Imagine the quintessential writer: introverted, glasses, coffee in hand, sitting alone at a small desk, while poking their fingers on a keyboard. Certainly, there's no writers' group here—it's just one person, scribbling away in solitude.
We all have preconceived notions as to what being a writer looks like, but whatever your idea of a writer, I can bet that one trait is uniform across the board. You probably imagine your writer alone, the Stephen King type, secluded, perhaps in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
Interestingly enough, being a writer alone is nearly impossible, and after being part of a writers' group for almost a year, I've learned I could never do it alone.
Why You Shouldn't Write Alone
Great writing is done in community, and besides having more great friends, there are four major benefits to not being a writer alone:
1. Free Proofreading and Editing
Editing is hard. Also, writers are terrible at editing our own pieces.
Regardless of how much you know about spelling, subject-verb agreement, or colons, all writers make mistakes. I've even seen errors in traditionally published books and articles, despite teams of editors.
Editors can be extremely expensive. Why spend all that money on an editor if you and a friend could just trade work? You'll all get better at editing, and it's free.
No one wants to publish a post or short story with the wrong “bear with me” or “bare with me,” because that could just be bad.
2. Emotional Support
There's something about commiserating that feels so great.
It's when someone has the same deadlines and you're both feeling stuck, so you ask each other, “What word count are you at?” every five minutes. There's a deep connection made through the pain of writing. Hopefully, your combined misery will turn to laughing, because you'll have no other choice.
When you have no one to commiserate with, you also have no one to keep you accountable. We need someone to tell us we can do it, because we're doing it together.
3. Gain Perspective
When you have friends that read your writing, they bring the perspective of the reader. As we write, and even read over our own work, we have author-brain. We're never quite objective enough to catch all the problems.
When you write, you are familiar with you entire plot and storyline, but it's easy forget that your reader is not. Having friends read your work reveals holes, inconsistencies, and confusion.
I have a friend who constantly writes controversial blog posts. I so often find myself saying, “Because I know who you are, I know what you're trying to say, but what you're writing isn't what you mean. You sound harsh.” These conversations are invaluable for your writing and audience. Find someone who can give you this perspective before you publish.
4. Networking
A few months ago, I attended the Tribe conference, hosted by Jeff Goins. It was incredible, and if you weren't there, you should be there next year.
At my table alone, I met a publisher, a writer for Copyblogger, a fantasy writer, and a couple who want to write a book. While walking around I met a podcast producer, some Write Practice readers, and Pamela Hodges, one of the funniest writers ever (she writes for The Write Practice, too).
Don't write alone. We all have different gifts. We all have something to give and receive from one another.
Imagine a team of people fighting for you to succeed. These are the people that are going to help you get jobs, further your business, and give you chances.
That's what happens when we band together as writers, and push one another towards greatness with whatever we have to offer.
Are You Ready to Stop Writing Alone?
The Write Practice is about improving our craft by practicing, and helping one another grow within a community of writers.
The heart of that community happens in Becoming Writer, our online writers' group, where writers share their pieces every week and give each other feedback and encouragement. We'd love for you to join us!
And we love to build our community here on the blog, too. That's why we invite you to share your writing in the comments every day—here, you can find your writing community and get the support you need to accomplish your goals.
As Hellen Keller says,
Do you have a writers' group? How do you connect with other writers? Let us know in the comments below.
PRACTICE
Are you feeling stuck? Now's your chance to reach out with your writing challenges and get support.
Find a blog draft, a chapter you’re unsure of, or a piece you just feel needs help. Or, take fifteen minutes to write a new story about someone who really messed up cooking dinner. Share your writing, old or new, in the comments below.
Then, leave some edits, ideas, or encouragement for your fellow writers. Let's all grow together!
Great post! That’s why I love (I’m just going to throw it out there) writing fan fiction. I get immediate feedback from readers on each chapter of a story and it’s so helpful.
For the practice, I published a poem on my blog but I haven’t got any feedback on it so far. So I’ll post it here.
Sandcastle
There was a storm on the beach today.
And can you guess what was washed away?
Your sandcastle
It took a lot of work you say.
You spent years of your life just molding the clay
Of your sandcastle
In it, all of your hopes you lay
But no mind to your hopes did the storms of life pay
Or your sandcastle
Because you built on a sunny day
You thought trouble would always be held at bay
For your sandcastle
But balmy wether can not always stay
And storms often come to wash away
Our sandcastles
Build it again, if you must, if you may
Just don’t be surprised when clouds darken the bay
And the rain comes in torrents and washes away
The fleeting, the fickle hopes that you lay
In your sandcastle
I like the thoughts. Very provocative; however, there is no consistency in your lines. In my opinion (I am not a poet) the first line of each stanza should have the same number of beats (syllables), as should the second line of each stanza have the same number of beats, and each third line, etc. In my opinion, each stanza should have the same number of lines. Work on this. As said, very thought provoking!
Okay, thanks for the feedback. It’s much appreciated!
Katherine, I really like your poem. I read somewhere that poetry is a window to the essence of its author. Actually that somewhere was The Montreal Review, December 2012. If you want to read the review, you can find it here: http://www.themontrealreview.com/2009/What-is-Poetry.php
Well thanks! I’ll definitely give the article a look.
I think, in respectful disagreement of James, that this poem is just fine the way it is. I believe that poetry can be as consistent or inconsistent (or somewhere in between) as the poet chooses, and that there is no wrong arrangement of stanzas or syllables (or lack of arrangement thereof) to constitute great poetry. As far as “Sandcastle” is concerned: the use of rhyme is clever, the repetition and differing perspectives centering on the sandcastle being washed away is excellent, and it is one of those poems that can mean different things to different readers, which makes it all the more fantastic. My two cents: don’t change it! 🙂
Thanks Billy. I’m also of the mindset that they don’t have to be consistent. In fact, most of my poetry either doesn’t rhyme or doesn’t have the same amount of syllables in each stanza. Of course, some people prefer that style and that’s okay. Most art is good or bad depending on individual taste.
