Ready, Steady, Write # 2

Found objects are wonderful springboards for inspiration.  I stumbled across this while browsing.  Pick up your pen.

Open your notebook.  Commit to writing at least one page.  Tell this story.

Monday is full of possibility…

3 Responses to “Ready, Steady, Write # 2”

  1. Kay
    January 30, 2012 at 12:05 pm #

    I miss her. I miss her every day. She brought me into the world, she cared for me. She gave me strong teeth, she gave me my humour; her humour. She gave me a zest for life, she gave me my life, and her life. She was the other half of that relationship, the unique, once only, never to be replaced relationship. I miss her. I miss her laugh, I miss her tears, her anger, her fears. I miss her hugs, her strong fierce hugs, her tender rocking hugs. I miss her voice on the end of the phone, her way of saying ‘darling’ imbibed with boundless love. I miss the part of me that went with her. I miss her.

  2. Anonymous
    February 6, 2012 at 4:21 am #

    I have little "dreams" that you've come home. That you came up with some elaborate plan to break out of jail and that involved faking your own death. I'd like to believe that in those months you were getting clean, you were suddenly so clean that you couldn't possibly stand to be imprisoned. It was like you took that limitless pill and tout a coup your mind was free. You found Jason and David and brought them into your genius plan. You escaped and hit out in the French countryside. Or in Greece by the sea. Or in an almost imaginary Icelandic city. All these years that I thought I saw you walking around, I thought I heard your voice coming in with the Santa Ana winds, I thought I smelled you getting off the 405 and pulling onto Sunset, all those times that I heard someone say "I miss her" and thought it was you maybe, just maybe, missing me, all of those times were real and not just a sign of my delusional schizophrenia. I always picture you in the outfit you were wearing the day you gave me my camera. Grayish-blue cuords, tattered, dirty white V-neck, and shiny black loafers. With those tiny little round John Lennon sunglasses you were so fond of. Those glasses that got lost in your crazy curly hair. Every time I'm feeling antsy, like butterflies are literally breaking my small intestine, I think about you just busting into wherever I am. I think about you opening the door and making a grand entrance by looking so incredibly cool it's unnatural. I think about you giving the middle finger to the world and telling the drones of society that you are not a waste of space, you are not a "typical screw-up," you are not the epitome and example of all that has gone wrong in the world, because you are not a drug addict, anymore. You would tell them, "I am the best big brother anyone could ever ask for because I didn't give up on myself. I chose life. I chose to fight. And now I'm here to make sure my darling girl doesn't make the same mistakes I did. Because I know she almost drove off of a cliff. I know she feels completely unloved and alone. I know she feels as though the goodness in the world has abandoned her since everything and everyone she has ever believed in have ended in absolute corruption. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, so, darling girl, don't give anything or anyone absolute power over your life and your decisions. Because I miss you, I miss her, my sister, my only light, and I'm coming for her soon."

  3. Anonymous
    February 12, 2012 at 8:11 pm #

    I Miss Her. If I could have wrote that across the front of my house without being evicted or commited, I would have a hundred times over in the last year. I lost my mother to Pancreatic Cancer in March 2011. I am a single mother with two girls, Rachel 28 and Elyssa 6. The last 2yrs have been the hardest of my life, caring for my mother here at home without any family support. Having a little one who needed me and an older daughter in her probation period of the police force. At times I thought life couldnt get any worse but that's not what Im writing this for. It's about how I am learing to pick up the pieces through writing. After I lost my mother, I enrolled for a 5 week creative writing class, something I had always wanted to do. I was afraid of the literary snobbery. Was I good enough or clever enough, having left school with no qualifications. My spelling and grammer terrible. would I be Judged. Thankfully I wasnt. I have always loved to read. I get down on my hands and knees and thank God for books, they have helped me through my darkest hours in life. I would go as far as to say I am prolific to the point where I dont remember the author or title of many books I have read. Many people who have been through similar situations to mine turn to drugs or alcohol, I turned to books. Admittedley sometimes, I was so tired I could only manage a couple of pages before falling asleep. I cried the first day of my writing course, for someone else's work, not myself, which made a change. Their words were beautiful. I was set some home work. My course had ended and I was two weeks late handing in my work. I rang the lecturer and explained " Im sorry, once I started to write I couldnt stop".we made arragements to meet the following week. How could I write about the diverse strange life I have had. Aside from caring for my mother, I am a mother, an ex model and I campaiged for things I felt passionate about.I have met many wonderfull people and many not so nice people. I have made terrible mistakes. I have done good things too. If I wrote it down it would be utterly bizarre. Not to mention would it be legal. Through writing I somehow managed to turn everything around, the characters and events combined with my own imagination, helped me to create both a magical and enchanting story. When I finally handed my work to my lecturer she read it then asked me if I would like her to mentor me. As a published author herself, I was so flattered and happy that once again I cried. We would all like to see our work on the shelves of a book store, but if it never happens it doesnt matter. what matters is I know I am writing a wonderfull story that I enjoy every minute I spend working on. It frees my soul, it makes me whole again. I am doing something positive for me. I would urge any one to get their pens or keyboards out and write and if you can find someone who will give you a pat on the back and a little encouragement then go for it.SincerelyFiona McAndrew "Kindly edited by Rachel, my daughter:-)"

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