Story Starters from Real Life

Mandy and I were exchanging stories about our lives today, and the writing exercises were everywhere.  Just a few good tidbits…

1. They were in sitting in their car when I drove into the parking lot.  I got out, unlocked the front door and turned on the lights before they came into the building. “Ma’am, we’re from the FBI…”
2. Let’s just say that his employees were not hired for their skill sets…
3. Shortly after I arrived, she gave me a tour of the house.  Walking into her bedroom, I said,  “Oh, I didn’t know you played the drums…”

Writing Group is Coming Up!

Time to start collecting good writing exercises!  Like…

• Compile a list of infrequently asked questions (and their answers).
• Describe three (or five or twelve) distinct characters solely through the way they relate to the gap between reality and what is possible.
• What English writing assignments do you wish you’d been assigned in high school?
• List ten good reasons why a character would be convinced they couldn’t do something that they are, in fact, fully skilled in and able to accomplish.
• Invent a new sport, list its rules, and describe its typical fan.

Story Starters and Writing Exercises We Have Known

1.  The other day, my TV was frozen on the Wheel of Fortune…

2.  Write about a forbidden meal.

3.  Describe an unusual kind of boot camp.

4. Write about an experience with a fortune cookie.

5.  Write out a call to a radio talk show host.

A Forbidden Meal

She looked down at the form lying on the table. Was it really in triplicate? Oh my God. Really? Did they need three official copies of her last meal request? What were they going to do with it, pray tell? One for the master chef, one for the media and one for the archives of death row dining? The bureaucracy of it made her skin crawl, made her want to refuse, made fasting seem the nobler route.

But no. They and their rules and their stupid system – they could take away her life. But they couldn’t take away her last meal.

A last meal. What should she order? What would make it just right? Suddenly the pressure of it threatened to overwhelm her – how to make it perfect? But she caught that thought before it leaped upon the backs of the ever ready wild horses and ran away with her. Trying to make things perfect. That’s what had gotten her into this mess.

Think, damn it. This was her last meal. This was the meal with no rules, no consequences. She could eat anything – what would it be? Forget starting with dessert – that was for people with something to celebrate, something left to enjoy. That wasn’t what this meal was about.

Pickles, she wrote. Yes. There have to be pickles. And gefilte fish, although she had no idea how to spell that. And beets, because something in this meal had to bleed.

Bleed. Bleed. That’s it. Raw meat. Or better – raw chicken! Never ever ever had she been allowed to eat that. Here was her chance.

Yes. This was more like it.

She’d keep the pickles, but forget the beets. And bring on the gefilte fish if they could figure out what it was. And then this: raw hamburger and chicken, both. She’d always wondered what they’d be like. And a piece of raw liver, slimy and slick. She’d always want to slurp it slipperly between her lips. Yes.

Cookie dough would have been perfect if Ben and Jerry’s hadn’t made it so mainstream. Oh, but who gives a fuck. This wasn’t about proving a point – it never had been no matter what the reporters and the lawyers and the politicians had said. It was just about her. She wrote down cookie dough.

But something was missing. She was almost there – this list was good. But there was something else…a vegetable? She laughed. No damn vegetables. And no grains, no dairy, no stupid pyramid.

The guards were coming through the door – they’d want the form. Shit. Something, there was something. What was it?

Oh that. Shit. She scribbled quickly, then handed the form to the guard without looking at him. Let’s see what they would do with that.

Where Do the Missing Letters Go?

“Well, what did you think?” the old man asked me.  “That it was just you out there writing?”

On all the walls around him the shelves reached up 12 feet and higher, sloppy with books and bindings and manuscripts.  Tables and shelving defined the spaces in between, tracing a narrow pathway between papers and books piled high.  Quiet, the room was, but pulsing too.  Not empty by any means.

What could I say?  The question didn’t even really make sense to me.  I had just been making idle conversation – or so I thought – about how badly my first drafts always turned out, full of misspellings and sloppy grammar and the like.  And how much it surprised me, being how careful I always am about those things.

“Don’t bother answering,” he sighed.  “Of course that’s what you think.  It’s what you all think.”  He turned his eyes downward and shook his head, as if contemplating the ruin of the world.

“Uh,” I ventured, not really feeling my most articulate. “Um, I’m not really sure…”

“You!” he bellowed, so loudly that I fell backwards at the blast of it.  “You!  It’s all about You, isn’t it!”  Abruptly he stood up, turned and walked to the back of the shop, disappearing behind a curtain.

Ok…now what.

