Writing Prompts & Exercises

In a 2012 interview for the Guardian, Hungarian author László Krasznahorkai explained his predilection for writing extremely long sentences that manage to endure for dozens of pages: “This characteristic, very classical, short sentence—at the end with a dot—this is artificial, this is only a custom, this is perhaps helpful for the reader, but for only one reason, that the readers in the last few thousand years have learned that a short sentence is easier to understand.” For Krasznahorkai, the long sentence extends beyond the desire to reflect the natural continuousness of human speech, but to also express the speaker’s existential drive, a seemingly overwhelming desire to communicate, to be empowered to say their piece. Write a short story that consists of a single sentence, using any punctuation you’d like but saving the period until the very end. How does this constraint affect your story’s themes?

This year’s summer solstice arrives in the Northern Hemisphere on June 20, marking it the longest day, and shortest night, of the year. And yet, no matter the exact number of daylight or nighttime hours measured out, any day can feel like a very long day, just as any night can end in the blink of an eye. Write a two-part lyric essay in which the first part details one long summer day you’ve experienced, and the second part focuses on one short summer night. For the day that seemed to last forever, did it drag on and on, producing exasperation, or did the hours ooze dreamily and pleasurably? For the night that whizzed by, was there nonstop action that was over before you knew it?

“We tend to treat odor in general as a sort of taboo,” writes Scott Sayare in a New York Times Magazine article about a woman who discovered she could smell Parkinson’s disease, in some cases over a dozen years before medical diagnosis. “Modern doctors are trained to diagnose by inspection, palpation, percussion and auscultation; ‘inhalation’ is not on the list, and social norms would discourage it if it were.” This week, focus your attention on your sense of smell as you go about your days, perhaps even ignoring social norms as you inhale all the odors around you. Then, write a poem that focuses solely, or primarily, on smell—perhaps juxtaposing scents that are in your everyday life now and those from a more distant past.

Ayşegül Savaş’s third novel, The Anthropologists, forthcoming in July from Bloomsbury, is narrated by Asya, one half of a young couple setting out to build a new life together in a foreign city. While they solidify friendships, search for an apartment, and accommodate visiting relatives, Asya begins a documentary project. Each of the novel’s vignette titles reference anthropological concepts: Notions of Loyalty, Child-Rearing, Native Tongue, Courtship, Gift Exchange, Division of Labor, Principles of Kinship, and Forms of Enchantment. As Asya reflects on anthropological distance and lenses, these headings raise questions about the conventions, expectations, and routines that constitute a life. What makes a life legible—and to whom? Write a short story with subheadings providing insight or an alternative perspective on scenes. How might they produce additional layers of complexity and ambiguity?

Nearly fifty years ago, the writer George Perec spent three days sitting behind a café window in Place Saint-Sulpice in Paris recording everything he saw. In his short book, An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris, his observations of mundane occurrences and objects often considered unnoteworthy—passersby, cars, buses, pigeons, signs, and slogans—are documented. This week situate yourself in one spot, perhaps in your home or workplace, or in a public space like a park, busy crossroad, commercial area, library, or café. Then, jot down the objects and behavior you see, and the snippets of conversation you hear. Write a lyric essay composed of these notes, trying to avoid interpretations or analysis. Taken together, how do your observations create a portrayal of a specific time or place? Pay particular attention to how one observation might lead to another, and to potential rhythms and repetitions.

“All too often, on a ‘poetry scene,’ people prioritise ‘subject matter,’” says John Burnside in a 2023 interview about his writing process by Jesse Nathan published on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. “I am sure that, as I am working, environmental concerns insinuate their way into the content of a poem organically, as other concerns will—but I would never start from there.” Inspired by the late Scottish poet, who died at the age of sixty-nine on May 29, write a poem that springs not from a predetermined topic or subject matter, but instead allows you to “trust in the sounds, the rhythms that come out of the day-to-day, the sheer immediacy and truth of the quotidian…and the images that lead, sometimes via fairly roundabout paths, to metaphor.” Later, as you reread and revise, what do you discover is the subject of your poem? What might have organically insinuated itself into your poem?

