From the people who brought you NaNoWriMo...

From the people who brought you NaNoWriMo, comes Script Frenzy:

Script Frenzy is an international writing event in which participants attempt the creatively daring feat of writing an original, full-length screenplay—or stage play—in a single month. Spurred by a wild deadline and buoyed by a community of countless other writers, Script Frenzy participants can't be bothered with self-doubt—or editing. They're too busy writing by the seat of their pants, typing out beautiful, flawed stories that no one else could have dreamt up.

As part of a donation-funded nonprofit, Script Frenzy charges no fee to participate; there are also no valuable prizes awarded or "best" scripts singled out. Every writer who completes the goal of 20,000 words is victorious and awe-inspiring and will get a Script Frenzy Winner's Certificate and web icon proclaiming this fact. Even those who fall short of the word goal will be applauded for making a heroic attempt. Really, you have nothing to lose—except that nagging feeling that there's a script inside you that may never get out.

The 5 Basic Rules of Script Frenzy

1. To be crowned an official Script Frenzy winner, you must write a script of at least 20,000 words and verify this word count on ScriptFrenzy.org.
2. You may write individually or in teams of two. Writer teams will have a 20,000 total word goal for their single co-written script.
3. Script writing may begin no earlier than 12:00:01 AM on June 1 and must cease no later than 11:59:59 PM on June 30, local time.
4. You may write either a screenplay or a stage play.
5. You must, at some point, have ridiculous amounts of fun.

Are you tempted?

Read more...

Thirteen Writing Prompts

Thinking about writing (even though I'm not trying to get anything done), I came across this list of writing prompts for a contest on mcsweeneys.net.

THIRTEEN WRITING PROMPTS

BY DAN WIENCEK

- - - -

1.

Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.


2.

Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and shit. Throw some birds in there, too.


3.

Choose your favorite historical figure and imagine if he/she had been led to greatness by the promptings of an invisible imp living behind his or her right ear. Write a story from the point of view of this creature. Where did it come from? What are its goals? Use research to make your story as accurate as possible.


4.

Write a story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.


5.

A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.


6.

Imagine if your favorite character from 19th-century fiction had been born without thumbs. Then write a short story about them winning the lottery.


7.

Write a story that begins with a man throwing handfuls of $100 bills from a speeding car, and ends with a young girl urinating into a tin bucket.


8.

A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.


9.

Think of the most important secret your best friend has ever entrusted you with. Write a story in which you reveal it to everyone. Write it again from the point of view of your friend. Does she want to kill you? How does she imagine doing it? Would she use a gun, or something crueler and more savage, like a baseball bat with nails in it?


10.

Popular music is often a good source of writing inspiration. Rewrite Bob Dylan's "Visions of Johanna" as a play.


11.

Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.


12.

Your main character finds a box of scorched human hair. Whose is it? How did it get there?


13.

A man has a terrifying dream in which he is being sawn in half. He wakes to find himself in the Indian Ocean, naked and clinging to a door; a hotel keycard is clenched in his teeth. Write what happens next.

I like prompt number 5 best. The contest winners are here.

==

Okay, here's runner-up number two who used prompt number 7:

A Day in the Life of R. Kelly.

By Jenny R. Thomas

- - - -

"See, girl? Those bills ain't nothin' to me, plenty more where that came from— No, no, not in the bucket; I got people to dry-clean the upholstery! Shit."

===

ROFL!

NaNoWriMo… No. Again.

Well, it’s November and once again I’m not participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I mentioned back in February that I’d started this blog in 2005 in order to prepare for NaNoWriMo, but it still hasn’t happened. I don’t seem to have the ability to create anything new, so the only way I’m ever going to get a novel done is to piece together the stuff I scribbled down in pencil on loose-leaf paper when I was 14 years old. Somehow that feels like cheating, like I’m ripping off that younger, more creative self.

But, hey. That’s what old folks do -- feed off of the energy of the young.

New writer looking for a writing partner

I figured I’d pass this along, ‘cause... it can’t be real.

A writing mailing list I belong to had the following in it the other day:

Subject: New writer looking for a writing partner.

"My story is based on a true story. I was almost murdered by the brother of Rick James. You have my permission for someone to contact me who may be able to help me tell my story."

