Tag: practice writing

Accursed Alarm Clock

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57. Alarm Clock: Write about waking up.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Every. Damn. Day.

Every day it is just so hard to wake up.

Even the days I get to sleep in. It’s always a battle to drag this ol’ bag of bones out of bed.

I’ve Tried Everything

Going to bed early (that is also really hard). No screen time before bed. No coffee or tea too late in the day. Exercise earlier in the day, rather than later…

And yet, no matter what I do to ensure a good night’s sleep, it’s a struggle to wake up in the morning.

The Snooze Game

When the alarm goes off at six, I immediately smash the snooze button. Ten more blissful minutes.

The radio turns on again at 6:10 and WHAM! Snooze again.

By 6:20 I’m starting to feel a bit guilty, so this time I leave the radio on, but turn the volume way down.

Now I start to have some really weird dreams. Snippets of the radio come through and suddenly I’m having trippy dreams about the news stories.

I’m only startled out of these strange half-dreams at 6:45 when my kids run in and jump on the bed.

Nothing Helps

I’ve tried a simple buzzing alarm, bird song, wind chimes, classical music…

Waking up still sucks.

It’s not like I’m a night owl, either. It’s just that I could easily sleep 10 hours a night and still feel like I’m not getting enough.

What To Do?

I dunno. Any suggestions?

A change of diet perhaps? Or am I simply not a morning person and never will be?

Whatever the case, man. Waking up is hard to do.

Challenge Accepted

Jane Leave a comment

56. Photograph: Write a story or journal entry influenced by a photograph you see online or in a magazine.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Wait, What Challenge?

What is challenging about taking a selfie and posting it online?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve posted mine. But how many of the black and white “Challenge Accepted” Instagram photos you’ve seen in the last few days really say anything?

There is nothing challenging about putting a selfie on Instagram and writing some feel-good words about the women we love. It is just that: feel-good. It’s nice to see.

It’s not a challenge.

The Challenge is Facing Reality: Femicide

Why are these photos in black and white? It stems from a practice in Turkish media of publishing black and white photos of murder victims.

https://twitter.com/imaann_patel/status/1288080743198068736?s=21

The rate of femicide in Turkey, according to an article published in the Guardian, is shockingly high.

Most of these women have been murdered by a close male relative or acquaintance (husband, father, ex-boyfriend). Several individual, community and societal factors contribute to this high rate of femicide and violence against women.

This Problem Isn’t Just in Turkey

It might be easy for someone reading this in Europe or North America to think that this isn’t a problem here.

That is absolutely wrong.

According to the UN, rates of violence against women and girls have increased the world over since the beginning of the pandemic.

This isn’t just happening in Turkey, or in some other faraway country.

It’s happening in your home town.

A New Challenge

I’m no influencer. No celebrity. I’ve jumped on the bandwagon and participated in these largely meaningless “challenges” before (anyone remember the black square from a couple months ago?).

But I do have this modest platform, and so I am challenging all the strong, beautiful, intelligent and wonderful women I know and love who read this to take action.

Donate to your local women’s shelter. Take food. Do some research into your area. Volunteer (where it’s safe, what with covid and all).

Also, if you buy frequently on Amazon, consider shopping at smile.amazon.com. There are hundreds of charities listed through smile.amazon and you can choose from national to local groups to support. Each time you purchase on through the smile.amazon url, a portion of your purchase is donated to the charity you select.

But Don’t Forget the Pics

I do love seeing the photos of the women I know and love.

Please keep ’em coming!

I’m just asking we add substance to the feel-good nature of the exercise.

Holding Hands

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55. Holding Hands: The first time you held someone’s hand.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/=

At first it was a tentative touch,
Soon our hands reached for each other
Seemingly without thinking.
Mine tucked nicely into his.

Hands cradled together,
Hands on each other’s backs.
Hands thrown up in frustration,
Hands clasping each other, seeking forgiveness.

Hands held together in prayer,
Before family and loved ones.
Hands joined by the priest,
His ring on mine, my ring on his.

Hands on my growing belly,
Feeling little wriggles and kicks.
Hands squeezing through pain,
Relaxing with relief.

Little tiny, brand new hands,
Closing tightly around ours.

Two more little hands,
Little hands I watch grow.

Little hands I never want to let go.

Lookin’ Out My Front Door

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34. Sounds: Sit outside for about an hour. Write down the sounds you hear.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Wind rustling through the trees;
Geese honking across the sky;
A cheerful little mocking bird!
A dog barking in the distance.

