It’s easy to fall into a writing rut, staying safe within the walls of your writing comfort zone. I’ve done it plenty of times, using the same kinds of characters in the same kinds of plots with the same kind of genre. For a while it’ll be nothing but sixteen-year-old orphaned heroines in a fantasy world or talking animals who always get into trouble. But as much as writing your favorite stories is fun, it’s a fine line between safe and stale.
Just like with any creative activity, if you’re not careful to broaden your horizons, you can get stuck easily. That’s why it’s good to branch out a little, find some writing prompts online or even challenge yourself to write for a different age group. Still not convinced? Here are three reasons why you should break free from your writing comfort zone.
1. You find out what you don’t like
Here’s a little tip: You won’t like everything you try and that’s okay. You tried science-fiction and it didn’t work? That’s fine! You’ve tried it and you now know it's not for you. You don’t have to write science-fiction ever again if you don’t want to. But now you don’t have to waste your time wondering about it.
2. You discover new things
On the other hand, with every activity you try and don’t like, you’ll find one you do. So maybe sci-fi wasn’t your thing, but historical fiction might be. Maybe you discover that doing the research and fact checking for your stories are actually tons of fun. But you never would’ve known it if you hadn’t tried.
3. The challenge improves your creativity
Ultimately, whether you like it or not, trying something new is a huge challenge. You have to step outside everything you’ve known, everything that’s safe, and find a way to make this new thing work. It’s a great creative exercise, and strengthening those muscles will help you in the long run with whatever you do.
Break Free from Your Writing Comfort Zone
All writers occasionally fall into writing ruts. Choose to break free from your writing comfort zone by taking some risks. Don't forget to take notes along the way, because you'll be sure to learn a few things.
In the words of Katherine Mansfield,
Because sometimes the hardest thing to do is the very best thing to do.
What are some ways you’ve broken out of your writing comfort zone? How did that help you in your writing? Let me know in the comments section.
PRACTICE
For fifteen minutes, write something completely new. Whether it be a new genre, a new kind of character, or a new setting, write something that’s out of your comfort zone that you’ve never tried before. Then, if you want to, share your practice in the comments. Don’t forget to give your fellow writers a little love, too. Have fun!
This is so very true. I learned that this week when I wrote a story for the Story Contest here and gave it to my critique partners to look at. They said it was cliched, stereotyped with an implausible plot. OUCH! I felt dejected for a while but then I spent a sleepless night thinking of other story ideas. I chucked the other story and wrote something much better. And I wrote a blog post about the experience. Sometimes we write crap, even after years of writing. Difficult to accept but true. The thing is recognizing this which isn’t always easy. Critique partners are so good for knowing you aren’t doing your best work and pushing you to improve. Being in a trusting critique group is so valuable.
Good words, Cathy! We all have our humbling moments when we don’t feel much like writers, but the best thing to do is learn from it! And don’t be afraid to try again! I think that’s perfect how you wrote a blog post about the experience….sort of turned it into a writing prompt for yourself! Awesome, idea. And yes, critique partners are a must have! 🙂
This is amazing advice! Especially sinc
Uhmmm… can i just share something… just wanna know where im going wrong or if there’s anything i can do to make it better.
Aurora.
The wind is frantically blowing, caressing the grasses and wrestling with the trees. Its plangent sound is making the entire foliage sway in fear. The drying and the rotting leaves are recruited to be its minions- following wherever it blows, imitating its movements like lost souls running after their saviour. The cloudless sky is turning dark or maybe it was dark turning into day. It is promising neither a sunny day ahead nor an omen of something doomy that is bound to happen. It is just that- cold, sad and caliginous picturisque. It is exactly how I feel about my name everytime. Aurora. It isn’t like the scene comes flushing every mention of it. It is just there- the feel of it accompanying my name.
Gramma said mom gave birth to me all on her own in her apartment room unable to contact anybody for help. She wasnt sure exactly what time but it was somewhere between postmidnight and dawn that’s why i was named Aurora , the Roman goddess of dawn. Well I consider myself lucky to have been named by my mother Aurora than to be named anything else ridiculous. Knowing my mother, she could’ve coined the most comedic or laughable name a human being could ever coin. She has this endless and strong desire for attention so she always strive to stand out and be different. She is also the coldest and the most insensitive person living on earth right now. Her every attitude is extreme. I know her so well to say all this things yet she is like a stranger to me. Never did i feel like she is a mother to me, maybe because she didnt feel like im her daughter. She’s just incapable to feel all those things. Im not saying this things out of anger or hatred or contempt because I dont feel it towards mom. Im saying all of this matter-of-factly. She’s not like any other mother. Never have i remembered her waking me up in the morning, packing my lunch for school, giving aid for my wounds, kissing me goodnight and any other things that a mother would normally do to her child. She doesnt have this ability to care for another human being aside from herself.
