Writing Practice

Soon after moving to Galveston Island, I began attending OLLI, otherwise known as Osher Lifelong Learning Center. It's a place for folks age 55+ to meet friends and exercise both the mind and body. I've taken many classes here; some successfully, some not. But one class that sticks in my mind is the day I attended a writing practice class and met Debbie and Lori. We hit it off like the three musketeers; and, after the class ended, we continue to meet once a week to share our writing successes and failures. 

At the end of each writing session, Debbie creates a list of prompts to jumpstart our writing for the following week. This has led us to create stories, poems, and memoirs. Stories that reveal the innermost secrets of our lives, stories set in fictional times and places, and stories that are, frankly, not worth reading.

Sadly, I've used all my writing prompts for this week and now I'm stumped. What do I want to write about? My activities? My friends? My struggles? Dreams? Goals? Failures? Somewhere in this messy list is something that needs expounding upon or even alluded to. 

What? Nothing? 

I'm a blank.

I need to find my own prompt for today, so I spend five minutes searching. Zilch. Zero. Zip. Nothing excites me. Not one prompt makes me want to bare my soul or chastise society. Maybe today isn't a good day for writing. I mean, really, how long can one ramble on and expect her friends to listen! 

Last chance - first word that comes into my mind - headache. 

I DO have an allergy headache. It resides over my left eye and nostril, beating and throbbing like a bass drummer out of sync. Can't anyone shut him up? Usually my Vicks Vapo-inhaler makes it disappear, but not today. In fact, last night it kept me up several hours, pounding away like a blacksmith on his anvil. I finally smeared Vicks Vapo-Rub over my nose and top lip until the throbbing waned. Slowly, I drifted back to sleep, and now...it's back like a concert I do not want to attend. Banging away like a 3-year old with a Christmas present from an uncle who hates me. "Shut up," I scream. "BANG," is its reply. No wonder I can't write.