The irony isn't lost on me that I've written a few different posts and tweets on breaking out of writers block, only to be cursed with a spell of it for over two months. Prison Break Part 1 marked an escape, so to speak, and I was so excited that I promoted it like crazy. Its popularity took off like a rocket, which made it that much more rewarding.
Part 2 also did well in terms of numbers of views. Truth be told, Parts 1 and 2 made it to the top 4 posts on my blog (the blog has nearly 150 posts since going live in July 2018, so that's saying something).
Part 3 turned into a bit of a disappointment.
I think I understand why.
Readers got attached to Lucky Lucy and Madwoman Cheri, but my imagination couldn't see a way for them to stay free, so I couldn't write their success. In that, I let Lucy and readers down. This just brings home the old truism for writers: WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW.
I don't have the slightest idea how to evade law enforcement. If I believed in Lucy or in myself as a writer, I would have asked some of my, how to say, more successfully rebellious friends for ideas on how to get Lucy to safe harbor.
Next time, friends. I promise I'll do better.
As it is, Lucy hasn't yet been read her Miranda rights, so it's possible I'll write Part 4, but I'm not committing to that, as of right now.
Have a magical day and please accept my apologies for poor storytelling.
Mackenzie
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
On Writing - Assignment 3 from class
The assignment was to write 500 words with a character who wants something, finds out s/he has a deadly disease and 24 hours to live, faces the choice of living or pursuing the initial want, and a conclusion.
Write or Die
by Mackenzie Littledale (for class)
Annabella took the cookie tin from the cupboard, and sat with her back to the window, the blinds drawn closed. She pulled out the money hidden inside and counted. Just forty dollars shy of six thousand, tantalizingly close to affording that three-week-long writer’s retreat in the US Virgin Islands, where she’d be surrounded by instructors, fellow writers, guest lecturers, famous authors, and palm trees. Annabella grinned, replaced the money and put the tin away. Her mind turned to the unexplained stomach pains she’d been having. As if jinxing herself, she doubled over in agonizing pain.
This time the pain was sharper, deadlier and she fell to her knees. Gasping, she crawled to her phone and dialed 9-1-1.
A short while later at the ER, she didn’t have to wait more than ten minutes before a doctor examined her. He ran CT- and PET-scans, took biopsies, and admitted her.
Feeling utterly alone and afraid of the smells of disinfectant mixed with misery, she struggled to sleep, only to wake, groaning in pain.
The following afternoon, Dr. Cherokov delivered the news. “Pancreatic cancer, and I’m afraid you’re in stage four.”
She felt in her guts that a second opinion would be the same. A sense of finality draped across her and seeped into her pores. She squeezed the bed rail. “What treatment is available?”
The doctor looked out the window and tapped his foot.
“Doctor?” she asked. “Tell me, please.”
“There is nothing beyond morphine at this point. You have twenty-four hours at most. Put your affairs in order. I’m so sorry.” Dr. Cherokov wiped his forehead and marched toward the door, but stopped short. “The university hospital is running an experimental treatment with one space left. The costs associated with the treatment are six thousand dollars. It’s an option. Lab results in small mammals have been promising, but the human risk is unknown.” He remained standing by the door.
Nothing rivaled the penetrating silence in the wake of his words. Annabella had no time to choose. Die before her dream trip or live and save up again from scratch. “The only choice is dying tomorrow. When would this experimental treatment begin?”
“In an hour.”
She fixed her gaze on her sweating hands. “Bring me the papers I need to sign.”
Annabella reviewed the papers and skimmed through the risks. She underwent the first round of treatment that night. The second round the next day left her nauseous. The third round left her lethargic and unable to get out of bed or eat for two days. When she woke up, she saw only black and grey static.
She reached blindly and pressed the button for the nurse. “I can’t see!”
“We’ll take note of that,” said the nurse when she got to the room.
Annabella shook her head. Of all the risks listed, she least expected to lose her vision. Even if she could still take her writers retreat, she’d be unable to participate. Was this worse than death, she couldn’t tell.
Write or Die
by Mackenzie Littledale (for class)
Annabella took the cookie tin from the cupboard, and sat with her back to the window, the blinds drawn closed. She pulled out the money hidden inside and counted. Just forty dollars shy of six thousand, tantalizingly close to affording that three-week-long writer’s retreat in the US Virgin Islands, where she’d be surrounded by instructors, fellow writers, guest lecturers, famous authors, and palm trees. Annabella grinned, replaced the money and put the tin away. Her mind turned to the unexplained stomach pains she’d been having. As if jinxing herself, she doubled over in agonizing pain.
This time the pain was sharper, deadlier and she fell to her knees. Gasping, she crawled to her phone and dialed 9-1-1.
A short while later at the ER, she didn’t have to wait more than ten minutes before a doctor examined her. He ran CT- and PET-scans, took biopsies, and admitted her.
Feeling utterly alone and afraid of the smells of disinfectant mixed with misery, she struggled to sleep, only to wake, groaning in pain.
The following afternoon, Dr. Cherokov delivered the news. “Pancreatic cancer, and I’m afraid you’re in stage four.”
She felt in her guts that a second opinion would be the same. A sense of finality draped across her and seeped into her pores. She squeezed the bed rail. “What treatment is available?”
The doctor looked out the window and tapped his foot.
“Doctor?” she asked. “Tell me, please.”
“There is nothing beyond morphine at this point. You have twenty-four hours at most. Put your affairs in order. I’m so sorry.” Dr. Cherokov wiped his forehead and marched toward the door, but stopped short. “The university hospital is running an experimental treatment with one space left. The costs associated with the treatment are six thousand dollars. It’s an option. Lab results in small mammals have been promising, but the human risk is unknown.” He remained standing by the door.
Nothing rivaled the penetrating silence in the wake of his words. Annabella had no time to choose. Die before her dream trip or live and save up again from scratch. “The only choice is dying tomorrow. When would this experimental treatment begin?”
“In an hour.”
She fixed her gaze on her sweating hands. “Bring me the papers I need to sign.”
Annabella reviewed the papers and skimmed through the risks. She underwent the first round of treatment that night. The second round the next day left her nauseous. The third round left her lethargic and unable to get out of bed or eat for two days. When she woke up, she saw only black and grey static.
She reached blindly and pressed the button for the nurse. “I can’t see!”
“We’ll take note of that,” said the nurse when she got to the room.
Annabella shook her head. Of all the risks listed, she least expected to lose her vision. Even if she could still take her writers retreat, she’d be unable to participate. Was this worse than death, she couldn’t tell.
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