What have you struggled with?

I'm reading 45 pounds (more or less) by K. A. Barson, and I'm loving it.  I've struggled with my weight at different times in my life, much like the MC, and I identify closely with her.  (I haven't finished yet, so no spoilers in the comments, please!!!)

I've also had a recent experience (which isn't mine to share, so I won't go into it here) that reminded me of the long months after I had my first baby, when I was lost in the depths of PPD with a colicky infant.  The best part of that experience (which sucked as bad as it sounds, I assure you) was when I had a friend go through the same thing after her first child.  Because of what I'd experienced, I could understand her and help her in a way that other people couldn't.

Writing a MC who struggles with a certain problem may appeal to a niche crowd (I wonder how many girls who consider themselves skinny have picked up 45 pounds ... but then again, we are talking about teenage girls, who all seem to think themselves huge ...) but it allowes a deep, emotional connection between the reader and the character.  These are the books that we buy just so we can read them over and over again.

So, this week's prompt:
Write about something you struggle with.

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My response:

She came soaring down the hill towards me.  Technically, she was running, but to my eyes, she'd sprouted wings.  Her face was calm.  Her eyes gazed contentedly into the void.  I don't think she saw me at all.  Her soft footfalls barely registered in my ears as she passed and followed the curving slope of the hill.

My own feet were bass drums in comparrison.  Thud.  Thud. Thud. Thud.   Every step slammed into the ground and jarred my body.  My legs ached with each step.  Where was my pair of wings?  Admittedly, I was heading up the hill, not down, but I was sure the goddess of running had fought her way up the hilll with more grace than I could muster.

I sucked air, doing my best to breathe with my diaphram and fill my gut with air, and not just my chest.  In all honesty, I was doing well.  A few weeks ago, my chest burned during every run, and I felt constantly like I was about to die.  Thank goodness for a short lesson on breathing from my best friend, even if she did like to take off and lap me as we ran around the track at the gym.

Three miles.  That was the benchmark I'd heard from everyone ... seriously, from the running books on my self to my friends at the track.  "Once you can run three miles, you can run anything ..."  Really?  I ran three miles.  I thought I was going to die.  Then I ran three miles again.  I still thought I was going to die. 

I pant as I turn at the top of the hill.  Well, I ran for two months before anyone taught me how to breathe properly.  There must be another puzzle piece I'm still missing.  Something about my stride or my arms, maybe?  I start jogging back down the hill.

I may not be flying, but I am running.

Where would you go?

I went to Barnes and Noble tonight.  Just driving in the parking lot gave me a thrill.  Walking in the door, I got a whiff of fresh-printed ink and spine glue, and it was like heaven!  My sister, who has always been much cooler than I am, used to make fun of my friends and me for hanging out at B&N on weekends.  But for us, where else could you possibly want to be?

It reminded me of those middle grade novels you read where kids live in the mall or in a grocery store, and I decided, if I were to escape life and just hide out somewhere, I would choose B&N. 

The prompt for this week:
Where would you hide?

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My response:

Stand on the toilet seat, so they can't see your feet.  Crouch down, so they don't see your head.  Leave the door open, so they don't suspect anyone might be hiding there.  Make sure you pee before you get into position, because squatting over the toilet ... well, psychologically, it can get to you.  Oh, and bring a book.  You may be there for a while.

Tonight I clutched a hardback to my chest as I balanced on the toilet.  The manager had already been through to make sure no one was left in the room, so I'd passed that hurdle.  The short cashier always stopped in after locking the door, before counting her drawer.  She'd already come and gone.  I only had to keep it up for another ten minutes or so, for the blond one to stop in just before they all headed out the back entrance.

I eased the book open, cradling it in my lap and wishing I'd picked a paperback.  The pages were thinner and turned more quietly, and usually the words were printed smaller, so I had more to read between page turns.

And that mattered, because here came the blond.  I'd almost finished the second page when she walked in, and I didn't dare turn to the next while she was in here with me.  That was the one problem with hiding out in the restroom.  Everything echoed.

I stared at the bottom of the second page, anxious for her to leave, less so that I could finally climb down, and more because I was dying to see what happened next.  At last, she left.  I eased down off the seat and sat, devouring my book. 

Ah, heaven!  Another night with no one, absolutely no one, to disturb me, and a whole bookstore to choose from.  I was never going home!

Can a man change his stars?

This post is inspired by two things. 

