This month The Atlantic published The Power of Two—an article about the Beatles’ Paul McCartney and John Lennon and the genius that came from their writing partnership.
It got me thinking.
About great partnerships. About great marriages. About the concept of working with someone else to bring your work or your life to the next level. Most of us—myself included—push through our writing projects alone. But have we got it all wrong? Should be we be writing with someone else?
Photo by The Atlantic
A Writing Partner Provides Balance
Think about a time when you and another person “just clicked” on a project. What was it about the partnership that made it work so well? I have a guess.
Balance.
Great partners balance each other out in significant ways. Sometimes it’s just a personality thing—one has unyielding passion, the other the discipline. Other times it’s technical—I’m good at structure while you’re skilled at crafting the details. Either way, when the final product is completed—and great—there is a sense one could not have achieved it without the other.
I don’t think such an experience is limited to two writers working together. Such greatness can be achieved between writer and editor, for example, as well.
Still, for the most part writers are willing to work with an editor. They are less open to the idea of actually writing with another person. But what if a partner is all you need to get out of your slump?
A Writing Partner Can Inspire You
How many blog posts have we written at The Write Practice about finding inspiration? Or maintaining it as we approach the midpoint of our manuscripts? The other things going on in our lives—jobs, family drama, etc.—often leave us feeling unmotivated to write.
Hearing another person’s thoughtful ideas on a regular basis or seeing them work their magic can be inspiring. If you’ve found a talented match, he or she will come up with ideas you never would have thought of—and they will work. You partner will tweak your prose in a way that actually does make it better or teach you techniques that you’ve struggled with for years simply by their example.
And you will do the same for them.
It’s inspiring to see someone else at work and to be appreciated for yours.
A Writing Partner Provides Companionship
Let’s face it, the process of writing can be a solitary one. At some point we get to interact with people—conferences, book signings, writing groups–but we can’t escape the hours upon hours alone in front of our computers.
A writing partner can provide companionship both with their physical presence and via the mental connection you have formed by working together.
Of course solitary periods of writing will not completely go away; however, if you’re working with another person, you will have to meet with them regularly to make sure you’re on the same page. Also, it’s comforting to know that someone else understands this crazy concept you’re trying to produce, including all of its nuances and details.
Tell me about some great creative partnerships. Tell me about some great personal ones. Why do you think they worked?PRACTICE
Let’s work together! Take fifteen minutes to write a creative piece and share it below. OR take fifteen minutes to continue a piece that another reader of The Write Practice has shared. See if you have produced greatness!
Hi:) Should I post a chapter me and my friend published on wattpad? 🙂
Yes!
Thnx Choe! :):):)
My husband, Dave is a great collaborator. I like to read my pieces to him as I’m pulling details together. He’s a pretty insightful guy.
Here’s a recent story. Thanks for letting me share it.
Just Keep Swimming
On less than three hours’ sleep, I frequently opened my eyes, still very, very drunk. But everything was different. Gone was that ‘rarin’ to go’ energy of the night before. In its place, just dopey exhaustion. Heading in was always better than pulling out.
I’d brush my teeth in the shower and try to get it together. I stood in the bathtub for a few minutes, worn out and bloated. Waves of nausea crashing against the walls of my insides, heartburn rising up the tube of my throat. Dry heaving seemed to clear my head. Not much to get rid of, but still, somewhat productive.
I’d watch my bile circle the drain, hypnotized by the swirling yellow design. I swished at it with my big toe. Cupping some warm water in my hands, I rinsed my mouth and spit. I used yesterday’s clothes to dry my back and shoulders.
*******
I seldom had any drugs left in the morning. A little speed, perhaps – not even enough for a substantial bump. I always promised to save some, and I tried. I hid portions from myself as soon as I got home, before my mind shattered. I’d squirrel away small bits, here and there – wedged between some shirts in the closet, behind the stereo, tucked inside a shoe.
I’d forget and remember all night long, turning the place upside down.
Wait. Where did I put it? The panic, and then, celebratory relief.
Until all the lonely cocaine was gone. And there was nothing left to do but drink. After many hours, I grew weary but resisted sleep. I loved being fucked up and drunk. I didn’t want to miss a minute.
Every previous evening, I planned to care about all things having to do with the following morning. I crawled up into my head and prepared for a busy next day. My mind spun around the wheel of a very private universe where no one could keep up with me. I was unstoppable! I just didn’t have much to show for all my efforts.
And come sunrise, with its unbearable promise and bold sense of purpose, my illusion of imaginary progress collapsed. I was lost. And late for work again.
*******
Once dressed, I half-ran to the train. My head throbbed with each pounding step. I mentally shuffled my list of excuses as to why I couldn’t arrive on time. I convinced myself that the company was lucky to have me. I did a fine job, once I eventually showed up. Typing and answering phones, friendliness with no extra charge. Sure, I was a handful, but I worked the human angle very well. So smart, I thought I was. And God forbid my supervisors expressed displeasure with my behavior. They automatically became unsympathetic bitches and assholes.
Standing on the subway platform, my fatigue was unbelievable. If I got to sit, I could be unconscious for thirty minutes. I loved the two-seater near the conductor’s booth. I leaned my face against the cool, metal wall. I’d fall out hard and wake up with my mouth hanging open. I often missed my stop. Racing back to my building – eight, ten and twelve blocks. I arrived at the job in a pool of sweat.
And oh, the days were long. The tension was relentless. I couldn’t wait to pour myself another drink. The hour or so at lunch broke up the monotony. I took quick rides to score my dope, so I was high again by quitting time. I’d buy my wine and drink a big beer on the walk home. Once the door was shut, I prepped my gear for the evening’s activity. My big plastic beaker filled with booze, pills and powder in a baggie, razor blades and straws. With these little tools of the trade, I could disengage from the world and its restrictive hassles. I was free to roam around the personal jail of my own design.
