I was reading an article in Poets & Writers last night about a writing professor who does prompts with his students and also does them for himself to get pumped up for writing. I’m pretty sure I’m too easily distracted to do that, but I was thinking, hey, mebbe I’ll do a little Exquisite Corpse thing on the old blog!
I actually had to look it up, and this apparently isn’t a real Exquisite Corpse thing (with rules about the structure of sentences, or secrecy, or whatever), but the idea is, we write a story together. I’ll start, then in the comments, write a paragraph that picks up the story where the last person left off. At comment #20, we’ll stop.
The fun!
Okay, here’s the first graf:
We had driven a ridiculously long way and spend a ridiculously large amount of money only to end up here.
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- Jennifer
- Charlottesville, VA, United States
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On Happiness/ Self-Help
Not to be Bossy, but...
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After we had fed and watered the horses, the one-eyed tavern owner quizzed us over bottles of his homemade cider.
The fruitlessness of our efforts had become overwhelming. It was as if the cider had taken away the last of our hopes. Something would have to change. Charlie thought he knew how it could be done.
"Where ya from?" he grunted, then waddled away before we could answer. I noticed a small wad of toilet paper trailing forlornly from his boot.
"Are you sure we're in the right place?" I asked.
I flipped open our map on the table. My traveling companions, wearier even than I, mutely moved their drained mugs out of my way.
"Huh," I said, after studying the roads intently for several silent moments. No one bit.
"HUH." I said again, and looked up expectantly. I was greeted by sullen, silent stares.
The lack of response, the quiet bitterness emanating from the group - I was sore and sick at heart and road weary enough that those thin-eyed looks pushed me to turn, without a word, to set out the horses to graze off what was left of the thin grasses. No one came after me, or called to me, though I waited for it, so I went to bed down in what was left of the barn.
I was almost asleep when I felt something small and furry tunnel into my pants leg. A mouse, I thought.
No. It was Charlie running his hand up my leg.
"I was wondering where you went," he said. "A troupe of actors doesn't just stop and stay put somewhere when they get some crappy cider."
I rolled in the hay, although it was much less preferable to "rolling in the hay," if you catch my meaning.
"We will make it to Hollywood," he said.
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