That being said, I’m so glad that you liked it! Know that I don’t plan on changing it. 🙂
I really enjoyed this poem. It took me to the beach where I was looking at my sandcastle. Thank you for sharing.
Since you’re looking for feedback I will say that I got caught up on the word “clay” since sandcastles are made out of sand. I’m unable to make that work in my mind. Also, “wether” appears to be a typo.
I applaud you for putting yourself out there. I think it’s the hardest part of writing.
Hope you continue to bless the world with your gifts.
Godspeed.
M
I love it! I also initially got caught up on the word clay, but when I re-read it I saw how perfectly the word fits with the molding image.
Thanks! I actually did have second thoughts about that word, but I decided (like you said) that it fits with molding something and clay, to me, can be any kind of earth. So I kept it. 🙂
That writing was amazing! Keep up that sandcastle 😀
Thank you!
If it would not have had a title I would have suggested another one versus the obvious Sandcastle. It seems it is a metaphor for something else, much more meaningful and the storms are representative of lives troubles and hardships?
I love poetry and your poem is very good. It has a good opening to let the reader know what it will be about.
One minor typo – the word weather on your fourth verse.
Thanks for sharing it.
It is a metaphor. I actually did a blog post on what it means to me here: http://katierebekahlynn.wix.com/katherinerebekah#!Commentary-Sandcastles/cd23/55df72930cf28ffc7eea1963
But the beauty is that it means different things to different people. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Yes, thanks for pointing that out. I’ll fix it.
I like this a lot. The rhymes carry the reader along, and they might even be seen as the supports of the sand castle — sand is ephemeral, but rhyme is constant. And I also disagree with James. His suggestion is just one way of writing a poem, and there’s no necessity to write according only one formula.
That’s great insight into it (I never even thought of it myself). Just show you how poetry means different things to different people. So glad you liked it.
This is so great! I really like the analogy you’re making. Your imagery is beautiful.
Aww thanks!
I think it’s a great poem and I love the imagery! A good extended metaphor is hard to pull off and you’ve managed it. You rhythm is a little off in places though, usually only by a syllable or two. Try reading it out loud and see if that helps. I find that usually works for me. Overall though, great piece!
I’ll try reading out loud and see if I find anything. Thank you!
I love your poem Katherine.
I like it.
Will they make a movie?
I love your poem, Katherine.
My sandcastles make the like journey you’ve so cleverly put into verse.
Thanks for sharing.
I love this post. I love the quote you posted. Very fitting for us writers. There’s only so much we can do on our own. We need that reminder that we need a kick in the butt from someone whose been there or is going through it the same time we are. Fortunately, there are many ways we can reach out to our fellow writers.
I want a writing buddy!!!! (: if you don’t mind 3am messages about alien conspiracies or time travel mind blowing facts or who knows what else! xD
This is one reason I enjoy NaNoWriMo. I have had fun doing it,and part of the fun is the other people who are also doing it!
Since I’ve commented on someone’s writing here, I’ll post a link to my own for comment/critique/chop-sueying/etc. 🙂
It’s a poem I wrote a week ago titled “how many more”: http://easel0315.blogspot.com/2015/08/how-many-more.html
Hi Billy!
Thanks for sharing your poem. The points you raise asking How Many More, are very timely and socially conscious.
Are you, or do you consider your self a poet? Your bio in your blog does not say and since this is the only poem there but you shared a great feedback to Katherine’s Sandcastle poem! I was just wondering…
There’s just one minor typo, you need to change [a] to [an] at
how many more criminals
must go to
a overcrowded
prison
All the best,
B
that is a very heartfelt and encompassing poem; you really have touched on almost all of the evils besetting us. I have just a couple of suggestions.
1. in the 3rd verse, I think “criminals” is the wrong word, especially since you refer to “innocence” in last line of that verse.
2. in the verse about politicians, I think you could be more specific about why the politicians are attending to only a few, and not all of their constituents.
Otherwise, I think you’ve done a really good job at identifying the serious problems we face.
wow … really nicely done. Just imagine “how many” stanzas you needed to portray the hurts encountered every day by millions upon millions. Thank you for putting that together. It needs to be published somewhere for people to ponder .
You’re poem raises a lot of good points and contains a lot of truth about what needs to be addressed in our country. I don’t have any critique for the form of the poem, as I think it was very good. But I will say one thing about the content and that’s, be mindful of the police officers and Christians.
I’m not saying to change anything, as the scenarios you presented are very real and do happen and I know you’re not chastising all cops and Christians, just a select few. But just keep in mind all of the cops who really try to do their job and care for the citizens of their communities. And keep in mind all of the Christians who do their best to spread love rather then hatred. So often we here about the short comings of the two groups, but not of their good deeds. As a Christian it’s very hard sometimes, because …
How many more people
Will label me unjustly
As a bigot
As a prude
As judgmental and rude
When all I really want
Is to show them peace and love
How many more?
Sorry if I hijacked your poem there. Again, I know you’re not trying to say that all Christians and Cops are bad. I just thought I’d throw out some food for thought. All around I enjoyed your poem. 🙂
Kellie,
The points you make for not writing alone are valid to the writing life. No writer is an island. We all need encouragement, support, and someone to hold our feet to the fire.
But I’ve been writing stories long enough to know that I don’t create well unless I am alone. It’s all too easy to be jerked out of the story and all too difficult to get back into it when I try to write when I’m not alone.
So, yes. Don’t be a lone wolf as a writer, but some of us really do need those cabins in the woods (or our favorite equivalent) to do the actual writing.
Otherwise, what are those friends and fellow writers for?
Carrie, I totally understand that. When I am generating content, I like to go into my own world too!
Great point, thanks for sharing!
Hi Kellie,
I will be your encourager when you have to get your story finished for TWP. My day is right before you, as I write every other Tuesday.
Yesterdays story I wrote from two until six in the morning. Maybe it is easier to be silly when you are writing in the middle of the night.
I usually don’t like to share my writing until I have squashed it and squished it through a few drafts.
But, I will find something to share here. A nice idea.
