Writing Exercises Based on a Specific Prompt ©Sherry Quan Lee, June 2025-June 2026
Prompt: I Am #1
I am Septuagenarian Quan Lee; once that man’s wife, then another,
and then another, and another BUT always me. Even when I didn’t understand
who I was, I was a map to who I am now.
I come from chow mein and Egg rolls, mahjong and canasta. I come from
baseball in the street and Captain May I.
I am the first in my family to earn a Bachelor of Art degree and the only one to
earn a master’s degree. I was 48 years old-a mother, a wife, and a student.
I am from South Minneapolis, Our Redeemer Lutheran church, Sibley Park dances,
and Roosevelt High School where we painted the bleachers maroon and gold and
I couldn’t wear pants to school and short skirts were frowned upon.
I am from Minnesota Nice but have temporarily resided in Massachusetts,
Colorado, Illinois, and Washington. Outside of the U.S. of A. I have
only visited Mexico, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. Now I enjoy, especially short,
road trips: Michigan in the Fall, Colorado any time, the North Shore, and Lake City.
I met a guy, online, when I turned 70. Love was in the air. He grew up in Lake City.
Now Lake Pepin is my next fav lake to Lake Superior. But now that I live
In Prior Lake, Spring Lake, which I can sit by and walk by because Three Rivers
Park District made it possible, is my fav lake because it’s my neighbor.
I earned a MFA, a master’s in fine arts degree focusing on Creative Writing.
I was 48 years old. Everyone said, “what are you going to do with a degree in poetry.”
I said, “I’m going to believe in myself.”
And I did.
Prompt: write about food #2
I come from loaves and fishes. One pound of not so lean ground beef fed a neighborhood of girls
-and one boy, my brother.
I am my mother’s youngest daughter, the daughter too young to remember the father; except, by his absence.
Living on Aid to Dependent Children (AFDC), that’s what they called the “handout” in the 50’s. Back then it was more generous than it is now. We were allowed to keep our house. A stucco house with a hill in front, a choke cherry tree and a maple tree in the back. In the winter we had an ice pond in the back yard because Mother kept us at home, kept us sheltered. Kept us a secret. (Father also provided a small amount of child support. He drove up the alley once a week, honked his horn, and one of us kids ran out to get the $7 check.)
The neighbors were kind. Mothers had coffee get togethers, almost daily. Hills Brothers Coffee. Percolator on a gas stove. My coffee was in a tiny cup that something came in. It was more milk than coffee. But it was nice to sit with the women as they smoked and drank and gossiped. But what did they talk about?
Vi made the best chocolate drop cookies, with chocolate frosting, and a walnut on top. These were special. But thanks to Vi’s husband who worked at Wonder Bread Bakery, we were often gifted with Hostess Cupcakes, Snowballs, and Twinkies. We reciprocated with Nankin chow Mein, egg foo young, and white rice; but that’s a story for another time.
After dad left, we made trips to stand in line and get government food handouts (this was before the cheese). Mother didn’t make us drink the powder milk, she used it for baking: angel food cakes, Boston cream pies,
banana cream pies, and so much more.
I don’t bake. When my teenage sons decided they had enough sugar, enough Captain Crunch, they said no to anything sugary. So, I had no reason to bake like my mother did. Mom was heavy from her own love of sweet things.
How was a pound of hamburger enough for a neighborhood of kids, when today doesn’t it take a Big Mac and a large fry and a Coke to fill us up? Even if it even does, is it food we are craving or something else that we can’t name.
Prompt: write about a photo or item you have brought with you #3
Ethan
What are your eyes telling us? Every photo from the time you were born says to me:
Grandma, look at me, see me, know me. But can you know me? Probably not. Not now, maybe never.
I have my father’s eyes, his nose, his dark complexion. But Mom’s here too. I have her mouth. Funny, mom likes to talk. Jabber jabber blah blah. I love her verbosity because, well, I can only speak with my eyes.
It’s a mischievous look, and I am a handful. But give me a ball to bounce and I will stop hitting and biting-you.
Dad, why aren’t you bouncing balls? Hit them hard. Get out all your frustrations, your sadness. If we knew back when you were a child, you too might be diagnosed as autistic. We are more alike than just brown eyes. Our eyes want to tell a story. Telling yours might ease your pain.
I am 16 now, but age is just a number. I am who I am and my grandma loves me.
Prompt: letter writing #4
Dear Martha,
I loved a poem once. It was wrapped inside a purple felt cover. Maybe 2 inches wide, 2 ½ inches in length.
Tribes. The paper: was it handmade, hand stitched?
Here it is, on my shelf of books, with the few I have yet to give away. It is tattered. Faded. Like I left it out in the rain.
Martha Courtot, because of your words:
“It is not time to be together. It is a time to be separate, to learn what it means to be alone.”
Because of your words I understood why I was alone (but not so much why I was lonely.
I held on to your promise that when our work is done, we would come together.
“We are waiting until it is safe” you said.
Have we ever been safe?
I am 78 years old. Time brings me closer to my past, closer to my future; days seem insignificant.
I remind myself I can’t get time back. Do it today. Make that phone call. Go out for a walk. Write that poem. Take that nap. Yet most of my days pass by, lost. Like the friends that I meet, then they disappear. We come and we go. We run into each other or we don’t.
Martha, I have wandered and waited but now I need my friends.
My friends are my poems. I read poems, I identify with them, I live by them, sometimes I criticize them. One day I read a poem, your poem. I read it over and over again. It sustained me from the first time I met it.
I heard the singing and the music and I thank you. But today, my words/my stories will risk not being safe.
Prompt: the body #5
Ode to my Heart
My heart is like a hand knocking at my door. A rhythm, not always in tune with the music I love. The blues. Medication blocks the calcium, whatever that means, don’t block the singer, the song, the dance. What if my heart stops momentarily? Or forever. Will I have given love? Will I have let love in? Will I be dancing-alone, or with a partner? If my heart breaks, the music will stop. Will it start again?
Prompt: what is it you have learned #6
“There’s something I have learned from what I’ve lived”
Ataol Behramoğlu
For Pat
Searching for love is love is the routine of making the bed
each morning, is opening the blinds and seeing the hostas
flower, the grass grow. I am love, or else looking for love
is like looking for a needle in a haystack. I can’t find
what I don’t already have.
I should have kept at least one childhood friend
tucked under my arm, and carried her across decades
because I can’t retrieve what I didn’t have. I’ve had friends;
they’ve come and gone, faded like photos
diminishing my past.
Sunshine is worth waking early, it warms the ghosts
that haunt me; but the rain, the rain I can hear.
A rhythm that rocks me or terrifies me. I need both;
quiet and storm.
Love is the journey. When I stop traveling what might be
a difficult road, a rocky road, it is not love, but it’s not fear
either. I name it lazy. I name it forgiveness.
It is temporary. A breach of time.
Self-doubt.
Choice is what keeps me moving in and out
wavering like a chicken with its head cut off.
Sometimes my choice to go North or go South
is the wrong choice.
But a wrong choice is better than indecision.
Choice is freedom.
I lie. I exaggerate. I talk talk talk. When no one is listening
I write. I have learned no one can give me love. No one
can love me the way I demand that they love me.
I can only talk to myself in the way I want to
be talked to. I can only love myself, the way I want
to be loved.
I once was a child. I had childhood friends.
Sometimes they return.
Prompt: writing about place #7
My place is in this room. Sun light streaming in on four tables. Six writers. Community. There is a back and forth. Communication. Connections. We want to talk. We need to talk. And we listen. People are respectful.
Our stories are familiar. Individual stories, but like the childhood game of telephone one story leads to another story. The last story emerges from all the others. And there is quiet.
Just the tapping of keys on a computer or pens rolling across notebooks. Here. At the senior center there is a small world laughing and crying. Writing furiously. Because we only have one hour.
