bonnefoy:

shadzu:

necrovorn:

Psychologists Discover How People Subconsciously Become Their Favorite Fictional Characters

Psychologists have discovered that while reading a book or story, people are prone to subconsciously adopt their behavior, thoughts, beliefs and internal responses to that of fictional characters as if they were their own.

Experts have dubbed this subconscious phenomenon ‘experience-taking,’ where people actually change their own behaviors and thoughts to match those of a fictional character that they can identify with.

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I freaking love psychology

….this is a little disconcerting considering who some of my favorite fictional characters are. 

Is it odd that I find this fascinating. That brings up some really good questions…*is thinking of an idea for an article maybe?*

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helloyoucreatives:

Where Good Ideas Come From - 

Where Good Ideas Come From

This reminds me a lot of Austin Kleon - check out his tumblr in my websites page. The theory behind ideas building on one another is something I subscribe to, I suppose. But doesn’t it make sense?

Accidentally posted the wrong thing to this blog when I meant to post it to my personal. Sorry guys! ^^;

As you probably know if you’ve watched me for a while, I follow Chuck Wendig’s terribleminds blog. I was going to go on a big long rant about how I reblog the guy from time to time, but I just want to talk about this post. Go ahead and read - it’s quite fascinating.

Getting story ideas, thinking through plot lines and characters, all that fun stuff - I do it a lot, sometimes not at opportune times. I probably don’t go a day without at least thinking about one story on my plate. Sometimes I don’t think much about my writing, but other times I spend whole days working out a certain problem.

But how the heck do I come up with this stuff?

Austin Kleon published a book recently called Steal Like An Artist. A lot of what it talks about is the fact that we get our ideas by stealing from others - not intentionally, mind you, because often times what comes out of our imaginations is from a mixture of things. For example, Chant was inspired by a lot of things. Anime, music, video games, roleplays - don’t ask me to write it all down, because I don’t know all of the inspiration myself! Not only that, but my characters have also been inspired by other things and other ideas.

Usually, how it all gets put together is when I see something that sparks an idea out of me. Sometimes it’s a purposeful thing, sometimes it’s not. Often times I write the ideas down really fast before they go away; if I don’t, I forget them. I carry a notebook for this purpose, and like other writers, I insist on having some kind of writing utensil with me. Otherwise I end up asking the nearest person for a pen.

My mom gets sick of that so easily.

Chant was, really, an interesting outcome. I was roleplaying a story with my brother and needed a character, so I came up with a character similar to a necromancer, but instead of dead spirits, what came were natural spirits from Heaven, Hell, and Earth. That became the foundation of the whole story: Chanters who could bring up spirits to fight. Without that original RP, I never would have thought of it.

Sometimes it doesn’t work that way. One of my favorite characters, Natasha Kyuuti, was purposefully written with the intent for her to be a stubborn, kuudere-type character with a warm heart and a strong sense of protectiveness. Why? Because I was trying to match her to another character, and I knew that those traits would work out.

Now, all of this sounds merry and good. Purposeful manipulation of inspiration, happy accidents, yadda yadda. Fun stuff, right? But there’s a downside.

Chanthas been in the works for two years now. Natasha’s character has been changed more than a few times in the span of how-many years.

So the downside? Time.

But the upside? It only gets better from there. The more time and effort in an idea, even before you put the pen to paper, the better it gets. Natasha’s character (if I may toot my own horn) has become one of my best, and Chant has changed so much from my original idea that I can hardly recognize it. But that’s okay! Change is good, giving time is good, because it only leads to better and better ideas. And that’s really the aim, isn’t it?

Sorry to rant for a long time, but things happen, right?

Use your noggin, steal like an artist, and have a terrible mind.

Obligations just jumped right at me … as in, hit me straight in the face. So I have to apologize; can’t finish Crisis Week this week. I’ll be gone for the weekend, so no real way to get it done. I will complete it when I return.

Hope you guys understand!

This should really be longer, but I just didn’t have energy for it today! My options were the Flash Fiction Challenge or a mix of my favorite quote and drink. Would’ve done the quote and drink, but I couldn’t find a good quote. Tried to do the Flash Fiction, and … it was short. Not much to go off of for inspiration in those titles, but that’s probably my own quirk and not a fault of the prompt itself.

Regardless, I do have some kind of writing. Short, barely 200 words, but at least it’s something. I’m allowed to break my own rules!

By the way; title is “Hot Assassination”.

