GO!" Did I mention he's a great guy?

So I went. It took me 45 minutes to find a pair of pants that didn't make my ass look like it needed a wide-load warning sign on it. The whole shoe thing was a nightmare, so I opted for flip flips, even though it was only 40 degrees. I almost chickened out when I tried to put on some makeup, but I settled for a big streak of concealer under each eye in a vain attempt to cover the dark circles and a swipe of "Hot Tamale" red lipstick.
It was pouring down rain by the time I got to the bar and my hair was frizzing. Three other women I knew were already there: Katie's mom, the sycophant; Matthew's mom, who seemed kind of normal, but we just never clicked; and Parrish's mom, an ultraconservative Christian who made me feel like a victim of the inquisition every time I saw her. I know that's not fair, but I get nervous around people who wear their religion on their sleeve. Then, a tall blond woman in great casual/professional clothes and real shoes stood up and shook my hand.

"Hi, I'm Jane," she said. "Thanks for coming. You're Ellen, right? Jake's mom? Kyle thinks Jake is the funniest kid in history."

She had me right then and there.

Time: 11 minutes

This scene is a combination of several real-life events that have happened to me over the past 15 years or so. I really did get this kind of an invitation from a single mom, although she did not become my best friend. I really did become excellent friends with a woman I barely knew over the course of one evening of hors d'oeuvres and cocktails. I really did know a woman with six brothers that called their house the MOM fraternity. I guess this is what they mean when they say that a single fictional character is often an amalgam of different real people, who merge together to make someone completely new. Cool.

Day #17 — Day After Day

2010-01-22T20:43:00.004-06:00

I have not been feeling at all well today, but I don't want to break my string of consecutive free writing days. Funny how it was easier to give up my Friday walking date than it is to give up my date with this online journal. Clearly, I've managed to make writing more of a habit than exercise. Big surprise.

I've been watching the telethon for Haiti and my initial reaction to this prompt from Lisa Romeo was to talk about the relentlessness of the current tragedy, but I changed my mind. We'll see where it goes from here.

Prompt: Day After Day

Day after day, the sun refuses to shine. Like me, it seems barely able to haul its ass out of bed to get done the work that is absolutely necessary before its 12-hour shift is over and it can go back to sleep.

Laundry — done. Well, done enough. There are clean socks and underwear. I even put Peter's in his drawer so he won't bitch about having to pull them out of the laundry basket when he gets dressed for work tomorrow. Why does underwear need to be folded? Who invented dressers, anyway? What difference does it make as long as they're clean? What does he want from me.

The baby clothes are clean, too, at least most of them, although not put away. I just couldn't do it. Rachel came by for about an hour to stay with the babies so I could get to the grocery store. We had nothing. Now we have next to nothing, but enough to get us through the weekend — as long as Peter doesn't mind spaghetti for dinner again.

Jesus, why am I so tired? I wanted these babies for so long. I would have done anything to get them. I did do everything to get them — injections and hormones and harvesting and invitro and surgeries. God, it was so important to me. Now I look at them and think "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" They can't possibly be my babies. They don't even look like me. They don't even look like people — just, I don't know, wrinkly red worms or something.

I'm so pissed at my mom. All those years she bugged me and bugged me about things she didn't understand — what I should wear (like she knew what teenagers were wearing), where I should go to school (she never even went to college), who I should marry (like my dad was such a prize). Now, when I really need her, when she could actually help me because she knew how to take care of babies, where is she? Dead.

Good and dead and I'm all alone with these people who want stuff from me all day long. They want my boobs, they want formula (because my two boobs aren't good enough for their two hungry mouths, even though I'm now a D-cup). They want to be changed and have their butts wiped and snot cleaned when the cry and it bubbles out of their nostrils. It's not anything like I imagined it would be. They aren't sweet and good smelling and happy to see me when I walk in the room. And every time I fall asleep (which could be any minute), one of them wails. They don't cry little baby cries — they wail loud sirens of misery and discontent. Day after day. Night after night.

I read all the books. I know "this too shall pass". But when? Will I make it? Will I ever feel like a mother, like I would do anything for them? Where did that feeling go? I can tell you this; I think I would do anything for them if I could just get one night's sleep. Just one.

Time: 13 minutes

This was an odd thing to write because I never felt this way about my babies. I know many women who did, but babyhood never got to me like this. I have felt it since then, many times, but I don't think it's as overwhelming when they are not completely helpless. My mother didn't die, although she almost did on my wedding day and I remember being absolutely furious with her at the idea that she wouldn't be around right when I needed her again.

Today, with this weird virus and the relentlessness of winter and the tragic news on TV, I felt like all I wanted to do was sleep and shut out the world. And I did. I could, because most of my children were at school and the one who was home did not need constant care and attention, and he was not in danger being awake while I was asleep. I did drag myself out of bed this morning and again this afternoon to get the necessities done. That and no more. Tomorrow, the girl needs to be at school at 5:30 a.m., so I will go to sleep again now, and start over again in the morning. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Day #16 — Pie

2010-01-22T00:00:00.000-06:00

Today's writing prompt — well, really yesterday's prompt, if you've been following — is pie. Pie! Thanks to Lisa Romeo for her daily prompts.

