Try a Tip o' Freewritin' Yer Hear? (All Writers' Welcome!)

[Blackadder]

A place filled with enchanting drivel, incoherent brilliance, subtle subliminal subtext, and a profound nonsense. Well, maybe.

I welcome you Smashers to...

SLACKBLADDER'S ALL FOR ALL FREEWRITING STATION ​

(*Alternatively Try a Tip o' Freewritin'

​

Yer Here?)

Writer's Block is one of the biggest problem any budding, professional, or small time writer can encounter. I was flipping through Jam Stunner's Writing Well thread, and came across the link he offered on 42 ways to beat Writer's Block.

One that I rather liked the idea of was this:

Try freewriting - Sit down and write anything for an arbitrary period of time—say, 10 minutes to start. Don’t stop, no matter what. Cover the monitor with a manila folder if you have to. Keep writing, even if you know what you’re typing is gibberish, full of misspellings, and grammatically psychopathic. Get your hand moving and your brain will think it’s writing. Which it is. See?

I figure that this sounds like great fun, and seeing any number of you guys do so would be awesome. Just open up the reply box, and type away for 5 or 10 minutes. I'd love to see what happens when you guys just write.
Come ooooooooon. You know it sounds fun.
I guess I'll try soon enough.

Demon, you owe me and SLB a review.

GO!

 

[Jam Stunna]

Cool, we need more threads like this. I'll be the first one!

37 million. And they weren't all in the same city or even the same area. They just dropped dead, in the middle of whatever they were doing: cooking, driving to work, making love.

That was the nature of psychic attacks. You never knew when you're time would come. They just pummeled the planet with psychic energy. If it happened to match the frequency of your brain waves, well, that day you died. The bastards randomly picked a frequency every three days.

I don't know...I'm so tired of this. I haven't t seen the sun in almost four months. The flavors of most foods are forgotten to me. Nothing but gray, mushy Olsen rations since they arrived. The basement's dank coldness had found permanent residence in my throat, and I felt it moving down into my lungs. If the psychic didn't get me, mold or pneumonia was gunning for me.

They arrived on earth a few months ago, wiping away years of human work and life like an angry storm surge. They thought their psychic weapons would kill all of us, but we proved to be too diverse. It hasn't been much of a war; they sit on the moon and blast us, and send their troops every few weeks to check if we've been finished. We hide in reinforced basements, behind lead shields, under beds, anything that we think may help us survive. Then we emerge and destroy their troops, and the cycle continues. Four months of this insane dance.

It ain't fun, but it sure as hell beats the alternative.

 

[Ninja-Z]

Hm...this sounds like a pretty cool idea, and I have had trouble with writing lately so I might as well give it a shot.

~~~

It was empty. All empty. There was not a soul in sight in the Godforsaken hotel room, #49. It was said to be haunted by several ghosts from its past, but nobody believed that crap in the modern era. However, there was definitely something afoot, something that was amiss in a world that was otherwise peaceful and serene.

Perhaps it was the darkness trickling in from teh TV scren, the hotel kind that only have twenty channels for your viewing pleasure. Perhaps it was the fact that the closets were filled with chains, used by vampires to strangle their victims when the fangs didn't work. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the sinister glow coming from the bathroom when all the lights were off, piercing your soul like an arrow through one's heart.

Whatever it was, it was sitting in that room with the goal of keeping it unoccupied. Nothing could break in, and nothing could break out. It was just there.

The hotel owners didn't mind, as business continued all the same. Room #49 spread rumors, caused a panic, but ultimately increased the number of customers all the same. They appreciated it and were even rumored to supply the ghosts with victims to murder. But the murders were yet another rumor. Nobody knew if the ghosts had done anything even remotely similar to murder.

But the room continued to spread its share of rumors. And whether they were true was yet another rumor. In fact, the hotel's existence was the biggest rumor of all, as nobody had ever stayed at it.

Life is one big rumor.

~~~

NOTE: In order to hold true to the spirit of the exercise, I looked away while I was typing this little "story," if you can call it that. As a result, a few grammatical / spelling errors were made in the process. I'm going to keep them in the finished product to, once again, hold true to the spirit of freewriting.

