Writing the Weird Stuff
I started writing five months ago and in that time I’ve become pretty comfortable with a particular type of tightly-bound nonfiction in which I tell stories from my own life. In an effort to push myself beyond this comfort zone, I signed up for a week at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. I took the incredible Diana Goetsch’s class, Free-Writing Intensive: A Workshop for All Genres, during which I wrote tens of thousands of words and learned so much about style, craft, voice, etc. Below is a selection of my work — each short piece came from a 5–20 minute ‘free write’ in response to a prompt. There was no planning or editing aside from some minor spelling and grammatical corrections I made while transcribing from my notebook. I chose not to include the most personal pieces (about family, relationships, etc.), so most of these are fictional and on the lighter side. If you like this stuff, head over to WritePlayDraw.com to sign up for your own weekly dose of writing (or art or music) prompts.
Perhaps the most important creative writing lesson I’m taking away is this — when you think you know what you’re going to write, write something else. Let the page surprise you.
Prompt: “a knock on the cabin door every day at 9:15pm” (20 minutes)
A knock on the cabin door every day at 9:15pm. Of course he had no idea that it came at 9:15 — he’d brought no means of keeping time — but he did have a sense that it came every 24 hours. It’s what he had to look forward to, all he had. Not in the traditional, positive sense of the phrase — there was literally nothing else that bracketed each 24-hour period he spent in the forest. He’d made no progress on his work since arriving at the cabin, so looking back was the same as looking forward.
On the train ride out, he’d been warned that it didn’t get dark in the forest this time of year, but nobody could quite explain why, other than the fact that it was not related to the earth’s rotation, of this he was assured. Okay. Sometimes it’s best to accept things as fact without thinking about why.
He loved that train ride. He had his own sleeping compartment which felt more like a pod that one might sleep in for a full year on a space flight to Mars. Each morning he’d head to the cafe car for a black coffee and burnt toast with Nutella — $3.50, plus a $1 tip for the old blind man who served him — and sit at the third booth on the right, making conversation with whoever happened to come by.
The first night in the cabin he’d just finished setting up his canvas — fifteen feet by fifteen feet — and was admiring his work, or what he hoped would become his work, when the knock came. He’d been assured he’d find solitude in the forest, so he was annoyed. Or he told himself that he was annoyed, but perhaps he wasn’t. There was nobody at the door, and he figured he must have imagined it.
The next few nights he’d race to the door each time he’d hear the knock. On the seventh day he camped out by the door for hours, waiting for the knock. Never anybody there, nor any sign that someone had been there. Confusion turned into fear, fear into routine. After a month in the forest, the canvas stayed blank, and the knock still came each night at 9:15pm.
Prompt: “a battle ritual” (5 minutes)
Often I find myself preparing for battle. The first thing I do is politely ask my opponent for five minutes to prepare. Next I take my phone out of my pocket and hand it to a trustworthy-looking stranger. I ask said stranger to monitor my phone for calls or texts from mother. Next I do a series of stretches, and then I untie and re-tie my shoes. I find a bodega and purchase a Clif bar and a Gatorade — half for now, half for the customary break in battle. Next I punch myself in the eyes, nose and mouth to arouse my fighting endorphins and to intimidate my opponent. I look into the sky and shriek at the top of my lungs, summoning my gods and requesting their support. I rip grass out of the ground and I throw it into the air. I then confirm my opponent is ready for battle. I walk over and gesture for a pre-fight handshake, pulling my hand away at the last moment and kicking him in the groin as hard as I can.
Prompt: the worst job you’ve ever had. For the first half, use only descriptions using all 5 senses. For the second half, insert action and meaning (15 minutes)
We’re at the yard at 7am, the sun is already assaulting the whole crew. Body odor mixed with spirits cuts through the nostrils. Liam stinks of rum. Jax, vodka. Sam is sweating whiskey — there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels in his back pocket. But I’m glad to see him here. Sam is the nice one.
Marty’s voice is three octaves too high for a man his size, he barks orders at us. “You’re moving the Roif family from 12 Lefurgy to 3 Hall Place. There’s lots of stairs and lots of books and heavy furniture. She’s a pianist. Jesus, you all fucking stink.”
