Why Do We Write?

Here is an example of POV switching.

I lead a group of writers where I live—inspiring them to write means that I must also be encouraged to write.

Here, let me inspire you.  This piece is off the cuff.

The waves crashed around her while walking the smooth sand.  Water had made the beach appear like silk with a sheen capturing the streaks of orange and shades of red from the morning sun.  Seabirds called to her as she made her way to her special place.

There among the rocks left by time and tide was her place.  A thrown of sorts created by Poseidon for his daughter.  That was her idea of it.  The wind blew through her sheer cover as it had done so many times before. 

She scanned the horizon to find nobody.  This time of year, the tourists had all gone home. 

The usual echoes of children’s screams and mothers telling them “stay close to the shore” were not there.  Other than the birds and the waves, ambient sounds were devoid of humankind.  It was sad in a way as she enjoyed the laughter of children making sandcastles.  Where were they today, she wondered.

The invaders with funny accents, and strange smelling lotions, were missing.  Most probably, many of them would be in a tiny desk, with the scent of chalk and crayons and the echoes of Miss Manners teaching them how to read and write.

Poseidon or one of his minions had erased all evidence of their invasion.  Locals had scoured the beaches, removing plastics and broken beach things, leaving it as pristine as Athena would want it.  

More birds cried out as if to welcome her. The scent of saltwater mixed with the occasional aroma of a bakery on 24th street. A mere half-mile from her thrown was where she would re-join the humans selling fresh muffins, teas, and coffees.

Jessica did not mind the locals.  Many of them, she looked forward to seeing.  There was Old Man Tanner, who always smiled while ordering his slice of banana bread and black coffee.  She would glance out the window at him, sitting under the umbrella reading an old tomb. The breezes tamed by the seawall would lift crumbs off his plate, feeding the small birds at his feet.

Then there was Priscilla.  She was a few years younger than Tanner but a widow, much like him.  Smiling at Jessica, she knew that her motive was transparent to everyone except Tanner, as she collected her slice of iced lemon loaf and her latte.  As she passed Tanner, her small dog stopped at his feet, sniffing of them, catching his attention. 

Tugging at her leash, Gypsy was going nowhere until Tanner scratched at the soft fur between her ears.

Tipping his hat to Priscilla, she smiled as the events played out much as they had for the last few weeks.

“Have you heard from Joe?” Old lady Simmons asked.

Breaking her attention from replacing a tray of muffins, Jessica looked into her piercing stare. 

The morning at the beach had been to clear my head from the letter I received yesterday. 

I could answer her in the affirmative, as Joe might say.  In truth, they had redacted much of the letter with large ugly black streaks, I was not sure if I had heard from him or his sergeant.

“Yes, well, I think so.”

The look on her face most probably mirrored my own.  The half-smile told me she remembered when her husband was in Vietnam. “They still use black marker?”

I shook my head.  “You would think with technology; we could find a way.” My voice trailed off.  She knew her words brought my fears up to the surface once again.

Martha Simmons had been a resident on the island for eons.  Her husband passed of cancer, and she swears to be damned; it was from what they used to defoliate the trees.  I would not argue with her as it was pointless.

“I am having a small party this Saturday.  Come by.  I know you would be the youngest, but I would love to have you.”

She was dear.  Martha wanted to take over for my mother after she passed. 

One of the arguments I would have tried to make to her regarding her husband is this. Tom and my mother both died of the same type of cancer.  I feared that the power plant across the bay might be at fault, but I had no way to prove or disprove it.

Joe might know how to make sense of it, but he was off in a desert a half world away looking for ghouls who sew the seeds of hate in their every action.  I just wanted him home.

******************

Yes, I just created this in the last twenty minutes, give or take.  I wanted to play around with switching from the third person to first.  How did I do?

POV is a very tricky part of the writing process.  While writing provides us with an escape from life, we can also use a short prompt to improve our craft.

Speaking of writing, I think I just wore out my Logitech Keyboard.

I love this particular keyboard, as it is ergonomically well designed.  Every time I hit the “quote,” the mark does not appear until I hit another key.

I changed out the batteries and it still does it.

This is the first keyboard I had to purchase stick-on letters as I have worn the paint off the CVJKLOP keys.  LOL

The model is the K 350…

Do you have a favorite?  What is it, and why?

Ok, well, happy Saturday to you.  If you like what I wrote, spend a minute telling me why. What worked and what did not.  Would you like more of it?

Much Love -TW

Author: AuthorTWScott

Author, Writer, Artist, Graphic Artist ... Over 32 published novels crossing many genres. www.authortwscott.com

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