I played music really loud. I watched movies I couldn’t concentrate on. I took things apart and tried unsuccessfully to put them back together. I picked at my face in the mirror. Very busy – with brief, uncomfortable gaps in between when everything was still. I must have been asleep, but it was almost impossible to tell. The time was not restful. It felt more like waiting.
*******
God love the women in my office. They liked me and tried to get close. I was lonely, but I could not connect. They seemed to have rich, meaningful lives. I had my drugs and wine. For me, these things came first. I took advantage of every relationship. I disappointed people and pushed them beyond their limits.
Lisa was my office manager. She and her fiancé shared a place on Staten Island. They were planning to get married. I know she truly cared about me. She didn’t want me to get fired.
“I have a good idea,” she said. “Why don’t I call you in the mornings before I leave the house? Just to make sure you’re awake.”
“That’d be great,” I found myself saying.
This is gonna suck, I thought.
I never heard the phone ring but came around to Lisa’s voice on the answering machine. I’d crawl off the mattress and yank at the cord.
“Hello, yes,” I breathed into the receiver.
“Good morning!” Lisa’s greeting was enthusiastic and hopeful. “Are you up?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“Okay, then. See you in a little bit.”
I closed my eyes for just a minute, and two more hours fell on top of me.
I truly could not understand how people were up and ready for things. An early workout, coffee and the newspaper, a predictable commute. Everything in my life was hysterical drama. That’s all I knew. I thought people who didn’t drink and get high were boring. I tried to convince myself that I chose my chaos, that my life was so disorganized because I was special and creative.
I found myself envisioning what normal folks’ twilight lives were like. Eating meals and getting enough rest. They watched their favorite TV programs and chose outfits for work. Dogs were walked, children were fed and bathed. Teeth got brushed and alarm clocks were set. Then, they slept.
With each dawn, the rest of the world got out of bed and started their day.
Sometimes, I would cry when I woke up. I was always in disastrous shape.
*******
“Mary, are you drunk?” Lisa asked me.
“I was. About four hours ago,” I replied. I thought this answer was funny.
“I can smell it, you know,” she said.
I’ll never forget how surprised I was, how this news hit me. I had no idea that my co-workers might be questioning my condition. I couldn’t believe my drinking was being discussed behind closed doors, as if it were a problem that wasn’t just mine with which to contend. I told so many lies, I was certain I disguised the truth with fantastic confusion. I thought for sure that my bosses didn’t know what they were looking at.
*******
I crawled up the subway stairs on a Monday. New York was extra loud, with ambulances and police cars everywhere. The intersection was covered in cops, directing traffic and steering pedestrians away from a frantic situation on the corner.
I saw the candy first. It poured out onto the sidewalk slowly – chocolate bars, licorice and gum. The newsstand it came from looked like it’d been crushed by a giant. The walls were busted in and the magazine racks, demolished. You could see straight through the roof of the kiosk to the blue sky that dropped a grown man to the ground in the middle of rush hour.
People were suggesting he’d jumped from the ledge, seventeen stories above the Duane Reade. Apparently, he woke up that morning and came to work. He got in the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. He walked down the corridor and stepped right out the window.
When the firemen pried the front of the newsstand from its frame, I caught a glimpse of the man’s face. His body twisted up so badly, just resting on all those snacks and sweets. The whole thing, almost too strange to understand. Plus, I was still kinda drunk.
“C’mon, folks,” one of the cops said. “Let’s keep it moving. Nothing to see here.”
In a way, he was right. The damage was done. And we didn’t really know what we were looking at. There was nothing we could do, so everybody just kept walking.
Sometimes, I think about my weird and lonely existence. It wasn’t really a life, just movement without direction. Like stirring a jar with a dead goldfish in it. For a minute, it looks like he’s still swimming.
Keep writing! As a former drunk myself, this is a powerful piece. I want to know what happens.
Thank you, Laura. I am sober thirteen years. It is much easier to write about these things now that I’m not living them anymore. 🙂
I haven’t had a drinking problem, yet this is familiar to me. I have had mental health issues that made my life chaos. Trying to make regularly scheduled appearances at work, and feeling so detached from the others. Wondering what they must think of me, showing up a hot mess every day. I care about this character, and I hope you write more about her.
Thanks for your comment, Avril. The more I share with folks, the less alone I feel. I hope it’s a similar feeling for you.
My friend and I wrote this on wattpad. The name of our book is Fighting Love and here is the first chapter! The first part is written by me and the second part by my friend:)
Chapter 1
I never knew I’d hate hospitals so much. People just try to die here. Right now, one of them is my mom. I wish I could talk her out of it. It’s not her fault though. Cancer is the one to blame.
I haven’t seen my mom’s real smile for a long time. Though she tries to pull one everytime she sees me. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Cancer got rid of her beautiful face. It’s pale white now and full of wrinkles which shouldn’t be there. Her rosy cheeks has been replaced by saggy and bony ones. She’s underweight now, skin sagging and bones protruding. Her clothes are too big for her. Her ones thick and silky, fiery red hair like mine is now dull and thinning. It freaking hurts to see her like this.
I’m waiting in the waiting area to get called by the doctor and for her results. I’m dreading it like hell. There are other waiting too and some of them are silently sobbing. It’s making hard for me it not do the same. I’m trying not to break down. I close my eyes and take deep breaths to distract myself.
After a few minutes, I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up. It’s my best friend Cara. Her Barbie blonde hair is in a side braid and her sapphire blue eyes are sad. I don’t see her bubbly and cheerful personalty often now. She sits beside me and I lay my head in her shoulder. We’ve been best friends since first grade and my mom is like her second mom. She’s cried a lot too.
The nurse comes out of the doctor’s office and announces softly my mom’s name, “Sophia Dawson.” Cara and and I get up from our seats and make our way towards the office. The nurse smiles and we enter, hoping to hear something good.