Liam puts his shoulder into me as he heads towards the truck — he’s built like a redwood and he’s already soaked through his shirt — I’ve got a spot of thick, salty sweat on my chest, now. Once in the truck I’m squeezed in the middle as always. Jax passes me a Newport. “No thanks.”
“Take the fucking cigarette college boy. You’ve got vodka on your breath.” I didn’t even drink last night. It tastes like mint and glass and mucus. Sam is nodding off in the driver’s seat.
“Sam wake the fuck up,” Liam bellows. Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white pill which he slips into his mouth and washes down with whiskey. He looks at me and smiles. He’s embarrassed, but it’s a warm smile. Sam is the nice one.
We get to the Roif home. Jax hands out chewing gum and sprays each of us with cologne. He rings the doorbell and talks to Mr. Roif from a distance before waving us in. Liam and I begin padding the furniture while Sam heads straight to the master bathroom as he always does. Mr. Roif paces around the front lawn, shouting into the phone but not holding it to his ear.
An hour passes. Jax is carrying boxes out to the truck. Liam and I maneuver a sectional through a doorway — I walk backwards, because I’m ‘college boy.’ “Where’s Sam?” I say. Liam and Jax exchange a look.
“Fuck.”
Liam drops the couch. He asks Mr. Roif if he’d step outside for a moment to chat about logistics.
Jax races up the stairs and tries to open the bathroom door. He picks the lock while I peek in from behind him. It smells like vomit. Sam is slumped over on the toilet. The medicine cabinet is open and there are pill bottles scattered around him. “I’ll call an ambulance,” I say. Jax turns around and stares at me. He snatches my phone from my hand.
“Go wait by the truck.”
“What?”
“I said go wait by the fucking truck.” I run downstairs.
Liam has run out of things to say and is now awkwardly blocking Mr. Roif from going back inside — his massive frame takes up the entire doorway.
Sam survives, and a year later he dies during another move, is wrapped up and carried out of the house like a piece of furniture.
Prompt: “barefoot” (5 minutes)
Son, it’s not a barefoot friendly world we live in. The ground is hot. There’s broken glass and sharp rocks. There’s scorpions and snakes and spiders and rats. Without shoes there’s simply no development of modern human civilization.
To be barefoot is to be at peace at a time when you shouldn’t be. It is to wear an aura of being free when you’re confined to a small radius. Step outside of your circle with your bare feet, risk a maiming and never making it back.
Walk barefoot at the beach and scald your soles. Step into the water and shred your toes on a seashell. Grow up and put on a pair of shoes.
Prompt: “local video store” (15 minutes)
I am going into the sectioned-off room today. I’ve only ever seen men go in there, and only a certain type of man. The kind that’s always in the store by himself, beady eyes, looking around to make sure no one is watching. The kind that smokes — I know these men smoke even though I’ve never seen them smoke. The kind of man that makes my mom grip me tighter when he walks by. I will go in there today.
I am in the store now. I’m browsing the kids movies and the comedies so as to not arouse suspicion. Dylan is guarding the outside of the store. If a parent approaches, he will “sprain his ankle” and shriek at the top of his lungs — to alert me and to prevent the parent from walking in.
It’s my time. I open the curtain. I step in. I see… naked women. Everywhere. I reach for a VHS called “Busty Public School Teachers IV.” I hesitate, and then I grab it. The moment I do, an alarm sounds. The curtain falls, the tapes slide into an underground hatch, and a metal cage drops down around me. I am exposed to the store, like a bird in a cage. The alarm has attracted the attention of passers-by. People are peering in through the window, and they see me, a 12-year old boy trapped in a cage, busted for trying to see the busty teachers. I scream. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Let me out of here.”
My parents walk in. They are disappointed, and they won’t make eye contact with me. They exchange a few words with the clerk, and walk out.
Three hours pass. The crowd has dissipated, but I am still in the cage. The clerk slides my lunch in through a slot in the cage. Baloney sandwich and a small cup of water. No sides, no dessert.
Two years pass. I’ve grown stronger from puberty and doing pull-ups on the bars at the top of my cage. I still speak English but I also growl.
