Rise and Write: Prompts 50-56. Week 8

Happy October, writers! 

Welcome to the 3rd month of daily writing sketches! I am glad we made it so far! I wanted to drop it more than once, but thanks to you I see that it actually really helps - not only helps finding the time to write (I now am absolutely convinced that I can write anywhere, any time, on any given subject - which is, frankly, a huge part of being a writer, a huge part of craft). But I find that it also helps with the growth as a writer - it's like when you are a runner, there comes the time when you feel like you can't run any more, and then you catch second breath (or second wind?) - you find more new energy within yourself, and running becomes easy. I still have lots of things to learn about writing (English grammar and vocabulary would be a couple of such things), but I learned that I can catch my inspiration whenever I want to - I learned that I can write on demand. And this is HUGE.

Here are the new 7 prompts for your inspiration, and please do share what you've been learning during these past two months of intense almost-daily writing.

Prompts 50-56. Week 8

50

Write about fingers (or toes). Do they belong to your character? Are they lean and long “artistic” fingers, or short and chubby? All of them in place? What are they good at?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

51

Write about a queen. Is she a real figure in history or a fantasy character from your favorite fairy tale? Is there some thing about her you find admirable or enviable? Is there something that you dislike about her or her status?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

52

Write about a door – wooden, glass, heavy, tall, Dutch door, garage door or a magic door (Open, Sesame)…

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

53

Write about a village, real rural countryside. Do you idealize it as many writers and poets have done? Or, as Agatha Christie, see its dark side?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

54

Write about changing seasons, that very particular time in the year cycle when it is not Autumn yet, but already passed Summer…

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

55

Write about a suitcase. Is it a brand new thing from a department store, a charming vintage or a ragged old thing that saw the world? Describe its smell, shape, feel…

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

56

Write about feeling sorry for something you have done or something you have not done. Remember that you can always use your character!

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

#46 Chores; #47 Bird; #48 Wrinkles

46

Write about housework chores, such as vacuum cleaning or mowing the grass. Who did it in your childhood home? When you were introduced to this work first? Is it something you enjoyed doing or tried to avoid at any coast?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

You know what I want? I want to learn to love chores. I mean, truly, to stop resenting them and not just that, but finding poetry in doing them! It’s very hard for me. I am out of shape, that’s the reason number one – it is just physically very challenging to do housework for me. My head is full of creative ideas, and I’d rather be working on them than cleaning the floors, that’s another reason. And there are more, but the point to me is not in counting reasons why you hate doing something, but in finding a way to stop resenting and even finding a way to do them that will bring me joy. I know some people focus on the result – they look forward to the result (clean house), and it somehow makes it OK for them to actually do all the chores. I understand, but it does not do the trick for me. Other people just tell themselves that once it’s done, it will be over, and they will be able to enjoy whatever it is they actually want to do. Not a bad way, but again, somehow it's not helping me. Once I read a post by a woman whose approach to cleaning the house was the most inspiring of all – the most creative and I even want to use the word “artistic”! She lit candles, played relaxing music while cleaning her home – she took it as a meditative, creative, and truly cleansing process! It's hard to impress me when it comes to cleaning, but there I was really impressed. Cleaning your home, the sacred place where you enjoy being, enjoy sharing life with the people you love, enjoy creating whatever you love to create, can be actually such a beautiful process, similarly to cleaning your tired mind or exhausted soul, or aching body. It can be as beautiful as having a spa day. Banya for the house!

10 min

47

Write about a bird - the one you have (or had as a kid), or a magical bird from a fairy tale that you love, or a bird that visits your yard and teases your cat.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Excerpt from my fairy tale

Anya walked in the snowy wintry woods, feeling all cozy in her cute little coat and valenki*, wearing mittens and a long scarf which Chickenleg House made for her, when suddenly she heard someone coughing. She looked around and couldn’t find anyone, but then she heard it again… cough... cough, cough…

“It’s me, Anya, Snegir **, can’t you see me? Look up!”

“Oh hello dear Snegir, and I was wondering to myself, who is coughing? Did you catch cold, poor fellow?”

“There is that, a little.”

 Anya took the woolen scarf from her neck and handed it to the bird.

“Here, wrap it around your neck, that’s what mama taught me to do when catching cold. It will warm up your sore throat. You will feel better in no time!”

“Thank you, Anya, you are such a kind little girl,” said Snegir and wrapped the scarf around his neck.

“But wait a minute, take this bunch of frozen berries with you, they will prove being useful some day.”

With these words, Snegir handed a bunch of bright red berries to Anya.

“What should I do with them?”

“Just keep them in your pocket. Don’t worry, they won’t go bad. They are not just some frozen berries, but rather magic little things. They will keep till Summer and help you one day. You will know when you need them.”

And Anya did just what the kind Snegir told her. She put the bunch of bright red berries in her pocket and saved them until she needed their magic power.

* valenki - traditional Russian woolen (felt) boots.

** Snegir (from the word "sneg" which means snow) is a Russian name of Eurasian bullfinch, a pretty small bird with bright red tummy which is very visible in the snow.

10 min

48

Write about wrinkles - yours or on someone's face, or maybe your character's. What stories wrinkles can tell?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

A kind wrinkly face looked at her, and she sensed the open, wise spirit from its features, and even some sort of loveliness which is usually hard to describe, but one can feel it with their heart, or maybe with something bigger than a heart. It was as a choir of angels was singing from every little wrinkle passing through this lovely face which only a sleeping one could describe with this quick meaningless word – “old”. The silver voices sounded so harmonious – as if someone’s healing hands held her whole being, softly touching the very core of what was her soul.

