Rambling, Writing...Route 23?

Its that time again and there seems to be a problem. I have absolutely no clue what to blog about. Several ideas passed through my head, not bad ones either, but none of them seemed fitting. Or more aptly, none of them I really felt like writing. Which begs the question, what do you do when you absolutely have to write something, but don't feel like writing anything in particular? I, personally, will wing it. A lot can be said for just sitting down and writing the first thing that comes to mind, whether you like it or not is a moot point. Sometimes some of the best ideas tend to come from nowhere, ones that wouldn't have thought of in a million years had you tried.

Sandra in her post this week compared creative writing to a train (an excellent blog btw) saying that you need to follow the track laid before you in order to get to the end. It was an excellent analogy, however I tend to think of it more like a tree. I'll start with one general idea, or perhaps none at all, just the dirt; and all the sudden something miraculous springs forth. Building on that idea, that pops outta nowhere, I start to get little bits here and there that are all connected. That doesn't necessarily mean that I'm going to use them, but they are there all the same. For example, I may never put into a story or a book that my main characters ex-husband, at one point, had the same gym teacher in high-school as the current love interest, but I know it. So while the reader doesn't see that one tiny little twig in the upper corner of my tree, its there all the same, and it adds to the fullness of my tree. Not because the reader can or cannot see it, but because I, as the author, know it is there; which in turn makes me more in tune with my characters.

But I didn't mean to go off on an analogy of my own, I was trying to expound on my point. Even if nothing is coming to mind, sit down and write anyway. Write the first thing that comes to mind, even if its horribly cliche and go from there. Have fun with it! So all that came to mind was, jokingly, "On a dark and story night..." well, on a dark and stormy night what? Is a clown in full get up walking up to the spooky house filled with *gasp* millions of kids ready to attack? Laugh all you like, but even poorly written pieces are bringing you one step closer to your dream.

How about writing prompts? If you haven't tried this with a friend, I highly recommend it, they are super fun. Sandra and I have spent many hours playing with this. Have a friend write an opening paragraph or sentence, about whatever comes to mind, and you do the same. Now that you have that sentence or paragraph, swap, give them yours and you take theirs. Going off of whatever your friend has written, just write what comes naturally after that. Don't worry about spelling and grammar, you are writing for the joy of it, and perfecting your craft as you go!

And to prove what a big girl I am, instead of providing a video this time, I'm going to post one of the writing prompts I did. There is absolutely no editing done to this (so beware,) its short, and its horrible, but you know what? It was fun! Go and try this with a friend, I guarantee you'll enjoy it, or your money back!

CoD

(writing prompt given is in purple)

"Stages of Death"

I stared down into his eyes and realized, I'd never know what went on behind them. No matter how hard I tried. He was human no longer. Reaching down I gently caressed the blood splattered hair out of his open, sightless eyes.
He always did have such beautiful blue eyes, my Tommy. My Tommy. Never again will I get those sarcastic looks cast over his broad shoulder when I say something stupid. No more intense midnight conversations on politics while watching a brilliant light shining behind those baby blues. I'll never see those eyes burning with passion, hot enough to heat us both on the coldest of winter nights. I'll never see Tommy.

The tears that had been freely flowing down my face to splatter on Tommy's open chest cavity stopped suddenly. So suddenly in fact that they startled me out of my downward spiral of sadness. Almost as if some switch buried deep inside had given me my five minutes to grieve but had decided enough is enough. And I realized that I was no longer sad. I was no longer anything.

Standing up I stepped over the body of my late husband on the floor and walked to my dressing mirror. An antique oaken mirror that had been carved in the shape of tulips was the only legacy my mother had left me. The mirror stood there proudly, strong as the tree it was once carved from. And even splattered in the blood of my husband it called to me.

Ignoring the blood I surveyed my reflection. A dark brown dress stickily clung to my body. With spaces of white covered in pink flowers, showing in between the mass of congealed blood. No, the dress would never do. Looking at my face I reached up to flatten that one stray hair that never seems to stay in place behind my ear and in the process managed to smear blood along my cheek. Well, at least my hair stayed in place, thank god for hair spray. Miraculously it seemed with the exception of that stray piece no blood had gotten in my hair, of course it was brown too so it blended in better.
Last, I glanced at my eyes, they too were blue. And for some reason it didn't seem strange to me to see blue ice staring back at me from amid an island of molten lava. Fire and ice, how fitting.
Yes a shower was definitely needed.


Emerging from my closet after my shower I once again walked to my mirror. Carefully avoiding stepping in the majority of the blood drenched room.
Blue ice once again stared back at me but this time it was drowning amid smooth milk. My hair was now pulled into a tight marm style bun and a little black dress tightly encased my body. With the bottom of the dress barely reaching mid thigh the black leather boots matched perfectly, with only an inch between them. Turning away from the mirror I looked once more at my husband on the floor, and smiled for the first time in years.
Inside a very small part of me wailed and gnashed and beat at the cage I had her enclosed in, causing my smile to falter.
“Oh Sophie, don’t be such a fuddy duddy. He wouldn’t let us have fun, but now we can.”

The caged housewife curled in a tight ball deep inside, and wept oceans of tears that her body would never again shed.