Squidge's Writing Prompt #1

I realised I haven't written much about writing recently. You can thank CV-19 and my current fixation on knitting socks for that!

However, I have been posting prompts in our NIBS (writing group) facebook page as we can't meet in person under current UK restrictions. And there have been some surprising results. I received two emails out of the blue from folk who either don't or can't attend meetings due to distance; they were sharing what they had written as a result of the very first prompts I posted. They were lovely pieces, too - bowled me over!

Now, although there are lots and lots of prompts out in the world already, (just search 'writing prompts for...' and you'll see what I mean!) I've decided that I will start a habit of posting a weekly writing prompt here on the Scribbles. I will endeavour to try to write something myself based on it and share it with you. There's no pressure to share what you write yourself unless you want to (if you do, either post a short piece (200 words max) in the comments below or post it to your own blog if you have one and paste a link below) however it would be good to know if you find the prompts helpful.

Here goes...have fun.

Squidge's Scribbles Writing Prompt #1

There were two stark choices. 

One : open the box. 

Two : don't.

When your writing needs a Retreat...Part 1

The last few days, I've been on retreat - writing retreat.

A couple of ex-Cloudie friends, Moira (aka Maddie Please - The Summer of Second Chances; Come Away with me; A Year of New Adventures; The Mini Break) and Jane, set up A Place to Write some years ago, organising writing days and retreats. I decided last year to book into their Spring Writing Retreat in wonderful Weobley, partly because Mr Squidge is going off on a boys week later this year (windsurfing in Greece, Coronavirus permitting) and I thought if he can go away for a week, then so can I.

It has been totally worth it.

I drove down to Weobley on the Tuesday morning. Apart from half an hour spent in stationary traffic on the M42 because of an accident, and one wrong turn where the A44 morphs into another minor A road without any obvious signage, it was a good run. The flooding near Worcester was a sight to behold; muddy brown water, stretching as far as the eye could see on either side of the road. Although I've seen flooding around the Soar at home, this was a whole different level of flooding to what I'm used to.

Jane and Moira made me feel most welcome when I arrived, and I met Kirsten and Isabel, my lovely fellow retreatees. (Is that a word? If not, it is now!)

The Throne, where we were staying, is a magnificent sprawling 15th century house, and - when the heating was working (it wasn't on Monday night, apparently, so all the stoves were lit on Tuesday morning until the lovely Richard came to sort the heating out) it was the toastiest 400-year old house I've ever stayed in.

The Throne

Moira took me up the (first) wobbly staircase to my room - I knew it was mine because look what was on the door;

In fact, every retreatee who'd been published had their book cover on their bedroom door...and those that hadn't been published - yet - had made-up ones.

And my room itself? Well, take a look at this:

Glorious, isn't it? I could only climb into bed from one side though, because the floor sloped and one side had to be propped up on blocks to keep the bed level.

We don't think it's the EXACT bed that King Charles I slept in, but apparently he stayed a night in the house after the Battle of Naseby...

Then it was a quick tour of the rest of the house. I haven't got photos of everything that caught my attention, but here's a flavour...

The door to a bedroom...

And the bedroom itself

The modern kitchen extension against one of the
older parts of the house

The mantelpiece was as tall as me

Just one of the cosy writing nooks...

Beautiful bedroom beams

A lot of bare ceiling and cobwebs over the
bathroom 'pods'!

And some of the unplastered wattle inside the house.

I missed out the Goldilocks room (three metal-framed single beds in a shared room) and the rooms where folk were already in and unpacked...and the graffiti cut into a beam in the entrance hall.

Then it was back through my room, down the second staircase, and into the kitchen again. Yes, I did say second staircase, and yes, I did say through my room; I had two doors! I decided the edges of some of the stairs on this staircase had been nibbled by giant mice, they were so wibbly... 

After lunch - homemade spicy soup, delish - we all wandered off to various nooks to set up and get writing. Here's where I based myself.

The entrance hall

I remember reading somewhere that yellow is an energetic colour, good for creativity, and it certainly seemed to work; by the time we ate dinner that first evening, I had 2K words down on Tilda 4. Because let's face it - I was on a writing retreat - I needed to get some writing done! I decided to focus on bashing out new ideas rather than edit Tilda 3, and it was so good to be able to do that, knowing I'd be fed, watered, and very comfortable for the next few days.

The sun painting pictures on the other side of my nook

Wednesday morning, I got up much earlier than I would have done at home because a heavy vehicle passed by at 5am, so I only dozed thereafter. A few more hundred words after breakfast but before the workshop, and then the 'Day Girls' (some of the members of Jane's writing group) arrived and we cracked on. Here we all are, ready to work hard round the dining table...

L to R; Ann, Gill, Kirsten, Sue, Isabel, Jane, Moira

The workshops were run by the very lovely Isabel Costello (Paris Mon Amour, and The Literary Sofa blog), and focused on Inspiration in the first, and Motivation and Resilience in the second. I'm going to blog separately about the workshops in Parts 2 & 3 of Weobley, because I need time to digest and think about what I got from them before I share them with you. Suffice to say at this point that they were thought-provoking, fun, and very, very useful.

After lunch, it was free writing time again. I set up this time in the beautiful contemporary kitchen, and managed another thousand or so words before dinner.

And that was the pattern for the following day, too. Wake early, breakfast, writing, workshop, lunch, writing (and a quick walk around Weobley, taking in all the history and black-and-white-buildings. There might even be a blog post all about gravestones, because I found some gorgeous and surprising ones in the churchyard), dinner and conversation before early to bed.

It was such a luxury to be catered for. Jane and Moira shared the cooking between them, and in addition to the lovely homemade soup on the first day, we were treated to homemade cakes, quiche, curry, fish pie, and Chinese. We were plied with wine too - but only once the writing had been done. Who was it who said 'write drunk, edit sober'? Afraid that doesn't work for me, personally... The kettle was always on, and if you got peckish in between meals you could always help yourself to fruit from the bowl, or suck on a mint. I can't thank them both enough.

It was a brilliantly productive, relaxed, inspiring time.

Did I really need a retreat to get my writing done? I know I'm perfectly capable of writing without, but now, having done it, I think I did need it. My writing time is often fitted around other things and/or other people... For two and a half days, I could allow myself to focus on writing and pretty much nothing else. And I got a lot done in that time. Bearing in mind that two mornings were spent in workshops, I still managed to get 5K words down before I came home. I'd never have got that far in my normal weekly routine.

The retreat's not just about writing though...it's the conversation around the dinner table. Granted, a lot of the time it was about writing, but about experiences in the world of writing more than what we were writing about. We chatted about families, about ourselves, about the things we like to do outside of writing, about Coronavirus (can't avoid the blessed subject at the moment) and memories related to food - particularly after the Wednesday evening raspberry trifles...

In fact, d'you know what the last few days reminded me of? The best of the Word Cloud. Those days when we came together in one community as writers of all levels and experiences - chatting on the home page, sharing news of progress made and setbacks suffered, having a go at writing short pieces like we used to in the monthly comps... Yes. It was like a mini-Cloud experience.

