Patience – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, patience, stories, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop, zorba the greek

Image credit: https://kimsmithdesigns.com/tag/monarch-butterfly-emerging-from-chrysalis/

I remember one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the back of a tree just as a butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited awhile, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened; the butterfly started slowly crawling out, and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath, in vain.

It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.

• A passage from Zorba the Greek, by Nikos Kazantzakis

 

This week’s prompt is inspired by the above, a beautiful passage and a powerful reminder of the importance of being patient; and the potential consequences when we are not. I actually didn’t have the quote to hand last Friday, so I paraphrased, and then gave each writer two small pieces of paper. On each I asked them to write an example of a generic situation in life when patience is important. Those pieces of paper were folded and then placed in the centre of our circle. Each person then picked one, and used what they found written there as inspiration for a story, to be written in 10 minutes.

I highlighted two possible directions they could take it in – either demonstrating how patience pays off in that situation, or the consequences of impatience.

In all honesty my response was by no means the best example, but that’s what I have so I’ll share it. Personally, I found all the stories incredibly moving, with some tender and knowing laughter too. Patience has such profound power, and I am certainly guilty of regularly lacking it. I’m learning – but slowly. Guess I’d better be patient with myself 🙂

So, this is what I wrote:

She leaned against the gate and watched. The sun was up, but not yet high, and the dew had not yet lifted itself from the grass that glistened, silver and expectant.

“Give up!” her brother had said.

“Stop wasting your time” her mother insisted. “Lord knows there’s precious little to waste young lady, and I…”

Sam hadn’t heard the rest. She’d managed to look as if she’d been listening, but her mind had drifted elsewhere; to this gate, this field.

She watched as the filly tossed her head, still not coming within twenty feet of her, let alone deigning to be touched. It occurred to her, as she lifted her own head to watch something fly over high above, shielding her eyes to try and identify it, that her father was the only one who’d not weighed in with an opinion on this. How had she not noticed before? He’d neither encouraged nor discouraged, just kept out of it. Watching. Waiting.

She smiled. He was waiting and watching her. She was waiting and watching –

“Here girl,” she tried again, calling gently and holding out her hand, knowing nothing would happen, just enjoying their little game. She calmly took in everything about the filly; her not yet full tail, the way her chestnut colouring darkened on its way down her legs, the angle of her head, the shape of her ears. 

“Nothing to see here.” The phrase came from nowhere. “It’s rude to stare.” Her mother’s voice continued in her mind. “I didn’t bring you up to stare young lady.”

Sam turned away until her shoulder faced the filly, and breathed gently, deeply. She was looking towards the river but didn’t see it. Every ounce of her was listening out, feeling through the ground – was the filly moving? Coming closer? She hardly dared look.

She saw her dad walking towards her and heard the filly snort and canter away in the opposite direction. She rushed towards her father to tell him what she thought she might’ve discovered.

 

What situations recently have called upon all your reserves of patience?

 

If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

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Story within a story – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative writing, creativity, stories, story, woods, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

image from Wikipedia

 

So this is from last week’s session, where the prompt was to write a story within a story. We began by considering first when we tell stories (before bed, over dinner, at weddings, around the fire etc) and then why we tell them. Each person had two small pieces of paper, and wrote one response to each question, placing it in the centre of the circle so we could all see. Taking that as the inspirational spark, we wrote for ten minutes. This is what I wrote…

*******

The children gathered around the fire. Some were throwing on sticks and twigs they’d foraged from the forest floor. Their eyes danced with the flames, and the night began to wrap round them like a cloak, to protect and enfold.

“So…” announced their leader, “who’s got a ghost story?”

There was a communal cheer, but the groan underneath it was more easily heard, because it went against the whole.

“What is it Jake?”

Now all eyes were on the groaner, some pointing and laughing, others groaning in turn. He always interrupted the fun.

“Ghost stories are boring.”

Various retorts to the contrary followed, as well as taunts of scaredy cat, sissy and the like. The leader sighed and waved his hands up and down to settle the noise that seemed too big for just ten boys.

“What kind of stories do you like Jake?”

There were suggestions called out through laughter, and again the leader raised his hands to invite calm. Jake shrugged his shoulders. Silence settled. The flames cackled.

“True stories,” he eventually offered.

“Go on,” the leader encouraged, curious now.

A couple of yawns appeared around the circle that was settling into a warm glow, much like the fire, whose flames had settled into radiant embers.

