Writing Prompt – cicampbellblog

Getting the Most from your Writers’ Retreat

You’ve gathered a few writing buddies together and you’ve booked a cottage in the country, you’re all set to try your hand at creating a Writers’ Retreat. So, how are you going to get the maximum benefit from it while putting the minimum time into planning it? Because, let’s face it, we’re writers. We want to write. Not spend hours and hours organising ourselves to write.

So do have a meeting or a virtual meeting before you go, to decide the main things in advance.

My friends and I have tried different approaches and each time we have gone away for a week, we have structured it a little differently so perhaps the most helpful thing for me to do would be to tell you some of the things that work well, not necessarily the things we have done.

One of the things to remember is, although you are going to your retreat to write, you will also need to eat, so planning a rough menu beforehand is worth considering. Shopping for that menu can be done in advance if you have room in the car for the shopping. Failing that, perhaps locate the nearest supermarket to you cottage and, after you unload the car, you can go back out for a shopping trip. This is where the planning meeting is useful. You can decide things like:

Will you share the cooking, perhaps on a daily rota? Or will everyone fend for themselves?

Will you share the shopping or will one of you volunteer to bring the supplies to the cottage and everyone chip in with their share of the cost?

Your meals need not be elaborate affairs. As long as there are plenty of basic things like bread and cheese, plenty salad and fruit, wine and coffee, everyone is usually happy to see to themselves for breakfast and lunch, unless your group wish to plan who prepares these meals too. Good to know in advance who is going to be responsible for producing a simple evening meal. Do one or two of your group particularly enjoy cooking? Or should you make a rota for everyone to have a turn.

Simplicity is the key.

No-one wants to spend the best part of the day in the kitchen — unless cooking is their passion, of course. In which case, enjoy! It’s a creative retreat, after all, and cooking is another delightful creative outlet.

Something else you might want to discuss beforehand is whether you want to use the retreat as a quiet place, conducive to writing, where you can each get on quietly with your WIP uninterrupted, or would you like to also have some structured writing time. If so, it would be good to plan who will lead that session and how. There are many useful books with suggestions for writing exercises, or you may have some old favourites of your own.

Starting the day with a little light physical exercise, like a short walk or such, followed by a timed writing exercise or two can be useful to wake up the body and the writing muscles. Similarly, it’s important to incorporate short breaks in the day to stretch out the muscles, get some fresh air and refresh yourselves.

After eating the evening meal, it can be pleasant to spend time relaxing together for a while, perhaps watching a film, playing music, or just sitting chatting over a glass of wine.

This might also be a time you would enjoy reading out some of your day’s writing to one another and getting some feedback.

Set goals.

At the planning stage, it is good to discuss together what each member of the party hopes to achieve. Whether some of you want to set yourselves a daily word count, or a weekly one, whether the aim is to edit a certain number of pages, poems or chapters, the best way to achieve the maximum benefit from your retreat is to set clear goals and encourage one another to work towards them.

Respect one another’s space.

Respect the silence.

Respect each other’s writing.

At the end of your week or weekend together, celebrate!

Discuss what worked and what didn’t, what helped and what hindered, and plan your next retreat.

~~~

What about turning your annual vacation into a personal writer’s retreat?

If your friend or your spouse likes fishing, skiing, white water rafting and you don’t, why not book a log cabin where he or she can do their thing and you can write, sharing a meal together in the evening, a glass of wine by the fire or in the evening sun, sharing the stories of the day.

My husband and I do this from time to time, where he pursues his interests during the day while I enjoy some quiet writing time and we share the evenings together. It works.

~~~

I would love to hear your suggestions.

What have you tried?

Have you enjoyed the luxury of a Writers’ Retreat?

~~~

Many of my novels have been partly written on one of the writing retreats my writers’ group have enjoyed over the years. You can find them all on Amazon Kindle or here if you prefer a paperback edition.

~~~

Catching the Muse

Writing prompt, writing prompt, what shall I write?

I’m hoping to capture the muse.

If I stare at this empty screen long enough.

I’m sure she’ll bring something to use.

~~~

For better or worse, I seem to be in poetic mood today, so, in response to Amanda Staley’s writing prompt in #The Writers’Coffeehouse, I have written a poem.

