Prompt: A woman receives an anonymous package...

Prompt: A woman receives an anonymous package that contains only a shiny stone and a note with the address of a nearby infamous landmark.

Diane walked up the front walkway from her parked car. She was about halfway up the walk when she noticed a package on her front stoop. She slowed down a bit as she approached and saw that her name was hand-written on it in large, black letters. She was intrigued.

After unlocking her front door, she walked into her house, holding the parcel under her arm. She placed it on a table by the front door and momentarily forgot about it as she walked into her kitchen to get a glass of water.  As she walked past the door to the kitchen, she saw the package again, sitting on the little table innocently enough. She placed her empty glass on the counter and went back out to the foyer. She stood by the small table for a moment, just looking at the package. Then she proceeded to open it.

Contained within the cardboard container were only two items: a stone and a folded piece of paper. The stone was a beautiful piece of polished granite weighing about a pound as she held it in her hand. It was almost perfectly spherical. As she held onto it, she reached into the box with her other hand and retrieved the piece of paper, opening it…

Neatly hand-printed on the stationary was just an address. She didn’t recognize the number as being anything significant but the street it was on was just around the block from her home so she decided to take a walk.

It was a short jaunt to the street. Diane held the granite stone in her hand as she walked down the nearby road and she approached an old, dilapidated house. The roof needed new shingles, several of the windows framed broken glass, the yard needed to be seriously groomed, the trees pruned and the structure itself painted… or just torn down so someone else could start over. She was sure a desperate real-estate agent would try and market it as “a quaint, rustic fixer-upper.” She saw some rusted metal numbers held to the front of the house with a variety of mismatched screws and nails. The numbers matched the address on the stationary. She had arrived at the right address… but she was still a little confused about where she was. Minutes passed as she stood on the sidewalk, staring at the old house then a memory surfaced from her subconscience.

Diane had grown up in this town and she remembered hearing a story when she was a little girl about “The Murder House.” There was probably one in every town. An old place that kept urban legends alive. The story about this house probably changed with every generation. As far as she could recall, a crazy old woman had lived in the house with three young children that she didn’t allow to attend school or social activities. She was strict, a religious zealot and paranoid about everything. Then, one day, one of her daughters was late coming home from the grocery store and the mother just snapped and decided to punish all of her children by locking them in the attic. She kept them there for weeks, feeding them only stale bread and water… when she remembered to feed them at all. Until one day, she just forgot to feed them and simply went about her life as if she never had any children to begin with. No one ever heard from the children again and one day, the woman just died of old age.

Diane always hated that story because it genuinely scared her. The thought of being abandoned in one’s own home and left alone to starve was just too much for her to take. The memory of that story brought up a great deal of negative emotions and she clenched her fists… then she remembered the stone in her hand. She looked around her and saw that the street and sidewalk was empty. She looked again to the windows of broken glass in the “Murder House” and thought, “What the hell?”

She raised her arm, holding the stone in her hand and drew back. She then threw the stone as hard as she could and watched it fly through the air. It’s shiny surface and spherical shape made it very aerodynamic and it’s flight was true as it traveled the distance between Diane and the last unbroken window in the house. With a loud crash, the stone shattered the glass which startled Diane. She quickly looked around her to see if anyone had seen what she had done. The street and sidewalk were still empty. But she started to quickly jog back home.

Prompt: It was my turn to dig again... From writers-write-creative-blog.posthaven.com

It was my turn to dig again. I was still winded and sweaty despite it being the middle of the night and kind of chilly. I thought about how they always made it look so easy in the movies. Then I remembered that in the movies, they rarely show the actual digging and when they do, they dissolve to the guy scooping out the last shovel full of dirt from the completed hole. I forgot about the dissolve. How boring would it be to watch somebody dig an entire hole? I suppose a time lapse shot of someone digging might be interesting to watch.

"Will you hurry up!" said Charlie.

I turned to him and said, "I'm digging as fast as I can."

"Well, I think you're slacking off since we agreed to take half hour shifts. Maybe you're not working hard enough and making me do more of the work."

"Will you give me a break, we're going to be here all night as it is."

"And I'd like to get out of here before sunrise."