5 min

September Make-up Link-up

#32 Number; #34 Reptiles; #42 Leaf

I looked up all the prompts we've done in August and September, and found out that I missed 8. I posted one earlier today, and in the evening I had a sort of writing marathon and wrote 6 more prompts while waiting for my daughter who was having a dance class. I post three here, and another three in the following post. So I am down to only one missed prompt, wahoo! It feels great to catch up like that! 

P.S. Later tonight, I will post 7 new prompts for the first week in October, so tomorrow we will be ready to start a new month!

32

Write about a number that is significant in your life. Maybe it’s your lucky number, or the opposite. Maybe you feel connected to a certain number and see definite patterns in your life (or your character’s life).

OPTIONAL: Work on your own fiction, without the connection to the topic. Share what you are working on.

I remember as a kid, my cousins and I used to pick favorites. Favorite color, favorite letter of the alphabet, favorite number – you name it, we categorized everything! Since this little piece of writing is supposed to be about numbers, I will only tell you that my favorite number since my childhood was 9. Why? I don’t know really, maybe because there is 9 in my birthday date. I think a bit later, when I learned about numerology as a young person, I learned that 6 is significant for me – it’s the sum of all other numbers of my name. And I have to say I always liked 6, probably because 6 as a written symbol is an upside down 9. One way or another, these two numbers are my favorite numbers, or my lucky numbers if you will, and the fact that one of the great songs by sexy Bryan Adams is called Summer of 69, does not hurt either.

5 min

34

Write about reptiles. Most people have very strong feelings towards them – either love or hate them. Which are you? (Or your character?)

OPTIONAL: Work on your own fiction, without the connection to the topic. Share what you are working on.

Not being a hater of snakes, I have to say it is still a little difficult for me to understand people who love snakes or frogs to the point they have them as pets in their homes. It is not difficult to understand that they admire the exotic beauty and mystique of snakes, and no, it is not difficult to understand at all when people adore cute little frogs or lizards. But to have a pet that I can’t really pet seems a little should I say "restricting" to me. I would definitely have more appreciation for reptiles as pets if they were fluffy and fuzzy as kittens are! We just took our kittens to a surgery, and their poor little tummies were shaved, which makes them so vulnerable, a little snake-like really. I can’t wait when they grow all their fur back, and we don’t need to be extra careful about petting their thick, soft fur again.

5 min

42

Write about a leaf turning color. Is it still up on the tree or did you find it under your feet? What’s its journey?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

The most gorgeous leaf turning color I’ve seen was a huge maple leaf fallen from a giant maple by our beach house. Those leaves were truly amazing, reminding me of paintings made by artists. Their size was also quite remarkable. They were bigger than our then 6 years old daughter's head who liked to gather a bouquet of the giant artistic maple leaves to bring to school to share with other kids and teachers. The leaves bigger than a little girl’s head in all hues of yellow, orange and red all at once, as if they were the palette of an impressionist, are one of the brightest memories I have about our living in the tiny hut on the beach.

5 min

September Make-up Link-up

#33 Happy Day

33

Write about a happy day from your childhood. Where are you? With whom? What’s going on? What made this day so memorable?

OPTIONAL: Work on your own fiction, without the connection to the topic. Share what you are working on.

It is not easy to choose a particular happy day from my childhood - there were so many of them! But maybe the correct thing to say would be that I remember rather many moments of my childhood, and not whole days. I remember lots of laughter and light. I don't know why but when I think of my childhood, despite some challenging times, I do remember mostly how absolutely happy it was and how it was filled with light. Mama, Papa, Andrei and I taking walks - long walks in the fields and sometimes woods near our small town, because that's what doctor prescribed for mama's health condition.  Mushroom hunting with papa - he is such a mushroom hunter, and I went to many all-day hunts with him. Mom likes to add that she would fill papa's backpack with food, so I wouldn't get hungry - when he hunts alone, he never takes food with him. Papa taught us, Andrei and I, to never tear off a mushroom with its roots, only very precisely cut the stem, or the leg of a mushroom, with a small pocket knife (he would give each of us a knife and make walking sticks from the branches he'd found in the woods) - so we never destroyed whole families of mushrooms growing under the earth, as the individual mushrooms are connected with each other... I remember how I absolutely adored my brother and wanted to play with him endlessly. He was and still is such an inventor with wild imagination and a great and very kind sense of humor. When I faced the "real world", the world outside of my family, I was struck by how many people see humor in cruel or insensitive jokes or comments. Even later yet, I realized that the family I grew up in is one of a kind, I still did not see any family like mine, except for the one Justin and I created together. It's not to say that they don't exist, but that they are extremely, extremely rare... Sometimes I think that I must write only because of this unique vision of life that I got growing up in my family.

9 min

September Make-up Link-up (I will try to link up more today, even if they'll be short and diary-like... I have 7 prompts that I've missed in August/September.)

September Make-up Link-up!

Hello fellow writers,

Before we begin daily writing in October, I offer you a place to link up any missed prompts, re-writes, or simply the pieces of writing that you have been working on your own and would like to share. (Please note that we do not practice critiquing each other's writing, unless you specifically ask for it.) Feel free to write for 5 minutes or longer on any given topic and link-up whatever you have in store!

To review the prompts we did in September, from 29 to 49, go to these posts:

Week 7

Week 6

Week 5

To review the writing prompts that we did in August, from 1 to 28, go to these posts:

Week 4

Week 3

Week 2

Week 1

PS Want more writing challenges? Make sure you don't miss my other creative writing link-up which I host once a month on In The Writer's Closet (click HERE to participate).

Me-Time

Hello writers,

I'm taking a break from Rise & Write.

I love this brainchild of mine,

and I love your wonderful company,

But I feel like I need time for walking alone now -

Time to wander,

Time to explore freely,

Time to write without given challenges

(Even if they are self-given),

Time to simply be.

