Our next meeting will be May 25. The prompt is to create a threefold story (75, 150 and then 300 words). The following is an example:
The Novel Hotel
I’ve long thought that the perfect place to write novels would be an old rundown hotel at the crossroads of a small town. I first got the idea when I wrote poetry at 20 in a room in such a hotel when I was earning tuition money. The plan was that I would rent such a room for a month, and just write, read great authors, eat, and sleep. Surely inspiration would follow. Wouldn’t it?
I’ve long thought that the perfect place for me to write novels would be an old rundown hotel at the crossroads of a small town. My room would be on the top floor, facing the road. I could hear and see the people of the town so I wouldn’t feel too isolated, but I could write interruption-free. I first imagined this scenario when I wrote notepads of poetry the summer I was 20. I had a labouring job that paid for my university tuition. My room was my escape. The local library had a good collection of Hemingway’s writings. I read his books and played the poet.
The dream is now real. My college job gives me summers off. I have rented the ‘perfect’ room in a sufficiently rundown hotel. Inspiration will surely follow. I worry, however, that now that I have found my ideal environment, no ideas will come.
I’ve long thought that the perfect place to write novels would be an old rundown hotel at the crossroads of a small town. It would be on the top floor, facing the crossing roads and the few night town nightlights. I could anonymously hear and see the town below, so I wouldn’t feel too isolated, but I could write without bothersome interruptions. This was a long held dream, originating the summer before my first year of university. I’d forgotten it for long stretches of time, buried beneath my building for a career, but it re-emerged last year when I drove through two of the small towns in which I had seen the kind of hotel that I wanted.
I have found the place. With my college job giving me summers off, I have rented my ‘dream room’ for two months. Surely inspiration will follow. Hemingway here I come. Or will I just sit there rewriting but never moving forward?
The old man and I walk up four flights of steps made shiny by generations of shoes. There never was an elevator in the hotel, even in its dreaming big days. We stepped into the room. He apologized for the state of the room, as it hadn’t been rented in a few years. But it was just what I wanted. I had all that I needed except for inspiration. Now that this was becoming real, I was just beginning to feel a bit worried about that.
Just as the old man was opening the door to leave he said, “You know my grandfather told me that we had a young writer in his 20s here once. He stayed in this very room. He wrote for the Toronto Star*.” I knew that I was in the right place. Its magic was real.
*Ernest Hemingway wrote for the Toronto Star from 1920 to 1924.