Odd Jobs: A Writing Prompt
A guest writing prompt from Jena Schwartz
Writing prompts can inspire us. They can spark creative magic and generate new ideas. They help us practice our craft and boost our confidence.
Whether we identify as “writers” or not, prompts can allow us to work through memories, ideas, and road blocks. When we “think on paper,” we explore parts of ourselves that we might not get to in our ordinary lives.
Throughout the years, we’ve led many prompt-based writing groups, and we are always on the lookout for prompts that inspire us as well. In our own writing circles, we’ve long known that
as the “queen of writing prompts” who’s run her own groups and published collections of prompts over the years.When we learned that Jena was about to publish a new collection Fierce Encouragement: 201 Writing Prompts for Staying Grounded in Fragile Times, we approached her and asked if she’d like to collaborate and lead a writing group together, using her prompts.
We’re thrilled to announce that this writing group “Blossom” will begin next week on Monday, May 12th.
We’ll write together for three weeks, three prompts each week. The prompts will be posted in our private forum, and you’ll receive feedback and encouragement from us, and, more importantly, form connections with other midlife women. The prompts are based on a section of Jena’s book called “Blossom,” appropriately titled for spring.
Learn more about the group HERE.
Want a sneak peek of one of Jena’s prompts from Fierce Encouragement. Here’s a prompt from another section of the book:
ODD JOBS
“There's a difference between writing for a living and writing for life. If you write for a living, you make enormous compromises… If you write for life, you'll work hard; you'll do what's honest, not what pays” – Toni Morrison
What's the oddest job you've ever had? Were you the kid with the lemonade stand? The teenager who babysat and threw newspapers onto porches from her bike before school? Did you wait tables or strip beds or make copies in your uncle's law firm or shovel driveways?
Later, did you following a calling and call it work, or did dreams take the back burner to putting food on the table? Did you marry rich (as my mother used to suggest) or work three jobs? Did you put yourself through school or get a monthly check from your parents? Are you a generous tipper? Do you need to get out a calculator, or do you do the math in your head? Have you ever said, “I quit!” and walked out without giving notice? Have you ever given too much notice? When did you leap? I want to hear about the golden handcuffs and the times you scrimped and saved and the best job you ever had and why.
Our work stories are such a powerful lens through which to track our journeys to here. One night, as he was drifting off, Pearl said he was thinking of having his own store. It would be called something like “The Strong Survival Store” (Strong is his last name and it’s perfect here), and he'd sell items required for living in the wilderness. Aviva, on the other hand, wanted to do a Kickstarter campaign to raise money for her debut CD. One weekend, they made nine dollars each washing my father's car. I've been paid to walk a poet's dogs, to pass hors d'oeuvres, to steam milk and to change diapers and to write newsletters and to show up and sit there looking like I cared.
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Your Writing Prompt: Tell me one of your odd jobs. Go with your first thought. This might be hilarious or harrowing. Anything goes.
💬 We would love for you to write for 10 minutes and then post your writing in the comments!
When I was a senior in high school I worked for a very short time at a pierogi factory. I had tired of taking orders at McDonalds wearing polyester and hostessing for a colonial restaurant donning a bust-pushing colonial gown. In my plaid Catholic school uniform I announced to my gang of gal pals at the lunch table, "I want to work with my hands!" The pierogi factory job materialized, I cannot remember from where. I imagined myself, floured hands deep in egg and flour, forming small pockets of dough enveloping lumps of potato. I pictured the owner, a kind Polish woman, commenting on my skill and inviting me to eat cozy lunches at her home. I even imagined her leaving me the business, and my business prowess and work ethic (both figments of my over-active imagination) would lead me to an incredible, unexpected career in the pierogi business.
My mother was skeptical. "Keep your other jobs," she said as she steered the car to the factory, casting a side glance at my slouched in the passenger seat form.
"Call me if it's not good," she added right before I slammed the door.
The factory lady was not present for my first day. Instead, two early twenties, somewhat unfriendly, pale young men were in charge of my training. They immediately gave me the, "I shouldn't be alone with these guys" kind of feel. I crossed my arms over my pink Guess tee shirt as I regretted my choice of denim mini skirt and Candies sneaks. This was the 80s and my outfit was standard for outside of school. I had not considered the appropriate clothing for factory work.
One of the young men disappeared in the backs emerging with an apron and what looked like a shower cap while the other stood, stoned eyes rolling over my teenage frame. Wordlessly I put on the gear and followed one of their pointed fingers to a sink full of dirty with old dough mixing tubs. They left me there, scrubbing them down, occasionally spraying myself with water while intermittently pulling my tee shirt and skirt down. My hands were working, but not in the way I had dreamed. When one of the young men told me it was time to break I jumped out of my skin and hustled out of the cool space into the sunshine. I darted to a payphone and worked my fingers on the buttons, summoning my mother to come save me.
“Go with your first thought,” she said. I enjoyed this immensely and will continue to work it into a vignette for my Substack.
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For three summers while I was in high school, I detassled corn. It was a relief from babysitting, working at the local Dairy Creme, or waiting tables.
There were two companies to work for, so we always scouted which one was paying the highest hourly rate for those few short weeks, and went with them, although sometimes one company finished earlier than the other, and then we ran to sign on to the straggler crew to eke out a few more bucks. We fell into teams ranging from ten to sometimes thirty or forty hardy individuals.
It was a strange camaraderie. Since everyone had the same working conditions—sweltering Iowa weather—we were all on the same footing. People who would never have anything to do with you when school was in session became your friend, or champion if they were more experienced, but no one lorded it over another.
I laugh now as I recall our questionable hydration hygiene. Everyone was thirsty, so many brought big thermos jugs of water and passed them around for all to consume. Working hard together, and sitting in a circle on the ground sharing stories and life-sustaining water created a tightly-held esprit de corps. We always went home tired but happy—our bodies were spent, but our eyes still sparkled when we thought of the next day’s interaction.
When we returned to school that fall, there were a few nods of recognition the first few days, but they faded quickly, and the normal social order was restored.