Writing Prompts Fiction Novels & Stories

"Something you want but cannot have." Mr. Vance wrote it on the board in clean, unhurried letters, then set the marker down and turned to face us like he had just said something completely ordinary. He had not said something completely ordinary. "That is your prompt for the next two weeks," he said. "Two pages minimum. No genre restrictions. Fiction, personal essay, prose poetry — the form is yours. What I am looking for is honesty. Specifically the kind most people spend their whole lives learning to avoid."

And then suddenly it dawned on her that it may be the inspiration she needs for another story. One quick shower and some comfortable sleepwear after and there she is hitting the keyboards again. The real story she knew did not have a happy ending but she's writing a fiction and she has the power to change any part of that story including its ending if she wants. Pumped up with an inspiration from a story that happened more than a decade ago and desperately wanting to change its outcome even in fiction, she's able to write the first two chapters in just an hour and can no longer wait to write the ending. She read what she wrote but felt that her story lacks the inspiration she thought she had

Heat poured into me from that mug, but nothing compared to the waves rolling through me when he closed the door, I almond choked on my coffee. He didn’t sit. Instead, he perched on the corner of my desk, he was so close I could feel the tension radiate. His gaze darkened when he saw the blank document on the screen. “You planning to start today?” he asked softly. I swallowed. “It’s the outline phase.” “Use urgency. Make me real.” “I’m not writing a fantasy,” I replied, tapping the outline. He traced a finger down the edge of the desk until it touched the glass. “Fantasy is just power whispered in the dark.”

She was crying, pleading with a man. "I'm just an orphan. If I don't use some tricks, how would Mr. Reese ever care about me? Please, help me again. Let me make him feel guilty! Mr. Reese loves me, but because of my status, his family will never approve of me. He promised he'd marry me. I have to do something and make him feel guilty, so he'll feel sorry for me! Please, just one more time! I just need to pretend to jump off the building, and Mr. Reese will feel indebted to me for the rest of his life!" She was such a good actress.

With each stroke of my pen, I breathe life into characters who dance across the pages, their stories unfolding before my very eyes. The anticipation builds, like a crescendo in a symphony, as I eagerly await the moment when Professor Steven's prompt will be revealed. Will it be a challenge to create a fantastical world filled with mythical creatures? Or perhaps a prompt that delves into the depths of human emotions, exploring the complexities of the human psyche? Whatever it may be, I am ready to embrace it wholeheartedly, to immerse myself in the depths of my imagination and let the words flow freely.

Fiction writing inherently forces you to ditch a few pet ideas or plot points, but your job as a writer is to serve the book, not your own emotions. Start with characters. Readers don’t pick up a book looking for a theme. Good fiction comes from a compelling plot and strong character development. This means you’ll need a main character who is complex enough to sustain a real character arc (including a backstory), and supporting figures who can motivate subplots off the main story structure.

"It has to be very good for you to have such a dedicated fan, Tasha. "She is wonderful," said Beatrice, stretching out to hug me, "And we can all agree that Tasha's creativity never ends.” "What inspires you? " asked my brother-in-law. I reflected. Apart from my own wishes in life, there was nothing else that really inspired me. In general, I just had to sit down and close my eyes in front of my notebook, so I started typing non-stop. When people asked, I used to say that I had a writer's alter ego, and that it was his fault if the plot was full of inexplicable twists and turns. And many times when I took a book of my own and didn't know how to explain how I had narrated those details if som

Just a sentence that arrived uninvited while I was reviewing grant proposals. Two people placed inside a design they did not choose, only to rewrite it. I closed the document in front of me and stared at that sentence in my mind. I had not written fiction in years. I had written essays, proposals, speeches, arguments sharp enough to cut glass. But fiction belonged to a younger version of me, one who believed stories could rescue people from themselves. Now I had lived one. I did not tell Dream immediately. Not because I wanted secrecy, but because I wanted clarity.

“That’s rare around here. Everyone else just writes checks.” Adrian laughed. “Yeah, I noticed.” They stepped away from the crowd slightly, finding a quiet pocket near a window that looked over the garden. Eli leaned casually against the wall, swirling his wine. “So, what do you write?” “Articles mostly,” Adrian said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Some short stories. Nothing glamorous. Magazines, online journals. You wouldn’t know any of them.” “Try me.” Adrian smiled, surprised by the interest. “I like peace and Quiet. Most of my stories are about small things. A town nobody’s heard of. A man who grows trees in his kitchen. Real stuff.”

“And it will be my pleasure to see you explore where your imagination takes you.” Of course my dirty little mind has fun with that. He’s just responding to the assignments, I tell myself. But my body knows better. I take down notes and jot down what he says. Tonight’s assignment will be an actual piece of fiction I need to write based on the imagination piece I wrote the day before. So while my classmates write about traveling to foreign countries and world domination, I’ll be writing about nipple clamps and wax play. Excellent.