Thankful I’m a Writer

Finish this sentence: I’m thankful I’m a writer because …

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

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152 thoughts on “Thankful I’m a Writer

  1. LASARDaddy

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because there’s a fog of words running through my mind all the time clambering for release. Without paper and pen they have no where to go.

    It’s impossible for me to see or hear or smell or have any other sensory input without building stories wrapped around whatever I glimpsed, smelled,… as I drove by or walked past or whatever I do. Just an errant thought will kick the word-machine into flank speed and the, “What if…?”, scenes I see as answers to that question amaze me all the time. Changing reality to something funnier or more dramatic, or maybe just different.

    When I see something, a situation, something being done that interests me, thousands of words flood through and I stand trying to pick those just perfect ones to describe what’s happening. Sometimes that’ll occupy my mind for hours and I lose track of everything.

    It’s a wonderful world to live in, but it is not conducive to a full social life, unless your significant other is a writer too. Mine is a published author and life with her is trying at times, but the discussions about words and how to use them are spectacular. We live with words.

    My theory is that Words are our only true gods. You can not even conceive of a God without words. Every aspect of life, society, government, EVERYTHING, is defined by words. How you use them can create whole new societies, or destroy everything in the one we live in. They can change or create a new person, or destroy one.

    It’s all in the words.

  2. igonzales81

    I’m thankful I’m a writer…

    Because it keeps the sharks away. The ones that are always circling, waiting for you to flounder, to give in, and give up. The ones you must feed, throwing out tales and stories and anecdotes, just so they don’t take hold of you and drag you down.

    Because it keeps the blades sharp. The one that you need to cut through a world full of obstacles, of difficulties, of shattered dreams and broken hopes. When every word you write hones the edge, it’s easier to cleave the ties and binds that hold you back and stop you from making your mark.

    Because it makes me a destroyer. I can end anything I want to, bring it to a crashing halt. Cities, counties, world, galaxies: I can crush or explode or burn them all if I want to, if the story calls for it.

    Because it makes me a creator. I can bring anything I want into existence. I can give life to anyone I want to. Those who are dead, those who haven’t been born, those who will never exist: I can breathe them into reality, can cause the worlds they inhabit to spring into existence.

    Because it helps me realize my strengths, and to rely on them.
    Because it shows me my weaknesses, and how to overcome them.

    Because it is a purpose, a calling, a path to follow.

    And because it will take me where I want to go.

    1. Kerry Charlton

      Wow and double wow. I never thought of it that way. My characters usually have a difficult time finding their own voice and I have to create a super ego to.protect them
      I guess you would call that passive and yet I don’t think of myself that way. Bit anyway, your answer is most inspiring. There’s san that will be battling windmills on Washington that needs this attitude you wrote about

  3. PatDatMann

    Finish this sentence: I’m thankful I’m a writer because …

    I’m much more worried about the details of what I do know than the generalities of what I don’t: but because I’m a writer I can quickly deduce the better words are probably familiar and unfamiliar. For as long as I can remember I’ve had loft profound thoughts intermingling with my most base ones, which in concert created a sense of solace that’s comforting. Thinking that I wouldn’t fall victim to the pitfalls of love and infatuation, overzealousness or carelessness just from having gone through my own personal psychological rigors to then only trip and fall over my guiding ideologies is harrowing. Time has revealed that there is no better teacher than experience and until the rubber of those tenets has hit the road then I can never actually know if I agree with them. Of course every idea and every belief a person holds can’t be practiced or even needs to be practiced to be proven valuable- but just the same, when they’re written down, they exists and that’s extremely powerful.
    I’m thankful that I’m a writer because it forces me to peel back the layers of complacency that tend to scab over life’s break throughs. My writings are the reflections of my thoughts, my understandings- without them I’d only be able to recognize myself through the lenses of the outside world. Our society, seeks to define and sale back to us our ideas of beauty while deftly neglecting to question whether beauty is in what we appear to be or what we think of becoming. My life as a writer has given me the opportunity to relish in the latter and for that I’ll be forever grateful. Which is why whenever a day goes by that I don’t write I feel like a kid who doesn’t show appreciation for the meals his parents provided, because had it not been for the writing process my ability to navigate life’s pitfalls would be that much more difficult. Populating a blank page that then turns into pages upon pages of symbolisms of our experiences allows each and every one of us to marvel at the expanse of the human psyche and awe at it as we do constellations in the night sky. Just to know that every conscious person has that capacity – regardless to whether or not it comes out in written form- is enough to appreciate every person well beyond what we see or even think about them.
    I’m thankful that I’m a writer because I get to play. A lot like basketball – which I spent a all of my formative years doing, you don’t need much to play, just an understanding of the basics and willingness to get better and the dedication to practice. With those qualities a persons imagination can take center stage like it did during grade school years. With discipline and diligence to the form of whatever type of writing we choose comes an opportunity to open the bounds of imagination in ways we never thought possible- and that is a yin and yang I happy to get down with.

  4. Sofemmabel

    I’m thankful I’m a writer, because I’m not. Ask me that question when I was 4ft 6 and had all the time I could ever want in the palms of my hands and I’d tell you I was thankful I was a writer because creative was the first word I’d write in a list of my qualities, that I was thankful because writing was my true calling in life and I’d grow up and pen a masterpiece by the age of fourteen.

    But when I reached the age of fourteen and I was asked to write down three words to describe myself, I couldn’t write down the only words at the forefront of my mind. Summer afternoons would drift by; silent evenings shrouded in dusk fog would make winter hours seem like winter years. My memories of that time sit untouched in neat little boxes, but the minute I go to open them, I know that all I’ll be faced with plain cardboard.

    I am thankful now that I feel that I am on the brink of something new. Trying to hit the letters of my keyboard in just the right order to invoke something different in myself as I scan over my own messy words makes my fingernails dig into my palms a dull ache from my temples to my toes, but I am thankful.

    I am not a writer yet.

  5. Sofemmabel

    I am thankful I’m a writer because writing is forgiving
    I will always be welcomed back for as long as I am living
    The words will always be there, waiting in a line
    The stories always lurking at the back of my mind
    The moment I am hurting, or dancing on the clouds,
    Writing always saves me, throws my thoughts out to the crowds
    The feelings held inside me must one day be released
    And writing is the thing I trust, for my secrets it will keep

  6. Sofemmabel

    I’m thankful to be writer because if I had not had words, I would not be here. Cheesy reason but I have killed myself again and again and again through words not actions. People die again and again in my stories. I have often contemplated life, what it means and how it should be to live. In words I constantly find myself slipping off the edge, in words, words on pages can die but if a person dies the people around them slowly die. I use to want to die, to disappear, to slip away but I couldn’t find the power to escape it all and leave my pain in the hands on another. The words gave me a meaning without a meaning. I am writer but not a writer, my paragraphs are torrents of incoherent sentences, they are pieced together random metaphors used out of context, but they are alive and I am and that is why I am thankful to be a writer. I just hope someone will get to survive as well through my words are yours for the keeping, use them as you wish and thrive.

  7. Bushkill

    Thankful writer

    The heat from the lights beat down on me with brutal intensity. Gods it is hot! I couldn’t stop blinking either. The brightness had me at a disadvantage, as if I needed another handicap. The chair was a metal composite and I sat in it with a lap-belt and crash harness. They were for protection because the seat would spin, rotate, and flip. All of it served as part of the interview process and fan appeal.

    The host repeated the questions, “Why do you write? What is the purpose for you?”

    I pursed my lips, I hadn’t been prepped for the question asked in that way. This production was going to air on Thanksgiving day so the question should have been phrased with that in mind.

    “Well, mam, I find the freedom it gives to be quite liberating. I like that…”

    She cut me off, “Freedom?, Liberating? I have read some of your “work” and I hardly find it liberating. How do you answer those who say you blather about nonsense and are at odds with the dictates of our National Doctrine?”

    “Well, I don’t think it’s disheartening or disingenuous to give people something to aim for. I still remember when goals and aspirations were important.”