Writing's such a lonely thing to do, most of the time, maybe I needed that support and encouragement, that time with like-minded people, to refresh both myself and my writing spirit.

Let's hope I can hang onto the positive vibes and continue to make good progress as the normal routine of life begins to make itself felt again.

(Huge thanks to my fellow retreatees and to the Day Girls for making it such a positive experience.)

When a picture paints (not quite) a thousand words...

Late posting this - life seems to be running away with me rather at the moment, but I'm working on the view that it's better late than never!

Last week's NIBS meeting was all about pictures. Each of us took a picture prompt to the meeting and when we'd seen all of them, chose one to write about. There was a magnified damsel fly's head, a monk-scribe, ladies at Ascot wearing fabulous hats, a fantasy castle, and a tray set out with a teapot and cups. Mine was a picture of a robot, surrounded by piles of books and reading a large book, which in spite of some other interesting pics, I decided to use. The piece isn't finished or very polished, but you can see the shape of it and what it might become;

The order came through to Z38's digi-brain at 26:03.1. 

CLEAR LEVEL MINUS THIRTY TWO.

ACKNOWLEDGED Z38 shot back to digicentral, before beginning its descent. By 28:13.2, it had reached its destination. Without hesitation, it pulled the incinibin towards the first pile to be destroyed.

Z38 worked methodically, selecting precisely a 3 span measurement to fit the incinibin's opening. Even if that meant taking a portion of a whole; the programme would not allow a deviation in thickness of more than 0.1 span.

Alone on the level, Z38 worked on, clearing pile after pile, until the inbuilt timescan hit 30:03.0.
Somewhere in the circuitry, a new connection was made. Z38 froze. And accepted a new order.
Then, it selected 0.765 span of material, a measurement precisely contained within two battered but still solid retaining boards. 

Z38 lowered itself onto a pile measuring 2.5 span and flipped the top retaining board open. Inside were thin sheets of material, covered in an unfamiliar code...which Z38 assimilated and sent to a computer system beyond digicentral's reach, where a printer began churning out the assimilated code.

'IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES...' 


Our second exercise was to write using the same picture for everybody. I'd chosen two along similar themes, and couldn't decide, so I asked the group 'black and white, or colour?' They chose black and white. Here it is:

We had all sorts of pieces resulting from just this image... A dark world, where the mask was used to suck juice - but if the juice touched your lips, the penalty was death; a dialogue between the crow and the man with eyes to the right and nose to the left; a museum of mannequins, with the murder victim hidden behind the mask; a devious plot which used the mechanical crow as a device; a masked fancy dress celebration, where the eyes gave away the identity of the person... And then I wrote something really dark! (With a nod to Rod Duncan, whose novel The Queen of All Crows gave me the idea for the title of the man...)

The Keeper of Crows surveyed the land from the same knoll where previously, the King had stood and watched too. Royalty had long since departed - round about the same time it became obvious that victory lay with The Elite, not the peasantry.

There would be few spoils of note on this field, for the peasants had had little. In fact - and a low chuckle sounded in The Keeper's throat at the thought - they had much less now, for even their lifeblood was leaving them, draining into the soil and turning it to red-brown mud.

Even so, The Keeper would send the automaton to lead the flock and find what petty pickings there might be. The royal side had not been completely unscathed; Sir Arndal had fallen, and Count D'Eakk. Their jewel studded armour would be stripped soon enough if the birds went in fast.

The battle was drawing to a close. The Keeper could sense it. If he waited much longer, the human scavengers would begin the crows' work, chancing their sight on plucking loot from the dead and dying before his feathered conspirators descended to snatch back the treasure...and maybe an eye or two while they were at it.

The Keeper scratched the place where the mask's edge always caught his cheek, thankful that his true identity was contained behind the golden beak. Then he flicked the switch on the automaton and threw it into the air, his heart leaping as it took flight. A million black birds responded, erupting from the tree tops behind him. 

It feels to me like there's more to this particular story...I may turn it into a longer piece, as I have a challenge coming up and I can sort of see where my tentative ideas for that might benefit from a character like this...

Workshopping!

This is just a quick update to let you know where I'm doing some workshops in the near future;

The first will be part of the Loogabarooga Festival 2018; I'll be in the Festival Den on Saturday 20th October, telling folk about the inspiration behind my books and sharing some of my favourite story prompts for those who'd like to have a go at writing or drawing their own stories. (Because storytelling doesn't have to rely on words...)

Then on the 22nd October, I'm off to Peterborough, to hold a couple of sessions for Potential Plus UK as part of their Big Weekend. We'll be making tigers and tea to go with The Tiger Who Came to Tea, and then finding out what's in my story bag...and making up a story or two about them.

I'll also be at NIBS this week, so I'm looking for suitable picture-based inspiration to use.

It's a bit too far off yet to plan World Book Day 2019 in Coventry at the Eden Girls' School (yes, I'm already booked for it!) but I'm thinking about it...

There's lots of church stuff going on alongside all of this - planning interviews for our new vicar, looking ahead to Harvest and Christmas services, helping to edit a book on the history of the church...

No wonder the WIP gets short shrift! My end of the year deadline for the first draft is slipping through my fingers.

But I wouldn't change a thing, if it meant I couldn't do workshops.

Den of Writers

A short while ago, I posted a brief mention of my new web-based writing community - Den of Writers - following the demise of the wonderful Cloud.

In the last week or so, many ex-cloudies and others have joined the Den, but we're aware that some cloudies are having problems finding us or logging on. (Advice from Admin:  "go to the register button top LH side of screen on a PC or laptop, on the black border outside the immediate forum screen. That should work." ) 

Because we know that a fair number of cloudies used to follow the Scribbles, consider this blog a call-out to them - and any other authors or would-be authors - who are a bit lost now in the internet ether. Especially if you are reading this and trying to find a place to be with writers where you can get help and advice from your peers, support each other and share celebrations and commiserations with writing friends.

The site itself is constantly being worked on at the moment, as the Admin team discover glitches or make improvements - one of them being that the site is now https rather http. (Which even this techno numpty knows, is a Good Thing, even if she doesn't know what it stands for.) So don't be surprised if things change. And like the cloud, it takes a while to be able to navigate around the different forums, but we're getting there...

To join, follow THIS LINK - there are a plethora of other Writers' Dens or Dens of Writers on the net, but THIS ONE is the one you need. (Yes, I have just posted the link twice. It never hurts to repeat yourself if you're sharing Good Stuff.)

And look out for https://twitter.com/denofwriters if you are a Twitterer - we've already had folks find us that way, too...

So if you fancy being a Denizen, come on over and join the rest of us... I can promise you won't regret it.

Squidge with her TBR pile... 

PS - Book statue is in the grounds of what used to be Newcastle Poly, taken on a weekend away with Mr Squidge a few years back. 

Writing prompts...what floats YOUR boat?

