First Friday Freewrite #64: “When it’s over…”

Welcome to the First Friday Freewrite! 

If you’re a newcomer, here’s the deal: I’m a writer, and I’ve found that I desperately need accountability.  Regular writing exercises help me keep my writing fresh, keep me honest and – most importantly – keep my pen moving.  Join me, and post your response to this month’s writing prompt in the comments.  It’ll be fun!  See below for details…

Here’s how it works: I post a “JUMP LINE,” a short phrase that will serve as a writing prompt, each first Friday of the month.first-friday-freewrite-square

YOU put pen to paper and write. (I’ll do it, too, of course.)  Don’t think.  Don’t cross out.  (That is wise advice borrowed from Natalie Goldberg in Wild Mind.)  Just start with the prompt and see where it takes you.

Then POST YOUR RESPONSE as a comment.  (Just click the comment bubble  to the right of the Friday Freewrite post title above to leave a reply.)

Today’s jump line:  “When it’s over…”

Happy Writing!

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One thought on “First Friday Freewrite #64: “When it’s over…”

  1. When it’s over, I write about it. I don’t mean when dinner’s over, or last Saturday’s rain storm. “When it’s over” urges me to go deeper, look beyond the mundane. The “it” I’m referring to, then,is something big, something unique: a life event, a major trip, a shared trauma – like 9/11. What creativity comes from adversity! Why? I once read an interview with Lisa Marie Presley, and she said she only gets creative when she’s unhappy. Perhaps we use our creative endeavors – art, music, poetry, prose – to make sense out of our world. We are always striving to understand, to discover order in chaos. So, I write my coming-of-age stores, again and again. And the story of my mother’s death. And her life. And I write about the high desert of New Mexico, adobe and cholla, the great bowl of sky inverted overhead. It seems I’ve never really left all the place’s I’ve been, that I still sit in our yellow kitchen, ten years old, at the thick oak table, warmed on one side by the woodstove, listening to the schoolhouse clock on the wall tick and chime, talking about my day.

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