June 6, 2012
Last Post
After spending some time evaluating the worth of this blog, I've realized it doesn't have any. Please go to kimmydonn.com for all future updates (with the knowledge that they'll likely be sparse).
Birthday Wishes
This is a story written for the Writer Wednesday Bloghop on World of My Imagination. We are required to use the following picture and these five words:
With a heavy heart, she penned her missive. The pain her chest had become constant, unbearable. She knew relief was coming and that it would be worth the wait, but the wait was arduous. She sat with a lapdesk under a tree, which cast a cooling shade over her. She avoided direct light, and her skin was almost as grey as the shadow, blending into it like a chameleon. People passed without seeing or noticing her, one more robed patient in the grounds.
Today was her last day. Tomorrow, on her birthday, her family would take her out of this place for a dinner celebration. Sometime, before they returned, she would find a way to end her life, her suffering.
No one believed she was in pain. She had no measurable symptom, no temperature, no congestion, no cramping, but her heart hurt! It hurt as if a pin had been shoved right through it and was slowly letting her life escape along its thin shaft. It was real pain. She wished the cause of the pain would have the courtesy of killing her itself. She didn’t want to shame her family with a suicide; she didn’t want to know what people would say of her when she was gone. She only wanted escape.
She stayed out in the shade until the thermometer fixed to the wall of the building dropped below fifty. Then someone came looking for her and others that had been enjoying the afternoon’s fresh air. They herded the patients together into the hospice.
Unlike many of the others, she was careful not to shove or push. She had been taught proper manners, and even in the midst of a mad house, she would hold to them. Anything that set her apart from the others. She wasn’t like them, she wasn’t crazy, she just couldn’t stand to live with this pain any more.
The evening meal was raucous and she happily fled to her room after, to sleep the sleep of the medicated. Before closing her eyes, she placed her letter in the pocket of her skirt, the one she would wear out to dinner tomorrow. No one should find it there, until the time was right. It was worth the wait.
374 words
Manners
Pin
Chameleon
Thermometer
Birthday
With a heavy heart, she penned her missive. The pain her chest had become constant, unbearable. She knew relief was coming and that it would be worth the wait, but the wait was arduous. She sat with a lapdesk under a tree, which cast a cooling shade over her. She avoided direct light, and her skin was almost as grey as the shadow, blending into it like a chameleon. People passed without seeing or noticing her, one more robed patient in the grounds.
Today was her last day. Tomorrow, on her birthday, her family would take her out of this place for a dinner celebration. Sometime, before they returned, she would find a way to end her life, her suffering.
No one believed she was in pain. She had no measurable symptom, no temperature, no congestion, no cramping, but her heart hurt! It hurt as if a pin had been shoved right through it and was slowly letting her life escape along its thin shaft. It was real pain. She wished the cause of the pain would have the courtesy of killing her itself. She didn’t want to shame her family with a suicide; she didn’t want to know what people would say of her when she was gone. She only wanted escape.
She stayed out in the shade until the thermometer fixed to the wall of the building dropped below fifty. Then someone came looking for her and others that had been enjoying the afternoon’s fresh air. They herded the patients together into the hospice.
Unlike many of the others, she was careful not to shove or push. She had been taught proper manners, and even in the midst of a mad house, she would hold to them. Anything that set her apart from the others. She wasn’t like them, she wasn’t crazy, she just couldn’t stand to live with this pain any more.
The evening meal was raucous and she happily fled to her room after, to sleep the sleep of the medicated. Before closing her eyes, she placed her letter in the pocket of her skirt, the one she would wear out to dinner tomorrow. No one should find it there, until the time was right. It was worth the wait.
374 words
May 29, 2012
Song of Freedom - Faerytaleish Pinterest Contest
The cackling would have frozen the blood of a lesser man, but James had no fear. Chin thrust out, he faced the dark fairy, determined to earn freedom for himself.
“You want me to curse them?” she asked, still laughing. She was beautiful in her dire form. Her hair was as soft and grey as shadows, her eyes glinting like moonlight. Her skin was pale, opalescent in the setting sun which gave fire to her lips, normally the dark blue of a night sky. She stopped laughing to purse those lips, regarding him.
“And what will you give me?” she asked, taking a step closer. “For that matter, why call on me? You could curse them yourself, you have the magic.” Her fingers, thin and bony as a skeleton, reached out to brush his well muscled arm.
“My magic is all in music. They will not let me play.”
“Ah,” she said in a quick inhale. “I think I fully understand both problem and solution. Kiss me, and I will grant your wish.”
James had no fear. His mother had always chided him, “Jiminy, you’re going to end at the bottom of a cliff if you have no care for your path.” However, he couldn’t care, not locked in the home as he was. His only freedom had brought him to the dark fairy.
Closing his eyes, he was sure you closed your eyes when you kissed someone, he leaned his lips in toward the fairy’s. They were cool and moist like morning dew. He had an odd floating sensation and then heard a high pitched whine.
The cackle returned, and James opened his eyes to see what his wish had wrought. Falling in surprise he landed on a branch to examine his new body. Then he sang with joy.
This is my entry to the pinterest contest. Be sure to check out all the other fabulous entries as well as the hundreds of amazing pictures on the pinterest board.
“You want me to curse them?” she asked, still laughing. She was beautiful in her dire form. Her hair was as soft and grey as shadows, her eyes glinting like moonlight. Her skin was pale, opalescent in the setting sun which gave fire to her lips, normally the dark blue of a night sky. She stopped laughing to purse those lips, regarding him.
“And what will you give me?” she asked, taking a step closer. “For that matter, why call on me? You could curse them yourself, you have the magic.” Her fingers, thin and bony as a skeleton, reached out to brush his well muscled arm.
“My magic is all in music. They will not let me play.”
“Ah,” she said in a quick inhale. “I think I fully understand both problem and solution. Kiss me, and I will grant your wish.”
James had no fear. His mother had always chided him, “Jiminy, you’re going to end at the bottom of a cliff if you have no care for your path.” However, he couldn’t care, not locked in the home as he was. His only freedom had brought him to the dark fairy.
Closing his eyes, he was sure you closed your eyes when you kissed someone, he leaned his lips in toward the fairy’s. They were cool and moist like morning dew. He had an odd floating sensation and then heard a high pitched whine.
The cackle returned, and James opened his eyes to see what his wish had wrought. Falling in surprise he landed on a branch to examine his new body. Then he sang with joy.
This is my entry to the pinterest contest. Be sure to check out all the other fabulous entries as well as the hundreds of amazing pictures on the pinterest board.
