Writing Exercises Proposal

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#61

[u][b]Emotional Scars

[/b][/u]
[SIZE=3]Tapping your own personal experiences and being willing to use them will bring your characters to life, by transposing them onto your own characters. Though the events may be different the emotions are still the same. In fact they are universal. So when someone reads it they can empathize. It will ground the event and make it real. This will be a hard one, not just from the writing aspect of it, but from the internal memory searching aspect of it and baring your soul for all to see. It can be scary, but it is VERY cathartic. I know this because it is part of a grieving process that I learned from a Grief Group I attended with my Mother after my Father died.

You can do this one of two ways:

  1. Writing about the actual event.

  2. Or disguising it within another story and having a character retell the event.

The idea is not to just give the raw data, but to tap into the emotions you felt. What went through your mind, how did those around you act? And so forth.

It does not have to be about death, it can be about betryal, moving away and losing all of your friends. A relationship breakup. A disaster where you lost almost all of your belongings. The death of your first car, the loss of innocence. Returning to a childhood hangout only to find it is now gone.

Got it? OK it will be due by- OCT 1st!

Get to it~[/SIZE]

#62

And for those of you who have not been making the deadlines I hope you are all gaining something by doing these exercises. Even though we have not gotten to see the fruits of your efforts I sincerely hope you are seeing an improvement in your work, or at the very least gaining insights and seeing new possibilities.

God Bless. :slight_smile:

#63

My problem has been moving from ideas to execution. I’ve had plenty of stories in the past where I’ve outlined either the whole thing or a good chunk of it, but then not been able to flesh it out into a full story.

#64

It can seem overwhelming sometimes, especially if your story has a large arc or is the beginning of yet an even bigger epic. Sometimes the best way to tackle it is to find the one part of the story that is the most exciting to you, usually involving a lot of action. And start there, once you have gotten into the habit of pounding the keys the rest will begin to flow. You can then go back and fill in the remaining gaps.

Or maybe you are a ‘discovery writer’ and do not know it yet. In which case simply sitting down to write a single scene will allow things to flow, discovery writers like to let the story flow and hate being tied down to an outline. They like to allow the characters to direct the story and ‘discover’ it as they write. Maybe by doing outlines you are stifling yourself.

I hope this helps. :slight_smile:

#65

Well, hey, who’da thunk that sacrificing my idle computer to the good guys would lead to new groups… I’ll join in here.

I like. :slight_smile:

Oh, and, hi!

#66

I remember they had a hard time getting the eternal flame to light, which I found oddly ironic. There was no casket thank God, only a small metal container which held his ashes. The whole thing was surreal, I was detached, and it was as if I wasn’t really there; but rather watching from a distance. As if I were watching someone else’s service, only it wasn’t. You see that small metal container held what remained of my Father’s body.

I guess I did what most males do when hit with a horrific loss, we shut down. I was numb, I could feel nothing. I tried to act the way I assumed everyone felt I should act, solemn and contrite. I did this through the service and through the two following wakes, yes two wakes my Father had been a popular fellow. I nodded at the kind comments and condolences, and shook their offered hands; and even suffered silently through embraces from people I hardly knew. I made stupid and careful small talk with all of the fellow family members, church goers and friends. In other words I played the role of the grieving son.

And yet I can remember little of what was said by anyone because in a way I was not really there, my mind was preoccupied. Can you blame me? My Father was gone; I would never get to talk to him again. Get to tell him about my small victories, or console in him or ask him about what new course he was taking, or how he and my Mother were doing. And I never got to say goodbye, the damned brain tumor robbed me of that option. Not only did he rarely know who I was, but toward the end but I am not sure if he even knew who he was.

Besides, he was an old fashioned sort. He was not into talking about feelings and such, were rarely told each other how we felt about one another. He preferred to show how he felt though action rather than words; he showed me how much he loved me by always being there. I knew that should anything ever happen he would be there, there had been a great deal of comfort in that. To know that in a cold hard world there was still one warm place I could go for help, but now those helping and comforting arms were gone. Never to pick me up and dust me off again, that loss was jarring, and a little frightening.

