write away every day

incubating

2011-07-22T21:34:00.003-05:00

hellooooooooooo, writers, readers, bloggers & friends. i have missed writing and reading and blogging like crazy cakes, and i'm still here. this photo was the last one i took with the blog in mind. at easter...in april! thank you all for your messages and for not forgetting me :) here's an update, and also a response to a fun blogging tag game passed on to me by the chic and sassy new york nanny blogger Bess Weatherby. she doesn't know it, but she's just as cool as emma watson.

update first: turns out this egg is a fitting photo for a check-in blog post, because my life is all about waiting right now; it's an active waiting, a sitting-on-the-nest-growing-something-doing-all-the-right-things-toward-a-great-end-result kind of waiting. i did indeed pass my teaching certification test!!! it took six very long weeks to get the results, but not only did i pass the exam, i kinda kicked it's tiny test hiney. since then i've done a mini-student-teaching experience, attended classes two nights a week plus saturdays, done a slew of online work, "performance tasks," and reading. i've applied for about a hundred teaching jobs and gone on only one interview. so i'm still looking for a classroom of my own. still dreaming about what it will be like to live the dream of teaching. still waiting for that call. and, as a matter of fact, i'm still sending letters out - only they're not query letters, they are 'letters of interest.' turns out that the process of finding a teaching position feels very like trying to get a book published. right down to competing with hundreds (even thousands?) of really talented people. agonizing. wonderfully hope-filled one moment and despairing the next. practicing patience and seeking peace here. need to spend time writing again.

as i mentioned before, bess kindly tagged me in a post with some questions. here are my answers:

What do you think of when you the hear the word tag?

summer nights. chirping crickets. red popsicles. limeade. off bugspray.

Do you think you're hot?

through this long texas summer i know i'm hot... er, that was what you meant, wasn't it??

Upload a picture or wallpaper that you're using at the moment.

see egg.

When was the last time you ate chicken?

last week - drumsticks!

The song(s) you listened to recently.

Body & Soul by Susan Ashton - on the way to my job interview. It reminded me that I am so much more than acceptances or rejections by potential employers.

What were you thinking as you were doing this?

How much i've missed blogging and writing and reading my favorite blogs.

Do you have nicknames? What are they?

My aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces - sometimes my brothers - call me Demi. My kids call me Mama (though my youngest has just begun, endearingly, to call me mommy for the first time). Friends often call me Dem. Kids at the school where I worked took to calling me Mrs. B - which I love because that's what my Grammie's students used to call her. And speaking of grandmothers, these are my favorite nicknames: Grammie called me Sweet Pea, and my Grandmommie (still with us at 90 years old!) calls me Doll. The sound of their voices blessing me with affection is like warm honey... I will carry those memories with me to the other side one day.

Tag 8 blogger friends...

1. Jessica Lemmon
2. Alison Treat
3. Kat Magendie
4. Hillary Raining
5. Lena Roy
6. Amanda Bindel
7. Stacy Mayfield
8. Nolan

Who's listed as No. 1?
Jessica Lemmon is one of the first bloggers I connected with online. Her blog "Smile, Feel Good" lives up to its name so very well :) And she can write love scenes.

Say something about No. 5
I learned about Lenda Roy from my dear friend Alison Treat. What I know about Lena is that she is a fabulous published writer, a faithful blogger and that even though she is Madeleine L'Engle's granddaughter, she is (as I suspect was the case with her grandmother, too) a gracious and grounded soul.

How did you get to know No. 3?
Kat is another magnanimous blogger and talented published author. She is so committed to the concept of community among writers that she takes a blog walk many Sunday mornings, making a point to visit blogs she's never visited before. She visited here and left a kind comment once and has come back again to share her writing. She is also an editor for the Rose & Thorn journal - where I published my first short story early this year!

How about No. 4.
I met Hillary in Pennsylvania. She is one of the coolest, hippest people I know, not to mention the fact that she's a gorgeous young wife, mom, and Episcopal priest. Seriously. AND she's doing a super-ambitious thing this year - trying something new each and every day and then blogging about it. Her blog, 365 Alive is fun to read and a true inspiration.

Leave a message for No. 6.
Amanda, see you on Sunday! Thank you for all you do for the children of St. Julian's and also for your bright smile :)

Leave a lovey dovey message for No. 2.
Alison, you are one of my favorite people in the world. I will always remember and cherish the gift of our writing group and the nine years we spent building our friendships and nurturing each other as we shared our dreams, fears, and hopes about writing. I love you!!

Do No. 7 and No. 8 have any similarities?
They both have a wicked sense of humor :)

Tag to you, bloggy friends!!

see you all, sooner than later. promise. please write (by clicking comments below) and tell me what you're incubating right now? what are you working on, thinking about, wishing for? or just write me a story :)

delayed

2011-04-10T23:19:00.000-05:00

hello to anyone who's still out there
i'm still right here... just busier than i've ever been
preparing for a teacher certification exam this weekend
taking classes, working, being mom
i miss writing with you all very much
hope to be back soon
until then, keep writing!!

cycle

2011-03-21T18:39:00.003-05:00

welcome, readers & writers! thank you for your contributions and comments last week. it gives me comfort to traverse the rough terrain of this life together.

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this week's photo prompt bids welcome to spring. short story, poem or creative non-fiction ~ writers, come write with me... click on comments below to share. readers, your comments are also most welcome. here's my spin (ha!) on the photo:

Peter pedaled patiently up and down the length of his street, from second avenue all the way to fifty-first, where Highway 33 made it impossible for him to cross. He made the loop a dozen times a day now, despite the fact that Evie worried about him. Oh, she clucked on about how his new recumbent bicycle was too low, how it was barely taller than their grandson's tricycle, how he was going to get rolled over one day by a harried mother in a minivan or a businessman on his blue-tooth, blazing off to a meeting. Peter just smiled and kissed her forehead and promised her again that he was watching, that he wasn't a toddler on the loose, but a bonafide grown-up. Eighty years old now. His eyesight was great. His scar was healing. He'd tossed that blasted heart pillow out with the trash last week. He was determined not to waste a moment of the time that his insurance company and his doctor's Harvard degree had bestowed upon him. Excercise. Rest. Low sodium diet. Hell, if he didn't have dentures now he'd even be up for flossing. Twice a day. That's how serious he was about this.

Evie didn't know it yet, but he had a mind to ride in the Senior Sprint at the end of the summer. Sixty miles. It would suck up a lot of time to get ready for a race like that. Time away from his wife. Time not spent with his grandkids. But, and he didn't know how to explain this to them without sounding like a simpering school girl, riding his bike made him feel like a boy again. With the wind in his ears anyway, his hearing loss didn't matter, didn't even exist. When he rode past honeysuckle trees and lilac bushes, when the wind blew his hair back off his forehead, when he pumped his legs hard and threw them back for a quick stop, he was ten again. At the beginning of the long, winding tunnel and not heading for that confounded light. On his bike the world was new and he had thousands of days left to enjoy it.

heartbreak

2011-03-14T11:34:00.011-05:00

welcome, readers & writers.

today my heart is heavy with the heartbreak of the planet... for our world neighbors in Japan, for the unrest across the middle east, for the struggles that folks in our own country are facing each day. so let's write about it ~ poems, stories or reflections of solidarity and hope. click on comments below to join me. also, in case you're thinking of making a donation for relief efforts in Japan but don't know where, here's a link to an organization we really trust: erd (Episcopal Relief & Development).

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the world has shifted on its axis, so they say

how can it not, under the monstrous burden of sorrow it bears?

the earth falters and buckles

oceans of salty tears storm the shore, innocent and clumsy

how can water bend steel? break life?

search. mourn. remove rubble. be. die inside. rest. be again. emerge. try.

the only hope i see today is the mystery of heaven

an island of peace in a golden sea of forever

where they wait, in the know

where they wait with love

frisson

2011-03-07T11:48:00.005-06:00

welcome, readers & writers!
my new posting schedule is simple: mondays. do feel free to come back through the week and read what others have written, or to add another installment to your story, poem or creative non-fiction reflection on the photo :) over the summer i should be able to pick it up again, but for now i'm chained to my computer in other ways that don't involve creative writing - boo hoo!!! i am excited, however, about finally becoming an elementary school teacher hopefully sometime in the near future.

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i'm thrilled today to welcome a guest photographer and writer, Mr. Chuck Galle. Chuck, an actor and writer, has been a steady contributor to write away every day, and i'm glad to call him my writing friend. ahhh the wonder of the internet to be able to introduce friends across thousands of miles! Chuck has a book out, Stories I Never Told My Daughter which, at this very moment is winging its way from amazon to my house in Texas. it's been in my shopping cart for a few months now, and i can't wait to read it, finally!! Click here to visit Chuck's blog & website. thank you, Chuck, for such a lovely and intriguing photo and for it's written companion. I'll be back later in the week to write about the photo myself - I'm already feeling inspired! see below for Chuck's spin on his photo:
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So, what else would you do with a camera in hand, waiting for someone, wandering around in the atrium of the Institute of Contemporary Art with its new Wall Of Mirrors just put up last week, and the only person there is also trying to find how to handle this eye feast with her camera? We acknowledged each other, then set about our unique visions. Since there were only we two we couldn't help trying to not be the follower of the other, nor impose some competitiveness in our quests, picking "the" right angle. And yet, we found ourselves trading off each other's ideas. There was no flirting, perhaps she was waiting for someone also, but our exercises kept generating a bit of frisson here, a bit there. And then my friend showed up. The other photographer and I had jostled ourselves into the positions where we were obviously going to catch each taking each, but we both saw the potential at the same time. Joanne stepped across the floor, and serendipitously a guy, who turned out to be who the other photographer was waiting for came around the corner from the entrance and we both caught each other; I caught her directly and, along with my friend and hers in the mirror and she caught all three of us in the mirror she was aimed it. Voila!

perseverant

2011-02-25T09:58:00.003-06:00

readers & writers, hello again! having read lots of advice about blogging, i know i'm not supposed to apologize for not posting for so long... or to explain why i've been away. but i'm going to anyway. i've missed several days because life has been overwhelmingly busy. but thankfully, it's all good stuff. i've started a new job, i'm back in school, and as always i've got the mama & wife thing going on. i also had the wonderful opportunity to fly to Pennsylvania for the wedding of two good friends. i'm back now... and will do my best to get back to blogging, back to the writing (and the writing friends) i've really been missing :)

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writers, join me in writing about this photo prompt? share your story, poem or creative non-fiction response by clicking on comments below. here's my spin on the photo:

Foundational. When I look at these rocks that's a word that comes to mind. And solid, and weighty, and ancient. Patient, present, resolute. There's something about stones, like trees, that makes me think they are quietly breathing, bearing silent witness to the lives which bustle and swirl around them. They remind me of other foundational pieces of my life: the unconditional love of family, the affection of dear friends, of how the world keeps spinning and soaking in the warmth of the sun for us. I want to find that speckled rock again in the heat of the day and hold it in my hands, running my fingers over its pocked terrain and pressing it to my lips with a prayer of gratitude.

shivered

2011-02-14T08:04:00.014-06:00

readers & writers, welcome. hope your weekend brought you some time to rest and play. our weekend was pretty kind to us; in between study sessions (i'm back in school now) and loads of laundry (i'm back to work now, too!) we had some good fun.

