A prompt

Here’s a picture. You have an hour. Go write. Use your best pre-writing strategies and all the writer’s craft we have learned.

If I ask the kids to write to a prompt, shouldn’t I try the same?

I can write in an hour when a prompt is given.

I think I can write in an hour when a prompt is given.

I think that may-be I can write in an hour when a prompt is given.

Can I write when a prompt is given?

I can’t write. Seriously. How can I possibly write under these conditions?

The wooden chair I am sitting on doesn’t agree with my bottom. The artificial lights are blindingly bright. The cacophony of keyboard clicking and sniffing noses is deafening. My brain is on a break and plays headache-causing hopscotch.  My creative spirit is allergic to children and educational environment…..

“Don’t blame me. Stop making the excuses. You already used that idea for the wordless summer slice. Besides you’re not writing a slice. You were the one who gave the writing prompt. Now eat your own soup. Just start writing.”

……. and I am very hungry.

“Write! Write! Write!”

I heard you. Don’t yell.

There was a man who sat on a chair….

“That’s your captivating lead and vivid details?”

Let me just write.

There was a man who sat on a chair. A wooden chair. The chair fell apart and the man bumped his head.

You don’t have to yawn so demonstratively; I can see your tonsils. Revolting.

Let me write.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself pressed against a rusted iron gate. A graveyard or a heaven? He couldn’t tell, because a massive bright feathered bird blocked his view. No, a man. No, a birdman. It certainly wasn’t an angel. How could it have been? The short spiky blue hair stood like a crown on top of his head. His hawk-eyes drilled through the man’s heart. The sharp-clawed feet and hook-crooked nose could have been used as lethal weapons.

“If you are not an angel, then I am not dead yet, and I am not greeted at the heaven door. Where am I?” The man managed to mutter with his trembling mind and mouth.

“Haven’t you always wanted to fly? This is your chance.” The birdman’s voice ringed like a xylophone.

“Yes, but I also wanted a bigger house.”

“This is not my expertise. You should have visited a goldfish.”

“I am not sure I want to fly. Sitting in a chair would be fine too. As long as it’s not wooden.”

“There’s Woody Woodpecker’s Woodwork Workshop Shop two blocks from your house. Let’s fly now.”

“I don’t know..”

“If you dare to dream, dare to live your dream”

“Stop. I can’t take it any more.”

But I was in a flow. I was getting somewhere.

“No you were not. Stop torturing me. Stop torturing yourself. Stop torturing the kids.”

But, but, but…. I am their teacher. I help them to become better writers.

“Dream on. Didn’t you know that when you speak during the writing workshop, they see a cabbage-head fish-mouthing, or sometimes your English becomes Martian and as you know they haven’t learned that yet.”

I kind of suspected it.  Never mind. Go away.