Prompt: Pie

Birthdays = cake and ice cream. Right? It's tradition. It's the candles and the song and the fanfare and making wishes and blowing hard, with the lights dimmed and everyone clapping. But I don't like cake — or at least I don't like most cake. A good carrot cake with homemade cream cheese icing (or is it frosting) may be an exception. This was our wedding cake, though, so it doesn't have any birthday connotations for me.

I like ice cream just fine. In fact, I like ice cream just a little too much, if you know what I mean. But the sweet I really crave for my annual celebration is a birthday pie. Peach pie, to be specific. This tends to be a little problematic, since my birthday is in late September, several weeks past the end of peach season. So to produce a really good peach pie for my birthday, I need to plan ahead and freeze some of those juicy fruits when they are at their peak.

I don't know when I developed such a taste for pie. I don't remember loving it as a kid and I hate when the crust is overcooked. I do remember baking pies with my grandmother. She wasn't really a very good cook, coming from the school of thought that you started cooking Thanksgiving dinner at 5:30 in the morning and cooked everything all day long until one dish was virtually unrecognizable from the next and, often, barely recognizable as food.

But the woman made a mean pie crust (and great pierogi, but that's another story). I remember watching her put the crust together by hand, cutting the cold butter into the flour and working without a recipe. Pie crust is touchy. Even though there are only a few ingredients (mostly butter and flour, and maybe a little ice water or cold milk and some salt), a good crust is very dependent on ambient conditions, such as temperature and humidity — and good pie crust bakers put their dough together according to feel.

My grandma would line her pie tins, and then cut off the excess crust and give it to my cousin and me to make little tarts. First we would eat half of it, and then would knead and roll it practically to death, so that by the time we got it into the tart pans it was as tough as leather. Still, it was much more fun than Play Dough, because we were really cooking.

I don't remember eating very many of my grandmother's pies. Maybe we only baked together a few times, but those experiences provided powerful memories.

The best pie I ever made was a pear pie with cranberries. It was just beautiful. It took me a long time to get the crust thing down. Finally, I learned to follow the multi-step directions in the Joy of Cooking. If you follow their recipe exactly, your pie will be perfect every time.

Personally, I prefer a good fruit pie. Lemon meringue may look beautiful, but it just isn't as good to eat. Key lime pie is great, but the graham cracker crust puts it into a different category all together. Some like custard pies, like French Silk or banana cream. Fair enough, but give me a peach pie or a sour cherry pie (yum!) or blueberry (third choice), apple or even raspberry pie any day over those cream pies, thank you very much.

Time: 11 minutes

This piece could definitely be worked into a Two Kinds of People post. I'll have to keep it in mind. It might also be part of a memoir-type of essay. I see quite a few possibilities here. The writing seems particularly disjointed to me. Perhaps because there are so many possibilities, I had trouble picking a path and sticking to it. No worries, though. That's what SFDs are for.

Day #15 — Has Pie Jump the Shark?

2010-01-20T23:20:00.001-06:00

OK, so I could not figure out to what Lisa Romeo's prompt of "Jump the Shark" referred. After thinking about just responding to it with a gut reaction, I opted instead to be distracted by the Internet and look up the definition. Seems it means when something stops getting better and starts getting worse, and it originally applied to television shows (specifically, Happy Days, when the Fonz jumped the shark on water skis; I must have missed that episode). So, now I know. I don't know if that makes it a better prompt, or a worse one.

In the meantime, the prompt that arrived in my inbox today is "pie". As Andie McDowell's character sang in the movie Michael: "Pie, pie, me oh my. I love pie." So again — which prompt do I choose? Being the control freak, methodical me that I am, I will take them in order and work on yesterday's prompt today.

Prompt: Jump the Shark

He knew his marriage had jumped the shark when he realized his fondest moments of the day were the 20 minutes or so he had alone in the apartment between the time she left for the train downtown and he left to sit in traffic on the highway during his commute.

From 7:00 a.m. until 7:20 a.m., six days a week, he felt truly at peace and comfortable in his own skin. He always waited until he heard the garage door close to jump out of the shower. Their master bedroom had been an addition over the garage, and the floor rumbled as the electric door rattled to a close under his feet.

A sweet quiet would travel through his soles and up into his heart and he would slop out of the shower stall, leaving big wet footprints all through the bedroom and into the office/slash den down the hall. She hated when even a drop of water hit the floors and nagged him constantly that it would ruin the finish. He reveled in his wet footprints, squishing them from side to side to make them as big as possible, like a sneaky 10-year-old boy. Just before he banged out the light switch, he would wink at the shit-eating grin on his face staring back at him from the mirror over her pristine vanity table.

It wasn't that he was a slob, or that he didn't have respect for the quarter-sawn oak floors of their 140-year-old Victorian. He was the architect, for God's sake. But houses were meant for living in, not for housing museums. That's what she called the living room — the museum. She even had clear, plastic slipcovers made for the sofa, like his old Auntie May had when he was a little boy. It crackled and whooshed on the rare occasions he was allowed to sit on it, and last summer, in the heat of August when his best friends Paul and Evelyn visited, he was mortified when Evelyn's bare legs stuck to the sofa and pulled the cushion along with her when she stood.

But, this had been his house first, and he was damned if he would leave it, even if he left her. Every ounce of sweat equity that he had put into the restoration made it his. Let her take the damn plastic-covered furniture and go. All he wanted was the house. It had good bones. It could be redecorated.