Airplanes overhead, coming in to land;
Traffic going by on the boulevard;
Someone mowing the lawn;
Music blaring out of a passing car.

Whirring of a bubble machine and
Shrieks of joy from my children.
Chalk scraping on the sidewalk.
Water spilling, feet in crocs stomping in the puddles.

“Mama?” I open my eyes. “I’m bored.
“Can we go inside now?”

The Dinner Ring

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33. Jewelry: Write about a piece of jewelry. Who does it belong to?

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Oh, the indignity!

That I, a fabulous dinner ring, should be trapped here on your left hand! Mashed up against your wedding band!

This is NOT where I belong!

Time was when I was a show-stopper, only worn for the most special occasions. I was a dinner ring (not to be confused with my rather gaudy and tacky cousin the cocktail ring).

While a cocktail ring was worn in the speakeasys of the 1920s and designed to be so blindingly bright that you wouldn’t notice how terrible the moonshine was, I was born of a much classier generation.

The Origins of Dinner Rings

My kind came about in the 1930s and 1940s when the dinner party came into vogue. Back then, you know, people actually dressed for a dinner party.

I was given as a gift to Frances Reid (nee Cardo) by her husband, then Col. Samuel L. Reid, in 1943 or 44. I can’t remember. It was before the end of the war, I know that.

I was worn on the right hand. My job was to catch the eye and communicate class. I was not designed to stupefy with my brilliance, but rather to say, “Here you see wealth and taste flawlessly combined.” Unlike other dinner rings, I am a diamond surrounded by smaller emeralds. Normally, it would have been the other way around. But the fact that my diamond is my largest stone shows my value!

And now… Now!

The glory days of the 1940s, 50s and 60s faded. Fashions became more casual. As Frances became ill in the 1970s, I spent most of my time in my box, nestled in her vanity table. I longed for the clink of crystal classes, and the ringing of true silver on fine china.

When Frances died, I feared I would be forgotten and passed along most indignantly. I was relieved to find myself given to her daughter. Resized to fit a rather larger hand (she had been a basketball player, after all), I once again saw the light of day.

But this time, I found myself in the strangest situations. At the theater! Playing bridge! What?? These are not the scenarios I was designed for! I am a DINNER RING! I was meant to catch the light reflected from a chandelier!

It Got Worse

I should have counted my blessings then, though. At least with the daughter I was worn at rather more formal occasions.

Now, I’m with the granddaughter. With her, there’s not even bridge! Has this woman EVER been to a dinner party? Judging from the way she holds her fork, I should say not.

These days I’m lucky if I don’t get smeared with hand cream or worse, butter. I’m worn daily, but on the left hand! I’m supposed to stand out on my own on the right! Instead, I’m shoved up next to a plain little wedding band (who has more cheek than such a simple ring ought to have).

Frequently I am removed and placed in a tray high up on the raised kitchen counter. At least from here I can watch and don’t have to feel the flour, dish soap and other kitchen elements rubbing into my old joints.

I’m exhausted. I don’t belong here.

But when I cast my memory back to those long years, closed in the box in the vanity table, sometimes I tell myself this isn’t so bad.

So I’m not being treated with the dignity and reverence I deserve. I seem to have been mistaken for an engagement ring. All the same, I must tell myself that at least I am being worn.

And what is a ring, if not to be worn? And to bear witness to the lives of those who have worn me?

(If only she’d clean me once in a while!)

Two Very Different Poems

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32. Rewrite: Take any poem or short story you enjoy. Rewrite it in your own words.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

I’ve cycled nearly 24km today hauling 13.5kg of kid in a trailer. Then we came home to make the boys pizzas. I’m bushed.

So instead of rewriting, I will simply reproduce here (probably illegally) two of my favorite poems, and just say a couple of words about why I love them.

Oh the thumb-sucker’s thumb
May be wrinkled and wet,
And withered and white as the snow.
But the taste of a thumb
Is the sweetest taste yet
(As only we thumb-suckers know).

~Shel Silverstein

This poem is absolute perfection. The meter, the length, the rhyme, and the punchline. I like to imagine my nearly three-year-old thumb-sucker would agree that Silverstein has hit the nail right on the head.

The following poem is about faith. Emily Brontë was arguably the weirdest of the three Brontë sisters, and the most reclusive.

