The merit of writing prompts
They’re great, right?
That’s it, that’s the blog post.
Photo by Catherine Lavery from Unsplash
“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
Genuinely, I don’t have a lot of negative things to say about writing prompts. They’re a source of inspiration for writers when they’re stuck, they’re a tool of writing teachers and professors around the world to procure a uniform theme, and, if they’re broad enough, can create a whole host of different and interesting pieces. In the one writing workshop I hosted, I gave four different writing prompts, and we ended up with several well thought out poems, narratives, and even comic strips.
Photo by Julia Joppien from Unsplash
So what’s the point of this writing exercise here?
To be honest, whenever I write from a writing prompt, I feel incompetent. Surely, my favorite authors didn’t write their greatest works from writing prompts. If I want to be great, I can’t rely on prompts to be my source of inspiration and to frame the themes and topics I’m going to write about, right?
Right, write, right, write.
Right or wrong, it’s a feeling I want to explore. It’s a lot of pressure to expect every writing idea I pull out to be gold - more often than not, it’s not. And a writing prompt doesn’t guarantee success, either. I’ve read a lot of poems derived from prompts that are…subjectively not my cup of tea. I’ve written a lot of those, too.
All of this to say - writing prompts are okay. I think it’s great to use them from time to time to stimulate and provoke some fresh thoughts and different styles. What I hope, for me at least, is that they end up being experimental - a way for me to expand upon my current writing style and that my greatest ideas come from, well, me.
You are most yourself when you’re looking at the sky.
When I’m looking at the sky, I am the most
I’ve ever been. I am full, like breathing has
Never been an act of sacrifice, like there are
Bigger things than four walls and a floor
To lie on. And maybe it’s from a lack of
Walking lately, or maybe it’s how I
Willingly cover my face, how I blind myself
By staring at the ground, and there are
Sturdier things than concrete. So maybe
It’s that, that forced forgetting, that
Compulsory quickness from place to
Place, these things I’ve always
Been but never wanted to acknowledge. This
Desperate away-ness, this naked-
Ness that is not unfamiliar to me. Maybe
There is not a myself to be most
Of. Maybe there is a me and there is a
You. Maybe there’s a part you like
To see, the sky-loving, air-breathing,
Emphatic insanity, and the bit you wish
Never existed. You are most yourself
When you’re looking at the sky. Like
Pure malignancy, most yourself, like
Face-down, swallowing dirt, like
Lightning-colored skin, and
I do not know the way to say
This is my most.
