Every profession has “tools of the trade” be it paints, code or machinery. As writers, our most valuable asset (besides our beloved computer) is our imagination, that river of inspiration into which we dip for thoughts, dialogue and plot to craft something compelling, beautiful, gripping and talk-worthy. What a feat. As The Write Practice implies, we write (and read) to become better writers. But what are some other ways we can fuel our imagination and writing?
Photo by Jason-Bennett via Flickr Creative Commons
Here are five things you might try to “stretchify” your brain and fuel inspiration!
1. Take an Improv Class.
Think Second City in Chicago or the Brave New Workshop in Minneapolis. Improvisational Theatre is a form of theater where most or all of what is performed is created at the moment it is performed. Check out a local class where you can engage in this fun art form that increases confidence, enhances creative thinking and refines brainstorming abilities.
2. Download an App.
Here's some our family loves: Ruzzle, the fastest word game on the planet and 4 Pics 1 Word. Also, there are many “new word a day” apps.
3. Hang out with a Kid or Senior.
When I'm coming up blank for a book idea, I'll tap the mind of my 8-year-old son or 12-year-old daughter. They're great at telling me my idea stinks or suggesting an out-of-the-box idea for a plot twist. Don't have a kid of your own, visit a local school. Teacher would love to host a visiting writer! Or, conversely, visit a senior center and chat up the residents. I've done many book readings at assistant living centers and the residents' stories are fascinating!
4. Meditate.
I recently stumbled on this article entitled 7 Ways Meditation Increases Creativity and it paints a compelling rationale for why one should make dis-connection a priority, i.e., easing artistic anxiety, quieting the inner critic and improving concentration.
5. Travel. Across Town.
While it's nice to think of jetting off to exotic lands to embrace another culture, we can glean new inspiration by changing up our own environment. Think about it, the average person experiences daily life in about a 5-10 mile radius, especially for the butt-to-chair writer. Take that laptop or notepad and write at the Main St. coffee shop in Rural, USA. Hang out at a college library or in the lobby of a medical center or office building. Eat lunch at the hole-in-the-wall burger joint and snap photos of interesting architecture and tattoos (with permission, of course!).
PRACTICE
An either/or for you: Option 1: Right now where you are, do a mini-meditation. Five-ten minutes max. Close your eyes, turn off the mental chatter and inhale/exhale for 20 deep breaths. Every time a thought enters your mind, notice it and let it go. At the end of this meditation, write for 15 minutes, perhaps using one of those thoughts that came to you during your meditation as your springboard.
OR Option 2: Share with the group ways you have refueled your imagination when the creative well was dry. Include links to any articles or apps you've found helpful!
15 mins…
Option 1
Rain Falls
Loud upon the tin roof, large drops clatter and splatter into shards.
The soaking symphony deepens it’s treble and bass
and at the same time my knee aches.
Dare I move mid deep breath.
Rain falls again, faster now
sweeping roof debris, leaves and twigs,
upon its silvery tail into wide open gapes
of gutters and creaking down pipes.
A throb at the back of my head calls for attention.
I smile. Another thought orbits for a while.
I breathe deep again on my sojourn to seek
the quiet and mysterious deep
chamber within; the presence of Self free
from the chatter of weather and monkeys of mind.
I find a quietness where the rain,
calls from far away heights and
thoughts become orbiting cells until they
loose interest and spiral down and away
along the silvery tail of the quieting rains.
And my knee spasms again,
a last attempt to call me back to the couch.
And to the black stormy night that swirls about my house,
curling its tongue across tin and slapping at glass,
bending trees into curves as it sweeps past,
into the darkness of night
where rain falls and stars slide
and I meet
the filament of light
that burns me awake
at the edge of this life.
Stunning, truly!!!
So beautiful. Love the images and the struggle to find that place of peace. “the presence of Self, free from the chatter of weather and monkeys of mind.” Great line. “the black stormy night that swirls about my house, curling its tongue across tin and slapping at glass,” Loved the curling tongue image… brought to mind some beastly storming dragon.