Much love & See you soon!

changing

it's only a moment

it doesn't last long

someone smiles at me

someone says a kind word

and
my whole world
is changing

i feel that my wings

are ready to spread

to soar

it's only a moment

it doesn't last long

someone ignores me

does not say a word

and
my whole world
is changing

i don't feel my wings

just empty and lonely

just sore

and they
say
hey
grow up
will ya?

Questioning Your Own Creativity

I still sometimes question myself whether I need to continue with this series of daily writings or not. After all, I am not the fanciest wordsmith in the world. I will never be the next Brodsky, Pushkin or Shakespeare. My passion for writing is probably not even based on my love for language. I used to be so very picky about language - I am not any more. Nit-picking is great for being a proof-reader or editor, which is definitely one skill any writer needs. But when you're trying to give a birth to your own creative self, to give a chance to create freely, without obsession over the mistakes you make along the way, that very skill is in your way. Yet that critical, super critical voice is always there, inside of me. It does not go away completely.

Yet here I am, still posting my impromptu writing, unpolished, unfinished pieces, sometimes only glimpses of ideas, sometimes only wobbly experiments, in hope that I will break through my own insecurities some day. And maybe, hopefully, it will also help someone else to overcome their insecurities. We all are mostly taught to be "good girls" and "good boys" - meaning responsible, reliable, trustworthy. Being creative, being free, play like a child... well that is reserved for children, and for very little children at that. As soon as you enter school - you enter the adult world.

We hear a lot about protecting children from abuse, from bullying, from all the unkindness that there is in the world. We hear a lot about feeding those who are hungry. About donating clothes or money to those who are in need. And that is all very much needed in the world, and not only in the third world countries - there are still plenty of hungry, suffering, abused children in wealthy countries as well.

But there is something that is as important as feeding people and giving them physical support, physical security - and that is helping them to see their own uniqueness in the world, their own worthiness. It is supporting actively their interests, their passion for life, for creativity. Life IS creativity. Ever changing, ever developing, ever growing. So many of us grew up repressed either by a political system (as in my case) and a harsh history that caused people to be afraid of everything that does not fit in a prescribed box, or by strict religious rules, when again you must fit in a box that is designed for you - or else. So many of us, despite our talents, only dip our toes into creativity from time to time, constantly looking for the approval of so-called "authorities". So who are those "authorities" anyway? I find that the artists who are the most free with their own creative flow never ever criticize others - rather, they are supportive and encouraging, always able to find a few kind words to say to those who are only beginning their creative journey. Harsh critics are usually analytical types who are not comfortable with their own creativity, who are stifled by a bunch of rules which they themselves came up with, based on what they see in art. Artists do not come up with rules - critics do! It's their job, it's their bread and butter to come up with rules for art. Artists might use rules and might not - they are free to choose the tools which suit them for a particular task or project, or a period of their creative life. The brightest of critics, those who are more in touch with their own fire, recognize that. The rest of them just continue earning their bread and butter by ridiculing anything that does not fit in their boxes. That stuff which doesn't fit will later be called "a breath of fresh air" or even "genius". Later, when both the artists and the critics who criticized them, are long gone.

Children are like artists - they don't play because the rules of the game fascinate them. They play because it's fun! And some games work out, while others don't - it's all just parts of the process, the creative process. It's later, when children enter the world of education, that they will start questioning themselves, doubting themselves, as pretty much all that school education does is measuring everything in order to fit the box. Rare teachers recognize that it's what's outside the box - that's what is truly fascinating. Those are genius educators, as rare as genius critics. As for both professions, you really need both, the analytical mind and an open creative mind and heart, to be genius. As well as for artists, it also helps to develop both, but the openness and playfulness and experimentation always comes first.

What I'm trying to say here is, without rough drafts, without walking in darkness, as a blind person, trying to feel his way, there is really no creativity. If all we have as our tools are the list of rules and the critical analytical mind, then there is simply no art. We need to let children play, without criticizing them for it, shaming them, disciplining them. We need to provide them a safe environment not only in a physical sense, but in a spiritual sense as well. We need to tell them how amazing they are, each of them, over and over again. And we need to tell ourselves that too - because children will learn not from the words we say, but rather from the attitude we have. And if our attitude towards our own creativity is critical, then that's what children will pick up from us - they will start doubting themselves just as we doubt ourselves. We all need encouragement, children and adults.

***

#45. Words for Dark Times

45 (Sept 17)
Write about a wise word that helped you (or your character) to go through dark times.
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

When I sit down to come up with new prompts, it never takes longer than just a few minutes - maybe 5 or 10, or 15... I did not measure this time, but I just know the themes come easily, and all I need to do is to write them down. Some of them come from outside of my window, while others come from deep inside of me. I never suggest themes that I personally feel like I am eager to write about, no. But some themes are there because they mean a lot to me. Like this one.

I, as many others, as everyone, really, did have my share of dark times. Dark times are not necessarily dark because of an outside event - they can be totally self-inflicted, pretty much any trip within is dark as we don't know what we'll find there. It is what scares us and at times stops us from going deeper, but if we push through this initial fear, we realize that there is really nothing to fear.

The words that helped me to get through one of the darkest, wobbliest times in my life were the words one wonderful, amazing old woman told me. They weren't her words, but she kept repeating them because those words saved her in her own dark times. Libby. I still can't bring myself to writing about her. There are stories that I know I want to share very much, and Libby and her story is one of them, and yet at the same time I feel I am not ready to write freely just yet - maybe still too much grief that I haven't processed yet, after her sudden passing away. But her words I am ready to share - I think I only shared it with two or three people before. They are precious.