May 25, 2012
Indie Chicks Cafe
I wanted to share the new writer group I've joined. The Indie Chicks Cafe is comprised of a group of like minded authors trying to band together for mutual support in this new publishing world. Elizabeth West was persistent enough to get me an invite. So far, I haven't done a lot, tweets mostly, trying to increase the group's exposure. The biggest things I've done is write and contribute a blog post. Rather than repost it here, I will link to it directly. Please browse the site, take a look around. Multiple authors in multiple genres. You find something you've been looking for here.
May 7, 2012
Being Two People is Difficult
So my penname is launched. Unfortunately, for the last couple of weeks, I've been pouring time into her, fleshing her out, connecting her to as many (now more) people than my personal identity. She has her own twitter feed, her own facebook and her own blog. Her blog is a damn sight more successful than this one. She has a theme and scheduled posts for two weeks based on it.
Over all, I think she's making me look bad. I mean, who wants to look at the whiny wall flower over here when you have the big blooming, scent spraying, bee attractor over there? This might be good. I've been worried about reaching a YA audience, but an erotica author has so much less trouble reaching her readers, they're already online! They're adults who read blogs, look for recipes or child help advice, and yes, look for news on the latest kink. They're likely to cross my path in their searches. Young adults aren't.
Please don't think I'm giving up on YA. I love it and already have three more MS in the genre. However, I'm feeling a little more... fulfilled in my work on the erotica penname. I feel like I'm making the right connections to further myself and my writing.
Let's not talk about the actual writing. sigh I have not been getting a lot of fresh writing done. I have several complete manuscripts to edit and bits and pieces for an epic fantasy that aren't quite enough to pull together yet. Most of my writing lately has been blog posts (for the alternate) and flash fiction (both mine and hers). I have a number of books from writing acquaintances on my Kobo to read, so I do that when there is no inspiration to write. After all, reading helps my writing, especially if I can nail down what about a story is drawing and carrying my interest and what is keeping it from catching with me. Those nebulous things are the same ones I need to pay attention to in my own writing.
I just received detailed comments on Cargon: Duty and Sacrifice, sequel to Cargon: Honour and Privilege, so I know what I'm doing for the next little while, but when I'm in the truck on the 5 hour drive to Fort McMurray next week, I need something new to work on, to write on paper. I hope this blip in the word flow will clear by then. If not... we'll see if reading the Kobo makes me as car sick as reading a book. gulp
Over all, I think she's making me look bad. I mean, who wants to look at the whiny wall flower over here when you have the big blooming, scent spraying, bee attractor over there? This might be good. I've been worried about reaching a YA audience, but an erotica author has so much less trouble reaching her readers, they're already online! They're adults who read blogs, look for recipes or child help advice, and yes, look for news on the latest kink. They're likely to cross my path in their searches. Young adults aren't.
Please don't think I'm giving up on YA. I love it and already have three more MS in the genre. However, I'm feeling a little more... fulfilled in my work on the erotica penname. I feel like I'm making the right connections to further myself and my writing.
Let's not talk about the actual writing. sigh I have not been getting a lot of fresh writing done. I have several complete manuscripts to edit and bits and pieces for an epic fantasy that aren't quite enough to pull together yet. Most of my writing lately has been blog posts (for the alternate) and flash fiction (both mine and hers). I have a number of books from writing acquaintances on my Kobo to read, so I do that when there is no inspiration to write. After all, reading helps my writing, especially if I can nail down what about a story is drawing and carrying my interest and what is keeping it from catching with me. Those nebulous things are the same ones I need to pay attention to in my own writing.
I just received detailed comments on Cargon: Duty and Sacrifice, sequel to Cargon: Honour and Privilege, so I know what I'm doing for the next little while, but when I'm in the truck on the 5 hour drive to Fort McMurray next week, I need something new to work on, to write on paper. I hope this blip in the word flow will clear by then. If not... we'll see if reading the Kobo makes me as car sick as reading a book. gulp
April 15, 2012
Done Deal
Meet Angelica Dawson. 
After deliberation, I have decided to pursue publishing my erotic fiction under her name. Her blog is not intended to be erotic, rather it will be about blogs and blogging. I'm hoping to learn something through her to bring to my blogs here. If you follow my blog and would be interested in being reviewed on hers, let either of us know: kimmydonn@gmail.com or authorangelicadawson@gmail.com
Angelica is also available on twitter (@angelicadawson) and on facebook. Please help me be a dual genre success rather than failure! :D
Note: this will be the only time I mention Angelica Dawson by name on this blog.
After deliberation, I have decided to pursue publishing my erotic fiction under her name. Her blog is not intended to be erotic, rather it will be about blogs and blogging. I'm hoping to learn something through her to bring to my blogs here. If you follow my blog and would be interested in being reviewed on hers, let either of us know: kimmydonn@gmail.com or authorangelicadawson@gmail.com
Angelica is also available on twitter (@angelicadawson) and on facebook. Please help me be a dual genre success rather than failure! :D
Note: this will be the only time I mention Angelica Dawson by name on this blog.
April 9, 2012
Conundrum
I have a problem. For some of you, the fact that I write erotica might come as a surprise (hopefully not a shock). What came as a shock to me, was that my over-the-top, balls-to-the-walls, Bloody, Foul and DIRTY vampire erotica, Blue Moon House was accepted when submitted to Naughty Nights Press. While this blog and this post is suitable for all ages, that link is NOT. It will warn you. This story, Blue Moon House, is not suitable for all ages either. For some, it won't be suitable at any age. It has all manner of kink in it.
Back story on me writing Blue Moon House: There has been a trend in the Twilight Fandom to write raunchier, nastier, and more graphic stories. Particularly in the arena of BDSM. Enter Master of the Universe or 50 Shades of Grey. I will not link to that. If you want either the Fanfic version or the filed off, you can go put it in a search engine. In a gut reaction to that story getting so much popularity, I decided to write my own BDSM story. Only I didn't use Twilight. I didn't use sparkly vampires, I used more traditional ones. Mine aren't killed by sunlight either, but they are damaged/hurt by it, so they work night hours. They also spend most hours indulging themselves and their food source, the submissives who come to their door.
The nugget for Blue Moon House sunk into my head and refused to let go until I wrote her out of it. You ever had a muse like that? They come fairly often by my house and they are the worst house guests. Don't keep up after themselves, require you to be at their beck and call at all hours... just terrible. However, after a relative glut in my writing, I banged out all 19K of Blue Moon House in three days. That's the nice part about that muse—she's insistent, but she's efficient. So there I was with this steaming pile of rough and ready porn that I believed followed the basic rules of the BDSM community (something a lot of stories in the Fandom have gotten called down on). I found a beta reader (and Elizabeth, I still applaud you for making it through that with me) and then I wanted to share. Why? Because I didn't want Elizabeth to be the only one to share that vision with me. I had to inflict it on others.
