How often do you find yourself writing . . . when suddenly, a rogue distraction interrupts you? You get a text. Or an email pops up in your inbox. You need to do some quick research to get this scene just right. Or you just have to check Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, just for a moment.
And forty-five minutes later, you come back to your story to realize you’ve barely written a paragraph.
Freewrite: The Solution for Distraction
We all have days when the distractions win and our writing suffers. (Sometimes it seems like that’s every day.) We know we need to focus on our writing. But let’s face it: focus is hard.
A couple years ago, a pair of writers decided we don’t just need more willpower. What we really need is a better writing tool.
They created the Freewrite, the world’s first smart typewriter.
The Magic of Freewrite
There’s never been a typewriter quite like Freewrite. Here’s what we love about it:
The e-ink type. It’s high-contrast, easy to read, and won’t tire your eyes.
The e-paper screen. There’s no backlight, unlike an LED screen, so it looks like you’re writing on real paper. Plus, you can write in direct sunlight with no hard-to-read glare!
The keyboard. The Freewrite keyboard is designed like a desktop keyboard, with real key-switches that make typing feel incredible on your fingers.
The digital sync. Freewrite syncs to Dropbox, Evernote, and Google Drive, so it’s easy to keep your writing safe and edit it later.
With Freewrite, you can take your writing wherever you go—without distractions. Learn more about what makes Freewrite such a powerful tool here.
Win Freewrite
The best part is, we’re giving away Freewrite to one lucky winner! This is your chance to win distraction-free writing with one of the best writing tools around.
Want to enter the giveaway? Here’s how to maximize your chances of winning:
- Click here to go to the giveaway page.
- At the bottom of the page, answer the (easy!) question, which is really just there to make sure you’re a human. (You are a human, right?)
- Then, enter your email address to enter.
- Check your email and click the link in the confirmation email to confirm your entry.
- After you enter, share the contest page with your friends. For each friend who enters, you get 3 more chances to win.
You have a week to get as many entries as you can. The giveaway will officially close on Tuesday, September 5, at midnight Pacific time.
Then, we’ll choose the winners on Wednesday, September 6, and notify them by email. If you’re ready to enter, click here.
What are you waiting for? Enter to win Freewrite now!
Have you ever used Freewrite? How did it help you focus on your writing? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Today's practice comes to you in two steps:
Step 1: Enter the giveaway here and share it with your friends to get more entries.
Step 2: Free write for fifteen minutes.
When you're done, share your writing practice in the comments. Don't forget to leave feedback for your fellow writers!
The prince, battered and weary but alive, opened the door. There lay the object of his quest: the fair princess, lying bound and helpless upon the bed. She looked at him, her face reflecting her joy at seeing him.
Her jubilee transformed into horror, as a sword erupted through his mouth. She screamed in terror and shock. The sword was removed, the body collapsing in the doorway.
Wolfe stood over the corpse, casually wiping the blood from his blade. It took him a moment to see her anguish. “What?” he said with an air of nonchalance. “He stiffed me at a tavern a fortnight ago.”
Love it!
The girl woke to an ache. She coddled her body with her hands, feeling the curvature of her pliable skin, running her fingers over the ridge of her nose. A beat beat of her heart alerted to the location of the pain. It was metaphysical. It resided somewhere ethereal. She felt it in the beats of her hard-that much was real, but it was an existential ache. An oxymoronic pain–both residing in the heart and mind (as her culture dictated) and swimming around the borders of her being.
She felt trapped.
“Get up” Alarmed by the rasp of her own voice aloud she sprung from her recline. Yes get up, she thought, get up, yet remained frozen. Her torso perpendicular to her sprawled legs.
Chelsea had been empty for a few years now. That’s what she was telling herself. That was her narrative. Empty. I am Chelsea. I am empty. I have been empty since Johnson and Lewis fired me 3 or so years ago. After that point the self of “Chelsea” as named has gradually faded into a fuzzy haze, replaced by ‘Empty’. Or synonymous with ’empty’? She wasn’t sure. But she knew she had a definition for empty that may or may not have aligned with the Oxford English Dictionary for that shallow, haunting word. Empty was alone. Empty was purposelessness. Empty was without. Just without.
