Things I learnt during 30 Words in 30 Days

#30Wordsin30Days ran on Twitter during April 2023. A prompt a day – you can probably guess the rest. It was a fun, low stakes way to write every day and I learnt a surprising amount about myself and writing during the month.

I’ve put the stories beneath the observations – I’d love to know what you think of them and which appealed most to you.

What I learnt:

1. Give me a deadline, any deadline. I get more done when I’m busy.  I need the constraint of not too much time on my hands. Constraints are the way forward.

2. The harder the prompt word the more satisfying the results. It forces me to throw myself into the arms of the universe for an idea. Desperation is this writer’s friend.

3. I only used my initial idea if no one else had. Otherwise I kept going to find something else. I’ve heard it in workshops, now I’ve experienced it. Keep dredging.

4. Every morning I decided today was going to be the day I’d skip. Then either I’d think of something or go for a walk/shower/drive. And think of something.

5. The *something* was not the whole thing. Writing down the words helped other words arrive and helped make connections unexpectedly. I fully anticipate I’ll have to learn this lesson again.

6. Days that got most likes didn’t always coincide with days I took most pride in posting. For the record: I agree with the likes for Idealogy. Individual was (imo) underrated.

7. Different day, different vibe. I’m fascinated by how my writing style changes (themes recur). I like to play with different styles, but I don’t always get to choose what arrives. 

8. Low stakes are very liberating. Today’s tweet is tomorrow’s –  {{{viral tweet?}}}} ok no, probably not – tomorrow’s digital waste paper. It has allowed me to be playful with minimal performance anxiety.

9. I don’t agree that regular writing alone improves your work. Thinking, reading, writing, talking about craft does. Then opening up to whatever comes. Ideally within earshot of a ticking clock.
10. Sometimes thirty words seems to go a lot further than you might expect. Other times, not so much. Sometimes you find yourself just filling in words until you reach the –

Stories

Day 1 – village (22)

When the wild eyed woman escaped to the Common Land the village elders followed, larch torches ablaze with righteousness. We don’t talk of it now but the charred gorse remembers.

Day 2 – communicate (25)

We leave the keeper of food many offerings. Mice, voles, wrens. We wrap our tails around her legs in daily supplication. Kill our enemy, we mewl. But Dog lives on.

Day 3 – chief (28)

He smelled of petrichor. It was the chief reason I loved him, why I ignored the sometimes whiff of cherry lipstick and fresh rubber. Day I got Covid I left.

Day 4 – gather (37)

I gather satin shreds of temper to embellish our marriage quilt, sewing over vast squares of cotton boredom, the slender velvet of forgiveness and the last silk ribbon of love.

Day 5 – outcast (23)

A flock of pigeons slow-clapped their way over empty pews. Father Jackson sighed. The Outcast Committee had done its job a little too well. Who would iron his cassock now?

Day 6 – solitary (39)

In the Oakland shopping centre there’s a solitary tree, encircled by concrete acres. Preservation, the developers call it but the oak aches for moss and birdsong and calls it death.

Day 7 – identity (16)

We found thirteen wigs and one fake moustache. Turns out your ‘wife’ is an identity thief, Mr Watkins. I’m afraid you must bid adieu to your collection of dinosaur faeces.

Day 8 build (48)

Three years to build, three hours to sink. Three hundred souls silt-trapped, seaweed shackled under icy sea-black crush. Three hundred siren voices bubble skywards

                    rescue me 

                              rescue me 

                 rescue me

Day 9 – oppression (21)

The attic spirits sing arias at midnight so the basement ghoul screeches untuned Queen while the kitchen poltergeist smashes crockery to the beat. Maude floats upwards. ‘Stop,’ she whispers, ‘stop.’

Day 10 – together (29)

Together we watch the evening slide across the hall. Together we climb the darkening stairs. Your hands tingle with the memory of my skin. I am yours. It’s not enough.

Day 11 – sharing (33)

After the Great Christmas Turkey Debacle they painted a red line across the kitchen. Dad got the oven, Mum the dishwasher. They shared the cat. Happiest they’ve been for years. 

