Wanna-be-writers welcome. Always. Because we all are. <–Click to Tweet this
This is where a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing ‘em over here.
How to Join:
Want to know how Five Minute Friday got started and how to participate? All the details are here.
Featured Five Minute Friday:
And every week I’ll pick a post that caught my eye and share it down there in my side bar – see where it says “Featured #FiveMinuteFriday”? Yea -that could be you! Hop on over and visit some folk who make fireworks in just five minutes. They inspire me.
Meet the #FMFParty Writers:
And did you know there’s a whole community of writers that connect online before the prompt goes live on Friday nights? They use the Twitter hashtag #FMFParty and are about the most encouraging group around.
Now, set your timer, clear your head, for five minutes of free writing without worrying about getting it right.
1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..
Oh and Ahem, if you would take pity and turn off comment verification, it would make leaving some love on your post that much easier for folks!
OK, are you ready? Please give us your best five minutes on:::
I’m the busiest I’ve ever been. Full time job, a big writing project, kids, kids, kids, after school stuff, pick ups, drop offs, blogging, planning, dreaming, traveling. Sometimes I have to fight the voice in the my head that laughs at my life and raises an eyebrow at this zoo. I reject that. Quietly, I lean back into the God who has called me to this time and place. It doesn’t need to make sense from the outside, it just needs to fit into the palm of Peter’s hand. As we lay under the duvet at night and he whispers an exhausted prayer over my head. Or as we pass at the door, him on the way back from work, me out the door to write, write, write. I have a book burning in my heart and my mind and it so badly wants to come running out my fingers that are otherwise occupied with other deadlines.
But on a Thursday late afternoon I have a cup of hot hazelnut coffee in front of me and a quiet corner to spill out this story that is the one I feel called to write. And there’s rest in that. There’s peace in the following, when your name is called. And you’re convicted to come, to brave, to tell. There’s rightness and welcome and home in the doing. Even if it isn’t a season of rest.
Even if it looks and feels busy. Sometimes the doing the thing we feel made, built, prepared to do – that is it’s own gift of rest. In the moment and sometimes in a pool of sunshine at a corner table in Panera.