It used to take me thirty minutes or more to get to my musing meadow hideaway… if I got there at all. It was blue that kept tripping me up. Blue’s amazing, don’t get me wrong, but it’s nothing when compared to purple. Fortunately, it’s true what they say about practice. And I’ve had plenty of it. In fact, I’ve made the trip so often over the years I should be able to do it in my sleep, but I can’t and that’s one of the reasons I fear the night. Sleep might be safe if I could find my way in the dark. Passing through blue and the rainbow bands of colors that come before it used to be my only way in. But now I have a shortcut: a door of many colors.
I snap my eyes shut and inhale.
Hold the air and count to seven, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Let it go.
The air breaks free of my lungs, and my soul breaks free of my body. My arms and legs sink into mattress and I leave my head cradled in my pillow.
~~~
The door is a collection of multi colored glass disks. Some are patterned with swirling pastels; others are striped like oddly painted peppermint candies, but most are solid in color—reds, yellows, oranges, greens and blues… lots and lots of blues.
There isn’t a doorknob, but with a firm push the door swings open. The room is carpeted with a pure white alpaca rug. I kick off my shoes and dig my toes into the silky fur, breath deep and inhale damp cinnamon.
Some of the outside has started to grow in. Branches, bursting with dainty buds of pink and white sprout from the walls and ceiling. And everywhere you look there are nests. Not the ordinary nests of birds made from sticks and grass and mud. But the extraordinary nest of fairies made from anything and everything: bottle caps and bazooka comics, playing cards and seashells, chewed up bubble gum and lucky pennies.
Their fairy inhabitants range in height from three to five inches and are built like hair-less, breast-less Barbie dolls with narrow hips and long, lanky limbs. There doesn’t seem to be any limit as to what color their skin can be. But whatever the color, it coats them as evenly as nail polish coats a fingernail and extends to their tongue and eyelids. It even tints the dust that falls from their wings. But what I love most about fairies are their wings and matching pupil-less eyes—each as unique as a fingerprint. Over the years I have seen every pattern imaginable, and many I could never imagine, not in my wildest of dreams.
I nod a polite hello to my colorful squatters as I make my way across the room. A few shake their wings in response—producing tiny bursts of glittery salutations.
I head to the overstuffed armchair that is positioned near the rear of the room. It’s upholstered with a silky black and white striped fabric. Not satisfied I blink my eyes and the silk is replaced with cheerful apple-green corduroy. I toss another blink at the cast iron stove and its hearth is suddenly ablaze with a purple, chocolate cake scented flame.
I use this space for many things, but the reason I’m is here now is to replay my first and only conversation with Patrick. I could have just remembered the encounter and saved myself the trip. But I wanted to see it. I wanted to study it. I wanted to take the seconds apart one by one and uncover the secrets hidden inside. I turn to face a large standing mirror and concentrating, I blink a third time, transforming it’s surface from a pane reflecting the present to a window that replays the past.
An image forms.
Love it.
Love the trip in, the journey through ‘fantasia’ and the unexpected reason for you being there …. ‘…to replay my first and only conversation with Patrick.’
I really enjoy how the final paragraph jolted me (the reader), from fairies and chocolate scented flames to a believable, rational , practical reason for being there. And then into the ‘…..I blink a third time, transforming it’s surface from a pane reflecting the present to a window that replays the past’. I really like that sentence.
Thanks for sharing.
Dawn 🙂
I do find free writing, like the challenges presented in this blog are extremely helpful in unblocking the imagination. I have also added doodling to my tool box. I have never been much of an artist (in the traditional sense), but doodling has been an amazing way to get my mind into that creative tingly space I so desperately crave! to spy my doodley delights go to http://beyondamusing.blogspot.com/
I totally get the doodling tool. I like to play with pastels and swirl and smudge them…and lately I’ve been getting into zentangles as a away to gently nudge awake my muse.
My mind was running during meditation so this fifteen minutes came out LOL
==========
Hurdles are supposed to tip over at the slightest touch from a toe or foot. You can practically blow the good ones over. They’re designed that way so the runner is penalized without getting hurt.