    “That’s settled science. As an author, it is your duty to frame your words so that they keep people in the here and now. It is inappropriate for people to look at expanding their horizons. That’s how inequities are formed. It is the foundation of classism. Isn’t classism bad?”

    The brightness kept hammering away at me. I swear, the lights shone only on me and not on the host. As a matter of fact, I could barely see her face. The audience had grown quiet, too. I had seen the show enough to know the ice I tread grew increasingly thin.

    Our enlightened society, buttressed in a mantle of stringently enforced forbearance, prescribed a certain rigidity of thought. Writers often paid the price. We spoke our minds and opened others. The State didn’t approve.

    I had to say someing, “Perhaps, but stories encourage people to reach for better or for more. More for themselves. More for the their children or friends. It lights intuition and fuels independent thinking.”

    “Heresy! We have an established protocol for learning. We have aptitude batteries for career placement. Everyone has a place in the plan. Would you raise doubts on settled science?”

    The lap-belt tightened. Wrist bands snaked out and bound my hands to the chair.

    “Wait!” I said, though it wouldn’t help. Not at this point. I had just been convicted as a free thinker on national TV. I wonder what would happen to me now?

    Gods it is hot in this seat.

          1. Kerry Charlton

            This is real scary story and after the battle for the president election with all the media interfering with individual thought, we are closer than we know. I ‘ ve watched elections since Harry Truman’s surprise in 1948. Your story is very topical
            ,

  8. Tom Bentley

    I’m happy to be a writer because it keeps me clothed: I formed a happy haiku into a hairy hat, wove a sizzling subjunctive into a scarf, shaped a sonorous sonnet into a simple shirt, fashioned a free-verse poem into a paisley pair of pants, outlined an obscure metaphor into a loose belt, and whittled two perfect participles into a pair of shiny shoes.

    And I took all the leftover words, phrases, clauses and punctuation marks and made a cake. Sweet.

  9. Giles

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because it has given me a new voice that I never realized I had. Being a non traditional college student, I never thought of myself as a writer until recently. Having worked several years in the work force, blue collar of course, I always regretted not going to college. Recently, I was awarded VA benefits, thanks to my service in the Army, so off to college I went. I was fortunate enough to have a great English professor for my comp I class who inspired me like never before. Thanks to her motivation, I am now pursuing a minor in English, in addition to a bachelors in Political Science. I chose Political Science as my major because I wanted to serve my country in another way, since my time on the combat field ended. Writing has given me a public voice on issue’s we are currently facing in our great country. I also love to dabble in creative writing in my spare time. I have a lot to learn about writing and I’m always open for advice. I look forward to getting to know other writer’s, and having great conversations and relationships.

  10. JosephFazzone

    I am thankful I’m a writer for the grime, the grit and the grust.

    Made up words, are not absurd when they make the most sense to us

    Adjectives that bind and bend to my every whim

    Showered and empowered within the sink or swim

    Me, Myself, and I, and all of those who straggle in

    Minotaur, or leprechauns and those clowns of some chagrin

    Some may think it ne’er implausible, or deplorable, insane within the I

    To call it as I see it and see the halfway line

    My prose, I suppose, was not meant to claim the day.

    So, I’m going to just go and…

    Stop

    And slowly start

    And the breathing exteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnndddddssss into another moment

    Lost

    Pause

    Breathe

    And really, really breathe

    Hi.

    Went off the tangent, didn’t I?

    My mind spins the way it spins, and so far, I try with all I have to make the most sense out of it. It’s funny to me how I can write when I have no idea what I’m talking about.

    My mind on a hike, I see it, the path, the meadow, the sharp turn up a hill, and then there’s really not much more to the view. The story blurs, and fades. A puff and smoke, and the tempo changed. The amazing part about writing is that I can do…whatever I want, but I have to appreciate that there’s a dance, a shimmy, a way of spinning the yarn, spitting on canvas, and holding on for dear life as the action grows intense, and oh my god is that a knife?

    The tempo changed again

    I am thankful for the moments that I sit at my desk, and just write. I love the moments when my eyes sort of go blurry, and I’m just staring off into space as the words spill out onto the screen before me. I have written more words than I planned because I was really in the mood to crack the old skull open, and pour out onto the floor everything that I have any tangible grasp on.

    I sit in the middle of a lake. I am sitting on a patch of grass in the middle of a placid lake. Beams of light from the sun dance upon the gentle water’s wiggle as gentle splashes chime in to crack the monotony.

    Now, that was a big moment for the wave, wasn’t it? Crack! Words are fun!

    I have lived through hours upon hours eyes gone blurry as my fingers, in a hurry, dance, and leap and soar and turn. (Ouch, visual) My I toil as I empty out my soul, painting every treetop, ringing every bell, and right when I hit the end…

    I snap back.

    Reread, and ask, what the heck is this all about? I try not to be too judgmental. I just hope I enjoyed what I wrote, and had fun doing it. Then I get my little red marker, and chisel the rough, into the final. I’m a good tired, and it felt great to zone, and let it all hang out.

    This is why I’m thankful that I’m a writer.

      1. Kerry Charlton

        A breathe taking trip Joseph. At my age it wore me out and I thought about having my good banshee race after you and grab you and have brought back to me . Aileen is her name. I bet you didn’t know banshees can be good or evil. She also is beautiful and only grows warts when she is upset. How this for a reply?

    1. Bushkill

      You sure you didn’t have a fishing pole with you on that lake? I thought I saw one next to you as I swam by under the arcing ripple of the waves.

      Loved it! Quite Picasso-esque. … Only with words and such.

  11. cosi van tutte

    I am thankful that I am a writer, because it has helped me find my true voice.

    I love music and singing. My vocal range, unfortunately, is limited at best and tone deaf at worst.

    Yet, as I’ve written stories through these prompts, I have discovered that I do have a voice. It just wasn’t the one I was expecting.

    It is not a voice filled with musical notes and key signatures.

    It is a voice with a weird sense of humor and moderately crazy characters.

    It is a voice filled with nouns and pronouns and adjectives and the necessary amount of adverbs.

    It is the voice of my characters.

    It is the voice within my stories.

    And I am very thankful for it. 😀

    1. jhowe

      You do have a voice, though I reserve the right to critique your singing. In fact, I’m quite fond of your voice. I love your humor and (moderately crazy characters). Keep it up.

    2. igonzales81

      Now that’s what we need to hear. Writing is such a journey, a series of discoveries. It’s not just about putting your thoughts through a word processor; it’s about communicating something, and learning how to tell a story. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, and your discoveries.

  12. jhowe

    I’m thankful to be a writer because:

    It gives me the opportunity to perfect the proper; use of semicolons.

    Sometimes, when I talk, I tend to run on and on but with writing, you can be much more precise and avoid the tediousness of run-on sentences because nobody likes those, especially other writers who tune out when one runs on and on and who can blame them because it kind of sucks a little, or a lot, depending on your views on the subject.

    It gives me ample occasions to develop realistic, crisp dialog:
    “Seymour, you have always been my brother and since we have started living apart I miss the times we used to have.”
    “I agree, Randy. I’m so glad we share the same mother. And don’t forget, we also have the same father.”
    “And don’t forget aunts and uncles. But not having you close has its advantages. For example, I have more alone time.”
    “Good point, Randy. Your perception is as impeccable as it once was, when we lived in the same house as our parents.”
    “And we also lived in the same house as our pet dog, Rex. He was a golden retriever.”
    “Yes, he was a golden retriever. Thanks for remembering.”
    “Two weeks goes by fast, but I still remember.”

    And finally, as I progress as a writer, I wouldn’t mix past and present tense.

    1. Kerry Charlton

      Oh, what a teacher you are! Loved your run a way sentence. Really top fourth grade material. Doesn’t look like there’s anyway to stop you except beam you on the back of your hrad with a sharp-shooter shovel. And if that dosn’t work there’s also the atomic, clarifier that will dry clean your head. There are other remedoes to0 gory to discuss.

    2. Papa Troll

      I stumble all the time, and it’s great to feel the progress, and see it when I learn from my mistakes. It is also so fulfilling to see my current work and realize how much blood was spilled in order for me to get here.

