All it Takes is One to Inspire Many!

    Writing is a muscle. Just like the temple that is my body regular exercise is needed to stay strong and healthy. To quote RuPaul, “Girl, you better work!” I need to work my writing skills daily. All writers do.

    Writing exercises are like the treadmill of the literary world. In February, I attended the Southern California Writers’ Conference where they stressed this. During the conference they gave us one word to inspire 250 words. It was a powerful experience to reinforce the need for writing every day. Even if I’m not working on my own story, I can engage in an daily exercise to sharpen my literary muscles.

    Periodically in this blog I’ll challenge myself with a word to inspire me to write 250 words. It can be a short story, a simple passage, or scene. Perhaps, it will inspire a future story. No matter what becomes of the words that flow out of me with these types of exercises, they help will tone and shape my skills as a writer.

    If you’re interested in writing, try this exercise. Pick a word. Any word! You can simply flip open a dictionary and use whatever word your finger lands on first. You can use a word of the day calendar. Some writers will also use pictures. Whatever the initial inspiration the important thing is to write.

    I hope you enjoy me flexing my literary muscles a little bit. It may be a tad gratuitous, but words are meant to be shared. Pinkies up!

The Flight

By Melissa Whitney

Just breathe. The mantra on repeat as Alma sat tucked into the window seat. The rustling of bags and clicking of seat belts the soundtrack of the loading flight. Inhaling the plane’s stale air, she shifted trying to make herself as small as possible. Pressing against the window she allowed its smooth coolness to bolster her.

            “Excuse me,” a raspy masculine voice cleared. “I believe that’s my seat.”

            “Nope,” Alma insisted, her eyes shut as tight as her smile.

            “This is 8F. My ticket says 8F.”

            “I have 8A, you can sit there,” she groaned. Just Breathe.

            “But that’s not my seat.”

            “What does it matter? It’s still a window,” she gritted.

            “What does it matter to you?”

            A heated embarrassed realization crawled up Alma’s neck. She would have to move. As if twelve again being called to the principal’s office, she pulled her laptop bag from below the seat in front of her, and stumbled over now former seatmates with a muttered, “Sorry.” Her body, exposed to the appraising eyes of others craved the sanctuary of the window.

She crawled into 8A with another muttered, “Sorry.”

Alma gazed longingly at her former seat as if a lost lover now held by another. Just breathe.

“Alma, I’m so sorry,” Derick said, voice lathered in apology, as he sat in 8B.

For the next five and half hours, Alma would sit next to the man that five hours ago asked her for a divorce. Just breathe.