Writing riffs are short, timed writings. I find riffing is a great way to ease into my writing day. Here’s an example. You can find ideas for shot, timed writing at: http://www.creativewritingprompts.com
9/29/2012: Riff - Heart on the page (a story of revenge)
Mommy cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. Why was she crying? That boy - Russell - said "Ha Ha - your cat's dead." and ran off down the street. Daddy grabbed Mommy's hand, lead her onto the porch. "It's ok - Pearl - Smudgy didn't suffer." That mean boy Russell made Mommy cry. Daddy put smudgy in an empty shoe box. "She chased a squirrel into the road." Daddy said to Mommy. "The car couldn't stop." I lifted the lid of the shoebox - Smudgy was inside. Blood oozed from her mouth, eyes. She didn't move. "Yep - she's dead" I said to Susan who burst into tears. Mommy continued sobbing. Outside, Russell ran up and down the street - "Your cat's dead, your cat's dead!" he screamed. Mommy went inside. The door slammed shut. Daddy picked up the shoebox. "Bean, come with me." We walked outside, around back of the house to the garage. "Hold the box." he said and walked into the garage. "Your cat's dead, your cat's dead!" Russell yelled. Daddy came out with a shovel. I lifted the lid, peeked inside. "Yup! Smudgy's still dead." I reported. "We'll find a nice spot and bury her." Daddy and I walked around the backyard. In the corner at the far end of the yard, next to the garage Daddy dug a hold. I held the shoebox with dead Smudgy inside. "Go ahead Bean, put the box down in the hole." Daddy filled in the hole, we stomped down the dirt. That was the end of Smudgy but not the end of Russell. Russell had stopped running up and down the street and now sat on the tree belt, leaning against the large elm tree in front of the house across the street. "Hey Russell!" I yelled. "I'll bet you can't catch me." Russell grinned and trotted across the street. I had a plan. I was a speedy runner. I could outrun all the kids in the neighborhood. As soon as Russell was on my side of the street I took off runing. He chased after me. But I pulled steadily ahead. Russell was breathing hard. I rounded the corner of my house - "Come get me you sissy!" I yelled. Russell rounded the corner of the house. I stepped on the leaver raising the lid to the in-ground garbage can. Russell fell in. "Ha Ha! You fell into the garbage can! You stink." I laughed.
7/2/12: Riff - ending Dubious Grief
5/18/12: Riff #46 - describe a hot day...
A steady trickle of sweat rolled down the middle of my back. It was the second day of triple digit temperatures. The office was a hot-box and I wilted, like a flower in the noon day heat. Worse the HVAC system was on the fritz.
I grabbed my water bottle and took a long swig of semi-cool water. "What's the thermometer say?" I asked, peeking around my monitor at my co-worker.
She waved a manila file folder rapidly in front of her face. "Ninety-three," she groaned. Beads of sweat sprung from her forehead.
The window blinds were shut tight. Not a single ray of hot summer sunshine penetrated into the office. A small oscillating fan on top of the file cabinet sent hot puffs of air across my face every few seconds. "I wish we could open a damn window," I moaned. "This place is an oven."
Two huge wet spots grew larger under my co-worker's arms. She flapped her arms like a bird flapping its wings to cool off. "I'd give anything for a nice cold shower." Her face was beet red from the heat.
A cold shower sounded wonderful. "There's that old shower in the basement." I suddenly exclaimed. "Let's go!"
She gasped, inhaled deeply. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that grimy old thing." She turned her attention back to her computer screen.
I stood and grabbed my towel from the bottom drawer of my desk. "Your loss!" I said and headed out the door and down the stairs. Ah, sweet cool relief was coming.
3/3/12: Riff on letting go...
My plan is to drive out to the coast with Glen's ashes. I've stored the ashes in the white cardboard box from the mortuary. It's time to release his spirit from the anchor of his physical remains. I need to do this so I can move forward. I must let go of the past - our past. Not that I will forget Glen and our wonderful time. I will always keep Glen in my heart. I will treasure all our adventures. But I will also let it go. Stop keeping it alive - the past alive. It is past, gone, over. It's important I move forward - toward new adventures. And I do want to live - thrive - laugh. So on March 14, 2012 I will go to the coast, release Glen's ashes into the wind, the ocean. Let the waves carry his ashes away.
2/11/12: Riff: 10 minutes beginning with “Today I will...”
1/15/2012: Write for 15 minutes about Batgirl & you in an elevator
I watched the numbers tick down, 11, 10, 9... as the elevator descended to the ground floor of the high rise. The bell jingled signaling its arrival, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the top floor. Just as the doors began closing I heard, "WAIT - I need to get on..." a woman's voice said frantically. I stuck my arm out and stopped the closing doors with my hand. A bright blur of black dashed past me into the elevator. I looked over my shoulder and gasped. Could this really be Batgirl? I wondered staring at the woman now settling into the corner next to me. "What floor?" I asked, trying to quiet my racing heart. "Top floor!" she said shooting me an intense glare. The elevator lurched, and began its assent. "Um, excuse me," I said turning to face her, the elevator rising slowly. "Are you Batgirl?" Beneath her mask I watched her blue eyes widen and a smile appeared on her face. "Why yes, I am. And I've got to get to the roof pronto!" she said, pounding her fist against her thigh. "I'm going to the top floor too. Should I stand back and let you get out fast?" I said, backing away from the door. My heart beat faster and sweat trickled down my back. Should I get off and let her go up alone? I wondered. The elevator continued moving slowly up toward the top floor. "What's going on anyway," I asked. "Just an ordinary jewel thief, nothing to worry about. I followed him from the museum..." Batgirl said. "Oh - what'd he get?" "Just the biggest emerald on display. I think he lured me here. Either he's sloppy or he's setting a trap for me." she said. My heart raced inside my chest. "Can I help? I've always dreamed of being a super hero," I said, my face growing hot. "What kind of superhero powers do you have?" Batgirl put her hands on the utility belt around her waist. "All my tricks are here on my belt." she said. "So you can't fly or anything?" I asked. "No, I'm just an ordinary woman with a lot of tricks under my belt." she said. Suddenly the door flew open and the blur of her black cape trailed out the door.
