Saturday, March 31, 2007

Recently members of Brand New Aspiring Writers took part in a group prompt exercise. The challenge? To write a short story using only dialogue.

Talented Australian fiction scribe Jaime shares with you her take on this idea in the story below.

"I wouldn't mind being dead."

"How can you say such a thing? Oh! That cloud looks like ma, I swear it."

"Think about it. You don't have to worry about eating. You don't have
to answer the phone. You don't have to be afraid of death."

"I'm not afraid of death."

"Most are, just a little. Even if they don't know it. It's something
unknown. Something… out there. But think about it, if you're dead, you
already know all about it. You don't have to worry about when or how
you're going to die or what it's going to be like."

"True. Oh, look at that beauty! A sunflower, I'd say."

"I hate how sad people get, though. I understand it, but I don't like it."

"People need to be sad for a bit. You saw what happened to auntie when
unc bob died and she didn't even want to say he was gone. The men in
the white coats ma used to talk about took her not long after that.

"You saw that?"


"Ma wouldn't have took kindly to that if she knew."

"Nah, but she don't know, and she don't need to know. Ah! Now you
can't tell me that cloud don't look like one of them boats grandpa
used to make."

"Huh. You're right. I think you spend too much time looking at cloud

"What's the harm in it?"

"None, I suppose. Looksee, I should be getting back to the house."

"Ah, okay. It was nice talking to you again. Same time next week?"


"Hey, anybody say anything yet about you coming out here to the
graveyard every afternoon?"

"Nah, they don't mind or talk. They know I'm just talking to my
brother. I haven't told anyone that you talk back."

Saturday, March 24, 2007

The Fic-Blog

Fictional Blogging, or the fic-blog, has become an interesting offshoot of blogging. Instead of blogging as yourself, you create a character and a story to blog about. You write as though YOU are the character.

I started my fic-blog, The New Years Resolution, at the end of 2006 and it will last for the whole of 2007.

The blog belongs to Lilly Edwards, a bright and cheerful girl who wants to make some changes…

Here’s her first post…

The Resolution

It's nearing the end of 2006 and I've decided I need to make a change. I'm fed up with my life the way it is. I've just split from my boyfriend, I've got a job that I hate and I'm bored out my skull.

My Boyfriend dumped me three days ago claiming it wasn't me, it was him and that he didn't feel he could be with me anymore. How lovely, huh? Bastard.
My job has to be the worst job in the world, I work in a supermarket and it does nothing with the skills I learnt at College.
My boredom stems from living in a place that has nothing to do, nothing to see and absolutely nothing appealing about it whatsoever.
So. I've decided to make a New Year's Resolution - to make something of my life. To do something BIG in 2007 and by 31st December, I'll be where I want to be and I'll be happy.

Follow my journey! Come along for the ride! Join in the fun!

And so her big adventure started….

She moved away, got herself a new job and even a new boyfriend… but it’s never as simple as that… is running away really the best option?

It’s March now, is she well on her way to getting where she wants to be? Is she happy? Read her blog to find out! It’ll be one hell of a journey!!!

By A. Writer who is an Aspiring Chick Lit Author. She hopes to soon finish the editing process of her first novel If Not Now, Then When? Read more about her writing journey at:

Her Blog
Her Fic-Blog

Her Website

Saturday, March 17, 2007

I was going to write a book, but Oprah was on.

You want to write a book. It is on your to- do list right between Lose Weight and Travel More. It’s one of those things you definitely want to get to before you die. Or maybe you are more serious, you have a notes, outlines, a good idea about who your main character will be. You, at least, know it will be about a man. Or a woman. Definitely one or the other.

Still writing a novel is your dream.

But how much respect are you showing that dream? Do you work toward it every day? Week? Month? Ever? Do you think you will die wanting to write a book or having written a book?

I know all the stall tactics. I’ve done them. I’ve said “I’ll write after the holidays,” and I have said “I’ll start that novel as soon as life calms down a bit.” I’ve made writing like dieting, always next month.

Then I read one of those inspirational self- help style books for aspiring writers. In it one part spoke about how many hours you have each day and the sacrifices you have to make in order to write. No, you don’t have to stop watching American Idol, never see another Superbowl, or go without your daily fix of Access Hollywood- we all want to know what is the current status of Britney’s Spears hair, don’t we?

But what if you did have to give up all that in order to become a published writer? Could you? Could you stay inside hunched over a computer on the first day of Spring when you can almost feel the breeze calling your name? Could you type until you work up a sweat, your hands cramp, and your eyes feel like they will bleed? Of course, you could. Will you?