It's always darkest before the dawn.

I was saying these words to myself over and over again.
It's always darkest before the dawn.
It's always darkest before the dawn.
It's always darkest before the dawn.
Until their true meaning sunk in for me.
It's always darkest before there comes the light.
It's always the scariest, the most unsettling, the most devastating before you are able to see the first gleam of light.

It's always darkest before the dawn. But dawn always arrives. Always, no exception.

10 min
Rise and Write 43-39

#44. Walk in the Wilderness (Excerpt)

44 (Sept 16)
Write about a walk in the wilderness - on the beach, in the woods, a mountain hike. Is it a walk for pleasure or because you ran out of gas, or is it an emergency, and you need to find a phone?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

In one of my early fairy tales, a little girl named Anya goes on a journey to search for her wings. She has friends who help her at the early stages of the journey, but at some point they have to leave her, so she can continue her journey alone. That's where I pick up the story today to write about Anya's walk in the woods - I am not translating it from Russian, rather I'm taking my character and seeing what happens.

Anya started her walk bravely and rather merrily, because really, what was there to be afraid of or to make her hesitate? The sun was shining brightly, the birds were singing cheerfully, and the trail was winding down between beautiful tall trees and bushes blooming with flowers of all colors and sizes. Anya was greeted by pretty butterflies and her old friends - lightening bugs.

"Oh hello there," Anya said. "Isn't it a wonderful day?"
"It is, it is," her friends agreed with her. "And where are you going on such a wonderful day, Anya? Still looking for your wings?"
"I am actually. But I really think I'm close now."
"Don't forget to call for us if you need help."
"I won't. Thank you, dear friends."

As soon as Anya started feeling hungry, a big open field filled with wild strawberries, her most favorite berries, appeared in front of her. She stopped there for a brief rest and yummy snack, and then moved further.

By the time the sun was going down to the horizon, the magical forest got darker, and instead of cheerful bird songs Anya was hearing scary animal noises, and in place of colorful flowers, she was seeing faces of unknown creatures who'd smirk and giggle looking at her, echoing one another.

"What a silly girl!"
"What a silly little girl..."
"I heard she's looking for her wings..."
"Hehe. Everyone knows girls don't have wings!"
"Girls are not birds! Girls don't have wings..."

Unfriendly words and laughter and rather annoying echoes almost made her cry, but she put on a brave face and continued walking. The trees were getting taller and taller and hung above Anya like giants, covering the quickly darkening sky. The bushes were getting wider and wider, with branches stretched out in all directions, whimsically distorted. It was getting harder to walk on the trail as the branches scratched Anya's legs, and soon Anya realized that she somehow had gotten lost. She was not in the friendly magical woods anymore, but rather in the scary witch forest instead. A huge owl flew right over her head, screeching loudly, and as if that was not enough, lightning glared and thunder rattled, and a it began raining cats and dogs. Anya started to run, but the trail was so slippery that she fell and rolled down the hill into a gully. A little mirror in a carved birch bark frame, the mirror Mama gave to Anya before she started her journey, fell out of her pocket and broke into hundreds of tiny pieces. Anya burst into tears and cried until she finally fell asleep.


Rise and Write 43-49

#43. Smile (poem, multimedia)

43 (Sept 15)
Write about a smile. Is it a happy open smile, a mysterious Mona Lisa kind of smile, or a smirk?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Rise and Write 43-49

#35. Peace (Poem)

35

Write about feeling peace. What brings peace to your inner state? Is it being in nature, or being alone at home? Describe a particular situation when you are (or your character is) feeling at peace with yourself and with life.

OPTIONAL: Work on your own fiction, without the connection to the topic. Share what you are working on.

Peace

Peace is something that is always there,

But we don't notice it -- peace is peaceful.

Peace is quiet, it has no movement.

Take anger and fear out of the picture --

And you'll be left with the picture of peace.

Peace is invisible, it has no image.

Stop making noise, stop screaming and crying.

Stop listening to those who make noise, who scream and cry --

And you will be left with the silence. Peace is silent.

Maybe that's why people feel so peaceful near water.

Water moves, yet stays still.

Water has presence, yet it's clear.

Water makes no noise, but a sound.

Linked to Rise and Write 43-49

#31. Anger (Poem)

31

Write about feeling angry. What are the sensations in the body? What’s happening with the thoughts? Write a scene when your character feels angry. Do they want to punch someone? Will they?

OPTIONAL: Work on your own fiction, without the connection to the topic. Share what you are working on.

Anger

Angry cloud in the air

Covers me from toes to hair.

Anger is better than despair.

Can't think straight,

Can't look up.

Angry cloud eats me up.

Angry as a little kid

Throwing angry little feet.

Thoughts are angry,

Angry face.

Angry feelings, angry space.

Teeth are grinding,

Fists are tight.

Ready for an angry fight.

Kindness escaped,

Compassion's gone!

Words are sharp as a knife, 

Fast as a gun.

Anger is drought 

That dries me out.

Breathing deeply, sip by sip,

Angry cloud,

Drip...

Drip...

Drip...

Linked to Rise and Link 43-49

#42. Turning Color (Poem)

42

Write about a leaf turning color. Is it still up on the tree or did you find it under your feet? What’s its journey?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Turning Color

I often think that hair turning color

Is similar to leaves turning color.

After a warm season,

Filled with breeze and sunshine,

We are winding down, getting ready to rest,

Getting ready for a slower pace of life,

Which is not less, and maybe even more wonderful 

Than hot days of summer.

Less hectic, less chaotic, less stressful,

More peaceful, more organic, more cherishing --

Cherishing life, every little moment that passes:

The crisp coolness of the air,

The golden rays of sun shining low,

The earth cooling down, ready to sleep...

