Once, while in an Uber, the driver asked me what I did, and I blurted out that I was a writer. It was the first time that I had ever admitted to being a writer to anyone. Usually, I said that I was a mom or worked for my husband or worked for a medical practice. I used to write in secret, hiding my work in computer files or journals that I buried in the recesses of my cabinet drawers. But on that day, I was traveling to the convention hall for an AWP conference, and I felt part of the writers’ community. I recognized that there are different paths to being a writer, and my unconventional and delayed course didn’t discount me from being a writer. Writers write. That’s it. That’s the criteria.
For this month’s writing prompt, imagine that your character is sitting on their porch. Think about what they’re doing and what they fixate on? A stranger pulls up in front of the house. What happens next?