Writing Prompts
By Catherine McKenzie | June 30, 2017 |
Flickr Creative Commons: Alan Cleaver
It’s a funny thing about my career that I never even attended a writing seminar before I published a novel. That doesn’t mean I didn’t study the craft in other ways—reading mostly, then a practice novel—but I didn’t do conferences, or critique groups, let alone an MFA.
I’ve often wondered if I missed something there. I mean, of course I know I did miss something. What I mean is something more in the vein of essential to my writing. Would I be the same writer today if I’d taken a different path? An unknowable question unless someone finally gets on inventing that time machine I’ve been asking for.
Since I’ve become a writer, I’ve attended many conferences and heard many people speak about writing and their process. But until last weekend, when I was at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference—a fantastic conference I highly recommend—I’d never done a group writing exercise. I ended up doing this in a class offered by Tiffanie Debartolo (God Shaped Hole, How to Kill a Rock Star), about using things from real life and turning it into fiction. Tiffanie didn’t mean write about yourself, the exercise she gave us was this: think of your father. Think of three characteristics he has. Now imagine a woman who works in a diner who has those three characteristics. She’s waiting for a customer to come in, one she has a crush on. Write the scene.
My curiosity was piqued. Something about this prompt sparked something in me. I wrote down three characteristics about my dad: drinking, mathematician, hates Celine Dion. And this is the scene I wrote in the ten minutes that was given:
Candice’s head hurt. You’d think that after all these years of drinking, she’d have the math down. Know her limits. But alcohol didn’t obey the rules of addition. Not with her anyway. So her stomach felt as if the inside had been ripped out and flipped over, and her mouth tasted like metal, and yet she was still excited.
The bell above the diner door clinked. She hated that sound almost as much as the Celine Dion song playing through the speakers. Her eyes tracked to the door and there he was, the reason she came into work anyway today. Ben.
She gave a little wave that he might have seen, but pretended not to. Or maybe he didn’t see it. God, she was a high school girl where this man was concerned, not the wizened forty she felt every morning as she promised herself that today, this day, would be the last day she drank.
He sat at his usual table, and picked up the greasy menu, though he always ordered the same thing. Candice wanted to run to the bathroom for one last check of her face, but she knew she’d catch hell for that, so she walked over with her order pad and hoped her flipping stomach was now only the mark of anticipation, and not a sign that she should be heading to the bathroom after all.
“Morning, Ben.”
He glanced up in that slow way he had. She could hear his voice before he spoke. Precise. Smooth. She could imagine him whispering things to her in that voice if she ever managed to turn her fantasies into reality.
“Candice, good to see you.” He smiled at her then and the butterflies calmed down. She was always this way. More nervous about the possibility of him than his actual presence.
“The usual?”
“Yep. And maybe you could get them to turn off this god-awful music?”
This man was perfect.
“What did you say?”
Oh, god. That had been out loud, hadn’t it?
“I’ll get right on that,” she said, but Ben caught up to what she’d been saying. She lifted a hand before he could speak. “Don’t,” she said. “It’s been a rough morning.”
She peeled away from the table and put in his order. Then she turned in her apron and sneaked out the back.
This is not a scene I can use in my work in progress. It’s not something I’d write further. But it did teach me a valuable lesson: sometimes when you’re stuck you just need to transform a little slice of real life into fiction.
Will you play along with me? Try this exercise and post the result in the comments. Or do you have a writing prompt you like to you? Share it with us.
Write on.
[coffee]
A graduate of McGill University in History and Law, Catherine McKenzie practices law in Montreal, where she was born and raised. An avid skier and runner, Catherine is the author of 11 bestselling novels, including HIDDEN, THE GOOD LIAR, I’LL NEVER TELL and YOU CAN’T CATCH ME. Her most recent novel, SIX WEEKS TO LIVE, releases in Canada April 20 and the US May 4, 2021.
Can’t never resist a good prompt. My father was quiet and courteous and had a scarred face from a childhood encounter with some large dogs.
As always, Eva saw him first: gorgeous as ever, but still nameless—to her—because she’d never had the courage to ask his name. All the other waitresses seemed to have been born with the effortless ability to laugh and joke with their customers, but Eva’s fairy godmother must have been missing when it was time to hand out useful skills. Unless you counted a modest demeanor and good manners, sometimes painfully good. And painfully modest. What would he ever see in her—especially with that long scar running down the right side of her face, which she could only partly conceal with makeup, swirly hair, and head poses that she hoped might look flirtatious but only gave her neck spasms. He was at her booth already. Here goes. She poured his coffee (real coffee, not decaf; thanks, F.G., for helping me remember that about him) and whipped out her order pad. “Good morning; what would you like today?”
