You want to write better. You want to write more.

I’m Ann Linquist, freelance writer and online writing instructor.  Whether you’re interested in writing fiction, creative nonfiction, or effective business documents, I invite you to explore this site and find out how to reach your writing goals.

It’s Bricolage Time!

“Peanuts,” she said.

News and a Challenge

I have some news to share. I used 2009 to write a new online class. Don’t get excited, though. It’s a class that’s designed to precede both of my online line classes–Beginning Writers Workshop and Effective Business Writing. The new class is called Writing Essentials, and it focuses on very basic writing skills like word usage, spelling, punctuation, sentences, paragraphs, etc.

If you are eager to review your skills in these areas, it’s a good class. But because I still continue to give WAY too much time to Beginning Writers Workshop, I had to design this class to have all self-correcting assignments. It won’t be discussion area-rich, but it should be content-rich.

The point of this posting is not to toot my horn, however. The point of this posting is that in this new class John and Martha come back to finish their drama. Now, last time I brought up John and Martha, Gullie told me I needed to get out more; but even so, John and Martha proved to be my best strategy for making the study of commas and paragraph breaks interesting. Throughout the new class, their troublesome relationship evolves. (Martha even has to do a stint in prison, poor kid.)

She and John were gracious enough to provide many examples of how to write, however. By the end of the new class, resolution is reached! Their story concludes—at least my version. Your task here, should you choose to accept, is to come up with some action and plot development that begins at the bus stop and ends wherever you choose to take it. Hey, you remember  these two. What have they been up to since you last saw them?

Plotting! Good creative skill. Care to think about what happened next? Collaboration is fine, if you care to build on each other’s postings.

The Moment

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that this (this!) particular moment is THE moment.  It’s all we have.  From time to time, I’ve recorded the details of THIS moment, capturing a series of phrases to describe what’s going on—both with me and with the world at large.  This “now” is all we have, but it’s also a slice of our ongoing lives that in ten years will looks quaint, intriguing, or possibly even disappointingly motivating.  But I guarantee you that these captured present moments, read somewhat later on, are not only intriguing but instructive. 

I have one from 1971.  It names things like finding a used refrigerator for our newly rented farm house, getting the oil changed on the 1952 GMC pickup, going to hear George McGovern’s wife speak in his stead since he couldn’t make the rally, lining up jars to can home-grown tomatoes on a camp stove, and promising to practice so my fingers could work the bass guitar fast enough to produce what I could hear in my head.   This list of moments makes me laugh now.

That’s then.  What’s now?

One of the Worst Lies I Ever Told

I was trying to get the attention of a guy named Buddy when I was a sophomore in high school.  When I had him alone in the back yard of Dave P.’s house (there was a party and Dave’s parents were out of town), I told Buddy that I had recently been diagnosed with a heart condition and was going to die within a year. 

Much to my surprise, this did not create the instant and irresistible attraction I had hoped for.  Perhaps he thought I wasn’t a good investment of his time. 

Your turn!

The New Year Should be about Goofing Around

BLAM!  It sounded like someone had slammed the lid onto a giant metal garbage can or swung a massive hammer against a thick brass gong.   Ralph spun around and peered into a smelly dark alley lined by brick three-stories.

I believe we all need a bout of ouiji poetry for 2010…

Ouiji poetry (in case you’ve forgotten, see “Goofing Around-3″ above)  involves closing your eyes and running your fingers over your keyboard in random fashion without an intention of forming words.  After a while, you open your eyes and begin to revise what you see.  It may need four or five revisions to come up with some sense that emerges as you decide what each bit of gibberish stands for. 

To keep this short, I’ll give you my first mish-mash and my last revision.  It’s your turn, now, to find out what’s on your mind.  Is this good poetry?  Not really.  But it is a good probe into your unconscious.

——–

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————–

Dark garden pods and mini flowers to walk on

Never lost here, no schism–a park. 

I draw my sword, in exorcism, an amputation of the past,

that old tale.

Work is pure magic with dues all paid. Easy weeks. 

I see it growing, this new show.

I ask less of myself now.  I see the shine, feel the burning

on this land of growing, so skittish, so new.

It’s sudden fun, easy to see, ready to roam.

