Posted by: victanguera | May 13, 2010

Writing Prompt #186

Today, I read a blog post on stagnation that struck a chord. I’ve worked on my novel for such a long time that it no longer feels creative. The first year I did NaNoWriMo, Chris Baty said all our ideas are locked up inside our mind. By sitting at a blank computer screen for thirty days, we would force a door in our mind to open and let the ideas spill out. We wouldn’t know where the creative process would take us, but we had to be willing to take the journey.

So for today’s prompt, sit down with a blank piece of paper (or computer screen) and write something. Don’t think about what it should be or where it should go. Just write. Feel free to post your responses if you feel brave.

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Responses

  1. Well, then, a conversation for a novel that may (or may not) actually occur:

    “This call may be monitored for quality assurance purposes.”

    Terry held the phone in his hand and said nothing. She always answered the phone like that, a family joke that now seemed strange, forced now that her husband was dead.

    “Terry, I know that’s you,” his mother said on the other end.

    “How?” he whispered.

    There was a brief pause. “Call display. What did you think?”

    “I don’t know. Sandra called, about dad.”

    “And?”

    “You know.” Terry took a breath. “His body was missing.”

    “Ah. Missing.”

    “Mom,” he began, the urge to confess choking his voice.

    “Don’t,” she snapped. There was a longer pause. “I did tell you this call may be monitored, didn’t I?”

    “That’s always a joke,” Terry said reflexively, mind racing over the conversation; he didn’t think he’d said anything incriminating yet, and nothing to tell people he’d eaten his father’s corpse. He remembered to hang up a moment later, fingers trembling a little. Real police work wasn’t hollywood; Ethan had told him that long enough. They’d have traced him, if they wanted to.

    He set his phone down on the counter carefully and turned. His fist hit the wall before he’d consciously considered it, drywall cracking as he hit it again and again until bones broke, the smell of his own marrow easing something inside him. Terry shuddered slightly and watched the hand mend itself and pretended his tears were only from the pain.

    • Nice. I hope you keep writing that. Bit dark, but intriguing.

      • I’m not sure it is possible to have a ghoul protagonist in a story and NOT make it dark: he does eat dead bodies after all 🙂

      • A ghoul protagonist? Aaaah. ::runs and hides::


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