Struggling

I'm just wondering how other want-a-be writers set up their days so that they can write.  What is your routine?  What time of day is the best for you?  What inspires you?

You see, I have all these voices in my head all wanting my undivided attention.  Try as I might, they refuse to take turns.  I end up trying to give them all the attention they desire but we never seem to get anywhere.  Thus writing stalls.

I also have a family which is another problem.  I get going on a thought and there is always someone who wants me to do something for them.  Family = writers block. (As I'm writing this, my husband has come in and wants to talk.)

I'm just feeling lost and alone on this writing journey and I don't know where to begin.  I know I'm a beginner writer and I'm not very good with my prose...yet.  But I'm working on it.  Others always seem to have interesting things to say but I don't feel that I do.  My brain feels empty most of the time and thinking hurts.

Well, as usual, I thought I had some time to write but now I don't.  Duty calls and I must go. 

Cheers,
Shel

Chasing Bubbles

Note:  This is the second story for my first challenge.  Any helpful criticism would be helpful.

Chasing Bubbles

By

Shelleigh-Mairi Ferguson

“Crap,” I curse as I slam the snooze button.  “Just ten more minutes.”

I roll over and attempt to drift back into my wonderland of dreams.  My hopes are high at first as I can still vaguely remember the dream I was floating through before I was so rudely interrupted by my alarm.  I was happy there.  I’m desperate to return.

In the dream, it was a beautiful summer’s day and I lounged under a tree near a sparkling lake.  I was watching the sunlight dance playfully around the branches of the tree.  Its large green leaves twinkling in delight at the playful sun, enjoying its warm caress.  An ardent breeze twirled little puffy clouds of cotton from the cottonwood trees whimsically through the air.  The twirling cotton puffs looked like little fairies dancing through the air.  I watched them as bubbles started to mix and float by joining in the dance.

Upon returning to my dream; I heard laughter as I peeked around the tree trunk and saw four small children running past.  There were two little boys dressed in white suites with light yellow pen strips and yellow dress shirts.  The two girls were dressed in white sun dresses with small yellow flowers and yellow lace.  They were chasing after mischievous bubbles that always seem to float out of their reach.   Their joy is contagious and I want to join in their great bubble chase.

I got up and ran after them.  I feel so young, happy, and free.  My only care in the world is chasing bubbles.  The children are faster than me and try as I might they and the bubbles always seem to be out of my reach.  I race harder, pushing myself but they just seemed to be getting farther away.   They are just ahead of me as we climb a large hill.  As the children disappear down the other side of the hill, their laughter echoes in my ears, taunting me.  I push on but my feet begin to sink into the grass as if I were running in quicksand.  I struggle; pulling and clawing my way to the top.  I break free at the top of the hill and  I can see the children in the valley below joyfully playing with the bubbles.  I start to run down the hill but bees start to swarm around me buzzing in my ear.  I bat at them and as I do, my foot gets caught on a rock.  I’m thrown forward and see the ground rising to meet me.

“Oh, crap,” I slam my snooze again.  No, I want to chase my beautiful dream bubbles not chase my tail as I shift one stack of papers from one side of my desk to the other.  I hate my job, my life.  Just give me ten more minutes and then I will have the strength to face my day.

I try to force myself back into my beautiful dream land but this time I find myself in a cabin in the woods.  I am with friends.  I can’t tell how many but there seem to be quite a few.  I realize that I have to pee.    I head down the hall towards the bathroom, the doors locked.  My friend tells me that it’s OK if I go pee in her room.  She tells me that she pees on her bedroom floor all the time.  I follow her as the urge to pee gets greater and greater.  If I don’t find a place to pee soon I may just pee my pants. 

Her room is crowded with people, most of which I don’t know.  I squat in the corner and try to pee but can’t.  I seem to have stage fright and can’t pee in front of all these people.  I run out of the room and down the hall again.  The bathroom door is open this time but this room is filled with people too.   I beg to use the toilet and they part like the Red Sea for me. 

As I sit on the toilet, I’m finding it hard to pee again with all these people around me.  I see my boss coming towards me.  He leans up against the wall and starts to talk to me about clients as I’m struggling to pee.  I get up and run, desperate to find a private place to pee.  Everyone is chasing me; their voices are a buzzing in my head.

“Crap.”  It’s my alarm again.  I slap it quiet one more time and pull my pillow over my head.  I really don’t want to get up.  I’m comfortable and warm in my bed.  I do not want to face the cold cruel world.  Unfortunately, my full bladder and the fact that my consciousness keeps seeping into my subconscious, forcing me to face my reality, keeping any real dreams at bay.

My alarm buzzes my rude awakening as I force myself to face the frigid reality of my life.  How I long to be chasing bubbles.



The Unmade bed

Note:  This is my first story of my writing challenge.  I know that it's not Hemingway but it's my first attempt at my writing dream.  Any helpful criticism would be appreciated.

