Daily Quote

contrary-to-all-those-times-youve-heard-a-writer-confess-at-a-reading-that-he-writes-fiction-because-he-is-a-pathological-liar-fiction-writing-is-all-about-telling-the-truth-paul-hard.

I have stumbled upon a lie about fiction. And Paul Harding exposes it in his quote. The best fiction tells the truth. Being truthful in fiction differs from being factual. You want situations and characters to leap off the page, be someone who you might meet on the street, at an airport or your daughters’ school.

Readers have finely tuned lie detectors and will spot characters who do not act true to their nature. The risk being they will throw your book across the room crying “Bunkum and Balderdash!”

What character has felt “real” to you? Have you met a character who was not?

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Drive — Thursday photo prompt: Onward #writephoto

Title: Drive
Source:  Thursday Photo Prompt: Onward #writephoto
Word count:  301 words

I adjusted the car’s rearview mirror for the hundredth time. There had been no cars for miles and I know where I have been. I shifted, peeling my leg from the red vinyl seat, my sweat pooling underneath me. I realized why granddad draped a towel on the seat whenever he wasn’t showing someone his baby with chest-thumping pride. The Goat, Grandfather of Muscle Cars, Grandad’s pride and prized possession. He bought the car, brand new, for $3,500, a lot of money in those days, all the money he had.

The Goat was a red convertible with a black ragtop and a big block V8 engine. In the blistering sun with no AC, I left the top on as I sped down the highway, watching the white lines streaming by, turning solid.

I stole the Goat from Grandad’s garage last night. Well, it wasn’t really stealing. The car would be mine someday he said, and I left a note. Grandad wouldn’t call the cops. I grew up listening to his stories. Stories of him evading the law, hiding out when he was my age.

By now they’ve told him what Hannah did, what I did. I pulled the chain around my neck working it free from my tee-shirt. The ring raked across my heart as I pulled, scratching my chest. When it popped loose, I pushed it onto my index finger to the first knuckle. A small diamond winked at me. I thought it would be enough. A promise. A place to start. I bought it using all my money.

I’m like Grandad. You don’t throw away the things you worked hard for, the things you love. I hold on to promises and the trinkets, thinking they are treasures. Like the weather, life changes. I kiss yesterday goodbye, and I drive.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Daily Quote

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I am struggling to find stillness, a little silence. The moment I sit down to write the beast roars. I try to ignore it. I wish for it to go away. I beg it to leave me alone.

It doesn’t work. The holidays are coming, and I have lists to make, gifts to buy, cookies to bake. I know how to quiet the beast. I pack up my laptop, get in my car, and head to the coffee shop. Amid the holiday music and the calls of “Grande Sugar-Free Iced White Chocolate Mocha” and “Venti Gingerbread Latte with Soy”, I find my nothingness of silence.

Where will you find your silence today?

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Daily Quote

sleeping-is-like-meditation_-its-good-to-rest-the-body-but-also-to-shut-the-mind-down-for-a-bit-anthony-joshua

Don’t know about you, but I have had a busy week. Plenty of hustle, bustle and holiday excitement piled on top of the normal onslaught of daily tasks. It all leaves me a little, well, tired. Ragdoll, dead dog, tired. You know the feeling, your brain gets fuzzy, you can’t keep your eyes open, and no matter how much you try to stay awake, you can’t.

I habitually over schedule during this time of the year, knowing I will need the help of Santa’s elves to get it all done. But my scheduled naptimes are non-negotiable. I designated today, downtime day. I will wear my fluffy slippers and flannel PJs, start a roaring fire, settle into my big leather chair with a glass of wine and see what happens.

What will you do to relax today?

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Intervention — 100 Word Wednesday

Title: Intervention
Source:  100 Word Wednesday: Week 99
Word count: 100 words

Image by Andre Hunter

Anton checked. No bars. How did people live here? If he had a signal, he’d get an Uber and go. Where he wasn’t sure. Anywhere would be better than here.

“Give it up, man.”

Anton turned and saw Carpenter.

“It’s jammed. You ain’t goin nowhere til you see light.”

Anton pursed his lips, the furrow on his brow deepening.

“It ain’t so bad. I know. I am just like you.”

