Writing Prompts

As a writer, I search constantly for anything that can help me improve my craft, inspire me to get back to work, or just help me break through those tough spots. However, I’ve noticed that the writing prompts that I’ve found floating around the internet are often pathetic. They’re a childish attempt to make you write the equivalent of the “What I Did For Summer Vacation” essay that teachers insist you write (sometimes even all the way up through college, bleh…)

This page will be my attempt to come up with and/or find some effective and useful prompts that will actually help you write something productive. I welcome anyone who’d like to participate through comments or links back to your own blog.

Writing Prompt #1: The Mysterious Object

Last modified on 2010-01-23 23:57:03 GMT. 0 comments. Top.

I’m not a fan of the “describe your perfect vacation” writing prompts. They do nothing productive for story development, character development, or elements of suspense, fear, love, etc.

So I’m more interested in writing prompts that help you write stories or scenes that could actually be incorporated into a story of some sort someday.

With that thought in mind, here is my first writing prompt:

Someone unseen had left the object on the desk (floor, bed, table, etc.) It was a totally foreign object, unlike anything else in the room….

So, first person, third person… whatever rocks your boat, just write it. What is the object, where was it left, and what does it do? Is it good or bad? Was it left by a friend or a foe?

I invite anyone who wants to participate to post their response in the comments. Here is my own response:

The light glinted off the metallic disc that had appeared on the desk. Rufus gripped the keys tightly, staring at the mysterious object. No one had entered the room while he stood guard. There was no access except through his door and only he had the keys. Nothing else in the room had been touched. The treasure remained where he had locked it inside the iron cage against the far wall.

Rufus approached the disc cautiously with one hand on his weapon. The disc began to give off a faint glow as he neared, a red hazy glow that caused him to falter. He was afraid of what the disc was capable of doing to him. He was alone. The other guards had already been released for the evening, and the commander had left him to ride out to the valley fort and inspect the garrison there.

He swallowed his fear and continued forward, pulling his sword from its scabbard. He reached out tentatively and tapped the disc with his finger, testing it for some kind of terrible magical trap. Nothing happened, so he lifted the disc to examine it.

Words appeared in silver, scrawling across the metal surface as if they were being written at that very moment.

“Your commander is dead. Your comrades are dead. Seek out the tablet if you wish to live, for this task you have been spared.”

Suddenly the red glow faded and the disc split down the middle. Rufus dropped the half he was holding and turned and fled from the room. In his fear, all thoughts of any tablet left him. He readied the fastest horse in camp and deserted the settlement.

Do it quickly and keep it short! Just write whatever is wanting to be written.

Writing Prompt #2 – Worth 1,000 Words

Last modified on 2010-02-19 00:18:52 GMT. 0 comments. Top.

Use this picture (or one of your own) and build a scene up around it. Has your character been here before? Is he/she returning after a long time? Have they stumbled upon this place by chance? Were they brought here against their will? How do they feel about this place?

My response:

Time had been unkind to the institution. After years of neglect, everything had begun to crumble in on itself. Of course, everything on the inside had been removed when the program was terminated. There was no trace of the equipment or the machinery or the people that had once occupied this space.

Ava slipped on the loose rock and reached out to the wall to steady herself. Her hand came away gray and gritty with dust. She dragged her palm against her thigh to clean it as she stared around the room. She had spent more time here than she cared to remember. The program had stolen years of her life. She asked herself why she had returned but she was still uncertain. She only knew that she had to come.

The markings were still on the floor. She knelt and dragged a finger along the broken cement, tracing a white line. So often her eyes had traced this symbol while she stood chained to the wall. The symbol was burned into her memory. Though most of the floor had cracked or split into pieces, she could still see the symbol’s beginning and end. She stood and dug her foot into the cracking tiles, kicking them apart until the symbol was unrecognizable.

Had she come to assure herself that the institution was finished? To verify that the program had truly ended? Or had she come to remember?

Ava moved to the corner of the room and turned, placing her back against the dusty wall. She lifted her hand and felt for the notch where the chains had been pinned into the concrete. Her mind burned with things remembered and she yanked her arm in close, sure she could almost feel the chains around her wrist again.

A noise in the hallway caught her attention. She looked up, hesitant but still less frightened than she expected, and listened for the sound. Instead, a face appeared in the doorway. Ava took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“I see you got my message,” the stranger said.

