reflected

welcome readers & writers. hope your weekend allowed for moments of rest and renewal.  i enjoyed reading your self-help spoof advice, and your "messaged" reflections - thanks for writing with me! more glad news for write away! yesterday, author kathryn magendie found this blog via a tweet (on twitter). she read my novel excerpt and was kind enough to take the time to send positive feedback - which made my day. 'tis the power of social networking. kathryn, a southern writer and women's fiction novelist, has two novels out (and one on the way), both of which have received high praise from critics.  i'm looking forward to reading her work.

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today's photo prompt is one i shot on saturday evening, looking into a downtown restaurant from the street. come write with me! what's your short story, poem or creative non fiction spin on the photo? 250(ish) words or less. here's mine: 

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A wind tunnel whoosh of air conditioning undermines the soothing voice of an NPR commentator. Pulling into a parking space, Marnie tilts the rear view and pouts her lips for a touchup of gloss. She thinks how much work sucked today, and of her head, which is beginning to ache. The glimmer of late afternoon sun bounces off of the wine glasses hanging in the restaurant window, and she finds herself impatient for that first tangy sip of chilled white wine. The wine is all she's looking forward to tonight; it's the conversation that must accompany it that she dreads. In preparation, she'd downloaded When Harry Met Sally to watch during her lunch hour. She'd fast forwarded to the restaurant scene. No, not that restaurant scene. The other one, toward the end of the movie. For as many times as she's pictured it - that she and Kenneth would sit in silence while he chomps obnoxiously away on his salad and she takes dainty bites until they both say aloud, "it was a mistake" - she knows it won't happen this way. Because it really was a mistake. Sure she'd fantasized about their friendship evolving into romance. But the moment his dry lips brushed hers she'd known unequivocally that he was not the one for her. She just hadn't been able to summon the courage to pull away, to risk wounding his dignity, this man she loves. As a friend. And now this awkward misery. Inside, the hostess shows her to their table; he's already there, waiting with a silly grin on his face.

can't wait to read your work. just click on comments below to share it.
  

spent

welcome readers & writers. it's wednesday and i'm thinking there's a good reason wednesday is called hump day (and it's not a naughty reason either). sometimes weeks are long. sometimes days, hours and even minutes seem endless. maybe hanging out on the blog a bit today to read or write is a good way to find the downhill side of the mountain - or at least a bit of a shelter. several of my friends are suffering through rough times, and the phrase "life can turn on a dime" keeps drifting through my mind. 

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the photo prompts i've shared so far are pictures of scenes or objects i stumbled upon in the course of a day. for today's photo prompt, however, i felt the need to photograph a spinning dime. it took a few (47) tries to capture the photo - and it only turned out in the end because my eight year old proves to be a dime spinning expert. but here it is - the turning dime. what's your spin on it? (pun intended). here's mine:

Some sit as if perfect posture might earn them a free pass out of the group. Some slouch like they're lounging on a college green. Others lean forward - heads down - cradling cups of coffee like eucharistic wafers. One twists a napkin around her finger over and again, while another gnaws on a hangnail. Carl over there bounces his foot maniacally. All that stuff happens when someone is sharing. Between sharing, every last one of them grows still and listens hard for the next words. Lamentation, confession, plea, or proverb, they pray that just maybe the right combination of words will end the pain that buzzes in their heads, their bellies, in that narrow space between loosely clasped palms.

    "Did he suffer? Was she scared? Why now?"  

    "There was a day when loyalty in the workplace meant something, when a good        person who did good work could hang on to a job forever..."

    "Malignant. I hate that word. I hate that word so much I could spit..."

    "She said she'd never leave. I feel like I'm going insane..."

But mostly there is silence, and the young therapist (correction, support group facilitator - we must empower people to heal themselves) is also thinking. In fact since taking the job all he can do is think. Just now he picks at his eyebrow, obsessed with the growing realization that no one escapes being part of the group, that it's just a matter of time.

come write with me today! 250(ish) words or less.  submit your story, poem or creative non-fiction work by clicking on comments below.
   

howled

hoooooowllldy!  we're going to take things a little less seriously on saturdays. in fact, i think we'll call them spoof saturdays for awhile. let's have some fun.

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btw - thanks to De Langer & FilmGuy for yesterday's posts. it's been a great work week in the young life of this blog.

