Starting a Writing Group

I have mourned the loss of the my Auburn Writing Group. I felt like I was in the midst  of very august company, five out of the eight of us had PhDs and the other lady was getting her Masters. I love those ladies and gent. Even though I am not a published author or a college graduate I have decided to start my own writing group. It is stepping out of my comfort zone and taking a huge risk but so far I feel giddy with the very thought of it. I have been reading up on the art of writing and attending another writing group to see how they work. The local librarian is very excited about it, my friend who is a published author is very encouraging and she thinks I can get the local paper to help set up a writing contest to kick it off. So wish me luck.
There is a Fantasy author named John Brown whose blog I love to follow because he is constantly dishing out writing helps. Today I read an interview he gave and I wanted to link it to my blog so I could reference it later. It is http://mayalassiter.com/2011/05/how-writers-do-what-they-do-john-brown/ .He gives an amazing response to the idea of writer's block and I am excited to put him to the test.

Feral

I entered this story in the Writer's Cramp Contest on Writing.com. The contest is to write a story (a thousand words or less) or poem (forty lines or less) within 24 hours  and follow the prompt. I WON!!!
Yesterday's prompt was to write a story or poem using the bold face words. Here is today's winner.


Feral


It was the smell that hit me first as I opened the door to Regina’s little house. The stale smell of grease, cat urine and feces brought tears to my eyes. I pulled the front of my shirt up over my nose and got a small whiff of the light floral perfume that was my trade mark. When my nephew Scotty would hug me he’d croon, “Aunt Julie you smell just like yourself”. My little trick only worked for a breath or two. I marveled again how someone could live like this. I hovered on the doorsill debating where to put my foot. The floor was littered with debris; clothes, plates with half eaten food, DVD cases, open jigsaw puzzle boxes with pieces spilling out, towels, stacks of books, and fast food bags.

A blanket covered the couch to hide the rips and tears, a pile of clothes lay in soft mound on one end. The cushions sagged sadly evidence that the frame of the couch had long since given in to the stress of constant use. Regina lived in that hollowed out space. The remotes to the television were on the coffee table within easy reach along with half filled drink glasses, empty chip bags, fingernail polish bottles, a brush, change in all its denominations and pill bottles. Her pillow lay across the back of the couch. She slept there because the bed was inaccessible.

Once I had tried to help. Everything I had touched in that house had something living under it evidenced by scurrying coach roaches and mouse droppings. Five days later I had twenty bags of trash piled against her front fence for the garbage collectors. The benefits lasted less than a week.

Some kind soul thought it would be a good idea to give Regina a kitten to keep her company. She was enthralled but barely able to care for herself. The cat became feral in that jungle of debris and soon was nursing kittens in a cave like space under the overburdened bed. After many tears on her part and cajoling on my part I convinced her to let me collect the cat and her kittens from the apartment and take them to the pound. It had to be a day she wasn’t there or it would break her heart. She left to go visit friends for a week and gave me the key to her little duplex home.

I nudged a box of crackers out of the way and stepped into the apartment a cardboard box in one hand and a mesh net with a long handle in the other. I followed the path from the living room into the kitchen. Flour dusted the table top; a crusted mixing bowl, a rolling pin and a jar of grape jelly were evidence of her biscuit making. Pans were piled high in the sink washed only as need. Regina cooked like a chef. Cook books, one of her vices, lined every shelf and were piled in corners; Southern Living, Betty Crocker, Captain Fergus's Cajun Fish Fry, 30-minute Recipes, The Great Little Pumpkin Cookbook, The Art of Mexican Cooking and dozens more. The church pot lucks were always risky so I brought her to my house and let her use my ingredients averting the danger of food poisoning or the hidden cock roach in a dish.

I nearly gagged as I passed the bathroom. It was truly loathsome. Fetid brown water filled the perpetually clogged bathtub. Unmentionable bathroom debris was scattered across the floor.

