View Full Version : 5 Minutes With Blank Screen

John Ravenscroft
02-14-2005, 03:05 PM
Anyone ever tried this one?

1. Turn off the monitor (or stick a sheet of paper over the laptop screen).
2. Set a timer for 5 mins.
3. Write. Write whatever comes into your head. Not allowed to stop hitting the keys. Type as fast as you can.
4. Post the results. Do not edit, not even for typos.

The results tend to be... interesting.

If anyone would like to give it a try, let me know. We could do it as a challenge.

Cheers - John

three seven
02-14-2005, 03:52 PM
Excellent, I'm trying that later.

02-14-2005, 04:39 PM
I think I read this exercise earlier in a book somewhere, but never really gave it any serious thought. But I'm going to try it now.

02-14-2005, 04:48 PM
Well, here is what I produced. There were another two paragraphs, but they didn't show up for some reason, and when I turned my black screen back on, the help and support file was up instead of the last two paragraphs. But here are the first two:

My daughter is in the playpen growling. This is what she likes to do: growl. And roar. These are her main modes of communication. She will occasionally speak, but only with her mouth closed. She seems to think all communication should be closed lip.ped. I, however, would prefer to understand a word or two. Mk for milk. Hmgmhm YMhmg mhg for...I don't know what for. Gee, these are some boring reflections. I remember someone saying once that once people have kids, they only talk about their kids. Not true. Sometimes we talk about our kids' Baby Einstein videos.\

Well, this is an interesting exercise that I find difficult to do, because I hate the idea of not editing and allowing glaring errors of all kinds to strut about in public. We shall see what horrors I have produced when I turn back on this screen. I'm just waiting for the sound of that five minute buzzer to relieve me from the drudgery of typing words without substance, plot, character, or rhyme. I suppose I could rhyme. At least zsome of the time. Plot thought. Hot Cot. Drudge Fudge. Yellow Fellow. Tom Mom

John Ravenscroft
02-14-2005, 07:30 PM
Thanks for taking part, skylarburris.

The aim is to turn off, not just the computer screen, but also the self-censor most of us have squatting in the centre of our brain.

Sometimes people doing this exercise produce stuff that shocks them - and I've known quite a few who simply couldn't bring themselves to post the results.

It's interesting, though. Shows what might pour out if we ever allowed the floodgates to open.

Zoe King
02-14-2005, 08:57 PM
I did this for the first time on Sunday and found it an amazing experience. Rather than turning the monitor off, (I use a notebook, don't know how to) I used white text on a white screen.

It was almost like entering dreamstate, and I found my thoughts wandering in all sorts of different directions. I can only assume that normally, the physicality of the words intrudes in some way we're not aware of.

Definitely something I'll be doing again.


03-03-2005, 02:22 AM
I just tried it! It was so nice. Of course, I just did it as a journaling exercise. I'll continue to do this when I want to just brainstorm an idea for an article.
Thanks, Zoe! :Thumbs:

Mark Anderson
03-03-2005, 08:06 AM
I'm so ready for embarrassment that I cut and pasted it without reading. I hope I don't come off as a freak...

I think I’ll attempt to write at least some sort of story in this five minutes, seeing as how it is too easy tro turn this into a reflective exercise and just babble on and on and on and on nonstop until the sound and sight of your own words will drive you to madness. Madness

The light’s are on but nobodies home, all work and no play make jack a dukll boy, so says King. I wonder just how crazy he has to be to write some of the things he did, and if that level of insanity is a benefit to certain writers.

I think I would gladly accept the burden of insanity, a subtle insanity, as long as it allowed me to produce works of beauty, at least on some level. I think that many of my more recent pieces are much more refined than my early stuff, but I suppose there’s varying degrees of effectiveness to that as well. My early work had a visceralness, an immediacy that I enjoyed. Unfortunately it devolved out of Splatterpunk type stories, so even among horror writers you get a significant ‘yuk’ factor going on hich results in at least some subliminal embarrassment.

It isn’t perhaps even the desire to write works of unsurpassing beauty and significance as the wish to be perceived by ones peers as iat least a journeyman, one capable of holding an intelligent coversation.

That’s another thing that’s tough about being a writer. It seems that so many writers, particularly in the genre level, have no problem becoming fast friends with each other, a degree of intimacy I am unable to execute due to a fair amount of shyness, but moreso a degree of anti-social behavior. WhilIt’s

Okay, freak status confirmed....:wag:

Mark Anderson
03-05-2005, 07:28 AM
I am become Shiva, destroyer of threads.:guns:

03-07-2005, 11:58 PM
I'm going to give this a shot, and I promise to post my results, horrible though they may be. Probably tonight...

03-08-2005, 12:00 AM
Oh, and Mark, I really enjoyed what you wrote. I have a journal entry from a month or so ago that looks almost identical to this. So, we can both be freaks!

03-15-2005, 06:30 AM
Okay, I tried it and as promised, here it is. By the way, this is for the novel that I'm working on. I might use a sentence or two, since it's so dreadful. And I have to say that I work in translation so my typing is decent. I was surprised to see all the typos!!

Was I born before? Were there other lives? Thinking of this turns my attention to the memories that consume my brain that I never experienced. Why am I resigned to have the memories of someone I've never met??? There must have been previous lives, otherwise what else? And how can this one person, this one other person travel through time and history with me?? Is that possible as well. Who are the Gods that designged me to be forever connected with one I haven't met. I have too many questions. I should enjoy my likfe and not think about these deep things, or should I? Isn't this what makes us human? To ponder the things that animals can'nt?

I was by the sea in one memory, he was next to me. He was a philosophers studnet, apprentice you might say. He was telling me the things he was beinngg taught. It was so intetersting. . I miss that time. Life seemed so simple., so easy. But then there weere tribal wars and hardships that we could not imagine. What about the South American identity? When I visited Machu Picchu, and sat in one of the small dwellings, I could feel my blood in that room. I cried for the pain I had when I lived there. I felt the sadness of disease taking my childre, I have no child. I felt the hurt of my people becoming extinct, of the pain one feels when you see your fellow man killed in cold blood. It was harsh, and sad. I cried for a long time in that room.I laked the strength to move my legs and go on to the next site., to the next cluster of archaeologists who wanted to speak to me. .Standking up and leaving that room was quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever had to do. When I touched my hannd to the stone, it was hot, it made me think of home, that this was once my home. Could it have been? And why is this country my home now? , a country that holds true to none of the things that I believe and only promotes wealth and sickness. Is there a ways to know for sure when I lived, where I lived? I question everything, I must.

Sara, who feels like she's talking to herself.

03-15-2005, 07:54 AM
:crazy: You can call me crazy but then I have never claimed to be sane. However when it comes to ideas and schemes I have a million of them. Who would have thought that being crazy would have its benefits. In that once I had a stalker that always followed me around and he did dumb things. He would take my picture and block my path when I was walking so finally I got tired of him and had him arrested. So the lawyer that was representing him got up before the judge and insinuated that I was a mental case because at the time I had to have a lot of surgery for cancer and I was definetly on medication but had not taken my medication for my nerves that day. So the judge dismissed the case and said that I needed help. To wit that only made his act up more but then I told him since he had given the excuse for my insanity plea that I could kill him and there was not a thing that could be done because he had said that I needed help. So then he said that if I killed him that I would have to go to the jail. But I said who is going to find your dumbass and besides I already had the perfect excuse because it was his idea to drive me crazy in the first place. To which he said that you are crazy and I said point taken sucker. He fled in terror and has not bothered me since and I wonder why.

