Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Art and Writing

Writing: Writing about murder.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Though only four members of the writing group braved the near-zero temperatures and icy wind and made their way to the Liquid Bean for our regular meeting, we had a great time.

John brought yet another great book which of course, I quickly grabbed up. He's turning into my regular lending library. You might want to check out the book: The First Five Pages: A Writer's Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection Pile by Noah Lukeman.

After the usual discussion on what we've been working on, we got to the writing exercise. I got today's topic out of The Writer's Block: 786 Ideas to Jump-Start your Imagination by Jason Rekulak.

The challenge? To write for ten minutes using the following for inspiration: Write from the point-of-view of someone who committed a murder today. Do not mention the murder.

I'll share mine below; it's not great, and that's the point. This was an exercise. I encourage others to share what their own version of this writing exercise in the comments below. Even if you couldn't make it to our writers' group, you can still get in on the fun.

Tart
by Julie R. Neidlinger

The apple tarts had a metallic taste; the weren't up to their usual snuff.

"What's wrong with these tarts?" he asked the waitress behind the diner counter. He didn't bother listening to her reply.

Pennies. The apple tarts tasted like pennies in his mouth.

She was a tart, he thought, his fork scraping against the plate. Tart.

The woman in the red booth across the diner caught his attention. He watched as she poured ketchup over a mound of French fries; thick, red, congealed.

He was angry. His shadow seemed even darker in the bright sun light.

He reached for the slice of bread on the plate next to him, left from his meal of hamburger steak, rare. His knife scraped and cut across the soft surface of the bread, the stiff butter snagging and tearing it. With a sharp jab, he plunged his table knife deep into the heart of the block of butter, scooting the plate across the counter surface with a loud, grating snap.

"Can I get you anything else?" the waitress asked warily.

Tart.