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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 #666307 added September 3, 2009 at 9:57am
Restrictions: None
What's Your Position?
Well, writing off-the-cuff has officially kicked my arse today. It was like pulling teeth to get this little ditty written. I fought the urge to re-write, and lost several times. The exercise from Acme's "2nd September"  was this:
Whatever way you look at it, our protagonists need a dark edge, and our antagonists need redeeming features to make us interested in them, their choices, and their story. Just like comparative imagery adds a powerful punch to our writing, so do a broad spectrum of personality traits in a character.
Write
Think of a character type (cop, killer, bully, hero etc.,) and write them a scene where a little of their 'other' side can shine out.
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(8:30 am)
Jasmine perched on the edge of the bench backrest with her black Converse high tops planted on its seat. She’d been comfortable enough when she first sat on the narrow spot and enjoyed a better view of the street than she would have had seated in the conventional fashion. She thought this pose went better with her outfit, too. But the rigid reality of the backrest’s unforgiving pressure against the tender base of her tailbone had her wishing the bus would get here already.
She craned her neck to look up an empty Emory Avenue; the chinks of her many strands of miniscule glass beads floated on the nighttime air. It was a more pleasant sound than the groaning she’d listened to in the Emergency Room for the past three hours. Jimmy was such a loser. Hadn’t she told him not to smoke that thing? If you don’t know where it came from, you don’t smoke it. Period. He’d scoffed at her, called her uncool. Then when he’d started tripping, all his “friends” had bugged out, leaving her to deal with him. She should have split when the drugs came out in the first place, but no, her pride had kept her there. She shifted her bottom a little, wincing as she repositioned the painful trench left by such an unyielding roost. Jimmy’d really started losing his shit, trying to rub off the spiders he saw crawling over his body. It’d taken her twenty minutes to scrounge enough dollar bills and loose change around Jimmy’s apartment for cab fare. The cabbie hadn’t been cordial on the way to the hospital, but she guessed she didn’t blame him.
The highlight of the evening had definitely been meeting Dr. Satterfield. Talk about handsome! He was old enough to be Jasmine’s father, but something about the flourish of his salt and pepper hair or the slight swagger in his gait sent the butterflies in her tummy in flight. She’d listened to the baritone voice instead of what he said, and even now her cheeks flared with the memory of having to ask him to repeat himself every time he’d spoken. She’d narrowed her eyes at the glint of gold on his left hand. She never entertained the hope that he’d feel the same immediate connection to her as she felt for him, but realizing he was married had been a blow to her optimism just the same.
Footsteps echoed on the still night from behind, and Jasmine stiffened. She wrapped her hand firmly around her woven Guatemalan sack, ready to wield it as a weapon if necessary. She jumped at a voice.
“Not sure there’s a bus at this hour. Need a lift?”
Jasmine stood on the bench and spun around. She hardly towered over Dr. Satterfield’s tall form. The street light shone on his hair and reflected a sparkle of light back at her from baby blue eyes. Jasmine stared at him, mesmerized.
“Miss Smythe? Would you like a ride home?”
Jasmine gave her head a rousing shake and smiled. “Thanks, Dr. Satterfield. That’d be great.”
She hopped off the bench and Dr. Satterfield led the way to the hospital staff parking lot. She tried to concentrate on his conversation, but found herself wondering how many lives he’d saved in his career in the ER, or what his beautiful wife must be like. What a lucky woman. As they approached his car, Jasmine drew in a sharp breath.
“Is this an Alpha B7?” she asked.
“Wow, you really know your cars,” he answered.
“Just BMWs. My brother was a dealer in northern California. We’d walk the lot and dream about riding around in these cars.”
Dr. Satterfield grinned as he drew a set of keys from his pocket. With a touch of a button, the car’s lights illuminated, the door locks popped up, and the engine roared to life. He walked ahead of Jasmine to the passenger side and opened the door. Leaning in, he hastily pulled file folders and loose papers off the passenger seat and tossed them into the backseat.
“Sorry about the stuff on the floor. Just nudge it aside, if you will.”
Jasmine offered a bashful smile as she lowered herself into the bucket seat. As the door swung shut, the smell hit her. Her hand covered her nose and mouth, and a grimace furrowed her forehead. She swallowed past a gag, her mind reeling as it tried to identify the odor. It seemed to be a horrible combination of humid garbage, old gym socks, and a cat’s litter box. She glanced at the console housing the stick shift. In a drink holder was a half eaten apple with black and green mold growing on it. Jasmine quickly looked away and stared at her feet as Dr. Satterfield slid into the driver’s seat. Her eyes grew wide as she prodded the debris at her feet with the toe of her sneaker. Discarded take out containers, some not quite empty, and Styrofoam coffee cups littered the floor up to her ankles. Slowly, she raised her large, questioning eyes to Dr. Satterfield.
He smiled back. “Okay, so what’s your address?”
(9:45 am  )
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