Still, though dark, the dew does sparkle.

 

Gullie made me do it.

Below you will find a page of fiction text.  Your task is to copy it into a Word document and then print it out so it’s all on one page.  Lay the page in front of you.  Grab a pen and close your eyes.  Let the pen fall onto the page.  Circle the sentence that contains the word your pen has stabbed.  Write about that sentence.  Feel free to construct a story, rant, dissect, rearrange, or perhaps come up with a poem using that one sentence.  It need not have anything to do with the characters or situation on the original page. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Randolph snapped his fingers for a servant who loosened and removed the corselet.  His big head looked down at her, his blue eyes not moving about her face to examine it, but remaining fixed, his thoughts trapped elsewhere, impaled on memories.  He shuddered slightly, as if buffeted by blows from an invisible hand.

     Esmeralda waited, frozen to her small patch of ground, ignoring the men around her, and praying for a sign that might mean deliverance.  Long silence filled the air in the hall like the echo of a message that has drifted away.

     “Attend me in my chambers.”  Randolph turned and walked stiffly to the door that led to his south tower.

     Esmeralda’s muscles let go of their cold tenseness.  New warmth rushed through her body.  She wanted to run after him like a boisterous child.  Instead she took a long breath and let it out before following his retreating shape.  Her heart outpaced the measured rhythm of her feet on the stairs.

     The heavy doors to his suite lay ajar, and she took that as a sign she might enter.  She had never been allowed inside the rooms of the castle’s oldest tower.  She gazed shyly around.

     A fire had recently been lit in the wide hearth.  The smaller tinder and branches burned and crackled, sending a roaring blaze up around the larger logs.  A row of shuttered windows curved above the bare stones of the floor.  The royal bed looked cold and hard with its deep red spread.

     She looked about, hoping to gain warmth from her father’s personal possessions, but none lay about for her to pick up or caress.  The room was empty of life’s clutter.

     Randolph emerged from a curtained doorway wearing a draped robe of black, belted at the waist, and trimmed with a thin band of silver.  He barely glanced at her when he walked over to the fireplace.

     Esmeralda waited, barely breathing, hands clasped demurely in front of her, head down.  She had never seen him without battle garb or ceremonial dress.  In his soft robe, without crown or helmet, he seemed more human, less of the exalted person of the king.  Heavy creases ringed his eyes; three vertical lines marked his forehead between the brows; whisker stubble shadowed his jaw.

     He waved her toward the fireplace and held his hands out toward the blaze, warming them, speaking with his back to her.  “Tell me what you want.”  His voice held no friendly edge, no invitation.

     She shut her eyes and absorbed the pain of his battering tone.  This was the scene she’d imagined hundreds of times.  She must take her chance no matter what the cost.

I Believe

I believe that inside you there are ideas bursting to come out.

I believe that over a lifetime, the only thing that really holds you back are the voices inside that say, “You cannot do this.”

I believe that we are all equally creative. It’s not a talent; it’s an ability to say “yes,” open up, and trust yourself.

I refuse to have a bad time.

What do you believe?

Happy Thanksgiving!

My brain has been feeling like a pot of chili that’s been forgotten on the back burner, so accept my apologies for a long absence.  Sometimes the small things yank your gray matter into gear, and today it was a piece of biscotti getting stuck in my keyboard.  The down key wouldn’t work.  I’m old enough that I learned to use a computer before the mouse came along, and so I use my arrow keys alot to navigate around.  No down key?  Total meltdown.  But it got me thinking about how small things can push you over the edge.  Forget the big things for now.  We all have a backpack full of life tragedies.  What little thing has pushed over the edge lately?  What little crumb has gotten stuck in your keyboard and messed up your counted-on flow?

Yes to NaNoWriMo

I thought the NaNoWritMo participants might need some encouragement when it feels like the fires are burning low.  Here you go!

The Yes Poem

Yikes yes yeehah

Oh goody, thank goodness, this is great

Grin, smile, gleeful teeth

You bet, I’m with you, this will work

Okay! good idea, wonderful!

Nodding and bowing in agreement

Come in, join us, great!

Ahhh, I’m laughing out loud.

Wink wink, yessirree.

Hey, why not?

Nuf said.