Aside from being lucky that i was named Aurora i also consider myself lucky that i wasnt aborted ,that she endured me for nine months even if it would have meant nine months of discomfort and ruination of her godly woman shape. Im goddamned sure it wasnt because of morality or conscience or fear of eternal condemnation or even love. It’s just not in her to feel those emotions. She’s a narcissistic megalomaniac sociopath. There is nothing more important to her than herself- her happiness, her comfort , her pride her this ,her that. One theory i came up for having kept me was that she just wanted to be adored, to be complimented, to be envied that in spite of being a mother she still have that figure to die for. Really sounds like mom so I bet that is it.
Nevertheless I respect her – not the “bowing” kind of respect, it is more of an “accepting” kind of respect. I respect that she is the way she is like i respect every human being is unique. In thinking this way i have also saved myself from self-pity and anger towards mom or even God. We all have different upbringings, genetic predisposition, beliefs, cultures, characters, surrounded with different people etc and so we tend to act differently toward the world and end up with very different and unique fate- and it just happened that this had become mine.
According to gramma dad lived with us until i was two. I couldnt stop to wonder how did he even manage to live with a kind of woman that mom is for that long. Three years of being mom’s husband would have felt like eternity in hell. He left mom for another woman- his ex flame who happened to be still in love with him. For that, I couldnt blame him . I might have even pushed him to go if he happened to still be there when i started to have an understanding of the situation. After they broke up I only got to see him once a month.I know ,never did, even for a second mom felt like she lost anything in lossing dad. There was never a tear nor a heartbreak – there was never love on her part in the first place. The only inconvinience she felt from the break up was the burden of having to take care of me on her own. At first she had to leave me with gramma everytime she got something important to run. When i was nine i started being so sickly and my asthma attacks became so frequent. That’s when things got so unbearable for her. I even remember a time when i was having one of my attacks and she hurriedly left for a meeting like she never saw me or like i never needed her help or maybe she knew i can handle the situation myself or that anyway, she would not find me lying around lifeless when she gets home.
This is quite a story! I hope it’s not autobiographical, but if it is, you have my sympathies. My mother was a wipe-out, too, but it was because she’d been so badly abused. She didn’t have it in her to care about others and left her children to fend for themselves.
Now, apart from the story itself… What can you do to make this better?
1) PARAGRAPHS
2) Apostrophes. Capitals: I for yourself; M on mom, G on gramma.
3) Wipe out all repetition. You don’t need to point out the same things several times. You don’t need to tell us as well, when you’re already showing us. For example, you could eliminate these lines because all the behavior you’re describing tell us this:
Never did i feel like she is a mother to me, maybe because she didn’t feel like i’m her daughter. She’s just incapable to feel all those things. I’m not saying this things
out of anger or hatred or contempt because i don’t feel it towards mom.
I’m saying all of this matter-of-factly. She’s not like any other mother.
Thank you so much ,Christine. Haven’t paid much attention to 1 and 2. 3, I think that’s the problem with me. I’ll work on that. Thank you.
By the way, it isn’t an autobiography or a biography in that matter. I just wanted to create something that violates the standard wherein, a mother is cut-and-dried loving and those who don’t have a happy childhood ends up wasted.
Thank you. Appreciate it.
I missed you, sweet ‘Violinist’ #HUGSSS
Thank you for another fabulous post <3
Oh boy am I here today with this post, writing outside my comfort zone. When I first started writing back in junior high / high school it was for me ( when it wasn’t assignments for school). I didn’t care what others thought – because I wasn’t there yet. My writing was for me and me alone, I wrote to take me away from a really bad childhood, I wrote because it was the one thing no one could take away from me- it was mine and mine alone.
Fast forward to today, I started writing non fiction Christian stories and while they were good I wanted to try something different, and I did. But when I sent it to someone to read and look out they googled my name and saw most of what I wrote was Christian pieces and this other story was not in line with who he found on-line. While I don’t remember his exact words he said something to who I found is not who wrote this other story, so why are you trying to do something else. Since then I have not been able to write and complete anything since then.
How can I step out of my comfort zone to try something new, to see if I could write another genre if my thoughts or actions get stuck and wont let me get past that comment? I have tried stepping away from writing because that literally stops me , but I’m also ‘not me’ when I don’t write.
