Freewriting - just let your words run free

[Maelstrom5]

If you like to write (prose or poetry, or whatever), but can't think of where to begin, sometimes this can help. Stream of Consciousness writing, a style once practiced by James Joyce, can turn up the strangest things. You never know what might be lurking in your mind.

You have exactly three minutes to write whatever comes into your mind (but do try to leave out curse words). Note the time and begin to type. If it's in your head, write it down, no matter how off the wall it might be. It need not be spelled right or in good grammar. Stop after three minutes - if you can. Try to keep it short.

An example (written in 3 minutes or less):

I don't know if I believe in aliens or not. My mom claimed to be an abductee. Imagine that, aliens carrying away my mother. Wonder why they brought her back? She nagged, I bet. Told them to quit wasting their time daydreaming and get a real life. As if aliens daydream. I daydream, do you? When pigs and froggies fly - and there goes one now. Pig or frog. Only the aliens know.

Edited June 28, 2006 by Maelstrom5

[Purplos]

L'il brainstorming thing for potential story milling around in my head (copyrighted by me )

----------

A shimmer.

There it was again.

Robeka's dry straw breath and the faint odor of the cigar she smoked the night before blew across her wrinkled lips. It was never anything but wind and dust, and chaff from the farms, and heat in the summer, and mist in the fall. Her unblinking eyes twitched away from the rock in the center of the mushroom ring toward the elder to her left.

Oblivious to all but the rock, the old woman stared from under her wide-brimmed straw hat. Robeka's finger found the hem of a shawl, purple-black and trimmed with fringe, her favorite, amid the many voluminous layers she wore. The movement went undetected by all but the distant watcher.

In front of the blood-red blaze of ore-fueled fire, his hands splayed over the dark crystal orb. That hag was going to mess it up again.

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

That was about 2 minutes... (Trying to keep it short)

[Mr. Fahrenheit]

So that was how it was? I thought maybe you had gotten over it but if you're leaving right now then I don't know what to think. Tell me what you wanted to hear from me and I'll tell you what I want to see in you. Is there something that has been bothering you so much that you have to leave right now? Goodbye, my friend, for no reason in particular.

I have no idea what I just wrote

[Feanor]

I belong to you, my dearest desire

A secret that I can´t keep

For my love for you is eternal

It shines in the dark, in the void of infinity

And I will be here and there, for all eternity

[grendals_bane]

I used to be a victim of my own ingnorance, until I finally discovered the truth surrounding my whole life. Such as when I was five and I blacked out the night my house burnt down, the fire that killed my mother and sister. Also when I was about twelve and I had a nightmare of a tragic road accident, the day after the event happened. I could go on all night recounting these strange inccidents in my life. What I will say is you time is nigh.

[Maelstrom5]

L'il brainstorming thing for potential story milling around in my head (copyrighted by me )

----------

A shimmer.

There it was again.

Robeka's dry straw breath and the faint odor of the cigar she smoked the night before blew across her wrinkled lips. It was never anything but wind and dust, and chaff from the farms, and heat in the summer, and mist in the fall. Her unblinking eyes twitched away from the rock in the center of the mushroom ring toward the elder to her left.

Oblivious to all but the rock, the old woman stared from under her wide-brimmed straw hat. Robeka's finger found the hem of a shawl, purple-black and trimmed with fringe, her favorite, amid the many voluminous layers she wore. The movement went undetected by all but the distant watcher.

In front of the blood-red blaze of ore-fueled fire, his hands splayed over the dark crystal orb. That hag was going to mess it up again.

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

That was about 2 minutes... (Trying to keep it short)

Wow! That was great! Loved your description - I'd definitely read on. Hope to see more of this story -

Jillian

[Maelstrom5]

I have no idea what I just wrote

Free-writing, for some reason, helps us to realize what's REALLY on our minds. Nice job!

[Maelstrom5]

I belong to you, my dearest desire

A secret that I can´t keep

For my love for you is eternal

It shines in the dark, in the void of infinity

And I will be here and there, for all eternity

Beautifully written - especially for just the heck of it. You write very well & it's always a pleasure to read your work

[Maelstrom5]

I used to be a victim of my own ingnorance, until I finally discovered the truth surrounding my whole life. Such as when I was five and I blacked out the night my house burnt down, the fire that killed my mother and sister. Also when I was about twelve and I had a nightmare of a tragic road accident, the day after the event happened. I could go on all night recounting these strange inccidents in my life. What I will say is you time is nigh.

Nicely done - could be the start of a very interesting memoir.