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come write with me about today's photo prompt. credit for this mysterious moon shot goes to my oldest son. below, with all due respect for some amazing & successful writers, is my take on the fantasy genre for spoof saturday:

Little Edwin Rice knew he was different from day one. Of first grade, that is. Which technically would make it day 2,523. Anyway. During circle time he couldn't take his eyes off Katie Dulce's neck. Well, that and the baby eye tooth he lost yesterday had been replaced by a full sized, razor sharp fang. He'd have liked to talk to his mother about his new lopsided smile. He'd have liked her to ruffle his widow's peak and kiss his little red lips, to tuck a note into his lunch alongside his blood orange slices and thermos of Hawaiian Punch. But she'd been gone since he was a baby, dragged off into the woods and eaten by a wild dog, or some such furry animal. The search had been fruitless in the lackluster light of a new moon. Edwin had tried looking in the mirror this morning to see if his new tooth was noticeable, but something must have been wrong with the mirror. No matter, he thought. Back to Katie. With a quick glance at Miss Granger, who was busy sticking the date (13) to its square on the calendar, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. Just as he was about to take his first taste of Katie's neck, she turned. "Are you trying to be funny?" she asked. Her choco brown eyes were stunning. He put a hand on his chest, sure his heart was beating wildly, but there was only stillness. He smiled anyway. A lopsided smile for this new puppy - no - batty love.

any vampire fans out there? hp? give me your best fantasy genre spoof, 250(ish) words or less, by clicking on comments below.

recycled

readers and writers, it's friday!  thanks to Pauline, FilmGuy and De Langer for yesterday's great writing.  one of my favorite days so far.

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today's photo prompt wasn't an easy "get," as king recycling doesn't stand still very long for commoners to take his photo.  here's what the photo calls up for me, a bit of memoir:

Of all my school years, third grade was sublime. My best friend lived just down the street. Together we were note-writing spys, galloping, carrot-eating horses, and (our favorite) good witch Barbies. Weekends were for sleepovers, gooey brownies from her Easy Bake Oven, and watery snow cones from her Snoopy Cone Machine. We'd stay up until three a.m., if need be, to catch Grease (again) on cable TV, watching with equal parts awe and confusion as Sandy wooed Danny with tight leather pants; we thought Sandy looked so much better before the big makeover. On summer nights we'd play until it was just a smidge lighter than too dark to see. We were even lucky enough to share the same sweet, diligent teacher.  Her name was Mrs. S. and she let us lay our heads on our desks while she read to us after recess; she cried through the sad parts of Where the Red Fern Grows and often turned the reading over to me while she dabbed at her eyes with a kleenex. But on Friday afternoons I didn't like Mrs. S. or my best friend so very much. I dreaded the Friday treasure sale, when kids could purchase chachkis (brought in from Mrs. S's own house) with good behavior tickets doled out to us through the week: a Precious Moments statue, a candle holder, a hand crocheted potholder. Lesser ticket items were available too - boring old pencils, erasers and, better than nothing, hard candy. My best friend always, always had more tickets. She just wasn't a talker and her desk was very tidy. She was a master at delay of gratification, saving up for weeks at a time to buy the biggest, most wonderful fifty ticket treasure. But my sadness faded with the ringing of the last bell. After all, the weekend was coming, and there was too much fun to be had to waste time on pouting.

I'd love to read your spin on the photo.  Publish it below by clicking on comments.  250(ish) words or less.  Happy Friday - and may the fifty ticket item be yours. 

remembered

welcome readers & writers.  the family reunion i'm attending this weekend reminds me how much i miss my Grammie, who passed away on the first day of spring, 2009, at the age of eighty-nine.  a strong, warm and loving woman, her life's journey proved tremendously difficult at times.  the story of her life inspires me deeply.  that is her bequest to me.  the character of GRAM in my recently completed novel is patterned mostly after Grammie.  below is an excerpt from the book, titled Friday, Saturday, Someday:

When the attorney read the will, he handed Glory a letter from Gram – a final goodbye – alive with words of affirmation for all her granddaughter had accomplished.  The note, written in Gram’s careful (now wobbly) schoolmarm hand, urged her, “Never stop sprinting for the stars, sweet pea, as you’ve aimed to do since the moment you took your first step.”  Glory would never forget how gently the understanding dawned, of just what Gram’s bequest to her would mean.  Like the unhurried warming of sunrise after that infamous dark dawn, Gram’s letter signified that the hardest part might finally be over.  The hard part had been seeing her so frail, just a wisp of the vivacious, solid woman she used to be.  The hard part had been ferreting away every spare moment to spend at the hospital and, when she couldn’t be there, pining to be closer as the minutes drained away so wastefully, so abruptly.  The hard part had been the very end, when Gram had squeezed Glory’s hand for the last time.  When she'd accepted a kiss from Tommy and warbled, “I love you, darling boys,” to her sons.  Not long after that, she'd drifted off to sleep and, somewhere in that mysterious space between nodding off and waking up, she swam away into the dark warm waters of a ten day coma before finally succumbing.  Even now, her papery soft wrinkled hand was still palpable in Glory’s own hand, as was the scent of her – baby powder and gardenias.

what story of remembrance are you inspired to tell today?  i'd love to read it. post it in the comments section below - 200(ish) words or less.  blessings!

designed

happy saturday, everyone!  today's photo prompt is a little different.  it's still a photo, as you can see, one i took while hanging out the window of our minivan (the swagger wagon!).  said minivan was hovering just above the pavement with its speedometer reading a tiny, minuscule smidgen under 84 miles/hr. (if my mom is reading, no worries!  that's a mere nine miles over the posted limit).  i guess my husband was kind of desperate to "get there" after twelve and a half hours in the car with three kids and a wife like me.  can't say i blame him. 