Five years pass. I am animal now. I have gnawed off left foot. I no like busty teachers no more.
Ten years pass. Big bank man came in and talk to clerk. Clerk crying now. Clerk put sign on door — Store Closed, For Good. Bank man open cage. I no want to leave. Clerk tells me “run away! You’re free!” I no want to be free. I like cage. Clerk crying more. I cry now too.
Prompt: the last photo in your phone (20 minutes)
The haunted bookshop is staffed by cats. The grey cat with the translucent eyes climbs down from her perch, stretches out in front of my feet, and gestures for me to follow her. Through the farmers almanacs, the Russians, she stops at contemporary fiction.
Renee insisted that no bedroom needs more than one nightstand, so my book and my glass of water sit on the bedroom floor. My mother notices this on her first visit. “Typical,” she says. Before I can respond she tells me how much she loves what we’ve done with the walls.
Meow.
My cat glides past German philosophy, of no interest to either of us, into the world of children’s mystery books.
Mrs. Watkins doesn’t seem right today. Her eyes look tricky and she hasn’t assigned us any homework — she always assigns us homework. I pass a note to Raina — ‘3pm behind the playground dumpsters, bring your binoculars.’ She nods to confirm, and eats the last strand of her string cheese.
Meow.
I lose her for a moment but catch her tail rounding a corner. Lincoln, FDR, Kennedy. Pages and pages of dead white men. She’s purring now. A wall of dusty books on 19th century labor movements.
Sweat, blood, death by fire and machine malfunction. Rage, strikes, scabs, Pinkertons and goon squads. A skull cracked by the nightstick of capitalism, gripped by the invisible hand.
Meow.
She turns a corner and is startled by her own shadow. I nearly laugh but notice a ragged-looking cat watching me from a high shelf. She brushes up against the History of Popular Music in America.
We’re gonna rock, rock around the clock tonight. We robbed the blacks of their music like we did everything else in life.
Meow.
We’re through the history of French warfare, to translated fiction. Her gaze turns towards a full row of multi-colored books, Murakami of course.
A man wakes up at the bottom of a well. There’s a three inch scar on his right cheek that wasn’t there before, a taste of charcoal in his mouth. He closes his eyes and sees the sultry blonde from the library. What was it that she mouthed to him?
Meow.
Prompt: “think of a place you go for refuge.” We’re then asked to create a scatter plot of what we feel, hear, see, smell, where we were coming from, etc. etc. After this, we’re asked to free write including as many items from scatterplot as possible (10 minutes)
I close my browser, slam my laptop shut. No more news today.
I get on the subway and head to South Brooklyn. A two minute walk from the train and I’m at the gothic gates to the Green-Wood Cemetery. It’s 90 degrees out and I’ve already sweat through my tan linen shirt — there’s nobody around, so I open up all the buttons.
I walk until the only sounds are birds, breeze, and a distant traffic — not bothersome, just loud enough to remind you of how quiet it really is. I smell mulch and nothing else. I sit down in the shade under a giant oak. The tree is in memory of Joe Lombardo. I look up and see about a dozen branches that could fall and kill me, but I trust that the spirit of Mr. Lombardo won’t tarnish his legacy by letting me die in the most gratuitous way imaginable.
There’s an 8-foot tall monument to the Pell Family just in front of me. The stone carries the weight of at least 6 Pells who died between the Civil War and Vietnam. Four or five smaller stones are scattered around the largest one — perhaps less important Pells?
I’ve come here to find peace and quiet. The constant hum of the city permeates the brain, dulls all the senses, so I’ve decided to surround myself with 560 thousand dead people to bring myself back to life. I pick at the cinnamon raisin bagel in my bag, and then I lean back against the tree and close my eyes. It’s Friday, and in an hour I’ll have to meet my 21 year old cousin at a bar in Williamsburg. The bar will be full of loud egos and rowdy personalities. But right now it is quiet, we all move in silence.
Prompt: describe the below image with complete authority. You are the expert. (8 minutes)
The difference between (1-e) and (1-u) is subtle. The human eye cannot detect it without the aid of a high-powered microscope. Notably, though, certain dog breeds with an unusually strong sense of smell may be able to identify the difference, something demonstrated by the Strausser Old English Sheepdog Experiment (Stanford, 1969).