[Maelstrom5]

I stood outside, where the smokers hang out at work - the Ten O'Clock People, as Stephen King calls them. They're also out there at noon, and 3 o'clock as well. Around 6:00pm, that's when the reporters show up, lighting one one up before the last push prior to deadline. One guy is a hardcore reporter who once worked for the Times. He looks like he stepped out of a crime novel. I don't know his name yet (I've only been with the company for 6 months), but he's one of those people that gives you a measured stare, sizing you up and possibly reading your mind. I watch what I say around him. Normally he doesn't pay any attention to the graphics grunts like me whatsoever, but I noticed he was listening intently while I was relating the story to someone else about how a couple of wild dogs broke into our pasture and killed seven of our registered Boer goats. He asked me what we did about the dogs, and I shrugged. I hadn't done ANYTHING about the dogs - I'd simply left for work and left my husband to deal with it. The dogs were simply gone by the time I'd gotten home. The reporter noted my hesitation to answer and he gave me this weird, skull-like smile. He winks at me and says, "I like goat. Maybe I can buy one from you. Does your husband do the butchering?" I replied that we did not, we simply raise them and sell them. I have never eaten goat, and told him that I am for the most part a vegetarian. I then told him to call my husband and ask him. Goats are raised for food, pure and simple. Many people are buying them now because of Mad Cow disease - an alternate meat source. The reporter smiled, stubbed out his cigarette and walked away, saying, "That's okay, Goat Girl. I can do my own butchering."

I bet he can...

[Caayn]

What a great board...

I think I saw someone die today, but I'm not sure. It was in a far off land, and with going there myself, I don't really know how I would be able to know for sure. It seemed real, I saw his face as he laid on the ground bleeding from a gunshot wound, but couldn't it all have been in my imagination? Maybe I saw nothing that I didn't want to see...

(approx. 20 seconds.)

[Feanor]

Beautifully written - especially for just the heck of it. You write very well & it's always a pleasure to read your work

Thank you MaelstroM5 I can say the same about you. you make me very happy today!

Edited June 30, 2006 by Feanor

[Purplos]

Thanks for the compliment maelstrom

I gotta say I like your goat-eating reporter dude... creepy! Esp. calling the woman (you?) Goat-girl.

[Maelstrom5]

What a great board...

I think I saw someone die today, but I'm not sure. It was in a far off land, and with going there myself, I don't really know how I would be able to know for sure. It seemed real, I saw his face as he laid on the ground bleeding from a gunshot wound, but couldn't it all have been in my imagination? Maybe I saw nothing that I didn't want to see...

(approx. 20 seconds.)

Very interesting... as a reader I naturally want to know more about the possible death and this faraway land you mention. Actually, this would be a good lead-in to a novel.

Nice!

- Jillian

[Maelstrom5]

Thank you MaelstroM5 I can say the same about you. you make me very happy today!

Thank you, Feanor - if anything, I'm a very dedicated reader. Just keep writing, very lovely words.

- Jillian

Edited July 1, 2006 by Maelstrom5

[Maelstrom5]

Thanks for the compliment maelstrom

I gotta say I like your goat-eating reporter dude... creepy! Esp. calling the woman (you?) Goat-girl.

You hit the nail on the head - this was an actual experience from the other day. I wrote about it because - like you said - it (he) was plain creepy.

[Maelstrom5]

She is afraid of the dark, afraid of the wind and afraid of many other things, but most of all death. In a way, the fear of death has engendered all the other fears that followed. Thunderstorms follow as a close second. Floating serpents, they are. They coil up, grey, dark and mountainlike during the day, waiting for the sun to reach its zenith so they can strike. She hears a rumble of thunder, and soon, fists of lightning strike the earth. Her house shudders even as she does. The serpent looms nigh, poised to strike, and she knows that this time it has come for her. The scream begins as a low howl that gradually rises in pitch until she can't hear anything except that sound. The serpent shrieks as it bears down upon the tiny house and she can do nothing but watch the trees bend to its will. Outside the window, the world is awash in wind and rain, whipped to a froth by the serpent in the sky. A finger of God, some call it. Her house is torn away, the walls pried loose and sailing up and away into swirling nightmare. She feels herself flying. Oddly enough, she is no longer afraid.

[Mr. Fahrenheit]

There was an old prairie outside of where we used to live. Ever once in a while, we would see a short glimmer past the middle of the field. The grass would ruffle and a strange sound was heard. So now we don't look out there anymore. We have better things to do and we don't have a kind mind to being frightened. We just dread the day that the thing making all that commotion comes up to meet us.

Freedom in the valley it would say and become again the thing we feared. The being of absolute evil that rose in the night and attacked the weak. IF we boarded up the windows, it would break them. If we locked the door it would come to us as an old man with a cane, begging for sympathy. The Chameleon of the field.

I just let my fingers move and that's what I typed. WHAT? I have no idea what that means. Not a very good freewriter I guess.

