30th of January to the 3rd of February

This post is a bit early. My wife is out to visit friends and I will likely have a hard time finding sufficient time this weekend to sit my butt down and write. So here we go.

30th of January: “My own saudade”

Saudade is a Portuguese/Galician word that is somehow related to nostalgia. Basically a longing for something that you might never experience again. This is how I understand it. There is surely not much in my life that I would change. However there are so many things I will not experience in the same way again and things that feel saudade. So there are all those times in my early teens when we went into the woods and played with smurf figurines building houses for them, making up stories about their lives and spent weekends doing just that. The smells of the plastic figurines, the woods, the pines, the moss and the sun shining through the leaves and needles. It would be weird and not the same to do that with a bunch of late 30 year olds. I am sure and that makes me saudade. Other things are definitely the innocence we held as kids where there were zero obligations or appointments that one had to take care off. Sometimes I saudade about a time like that when the days felt endless and we ran around in the woods or played games that we rented from the video store and had hours of fun. Again this would be very weird to shake off all responsibilities and grown-up-life to enjoy whatever you feel like. But that's my saudade for you. What is yours?

31st of January: “Don’t start a novel writing about the weather”

So this prompt is to do just that. Man, the whole weeks weather has been shit. It’s dark out. The sun hides. The moon shows up occasionally even during the day but the clouds running erratic through the sky hide the moon again like some sort of person being caught undressing. The wind shoves everything about. There are plastic bags flowing around but not in a romantic way like in the now stained American Beauty. More violently. It's cold and wet. Once outside it is hard to get a feeling for the time. The days are getting longer but I am sick of one digit degrees (Celsius), wind, darkness and rain that occasionally mixes with snow but turns to rain again. Done with the weather. Please bring the spring or make it snow and if I can wish for something then for a proud sun not being ashamed of showing her bits.

1st of February: “What are your top 5 goals as a writer for the coming months?”

1 - Just write. Practise for me. Writing comedy. Writing in English to not let that language skill slide.

2 - Popularity. I write a lot for work too and now an increasing number of people asks me if they can share what I write and of course they can. The numbers of views here on sub stack also slowly but steadily rise and I like that. So please come and read and talk to me about it.

3 - Write more to read more. Exactly what it says. At this point in time I find more time to write than to read, but maybe I stack this habit with an hour of reading in a specific time-frame.

4 - Comedy. I do some stand-up comedy for fun and I like how writing there helps me identifying what is funny about a story and what not. It’s basically finding comedy in characters and stories of real life. Helpful.

5 - Motivate. I want you, the readers, the people that know me to find something where they can creatively express themselves and share that with the world. Have you tried painting? Go for it. Writing? Go for it. Built something? Go for it. Dance? Go for it. Share it. Put it out there. Keep it up. You get better just by doing a thing. Isn’t that great?

2nd of February: “A character with kleptomania”

The human washing machine. Let's call this dude Pete. Pete just had a run-in with puberty. In school he overheard other boys talking about their freshly spouting pubic hair. At age 13 everything is exciting. “Down there” please read that in prince Harrys voice. Pete likes choirs. His favourite is hanging up clothes. Correction: taking clothes down. The housing complex he is living in basically traps a little playground and countless ropes that fill up with clothes on sunny days. Pete then scouts out the women of the compound and watches them from the balcony as they fulfil their choirs. His most fulfilling choir. When he moves in after they are done, he moves with a basket in hand through the jungle of clothes like some explorer. Doing this and moving clothes out of his way and face with his free hand he occasionally reaches lightning fast for socks. Single socks of pairs to hide them away and add to his collection. He knew the neighbourly women would blame their washing machines on the missing socks. Even the two dudes in the compound that hung their clothes did that. Every one knows that washing machines eat socks. What Pete does after snatching them is your guess.

3rd of February: “Shakespeare invented words, so I use them”

Moonbeam, Assassination, Undress, Blanket, Critic and Puking are apparently all words good old Bill came up with maybe when he was young. So let me use this words in a short story.

White moonbeams shone through the room-high windows of the castle. Sometimes they appeared ghostly green which happens when you live close to the north pole. Maria walked into carrying a board with soap, milk and honey. In a state of undress Geralt stood in one of the windows. Just casting a big shadow. Reeking of beer, sweat and sex. Maria lifted her head from the board and looked at Geralt standing there naked, tall and reeking. She fastened her step and stumbled over a blanket on the floor. Not phased Geralt kept looking outside and unfazed Maria continued with all the condiments on the board toward him. She has seen him in all stages of undress. More undress than dress in his private quarters and the same goes for his visitors male or female. “Geralt, you haven’t bathed since the assassination attempt. The king sends his regards and left you these bathing utensils from overseas. There is honey, soap, milk and a little note with steps on how to use them. I leave it here next to the bed, okay?” She turned while putting the board down next to the plate. Geralt turned slowly towards here and the green shiny moonbeams reflect from the dark stone floor, the move and dance everywhere. Geralt just gives an animalistic short but friendly grunt towards Maria. Enough sound from his mouth to carry some beer- and morning breath with it. It hits her from behind and travels into her nostrils from behind her airs. Sounds impossible. If smells had a color this would have been puke green. She continues to the door she entered in with hasty steps and this time jumps over the blanket on the floor. She closes the wooden doors and pukes into the sword bucket. Never been a critic of Geralt’s work but this man has a problem with hygiene - she thought. How can someone look so great but smell so bad? The full moon is probably not helping.