“I’m not here because of a message,” Ava replied. “I didn’t get any message.”

“Not by paper or word-of-mouth, no. But you did get my message. That is why you are here, even if you don’t know it yourself.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You may think this is all over,” the man strode into the room, gesturing to everything around them. “But then you would be wrong. The program has been reinstated. They will begin again.”

Ava gasped and closed her eyes, willing the memories away. The stranger laid his hand on her shoulder and when she opened her eyes, he was staring into her face intently.

“You must help me stop them.”

—-

The best part about doing any kind of writing prompt is that I never know where it’s going to go or what it’s going to be about. There’s always the exciting possibility that I may find a new novel idea from a simple ten minute writing. It’s refreshing to be able to write something without thinking about it.

With something like this, I’m not tied down to anything. With a novel, there’s this constant fear of deviating too far from the plot. Little prompts like this are fun exercises that let you write about people, places, or things that don’t fit into the novel you’re currently working on.

Writing Prompt #3: Down the River

Last modified on 2010-07-20 18:58:20 GMT. 0 comments. Top.

I started this blog a few years ago as a sort of “side project” and at the suggestion of a writing teacher who believed that all of us writing students should have one, if for nothing other than the experience of regular (or semi-regular) writing and a sort of self-publishing.

I thought that over time I would discover some sort of “blogger voice” or a niche to write in, but that didn’t happen. I still wonder what the purpose of my blog is and what I should actually write about. I don’t have a specific topic to cover or a skill to teach. I simply like to write. Perhaps it goes against my credibility as a writer that I can’t come up with anything to post.

I look at the inconsistency of my updates and wish I did post more regularly. I just don’t have much to say. Or perhaps it’s just that I don’t think the majority of the general public would care too much about some of the little things I have to say.

So this brings me back to one question: Why do I have a blog? Well, I have it because it seemed like a good practice to fall into while trying to become a professional writer. So what else should I do but write? I would love to have something thematic to follow, something specific, something to garner a bit of a readership – I’m currently so random and erratic that this will probably not be the case for me unless I change something.

I basically write what I feel like writing when I feel like writing it. So… since I began all of this with the intent to become a better writer, I’ll return to my now long-forgotten plan to do some writing prompts. It’s been a while, so it should be fun to do one.

I recently went floating down the Illinois River, so here’s a prompt idea spawned by vacation:

Put your character smack dab in the middle of nature, far from civilization (or give it the illusion of distance), and in a situation to which he or she is totally unaccustomed. Now put that character in danger; give them a crisis or some kind of emergency to deal with – without aid from the civilized world.

There are many possibilities here. Since I just returned from hours on the river and I’m going back again tomorrow for two more days on the river – I’m going to put my character on the river. You can put them in the middle of the woods, a desert, a jungle – whatever floats your boat (erm – O.o – no pun intended.)

Remember! You’re more than welcome (and encouraged!!) to post your own response in the comments and we can discuss the writing!

Meanwhile, here’s my response:

The banks were dark, the waters calm, and the sun’s heat dropped on Amber with an almost physical weight. She clutched the oar tightly in one hand and tried to adjust the towel around her shoulders with the other. Her arms were already burnt but the wet towel provided both relief and protection from further damage.

The current was steady but uncomfortably slow for Amber. It had been hours since she had last stopped and searched the banks for something to eat. She felt she had made little progress since then. She hadn’t paddled much, having already strained her muscles to get this far. She had no idea how much further she should go.

They were still following her. She caught glimpses of the strange creatures through the trees that crowded the riverbanks. She was afraid to stop and try foraging once more. She had only just barely made it back to her raft before they found her the last time. The men were unlike any men she had ever met before. They seemed more tribal to her though, even then they were unlike the tribal folk she had seen in documentaries. These men were plain wild.

They were like shadows among the trees, melting from one branch into another until there was no sign of them left. She had caught glimpses only indirectly. She had only seen the men fully when they had charged her on the banks as she was scrambling off shore.

Even now she could hear the whistling. It came from a wooden cylinder tied to a string and it made the most eerie sound when swung in a circular pattern. The whistling was following her downstream. Amber stared at the cliff face that rose up ahead of her, wondering if that wall of rock would be the end of her. She couldn’t make out a bend in the river, but she prayed it was there.

