From: One Year to a Writing Life by Susan M. Tiberghien [B&N | Amazon]. Lesson One: Journal Writing

So why journal? Here are some of the reasons.

— To establish the habit of writing (A writer writes.)

— To capture memories (places, characters, conversations, events)

— To discover what you think and feel (each time going deeper)

— To find your voice (When does your writing sound the most natural? Look at your entries to see at what time of day and in what place you write most easily. Track your writing habits.)

— To take risks (in a private place)

— To plant seeds for stories (move from image to story)

I’ve decided to try and flesh out my character in my original fiction novel a little bit.

Title: [Tentative] Caged Bird Singing- Journal Entry
Fandom or Original Universe: Original Fiction YA Novel
Rating: PG
Word count:889
Brief summary: Richelle Nelson is a caged bird, trapped between wanting to please her parents and walk the path that all her siblings have walked before her and striking out on her own into the possibility of more than the simple life in an Atlanta suburb could offer.
Brief warnings: None
Writing Prompt: January OYTAWL Challenge

~*~

Hey Girl,

So, they were doing it again. Talking about me. They talk in those hushed voices that they think no one else can hear. They must forget that all of the walls in this house are paper thin. If I stand in the laundry room, I can hear every word, plain as day, in the bedroom right upstairs.

I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, though. Mama and I had one of our “struggles,” as she likes to call them. She got mad and stomped upstairs to bed. I worked at the record store tonight, and it was stocking night, so I was dead tired. Mama told me to iron some clothes, because Regina was already in bed and that pissed me off.

So I was ironing clothes for the twins to wear to school tomorrow when I heard the bed creaking. Dad said something about the frown on Mama’s face, and she answered back, “…Richelle. Talking back again… thinks she’s grown. Not living in my house, she’s not. I just won’t have it.”

Dad said, “What’s she talking back about, now?”

“I asked her to take care of the twins’ clothes for tomorrow. She talkin’ about how thought Regina should have done it. I didn’t ask Regina to do it. I asked Richelle to do it.”

I almost laughed when Dad asked what was wrong with Regina’s arms. That’s the same question I asked Mama. She answered him back, using his name, Charles, like she always does when she gets mad. She said the point was that she told me to do something, and it didn’t matter what Regina was doing or had already done.

Then she said something about me quitting Spelman and coming back home to freeload. I had to try hard not to throw that iron across the room.

My face was on fire, I was so mad, all over again. Mama don’t never listen what I got to say! The only thing she cares about is what she wants and her plans for me and how I’m messing everything up. I wish she could just understand that I don’t want to go to Spelman and become a teacher or a doctor or a nurse. I wish she could hear me when I talk about what I really want to do. Dad can hear me. She can too, she just don’t want to.

I heard Dad say, “Leave the girl alone. She don’t want to back to school and we can’t make her. At least she’s not wasting tuition money, failing classes and getting kicked out.”

I heard the bed thump. It does that if you flop on it too hard. I could just imagine Mama being pissy like she does when Dad doesn’t agree with what she says about me. She says they have to be united front. Dad always agrees, but then argues with her when it comes to me.

Dad and I have the same gift, so I feel like he gets me. That’s how he met Mama, and it’s strange how she just loved for him to sing and play the piano or the saxophone back then, but now? Now that they’re what she calls “distinguished”– which must not be a big deal, because all they do is teach– unless he’s in the choir stand at Mt. Olive, she don’t want no part in Dad singing. He can’t even play backup for Mr. Harold’s Jazz Foursome anymore.

I couldn’t catch what Dad was saying, something about me being stubborn and how if she fought me, I would fight back. I was nodding right along. Sure enough, I would.

Mama’s voice was kind of muffled, like she was talking into a pillow. I think she said, “I’m just not fighting about this one. I want her to do better. I want more for her than she wants for herself.”

And just like that, I was hot again. Mama don’t even know what I want for myself! How can she want better than I want for me?

I want the BEST for myself. I want to try out for that show that’s doing auditions next week at “Spin It”. And if I make it, and they like my voice, I’ll get to be on TV, in front of millions of people. And maybe get a record contract and record an album and travel the world. Once everybody knows my name, Mama will act all humble, talking about how I liked to pave my own way, except she won’t say it like it’s a bad thing anymore.

I bet she’d be proud of me once everyone knows my name, our name. Then I’ll come back here to this house that they’ve filled up with kids and buy them a bigger house and a van that doesn’t keep knocking and sighing after you turn the dag on’ thing off.

And then maybe Mama would see that singing isn’t such a bad thing and she’d let Dad sing some, too.

Now tell me, Mama. Will sitting in a classroom get me all of that?

I didn’t think so!