And then there was the way in which he was taken from me. That was just brutal. And it would not be until quite some time latter that I would realize just how angry it had made me. I remember the whole thing all too well. I was watching the movie Signs, and for all its many faults there were some great moments in it. The one that crushed me was when Gibson’scharacter was holding his son in his arms and screaming up at God, “You took my wife from me, wasn’t that enough? And now you want to take my son too? Damn you, have you not hurt me enough?” And then he launched into a hate filled diatribe at God for all the pain he had caused him. Tears ran down my face, I could empathize all to well with the pain and anger he felt. And I was glad that the theater was dark and mostly empty, I let the tears fall, I felt it was time to finally allow them to come.

Later as I sat in my truck, which by the way had previously been my Father’s; I was dumbstruck by a realization, a troubling one at that. Like that fictional character I too hated God. And that bothered me, it bothered me a whole Hell of a lot. You are not supposed to hate God, especially if you had been raised by Southern Baptist parents. And yet I did. And as vexing and heart wrenching as it was. it did seem oddly justified to me. The tumor had first robbed my Father of his mental faculties, then his memories, latter his strength and health, then after a long painful period his dignity and finally his life. This not the act of a loving God. Especially, at least in my eyes; since my Father had been a very devout Christian, a bible scholar and a Sunday School teacher. This kind of death should be dealt to an evil person, some one who deserves to be robbed of his dignity and brought low. Not my Father. Is this how faithful service is rewarded? If so then count me out.

I had gone to church less and less once I had gotten out on my own, which I assume is the norm. But after my Father’s death I stopped all together, I could not bear to even be near a church. How could I be expected to go into a building that worships and sings praises to the very deity that had tortured my Father to death? Not going to happen.

Did I eventually overcome this hatred? Yes, it took a while and a few deaths more but it eventually happened. I healed and got over it to become a far better person. But as they say… That is yet another story.

#67

Tick Tock, time is running out. :slight_smile:

#68

Since the serious exercises don’t seem to be working out let’s try something lighter and more fun. How about -
[b]
Writing Relay

[/b]
[SIZE=3]Kind of like a relay race only it can be done in any order. I will post the first part of the story and then all of you can add to it along the way. You can even add other characters to provide other POV’s and even add new wrinkles to the plot if you want, it is open to a multitude of tweaks. It can grow in scale and even change genres, nothing is written in stone. Anyone can jump in at any time, this does not have to be done in any particular order. The only real rule is that you can only post once per day. This can even take on the form of a writers RPG, where you can have one writers character interact with another writers character. The safest way to do this is to PM each other with your ideas, you can even send each other rough outlines and allow each other to insert dialog before posting. It is a little more flamboyant than having a character ask a question and then waiting a day or more for the other writer to post an answer…

Here we go-[/SIZE]

#69

Everything hurt, and my eyes and nose stung from the acrid smoke swirling around the sparking cockpit. I killed the annoying warning klaxon’s and removed my flight helmet; I blinked my tearing eyes to try and clear them and scanned the twisted cockpit. My copilot was dead, his head removed by a tree branch which was thrust through the windshield like a giant wooden fist. I massaged my pounding scalp, not just to try and make it feel better but to try and stimulate some thought into it. What had happened?

It took many tries but eventually I was able to pry the door open, which helped the smoke escape and allow in the cool night air. When I saw the glowing streaks in the night sky it all came back to me. We were on patrol in the Blackhawk along the boarder, using the FLIR and night-vision goggles to look for cartel vehicles trying to smuggle drugs across. When a bright flash occurred high above the clouds and then debris began raining down. Huge amounts of it, far too much for a single aircraft. And if it is still falling after the crash then it must have been something of epic scale, anyways the explosion played havoc with the avionics and I was trying to bring the bird down safely when some of the debris struck the craft causing us to spin and then go down hard.

I try the radio but it is fried, great I am going to have to hike back to the base. I glance at the compass and it is going around in circles, what the Hell? Did that flash generate an EMP? That would explain the avionics acting up, I wonder what that was up there? An orbiting weapons platform? I look at my watch to try and see how long I was out but it is not working, I also cannot see any of the familiar city lights in the distance either. Wow, this is just getting weirder by the minute.