Cough.

Okaaaaay.

The Alchera Project

Well, I'm still hoping that someone wants to participate in the Flash Fiction Challenge, but it doesn't look good.

So, I went looking for some sites with writing prompts. So far The Alchera Project looks promising. Seven topics are posted and you have about a month to get something together. I just skimmed it, but I'll take a closer look tomorrow.

Save The Flash Fiction Challenge

I sent an email out to the previous participants in Grimace's "Flash Fiction Challenge" in the hope that we can get it started again. Two people have responded so far, so I decided to send out the following challenge:

Flash Fiction Challenge #7:

1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: Resignation
3. The year is: 1975
4. Within the story you must use this text: "on a pedestal"

I can't wait to see what they come up with!

Flash Fiction Challenge 6: One in a Million

She was amazed at how much had changed. Colored lanterns illuminated the beach. Children played on the boardwalk. Vendors sold cold drinks and hot food. Desolation had given way to life.
“Remember that ancient warehouse where Tug died?” her brother said. “They razed it and built a pier.” He pointed. They watched in silence as another passenger-laden ferry came in slowly to the docks.

“The curfew’s been extended,” her brother said. “Maybe there’ll be fireworks!” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, no,” she said, worriedly. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“But we’re all so proud of you! Incono gives us everything because of you, you and the others.”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “SHE’S HERE! Our Guardian is here!”

People stated to gather. Some people stared in awe, others wanted to touch her, thinking she would give them good luck. This was the hard part. The training had been bad, and the fighting worse, but facing everyone’s expectations, that was worst of all.

A vendor offered her a steaming meat patty and would accept no money.

She slowly chewed the pastry, not wanting to offend. When the tears came to her eyes, she convinced herself it was because she had burned her tongue.

A boy of about five rushed forward. He wrapped his arms around her legs and looked up in admiration. “I want to be Chosen too!”

“Maybe,” she said softly, looking down at the child. “If you’re one in a million.”

---

Rules for Flash Fiction #6
Maximum length: 250 words.
The theme is: compensation.
The setting is: on the waterfront.
Within the story, you must use this text: came in slowly.

As always, the challenge originates from Diminished Fifth.

Flash Fiction Challenge 5: Wake Up

Though the Army had been integrated for well over a decade, there was still a tendency to self-segregate. The blacks had a spot in the chow hall dubbed the “Sugar Shack” where soldiers would gather in the rare event that there was some downtime. On days like today when the heavy spring rains made it seem like all of the ‘Nam was drowning, Corporal Darcy became the self-appointed morale officer for Bravo Company.

“’Bout time!” said Darcy, cranking up the volume on the battered transistor radio when the broadcast switched from Rock to Soul.

“Check it out man,” he said to the group, “when we get back stateside, Lewis and me gonna cut an album.”

Darcy and Lewis drifted into a practiced harmony.

Groovin' . . . on a Sunday afternoon…

Sergeant Baines looked up from his chow. “With all due respect, y’all two are acting like faggots.”

“This faggot is short,” grinned Darcy, unphased. “Twelve days and a wake up, baby.”

“You should re-up,” Baines insisted. “Ain’t nothin’ for you back in the world.”

“Only thing that needs to re-up is this rain,” joked Darcy. “This is official ‘Charlie Time Out Day.’”

That got a chuckle from all present.

Another favorite song followed. “Two for two!” Darcy marveled.

He was launching into his imitation of Aretha when Sergeant Mills burst into the chow hall, shouting.

“Dr. King is dead!”

Stunned, Darcy cut the power on the radio.

“Shut it down,” said Darcy, sober for once. “Shut it all down.”

---

This week's challenge:

1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: power
3. The time is: 1968
4. Within the story, you must use this text: all due respect.

Good Novels & Bad Novels Part 2

I found the original list for the exercise I mentioned yeaterday. Below are the things I left out.

Elements of Novels I Like

• Characters who are shamed in some way.
• Descriptions of beauty.
• Injustice.
• Growth, negative or positive.
• Fear.
• Realism.
• Emotion.
• Dialogue. At least one quoteable line.
• Flawed people.
• Societies in conflict.
• Parents and (adult) children.
• Complex family dynamics.
• Well-researched settings.
• Fairy tale motifs.
• War.