~~~

A Dense Forest

Words rise up, a dense forest
Each one seeks the light of the page
Some rise higher than others
Each gives a reason to save

Choose me, I am clear and explicit
Choose me, I bring pictures to mind
Each word has its own limitations
The best becomes harder to find

Not grandiose, impressive or splendid
Imposing, affected, genteel
Pretentious, important or flaunting
Or dancing a waltz or a reel

I’m here in this forest of letters
I’m here at the back of your mind
Don’t use one of my fancier sisters
When I am just perfectly fine

I’m simple and homely, fit neatly
And tell it just as it is
I cut through the forest that hides me
Plain-speaking and clear on your lips

~~~

I hope you enjoy my little poem, but do keep in mind that I make no claims to be a poet.

I just enjoy flirting with the form.

~~~

A Blank Page

This is not about THE Blank Page. The one every writer dreads, the one that stares back at you from screen or notebook, begging to be filled with winsome words.

no matter where you find them

No, this is a short story about A blank page. A different blank page. It is a short story in response to a writing prompt.

~~~

A Blank Page

A short story by Christine Campbell

Justin stared at the blank page attached to his easel. Six-thirty in the morning and it was still blank. This was the seventeenth blank page he’d been confronted with since he rolled home from the pub last night with Steve’s remark ringing in his ears.

‘Gotta go,’ Steve said, downing his last mouthful. ‘Gotta put the finishing touches to my sketch for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, exhibition time, remember? You’ve probably already submitted yours.’ He thumped Justin on the back and started putting his coat on. ‘Not like me. Always at the last minute. Can’t stop fiddling with the blessed thing, probably making it worse instead of better. Oh, to have your flair and natural talent. You don’t need to fiddle. Sketching seems to come easy to you as breathing.’

Justin smiled. It was true, he did find it easy. Give him a subject and in a few sweeps of a pencil, he had it captured.

He’d forgotten about the whole exhibition thing though, and contrary to Steve’s assumption, he had not submitted. He signalled the barman for another pint. No worries, he’d skip this one. It was only an art college exhibition.

Just as Steve moved off, he threw back the killer remark. ‘Wouldn’t care so much, but it’s fifty percent of this year’s final assessment. See ya!’

And he was gone.

Grief! So it was!

The memory of Professor Clarke standing in front of them trying to get their attention as they all packed up for home, shouting the information, waving a sheet of paper at them, telling them to take one as they went – it all came flooding back with the beer he swallowed.

He hadn’t bothered to read what was on the sheet of paper. All he remembered was, it wasn’t blank!

Finishing his pint too quickly, feeling its effects as he grabbed his coat and staggered to his rooms, he lunged into the flat and dived into the drawer where he’d stuffed the forgotten instructions.

Grief! Steve was right. Fifty dratted percent! Fifty! And it had to be ‘new work. Not seen or submitted previously.’ That put paid to one of the plans he’d hatched on his way home.

Seventeen failures later, he was staring at a blank sheet of art paper tacked to his easel, with nothing in his mind. Nothing! Nada! Rien!

He knew there were seventeen failures lying crumpled at his feet because he had started a new pad of eighteen sheets and here he was on the last one with nothing to draw. Another hour and he’d be too late to sneak it into the exhibition along with all the other last minute entries.

Closing his eyes, he could visualise the area he’d been assigned. A delightfully prominent spot, assigned to him as one of the Professor’s favoured pupils, the rest of his year’s work already beautifully displayed there with just the right sized spot left expectantly, dead centre, for this most important piece of the year.

The piece he’d supposedly been working on all term.

The piece he hadn’t bothered to do, assuming he could rustle something up anytime, and what did it matter anyhow. It would be good enough. He was great at sketching – once he had the inspiration.

Inspiration, that fickle, flirtatious female had waltzed out the door as he’d staggered in last night.

And there it was.

A blank page.

And half an hour left.

He showered and changed into fresh clothes, stood at the easel again and summoned the fickle female.

This time she came at his call. Elated, he did what he had to do, gathered his things and rushed out the door, his coat flapping behind him as he dashed down the stairs out onto the street and made a crazy flight to the art college. Last of the last, he hung his work, stepped back and smiled. Sublime. Inspired. Unique. Perfect.

Standing well back, modesty forbidding him from flaunting his smugness, he watched the punters view his work, delighted that it drew so many comments, initiated so many conversations among them, caused so many to stand gazing at it, deep in thought, as he’d intended.

Even Professor Clarke had smiled and nodded his head, as though seeing for the first time the quality of his student.

Victory was his! Victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.

Steve was speechless. ‘Wow! Don’t know how you do it. Always a shocker how far out the box your work is,’ what he eventually managed to get out.

The description Justin had pinned beside his work had invited the viewer ‘to interpret the work as he would – to allow the mind to wander where it would – to view his work as a catalyst to deep, meaningful pondering.’

Perhaps it should not have surprised him when the year assessment results were posted out, and, after ‘deep, meaningful pondering’, these were the marks Professor Clarke gave him for his inspired exhibit:

A blank sheet of paper.

A smaller, but equally empty page as the one he’d so proudly hung as the masterpiece of the exhibition.

