Inside My Brain

Hey Everyone!

Have you ever wondered what goes on inside a writer's brain? Sometimes, I'm not so sure myself but I'll give you a rundown of how mine worked over the past few days. I'm not a fulltime writer. If writing was my only source of income, I'd give myself a swift kick up the rear because I've been rather slack. 

Friday 

I hadn't written anything new in ages. The general stress of life at the moment has stifled my creativity and I've been focussing on refilling my creative well (also known as binge-watching Netflix). I'd felt like I should be writing for weeks but had given myself permission to take a break, freeing myself from guilt.

I received the monthly email from the Australian Writer's Centre, announcing the topic for this month's Furious Fiction competition. I hadn't opened one of these emails in months and hadn't entered the competition since I'd published Swinging Through Life back in January 2019 (a flash fiction collection themed around swing dancing that I'd written over a year of entering Furious Fiction every month. On top of the competition prompts, I also included swing dancing). I opened the email on a whim and read through the requirements. As always, I had 55 hours to write a 500-word story. This time the story had to include humour. That was my style of writing. I could do this. I had 20 minutes before I'd planned to start dinner. I didn't have to write anything. I could just think about it for a while and get some ideas. No pressure.

I jotted down the writing prompts in a random notebook.

Furious Fiction August 2020.

• humour/comedy 
• a sandwich
• dizzy, exotic, lumpy, tiny, twisted

My themes are dance, romance and military life, so they were the topics that came to mind.

• something dancing? rom com date picnic
• milspouse find rotten sandwich while unpacking

As an Australian military family, we have extra support when we move house. The movers pack all our belongings for us, which is really helpful. But I've also heard plenty of horror stories. Things get broken (they dropped our fridge one year - their insurance meant we got a new fridge, so that worked out ok). Or things get packed that weren't supposed to. I've heard lots of stories about the contents of the rubbish bin being packed. Gross. A friend of mine lost her cat during a packing day. Luckily, it turned up in the shipping container -  alive but very hungry. The rotten food idea caught my attention. Ten minutes until I'd planned to start dinner. I'd just jot down a few ideas.

• goal - make new house into home - unpack stuff to make sandwich
• motivation - milspouse - moving again, know will settle better when feel familiar - hungr
• conflict - 

My mind started whirring. I didn't bother writing anything down for conflict. I knew the problems she would face. The chaos of unpacking day. I'd lived it. I'd just jot down a few more ideas...

Set up the story in the first 100 words. Establish the character's goal. She's hungry and wants to make a sandwich.

Introduce conflicts and make things worse over the next 300 words.

Give her what she wants, then twist things and take it away in the last 100 words.

The kids ate dinner late but I had the first draft. 

Saturday

When I'd entered Furious Fiction before, I usually plotted on Friday, wrote on Saturday then edited on Sunday. That way, the story had a chance to breathe. I'd already written 543 words. I had heaps of time to polish it. It was ok if I slept in until midday. I'd worked all week as a teacher's aide - both in paid employment at school and unpaid at home. I deserved a rest day. And some more Netflix (Kim's Convenience is hilarious).

Sunday

I had until midnight to edit and submit. That was hours away. Life happened. Completely forgot about Furious Fiction and went to bed.

Monday

Spent day remote learning with my kids. Got outside in the sunshine and scooted around the local streets. Forgot about Furious Fiction.

Tuesday

More remote learning. Mind busy with kids.

Wednesday

Finished schoolwork early. Jumped on my laptop to replay a random webinar that showed up in my email inbox. Found the first draft of Furious Fiction entry open on the screen. Oops.

It was way too late to enter but that didn't mean the story was a waste of time. I decided to polish it anyway then do something with it. Maybe share it with my newsletter? Maybe share it on my website? Should I turn it into a new podcast episode? I trimmed the word count to under 500 words (497). I wondered if people would be interested in seeing the before and after edit. I realised I hadn't written a blog post in ages. And here I am. At least I didn't get distracted by squirrels this time (that happened last time we did remote learning and I accidentally wrote a kids book called Squirrel's Quest while helping my daughter with her schoolwork).

Here's my story - complete with track changes so you can see how I changed the first draft to meet the word count limit. I've highlighted in red the words that I deleted from the first draft. I've highlighted in yellow the words that were required by the writing prompts and you can be the judge of whether it's funny or not.

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 Darwin was the last option on my list of placesplace I wanted to live, but what I wanted and what the military needed didn’t often align.rarely aligned. Like them sending my husband away for three weeksout bush the day before the movers arrived with all our stuff.

 I’d spent all morning yelling directions and ticking box numbers off a list. I was dizzy with hunger. A fresh loaf of sliced bread and new jar of peanut butter sat on the table, calling my name. Nothing exotic, a simple sandwich would do. I just had to find a plate and a knife.

I ripped the tape off the first kitchen-labelled box and peered inside. Lumpy butcher’s paper. I unwrapped the items one by one.

A plastic container.

Another plastic container.

A plastic lid.

Did they really need to wrap those things? Having someone else pack all your stuff had its pros but also had its cons.

I shoved the items in my newly designated plastics cupboard, too hungry to take the time to arrange them neatly. I had ages to sort the house out before hubby came back. It wouldn’t really feel like home until he was here, anyway.

Next kitchen box. More butcher’s paper, this time twisted around a wooden spoon, a metal soup ladle and the tiny plastic corn cob forks.  Utensils. Surely there would be a knife in this one.

Nope. Not unless you counted my carving knife. But that was too big to fit in the jar.

I opened the last box in the pile. Socks and undies. Why on earth was thisthat in the kitchen? I checked the label. Master bedroom. Idiots.

My stomach growled. I paced through the house, scouring the labels on the boxes. I found two more kitchen boxes in the lounge room. Of course. Eeny meeny miny mo. I grabbed the box on the left and lifted it. Too light to be the crockery. But did you really need a plate to make a sandwich?Whatever. I ripped the top open and unwrapped the first parcel. Forks! This felt like a winner.

I dragged the box into the kitchen and shoved the forks into the cutlery drawer. Tearing the paper of the next parcel, I squealed with joy.

Wielding a butter knife, I slapped a couple oftwo slices of bread straight onto the tablekitchen bench. I wrenched the lid off the jar, slathered a thick layer of peanut butter onto one slice then plonked the other on top. My mouth watered as I raised the sandwich to my lips. I took a huge bite, the gluggy lump sticking to the roof of my mouth as I ambled back into the kitchen to drop dropped the dirty knife into the sink. The open box sat by my feet. I figured I might as well put the rest of the cutlery awaykeep unpacking while I ate. The knives clinked as I dropped them into place.

I held my sandwich withbetween my teeth and used two hands to life the next parcel onto the bench. It felt too squishy to be spoons. I peeled the paper open. My gag reflex activated. My teeth jammed togetherjaw clenched. My sandwich fell into the rotting remains of the contents of my Victorian garbage bin.

I no longer felt hungry.