This week was our monthly NIBS meeting, and it was great. I love being the facilitator for this group, because it gives me a chance to trawl through lots of different writing prompt ideas which challenge us and often produce some excellent pieces of work. Although I do have to be careful not to choose only the prompts which appeal to me...

Autumn hues - got to love conkers!

Whenever you look for a prompt - especially if you're choosing it for a group to work from - there are several things you probably need to take into account.

How well do you know the group you're working with? If you know them well, you can look for something suited to their abilities or preferred genres. If you have only a general idea - like when you go into a school, for example, and know only that there will be a wide range of abilities - you might have to have a mixture of prompts, or a prompt with a few extra pointers for those who need a little more direction or lack a wild imagination.

Three things - taken from a bag of many, the weird and wonderful combos
always get younger children fired up 

Are you working with visual or wordy people? Is a picture going to be better than a written starter sentence? (I've found that children work best with visual prompts for example, because not all of them have the same writing or reading ability, but they do still have damn fine story ideas!) Is it worth trying a tactile prompt, using physical objects to awaken the senses?

Paint charts - as good for the pictures of rooms as for the paint names

As someone with a very vivid and visual imagination, I get rather twitchy when I find something that feels too restrictive to use as a prompt. For example, I found a smashing picture prompt on a website, but my interest waned when I saw that the prompt wasn't actually the picture as such, it was the half-page story starter written to go with it. I didn't want to finish off someone else's story, especially not a detective story. I wanted to write my own. I didn't want what I was being offered - and of course, I don't have to use it as given. You can apply the self-edit mantra of 'Accept, Adapt, Reject' just as easily to writing prompts as to a WIP - but straightaway I felt tied to one direction only with this particular prompt (and many others on the same site). I much prefer more open prompts to give myself, and those I'm helping to write, the best possible chance to come up with something they want to write.

My absolute favourite prompt - paint samples.
Be inspired by the colour or their names

You'll know from past blogs that my previous NIBS prompts have included baskets of autumn leaves and seeds; random objects taken from my shelves; CD playlists; photos; Victorian photographs; paint samples... I think you really are only limited by your imagination as to what you can use as a prompt. But the secret in group working is to keep the prompt as big as possible so it's accessible for pretty much.

This particular month, we had two starter exercises, which created a lot of laughter with some really off the wall scenarios. (Wotsit bikini, anyone? Or a war between Wotsits and Pringles?)

NIBS Task 1.
'Due to the incident on November 14th, Wotsits are no longer allowed in the canteen. Thank you for your consideration.'

We had to describe the incident in question - I envisaged a new starter being told to "Stick those Wotsits in the canteen", and the manager coming in later to find them literally stuck to the walls with mayo and ketchup and brown sauce...!

NIBS Task 2.
'There was a list of things that could have gone wrong that day, but ........... was not on it.'

What went wrong? I had finding a pirahna in the bath. Or Hairy Harold coming in for a back wax. *shudder*

NIBS Task 3 - the main event.
We all had to bring a writing prompt taken from the website of Tomi Adeyemi, author of YA fantasy Children of Blood and Bone. A lot of the prompts were quite dark, and not everyone in the group is used to writing dark, but there were some inspired and unsettling pieces. Most startling was that two people used the same prompt and came up with the similar scenario of a childhood memory replaying in the narrator's head - one based on personal experience - and yet they couldn't have been more different in style and approach. (Which is another good thing to do with a prompt - give everyone the same prompt, and see how many different directions it can go to, or not, as the case may be)

Anyway, I chose this one: 'Every night you visit me. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes in nightmares.' Here's what I ended up with...I think it's more of a poem than a story?

Every night you visit me.
Sometimes in dreams.
Sometimes in nightmares.
My subconscious sees you, my love,
   sees the light and the dark.

I leave the dreams reluctantly,
the ghost of your arms wrapped around me,
the gentlest of kisses weighing heavy on my lips, 
my heart beating a lover's tattoo.

But the nightmares I fight to escape, 
struggling to reach consciousness.
To lie in the darkness panting 
   as though I have run from you for real,
skin tingling from lines you carved in it,
throat tight from the squeeze of your fingers.

Every night you visit me, sometimes in dreams,
   sometimes in nightmares.
Which is our truth, my love?

What kind of prompts do YOU prefer as a writer? Which do you struggle with? And do you have a favourite you'd like to share? You never know, you might have found something that the NIBSers could use!

I'm NOT a poet...

We're lucky enough to have some poets in NIBS, our writing group. I'm always in awe of people who can write poetry - especially the stuff that doesn't rhyme!

Personally, I have a strange relationship with poetry. I can do it if I rhyme, but the non-rhyming stuff just ends up like prose to me, and I've always struggled to see what makes poetry, poetry.

We decided to challenge ourselves last night, and write poetry. Due to circumstances beyond their control, our two poets couldn't attend, so I spent a couple of hours on the computer, looking up poetry activities for the session.

Bear in mind that my own previous experience of poetry consists of;

1. A £50 prize winning limerick:
    A young lady who felt fashion keenly
    tried on a new-fangled bikini. 
    With two bits of string, 
    some cloth and a ring, 
    the thing would've baffled Houdini!

2. Putting new words to hymn music for Christmas carols
    (to the tune of 'All things bright and beautiful')
    Once upon a starry night
    Two thousand years ago
    Shone a star especially bright
    To show the way to go...

3. Silly rhymes for the children when they were much, much younger.

So I'm not exactly qualified to teach anyone, but I was prepared to muddle through and have a go.

Who knew there were so many forms of poem? One site listed 86 - 86! - different forms, so I spent a while rooting through them to find fairly simple ones we could have a go at.

I also discovered is that poetry emphasizes language's musical quality, uses condensed language (some forms are so concise, every word has to count) and often portrays intense feelings, which, interestingly, is a dead giveaway about robot-written poetry, because robots can't put emotion into poems. There are also lots of techniques used in poetry - rhyming words, alliteration, repetitiveness, metaphors, imagery, rhythm...

I put together an outline for the evening, based on some fab poetry prompts and a few forms.

First, are songs actually poems if you take the music out? We tried it, using 'Twinkle, twinkle little star' as our base. For most, it seemed to work well - and nobody was forced to sing their poem to prove it fitted the music. Here's what I wrote, and I bet you can't read it without singing it in your head!

Flippin' heck! It's ten to eight!
Get up quick, we'll all be late.
Alarm not set - whose fault was that?
Never mind, we'll blame the cat.
Eight o'clock - get up, I say!

Why Mum, when it's Saturday?

Having warmed up, we tried a tricube form after that. These poems have three stanzas, each consisting of three lines, with each line consisting of three syllables. Sounds easy, but it's harder than it looks. Every word had to count - there were some very good end results, even after some misunderstandings about what the form consisted of (down to my poor explanation, I'm afraid.) We took the weather as our theme, and most of the group took the horrible damp fog that had fallen and thickened, the closer you got to our meeting place...

