Writer Wednesday

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Happy Hump Day, writers!

Here’s today’s prompt:

What was an irrational fear you had as a child?

 

When I was a kid, one of my besties, Lisa, had a YMCA pass. She spent days with her grandma because her mother worked, so her grandma would take us to swim at the pool. I had never been to an indoor pool before this (most of the time I swam in my backyard or at the neighborhood outdoor pool) and was actually a little nervous.

After splashing around for a bit, a boy (a few years older than us) swam over to where Lisa and I were pretending to be mermaids (because, Ariel). “See that over there?” he asked, pointing to a grate at the bottom of the pool that I hadn’t noticed until then. “That’s where they let the sharks in when kids aren’t swimming.”

My heart dropped. Holy freaking crap, where did Lisa bring me?! I was going to get eaten by a shark and I’d never get to see what became of my beloved JTT on this season’s Home Improvement!

I immediately swam to the shallow end–far away from the death trap–and refused to move. What if the grate opened up and started chewing children left and right?! What if this was all a ruse and we weren’t really here to enjoy ourselves, but helpless pawns in the YMCA’s plan to feed their sea devils?

It wasn’t until I was in fifth or sixth grade that I started to realize sharks don’t live in public pools. Seriously. I blame that brat kid that fed me that terrifying lie for my aversion to sea animals. Makes me feel better about peeing in the pool he swam in. I hope he got a mouthful of my reconstituted Hawaiian Punch. Jerk.

 

 

 

What about you? What was an irrational fear you had as a kid?

Writer Wednesday

writer wednesday

 

Normally on Wednesdays, I write an awesome short story from my handy dandy writing prompt book. Today, however, I’m going to give you some helpful tips that can help you break through any writing plateau, destroy procrastination, and get your creative juices flowing!

I have books all about writing and websites favorited that help me with writing, but I never thought of getting an app to help me write! I don’t know why this never dawned on me; I’ve got apps galore! I’ve rounded up the best apps that every writer should have on their phone or tablet!

Name Dice

Name Dice is exactly what it sounds like: dice that you “roll” to help you come up with names for your fictional characters!

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There are HUNDREDS of names to choose from and even if you don’t choose a name that you roll, it will definitely get the motors in your writer mind turning!

 

Werdsmith

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Werdsmith works a lot like your Notes app, but is so much more than a digital notebook! You can set daily word goals to motivate you to write every day! You can also share with friends to get feedback on your writing!

 

Lists for Writers

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This app is AMAZING! There are tons of lists that are helpful for writers including character names, physical descriptions, and plot outlines! There are also tips on how to build a character, ways to boost your descriptions of setting, and reference materials (dictionary, thesaurus, etc.).

 

Brainsparker

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If you ever get stuck while writing (which happens to 99.99% writers at one time or another) this app is crazy-helpful! There are over 200 writing prompt “cards” that will instantly spark creativity and help you bust through blocks. You can even schedule a daily “spark” so your creativity is always flowing!

 

Do you have any writing apps you use? What are your favorites?

Writer Wednesday

Writer Wednesday

 

Happy Hump Day, fellow writers!

Here is today’s prompt:

In a sentence, describe the smell of spring.

In a word, the sound of winter.

In a line of a limerick, the feel of fall.

In five words, the taste of summer.

 

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Freshly mowed grass, the perfume of freshly bloomed flowers, and the stench of Bradford Pear trees permeate the air.

 

winter

Silent.

 

fall

It’s neither hot nor chilly.

 

summer

Watermelon. Popsicle’s. Lemonade. Snow cones.

Writer Wednesday

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Happy Earth Day, y’all!

 

Here is today’s prompt:

After she started working full-time downtown, her personality totally changed.

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She no longer wore her hair down, but rather in a tight bun she created by destroying an old sock. Gone were the days of chugging Folgers from an old 7-11 reusable tumbler—she only drank chai tea flavored with agave now. Her Skechers® were swapped for Louboutins, her garage sale purse tossed in exchange for a Michael Kors, and she wouldn’t dream of walking into the office without perfecting her lips to Kylie Jenner status.

 

Writer Wednesday

writer wednesday

 

Hey fellow writers! Here’s today’s prompt:

We all have junk. What is in your fridge that you never use but can’t throw out?
What item of clothing in your closet do you never wear but cannot bring yourself to throw away?
What’s in your attic that you can’t get rid of?

 

I don’t know why, but this little guy has been in every fridge in every place I’ve ever lived. I don’t use it. I don’t see anyone use it. But, somehow, there’s always a teensy bit missing. Its never full. But I can’t seem to throw it away!

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I typically do a purge of my closet about every 4-6 months. My rule is: if I can’t remember the last time I wore this, I have to give it up. But…there is a shirt that I will NEVER, EVER give up, for three reasons: it was my dad’s, it has Bruce Freaking Springsteen on the front, and the copyright says 1984 (i.e., the year I was born; its as old as me!):

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One of my goals for 2015 was to get rid of a bunch of crap I have stored at my parents’ house. (I mostly made this goal because I didn’t want to bring any junk into our new house–that we have yet to buy.) I threw away three giant plastic storage tubs FULL of old papers, notes, toys, and awards. There was one book though, I couldn’t bring myself to part with:

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What about you? What’s made a permanent home in your fridge? Got a pair of pants you just can’t part with? Is there a box of old newspapers in your attic just asking to be throw away?

Writer Wednesday

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Here’s today’s prompt:

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*Most likely, my mom, sister, or Huff the Hubs posted the signs. Here’s what I think it would look like:

missing writing prompt poster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Please note: I am NOT really missing. Neither am I making light of people who are truly missing. This is simply a writing exercise. Please do not leave comments about how butt-hurt you are. They will be ignored/deleted.

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

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:

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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.