03-31-2005, 10:15 PM
Ok, let me try this one!

I pulled the Probe up to the starting line and looked at the man with the green flag. He gave anod. I tensed for a minute and hit the accelerator, taking off as hard as I dared push the worn out clutch. The Kumho tires hazed and howled in protest as the turbocharged coupe left the starting line.

Right out of the gate was the first slalom. A slow one, with the cones spaced only 50 feet apart. I gradually accelerated through the slalom until the tail started to slide out slightly on each cone.

The next turn was a tight 180. A bolt of panic hit me as I realized I was going too fast. I made the mistake of slamming on the brakes as I was cranking the wheel.

The rear tires came completely unstuck. What was that advice I'd heard? "In a spin, both feet in." Nail the clutch and the brake.

The Probe came to rest with its nose pointed more or less toward the exit of the turn. Looks like I had blown my chances of setting a good time on this run, so I would use the rest of this one to learn the course and continue learning the car's limits.

I got back on the gas an released the clutch. With a whistle from its turbochraged engine, the Probe took off.

04-01-2005, 07:34 AM
I’m writing to wilco right now. Misunderstood. I identiy with this song, though I’m not allowed to smoke anymore. There’s a fortune inside your head, but everything you touch turns to lead. Yeah, that’s how I’m feeling right now. This song could be whiny or annoying, but somehow, he pulls it off. And it makes me wonder what the story is. Is it based on an actual event? Did he write it as the events unfolfed? I know it’s not wise to assume the narrator is the same person as the writer, but I can’t but think that there’s something more here. On this whole album really. He goes back to his neighborhood, and instead of the great success he thought he would be, he’s still basically the same old loser. I understand. When I went home this summer, I was basically the same old loser. Oh, I had my minor successes. But minor isn’t what really counts in this world. Wilco does inspire me though. I want to write the story to all their songs, but at the same time, I recognize that the songs are story enough. You know you’re just a momma’s boy, that part doesn’t reaplly apply to me, though I understand the gist. More of a ddaddy’s girl than anything, but that doesn’t really count now. I want to go home with novels. I want everybody to know my name, and why does it even matter? You think you might just crawl back in bed, the fortune instide your head. How many times have I felt like that? A million? A billion? Last week I almost gave up completely, but am I really misunderstood? I think some of my work is. That’s annoying. Why can’t people see it the way I see it? Love it the way I love it? There’s a reason that home-town boy mmakes good is such a cliché. It’s because it’s effective. It’s a shame that the best clichés are, well, clichés, because they really are effective. It’s a shame that most of Shakespeare’s greatest lines would be considered “cliché” now. That makes me sad. It also makes me sad that if I decided to name a child “Cressid” or “Portia” most people would assume that I really liked the cars. And now my five minuts have wound down and disappeared, and all I have is some random lines on the page. I might try to write a story this way.

04-01-2005, 12:24 PM
*Deep breath in*

So I'm thinking of Charlie Sheen in Platoon and McDonalds.
I suppose it's why I love war films, it fascinates me that there is no escape, unless you either get sent home or die, but right then and there, in the heat of a battle or when stranded in some alien environment, you can't just think 'Sod it, I'm off.' then hail a cab, go home, have a bath and watch some TV.
It's a form of prison, like terminal illness. Your body is your prison and although you might get the odd day out, a short time where the inevitable it shoved to the back of your mind, you will still be spending the night in your death row cell, alone with you ever approaching end. Sure, we're all dying, but having a rough date for it is very different, and unescapable.
And what if there is some kind of 'hell', an afterlife place for the bad people?
to me it would have to bve about permanence, never being able to escape the situation. Burning in fires might not be the most effective way to break a spirit, imagine a MacDonald's shift that never ended. Permanently serving and cleaning, with no hope ever, never. It won't end.
Even the worst marriage can be ended, if you hate your family you can remove yourself from them. No job can ever be truly permanent, as although you may feel trapped, they can still get rid of you, and there are always options tucked away somewhere.

04-04-2005, 06:09 PM
That's funny, somehow I wound up writing a narrative when most people were writing something more introspective. I wonder why I did that... it seems that it just came to mind to write about a previous experience and just got rolling.

04-05-2005, 08:40 PM
Hmmmm, ok this came out extremely strange, especially the second paragraph.

But here it is... (be nice).:tongue

Little brothers are the most frustrating creatures to ever roam the planet. Mine has me late to… well… everywhere, in trouble with everyone and crazy because with him around concentration on anything just picks up and dances out the door. He is sitting in his room right now reading a COMIC BOOK AND OCCASIONALLY, IF HE FEELS LIKE IT, and GETTING UP TO LOOK OUT THE WINDOW. He is singing at the top of his voice right now purely to distract me from any kind of academic progression at all, so when I fail the state exams in June I guess I can just say He did it. Well he is constantly blaming his own shortcomings on me, so do I get my own back or what?? I think I do. Yes, so I can’t remember most of what I’ve been saying for the past while but I have this niggling feeling that it’s turning into a rant. But I’m mad!! So give me some space people… deep breath… and out again… Ok calm down here. Right, what else…

Oh yeah my dog is such a klutz!!! Ha ha, she just makes me laugh! She likes to hide under our kitchen table for some unfathomable doggy reason. So every now and again she will venture out underneath the chairs to mope or (probably) mutter to herself in doggy language about how stupid her owner is. And here it is, every time she goes underneath, she bangs her head off the wooden piece that goes across the bottom of the chairs. Every time!! Honestly don’t you think she might learn? Dear Lord… And another few things. She eats cat food and won’t touch dog food. She enjoys attempting to dig holes in impenetrable substances such as…the floor. She humps her lead. To put it bluntly… Yes I think this would have to be the most truly disturbing trait of hers… Oh damn times up, few more seconds. (Just to let you know that I am fair;ly crazy but not in the same way as my “unique” mutt).

04-07-2005, 09:32 AM
Hey! This is an exercise in Outwitting Writer's Block and Other Problems of the Pen. I heard the writer is some cool chick... ;)

04-07-2005, 10:07 AM
Here; I've fixed some typos cuz I was really flailing at those keys. This is my first try, a couple of days ago. Since then they're more personal.

And where is John Ravenscroft, anyway?


Ready set go. Time to type and and not see what is typed. This is mystifying to larissa who is reading along. For one thing, she can't read. For another thing, she sees there are no letters. I have turned my font to white on the whte page. at the suggestion of an earlier poster. It's working well, but Larissa is not supposed to be watching. She likes me to sit with her while she goes to sleep. It's torture for me to sit in the dark room with her. When I finally got a laptop that I could bring in to read while she slept, it was such and improvement. I guess trying to type whele she is sleeping is not really playing the game.