  13. Angela Death

    I have led a privileged life. I grew up with both my parents and my older brother. We were never rich by any means, but we were never without. My parents provided us with a safe and stable home environment where we were encouraged to flourish no matter what our potential. We had decent public school education and I even managed to get in some college classes before life (and lack of funds) took over.

    I was always a mild-mannered child and was easily disciplined. I never talked back to my parents and did what I was told for the most part. But I had an issue with one-on-one conversations that required confrontation. I couldn’t do it. So I found that writing my thoughts down on paper helped me find words that would have otherwise escaped me. Some of these writings never saw the light of day, but others made their way into my mother’s hands and then we were able to talk without harsh words.

    This grew into much more. I began writing poetry and short stories, then into unfinished novels and blogs. I am thankful to be a writer because when spoken words fail me, I can always come back to the written word and everything flows nicely out onto a page.

    I truly believe that good writing can change a person’s life and perspective. I remember reading Mercedes Lackey’s “Last Herald Mage” series and falling in love with her main character. My brother later told me that his whole perspective on homosexuality had changed when he read those books. It meant something powerful to me, but it meant something even more powerful to him.

    This is what I want to create as a writer. I want to create work that makes a person stop and think about their own life and see it from someone else’s perspective. I want to be able to change a person’s life in such a way that they become a better human being. I’m no where near that level of ability at the moment, but it is my end goal.

    If only I can change one person’s life even in some small way, then I will have succeeded.

  14. debscherrer

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because I can’t think of any other job that gives me a license to create worlds filled with dragons and wizards, new dimensions inhabited by friendly aliens, and villains in the image of my first boss.

    I love words. I’m an artist mixing and stirring like a painter facing a blank palette. It’s amazing to me how changing just one word in a sentence can influence a reader. Does the word inspire? Does it teach? Does it comfort? Does it influence? Does it provoke? Does it scare?

    That kind of power is addictive.

    Every day is full of ideas for me. The noisy little voices mumbling around in my head never really go away. This writing thing I have is a real distraction when I’m talking to my neighbors. As they prattle about what’s on the stove for dinner, I space out, thinking of how I can add a new character to my story. It’s uncanny how I can hear what you’re saying, and building a scene in my mind at the same time. There really is no time to waste. So I apologize if I’m only half listening. My hero is in the middle of a gun battle.

    Being a writer can also be a nuisance. When ideas pop into my head I have a hard time concentrating. I can’t do anything else until I get the idea out of my head and on paper. I have literally been driving when an idea takes over my thoughts, and I have to turn into a side street to get the idea down before it’s gone forever. These thought intrusions would be less disruptive if I had a nano-camera implanted in my brain that could record my random story ideas when they show up. Note to self: new story idea.

    Sometimes being a writer is a curse. The voices in my head never rest.
    So, maybe I’m not a writer. These voices in my head could be the symptom of a serious mental problem. Perhaps I should see someone about that. But I would hate to take medication for my condition, because if the noise stops I’ll be alone, and then who will I be?

    Maybe I’m two people. I don’t mean a split-personality type, but two fully functioning people; twins in one body. One twin manages to do the everyday mundane things like the laundry, vacuuming, grocery shopping, cooking, etc. The creative twin, the “Other”, is always controlling my brain like that crazy “Elf on the Shelf” whispering in my ear…”write, write.”

    Being a writer definitely has its challenges, but when I compare it to driving to a job every day, sitting in meetings, and writing reports, I would pick writing as my life’s work.

    I hope this delicate dance between the real world and my imagination never stops, and the music continues until my final day because without the music (voices) I’m dead anyway.

  15. pinkbamboo

    Hoping this gets through. Two of my prompts were delayed because of posts showing up late 🙁
    For this prompt, I got real lol.

    *********************************

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because .. wait.. am I a writer?

    I would like to think so. I think therefore I am.

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because at least I have a creative outlet to let myself be expressive. It still amazes me that whenever I have a pen and a paper, the words forming in my head flows through my hand, my fingertips to move the pen and these beautiful words appear on paper. It put a smile to my face knowing that I am able to let the world know what’s inside of me through words.

    I’m thankful I’m a writer even though I’m not good at it but it made me feel like I have somewhere I can turn to whenever I have a feeling – when I’m feeling happy, sad and especially when I’m feeling emotional. It’s quite therapeutic actually to pen down your inner struggles.

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because I get to withdraw from real life for a while. As someone who tries to be optimistic and would prefer to see the world in a positive light, it dampens my spirit when the world is not ideal. Writing has become a sort of escapism. I can bolt to my happy place – even for just a little while.

    I’m thankful I’m a writer as it lets me understand others. I understand how words can be a double edge sword and it made me more conscious of how I present myself to people – how to use words to the best ability to comfort and inspire someone.

    As a bonus, being a writer made me appreciate beautifully constructed sentences. Oh how neatly these plain words put together to create something which means so much.

    I’m thankful that I like writing. It’s one thing that made me who I am.

    1. JosephFazzone

      So honest and close to home. I love that there’s so much of a connection we all share even though what we do is mostly done alone, and miles apart from each other. I love stretching a sentence out, playing with the cadence, and pushing it to the edge before I actually need to place a period. It’s a fun game within a game.

  16. miketom

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because I get to invent, populate, and play in all these worlds, and then write what I see my people (whatever their species) do and say. They constantly surprise me!

  17. ReathaThomasOakley

    I’m thankful I’m a writer, because…

    I still couldn’t believe Miss Cowart did this to me. I really liked her for a teacher, even though I’d heard Mama and Aunt Violet whispering about her under the clothes lines one day. Well, I’d really liked her until today.

    School started okay this morning. With only three days to Thanksgiving I wasn’t surprised when Miss Cowart got all smiley after roll call and the Pledge and the Lord’s Prayer, what Neil Ortega and some of the others got to say different, being Catholic and all. What I didn’t expect was a writing assignment before arithmetic.

    “Boys and girls,” she’d said, “please take out four sheets of paper and sharpen three pencils.” Then, before anyone’s hands went up she laughed, and said, “I don’t want any desks being opened or pencils sharpened for the next hour.”

    Then she said we were to pretend we were grown up, with jobs and all, getting ready for Thanksgiving.

    “Now, please write why you’re thankful for what you’ve become.” I’d looked around the classroom. Ever body knew Marian Andrew wanted to be a teacher and Willie Watts wanted to fly airplanes, so I figured what they’d write. Carol Hay would most likely have a job selling dresses or something like that, she just loved to count my crinolines hanging on the closet door. I was thinking I needed to starch mine soon, if it didn’t rain, when Miss Cowart came to my desk.

    “Annie, why aren’t you writing?” She asked.

    Ever body’d laugh if I said I wanted to be a detective, just like I’d laughed when nasty ole Wilfred said he wanted to be a preacher on television. That was the silliest thing I’d ever heard. I’d kinda giggled when John Edward Lee said he wanted to be captain of patrol boys, and Miss Cowart reminded him to think about being grown up, not sixth grade.

    “I just don’t know, m’am.” I’d said. “Nothing I can think of.”

    “I have a suggestion,” she’d said with big smile. “I think you could become a writer, so pretend you are one, and write why you are thankful.”

    So, there I sat, not one sentence finished, listening while she told Charles Strickland to pretend he was a farmer, and Pat Futch to pretend she was a mother, and Mary Jo Barry to think about being a librarian, and Acina Adams to pretend she worked in a school.

    Funny thing was I could imagine ever one of them being what Miss Cowart said. I just couldn’t see a grown up me as a writer. Oh, well, twenty-two minutes of the hour were gone, I had to put down something.

    ‘I’m thankful I’m a writer, because sometimes I can’t figure out why folks do or say what they do or why some things don’t make sense. A writer could be almost like a detective, listen to what folks say and search for clues, to try to find out the truth of things and write that down so other folks know what is what. The End.’

    (As with all Annie stories, this is an homage to those who peopled my world long ago, for whom I am still thankful.)

