I wrote the story below a while back during one of those quick writing exercises I like to do when I’m looking to stir things up creatively. I grabbed a deck of alphabet cards—the same kind I’ve used with younger kids when they’re learning letters—and spread them face up on the table. From that deck, I made the following words: glove, quiz, cope, black, jaw, mix, fix, she, and give.
That was my only guideline: I had to use those words. I set a timer for twenty minutes and just wrote, no plan, no outline, no idea where I was headed. Line by line, I built the story. Afterward, I cleaned it up a bit, but this is basically what poured out during that fast dash of writing.
Here’s the story that came from that word list:
All That Really Matters
She wasn’t happy, not one bit. Trying to cope with what the family now politely called the problem—Randy’s coke addiction—and still keep her head above water with daily chemistry quizzes that felt like black boxing gloves landing square to the jaw. It was relentless.
How did she ever think she could make it to medical school when her brother couldn’t stay out of the hospital long enough for her to breathe, and her chemistry professor treated that class like it was life or death—mostly hers.
“No, Mother, you can’t fix him,” she’d said for the hundredth time that morning over the phone. “You know what they told us at the meeting: ‘You didn’t cause it, you can’t cure it, and you sure can’t control it.’ It’s the family legacy, remember?”
She heard the ice clinking in her mother’s glass—9 a.m.—mixing herself a stiff drink. Another part of that lovely legacy.
So how was she supposed to pass chemistry with Professor Nutcase and all this family chaos? Isn’t this exactly what they warned about in those meetings—letting your family’s mess swallow up your life?
She called Marsha, her best friend. “I could be the poster child for codependence,” she said. “Tell me you’ve got a problem, and I’ll spend more time worrying about it than you will.”
Marsha sniffed. “Can’t talk now. Harold’s calling me into work even though it’s my day off. He’s a jerk, but if I don’t jump when he says jump, I’ll be floating down the river like one of those houses we saw after the dam broke last year.”
“Okay, okay. Go.”
She hung up and looked in the mirror. “Get a grip,” she told herself, noticing the wrinkle cutting into the space between her eyebrows. “Stop scowling. You’re twenty-five. You’re too young to look like this.”
Her dog ran into the room, toenails tapping across the hardwood floor.
“I’m not talking to you,” she said, patting his head. “You don’t get wrinkles.”
The phone rang again—Randy—talking too fast, way too cheerful.
“I told you, don’t call me when you’re high.” She snapped her phone shut and flipped the ringer to silent. She knew how this went—call after call, then he’d show up, acting like she was the problem.
She grabbed her backpack and headed for the door. Time to leave before Randy’s latest performance played out on her front porch. He’d cry, she’d soothe, then he’d get pissed, she’d get madder, and finally he’d storm off to get high again. Then the self-blame would set in, and her mother would chime in with the same old song—if only she’d done this or that differently, precious Randy wouldn’t have needed to use.
“Screw that,” she muttered, stepping outside.
The sky stopped her cold—a spectacular sunset stretched pink and orange across the horizon. Her shoulders eased for the first time that day.
She checked her watch. If she hustled, she could make it to Professor Horrible’s office hours. He was a jerk, but at least when she showed up with questions, he pretended to care.
Locking her door, she spotted the first star of the evening.
“Alright,” she whispered, heading to her car. “Right here, right now, I’m fine. That’s all I can control—and all that really matters.”
Sometimes a handful of random words is all it takes to stir up a story that hits close to home. If you ever need a nudge to get writing, grab some words, set a timer, and let yourself be surprised by what shows up.
Let me know if you try it. You might be amazed what spills onto the page.
20 Minutes a Day 