Update: I thought I posted this but evidently it got lost in the chaos of the times. My opinion of the public library has only increased since the Pandemic started last March. LAPL offers tons of free online classes and other resources plus individual branches still have writing club events via Zoom. The recent article in the Los Angeles Times--"How do you go to the Los Angeles Public Library when COVID-19 has closed its buildings? It’s easy, fun and surprisingly comforting" (9/26/20)--highlights some of the Los Angeles Public Library's offerings, and other local library systems, including Los Angeles County most likely have similar programs. 

Here's my original post from August 2019:

Recently, I started taking an online writing class through Gale (free for anyone who has a City of Los Angeles Public Library or County of Los Angeles Public Library card!). The class is called "Writeriffic: Creativity Training for Writers" and is taught by the prolific writer Eva Shaw.

Every week, she gives students a short but thoughtful writing assignment to help stretch underused or out-of-practice creativity muscles. Last week, we had to write up to 250 words about a color. That sounds fairly simple, except it had to be in the first person--writing from the color's perspective-- and we had to use a thesaurus (either online or print) to help us come up with different words for the color. 

I encourage anyone interested in creative writing, new to creative writing, or returning to creative writing after a long break to check out her classes, which you can find here. She teaches writing classes, too, including travel writing and writing your life story.
The public library has so many free online classes through different vendors, you could probably spend years learning new subjects or updating skills you learned in school. And since the classes are free and you can choose how little or how much you want to participate, it's a pretty low commitment.  
While your pondering whether or not to take a class, enjoy my short essay about the color brown. 

"Brown"
I am brown--warm, rich, inviting. Anyone who says I’m boring doesn’t know the real me. I’m the mud brown that squishes between your toes. I’m the beige of warm beach sand underneath your feet. I’m the woody brown of tree bark. I’m the black-brown of loam, bountiful and earthy, as you dig in your garden. I’m the bittersweet brown of a chocolate bar, luxurious and sweet. On a hot summer’s day, dive into a light brown chocolate ice cream cone, sticky and melting in rivulets down your fingers. I’m the color of hot chocolate warming on the stove on a rainy afternoon. I’m the java brown smell of coffee brewing early in the morning. I am brown, a color as deep and old as the Earth.

Bad Dreams During the Pandemic

About three months ago, I noticed an uptick in the amount of vivid, disturbing dreams I was having each night. I've had nightmares since I was a kid. (I still remember many of them, some of which had themes and sequels, especially one about an avalanche and the stereotypical plane crash nightmare I still have every so often.)

Since then, I've read on social media many people having bad dreams, so I knew that this trend wasn't just affecting me. 

So I wasn't completely surprised when I read a prompt for the Flash in the Pandemic's website for May 1, 2020, which you can find here, titled "Corona Dreaming." I submitted it and decided to re-post it on my blog. Then I let it sit for a couple of months, but it's still valid. And I keep having weird dreams of being in public and seeing people wearing masks (or not, and me wondering why). 

Late for Work

Last night in quarantine, I dreamed of walking down a hallway

lined with chipped beige Formica desks and plastic chairs like

those in a schoolroom.

I stagger down the hallway, the brown and white swirled

linoleum tile dusty, clutching my laptop under one arm. Where

should I sit. I’m late for something, but what? A work meeting

that began at 8:30 a.m. The clock on the wall with its black hands

points at 8 and 9.

Where should I sit? I pass elementary school-sized desks

with three and four adults sitting at them,

all squished together, their knees and shoulders touching.

They sit too close to each other, ignoring the invisible danger.

 

I see a desk at the end of the hallway with only one person, a woman whose back faces me. She has curly dark hair and types, hunched over her keyboard. I pause. Do I know her from work? Smudges of purple and blue ink stain the desktop next to her, but it’s the only desk with a free chair. The woman motions to the empty seat. I hesitate. The clock hands move forward, and I have already missed half my meeting. Which is worse, the invisible threat pursuing me or being late to work and losing my job?

#flashinthepandemic

Since I'll never be published, I might as well post my stories here . . .

I've decided to share my stories here for now in a small attempt to create something positive while many of us are still governed by some kind of stay-at-home order.

My thoughts are with those affected by the pandemic and whose lives have been altered forever by it. 

This flash fiction piece was inspired by today's prompt on the "Flash in the Pandemic" website, which you can find here.
#flashinthepandemic

"Wordlessness"

The room danced around her as she adjusted her glasses. Words few off the page, lit by a bluish-green bio-luminescent glow. “Stranger” turned into “stinger,” and “flower” morphed into “flute," the letters fluttering around her head like a ring of fairies. She swallowed. Why were words flying around the room, changing from “terrified” to “Terra,” “death” to dearth,” and “receive” to “conceive”? She placed the paper on the table, her hands trembling, took off her glasses, and gasped. The lenses shimmered like sunlight on ocean waves. 

Someone must be playing a joke on her. But who? She lived alone, stranded in her desert isle of an apartment by this pandemic. Someone, somehow had switched her pair of sensible reading glasses for these strange legumes. No, she meant lenses. The foam, no frames--thin silver wire frames tinged green with age--looked the same as the pair she’d worn for yearns. Years. Yes, that was concise--no, correct. She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. Now she was thinking in malapropisms. If this pendulum didn’t send soon, she might become permanently muddied.