    1. Kerry Charlton

      This is so wonderful Reatha and I’m sure you know why. I was the slightly pudgy boy with sandy hair sitting in the next row. I am extremely shy around girls. I don’t really know why, I think we could be good friends. What I am writing about is I want be a rocket ship captain, explore the moon and then other planets and finally even the far away stars. (Now look what you’ve got me doing. I’m twelve years old again. I’ve a new model to build when I get hope. It’s a P -51 Mustang. Wish you could see it……………]

    2. Nicki EagerReader

      I really missed your stories, Reatha 🙂 it’s a pity I couldn’t keep up with your posts; I hope you’ll publish them some day so I can finally catch up! (seriously- go ebook and Amazon. Or have you already???)

    3. Beebles

      I love the fact that Wilfrid wants to be a tv preacher. Such well conveyed and believable thought processes and emotions. it’s all just so natural – and that is one of your many strengths.

  18. Kinterralynn

    I am thankful I am a writer because I look at the world and see the potential. I don’t see a fat man carrying stuffing his SUV with groceries, I see an obese middle-aged man, huffing from having smoked too many cigarettes, carelessly tossing full plastic grocery bags into the back of his ’87 metallic powder blue Suburban. His t-shirt is stained with sweat as he hitches his jeans back up so the crack of his butt isn’t showing but they slide back down the moment he turns and reaches another bag from the cart that is leaning to the side because he drew the short straw and ended up with the cart with a damaged wheel.
    I am thankful I am a writer because when I see someone walking down the street, I instantly begin putting them in a story and figuring out how they will fit in, what part they will play.

    I am thankful I am a writer because I study facial expressions and body movements and while this is eternally helpful with my writing, it also has helped me in my real life, detecting someone’s happiness, sadness or anger.

    I am thankful I am a writer because I am always writing in my head, I’ve been writing since I was at least nine years old and it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a book finished or that I’ve only had a couple of newspaper articles published, what matters is that writing brings me comfort and peace.

    I am most thankful that I am a writer because its my therapy, my “safe place” from the world. I have an entire story written about a girl named Raven who saw me through my shoddy marriage, the divorce and the painful years of raising my son on my own. She took my pain and made it manageable, gave me a way to cope when I had reached my lowest point.

    Writing is my thing. Writing is my calling. Writing is my life.

    So that’s why I am an Computer Helpdesk Tech.

      1. Kinterralynn

        I think there are just certain things all writers do inside their heads without even realizing they are doing it… like making a mental list of how someone talks, their body language, how they are wearing their clothes.

    1. Papa Troll

      hahaha! I’m a technical recruiter for the aerospace and defense industry. Someday perhaps the writing will become the career path, but perhaps it may never will. I will write either way. I totally appreciate this perspective, and identify with so much of it. Fantastic!

      1. Kinterralynn

        A career in writing would be awesome – had I made different choices in the past I’d probably be a journalist right now, but alas, life is full of those decisions on turning left or turning right. The bonus of it all is that I had a world of experiences that I can now write about!

  19. Kerry Charlton

    I’M THANKFUL I’M A WRITER BECAUSE……

    When I read the prompt, I knew it would be a personal response I needed to reply with. So if you’re uncomfortable, please don’t consider it necessary to spend the time. Life came relatively easy even with a strict Victorian Father because of an adorable Mother from the Roaring Twenties.

    High school was a snap as well as college and I started a record company with help of two partners at the age of twenty three. The partners quarreled, bankrupted the business but I stepped off to a better company. Started my own construction company at the age of forty five and roared through life with five daughters one step daughter and two step sons.

    Not a particularly charmed life, plenty of stumbles, getting on my feet again and starting over until 2001 when my whole life came apart except for my children and my best friend, my wife. A phone call on a workday from my daughter Leslie, precocious, dynamic, beautiful Leslie,

    “Dad, I just left my doctor, he says I have stage four melanoma on my right leg.”

    My world stopped and Leslie battled through it and was cancer free in 2007. A brief respite, and then it came roaring back. She fought it a second time but didn’t have the strength she needed. I was so proud of her and so angry, I asked God,

    “Why is it you always take the very best?”

    The last five days, we talked when she could and she asked two favors of me,
    Not to cry over her and get on with my life and second to write about my early days in Philadelphia, Washington D. C. and Miami. Of course I agreed even though my only writing had been business oriented but I did love to tell stories.

    And then she simply slipped away to the angels…….

    It was three days later, I started to write about Avalon, our summer home in New Jersey. Of course the tears came anyway, and I imagined hearing her say,

    “Now Dad, cut it out. I told you not to worry, I’d be with Jesus and the angels would look over me, so quit it and I mean it.”

    Her photo found a spot on the right side of my desk and for eight and a half years, she’s the first thing I see when I start to work. Always watching and protecting me. I can
    imagine her presence especially when I’m sad and she in her own manner, is scolding me.

    I didn’t stop with my early childhood and continued to write about high school and collage. Since I was at three hundred pages, a name came to me that fit the story, I titled it “Living In Paradise And Not Knowing It.” Eight years later, I’m halfway through a rewrite and then I’ll burden my children and grand children, fir a second read. .

    Then I caught the fiction bug and wrote about anything my mind thought up. Three and a half years go, I stumbled across Writer’s Digest Creative Writer’s Prompts. It’s the best thing I‘ve discovered since ‘spell check.’ I’m over 200 short stories inspired by the prompts. More importantly, I‘ve made a lot of friends here, whom I cherish, they tune my mind and throw sunshine to me regardless of the weather.
    .
    So, I’ll continue writing until I can’t. It’s not the quality I really worry about for I figure with over three hundred essays and short stories, odds are in my favor, a few of them are worthwhile while the others keep me busy using up trees for paper. .

    One final thing, it literally has saved my sanity in the last eight years, not that I had a whole lot to begin with anyway. Happy writing, fellow writers.

    Kerry

      1. Kerry Charlton

        Thank you Cosi, it is I that should be thanking you. You have written so many marvelous examples of what a writer should be and i have learned a lot just from reading your dynamic style. May we all go soaring into the next year with rocket speed. And thank you for being you.

    1. ReathaThomasOakley

      Kerry, you’ve mentioned your Leslie before, what a wonderful way to honor her. Thank you for sharing more of the other parts of your story here. I’m so glad you found this place because I so enjoy what you write. January will be two years I’ve been posting here and know it’s been what got me writing again and what’s kept me writing. Let’s keep doing this!

      1. Kerry Charlton

        Thanks Reatha, I don’t plan on going anywhere and I hope you don’t either. You’ve taken me on so many fun experiences, especially with ‘The Girl’ series. You know I have a daughter, Lisa, living in Wyoming. She hunts deer with a bow and arrow,her boyfriend taught her and she’s quite a horse woman. Lives in Riverton. Her youngest daughter graduates from High School this year.

    2. Kinterralynn

      I’m sorry you lost Leslie. No one should ever have to bury their child. I’m glad you chose to honor her wishes and write about your life, writing is probably the most therapeutic thing you can do to help ease the pain.

      1. Kerry Charlton

        Thank you for stopping by Kinterralynn. That’s quite a handle. You’re right about the therapeutic value. Sometimes I think She’s looking over my shoulder when I write, shaking her head either yes or no.

        1. Kinterralynn

          The name is a creation of my own. A play on the German word for Children “Kinder” and “Terra” for land. Literally comes out to “Children’s Land” ( a place of imagination ) and to personalize it just a tad, I tossed in my middle name “Lynn”.

          My mother passed over 20 years ago. I know she still looks over my shoulder and nudges me in one direction or another when I am writing, so I do understand what you are sharing :0 )

    3. Beebles

      What a wonderful compendium Leslie has opened and what sparks of joy she has given us all through you, Kerry. There are many people on here aching to read your biography, of that i am certain.

      1. Kerry Charlton

        Thank you Beebles for your wonderful thoughts. I love to see your name come up with a story cause I know it’s going to be a really fun trip to read and, by the way, you never disappoint.