In any case I have a long walk ahead of me and no one is going to fly out to check on me until this shit stops falling from the sky. And I dare not stay with the wreck because a cartel unit will be here any minute to steal as much as they can from the wreckage and if I am still here they will either kill me or hold me for ransom. I grab plenty of gear and as much water as I can carry and set off scuttling charges to slag all of the leftover weapons so that the cartel cannot salvage them. It seems kind of wasteful but it is better than having them used against us latter. I look around for familiar landmarks and start heading toward the base at an easy pace, using the one still working set of night vision gear to avoid breaking an ankle or walking into a cactus. At least it is night; I don’t even want to imagine hiking across the desert during the day.

Another fun day in the National Guard.

#70

He pointed the binoculars in the direction of the random sound of small explosions and ricochets, and found a large fire burning in the distance and at its heart was the twisted wreckage of a helicopter. He saw bright sparks occasionally erupting from the lapping flames and with it came the sound of ammunition going off and careening around dangerously in the night air. He pounded the roof of the stolen SUV furiously, “Damn it!”

“Is that the helicopter you told us about?”

“Yes, but it was not burning when I saw it go down. Why is the cursed thing on fire?”

“Maybe some of this hell fire came down on it.”

He lowered the binoculars and glared at his sweating driver,“Hell fire? Is that what you think this falling shit is?” His scrawny and frail looking driver nodded nervously and tightly clutched a crucifix which hung from a chain around his neck with one hand, and with the other he made the ‘sign of the cross’. The angry man rolled his eyes and slid down from his perch on the roof of the vehicle with a tired sigh, he landed heavily in the loose dirt just as the pickup he had been waiting for pulled up along side its tires crunching loudly on the dry near-lifeless ground. An unshaven man in a sweat stained straw hat leaned out the open window and peered at him with dark bloodshot eyes, “Miguel I brought as many men as I could find, but most of the Putas were too scared to come out here, they think this,” he gestured up to the continuing shower of meteors above, “is a sign of the fucking apocalypse or something other God damned thing…”

Miguel wearily glanced into the back of the pickup; only four men were crouched in the back. Only four men? Superstitious fools. He turned back to the driver and skewered him with frustrated eyes, “No matter my friend, the damned bird is on fire. And all of the ammo is cooking off, even if there was still something out there worth salvaging it is far too dangerous to go near it.”

The driver cursed in Spanish and punched the steering wheel with a calloused fist, “Damn it Miguel I was really looking forward to getting my hands on one of those mounted machine guns, it would look so sweet on my ride, yes?” They laughed and Miguel clapped his friend on the shoulder, “Sorry my friend but the saints do not smile down on us this evening.” They watched the bizarrely streaked skies for a moment and finally Miguel said, “I suppose we had best get back to the compound before some of this space crap lands on us.”

“Is that what you think it is? That space station the Americans had up there?”

Miguel shrugged, “Who knows? We will find out tomorrow on the news I suppose, or at least the cover story anyways. It is not like the news ever tells us the whole story heh?”

They smiled at that but then his friend looked around and then leaned close to Miguel his voice low and hushed, “I did not want to spook the guys in the back but, I swear to God I saw some of the stuff slow down and then change direction. Like if, you know… It was landing.”

Miguel closed his eyes and said nothing for awhile, finally he patted the mans arm and smiled, “Let’s get back to the compound and have us a few cervezas eh, it has been a long night and I am thirsty. No doubt you are too.”

“Good idea, see you back there.”

Miguel walked around the SUV and opened the passenger door to get in and stopped in surprise. His driver was not in the vehicle, and blood was running down the inside of the driver’s side door. Miguel grabbed his AK47 from the back seat, “Alberto! On your guard!” He ran to the pickup truck to warn them, “Alberto!” Alberto was gone; blood ran down the outside skin of the driver’s side door. His nostrils filled with the coppery smell of blood.

He backed away slowly his eyes darting back and forth trying to pierce the darkness; but he saw no movement nor heard any sound. The truck began to bounce up and down on its shocks as if a heavy load had been dropped into its bed, its bobbing headlights cast odd shadows on the mesquite and cacti nearby. From the trucks bed came screams of terror which were abruptly cut short and replaced by the sounds of rending flesh and spilling fluids. Miguel’s grip on his weapon tightened.

