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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 #721574 added April 5, 2011 at 12:26pm
Restrictions: None
'D' is For...?
I'm playing along in a blogfest over at Blogger.com, and today I've chosen a word, a noun, that refers to a particular emotion / feeling / state of mind that starts with 'D'. Based on my fictional paragraph(s) below, try to guess in the comments what emotion/etc. I've depicted! (BTW, April 3rd's entry [scroll to read it] word was 'Confidence'!)
Here's my 'D' entry:
Every sound soothed my frazzled soul: the gentle swells lapping against the row boat as it slipped along the lake’s surface; the hollow clunk of the oar when my inexperienced movements banged it against the craft’s aluminum side; the loon’s haunting song. I’d been in desperate need of this little excursion, to a place of childhood memories where I’d spent carefree summers before… well, before.
Another couple pulls of the oars and I steered the boat into what we kids had dubbed Beaver Bay. The inlet of water protected a cove where the reeds grew tall and beaver houses dotted the surface. I lifted the oars out of the water and twisted around to view the bay. The smell hit me, fetid and rank. My jaw dropped open.
Trash littered the shoreline. A mound of tires, black and baking in the afternoon sun, rose to the right. As the boat drifted closer, I looked over the edge. I could just make out my reflection, eyebrows knit and lips pursed, despite the rainbow sheen coating the water’s surface.
The boat’s bottom scraped along the sandy bottom of the shore. I stood to get a better view, but I wouldn’t get out. Flies swarmed around a torn white plastic trash bag next to the boat. I lifted an oar out of its pinning, staggering a bit under its unbalanced weight, and poked the bag. The flies lifted for a moment, but settled greedily on their meal. A soggy egg container fell apart, revealing a mass of wriggling, rice-like maggots. I covered my mouth, gagging, as the oar clattered to the bottom of the boat.
Any guesses? Leave me a comment telling me the emotion/feeling/state of mind you think I was describing!
Thanks for reading!
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