A fun writing exercise for your Muse.

A friend of mine, Heather Osborn, who is my editor and fellow author, just had a birthday.  She received this really awesome present called:

The book is full of writing prompts.  Which is really helpful if your muse went on vacation and forgot to give notice, leaving you stranded.  This will get your writing juices going.  See, you really didn’t need that Muse after all.
Anyway, she posted one of the writing prompts in a group we’re a part of: Epilogues Classics.  It was called Epilogues Book Club, before Facebook decided to eat the group.  No warning, just gone.  The group is for readers to meet new authors, and authors to meet new readers.  It’s a fun group, and I would suggest joining.
It’s amazing how writers will take the same prompt and come at it from different angles.  So, for a bit of fun, I thought I’d post these prompts to my blog, along with my interpretation.  Here’s the prompt:

You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle, with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?

And, here is what I wrote:
Something cold and wet is dripping on my face. I slowly open my eyes to see a sky full of gray, dismal clouds. Great, it’s raining. As I try to push myself into a sitting position, a sharp, hot pain stabs me in the left shoulder, so I sink back onto the wet, muddy ground. I gingerly press my right hand against my throbbing shoulder. It feels sticky and warm. With trembling fingers I open my jacket, peering at the bullet hole in my shirt. The wound doesn’t look fresh. In fact, it’s not bleeding much at all. I shake my head, befuddled. Who shot me? And why? Are they still after me?
Fueled by fear, I roll over to my right side and proceed to push myself into a sitting position, leaving me gasping and panting in pain. As I wait for the pain to subside, I look around. I’m sitting along a two-lane highway, no cars in view. It looks like I’m in the country, as I see fences with rows of corn growing everywhere. There are several crows sitting along the fences, staring at me with their yellow, hungry eyes. Where the hell am I? How the hell did I get here?
I push strands of wet, long, brown hair off my face. My brain is a fog.  I don’t seem to remember anything.  Not even my name.  Heart pounding in my throat, I start searching my pockets for some type of clue as to what has happened to me, who I am.  I find nothing. No wallet, no keys, no phone.
Looking behind me I see a ten-speed lying in the ditch, with a flat tire and twisted frame. It looks like I got hit and left for dead. They should’ve come back and checked, I think, anger starting to rise. Who is They?  I don’t know, but I will find out what happened, and I will make whoever did this to me pay.
I rise to my wobbly legs, looking around some more. Now I can see a farmhouse, off in the distant, perched on top of a rolling hill. Staggering, I take off for the farmhouse, left arm pressed tightly against my chest. Okay, I have a destination. Make it to safety first, then exact justice later.
Now it’s your turn.  How do you see this playing out in your head?  You can respond in the comments below.  Have a wonderful Wednesday.

About Sahara Foley

Bio: Until my husband died on Christmas 2012, I never thought about becoming a writer. In fact, the act of writing a story terrified me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved reading, just never had the knack for writing. The thought of writing dialogue scared the bejeebers out of me. See, Bob was the writer. He wrote stories for years but could never get a traditional publisher interested enough to publish even one. Now I understand why, as they were unpolished outlines. Then, after 30 years together, Bob passed away and my life was turned upside down. About a month later, I was sitting around my apartment, trying to adjust to the worst event in my life, when a little voice spoke to me. Why not publish Bob’s stories? To be truthful, ever since the advent of self-publishing, I always wanted too, that’s how much I believed in his stories. But I knew I would have to fight him for every little change I made to his outlines. Sorry, honey, but they had to be done. So, I pulled out the box of stories, dusted them off, and started on a new adventure: The World of Self-Publishing. Boy, did I have a lot to learn. I finally published several short stories early in 2014, then my horror novella, It Lives in the Basement. While I was working on them, I was slowly learning the craft of writing, and getting The Secret of Excalibur ready for publication. Excalibur was my favorite story of them all, and in the back of my mind, I knew I wanted a publisher. One day on Twitter, I ran across a tweet from Creativia Publishing, and that was another game changer for me. I signed up with them in December of 2014, and it was the best decision I’ve made. One thing I’ve discovered on my new adventure, are all the really awesome and talented Indie Authors. If you find the right community of Indie Authors, all they want to do is help each other. I found that I love promoting them and their books, so that’s how I setup my blog. For readers to meet Indie Authors. Anyway, enough about me. Here’s all my contact information: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/booksbysaharafoley Twitter: https://twitter.com/SaharaFoley Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/saharafoley/ Google Plus: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+SaharaFoley/posts Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Sahara-Foley/e/B00J9ST32U/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1
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4 Responses to A fun writing exercise for your Muse.

  1. Loved your little writing prompt exercise. I’m not an author but somethings things like this make wish I were. But, for now, I’ll stick to blogging and reviewing books.

    • saharafoley says:

      Believe me, 4 years ago I would have laughed out loud if I was told I would be a writer. It was the furthest thing from my mind, but life throws us some really crazy curves. 🙂

  2. My daughter challenged me to write a sex scene, so I did write one on my Goodreads. Not sure she has even read it yet. I have no idea what the main character is running from, nor where he’s headed. If I could figure those out I might have a short story. But he isn’t talking to me right now.

  3. saharafoley says:

    I think sex scenes are the toughest part to write. They either sound too clinical or too porno.

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