We all are winding down, getting ready to be quiet and observe,

Rather than yelling loudly: look at me! no, no, look at me!

People turning color,

Just like leaves turning color.

We all are winding down, 

People and leaves.

5 min

Rise and Write 43-49

#41. Drink

41

Write about a drink – either the best you had in your life, or the most bizarre, disgusting, etc. Use your character if you prefer.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

When Favorite Becomes Not Favorite

I'm taking this prompt as an opportunity to capture this moment in my life when my taste in drinks is changing radically. I discovered the world of wine, actually, not very long ago. We'd already moved to the PNW from the Midwest, and along with our exotic living in the tiny beach house, we also found out that there are all sorts of grocery stores around about which we've never dreamed back in Ohio. One of them was close to home, a local chain called Metropolitan Market. It was based on the founder's experience traveling the world. Both Europe and Asia were the inspiration for starting MM in this area. One word: foodie. This was a store for foodies. You could find pretty much anything there - artisans bread and baked goods, different kinds of milk and meat, produce from local farmers and a huge department for cheese lovers - I mean, really, huge. But other than that, there were also all sorts of events (like cheese and wine tastings) and free cooking classes for anyone (surprisingly, not very big crowds gathered for classes). Justin and I took advantage every time they announced their free classes and wine tastings where we could learn about food and wine from both local producers and from around the world. I found myself in love with strong, aromatic, full-bodied red wines (Petit Sirah and Malbec would be a good example of my taste) and for a few years that was all I wanted to buy. I loved red wine as a compliment for lunch or dinner, as a drink I enjoy in the evening for a quiet relaxing time, as a celebratory drink with company... Until very recently when I found myself still purchasing my favorite wines and opening bottles, and then... not drinking them. It has never been the case before - I would have a bottle or sometimes two per week, and I would never let a bottle go to waste. Well, I don't remember when it started, maybe a year ago or so, but more often than not I would not finish a bottle (sometimes I would cook with it - it's good for pork or beef dishes, though I rarely cook pork and almost never cook beef, we are mostly chicken and fish people here). In summer, I would get white wine instead - crisp and light for hot days. But even white wine did not replace that passion for red wine I used to have for a few years. I still enjoy the taste of wine, but I dislike the heavy feeling in my head that wine (especially red wine) leaves. So to my huge surprise, I am rapidly loosing interest in this wonderful drink, and I really used to love everything about it - the taste, the smell, the feeling in my mouth, the color, the idea of it, the experience, the light-headedness after all. Not anymore. Not sure what to do with it, as now I simply don't have a favorite drink. Juices are too sweet for my liking, beer too bitter, and hard liqueur is just not my cup of tea. So I drink coffee or tea, and rarely still have a glass of wine, but more as a habit, really.

7-8 min

Rise and Write 43-49

Rise and Write. Week 7. Prompts 43-49

Hello dear fellow writers, and welcome to the 7th week of daily writing!

WOW! We've gone a long way, haven't we? I hadn't realized that our previous, 6th week, had come to an end already! I though that we still had one day to go. Well, I was wrong. So I just wanted to remind you that all the prompts that you did not have a chance to share yet, can be shared at any new link up. I have two prompts from week 6 that I am going to link up to week 7 - and please don't hesitate to do the same! At the end of each month, I also will open a "make-up link-up" where we can share any prompts we've missed, or share something new using the old themes.

And here are the new 7 prompts for the new 7th week of daily (or nearly daily) writing. (The dates are helping me to be on track with starting a new link-up, they don't matter much for the process of writing.)
Happy writing all!

Prompts 43-49. Week 7

43 (Sept 15)
Write about a smile. Is it a happy open smile, a mysterious Mona Lisa kind of smile, or a smirk?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

44 (Sept 16)
Write about a walk in the wilderness - on the beach, in the woods, a mountain hike. Is it a walk for pleasure or because you ran out of gas, or is it an emergency, and you need to find a phone?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

45 (Sept 17)
Write about a wise word that helped you (or your character) to go through dark times.
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

46 (Sept 18)
Write about housework chores, such as vacuum cleaning or mowing the grass. Who did it in your childhood home? When you were introduced to this work first? Is it something you enjoyed doing or tried to avoid at any coast?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

47 (Sept 19)
Write about a bird - the one you have (or had as a kid), or a magical bird from a fairy tale that you love, or a bird that visits your yard and teases your cat.
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

48 (Sept 20)
Write about wrinkles - yours or on someone's face, or maybe your character's. What stories wrinkles can tell?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

49 (Sept 21)
Write about being wrong. Is it easy for you to say "I am sorry, I was wrong"? Is it something you do or try to avoid doing? Write about someone else being wrong, or about your character being wrong.
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

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#40. Feet... or Hands

40

Write about feet – yours, your character’s, or some weird feet you’ve seen.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Oh my! the Where do I get the ideas for my prompts? I know, I know - sometimes even little details can bring out such wonderful stories out of a writer. But nothing really comes to mind right now, other than back in July I painted my toe nails in beautiful red and did not remove that nail polish ever since - I just cut my nails short thinking that eventually they will overgrow the red completely. I could make a little comedy scene out of it, but I am just not in the mood for a comedy this very moment. 