Elements of Novels I Don't Like

• More prose than dialogue.
• Characters with no doubts.
• Characters with unreasonable doubts.
• Borrowed settings and/or characters.
• Racist or sexist authors.
• Flaws in logic.
• Bad science.

What, to you, makes a good novel?

I found No Plot, No Problem to be a bit simple for me, but I did do the "what is a good novel/what isn't a good novel" exercise.

I discovered that I like the following in a novel:

• The main character must undergo either mental or physical pain.
• A beloved character is unjustly injured or killed.
• The main character has to overcome some inherent limitations.
• I like novels in which the characters have to travel.
• I like chapter titles.
• I like historical or fantasy settings.
• I like romance that leaves something to the imagination.
• Tragedy.
• Loss.
• Rational villains.
• Hard-won victories.
• Exotic cultures.
• Political intrigue.

I don’t like:

• School stories.
• Courtroom stories.
• Dialogue that can’t be said out loud.
• Complicated fight scenes or battle scenes.
• Precocious children.
• Comedies.
• Novels that are over 500 pages.
• First-person narration.
• Children or animals being abused.
• Old people as the protagonists.
• Insanity.
• Characters that screw for no reason.
• Smartasses.
• Stupid women.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Moscow, Idaho

“Been a hard winter,” Preacher Ned was saying. “Likely to be a late spring. But I digress.”

The diner was empty save for a waitress cleaning up down front and a cook in the kitchen. The opening bars of Come Go With Me drifted from the jukebox.

Ned pushed the salt and pepper shakers toward Joey. “You’ve got two men,” he said. “For the sake of argument, let’s call one ‘A,’ the other ‘B.’”

Joey snorted, bored with the weak analogies, bored with the company. He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked out the window at the bleak Idaho landscape. It was snowing again in Moscow. No surprise.

He looked at Ned. “Got a lot of Reds here?”

It was a joke, of course, but Preacher looked offended. “Only God-fearing people here. Good Christian people.”

“Except for Mr. Pepper.”

Ned tapped the pepper shaker. “A cancer that needs to be excised. A cancer that cannot be allowed to spread.”

Ned passed him his fee in a paper bag under the table. Joey did a quick inspection.

“You’re short.” A note of warning crept into his voice.

“In lieu of the, ah, down payment, I thought you’d appreciate this,” said Ned, quickly handing him a set of keys.

Preacher gestured with his pinky at a ‘58 T-bird in the parking lot. Light blue. Brand new.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the rest. I have need of, shall we say, ‘an avenging angel?’”

“God’s will be done,” Joey said dryly.

---

The rules for this week's Flash Fiction Challenge #4 from Grimace at Diminished Fifth were:

1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The setting is: Moscow, USSR
3. The year is: 1958.
4. Within the story, you must use this text: for the sake.

If you prefer, you can set it in Moscow, Idaho. In fact, that might ultimately prove much cooler.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Mind Over Matter (2)

Okay, here's a second stab at this. This time I stuck to the word count.

---

It was, the right fielder reflected, not a great day for baseball.

Maybe it was the snow flurries that accounted for the pitiful attendance on Opening Day.

No, the truth was the Detroit Tigers were a bad team. The window dressing – a few free agent signings, a pretty ballpark – hadn’t fooled the public.

Hoping to entice people to come, they had let a basketball player throw out the first pitch. He had even dispensed advice to the team as if he knew this game.

His game.

The veteran knew a little something about motivation. His body had started to lose its inherent ability. Still, discipline made it possible to make a difference.

The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of frozen grass near the ample foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire made the call.

OUT!

The center fielder trotted over. “You okay, dog?”

I’m not a dog, I’m a man.

The kid offered him a hand, helping him to his feet, and gave him a high-five.

The veteran pounded a fist into his glove, ignored the twinge in his left knee and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.

One hundred sixty-one more games to go.

My Story Bites!

My Flash Fiction story this week sucked.

This one is so much better: odd child on the loose, kids

Flash Fiction Challenge: Mind Over Matter

It was, the right fielder reflected, not a great day for baseball.

