I just love writing fiction.  Who knows what one word will spark a character, an idea or piece of literature that will stand the test of time?

The ice cream cone was sweet and melted in my mouth as I bit into it.  I wondered how such a fragile cone could handle the volume of ice cream that was shoved into it.  No wonder the stuff was all over my hands, face and in my hair.  This stuff makes me turn three again.

Watching the horse gallop across the field, I thought about how free, yet how restrained it was. On one account, the horse could run as fast as it wanted, in any direction it wanted. But when it came upon a fence, it had to stop. There was no changing that.

Prompt: You wake up shackled to a chair and can’t remember how you got there. Two voices are talking. You recognize one of them.

The smell of musk, sweat and damp fill my nose as the room blurs, spins and slowly sharpens into focus.  It wasn’t until I tried to reach up to brush the sticky strands of hair that were nearly choking me away from my mouth that I realizied that I was shackled.  It wasn’t just my hands, either.  My feet, as well, were bound is in rusty, ramshakle restraints that cut into my skin like razorwire.  As my stomach churned, I regret looking down.  The shackles had cut so deeply into my ankles that dried blood was caked on my feet, coated by a wet frosting of fresh blood that spurted when I moved.  I reluctantly choked back my vomit, knowing that if I threw up, I would bleed more, then throw up more, starting a cycle that I couldn’t stop.  Then, voices… first distant then nearing… closer… closer… whoever they were and for whatever reason they had done this to me, they were coming.  And I don’t think that the cuts on my wrists and ankles were the worst of what they had in mind for me.  I should have known that it would catch up to me sooner or later.  After all, the devil always gets his due, right?  That has to be true for the devil’s mistress too.  Recognizing one of the voices as my lover’s I knew that I had definitely gotten into bed with the wrong demon.

It all started innocently enough, in fact just about as innocently as you can get… in church.  The bells rang loud that day, louder than usual because I had a massive hangover.  It was one of those “good daughter” days, when I buckled down and did what any good, single girl would do… agree to meet a guy my mother was trying to match me with.  A bit of history, mom has the worst of taste in men.  First there was the tall, awkward, socially inept one whose idea of a great time was me at my house, him at his and a date in the far off land that he created just for me in Second Life.  What a romantic.  Then there was the manic-depressive.  I guess you could say our dates were up and down.  One time literally up and down.  He took me to an amusement park.  One minute he was screaming and laughing on the thrill rides, the next in a deep dark funk because he could knock down those damn bottles and win me a bear.  So imagine my surprise when I met my mystery guy.  Hobbies: Traveling, sailing, fishing… ok, normal, normal and normal.  Mental health: Seems stable.  All right, this guy may be a go.  Well after the Amen, I found a much darker side to Mr. Wonderful.  Of course, I loved it for awhile.

Your turn!

As long as I can remember, I have always worn something on my head. Whether its sunglasses, a headband, a pony tail holder, or a hat, I’ve felt the compulsion to put something on my head.

She dropped her towel, revealing supple breasts dotted by the blush red heat of the shower. Soaking wet she was even more beautiful. Where did this creature come from? And why did she come into my life?

She opened the oven, and to her ultimate chagrin, found a charred version of what was supposed to be the lamb she was cooking.  “Dammit!” She slammed the oven door shut. She would have to go to Plan B.  Go to Boston Market and pretend she cooked it.  After all, if the date went well she’d have at least a year of dating to learn the recipes.

No, really.  What I would like to do is something to improve myself while I’m unemployed.  If you happen to pick up some skills along the way, that’s bonus.  So, while I’m training myself, pick up on some of my exercises and train yourself too.  I’d love to have a litany of blogs in my blogroll full of people I am “working out” with. 

Here are the tools that I am using. 

 1) Writer’s Digest Writing Kit – The main thing I’ll be using are the cards inside.  However, occasionally I’ll refer to the 70 Solutions to Writing Mistakes book that is also inside.  Grab the kit at Amazon.com

2) Writer’s Digest Magazine – The first time I subscribed to this magazine, I think I was 15 years old.  Imagine if I would have had the forethought to use it instead of just dream with it.  You can subscribe here.  Or if you don’t want to spend any money, hit up the Writer’s Digest web site.

3) OneWord.com – This one is completely free.  Each day, the webmasters post a new word and give you 60 seconds to write about it.  I’ll post my 60 seconds here.  I’d love it if you would post yours in the comments section.

