Daily, PaperGrace

[scribbliz]

paper, when dealing with writer's block, i often find that describing something mundane aroudn me to start. ie, "i'm sitting in front of my computer. the screen is bright, and it hruts my eyes. normally this computer doesn't bother me, but after the terror of last night i am in pain. You would never have believed the night I had. Let me tell you about it...." and off you go with something to write. it's probably not what you wanted to write but it might help get you going.

[PaperGrace]

;D (I'm counting yesterday's writers block haiku)

Lucy came out of the bathroom and slipped quietly down the hall to her room. She closed the door softly behind her and sunk down on the edge of the bed. She stared at the band of pink glass around her ring finger. It was the only thing she had found in the jewelry box that they said belonged to her that was anywhere near the same size and weight as the ring Kevin had slipped onto her finger three years ago. For the third time in as many days Lucy found herself wondering if she was imagining all of this. This must be a dream. When will I wake up?

There was a soft knock on the door.
"Lu-bear, are you up?"
Lucy flinched. Why does she call me that?
Again, the knock, just a little louder this time.
"Lu?"
"Coming!"
Lucy rose from the bed, hiding the ring in her pocket. She took a deep breath, tried her best to push her lips into a smile, and opened the door.
"Black Raspberry! Your favorite."
The woman on the other side of the door was holding a yogurt cup and a spoon. She pushed them into Lucy's hands and bustled past her into the room. She parted the curtains, raised the shade, and opened the window wide.
"Hey can I borrow your ivory blouse for work?" Without waiting for an answer she began to rummage in the closet.
Lucy stood stiffly by the door. She watched the woman's back as she swung hangers back and forth across the closet bar. No matter how hard she tried, the woman simply wasn't familiar to her. She seemed like the kind of woman anyone would be happy to call a friend. Smart, pretty, outgoing. Susannah Patel, grad student, underpaid intern, volunteer dog walker, vegetarian, Pisces, and supposedly Lucy's roommate since their sophomore year at college. This woman obviously cared about her. She emerged a moment later, blouse in hand and settled in, cross legged on the end of Lucy's bed.
"Eat up, your Aunt is coming to take you to your appointment with Dr. Erickson."
"Susannah..."
"Sookie."
"Sookie. Fine. Listen, I don't want to see that man again."
"Lucy, we've been over this, he's the best specialist in the city for handling your condition."
Sookie pulled off the her tee shirt and began to fiddle with the buttons of the borrowed blouse. Lucy blushed and looked away. Sookie rolled her eyes.
"Oh Lu-bear!"
"I'm not your Lu-bear! I don't even know you! I am not your roommate! That isn't my shirt!" Tears were rolling down Lucy's cheeks. "I want my husband! I want our condo, and my dog! I want my life back!"
Sookie stood and reached for Lucy.
"Oh Lucy, I'm sorry. We'll figure this out. Someone will know how to help you."
"Yeah, some shrink will make his career convincing me that I'm nuts!" she shouted. "I'm not suffering from some complicated amnesia! I'm not imagining my whole life!" Lucy pulled back from the offered hug. "And my favorite yogurt is blueberry!" She hauled back her arm, throwing the yogurt as hard as she could at the window. It bounced off of the screen and landed upside down on the floor. With a burp the foil top released a gob of grey-purple dairy onto the carpet. The women stood together and looked at it, oozing slowly toward Sookie's discarded tee. Through her tears Lucy started to giggle first.

[scribbliz]

oooo! more more! i want more! lol. you always mangage to intrigue me with your blurbs here paper! one day i'd love to sit down and talk with you and explore a few of the story ideas bouncing around in your head!

[PaperGrace]

I think Nurse Rick from Lucy Too's original time strand, and Sookie from Lucy One's should totally hook up.

[PaperGrace]

;D It feels good to be writing again. I need to make this a priority. I'm going to try that 100 word challenge again. It was wicked hard.

Saskia's hunger had reached a critical point; finally willing to do whatever it took to acquire food she approached the soldier's camp. With her heart in her throat she managed "Food, I need food." "Oh, you'll find plenty of lonely blokes to feed you here kitten" said a rough looking man. There were coarse chortles all around the fire. "Very nice," said another, circling around behind her. "Me first" said a battle scarred man, holding out a lump of hard bread. Two hours and full belly later, Saskia had darned a dozen socks.

[scribbliz]

well, at least she new how to darn!!

[PaperGrace]

I don't know how to darn socks, I'd be forced to use some of my other talents I'm afraid. Something at work in this piece: How names change things. Read it again with Ethel, Geraldine, Constance, etc... in place of Saskia and see how you imagine that scene differently. Since I don't know how to darn, I have no idea if 2 hours is long enough for that work either... first try it was 130 words. This exercise is HARD and you have to be able to edit out things you like! The descriptions of the men and a little more worrying banter got the axe.

Sookie was almost Saskia, so I had to do something with the name to get it out of my system.