Thank you for mentioning the silly writing contest.
xo
Pamela
Pamela!!!
Thanks for your encouragement and inspiration. The silly writing contest was so fun.
Thanks for being who you are!
So glad for this trigger…the sense of belonging, and being part of a community is essential. That is how we are as human beings and applies to so many areas of our lives, so obviously, writing as well. I recently joined the Write Practice and realized the huge difference it makes for me – it’s fun, stimulating and there’s so much encouragement and constructive criticism. It’s great to see the work of other talented emerging writers.
Here a poem I wrote while I was in college for an assignment. We were asked to write a poem with no abstractions. The professor gave me a C- and a couple of positive comments. I shared it with the rest of the class and got great feedback, and I think it’s because they were not going by the professor’s rule but simply by content?
Years later today, I would love to know what others think and can suggest for possible improvement, if needed (but not by the professor’s rule!)
Yellow ribbons fly as seven young girls play
Out in the school yard as the sun goes down
Under a mahogany tree on moist ground I stretch out
Admiring the harmony of laughter that
Races to a reality soon to come
Each one on a different day. Each one with it’s own meaning
Not that I am envious, I had my afternoons
Of playing. And the years spin memories
To pacify solitude and a growing hollowness
Time lapsed and I became a stranger to myself
Here now wearing penny loafers and a ponytail just like
Eleven years ago, maybe longer, I really don’t
Remember the day when with my six friends
Each laughing and playing, I lost my yellow ribbon.
there’s a rather melancholy feel to this, which seems appropriate for the ending, but do you want that for the beginning?
1. are those yellow ribbons hair ribbons, or dress ribbons, or ribbons the girls are holding in their hands that ripple through the air? being more specific is a clearer visual image
2. i like the mahogany tree on moist ground
3. “Out in the school yard”? perhaps “Out” is an extra syllable that’s not necessary?
4. “Each one”? does this refer to “reality”? “one” is perhaps redundant?
5. “it’s” should be the possessive “its”
6. “Here now wearing”: i think “Here” is redundant, and an extra syllable
7. i’d suggest taking out “maybe longer, I really don’t remember the day”; you don’t have to be exact, and if you want to convey uncertainty, maybe “just like years ago, 11, 12,”
Hi @SJR1991 and EndlessExposition!
Thank you for the feedback. I will add something to specify the ribbons.
I guess I should share what I thought would be noticeable, but since no one mentioned it is that the first letter of each line spells out the a letter to title, each stanza a word, of the poem, YOU ARE NOT THERE.
I hope that with that then in mind, the words, Out, Each, Here don’t seem redundant…
I will be posting the revision tomorrow on the TWP.
Man, that last line packs a punch. Love the metaphor here, it’s very subtle. I do agree with SJR1991 though, some more specificity about the ribbons would be good. It’s a beautiful poem, glad you shared it!
I’m in several writing communities:
1. a writing group that I’ve been part of for more than 20 years, and it’s been in existence for almost 35 years
2. a writing workshop that meets weekly about 6 months a year
3. a poetry salon that meets monthly, which is part workshop/part open mike
4. an open mike that meets monthly
5. a writing partner I meet with every 4-6 weeks
The Write Practice is a potential community, but being online, it’s too easy to say, I don’t have time to check it out today. But yesterday I looked at the wacky weird scavenger hunt prompts and wrote a not bad short short story. So I need to check in here more regularly. Thanks!
That’s a good point! Online can be easy to ignore. So glad you wrote that scavenger story, it looked so fun! Glad to see that you have a good writing community!
I’m lucky to have a great group for young writers with an amazing teacher in my area. I’m there once a week, making them listen to my mad ravings. Well, in the spirit of the prompt, here’s the first bit of a new script of mine. It’s a bit long, but if you can get to the end then reviews would be much appreciated!
EPISODE #1 – IN THE ROUGH
INT. – THE PERSEUS, BRIG
The brig is box-like: small, square, and plain, with no windows or overhead lights. KAYA LIM sits in the corner with her head in her hands. Her wrists are in handcuffs. Kaya is a petite, wiry Chinese woman with short hair, dressed in a button down shirt, cotton slacks, sleek leather boots, and, oddly, suspenders. From somewhere not too far away, there’s an explosion and the room shakes. The door opens and LEIA ACOTHLEY rushes in. She’s a tall, athletically built Navajo, dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, and combat boots, hair pulled back. She’s wearing a gun belt. In her hands she holds another gun belt and a small scanning device. She kneels down in front of Kaya and holds the scanner up to a small screen on the cuffs, unlocking them, as another explosion rocks the ship.
KAYA: (Kaya speaks with a mild French accent) Leia, what –
LEIA: (cutting her off) I don’t care who you were, or what you did. The Kaya Lim I know is a damn good woman who’s never steered us wrong. You’re our captain and we need you.
She shoves the extra gun belt into Kaya’s hands.
Now get out there.
KAYA: Leia, I –
LEIA: Go!
Kaya and Leia both stand as Kaya puts the belt on.
KAYA: Thank you.
LEIA: Don’t mention it.
INT. – MAIN HALLWAY
Kaya and Leia spill from a small alcove into a dimly lit hallway of tarnished silver plating, a line of sliding doors going down each wall. Kaya races down the hallway and turns the corner into another, Leia close behind. This hallway has large windows on one wall, and more sliding doors on the other. Outside the windows, a hulking black spacecraft hovers in the darkness. Its massive cannon-like guns are aimed directly at the Perseus. A green beam fires from one and hits the Perseus somewhere, making a deafening explosion as the Perseus shakes from the impact. Kaya and Leia are thrown against the opposite wall, but quickly recover. Kaya continues sprinting down the corridor. Leia is about to
follow her when there’s a cry of pain from somewhere down the hall. Leia listens, following the sound. She stops at one of the sliding doors, presses it, and it opens. SAM JUDAS is leaning against a table in her room, breathing heavily. Sam is a heavily muscular black woman. Her hair is done in short dreadlocks, she’s wearing a hideous turquoise maternity outfit, and she’s very very pregnant.