Regina’s mother hit her on the head with an iron skillet when she was a little girl. The State took her out of the home and put her in girl’s facility. She never made it into the foster care program because of her brain damage. She was indomitable to me.

Clothes spilled onto the floor from the mound on the bed. I set the box down next to an inaccessible dresser. The bright white walls were remarkable blank amid all this chaos. I moved enough clothes to a far corner so I could peer into the darkness under the bed. I heard plaintive mewing.

I kept up a steady, soothing banter, “here, kitty, kitty… sweet kitty…Its okay darlings…I won’t hurt you…here, kitty.” Slowly I reached the net under the bed. I could see their little outlines. The mother cat cowered further under the bed and spit as I got close to her babies. I lowered the net over the first little head and gently drew it out. “It’s okay, it’s okay… easy now.” The kitten became a little ball of incensed fury. I disengaged it from the net and dropped it into the cardboard box. I reached my net in for a second go. The kitten in the box became frantic, the mother was hissing and spitting at me. I nabbed the second kitten and slowly drew it out from under the bed.

As I straighten up a mass of indignant, crazed, mother-instinct driven, feline clawed her way up my legs, chest and face, leaping off my head twisting in mid air ready to do battle again. I stumbled out of the bedroom door knocking over the box with the trapped kitten in it. I was out the front door in seconds. I stood on the porch my heart racing my whole body shaking. I looked down at my bleeding arms and touched the scratches on my face with my trembling fingers.

I disinfected every inch of my body when I got home.

Two days later I let the animal control people into Regina’s apartment. I waited outside.

(937 words)

Help Me Tell My Story

I went to the DAWGs tonight. I attended the Dallas Area Writer's Group in Cedar Hill, TX.

The keynote speaker was Frank Ball. It was well worth my time. He talked about how to make a story that readers will be engaged in. What the elements of a captivating story are and how to condense the essense of your story into two sentences using theses elements. His website is helpmetellmystory.com. I am pumped. He challenged us to just write 15 minutes a day. So that is my goal to write something, anything for fifteen minutes each day. I'll keep you posted.

Fibonacci Poetry

Fibonacci Poems


0, 0+1=1, 1+1=2, 1+2=3, 2+3=5, 3+5=8, 5+8=13, 8+13=21, 13+21=34

0,1,2,3,5,13,21,34 etc

So my idea is to count each line as the equation that leads to the next number.

So the first line has one syllable, the next line has that syllable plus the one more to make two.

The next line has the last syllable from the previous line plus two more.

Then you take the last two syllables from that line and then add to it the three from the next number.

Here is an example:

0

1 Weep

1,1 Weep not

1,2 Not for me

2,3 For me the day shines

3,5 The day shines in bright golden hues

5,8 In bright golden hues the flowers bend to kiss the sun

8,13 The flowers bend to kiss the sun while my heart wanders toward you in the twice-blessed meadow.

13,21 While my heart wanders toward you in the twice-blessed meadow that cradles your body in foreign soil my soul yearns for a heavenly reunion.

The traditional Fibonacci Poem (or Fib, which is its slang name) is almost like a hiaku. Each line is the syllables of the next number. For example.

0
1 Peace
1 rolls
2 through me
3 when you smile.
5 My bare skin tingles
8 with the brush of your loving touch.

Just One Person

I'm needing a kick in the pants. I just need to believe in myself. Found this song and love it.

Car Tag

Writer’s Cramp Contest


Write a story using the daily prompt. Contest starts noon and runs to noon the next day (10:59 central time). Story must be less than 1000 words or poem less than 40 lines.

Today’s prompt ‘Car Chase’. April 14, 2011

Car Tag

I eased the little silver VW bug up to the corner and looked down the dark street my heart hammering in my chest. Tract houses lined either side of the road with little pools of street lamp light breaking up the gloom. There was no motion among the cars parked against the curb. I let up on the brake and the car roll into the intersection. I tried to steady my breathing. Motion to the right caught my eye. I floored the gas pedal watching in my rear view mirror as a VW van careened after me.