The trucks shocks and leaf springs creaked as the bed rose back up to its normal height, he could hear something land in the dirt and start moving behind the truck. A large dark shape padded around the corner of the truck on all fours and peered at him, its eyes shown in the darkness as it leered at him. It was far too large and tall to be a coyote, and its eyes were too large and far apart. It was more like… A lion. But that is impossible, right?

Why did it just stand there looking at him? And then he could see its sharp teeth reflecting light from the trucks taillights, was it smiling? And then he heard the low growl from behind him, oh… dear… God.

#71

That was not ammunition ‘cooking off’… That was a sustained burst, but not from an AR16, something meatier. A higher caliber, like a FNFAL or an AK. Must be cartel minions, but what are they shooting at? And why just a single burst? I had seen headlights off in the distance so I knew they were coming but, then they just stopped and I saw no others arriving. So it could not be rival cartels fighting; besides there was no answering fire. Whatever just get your tired sweaty ass out of here Airman.

I just want to get back to base and have a cold beer, survive the next 2 months and return to my civilian life for awhile. Play video games with the kids and whin eabout my boring job to my wife, in between bowling with my buddies and playing in the band. Sure I understand the importance of the border and stopping the drugs and violence that comes with them from crossing and…

What the Hell is this? Where did this structure come from?

#72

So is this too intimidating? Did I not explain it well enough? Or have you all been too busy?

Would you prefer another assignment?

#73

I will get to this assignment, this weekend - just been uber busy in getting time to focus and concentrate on the task. Don’t fear, I will keep this going.

#74

Freehand Exercise

[b]General Overview:

[/b]You will carry a notebook or notepad with you whenever possible for the next week and a half or so. You will use it for your initial draft on whatever project you are currently working on during this time. Once you have produced enough material you will then transfer it onto your computer and edit it, once happy with it you will then compare your new section with a previous section you had written entirely on the computer. You then write a post about the results found.

Reason for exercise and hoped for results:

This exercise is to free your mind and imagination by giving it freedom and allowingit a more open and tactile way to express itself. By keeping the notebook with you always you can capture the ideas as they come, not just when it is convenient. Because imagination and creativity does notwork on a schedule. Also this technique will allow your work to flow in a more natural manner. You should find that this new section of writing you will produce is better paced (because you are not interrupting your work with constant self edits) and that the dialog flows more like a real conversation.

Rules and Suggestions:

Write fast. Do not worry about spelling or grammar.

Open the spigot of your mind and try to keep up. Do not worry about the order of the sentences or paragraphs until you are finished with whatever itis that trying to get out. Then you can go back and draw boxes around things and draw arrows to where you want things placed latter when you transfer it to WORD or whatever you use.
Do not use taglines or descriptions when writing dialog. Just scribble down what they are saying as if you were standing there listening to the conversation. Let it flow. Once you have transferred it into WORD you can insert he said/she saids, or other embellishments. But keep it to a minimum, you do not want to interrupt the flow and cadence of the dialog. Especially if it involves humor, remember; timing is everything.

If a gem of an idea comes while you are writing jot it down in a margin, or wherever it will fit. Do not lose the moment. I often keep a page or two blank in between sessions just for ideas, sometimes I will even put subject headings on the pages so they are easier for referencing later.

Resist the temptation to edit, white-out or tear out pages. Just keep going.

Scribble, doodle, draw whatever it takes to spark an idea. You will be surprised what comes.

Drawing is empowering. Visualization is a powerful tool. By drawing objects or characters in your stories they really come alive. Even maps or floor plans can help you visualize the places you are writing about.

No points for cleanliness. Cram words in where you need them. Use stars, circles, arrows whatever you need, have fun. Cut loose.

You should find this quite fun, it is far less sterile than staring at a white screen and much more tactile. You can feel the words as you write them and you write them in any direction, any size shape or style.

The key here is not to stifle your mind. Free it. Momentum momentum momentum.

Save the cleanup for later. In WORD, where it belongs.