We sit on the two chairs opposite the doctor who looks up from his computee screen at me and smiles. I can tell it’s a sad one. “How are you doing, Piper?” He asks softly. He’s been my mom’s doctor ever since she had cancer and knows me well. “Plain old me, doc.”
“I need you to be as strong as you can, Piper.” This means bad news doesn’t it? I just nod. What else can I do?
“Your mom has been getting worse. We are doing everything we can but it’s not working much. Piper, she has two or three months left.”
I feel something cool on my cheeks and realize it’s tears. I can’t cry now, but it’s getting real hard. How am I going to live without someone with whom I’ve been living with all these seventeen year of my life?
After the doctor tells a few more things, we leave the office and go to our mom’s cabin. She’s asleep. Cara insists on staying here with me but I tell her I have to go somewhere. She hesitantly agrees and leaves. I kiss my mom’s forehead and leave the hospital.
I have to get it all out. All the hurt and pain inside. It’s the only alternative of crying for me. I need to vent and I know the perfect place to do that.
As I arrive at the warehouse, I quickly go into the locker room to change my clothes.
I was walking around the neighborhood when I found this warehouse. I was fifteen years old. I’m used to come here whenever I’m mad, upset or to just clear my mind. But right now, I want to break everything. Knowing that your mother has only two or three months left to live is not satisfying.
Tying the shoelaces, I stand up and look in the mirror. My outfit consists of a sport bra, yoga capri pants and Nike sneakers. Pulling my hair into a ponytail along with a headband, I bandage both hands before walking out of the room.
Positioning myself in front of the punching bag, moving my head side to side, as I start concentrating on my punches. I’m letting all out in this punching bag and if I have get to have more strength, I think I’ll be buying the warehouse another punching bag.
I punch hate, punch cancer, punch punch punch.
“Hey, hey, hey , slow down.” A deep voice says from behind me. I grab the punching bag, stopping it from moving as turn and face the person who interrupted me.
“What?” I spat, bending down and putting my hands on my knees catching my breath.
“Rough day?” The guy asks, giving me a bottle of water.
“You could say that,” I answer, taking a swig from the bottle and giving it back to him. I turn around and position myself again. The guy walks in front of the punching bag probably to watch that it doesn’t break or fall from the ceiling.
“Your boxing stance and foot placement are wrong,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Your boxing stance and foot placement are wrong,” he repeats.
“How so?” I ask
“It’s supposed to determine you’re offense, defense and footwork.” The guy explains “You throw some good punches but you’ll get tired easily. Can I show you, …?”
“Piper.” I say.
“Piper. I’m Christian.” he introduces before walking around and standing beside me.
“Your proper boxing stance will give you good reach with both hands without making you reach to land your punches or vunerable to getting pushed of balance,” Christian explains, moving behind me.
“Place your feet at a shoulder-width distance from each other and place them along the toe-heel alignment line,” I do as he tells me and position myself again.
“Good, now this will help you place your feet correctly.” He said, standing like, five feet away from the punching bag.
Fuck punch cancer punch.
“Bent your knees!” He tells me and I oblige, feeling more power in me. I punch harder and add kicks to it.
“Relax your arms!” Christian keeps guiding me until I hear a grunt.
“Fuck!” The guy cursed “Fuck ,fuck, fuck ,fuck,” I stop punching and look at the guy who’s on the floor, grabbing his baby maker. Christian burst out laughing and I stood there not knowing what to do.
Should I apologize? I mean he was the one in my way.
“Stop laughing you asshole!” He shouts at Christian who’s kneeling on the floor, a hand on his stomach and tears at the corners of his eyes. I join him seconds later, still not knowing what to do.
After the laughing died down a little, I notice how hot and good looking the guy I punched is. I mean, he was built. Starting from his chin which rounded manly and so were his big broad shoulders. He had a hard chest (I know that because he’s standing shirtless) with muscular arms, so strong every girl wanted to be held by them. On his right arm, he had a half sleeve tattoo and I being the nosy person I am, wanted to trail the tattoo. I starred at his exceptionally thin waistline lined by the starting of rock hard abs. His basketball shorts were hung low on his hips, with a great view of his well defined ‘V.’
“Done checking me out?” He asked with a playful smirk breaking me out of my trance. Narrowing my eyes at him I turn around before doing something I didn’t thought I could do to save my life.
I punched him. In. The. Face.
Wow. Raw emotions. Totally real. Good job. We give each other feedback here, so I’ll mention that there are many grammatical errors. In my opinion, it is most important to get the story out. You can go back and clean it up later. So keep writing this, it’s original and good.
Thank you sooo much!!!! And yeah it’s not edited! Plus English isn’t my first language. I don’t know abt my friend tho! Thnx!! 🙂
I could not tell English is not your first language. Really excellent job.
Thnx again!!!
When I was younger, my father would take me out to coffee. Of course, since I was a kid, I never drank coffee – he’d order a babychino and brownie while he sipped his tall, mug of coffee. My parents divorced when I was twelve, I still remember scenes from that particular time very vividly. I suppose my parents married young, and I guess my mum grew up too quickly. My dad has the tendency to flit from interest to interest, his intensity and motivation to do new things always made the world an exciting one… He’d wake up early in the morning to make his own pasta dough. By the evening, perfect little morsels of pasta stuffed with pumpkin and spinach would hover back and forth in the pot of boiling water. The scent of the sauce heating up and pervading through the room coloured the air into a warm a glow of orange. My mum would come back from home mad at the mess he made but content at his abnormally good cooking abilities.
I remember the night before my dad left the house. His plan was to go to India, so he could be reconnected to Buddha (another thing he got into real quickly). When he left silence lingered into the air, his song, his anthem, his music was never played in the house again. And it was deadening me.
A sense of sickness overcame me, longing my for father, wanting insanity to make its welcome appearence in my house. I visited my father’s house… and I saw him there, not in India, not pursing his soulful dream of getting closer to Buddha. Smoke and booze stayed in the air. The scent of regret.
