This section of posts will be based on my completion of 366 exercises from Bonnie Neubauer's book, The Write-Brain Workbook.
After taking the Intuition class on journaling with Serafice Cordova I started writing almost every day in my cork covered journal. It felt good again. Then when searching the 'net for writing exercises for They CyberCo-op's course The Write stuff, I came across Neubauer's book and couldn't resist ordering it. I thought what a great way to get me back into dedicated writing since, as my former posts have shown, I haven't been that successful getting back. I thought of the movie Julie and Julia where the young girl pledged to herself to cook each of Julia Child's recipes and blog about it. Could I do that with Neubauer's book? So last night, 9-27-11, I completed the first of my first exercise in the book.
I pledge to myself to continue completing one exercise a day for the next 365 days, and to also blog my reflections on the experience!
Stick around and read! Your comments are welcomed.
ONE - Circle Games 9-27-11
ReplyDeleteAfter choosing 3 words from those suggested in the book (carousel, garage and nonsense) and choosing a story starter, I came up with this:
Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel! I am locked in a garage with no light, no air, no sound; nothing inspirational. I write and the wheel goes slower, like a carousel winding down at the end of the ride, slowing, slowing, slowing until it stops. Looking down at what I've written I see inky nonsense.
For so long I merely existed in the garage of stored words and phrases in an attempt to avoid the carousel, the wheel, the dreaded monotony of writing nothing but nonsense by a blinded author. But something is streaming through a crack in the cinder-block. A light stabs through the crumbling mortar. My paper is illuminated and with each pen stroke I hear the attempts of an engine to turn over; the coughing and sputtering clearing out the remnants of shredded bedding and ignored nuts and seeds, blowing out the years of dust and feces. My pen continues frantically and the engine revs and roars, the gerbil wheel flies off uncontrolled, the carousel resumes; but, this time with twinkling lights and a nickelodeon tune. Mortar in between the cinder-blocks crumbles as more sunny swords pierce my surroundings. As the walls fall away and the roof raises, I stand with my left arm held high, triumphant, holding the inky syringe. At last, my hand is complete again!