 These are the rules for this particular writing exercise: "The Reluctant “I.” Write a 600-word first-person story in which you use the first person pronoun (“I” or “me” or “my”) only two times—but keep the “I” somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself or herself than in what he or she is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees a very interesting event in which she is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing yet a major participant in the events related. The people we tend to like most are those who are much more interested in other people than in themselves, selfless and caring, whose conversation is not a stream of self-involved remarks (like the guy who, after speaking about himself to a woman at a party for half an hour, says, “Enough about me, what do you think of me?”). Another lesson you might learn from this exercise is how important it is to let things and events speak for themselves, beyond the ego of the narration. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene." Here is my attempt and boy, was this one a toughie. 600+ words, I believe I only used MY twice. If I'm wrong, let me know. This one really pushed me for sure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- She didn't want to wear the dress or the hat or the shoes. She didn't want to sit at the piano or pose for the picture, but with a bit a gentle coaxing, she finally gave in. "It doesn't feel right," she'd said. "We shouldn't be here. We should be leaving with the others." And though we both knew her words held a heavy truth, we also knew fleeing was futile. To stay or to go, the end result would most likely be the same. So we stayed. This was our home. It had been our home and our place of peace of twenty years. We had held our wedding in the garden outside the large front windows that overlooked our village. We had held many celebrations in our home, listening to her gently tap the black and white keys of the piano. Such happiness and simple times then. She had given birth to all five of our children--three alive and two slipping into the world but never taking a breath--on a pile of mats and bed clothes on our bedroom floor, surrounded by only our mothers to comfort her and ease her pain. Both the mental and physical aspects of giving birth and losing two precious ones. Our mothers have long been gone from this world, passing before chaos knocked at our borders, threatening everything. Our children? The three we'd had the privilege to raise and watch grow into adulthood? One had married and crossed the seas. We hadn't seen her in years, though we exchanged letters often, but letters couldn't replace embracing her, touching her. My dearest daughter. She had begged us to come to her country, to stay with her and her kind husband. She'd send money if she had to, but money was never the issue. It never had been. We simply couldn't leave. How could we after sending our two sons to war, to fight for the country we loved, only to abandon it and them? We couldn't. A part of our heart was with her and the other part with them. That was the way of a mother. That was the way of a father. We also had hope. We believed we could and would win this battle. Our boys would come home, walking through the door, and together we would make a holiday out of visiting their sister in her modernized western world. We'd travel by boat. We'd touch the ocean waters. We'd see sites we'd never seen before. We'd be happy again. We'd be a family again. Only that wasn't how war worked. With war, one side would win and one side would lose. One side would never find their happiness again. War destroyed more than lands. The house shook on its foundation, rattling pictures on the walls. Several books fell from the shelves. A bit of plaster fell from the ceiling, leaving a dusting of chalky whiteness over the surface of the antique piano. They were indeed getting closer. She almost stood then, leaving her bench, but the shake of my head stopped her. "Not yet." She settled back, as fear once more gave way to acceptance. We knew our fate. One final picture, and despite knowing neither of us would ever see it developed, it didn't matter. For in this moment, in her white dress, resting against the piano, face sullen, yet beautiful as though she hadn't aged a day since we'd first met, gave us each a sense of normalcy. Something we'd lacked for many many months. The shutter clicked. The picture taken. Neither of us moved as the earth shook beneath our feet once again. More plaster crumbled. More books fell to the floor. The pictures no longer clung to the walls, but lay in broken heaps. We looked at one another. Years of love and adoration passed between us despite no words spoken. Slowly, her trembling fingers caressed the familiar keys of the piano, touching them lightly, pressing one at a time, and then several together. One perfect chord. Then two. Trickling of music fluttered from her fingertips, whisking away the tension and terror in the air. There were no bombs destroying the nearby villages. There were no enemy troops marching toward us. There was only her, in her white dress, playing the piano like our world wasn't about to end.
