Writer Wednesday

writer wednesday

 

Happy Hump Day, writers! Here’s today’s prompt:

prompt

 

Fashion Magazine: 

Blogger and writer, Jessica Huffman, has the style knowledge that we at Sweatpants and T-Shirts find commendable and comfortable. She has perfected the “Unkempt Gym-Going Mom” look as well as pioneered the “How Long Has it Been Since I Showered?” fad.

 

Business Magazine: 

Jessica Huffman–writer and blogger extraordinaire–isn’t a businesswoman, per se. But she is in the business of making people laugh through her blog, The Huffman Post.

 

Obituary:

The world just got a lot less funny. And sarcastic.

 

 

(Technically I wrote two sentences. Oh well.)

 

What would your sentences say? Would they be funny? Serious? Tell me in the comments below!

Writer Wednesday

writer wednesday

Here’s today’s prompt:

Describe your first kiss, your most recent kiss, and your next kiss.

 

First Kiss

kiss

My first kiss wasn’t spectacular, but it wasn’t awful either. I was in the sixth (wait…sixth or seventh?) either way I was not at an age that I would allow Hermione to even be within arms length of a boy (it’s amazing how parenthood changes your thinking!). Most Friday nights I could be found at the skating rink. That’s where I met my first boyfriend. To protect his identity we shall him “The Boy”.

Writer Wednesday

Happy Hump Day! Grab your pens and paper, peeps! Its Writer Wednesday!

Writer Wednesday2

 

Here is today’s prompt:

prompt

 

 

Broke a Bone:

hp broken arm

The summer before my senior year (wait, was it my senior year?) I got into a car accident with my two best friends. I ended up breaking my collarbone which, if you’ve never broken your collarbone, is one of the most painful and annoying bones to break. I didn’t realize it was broken until two days after the accident. I woke up and couldn’t even sit up out of bed. I was lying there, crying, screaming in pain for my mom to come help me out of bed. It. Was. Awful.

 

A Heart:

breakup gif

I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever “broken a heart”. I mean, I’ve had my heart smashed to bits a few times. Though, I did have a boyfriend (this was not a good relationship) in which I was constantly pushed around and finally I had had enough. I broke up with him in a very Joe Jonas/Taylor Swift way, and he tried to get me to take him back for a few weeks. But, I stayed strong to my decision. And both of our lives are much better because of it.

 

The Law:

homer

Okay, so, I’ve never really “broken the law”, but I have gotten a few tickets. One that sticks out in my head was one I got a few years ago. I was in a hurry to get back to work (I was on my lunch break) and wasn’t paying attention to anything around me. I was going slightly over the speed limit…in a school zone. A motorcycle cop pulled me over and—thankfully—wrote the ticket without adding I was in a school zone (which saved me $100!).

 

A Promise:

promise

I don’t know the last time I’ve broken a promise because I don’t normally make promises. I only make promises I know I can keep (i.e., my wedding vows). I did, however, make a promise to myself that I wouldn’t eat candy or “sweet treats” until Sundays during the month of January, and eat well throughout the week. I have already broken this promise about six times. Okay, seven. FINE. Eight.

 

 

 

What about you?

When was the last time you broke a bone? A heart? The law? A promise?

Writer Wednesday

Here’s today’s writing prompt:

What was your favorite Christmas present you received as a child?

Christmas 1990 (at least, I think it was 1990) was a GREAT Christmas. I was still on the side of the fence that somewhat believed Santa was real. I mean, there was a big part of me that thought my parents were the ones that filled up our stockings {we’re the ‘cheaters’ that open presents on Christmas Eve; I knew Santa didn’t bring those} but I also figured that my parents left stockings to the Fat Man in Red because they had had enough of shopping and wrapping gifts.