May I write about a hand instead? Justin, Anya and I went to a live theater this past weekend. It was over all the best performance I've seen - in both professional and amateur theaters around here. Everything, the music, the humor, the live orchestra, the story, the songs, the costumes, but above all the fact that it was a youth theater and all the roles were played by children (the oldest actor was 20, a few were 17 or 18, and the rest of the cast were kids between 8 and 13) - all of it made the show exceptional and unforgettable. I watched it in amazement and almost disbelief - rarely I see and feel such fantastic energy on the stage. It was an outburst of energy! No wonder the whole audience burst with standing ovations at the end of the performance. (And it was not a tiny auditorium - it was a 800 seat hall, and pretty full, not completely, but it almost never happens during shows put on by community theaters or, as in this case, a youth theater.) Honestly, I don't even know how they do it, it's like the whole company was singing in unison. How is it possible to get such a large group on fire? But I wanted to write about a hand, or rather about a missing hand. I noticed in the opening scene where the full company was on the stage that one of the actors did not have one hand. It was noticeable because they were singing and dancing and their hand motions were visible, and he obviously missed one hand. He had one of bigger roles in the play, and one smaller one too, so we had a chance to see this wonderfully gifted young actor a lot that evening. And I was thinking to myself, how many people would hide behind their disability, making it an excuse for not living a full life. Much lesser things than a missing body part stop us, people, from pursuing our dreams. Especially such daring dreams as getting into such a profession as actor, where they often make it all about appearance, where it is definitely about being visible, being in front of people, being vulnerable. How many people would instead find something more reasonable, more "sensible", more out of sight, rather than pursue their dreams of being on the stage? How many people never even start, even though they have everything in place? What is it that gives one person this incredible courage and true inner confidence, not a bravado, but authentic confidence that comes from within, to go for their dreams and not let anything stop them, even such an obvious thing as a missing body part? This is what gets me every single time - people who follow their heart and go for what they are dreaming about, overcoming their own losses, insecurities, doubts and let alone inconveniences... people who just do what they love, those people eventually find their bliss.

12 minutes

Rise and Write 36-42

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#39. Grandma

39

Write about your grandma. Was she a good cook? Did she tell you stories of her life? Did she yell at you or spoil you rotten?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

I've only known one of my grandmas, not counting two of my great aunts that I've also met - two sisters of my other grandma whom I never had a chance to meet, as she passed away at the early age of 45, having only seen one, the eldest of her grandchildren, as the next twelve, me included, arrived later.

Babushka Tonya, or as I called her, simply Babushka (grandma in Russian) was my father's mom and spoke with a unique and funny to me, as a child, accent. You see, they moved to Siberia from  central Russia where around the basin of the Volga River, in the north of Russia, people speak the so-called Northern dialect. I learned about dialects later, when I was in my second year of the university where I studied languages and literature as my major. Back in my childhood days, I did not know that, and the only person I knew who spoke with that funny accent was my babushka, since dedushka (granddad whom I adored) died when I just turned seven, and I don't really remember him all that well. I remember that once (I was about 13 or so) babushka's sister Olya came for a visit from Kazakhstan where her family relocated from their original home in central Russia, and she looked so very much like babushka, and spoke with absolutely the same accent. It was an experience out of the ordinary for me, for sure. 

I remember I have asked babushka about her youth, her family, and written down her answers into a thin school notebook, thinking that some day I will have all the information for my family tree, at least on my dad's side. But that notebook somehow disappeared, and even though I know where all my other journals ended up, I could never locate that one.

"Were there pretty women in your family?"
Of course, what other questions a young girl could possibly ask her grandma.
"We were red-headed."
Red-headed traditionally was not considered pretty in Russia - as it often means your skin has spots, and it just all looks too different. Not many traditional cultures recognize beauty in different. Beauty lies in tradition to them. The unfamiliar becomes the thing to fear or ridicule, or both. And Russia is extremely traditional.

Grandma was a great cook. Growing up with my mom, a very creative, strong individual (and a great beauty, by the way), who never took any interest in cooking, I got used to bland tastes. But grandma's food was always exceptional. She was a simple woman with only one year of basic school education - then she had to help her family with housekeeping and the farm they had (they were successful farmers, up to a point when the new government in my country decided that successful means bad and confiscated all or most of what hard-working, successful people had). So babushka learned how to work hard since early childhood. And cooking was definitely one of her gifts. 

I remember her reading a children's book, which to me, back then a university student, was unbelievable. But that was something she could understand easily, my grandma. Papa told me that at some point she read a biography of Boris Yeltsin and was very impressed by him - she had a great respect for this guy. And I was rather impressed by my babushka, who only had very basic reading skills, for her accomplishment.

We did not have an especially warm relationship, rather distant. I think my mom, my brother and I were a bit of an enigma to her. Papa would bring babushka for a long stay (a few months) from the town up north where she lived with her other kids and grandkids. We were somewhat city kids to her. She even treated our cat differently - I remember she once said that she wanted to cook and needed potatoes, but our cat was sleeping on the box with potatoes, and she did not want to bother him. That's exactly how she put it - "bother him." She called him an "intelligent cat", as you'd expect to hear about people, meaning "intelligentsia".

Babushka knew how to do it all - sewing, knitting and even yarn-making (spinning). Papa made special wooden hand-spin tools for her, and my cousin came to take lessons from my grandma - but I did not learn, thinking that it was so absurd in the modern world, as you could just buy the yarn in the color you wanted, instead of spinning lamb's wool which stunk. City kid!

I spent a lot of time with both of my grandparents when I was little, and babushka loved telling anecdotes from my childhood, but they are probably a subject for another writing session.

25 minutes

Rise and Write 36-42

#38. The Age of Choice

38

Write about the age you are now. How does it feel? Better or worse than you expected?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

I've written so much about how I feel about the age I am - in my other blog (see here) or in comments to my friends' blogs. I think it boils down to two ways of looking at age and aging. One, the most common, is purely physical way. Yes, yes, mother nature created us, alive creatures, so that we look cute and attractive to the opposite sex when we are young. There is no sense denying it - it is just simple facts. Our skin looks fresh and smooth (after we stop struggling with the teenage pimples), and many of us have no troubles remaining in good shape when we're young - we are healthy and strong, so again, we can work, have children and take care of them. We just look so darn adorable, most of the time - there is no need for much effort to look good, practically get up in the morning and go, cute as ever, even after a sleepless night or two. 