LEIA: Oh shit.
SAM: (gasping) You’re…telling…me.
LEIA: C’mon, let’s get you to the med bay.
Going inside, she takes Sam’s arm and helps her walk towards the door.
INT. – BRIDGE
Kaya flings open the door to the bridge and races inside. The bridge has two levels to it: a small staircase leads from the floor to a small deck with the pilot’s chair and the console. ANITA CHAUDHRI looks up from the controls of the ship. Anita is an Indian teenager, pretty and slim with huge, terminally optimistic eyes and magenta streaks in her long black braids. She’s dressed in a blue pilot’s jumpsuit. When she sees Kaya she grins.
ANITA: Captain!
KAYA: No time for heartfelt welcomes, kid.
She grabs a mic off the wall and switches it on.
Okay people, this is your captain speaking.
INT. – OUTSIDE THE CARGO HOLD
Elsewhere on the ship, SHANNON CRANE and PILAR CABELLO seal a large safe-like door and look up in surprise at the sound of Kaya’s voice on the PA. Shannon is a
Caucasian woman whose close cropped hair is liberally streaked with gray. She’s dressed in leather armor over a plaid shirt, leather pants, boots, and gun belt. Pilar is a Hispanic woman, well built, wearing a ski cap over her ponytail, a wife beater, cargo pants, heavy boots, and a dour expression. Guns and knives are strapped to several parts of her person.
KAYA (OVER THE LOUDSPEAKER): I’ll explain how I got out of the brig later. In case you hadn’t noticed, the Syndicate’s come courting and they’re being rather forceful about it. I say we teach them some manners. I need all hands on the bridge, sometime yesterday.
Shannon and Pilar exchange glances.
INT. – MED BAY
The med bay is built of the same silver metal as the rest of the ship, but it’s much cleaner. It’s been looked after. A counter rings the room, cabinets under it. Sam is sitting up on an examination table in the center of the room, clutching it tightly and groaning. Leia pauses in helping her get her pants off to bring her wrist com to her mouth.
LEIA: Negative on me and Sam, Captain, she’s gone into labor. You’re gonna hafta make do without us.
Leia turns back to Sam and finishes getting the pants off. She unholsters her gun, flicks the safety on, and lays it on the counter, slips on a bloodstained blue apron, and pulls on a pair of latex gloves.
Okay, we’ve got some work ahead of us. Lie back. I need you to quit moanin’ and groanin’ and relax.
SAM: You’re not the one trying to push something the size of a melon out of your vag, Acothley, give me a minute here! (she groans in pain again)
LEIA: You don’t need to push yet! For fuck’s sake, Sam! Pull yourself together and take a breath before you pass out on my table!
BRIDGE
Shannon and Pilar rush onto the bridge.
KAYA: Before either of you say anything, we don’t have time to argue. Give me a damage report.
SHANNON: (Shannon speaks with a Texan-type accent) Deflector’s weak. They managed to open a hole in the cargo hold. Don’t think their radar’s picked up on it yet, but if they do they could blow the floor out from under us. Me and Pilar sealed it off, but we can’t chance turning our backs on ‘em till that thing’s fixed.
KAYA: Right. Anita, get to the Comet. I want you to get out there and distract them. I’ll trust your judgement on how best to do that. Shannon, you take over for her.
Anita grabs an old-fashioned pilot’s helmet from a compartment under the controls.
ANITA: On it, Cap’n!
Shannon sits down in the pilot’s chair and picks up where Anita left off.
KAYA: Pilar, you’re with me. I’m going to fix that hole.
JUMPCUT TO OUTSIDE CARGO HOLD
Kaya and Pilar stand outside the door where Pilar and Shannon were before. Kaya is
wearing a space suit, the helmet in her hands.
KAYA: You open that door just enough for me to get in, and then shut it behind me. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, go to the bridge, call Anita back, and tell Shannon to take our chances with evasive maneuvers.
PILAR: How’re you gonna fix it?
KAYA: Hell if I know. Ready?
PILAR: Ready.
INT. – THE PIPE
Anita is crawling down a long, narrow passageway. At the end is a ladder that she climbs; she opens a hatch and crawls into a small fighter jet docked on the back of the ship. She gets situated, puts on the pilot’s helmet, and a breathing mask. She flicks switches and pushes buttons, grabs the controls, and lifts off the Perseus, zooming towards the black spaceship. She fires, and there’s a small explosion on the ship’s flank.
MED BAY
In the med bay, Sam is now on all fours on the table, grunting while Leia gives directives.
LEIA: Okay, the time for not pushing has long passed here, Sammy. C’mon, put those bulgy muscles into it.
Another explosion rocks the ship.
SAM: Hell, is there a point anymore, they’re going to kill us all.
LEIA: If we get blown out of the galaxy, this kid is going down with us. Now push!
OUTSIDE THE CARGO HOLD
Kaya finishes adjustments on her suit and helmet.
KAYA: Alright. Let’s get this ship out of ‘sphere.
Pilar puts her hands on the wheel of the door.
PILAR: Captain?
KAYA: Yes?
PILAR: It’s good to have you back.
KAYA: Don’t get used to it.
Pilar cranks open the door. Kaya steps through and Pilar shuts it closed behind her again.
INT. – CARGO BAY
The cargo bay is a spacious room with a high ceiling. Crates are stacked around the walls of the room. Kaya walks to the edge of the hole in the center of the floor. Below is the emptiness of space. Kaya tethers her suit to a crate. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and drops into the hole. The screen goes black.
Wow, what a rush! Is this meant to be a show? Because if so it’s certainly one I would watch. Good luck with it, it seems like quite an undertaking, but certainly one well worth it.
I’m not too experienced with script writing, but this looks great. I love the dialog and interactions you have here.
Interesting setting too! Great job!
LOL .. checking on word count every five minutes!
Reminds me of late nights the last semester of graduate school with project deadlines looming. Nothing better than a virtual cup of tea with my “study buddy” and checking what section of the paper we were working on.