Suddenly, the whistling stopped. The whistling that had followed her relentlessly for hours was replaced with a chilling silence. Over the past hours, the constant whistling had become something of a comfort, reassuring Amber that the men were there but unlikely to attack her.

She dipped the oar back into the water and began propelling her raft forward. She tried her best to ignore the burning in her biceps and focus only on the rock blocking her way. She could turn if need be and fight the slow current. It would be strenuous but she could make it back upstream. Back upstream to where though? To the crash? To the bodies?

She paused in her rowing to consider the metal box at the back of the raft. Now that it was empty, she could toss it. That might make the raft a bit lighter. It would also leave her without any kind of container should she manage to find something to eat. She didn’t know much about nature, but they always found nuts or berries on t.v. If she found something like that, she wanted somewhere to store them, so she would have plenty to sustain her.

There was a smudge of darkness flittering around the corner of her eye. She knew they still watched her. She turned quickly but the shadows weren’t moving. She couldn’t catch the men moving through the trees. They were too quick. she decided surviving was more important than berries and hauled the metal box over the side of the raft. The splash was too quiet and then the box sank to the bottom, out of sight. She found the raft no easier to maneuver and cursed.

The raft suddenly lurched, throwing Amber forward against the little prow. The oar slipped from her fingers into the water and continued its way downstream. Amber cried out and frantically reached for the oar but her raft was no longer moving and the oar quickly faded from sight.

From the trees, Amber could hear a series of low grunts and her raft began slowly drifting towards the overgrown bank. No…not drifting, she was being pulled. There was a hook embedded in the side of the raft and attached to the hook was a length of rope that vanished into the woods. The raft was rapidly deflating around her. For a moment, she considered diving into the water and attempting to swim downstream. But Amber was a poor swimmer and where would she go anyway? The men would always be on the banks waiting for her. She wasn’t going to risk drowning…though, she didn’t know if she wasn’t risking more by letting the men reel her in.

She coasted into the shadows of the trees just as the raft gave out and disappeared beneath the water. She stepped forward onto the rocky riverbed and stared at the bank, expecting the creatures to spring on her with spears and knives. She took a few more cautious steps forward, leaving the mass of synthetic fabric behind.

It seemed she was alone. Amber climbed up the riverbank and peered into the woods. There was nothing. And then she turned and came face to face with one of the wild men. Black mud was caked over his nose and lower-jaw. The area around his eyes was clean though his wet hair clung to the bare skin there. He pulled back his thin, cracked lips and revealed a crooked yellow grin and then suddenly, Amber felt something slam into the back of her head.

She pitched sideways into the river and felt the rocks beneath the water cutting into her elbow. Pain throbbed in her head and her vision was blurry. The water slapped her repeatedly in the face as she gasped, trying to rise above it. Something latched onto her arms and dragged her out of the water. Amber screamed and flailed her arms and legs.

Then she was struck again and all went black, the distant sound of the whistling ringing in her ears.

Writing Prompt #4: Dream Harvesting

Last modified on 2010-08-17 20:53:18 GMT. 0 comments. Top.

I recently had a dream – one of those dreams that pulls you in and captures you, that you hate to wake up from – it was so detailed and real. I woke up feeling as though I’d lost something important.

I tried to remember everything I could, tried to write down all the details that were fresh in my mind. But it wasn’t enough. I lost so much, I could just feel it.

I like to refer to these as my material dreams because these dreams are where I find my best story ideas – where I get great writing material.

When I think about it, I realize that a LOT of my stories came into existence via my subconscious. I wasn’t sitting around trying to think up an idea – I was sleeping and it just developed.

So, for this writing prompt:

Take a recent dream – or a recurring dream with which you’re very familiar – and write a snippet of the story behind that dream. Since it’s a dream, put yourself in the place of the main character and write in First Person P.O.V.

Here’s mine:

The lights flashed ahead: blue and red. I braked as I approached the scene, creeping in carefully. With so many police cars and so many flashing lights, I was expecting a car wreck of some intensity. However, as I neared, there was merely a blockade and police shining flashlights through car windows.

Must be a sobriety check point, I thought.