First, my dear husband, who was quoting "A Knight's Tale" the other day.  Please tell me you love that movie as much as I do.  We quote it all the time around here.  "Can a man change his stars?"  And "How would you beat him? ... With a stick.  While he slept.  But on a horse, with a lance, that man is unbeatable!"  Chaucer kills me.  "I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw. I was naked for a day; you will be naked for eternity!" and "My lords, my ladies, ... and everybody else here not sitting on a cushion!"

(Ok, I'll stop.  But seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, you should.)

Second, because of something that happened last week.  One of my friends mentioned to me that her son writes a lot.  He's young, and she said he's written lots of first chapters, but never gets further than that.  I looked at him and told him that was fine.  I wrote lots of first chapters, too, when I was young.  I told him, "... and someday you'll write a second chapter, and go from there."  Now, I realize as a yet-unpublished author, I'm not a lot to look up to, but I do have 5 completed novels, and he knew from his mom that I've written a lot.  (I am getting to the point ... wait for it ...)  The next day, my friend told me I'd inspired him.  He'd brought it up later, "... your friend said she wrote a lot of first chapters when she was my age, too."

What an awesome feeling to think I've inspired someone!  When you inspire a child, they have so much potential, and so much time to fulfil their potential.  I think every child deserves support, encouragement, and inspiration to show them that, YES, You Can Change Your Stars!

So, in honor of that, this week's prompt:
"Can a man change his stars?"

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My response:

Dina didn't last long before she ditched me.  We'd just barely walked in.  Dee had the stereo set up in the wide, formal foyer of MaKenzie's parents' mansion, the walls around us thudding with the bass of some rap song he had turned up so loud I couldn't even make out the lyrics.  Dina danced off, writhing and twisting and pressing her body up against Dee as she made her way back to the kitchen, where the football guys would have the kegs all set up.

It was supposed to be fun and exciting, but it was always the same thing.  MaKenzie's mom was a lawyer, her dad was a hot-shot banker, and she had the house to herself every other weekend or so.  We partied out of habit, because we were teenagers and it was expected of us.

Jared wove through the throng, passing out cans.  "Hey Kiley, got yours right here!"

I waved him off.  "Maybe later."

I followed Dina's tracks towards the back of the house, but avoided the kitchen, slipping out onto the back patio.  Chris's voice rang in my head.  "There's more to you than all that.  I can see it.  I wish you'd see it, too."  He'd invited me to go downtown with him to hear some orchestra play in the park.  Seriously?  Me?  Just because we'd spent time together working on the annual service project, he thinks he knows me, thinks he sees something deeper in me than just your typical, vain high school girl.

I am Kiley McGuire, head cheeleader at Mountainview High School.  My hair is always perfectly streaked, my nails always manicured, my wardrobe the envy of all my friends ... I know my place, and I know it's not downtown listening to an orchestra with the new guy who only moved into town two weeks ago.

And still ...

I sat down on the stairs, pulling my phone from my bra.  "2 L8 2 go with u 2night?"  I hold my breath and push send.

I suck air, then will myself to keep breathing while I wait.

Then answer comes.  "Never too late.  U at the party?  I'll be right over."

I can't deny the thrill of excitement that flashes down my back.  Maybe I'll like the orchestra.

***Ok, forgive me for this one.  I'm really awful at contemporary - the slang, the text speech.  But I won't let myself delete it because this is supposed to be a stretching exercise.  I wish you all better luck with your responses this week.  :-)

Universals

I'd like to share a short quote from Gale Sears's Jade Dragon Box :

"This was written a thousand years ago?"
Her uncle went back to his cooking.  "A little more than a thousand years."
Wen-shan silently read the final lines again.  "How did he know our hearts?"
"Do you think hearts have changed so much?"

Ah.  Just think about that for a minute.

This is the very point of Shakespeare's genius.  His stories hit on universal feelings - the kind that are the same today as they were a thousand years ago. 

Therefore, the prompt for this weeks is to choose a universal:
Love
Hatred
Revenge
Star-crossed lovers
Unrequited love

(This list is not all-inclusive, please feel free to use any universal you like.)

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My response:

(I wanted to pick something meaty, so I chose revenge.)

The locket burned against my skin, scalding with the punishment I'd receive if they found it in my hands.  It lodged just beneath my right breast, catching on the ribbing of my corset and pressing into my tender flesh. 

I ignored the discomfort.  I was lucky to have it at all.  Even Ladies in Waiting had to attend the Queen in pairs, to prevent this very possibility.  Lady Eve's complaints about her stomach led Queen Jalla to send her to the couch to lie down.  Then the cleaning servants came early, before Jalla had abandoned her sleeping chamber, and Jalla turned to scold them.  I slipped the gem-encrusted necklace from the table as if to lay out with Jalla's wardrobe, then slipped it down my own bodice as I straighted the Queen's waiting gown. 

