Prompt # 9

Disguised.
I dreamt I coiuld change like a chameleon. Take on the color of my surroundings, blend in with the trees and hold a cocktail like it was my own make conversation that I stole from a red headed woman in Jackie O sunglasses sitting by the pool.

 I'm headed for the same suburbs I was transplanted to with no warning when I was in middle school.  I was a city girl and the transplant never took. I never had enough lunch money, drugs or the right clothes. I was a weird kid reflected  in the glare of the shiny newness of  black boots I still lust after; in the mirror of heavily dilated pupils in eyes that were perfectly made up. I disguised myself behind my guitar cigarettes not caring bare feet and books. Always books. I missed San Francisco as if it was my first love, or my real mother. I was always dreaming of the buildings in the financial district, the rattle and shake of the N Judah the smells and crowded bustle of Chinatown and the change in the air as I got closer and closer to ocean beach. My forever home.

~

She disguised herself with ( or by ) or
They never recognized her or
he was unusually disguised
or
I never was at home

Write from a different perspective or place. Write disguised or write familiar. Scramble your words or these to start. Change the pronouns hide something you or a character can find later.

If this prompt won't do it make your own way into today's writing.

No poem today. This is a test phone prompt to see if this will work when I'm gone. Tomorrow you will get a back up blog link in case there is poor cell coverage in Alamo. Last time I was there we didn't know what cell phones were.

I hope this day is good to your writing and to you.

Prompt # 8

Another mostly sleepless night. The sky is getting light and I'm typing fast to get this to you because it didn't go out last night. 

I'm thinking today about traveling, probably because I'm heading to the workshop you all have so kindly donated to help me get to and I'm not prepared. 

I dreamed about traveling with all of my things in my hands because I forgot to pack a bag. My worst "suitcase" was a large hefty bag with my stuff thrown in it when I was young and homeless and visiting a friend and unrequited love in Tarzana. Tarzana sounds make believe except that it wasn't. It was a  fancy suburb where she lived with her wealthy parents in a very fancy house. I never felt more awkward than I did standing outside that door with the fancy brass knocker, wearing my  white t-shirt, used army fatigues and thrift store boots clutching that ugly hefty bag to me and being unsure about whether I was supposed to use the fancy knocker or ring the door bell, or turn and run away. 

***

Imagine or remember a suitcase that belonged to you or to a character or an old suitcase that you or a character find. What does it look like? How does it open. Does it have a lock?  Metal hardware? What color is it? What is the sound as it opens. What's inside? See what comes to you in the contents. 

or 

I never got to go.... or she/he/ze/they never went....or  we always went.... You can negate the prompt, turn it upside down or shake it like an etch-a-sketch into something completely different. Just write where your writing wants to go.  

Write for 10 minutes or 15 or write for five. It doesn't matter. Just write. If you don't have a timer you can find them on the internet and they will count down and make a hideous noise when the time is up. Timers can be useful. So can just writing till the writing is done for now. 

***

Suitcase

Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping
his hands above his head in victory;
the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away.

There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding.
A hexagonal seal announces the defunct
"U.S. Trunk Company." The frame is wood—

big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather,
its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes.
"It's beautiful. Much too expensive," she told Dad,

and kissed him. The lining is pink, quilted
acetate. Three sides have pouches with elastic tops—
stretched out now, like old underwear.

I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres
when I was so little she didn't blush.
The right front corner has been punctured and crushed.

(I could have choked the baggage handler.)
The handle—blue plastic doorknocker—
is fringed with wrinkled tags from United, Delta,

U.S. Air (which crunched the hole, flying
the suitcase back from Houston). I'd gone there
to see Mom in the "home," and save some boyhood

relics before my sister gave them to Good Will.
"Take mine," Mom said, hearing my suitcase was full.
"I won't need luggage, the next place I go." 

Charles Harper Webb

I hope the day is good to you and your writing. 

Prompt # 7

I fell asleep early last night- surprised. I woke up every couple of hours. I'm glad to be done with sleep for the night. 

The sky is lighting up outside and I'm hurrying because this did not land in your box last night.

This morning I'm thinking about things I hear when I'm writing. Even when I'm inside- I hear noises from the street. I  hear voices in conversation, voices yelling, the sounds of awkward or happy lovemaking next door. Sometimes there are crazy sounds, shouts and whispers and then the birds. Little ones whose names I don't know who chirp surprisingly loudly. the crows that I always know though they make different noises depending on what they are saying, the geese that fly through and the seagulls. 