We were a ways outside of town. Some unincorporated part of the adjacent county. I couldn't believe it had come to this. Charlie always talked big but he had never followed through with any threats or posturing... until tonight. And with who? Some guy at a laundromat? What was the point? Maybe he needed to prove to himself that he was as much of a bad ass as he made himself out to be. So why am I helping him? Because he's my best friend. Has been since we were kids. Not sure why. I can't say that I really liked the guy. He was a bully. Even in school. I suppose I befriended him just so he wouldn't bully me. It certainly wasn't because he was nice to me. He would always boss me around and being the meek sort of kid that I was, I just did what he told me. Now, here we are, years later, and he's still bossing me around.

"Hurry up!" he demanded again.

"Get off my back, Charlie, or there'll be two bodies in this hole by morning!" I yelled viciously. That shut him up. Where did that come from?

Prompt: Write something that starts with a “Screech”

There was a flash of bright red and my muscle memory kicked in. My foot slammed on the brake pedal and the unmistakable, ear piercing sound of rubber being dragged against pavement reverberated through the structure of the car. The glowing red of the break lights on the semi in front of me seemed to rush toward me when, in actuality, I was rushing toward them.

I must have been following too closely because within just a few seconds of hitting the brake I saw the front of my car make contact with the vehicle in front of me and watched with equal parts horror and fascination as the hood of my car started to buckle and then crumple like a piece of aluminum foil. Then I couldn’t see anything as my windshield shattered, turning into a random mosaic of tiny pieces of safety glass, held in place by an invisible layer of polymer. Then my view was obscured by an off-white barrier that appeared suddenly with a loud “POP!” My seatbelt locked in place as my head slammed forward and my face hit the fabric of the airbag.

It was the first time I had ever been in such a severe accident.

(I was never in such an accident. -Joe)

Prompt: Describe a family member

I’ve never known my Dad as a young man. He’s always been “old.” Always balding and grey-haired with wrinkly skin. I was aware of this but used to it. My friends’ parents were always younger. It seemed odd to me. I got to the point where the idea of “old” became a very relative term. Especially when I heard people talking about how “old” there grandparents were. I had a grandmother who lived until she was 102. The only person I ever knew who was born in the 19th century. So I would gauge “old” relative to my Dad. Someone says their parents are old and I’ll ask, “How old?” Anyone younger than my Dad was still a kid as far as I was concerned.

I remember the first time I really thought, “Man! Dad’s getting old.” I spoke to him on the phone from a film set. For the first time I could recall, I didn’t just hear Dad talking, I heard an old man talking. When he moved into an assisted living facility in 2013, I was told that he showed signs of dementia. I wasn’t surprised to hear this since he was 89 years old, but it didn’t really sink in until I visited him for Christmas and he was talking to me and my girlfriend about church and ask me if I was “familiar with the LDS?”

I was surprised by this. I said to him, “Yeah. I was baptized the same day you were.”

Then he remembered. “Oh, yeah,” he said.

We joined the LDS Church as a family in 1983. We were members for over 30 years and he simply forgot. Then my step-mom told me about how he’s been confusing her for my late mother. Mixing up memories and reconstructing them into a different narrative of his life. I’m glad I was able to talk to Dad and record some of his stories while he was still more lucid. I don’t think I could get much in the way of a story out of him now. Which is a pity because he has lead a fascinating life.

Prompt: Write a story about a man who is forgetful

Jack got into his car, started the engine and pulled out of his parking space at his apartment complex. He was already 20 minutes late. He called ahead to let them know he was on his way. He didn’t dare tell them that he had forgotten about the meeting completely. He cursed himself as he turned onto the street and headed down the road. When he got to the third streetlight he remembered that he had left his presentation on a flash drive that was still attached to his home computer.

“Shit!” he yelled, then quickly made a U-turn when the light turned green, almost getting into a fender-bender in the process. He raced back to his apartment building, ran inside, fumbling with his keys and running into his home office. He grabbed the flash drive from his computer, ignoring the warning from his computer that it hadn’t been properly ejected.

By the time he was on the freeway, he started to relax, just a little bit. Then he realized that he forgot to put the physical model for his presentation into his car. “For the love of Mike!” He hit the gas and headed toward the nearest exit, turned around and got back onto the freeway to head back to his place.

He stubbed his tow on a concrete planter on the way into his building and limped his way back to his apartment. He grabbed the model and went back to his car.

