Writing: Writing about shoes, and an assignment.
written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post
The writing exercise at today's Lake Region Writers' Group meeting was, strangely, about shoes.
Borrowing a writing prompt from The Pocket Muse: Ideas and Inspirations for Writing by Monica Wood, our 10-minute challenge was seemingly simple. Write a scene in which a pair of shoes figures prominently.
We had one member write a detailed descriptive scene on giving a spit shine, and two wrote about shoes as evidence in a crime scene. I'll include my efforts below to give you an idea of how you don't have to write like Faulkner just to take part in an exercise. As always, I encourage you to use the comments section to include your efforts and ideas.
Short
by Julie R. Neidlinger
"You didn't walk a mile," she said. "You have no idea."
The short man -- he was barely four feet tall -- shook his head. "I couldn't walk a mile. They don't fit. Besides, I'm British."
"Are you against wearing leather?" she asked.
"No."
"-- because these are leatherette."
"It has nothing to do with what they're made out of," he said, standing up as tall as he could, his stocking-clad feet in the first stages of a chillblaines attack. "You're taller than me. They didn't fit."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then you can't tell me anything; no advice, no judgement."
"Just because I'm short doesn't mean you shouldn't listen to my good advice."
"I'm not against being short," she said.
The man shifted his cold feet. The woman went on.
"Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, you don't get to say anything."
The short man shook his head sadly. He'd never dreamed his height would be such a disability when he had decided to become a priest.
Assignment: The writing group actually wanted me to give them homework, and because power trips are my favorite travel destinations, I obliged. Taking a prompt from the same book by Wood, the assignment for the next meeting is to write about an escalating dispute between two normally polite, upstanding neighbors. The word count should come in somewhere around 500 words. If you get it done, feel free to post your efforts in the comments section.
Labels: writer's group, writing, writing prompts
Copyright (c) Julie R. Neidlinger 12/31/2005 02:35:00 PM
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2 Comments:
How about 100 wds as an assignment? Interestingly tough.
The grill was piping hot and the meat sizzled when it touched the metal. Marinaded and peppered, the steaks smelled achingly delicious. Hank attentively prodded the meat, directing it to the hottest coals, searing in the flavor. He stepped back inside and finished the salad, adding radicchio to the red leaf. Then he tossed it lightly, adding a Caesar dressing. He carried it back out and put it on the table. The next door neighbor, Ted, sauntered in carrying beer. He opened one and drank. “Is the wife joining us?”
“Yep, just as soon as the steaks hit the table.”
By 
Snarky the Moonbat, at
January 04, 2006 11:53 PM
(Let me try again - weird formatting on my previous comment posting effort...here's my completed assignment.)
How polite people give each other a beat down
By Julie R. Neidlinger
"I beg your pardon."
"No, please, allow me."
"No really, I insist."
"Very well, then, I'll go first."
Well that's rude. "Yes, please go ahead."
The man in the pleated pants sat down on the park bench. The man in the felt visor sat on the same bench but at the other end, the end of the bench where slivers jutted out in all directions from skateboarders gone wild. It was like sitting on a thorn bush in the middle of a game preserve.
"Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Yes." Easy to say without slivers jabbing you from behind. I wonder if my proctologist has an opening tomorrow.
"I see by your bumper sticker that your grandson is on the honor roll."
"He is."
"My son is a geneticist."
He probably wants to find out what went wrong, poor kid. "That certainly takes an education."
"You'd better believe it. And lots of money to pay for that education."
I'll pass on that segue. "What exactly does a geneticist do?"
"Works with genes."
"Doing what?"
There was a pause as the man smoothed the pleats in his pants. "I don't know."
"It's important to have gene workers. What would we do without them?"
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"I don't know."
"You're not funny."
There was a pause as the man adjusted his visor, tipping it slightly to the right side of his head; it was a habit from golf. "How's the wife doing these days?"
"Funny. You know she ran off with the karaoke repairman."
"I didn't know there was such a thing as a karaoke repairman. What does he repair?"
"Karaoke machines."
And unhappy wives. "Maybe your wife didn't like karaoke that much."
"She liked the repairman well enough."
"My wife is still with me."
"I've seen your wife. That's nothing to brag about."
"And we don't enjoy karaoke, because that's nothing to brag about, either."
"My son's a geneticist."
"If you could tell me what he did, I'd be more impressed."
"Everyday we come out here, sit on this bench, and insult each other."
"Retirement's a damn waste."
A football sailed through the sky, a missile shot in their direction by two shirtless teen boys playing catch out on the open grass in front of the park bench. They had acne all over their backs; they looked like cheetahs. The football smashed into the face of the man wearing the pleated pants.
"Good Lord! Are you OK?!"
The pleated pants had blood spatter across the front, across the pleats. "I think my nose is broken!"
"You boys!" he hollered, the two teens staring dumbly at the men. "You come over here!" He'd have stood up for emphasis except for the slivers that were snagged and embedded into his slacks. His slacks were tan, a very safe color.
"I think I need to see a doctor. I'm sure my nose is broken!"
The two boys walked toward the men, their heads hanging nearly as low as their jeans.
Finally. Something worth getting out of bed for.
By Julie, at
January 14, 2006 12:15 AM