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speaking of good fun... howsabout a writing exercise? take a look at my photo above and see what short story, poem or creative non-fiction response bubbles up in you... then simply write it down and share it with us by clicking on comments below! i love to read your work. here's my spin on the photo:

"We want to eat on the patio," she said with a shiver. "Really?" I said. She stared me down. "Patio." Her boyfriend or husband or whatever shrugged, so I led them outside, grabbing a wet cloth from the bar on the way. After wiping down the table and laying out their silverware and menus, I told them Cindy would be right out. They were still standing. He made an effort to pull out her chair for her, but she grabbed it and yanked it out of his hand. When she sat down, her chair was a couple of feet from the table. He hesitated a moment, then sat down at his place and thanked me. I walked away, shivering myself. I heard her chair scrape forward a couple of inches at a time across the concrete.

"What's it gonna be?" she said, just as I reached the door. I paused.

"Um, salsa or queso do you mean?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I mean her or me?"

I really, really wanted to stay and hear his answer. I was dying to. But there wasn't a way to do it without being super obvious. And anyway it was freezing out. So I opened the door and went back to my hostess stand, wondering what other adventures Valentine's Day might bring.

painted

2011-02-11T21:59:00.001-06:00

welcome, readers & writers. thank you for stopping by!

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writers, care to join me for a writing warm up using the photo above as inspiration? share your short story, poetic or creative non-fiction response by clicking on comments below. readers, comments are open to you as well! see below for my non-fiction response to the photo.

The year I graduated from college, a friend and mentor gave be the book A Gift From the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindburgh. Written on a solitary writing retreat in a simple cottage by the sea, the book of essays is abundant with wisdom about life and relationships; each chapter is inspired by a different element of the seashore ~ shells, waves, gulls, sand, etc. One insight that has stayed closely with me all these years is the metaphor she drew between relationships and tides. There is a natural ebb and flow to all relationships, she believes. At times the tide is in and the relationship is marked by abundance ~ joy, communication, affinity. When the tide is out, and it will go out, there is distance. We often feel that distance as loss. We fear being left alone and cold and vulnerable on a washed out beach. Ms. Morrow Lindburgh sought to reframe, re-think those "tide is out" phases.

When the tide is out in a relationship, she says, it is the perfect time to explore the smooth, glossy surface of the ocean floor... to look for treasures, the shells, clams (pearls) and starfish hidden just beneath the sand, pieces of ourselves we've never seen or have long forgotten. Trusting that the tide will indeed return, we can enjoy the solitude and time to focus on ourselves. We can wait with patience and hope and excitement for the tide to rush in again. This photo brought the beautiful wisdom of A Gift From the Sea back to me. When the world feels empty, bereft of color, we find beauty in unexpected ways. The brilliant yellow of the flower in the photo is muted, stilled. But the gorgeous, inky stain spreading out from the center of the pansy gets its moment to shine.

made

2011-02-07T10:28:00.001-06:00

writers & readers, welcome! i'm so glad you've stopped by.

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today's photo prompt comes to you straight from my weekend. on friday our family enjoyed a (very) rare snow day here in austin, tx! my boys and i were able to scrape together enough clean snow off of our car to give this cowboy snowman blobby fellow life (at least for a few hours until the sun came out). writers, i'd love to read your short story, poetic or creative non-fiction spin on the photo - just click on comments to share it. readers, comments are open to you as well.

Ya might say that the day started out at loose ends... I felt scattered, drifty, cold and alone. Not myself. But round and about eight o'clock something changed. Warmth came and gathered me up, scoop by scoop, pulling me to a solid center, smoothing me, shaping me, adding cool layer upon layer to me, smoothing some more until I was myself. Then they gave me eyes to see. Boy, howdy did I love their laughing eyes and rosy cheeks and bright smiles. Next came a nose and then a big sniff from me... whoo-wheee did that air smell fresh and clean. Healthy like. At first the little one gave me a stick for my mouth, but it was kind of flat, and it made me look sad. So when the neighbor brought over the green crunchy looking things and gave me a smile, with eyebrows to match, I was right happy. Right glad to be alive. That mama person ran inside then and found me a hat.

"There," she said, "he's our Texas snowman. Well, snow blob." Blob, she said. Did she mean Bob? I think she meant Bob. How on God's green earth did she know my name? Anyhoo. I sat there on the back of their car while they took pictures. After a little while they went inside, saying something about hot chocolate. I waved at passing cars with my stick arms and saw a whole posse of people smiling as they went by. And then, as the sun moved higher in the sky, I felt so warm. I closed my eyes and fell to sleep. Up, up I felt myself float. Like on a dream. And now I'm a cloud and I'm passing over their house and waving. It's me, Bob, I shout -- and then, in case they don't realize, I say Blob. It's me, Cowboy Blob!

wintered

2011-02-02T06:37:00.001-06:00

readers & writers, welcome! a wonderful wednesday to you... hope that hurdling the hump is not half as harried as heaving yourself through the heights of monday and tuesday.

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it sounds like most of the u.s. is blanketed with snow or infused with freezing temperatures today. if you're home on a snow day or frozen inside your house because the door won't open, maybe today's a good day to come write with me! share your poem, creative non-fiction or short story response to the photo by clicking on comments below. here's my contribution:

5.7.5.

beautiful brambles ~

limbs bared to a keen blue sky

devotees of sun

torn

2011-01-31T10:33:00.000-06:00

welcome, readers & writers! thank you for stopping by - and a good monday to you. i hope (for all of us!) that this week is filled with good things like productivity, peace, rest & play.

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writers, care to join me in a writing warm up on today's photo prompt? see below for my spin on it. if you'd like to share your short story, poem or creative non-fiction response, click on comments below. readers, comments are open to you as well!

Patrick wondered whether, if he made a personal donation, the construction company would fix this blasted fence. It disturbed him deeply to see these holes, so jagged, so unsanitary looking, as if the fence had been chewed through by a rodent; though he supposed that logically a rodent wouldn't be able to make such a big hole while hanging off the mesh with its scritchy little claws. These hole-y eye-sores threw his whole darn day off. If he didn't want to see them, he had to go a block out of his way to get to work. That meant leaving the house four and a half minutes early. That meant waking up at 5:56 instead of 6:00 a.m. And who could put in a productive work day knowing they'd been required to wake up in the five o'clock hour? So usually he'd go ahead and take the direct route, passing the fence while trying very hard to avert his eyes.

When he'd phoned the borough office to ask how long construction on the sidewalk would last, they'd promised him it would only be another week or two. That was the day before Thanksgiving. Now his New Year was tarnished, the whole of January 2011 would forever, in his mind, be wobbly, or maybe warbled, or was it warped?

This morning he couldn't help himself again. He looked. And then he looked again. The biggest gash, the upper one, had become a frame for the most beautiful woman he'd ever, ever seen. She was standing near the door, talking on her cell phone. He paused, secure behind the veil of green plastic mesh; thinking how, if she could see him, she might dismiss him as uninteresting. If she were to look at all, though, thanks to the fence, she'd only see his eye. Looking. Blinking. Thinking. Wondering. How long had he been standing here, anyway? Would he be late for work? And asking himself... would he look again tomorrow?

opened

2011-01-27T10:55:00.004-06:00

welcome readers & writers! i'm so glad you're sticking with me through an erratic posting schedule. i'm back in school now, and working part time. but i love to write and i love to read your work - so i'm committed to posting three times a week. and speaking of writing, i'd love to see more of it on this blog. please consider writing with me. no pressure for it to be perfect - just for us to share together in a creative endeavor we all love...

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so here is today's photo writing prompt, taken by me on a chilly, sunny day in san antonio in the first few days of the new year. see below for my non-fiction spin on the photo. writers, if you'd like to share your poetic, creative non-fiction or short story response to the photo, just click on comments below. readers, you are welcome to comment too :)

In a few short months I'll turn forty years old. Surprisingly, it's not a usually a crisis for me. Mostly I find myself glad to be alive, in awe of what my life has been so far, thankful for for all I've learned and kinda proud of myself for the ways I've grown - emotionally and intellectually - over the years. I am deeply grateful for the abundance of gifts around me.

Sometimes, though, I do feel sadness over how quickly it's all going, and that (as far as I know) you only get to go around once. I look at students just entering college, or couples joyfully, hopefully, tossing their hat in the marriage ring, or young moms (this one gets me the most) just absolutely enamored with their first babies - and I feel a little jolt of regret that I've already taken my turn on those rides. I've passed those landmarks in my life and will not travel that way again. Obviously I know that learning never ends, relationships and new relationships are always to be found, and that I'll always be a mama to the wonderful boys in my life and - hopefully one day a long time from now! - grandmother to their children.

Just every once in awhile - even though I believe that old age is a state of mind, that people can have a positive, youthful outlook on life until the day they die - sometimes I feel a little bit wilted. Read o-l-d. Apologies to my friends over forty! I do know that forty isn't old at all. And I know that with age comes wisdom, strength, openness and a kind of beautiful depth that can only be achieved through experience and perseverance. I know that the gorgeous, older, open flower in the photo above is just as beautiful as the buds behind it. It's just that I can't seem to forget now that the older flower is much closer to the dropping petals, ashes to ashes phase of life...

Depressed much?

Rather than get lost in sadness or overwhelmed with regret, in these moments I try to focus on the gratitude, to stay present in the gifts each day has to bring, and to revel in the joy of LIFE and - this is key for me - "the afterlife." In my faith tradition, what comes next will be even better than this; it is more awesome than a person can even begin to imagine... Though many folks claim to understand exactly what heaven looks like and precisely how to make it happen, I confess that I don't really know. But I'm okay with that. I love a good mystery. And I love the one who, mysteriously, gave me this life to live.

met

2011-01-24T00:28:00.012-06:00

hello, readers & writers! it's monday again, the start of another week on write away every day; hope we can spend some of it writing and reading together : )

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today's photo writing prompt is another in the, ahem, san antonio series. (gee that sounds so important and official.) enjoy! writers, i'd love to read your short story, poem or creative non-fiction response to the picture; click on comments below to share it with us. readers, comments are open to you as well. see below for my poetic spin on the photo...

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was that you on christmas eve?
a blink and a double take
and you
- or maybe not you -
were gone
lost to me in a crowd three deep,
brushed past on the path
in your wool coat
going the other way
again.
are we perpetually bound
to pass each other
going opposite directions?

indeed we are -
bound.
or don't you recall?
one to the other,
though of course we would
never make it;
james bond be damned.
not the way we intended to,
longed and hoped and planned and prayed to be.
but a person doesn't make vows like that
with all her might
only to walk away scot-free.
those bonds are cast
in heat,
and when taps sounds at the end of a very long day,
in the cool they turn to steel.
they become chains
and, together or not,
we two are bound.

our lives - if not intertwined -
intersect
at times.
and always in a crowd
on all saints day or
the end of may
or new year's eve
we are bound
to blinking and staring
and double takes.

and then, well... so what?
so what if that was you
in your wool coat
brushing past me
on the path
going the other way again?
just, so what.

found

2011-01-19T19:22:00.004-06:00

readers & writers, welcome! hope your week is unfolding gracefully (or at least quickly -- the weekend is on its way)!

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some of our best stories on write away every day have come from mundane photos of found objects like this one. come write with me! share your short story, poem or creative non-fiction by clicking on comments below. i'd love to read your take on the photo. here's my fiction spin on it:

"Already? You're flipping kidding me," Sarah thought as she watched the styrofoam cup leave her hand and land in the garden outside her office. It was always like this on the down side. The simplest task - like brushing her teeth or reaching over to turn out her lamp at night - became overwhelming and complicated. Even throwing away a stupid paper cup felt too hard, and her body was prone to acting without her brain's permission. That's always how she knew it was time to be extra vigilant about taking her meds, seeing her counselor, not taking on extra projects at work. It felt like she'd just come out of a depressive cycle, and yet here she was again. That's how it was.