~~~

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more of Christine Campbell’s writing, here is the link to her Amazon Author page and her published novels. And, if you prefer to read a paperback, here in the link for them.

~~~

She Holed Up in Mexico

That was the writing prompt for our writing group, PenPals, and one of our members, Sharon Scordecchia, wrote this fun-filled story using the prompt:

She Holed Up In Mexico

~~~

UNUSUAL

He was lookin’ outta the window, his back to me, as I entered the room. FBI his jacket announced.
Fat But Interesting or Federal Bureau of Irritation? I’ll find out soon enough I thought as I sat down on the dining chair that had been positioned away from the table.
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions, Miss, ah, what is your name?”
“Miss Sarah Jessica Parker the third,” I replied politely.
“You come from a long line of Sarah Jessica Parkers,” he observed.
“There are three of us and yes, I’m the third.” Definitely the Bureau of Irritation I decided.
“How long have you worked for the Witherspoon’s, Miss Parker?”
I thought for a moment, “‘Bout two years, I’d say.”
“So you’d notice if something unusual happened in this house?”
“I’m only here twice a week, Sir. We does the upstairs on a Monday, that’s today, and we does the downstairs on a Friday.”
“We: you and Mrs Hudson, the other cleaner?”
I nodded, even more irritated.
“I’d like you to think carefully, Miss Parker.” He eyeballed me. “Did anything unusual catch your attention when you were in on Friday, or this morning, for that matter?”
I studied the beads of perspiration in the cleft of his chin, on his top lip, on the tip of his nose. “Well depends what you call unusual, Sir, ‘cos see, in my family we got plenty unusual, only we thinks it’s normal ‘cos we’s used to it. Take my sister Mel – she smokes a pipe. Other folk’s thinks that’s unusual. Or Uncle Harry, he don’t talk to nobody but God on a Sunday. You mean that sort of unusual?”
Fat Bureau of Irritation looked at me like he agreed that all ma family stuff was pretty unusual so I wondered whether I should tell him about one of the wardrobes upstairs; that it was filled floor to ceiling with large, medium and small packs of incontinence pads. Or whether I should tell him that this mornin’, when I’d opened the French windows up wide, stripped the bed and began to turn the mattress, the room had filled with hundreds of green butterflies, all blowin’ about on the breeze. I wondered if I should tell Mr FBI I’d had to turn the vacuum cleaner up full to vacuum them nuisance things up.
FBI sighed. “If you think of anything, Miss Parker the third, could you give me a call on this number?” He pushed a card towards me.
“There is one thing happened.”
His eyebrows rose, hopeful.
“Mrs Witherspoon senior, she had an accident last week, tripped over the dog. And her bein’ real old an’ all, it was worse than it looked. She got her leg all in plaster cast now.”
The Bureau of Irritation looked at me like that just wasn’t unusual enough for him.
“Anyway, what is unusual, Sir is that there’s a definite rustlin’ sound when she moves now, you know, when she’s getting in an’ outta her wheelchair and hobblin’ about.”
“A rustling sound, you say?”
“Hm,” I nodded. “Kinda like the sound of …leaves rustlin’or money rustlin’. In fact, Sir, Av’ bin wonderin’ if they put that plaster cast on prop’ly at the hospital. When ma cousin Finn had his plaster cast on it sure didn’t make no rustlin’ noise, just more of a thud, thud, thud, y’know?
FBI stared at me for a long time till it was almost becomin’ rude, till I almost couldn’t resist the urge to lean across and wipe that moisture off his nose with ma big orange duster. “You can go back to your work now Miss Parker. You’ve been very helpful,” he muttered, just in time.
From the French windows upstairs I watched as ol’ Mrs Witherspoon was helped into the Bureau of Irritation’s vehicle along with her daughter-in-law and whisked off down the drive an’ through the magnificent wrought iron gates.
“You done in there yet?” Hudson’s voice yelled from downstairs.
“Yup,” I shouted. “Just gonna change this vacuum bag.” I took the bag out and wrapped my overall round it and stuffed it in my shoppin’ bag.
