I began this post on Wednesday, and got up to the end of the instructions. Tonight, on a whim, I decided to set an alarm and take a shot at free writing. I think it went well.
The best way to get into writing is simply to write . . .and write . . . and write . . . freely. Every Wednesday, I’ll offer a writing prompt to spur your creative juices (and mine!)….
Happy writing, my friends!
Today’s prompt is red like…..
Time: 30 minutes
Set your timer, put your pen to paper, and don’t stop writing until the bell rings! No edits or corrections – just keep writing. Allow your imagination and memory to guide you as you write.
(N.B. This is likely one of the most difficult challenges for me to do — free writing usually works for me when I have a more developed thought — but then it wouldn’t be free writing, would it?)
Red like a fire engine, red like a barn, red like a spotted mushroom. Red like a 65 Mustang, red like the spots on a white dress, worn to the county fair dance. Red like ripe tomatoes, red like ripe strawberries, red like a robin’s breast, red like Christmas lights. Red like a cardinal at the top of the pine tree outside the window, singing that distinctive song of his, looking for a mate. Red like fresh raspberries, red like lipstick and nail polish, red like my niece’s hair, so beautiful it takes my breath away. Red like strawberry or raspberry Jello, filled with shaved carrots and walnuts, red like the tablecloth we used on the 4th of July.
Red like the blood shed by American children in the Army, fighting a useless war, red like the stop sign at the end of my road. Red like grapes, and sweet peppers, and chillies, too, red like that round symbol with the diagonal line which means no whatever it’s covering. Red like the LED on my phone, red like the last Life Saver in the package, red like the woodpecker’s head, as he or she knocks on the tree outside my dad’s house.
Red like yarn, red like string, red like the shoelaces on my tennies, back in high school. Red like the clay which makes up Georgia, red like the first cherries on the tree. Red like my mother’s tulips, bought in Holland and planted in her back yard. Red like the candle on my altar, red like a fish, red like the blush on a young girl’s cheek. Red like the tip of a match, red like the iron pills I take every day, red like The Beatles album. Red like a cheerleader’s pompoms, red like a London phone booth, red like the swastika Charles Manson carved into his forehead.
Red like anger, red like pain, red like one end of the spectrum of visible light. Red like the pillow I rest my feet on when they’re swollen, red like my heart, still beating and carrying me forward after all the terrible things I did to it. Red like the flag of Turkey, red like the army of the USSR, red like the border on my calendar. Red like the buttons on my remote control, red like the spaghetti sauce I can’t stop thinking about, red like the apples on my dad’s MacIntosh tree, at the house where I spent my teenage years. Red like the spots on my skin, always showing up in pairs, and what is up with that? Red like the top I wore when I was in Quintana Roo, in Mexico. Red like my eyes when I’ve been crying, red like my sister’s leather couch, red like a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup.
Red like the camera I used at the Epcot Center, which will not import into my computer, red like the coral on the reef off of Key Largo, red like the snood my mother made me, so I wouldn’t have to put on a hat. Red like the sunrise when a storm is coming in, and red like a sunset after a clear day. Red like the sweater Mom gave me, which lately I have worn right up to the second when I climb under the covers. Red like paint, red like the fish I painted on the blue background of the deck at Mom’s last house. Red like the tiles on the roofs of Turkish homes, marked with white where they included marble from the nearby ruins of Ephesus. Red like the root chakra, red like the flag of Quan Yin which hangs on my wall. Red like all of these things, and so many more. Red like red.