In fact, I’d love it if everyone would post whatever creative inspirations this blog brings about.  It will help motivate me… and others (if anyone actually reads this blog).

So grab a towel and lets get to it!

So here goes… pulling the first circle-shaped card.

Project: Retype your favorite short story or a chapter from a beloved novel.  Get a feel for how the words flow through your fingers and think about what they look like on the page.  This will demystify the idea of “The Great Writer.”

Wow… what a way to start.  I guess the best way to start any exercise is with a warm up, get the blood flowing in those typing fingers.  Although I don’t have any beloved classics on my shelves currently, they are boxed away and in our storage space until we are able to afford a better place to live, I did pick a book.  This author has been incredibly successful in a genre that I would like to enter someday, chick lit.  You know, those fluffy airplane/beach reads that make you laugh, cry and feel better in general about the world around you. 

Sophie Kinsella is better known for her Shopaholic series of books.  But the book that I will be typing from is Can You Keep a Secret?.  It builds off a simple scenario: if you were in a plane that was going down and spilled every little secret you have to the stranger sitting next to you, and survived, what would happen? 

I’ve had a lot of very heavy stuff happen in my life.  To write a book like this and make the New York Times Bestseller list, like Sophie did, would be a dream come true.

 I’m going to retype the shortest, chapter 12.

I have never seen Jemima look so appalled.
     “He knows all your secrets?” She’s looking at me a though I’ve just told her I’m going out with a mass murderer. ”What on earth do you mean?”
     “I sat next to him on a plane, and I told him everything about myself.”
     I frown at my reflection in my mirror and tweak out another eyebrow hair.  It’s seven o’clock, I’ve had my bath, and now I’m sitting in my robe, putting on my makeup.
     “You are joking, aren’t you?” says Jemima. “Tell me this is a joke.” She’s standing at the door of my room, wearing a new, dark green dress. Tonight she’s got a date with the guy who bought the seventy-thousand-pound painting. Apparently he loves green.
     “Of course I’m not joking!  What’s the problem?”
     “You’re going out with a man who knows everything about you.”
     “Yes.”
     “And you’re asking me what’s the problem? she says incredulously. “Are you crazy?”
     “Of course I’m not crazy!”
     “I knew you fancied him,” says Lissy for about the millionth time. “I knew it. Right from the moment you started talking about him.” She looks at my reflection. “I’d leave that right eyebrow alone now.”
     “Really?” I peer at my face.
     “Emma, you don’t tell men all about yourself! You have to keep something back! Mummy always says you should never let a man see your feelings or the contents of your handbag.”
     “Well, too late. He’s seen it all.”
     “Then it’s never going to work,” says Jemima. “He’ll never respect you.”
     “Yes, he will!”
     “Emma,” says Jemima in a pitying voice. “Don’t you understand?” You’ve already lost.”
     “I haven’t lost!”   
     Sometimes I thing Jemima sees men as alien robots who must be conquered by any means possible.
     “You’re not being very helpful, Jemima,” puts in Lissy.  “Come on.  You’ve been on loads of dates with rich businessmen. You must have some good advice!”
     “All right.” Jemima sighs and puts her bag down. “It’s a hopeless cause, but I’ll do my best.” She starts ticking off on her fingers. “The fist thing is to look as well-groomed as possible.”
     “Why do you think I’m plucking my eyebrows?” I say with a grimace.
     “Fine. OK, the next thing is, you can show an interest in his hobbies. What does he like?”
     “Er… dunno. Cars, I think. He has all these vintage cars on his ranch, apparently.”
     “Well, then!” Jemima brightens. “That’s good. Pretend you like cars. Suggest visiting a car show… You could flick through a car magazine on the way there…”
     “I can’t,” I say, taking a sip from my pre-date relaxer glass of Harveys Bristol Cream. “I told him on the plane that I hate vintage cars.”
     “You did what?” Jemima looks like she wants to hit me. “You told the man you’re dating that you hate his favorite hobby?”
     ” I didn’t know I would be going on a date with him then, did I?” I say defensively, reaching for my foundation. “And anyway, it’s the truth! I hate vintage cars! The people in them always look so pleased with themselves…”
     “What’s the truth got to do with anything? Jemima’s voice rises in agitation. “Emma, I’m sorry; I can’t help you. This is a disaster. You’re completely vulnerable. It’s like going into battle in a nightie.”
     “Jemima, this not a battle!” I retort. “And it’s not a chess game! It’s dinner with a nice man.”
     “You’re so cynical, Jemima!” chimes in Lissy. “I think it’s really romantic! They’re going to have the perfect date, because there won’t be any of that awkwardness. He knows what Emma likes. He knows what she’s interested in. They’re already compatible!”
     “Well I wash my hands of it,” says Jemima, still shaking her head. “What are you going to wear?” Her eyes suddenly narrow. “Where’s your outfit?”
     “My black dress. And my strappy sandals.” I gesture to the back of the door, where my black dress is hanging up.
     Jemima’s eyes narrow even further. She would have made a really good SS officer, I often think.
     “You’re not going to borrow anything of mine.”
     “No!” I say in indignant tons. “Honestly Jemima, I do have my own clothes, you know.”
     “Fine. Well. Have a good time.”
     Lissy and I wait until her footsteps have tapped down the corridor and the front door has slammed.
     “Right!” I say, but Lissy lifts a hand.
     “Wait.”
     We both sit still for about five minutes.  Suddenly there’s the sound of the front door being opened very quietly.
     “She’s trying to catch us out,” whispers Lissy. “Hi!” she says, raising her voice. “Is anyone there?”
     “Oh, hi,” says Jemima, appearing at the door of the room. “I forgot my lip gloss.” Her eyes do a quick sweep of the room.
     “I don’t think you’ll find it in here,” says Lissy innocently.
     “No. Well.” Her eyes travel around the room again. “OK. Have a nice evening.”
     Again her footsteps tap down the corridor, and again the front door slams.
     “Right!” says Lissy. “Let’s go.”

