Noun, Verb, Adjective Writing Activity

Hey y’all, it’s time to bring out an oldie. You know Mad Libs? Well what if that but you have to actually write the story when your friend gives you the adjective “smooshed”?

Description:Everyone writes down two nouns, two verbs, and two adjectives and puts them on little slips of paper to add to the 3 piles (nouns, verbs, adjectives). The piles are mixed and everyone choose one of each pile and writes some work using those three things as inspiration.

You can force yourself to use the words into your piece, or just use them as a jumping off point. Whatever boats your float.

What is Love?


I’m sorry, I had too. But it’s the day after Love day! Now I know not all of my lovely club members like romance as much as I do, but that’s okay. We’re doing love stories today, but that doesn’t mean you can’t add your own flair to it.

Pick one of the following tropes and write a story, poem, etc. using that trope:

  • Enemies to Lovers: When the two leads of a novel start to realize that their feelings of loathing are actually feelings of love. On top of fighting in some other sort of way, they’re fighting their true feelings, which is the best kind of fighting.
  • Childhood Friends: Sweet love is great. It’s fluffy and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. When two friends who’ve known each other since they were kids realize when they’re older that they are hopelessly, madly in love with one another.
  • Slow Burn:  Those quick glances at each other, those meaningful conversations, and finally after the whole winding journey confirm their relationship.
  • Forbidden Love: Here, our couple is attracted to each other, but can’t admit it because of forces that forbid them from being together. But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re in love.
  • Fake Relationship: There comes a time in the life of many a protagonist when they need to pretend to have a significant other.  There are all sorts of reasons to grab a buddy and ask them to pretend to date you. Just know that along the way, there might be awkwardness or even jealousy, and then real feelings might start to creep in. This platonic fake bae might actually be your One True Love.


Cinnamon and Gunpowder

Recommended by Casey Lohman


A gripping adventure, a seaborne romance, and a twist on the tale of Scheherazade—with the best food ever served aboard a pirate’s ship

The year is 1819, and the renowned chef Owen Wedgwood has been kidnapped by the ruthless pirate Mad Hannah Mabbot. He will be spared, she tells him, as long as he puts exquisite food in front of her every Sunday without fail.

To appease the red-haired captain, Wedgwood gets cracking with the meager supplies on board. His first triumph at sea is actual bread, made from a sourdough starter that he leavens in a tin under his shirt throughout a roaring battle, as men are cutlassed all around him. Soon he’s making tea-smoked eel and brewing pineapple-banana cider.

But Mabbot—who exerts a curious draw on the chef—is under siege. Hunted by a deadly privateer and plagued by a saboteur hidden on her ship, she pushes her crew past exhaustion in her search for the notorious Brass Fox. As Wedgwood begins to sense a method to Mabbot’s madness, he must rely on the bizarre crewmembers he once feared: Mr. Apples, the fearsome giant who loves to knit; Feng and Bai, martial arts masters sworn to defend their captain; and Joshua, the deaf cabin boy who becomes the son Wedgwood never had.

Cinnamon and Gunpowder is a swashbuckling epicure’s adventure simmered over a surprisingly touching love story—with a dash of the strangest, most delightful cookbook never written. Eli Brown has crafted a uniquely entertaining novel full of adventure: the Scheherazade story turned on its head, at sea, with food.

Representation Radar: Homosexuality

Hope Writing Accountability Blog: Day 2

Hey-o. I’m not procrastinating. Who said anything about procrastinating? I did my 1,000 words earlier today. Did a whole straight hour something of writing, timed it and everything. Technically in order to enforce a habit I need to do it at the same time everyday, and I will I just have that fog of anxiety. You know the one? Where you had such a good writing session and you can’t open your document afterword? It’s not that I don’t want to write (what else am I going to do?), I just can’t get my brain to wake up and go back to writing. It’s like when I used to swim. I love swimming, I could do it for hours and hours just doing laps, but it’s that moment you realize you have to get in the pool. So I dip my toe in the water to test it and it’s cold and I’m not used to it. And I don’t want to get in cause it’s cold! When load up my document I just stare at the last line I wrote and I feel so lost. Like I knew what I was doing before but now I’ve lost it and I won’t be able to get it back.

