#30daywritingchallenge

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Writing Prompts

Method:

Inspired by my visual artist family and friends, I’m doing a series of short prose pieces based on a simple technique:

1. Choose a word.

2. Without thinking too much, in a notebook or on a piece of paper write as many words as you can in 5 minutes (timed) that you associate with the first word.

3. Read the list, circle 10-12 words, and rewrite those words at the top of a page.

4. As quickly as you can, for 10 minutes (timed), write a description, story, other related ideas, including these words,

5. Read what you wrote out loud.

6. Type up.

7. Tweak/make some adjustments/edit, whatever feels necessary to make it work, using what you have, without changing the topic or completely rewriting it.

8. Post!

This is my first one. Feel free to comment or join me!

#30daywritingchallenge #cogs #funwithwords #writingisdiscovery

#30daywritingchallenge (29)

Day 29: Words

What was the word? Ah yes, eclectic. It had jumped out as brazenly as if it had been misspelled or just plain wrong. There was that tendency, to want to correct everything in sight, but this elicited a smile.

So many contradictions. Communicating in a rush of words, like a defense, and then that impenetrable silence, also a defense. Being invited in only to have the door slammed in your face on arrival.

Then, the endless searching for answers that do not come. How could they? Where would they come from? Life occurs in a context. But did it? After all, life happened anyway, context or not.

The context was just the narrative, the one always trying to be written but never quite gotten into the right words. The endless, cyclical tale that repeats itself over and over. The places change, the names, but the hopes and dreams remain the same.

Trafficking in words is a sort of alchemy. Making something from nebulous materials that can never result in the desired product. A kaleidoscope, the slightest shift in position, seeing from another vantage point, changes the configuration. Language can be so vague. The work is trying to make it precise.

#30daywritingchallenge (28)

Day 28: Balcón

A mí me gusta sentarme en el balcón de mi departamento con los pies en la baranda, tomar mate y ver como se esclarece el cielo. A veces es la única cosa que me gusta.

El sol sale detrás del edificio que da al suroeste. La luz de mañana tarda en aparecer.

5:30. Abre los ojos y mira al techo. Sin mover la cabeza, mira a la ventana. No hay ninguna luz del sol. No tiene por qué levantarse tan temprano cuando se había acostado hace pocas horas. Da unas vueltas en la cama y decide levantarse a preparar el mate. Se para frente a la ventana del dormitorio y devisa el edificio que tapa la vista de la cordillera y piensa, «No tengo balcón».

El dormitorio de su departamento tiene una ventana que da al oeste. Cuando llegó hace unos años atrás, podía mirar la cordillera todos los días. Hasta de noche se las ingeniaba para verla. Ya no. Ni bien llegó, comenzaron a levantar un edificio de 12 pisos.

Camina a la cocina, todavía grogui, entra al baño y se echa un poco de agua en la cara preguntándose porque estaba despierto y fuera de la cama tan temprano en un frío sábado de mañana de junio.

Mientras espera que hierva el agua, contempla la imagen, como una fotografía, de un punto en la ruta donde convergen el vasto cielo azul y los imponentes nevados con matices de rojo, marrón, gris y negro. Qué contraste con el gris monótono de su día a día. El estrés, ahí afuera, en todas partes, lo penetra como una espesa niebla que tiene que atravesar. Húmedo y pegajoso, es una presencia intangible que raras veces se levanta para dejar entrar la luz del sol.

El hervor del agua interrumpe sus pensamientos y él los disipa completamente con un movimiento de cabeza mientras apaga el gas. Se levanta el mate forrado en aluminio.

—¿De dónde salió este mate? —dice en voz alta.

Con una sonrisita, casi de complicidad, diría, se encoge de hombros. Siente el frío en los pies descalzos y decide regresar a la cama.

#30daywritingchallenge (27)

Day 27: Gray

It’s 9:00 AM. The gray building, usually teeming with students and faculty is empty and quiet. The young woman steps out from the elevator onto the thirteenth floor. All is gray: gray walls, gray carpeting, gray mica desks, gray silence. Before continuing, she looks in both directions as if she were crossing the street. She sees a glass wall at one end of the hall. That’s the one that looks onto the conference room with the long wood grained table and burnt maroon upholstered chairs on black wheels. A quick comparison of this image with that of the smaller glass wall with a door, locates her position, so she can make sure she will go in the right direction; the right direction being the quickest way to the office. It is not immediately clear which direction to go in because everything looks the same. The perspective changes depending on the elevator that that she may come up in. The floor becomes a maze. Not winding or complicated but with four possible directions to go in. All leading around in a circle, so that eventually she will get to where she is going. But the most elegant way, the most knowledgeable and scholarly way to do it would be to go directly to the room she went to every time she stops at this floor, without going in circles; without wasting time; without feeling foolish. Having assessed the situation, she turns left and then right, passing in front of the glass wall in front of the conference room, continues down the hall, past all the closed gray doors on either side of her, through the silence, which is suddenly broken into by the sound of a deep voice leaving a message on an answering machine.

#30daywritingchallenge (25)

Day 25: Mood

I‘m not in the mood to do this. Let’s see how it goes.

The swing moves from side to side.

Translation finds its mood and tone through a patchwork of connivances (I know) meant to keep you guessing.

Colors moving in circular motion, advancing across the molten sky.

Environment, such a solid word for an intuitive theme. How do we reconcile these two?

Mood by design or randomly mixed in a cocktail shaker and poured over the rocks?

Isolated from the norm, the pattern of dots and dashes become another dimension.

Not heard by the infinite universe, she turned her attention to gardening, The earthworms will listen.

Forgotten among the weeds, an old pair of scissors waiting to be found.

The deep waters of the cenote, cool and refreshing, pull her down to the bottom of the pit.

His prayers, were answered, but not the phone message he left for his mother.