[scribbliz]

paper, i'm not sure how to darn socks either, but my dad does it. it doesn't take him too long, so 2 hours seems like a reasonable amount of time. if it would take the average person longer, then she is a pro; if it would take the average person less time, then she really had no idea and she's figuring it out as she goes

[PaperGrace]

;D Between getting used to the new changes at the other forum and actually whipping my house into shape I dropped the writing ball again.

From Sparrow's site:

A swap quatrain is a four line stanza wherein the first and fourth lines are identical, except that the phrases in them are switched around, or swapped. The rhyme scheme of a swap quatrain is aa, bb. The rhythm that this form produces is very musical, and the reader is usually unaware of the reason why it is so catchy.

Rough practice:

For generations we've worked this wood
caring for Maples, strong, tall, and good;
a skill we learned from the First Nations,
we've worked this wood for generations.

Our sugar bush, crisscrossed with trails
once worked by horses, sleds on rails.
Now full sized roads the tractors push,
crisscrossed with trails, our sugar bush.

With steady hand he taps each trunk
receiving chides from squirrel or chipmunk.
He knows the secrets of this land.
He taps each trunk with steady hand.



I think I'm going to want to finish this, but right now the boys won't let me.


So... we've established the history of the land, roads are built, trees are tapped, now we need to move the sap to sugar house, start a fire, watch it thicken in the pans, eat some pickles or sap boiled eggs and finally enjoy some sugar on snow!

Some potential bits:

Sweet waters pour from each grooved spout



Steam rises over the sugar rig
while family members small and big
gather snow blah blah blah blah ises
over the sugar rig steam rises.

[PaperGrace]

I'm learning to write when I don't feel like it and/or can't keep a thought going for more than five minutes without being interrupted. The results? Really forced poetry that is technically ok, but trite and without flow. I like the idea of the poem I started the other day, but I'm bummed that the best I can do with it right now is force some more rhyming pairs. I'll get back to it later.

[scribbliz]

think of it this way paper...it doesn't have to be great now. just like with a story, a poem can be editted. something down that you don't like is still something down and you can use it for inspiration during rewrites! you're doing well.

[PaperGrace]

Back on the horse:

The leaves show their backs, fluttering in the wind. Small animals bustle about, finding cozy places to hide or bunching together on branches to wait out the coming storm. Even the insects have stopped their relentless scrambling for food and territory. Waiting. The sky is a color that humans have no ability to sense; we'd call it a strange yellow grey. There is quiet now, occasionally interrupted as the oak ruffles its leaves impatiently--waiting to capture as much of the moisture as it can before the baleful eye of a Summer sun casts it all back into the cloudless, naked sky this afternoon. Now though we are fully hidden from the cosmos by the undulating grey that isn't really grey at all. We wait.

[scribbliz]

wow. i really like that. espcially "a colour that humans have no ability to sense;" so glad to see some more of your writing paper

[PaperGrace]

;D
Part of me is happy when I get out a little blurb on a given day, and part of me is annoyed that I'm not working on world building, or a continuation of a bigger story, or Citrus or one of the other books in my brain.


Following your advice scribbliz, and writing about something in the room.

What poetry is found in the tacky mass produced decorations at a child's birthday party? There is the favorite character on hats, cups, plates, napkins, table cloth, cupcake toppers. He winks at me, his face sparkling from above on a mylar balloon. His trademarked voice rings in my ears just from seeing him. He is so artfully marketed that even adults who have never seen him on television know his name. The materials he is printed on are second rate at best, cheaply made by children in another country with dubious plastics, dyes, and chemicals too arcane to contemplate.

Before he was so much trash he was loved by a child. Remembered in the night time prayers, listed alongside the flesh and blood children as a best friend, he was as 'alive as you and me!' He was invited to tea, held tightly during nap time, tucked in lovingly at bedtime, and as much a traveler of the world as any child. He was given a seat at the breakfast table, propped up on pillows to watch himself on television, and spun through the washing machine every couple of weeks--tied tightly in a pillowcase.

Before he was loved by a child he was carefully vetted by middle managers to be 'on message' with the values of his core viewers. He was bounced back and forth by various departments to be appraised--every detail scrutinized. His coloring was changed to make sure he stood out from the other characters. His face reworked to be more child-like, more relate-able to the viewers. Dozens of men and women auditioned to be his voice, careful to conceal any details of their personal lives that might be frowned upon, as though they themselves were appearing to the public.

Before that though, before the tinkering and the harsh light of marketability fell on him; before anything else, he was imagined. Someone drunk with the creative flow built him from the ether. Something moved someone to invent this persona, to give him a unique personality, to make him physical and to enchant him with a name. Creator looked at his creation and saw that it was good. From someone's dreams he was made. What poetry.

[scribbliz]

makes me wonder which beloved character you are writing about?? i love this! very descriptive and creative. great job paper!

don't be annoyed with yourself. you may find as you get into the routine of writing every day, even if it's just a blurb, that on days you don't write, you will miss it. so you will be drawn to writing even more, adn that will help you write your stories, or build your worlds.