Word Ferret: Writing Prompts, Book Reviews, and Short Stories

I’ve always been a shower person. I have no time in the mornings for a long bath, so I’m in and out of the shower quickly, pressed for time to get out the door to start my day. Lately, I’ve started a new habit. 

When I get home, I have dinner and run a bath. I sacrifice an hour of TV to make a ritual of having a long soak to relax and melt away my troubles. I’ve invested in candles, bath salts, bath foam, body scrubs and cherry blossom scented cleansers. 

As I write this, it occurs to me that when writing, we quite often take the time to describe simple actions well, to give them more detail and weave significance into the things we do every day. Our habits are part of the things that define us and give insight into our characters. 

Think about something you do every day. Write about the process. Why do you do it, how do you do it, how does it make you feel and how could it be significant?

Alternatively, write a scene where someone is preparing a bath either for themselves or for someone else. describe who it is for, why they’re doing in in a particular way and describe in as much detail what is done. 

Don’t forget the bubbles…

Have fun.

The Enemy

My youth has been nothing but a tenebrous storm, 
Pierced now and then by rays of brilliant sunshine; 
Thunder and rain have wrought so much havoc 
That very few ripe fruits remain in my garden.

I have already reached the autumn of the mind, 
And I must set to work with the spade and the rake 
To gather back the inundated soil 
In which the rain digs holes as big as graves.

And who knows whether the new flowers I dream of 
Will find in this earth washed bare like the strand, 
The mystic aliment that would give them vigor?

Alas! Alas! Time eats away our lives, 
And the hidden Enemy who gnaws at our hearts 
Grows by drawing strength from the blood we lose!

 - Charles Baudelaire

I’ve been staring at the screen for ages. My eyes have been wandering around the room trying to find something to inspire me. There are a few ways to do this. I can either just write about anything that springs to mind and hope that inspiration comes (current plan) or I can focus on one thing in the room and start describing it. Alternatively, I can brainstorm, play word association games, create lists or write down the last conversation I had. (it was about my mother’s much-hated dogs). She loves all five, yes, five of them. I do not. 

The bottom line is, I’m stuck. My brain is all over the place with things I need to do before the working week begins and I can’t focus on anything. 

So, here is sit, dropping words onto the page until something spectacular springs to mind…

I’m in an interesting crossroads at the moment. I’m being faced with the option to move house, move countries, change jobs or travel. For each of these, there are a load of potential outcomes and I fond myself paralysed by indecision. 

Try this. Create two lists of options. For instance, a country to visit, a type of job, a potential partner, a potential pet, etc. Write a map of what would happen if your character chose one of each option from the list. Brainstorm what could happen as a result of each choice. You’ll find that you have a long list of possibilities. That’s one of the perks of being a writer. Anything is possible and you can make your characters do anything you want. 

Have fun. 

I was going through my old school things in my parent’s garage in an effort to clear out some space for them and found my old journals. They were the scribblings of a young girl, still optimistic, still sentimental, un-jaded by life and disappointment. I read some of the entries and thought, “silly goose”. I struggled to remember who and what I was writing about. Some of the names were totally unfamiliar. I concentrated, trying to recall the faces that went with those names that I wrote so passionately about. They must have been important to me at the time, but now, they exist only as names in a tattered notebook. 

As I flipped through the entries, something caught my attention. It was a list that could have doubled as a love letter. There was no name attached to it, but it catalogued everything I loved about that person, our moments together, things about their character, how they made me feel and for a moment, I was reminded of something Edith Wharton wrote of one of her characters. “…such depths of feeling could coexist with such absence of imagination.”

Rather than feeling nostalgic about my work, I found myself cringing. I tried to recall some of those listed incidents and could find no trace of them in my memory. Logic and pure chronology dictated that it was one of my ex-boyfriends (nameless for this post) and I was ashamed of the fact that I had not credited them for anything more meaningful than their eye colour or some token act outside an ice cream parlour. It was, quite simply, the writings of a child. 

I wonder now, as I write this, if I would do much better now and think that a list is no fit way to describe anyone. They are notes on character, but in no way do the individual justice. So, my challenge today is to write a narrative about someone I care about, but for the writing to reflect more than just a list of adjectives. Writing should bring out the measure of their character without having to spell it out in a list. So, pick a scene and give the person you choose the credit they deserve by letting their actions and words speak for them. 

They say you should never work with children or animals. I’ve been trying to write, but my parent;s dogs keep making a row. Imagine 5, yes, 5 small yappy dogs that want attention at all times and seem to be high on kibble. The result is an ungodly noise that would inspire one to search the house for arsenic.

However, as I look out the french doors to the garden, I can see my mother out there playing with her dogs. They love her, that is clear and she talks to them and takes great pleasure in their company.

I love my cat and I’ve been just as guilty as my mother in ignoring the fault of my precious, sofa scratching, mess-making, attention seeking moggie.

When it comes to kids, I’m a bit all over the place too. I like other people’s children, but have no idea how they work. I’m pretty sure which end is up and when I’m trying to talk to the “grown ups” I try not to show my irritation when the crying starts. Having said that, they’re a great source of entertainment. They have an honesty that we lose as years go by. They fall over, have a sniffle then they’re up. I guess it’s easier for them as they have a shorter distance to fall…

Try writing a story where either an animal or a child are the main characters. Try to see the world from their point of view. Rerun the dog is sitting next to me, quiet for the first time all morning. He’s licking his paws and on occasion, glances at the TV. Linus, the other dog, has also settled on the sofa and is now snoring. Do dogs dream, I wonder?

I went up to my room and ran my hand along the bookcase. I admired the cracked backs of my books trying to recall when I read them all. Some stuck out as old favourites, greeting me eagerly as if to be asked to be read again. I pulled two out and thumbed through the pages and hugging them to my chest, promised myself to put them in my handbag before leaving. 

Before I turned to go, the spine of a thin book caught my attention. It was a journal, blank and neglected till now. The cover was designed by the same artist that had designed another diary I had written in before. It had been a gift, destroyed shortly after someone read it and I burned it in retaliation. Although I thought I was making a statement, the real punishment had been mine. Had I been indignant for the intrusion and unapologetic for what I had written, it would still be with me. Thoughts and memories and ideas, rightly or wrongly, would be mine to review and resurrect. Likewise, the apology would have been for the betrayal of my privacy and not for the perceived insult I had written within the book’s pages. A month after my gift had gone up in smoke, I had wandered into a bookstore and recognised the designer name on a blank book. I brought it home with me and there it sat until this evening. 

I regret destroying my diary and I’ve promised myself never to let anyone influence what I write or think or express in the privacy in my journals again. 

So, I’ve begun to write in my long forgotten book. For now, I challenge you, reader, to write everyday, uncensored. Be diligent. Pick up a notebook and pour out your heart and don’t be afraid of what others might find there. 

Be brave and write. 

I looked in the fridge and found a load of random ingredients. A basket of tomatoes, an onion, some tomato puree, some prawns and a ciabatta loaf. On the window sill there was my basil plant, wilting a little due to lack of sun and water. I filled a wine glass that rested on the counter and poured it into the thirsty plant then plucked some leaves from it. I had an idea. 

A half hour later, I had a lovely plate full of bruschetta. 

Go to the kitchen, have a rummage and see what you can create. While you cook, think about the process. Write down not only what you’re doing, but go into detail. Describe the texture of food, the smell, colour, feeling. Describe the heat of the oven and the cold of the fridge. What random items are there to inspire you? Have fun, enjoy and relax. 

Bon appétit!