Thursday, October 20, 2011
A few days ago I picked this picture for a group writing prompt exercise. When I saw it, I immediately recalled a couple of hours I spent walking around that very beach on South Georgia Island ten years ago. I expected to write about the haunting din of penguin trumpeting, the smell of slimy guano, and the incredible sensation of being one of only a few dozen humans among a hundred thousand denizens of the Shanghai of penguindom.
Not surprisingly, when I looked more closely at the picture and began to write, a different story came out:
Sunday, October 16, 2011
My hand had stopped moving while my thoughts followed a tangent. When I noticed this, I resumed writing, picking up in the middle of my abandoned sentence. After writing a few words, I was visually transported into a forest, walking along a brown, fern-edged path shaded by leafy green boughs. The path stretched ahead only a couple of hundred feet before disappearing around a bend. I had no idea where it led.