Our coach used to turn them around.
It’s weird how something almost symmetric can change so much when it’s flipped 180 degrees. When they’re turned, touching a toe on the tip of the hurdle means touching your face on the asphalt; there’s no give. The really asshole thing about it was coach wouldn’t tell us which ones were turned. Some might give way, some might not. And he’d mix it up.
Lining up, my heart pounds African drum songs. It doesn’t seem fair – I’d been doing this way too long to be nervous. You’re supposed to get over jitters and settle into fantastic routine. But last time, I scratched up my palm something fierce after biffing it on a flipped hurdle. Coach wonders why we perform better in practice. It’s because we know the real races won’t mess us up. We’re the only group I know who are more nervous at our daily afternoon sprints than at the big meets.
I crouch low and assume the stance. My fast-twitch muscles are on standby, ready to take the next flight.
“GO!”
I take off running. My right ankle – my jumping ankle – has been sore, which heightens my fear. I actually dread the obstacles flying at me like cars from old racing video games. I notice the first one’s facing the right direction and sigh in relief as I jump. My weak ankle lowers me by a mere inch, but it’s enough, and my foot crumples the hurdle.
“Shit,” I say to myself. Screwing up the first one gets in your head. My brain fumbles and I actually forget how to jump. I’m moving so fast, I can’t tell which way the next hurdle faces. I can’t even lift myself and plow into it. It topples over and I hear something being screamed at me.
In that moment, my brain leaves my body. My legs are on autopilot as I ask myself, for the millionth time, why haven’t I quit? Or why has no one reported the bastard?
Without thinking, I jump the next three hurdles.
I feel a rush, but it’s not the typical rush athletes feel on success. It’s more a rush of survival. And I hate it. Yet, for some reason, I’ve been doing it forever. What is wrong with me?
I jump again and the tip of my shoe nicks the hurdle. It’s not enough to topple me, but I notice it’s facing the wrong way. A half inch lower and I would have been roadkill.
I’ve told myself a million times I’m going to quit. I haven’t. But I’ve never cried while running and, while I can’t feel the tears running down my face, I know they’re there this time, being swept into the wind. And they make the decision for me. This time, it’s real.
That’s when reality sets in: two more hurdles and I’m done. I’m done forever!
A spark of exhilaration lights my body and my gas tank is suddenly full. For the first time in months, I’m actually excited. It may not be for the normal reasons – winning, bettering my time, whatever – but I don’t care.
In my joy, I clear the next hurdle easily. One to go. I approach it with that easy joy, and go to plant my foot. I decide to make it a dramatic ballerina leap. Sure it will slow me down, but who cares.
Too bad my ankle doesn’t agree. It crumples as I jump and my shin rams the hurdles. It’s facing the wrong way. I feel my elbows smack the ground, followed by my forehead. I lay there, crying, as people surround me. But my tears swap from sadness to elation. The pain is temporary. In fact, it’s already behind me.
I watch the rain drops slid down my window as I put my head phones on and listen to Panic! At The Disco I Write Sin’s Not Tragedy’s.
The sweet upbeat music drowns out the sound of my mom and dad arguing.
“Stay strong” They say well I’ve been staying strong for the past twelve
years of my miserable life and nothing has changed. Tears slid down my
face as I walk to my bathroom and grab the razor that was on my bathroom
sink.
The dull blade was worn out from all the use but not
for what it
was meant for. My arms are scarred with the cuts that I did to myself or
what reason I don’t know. I dragged it across my arm digging deeper and
deeper all the pain of my mom and dad, the hate from everyone, and the
bullies I took it out on me just to numb myself from everything. Right
before I reached the main vain I stopped. The blood dripped down
creating puddles staining my sink. I stared at myself in the mirror. My
long red curly
hair fell down in crazy places as it framed my pale freckled face making
my green eyes pop. I cried tears spilling out of my eyes. I slumped
against the wall gulping in air in order to stop crying but the streams
of tears wouldn’t stop. I wrapped my arms up and grabbed a piece of
paper and a pencil and started writing.
