61. Write a story in which, during several conversations, two people create a fictional character. You can have them argue about the character; you can have them in harmonious agreement. The character need not be at the center of the story, but he should be involved with the plot.
"I'm not sure if he should be a boy or a girl."
"He should be a girl, obviously."
"Shut up, you know what I mean. I don't know what kind of a vibe I want between the captain and the engineer.
"If the engineer is a guy, you can have him be the one engaged to the Science Officer."
"No, she's engaged to someone from her planet. Anything closer would screw up the dynamic between her and the captain."
"So just move that story to the engineer and the science officer, and make the captain a chick."
"No, the captain has to be a guy, for the Kirk effect."
"You're going for the Kirk effect?"
"Oh yeah, that's half the story. The strong male lead seducing every hot female minor character, but always putting the ship first."
"Well...If you don't want him to alienate every female crew member, he could have a strict rule against dating subordinates."
"Hmm, and that would just add to the tension with he S.O. It's forbidden for both of them."
"Yep, and you can pick your other characters without concern for Mr. Sexypants."
"The thing is, I can see some good story between the captain and the woman who runs the ship. "
"Then make her a woman for now, and if you don't want it later, then make her a lesbian. "
"A lesbian mechanic...That could work."
Showing posts with label writers' group. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers' group. Show all posts
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Funhouse Mirror
90. Write a self portrait in which some aspect of yourself is wildly exaggerated.
James woke up, almost, but he got up in any case. A string of drool briefly connected his mouth to the arm of the sofa as he rose.
It couldn't be very late, the party was still going strong. He was just out for a few minutes. He had been talking with someone on the couch, some woman, when he passed out. He could remember asking her if she was shaved, but he didn't know how the conversation went from there.
James staggered gently accross the room, as always keeping his focus firmly focussed on keeping his cup firmly level, never mind that it was empty. It was the principle of the thing, if he could keep his cup level, then he could justify filling it again, at least to himself.
James woke up, almost, but he got up in any case. A string of drool briefly connected his mouth to the arm of the sofa as he rose.
It couldn't be very late, the party was still going strong. He was just out for a few minutes. He had been talking with someone on the couch, some woman, when he passed out. He could remember asking her if she was shaved, but he didn't know how the conversation went from there.
James staggered gently accross the room, as always keeping his focus firmly focussed on keeping his cup firmly level, never mind that it was empty. It was the principle of the thing, if he could keep his cup level, then he could justify filling it again, at least to himself.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Deathbed Conversion
77. Write a short death scene in which the person dying changes his mind about something fundamental to the life that is about to be completed.
Albert sat up in bed writing furiously. It was late afternoon, he had spent the day working on the problem by the sunlight falling through the simple white curtains. The sun was lower and dimmer now, and it was almost too dark to work comfortably, but he hadn't turned on the lights yet. Reams of notes and diagrams were stacked on the large table beside his bed.
His nurse entered the room and turned on the light. Albert blinked, pausing only a moment to adjust to the bright white page. The nurse held out his cup for him, rather than placing it on the table, it was one of her ways of forcing him to engage with something other than his work. She saw little value in his scribblings, and knew that if he let himself be more active, he would be healthier for it. She was always looking for something that would draw him out and get him to live. If she only knew.
He kept on scribbling and she kept on holding out the cup. He knew she knew he saw, and knew her ways. When he finished the thought, when he decided to, he took the cup.
"When you are ready, Albert," She said striding confidently back out of the room, "Dinner will be downstairs."
He was distracted enough to watch her leave. She was much younger than him, but he wasn't too old for her. Even just a few years ago, he would have pursued her. The balance of his dual passions had always tilted toward the lovely, and somehow even the lovely and young had found him enthralling. Only since he learned how limited his time was had he focused so adamantly on his work. Now he was more driven by his desire to find an answer.
Still, no answer came.
Every system left something out, every model had some intractable failing. Albert sat and sipped his too hot tea, and stared at the clock. It was a large brass table clock with a fully exposed mechanism, he kept it close for inspiration. Time was such a fluid thing, and now the clock made him ponder the irony that he of all people was running out of it.
He set his tea and his papers on the table, and tossed the quilt to the foot of the bed. If he was to be content, he would have to be content without an answer. He pivoted his legs to the floor, put on his slippers, slowly stood, re-tied the belt of his robe, and never made it to the bottom of the stairs.
Albert sat up in bed writing furiously. It was late afternoon, he had spent the day working on the problem by the sunlight falling through the simple white curtains. The sun was lower and dimmer now, and it was almost too dark to work comfortably, but he hadn't turned on the lights yet. Reams of notes and diagrams were stacked on the large table beside his bed.
His nurse entered the room and turned on the light. Albert blinked, pausing only a moment to adjust to the bright white page. The nurse held out his cup for him, rather than placing it on the table, it was one of her ways of forcing him to engage with something other than his work. She saw little value in his scribblings, and knew that if he let himself be more active, he would be healthier for it. She was always looking for something that would draw him out and get him to live. If she only knew.
He kept on scribbling and she kept on holding out the cup. He knew she knew he saw, and knew her ways. When he finished the thought, when he decided to, he took the cup.
"When you are ready, Albert," She said striding confidently back out of the room, "Dinner will be downstairs."
He was distracted enough to watch her leave. She was much younger than him, but he wasn't too old for her. Even just a few years ago, he would have pursued her. The balance of his dual passions had always tilted toward the lovely, and somehow even the lovely and young had found him enthralling. Only since he learned how limited his time was had he focused so adamantly on his work. Now he was more driven by his desire to find an answer.
Still, no answer came.
Every system left something out, every model had some intractable failing. Albert sat and sipped his too hot tea, and stared at the clock. It was a large brass table clock with a fully exposed mechanism, he kept it close for inspiration. Time was such a fluid thing, and now the clock made him ponder the irony that he of all people was running out of it.
He set his tea and his papers on the table, and tossed the quilt to the foot of the bed. If he was to be content, he would have to be content without an answer. He pivoted his legs to the floor, put on his slippers, slowly stood, re-tied the belt of his robe, and never made it to the bottom of the stairs.
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