The Writing Challenge of Indeterminate Duration – Day 1

nmbr 01It’s the first day of the WCOID (Writing Challenge of Indeterminate Duration), and I’ve neither quit nor made up any excuses that would allow me to postpone the start date; so I’m feeling pretty proud of myself right about now. But I have been thinking about what I’ve gotten myself into, because I had a little panic surge when I opened 642 Things To Write About and the first suggestion I saw was “Write a poem about a tomato.”

My initial plan had been to open the book to a random page and write about the first thing I saw. Following the tomato poem discovery, however, I realize that’s probably not a great idea. It works for me now because I’m feeling good; but when I’m mired in that thick depressive sludge, I’ll look for any reason to avoid doing things that require more effort than lying in bed and watching TV. So if I want to have any success with this little experiment, I can’t go into it with rules I can use to justify my lack of participation.

The only hard and fast rule I’ll impose is that I have to write something every day. On days when I’m feeling clever and creative, I’ll give myself room to do some free-range writing. When I just can’t squeeze out an idea, or I want a more challenging topic, I’ll use the book. And on days when I just don’t have in me to do anything, I’ll just borrow a post from my old blog and pass it off as new and no one will be the wiser.

*Oh shit. Did I just write that last part out loud?*

Writing Challenge #1
Write a poem about a tomato.

Spud Russet was a lonely potato,
Who fell in love with a hot-house tomato.
His family nagged and complained,
She’s not like us, we’re all the same!
Replied Spud, “But you’re not all that great-o.”

Fortunately, the book didn’t specify that it had to be a good poem.


  1. I’m going to try again to comment:

    Heh. It’s nice to have you back. I’m struggling with writer’s block myself. Yesterday, I started on a new diatribe against the jail system in the United States but decided to read a gossipy book about Marcel Proust instead. It’s by Edmund White, so I’m justified.



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