Greetings, writers—
When my eldest was very young, she had many, many questions. All kids do, I know; I’m not saying this kid was unique. (But of course she was! She was the most incredible three-year-old the world had ever seen! Says almost every mother ever.) Here are a few of her questions from long ago.
What is the sky made of?
When will a wrecking ball smash a kitty?
What do bad people do?
When will we take take off Daddy’s skin so I can see his bones?
Can cats drown in outer space?
Why can’t you wear your regular shirt in jail?
Does winter have eyes?
How do you spell ash and steam and lava and volcano? How do you spell everything in the world?
Today I offer two options for your writing prompt:
—Write a scene in with your character asks, or is asked, a question that is difficult if not impossible to answer.
It doesn’t have to be a childlike question, of course. Maybe your character asks their parent about a family secret. Or maybe your character is asked to clearly explain quantum mechanics. To me. (I would appreciate this.)
—Take one of the above questions and address it in some creative and wonderful way.
I can imagine a poem about the eyes of winter (the former toddler, now 15, suggests a horror story called “The Winter Has Eyes1,” which is possibly a better idea, albeit a familiar title); a comedic monologue about what your bad neighbor does (I have a bad neighbor; I could write this); a reminiscence about a childhood spelling bee (how about the time I misspelled aisle as isle in SEVENTH GRADE, the day after I’d gotten the worst haircut ever?); a sci-fi story about skin removal (I have nothing to offer on this one). ETC.
Happy writing—
Emily
P.S. If you were ever asked a delightfully weird question by a child, I would love to hear it.
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I asked ChatGPT to write this story in 100 words. Here it is, for your “enjoyment.”
In the small, isolated village of Frostmire, whispers circulated of the winter's sinister gaze. As days grew colder and darker, a mysterious force began to claim the villagers one by one.
With each disappearance, the snowbanks seemed to breathe, pulsating as if alive. In the moonlight, ghostly faces appeared within the frost, their eyes glowing with icy malice. No one dared to venture outside after nightfall.
The survivors huddled together, shivering, as the wind howled like tortured souls. The winter had eyes, and its frozen stare consumed all it surveyed. No warmth or hope could escape its relentless, frigid grasp.
Bear in mind that my name is Robin. One day I picked up my 5-year-old from school and we boarded the bus. I had been shopping, so a bag of groceries sat in front of us. She looked at them, pointed to the eggs, and said, "What's that?" I said, "Eggs." She: "Did you lay them?"