Now we're approaching the conundrum (and you have my apologies for taking so long to get here). I posted Blue Moon House for free reading pleasure (or horror or whatever) on MyVampFiction. It was read 150 times at the time of this posting, eight months after the original posting in September of 2011, and has three reviews. In that time, it was suggested that I should submit my erotic fiction for publication.
Who would suggest that?! Why my acquaintances who have published erotic fiction, of course! I beta-read D. F. Krieger's Sail My Oceans (which you should click on and buy!) and Elicia Seawell, although not currently publishing erotica, was not afraid to suggest Naughty Nights to me. So, I took a chance. I sent Blue Moon House first to Evernight and then to Naughty Nights. The first said no, citing the "forced sex, fecal and blood play" which, of course, I included up front in my query letter. I expected the second would also reject me, fairly quickly, so I was bowled over on Friday when I got an acceptance letter complete with contract.
I had been so sure no one would want this. I had been convinced that Blue Moon House would lie unnoticed with the rest of the Original Fiction on My Vamp Fiction (just looking through the category, 3 reviews seems to be the maximum). Instead, I'm being offered the chance to publish and promote it. So, do I, author of Cargon: Honour & Privilege, a book geared to young adults, want to divide my efforts and cross-promote erotica under a pseudonym? I also have a few conflicts with the contract, so I might be saved making the decision that way, but it is still a question I need to deal with.
My fanfiction includes a LOT (like 60%? 75%) of erotic fiction. All of them are rated as such and I trust readers to respect those designations. If I do publish my original erotic fiction, I will still be easily identifiable as Kimberly Gould, Kimmydonn, and will have to trust my younger readers and their parents to be wise enough not to pursue works that aren't intended for them. Blue Moon House comes with a list of warnings longer than my arm. Most readers are not going to like it. Which brings me back to my first problem. Do I want to do this?
I have to say, looking at the stack of cons, I'm not sure I can grasp enough pros. The big one would be market share. There are a LOT of erotica readers online. Way more than young adults who are willing to try post-apoc renaissance. Is it possible to hook a reader through porn and convince them to try my non-erotic fiction? This is a HUGE stretch in the case of Cargon, but my second novel, Thickness of Blood, is an adult story with adult themes. A reader who could indulge in Blue Moon House is more likely to enjoy following George as he tracks down his daughter's rapist than someone who felt at home in Fontive with Eve, Adam and Louis.
Before I was published for young adults, I delved into a lot of genres, tried a lot of different styles, and some suited me. Some, I think, made excellent stories that I would NEVER recommend to a young adult. Should I keep my eggs in one basket? Or should I launch those other stories and reap a wider audience? Should I stop with Thickness of Blood and keep my toes out of erotica? I haven't made up my mind yet and would love any and all advice.
Back story on me writing Blue Moon House: There has been a trend in the Twilight Fandom to write raunchier, nastier, and more graphic stories. Particularly in the arena of BDSM. Enter Master of the Universe or 50 Shades of Grey. I will not link to that. If you want either the Fanfic version or the filed off, you can go put it in a search engine. In a gut reaction to that story getting so much popularity, I decided to write my own BDSM story. Only I didn't use Twilight. I didn't use sparkly vampires, I used more traditional ones. Mine aren't killed by sunlight either, but they are damaged/hurt by it, so they work night hours. They also spend most hours indulging themselves and their food source, the submissives who come to their door.
The nugget for Blue Moon House sunk into my head and refused to let go until I wrote her out of it. You ever had a muse like that? They come fairly often by my house and they are the worst house guests. Don't keep up after themselves, require you to be at their beck and call at all hours... just terrible. However, after a relative glut in my writing, I banged out all 19K of Blue Moon House in three days. That's the nice part about that muse—she's insistent, but she's efficient. So there I was with this steaming pile of rough and ready porn that I believed followed the basic rules of the BDSM community (something a lot of stories in the Fandom have gotten called down on). I found a beta reader (and Elizabeth, I still applaud you for making it through that with me) and then I wanted to share. Why? Because I didn't want Elizabeth to be the only one to share that vision with me. I had to inflict it on others.
Now we're approaching the conundrum (and you have my apologies for taking so long to get here). I posted Blue Moon House for free reading pleasure (or horror or whatever) on MyVampFiction. It was read 150 times at the time of this posting, eight months after the original posting in September of 2011, and has three reviews. In that time, it was suggested that I should submit my erotic fiction for publication.
Who would suggest that?! Why my acquaintances who have published erotic fiction, of course! I beta-read D. F. Krieger's Sail My Oceans (which you should click on and buy!) and Elicia Seawell, although not currently publishing erotica, was not afraid to suggest Naughty Nights to me. So, I took a chance. I sent Blue Moon House first to Evernight and then to Naughty Nights. The first said no, citing the "forced sex, fecal and blood play" which, of course, I included up front in my query letter. I expected the second would also reject me, fairly quickly, so I was bowled over on Friday when I got an acceptance letter complete with contract.
I had been so sure no one would want this. I had been convinced that Blue Moon House would lie unnoticed with the rest of the Original Fiction on My Vamp Fiction (just looking through the category, 3 reviews seems to be the maximum). Instead, I'm being offered the chance to publish and promote it. So, do I, author of Cargon: Honour & Privilege, a book geared to young adults, want to divide my efforts and cross-promote erotica under a pseudonym? I also have a few conflicts with the contract, so I might be saved making the decision that way, but it is still a question I need to deal with.
My fanfiction includes a LOT (like 60%? 75%) of erotic fiction. All of them are rated as such and I trust readers to respect those designations. If I do publish my original erotic fiction, I will still be easily identifiable as Kimberly Gould, Kimmydonn, and will have to trust my younger readers and their parents to be wise enough not to pursue works that aren't intended for them. Blue Moon House comes with a list of warnings longer than my arm. Most readers are not going to like it. Which brings me back to my first problem. Do I want to do this?
I have to say, looking at the stack of cons, I'm not sure I can grasp enough pros. The big one would be market share. There are a LOT of erotica readers online. Way more than young adults who are willing to try post-apoc renaissance. Is it possible to hook a reader through porn and convince them to try my non-erotic fiction? This is a HUGE stretch in the case of Cargon, but my second novel, Thickness of Blood, is an adult story with adult themes. A reader who could indulge in Blue Moon House is more likely to enjoy following George as he tracks down his daughter's rapist than someone who felt at home in Fontive with Eve, Adam and Louis.
Before I was published for young adults, I delved into a lot of genres, tried a lot of different styles, and some suited me. Some, I think, made excellent stories that I would NEVER recommend to a young adult. Should I keep my eggs in one basket? Or should I launch those other stories and reap a wider audience? Should I stop with Thickness of Blood and keep my toes out of erotica? I haven't made up my mind yet and would love any and all advice.