Yes, indeed, a sense of humor is a lifesaver.
TWP has been my introduction to and role model for a writing community outside of academics. I assign a great deal of credit to this community for the development of my writing practice.
THANK YOU.
Susan, this is all too real for me. My roommate and I wrote a book in four months and some nights would stare blankly at each other cringing at our word count.
Glad to know we’re not alone!
Thanks for being part of the community, love that you’re here!
Thanks for your comments and all your contributions to this site. I value your insights, which enhance my writing practice.
Great post, Kellie. I completely agree about the importance of having some form of writing group or friendship for mutual motivation and support. Some of the greatest writers have been part of writing groups that shaped their work (I think of C.S. Lewis and Tolkien’s much-loved fantasy series and the importance their writing group at Oxford, the Inklings, played). Thanks for sharing.
Thanks Bridget!
We just won’t get any better if we don’t have people bold enough around us to tell us the truth.
Thank you for the great sharing Kellie. It really helps me to boldly post my notes below for your and other writers’ comment. Hoping here 🙂 I am not a writer but had joined a writing class recently. I started to practice writing by putting my thoughts or whatever that I just experienced into notes and post them on Facebook once in a while. Planning to make it a weekly routine though. So here is my note. Thanks for reading and editing 🙂
Please don’t burn your leaves
This morning when I was clearing my Inbox, my eyes stucked on an email sent by my mindful youngest son, Ryu, on July 1, 2015 at 2.42 pm. He complained about our gardener burning leaves.
I remember that evening, when I was about to leave my office, I grabbed my personal phone and start opening messages. I was shocked to read the latest email from Ryu : “If I die because of him, I will haunt him for life. http://www.hort.purdue.edu/ext/burnleaves.html“. Then I clicked the link he included.
I sat down, shocked and imagined how dissappointed and stressful Ryu was that time; not receiving any email reply from me for hours, smelling bad odors and inhaling poluted air from the smoke, thinking of his and our parents’ health who stay with us, while Pak Peno, our gardener, kept on burning leaves outside of our house not knowing how Ryu felt.
Ryu always so concern of everything that relates to health, especially that of my dad who miraculously healed from lung cancer in August 2007 and just healed from pancreatic cancer that was diagnosed in September 2014. He understands that smoke is bad for my dad.
Moreover, Ryu himself is alergic to smoke, dust and the like, that he really hates smoke. Ryu even once asked me to put “No Smoking” sign in our living room so that everyone can read and aware to not smoking in our house.
I could imagine how the leaf burning has broken his heart. I called back home and found out that Pak Peno finally stopped burning leaves after Ryu’s continuous complaints that afternoon. He finally listened to Ryu. I was relieved.
Some people may be still aren’t aware that burning leaves is dangerous, like in the case of our Pak Peno. We’ve been telling him not to burn any kind of leaves and or trash all these years, but this time he forgot and did it for the sake of fast and effective cleaning and because he wanted to use ash from the burned leaves for those plants he was taking care of. We resolved the matter that night though. In his sweet smiles, Pak Peno said that he understood why Ryu insisted for him to stop the leaf burning.
Although I know, that now Pak Peno is fully aware of the “NO LEAF BURNING” rule in our house, I decided to have a 7 minutes serious talk with him again today, 22 August 2015, to discuss about it. Our discussion is fruitful. He is aware that it’s his own health that is firstly exposed to the danger of the leaf burning, then others who happen to inhale the smoke. “Never and will never again, even in my village” he answered, when asked whether he still do the leaf burning or not.
It is good to hear that Pak Peno is aware of the air pollution caused by leaf burning and it’s effects on people’s health. This will encourage him to patiently do bagging and composting instead, as he used to. Hopefully he can advocate his circles to have the same awareness and dare to say “Please don’t burn your leaves.”
May this simple notes encourage many people to also embrace the habit of not burning leaves surrounding their housing complex and dare to say “Please don’t burn your leaves”.
Have a good rest everyone … Nite …
This is a very interesting story. I think this is a good start, but I am wondering what kind of genre this story is? Are you wanting to inform people about burning leaves, or is it a call to something deeper?
I think it would be interesting to elaborate on the relationship between you and your son and that backstory.
Great start, thanks for joining our community! 🙂
The best stimulus for finishing & publishing my new novel within my editor’s strictures was to spend a day sailing in Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, gathering chapters as ciphers in my head whist tending to sails, lines, sheets & tiller (God & Guinness provide the wind) and then rushing home to a crowd of hooting scholars, border collies and sheep to sit in a stout chair with a dictionary. Blog in Scots: https://davidtjohannesen.wordpress.com
Very good tips.Iam also a writer of professional resume writing service.I believe exactly what you said is right.
Hi everyone. I’m new to this community of writers. I’m going to show you the first chapter of a new story I’m writing. I will tell you up front that I struggle with tenses. I have found that I go from 1st person to 3rd person and I’m not certain how that happens. If you all could please give me some tips on how to stay in ONE person throughout, it would be helpful. I’d love to try writing a story in 2nd person, but that’s for another day. This is just a very raw draft. Let’s call it Sophia’s Story for now:
Sophia slammed the bedroom door behind her and threw the
worn messenger bag on the chair in the corner.
As she stood staring at the full length mirror, she was taken back by
the reflection in the mirror. Sophia
stood perfectly still. The antique mirror
that her mom had given her when she came to Boston, now mirrored back a skinny,
curly-haired, tired looking young woman.
Were those circles under her eyes?
Sophia knew she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Mid-terms, deadlines, part time job and study
seemed to zap any extra time for sleep.
At times Sophia barely recognized herself. Today was one of those days. Her brown curly hair was pulled up on top of
her head in a ponytail. Tendrils of
curls had worked their way out of the hair tie.
With the heat and humidity, all hair was challenging. Hers was impossible. Why
was it that everyone loved her curls except her? She had a flashback of the long painful hours
spent standing in the bathroom while her mom worked tirelessly on those tight
curls every morning. The memory brought a grimace to her
face.
