This week’s goal was 150 words a day, 1050 words total.

Last night, I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to write, but earlier in the week I had been introduced to a fantastic source about Show, Don’t Tell. So I took a paragraph from a story I had written that had SO much tell in it and tried to make it better. I think it turned out well, considering what I had before. Still needs some work, but that’ll be for the next revision. Check out my February 11th post if you want to see the comparison.

February 05: 152
February 06: 0
February 07: 251
February 08: 154
February 09: 203 + 88 (two separate pieces)
February 10: 169
February 11: 209
Total: 1226 words

Reading total: 28 pages (better than nothing?)

Weekly Writing Goal:

1226 / 1050 words. 117% done!

Yearly Writing Goal:

4694 / 250000 words. 2% done!

Reading goal:

235 / 4500 pages. 5% done!

Also brought to my attention by the community the writing pen are two fiction contests. One is fantasy, while the other is general fiction. I have two stories in mind that will work for both. I may ask from some critiques before I submit them. Those critique entries will be friends only, so feel free to leave a comment if you want me to include you in the critique. For all those random readers of this journal? Har…

Follow up:

Some writing isn’t here, just so ya know.

February 05:
The man stood in front of the audience with the task of reading a poem he had written. Before he started to read his poem, he talked at great length about his process. First he told the audience what the title meant, how the poem was formatted, his use of Egyptian gods as his central focus, and how he wanted to share his idea of how knowledge is acquired. But it didn’t end there. He then went on about the process of learning, what he thinks it means to learn, and the purpose of learning. Finally, he read the poem in a very theatrical voice. When he finished, the audience applauded. But oh, he was not done just yet. He went in more detail about the poem he wrote, and the audience squirmed in their seats. After a long monologue that seemed unending, the man finally bowed gracefully and left the podium.

February 07:
A woman sat across from a man and his girlfriend. Supposedly the man’s girlfriend was sleeping on his chest, but as tired as she was, the girlfriend was wide awake for the entirety of the conversation. The woman across the room was drunk, and in her intoxicated state she went off on the man. First it was just ranting, and while the man tried to reason with her, it only made her more angry. The anger started to boil up and eventually it broke over the threshold. The drunk woman yelled, cried, curled up in on herself, regained her composure only to have angry tears spill down her cheeks. The girlfriend sat listening intently while her boyfriend tried to handle the situation with finesse and care, but at a few points she heard his heart in his chest starting to race when the drunk woman attacked him and his friends. But the man managed to keep his cool and direct the conversation where it needed to go. Passed all the matyrdom statements, past all the “woe is me” pity comments, past the attacks and verbal abuse to the real, deep reasons why she was so upset. The drunk woman was concerned about the well being of her own boyfriend, but had nothing to offer in a way of solutions to improve his situation. Try as the man might to offer suggestions to the drunk woman, she refused to listen and spent most of the time crying about her boyfriend’s unfortunate state.

February 08:
The blank computer screen awaited for fingertrips to gently push onto the keys like a person waiting for a package to be delivered in the mail. But the user was hesitant to put her hands onto the letters, afraid that what will be pushed out from her brain to the tips of her fingers would be trash, crappy, and unworthy of even being saved on a computer. She wanted to write something good, something worthwhile, and she had a nagging feeling that the words that would be produced would be torturous not just to her, but to any unfortunate soul who may one day accidentally stumble upon it. But as she pondered something good to write, her fingers took over and started pushing out anything that came to mind. Similes and metaphors would have to wait another day, because today it’s all about word count and mind be damned if it’s not a masterpiece.

February 09:
“I wonder who lives over there,” SJ wondered aloud as he floated near the surface.
“Probably some stuck-up,” Mr. Lion retorted.
“As if I care,” Mr. Ryukin pushed into Mr. Lion with his head. Mr. Lion shook his tail and swam away.
“I think I see someone.” SJ stared into the distant, monster-sized tank.
“Let me see,” Mr. Lion pushed into SJ’s tail to get him to move. SJ ignored the jab, but allowed space for Mr. Lion.
“God this food is so good.” Mr. Ryukin said, as if to make the others jealous.
“I don’t see anyone,” Mr. Lion shoved SJ some more, but again SJ ignored his jabs.
“Right there, in the corner.” SJ swam into the corner of his own tank to indicate the location.
“I think I just found an extra kernel under this plant.” Mr. Ryukin worked at the gravel on the other side of the tank.
“I still don’t see anything.” Mr. Lion grumbled and sped over to Mr. Ryukin. Mr. Lion pushed into Mr. Ryukin to try to get at the evasive kernel of food.
“Oh! Come quick, there’s another!”
“That’s mine,” Mr. Ryukin pushed back.
“Finders keepers!” Mr. Lion grabbed the kernel and swam away.

February 10: Exercise of Show, Don’t Tell
She quickly walked across the room.
She took long strides across the messy room.
The woman crossed the trash-cluttered room with long strides, anxious to find her diary.

Cara crossed the trash-cluttered room with long strides, her fingers pulling at the bottom of her shirt while she glanced around for her diary.
Cara took careful yet quick steps through the trash-cluttered room, fingers pulling nervously at the end of her flowered shirt. Ducking to look under the couch and standing on tippy-toes to peer onto a high shelf, blond locks fell over her eyes as she grumbled under her breath. Her diary has been missing for several days now. Bumble-bees bounced around in her stomach with the idea of someone taking advantage of her most private details. How terrible would it be if the person who had her diary was a close friend who she might have ranted about on occasion? Cara collapsed on her couch light-headed with drowning thoughts of the inevitable horror that would come from it.

February 11: Another exercise of Show, Don’t Tell
Before
Robin walked outside into the garden. “Master Swo—“ Her speech was interrupted with a shriek as she turned the corner. In the garden stood a large yellow dragon with its back and tail towards her. When she screamed, the dragon snapped around and swiped one of its claws at the girl. Robin lifted her right hand to block the blow. The dragon’s claws ripped into her skin, severing several fingers and creating a long gash on her left cheek.

After
A woven wooden door separated the room from a private garden. The carved door allowed the night time air to flow into darken chamber, cooling it from the sticky summer night. Robin stepped toward the door with light feet and a hand on her stomach to try to suppress the bumblebees that bounced inside her body. Holding her breath, she reached out a shaking hand to push the door open. The grizzly, bear-like rumble vibrated inside her chest and caused her to hesitate.
The moonless sky and torch-less walls left only shadows and whispering of leaves. The continual low growl echoed in the confined area. Impossible to see or pin-point the location of the creature that occupied the area, Robin edged out further in spite of her mind screaming for her to go back inside.
“Master Swor–” Something moved with impeccable speed and instinct took over. Robin’s arm reflexively shielded her face before her scream intermixed with a deafening roar. A rush of air fell onto her from above and knocked her to the ground. Blinded by pain, her mind didn’t know whether to clutch onto her burning face or her searing fingers. Her left hand cradled her right, but all she felt was the hot stickiness that flowed.