- Free writing is a prewriting technique in which a person writes continuously for a set period of time without regard to spelling, grammar, or topic. It produces raw, often unusable material, but helps writers overcome blocks of apathy and self-criticism.
Prompt: Free-writing for 15 minutes (I actually set a timer on my phone and went for it!) This is what I came up with. By the way — the BOLD print is my “inner monologue” as I jotted roughly through the story. I usually write in a sort of shorthand and the tweaks go along the side of the page (yes, the end result is a notebook page that’s pretty scary looking) or in bullets to give a general idea since that’s quicker. I went with the original dialogue I had when I first wrote it down. This, however, wasn’t necessarily a warm up so I already had a general idea in my brain of where I wanted to go with these characters.
“Mia! Mia! There is someone here visiting Mr. Logan!”
Head pounding, the echo of my high-heeled boots across the tile floor ricocheted like bullets going off in my head.
<< Faded grey walls, black and white checked tiled. A large set of double doors closing behind Mia with a definite boom. Heavy doors, with iron clasps and a knocker shaped like a skeleton key wrapped with an ivy vine. As she steps over the threshold, she tosses a soaked newspaper onto the entry table, ruined by rain. The edges of her eyes are smudged with ruined mascara and eyeliner. Similar dark circles form under her eyelashes from exhaustion.>>
“Beat it, twerp. Find someone who cares,” I mumbled, ruffing the little one’s hair as I passed. My voice carried enough gentleness she sensed only my rush to escape the empty hall, not to hurt her feelings. She lowered her eyes to the floor before turning back to the open room to her left where all the small children gathered – painting, drawing, and playing with toy trucks and dolls.
“Just thought you might wanna know,” she mumbled, dragging her feet.”Mr. Logan said you might know him from home.”
Stopping immediately in my tracks, I spun back to the child, raising my eyebrows.
<<Both the young girl and Mia have thicker, accents – southern. The rhythmn of their speech flows up..and down…The way the little girl says “Mr. Logan” comes out as a drawl — dragging out the “mmm” in “Mr.” Definitely more “deep south.” Mia’s own voiced is sugared, full of southern connotations – though it is more Texas-like twang than old south.>>
Her hair was in a simple braid down the side of her neck, a faded, teal cotton dress covering her skinny frame, and weathered boots covering her toes. I was comforted only by the knowledge several of the children in the adjacent room didn’t even have shoes.
“Where are they?”
“Sunroom,” she yipped, spinning back to me eagerly. “He’s really tall. Taller than Mr. Logan.”
“Yes,” I replied quietly, clamping and twisting my hands together. “Did Logan say anything else to you?”
She shook her head, slightly rejected by my down-play of the exciting visitor.
“Go paint, little one,” I smiled, signaling her release.
Further into the hallway, I checked myself in the full-length mirror on the wall before taking another step closer to the sunroom. My hair was still wavy from the light rain I’d ran from on my way home, the mist coating my leather jacket and belt with dew drops. Shaking myself out, I hurriedly tossed my fingers through my dark hair before swiping away a spot of mud on my cheek. I wouldn’t have him seeing me like this.
<<Mia is a power-figure. Steampunk – guns on both hips, knee-high boots clasped across each leg. No dresses. No frills. Her hair is definitely more black than brown – thick with touches of natural wave only accented by the rain. A leather, bomber jacket hangs open, unzipped, showing a simple white peasant top underneath. She’s not short, probably around 5’8″ plus the heels on her boots. Purposeful stride. Sharp, defined nose. High cheekbones.>>
Marching firmly toward the south edge of the old, converted asylum, I felt a rush of anger at Logan for not sending someone sooner to find me. He knew how important it was to me if he decided to show up.
“Ah, there has been word of that,” Logan’s voice carried, meeting me two doorways down. “I was afraid it was true. Mia won’t be pleased to hear.”
A rumbling, baritone laugh filled the empty space – the sound of it bringing a reactionary lump to my throat.
It was him.
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m sure she will be disappointed she missed so much of the good action.”
<<Mia can see sunlight patches coming through the sunroom windows on the floor in front of her as she listens in on the conversation. Two male shadows pace back and forth. Logan’s voice is more treble toned, higher pitched. Definite age in how firm his voice is – Logan probably would roughly be spanning his late 30s, while Mia and him both would be in their mid-20s. >>
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