But in exchange for all this cuteness, our heads are full of uncertainties. Who we are? What are we here to do? Which way to choose in life? Questions, questions. I sort of relive it again with my teenage daughter now. She is on the edge of becoming an adult, and she knows - her childhood is ending, and in a few short years she will have to be fully responsible for her life. While it excites her, it at the same time feels overwhelming. I remember I always wanted to grow, to get older. As a kid, I wanted to start school as soon as possible. Then I wanted to become a pioneer, as soon as possible. Then a member of Komsomol. Then I wanted to graduate from school and start university, as soon as possible. Then finally, when I graduated from the uni (and I truly loved those years), I felt like I was flying. Like nothing can ever stop me - the whole world is in front of me, open with possibilities, and I sure will have an extraordinary life. That feeling that I will have an extraordinary life, was there as long as I can remember myself. And I always, always wanted to be older than I was. 

By the age of 40, I realized that I had reached that point when I finally was as old as I wanted to be. I know, it sounds like a paradox to most people. I was out of shape, I went through a huge personal crisis, disappointment and grief, I felt like something big and wonderful had finished, and it was... the end of the age of innocence for me. Not a physical one, but an innocence of my soul. I think they also call it naivety. I also realized that a lot of people go through this crisis somewhere around 40, a bit earlier, a bit later, and it is what's called a midlife crisis. It's the point when I realized that it is up to me to either let the disappointment win and leave its deep stamp on my face, or lose the naivety as a kid disease and grow further up, over the disappointment, up, up, and up. It was up to me to grow further up or stay in the stagnation of disappointment with the stamp of disapproval of life, as I thought many people do, and that is why they are afraid of aging. This other way to look at age, the non-physical way, is all about the beauty of our soul after it lost its innocence, its "cuteness". It became more mature, it had some serious work to do, and it took the whole responsibility for whatever happened to it before, whatever is happening now and whatever will happen in the future. This is the age I am now, the age of choice, the age of taking the responsibility for the beauty of my soul, with a little more effort on my part than the purity, or naivety of youth. And if along the way I will also decide that my physical beauty is pretty much up to me too, with a little more effort than just get up in the morning and going, then I'm fine with that. In my world, the physical follows.

20 minutes

Rise and Write 36-42

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#37. What Happened at the Stadium (Excerpt)

37

Write about a stadium – either a real one from your childhood, or the one next to your home now, or a grand one you once visited, or write how you’ve never even been to a stadium.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

What Happened at the Stadium

Fifteen is a good age to start a new routine.
Marusya did not know it, but she started it anyway. Tanya was not around at this point - she chose the option to graduate after the 8th grade and go to a teachers' college. In four years or so, she'd be a teacher and work with orphans as she always dreamed to do, to Marusya's great amazement. Marusya enjoyed her new friendships with a couple of girls from her school who actually studied a year younger, though they all were born in the same year, except that Marusya was born in Spring, and they were born in the late Fall. 
Other than taking tennis lessons on weekends, Marusya was not very athletic. Her mom worried about Marusya's health a bit too much, and never insisted on taking on any sports, and had even talked Marusya out of continuing dance lessons. But that particular Fall, Marusya suddenly discovered a desire to go jogging early in the morning, long before school started. It was a beautiful September - sunny, dry and quite warm, without the usual gray sky and low temperatures. And the stadium near their town has just upgraded the pavement as Marusya heard from Matveika.
"Hello! It's Marusya. May I speak to Julia please?"
Julia's mom, whose parents were originally from Latvia, and that was the only logical explanation why she named her daughter Julia, and not Yulia, the typical form of that name for Russia, called her to pick up the phone.
Did you notice that Marusya has finally got a phone in her apartment? No? Well she did! And she was ever so thrilled with the opportunities to connect with her friends right from her home. The phone machine was bright red color and a sleek modern shape, and was connected to the specially made outlet in the wall of the apartment's hallway, or corridor as they call it in Russian, right between the endless bookshelves and hooks for coats and jackets.
Julia sounded sleepy.
"Are you awake yet?"
"Just barely. It's Sunday, Marusya, what do you want?"
Julia had a tendency to catch on sleep on weekends, but 1 PM was late even for her. Not that it really mattered, but Marusya felt a bit annoyed that her friend was not fully awake to appreciate her brand new idea.
"I thought today... Let's start jogging in the mornings, before school."
'What? Are you crazy? It's too early, I want to sleep."
Marusya heard how Julia's mom corrected her after the words "are you crazy" - she was such a polite lady, perhaps the best manners in town.
"No, listen to me. Remember how we always go on and on about loosing a couple of kilograms?"
"Well..."
"Well they don't shake off all by themselves, Julia. Do you want it or not?"
The fast and frank tactic always worked best with her friend, and Julia gave up. It did not take even 2 minutes to convince her that jogging early in the morning, before school starts, was the best idea ever,
And so they started jogging. The first week went really well. Marusya would run up the concrete steps that connected the lower and upper parts of their courtyard, and wait for Julia by the entrance of her apartment building. Sometimes Julia was already there, looking all adorable in her sleepy state. Her bright green polo shirt added to Marusya's cheery mood.
The town was still asleep, and the air was fresh and crisp in the mornings. It felt like it all belonged to the two friends, only bird songs would interrupt their conversations (or rather Marusya's conversation, as Julia was mostly listening and yawning). As soon as they passed the courtyard, they started jogging towards the direction of the long tree lined alley which led to the stadium, if you go right, or to the truck trailer factory if you go straight. They tried the factory route, and it worked well, but soon they got bored with it (or rather Marusya got bored, as Julia felt way too sleepy to have an opinion). The stadium was closer and the girls could just run in circles - easy, predictable and it felt like they were real athletes or something. The stadium, surprisingly, was open day and night, and the new pavement was very smooth - easier on feet compared to the asphalt pavement of the pine trees alley. Marusya and Julia made a couple of circles when suddenly a familiar male figure appeared on the stadium.
"Who's that? Is he who I think he is?" Marusya asked her now awakened friend.
"He sure is," Julia said.
The familiar figure started moving at a jog towards Marusya and Julia. With every step, they felt like hiding under the long benches or disappearing through the crack of the fence.
"Is there another entrance to the stadium?"
"It's too late, Marusya. Let's just smile and say hello."
Julia was surprisingly grown up sometimes, very sensible for someone who was whole six months junior.
But even Marusya couldn't deny that indeed it was too late to hide, and now she only wished she could turn into a fly from the Russian fairy tale and fly away. Or maybe land on his nose and bite it. Or maybe just tickle it until he sneezes.
"Oh hello!"
"Hello Dmitri Petrovich," said the girls together as if they were in the classroom.
"And here I am thinking what happened to Marusya lately? She became so slim suddenly."
"I've always been slim," Marusya thought and before she realized what's happening, she heard her voice saying:
"I've always been slim."
Dmitri Petrovich chuckled and continued running, and the girls also continued running in the direction opposite of him.
"He's just so sleezy," Julia said. 
"I will never hear the end of it," Marusya said.
"Don't pay any attention to him."
"That would be the best thing to do," Marusya agreed with her very sensible young friend.
Good plan!
The very same day, after Marusya and Julia came back each to their apartment where their moms had already prepared breakfast and left for work, the girls took showers, changed into their uniforms and went to school. And sure enough, the very first class in Marusya's schedule was PE which she hated with a passion, if that's possible, even though she overgrew the stage when she hated pretty much everything with a passion, but her feelings toward PE class only deepened after the morning encounter.
"Oh hello, and who is this? Who so slender enters the class today? I can hardly recognize you, Marusya."
Poor Marusya. If she could, she would punch him right in the face. But she couldn't. Not the PE teacher. Not any teacher, for that matter. It was not okay for students to bully other students, but it was quite all right for teachers to bully students, at least for some teachers.
"Maybe you need prescription glasses," Marusya hardly could believe her own tongue. "I've always looked this slender."