I didn't. I had a go at 'Storm' and 'Snow'. Not sure which I prefer...

Storm.                                                    Snow

Dark clouds build                                  First one flake
and fill up                                              which melts fast
the wide sky                                           on the grass.

after days                                               Then more fall
of hot sun                                               and settle
and clear blue                                       on the ground 

lightning flash                                         until all
thunder loud                                          is soft white
world washed clean.                             and blurred edges.

The final exercise was to write something freeform. Now, I'm still not sure whether free form poetry should rhyme or not. I found myself slipping into rhyme almost straight away, so I might have to take some time to rewrite it, challenging myself to step away from rhyme. The poem could either start with an instruction, or had to include the same or similar phrase, repeated at least three times throughout the poem.

I finished mine this morning:

Will World War 3 start today?

An orange-faced man sits in a white house
With intolerance, ignorance, greed.
A tweeter impressive
Stirring the hate.
Will World War 3 start today?

'We're going to hell in a handcart!'
That's what they used to say,
and the wheels the politicians are turning
are sending us well on the way.
Will World War 3 start today?

Once it was only the soldiers who fought
And others would stay home and pray.
But modern day battles are not so distinct
and the bombs kill more,
day after day.
Will World War 3 start today?

Now chemicals ravage the lungs and the nerves among children just wanting to play.
Politicians deny;
"It's untrue!" they lie
while in basements the bodies remain.
Will World War 3 start today?

Reprisals are sought,
and red buttons are primed for more death to be sent on its way
"It's justified!"
Mortified, we watch the news
and helpless, we all look away.
Will World War 3 start today...?

Where is compassion? 
Where is the peace that survivors and onlookers crave?
Where is humanity?
Oh, I forgot.
It's right there. 
Look - deep in the graves.
World War 3 is in Syria today.

I think we saw glimpses of what we might achieve through poetry, but we're going to need some more practise before most of us are truly comfortable with it. I can certainly see why I'm a novellist, not a poet!

For now, I'll keep a lookout for the poems of Brian Bilston which pop up on my facebook feed every now and again, and try to learn from those who wrote poetry far, far better than me...

NIBS - 'First'

We had a full house for NIBS this week, our first meeting of 2018! So it seemed only appropriate to have a theme of 'First' for the evening.

We kicked off with a short warm-up, of three words. The words could be taken as three nouns, or two nouns and a verb, as one could've been used for either.

Some great hilarity ensued, as folks produced either multiple sentences for different selections of words, or produced a short section of text based on just one.

My own offering is what follows, based on 'Ghost, Wheelbarrow, Watch.'

The ghost of the first gardener kept watch over the wheelbarrow. That's what they told me.

I didn't believe it of course, not until the day I ran it into the potting shed wall and put a great dint in it. The wheelbarrow I mean, not the wall. 

Course, I left it. Was only a wheelbarrow after all.  

Nothing went right the rest of that day. There was compost spoiled, pots broken, and stems snapped.

"You've got to knock the dent out," Seb told me. "The First Gardener (and yes, he gave it capital letters) won't let you get on until you do."

"Rubbish," I muttered, and ignored the dent. Up until I cut my finger for the umpteenth time taking apple cuttings. I threw down the knife. "Right, have it your way." I stomped over to the wheelbarrow and did what I could. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but I gave the wheel a drop of oil to make up for it.

"Will that do you?" I asked no-one in particular. "Will you let me work in peace tomorrow?" 

If I believed in ghosts, I'd have said that someone breathed 'that'll do' in my ear.

But I don't. And they didn't.

I've never run the wheelbarrow into any walls since, though.

The only problem with having a full house of eight members meant that the feedback took a bit longer than normal, so we launched ourselves into the second task as quickly as we could, whilst still allowing enough time to share whatever we were going to write.

I'd found out and scanned a selection of first pages from novels at home, trying to cover as many different approaches to openings as I could. I asked the NIBSers to choose one, read it, and at a point of their choosing, continue writing the story... One sentence was the minimum requirement.

Unfortunately, I'd given the group far too much choice of potential text to use; I tend to be quite impulsive in my own choices when doing these types of activity, and can make a decision quickly. But others within the group had a much harder job deciding because I'd overwhelmed them with too much choice. Eventually, everyone picked something, and silence descended as we scribbled. (As a result, our February meeting theme will be 'One' - a single picture to provide inspiration AND cut out choice completely!)

The results from these continued first pages were amazing. Some remained in the idea stage, because of course we have planners as well as pantsers among our merry little band, and although the planners knew what they wanted to achieve, they hadn't written anything 'finished' to read back. Those who are pantsers produced some fabulous work, very emotive in some cases and full of laughter in others. I would have to say that the quality of several of the pieces were worthy of submission to competitions, and I told their authors so!

If we'd had more time, we'd have tried to work on another short piece, based around first prize, first glance, first love, first person or first encounter. But we didn't, so I offered it as homework to anyone who wanted to scribble a bit more between meetings.

Anyway, here's what I wrote, based on the opening sentence in my friend Jody-Klaire's book, The Empath.

'My problem is that I know too much.' That's why they're after me, sir. I tried not to see, tried not to listen, but when you need to light the fires, you have to go into the bedrooms while they're sleeping.

If they didn't want anyone to find out, they should've been more careful. She should've woken him early, pushed him out from under the bedclothes to get dressed in his night-chilled shirt while she stayed warm in the love nest they'd created.

I promised not to tell, I did. And I wouldn't, cos I've seen with my own eyes what they do the ordinary folk caught up in a lovemeet. Effra knows what they'd do to those as important as the Chairman of Elders and the White Woman.

No, I wouldn't tell. But they woke, and seemed to think I might, so they gave me a headstart. Until the sun rises, that's all the time they gave me before they started after me. When they catch me, they'll silence me.

So excuse me sir, but I have to run... 

I feel quite fired up about writing at the moment - long may my enthusiasm continue! And these two bits of flash feel like a good start to the new writing year.

When NIBS met Trefoil Guild

Last night, I did an author talk - not at a school, but to  the local Trefoil Guild.

I was a guider with the Guide Association for twenty years from the age of eighteen - in fact that's where the name Squidge came from. The Trefoil Guild began as a way of old guides keeping in contact with their units, and has grown and developed to become a section in its own right within the Guiding Movement.

The Trefoil Guild in our District meet at the same place we meet for NIBS (the writing group). NIBS often meets on the same date upstairs, while they meet downstairs.

Because I know many of the current Guild, I was asked to go a Trefoil meeting to tell them about my writing. It just so happened that the date they requested was also a NIBS night, so we combined the two...

It's the first time I've given a talk to a social group. I decided early on that it wasn't just going to be me, talking. I would make Trefoil work, too.

After the 'this is me and how I got to where I am' talk, we tried a few exercises.

Trefoil Guild in their red and beige uniforms

I started with 'I remember...' about school days. As most of the ladies are older, their memories included things like travelling on the utility bus with its wooden seats, but there were other memories that could have been set in any school today. Like being the model that the class painted on a 9th birthday, or going into assembly in alphabetical order. But it warmed everybody's pens and pencils up...