For the record, the other piece this guy commented on I am not comfortable writing any way on a regular basis, but there are other genres out there. Do I need to create a pen name for the other pieces and try and be a whole different person? Help!!!!! lol
Debra,
Part of the exploration process is that it’s private. Just you and your words.
What you encountered was the fact that the new thing you tried collided head on with the brand you’d already developed. The reader merely commented on the fact that you’d written outside of your “brand”. That can be good (you’ve established a brand), but it can also be bad in that it can set you back, as seems to have been the case.
I have tried new and different things, but no one has ever seen those experiments. In some cases, I haven’t even saved them.
If you do write in multiple genres, a pen name or a different version of your own name is a good idea.
Thank you Carrie Lynn, I have been trying to create a brand for a while and I guess it was created for me just by the comments and blogs and the three books I personally wrote and published. And I do love writing the Christian pieces ( I can give you titles if interested) but how do I get to a point to set that comment aside to try another. What I may do is get another computer and use the pen name for that computer totally separating the one brand from the new things I want to try, The other computer wont be on line.
Debra,
That’s usually how brand develops. While we’re writing. I’ve been an artist for a long time and can tell that artistic style and writers voice (or brand) happen the same way. It’s usually your fans who spot it first.
I write in several different genres. The real key for me is mindset. The mysteries I write require an Agatha Christie kind of mindset. The cozies are similar, but more “home town” if that makes sense. The fairy tale I play around with is told with a child-like mindset.
So far, none of them have been published, so my name is on all of them, but I have given thought to how my name will appear on various types of novels.
You could try writing on a different computer, but you could also try writing in a different way. Do you always write in the same place? Try writing somewhere else?
If you always use a computer, try writing long hand, with pen and paper.
I’m an artist, so this probably won’t surprise anyone, but I often change the color of the font on my computer and I sometimes even change the background color. There’s nothing like to set mood. Even if all it does it get you started, it’s worth a try.
Carrie, I was just sitting here thinking about the pen name I have used on other stories. Was trying to think about other personas she would have and what kind of mindset she would have and need to write these other stories. Where I could write ( my hand writing is not readable even to me so I have another laptop for them. I have a Toshiba – which I call Shiba, and I have an Ace laptop. Shiba seem to be for mystery crime and romance , as I have referred to her in one of those stories I am editing. So Ace is for the christian stories. In fact that decision just hit me as I wrote that,,, So maybe the Pen name should , could have the name Shiba in it… since I have already created her in my mind and stories already. hmmm I may have had a break through.
Ta-da! Problem solved! It looks like the discussion has settled at least a few questions in your mind.
Those are great ideas for pen names. Mine are pedestrian by comparison.
Carrie Lynn Lewis for the mysteries and possibly cozies.
C. L. Lewis for political thrillers or Biblical stories.
Carrie L. Lewis for anything art-related.
Pretty tame, huh?
I have read articles on that very subject! They have all said that if you write in different genres, it’s generally a good idea to use pen names. Pen names are a standard practice, so if you think it would help you, then you should try it! And I don’t think using a pen name means you’re trying to be a different person—I think it’s a way for you to put a different side of yourself out there. Like diamonds, we all have many facets!
I like to play with different genres too, but so far haven’t used a pen name. I think I will try it though. I even found a fun little pen name generator online! I can’t remember the website, but if you Google it, you’ll probably find it. If nothing else,my ou might get a good laugh!
Good luck!
I think the same can apply to reading as well. We’re always told to read everything, even if it’s outside of what we write. I tried reading a fantasy book, and it didn’t work for me. I kept falling asleep. But that was just one book. I’m sure there will be others I might enjoy.
As far as writing goes, I’m looking to find ways to push myself; to write outside my realm. My characters are pretty young, so I’m looking to write older characters, or have them in more adult situations.
I agree! I’m doing a reading challenge with a friend, and there are genres included that I wouldn’t normally read. I just finished a horror novel last week, which was a first for me. I don’t think I will ever read another one! But I think it’s good to try genres that aren’t familiar to you. You never know what you can learn or what will inspire you!
I have seen many writing and journal prompts where you are to write a letter to someone or something. A letter to yourself in 10 years, a letter to someone who has changed your life, or a letter to an inanimate object. These are just three examples – I’ve seen many more. This may sound strange, but this intrigues me. In this day and age of emails and texts, it seems letter writing is a lost art. So I decided to give it a try. This is an angry letter to an inanimate object. Sorry if it’s lame, but I did have fun!
Dear Corner of the Bathroom Counter,
I’ve tried to hold my tongue, but I can’t any longer. I need to get this out in the open. I have suffered too many bruises because of you and I’m sick of it!
