I want to try to do this every day; who knows if that’ll be successful but this is one I wrote Monday with the first prompt:
A thick coating on the back of her throat. Sister Helena jerked and bounced to the music, closing her eyes, breathing deep then shallow, four in, four held, four out. From under here, the dance floor sparked and pulsed mutedly, like the thrum of a reflex hammer on the knee. She had finally let her hair down, but at what cost? Here, shirt taut over her pale stomach, feet shoved and blistered into pinching shoes, knees bruised after a year and a half of every day kneeling, it felt like time was running out. Twenty-six and this was the first time she had drunk alcohol; tequila a cool and slippery fish down her gullet. She didn’t want to feel it, but her body broke into song. Glittery notes poured into her fingertips, her toes, her hips, those long-forgotten places ready to be kicked into gear. She grabbed Alison, her high-school friend, who lent her this tiny shirt and these thankless shoes, and spun her onto the dance floor, hand on her waist, the longing gnawing and nagging at her. But now all those fireworks were gone; here, an hour past, the buzz long worn off, happiness was a warm gun. Happiness was sweat prickling under her arms, the backs of her knees, her wan forehead. Happiness was the nausea she felt seeing Alison’s body sway against some faceless man, his greedy hands against her middle. Happiness was getting another drink, and when the bartender asked her name for the tab, stopping herself before she told him, “Sister Helena of the Society of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.”
What you wrote for the fourth prompt is fascinating. It’s beautifully written—I’ve read it multiple times. So vivid, honest, and deeply relatable, as I have felt that very same seed. I think I’m drawn to feminine bodily experiences in writing. I believe I’ll carry this text with me for a while—you put into words something I’ve felt but never articulated. And you’ve inspired me to believe that if I have felt it, I can, with practice, write about it too. Thank you for sharing these exercises from your class. It feels like you’ve shared a little treasure with us, aspiring writers.
Your writing is so impressive without being labored and literate without pomposity. As a reader it's like being caught up in someone else's consciousness, the only thing missing is some way to incorporate a Scratch and Sniff button to make the experience complete. I think we will hear great things both from and of you in the future. Thank you for sharing this.
your writing is truly so incredible--it's totally stunning that you write a little ditty like this every day. i'm inspired!! i hope to write something for #4 and share later. how long does it normally take you to write for each prompt?
Thank you so much for this, lovely writing! I tried my hand at the first prompt. I’m not sure I have up to six metaphors though but really appreciate this post so much! and any insight.
The ache of a lonely heart feels like a pocket that is forever full of rocks. Every step is heavy, the ground never far from my feet. Sitting on a bench, I search for presence in the wind, in the rays of the sun but all that is felt is the grayness of this feeling, like the gray of the cement that holds up my weight.
Like a bird with broken wings or wings that never were, you are always reminded of all that could be when you look at the blue in the vast sky.
I climb on top of the bench. Plant my feet firmly in my shoes. I yell into the abyss, my voice is a beacon of light. The words I choose will find those that will take the rocks from my pocket and skip them into the lake. The ache deceives its host and acts like a spy, so elusive, so indescribable. But, no more grasping at straws to find the words for a feeling so intricately designed and placed in me. There is beauty in the pain, so uniquely made, just as there is beauty in the gray of the bench that holds my feet.
I climb down, I quieten my voice, the light dims but not for long. I have found a flower growing through the weeds. Hope blossoms as the birds take flight. I remember my aliveness, I remember I am made up of everything and everything is made up of me. The ache subsides.