I demonstrated my story bag items, and shared a few of the ideas that the children I've worked with have come up with in the past; the flame-farting dragon who loved baked beans went down well.

There's always a rainbow sock in the bag...but only one!

And then...you guessed it...paint colours! On one table we had a 'Cup of custard' to go with the raisinless 'Raisin Pudding'. On another, a spurned woman burnt the orchid (Burnt Orchid) sent by her lover. 'Benjamin's Buttons' were always green, but he hated green. And 'Bavarian Hops' was going to be developed into an Alpine dance...

Pens, pencils and brain cells hard at work!

The ladies certainly seemed to enjoy themselves, and it gave me the confidence that even in a shorter, evening social meeting, you can still share your writing journey and get people writing for themselves and having fun with words.

And look what they gave me as a thank you - a beautiful orchid, because they'd heard I liked them and mine were often in flower (unlike my mum, whose orchid flowers die back and from then on only send up leaves...)

NIBSing in August

Our most recent meeting was a little thinner for numbers (holiday time!) but was no less rich in material created because of it. So for your enjoyment, here are two ideas for writing inspiration - and two pieces of flash.

One of our activities was based on a book I'd read on my holiday - The Keeper of Lost Things, a stunning debut by Ruth Hogan. I'm not going to say much about the book - other than 'READ IT!' - because it is a beautiful story, and as an author I was struck by how cleverly it was constructed. Dotted throughout the book are the stories behind the lost things, and it was this idea - of writing the story behind the lost object - that I thought we could use as inspiration.

So, as is often the way before a NIBS session, I ran round the house collecting things that people might have lost.

I chose a button badge with 'I read, therefore I am' written on it and came up with this...


     "Ow!"
     She jerked her hand and the last book out of her bag and stared at the bead of red on her finger. Then she almost threw the book onto the pile and sucked her stabbed digit, tasting metal and salt.
     Perhaps she ought to wear the badges on her lapels instead, like most other people did? Except that this was her book bag, and she always used it to bring her books back to the library. It wouldn't be the same without the many book-related badges rattling gently on the fabric.
     She checked her finger. Still there. Not bleeding any more. So which of the badges was it this time? She reached for the bag and-
     "Hullo, Jean. What you been reading this week, then?"
     Her cheeks glowed. Frank Abbott was talking to her. "Um..."
     "I had a rather tasty little gothic horror to keep me up at night, but I see you're a bit more of a fantasy buff?"
     They both glanced down at the pile of G.R.R.R. Martin.
     "Um...yes...I..."
     Frank took her elbow in one hand and grabbed the straps of her bag with the other, dragging it across the counter. It snagged, momentarily, and there was a metallic 'ping' but neither of them heard it.


Our second exercise used paint charts. No, not the individual colours like I've used before (to create flash like this one called Planet Fever). Whole paint charts, which double up as inspiration if you can't think of colour combos for your own rooms.

Because there are so many pictures of rooms, decorated all sorts of ways, I challenged the NIBSers to find a picture of a room and write about it. There were some smashing pieces as a result - in one, an author described a particular shade of red as 'Bad Day at the Abbattoir' - which gave me a whole new idea for rewriting the paint names as something more realistic. Like a shade of green - 'The Morning After'. Or blue - 'Frostbitten Toes'.

Anyway, in the paint books were quite a few studies.

Study? Or writing corner?

Now 'study' to me, is a bit different to a mere writing space, and in my head, drums up a totally different image to the photo - like the one above - that I was looking at. Most showed writing spaces rather than studies, but it set me thinking about exactly how small a space would you need to claim it as a study...?

   "And here's the study." Andy flung the door open. Or he would've done, except he remembered - too late - that the door opened outwards, onto the landing.
   There was an embarrassing wait while he asked his clients to back up a bit... a bit more... I think one of you needs to step into the bathroom, please, thank you... and finally he could pull open the door.
    Mr and Mrs-to-be surged forward and there was a three-way shuffle while Andy manoeuvered himself into the bathroom to allow them to stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the narrow doorway.
    "It's a bit small," Mr said.
    "Well, you don't need lots of space to be sat down really, do you?" Andy pulled his mouth into what he thought was an encouraging smile. "Notice the high level shelving for all your books and papers and pencil pots." He watched the backs of their heads as they lifted their eyes to the ceiling.
    "In any other house that'd be called a picture rail," Mr muttered, taking one step into the study.
    To be fair, one step is all that could be managed. And when he pulled the desk chair out and sat on it, the back legs ended up on the landing, forcing Mrs-to-be to take one step back. "The desk is tiny."
    "It's a space-saving design, created by the previous occupant in a midnight moment of genius," Andy chipped in, hoping he'd remembered that right.
    Mr swivelled in the chair and fixed him with sharp eyes. "It's just a wider than normal windowsill."
    "Yes, it doubles up as one of those too." He was getting flustered now. He really needed this sale.
    Mrs-to-be flung her arms around Mr's neck and hugged him. "Darling, it's perfect. How much is it again?"
    Had he done it? Andy choked the words out. "Three hundred and fifty thousand."
    "We'll take it," Mrs-to-be said, before Mr could open his mouth...    

'Spring'-ing into action with NIBS

Our April meeting had a Spring theme to it.

Our warm up was an Eggs-traordinary piece, where we imagined we had an egg - but WHAT would hatch out of it? Mine had a baby mermaid, but there was a multi-coloured dragon, a one-legged chick, a river of golden light...

Our second exercise used story telling dice. If you've not seen them before, they look a little bit like this:

Instead of numbers, there are simple pictures on each face, which you can interpret any way you like. So, for example, in the picture above there is an image of a house. That could be taken as a literal house, as home, a roof over your head, security, a hotel... Nothing is off-limits.

There were six of us, so to begin with we each took one dice ( there were six in our set - other sets have up to nine or you can add 'booster' sets.) and rolled it. We then listed as many things for that single image as we could. Then we rolled all six together and tried to plot out a storyline using all six pictures. I have to confess, I was alright with one dice, but got overwhelmed using all six - there was almost too much choice for me; I couldn't pin it down. Others faired really well though, including all six images in their outlines. What was weirdest was that the first story read out involved a trip to the opticians; the second, an optician who joined a dating site; the third, an online date that went wrong! Strange how the ideas sort of ran on as we went round the table - and yet there had been no discussion about how each of us were going to use the six different images...

Our final activity was in honour of The Bard. April is the month in which Shakespeare was born and also died, so I looked up how to write a sonnet and we had a go. It wasn't to everyone's taste...some of us are not keen on poetry of this type because 'it's HARD!' I've never done any Shakespeare, apart from The Merchant of Venice for CSE English Lit, so I was up for the challenge, but yes - it was hard!

We worked as a group, and managed to get the first quatrain (sounds posh - just means verse!) finished before the end of the meeting. Here it is...I might be tempted to complete it, later!

