When Little Dude started 2nd grade this year & wanted to use the same backpack he’d been using since kindergarten, I was concerned. With its light blue background and assortment of colorful airplanes, trains, and trucks, it was adorable, but it also skewed younger than the comic book heroes and science- or sports-oriented themes so many boys his age seemed to favor. And, frankly, I was afraid that second grade would be the year other kids would make fun of him for what they deemed a “babyish” pattern.

I’m always afraid of such things. That’s part of being a mom, but more so, I think it’s part of being an autism mom. A mom to a kid with interests and tastes that don’t always match up with his peers. A mom to a kid who, mercifully, doesn’t always understand when other people aren’t being nice but who, every so often, does understand it with heartbreaking clarity. So, when my little guy rebuffed my offers to buy his new backpack in a different pattern, I did what any self-respecting mom would do. I resorted to begging.”Please, baby,” (because calling your kid “baby” is the most effective way to get him to feel like a big kid?) I said, “you know I’ll let you use whichever backpack you want. But are you going to be okay if another kid tells you it’s silly?”

“It doesn’t matter if other kids like it, Mama. It makes me happy.”

Those words stopped me. Yes, I still bought two other backpacks in more “big kid” themes, but I didn’t beg him to use them. Why should I? His backpack was his backpack, he liked it, and that was enough. The spare backpacks were simply there in case the day came when liking his current one wasn’t enough. Because that’s what moms do. We prepare.

But halfway through the school year, those two spare backpacks are still in the closet. One — the Minecraft one — was carried once. The last day of school before break required a lot of “stuff” in the form of gifts for teachers, a stuffed animal and blanket for a party, and sneakers to be worn when he changed out of his snow boots, and the extra space in the Minecraft backpack came in handy. If a kid has commented on the usual backpack, Little Dude hasn’t mentioned it. I even stopped asking him each Sunday evening which backpack he wanted me to pack for Monday morning. The answer is trains. It’s always trains. And that’s okay.

And in the end, I haven’t just learned that maybe kids aren’t quite as cruel as I thought or that maybe my kid is a little tougher than I realize. I’ve learned that we should all have a little backpack with colorful planes, trains, and trucks. We all have that thing that brings us joy but that we hide a little because we’re afraid people will judge it. I see it every day. Women who think they can’t wear boldly printed leggings because they’re too old. Men who don’t want to admit that they get sucked into the world of “My Little Pony.” Readers who detest almost everything critics adore but can — and will — read over fifty romance or science fiction novels per year. Authors who have written multiple books but don’t think of themselves as real authors because those books aren’t on the shelves at B&N. Writers who have been told over and over that they aren’t really writers because they don’t sit down every day and write. And, really, why should we care? Why shouldn’t we just do our thing? Because if it makes us happy — and doesn’t hurt others — isn’t that what matters? My Little Dude thinks so. I think so.

And by the way, if you’re wondering… my backpack? I have a few. Bold printed leggings, sappy rom-com movies, romance novels (especially historical romance), and teen drama on TV. What’s yours?

At 9 years old, after 4 years of piano lessons, I got a new teacher. Her name was Mrs. Hicks, she kept a dish of hard candy on her piano, she had the brightest red hair I’d ever seen (until I began to rival it myself), she was the nicest lady you’d ever meet, and she was terrifying. On my first day with her, she took a cursory look at my books, had me play the piece I’d been working on with my previous teacher, and walked out of the room. When she returned, she thrust a piece of sheet music into my hands — “The Rose,” as I recall — and said, “You will be play this. It will be difficult, and you will not like it — or me, at times — but you will play it and be better for it. But first, you will play these.”  And she placed three more books on the bench beside me.

I spent the next hour stumbling through exercise after exercise, my fingers tangling through combinations they’d never played, my brain making sense of more symbols than it was used to. When my mom picked me up, I slumped down in the seat of the car, crossed my arms, and proclaimed I no longer wanted to play the piano. I didn’t need silly exercises, I said. I just needed to play. It had been working for 4 years. Why change it?

My mom, of course, laughed — which is exactly what I did the first time someone said to me, in complete shock, “What do you mean you never use writing prompts? How do you practice?”

“Well,” I replied, “I just write.”

The truth was, though the concept of practice to hone a craft wasn’t foreign to me — my first major in college was piano, after all — it had never occurred to me to practice writing. I mean, wasn’t that what first, second, third, and tenth drafts were for? So I laughed it off… until I woke up in the wee hours of one morning, absolutely panicked that I hadn’t added an idea to my trusty notebook in over 2 years. Until I realized that I’d been writing the same ideas over and over and over. Until I got stuck in the middle of a National Novel Writing Month event without a clue what my characters could do that wouldn’t make even me fall asleep. Enter a prompt. And my writing world changed.

The problem many writers have with devoting time to prompts is that they often take precious writing time away from current projects. Away from the projects we want to send out into the world to mark our place in it. But the truth is, if we want to leave a legacy of words worth reading, we have to practice. Just as I had to stretch my fingers and my brain to eventually master “The Rose” — which I did in about 6 months — we, as writers, have to get out of our comfort zones, stretch our imaginations, and hone our skills. That’s where prompts come in.

But how do you actually use a prompt? Do you just pick a little piece of inspiration and start writing? Maybe. But personally, to challenge myself and get the most out of whatever prompt I choose, I like to use what I call The Dice Method (creative, eh?).

For this method, you’ll need:
— 2 standard, 6-sided dice (or, if you want to get crazy, grab a couple of multifaceted gaming dice)
— A list of POV styles (e.g., first, second, third, limited, objective, omniscient, etc.) corresponding with each number on one die.
— A list of techniques (e.g., dialogue, exposition, description, etc.) corresponding with each number on one die
— A writing prompt of your choice
— A timer
— Something to write with (i.e., pen, pencil, paper, laptop, etc.)

Okay, you have your materials. Now, it’s time to write.

First, roll the dice. This is how you’ll determine what POV and what technique you’ll be practicing. For instance, using my examples in the equipment list above, rolling a 3 and a 1 would mean you’ll be concentrating on dialogue (technique) in third person (POV).

Now, set your timer because it’s time to brainstorm. In my opinion, one of the easiest ways to do yourself a disservice when working with prompts is to take the obvious path. Why? Because that’s going to be the comfortable path, and you’re trying to step out of your comfort zone. So, set your timer. Personally, I like 15 minutes, but the amount of time is really up to you. While your timer is ticking down, think. Jot down ideas. Anything goes. Maybe an unwanted inheritance is mentioned in your prompt. If your first thought is a cursed object, jot it down, but keep going. Don’t stop until the timer goes off.

Now that you’ve jotted down your ideas, look at your list. Remember that cursed object? It’s nice, but it’s your comfort zone. What else do you have? Maybe your protagonist has inherited a disease, maybe she’s inherited a house in a remote location where she’d never want to live, maybe he’s inherited “the short gene” and can’t get his crush to notice him. Find the idea that’s furthest from your comfort zone but still something you might be able to run with. That’s the one you want.

Now, it’s time to write. Compose a loose outline, make detailed notes, wing it. The choice is yours. Just remember to stay in your POV and concentrate on the technique you’ve rolled. If you’ve placed added constraints on yourself — such as a word count range or the use of a particular plot device — keep those in mind, as well. And once you have your first draft, do what you’d do with any other piece: revise it.

When you have a finished product, congratulate yourself on your strengths, and make note of your weaknesses. Then pick a new prompt, do it all over again, and do it often — because just like I needed practice to master “The Rose” and become a better pianist, we all need to practice and master a myriad of skills to become better writers.

Happy writing!
Melanie