Tag Archives: creativity

This Mystery Called The Writing Process

Photo by Brunella Iannuzzi

There’s no one way to write a story. Everybody’s process is different. And I think everyone who’s tried it can speak to moments where certain elements have come almost instantly, instinctively, while others take weeks or months of questioning and searching to show themselves.

Creativity is a big, beautiful mystery and of course the act of writing is no different. Well, okay, maybe a little different in my case, as I’ve found that my writing process is actually, essentially, five distinct mysteries occurring on any given day.

I present them here in a public forum for the very first time. Remember, my friends, it’s not always about easy answers, but about embracing the unknown, in achieving our best work.

MYSTERY ONE: Is this digestive tea doing anything for that fish mistake in my stomach when I step away from the computer briefly to organize my drink umbrella collection by most to least graphic lost time accidents in the factories where they were made?

MYSTERY TWO: Who changed the alerts on my phone to sound like a small child trapped under a Chevy Silverado so that once the danger has passed I’m channeling my adrenaline into several hours in the comments section of every single Clash of Clans cheat site?

MYSTERY THREE: Why does that ticking noise stop when I stare open-mouthed at the refrigerator and why not clean out the freezer while I’m waiting for my napping pajamas to finish in the dryer?

MYSTERY FOUR: Are the cracks in the ceiling actually a secret code left by time-travelers about an impending alien invasion that can only be deciphered by just one more trick roping cat video?

MYSTERY FIVE: What am I doing here again, yeah, that I can’t be not doing and also bingeing on homemade cough syrup and all 8 seasons of “Kindergartner Hostage Negotiators”?

 

What’s mysterious about your writing process? Tell me about it!

Spring Writing Prompts

Photo by Benjamin Gimmel

Photo by Benjamin Gimmel

Happy Spring! Or for those of you reading this in the Midwest or on the East Coast, Happy Second Winter!

Well, regardless of the weather outside, have you taken your creative temperature lately? If you’re a writer like me you understand that the “flow” can vary widely, from steady bursts to meager trickles to tipping back your canteen and swallowing a mouthful of desert.

If you’re in a rut and spitting up sand, do what I do and stop what you’re struggling with and write something radically different. Just to goose your juices a little bit and reassure yourself that your creativity is still intact.

Here are a few of my favorite spring-themed writing prompts that never fail to light a fire under my brain and get me back on track. I’d love to hear if any of these help you out. Happy writing!

1. Imagine you’re Peter Cottontail hopping down the bunny trail with another Easter on its way, but this year you’ve got a raging case of genital warts from messing around in Farmer Glen’s radish patch. How will you explain yourself to Mrs. Cottontail?

2. You’re a hitchhiker picked up by two Grinnell College students on their way to Florida for spring break. Even though you have severe gastrointestinal problems you don’t want to disappoint your new friends and not enjoy a burrito and cheap tequila shooters. How’s the last 5 hours of that drive to Cocoa Beach going to go?

3. You’ve been recruited to help your doddering grandmother spring-clean her sweet little cottage by the lake. When you’re alone sweeping up the hall you hear a voice coming from the attic that sounds just like your grandfather who allegedly ran off when you were 9 begging for someone to loosen the screws on his head vise. What’s the rest of your afternoon look like?

4. Write from the POV of a pollen cloud coming of age during the great Hay Fever Festival. What’s it like to learn that you’re essentially the “semen” of the flower world?

5. You’re sixteen now and believe you’re too old to be receiving kites for your birthday, but there you are unwrapping another friggin’ kite and smiling real big just so Aidan Welke doesn’t get his feelings hurt. What might happen if when the cake comes out and everybody starts singing you grab the cutting knife with no intention of using it on the cake?

A Winter Writing Exercise

Photo by Stu Spivack

Photo by Stu Spivack

It’s winter time once again, when the weather often keeps us indoors, and we tend to indulge ourselves a little more than we should. Because, well, because we can’t eat just one package of Oreos while staring contemplatively into a pile of logs aflame in the fireplace, can we? And then throw in the holidays and of course who among us can resist the festive tradition that is letting ourselves go?

We writers are no strangers to this affliction and it’s not only our waistlines that require a watchful eye. Have you seen some of the sentences lumbering about this time of year? In between exercising our bodies we  must also exercise a little creative restraint.

Case in point, take a look at the chunky fellow I’ve written below:

Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back, or was it a cruel world unsympathetic to a traumatic melt thirty years prior—“puh-uh-uhddles, Mommy!”—that had also dissolved the part of his brain that would have, among other things, prevented him from embezzling from his children’s thriving fruity-chews vaccination business to keep building a corncob pipe collection to find the one pipe, the one pipe, Mr. McShivers wouldn’t spit out of the place on his face where presumably his mouth should be?

Whoa. Talk about junk in the trunk. Does one sentence really need to carry all of that weight? Let’s see what happens when we force it to miss a few meals:

Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered.

Better than the paleo diet! Trim, concise and still compelling enough to pull you into the next sentence about the coal eyes and the carrot nose. Speaking of coal eyes and a carrot nose, have you ever wondered where the tradition of building a snowman came from? No, you haven’t? Oh, well, never mind, back to the writing exercise and our slim new opening sentence.

Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back, or was it a cruel world unsympathetic to a traumatic melt thirty years prior—“puh-uh-uhddles, Mommy!”—that had also dissolved the part of his brain that would have, among other things, prevented him from embezzling from his children’s thriving fruity-chews vaccination business to keep building a corncob pipe collection to find the one pipe, the one pipe, Mr. McShivers wouldn’t spit out of the place on his face where presumably his mouth should be?

Whoa! What happened? I take my eyes off you for a minute and you’ve ballooned.

Well you said it, you can’t just eat one package of Oreos. And you know the cookies with the Hershey kisses on top? I had about 70 of those. Also, I’m taking my cereal with eggnog these days.

Oh my. How about celery sticks for a snack instead of all those commas? Maybe a light jog around the park to lose that “or” in the middle?

Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back.

Very nice, now you can see your toes without that big old question mark hanging out. By the way, have you ever wondered about the origin of the question

Hey, pass that tub of frosting over here! 

No. Stop it. Put it down. Not with the big spoon!

Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back, or was it a cruel world unsympathetic to a traumatic melt thirty years prior—“puh-uh-uhddles, Mommy!”—that had also dissolved the part of his brain that would have, among other things, prevented him from embezzling from his children’s thriving fruity-chews vaccination business to keep building a corncob pipe collection to find the one pipe, the one pipe, Mr. McShivers wouldn’t spit out of the place on his face where presumably his mouth should be?

Aren’t you at least embarrassed by all the hyphens? You can’t even fasten the top three buttons on your shirt.

You know what? I’m okay with how I look. I’ve got shape, I’ve got rhythm, I feel like a boulder rolling downhill, even though I usually drive. I think I’ve even got room for more words. 

Okay, that’s enough.

How about you make me a nice bacon-wrapped Thesaurus?

(Writing) Exercise over!