1/2/2012: Write for 10 minutes about "love hesitates..."
Across the room I spot him - what should I do? My heart beats quickly. He stands in front of the band - music roars in my ears and inside my head. His green eyes sparkle. His body sways to the beat of the music. I want to dance with him. But I have feet of clay. He turns to the woman beside him, takes her hand, and leads her onto the dance floor. I watch them dance. His arm encircles her waist. They move as one. Tears of regret drop like a mourning veil over me. The dream bursts when love hesitates. I turn and walk away.
12/4/2011: Write for 15 minutes about desperation with a zealot as the main character and a memo as the key object.
Bryan paced around his office, his fists clenched tight, knuckles white. He stopped in front of his computer and stared at the screen. An email to all staff from Margo read: "A time clock is now located next to the front door. All staff are now required to punch in and out. This will allow me to better track grant project hours. Margo." Bryan felt his face burn hot and sticky. He wanted to scream. Instead he picked up the phone and punched in Sherman's extention. He'd get to the bottom of this new policy and squelch it. "I didn't get a design degree to punch a clock!" he said, listening to the phone ring down the hall in Sherman's office. Sherman didn't pick up. Bryan walked to his office doorway and peered out into the darkened hallway. He thought about walking down to Margo's office but quickly abandoned this idea. He looked over toward the IT department, scanning the tops of the work stations for Leslie to vent with. The sound of paper crumpling followed by a small thud hitting metal caught his attention. Bryan walked toward the sound - crackle, thud, crackle, thud. He knew Sherman was hiding out somewhere in the dark recesses at the end of the hallway. "You can't hide from me Sherman..." he hissed.
11/12/2011: Write for 10 minutes using the following words: paper clips, lunchbox, principal, swing, girl with a pink ribbon.
Hope sat at her desk and poured a new box of paper clips into the little plastic compartment of her supply tray. A few paper clips spilled onto the floor. She looked over at the silver frame and felt her neck muscles relax. She loved the image of her daughter, a pink ribbon tied in her hair, sitting on a swing next to her younger brother. Hope sighed, bent down and picked up the errant paper clips. She moved her purple lunchbox away from the side of her desk and inspected the floor. One lone paper clip emerged from behind the lunchbox. Hope suddenly remembered she had an appointment with her daughter's school principal that very afternoon. This meant she'd have to leave the office at noon in order not to arrive late for the meeting. "Better skip lunch," she thought. Eating at her desk was not an option. Dirty dishes would not pile up on her desk!
11/5/2011: Setting Riff from two POV characters
Hope and Raven share an office barely large enough to fit two desks facing each other with about a foot of space between them. Neither woman had any input about the arrangement. Neither woman is happy with the situation.
Hope fears the junk art spewed across Raven's desk carries health dangers that might leap across the gap between the two desks and contaminate her side of the office. It's bad enough Hope has to look across the room and see the clutter not only on her officemate's desk but all the stuff pinned to the wall and hanging from the ceiling on Raven's side of the office. Hope hates the unprofessional cluttered mess she is forced to view every day. Mostly she hides behind her computer screen attempting to block the ugly view.
Raven is generally an easy going person. She goes with the flow of things. But it drives her crazy when she looks across the office. Everything on the woman's desk, which isn't much, is perfectly ordered. And it's not just Hope's desk. Her books are perfectly lined up in her bookcase, from large to small. All Hope's folders are color coded by project tasks. The top of the bookcase has file folders, like colors with like colors, neatly placed in a divider. The three month calendar hanging on the wall is marked in different colors indicating start times, deadlines, and important meetings. Sometimes when Hope isn't in the office Raven tilts the clock on the wall just to disrupt the perfect order on her officemate's side of the room.
10/23/2011: Short riffs from the obituary...
The rain poured down as Nellie and George ran sloshing through the mud to catch the train before it left the stations. Newly turned seventeen, she'd decided it was time to get out of Mars. George was an afterthought. He was a friend of her older brother Zack. She'd known him all her life.
Nellie married George when they arrived in Salt Lake city. He'd convinced her it wouldn't be proper for them to continue traveling together without the benefit of marriage. The only reason she'd agreed was because marrying at the tabernacle in the city had been her lifelong dream. As a child she'd imagined walking down the long aisle in the cathedral, into the arms of her beloved. The problem was, George wasn't her beloved.
10/8/2011: First class exercise - Heart on the page... "The Doll"
I stand in the doorway of Mommy and Daddy's bedroom looking into the gloom. The window shades are down even though it's not dark outside. I clutch my snuggle blanket, rubbing the softness against my cheek. A small doll says still and silent in the middle of the great wide bed. I dare not move, but stand as still as the stuffed animals lined up on big sister Susie's bed.
Mommy is sleeping, curled up on her side facing the doll. I can't see her face but I hear her snoring softly. I want to crawl up onto the bed and snuggle up to her warm, soft body. I can't because Grandma said not to go into the bedroom.
"Mommy needs to rest," she'd said.
My feet are heavy as I shuffle back and forth in the doorway. I peek my head into the darkened room. I don't go in.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am three now.
"You're getting to be such a big girl," Grandma said.
Mommy wasn't home for my birthday. Grandma baked a cake with pink frosting. Daddy lit the candles. Everyone sang Happy Birthday.
