Where do you write? I don’t mean those moments when you’re at the computer or notebook – I mean those moments when you’re in your head putting words together that will come out later. I write in my sleep and I wake up with words arranged in my mind. I write in the car when I should be paying more attention to my driving. I write in the shower with soap in my hair. I write when I’m walking or raking leaves or vacuuming. Oh, face it, I’m always writing.
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “writing.”
“I know you’re a serious Broadway star,” he said. “Serious. I get it.” He paused. “But I was serious when I said we perform in our underwear. I play the uke in my skivvies. The cello player does, too. Well, she wears panties and a bra.”
There was another long pause while he waited for some response. None came. “Look,” he said, “I’m sure you can figure something out. PJs or a bathrobe or something. And, the best part is, you get to pick the songs yourself.”
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In her own house, her husband had been watching CNN all day in a state of outrage about some piece of news. Next door, she could hear Ralph watching Fox News and she was sure that Ralph would be in a state of outrage about some other piece of news. She dug peacefully in the garden, picked several ripe tomatoes, and went for a walk. It was a beautiful day.
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She moaned in ecstacy as she read the menu. “They have mashed potatoes and gravy with their hamburgers,” she whispered. She leaned over the table and smiled, “Mashed potatoes are like heroin to me.”
I didn’t want to reveal myself too soon, but I knew what she meant. I feel that way about soft serve ice cream. I merely said, ” . . .
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“Pretty is as pretty does.” Did your mom use that one on you? Mine did. It was meant to encourage kind behavior. Maybe it even worked, since I turned out to be pretty decent and not a sociopath. But it never made be believe I was pretty. In fact, being pretty was never one of my aspirations. Maybe that old expression bred that into me as well.
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The email was a blur. She blinked several times in a effort to focus her eyes. She took her glasses off and looked at them to be sure they were the right glasses. Yes. She put the glasses back on and peered at the screen. Still a blur. She walked to the window and looked out. Yes, she could see out the window. In the kitchen, she tried reading the stuff stuck to the frig. Yes, she could read that. It was a sign, an omen. She was not supposed to go near the computer today.
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Wouldn’t it be nice if you got push notifications from your muse? GO WRITE SOMETHING would appear in an alert box right before your eyes. You couldn’t do anything else until you’d written something and could X out of the alert box. Of course, once you get started you can’t stop, so you’d be writing all day. Where do I sign up for that alert?
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I, I am latent, I am dreamed,
I am unearthed.
I lie here fallow, waiting.
For the opening, the permission
The cord to cling to that will
Pull me forth.
What do I need to be born?
I need open, open, open and out
Into the sunlight.
Say yes to me.
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Neat but dirty. That describes my house as well as my desk. Everything is neatly organized, no deep piles in sight. But there’s dust over everything but the keyboard. The papers I’m using show marks of momentarily placed hunks of chocolate, rings from icy water-coated glasses, scribbled reminders and the odd math problem.
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “my desk” or on some topic suggested by the photo.
“Thanks for inviting me,” the email said. It followed with, “Will it be okay if I bring my music? You’ll love it!”
That’s what happens when you invite your boss to something. You have to say yes to whatever he wants. So I said yes.
Turns out his music was all Glenn Miller and WWII songs. On cassette tapes. I told him I didn’t have a cassette player, but he spotted an old boom box in the basement with . . .
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “my music.”