 

[Jam Stunna]

I'm not sure if this is appropriate for this thread (I apologize if it isn't, Blackadder), but I just watched a movie that I would like to react to for 10 minutes, off the top of my head.

SPOILERS

I just finished watching the movie Everything is Illuminated, starring Elijah Wood. I would make the argument, though, that the movie actually isn't about Elijah Wood's character, Jonathan, but instead about the grandfather, Baruch. To me, whichever character displays the greatest amount of change in a movie or story is the true main character. Jonathan serves as more of a plot device than a character. It's his search for Augustine that forces Baruch to confront his past, and his decision to abandon his heritage, and in the process himself. Jonathan doesn't change much, neither does Alexander. Instead, the pivotal moment of the movie involves Baruch and his memory of the Nazi massacre of his village. The interactions between Baruch and Augustine's sister are far more interesting than the interactions between her and Jonathan. His redemption is really the main focus of the movie, not Jonathan's search for the woman who saved his grandfather.

When Augustine's sister recounts the story of Augustine's death, I was forced to ask: Did their father do the right thing? Would God really want him to sacrifice his daughter for the sake of a holy book? Perhaps it's a moot point anyway, since they were probably going to die anyway. However, in the philosophical sense, I think that it's quite striking that Augustine's father is not the one that has to pay for his faith, but Augustine herself.

I thought I'd had enough of movies lamenting the Holocasut and anti-Semeticism, as if that horse couldn't be beat anymore. I suppose that that is the best compliment I can give this movie: it made me care about a subject that's been retreaded for over 60 years.

 

[Crimson King]

Fortunately I rarely experience Writer's Block because I can start on any topic and get to another topic. It's fun, yet horrible because it's hard to focus my efforts.

 

[Eor]