When he found out that my mum had cancer, he cried. I’m not sure why, because she was long gone, a chapter of the past, and if anything a mistake in his past… but he cried.
Wonderful post 🙂 I’ll post something a little bit later that my friend and I are working on.
Operating solo here…
Best friends Kristy and Mary were thirteen years old, and adults described them as “good girls.” They did well in school, didn’t run with the “wrong crowd”, and obeyed their parents. Both of them were being raised by single mothers who worked all day, and both young ladies were on their own during summer vacations. This usually worked out well, except for a distinct pattern between the two.
When the two girls were together, they did not cause trouble or go out of their way to create situations, but things did go wrong, such as small kitchen fires, lost wallets, or even clumsy mishaps involving broken household items.
When it was time for summer vacation, both girls were warned by their mothers that they would be allowed to spend time together, provided that there were no problems. They would not be granted leniency on even one issue. If either parent heard of anything slightly out of line, they would be banned from each others’ homes.
Mary suggested that, as they enjoyed swimming, they spend the mornings at her house, watching daytime TV and playing Parcheesi. After lunch, they could walk a few blocks to the public pool, and swim until each child had to go home to meet her mother for dinner.
For the first few weeks, this was a perfect plan. Kristy and Mary walked to the end of Mary’s block, turned left, walked three blocks more, and went directly into the pool office. After a few weeks, they noticed that there was a woman who worked in her garden every afternoon. Each time they passed her, she would look up from her garden of fragrant, showy pink roses, and wave.
After a week or two, Kristy and Mary stopped to say “hello”. The gardener’s name was Dorothy. Dorothy, with dyed red hair, introduced herself as a retired artist, seventy years old, and living in the home with her husband, Robert. She explained that Robert was a little older than herself, and couldn’t hear very well. Dorothy laughed easily, asked many questions about school and family, and easily made small talk.
After another week or two, she invited the girls into her home, for ice tea and cookies. Feeling at ease, and not worried that this was an adult to be wary of, both girls accepted the invitation. Soon the new after-lunch routine was to walk to Dorothy’s house, chat in the garden for five or ten minutes, then move inside to share tea and cookies. During these visits Robert, Dorothy’s husband, did not speak. To the girls, he did appear to be at least ten years older than his wife, and moved with difficulty. He smiled and nodded while the ladies watched soap operas and chatted. Robert usually nodded off after about a half hour, and by unspoken agreement, the visit was over. Kristy and Mary walked to the pool after that, and spent the next few hours swimming and playing water polo.
Near the end of the summer, Kristy and Mary were surprised during their afternoon visit, when Dorothy said Robert was a retired poet, and he’d like to share some of his poetry. Mary, who only read anything when absolutely necessary for a grade, rolled her eyes and declined the invitation. Kristy, who did like to read, and who felt badly that Mary had so brusquely dismissed Robert, agreed to read some of his work.
Kristy was surprised when, instead of bringing out notebooks, Robert beckoned toward the hallway. Dorothy, giggling on the sofa with Mary, waved her down the hall, saying that she had illustrated much of Robert’s beautiful poetry, and it was framed on the wall right by the living room.
Accepting Dorothy’s explanation, Kristy followed Robert into the hallway, and looked up at the framed pieces arranged there. Before she was able to make out the wording in the dimmer hall light, she was able to see that Dorothy’s illustrations were blatantly pornographic. Inside each frame, whether large or small, were lifelike depictions of sex. Kristy, at 13, was familiar with some of the more bread-and-butter type sex depictions, and then she noticed there were also illustrations of activities that she would have not imagined, at least not at 13.
Staying calm, trying to wear her poker face, Kristy pretended that looking at such images was not at all surprising, and squinted her eyes to read the text, expecting to find love poems from Robert to Dorothy. Instead, she discovered that the words were poems in celebration of physical sex of all types. Much of the language was graphic, and used slang words for body parts and sex: “dick”, “boobs”, “fuck”.
Kristy could feel her face and neck grow hot, and she knew that she was blushing. Unable to speak, and suddenly feeling betrayed, she started to step away. Robert, the supposed near-invalid, grabbed her wrist with a secure grip, and leaned in. Kristy turned her head in time, so that Robert’s wet, drooling kiss landed on her cheek, not her lips.
Keeping the straight face, Kristy pulled her wrist free, walked briskly into the living room, and announced crisply to Mary, “Visit’s over. Let’s go.” As Mary stuttered, “But, but, what?….” Kristy walked out the door, through the lovely rose garden, out the gate, and past the next house or two before Mary caught up with her.
That afternoon at the pool, the “gross” incident at Dorothy and Robert’s house was all they talked about. From then until the end of vacation, they walked a different route to the pool.
Several years later, when Kristy and Mary were 16, Mary heard through the neighbors that a “nice old man” down the street had died. They said his wife, a “sweetheart who has that gorgeous rose garden”, was devastated. Over the years, especially during summers when they swam, the girls had mulled over their feelings for Dorothy. They wondered if they should feel bad for her, that her husband was such a pervert, and chased away her friends. Or, did she know he was going to do that? Was that why she invited the girls in? Neither girl could accept that vivacious, warm Dorothy could have been that calculating. Over time, they had accepted the idea that Robert was an ungrateful, dirty old man, and Dorothy had to suffer for his behavior.
After a few days of swimming and discussing how Dorothy must be doing on her own, Mary suggested that maybe they could be friends with the widow now. There would be no complications. As soon as Mary made the suggestion, Kristy thought it was obviously the right thing to do.
The next day, as Kristy and Mary walked to the pool, they walked down Mary’s street for the first time in three years. Dorothy was in the garden tending her roses, as if nothing had changed. The girls called out to her and waved. Dorothy looked up, with no recognition showing in her expression. Realizing they’d grown and changed quite a bit, they called out their names to Dorothy, and asked her how she was doing.