I have read that she was deeply shy, and was mortified when her (rather overbearing) older sister Charlotte discovered this poem among her papers and published it without her prior knowledge or consent.

I’m glad Charlotte overstepped, though. Here’s why.

After my mother’s death in 2017, my father sat down at the family computer to start pulling himself and some administrative things together. My mother was the main user of the desktop computer. When he opened the web browser, he found this poem open in it.

Read it, and you’ll understand why it gave us such comfort. We knew then that she had not been afraid.

No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven’s glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.

~Emily Brontë

The English Teacher

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31. The Professor: Write about a teacher that has influenced you.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

She made it look so easy.

About ten minutes earlier, students had started to trickle into the classroom. It was the first day of their B1 English class at the Munich Volkhochschule (continuing education center). There were awkward nods and smiles as students took their seats, careful to leave at least one empty chair between them.

I sat with the trainees at a table along the side wall. It was our first day, too. At 13:30 on the dot, the Professor walked in. She closed the door behind her, and smiled in a business-like manner, saying, “Hello everyone.”

There were murmured replies here and there. She placed her things on the table at the front of the classroom, and looked up as if in surprise. She repeated, “Hello everyone!”

This time, the students took the cue. “Hello!” they all responded cheerily.

And with that, the Professor launched into an apparently effortless demonstration of excellent teaching.

Without engaging in any chitchat whatsoever, she invited all the students to stand and come into the middle of the classroom. With clear and concise instructions, she made them all stand in a circle with her.

They proceeded to do a warm-up get-to-know-you game. By the end of it, the students all knew each other’s names, and the Professor knew theirs. (“There is no excuse for not remembering your students names. Learn them.”)

At the Helm of the Class

From then on, she kept the class moving smoothly ahead. There was never any doubt about who was in charge or what the task was. But what was so remarkable is that she gave instructions and taught concepts all the while seeming like she hardly spoke a word.

She must have spoken! The students somehow knew which page to turn to, which activities they were doing, how they had to engage and respond. Within ten minutes of starting the class, the students had been paired off and were on their fourth or fifth activity of the class.

The other trainees and I sat there in complete awe. It was a two-hour class, and before we knew it, it was over.

It wasn’t until afterwards that we learned how much work she had put into her preparations. She knew her timing and her lesson plan by heart. She had gone so far as to script her instructions so that they were as clear as possible.

My Turn

The following day was my first day of teaching. I had prepared a 40 minute lesson. I’d mapped out the lesson plan, and even had my instructions scripted like the Professor had.

But five minutes into my lesson I was off track. I could hear myself talking nervously, causing confusion amongst the students.

Teacher Talking Time

The first feedback I got was about TTT: teacher talking time. It was too high. The Professor said, “I guessed this would be a problem for you, Jane, and I was right. You’ve got to let the students do the talking.”

Luckily, I had enough self-awareness not to be surprised or hurt by this. And I was absolutely determined to show that I could take feedback and apply it.

I beamed with pride when it came time for feedback after my second day of teaching. She looked at me with surprise in her eyes and said, “I am very pleased to see you took my feedback so quickly to heart. Your TTT was way down today.”

Coming from her, it felt like the best feedback anyone had ever given me.

Why She Impressed Me

What struck me so much about the Professor was her no-nonsense, matter-of-fact approach. She wasn’t unfriendly, but she didn’t seem to worry about making you like her. She smiled and laughed with students, but never let things get off track.

She was there to teach, to help you learn. She was not there to be your friend.

I admired her professionalism, the way she wasn’t bothered whether you liked her or not. She never seemed to use more words than absolutely necessary, but she knew exactly which words were required.

She was an excellent communicator and a gifted teacher. She made it look so easy.

I wanted so badly to be able to teach like her.

My Ideal Shopping Splurge

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30. Shopping: Write about your shopping wishlist and how you like to spend money.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

I am a terrible shopper. At least, when it comes to clothes.

I lose patience quickly, and get grumpy and tired. I am not motivated whatsoever by clothes or shoe shopping. When I need new clothes, I make a marathon shopping trip. It’s so much of a marathon that I’ve learned to notify my credit card company in advance, otherwise they freak out.

But there is one thing I like to shop for. One thing that I don’t get tired of, and I could shop for it until my budget was spent.

Have you guessed it yet?

No?

C’mon! What else could it be?

YARN!

That, and knitting patterns.

It wasn’t always this way. I used to only buy yarn for a specific pattern. I would decide what I wanted to knit and either buy the recommended yarn or a cheaper alternative.

