Fifty Words on Fifty Words

I figured out why the writing exercise has to be fiction. Fifty words of frustrated ramblings is easy to write. The challenge is to introduce a story and bring it to a conclusion using only a limited number of words. That's why these fifty words don't count as interesting writing.

Happy Bicentennial!

How I've been waiting for this day
For the excitement when I say
The count has reached two hundred now
Two hundred pageloads - holy cow!

Bad poetry, I know, but then
I'm so excited and have no pen
I'll stop right here so that you'll stay
Return and visit every day.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though
He will not mind my stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Not sure why this came to mind tonight. Maybe wishful thinking. But one thing that's always true is the promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Sometimes, though, like tonight, I think I will pass on the miles to go and just move straight to the sleep.
Call it camping out, if you will.

Finals, Finals, Every Day

And not a drop to drink.
With all that's going on in here,
I haven't slept a wink.

Well, maybe one or two, but not
More than that at all.
I'm thinking it's not healthy to
Bang my head against the wall.

Will I finish all in time?
Who knows? And who's to say?
Right now few things are on my mind,
but finals, finals, every day.

Fifty Word Reflection

I still like the idea of seeing what you can do within a specified number of words, but the imagination required to keep up the fiction part is just not here anymore. It's finals crunch time. So we're back to depressed ramblings, just like on my other blog. I was debating whether to put this here or there, but I decided that it's artsy/poetic due to the word limitation. Whatever. It's a shame, though, because no one ever visits here. Maybe I'll put it up twice. But I somehow doubt it. Anyhow, here's fifty words about being depressed.

Drudgery. Once you take away the enthusiasm, everything becomes the same. Then it’s not fun or new or different, even when it is. So you have to do things to recharge and bring back the feeling of newness. Otherwise, nothing feels important, and you wonder why you bother at all.

I'm Nobody. Who are you?

by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody. Who are you?
Are you Nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell.
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody -
How public, like a frog -
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog.

I've always kind of liked Emily Dickinson - I learned this poem by heart in fifth grade. There are a couple of others of hers that really stayed with me. She has this interesting way with punctuation and capitalization, a bit like the constant capitals in German. I may have made some mistakes in punctuation, since I'm writing from memory rather than from a book, and that's actually very wrong of me. With Dickinson, the punctuation is an integral part of the poem. But I'm too lazy to go look it up right now. Even online.
Emily Dickinson was a very tragic character. She died young - in her thirties, if I remember correctly. She never actually intended her poems to be published; they were discovered posthumously by her sister, again, if I remember correctly, who decided they were worthy of publication. Apparently many people agreed, since Dickinson is now considered to be among the classic poets.

More on Emily Dickinson later.

Fifty Word Something, Part XI

It's entirely possible that I am slightly depressed. This isn't technically part of the story. But the character in the story (who is me at least some of the time) might be feeling the same way. Anyhow, I felt bad about going so long with no posts.

Impulsiveness is overrated. Actually, most things are overrated. Except good milk chocolate. Anyhow, why not run away? The thing is that in a few weeks, you’ll be frustrated and want to run away again. You could live your life that way, but what kind of a life would it be?