“There used to be reds in this wood. I saw one, when I was younger. More birds too, when I was five, I saw loads.”

The circle breathed in, breathed out, relaxed.

“My brother, he’s older, he’s got a gun. He’s started shooting grays. Gray squirrels. Shot five one day. They’re taking over, coz they don’t belong here, and there’s nothing to stop them. I climbed a tree once and stayed coz my parents were arguing. I saw the gray squirrels playing. I think they’re fun. I don’t want my brother to shoot them, but – . I want to see reds too. But -” He paused.

“I don’t know what’s right, but the woods are changing – I’ve seen them – it’s like a shrinking, or, like, if you listen – there’s less. It makes me sad.”

A couple of heads nodded. Silence. An owl. But what kind?

 

What’s your story within a story?

 

If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

 

 

 

A Key – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, keys, stories, story, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

I’d like to share a super simple prompt from last week’s session, which could be taken in many directions. I’ll also share what I wrote in response, though it feels quite incomplete, and is a piece I may choose to take further.

In my experience this is one of the beauties, one of the fruits, of short bursts of spontaneous writing; they leave you wanting more, wanting to put more pen to paper, more keys to screen, more ideas zooming around inside you. It can be hard to decide which one to catch. A tree knows not all its pine cones will take toot and grow into strong tall evergreens. Life proliferates and then waits to see where the desire and the strength is. So never feel you have to bring each idea to full fruition, that’s not the point. Create, proliferate, and then take the time to see which idea has the juice to grow.

So, the prompt – super simple! Close your eyes (well, you’ll have to keep them open for a second while you read on a bit…) and picture a key, in detail. What does it look and feel like? (Pause) Who’s holding it? (Pause) What does it open? (Pause)

Now, write a story – you have 10 minutes.

This is what I wrote:

There are no lights on, but that’s expected. He still sighs though. Hands go into a pocket full of a collection of bits that is anything but treasure. Still, his hands aren’t squeamish, and they find the hard coolness of the key among the bits of wrapper, stones, crushed shells and undefinable fluff.

He slots the key into the door, and throws his bag at the radiator beneath which shoes are strewn in not-pairs. Coat off. Lights on. Phone pings. He reads. “Running late. Make yourself a sandwich. DO NOT just eat cereal. Back 7.30ish.”

In the kitchen he takes out a bowl and fills it with nutty crunchyness; uses the last of the milk even though he knows his mum will want a cup of tea when she gets back home and will be angry.

He goes to his room. Music on. Shoes off. Phone in palm. Text conversations; plans, complaints. The phone is more ‘home’ that this empty bloody house.

Later. Another key. The same door opening goes unheard over the music. The steps that follow go unnoticed too,  until the knock at his door.

He hears it. Ignores it. It’s more insistent. He ignores it. It ignores his ignoring, and the door opens. She enters, and sits on the edge of his bed.

“Mum!”

“I’ve had a shitty day.”

He sees the red eyes and something opens. No longer a wish to punish, but to soothe.

“Sorry I used all the milk.”

“What? Oh. I hadn’t noticed.”

No words. The music feels loud. He turns it off. Silence. Her tears make him reach out, and she hugs him so tightly he can hardly breathe, but he knows it will pass. It always does.

“Thanks love.” She shivers. “Why didn’t you put the heating on?” He shrugs. She leaves. He hears her go downstairs, picks up his phone. Puts it down again. Follows her. 

 

If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

 

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May I also take this opportunity to draw your attention to a fundraising campaign I have going at the moment, on behalf of a dear friend and her sons in Rwanda. Follow the link for further details. Thank you 🙂

 

https://www.gofundme.com/for-beatha-and-her-boys

 

 

 

 

 

I used to believe – Writers’ Well

Tags

belief, creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, magic, stories, story, writing prompt, writing workshop

 

I’d like to share with you one of the prompts I used in one of last week’s workshops, which we had a lot of fun with. It left a sweet, tender feeling in the heart…at least in mine, for sure!

We began by each passing round a sheet of paper on which we had completed the sentence ‘I used to believe….” then passed it to the next person, who would add another – passing on to the right, receiving on the left. Once we’d gathered a few ideas I explained the task.

