reflecting on my first fiction writing workshop

It’s a dream of mine to be published one day. But fiction writing is something I’ve never really done before; though I try to write creatively on this blog, it’s much easier to write about my own experiences than to create a miniature world with its own characters, settings, and plot from nothing.

Thankfully, a fellow writer friend of mine shared an amazing opportunity: a fiction focused writing group. They meet once a week at a local library and, best of all, it’s completely free!

Today, I came back from my first session with them. It was such a charming and challenging time. Most of all, though, I was filled with awe.

We were given a prompt, then about 20 minutes to write a story on it.

The prompt was the following: justify being good at skee-ball.

My initial reaction was… what?…. like actually what? As in what kind of prompt is that? It felt so random and it didn’t spark even an ounce of joy in me. But once I got past that initial shock, a rush of excitement came over me. This is exactly what creativity is all about! I was curious to see what I could do with it.

I couldn’t manage to finish my story by the time we got to sharing. I quickly realized just how difficult writing creatively really is. I spent too much time trying to figure out the names of my characters, and the themes I’d explore. I kept getting stuck at certain words. Nothing was flowing. My prose felt so stale and boring. But it was a feeling akin to what I feel when I start anything new and exciting: immense disappointment (and a sprinkle of embarrassment) at how bad I am, yet also immense hope for what’s to come. Like going to the gym or preparing for a half-marathon, I know that I just need to put in consistent work. Results always follow.

When the others shared what they wrote in that short time frame, I was struck not only by the amazing content of their stories but by the way they shared them. They read their writing with their whole hearts; each word flowed with life, vigor, tone, humor, humanity. I hung onto each word, gripped by what was coming next, hooked from start to finish. To think that one little prompt could elicit such diverse stories felt like a testament to the beauty of being human. Our unique, lived experiences shape the way we process, think, and feel in a way that cannot be replicated by anyone else.

All this to say, I know what I’m about to share is pretty mediocre and cheesy (this kind of doesn’t count because I fixed it up and finished it since coming home from the workshop, so it’s in much, much better shape). But I’m hoping that by sharing this whole experience, I might inspire someone to go out and try something they’ve been putting off!

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Planning phase:
Idea: Make it a date night. A first date with a girl. There’s a really big plushie which caught her eye when they walked in. He notices that. He also wants to prove to her, and himself, that he is capable of accomplishing something in this life, because for a reason which is obscure to the reader, they both have their doubts about him. The arcade is super busy, and most of the other games are occupied. All that’s left is skee-ball. It’s a game the boy was never very good at.

Would it be their first time ever playing it? Maybe they aren’t from America. that would make it more charming probably. Maybe they only saw the game played in those American movies and shows they watched growing up.

Boy’s name: Shota (“to soar high” in Japanese)
Girl’s name: Catherine
City: New York
Season: Winter

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Finished piece:
Shota stepped out of the old lecture hall into the thin December air. Snow was falling; his first snow since moving to the States. He looked up. On a pale, snow-dusted branch overhead, a raven took off into the powdery white sky. As he watched, he thought about the meaning behind his own name—to soar high. It was always a very burdensome name to him. How was he supposed to soar in a place like this? It was a new language, a new culture. He often missed home.

“Shota!”

He turned to find Catherine coming up the stone steps, her breath billowing in the frost. She was wearing that red wool scarf that always seemed to have an immediate warming effect on him.

They caught a cab down to the local arcade and walked toward the token machine. Shota reached for his wallet, only to find his pockets empty. Catherine let out a small laugh and pulled a floral coin purse from her bag before he could finish his apology. Not the best start, he thought, cheeks flushed.

Near the back, past the crowded claw machines, Catherine’s eyes lingered for a second on the top shelf of the prize counter, where an absurdly large pterodactyl hung by its wings. Shota caught the glint in her eyes. This was it; his chance to prove that he could make something of himself in the land of dreams.

The only open game was Skee-Ball—a game he recognized from American TV shows he’d watched years ago. He slotted the tokens into the coin drop one by one. Smooth wooden balls clunked into the return tray. He picked one up, feeling the cool weight in his palm, then wound his arm back and launched it down the lane. It hit the ramp, leaped, then soared across that contained little sky before dropping into the center ring with a hollow thump.

He glanced at Catherine. Her eyes were wide with wonder, reflecting the flicker of the neon-red scoreboard. It was an expression he hadn’t seen since he was a boy, sitting beside his mother in a window seat high, high above the clouds, her eyes looking out into boundless, open space.

Shota looked back at the glowing numbers, then back at Catherine. He was finally soaring.