Anyway, Christmas morning 199something, my sisters and I woke up at our normal 3:00 a.m. “Let’s-go-see-what’s-in-our-stockings” to find the most glorious gift waiting for us. I’m talking the Holy Grail for all ’90’s kids: a Nintendo. A freaking NES was waiting in all of its monochromatic beauty.

nintendo

I’m pretty sure our squeals were so high-pitched that windows broke. We FLIPPED out! We could not believe that we were looking at our very own Nintendo! I can’t remember all of the games we had, but I know we played the crap out of Super Mario Brothers, Duck Hunt, Super Mario Brothers 3, The Little Mermaid, Yoshi, and Dr. Mario. We loved that game system. It probably paid for itself within the first month of us receiving it. When we got older, we didn’t play games on it that often. But I will never forget how excited we were with our “latest and greatest technology”.

 

(Fun fact: When we went back to school after the break, my sister Bridget was being teased because she said that Santa had outdone himself this year. “Santa’s not real, Bridget!” a kid yelled at her.

“Oh yes he is!” she snapped back.

“How do you know?”

“Because my parents can’t afford a Nintendo and there was one under our tree on Christmas!” she explained.

You just got PWNED, kid.)

 

Writer Wednesday

I am so excited about today’s prompt! I was NOT a fan of The Great Gatsby, so when I saw a chance to do a little re-write, I squealed! Especially with a magical twist! Here’s today’s prompt:

writing prompt

He knew Daisy couldn’t—and didn’t love—a brute like Tom Buchanan. He just knew it. If Daisy loved anyone it was him, Jay Gatsby. The last time they were together, he could see it in her eyes.

 

But would she leave her husband? Of that, he was not so sure. They had a child together, after all. But Jay could be a good father to that little girl, he knew he could. He would show her how a real man was supposed to act. Yes, he could do it. He could be a stepfather.

 

And, he could be a husband. He could be a good husband, a better husband than Tom Buchanan could ever be!

 

But how could he make her see that? He could find out the name and address of Tom’s mistresses—he knew there had to be at least one out there. He was certain he heard Nick mention it in passing.

 

What to do? thought Gatsby, as he paced in his library. What to do?

 

He walked back and forth, back and forth for nearly an hour. He thought hard. He was sweating, so he took off his jacket.

 

If only I could make Tom tell her he doesn’t love her; that he wants her to leave and never come back.

 

He threw his hands up in frustration. If only that were possible! Suddenly, he remembered something. Once, a very long time ago, while he was walking the streets of London looking very forlorn an oddly dressed man with a long, white beard and half moon spectacles came up to him. He hadn’t even heard the man approaching; it was as if he just materialized out of thin air.

 

“It looks as though you’re in some sort of emotional turmoil, my boy,” the old man said.

 

“I’m fine,” Jay mumbled, and pushed passed him.

 

“You do not look it,” the old man replied, following him.

 

“Look here, sport,” Jay said, an edge to his voice. “I mean no disrespect, but I have no money to give you and I just want to walk in silence, okay?”

 

“You misunderstand stand me, my boy. I do not wish to take anything from you.”

 

“Then what do you want?” Jay asked.

 

“To give you something,” said the man.

“Unless you can give me a fortune, I don’t want it.” Jay turned to leave.

 

“Ah yes,” the man nodded and stroked his beard. “Yes, I was right. Financial troubles. I could see it in your eyes.”

 

Jay sighed and turned back to face the man.

 

“Sadly, I cannot give you a fortune,” the old man said, apologetically. “But I can give you something else.”

 

“Yeah? What’s that?”

 

“The ability to walk in someone else’s shoes,” said the man, eyes twinkling as he spoke. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vile. The old man then started to explain what was in the vile. Jay couldn’t remember the name of it now, something “juice”.

 

The stranger described how to use it and what it would do—by adding the hair of someone into the Juice, and then guzzling it down, you would turn into that person for a full hour. Even a guy’s own mother wouldn’t know the difference between the two! Jay couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

 

“You’re crazy, old man,” Jay said, shaking his head.

 

“I am many things, Mr. Gatz, but crazy is not one of them.”

 

Jay’s ears perked up at the sound of his name. “How do you know my—“

 

“It is not important, Mr. Gatz,” said the man. “What is important is that you trust me.” The man handed the bottle to Jay.

 

Gatsby looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Will it really work?” He looked up, but the man had vanished. He could’ve sworn he heard a faint pop! sound down the street.