March 28, 2012
Lucky Seven
So Miranda tells me I've been tagged. Okie dokie. I can accept this challenge: Go to page 7 or 77 in your current manuscript
Go to line 7
Copy down the next seven lines/sentences as they are. No cheating!
Tag 7 authors to join in the fun.
I have just begun editing Never Say Die, my zombie time loop story. So here are seven lines from page 77
“Well, I can do that. I have been already. I can't believe no one's been able to take you down.”
“They have, Heph, four times already. I'd rather not make it five.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, just do this for me? Please?”
“Sure. I can do that. So, you really are a girl. That's not just a handle.”
I can't help but laugh. “You're thinking about what I look like right now, aren't you?”
“Well, yeah!”
Happened to be some cute dialog! Now... I need to tag authors. I can do that!
1. Elicia Seawell
2. David Kirk
3. R.B. Wood
4. Haley Whitehall
5. Nicole Wolverton
6. Jennifer Barry
7. D. F. Krieger
March 25, 2012
Word Count Podcast - Imaginary Friend
I was able to participate in the Word Count Podcast again. To listen to the show, click here
The theme was: the urn you bought at a garage sale still had ashes in it. Here is my story, Imaginary Friends.
“Tyler! Would you slow down!” I shouted at my four year old who was running circles around the sofa. “You're going to hurt yourself or break something.”
“Tag!” he shouted happily, reaching into thin air.
“Playing with Joseph again?” I asked, referring to his imaginary friend.
“Yep! No! Don't tag me!” He ran faster, skidding into the kitchen and stopping at my feet. “Can Joseph and I have a snack?”
I shook my head. Tyler was bright; his imaginary friend had more depth than most other kids. I'd asked at the day care he went to part time, but apparently he only played with 'Joseph' when he was at home.
“No, sweetie, supper'll be ready any minute now.”
“Okay.” Unperturbed he raced back into the living room.
---
“Joseph, Joseph, bo-boseph, banana, fana, fo-foseph, me mi, mo-moseph. Joseph.”
I came around the corner from where I'd been reading the paper. “Tyler? Did you learn that in daycare?”
“No. Joseph taught me. Tyler Tyler bo-byler, banana fana fo-fyler, me my mo-myler. Tyler!”
The name game. The song was old when I was little. Where did Tyler learn it? I sipped my coffee and watched him play, still with Joseph. They sang Mom and Dad and Trudy, his favourite among the daycare staff.
“Mom? Did you want to play with us?” Tyler noticed me still watching.
“No, you seem to be having fun. I'll make us some sandwiches for lunch, okay?”
“Okay.” He smiled and went back to his game, picking some other names from daycare.
---
“TYLER!” I ran from the kitchen to grab the large urn from the mantle. Tyler stood on chair beside the fire place and had practically crawled along the mantle. “You could have broken that!”
He jumped down, unphased. “But I wanted to play with Joseph.”
I sighed. “Then why did you want this?” I asked, holding it out toward him. It was a beautiful piece I'd happened upon at a garage sale years ago.
“Joseph lives in there.”
I sighed and tried to keep calm. He was only a child. He didn't know that his friend was imaginary. A quick count of ten and I saw humour in the situation. “Is he a genie? He lives in a bottle?”
Tyler pouted. “No-o, he isn't a genie. He doesn't grant wishes. He's just my friend.”
“Ah, so I can open this and show you no one lives inside? There's nothing inside, see?” I pulled off the top and pointed it toward him.
He looked up at me with what must have been one my exasperated expressions. I almost laughed to see it on his little face. “You tell me I can't bring dirt in the house. I'll just put it in a bottle next time, too.” He turned and trotted off.
Dirt? I tilted the urn back to look inside.
“Oh, my God.” There were ashes in the bottom of the urn. Who would sell an urn that still had ashes in it? I put the lid back on carefully and set it in it's place. I had a frightening idea who 'Joseph' might be. Was it possible Tyler could see and hear ghosts?
---
“Tyler?” I called when I was fairly certain he was 'playing' with Joseph. “What does Joseph look like? Is he a boy like you?”
“No-o,” he said. “He old, older than dad.”
I nodded. “I see. Can you ask Joseph a question for me?”
His withering look made me chuckle. I really had to stop making faces like those. “He can hear you, Mom.”
“Good,” I said quietly. “Joseph, where would you like us to spread your ashes?”
“No!” Tyler jumped up and ran to me, hugging my legs. “Don't make Joseph go away! He's my friend.”
I squatted down and hugged Tyler, smoothing his hair. “It's okay, sweetie. It doesn't have to be today. I'll wait until you can't see Joseph anymore. When you grow up.”
He sniffed and nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Okay. But not until then!”
“I promise. Now, where would Joseph like go? And is he happy on our mantle?”
Tyler giggled and I took that as a yes for the second question. “He says he'd like to stay here. Maybe in our yard under the tree.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Tyler. You have fun with Joseph. And Joseph, don't play so roughly,” I said with a smile. “You two are going to break something yet.”
Tyler turned back to me instead of running to play. “Can you put the urn down lower?” he asked, pointing to the mantle.
“Of course I can,” I said, setting it on the hearth instead of the mantle. “Just be careful with it,” I reminded him.
“I will, Mom! You're it!” he called and ran around the couch, away from the ghost I couldn't see. How long would Tyler hold onto his imaginary friend? How long would he believe in ghosts? I hoped Joseph would be ready when that time came.
I felt an odd breeze through the house and with it came a sense of peace. In that moment, I knew Joseph was happy. Not for the first time, I admired the urn, shiny inlays and patterned ceramic. I was glad I'd bought it.
The theme was: the urn you bought at a garage sale still had ashes in it. Here is my story, Imaginary Friends.
“Tyler! Would you slow down!” I shouted at my four year old who was running circles around the sofa. “You're going to hurt yourself or break something.”
“Tag!” he shouted happily, reaching into thin air.
“Playing with Joseph again?” I asked, referring to his imaginary friend.
“Yep! No! Don't tag me!” He ran faster, skidding into the kitchen and stopping at my feet. “Can Joseph and I have a snack?”
I shook my head. Tyler was bright; his imaginary friend had more depth than most other kids. I'd asked at the day care he went to part time, but apparently he only played with 'Joseph' when he was at home.
“No, sweetie, supper'll be ready any minute now.”
“Okay.” Unperturbed he raced back into the living room.
---
“Joseph, Joseph, bo-boseph, banana, fana, fo-foseph, me mi, mo-moseph. Joseph.”
I came around the corner from where I'd been reading the paper. “Tyler? Did you learn that in daycare?”