Word Count: 197

Story written by Tamera Janneff. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim work as your own for monetary or any other reasons. I’m okay with reblogging, though. *smile* 

***

“You wouldn’t dare to do this.”

            She smiled at him, the man on the ground that once had an entire army under his foot, but now was on his knees before her. The woman didn’t let her hand fall – she kept the muzzle of her gun pointed at his forehead, grin never wavering.

            “I would dare do this,” she said, voice deep and throaty. “Besides, you have crimes to pay for. Don’t you think it’s time for you to do so?”

            He stared from her face to her gun and back. He went paler, looking as though his fancy tie and black business suit were choking him. “Y-You can’t!” he seemed to squeak. “If you do, the whole nation-“

            “-will be rid of a useless general like you,” she snapped. “How many men have died under your command, sir? Thousands? Millions? Men that deserved their fate, or not?”

            “War is just like that!” he tried to edge back, but only fell on his backside as a result, scrambling as she advanced on him in red stilettos. His voice seemed squeak. “Y-You can’t mean to do this!”

            “I can. And I will. Goodbye, General.”

            She pulled the trigger.

Can you believe that it took me no less than a minute to decide which prompt to write today? My choice was between a spin-off of a music video and two characters trapped in a room, and I chose the music video. I had been pretty excited about the other one, too, but I just didn’t have time - or a good idea.

Regardless, I did base this one off a music video, and this time with characters a long-time reader will recognize - Diana and Katrina, my favorite couple from Chant! They’re always such a joy to write, because the dynamic is really interesting. Diana loves to embarrass Katrina, but Katrina will do anything to keep Diana safe anyway because she accepts her for who she is. Not to mention that they represent a couple in a world that is ideal to me, where they don’t have the same kind of fear of being homosexual in a anti-homosexual world. I could go on and on, but I think that’s enough for this post.

Music video this was based off of? Britney Spear’s Criminal. Truth be told, the original music video as posted by VEVO on youtube is meant for age 18+ audience members, and since I only saw it because of luck (some people love to upload videos without the mature tag), I’m not sure I’m willing to link to the video here. If you think you can handle it, than go search it yourself. I’m not going to enable any of you, so I trust your judgment.

And, of course, I still want to throw out there the idea that if anybody wants to try this Crisis Week out, they are perfectly welcome to. I’d love to see the results!

Now then, I think I have a story to tell!

Word Count: 1,099

Story written by Tamera Janneff. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim work as your own for monetary or any other reasons. I’m okay with reblogging, though. *smile* 

***

            The gala that she had been invited to was sparkling, shimmering, and over-the-top with beautiful men and women alike.

            Naturally, Diana hated it.

            She would’ve done anything to get away from it, too, were it not for the stubborn man standing next to her, talking to the couple across from them about some business opportunity or whatnot. She wasn’t really paying attention; her boyfriend, Asten, was a lot more into his career than he was into her. Diana at least had the sense to see that, but she didn’t have the sense to walk away.

            Probably because she was hoping that things would get better.

            She turned away from the conversation as the noise level in the hall reached an all-time high, although still minimal compared to the orchestra playing at the other end of the room. Everybody looked happy, walking around in their fancy dress and drinking sparkling champagne like it was oh-so in style. Diana could’ve cared less; the golden, lace, one-shoulder dress may have looked nice, and her make-up might’ve been perfect, but she preferred at that moment a pair of pjs, ice cream, and a chick flick.

            Not that she would dare say that out loud, though.

            She heard her dear boyfriend turn to her and whisper harshly in her ear. “Do me a favor and try to look like you’re at a good time,” he growled. “I hope you know that you’re embarrassing me.”

            Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes and turned away. She didn’t for long – he grabbed her chin and glared, whispering a harsh “Don’t look away while I’m talking!” before she could break away and run as fast as she could in her heels.

            The moment she was in the safety of the women’s lounge, she went to the mirror and looked at herself. What about this is embarrassing, anyway, she wondered idly as she pushed her long, caramel hair over her shoulder and scrutinized her green eyes. She thought she looked perfect, or at least that was what she had assumed. What about this was … wrong?

            A tear from her eye trickled down her cheek. Carefully she blotted it away with a light finger, trying not to ruin her make up in the process. Diana sighed – even if she looked like a model, she would never get his approval – and reached into her bag, taking out a small bottle of her perfume and applying it to her collar. Satisfied, she put the bottle away and turned, walking back into the party.