Time: 11 minutes

I don't think I have ever tried to write in the first person from the POV of a male. The main character of my children's book manuscript is a nine-year-old boy, but it's written in third person. I've been toying with a rewrite in the first person, to see what that will bring out in my character and if I can get rid of some of the distance my readers (and a couple of agents) have mentioned.

I liked this prompt and the way it took me. So many gender stereotypes and role reversals to play around with (sorry for ending in a preposition; see, I couldn't do it; I had to add the parenthetical thought to avoid it).

Day #14 — What to do?

2010-01-19T22:24:00.003-06:00

Since I took a little detour yesterday (responding to a prompt from Linda Cassidy Lewis), today I am facing two prompts from Lisa Romeo in my inbox. Such a dilemma! At first, I wasn't sure what to do. Should I respond to two prompts in one day to "catch up"? No, that does not follow the rules or intention of this blog. Should I do them in the order received? Should I peek and pick the most fun prompt? Should I just keep one in reserve?

Well, I peeked. Yesterday prompt was "black and white"; so many possibilities! Today's prompt: "Jumped the Shark." I don't even know what that means. Since my goal is to get more creative in my writing, I should probably do the second one, but my logical brain is responding, trying to figure it out, and my creative brain is off cowering in the corner at such a prompt. So:

Prompt: Black and White

My husband swears he dreams in black and white. I don't see how this is even possible. Why would anyone dream in black and white? Why those two colors? If you need contrast, why not blue and orange, which are across the color wheel from one another and therefore complimentary? And why just two colors – why not three — black, white and red, for example.

The answer probably lies in the fact that he was born in 1950 and is among the first generation of children raised with television. Of course, back then, TV was all black and white. Again, I don't really understand the science behind that, but I'm sure there is some logical, or at least technological reason.

But why would the subconscious be limited to black and white if the conscious brain is capability of perceiving the full color spectrum? What does that say about one's subconscious? I'm no shrink, but my guess would be it has more to do with his need for utter control, even in sleep, than the effect that black and white television had on his life.

I'm not being critical here (OK, maybe a little — but I like control, too) or judgmental (OK, maybe a little because, frankly, I don't really believe him). He actually says that he hardly ever dreams, but that when he does they are always in black and white. Part of me thinks "No, they're not. You dream every night, just like everybody else, you just don't remember them; AND you dream in color every night, just like everybody else, you just don't remember.

But the other part of me, the generous, empathic part, thinks "how sad". What would I do with out my Technicolor dreams — sometimes dozens, even more in a night? It's true that my dreams are often exhausting — frequently involving my inability to get something done, some small task or enormous endeavor accomplished or resolved. But, I've found that as I've gotten older, I am somehow partly conscious of being in a dream state and can alter the course of my dreams. (How's that for being a control freak?) Sometimes, when I get really frustrated, my semi-conscious self will remind my sleeping self that it's just a dream and that I don't have to stick with it. I can move on to the next dream.

Maybe that's a good lesson for me as a writer: if the story in my head — my awake dreaming, if you will — gets too frustrating, maybe I can move on, at least temporarily to the next story, or an older story that needs revision.

And who knows. Maybe my husband is telling the truth. After all, nothing is ever black and white.

Time: 12 minutes

Damn. I ran long again. I really must get a better timer. Or just learn to be less wordy. Still, the control freak in me would feel really uncomfortable if I didn't bring the prompt to some logical stopping point. Of course, this blog is designed to take me out of my comfort zone, so maybe I should get that timer that will signal me to stop and let go at exactly the 10-minute mark. I read that one writer always purposefully stopped for the day right in the middle of some important part of his or her writing. The idea was to give the subconscious something to keep working on while s/he went about the rest of the day and into sleeping/dreaming. It's something to consider.

Day #13 — Off the Beaten Path

2010-01-18T16:37:00.006-06:00

I'm taking a detour from Lisa Romeo's month of writing prompts to respond to Linda Cassidy Lewis' experiment on her blog, Out of My Mind. She plans to post the entries on her blog today. My rules will still apply to this effort; it will be a SFD* and limited to (about) 10 minutes of free writing, starting now.

Prompt: Through the Open Window

Oh, my God. What is he doing out there? she thought. "Jason. Jason!" she yelled, rapping her knuckles on the closed window, trying to get his attention. Finally, she pried open the ancient sash, breaking a nail in the process.

"Shit," she said, under her breath, then bent to the three inches of open window, wincing as a blast of frigid air smacked her in the face. "Jason! Are you crazy? Get down from there. You're going to break your neck."

Oh, God, she thought. I sound like my mother. No. I sound like his mother.

That thought did not please her at all. Ever since Jason lost his job six months ago, their relationship had slowly shifted from one of mutually supportive adults to a mother/son gig that did not sit right with her. She had chosen not to have children because she didn't want to be anybody's mother; she certainly didn't want to be the mother of a 39-year-old man.

She glared at him, squinty eyed, through the open window. Why did he get to turn into a kid again? What was he doing sitting in that fucking apple tree? He looked like an idiot.

The cold wind stung her eyes, which watered and blurred her vision and suddenly, man-Jason transformed into boy-Jason — striped knit hat perched on his head, feet dangling freely under him as he clung easily to that big middle branch. His smile was radiant in the bleak grey of January, a second sun outshining the weak winter one hiding behind a dusty veil of clouds.

