So last year I attempted what I called my 'Inspiration Writing Challenge' using the 'The Writer's Toolbox'. This attempt was ill-fated and what was intended to last for a whole month, I only managed to keep up for a week... Oh, me.
This time, I'm going to try this whole thing again, except with the (hopefully) more realistic and achievable goal of a fortnight of writing.
In roughly a months time, I'm going to be starting my Master's degree at the University of Lincoln, in Creative Writing... and the writing I've done since I finished my Professional Writing degree at University Centre Grimsby? Zilch. So I'm hoping that this will spur my brain back onto the writing path, by forcing myself to write regularly.
The fact that I just used to word 'forcing' is probably a bad sign. This is something that I'm supposed to be good at and enjoy... so why would I be forcing myself to do it, and not wanting to do it anyway?
Ah well, on with the challenge. Going to use a 'First Sentence Stick' today, followed by a Non Sequitur stick to take the story in a new direction. I'll write for ten minutes each stick.
First Sentence: 'There she was, Amy Gerstein, over by the pool, kissing my Father'
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There she was, Amy Gerstein, over by the pool, kissing my father. She was his latest in a very recent, long line of girlfriends. To be honest I'd been getting bored of the new women rapidly entering and exiting mine and his lives. I'd even attempted to have a word with him about it. I'd sat him down, made him a cuppa, put the football on a low volume in the background, and he'd dodged and weaved around the subject like one of the footballers he so avidly followed while they kicked a ball around on a bit of grass for way-too-much money a match.
So I gave up, for now, if he wanted to pursue this... self-destructive path, then so be it, I'd let him. The fact that he hadn't listened to his own son was just testament to how desperate he'd gotten. I mean, he'd given me these kinds of lessons as I was growing up, I was just attempting to return the favour. But no, he set up dates with multiple women on multiple dating sites. Almost every night he was out, flirting as if his life depended on it with whoever took his fancy. 'Playing the field' he called it. 'Hedging his bets' is what I called it.
Occasionally, one of these women would actually make an impression on him. Amy was one of these women. They'd been seeing each other for three weeks now. Too soon, in my opinion, to get attached. And yet there they were, by the poolside, making out with each other in full view of the other holidaymakers.
Oh, yeah, probably should have mentioned that too. She was on holiday with us. What -was- going to be a father-son lad's weekend turned into me third-wheeling their premature honeymoon. So there I was, sitting, reading a book on a sunbed as the clouds covered the usually bright foreign sky, a metaphor for my current mood. Try as I might, I couldn't avoid looking at them, with their gross public displays of affection. If there weren't so many people around, I'm pretty sure they would have just stripped each other naked then and there.
See, the problem was, not that she was just another one of his string of girlfriends, but that she was actually attractive. She was closer to my age than to his. Somebody my age wouldn't have looked out of place dating her. She even looked young for her age. But Dad, with his grey hair and brown cargo swimming trunks, looked more like her Grandad than her lover.
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Non Sequitur: 'Tom lost 25 bucks at the races'
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It got worse the next day. The island we were staying on had a heck of a gambling scene. It was part of the reason that me and my Dad had come here. I wasn't much of a gambler myself, but he was. If it wasn't football, it was whatever other sport had a season playing at the time. He never really bet big though, which was why I had never brought it up as a potential problem to discuss with him.
But Amy, something about her brought out the worst of his gambling side.
We'd caught a bus to the other side of the island, taking somewhere close to two hours to get us there. The only racetrack in the small country was here. It was run-down, and used for many kinds of races. Horses... Greyhounds... A poster peeling off a sun-drenched wall even advertised some kind of mini-Olympics to coincide with London 2012.
But today, it was horses. They looked uncomfortable in the starting gates, probably overheating in their thick looking patterned garb. Short men in matching colours and helmets sat atop them, looking equally uncomfortable. Dad clenched his betting slips in one hand, growing agitated in his seat as the race was about to begin. Amy smiled brightly as she saw this, grasping his arm with her hands and looking back and forth between him and the racetrack. Again, I sat, uninterested, with my book.
In a matter of seconds, the race had begun, and was over. Or what seemed like seconds. I hadn't exactly been paying attention. In fact, my first indication that the race was over was the exasperated sigh from my Dad. His horse had lost.
I tried to console him. What's a tenner? Amy had gone. I assumed to the toilet or something. But it soon became apparent that it wasn't just the money that was bothering him. He seemed shocked, more than disappointed. Barely speaking. It was then that I noticed the scratches on the other side of his face. Amy hadn't gone to the toilet. She'd encouraged him to make the bet. A big bet. Using some of her money. And when her horse lost, she'd blamed Dad. Shouting at him. I hadn't heard it over the screams of the crowd. That was it. Another one gone.
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Wow, so reading that back, I'm very out of practice. Guess forcing myself to get back into writing is a necessity at this point. More tomorrow!
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