This year I am working through Tim Clare’s Couch to 80K Bootcamp– a course where you write for 10 minutes a day.
By following Tim’s prompting, the aim is to work through from basics until you reach the ability to write an 80,000 word novel.
Apologies: it may not actually be that interesting to read…
A ten minute free write; write without stopping.
Without a doubt, casinos are strange places. People go into them, spend money they don’t have or do have in pursuit of money they don’t have, turning the money they do have into money that they don’t have, and then they go home in sadness that this situation happened. And then they do it again. And the entire industry is based on this premise.
I also find work a challenging one. The practical reality is that we all say this precious, imperfect, one-in-a-lifetime periods of time that we call our lives are portioned up and broken down into hour long segments, that we sell to our employers for really quite miniscule amounts of money. Even if you earn a high wage, £20 an hour, £50, £100, £1000(!), the thing we trade it for is so rare, so finite, so beautiful that it seems almost a shame to waste it.
Dogs don’t care about time. Evie and Callie lay in the sunlight, with the warm glow resting on their bodies. One of them flicked a tail, the other gently snored. A minute or a day could pass like this, and pure contentment would be their only achievement.
~ ~ ~
The laser burnt directly through the bulk head next to xhr head. Borza began to shake uncontrollably, the fear taking over for a second. Curling up under the cockpit controls began to seem incredibly appealing.
“What the Zen is going on down there, Borza?!”, screamed a voice in xhr helmet. Supressing the tremors less through will, and more through the ingrained iron of obedience, Borza grasped the control rods once more and dived into the asteroid field, leaving the open space of military terror for the equally unpredictably territory of rock-based danger.
~ ~ ~
You take a couple of eggs, balancing them on top of one another. You aren’t exactly sure why, but that doesn’t protect you from the subtle pang of disappointment as they inevitably shift. Roll. Crack. Scooping inffectually with your hands is not enough, as gloops of egg roll down to your wrists, gleefully escaping the enclosure of your fists. In a scurry entirely lacking in dignity, you direct the whole crunchy, oily mess into the bin, attempting to remove as many pieces from you as possibly, whilst they cling on with the glue like quality that these moisture laded protein strands have in such excess.