This wasn’t my first visit to the old man in the used bookstore.  In fact, we’d spent many a day chatting, talking about books, talking about writing.  He seemed wise and funny, and I had begun to think of him as a sort of friend.  But he’d never acted this way before.  Was I supposed to leave?  Follow him?  Wait?  And what did he mean, it’s all about me?  Said in that kind of tone, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

He resolved the question by barreling back through the doorway and back down the winding aisle, stopping just short of me and thrusting a thin volume into my hand.

“Here.  Do something with it,” he demanded.  And then turned on his heel and disappeared again behind the curtain.

It was gold, of course – aren’t all magic books gold?  And this one had to have some kind of magic.  Why else would he have dumped it so unceremoniously upon me?

The title was spelled out in elegant calligraphy:  The Hunger to Be Written (or How to Raise a Writing). Inside the front cover were the following four lines:

The child can be sloppy, and sometimes swallows vowels.  Be careful that it doesn’t choke on consonants.

The adolescent can be wayward, full of tangents and rebellion.  Don’t give him the keys to the plot twist until you’re really ready for the ride.

When writing reaches its maturity, you’ll know.

It’s not all about you.

Closing the cover, I looked up at the curtain, hanging still.  What was I supposed to do with this?

(More) Frozen on the Wheel of Fortune

The other day my TV was frozen on the Wheel of Fortune.  There were so many other things it could have been: The Price is Right, Who Wants to Be A Millionaire, The Dating Game even.  But instead, I got endless Vanna.

The remote was stuck on mute, too, the final result of too many sticky fingers fondling the buttons.  So, I guess I shouldn’t complain about the Wheel of Fortune – at least I could follow along.  Except following requires some modicum of attention, some investment in whether your guess is wrong or right, whether the prize could have been yours.

I confess to having neither attention nor investment.  I’m not even sure I had any brain cells active at that point.

The house was stupidly quiet without the kids.  Tracey had bundled up every last Barbie doll for her overnight with Stacey.  Watching Vanna move across the stage I wondered how her proportions compared to Barbie’s.  There couldn’t be too much difference there.  Fortunately, Tracey would never have that problem – which only meant, of course, that she’d have a million others.

Steven was on an overnight as well, probably having similar thoughts about the ways women’s bodies curve, extend, and protrude.  Or, rather, variations on the theme.  The geeky contestant who was leading the game reminded me of Steven, giving me hope.  Yes, there really are boys who survive their teenage years.

Barbara had been gone three years now.  She hardly ever called now, her life so full of whatever it is young women fill it with these days.  Different than my college days.  So different.

The guy running the show – was it Bob Barker?  I think all the game show hosts are Bob Barker -  I realized he reminded me of Don.  No one had reminded me of Don in a long time.  No one and everyone.  I tried not to think of him since he ran off with the raccoon lady.  But that Bob Barker smile, the one that says everything is grand and simple and either you’re on top of the world or else you’re dog meat – Don had that smile.

The girl who was losing – yeah, that one was me.  Bright smile pasted over expectations that once seemed so possible, and now just seemed foolish.  That “I can stick this out” clench to her jaw, the too pale caste to her skin.  The willingness to keep playing the game you’ve already lost just for the sake of the ratings.  Yup, that’s me.

Frozen on Wheel of Fortune

The other day my tv was frozen on Wheel of Fortune.  I couldn’t get it to change channels.  I tried the remote – feet up on the coffee table, lounging back on a nice, fat pillow, ice cream melting in a bowl by my side – pointing the remote and repeatedly pressing the channel button.  Nothing.  I stared at the remote, then pointed it and pushed again.  Nothing.  I remembered all the various stories I’d heard about pointing into one’s open mouth, or pointing it at the opposite wall – tried it all.  Nothing.  I shook it and tried again.  Nothing.  Giving up on the channel change, I tried just shutting it off.  Power button on the remote.  Nothing.  Disgusted, I tried the volume up button.  That worked.  Ok.  Volume down.  That DIDN’T work.  Volume up?  Yes.  Now it was quite loud.  But nothing else on the remote worked. I shook it again, and pressed the various buttons in turn.  Nothing.

With a deep, gusty sigh, I lifted my feet off the coffee table and prepared to approach the tv – something I had not done for perhaps years.  But the sound was so overwhelming now that I was quite annoyed.  I stood carefully, letting my stiff hip joints adjust slowly to the change of position.  Nothing left to do but go up to the thing.   So I moved toward it, only to discover that there were no buttons or knobs at all on it.  No frickin’ way to change the channel on the tv.  Could it be true?  I peered at the edge around the screen.  Nothing.  Then I remembered the cable box and looked over at it.  Lots of cute little lights, but no buttons.  Not even a power button.  How could that be?  I snatched up the remote, held it right up to the tv and pressed the buttons.  Nothing.  Then to the cable box.  Nothing.  Bugger!  So I smacked the cable box smartly, then tried again.  There was a brief sound of static, then a new voice from the tv:

“Please cease your attempts to change the channel.  It has been determined by your government, based on scientific studies, that watching Wheel of Fortune improves your health and well-being.  You are therefore required to watch at least 3 hours of Wheel of Fortune each day.  Resume your seat, and pay attention.”