Prompt: a newsworthy event #8
Covid. I hadn’t known my guy friend for even a year when panic caused by a pandemic forced us together more quickly than a relationship would usually come together. Here we were two people in our 70s. Two very different people. City girl. Rural guy. Hiker vs walker. Vegetable gardener vs Farmers’ Market shopper. Nonfiction writer vs fiction writer. Rock and Roll vs Jazz. Vegetarian vs meat lover. Always hot vs always cold. One grandchild vs seven grandchildren. Comfortable financially vs. just getting by. I ate what he cooked. He read what I wrote. We both became Lynx fans. Covid threw us together. We were safe at the farm. We played cards. We played Scrabble. Friendly games, but competitive. Despite all our differences we have been together for seven years.
Prompt: dichos/idioms #9
Don’t go near the water you might drown. Aha! It wasn’t just the water. Mom was afraid for us (and I was afraid of everything). Keep me safe, keep me pure. Keep me locked up in a house on a hill. Don’t venture out. Don’t try anything new. Be afraid. Fear will keep me safe. What was she afraid of? What was she not telling me? Secrets. Mother’s fear for me didn’t keep me safe. Didn’t keep me locked up. I was a risk taker! I am a risk taker. I jump in headfirst. The water might be cold, or warm, or sizzling. I bounce back. Farther, farther out of my comfort zone. Fear taunting me. Phobias. Anxiety. Doesn’t matter. I come back swinging. I come back stronger than ever. I can swim. Joy Harjo wrote about fear, I need to look up that poem. I need to not let fear be in control. I am sorry, Mother, that you were afraid for me, for yourself.
Church said “fear God.” I did, while at the same time loving her.
Prompt: five (ten) minute autobiography #10
A long boring weekend. August. Summer fleeting. Makes me sad. I mourn the art fairs, the farmers markets, the road trips. All the things I didn’t do. But why not? Although I am 78, I can still go places and still do things on my own. Why don’t I?
I miss my family. Children, grandchildren, and siblings. The chasm between us too great to mend. I have friends. They are my family.
Mourn no more you old fuddy duddy. Count your blessings.
South Minneapolis was my home for 18 years. I lived with a mom, three sisters, and later a baby brother. Dad left when I was five. I have no memories before I was five. Not many after five either. Life started when I ventured out on my own.
My small world suddenly became larger. Off to the U of M with 44,000 students. I was adrift on an unfamiliar island. Until I wasn’t, and I drowned. Temporarily.
I didn’t know how to swim but my instincts for survival were good. And my love of education, or rather my need for education kept me getting back to shore. Even getting married to the all-American middle-class boy and having two beautiful boy babies wasn’t enough, or maybe it was too much of the wrong thing.
There is a poem by Merit Malloy that goes something like this: it’s not about not being loved but being loved by the wrong people.
Maybe I just need more. I am a baby boomer who suddenly wanted to escape tradition, not actually experiencing a traditional family life growing up, but being raised by women who were fumbling through life themselves. Women who survived.
I earned my degrees, year by year. 20 years to earn a bachelor’s degree, two to earn a graduate degree. Even at 48 I wasn’t done learning, because I have learned the most by experience.
As a teacher I learn from my students as much or more than they learn from me. No one can know everything, so we lean on each other. I’ve leaned on many people over my lifetime and I’m thankful for their generosity of time and patience. Sometimes I didn’t even need to lean because many intuitive people just know, just know when we need someone without us asking. Asking can be difficult. I don’t like to ask.
I don’t remember much about the Mother.
No matter how much I exercise (or don’t), how much of the right foods I eat, (or don’t) I age. I want to slow down. When the “Energizer Bunny” times out. I listen. I relax. Not just my body, but my mind. Monkey Mind. All that relentless chatter. Shut it the fuck up! I exhale and start over.
Prompt: Choose several decades (dates), choose one or all to write about #11
1963-1966: high school
What isn’t in the box? If I kept listing people places and things, would I ever find anything in the box that I didn’t know was there? What will I discover? I walked two blocks to high school unlike junior high which was more like a mile away. Girls couldn’t wear pants. Short skirts were in. I was stopped in the hallway by a teacher because her idea of short skirt was longer than mine. Luckily, my skirt was short because I had rolled it up at the waist. I remember it was brown velvet with a managing shrug (not sure that’s what it was called back in the 60’s). Did that teacher know I was just trying to fit in? Did I know I was trying to fit in or did I just like short skirts. I never weighed 100 lbs or more in high school I must have looked frail and pathetic. My clothes either my mom or I made, or they were bought at rummage sales. At rummage sales we got the things Mom couldn’t make like Roger Van S purses. Looking back, I wasn’t the loner I always think I was. Sure, I didn’t have a boyfriend like my sister who dated the wrestling captain, but I was a member of the creative writing club, and pep club. And I sang in the church choir, even though I was always off key and never knew if I was an alto or a soprano. I went to football games, but Mom said no to games in North Minneapolis because there might be a race riot. I didn’t know what a race riot was, that’s how sheltered we were. But Annie had a blue Mustang, and we cruised down Lake Street from Frank’s Drive-in (I dated the owner’s son after high school, but not for long) to Porky’s on West Lake Street. All this cruisin’ I don’t remember, but I remember on Sunday’s Steve would take me to Frank’s and I would have a steak sandwich on toast. This must have been after high school graduation and after Steve dated my friend Linda. It was all innocent back then. Linda went on to marry a guy who bowled at Elsie’s seven days or nights a week. That marriage didn’t last long. I went on to go to college. I moved into Sanford Dorm. And Steve and his 57 Chevy went their way too.
2019-2025
Online dating. Jamie & Steve. Condo in Oakdale. 10 acres and a garden. Moving to Prior Lake. Covid. Utah. Costco Cub Aldi HyVee. Spring Lake Park New doctor. New dentist. Club Prior. New (used) Car. Walking. The Minnesota Lynx. Art. Writing Archived. Dirt road. 100-mile garage sale. Pete.
I said no to dating. No, no, no. But Jamie and Steve challenged me. And I met Pete thru online dating.
So many people know Pete in this town, the Lakeville Prior Lake Elko area. I always run into people who knew Pete. Whose children were in Giant Step theatre. Our relator’s children were in Giant Step. A fellow writer, her children were in Giant Step, as was she.
I wonder if I had known Pete back in the day if I would have liked him-probably not.
Pete and I have little to nothing in common except maybe liking food. Pete likes to cook, me not so much. Pete is whole food-no oil, no dairy; me not so much.
I am an emotional empath; I carry my heart on a shoestring; Pete not so much. If he has emotions he hides them. He doesn’t like conflict; I strive on it!
It’s been 6 ½ years now. Are we closer or farther apart. Are we coming to the end of a relationship? Or are we reimagining how elders can live out the end of their lives. I hope I don’t scare him away. I hope he doesn’t scare me away. But I am who I am, he is who he is.
Maybe I should stop fretting and continue to live day to day and continue to count my blessings. Gratitude and kindness are today’s mantra. Also, win big. I am on the way to Mystic Casino when this writing is done!
Prompt: what did I do/not do – learn, regret, etc., this past summer #12
Today I think how far I’ve come. A shy, fearful girl who never seemed happy. Or, maybe it wasn’t happiness she was lacking, but identity, who was she? Was she the white girl Mother told her she was or was she the Chinese/Black girl raised on Wonder Bread, Lutheran culture? Looking back, was it good or bad?
Or was it, in retrospect, all a blessing; each new venture into who she was became who she is and the process was one that involved writing and research and mostly it involved community. Communities of diverse people searching, writing, processing. Leaning on each other, holding each other up. Sharing their stories, making a difference in their own life and the life of others.
And this journey of mine has led me here, to Prior Lake, to Club Prior. Sometimes you have to ask. Sometimes you have to find community by bringing it to you, if it doesn’t find you on its own.
Prompt: an article of clothing (Gary Soto, “The Jacket.” #13
It started as a one-of-a-kind item found at the Goodwill in Lakeville. A red tunic top made in the U.S. of A. The brand Moonlight Y & S. It was actually a size too big for me, but my weight fluctuates. The top was like new, but possibly vintage. I had to buy it.