I'm tempted to acknowlege at this point how selfish I have been lately wanting only to be on the computer all the time. I haven't been writing a lot, but I have had the sense that I am building up to it. Which is a more optimistic sense than I have had for a while. This is making my fingers quite not exactly tired, but aware of themslves. Somewhate uncomfortable.

Interesting to note that many of my initiatives in the past few years have run aground of my physical sinsations. sensations. Like doing the dishes makes mmy legs feel like they ar filled with mercury. Walking is too often constrained by heat. Plus, I hate this neighborhood where no leaf is apllowed to trail onto the sidewalk. Not an enjoyable place to walk, really at all.

I was wondering how I will know when it has been five minuts. Forgot that there is of course a computer right here on this clock. Ha ha. Strike that . Reverse it, as willy wonka would say.

I'm rather immersed in the moving fantasy. Rather repelled by the moving reality. Not comfortable to sell the house until we have righted all that I sense as the wrongs here. Specifically the electricity. Chris doesn't see that as necessary. I don't want to have to force the issue. But I don't want to even let someone come in here and look at the way we are living with those damn extension cords. My god, I don't think I should ever look at my words. IT is so easy to just type and write and let the stuff come poring out. I need to send an email to Elisa. And one to Chuck. And one to Linda. My fingers are actually tingling. I think I should swtich now to a quieter activity so this poor child can sleep.


04-07-2005, 09:24 PM
Hey! This is an exercise in Outwitting Writer's Block and Other Problems of the Pen. I heard the writer is some cool chick... ;)

Ahhh, a reminder of yet another book I need to buy! ;)

05-02-2005, 11:49 PM
I miss her. I kinda wish I didn't, but I do. A year, ago, or more, I lost t - no. I stopped speaking with a girl I loved. And I mean really loved. or that's what I thoought, at least. Just for those who doin't/ know, yeah, I'm a girl too. See my problem? I don't hate her because I never let myself, but gods above, did I want to sometimes. She was cruel to me, she hurt me more than I can possibly say. Not while we were together - this happened after, the hurting.
So now I'm kinda stuck, y'know? I like girls, but I never really knew how to flirt with guys, let alone girls. I have no odea how t act when I do see a girl I rather like. Because even though I'm pretty good at knowing who's queer, I'm not perfect. I don't want to - I'dn't know. it's weird. My parents don't know, most of my friends have no idea.
There's a girl I'm fomnd of. Her nae's Cassandra. She's small, like me but a little taller. Heh. Right. Um... Her hair is short and brwn-ish, or reddish, depending. Her eyes are blue; her lip is pierced on the left side, just recently. I like her eyes and the way she smiles.
She knows my name and what I like to do .She's been in at least one calss with me since freshmen year. But she'll be gradutaing this year. She's older than me.
All I'll ever do is watch her, and I know it. But she's ....
My time's up. Hang on...

right. that was a bit more personal than i really intended. oh well...

05-03-2005, 02:36 AM
Hey! This is an exercise in Outwitting Writer's Block and Other Problems of the Pen. I heard the writer is some cool chick... ;)

Yeah, she is; and funny, too!

05-12-2005, 03:56 AM
Blank screen, nothing but void yawning out before me. Is it time to create or destroy? Shall I reach inside and break free those demons that I keep locked within, or let them continue to hollow out my heart and soul. Yes, my screen is my venue to allow them to make their mark on this world, yet keep you far from the real me. My fingers scream out words in vivid rendition of tales to be rendered, yet you can not hear what I am truly saying. My computer, an extension of my mind and just as intricate is fully one with my thoughts. If not for these entities crying to be released, my connection to this blank screen would have no meaning. From the depths of the human spirit springs forth the chronicles of life, spun into the miracle of fascinating tales to woo the passion-hungry throngs.

Five minutes with a blank screen..tough...

05-14-2005, 07:33 AM
Well, nothing ever embarrases me (other than my poor spelling, so here it goes)

I came home today from work, bu decided tos tart doign some geocaching. you know, geocaching. That thing where you have a GPS and go to find higdden boxes or whatever with things in them. Pretty fun if you like walking through muddy areas. I did this instead of going with my wife to some company walk out at therace track. Iwas sick yesterday and told her I didn't hink I'd be up to walking today. But istead I go walking a few miles loking for stupid boxes in the middle of no where. What kind of crazy stuff is that? and now I feel worse, my coughing is up and I can just here a "I told you so" from myself. What kind fo crazy fool am i>

Im' sitting in this basement that is the worst ckind of pit you can imagine. It's pathetic. I have more junk in this basement than those crzy guys you hear about that when they die - you go into their housees and find tons of junk just piled to the celiing. Stuff everywhere. My brother in law - when his grandfather died,t hey found that kind fo thing in the basement. there was so much stuff in the basement that they didn't find the [piano for 3 days ! Can you imagine that much junk? If you can't, feel free to come to my basement. Just watch out, it could crash you .

I think that's five minutes. I need a stopwatch. :D

05-29-2005, 07:55 PM
I liked this writing prompt, felt kind of 'free', without looking back to see and check and agonise over what I'd written! I have only amended the typos...

What do you want he said. He sat down on the edge of the bench, fanning himself with his hat.

I want the article. It’s got to be better than the one I wrote last week.

The man carefully positioned his hat on the crown of his head, and glanced sideways. He could see to his right a concrete area, with dented railings and defunct fountains. There were scores of teenagers jumping from all heights, swinging like monkeys from railing to concrete and back again. Their baggy skateclothes flapping in the spring breeze.

The man startled as his bench-colleague stood up.

I’ve had just about enough of this.

Where are you going?

I’m getting away from it all. I don’t know how or where, but I just know I need a break from all this.


You can take your article and shove it, Felix. And with that he buttoned up his overcoat and walked briskly off into the concrete jungle that surrounded the park.

Feklix sat on the bench bewildered. What would he do now? Where would he go? Would he ever see Charlie again?

H rummaged in his pocket til he found the bottle, and took a large swig of it. That’s better he thought.

Honey Nut Loop
06-30-2005, 03:17 AM
Well here's mine with all the errors included.

Why do I seem to spend so much tim ein front of the screen yet not writing anything down. I really want this story to go somewhere!!! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. I’ve tried plotting it but its still in pieces. I’ve tried leaving it but nada. And if I want to enter that competition it needs to be done by the end of July. Hmm. And the other day I found the main chracter invading me if that makes sense. I was starting to think, hmm I wonder what Freya would do in this situation. Well not wuite that It ewas more like she wa sautomatically thinking for me so I can join everyone else here in insanity. God I can’t type. I know it and I can’t even see what I’m writing. Is that five mnutes yet. Oh yes. Hmm.

04-13-2006, 04:11 PM
mine just disappeared......

Albedo of Zero
04-14-2006, 05:33 AM
With only five minutes to live, her muse turned off the television and lit the last cigarette. Luckily it was the last in the pack, because she would have killed herself if she dies b efore finfishing the pack. What the heck...let's get a few shots of that scotch too, you know, theat stuff that maes your eyes and stomach water and your brain and legs get fuzzy. Shiver.
Two mionutes ot go and the muse still feels nothing, no affects of time, no anxious scream wantiong to spew forth on the blank scream. The muse is actually enjoying her last , ummm, one minute. Sheesh, she types slo

Wow...good thing my eyes have spell-check

04-14-2006, 09:40 PM
He sat in the cafe, watching people pass by his window. Each and all of them had their own thoughts, were different, were individual, had their own reasons for being here, doing what there doing now.