The highs never lasted long enough, but they were awesome. She could stay up half the night cleaning house or writing letters and still bounce out of bed in the morning. Granted, it was hard to sit still or focus on reading or relax and watch a TV show. On an upswing, she wouldn't have bought the cruddy vending machine coffee anyway. She'd have ground the beans fresh and brewed her own, adding a splash of soy milk and a dash of cinnamon to her favorite to go cup.

She sighed, bending over to pick up the cup. "And here we go again..."

drenched

2011-01-17T09:21:00.005-06:00

a good monday to you, readers & writers. and, for those of you who live in the united states, happy Martin Luther King, Jr. day! may his legacy live on and inspire us to goodness, peace, justice, and equality. many thanks to all for your kind words about my first published story... saturday was one happy day for me :)

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today's photo prompt is another from my trip to san antonio. writers, please join me in writing about it! i'd love to read your poem, short story or creative non-fiction reflection on the photo; just click on comments below to share it. readers, comments are open to you as well. Here's my creative non-fiction spin on the photo:

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In the time it takes a penny to tumble through the air and belly flop onto the water, sinking to its new home, a thousand wishes leave me and telegraph themselves to the heavens. The wishes I wish are between me and the fountain; if I wrote them here they might not come true. And, let's face it. They might not come true anyway, but that I still believe in "making a wish" means I have faith in something. Someone shrouded in mystery and love is listening, and it's okay, good even, to want something - to have words of hope leave me and join the uneven melody of water meeting water, meeting ceramic.

I always cheat when I toss those pennies - loading way more than one wish onto the tiny copper surface of a coin that doesn't buy anything anymore. And when I do, the same thing happens time and again. In the time it takes the penny to tumble through the air and belly flop onto the water, sinking to its new home, one wish rises above the rest and telegraphs itself to the heavens. And in that moment I know myself better than the moment before.

published

2011-01-14T17:46:00.002-06:00

welcome, welcome readers & writers. today's photo was taken by my oldest son. it goes well with my story - which is not here - but in an online journal, The Rose & Thorn!! Yes, my friends, as of today i am a published author. i submitted a short story, Song of First Light, to the R&T and they accepted it for their winter issue. i'd love for you to read it. click here to go to their site. (when you get to the site, click on the cover artwork to get to the index of stories and poems).

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writers, please feel free to use the photo for a writing exercise; submit your poem, short story or creative non-fiction piece by clicking on comments below. i love to read your work! readers, comments are always open to you as well.

cooled

2011-01-12T18:51:00.001-06:00

hello, readers & writers, happy wednesday eve (or thursday morning)! i'd like to see what you writers make of the photo. poem, short story or creative non-fiction, click on comments below to share. here's my fiction spin on it.

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Work in the candle shop was hell in the summers. The crowds. The overwhelming smell of the perfume we add to the hot wax. The heat. The friggin' heat. Try taking July heat in Texas and adding six stoves firing at 400 degree heat to it. But you learn to drink your waters and take your breaks, and the boss moved our shifts to start in the early morning hours. But winters, they were nice. When the air was thin with chill and the few customers in the square were so happy to come in and get warm, and maybe buy a holiday gift or two. I liked it. No matter that my hands were calloused from the heat that soaked through my gloves; the warmth of the stoves filled up the back kitchen and spilled out the open windows and doors. Passers by smiled when they walked by, and sometimes poked their heads in to see what we were doing. Yep, you couldn't beat winter at the candle shop.

jammed

2011-01-10T19:16:00.001-06:00

welcome readers & writers! i'd almost given up the hope of writing today - SO much going on. but, monday guaranteed, right? at least it's still monday for most of you. to others eastward of here, hope you'll enjoy this tuesday post :)

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writers, join me in writing about today's photo prompt? post your short story, poem or creative non-fiction piece by clicking on comments below. thank you for writing with me. readers, comments are open to you as well.

Samuel wasn't sure if he was the only person in town who tried studiously to catch rush hour, but he was sure he was the most committed. That's right. Catch it. Even if he finished his work on time, or, drats, early, he'd piddle around at his desk until 5:02 exactly. Until traffic was so thick that he was sure to sit through one or two, sometimes three cycles at every stoplight. Until the highway was as clogged as great Uncle Albert's old arteries.

It wasn't that he loved his car; it was ten years old - or was it eleven now? It didn't have a stellar sound system. In fact, it was the cheapest he could find. No sense buying something nice when the car got broken into every couple of years. (He worked in a rough part of town.) The stereo worked just fine, however. The comforting voices of public radio personalities rose and fell over the hum of the heater with great regularity, soothing whatever bumps has arisen in his otherwise quiet work day.

The truth of the matter was that he owed right much to rush hour because it delayed his return home by a good forty-five minutes, even an hour. One less hour he had to spend looking at her sad eyes and disappointed face. He'd figured out that it didn't matter what time he arrived home. An hour early, or an hour late, it seemed it was all the same to her. Nothing he did was ever enough. Nothing at all.

mingled

2011-01-07T15:13:00.001-06:00

welcome, readers & writers! writers, please join me in writing about my photo above, a covered patio along the riverwalk in san antonio. just click on comments below to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to the prompt. i love to read your work. readers, thank you for time and interest; comments are open to you, as well. happy weekend to all ;-)

* * *

5.7.5.

shade and bright divvy

space in me. dancing, shifting,

complimentary

warmed

2011-01-05T08:48:00.000-06:00

welcome readers & writers - a winning wednesday to you ; ) today's prompt is a photo i took last weekend in san antonio. the structure on the left was a small freestanding building that appeared to be an oven or stove of some kind. writers, come write with me! submit your short story, poem, or creative non-fiction piece by clicking on comments below. i love to read your work! see below for my fiction spin on the photo.

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"Haht. Haht. Haht," my littlest one says, bouncing his chubby palm up and down in the direction of the miniature brick building. I turn to look. "Yes," I say, impressed that he's made the connection between our tiny gas log unit and this freestanding stove. "Hot. It's a big fireplace." He nods solemnly. "Out?" he says, with a tilt of his head, pulling on the buckle of his umbrella stroller. "Okay. Let's get you out." I lean down and unbuckle him, dropping two kisses on his chubby cheeks, each slightly sticky from our room service pancakes.

He toddles over to the stove but stops short. "Haht?" he asks again, turning to me, palm out again, bouncing up and down. I'm certain it isn't hot, but I double check to be sure. "Not hot," I say. "Good boy for asking. You can touch it." But he doesn't. Even when I show him again that I can touch it, he won't. He edges an inch closer, then looks up at me again, eyebrows quirked in a dubious arch.

"It's okay," I say. "Mama says it's okay." I pick him up and set him on my hip, leaning out to touch the bricks and say, "Not hot." He puts his hand on a brick then, too. "Naht. Haht," he says with a teeny smile. His daddy arrives, smelling of aftershave, hair still damp from the shower, and gathers us both in an embrace. "Dada," says my boy, pointing at the stove, then shaking his palm back and forth. "Naht. Haht."

renewed

2011-01-03T09:47:00.001-06:00

readers & writers, happy new year! hope your holiday season, however you celebrated, brought with it moments of goodness and joy. our family enjoyed some time at home, a quick trip to san antonio (pictures coming soon) and a visit to family in atlanta. i'm thankful for plenty of rest & play.

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writers, so glad to be writing with you again. i'm rested, renewed, and ready to heat up this keyboard with some poetry, short stories and creative non-fiction. please join me in today's writing warm up by clicking on comments below to post your creative writing response to the photo above, of an antique table place card holder which belonged to my aunt ruth. the comments section is open to readers as well. here's my spin on the pic:

She eases into her chair, taking care not to bump the table, set with fine china and heavy crystal, with its countless glowing facets reflecting candlelight and the tiniest twinkling Christmas lights. Other guests are settling in as well, in pairs, with the exception of Aunt Gertrude, who takes her place at the head of the table.
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Catherine, seated at the foot of the table, doesn't know anyone at all. She'd taken a nursing position at the children's hospital in D.C., summoned with just a weekend's notice to pack and report for duty. It was a dream job, so worth the rush. Not to mention the fact that she was still getting over her broken heart (and the broken arm that came with it after her boyfriend shoved her into a wall). Clocking some miles between herself and his endless voicemails, text messages and flower bouquets of apology was just what the doctor ordered. Literally.
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It just happened to be Christmas Eve now, on her third day in the city. She was sitting here, in this gorgeous, cluttery house because her best friend back home had a great Aunt Gert, who lived alone in Maryland and reportedly "just loves" having new people over on Christmas Eve. "It'll be kind of an open house," Ella had said, "tons of folks in and out all night long." At the time she'd accepted the invitation, Christmas with a house full of strangers seemed preferable to Christmas alone in her still empty apartment, a homemade meal much more appealing than the turkey pot pie chilling in her otherwise empty freezer.
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Now, doing her part to pass steaming dishes along - "Clockwise!" Gert had declared in her warbly, Hepburn voice - and listening to the chatter of the seven other people around the table, all of whom seem to be long time friends with Gert, Catherine feels silly and waif-ish. Gert had even spelled Catherine's name wrong, writing a spidery "Katherine" with a K instead of Catherine with a C for the place card.
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After they fill their plates and bow their heads for grace, Gert raises her glass as far as she seems able, and says, "To Kat. Welcome, dear girl." Six faces turn Catherine's way. Six more glasses lift, and six voices warmly reply, "To Kat." Catherine tries to smile as she raises her glass and glances around the room. It doesn't occur to her until she meets the glossy green gaze of the angel place card holder that she is starting over. This is a chance to be whoever, however she wants to be. "So," she thinks, "maybe I will be Katherine with a K - Kat. Maybe a girl named Kat has courage." She lets this sink in a moment as she takes a sip of the rich red wine. "Maybe Kat will be strong and confident and joyful and independent. Maybe a Katherine with a K will deck any man who pushes her around; better yet, maybe Kat will know the difference between a violent jerk and a real man and choose differently next time. If there is a next time.
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Catherine studies Aunt Gertrude, a "spinster," Ella had affectionately called her. Never married. Gertrude was laughing, head tipped toward the ceiling, dentures gleaming. Surrounded by great friends and beautiful things, Catherine thinks how Gert looks nothing like a lonely old woman and everything like the woman Catherine - Kat - had always wanted to be. Kat lifts her glass and clears her throat. "To Gert, our lovely hostess," she sings out. Everyone smiles and lifts their glasses, "To Gert!"
-

blessed

2010-12-24T11:55:00.000-06:00

readers & writers, welcome! thank you for stopping in. this will likely be my last post until january 3, though i may be able to pop in while our family's on vacation. while i'm away, feel free to read or write on this or any photo in the archives.

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for this week, a blessing to go with this photo of a painting done by my husband's grandmother Constance ~ long gone to be with the angels. the words of this blessing, drawn from the daily prayer of a celtic community in chatton, ireland, sing out my wish for you, and for the whole wide world.

May the peace of the Lord go with you,

wherever he may send you.
May he guide you through the wilderness,

protect you through the storm.

May he bring you home rejoicing

at the wonders he has shown you.

May he bring you home rejoicing

once again into your doors.

freckled

2010-12-22T10:27:00.003-06:00

readers & writers, welcome!

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writers, join me in writing about today's photo prompt. click on comments below to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response. cheers!

"Would you like another, miss?" Adin shaded her eyes, squinting to see the waiter standing over her in his white polo shirt and khaki shorts, holding an empty pina colada glass in his hand. "Please," she said, propping herself up on her elbows. He nodded, tossing her a wink as he turned away.

