My Wednesday afternoon writers' group spends the first fifteen minutes writing. Well, I know that doesn't sound strange, but it is. Some writers' groups only critique. Some only read and share books about writing. Some just giggle. Our inestimable leader gives us a paper with three prompts on it. We get to chose which one we'll try.
I'm not a journal - er nor a memoir -er. I write made up stuff. But I love these prompts. They bring hidden memories to my frontal lobe. I am transported back to some event in my childhood or early adulthood. I find this awesome. I don't have a good memory. My sister does. She can remember what we ate on the morning of my fifth birthday. I swear she can. But me, I don't know why, but I can't remember much.
These prompts sneak into my brain and I suddenly remember. I feel connected to my self and to my family again.
Some people don't like writing to a prompt. I can understand. They're hard to do. I found, the first time I ever did one, that I was enthralled by the process. I didn't think I could write things besides fantasy. I can. *g*
I had to leave the writers' group for awhile and when I came back, I was surprised that my brain didn't want to write anything about any of the prompts. I had serious writer's block, something I'd never had before. It wasn't a good feeling. I pushed on and wrote something. The next week it was easier, and the week after that and so on and so on.
I'm glad I stayed with the group. I'm glad I pushed myself. For two reasons: the memory recall of my past, and the feeling of accomplishment when I write something I would never, in a million years, even consider writing. I think it's making me a better writer!
Life is pushing myself forward.
PS - Boston strong. Holding them up along with those in West, Tx.