            Finding Asten, who had been dressed in a simple black tux with his normally messy hair combed neatly back, was nigh impossible. Diana spent minutes combing the crowd with her eyes, standing against the wall like she had wanted to so badly during the evening. She would’ve, too, had she known that Asten would be fine with it. As it was …

            I’m a trophy wife, she thought bitterly, Or a trophy girlfriend. God dammit.

            She finally saw him, caught in a conversation near the back door. Diana perked up and started pushing through the crowd, hoping to get to him, only to see the person he was talking with: a busty blonde, who was playing with his tie like-

            Like they were flirting.

            She stood next to them and looked between their faces, waiting for them both to see her before she spoke.

            “Nice to see you’re going for a mistress now, darling.”

            Asten’s face contorted with horror, and suddenly Diana realized her mistake. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her away, out of the back doors and into the night. She had barely stumbled out into the cold air, barely heard the door slam behind her, before she was yanked before angry eyes and a tight face.

            “What the hell is wrong with you?!” he shouted, grip on her wrist tightening. “How dare you disrespect me like that, Diana!”

            “Asten-!”

            “Shut UP!”

            She cried out when he slapped her, and she stumbled and felt the tears spring to her eyes. Diana barely had time to look up as he advanced on her, eyes filled with rage-

            -before a hooded figure, dressed in black, leapt before her.

            A fist to the stomach. A backhand to the jaw. Knuckles to the face … and Asten was down.

            Falling to her butt on the ground, Diana stared up at her savior, unable to form words as she felt her cheek sting. Asten moaned from the ground – the hooded person stepped forward and laid a kick right between his legs, and Asten shouted in pain before dropping silent. Finally, Diana’s savior looked to her.

            The woman who had helped her was – she had to admit – damned beautiful. Her jersey sweatshirt was small enough to stretch across her chest, and the black jeans hugged her rounded hips and thighs. Black gloves adorned her hands, and under the hood, Diana caught a glimpse of red hair.

            Even more stunning was the eyes. The woman before her had dark red eyes, the color of blood, but filled with ferocity and protectiveness. They were hooded with shadow, but they seemed abnormally bright to her. They should’ve been … frightening.

            Instead, they filled Diana with something vaguely akin to hope.

            “Are you okay?” the woman asked, voice deep yet smooth.

            Diana slowly pushed herself to her feet, shaking and still stinging, but decent by her guess. “Y-Yeah …”

            “Good. Looks like you need to get out of here.”

            “You have no idea …” she shook her head.

            The woman raised a brow. “Needed some help getting away from that guy?”

            Lost for words, Diana nodded.

            “Well, then I’m glad I was here. Let me take you to my place – I have a feeling you’ll need the help.”

            The woman turned back to where she had come, where a motorcycle stood at the ready. She stepped to the bike, waiting for Diana, but the once prim-and-proper lady hesitated.

            “… I know what I am,” the woman said, resting her hand on the bike handle. “And I’m sure you know too.”

            “… what’s your name?” Diana asked, in something she could only call awe.

            Their eyes met, red to green. Diana audibly gulped, skin raising goosebumps, but warmth blazing through her. Everything had gone nearly silent.

            “… my name is Katrina.”

            As she turned back to the bike, Diana couldn’t help but think to herself.

            Mama, I’m in love with a criminal …

Today’s challenge was either fanfiction or altered history.

I wouldn’t be shocked if this was the hardest choice all week in terms of prompts.

I’m sort of a history nut. Actually, History is a degree I’m considering when I go to college (2 1/4 more years…!). As a result, I’ve managed to get a conglomeration of events that I’m interested in. Oddly, there’s really no theme to what I like. From Joan of Arc (what this drabble is based on) to the Battle of Britain, my interests are far and wide. The only stable similarity is that most of my interest lies in Europe, since so much went on in that area of the world.

There’s a problem, though. I’m not just a history maniac. I’m also a strong devotee to the use of fanfiction as a tool for learning writing. Like I said before, I really hope to write a more detailed post about it soon, but I think fanfiction is just amazing for young writers (read: new writers). You have characters with fully-formed personalities, you have a setting, and you have a loose basis of plot. All you need to do is add some kind of minor conflict and conclude how the characters will react. When I wrote my series Akatsuki Lives a year and a half ago, the only twist I added was an addition of two characters, one my own and the other my friend’s. For such a small change, I cranked out thirty chapters of it, and my writing improved immensely.

I don’t have time to go on about the mercies of fanfiction, nor do I have time to rant about my fascination with precedents. All of that can be saved for another post! But for now, I think I can give some basic background notes on what the drabble is about.