Each of us would begin a story which had at the centre of it a character who USED to believe something, was showing in some way that indeed they no longer believed. Then, after five minutes, we would pass that story to the person on our right, who would then complete the story, and in their five minutes, would turn it around to show the person beginning to believe again. This is the story I and my creative collaborator wrote:

“Why, why, just when she had to leave must it start raining? It had been dry, if not sunny, all day, but now, as she left work, and had to walk the half mile or so to her car, the skies had opened. As she took a deep breath, and pushed the door open, she forced her way onto the rush hour pavement. It really was like driving. You had to look over your shoulder and change lanes, or you’d likely crash into someone, head down against the rain, not looking where they were going.

She was almost at her car when she saw a child in a bright raincoat and wellies, running along with the woman holding her hand – her mother – and facing up, eyes closed, to catch the rain in her mouth. She smiled, and tried not to stare. Then she was there. She pointed her key at the car and pushed the button to open the doors. Lights flashed. She smiled again. It was like magic. She shook her head. Of course it wasn’t magic – it was an electric…something.

She eased her way out of the car park, peering through the waterfall on her windscreen. Wipers at full speed, she indicated (lovely soft tick, another small wizardry) and drove back up the High Street. People still jostled each other on the pavement, coats slick with many colours. Their strange dance seemed more urgent now, as folk began to hurry home. Cars were accelerating to get through the lights; impatient pedestrians crowded on the kerb. And there were the little yellow wellies and raincoat, her happy face turned up to Mum as they waited. But a heavy set man stumbled into them, knocked into Little Yellow, and sent her flying into the road. A car was speeding through the lights, and with horrid inevitability, the ton of steel and the yellow wellies approached each other along their collision course.

“No!” she shrieked, her car immobile at the lights, her hands stretched out in horror. Her fingers reached for the windscreen, reached desperately to the flying figure, to catch her, turn her, save her…

And somehow, the little girl…stopped. Instead of falling straight into the car’s path, her heels seemed to trip on something, the air itself perhaps, and she fell into the gutter, wet and bruised, but safe.

The lights changed. The driver, heart full of delight, continued home.

 

Whatever you believe, this festive season, I dare you to believe it with your whole heart…

 

If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

Are these yours? – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, stories, story, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

I’d like to share with you one of the prompts I used in last Friday’s workshop, which sparked much hilarity and excitement, however simple and apparently mundane! It began with my asking people to note down three possible reasons people might need to use the launderette. I then gave each writer two small pieces of paper and asked them to write, one on each, an item of clothing, in as much or as little detail as they wished. These were then folded and placed in a box from which each of us took a single one, and proceeded to write a story which had to begin with:

“Are these/is this yours?”

After we’d shared, we found we’d so enjoyed listening to the stories that we spoke of putting them, format to be decided, in the local launderette for others to read! I’ll let you know if that happens! However, as a starting point, five writers have agreed for me to share their wonderful and wildly unedited work here – all written there and then in just 10 minutes!!! Amazing:-) Enjoy!

 

At the launderette

“Is this yours?” the red-haired bespectacled woman said in the primmest of voices. “I said ‘Is this yours?’” She raised her voice and glared at me as if she was holding up a little lacy black thong number, something sensuously out of bounds. The snigger in the corner got louder. I wanted to say ‘Of course not, mine would be pretty and sexy; I wouldn’t be seen dead in that thing.’ “Err, yes it is thanks” and I moved towards her, holding out my hand to take my Mrs Doubtfire bra back; beige, shining, big and very comfy, it brought laughter to my daughter and granddaughter but they weren’t standing in a busy launderette trying to impress a charming grandfather who had the ease of a relaxed man, glistening white hair and a face rugged and interesting that had stories to tell.

I turned my back, embarrassed. He carried on talking as if nothing had happened and inside I thanked him. The conversation flowed, my heart opened and I fell into his wide, bright blue eyes.

The washing machines stopped. We loaded driers about the same time. I put in extra money in the hope he would too. We sat back down. The laughter came, the smiles became more frequent, the eye gazing wondrous. I told him about my grandchildren, he told me about his life on boats. I made him smile with my shyness, he made me laugh out loud with his humour.

The machine noise stopped and I pulled out my hot, still slightly damp clothes, haphazardly, and untidily, pushing them into my bag.

And when the charming man asked ‘Care to join me for a cuppa in the café next door?” I answered, quietly and with pleasure, “Yes please”.

***************

ARE THESE YOURS?

