Writing Magic

A few weeks ago I noted that I wanted to do drafts from a book with a lot of writing prompts. The book is called Writing Magic.

The author of that particular writing book actually dropped by that blog entry and left me a word of encouragement in the comments, much to my surprise.

Remember that writing prompts can always be changed to suit the needs of the writer, so if the prompt ends up looking nothing like what I write, that is okay.

At any rate, let's move on and do another writing prompt!

The prompt: Write a story about a main character who finds a diamond necklace on the seat of his school bus.

My draft:

I staggered to my feet after the bus pitched forward as it lurched into gear. I had fallen to one knee as I boarded the Greyhound with a ticket to Washington, D.C. in my hand. As I picked myself up, my little finger brushed against something as my hand slithered down in the pocket of space at the back of the seat.

Impulsively I paused for a moment, knowing that I felt metal. A bracelet, I thought. I flicked it into the palm of my hand, stood up and continued my journey to a seat near the back as the bus roared down Elm Avenue and headed for the interstate.

Once I had settled myself into my chair, I opened my palm. The necklace was a delicate chain with a sparkling gem inlaid in a heart shape. I could not tell if the diamonds were real or good zirconium. Either way, this was no kid's toy. Someone was probably missing this.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching, but there were only two other passengers on the bus and they were near the front. The driver was busy trying not to weave in and out of the heavy traffic as cars and truckers zoomed past.

I shut my green eye and examined the gems with my brown one. They looked real to me, and opening the other eye for a good look, too, only seemed to enforce that idea.

I thought back to the last time I had cast the stones for a reading. This was a habit of mine, a kind of Tarot I had picked up when I was a teenager. Camilla the weirdo, the kids had called me in school. Back then, I thought they were right. I was a loner as I walked the halls and I am a loner still, I thought as I watched the diamonds glitter.

Now I was all grown up and headed to the nation's capital. My last reading had said danger, danger Will Robinson not with a little "d" but with a capital one as big as poster board. It was a danger bigger than a person and bigger than a state. So I was off to warn the president, as if he would listen to me, because my stones said the nation was in terrible danger. Only I didn't know from what or when this bad thing might happen.

That was what I had told myself when I had packed my bags and taken all my money out my savings account. It was a good lie, because it really hid the fact that this grown woman who should know better was really just running away.

Writing Magic

A while back I purchased a book called Writing Magic by Gail Carson Levine. This is a how-to-write for younger folks, not old fogies like me, but I liked the title. I also have found young adult how-to books helpful in the past.

The author wrote Ella Enchanted and is a Newberry winner.

At any rate, the book is loaded with writing exercises, several at the end of every short chapter. My intention is to do as many of them as I can.

And you all get to see the first draft.

So here goes. The assignment is to make a story from the first two lines, which I have reprinted here. This is fiction, for those who can't tell.

******

I have one green eye and one brown eye. The green eye sees truth, but the brown eye sees much, much more.

My name is Camilla and I am that girl in the hallways that you ignore and walk by without seeing. But I see you, all of you, in great detail. I know that you are fighting with your mom, that your dad drinks too much, and that your sister is failing all of her classes.

At night I shake the stones and throw them into the circle. I have the high school annual and I recite a name every night. I squint as I work, so the brown eye can read the tales told by the stones. The shapes give me the information, you see. They let me know that you're a spoiled little girl or bad young boy. And all I need is your name and the truth of your image.

Last night as I cast the stones, I felt a peculiar shock run through me as I read the story the bones left behind. I was working on Andy's story, because Andy had been particularly unkind to me the day before. He had bumped into me in front of the principal's office and knocked my books from my hands. Instead of helping me pick them up, he stepped on them and tore my papers loose from the notebook with his foot. Then he wiped his sneakers on my homework. Tears escaped and he laughed at me.

So I cast the stones. I usually only want the story, to see why someone acts like in a certain way. Andy's story? He is a jock, athletic, and his parents are rich. I know he lives in the huge McMansion on the far side of town. His father is a cancer doctor, and that apparently is a lucrative disease to treat.

But Andy also has trouble with his knee, and it likely will cost him a place on the college team of his choice. And his heart stones are black. I am not sure what that means; I've never seen black heart stones before. I scoop up the stones and toss once more, and blink my brown eye.

Heart stones again. I study them, wondering. Is he sick? Simply hard-hearted? Evil? I've cast these stones a thousand times and now twice I come up with this odd formation.

****