Yet, he could only see them as figures lurching byhis life.

His life, himself was all now. and thats what it always had been.

"More coffee, sir?" asked the pretty young waitress serving him. Ah, what a beautiful girl.

"No thank yoiu m'dear" he smiled. It pained him to think that he would never get to love her. HGHe would not get to spend his life with her, he would be able to look upon her really. And oh but it hurt when she smiled back..

He lit a cigarette, knowing full well it would be his last. He had never loved a woman, and a woman had never loved him.
And hell, he never would.

And all down to his foolish malice, at that one time.

Only once ever was he malicious, and it was t cost him his life.

He left $100 dollars on the table, with a not telling the waitress to keep it.

He wouldn't need money when he was dead.

He left the cafe, waiting for his fate.

And he found it strange to think that he didn't blame them, blame them for his impending death.

An eye for an eye.

04-14-2006, 09:43 PM
wow man, and i didnt even read albedos one

04-15-2006, 01:47 AM
The cold steel of the revolver was pressed against my temple.

“five minutes” he said

My fingers sat poised above the keyboard. Sweat beads ran down the bridge of my nose and came to rest on touch pad. I stared adown at the salty pool of my fear and I wanted to jump in.

“type faster” he demanded.

I wanted to write, I wanted to tell a great story. I felt pressure in my bladder. If I didn’t write soon I would piss myself.

My fingers began to move. Letters were pressed in random order forming words. The words that I hoped would save my life. The words made friends with each other and became a family. Sentences flowed, greatness was being born.

“times up” he said.


04-15-2006, 02:26 AM
very interesting-I was out walking last night-just thinking as I wandered along and this very post that you have made popped up in my head. I have discovered that when I am blocked I just sit and write-I do it in front of the computer-not covered-not for five minutes-it is just an excercise in letting go-it works for me-gets the juices flowing again especially when I am in a situation that does not seem resovable-a few months ago I was in exactly this situation and did what I always do-the results are irrelivant-just the excercise of doing is what is imortant. I keep these excercise to be able to laugh at myself-I need to do this a lot-read em and laugh and actually enjoy them-which I do-anyway here is five minutes of junk

What about the times before when no one spoke of it? Was it an integral part of their sociologic function or just a paternoster for difficult times to come? Who knows? It is important as a matter of fact becasue no one has ever figured out the whys and wherefores at all. That is a huge problem because no one could do anything without the problem being solved, especially not the people it was created for! However there were times when it semed all o.k, that is to say sufficient to the solving of all problems not just the some, but most of all of them. They ondered the proclivities of situations that were detrimental to the conscience of their bieng, the way they were, and that was for sure something they thought didn't matter at all but that could be solved as time went by and the need arose. Dillenger Flakewaiter didn't care at all either, but he did feel a little strange in that the people around felt he should solve the problem, he knew that he could so he would because that was what waas expected but he didn't know what the hell was the problem really, do he flexed and thought and thought and flexed and of course nothing happedn or occurred in any sense that could possible help him, so he didn't, he just gave up and didn't let them know so it would be alright and so what and who cares as long as they felt the problems or problem or whatever they thought was solved, so it was and that was good because it was and that is that! Here is where my five minutes is up, as I said I don't put a time limit on anything in this excercise-for me that is not the point, just the haphazard striking of the keys is what loosens me up-it is impossible though to disconect the damned brain but that is not the point i expect-the whole thing is six pages long-some are longer some are shorter-great thread hope you are having fun-sometimes I am a lonely lunatic but these kinds of threads do help me to realized i am not alone

04-18-2006, 10:26 PM
What spouted out of my head in 5 minutes - scattered emotion, not coherant writing. I did the white text on white screen thing and hated the fact that my fingers could not automatically do their usual editting.

Its amazing what a little life-changing can do. I’ve know that I’ve lovied writing since I was about fifteen years old, but never really considered that I should be doing this for REAL. I mean, come on. Me, a writer? From this upper-middle class family that considered college a given (I dropped out) and career a must. I’m the black sheep. Blacker than the deepest hellish pit of a coal mine black. Divorced, 2 kids, virtually unemployed.

And now finding fulfillment in this whole writing thing. Fulfillment I didn’t know existed. (I’d always considered it some sort of psychobabble). Fulfillment? Yeah, for other people. I’m just muddling through life.

So, I finished my first novel and ithe characters I’ve lived with for so long have voiced their desire for two more novels about them. Yup, the dreaded Fantasy Trilogy. Some people hate them. My story is just coming out this way. And I have to confess that the whole idea, in my mind, was a one shot thing. Yeah, I’ll write these stories that have been plaguingme for years. And then I’ll stop. Nope! Not turning out that way. I actually laid aside my trilogy and have turned my attention to another novel entirely for the past three nights. A vampire thing that is hopefully different enough to be publishable. At over 12k words already, it is turning into something big, I think.

I can do this. The feeling is amazing and fabulous,,, and mind-bending! I could be a writer. Forget the happy wife thing that I’ve always wished for. I can be a writer.

04-21-2006, 07:01 PM
OK. I did like MMWyrm suggested and typed with white text on white paper. Haven't even read it through. An interesting excercise.

Here it is, flaws and all;

The Woman finished the last brush strokes of the painting and leaned back to study it. She wasn’t very pleased with the result, but then again, she never was.
From the front room she could hear the TV going on as usual. What is it with the damn thing, she thought to herself. Meaningless spilling of brutal pictures and the constant chase for news, news, NEWS.
She looked at her painting again and figured that it was as good as it would ever get, not that it would never do, anyway. A hopelessness filled her soul. “What’s wrong with me” she thought.
A voice from the TV spilled through her consiousness: “You have to be creative”
Now where did that come from?
The terror in that simple sentence.
“I am trying to be creative here, her mind screamed, but nobody would hear, would they?
Her family didn’t care. Her husband had said just the other day that he didn’t like the smell of the paint. She knew what it was! He wanted the room for a computer, where he would be able to hide away from his responsibilities. The kids would have loved it too. Why was she insisting on keeping this room to herself? Was she selfish?
She took a glance around…
The smallest room in the house, and it was hers. The smallest rom was all she had. Her family managed somehow to leave themselves in here, no matter how much she pleaded with them. There were socks on the floor that belonged to her son, and for some reason her daughter had left her tennis racket in the corner over there. Her husband had forgotten to remove the toolbox from last week, and she had been too busy to bring it out to the garage herself.
My room? Oh, no, she thought. “My room should be filled with flowers and joy. How did it end up like this? Why did she resent them like that?
“You have to be creative” The voice from the TV still echoed in her head, silenceing the other voices of despair. Creative, my butt! There is nothing creative in the process of creating, she bitterly thought! NOTHING! Hard work, is all I get! Hard work, and not even that will help.
Creative… Her mind started wandering again. That word. Creative…

07-08-2006, 05:01 PM
KTC (the official bad influence of AW- catching title, Kev) mentioned this thread in another one and I was intrigued, so I came to bring it back to life. I have a couple other things to do, but when I get a minute, I'll spend 5 minutes with a blank screen. First - COFFEE, no way I have the brain power for this without coffee!