I am a fashion diva. Not so much anymore as the years add up and so does the gray hair and …. well just not the tween anymore. But I still like clothes. I like art-to-wear clothes. I still like to dress up and dress down, sometimes classy, sometimes funky, mostly now comfy.
What happens when I find a bargain-a label I don’t know, a unique fabric, an unusual style? I buy it. And when I get home, I look the item up online to discover if I really bought a bargain. And, if I really like the item, I go to Poshmark or Ebay and buy another one, sometimes the same one, but mostly just others by the same label.
It really got crazy during covid. Not much to do but stay home and shop online. I now have a half dozen favorite labels: Moonlight Y & S, Moonlight by Connie K, IC Connie K, The Big Shirt by Carole Tomkins, Clara Sun Woo, Yushi, and Ali Miles.
I have too many clothes. Some don’t fit me. Some I have yet to wear. I even took photos and made a catalog of my closet of clothes. Some are vintage. Some not so much
.
I got a coat once. A “swing” coat. It’s black. It’s ankle length. It has velvet cuffs and velvet lines the hood. I will probably never wear it, where would I wear it? I found the label in the pocket, that’s where they put them if a coat or jacket is reversible, this coat is reversible, velvet on one side. It’s a vintage black Mycra Pac Designer coat. I looked up Mycra Pac Designer wear online and oh there are so many more coats made by this designer, some come with matching purses, some that I would really like to buy
.
When I saw the matching purses online, I remembered, I had once traveled to Palm Springs, California. In the airport I saw a coat, burn out velvet, with matching bag. I wanted it. But…I won’t even tell you the price. But it so happened when my friend met me at the airport, she suggested a stop at a nearby casino. I said ok. I said, if I win enough money, I am going to buy that coat on my way home. I won $500. I had that coat for a long time.
I seldom shop online for recycled clothes anymore. Instead, I look through Advance Love and Advance Pets, two books by Ari Seth Cohen, a photographer. The photos and stories of senior men and women who boldy dress–the colors, the fabrics, the hats, the shoes! I can only dream.
Prompt: what are you afraid of, Fear, ‘I Give You Back, “ Joy Harjo #14
There is an Audrey Lorde quote that says we shouldn’t be afraid to speak up. I should use my mind to memorize words that are important to me. The words of women who have come before me, women who have no regrets speaking up.
The best kept secrets can make us ill, can sit and fester, and rot and we are cursed with headache, tummy ache, heart break. And one day the secret comes tumbling out, no not tumbling, words explode like firecrackers on the fourth of July.
What we let go of gives room for gratitude, for blessings, for new life, new experiences. I let go with poetry, with conversation. I go to my happy place of song and dance, even if the music is on my iPhone. I dance in my kitchen, singing loud and off key. I have no regrets.
It’s been said, don’t spew your dirty laundry. It’s true, some people, even your family, will try to shame you, will distance themselves from you. What is it they are hiding from? When will they explode?
I let go to my happy place of water: babbling brooks, clear blue lakes, Lake Superior-and most recently Rainy Lake.
I count my blessings every day. (Gratitude, even when the millipedes come out at night. Talking and writing about them helps me breathe, even as I inhale too much peppermint oil.)
Today is a new day. I am happy amongst writers.
***
I do my best to let sleeping dogs lie. I don’t have a dog If I did maybe all my troubles would go away-except for the cost of feeding her. But it’s a good metaphor, My (metaphorical) dogs are many. I worry about everything. I have phobias. Someone I know think my phobias are ridiculous. They are not.
I have a sign I bought at a garage sale. it says: Dear Brain Shut the fk up. I look at that sign every night hoping I can shoo off all my dogs that aren’t sleeping but barking loudly in my head. It doesn’t work
.
Sometimes I picture Lake Superior on a beach between Houghton and Copper Harbor, and it calms me. I do this also before a nurse takes my blood pressure which is always high when I am nervous. Which is weird that they take it-doctors, dentists, nurses because no matter how high my bp is, they do what they are going to do anyways.
I wish all my barking dogs would just woof it up; a choir of dogs getting it all out until there is nothing left but silence.
Prompt: “The road not taken” (Robert Frost) #15
Prompt: write an ode (praise)
ODE TO BANANAS
Bunches of bananas at
The grocery store seldom
Are how I want them to be
Because I am a banana
Purist. He insists ripe
Bananas are the richest
The sweetest the best
Bananas for bread, for
Cookies and cake, for
Smoothies. I eat them,
Seldom cook with them.
I peel back the bright
Yellow casing to reveal
A pale yellow semi-solid
Center. If there is a bruise
I cut it out, slice through
Perfection. What does it
Say about me that this
Wonderous fruit, actually
It’s a berry, this wonderous
Fruit of potassium, B Vitamins,
Carbs-and fiber can’t be
Who it is in any stage of
Development? I am better
With age. Maybe he is right,
This time. I’ll give him a win,
This time. Next time I shop
I will close my eyes and stretch
Out my hand and choose the bunch
Of bananas that choose me.
Prompt: write about hands #16
My Mama’s Hands
Were never idle, holding
Pins and needles, and
Sewing shears. Her foot
Tapping on the peddle of
A Nechhi sewing machine.
My mother’s hands were never
Idle. Mixing and stirring and
Baking angel food cakes,
Boston cream pies, and
Lemon meringue.
My mother’s hands were never
Idle. Holding a Pall Mall cigarette
Between her fingers, exhaling
Hours and days and years of
Being a single parent of five.
My mother’s hands were never
Idle. Holding book after book
Of mystery or romance. Was
She dreaming of a life she
Would never have?
My mother’s hands were never
Idle. Have you ever been paddled
With a State Fair yard stick? Mother’s
Love sometimes got out of hand.
My mother’s hands were never
Idle. I loved her most when
She let me sit and sip a
Watered down cup of
Hills Bros Coffee and eat
Zwiebach toast or the neighbor’s
Chocolate drop cookies.
My mother’s hands were never
Idle. Although I never saw them
Folded in prayer, she never stopped
Praying for me, my siblings, and our
Children. She also sent money to
Unity in Kansas City
To pray for us.
My mother’s hands were never
Idle.
Prompt: write about fences/walls “something there is that doesn’t love a wall”-Robert Frost #17
MENDING WALLS
And bridges. Made of
Concrete and steel. Will
I close myself to intruders
Or climb walls, and cross
Bridges? Mixed-race
Mixed emotions. Mixed
Experiences. Love and
Hate and apathy. Concrete
Cracks leaving laugh lines
In my sidewalk. I’ve never
Walked a straight line, doors
Open windows closed.
Prompt: write about an animal #18
Duck Duck Oil Spill
“In 1989, during the Exxon Valdez spill, volunteers used Dawn
on crude-covered birds”*
The first commercial aired 2021. Partnered with wildlife
nonprofits, Dawn dishwashing soap continued
to advertise, promoting its ability to clean the feathers
of oil-soaked ducks.
Who doesn’t love a duck? Who doesn’t love a product
that can degrease a duck?
I’m smarter than the average person watching tv commercials,
I don’t buy into over-the-counter meds for hair loss or to save
the brain from dementia. Or bras for flat chested women, or
comfortable pants for men. I know a con when I see a con.
My soap for washing dishes has always been Ajax lemon
for 99 cents at the dollar store.
Was it the ducks, in 2025, that have
been haunting me for years, or was it the “platinum”
branding, or easy to squeeze promise, or just that I noticed
Dawn now comes in lemon scent?
Recently, according to Devin Grayson Shirk:
“The current dawn dish soap duck commercials are disrespectful and I feel like it cheapens the brand. If you haven’t seen the recent commercials, they’re basically CGI animated ducks that say dumb jokes.”
Are commercials more successful if they appeal to our love
of a good story, especially if the story
includes oil-soaked ducks; or
are we more attuned to cuteness, little yellow ducks
that talk to us, or little yellow ducks who
talk with Jennifer Hudson.
