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.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Writing Prompt: Infected
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.
"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.
------
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.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Writing Prompt: Putting Out Fires
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.
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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.
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.
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.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Writing Prompt: Bolt
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.
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.
-------
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Day #25 — Who Would Like to Go First
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.
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
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
Hope receding
Helpful heeding
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.
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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Day #23.5 — It finally happened
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.
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.
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