 Short Stories: March 20, 2013 Issue [#5582] |
  Short Stories
This week: Step One: Eat the Soup Edited by: NanoWriMo2018 Into the Earth  
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| "If you are having trouble getting started, look out the window. The whole world is a story, and every moment is a miracle." --Bruce Taylor, UWEC Professor of Creative Writing |
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I’m not too fond of the Progresso Soup commercial where the guy phones Progress to ask how the soup helps lower cholesterol. The lady on the other end of the line replies, “You just have to eat it.” To which he replies, while apparently writing it down, “Step One: Eat the soup.”
But the message is clear and simple, like all the Nike ‘Just do it’ adds. If you want to be a short story author: Step One: Write the words!
Should you have an outline before you begin? Ideally, yes. But you don’s have to. If an outline, character notes and other structured formats put you off, then abandon them –at least for now and get down to the business of writing your words.
“Just write” is easier said than done. Not only are we writers, we are parents, employees, siblings, neighbors. Real life has a way of pushing our writing aside. I know. I'm a full-time Parks and Rec tennis facilitates coordinator who freelance writes on the side. I am a wife, grandmother, homeowner and an avid community volunteer.
My writing gigs don't provide health insurance for my family; they don't keep my electricity on or my water running. Therefore, they(my writing gigs) often get pushed down to the bottom of my to-do list.
Lately, I've struggled to find time to write for fun --even my paying gigs have taken a hit. I've fallen into a slump. I can't even blame my crash on my muse; she’s been patiently waiting in the wings for my eventual return. Real life circumstances barreled their way into my life, forcing me to abandon my fun writing projects and almost completely severed my freelance efforts.
My husband's Lyme Disease, my father-in-law's two-year losing battle with congestive heart failure, my daughter's called-off wedding...then, my husband lost his job, putting me in leader mode. Gone were the quiet me times. At the end of the day I’d flop into bed thanking the powers that be that I had a Tempur-Pedic mattress, my body too exhausted to write, my mind drained from being the care-giver, the cheerleader, the housekeeper and bread winner...writing? I'll try tomorrow.
Life for me is slowly getting back to routine and it hasn’t been easy. Staring at blank pages allowed self-doubt to creep in. Self-doubt underscored uncertainty. Uncertainty demolished my motivation. What if, because I turned my back on my muse, I’ve lost her for good?
I'm forcing myself write. I feel like a dieter heading back into the gym after a three-month hiatus. Muscles protest, laziness strangles my motivation. I know from past experience, those first few weeks will hurt. It’s so much easier to pick up the remote and punch in Nat Geo, Animal Planet or Comedy Channel, settle in with a bag of Cheetos and bottle of Coke for some good ole fashion channel surfing.
Results don’t come from avoiding your writing. You have to roll up your sleeves and get to work. You have to Eat the Soup.
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This is my 'get back on track' with writing project. Thank you, seasage for your leadership, volunteerism and organization of this project. I plan on eating lots of soup!
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Excerpt: The old timer’s shelter leaned like a well-oiled lush against a stand of ancient maple trees sipping life from Maryland soil a mile up the road. A pair of spotted bloodhounds hobbled out from beneath a rotted porch to issue warnings they’d never back up in the handful of days remaining on their dockets.
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Excerpt: The car spun and twirled circles like a ballerina a few times before flipping on its side, then skidded, crashing into the metal guardrail. The impact sent me airbourne, nose-diving into mountaineous drifts of snow.
Excerpt: His steps become slow and quiet, for he wants to know what she’s drawing without asking her. The page appears blank. He doubts his eyes and steps closer, but the paper is pure white.
Excerpt: David's trap was set. A common, everyday shoebox lay outside, with a "DO NOT ENTER" sign posted above the arched cut-out, rainbow-painted entrance. It was carefully placed underneath the dining room window within a thick patch of clover, very near a thorny, bloom-laden rose bush.
Excerpt: There was a silence here, or rather a static, like someone holding a phone up into high wind with Bill on the other end. The sound made him shiver and he opened his mouth to break the eerie static silence, |
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| Have you ever felt like your writing had to take a back seat to life's circumstances? If so, how did you get yourself back on track? |
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