To become a published writer you don’t have to give up everything else in your life. All your experiences make you a more well rounded person and a better writer. But you do have to give up something. And it just might be Oprah.

Take one hour of TV watching a day and instead write. Even when you have nothing to say, write. Even when you think you are a talentless hack, write. Even though no one may ever see your words, besides your mom. That is if you could convince her that your half-finished novel about aliens who take over the bodies of Hollywood A-listers is a Mother’s Day present. Even if no one but your cat knows you are a writer, write.

If your dream is to write a novel then you have to give up something to get that dream. Once you are writing everyday you are moving toward your goal. It’s easy to say one day. Let that one day be today.

If not today, when? When Oprah is over?

Or are you going to put your dreams first for once?

Are you still reading this? Grab a pen or open a word document. Write that novel. Now.

By Sara Pufahl

If you are a writer who aspires to write your first novel but needs support and encouragment then join Brand New Aspiring Writers Group

Saturday, March 10, 2007

"You can't!" he said.

"Just watch me," she hissed.

"Just stop for one second, Sandra. Think of the consequences!" he raised his voice.

"Let go of me!" she screamed.

"I will not let you do it!" he warned her.

"What are you going to do? Follow me around 24 / 7? Stand by your phone at home to filter the calls?" she mocked.

"You will not ruin my life. Or yours!" he said through clenched teeth.

"What life?!" she sobbed, grasping his shirt, "The only life I have now is with you…"

"But Alex…" he said, his resolve liquefying.

"Alex has a lot of admirers John. We have an understanding…" she said, her voice trailing off.

"No, no, no. You've got it wrong. I…" He shook his head tiredly.

"You can't leave me John. Please don't leave me," she cut in before he could finish.

"I don't want to Sandra. But…" he stopped short.

"We can make it work, I know it..." she said between broken sobs, "I have enough money for us to start over somewhere new. Somewhere people don't know us. We can take Ricky with us. He'll love it in Whitewater. My old house… we can renovate it! It will be everything we'd ever wanted John!"

"Oh Sandra… I can't." he said in resignation.

"But you said so yourself! You don't love Carol anymore!" she said, her voice shaking with frustration.

"No. I don't." he mumbled, "… but it's more complicated, Sandy."

"No! It's not complicated John!" she yanks her arms from his grasp, "I love you, you love me! You've spent most of your weekends here in San Diego with me…"

"It's not just about you and me!" he yells at her.

"Who else is there? You're not in love with Carol. I've nothing left with Alex. Your son Ricky will be fine coming with us, you know he will," she pleaded.

John sighed, his shoulders slumped in resignation, "You really can't see, can you?"

"See what?" she demanded, "All I can see is how you're growing distant each day. It's like the more you spend time here with me, the deeper you get involved again with Carol!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he growls at her.

"Those little trinkets that you buy back for her – the gold necklace, the silk scarf – all those little trinkets you insist on buying for her while you're here!"
she said, her voice quivering, "Sometimes I don't know if you're really out of love with her. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not just a past time for you!"

"For the last time, I'm not in love with Carol!" He shouted.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were here." Alex apologized, halfway through the front door.

"No, it's okay Alex. I was just leaving." John stammered.

"Have you told her?" Alex asked.

Sandra looked at John, bewildered, "Told me what?" "I tried to…"

John said nervously, going for the front door, "I don't know if this is a good time Alex."

"Okay, then I'll tell her." Alex turned to Sandra, "John and I are in love, baby."

"What?!" Sandra gasped, "What are you talking about? You're a lesbian!"

"Yes, well I thought I was," Alex said, turning to look at John, "Until I met John. You shouldn't have brought him here. You were right. He is quite a man."

"Alexandra, you bitch!" Sandra hissed, her hands clenched in anger.

By Sal, an ex-travel writer, now struggling housewife and aspiring fiction novelist. She lives in Malaysia with British husband and dreams to publish her first novel and adopt a Siamese cat one day. Though not necessarily in that order.

Read more about this author's life at Aquarius Sal

Saturday, March 3, 2007

A Lost Time

it was the residence of my

it was the era when I grasped, caught nothing.

it was the start of my fall
from grace. my slipping into space,
racing then waking
to lose myself.

chasing and aching, glaring
at your ghost.

it was the home of lost hope.

it was my home of lost


lost hope.

By Sara Pufahl

To read more of her work visit The Shores of My Dreams