For the first time in her life, Jessica felt her uterus stir — jump, really, practically into her throat, and she knew that everything she had known about herself and who she was and what she wanted had changed forever.

Without thinking, she pulled the sash all the way up and climbed through the open window.

Time: 12 minutes

This ran a little long. I got wrapped up in the story, which I guess is a good thing. Much of it feels trite, but something feels true. May be worth revising to see where it would go. It somehow feels like a short story (not quite this short), but I'm not very familiar with writing short stories.

*SFD = Shitty First Draft, ala Anne Lamott

Day #12 — Better Late Than Never

2010-01-18T00:38:00.002-06:00

It's 12:20 a.m. here, but it's still 1/17/10 somewhere, so this last-minute post counts toward my resolution. Hah, I just read Lisa Romeo's prompt for the day. As my son would say, "ironic isn't it".

Prompt: What Took You So Long

There you are. Geez, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for you. You're nothing like I imagined (but in a good way). How could you be? You're you, and I couldn't have possibly imagined anyone or anything as perfect, as unique and as wonderful as you. And to think we've only just met. Imagine how I'll feel once I've gotten to know you.

Now, about your name. I've been poring over baby name books since even before I knew you were coming and, after much rumination, I came up with a short list. But guess what? Your name isn't on it. I took one look at you and I knew right away that you couldn't possibly be a Lucas or a Shepard or a Seneca. Sorry about the Seneca thing, and Shepard was your dad's idea. I never would have let him do that to you, but I had to humor him and put it on the list. He thought Shep sounded cool, but I think it's a dog's name. Maybe we'll get you a dog and name it Shep.

So, what to name you? I just don't know. I mean, you're much handsomer than I imagined, and far more stoic (you've hardly cried at all in the whole two hours since you were born). I think you need an important name, something classic but not boring, you know?

How about Theodore. It's full of import, and yet you could still be a kid with it because the nicknames aren't terrible: Ted, Teddy, Ed, Eddie, Theo. Do any of those strike your fancy?

I wish I knew you better, buddy. It would help if you could talk, or maybe at least nod your approval when I hit the right name. Plus, if you have any ideas about how to make your name sound like it was your dad's idea, that would be a huge help. Otherwise, we're going to have to call you Shep.

Time: 11 minutes

Shep? Where did that come from? I've had several conversations with writers over the last few weeks about how one of the best parts about writing fiction is you get to name your characters without having to birth them, pay for their braces or send them to college. But Shep? Sheesh.

Day #11 — I've Never Been Speechless a Day in My Life

2010-01-16T17:56:00.003-06:00

As you can see from the title of this post, anything I write here will be pure fiction. According to family lore, I started speaking when I was so young, people thought my mother was lying about my age. So here's the story, prompted by Lisa Romeo:

Prompt: Speechless

Speechless. I was completely and totally speechless. Sure, I've imagined winning something like this ever since I first put fingers to keyboard with the idea for my novel, but when the call came, I was speechless.

And not in a charming, humble kind of way. I was speechless a way that had my agent banging his receiver on his desk (or whatever, I assume it was his desk) and shouting my name into the phone. "Are you OK? Should I hang up and call 9-1-1."

Then I started to cry. Not cute, endearing tears of humility. I was doing the ugly cry, complete with puffy red eyes and lots of snot. Thank God video phones have not caught on yet. I do not want people to see what I look like when I'm talking on the phone. If I wanted them to see me, I would meet them in person. No picture is one of the best features of a telephone.

"Oh, for God's sake, this is good news," Michael said.

"I know, I know," I finally stammered. "I just can't help it. You caught me off guard. Who would have thought after 437 rejections …" I hiccoughed and went back to speechless.

"Well, you should have come to me first," said Michael. "I told you your book was brilliant. I knew it in the first 30 seconds. You're brilliant, and now you are a brilliant, award-winning author. The ceremony will be in New York next month. Get this. They are paying for your plane ticket and your hotel. You have to come on Thursday, because there will all kinds of press events before the dinner on Saturday night. I heard John Irving is giving the keynote, and your speech will come right after dinner.

Speech? How can I possibly give a speech? I can't even talk to Michael on the phone. All of a sudden, I hang up. And then I crack up. I'm laughing so hard that now I'm crying again. The dog is whining and my son wants to know if he should call 9-1-1.

Time: 10 minutes

So, I can dream, can't I? How sad is it that even in my dreams I'm not lovely and charming and eloquent? You would think if I'm going to muster up a fantasy, I should be able to make myself witty and skinny. Clearly, this fantasy needs some rewriting.

Day #10 — So Many Possibilities

2010-01-15T14:24:00.002-06:00

For today's prompt, Lisa Romeo suggested: Read All Directions Before Starting. Oooh, which way to go? There are so many good possibilities. In the true spirit of the SFD, I think I'll just let my mind and keyboard ramble.

Prompt: Read All Directions Before Starting

When DH built the little shed in our backyard, he was shocked and frustrated to discover that the kit had too many medium-length bolts and not enough long ones. Turns out that he had used the long bolts in the wrong spot and had to take the shed down to the ground. I discovered this when I read the directions. Read them — not just looked at the pictures. I do so love to be right. It could be my fatal flaw.

