Too Busy to Write?

I have had such an amazing time, these last 2 weeks, with these prompts my husband has been giving me. The response and the conversations that have flared up with other novice writers has been heartwarming and encouraging as well.

Some people have mentioned to me, that they want to write, but they are too busy to. May I just say...
Life is busy and there are many hats we all wear in a day. From taxi driver to chef and cashier to mediator it doesn't matter if we are a parent or a student, distractions are all around us. Things fill our days, some are important and need to be done and some could wait a day or two. That being said, these prompts are not meant to consume you and keep you at a distance from your regular daily life. You should not be sitting staring at a computer while the dinner is burning on the stove and the baby is crying. However, while you sit there in math class (okay maybe not math class - wherever you are), you could be thinking about the prompt and if you come up with an idea, jot it down in a little notebook you can pull out later, when you have time to sit and write.

If creative writing is about as much fun as doing your taxes. Don't do it.

But, if you feel compelled to share stories, and get excited to create word pictures, then do it. Find some time. It feels good, and who knows, maybe your words may encourage someone.

"A good writer is always a beginner, because writing is a process of continual growth." 

Laurie E. Rozakis

We are all in continual growth, lets help each other grow!

I have a response from another writer who would like to share their work from Noteworthy Prompt #2. It's exciting to see how unique each story is, although the prompt is the same. Thank-you for sharing them!

"Write about one sock," my husband snickered, then added with a gleam in his eyes, "in the voice of the sock."

By Natasja Panchuk 

An ominous purring sound could be heard in the darkness, drowning out my last crumbs of courage and forcing out the last rays of light. Burning water poured in from an unknown source, like liquid fire, flooding the cramped space and muffling the silent screams that never escaped their hosts. The water level was rising, and so was the level of panic in the atmosphere; watery white bubbles started to foam, choking me, and a horrible whirring sends us all spinning, slowly and uncontrollably further down into the soapy blackness.

I've started to feel numb. Water sloshes around violently, passing through the very threads of my being, the chemical suds stinging the fibers of my core. And then, the cycle stops. The searing water drains away. And then we are spinning, flattened against the burning metal confining us to this torture. We are spinning, spinning, spinning until all the water has been sucked from the inside out. Spinning until we know nothing else.

Eventually, it gets too sickening to endure, consciously, and slowly I fade from this reality, creeping away to my own dark water, far from hoping to ever catch a mere glimpse of light again.

Thank-you for sharing Natasja! Your use of descriptive words was great and I could really feel the fear this sock had. Well, done!

If you have a story to share, I'd love to read it.

To read more stories from Prompt #2:

- Left is Missing
-  A Sock is Born

Thanks to:

- Natasja Panchuk for her unnamed sock story.

- Alpha Books for the quote by Writer Laurie Rozakis

In The Light

Noteworthy Writing Prompt #4

"Write about a light that sometimes works, but mostly doesn't."

Do you have a light that sporadically works? Is it the light bulb or the wiring? Or perhaps it's not a physical light at all? It's all up to you... but remember, more than a paragraph and no more than two pages!

Don't stress about it... Just enjoy the creative process!

Here is my humble effort:

In The Light

By Anuschka de la Court

To some, darkness overwhelms and they die in the shadows. To others, it’s a challenge to find and fight for the light, to live.

“Damn!” she muttered softly, to no one in particular, “That stupid light!” she stumbled a few steps into the front foyer of the 3-bedroom townhouse. There were no lights on and the switch for the hall light didn’t work. The dim-witted light only worked sporadically. It seemed to work only when it was convenient for it, and not for the people who actually needed the tool to see in the dark.

“I think it’s the light bulb.” Her husband uttered balancing on top of the ladder that morning when he took apart the light to inspect why it switch on and off erratically. He was going to go to Rona that afternoon to see if a new light bulb would work.

“I guess it didn’t.” she tried the switch a few more times. It was midnight and her family was asleep, so it was imperative that she be as noiseless as possible.  She had just come in from a wonderful night spent with her sisters. Dinner and good conversation, it had been awhile since they last connected with one and other and she was grateful for the evening and the amazing time they shared.

“Tonight brought back a lot of memories,” she realized, “and lots of laughter too.” She found herself singing and laughing out loud in the car ride home. She was in great spirits, that is, until she got home.

“Ow!” she whispered under her breath as her baby toe hit something hard and steely lying on the floor in the hallway. On closer inspection, as she knelt and felt her way around, she found the unyielding object to be her husbands red tool case.

“Why can’t he put his things away!” she limped her way into the living room, tripping over an empty bag of chips.

“Kids!” Exasperated, she felt around for the light switch on the 1960’s traditional styled table lamp, inherited from an old friend of her mother’s, and turned the old fashioned switch to the right. Nothing. Complete darkness still engulfed her.

“What the…” she flopped down on the sofa beside the lamp and rubbed her sore toe.

“What did he do now?” She wondered, “Did he damaged the electric circuits of the house while trying to fix that damn light?”

“No,” She thought, “If he had, he wouldn’t have just left everything un-fixed.” Her husband was the MacGyver type and he would have duct tape something together to make things work. That’s the type of person he was. He wouldn’t give up on something.

“He never gave up on me.” She sighed and thought back to a time where he very easily could have given up on her. She felt the all too familiar strings of depression pull her down into a place she didn’t want to visit. Not even for a moment. She hated the dark. No, that was too kind a word for it. She loathed it.

“Why?” she thought and then realized it was because it reminded her of her depression ten years ago. A horrid time when her mind and soul were engulfed in darkness with no way out. She lived for years without hope, without any light inside of her. Only dark thoughts of wanting to die, a suicidal Mom parading in a mask of happiness and well-being.

“My post postpartum depression may be over,” she thought, but her fear of living like that again was not. It still hung in the air close to her psyche and it was a daily fight to keep it at bay.

“I’m never going to live in the dark again!” and in her determination, she got up, reached for the flashlight on the bookshelf and turned on the light.