Prompt: Arguing with yourself—or someone else—or, writing conflict or emotion

Have you ever faced a difficult decision? Maybe one where you didn’t like your choices? Or you didn’t like the choice it seemed like you *should* make? It’s agonizing! Thought, time, and energy consuming. If you’re sharing your indecision with friends or family, it’s likely all you talk about. It can also be very emotional—if it were an easy decision, it probably wouldn’t take you such a long time to make.

One thing I sometimes do is argue with myself, trying to lay out all the points and figure out my course of action. I don’t always keep this silently in my head, but I usually refrain from having such conversations with myself when others are present.

How about a disagreement, or a fight, with someone else? Whether the person or the issue is dear to your heart, that can also be stressful and consuming. How do you feel physically? Does your heart pound? Do your temples feel tight? Do you get a headache behind your eye, or your ear?

Or maybe it gets your blood pumping and you feel energized? Charges, excited, vibrant? Do you feel energy rushing through your fingers? Like you’ve got a little buzz? Do you thrive, not feeling like it’s conflict to be avoided, but animated debate to be relished?

I recently dealt with a strong personal grief. I blogged about it in August, and it is the root of my closing lines about Namaste and my personal credo of Love More. And in the middle of it, I wrote about how I felt—the physical effects of crying, the ache in my chest, the tumultuous emotions of grief, anger, guilt, love. And I’m going to incorporate some of what I wrote in my novel WIP, as some of my characters face old loss and new.

At first I felt a little…odd…about that. Like I was “using” the experience in a bad way. But I decided three things: 1) I will use it in honor and memory of family and friends gone from my life; 2) I accept the gift of powerful experience and depth of emotion with gratitude; and 3) it will make my writing all the more powerful, because it will *feel* real to anyone who has experienced similar emotion.

As your characters deal with conflict – whether it’s internal or external – remember to share with your reader the emotions that compel them to make the choices they make, to fight, to change, to live their lives.

And if you can write about how that really feels for yourself, then you may find some powerful material to incorporate into your writing that will connect your readers and draw them deeper into your story.

So, my challenge to you is to think of an emotional experience that you’ve *recently* had. Or consciously capture the next one. Think about your conscious thoughts, your rational self, your physical responses, your emotions. Write it all out – slapdash, messy, stream-of-consciousness is fine. Get it all out on paper. Maybe you need to set it aside for a little bit, until you’ve handled the situation. Come back and take a look. Can you pull out elements that will give depth to one of your current characters? Or tuck it away, and see if some future story doesn’t present a situation where you think of this emotional exercise, et voila.

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And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

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Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	25 minutes
November word count	2050

Prompt: Tabula Rasa

I’m sitting at my desk when I hear the soft chime announcing someone entering the chapel. As I stand and run my fingers through my short hair, I think it must be someone who wants – or needs – counseling. I barely glance down at my desk as I step around it. There’s nothing there. What was I just doing?

I push open the heavy wooden door and jangle the bell hanging from the iron handle. A quick memory of a startled woman, spilling wax on her hand. Then it’s gone. Another woman, younger, sits in the third pew, leaning her elbows on the pew in front of her, resting her forehead against her clasped hands. A pose I know all too well.

I pick up a short stack of hymnals and clear my throat as I cross the trancept in front of her. When she looks up, I smile. Holding up a hymnal, I ask, “Is there one in your pew?”

It helps to give them something to do. She looks down, then nods. I cross to the other aisle of pews and set the hymnals down on the first row. Casually sitting across from her, I admire the stained glass window behind the altar, a magnificent spread of angel wings. Waving my hand toward it, I say, “It always makes me feel as if they could reach out and embrace me at any moment.”

They don’t usually want to talk so much as they want to know that they’re not alone. And suddenly I know why she’s here. With the knowledge, a memory I didn’t have a moment ago. “My mother used to hug me like that when I was a child. She died of cancer when I was fourteen. I was so angry with her for being sick, for leaving me, I didn’t see her that last day. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could feel her arms around me once again.”