Final words:

I hope this exercise brings good rewards. And you find it a useful tool for your creativity and writing.
I look forward to hearing about your results. Let’s aim for March 16th as your deadline…

Now GO WRITE! :smiley:

#75

There’s no right way to do it, BUT if you don’t carry always a notebook (or similar, convenient, immediately accessible device) with you, and if you pause for exact word choice and precise grammar on the first pass, you’re doing it wrong.

#76

Well how did it go? Did anyone find the exercise ‘freeing’ or ‘liberating’? It should have been a great experience for discovery-writers, for out-liners it might have been frightening at first.

I shall allow some time for replies before posting the next exercise. It will be next month…

#77

[b]Internal Dialog

[/b][SIZE=2]Write out a scene in which your character is dealing with something internally. Play around with different emotions. Have the dialog reflect the characters mood…

Dark and angry.

Frightened.

Guilt ridden.

Confused.

Under intense pressure.

Etc.

Remember that broken chains of thought may be the ticket here, especially if the character is drunk or confused. Or if some thoughts replay over and over again if the character is obsessed or fixated on something. And internal monologuing can be a great way to introduce a characters past, or air their flaws and imperfections. Play around with different ways of interrupting the monologue, an alarm going off, someone comes over to ask a question, the light changes at an intersection and someone honks at them… etc.

Getting inside a characters head is a great mental exercise and can be helpful when trying to figure out where the story should move to next, or for figuring out motivation. Or as to why two characters don’t get along. It also can avoid long sections of exposition, if another character comes along and asks what they were thinking about and joins in on it. This introduces a second viewpoint and even more information on a subject in a far more entertaining fashion than a info-dump.

Now go write!

Due on the 26th.
[/SIZE]

#78

It has been many months since my discharge and I still can’t help but notice how different I am from those around me. They dress so sloppily, and are so ungroomed… How can they stand having their pants cuffs dragging on the ground like that, or their hair falling into their eyes and seeming to crawl into their ears? I would find it maddening, and apparently the idea of a ‘gig line’ has yet to reach civilian life. They stoop and hunch over with bad posture that makes me want to whack them across the back of the head with a broomstick. I still find it hard to believe I used to be like them…

I lean back in the uncomfortable chair and let out a long breath laced with disgust, and allow the back of my head to bounce against the drywall with masochistic deliberation. The action and sound it made draw a few curious looks from the others waiting for an interview, but none dares to meet my eyes when I look back; their eyes dart away in fear. Just one more thing to remind me that I still have that whole ‘scary’ thing going on; I need to work on that. Someday. But I am just so damned angry. Not at what happened, but at the fact that I let it happen. It was entirely my own damned fault, bad choices. That is what brought this all about, bad choices. My bad choices.

And now here I am in Phoenix Arizona.

Fucking HOT Phoenix Arizona. The only place I can remember being hotter than this was Texas. Oh yes, I remember all too vividly when I got off of that plane in Texas; getting bitch-slapped in the face with all that heat. And my head quickly swiveling about frantically because thought I had somehow walked behind the jet’s engines. That is how hot it was. This was made even worse by where I had flown from, Washington State. Talk about a shock to the system… Heh, I also remember the shoe polish melting off of my shoes there in San Antonio. That is fucking hot.

This? This is a close second, at least it is not humid too. Phoenix, I have heard that Phoenix is Navajo for “Fuck the horse died now we are stuck here”, I believe it. Why else would you build a town here?

I wanted to be stationed overseas, see the world and experience new things. And instead I fucked everything up and I am stuck in the Devil’s Buttcrack, looking for menial work until I can get back on my feet again. And get enough of a work history built up that I can gloss over my Military Experience, why? Because it keeps tripping things up for me. It tends to scare people… If I actually like the interviewer or the job I try to joke about it and misdirect them from what I did. If the guy is a dick or I get a bad vibe from the place I will actually tell them what I did, that tends to bring things to a screeching halt. Let’s face it, if you are a tin plated dictator who enjoys wielding his power and mistreating people. The last thing you want on your staff is someone who can wire up anything in your office, your car, or even your toy poodle to explode. Hell, my middle initials are practically I,E,D.

