#writerbuilds

[writerbuilds]

Writing Every Day

What writing every day will do for you is this: you’ll get better at it! Not only will daily writing develop your skills as a writer, but you’ll finally start bringing your ideas to life.

ICYMI: We've got some tips on how to get you writing every day. Check it out!

[writerbuilds]

Right Now! Write Swift! Response: The Monster

My coffee has gone cold. How long ago did the waitress bring it? Why is it so sweet? Did I absentmindedly add sugar again? Nevertheless, I wave towards my waitress who replaces my cold cup with a boiling hot one. I surround the cup with both my palms, looking to curb the spine-tingling December chill. I’m back in New York again, and once again I’m at my favorite diner, sitting at the counter because my favorite booth is taken.

The trademark plate of maple syrup drizzled flapjacks arrives and I begin to work my way down the three layers with gusto. “Welcome to New York,” is what this plate always says to me, because that is the meal I had with my father when we made the trip down here from Cincinnati. “Welcome to the land of dreams.” I take a sip of my coffee before it goes cold again, its warmth eases my stomach, which is now doing somersaults on the back of an unexpected sugar rush. I take off my cardigan then put it back on again, unsure of whether I’m hot or cold. My ex-wife is late again. That’s now 20 minutes that I could’ve spent with Gabriela, my beautiful angel, whom I only get to see on weekends. Today we have plans to go to Coney Island, spend the whole day there. After the blank space that my divorce has left in my heart, Gabi is my only refuge.

You might say I’m guilty of spending more time with myself than I should. Being alone, I’ve learned, makes you realize things you never wanted to know. Like being closer to 40 than 30, like having nothing to call your own, or maybe like being so fed up with your life style that you feel you just want to do everything over again. But whenever you try to start anew, reality jumps right out of the woods, “It’s too late,” it says, “All you had to do was stay with your wife and daughter, then maybe you wouldn’t be feeling so alone.” I stop myself right then and there, I’ve been down that road before. I know where my self-questioning would lead me and I need to shake it off.

“I wish you could forget about all the bad blood between the two of you,” my mom had said, about my failing marriage. “Never in your wildest dreams will you find someone as good as her.”

“I can’t Ma, it’s too late.” I’d say.

“You love Gabriela don’t you?”

“More than anything.”

“Well this is how you get the girl to stay in your life,” she’d press on, “If you get divorced this love you share with her is practically being thrown out the window.”

I would stay silent, suppressing the monster that is hungry again inside me, asking for more fuel, more tick, more crank, more of that destructive white powder.

“I know places where you can get clean, son,” she’d say for the hundredth time.

[writerbuilds]

It’s Okay; Be a Copycat Response: WHO AM I?

“When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas of the mattress.”

- The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

When I get under the covers, my side of the bed is warm. My feet wander around, looking for Daisy’s fur and feeling it against the soft silk of the bed sheets. She stirs, letting out a loud purr. “I’m sorry, you can go back to sleep now,” I say, my face half-buried in the pillow. The room is darker than it normally is, and if it weren’t for the tiny flicker of the candle on the night stand, it would’ve been pitch-black. Another day with no food, no lights, no water, and more importantly, no people. I’m half-asleep when I remember that I hadn’t lit an emergency flare today. Someone might be passing, someone might be flying above us, someone might actually see us.

Trying to stay as economical as I can with the battery life of my flashlight, I choose to take my room candle with me instead. I fumble through the supply closet until I find my last pair of flares. I take one out of its case, walk to my front door and swing it wide open.

The flare is almost fully lit when Daisy, bloodied and limp, is flung at me. A dark silhouette slithers from within the dense forest, and begins to make its way towards me. I try to run but my legs fail me. With a lit flare in my hand, I am able to at least make out what it is that is approaching me. The male figure continues its steady stride in my direction, until the lit flare causes him to stop.

Staring back at me, is me.

[heartsick1]

FYI

[heartsick1]

Who Am I?

“When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas of the mattress.”

-          The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins

  When I get under the covers, my side of the bed is warm. My feet wander around, looking for Daisy’s fur and feeling it against the soft silk of the bed sheets. She stirs, letting out a loud purr. “I’m sorry, you can go back to sleep now,” I say, my face half-buried in the pillow. The room is darker than it normally is, and if it weren’t for the tiny flicker of the candle on the night stand, it would’ve been pitch-black. Another day with no food, no lights, no water, and more importantly, no people. I’m half-asleep when I remember that I hadn’t lit an emergency flare today. Someone might be passing, someone might be flying above us, someone might see me.