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anyway, i've been thinking about this empty billboard just basking there in the sunshine, waiting patiently to be designed.  if it was yours, what would you advertise?  let's challenge ourselves and limit our word count today - describing only what could actually fit on a billboard (and still be read by a crazy woman hanging out of a speeding minivan with her camera).  wind in her hair, bugs in her teeth.  paint us a word picture of your very own billboard by clicking on comments below.  here's mine:

The Artwork:  a photo of a brilliant sunset streaming with rays of light covers the board.

 On the left side cartoon kid Alexander* holds up a clear glass bottle

filled with some kind of swirly, golden substance.

He is grinning from ear to ear.

The Text:  

Sunshine in a Bottle

for those Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Days

taste it!  smell it!  wash your hair, dishes or dog with it!

just 25 cents in your grocer's produce isle

(*from the children's book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst, Illustrated by Ray Cruz - both of whom, in my fantasy billboard design world, have given their wholehearted endorsement of my miraculous new product.) 

can't wait to read your billboards.  and, since it's the weekend and all, feel free to write a response to any of this week's photo prompts if you didn't get a chance before.  i'll be so glad to read and publish for you.

rejected

hello writers & readers.  this  first week of blogging has been a kick.  thank you for writing with me - i love reading your work!  as always, many thanks to our readers for making what we do real.

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today's photo prompt may be familiar to anyone who's queried agents or publishers.  rejection is a fact of life for writers, and sometimes it feels impossible just to get your stuff read before the word "no" appears in the old inbox.  the publishing world works in such a way that you often hear that "no" based solely on your idea, meaning that your actual book (or even part of it) is not read before being dismissed.  so here's my fantasy about what it would be like to get someone with power to just actually read my novel, beginning to end, before making a decision:

Any novelist can tell you about the importance of an elevator pitch.  It's that jazzy, one sentence pitch that must be spit polished and ready at any moment in case you have the good fortune of stepping onto an elevator with a high profile literary agent.  Here's how it went down for me.  Literally.  Last summer, at a writers' conference, in the clear glass elevator of a hotel and conference center, I caught my big break.  I'd been riding the elevator up and down for an hour and a half in hopes of having a literal elevator pitch moment with as many agents as possible.  Original, right?  As I pressed the down button one last time, he put his hand in the door and stepped in.  It was THE agent I'd been hoping to meet; the agent who represents not one - but two - of my favorite novelists, writers whose style I try most to emulate.

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I make a little joke about elevator pitches, then bleat out a little laugh.  He nods, checks his watch, and smiles a, well, tolerant smile.  I suppose he's comforting himself with the fact that the ride will soon be over and how my pitch will just melt quietly away into the pool of words shared with him by with the other three hundred and seventeen conference attendees he's heard from this weekend.  I swallow hard and begin.  "When a budding home and gardens columnist gets the opportunity of a lifetime..."  Glancing up at him I see that his eyes are already glazed over.  I contemplate starting again, take two but with more enthusiasm and I'll try to look ten years younger and fifteen pounds thinner.  Then there's a jolt, the elevator stops, the emergency lighting kicks on and we look out to see that the lobby is dimly lit as well.  We are stuck.  Just the two of us (and a room service attendant with a rolling cart full of snacks and drinks).  The whole gaggle of aspiring writers in the lobby below are looking up at us, craning their necks to see who's inside.  When they figure it out they're going to hate me, every last one of them.  Even my writing group sisters will hate me, just for now, because I've got an agent trapped.  And I didn't even have to use duct tape.  He speaks not a word to me for the first two hours, but when his cell phone battery finally dies he mentions that his "team" reported that the whole city grid is down, that we'll be elevator-bound for the rest of the afternoon, maybe even through the night.  He turns to me and says, "Right.  What's your name again?"  I tell him.  "Do you have your novel with you?"  "Of course," I say.  "Read," he says, cracking open a Diet Coke and making himself comfortable on the floor.  I sit down beside him and read.  Eight  and a half hours later we emerge, me, the agent, and Stewart (the room service attendant).  The men are dabbing tears out of their eyes with the sleeves of their shirts.  Their faces are aglow with laughter and new insight.  And folks call my novel chick lit.  "You're in," says the agent, handing me his card. "Call me on Monday."

