lottery

A randomly selected pool of prompts for you. Refresh the page to get a new pool.

WARMUP

10 slow

Try a sensory warmup. 10 slow breaths and 10 slow sentences.

Write a paragraph stuffed with words with consonant pairs (“pl” “ch” “st” “tr” and so on). If you don’t know where to start, try writing it as an loudspeaker announcement in a grocery store or transit hub.

tuning excercise

Find a Daily Teacher

Flip through a book or listen to a song (or otherwise engage with a piece) by an artist you admire, whom you are willing to nominate to be your teacher for a day. Settle on a page or passage (it can be almost at random) and re-read it, trying to imagine the process of writing it. Then take five minutes to write a notebook entry addressed to yourself, describing what you want to learn from this teacher as well as any intuitions you have about mood, source, compositional methods, compositional freedoms, ways of working—that is, about how to learn from what (and how) they do.

Retrospection–Prospection

This is a timed writing for arrival into your day’s writing mind.

Set a timer (duration up to you: 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes). Write continuously but without rush. Reflect on the past and then project into the future, alternating the direction of your attention so that your writing interleaves what’s been and what’s to come. Use this to check in with the contents of your mind and the figures that populate your imagination. Be honest with yourself.

generator

Pastoral Scene Generator

Choose a location that could be described as pastoral. Note its name, then add to it: a tool, an exquisite object (not necessarily humanmade), and a weather event.

Sketch out two possible story seeds that could occur in that location that would involve the tool, the exquisite object and the weather event. These seeds might be opening scenarios or they might be images of the pith or heart of the story.

Push your two story seeds lightly in differing directions, perhaps thinking through genres that you don’t normally play with (horror and propaganda; eerie and romcom, reality show and pastoral poetry). Thinking through that genre doesn’t mean turning it into a story of that type, necessarily, so much as being open to moods or possibilities that tend to come with the genre. Choose the seed that surprises you most, and write two non-continuous scenes or passages in that story.

Pay attention to how voice (both spoken voices and the voice of the writing) interacts with the nonverbal scene (landscape, tool, object, weather event) that you started with.

Populate the Silences (2)

A concept from Deep Listening is that we are always listening to both sound and silences. Listening for silence is thrown into relief with hypotheticals. For example: look up the clouds and then imagine the burst of noise of fireworks bursting in the sky right where you are looking. If you could not hear the present silence, then you could not hear the fireworks that could populate that space of silence. Silence as a space of potential.

In this prompt, think of silence as an empty expanse that might house something. It might be sonic but might also be visual or spatial.

Write a scene for a particular place or type of landscape. If you can’t think of one, borrow one of these: the food court at a mall, a waiting area for a commuter ferry, an alpine base camp, a dog park.

Something conversational is taking place in the scene—perhaps two people are debating what’s going on inside their pet cat’s mind or hashing out a complex plan to infiltrate a cult. You can poach this conversational something from somewhere else — it’s really only there to help define the space while you work. If you are in the middle of writing something, perhaps you can poach the conversational something from what you’ve already written.

As you write the conversation, tune into the silences that surround the speakers. Look for places within the scene to populate those silences with sound. Let this generator teach you something more about the place where your scene unfolds. The conversation seem at first to be the center of the scene, but stay open to the possible grown—in energy, interest, focus—of the silences around them as they populate.

(This generator is adapted from an Audio Walk prompt which draws on a Deep Listening exercise. See the original post for more on the source.)

Architecture of a Day (Notes on Practice)

One of the things I do with my time is facilitate writing groups, both short and ongoing seasons of writing in the presence of others through a series of cycles, which may be locally defined as writing weeks, or writing fortnights, or other durations. Usually I begin our meetings by asking each writer to report on how their practice of writing went in the last cycle. It’s seductive to meet this request for a report by reporting on the interval between what one wanted to do and what one did. I wanted to write daily but on I only wrote once, and so on. I wanted to develop this other project but instead I transcribed fragments from my notebooks.

Maybe there is something in this metric of lack that has some use? Maybe it allows us to sidestep the question, what is this writing that I actually wrote, labels the writing as not our real writing, something less than our real writing, where “real” takes on the old romantic connotation of a glorious capital-R Real that somehow exceeds the illusory, fragmented confusion of the actual world we find ourselves in. But I am interested in perceiving the being of the writing that has actually been written, which includes a perception of its futurities, its potentialities, its realities, perhaps, but attends most closely to what it is now.

If a writer reports on the gap between plan and actuality as a form of lack or failure, I ask them to reframe the gap. The writing that happened: how did it happen? What were you doing when you wrote? In distinction to what you thought you needed to do to get yourself writing, what did you find out you actually need? How does the perceived failure to follow the plan teach you something about the expansive conditions in which writing can get written? The interval between what we project and what we find ourselves doing can be playful, can be a conversation, rather than just a source of disappointment.

The question comes up again and again, what actually constitutes “the writing”?

The other question is: Could we play with different understandings of the architecture of a day, a week, or a month, and the way that writing or making or just being with that free creative impulse might live within that rhythm. What containers create enough containment that we feel back inside their flow when we return to them?

Some containers are marked by time. In one group, a writer shared her practice of folding her writing day into the way the light changed. On days she wrote, she would begin in late afternoon, in daylight, without any lamps or lights on, and continue writing through dusk as her room slowly darkened. In another group, a writer chose the same window but at the other pole of the day, rising in the dark and writing until the day was full day. In another group, another writer wrote late at night before bed, freely making a mess, then re-read her night pages first thing in the morning, making morning notes toward bringing them into some kind of order. All of these practices embedded themselves in the rhythms of the day and night. They might have been productive of something, but they were also, like toothbrushing, like eating, like waking and sleeping, something that belonged to the day and not only to the writing’s future as something that might circulate among others.

In other groups, with other writers, different containers were found. Letting go of the ideal of dailiness, something else functions as a sustaining rhythm. Often these containers are documents combined with particular and limited tasks. One writer who is always with her phone, not only because we’re all always with our phones, it seems, but because her obligations take her away from her desk for most of her time, keeps an open note in the notes app, and adds to it whenever a small thought crystallizes in mind, and later, maybe only once in a writing cycle, carries these collected entries to her desk and transfers them to new pages, allowing herself to write into them, to reform them, to cull them, in the transfer process. Another writer kept an open document in which she collected words and images that appealed to her. Then once a week, as determined by the obligation to share pages, she looked through that collected pile of appealing things and wrote with or from it, leaving the pile at the end of the document like a combination pantry-compost. Something I am writing these days is held by its document and by a simple task. I open it up on a whim whenever I think of it, no more than once a day and often not for weeks at a time, and I add a single paragraph, either doing a fill-in-the-blanks game that amuses me and repeats as a grounding pulse throughout the ever-growing document, or picking up another thread that also carries through the pages. The limitation of the single paragraph is a pleasure for me, an inveterate spewer and piler-up of raw source material. Instead of going on and on, I fold as much pleasure-treasure into my paragraph as my whim that day holds and the paragraph can take. Then I close the document and forget about it.

If the desire is to create writing that is alive, rather than writing that is good (thanks to Agnes Borinsky for reminding me recently of this way of renaming and so enlarging and enlivening the desire that attends the relationship we each have to our own writing), could we think of aliveness as something that is in cooperation with and maybe nourishing to our own aliveness. What does that mean for how writing occurs and is invited in the architecture of a day or week or year? Within what time cycle do we track its living energy? What numerical freedoms and mysteries are at play in its pattern of occurrence? What would its scene of communication be?

LOTTERY