I have a confession to make—I loathe writing prompts. Always sounds like people have such fun with them, but to me it’s feels uncomfortably competitive, even if I’m only competing with myself. Makes me anxious. I’m sure that says something about me. I’m just not sure what that would be. But, everyone else, prompt away!
Gosh I wish I had time. My dad died in 1963. I was only 16, so I didn’t have a fully-fleshed idea of him. this exercise would have been a good reminder. I remember him being very quiet and tense, but then he was a combat veteran. I could do that now with a woman, couldn’t I? Make her a combat veteran, that is.
Sure! A woman combat veteran who is quiet and tense–with good reason….
Hmm. Love this idea. My dad was handsome, friends said he looked like Clark Gable. He was kind, slow to lose his temper, but when he laid down the law, you can bet there’d be repercussions for infractions. He was creative, always thinking up crazy inventions. Once he built a huge box-like bumper, spray-painted silver, housing some sort of gas-saving idiocy on the back of our brand new car. It smoked like a dragon when he dropped us off at school. I’ll have to write my waitress version later.
Couldn’t resist playing with this one this morning. My father was a WWII vet, a man who left the farm to go to war and never went back. Hard to pick just three characteristics but here they are:
Characteristics: Smokes, Catholic, Veteran
Abbey pulled on her apron in the back of the kitchen and popped a mint in her mouth. She’d had her pre-shift Marlboro and didn’t want him to smell it on her.
It was early and the counter was empty. She looked at the clock. He’d be in any minute.
A moment later the bell tinkled. There he was, gorgeous as always in his camos and boots.
“Good morning, Dan,” she said.
“Hey, how’s it going Abbey?”
She tingled to hear her name in his mouth, and set the menu before him.
“Usual?” she said.
He smiled up at her.
“You always take good care of me, don’t you, Abbey?
“That’s what I’m here for,” she said.
She felt the hot blush infuse her face. Fingering the silver cross at her neck, she said, “I’ve got a soft spot for you boys. I was in Afghanistan myself back in ’07.”
“No, shit?” Dan said. “You’ll have to tell me about that over coffee sometime.”
Love your post and scene, Catherine! Thank you for the writing prompt.
Dinner is in the oven. In less than thirty minutes, my family will be home. So I’ll take on this writing prompt challenge.
Three characteristics that describe my father: orderly, map-lover, uncommon jobs (like teaching school on a yacht).
Here it is:
The only good thing about waiting tables here, besides tips, is Frank. I don’t know if I’m crushing on him because he’s clever or a cartographer or because I’ve recently returned from a teaching gig where I’d been hired to provide triplets a proper education while sailing the Caribbean Sea.
Every day, at 11:48 sharp, Frank plops himself at the southwest corner both. I’m responsible for the west side of the café.
Like always, strands of hair cascade from his man bun as he leans over the menu. His bun is the only thing about him that bothers me since I prefer men with short hair. But the shirt he likes to wear, made from fabric fashioned with a world map, makes up for it.
You’d think by now he’d say, I’ll have the regular, but each day he likes to order something different. There are fifteen items on the menu, but really more, if you count the daily special, which really is a total of five rotating dishes. So technically there are twenty choices each week (we’re closed two days a week).
“This time I’ll try the mozzarella and avocado melt, but hold the mozzarella,” he tells me, blowing red hair away from his face.
He must be a vegan. Last week he ordered the Chinese chicken salad, minus the chicken. When I lived on the yacht I ate way too much Spam—diced in pancakes, mixed into quiche, you name it. So I can appreciate how he makes things work to his advantage.
“Would you like to replace the mozzarella with fresh basil?” I ask.
“Good suggestion. Hey, I noticed you never write down the orders. You remember them.”
“I hope I never forget anything.” He doesn’t know that his orders are the only ones I don’t write down.
“Not with your smart brain. And can you ask the cook to grill the sandwich in olive oil rather than butter?
“Of course, I always do.” I think he likes me.
****************
I confess. I spent more than Catherine McKenzie’s allotted ten minutes to write this.