A bit more static, and the show came back on.  I looked at the remote, looked around at the room, looked at the tv.  One of the new features of my cable subscription?  I’d never really watched Wheel of Fortune before.  Could it be good for my health?  I backed away from the tv slowly, toward the couch.

“And eat your ice cream.”  The voice cut across the game show’s announcer.  I sat down and did as I was told.

Silver Polishing Boot Camp

“Well, dear, I still think you should go.”  My mother scuttled around the kitchen, shifting and rearranging things as she went.  “It will be good for your social standing.”

“Mother,” I said, barely trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.  “I’ve told you a thousand times: knowing how to polish silver will only qualify me to be a servant in some rich person’s house.”

“Every person of quality knows how to polish silver.  Just ask your father.”  She slammed the cabinet door.  “I’ve signed you up. And that’s all there is to it.”

And that’s how I found myself, on this otherwise fine morning, sitting with about 30 other girls in a basement – no, a dungeon – with piles of silver in front of each of us and Attila the Hun, or his close relation, standing in the center of the room bellowing at us.

“All right, you worms!  Get yer polishing cloths ready!  Make sure you’ve plenty of polish, you slackers!”  He shook his fist at a red-head, who cringed.  “Pick ‘em up, damn you!”

We all groped around for the cloths and polish.

“Arrrgh!  Faster!  What d’you think I’m here for, my health?”  He darted over to a weeping brunette, who couldn’t seem to locate her polishing cloth.  “Ya maggot!”  He grabbed her cloth and threw it in her face.  “Now shut off the water works and get to work!”

We started with spoons and forks, and graduated to more complex things like candlesticks as the days went on.  If one of us dropped an item, it was 100 push-ups.  If we didn’t all finish when he thought we should, and pass inspection, it was 100 push-ups from all of us. I never worked so hard in all my life.  But, I have to say, I really developed my arm and chest muscles.

On the last day we had our graduation test: group-polishing a huge silver elephant.  By that time we were like a well-oiled machine, and we finished well under the time specified.  We each got a certificate and our very own batch of silver polish and cloths, and a reference letter for potential employers.

I met my mother outside.

“Oh, dear.”  She hugged me.  “I’m so proud of you.”  She smiled at me for a moment.  “But I have a confession.  I found out – well – I made a mistake.  I thought your father said to send you to silver polishing boot camp, but he actually said pornography publishing boot camp.  So good for your future prospects, you know!  I’ve signed you up for next week.”

My Favorite Fortune Cookie

I broke off a tiny piece and inspected it.  The meal was over, but conversation continued, and somehow it was difficult to stop eating completely.  The fortune cookies were the only things – well, edible things – well, marginally edible things – left on the table.  We had already gone around the table with the fortunes, dutifully adding “on the drum, this year, in bed” to them, and laughing even when they weren’t terribly funny.  Conversation had moved on to other things.  I wasn’t quite ready to leave yet, and my mouth demanded something for dessert.

Absently, I lifted it, opening my lips just enough to place it discreetly on my tongue.  I let it rest there for a moment – no reason to hurry.  But as I listened to Al tell his Batman joke for the third or fourth time (for the benefit of the 3-year-old boy), I gradually became aware of a surprising and delicious flavor floating across my tongue, or drifting into my mouth.  It was hard to tell exactly where it came from, but it had to be the cookie.  I rolled it around a bit, noticing how it left trails of flavor as it disintegrated.  No fortune cookie I had ever eaten had tasted like that!

I broke off another tiny piece and ate it. Yes, it was definitely the cookie.  I caught the eye of the host, who had ordered from his favorite Chinese food place, and raised my eyebrow.  He smirked, looked down at the cookie, back at me.  “It’s like the short straw,” he said.  “Know what I mean?”  I reread my fortune and smiled.

Mandy’s Story Starters

1. She knew she would never be the same…

2. I once met a man at an airport lounge…

3. It was the sticky month of August…

4. I picked up the newspaper from the front porch and screamed…

5. I’ve learned many lessons from my dog…

6. He was 15 when he found out…

7. It’s amazing how much a life can change in an instant…

8. Age does funny things to people…

9. Laura watched as the elevator doors opened…

10. A trickle of sweat dripped down my nose as I…

11. The neighbor kids were chasing down the street after the ice cream truck and I…