    4. Nicki EagerReader

      Thanks, Kerry, for entrusting us with so much of your life; not only in this post, but in all the stories you write and which are always beautifully lined with your memories. I remember “Avalon”, it was heartbreakingly sweet. Now I’m looking forward to reading the rest of “Living in Paradise” , provided you even want to share it (I’d be glad if you would!).
      Congrats to over 200 short stories on the forum. Keep them coming; I still read, even if I don’t post anymore 🙂

    5. Papa Troll

      I’m a father, and I can’t even begin to comprehend the craziness you have gone through. I admire your courage, and spirit for overcoming such a tragedy. I have chills up and down my spine. Thank you for sharing this.

      1. Kerry Charlton

        Thank you Papa. I write about Leslie when ever I get the courage to. She was loved by everybody she met, a personality that could warm a soul in a breath. Animals of any kind would greet her like an old friend. I am so proud to be her father and I miss her so. Thank your reading about her.

    6. Bushkill

      Very inspiring. I too write for my daughter, though she is in college. I started as a way of paving the way for her and seeing what hurdles needed jumping. I didn’t realize how gripping it would be. I am happy to have met such wonderful people to share stories with. Yours are always among the best.

    7. JosephFazzone

      Kerry this hit to the core of me. I’m a father of four! I wouldn’t dare imagine what it was like to go through, but I know that your courage and strength for carrying on is heroic! I thank you for demonstrating what it is to make a positive out of the worst of all negatives. With all humility, thank you.

  20. rle

    I’m thankful to be a writer because…

    I pondered this for awhile because I thought to myself, what actually constitutes being a writer? Is a writer someone who derives a substantial income from the craft of writing? Is it someone who merely dabbles from time to time? Or, is it someone who just occasionally jots down random thoughts and files them away in hopes that someday they will all melt together and form a meaningful story?

    After tossing it around for a time, I finally came to the conclusion the answer is, ‘all of the above’.

    The reasons we write are as varied as the many shapes of snowflakes that fall from the winter sky. Our methods are all unique, much like the strands of DNA that make us who we are as individuals, but the desired result is generally very similar.

    For me, writing is the preferred method of expression. As a young boy, I was a stutterer and found myself far more comfortable writing than speaking. I attended school in a rural area where the resources weren’t available to help me overcome my speech impediment, so I resorted to writing.

    Eventually, I outgrew the stuttering without intervention, but by this time, writing was what I felt I wanted to pursue as a career. I wrote non stop through high school and even published a few articles in regional hunting magazines. As a senior, I applied to Ohio University’s prestigious school of journalism, but unfortunately did not make the cut.

    After the sting of rejection subsided, I decided to develop other interests. I started a business, married, and began my family, leaving the desire to write behind along with the shadows of my youth.

    It wasn’t until twenty-five years later when I stumbled across these very writing prompts, that the urge to write was rekindled. I made a pact with myself and said if I could answer fifty prompts in a year and still felt as strongly about revisiting my old flame, I’d begin writing again in earnest. Well, guess what? Three years after writing that first prompt response, I’m nearly finished with my first novel.

    Unfortunately, at least once in every lifetime we’re all hit with what I like to refer to as ‘atomic bombs’. For us it happened late this past spring when my wife was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. I’ve been keeping a journal since that day and find that writing down my thoughts, serves as a form of therapy. I’m far less inhibited about writing down my feelings and fears than I would be if I were speaking with someone face to face. I hope to be able to share this journal someday, but for now it’s mine only.

    I guess I’m thankful to be a writer because I can be. It’s the one thing I can be in complete control of. For me, it’s a hobby that takes so little, yet gives so much back. I always thought I wanted to write for other people, but as I grow and expand as a writer, I’ve come to realize that the most important person I write for, is me.

    1. ReathaThomasOakley

      Thank you for writing this. Writing approaches as snowflakes is lovely. Congratulations on the work you’ve accomplished. My very best and positive thoughts go out to your wife and you. I also understand the control thing. We all need a place like this.

    2. pinkbamboo

      I’m smiling with tears at your last paragraph because it’s so beautiful. I’m still at the stage of writing for me but I’m also equally writing for an audience. Sending virtual hugs and positive thoughts to your wife and family.

      1. rle

        Thanks Pink. Over the last six months, I’ve had just about every king of hug you could imagine, but never a virtual one! They all mean the same thing though as far as I can tell, so thank you very much.

    3. Peri Winkle

      RLE, it’s me JM. I had to change my name in order to post. I was going to PM you with this, but WD won’t let me do that either. Not sure why, but anyway…

      I happened to be reading over some old prompts just the other day, and came across this comment by you on one of my stories — it was a silly piece of fluff about Barbie telling off Ken (“Going on Chore Strike,” June 2014). You said: “How about a working mom Barbie, or Barbie that juggles fifteen different things and still has dinner on the table by five. Oh wait, I married that Barbie!” I thought to myself — there’s a guy who loves and admires his wife, and truly appreciates all that she does.”

      I am so very sorry to hear of what you are going through. I have a close friend who has been dealing with the same for the past three years, so I have an idea what it’s like.

      Stay strong, keep the faith, and keep writing. I’ll say a prayer for you both.

      1. rle

        So thrilled to hear from you, JM. I don’t often participate here these days, but I still like to read what everyone else is doing as often as I can. I was thinking as I posted this, how much I missed reading your entries then you just popped up out of nowhere.

        I debated even bringing up my wife’s illness in this post, but after thinking about it, I realized this whole ordeal has changed me, not only as a person, but as a writer so I felt it was rather relevant. Fortunately, I’ve always been one of those people who is keenly aware of how good my relationship with my spouse is. I rarely take anything for granted. This episode has drawn us even closer than we were already.

        I would love to chat sometime. Please feel free to message us through Facebook. We can be found at Emersons Greenhouse. I warn you in advance, we’re not facebookaholics, so an entire conversation may well take several days.

        Thank you for the well wishes, and especially the prayer. We’ll take all of those we can get.

  21. Beebles

    I didn’t know how to respond to this until I was changing the bed this morning. And then it came to me. No apologies, you get four for the price of one. And the Bad Romance awards have gone this year, so you can’t touch me for it! Haha!

    ———-

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because … well because of this …

    The rain cascaded from Richmond De Lacey’s dark hair, over the broad shoulders of his trench coat and funnelled through the holster’s cradling the two Scorpion machine pistols on his hip. The sky was a mess, like hell’s crèche five minutes before nap time, and the whipping wind drew on the sodden woodbine smouldering in Delacey’s mouth, a mirror of his resolve.

    He withdrew the stub from between his pursed lips, stepping onto the narrow parapet, and flicked it onto the glass roof below. It smeared its way across the pane, ash – like blood from an exit wound. DeLacey then pulled on the slow release cable to check the harness was secure. Through the frosted glass he could see dim figures moving; Dreyfus’s goons. Dreyfus would be there; and the money; and – DeLacey grimaced – Geraldine, probably dolled up in a sequined dress from one of Dreyfus’s whores, likely tied to a piece of furniture. She better keep her head down when the shooting started.

    At the end of the day, there was no point in subtlety with men like Dreyfus, no second guessing, no need for a plan. They were like fitted bed sheets, no matter which corner you went for first it was always gonna be the wrong one, so you might as well just go in there pluggin’ lead.

    He smiled grimly, drew the scorpions and jumped.

    ————————

    ‘DeLacey!’ Sir Turstin Fitzrolf called, striding across the tourney ground, the king’s champion, resplendent in a gem encrusted azure tunic, hose of blue and green. He waved to the crowds beneath the banners and bowed to his sovereign, before facing back to Richmond. He gave a low mocking bow.

    ‘DeLacey,’ he boomed again, using Richmond’s father’s name. Then he came close, so close that Richmond could smell the man’s sweat and ripe cheese between his teeth. He brought up a hand to cup Richmond’s cedar bark cheek, as one would a child.

    Fitzrolf whispered contemptuously. ‘Why don’t you slither back under that whore’s mattress you were conceived on, eh? Save us all this farce.’

    Turstin made to step away but Richmond snatched hold of his hand. He squeezed so hard the nobleman’s eyes started to water. Then Richmond raised their arms aloft and turned to the king.

    ‘Your champion has very nobly offered me a way out, Sire, but I insist we compete!’