As I walked downstairs swingin’ my bag Hudson glowered up at me. “I dunno what you said to that detective, Sarah, but he’s taken them Missus Witherspoon’s away. And the last thing Mrs Witherspoon junior growled at me was, ‘You’re fired, you and her!’ She meant you, Sarah.”
I wore my most indignant expression. “An’ after me doin’ them a favour an’ all! That Federal Bat Investigator is probably takin’ them to hospital to get ol’ missus W’s cast put on properly, Mrs H, ‘cos when I told him about the loud rustlin’ sound it makes when Mrs W senior moves I could tell he thought the same as me, that it’s unusual.”
Mrs H looked at me and shook her head, her damp curls comin’ to life and bouncin’ about. “Honey, that rustlin’ noise is Mrs W senior’s incontinence pads, tha’s all. What that detective is lookin’ for is money. These folks we been workin’ for is into money launderin’ ‘n’ stuff, nothin’ you or I knows anything about.”
“Huh,” I said, “Wha’d’ya know. And now we’re outta work, just like that.”
“See ya around, Sarah, honey,” she sighed, dismissing me with a wave as she walked off down the drive.
I pulled the door to, listening to the solid click as it locked shut, and began walking slowly down the curved steps to the gravel drive. Perhaps I should’ve run after Mrs Hudson. Perhaps I should’ve shouted, “Hey, Mrs H, I’m gonna be holed up in Mexico for a while,” told her that I was gonna be holed up in Mexico, eatin’ tacos and guacamole, with a vacuum bag full of crushed butterflies, butterflies with pretty green patterned wings.
I squeezed the shopping bag and heard the comfortin’ sound: the rustle of thousands of dollars, dollars that’d all been hibernatin’ under a mattress, green dollar bills that for a few seconds had scattered and flown ‘bout freely with the summer breeze, only to be ruthlessly captured by the sudden violent vortex of the vacuum cleaner I’d been wieldin’.
“Nothing unusual about that rustle, Mr FBI,” I sang under my breath, “No Sir, there’s never any mistakin’ the rustle of money.”

~~~

Great, isn’t it?

Show Sharon some love and leave her a comment 🙂

If Memories were Picnics

A writing prompt

The garden crowded round, almost hiding it from view, but Mhairi had not forgotten. If it could speak, what stories it would tell: of summer days and summer picnics, no doubt. But these were not her memories. They belonged to some other time, some other family. The table had always been there. It was old when she was young. Neglected and forgotten, it endured where those who spread their food upon it had not.
Pulling the long grass and weeds that stood between her and it’s dark, weathered wood, she cleared the bench that served it and sat down. Memories flooded in unbidden: her father throwing still warm carcasses upon it, skinning rabbits and hares with more pleasure than was seemly; her mother flirting with her lover across the wooden slats, as though a child of six or seven would have no notion of what was in play; lonely picnics with dolls and teddies instead of playmates, marigold food on rose petal plates.
Stretching her arms flat across the table’s width, Mhairi lowered her head and wept. One memory surpassed all others. One summer day when she was eight and he was eleven, their last day together, a picnic of stale bread and cheese, ‘A banquet fit for a king,’ he’d said, thanking her for what she’d managed to steal from the pantry.
Her tears fell on the old, gnarled surface of the table, making tiny pools of mud in the dust. Using the sleeve of her coat, she scrubbed at them, revealing the grey grain of the wood. It had aged well, better than one could have expected in the Scottish climate, but it had been wisely placed in the shelter of a towering sycamore tree, hedged around by rhododendron bushes. Even on dreich, wet, winter days the table was dry, a great place to bide out the storm. In summer, it’s situation afforded shade from the noonday sun.
When she wiped the debris of too many autumns from the end of the table that had been swallowed by the bushes, her fingers found the crude carvings of that childhood summer. M & B. No heart wreathed the initials: it was not a declaration of love, but a statement of friendship. They were but children, after all.
All of life, this table had witnessed, and death.