‘They came out of my basket but I’m pretty sure they’re not mine’

Not my size or colour – after all they are even a real pair in their own right – even though well worn, ‘used to be white’ – no holes yet but threatening!

‘Are they yours?  Or yours?’        ….no they wouldn’t be yours either!

Being a regular I get to know the other regulars and recognise the newcomers.  I’m just trying to work out who might be missing ‘em – or not – maybe pleased even they’ve gone missing and too embarrassed to claim.

Ah – ‘ere comes Betty one of the Friday regulars – small wash, dry, sits and chats the hind leg off a donkey.  They wouldn’t be ‘ers.

Ooh!  Busy day today – someone new,  rather posh, not often see that type – they certainly won’t be ‘ers either.

Never mind eh? – they can’t be that well loved.  I mean – just look at the state of ‘em.

Were they for tennis? running?  school?  bed?  Who on earth wants white socks in the first place?

Why am I so obsessed with these darned socks – albeit not darned – yet!

‘Allo Fred – you’re a bit late today.  Been to the Bookies yet?’

‘Yeah I got a hot tip – an outsider at Cheltenham – 3 to 1 – good new racer from Lansdown Stables – pretty little mare named The Missing Sock!’

‘Funny that – I hear there’s a pair’

by Jenni A

****************

Are these yours he said as he pulled out a pair of shiny leopard skin trousers from the drier. On no, they are not mine, but it’s nice that you thought they could be I reply. The young man smiles – Well you could you know you’d get away with it! I laugh and turn back to folding my own clothes. The grey cardi buttoned all the way up to the top. The sensible skirts and mannish trousers. How ironic I think – he could have thought that the leopard skin trousers belonged to me. Perhaps he had sensed my inner wild woman. The one who wants to wear long flowing brightly coloured skirts and funky headbands and wear short skirts over jeans and grow her hair long. That would be the day I think to myself – I know my hair would take forever to grow into long flowing locks if ever. But, those leopard skin trousers had made me think – why not, why should I stay the dowdy middle aged woman – who or what was I hiding from.

I finished packing my washing away and as I went out I quietly put the leopard skin trousers that he had placed on the bench into my bag. Well, you’ve got to start somewhere I told myself . . .

by Hilary B

************

“Are These Yours?”

“Are these yours?”
It was a reasonable question. The item I had taken out of the tumble dryer was a pair of Levi 501 jeans with button opening flies and the person I addressed was a young man of shining muscles sat on the launderette bench in his underpants.
He stood up – I struggled to keep my eyes on his face – and walked over to me. Gosh it gets hot in these places.
“No ma’am, they’re not”. American accent. Am I in a movie suddenly?
“Umm…” A small man, unnoticed until this moment, had made the sound. “Umm….I… that is, they’re mine”.
“But you’re wearing jeans already.”
Clearly I wanted it to be the movies, I wanted those shiny, ripping muscles to have something to do with me. The little person blushed,
“Yes, well, I have more than one pair of jeans.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, here you go”.
Mr. Muscles had sat down again and I handed the 501s to the small person.
“Oh, just a minute – there’s something else in the machine. Maybe it fell out of your pocket”, and I handed him a small card, water rippled and crackled by its adventures over the last hour. I couldn’t help but notice (honestly) that it was a card from a local dating agency. How did I recognise it? The same one was sat on my desk at home.
“Don’t be a shrinking violet”, I’d told myself. “Get out more. Meet some people. Maybe you’ll meet the man of your dreams.”
I had – in the launderette: the insignificant man who owned two pairs of jeans (at least) was my date. We met in the cafe next door half an hour later, he is his clean 501s, me in my favourite – now shrunken unfortunately, though he didn’t seem to mind – violet jumper.

***********

“Are these yours?”

The launderette had been empty when he arrived through his new method, but now all the machines were whirring around like clocks. Even so, everyone heard.

“Oh no!” he thought. “Not again!”

As time travel was new to him he hadn’t quite got the hang of it. Sometimes he regretted going to that Totnes workshop. All he was trying to do was give his clothes a wash before he somehow found a way to slip back.

The launderette assistant held a pair of thigh length boots aloft for everyone to see. He’d hidden them behind a rickety stack of plastic laundry baskets. He’d hidden himself there too, for as long as he could. (Elizabethan underwear would draw attention.)Of course the feathered hat and boots didn’t need to go in the wash.

Four pairs of curious eyes swivelled in his direction. How embarrassing.

