I did have quite a few writing exercises prepped though, just in case. I recommend writing something every day. Anything. Sometimes I cheat a little, find a ranty post on social media and respond to it, then call that my daily writing practice.
I'm not fooling anyone, but you get the idea.
Most days, I write something small just for the practice. And writing prompts or writing exercises are a great way to kick that off. I lifted some of the ones from here for the workshop, and we took 15 mins to just write something.
Some of the lovely workshop attendees shared their work out loud afterwards and wow, I was super impressed. I wanted to do the exercise too (hadn't written anything else that day!), and chose "Write a setting based on the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen". This is what I came up with...
The old bed creaked as she shifted her weight. Must and dust were in the air, but it gave comfort in the familiarity of it all.
Birds skittered across the flat roof. Possibly, that one was a squirrel. Some sort of scuffle broke out above, the indignant squawking and flapping bringing a smile to her lips as she swung her legs out to the floor.
The carpet was old and worn, and she thought about all the years her Granda had put his feet in exactly the same spot. Sometimes she'd had to cut his toenails, right there. When the gout got bad he couldn't bend. Okay, that was kinda gross, especially when she considered the likely possibility that an old toenail clipping or two lingered in the underbed recesses, given the lack of electricity and a hoover. But it was okay. Kinda comforting actually, in a weird way. He'd been gone a long time, and she missed him.
Opening the bedroom door took some effort - the wood had swollen, or the door hinges dropped, holding the bottom tight against the door saddle. Granda would have fixed that in an hour or less.
The long corridor was mustier, and dark until she flicked the lock and opened the outer door, stepping out onto the wooden verrandah. How many times had she settled there under the porch roof, cuddled in a sleeping bag after hopping out of bed, worm like, to settle in with a book.
How many books had she read, just like that? How many rain showers had she waited out impatiently, squabbling with siblings or cousins until it was clear enough to run out into the damp field all over again?
Wind rustled the leaves above the cottage, trees bending in the protection behind. Sunlight glinted off the lake in the distance, and she knew, as ever in that place, it was gonna be a good day.
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