We unpeel the Sellotape from Jemima’s door, and Lissy makes a little mark where is was. “Wait!” she says as I’m about to push the door open. “There’s another on at the bottom.”
     “You should have been a spy,” I say, watching her carefully peel it off.
     “OK,” she says, he forehead furrowed with concentration. “There have to be some more booby traps.”
     “There’s Sellotape on the wardrobe, too,” I say. “And… look!” I point up. A glass of water is balanced on top of the wardrobe, ready to drench us if we open the door.
     “That cow!” says Lissy as I reach up for it. “You know, I had to spend all evening fielding calls for her the other night, and she wasn’t even grateful.”
     She waits until I’ve put the water down safely, then reaches for the door. “Ready?”
     “Ready.”
     Lissy takes a deep breath, the opens the wardrobe door. Immediately, a loud, piercing siren begins to wail… “Wee-ooo, wee-oo, wee-oo…”
     “Shit!” she says, banging the door shut. “Shit! How did she do that?”
     “It’s still going! Make it stop! Make it stop!”
     “I don’t know how to! You probably need a special code!”
     We’re both jabbing at the wardrobe, patty it, searching for an off switch.
     “I can’t see a button or a switch or anything….”
     Abruptly the noise stops, and we both stare at each other, panting.
     “Actually,” says Lissy after a long pause.  “Actually, I think that might have been a car alarm outside.”
     “Oh,” I say. “Oh right. Yes, maybe it was.”
     Looking a bit sheepish, Lissy reaches for the door again — and this time it’s silent. “OK,” she says. “Here goes.”
     “Wow,” we breath as on as she swings the door open.
     Jemima’s wardrobe is like a treasure chest. New, shiny, gorgeous clothes, all neatly folded and hung on padded hangers, the belts are hanging neatly from hooks. All the bags are neatly lined up on a shelf. It’s been a while since I borrowed anything from Jemima, but every single item seems to have changed since then.
     “She must spend about an hour a day keeping this tidy,” I say, thinking of the jumble that is my own wardrobe.
     “She does,” says Lissy. “I’ve seen her.”
     Mind you, Lissy is even worse. She has all these good intentions — but when she’s working hard on a case, her wardrobe basically ends up being a chair in her room, on which all her garments get heaped.
     “So!” says Lissy with a grin, and reaches for a white sparkly dress. “What look would Madam like this evening?”
     I don’t war the white sparkly dress. But I do try it on. In fact, we both try on quite a lot of stuff, and then have to put it all back, very carefully. At one point another car alarm goes off outside, and we both jump in terror, then immediately pretend we weren’t fazed.
     In the end, I go for this amazing new red top with slashed shoulders, over my own black DKNY chiffon trousers (twenty-five pounds  from the Notting Hill Housing Trust shop), and Jemima’s silver high heels from Prada. And then, although I wasn’t intending to, at the last-minute, I grab a little black Gucci bag.
     “You look amazing!” says Lissy as I do a little twirl. “Completely fab!”
     “Do I look too smart?”
     “Of course not! Come on — you’re going out to dinner with a multimillionaire!”
     “Don’t say that!” I exclaim, feeling a clutch of nerves. I look at my watch. It’s almost eight o’clock.
     Oh, God. In the fun of getting ready, I’d almost forgotten what it was all for.
     Keep calm, I tell myself. It’s just dinner. That’s all it is. Nothing out of the –
     “Fuck!” Lissy’s looking out the window in the sitting room. “Fuck! There’s a great big car outside!”
     “What? Where?” I hurry to join her. As I follow her gaze, I almost can’t breathe.
     An enormous posh car is waiting outside our house. I mean enormous. It’s all silver and shiny and looks incredibly conspicuous in our tiny little street. In fact, I can see some curious neighbors looking out of the house opposite.