Whatever the reason I became hooked, and there are
three bottles of Dawn Platinum Dishwashing soap
on my counter. I worry, though, about the enormous
amount of suds. Is it safe for my dishes, safe for me
to eat off of, perhaps, not well rinsed dishes? Is
Dawn dishwashing soap as safe for me,
as it is for little yellow oiled-soaked ducks?
*New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/25/business/media/25adco.html
Prompt: write about a time you were lost #19
IT WAS A DARK AND DREARY NIGHT
She knows, that is not an original way to begin a story. But it was. It was cold and windy. And dark and dreary. She felt it in her bones as she walked to her car after her three-hour evening class at Metro State University. She had been teaching the all-genre advanced creative writing class for 18 years, yet every week she taught it she held her breath before entering the classroom and didn’t exhale until the class was over. Her only secret to getting through her anxiety was to repeat “there is a paycheck, it’s money in the bank, I can do this.”
This particular late November class wasn’t any less or more stressful than any other. It wasn’t really about the class. The students challenged her. When she began teaching the students at this university were nontraditional. They were older students working part time and going to school part time. She had once been a nontraditional student. The students were her peers. Until they weren’t. Now, the older she got, the younger the students that participated in her class got.
This particular class of want-to-be writers knew each other. They had taken many classes together. Their laughter and camaraderie before class was as endearing as it was haunting. They, in their collaborative familiarity actually knew more than she did. She knew that meant they knew stuff she didn’t know, they read books she hadn’t read, she knew it was nothing to get upset about. She knew things they didn’t. But she wasn’t sure they wanted to learn what she knew.
That evening, though dark and dreary and cold and windy, she carried her feelings of self-doubt into the unknown. Well, it wasn’t the unknown. She decided she needed loud noise and people pulling the lever on her favorite slot machines and winning big. She needed to win big. She needed a jackpot of joy! Not the money, remember she had the paycheck (although adjunct faculty are basically beyond poor, but that is another story).
She knew the way, she had driven down 35 so many times, as many Minnesotans have also done on their way to Hinkley or most likely Duluth. The problem was getting to 35 from Energy Park Drive. Did I mention it was dark and dreary and cold and windy? And the roads she shouldn’t have been on were side roads, no streetlights, and sometimes the gps gives false directions. But eventually, close to midnight, she arrived at the Grand Casino.
But there were no rooms at the inn. She often did things spur of the moment. This was no different. But sometimes, when you want to stay overnight at a place you really want to stay at you should make a reservation ahead of time. What to do? She was so tired she couldn’t get back in her car and drive down 35 to Oakdale half asleep. So, she did what she had gone there to do. She played the slots. She dropped quarter after quarter and dollar after dollar hoping the hot coffee and loud machines would keep her awake until the sun rose and she could go home.
And she did. At the first sign of sunlight, her money gone, and her temperament not good, she got into her yellow PT Cruiser named Buttercup and headed out. She knew driving in the morning rush from up North to get to the cities would be brutal, especially because she had no sleep, she decided to go home the backroads thru Wisconsin. She always enjoyed driving the curvy road from Grand Casino to Hole in the Wall Casino. The problem came when she entered Danbury, Wisconsin she didn’t know if she should turn right or left. It probably wouldn’t have mattered in her drowsy condition, but whichever road she took, was the wrong one.
There were trees everywhere. Trees and every once in a while, there was a glimpse of a lake. There was no cell phone connection. She went round and around. At least it felt that way. There was no way out. And the gas gage was less than an eighth. But even if a gas station loomed ahead it wouldn’t have mattered because she did not win at the casino, and she was pretty sure her bank account was empty (but she couldn’t check it because why? No cell service).
Two hours out of her way she later arrived in Siren, Wisconsin, tired and hungry and just wanting to get home. She finally knew where she was and just had to get to 94 and it would be a straight 25-minute shot home.
She arrived home, gas gage on empty. Tired and hungry but too tired to eat. Although she considers her compulsiveness or perhaps let’s just call it her spontaneous nature, a good thing, in the future she vowed to make reservations ahead of time, keep extra money hidden in her car for emergencies, and a good old fashion road map always in her car for each of the midwestern states, and one for the Twin Cities.
A few weeks later, she gave her resignation at the University, stating it was getting more and more difficult to drive in the dark.
***
LOST
Lost my mind, reacted, don’t hurt me; love me, hold me, accept my flaws. The millepedes are harmless, I know. I am better. I vacuumed this one. I watched it swirl around in the blue brush of the Dyson. I was brave. I didn’t even take a picture on my iPhone of this one. Sure, I cursed the beautiful worm for interrupting what had been a beautiful day. Today. Of sterilizing T-Rex (the condo) didn’t matter. Maybe millepedes have poor eyesight if they can see at all where they are going. Maybe cleanliness isn’t Godliness after all but it is artistically pleasing to have a clean home, a home full of warmth, personality-of magic. I am not crazy. I do not need a therapist to overcome by phobia(s). I just don’t like wormy things. I just don’t want to live with worms. What is it you don’t like? Have you seen a psychiatrist lately?
Prompt: I remember, I remember-Thomas Hood #20
I remember a house on a hill in South Minneapolis.
I remember how large everything seemed back then
the hill was a mountain, the steps were many and steep
the house was surrounded by lilies of the valley peonies, red roses.
A house, stucco, in the midst of a garden.
I remember, I remember the maple tree, wings spread across the back of the house.
And the choke cherry tree.
I remember children. The girls. And the boys. Laughter. Games. Baseball
in the street, Red Rover Red Rover. Captain May I. And tag.
I remember I remember the girl children. With our Barbie dolls. Barbie and Ken.
We made clothes for them.
I remember I remember the house falling, falling apart. Imploding from inside out.
Walls crashing down.
I remember I remember—escaping. Escaping the one place where I was safe.
I remember the childhood that despite poverty, was the richest location
my heart has ever known.
Prompt: use these three words-kindness, happiness, song #21
So You Sing, I Did Not Know /My House was this Large
Credit to Naomi Shihab Nye
For years I had no voice, I choked down answers I knew
Were right, but to speak out loud meant maybe I was
Wrong. I held back tears, I held my breath, I said
Nothing.
And then one day, a specific day you don’t remember
But that day you burst wide open and you couldn’t
Stop singing. Your song was not a happy song. Happiness
Eluded you. Your song was high pitched, a scream, a cry
For help.
Every day my song got better. It chased the blues away,
It cursed the heart broken, the rhythm of the song broke
Tradition and the kindness of strangers led me away.
Stop singing. Your voice crackles and your words are
Careless. Stop singing, no one cares what you have
To say.
You wrote a poem, and you wrote a book, and
and you sang a song; a protest song, a “Sherry Baby” song,
a lullaby.
I listened. I read. I Understood.
Trauma.
And release.
And kindness. Most of all, kindness.
***
Kindness is when, like the commercial, a child smiles, when old age is nothing but a year. At 80 we feel childish; we cherish lights blinking on windows at Christmas. Discovering the way to joy. We turn on Pandora,
the volume high as it can go, and sing along to holiday songs, although it is yet Thanksgiving and we know we will celebrate alone with our tv turkey dinner. Kindness is as small as a telephone call from our grandson, as big as a text from our son. Our neighbor drops by with that bread we dislike, but it is the thought that counts, the kindness. The snow is falling gently those large Minnesota flakes each one different, as we all are. We walk outside with our warm hand knitted mittens and scarf. Our Sorrel boots. We walk slowly and carefully. A snowman with its carrot nose and corn cob pipe greets us as we pass by, and there on the corner a child looks up from rolling in the snow. Cherry cheeks, chunky snow pants. And smiles. Kindness is spontaneous and real. We can’t ask for it, we can’t buy it, but it is the most wonderful gift of the year.
Prompt: what don’t we know about you; something interesting about you, etc. #22
Something no one knows about you (or your character); this could be something embarrassing (remember “The Jacket by Gary Soto).
Some suggestions from Quora:
https://www.quora.com/Can-you-write-10-things-most-people-don-t-know-about-you
What is the most interesting thing about you that people don’t seem to know?
What is the one thing about you that you want everybody to know?
What is something nobody knows about you?
