PEN Center USA

I tend to cringe at formulas, probably because I was never any good at math or chemistry. If I studied hard enough before a test, I might do okay. But in due time, I’d forget everything. So it stands to reason that when it comes to writing fiction, I tend to reject anything that smacks of formula on principle.

On the one hand, this is good. No one wants his or her work to feel “formulaic.” On the other, rejecting form altogether is problematic and rarely works. For my taste, experimental writing is only engaging when done really well. And even then, you’d probably find some form if you looked hard enough.

But what about using a formula to plan a piece of work before you’ve even begun?

For some work this is totally necessary, like architecture, set design, or rocket-building. But in writing, as well as other art forms, you can begin with no idea of where the piece will be going and hope to find your way along the way.

A lot of writers swear by this. Others outline. The degree of outlining can vary. Some might do brief, broad outlines, just so they know more or less where they might be going. They might even stop the outline before the end, so that at least something can surprise them along the way. Others will outline everything, knowing exactly where they’re headed. Apparently, J.K. Rowling did this with the entire Harry Potter series.

All well and good, but I’m no J.K. Rowling, nor do I want to be– except for the number of books she has sold of course. I still have issues with the outline because I fear it would take the fun out of writing the first draft, the sense of discovery. I’m reminded of the times I wrote treatments for screenplays, an insipidly dull and dry process (which, apparently, few read anymore, anyway).

Many of my favorite writers have claimed not to outline: George Saunders and Aimee Bender come to mind, and I think it shows. Most of their stories feel intuitive and so strange that I have a hard time imagining them plotting everything out. Same with now-classic short-story writers who helped advanced the form, like Raymond Carver, Barry Hannah, Donald Barthelme, Lydia Davis, and Denis Johnson, who authored my still-favorite linked-story collection, Jesus’ Son. Most of their work does not follow a well-worn path, and, though I’m sure they were all worked on and polished over long periods of time, the best ones retain an immediacy: the sense that the narrator is telling the story in the moment, just opening it up and letting it fly. The trick is to do the work, but not feel the work in the final product.

I’ve only vaguely considered form with some pieces, and probably wasted some time because of it. For my current collection, I’ve re-written stories several times over, without ever considering some of the basic story elements. Once I had characters and an interesting premise, I’d work more at improving the writing itself – finding the freshest language, trimming the fat, making the sentences sing. Yet, all of that time can be wasteful if the basic story falls flat, as happens if I haven’t considered some of the essential story components, like what the character thinks they want, how this may or may not be what they need, how they try to get it, the issue that holds them back, etc.

I think my ideal formula is this: write a first draft with no outline. Then once I’ve got a vague notion of where the draft could go based on that, answer some of these basic questions and, yes, even write a short outline detailing how the story might get from a to b to c.

The only aspect that troubles me, as summarized in the book Wired for Story that I’ve been reading, is the final piece of the puzzle: what does the story have to say about human nature? For me, this treads a bit too closely to a moral, or to over-simplification. That’s why I usually use several thousand words per story. Because, like most things that matter in life, it can’t be summed up in thirty or less!

I know they aren’t cool, and I know a lot of writers hate them, but I'll admit it: I love writing prompts.

I can understand why many literary folk roll their eyes at them. Why would you want someone to tell you when and what to write about?

There are two main reasons that I dance a little on the inside when given a good writing exercise. The first is their playful nature. A prompt is a game of sorts. You take an idea that someone's handing you– an interesting scenario or character trait, an image or conflict– and tinker with it. You emerge with a creation born of the original idea, but now different, on the other end. The transformation process– like dress-up, or performing a play, or pulling a prank– is, inherently, fun.

Secondly, an exercise asks something specific and objective of a writer. It's pre-defined: this is the task that must be accomplished; this is the place at which to begin; this is the character whom you follow; this is the amount of time or space you have to write. In a field where we so often dwell in subjectivity, it's a nice variation to latch onto something definitive and factual. At the same time, a prompt can evolve into an infinite number of stories. Possibilities are simultaneously limited and boundless in such a way that, perhaps, frees one from regular habits and limitations, while still applying pressure to the writing. I believe that pressure and play are healthy for the imagination, and exercises ask both of a writer.

Gathered from my some of favorite craft books, here are a few writing prompts. I'm going to do some this week and, if anyone wants to be un-cool and do some too, I'd love to share and compare notes!

Ten Prompts

1. The Non-Apology: Write an exchange that begins "I'm sorry, but..." Have the other character answer and then in the ensuing back-and-forth reveal the circumstances that got them into this situation. --from Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, by Janet Burroway

2. Write about something you know absolutely nothing about. Make all of it up. --from 642 Things to Write About, by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto

3. To learn more about your character, write down two lists: one of the sins of omission (the things the character didn't do) and one of the sins of commission (what the character did do) that are on his or her conscience. --from Method and Madness: The Making of a Story, by Alice LaPlante

4. Write down ten things about yourself that are quantifiable in some way (i.e., can be expressed with numbers). --from Method and Madness: The Making of a Story, by Alice LaPlante

5. Imagine a moment just after some major historical event... It may be that these people have no idea what has just happened. --from The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises that Transform Your Fiction, by Brian Kitely

6. Write a short story on a three-by-five card or the back of a postcard. Notice that if you're going to manage a conflict, crisis and resolution in this small space, you'll have to introduce the conflict immediately. --from Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, by Janet Burroway

7. Write a scene in which two people leave believing opposite things are true. --from 642 Things to Write About, by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto

8. Think about a time when you lost something and were inexplicably upset about it. That is, the emotion was out of proportion with the thing lost. Write the story, concentrating on concrete details and immersing the reader in the experience rather than summarizing it. --from Method and Madness: The Making of a Story, by Alice LaPlante

9. Write down three pieces of dialogue that you hear from three different conversations. Put those bits into the same conversation. Take it from there. --from 642 Things to Write About, by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto

10. For one of your stories, write three different endings, each one showing, in some way, how your main character has been changed by the action in the story. Think about what is resolved and what is left unresolved with each ending. Then ask yourself what really need to happen, emotionally, to your character by the end. --from Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, by Janet Burroway

Have you ever noticed the correlation between Louis C.K.'s humor and J.D. Salinger's writing style? Minh Le over at Book Riot did. He writes, "The other day I was flipping through Catcher in the Rye, and after a few pages I realized that the narrator in my head was Louis C.K. Which, as I kept reading, turned out to be kind of perfect."

Here are some examples:

Check out the Book Riot website for more.

On today's Writers' Reel George Saunders talks about what he thinks produces bad writing.
"The reader is a person you need to charm, you better bring your good shit…because they don't have time to wait around for you to work through your Hemingway phase."