Dorothy gazed at them blankly for a few moments, then directed her attention back to her roses. She went back to the work she’d been doing before the girls arrived, but in a different manner. Before they spoke to her. she’d been pruning in her usual energetic manner. Now, her arms and legs shifted slowly and heavily, as if she was moving under water. She did not look up again.
Dorothy’s dejected behavior at the end raises questions. Was she feeling badly because of her complicity in her husband’s behavior or because the girls’ got away?
You don’t say why the girls did not report this behavior to anyone.
Adelaide thanks for reading and commenting. The reason the girls do not report the incident is implied in the beginning, when their history of getting into
messes is alluded to, and it is mentioned that if there is another incident, they will not be allowed to hang out together anymore. In this story, I experimented with plot devices we have discussed here, specifically ones that are really hard for me. I let something bad happen to my character, and I did not tie up loose ends. I leave much to the readers imagination.
Alright here it is. this is a story I’ve been writing with my friend. we bounce from me writing to them writing a lot so its a little of both of us. Its the first part of chapter one. I hope you like it.
Solstice looked longingly at the tallest branches of the tree. There, a shining apple hung from a fragile stem. He contemplated on the most efficient way to pluck it.
Footsteps brought him out of his thoughts.
Calmly, he turned at the sound to see who had arrived.
He saw a girl with light brown hair that shown in the afternoon sky. Her eyes were deep set emeralds that glowed with happiness.
He looked at her curiously, his mind wandering to what could make her eyes shine so
brightly.
“Hello,” she said her voice musical.
His lips twitched to a smile. “Hello,” he said timidly, quickly pulling his eyes down.
“My name is Alexis,” she said “What’s yours?”
“Solstice,” the business like side of him suddenly shown, forcing his hand to shoot up for a handshake. Though he did blush a bit after.
She grabbed his hand shaking it softly.
“Did you want that apple?” she asked.
His blush brightened when he realized she noticed. “Well…Yes I suppose.”
“I can help you get it if you want,”
Curiosity rose. “How do you suppose you’ll accomplish this?”
Her eyes sparkled. “I have my ways,”
“Show me.” he said before he could stop himself.
A slight breeze rose and plucked the apple. It brought it down gently landing safely on her palm.
For a moment he stared in alarm. “How…?”
“Well, I have a connection with the wind. That’s the basic idea but it gets more complicated.”
“I…I see…” his steel blue eyes drifted to his feet. he ruffled his gray blue hair as he tried to wrap his head around the concept.
“Alexis…” a voice called in the distance. “time for lunch,”
“I’m sorry I have to go. Will I see you again?”
“Y-Yes.” he answered before he could think.
“Alright see ya,”
Solstice waved hesitantly and turned away. Would he see her again?
He noticed that she had left the apple with him.
“Hey-wa-what? How did? D-did you want this?” He shouted out to her.
It was too late she was out of earshot. He looked from the apple to the girl in the distance. I’ve got quite a list of questions growing, he thought to himself. You can bet we’ll run into each other again. The wind blew across the orchard ruffling Solstice’s hair. He tossed the fruit from hand to hand , turning and walking off in the opposite direction.
This is an intriguing piece of writing. Nice character development. You and your writer friend do a good job. 🙂
Thank you for the comment Joy 🙂
That’s a good beginning. A normal day, then a little magic happens. Good characters, I’d like to hear more about them.
Thank You Avril
Sounds interesting! I like the way you explained how she got the apple out of the tree, “A slight breeze rose and plucked the apple. It brought it down gently landing safely on her palm.” Cool! : )
When the boy said “Hello” and quickly pulled his eyes down, it seemed a little redundant by adding that the boy said it timidly. Just a thought.
I like the description that his eyes were steel blue. But you said “his eyes drifted to his feet”, and it kind of created an image of his eyes literally drifting to his feet. Maybe you could find another way to word it, like “His gaze drifted to his feet”, or “his gaze dropped to the ground”.
You wrote a great piece and I can’t wait to hear more. Good luck! : )
Funny you should mention these things. They are both written by my friend. I’ll bring them to her attention and we can look at them. Thanks for the comment. 🙂
Thanks for this post, Monica. I was just thinking about this very topic lately. 🙂
Here is a prompt that someone suggested I try. I need to portray a certain emotion using the five senses and without naming that emotion. I’d love feedback. Can you sense the emotion I’m trying to portray?
The cold creeps up my spine. I shiver and cross my arms as if holding myself together. I feel like an icicle frozen and dangling from a ledge. My eyes dart around in the darkness searching for an answer. My ears strain to hear every sound, but it is unearthly quiet. The only noise is my heavy breathing and the deafening BOOM that still echoes in my head.
BOOM!!!
I hear it again–this time closer. My racing heartbeat surges warm blood through my body. I’m no longer frozen. I’m sweating. I must run. I must hide. I must find safety.
I lunge forward only to crash into a wall. My hands press against it. It is hard and unyielding. My mind still races forward, through the wall and to safety, but I am trapped.
Good job Joy. I felt the chills and heard the booms causing absolute panic. Keep up the good work
Thank you, Miriam.
I know this is probably not what you are looking for, but it felt physically cold, and sounded loud with the boom. Am I missing it?
In a sense I was trying to portray that, but ultimately I was trying to describe fear. Thanks for your comment, Sandra. 🙂
Oh that makes sense. Thanks for telling me though. Lol, I knew I was wrong at least. I went back and reread your question and you said you were looking for an emotion, and I thought it said a sense. Fear does make sense here.
The emotion I’m getting is terror, and being alone. Good description.
Thank you, Avril.
fear turning to terror is what I am getting….great job!
Thank you, Carmen. 🙂
Sounds like fear. Very descriptive. Too often I read books and the author writes “Joe hurled a book at the wall. He was angry.” If Joe hurls a book, we can pretty much know for sure that he’s mad. So the fact that you just showed fear, without ever using the word, is awesome! : )
Thank you. That’s what I was trying to describe.