One of my favorite in school exercises, and a truly delicious practical joke, is that old ridiculous worksheet entitled: "Read All Directions Before Starting." My mother was a teacher and a librarian. I always read all the directions before starting. As a consequence, I was one of the few that read:

Step 1 — Read all directions before starting. Complete this assignment as quickly as possible.
Step 2 — Write your name at the top of this page.
Step 3 — Open and close your workbook three times.
Steps 4 though 19 — a bunch of other ridiculous tasks, including (I kid you not) "walk to the front of the room and kiss the chalk board." (I suppose now it would be a white board, but it would have the same effect.)
Step 20 — Set down your pencil and watch most of your classmates make fools of themselves because they did not follow directions. Try not to laugh, or you'll give it away.

I loved this exercise. Have I mentioned that I love being right? It's definitely my fatal flaw.

Do you know how many times I have read the directions for making Jello? It's not that hard. Boil one cup of water. Dissolve the gelatin in the boiling water. Add one cup of cold water. Stir gently. Refrigerate until firm. If I can reproduce the directions (almost verbatim) even though I have not made Jello in many months, then why do I feel compelled to reread them each time. And it's not just Jello. I still read the directions on the pasta package. Pasta. Boil until desired doneness. It doesn't take a genius.

Recently, I have used two different sewing patterns that had incomplete and just plain wrong directions. I found myself rereading them over and over, with the ingrained belief telling me that if I only read the directions carefully, I'll be able to figure it out. But sometimes directions are wrong.

And sometimes there are no directions. We've all encountered the missing manual. How can software companies get away with putting out complex products without creating and including a comprehensive manual? What is that?

And what about all those really important things that simply don't come with directions — like children. Where's the manual for parenting? What was God thinking?

The two sides of my brain are in constant battle over the whole "read the directions" imperative. How much time have I wasted reading directions I either already know or that don't matter? Why must I read them word for word and critique how well they were written. Why can't I just take what I need and move on?

Time: OK, over time: 14 minutes

Clearly, this topic struck a chord. I bet it could be revised to make a smashing essay. Ah, perhaps there is a reason for all this prompted free writing. Must mark to revisit.

Day #9 — Go, Team, Go

2010-01-14T22:23:00.001-06:00

Lisa Romeo prompt #9. This was week two of our improv sessions with Jimmy Carrane at Off Campus Writers Workshop. I'm still a bit fuzzy on where all this improvisation (both the theater games and the free writing) will take me, but I'm sticking with it for now.

Prompt: Go, Team, Go

The Big House — also known as Michigan Stadium — the biggest, baddest, best place to watch American football, nay, any sporting event, in the world. 100,000+ seats of unobstructed views of the field.

Even if you don't like football, The Big House is an adventure. There's always something to watch. You have your rabid Michigan fans, many shirtless in frigid temperatures, showing off Maize and Blue war paint and jingling their key rings on key plays. There's the tide of sound rising in a unified chorus of cheers or moans as they play unfolds on the field.

Then there's the human wave, when 100,000 people work together rising and waving and falling again as the wave rings the stadium, faster and faster, reversing on itself and then crossing, in spontaneous perfectly timed choreography. It's a sight to behold.

The 150-member Miiiiichigan marching band takes the field at half time, led by the most enthusiastic drum major in the NCAA. We don't need no stinkin' mascot. We've got cheerleaders tumbling off the walls to count out the score. And the pep band touring the stands. And an alma mater that nobody knows, except when you reach the word "Hail". And a fight song that everybody know, played like a leitmotif throughout the game.

I like football, at least college football, but you don't need to be a fan to get into the spirit. An autumn afternoon at The Big House will take you to places you've never been … even back in time and spirit to the days of the Roman Coliseum — it's a real Ann Arbor circus.
Time: 11 minutes

Nonfiction from a writing prompt is a completely different experience. I've written about Michigan Stadium before, on my real blog. Maybe there's something here that needs to be explored — an essay for the alumni magazine perhaps. Think outside the box. Think new venues.

Day #8 — SFD, with emphasis on the S

2010-01-13T21:07:00.003-06:00

I am very tired today, so this may turn out to be a SSFD, if you know what I mean. The prompt today, as it will every day in January, comes from Lisa Romeo .

Prompt: Small, Medium, Large

She had never been small, at least not physically. Born at 9 pounds, 6 ounces, she was considered large for gestational age, being well above the 90th percentile for newborn girls. She started wearing adult clothes at nine — a medium — and had never worn anything smaller than an extra large since she hit puberty.

Her real name was Felicity, but every called her Cat, which always seemed more than a little ironic, given that she moved with the grace of a three-legged elephant, galumphing around and settling with a decided whomp whenever she sat down. Cat wasn't exactly fat, although she was by no means skinny. She was just big. Big and awkward and … not at all cat-like.

Those who knew her and loved her, at least theoretically, always offered the usual platitudes to her mother. "She has such a pretty face," Aunt Gert always said, repeatedly, at every family gathering. "Doesn't she have a pretty face?"

Cat thought: With a name like Gert, and those horse teeth, she really doesn't have a lot of room to talk.

Cat said: "Thank you, Aunt Gert."

Clothes were always a problem. Pants were too short, waists were too tight, boots never fit over the calves. The few times she was able to find something relatively pretty to wear for some occasion or other, she could never quite put the look together they way she had seen it in the store. The dress would sag, or the blouse would gap. Accessories always seemed too much on her. "Gilding the lily," her mother always said, taking off the scarf Cat had spent 20 minutes trying to tie.