“It hurts to be beautiful, Sophia. So please stand still and be patient. In the end, it will be worth it.”
Sophia had to smile as she remembered her mom’s words. She actually seemed to enjoy the ritual. As she would work her way through the long
tendrils of hair, she would try to distract Sophia from the pain by telling her
stories of how Nana would do the hair ritual with her as a little girl. According to mom, Nana had no creative genes
when it came to hair styling, so the typical ponytail or pigtails were the
extent of mom’s hair styles. The
occasional bow showed up on a Sunday, otherwise, mom was too much of a tomboy
for bows. Sophia chuckled under her
breath at the vision that conjured up.
Too thick to get a comb or brush through, and too tight of
curls to do anything with. Her mom
always managed to turn her wild hair into something beautiful. Believe it or not, there were mornings when
she really missed those moments in the bathroom. Sophia may be 20 years old, and starting her
3rd year at college 3,000 miles away from home, but she still missed
her family.
Her brother Yuri was just finishing up his last year of
college at Embry Riddle in Daytona Beach Florida in Aerospace Engineering. He always loved drawing and jets. All of those sketch pads and pencils from
Nana paid off in spades. Getting into one of the finest schools in the country
for engineers was Yuri’s dream and now his dream was nearly complete. Next comes his Masters. Yuri was happy as a pig in mud. Sophia smiled to at that thought because it
reminded her of Nana. She was famous for
making strange, quirky statements.
Forget saying, “I love you to the moon and back” like
everyone else. For her, it was, “I love
you more than a frog loves flies… or I love you more than a bee loves honey.” Nana, the writer, author, blogger and an
imagination that didn’t stop. And, Sophia’s
dearest friend. She may be her Nana, but
over the years, the relationship gradually evolved into an amazing
friendship. The fifty year age gap was
nothing. At 70 years old, her Nana was
still spunky as ever. Sophia missed
going out to coffee, having long talks on the couch and sleepovers with
her. Over the last 2 years that Sophia
had been in Boston, her Nana had come to visit a handful of times. Nana loved Boston, and probably would have moved
here if she thought Sophia would stay after graduation. That wasn’t going to happen because Sophia
missed home too much. As beautiful as
Boston was, it was temporary in Sophia’s mind.
Just another chapter in her life.
Sophia missed her mom and dad too much to stay 3000 miles
away. She missed her siblings. Hannah was a junior in High School. Yuri was in Florida. When he graduated, he was doing his Masters
at the Emory campus in Prescott, AZ, which would mean he could go home on the
weekends. Sophia felt like the one who
was missing everything. Her dad had a
business trip to New York City next week, and they promised to meet for a day
in the city and dinner before he had to head back home. She could hardly wait. She only wished mom and Hannah could come
too.
As she continued staring at herself in the mirror, she
remembered the email her mom had sent last night. It said that Hannah had a “guy” friend and
had just asked them if he could come over for dinner on Saturday night. Wow…her baby sister having a boyfriend? Crazy…
Sophia felt that emptiness and loneliness starting to creep in again.
She sat down on the end of the bed. Two more years… That’s it…a total of 18 months of
school. Graduate….go home; get a job;
beg mom and dad to let her live with them until she made enough money to move
into a place of her own. She’d love to
have Hannah share a place with her, but dad would never let his baby move out
yet. Sophia decided she would have to
start working on a plan to change their minds.
Jerked out of her reminiscing, Sophia heard her roommate
open the front door of their dorm room.
She was so grateful that they were in one of the nicest dorms on
campus. It was more like a two bedroom
apartment. Tiny, but private. The bathroom was even smaller. Shower, sink, toilet and room for one person
to stand and brush their teeth. A compact
kitchenette and sitting area rounded out the entire place. Sophia’s favorite part were the windows. When Callie, her roommate wasn’t there,
Sophia would turn off all the lights and just sit on the beanbag and watch the
lights of Boston come on and the boats come in and out of the harbor. The windows would be thrown wide open and the
various aromas of food and life would drift through. Sophia would have her coffee, notepad of
paper and pen and her favorite tunes plugged into her ears. She could sit like that for hours; perfectly
content. The place may be small, but dad
made sure she had the best. She remembers
the weeks before her first year in Boston, searching for a place. Dad
knew she’d be sad, so he at least wanted her to have a room with a view. He knew it would help; and over the last two
years, it had made the difference of wanting to leave or stay. A balcony would have been perfect.
“Hey Sophie, you in their?”
Callie used her long nails to tap on the bedroom door.
“Yep, I’m here. Be
out in a minute.”
Sophia had told Callie a thousand times that her name was
Sophia, but she insisted on calling her everything from Soph to Sophie to
Phee. At this point, it no longer
mattered. She was ok with whatever Callie
called her. She couldn’t have asked for
a better roommate. Callie was clean, smart and focused. She helped keep Sophia on track when the temptation
to veer was strong.
Splashing water on her face; redoing her hair in a
“messy-bun” and throwing on a different shirt, Sophia walked out into the
living room area and went straight for the refrigerator. Looking inside she grabbed a bottled water
and an apple. One thing that was very
different between the girls was their eating habits. Sophia wasn’t a big eater during the
day….typically a piece of fruit, coffee and water were her staples. At night, however, she tended to snack. A lot.
It was a night that she would do her homework, study, catch up on
favorite shows, draw and write on one of her three blogs or catch up on a few
of the writing communities she was a part of.
She had always been a night-owl.
Getting up early for class was one of the hardest
adjustments of college life. Thank
goodness she had a smart roomie. Callie
had helped her out more times than she could count. Sophia was smart too, she just had trouble
taking the time to sleep, which made her a bit out of sorts after too many
nights of less than 4 hours sleep. Man
(or woman) can only do that for so many weeks at a time without eventually
getting crabby or sick.
Twisting off the cap of the water bottle, Sophia took a long
drink. She noticed Callie staring at her
from the corner of her eye.
“What?”