“Er..yes,” he said but the rest got awkward as he found himself speaking in rhyming couplets. He’d obviously spent too much time away from the twenty-first century. A tumble-drier whirred to the end of its cycle.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, with a blush. She placed them on the centre of the floor and retreated disdainfully behind a door. There were giggles.

This was going to be tricky. Timing was everything. He retreated to put on his beautiful breeches and embroidered jacket as things quietened down. The launderette would need to be empty. All the machines including tumble-driers needed to be still. And then there was the very particular curve and angle for launching himself through time…

He flung himself into the empty washing machine just as the town clock struck midday, grabbing his thigh length boots as he went. If he got the timing just right, he’d get to The Globe just in time to see that new play Shakespeare was doing. If not – it would be a long journey in the spin cycle. Hmm… It was looking as if he was going to have to do that Level 2 Time Travel workshop after all .. that is, if he ever managed to get the hang of the timing on the door lock, and get back to Totnes again on the right Saturday morning….

by Wendy W

 

 

 

If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

A line of dialogue… – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, dialogue, short story, stories, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

Each week, I share one of the writing prompts used the previous Friday in my weekly workshop, along with an example of what was written in response. Today’s prompt is to take a line of dialogue and use it to start a short story. In our group we each wrote two lines of dialogue, one each on a small piece of paper, folded them up, and then each person picked one. If you’re doing this on your own you might want to write three or four and then pick one at random. I got “Well, that’s just how I’m made.” This is what I wrote in the 10 minutes allowed, no edits:

*********************************************************************************

“Well that’s just how I’m made.”

“And a good job too, I’d say,” replied her husband, as he pulled her to him and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

“Go on, ya daft beggar,” and she pushed him gently but firmly out of the front door, without closing it. He didn’t look back, but she didn’t close the door until she’d watched him get into the rusty blue old Ford he was too stingy to replace, and too stubborn to let anyone else have a look at. ‘I know cars,’ he would say.

She sighed. Well, that’s just how he’s made. She allowed herself a deep chuckle and closed the door.

She was kneading bread when the call came. It took a few rings for her to clean the flour off her hands. and she picked up the phone, careful not to disturb the photos that grew thick as spring daisies on the small counter top. There always seemed to be more.

“Hello, 63-20-17?” She dusted the photo frames lightly with her finger tips.

“Mrs Crosswell,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“That’s me.” She waited.

“Mrs Crosswell, I have your husband here. I’m afraid we picked him up in a vehicle that, well, frankly, it’s not road worthy. We can’t allow him to drive home in it until it’s been seen to.”

She took a breath. The roller coaster those few sentences had taken her imagination on had left her light headed, and she waited for the relief to take hold.

“The daft beggar,” she muttered.

“What was that Mrs Crosswell?”

“Thank you officer, I’m sure I’ll be along presently. John next door’ll run me over. I’ll be along officer. Presently.”

Just the way he’s made, she thought, shaking her head as she replaced the receiver. Well, she’d be making him when she saw him, and no mistake!

 

If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

Harvest

Tags

contemplation, creativity, gifts, harvest, inspiration, stories, words, writing

image credit: ndeyasayswhat.blogspot.co.uk

I held a one day writing workshop yesterday, and wanted to share one of the exercises with you. I chose harvest as a title/theme, and then invited people to write three words they associated with the word harvest, and then three words they associated, independently, with those three words…and then write whatever came from that. This is what I wrote:

harvest

     music                          food                           warmth

        listen-celebrate-song      eat-nourish-cook       sharing-orange-fire

It’s time to welcome and nourish the inner warmth. As the days get shorter, and food and friendship are gathered and brought inside, I light a fire of celebration and share stories from the year; sown in spring, ripened through a busy summer, and now falling to the ground through weight and lack of attention, waiting to be picked up and told, in order to be preserved.

Sometimes with the story comes a song, and I feel life itself draw nearer to listen, as melody and lyrics weave together in golden, orange, copper sounds, to wrap me snug in an invisible cloak that comforts and consoles.

As the fire dies down, sleep comes knocking and the dying sparks from glowing embers fly into the night sky to light the dreams I now have, sleeping a seed deep into darkness until the spring that I know will come, but first I must welcome winter’s death.

What stories have you harvested so far this year? Tell them, and they will feed you. Tell them, and you will preserve their seeds and be a protector of all life. Tell them, and they will reveal the gifts they contain within which you’ve yet to see…