The Barn Cat

Pyewacket woke with the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do. She stretched her front legs kneading the hay with her claws. Her tail twitched at the thought of pouncing on that cranky old bird. She had been up most of the night ridding the barn of mice. The farmer expected her to do her job. The rooster crowed on the barn roof again. She would have to find someplace else for her morning nap.
The hay stacked to the rafters made a stairway for Pyewacket. She jumped down from bale to bale. She stepped along the edge of the sheep’s feeding trough like a tightrope walker. Large black headed sheep lifted their faces to regard her and bleated their greeting. This was not the place for a nap.
Pyewacket trotted across the barnyard as chickens pecked at the corn the farmer had scattered earlier. Hens stretched up on their toes and flapped their wings when she got too close to their chicks. She jumped sideways to avoid beak and claw. This was not the place for a nap.
At the stable Pywacket made her way to a freshly cleaned stall. She squeezed through a broken plank at the bottom of the stall door. She lifted her paws high to walk through the fresh hay that filled the space; winding her way between the horses’ legs. A new born colt struggled to its feet tottered for a minute and then took three shaky steps to get a drink from its mother. This was not the place for a nap.
The screen door on the farm house screeched and banged shut. Pyewacket streaked across the lawn and found a bowl of warm fresh milk by the porch steps. She lapped the milk until her muzzle was white with cream. She cleaned it off with her rough tongue. The farmer’s wife sat on a chair shelling peas. Pyewacket jumped up on the farmer’s wife’s lap spilling the bowl. She found herself dumped back on the ground. This was not the place for a nap.
Around the corner of the house a basket sat under the oak tree. Nearby the empty clothes line stretched across a sunny spot in the yard; clothes pins dangling from the wires. Sun-baked clothes filled the basket. Pyewacket curled up on the pile of folded laundry. This was the perfect place for a nap.

This is a story I wrote for a writing contest this past month. The criteria was a children's story less than 400 words.

Summer is upon us.

I read and read and read some more, then I wonder why I have left my own writing to languish. Some of the things I have read are wonderful and I can't imagine ever writing with that quality and other things I read I wonder who thought that was good enough to publish.


One Kiss, Chapter 10 (506 words), 276 words were moved to a new story. Finished the outline for One Kiss. Heir, Chapter 19(2370 words)

Insights from other authors

I have had a dearth of my own writing; still I think, eat and breathe writing. I research what other writers have to say about writing and internalize what I learn to either use or to discard. The latest site is johndbrown.com/writers/. He has interesting things to say about what makes 'knock you head off' good writing. The stuff that flies off the shelves in bookstores and we tend to devour in one sitting. The type of story we get emotionally invested in and think about long after we have read the last page.
I recently read 'Kite Runner' by Khalad Housenni and he definitely is the type of writer that gets you emotionally invested in the story. I was more aware of the physical reaction to such strong emotions; tight chest, tingle through head and arms and even tears. We love these kinds of stories because we can have a whole range of emotional responses without having to leave the comfort of our living room couch. It's like the old saying, "They may forget what you said but they will never forget how you made them feel".
With my own writing I write the things I would like to read. So in my free moments, as was suggested by by an author, mayalassiter.com/blog/?p=715 I progress my story so that when I sit down to write I can write and not have to stew about ideas or fight off the worries of the world. 300+ words on Tree of Life.

Writing always on my mind

Less than three hundred words written today but it felt marvelous. I keep telling myself to stay on task and get one of these manuscripts finished and then another story intrigues me and before you know it I have written nine thousands words on it. I stall on that plot and then visit my other characters that have been patiently waiting for me to continue on with their story and inbetween I read. I read like a glutton. Young Adult fiction like; 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', 'Ophelia', 'City of Ember', 'Inkspell', etc. I love to read the scriptures, non-fiction like 'Merle's Door', the back of a cereal box.
I love references in stories about writing. The latest is from Lloyd Alexander's 'the Arkadians'. Fronto, the Poet turned talking donkey, says, "Prose however is a different piece of business. Tales, anecdotes, narratives. All quite simple. Any fool can tell a story. take a few odds and ends of things that happen to you, dress them up, shuffle them about, add a dash of excitement, a little color, and there you have it."

Triptaphine

Turkey eaten, leftovers fill the fridge, my birthday thoroughly celebrated and a quiet afternoon combine to give me several hours of uninterrupted writing time. More than a thousand words written. I was able to start an interchange between two prospective sweethearts, muddle through a emotional wedding and get some letters posted.

Happy Halloween!

Nothing could be finer than to get past a writer's block. I finished chapter 18 in the big novel. Was able to get almost 900 words written. I read what I wrote to my daughter and she said, "You wrote that? It's really good." I love getting strokes.

I got to write the villian today, it was really fun. What's the point if the villian isn't villianous? There is no conflict without him, no sense of impending danger. What is there for the hero or heroine to triumph over without him? What is there to push the characters to go outside themselves?

I have disengaged my self from the online writing groups. For me they tended to just be distracting. I got some lovely feed back from one fellow, Bob and will definitely take his comments to heart. But for now I just need to write.

Progress

I worked today on the big novel. I organized it. Now my novel sits in two folders. Folder one has the first sixteen chapters (75,092 words). Folder two has chapter seventeen and will hold the other chapters as they are finished. The exciting part is I have finished chapters 23-28; have eliminated chapter 22 and am almost finished with chapter eighteen. That means I only need three chapters for the two parts to meet and then two chapters to finish. I am closer than I realized. I wrote 437 words today and why that little bit should give me such a thrill I can not say.