P is for Playful -- Keep it fun!

In contrast to my last angst ridden post (thanks so much for all the kind comments and advice... I will survive), I thought today I'd talk about being a playful writer.  I had a writing project once that was completely whimsical, never intended for publication.  And it is completely ridiculous and over the top -- but I love it, and it was a blast to write.  I think from these little projects, the germ of something amazing can develop. We have to give ourselves permission to be a little crazy sometimes, and see where we end up!


Yes, this is going to be a short post. After work today, I spent most of my time on my lovely Stats exam, which is now wrapped up. Booya.  Tomorrow, I resume my real life. Again.

I leave you with a sampling from my story, which is actually titled CRAZY SPY TALE in Word:

She was coming back down to rejoin the party, the microdot secure in the curve of her ample breasts. Suddenly she saw him, coming up the stairs. He looked debonair in his tuxedo, a glass of champagne in each hand.

Despite the tuxedo, she recognized him. For a second she was twenty-two again, somewhere in the Middle East, lying on a poncho spread across the sand. Sweat beaded along her hairline from his presence against her side as much as from the hot breeze that brushed across her skin. Above them the stars spread across a great empty expanse, and she felt small yet wonderful. He rubbed the frosty bottle of beer across her bare skin, leaving wet droplets, bringing her back to him from a far place. He put his mouth down on her skin to kiss away each drop, his deep brown eyes fixed on her face. For a night, they had forgotten the war.
 
She realized she had stopped and she continued down the stairs, moving with natural grace, her hips swinging gently against the confines of her silky evening gown.

They met on the stairs. His eyes did not register surprise, and she wondered how he had known to find her. He handed her one glass of champagne. “You’re beautiful tonight, my dear.”
  
“Only tonight?” she asked. She smiled mischievously over the champagne flute before she sipped.
  
“Every night,” he said. He brushed his fingertips across her cheek, his look curiously haunted. “Never more then now.”
  
“You always were a charmer,” she said. “You’ve always known the right thing to say.”
  
Those brown eyes sparkled with faint golden flecks, and for a second time had no meaning to her. The high, windswept places of Afghanistan merged seamlessly with this ballroom in an Eastern European embassy.
  
“Always?” he asked. “We’ve only met tonight. I made my inquiries, quite conspicuously, about the beautiful blond in the blue gown. They said your name was Melanie Evans, a notable American journalist.”

What's the craziest thing you've ever written? What do you write just for yourself?