If I was caught, it was the noose.  Not even my father could save me from a second offense against the crown.  The injustice grated against my nerves.  A second offense meant death.  But what if you never committed the first offense?

Lady Beal didn't even have the decency to admit she'd been the one who'd stolen the ruby earrings.  I'd seen her trying them on in the Lady's room.  When the King's Chief of Security threatened to search our chambers and belongings, she must have realized she wasn't going to get away with it, and returned them.  Just because I was the one who noticed they were back in their usual place in the Queen's drawer, I was accused of thievery.  I could still see the sly smile Lady Beal gave me as I was marched out of our chambers by a pair of the King's guards.

But Lady Beal could not hide what she didn't know she had.

I smiled to myself when I slipped away after breakfast.  Lady Beal had ten pairs of shoes, including a pair of riding boots she never wore.  The necklace thudded softly, then slid down the sole into the toe.

I'd been punished for a first offense I'd never committed.  Now it was her turn.

... and I did it!

Let's talk about plot for a minute.  In every good story (notice, I said "good" story) there is a struggle of some kind.  It can vary widely, from Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air, where he climbs Mt. Everest, to a new favorite of mine, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, where the main characters are also on oxygen, but because they're fighting cancer. 

So, the prompt for this weeks is:
Do something hard ... or rather, make your main character do something hard. :-)

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The park bench had always been too hard, and just the wrong height for my legs.  It was the kind of thing you blow off when you're in love, something that doesn't really matter in the throes of early romance.  You can't ignore it indefinitely, though. 

First, I would press my toes into the ground, crossing my legs at my ankles and pushing my legs together.  My toes didn't like to bend like that, so I would try to scoot myself backwards on the bench, but it was too short, and I couldn't get back far enough.  A too-tall bench with a too-thin seat.  And that doesn't even address the issue of the splinters.

The bench was a good analogy for our relationship, actually.  He was a nice enough guy, mostly normal, better than average looks.  Then it seemed he was calling me a little too often.  I hated the way he ordered for me at restaurants.  It wasn't overtly grating.  He didn't ever call me before 8am or after 11pm, and he did ask what I wanted before passing along the information to the waiter ... but things added up, and it grated.

He strode down the walkway, dropped down on the bench next to me, and kissed my cheek.  "Hey sweetheart!"

Did I mention I hated when he called me sweetheart?  Any other girl may have loved it, but that creepy school janitor had always called me that, and it gave me the willies. 

I stood up.  I'd had enough of that bench and enough of him, and I told him so.  I didn't drag it out, I didn't even bother to try and convince him that it was me and not him - it really was him.  I just told him I was ready to move on, and he ought to delete my number from his cell phone.  Then and there, I pulled up fb and changed my relationship status.  Then I left him behind, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.

I almost felt sorry for him.  That bench was awful uncomfortable.

Sakura

I love picture prompts!  Here's one for this week.  I want to make sure to give credit to Digital Blasphemy, where I got this image. 



I would say something about it, but I don't want to change your first impressions and affect your writing.  :-)

Have fun!

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My response:

I pulled off my heels as I stepped off the patio and onto the lush lawn separating the mansion from the river.  They'd already rubbed my toes raw, and of the girls here, I was one of the last to pull off my strappy, expensive, torture devices.  Then again, they did make my legs look nice, which was the honest-to-goodness reason I'd kept them on this long.  It was a pride thing.  I couldn't get a date to the prom, but I came anyway, and I wanted to look like I could be here with someone.  Like I wasn't the fat, awkward geek who had struggled through the last four years of high school.

The strains of the last slow song floated out the open windows behind me as the song of the water rose in front of me.  It was both comforting and depressing.  Six months ago, I would have laughed at the idea of my going to prom.  Then mom signed me up for weight-watchers.  After seventeen years of feeding me chocolate chip cookies or brownies when I walked in the door each day after school, I came home to a note on the table.  Mom had paid for the meetings and left me a schedule.  It was so like her.  Non-confrontational to a fault.  She didn't like to get her hands dirty.  I bet if I'd asked her to her face, she would have denied it.  But I'm my mother's daughter.  I didn't bring it up.  I just showed up for the meetings.