I want a writing partner so badly! I think it would be so helpful to have a fellow writer there to read my drafts (and obviously I’d be willing to read theirs).
I love writing with others. It makes it so much fun. Maybe I could read some of your stuff, if you want.
I agree completely. It would be really nice. I would also read something of yours if you wanted and we can swap something some time.
I am going to read over this more in a bit and do the practice. But to start off I just wanted to say how much this webpage means to me. The practices, the community. I think for me I spend a lot of time at home and I enjoy hearing feedback of other writers and seeing their works and comparing. It is a great way to learn. I like the solitariness of writing but also enjoy that there are places with other writers in it so I can get a break now and then.
This also sounds like a fun exercise. I will have to give it a try in a bit and have someone try mine. Sounds fun.
I completely agree with you. This is a great community and I really benefit from the feedback that people give me. The writers world can be a lonely place. Thanks for sharing. 🙂
Thanks Miriam for saying so. Yes it is a bit sometimes.
You’re right. This community is helping me grow as a writer. I feel that I grew slowly, or not at all, on my own. The posts and prompts are excellent, and I appreciate the helpful feedback. The people here are honest with their feedback, and know how to give criticism in a helpful manner.
So true. This site is awesome!
I’m another lone writer who would like to find a creative collaborator. There are times I am at a dead-end, and no matter how much I revisit my work, I cannot find the missing piece. It might be only one word or one sentence, but having another person to offer their input is invaluable. I don’t enjoy working in groups, and I am most comfortable working alone – but when it comes to creativity, the right partner can help to create magic!
Hey, I get you. I can stare at my work and try so hard to figure out what it needs, but most of the time all I need is a pair of fresh eyes. I used to hide my writing from the world (though I share a lot of it with my brother), but I’ve started sharing some of my writing on the Write Practice. It’s great to receive feedback and constructive criticism.
I hate the feeling of being at a dead end. I have experienced that, and it is so important I think to do whatever you can to get out of dead ends as quickly as possible. I have experienced them a lot. Today I was sort of freaking out too because I had read last night that protagonist’s shouldn’t be too depressing otherwise no one would like them. Now I think about I don’t think he is. But I was thinking, what if I had to change the protagonist? That would be instantly meaning I’d have to change the entire story.
I do love when people read my work and give me feedback. It is very uplifting to me, because writing a novel is a long process. Having someone there to share bits and pieces of that helps me personally to keep going from time to time.
I also love reading all the writing that people do on this website. Though I admit it is usually small chunks of fiction at a time and does not cover the whole gauntlet of writing.
I’ve completed four novels by myself, and I can tell, that it was both a joyous and a lonely process. I’ve never had a writing partner, and off the top of my head after reading this post, I could only think of two people I would enjoy partnering with. This is great food-for-thought, Monica. Thank you.
My brother and I used to write short stories together, just for fun. For some reason, whenever he and I teamed up to write something, it was always better than if either of us had done it alone. I’m a detail person with some crazy in me, and my brother’s off the wall hilarious and comes up with the coolest, funniest things that I’ve never even thought of. He is a great inspiration to me and when I write with him, I always think better, and the ideas just flow more naturally. He is the best brother–and friend–in the world.
I have noticed this sort of thing happening with me and my friend writing together. I haven’t brought it to their attention but at some point I really want to write a book with them. Thanks for sharing. 🙂
Thanks for reading! : )
That is so cool!
Thank you. I wish every brother could be as wonderful as mine. : )
Here is the first part os a short story I am working on solo. I am always unsure where to space between dialog. Let me know if or how i should change it:
Michael loved the park. It was his escape from the city within it. Sprouting seedlings, Sand crumbled from boulders, the pond with it’s minno marine and duck tenets sailing the surface.
He pulled his mother around by the hand and inspected the mushroom heads on old sunken tree stumps to the floucent leaves fallen from the limbs far above. His mother smiled and as he lead her on the investigation of his speculations.
“Did you see the snails racing today?” Michael excited
“Did you see the squirrels hiding their treats?” Michael briefed his mother.
She had always seen these things she thought but she hadn’t acknowledged them in sometime.
She was charmed “Yes, Michael” She smiled. “Now, Let’s climb this hill and say bye the Sun”
When they got to the top of the hill they sat down at the peak and looked out over the whole park to the West, the Suns exit. It was a special one, The clouds had parted like orange glowing pillow shades to the sun and unveiled it’s warmth. As they sat there watching mystical reside the human park dwellers below churned oblivious. As the sun sank below the moutains Michael looked down and did’nt see a single soul fixed to what he had given them the everything they had. “Mom, How come they can’t see the sun? They should be saying goodbye.” Michael asked his mother. His mother had to think about that question. “They CAN see it, but they all seem too busy to say good bye. Which is not a good reason. everyone should tip their hat to the sun” She replied. “You know Michael, Whenever I appreciate someone I send them a letter and tell them what i love about them. You should write a letter to the sun. ”
Dear Michael,
You have set a very pretty scene in the beginning, but this beginning does not show or even hint at a conflict or problem which the main character has to resolve. Is the main character the boy? You make reference to saying good-bye to the sun. Is the sun going to disappear?
Did you see the snails racing today?” Michael excited
“Did you see the squirrels hiding their treats?” Michael briefed his mother.
You asked about dialogue and spacing. I would change what you wrote to the following.
“Did you see the snails racing today?” Michael asked as he skipped and ran backwards and forwards. ” Did you see the quirrels hiding their treats?”
This shows he is excited. You need not tell the reader that he is excited; you show it. . We also know that he is talking to his mother. “briefed his mother” sounds too much like a business conversation.
I hope this helps.
The main character is the boy and My reference to saying good bye to the sun was supposed to be endearing/cute way for a little child to look at a sunset.
