Writing Blog Recs
A list of blogs that I've seen here on Tumblr that are out there creating prompts, helping out with advice and overall encouraging and inspiring everyone who wants to write. If you'd like to be added or to be taken off, please send me a message!
Writing Prompts
@a-u-prompts
@creativepromptsforwriting
@deepwaterwritingprompts
@dialogue4urocs
@gingerly-writing
@givethispromptatry
@just-plenty-of-prompts
@livi-the-writer
@love-me-a-good-prompt
@lyralit
@mangocherri
@myeekyoban
@notyouraveragepromptpage
@pianowritesstuff
@pettyprompts
@promptsforthestrugglingauthor
@prompts-in-a-barrel
@screnwriter
@seaside-writings
@theworldofprompts
@wordsforyourwip
@writer-aspirantus
@writing-challenges-and-prompts
@writing-prompt-s
@writing-prompts-re
@writingprompts
@writingprompts365
@writingraven
@writintheprompts
@writingpromptsandjunk
Writing Advice and Resources
@asparklerwhowrites
@bluebxlle-writer
@coffeebeanwriting
@coffeewritesfiction
@creativepromptsforwriting
@deardragonbook
@heywriters
@howtofightwrite
@inky-duchess
@just-plenty-of-prompts
@livi-the-writer
@lyralit
@myeekyoban
@pianowritesstuff
@skylerchase29
@wordsnstuff
@writer-aspirantus
@writingraven
@writerthreads
@writingquestionsanswered
@writingwithcolor
The Script Family in general
Writing Encouragement
@coffeewritesfiction
@creativepromptsforwriting
@dailywritingpositivity
@screnwriter
@sourpatch-encouragement
OC Prompts
@characterbabble
@develop-your-oc
@ocmagazine
@ocresourcecenter
@some-ocs
@some-oc-ask-blog
@some-oc-questions
Give all of these blogs your love and get inspired!
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periodic reminder that I have a one-word prompts blog over at @wordsforyourwip
:)
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project : calla lilies.
word count : 362.
prompt : from @wordsforyourwip : finite, trundle, rail, dose
taglist : n/a. let me know if you’d like to be added!
I did a project on the Lost Colony when I was in elementary school, and so I know that, and I know Sienna knows it because she stood asking me question after question for well over ten minutes - all the way up until her mama had to drag her away. At the time, she frustrated me, an unknown entity who was surely just trying to bring me to the brink of failure. For years all I wanted was to give her a dose of the hell that she put me through, convinced it was purposeful. Now, I’m not so sure.
“So it is,” she replies, level toned, and continues, “But there are ghosts spread through all sectors of the country, I’m sure. It’s only a matter of time before some of them start to go off the rails.” And she says this in such a matter of fact way, as if we are not discussing something impossible, as if ghosts existing and feeling and attacking is not such a strange idea.
“You believe in ghosts?”
We roll to a slow and steady stop at one of the few stoplights in town, and when I take the chance to look over at her this time, she is looking back.
Sienna Bradley has a spattering of scars across her face, a walking homage to the accident that took her parents. And nobody talks about it, of course - or they don’t talk about it where they think she can hear them. But even I have heard the whispers, good hearing revealing laments about the poor orphan girl and questions on how she survived and sordid murmurs wondering if she had anything to do with it. She must have heard them too, passed around the county for months, making a home out of trundle beds and borrowed blankets. Yet she always came to school with a smile on her face, and they would make fun of her. We would make fun of her.
It wasn’t my best moment.
“The chance of their existence may be small, but it is finite. We can’t rule anything out, Calla. Coming from your family, I thought you would know that.”
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The need for what we can't have
Universe: One-shot
CW: Christian religion/ Methodist, poverty mention
Words: 340
Context: A prompt from @wordsforyourwip. The words were: Relief; Baritone; Dour; Ailment; Frenzy. I think I hit them all.
Mr Fenn was a Good Man, ever diligent to the eye of God. He partook not in alcohol, nor in sugar beet. He remained chaste, to the best of my knowledge, until the day he departed to the shores of Heaven. He engaged in no fun at all, save the one time I entreated him to a parlour game... Of which, he stormed out mid-way through, accusing me of being the Devil sent to tempt him. Perhaps I was, in wishing him a little levity to this already soul-crushing life he and I attend to.
We are accountants, you see, factors for the Company mine; and if there is a more harsh and dolorous job than to remove pittance from the hands of those who already have little... Pray, keep it to yourself, for I have no wish to know it.
Mr Fenn was, to my eye, the most dour, stringent, and forbidding man it is possible to be. He had but one saving grace – that of his voice.
A regular Chapel-goer was our Mr Fenn, and he attended as choir more often than not. So it became a routine: on a Tuesday night, relieved of our duties, I would take my bread and jam cosily in front of the cottage fire; and he, in the hard and cold root cellar, would practice the next night's hymns. His rich Welsh baritone, strident with the love of God, would echo through the floorboards. They were enamoured with Hellfire in those days, the ailment of Sin, the coming of Revelations; such was his earnest belief, the music often became something of a frenzy. At which, I would go down with his bitter black tea and a slice of bread with its thin scraping of butter, and remind him to take care of his voice. He would make allusions to me, thank me for reminding him not to damage the vehicle of his divine love.
I never did tell him that it was not for God I saved his voice – but for me.
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