“No. Joseph taught me. Tyler Tyler bo-byler, banana fana fo-fyler, me my mo-myler. Tyler!”
The name game. The song was old when I was little. Where did Tyler learn it? I sipped my coffee and watched him play, still with Joseph. They sang Mom and Dad and Trudy, his favourite among the daycare staff.
“Mom? Did you want to play with us?” Tyler noticed me still watching.
“No, you seem to be having fun. I'll make us some sandwiches for lunch, okay?”
“Okay.” He smiled and went back to his game, picking some other names from daycare.
---
“TYLER!” I ran from the kitchen to grab the large urn from the mantle. Tyler stood on chair beside the fire place and had practically crawled along the mantle. “You could have broken that!”
He jumped down, unphased. “But I wanted to play with Joseph.”
I sighed. “Then why did you want this?” I asked, holding it out toward him. It was a beautiful piece I'd happened upon at a garage sale years ago.
“Joseph lives in there.”
I sighed and tried to keep calm. He was only a child. He didn't know that his friend was imaginary. A quick count of ten and I saw humour in the situation. “Is he a genie? He lives in a bottle?”
Tyler pouted. “No-o, he isn't a genie. He doesn't grant wishes. He's just my friend.”
“Ah, so I can open this and show you no one lives inside? There's nothing inside, see?” I pulled off the top and pointed it toward him.
He looked up at me with what must have been one my exasperated expressions. I almost laughed to see it on his little face. “You tell me I can't bring dirt in the house. I'll just put it in a bottle next time, too.” He turned and trotted off.
Dirt? I tilted the urn back to look inside.
“Oh, my God.” There were ashes in the bottom of the urn. Who would sell an urn that still had ashes in it? I put the lid back on carefully and set it in it's place. I had a frightening idea who 'Joseph' might be. Was it possible Tyler could see and hear ghosts?
---
“Tyler?” I called when I was fairly certain he was 'playing' with Joseph. “What does Joseph look like? Is he a boy like you?”
“No-o,” he said. “He old, older than dad.”
I nodded. “I see. Can you ask Joseph a question for me?”
His withering look made me chuckle. I really had to stop making faces like those. “He can hear you, Mom.”
“Good,” I said quietly. “Joseph, where would you like us to spread your ashes?”
“No!” Tyler jumped up and ran to me, hugging my legs. “Don't make Joseph go away! He's my friend.”
I squatted down and hugged Tyler, smoothing his hair. “It's okay, sweetie. It doesn't have to be today. I'll wait until you can't see Joseph anymore. When you grow up.”
He sniffed and nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Okay. But not until then!”
“I promise. Now, where would Joseph like go? And is he happy on our mantle?”
Tyler giggled and I took that as a yes for the second question. “He says he'd like to stay here. Maybe in our yard under the tree.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Tyler. You have fun with Joseph. And Joseph, don't play so roughly,” I said with a smile. “You two are going to break something yet.”
Tyler turned back to me instead of running to play. “Can you put the urn down lower?” he asked, pointing to the mantle.
“Of course I can,” I said, setting it on the hearth instead of the mantle. “Just be careful with it,” I reminded him.
“I will, Mom! You're it!” he called and ran around the couch, away from the ghost I couldn't see. How long would Tyler hold onto his imaginary friend? How long would he believe in ghosts? I hoped Joseph would be ready when that time came.
I felt an odd breeze through the house and with it came a sense of peace. In that moment, I knew Joseph was happy. Not for the first time, I admired the urn, shiny inlays and patterned ceramic. I was glad I'd bought it.
March 11, 2012
Readings
In an attempt to hold off the incredibly heavy mood that is plaguing me, I'm going to write about something that is uplifting. Good idea, right? Okay, here we go.
Lately I've been petitioning schools and public libraries to offer myself and my book for their students/patrons. I did a reading at one Junior High School and Smoky Lake Library in February. I sold only four copies of my book, but those go into circulation with the chance to be read by potentially hundreds of readers. That's a happy thought for someone who isn't counting in dollars but in readers.
The other happy thought comes from the responses I get when I read aloud. I'm fortunate to not have stage fright. I'm not the most lively reader, but I like to think I'm better than a droning monotone. Certainly people listening to me seem to enjoy the readings. Also, people are keen to take my bookmark home (although I've gotten very few sales from those).
Overall, the one-on-one or one-on-few groups give me a sense of pride in my work that I often lose when I'm alone at the computer. Reading Cargon again, reminds me how much I enjoyed telling that story and still don't tire of reading it.
I don't have a lot of marketing strategies. I tried signings but just lost money at it. I tried blogging more regularly and actively but didn't see that generating anything for me. I tried hunting for reviews and found people wanting money or hard copies, either of which didn't sound like a good business decision. Readings are definitely where it's at for me. I'll continue to pitch to teachers and librarians in my area and hope this ball will finally start rolling for me. At the very least, I'll take heart in the reactions I receive and get the lift to keep going.
Thank you, Hillcrest School and Smoky Lake Library for hosting me in February. Your attentiveness meant more to me than you would guess.
Lately I've been petitioning schools and public libraries to offer myself and my book for their students/patrons. I did a reading at one Junior High School and Smoky Lake Library in February. I sold only four copies of my book, but those go into circulation with the chance to be read by potentially hundreds of readers. That's a happy thought for someone who isn't counting in dollars but in readers.
The other happy thought comes from the responses I get when I read aloud. I'm fortunate to not have stage fright. I'm not the most lively reader, but I like to think I'm better than a droning monotone. Certainly people listening to me seem to enjoy the readings. Also, people are keen to take my bookmark home (although I've gotten very few sales from those).
Overall, the one-on-one or one-on-few groups give me a sense of pride in my work that I often lose when I'm alone at the computer. Reading Cargon again, reminds me how much I enjoyed telling that story and still don't tire of reading it.
I don't have a lot of marketing strategies. I tried signings but just lost money at it. I tried blogging more regularly and actively but didn't see that generating anything for me. I tried hunting for reviews and found people wanting money or hard copies, either of which didn't sound like a good business decision. Readings are definitely where it's at for me. I'll continue to pitch to teachers and librarians in my area and hope this ball will finally start rolling for me. At the very least, I'll take heart in the reactions I receive and get the lift to keep going.
Thank you, Hillcrest School and Smoky Lake Library for hosting me in February. Your attentiveness meant more to me than you would guess.
February 7, 2012
Two posts in one day? Bwah?
Yeah, I know, very unlike me. However, I wanted to share this post from the Office of Letters and Light. If that name doesn't sound familiar to you, this might: NaNoWriMo. Them. Feburary is Pitchapalooza over there and I wanted to share the wealth with you. This will tell you all about it. My NaNo is currently summarized in 111 words and I can probably ditch the last sentence. What do you think?