I lined up with the cars in front of me and lowered the volume of my stereo. It wasn’t necessary, but it seemed that lowering the volume was always the proper thing to do in the car when something important or serious was happening, regardless of whether or not volume had anything to do with the situation.

As our line inched forward, I thought I saw movement in the darkness just beyond the bubble of flashing cop lights. Upon closer inspection, it turned to be an advertising banner for a local pizza joint staked into the ground and flapping in the breeze. I shook my head. It was late and I had worked a twelve hour shift at the office editing reports. I was tired – my eyes were tired.

My turn at the blockade came quickly. I rolled my window down as one of the officer’s approached my car. He flashed the light in my face and peered into the backseat of my Jeep.

“License and registration, please,” he said.

I unclipped the insurance paperwork from the underside of my visor and handed it over so he could skim over it while I retrieved my license from my purse. He waited patiently but continued to flash the light into the backseat as if expecting to find something illegal there.

“Have you seen or heard anything unusual this evening?” he asked.

“No, not particularly,” I answered, giving him my license.

“Well, all seems to be in order here,” he said after a long moment, returning the paperwork. “But I want you to head directly home and stay inside this evening.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’ve had a lot of bad things happen to a lot of good people tonight,” he said cryptically, glancing over his shoulder at another officer who was checking out another driver in the next line over. “We hope to have the matter resolved soon, but it’s my suggestion that you get yourself somewhere safe and keep an eye on the news.”

I opened my mouth to ask him for a better explanation but he stepped away from my car and began waving me through the blockade. I drove through reluctantly and found myself backed up in another line slowly advancing through a small detour. Again, I saw a flash of movement off the side of the highway, but there were no advertisements or signs posted there.

My conversation with the cop had left me feeling uneasy and as I stared out my window, searching for something creeping through the night, I locked my doors as a simple precaution. The line of cars progressed forward and I finally approached the detour, which led us away from the center lane of the highway.

There were several more police cars stationed there, making up a half-circle around something I couldn’t make out. Men in black suits milled about talking with the officers and scribbling down notes on pocket-sized paper.

As I passed through the detour, I was certain that I had seen a man out of the corner of my eye. I looked, thinking my paranoia was simply getting the better of me. Then suddenly, a hand slapped flat against my driver’s side window and my door handle rattled loudly as the hooded man fought against the lock.

I floored the gas pedal and swerved into the ditch, passing the car in front of me. My heart was beating in my throat, the pulses reaching down to the tips of my fingers. I careened wildly to the side, gripping my steering wheel with white knuckles, and steadied the vehicle.

Once I had pulled back onto the highway, maintaining my frantic speed, I looked into my rear view mirror. He was there behind me, driving what looked absurdly like a cement mixing truck. I panicked, veering off the highway to take the first exit onto the city streets.

I passed into a small park, thinking I could outrun the large truck on the narrow residential streets nearby. However, he was on me in moments, ramming that massive truck into my back bumper. I screamed as the steering wheel ripped backwards out of my hands. The car began to skid sideways and then I hit something hard and fast.

When I opened my eyes, I was pinned upside down in my car, hanging from my seatbelt. Blood was dripping down my face, but I didn’t feel too much pain. I fumbled with the seat belt, one hand braced on the roof above me, and then it clicked and I crumpled to the ground. I kicked the driver’s side window, trying to get out of the car, but the window wouldn’t budge. They made those things stronger than I had imagined.

He’s out there, I thought.

I tried to find another escape route. The windshield was crushed but it too refused to break loose with the minor amount of force I put on it. Behind me the rear end of the car was more elevated than the front, so I squeezed into the backseat and managed to get the back door to open into a gap just wide enough for me to fit through.

I collapsed onto the ground – what felt like hard dirt – and rolled onto my back. The hooded man was leaning against my crushed back bumper watching me with amused eyes. I tried to scream but no sound would come out of my open mouth. I could only stare at him with my jaw dangling open.

He pushed off the car and slowly moved towards me. I tried to scream again. The police were so close…If only I could scream. I stood, swaying on my feet, and tried to run. My feet refused to respond, and I tripped, slamming back into the ground.

He continued walking towards me. He was patient. I wasn’t going anywhere, so he relished the moment, taking it in slowly.

I felt his hand on my ankle.

And I tried to scream again…