She sat up, stretching her fingers toward the sky and her toes in the general direction of the ocean, which rolled and shhhussshhheed just yards beyond the resort pool. She examined her arms and legs for signs of sunburn, supposing that she should put on some more sunscreen. "You'll freckle, dear..." Her mother's voice scolded faintly in her mind. How many years had Adin spent, at her mother's urging, confined to the shade circle of a beach umbrella or nearly suffocating in a 'lightweight' cotton wrap. And still she'd end her vacation covered with tiny freckles, a smattering across the nose, many more on her body, scattered like so much glitter across the surface of a Christmas ornament. They'd last a month or two then recede under the milky surface of her skin until next time.

But now, one week post finals, six months to college graduation, she'd finally realized that mother's voice, though it would always bob around in her sea of thoughts, no longer had a place as the voice heard above all others. Adin flipped onto her belly, resting her cheek against her soft nubby towel. "The thing of it is," she drawled, more relaxed than she remembered being for years, "I like my freckles."

wanted

2010-12-20T10:49:00.000-06:00

readers & writers, welcome!!

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come write with me, my writing friends. short story, poem or creative non-fiction, warm your writing self up and give your creativity a boost for the day... just click on comments below to share.

wanted

one jolly old elf

oft' seen on twelve twenty-five

shouting, 'good night all!'

seen this man? please call:

the North Pole, Mrs. Kringle

"it's near time," says she

with twinkling eyes

"my Kris always goes fishing.

to relax, unwind.

the sleigh is lubed up

ready to fly. all we need

now papa is you!"

topped

2010-12-17T11:34:00.001-06:00

writers & readers, welcome!

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writers, care to join me in a writing warm up about today's photo prompt? click on comments below to share your short story, poem or creative non-fiction piece.

Kyra fiddled with the backing of the glossy bow, struggling to peel it back despite the fact that she had no fingernails (chewed to the quick). She'd turn forty next week, New Year's eve. She marveled at the fact that, twenty-five years later, she couldn't wrap a gift without thinking of that one Christmas, when her true love showered her with a gift every day. Not partridges or pear trees, mind you, but mixed tapes and simple trinkets fraught with meaning. And on Christmas day, her first ring (which she would, sometime in college - when the drama of their relationship had wended its way to a peak - mail it back to him in an envelope stuffed with poetry and dreams and recriminations and ultimatums). Then it all had fizzled and dispersed like the smoke after fireworks. At the time of the great gifting she thought that every boy was so sweet, that every boy would shower her with gifts and compliments and undying love. She chuckled now. That hadn't been the case. Not in the least. But life had brought her so many good gifts, simple and complicated, each one fraught with meaning.

passed

2010-12-15T08:24:00.002-06:00

welcome, readers & writers... i'm sick as a dog here, and coughing, as they say, to beat the band. need a full night's sleep. hope your week is treating you better than mine is treating me!

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today's photo prompt is another close up. this little box belonged to my dear old friend "aunt" ruth, who passed on two years ago this month at the fiesty, warm, and wonderful age of 89 years old. she is our oldest son's godmother (his first name for her was "aunt joop"). she loved sweet little knick-knacks like this, and often she'd have a few treasures tucked in her handbag to pass along to my boys or to me. writers, come write with me! poem, creative non-fiction or short story - just click on comments below to share. readers, comments are open to you as well.

5. 7. 5. (x2)

through the wardrobe door

Joop has gone to see old friends

beloved family

she comes back sometimes

it's true, she comes to see you

to whisper love, hope

hitched

2010-12-13T07:47:00.002-06:00

readers & writers, welcome! thank you for stopping by. hope you had a chance to rest & play this weekend. we enjoyed a couple of beautiful days out in the country with some friends.

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writers, how about some writing play around today's photo prompt? click on comments to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to the photo. writers, comments are open to you as well. here's my spin on the photo:

Happy unanniversary, my sweet. Happy old ordinary day. Happy scrambling around to make sure all the kids have clean socks to wear today. Happy bowl of soggy cereal because you poured it before remembering another lunch had to be made. Happy sitting up listening to me cough half the night, and thank you for snuggling close anyway. Happy day packed with meetings and I won't see you until late, after the homework is done and dinner is made and stories are read. Happy sopping up the puddle of water on the kitchen floor hoping the refrigerator might hobble through on its last chilly legs until January. Happy I'll do the dishes, you set the breakfast table, and then we'll do it all again tomorrow. We're in it. I love you. Happy unnanniversary. Happy old ordinary day, my sweet.

surrounded

2010-12-10T08:16:00.002-06:00

welcome, readers & writers

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hope you've had a good week and that your weekend plans are shaping up nicely. how about a writing warm up for you writers out there? poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to today's photo prompt, just click on comments below to send it in. see below for my short story spin on the photo. readers, the comments section is open to you as well. thanks for stopping in!

Lil is taking her boys and leaving for the holiday. Leaving me here, in their wreck of a house. Alone. I know I should be happy for her, finding someone to love after so many years on her own. I know I have no claim on her and the boys, no reason to be resentful. I'm just a boarder. And a friend. But first a boarder. I mean, I always pay my rent on the first of the month, if not a day early. Don't I? I keep my belongings contained in my room, and my food on my shelf in the fridge. I take care that nothing spill over because if it did I might never find it again.

When I can no longer hear their car on the street, I jump up from my place on the couch and peek out the window to be sure they're gone. I giggle and my breath warms the moisture on the window, causing two drops to race to the windowsill. I flip on the TV, clicking through all the channels until I find the family Christmas movie channel. It's a marathon of movies today, which is good. A mess like this will take hours to conquer.

And it does. Not only picking up the clutter and carrying it away to the bedrooms, trying hard to guess to which boy each thing belongs. But the trash. And layer upon layer of dust and dirt and the gritty dry puddles of spills never quite cleaned up all the way. At last, when I look around and feel I'm in another house altogether, I go to the garage and dig through their Christmas bins. They hadn't bothered since they knew they'd be leaving. I find a tabletop tree, the kind with the lights wired into it and the ornaments glued on it. I plug it in and take a seat. It's well past nine.

Too tired to think of cooking, I pull on my coat and go for fast food, bringing it back to the couch to inhale it. The Coke is so cold it's almost frozen. The lights on the little tree are blinking. McCauley Caulkin is hugging his mother. Another movie will begin soon. I sigh and cuddle up in the chenille blanket I'd found, and washed, and arranged with care on the back of the couch. It's not until I drag the final crusty french fry through the last streaks of the ketchup on my plate that my heart misses a beat. I sit up and look around. She's going to hate that I did this. This will not feel like a gift to her. It will feel like judgment.

"But what am I supposed to do?" I say to the scrolling credits. "Put it all back?" I seriously consider the possibility, then dismiss it. It will have to be my gift to myself. A clean room in which to spend Christmas alone. I prepare myself for the likelihood that she won't say thank you.

And she never does. She never says a word.

dreamed

2010-12-08T08:28:00.003-06:00

welcome, readers & writers!

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writers, are you ready for a writing warm up? you can go my direction on today's photo prompt (and write about dreams that have been floating around in the night at your place) or you can go your own direction all together. poem, short story or creative non-fiction, share by clicking on comments below. readers, your comments are welcome, too. thanks to all for stopping by!

After having a kind of strange and kind of wonderful dream last night, I took an unofficial poll this morning among my family members. Our various dreams were too vivid, scary, lovely or bizarre not to share.

In my dream two dear but distant friends, Presbyterians (this seemed to matter for some odd reason) showed up. One wrote out a 'prescription for wellness' which included hand drawn pictures of apples and the presence of another child in our lives. The other friend stopped by and just so happened to leave a small child behind... a beautiful boy with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes who took to us all immediately and, when I met him, wrapped his little arms around my neck for a big hug. We couldn't figure out who he was or how long he was staying. But I kinda loved him.

My littlest son woke up crying this morning. Being that he's five and doesn't usually do that anymore (thanks be), I rushed to his room and found him sound asleep. I asked him if he was okay. He woke up and looked at me like I was crazy, "I'm fine, Mom." He didn't remember crying out, but a little while later he came to tell me that he had a dream in which red ants were biting his hands and feet, and when he tried to pick them off their legs got stuck inside of him :( I believe I'd cry about that, too.

This prompted me to ask my husband if he'd had any dreams he could remember. He said he'd dreamt that he had to critique people's writing (ahem) as it came up on the display of a gas tank. He said the grammatical mistakes and errors kept coming and were endless. (This is not as antagonistic toward his wife as it might sound, as he is a professor and this is grading season). Still.

Son number two said that his dream involved his brothers, an abandoned house, and chipmunks with wings and bird feet. Cool.

My oldest couldn't remember any of his dreams from the night... So that's the news from our house in Austin, TX - where, to ~~steal~~ borrow Garrison Keillior's description of Lake Woebegone, "the men are good looking, the women are strong and all the children are above average."

come write with me!

mended

2010-12-06T08:44:00.000-06:00

readers & writers, hello & welcome!

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as the weather grows colder i'm noticing a tendency to draw closer to things, for warmth maybe. today's photo prompt is a close up of denim fabric. writers, if you're up for a writing warm up, join me! poem, short story or creative non-fiction - submit it below by clicking on comments. readers, comments are open to you as well. thanks to all for stopping by, and have a great monday.

5. 7. 5. (x2)

sad "blue jean baby"

heavy-hearted, rent, alone

torn apart, lost, dark

in wisdom she seeks

women friends to knit her strong

soon now, whole again

trimmed

2010-12-03T08:10:00.002-06:00

welcome writers & readers - happy friday!

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i'm so thankful it's the weekend, though a little overwhelmed at how jam-packed it is with things to do. one cheery task is that the tree, which currently resides in our living room, must be lighted and trimmed. though i'm not thrilled with the blurry edge of the photo, i love how we can see individual needles clinging to the branch. the intricate beauty of this inspires me, and i hope it inspires you writers as well. come write with me! poem, short story or creative non-fiction - 300(ish) words or less. share it by clicking on comments below. readers, comments are open to you, too. thanks to all for stopping by = )

In a few short hours my family will gather around this tree and cover it with beautiful things: lights that pierce the darkness, an angel to watch over us and direct our gaze upward sometimes over the next busy weeks, and ornaments that mark fourteen years of family life.
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A grinning Nutcracker ornament from the very first Christmas I dated my sweetie, when we saw a production of the musical at the Fox theater in midtown Atlanta. An adorable handcrafted clay snowman ornament bought on a weekend in Asheville, NC the same as we gave to our wedding party as thank you gifts for our (almost) Christmas wedding.
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Baby's first Christmas x3. A dog bone with Maddy's name inscribed on it (still brings tears when we pull it from the tissue paper five years after she went to Dog Heaven). A ceramic Santa ornament from our second honeymoon trip, the one where we fought half the time and spent the other half in the sunken bathtub next to the blazing fireplace.
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Fancy crystal ornaments from the in-laws, one for each year, that cost more than a day's wages and catch every bit of light in the room, never failing to enchant my boys, even though they're no longer babies. One ornament for each boy, for each year, some hastily bought on Christmas eve from the grocery store, some chosen with care and lovingly inscribed with their names - depending on how hectic life was that year.
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I'm taken with this lovely tree, who in all of its natural beauty, will stand patiently with us through the holiday, bearing the many blessings and thankfully few burdens of our years together.

misted

2010-12-01T05:15:00.013-06:00

welcome, readers & writers

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i'm so excited about today! write away every day is celebrating our first guest post. for those who might not know, a guest post is when a blogger invites another blogger to be the host of her/his blog for a day. i invited one of my favorite bloggers (and authors) Kathryn Magendie to do a guest post for us today and she graciously agreed. so today's lovely photo prompt was taken by Kat, and the written response is hers as well. visit Kat's wonderful website by clicking here, and be sure to take a look at her published books, Tender Graces, Secret Graces, and Sweetie (just out this November!) as well; she is a gifted writer. thank you, Kat, for hanging out with us today on write away every day.

writers, write along with Kat by clicking on comments below to submit your short story, poem or creative non-fiction piece. readers, comments are open to you as well. see below for Kat's lovely reflection on the photo:

When it is cold, I sit with a throw over me, as if I'm an old woman, and I rock and drink strong black coffee. The mists come and go like ocean waves, recede and arrive, recede and arrive, breathing in and out, out and in. When the fog covers me, I am alone in the cloud, and I can think of nowhere else I'd rather be. The mists are ghosts, ethereal visitors, a great glowing white hand whose fingers reach across the mountains.

