Pigeon poop and writing prompts

“All wealth is the product of labor,”~John Locke, English philosopher

Yesterday, I wrote about pigeon poop and people loved it.

That’s the beauty of free write exercises: you have no idea what will spew from your pen.

The Montclair Write Group met for the monthly Penny University Free Write at The Fine Grind. Three topics, 20 minutes each and then everyone reads what they wrote. The prompts were: the perfect pitch; the one who got away; and either Angry Barber or No Matter What.

For the first prompt, I wrote a murder mystery between utensils. The second prompt is where I introduced the poo.

Paul pumped his feathers, his eyes focused on the far side of the pk lot. Adjust for wind. Straight. Straight. Release.

Plop!

Thomas’ chest feathers unfluffed wilted. As Paul returned, Thomas said, “You hit the window, not the headlight.”

“Last min. change,” Paul said. “I wanted to make more of a splash for little Perry here.”

That was fun. People around me nodded and shared their car pigeon poop stories.

Don’t pooh-poo the opportunities a free write gives you.  All writing advice books offer this tip.  Yeah, who has the time? After all, if you’re sitting down to write, let’s make it a productive writing session and work on a current project. Otherwise, a free write is a useless distraction and another form of procrastination.

Who has the time? We all do, but who makes the time? If it wasn’t for this get-together at the cool coffee shop, I would not have. But look at what magic appeared.

You don’t need a book of prompts to do this. Who has those handy anyway? If you’re out in public, pick three words from posters or signs around you. If you’re at home, choose three objects around you. Set the timer on your phone or microwave and write.

I launched each piece with a noun and an action: “Suzie looked” and “Three pigeons sat” and Jamie danced.” Pooping pigeons followed. The group shared enough ideas and personal experiences that I have fodder to continue these ideas into some thing.

Pigeon poop. Who’da thunk?

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