I glance over, and tears are running down her face, unnoticed. She nods and swallows. I continue. “I know I’m supposed to imagine those are God’s arms, God’s wings, or one of his great angels. But I’ll tell you the truth.” I turned to face her and leaned forward as I confided, “It’s not God’s angel that reaches out to me up there. It’s my mother, even though I know she’s one of God’s angels now.”

She dropped her chin and looked away, nodding again. I pulled a small tissue pack out of my coat pocket and held it out to her. She tugged loose a tissue and pressed it against her eyes and cheeks.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say gently. She doesn’t speak, only nods again. I stand and rest a hand on her shoulder for a moment. “Stay as long as you like,” I encourage her. Then I cross the trancept once more and retreat into my study…

Note: This didn’t come out quite like I wanted it too. I think I’ll give it another try tomorrow from a different POV and see if that better conveys my mental image!

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And so, with a loving heart, I offer you

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love:
The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes
the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini
September word count	6,285

Prompt: Adrift

I am still adrift. Awash on the waves, stalled on a windless sea.

Note: Like my last post, this is one of the most personal of this blog. I hope you’ll share it, and maybe find some kernel of value in it. But if you prefer, just consider the prompt, and perhaps try your hand at stream-of-consciousness writing, which I described and modeled in the previous post. If you’d like, please feel free to post some or all of what you write in a comment here.

Eight nights ago, the police stopped a known drug dealer. He sped away and soon was racing at 120 miles per hour when he crashed into Tammy White, my best friend’s other bestie for more than 20 years. She died en route to the hospital.

We mourn. Grieve. Fear for her grown son, drowning in shock, loss, emotion. Begin to deal with the aftermath of a life cut short. Think What if it were me? Grieve. Talk about Kubler-Ross. Rage at the police. Wonder who was protecting and serving Tammy White? Mourn.

And the thing is, while I mourn for Tammy, and her life lost so senselessly and shockingly, it’s the living I truly grieve for. Her son. My friend. Left with a gaping hole, a wound, in their lives, their hearts, their souls. Left to pick up the pieces of their own lives, and they wrap up the remnants of hers.

There’s something else. Something that feels selfish. What if it were me? Not only, Who would mourn me? But What have I done with my life? What will be my legacy? And, at least a passing nod to What would the poor person think who had to go through All My Stuff?

I learned years ago, as my family dealt with my grandparents’ deaths, that all the trivia of daily life gets mixed up with the profound, the sacred, the profane. Moments etched in memory. My grandfather kissing my hands goodbye for the last time. Practicing in the mirror saying that he died, because I kept bursting into tears while trying to find a dogsitter the night before Thanksgiving, because I’d planned to take her to my parents, and we all spent Thanksgiving at a hotel instead. When my other grandfather died, one of my most treasured memories from the wake is all the women who told me how he delivered their children, cared for their families, came to their homes in the middle of the night when their husband had a heart attack. The irony—perhaps the beauty—of death is how it brings together the living.

My strongest memories of Tammy are a trip I took with her and my friend, a working trip for them to Savannah and Charleston. There were many bumps on the road, including some major personal and professional stress for them, and during a difficult time in my own life. But what I remember is laughing. Shaking our heads over hotel mismanagement, going out for drinks and dinner to celebrate success, sitting in hot tubs, relaxing, talking about children, partners, dreams. Celebrating life. Not big, not grandiose, just…life.

But in this past week, I feel like the crash—or the phone call—severed my mooring ties. I can’t seem to find my way, to gather forward momentum, to move on. My energy goes, as it usually does, to others: my daughter, my friends, my work. When I sit in quiet, I deflate, my shoulders curling forward, hands on my belly, where my stress centers in sharp pain, my head drooping. A lump. An unenergetic, uncreative lump.