    The king nodded, waved, but Richmond was not watching him, choosing instead to throw a rakish grin in the direction of Geraldine, the Queen’s grey eyed sister. She covered her mouth and leaned to whisper to her lady in waiting, her slim body moving with the litheness of a dragon’s tongue.

    Turstin repossessed his hand. ‘Let’s to it, Moor,’ he growled and stalked to where his squire waited.

    Richmond had choice of weapons and he knew he had chosen well. Turstin was a typical Norman knight, famed for his strength and speed, but not necessarily his technique. He lacked Richmond’s Eastern training.

    Fitzrolf turned to face him, pillow case in one hand, stuffing in the other and Richmond allowed himself a smile. As the two closed, DeLacey tucked the stuffing under his arm and began rolling the casing’s opening down, as his Uncle had taught him – half the length, half the effort. The Earl’s eyes were so focussed, so filled with disdain and contempt that he did not notice the subtle move.

    And even when the stuffing was over, he still wouldn’t understand it.

    1. Beebles

      Part Two
      ——–
      It was carnage.

      Richmond knelt shuddering amongst the empty casings, the soiled linen, the disembowelled duvet; the pillow stuffing stripped and naked, dribble stains exposed. His arms were elbow deep in floral duvet cover as he fumbled for the corners, an edge, anything that would bring this nightmare closer to an end.

      If he could just get this bed made, he could still make the last session of the day. India needed just five more English wickets to take the series win. The first time in forty years. And they would be world number one into the bargain.

      Five more wickets, one more session. He could still make it.

      His frenzied fingers found the corners and in a blaze of elation, like the sun rising from behind the scoreboard at the Vauxhall Lane End, he rose to shake the cover over his king size nemesis. Next the pillows, slotted in, like fingers into a batsman’s gloves.

      He bowled the sheet over the mattress cover and tucked it in, cover point, silly point, square leg, long on. He hurled the pillows at the stumps of the bedhead and span the duvet into place. Only the throw to smooth out, like a well rolled wicket and he was done. Fifteen minutes to spare, just time for a scrap of lunch before the final session started on Sky.

      Richmond allowed himself a moment to admire his handiwork.

      ‘Oh Richmond!’ Geraldine called form the bottom of the stairs.

      ‘Yes, my love?’

      ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting the Hendersons for lunch in half an hour.’

      The bails of Richmond’s hope clattered into the air as he reeled from the googly. He sank screaming to the bedroom floor, ‘Nooooo!’

      ——————-

      ‘Oh, Richmond, it’s perfect,’ Geraldine breathed, stroking her scarlet tipped fingers along the top of the quilted cover. ‘The plump pillows, the hospital corners. It’s the most beautiful thing I could ever have imagined.’

      Richmond stood behind her, watching every move of her body beneath that shy summer frock, so like the one she had been wearing at the cocktail party at the governor’s residence in Bengal when they had first met, when he was just a tongue tied schoolmaster’s son, not a soldier, a hero of the Raj. His gaze navigated the downy nape of her neck.

      ‘I know something more beautiful,’ he stammered, all moisture abandoning his mouth in the breathless unspoken heat of the attic room.

      ‘Geraldi…’ he began, but she turned and placed one of those jewelled fingers to his rusted lips. Then in a hearbeat her lips were there and his hands were pressing her to him, owning every soft curve as if the dress did not exist, as if they could caress away every one of those fifteen lost years.

      He drew her down onto the bed, all aridity dispelled. Her hands were pulling at his stubborn shirt; she gasped her frustration and pressed herself deeper to him. Already he could feel the beads of sweat breaking from her brow, already taste the salt and he screamed for joy inside, his head growing lighter, their lust more furious, creating a fleeting cocoon from the world outside, a world to which they both knew they would soon have to answer.

    2. ReathaThomasOakley

      Beebles, Beebles, Beebles, my goodness, words fail. After mastering that challenge I cannot imagine what is next. I’ll get to part 2 because I must.

    3. Beebles

      Part Two – apologies if multiple posts – you know the system!

      —–

      It was carnage.

      Richmond knelt shuddering amongst the empty casings, the soiled linen, the disembowelled duvet; the pillow stuffing stripped and naked, dribble stains exposed. His arms were elbow deep in floral duvet cover as he fumbled for the corners, an edge, anything that would bring this nightmare closer to an end.

      If he could just get this bed made, he could still make the last session of the day. India needed just five more English wickets to take the series win. The first time in forty years. And they would be world number one into the bargain.

      Five more wickets, one more session. He could still make it.

      His frenzied fingers found the corners and in a blaze of elation, like the sun rising from behind the scoreboard at the Vauxhall Lane End, he rose to shake the cover over his king size nemesis. Next the pillows, slotted in, like fingers into a batsman’s gloves.

      He bowled the sheet over the mattress cover and tucked it in, cover point, silly point, square leg, long on. He hurled the pillows at the stumps of the bedhead and span the duvet into place. Only the throw to smooth out, like a well rolled wicket and he was done. Fifteen minutes to spare, just time for a scrap of lunch before the final session started on Sky.

      Richmond allowed himself a moment to admire his handiwork.

      ‘Oh Richmond!’ Geraldine called form the bottom of the stairs.

      ‘Yes, my love?’

      ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting the Hendersons for lunch in half an hour.’

      The bails of Richmond’s hope clattered into the air as he reeled from the googly. He sank screaming to the bedroom floor, ‘Nooooo!’

      ——————-

      ‘Oh, Richmond, it’s perfect,’ Geraldine breathed, stroking her scarlet tipped fingers along the top of the quilted cover. ‘The plump pillows, the hospital corners. It’s the most beautiful thing I could ever have imagined.’

      Richmond stood behind her, watching every move of her body beneath that shy summer frock, so like the one she had been wearing at the cocktail party at the governor’s residence in Bengal when they had first met, when he was just a tongue tied schoolmaster’s son, not a soldier, a hero of the Raj. His gaze navigated the downy nape of her neck.

      ‘I know something more beautiful,’ he stammered, all moisture abandoning his mouth in the breathless unspoken heat of the attic room.

      ‘Geraldi…’ he began, but she turned and placed one of those jewelled fingers to his rusted lips. Then in a hearbeat her lips were there and his hands were pressing her to him, owning every soft curve as if the dress did not exist, as if they could caress away every one of those fifteen lost years.

      He drew her down onto the bed, all aridity dispelled. Her hands were pulling at his stubborn shirt; she gasped her frustration and pressed herself deeper to him. Already he could feel the beads of sweat breaking from her brow, already taste the salt and he screamed for joy inside, his head growing lighter, their lust more furious, creating a fleeting cocoon from the world outside, a world to which they both knew they would soon have to answer.

  22. Beebles

    I didn’t know how to respond to this until I was changing the bed this morning. And then it came to me. No apologies, you get four for the price of one. And the Bad Romance awards have gone this year, so you can’t touch me for it! Haha!
    ——

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because … well because of this …

    The rain cascaded from Richmond De Lacey’s dark hair, over the broad shoulders of his trench coat and funnelled through the holster’s cradling the two Scorpion machine pistols on his hip. The sky was a mess, like hell’s crèche five minutes before nap time, and the whipping wind drew on the sodden woodbine smouldering in Delacey’s mouth, a mirror of his resolve.

    He withdrew the stub from between his pursed lips, stepping onto the narrow parapet, and flicked it onto the glass roof below. It smeared its way across the pane, ash – like blood from an exit wound. DeLacey then pulled on the slow release cable to check the harness was secure. Through the frosted glass he could see dim figures moving; Dreyfus’s goons. Dreyfus would be there; and the money; and – DeLacey grimaced – Geraldine, probably dolled up in a sequined dress from one of Dreyfus’s whores, likely tied to a piece of furniture. She better keep her head down when the shooting started.

    At the end of the day, there was no point in subtlety with men like Dreyfus, no second guessing, no need for a plan. They were like fitted bed sheets, no matter which corner you went for first it was always gonna be the wrong one, so you might as well just go in there pluggin’ lead.