Time: 10 minutes

Too much detail, I know, but what can you expect from a SSFD. Still, I can feel the character. Her slow burning fuse, her discomfort in her own skin and in the world around her. She may be worth getting to know better.

Have You Heard the News Today? — Day #7

2010-01-12T13:05:00.001-06:00

No prelude today. This is prompted by Lisa Romeo and an actual news story.

Prompt: Have You Heard the News Today?

I read, on Facebook of all places, that Miep Gies died recently at the age of 100. Miep gave safe harbor to Anne Frank and her family for two years during World War II. She was a hero — a quiet, reluctant hero who did what she did because it was the right thing to do.

As a writer, I am continually awed by the power of words and books. I, like most girls, read The Diary of Anne Frank when I was a young adolescent, just like Anne in her diary. I didn't know then, but realize know that Anne played a profound role in me becoming a writer.

She was completely and utterly herself in her diary. We could all relate to her feelings, her relationships, her small joys and petty complaints in the dire circumstances in which she lived. She was a girl like any other girl, and that is why her story has remained so powerful after all these years. She put a human face — a beautiful face — on one of the most unimaginably inhuman events in history. Her little diary made us realize that if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone.

I long to write with the clear, passionate voice of Anne Frank. I wish I could be as honest and uncensored as she was in her diary.

I mourn with the world the loss of the woman who tried and failed to save Anne, but who did save her diary for us to treasure. She was truly a blessing.

Time: 11 minutes

Bedazzled — Day 6

2010-01-11T21:27:00.000-06:00

Today is day six of the Lisa Romeo prompts: Bedazzled. I will ignore my immediate impulse to do a riff on that machine that adds sparkles to your jean jackets. Will not go there. Where then? Let's see.

Prompt: Bedazzled

"Oh. My. God." they mouthed to each other after Sara pulled the curtain closed. Behind it was one Matthew M. Constant, by far the cutest patient who had found his way into their ER in … well, a very long time.

"Did you see those pecs?" Sara asked when they got back to the station. She'd been the one to cut off his shirt so they could get a clear look at his wound. "He must work out incessantly."

"Who does?" asked Danny, their favorite moonlighter from U Hospital.

"Curtain 3," said Diana, a third year resident. "I'm all about the arms. He has great arms. And beautiful eyes. My God, it looked like he was wearing eyeliner."

"What's wrong with him?" asked Danny.

"Nothing," the women sighed together, then giggled and gave their report.

"Car accident," said Diana. "He wasn't actually in the accident. An SUV flipped over and he played hero, climbing in through the broken back window to rescue a toddler from her car seat. He scraped his side pretty good on something that was sticking out from the mangled roof. I need to see how deep the wound is before we clean it out and stitch him up. Probably needs a Tetanus booster, too."

"A Greek God and a hero," said Danny. "Sounds like just my type."

"Uh, hands off, buddy boy, we saw him first," said Sara, doing a fast walk past Danny back to the patient. Danny grabbed the chart and gave the hero a once over before turning his back and mouthing another "Oh, my God!" to Sara.

"Told ya," she said.

Time: 10 minutes

OK, it sounds a bit like a bad episode of Grey's Anatomy. But I can see this guy. Really white teeth. Not complaining about the pain. The nurses I know live for this kind of patient. I wonder what's really wrong with him. Will he die in this episode? Stay tuned.

Take One — Day #5

2010-01-10T18:44:00.000-06:00

This is day five of the Lisa Romeo emailed prompts (you can still sign up to get her writing prompt in your inbox; just click here). I've been very busy putting up my new freelancing Website , but I'm not going to break my resolution of 10 minutes of free writing every day. Starting now.

Prompt: Take One

Do you ever feel like your life is a movie? Lately, mine feels like a b-movie script on a straight to video project.

Scene 49, Take 1

Drama at home. Drama at work. So much drama, I keep waiting for the reviews to come out in the New York Times, but here's the problem. I am not the star. I am not the drama queen. I seem to be nothing but a bit player in my Lifetime Movie of the Week.

For example, yesterday Dick lowered the boom on David and Richard's project. (Don't you just love that I have a boss named Dick?) No one was surprised, but the overacting from the two main characters brought eye rolls from the audience. "But, Di-ck," whined Richard. "We've been working on this project for just ages. Why now?"

Cut to Dick. "Because, Richard, I am not flushing one more solitary penny down this stink hole of a merger or collaboration or whatever it was. You have spent more time, more dollars and more of my office supplies on this turd that I care to think about. Done and done."

So, fine. Done and done. Cut to the staff meeting 20 minutes later, when I had to present the monthly figures on my own little project. Modest project, little income so far, but income nonetheless. And the profit is coming. It was all there in black and white, and I was going to be the star of my own little Powerpoint showing just what we can expect. But, nooo. Back to the David and Richard show we go. Dick spent the entire staff meeting on toilet analogies about their done-and-done project, and my Powerpoint was put on the back burner.

"Just email it to me," Dick said as he left the meeting five minutes early. He had plans with D&R for lunch. He buys the potty boys lunch, but wants me to "just email" him about a month's worth of my work. Flush that.