I don't write much, but here is what I did. I listened to radiohead and Enya and just started writing lyrics down and turning it into a page and a half of ramblings and plot ideas, i typed with the monitor shut off.

~~~~~

Colors in my head why I took colors in my head I took colors in my head blue flies tangalazing inside try to say try to say try to say colors in my head who cabn say when the road goes only time only time where the day goes only time whe a man pierces your mind with his icytharus you know the pain of having one’s didentity stripped, being nothing left but a lumbering mass of flesh and bone, no life to breathe into, but no death to take you away. Who can say when th hearts die, only time. Who can say what you will do only time. But there is always choice, time is only the outcome of what we’ve done, we have control over ouselve,s no fate no fate. Myh lips are chapped and Jaegermeister tastes like black liccorish, that **** don’t get **** to do with nothing I just felt like saying. Who can ay when colors invade my head only Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds can fly to the realiziation that the end of the empire only occurs never occurse is no end to the empire, it can never be found, it wil never be found, and the search for it will driver you into madness, more then anything else. The colors come into your mind and your identity and life is stripped, your flesh melts into the stream of colors that divide our world from the truth, and you get saner, but by the time you think you found it it ends, and the En d of the empire stays where it is, in a void impassible by human or gods alike. IN the laste 2000s, in four days, an astronaut team was sent into spac.e Of them was the main pilot,Adrien Halfyacht, a mid 20s pampered rich child. Te experiment was tho see the stress levels inflicted on people in long term space, given the supplies needed to last 20 years. The experiment was not told to last that long, only a few months, but a week into the experiment all contact with the ship was lost. Those on the ship thought thattheir communications was broken, and panic set place. They thought they’d be rescue, but aftera year, all respect for civilization was gone It was lord of the flies.

13 years later, only Adrien is aliv e. The ship has drifted for the last eight years, and he is about to kill himself when he ses a tiny blue dot in the distance. He hurries the ship there, and decides that, no matter what he is going to reenter earth. He sents the ship down through the atmosphere, I forgot where I was because I just texted a guy but I’m going to assume it was with hism in an escape pod. He goes to a makeshift escape pod and launches himself into the atmosphere. He crash lands in the woodlands in Michigan, and manages to crawl out with a snapped and wounded leg. He manages to live through it, but to his surprise no one comes. He goes out into the world, and finds everyoneeveryone dead. Zombie invasion. It happened a few weeks into htheir journey, so their communication never breaks. He joins with a group of survivors who think he is insane, due to where he claims he was. He does start to decend into masdness, And his dreams lend himi to search for the end of the empire. They hided out in a cult like village, completely barricaded form the outside world and zombies, where they worship the world and universe in an almost neopagan Buddhist way. He starts to believe the End of th Emprie, the palce where all human and puniversal knowledge exists outside the village, under the streets of a main no **** that. He believes that the end of the emprie is foijund in space, a great vortex thjat he enters and gains knowledge of. Colors invade his head as the zombies break through the barricade, and just as they do he has a vision, to realize that he is the ohly remaining human, th at therea re no other survivors, and that the peole he thinks are survivors aren’t real, and are instead beings he imagined into creation. With this knowledge eh ends the entire zombie invasion, wishing them away, and the survifrs/his friends as well. And then he finds himself back on his ship, except the ship goesa way and he is in the End of the Empire, the vortex he had imagined, and that he has been there the entire time after his ship wen t into it giving him universal power. And then he explodes in the final sentence, transcending the normal boundires and turning into a form of God over the universe, creating a new dimension out of his body and life.

 

[Blackadder]

Now it's my turn...

I've enjoyed reading the free writen stories, I must say. It's fun.
I'll try now, I guess. In 3...2...1....Go!

"Jack."
"What?"
"Jack?"
"What, ****it?"
"take your shoes off."
"Huh?" Jack got up from his top bunk, and looked down at his feet. "****. Why am I-" he muttered, as he began to take them off. "They're nice shoes though man. I like the red streak on them.."
"Yeah, they're okay. I guess." said Jack, as he kicked his shoes off and into the hall"
Silence. The two just stared at each other for some time. Pretty soon Jack leaned out of the bed, and looked outside, throughbthe cold, harsh looking window. "S'made of really strong glass, eh?" he stated. "Yeah. It's cool." "Yeah."
Silence again.
"Hey Jack..how long have we been waiting in here?"
"About 6 and a half hours."
"3.4 minutes left then."
"Yeah. I wonder if I should just go back to sleep..."
"I've thought about doing that. Seems better than the other option, after all." Joey said, with a sile and a wink.
Jack smiled back. "It is kinda, I guess. Though I'd of hunk they'd be the same, really. I mean, the big thing goin' down can't be much different than a good sleep."
"'Sept you don't choose to take it do you?" Joy replied.
