Writing Prompts: Moon as Muse

"The moon is a different thing to each of us." Frank Borman, Apollo VIII Astronaut

The moon has been a source of inspiration for millennia. All of this writing prompts are in honor of the moon.

1. Write a story that incorporates not the dangers of the full moon, but rather of the new moon when the sky is void of the moon's light. The dark moon was associated with nefarious acts by the Canaanites and Babylonians. What darkness could walk the earth when the moon's light was not there to touch it?

2. I am not certain what mythology the idea comes from but I remember reading the idea that the crescent moon was a boat that ferried the souls of the dead to their afterlife. How could this be used in a story?

3. The West African Niger believe that the Great Moon Mother sends the Moon Bird to earth to deliver babies. What if in modern times the descent of the Moon Bird to deliver a baby was witnessed by a group of people? What would this portent? What would happen?

4. What if in a chunk of lunar ice the remains of some form of life were found? What would this mean?

5. Write a story where two characters interact while drinking coco-cola, eating moon pies, and watching meteor showers under the light of the moon. What is the relationship between the characters? What does the moon mean to them?

6. A farmer wants to harvest the biggest pumpkin possible. He plants his seeds by the light of the full moon and feeds the vines sweet milk and honey. By this magic what happens?

7. In the far future the moon becomes a space station where spaceships dock to shuttle goods to earth. What would the station look like? What would it be like to be on the moon as a regular person working on such a cargo ship?

8. The moon is associated with intuition. What if during the full moon the point of view character discovers he/she can read thoughts?

What does the moon mean to you? What do you see bathing in moonbeams and dancing in its aura?

Poetry: Christina Rossetti's "Who Has Seen the Wind?," "An Apple Gathering," and "The Goblin Market"

Christina Rosetti is one of the fabulous Victorian poets. Her poetry is full of spiritual considerations and intense emotion. Her long narrative poem "The Goblin Market" is considered to be one of the earliest clearly fantastical pieces in the modern sense. It was published in 1862 and written in 1858 at the time George MacDonald published his fantasy novels, The Princess and the Goblin and Phantastes. "The Goblin Market" concerns two sisters who live alone, Laura and Lizzie. Everyday they fetch water from a stream, Laura is seduced into buying some of the goblin men's fruits and begins to waste away after a frenzy of indulgence. Lizzie goes to buy the fruit to save her sister and is pummeled with the fruit by the goblin men who realize she wants to buy the fruit with money. The poem is full of sexual allusion and has been analyzed as a piece of proto-feminist literature. Rossetti originally told her publisher it had adult themes and was not intended for children. Later the poem was stated as being for children. The illustration at the top of this post was one that Rossetti's brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, created for the poem.

"The Goblin Market" is a very long narrative poem. I have included it here because I think everyone who is interested in poetry should read it. It is a tour de force. Also please enjoy 2 of Rossetti's shorter poems, "Who Has Seen the Wind?" and "An Apple Gathering."

Who Has Seen the Wind?
by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

An Apple Gathering
by Christina Rossetti

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.

Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!

I let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.

The Goblin Market
by Christina Rossetti


Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
"Come buy, come buy."
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money:
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered altogether:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away,
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
"Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so."
"Nay hush," said Laura.
"Nay hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more," and kissed her.
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons, icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap."

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down, in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.

Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came--
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep."
But Laura loitered still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come,
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark;
For clouds may gather even
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?"

Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy."
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent 'til Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain,
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy,"
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and gray;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay, and burn
Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy."
Beside the brook, along the glen
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear,

She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter-time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.

Till Laura, dwindling,
Seemed knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse,
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook,
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, --
Hugged her and kissed her;
Squeezed and caressed her;
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs."

"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie,
"Give me much and many"; --
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,"
They answered grinning;
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavor would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us."
"Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
At home alone for me:
So, without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee."
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, --
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, --
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, --
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tear her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, --
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

She cried "Laura," up the garden,
"Did you miss me ?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me:
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men."

Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin;
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame,
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped water-spout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life ?

Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,
Her breath was sweet as May,
And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months,years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat,
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town;)
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
"For there is no friend like a sister,
In calm or stormy weather,
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."