“Nothing…Ok, fine…did you finish your paper for Cromwell’s
class? It’s due tomorrow. You don’t want to start the year off on a bad
foot. Cromwell is hard and can be mean. Don’t piss him off, or you’ll pay for it for
the rest of the semester.”
“I’m more than half way done. I’ll work on the rest of it tonight.”
Sophia took a bite out of the red delicious apple.
“You have circles under your eyes Soph. Why don’t you go lay down and take a nap? I’ll wake you up in an hour. That will give you time to make it to your
Literature class. You look like you’re
ready to fall down.”
Callie was truly concerned.
“I’m good. I actually
got 6 hours of sleep last night. No
dreams, and woke up feeling refreshed.”
Sophia grimaced at the words she heard herself saying. She did get 6 hours of sleep, but she also
spent at least 5 of them in a dream that she was exhausted from when she did
eventually wake up from. She chose to
lie rather than seeing the look of worry on her friends face.
Unfortunately, peoples in my country and lots of my friends seems allergic to read and I had hard times finding my beta reader and feedbacks that I need.
I do envy to most of you, europe and american peoples, who likes to read books.
I am a newbie. But I am in a writers group at my local library that I have found very helpful.
I have found that finding someone to read and comment on your stories and chapters is one of the most difficult parts of being a writer. I began in creative writing as an undergraduate and took workshop courses. In those classes, you read and critique the work of several other writers. And you get feedback on your own pieces. The first piece that I submitted was a short story. My legs trembled under my desk as I waited for the criticism. Some of my classmates liked the story, and some did not. But all had useful comments as to how I could improve the story. I really miss those workshops. “Becoming Writer” is just what I am looking for to help me move forward as a writer.
Each and every little, tiny thing you have said here is utterly and absolutely true.
I host a monthly speculative fiction writer’s circle in my home (every month excepting December) and it has become the high point of my life.
We share so much and it is such a productive thing to do.
We share in a meal, snacks and coffee. We critique each others’ works-in-progress and offer advice to each other. Whilst we line edit for each other, our focus is on story structure, character and world building.
We also devise challenges we issue to the group. Each challenge is to write a piece of not more than 500 words, either a piece of flash fiction, a poem, song or scene. It must be speculative, of course, so fantasy, horror or SF. Each challenge has some randomising function to require certain randomly chosen elements be included.
So for this month, from a challenge I devised, a draw of the cards combined with a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spock means that I must write a piece of dark fantasy featuring zoology and a character who either Loves-or-Loathes the music of Beyonce. I have to present the finished piece at our next meeting at the end of April.
We keep each other on our toes.
So if you do not have a writer’s circle or group, why not start one? Host it in your home. Each member can bring a plate of food or drink and make a party of it, critiquing each others’ works over lunch. I recommend agreeing on group rules regarding submission methods and length limits as well as submission guidelines. We email MSs to each other in the weeks prior the meeting with an upper limit of 8,000 words if the sub is made at least a full week ahead of the meeting, and a 1,800 word limit if made less than a week or more than 2 days ahead. On workshop day, we also allow members to bring in hardcopy MSs of up to 1,800 words as long as there are enough copies for each member to receive one and on the understanding that it is subject to there being time to critique the piece.
Great Write Practice installment, Kellie. Thank you!
I also recommend keeping group membership numbers to a manageable level.
If you have too many members in a physical meeting space, it can prove counterproductive from our past experiences.
Our group has an upper limit of six members, but presently we are rolling along nicely with five and not open to accepting new members.
Most of us met either when we were studying at college together, or at a speculative fiction bookshop we each tended to hover around (before that bookshop closed).
Mara shivered, pulling her ratty, practically obsolete sweater closer around her torso. Tevrah was cold this time of year. And drizzly. A drop of rain landed on her nose, freezing and unexpected. She wished she had warm pants instead of her school dress and her mother’s cardigan.
Her younger brother, Deo, tugged on her hand and pulled her off-course toward a stand selling jewelry. A young woman was standing behind the tables, smiling benevolently at her customers. She eyed Mara and Deo. “We don’t have long,” Mara warned him in their language, trying to smile innocently at the shopkeeper. It wasn’t as if they were going to steal something, but they certainly had the stink of poverty around them, accentuated especially by their thin, dark features. Deo’s hair was sticking up all over the place, his face the only inch of cleanliness on his body. Their mother was quite persistent about the need for washing your face twice a day, even if nothing else was clean. “It is important to make a good impression,” she had warned. Mara could only imagine what the people of this town thought of her and Deo, as she surely looked just the same as her six-year-old brother. She wished she hadn’t disregarded the necessity of neatness that morning. Every sort of person on earth could be observed in this market. The rich, the seedy, the fine, the poor, the gaudy, the drab. And Mara and Deo looked like beggars.
She still had a few coins left in the pockets of her sweater. Her bag was filled with day-old bread, bruised apples, and several rolls of bandages. They still hadn’t found someplace selling sponges for cheap, which was unfortunate since the younger kids cried when you scrubbed them with the rougher brush. And that was Mara’s job. She would have taken a used oil cloth by now to avoid Skya Menyon’s sharp glance whenever she heard the wail of her toddler, who was the whiniest child Mara had ever met.
It had been her job back at the village, at least three hundred kilometers from Tevrah’s town of North Market. They were three hundred kilometers from the place Mara had never left in her life– until now. The people were different here, even not so far away. The area was drizzly and brown and green, filled with grays. The people here had lighter hair, while the skin on Mara’s arm was dark as a macadamia nut’s shell. Her village was all but disappeared, nothing but ashes on the gods’ gentle breeze.
The day after the fires, the women of the village had shorn their hair to shoulder length, Mara included since her fifteenth birthday had passed two weeks prior. She wasn’t used to it. She liked to twirl strands of her hair, mindlessly twist them together as a nervous habit, and with it so short it was hard to wrap her black locks around her index finger. She kept reaching up only for her hand to stop short and sink back down to her side.
Deo was gawking at a gold necklace. The shopkeeper’s hawk eyes stayed locked on him, drawn as a moth to a flame. She was clearly suspicious. “Deo,” Mara hissed. He barely looked up.
