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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: The Writer's Life (05/13/10)
I sank into a couch in the corner at the Writers’ Lounge. And then, musing into the depths of my short story, an assignment, I commenced writing.

Aroma of brewing coffee filled the room. Even so, coffee had no power over me, Mom wouldn’t let me until I turned twenty.

Still baffled with dejection, I resumed hunting for conflicts to plot into my story.

My screen-saver and half-filled page took turns showing up. Pictures danced in and out of the screen.

Refusing to set to work, stiff on the keypad, my fingers mainly landed on delete-backspace buttons. Instead, all ten combed the strands on my aching head. Maybe, my brainwaves might spark at the stroke of my hands.

I scanned through “My Journal”. Journal entries and devotionals filed for notice. My jumbled notes made no sense. I was stuck. Two hours of writing alarmed me. I grumbled, “Hmph! Some writer.”

Reluctantly, I dug up from beneath my backpack crumpled papers of manuscript of the Christian fiction I wrote. Teacher’s red ink marked all over the pages, gloom painted all over my face.

Dejected, I decided that learning to endure--- meant rewriting. I deposited the manuscript back into my bag.

My shoulders drooped, streams of insecurities flooded all over me. Words wouldn’t pour out. I couldn’t piece my story together. Discouragement began to engulf another writer, me.

The corner of my eyes caught Solz. The clicks on her keypad, the smiles, and her relaxed sips of coffee confronted me with naggings of envy, and horror at my feelings of inadequacies. My heart raced to my head, both pounded more.

“I can’t write! Think, Darcey, think!”

The Vienna Grandfather on the wall chimed one o’clock. The pendulum dangled and swung rhythmically.

A man walked onto the platform. I’m sure it wasn’t a toupee. The forelock covered his smooth head, which, I decided, the receding hairline didn’t need that locks of white, silken horsehair curled down his shoulders. His black overcoat suggested some supreme title. Looking dignified, he sat at the bench.

“10th September 1853, the defendant, Kyle Darcey pleads, “Not guilty.”

All eyes shot at me standing in the centre of the courtroom.

I scanned the room, realizing where I was. “Plead? Of what crime, er... Your Honour?” I assumed he was the judge among the group of wigged men in black robes.

Dignified-looking in his black gown and long wig, Judge wasted no time. “Are you a writer?”

“You’re in the dock, you may speak, Miss Darcey.”

“Wri...ter? Thinking about it awhile, “Me?”

“Yes... ‘fact is, Your Highness, I am.” I brimmed with hope at the cross-examination.

After leafing through papers, Judge addressed, “Evidences show, members of the jury, plaintiffs from the Readers Union, charge Miss Darcey of maltreatment of words.”

Looking at me now, he said, “You violated the Law of Simplicity: Your readers demand that they gain your respect for them.”


“What does that mean, Your Powerful?”

Murmurs resonated within the walls. Gavel pounded. Judge narrowed his brows, then rested his elbows on his bench table.

Judge Bigwig, which wasn’t his real name, demanded judicial order in the court.

“Dr. Peter Roget to the witness stand, please.”

My mouth hung open. Then, found my voice, “Your Highness! THE doctor of words is here!”

Judge tipped his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, looked down at me, and pursed his mouth.

“Do you know this writer in the dock, Doc-tor?” Judge Bigwig’s face did not move, but clipped his lips to hide a smile.

Dr. Roget, said, “I’ve read her writings. Preposterous use of words, indeed!”

The word-expert continued, “However, I believe Miss Darcey has plenty of room to improve. Simplicity, well-crafting, and variety are the secrets of successful writing.”

There was no chair in the dock stand. I stunned at my feet. My head drooped, and relived the cutting charges about my writing.

I thought I heard a teacup, broken, crushed in pieces like me.

“Thank you, Doctor. You may step down.”

“Miss Darcey, have you any word to say to defend yourself?”

Brokenly, I spoke, “Sir, to this day, I can’t write... if I won’t.”

“Therefore, I, Judge Wordsworth, on the trial of Miss Kyle Darcey at Old Bailey Court, I do pron...........

Zzzzip.


“What! Your Humbleness, what!...


With a start, I retraced where I was.

A dream.

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

The pendulum sang three o’clock.

I sat erect, then typed, “The Verdict of a Capable Writer,” keys on my laptop sounded music in the air.

“Thanks, Lord.”
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This article has been read 1061 times
Member Comments
Member
Date
Judy Wood
05/20/10
I enjoyed your take on this topic. A fun read.
Mildred Sheldon
05/20/10
I loved how you covered this weeks challenge. Job well done. Sounds like myself.
AnneRene' Capp
05/21/10
Great imagination and good dialogue. Wish I could have a dream that induced a story! :)
Gregory Kane
05/21/10
The dream sequence worked well and was fun, although I found the musings leading up to it a bit laboured. Moreover the transition into the dream was a bit sudden and I had to go back and read a bit when I clued in to what you had done. But you certainly conveyed very vividly some of the emotions experienced by every writer!
c clemons
05/23/10
Interesting, probably easier to follow if the story was being told in a conversation rather than this article. Too many jumps which makes it hard for the reader to follow. If I have to go back more than twice to figure where you're going, it shows care was not taken for the reader. Always keep in mind we are not in your head so write it like you would be reading it for the rest time with us. Keep writing.
Joanna Stricker
05/23/10
Ah, the writer's struggle, this would have been good for this week's entry also. I like how you portrayed the frustration of writing and re-writing, especially when everyone else seems to have no problem at all. And sometimes it does seem like God has to step in and give us a little boot to get the story going again.
Amanda Brogan
05/24/10
Wow, that was a long dream! *Wink*

This is an interesting and creative story, although the wording is a bit awkward at times. With practice, you could polish it into a very unique writing style.

I enjoyed the ending where Darcey finally gets an idea for her writing (through the dream) and gives the glory to God. I can relate to getting inspiration in similar ways. :)
Troy Manning
05/24/10
I thought you effectively captured the frequent feeling of frustration most of us experience w/ the writing process. I do think there were a few lines (e.g. re: the locks of hair & "I stunned at my feet") that could perhaps be restructured or re-worded. Thank you for your story! :)
AnneRene' Capp
05/25/10
I am assuming a 2nd comment is within the rules. :) Just want to add that although "I stunned at my feet" did sound awkward :)...have to say that I found this to be brilliantly clever and I laughed OUT LOUD at Judge "Bigwig" and Dr. Peter Roget. And the law of simplicity was great!