Tag Archives: one month

750 Words About 750 Words

I made a 2015 resolution to write more. “Write more” has been a vague goal for the past few years. I wrote more in 2014 than I had in years past, but it still wasn’t enough. I wanted to write every day. I needed to make a commitment and take action.

I started the year by signing up for One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. Every day for the month of January they sent me a writing prompt. The prompts were great and I started writing, every other day. And sometimes every third day. By the end of January I had written about 13 times. Still not enough.

I kept at it and whittled the list of remaining prompts down, but I needed more motivation. I wasn’t reaching my goal. One of the resources listed on One Month was 750 Words. I clicked and found myself challenged to write 750 words a day, every single day. Ok, I can do this. Sign me up now.

I started mid-February and my first order of business was to crush the remaining One Month prompts. I could write about anything I want. There were no rules. Just 750 words.

It’s been 57 days since I started and I haven’t missed a day yet. I’ve written poems, fiction, non-fiction, jokes, scripts, mantras and more. I don’t plan it. I just sit and write. It has been cathartic to spew three pages of my random ruminations every single day. It clears out my head to allow me to process my thoughts and focus on what is important.

Another goal for this year was increased focus. To get there I needed to simplify. I reduced my insatiable need for media input, unsubscribed from countless newsletters, slashed my RSS feeds and took a few steps back from several social media platforms. I couldn’t write if I was always reading. Over the last several weeks I have barely watched TV. My time has been focused on writing and reading real books.

Initially I hoped to use my 750 words to blog more, but I found that most of my writing was often about making sense of my day. Most days it is just a work in progress and not worth publication. It is my workshop. I can hammer out ideas and get to the essence of what’s happening. Somewhere in each of those 750 word entries, however, there is a solid future blog post.

For March I committed to writing every single day. I made it. Thirty one days. 24,000 words.

What did I learn?

Writing is hard. Good writing can be painstaking. There are a lot of ideas that sound amazing until you try to write them down. What seems so groundbreaking in your head seems pretty trite on paper. It requires focus, planning and a bit of inspiration.

Writing is work. The words don’t always flow, but you must keep going. Sit down. Pen in hand. Ass in chair. Words on paper. The point is to write. Don’t stop. Don’t check email. Don’t check Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or text messages. Keep writing. It will take shape. Words will come.

Writing is liberating. I have written out dark memories, deep fears and painful thoughts. Once on paper they just aren’t very scary. As a matter of fact they seem minor and insignificant. I put them down on paper and the process allowed me to let them go.

Writing is scary. It seems so simple, but once you start pouring your heart into it the work gets tough. I wrote about some personal things and changed to third person just so I could be more honest about what happened. I could write it about someone as if it were else but not myself.

I have published three pieces of fiction on my blog. This is a first for me. The pieces were fun to write and vaguely fun to read so I published them. Big risk, but I got some good feedback. Or maybe kind feedback. It doesn’t matter. I did it and I am proud of it.

I will never be a gifted writer. I am a solid, persuasive writer. Occasionally I get lucky and write something above my weight class. Real writing is a gift. You don’t see it often. But when you do it is breathtaking. That is not my ability.

I will keep writing. 750 words a day, every day. And I will focus on publishing more. One day I may prove myself wrong. Maybe I do have a gift. I just need to keep writing until I get there.

 

Fridgy the Gombor

This is another piece from One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. The assignment was to create a monster. I also tried to write it in the voice of my crazy, hilarious daughter. Again, it’s a bit of a risk to share my attempts at writing fiction, but I want to share it and see what people think. Thank you.

Golem

Fridgy is big, fat and gentle. Or at least mostly gentle. When I say mostly gentle I mean he hasn’t killed anyone. This week.

Fridgy likes ketchup. Big bottles of red ketchup. Not so much with the catsup. Can anyone tell me what exactly is catsup? But back to the ketchup. Fridgy pours ketchup all over his food. Food becomes a ketchup vehicle for Fridgy. Like a pickup truck filled with ketchup. Slurp. You can’t imagine how much he likes ketchup. Especially on people.

But I did say he hadn’t killed anyone. This week. Last week, hmm. Let’s talk about that in a bit.

First you must forgive me. I got ahead of myself. Let me tell you more about Fridgy. Fridgy is a Gombor. Not your typical Gombor, all bad manners and farts and burps and bits of people stuck between the teeth. No, Fridgy farts and burps a bit, but he flosses and knows not to do his business in the house. Well, he knows not to, but it has happened. That’s why I have that shovel. And that bucket.

So I said he wasn’t your typical Gombor. Nope. Fridgy used to be a plain old, regulation, run of the mill Gombor, hiding under beds and in closets and in nightmares and old abandoned houses. He burped, farted and ate skunks and squirrels and scared old people and kids for fun. Naps. Snacks. Pranks. Naps and Snacks. Snacks and pranks. Pranks and naps.

But he stepped on my skateboard.

Thump!

Huh? Well, maybe not huh, but I don’t think there is a word for what went through my head when I felt the weight. Or was it the smell. The problem is Gombors are heavy. And they stink. Like worse than poop stink. So a loss for words isn’t really right. It was a can’t even before we couldn’t even.

And I couldn’t even. Breathe. Scream. Move. But I could punch. And I did.

Gombors could be confused for Golems. Big. Brown. Scary. Until you punch them. Golems don’t cry. Gombors do. Bigs tears and lots of snot.

