When in doubt just write anything.
I see you sitting over there squinting at this prompt. Something about it…it's…it's just…it's not singing. Or you're looking at that temp gauge and remembering you wanted an iced coffee. Or neither. Or both. Or some secret third thing.
The point is, this writing prompt is causing writing of no sort whatsoever in your fingers, heart, or brain and yeah that coffee sounds pretty good right now but before you go — cause yeah, I agree, a brew would be ideal — STOP WHERE YOU ARE.
If Writing Is Hard CHEW IT
By that I mean this: take a tiny bite. Do not write a paragraph, a page, a story, do not write anything at all before that coffee except this:
One sentence.
That's it. Then you can caffeine up, sing a song, shout back at crows, whatever you like.
More
Writing Stage Fright: It'll Never Be This Hard Again
A Dark Tunnel (writing prompt)
I do this with weight lifting. If I'm not in the mood I tell myself this: "put the clothes on and simply pick up one dumbbell; after that you can go scream at crows."
It turns out the problem isn't the weights it's the lack of momentum. So I give myself a sly bit of a push — with permission to swear and bunk off from exercise if I really ain't feeling it — and almost always that push produces momentum.
So you've looked at the prompt here and you're all up in a whole lot of "Meh," and the barista at the cafe is cute and yeah, go, gooooo.
But write one sentence about something before you do. The birds gathering, the hush of this morning, the beauty of your cat's fur as she lays in the sun anything.
Starting is always the hardest part.
Let these prompts start you.
Then, if you're moved, share them in the comments (which I must moderate due to spam so be patient please) and come back next week for the next prompt.
Now go smile at that barista and I'm spiritually clinking my chilled glass with yours.
Later we'll chuck the crows some seeds or something.
Scaredy Cat — loved your fill! Love all of these!
This got a bit long – I had far too much fun with it!
“They gather in the quiet darkness of Serena’s living room…” David, the tutor, read out to the class. The first seven words were announced as dramatically as you like, while the rest were spoken as though he’d found a cat’s hair in his teacup. I did my best to look like I wasn’t wishing the worn and faded grey carpet would open its mouth and swallow me whole. “This is the opening to a horror, Chelsea.” The italics were audible. “You want to grab your reader hard with the first line, then leave them guessing for the next 2000 words.” Before I could open my mouth to protest, he carried on, “As we all know, a good horror writer can make the ordinary become terrifying… but I don’t think you’re there yet, are you?”
The class response to that little barb was a mix of uncomfortable titters and shocked side-eyes in my direction. I forced my face to smile and said nothing. David was several years my junior, and we were both a couple of decades older than the majority of the class. He was, apparently, a writer of some note, and we were all extremely lucky to have been accepted into his workshop, a fact that he reminded us of frequently. David had the kind of supreme confidence that only comes with the complete lack of understanding of his craft; his ‘suggestions’ and edits had all been in his own style, often clashing with the author’s own voice. I could have been allowing my pre-existing contempt to cloud my judgement – and I was totally OK with that; I didn’t owe him any grace. His look usually involved plaid and denim, cos-playing an ‘artsy, unkempt professor’ – although I was sure his clothes were straight out of Kirk’s Retro Collection. I’d been around long enough to spot the hallmarks of hair product (his ‘mussed, bed hair’ never moved), and his reading glasses had clear lenses (I checked, don’t ask, it’s not one of my proudest moments). The rest of the class passed uneventfully – for me, anyway. I politely turned down any further offers to ‘share my work’; today wasn’t about me or my writing. Although David’s criticism had stung, it was a sandfly bite, irritating but not truly painful. I’d be a bit concerned if he actually liked my work, to be honest.
He went into a full ‘exuberant professor’ act just before the class was due to end, leaning over the shoulder of one of the younger women and pressing up against her.
“Now, Rowena has really created a tight, effective opening…” he went on to read out several lines of Rowena’s writing while she flushed as vibrantly red as the blood gushing in her scene. Her work was actually pretty good; she just needed to take out David’s ‘corrections’, and she’d have the bones of something worth continuing.