Rise and Write 36-42

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#36. Last Day of Summer

36

Imagine that today is the last day of a long hot summer. How you would like to spend it? Is there anything you wanted to do this summer, but haven’t had a chance? Is there anything you’d like to repeat? Write about your ideal summer day, or about how exhausting long summers are, whatever comes to mind.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Oh wow, if only we could know what will be the exact last day of hot summer! I'm sure I would want to leave everything behind, all the big and little tasks, all the work and errands, pack a simple light lunch, get freshly laundered fluffy towels and head to the beach. Funny, but I have never been a beach bum - my friends would stay in the sun until they melt, but I preferred shade, having fair skin, as five minutes is enough for me to get ridiculously red, burned to the point of shedding my skin like a snake. When I was younger, we did not have any SPF lotions, or I just was not aware of them, so even a brief sun exposure would cost me both discomfort (and even pain) and embarrassment. It all changed last year. So many things changed after I turned 40, and one of them - I actually started enjoying and appreciating laying in the sun. The sand which gets hot warms up my body, until I can't take it any more - then I have to run into refreshingly cold water, splash, splash, splash! That's happiness. Only last summer it occurred to me, that the experience I appreciate about banya the most (the contrast between unbearably hot and unbearably cold) is the same on the beach on a hot day. The same contrast that makes my body feel so alive, so happy and so free. So yes, if only I knew that today would be the very last day of an exhaustingly long hot summer (which we had this year, and no, I am not a fan of the heat by itself)... I would grab a towel and head to the beach.

Written in 7 minutes with a couple of small family interruptions.

Rise and Write 36-42

Rise and Write. Week 6. Prompts 36-42

Hello writers, and welcome to the sixth week of daily writings! I cheated this week - I did not write much at all. It's Justin's second week of vacation which we treated as a staycation this year, and I used it as a break. As our kid goes back to school this week, and Justin goes back to work, I will turn back to my daily writing routine as I really miss it. One needs room to write - both literally and metaphorically speaking. I do have plenty of time and place to write, but my mind is preoccupied with family stuff and I just take it easy with writing these days. Anyway, as I have more time to myself, I will focus and try to catch up with all the prompts that I have missed. If I do, I will simply link them here and I encourage you to do the same thing, now or in the future.

Happy writing all!

Prompts 36-42. Week 6

36

Imagine that today is the last day of a long hot summer. How you would like to spend it? Is there anything you wanted to do this summer, but haven’t had a chance? Is there anything you’d like to repeat? Write about your ideal summer day, or about how exhausting long summers are, whatever comes to mind.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

37

Write about a stadium – either a real one from your childhood, or the one next to your home now, or a grand one you once visited, or write how you’ve never even been to a stadium.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

38

Write about the age you are now. How does it feel? Better or worse than you expected?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

39

Write about your grandma. Was she a good cook? Did she tell you stories of her life? Did she yell at you or spoil you rotten?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

40

Write about feet – yours, your character’s, or some weird feet you’ve seen.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

41

Write about a drink – either the best you had in your life, or the most bizarre, disgusting etc. Use your character if you prefer.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

42

Write about a leaf turning color. Is it still up on the tree or did you find it under your feet? What’s its journey?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

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