A (bit of a ) Sonnet for Spring.

From Winter's death a Spring is newly sprung
As first new shoots of green from ground emerge.
The day begins as liquid notes are sung
At Equinox, as day and night converge.

Put your best foot forward...

I've an excuse for being a bit quiet on the blog recently - the next round of edits arrived for Kingstone, so I've been working through them to make sure Bink have the completed and polished version in plenty of time for publication in June.

I've still been scribbling, though: I've entered a couple of competitions with some flash and a couple of short stories I've written for other things (I don't usually go for comps as they can be very expensive, but these are local and somewhat cheaper than usual) and I've been scribbling with NIBS.

Last month's theme for NIBS was feet.

We kicked off with a description of a walk, and there were plenty to go on... A favourite walk on the parade at Wells-next-to-Sea; a walk in shared silence with a family member; favourite moments from walks with the dog; a walk to school, and a list of sayings which involve walking - like 'a walk in the park', 'walk this way', Ministry of Silly Walks' and so on.

Then we had some story openers, choosing one from the following:
One more step...
Her feet were killing her...
There was something on her shoe...
The floorboards creaked under her feet...
The bloody footprints led to the basement door...

I chose 'one more step' and wrote a rather fractured piece about a rogue muck raker robot that had its 'head' knocked off by a farmer... I know. Bananas!

And then we turned to pictures for our final task. You know the saying, 'If you want to understand a man, you have to walk a mile in his shoes'? I thought it'd be a good idea to find some photos of different shoes and we could write about either the people who they belonged to, or the shoes themselves.

However, in my quest for something a bit different to farmer's boots or slippers or stilettos, I typed in 'Ridiculous shoes'.

Oh. Boy.

I found centaur feet shoes. Rattlesnake cowboy boots. Winged biker boots. And then I found a pair of crocodile shoes. So here's my short story for you to enjoy...


Crocodile Shoes.

The advert seemed innocent enough.

One pair crocodile shoes. Worn once. Size 7. £15. Collection only.

Crocodile costs. You've seen those designer bags...hundreds of pounds, if not thousands. And here's a pair of shoes going for less than twenty quid? Fashionistas like me know a bargain when they see it. I whipped the card off the noticeboard and rang the number as soon as I got home.

"Yes, we've still got them. Cash only. Bartock's Shoes. Midden Way. Behind the Post Office, you can't miss us."

The windows were streaked with grime and plastered inside with brown paper and flattened out shoe box lids. I pushed the door open and walked in.

"I've come to collect the crocodile shoes."

"Oh yes. Money?"

I counted out three plastic fivers.

A wooden shoe box - wooden? - was thrust into my hands, and I was outside and on the pavement before I could say "thank you", propelled by hands that felt even keener than my own.

"But - " I turned back.

The open sign flicked to closed.

I trudged home in the rain, clutching my bargain to my chest, resisting the urge to peek. The wait would only increase the pleasure...

Inside at last, I prised the lid loose, shut my eyes and held my breath as I slipped my hand inside.

Snap!

I screamed and snatched my hand back, staring in disbelief at three fingers and two bloody stumps.

Crocodile shoes. They weren't kidding, were they?

Getting in touch with my dark side

Last night, we had our monthly NIBS meeting. I chose to take the paint sample cards again as we'd had fun with them in the past and after my recent school visits, I have *ahem* obtained quite a few more to choose from... (Mind you, I resorted to sending Squidgeling J into B&Q last time because I think the staff are beginning to recognise me...)

Special mention HAS to go to AT, whose piece had us all laughing again. I've mentioned before that Valspar, the company who produce these paints, have a creative team working on names for the thousands of different shades they produce. In a nutshell, AT's piece was about a member of that creative team; a gentleman who, after years in the job, finally went a bit doo-lally because there were only so many names he could come up with for 'pink'!

I chose 'Skein of Blue' to start with, but nothing gelled so I plumped for 'Ceremonial Ochre' instead. Ended up with this (unfinished) piece:

The priest pounded the red earth, mixing it with great gobs of his own saliva into a paste. Aleeka shuddered, knowing that before long, some of the revolting mixture would be smeared across her forehead.

Payter's grip tightened on her upper arms. "Don't show them you're scared," he hissed into her ear.

"I'm not scared," she growled back.

"You should be."

And yet she wasn't. Even though she knew that smear of paste on her skin would mark her out as the village's latest sacrifice. 

No-one ever came back from the cave. You knew you were as good as dead as soon as you picked out the black pebble from the reindeer skin bag. Aleeka had stared at the stone, numb and disbelieving, looking up only when her mother's ululations broke the silence of the choosing ceremony.

She had since been guest of honour at her own death feast, her face whited out with ash so that all present would know she was not of this world any more. 

Fear had not figured in her emotions then, and now she experienced only raw excitement...

Might be the start of something bigger, I think. Today, I've used some of this and combined it with an older bit of flash (also created at NIBS) into a piece of flash for a competition. That means I can't share it with you yet - but of course I'll share when it doesn't win and I can do what I like with it. *winks*

Our second activity used a rather unusual resource. Have you seen those sets of postcards based on book covers?

I picked a set up from an 'unwanted Christmas present' stall at church; the box contained 100 Penguin classic book covers. I'd thumbed through them and though I'd heard of many of the titles, there were even more I hadn't. Like...The Case of the Curious Kitten. August is a Wicked Month. Vile Bodies. Kiss Kiss.

So I sorted out a few with a darker feel to them and challenged the group to visit their Dark Side. Sweet Danger, Not to be Taken and The Half-awakened Wife were picked by the others for their grisly and gruesome stories, but I chose Vile Bodies... It wasn't really so much a story I wrote as a racist handbook, something that might figure in a dystopian novel. See what you think...

Among a homogenous race, the vile body must be removed. Consistent standards must be maintained at all life stages. Aberrant forms will not be tolerated.

Height charts will be consulted to ensure growth patterns are within normal range. Excessive growth will be curbed and insufficient growth encouraged by compulsory chemical intervention.

Regular weighing will dictate dietary requirements and exercise regimes.

Skin colour will be restricted to shades B26 to B71. And shades outside of this range will require bleaching or UV exposure as necessary.

Sensory perception will be maintained at 90% effective, minimum. Intervention techniques may be used between 80 and 90% effectiveness, but anything under 80% will not be tolerated. 

Bodies which do not meet homogeneity standards will, in the first instance, be corrected. If correction fails or bodies are deemed to be vile and beyond correction, then euthanasia is preferable.

*shudders*

It seems that the writing mo-jo is definitely switched on again,,,even if it is churning out some shadowy stuff! Hooray!

New Year, new writing

At our recent NIBS meeting, we took the theme of 'New'.

We didn't do New Year Resolutions, but we kicked off by writing down what we'd have if we could have one new thing for the house and one luxury for ourselves.

Mine were a new lounge carpet - it's so threadbare, you can see the plasticky backing and even when the cat walks over it, you get this funny crackling noise where the backing's exposed - and a housekeeper, so I don't have to worry about the ironing or cleaning or washing up or cooking, but could just get on with writing!

