Writing prompt: About Winter

From The Outdoor Market 

We cannot see winter itself. We can only find it through relations with things and people.

At a small hand cart, a young man with a trapper hat and mask roasts and sells chestnuts. It costs $5 for 1 pack. He is there every day. No holiday. The colder it is, the better it is for him.

Ten or twelve people stand around a fish-cake bar. They eat fish cakes and drink a cup of hot soup stamping their feet. Steam rising from fish rice covers them like a blanket. They look warm and happy.

In front of the bar, strawberries are on sale. Around the corner, apples and persimmons not in the season sell cheaply. My wife loves strawberries. I buy some.

Melted ice falls from wheels of passing cars. People walk carefully in the mud. A drunken old man goes zigzag. Mud spattering.

Going home, I hear rattling sound. White smoke from a chimney of someone’s apartment fades into the air. However, I smell invisible gas. Winter’s perfume. It’s kinds of my memories for the past 30 winters.

How do you know it’s winter?


Writing prompt: About myself

PRACTICE 1 (From http://www.thewritepractice.com)

For this writing practice, use the following creative writing prompt:

Write about yourself. Describe yourself, your surroundings, your frame of mind, your emotional state, but write it all in the third person (he/she, not I/me).


Doubt and Smile

He gets up in the morning. Glancing at the clock, he breaks his own resolution as usual. Every day, he pledges to write at dawn. Before noon, he wakes up. His foot kicks the blanket off. My dog sleeping on the blanket groans away. He pledges, breaks and feels guilty every morning. In part, like the film Groundhog day. Guilty leads into complaints. He blames himself and even his wife.

Without washing himself, he goes to his room named ‘Yongseokjae’. The Chinese 3 letters mean a room where he melts stones in his mind. A few months ago, he posted the letters with DYMO on the door. Whenever he enters into the room, he thinks over its meaning. After all, he gets used to it. No any motivation from there. It’s just a title.

Outside the window, the elementary students move around to have lunch and talk. He can hear. He boils water to make coffee. He picks up a book of poems and writes down favorite ones. He does it until drinking a last drop of coffee. Then, he starts to write freely. Writers recommend, even scolds, to do it if you want to become a good writer. No exception.

He never stops to doubt the training while writing. Sometimes he smiles at himself. For the last 15 years, all he had done was talking about wanting to be a writer. No materials. However, he writes. He makes every day. He finds himself to be moving from immaterial to the material world.

*Always longing for comments and feedback. Please:)

A Room of A Writer

writer's room

Photograph: Eamonn McCabe Eamonn McCabe/Guardian

His house, a room, was on the second floor. A rest room outside. Residents on the story share it. Next door, it’s said a woman lived. For the past 2 weeks, he could not see and hear her. She was an illegal alien.

Two windows in his room. A bookshelf. A few books and classical music CDs on it. A Panasonic mini audio system. Very old. Two desks. Facing each other diagonally. A novel ‘Lolita’ and the Robert Mckee’s book ‘Story’ on one desk. Serious desk. Magazines on the other. Light desk.

In the corner, a camp bed. Beside it, a lap top. It’s a small and individual theater. The computer attached to a two-wheels stand.  He can watch movies as you see the ceiling light lying on the bed. For 24 hours without neck pain. He was proud of his invention.

Memos covering the walls. Most of them are B5. He keeps 4 black binders. Each covers 800 pages. Splendid collections of sentences.

Outside one of the windows, leaves were falling from cherry trees and flowing on a creek. He helped me not to quit writing.

It’s the beautiful spring.