lottery

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

WARMUP

Stuffed Paragraph

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.

Provisioning Warmup

Provision yourself with the materials of a small story that can be woven into your day’s writing. Find the story by trash picking an old newspaper or magazine. Small town circulars are especially good. If old papers aren’t on hand, you might remind yourself of an old fairy tale or fable, or quickly learn something about the person who named, invented, or otherwise was partly responsible for something meaningful to you (i.e. a medicine, a monument, a particular black hole).

After you’ve found and acquainted yourself with this small story, spend one page writing—whether freewritten prose or diagrammatic notebook scatter—trying to mine the story for something highly sensory that might give you a transition into this story—an adjacency like a particular high frequency of sound, or a particular shade of yellow. In this mining page, turn the sensory stuff over and over so that you have a repository of ways of getting that sensory thing into words or phrases.

You have now provisioned your provision with sensory hooks so that, when the moment arises in whatever you are writing today, your found story can make an entry via sensory similarity. It enters as aside, as sidebar, as digression, as occasion for rumination, or perhaps lifted away from its original context and gifted to your story’s action, woven seamlessly into the story’s unfolding events.

Even if nothing makes its way into anything else, this warmup has warmed up your attention to the sensory field that surrounds any given event and slightly expanded your day’s field of vision.

tuning excercise

For Stuck Places

Deborah Hay, a lifer of the experimental dance world, uses questions and mantras worked over long periods of time as a steady underscore to each season of her dance practice. She might play one question in mind for a year, and have collaborators tune themselves to that question too, so that it becomes an active sub-strata in a dance, an instrument for opening up ways of moving or becoming aware of possible choices.

This was one of her questions when I took a workshop with her one year, and I have played the question ever since as it recurs to mind: What if where I am is what I need?

Use this question any time, but especially for stuck places. Use it to pivot the angle of your vision on your own inhibition, blockage, stoppage, dullness, confusion, or boredom. The question fruits when you ask, what do I need here? To find that answer, you have to ask, what’s actually here? Can you derive any kind of freedom or nutrition or provision or ongoingness from this place you’re in?

walking inventory

Take a walk. It can be around the room, your apartment, your house, your neighborhood. Find at least ten details you’ve never noticed before. Make an inventory.

generator

Elemental Scene Builder

Put together four words that strike you as sharing an element. Think of element in the earth-air-fire-water way, but be loose and intuitive about it.

Visualize a scene from your four words by assigning each one a category from the following list (select four you like or add some more of your choosing): objects, setting, speculations, gestures, appearances, interfaces, transitions.

Describe the scene in four “There is ___ ” statements of fact, one for each word-category pair, taking the first image that comes to mind. (For example, if one of my words is appetite and I’ve assigned it to the category, setting, then I might put appetite-setting together like this: There is a wall running the length of the room filled with delicacies in jars.)

Use your four-sentence scene description as an assignment. Write the scene you have assigned yourself, populating the scene as needed to fulfill your four statements of fact.

echo, exchange, erasure

Find an article about something you don’t know much about. Circle or highlight twenty words. Write a conversation between two beings that incorporates at least four of the words in each line, repeating words as desired so that an echo system develops. Let the conversation discuss something concrete so that you can tell when it’s come to an end. Then edit the whole thing down through drastic erasure, to make a 2- or 4-line exchange of mystery and beauty.

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