So She remained there. Perpendicular. Frozen.
Empty.
Excellent writing, Allie. Makes me want to know more: Why was she fired? What is wrong with her? Good job!
He tried to sit up, but the pain in his side became a howl; falling back, he let a swoon and a wave of nausea wash over him. The bandages he had felt as he ran his hands over himself were sodden with blood and shifting themselves loose. With as much care as he was capable, he lay himself back and reached his right hand over to his left side, carefully examining the hurried, but careful, work of the midnight Samaritan. Beneath the bandages he felt the scratch of stitches. Carefully running his hand along the work, it became apparent, from the thickness of the stitch, that he had been sewn up with gut – the tell-tale mark of a nomad, for gut was easily obtained, while thread was sold at high costs by the dentists and tailors. From the tightness of the stitches across his stomach, sides, and calf, he knew that it had been an amateur, but one who had certainly seen his share of need. Thomas, all in all, considered himself a very blessed person.
Taking care to keep his wounds from re-opening, Thomas eased himself up gently. Leaning heavily on his right hand side, he used his left hand to swish blindly about his side, searching for something with which to clothe himself.
Gratefully, due the accident, the trunk holding the wagoner’s clothing had been smashed open; all of its contents were spread among the wreckage, both inside and out. With only a few jarring wrenches at the sutures, he was able to locate what felt like the coarse cloth of pantaloons and the thick wool of undergarments.
The next task was to put them on without hurting himself further.
He was not been prepared for the difficulty of dressing himself – an act which he had taken for granted since childhood. His wounds, though sutured and bandaged, were deep and fresh. Pulling the clothes on caused the pain to explode in his head and body. Pain excruciating enough to make him sweat as though it were a hot August night, not an early February afternoon. The pulling of the skin and muscle against the bones in his calf, side, and across his chest was excruciatingly painful, severe enough to even cause him to lose swoon into a black and white reality once or twice. The pulling of the cloth against the sutures, creating an unscratchable itch, was enough to drive a man crazy.
Getting dressed for a workday was always a challenge. Pathology is a strange occupation: too many dead bodies to really be considered an office job, too government funded to be a completely unorthodox madhouse. Now that I was a chief medical examiner – and particularly since it was my first day – I figured I ought to put some thought into my outfit. But try as I might, I couldn’t convince myself that it really mattered. I would spend most of my work hours wearing scrubs and someone else’s guts.
I’ve never been beautiful, as women go, or fashionable either. I’m five foot five and muscular, with more freckles than a leopard and red hair that’s closer to orange if I’m being honest with myself. When I wasn’t working I could reliably be found in a bomber jacket, jeans, and my ancient green Adidas sneakers. If I was feeling adventurous, I might swap out the Adidas for an equally ancient pair of combat boots. I’m an athlete, and I prioritize utility over style. But I noticed back in med school that the Bend It Like Beckham look doesn’t fly in a professional setting.
After agonizing in front of my closet, I eventually decided on an Oxford shirt, black trousers, and flats. I swiped on a bit of mascara, and, upon assessing the ensemble in the mirror, deemed myself ready to face the day.
I like this………..good for you
I sense honesty here, and that’s what makes this good writing.
Aug 29 – 15 m9nutes writing
The practices seem to be a valuable way to spend time. They force me to put whatever it is I am working on, aside and concentrate on something else. Mind you, it’s all writing and that is the important thing. What I had to put aside was the novel I am working on. I did the draft for the novel over a year ago. Not only did I do the one draft, I did two others.
I had an idea about getting all three polished up and edited before I started putting them up on Amazon. Well we all know what happened to that idea. So here I am finally getting some discipline into place. With luck and the old self-discipline I just might make it this time.
The other thing I have done has been to arrive at the decision to retire. I know working is a great excuse to avoid putting words on paper but I am going to let it go. I am ready for a change. A major change which is scary, no question. But, it is also exciting. More than one person would readily tell me I am dreaming, but that is ok, I’ve had some wonderful dreams in this life and most of them have turned out just fine. Maybe not the way they were originally pictured but fine just the same. I think this adventure will be the same.
