Write a scene or story involving a grandfather.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments section.
And if you post, please be sure to give feedback to a few other writers.
Here’s my practice:
We had dinner with him, the old man, at a trendy steakhouse in town. We went there all the time, and to afford it we steered clear of the steaks and had burgers and margaritas instead. The place was famous for their cocktails and on the drink menu they listed the year of each drink’s creation. Margarita’s were invented in 1941.
My grandfather isn’t related by blood. He’s not actually my grandfather, but that’s not part of the story. He grew up in Los Angeles, the city where all my family found themselves at some point in the middle of the last century. He loved jazz, and would walk through the halls of his mostly-white high school thinking of mostly-black nightclubs they would go to at night filled with smoke and red light and dark men who played music that sounded to him like scotch and dancing and oak wood in the fireplace of a cabin nobody ever went to anymore. I think it was then he realized his family had betrayed him, that he realized his joy and purpose wouldn’t be found in a Presbyterian church building. It was in the dark nooks, the dusty corners of life. It was in the soil and the pads of your fingers sliding along the soft keys of your clarinet. He began to despise his father’s well-coordinated world.
And when Obama ran for office, he voted for him because he was from Chicago, that haven for jazz.