07-08-2006, 05:39 PM
Wow, that was interesting. And apparently my touch typing is pretty good...

I wonder if I can do it? I wonder if I can really do it this time.

It’s not that I’m scared. I guess it’s not, anyway. I think it’s just that I’m insecure or something. I think I can’t do it but I can.

So I wonder what would happen if I did it? Should I try? Now? Right now? I wonder if anyone would notice ? I wonder if anyone would see? I wonder how shocked they’d be?

Or perhaps it’s all in my head. Perhaps I’m just making this up – just pretending to be something I’m not. Perhaps it won’t work, perhaps it won’t be as good as everyone says. Perhaps I’m just not cut out for this.

But I won’t know unless I try, will I? I guess I have to give it a try, just to find out. I guess I have to. I mean, it’s not like I’m the only one. It’s not like no-one else has ever done it. It’s not like I’m alone.

Then why do I feel like I am? Why do I feel alone and scared and lost in this place? Why do I feel like I’m not as good, as strong, as capable as anyone else? Why do I always feel like I’m not good enough?

07-08-2006, 09:32 PM
I've never been happier since finding this forum. All those years writing and getting nowwhere with it when it's done. Now I'm going to be published. By GOD I'm going to do it and get it done.
So why do I care? Why do I need her respect when I've never had it befor? When I have the respect of my other sister and I can earn some respect from my Mother then why does it bother me SO much to have her not respect me? To have her husband mock my efforts and abilities?

I have the respect of complete strangers. People who don't know me, don't care if I have a big teacher's degree or not. People who read what I say and judge me by that and that alone.

Isn't that the measure of respect? To be judged solely by one's actions? Solely by one's character and not by my order of birth, my education, or my lack of husband and children?

I DO have talent ! And I have found a resource as good as striking gold as one can achieve. I do NOT need her respect, it will give me no value.

Laptop keyboards are much more difficult to achieve speed with than a regular keyboard - but this was very cathartic.

07-10-2006, 08:43 AM
It's almost twelve o'clock... and I really don't feel like sleeping. Of course, I'm dead tired, but somehow, I don't feel like sleeping. And now, I really have the luxury of doing it. No que cuando estaba en la escuela.... no manches ahí no me podía dar el lujo de absolutamente nada. Pero bueno.

How se acabo el privilegio de mandar :( En serio, si no hubiera habido nadie conmigo, me ponía a llorar, no por el fin del programa sino por el mensaje que dejó al final. En serio, todo es culpa de mi hermano. Si no estuviera todo el tiempo b urlandose de mí, tal vez no seria tan... cerrada. Pero no, tiene que estar burlándose y ... ah, olvidalo.

Intento escribir una escena de sexo, pero no puedo. Será por la falta de experiencia?

Er... I wasn't writing in english, was I? Damn, it's so hard to tell with a blank screen. ANd really, sometimes I switch from one language to the other without noticing. Or maybe I just misspelled sex and wrote sexo instead.

Hmm.... this is nice. I almost feel like I'm alonein a room, talking to my dog. You know, like there's someone listening to you but she doesn't understand what you're saying and therefore makes no judgements? I don't think she'd make a judgement even if she could understand me.

Like my boyfriend.... he'd never make a judgement either. That's why I lovve him so much...

Wooops, five minutes are over. Let's see what I have produced.

(After re-reading: yep, I switched languages without noticing)

07-10-2006, 05:58 PM
My head hurts. I'm exhausted today for some reason. And I have this inspriation "niggling" at me with on time to write. I find I go through thiis on occasion. Where I have it all right there within my grasp and can't seem to make it go down on paper. I justify that is is a time of organization in my head but it is a lousy excuse. What about my story keeps sticky in my side? All the while it sticks to my insides too and won't let me go.It just won't let me go. I have to write it. I started the second one while the first still needs a revision. A big revision. I'm missing what I consider to be two crucial scenes and my beta readers had similar requests therefore Iknow where it belongs.
I don't think I should feel the guilt that goes with this. But I can't help it. I can't be the only one with writer's guilt can I? An obligation to the work that I can't shake.
self-conscious bulb justwent on in my head. I have no idea what I'm typing. Soething about my wip. Its it all writers who feel the need to see their work? Who fear exposure that hasn't been tweaked and refines.? I go sofar as to take great pride in emails that I send, office memos and the like. I will revise an emportant email 5 times to make sure it comes out like a tyop free concise masterpiece. So not seeing these words is torturing me. It's giving me a headache. and I have one minute left. Somehow I feel like I need tow rap this up and will fight the urge to edit, revise, tweak and make good onthis exercisel. What is it about us that makes us want to write things that make other peple say wow? Are you wow yet?

07-11-2006, 04:28 AM
Thanks for sharing this exercise, I did it this morning and it was great (I did it Zoe King's white text way). I'll definitely be doing this regularly, maybe even every morning just to get the creative juices flowing.:)

07-11-2006, 02:29 PM
My stomach is killing me. It’s been fine for the weekend, but as soon as my parents walked through that door again the stress started to get to me. I should ave known better than to spend the summer in my childhood home, but somehow you always think -this time it’ll be diferent. I’m older, got more patient, have learnt meditate. Yeah, right. It doesn’t help nearly as much as I would need it to. My digestion will thank me the day I give up studying, get a full time job that pays the apartment even in the summer time and… well, but that’s in the future. I know my parents love me, boy do I ever. Tough love is the middle name my father cherishes above all else I think. Mom, well…she’s great, most of the times, but she’s not a lot of help against dad and she’s got her own rules and regulations and expectations. If I’d gone the way of a civil-engineer… My father would probably soud just about the same, my sister’s down that road after all and she goes ballistic after only one minute inside our home. She’s back in town doing a job for th minin company and get’s to stay at a hotel. Man, do I envy her.

07-11-2006, 02:36 PM
This is rather like stream of consciousness isn't it? Yes, well of course and anyone can do it, you don't have to be an avid reader of Jung to do stream of consciousness. Streams, flowing through deep glades. I wish I could be in the Forest of Dean., I want to be in a forest, where no one can find me. solitary and alone. With my thoughts, which run like a non stop movie in my head. I wish I could escape. I've tried meditation but find it so hard. When is the time when your thoughts stop, when you're dead I suppose. Or when you get meditation down to a fine art but I'm too impatient, too full of stuff. Stuffed to the hilt with no place to go. I want to vomit all this stuff up. But where to do it safely. My blog isn't the place, nor my journals, which my daughter can read (and would no doubt). My shrink but there's a story. I think I fancy her - damn fine looking woman and her accents divine. I just had a thought, my thoughts are all over the place. I know I'm confused about my sexulaity. I can't be bothered with relationships. I'll just be a mad old crone siitting in her rocker on the porch, smoking her pipe, with loads of cats. Yes, that's what I'd like to be twenty years from now. Maybee I'll start doing it now...give the neighbours something else to gossip about. They've had me naked in my back garden. God, this is turning into a confession. I must read more Marcus aurelius. Books are my downfall, the smell of them is divine, the smell of burning ceder wood, the smell of lavender. Chamomile tea. Can I stop now. How can I find anything useful from this mess. It's like a pathworking that's gone awol, another Jungian/pagan thought. I should burn a candle and pray the goddess forgives me. Epona on her grey mare, that's my dream. To live in the land of Fey and get away from it all. Writing is my saviour, without it I'm done for.