Isn’t this what life is for? Don’t we have to try on new things. After all, God won’t have put a tail on the devil of he hadn’t expected us to twist it now and again. So it’s time for me to do some twisting.
One thing I am having difficulty doing, which isn’t a new challenge is keeping my mind on one article at a time. How I hope to be benefit from my floating consciousness is to undertake a study of Scriviner. I believe, who knows if I am right, once Scriviner has been understood and put to use all will be well. Just think, my little head can bounce from one story to another while my fingers put the words in the right spots, for future consideration.
Chances are I will either become very prolific or I will have excessive starts and no endings. Either way, I expect the trip will be fun. At this moment Scrivner, to me, is karma plan and simple. Why do I think that? The main reason is I have never been a manual or instruction reader. This time I am going to have no choice. The manual must be read and I must stay awake long enough to understand the information being conveyed. Am I thrilled about the exercise? Absolutely not. If any knows a simpler way to get around my problem of avoiding manuals, I’d sure appreciate hearing what it is.
There is another challenge, a pretty serious one, I think. I try to write pe
i love to wite horror storys.
give some suggestion on it.
you mite want to begin wit spelling and puntuaton
I’m used to my computer. Thank you.
15 minute writing.
I made a cup of coffee in the outdated kitchen. I hadn’t had perked coffee in decades.
On the small balcony I sat down at Grandma’s bistro set, kicked off my sandals, and prepared to watch the sun sink into the Pacific Ocean. I have always loved sunsets. I took a sip of coffee and placed the cup on the table.
But my thoughts were distracting me from this special time of the evening. Why had Grandmother left this place to me? Why not leave it to Joe or Candy? I don’t have the time or money to update it. How many more personal days can I squeeze from my boss to make the 12 hour drive down the coast? Malibu is beautiful, but I have to sell this place. I couldn’t possibly keep up with the taxes and make my house payments in Monterey.
A warm ocean breeze caressed me and I closed my eyes to the sound of sea gulls calling out. I saw my tall, beautiful grandmother in my mind. She wore a long denim skirt with a white blouse. Her long dark hair hung down to her waist. She looked as outdated as her kitchen, but she was a brilliant professor and I was proud of her.
“When are you going to sign up for my history course, Sarah?”
“I hope next semester, Grandma.”
“I can’t wait to have you as a student, Sarah.” She laughed and walked away. Startled, my eyes flung open. Had I fallen asleep? Why did Grandma laugh at me?
The sun was sinking lower, now reaching the top of the ocean. The world was turning orange above the ocean and the indigo sky. I took another sip of coffee and tried to push my historic research out of my mind. There would be plenty of time for that when I returned home.
Again I leaned back to watch the sunset.
“Did you call Professor Wellington Grandma?”
I turned to find a smiling Robert White coming up behind me.
“Yes. She’s my grandma.”
Robert laughed. “The word ‘grandma’ creates images of old white haired ladies in aprons baking cookies.”
“I can’t imagine either of my grandmothers like that.”
Robert laughed again. “That describes both of mine!”
“Well, nice seeing you, Robert, but I must get to class.”
As I turned the corner, books in hand, I nearly crashed into Grandma again.
“You must sign up for my class, Sarah,” she reminded and then that laugh again.
I awoke. The sun was gone, but the gulls were still flying about calling to one another. But now their calls sounded like Grandma’s laughter.
I’d love to see where this is headed. I already get a sense of setting and several interesting characters. Nicely done.
Thank you Glynis! I really appreciate it. I surprised myself. I think I will start doing this on a regular basis.
I’d also like to see where it goes.
I like not knowing/staring to wonder whether the character is awake or dreaming as the narrative continues. It really could be the beginning of a great thriller!
Which countries are eligible?
The Freewrite team is able to ship them anywhere in the world, so all countries are eligible!
