Despite what you might think, a writer never gets it right the first time. A good story takes hours (and probably hours and hours more) of editing, rewriting, rereading, reorganizing, and polishing.
The first draft requires that you write something… anything…. Just get words on paper (or screen). Once you start free writing (brainstorming), ideas should flow. Don’t worry about them being in any particular order. Just keep going until you run out of ideas.
The next steps—repeated as many times as necessary—are where you reorganize your thoughts, build your character(s), your plot (and subplots), the conflict, and create a logical, interesting, exciting, reader experience.
A lone tear crept down her cheek thinking of having to leave this aging Victorian home. Sure she had to dig deep into the recesses of her mind to find the good times, but it was home. The silence, the loneliness, and the betrayal pulled everyone in different directions and no one talked of it. No one ever spoke of the painful abyss between Mother and Father that widened with every passing year. No one ever talked about what was going on Read more
Friday Fictioneers (#FF) This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. A sappy little love story this week.
We took the ferry across Sydney Harbour. The moon shone brightly upon us as we held hands and kissed on the nearly empty deck. We didn’t care who watched. We admired the approaching city lights and talked about old times.
As far as we were concerned, we were the only two people in the world.
We had never been so in love as at that moment.
The fireworks display on the bridge was just for us.
Sometimes, we just want (or need) to remember, even the painful stuff.
Rain pelted down, as darkness descended over the town.
Derek and Kylie had been searching since Sunday and were not about to give up, even if the police were.
He doesn’t want to be found, the constable said. He’s sick, they insisted.
For five days they’d searched his usual hideouts. Surely he wouldn’t come here. Forty miserable years he’d spent in this factory. The building was a hazard then, and now—rotten floors, falling timbers…. In two days, they were coming to demolish it. Finally.
A raspy voice rose from the back room.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”
He was a painter.
A damned good painter.
Too bad he didn’t know it.
He spent his life criticizing his work, finding fault with every detail.
Depression and anxiety plagued him.
His past haunted him like wisps of morning fog roiling around him and settling at his feet, some days rendering him immobile.
A thousand times he said he’d paint no more.
She took his paintings to galleries.
They sold. The critics raved.
He hated her interfering in his life.
Why would anyone pay for his art.
Rubbish! Utter drivel.
He had nothing to say.