 

That happened nearly ten years ago. He didn’t believe the man then, but now, he was so desperate he would try anything.

 

Gatsby dashed to his cedar chest at the end of his bed. He wrenched it open and started digging through its contents. Old pictures, letters, and books littered the floor until he found was he was looking for, an old blue sweater. He unrolled it carefully and took out the small vile that the old man had given him so many years ago.

 

He ran to the foyer. Daisy had worn one of Tom’s coats the last time she visited. He hoped it was still hanging in the closet. He threw the door open and found it. He prayed to find one of Tom’s dark black hairs. He searched the collar, the back, until finally he spotted one right on the sleeve. He picked up, uncorked the vile, and dropped in the hair.

 

Green smoke billowed out of the bottle. Gatsby couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The liquid turned a dark, dank yellow. It smelled putrid.

 

“This is for you, Daisy,” said Gatsby, holding the bottle up. He closed his eyes and chugged. The liquid burned as it went down his throat and thought he might be sick. He dropped the vile and it shattered into a million tiny pieces on the tiled floor.

 

Gatsby watched, first horrified and then amazed, as his hands started to change in shape. He ran to a mirror in the hall. His once clean-shaven face was now growing a mustache. His neat, blonde hair turned dark. Suddenly, in a matter of moments, he was not longer staring at Jay Gatsby, but Tom Buchanan.

 

He knew what he had to do.

Writer Wednesday

Today’s Writer Wednesday is autobiographical (sort of) in nature.

Here’s today’s prompt:

“Write about a pet that used to be in your life.”

When I was little, my best friend Marissa lived across the street. She had a cat lovingly referred to as “Momma Cat”. Momma Cat had a litter of kittens one day, and one was given to my sisters and me. The kitty had a twin brother who my bestie and her brother named Copper. At the time, we were obsessed with the Disney movie The Fox and the Houndso we named our twin Tod.

My sisters and I were so excited to have a pet. The only pet we had up until that point was a dog named Shep (who was promptly given away because we girls were terrified of him). A cute and cuddly kitten seemed more our speed. When Tod was small, we would hold him in our little hands and cuddle him like crazy. Soon, he got bigger which meant he was the perfect size to torture. Not in a sadistic way. More in a “we-don’t-have-a-brother-to-torment-with-girly-stuff-so-the-cat-is-a-good-substitute” sort of way.

Tod, in his natural habitat. (AKA, hiding from us)

Tod, in his natural habitat. (AKA, hiding from us)

We dressed that cat up in our doll clothes, pushed him up the street in our toy strollers, and even placed cat food trails along the monkey bars in the backyard to see how far he could walk without slipping. We snuggled him close, brought him in the house to catch mice, and even tried to teach him to play fetch (a plan that failed miserably).

Tod was never an inside cat–our dad wasn’t the biggest fan–but sometimes I’d sneak outside on Saturday mornings before anyone woke up and bring him into the bedroom my sisters and I shared, plopping him on the bottom bunk with Bridget, giggling quietly. As we grew up, Tod became less and less of a priority. We weren’t neglectful by any means. He was still fed, he always got his neck and back scratched, but he just didn’t stick around as much. He was usually patrolling the neighborhood for some tail (ha; pun intended), looking for a fight, or just being curious.  

One day, we came home and saw Tod was gone. I honestly have no idea what happened to that cat. My middle sister thinks he may have gotten into a fight with another cat and lost or might have known he was sick and went off to die in peace somewhere. I was sad when I realized Tod wasn’t coming back, but I was glad knowing that we had made some great memories with that furry feline. Memories that I still hold dear.

"Look at the camera, Tod, and smile pretty."

“Look at the camera, Tod, and smile pretty.”

Do you have memories of your first pet? What kind of animal was it? What was his/her name?

Writer Wednesday

Hello, everyone!

I’ve been super lame about making sure I do Writer Wednesdays. I told myself I need to make it more of a priority. After all, that’s how you get better, right? Practice, practice, practice and all that?

Here’s today’s prompt:

writer

 

“I’m tired of these walls,” Dodger said, looking about him.