Day 12 – hierarchy (23)

‘Don’t you know who I am?’ King Barnaby’s voice quivered. ‘You can’t – .’ The creature laughed. ‘Oh child,’ it hissed and unfurled its terrible wings, ‘you have so much to learn.’

Day 13 – gang (34)

Midnight. Marauding Piskie gangs skeeterskitter along wainscots. Steal socks, smear light switches, stick up the toilet seat, swoop on sweeties. Skitterskeet home to laundry nests for a good day’s sleep. 

Day 14 – motley (26)

She runs her fingernail across the motley of his bruises.

‘How did you get these?’

He tenses.

‘A door.’ Will he ever get it right? ‘You walked into a door.’

Day 15 feast (25)

In the garden greedy fingers pluck-pluck

pluck and 

sun drenched berries are stuff-stuff

stuffed into glut-crammed ruby maws

perpetual motion paused

as my small ones feast on Autumn

raspberry ripeness

Day 16 – Support (18)

Granny insists Sooz helps stake the dahlias – ‘They’ll flop without support’ . Later, Granny slips a fiver in Sooz’s pocket. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ she murmurs as she hugs Sooz close.

Day 17 – college (32)

My college lover and I meet unexpectedly. He’s bald, bespectacled, besuited. Tells me about his wife and kids, his garden. Touches my arm and I am  giddy, breathless, 19 again

Day 18 – individual (27)

Maverick child. Lone sheriff in a one horse town. Ignore the whispers, little cowboy. Grow up; saddle up; skeddaddle.  Head for big city lights and let your gold star shine.

Day 19 – guest (27)

The guest bedroom was sacrosanct: Do not enter. When Grandma died we found out why. Tiny bones, blanket swaddled. An ink scrawled note. ‘Take care of her. I’m sorry. Goodbye’.

Day 20 – stranger (39)

Today a stranger came to Hurtwood Hall, lemon sharp in the dust-sheet gloom and we, poor mothballed souls, gathered, and inhaled him greedily. Took him in, made him our own. 

Day 21 – ideology (53)

Carrie called her cockatiel Ideology because he parroted words Dad shouted at the telly. Then Ideology escaped and soon birds everywhere were squawking armchair politics. That’s when the trouble began.

Day 22 – adjacent (37)

It’s stupid, every Spring comes with a feeling adjacent to hope. As if I’ll find you around the next corner. Every year, the same dumb longing. Every year. Every year.

Day 23 – ritual (32)

I smashed a mirror (mea culpa) and widdershinned round church (mea culpa) and the now devil’s fast approaching and not even a salt-spattered ritual will protect us (mea maxima cul-

Day 24 – clique (29)

We thought our mohicans made us outcasts but now it’s apparent that any clique is invisible from the inside. 

Poor doomed Claire, all lipgloss and pop-songs. 

If only we’d known. 

Day 25 – initiation (25)

Don the Nose of Novelty and the Long Shoes of Laughter.

Gorge on the Custard Pie of Playfulness.

Honk the horn of hilarity. 

{{Parp}}

Initiation complete. Welcome to Clown school.

Day 26 – native (45)

Penguins aren’t native to Dudley but since the Zoo Riots of ‘24 we’ve found colonies thriving in domestic refrigerators, skating rinks and even, in one instance, an abandoned ice-cream van.

Day 27 – meeting

I’m off to my meeting.’ Ma leaves a perfumed vapour trail. Her floral top notes signal ‘Fresh Start’ but can’t quite mask the stale juniper undertone of ‘Not this Again’.

Day 28 – clan (24)

The office seethed with ancient rivalries.

Clan Cuthbert, keepers of the photocopier. 

Clan Susan, slaves to the stationary cupboard.

United in hatred of feral Clan Harold, holepunch hoarders since 1974.

Day 29 – company (19)

I offered to keep him company the night he left. Wait by his bed for the scrabbling at the window. Help with the latch. Close the curtains once he’d gone.

Day 30 – belong (32)

When the wizard knocked, my wings twitched but I sent him away sharpish. I belong here, with my knitting. Perfectly happy. Perfectly, utterly happy. 

At night, I dream of flying.