I’m not saying this to ask for sympathy, though people have been very kind to share it. It’s the sharing, really. Like I said in my last post, maybe someone will read this and recognize some of what they themselves are going through and feel less alone. I share, because even in my grief, I recognize that I can let my light shine, and someone might see it, and it might strengthen their own light, however dimmed by their own burdens. Too often we hide it all inside—even sharing this here, I have hidden most of this from my daily interactions with people—and I believe it hurts us, kills us to do so. What we hold inside is like the Spartan soldier’s fox, eating us alive.

And it’s not that I’m not thinking about writing. I have, actually, had some ideas about my book, of which I’ve managed to write maybe 100 words. I took a rejection of a short story square on the chin, flailed for awhile, then thought of another opportunity and turned it back around the same night. I’m actually rather proud of that.

Two things that have suffered the most: my vision and plans for this blog, and my efforts for ConTemporal, both wrapping up this year, and planning for next year. When I think about *doing*, that inertia overwhelms me, and all I can do is… “Float, just float,” like Claire Danes advises Holly Hunter in Home for the Holidays.

“Sorrow floats”, says John Irving in Hotel New Hampshire.

And “hope floats”, as Sandra Bullock learns in Hope Floats.

But as Chuck Noland found in Cast Away, and Pi Patel found in Life of Pi, even when you float adrift on the ocean, eventually the currents and tides will bring you ashore. Even with death, Life goes on.

                                       

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love: The light of the universe that shines within me recognizes the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle, Eggs
Music (movie) Playing	Hayao Miyazaki, Whispers of the Heart
Time writing	~1 hour
August word count	1990

Prompt: Use Meditative Journaling, or “Stream of Consciousness”, perhaps to write about loss or grief

You may recall that during ConGregate in Winston Salem last month, I had the good fortune to spend time with Sharon Stogner of I Smell Sheep, the wonderful paranormal romance review site. Sharon gave me a lot of ideas for branding and building this prompt blog, some of which I have already begun to implement. I plan to do more in August, so I hope you’ll keep coming back to see more content and resources being added.

I am also going to buckle down and focus my writing efforts on finishing my novel. I know, I know, I’ve been saying that…and saying that…and saying that.

New Goal: Complete First Draft by DragonCon.

The thing is, today is August 5^th, and I have neither posted in the blog nor written a word yet this month. Why, you may ask? Well, that’s the hard part. Life. Loss. Death.

A friend – one of my dearest friends’ lifelong besties – was killed in a car wreck on Friday night. I’m still feeling the shock, the grief, the anger. And sometimes –when I am out and about living the life that goes on no matter what has happened – I think I can write about that and maybe even channel it into some of my story, which includes loss and grief and anger. And perhaps I will. But when I am home and quiet, I haven’t yet gathered the strength and energy to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, until tonight.

I still feel the shock, the grief, the anger, wrapped around me, tugging at my limbs, pushing against my chest, my forehead, behind my eyes. I’m going to try to write about it. Is that self serving? If you think so. I think it might be healing. And honoring my friend, to explore my feelings deeply and honestly, and ultimately to share them in some way. And maybe someone will read the scenes I write someday and say “Yes, that’s how *I* feel!” And they won’t feel alone in whatever they’re going through. And I’ll keep on living, and they’ll keep on living, and we will have shared something, even if we never meet. Life is interconnected in all kinds of ways we can never really know, perceive, or understand.

How can I channel my intense, personal feelings into something I might use in my story? I’m going to use meditative journaling, which is a kind of “stream of consciousness” or "free writing". If you’ve never done it, I encourage you to give it a try. The idea is to start writing (and literally using pen and paper, but with experience, a keyboard works fine too), and keep writing, no matter what. If you don’t know what to say, you write that. So it may look something like this:

Meditative journaling prompt: Swimming

Swimming. I love the water. I’m a “Cancer”, a water baby. My daughter, a Pisces, is too. I love showers, baths, pools, the ocean, rivers, rain, waterfalls. I have stories for every one of these things. Memories. The feel of cold water in the kitchen sink, soap bubbles lathering my hands. Hot water, spraying dishes clean, scrubbing them, rinsing them. When I heard about Tammy and waited for a friend who came to comfort me, I washed my crockpot, scrubbing it over and over, running my fingers over the cersmic until it was clean and smooth once more.

