Renee is Writing

I couldn't see it but I knew it was there. It burrowed with the dust bunnies, orphaned shoes and lost socks. At midnight, it would speak and wake me from my dreams. "Do you really believe you can do this? Aren't you too weak to handle it? Don't you know it might kill you if you even try?" I didn't want to listen but the monster voiced my own fears about my ability to write and get published. "Your fourth grade teacher was right. You can't succeed at writing. Go get a real job." I tossed and turned and tried to shut him out. He persisted night after night until I would sit at my desk, pen hovering over the blank page, unable to scrawl even one sentence. Then one day I took the broom and swept up all that lay beneath the bed. I tossed the unwed socks, the worn shoes and the dust bunnies into the trash. That night I waited to hear that voice, but he was silent. When I awoke I filled a school girl's spiral notebook with story after st...

Write three pages on the following: If you could live one day of your life over and over again forever which day would it be? GO!

It's 5:00 AM and the sky is a dull cast iron gray. I'm sitting at my desk, a spiral notebook open to a blank page, my purple pen in hand. After entering today's date I rip into "Morning Pages," essentially three longhand pages of moaning and complaining about my life. My biggest complaint is not having time to write, even as I sit at my writing desk doing just that! The stillness around me is so conducive to mining that rich territory of the imagination that I feel I could fill this whole notebook in one sitting, but of course after my twenty minutes of kvetching is over it's time to go to work and my writing life is aborted like a failed space mission. So my question for today is "When do I get to call myself a writer?" Do morning pages count? Does journaling count? Do free write exercises count? Do I have to be published to call myself a writer? Oh yeah, I am published, several times in fact, and still I don't feel like a writer. I think it...

The light through the window blinds is silver. It's 3:30 am and technically I have an hour before I have to wake up. Knowing I will be awake I shut off the alarm, as I do every day, so it doens't wake my husband. But this morning is a new story. I drift into a dream filled sleep and waken at 5:00 am. Very early for most, but for me it's late and I now have a decision to make. I only have enough time to either wash and blow dry my hair, or write my "morning pages." What will it be? While brushing my teeth I glance in the mirror. The hair will have to suffice for the day. I cannot give up my writing time. Julia Cameron, in her book "The Artist's Way," recommends three longhand pages of writing each morning. I have been doing this for years. It's a mind dump and an entrance to my writing voice. It also gives me a chance to communicate with my gut and intuition and to resolve questions and issues. With few exceptions I do this every morning. Came...

After a long day of work it's difficult to get to the page to write. Much as I love the process my mind is tired and weary. I want to watch mindless television and scan magazine articles. At this time of night I'd rather read about writing than actually write myself.  But how does someone call herself a writer if she isn't writing? So I pushed ahead today. I did a free write in hopes of mining the gem of an idea for a new story. I sent a short story to an online journal. I revised two stories for my class this week. And I spent twenty minutes doing the next exercise in my guided journal book. A successful writing day--plus I got in twenty minutes of exercise too. I can now go to sleep feeling content and productive.

Today was a writing day. With three inches of snow on the ground and driveways and sidewalks replicating the ice rink at Rockefeller Center, I chose to stay indoors. After a hip fracture and hip replacement, the possibility of sliding on the ice wasn't something I wanted to risk. I spent the cloudy cold day reading flash fiction stories, critiquing flash fictions from the members of my online writing class, and creating some new story germs from prompted free writes. All in all a creative day.  I even revised a couple of stories and finally, finally sent out a short story and three poems in hopes of getting them publsihed. I feel relaxed and productive even though I didn't get to organizing my art supllies in the plastic bins I purchased last week. Productivity and creativity are measured by numbers of words on the page. I'd say about 1,000+ today. And I am confident my genre jumping days are narrowing. I am so focused on flash fiction now I can even put aside poetry for ...

The house fit in the cup of her five year old hand. The pink mound of flesh on the heel of her hand made the perfect front porch. She’d found the house, a tangle of twigs and leaves, tucked inside a chipmunk’s burrow. Holding her hand as still as possible the girl veered off the dirt path and into a clearing in the woods. She sat, legs twisted like a pretzel, on the cool grass. Sunshine bounced off her long curls that were the color of corn silk. Her eyes, the color of woodland violets, darted back and forth making sure she was alone.   She always knew one day she’d find her escape route and here it was--- a tiny unoccupied fairy house left in the woods just for her. She set the house down in the grass. She squeezed her tiny fists hard as she could against her head, squeezed her eyes shut and tightened all her muscles like piano strings and waited. It only took four seconds for her body to become fairy-sized and in a wink of time she slipped through the door of the fairy house...