In a case of Buffy meets Ground Hog Day, Cassadra finds herself stuck in a time loop. Instead of one day, Cassandra continually relives the zombie apocalypse until she finds the right keys to prevent it happening, fighting for her life every time she fails to stop the spread of the infection. Her loop ends every time she dies. Her loop starts every time she refuses to accept death as an option. She’s watched everyone she loves die and comes back to try to save them the next time. Her will to survive is what drives her story and makes us keep reading through horror after atrocity to see her succeed.
If you were at SIWC (Surrey International Writers Conference) this is the story with the pregnant zombie... only it doesn't actually have a pregnant zombie in it. Cassy is pregnant at one point and a zombie at one point, but not at the same time. That's what happens when someone overhears the conversation (I'm looking at Michael Slade who will probably never read my blog). However, there will be a pregnant zombie at some point. I can't let that idea slip away, can I?
In a case of Buffy meets Ground Hog Day, Cassadra finds herself stuck in a time loop. Instead of one day, Cassandra continually relives the zombie apocalypse until she finds the right keys to prevent it happening, fighting for her life every time she fails to stop the spread of the infection. Her loop ends every time she dies. Her loop starts every time she refuses to accept death as an option. She’s watched everyone she loves die and comes back to try to save them the next time. Her will to survive is what drives her story and makes us keep reading through horror after atrocity to see her succeed.
If you were at SIWC (Surrey International Writers Conference) this is the story with the pregnant zombie... only it doesn't actually have a pregnant zombie in it. Cassy is pregnant at one point and a zombie at one point, but not at the same time. That's what happens when someone overhears the conversation (I'm looking at Michael Slade who will probably never read my blog). However, there will be a pregnant zombie at some point. I can't let that idea slip away, can I?
Cup of Patience
I'm trying to effectively nail down my mental illness. Today, I'm using this analogy.
In the morning, assuming I had a reasonable night's sleep, I wake up with a cup of patience. The mug is full, brimming, and that is the buffer with which I enter my day. That cup of patience is what shields me from everything that would send me soaring to the clouds or plummeting to the depths. A cup of patience is all that keeps me level, grounded.
I drop coffee grounds all over the floor. A tablespoon of patience slips over the edge of my mug, spoiling my day very slightly. It's not a big deal though, I clean it up.
My daughter dawdles on the walk to school. She takes a gulp out of my mug. Thankfully, at five, that leaves half the cup, but she can drink my cup dry very quickly.
Sitting at work, I nurse my half mug against corrupted files, mistakes made, people changing the plans. Often, before the work day is done, my cup is empty.
If I'm very lucky, I managed to take a trickle of patience home in my mug. On good days, I get a few minutes to myself after work and can refill my cup a little. Never full—it's only full in the morning, but enough to get me through the evening. More often, supper burns, I miss my yoga practice, my daughter doesn't like what I've made for supper, and that last trickle is swallowed up.
Then I snap at everyone and everything. I have no buffer. the next thing that goes wrong is the worst of all things. If enough things go wrong after the cup is empty, even when they are all tiny, I want to end everything. I want to push a button that obliterates the world, starting with me.
Today, my cup isn't empty, but it isn't half-full either. I don't know how much I'll have left at the end of the day. I hope it lasts.
In the morning, assuming I had a reasonable night's sleep, I wake up with a cup of patience. The mug is full, brimming, and that is the buffer with which I enter my day. That cup of patience is what shields me from everything that would send me soaring to the clouds or plummeting to the depths. A cup of patience is all that keeps me level, grounded.
I drop coffee grounds all over the floor. A tablespoon of patience slips over the edge of my mug, spoiling my day very slightly. It's not a big deal though, I clean it up.
My daughter dawdles on the walk to school. She takes a gulp out of my mug. Thankfully, at five, that leaves half the cup, but she can drink my cup dry very quickly.
Sitting at work, I nurse my half mug against corrupted files, mistakes made, people changing the plans. Often, before the work day is done, my cup is empty.
If I'm very lucky, I managed to take a trickle of patience home in my mug. On good days, I get a few minutes to myself after work and can refill my cup a little. Never full—it's only full in the morning, but enough to get me through the evening. More often, supper burns, I miss my yoga practice, my daughter doesn't like what I've made for supper, and that last trickle is swallowed up.
Then I snap at everyone and everything. I have no buffer. the next thing that goes wrong is the worst of all things. If enough things go wrong after the cup is empty, even when they are all tiny, I want to end everything. I want to push a button that obliterates the world, starting with me.
Today, my cup isn't empty, but it isn't half-full either. I don't know how much I'll have left at the end of the day. I hope it lasts.
January 28, 2012
Word Count Podcast - Bloody Bleating
RB Wood hosts a podcast where writers read their own writing. I've listened to a few of the podcasts and have been meaning to contribute. This episode (22) I am included!
In case you are unable to do the audio, or you just want to take a look, here is the print form of Bloody Bleating. I hope you enjoy the entire podcast!
I washed the blood from my hands, but only my hands. My arms were still streaked with it, and no doubt smudges reddened my forehead and hair. I couldn't stop. The lambing waits on no man, or woman. I swiped at my forehead again, the bitter tang of iron from the blood filling my nose and seeming to coat my tongue.
“How many more?” I asked, breathing heavily. The rough wool of my worst dress itched all over my skin particularly where the perspiration irritated further.
“This was the last, Missus. The rest seem to be progressing normally. Will this ewe make it?” the shepherd asked.
I looked back at the bleating ewe, the crying lamb. I put a hand on her chest, above where the lamb was already trying to suck. It rose and fell, her breath shaking, but not impeded. “She'll live. I'm not sure she'll lamb again, though. Mark her for slaughter. We won't take her 'til we have to, but come the winter...” I sighed, wiping my hands again on the rag that I'd tucked behind my belt, pushing back sleeves to scrub at my arms. My husband's shepherds were all diffident. The master's first wife was not just any woman, after all.
“Yes, Missus.” He ducked his head and hurried away in the direction of the other ewes, ones having less trouble than this poor creature.
I knelt beside her, spitting on my rag and wiping my face. I tucked some hair behind my veil. I made no move toward her lamb, but touched the ewe's head gently. “You have something I never will, even if it costs you your life.” I would give my life to have a babe, a son or daughter.
“Missus!” I stood quickly, afraid someone might have seen my moment's weakness. I was already burdened with all the weakness my people assumed of women; I didn't need any added to it. One of the younger shepherds came. “It's another set of twins, Missus.”
