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Tag Archives: Creative Writing

Fiction: The Barn

04 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Art, Creative Writing, Writing

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I could feel the heavy presence of the barn before I actually saw it. The weight of it seemed to press down on the trees that crushed from each side of the narrow footpath, making the air darker, even though it was still a good thirty feet away. When I finally broke out into the clearing and saw it, it was as though I was coming face to face with an enemy who I’d always known would hunt me down sooner or later.

I paused just past the last trees and sized up the barn, taking the time to study it carefully before walking on. From the woods – when all I had was the sense of it, the feel of it in the air – it had seemed massive, imposing, daunting. But now, as my eyes ran over it, it seemed to shrink, losing importance, becoming more sad than frightening.

It was old. Not abandoned: the vines had recently been cut back from the door and I could hear the faint shuffle of an old cow shifting in its pen, deep in the belly of the barn. But it wasn’t well taken care of. The paint was a faded salmon color, no longer red, and it peeled away at the edges of the boards, creating a sense of movement along the whole expanse of the wall.  The roof sagged in the middle and patches of darker shingles revealed the owner’s attempts to shore up the roof without having to replace the whole thing.

The day was sunny, one of those mid-summer days when the air is so heavy and moist that you feel its density as you breathe it in. Susan used to love those days: she’d sit in the kiddie pool with Patrick for hours, just watching him play. And when he got older and didn’t care to spend time with his boring, old parents, we’d go down to the lake and reminisce about days gone by and let the cool wind off the water ease the burn of the hot day. But now, Susan never wanted to go outside. She said she preferred the air conditioning, but I knew she just couldn’t bear the sight of the places we’d gone with Patrick, the things we’d seen with him. The house was full of memories, too, but it was safe, at least. I could understand.

But I had to get outside. Continue reading »

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In which the story is revealed

07 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in Art, Creative Writing, Gratitude, NaNoWriMo, Writing

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As a fiction writer you can be, apparently, a plotter or a pantser. Or maybe a little bit of both. That last category is where I seem to fall, but with an emphasis on the pantser.

I have been saying that, when I had the inspiration for this novel, the entire plot came to me. By which I mean, the entire arc of the story and five or so key plot points that would get me from beginning to middle to end. And, perhaps even more importantly, an understanding of all of the important and relevant qualities of the civilization and world in which the story would take place. Since that day, not quite four weeks ago, I’ve been writing and writing and writing (35,000 words and counting!). And in that time, the actual story – the characters, the details, the driving actions and motivations – have been revealed to me, piece by piece, scene by scene.

There’s really no other good way to explain it. Continue reading »

Give your writing wings

17 Wednesday Oct 2012

Posted by in Blogging, Creative Writing, Photos, Writing

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I attach my draft, read the email one last time, and press send. 4000 words, out in the ether, making their way to inboxes around the city at nearly the speed of light. Two years ago I never would have had the courage to share my writing like this. Five years ago, I didn’t even have the courage to tell anyone that I was writing at all. I’ve come a long way.

I just joined a writing group with three amazing women and I’m so.freaking.excited. It seems like every time I read a successful author write about the writing process itself, they mention a writing group as a huge factor to their success. People to critique your work, yes, but also people to support you in your journey. To just know what you’re going through and nod their heads when you bitch. That’s what I envision, anyways. But you can’t join a writing group unless you’re ready to share your writing.

Becoming a writer takes more than just sitting down at your computer and typing. Continue reading »

Hoping and Dreaming and Doing

11 Saturday Aug 2012

Posted by in Creative Writing, Writing

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I’ve hinted at this in asides and mentioned it in passing, but I think it’s time to be perfectly clear: I’m writing a novel.

You have no idea how hard that was to say. (Well, you might, if you’re also writing a first novel.) I didn’t say: I’m thinking about writing a novel, or I’m trying to write a novel, or I probably won’t finish it but I’m working on a novel, or I have this idea for a novel but I don’t know if I’ll ever really get started on it and ever really do anything with it, or I’m writing a novel but I’m sure it will never get published or even looked at.

