By Liz Regan

“You have fifteen minutes to write a story in the third person point of view. Begin now.”     The writers scramble to position their keyboards, papers, pens, eager to launch their electrifying tales—all except one—Tabula Rasa.
“Anyone home?” she thumps her forehead.  No response, empty, a whirl of dust bunnies. Tabula Rasa wipes her brow, scattering droplets.  She’s new to the writing class, a toddler among the mature. Third person POV?  She reminds herself, a story told through the eyes of the main character.  Tabula doodles a hangman. She frowns, grasping for a start. Panic looms.
Tabula studies the writers sitting around the table. The man next to her is Homerun Writer Ace. He wields writing much like a homerun hitter wields a baseball bat. His digits sprint across the keyboard, the words chiding his fingers to move faster. The Ace once shared an account of a lad who lived a B+ life but had A- moments. The youth sat in a tree playing his guitar. A hippy girl came by, climbed up and joined him with her guitar. Together they strummed chords and sang Leonard Cohen and Judy Collins. The lad asked her to dinner. The girl accepted. Maybe they married. The Ace didn’t say. Continue reading Nightwriters:15 Minutes in Purgatory →