Applause and the scraping of chairs signalled the end of the workshop. Some of the students (yes, the younger women) gathered around David, each wanting their own moment with him. I stayed in my seat, scrolling through my emails to kill time. An age later, David started walking out with Rowena and another woman, Michelle, to go for ‘coffee’.
I remembered the insecurity of being a young writer and the need for approval… watching David manipulate this need for his own purposes convinced me that I was on the right path.
I called out to him.
David paused, his eyes flicking between Rowena and me a few times. I imagined him considering whether his ‘kindly professor’ act could survive ignoring me, but perhaps I was misreading him. I neither knew nor cared. He walked over to me, still focused on Rowena and her companion. “You ladies, go ahead; I won’t be long” He finally turned to face me. “Now, Chelsea”, he sighed “, what can I help you with?”
Michelle flicked the lights off as she walked out. The room was now barely light enough to make out the furniture, shards of light from the street lamps slicing through gaps in the curtains. “Oh, for god’s sake, why…” he trailed off, then took a deep breath, then folded his arms and tipped his head back to look down his nose at me. “Never mind. Go ahead, ask your question.”
“Would you say it’s quiet in here, David?”
“Yeees, Chelsea, well done.”
“And quiet, David?” I asked, ignoring the patronising tone so thick I could almost taste it.
“Well,” he straightened up a little, ever the performer “, I’d say dimly lit or draped in gloom, but quiet works, I suppose.”
“So, I’ve changed my opening line… want to hear it?”
“Really, is that all -” he caught himself, then slipped back into character. “Fine, go ahead. Just one line, though.”
“I think I’ve really nailed the atmosphere this time,” I said as the classroom door slammed shut, echoing for a moment. As the sound faded, shadows began to peel themselves up from the floor, off from the walls and down from the ceiling.
I started to read, "They gather in the quiet darkness of David’s classroom…
The meadow behind our house has always been there. As kids we played there during the day and watched the fireflies at night.
When I was older, I watched the butterflies tumble over it in the morning while having my coffee on the terrace.
On one side of the meadow is a hollow. It also has always been there. The cows used to bathe in the mud there after it rained (and sometimes we did too). Later, when the cows got replaced by sheep, the hollow was used for plant waste (mowed grass, cut trees, old leaves). The hollow is still there, still filled with dead branches and old leaves. Its brown-grey is a stark contrast to the lush meadow.
When I returned home last spring, I noticed that there was a noise coming from the hollow, a deep hum like a purring tiger or a massive bee hive. I also noticed that the butterflies did no longer fly over it but went around it.
I stopped taking my coffee on the terrace, telling my family that the coffee turned too bitter, or the sun was too hot.
This year, the sound has changed yet again. Now the hum coming from the nest of dead trees and broken branches almost sounds like breathing.
‘They say’
‘They want’
‘They could’
Who are these they to whom we give no name?
They do have names, the people we fear, those who’d hurt or take or turn a blind eye to desperation, need, and pain, but when we ‘they’ them it becomes too easy to feel helpless, for if they’re so big one name can’t encompass who they are then…then…we can do nothing, right? We can lie down, give up?
Instead we need to name our fears, in the hush of a room alone, or standing with others who feel scared, too. Words have power, have done since we learned to make them, so let’s use ours to hem in our fears with words that make those fears littler, easier to understand. And easier to rise against.
They. Them.
Short words with power, there’s no doubt about that. But there’s a smaller word with even greater strength:
YOU.
It’s almost dawn when they gather.
The witches.
There’s frost on the ground but they don’t feel it.
They look human but they’re not.
It’s been burned out of them.
“Do you have it?” one of them asks, holding out her hand.
She’s the newest of them, but not the youngest.
Raised to serve, she burned longer than most.
The oldest witch steps forward; drops a matchbox into the waiting palm.
It doesn’t have to be a matchbox, it’s just a container for the tiny bottle within.
But they all enjoy the symmetry.
“One drop every evening,” she instructs. “Within a month, it will be done.”
The newest witch nods.
A month from today, she will be one of them, fully and forever.
But for now, she closes her hand around the matchbox.
And returns to her husband.