Love at 70
It was a dare. Go online and meet the person of your dreams. Live your personal romance novel. Who is the tall dark hair prince waiting to meet you? Conjure this person you’ve been waiting for all of your life. There is someone waiting for you. He understands your politics, your creative spirit. Your spontaneity. He will play cards, go on trips, watch movies with you. “Ok” I finally said, “ok.” The process a month-long promise. Involved meeting and surviving two deplorable men. Then, down to the end of the month this guy said “let’s meet.” “Oh no” I replied. I am looking for someone five minutes from my home for morning walks and get togethers over lunch or dinner. This man who wanted me to meet me lived 45 minutes away from me. He liked camping, gardening, hiking (not walks)-we had nothing in common. But I gave in. “ok. Coffee.” Next it was a picnic. He provided a whole food plant based no oil no dairy picnic. It rained. We ate under the trees. I’m not much of a nature person except to admire from afar. Bugs annoy me. I wore a hat. I placed a blanket on the picnic bench. Next, I traveled solo to the Dakota County fair. Not one of my friends would or could go with me. Anxiety ridden at the last minute I dared myself to go-alone. The man who I had coffee with, who provided me with a picnic, was directing a group at the fair-Chautauqua. Singers performing all songs about Minnesota. He wrote many of them. I went. I volunteered selling popcorn and handing out programs. I stayed through all three performances. Later when he asked, “can I walk you to your car”-I knew I was in love. Meeting someone new and entering a relationship as a septuagenarian has its problems. It’s not always easy. It’s been rough at times. But I am thankful for the companionship.
Prompt: writing out the old year, writing in the NEW #23
https://www.panmacmillan.com/blogs/literary/new-year-poems-auld-lang-syne
This was the year that was not the year, By Brian Bilston
Write a list of what you didn’t do last year; then, write a list of the things you did. Choose a word for 2026 (idea from my friend, Kandace, a visual artist). Write about your 2025 both what you did and didn’t do; imagine you 2026.
My examples:
What I did:
gave away things (to my niece/to the U of M)
went to Voyageurs National Park
Club Prior
Decluttered
Judge for MN Book Awards
100-mile garage sale
Family visited
First “rally”
Millepedes
What I didn’t do:
Exercise
Cook much
Get rid of millepedes
Go to New York
Go to Chicago
Get a new bathroom countertop
Stop drinking coffee or stop eating chocolate
Word for 2026: resilience
2025 I focused on writing. Not purposefully, I’ve been focusing on not being a writer, on being a retired writer. I am a tired writer. Tired of writing. But the universe said, “no.” The universe said focus on redefining yourself as writer, as teacher, as mentor. The universe said declutter.
I did give away clothes and purses and shoes, lots of them in 2025, purposefully. To chastise myself for buying things I didn’t need, even if they were bought at a thrift store. Maybe this giving away of random objects led me to give away me as a “writer.” Gave away my books, my poems, my awards to be archived at the University of Minnesota.
Simultaneously, a new writing life emerged. Not randomly, but with intention. I, with courage, asked if I could start a writing group at Club Prior. And here we are. A one-month commitment has turned into another year.
I judged poetry for the Minnesota Book Awards. My poem about my grandson was published by Friends of the St Paul Library. All this was intentional. Not so intentional were the serendipitous happenings in my life in 2025. Meeting like-minded people in Prior Lake. Going to my first protest, the No Kings rally in Burnsville. Meeting family from Texas I didn’t know were family. Going on a motorboat ride in Voyageurs National Park, my hair blowing in the wind. No thoughts other than pure bliss.
I didn’t think about what I hadn’t done. I hadn’t quit drinking coffee or eating chocolate. I hadn’t much exercised-seldom went walking, seldom danced in my kitchen. I didn’t think about I didn’t get to Chicago to see my friend Renee or New York to see my friend Sandee. I was in the moment. Gratitude wasn’t a thought, it was the breeze hitting my face, the sun shining, the other people in the boat.
My mantra has always been healthy, wealthy, and wise. Kind of catchy, right? My “word” has always been “kindness.” For 2026 I could easily choose “gratitude” as my word, but gratitude is a given, I am always thankful for all the goodness in the world. So, for 2026 I choose “resilience.” Being resilient isn’t one of my strengths. I will be intentionally resilient because 2026 is already taking all I can bear to get through it, to survive it-to make it a better year for us all.
Prompt: write about a particular month #24
I always think of the line from “The Wasteland,” by T.S. Eliot: “April is the cruelest month.” Perhaps to get started write February is (or whatever month) and repeat it every time you get stuck.
MY EXAMPLE:
February is a short month, even when every four years it is given an extra day. It, for me, is not the expectation of spring even if the ground hog doesn’t see its shadow. I’ve learned spring can be as late as June so early expectations can be so disappointing. But February is the beginning of the year, for me. It’s New Years, Chinese New Years (although sometime Chinese New Year is in January).
While January finds me organizing for a new year each year, February is when I feel ready to take on a new year. Taxes done in January, a vision board created, papers and things decluttered.
February is when decades ago the judge remarked “what an unusual wedding gathering.” It was, perhaps. My fiancé, his two tween daughters and me and my two tween sons. A girlfriend and the guy she wouldn’t end up marrying. One sister taking random photos of the gangly group of us in front of the fireplace. The limo waiting outside to take us to dinner at Bucas. It was my storybook wedding, although not traditional. The girls wore black and white polka dot strapless dresses. I was wearing white with black lace and lace stockings and gloves. The men in tuxedos with red cummerbunds.
Later he said I drank too much, and maybe I did. But I remember the evening of my fourth wedding in detail. Or was it I’ve carried the photos for too long in my memory, in my photo album?
We laugh about it now, decades after the divorce. He remembers things about our life that I don’t. I remember the reasons I left. I sometimes blame it on getting an education, a graduate education. An education that pushed me in other directions than wife and mother and secretary.
But February is never a month of remorse for me. In the Chinese Horoscope I am a rat. Depending on which placemat or online search rats are “Quick-witted, resourceful, versatile, kind.” I am probably none of these things.
Prompt: the fear of silence #25
(I heard this phrase watching the movie The Coopers and it stuck with me). I am particularly interested in the “fear of” as a leading off point to story, but, perhaps, your story will emerge from listing (brainstorming/free associating) what comes to mind with “silence.” If you are stuck, begin with “silence is….” And keep repeating it when necessary. What is your/your characters story associated with silence?
?
SEDATEPHOBIA: the fear of silence
(I saw this book listed on Amazon, I have not read it. I include it to show an entire book/story can be focused on the fear of silence.)
THE FEAR OF SILENCE, Nathan Smith Jones: Hal Kapernaum brings his son to the company town of Seco, Arizona, where he hopes a new plant manager job will provide a fresh start, but the small Arizona town shares Hal’s same fear: SILENCE. The town is convinced the SILENCE is killing people. Nine have died in the last few weeks. Speakers of all models, shapes and sizes dot the roofs of the downtown buildings like nervous gargoyles. Because this fear is affecting production at the plant, Hal’s boss wants him to investigate and stop it. When the Silence endangers his son, Hal must face his biggest fear.
“Spine-tingling…A fun and engrossing thriller…adeptly crafted in the hands of this author. I highly recommend it!” ––Mary S., Amazon review.
(I don’t have a subscription to NY Times, but if you do, this could be interesting.
“When We Fear Silence, We Abandon the Self”-New York Times Essay
MY EXAMPLE
SEDATEPHOBIA
He said, “therapy” for all your phobias,
She said, “what are you afraid of?”
She clings to what is hers, she knows
her fears, embraces them–
not all consuming, but enough to make
her heart race, enough for self-protection.
To enter silence that fills
an empty room is not like loneliness
but fear.
The antidote is a three-hour phone call
to an out-of-town friend, or a trip
to the nearest casino where bells
and whistles go off amongst the many
slot machines or
the sound of people she doesn’t know-
Old(er) people, like herself-
escaping the fear of silence,
escaping the unknown.