     What am I doing? This is a world I know nothing about. When we were sitting in the plane, Jack and I were just two people on an equal level. But now, look at the world he lives in — and look at the world I live in.
     “Lissy,” I say in a tiny voice. “I don’t want to go.”
     “Yes you do!” says Lissy — but I can see she’s just as freaked out as I am.
     The buzzer goes and we both jump.
     I feel like I might throw up.
     OK. OK. Here I go. “Hi,” I say into the intercom. “I’ll… I’ll be right down.” I replace the phone and look at Lissy.
     “Well,” I say. “This is it!”
     “Emma.” Lissy grabs my hands. “Before you go. Don’t take any notice of what Jemima said. Just have a lovely time.” She hugs me tightly. “Call me if you get a chance!”
     “I will!”
     I take one last look at myself in the mirror, then make my way down the stairs.
     I open the front door, and Jack’s standing there, wearing a jacket and tie. His hair is brushed. He looks tidy. For an instant, I feel even more nervous.
     Then he smiles — and all my fears fly away like butterflies. Jemima’s wrong. This isn’t me against him. This is me with him.
     “Hi,” he says. “You look very nice.”
     “Thanks.”
     I reach for the door handle, but a man in a peaked cap rushes forward to open it for me.
     “Silly me!” I say with a nervous laugh.
     I can’t quite believe I’m getting into this car. Me. Emma Corrigan. I feel like a princess. I feel like a movie star.
     I sit down on the plushy seat, trying not to think how different this is from any car I’ve ever been in, ever.
     “Are you OK?” says Jack.
     “Yes! I’m fine!” My voice is a squeak.
     “Emma,” says Jack. “We’re going to have fun. I promise. Did you have your pre-date sweet sherry?”
     How did he know –
     Oh yes, I told him on the plane. “Yes, I did, actually,” I admit.
     “Would you like some more?” He opens the bar, and I see a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sitting on a silver platter.
     “Did you get that especially for me?” I say in disbelief.
     “No, it’s my favorite tipple.” His expression is so deadpan, I can’t help laughing.
     “I’ll join you,” he says as he hands me a glass. “I’ve never tasted this before.” He pours himself a deep measure, takes a sip, and sputters. “Are you serious?”
     “It’s yummy! It tastes like Christmas.”
     “It tastes like…” He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to tell you what it tastes like. I’ll stick to whisky, if you don’t mind.”
     “You’re missing out.” I take another sip and grin happily at him.
     I’m completely relaxed already.
     This is going to be the perfect date.

Whew… end of excerpt.  That was a lot of typing.  I certainly have a whole new appreciation for what it takes to write a chapter of a book.  I have been typing for over two hours now.  I did learn some things from doing this.

1) Dialogue: I’ve always had problems with dialogue, the whole he says, she says thing.  It’s so hard for me not to get repetitive.  But Sophie Kinsella makes it very clear who is speaking and when by breaking up her paragraphs utilizing good punctuation.  She also doesn’t restate who is talking when its obvious who is talking.  Lesson learned.

2) Painting a picture: This whole interchange of time was maybe an hour.  But during that hour, the reader can see everything, her room, the awesomeness of Jemima’s closet and the massiveness of the limo that Jack drives up in.  Every emotion is explained in a way that makes you feel it versus just being told about it.

3) Using italics:  I don’t know if this was the work of her editor or Sophie Kinsella, but you can really feel the emotion through the strategic use of italics here.  Reading it without the italics would have conveyed a completely different feeling.

What did you learn through your retyping exercise?