What do you hear this morning? Right now it's just a steady birdsong and the occasional rattle of the recycling bins from the street as the next person with a minors head lamp goes though it's contents. 

Is it quiet where you are? Do you write to music or in the silence you can find. What about the noises in your head- Do you hear the words forming? The characters talking? Is it smooth and quiet in your head or loud and raucous. 

****

She  jumped she when she heard the _____. or  When the sirens got closer I  _____ . Or the noise was persistent and ___________. or 

The sound of the birds __________. Laughing always _________ The sound of coffee being poured _________ or this is what ____ looks like. 

 I ate the sound of that old woman shouting and it was crunchy and hard to swallow..

Any sound- your character chewing, the thunder in the sky, the sound the refrigerator makes when the door opens and closes. Laughing sounds- animal sounds- 

Maybe it's a beautiful noise. What  does it feel like against your ear drum? In your head? Is it soft and smooth or jangly and rough. Does it crunch like a pickle or egg shells or a snail shell under an accidental foot? 

Have You Seen The Sound?

Have you seen the sound of dark, mean thunder?

Or maybe the sound of solid, crystal wind.

Have you seen the sound of beautiful, sweet voices?

Or maybe the sound of leaves, carefully falling to the ground.

Have you see the sounds?

If you haven't, 

This is what they look like.

If you look close to where the sounds are coming from

Little tiny, diamond - shaped crystals float away from the sound.

They look beautiful in the dark sky,

Rolling away from you.

Down the hill

They become...

Invisible.

By: Shaina 

this is a kid poem- fourth grader I think - 

Take a word or a sound or an image and write for as long as you feel like it. Or write about the absence of sound  Or paint today instead. Write words on the flesh of your upper arm or write poem words on your old favorite tennis shoes or sing loud or move your body. 

It's Sunday and you can rest if you want to or 

you can just write till this bit of writing is done or the timer goes off. 

I hope the day is good to you and your art. 

Prompt # 6

So it's been a long good day though I did very little writing. I'm working hard on trying to re-imagine my space into one that is peaceful and organized and ready to write in. It's a tiny space but I'm determined. Do you have a dedicated place to write in that you like? I'd love to hear where you write and what it looks like if you want to share. If you don't have a space you like to write in what could you do to make it feel like your writing home? 

***

 White Flowers

By Mary Oliver

Last night
in the fields
I lay down in the darkness
to think about death,
but instead I fell asleep,
as if in a vast and sloping room
filled with those white flowers
that open all summer,
sticky and untidy,
in the warm fields.
When I woke
the morning light was just slipping
in front of the stars,
and I was covered
with blossoms.
I don’t know
how it happened—
I don’t know
if my body went diving down
under the sugary vines
in some sleep-sharpened affinity
with the depths, or whether
that green energy
rose like a wave
and curled over me, claiming me
in its husky arms.
I pushed them away, but I didn’t rise.
Never in my life had I felt so plush,
or so slippery,
or so resplendently empty.
Never in my life
had I felt myself so near
that porous line
where my own body was done with
and the roots and the stems and the flowers
began.

So many good lines in this poem- what pops out at you- 

Never in my life... If my body went diving down...I don't know how it happened....

Pick one of these or any image or line or phrase that pulls you to it. And as always you can negate it- 

Always in her life... if her body flew up and up... He knows how it happened 

Or make one of your own- write about how your wall looks in the morning light, about the chip in your coffee cup about the way your hands look as you write. You can write truth or fiction or both at once. 

There are no rules really- just write. That's the one. Just write. 

I hope the coming day is full of writing and kind to you. 

Prompt # 5

Today the morning started at two thirty. I fell asleep before sending the prompts out which was the second thing I thought of when I woke up. The first thing was why am I awake and why does my throat hurt? So of course sleep and sleeplessness are on my mind. I think about some of my characters who sleep easily and some who wait and wait for sleep to come and some who wake up abruptly in the middle of the night. 

***

I woke up and just knew... or he/she/they woke up and knew... or negate it-  She fell asleep not knowing...

***

Sleeplessness is a desert without vegetation or inhabitants.

    Jessamyn West  

 Dreams are the naked truth; get ready for it.

   Judith Orloff

I'll never wake up in a good mood again.

I'm tired of these stinky boots

   Jim Morrison, An American Prayer

Do any of these words spark something? Do you see something that wants you to write about it? Pick a word, a phrase an image and write. If this is all dry and tasteless in your mouth pick something different, make up your own. Write where your writing takes you. Write for ten minutes, or five minutes or forty. 