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how about you?  spin us a little tale about rejection or success in writing or another of your pursuits.  submit your piece by clicking on comments below.  200(ish) words or less - i'm flexible.  enjoy!

tasted

hooray for you writers who've posted your stories - i love reading what you've written!  glad to see some poets among us.  and none of us would be writers without readers, so many thanks to the folks out there who take a few minutes out of the day to read my posts and the stories submitted in the comments section.  write on!  and read on, friends. 

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today's photo prompt speaks for itself.  the photo credit goes to my husband scott (though i did put my own little spin on it with cropping and color).  credit for the cool dishes goes to my brother and sister-in-law who hosted us on our vacation last week!  here's my word spin on the photo:


I gaze at him for the longest time, finally leaning over to smell his soft curls and kiss his sticky face over and again.  These days his two-toothed smile and apple cheeks make me want to take bites and eat him up, something I tell him often.  This makes him chortle even now, a throaty belly laugh so uninhibited and dappled with joy that tears puddle in my eyes.  I wipe at them and yawn, and sip my coffee.  In the waning hours of yesterday I baked this first birthday breakfast bread.  No complaints though; i covet the solitude of late hours and the chance to sink my hands into gluey dough and knead at it, like a contented kitten, as long as possible before it begins to toughen.  He's a honey bear, my Noah, and so today is for sweet treats.  No holds barred, cavities schmavities, today is about the sugar.  For breakfast, this double chocolate braided bread with juicy berries - of the straw, rasp, and blue varieties.  More fruit, and honeyed greek yogurt for lunch.  After his best dinner, buttered egg noodles and broccoli, we'll eat good old-fashioned cupcakes, decorated like bumblebees - with yellow frosting and chocolate Twizzlers - and tubby scoops of neapolitan ice cream (or Napolean as his big brother likes to say).  Sharing with neighbors big and small will sweeten the treat even more. And though my plate is empty - because Noah still thinks that food tastes better stolen by the chubby little fistful off of Mama's plate - my cup really is overflowing.

how about you?  take us (your readers... isn't that a wonderful phrase?!?) to the world created by your mind as you look at the photo.  200(ish) words or less.  just click on comments and we'll be glad to follow.

spotted

welcome followers!  and many thanks to my first posters, meghaloo and stacy, (and everyone else) for submitting such great responses to yesterday's writing prompt.  if you haven't had an opportunity to read the responses yet, go to the comments section of yesterday's post.

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today's prompt is a photo of a building that caught my eye somewhere near the border of texas and new mexico last week.  my imagination says...


Listen, I know it’s a dump on the outside. Though I like whatcha did, messin' with the color like that.  Looks downright artistic.  Ha!  But let me tell you about it.  It’s like Genie's bottle, all crusty and dented on the outside, and a palace on the inside.  Or Snoopy’s doghouse – who ever thought it could be so nice?  Inside, my place is a dream.  Not because I've got a flat screen TV or a leather sectional or some fancy designer paint.  Can’t afford it.  Maybe never will on what I make at the diner across the street.  But it's mine and only mine.  And I'm gonna make sure it's always peaceful and quiet and spotless clean. Did I plan to live in daddy's stinky old gas station?  No.  But I didn't count on having a lazy drunk husband, either, did I?  With this baby in my belly, it's time to settle down.  Mama and Daddy are right next door to help.  And I'm fixing it up real nice. New rug, drapy white curtains, and my old cradle - all scrubbed up - with a sweet little pink blanket tucked inside.  I'm ready.  No really, I'm ready.
   
what does your imagination say in response to this photo writing prompt? submit your story in the comments section below (200(ish) words or less) -- i'm excited to read your take on it!  also, feel free to submit a response to yesterday's prompt if you didn't have a chance.

found

here's my take on today's prompt, a post-it i found on the ground at a gas station:

Everything about the note irked him.  The way she'd capitalized each word in the sentence.  The way she'd added the x's and o's to make it look cute.  There was nothing cute about the post-it, or her constant, incessant nagging.  Had she snuck outside while he was in the shower this morning? Or in the middle of the night after they'd called a truce and turned out the light, turning their backs on each other in the dark?  Either way it was obsessive, stalky almost.  He topped off the tank, closed the gas cap, rolled down the window, and pulled out onto the highway.  The note clung to the steering wheel, flapping madly in the wind for a second or two before flying out the window.  "Oops," he said.  And then he took a sip of his scalding hot coffee and turned up his music with a smile.

i'd love to read your response - submit it by clicking on comments below.