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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
I hope to see you there!
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Blog, Blog, Blog #664931 added August 24, 2009 at 8:22am
Restrictions: None
Off-the-Cuff Fantasy
Acme   's writing exercise for today is perfect, because I plan to work on an entry for "Show Off Your Best at the Bee Hive "  and this is a warm-up exercise. The first book my eyes fell on was my eleven-year old's copy of The Simarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm not a fantasy writer so this is parochial at best -- but I met the goal, at least. I began writing at 7:50 am and finished at 8:07.
Getting Going
A fifteen minute warm-up writing exercise.
Pick a book off a shelf.
Turn to a random page.
Pick any sentence you fancy to be the first sentence of your fifteen minute writing exercise.
Write
Take that sentence anywhere you want. Write only for fifteen minutes.
He walked in the deserted ways of Tirion, and the dust upon his raiment and his shoes was a dust of diamonds, and he shone and glistened as he climbed the long white stairs. He was home, and his hammering heart pounded out a code of longing and joy that hissed along his arteries, mingling with the chilly blood of resentment until his fingertips grew cold and his face froze in a determined grimace. He thought the years away had healed him, and the anger simmering under the surface of his skin surprised him. He was a changed man. He’d sought success and captured it like a prized possession. So why was bitterness gnawing at his soul?
At the top of the stairs, he paused at the massive black door and stared at his reflection in its lacquered surface. He saw the long locks of twisted hair cascading down his shoulders, each strand a witness to the time that had passed since his departure. He inhaled, feeling his chest rise, imagining courage filling each to capacity. He raised a smooth hand and grasped the golden knocker. Its baritone chime echoed through the halls beyond for only a moment before his reflection retreated off the side of the opening door.
“Master Charleton! It’s so good to see you, sir,” gushed the servant. The three braided strands of his beard quivered as he bowed deeply. Without straightening, he said, “I shall announce your arrival immediately.”
He turned but stopped suddenly.
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice boomed.
The servant bowed and scurrying away. Charleton found himself face to face with his father.
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