Just kidding… (about the initals)

I sigh and look around to take in the staff here, they look broken and lifeless. Like drones, going about their tasks with no enthusiasm. Not agood sign. Poor morale is a sign of bad management,and or, overworked and overburdened staff. I don’t think I will fight too hard for this job. I close my eyes and reflect back to what that Chief Master Sargent had told me. Damned he had pegged me but good, “Son, I know exactly what your problem is. You are intellectually lazy. You are bright, clever even. And everything has come too easily to you, you have never had to study or apply yourself before. That is why you have hit a wall here. You should use this as an opportunity to find something else that you are better suited for.” He was right. I just didn’t want to admit it. He got my back up, and I fought back. Trying to prove them wrong. I was so stupid. They were offering me a chance to transfer into something else more practical and appropriate for my skill set. But I blew that chance. And then a few more on down the line.

And now I am here. In purgatory. Sweating buckets in a hick town surrounded by miles of inhospitable desert, full of insects and animals that would gladly kill you if given the chance. Forgive me for not finding a happy spin to put on this. The only thing I can remember that brought a smile to my face recently was when I drove by a lot selling boats. That’s right I said boats! What the fuck?! I broke out laughing when I saw them all lined up, we are in the middle of a desert and this asshole is selling boats? He must be one Hell of a salesman…

A sickly looking woman staggers out of a poorly maintained hallway to address us, all of the prospective employees dull eyes turn to look at her. “Knoll?” She creaks out, “Mister Stephen Knoll?” A look of pain seemed to touch her pinched features when she uttered the word ‘mister’. I raise a hand and she almost looks saddened that I have not left after the long wait I have endured, sorry lady but I am used to the ‘Hurry up and wait’ nonsense. She sniffs in what seems to me disgust, and mutters, “The interviewer will see you now, follow me.” I leisurely follow at my own pace not wanting to appear overeager, and am rewarded by a look of contempt from the assistant when she opens a door and gestures for me to enter. I Smile at her maliciously as I enter, she practically slams the door on my ass and I hear her heels rapidly clicking away in PMS driven anger.

Mission accomplished.

The frumpily dressed troll behind the desk does not even look up from his piles of paperwork, he pulls a rumpled paper over and leers at it, “Uh, Knoll. Stephen. Right?”

“Yes sir.” Habit, he does not deserve to be called sir. It just slips out. Curse my courteousness.

He limply waves a hand with disdain still not looking up from his cluttered desk, “Have a seat… Stephen.”

I sit down with quiet control, and assess the office and the nasty little paper-pusher in it. I do not like either of them. He pulls my application from a pile and glances at it, “I see you served in the Military.”

Served, I hate it when they say that. What was I a fucking waiter? “Yes sir.”

He snorts something and starts leafing through more pages, he has not looked up once. Apparently finding nothing interesting he asks with no enthusiasim, practically sighing it; “So what did you do there?”

I don’t like this little man or the place he works at, so I let the truth slip out. “Explosive Ordnance Disposal.”

He stops fiddling with my application. I have thrown him off of auto-pilot, “Huh?”

“I defused bombs, cleared firing ranges, and generally blew-shit-up.”

He peers up from his paperwork and looks at me, really looks at me for the first time; his expression is one of fear and morbid curiosity. He stares at me like one would view a jungle cat in a zoo. I try to appear neutral and calm but I suspect it is coming off as stoney and cold. And I feel a small knife slash of a smile creeping onto my features, others fear tends to cause that. I can be such an asshole.

He is going to ask the question, I just know it. These types always do.

“So what drove you into that,… Uh, field.”

You really want to know douchebag? Fine. I club him with the truth. “I tested very high, and my recruiter talked me into it.” My smile turns cold and cruel and the little pasty faced dork nearly shits himself.

So much for this interview. Oh well, I didn’t like this place anyways.

Yes this is drawn from my own life, from a long time ago. Not a happy time, and not one I generally talk about (ever). But after what happened after screening ‘Act of Valor’, I have begun thinking that I perhaps need to deal with this dark past and the mixture of pride and shame I feel about it. Maybe a little ‘venting’ is just what I need. Hope I did not put anyone off… And I do not plan on making this a habit. It is easy to work into other works and characters I use, disguise it.

Though I must confess that this format was far more cathartic.

#79

Is this still going on? I’m new around these parts, but would like to get in on the next prompt!

#80

It never ends. Jump in the goo is fine.