The Blue Ridge/Appalachian/Smoky mountains, blue-gray in the distance, have stood for thousands of a thousand more years; some of the oldest in the world. No man could ever tread upon every living thing here, and no man would care to. I can see myself on that highest peek in the far distance—can you see it? I can see myself there, with my arms outstretched, and the wind will rush right through me and I let it and I am not afraid of what is below or behind or above; I just am. Nothing would discover me on the peak, but I would discover myself.

And as night falls, and I become the wolf, I will howl once, twice, three times. Then, with my glorious snout raised in salute to the ancient ones, I will lope down down the mountain, into the woods, my paws leaving prints in the North Carolina soil. Sniffing the air as I run, I can smell the ones who love me, who wait for me. And under a buckeye tree I stop to rest, lick my wounds, for the night has been harsh, but I know no other way but to go forward. And I let loose one last long reaching ever-heard howl that says, "It is; this is; I just am."

found

2010-11-29T08:06:00.061-06:00

welcome readers & writers!

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today's photo is of a letter we found in our gutters. it was sent from australia to an address in minnesota. no clue how it got, unopened, to the gutter of our street in austin, tx... but it could make a great story! writers, come write with me. submit your short story, poem or creative non-fiction (300ish words or less) by clicking on comments below.
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i'm back! sorry for the delay... been working hard over here at my paying job :) my contribution for this picture is below. stay tuned for a special guest post tomorrow - by the all around wonderful author Kathryn Magendie whose blog you can find here.

The letter was burning a hole in Sasha's purse. She'd tucked it there after checking her mailbox on her way out the door to the airport. She'd been expecting him to write. In fact she'd been pining away for nearly a year - checking the mailbox two and three times a day, even if the mailman had already been there. She'd lain for hours in her bed, unable to sleep, forming what words he would write, constructing each sentence in the way she thought he would say it, hearing each word whispered aloud, in his honeyed Aussie lilt. But his letter had never arrived, and she'd almost given up for good. Today of all days, the day before Thanksgiving, she found the letter in her box. She didn't have time to read it right now, or she'd miss her flight to Austin. Maybe she'd read it on the plane. And then again, maybe not. Maybe she didn't care what he had to say anymore. You don't tell someone you love them, that you'll be back soon, that you'll bring them out to see you, and then drop off the face of the earth for the better part of a year. A tear overflowed its pool and trickled down her face. Maybe she'd just toss the letter out the window of her brother's jeep and move on with her life. Just. Maybe.

gratified

2010-11-25T09:52:00.002-06:00

happy thanksgiving, readers & writers!

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i am deeply grateful for so much, and very near to the top of the list this year is that i've discovered more fully this passion for writing. following the advice for aspiring writers, i started this blog. i had no idea what a joy it would be to write and read with you all! i never expected that the blogging community would be so affirming and nurturing of one another. thank you, thank you. blessings on your day. i'll be back on monday with a regular post. until then, feel free to write if you'd like - or just eat. eating is good!

minted

2010-11-23T05:15:00.004-06:00

readers & writers, welcome!

* * *

writers, feel free to spin a little tale/poem/musing about today's photo prompt. just click on comments below to post. i'll be back to write, but probably very late tonight when i return from seeing harry potter 7.1 with my big boy. love the movies. love harry potter. love my boy. thinking about what it must be like for an author to have gobs and gobs of people be inspired by something you've written... and what it's like to see your story spring to life on the big screen. pretty cool stuff. thanks for stopping in!! come write with me :)
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I'm back! I couldn't find the words last night to write about Harry Potter 7.1 It was amazing. And it really defies review because it just is. There's no going wrong for this iconic story that is so much bigger than ink on a page or pixels on a screen. Judging by the audience in the theater last night, Harry Potter is a universal story which brings hope, joy and courage to people of all ages. It has and will help shape the character of my boys, and for that I am incredibly grateful. Have you seen the film? What is your response?

remembered

2010-11-22T05:15:00.000-06:00

welcome, readers & writers! hope your weekend afforded you some time for rest and play. we did a lot of catching up around here; not restful or playful, but it's good to be out from under mountains of laundry, toys and dishes = )

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today's writing prompt is a photo of a plant that grows beautifully here in austin. it's called setecreasea pallida, or 'purple heart.' writers, hope the photo and/or the title inspires a poem, short story or creative non-fiction response in you. if so, come write with me and share your response by clicking on comments below. remember, there's no pressure to have the writing be perfect. this is just an exercise to boost your creativity for the day. readers, the comments section is open to you as well. thanks to all for stopping in!

Mary shifted on 'her' bench, tilting her face toward the glimmering sun for a moment before returning her eyes to the blood purple plant just across the path. She wasn't mad at the sun anymore, for shining. And she wasn't mad at the young mothers for walking by with strollers holding sleeping newborns or mobilizing wriggling toddlers. She wasn't mad at all anymore. Just sad. Eternally, unremittingly sad.

Something about the setecreasea plants nurtured a stillness inside of her - though it was a stillness void of comfort or peace. She didn't feel closer to her son here, in the park where he used to run and shout and play, where he'd gotten in trouble once as a teenager when he got caught smoking his first cigarette. She would never be able to talk herself into feeling close to him when there wasn't enough of his body left to ship home from Iraq. The stillness she felt looking at the purple heart plant came because, when she looked at it, she didn't feel alone in her sorrow. This living, weeping, beautiful thing with its skin the color of bruises was her daily companion in pain. So they sat, in proximity to one another, getting through the day. Soaking up the sun. Mary inhaled what the plant didn't need anymore. The plant inhaled Mary's sighs, deeper than words.

beheaded

2010-11-18T15:10:00.005-06:00

welcome, readers & writers! here's today's photo writing prompt - a little later than usual. writers, would love to hear your creative take on the photo - story, poem or memoir - click on comments to share. readers, comments are open to you, too. thanks, all for stopping by. see below for my spin on the photo.

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'ello all! my name is Sir Nicholas. You might know me. My creator J.K. Rowling, God bless 'er, made me famous in her books about young Harry Potter. Nearly Headless Nick, they call me. Well, it seems I'm not nearly headless anymore. Since I moved into this house with three young lads and one gargantuan dog, me head's altogether gone, now. Likely ended up in the washtub or under the sofa. Don't know how I'm speaking with you at all. Magic, I suppose. That's one thing there's no shortage of here. Spells are always bein' cast about. Some are spells from the books, some are brand new made up spells like solar inferno, which - the lads say - engulfs its object in a ball of fire. Wands are flashing. Capes are flying. I hear a lot of talk about how many days until "number seven" comes out. Not sure what they mean, but it has something to do with me. And popped corn. Tin of tunny, I'd like to find me head by then so I could view whatever this "number seven" is. Ah well. At least maybe one of the lads might hide me in 'is pocket. Do ring me if you see it, won't you?

dog-eared

2010-11-16T17:15:00.002-06:00

welcome, readers & writers!

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here is today's photo writing prompt - writers, poem, short story or creative non-fiction, write away! click on comments to share. readers, comments are open to you as well. thanks to all for stopping by!

5.7.5.
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lost in a world of
simple words, antique stories
lovley ways and days

imprinted

2010-11-16T05:15:00.002-06:00

welcome, readers & writers!

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today's prompt is a photo of a necklace given to me by a dear friend. some memoir-esque thoughts about the necklace and the friend are below. that's my response to the photo. writers, what's yours? click on comments below to share a story, poem or non-fiction response to the photo. remember, these prompts are intended to provide you with a writing warm up. so there's no pressure to produce an award winning piece of work here. just flex those creative muscles and we'll all go "oooh" and "ahhh!!" readers, comments are open to you as well. thanks, all, for stopping by.

One of my college roommates came to town this week. What a joy it was to see her! We've stayed connected these uh-humm many years - a) because she's much more organized, patient and persistent than I am (thus a better correspondent), b) because, until recently, we had the good fortune of living a half a day's drive from one another - and the chance to cement the friendship as adults, and c) because we can completely and totally be ourselves around one another. We know the good, bad and, well, badder history of each other's lives and we love each other all the same.

My friend is one of the strongest people I know. She's been through more heartache in life than one person should ever have to endure; and yet she has been able, through sheer will sometimes, to be positive, vulnerable, open and hopeful to life.

Some years ago, when she was in the midst of a terrible crisis, I drove out and offered help in whatever very limited way I could. As I was leaving, she gave me the gift of this necklace. She explained that the word thanks, imprinted on the silver, was not only a literal expression of her gratitude to me, but also an offering of gratitude and thanks for life's blessings. That she could find it in her that day to give a gift to me, or to even say the word "thanks" out loud tells you volumes about her character.

I wear the necklace often, always remembering my friend - what she's lost and what she's gained through these many years. I wear it with gratitude for her and, inspired by her, for life's many blessings.

come write with me!

found

2010-11-15T12:14:00.031-06:00

hello readers & writers!

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here is today's photo writing prompt... something i found out in a field. writers, write away! poem, short story or creative non-fiction, i'd love to hear your spin. here's my 25 cents worth :)
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With her ten tickets clutched tightly in one hand and her Granny's hand holding tightly to the other, Jarellyn scouted out the whole carnival before deciding which ride to do first. No matter that most of the other kids were wearing wristbands that meant they could go on as many rides as they wanted. No matter that most rides cost two tickets, meaning she'd just get to ride a handful. Jerellyn's chubby cheeks were lifted in a big grin.
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Granny had said they might not be able to come at all. But then, when they were cleaning out the coat closet, Jerellyn found a five dollar bill squished under some shoes. Ten tickets, two hotdogs, two sodas. More fun than Jerellyn had seen in a long, long time. Since Mama left.
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And she'd be able to talk with the girls at her lunch table about the carnival. She could say she'd been there. She could say her favorite ride. She could laugh about the silly clown running around making balloon animals and spraying people with a squirting flower. They paused for a minute; Granny needed to catch her breath. But just for a minute. Jerellyn, so excited to know that she'd be able to see the whole block from the top of the ride, tugged Granny toward the ferris wheel. The whole darn block. "This one," she said to Granny. "It's gotta be this one."
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come write with me!

trained

2010-11-11T05:15:00.005-06:00

welcome, readers & writers!

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writers, looking for your pet stories, poems or creative non-fiction (memoir, anyone?) thoughts today. click on comments below to share. readers, comments are open to you, too. here's my doggie memoir, a memorial.