***
I JUST LOVE NOISE
Interesting, I don’t so much fear silence, I just love noise. I love talking. It’s a family characteristic (not my mom, everything with Mom was a secret). But Aunt Grace, and, especially, Aunt Marian were nonstop storytellers. I miss them. I miss their stories. I love talking. Unfortunately, I have few people to talk with. Siblings are estranged. Friends are far away. But when we connect via cell phone we talk for hours. Spoke with Nia for eight hours once. Unfortunately, my vocal cords no longer cooperate. Sometimes, even short conversations hurt and my voice disappears. Throat lozenges don’t help. I talk to the television, to characters in a movie. Expressing my every emotion. I swear at reality tv—the news! Four letter words spill easily from my dry mouth. My vocal cords painful. I turn on Pandora or music on my cell phone and sing to my heart’s content. Singing makes me happy, but dancing makes me happier. But dancing hurts my knees.
Prompt: windows #26
One of my favorite prompts. In my notes I had written “both sides of the window.” Along with, “what are the worlds you live in/what are the worlds you don’t live in.”
Using your experience and your imagination, brainstorm/free associate a list of what comes to mind when you think of windows. It might be philosophical, the window of one’s mind OR a physical window (might even be a mirror, not a window). Does the story that comes to mind come from the past, the present or, perhaps, the future?
THEN, write what you/or your character sees using detail and sensory images.
THEN, if there is time, write what someone else, real or fictional, observes looking out the same window OR you/your character sees looking out the same window at different times (days, years).
As always, I enjoyed searching on line to discover what others have written about a particular prompt, in this case, looking out of windows. I will share a few:
A fellow writer suggested: a song by James King, The Bed By My Window (available on YouTube).
Another writer suggested: As I Lay Dying by Faulkner.
A woman at the window by Nellie Wong https://share.google/UY2YH2CG16cYfaZvh
Also,
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40389527-the-woman-in-the-window
The Woman in the Window by first time author A. J. Finn
MY ten-minute exercise:
MELANCHOLY
She would like to thank the architect who invented lofts. A place in a home where she finds sanctuary from herself. A place where the window to the east captures distant cars traveling swiftly toward open fields and round abouts exit, leading to unknown stories. She is looking out at the same height of wintering trees bare of life, yet beautiful in their nakedness. On days of fresh snow the branches glisten, no photo can capture the startling mystery of it. How remarkable. Once-in-a-while she looks down and observes a dog or a woman walking, or a USPS vehicle interrupts her view and she knows imagination can’t disrupt the reality of the small world she lives in. To the west, over the balcony ledge she looks down and through a smaller window. Here she observes the lack of birds since three sick ash trees had to be removed. The patio is only a small square of cracked cement, the table, the flowers in containers cast away like life itself in the depth of winter. Dead foliage seeps from beneath a shallow depth of snow and she wonders of life, of animals and trees, what it means, the seasons of us all, unending. There are footprints, both east and west, some wanting to enter, some never retrieve, just stop abruptly at the doors, waiting for spring.
#27
Prompt: what would you tell your younger self
On The View: what would you tell your younger self? Delroy Lido (Sinners) responded he would tell his younger self to listen to his mom because she is right!
(Similarly, I think, what (moment) in your life would you do differently?)
The Poem Itself by Debra King
https://beautifulthingsgrowhere.substack.com/p/a-love-poem-to-my-younger-self?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
https://www.corafrazier.com/contact
https://www.newyorker.com/books/flash-fiction/to-my-younger-self#:~:text=That’s%20O.K.%20You%20will%20perch,you%20moving%20or%20staying%20still?
Jennae Cecelia (her poem started a trend using the prompt “I met my younger self for coffee.”
https://www.instagram.com/jennaececelia/p/DFY-dOGp9K_/
My ten-minute exercise:
I met my younger self at a bar
She was drinking red wine, probably Merlot;
I was hydrating-water with a slice of lemon.
I said “you look so happy” She replied
“Wait, I’m only on glass number one; I
Can get much happier.”
I am late 70’s and my younger self
She is in her early 30’s. I want to tell her
I have no regrets, that she will quit
Drinking red wine and scotch because
Happiness can’t be drunk from a glass.
I tell my younger self (let’s give her
A name-Bethany), I tell her “Don’t
Worry. Although your path will be
Rough, you will discover a road
Clear of self-doubt.”
Bethany, I say, you are okay, I know
Because here I am and you led the way.
I MET MY YOUNGER SELF
At Our Redeemer Lutheran Church. She
Was just 16 and, yes, never been kissed (but
That’s another story). I met her in the choir,
We are wearing emerald green robes, singing
Out of tune or not singing at all, but we
Enjoyed the music, taking in every word of the lyrics
.
I punched my younger self in the shoulder told her
It’s ok to sing out, to use her voice because
Every voice is needed loud and clear and quiet
As if in prayer. Younger self I said “you will need
Your voice to survive. Your voice will give others
Permission to sing. I know, younger
Self, you are a late bloomer. You didn’t get
Baptized until fourth grade and didn’t get
Confirmed until a year after the kids in your
Confirmation class. Slow doesn’t mean shame.
Slow is necessary for reflection. If I can tell
You anything, it was your quick reactions
Made you stumble. They said you were
Bipolar, manic-you aren’t. I wasn’t. BUT
Anger at an unjust world sometimes
I just had to fight back with my words.
You will turn those words into poetry.
You will give back. You have nothing
To be shamed about. Keep shouting.
You are the most honest person I
Have met. I love you. Silly girl.
Prompt: what have I learned today #28
Write a list of things you have learned today (yesterday, last month, last year, etc.)
Choose one and write the story
MY LIST
Leftover food tastes good or better than…
I should check my mailbox more often
A sunny day isn’t always a warm day
What friend(s) think they know about you can be wrong
I might have too many shoes
I don’t like yogurt unless it’s in a smoothie
My energy bill is the highest ever; I need to live “colder”
My friend Annie is a diva. Grandma Teapot Short and Stout diva. I have known Annie since grade school. She is one of the three of us kids whose parents were divorced when we were young (I was five). Maybe that’s why we became friends or because she is an outspoken, boisterous, fun-loving gal and I am (was) quite shy. Annie lived 2 blocks from my house, she went to a different church than I did, and we were never in the same classes during all our school years, yet we went to the same schools AND we were in Brownies together.
Over the years Annie and I have been separated by distance when she moved, or I moved or we just weren’t in the same universe; but we remained friends. Highlights of our friendship include driving up and down Lake Street in Minneapolis in her Blue Mustang, and her grandfather gave me away at my second marriage and she and her mother prepared the reception at her house which was two blocks away from my church. Whenever I was in crisis Annie was there for me. She listened. She didn’t preach or judge she just listened.
Annie is 77 years young, a year younger than me. She, like me, loves clothes and accessories-at a bargain. I don’t know which she likes more jewelry or shoes. And she has the best glam glasses I can only imagine how many pairs she has which match her extensive wardrobe. Recently one of her (younger) co-works said she should do Tik Tok videos to show off her outfits.
And Grandma Tea Pot Short and Stout was created, and her followers (surprisingly mostly young) are “teacups.”
Yesterday, Annie posted a video, and she mentioned that we were friends. She said everyone thought back in the days, that I was Polynesian, but I had confided in her I wasn’t. True. She said I wrote books, said it was my dream to write books, but no one supported me. False. I never dreamed of being a writer, I wrote because I needed to figure out who I was. And I did. With the help of teachers and community leaders along my journey. But, true, there were those who tried to get in my way, tried to stop me, told me a wasn’t a writer. I kept writing despite them.
Perhaps even more than being a diva, Annie is an animal supporter. I remember her dog Snoopy when we were in our early 20’s. Many rescue dogs (and cats) later, she now takes in older rescue dogs with special needs. Ozzie, the “Low Rider” is often in her Tik Tok videos. I have never had a dog. But I watch Lucky Dog on Saturday mornings. Perhaps having a dog is my real dream.