“You know nuttin bout me,” Anton said, shoulder checking Carpenter as he strode past.

Carpenter watched him walk away.

“Sorry, my man. But I know all about you. You’ll see.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Last Dance — 3 Line Tales

From Sonya’s 3LineTales at Only100Words.
You can find the original prompt here. Thank you, Sonya.

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photo by Boris Smokrovic via Unsplash

I flit and flutter and fly, waiting and searching for you, my dearest love.

High and low I seek, knowing I must find you before I die.

When at last we meet, we waltz across the skies, lovers, soul mates, our destinies entwined, if only for today.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Daily Quote

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I love John Muir. Have I mentioned it before? There is something magical, contradictory and surprising in the phrase “They make their way into the heart of the roughest solitudes with smooth reserve of strength…” I’m not sure I have ever considered solitude as rough. But being alone, working alone is not always easy.

And I love the idea of conquering the challenges we face with quiet courage. There is an enviable beauty in the creatures who can reach their goals without wailing and lamenting their fate. There is grace in the steady steps and focus that makes them mountaineers.

How will you face your day?

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

 

Bird Away — FFfAW Challenge

Title: Bird Away
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Word count: 270 words

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This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yinglan. Thank you, Yinglan!

Slim, Joey and me was out in that old, dry riverbed. Just past old man Whiteblood’s place? Ya know? I was slinging pigeons, cause they wouldn’t let me shoot. Said it weren’t no fun when all my pulls was kills.

Likes I says, I was slinging pigeons, and they was a shooting. Missing, mostly. And after a while, my throwing arm was gittin sore. On account theys such bad shots, I could throw some birds three or four times.

Anyways, as we was shootin, the clouds started rolling in. They wasn’t like ordinary clouds, they was kinda spooky, not natural. Ya know? So, I was walkin out, picking up away birds and all of a sudden like, it got pitch black. And it got real cold. I got those goosebumps all over.

Then we seen this light. Brightest light I ever saw, coming through the clouds. Joey asks me ‘Did I see it,’ and I says ‘Yeah’. The boys they came and stood right besides me.

And thats when this big old silver disc appeared. Hangin right over our heads and all full of flashin lights. Kinda like a Christmas tree. Ya know? So, we was standin there watching and not knowin what to make of it all. And none of us sayin nothing. Didn’t want to sound all crazy like. Ya know?

Then this door thing, maybe a like a hatch or something? Ya know? Well it opened up. And this creature, I don’t know what you’d call it zactly, but it walked just like you and me. Ya know?

Well, that’s when Slim handed me his double barrel.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Enduring Love

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Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

The hairbrush whizzed past my head, and struck the doorjamb, before falling to the floor and skidding under the bed.

“You bastard. You’ll ruin my life,” she screeched.

I stood in the doorway prepared for the onslaught, ready when it came. She slapped my face, and I felt my flesh burn. Her fists pounded my chest, and I smelled her familiar fragrance, it always enveloped her. I tasted it when we kissed and smelled it in my clothes when we were apart.

“You can’t leave. We love each other too much,” she said as the pummeling stopped. She leaned in, her arms weaving themselves around my neck. I wanted to hold her but forced my hands to obey.

“You love me. I know you’re angry, but you always come back. So just stay,” she cooed. Pressing against me, she lifted her head, wanting to be kissed.

I turned, and her lips grazed my still stinging cheek.

Offended, she pushed away, “Why does it matter? Why do you care?” she hissed and stared at me, tears welling in her eyes. Then she turned, collapsing on the bed and sobbing into her pillow.

That’s how I left her all those years ago. Smeared mascara, highlighting bloodshot eyes that said everything was my fault. It was a lie. It was too late. It was over. No one blamed me. They knew about the hidden bottles, the late nights at smoky bars and the denials, rehabs, and relapses.

Late at night, my phone buzzes.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Daily Quote

A daily writing practice is hard to achieve. Many things vie for our attention and our time. Family, friends, social media and the newest Netflix release are relaxing, enjoyable, and easy.  Temptations abound. But every day I write. Sometimes the agonizing grind produces one hundred words. Occasionally, a writing session is filled with magic, pixie dust and a torrential release of words.  It is the sporadic reward for making a commitment and doing the work.

What steps are you taking to make writing a habit?

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer