My Music Journal 2025 - January 11, 2025

 

Saturday, January 11, 2025

Time: 10:30 AM
Song: Make Your Own Mistakes
Artist: Wilder Woods
Mode of Consumption: Spotify –Playlist Theme for 2023 songs titled, “Here are 10 songs, ah, ah, ah.” 

Links: https://open.spotify.com/track/67bxthwmGTJsZxx0AkZ1J2?si=dc3bf066a333439a

Spending the morning writing a story for a contest. We receive a prompt where we pick one of five characters provided, one of five settings provided, and must include a well. I have a week to write a 3,000-word story. 

My first attempt I am going with the following: 

1.     A journalist.

2.     A tavern that also rents out a few rooms. 

And I get to fit a well in there somewhere. 

Hopefully, it leads somewhere because there’s nothing more demoralizing than getting halfway through one of these things and realizing the story isn’t going anywhere. We’ll see. I thought I’d share the first few paragraphs I wrote this morning:

--

The screen door slapped shut, the aluminum smacking against the old dried wood frame. A mutt limped toward Jason from the barn across a gravel farm yard. Its ears pressed flat to its skull, eyes focused on the ground two feet ahead of its paws, and fur, brown and matted, grown thick for the winter. Probably the only one here willing to answer questions.

Jason tucked his notebook under his armpit, sliding his pen into a pocket inside his jacket before zipping it all the way to his throat, wanting to cover more, so he could cover his face and head like a turtle disappearing into a shell. A safe place to stay warm, to hide. That kind of sentiment would earn him the moniker of snowflake around these parts. He’d be okay being that, too. A glorious fall to the earth before melding with brethren and then melting. And then nothing. Nothing can be easier than something.

“Mr. Tuttle,” the voice made him jump. The speaker didn’t apologize or even acknowledge frightening him. Alice Vole wearing a faded flowered house dress with her hair pressed and straight at the sides, the skin of her face hanging in a similar lifeless droop. “We’d appreciate not having to talk to you again.”