Now, a (1-e) may connect with a (1-u) only in instances in which a naturally occurring pair of each exists within one magnetic field, with no neutrons present of course. And when this dual pairing occurs, there are grave consequences. Four additional connections spontaneously form: a w(1-e) routed by an e, a B routed by an au, a w(1-e) routed by an e, and a B routed by a u. Such reactions have only occurred four times in history, resulting in the instant death of all men over six feet tall within a 10-mile radius. The last such incident occurred in Croton-on-Hudson in 1974, resulting in 46 deaths.
Prompt: “a bedroom” (5 minutes)
The bedroom has a minimalist design. There’s a King-sized bed on a low, platform frame — it’s too big for this room. A single night table with a reading lamp and two or three books. The walls are empty. There are west-facing floor-to-ceiling windows but the shades are typically down. There’s a dying cactus in a red pot on the floor by the window.
At one time there was a second nightstand covered in scripts and plays and books and more scripts. The King was still a King, but it was smaller. There was one photograph and one painting on the wall. The shades were up during waking hours so the room took on a purple hue at night. The cactus was green and upright and thriving. The room was still minimalist but also it wasn’t.
Prompt: think about a pet peeve related to manners. Write from the perspective of somebody who genuinely loves this — in their voice, not yours (15 minutes)
After our first date, please don’t text me that you had a nice time. You do not want to appear overeager. Leave a little mystery, would ya? Yes, I thought that you enjoyed yourself, that maybe you like me — but why ruin the surprise by confirming?
And after you receive a text from me, please give me a two to three hour respite before you respond. I’m busy! I don’t have time to be texting all day. In the minutes after I’ve texted, when my phone buzzes in my pocket, I’m just hoping hoping hoping that it’s a text from someone else — because I don’t want to think you’re rude, and it would be rude of you to put the ball back in my court so quickly.
And when we are in text conversation, please be short with me. A simple “k” will do. I don’t need any context outside of a “k” — it tells me all I need to know, that you are voicing the affirmative, without wasting any more of my time. This is about efficiency, k?
The reality is, it’s too early to be honest with each other about how we feel. To be considerate of one another’s time and feelings and whatnot. Why would we make that commitment before we even know if we like each other?
What’s that? How will we know when we like each other? What an awkward question to ask. Feels a little early for that.
K? What do you mean k?
Prompt: a father answering questions from his son under dire circumstances (20 minutes)
You are a man but you are my child. I am your father and if there’s one thing I will do, I will rebuild you.
The answer is yes, I do worry about you. Yes, more than your brother and yes, more than your sister too. You are beautiful and complicated, my son. You understand what you’d rather not, you fail to understand what you so desperately seek to. I hold onto your head and I stare into your eyes, and I see you.
We should all be so lucky to look like your mother. The men in your mother’s family were larger than life — actors, boxers, soldiers, Warsaw ghetto smugglers. They fought nazis and they liberated cities. Make no mistake, these men were giants. But son, my mind is in you. You disassemble things and you examine the pieces. You look through their eyes and you see their pain. I am in you and you are in me.
That’s right, I was at death’s door. They poisoned my bloodstream. They sent in commandos, spraying bullets into a crowded mosque in search of a hidden enemy. It’s devilish business, what they did to me. They took apart my body. They took from me my prostate, my bladder. You held me like I’ve held you. I closed my eyes and I saw a black darker than I’ve seen before. I spiraled towards it and I was sick. You were there, but I was out of reach. Yes, son, I was scared. I’m sorry if that comes as a surprise to you. But they saved me, you saved me, and it is light now and there are colors again.
And I will pick you up and we will rebuild you, and you will see colors again, too.