It’s why I don’t do a lot of daily goals, I never feel like I can sustain them.

Hope’s Writing Accountability Blog: Day 1

Hey-o, it’s Hope! Your fearful leader! All hail!

So it’s winter break and I want so desperately to finish my manuscript before the end of spring semester. I’d say before the end of winter break, but I know myself. Seeing as I’m so far far away from my fellow club members who inspire me to write, I wanted to create this blog to keep myself on track (and off of Tumblr). So what’s the plan? I’m attempting to write at least 1,000 words a day everyday or finish a whole scene. In order to keep myself on track I will be posting here every Sunday (at least) to give a progress report.

  • I can never commit to a project for a long period of time, so my word count must be from my current manuscript project (labeled in Scrivener as “Gurgle”).
  • In order to keep me from loading up to take days off (there are no days off), the amount missed from 1,000 words per day is to be added to a weekly pool to be finished by the end of the week, or else that amount is to be doubled and rolled onto the next week.
  • In order to keep strict work hours, my internet access is to be restricted to absolute necessities during my writing time. Only to be lifted at ten.
  • I get desert (including chocolate) only after I finish my daily goal. All other snacks are to be fruit and tea.
  • Each week on Sunday I am to give a broad scale hope of what scenes I want to accomplish by the end of the new week, which will be recounted next Sunday.
  • I’m not allowed to go back and edit until I finish the week’s goal.

With all that in mind, I want to schedule in a two week reevaluation of the rules and goals to adjust what is not working for me. Now for my Goal:

  • I’m fairly close to the section I introduce Gurgle in which I will have some stuff I can copy and paste, therefore I want to get to the end of Gurgle’s introduction and her and Tes’ meeting.
  • My stretch goal is the end of Tes’ time in Everbrook
  • My Mega stretch goal is Mabel’s reintroduction.


The WooNoWriMo Diaries 2018 Day 9

Hey y’all,

Wooster Novel Writing Month continues. That’s (w)rite my dudes, we’re still going strong. *Name Redacted* has a strong lead of 9,000 words (What the flip!).

Hope: Wait… It’s 5,000 words?

*Name Redacted*: No, it’s 9,000 words.

HS: *mental math* what the flip?

NR: That’s because I got a really big lead and I’ve been maintaining it.

HS: Yeah… but you’ve been maintaining it.

NR: I guess… Wait, I was being interviewed. You should point out that I was paying absolutely no attention to you because I was playing Minesweeper, which is your fault.

I’m still doing a itty bitty goal of at least 100 words a day, and I’ve resorted to using my dnd campaign as part of my word count. So, I’m still writing a lot I guess.

*Name Redacted* is Blue

Hope is Orange


*Name Redacted*: 1,667 words per day.

Hope: 100+ words per day.

Camp WooNoOutMo April 2018!!!

Hey ya’ll,

*evil laugh*


Sup, it’s Wooster Novel Outlining Month or WooNoOutMo. Specifically Camp WooNoOutMo. As you know, or do not know, NaNoWriMo has a sister program: Camp NaNoWriMo. Basically its diet NaNoWriMo. You get to choose the goal and the form (so actually the acronym is wrong…*sad face*). Therefore as this is the month leading up to Camp WooNoWriMo, March will serve as your time to prepare for the torment which you have saddled yourself with.

If you want to be part of our Camp NaNoWriMo cabin please email me your Camp NaNoWriMo username. We’re going to be doing extra write-ins to discuss our projects and shame each other into writing and CAMP DAY in which we’ll make smores? while we write… at night.

Scenery: Set the stage and fill some time

Hey y’all

This week we’re focusing in on setting. Unless your story takes place in a void space (and even then now that I think about of it), you will need to describe your setting. So we’re starting the meeting by spending 5-10 minutes just focusing in on knitty-gritty details of your environment before we do anything with plot affecting actions, dialogue, or anything in the case of the story. We are merely describing the setting, whether or not this is actually a part of your story or just for your own benefit.

