WRITING SPRINTS

Writing Sprint on You Tube

It Gets You Going

We’ve got a 45-minute clock on the wall. This is the second word sprint I’ve been in.

Shoot. Blank Page. What do I do? Dennis coming home soon. Thinking about dinner. Where are the cats? Outside. The birdie is in the front room. What am I doing? Jesus. Write. Damn it. Write.

Deep breath.

Might we interject?

Please. I don’t know what I’m doing.

Well, this is a writing sprint, so you could write a new Medium article. In two hours you could hammer out 1,000 words. Pick something to talk about.

Okay. Abrasiveness and a pearl.

Sure, go ahead.

I’m participating in a word sprint right now. This is a new lady I’ve never met before, though her name sounds familiar to me. Julie Zee. She’s a writer and has something to do with NaNoWriMo. I think. Anyway, there was one other person on the screen with her and a total of 16 people in the chat box. Presumably, we are all writing.

The stream of consciousness that flows out of me and onto the page right now is not brilliant. It is not pretty. It is not attractive. But what I was thinking about was how a pearl gets made. The oyster is under duress. There is grit in the soft and silky membranes of the oyster’s body. It throws protection up around the grit, and slowly, a pearl forms.

How is anything I write as abrasive as grit that in working and reworking what I write, I can hope to someday resemble a pearl?

I think I’m crazy for doing this. It’s like banging your head on the wall. Over and over again, and yet, that’s how the writing happens. Footstep after footstep. Right words after wrong ones. Until. Until. A story appears.

A story about what?

Well, perhaps the abrasiveness of knocking your head on the wall has to happen. Perhaps it is like a runner stretching out tendons and limbs in order to run without injury.

Writing until you fall down.

No, writing, flashing across the finish line, breaking the tape stretched across the road.

I want to see how many minutes are left. I go peek.

Shoot. 35 minutes left. I’ve been writing for ten minutes and got 390 words of crap. Maybe something will happen. That’s me, waiting, holding up the wall. Waiting.

If you wait long enough, good things will happen.

I don’t know about that.

Yes, you could write a book about waiting.

That sounds dismal. How do you keep your spirits up when all that comes out of your mouth is drivel? It’s not even drivel. It’s less than drivel. It’s drool. My mouth is dry. It can’t be drool if your mouth is dry.

Picture yourself somewhere else. Close your eyes and picture yourself in a peaceful spot. You’re in the mountains, in Yosemite, standing in the meadow, looking across at the stand of aspens. Aren’t they beautiful?

Wait. Now you are in Marathon, Greece. You are in the water. Nobody is up. The fishermen left hours ago, but the townspeople are not up yet. You walk out onto the sand with your husband and walk into the water. The water is clear, and lots of tiny fish come to look at your legs. Your legs are sheathed with hundreds of air bubbles. Tiny air bubbles clinging to the hair on your legs. The water is cool. Not cold. Not body temperature. Just pleasantly cool. Such tiny fish. They are almost transparent. Ten minutes in the water, you can remember it 44 years later just as it happened.

Later in the day, the temperature will climb to 112° Fahrenheit. It’s going to be a hot one, but right now? It is so pleasant.

The Greeks stay up late. They sleep during the middle part of the day when it is so hot, and after their naps, they come out to work or to play. In the morning, they will sleep. You think to yourself, if ever this was the perfect time to write, it is now.

Another time to write? With a beer in front of me. The afternoon sun is coming in the windows of the Blue Room in Munich. Before anybody comes in after work. I am there by myself. My future husband stands at the bar looking like a person out of time. He wears lederhosen. His hair is long and curly. He has a beard. His foot is on the rail that wraps around the bar. He is smoking one of his Ben Wade pipes with Borkum Riff tobacco. Bourbon-soaked tobacco. I fell in love that day. With my future husband. The man of my dreams. We’ve been married for 48 years. That’s a long time, and it feels like a minute ago.

Another place to write is on the cool morning on my porch. I have my little red pedestal table. The cats are outside with me. I’ve got a lovely cup of steaming coffee. I’m in my nightclothes and am using the time to think about what I’m going to write about. It is just a few minutes to sit and enjoy the early morning time. The sun is coming up in front of me. I face east.

Now, there are 12 minutes left on this sprint. I’ve written 892 words. That’s not bad. It’s not all drivel anymore. Now, these are memories of pleasant times where I wrote.

If I could summon the feelings I had at any of those moments, in Yosemite, in Munich, or on my porch, I think I could settle into writing more easily.

What I need now is direction. I need a plan for what to write during April and for my book.

That’s what I need to think of right now. So, story or factual account?

Actually, my story is very much like a fictional account. People don’t always believe that I talk to dead people.

So what? We believe you.

Yeah, but you are the dead people

Pardon. I am transformed. Not dead.

Do you want to be in a story?

Sure.

What’s your name?

Cindy. I’m five years old.

How did you die?

I don’t want to talk about that. It’s more fun to play.

Are you happy?

Yes, all the time. I even have a bunch of mommies here.

Lots of mommies?

Yes. I like them.

I’m glad you have them. I think that would be a comfort to any of the mommies in my world who have lost their daughters.

Yes, I suppose so. Do you know what I can do?

No, what?

No, you have to guess.

Um, does it involve eating?

Yes, how did you guess?

I think you are teasing me.

I’m not. I like bread and butter and sugar on top.

We used to have that in our house.

Yes, it’s pretty good.

I don’t know if you can tell Cindy, but I’m sort of crying right now.

Why? Are you hurt?

No, I’m just a little sad for a minute.

Do you have a little girl?

No, Sweetie, I don’t.

That’s why you are crying, I think.

Yes, I think so.

Cindy?

Yes?

I’m a writer. I’m getting ready to tell a story and was wondering if maybe you could help me?

I can’t read.

I know you can’t, Sweetie. Would you like to be in some of my stories?

Can I wear a blue dress?

Yes, you can wear a blue dress.

Can I have a doggie? I’d like to have a doggie.

Yes, we’ll fix it so you can have a doggie.

Well, that was something.

Thanks for reading.

🌸°•°🌸 Pauline 🌸°•°🌸

The Links: 45-minute Countdown Timer — courtesy of Amber McManus on YouTube Julie Zee — hosted the Productivity Sprint — She’s got four more writing sprints coming up in April. Hit the notification bell.