Okay, I’ll admit, I have my clumsy moments. Who doesn’t? But it can’t possibly be my fault every single time. You have to share some of the blame here.
You have no idea how much you hurt me. You try being hit right in the hip bone and see how you like it! Or are you one of those types who gets pleasure from pain? It wouldn’t surprise me if you were. You strike me as the bastard type.
Come to think of it, you do remind me of a few of my exes. And let me tell you, I’ve dated some real a-holes! Yep, you’re a lot like them. Cold, hard, and unforgiving.
I just can’t take it anymore! More importantly my hip bones can’t take it. We have to come to some kind of understanding. How about we just keep our distance from each other for a while? I’ll steer clear of you if you steer clear of me. Okay?
Sincerely,
Me
Cynthia, I liked what you wrote. I thought it was very innovative and witty. I can relate to that type of situation. I don’t know what your genre preference is, but if this was outside of your comfort zone, you did well!
Thank you, Claire!
That was funny, I like it 😀
I am going to attempt Sci Fi.
Status Date: 2/14/2331
Status Creator: Captain Noli Rimert
Ship: Black Quasar
Began exploration of planet XRQ17. Native dominant species are invertebrates, low intelligence. Utilize basic communication via pheromones. Commencing atmospheric studies 2/16/2331.
“Captain, group nine returned.” A young woman leaned in the doorway, the tips of her fingers almost touching the ceiling.
“Ah, Lieutenant Yara. You’ve grown significantly.” Noli spun his chair around to face her, grinning ear to ear.
“Permission to speak informally, sir?”
“Granted.”
“Dad, that joke is getting so old. Older than a white dwarf star. For the last time, it’s the boots.” Yara muttered, unlocking the first of the three black bands around her calves.
“And, Lieutenant, why are you still wearing the boots? You do not need artificial gravity on the ship. They should be…”
“In the equipment port, yes SIR, I understand.” Yara released her left foot and stepped into the communications room. “There. I’m short again.” Her blue eyes flashed in her reflection by the Captain’s foot, striking against her olive skin.
“You were saying something about group nine?”
“Oh, yes. Group nine has returned with several biological samples from native plant species. They also discovered something… odd.”
“Odd is a very vague descriptor.”
“Well, what they found can’t really be described… It is living, sir. But it seems to be comprised of silicon; not carbon.”
“We’ve found fourteen species across three planets comprised of silicon and they are all archaic micro organisms. Furthermore, they only originate in extreme conditions with large presences of methane and-”
“It isn’t a micro organism. It is about the size of a cat, and is comprised of crystals. We think these crystals pass information between one another, and that is how they communicate. But… sir, there is a problem.”
Captain Rimert turned to the monitor and started calling out instructions. “Compose alert, send to all Expeditions ships within a four light year radius. Direct to planet XRQ17.” He stood, kneading the back of his chair and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What is this problem.”
Yara cleared her throat and looked at the ground. “Well, erm, sir, they are parasitic… in a way. They seem to be rather fond of our technology. They consumed three atmospheric monitors and destabilized an artificial gravity zone. A member of group nine captured one of them-”
ALERT ALERT BREACH IN SECTOR A 11 ALL STAFF REPORT TO MAIN HALL IN SECTOR B2 COMMENCING LOCKDOWN
“Yara. Tell me they didn’t bring it into the ship.”
“I told them not to.”
“Yara.”
Lieutenant Yara Rimert stepped back into her boots. A suit of black plated metal formed itself around her, with a slit over the forehead and eyes covered with a clear visor. She stepped around her father and grabbed a large plasma gun.
“I’ve got this Captain.” With that, she stepped out into the maze of flashing lights.
Lauren,
I thought about doing science fiction, too, but nothing came to mind.
I see visions of little crystalline entities here. Or maybe crystal tribbles would be a better way to put it. I don’t read science fiction, but I am intrigued.
I spent all day trying to decide what genre to write. I’m not unhappy with my chosen options and write in enough to be fairly well happy all the time, so finding something that was appealing and struck a spark was a difficult task.
Finally, I looked at the photo again and thought “Disaster movie”.
Here’s my submission.
Everything about the flight was normal until they reached the lower Midwest. That was when Joe looked out the window toward the patchwork quilt of the Mississippi River valley.
Or what should have been the Mississippi River valley. The expanse of water immediately had him checking position.
That’s odd. It says we’re in the right place.
He looked down again, leaning toward the window to get a better view of the landscape 20,000 feet below. The computer said they were where they should be. His eyes disagreed.