I watched the candles burn, wax rolling down and forming puddles on the frosting at the bottom of each stub.
"Let's wait for Mommy," I'd whispered, looking up at Daddy to Grandma. Susie was licking frosting from the candle on her slice of cake. Daddy, Susie, and Grandma ate their cake. I didn't eat any.
I run into Mommy and Daddy's bedroom shouting, "Mommy, time to eat cake!"
The doll cries. Mommy's head jerks up off the bed. Grandma grabs my arm and drags me out of the room.
Think of a challenge you had in the past 3 months. Write for 15 minutes about this challenge
A challenge for me has been deciding what I want to write. I have several projects in progress. I have as a goal to find my authentic voice - my writing voice. In my critique group when I listen to other writers read their materials, I'v grown to love some of their voices. My own voice didn't seem to come through in my own writing. I stumbled over words and my voice didn't seem to reflect that of my POV character. But what should I write about to find my voice? I'd through about pieces on Dubious Grief - but when I read these pieces out lout, I heard the old academic voice - not the voice of a grieving widow. I did find that voice in my journal entries - words written as I faced the loss of my husband Glen. But when I tried to write from a nonfiction POV I lost the voice. So again I asked myself - what can I write in order to capture my true, writer voice - one that could carry my words no matter what the context. I'd been reading "Long, Strange, Trip" a tome about the history of the Grateful Dead. It stirred up lots of memories from my own life in the sixties and seventies. So I wrote a short piece - the acid test - a fictional account of what it was like to drop acid in a group setting. I'd read accounts of the acid tests put on by Ken Kesey in the book about the Dead - so I had a sense of what these events were like. I'd also read Tom Wolfe's "Electric Acid Tests" and gained more insight about the experience. So I began writing small scenes - based in part on my experiences during the psychedelic age. I guess it's true - write what you know - and your voice will emerge. At least when I read these pieces I do hear my voice...
Write for 15 minutes about a fictionalized event that happened to one of your parents, siblings, or relatives:
I remember the day Elaine decided she wanted to go down to Pete's Candy Shop. Elaine was five and not allowed to go by herself because she'd have to cross a street. She wanted to spend the nickel Ma, our grandmother, gave her on penny candy. She'd earned the nickel by dusting the books on the shelves in Pa's, our grandfather, room. "I wanna get candy." she said walking into the bedroom we girls shared. "Not now!" I said. "Susan and I are playing cards." "I wanna go now!" she said. "I'll buy you a piece of candy." she offered. "NO!" Susan and I said together. Elaine turned and stomped out of the room while Susan and I giggled. Elaine took her nickel and started flipping it from one hand to the other. She stomped out of the house slamming the door loudly. Susan and I looked at each other and bust out laughing. Then we went back to our card game and forgot about Elaine and her nickel. Meanwhile Elaine stood outside on the back porch flipping her nickel from her right to her left hand. She dropped the nickel on the ground and it rolled down the steps onto the sidewalk. Elaine jumped down the stairs and grabbed the nickel as she ran down the sidewalk, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching her. She ran down the street as fast as her little legs could carry her. At the end of the block she stopped and looked right, left, right. No cars were in sight so she dashed across the street and ran into Pete's store. She stood in front of the glass enclosed case eyeing the penny candy. "I'll have one watermelon slice, two tootsie rolls, and one red wax lips." She watched Pete put the pieces of candy in a small white paper sack....
Write for 15 minutes about - Seth, 23 years old who is fearful of disapproval and wants to please others.
"So Seth, how have things gone this past week?" Carol the psychoanalysts asked. "Well, I'm kind of worried about Martha" Seth said. "She's wanting to go steady." "And how do you feel about that?" "Mom likes Martha well enough, but I'm just not sure..." "Tell me more about why you're feeling unsure." "I know Mom wants me to settle down, but I'm not ready." "What's holding you back Seth?" "Martha's an ok girl. She's sweet and all. It's not her, it's me." "What about you Seth?" "I want to do what makes Mom happy; don't what her mad at me again. She just doesn't understand..." "What doesn't your Mom understand about you Seth?" "Just that I'm not ready to settle down yet. I've got a lot of plans, plans Mom won't be happy about. I want to see the world, travel the country, find out what's out there..." "And your Mom just wants you to settle down?" "Yes. She kind of strict. She just wants me to get a job like a normal guy, and settle down and get married. She want grandkids." "What's stopping you from going after your dream?" "I don't want to make Mom mad. She's sacrificed a lot for me." "Tell me more about that Seth." "Mom worked after Dad died, didn't get married again. I'm her whole life. I feel kinda responsible..."
Write for 15 minutes about - popular burger shop uses tainted beef patties
Driving along route 66 in the summer of 1972, I decide to stop for lunch. My stomach rumbled a reminder I hadn't eaten since dinner the previous evening. I'd heard about the famous "Bob's Texas Burgers" joint from a trucker I'd met at a picnic area in Oklahoma. He said you could get a 1/2 pound burger for less than a buck. I needed to count my pennies and a burger that size and price wasn't something I could pass up. I decided to take a chance and stop for a burger. I pulled off the highway and followed the roadsigns announcing "Bob's Texas Burgers" with an arrow pointing west down the narrow road. My mouth watered as I imagined taking a huge bite out of an enormous burger. I could almost taste the grilled poppy seed bun, cheese, lettuce and tomato surrounding a big hunk of meat. After traveling about 15 minutes I spotted the yellow and red "Bob's Texas Burgers" sign ahead. I slowed down and turned into the parking lot. I was surprised there weren't any other cars parked in the lot because it was lunchtime. "Oh well." I said to myself. "I won't have to wait in line for my burger." I pushed open the car door and stepped out into the 100+ degree Texas sunshine. I walked slowly toward "Bob's Texas Burgers" yellow and red roadside stand. No aroma of grilling beef filled the air and the window looked dark, no glow of iridescent lights shown from within. I spotted an official looking notice hanging on the door. When I was close to the door I read the sign: "Establishment closed by the health department due to contaminated meat." My heart sank. I turned and walked slowly back to my car. "So much for a cheap burger." I thought.