07-19-2006, 08:04 AM
Here's mine, uncut and without spellcheck or anything:

IN the particulars, I have nothing in particular to say. Don't wait till the fire dies, everyth thief knows to stash his earnings and my life is my loot;m you'll have to taake it over MY DEAD BODY.
Does that make sense? No. Well, maybe it's crystal. But that's not the point. WHat i"m trying to tell you is I'm in love with you. Yes, you, you handsome rogue staring back at me from your realm of reflection...of my blank screen. Dear God, you must need bodyguards to beat al;l the womens off!
Far beyond the everyday, I would like to travel to Nowhere and Everything. I think it would be interesting. Maybe get a souvenier mug while I'm at it. From one of those booths with the nothings and the nobodies and the gadgets and the bizzlebobs. I would like a bizzlebob. No one seems to understand that and it pains me to horryifying extremes. You know what I'm tlaking about, ya? Ya.
So, I fought this Swamp monster today. I lost. but at least know how to beat him, right?
That's all that matters.
Mind over matter, babe. Mind over matter,
That's a good pig.
It feels good to start this feeling.

07-20-2006, 11:58 PM
Well that was strange - fun but strange. Here it is

Okay . 5 minutes. A lot can happen in 5 minutes. If the door opens I’m going to have to run, you know. But for now, I’m here. Still talking. Still writing. Still hoping you’re listening. Noises off. Is it them? No, only the TV in another room. Scratching noises too. The cats chasing a fly. Is it? I look over my shoulder, feeling that nasty, icy tingling , crawling sensation down my spine. Someone is definitely watching. Can they see what I’m doing? Do they know I’m talking to you? Don’t wait for me. Get out now. If I don’t see you again you know I love you. Try to get to the bridge tonight. 8 o’clock. I’ll be there. I promise. There’s something, someone, something? Behind me. I can’t look. It’s nearly been 5 minutes now. It must have. I’ve really got to go. See you soon, my love.

07-28-2006, 12:11 AM
I watched the waves come to shore and brush the asnd smooth. Feeling as though it washed a way a piece of me. A worry? For as long as I have had this stress, insomnia to make it concrete exhaustuion, I have lived for moments like that wave riding up and washing away. I suppose that makes me a visiual person; needing to see the water. But Ithen I've always loved water. Its calming. Been the source of some of the best times of my life,
when my son was ill, we spent three weeks in a children's hospital, living on cafeteria food, cigarette breaks, news from doctors, sleeping in charis, uncomfortable vinyl that pulls out to a cot, crooked necked and sore, losing weight by the day, I would trudge into his room and sit there for hours, take a break to eat when reminded by a kind nurse. The hospital was painted with fish, and fishtanks wherever they could put them. Water is calming. Water is healing. Water makes kids smile, and takes the edge in liquid beauty off of the parents, who were praying for good news, wishing they could take their child's pain away.
And water still, and always, washes up and takes something away from me. Eses me, relieves me.
Whever someone askes where I'd rather be, I tell them, "somewhere by water." That's all. Somewhere by water.

eta: the urge to fix this is killing me! The end of the first paragraph shouldn't end on "best times of my life" whent he next talks about time in a hospital. It should at least say, "best times of my life, and helped me through the worst" or something. And the second paragraph is an enormous run-on sentence...Jeesh! Not to mention unbearable typos. YIKES> sigh oh well. that's what I get for blank screening, right?

07-28-2006, 09:24 PM
Wow. That's amazing.

Good stuff !

09-06-2006, 12:10 PM
its late and i'm tired. insomnia is a blessing and a curse. i'm always tired the next day at work,d ragging feet , slumpihg shoulders, heavy eyelids, but while i'm awake in still quiet of a house wiht sleeping sons and husband, my mind can wander without the distractionof someone needing soemthing. i'm free to daydream, stress, contemplate, and even solve problems. Yes. the problems. solved ina matter of thoughts drifting, no one to argue my brilliant points, in my head they are ideal and beautiful, practical and fantasticly do-able. by light of day, that isn't always the case. myschemes don't work during normal hours. normal hours. heh..what is that? my head does not know the difference. my manic writing doesn't know the difference either.
one minute to go, and i can think of a million things to say, insomnia you know, makes me talkative, or type-ative, anyway. but now i don't have enough time....for this exercise anyway. for the rest of it, i've got til daylight.

09-17-2006, 06:47 AM
Do you reemmber when we spraypainted our names? Roadtrip music playing, masterpiece graffitti.WE WERE HERE. And we were young and alive and breathing in the nightair. It's intoxicating. Country night air. The stars kiss it before it reaches us, bless it so it nourishes our imaginations, feeds some urge in us to be wild. Makes us feel nature and know that we are it. Connected. Names on a road. OUr names, and you remember. I know you do. When I drove away you said, and the next road, go left. gravel spitting out behind, taillaights blasted red on dust, covered our names, We were there. Breathing in starred air, feeling simmortal and large. REal and awed by what we were ap part of.

09-17-2006, 07:21 PM
I will do this when I have a spare five minutes. I promise.

09-18-2006, 05:04 AM
Soft rays of sunlight sifted through the alskan twighlight makinga fairy design on the plank floor. The walls were bare and the windows were not dressed The only artwork was the wild rocky coastline and the magnificent towering logs framing the panoramic backdrop for an intensly beautiful livingspace,Amazing, but another little shiver shot through her as it sank in what had seemed so wrong. The cabin was empty. Looking around her she looked for something that might give her a clue as to why she was living in such stark quarters. The loft area must be where she spends all her time. She had really wanted a studio to work in. Making the decision to go out on her own and establish herself as an architect meant she had to hve professional space. She topped the stairs leading to the loft and was met with an oasis of light and space, a hven of white and an amazing sunburst of color along the back wall. A multi-media collage mimicked the green and blues of the alaskan coastline blended in a skyline reflected through stain glass mosaic shot sunbeams through the already magnificent windows. Kat had to sit down on the arm of the leather chair stategically placed to simulate an entryway and gave the loft a nice cosy feeling, as cosy as you can get with nothing else in the room but a tall wrought iron and canvas screen and the artwork. It had smtehing that gave it a three dimensional quality. Stepping closer the lines were easier to see and she looked closer to discover the mosaic tiles were line drawings, floor plans and blueprints. What a great sense of color. It was really so beautiful, Kat felt tears sting the corner of her eyes as she realized that Aislan had been working on this for a while.

aaack! That was hard!

09-18-2006, 06:08 AM
I had to fix some of the typos, otherwise this would look like a secret code!

I miss not hearing the fan in the morning as I get up and get ready for work. The fan that she keeps running to use as white noise so the crickets don't keep her awake. She sleeps like a log. Shouldn't matter about the crickets.

