Write about leaving (e.g. a young adult leaving for college, a wife leaving her abusive husband, a writer leaving for a great trip).
Write for fifteen minutes. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, please be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers.
Photo by Adrien Sifre (Creative Commons)
Today, I’m leaving for Paris. From the bottom of my heart, thank you to all of you who supported my Kickstarter project. It was funded successfully last night. We would have gone to Paris anyway, but you enabled me to write something I’m passionate about. Thank you for helping me be a writer. The next time we talk, we’ll be in Paris!
Here’s my practice:
The leaving is unglamorous. The smell of bleach from cleaning the bathroom, the kitchen. The gritty way your clothes feel on your skin after rushing from task to task: Target—check. Dry cleaners—check. Bank—check. I save packing for last so my hanging clothes don’t get as wrinkled.
I wonder if Hemingway was stressed before he went on one of his thousands of trips? Did he get stressed by details? Or did he float seemingly on a cloud of literary ease? Do you think he got constipated while he traveled, too?
Let’s agree to zen-like peace from now on. The trip starts now, this moment. In fact, we aren’t leaving. We’ve already left. Let’s agree to take everything in, to let it change us as deep as it may, the religion of the road. All the work is done now (whether it is or isn’t). Now is the time to watch life unfold.
I imagine how the road will be. Wide, the sunlight golden as we saunter toward Atlanta going 75. Hartsfield-Jackson is pleasant enough on a Friday early in the afternoon. We board. We have a seat empty between us where Mars can sit. When we arrive it will be midnight our time but dawn there. We will have coffee and a warm croissant. Mars will sleep on my shoulder.
I’m ready. It’s time. Let’s go.