“Then go for a swim,” Betsey replied, no looking up from her salad.

“The pool isn’t clean,” whined Dodger, “and the boy won’t be here til the morning to clean it.”

“Go for a walk,” suggested Betsey, pieces of Romaine falling out of her mouth.

“A walk?” Dodger asked, incredulous. “A walk? You suggest a walk when you know I can’t…” His voice trailed off. He looked through his window up into the night sky.

“A walk,” he repeated softly. He turned to his wife, excitement in his eyes. “Yes! Yes! Let’s go for a walk!”

“So start walking,” Betsey said, sighing. “Just don’t bump into me.”

“Not in here,” Dodger said. “Out there.” He motioned his over-sized head to the window.

Betsey’s eyes grew wide. “What do you mean, Dodge?”

“I’m saying, let’s both go for a walk…out there.

Betsey shook her head violently. “No, no, no, no!”

“Come on, Betsey!” Dodger pleaded. “What’s the worse that could happen?”

“You know what could happen!” Betsey screeched. “You know how they are. Don’t you remember where we came from? I like it here. I don’t want to go out there.”

“Please, darling,” Dodger cooed into his wife’s ear. “Think about all the great food we always smell and never get to eat. We could find some out there.”

The scowl that had appeared across Betsey’s mouth started to soften. “Food, you say?”

“Yes, my love!” Dodger exclaimed. “Food of all sorts! And I’ll get it all for you! You can try it all, sweetheart!”

Betsey smiled. “But how will we get out?”

“Leave it to me,” Dodger said.

Dodger moved back as far as he could and ran head first into the steel door at the opposite end of the room. After about five tries, it burst open. Which was good; Dodger’s head was starting to hurt and he was ready to forget the entire venture. After escaping their small apartment, it was only a matter of squeezing through the tiny hallway (which was rather difficult, as Dodger and Betsey were rather ample) and busting through the front gate.

They were able to do both rather quickly, although Betsey thought it best to knock down the gate. She wanted to save Dodger’s head from further damage. He was the brains of this operation after all.

After they exited, they starting walking down a long street. There wasn’t much around them. After several minutes, Betsey suggested they turn around and go back.

“No, not yet,” Dodger begged. “Please. Just a little further. I think I see light ahead.”

After a few moments, the couple found themselves at the top of a small hill. When they looked down, Dodger shouted in delight.

“Look! Down there!”

Betsey followed his eyes and saw a parking lot full of different trucks. Each one of the trucks had pictures of food on them; food she had definitely seen before. There was also an oval-shaped area with tall walls and bright lights. There were sounds of cheering and whistles coming from it.

“Let’s go!”

“Are you sure?” Betsey asked. “What if we’re not welcome?”

Dodger kissed his mate. “Just be yourself. Everyone will love you.”

The couple walked down the hill and entered through some gates. They made their way to the trucks with the pictures of food and went to the window.

“Just a sec,” called a man from inside the truck over his shoulder.

The couple waited patiently.

“Alright, what’ll you have?” the man asked, finally looking at Dodger and Betsey.

Before either one could open their mouths, the man screamed.

Another man rushed to his side, “What’s wrong boss?”

The first man pointed to the window. The second man saw the couple and looked like he might faint.

“Call the cops!” the first man yelled. “Tell them there are two hippos at the Saint James’ homecoming game!”

Writer Thursday

Hey guys!

Remember about three months ago when I shared the beginning of a new YA novel I was working on? I FINALLY wrote some more!

Before you read on, start here to read the opening scene and then continue.

I hope you like it! (And if you don’t, keep your mouth shut. Nobody likes a Negative Nelly.)

 

 

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

My best friend in the entire universe, Josie, was abandoning me. For the entire summer. Okay, so maybe abandon isn’t the right word to use here. More like, going-to-a-camp-for-super-smart-engineering-wannabes-who-will-probably-end-up-working-for-NASA-or-as-Disney-imagineers. And yes, I know that’s more than one word, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. Because Josie leaves tomorrow and I’ll be alone.

