Writing Prompts, or: "Reginald! I'll Make a Scene!"

One of the most enjoyable things we used to do when I was in writing classes was that the professor would give us a writing prompt, and then everybody in the class would construct a story or a poem around it.  One of the best stories I ever wrote came out of the day that Linsey Abrams (who was one of the coolest writing teachers I ever had, and who ran the kind of classroom where everybody's writing magically got better without one mean word ever being uttered in the name of supposedly constructive criticism) told us, "Next Wednesday, you will each bring in a story that has a girl, a butterfly, and...ahhh...." She screwed up her face, thought it over, and concluded, "And a hat in it."

I had no idea what I was going to do with this, until I went home and, aimlessly surveying my bookshelves in search of inspiration, heard something click in my head when I reached the N's, then sat down and wrote it all in one great short burst, like Shirley Jackson writing "The Lottery." It was one of the only times I've ever been in a writing class when I've read my work out loud, looked up from the page in anticipation of the feedback and suggestions, and saw everybody slowly shaking their heads and saying, "Nope. Don't change a thing."

The result of the Writing Prompts Technique - and I'm sure this was not Linsey Abrams' intent, but it is the result, in my case - is that, like Harriet the Spy, I have turned into a terrible eavesdropper in public spaces.  I'm one of those dreadful people who's sitting near you in the diner, jotting down things on napkins that might be useful later on to spark a story or a poem.  At home, it makes for a terribly messy coffee table, because that's where my laptop is - right next to a big pile of all sorts of paper, much of it ripped or coffee stained, because I just never know when I might throw out something irreplaceable that I had very definite plan to use and am fearful of forgetting.  A quick survey of the scraps presently littering the table  turns up such gems as:

"Reginald! I'll make a scene!"

"She was one of those people who are sui generic."

And today's Blue Plate Special:

"I, myself, prefer opium to rhubarb."

So if you will excuse me, I will now go write a story about somebody who prefers opium to rhubarb.  If you have any thoughts on the comparative merits of opium and rhubarb, then you can write a story, too, and when we are all done we can read them to one another.  And if you absolutely insist upon throwing a macaw that never says anything but, "Cheese it! The cops!" into the mix, I daresay we can accommodate that, too.