Not all of us run for the same reasons. And some of us would probably only run if we were being chased, honestly. But for today’s writing prompt, imagine you are someone who runs. And one day, while out for a run…
Keep reading to see today’s full writing prompt and my completed version of it: Running Toward My Work In Progress.
Today’s Writing Prompt: While out for a run…
Start your writing today by completing this sentence “While out for a run…”
While writing, think about what you are sensing as you run. Why are you running? And consider what mood and tone your writing will elicit. Will it be motivating? Anxiety-ridden? Pensive?
For this writing prompt, try to let a bit of your own personality shine through, as well as your feelings about running— whether you hate running, strive to run more, or love running.
Completed Version of Today’s Writing Prompt
Running Toward My Work In Progress, by K.E. Creighton
While out for a run, I felt the tension leave my body as my feet pounded the asphalt.
The air was still and sticky and the sky was beginning to show a pale tangerine over the tree line on either side of me.
I was never up in time to see the sunrise, and it would probably be another decade until I saw another one, so I made mental notes as I ran. Its looming existence was almost enough to distract me for a little while.
I don’t typically run, especially before dawn, but it felt necessary this morning. And honestly, anything would have felt better than staring at a blank page for another minute.
I don’t know how long I had been running but my thighs were starting to burn. It must have been at least a few miles by now because I was far away from my cabin and I hadn’t recognized the narrow driveway I passed a while back. My phone was officially dead, too. Instead of instrumental yoga music, all I heard now were birds chirping, the erratic cadence of my own choppy breathing, and the muffled sound of my feet hitting the ground.
No matter how hard I had tried to get some writing done last night, I couldn’t get what my father had said out of my mind after I came home from dinner. It kept replaying over and over again like a chant for the damned.
“I mean, you could always get a real job while you’re writing the book, then just write when you get time,” he had stated casually in between bites of undercooked porcini risotto.
And now, here I was, running away from my current work in progress as if its murderous villain was about to jump from my laptop’s screen like the Poltergeist and kill me instead of the main character I was still attempting to flesh out, in more ways than one.
Then, just like that, I had an idea for what to write. I never seemed to have anything to jot notes on when I needed it. I made an abrupt about-face with the intention of picking up my pace. I had to get back as soon as possible.
That’s when I saw him marching straight toward me from a few feet away. He was wearing bright green sneakers. That must have been why I hadn’t heard him approaching. His black eyes were glazed and red. I could smell the whiskey seeping from his pores. And I caught a glimpse of his small silver pickup before he covered my head with something itchy.