In Stephen King’s 1983 novel, Pet Sematary, a doctor moves into a remote house in Maine with his wife, two young children, and their pet cat, and learns from a neighbor about an ancient burial ground nearby cursed by a malevolent spirit which gave it power to reanimate those buried there. This is put to the test first by the family cat, and then by members of the family who die throughout the course of King’s horror story. While each formerly dead being is returned to the land of the living, they don’t come back quite the same. Write a story in which a creature or person returns from the dead, either in actuality or under circumstances in which their reappearance feels as if they are “back from the dead.” What familiar traits remain the same and what is disconcertingly different? Is their return ultimately for the better or the worse?

Many foods, flavors, and dishes hold a wellspring of emotional associations because they remind us of loved ones, habits and traditions, specific locales, and a different time of our lives when we were different people. Write a series of flash nonfiction pieces this week with each segment focusing on an edible item that evokes particularly resonant memories for you. You might begin by jotting down lists of foods you ate regularly growing up—breakfasts, school lunches, vending machine go-tos, favorite fast-food joints, diners, late night spots, home-cooked specialties—as well as a few momentous meals. Who are the people you associate with each one? Aside from taste and smell, consider the surrounding environment, atmospheric sounds, time of year, and who you were at that point in your life.

If you could spend a night at any museum, which would you choose, and why? The French publisher Editions Stock has a series of books that begins with this premise—each author selects a museum, arrangements are made for an overnight stay, and a book is written about the experience. In Jakuta Alikavazovic’s Like a Sky Inside, translated from the French by Daniel Levin Becker, she spends a night at the Louvre in Paris, where childhood memories of visits with her father are vividly recalled. “From March 7 to 8, 2020, I spent the night in the Louvre, alone. Alone and at the same time anything but,” writes Alikavazovic. Write a poem that imagines a night at a museum of your choosing, anywhere in the world. What memories will you excavate from this imagined, solitary experience?

In the 1968 science fiction film Planet of the Apes, which is based on French author Pierre Boulle’s 1963 novel and has spawned several sequels and a recent reboot, a crew of astronauts crash-lands on a planet ruled by apes who have developed an advanced and hierarchical civilization, complete with systems of governance, labor, scientific research, and a military force. In this far-off place, humans have been reduced to mute primitive beings who are subjugated and kept captive as workers for the primates. Write a speculative story that takes place in another universe with a premise revolving around a role reversal. What are the rules and governing structures of the society that you invent? You might decide to approach your narrative with a tone of horror, satire, or comedy to emphasize your perspective on stereotypical assumptions and social expectations.

A recent study in Scientific Reports journal revealed that, for possibly the first time, a nonhuman wild animal was seen using plant medicine to heal an active wound. In a rainforest in Indonesia, a Sumatran orangutan was observed ripping off leaves from a climbing vine plant, chewing them, and applying the plant sap to treat a wound on his face, which then healed after a few days. Write a personal essay on the theme of self-healing. Think about experiences when you’ve witnessed another person perform this task, or particularly resonant memories that pertain to your own past behavior. What are the primary emotions present throughout this process? What instances of self-treatment or self-medication in film, art, or literature created an impression on you?

“The day the last friend / dies / we sit alone. / A visitor / from outer space / tries hard / to summon us. / Someone says / EAT DEATH. / I fish around for answers / but the questions / still won’t come,” writes Jerome Rothenberg, who passed away in April, in his poem “The Last Friend.” Included in his collection of one hundred poems, A Book of Witness: Spells & Gris-Gris (New Directions, 2022), the poem presents a list of statements and observations, many of which refer to death or dying in some personal way, though the connections are enigmatic and the logical progression is oblique. Try your hand at writing a poem that mentions its subject directly, but which also deliberately obfuscates or remains ambiguous in its intentions. How might using the “I” as a witness include the reader into your point of view?