Wouldn't you know, they worked?  Six months, and now most of my graduating class didn't recognize me.  Three months in, a group of semi-popular girls started talking me to in American History, then invited me to sit with them for lunch.  It was like my whole world had changed with the loss of fifty pounds.

"Like" my whole world had changed.  "As if."  Which, if you want to get all semantic, means it didn't really change.  Which was why, as the last song was announced and my new-found friends turned to their dates, and I was left alone, again, like I always had been.

I couldn't stay inside.  Everyone was dancing the last dance - no more lingering on the sidelines, no more small crowd to blend into.  The only way to hide my alone-ness was to disappear through the wide, glass-paned french doors.

Lights hung from the tree branches, reflecting off the water and making the whole garden look like a fairy paradise. 

I should be happy. 

Who could be sad in such a beautiful place?

But for me, the beauty only made the loneliness worse.

Different Genres

So, this week there is a prompt, but also a challenge.  If you choose just the prompt, check it out and write something.  For the challenge, write something in a genre different from what you'd usually write.

This week's prompt:
He looked down, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Good Luck!

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My Response:

(I struggle to write contemporary, so I'm going to give it a shot this week.  Also, I can't seem to get male characters, so I'm going for broke!)

I looked up to make sure they were watching.  I wasn't going to do it more than once.  Travis and his gang lounged on the large, flat rock near the water's edge.  I couldn't make out their faces, but I knew well enough the leer Travis wore.

One glance down at the water.  Two steps back.  I took a deep breath, filling my lungs, then closing my mouth to hold it in.  Last thing I wanted to do now was let out a girly scream.

Two running steps forward left the rock behind me.  I became gravity's toy, falling faster and faster.  I counted.  One.  Two. 

Then I hit the water.  I'd never been so glad to find myself submerged.  Here in the water, I was comfortable.  I surfaced, slowly releasing the breath I'd managed to hold.  I stroked towards the shore, victorious, feeling like Poseidon rising from his domain.

Travis and his friends looked up nonchalantly as I walked up to them.  A few drops of water spilled from my suit onto Travis's converse and skinny jeans, sitting in a pile near his feet, and he frowned. 

"Deal's a deal.  You all saw.  Now all of you stay away from my brother."

Travis's head rolled on his shoulders and he squinted up at me.  "Yeah.  Deal's a deal.  But your brother didn't prove himself.  You did."

Snickers all around, and a few of the guys turned predatory stares to where Kevin sat on his towel across the beach.  I would have jumped off the cliff twenty times just to make him stand up and look at his persecutors.  Instead, he turned his head, cradling his knees to his chest and rocking self-consciously back and forth.

Kevin wouldn't go in past his belly-button in the water, there was no way he'd jump off the cliff.  Not before Travis and his gang had him so whipped he'd never see straight.

Something behind me caught Travis's attention.  One of his buddies whispered.  "Dude, that guy's insane!"  I turned just in time to see one of the red-suited lifeguards emerge from the path at the top of the left side cliffs, on the other side of the waterfall from where I'd jumped. 

"No way."  Awe and reverence filled their voices and their eyes. 

The lifeguard jumped.  I counted a full five seconds before he hit the water.  The cliffs on the left side were easily twice as high as the more popular twenty-footer I'd leaped from. 

The lifeguard disappeared into the churning water, then surfaced.  Travis whooped.

An idea formed in my mind. 

"Alright then.  If I jump from there, then you leave Kevin alone."

For the first time in my life, Travis actually looked at me, surprise stripping his features of all pretense.  Then he recovered himself.  He laughed.

"You?  From up there?"  He shook his head and leaned back in his chair.  "You'll never do it."

I didn't drop my gaze.  He seemed unable to look away.  "I will, and then you will leave Kevin alone."

Travis's eyes darted over to Kevin, then surveyed me again.  "Yeah.  That'd be worth it.  Deal.  You jump from the left side, and we won't bother you or your brother again."

I nodded.  "Don't blink."

I felt the eyes boring into my back as I turned and headed into the pine trees.  My bare feet were too soft for the forest path.  Pine needles pricked my soles and scraped my arms.  This path was harder to follow than the one up the opposite side.  I scraped my knee climbing up a rock, and I got a handful of pine sap when I tried to pull myself up with a branch.  Then, finally, I stood at the top.

I stepped out of the shadows of the trees, and the musical chatter in the small lake stopped.  Travis and his goons were watching.  Everyone down there was watching.  Kevin stood on his towel, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

I stepped up to the cliff and looked down at the water below, as if to assure myself that it was there.

Two steps back.  Breathe in.  Two running steps forward.

I jumped.