[tiddlyjen]

My Turn,

Im sitting here and Ive done this one hundred times before, its seems stupid when you first think of doing it, that youll be able to write random stuff and it will somehow clear your mind, but yeh, where was i going with this?I dont know, wait yes i do, everytime i do it it amazes me what comes out, the little bits of info i take in without knowing it like right at the moment i wrote without i recognised my favourite part in the song, the fact that my foot was itchy and the fact that i had to readjust my bra...sorry for the all the guys out there. It always grabs me that its never okay for a girl to adjust her bra in public because its seen to be slutty but guys try and readjust their pants....isnt that wrong? gaah my favourite song is on winamp right now, i feel like crying everytime i hear it so i better be careful what im writing hahahah, yesh im rambling, do i feel comfy doing it damn straight, but thats just me...i guess....was the purpose of this freewriting session to be creative or just vent?

I think I chose the latter.

[Maelstrom5]

There was an old prairie outside of where we used to live. Ever once in a while, we would see a short glimmer past the middle of the field. The grass would ruffle and a strange sound was heard. So now we don't look out there anymore. We have better things to do and we don't have a kind mind to being frightened. We just dread the day that the thing making all that commotion comes up to meet us.

Freedom in the valley it would say and become again the thing we feared. The being of absolute evil that rose in the night and attacked the weak. IF we boarded up the windows, it would break them. If we locked the door it would come to us as an old man with a cane, begging for sympathy. The Chameleon of the field.

I just let my fingers move and that's what I typed. WHAT? I have no idea what that means. Not a very good freewriter I guess.

There's no wrong way to free-write, it's to generate ideas, clear your mind, whatever you want it to be. Quite frankly I find nothing wrong with your post whatsoever & it's rather good, the last paragraph is especially interesting to me, maybe because I'm a horror fan.

Nicely done - you never know where this sort of rambling idea may lead you...

[Maelstrom5]

gaah my favourite song is on winamp right now, i feel like crying everytime i hear it so i better be careful what im writing hahahah, yesh im rambling, do i feel comfy doing it damn straight, but thats just me...i guess....was the purpose of this freewriting session to be creative or just vent?

I think I chose the latter.

That's exactly what this is for - venting. Some people may use this chance to 'vent' creatively, others may just use it simply to see where their head's really at. I read somewhere that when a person freewrites, especially during the first three minutes, it's the writer's subconscious mind, not the conscious one, speaking. According to psychologists, the subconscious is incapable of lying - even to one's self.

William Faulkner once said, "I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it."

Edited July 2, 2006 by Maelstrom5

[Feanor]

Cold, grey and rainy, this is today's morning

Lonely, sad, and wounded, this is me this morning

looking back in time, my mind is lost in memories from days by gone

[Chiron_the_Horse]

never had writer's block,not in 35 yrs

but here goes:

It was cold and lonely in the old house, with only myself and the body. I was waiting on the forensics and backup. I knew I had to keep the scene secure, but I could not force myself to stay there with the old man much longer.

His blugeoned body was lying under the table in the kitchen. The heat had been turned off for some odd reason. It was 37 and rainy outside,and inside felt colder. I felt we were already in the morgue.

The body was that of a 87 year old man,known to have practiced voodoo in his younger years, I didn't believe in that garbage,until I saw his body. It was stuffed unnatural under a kitchen chair. Amongst other things done to his body. The pentagram drawn around him was a dead giveaway. I wondered what the homicide chief would call this.

Bobby from the ambulance company yelled in. "Hank, you the only one here?" I could barely find my voice to answer. Finally I choked out, "Yeah man, just me."

This done in 3 minutes.

[frogfish]

The dead bee enters the hive, and sees...

How's them apples

[kaknelson]

Alright kids, now come sit around Uncle Bob and let him tell the old Camp story. Yup. well, I was outside enjoying get away smoke time from your Aunt Virginia. You know how she can git when she runs outta Johnsons baby powder. So I'z leaning on the house siding listening to my Cash through the window. And with my clouded, p***ed up eyes, I look to the left with the old head bobbling. I gots my cold can of budwieser in my left hand, and a empty flask of Daniels at my feet. Standing cautiously, n' hoping not to fall, my wife begins squelching from the upstairs window, about some guests that "should be here in 10 minutes". Blah, blah. "Damn woman, BURPP; maybe I shouldn't drink so much, or maybe I should get more. Hmmm?" While in my short contemplation with meself, i see this big old helpless Ant caught in a Spider web just belows my feet. The gruesome 8 legged, 8 eyed b****** was closing in on my poor this baby Ant. Pauly. Yeea, that right, it was love at first sight, and I named him the critter Pauly. You dun't git a problem with that now kids, or do's ya? Ahea Hea ha. Anyways back at to what i was saying. "Spit". You know your Uncle here's gots a tiny bladder, so i quickly pulled out my one eyed six shooter out of my pants. Squirted old Pauly right in the noggin, hosed down and that dang web down before that crazy eye'd b****** would'a ate him for supper. "You used your your piece on a spider Uncle Bob?" Asked the kids. "No, my one eyed soldier, my short sword, you know?! See kids, ya gotta do good deeds in life, like your Uncle Bob here.

Edited July 4, 2006 by Kaknelson