A haze of clouds blurred past, veiling the view. Joe straightened and scanned the controls again. Everything was in order. There was nothing on his radio, either. Everything was as it should have been.
Must be an optical illusion.
He put the incident aside. It was sometimes difficult to see accurately from this altitude. That was why he looked down so infrequently. Better to let expensive equipment tell him where he was. That’s what it was for, after all. He scanned the telemetry again and was satisfied.
“Twenty minutes out,” he said when Frank, his co-pilot, re-entered the cockpit. Frank grunted as he settled into his seat. Was that an answer or indigestion? Joe was never sure with Frank. Sullen at the best of times and distant at the worst, Frank was a lousy flying partner. He knew his job–he knew it inside out–but flying with Frank was like flying solo; just a lot less comfortable.
Joe turned his attention back to the controls and concentrated on pre-landing routines.
The next time he looked out the window, they’d already begun their descent. The change in altitude wasn’t yet significant, but it made enough of a difference that Joe could see sunlight sparkling off the water below. It was such a beautiful sight that it took him a moment to realize what he was looking at.
There was so much water. Too much water for their position.
And the water seemed to be spreading before his very eyes.
The hair rose on the back of his neck and it was all he could do to restrain a shiver. The last time the nape of his neck had gotten so prickly was right before he’d seen a jet tumble out of the sky at Heathrow. He straightened and rubbed his eyes, then blinked and leaned over to look again.
He’d seen correctly. The water was spreading. It was spreading rapidly enough to be visible at over 15,000 feet.
“Frank. Look down and tell me what you see,” he said, hearing a tremor in his voice that he hoped didn’t transmit through the radio.
“What are we doing over the Gulf?” Frank asked in response. Joe looked at the controls, then at Frank.
“We’re not over the Gulf.”
“So what’s all that water? Somebody’s waterbed spring a leak?”
That’s no leak, Joe thought. It was all he could do to avoid speaking it. Instead, he keyed his mic and spoke to the control tower in Memphis.
The only response was dead air.
It was only then that he realized just how quiet the radio had become. He tried another channel, then another and another, but could raise no one. It was as though every control tower within range was off the air.
He looked down at the water again…. What should have been the Mississippi was a widening gulf, pushing its way northward in foaming fury. He banked slightly, tipping his side of the jet downward for a better look. This time he did shiver. He couldn’t prevent it.
Here’s my attempt at sci-fi:
THE TIMEKEEPER
The scheduled day that Tempest’s spirit would
materialize and join the living for twenty-four hours had arrived. She knew I would be accompanying her as the Timekeeper since these spirits always wanted to stay longer and not return at their appointed time. This is where I came into play.
I had gotten the job of official Timekeeper as soon as I
arrived to this realm, since in my former life I obsessed about time and its passage. The Grand High Exulted Mystic Spirit thought this title suited me quite well, and here I am, on yet another assignment.
Knowing Tempest and her antics, I knew she’d attempt
to elude me, so I could not let my guard down. In this case, I had to be extra vigilant to protect her because her name was befitting of her unpredictable behavior.
You may be wondering—why the strict time
vigilance? The simple reason is that these spirits wouldn’t be able to return to their resting domain if they exceeded their time allotment. The punishment for not complying—their spirits would remain anchored to the worldly realm and eventually turn into gargoyles. This wasn’t going to happen to Tempest on my watch…
Down a dusty path he walked, the sun warming his tan skin. Another day in the field. Not any different than every other day of his life. The cabbage fields stretched endlessly in front of him, just like they did every year at harvest. He scratched the top of his hat and sighed–a habit that began every day of work–then bent down and began to cut the heads of cabbage from the stalks.
Today would be just like every other day, if it weren’t for the fact that everything had changed. Not his surrounding. Not his job. But himself. Inside of him was a man that He hadn’t known yesterday morning.
The knife slashed the stalk of cabbage. Already there were ten harvested. Marco always prided himself in his efficiency, but this day he worked as a robot–without emotion–while inside him was a tornado of worry and fear and confusion.
Why hadn’t he just kept quite?
One lie is all it would have taken. But alas, he could never keep quiet when the truth must be spoken. He could never lie. His mother had taught him better. And surely she would have found out. His boss would have found out too, and he’d lose his job. He’d be shunned from his closest friend. He’d be left with his family that would hate him for what he’d done.
What could he do, but tell the truth? And so he had, despite the consequences.
The first bead of sweat rolled down his face. It might as well have been tears. He was at the mercy of Armando. At night he would know his punishment.
God, help him to have mercy.
Marco shivered, despise the squelching heat. Never again would a day be so long.