just. fucking. write.
Hello hello, friend. I’ve been slacking on this newsletter, but here I am nonetheless. Somehow, I got to the mental block stage of things, where the stress of not writing keeps me from writing and all I feel is negative because I’ve dropped the ball once again.
“This is supposed to be fun!,” I tell myself. I’ve said that pep talk for so many things over the years: roller derby, Drunk of the Book Club, even the dance team I eventually quit back in high school (and then convinced myself I was being bold and brave for doing so). It’s the pattern of my life: wild enthusiasm and passion for a new venture that I eventually leave behind. I really suck at team sports because I eventually feel claustrophobic about it all and shirk the responsibility. At least when it’s my own thing I only let myself down.
I’m trying to turn over a different leaf, though. Yes yes, I’ve talked about this very issue in Sun Showers before. How to reignite the writing? Well, let’s be real. It’s simple. Put pen/pencil to paper. No need to perseverate. Just. Fucking. Write. So here I am, just fucking writing. Since my inspiration is dull this time around, I hope you’ll excuse the lazy prompt. I just really need it this week. Hope it helps you, too.
prompt #50:
Just write. Doesn’t matter what about. Stream of consciousness time. Write for five minutes and whatever you do, don’t stop it. Then, after five minutes, take a deep breath, walk away, and take your mind off the writing for a second. When you get back to it, see if it’s telling you anything. See if it wants to transform into something else. If so, great. If not, also great. You’ve got this, friend!
ashley's piece:
When Clarice moved into the little house on the end of the block, she expected a romantic little life, full of mugs of tea, warm evenings by the fire, and a cat curled up in her lap. She expected to live inside of a romance novel.
Maybe that neighbor man next door would turn out to be a lonely widow or a moon-eyed heir to a fortune. She imagined running into him at the end of the driveway. He’d be looking for a normal woman, after years of gold diggers. He’d be pretending to be a normal man, one who works a 9-to-5, has a retirement fund, takes two weeks of vacation a year. He’d fall for her precisely for her normalcy. Her little cat, her puffs of smoke out the chimney on a foggy evening. She’d wave at him shyly out the front window over that steaming mug of tea, blush a little. Then, she’d finally say hello as she returned his mail after it’d been incorrectly dropped through her front door.
This was just the type of small town for a magical little romance like that and she was, in fact, counting on it. She hoped he’d be rich with a secret because, when they lie, it’s so much more enjoyable. Not that she wouldn’t kill a good man, it’s just that she’d never met one yet.