~~~

For this piece of flash fiction, I used the characters and the story line of the novel I was writing at the time, Here at the Gate. It became a part of the book, as I intentded when I was writing it.

Here at the Gate is available as kindle and paperback

And another…

The third ‘take’ on Monday’s writing prompt, ‘Nothing could be heard’, comes from Sharon Scordecchia. You may remember I posted a wonderful piece by Sharon called ‘Her Need to Write’ on April 29th, https://cicampbellblog.wordpress.com/2013/04/

Well, this piece is no less wonderful and she plans to use it as part of a larger work that she has been writing and compiling. I have had the honour of reading many parts of what will be a novel when completed, and I have to say, this will be one to look out for. Keep writing, Sharon. Your audience awaits.

Like Jane-Louise Blewitt’s short story using the prompt, Sharon’s novel is a dramatisation of real events. She has taken a portion of Bible History and brought it alive in a way that I admire so much and, once again, wish I had written.

***

NOTHING COULD BE HEARD

Sharon Scordecchia

We sit in the King’s meeting room, three of us; this Jared, his assistant and me. I expected him to look older and sterner, ready for verbal battle. Instead I see a young man, no more than thirty and the look in his eyes can only be described as respectful resignation.

I want this interview over. With my whole being I want him gone from my presence. I open my mouth to speak but it feels thick and sticky and the words I think I might say slide back, dragged down by the heavy glutinous residue of persistent grief. What can this man tell me? Is he here to tear down, to shred, the last vestiges of my family, my father? I should tell him to hold his breath, to save himself the effort of recall and me the unconscious endeavour of retaining his words, the ordeal of recalling them for some future sleepless torment, the exertion of assimilating them into my haunting nightmares.

“I’m alive, because I hid,” he says.

I stare at him. What is he talking about? Why is he telling me?

“It was just before my tenth year. I was looking after my younger brothers.” He swallows, his eyes flickering to the windows, fluttering around the room, landing weightlessly on my hands as they lie folded in my lap.

My skin prickles under his gaze. Just say your words, I will him, say them and leave.

“My mother had run an errand for her sister. Her sister, my aunt, had given birth to her first child only a few days before . . . a girl . . . my, our, first cousin . . .” He frowns slightly, trying to remember a detail.

I don’t want to hear your story, I tell him silently. It doesn’t interest me. Just hurry, and go.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head at the forgotten detail. “I was in charge. I was looking after . . .” His gaze flies up from my hands. He meets my eyes. “It’s just the screaming I remember,” he says quietly. “The paralysing screaming. But I don’t think they screamed – my brothers – I’m sure it wasn’t them. It was all the others. And I hid. I was afraid. I hid until the screaming stopped, the shouting stopped, until the feet and the horses and the yelling voices were gone. I hid for a long, long time: until nothing could be heard.”

I can’t pull my eyes from his gaze.

His eyes bore into me. “My name is Jared. I’m from the tribe of Gibeon. I have no-one, no living blood relation. I am here because I hid. I hid from the mighty men of King Saul. I hid until nothing could be heard.”

I start to tremble.

Jared stands up, his attendant following his lead. Together they bow and walk from the room.

***

Nothing Could Be Heard

For many, those words cast a shadow over their weekend. For others, they are a light to which we flutter. Every second Monday, joy of joys, PenPals meet. PenPals Writers’ Club. We meet to share thoughts, inspiration, ideas and writing, and each meeting we select a writing prompt to encourage us to write something we can share at the next meeting.

Often, there is a mad scurry on Sunday night or Monday morning to wrestle something out of the ether. Other times, much thought and research goes into the production of a short story, an essay or a poem, which comes together…often in a mad scurry on Sunday night or Monday morning. Most times, it’s a mixture of the two: the prompt wanders around inside our heads, gathering crumbs of information, marinating thoughts until they’re ready for serving…usually in a mad scurry on Sunday night or Monday morning.

So, today, and for the next few days, I’d like to share some of the results of this Monday’s meeting using the prompt, ‘Nothing could be heard.’

First up, I’ll give you my own effort, not because it won any prizes. Far from it. I felt humbled by the quality of my fellow members’ efforts. Mine is short and simple by comparison, and falls into the first of the mad scurry categories, being wrestled from the ether in the wee small hours of Sunday night/Monday morning and bears the hallmark of one who is lying awake in the loneliness of a dark night.

Image: night sky by epichtekill