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  1. At 13 500 words. Major anxiety. Therapy cancelled this week. Hallucinations? Help!
  2. The Toronto Blue Jays should not be eligible for the U.S. Major League. What next - baseball teams from the Republic of Kazakhstan?
  3. Last night, I finally breached 10 000 words! That's definitely a small miracle for someone with my attention span. :p It's currently my second longest piece ever!

    In addition to that, my story has officially evolved completely from my original idea. I feel like this was supposed to happen - I had so many holes and unanswered questions before, but now everything is coming together. I know I'm excited because my family simply roll their eyes when I start talking about it.

    Switching from crude, handwritten notes to messy, but color-coded spreadsheets helped me more than I can even convey. Also, thanks to the amazing KillianRussell, I have concrete character visualization, a brilliant writing partner, and an awesome friend.

    I know I'm on the right track because I no longer lurk around the forum for hours. ;)
  4. As I lie in bed at the end of the day, I begin my process of falling asleep with a brainstorm. This is when I attempt some physical character development of my WIP characters for my own use (I tend not to care how my audience visualizes my characters as long as any plot-moving physical traits are defined). When I begin to see fractals in the darkness behind my eyelids, I switch over to entertain new story ideas. Though I always keep a pen and notebook on my bedside table, I rarely record new ideas. I like to think about them instead; will them to seep into my subconscious and inspire some kickass dreams. Every once in awhile, though, I have an idea that I believe too perfect to pass up. Last night was among those times.

    While I imagined the tight, corn silk curls of my new little boy, Jeffy, my mind was suddenly overcome with the image of a makeup compact. This was it, I thought, the idea that will elevate me to reach epic successes. I scribbled excitedly in the glow of my IKEA lamp, to the tune of Muse’s “I Belong to You (Mon Coeur S'ouvre À Ta Voix).”

    Satisfied, I switched off my lamp, kissed my cat goodnight, and rolled over to snuggle deep beneath my fuzzy blankets. I did not remember that page of pure gold until after my pancakes and half a cup of coffee. I flew, excitedly, down the stairs and into my room to tear the paper from the pad and re-read my literary genius. Only after did I realize the true level of that genius.

    From the paper, I read my messy list:

    • evil makeup compact
    • crushed velvet jumpsuit
    • long 70’s hair
    • doing cartwheels
    • chemotherapy


    Feel free to comment in praise of my splendid imagination! :p
  5. I good friend of mine, Delilah, keeps a diary in the traditional sense. She writes in it (nightly, I think) to record anything in her day that affected her and any thoughts she needs to work through. Sometimes, Delilah exchanges her jumble of thoughts for a well-organized rant. One day, she seemed like she needed to talk about something; she appeared agitated. She gave me the gist of the situation, then allowed me to read her angst-ridden prose.

    A friend of Delilah's from private school, of the same age, was engaged to be married. Delilah couldn't understand how she could be so ready commit to one person for the rest of her life when their adult life had only just begun.

    I knew how Delilah felt; already, a handful of my schoolmates from high school were similarly engaged. We discussed our inability to comprehend the thoughts of our engaged friends. We blamed their immaturity and naivety; expressed contempt for their mental simplicity. How could they have already weighed the consequences of such an important decision?

    Delilah wove beautiful and interesting images through her paragraphs that I could not help but marvel at. I likened her prose to the grade of poetry I resolved to achieve. We came to an agreement. There, sitting on Delilah's twin bed in her dorm room, we would transform her diary entry into a dark ode to her friend.

    We sat on the edge of her bed, my computer on my lap, and went to work. My fingers flew across the keyboard, the violent typing of keys the only sound we dared allow for the creation. We moved back and forth from Delilah's writing to mine. Every once in awhile, we stopped to examine our work; I asked Delilah to explain why she used a certain image.

    Then, the keyboard stopped clicking and before us, Rhonda looked back; black text on a white screen, the cursor blinking after the final period. The product positively surprised us; it was dark and almost surreal. It was our little monster, the spirit of consequence.

    Rhonda by Denise and Delilah
    She left the kitchen,

    stuffed eggs with cream cheese centers

    and chicken bone shards-

    they stuck across the throat of her dog.

    The cerebral feeling, the choking,

    the air prickling up and down

    the piercing bone.


    My hair cracked, is cracked,

    frozen in the post-shower desire:

    I want to walk outside.

    Split and cracked pieces of ice and flaking hair.

    The airplane feeling in my ears;

    my head is filled with sand,

    my skull soaked in blood.

    My disoriented nerve-organ tricks itself.

    Tricks itself into an idea of sand immersion.


    Try to hold myself upright.

    Try to straighten out my curling spine

    entwined in onion rings of nerves.

    They snap into place; magnets and metal

    They feed the twinge in my left eye:

    five coursing signals around my jaw.

    The twinge in my eye is relocated pain.

    Too much.


    To place the palm presentably

    on a fine four feet of fabric-

    curtains: indented, white, silent.

    Gather generously the wool inside my fist

    with a wild twist

    as if gathering my fingers together in a fist

    wanting to twist

    her flowing hair into the safety of my grip.


    And oh! to blow my nose!

    To shed the impounded masses

    into that expanse of tapestry!

    I would do it, almost, I would.

    But I hold my ear lobes out instead

    until some sound would drift in-

    all sound, any sound.


    I wait, like a puppet in the corner,

    like in the recess of a mug’s handle.

    I wait, my spine curled,

    curled around the handle.

    I wait: ears open, eye twitching;

    my brow sliced as if in an industrial accident.

    To expose the wound, to expose the world

    all the way into the cavity.

    The recess.


    Two eggs left in her hand.

    Two eggs wrapped around her finger

    like a wedding band.

    Eggs filled with cream cheese.

    Eggs filled with ice

    and a ticking I can only hear

    when I hold out my ear lobes.

    This is all too much for me to understand.

    This is all too much for me to understand.
    If you have a friend who writes either prose or poetry and you write in the other form, try this out. There really are no rules; you can take the transformation as far as you please. It may even bring you two closer together as friends as it did for Delilah and me. You can also try going from poetry to prose or prose to prose/poetry to poetry. It adds a degree of separation from the original idea and the potential for unintended metaphor.