Throttle
Flowers are way past first bloom, summer in full swing. I can almost see the faint outlines of autumn.
I have this tendency to hurry. I try not to think so much about the things I have set out to accomplish this year and still haven’t. There’s some self-awareness, at least. I try to look at the brighter side. I am on post number thirteen of this revamped blog. I have a second book, unknown to the world still, but ready to pitch. Sometimes, when I have a quiet moment, say, in a bus, my hand itches to do something. I take out a notebook and a pen, but nothing gets written down. There are thoughts, sentiments, a vague heaviness or sometimes a mental whorl, making it hard to reach for words. And, it’s hard to get something coherent down in paper on a moving vehicle.
There are a few things that I do slow. Reading, for one thing. Cooking is another. Some pursuits are meant to be savoured. I should work having this approach on other areas of my life.
Your Prompt: Find a scene in your finished work involving someone in a rush. Rewrite the same scene, but as told by a new character who has a slow, ruminative view on life.
Quick Tip
Is your subplot relevant to the main plot? Check if the two storylines will intersect with or influence one another. If the two stories are running on separate tracks, perhaps they each deserve their own titles.
About Writing Desk
Years ago, I gave up blogging for good. But I changed my mind and here we are. Aside from maintaining a consistent writing practice, my goal is to build a live space outside social media for content that supports the creative process, free of mindless, addictive, and AI-generated distractions.
May your visits here be frequent but brief. The idea is to offer something that will light a spark, not distract from your writing. For this reason, I don’t post Writing Desk on social media. Thanks for stopping by!
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Found Words
“She feels surrounded by sensation—the baby’s flesh, David’s hip, the smell of onion, smoke, soap, beer—enveloped and enclosed. She looks at David, whose cheeks are streaming with tears, and at first she thinks that he is overcome by the sight of her holding the baby and then realizes it’s the onions making him cry.”
—Isabel Huggan, On Fire (short story)
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Leah Ranada 