I miss the little green car that used to be parked on the curb in front of the house, miss seeing it when I leave for work in the morning and miss seeing it when I come home after work. Surely I must be the most lonesome empty nester on the face of God's green earh. Now I know just how Hank Williams Jr. must have felt when he sang "I'm so lonesome I could cry." Oh come on. Can't you get any more pathetic than that?

Last night I talked to her on the phone and she said she was going someplace with her new boyfriend. I don't like her new boyfriend. Okay, I've never met her new boyfriend. But I'm sure he is all wrong for her. She should let me pick out a nice young man for her, or bettter yet, pick out a nice man for her in about 10 years. That way she'll have ample time to fulfill all those dreams before she gets settled in with my grandchildren. Woah! Grandchildren?

09-20-2006, 08:43 AM
Wow - this was wierd... I am back on my old PC having lost the new laptop to a nuclear meltdown less than two weeks after I got it - and typing on this keyboard just isnt the same anymore ... Tons of mistakes - thank God for Spellchek and may the Apple Gods return the laptop real soon... This is it.

Five minutes with a blank screen huh?> Let’s see what I can do with that. I think I will start by explaining my work habits. I work in a very tight and tiny space, but it’s home. I have aa window to my right and a bed to my left. I freeuently wirte wearing a tiara. I known that ma seem silly, but I have this long red hair that is always in the way and I have this cheap rhinestone tiara that holds my haari back and at the same time gives me this really cool sense of power. My blog is entiteled the Queen is A Muse(d) and that is hwo I usually feel when I write. I have my tiara on now. My desk is a raggedy bunch of assorted things that each have some kind of special meaning to me in my life – everything from a crystal world trade center to a Winnie the pooh. Oh yes, and a riding crop given to me by a very strange and wonderful person. There is al button that says “Because Im the Mom that’s why” and another that says Those who think they know everything just annoy those of us who do. And also a magic wand to go with the tiara – silver with a star.

09-21-2006, 02:03 AM
5 minutes eh? Now you are just waving a big juicy steak infront of the snapping hungry mouth of my OCD. How did you know I do everything in 5 minute incriments?
I didn't use to, I used to be quite normalish. Well I never had a showh-ome before, but what 22 year old is as domesticated as my houseproud mother? It's her fault that I'm obsessed with doing things in five minutes. Every time she came round to visit her grandson (she never comes round to see me anymore, just the son she never had) I'd notice her eyes looking at the dust settled on the tv, the toys pushed under the sofa and the unwashed ddinner dishes int he sink. Sometiems she would even offer to wash up, if she really wanted to make me feel inadequate.
"Sarah, just give me five minutes and I'll get these dishes out of your way."
"No no, it's ok, I always do them when Ashton goes to bed anyway." (a lie)
"Look, five minutes and then I'll stop. Anyone can do anything for five wee minutes!"

That phrase started to haunt me. Anyone can do anything for five wee minutes. It's only 5 minutes. Even if Ashton is whinging and wanting picked up, I can put up with it for five wee minutes while i finish sweeping the floor. Even if someone calls on the phone, I can just ignore it for five wee minutes and call them back.
So the egg timer in my kitchen became my best friend. I'd set it for five minutes and get busy. When the alarm went off after the minutes were up, I'd survey my acomplishments. It became addictive.
And then it became compulsive. If I started a task and didn't complete it in the five minutes, I'd panic. Become flustered and nervous. I'd have to start again and I'd have to get it right this time. Working faster and faster, sweating with the effort. At nights I would try and think of ways I could be more efficient. I'd write lists of the tasks i had to dothe next day, in five minute incriments.
I'd look at my watch constantly throughout the day. Every five minutes at least. "This is what I've done in hte last five minutes....right, I'll do even more now!" And what would happen if I forgot to look at my watch? Or something took longer that 5 minutes to complete? Weirdly enough I don't even think that far ahead. I don't know what the big deal is, I mean, Its notas if anything terrible will happen. But just to be on the safe side.....

I am so embarrassed to post this. It took me 5 minutes exactly! lol. Haven't checked for typos or spelling or anything, although if you know what a perfectionist I can be, you will know how difficult this is for me!


btw, I am not actually that bad with the OCD thing!

10-02-2006, 10:38 AM
. I got so much work done this weekend and then i was stuck so i came here because it really helps when you can't uber-edit as you write.

No way! He said buckle up buttercup? The small group out on the terrace laughed two even slid part way out of their seats.
“Dude you just pulled a woman 2 miles through Mexican thorn brush and you called her buttercup.!?” An unbelievable amount of blond ringlets were sprouting out of the young mans head, and the hand that reached up to push the unruly mop back was tan. He spent a lot of time outdoors that much was apparent. In fact, all those present appeared happy and healthy.

'Fat and sassy if you ask me' thought kat to herself , leaning against the railing lining the balcony steps leading down to the small gathering basking in the late evening glow all reflected water and shadows everyone looked great and had the natural highlights from the sun in their hair . bare shoulders were bronzed and chheks were rosy, next to noses white, down to the last person on the deck. they all had on the beach uniform of the caribean. Swimsuits, some covered by cut-offs some with towels and a scattered few were wearing tank tops. Nobody wore shoes but if the big pile by the back door was any indication flip flops were de riguer. She felt her thraot tighten and shook her head a little, now was not the time to get emotional, Marty had sent her an extremely private personal invitation to this little get together and the sooner she knew why the better
"Hey everybody am I late?" gthe

10-02-2006, 05:45 PM
(this was an attempt to jump start a scene I wasn't sure what to do with from my WIP. not bad, I think.)

Eric sensed his hsame. it was the look of a man beaten. He sat silently, still, watching Oliver attempt to mask hisregret and embarrassment. Eric watched as he tried to settle the twitching hand that held the beer mug handle. He was sorry for him, but still could not release the books to him. Eric held them tightly on the bar in front of him. Intermittently squeezing them with his fingers, feeling that as he would pass them to Oliver, this sad man to his left, that he was letting go of his father forever.
Oliver and Daniel existed for Eric, on those pages. This man, this older, beaten and damaged man was not that Oliver. He would take that Oliver, already had, and with him, take Daniel. They would be lost to him, and their lessons. And Ernest? would he disappear too? eric hoped not, but knew it was true. THe magic of the ride and reading would seep away in a trickle. He would get back home and be the exact same person he was before. And it would start as soon as Oliver Crowe took the books. Eric squeezed them again.

John Ravenscroft
10-25-2006, 10:48 PM
I'd forgotten all about this!

I'm delighted to see it's been so useful - and the responses are great.

12-21-2006, 08:19 PM
I'll give it a go.