“Holy Father,” I prayed. Silently I added a promised sacrifice if He would see me through this day. Almonds and lotus. It wasn't a typical offering, but it was one I had found He appreciated, one specific to me. I hurried after the boy, no older than my Caleb. In fact, Caleb should have been out here. I looked around the pasture, but couldn't spot his shining black head. More were the dark dusty brown of the hired boys and men.
Caleb wasn't mine. It was a ruse orchestrated by Jessa, Benjamin's second wife, and myself. Her first son was mine, having all the rights of the first born. No one outside our family knew that Caleb wasn't my own blood; even Caleb didn't really know. He resembled his father so much that it didn't matter what little of Jessa he bore. Her second and third children were more like her, exotic in appearance, nubile.
I pulled another lamb, using a work knife to cut free as I needed. This ewe was lost. She'd stopped bleating before I reached to her. It was all I could do now to save her lambs. The first was black and the shepherds all backed away. I opened the lamb's jaws and wiped free any birthing fluid that might be blocking his air. He immediately began crying. The second lamb came free easily, almost falling from her mother before I'd finished with her brother. She had a beautiful white coat despite the blood that stood atop the downy hairs. I pulled her into my arms, knowing this lamb was special.
“Make sure that one finds a nurse ewe,” I instructed the others. “He will breed strong.”
“But he's black, Missus,” one of the older shepherds said.
“I know. It is a sign of his strength that he holds to black when father and mother were white. He will add to our flock.”
They continued to stared at me, obviously unsure whether or not they should listen.
“You heard my wife.” I smiled at the sound of my husband's voice behind me. I turned to look up at him, towering over me, and I wasn't small for a woman. “What have you found? A bedraggled little thing.” He ran his hand over the bloodied fleece without concern. “She is fine.”
“She will be the queen of our flock one day,” I promised him, rocking the tiny lamb. “And I know just the mother ewe for her.” I walked back to the mother I'd marked for slaughter, Benjamin following me.
“This one? You're sure she'll survive the night?” He squatted down beside the still recovering animal. He huffed. “She will at that. You helped her lamb, didn't you?”
I nodded, setting the second lamb beside the first. “She won't lamb again, but she will feed these two, and then she will feed us.”
“A worthy life for a worthy animal. Dani, you are a mess. You'll send me running to Jessa looking like that.”
I nudged him with my hip and sent him sprawling from his squat. He laughed, lounging on one elbow.
“We'll see who's running,” I warned. Another cry came across the pasture. “Me,” I answered myself with a sigh, lifting my skirts enough to run. Every ewe saved, every lamb saved, was one more to bring our family wealth. I didn't notice Benjamin follow at first.
“Me,” he said, his voice full and low. “You've done enough, Dani. Clean yourself, rest, have one of the children bring you some food. I'll take care of tonight.”
Leaning on his arm, I kissed his cheek. He could have divorced me when I was proven barren. He could have vaulted Jessa above me to first-wife. Instead he had kept me close, consulted with me about a second wife. I was with him when he found Jessa and knew she would be a friend to me as well as wife to him.
Despite all the children Jessa had given him, and continued evidence that I could not, he came to my room as often as hers. He loved me as my father hadn't loved my mother, as I'd never seen a man love a woman. I would do anything for him.
“I will eat, and then I will return if the lambing isn't over. I will bring food for the shepherds as well.” Jessa and her daughters would have been cooking while I was in the field.
His eyes and smile must have seen through the blood and grime that caked me because the fire in them was usually reserved for my chamber. I licked my lips nervously and wiped hair away from my face, odd honey-coloured hair. I almost adjusted my veil before thinking of the blood I would get on it. My hands fell to my sides.
“I suggest you hurry, wife.” His tone, like his eyes, gave me the impression that I wouldn't be returning to the pasture tonight. “I will expect your return.” Then again... I looked to sun sinking in the west. Making love with Benjamin under the stars would be a perfect end to a bloody day.
In case you are unable to do the audio, or you just want to take a look, here is the print form of Bloody Bleating. I hope you enjoy the entire podcast!
I washed the blood from my hands, but only my hands. My arms were still streaked with it, and no doubt smudges reddened my forehead and hair. I couldn't stop. The lambing waits on no man, or woman. I swiped at my forehead again, the bitter tang of iron from the blood filling my nose and seeming to coat my tongue.
“How many more?” I asked, breathing heavily. The rough wool of my worst dress itched all over my skin particularly where the perspiration irritated further.
“This was the last, Missus. The rest seem to be progressing normally. Will this ewe make it?” the shepherd asked.
I looked back at the bleating ewe, the crying lamb. I put a hand on her chest, above where the lamb was already trying to suck. It rose and fell, her breath shaking, but not impeded. “She'll live. I'm not sure she'll lamb again, though. Mark her for slaughter. We won't take her 'til we have to, but come the winter...” I sighed, wiping my hands again on the rag that I'd tucked behind my belt, pushing back sleeves to scrub at my arms. My husband's shepherds were all diffident. The master's first wife was not just any woman, after all.
“Yes, Missus.” He ducked his head and hurried away in the direction of the other ewes, ones having less trouble than this poor creature.
I knelt beside her, spitting on my rag and wiping my face. I tucked some hair behind my veil. I made no move toward her lamb, but touched the ewe's head gently. “You have something I never will, even if it costs you your life.” I would give my life to have a babe, a son or daughter.
“Missus!” I stood quickly, afraid someone might have seen my moment's weakness. I was already burdened with all the weakness my people assumed of women; I didn't need any added to it. One of the younger shepherds came. “It's another set of twins, Missus.”
“Holy Father,” I prayed. Silently I added a promised sacrifice if He would see me through this day. Almonds and lotus. It wasn't a typical offering, but it was one I had found He appreciated, one specific to me. I hurried after the boy, no older than my Caleb. In fact, Caleb should have been out here. I looked around the pasture, but couldn't spot his shining black head. More were the dark dusty brown of the hired boys and men.
Caleb wasn't mine. It was a ruse orchestrated by Jessa, Benjamin's second wife, and myself. Her first son was mine, having all the rights of the first born. No one outside our family knew that Caleb wasn't my own blood; even Caleb didn't really know. He resembled his father so much that it didn't matter what little of Jessa he bore. Her second and third children were more like her, exotic in appearance, nubile.
I pulled another lamb, using a work knife to cut free as I needed. This ewe was lost. She'd stopped bleating before I reached to her. It was all I could do now to save her lambs. The first was black and the shepherds all backed away. I opened the lamb's jaws and wiped free any birthing fluid that might be blocking his air. He immediately began crying. The second lamb came free easily, almost falling from her mother before I'd finished with her brother. She had a beautiful white coat despite the blood that stood atop the downy hairs. I pulled her into my arms, knowing this lamb was special.
“Make sure that one finds a nurse ewe,” I instructed the others. “He will breed strong.”