Prompt: willpower #29
Frog and Toad Read Aloud: https://youtu.be/59mvpMcrKTI?si=oLMwS72BmYezXKAa
Philosophy: https://www.prindleinstitute.org/books/cookies-from-frog-and-toad-together/
https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/willpower#improving-willpower
Definition: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/willpower
Prompt: list 1) times you (or your character) haven’t had will power 2) list times you (or your character) have had will power 3) choose one and write the story
Writing Exercise My Lists
Haven’t had will power:
didn’t quit being a writer; kept playing a slot machine when I was losing; buying the ice cream/candy/donuts; Classic Word late at night on iPad; bingeing yet another tv series on Hulu; shopping when I didn’t need anything; etc.
When I have had will power (overcoming fears):
not moving (yet) because of millepedes; getting in my car and going places on my own; visiting a relative in hospice; participating in panel discussions with large audiences; saying no to a ten-week commitment; getting into a relationship in my 70’s and moving from my home to a unfamiliar place; quitting a job to go to grad school not knowing if I would be accepted; I kept writing despite the negative feedback
Ten-minute Exercise
The more she became dependent on her guy friend; the less independent Sandy became. It wasn’t like her to allow anxiety to stop her from doing things on her own. In the past she had packed her bags and driven across country in her VW Beetle. She would get on a plane and fly as far away as Taiwan and Hong Kong. The last time she traveled by plane was 18 years ago at her son’s wedding in Las Vegas. Now she hesitates to go to the grocery store by herself.
Is it the lack of will power that keeps Sandy stranded alone in her home or something else. Is she just lazy? Are her fears real that something might happen to her in some place where no one knows her?
The good news is Sandy told herself, “I think I can I think I can” like the little train that “could.” Despite reservations, she was determined to do something fun on her own, something her guy friend wouldn’t enjoy doing and she missed doing. A former student was facilitating a writing workshop at Mankato University. She hadn’t been to a reading or a workshop in months. And she loved staying at B & B’s, something else her guy friend would never do. So, she booked a room for several nights.
Will power, a truly passionate determination, got her through her solo excursion. There was the lost phone, the two-mile walk, the missing car keys, not knowing how to pay for a parking spot using an ap on the phone, being late for the class, low tire light on the car etc., —oh my!
Yet it was all worthwhile. The former student was happy to see her; they had breakfast together the next day. And Sandy smiled all the way home knowing she can do things on her own, that she should and that she will because she has will power.
Prompt: birthdays #30
Writing Prompt: write a story about a birthday. Try using humor. Try again with a serious tone.
https://youtu.be/81VLTvJHxGQ?si=O_IF-MMRHWSqD_12 A Birthday, Christina Rossetti
https://poets.org/text/poems-birthdays
“Many poets use their birthdays as a moment for retrospection, for looking back over the past, or imagining the future. Poems about birthdays are often poems about the passing of time, about age, and an opportunity for change.”
https://poets.org/poem/happy-birthday
https://poets.org/poem/crossroads
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56122/44th-birthday-evening-at-harriss
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/55737/cheerios
My Ten-minute Exercise
Who said “age is just a number?” I say age is a story. Some say January 1 is the new year, but I say the year begins on my birthday. I don’t keep a journal. I don’t write a poem every day. But stories meander year to year giving a specific time and location to who I was and accumulate into who I have become. I am not that shy can’t look into the camera three-year-old standing in front of a doll buggy decorated in swirls of crepe paper wearing a mandarin collar and Asian hat. I am more than that. I am year upon year of character building, of self-awareness, of texture and color and most of all language. My 78th birthday took me my surprise. I am not in denial. My body confirms the years have added up. My mind forgets things. But my attitudes and feelings are as young as the day I discovered “I am beautiful.” Music is the backbone of my life. Helen Reddy, Bette Midler, Carol King. Aretha. Cher. Melissa Etheridge. Tracy Chapman. Gaye Adegbalola. Whitney Houston. Tina Turner. Leonard Cohen. Marvin Gaye. The Four Seasons. Elvis Presley. Bobby McFerrin. Brulé. Big and Rich. Freddy Fender. Willie Nelson. Stories are the heart of who I am. Toni Morrison. Alice Walker. June Jordan. James Baldwin. Linda Hogan. Julia Alvarez. Jamaica Kincaid. Octavia Butler. Michelle Cliff. Patricia J. Williams. Naomi Shihab Nye. Joy Harjo. Nikki Giovanni. Toi Derricotte. Nellie Wong. Audre Lorde. Bell Hooks. Shay Younblood.
2026 is the birthday year I look forward to; I will continue to react. I will I continue to act. “A Change is Gonna Come.”
Prompt: who have you (or your character) “offered a seat to” today (or sometime in the past)? #31
Write the story. Feel free to improvise, to imagine the story. Write about when someone has given you/or your character “a seat.”
Recently a former student, Tou SaiKo Lee, shared this story:
Yesterday I was sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant eating soup while waiting for a meeting to start. The room was mostly Asian customers, everyone just keeping to themselves. A Black neighbor walked in and ordered his food, and after a moment he suddenly said out loud that he didn’t feel comfortable. He said he felt like people were looking at him like he was about to rob the place. The way he said it, I could tell he was carrying something heavy in that moment.
I had my earphones in, but I took them out. I gestured to welcome him and asked if he wanted to sit next to me. He paused for a second, then smiled and came over. Once we started talking, the energy shifted. He felt that he’d been judged his entire life and wants people to understand that he has a good heart. He gave a nice monetary tip to the restaurant server. He shared that he’s a boxer and that boxing helped him channel his energy and learn a lot through life experience.
What could have stayed a tense moment slowly turned into a human one. Two strangers, just talking about life, discipline, and the paths that shape us.
Before his food came, I told him it was good that he came in to support the restaurant. A lot of immigrant-owned businesses are struggling right now, and moments like that matter more than we realize.
When he got up to leave, he shook my hand and said I had made his day and helped him feel better.
I’ve been sitting with that moment. I don’t think I did anything extraordinary. I just offered him a seat. But sometimes when tension enters a room, all it takes is one small act of connection to remind people that we’re still human to each other.
We have to exchange stories; we have to listen to each other.
My ten-minute exercise
She was living in a contentious situation. Her roommate annoyed the heck out of her. Her roommate was consistently passive aggressive no matter the situation. One day she had enough. “I need an angel,” she said to herself. She had been living in a new state, a new city for only a few months and hadn’t met anyone yet she could count on, could call a friend. But suddenly she remembered she knew an angel. Her name sounded like a name appropriate for an angel-La Donna. Her persistence was something she imagined an angel would possess. Going out of her way seemed like something an angel would naturally do. No surprise, that she met this angel at a church. Retracing the steps that took her to that one-time Alanon meeting just a few weeks before, she hoped for a miracle. Miracle or not, or just a very humane connection, she met her angel that very day and Angel said, “just tell me when you are leaving for home, when you are going home to Minnesota, (not IF you are going home) to be with your family and friends” and I will be there to help you pack. This stranger, two decades younger than herself, was true to her word. They donated a ½ dozen bags or so of clothes to the church and packed whatever else would fit in her VW Beatle. Often angels are strangers in disguise, who despite their own, perhaps even more difficult situations, offer someone they have just met a helping hand. She carried the angels name and phone number with her for many years but finally let go.
Prompt: write a ghost story #32
Carolyn Holbrook. READ the Prologue: Lisa (ghosts we know) https://www.amazon.com/Tell-Your-Names-Will-Testify/dp/1517907632
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
https://poets.org/poem/haunted-houses
Lola Haskins.
https://poets.org/poem/patsy-sees-ghost
Short Ghost Stories. https://mastersreview.com/five-micro-ghost-stories/
My Ten-minute Exercise
Her ghosts were nasty ghosts. Haunting her. The older she got, more of the nasty ghosts appeared. She wasn’t afraid of them. One by one they had hurt her over decades of learning how to live, how to survive, how to love. They were just steppingstones to a book she hadn’t yet written. A tsunami of ghosts washing over her and then departing. Returning only as memory. Memory she can now reimagine as she talks to them, one by one. Talks to them, talks at them. Screams until her voice disappears, until her past no longer interferes with her future.