This was especially true when I crocheted exclusively and thought that the only yarn available was the acrylic stuff you can get at Walmart.

The Wonders of Wool

But then I discovered the wonders of wool. Once you start knitting with wool, you cannot go back.

The amazing properties of wool are many, and if you are a person who is trying to make eco-conscious fashion choices, I highly recommend you look into wool products (biodegradable and flame retardant? What’s what you say??).

You can even buy wool bedding! (I’m saving my pennies.)

But I digress.

The Yarns I Crave

I’m not going to lie, mostly I buy affordably-priced yarn from Knit Picks. What can I say, their selection is great, the colors are always consistent and vibrant, and their prices are unbeatable.

But sometimes, I like to splurge… Here are some of the yarns currently on my wish list:

The Neighborhood Fibre Co is a Baltimore-based indie dye company founded and run by Kalida Collins. They are currently running their Pride month special, and I am drooling over their rainbow dyed mini skeins.

Ever since living in Montreal, I have swooned over Julie Asselin’s range of yarns. I have knitted things with her yarns, and the color and quality never disappoint.

Tanis Fiber Arts, by Tanis Lavallee is also a Montreal-based dyer and knitwear designer. I have never used any of her yarns, but I have them on my wish list. One of her patterns is in my to-knit pile and I cannot wait to get cracking on it!

What I Love about Yarn

The thing I love most about shopping for yarn and is…

The Possibilities

The endless possibilities contained in one skein of yarn. You can make anything! A hat! An elegant sweater! Even an adorable plush toy!

I have to remind myself that I cannot knit all that quickly. My shoulder protests and life intervenes.

But that doesn’t stop me from making purchases I shouldn’t upon occasion. Someone should really hide my credit card when my browsing history shows up a lot of yarn stores.

(Who am I kidding? Hiding my credit card wouldn’t help! I know all the information by heart!)

End of the Nap

Jane Leave a comment

25. Dread: Write about doing something you don’t want to do.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Suddenly, I realize I had been
Asleep.

I can tell the light is dim
Behind my shut eyelids.

What time is it?
I’m disoriented.

My eyes are still shut
But I feel a presence
In the room.

Awareness creeps in.
I remember
I’d been napping.

The presence is coming closer.
I screw my eyes shut tighter.
Move the sheets up over my head.

“Mama?”
I grunt.
“Mama, nap time’s over.”

I groan.
Just because you’re up
Do I have to get up, too?

What Comes in Threes?

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24. Numbers: Write a poem or journal entry about numbers that have special meaning to you.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Bad things always happen in threes.

That’s the old line, at least. But three is also a lucky number. The Holy Trinity. One, two, three, go! Third time’s the charm. Third time lucky.

But then again, three is a crowd. And deaths come in threes.

GOOD LORD. Number three! Make up your mind! Are you GOOD? Or are you BAD?

One of Three

I’m one of three. The third, actually (and in my case, yes, it was third time lucky because they’d hoped for a girl).

And here I am. The mother of two. Two boys, to be precise.

I always thought I’d have three. On an early date with my Chico, we talked about family expectations. I said I’d always pictured myself with three kids. He said, “Where there’s three there’s four.” (For context: he’s the youngest of four.)

“You’re not the one squeezing them out,” I muttered. Four seemed excessive.

What About a Third?

But now that we have two… Now that we have two wild and wonderful boys who fill our days with exasperation and joy, I’m just not sure.

I’m not sure I want a third.

I don’t feel anyone is missing. Our family feels complete and happy as it is.

Also, I don’t know if I want to put myself through the physical trial that is pregnancy and childbirth again. Granted, I managed both like a boss in my previous pregnancies and deliveries, but I’m nearly 35 now. My body has taken a long time to recover after the birth of our second son, and it will never be the same.

It sounds selfish, but there it is. I don’t know if I have the stamina and energy needed to carry another child, birth another child and then raise another child.

(Just the thought of going through potty training and the terrible twos again gives me great pause.)

Two’s Good, Too.

So maybe it won’t be three. Maybe we’ll leave it at two. For now, we are deciding not to decide. And if that goes on much longer, the decision will have to be no.

Tick tock, you know.

So I may have to start mourning the idea of three. Give up on the idea of a girl (though, Lord knows with my luck if I got pregnant again it’d be with twin boys).

But then again… They do say that third time is the charm.