A Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night…

Sometimes, especially in the spooktacular month of October, I like to find pictures of dark forests, creepy cemeteries, and haunted castles to use as writing prompts. A firm believer in a picture is worth a thousand words, I often rely on visuals to spark my creativity. This also allows me to write about topics I might not otherwise explore, because I tend to be more of a woods-on-a-sunny-day type of gal. Deliberately seeking out photos and paintings with dark, sinister undertones helps me dig deep and tap into the blackness I think all of us have inside. Most of us spend our days ignoring that blackness, keeping it hidden and leashed.

But it’s there. Always there.  And some great writing can come from that blackness.

Here’s one I wrote about this picture:

The trees cast ghastly shadows in the muted light of the full moon.  Thick clouds chase each other across the storm-darkened sky.  They race past the moon causing fleeting moments of complete blackness to fall upon the jagged oceanside cliffs below.  Tumultuous waves beat against the rocky shore with a deafening rhythm.  The white tips of high cresting waves crash down violently, turning up tangled tresses of seaweed and small gravel fragments of ocean floor.  Harsh salty sea spray spews up as the wind whips fiercely over the coast. 

On a night such as this the cold seeps through coats, sweaters, even flesh.  It burrows deep into a body and coils its icy fingers right around the soul.  On a night such as this it is wisest to stay inside by the warmth of a roaring fire.  It is wisest to nestle comfortably beneath a soft blanket of thick fleece.  It is wisest to push away all thoughts of venturing out into the unsettled weather. 

Unfortunately, for some, the call of the ocean surpasses any irrefutable wisdom.  For some, the thrash of storm-swelled waves sounds like a lullaby, luring them out to the dangerous precipice and the roiling seas below. 

For some, a murky night such as this means losing oneself...

Your turn! Try writing something dark for this picture.

Hope you had some fun!

My story, “Every Last Bite,” has some darkness to it and is one of the finalists in All Romance Ebooks “Just One Bite” contest. Visit here to read it and vote for me.

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com   

Tell my Mother that romance is a fantasy

I’m Barbara Edwards and I spent a long time thinking of a fresh idea for today.
Several years ago the president of Romance Writers of America asked Oprah why she never chose romances for her book club. Oprah’s response was a shock. In her opinion, romance is a fantasy and has no relation to real life.
It made me pause. What? Romance has no place in real life? How can that be? I believe in romance: the romantic love between a man and a woman, although there are all kinds of love.
Today I’m at the Gettysburg Battlefield in Pennsylvania. Our Unit, The Liberty-Grays has the honor this weekend of doing a living history about the most romantic period in our history. What makes it romantic? The period is fraught with emotion: Love of country, Love of State, Love of Family, Love of comrades-in-arms. I could go on and on.
Strong emotion drives romance and everyone wants to be the one who feels those emotions. If the only way is to read a good story, then that is fine. I read Gone With the Wind when I was twelve and cried and laughed and mourned with Scarlett as she struggled. I pictured myself as the strong heroine. That’s the purpose of the story. Romance gives us a peek into another woman’s life and how she deals with problems. Maybe we’ll never face a murderer, get caught up in a drug deal, lose our farm to a great flood, get shot by an outlaw or climb the highest peak, but we can experience the thrill, the fear, the pain and the triumph along with the heroine and the hero.
The real reason I read a romance is the love story. Love scenes can tickle my fancy and make me smile or they can heat my blood to boiling. I might be a Grandmother of a dozen or a college freshman, but that hero makes me sigh. And I want to know the two of them will solve their problems and live happily-ever-after.
Maybe it is fantasy, but I want to believe there is the perfect man for each woman. I already know love conquers all.

You can find me at:
Author Web: http://barbaraedwards.net
Blog Site: http://barbaraedwardscomments.wordpress.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/BarbaraEdwards.Author
Ancient Blood http://on.fb.me/naHRY5
Twitter: http;//twitter.com/barb_ed
Authors Den: http://authorsden.com/barbaraedwards
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003F6ZK1A
Email: Barbara.edwards2@yahoo.com
To buy Ancient Blood:
Buy link http://tinyurl.com/3f627vh

COULD SOMEONE DIM THOSE SPOTLIGHTS, PLEASE? --Vonnie Davis

The spotlight shines on me today at Roses of Prose, and I’m squirming in my seat wondering how I'll introduce myself--one of the "new" yet old roses on the vine. What can I possibly say to engage and entertain? Granted, I’m a writer, but my heroines—strong women, all—and my heroes—alpha males with a soft caramel center—are more interesting to write about than myself.

For you see, I am the typical late bloomer. I didn’t start college until the age of forty-four. The love of my life didn’t enter my life until I was fifty-five. And I didn’t start writing seriously until I was in my early sixties. But I do have a wild and crazy variety of life experiences that spill over into my writing.



What was it like going to college with kids the same ages or younger than my children, who were college students themselves? It was a blast! At the time, I worked in a factory on third shift as one of three women working with sixty-seven men. Tough odds, I'll admit. I was a member of the machinists’ union, read blueprints, ran machines and worked in the oil and dredge of heavy steel industries.

After my shift ended at seven in the morning I’d rush home, shower and change before dashing off to campus.  

I was a full-time student at Penn State, majoring in Business Management and English with a concentration in technical writing. Slowly I became the campus mom; the person homesick kids went to with their problems.

Yet, it was my sons I called in the evening when I couldn’t do my homework. I struggled with sciences, and my youngest was majoring in micro-biology. A collegiate wrestler, he shared an apartment with five other wrestlers. One night when I called for help, Mike yelled to his roommates, “Hey, guys, quiet down! I’m trying to help my mom with her homework.” Of course, his roomies responded with various questions like When is she making us more brownies? Is she bringing us some more jars of homemade spaghetti sauce? Ask her to make us those yummy stuffed shells like she did last time she was here. Men, we do know how they think, don’t we?

My oldest son transferred to my campus for his final semester so he could say he went to college with his mom. What fun we had. To be sure, my college years were a special time.

On the tenth anniversary of my divorce, I bought a bottle of wine, Chinese takeout and a bag of Oreos. Folks, I was determined to have one last pity party and finally—finally—get that man out of my system. A few hours later in a wine-MSG-sugar-induced moment of madness, I went online and filled out a profile on match dot com. I woke up the next morning with a start, head throbbing, vision doubled, mouth tasting as if a herd of buffalo had roamed through it and an obscure, wild memory that I’d put myself out on the internet for every wacko to find. Surely I hadn’t done that! Surely not…

But I had. Did the wackos find me? Oh, yeah. They came in droves. Oh, the horrors!

Then one day, Calvin sashayed into my mailbox on a jazzbeat and a smile—a gentleman with southern charm, a retired English teacher and a writer. We met for the first time at a Barnes and Noble. He was standing by the door holding a bouquet of red roses, and I was entranced.

That was eight years ago. Since then we’ve married. I retired as a techincal writer and, with Calvin’s encouragement, started writing. Last month we each had a book released. His The Phantom Lady of Paris is set on the Left Bank of Paris in 1968. My Storm’s Interlude is a contemporary romance full of family love and passion set in the hill country of Texas.

Having shared all this, I suppose if there’s one thing I can pass along to you, it’s that one is never too old to pursue his or her dreams. Age be damned. Truly. For it is our spirits that define us. No matter how downtrodden or damaged or dinged our spirits are, they’ll always rise to the occasion. They’ll whisper in our ears, “Let’s try it. Let’s see what we can do, shall we?”

I'll be here posting the 12th and 27th of every month. Write on!