The cascade of water in the shower, pulling through my hair, pulling my head back. Floating in the pool, leaning my head back in the water, feeling small waves wash up against my sides, wash over me. Hearing people, planes, noises from above. Holding my breath and diving under. A deep breath, a deeper dive. Into the crystal blue water at Bimini. Dolphins, nurse sharks, spiny lobsters, barracuda, remora…but that’s another story. Water. Water. What to say? Is there a story here? Standing in the pool, moving through physical therapy exercises. Feeling the swish of the water as I lift my leg, the push of muscles and the resistance they don’t feel in air. The flow. Like dancing. I love bobbing up and down, standing in second and tilting my feet en pointe. More graceful than I ever was on a ballet studio floor. Water. Ease. Grace. Flow. Beauty…

Give it a try. It may surprise you. You see in my example, I moved from swimming to water without consciously realizing it. Maybe nothing interesting will come of it. Maybe you’ll be inspired with a scene or story idea. Maybe you’ll discover something you weren’t consciously thinking about. And if you write about loss or grief, maybe you’ll find some peace.

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love: The light of the universe that shines within me bows to the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Music Playing	Delta Rae, “Morning Comes”
Time writing
August word count

Prompt: Finding faith, or Are all gods the same god?

*Inspired by the 1989 testimony of a missionary returning from two years in Haiti

I grew up the Church. My earliest memories are listening to my mother lead the choir. She had a voice that could carry the whole congregation right to heaven. The Lord called me to testify when I was seven years old, and by the time I was ten, I was the preacher’s right hand.

I don’t say this to be boastful. I never felt the Devil’s pride in my love of the Lord, only joy and deep satisfaction when someone in the flock felt called to the Lord by my testimony.

In 1989, I first dreamed of Marie-Helene, and when I woke, I told my mother I was going to do missionary work in Haiti. I didn’t mention that I was going to find the woman of my dreams.

Young and naïve, I signed up for a missionary trip departing the week after my college semester ended. In the flurry of preparations, it somehow never entered my mind that I should begin to learn even some rudimentary French. It wasn’t until I was in the airport and the announcements were all made in English and then French that I felt a whisper of unease. By the time we disembarked in Port-au-Prince, the announcements were in French first, and then English. That was the last English I heard for two years.

I never intended to stay with the missionary group. I knew I was being called elsewhere in Haiti, I just wasn’t sure where. I was counting on Marie-Helene to lead me there…

To be continued…

Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	~20 minutes, including research on Haitian history
May word count	7,830

Prompt: Consequences, or Life changes in an instant

I’ve had the same dream every night for the past 2,692 nights. Leaving the bar, high fives and fist bumps and chest hugs, grabbing the keys back from Alex. Swerving from the construction cones that veered in from the left. I never saw the car. Just felt the impact, heard the scream of metal, smelled the burning tires. Spinning, spinning, until my eyes focus on her face. Her forehead against the glass. Her eyes closed. No blood. She could be resting. Waiting. Sleeping.

But she’s not the one I think of when I’m awake. Sometime between the dream and waking, the baby cries. By the time they pulled me out of my car, there were sirens and staticky speakers. I had stared at the woman’s face until they peeled open my door, crumpled and frozen in place during my car’s determined effort to occupy the same space as hers. I didn’t hear the baby that night. I didn’t know about her until the first day in court.

When I’m asleep, I dream about her momma. When I’m awake, I think about her. All the things she won’t have that I did. After that night. My family abandoned me. I made her momma abandon her.

It’s not hard to stay sober in prison. I’m in AA just the same. I’m still trying to wrap my head around restitution. What can I ever do to make it right for that baby?

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Note:

I guess that’s all I’ve got tonight. A coworker had a shocking day – a childhood friend’s mother was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from work yesterday. And in the middle of thinking how awful for that family and friends, I can’t help thinking what it must be like for the person who has to live with that for the rest of their life.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Time writing	15 minutes
April word count	12,775