01-15-2007, 01:40 PM
I could never be a theif. I am not quiet. 3:30 aM, and I am awake, eager to charge my creative battery and begin writing in the quiet dark hours before dawn. I come in search of words, to AW, and realize my novel awaits, but first, coffee. I close the children's befroom door, pad down the hall to beg assistance of caffeine, fumble for the filter, clink the carafe on the faucet, step on the Thomas the Tank Engine flash light and cringe as it chugs and hisses. HOld my breath and thank the morning gods that it does not also blow it's whistle. Coffee has been started, not without its clinks and clanks, open the closet to throw away a paper towel that had just soaked the water I'd spilled, and the door whirrs and whines. Coffee pot chugs along; perking. Perking is uiet enough activity but does it have to gurgle and moan? I decided toast was the wrong alternative one it was too late, toast popping up and again praying to the gods of solitude and writer's peace as I open the utensil drawer for a knife, the fridge for butter, the cabinet for a paper plate. each time a noise, none of them without a cringe as I await the noise that whill wake a child and arrest me to motherhood faster than I can type the words I woke to write.

01-19-2007, 03:23 AM
My turn...5 minutes of black screen...here you go:

Five minutes of blind typing, withouth thinking about what is being said. This is lik actually typing out the stuff I think about in my head. Yeah…boring…nothing of import. Must think of something brilliant to wow people with.


More thinking.

More thinking.

Fine. Nothing brilliant.

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Kacie ad unbeknowest to everyone in her family she was actually the Empress of Jupitor. Yes, many scientist believe that Jupiter is a gaseous planet that is not able to hold life, but the people who live there. They know better. When KC was born there was a lot of rejoincing on the planet for now they had a leader to guide them in their daily lives. They hoped that she would be a good, wise leader. The people from Jupiter were known to be eternal optimist, but this didn’t stop the nagging worry that the new Empress would be a tyrant.

One day, KC was ready to go and visit her people. She rocked in her crib five times then turned the secret knob, and poof she was off to Jupiter. KC liked watching the stars and the dark sky. It is often thought, by scientists, that outer space (being in) withought a suite would cause one to die instantly. This is only true if you weren’t born with the gene that would allow you to live in outerspace without a suit. As most people don’t have the opportunity to test this theory – it is pretty muchan unknown fact. There is also another fact, thought to be anyhow by scientists, that baby’s are generally ignorant humans that need to be taught things every step of the way. This is also untrue. Sure for the first few months of their lives they have to be toted around by their parents and fed, but the whole not knowing how to speak or do things…well, they can speak, but adults are to stupid to learn their language, so babies have to learn theirs. A sorry lot aduls are.

(I have NO shame posting garbage like this *chuckles*)

01-24-2007, 11:53 PM
Bitterness of black coffee on my tongue and the click of keys should be enough to carry me through the next chapter. The crisp air of the end of January chills the window and from the inside to see it is near to feeling it.
the book calls me, and a muse eager to assist taps on my brain begging to be let loose on the white of unwritten pages. The thoughts, escaping faster than they can be captured in the form of letters on a screen. I feel them fleeting - escaping my grasp and I ask them to please wait. Please wait until there is more time. time that I will not look over my shoulder because the world bussles around me. Time to focus on the words.
Another sip of coffee, growing cooler, and my fingers poised over keys, one with a spring loose and chirping each time it is hit. boing, annoying. I look outside and think that a sidewalk cafe with a carafe of white wine, a notebook, and a dirty stained pinkyfinger from running it over the page of letters is where I would love to be, and maybe there, the white will fill with the symbols that are stories I long to tell.

09-20-2007, 04:47 AM
Callous. His hands touch the backs of his young children. In the depe dark of dawn, he finds the inhale exhale rhythm steels his resolve for aother long day's work. Later that day, the hard hands lift stone, gripping, pulling each piece of a wall into perfection. He is a craftsman, his masterpiece, the stone retainer he leans against as the hand swipes his face of the day's grime. A job well done, he returns home. His hands at play. Gentle prods, games, baseball, wrestling. He finds himself on the floor with young sons, rolling, gently moving. Different than the precision of stone, he places them gently before he tickles. The calloused fingers don't feel them. Hardened from the work.
At night he finds my hip. The rough fingers caress. He does it for me, so I feel his touch. the fingertips and palms are worn and tired, beaten and thickened. Because he shows love, he can't feel it in his hands. Because he does for us, because he is for us, the thought of the touch carries the feel of the touch, to steel the resolve, to prove his love, in the dawn's darkness awaiting him tomorrow.

10-03-2007, 10:46 PM
Five minutes of blind typing. Wow. I… have nothing to say. My brain is empty. There’s only thoughts of brownies. Warm, chocolaty brownies. I shouldn’t have made them. I couldn’t help it though.

Man. My internal editor is about to have a coronary. Seriously. No fixing the typos? No fixing sentences or thoughts? Rearranging thoughts, that is.

Oh, shut up!! Get out of my head!!

Ophelia!@!! Get this guy out of my head!! Please!! Max? Gabriel? Mikhael? Anyone/ Pleas?

Five minutes is a long time. Why isn’t that timer going off yet? Meh. Did I start it? I wonder if I even started it. It’d be just like me to NOT start it. That’s too damned funny. Me sitting here typihg away with a black monitor and no timer set to go off. This could be… interesting. Eventually the characters in my head will get board and take over and then I’ll be able to get some real writing done. Not that what I do is anything close to REAL writing… well, it is in the sense that I WRITE it, but not, you know, on a professional level or anything close to that.

When did I forget how to type? This is… going to be bad. Real bad. So why am I giggling?

Hey. Is that five minutes up yet? The brownies are just about ready to come out of the oven. I can smell them. Distracting much?

10-15-2007, 07:05 AM
Trish’s marriage is dead. Everything has been done, except to call the coroner. Her husband Owen is aloof about everything. And doesn’t see that she hurs. He is the love of her life. What happened to the passion, the hours and hours in bed. The only time Owen pays attention to her now is when any other man takes an interest in her.

This bothers Trish. All she wants if for him to love her the way she is. Nothing else. She longs for a partner that is as excited about life. She loves doing things and seeing people. Owen loves being a pa[otatoe on the couch.

Owen suffers from depression. Trish suffers form excitement. What a match.

The ying and the tang. D opposits attract or do they attack.

Typos and all hope you can figure it out...

01-16-2008, 11:00 PM
The box with the photos sits under the bed. It has a voice that echos through the house. It calls to her.. Nora tells it to shut up. The box with the photos has a layer of dust on it's carbord lid. Nike is barely legible with the thick layer it has collected over the years. But its voice is still strong. Loud. When Nora goes to bed at night he hears it like a kettle drum, pounding in her ears. She hears it like roll of thunder. NORA! NORA! Find me, it begs.
The box of pictures under the bed taunts her. As Nora goes about her day, it plays tricks. When she drops an earring, it tells her. "look under the bed." She says no.
When she gets lonely in teases her, "all you have to do is look here. I'll take your longliness away." She doesn't.
The madness of it all makes her shiver and quake. Shiver and quake. Nora. Quiver and shiver and shake. It laughs.
But she won't look in the box. No now. Probably not ever. The last time she did, she saw him. The last time she did, she cried. The last time she opened that lid and dug out that history still ripe and glowing, she puked. If it hand't been for the accident., the argument, the police. the pictures wouldn't even be there. If it hadn't been, she wouldn't be tal doing her best to avoid the voice of a box under the bed.

eta: I didn't change or fix anything I just wanted to comment that I think I'm going to use this for a poem or maybe a short story.