Sharing Your Writing (short story) by Leanne Dyck

When I started to write I wanted to share my stories with everyone but...

photo by ldyck

Jim West cut the last row of grass, climbed off his ride-on lawnmower, found the rack, gathered a pile of grass clippings and took it to the compost box. When he turned around his wife was standing in front of him with a piece of paper in her hands.

"Want to hear what I just wrote?"

Some may have been naive enough to believe that they had a choice, but not Jim.

She read:  I found Sally sitting on her kitchen floor. Her knees were drawn to her chest as she slowly rocked back and forth. Prone on the floor in front of her, a body I recognized as her husband--a large knife embedded in his back. She struggled for words and between sobs I heard, "What...do...I...do...now?"

Some husbands may have been worried about the message behind the story, but not Jim. He knew his wife became inspired by a book, TV show, movie or what she'd overheard at the supermarket. By bending, breaking or blending, she created something new. It was as simple--and as complicated--as that.

She stood there, waiting. He knew she wanted a commented and he searched for something to say. He settled on, "Interesting."

Appeased, she returned to her computer and Jim returned to his yard work.

Save Jim from this awkward situation, share your writing... 

-on a blog

-in a writer's group

-with a beta (first) reader

-at a writers' workshop

-in a creative writing course

More...

Are You Looking for a Critique Group or Partner? 
by Janice Hardy

Next Sunday evening...

Book Review: An Ocean of Minutes by Thea Lim
This time-traveling romance was shortlisted for the 2018 Scotiabank Giller prize

Playing With Your Muse (short story) (2 of 2) by Leanne Dyck

You, the writer, continue to listen and I, the muse, tell you a story about an elderly woman who...

Linked to part 1

photo by ldyck

Playing With Your Muse (continued)

"Yes, knitting. The clicking of needles matches the rocking of her chair. Knit. Purl. Knit. P--. The needles fall out of her hands to the floor. Her body is thrown against the chair; her eyes roll into her skull. As if pulled by a string, she rises to her feet. Her body moves like she's made of wood like she's a marionette. The knitting basket stands in her way. Her right leg kicks out toppling it. Needles and yarn shower the floor. 

"Thud! Blind, she crashes into the wall. She stumbles back and moves over two inches. Second attempt successful, she leaves the living room and enters the kitchen. She passes fridge, sink, stove. Turning left into the utility room, she descends the creaking wooden stairs to the basement. Knitted slippers on cold concrete, she faces a grey wall. Her right foot swings back, then forward and into the wall. She doesn't flinch. The wall crumbles to dust, revealing a tunnel four feet wide by six feet high. Unaided by light or sight, she finds a grooved path and, with arms outstretched, she enters the tunnel. Where others would have faltered, the blind elderly woman weaves past dangling roots and over rocks. Further down the path, she plows into the edge of her life. Sliding her outstretched hands up and down, and to the left and right, she searches for a gap, but the darkness is unyielding.  Spread eagle, she squeezes her fingertips and the toes of her slippers into the void. A piercing white light pours out of the dark, wraps around her and melts her body. Flesh and bone dissolve into a single water droplet. Transformed she travels in the winds of time--a silent witness, observing but not observed.

"One sky blue, sun-filled day, a little girl runs outside to play. That single water droplet falls from the sky, onto her hand and is absorbed. Enwrapped by unexplained happiness, the child smiles." Story finished I release you.

Morning light poured through your bedroom window and directs your attention to the bedside table. There between the lamp and a pen, a notebook held the words we'd shaped into a story.



Next  Sunday evening (June 30)

Book Review:  That Time I Love You (linked stories)
by Carrianne Leung

Playing with your muse (short story)(1 of 2) by Leanne Dyck

Do writers sleep soundly? What makes them toss and turn? Who do they wake up for--too early in the morning?

photo by ldyck

Playing With Your Muse

You, the writer, were in bed, but you weren't asleep. The pillow was too lumpy; your knees too bony; the blankets too warm; the bed too cold. The deep breathing exercise you'd found online had promised sleep after four or five deep breaths. It might have worked for some, but not you.

I have to relax, you told yourself, I have that major presentation tomorrow. I have to be rested-- I have to get to work early-- I have to beat rush hour-- I have to--

You breathed out slowly. No, I don't. You smiled. I'm retired. Retired and living in paradise. No major presentations. No rush hour. No stress.

You visualized taking your last sip of grapefruit juice, depositing the glass in the sink and cutting a path through dew-kissed grass to your studio. There you reply to songbirds with clicks from your computer keyboard. With images of your happy place occupying your mind, sleep came.

Br-r-ring

The phone broke through your dreams.

Br-r-ring

"Fine," you spat, flicked on the bedside lamp, flung back the covers and climbed out of bed. 

Br-r-ring

Stiff legs carried you down the hall.

Br-r-ring

Your bare feet slapped the polished wood stairs--polished and slippery. You could have fallen--been knocked unconscious, died. You held onto the rail and made it safely down. 

Br-r-ring

You turned on the kitchen light and picked up the receiver. "Hello."

I have no time for niceties. "An elderly woman. Any elderly woman. This is important--she's an any-woman, but older. Wrinkles. White hair. The whole thing."

"It's too early," you groaned and I'm not surprised. You're not the most driven writer. "Not for everyone. I'll phone someone else," I warned.

"No, I'm listening."

"She's alone--not a soul around. Isolated."

"Got it," you said.

"I see her on a rocking chair. Her hands are busy... Busy... What's she doing?" Sometimes I have to really work for it.

"Knitting?" you suggested, grabbing your pen and notebook.

Part 2 of Playing with your muse



Next Sunday evening...
June 23
Please visit this blog next Sunday, for part two of How a writer sleeps.