A writing challenge for the challenge challenged

I was going to write today but…..

Life has a nasty way of getting in the way of writing. Whenever I ambitiously commit myself to a writing challenge something derails me. For example, last time I decided to participate in the novel in a month challenge, I promptly fracture my wrist (in five places) while mountain biking.

I was going to write today but my cat wouldn't let me

I was going to write today but my cat wouldn’t let me

However, I have found the solution! Mini-challenges.

For those like me who like writing challenges but also fail to complete the month long or so many word a day challenges, I bring you a week of exercises.

I am going to start tomorrow (Wednesday). I’ll let you know how it goes.

Oh and if the notion of a one-act play seems daunting in a day, try the sub-genre, 10 minute play.




Soliloquy SUNDAY–take the stage, and give me a speech.
Murder Me MONDAY–kill me with something in the crime genre.
Try-a-Limerick TUESDAY–inspired by NPR’s Wait wait . . . Don’t Tell Me!
One-Act WEDNESDAY–try some drama for your mamma.
Humor-me-it’s-almost-the-weekend THURSDAY–just make it funny.
Flash-Fiction FRIDAY–a complete story in 50 words or less. The fewer words, the better.
Satire SATURDAY–be bitingly funny, and make a statement while you’re at it.

A laugh for your day


I haz outgrown my cone and learned to lick my incision site.

My cat Iddy Bitty, my rescue shelter kitty, had a seroma which we had to have lanced. On the last day of his prison, he figured out how to lick his incision site so I had to come up with a last minute fix for the night. Thank you paper plate.

Excuses (Aka I really meant to write I swear)

I did. I meant to write last night. I had the time set aside, the lab top charged, and the topic picked out. I was ready, salivating to explode onto the page, until….


Itty Bitty, my shelter kitty (try saying that five times fast) plopped down on me, the way only cats can do, with complete and utter disregard for any personal space, promptly falling asleep, his little fluff of life, vibrating in pure ecstasy against my chest.

It was as if he could sense that the next day he would be a bit more itty, his tiny blossoming manhood removed for the betterment of all cat kind.

He cuddled up to me, trying to suck all sympathy he could.

I held strong.

No I would write. I would.

Then Iddy screamed, writhing from a bad dream, his eyes flying open with fear, glancing up at me, instantly purring as his head floated down in a peaceful slumber. I knew my night was ruined.

Well, perhaps not ruined, but any writing for the night flew out the window. And as he settled in for a nap, I turned on Netflix, comforted that I was in good company, as many a writer has a feline companion.