    The Unmade Bed

       By Shelleigh-Mairi Ferguson     

          Once this bed was the source of pleasures, amusements, and arguments for Grey and me, now…Well, now it’s something more. 

Grey liked his bed unmade and messy.  He wanted to dive in like it was a pile of leaves and bury himself in the blankets, letting his body get tangled in the covers.  Me, I liked my bed made.  I hate loose sheets and the way my feet would get tangled in the covers.  This was the main reason we couldn’t share a bed. 

                For most of our eighteen years of marriage Grey slept on the couch.  I never made him sleep there he just always liked it. He could have his blankets the way he wanted them and not have to worry about me.  I was fine with this because I got the queen size bed all to myself with the covers just the way I liked them.

                Actually, our preferred sleeping styles went completely against our everyday nature.  Grey was an obsessive compulsive neat freak.  Everything has a place and everything in its place.  That man could clean a room and everything would sparkle like it was from a Disney cartoon.  I always marveled at his ability to clean and organize and he never missed his opportunity to tell me how good he was at it either.  But he deserved to brag, he was good at it.  No matter how hard I tried I could never get things to look the way they did when Grey cleaned them.  He truly had a gift.

                I was the exact opposite of Grey, I was a complete mess.  I tried but cleaning never held my attention for very long and I was soon off to do something else.  My motto was ‘why do today that which can be done tomorrow?’  Consciously or unconsciously, I lived by this motto.  Grey called me a piler.  I had piles and piles of books, papers, clothes, toys, and laundry all over the place.  I always meant to get back to them but never seemed to find the time to put them away. 

                If Grey and I ever fought it was about my piling problem.  The truth is I hated it too.  I just couldn’t stop.  I tried to fix my piling problem but failed, repeatedly.  Grey would try and help organize me.  He would work so hard; spend days organizing things for me so that it would be easier for me to keep it clean.  It never worked though.  I always reverted back to my messy ways and felt bad that I ruined all his hard work.  I always wanted to do better the next time but never did.  I don’t know if he ever truly knew how much I appreciated him for his efforts, for all he did for me.

                Now as I prepare to go to bed, I look at my unmade bed and I remember the times when we had tried to sleep together.  I would have my side neatly made and his side would be piled high with blankets. I remember how I use to get so frustrated at him for messing up my covers.   Now I look back at those moments with a smile.  The irony. 

What I hold the dearest is the memory of Grey climbing into the bed and piling the covers over his head.  He always looked so warm and happy under his mountain of blankets.  I remember the warmth of his body as an arm reached out from under the blanket mountain to pull me close to him as we snuggled together.  Each with our blankets just how we liked them.  How I miss that.

                It has been three years and 4 months since Grey died.  Yes, time has healed the wound but time can never fully heal this type of wound.  And I’m OK with that.  This wound was made as someone I loved left my life, it’s a wound made by love and I don’t ever want it to heal.  I love my wound left by Grey’s death, I treasure it.  It’s a constant reminder that I loved and was loved in return and that our love lives on but in a different way.  Once an unmade bed would bring me endless frustration and discomfort, now I find it my greatest source of comfort.

                As I crawl into my perfectly unmade bed and pile the mountain of blankets over my head the tangles of blankets are like Grey’s arms wrapping around me, holding me close.  I can almost feel his breath on my cheek and hear his voice whisper ‘I love you’.  The dam breaks and warm tears stream down my face.  These are tears of sadness and loss but also tears of happiness and love.  “Goodnight my love,” I say as I wrap the blanket arms tighter around me, “I’ll see you in my dreams.” 

   

My Writing Challenge

This is a photo by Tricia Bateman in a book by Phillip Sexton called "A picture is worth 1,000 words: image-driven story prompts and exercises for writers."

I picked up this book today and decided that I would write a short story for every prompt and picture in the book. That would be 112 short stories, at least.

This is an excerpt from Sexton's book describing what the writer should do.

Interpretations

(Sexton, P. & Bateman, T., 2007. "A Picture is worth 1,000 Words: image-driven story prompts and exercises for writers." Pg. 12-13. Writer's Digest Books, Ohio.)

Exercise: Some might see the photo (above) as having a limited number of interpretations. Challenge yourself to think of two entirely different stories, using the image as you setting.

So that is what I'm going to do. Check back at the end of the month for my stories related to this picture prompt.  If anyone out there in the great unknown of the web-verse would like to participate, feel free and attach your story in the comment section.

Shel

Stop Shouting!

I named this blog "Stop shouting, I'm trying to write," because every time I sit down to write one of my boys starts shouting "MOM" or there is some kind of fight that brakes out. I swear this happens any time I try to do any thing for myself, be it showering, going to the bathroom, or writing.

I have two other blogs, nothing special, yet. This one is for purely writing.

As I am writing now, I must go. My boys will be home form school any minute and the shouting will begin. Ah, their here now. Let the shouting begin:)

Ah, the soundtrack of motherhood.

Shel