Artist: Peter Max

Peter Max's iconic style is the epitome of psychedelic art from the 1960's and 1970's. The German born Jewish-American artist fled Germany with his parents in 1938. The family lived in Shanghai for ten years where the young Max learned to use a paint brush in the manner of Chinese calligraphy. After living in Shanghai, the Max family lived in Israel for 2 years where he discovered his lifelong love of astronomy and then went on to Paris. While Peter Max was in Paris his appreciation for art deepened and he took art classes at the Louvre. In 1956 Max began his art training at the Art Students League of New York in Manhattan.

Peter Max, along with partners Tom Daly and Don Rubbo, did graphic illustration and advertising in the 1960's. Through out the 1960's and 1970's, Max's work was printed on posters, a line of art clocks for General Electric, postage stamps, and more. His work was commissioned by more than 72 corporations. Posters displaying his work were a standard dorm room feature. Max also worked with Lee Iacocca on organizing the restoration of the Statue of Liberty and he has painted the Statue of Liberty's image every year since.



Peter Max is an environmentalist and a defender of all species rights. In 2002 Max made headlines when he offered to donate $180,000 worth of his art to benefit the local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals because a cow named Cinci Freedom escaped from an Ohio slaughterhouse. The cow leapt over a six-foot fence and eluded capture for eleven days. "This little girl's will—facing the end of her life, being so frightened, then taking the risk of all risks to live, to be free—touched me so deeply," Max was quoted as saying, "It was so inspiring. I knew I had to try to preserve that wonderful spirit." Max ensured her a long life of peace at Farm Sanctuary in Watkins Glen, New York with his act of generosity.



Peter Max's work is distinguished by vibrant colors, strong geometric elements, and uplifting subject matter. His method of combining colors on a four color ink press he referred to "playing a printing press like an electric piano." Max is still alive and lives with his wife Mary in New York. His official website where there is more biographical information about him, photographs of many of his paintings, and an online store where prints of his posters and more can be purchased can be found at: http://www.petermax.com/ Let a little sunshine into your life and check out the work of Peter Max!

Six Sentence Story Monday

Here is another six sentence story:

In those moments before the winning numbers were announced, Beth dreamed of Paris. She imagined visiting the Lourve, walking the Champs-Elysees, and seeing the Eifel Tower. She thought of erasing the debt of friends so that their burdens would be lighter. She envisioned bestowing scientific grants to eradicate diseases. As the numbers were called out on the television screen, she used her pen to encircle those that matched. In the end, she smiled, tucked the lottery ticket in her pocket, and went to take the order from the couple who sat in the back booth in her section.

Sunday Writing Discussion #7: Conflict-- The Fuel of Fiction

Stories need certain elements in them to make them complete. A story must have characters, a setting, a plot, central ideas or a theme, and conflict. If there are characters, but nothing else, it isn't really a story. It might be a character sketch. A plot without conflict is boring.

Conflicts can be of two main types-- internal conflicts or external conflicts. Internal conflicts are conflicts that occur in the psyche of one of the characters. It could be something like wrestling with the guilt of murdering another person as in Dostoyevsky's novel Crime and Punishment. External conflicts occur outside of the mind of a character. External conflicts can be a disagreement between two characters, a struggle against a situation, a fight against an organization, etc.

Often in stories there both of these two types of conflict and they are intertwined. There is a conflict that is internal to the main character and an external conflict that the main character is caught up in. To give you an example, in the Iliad Achilles' internal conflict was whether or not to give his allegiance to Agamemnon and to fight in the Trojan War. If he fought in the war he would achieve glory, which was what he wanted, but he would die. If he avoided the war, he would never achieve fame but he would be happy and live a long life. The internal conflict erupted into external disagreements with Agamemnon that resulted in Patroclus donning Achilles' armor and being killed. The conflict then evolved into an external conflict with Hector that was central to the war and Achilles' fame was achieved as well as his eventual death as prophesied. His internal conflict was resolved with a meshing of interests with the external conflict of the story. This kind of intertwining of conflicts is desirable because it illustrates characters' motivations and resulting actions that move the plot forward.