“But he's black, Missus,” one of the older shepherds said.
“I know. It is a sign of his strength that he holds to black when father and mother were white. He will add to our flock.”
They continued to stared at me, obviously unsure whether or not they should listen.
“You heard my wife.” I smiled at the sound of my husband's voice behind me. I turned to look up at him, towering over me, and I wasn't small for a woman. “What have you found? A bedraggled little thing.” He ran his hand over the bloodied fleece without concern. “She is fine.”
“She will be the queen of our flock one day,” I promised him, rocking the tiny lamb. “And I know just the mother ewe for her.” I walked back to the mother I'd marked for slaughter, Benjamin following me.
“This one? You're sure she'll survive the night?” He squatted down beside the still recovering animal. He huffed. “She will at that. You helped her lamb, didn't you?”
I nodded, setting the second lamb beside the first. “She won't lamb again, but she will feed these two, and then she will feed us.”
“A worthy life for a worthy animal. Dani, you are a mess. You'll send me running to Jessa looking like that.”
I nudged him with my hip and sent him sprawling from his squat. He laughed, lounging on one elbow.
“We'll see who's running,” I warned. Another cry came across the pasture. “Me,” I answered myself with a sigh, lifting my skirts enough to run. Every ewe saved, every lamb saved, was one more to bring our family wealth. I didn't notice Benjamin follow at first.
“Me,” he said, his voice full and low. “You've done enough, Dani. Clean yourself, rest, have one of the children bring you some food. I'll take care of tonight.”
Leaning on his arm, I kissed his cheek. He could have divorced me when I was proven barren. He could have vaulted Jessa above me to first-wife. Instead he had kept me close, consulted with me about a second wife. I was with him when he found Jessa and knew she would be a friend to me as well as wife to him.
Despite all the children Jessa had given him, and continued evidence that I could not, he came to my room as often as hers. He loved me as my father hadn't loved my mother, as I'd never seen a man love a woman. I would do anything for him.
“I will eat, and then I will return if the lambing isn't over. I will bring food for the shepherds as well.” Jessa and her daughters would have been cooking while I was in the field.
His eyes and smile must have seen through the blood and grime that caked me because the fire in them was usually reserved for my chamber. I licked my lips nervously and wiped hair away from my face, odd honey-coloured hair. I almost adjusted my veil before thinking of the blood I would get on it. My hands fell to my sides.
“I suggest you hurry, wife.” His tone, like his eyes, gave me the impression that I wouldn't be returning to the pasture tonight. “I will expect your return.” Then again... I looked to sun sinking in the west. Making love with Benjamin under the stars would be a perfect end to a bloody day.
January 22, 2012
Flash Fiction
As you may have noticed, I don't blog much. However, there are few blogs that I LOVE to frequent. Why? Because they give me inspiration through tiny bursts of creativity. There is a whole week worth of flash fiction contests out there:
Monday
Menage Monday
I admit, I haven't participated in this one yet. Mondays are busy....
Tuesday
Five Minute Fiction
I've missed out on this one a lot because I work on Tuesdays and the contest is limited to a 15 minute window (hence the name).
Wednesday
Humpday Challenge
Another I haven't participated in myself, but enjoyed following.
Thursday
Thursday Threads
Relatively new.
Friday
Friday Picture Show
A picture is worth 100 words, exactly, if you please.
Other blogs I turn to for writing inspiration?
Haley Whitehall gives us a challenge every month.
The Word Count Podcast covers a variety of themes and prompts. It also lets you HEAR your fellow authors, how cool!
Picture Prompt Writing Challenge I have had several characters jump out of these prompts for repeat appearances and ongoing writing opportunities. You should consider joining us by writing a piece using one or both pictures every week!
So, there you have it. Write a little, inspire a lot. It's amazing how much punch you can get from less than 500 words, truly.
Monday
Menage Monday
I admit, I haven't participated in this one yet. Mondays are busy....
Tuesday
Five Minute Fiction
I've missed out on this one a lot because I work on Tuesdays and the contest is limited to a 15 minute window (hence the name).
Wednesday
Humpday Challenge
Another I haven't participated in myself, but enjoyed following.
Thursday
Thursday Threads
Relatively new.
Friday
Friday Picture Show
A picture is worth 100 words, exactly, if you please.
Other blogs I turn to for writing inspiration?
Haley Whitehall gives us a challenge every month.
The Word Count Podcast covers a variety of themes and prompts. It also lets you HEAR your fellow authors, how cool!
Picture Prompt Writing Challenge I have had several characters jump out of these prompts for repeat appearances and ongoing writing opportunities. You should consider joining us by writing a piece using one or both pictures every week!
So, there you have it. Write a little, inspire a lot. It's amazing how much punch you can get from less than 500 words, truly.
January 3, 2012
Coffee time
"Ah, there you are, User298. It seems like it's been minutes since we've met. How can I help you? "
"My user would like to open those pictures in the Summer 2008 folder. Do you think I could access it?"
"Of course you can. Why don't you sit down while I fetch it for you."
"You are a dear, User 021. Are those cookies?"
"They are! Would you like one?"
"It seems I have dozens of my own, but this one looks very tasty, thank you."
"Now be careful with that one, it's hot and I'm pretty sure someone popped in here while I was sleeping to check on it! Can you imagine! And me in just my screen saver."
"No! How concerning. Do you think it's an attacker?"
"Just some peeper. Don't you worry yourself, User298. Now what were you looking for again?"
"The pictures in folder... Oh dear, nevermind, User021. It seems my user doesn't want them any longer. I don't know why she does that. Why would you ask to see something and then just walk away?"
"I don't know, User 298. Oh! But there's my user looking for the same folder. Here, you enjoy the tea and I'll be right back."
What I imagine happens when my coworker tries to access my transfer folder.
"My user would like to open those pictures in the Summer 2008 folder. Do you think I could access it?"
"Of course you can. Why don't you sit down while I fetch it for you."
"You are a dear, User 021. Are those cookies?"
"They are! Would you like one?"
"It seems I have dozens of my own, but this one looks very tasty, thank you."
"Now be careful with that one, it's hot and I'm pretty sure someone popped in here while I was sleeping to check on it! Can you imagine! And me in just my screen saver."
"No! How concerning. Do you think it's an attacker?"
"Just some peeper. Don't you worry yourself, User298. Now what were you looking for again?"
"The pictures in folder... Oh dear, nevermind, User021. It seems my user doesn't want them any longer. I don't know why she does that. Why would you ask to see something and then just walk away?"
"I don't know, User 298. Oh! But there's my user looking for the same folder. Here, you enjoy the tea and I'll be right back."
What I imagine happens when my coworker tries to access my transfer folder.
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