Write for 15 minutes about a memory related to a holiday -
The 4th of July has never been a memorable holiday for me. As a child growing up in a working class neighborhood in a mid-size urban city in the Northeast it was one of the only nights in the summer my sisters and I could stay outside after dark. Mom and Dad gave us sparklers and we'd dance around in the backyard, our arms stretched out, holding the lit sticks as far from our bodies as we could. I remember earlier in the day my sisters and I would each get a roll of "caps" - long red strips with black dots filled with an explosive. We'd spend the afternoon smashing the black dots with a rock causing a spark and blast that sounded to me like a gunshot. In the evening we'd climb into my grandparent's car and drive over to Forest Park, set up our blanket and chairs in time for fireworks display. There were 2 things about the fireworks that I feared. First there were crowds of people ad I feared getting either lost or trampled. Second I hated the loud bang and falling streaks of light from the sky. So I'd hide under the blanket with my ears covered. But later, at home, Dad lit our sparklers and I'd run through the backyard free, mesmerized by the dancing sparks at my fingertips. My other strong impression was the smell of burnt sulfur filling the air. After romping around the yard my sisters and I were allowed to go out in front of the house while my parents sat on the porch watching us. I loved the way the street lights cast long shadows of the trees growing between the sidewalk and the street. I just wanted that night, July 4th, to never end.
Write for 15 minutes about what stirs you
I sit with my thoughts about life, my life. My passion for living a true authentic life, not to be sidetracked into a life according to what others expect. I see this philosophy of living conflict with my Mother's way of living. For her it has always been about conforming to other people's expectations. Mostly this is how she gets what she wants. Both of her husbands gave her this in life. Now she lives with my sister and expects Susan to give her what she wants. Me, I try to stay true to myself. Most of the time I'm not concerned about what society dictates for a life. This concerns me because I don't feel sympathetic toward my mom. I see her life winding down - a natural process. I feel little sympathy about her diminishing life. Her world is getting smaller but she can't accept this. Instead she tries to hold on - resisting letting go of the parts of her life she can no longer have - like driving and shopping whenever she wants. I think how much easier her life today would be if she could just let go of those parts of her life she can no longer do. And how much more pleasant life would be for those around her. My hope is that I can stay grounded in my life - letting go of the things I can no longer have; just letting go. Surrendering. Letting the wave crash down on me and riding it back into the sea of life. Charting my own path as my journey changes. I wish my mother had a greater understanding of her own journey instead of the internalized should's of society...
Write for 10 minutes from the point of view of a TV remote
OK. I'm ready for the nightly routine. Just resting in the dark drawer, waiting. Oh, the drawer's moving, a stream of dim light appears. Someone is opening the drawer. Who is it? What will we turn on tonight? Oh crap! It's the little one, sticky fingers. I hope that mess doesn't get..oh no, too late. My #3 is smeared with that darn mess. I hope it doesn't mean they'll take me apart again. That was horrible. OK, the little guy is fingering all my buttons now. Hay, can one of you big folks come rescue me? Ah, good. The female grabs me. What's she doing. Ok. Just a wet rag. Got rid of that sticky stuff. NO! Don't set me on the table. Oh good. The surge of energy brings me to life - the on button. She points me at the TV. Snap - on comes the sound, the screen lights up. What are we watching tonight? Oh, oh. It's the guy. I'm in for a workout now. This guy's a surfer, all the channels. Zap - here we go, round and round. One surge after another. I'm getting weak, my energy's fading. No, No! Don't slam me around....
Write for 10 minutes on “Why would a speaker be afraid of cats?”
9/29/2012: Riff - Heart on the page (a story of revenge)
Mommy cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. Why was she crying? That boy - Russell - said "Ha Ha - your cat's dead." and ran off down the street. Daddy grabbed Mommy's hand, lead her onto the porch. "It's ok - Pearl - Smudgy didn't suffer." That mean boy Russell made Mommy cry. Daddy put smudgy in an empty shoe box. "She chased a squirrel into the road." Daddy said to Mommy. "The car couldn't stop." I lifted the lid of the shoebox - Smudgy was inside. Blood oozed from her mouth, eyes. She didn't move. "Yep - she's dead" I said to Susan who burst into tears. Mommy continued sobbing. Outside, Russell ran up and down the street - "Your cat's dead, your cat's dead!" he screamed. Mommy went inside. The door slammed shut. Daddy picked up the shoebox. "Bean, come with me." We walked outside, around back of the house to the garage. "Hold the box." he said and walked into the garage. "Your cat's dead, your cat's dead!" Russell yelled. Daddy came out with a shovel. I lifted the lid, peeked inside. "Yup! Smudgy's still dead." I reported. "We'll find a nice spot and bury her." Daddy and I walked around the backyard. In the corner at the far end of the yard, next to the garage Daddy dug a hold. I held the shoebox with dead Smudgy inside. "Go ahead Bean, put the box down in the hole." Daddy filled in the hole, we stomped down the dirt. That was the end of Smudgy but not the end of Russell. Russell had stopped running up and down the street and now sat on the tree belt, leaning against the large elm tree in front of the house across the street. "Hey Russell!" I yelled. "I'll bet you can't catch me." Russell grinned and trotted across the street. I had a plan. I was a speedy runner. I could outrun all the kids in the neighborhood. As soon as Russell was on my side of the street I took off runing. He chased after me. But I pulled steadily ahead. Russell was breathing hard. I rounded the corner of my house - "Come get me you sissy!" I yelled. Russell rounded the corner of the house. I stepped on the leaver raising the lid to the in-ground garbage can. Russell fell in. "Ha Ha! You fell into the garbage can! You stink." I laughed.