This drabble talks about Joan of Arc and the “last moments” of her life. Story goes that she was born in France and around thirteen years old, she started hearing the voice of God and some other saints. As a result, she eventually became a soldier and led the French Army against the English, taking back Paris and some other cities. However, she was eventually captured and put on trial for witchcraft, which she was found guilty for. She was burned at the stake for her “crimes” and her remains strewn in the Seinne, and it wasn’t until years later that the Pope renounced her sentence. She is now the patron saint of France.

This drabble goes into what might have happened to make her live. Unfortunately, I was pressed for time and didn’t have the ability to get more detailed sources for this. However, I did put in what I remember from my own research, and I hope you still enjoy it!

Word Count: 1,040

Story written by Tamera Janneff. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim work as your own for monetary or any other reasons. I’m okay with reblogging, though. *smile* 

***

            She was terrified of what was to come.

            Joan would not say it out loud, however, and reveal her fear to the gathering mass before her. She stood as proud as she could whilst tied to the stake, her chin held high and her brown eyes showing nothing but calm. She knew what the people would be thinking, a mixture of Why are we killing a savior and Destroy the witch, but she couldn’t acknowledge either thought and give them basis. No matter what she had done forFrance, no matter what she had done to liberateParis and save the exiled king, she knew it was her time to die.

            Even so, she had to steel her jaw tight to keep from crying out, because she did not want this fate.

            “Witch!” a voice called below her, off of the platform. Joan slowly looked down to the priest, who held a wooden cross in his arms, staring at her with malicious eyes. She recognized him, because he was one of the ones that was for this madness. She could not bring herself to hate him, however. She couldn’t hate anybody in the face of God.

            “Witch,” the priest continued with a sneer. “As your final wish, we of the Church have acknowledged your right to plead to the cross, to allow one last prayer to grace your lips before your burning. Do you continue to accept this wish?”

            “I do,” her voice rang out proudly, and in moments, the crowd was silenced.

            The priest slowly walked up the stairs to the platform where she stood, holding the cross before him as if it would protect him from her presence. Joan continued to watch him as he knelt, holding the cross up to her, close enough that she may see the grainlines and scratches embedded into the dark wood.

            She closed her eyes and whispered her prayer, and in the silence of the crowd, she heard it ringing.

            “Oh God,” she started, “May you bless the people ofFrance, for they have fought bravely. May you bless the soldiers and forgive them, for they have done naught wrong but fight for their country. May you bless the peasants and forgive them, for they have defended themselves for their food and children. May you bless the people of the Church and forgive them, for while they have falsely condemned me to death-“

            “Pardon?!” the priest stood and pulls the cross away, glaring at her. “Falsely condemned?! You were called a witch before all, and none denied it. Can you call that false?!”

            “I merely say the words to God that He Himself has proven to me,” she replied calmly. “And for this lapse, I pray that He does not punish my nay-sayers – especially you, who have brought me this final wish, the cross, which I may pray to him through-“

            “Enough!”

            A searing hand slapped her, and Joan was forced to look to her right as her face turned from the shock. She gasped, eyes wide, cheek stinging. She wouldn’t look at the man – couldn’t, for the tears had started to well.

            It would be over soon, no matter how she hated it to be.

            “You are a witch!” he cried, pointing a finger at her. “You are a witch, condemned by the loyal Church of England, and all you speak are lies! Be gone! The prayers you speak are nothing but lies, sorcery meant to trick the weak and fool the old! May your death be slow and-“

            He stopped, and for the moment, Joan could not conceive why. For long moments, she thought of nothing, thinking that his silence was imaginary-

            -before she heard the building shock of the crowd.

            The people started to push forward, slowly at first, but steadily. The priest turned to them, looking around at them all, as they started towards the platform. Joan herself looked from side to side, staring at these people who she had fought for, who were now fighting for her.

            Words could not describe what had started to well in her heart, as well as in her eyes.

            Suddenly, the tension broke. The crowd pushed forward with shouts, people storming up the stairs and onto the platform. The priest shouted and stumbled back, looking to the men behind her that Joan could not see. From what she could gather, there was nothing they could do – men started to shout to each other as peasants held the offenders back, all eyes on her.

            “B-Back, slaves!” the priest cried, holding the cross before his body as he faced the oncoming crowd, now feet from Joan. “Be gone, or else God will lay on you His judgment-“

            It looked like he was sucked into the angry crowd, and in moments his shouting peaked and went silent. Joan stared at the people, knees starting to go weak from shock, for while she once had the strength to stand, malnutrition from her time in imprisonment made power seep from her bones.

