I started a small writing group with four great people (plus myself) - we meet weekly at the TRL from 6-8 on Fridays. It helps keep me motivated and inspired, and I love the feedback I get from the super smart members of the group.
I also have started doing nightly writing prompts. Just five or ten minutes every night has gotten me used to writing daily, as well as becoming more comfortable with writing imperfectly. I have always been gripped with indecision about how to phrase things, and an anxiety about the words coming out all muddled. I know that you can edit things afterwards, but that didn't make me feel better about it. Forcing myself to churn out 5-10 minutes worth of writing a night has helped ease the fear, and now I'm much more willing to just write whatever comes to me and worry about editing later.
So I decided to show you some of these. I'll post the prompt first, then a line, then the edited version, and lastly the original version, for those curious about how things changed.
Here's the first one.
She was convinced that she could
fly, that she flew at night, and she continued to be convinced of it, though
she stopped speaking of it as she grew; in fact, she ceased to speak at all.
At first it was just the mornings. Jesse looked withdrawn and sad, her shoulders
slumped over her bowl of cereal. I asked
her why she was unhappy, but she always ignored me. Then I tried to engage her with jokes. I’m not a funny guy and my jokes were
terrible. I guess I’m not surprised she
never laughed.
And then one day I gave up.
I stopped noticing that Jesse didn’t talk. Though I never admitted it, I liked her
silence – it made her an even better listener than she used to be. I would talk to her for hours, tell her all
my secrets, knowing she’d never spread them around. Sometimes I’d even make up outrageous stories
to test how extreme a secret she was willing to keep.
And then one night I woke up from a nightmare, and Jesse
wasn’t in the bed across from me. The
crescent moon hung heavy in the sky, painting the world outside our window in
cool blue-grays. I crept into the
hallway searching for my strange, quiet sister.
She wasn’t there. I crept down
the stairs slowly, avoiding any sudden movement that would wake our parents
sleeping in a room just down the hall.
The front door was slightly ajar, and after passing through
I was careful not to shut it all the way.
The click of the lock would be too loud in the still night.
Jesse sat on the porch, legs curled up underneath her. She was looking at the pigeons dozing on the
telephone wires strung high above the sidewalk, her head tilted back, and hair
brushing her shoulders. Her eyes were
dark black pools when she turned to me and said, “I can’t reach them. My wings aren’t working and I don’t know how
to fix them.”
The longing in her voice
made my chest hurt. I didn’t know what
to say to the first words she’d spoken in months. When she turned back to the birds, I could
see something bunched under the thin white fabric of her nightshirt. The moonlight cast its shadow on two tiny
perfect wings, folded up against her shoulder blades.
Original version:
At first it was just the mornings. Jesse looked withdrawn and sad, her shoulders
slumped over her bowl of cereal. I tried
to ask her why she was unhappy, but she always ignored me. Then I tried to engage her with jokes. I’m not a funny guy and my jokes were
terrible. I guess I’m not surprised she
never laughed.
And then one day I gave up.
I stopped noticing that Jesse didn’t talk. Though I never admitted it out loud, I liked
that she didn’t talk anymore – it made her an even better listener than she
used to be. I would talk to her for
hours, tell her all my secrets, knowing she’d never spread them around. Sometimes I’d even make up outrageous
stories, testing her, pushing the boundary of just how outrageous a secret she
was willing to keep.
And then one night I woke up from a nightmare when the
crescent moon hung heavy in the sky.
Jesse wasn’t in the bed across from me, so I got up and crept to the
hallway to search for her. She wasn’t
there. I snuck down the stairs slowly,
trying to avoid any sudden movement that will wake our parents, sleeping in a
room just down the hall from the one Jesse and I share.
I’m careful not to shut the door all the way. I was worried the click of the lock would be
too loud in the still night.
There on the porch sits Jesse, legs curled up underneath
her. She is looking up, eyes trained on
the pigeons dozing on the telephone wires strung along the sidewalk. Her eyes are dark black pools when she turns
to me and says, “I can’t reach them. My
wings aren’t working and I don’t know how to fix them.” The longing in her voice makes my chest
her. (has actual wings).
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