I used to think that one of the biggest differences between writers and other artists was that other artists practiced. \u00a0For example, a graphic artist has a sketchpad, full of doodles and experiments that were never intended to be standalone pieces. \u00a0Musicians practice, running through scales or playing music that is never intended to be part of a recording or performance.<\/p>\n
I thought\u00a0writers were different. \u00a0I argued that when a writer sits down to craft a story, they’re investing more time and effort than the musician or graphic artist. \u00a0I thought that repetition helped other artists, but not the writer. \u00a0I now no longer think this is true.<\/p>\n
There are exercises a writer can do. \u00a0This evening, I’ll be meeting up with a small group and I’ll be doing some writing\u00a0exercises. \u00a0I’ve met with them a few times, and it’s been a good experience.<\/p>\n
Here are some examples of the kinds of exercises we’ve been doing, and the results:<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Poem Prompt: An Old House<\/b><\/p>\n
I don’t remember what the exact prompt was. \u00a0A poem was read to us, and we had 5 minutes to write whatever came to mind. \u00a0The poem was about a house. \u00a0It might have been a haunted house. \u00a0Here is what I wrote:<\/p>\n
The wind parted the faded curtains of the empty window frame as the young woman walked into the yard. Her feet crunched on the gravel walkway. Dry weeds reached up from the stony ground around her, brushing the hem of her skirt. Dark clouds hid from her the stars and dimmed the silvery light of the moon. She shivered as she moved, but not because she was cold.<\/p>\n
The porch creaked under her sandaled foot as she made her way to the door. So close to the house, she could see bleached wood in patches where the paint had faded and flecked away from the building\u2019s exterior. She clutched her bag.<\/p>\n
We read to each other what we’d written. \u00a0We didn’t focus on sentence structure or plot. \u00a0The exercise was all about capturing a mood, and conveying that as quickly as possible.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A Figurine: A Girl on a Swan<\/strong><\/p>\n With this prompt, the group’s organizer had brought with her a bag full of random objects. \u00a0We reached into the bag and pulled an object. \u00a0We then had about 5 minutes to write whatever came to mind. \u00a0The object I pulled was a porcelain figurine. \u00a0It featured a thin, dainty fairy, lounging on the back of a large, white swan. \u00a0Seeing the swan, I immediately thought of The Ugly Duckling. \u00a0Here is what I wrote:<\/p>\n The giant swan glided across the cool blue water beneath the starry sky. On the great bird\u2019s back sat the frail form of a girl, her legs pulled up beneath her. She was one of the winged people, and her white and pink wings stretched out behind her, drinking in the quiet moonlight.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s hopeless,\u201d the girl said, stroking the swan\u2019s neck with a gentle hand.<\/p>\n The bird continued to move across the lake, its legs pumping unseen beneath the dark water. It swam, straight and true, until the water was broken, and a mer-lass rose up from the depths.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s hopeless?\u201d the mer-lass asked.<\/p>\n A tear rolled down the winged girl\u2019s cheek. She turned her face away, her cheeks crimson.<\/p>\n \u201cPlease,\u201d the mer-lass said, reaching up with one hand. \u201cTell me what\u2019s wrong. Why are you so said?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m ugly,\u201d the winged girl said, and her shoulders shook with a sob. After a moment, she said, \u201cMy wings are all wrong, and my face is too straight and smooth. I\u2019m the ugliest bat girl there ever was, as ugly as this mutant duck.\u201d<\/p>\n I had a lot of fun with this one. \u00a0The joke was in my mind as soon as I held the figurine, and I was able to type quite a bit in the short time we had.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Image: A Woman in Orange<\/strong><\/p>\n We were shown an image of a woman leaning out the window of a log cabin. \u00a0Her short hair and the bright color of her blouse gave me the impression of the 70’s. \u00a0I focused on her stance and the color of her shirt. \u00a0Again, we had 5 minutes.<\/p>\n The sounds of the forest surrounded the isolated cabin. Birds chirped, and insects buzzed. A brave squirrel scampered up a tree, its tiny claws making scratching noises against the hard bark. Nature\u2019s pulse beat all around the cabin, but the inhabitants heard nothing.<\/p>\n A woman in orange peered through the pane-less window.<\/p>\n \u201cDamn, Sally! Get back! You want us to get caught?\u201d<\/p>\n The woman backed away from the window at the sound of the man\u2019s voice. She smirked at her companion, also dressed head to toe in orange.<\/p>\n \u201cNo one\u2019s coming, Gary,\u201d Sally said, walking towards him.<\/p>\n \u201cFor now,\u201d Gary said. \u201cBut it won\u2019t be long before the cops are onto us. We need to ditch these jumpsuits and get into some real clothes.\u201d<\/p>\n There hadn’t really been anything to indicate that the woman was an escaped convict. \u00a0It just seemed like a fun detail to make up on my own and include.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Music: I Will Survive<\/strong><\/p>\n The organizer popped in a CD and played I Will Survive. \u00a0This wasn’t Gloria Gaynor’s version. \u00a0This sounded more like jazz than disco, to me. \u00a0I focused on the feel of it, rather than the words.<\/p>\n I ducked into the dive, the rainwater pouring off my jacket and off the rim of my Fedora. A man in a bow tie, with too many white teeth and greedy palms tried to take my coat, but I chased him off with a hard look. I was here for business. The kind of business that if it went sour, I\u2019d need to leave in a hurry. I\u2019d keep my hat and coat.<\/p>\n Hank was at the bar, as always. He lifted his chin towards me, and I gave him the nod. Without exchanging words, he drew a glass and drew the arm on the draft. I was there for business, but there was always time for a cold one.<\/p>\n The curtains on the stage parted. The people in the bar shuffled. A spotlight snapped on with a thunk. The bright lights illuminated…<\/p>\n I didn’t have time to get to what I was imagining. \u00a0I managed to catch the feel, though. \u00a0I wanted a gritty noir setting. \u00a0The spotlight was going to illuminate a woman in a sparkling dress, that would then melt the place with her voice.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n All of these prompts were based on different stimulus. \u00a0We had some others where we were to describe a hero, a heroine, and a villain. \u00a0All of these prompts had a tight time frame, and none of them had any of the pressures that come with trying to write a “serious” work.<\/p>\n These are sketches. \u00a0They’re practice. \u00a0And they’re every bit as useful as the doodle’s in a graphic artist’s sketchpad.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I used to think that one of the biggest differences between writers and other artists was that other artists practiced. \u00a0For example, a graphic artist has a sketchpad, full of doodles and experiments that were never intended to be standalone pieces. \u00a0Musicians practice, running through scales or playing music that is never intended to be […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-425","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/425","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=425"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/425\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":426,"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/425\/revisions\/426"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=425"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=425"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/briancebuhl.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=425"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}