Maddy was the best dog I could ever hope to have, though to say "have" her doesn't feel quite right. I wasn't her owner, and I definitely wasn't her master, because - though she loved me - she never obeyed me much at all. She was just family, I guess. A furry little Ewok (black chow chow) about the size of a small watermelon when I brought her "home" to my college apartment, one which didn't allow pets, by the way. At full grown she was the size and shape of a big kid black bear. Once, when I took her for a walk around my apartment complex, a foreign exchange student very new to our country asked me, in a tremulous voice, "Is it bear?" She looked relieved to know that we crazy Americans aren't out walking our bears every morning.
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Maddy-girl was sweet and stubborn, smart and playful. She thought about being fierce for about ten minutes when she was a pup, but once she was too big to growl at people from under furniture, she decided to go the docile route. She loved, loved to run and be chased... which made life difficult sometimes. At the least convenient moment possible she'd squeeze her way out the door as I was leaving or coming home and take off. I - and anyone else kind enough to help - would run after her for blocks. She was super fast. Every once in awhile she would stop, panting, and smile at us, watching until we got almost close enough to catch her, and then she'd take off again. She did this game for years until she got old. Eventually we stopped chasing her because the whole thing would end much faster after she'd had her run and come back home with a grin on her face.
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By the time she was twelve, almost thirteen, she was not only my dog anymore; she was well loved by my husband and my two boys (one on the way). She'd been with me through college, graduate school, a number of very broken hearts, engagement, marriage, and two new babies. Always gentle, always sweet. In her last few years with us she mostly slept and watched the children play. She couldn't see or hear very well and so would kind of vacantly wag her tail when you'd talk to her. And she never played her chase game anymore, something I was grateful for.
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On the night of November 1, 2004 - All Saints Day - in the chaos of the bedtime hour, I put her outside to do her business. I took a little longer getting back to her than usual and when I opened the door she wasn't there. She'd wandered off to our front yard and, heartache of heartaches, been hit by a car right in front of our house. Writing about the rest that night, and the days that followed, is too long and still too hard.
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But I will tell you that several months later, still feeling awfully guilty and empty and sad, Maddy came to me in a dream. I was walking up and down the aisles of a warehouse like place looking for her. I rounded a corner and saw her way at the end of an aisle. She came running to me, grinning. She was young and spry and just herself. I knelt down and hugged her, feeling her silky woolen coat and kissing the bridge of her soft nose. After that dream, there was peace. I miss her still, but I know she's okay. And I fully expect to see her again.

come write with me!

found

2010-11-10T05:15:00.004-06:00

it's wacky wednesday, readers & writers! since we don't have spoof saturdays anymore, we've got to be wacky at least a few wednesdays out of the month.

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so join me today in writing about this rather nasty, mysterious found object... Dr. Seuss style! Poem, story, or really creative non-fiction... rhyme away! writers, click on comments below to share your work or to heap praise on the hilarious, brilliant work of others.

white foot, light foot
ghost foot, gross foot
muddy, cruddy, narrow toes foot
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creeping, sneaking, on the path
reeking, leaking, needs a bath
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feeling sick now, need to go
methinks he's glad i said hello

thanks for stopping by!

stained

2010-11-09T11:18:00.000-06:00

welcome readers & writers!

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here's today's photo prompt. writers, what do you make of it? story, poem or creative non-fiction - share by clicking on comments below! readers, comments are open to you, too.

wooded

2010-11-08T06:58:00.049-06:00

a good monday to you, readers & writers! hope your weekend brought time to rest and play.

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here's my spin on today's photo writing prompt. writers, please jump in and share whatever poem, story or creative non-fiction thoughts arise when you look at this photo. readers, the comments section is open to you as well. happy reading and writing!

What kindness there is in the wise layers of this tree - to provide a row of steps for passersby? How many feet have lighted on these ragged roots? Four furry dog feet, pulling her person forward, "Faster! Faster! To the river!" The scuffed up dress shoes of a businessman on lunch, claiming a break from the neon glow of his computer screen. Hiking boots, fresh from the box, laced up by a woman ready to get up off the couch and be in the world again. Two sets of sneakers, his and hers, close together, holding hands, deep in puppy love, happy for every moment that's theirs to spend before going separate ways to do homework and chores. Twenty, fifty, maybe even a hundred people a day, tread the path, down the stairs, to the creek, to revel in the wonder of the world. Thank you, sister tree, for easing the way to Eden.

Come write with me!

outpaced

2010-11-05T05:15:00.003-05:00

welcome readers & writers! sorry i missed posting yesterday. i was, indeed, kidnapped by ~~third graders~~ aliens. they did something very strange to me; i blinked and suddenly it was friday. it's not photog friday... that will return next week. just plain old friday.

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writers, take a spin around this photo prompt and see where it leads you. story, poem or creative fiction - click on comments below to share. readers, the comments section is open to you, too! here's my spin on today's photo prompt:

I slide into the front seat of the car, exhaling the stress of the last eight hours. Exhausting day. Miserable week. Flipping crappy month. Nothing, nothing, is going right for me. Work. Family. Friends. Everything. It feels like everything is wrong, or off, or ruined, or out of reach. I start the engine and buckle my seat belt. I take the clip out of my hair and slip off my shoes. I push the power button on the stereo and the cheerful sound of my favorite audio book floods the car. Cracking the top on the soda I snitched from the communal fridge on the way out the door, I ease out of my parking space and onto the main road.

The soda's icy sweet bubbles bounce down my throat and back up again and I belch (like a sailor, to quote my mother) and then murmur an apology to the empty car. Just a few blocks away is the interstate. I nose my way into the rush hour traffic, turning toward home. At the edge of town - when I'm almost to my exit - traffic lightens up and my speedometer finally tops fifty-five. In synch with the car, something in me shifts, lets go, revels in the forward motion. My exit comes. My exit goes. I drive on until I've gone so far there's no turning back. At least not tonight.

come write with me!

doodled

2010-11-03T05:15:00.004-05:00

welcome readers & writers. thank you, Pauline, Alison & FilmGuy for writing with me yesterday. i love to read your work!

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here's today's photo prompt. artwork courtesy of my five year old. writers, if a story, poem or creative non-fiction response bubbles up in you, do share! just click on comments below. readers, as writers share, feel free to lavish them with loads of lofty laurels.
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5. 7. 5.
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on mom's fun paper
i draw me, grinning, jumping
how i see the world

rebuffed

2010-11-02T05:15:00.011-05:00

hello readers & writers! glad you're here :)
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writers, what's your take on the photo? poem, short story or creative non-fiction ~ share it by clicking on comments below. here's mine:
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I wish she knew how lovely is is - amber eyes, porcelain skin, a quick laugh and a quicker wit, an aura of generosity and kindness glowing around her. I wish she knew how lovely she is, because I look just like her. If she can't stand to see herself, what does she think when she looks at me?

carved

2010-11-01T05:15:00.010-05:00

readers & writers ~ hello! thank you for visiting write away every day today and for not giving up on my blog while i was away on fall break. after three months of blogging almost every day i was ready for a break. i feel refreshed and ready to move forward into the blogospheric future with ya'll.

one small change as we start a new chapter together. i'll post a new photo every weekday - monday thru friday, but because my schedule is much busier (now that i'm back to work part time), i may not always post an accompanying story with the photo. in that case, writers, please do feel free to write! and readers, be sure to tune in through the day to read what others post. to keep myself focused on writing, i vow to write about the photos at least three days a week.

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here's my non-fiction spin on today's photo. writers, share your spin by clicking on comments below! readers, feel free to use the comments section to heap loads of praise and encouragement on writers who post their poems, stories or creative non-fiction responses to the photo.
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We gathered with our neighbors on the driveway Saturday night for a pumpkin carving party. The air was blessedly cool (rare this time of year in Texas), the cicadas and crickets were singing and the kids were in great spirits. First pumpkin carving party for me -- and a winner! Though I love the end results of pumpkin carving -- adorable (or scary) pumpkins glowing orange and yellow against the dark of Halloween night, and crispy, salted pumpkin seeds right out of the oven -- I don't so much love scooping endless amounts of pumpkin glop and the tedious task of picking seeds out of slime, and minutes upon minutes of jig-jagging tiny, blunt razor blades through inches thick pumpkin skin. Being together with friends made the hard work such fun. And, posting a photo of my kids' pumpkins seemed like the perfect segue between my fall blogging break and today. I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to do what you love, to evolve into the person you were meant to be in this world. It takes effort, discipline, a willingness to muck through the slime (picking out the good stuff, because it's there) and the mental muscle to design and carve, carve and reflect, re-direct and carve some more until the image of the life you've been hoping for takes shape. It's a true challenge, but the alternative is darkness, no?
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come write with me!
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fall break

2010-10-22T07:10:00.001-05:00

gone fishin'

back nov.1

<><

feel free to look around

and read

or write on earlier photos

marked

2010-10-21T00:15:00.003-05:00

welcome readers & writers!

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today's photo prompt was taken by my son on a family trip this summer. it turned out remarkably well for a picture taken out the window of a moving car!
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here's my haiku spin on it. writers, i'd love to read whatever bubbles up inside of you - poem, story or creative non-fiction. click on comments below to share. readers, feel free to comment as well!

5. 7. 5.

fresh bitter broadcast

sierra delta kilo

the meaning? don't know.

twisted

2010-10-20T07:45:00.004-05:00

readers & writers - welcome! thanks and thanks again to Pauline, Chuck Galle and Catherine (welcome!) for writing with me yesterday. reading your work is so much fun.

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so, as i mentioned a few days ago, spoof saturdays have been moved to wednesdays. we're calling them "wacky wednesdays" - and they're just a chance to have some fun with our writing. hope you'll join in! to see the kinds of things we did on spoof saturday, click here, here, and here. today's wacky wednesday topic is tongue twisters. have you ever heard "she sells sea shells by the sea shore?" probably so! and if you're this side side of 35 years old you might even remember the brady bunch episode where buddy hinton teases cindy because she lisps when trying to say it... awwww - but then somebody punches his lights out (peter, maybe) knocking buddy's tooth loose and causing him to lisp. see now, how the shoe is on the other foot. uh huh. ANYHOO... write your own tongue twister(s) if you'd like. a tongue twister is any group of words that's difficult to repeat with accuracy several times in a row. here are a few from me:

fried rice fried twice feels nice

please freeze a flea's knees if he's in your green peas
but if it's bees knees in your green peas, do not freeze please

writers, come write with me! readers, your comments are most welcome :)

found

2010-10-19T08:05:00.000-05:00

welcome readers & writers! many thanks to krowles1981, Chuck Galle & FilmGuy for sharing your writing on yesterday's photo prompt.

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i found this barrette in a parking lot the other day and thought it might have some interesting stories to go with it. here's my spin on the photo, and I'd love to read yours! submit your story, poem or creative non-fiction by clicking on comments below.

Ruthie longs to feel young again. No matter that her wavy red hair is streaked with gray, or that her ankles look thick in bobby socks. She wants to revel in the swish and the sway of a poodle skirt and, even on warm days, to push the three-quarter sleeves of a cashmere sweater up past her elbows. So every night she sets her hair in pin curls and presses her white collar shirt. And every morning, before her shift at the library, she turns herself into a bonafide dolly. The clothes, the shoes - they're all fairly new because the originals don't fit her anymore. But her sweet little hair clip, which she places just above her temple after a good, cloudy spray with Aquanet, is an original. A friend of a friend saw her the other day, scouring the grocery store parking lot for her barrette. She seemed quite distraught to have lost it. You haven't seen it, have you?

writers, come write with me! readers, feel free to share your happy thoughts through the day on whatever fabulous writing comes in :)

marbled

2010-10-18T00:57:00.000-05:00

welcome readers & writers! many thanks to pauline for your photog friday picture contribution, and to FilmGuy for writing with me on friday!