Time: 10 minutes this time

What I've noticed about this free writing thing is that 10 minutes seems to be about the time it takes to write a scene. The characters pop pretty vividly into my mind and the scene unfolds. Interesting though they are on their own, I'm still struggling with the why of this kind of writing. Who are these people and why should I be writing about them? Will this really help me with my "real" writing. I'm already pretty fast. I can follow a scene down it's path. What does this free writing project bring to my palette? Should I be trying to tie these together? That doesn't seem right. Hmmm. More to ponder.

Hey, take a minute and check out the new Website .

The Kids Table — Day 4

2010-01-09T14:23:00.001-06:00

Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo is "The Kid's Table." So many thoughts come rushing in over those words — first the hysterical "Friends" episode where Ross has to dance with all the little girls at the kids table (who all want to stand on his feet) so he can impress a girl. My first idea was to write from a kid's point of view, but I kind of liked the voice of the bride on the Day 1 prompt (with pleasure), so that's where I'm starting. 10 minutes — go.

Prompt: The Kids Table

We had our wedding shower yesterday and it was so beautiful. Katie did not come (thank god), but sent a note that said her gift would arrive soon. Who does that? Her mom was there, though, and it was a bit awkward. I know she and my mom talk all the time, and I really love Jean, but it's hard to talk to her and avoid the subject of Katie.

The biggest surprise of the day (other than Aunt Fran's gift — more on that later) was little Janie. Only, now she's not-so-little Janie. She's a senior in high school now and just magnificent. I remember her as kind of a tomboy, so it was quite a shock to see this tall, poised young woman with a lovely dress and red lipstick! She looked more put together than I did.

You can so tell that Janie is Lacey's granddaughter. Side-by-side, even though Janie towers over Lacey, you can see the resemblance. It's not so much that they look alike, it's really a matter of how they carry themselves — ramrod straight posture, feet posed like a starlet on the red carpet, perfectly coiffed and accessorized. Lacey must be in her late 70s by now and she is still stunning. Maybe it's the cheek bones. They both have marvelous bone structure — strong, yet some how delicate and feminine at the same time. Lucky Janie — she'll probably never need a face lift.

The three other little girls looked so cute in their party dresses. The twins are almost 7, both blonde, one curly, one straight. And baby Amanda will turn five the day before the wedding. They absolute worship Janie, who was kind and gave them attention, but you could see that she was dying to be considered a part of the adult conversation.

Now I don't know what to do. I can't stick Janie at the kids table. Oh, to be 18 again, and trying on all those adult personas. She'll feel ridiculous if she has to spend the whole reception sitting with the little kids. Hmm, where to put her? I can't put her with Nate's cousins — those rowdy frat boys. I can't believe he's from the same family. They would probably eat her alive. No, maybe not. I bet Janie could hold her own. Still, those morons are more immature than the little girls. Maybe I should put them at the kids table.

I'll have to talk to Nate about this, although he still thinks we should let people sit wherever they want. Clearly, he does not know my dad's side of the family. A good thing, too, or he'd go running for the hills leaving me stranded at the altar.

Time: 11 minutes. Maybe I should just call this the 11 minute writing series, since I never seem able to stop at 10. I need a timer with an alarm.

Do you remember that time between childhood and adulthood. My daughter is there right now. I remember feeling so flattered when the adults (especially the young adults) included me. The gossip was so seductive. Then the older relatives made you feel like a stupid little kid again, asking all the same questions over and over: What grade are you in? Where are you applying to school? It was a heady time, walking that fine line before tripping over it into grownup land.

Substitutions Permitted — Day 3

2010-01-08T23:05:00.001-06:00

Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo is "Substitutions Permitted". I've been working hard on a new Website today (so exciting!), and almost let the day slip by without my 10 minutes of free writing. Even I can keep up a new practice for more than two days, however, so I'm taking a break from designing my site and setting the timer now for 10 minutes.

Prompt: Substitutions Permitted

We made the sub cry today in math. It was awesome. And not awesome. But mostly awesome. It was the end of the day. We have math for two periods every day now. OMG, so boring. I guess a bunch of kids did really bad on the standardized tests last year, and now I'm stuck in math for 90 consecutive minutes. Shoot me now.

So, anyway, Jack was being his usual Jack self, hopping out of his seat every 35 seconds, interrupting every time the sub tried to say anything and generally just being Jack. I tried to ignore him — we all try to ignore him — but he's so tall now (the biggest kid in eighth grade), that it's totally impossible to ignore him. The sub kept telling him to sit down.

So, Jack sat down. But, 35 seconds later and he was up again. And, of course, we all laughed. The sub, Mr. Gorquey (GORKY!!!!), started to get really pissed off. "Sit down right now, young man. What is your name?"

"Jack," said Jack.

"Well, Jack, sit down and stay sat."

"Yes, sir," said Jack, giving Mr. Gorky a little salute and we all laughed again.

"What's so funny," yelled Gorky — and that's when it happened. Just when he said "so funny", this thing kind of fell out of his mouth. It was so gross! It had three teeth attached to it and he kind of spit it out, I guess by accident, when he was yelling at us. It clunked on his desk and Sophie yelled "Oh, sick," and AJ, quick as anything, reached out and grabbed the dentures or whatever they were right before Gorky could pick it up.

Then, AJ starts jumping from desk to desk and chair to chair, waving the teethy thing in the air while Gorky chases him around. And that's when the really bad thing happened. I'm sure it was an accident and all, just like he said, but Jack kind of was stretching those super long legs of his and Gorky wasn't looking or anything and he tripped over Jack's size 13 feet and … Splat! He fell right on his face.