Silence again. This had been happening all day, all week really.
"I wonder if anyone will s-"
"No." Jack said. "I doubt it. I mean...1 second we're all there, the next we're not. Funny old world, really."
"Yeah...I guess. How long now?"
'****it Joy, are you going to bring that **** up every freakin' second?"
"Well, ehy, it's not my fault, is it? Besides, wI wanna know how long I have to freakin' live, eh!"
Silecne, yet again. This one had tension to back it up though.
Jack sighed.
"Sorry...you know I'm just an...sorry."
"Yeah..."
Jack looked at his wristwatch.
"Heh. About 45 seconds lft."
"Cool...well..not really." He let out a feeble laugh.
Silecne, yet again. About the 59th time this hour.
"39 seconds" Jack uttered, "Any sins you wanna confess to, before we go to another place...the other side...uh, Heaven..or.."
"Don't try and be religious Jack, I know that's not for you. To be honest, I'm snpre sute if I am anymore."
"Yeah...any last sins though?"
"You just asked that, and I ingored you."
"Is that a no?"
"It's a no. Not to you anyway."
"COme on..." Jack tried to smile, to break the tension.
"20 seconds."
Both of them beagn to feel theur stomachs churn now. Sweat was puing through ther skin like al hell.
"Jack...i'm..I'm scared."
"I thught you said you were lookin' forward t-"
"I know what I said before! Fact is that was before,y'know?"
"Sorry.."
"Yeah.."
Jack looked a his watch again. 10 seconds." "F**k."
Jack grabbed is shoes, and slipped them on. "No point in dieing with the bureden of cold feet on your shoulders, eh Joey?"
He gave his watch a glacne. "1 second"
Silence.

-----------------------------------------------------

****, that looks like more of a script layout, but that's what you get for not looking at the screen. XD

Sorry for the schocking errors in grammar and spelling. Hey, I swore it was longer. as well.

 

[Xsyven]

FUN.

---------------------------

Think about it. The best medicine for depression is self expression. What sort of self expression? Well, it's up to you. Paint a picture, take a few shots of vodka while staring into a mirror, ****, I don't know, cut yourself. none of those are really my cup of tea, though.

What do I do? I sit in front of my piano, and compose. It's not like I'm any good, or anything, but I find composition extremely thereputic. What better way to express your soul than to tell people without actually saying anything? All they have to do is listen-- and the best part is, is that people can't just NOT listen. Unless you're some freaky person who can turn off random senses, people HAVE to listen to you... but most of the time, if your work isn't terrible, people will enjoy it. They love listening to my sadness, my grief, my sorrow. They don't mind how awkward the stories are. I could write a song about how I accidentally farted in front of the hot girl at work, but they wouldn't know that it was an awkward moment. Just some "emotional" piece that I plunked out one day when I was bored.

Anyway, I don't want to listen to start a pity party for you. Go buy a paintbrush.

-----------------------

I generally associate free writing with people that are psychologically messed up, so I wrote about people that are psychologically messed up, but not free writing....

Huh.

Btw, I have to admit that I went back and edited chunks that I knew were spelled or worded wrong... I can't handle knowing that I did something unpurposefully wrong.

 

[El Nino]

An idea while I was in a pet store.

Total writing time with edits: 27 minutes.

---
Ky nearly lost a tear or two over a turtle and sent me running up and down every single godd*mn hill in Chinatown. The only place with an ATM was the newly constructed cultural center. The tourists and terrorists had thinned out by the time I got there. It really was that late in the day.

I stomached the ridiculous fee and ran the rest of the way back with my jacket tied around my waist, chest pounding, legs rubbery sore, mouth filled with spit.

Ky was losing the fight when I stormed down the pavement toward him. A woman, grey hair beneath a purple wool hat, was thrusting a handful of cash at the clerk, persistent in loud Cantonese. On one arm, she carried a pink bucket stained with brownish-red spots. He glanced toward the boy standing next to her, but Ky could only manage a mournful look in return, as if he was finally out of arguments. The store worker reached out to take the woman's money.

I practically slapped her hand away, shoving the entire cash content of my wallet into the clerk's open palm.

As he counted it out, the old woman turned a scornful eye at me. But she said nothing. She knew the battle was over.

The grocer let us take the bucket the turtle came in. It snapped at me when I reached out to pet it, but it didn't protest when Ky scooped it up and held it.

"Ungrateful piece of..."

We left the meat market as the sun was setting. I wanted to take the fastest route possible. Stores would remain open for several more hours. Even if they didn't, the grocery stores still displayed their cloudy tanks in the windows, clogged with silver and black fish struggling for air. I had no more money to spare, and my legs barely let me walk.

There was a reptile store by the koi shop.

"He needs a house," Ky said.

"I thought you were going to release him into the wild."

"Well, first we have to find out what species he is and where he belongs, right? So he needs something temporary."

I sighed. "Do they take credit?"

Not under $50, it turned out. But Ky worked wonders with an obnoxiously cute smile and a rough-looking pet shop manager of ambiguous inclinations.

I heard loud Cantonese from not too far off. Something like, "Put it in the bucket please."

I turned.

Her--purple hat, pink bucket.

