Greetings, writers—
I loved hearing about your projects in the comments on my last post, so please, keep the info coming. And did I make that same old wish as I blew out that single candle on that pretty little piece of rhubarb tiramisu? Of course I did.
But then I somewhat took the next day off, which is obviously not how a novel gets written. It is, however, how one gets a few overdue household chores done, including ridding the living room of all the New Yorkers piled up in it.
I used to read The New Yorker all the time. Most often this was on the actual New York subway on the way to my job as the fiction editor at Publishers Weekly. Now that I’m a mildewy self-employed Oregonian, the issues tend to stack up on the bookshelf unread (by me, anyway), even though I have a lovely bus commute to my workspace downtown.
In my desultory “cleaning” yesterday, I opened a New Yorker issue to this cartoon, and what I want to know is: Am I the only one who thinks it’s sad?
That poor fish, with that trio of stress lines radiating out from his face. Though Abigail, his fishwife (?), doesn’t look super worried; it’s possible she even looks a little pissed, though whether it’s about being separated from her mate or hearing him pitifully yell for her, who’s to say.
As embarrassing as it is to admit, this cartoon gave me a pang of something unpleasant. Does that mean I’m an empath, a sap, or someone who can’t handle the anthropomorphizing of animals? Again, who’s to say (though the answer is probably “all of the above”).
Today I offer you two prompt choices:
Write a scene in which your character finds something that’s ostensibly humorous not actually humorous.
Write a scene of separation that involves an animal.
Happy writing (though #2 sounds like it could be pretty sad, tbh)—
Emily
P.S. And if you really don’t want to write today, go recycle some magazines and junk mail. It’s not nothing.