7/2/12: Riff - ending Dubious Grief
Why can’t I stop writing Dubious Grief? It’s not like I haven’t tried to stop - but I can’t seem to find an ending. I know in my head what the ending is - letting go, stop writing, just stop. But this isn’t the end. I will mourn forever - forever grief. I knew this when I first began writing. Grief goes on and on - it’s never ending. But as Warren said, you never get over loss; so get over it! In my heart I know if I stop writing Dubious Grief, it means letting Glen go - letting my love disappear, and I can’t seem to do this. Writing keeps Glen alive for me in a weird sort of way. I say I want to move on with my life, but I don’t feel like moving on. I still just want to be with him. I think I’ll alway yearn to be with Glen. I flounder around and pretend I’m ok when really I’m not. My heart aches with longing for him. I cry pathetically when I’m alone. I resist the thought of not having him with me. I can’t seem to accept that our journey together is over. I cling to memories of our life. Writing keeps those memories alive for me. If I stop writing Dubious Grief it will signal the end. I say I want to move one with my life, but I don’t really mean it. What is my life now but an empty void - endless days of aloneness. I fill the time but not the void. I’m pathetic! If I were courageous I’d stop writing - place the ending chapters at the end and let go. But I’m not so courageous - I’m all bluff. Always have been - changing only when I’ve been forced to change, when there was no alternative but to change, to move on.
The Pitch at the Willamette Writers Conference is now one month away. I need to stop writing and end Dubious Grief. I have no choice in the matter except to cancel my pitch, cancel going to the conference, and keep writing or not writing as the case has been lately. But this will not help me. So, how to end Dubious Grief? I’ve written some material for 2011 - but have a bit more to write. I have written some bits and pieces for a chapter - Letting Go - the final chapter - but nothing concrete enough to call a chapter. I have the piece - the ring - for the epilogue. The piece of my story I have no answer to. All (sic) I have to do is put the material together, write the ending, let go of Dubious Grief. The hardest part was not watching Glen die, or being left behind, alone in this world. The hardest part is to let go and move forward, live my life whatever that means. I guess it’s the uncertainty of change - not knowing what this new life will bring that keeps me locked in fear - locked in my dubious grief.
A steady trickle of sweat rolled down the middle of my back. It was the second day of triple digit temperatures. The office was a hot-box and I wilted, like a flower in the noon day heat. Worse the HVAC system was on the fritz.
I grabbed my water bottle and took a long swig of semi-cool water. "What's the thermometer say?" I asked, peeking around my monitor at my co-worker.
She waved a manila file folder rapidly in front of her face. "Ninety-three," she groaned. Beads of sweat sprung from her forehead.
The window blinds were shut tight. Not a single ray of hot summer sunshine penetrated into the office. A small oscillating fan on top of the file cabinet sent hot puffs of air across my face every few seconds. "I wish we could open a damn window," I moaned. "This place is an oven."
Two huge wet spots grew larger under my co-worker's arms. She flapped her arms like a bird flapping its wings to cool off. "I'd give anything for a nice cold shower." Her face was beet red from the heat.
A cold shower sounded wonderful. "There's that old shower in the basement." I suddenly exclaimed. "Let's go!"
She gasped, inhaled deeply. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that grimy old thing." She turned her attention back to her computer screen.
I stood and grabbed my towel from the bottom drawer of my desk. "Your loss!" I said and headed out the door and down the stairs. Ah, sweet cool relief was coming.
3/3/12: Riff on letting go...
My plan is to drive out to the coast with Glen's ashes. I've stored the ashes in the white cardboard box from the mortuary. It's time to release his spirit from the anchor of his physical remains. I need to do this so I can move forward. I must let go of the past - our past. Not that I will forget Glen and our wonderful time. I will always keep Glen in my heart. I will treasure all our adventures. But I will also let it go. Stop keeping it alive - the past alive. It is past, gone, over. It's important I move forward - toward new adventures. And I do want to live - thrive - laugh. So on March 14, 2012 I will go to the coast, release Glen's ashes into the wind, the ocean. Let the waves carry his ashes away.
2/11/12: Riff: 10 minutes beginning with “Today I will...”
Today I will write the first piece for “Left Alone” - Part II of Dubious Grief. I’ve been thinking about the themes in the book - loss, grief, live... and these may end up being the subtitle of the book. Maybe it’s “life” not “live” I’m not sure. One of the tasks in the memoir writing class is to identify the theme for the memoir. Death Watch, is about LOSS; Left Alone is about GRIEF; and I think the third part is about finding a way to LIVE - Creating a Life. So today I will write about grief. It is difficult to write about grief because this is the time, three years ago, when I understood that Glen was dying and I would be left alone in this world without him by my side. Writing about my grief forces me to relive my grief, in an immediate way. I fear reliving these emotions. I put off writing so I won’t feel the pain. But that fear will not keep me from writing, no matter how much pain comes with the writing. I guess this is why my writing instructor says it takes courage to write what I write. For me it’s not courage, but what I have to do.
