For a while now, I’ve subscribed to Word Press’ Daily Post, perusing their articles with a general interest. I often nod along here and there, but never pay much mind beyond that. The other day, though, Krista posted a challenge that reminded me of assignments I used to give my students when we concentrated on incorporating detail into their writing, and the thing was that I couldn’t get the prompts out of my head. I wanted to complete them. Perhaps it’s a result of not being in the classroom for (gasp, sigh, and cry just a little) almost four years this spring, or maybe it’s the desire to stretch creative muscles that have been buried far too deeply for far too long these past
six few months. I love my recipes and holiday preparations, but they aren’t all that go on this ridiculously under-yet-overtaxed mind of mine.
The original post can be found here on the Daily Post at WordPress.com:
“‘Writing Challenge: the Devil is in the Details’ by Krista on January 21, 2013
3. Describe your writing space. Do you write on the couch? At the kitchen table? At a desk? In a restaurant? Describe your surroundings. What does it smell like? What is the light like in your space? What can you hear, feel, and see? You have three paragraphs to pull us into your space. Go. “
The couch, squishy, comfortable, brown, covered in sticky apple juice spots indicating the presence of a three-year-old—the same three-year-old who is currently flapping her multi-colored-blanketed arms in the dining room much to the chagrin of the cat—is where ideas become letters that transform into words and sometimes…occasionally…even coherent sentences. It is too cold here in the winter in front of the bright windows hastily covered in inexpensive Walmart curtains that were a “temporary” fix three years ago.
The end table beside me is covered in debris without an inch of space to spare. Random stacks of cookbooks from which I may or may not get around to actually cooking any recipes are topped only by my Nook and two plastic sandwich containers that did not hold sandwiches, but morning snacks of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for me and the three-year-old. A box of tissues, the last vestige of a bronchial battle with which I’d rather never fought in the first place, rests beside the cordless phone—the cordless phone lying on its side next to instead of on its charging station.
This is where I write today and have been writing for at least the last week and a half. When I find myself on the (hopefully) winning side of this year’s wintery woe, perhaps my space will be neater, cleaner, more orderly. No tissues. No cinnamon toast crumbs in sandwich containers. The curtains, though, they’ll most likely still be here.