Tuesday Morning Warm-Up??
jbknowles ‘s Monday Morning Warm-Up:
Describe the first time you held hands with someone. Where were you? How old were you? What did the person look like? Did you (or the other person) ask, or just grab hold? How long did it take for your hands to get sweaty? Did you want to let go? What were you thinking when your fingers first touched? If you don't want to talk about your own personal experience, consider writing the scene from a character's point of view in your WIP. Have fun. I want details! Well, you know what I mean. Make us feel what you felt.
OK, so it’s Tuesday. Um. . .the dog ate my homework? But do I get extra points for time? (it’s 4:50 am) No? No extra points awarded for insomnia? OK. Well here it is anyway.
As we walked along the beach, shoes in hand, the cold wet sand squished between our toes. I was thirteen and he was fifteen. He had black wavy hair and dark brown eyes. And I remember his eyelashes. He had long thick eyelashes. They were beautiful. We had just come from the movie GREASE where he had kissed me. A little kiss. But a kiss. My first kiss. Karen and Michael were way ahead of us by now. After a few minutes, he reached down with his right hand and grabbed my left hand. Neither of us spoke. We just continued walking. It felt awkward at first. To have a boy holding my hand. But after I got used to the feel of our interlocking fingers, it felt good. Really good.
Karen and I had about an hour before her parents expected us back at the cottage. She and Michael had found their spot on the beach. We walked past them and found our own. We talked. And kissed. And listened to the waves crash down upon the shore. I could have stayed there with him all night. But Karen yelled that it was time to go. He helped me up and never let go of my hand. The whole way back to the cottage he held my hand. I didn’t want to let go. Ever. He kissed my hand before letting go of it to hug and kiss me goodnight. We made plans for the next day.
Lying in bed that night, a much more experienced Karen asked, “So, did you make out with him?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “He kissed me once in the movies, but then a lot on the beach?”
“Did he French kiss you?” She asked.
“He held my hand. A lot. And kissed my hand.”
“Cute, you held hands, but did he French kiss you?” She asked again, impatiently waiting for the answer.
“Yeah, we French kissed. A little. But he held my hand.”
My summer romance fizzled. Karen and I are still great friends. And. . . he held my hand.
Describe the first time you held hands with someone. Where were you? How old were you? What did the person look like? Did you (or the other person) ask, or just grab hold? How long did it take for your hands to get sweaty? Did you want to let go? What were you thinking when your fingers first touched? If you don't want to talk about your own personal experience, consider writing the scene from a character's point of view in your WIP. Have fun. I want details! Well, you know what I mean. Make us feel what you felt.
OK, so it’s Tuesday. Um. . .the dog ate my homework? But do I get extra points for time? (it’s 4:50 am) No? No extra points awarded for insomnia? OK. Well here it is anyway.
As we walked along the beach, shoes in hand, the cold wet sand squished between our toes. I was thirteen and he was fifteen. He had black wavy hair and dark brown eyes. And I remember his eyelashes. He had long thick eyelashes. They were beautiful. We had just come from the movie GREASE where he had kissed me. A little kiss. But a kiss. My first kiss. Karen and Michael were way ahead of us by now. After a few minutes, he reached down with his right hand and grabbed my left hand. Neither of us spoke. We just continued walking. It felt awkward at first. To have a boy holding my hand. But after I got used to the feel of our interlocking fingers, it felt good. Really good.
Karen and I had about an hour before her parents expected us back at the cottage. She and Michael had found their spot on the beach. We walked past them and found our own. We talked. And kissed. And listened to the waves crash down upon the shore. I could have stayed there with him all night. But Karen yelled that it was time to go. He helped me up and never let go of my hand. The whole way back to the cottage he held my hand. I didn’t want to let go. Ever. He kissed my hand before letting go of it to hug and kiss me goodnight. We made plans for the next day.
Lying in bed that night, a much more experienced Karen asked, “So, did you make out with him?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “He kissed me once in the movies, but then a lot on the beach?”
“Did he French kiss you?” She asked.
“He held my hand. A lot. And kissed my hand.”
“Cute, you held hands, but did he French kiss you?” She asked again, impatiently waiting for the answer.
“Yeah, we French kissed. A little. But he held my hand.”
My summer romance fizzled. Karen and I are still great friends. And. . . he held my hand.