Trying to stay as economical as I can with the battery life of my flashlight, I choose to take my room candle with me instead. I fumble through the supply closet until I find my last pair of flares. I take one out of its case, walk to my front door and swing it wide open.

The flare is almost fully lit when Daisy, bloodied and limp, is flung at me. A dark silhouette slithers from within the dense forest, and begins to make its way towards me. I try to run but my legs fail me. With a lit flare in my hand, I am able to at least make out what it is that is approaching me. The male figure continues its steady stride in my direction, until the lit flare causes him to stop.

Staring back at me, is me.

[heartsick1]

The Monster

My coffee has gone cold. How long ago did the waitress bring it? Why is it so sweet? Did I absentmindedly add sugar again? Nevertheless, I wave towards my waitress who replaces my cold cup with a boiling hot one. I surround the cup with both my palms, looking to curb the spine-tingling December chill. I’m back in New York again, and once again I’m at my favorite diner, sitting at the counter because my favorite booth is taken.

The trademark plate of maple syrup drizzled flapjacks arrives and I begin to work my way down the three layers with gusto. “Welcome to New York,” is what this plate always says to me, because that is the meal I had with my father when we made the trip down here from Cincinnati. “Welcome to the land of dreams.” I take a sip of my coffee before it goes cold again, its warmth eases my stomach, which is now doing somersaults on the back of an unexpected sugar rush. I take off my cardigan then put it back on again, unsure of whether I’m hot or cold. My ex-wife is late again. That’s now 20 minutes that I could’ve spent with Gabriela, my beautiful angel, whom I only get to see on weekends. Today we have plans to go to Coney Island, spend the whole day there. After the blank space that my divorce has left in my heart, Gabi is my only refuge.

You might say I’m guilty of spending more time with myself than I should. Being alone, I’ve learned, makes you realize things you never wanted to know. Like being closer to 40 than 30, like having nothing to call your own, or maybe like being so fed up with your life style that you feel you just want to do everything over again. But whenever you try to start anew, reality jumps right out of the woods, “It’s too late,” it says, “All you had to do was stay with your wife and daughter, then maybe you wouldn’t be feeling so alone.” I stop myself right then and there, I’ve been down that road before. I know where my self-questioning would lead me and I need to shake it off.

“I wish you could forget about all the bad blood between the two of you,” my mom had said, about my failing marriage. “Never in your wildest dreams will you find someone as good as her.”

“I can’t Ma, it’s too late.” I’d say.

“You love Gabriela don’t you?”

“More than anything.”

“Well this is how you get the girl to stay in your life,” she’d press on, “If you get divorced this love you share with her is practically being thrown out the window.”

I would stay silent, suppressing the monster that is hungry again inside me, asking for more fuel, more tick, more crank, more of that destructive white powder.

“I know places where you can get clean, son,” she’d say for the hundredth time.

[writerbuilds]

Writing Prompt: It's Okay; Be a Copycat

You’ve all heard it: imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Or maybe that one about how good artists copy, great artists steal. Whichever mantra you subscribed to, it’s clear that tons of the literary greats have built their works on the foundation of the greats that came before them. Now, we at WriterBuilds. aren’t down with the whole plagiarizing game, but we do believe that following in the footsteps of our literary heroes (sans all the self-destructive behavior) can really help when you’re in a bind.

So here’s your prompt: Find a short story/novel/screenplay/whatever you love. Take the first couple of sentences from it. Type them out in your word document (no copying and pasting here). Now, from the beginning, change everything: word by word (think of it like a grown-up Mad Libs; swap nouns for nouns, verbs for verbs, etc). Try to come up with something completely different than what was there before.

[Submit Your Response Here!]

Once you’re done “editing” those sentences, read back what you have. Good, right? Now keep on writing! Take it in a direction you never thought you or that story could go!

Like what you have? Want us to check it out? Submit it to us! Make sure to tell us what prompt you’re responding to in the header (and for this particular one, what story you drew inspiration from).  We’ll read it, respond, and maybe even post it on the Tumblr for the world to see!

[writerbuilds]

That feeling you get when you finally meet your word count for the day.