Tag Archives: Writing Challenge

How to (Actually) Cure Writer’s Block

“…There is no such thing as Writer’s block…”

At least, that’s what I keep hearing.

“It’s a lie. It’s an excuse. It doesn’t exist.”


Writer’s Block is real. Every writer ever has faced it.

But – there is a serious problem with calling it “Writer’s Block.”

Let me show you…

Continue reading How to (Actually) Cure Writer’s Block

Strike with Lightning – Using Turning Points to Engage Your Readers

Twelve days in the desert, and I did not know how much farther I had to go. My horses were dead, my waterskins were empty, and my legs shook with every step. The string of mountains I had been following were dwindling, but I found refuge from the sun’s gaze in a cluster of sand-worn boulders.

Before me, the land wavered in the heat. Not a soul in sight. No plants, nor birds. I would have killed for any sign of life. Even a snake would’ve been welcome. Instead, I got a dust devil.

Wind swept down from the mountains, tangling itself up in the heat, until the two were locked in a kind of combat, spinning and throwing each other around, picking up dust, until there was a tower of sand rolling and revolving across the empty dance floor of the desert. The dust devil crackled with energy, and electric tongues licked out from the gathering sand.

Wind tugged on the buttons of my shirt and pulled on my hair. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I would’ve stood up. I could hear the energy crackling, I could feel it in my skin as the dust devil whipped closer to my shelter.

Continue reading Strike with Lightning – Using Turning Points to Engage Your Readers

Shepherd by Othman Mohammad

First, You Must Climb Down – Facing Your Unknowns

I was safe, and I was suffocating. Grass and mud stuck to my legs, and the wet dirt squelched under my sandals. I was on a hill, and all I could do was look, turning from one direction to the next, terrified of making the wrong move.

If I move, I will slip. I will fall down this hill, and I do not know if I will ever get up.

So I did not move.

Thumping footsteps heralded the approach of the man with the goat-skin hide. Stabbing his staff into the hillside, he ascended my hill, until he stopped, watching me shiver in the cold, dewy darkness, mud plastered up to my knees. The goat-man pointed the hooked end of his staff at me, and commanded me to identify myself.

“I am the writer.”

“What are you doing up here?” His head was covered by a hollowed-out goat’s head, and two huge, spiralling horns stuck out on either side of the skull.

“I’m stuck.”

His eyebrows knitted together, his beard twitched, and the goat horns bowed when he looked at my feet.

“No, you are not.”

“I can’t go on. I can not write, and I can not move, and I can not think.”

The goat man lifted a hand to stroke the fur on the back of his goat’s head, as he gazed over the foothills, sinking and rising out of a sea of mist. To me, they were like waves locked in place, growing taller and darker the further they went. The goat man picked something out of his beard and flicked it away into the darkness.

“This land is dangerous. All land is dangerous, if you have never explored it.

“This is a threatening country, in the night.” He picked something out of his beard and flicked it away into the darkness. “There are many dangers to be wary of. You are lucky. None of them will kill you. I know this land, and I know it’s dangers. I can not always see them, but I know what they are.”

“What should I do?” I asked, rubbing my hands over my chilled arms.

He shrugged, “What do you want to do?”

“I want to succeed. I want to be good. I want to write the best words that I can.”

The goat man smiled, nodding. I think my response had pleased him.

He spoke, “It is up to you. You can stay here, or you can climb down this hill. If you stay, you will never fail, you will remain above the mist. But you will never move.”

“So I should stay here?”

“Hah!” He barked, “If you stay here, you will never succeed! To succeed, you must fail. Many times. To go up, you must first climb down. And as you can see,” He gestured with his staff, “There are many hills, many ups, and many downs in your way.”

The goat-man pulled his goat-hide tighter around him, and began to walk down the hill.

“Wait!” I called, “What if I make the wrong step?”

“In the mist, you You may find a wolf, or you may find a sheep. You may find many wolves, and sheep, and other things too. But beyond the mists, something waits for you, Writer. Beyond the mists, there is a mountain, a mountain nobody has claimed.”

He turned and grinned at me, horns glinting in the moonlight, “It could be your mountain.

With a few squelching steps he descended into the mist. I took a breath, clutched my pen, and I followed.

Writing Challenge: When you reach a peak, when you finally succeed, you will find new fears. Fear is good, fear will help you grow as a writer, and as a person. You, and your characters, must learn from these fears.

So, go. Write something short, about a fear you are facing, or a fear your character is facing. What is your unknown? How will you explore it?

Image courtesy of Othman Mohammad via Flickr Creative Commons

More Characters and A Real Writing Prompt

I’m about to head off to some family gatherings, so this post might not be the most substantial, but I promised a few more characters, and then I had an idea.

Writing Prompt: Write an antagonist with one of these characters (or even Auxilius) as the protagonist. Do it however you want, but keep in mind that every villain is a hero to someone. Post what you wrote below and enjoy your weekend, dear reader!


Davis, Possessed by Riches

The liquid was gold, but it was not expensive. It was ruining a very expensive carpet, but what is the use of a floor if you can’t use it?

He was drunk, which was very unusual. Davis had an ‘anti-hol’ tube in his throat, which kept him from getting drunk, partly because his probation required it, and partly because he thought it was awesome that he was going to be ‘a fuckin’ cyborg dude’.

Some habits can’t be erased with machines. Or all machines can be circumvented by human ingenuity. Or by the internet. He was being profound, talking like he knew everything about life and pissing on his father’s carpet. Really, though, he had just found another way to get his drinks into his body.

Someone else would clean it up. They always did. If his father didn’t blame it on the persian leopard, then maybe Davis would get a good clean up too. With his father’s righ fist. And left fist. And foot. And probably a few plates or belts or whatever else was lying around. It didn’t matter, it would go away.

See, that’s the problem Davis had with everything. It always went away. Nothing lasted.

No feeling. No desire. No anger. No money. No love. Not fucking anything or anyone. If he had been religious, he might have believed everyone had a purpose, a destiny. But he wasn’t. So he didn’t. Things just went away when they did. So fuck it.



Goddamn she’s beautiful, thought the girl who liked to be called a woman. I wish I looked like her. If only she knew. If only she knew.



Too close, he writes. Too close, that time. They will find out. They will find out and then they will come for me. They will come for us. What can we do? I have hidden myself, I have blacked out the sky and the stars still shine through. If only they were more like us, if only they could understand what we understand.

But no, nothing will satisfy their curiosity. Their greed. They will consume every one of us, they will tear us from our homes and supplant us with something less real, and more beautiful. They will destroy everything we love, and we will be forgotten and they will be remembered, and they will deserve it.

If only we were more like them.