1/15/2012: Write for 15 minutes about Batgirl & you in an elevator
I watched the numbers tick down, 11, 10, 9... as the elevator descended to the ground floor of the high rise. The bell jingled signaling its arrival, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the top floor. Just as the doors began closing I heard, "WAIT - I need to get on..." a woman's voice said frantically. I stuck my arm out and stopped the closing doors with my hand. A bright blur of black dashed past me into the elevator. I looked over my shoulder and gasped. Could this really be Batgirl? I wondered staring at the woman now settling into the corner next to me. "What floor?" I asked, trying to quiet my racing heart. "Top floor!" she said shooting me an intense glare. The elevator lurched, and began its assent. "Um, excuse me," I said turning to face her, the elevator rising slowly. "Are you Batgirl?" Beneath her mask I watched her blue eyes widen and a smile appeared on her face. "Why yes, I am. And I've got to get to the roof pronto!" she said, pounding her fist against her thigh. "I'm going to the top floor too. Should I stand back and let you get out fast?" I said, backing away from the door. My heart beat faster and sweat trickled down my back. Should I get off and let her go up alone? I wondered. The elevator continued moving slowly up toward the top floor. "What's going on anyway," I asked. "Just an ordinary jewel thief, nothing to worry about. I followed him from the museum..." Batgirl said. "Oh - what'd he get?" "Just the biggest emerald on display. I think he lured me here. Either he's sloppy or he's setting a trap for me." she said. My heart raced inside my chest. "Can I help? I've always dreamed of being a super hero," I said, my face growing hot. "What kind of superhero powers do you have?" Batgirl put her hands on the utility belt around her waist. "All my tricks are here on my belt." she said. "So you can't fly or anything?" I asked. "No, I'm just an ordinary woman with a lot of tricks under my belt." she said. Suddenly the door flew open and the blur of her black cape trailed out the door.
1/2/2012: Write for 10 minutes about "love hesitates..."
Across the room I spot him - what should I do? My heart beats quickly. He stands in front of the band - music roars in my ears and inside my head. His green eyes sparkle. His body sways to the beat of the music. I want to dance with him. But I have feet of clay. He turns to the woman beside him, takes her hand, and leads her onto the dance floor. I watch them dance. His arm encircles her waist. They move as one. Tears of regret drop like a mourning veil over me. The dream bursts when love hesitates. I turn and walk away.
12/4/2011: Write for 15 minutes about desperation with a zealot as the main character and a memo as the key object.
Bryan paced around his office, his fists clenched tight, knuckles white. He stopped in front of his computer and stared at the screen. An email to all staff from Margo read: "A time clock is now located next to the front door. All staff are now required to punch in and out. This will allow me to better track grant project hours. Margo." Bryan felt his face burn hot and sticky. He wanted to scream. Instead he picked up the phone and punched in Sherman's extention. He'd get to the bottom of this new policy and squelch it. "I didn't get a design degree to punch a clock!" he said, listening to the phone ring down the hall in Sherman's office. Sherman didn't pick up. Bryan walked to his office doorway and peered out into the darkened hallway. He thought about walking down to Margo's office but quickly abandoned this idea. He looked over toward the IT department, scanning the tops of the work stations for Leslie to vent with. The sound of paper crumpling followed by a small thud hitting metal caught his attention. Bryan walked toward the sound - crackle, thud, crackle, thud. He knew Sherman was hiding out somewhere in the dark recesses at the end of the hallway. "You can't hide from me Sherman..." he hissed.
11/12/2011: Write for 10 minutes using the following words: paper clips, lunchbox, principal, swing, girl with a pink ribbon.
Hope sat at her desk and poured a new box of paper clips into the little plastic compartment of her supply tray. A few paper clips spilled onto the floor. She looked over at the silver frame and felt her neck muscles relax. She loved the image of her daughter, a pink ribbon tied in her hair, sitting on a swing next to her younger brother. Hope sighed, bent down and picked up the errant paper clips. She moved her purple lunchbox away from the side of her desk and inspected the floor. One lone paper clip emerged from behind the lunchbox. Hope suddenly remembered she had an appointment with her daughter's school principal that very afternoon. This meant she'd have to leave the office at noon in order not to arrive late for the meeting. "Better skip lunch," she thought. Eating at her desk was not an option. Dirty dishes would not pile up on her desk!
11/5/2011: Setting Riff from two POV characters
Hope and Raven share an office barely large enough to fit two desks facing each other with about a foot of space between them. Neither woman had any input about the arrangement. Neither woman is happy with the situation.
Hope fears the junk art spewed across Raven's desk carries health dangers that might leap across the gap between the two desks and contaminate her side of the office. It's bad enough Hope has to look across the room and see the clutter not only on her officemate's desk but all the stuff pinned to the wall and hanging from the ceiling on Raven's side of the office. Hope hates the unprofessional cluttered mess she is forced to view every day. Mostly she hides behind her computer screen attempting to block the ugly view.
Raven is generally an easy going person. She goes with the flow of things. But it drives her crazy when she looks across the office. Everything on the woman's desk, which isn't much, is perfectly ordered. And it's not just Hope's desk. Her books are perfectly lined up in her bookcase, from large to small. All Hope's folders are color coded by project tasks. The top of the bookcase has file folders, like colors with like colors, neatly placed in a divider. The three month calendar hanging on the wall is marked in different colors indicating start times, deadlines, and important meetings. Sometimes when Hope isn't in the office Raven tilts the clock on the wall just to disrupt the perfect order on her officemate's side of the room.
The rain poured down as Nellie and George ran sloshing through the mud to catch the train before it left the stations. Newly turned seventeen, she'd decided it was time to get out of Mars. George was an afterthought. He was a friend of her older brother Zack. She'd known him all her life.
Nellie married George when they arrived in Salt Lake city. He'd convinced her it wouldn't be proper for them to continue traveling together without the benefit of marriage. The only reason she'd agreed was because marrying at the tabernacle in the city had been her lifelong dream. As a child she'd imagined walking down the long aisle in the cathedral, into the arms of her beloved. The problem was, George wasn't her beloved.