Things to keep in mind:

  • Time of day, weather, ground?, walls?, things in the space, cultural significance of the place, topography, etc.
  • Use your senses. Not just your eyes and your memory, what does it smell like? Feel like? What’s the air like? What does it taste like? Why are you licking the ground?
  • Why are you here? How did you get here? Is this a restricted place or an open space? Are there extra non-significant characters around, why? Are there none? Why?
  • What would your character notice? What would they probably not think about that is important for your readers to know about anyway?
  • In what order would your character notice these things? Is there something that enwraps their attention? Are they moving in this space?
  • Is there something about this space that you want to keep secret for a reveal? It’s best not to leave these things in the ether for a deus ex machina reveal.

Start the year off on a bad foot.

We started our stories with a bad line this week:


“Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories.”

“As the dark and mysterious stranger approached, Angela bit her lip anxiously, hoping with every nerve, cell, and fiber of her being that this would be the one man who would understand – who would take her away from all this – and who would not just squeeze her boob and make a loud honking noise, as all the others had.”

“The fairies of Minglewood, which is near Dingly Pool, were having a grand revel with flower-cakes, and butterfly dances, looking ever so pretty, while Queen Bellaflora swept her wand o’er the waterfall’s foam, making it pop like the snot-bubbles on your baby sister’s face.”

“Betty had eyes that said come here, lips that said kiss me, arms and torso that said hold me all night long, but the rest of her body said, “Fillet me, cover me in cornmeal, and fry me in peanut oil”; romance wasn’t easy for a mermaid.”

“On reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.”

“It was such a beautiful night; the bright moonlight illuminated the sky, the thick clouds floated leisurely by just above the silhouette of tall, majestic trees, and I was viewing it all from the front row seat of the bullet hole in my car trunk.”

“As the sun dropped below the horizon, the safari guide confirmed the approaching cape buffaloes were herbivores, which calmed everyone in the group, except for Herb, of course.”

““Hmm …” thought Abigail as she gazed languidly from the veranda past the bright white patio to the cerulean sea beyond, where dolphins played and seagulls sang, where splashing surf sounded like the tintinnabulation of a thousand tiny bells, where great gray whales bellowed and the sunlight sparkled off the myriad of sequins on the flyfish’s bow ties, “time to get my meds checked.””

“He swaggered into the room (in which he was now the “smartest guy”) with a certain Wikipedic insouciance, and without skipping a beat made a beeline towards Dorothy, busting right through her knot of admirers, and she threw her arms around him and gave him a passionate though slightly tickly kiss, moaning softly, “Oooohh, Scarecrow!””

“On their first date he’d asked how much she thought Edgar Allan Poe’s toe nails would sell for on eBay, and on their second he paid for subway fair with nickels he fished out of a fountain, but he was otherwise charming and she thought that they could have a perfectly tolerable life together.”

“Like a mechanic who forgets to wipe his hands on a shop rag and then goes home, hugs his wife, and gets a grease stain on her favorite sweater – love touches you, and marks you forever.”

“Leopold looked up at the arrow piercing the skin of the dirigible with a sort of wondrous dismay – the wheezy shriek was just the sort of sound he always imagined a baby moose being beaten with a pair of accordions might make.”

“The professor looked down at his new young lover, who rested fitfully, lashed as she was with duct tape to the side of his stolen hovercraft, her head lolling gently in the breeze, and as they soared over the buildings of downtown St. Paul to his secret lair he mused that she was much like a sweet ripe juicy peach, except for her not being a fuzzy three-inch sphere produced by a tree with pink blossoms and that she had internal organs and could talk.”

“As she slowly drove up the long, winding driveway, Lady Alicia peeked out the window of her shiny blue Mercedes and spied Rodrigo the new gardener standing on a grassy mound with his long black hair flowing in the wind, his brown eyes piercing into her very soul, and his white shirt open to the waist, revealing his beautifully rippling muscular chest, and she thought to herself, “I must tell that lazy idiot to trim the hedges by the gate.””

“Gerald began – but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash – to pee.”

“Colin grabbed the switchgear and slammed the spritely Vauxhall Vixen into a lower gear as he screamed through the roundabout heading toward the familiar pink rowhouse in Puking-On-The-Wold, his mind filled with the image of his comely Olive, dressed in some lacy underthing, waiting on the couch with only a smile and a cucumber sandwich, hoping that his lunch hour would provide sufficient time for both a naughty little romp and a digestive biscuit.”