    He smiled grimly, drew the scorpions and jumped.

    ————————

    ‘DeLacey!’ Sir Turstin Fitzrolf called, striding across the tourney ground, the king’s champion, resplendent in a gem encrusted azure tunic, hose of blue and green. He waved to the crowds beneath the banners and bowed to his sovereign, before facing back to Richmond. He gave a low mocking bow.

    ‘DeLacey,’ he boomed again, using Richmond’s father’s name. Then he came close, so close that Richmond could smell the man’s sweat and ripe cheese between his teeth. He brought up a hand to cup Richmond’s cedar bark cheek, as one would a child.

    Fitzrolf smiled contemptuously. ‘Why don’t you slither back under that whore’s mattress you were conceived on, eh? Save us all this farce.’

    Turstin made to step away, but Richmond snatched hold of his hand. He squeezed so hard the nobleman’s eyes started to water. Then Richmond raised their arms aloft and turned to the king.

    ‘Your champion has very nobly offered me a way out, Sire, but I insist we compete!’

    The king nodded, waved, but Richmond was not watching him, choosing instead to throw a rakish grin in the direction of Geraldine, the Queen’s grey eyed sister. She covered her mouth and leaned to whisper to her lady in waiting, her slim body moving with the litheness of a dragon’s tongue.

    Turstin repossessed his hand. ‘Let’s to it, Moor,’ he growled and stalked to where his squire waited.

    Richmond had choice of weapons and he knew he had chosen well. Turstin was a typical Norman knight, famed for his strength and speed, but not necessarily his technique. He lacked Richmond’s Eastern training.

    Fitzrolf turned to face him, pillow case in one hand, stuffing in the other and Richmond allowed himself a smile. As the two closed, DeLacey tucked the stuffing under his arm and began rolling the casing’s opening down, as his Uncle had taught him. The Earl’s eyes were so focussed, so filled with disdain and contempt that he did not notice the subtle move.

    And even when the stuffing was over, he still wouldn’t understand it.

    ————

    It was carnage.

    Richmond knelt shuddering amongst the empty casings, the soiled linen, the disembowelled duvet; the pillow stuffing stripped and naked, dribble stains exposed. His arms were elbow deep in floral duvet cover as he fumbled for the corners, an edge, anything that would bring this nightmare closer to an end.

    If he could just get this bed made, he could still make the last session of the day. India needed just five more English wickets to take the series win. The first time in forty years. And they would be world number one into the bargain.

    Five more wickets, one more session. He could still make it.

    His frenzied fingers found the corners and in a blaze of elation, like the sun rising from behind the scoreboard at the Vauxhall Lane End, he rose to shake the cover over his king size nemesis. Next the pillows, slotted in, like fingers into a batsman’s gloves.

    He bowled the sheet over the mattress cover and tucked it in, cover point, silly point, square leg, long on. He hurled the pillows at the stumps of the bedhead and span the duvet into place. Only the throw to smooth out, like a well rolled wicket and he was done. Fifteen minutes to spare, just time for a scrap of lunch before the final session started on Sky.

    Richmond allowed himself a moment to admire his handiwork.

    ‘Oh Richmond!’ Geraldine called form the bottom of the stairs.

    ‘Yes, my love?’

    ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting the Hendersons for lunch in half an hour.’

    The bails of Richmond’s hope clattered into the air as he reeled from the googly. He sank screaming to the bedroom floor, ‘Nooooo!’

    ——————-

    ‘Oh, Richmond, it’s perfect,’ Geraldine breathed, stroking her scarlet tipped fingers along the top of the quilted cover. ‘The plump pillows, the hospital corners. It’s the most beautiful thing I could ever have imagined.’

    Richmond stood behind her, watching every move of her body beneath that shy summer frock, so like the one she had been wearing at the cocktail party at the governor’s residence in Bengal when they had first met, when he was just a tongue tied schoolmaster’s son, not a soldier, a hero of the Raj. His gaze navigated the downy nape of her neck.

    ‘I know something more beautiful,’ he stammered, all moisture abandoning his mouth in the breathless unspoken heat of the attic room.

    ‘Geraldi…’ he began, but she turned and placed one of those jewelled fingers to his rusted lips. Then in a hearbeat her lips were there and his hands were pressing her to him, owning every soft curve as if the dress did not exist, as if they could caress away every one of those fifteen lost years.

    He drew her down onto the bed, all aridity dispelled. Her hands were pulling at his stubborn shirt; she gasped her frustration and pressed herself deeper to him. Already he could feel the beads of sweat breaking from her brow, already taste the salt and he screamed for joy inside, his head growing lighter, their lust more furious, creating a fleeting cocoon from the world outside, a world to which they both knew they would soon have to answer.

  23. Hiba Gardezi

    Because I think it makes me beautiful.
    What dances in the soul does not restrict itself by volume and space but seeps out through the stroll and the smile and the manner. And the magic inside my body dances behind the curtains of my eyes, singing poetry to my cheeks and painting words on my lips.
    Who cannot think: She writes.
    Because every inch of me is zealous words and art and love.
    Because writing gives me confidence in myself.

  24. piya08

    I am a writer. Does that makes any difference to the way I see the world. Yes, of course. It makes me pause the moments and see the people around me as walking and talking stories. The little stories hidden inside their daily monotonous routine. My eyes see the world around me. My heart observes and my fingers speak my stories that could have remained untold.

    Being writer, makes you a wanderer soul. Your mind may wander in imagination and inspiration to thousands of miles . The readers can travel along with me in my woven world. They give their moments of life to live with me, my thoughts, even if its for those moments. May be, somehow I manage to have a place in their thoughts. I may try to create an impact on their heart and mind with spinning words about issues of social concern. I am writer. I have an opportunity to contribute in making of history of society in my own small way. I am thankful that I have words and thoughts interconnected and they convey to the world.

  25. Jennifer Park

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because, otherwise, these cocktail parties would be horrifyingly dull. When Jim and I walk in, and someone introduces me as, “This is Nolan; he’s a writer,” the room suddenly lights up, and all these dull business executives and their dull spouses have something quite a bit less dull to talk about. Jim is a writer, too, of course, but he writes things like reports, executive summaries, and research notes. He is quite good at it, and so are many of his fellow MBAs. But, I’m a bona fide published novelist, and that’s a lot more interesting than annual reports.

    The truth is, so many of the MBAs are married to aspiring writers, and so many of the MBAs themselves have at one point in their lives been aspiring writers, their dreams dashed by life circumstances, parental pressure, and unfortunate lack of talent.

    The truth is, I have an MBA, too.

    “So, a novelist, eh?” said the new guy, whose name I’d already forgotten.

    “Not just a novelist. An up-and-coming gay novelist,” said someone’s wife.

    I’d rather think that I’ve already arrived, but whatever. “Except I only write about straight people.”

    That always baffles them for a moment.

    “Their lives are so much more interesting, you see,” I quipped for the hundredth time. Usually, people respond with something like, “What makes you say that?” or, “Surely, that can’t be true!” or, “I have a gay sister.”

    This time, the new guy said something new, “Well, it’s because our lives are so dull, that we have to spice it up with things. Don’t you think so, honey?”

    His wife didn’t nod. The other wife nodded. Actually, I think she is the colleague, and her husband is the wife. Whatever. He nodded, too. The new guy’s wife’s lips were tightly sealed, and they quivered a little.

    The new guy continued, “I have a sister who is gay, and she has this all-gay all-fabulous life with her all-gay friends, and they look like they are doing all sorts of interesting all-gay things, but it’s actually quite boring and predictable, you know, deep down. It’s us seemingly straitlaced people who are into…” Finally catching the expression on his wife’s face, he stopped himself. “… Interesting… things… that novelists write about.”

    I decided to help him out. “That’s what keeps me employed,” I said with a thick “gay accent”, which didn’t quite come out right. It was not my native language.

    “We’re happy to be of service,” said the new guy with a sinister smile, back to his drunken, inconsiderate self.

    The truth is, I only write books about gender-less alien races. If any of these dull people would bother to read my book… Actually, no, I’d rather they didn’t, because then I wouldn’t be able to joke about what I write. It’s not like the royalty check’s gonna be any bigger because an MBA buys a book.