 

Well, I won’t technically be alone. My irritating little brother will be here. Which means all of his annoying friends will be here. Every. Single. Day. That’s why I’ve decided to refer to this summer as: Suckfest 2014.

 

My alarm started to go off again. I didn’t bother hitting the snooze; that was just delaying the inevitable. Maybe if I stayed in bed long enough, Mom would come up here and see my laying in bed and tell me I didn’t have to get up.

 

Five minutes later, Mom was knocking on my door.

 

“Winnie, you up?” she called through the Harry Potter poster-clad door.

 

I groaned weakly.

 

“I don’t speak zombie,” my mother said out in the hall.

 

“Just come in,” I whined.

 

“What’s the matter?” my mom asked as she opened the door.

 

“I don’t feel so good,” I said, making my face look as pitiful as possible.

 

“You know this day will continue to progress even if you stay in bed all day.”

 

She was on to me.

 

“I really don’t feel good,” I moaned. “Honest.”

 

“Arwen Renee Stephens,” my mother said in a stern voice. (Yes. My parents named me after an elven princess. They never even gave me a chance.) “You cannot hide from your problems. You are seventeen years old. You are far too old for these childish games. Get up, get dressed, and get going!”

 

I threw the blankets over my head and whined even louder.

 

“Winnie, come on,” my mother coaxed in a softer tone. “Seriously. If you get up now I’ll stop you by Starbucks on the way to school.”

 

“Fine,” I said, uncovering my head. “But I’m not just getting coffee. I want at least three cake pops.”

 

“Deal.”

 

Writer Wednesday

Happy Hump Day, peeps!

Here’s today’s Writer Wednesday prompt:

prompt

 

It seems like everyone I know has some hidden–or not-so-hidden–talent. Huff the Hubs can play guitar, piano, and trumpet. My dad can build ANYTHING your imagination can come up with. My mother is a crochet ninja; my sister is a master baker; and practically everything my other sister touches turns to gold. So where does that leave me…?

I’ll tell you where: impressions.

No, not painting. Actual impressions. But not of people…of goats.

I honestly have no idea how this impression came about, but ever since I was about 12 years old, I found I was able to do a dead-on impression of a goat. So dead-on, in fact, that my friends would CONSTANTLY ask me to do the impression. In between classes, during assemblies, in the middle of church. You name it, a goat sound was heard.

Even now that I’m almost 30 (gulp) I’ll see friends from middle school and they’ll ask me to “Do the goat!”

I really wish I had a more productive talent/skill. Seriously, how far does a goat impersonator go in life? And how can I utilize my talent for the betterment of mankind? I mean, everyone I mentioned above would be GREAT to have around during the zombie apocalypse. But me? I’d probably be the first one sacrificed to save everyone else.

Oh well. At least the zombies would have something laugh about as they gnawed on my legs.

 

What’s your hidden talent? Is it embarrassing like mine? Or is it more practical?

Writer Wednesday

Hello all!

No prompt/short story for today’s Writer Wednesday. I thought I’d instead give you some tips! There are many, many books out there that can help unleash the writer within as well as help you hone the skills you already have. Here is just a short list of books I think every writer should have in their arsenal.

 

1. Eats Shoots and Leaves

eat shoots leaves

A cheekily titled book that discuss a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners approach to punctuation. I actually read this in a book club! It was very informative (and quite hilarious!).

 

2. On Writing Well

writing well

This book is thorough and easy to read. It has help for just about any area of writing that you may be struggling with. A definite MUST have.

 

3. Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus

writer's thesaurus

I actually own this bad boy! And let me tell ya, it has come in handy SO many times! After about three hours of writing, your brain starts to turn to mush. So it becomes difficult to find another word that means sad. Soon all of your sentences say the same thing: “She was sad. He was sad. The turtle was sad.” And that, my friends, is just…sad dismal.

 

 

4. Choose the Right Word

choose the right word

I also own this one! This book helps you determine the correct usage for certain words. Just look up the word, see the contect you need to use it in, and bam! you’re good to go!

 

Have you read any of these? Do you own any? Are there other books about writing you’d recommend?