Prompt: read the George Saunders piece below. Write the second diary entry in this man’s voice (10 minutes)
September 4th,
Today is day two of new project, one page per day! There is a message that will be very very important for grandkids and grandkids’ grandkids and grandkids’ grandkids’ grandkids and grandkids’ grandkids’ grandkids’ grandkids (and future grandkids of there’s, and there’s, and more) to know, and that message is that a well-balanced diet is extremely important for maintaining happy health and long life and healthy erection. My mailman is black and I told him that I support him and his rights, and this is another important message to pass on — it is important to respect the United States Postal Service and the black race. I do wonder what it might feel like to boil in seawater but I am assured by Sean and Tucker that this is not true. The stories of boiling to death in seawater are lies planted by the Chinese. I do enjoy Chinese food. I wonder if they will still have orange chicken in future. How about apple chicken and tomato and wood chicken and maybe phone chicken? At one time in my life I had two nocturnal emissions each week and Dr. Marstein has prescribed me Cialis Daily and I am now back up to one nocturnal emission per week. The Jewish race is also a good one. Are Jews race?
Prompt: make up a story about stealing something (5 minutes)
I woke up in Maggie’s bed. I knew it would be the last time. It was a fling and flings never last. I’d miss her, though, and there was a sadness in knowing I’d never see her again. She was still sleeping. I collected my things and snuck out of the bedroom without her noticing — I’m not one for goodbyes. I sat down on the living room couch to put my boots on, then I leaned back and looked around the room. I’d always loved this apartment even if I hadn’t loved her. There was that black book under the coffee table that always caught my eye but I’d never picked up to read. Tectonic Theory in Neo Gothic Architecture. I didn’t know what it meant, but I wanted to. I grabbed the book and walked out the door for the last time, smarter than when I came in.
Prompt: an act of unusual finesse that you witnessed (10 minutes)
There are chips and vegetables and dips on the coffee table. The broccoli is dry and the red pepper is dripping wet. There are three different types of hummus — garlic, pine nut and plain. Aunt Martha has stuck her finger in the garlic hummus and then directly into Zoey’s mouth, which she doesn’t seem to like. Stephanie grimaces. Her daughter has been passed from aunt to cousin to grandma to great aunt to great uncle. She watches with a nervous smile. Zoey is red and smiley and sticky. It’s my turn. Support the head, act like you know what you’re doing. I bring her face up to mine. She latches onto my nose and suckles on it like a nipple or a pacifier — this is my baby trick. “She’s sucking on his nose like a nipple!” Uncle Tommy says.
The front door swings open. Emma walks in, the room erupts. It’s her first time home in six months since she started her pediatric residency in Denver. I hug my sister but she’s hardly there — she’s already making a beeline for her niece. She swoops one arm down around Zoey’s body while the other hooks around the back of her neck. It’s a practiced move — this is not my awkward little sister. She brings her face up for a kiss on the cheek with a lift of the left elbow then unfurls her arms while catching Zoey’s armpits in her hands. Zoey coos. Now Zoey is up in the air, and Emma is spinning and bobbing around the room. We are watching in awe.
Prompt: write the most boring piece you can about the most boring person you can think of. Every sentence must be dull. (5 minutes)
John Delaney has arrived at an event. At one time he worked in government, he was a congressman or a governor, and he was a white man, which he still is, and today he seeks to work in government, again. He has combed the hair on either side of his head this morning. John Delaney would like for you to vote for him, he says. What we need is to talk more, he says. When I was young I used to walk to school, he says.
John Delaney puts on a new pair of underwear and a new suit and tie every morning. He tells his wife, goodbye, wife, and he walks outside of his home and he sits down in his car. He opens the newspaper and sees there is news, today. And then John Delaney arrives at his event, the Vote for John Delaney Event, and he tells a group of bald white men that what we need is to talk more, and that when he was young, he used to walk to school. Vote for me, John Delaney, he says.
Prompt: identify your greatest fear. Now, make up a fake phobia. Write about the fake phobia, channeling the way you feel about your true greatest fear. (I’ve identified my real greatest fear as failing to find meaning in life) (10 minutes)
I suffer from castrahydrophobia, the fear of the housecleaner scrubbing your cast iron grill pan with dish soap.
For ten years my cast iron grill pan has been the gateway to my body, my life, my soul. Every steak I’ve cooked, every pepper I’ve grilled, every piece of salmon I’ve seared has left its mark. Seasonings and juices, burned and crisped into the essence of my pan. And now each meal I cook passes through this gateway, bringing with it remnants of those that came before it. I bring this into my body, and it nourishes my body, my life, my soul.