Before long he was back on the freeway. The meeting was being held in a conference room at a hotel downtown and not at his regular office. Of course, he didn’t remember this until he had pulled into the parking lot of his employers. “I can’t believe this!” he screamed, as he spun around in the parking lot and headed back to the freeway.

By the time he pulled in front of the hotel, got his flash drive, model and handed his keys to the valet, he was sweating profusely. He ran into the lobby and turned a corner, ignoring the elevator and running up the stairs to the conference room. When he walked into the room, he was greeted with cold stares by his coworkers and their client.

“Hi,” he said as he brought his hand to his face and realized that he had forgotten to shave.

Prompt: The Unexpected Guest

I walked in the front door and put my coat on the rack. I then turned into the living room and there it was. What looked to be an old dog asleep in the middle of the floor. Danica walked in from the kitchen and said, “Oh, you’re home.”

“Who’s this?” I asked, motioning to the dog.

“I have no idea,” said Dani. “I heard him barking outside the front door and when I opened it, he just walked into the house, found a spot on the floor, laid down and went to sleep.”

I walked further into the living room and sat down on the couch, all the while keeping my eyes on the peaceful, sleeping dog. “Where did he come from?”

“I have no idea. He doesn’t look like any of the dogs from the neighborhood.”

“Do you think he’s a stray?”

“No. He seems pretty clean and well fed,” she said as she joined me on the couch.

“He isn’t wearing a collar.”

“Maybe he has a microchip.”

We continued to just sit on the couch together and watch the dog sleep. His paws started to wiggle and he made little noises that sounded like very quiet but high-pitched barks. He was dreaming. Dani and I smiled at this and enjoyed watching him, wondering just what he was dreaming about. Obviously there was some running involved. Perhaps he was chasing a cat or a bird or another dog? Maybe he dreamt of playing with his regular family.

“What should we do?”

“Maybe we should take him to a shelter. If he has a microchip, they can scan for it and tell us where he lives.”

“What if he doesn’t have a chip?”

Classmate in Prison (Prompt Exercise)

Prompt:

You receive a letter at your workplace from a high school classmate, who is now in prison. “I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief,” the letter says, “but there’s something I need that only you can get for me. Don’t tell anyone about this.”

Exercise:

I sat in the prison visiting room in front of a large plexiglass panel with telephone receivers on either side. I was the only one in the room and I waited. After several minutes, I saw Sean come in through the glass. Even though we were in separate rooms, he was still shackled. He must of really fucked up. I didn’t even know what he was in for and I didn’t want to know.

He sat down in front of me and took the receiver off the hook. I grabbed mine and put it to my ear as I looked into his tired eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“You contacted me,” I said.

“I didn’t ask you to come here though.”

“Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

He paused and fidgeted with the chains between his wrists. Then, with a look of deep and profound sadness he said, “I want you to forgive me.”

I stared at him blankly for a moment then I thought of all the times he had teased me. The pranks he pulled. The embarrassment he caused me. He was such a mean kid who turned into a mean adult and as far as I was concerned he got what he deserved from his life. He was locked up. He couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. Hell, maybe he was the one getting bullied now. Maybe he was somebody’s bitch or a prison-wife. Good, I thought.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why do you think? Look at where I am.”

“I didn’t put you in here. If I had to guess that was your doing.”

“I’m just trying to make things as right as I can. To make amends, ya know?”

“Are you in a 12-step program or something?”

“No. Just thinking about karma.”

I wanted to say to him, Well I don’t forgive you. You can just fuck off and rot in here for all I care. You don’t deserve my forgiveness or anyone’s for that matter. You’ve gotten what you deserve and if that’s going to fuck up your karma, then so be it.

But I couldn’t. To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought about him in years until I received that letter. And while it did bring up some painful memories, I didn’t feel the grudge that I used to feel when I was helpless and being tormented by him as a youth. And now... I actually felt sorry for him.

I looked into his tired, sad eyes and said, “Okay, Sean. I forgive you.”

“You’re not just saying it, are you?”

“No. I really mean it. I forgive you.”

“Thanks, man. You have no idea what that means to me.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through in there. But if my forgiving you can make you feel a little better, I guess it’s the least I can do.”