Prompt: the moon #33
(prompted by Artemis II). Don’t be afraid to use your imagination.
RANDOM STORIES, POEMS, AND SONGS RELATING TO THE MOON
Phases of the moon: https://science.nasa.gov/moon/moon-phases/#:~:text=The%20eight%20lunar%20phases%20are,third%20quarter%2C%20and%20waning%20crescent.
The Mother Moon: https://sacred-texts.com/nam/sw/pifs/pifs12.htm
Moon Stories:
https://nightsky.jpl.nasa.gov/media/documents/resources/MoonStoriesASP2019.pdf
Myths: https://www.discovermagazine.com/myths-of-the-moon-shaped-ancient-cultures-and-modern-cultures-of-today-46694
Grace Linn: Moon Festival, festival of reunion, also likened to Thanksgiving: https://youtu.be/xDLf0-UpPMQ?si=M84vVUSe5eZ7-eTB
Jean Toomer: https://poets.org/poem/evening-song-0
Identifying the significance of the Woman in Jean Toomer’s “Evening Song”
Ray Gonzalez: https://poets.org/poem/let-me-disappear
Alex Lemon: https://poets.org/poem/wish-book
John Yau: https://.org/poem/music-childhood
Louisa May Alcott: https://allpoetry.com/The-Mother-Moon
SONGS
Fly Me to the Moon: https://youtu.be/ZEcqHA7dbwM?si=f21kXdoF9Rz49hDx
Moondance: https://youtu.be/7kfYOGndVfU?si=FQN8vn31IhLQmT6K
Moonshadow: https://youtu.be/C9v8fStNnhk?si=SiNe0389KFe1UcQU
Bad Moon Rising: https://youtu.be/tKJwvQfraY8?si=FRBgKfWtdjqk7ibg
MOON MISSIONS: https://science.nasa.gov/moon/missions/
APOLLO 11: “That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.” https://www.nasa.gov/mission/apollo-11/
MY TEN-MINUTE EXERCISE:
Mad moon, full moon, rising moon, werewolf/howling, madness, lunacy, moon cakes, moon festival, crescent moon, moon songs, “Fly Me to the Moon,” man in the moon, man on the moon.
PERCEPTION
I admire a full moon on a clear night, stars and planets bright. Looking out a window or standing outside in my pj’s I glance up knowing nothing but feeling everything.
Sometimes I howl like a wolfwoman, letting go of every pent-up emotion, crying
out all the things I can’t control.
It’s not madness. The man in the moon actually listens. And retreats. Slowly.
Waxing and waning.
Until his image is mere shadow and a woman appears looking lovely and serene.
I see myself looking down at the woman I see looking up.
We share mooncakes, thankful what we see is what we see on any clear star
filled night.
Prompt:Begin with “Maybe it ruins the story to say at the start…” #34
and continue with a story or poem about a subject that doesn’t seem all that interesting UNTIL you explore it further. What is the “dread” that we need to take a break from?
Credit to the poem Mercury by Suzanne Cleary
https://poets.org/poem/mercury
“How had I forgotten that a poem’s subject is not as important as the poem’s exploration of that subject, as the discoveries made in the writing process?” –Suzanne Cleary
Copyright © 2026 by Suzanne Cleary. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 10, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
MY TEN-MINUTE EXERCISE
Maybe it ruins the story to say at the start
she didn’t die-
as she lay face down on the blacktop between two cars.
The shaking started before my friend left my house,
but my friend thought nothing of it as she monitored
my heart, my two fingers on a small metal pad.
My heart didn’t skip a beat, it had
a healthy rhythm. But my friend, her
rhythm was off balance, teetering, shaking.
Shaking the warning aside, wanting
only to get on with her day, next a trip
to the grocery store.
I almost caught my friend as she slithered
to the ground, but instead my friend landed
between two parked cars.
I told her “Don’t get up” but she did, try-
and down she went, again, this time
behind her own car.
Quickly, I ran back to the house, grabbed
my phone and dialed 911. I was told how
to position her, answered a few questions,
and waited, frantically, afraid.
The paramedics
arrived swiftly, asked questions, and rushed
my friend to Regions hospital.
Dehydration, perhaps, or low blood sugar
we will never know. But my friend didn’t
die,
and neither did I.
Prompt: what do you love that feels American? #35
LOVING MOTELS by Deborah Keenan
My Ten-minute Exercise
Wide screen tv’s, football, grass, Walmart, food carts, parades, local news, garage sales, buffets, trucks, Country music,
Loving Buffets
Feels American.
Meat balls, meat loaf, barbecued ribs;
Potatoes: mashed, baked, French fries
Or rice. Diversity of foods to choose
From: Italian, Asian, Mexican around
The world each eater whirls
The young and the old the
Big and the small we unite
In our differences in the strength
Of our appetites. Old Country
Buffet, Golden Corral, Pizza
Ranch, Dragon Star, Panda
Garden Buffet. Our hearts
Weigh heavy from so many choices,
Our hearts break because we
eat it all. Consumption
another word for what we
can’t have. As we finish
our meal with cookies and pie
and soft serve ice cream-a twist
of chocolate and vanilla.
Credit to Deborah Keenan, “Loving Motels”
LOVING COUNTRY MUSIC
Feels American, hee haw.
The cowboy boots the Stetson hats
Willie Nelson “on the road again”
Roads going here and there roads
Are an adventure not like planes
Planes travel a different playground.
Across the USA in a Chevrolet or
A Ford feels American. A pick-up
Truck. A dog on the passenger side.
Like a dog our heads out of an open
Widow feeling the breeze. Come on
Y’all 8 track blasting Kenny Chesney,
Reba McIntire. We don’t follow
A map only our intuition, our gut
Leads us to the next small town
Diner, the next metropolis. Feel
The dust, the dirt it clings to our skin.
We see the mountains high, the rivers,
And the creeks. “Colorado Mountain
High.” Feet on the ground we’re line
Dancing, with or without a partner.
Cowgirls dancing solo, independent
Free. On the road
Prompt: “things that we carry” #36
what do you or your fictional character(s) carry, both physical and emotional? Start with a list. Use as many items on your list as you can. Also, consider what we/you/they don’t carry.).”
The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien
https://www.arts.gov/initiatives/nea-big-read/things-they-carried#:~:text=Introduction,a%20necklace%20of%20human%20tongues.
https://news-decoder.com/jordan-youth-values/
MY Ten-Minute Exercise
List: eye drops, hand sanitizer, lip gloss, coin purse, card holder, passport, extra set of keys, iPhone, lozenges, Tylenol, gas-x, pens, grocery list, to do list, anxiety, anger, love, kindness, goals, creativity, silence, sun glasses, glasses, contact information, expectations.
EXPECTATIONS
“Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another—physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought.” The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison
She carried with her all the things to make her beautiful, to make her feel loved. The rose color makeup, the goth black eyeliner, the gentle pink lip gloss. Long lashes. Her hair flat ironed and jet black. Her clothes trendy, yet unique to her sense of creativity. The color red, as well as the color black suited her sometimes bold, sometimes vibrant, sometimes sad, sometimes lethargic, sometimes melancholy mood. Beauty was the goal. The process to attain it was actually fun. She wasn’t doing it for them, she just wanted the mirror to stop lying. Although she did expect love would be the answer. It wasn’t. Her expectations were based on other people’s motives. Education was also part of the process; she wanted to be smart. But there’s book smart, street smart, woman smart. All expectations the pursuit of a college degree fulfilled. That’s a story for another time. Along with so many expectations she carried anxiety, and anger, and frustration. But the mantra she always carried –“be kind.” Her daily meditation “healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Love and beauty, over time, were expectations she no longer carried. Instead, she carried eye drops, and blood pressure pills, and hand sanitizer, and grocery lists, and to do lists, and contact information: phone numbers-next of kin, doctors, bank, etc. Most of all she carried memories and the book she wrote them in so she wouldn’t forget.