Write alone in your room, or sitting outside or in a coffee shop. Just write. 

I hope the coming day is good to you and your writing. 

Prompt # 4

Good Morning. It's cold and overcast here and I like it. It makes me
want coffee and a blanket and no people anywhere. I'd like to be
someplace quiet and cool and just write and read today. But I'll take
what I can get. A cup of tea and an hour before I have to go out into
the rush of people and smells and things that must be done...

 ***

Today I am thinking of when the earth rolls under my feet-

Can you remember a time when the earth rolled under your feet? Imagine
a time it rolled or shifted or rippled under a character's feet?  Was
it an earthquake?  Was your character high? Did the past come up out
of nowhere and shift everything sideways?

Maybe it's a dream.  Maybe it's just a metaphor but what did it feel
like? What happened next?

 and some fragments when I searched for quotes that worked with the
prompt - (this was harder than usual today)

It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower,
but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.
       Frederick Douglass

And tell the thunder
To wake the sky
And tear the clouds apart...
     Thomas Merton

I used to sleep nude - until the earthquake.
      Alyssa Milano
               (yes I'm surprised I'm using an Alyssa Milano quote
too. But it's a good line)


Take an image a line an idea if any of these words speak to you. Or
another image. Or one of your own. Write for ten minutes or fifteen or
an hour. It doesn't matter how long- just write.

I hope this day is a good one to you and your writing.

Prompt # 3

First a poem- and I admit I'm most captivated by the title and first line:

Eating Poetry

   Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
   There is no happiness like mine.
   I have been eating poetry.

   The librarian does not believe what she sees.
   Her eyes are sad
   and she walks with her hands in her dress.

   The poems are gone.
   The light is dim.
   The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

   Their eyeballs roll,
   their blond legs burn like brush.
   The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

   She does not understand.
   When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
   she screams.

   I am a new man.
   I snarl at her and bark.
   I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Mark Strand

I am also liking the bookish dark. What about you? Is there a line
that has you in its teeth? A phrase or an image?
Pick one and write. Or make your own.

Can you eat words? I like to think that I can- even the verbs.

Lastly-
I stole this from Jen Cross today (I steal her ideas all the time- so
far she hasn't minded)

"Liberty is the right not to lie."
attributed to Albert Camus

So what do you say? I'll write now that the obsession projects are
done enough for the day.
Go for ten minutes or do you have more?
I'm a big fan of a timer. I think it makes me feel I've accomplished
something- and perversely once it's gone off I usually want to keep
going...

Hope this day is good to you and your writing.

Prompt # 2

“[She] always knew he was a fiction but believed in him anyway.” 
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

or

 From the time I could ______ I knew______ (or he, she,ze,they) 

                         or 

She always knew she could or would, 

or negate it- 

I never knew 

or wonder at it-

Did we ever know we could or would? 

I just test drove this prompt. It worked for me though my writing wasn't what I thought it would be. I love the surprise of that- the not knowing. Write for ten minutes or do you have fifteen? 

Sometimes a timer is helpful. Just write what's there to write. Leave the prompt if it's not working, or you hate it, or you have something else in mind. Tear it up. Make a new one. Ignore it. Just write. 

I hope this is a good day, a writing day. 

Prompt # 1

Thank you so very much for your donation! It makes all things possible. The gift itself and the energy behind it makes me stand up taller and keep going. Also- please let me know if you have a project, blog, website you'd like promoted on my blog and social media sites. I'd love to support you back! 

“What the river was showing her now was that she could flow beyond the brokenness, redeem herself, and fuse once more.” 
― Ursula Hegi 

"About fifteen miles above New Orleans the river goes very slowly. It has broadened out there until it is almost a sea and the water is yellow with the mud of half a continent. Where the sun strikes it, it is golden."
-Frank Yerby

“…how it would be nice if, for every sea waiting for us, there would be a river, for us. And someone -a father, a lover, someone- able to take us by the hand and find that river -imagine it, invent it- and put us on its stream, with the lightness of one only word, goodbye.” 
― Alessandro Baricco, Ocean Sea

What the river was showing her... 

Is there another phrase that sticks- that pulls you to it? An image that arises? A memory for you or a character? Or maybe you are sparked to write to the earth instead, or mud, or the opposite of water- to dry and arid or to anything at all.  Write for ten minutes or more- set a timer if that helps. 

I hope this day is good for your writing and good to you.