Next, we looked at new resources. I found a site called Reddit Writing Prompts, which has the wildest and wackiest selection of story-starters and prompts you ever did see. I think folk can join and send them in - there are hundreds! I picked a few and we had a go at writing something inpsired by them.

And finally...have you read Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children? It's written by Ransom Riggs and I read it non-stop, in 24 hours. The reason we used this is because the book (and subsequent novels after) use some really weird and wonderful vintage photographs around which the story was shaped. I found the mix to be unusual and yet perfect for this story, so I did a bit of googling and found a few strange vintage pics of my own. (If you do this for yourself, be warned - there are some VERY strange and disconcerting photos out there. Especially when you take into account the Victorian thing of having family portraits taken with your dead relatives...Anyway, to continue).

We spent some time talking about the pictures, devising characters and what particular 'peculiarities' they would have, in the style of Ransom Riggs' characters. There were some interesting ideas, and we tried to put them together into little stories. Not sure we pulled it off as well as Ransom Riggs...

Have any of you tried anything new in your writing so far this year?

Collaboration

So the Scribbles have been a little quiet in the last two weeks as I've been recovering from the chest infection.

Thank goodness, I'm feeling a lot better; this week I've managed to get through the week without a mid-afternoon nap and I've even had music on and managed to have enough breath in me to sing along. Cold air still makes me cough, and there's a very slight ache in my ribs left over, but I think we can safely say I'm pretty much there.

So - back to blogging! And the subject today is...collaboration.

One of the things that popped up on my facebook feed was a link to That Thorn Guy's blog. In case you haven't read him yet, Mark Lawrence IS That Thorn Guy, although That Thorn Guy's blog is more information about Mark and his writing than his own blog, per se. (I became a fan of Mark's writing after reading Prince of Thorns, the first book in the Broken Empire Trilogy, on a whim, and I love the way he interacts with readers and his fans.)

Anyway, on the blog at the moment is a collaborative story, written by eight authors with a few names you might recognise. As well as Mark, the list includes Miles Cameron, Sebastien de Castell, John Gwynne, Conn Iggulden, Jane Johnson, Peter Newman and Garth Nix. It's a great read - I laughed out loud in several places and loved the earthyness of it and the end twist - but it's also a competition. Basically, the reader has to identify which author wrote which section of the story. My own entry is a complete shot in the dark - as I noted in the comments, I'm not fussed about winning. It was enough of a prize to simply read the story!

But it reminded me of my own involvement with collaborative stories. There was one about the Spanish treasure hunters of Aztec gold, and another about vampires. Both totally NOT what I usually write about! I found them great fun though, because they brought together a variety of different styles of writing and were a real challenge. The end results were something quite unique that all the participants could take ownership of.

Collaborating on stories like this seems to work with any size of group - the smallest one I took part in had only four authors involved, the most: eight. The order of writers was decided up front, and we kept cycling round until the story came to a conclusion.

However, there were problems. First, you have to have a good way of contacting the next in line to let them know it's their turn. If they only answer email once a week, it slows things down. You have to keep the momentum going. As the story progresses, more characters and places and problems are introduced and there is a danger that instead of keeping the story focused, it becomes a sprawling beast with far too many people and places and things happening to tie together for a satisfactory conclusion. And you often need to re-read the story so far in its entirety, otherwise you get lots of rookie continuity errors!

It's also really tempting to plan what you want to happen next - but you do so at your peril, because there could be quite a few authors changing the direction of the story to something quite different before you get your next turn. It can (and did) cause friction sometimes when authors 'lost' their storyline. It makes it important for everyone to be clear from the beginning that the story is free to go in whatever direction each author chooses to take it. So you end up not being able to plan, which doesn't sit well with natural planners.

In fact, as I think about it, I'd love to do another collaboration. Anyone out there want to join me? I'll start it, pass it on and then if you send your piece back, I'll forward the story as it stands to the next person on the list, they add to it, send it back, I forward it... And then I'll blog the end result and the names of all the participants but as a list.

Are you up for it? If you are, message me your email on microscribbler@gmail.com and we'll get started... Happy Scribbling!

Seven by seven by seven

One of the writing prompts I've found that's quite useful if you want to kick start a writing session, is the 7x7x7 prompt.

Basically, you go to your bookshelf. Select the seventh book on it, turn to the seventh page and find the seventh sentence. Use that sentence to start your writing...

Last night, we used this expanded idea at NIBS, our little creative writing group. Our theme was simply - SEVEN.

Our starter was to take 'seven' and do what we wanted with it. Could be a seven-line poem...seven things...a thing associated with seven... Basically it was left wide open to the writers. As you'd expect, the variety of pieces after 15 minutes writing was huge; some took the letters of the word 'seven' to start each line of a five line poem. One person started from 'seven days' and multiplied the seven up and up and up, finding something that each multiple represented (like 42 days equals 6 weeks, the length of the school holidays).  Another began with 7Up, the drink, and passed through all sorts of associations until it came full circle back to where it stated, with 7Up...

My own little piece was based around stuff going on at home at the moment:

Seven rucsacs in the hall, belonging to just three people.
Seven Lindt chocolates left when a moment again there were eight. Squidgeling T?
Seven o'clock on the alarm - a veritable lie-in!
Seven veils of housework and routine...peel away the layers to find the dancer underneath.
Seven pots in the garden planted with summer colour.
Seven steps on the ladder to the revamped tree house.
Seven more shirts to iron...then no more until September.

We moved on from that to choosing one of three options, again linked to the number seven. Seven sisters (the cliffs or the water maidens of myth), the seven deadly sins, or seven NEW wonders of the world. They all sounded like fairly wide options with plenty of scope, but boy, did some of us struggle!

You know that sense of having a germ of an idea, but it just won't gel? And you end up crossing more out than you leave in? At least half of the group felt that way and didn't get very far at all. The other half, though were on a roll! There was a piece written with a lovely child's voice for seven new wonders, but the most outstanding piece started with the idea of the seven sisters paddling in the sea...which became the cliffs...which were a sign of hope - perhaps - to those seeking refuge on our shores. Very, very powerful and a lovely blending and linking of a mixture of images and themes into a cohesive whole.

My piece was one of the ones that didn't work. I had wanted to write about the seven NEW wonders, and thought it might be fun to write about them as wonders introduced by an alien race...but it went nowhere fast. So I gave up on it.

And you know what? It's OK to give up on something sometimes. I'm not going to flog myself over it, trying to force the idea to take shape. Perhaps I've captured enough of it to make it into something in the future, but for now, I'll turn the page.

So we moved on to the final part of the evening. I couldn't be sure everyone would remember to bring their seventh book, so I took a bagful of books with me, picked up from all over my house. Some were fiction, some non-fiction (Trinny and Susannah's What Not to Wear for eg!) and once everyone had chosen a book, we took the seventh page or seventh chapter and found the seventh sentence. We all got on a lot better with this prompt anyway, fuelled by the wide variety on offer.