To think that one day my history could be erased in a tragic accident by a well-meaning housecleaner shakes me to my core. All it would take is a simple misunderstanding — me, out at work, having left strict instructions to not touch the grill pan. The housecleaner, mistaking my cast iron grill pan for a dirty nonstick frying pan, taking a sponge and soap to it. I am sick to my stomach. The breath leaves my body.
We live our whole lives on the precipice of ruin. Why is it all so fragile? Why does meaning have to be so delicate? Why does my grill pan appear to be greasy, asking to be scrubbed, when really it is not?
I can’t speak of this fear because I need to appear strong, self-assured, safe in my identity. But I am not. I am one scrubbing away from ruin.
Prompt: we are provided with a list of prompts, and asked to circle the one we have the most resistance to writing about. I circle “Luxembourg” (5 minutes)
Luxembourg is a city of clocks. Giant clocks and pocket watches. The hands move in unison. It’s a grey city and it shimmers of gold when it rains. The food is French, the people are German, the dress is English. Nobody quite knows where it is. I am here now and I don’t know how I’ve arrived here. I know what time it is but I don’t know when I left. I am not on my planet any longer — this is a place from cartoon movies. A train barrels down the sidewalk. There’s a giant clock on its front; 3:15 is getting closer and closer. It hits me, and now it is 3:15. I am on the opposite sidewalk and I’m seated at a table. I’ve been served a croissant and strawberry jam and there’s a pocket watch near my plate. I do not recognize the clothes I’m wearing. A clock reading 5:42 falls from a high tower and crashes through my table. It nearly hit me — no, it did hit me. It’s 5:42 now.
Prompt: choose a point of view in the below headline, write about it with utter authority. Begin with “What you have heard is true” (20 minutes)
What you have heard is true. There is a strange woman lurking in the woods, watching us. She appears to be unarmed, though humans, as we know, are an inherently violent species. Their fervor for killing birds is matched only by that for killing one another. We watch this mystery woman with the greatest of suspicion.
I will briefly describe humans, and this human in particular, for those that have not seen one up close. Humans are giant, grotesque creatures — they typically weigh over 30 ostrich eggs. This subject is of average size. Humans are not born with feathers and thus they cover their pasty flesh with hideous fabrics made from plants. This subject wears a ruffled white covering with light stripes. Her plumage is silver with streaks of black. Her eyes are soft, as is her beak — a trait shared by all humans. The human beak is, quite frankly, embarrassing. This human appears to be unusually quiet, disconcerting to us birds — and most humans, we suspect — who understand that noise is power. Humans, the pathetic creatures they are, have an additional set of legs where their wings should be. They lack the ability of flight.
It is thought that humans’ affinity for killing birds is rooted in their own feelings of inadequacy due to this inability to fly. Millions have died in the great Human-Bird War, now entering its 150,000th year. The humans’ primary mechanism of death sprays burning clouds of steel into the sky at the speed of 15 peregrine falcons, but humans have also harnessed the stealth powers of the house lion to ambush and massacre birds. They have destroyed our homes by the acre, and millions of captured birds, their wings clipped, reside in solitary confinement, trapped in cages within the lairs of humans. The war reached a turning point in the year 149757 when a team of six pigeons in New York City, led by Dr. Gertrude Mulvey, developed our first methods of chemical warfare, what humans have come to know as bird flu. A great victory for our kind.
As far as humans go, this one is not so bad looking. She has yet to make any overt displays of threat, but it bears repeating that no human can be trusted. A theory has developed that this human has been rejected by her kind for her peaceful ways, and has thus resolved to cross enemy lines to live with the birds. Or perhaps she is a sexual deviant, deriving a perverse pleasure from watching us birds for hours and hours on end, day after day, week after week. The conventional wisdom would state that she is a spy — sent to the woods to study the birds, learn our ways, and bring this information back to her people.
Whichever the case, we will continue to closely monitor the subject. We ask that you withhold your targeted fecal strikes for now as we look to understand if peace may be a possibility.
