This quick paragraph helped me get to know my character's family better. Thanks for the warm up, Jo!
God damn lawnmowers. Every Sunday it's the same thing. Lawnmowers, lawnmowers, lawnmowers. I swear, those things Rob me of so much sleep, it's no wonder I'm so pissed off all the time. To make it worse, as soon as I step out of this freakin’ room, Dad's gonna be all over me to mow our lawn. As much as I've always hated going to church with Mom, even a crappy sermon from Father Ken sounds better than another lawnmower right now.
It’s Sunday morning and the breeze is heavy with the smell of damp pine needles. I have been sleeping with the windows open lately, because it helps me adjust to life outside of my adventures in winter-land.
I know, in my head, that it is June. But my heart is stuck in February.
In spite of the breeze, I can tell it’s going to be a hot day. Muggy. The shadows on my wall shimmer and sway with the brilliance of a new, cloudless day. All the damp will burn off soon.
I roll out of my bed, which is low to the ground, and I know that the house is empty.
Character studyext_3217145July 5 2016, 12:49:39 UTC
My mom's voice calls from downstairs, "Sophie, five minutes until breakfast." I roll over, open one eye, it's light out, I smell bacon and remember it's Sunday. Every Sunday, my mom makes a big family breakfast-bacon, eggs, pancakes, and, my favorite, freshly squeezed orange juice. I hear my little brother, Bobby, playing with his fire truck, making the siren's sound while he rolls the truck back and forth. I open my other eye, roll to the edge of the bed and push myself out. I put on my slippers and grab my robe. I am tying my robe when Bobby starts hitting my door with is truck. Weee oooo weee oooo, the siren sounds, "break fast brea..." I surprise Bobby when I open the door. We head downstairs, and I sit at my usual place at the table. I am just about to take my first sip of juice when my mom says, "I have some news to share." I set my glass down. If it was something good, she would have said, "Guess what?", but news to share sounds like a way to ruin Sunday breakfast. -Pam Tallmadge 7/5/16
Feeling my characterext_3722727July 5 2016, 16:42:07 UTC
Jo, thanks for the great exercises. They were really thought provoking. I have been struggling with getting my story down, and through the first exercise, I was able to come to the realization that the narrator of the story is not the daughter, but the mother. That was interesting. I also discovered that I am having a hard time writing it in present tense because much of it is an actual memory. I'm sure it will take a lot of work to overcome that, but here is an excerpt of my work this morning
( ... )
Monday morning warm upext_3723307July 5 2016, 17:06:10 UTC
Thanks for the exercise! Here's my attempt:
The smell of fresh brewed coffee creeps up from the kitchen and for a tiny second, I think I’m home. I will open my eyes and be in my own comfy bed. And soon, the smell of eggs and bacon will seep into the air, enticing me go downstairs where my father will be making Sunday breakfast. I open my eyes. Big mistake. My prayers were once again not answered and I’m still here. In this room that still reeks of mothballs even after my mother doused everything with lavender spray. In this room that still has the same hideous paisley blue wallpaper from the last century. In this room where Ellie is still snoring away in the twin bed next to me. Would it be temporary insanity if I smother my seven year old sister with a pillow? Her chainsaw nose could take down a whole forest. Another night of no sleep and I will be insane.
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God damn lawnmowers. Every Sunday it's the same thing. Lawnmowers, lawnmowers, lawnmowers. I swear, those things Rob me of so much sleep, it's no wonder I'm so pissed off all the time. To make it worse, as soon as I step out of this freakin’ room, Dad's gonna be all over me to mow our lawn. As much as I've always hated going to church with Mom, even a crappy sermon from Father Ken sounds better than another lawnmower right now.
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I know, in my head, that it is June. But my heart is stuck in February.
In spite of the breeze, I can tell it’s going to be a hot day. Muggy. The shadows on my wall shimmer and sway with the brilliance of a new, cloudless day. All the damp will burn off soon.
I roll out of my bed, which is low to the ground, and I know that the house is empty.
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-Pam Tallmadge 7/5/16
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The smell of fresh brewed coffee creeps up from the kitchen and for a tiny second, I think I’m home. I will open my eyes and be in my own comfy bed. And soon, the smell of eggs and bacon will seep into the air, enticing me go downstairs where my father will be making Sunday breakfast.
I open my eyes.
Big mistake.
My prayers were once again not answered and I’m still here.
In this room that still reeks of mothballs even after my mother doused everything with lavender spray. In this room that still has the same hideous paisley blue wallpaper from the last century. In this room where Ellie is still snoring away in the twin bed next to me.
Would it be temporary insanity if I smother my seven year old sister with a pillow? Her chainsaw nose could take down a whole forest. Another night of no sleep and I will be insane.
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