A Little Bit of Heaven
I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately and I came to the conclusion that somewhere along the way I forgot why I started writing in the first place and for whom I wanted to write. When I began, I wanted to write children's and young adults' books. I have also really liked plays. I took a look at some of the writing books I had purchased over the years and decided I probably needed to re-read some of them. I came across a book called The Aspiring Writer's Journal, written by Susie Morgenstern. It's full of writing prompts designed for children and young adults interested in writing. I think I bought it when I was a full-time teacher in hopes that I could find some journal prompts to use in my English classes. In short, I decided today that I would write on these prompts as if I were a kid or as if I were using the situations in my own novels.
I want to share my first one with you and ask you what you think. This prompt is entitled, "There's a Revolution in the school cafeteria."
Jerry looked at the meat, if you could call it that, on his plate. It was breaded like a fritter or a chicken patty. A semi-solid pool, some kind of brown gelatinous substance quivering like Jello and shuddering, like what happens when you've seen something really disgusting which is what Jerry thought of the substance, smothered his might-be meat. It could have been gravy, but no one knew for sure. Jerry picked up something that he suspected might be a french fry, but it kind of drooped over like it was too tired to stay straight.
I much preferred tater tots which were at least recognizable and which were on average crunchy. I jabbed my spork at the tot and it ricocheted off my plate and hit a girl two tables away from us on the head and bounced away. The girl slumped forward head first onto the table, unconscious before her forehead even touched. As the nurse rushed to her aid, I turned away and pretended like I had seen nothing.
I redirected my attention to the tater tot and tried a different approach. Instead of an energetic jab, I tried to slowly push my spork into the impenetrable potato. My spork shattered into four pieces, one shard striking Jerry in the forehead and sticking there, a little trickle of blood dripping from the impalement point. However, he didn't seem to notice as he jammed his own spork into the wannabe meat. It screamed in agony.
This was a fun little exercise. One of the things I must do, I've decided, is to regain the fun I once had with my writing.