Which is why I can say murderous and gentle. Or murderously gentle. Gently murderous? An oxymoron of soft, damp Gombor with a big goose egg on his head on my bed. Because of the skateboard.

Or because Gombors can’t skate. Or at least not very well. They are good at stepping on skateboards. And good at achieving a high rate of speed. And good at stopping. Abruptly. Headfirst. Just bad at not hitting their head and getting knocked out and winding up on top of me. Waiting to get punched. In the head. By me.

And they are good at eating old ladies. But would that be good or bad? Bad for old ladies. Good for Gombors. And people who sell ketchup. And tomato farmers. Unless they are old ladies.

So Fridgy cried, but he wasn’t named Fridgy then. That came later. Before the old lady and after the punch.

So using Kleenex is not a thing Gombors do well either. Or using them the right way. They are good at using them the wrong way. And I don’t think the box shows the right way and Gombors can’t read. Unless it says catsup. So never give a crying Gombor Kleenex.

And the old lady was kind of an accident. Gombors like to eat. I mean really eat. Like eat the guys who eat the hot dogs for the world championship eat. Or a six pack of biggest losers eat. So one old lady was like a toothpick. A toothpick with ketchup. And she was kind of dead anyway. From the scaring and the screaming and the falling down and the Gombors get hungry and some stuff happened.

But I called him Fridgy because he ate one. Not an old lady. A fridge. My fridge. Ice cube trays, the box of baking soda that doesn’t absorb odors and that jar of quince jelly that has been in the family since the gift basket of 1987. One bite. One crunchy  freon filled bite.

This week has been murder free. 7 days since our last on the job injury. No old ladies have been harmed in the making of this week. There was a raccoon. And a feral cat. A Christmas wreath. And some nachos. Well, more like a Taco Bell. But there were nachos inside.

And now I am stuck. With a Gombor. A big, fat and gentle Gombor. Good Gombor. Down Fridgy. Down boy. No, I don’t have any nachos. Fridgy, is that ketchup on my arm? Fridgy? FRIDGY!?!?

Home Run

It’s been a very long time since I’ve posted, but not because I haven’t been writing. After a break for a couple of months I began to write every day. I started with One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. Then I signed up for 750 Words. It’s simple. Write 750 words every day. Most of this writing has been stream of consciousness blathering and daily diary exercises. However, a few of the One Month assignments allowed me to write some fiction. The following started with an assignment to look into a book and use the first sentence I read. The opening line in this piece is from To Kill a Mockingbird. The rest is pure fiction with little basis in reality. It’s a bit of a risk to share my writing, but I want to share it and see what people think. Be gentle and enjoy! Thank you.

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Our father turned around and looked up. The baseball hit him right in the forehead, knocking his glasses off his head. He grunted slightly and sat perfectly down on his ass in the freshly-mowed grass. The silence was frighteningly loud. It was cartoonish, comical and a little bit scary.

Our dad hated the next door neighbors, so we followed suit out of respect for dad and hated the kids, too. My father had unilaterally appointed himself head of the neighborhood watch and didn’t like the way they let their grass grow a little too long. Their house needed paint and there was moss on the roof. They yelled outside a lot and honked the horn while waiting in the driveway. Rules were made to be followed and, in my father’s highly opinionated opinion, these folks were grossly negligent

My father was at war with these particular neighbors, a cold war to be sure, but a war. His angry stare and barely perceptible flinch at any sign of noise or motion from their side of the fence was a dead giveaway. It was more than a stare. It was a nuclear grade glare, a battle grimace, a napalm frown and an icy burn all frosted with a nasty meringue of Catholic disapproval.

It seemed highly unlikely he would ever act on this pent up volcano of seething rage. Nope. He nursed that anger like a baby. Whenever he was outside his posture and demeanor changed. He was on high alert, constantly assessing the clear and present danger, ready to strike. He was “get off my lawn” in its purest form.

This went on for years. He would rarely discuss his fury about the neighbors, but a few random comments and the omnipresent thousand yard glare made it abundantly clear. The people next door were to be feared, mistrusted and hated. My father thrived on his disapproval of anyone who was the slightest bit different. It wasn’t about race or gender. It was a silent moral crusade against anyone who broke rules or defied conventions. Rules were everything. The law was absolute.

Also, my father hated children. One thing he hated more than children was loud, ill-behaved children. The neighbor kids epitomized the kind of kids he hated the most. Sassy, loud, crude and all fuck you in torn jeans and bad attitude.

And when the baseball hit, things changed. Not slow, barely perceptible change. It was instant, terrifying change.

The neighbor kids were dicking around, throwing the ball against the rotting cedar fence between the yards. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Each hit tensed my father further and further. A nail to the head. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Finally he yelled that they’d better knock it off.

A giggle and a snort from the other side of the fence.

Silence. Nobody moved.

Then a sneering fuck you followed by suppressed laughter.

Our father turned around and looked up. Bam!

My father rose from the grass, wiped his nose, grabbed the baseball and marched to the fence. With one swift kick he crushed two rotting cedar planks without a hitch in his step. He ducked down and walked into the adjoining yard. The kids looked up blubbering and scared.

I remember his glasses lying abandoned on the lawn.

He glared. Silence.

He looked at the ball, looked at the kids, looked at the house. He wound up and tossed the ball through a large bay window. The smash of the glass was an explosion years in the making. Nobody breathed. Silence.

“Explain that to your fucking parents you little shitbags.”

He walked back through the fence, walked into the kitchen and opened two beers with a smile.