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Free e-book of writing prompts

We’ve written before how writing prompts can help you maintain a regular writing practice, experiment with new forms and subject matter, and learn to be creative on demand. Now there’s a new resource for prompt lovers (and those who desire to be): the second edition of an e-book of writing prompts from Authors Publish.

Written by Emily Harstone, this 168-page compendium presents visual prompts, prompts focused on craft, and prompts specifically designed for novelists, poets, essayists, and groups. Some prompts are brand new, while others originally appeared in the Authors Publish online magazine.

The e-book is free and available for download here.

Nerdy Words: Help your readers guess right

By Ann Sihler

Quick: What do you think should go in the blank below?

“Originally constructed in 1948 by architect Pietro Belluschi, ________.”

Hmmm … This sentence is talking about something that was constructed by an architect. Obviously it must be a building of some kind, as in:

“Originally constructed in 1948 by architect Pietro Belluschi, the office complex today is badly in need of repair.”

Or:

“Originally constructed in 1948 by architect Pietro Belluschi, the high rise was sold soon afterwards to Property Owner Extraordinaire.”

Or maybe:

“Originally constructed in 1948 by architect Pietro Belluschi, this fine example of mid-century architecture was destroyed by a rampaging elephant teleported to Our Fair City by an evil mastermind intent on—what else?—world domination.”

However the sentence unfolds, its first phrase—“Originally constructed in 1948 by architect Pietro Belluschi”—is a teaser. It creates tension and suspense. It sets readers guessing about the sentence’s subject, which in this case is whatever it was that was originally constructed in 1948.

Thankfully, the noun that comes after the comma—whether “office complex,” “high rise,” or “fine example of mid-century architecture”—resolves that tension. It satisfies us by showing that our guess was right. Yes! It IS a building that was constructed in 1948!

That’s how our language is supposed to work. But too often, we writers are sloppy with our sentence construction and put something else in that crucial slot—the blank—that isn’t actually what we were referring to in the first phrase of the sentence.
In this real example, taken from a fine local publication (which I don’t want to disparage by naming), the sentence continued like so:

“Originally constructed in 1948 by architect Pietro Belluschi, Clarion and partner Urban Renaissance acquired the then-vacant building in 2014 for around $15 million.”

Huh? As written, the sentence literally means that Clarion and Urban Renaissance—two real estate firms—were constructed in 1948. Nonsense!

Worse than the nonsense is the confusion that this sentence causes. Consciously or not, the reader has to scramble to find the subject of the sentence and figure out what it actually was that was constructed in 1948. All the reader’s guessing—all the teasing, suspense, speculation—is for naught.

Grammatically, the sentence is an example is a dangling modifier. It’s a phrase that ostensibly modifies the subject of the sentence. But it’s dangling in that, because of how the sentence is written, what it actually is referring to is not quite clear. Hence the reader’s confusion.

Dangling modifiers are so common these days that they appear in almost every publication. But that doesn’t mean it is wise to use them. Yes, our language and even our grammatical rules change over time. But there’s a difference between changes that streamline the language and clarify meaning and those that bog readers down and confuse. Dangling modifiers fall into the latter category.

You might use a plethora of dangling modifiers when you’re drafting text. That’s fine. But during editing, identify phrases that ask your readers to guess what’s coming next in the sentence. Then make sure you deliver. That way your meaning will be clear and your readers can take pleasure in “guessing right.”

“Invasive Species” (excerpt) by Ann Sihler

Ann Sihler has been writing essays and poetry for 20 years. Being a Kickstart student for the past three years has helped her write more consistently and try out different forms and styles, such as flash fiction. Nature and medicine appear repeatedly in her work. The scene below comes from a short story inspired by the words “You know me” at a local storytelling performance. You can read more of her work at www.annsihler.com.

Her hospital room had been right near the elevator, so it was easy to slip in. She was alone—so alone—and for a minute he’d stood there, listening to the machines hiss and sigh. He’d expected the tubes—the loops of cable and plastic running to the IV, monitors, and catheter. But the sound of the machines sent a shiver up his back. He thought he heard a gasp. Was someone else there, breathing? He turned around to check, but the doorway stood empty.

She murmured, and Carson turned back toward her. She looked so slight under the blanket, pale enough to match the sheet. Even her freckles had faded. Only her curly red hair remained from the old Ivy. He’d loved the feel of her hair under his hand, the coiled energy that matched her own. She was so quick and lively. Well, had been. Now he barely recognized the white, shapeless figure in front of him.

He stepped closer, eyes dropping to her throat, and saw it. Among the folds of blanket and flowered pastel gown, the chain lay draped against her exposed collar bone, folding as naturally and gently as her own skin.

One more step, a quick glance behind him, and Carson was there, pushing against the pillow to reach the clasp beneath her neck. At the feel of her soft, warm breath he paused, just for a moment, wishing. Then he undid the necklace and slipped it into his pocket.

A few moments later he was standing at the elevator, his chest heaving. He exhaled through rounded lips, trying to slow his breathing.

“Excuse me!” A nurse in green scrubs came striding down the hall. “You must be Ivy’s friend, Carson. I saw you leaving her room.”

He glanced around but there was nowhere to go.

“No, I’m on the wrong floor,” he said. He gestured toward Ivy’s room. “I went in, but it’s the wrong room. Ivy? I don’t know her.”

“But …”

Just in time the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. He stepped in and let them close efficiently behind him.

A Nancy Woods production

Thanks for reading Kickstart, which is a publication of Nancy Woods—author and writing coach. If you have any comments about the newsletter, feel free to email them to Nancy or her newsletter sidekick (aka editor), Ann Sihler.