The Magic of a "Prompt"
Prompt (verb):
to move or induce to action, to occasion or incite; inspire.
I remember the first time I was given a direct prompt that inspired a writing. I was in 10th grade creative writing class and Mrs. Stuart handed out a list with first line starters to a poem. We were to read through and choose one to use as a first line for our own writing. I was magnetically drawn to the line "When I am old and gray and full of sleep". I loved the cadence of the phrase and the strange future nostalgia it provoked. Words and images came quickly and I chased them down through my pencil the way my friends and I used to catch minnows in the creek. Years later I would find myself in songwriting sessions, feeding off that same instinct to run after small sparks of inspiration. I was and still am, hooked. I can't get enough of the energy that is generated from a great prompt.
Prompt
Elicit
Induce
Motivate
Spark
Flare
Flicker
Flash
Inspire
Each individual responds to prompts in vastly different ways. It's like adding a log onto a fire and not knowing which direction the crackling sparks will fly.
In Shelter groups we use a variety of prompts. Sometimes it's a one liner, often it's a poem. It can be an image, an object, a scent or a taste. It’s meant to be a jumping off point into creativity and something about taking that leap with others creates an energy that is hard to replicate alone. Here are examples of different writings from a recent Shelter group where I gave a quick one liner prompt. If I remember right, we only spent 5 minutes writing these.
Prompt: A Memory of Watermelon. (Writing shared with authors permission)
I can’t ever put salt on my watermelon without remembering that you salted your apples too.
And I can’t parse the cognitive dissonance that makes the one
Totally Acceptable
and the other
this really weird thing that my mom did.
But I love to remember you in our living room chair
bare feet tucked up under you
reading your book and salting your fruit.
-Jennifer Jackson
There was one summer in Phoenix where I became watermelon obsessed and in retrospect maybe it was a good year for watermelons, or maybe Sprouts had the perfect supplier, or maybe because nothing was finer in 110 degree heat than cool fructose and hydration.
I liked how the Shun blades sliced right through, a clean bisection, and how a wide spoon punched right into the cold, crunchy flesh and you could carve out an apple-sized chunk and just bite in.
And I ate so many melons: King of Hearts and Crimson Sweets, usually seedless for the convenience. I scanned for a darker green rind paired with a high contrast spot to show they’d grown unrolled and undisturbed. Then I’d strap them into the passenger seat of the Highlander for the drive home, where they’d cool in the fridge before being devoured like Pac-Man on his way to a power pellet.
It was the summer of the watermelon.
-Jordan Green
We were angry but I don't remember what for. Your roommates were gone, including the one I was infatuated with, and for once I wondered if there was something instead between the two of us. I know it was summer because the mosquitos were relentless and we usually avoided the wooded backyard of that rental house because of them. All I know is there we were with a watermelon and something to be angry about and I think it was you who first threw it at the big maple trunk. Red flesh and black seeds splattering down to the grass. I know I danced and we took turns throwing the still big chunks, laughing at whatever we were angry about until finally, we weren't anymore.
-Alli Dahlgren (me :)
This is an example of how something as simple as a watermelon can illicit peripheral memories we might not give voice to if not prompted. Our stories are worth telling, and when we only have 10 minutes to recall these stories, what comes out is our own true words, without time to edit ourselves. We live in a world of editing, constantly erasing our initial thoughts and photoshopping the rough edges to reveal a cleaner, more palatable version of whatever we are sharing with the world.
These writing groups are meant to be a space set apart from the hustle and anxiety of The Edit. There is a time and place for editing, of course, but this is not it.
Is there some fiction thrown in with the facts? Sure, maybe, absolutely. Is my story of throwing watermelon at a tree actually true? Maybe fully...maybe partially...maybe not at all. Regardless, my words are truly mine and you don't need to know anything about the truth of the story to know something true about me, and that is part of the magic.