Time: 11 minutes

My son told me that his math teacher is taking a "little break" because the eighth graders made him cry. My reaction as a mom was utter horror, but it also took me right back to middle school — that barely human time where school is really more like a holding tank for hormones than an institution of learning. That's where the prompt led me.

Cramping Up on Cramped

2010-01-07T20:53:00.003-06:00

Day 2. Today's prompt from Lisa Romeo is "Cramped." Maybe I was just up too late writing last night, but nothing immediately comes to mind, so I'll try a little free association. Setting the 10-minute timer now. Go.

Prompt: Cramped

Cramped, cramping, cramps. Menstrual.
Cramped, tight, claustrophobic.
Cramped, clamped, champed, camped.
Cramped, crimped, crumpled.

I hate sitting in the middle. Pauly always gets the window seat behind mom. Danny always get the window seat on the other side. And I'm always smushed in the middle. No fair.

"I did not elbow him in the ribs. His ribs hit me in the elbow."
"I am not on his side. I'm in the middle. I want a side."
"I call the window on the way home."
"What if I have to throw up. I can't even reach the window. Don't blame me if I puke in Pauly's lap."
"Mom, Danny's making gagging noises trying to get me to puke in Pauly's lap."

When I grow up, I'm getting a car with no middle seats. And I'm only having two boys. And everybody will get a window.

When I grow up, I won't let my bigger kids push the littlest one around and always take the best stuff and the best spot.

When I grow up, I will never, ever blame the kid in the middle just because he has no room and everybody is always blaming him for stuff he didn't do.

I wonder what it's like to be the oldest. I bet it's great. Pauly thinks it's great. "Little baby Andy-pants, doesn't sing and doesn't dance." I hate older brothers.

And middle brothers. They're just as bad. Pauly bugs Danny, so Danny bugs me. Maybe Mom will have another baby so I have somebody to bug. Maybe I should ask for a little brother for my birthday. Maybe then we could get a bigger car and I wouldn't have to sit in the middle. Stuck. Smushed. Cramped in the middle. I bet Batman never had to sit in the middle. I bet Batman doesn't have any big brothers, either.

Stop. 10 minutes.

Hmm. Kid dialogue seems to come easy, but cramped isn't a kid word. It is a kid feeling, though. Kids feel everything so intensely — every slight, every pain and itch and loose tooth. I have to remember that when I revise my Ian manuscript.

Thanks, Lisa

2010-01-06T22:51:00.037-06:00

So Lisa Romeo Writes is my favorite blog for writers. On January 3, she offered to send her readers daily writing prompts for all of January. I knew I couldn't refuse — it seemed just what I needed to get into my imagination, but what would I do with these prompts? I've tried to keep a journal, but my handwriting is just sad. Then, I was poking around some other blogs and read a post called Shitty First Draft and voila — SFD @ 2KoP was born. (SFD — Shitty First Draft — comes from Anne Lamott's great memoir on writing, Bird by Bird .) Enough expounding. Time to get to my first SFD. (Ed. note — the prompted writing will be in this green text; all asides will be in this grey text.)

Prompt: With Pleasure

I got the response card in the mail today. She had checked off the "Will Attend" box and then added "with pleasure". Who is she kidding? I know she doesn't want to come to my wedding. She hates me. Always has. Always will.

And I hate her, that smug, know-it-all, bottle blonde … Stop. Don't. I do not want to taint my wedding — our wedding as Nate is always reminding me — with nastiness from the past. Breathe. Think Zen thoughts.

My wedding will be beautiful.
My wedding will be serene.
Everyone will get along.
She will be green with envy over my gorgeous dress, my fabulous smart beautiful husband, my newly-skinny body.

OK, not so Zen.

Also in the mail today — three response's from Nate's friends and family and lots of bills. God, this simple wedding is turning into an expensive affair. Not by most standards, mind you, but by our standards.

Nate and I both agreed that we would NOT go into debt trying to compete with some TV idea of what our wedding should be. We want simple, elegant and reasonable. And green. Our invitations were printed on recycled paper. We paid a little extra for the stamps that made a donation to breast cancer research. That was Nate's idea, what with both his mom and his sister going through the hell of treatment at the same time. This is just one of the 8 billion, 367 million reasons I love Nate.

And green. The bride's maids dresses are green (my favorite color). We went to a regular store and bought kind of fancy party dresses. I wanted Jill and Allyssa to feel beatiful, and since they are both so different, I couldn't inflict my taste on them, so I let them each pick out their own dress. Jill's is a halter-neck with a tiny waist and full skirt that falls just below the knee. She has the most fabulous neck and the dress really shows it off. Allyssa's is cap-sleeved with a high neck that kind of looks like a choker. It hides her scars. I think she's still a little self-conscious. Their dresses are the same color and they decided on the same shoes — silver strappy numbers that you wouldn't catch me in on a bet.

Time — 11 minutes

Oops, meant to keep it to 10 minutes. I have to come up with a new timer for this. Mine currently only measures elapsed time.

I have to say, this was an interesting experience. The mind just races ahead with ideas. I found myself fighting the impulse to ask "What's the point?" "What's the plot?" "Where's this going?" I seem to worry a lot about plot. Wonder what else I'll learn about myself and my writing in this experiment?