One Word, Five Minutes:
A Quick Writing Warm-up to you get back to the page
I’m a pantser (one who writes by the seat of their pants.) And I’m gonna practice here, if that’s okay with you.
See, I like the idea of spontaneity, but then, I have anxiety and control issues. And the two don’t fit together. I love to think I can pick up my pen and write characters who pop off the page, and dialogue that is sharp and witty and raw. Descriptions and scenes that propel readers to another realm, even if it’s only a dining room table argument between a couple in front of their toddler son.
Familiar, but different. Isn’t that what I’m trying to convey? A unique take on the daily grind? How I observe the world and how you might possibly, too?
Connection. Truth. Community. Or division.
But movement, toward something, away from something. The reason I write. To discover myself, to meet the girl behind the curtain.
I digress.
When I feel the movement to write, I need to act quick. Before the paralyzation of fear sets in like film on a cooling soup. So, I find some prompts, a timer and a quiet spot. And I just go.
On Pinterest, I found a cool writing warm-up exercise: a list of random words with instructions to write about each word for just 5 minutes.
One word. 5 minutes. Go.
Next word. Another 5 minutes. Repeat.
Here’s what I came up with. And remember, I’m stretching, practicing, getting limber. You can too!
Betrayal
I saw the ripped open envelope in the trash. I wasn’t going through the trash so much as glancing at the remains on top. It was her handwriting. She was still writing to him. And he was still reading the letters. How? After all this time. All the therapy. Second, third and fourth chances. After Bryan’s grades dropped and Emmersyn started bingeing and purging. How could that fuckhead continue this lie? This facade. And tonight was my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary party. Four hundred guests expected. My and Ace’s toast: to love, to longevity. To lies and cover ups.
My cell phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
“I know the real reason. Meet me at Moe’s after midnight. Come Alone.”
What.the.fuck. Who, at my age, gets cryptic “meet me after midnight” texts?
Wrinkles
Grandma’s hands were smooth, but bumpy, like the topographical globe in Ms. Henderson’s social studies class. I’ll be excused from the big project, cause Grandma’s dying.
That’s wrong. God, why am I so evil and selfish? Marlene always tells me I’m “narcissistic” and when I asked Mumma if I was, she muttered something about Aunt Louise and then said I’m too young to be narcissistic. Jesus. I’m too young for everything good and fun.
Blaine was supposed to sleep over tonight, but because Grandma’s on her deathbed, Blaine’s mom said “another time.”
Those are two more phrases that don’t make sense to me. How does anyone know where their deathbed is, if they don’t know when they’re gonna die? And “another time” isn’t really a time. It’s kinda like a promise you don’t intend to keep:
“Mom, can I buy the new Barbie with the motion arms and head tilt?”
“Another time, Sage.”
“Dad, can I stay up past 11 tonight to finish watching The Swamp Thing in 3D?”
“Another time, Sage.”
“Marlene, can you tell me what Mumma and Daddy were doin makin all that noise in their room if they weren’t fighting?”
“Another time, Sage.”
“Gramma, can you tell me the story of how you and Grandpa met at the roller skating hall?”
“Gramma. Gramma?!”
Imperfections
I blink at the craft supplies laid out on the table before me. We’re supposed to outline, draw or collage a freaking vision board of our “imperfections.” What kind of sick, cruel bachlorette party was this?
Why couldn’t Heather just ask for strippers like the rest of us did when were all getting married? Fuck. Even if she did this imperfection corkboard like 10 years ago when the rest of us were getting hitched (instead of practicing Buddhism and studying in Burmese like a squalor) my collage would at least have been a lot more fun to make: imperfections? Drinking too much, wearing glitter shoes, dancing all night, too many hot guys. Sure, regrets. But still rocking a sick six pack.
Now I cart around a six pack of nursing bottles, my drink is coffee, my shoes are slippers and the only dancing I do is jostling Lena on my hip in the hopes she’ll take her goddamn nap.
Hot guys are a thing of the past, too. Unless you count the greasy engineers who dripped sweat on my desk while swapping out a fluorescent bulb.
So there you go.
Practice. Warm ups. I think my favorite to write was the second one, the Wrinkles prompt. It’s fun to see a running theme in all of them: family, relationships, a bit of snark and bitterness. Will I continue any of these story threads? I’m not sure. But they sparked to life the creative muscles that were starting to atrophy.
And sometimes, that’s all we need. A Spark. Getting back to basics.
Pen. Paper. Quiet.
Do your writing muscles need a warm up?
Try the rest of the words from this list:
Hair | Teeth | Joy | Peanut Butter | Hunger | Initiation | First Car
Set your timer for 5 minutes and just follow the words from your brain to the page. It may be the next Big Idea you’ve been waiting for!
I’d love to read what you created. Please share in the comments!
This is day 11 of 30 in the #practiceinpublic challenge via Jeff Goins