Four simple words. I’m writing a novel. Continue reading »

Where are you writing from?

09 Thursday Aug 2012

Posted by in Blogging, Writing

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Writing is a journey, I’ve decided. When I first started writing I thought that I would one day become “A Writer” and then I would be there. What I thought “there” was, I’m not entirely sure. But I was convinced it would be somewhere I was happy to be.

At this point in my journey, I think I could make a decent argument that I am “A Writer”. But I don’t feel like I’ve gotten there yet. Instead, I’m just here.

Sometimes here feels hopeless. It feels exhausting and overwhelming. I feel like I’m writing from despair. I will never be good enough. I will never finish anything worth showing to anyone. And even if I do finish something, it will never be as good as I want it to be.

Sometimes here is just disappointing. I have a big day on the blog, but it doesn’t really mean anything. I get an article published, but no one really cares. I’m not any happier. I don’t have more friends or a better life. I’m just here still.

Sometimes here feels fun. I’m writing from a lighthearted or excited place. It’s sunny and I’ve had a good day with Adeline. Small things seem funny and I want to write about them. I’m motivated and I feel like I could write forever. Those days are ephemeral, though. They go as quickly as they came. I suck them dry while I have them and throw them aside when they’re done. And then I’m here again.

Sometimes, when I’m really lucky, here feels hopeful. Not in the manic, I’m-going-to-do-a-million-things-before-bedtime way, but in a more settled, calming, enduring way. I have hope that I will find the time to write, that my family and friends will support me, that I’ll find solutions for the scenes or posts that are giving me trouble and be inspired for the scenes that will be my darlings.

When I first started writing seriously, I had this impression that my best material would be written from a place of despair. I thought I needed that raw emotion to bring substance and voice to my writing. Now, though, I know better. I write best from a place of hope. Hope gets me out of bed in the morning. Hope gives me the strength to open my computer and keep writing. Hope helps me feel like I can breathe again.

I’m committed to writing from a place of hope. Where are you writing from?

***

I’m participating in Melanie Crutchfield’s Blog Relay for Hope. I was handed the Relay Baton by the hilarious and ever honest Outlaw Mama.

I’d like to invite Laura of I’d Rather Sit on the Couch  to take the Baton and write a post about Hope.

Here are the instructions:

Step 1: Write a blog post about hope & publish it on your blog.
Step 2: Invite one (or more!) bloggers to do the same.
Step 3: Link to the person who recruited you (me, in this case) at the top of the post, and the people you’re recruiting at the bottom of the post.

Melanie Crutchfield will be holding “Closing Ceremonies” around August 10 and will gather up little snippets from people who wrote about hope, so make sure you link back to her as the originator of the relay.

Thanks for reading!

Creative Writing Prompts: Tell a story from the point of view of the kitchen floor

29 Wednesday Jun 2011

Posted by in Creative Writing, Writing

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This is a change of pace, but hey, it’s my blog, I can do what I want!  Back in Chicago, back in my life-before-baby, I was taking a creative writing class and really loving it.  Since Adeline joined us I haven’t been back, but I’d like to keep doing some writing.  So I found a website of creative writing prompts and I’m going to try to do one a week.  Or so.  I’m sharing them here to keep myself motivated.  And I’d love any feedback.  Enjoy!

Prompt: Tell a story from the point of view of the kitchen floor

OK, let’s just get one thing clear right away: I am the kitchen floor.  You’re probably thinking, “Why on earth would I want to read a story about the kitchen floor?”  And to that I say, come now, dear reader, don’t be ridiculous!  This story isn’t about me.  I mean, good God!  I’m just a floor.  No, no, this story is about what I’ve seen.  And believe me, I’ve seen a lot.  After all, I’ve been around for over 100 years.  Oh, sure, they touched me up a bit when they rehabbed the place 15 years or so ago.  But it’s still me, I’ve been under here all along.  I’ve seen families come and go, couples and bachelors, young kids and old ladies.  I’ve watched them, but I’ve been silent.  I’ve seen what people do when no one else is around, how people treat each other when no one can see, how people treat themselves.  It’s not pretty.  And sometimes it’s beautiful.

