My want to be wrist deep in the dirt has once again been postponed by Old Man Winter. The cabin fever feeling dissipated in a flash. A prompt has arrived! Words flow onto the journal pages like a creek’s emerging rush in a spring thaw. The kick in the pants directed me into uncharted waters. The portal of words swirling through my brain chip, tumbling with a rocky torrent through the icy chute named Pen. The thaw worked a decade ago. Pushed me off the ice into the inspiring waters of flash fiction, and there’s been no looking back.
Writing for me is a place I go for fun, solace, and letting my imagination ooze from my brain. Not everything I write is shared; however, it’s my outlet for ideas that could be included in a story. That could be a reminder to research something. That could be a place to cry my heart out.
The bits and pieces of my words are kept in journals, on scraps of paper and bistro napkins. The need to record a thought for future use, or not.
I was not always brave enough to share. I suppose I was called shy in my young years, or an introvert (big time) as I got older. Those who have known me a long time might argue otherwise about the introvert persona. Yet, the urge to share on a wider platform simmered on the back burner.
I found as the years passed, it became easier to write about the topics I was passionate about - keeping the western heritage, lifestyle and traditions alive. Eventually, the verbal story telling about my passions flowed through my pen onto the pages and encouraged me to create stories. Being able to share my words in this way, I looked at it as being a gift in need of having the wrapper removed.
Story telling is a sharing prompt of experiences. An inner mandate insists on releasing an interpretation of not only personal events, but stories I have heard. A way to record and pass history and traditions onto others. Those who are interested in listening and learning about a lifestyle that is fast disappearing. My passions include the morals, manners and common sense that go with them.
Inspiration to write comes and goes and is often called writer’s block. I call it my brain telling me to take a break, do other things. Dwelling on the lack of words written is like wishing for the green shoots of spring to arrive only to have the ground they are grown in smothered by another round of snow.
Like the snow melting away to the new beginnings of another season, the urge to write eventually returns. Touching us in a way that inspires us to dig past the first layer to find the budding shoots. The vines of rambling words will emerge again.
The bits and pieces of my words are kept in journals, on scraps of paper and bistro napkins. The need to record a thought for future use, or not.
I was not always brave enough to share. I suppose I was called shy in my young years, or an introvert (big time) as I got older. Those who have known me a long time might argue otherwise about the introvert persona. Yet, the urge to share on a wider platform simmered on the back burner.
I found as the years passed, it became easier to write about the topics I was passionate about - keeping the western heritage, lifestyle and traditions alive. Eventually, the verbal story telling about my passions flowed through my pen onto the pages and encouraged me to create stories. Being able to share my words in this way, I looked at it as being a gift in need of having the wrapper removed.
Story telling is a sharing prompt of experiences. An inner mandate insists on releasing an interpretation of not only personal events, but stories I have heard. A way to record and pass history and traditions onto others. Those who are interested in listening and learning about a lifestyle that is fast disappearing. My passions include the morals, manners and common sense that go with them.
Inspiration to write comes and goes and is often called writer’s block. I call it my brain telling me to take a break, do other things. Dwelling on the lack of words written is like wishing for the green shoots of spring to arrive only to have the ground they are grown in smothered by another round of snow.
Like the snow melting away to the new beginnings of another season, the urge to write eventually returns. Touching us in a way that inspires us to dig past the first layer to find the budding shoots. The vines of rambling words will emerge again.
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April 2, 2024, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that happens in a flash. A flash of inspiration? A flash flood? Who shows up in a flash? Who is impacted for a lifetime from a single flash incident? Go where the prompt leads!
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