The Message (Exercise)

"I won't do it!" said George.

"Come on, I need to know what it says!" Bob pleaded.

"I don't want to see you naked!"

"You won't have to, it's just on my back."

"I'm really not comfortable with this."

"But it could be important."

"A message written on your back by a one-night-stand?"

"It doesn't matter who wrote it, just tell me what it says." There is a long awkward silence. "George, please!"

"Oh, alright! Take your damned shirt off."

"Thank you!" Bob proceeded to unbutton his shirt and then took off his undershirt and turned around.

"God, that's disgusting!"

"What? Did she write something dirty?"

"No! You seriously need a wax or at least some serious manscaping."

"Will you just tell me what she wrote?"

"Fine!... Oh... Well that's interesting." George pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. After the person on the other end answered, he said, "Oh, that makes sense. Er... Sorry, wrong number."

"Well?"

"She wrote a number for a laser hair removal center."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm actually pretty impressed that she was able to shave it so clearly into your back hair."

First Sentence, Non Sequitur, Last Straw

From The Writers Toolbox

None of these were read ahead of time. I read all of them as they came up. I got lucky on the last one.

Part I: First Sentence: After only two months, Helen decided to become an exotic dancer.

After only two months, Helen decided to become an exotic dancer. Her job at the grocery store just wasn’t paying enough to make ends meet. All she could think about was her son, Jesse, who was already eating two meals a day at school. And it was starting to show. Poor Jesse had gained twenty pounds from the USDA approved menus and physical education had been cut back considerably due to budgetary concerns but Helen just couldn’t afford to buy healthy food to send to school with him. They already relied on the local food bank for many of their groceries which didn’t offer much in the way of healthy alternatives either.

As she stood outside of the gentlemen’s club, Helen thought back to her last day at her old job for a major corporation.

“I’m sorry, Helen,” said Bob, the outside consultant brought in to “trim the fat” at the company. “Times are tough all around. It’s nothing personal.”

“Bullshit!” she had said to him fiercely. “I’m no idiot. This company has been making record profits for the last five years. It’s stock value has never been higher. You’re not firing us because times are tough, you’re firing us just to push the stock price a few points higher. You’re firing us so some suit upstairs can get a fat bonus for making the company more efficient when in reality he’s just throwing people out on the street.”

Part II: Non Sequitur: We were drinking Champagne and losing our shirts.

“We were drinking Champagne and losing our shirts,” she said to the owner of the club during her interview, telling him about the girls night out she had with some of her other fired coworkers. “We all talked about what other jobs were out there and some of the girls had mentioned that they did some dancing when they were in college. I never thought I would even consider something like that but I’ve taken pretty good care of myself over the years so now I think it’s time to just go for it.”

“Well, Helen,” said the owner. “You’re a very pretty girl. Would you like to get on stage and dance for me?”

“Sure,” said Helen with mock confidence. What the hell am I doing? she thought. She had done some research on exotic dancing, watched some videos and put together a routine that she thought might get her in the door. She approached the DJ and asked him if he had the song that she wanted to dance to--she brought a CD with her in case he didn’t--he did.

She went back stage and changed into her outfit. She waited until the song started then mustered up the courage to walk out onto the stage. She was so self conscious and it showed. She tried her hardest to be sexy and confident but Helen, despite her good looks, just couldn’t get into the routine. She briefly made eye contact with the owner, who did not look impressed. Before the song even ended, she stopped dancing and said, “I’m sorry I wasted your time.” She quickly turned around and ran back stage, almost in tears.

Part III: Last Straw: the time he caught a fly ball.

Helen was sitting in the living room of her small apartment crying when Jesse came home from school.

“Mom?” he said.

She quickly wiped away her tears and tried to compose herself. “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “How was school?”

“Okay. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Jesse wasn’t convinced. He knew that times were tough for his mom. His dad was nowhere in the picture but he was okay with that. He felt that he and his mother were a team even though Helen did everything she could to make sure that Jesse had a normal childhood despite their economic situation. Helen always managed to put up a brave and cheerful front but Jesse always knew when she was frustrated and hurting inside. So he did his part to cheer his mother up as well. “Remember that baseball game last summer? The one with that team from downtown?” He asked.

“Sure, baby,” said Helen.