            It started to pass in a blur, from the moments that the ropes around her body were cut away. She immediately stumbled, and she felt herself being surrounded by warm arms. She was taken off the stage – she knew that, for she could feel her bare feet against soil. When she could look up, Joan could see the people leading her to a horse, with a mounted soldier upon it.

            “We have been waiting for you, Joan of Arc,” the soldier said, holding down his hand to her. “We will take you to safety, Saint of France.”

            She placed her hand in his, and onto the horse she was lifted, behind the soldier. Joan looked down at the peasants, who looked at her with admiration, despite the fact that they had just saved her life.

            Joan smiled and spoke as strongly as she could. “For saving me, I thank you. And let God bless all of thee here today.”

            The people cheered, their voices breaking through her mind as she started to drift into sleep. As the horse leapt into a gallop and she fell into sleep, she heard a single voice speak, proud.

            “Thank you, God, for we have saved a saint today.”

Sorry for getting this up late, I guess. Didn’t think it would slip by me, but you know how things go. I did get this finished yesterday, though, so I’m still on track!

My options were a character based on my food, or a boring chore I do with the addition of one of my characters (or I could’ve gone fanfiction on it). Before writing, I had eaten strawberries, and since I didn’t want to go stereotypical with it (either an innocent Strawberry Shortcake-like character or something … else), I chose a boring chore. Sorry, Dad! I’m too honest, huh?

Any questions about the character, let me know. I’ve never introduced her on here, so if there’s something that isn’t clear … the ask box is there for a reason, and I love critique (but be kind, please).

With that …!

Word Count: 963

Story written by Tamera Janneff. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim work as your own for monetary or any other reasons. I’m okay with reblogging, though. *smile*

***

            “I hate doing these darn chores,” I admitted under my breath as unloaded a set of plates from the dishwasher. “Especially when I have to unload the dishwasher!”

            Of course, I wasn’t looking for a response, seeing as my family was out and about and I was left to take care of my chores. I released a sigh and put the plates in a cabinet in the kitchen, turning back to the dishwasher.

I wish I could say that when I saw somebody standing next to it, with long brown hair and a stern expression, that I wasn’t shocked.

            Instead, I yelped and crashed back into the counter.

            The cold looking woman raised a brow and stared at me. “You shouldn’t do that. Don’t hurt yourself.”

            Finally, I recognized her. “A little late for that, Natasha,” I said, standing up and rubbing my shoulder where it had slammed into the edge of the counter. “I thought you were off doing other things?”

            “You know I so rarely get to see you,” she drawled, inspecting me from head to toe. “But regardless … you seem irked.”

            “Irked is definitely the word,” I said as I got back to work, unloading another set of plates as I spoke. “I hate unloading this dishwasher.”

            “Why?”

            “Because normally I’m trying to work on other stuff, and this drags me off-center. It means I have to jump back into the routine later.”

            “Hmm,” Natasha shrugged and pulled a chair over, sitting down. “Does it really get in the way so much?”

            “Well, if I’m thinking about something, then sometimes this can help me think through it,” I explained, “But if I’m in the middle of actually writing or working on something else … it gets in the way, is all.”

            “Looks like such a challenge.”

            “Enough with the sarcasm!”

            She chuckled. “Sorry. But hey, isn’t it something you have to do?”

            “Yeah, my parents require it. The upside is that they at least pay me for it, ten dollars at the end of every week. Pretty good amount, and as long as I’m careful, I can save up pretty quickly.” Bowls were next; I juggled to keep from dropping them.

            “What would you save up for?”

            “Books for my nook, writing notebooks, music, you know. Just random things.”

            “Really?” she grinned. “Sounds like you have your priorities. Music and notebooks?”

            “I’m a writer. You should know. I am the one that created you.”

            “And you will never let me forget it,” she frowned.

            “Nope!” I looked at her and grinned as I put the bowls away. “But can you really complain? You’re a mother, you have an amazing husband, and you have a good family.”

            “Yes, and all of that I’ve had to fight for.”

            “True, but can you say you regret any of it?”

            “… I would never give up any of it,” she said simply.

            I smiled. It was good to know that I was at least making my characters happy, even if I was the only one to watch the results. Not only that, but it made me happy to watch them grow, especially watching somebody like Natasha.

            “What’s the grin for?”

            “Oh, nothing,” I waved it off, turning back to my chores. “It’s just me thinking about the rewards of my work. That’s all.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing after this, but want to go get something to eat, or whatever you like doing? I really haven’t seen you for a while.”