I really like your way for showing than telling. that is very helpful. That is something I have been trying to practice.
This is going to be a children’s book. There will be illustrations to help communicate also. The conflict builds in the story as the boy realizes more people don’t see the things the way he sees and he becomes a little confused. Like as if your everything you knew was flipped. He sees a different take on the world that he doesn’t want to let go of. Are you thinking maybe it would be better if I got to that problem a little quicker? to draw readers in?
The briefing was supposed to be humor, a little kid briefing seems a bit funny to me and I added it. He thinks of himself as a little inspector.
Thank you for your comment. This a raised some helpful questions.
Even in a children’s book, to keep a child interested there needs to be a problem made obvious early on. What age group are you writing for? You use some words which a young child would not understand: mystical, obliviously, and floucent? Do you mean
florescent?
I don’t think “briefing” would be understood by a child. It just seems out of place in a children’s book.
One other point: I’m sure this is just a draft, but check for grammar, punctuation and run-on sentences.
I had the idea for the story, wrote it and after the fact I thought it might work as a children’s book. It wasn’t my initial aim. I think want to write it without the restraints of a child’s view, then go back and change the words if they might not be about to be understood by a child. Does that make sense? Do you think that is a good approach?
It might not even end up as children’s book. I think it is a story a lot of people could be inspired by or learn from.
Thank you again for your great responses.
I am in the processing of publishing a book about the writing life with a writing partner. It was an incredible experience. It was challenging at times–coordinating everything can be. But the rewards of moving through the process with a friend can’t be matched in my opinion.
I agree that the companionship of another person creates inspiration and energy. However, after the experience of trying to write a piece with four other people, I prefer to write alone. I like the idea and solidarity of writing groups but personally, writing with another person would be very difficult for me. I’m very attached to my creative writing; the solitary nature of writing is what I like most.
The sun high in the sky like a judge looking down from its podium had casted long shadows from lamp posts onto the parking lot. I drank the last of a bottle of Brisk iced tea, stomped on it and threw the flattened thing in a wastebasket next to a cart return and started to walk back to my car.
A car pulled in and glided towards me. My car was too far. I stopped. My eyebrows knit together, scolding him. He kept driving. He approached 10 feet away, but my legs bolted to the ground and I held my hands on my hips. The sides of his mouth pulled in a sickening grin as his car rolled closer. Till he was about a snakes length away from me. With the car about to smash me, I jumped sideways and sumersaulted on the pavement. The car haulted. His door swung open and his pointed black shoe stepped onto the pavement. He walked smugly towards me, as I got to my feet and dusted off black pants.
“I was never going to hit you. Why would I hit you?”
“You wanna fight, just say so?”
“No. Of course not. I came to talk.” He stepped closer. I stepped back, feeling in my pockets for my knife, found its smooth handle and thrust it forward at him. He put out his hand.
“Hey calm down okay? Breathe. See? Doesn’t that feel better?”
“What do you want from me?”
“Me? Oh I guess I would like you to leave me the alone, and stop poking your head in my business. Okay?”
“And if I don’t?”
“You know what happens. The old smeal. You and your family find your lives no longer feel as safe and comfortable as they always have. And you get to know the jungle outside of suburbanville.”
“I don’t care. Do it. If you do, you’re gonna be so screwed.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I think a writer partner would be great, sometimes we hit a wall and don’t know where to go in storytelling.
I listened quietly to the speech the pastor was giving. “Tom was a great man kind to all and never one to lay a hand on anything it’s a tragedy he has left us all so young.” He kept talking.
After awhile he finished and the funeral service ended . They lowered that casket and I watch them throw dirt on top of it. Soon all the other guest left and I sat alone with my mom by my side. “I’ll leave you alone.” She walked back to the car. I sat next to the tombstone as rain fell on me. My black dress splattered with mud.
What a shame. “I miss you dad.” I said my voice cracking. I didn’t cry during the service and I wasn’t going to cry now. “You know how you always said be strong. ” I pause like I was excepting an answer. “Well I’ve been trying and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold on.” I hugged the tombstone since this was about as close as a hug I could get.
My fingers clung onto the wet marble and I finally let go. I stood up and brushed myself off. I walked back to the car. Mom started driving and silence filled the air. I looked out the window hoping that he would at least give me a sign.
We pulled into the driveway and I walked inside kicking off my shoes and quietly walked upstairs. I changed into a t shirt and jeans and pulled on a hoodie. I fumbled in my pockets for my phone and pulled out a piece of paper that shifted though my fingers.
In my dad’s handwriting on a torn piece of paper was. “I love you Olly.” I’ve never cried harder into life.
My writing partner and I have published three novels together, leveraging our partnership for inspiration, bouncing around ideas, filling gaps of experience and knowledge, companionship, commiseration — our list is quite long. We’re not passionate about the same things, and we come from disparate academic backgrounds, but we care about each other even though we live in different countries and rarely “meet”.
Here’s a story I just wrote… would love some feedback.
Speed Dating
Ginny downed two shots of green liquor and pushed up her chest, “Man… this is something I’ll be able to tell my kids about.”
“You sure you want to do this?” Hiro straightened his tie, “We can jump out the fire escape right now. I mean, they have our names and numbers, but if we bail, they’ll never know we were here.”
Ginny looked at herself in the mirror and smiled, “No way. I bought this bra specifically for tonight and I intend to use it. My boobs look way too good not to. Besides, I’m not here for love. I’m here for you.”
Hiro let all the air out of his lungs: “For me to find love?”
Ginny raised her eyebrow, “No, silly. Love doesn’t exist. I’m here because you needed to get the hell out of that house. You need to stop writing those dumb love poems. It’s been six years. She’s not coming back. She’s….”
“Dead as a fucking doornail,” Hiro looked at the floor, “I know.”