  26. cosi van tutte

    Cessa Millagray read the assignment. “I’m thankful I’m a writer because…” She frowned.

    “But I’m not a writer.”

    The teacher gave her the Killing Curse glare.

    Cessa closed her mouth. She doodled flowers and ponies and warrior rabbits. I’m not a writer.

    She flipped the page over and drew a landscape in pencil gray and paper white with a unicorn looking plaintive at the sky. She shaded in the night. She placed the brink of tears in the unicorn’s eyes.

    She added some fly-away hairs in the unicorn’s mane and tail. She darkened the unicorn’s shadow on the ground.

    She drew birds – black feathered shapes – in the sky. I’m not a writer and I’m glad.

    Cessa stopped in mid-shading.

    She knew what she wanted to write for her assignment.

    She flipped back to the assignment and wrote:

    I am not a writer. I don’t think in terms of adjectives and adverbs and pronouns and repetitive word use and clichés and I am thankful.

    I see colors.

    I see lines and shapes.

    I see a line become a smile or curve into a woman’s face.

    I see the curl of a woman’s hair and the straightness of a man’s tie.

    I see a child reaching for her mother. I see the difference in their lines.

    I see light and shadow and how they can create a mood or resounding beauty or surprising ugliness.

    I see all of these things and more because I am not a writer.

    I am a creator of landscapes and flowers and rabbits and fantasy and reality.

    I am an artist.

    And I am very thankful for that.

    1. Papa Troll

      Here’s to the art! It is all colors, of every spectrum, it’s sound, it’s vibrations, it’s everything. This was a lovely way of expressing the sentiment.

  27. GrimJay

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because whole worlds live in my head. I live with one foot in reality and one in make believe.

    I am a creator. I am the heroes call to action. I am the villain’s motive. But despite that I am thankful to see my characters experience change.

    Let it be known you can plan the start, medium, or end and only rarely will you keep to it 100%. Once you set the stage you become as much a reader as your audience, only with a few moderator privileges.

    My favorite moments are when I read back and decide; “This character would be better suited to do this instead of that.” And thus my character evolves into something more than they originally began.

  28. Papa Troll

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because…

    Are we doing this?

    Doing what?

    Buying into this week’s prompt?

    What’s there to buy in to? It’s pretty cut and dry.

    That’s my point. There’s no room for creative composition.

    You have something in mind?

    Not yet, let’s just keep running with this and see where we can go.

    Uh, wasn’t that what I was doing before you interrupted me?

    I’m not admitting anything.

    Can I continue then?

    Can you?

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because…

    Wait a minute!

    What?

    I’ve got it.

    Yes, well, the announcement is exciting, but perhaps the details would complete the picture.

    I get a sense that it had better.

    It had.

    Testy…did we skip our happy pills this morning?

    Do these things exist?

    Well, in a sense, unfortunately the addictive element make them sort of illegal.

    Then we skipped those pills, since we never had any to begin with.

    Noted.

    You were saying?

    Right, I’ve got it.

    Yes, I know, but what? What do you got?

    Suppose we start our tale with the first line…

    The one you keep interrupting?

    Who’s interrupting now?

    Sorry. Please continue.

    So you start with the opening line, and then WHAM! BOOM! BASH!!!

    Uh…what is that?

    Dramatic effect.

    For?

    For the next part.

    Which is…

    I don’t know. I just know that it would be really cool to put something dramatic after your next line.

    That’s not really all that helpful.

    Well, I’m out of ideas. The first line sort of had me stumped.

    So, you’ve been interrupting me with the idea of doing something grand after the first sentence, but you haven’t given me the chance to get past the first sentence.

    I’m results oriented.

    That I don’t see.

    Well, what I meant is I would like to be results oriented. So, continue please.

    With what?

    The “WHAM! BOOM! BASH!!” part.

    The part I haven’t even come up with yet?

    Yes, and hurry please, word count and all.

    I’m thankful…

    Yes?

    I was waiting for you to interrupt.

    Was I supposed to?

    I suppose not.

    Then please continue.

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because…

    Because we have these great conversations.

    We do, but is that really the Wham part?

    BAM!

    What?

    Nothing, it’s nothing. We’ve got to come up with something. It’s starting to feel like we’re stalling.

    Are we?

    Are we indeed.

    I suppose that we have some things to be thankful for. The compulsion that causes us to create, to conjure, to compose, and to correlate the feelings that lie dormant into the limelight so that we can empty our thoughts onto a blank canvas and show the world the workings of our inner most turmoil.

    Turmoil?

    Well, chaos, yes.

    Turmoil sounds worse than chaos.

    Does it?

    Chaos sounds random.

    Reckless random

    Turmoil sounds like hellish random.

    Well, it’s random, so the idea is still working.

    I’m not so sure.

    Well then why are we thankful that we are writers.

    You.

    What?

    You, without the writing we are one. With we are two.

    Hi, guys sorry I’m late. What did I miss?

    And sometimes three.

  29. dragonchef

    Because my fingers know that my mouth just can’t get my point across with the same fineness as they can. Not to mention my fingers would get jealous, and my hands would find a way to free themselves from captivity and take revenge on my mouth. There would be body part wars erupting everywhere as the revolution escalated, leaving me with nothing more than a pair of eyes blinking up at you from a pile of goo.

  30. Lynn Caskett

    I’ve wanted to be a writer since the age of eight. Through my childhood I’ve read a lot and day by day I managed to create out new stories and to write them down. My whole family read what I wrote and they noticed my hidden talent, when I didn’t. But nowadays I see it. I may only be a high school student, but at least I have a clear idea of what I would like to be when I’ll grow older. I want to continue writing for a lifetime. I can’t help. My mind costantly works on new stories…. That’s why I’m thankful to be a writer. And as a writer, I say all the time: “There is always a story. You just have to find it. And right in the exact moment Inspiration has brought it to you, start writing it down confidently, letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. Finally, when you finish, show the entire world what a talented author you are!”

  31. Gypsy108

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because I can see things other people can’t. Sure it’s made me a little crazy, and prevents me from doing my homework, but it’s something different. The world needs stories, and who else can provide that better than us?

  32. RobertCordaro

    I’m thankful I’m a writer because I have been telling stories my whole life. All my friends have called on me to tell scary stories around Halloween, and my children loved my bedtime stories. I have never actually tried writing them down for strangers to read, but I have entire worlds in my head, and hundreds of characters I like to add to whatever book I’m reading, or movie I am watching. When I go to sleep at night, my mind likes to change the story, or add characters. I can’t help it. It just happens. I have so many characters running around in my head just waiting to be dropped into one of my worlds for the pleasure of others. I want to open up my head and let them out onto an unsuspecting world.
    I’m thankful I’m a writer because the voices in my head want to get out!

  33. catbr

    For years I have wanted to try my hand at writing having always dabbled in it from time to time. Poetry, diary writing and lately news story comments on the internet have been most of my experience. Recently I found this website and the daily writing prompt attempts have revealed to me how bad my writing is. Although in my defense I have absolutely no experience with fiction other than poetry except for what I did back in high school. A well written entertaining fictional book is very admirable. I only became interested in reading fiction steadily over the last 5 or so years. Before that I was more interested in non-fiction books. Overall I have really loved books my entire adult life. But this is sort of straying from the prompt. So I should like to finish that sentence now, after all that rambling. I’m thankful I’m a writer because I would like to learn and write all I can to perhaps someday be able to write and publish a book. I know that I have a long way to go but I’m not getting any younger and don’t feel like wasting any more time like I did for the first half of my life of doing all the wrong things.

    1. Beebles

      I know completely how you feel Catbr. I think i wrote five pieces of fiction between eighteen and forty seven. then I sat down and wrote a novel. It isn’t a brilliant book, but I learnt alot along the way and now I know I can do it. Since then I have written, oooo loads – and I am editing a second novel (better, but not great literature). That last line in your piece struck a chord! This site really helps the volume. My advice – just write that novel – the ‘better’ will come.

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