“I remember you cheering. I could hear you all the way on the other side of the field.”

“I lost my voice.”

They both snickered at the memory. Jesse sat on the couch next to his mom and reminisced about that summer game and the time he caught a fly ball.

From MeredithSueWillis.com

Write the address of an apartment or house where you once lived. Close your eyes and put yourself back there, experiencing it with all your senses, not neglecting smell, touch and sound. Walk through it. Write in detail a description of the place. Now write something that happened there once...

3460 Brinker Avenue, Ogden, Utah. My first apartment. It was a studio apartment in the same complex my late mother once lived in when she was a student at Weber State University. I can’t think of a distinct smell in the place but it certainly smelled like whatever I was cooking for dinner. My bed was next to the window. My desk next to that. I honestly can’t recall too much detail because the place was almost always a mess.

I dated a girl who lived in the same building. She would call me when I wasn’t home and leave long messages on my answering machine. I loved listening to them. One evening I was listening to one of her messages and responding to it out loud. “I miss you too, baby.” “I can’t wait to see you.” I didn’t know it but she was right outside of my apartment and my window was open and she was listening to me listening to her.

On another evening she and I were talking on the phone. I was in my apartment, she was on her cell as she was driving home. When she told me that she was getting close to home I walked outside so I could see her pulling up and we kept talking to each other the whole time. Even after she parked her car and she climbed the stairs. We were maybe ten feet away from each other before we hung up.

One evening she was mad at me and she toilet papered my car. Not just with toilet paper but also with chocolate sauce. We talked out our problems and she went out with me in the middle of the night to wash my car.

An old exercise from "The Archives"

I wrote this with a friend while we were chatting online one evening.

November 1, 2007 11:42 PM

The makeshift spear pierced the rippling surface of the water and nicked the tail fin of a passing fish.

“Damn it!” said Kevin. He’d been struggling to get just one fish for the better part of three hours. The last of the rations from the plane wreckage ran out four days ago and Jesse wasn’t looking very good, huddling under a tree on shore shivering despite the intense heat and humidity. They figured it was probably the insect bite that caused his illness. It flew away before they had a chance to swat it. It was probably a half inch long, purple with green wings. It was very beautiful. Would probably have made for some pretty good fish bait, thought Kevin. Though he thought that if he did see another one he would try and catch it and hold onto it. If--no,when--they were rescued he could take it with them to show whatever doctor would wind up treating Jesse. Maybe they would recognize it and say, “I’ve got the cure for that kind of bug bite right here!”

Kevin let go of the thought and set his mind back on the task of finding breakfast. More like brunch now, he thought. He peered through the rippling surface and saw a fish swimming against the current. It made no progress, just stood in the same place over the river bed as it calmly swam. Kevin threw the spear as hard as he could and managed to pierce the fish right through its gills.

“Ha HA!” yelled Kevin. “I got one!” He ran to the spear and picked it up out of the water, the fish dangling on the end, it’s fins flailing about trying to swim through the unfamiliar medium that was the damp air of the jungle. It gasped as it started to drown in the air rushing by its body as Kevin ran back to shore, stumbling through the water.

Jesse’s eyes had cracked open when he heard Kevin’s shout of success. They opened again as Kevin knelt beside him and spoke, “I got a fish, Jesse. Let’s get back to camp so we can clean it. I promise it’ll be a lot better than those fresh water shrimp we found... and a whole lot bigger.” Jesse managed to crack a smile, giving Kevin some encouragement as he put his arm under Jesse to help him up to his feet so they could shuffle over to their camp about a hundred yards away.

Another game from "The Writer's Toolbox": Protagonist, Goal, Obstacle, Action

Protagonist: Lauri the famous actress

Goal: To find true love

Obstacle: Irene the temptress

Action: Learns to drive

A thump against the bumper and the irritating sound of plastic scraping against asphault filled the cabin of the Humvee.

“You’re the first person I’ve known to get a traffic cone stuck in the wheelwell of this thing,” said the driving instructor.

