Friday, January 8, 2016

Writing Prompts--a new feature of this blog



This year I also want to introduce a kind of structure—which may or may not become quasi permanent—and that is Hot Flash Friday. Not just for post menopausal women! On Fridays I’ll send out a prompt—this prompt is not about writing only but to prod memories, disturb them from their sleep, awaken your memory. With a hot flash it is here, then gone—but while in the sizzle and heat of the moment, let yourself go to unfurl words. Soon you will have a whole collection of these flashes. Perhaps enough for a flash portfolio that might serve as building blocks to a longer piece such as a memoir, a short story, a vignette.

Admittedly you might have to be of a certain age to immediate latch onto the nostalgia, the history behind some of these prompts, but all in all I believe they are universal. They all will touch a place inside of us longing, longing for . . . .

Today’s Hot Flash Friday is: the Sunday newspaper.

Remember the Sunday newspaper, delivered to your doorstep, tossed into the hedges and bushes or at the end of the driveway. Did you ever have to deliver the Sunday paper?! Even a single one was of such gargantuan weight that it never was far from your mind about dumping the mess of them into the sewer and riding your bike back home. The advertising insert alone probably weighed 10 pounds. Oh, but the hours and hours spent immersed in the Sunday paper, spread out on the floor, each one diving for a section. What about the funny papers? How many of us remember lounging around on a Sunday catching up on the news we hadn’t had time throughout the week to absorb. Today “news” is everywhere, but does it mean relaxing, family time, slow mornings? What does the Sunday newspaper mean to you?

2 comments:

Unknown said...

The Sunday newspaper comes with Grampie every Sunday morning. I take the comics, Grampie reaches for the sports section, and Mom sits down with "Parade" magazine. Nana is standing at the counter in her yellow flowered apron, peeling potatoes. Dad is making sure the coal furnace is hot enough for the t-bone steaks from the corner Cash Market. In the summer it was t-bone steaks on the grill, but in the winter he roasted them in the monster in the basement. The coal furnace. I called it the Monster, because each time Dad opened the mouth/door it roared. I was afraid to go in the basement by myself, the Monster's arms went left and right above me, stretching everywhere. It could get me, no matter where I was. But right now, sitting in the rocking chair next to Grampie, turning my funny paper pages each time he turned a sports page, I was safe. I was just like Grampie. Legs stretched out on the hassock. Reading my Sunday newspaper.

Jane Hertenstein said...

Parade--now there's a blast from the past!