Great! Thank you! (anyway I got a US shipping address so shipping is not a problem)
Scrapping , Scrapping, Scrapping
The effort of all this scrapping seems endless. For days now, in this heat we have done nothing but scrap and it looks as though we have done nothing. Oh you can see the occasional marks of a gouge here and there but really are we getting any where? Will the effort be worth all this in the end?
Some noise other then the sander would help but it is to loud to allow that. Hour after hour I find myself in awkward positions to scrap those hard to reach places the sander won’t reach.
Today I see bear naked, yet there is more scrapping to be done. Oh, will this job never end?
I wonder if that is how God sometime looks at us? I mold and scrap and refine and see so little progress, will this job never end? Will this child never learn?
Or perhaps it is us who is most like this project, clinging to the very thing we should let go of. We could just cover it up, put even a little will cause the rest to come undone. There may be gouges of pain in our life and scars we think won’t heal. If we stay steady and tune out the noise of the world, focused on HIm, we will come out beautiful. Much like this deck project that took for ever in the end it turned out better then we hoped.
My open might have made you think this sounds like a good murder mystery or I am intrigued. that was it’s purpose to grab your attention. The trials we go through should grab our attention and intrigue to what God has planned for us, what lesson He is teaching and what sin He is scrapping away.
I may be wrong, but if by “scrapping” you mean what one does to remove an old finish from wood, then the spelling you’d want is “scraping”. Interesting, the scraping, abrasive removal of the undesirable, as purification. Not unlike the “pummeling if the flesh” the Apostle referred to. Oh, and I believe what you mean is, “bare naked”. Keep writing!
Re the “Freewrite” contest. I have tried to enter twice, but didn’t get a confirmation email either time. Has this happened to anyone else? If so, how was it rectified?
The images from the Vegas mass shooting are horrible one woman looking as if she’s merely tripped and fallen but you know she’ll never move on her own again. Numbers dead numbers wounded. a crazyman with, how many, 15? semi-automatic rifles — I now know what a bump-stock is, or at least what it does — sitting in his 32nd floor sniper’s nest, having rigged cameras to alert him when police arrived so he could off himself. Innocence mocked and raped, violently and it had to’ve been hatefully. Pre-meditated, lying in wait. NRA, ever-generous, wiling to see the bump-stocks regulated — but not a molecule more of course “from my cold dead bloodguilty hands” and all that. Murder as prudent security measure, all for more profits for the manufacturers. AR-style rifles in pink for the *smart* missies. The belligerent law-abiders. “Vengeance is MINE m0+%&)#v(%&) ‘s” and just take a look around at the society we’ve got as a direct result of that “I’m-a-law-abidin’-citizen-BUT” attitude. Of course one of them can fix me in their sights and say “What are we supposed to do when Charley-Manson-Ted-Bundey-Ottis-Toole-tha-gubm’t-Osama-Ansar-and-all-the-saints?” and around and around you go. My own belligerence in pursuit of my preferred is a polarizing energy in itself and these days it feels like me, and then the rest of the world, a freeze-out to end all freeze-outs but I am who I am. Would not want to change that, either in absolute terms or along some homogenizing, co-opting, conservatizing scale. Feels like a lonely position to take these days when even many LGBTQ’s have jumped on the “family” band-wagon with alacrity.
[self: censored]
And I can’t help it if people find that old-hat or inappropriate, it’s *me* and perfectly appropriate to the human being that I am. . . .
I feel like a child in time-out assigned to write out his feelings — as a way to get at “why he acts this way”. Well, here ya go, nurse ratchett. I “act this way” because it feels right, and all the push-back from the wannabe gate-keepers has succeeded solely in turning me off virtue, probably forever.
Solidarity and bodily fluids, including, this week especially, but by no means limited to, the red stuff. The Rain that’s Gonna Fall aint the only thang hard. Sex doll. Aboard my powerchair with me, shopping FamilyDollar. I ainteven got no doll nor no powerchair, still (awkwardly as ever) walkin’ around with a gleam ‘n my eye and half a [censored]. I been naughty, Sister. Boy I’m glad I never was no catholic, they’d’a’ blistered my butt worse’n the Baptists did!