4 Comments
 Picture downloaded from FANPOP (wallpaper) In an effort to get my writing mo-jo back, a good friend suggested doing several writing exercises. This is my second attempt. If you missed reading Picture Writing Prompt #1, you can take a look at it HERE. Also, if you happen to look at any of these picture prompts and want to give the writing exercise a go, PLEASE DO and then place a link in the comments. I'd LOVE to read your take :) The rules are: Write a beginning or end, a sentence over 35 words long (is that even possible), or write a turning point (or defining point) in a story. HITCH HIKING SNOW WHITE (35 words long sentence...my attempt): When a fairy-tale character thumbs for a ride on the side of an otherwise barren road in the middle of nowhere, the only recognizable choice is to slow the car down and pull over--okay, maybe not for the big bad wolf from Red-Riding Hood, but for a super attractive Snow White... that's a no-brainer--and pulled over, I did. There's actually something about this picture that makes me want to write more, but a 35+ sentence is a good place for now :) I can see a story with a lot of humor here.
Let me know you stopped by by leaving a comment below.  Diana Tracy, a very good friend of mine, decided to help me get my writing mojo back. She thought writing to photo prompts would be a great place to start, so a week ago, she sent me this picture. My options were to write a beginning or end, a sentence over 35 words long (is that even possible), or write a turning point (or defining point) in a story. Photo writing prompts are NOT as easy as it sounds. This was a bit of a struggle for me. There are so many different directions to go and that's where I get stuck. Actually, that's where I tend to get stuck in ALL my writing. I need to pick an idea and trust myself. So that's what I did here. I just picked and idea and ran with it. I hope you enjoy it An Ending (Free writing. Non-edited) ----------------------------------------------------------------------- I had warned her. Several times, in fact, but did she listen? No. Never. The stubborn woman. "There was no such thing as pure magic," I'd told her. "Every spell, every book, every concocted antidote, and hopeful wish--all contaminated over the space of time by pompous imbeciles who simply can't leave well enough alone." "Are you calling me an imbecile?" She'd held her hand over the spell book that had been handed down from one generation to the next, with all it's scribbled notes in the margins--pages that could hardly be read after decades of weathering and time. "Is that what you think of me?" I had, but how was I to say those words aloud. I had loved her then, much like a father, but I was also afraid of her. I'd taken too much time to respond, and in so doing, she'd made her conclusion. She thumbed the pages of the book. "You will see, Martin. You will see." I didn't want to see. In the course of my seventy-eight years, I'd witnessed enough spells go astray. And those that didn't, well, the results were much the same... with time and hindsight. That was why most people chose to live by fate, by consequence, and truth, letting magic fall by the wayside. Magic was too tricky, too unreliable. And as much as I hated to see my life-longs work discarded and forgotten, I had also known it was for the best. No young apprentice had ever been successful. Not even after years of training and prepping. Not even her. Though I had had hopes. Words of unknown origin had tumbled from her lips and her hands trembled. The pages had fluttered with nonexistent wind. I had tried to stop her. I had tried casting a ceasing spell at her, but she had studied the book well, and my words dissipated as they left my mouth and had no effect. I had been an old man then, a wizard, yes, but still an old man, and I could do nothing. Oh, darling. You do not know what you ask of the unknown realms. As her legs changed shape, the gap closing and molding into a thick trunk made of hard knotty wood; and her fingers and toes elongating, some reaching heavenward and others disappearing into the ground towards hell, her eyes flew open and she looked to me. I could only shake my head. She had opened her mouth, but her words had been silenced as branches sprouted forth from the opening, twisting and turning, and bending in all directions. Shoots had sprung from the crown of her head. Her fine skin had become rough and hard, her red hair becoming the color of moss, and then she was gone. There, but gone in the sense I had once known her and would ever know her again. She wanted to live forever--a mighty request that may others before her had desired--and in some respects she achieved, but perhaps not as she had hoped. Over the years I had come to appreciate the tree's elegance. I'd touch the bark, talk to her as if she could hear me. From that day, I'd vowed never to use or teach magic again. And because of that vow, I did nothing but stand there as they pulled out their axes and blades and began to cut her down. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you thought. I plan to do more of these exercises in hopes to rejuvenate my love for writing and jump start my creativity again. You support is much appreciated.
|
My Face...Enjoy!
Ahh, the fruits of my labors...
Blogs & Websites You Should Visit
Click for more info about Mallory Rock, Cover Designer
Click for more info about Megan Harris, Editor
Blog AwardsCategories
All
FUN STUFF  
 
 |