There are types of conflict problems that can arise in stories. A problem can be something like the characters involvement with the conflict doesn't seem logical, but this is really more a problem with the characterization of the characters. Typically stories are lackluster if there is just not enough conflict. Sometimes when an author is creating a story they begin to like the characters that they have created. The author writes the quintessential sympathetic character and begins to have empathy for their creation. But this does not work! If the conflict is just plain old lame and has a really easy resolution that leaves readers wondering why the main character didn't just figure this out right away and not put themselves through the drama, the fiction falls flat. Writing fiction means that you really have to put the screws to your character and when things get bad for your main character, you have to make them worse. A formula in regards to plot and conflict for a three act story is as follows:
1. the characters and conflict are introduced and the plot gets slightly worse (hopefully because of the actions of the main character);
2. the main character tries to problem solve and resolve their conflict and things get even worse;
3. the main character again works to problem solve the conflict, things get very dark and even more terrible, and the climax occurs;
4. the conflict is resolved.

There is no room for easing off the tension!

Another type of conflict problem has to do with the intensity of the central conflicts as well. The second type of intensity conflict problem is the insurmountable, overwhelming conflict. A challenging conflict is a good thing. It should be a challenge and worthy of writing a story about, but if it is too insurmountable it often leads to an ending that is flat because the writer has to resort to fiction magic, i.e. deus ex machina. This is infuriating for many readers.

Another type of conflict to be wary of while writing fiction is "Issues" with a capital "I." Issues are big problems that the characters encounter such as drug addiction, domestic violence, rape, and incest. Yes, these are big conflicts and worthy of stories, but if an author is going to take one of these issues and make it part of their story, the issue should not be incidental. These issues are not good things to play with lightly in the hope of making a character's motivations immediately understood or to make the character sympathetic. If you are going to write about one of these issues, know what you are talking about and give it the serious treatment that it deserves. Do not use these issues in an attempt to elevate your fiction, the only things that will improve your fiction is thought and good writing. Using these types of serious issues simply for dramatic effect and not giving them the respect they deserve actual cheapens your writing and makes the faults jump out.

How can you fuel the fire of your story and turn up the heat? Conflict! Use it well!

A Writer Has to Eat: Spicy Hot Chocolate with a Kick

Hot chocolate is wonderful on its own. This version has extra spices that heat it up with flavor. Spices like cardamom and cayenne pepper. This does not use instant hot chocolate powder. It is the real deal!



Spiced Hot Chocolate Ingredients

2 1 ounce unsweetened baker's chocolate squares
1 cup white sugar
1/4 teaspoon cardamom
4 teaspoons cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
4 cups milk or for richer hot chocolate use half and half



1. Put water in a pot. Place the chocolate squares in a bowl and place the bowl in the pot and float it in the water. Bring the water to a low boil and melt the chocolate squares in the bowl.

2. When the chocolate squares are melted, using a spatula transfer the chocolate to a sauce pan.

3. Whisk in the sugar, spices, and milk. Stir constantly to dissolve all the chocolate, sugar, and spices into the milk. Heat to hot and just boiling. Turn off the heat.





4. Pour the hot chocolate mixture into mugs and top with whipped cream to serve. Yum!

A Writer Has to Eat: A Recipe for Really Tasty Hummus

Hummus is an easy to make yummy source of protein. It can be served with bread or vegetables.

Ingredients

3 cups prepared garbanzo beans
1/2 cup tahini
1/4 cup olive oil
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon white pepper
1 teaspoon paprika
2 tablespoons minced fresh garlic
the juice from 1/2 of a lemon

1. Prepare the garbanzo beans. You can either use 2 15 ounce cans of garbanzo beans, drain, and wash them OR you can prepare dried garbanzo beans. To prepare garbanzo beans from dried beans, soak the garbanzos overnight. In the morning drain the legend and rinse the soaked beans. Place 1 cup of garbanzo beans to 4 cups of water in a pan and boil for 15 minutes until the beans are soft.



2. Place the garbanzo beans, tahini, olive oil, salt, pepper, paprika, garlic, and lemon juice in a food processor. Process until smooth. If you do not own a food processor, first mash the garbanzo beans with a fork or a potato masher. Next add the other ingredients and continue to mash and stir until it becomes a consistent paste. This will take a while, but it does work.