            “You want to do something with me? Really? The last time we talked, it almost ended with a screaming match!”

            “That’s an over exaggeration.”

            “Not that much of a stretch.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Okay, so maybe I got annoyed easily. But I can try to get along with you, can’t I? Cut me a break. The last time we talked, I was managing a six-month old child and trying to get my brother a good apartment.”

            “He’s not really your brother, though-“

            “Shove it.”

            “Oi! Just pointing out the obvious!”

            “I know. Regardless, he’s my family. And nothing’s going to change that,” she said, meeting my eyes.

            I stopped unloading a few glasses to watch her back. Slowly, I nodded. “Okay, I get it, alright? They are the closest family you have.”
            “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome …” I finished unloading the glasses and realized that I had only the silverware to put away before I was done. With a smile, I got to work finishing that minor detail, and with silence stretching between Natasha and myself, I completely put away the rest of the work. “Finally!” I cheered. “That was annoying.”

            “What? The dishwasher, or the conversation?” Natasha asked.

            “The dishwater,” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t mind talking to you Natasha, you just get on my nerves sometimes.”

            “Same goes to you, but I guess that’s just how it works …” she sighed. “Anything you want to do, then?”

            “… well, I guess I was thinking of going downtown for lunch,” I said slowly, closing the dishwasher with a thump. “I was going to go to Subway. Interested in coming?”

            She raised a brow. “Isn’t Subway that place that makes the subs you like a lot?”

            “Yeah. It’s really good. Kind of a shame that they don’t have Subways where you come from.”

            “You’re telling me,” she muttered, getting to her feet. “Alright, I’ll bite. How far of a walk is it?”

            “Only into town. Ready to go?”

            “Yeah.”

            I grabbed my keys and my purse, and as we walked out of the door, I smiled and realized that perhaps doing the chores was a better task than I thought.

Alright! I decided how I’m going to manage this. For those of you who didn’t notice, I DID finish my list. But … there were FOURTEEN ideas, not seven …

SO! My plan is this: for each day, there is going to be two ideas. The challenge is going to be this: I need to do at least one per day. I can choose from whichever two I have set for that day, and if I decide to do them both, aren’t I lucky? I’m going to go on a limb here too and say this: I need to not be wimping out and doing just a little paragraph or something. So here’s my minimum: two typed pages for each prompt. That should be sufficient, right?

So … here are the rules in numbered form:

1. Two ideas for each day. Pick one.

2. Do one idea every day. No skipping days and making up for them later. DO IT THE FIRST TIME.

3. You can do more ideas on a certain day if you want, but you still have to do one for every day. Again, you can’t just skip a day and say “I’ll make it up!”

4. Two typed pages for each prompt with the exception of the Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction.

With that said, here’s the list!

Sunday: Make a character somehow based off of the last thing you ate, then write something about them OR Pick your least favorite daily activity, then write about doing it with one of your favorite characters joining you, either from your imagination or somebody else’s.

Monday: A historical event that took place before your birth. Write it with a special twist OR Fanfiction. Write a drabble about your favorite character from your favorite series. Doesn’t even need to be canon (if you’re not comfortable with this, make it your favorite character that you created).

Tuesday: Two characters that would surely never meet are locked together in a room with their nametags, a table, two chairs, and a note. What ensues? OR Pick a favorite music video and write a drabble based on it.

Wednesday: Your favorite quote and your favorite drink - write a drabble incorporating both of them OR Do Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge for this week.

Thursday: Figure out the name of the last TV episode you watched. If you don’t watch TV, then figure out the name of the last video you watched. If you haven’t done that … go searching. Mention the title somewhere in your story OR Write about the creation of the world. Except add a few laser guns.

Friday: Figure out which one of your characters has the last name starting with a letter closest to the end of the alphabet. Pick them up and write about something unlikely that would happen to them OR What was the last piece of news you heard that excited you? Write about somebody’s reaction to it, but in a way that is not the same as your own reaction.

Saturday: Take an event from the day and write something fictional about it (can be anything - what you had for lunch, a conversation, a joke somebody told) - but don’t make it obvious! OR What was the first sentence you remember saying today? Incorporate it into a writing piece.

Challenge, for me, starts tomorrow! Anybody else interested? Change it up however you want, fiddle with the rules, do whatever - but if you do decide to do it, I would LOVE to see what you come up with!

Now then … let’s see if I can do this! I’m thinking positive!