Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 309

I just listened to someone say to show up for work, that’s what we writers do. Everyday or every other day. William Stafford used to wake up at 4AM everyday to write. And not everything you write is fodder for eternity, and that’s ok. It’s expression that matters. Why does it matter? Because it keeps you grounded somehow. Real. Less fake. Because in the real world we keep up appearances. In writing, in fiction, we show our true faces. Isn’t that ironic? Like someone said today, Irene takes the best videos, but god, that sounded ironical, like so artificial. So in writing, ask yourself, is it the real thing? Or are you saying something trite? So today, it’s just me showing up for work. You try doing that and see if anything happens, ok?


4 thoughts on “Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 309

  1. Broody Hen

    I sit before my computer keying thoughts.
    They came smooth and swift, a bird soaring,
    once. Now they perch on a limb, refusing
    even to sing. I pretend this bird is nesting,
    warming eggs and I wait for them to hatch.

    How long does it take? Days? Weeks? Months?
    I wait and wait like a broody hen. Impatient.
    Anxious. Despairing at the lifelessness.
    But, still I sit and wait hoping for the day
    when something new comes into the world.
    I wait for the sounds of breaking free.

  2. Not This Time

    I showed up, opened
    the program and hoped for sauce
    to squeeze out my heart
    with my red red blood
    that my words might mean a thing
    for once, and maybe
    appear soaring with
    the flock of full fledged word birds.

    Maybe I will get
    it right this one time…

    Then my head just exploded
    and the heat of me
    dispersed like day fog
    on a summer coast morning
    and I fluttered by –
    a boy of all boys
    in my dreamy escapades
    from stumblebum shores.

    ‎July ‎27, ‎2017 8:58 PM


    How pompous to claim the words that we write
    come delivered to us by muses in white!
    And equally sad with a touch of the vain?
    We write because we must and we can.
    Let’s face it: nobody’s twisting our arm.
    It’s not as if we have chores on a farm
    and the cows, if not milked, will udderly swell
    or the horses unfed will neigh loud as hell.
    Why can’t we keep our responses sincere?
    Why can’t we say that the reason’s unclear?
    A thought pops in mind, we lasso it in,
    then try our best to make the words sing.
    It’s simple as that. No mystery at all.
    Ideas comes to mind? We answer the call.


  4. Pingback: Not This Time, by Christopher Hileman | Red Wolf Journal

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