10/8/2011: First class exercise - Heart on the page... "The Doll"
I stand in the doorway of Mommy and Daddy's bedroom looking into the gloom. The window shades are down even though it's not dark outside. I clutch my snuggle blanket, rubbing the softness against my cheek. A small doll says still and silent in the middle of the great wide bed. I dare not move, but stand as still as the stuffed animals lined up on big sister Susie's bed.
Mommy is sleeping, curled up on her side facing the doll. I can't see her face but I hear her snoring softly. I want to crawl up onto the bed and snuggle up to her warm, soft body. I can't because Grandma said not to go into the bedroom.
"Mommy needs to rest," she'd said.
My feet are heavy as I shuffle back and forth in the doorway. I peek my head into the darkened room. I don't go in.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am three now.
"You're getting to be such a big girl," Grandma said.
Mommy wasn't home for my birthday. Grandma baked a cake with pink frosting. Daddy lit the candles. Everyone sang Happy Birthday.
I watched the candles burn, wax rolling down and forming puddles on the frosting at the bottom of each stub.
"Let's wait for Mommy," I'd whispered, looking up at Daddy to Grandma. Susie was licking frosting from the candle on her slice of cake. Daddy, Susie, and Grandma ate their cake. I didn't eat any.
I run into Mommy and Daddy's bedroom shouting, "Mommy, time to eat cake!"
The doll cries. Mommy's head jerks up off the bed. Grandma grabs my arm and drags me out of the room.
Think of a challenge you had in the past 3 months. Write for 15 minutes about this challenge
A challenge for me has been deciding what I want to write. I have several projects in progress. I have as a goal to find my authentic voice - my writing voice. In my critique group when I listen to other writers read their materials, I'v grown to love some of their voices. My own voice didn't seem to come through in my own writing. I stumbled over words and my voice didn't seem to reflect that of my POV character. But what should I write about to find my voice? I'd through about pieces on Dubious Grief - but when I read these pieces out lout, I heard the old academic voice - not the voice of a grieving widow. I did find that voice in my journal entries - words written as I faced the loss of my husband Glen. But when I tried to write from a nonfiction POV I lost the voice. So again I asked myself - what can I write in order to capture my true, writer voice - one that could carry my words no matter what the context. I'd been reading "Long, Strange, Trip" a tome about the history of the Grateful Dead. It stirred up lots of memories from my own life in the sixties and seventies. So I wrote a short piece - the acid test - a fictional account of what it was like to drop acid in a group setting. I'd read accounts of the acid tests put on by Ken Kesey in the book about the Dead - so I had a sense of what these events were like. I'd also read Tom Wolfe's "Electric Acid Tests" and gained more insight about the experience. So I began writing small scenes - based in part on my experiences during the psychedelic age. I guess it's true - write what you know - and your voice will emerge. At least when I read these pieces I do hear my voice...
Write for 15 minutes about a fictionalized event that happened to one of your parents, siblings, or relatives:
I remember the day Elaine decided she wanted to go down to Pete's Candy Shop. Elaine was five and not allowed to go by herself because she'd have to cross a street. She wanted to spend the nickel Ma, our grandmother, gave her on penny candy. She'd earned the nickel by dusting the books on the shelves in Pa's, our grandfather, room. "I wanna get candy." she said walking into the bedroom we girls shared. "Not now!" I said. "Susan and I are playing cards." "I wanna go now!" she said. "I'll buy you a piece of candy." she offered. "NO!" Susan and I said together. Elaine turned and stomped out of the room while Susan and I giggled. Elaine took her nickel and started flipping it from one hand to the other. She stomped out of the house slamming the door loudly. Susan and I looked at each other and bust out laughing. Then we went back to our card game and forgot about Elaine and her nickel. Meanwhile Elaine stood outside on the back porch flipping her nickel from her right to her left hand. She dropped the nickel on the ground and it rolled down the steps onto the sidewalk. Elaine jumped down the stairs and grabbed the nickel as she ran down the sidewalk, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching her. She ran down the street as fast as her little legs could carry her. At the end of the block she stopped and looked right, left, right. No cars were in sight so she dashed across the street and ran into Pete's store. She stood in front of the glass enclosed case eyeing the penny candy. "I'll have one watermelon slice, two tootsie rolls, and one red wax lips." She watched Pete put the pieces of candy in a small white paper sack....
Write for 15 minutes about - Seth, 23 years old who is fearful of disapproval and wants to please others.
"So Seth, how have things gone this past week?" Carol the psychoanalysts asked. "Well, I'm kind of worried about Martha" Seth said. "She's wanting to go steady." "And how do you feel about that?" "Mom likes Martha well enough, but I'm just not sure..." "Tell me more about why you're feeling unsure." "I know Mom wants me to settle down, but I'm not ready." "What's holding you back Seth?" "Martha's an ok girl. She's sweet and all. It's not her, it's me." "What about you Seth?" "I want to do what makes Mom happy; don't what her mad at me again. She just doesn't understand..." "What doesn't your Mom understand about you Seth?" "Just that I'm not ready to settle down yet. I've got a lot of plans, plans Mom won't be happy about. I want to see the world, travel the country, find out what's out there..." "And your Mom just wants you to settle down?" "Yes. She kind of strict. She just wants me to get a job like a normal guy, and settle down and get married. She want grandkids." "What's stopping you from going after your dream?" "I don't want to make Mom mad. She's sacrificed a lot for me." "Tell me more about that Seth." "Mom worked after Dad died, didn't get married again. I'm her whole life. I feel kinda responsible..."