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as you may have noticed, i didn't post this weekend. i've been tracking the traffic patterns for write away every day, and weekends are very slow - which is actually good because it means you're out doing interesting things and seeing the world (either that or washing massive amounts of laundry and standing on the sidelines of your kiddos' soccer games like i am). in fact traffic is a quite a lot slower overall than it has been, and i'm trying to do some guesswork as to why. so i'm going to make a couple of changes to the blog. we'll see how it goes! we can always change back if need be.

first, i'll only post monday through friday (spoof saturdays will become wacky wednesdays). second, i'm going to allow comments on what i and others post, but only positive comments. i still don't want uninvited negative feedback (for me or for you writers). but i'm thinking that our readers need to feel more invested and engaged in what's going on, and i think creativity is boosted for writers when we hear words of praise and encouragement when it comes in. so let's see how these things feel through the week. feel fee to email me your feedback or leave it as a comment.

as always, thank you for being part of write away every day, whether you're stopping in to check out the photo, to read the written responses to the day's photo, or to share your written work. so glad you're here!

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Here's my spin on today's photo prompt:
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One of the things Bitsy hates most about doing laundry is emptying pockets. Oh, she's tried getting her boys to do it themselves. She's left them notes and made threats and let piles of things go on through the wash - damn the consequences. But something, one thing, keeps her hanging on... woos her back time and again, daring to plunge her hand into those pockets stuffed with rocks, sticks, acorns, matchbox cars, school papers and food wrappers. It's the occasional marble. She adores marbles and has, over the years, built up quite a collection.

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This is why she never argues with the boys when they want to buy a new oversized marble at a fancy shop, or a whole pack of traditional marbles at the dollar store. There's just something, she thinks, about holding that glassy sphere in one's hand, lifting it to the light and marveling at the swirls of color and perfectly round tiny bubbles made in glass too quickly cooled.
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She keeps her marbles in a drawstring bag made of pink corduroy. When the kids are out sometimes, she lays belly down on the living room floor and empties the bag on the plush carpet. Pinching her favorite marble between thumb and forefinger, she spends minutes on end gazing at it. Color, light, texture, mystery - how do they make those swirlies? Each one is different, each is beautiful or striking in its own way. Kinda like her boys.
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So, okay. Maybe doing laundry and checking pockets is worth it. Or maybe she should start charging a marble for every load. She smiles to herself... that's the ticket.

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readers, feel free to heap mounds of praise on any of today's creative responses! writers - come write with me: 250(ish) words - story, poem or creative non-fiction. click on comments below to share. have a great day!

locked

2010-10-15T00:28:00.001-05:00

welcome readers & writers - it's friday. wa hooooooo!! a big thanks to krowles1981, FilmGuy and Ashley Brandon for writing with me yesterday. i love to read your work.

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so, not only is it friday - its', yes - you guessed it - photog friday! every other day of the week the photo you see on the blog are mine. on fridays the photos are the work of a pro. this week's photo was taken by one of my very best friends, Pauline Palko. Pauline and i have belonged to the same writing group for almost ten years (10 as of february!) Pauline is a published short story writer. she recently returned from a trip to italy, lucky lady! the fascinating photo above is right out of her trip album. thanks for sharing it with us, pauline :)

writers, what's your take on Pauline's photo? short story, poem or creative non-fiction - send it in by clicking on comments below. here's my fiction spin on it:

The young priest leads the way outside after our rehearsal. My fiance and I follow, enveloped by our families and our wedding party. Fr. Phillip stops, turns to the group and says, "Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder. It's the final pronouncement in the traditional wedding ceremony. Forever, we say. In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, for richer, for poorer, as long as we both shall live. 'We won't let any of these things tear us apart,' you're saying - 'and we won't let the presence of another person be our undoing either.' Yes?" "Yes," the two of us say, looking into each other's eyes. My fiance takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine.
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"To be that strong," the priest continues, "to have a foundation that solid, to really make a go of this marriage, you've got to hold it together. You've got to have a pact. An intentional, unbreakable bond. Tomorrow you'll make that promise inside, surrounded by those who love you, in the eyes of God. But tonight, here in the setting sun, I ask you to declare your strength, your intention to live in that strength, in a visible, tangible, public way. What do you offer as a symbol of your wedding day promise?"
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I pull our lock from my purse. It's shiny and gold, and I love it. And if you want to know a secret, I bought it long before I met Anton. I bought it as a declaration to myself and the world that I was open to love, and it's been sitting on my mantel - open - ever since. The night of our first date, Anton came to my house to pick me up and saw it on the mantle. He asked me about it, what it was for and why it was there. I knew he was a good man when he didn't run for the hills hearing me talk of marriage before we'd even had dinner.
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We reach out together now and add our lock to the chain of links. It clicks into place like the final piece of a puzzle long in the works. I smile at my sweet and we kiss. It's official. We've cast our lot with so many others. It feels good to know we're not alone; since Fr. Phillip arrived, every couple who marries in this church brings their lock and adds it to the others.
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I believe - deeply believe - that with Fr. Phillip, our family, our faith and our friends on our side, our commitment is strong enough to last a lifetime. Til death do us part. We're going to make it. It may not always be easy, but we'll make it.
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come write with me!

railroaded

2010-10-13T23:14:00.000-05:00

welcome, readers & writers. many thanks, brian potopowitz, for writing freddie, the sequel in response to my story yesterday - fun stuff!

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here is today's photo prompt, along with the haiku i've written in response to it. i'd love to read your spin on the photo, short story, poem or creative non-fiction. 250(ish) words or less. click on comments below to share.

5. 7. 5.

riding the rails - there's

no work in sight, 'cept making

dairy towers right

come write with me...

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thursday's string around the finger: we're almost to 100 followers! if you're checking in often but haven't signed up as an official follower (by clicking 'follow' on the right hand side of the page) i'd love to have you make it official! if you're already an official follower, tell a friend about write away every day :) as always, thank you for your support!

trawled

2010-10-13T08:28:00.000-05:00

readers & writers - a warm write away welcome to you this wednesday!

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here's my take on today's photo prompt:

Name's Freddie. Freddie the Shark. You might think I get bored swimming round and round in this tank. Meh, sometimes. But I got ways of keeping myself entertained. I chase the little fish sometimes, yawning as I swim by just to see them flip away as fast as they can. I hang out in the bubbles, get a little massage on this tough old shark skin. And I jump into photos like this one, planning my route so I'll be just behind kiddos like these. "Cheese!" I like to make things nice for them, you know? But sometimes, just every once in awhile, when no little kids are watching and an adult or two is hanging around, I bulge out my eyes real big and swim right at the glass with my mouth open and bump into it, JAWS style. Just hard enough to make them jump. Ha! By the time they're back in their shoes I'm swimming around peacefully again. Whoooo, me????

come write with me! story, poem or creative non-fiction, your biggest fan (that's me!) is waiting to read. it needn't be anything fancy or long... just a writing warm-up & creativity boost! click on comments below to share.

spun

2010-10-12T08:35:00.001-05:00

welcome readers & writers! thank you, brian potopowitz, for writing with me on yesterday's photo :)

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writers, what do you make of this photo? here's my spin:

Ellie, who lay belly down on the seat of the swing, twisted and twisted - holding steady with her feet until she couldn't twist anymore. Then she let go. Unwinding in one mighty whoosh she smiled, and waited for the ground below her to be still again. When it did, this is what she saw. This squishy floor under the swing set that reminded her of the split peas her Granny always put in soup. Ellie spent every recess on this swing, only occasionally stepping away if another kid complained that she'd had it too long. In those cases she would walk the perimeter of the swing set, keeping her eyes on the split peas and waiting until she could swing again.

This was her fourth school in four years. Her mom liked to move around a lot. Always there was a better house to be found in a better city.

Today Ellie spins again and again. At the end of her ninth spin she sees some shoes beside her and looks over to see Emily, who's also in Miss Berkholder's class, laying belly down on the other swing. Ellie smiles at Emily and Emily smiles back. "Hey," says Emily. "This looks like fun." "It is," says Ellie simply. And they spin until the bell rings and recess is over.

click on comments below to send in your story, poem or creative non-fiction piece in response to this photo. happy writing!

signed

2010-10-11T02:00:00.003-05:00

good monday to you, readers & writers. it's a new week, and i hope that write away every day will help make yours great as we read & write together!

* * *

writers, i won't say much at all about this photo prompt (where i took it, what it is, exactly) - i'll just leave it to your wonderful imaginations. share your story, poem or creative non-fiction spin on the photo by clicking on comments below. here's mine:

He could be anyone, this Dave. Might be David Letterman is in town, or else Dave Barry. No? David Beckham. David Caruso. David Schwimmer. David Copperfield. David Chappelle. David Bowie? Or, okay, this Dave could be my son Dave. He loves to write his name. Everywhere. On books, notepads, medical consent forms, newspaper, wrapping paper, any kind of paper. With my lipstick on the bathroom mirror, with the cheese whiz on four little crackers, with frosting on his birthday cake (and mine, and his father's, and his sister's). Ever since he was little. DAVE. DAVE. DAVE. DAVE. Everywhere I look, there it is. All over town. On the dirty back windows of cars and trucks. Scratched on the sand by the ocean. And, last year, when we visited my cousin out in Connecticut, in big life-sized letters carved by his snow boots into freshly fallen snow at the park. DAVE. So it doesn't surprise me to see his name, ever so faintly, here on this city storage unit. DAVE. I guess it's a good thing I didn't name him Captain Fantastic Faster Than Superman Spiderman Batman Wolverine Hulk And The Flash Combined (officially the longest name in the world).

hey you, whatever your name is, come write with me! =-)

rested

2010-10-10T10:18:00.000-05:00

happy sunday! readers & writers, thank you so much for stopping by.

i'll be back tomorrow with more photo prompts. until then, feel free to look around and read or write on photos you might have missed.

crowed

2010-10-08T23:59:00.001-05:00

welcome readers & writers! many thanks to Brian Potopowitz and Bess Weatherby for writing such great posts in response to brian's intriguing photo yesterday.

* * *

it's spoof saturday, and being that it's also election season (and politicians are constantly on the radio and tv crowing about their awesomeness), i think it would be fun to write some spoofs on political ads. my only request is that we not use the names of real candidates or actual political parties/movements :) play nice & have fun! click on comments below to share.

Suz E. Kew for President (of the Cookie Bakers Club of America)

Last month in Wichitaw, Kansas alone an estimated sixty dozen cookies were baked and consumed. But I ask you, just how many of those cookies were made from scratch? My opponent will tell you that women are too busy to make real cookies anymore. She'll try to convince you that cookie dough in a tub, that [shudder] slice and bakes, taste just as good and are as wholesome for your children as homemade. But I've been baking cookies for twenty-five years and I'm here to tell you, they're not. My opponent is wrong. Those fancy women with their big, important jobs and their well-paid nannies and their specialty cupcake shops and their crystal cookie trays are wrong. Nothin' but good home cooking, and home-made cookies will do. You betcha. Don't let them fool ya. Stick with me and we'll keep the dreams and recipes passed down to us from our grandmothers, er, those things alive.

I'm Suz E. Kew and I approve this message.

write with me?

cooked

2010-10-08T00:03:00.003-05:00

welcome readers & writers... and many thanks to Jessica Lemmon, FilmGuy, Chuck Galle, and Brian Potopowtiz for your awesome posts on yesterday's photo! what a great day for the blog.

