If you want to become a writer, you must write. It’s rather simple, really. You don’t study the written word, analyze it, study it some more, and hope one day you’ll be educated enough in creative writing to do it well yourself. No, you read the written word, try it out yourself, compare it to someone else’s, rewrite it, scrap it, write something new, take a break and read something else, and write again. All of this is in whatever order you want it to be, really, because it’s YOUR writing, your words, your voice. So every day, you must sit and you must write. About anything. About cats. About history. About your inexplicable desires. But what happens when you go to sit down and write and you’re missing deadlines, because your mind is blank? Nothing. Empty. Black void.
In case you’re wondering why this is the topic of my article this week, yes… yes it is because I am plagued by that demon myself. Right now. In this moment. And as I type I’m slowly starting to run out of words to keep this article from being pointless and too short, but I must resist the urge to give up. Don’t. Give. Up. (10 minutes have passed and I’ve done nothing but stare at this page).
Let’s try some simple prompts I just randomly came up with (though I'm sure I thought of them because I've seen them somewhere else before- I'm not THAT clever). Share with your fellow writing friends, to see if this might help get their creative juices flowing.
Prompt 1: Describe where you are in the current moment.
I’m sitting on the couch in the common area of my dorm suite. A wooden framed couch with brown cushions, it’s not all that comfortable. My feet are up on the coffee table and I’m using my meditation cushion as a footrest while I look around at the shiny cement floor, white cupboards, white appliances, white walls. No, grey. Everything’s grey, really, and the one, dim, overhead light does little to brighten the environment or add color while I sit staring at my computer screen, debating with myself on whether or not to scrap this entire article. God, this is depressing.
Hm, I think I’ll check Facebook.
Prompt 2: Describe a childhood memory.
The power had gone out during heavy thunderstorms and it was night, dark, dreary. Though I’m not sure exactly how old I was, I couldn’t have been more than 11 or 12, yet I wasn’t afraid. In fact, I was excited. I was enthralled, fascinated, lying on the floor of the living room, watching the storm through the two skylights. Large cracks of thunder came after bright flashes of lightning that streaked across the clouds in a million directions. The storm was close; I counted only a couple seconds between the flashes and cracks.
My dad emerged from the kitchen with candles, newspaper and wood to start a fire, a deck of cards, and a bunch of coins. That night, he taught me how to play poker, sitting in the glow of candle and fire light, with the rain barreling down on the roof, and the thunder shaking the ground.
Damn, my coffee’s gone cold.
Prompt 3: What do you want to be when you grow up?
I ask people this question, no matter their age. When I was five, my dad asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and my response was, “a starving artist.” Yes, even then I knew to associate artists with being broke and I still wanted to do it. As I got older, I thought specifically about being a photographer, an actress, a teacher, a screenwriter, a teacher again, back to photographer, a college professor, a museum curator, back to screenwriter, back to teacher, but always, ALWAYS, anything that did not require sitting behind a desk for 8 hours, like my parents did. I think this world, this society, has made kids think that they can only be one thing in life, which we must decide on at an early age, and that success means a desk with your name on it and a six-figure salary. My dad did a good job of making sure that I was successful, but in whatever way was important to me. He didn’t push me to be something that I know deep down I’m not. Success to me is freedom, passion, waking up every day excited to change the world. When I grow up (I’m already 25, by the way) I want to still be hiking mountains, writing poetry, traveling whenever and wherever, and no matter what I get paid to do, it won’t be to sit at a desk.
Just spent 37 minutes looking at apartments on Zillow.
Prompt 4: Who is the most important person in your life?
You may think from reading the last two prompts that I’m about to say my dad, but nope (sorry, pops). My mother has by and large been one of the most, if not the most, influential person in my life. I have never met anyone with as big a heart as she has, or who gives more wonderful hugs, or who is as caring and loving and accepting and friendly. She taught me not gossip, that it’s ok to cry, that if I didn’t have anything nice to say to not say anything at all. She taught me to respect others, love others, treat them fairly. She taught me that we all make mistakes. She taught me to be resilient and kind. I swear, that woman was born to be a mother above all else.
Ugh, I keep forgetting my coffee is cold, I sip it, and then I cringe. I think I’ll call my mom.
Prompt 5: Write a haiku about your favorite place.
Tall pine trees swaying,
I walk the sandy trails as
A campfire smolders.
Idea: next week, maybe I’ll write about the camp in the woods I used to work at. Yeah. That seems cool. Or better yet, what it’s like to be “camp staff”. Yeah, I'll do that!
Well, what do you know… it works. Keep writing, friends.