Once again, I had an idea from the sentence 'He trailed bits of bark and soil as he crossed the room.' Unfortunately it faltered before I had time to finish it, but what little I did write took on a bit of a spooky/horror direction. I've edited it slightly, but here's where I got up to;

Jessum trailed bits of of bark and soil as he crossed the room.

Amara backed away, her hand pressed over her mouth to push the scream back down. The marks on the step should've stopped him! Certainly the cut on her thumb throbbed with the memory of its creation and the use to which it had been put. But then Amara saw the fine drizzle through the open door and the damp cat sitting where she'd painted the sigil...the sigil that was now blurred and smudged.

Jessum lurched a step closer and the grave-stink hit her then; peaty and meaty and rotten. 

"A...mmm...arrrrr...aahhhh..." A single wriggling maggot fell from his lips with her name. He reached out, the movement slow and stiff in death.

A sob escaped her then. "I'm sorry, Jessum! There weren't nothing I could do!"

And that's where it finished, because I hadn't decided what Amara had done to cause Jessum's death and why he'd come back for her or what would happen next! But it's a start. Of what, I've no idea, but it's a start. Keeps the words flowing, which is good as I've started to write notes for The Crystal Keeper's Daughter, my new WIP, in which you'll be introduced to a young lady called Zanni...

In the meantime, it's holiday season here so posts may be a little thinner on the ground than normal - expect HUGE ones when I get back around mid-August! Don't forget to take your copy of StarMark on your hols, or to enter the summer reading competition, and I'll catch up with you all soon!

Not officially 'on my holiday' yet, so here's
me and StarMark in my garden instead!

Three little words...and none of them 'I Love You'

Wednesday last was NIBS: the Nanpantan Improving Body of Scribblers. We meet monthly, and our theme this month was 'Three Little Words.'

If I'm honest, I was a little fearful for this meeting. I've not been writing much lately, being uninspired and a bit parched on the word front. I couldn't be sure I'd be able to write anything at all...but I did, thank goodness.

We started off with three words, pulled at random from a random word generator. Combinations included 'defeat, necklace, lion' and 'confidence, rabbit, clown'. The idea was, we'd spend ten minutes pulling out new combos from the pile of paper slips and write a sentence to include all three words. Then we chose our favourite to share with the rest of the group (random words in bold);

The eagle's flight resembled a dance, choreographed to the phone's ring tone.

The wolf that had somehow found itself in the tower of evil was howling.

When I go to the dance at the Liberty Club on Wednesday, I always have to make sure I've have enough money to phone home and enough for a pint of Eagle gin with a cherry in.

Frustrated at the anger shown by the visitors to the planet, her shoes clipped briskly down the corridor.

There were many people killed and in pain when the train collided with the lighthouse that had inexplicably appeared on the track.

The third bunch of grapes down on the left hand side of the fireplace is thought by the castle's servants to bring them luck if they touch it.

Next step was to pick one of those sentences - not your own - and write a short piece using it. Well. As a result of that, we were introduced to the lovely ladies who drink at the Liberty Club on a Wednesday night (fabulous character sketches); a sci-fi birthday gift that hadn't been planned (His Pompous Ass, the Pompadour, did not expect THAT!); Malevolence, who actually never got round to including the two sentences the author wanted to use, but it was a flippin' atmospheric build up(!); a beautiful poem about an eagle's flight by a member of our group with a gift for poetry, and a poor wolf, trapped after an earthquake in a theme park called Armageddon...

The group found it quite hard to take someone else's sentence, because as one person pointed out "when you write your own sentence, you have a picture in your head of what the story looks like. All of a sudden, you have to build on someone elses's." Nevertheless, everyone rose to the challenge.

I took the eagle sentence as my inspiration. Here's what I wrote:

The eagle's flight resembled a dance, choreographed to the phone's ring tone. I ignored the caller, letting the notes of Fleetwood Mac's Albatross accompany its darker coloured Highland cousin as the bird soared above me. I shaded my eyes against the glare, following the silhouette. Dark against a cloudless sky, wings stretched wide to catch the warm and lift the eagle higher and higher, turning in wide circles until the dot became too small to see and the phone fell silent, the caller no doubt frustrated by my lack of response.

Oh, for a wind to take me to higher things, to move me on. Instead I'm grounded, stuck where I don't want to be.

I glance at the phone. Missed call. Matt's number. 

The eagle calls - once - from the lofty heights and suddenly I know, deep in my heart, that I've made my decision and I feel lighter than I have for months, years maybe.

I'm leaving him.

The next part of the evening took a different list of three little words, which, when put together in a specific order, gave a possible title. Now if you try this yourself, then be prepared for some combinations to work better than others - only choose the ones that give you something real, however wacky that reality may be. And be prepared to add 'A' or 'The' to fill it out.

We had a laugh over some of them, even more so when the pieces were written. There was the poignant tale of a family reunion: The Last Apple Alliance. The conversation of night time insects on a balmy summer evening Lantern Light Conversation. An end of term show and a beach paradise with singing trees, both featuring the Dazzling Humming Bananas, and then there was Gwendoline's Magnificent Momentary Revolt.

Now the author of that piece deserves special mention. She's a lady whose writing often tends towards the darkly humourous, and it has become a standing joke that someone always gets killed off in her writing. We said that perhaps we ought to have a night where we challenge ourselves to write in a genre we didn't usually attempt - in this author's case, it would have to be romance. She took us at our word, and Lady Chatterley had nothing on Gwendoline, watching the gardener wipe beads of sweat from his brow...admiring his manly chest covered in fine hair...and enjoying the sight of him clenching his...biceps (yes, we all thought it was going to be something else beginning with 'b'!) etc, etc, etc. You had to be there, really, to appreciate it, but I was crying with laughter by the end.

(The author has sworn never to attempt romance again!)

I managed to bring the mood down after that with my offering of The Sacred Tooth Ceremony...

Oh my son, do not go to the Picking, I beg you! You have a paltry three hands of summers, when there are others who have five six - even ten! Do not follow them to the cave where the Red-Handed Man resides, for if you do, you will have to Pick.

Oh, my son, I know you are tall and strong and have worked hard since your father passed into the realm of darkness, but there is no reason for you to follow him, not yet!

Of course the Picking won't kill you - but what comes after will! Oh, my son, if only your father were here to explain, it breaks my heart that I must...

If you are Picked...if you select the burnt crust from the basket of bread...then the Red-Handed Man will pull every tooth from your head to offer to the Old Ones so they can eat again.

What do they eat? Oh, my son...they eat the flesh of the one who was Picked.

It was great to get the wordy juices flowing again. It just goes to show how something simple can spark an idea and get the bones of a little bit of a story fleshed out. Actually, I have a little mermaidy project that I've been struggling with, ready to submit for a third Random Writers Anthology. I think I'm ready to tackle it again.

Right, where's my pen? Catch you later, Scribblers! I'm off to write...