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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 #721730 added April 7, 2011 at 7:26am
Restrictions: None
'F' is for...?
Yesterday's word was 'Embarrassment' -- thanks for your guesses and comments!! Today, my off-site cyber-BFF Jessica Bell  and I have chosen a word that starts with 'F', and we want you to try and guess what it is. The word is a noun and either an emotion, a feeling, or a state of mind. We've each written a short, fictional scene where our characters 'show' this emotion/feeling/state of mind. Here's my passage:
This is ridiculous, she thinks as she hobbles around on one black sling back pump. Her first professional job interview is in forty minutes, which means she should be in the car right now. She shoves aside a pile of dirty laundry in the corner near the closet, shoves it back to check behind the other side. No shoe. Los Angeles traffic is unpredictable at any hour of the day, and the offices of Chiat/Day/Mojo are two beach cities up the Pacific Coast Highway from her sister’s apartment in Hermosa Beach. She needs this job so she can afford a place of her own.
Stomping across discarded magazines and art supplies that litter the floor, she yanks aside the curtains flanking the window. The shoe isn’t hiding there, but the little, pink teddy bear her ex-boyfriend gave her is. She punts it with her pump-armored toe.
Where the hell IS it? She turns, fingers digging into the waistline of her pencil skirt. And there, on the second shelf of the bookcase, peeking out from under a fallen over copy of Jane Eyre, is the elusive pump. She snatches it up and wiggles her foot into it. A glance at her watch tells her traffic has to be light and she has to hit all green lights in order to (maybe) make it on time. Then a devastating thought hits her: Where the hell are my keys?
~*~*~*~
Figured out the emotion/feeling/state of mind? Leave your guess in the comments!
Thanks for reading!!
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