“I would rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on earth.”
Steve Mcqueen
I let my subscriptions to various magazines expire, too many things to read, school, lack of funds. The one I miss the most is The Sun Magazine. If you haven’t read it you can order a copy or a subscription online or just peruse the website to get a feel for the writing style. It is a literary magazine that is a keeper. My back issues sit in a willow basket next to my writing desk. I hope to be published in it one of these days. One of my favorite parts of the magazine is Readers Write. The themes are published online and in the magazine six months in advance. There is no pay for contributing to this section, just fame. The next theme is The Middle of Nowhere, the deadline March 1.
Today,you are in the middle of nowhere in a small hotel. Describe the room you’re in and what you see out the window. What do you hear? What do you notice? What details would you write about in the middle of nowhere?
Use this as a warm-up exercise for The Sun submission. The Sun only accepts non-fiction for Readers Write and the competition is fierce but in the Year of the Ox you forge ahead. Now get back to work!
Lovingly,
The Writing Nag
In the interest of de-cluttering and sharing my love of The Sun I will send a much loved, gently read back copy of The Sun to the first five people who send me their warm-up exercise on In the Middle of Nowhere. Send your exercise as a comment. U.S. only please.
I haven’t thought about The Sun in years. I thought it wasn’t being published any more. Will have to check it out and see what’s going on these days. Thanks.
Looks like a field near where I live. Only of course, where I live if you turn around you’ll find “stuff”. Hmm, is it always reframing?
I’m in the middle of nowhere, on my way to somewhere. Not sure where, just anywhere else.
The room is one of those refuges for cast-off furniture and stained sheets, just right for cast-off people. I sit at the small desk with the wobbly leg and think about others like me, people who’ve stopped at this way station between yesterday and tomorrow.
How many farewell notes? How many falsely cheerful postcards back home? “Wish you were here” they say, but no. Not here.
I lose myself in thoughts of other people I’ll never know, trying not to hear the couple on the other side of the thrift-store art fastened to the flimsy wall. The angry voices, the sudden sobs remind me of what life once was, before I saw the bottom and swam to the surface, gasping for breath.
“Get out!” I urge the woman. “Get out while you can still find your way back to yourself.” But of course she can’t hear me, since I’m really talking to myself.
I poke my fingers between the dusty blinds so I can look out on the parking lot, all glittering glass and flattened hopes. The headlights of a passing car show me the highway to somewhere else. I grab my car keys and my courage, and open the door to tomorrow.
Thanks Rhonda, that is beautiful! It’s one of those pieces I can read again and again.