A smile broke across my face as I raced around the next corner. Danger lurked ahead if I wasn’t careful but evading the van was my first goal. Five cars were in this contest of cunning and skill. ‘Car tag’ on a Friday night filled our teenage need for a dose adrenalin. The goal was to trap another car without getting trapped at the end of a cul-de-sac or in a driveway. To add to the element of danger we had switched up; no one was driving their own car.

Two more turns and the van no longer showed in my rear view mirror. I pulled to the curb and waited. I saw the Chevy convertible coast through the intersection ahead of me and I gave chase. I chuckled when they made the fatal turn into a dead end. They were still maneuvering to turn around when I blocked them off. I hopped out of the car pointing a finger at them. I yelled, “Score”.

Back in the car and the chase was reversed. I dodged the Chevy only to be picked up by the yellow Gremlin. I saw the VW van speed through the intersection ahead of me followed by the Ford truck. I turned to give chase and the four of us shot through the next three intersections. I peeled off from the pack and was soon alone.

My heart dropped to my stomach as a black sedan pulled up behind me and flashed its lights. My first thought was plainclothes cop. I had been successfully evading cars all night so I pushed the gas pedal. I left the sedan sitting still. My confidence rose until the car was once again hugged my bumper, lights flashing; horn honking. I maneuvered through the neighborhood that had started out as our playground. The fright rose to choke me as the black sedan clung to me like a tick on a dog. This couldn’t be a cop there would have been lights flashing. Panic notched up a level as other more ominous possibilities raced through my head. I broke from the residential area onto the main streets still my tail kept up with me.

I needed to find a safe spot. I dodged the cars ahead of me and pulled into my friend’s neighborhood. I pulled up in front of his house and was out of the car jack-rabbiting it to the front door. Then I heard the voice behind me.

“I’m going to kill you guys.” Barbara stood beside the black sedan. My buddy’s older sister with arms akimbo glared, freezing me in my tracks. “My homework was in the back of that car, you idiot.”

I fell onto the grass relief washing over me. I curled up with my arms across my stomach laughing till tears streamed from my eyes.

Barbara stood over me. “You’re not going to think this is funny when my dad gets through with you and my brother.”

“It was worth it,” I sighed. “You were amazing.”

A smile broke across her face. “Who do think invented ‘car tag’.” Then with her books clutched to her chest she kicked me in the ribs.

(word count: 625)

I only saw the prompt three hours before the dead line. This story happened my senior year in High School. My sister Barbara was attending college and had left her homework in our VW. Someone else was driving my car while I was in the VW van. She chased that poor kid all over town. Scared the daylights out of him.

Hiatis

After about a month hiatus I was able to sit down and write last night. It felt so good to feel those creative juices flowing. This past month for some reason when ever I sat down to write I felt like an empty vessel; a great creaking, echoing, warehouse-sized empty space. There wasn't a word or idea floating around in my mind just little dust bunnies that chased across a concrete floor with the slightest gust of wind, little whirling dust devils kicking up dust and debry.
Last night I wrote an assignment my mother gave me. She asked each of her girl's to begin a personal history activity where we start with the letter A and pick a word that starts with that letter and then write the memories we associate with that word. I did mine on 'Art'. I ended up writing 1256 words on it and then I was so juiced I went back to the Contemporary Romance and wrote 710 words. Very happy about that.
My membership to Writing.com came up for renewal this week and I have debated whether I would renew or not. I enjoy writing for contests because it takes me outside my box, I enjoy getting feedback about my writing, I enjoy reading other wonderful authors but there is alot of less than desireable writing that you have to wade through to get to the good stuff. One of the things I enjoy is the international flavor of Writing.com. I've read things from authors in Australia, Wales, Alaska, England, France and Thialand. But it costs money to be a member and I can't decide if the benefits are worth the cost. I did renew for the next 3 months by cashing in most of my 'Gift Points'. I'll see how I feel about it in three months.