Write for 15 minutes about - popular burger shop uses tainted beef patties
Driving along route 66 in the summer of 1972, I decide to stop for lunch. My stomach rumbled a reminder I hadn't eaten since dinner the previous evening. I'd heard about the famous "Bob's Texas Burgers" joint from a trucker I'd met at a picnic area in Oklahoma. He said you could get a 1/2 pound burger for less than a buck. I needed to count my pennies and a burger that size and price wasn't something I could pass up. I decided to take a chance and stop for a burger. I pulled off the highway and followed the roadsigns announcing "Bob's Texas Burgers" with an arrow pointing west down the narrow road. My mouth watered as I imagined taking a huge bite out of an enormous burger. I could almost taste the grilled poppy seed bun, cheese, lettuce and tomato surrounding a big hunk of meat. After traveling about 15 minutes I spotted the yellow and red "Bob's Texas Burgers" sign ahead. I slowed down and turned into the parking lot. I was surprised there weren't any other cars parked in the lot because it was lunchtime. "Oh well." I said to myself. "I won't have to wait in line for my burger." I pushed open the car door and stepped out into the 100+ degree Texas sunshine. I walked slowly toward "Bob's Texas Burgers" yellow and red roadside stand. No aroma of grilling beef filled the air and the window looked dark, no glow of iridescent lights shown from within. I spotted an official looking notice hanging on the door. When I was close to the door I read the sign: "Establishment closed by the health department due to contaminated meat." My heart sank. I turned and walked slowly back to my car. "So much for a cheap burger." I thought.
Write for 15 minutes about a memory related to a holiday -
The 4th of July has never been a memorable holiday for me. As a child growing up in a working class neighborhood in a mid-size urban city in the Northeast it was one of the only nights in the summer my sisters and I could stay outside after dark. Mom and Dad gave us sparklers and we'd dance around in the backyard, our arms stretched out, holding the lit sticks as far from our bodies as we could. I remember earlier in the day my sisters and I would each get a roll of "caps" - long red strips with black dots filled with an explosive. We'd spend the afternoon smashing the black dots with a rock causing a spark and blast that sounded to me like a gunshot. In the evening we'd climb into my grandparent's car and drive over to Forest Park, set up our blanket and chairs in time for fireworks display. There were 2 things about the fireworks that I feared. First there were crowds of people ad I feared getting either lost or trampled. Second I hated the loud bang and falling streaks of light from the sky. So I'd hide under the blanket with my ears covered. But later, at home, Dad lit our sparklers and I'd run through the backyard free, mesmerized by the dancing sparks at my fingertips. My other strong impression was the smell of burnt sulfur filling the air. After romping around the yard my sisters and I were allowed to go out in front of the house while my parents sat on the porch watching us. I loved the way the street lights cast long shadows of the trees growing between the sidewalk and the street. I just wanted that night, July 4th, to never end.
Write for 15 minutes about what stirs you
I sit with my thoughts about life, my life. My passion for living a true authentic life, not to be sidetracked into a life according to what others expect. I see this philosophy of living conflict with my Mother's way of living. For her it has always been about conforming to other people's expectations. Mostly this is how she gets what she wants. Both of her husbands gave her this in life. Now she lives with my sister and expects Susan to give her what she wants. Me, I try to stay true to myself. Most of the time I'm not concerned about what society dictates for a life. This concerns me because I don't feel sympathetic toward my mom. I see her life winding down - a natural process. I feel little sympathy about her diminishing life. Her world is getting smaller but she can't accept this. Instead she tries to hold on - resisting letting go of the parts of her life she can no longer have - like driving and shopping whenever she wants. I think how much easier her life today would be if she could just let go of those parts of her life she can no longer do. And how much more pleasant life would be for those around her. My hope is that I can stay grounded in my life - letting go of the things I can no longer have; just letting go. Surrendering. Letting the wave crash down on me and riding it back into the sea of life. Charting my own path as my journey changes. I wish my mother had a greater understanding of her own journey instead of the internalized should's of society...
Write for 10 minutes from the point of view of a TV remote
OK. I'm ready for the nightly routine. Just resting in the dark drawer, waiting. Oh, the drawer's moving, a stream of dim light appears. Someone is opening the drawer. Who is it? What will we turn on tonight? Oh crap! It's the little one, sticky fingers. I hope that mess doesn't get..oh no, too late. My #3 is smeared with that darn mess. I hope it doesn't mean they'll take me apart again. That was horrible. OK, the little guy is fingering all my buttons now. Hay, can one of you big folks come rescue me? Ah, good. The female grabs me. What's she doing. Ok. Just a wet rag. Got rid of that sticky stuff. NO! Don't set me on the table. Oh good. The surge of energy brings me to life - the on button. She points me at the TV. Snap - on comes the sound, the screen lights up. What are we watching tonight? Oh, oh. It's the guy. I'm in for a workout now. This guy's a surfer, all the channels. Zap - here we go, round and round. One surge after another. I'm getting weak, my energy's fading. No, No! Don't slam me around....
Write for 10 minutes on “Why would a speaker be afraid of cats?”
Sally stares at the yellow eyes glowing in the dark. Her skin is suddenly damp, warm sweat clings to her body. She feels her heart racing. She wants to run in the opposite direction of the glowing eyes. “This is silly” Sally says to herself as much as to Jane. Jane stops a few paces in front of Sally. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Oh, it’s those glowing yellow eyes in the road ahead.” Sally says. “It’s probably just a silly cat out prowling for the night.” Jane says. “I don’t like cats.” Sally says in a voice low and childlike. “Why’s that?” asks Jane, now standing beside Sally. “When I was a kid, my mother had this big orange cat.” Sally says taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I remember mom always said, ‘stay away from Pumpkin’ – that was the cat’s name.” Jane asks, “Why did your mom tell you to stay away from him?” Sally grips Jane’s hand and whispers, “Because cats are dangerous. They crawl up on your bed and steal your soul.” “Oh, that does sound scary, but I’m sure this one will…