“Sorry,” said Lauri.”I didn’t see it. We’re so high in this thing.” Lauri couldn’t tell the instructor the truth. That she was distracted by Irene on the side of the course. Distracted because Irene was clearly making moves on Jack, another actor learning to drive military vehicles for an upcoming action film. She had only met Jack that morning but she really liked him. And her heart sank as soon as she saw Irene enter the classroom. They had worked together on other projects and Irene, sultry, voluptuous Irene; Irene the temptress--Irene the succubus was more like it--always made a beeline for the most attractive actor on the set. Sometimes Laurie even entertained the thought that Irene only went after the men that Laurie herself showed an interest in. Is there a female equivalent to a cock-blocker? thought Laurie.

“Little girl, you need to get your mind on the situation at hand,” said the instructor, a man who claimed to be a former Army drill instructor.

“Uh,” said Laurie,”Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘Sir,’ I WORK for a living.”

“Yes, Sir... uh...I mean, what’s your name again?”

The instructor told her but she didn’t hear him, they were about to start their third lap on the course and were about to pass Irene and Jack again. Laurie could see Irene hanging all over Jack, laughing and talking. For the briefest of moments Laurie considered having an “accident” and running over Irene but she didn’t want to hurt Jack.

From Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down the Bones"

Write about your morning...

My dog, Philip, sleeps with me almost every night. Last night was no exception. I don’t know how he knows but he seems to always sense when I’m awake. Evening if I’m still lying down with my eyes closed. He just knows. Sometimes he looks at me and I open my eyes and see him staring me down as if he’s saying, “Well? Are you going to let me out or not?” This morning I opened my eyes and saw him standing at the door just looking at it. I’m not sure if it was his desire to go outside or the fact that we heard our roommate Warren rustling around in the kitchen. I wanted to stay in bed but I knew I just wasn’t sleepy enough anymore to justify it.

“I’m up,” I said to myself, as I usually do every morning. It seems that saying it out loud validates the fact that I am indeed awake and need to start my day.

I got out of bed, which got Phil’s attention. He was very excited to go outside and it seemed like he couldn’t wait for me to get dressed and out the door.

Phil needed no motivation to make it to the back door. Most of the time, when I “let” him out for his evening constitutional, I pretty much have to pick him up and place him out of the back door. Sometimes I can lure him there with a cookie. Of course, when he comes in after that, “We’re in for the night.”

Warren decided to make waffles this morning and gave me the first four piping hot out of the iron. It’s great having a roommate who loves to cook. It certainly makes up for the little idocyncracies that Justin and I noticed when Warren first moved in.

From "The Writer's Toolbox"

We were given a sentence and told start writing a story with it. After a few minutes, we were given another sentence and had to integrate it into the story. A few minutes later, we were given a final sentence and again had to integrate it into the story.

“The only way John could pass the exam was by cheating.”

It tore him up inside. He took such pride in his study skills and now he was kicking himself for giving in to his roommate's pleading to go to a party.

“I don’t want to go by myself,” Cal had said. “I need a wingman.”

John couldn’t believe he had been taken in by that. It wasn’t even flattering. Wingman. Sidekick. Mascot. What’s the difference? By the time he realized that Cal really didn’t need any help finding someone to hook up with at the party, John was halfway through a game of beer pong.

“She found him in the Terminal Bar and Grill. He was sober for a change.”

John sat at the bar nursing his intense hangover.

“John?” she said. John turned and saw her come into focus. It was Lydia, a former girlfriend that he remained on friendly terms with. “What are you doing here?”

John looked around himself, confused. “I’m not entirely sure.”

“...the way Herb defrosted the refrigerator...”

The key turned in the apartment door and John walked in with Lydia. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“No problem,” said Lydia. “You don’t remember anything?”

“Only that I have an exam this afternoon and I’m probably not going to pass it. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“I could go for a soda.”

John walked to the fridge and opened the door. He was greeted by a wave of warm, sour air.

I didn't get to use that last sentence.

Writing Exercises

I've decided to create a blog for my writing exercises. Every week I meet with some fellow writers so we can encourage and critique each other on our writing but, most importantly, so we can dedicate--at the very least--an hour or so of our week to creative writing.

We meet at Diva's Cupcakes and Coffee and usually get something to drink or eat, chat for a few minutes and then do a writing exercise to get the juices flowing. After that, we dedicate ourselves to our projects.

From here on out, I'll be sharing my exercises here. Accept them for whatever they may be worth, writing that's off the cuff and inspired only by the moment.

Enjoy.

-Joe Puente