chicken writer and a suggested exercise- tumblr blog

I am a damn chicken when it comes to writing. Utterly scared… of what, I’m not sure… of producing shit, I imagine. Being accepted in that wine journal has kept me from writing a single word of the paper… or rather I have kept me from writing a single word of it. These words, they run around in my head, sometimes forming foamy sentences, then fade a minute later and I am back with my empty page. Heck, I haven’t even gotten to the empty page part yet.

So, fine. If I can’t write crap for that, I can write crap for this blog. Bought a handful of writing books last month. And reading about writing has to be one of the most productive ways to avoid the activity. But it’s time to quit being such a lilly coward and woman up to the task. I promised myself I would pick a random suggested writing exercise and stick to it, no matter what it said.

*I deliberately and consciously give myself permission to write utter junk*

Writing exercise from “The 3am Epiphany”. #14: No Ideas, But in Things: “Write a very brief story told only in images— concrete, visually efficient movements and details… 300 words.”

The table was an absolute mess when they left. Stiff, white napkins were strewn about, making sloppy tents. All twenty-three chairs faced in different directions and two had been knocked over, their legs shooting out like improper ladies off their barstools. Springs in one fallen chair popped through the bottom of flimsy grey fabric. The wine had been poured on the tablecloth in purply-red spots, splotches, blotches and streaks. It even clung to the bottom of the glasses, forming a translucent and colorful haze on their bases. Bread, pulled apart hastily, left crumbs on the table top, worn chair covers, and all the way across the cold concrete floor. Dessert plates were smeared with hardened chocolate sauce and licked forks lay every which way; one, placed in a water glass, had knocked the whole thing over, spilling and soaking some crumbs, and dousing one particularly run-down chair. Olive oil, salt and pepper all added minor accents to the scene. He sighed and approached the table, scratching his head. His hand swept in front of him, across his body and dropped to his side. He looked around for someone to recognize his plight and rush to help, but the room was empty and, except for the tinny sounds of jazz musak, quiet. One hand touched the faded soaked chair and another reached for a discarded napkin; he dabbed viciously at the worn fabric and sighed again. Rising from his knees, he suddenly giggled and reached for a glass, still half filled with wine. Swirling it above his head in a mad arch, he flung it towards the facing brick wall. It shattered and wine exploded in a big, read stain. Next he reached for a plate caked in chocolate and gripped it like a frisbee. His eyes squinted and his tongue popped out between his lips. Giggling again, he hurled it towards the wall, his eyes following as it bounced off, chips flying in three directions. He swiveled slowly on his heel and turned to face the table again.

That was like pulling freakin’ teeth!! Took me a 1/2 hour. A very, very good indication of what I need to practice more.