Was just me, Linda, Liz, Tom, this time at writers group yesterday.
the rest were off doing family stuff except for Allen who was at a Renfest somewhere.
We talked about projects, about some of the technicalities of writing.
Some about the generalities of describing settings, rooms, places.
And some about some things in life.
Read them my story about Georgie's vet visit Friday.
They liked it.
I knew Liz knew the vet and his wife, a now retired college professor, the 2 gals are in the local historical society together.
Had not known that Linda and her family knew the vet.
A thing we frequently do is timed writing to provided prompts.
Time is usually 20 or 25 minutes.
At beginning of time my brain felt so blank.
But then an idea started to build.
Don't know where the ideas come from, but having them is fun.
In the end I was quite tickled to have gotten something.
And here it is, with some after the fact correction of typos.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
October 5 prompts
write about someone trying to atone for a mistake they'll never be able to fix
write about a character pretending to be someone they're not
set story in a world devoid of logic where feelings govern all decision making
In the form of diary/journal entries, write a story that provides glimpses into a person's life at different ages
write a story that takes place in a writer's circle
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“It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”
“I've heard my neighbor say that.”
“Lots of neighbors have heard that.”
“But it is true, look at today. A glorious autumn Saturday in the park.”
“And it's not even the fourth of July.”
“Hehe! You people make too many mental connections, everything always relates to something.”
“Well, what do you expect from a bunch of writers!?”
“Wholesome eccentricity, my dear fellows, I expect wholesome eccentricity.”
“You have come to the right place!”
“If someone asks me what my favorite steam locomotive part is, I always answer, the eccentric crank.”
“Dude, they were asking about your trains, they weren't filming a biographical documentary.”
“Eh, whatever, same-same. Oh, excuse me a minute, Doris needs attention.”
Our town had been doing this early autumn day in the park for maybe a full century now. The original reason for it, assuming there even was one, had been forgotten maybe as long ago as two thirds of a century.
Whether the reason be one, many, or none, the Saturday in The Park event was eagerly anticipated and widely popular. Yeah, yeah, I know, writers should lose the adverbs. But that was the observable reality, the event was widely popular and was eagerly anticipated in speech, in print, and online.
In between the trees of just beginning fall colors were a rainbow of tents and canopies set up by various and sundry clubs, associations, organizations, families, and just because.
This early in the autumn at our latitude there were still some days where typical summer attire was legit. And the throng of visitors and providers supplied their own rainbow of color among the colors of tents and leaves.
Our group, The Loudmouth Writers Association, had a, I don't know what you call it, tent, canopy, booth, stall, where we advertised our own activities, our members' published books, and local and regional events for writers.
Several members brought displays, and even a couple audience participation activities, related to their stories. Among them were Fred's antique live steam trains which served as inspiration for art in the railway stories he published. Charlene, who billed herself as the perpetually poor art student, had joined us last year. She and I presently stood beside Fred watching him refuel the little locomotive named Doris on one of the two ovals of temporary track he'd assembled.
Across the loop from us, outside the temporary fence of garden boundary wire loops a little girl excitedly gestured toward both the train and her young mother, who was pushing a stroller and clearly expecting her third, “And that's Doris and she was in the story about the orchard and needing more cars for the apples and the carpenter built a car and ...”
At first a couple LWA members had wondered why we would ever want that train stuff by our tent, but the color and motion, and especially the sounds, had turned out to be quite a draw.
And in one of those classic unintended consequences had created a demand for more train books at our little but quite nice local library. Meaning books about both real trains and model trains.
Even further down that track, yeah, I know, so punny, it had also led to the creation of a model railroad club in this little college town.
That's a thing about life, you never know what is going to lead to what.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the rest were off doing family stuff except for Allen who was at a Renfest somewhere.
We talked about projects, about some of the technicalities of writing.
Some about the generalities of describing settings, rooms, places.
And some about some things in life.
Read them my story about Georgie's vet visit Friday.
They liked it.
I knew Liz knew the vet and his wife, a now retired college professor, the 2 gals are in the local historical society together.
Had not known that Linda and her family knew the vet.
A thing we frequently do is timed writing to provided prompts.
Time is usually 20 or 25 minutes.
At beginning of time my brain felt so blank.
But then an idea started to build.
Don't know where the ideas come from, but having them is fun.
In the end I was quite tickled to have gotten something.
And here it is, with some after the fact correction of typos.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
October 5 prompts
write about someone trying to atone for a mistake they'll never be able to fix
write about a character pretending to be someone they're not
set story in a world devoid of logic where feelings govern all decision making
In the form of diary/journal entries, write a story that provides glimpses into a person's life at different ages
write a story that takes place in a writer's circle
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”
“I've heard my neighbor say that.”
“Lots of neighbors have heard that.”
“But it is true, look at today. A glorious autumn Saturday in the park.”
“And it's not even the fourth of July.”
“Hehe! You people make too many mental connections, everything always relates to something.”
“Well, what do you expect from a bunch of writers!?”
“Wholesome eccentricity, my dear fellows, I expect wholesome eccentricity.”
“You have come to the right place!”
“If someone asks me what my favorite steam locomotive part is, I always answer, the eccentric crank.”
“Dude, they were asking about your trains, they weren't filming a biographical documentary.”
“Eh, whatever, same-same. Oh, excuse me a minute, Doris needs attention.”
Our town had been doing this early autumn day in the park for maybe a full century now. The original reason for it, assuming there even was one, had been forgotten maybe as long ago as two thirds of a century.
Whether the reason be one, many, or none, the Saturday in The Park event was eagerly anticipated and widely popular. Yeah, yeah, I know, writers should lose the adverbs. But that was the observable reality, the event was widely popular and was eagerly anticipated in speech, in print, and online.
In between the trees of just beginning fall colors were a rainbow of tents and canopies set up by various and sundry clubs, associations, organizations, families, and just because.
This early in the autumn at our latitude there were still some days where typical summer attire was legit. And the throng of visitors and providers supplied their own rainbow of color among the colors of tents and leaves.
Our group, The Loudmouth Writers Association, had a, I don't know what you call it, tent, canopy, booth, stall, where we advertised our own activities, our members' published books, and local and regional events for writers.
Several members brought displays, and even a couple audience participation activities, related to their stories. Among them were Fred's antique live steam trains which served as inspiration for art in the railway stories he published. Charlene, who billed herself as the perpetually poor art student, had joined us last year. She and I presently stood beside Fred watching him refuel the little locomotive named Doris on one of the two ovals of temporary track he'd assembled.
Across the loop from us, outside the temporary fence of garden boundary wire loops a little girl excitedly gestured toward both the train and her young mother, who was pushing a stroller and clearly expecting her third, “And that's Doris and she was in the story about the orchard and needing more cars for the apples and the carpenter built a car and ...”
At first a couple LWA members had wondered why we would ever want that train stuff by our tent, but the color and motion, and especially the sounds, had turned out to be quite a draw.
And in one of those classic unintended consequences had created a demand for more train books at our little but quite nice local library. Meaning books about both real trains and model trains.
Even further down that track, yeah, I know, so punny, it had also led to the creation of a model railroad club in this little college town.
That's a thing about life, you never know what is going to lead to what.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