“He was a dark and stormy knight, and this excited Gwendolyn, but admittedly not as much as last night when he was Antonio Banderas in drag, or the night before that when he was a French Legionnaire who blindfolded her and fed her pommes frites from his kepi.”

“Corinne considered the colors (palest green, gray and lavender) and texture (downy as the finest velvet) and wondered, “How long have these cold cuts been in my refrigerator?””

“Chain-smoking as he stood in the amber glow of the street lamp, he gazed up at the brownstone wherein resided Bunny Morgan, and thought how like a bunny Bunny was, though he had read somewhere that rabbits were coprophages, which meant that they ate their own feces, which was really disgusting now that he thought about it, and nothing like Bunny, at least he hoped not, so on second thought Bunny wasn’t like a bunny after all, but she still was pretty hot.”

“When Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday, his children packed his bags and drove him to Golden Pastures retirement complex just off Interstate 95.”

“Before they met, his heart was a frozen block of ice, scarred by the skate blades of broken relationships, then she came along and like a beautiful Zamboni flooded his heart with warmth, scraped away the ugly slushy bits, and dumped them in the empty parking lot of his soul.”

“As I gardened, gazing towards the autumnal sky, I longed to run my finger through the trail of mucus left by a single speckled slug – innocuously thrusting past my rhododendrons – and in feeling that warm slime, be swept back to planet Alderon, back into the tentacles of the alien who loved me.”

“Joe would have been perfect for her if he wasn’t the worst.”

“I never did like the word spoon.”

“He wondered if someone had cut the brake line, but when he placed his foot down, the car stopped.”

“’Why are you wearing that hat?’ she asked, which prompted me to think, “’Why am I wearing this hat?’”

“The elven city of Losstii faced towering sea cliffs and abutted rolling hills that in the summer were covered with blankets of flowers and in the winter were covered with blankets, because the elves wanted to keep the flowers warm and didn’t know much at all about gardening. ”

“Franco’s wife, seen smiling in all those photos with the same big hat on, was actually the brains behind the dictatorship, the concentration camps, torture, the brutal suppression, and so forth, but she was a shy lady, except when she dressed up in the binding closet for Franco, who listened a-quiver to hear what a very bad boy he’d been.”

“As Lewiston Creol plummeted down the sheer icy cliff he pondered on the word plummet, which quickly lost its meaning if you said it too much (plummet plummet plummet), but his pondering was interrupted by the surface of the water, at which point he ceased to plummet and began to plunge.”

“As he lay dying on the smoke-wreathed battlefield, General Winthrop finally realized the terrible toll the war had taken, and he wondered if the bloodshed had all been for naught as he exhaled his last breath in a sort of “meoooooh,” actually very similar to the sound his cat Mister Jingles made when he wanted some food or was doing that thing with the drapes.”

“Detective Sam Steel stood at the crime scene staring puzzled at the chalk outline of Ms. Mulgrave’s body which was really just a stick figure with a dress, curly hair, boobs, and a smiley face because the police chalk guy had the day off.”

“The warehouse was completely empty except for the mutilated corpse wearing a tuxedo covered with bloodstains, and a Mortimer Snerd dummy lying nearby on the floor, and Detective McIntosh knew Snerd wouldn’t talk.”

“As hard-boiled detective Max Baxter ate his soft-boiled egg, he thought about the gorgeous dame he’d found last night lying in a pool of her own blood—it being inconvenient to lie in a pool of someone else’s blood—and wondered how she liked her eggs.”

“As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the echo chamber he would never hear the end of it.”

“With a curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, a tanned, unblemished oval face framed with lustrous thick brown hair, deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, Marilee had a beauty that defied description.”

“Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept along the east wall: “Andre creep … Andre creep … Andre creep.”

“Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then penguins often do.”

“Like an overripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor.”

“Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn’t know the meaning of the word “fear,” a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death — in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies.”

“The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the green sward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window, revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog’s deception, screaming madly, “You lied!”

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”



Are Your Hands Wet?