True, not a cloud was in the sky, but the temperature was below freezing.

Maybe the weather was why the attendance was so pitiful on Opening Day.

Or maybe fans found other things to do because the Tigers were a bad team and they were playing KC, another bad team.

A basketball player had thrown out the first pitch today.

A basketball player!

Now that the Pistons had won something, they were suddenly the sports ambassadors of town, weighing in on anything and everything. Prior to the game, Management had let some of the Pistons tour the clubhouse and give pep talks, like they knew anything about this game. The right fielder could only shake his head.

“You ever won anything, paps?” A scrawny teammate with skinhead looks tried to be conversational as they suited up. “Say, you got that edge... You been in the game, like, forever. So…” he dropped hid voice, “What’s the deal?

The veteran glared at him, then answered. “Forget the trainers. It’s about the mind. Use its inherent ability to heal yourself.”

He instantly realized that people were going to think he was a Wiccan, for Christ’s sake..

But instead of laughing uproariously and inviting the others to join in, the kid was nodding thoughtfully.

The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of ice near foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire pumped his fist -- OUT!

God bless Comerica! And the architects who had modeled the park after Yellowstone.

The center fielder trotted over and extended a hand to help him to his feet, “You okay, man? That mind over matter stuff, it looks painful, dog.”

“I’m not a dog, I’m a man,” the right fielder grumbled.

“Naw. You’re a Tiger!” The grinning kid held up his hand and the veteran obliged with a high five. Grudgingly, he smiled back.

One hundred sixty-one more games to go. The veteran pounded a fist into his glove and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.

---

[I went over the word count by a lot. Ooops!]

This week's challenge:

1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: toil.
3. The setting is: Detroit.
4. Within the story, you must use this bit of text: its inherent ability.
   

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Broker

“Sure you want to do this?” Donovan pushed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter across the table to the teen seated before him. A spry octogenarian, the broker had a squirrelly look.

The young man nodded, though he eyed the offering with suspicion.

The clients were usually older. The old always wanted to relive memories. Something was always missing from the present. Donovan shrugged mentally. Whatever it takes to ease the pain.

“So... why 1995? Political climate more to your liking? Good year for baseball?”

“I got my reasons.” The kid slouched in his seat and scowled. An act, of course. From money, Donovan mused.

“Have it your way, son. Any questions?”

“It’s real?” the client asked slowly.

“How do you define ‘real’”? See---”

“Don’t fuck with me,” the kid grated.

Donovan sat back, frowning. “You just blew it. Happy now?”

“NO!” the kid stammered. “I want to get this started. Please. How does it start?”

“You’re already there.” Donovan pointed at the door.

The kid looked confused. “Just like that?”

The broker snapped his fingers. “Done.”

Hope entered the teen’s face. A second later a soft gray light filled the office as he opened the door.

He hesitated. “I would’ve paid ten times as much...”

The old man folded his hands. “My loss,” he said lightly, but the boy was gone.

Reaching out for a battered notebook on his desk, Donovan smiled faintly and drew a neat line through another name.

“Two more left,” he whispered.

---

Above is my entry for this week's Flash Fiction Challenge: http://diminishedfifth.blogspot.com/.

The rules were as follows:

1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: memory.
3. The year is: 1995.
4. Within the story, you must use this text: ease the pain.

No Plot? Big Problem!

I bought the book No Plot? No Problem last week because I'm considering taking part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this fall. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to produce a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. This book is supposed to help you do this, but the author really has very little in the way of tips to offer.

It's not until page 85 of the 173 page book that he gives you the answer to the "no plot" problem. The answer, in case you want to know, is to make two lists. One list is a list of all the things that make a novel a good novel, in your opinion. The other list is a list of things you hate in a novel. The trick is -- get this -- you're supposed to use all the things in the first list and avoid the things in the second list.

Yep, that's the secret!

Oh, and based on the stuff you like, you will automatically have a list of characters in your head. Write down their age, gender, occupation, hobbies, where they live and what they were doing five years ago.

Boom, there's your story. The plot will automatically come to you as long as you write 1,667 words a day with no regard for how bad it may suck.

Woo hoo!