She was buying a turtle.
---

 

[Demon Kirby]

I am interested in taking a wack at this forum, actually. I have been interested in writing for quite some time.

So . . . Welcome me you *******s.

I write only fictional, somewhat gruesome stories, and the name of the main character I often use is Samantha.

So . . . Let us begin! I wrote his up in the last hour and am planning on continuing it if it seems worthy. Just stickin' it here because I really made it up on the spot and let my mind flow, as you said.

It was difficult holding onto the relatively smooth
roof of the cavern, and as soon as the demon passed
under Samantha and was out of sight, she dropped
to the floor, cracking the earth slightly and creating
an echo. Cave demons were practically deaf, so she
had no fear. Samantha, on the other hand, was
perfect of hearing, and she heard no demons. She
walked on.
The heat of the cavern was bearable to a degree,
though Samantha’s dash to her safe area left her
with sweat-covered clothes. When she found the
small crack–small enough for her, but no demon–in
the cavern wall, she crawled in and waited for any
creatures to pass. She waited until her clothes were
dry again and got out of the one place in this hell
she was partially safe. Leaving the small crack
always made her feel exposed more than she ever
had in life, but that only stood to make sense, as
she never faced death so obviously in her life,
either.
Her next destination was the gate: the gate she
hoped that led out of this place. She had never
found the courage to go much beyond the cavern
mouth, but she felt different today. There was
still frightened, and she vomited in her mouth as
she went beyond the cavern.
The place really was hell, with dark fires that
seemed to draw in light rather than give it. The
gate was somewhere amidst the flames, Samantha
knew, but it was not the fire she feared. No,
she was worried about the demons within the fires.
She kept her gaze alert.

After traveling through the icefire-engulfed plane
for a time she did not know, Samantha found two
pillars of gold that seemed to rise up and through
to the very heavens. If this was not the gate,
Samantha did not have the courage to go farther
than she already had. She had scorched her left
hand in the icefire, but the pain was cold, not searing.
She raised her well hand to touch one of the golden
pillars, which emitted a low humming noise.
Samantha sighed, lighthearted, as she moved
between the pillars.
The humming rose and fell, and the very earth
beneath Samantha’s feet seemed to hum with
the pillars.
I’m going home, Samantha thought in her mind. I’m going home . . .

 

[Ardeekay]

I'm actually working on a science fiction novel at the moment, and my head is still swelling with ideas and plotlines that I penned down last night, so I thought it appropriate to do a little free-writing with some of the characters I've already established. I'm glad you came up with this topic Jam (and, to an extent, Blackadder). It's a lot of fun!

***

Space.

If there was one thing true about space, it was that there was an overwhelming abundance of it.

Soup stared out at the baroque nothingness before him, wondering what the hell he was even doing out here. For those few fleeting seconds in between deep sleep and cold consciousness, he had been ripped from his safe haven, his place of hiding, just as one is ripped from the comforting bosom of his own mother at birth.

As his bodily activities slowly returned to him--as the agonizing transtion from stasis to functionality occurred--his view, which was once the backdrop of infinity, become sharper and more defined. Now he could see the subtle outlining of the stasis casket, the translucent glass in front of him sat staring back with cold indifference. Steel fastenings bound his arms by his sides and his ankles below him, which Soup knew, was to prevent the body from being effected by the room's own unique center of gravity. The nerves in his body still held the memory of being frozen alive, as one grasps an old injury in pain. Every time I enter one of these f*cking things, it always gets worse, he thought.

He now realized that what he had thought was black atmosphere before him was just the calm serenity of stasis sleep, and this helped to dispel the terrifying, but oddly comforting, feeling of being suspended, suitless, in pure vacuum. The fact that he had spent most of his lifetime in space had, at times, effected his consciousness; his psyche. His distaste for the rest of humanity and its deeds in general often caused him to zone out into an almost Zen state of mind when people were talking to him; moreso nowadays, as he was getting older. This came in handy when he found himself without his normal power suit attire and helmet, with its capabilites to shift the visor view to opaque in case he needed to shield his eyes from an intense light source, or, in this case, that annoying b*stard Admiral Mayhew, or the rest of the Council members, running around with their heads cut off like so many chickens.

As soon as this mental state entered his consciousness, that Soup could describe no better than as ennui, he realized that he had been woken up for a reason--that this wasn't his scheduled time for revival. Something must have happened, and something big.

Sighing to himself mentally more than physically, he thought to himself: I'm getting too old for this.

 

[Jam Stunna]

Well, this was all Blackadder's idea, so he deserves the credit!

 

[Blackadder]

Well, this was all Blackadder's idea, so he deserves the credit!

No, it was my idea to nick your idea that you nicked of 42 Ways To Beat Writer's Block.

So...it's thier idea! Actually, odds on they got it from somewhere else as well.