* * *

it's photog friday! today's photo contribution was taken by a frequent visitor and writer to the blog, brian potopowitz. brian is a friend of mine and an all-around creative soul - carpenter, writer, jeweler and photographer. he's originally from alaska and now lives in northeastern pennsylvania. i saw this photo on brian's facebook page and asked him if we could use it for a photog friday - it's intriguing to me! thank you, brian, for the use of your great photo.

here's my fiction spin on brian's photo:

I sink down into my claw foot tub, which is already filled to the brim with hot, silky suds, and I relax by degrees. An involuntary shudder runs through me as the heat penetrates through every layer of my skin and deep into my bones. My scalp tingles with the pleasure of being warm for the first time all day, for the first time since I turned off my electric blanket this morning and put my feet on the frosty floor. In fact, the whole day's been frosty, and I'm not just talking about the weather. My boss was in a miserable, self-centered mood. With a few muttered words and the flutter of her hand she shot down the proposal I've been working on for weeks. My ideas don't even warrant a complete sentence anymore, I guess. My co-workers could hardly look me in the eye. It's not that they don't like me. And no, they weren't being mean. Deep down they fear that failure is contagious; they want to succeed so badly that not one of them would chance contracting my luck. Ah well, tomorrow is another day, and I'm on to a new proposal.
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I soak for more than an hour, adding water whenever the temperature strays too far from sizzling. I sip wine and read my novel. I close my eyes and drift off for a time, and when I open them again I see such a lovely -- almost leopard-like -- pattern of condensation on the metallic tiles above me. I've heard it said that 70% of the human body is composed of water. Not me. 95% or bust, baby.

writers, i hope you'll join me in writing about brian's photo! short story, poem or creative non-fiction... just click on comments below to share.

prickled

2010-10-07T00:02:00.000-05:00

readers & writers, welcome! thanks to filmguy and brian potopowitz for your great posts on yesterday's photo prompt. it's a joy to write with ya'll.

* * *

i took this photo at the park last week on the first "cool" day of fall here in austin (low 70's). writers, what's your short story, poem or creative non-fiction response to the photo? i'd love to read it!

as for me, i'm thinking it's time for a haiku or two:

5. 7. 5. (x 2)

silky green surface

beckons a touch. ow! curse your

peanut window pane

desert harvest loop

stand down your summery thorns

sing a song of fall

care to write with me? just click on comments to share your work.

-->

thursday's string around the finger: you can share write away every day with your friends on twitter or facebook. just click the desired icon on the right hand side of the page (under the word "sociable"). thanks for helping to spread the word!

masked

2010-10-06T10:31:00.005-05:00

welcome readers & writers! thank you to krowles1981 and cjohnson for yesterday's posts. cjohnson, you win the prize for the shortest story ever told on write away every day ;)

* * *

i hereby present today's photo prompt, along with my creative non-fiction spin (excuse the pun!) on it:

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My second baby was a great sleeper, the best of all three of our kids. But the circumstances had to be perfect. None of this drifting off in the car seat, the shopping cart or the restaurant's high chair like some angelic children. But give that baby a darkened room and some white noise and his little eyes would be drooping before the first sweet strains of his favorite lullaby escaped our lips. To this day he sleeps best with a fan going in his room. I guess it drowns out the sound of life going on around him - the TV, his older brother's piano playing, his dad and I chatting, the garbage disposal and dishwasher. In this case, white noise is good.

-
It works for adults as well. Our New York city friends have a white noise machine in their apartment to mask the noise of the city - sirens, horns, blaring car stereos, heavy-footed upstairs neighbors.
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But what about another type of white noise -- those intentionally sought out distractions that mask reality, blocking out what's real? Those things that become an excuse for missing our own lives? When I was growing up, TV was a pretty constant white noise machine in our house. Sometimes that's still true for me. But these days my white noise is often the soft glow of this computer and the snazzy little apple clicks that run a hundred laps a day around the same loop: email, facebook, twitter, this blog, news pages, other blogs. What, I wonder, is the noise masking? What reality am I missing? Good things? Difficult things? Maybe it's time to scale back a bit and really listen to my life, to what's real inside and all around me.

come write with me! i love to read your work. click on comments below to send it in.

whittled

2010-10-05T01:38:00.003-05:00

welcome readers & writers! thank you, Chuck Galle, for writing with me yesterday.

* * *

here's today's photo prompt and my spin on it. writers, i'd love to read your take on the photo: short story, poem or creative non-fiction. just click on comments below to share!

Paul likes to whittle. Each day, after his coffee (cream, no sugar), and his toast (honey, no butter) he takes a seat in his workshop. With the radio buzzing away he picks up a block of wood and whittles it, chisels it, fashions it, sands it into something beautiful. His favorite project is toys, baby rattles especially. For years he watched his kids, and then his grandkids, play with plastic monstrosities: loud, gaudy, annoying things. Back then Paul wasn't woodworking yet. He was working, though. Eighteen hours a day in his restaurant. And all for what, he asks himself sometimes. No, often. All for what? He worked until he was too old to work anymore. None of his kids wanted to take over the business, and he wasn't about to make them. He wanted them to be happy. So he sold. And, after twenty-five years of constant motion, he went crazy for awhile - trying to learn golf, follow soap operas, and work the Sudoku puzzles on the daily calendar his grandkids gave him for Christmas. Gardening helped, but winter months were long. One day he decided to clean out his already spotless cellar, and he came across some two-by-fours left over from a fence project. Something about the swirly, fingerprint-like grain of the wood called to him. He dug up his old swiss army knife that day and whittled a whistle. No matter that it didn't actually whistle in the end. He went to bed happier that night than he had for years. That's how it started. That's how Paul came back to life again.

come write with me!

arrayed

2010-10-04T08:20:00.000-05:00

welcome readers & writers!

***

here's my spin on today's photo writing prompt:

The waiter set their menus and a handful of crayons on the table and leaned in to take their drink orders. Katie, who loved to color, made a face. Her dad ordered coffee and a chocolate milk. When the waiter stepped away, her dad said, "What's with the face, KatieDid?"
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"Poopy colors," Katie sighed. "Katie-Daddy day is ruined." He smiled at her pronunciation: 'wooned.'
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"Whoa there," he said. "Not so fast. Let's take another look, because Katie-Daddy day is un-ruinable. It simply just can't be done."
-
Katie looked dubiously at the crayons. "Yuck," she said.
-
Her dad arranged the crayons in a neat row on the table. She watched him intently as he opened up the kids' menu and flattened it out, blank side up. "Nah," he said softly. He picked up the black crayon and began to sketch. "Look here. You can use this dark brown to color in my tree trunk. And this soft green will make some oh so lovely leaves for these branches." Katie giggled. Her dad continued, "And this light brown color, well, that's the fur of a chipmunk with a jaggedy black stripe down his back. What's his name?"
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"Chip-Stripe," Katie said solemnly.
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"Gotcha. Chip-Stripe lives here in this tree. And today, well, it's kind of a cloudy, foggy day. See how the sky is kind of gray blue?" He handed her the sky color and she started filling in the sky at the top of the page. "But look, over here on the horizon," her dad said, "the sun is nudging up a bit. It's going to melt away the fog."
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"Uh-Huh," said Katie. "And then it will be sunny outside."
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"That's right," her dad said. "And then Chip-Stripe can carve his Halloween pumpkin."
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"Yeah," Katie laughed. "His Halloween pumpkin."
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Her dad finished sketching the scene and Katie worked on coloring it in, finishing up just as her pancakes arrived. "Wahoo," she said. "Just in time. You can't color while you eat. It woons the food."
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Her dad smiled. "I love you, KatieDid."
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"I love you too, Daddy."
-
what does your imagination make of this photo? i'd love to read it. click on comments below to send it in - short story, poem or creative non-fiction.

rested

2010-10-03T10:17:00.007-05:00

happy sunday readers & writers!

* * *

on sundays around here we take it easy. i plan photos and posts for the upcoming week - and you are very welcome to catch up on last week's posts (or further back if you want) & read or write about those. have a great day :) see you in the a.m.

formulated

2010-10-02T10:47:00.004-05:00

welcome readers & writers! thanks to filmguy & chuck galle for your story on yesterday's photo, and to krowles1981, cjohnson, and chuck galle for your new additions to thursday's post, illumined.

***

it's spoof saturday! time for a little silliness and fun. check out some other spoof saturday fun by clicking here, here, and here. today's spoof saturday assignment (we need to make use of these very cool aprons): write me some recipes for disaster. click on comments below to share them with your biggest fan (that's me!).

here are a few from my recipe box:
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How to Make a Spot on Your Lovely White Shirt
ingredients
1 white shirt
spaghetti with red sauce
-
directions
Bring the two into close proximity. Ruin shirt.
-
-
How to Make Mama Pull Out Her Hair
ingredients
3 boys, varying ages
1 dog
snacks and sweet treats
1 minivan
1 map, marked for thirteen hours of driving
stack of dvds
1 dvd player designed to break after a few trips so you have to buy a new one
1 iphone
1 Radio Shack in the middle of nowhere
-
directions
Pack until two a.m. The next morning, put boys and dog in minivan - begin driving and mix well. Toss in snacks and treats. Spin dvds in player until player won't work anymore. Try to convince boys to read books, play old fashioned car games or sing old fashioned car songs. Plug ears to drown out fighting and complaining. Use husband's iphone to locate nearest Radio Shack. Drive half an hour out of the way to said Radio Shack. Buy new device. Repeat.
-
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How to Lose All Confidence in Your Writing
ingredients
one query letter which has been kneaded, formed, tenderized, coddled, chilled, baked and glazed
one online agent with a site called "query shark"
-
directions
Send letter to this Shark person for feedback. See Shark rip it to shreds. Try to piece back together, only better. Send to Shark again. See Shark rip it to shreds again. Read 47 comments on Shark's site, most of which take the shredded pieces ripped by Shark and rip them into tinier pieces. Cry. Put letter away for one week. Try again. Only this time, don't send to someone called 'Shark', dummie!
-
-
thanks, friends! come write with me :)

gilded

2010-10-01T10:38:00.003-05:00

welcome readers and writers - happy october! many thanks to brian potopowitz, film guy and ms. brandon for your awesome posts on yesterday's photo.

***

it's photog friday again! every other day of the week the photos you see on my blog were taken by me. on photog fridays we get to gaze upon (and write about!) a photo taken by a pro.

this week we have the pleasure of writing about another photo by the very gifted kelli west of kelli west photography. a thousand thanks to kelli for this gorgeous pic! click here to see the other wonderful photo kelli contributed to the blog (as well as the stories that came in on it).

writers, i'm so excited to read your response to kelli's beautiful photo ~ story, poem or creative non-fiction. 250(ish) words or less, just click on comments below to share. here's my reflection:

Today I'm wishing I could enter into Kelli's photo the way Jane and Michael Banks jumped into Bert's chalk paintings in Mary Poppins. I'd spend the day by this pond, paddling around in that shiny blue canoe, thinking on this worn, craggy rock. Then I'd slip into that wonderful boat house, which has been converted, you know, into a writing studio. It's painted a rich, creamy white inside with accents of nettle green and the palest butter yellow. There's a hooked wool rug on the floor, a shabby chic antique desk near the window and a big, deep, over-stuffed chaise lounge to sink into a little later, when it's time to fuel writing with some great reading. If it's chilly enough I might set a fire in the pot belly stove and heat up a cup of mint tea with honey. You can't see it, but in the shade of those leafy trees there's a hammock. Perhaps I'll pull on a sweatshirt and let the hammock cradle me while I doze off awhile, listening to the birds sing. This wonderful day would stretch out forever, until I felt centered, grounded, peaceful and like I'd made some great progress on my writing. At least I can go to this place in my mind :) Thanks, Kelli, for the mini-get-away!
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writers, i love to read your work. come write with me!

illumined

2010-09-30T09:29:00.001-05:00

welcome readers & writers. jessica lemmon and filmguy, thank you for your stories about Roo's place. i love to read your work!

***

here's my spin on today's photo prompt:

5. 7. 5.

transitory light

this tempest breaks, blossoms heat

bleak midnight scatters

come write with me! story, poem or creative non-fiction. 250(ish) words or less. don't stress - just type! click on comments below to share your work.

thursday's string around the finger: click the stumble upon icon on the right hand side of the page when you like what you read here. thanks!