I want to try to do this every day; who knows if that’ll be successful but this is one I wrote Monday with the first prompt:
A thick coating on the back of her throat. Sister Helena jerked and bounced to the music, closing her eyes, breathing deep then shallow, four in, four held, four out. From under here, the dance floor sparked and pulsed mutedly, like the thrum of a reflex hammer on the knee. She had finally let her hair down, but at what cost? Here, shirt taut over her pale stomach, feet shoved and blistered into pinching shoes, knees bruised after a year and a half of every day kneeling, it felt like time was running out. Twenty-six and this was the first time she had drunk alcohol; tequila a cool and slippery fish down her gullet. She didn’t want to feel it, but her body broke into song. Glittery notes poured into her fingertips, her toes, her hips, those long-forgotten places ready to be kicked into gear. She grabbed Alison, her high-school friend, who lent her this tiny shirt and these thankless shoes, and spun her onto the dance floor, hand on her waist, the longing gnawing and nagging at her. But now all those fireworks were gone; here, an hour past, the buzz long worn off, happiness was a warm gun. Happiness was sweat prickling under her arms, the backs of her knees, her wan forehead. Happiness was the nausea she felt seeing Alison’s body sway against some faceless man, his greedy hands against her middle. Happiness was getting another drink, and when the bartender asked her name for the tab, stopping herself before she told him, “Sister Helena of the Society of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.”
What you wrote for the fourth prompt is fascinating. It’s beautifully written—I’ve read it multiple times. So vivid, honest, and deeply relatable, as I have felt that very same seed. I think I’m drawn to feminine bodily experiences in writing. I believe I’ll carry this text with me for a while—you put into words something I’ve felt but never articulated. And you’ve inspired me to believe that if I have felt it, I can, with practice, write about it too. Thank you for sharing these exercises from your class. It feels like you’ve shared a little treasure with us, aspiring writers.
Thank you Valentina this is incredibly kind
So so good! Thanks for the inspiration - want to challenge myself to try one or two.
Thank you! You should!!
This is an amazing resource thank you so much, got my mind working this morning ❤️
found this just when i needed some writing guidance!
Your writing is so impressive without being labored and literate without pomposity. As a reader it's like being caught up in someone else's consciousness, the only thing missing is some way to incorporate a Scratch and Sniff button to make the experience complete. I think we will hear great things both from and of you in the future. Thank you for sharing this.
THANKYOU you are too kind
Ugh where was this when I was trying to explain to my students what makes an effective metaphor! Saving for later.
Omg honored!
your writing is truly so incredible--it's totally stunning that you write a little ditty like this every day. i'm inspired!! i hope to write something for #4 and share later. how long does it normally take you to write for each prompt?
Thank you so much! I usually take an hour
Love this!
Thank you!
Love Daily Themes Substack representation
Yessss
I love it !
Thank you Erin!!
Wow…This is awesome!
Thank you for sharing!!!🌸
I love this so much!! Thank you for sharing - such a cool exercise
Thanks Caroline!!
“understand” is a dead metaphor? what does it come from?
I was wondering this as well!
Thank you so much for this, lovely writing! I tried my hand at the first prompt. I’m not sure I have up to six metaphors though but really appreciate this post so much! and any insight.
The ache of a lonely heart feels like a pocket that is forever full of rocks. Every step is heavy, the ground never far from my feet. Sitting on a bench, I search for presence in the wind, in the rays of the sun but all that is felt is the grayness of this feeling, like the gray of the cement that holds up my weight.
Like a bird with broken wings or wings that never were, you are always reminded of all that could be when you look at the blue in the vast sky.
I climb on top of the bench. Plant my feet firmly in my shoes. I yell into the abyss, my voice is a beacon of light. The words I choose will find those that will take the rocks from my pocket and skip them into the lake. The ache deceives its host and acts like a spy, so elusive, so indescribable. But, no more grasping at straws to find the words for a feeling so intricately designed and placed in me. There is beauty in the pain, so uniquely made, just as there is beauty in the gray of the bench that holds my feet.
I climb down, I quieten my voice, the light dims but not for long. I have found a flower growing through the weeds. Hope blossoms as the birds take flight. I remember my aliveness, I remember I am made up of everything and everything is made up of me. The ache subsides.
Does Yale happen to post this anywhere? I've wanted to learn to write for ages and this seems like the perfect-sized practice idea.
Daily themes spreadsheet: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/u/1/d/1ANles48-netRlv9joTjNdQ7yiOnru5IsflKMP4A4UUQ/htmlview
From one Polly to another, thank you for sharing this x