“Good boy,” Ginny pulled up the straps on her dress, “now… you wanna bump this before we go out and mingle with all the crazy bitches or what?”
Hiro’s eyes fell upon four strips of white powder, “One to remember?”
Ginny grabbed a rolled up one dollar bill, “One to forget.”
***
As the lights dimmed, a very skinny man with a pink suit, big moustache, bad comb-over, and a smile that reminded Hiro of a Viagra commercial stepped in front of the microphone, “Hello. Hello everyone. Please, ladies. Take your seats. Gentlemen, you have ten minutes. At the end, we will ask each of you if you had any chemistry with anyone. If there’s a match, you’ll get a phone number. If not, better luck next time. No broken hearts. No hard feelings. Now when you hear the gong,” he used a mini-mallet to tap a table gong onstage, “gentlemen move along. Hahahaha.”
In any normal circumstance, the host’s laugh would have reminded Hiro of one of his old college buddies. However, today it reminded him of the Alvin the Chipmunk played in fast forward.
Hiro cracked his knuckles and swallowed. The lights dimmed as scantily clad women and thrift-shop suited men took their places.
A beautiful brunette with a short black skirt sat down, “Pleased to meet you.”
Hiro could feel the sweat pooling in his underwear, “Hiro. Name’s Hiro.”
“Well hello Hiro. I’m Melinda. You seem super cute… what do you do?”
Hiro face flushed, “What… what do I do? WHAT DO I DO? I do all sorts of things… I tutor children. I do income taxes for the underprivileged. I make smoothies at two in the morning in my underwear.”
Melinda smiled, “Smoothies huh?”
Hiro nodded, “Chocolate ones… with strawberries… man, that sounds SOOO good right now.”
The beauty touched her neck, “Oh… that does sound good… Do you have any family? I have three brothers, so you’ll have to fight to get a date with me.”
Hiro’s eyes shifted over to her, “Oh… boy… do I ever want you. I want you, I neeeed you… oh baby oh baby…. WOOOO!”
“I love ‘10 Things I Hate About You’!” she leaned forward.
“Oh yeah, me too. Me too. Is it hot in here? I’m real sweaty…real sweaty…” Hiro reach across the table, picked up his glass, and downed his entire drink, crushed ice and all, “You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough make my stomach do cartwheels.”
The beauty laughed a little, “Well, I don’t bite. I’m not used to being told I’m beautiful either. Pretty, yes. Fuckable, yes. But ‘beautiful’? Not likely.”
Hiro’s mouth dropped open, “Whaaa? That’s bullshit. Bull. Shit. Bull… Shit-tah-tah- tah.” He liked the way the words spat out of his mouth.
“Hiro…” Ginny leaned over from the table next to him and whispered, “Calm down. You’re yelling louder than auctioneer with his nuts in a vice.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Hiro hiccoughed, “She’s fine,” another hiccough, “Ginny you’re fine. Everything is FINE FINE FINE. I have to pee. Can I go pee?”
The smiley man came down from the podium, frowned, and rolled up his flamboyant sleeves, “Is there a problem here, folks?”
Ginny smiled, “We’re fine.”
Hiro piped up, “We’re fine. FINE! She’s fine. You’re fine. I mean, you could use a little bit of cardio, but you’re beautiful as you are,” Hiro squeeked and pointed to the girl with coke bottle glasses, “ So are you.” Even though he had trouble working his legs, Hiro stumbled over to the man in the velour track suit, “And you. Dammit this whole room is beautiful. Why the hell are we trying to impress each other with these nasty suits and dresses? I say, we go to 7-11, buy some Chunky Monkey, and get down to real lovin’: The kind of love that only happens between real people and REAL ice cream. I mean, who knows. One day you’re loving your life, loving your woman, and the next, you wake up with your arms wrapped around a coked-out wife. I mean, who does that? That cupid guy is a bastard. That’s not love. Love is in our secrets. Our ice creams and our seeeeecrets, Life is too GOD DAMN SHORT TO BE DEPRIVED OF SECRETS! I SAY WE STOP TALKING ABOUT DUMB STUFF, GET NAKED, TELL OUR SECRETS, AND EAT MUTHAFUCKIN’ ICE CREAM! WHO’S WITH ME?”
With every eye fixed on his skinny frame, Hiro stood up, deliberately walked over to the bar, and grabbed a gallon of cranberry apple juice.
“I’m thirsty,” he said so normally that it freaked people out even more than him yelling. To remedy his thirst, Hiro downed the entire bottle, gulp by gulp. Halfway through, Hiro twitched as two taser needles stabbed his neck.
“SONOFA.-“
Everything in Hiro’s vision froze, and the floor rushed up to Hiro’s face.
***
Ginny handed Hiro a bagel, “You should eat something.”
“Everything tastes like charcoal and blood,” Hiro said
Ginny brushed his face with her knuckle, “At least you’re alive… and you shouldn’t be. Whatcha reading?”
Hiro put down the card in his hand, “I dunno… some old wedding invite my mom sent me the third time she got married,” Hiro held up the card and read with bravado, “With secrets, comes intimacy, and intimacy breeds closeness with God,” he finished and spun his hand in the air, “What a crock of shit.”
Ginny’s brows knitted together, “It’s not shit. It’s true. You can’t know someone until you can bribe the tar out of them. That’s what trust is. And I know a secret about you and speed dating,” she teased.
Hiro tired to piece back together the previous night, searching for every mistake to never make again. However somewhere between scolding himself and using his tongue to peel the skin from the roof of his mouth, Hiro found Ginny’s soft brown eyes staring into his.
Hiro sighed, “You and twenty other terrified women.”
Ginny laughed a little, “Yeah… but at least they know you’re crazy. As long as you never run into them, I’ll never tell another soul,” she winked.
Ginny’s big lips crinkled into an encouraging smile. It was beauitful.
Hiro stared back and sighed with a grin, “Yeah… at least you know.”