I’ve seen lonely men come home after a late day at the office and pull a beer from the fridge.  Then another beer and another.  Maybe he smokes, maybe he doesn’t.  I watch him walk off into the living room, to turn on the tv yet again.  I wonder when he’ll have company, when I might see another set of feet.  I’ve seen lonely women, too.  Some women drink too much.  She waits until late at night when she’s the only one awake.  She starts slow, just one glass of wine.  She sits at the kitchen table and spends the night on her computer; checking facebook and message boards and forums, reaching out for contact, a friend.  Anybody.  Eventually she’s drunk the whole bottle.  She doesn’t sleep and she doesn’t eat and she’s getting too thin.  But she can’t stop herself.  Other women have other problems.  She makes herself a good dinner, she tries so hard to be healthy.  But I know she’ll be back.  Late at night the hall light turns on and she’s opening the freezer.  Just some ice cream this time and next time I go to the store I promise I won’t buy anymore.  She sits on the floor and eats it, as though if she doesn’t go too far from the fridge it doesn’t count.  I feel her tap her toes, the anxiety keeping her up isn’t calmed by the food.

I see happy moments too – I’ve seen plenty of parties, where everyone inevitably gathers in the kitchen.  Friends catch up after too long, sharing gossip and secrets.  People chat and mingle, tell stories and laugh.  Girls congregate in corners and giggle too much, leaving everyone else wondering what they’re having so much fun about.  By the end of the night they’ve dropped food on me and spilled their drinks, but I don’t mind.  I love to see people like this – if only for this night, they’re happy.  And maybe if I’m lucky I see two people meet.  I watch their feet, the way she tucks one foot behind the other, nervous but also flirtatious.  He steps closer to hear her over the din of the crowd.  She follows suit and soon they’re close enough to touch, they want to touch.  I don’t know what happens when they leave the party, but I know they had a chance.

I’ve seen young lovers cook together, so happy to treat each other to the joy of a meal lovingly prepared.  They play Sinatra and dance as they stir sauces and sauté veggies.  They drink wine out of one glass and giggle and kiss more than they eat.  They sit at the table for hours after the meal, talking about love and life, their dreams, their past, anything and everything.  They have their whole lives in front of them, and nowhere they’d rather be.  She prances around barefoot, her toenails painted, still trying to impress.  Her high heels long kicked into a corner of the room, forgotten for the night.

I’ve seen those same heels kicked off again, but this time she’s drunk, taking off her shoes to quiet her steps, hoping not to wake him.  She’s home late again, who knows where she’s been.  He’s angry again.  They fight in the kitchen as always; their feet land hard now as they storm around.  They scream at each other, saying the things they know will hurt the most, things I wish I’d never heard.  He throws her to the ground and I catch her.  But I can’t break her fall, try as I might to soften myself and comfort her.  I’m no comfort now.  In the morning they’re back again, sitting at the kitchen table with a wall of ice between them.  I watch and I listen.  They don’t hear each other, but I hear them both.  If only I could take them by the shoulders, shake some sense into them.  Show them what the other feels, how the other hurts.  But I can’t.  I sit in silence and watch a marriage fall apart.  I’m just a floor, what more can I do?

I’ve seen children, too, and it’s them I love the most.  They’re closer to me, down on my level.  They know I’m not just a surface to be walked upon, but a place to play, a place to learn new things and discover new worlds.  While mom is cooking baby crawls under her feet.  She sees every detail of my grain, see the crumbs from last night’s dinner not yet cleaned up.  She finds the one board that’s warped and she thumbs it.  I feel loved, appreciated, not taken for granted.  But she grows, faster than I’d like.  Soon she’s running not crawling.  Soon she’s climbing on furniture and making a fort of the kitchen table.  So quickly she’s forgotten those moments we had.  Before I know it she’s a teenager, hardly deigning to spend five minutes in the house, let alone in the kitchen.  She’s gone before I know it.

And I’m still here.  I watch and I listen but I don’t get involved.  After all, I’m just the kitchen floor.