“Dear Mom and Dad. I know that
you to have fought from the first day I was born so in order for you to
have a happy life I’ve decided to leave don’t try to find my because
I’ve had this plan for a while.
Love CJ.”
I grabbed my suit case and the
money I’d been saving and walked out the door slipping past my mom and
dad who were passed out on the couch with the TV blaring bottles filled
the table. I walked into the cool night air the moon shone down and the
star’s twinkled in the sky. The sound of dog’s barking was about the
only sound as I walked down the crooked sidewalk.
Suddenly I fell a
piercing burning feeling filled my stomach I looked at it and saw bullet
holes the blood gushing out. I saw a hooded figure ran away as I laid
there screaming for help. I finally closed my eyes and and blacked out
feeling nothing. All the pain would soon end and then I would be fine. I took a breath and stopped.
I’m just new to all of this. This is a bit of a whimsy, but I hope you enjoy.
****
The Man and the Mole
There was dirt under his fingernails. He could no longer see them, as his eyesight had long since been forgotten. he scratched again, as was his wont in the early morning – or was it morning? Maybe it was on dusk or the heat of midday. He couldn’t tell anymore, the moist, thick, heavy soil enveloped him like a loving blanket and that was all he wanted now.
Years ago, in disappointment, for a long time he just stared at the floor. He began to scratch at the carpet, he started to burrow. he burrowed from his office chair, cracked through the floor and the concrete pad. It was almost like ants sensing the water before the rains, he could nearly smell the mud reaching out to him, beckoning and inviting him to its dinner party. It was a siren song, offering a new life and an invitation and welcome.
And so, as if on some primeval instinct he began to scratch at the floor with his finger nails, as he did so to his wonder his nails hardened instead of splintering. they stretched out, and for each millimeter of concrete, they grew into tungsten claws. As the soil came nearer to him, his nose – or was it a snout – lengthened and stretched – reaching out for the warm humus some instinct deep within himself knew about. His office clothes ripped and shredded, his rounding back, covered in fur pushed through the seams, of the now long-forgotten uniform of civilization, it stretched and ripped, but he didn’t notice it.
The light had become dark, and the darkness light. He blinked twice and his snout became his eyes. Now blind, swimming through the embrace of the ground. Freedom?
No longer could he hear the call of love, and he had forgotten the wonderment of the colours and dance of life above. His food and friends were now the tiny insects and worms who, equally blindly, crossed his path. There was barely room to turn, as he blindly and absently burrowed deeper on deeper – thought replaced by instinct, and imagination by the feather touch of his food.
he was swimming now, dank earth like water, parting its way before him and there was dirt under his fingernails.
One of my very favorite things to do is hang out with my best friend. He happens to be four. He creates so many stories throughout the day (mostly about ninja turtles and foot soldiers) but I see him popping up in every story I write! I definitely agree with hanging out with a kid or a senior. The best thing I do when my writer well runs dry is read another book or watch a show I really love. Then I will take the smallest and most minor character of them all and attempt to tell their story. It’s something to get the brain juices flowing!
I like to look at photos, pictures in a magazine, and paintings and imagine a story about the people in the scene. Another way is to check on-line for story prompts. I usually find a prompt that sparks my imagination and results in something: a story, a poem, a blog post, or a journal entry.
Adelaide
Something that helps me is to figure out why I am writing something.
People don’t write unless there is a reason, something inside that needs
to get out. I think all creative things are like that. People open
themselves up so the creativity can come out.
But understanding it is important I think. What do I need to express? And then thinking about those thoughts and refining them further helps. I do not like corny writing often even though the ideas may be right. Because life is not positive affirmations. It is much deeper and harder than that. But it also is not too deep or too hard. By analyzing life I can hopefully get to the right amount of deepness and hardness that is realistic.
Also another thing I do to inspire myself is read books and watch movies, or pay attention to my dreams. Pay attention to my life.
Where can you learn more then from your own self and your own mistakes?
What causes pain? Where is joy? What do I keep messing up at? What is the world like to me? Where is it headed?