Imagination Prompts

When I was a kid, I got the idea in my head that I would benefit by studying writing instruction manuals (even though I’d already written a novel with cross-dressing princesses, and seemed, for a sixteen-year-old, to be doing fine).  I lighted on a few that became my favorites, like Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. 

Now, I don’t want to diss Natalie Goldberg: she’s an incisive poet and memoirist.   I’ve come to the realization, however, that she’s completely unqualified to teach novel-writing (she only ever wrote one novel, Banana Rose, which turned out to be autobiography).  She’s especially not qualified to teach science fiction or fantasy writing.  I mean, how far is the prompt “Describe your father’s tie” going to get you toward figuring out a motive for your invading aliens?

(And how classist is that prompt, anyway?  I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my dad wear a tie.)

All of those Natalie Goldberg exercises were about looking inward—a.k.a. “Describe a time when you were ecstatic / Describe a time when you were humiliated.”  They were about closing yourself into boxes: boxes of memory and emotion.

            I thought it might be fun, this week, to invent some prompts of my own.  Think of it as a form of revenge.  They aren’t really writing prompts, so much as imagination prompts, ‘cause I had such a grueling time relearning to be imaginative after my entanglement with writing manuals.

            So here ya go:

Danica’s Imagination Prompts

Invent a mode of government.

If you were a wizard, but had one weakness, what would your weakness be?

Invent a failed superhero.

Describe an imaginary country you’d like to visit.  This can be someone else’s invented country, or your own.  (Personally, I’d like to go to the world of Hayao Miyazaki’s movie Castle in the Sky, because it has airships, derelict robots, flying trees, and sheep-herders.  Seems like an interesting place to get an ale.)

Alternately, describe a real country you want to visit and what you might find there.  (This second option is significantly harder…)

Invent a Muppet.  What are its defining characteristics?  You can learn a lot about constructing characters from the Muppets, because each of them is built from a single attribute—i.e. Gonzo: weirdness, or Miss Piggy: vanity.  Start with one trait, and then add layers (such as Gonzo’s sexual attraction to chickens, or Miss Piggy’s karate skills).

Write half a page of an awful screenplay.  And I do mean awful.  If you find yourself wanting to put in some intriguing narrative device or witty comment, STOP.  I want something like,

Mr. Good Guy: Broheim, I won’t go into that room because, by going into that room, I would be going into a room full of masterminds who are not my friends. 

Pan left, to show the door.

Broheim:  All right sir.  We do not have to go through the door.  But we do have to save Angeline, my sister, the daughter of my mother.

Mr. Good Guy: Angeline is so hot.  I’d like to sleep with her.

Pan left, to show the door again.  Cue a gasping, feminine scream.

Mr. Good Guy:  Angeline is behind the door!  Oh, what can I do to save her…

Name a character after your favorite type of cheese.

Pick a word, and then randomly attach it to other words.  Bacon Train.  Bacon Tuba.  Bacon Phantom.  Phantom After-Dinner Mint...  You get the gist.

This is one of Greg’s prompts:  “You’re in a laboratory with a child and a mad scientist.  What’s your name, the child’s name, and the mad scientist’s name?”  (His answers, incidentally, were “Ronzolo, Philbert, and Mr. Chesterton.”)

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After writing those, I’d like to add that I am by no means claiming to be an expert novelist or fiction writer.  I’m just in the process of learning, and I find that being playful—allowing myself to relax, throw caution to the winds, or write totally unusable prose—is a very freeing activity. 

 One good piece of advice that I got from writing manuals is, “Give yourself permission to fail.”  What they didn’t explain is that failing, as a creative writer, is vital; and it can also be fun. 

It’s fun to admit, “Okay, I suck at writing about parties” (I do: the prose always gets mawkish and frigid).  Once you admit your weakness, you get to explore it or ignore it, as you see fit.

Failure is an essential part of the job.