“What?” he muttered.
“Stop it.”
“Huh?”
Mara tugged him a few feet away from the necklace, the shopkeeper still watching them. “Stop looking at that like you’re going to grab it.”
“I wasn’t going–”
“She doesn’t know that!” Mara protested. Deo frowned, looking at his grubby hands curiously.
“Is it time for lunch yet?”
“Deo!” she chastised. The woman had begun to emerge from behind the booth. Mara turned toward her, widening her eyes. “Yes?” she inquired politely, switching to Tevranian for the shopkeeper’s sake.
“You kids like my jewelry?” she demanded.
Mara smiled shakily. “I apologize, miss, but my brother, he is not so smart,” she said, patting Deo’s hair and shushing his protests with a hand over his mouth. She tried to adjust the bag on her hip so the woman could peer into it and see there was nothing out of the ordinary inside.
“Oh?” the woman said, raising an eyebrow.
“He does not know how much the necklace does cost, you see?”
She grunted again.
“The cost is too much for us, anyway, because you see–” Mara saw something out of the corner of her eye. A glint of silver. A flash of crimson red. She stopped short, aware of the shopkeeper’s eyes trained on her dubiously. A girl had slipped in behind the stand, wearing vibrant red pants and a gray shirt, hair that must have been white as ivory when it was clean hanging in strands down her back.
“Yes?” the woman prompted.
“Yes…” Mara forced herself to look away. “I, um, we were not taking the necklace.” The fair-haired girl’s hand danced out of her pocket and hooked the bracelet onto a finger. She stuffed it into her overcoat.
Mara stared for a second before coming to her senses. “Hey!”
The shopkeeper whirled around. “What–”
The girl’s green eyes darted up to meet her accuser’s, and then she nimbly slipped into the crowd, that white hair a blur behind her. Mara began to run after her, leaving Deo and the shopkeeper behind, but stumbled over a man’s shoe. He sneered at her. “S-sorry,” she stammered. “Sir.”
A warm, dry hand grasped Mara’s hand in its grip. She looked down to see Deo staring up at her, his hair wet from the rain. “Deo,” she said , trying to see over the crowd’s heads, “go… go find Thyme and Yuri.” She shoved the basket of goods into his hands.
He began to whine, but Mara was already gone. She darted around a fruit cart, a few berries falling to the ground as she bumped it. The boy selling the fruits cursed at her in a language she didn’t understand. Mara kept going. Where had that girl gone? And why hadn’t she yelled “Thief!” and left other people to take care of it?
She was an idiot, Mara reminded herself, that’s why.
She tripped over her own shoes, a size and a half too large, not once but twice. Her gray dress was small on her, barely modest as it ended a few inches above her knees. The only reason Mara could get away with it was because she didn’t look her age. She’d kept a bit of baby fat, and she hadn’t shot up like a bamboo stalk. At least, not yet.
Ah. Under that bridge over there, stretching across the rushing river below, its banks mossy and wet. Mara saw a flash of blonde hair and those strange red pants the girl was wearing before she took off again. By now, the rain was coming down hard, clumping Mara’s dark eyelashes together and blurring her vision. She stumbled over the muddy ground beyond the market, the sounds of the city disappearing from her ears, and ducked under the cover of the old bridge.
It was quiet but for the sound of rain pattering the stone above.
“Hello?” Mara called out softly. There were no footprints in the mud leading off into the forest on the other side of the tunnel, but she couldn’t see where else the girl could have gone. Perhaps she’d disappeared, like in the Yaba’s stories back home. “Hello?” Mara said again, louder this time. She took a tentative step forward, then froze in her tracks when a voice responded.
“It’s not worth that much.”
Mara startled, whirling around. No one. “What?”
“The bracelet,” the voice explained. “Didn’t cost as much as that lady was selling it for.”
“Ay.” Mara didn’t know what to say to an invisible person. The distant sounds of shouting salesman only just reached her ears.
“You can leave and pretend this never happened.”
Mara seethed. “No.”
“Why not?” the disembodied voice challenged.
“You took it!”
“I stole something deserving of a halved coin.”
“What in ny anaran’Andriamanitra is a half coin?” Mara retorted. She wrung the rainwater out of her hair, and it splattered on her already-soaked dress, hanging limp around her knees. She wasn’t sure where to look, as she couldn’t see the person she was talking to.
“Oh, you know.” Mara didn’t. “A copper. Not even a single silver. She was marking it three times its worth.” They didn’t have much of silver where Mara was from.
“And who are you,” Mara said, “to judge?”
“And who are you?” the voice echoed.
“I–” Mara started, then cut herself off. “You are a criminal.”
“Hm.” The girl’s body dropped from the top of the bridge, and she landed perfectly balanced, wearing that red sweater and brown, unfitted pants. Mara stumbled back, surprised at the girl’s entrance, and almost tripped over a rock behind her. “I disagree,” the girl said.
“Y-you–”
“Are quite good at climbing things,” the girl said. She stared at Mara unblinkingly, her green eyes startling against the gray of the day. A gust of wind picked up her wispy blonde hair on its wings. “I’ll tell you what. You let me go, I’ll give you this bracelet.”
“That is not a deal!” Mara said, indignant. “You took it! Here is the idea: give it back and I will not… tell. Tell the police.”
The girl chuckled, flashing a crooked smile, dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth. “Let me guess. You aren’t from around here?”
I always literally write alone, but it’s great to a member of TWP, where we can share our writing and get free, honest feed back.
The reason why I can’t share my writing with anyone in my home town is that they don’t speak English, and my family is not interested. Asking them to read and comment on my work would make them sigh with boredom.
Hi, Kellie. Thanks for inspiring me to renew my membership of the online writing group whose members assisted me during what I consider my most productive period of writing. (http://writersvillage.com) Please delete if inappropriate.
And Katherine — I like the imagery and metaphoric implications of your Sandcastle poem.
Lucky you, Terribly Terrific. Kids are quick to catch typos and other mistakes, and, they give an honest opinion.
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