#94. Trying Out A New Story Brainstorming Method

To listen to the show, click on a link to your favourite platform in the right hand column -->
or listen on the Brainstoryum page.
Transcription follows below:

​Hello imaginative people. I’m Anna Tizard and this is episode 94 of Brainstoryum.
 
Now, in the last show, I shared some anecdotes and insights from Fantasy Con which was held in my home town of Brighton this year, just a few weeks ago: my first literary convention, which was very exciting.
 
As promised, I have some more insights to share with you today: some more in-depth writing stuff, before we move on to my listeners’ amazing microfiction, three new rounds of Exquisite Corpse, and a new short story from yours truly, followed by writing prompts for you.
 
Now, while most of the events at Fantasy Con were panel discussions on various topics around fantasy and writing craft, on the Friday morning I went to a flash fiction workshop. I felt quite nervous about this, because I was thinking, will I have to write something and then share a story in the group? I mean, yes, I do that on this show, but with almost excessive use of the pause button. There’s also pacing involved and a lot of time between drafts. Also, I still feel like I’m relatively new to flash fiction. Traditionally, short stories have come to me in the 3-5 thousand word mark, and mostly, for this show, I manage to write 1K words (ish), but often these are parts of something that wants to be longer. I’m in complete awe of anyone who can manage to write a story as short as 150 words, and even the 250-word limit that my listeners write in with is massively impressive to me. I’m trying to learn, but I suppose there’s an element of personal preference as to what you like to write, balanced with stretching your skills, I guess.
 
Anyway, my fears of having to read out something quickly hashed together in this workshop were thankfully unfounded as the tutor, who happened to be an editor of Apex magazine, took us through some very short, initial brainstorms for certain aspects of a story idea. For example, she encouraged us to do a brainstorm for 2-3 minutes on setting, or sensual details that you might explore in a setting, or ideas for a plot based on a very simple writing prompt. 2-3 minutes was all we had to jot down as many ideas as possible on that one selected aspect. So we weren’t story writing.
 
Now, I’m a big fan of the 20 minute writing slot, which in itself can feel quite pressured: this was something else, but I liked this idea, of not yet getting into the scene-writing, but using a very short period of time to test out lots of ideas—just jot down a list of possibilities without actually exploring any of them through descriptive writing or narrative.
 
During the workshop we didn’t actually move on to a 20 minute writing session to develop anything from these 2-minute lists of ideas, but the tutor was still very much in favour of the 20-minute slot, and that’s quite a well-known exercise to try, anyway.
 
But it was the splitting out of these list-style brainstorms that was different for me, and it made me think differently about brainstorming practice in general. It struck me that I normally try to do everything in my first brainstorming session, that is, I try to come up with ideas including character ideas, and to start drafting, to describe, and to imagine events unfolding according to these ideas—all at once. And it occurred to me, while trying these initial 2-3 minute lists of ideas, that being so strict and restricted in that first brainstorm will prevent me from potentially grabbing hold of the first decent idea that comes to me, running with that, and possibly missing out on other ideas I might have come up with had I kept going with a list like this. By focussing just on ideas in the first instance, without story writing, you can filter out the more obvious ones, the ones that are less intriguing, and reach possibilities you might not think of, if you dive straight into narrative writing. My lesson was, don’t follow the first white rabbit you see; consider all your options first, before you jump down the hole.
 
Interesting.
 
Once we’d tried a few of these 2-3 minute brainstorms, we moved on to reviewing some really fantastic examples of microfiction—note that with Apex magazine, there are a lot of stories that are free to read on their website, and I will certainly be checking out some more of their microfiction and poetry online. But during the session, I must admit to feeling a little bit intimidated. This was clearly not the intention, and it was a really good mini-course, but something happens when you appraise the first line of a 250-word story in this context, with this level of critical attention to detail. Looking at how to do a “lot with a little”; how, with just a few words, you can pack so much in.
 
It was reassuring to hear someone else, a professional editor, no less, talk about a principle that I’ve explored a fair bit on this show: of withholding information from the reader, of keeping them guessing, of raising questions in their mind through the first couple of lines… But in such a short space? So crystallised. It’s difficult not to become self-conscious about this, if you try writing something too soon after such a hawk-eyed critique, picking apart almost every word of an opening line. So I left the course a little bit in awe, and wondering how on earth I could ever reach the dizzy heights of literary microfiction; maybe I should stick with longer pieces, where I’m more comfortable.
 
But then: the universe intervened, to prove how I’d overthought this. And in doing so, the universe was quite funny.
 
As I was just getting back into my normal routine after Fantasy Con, and a friend of mine, Harold, who listens to the show, sent me something his boss said in a Teams chat in his workplace, because what his manager said struck him as being quite odd; having a similar sort of oddness that you might get in a story that I might write or read out on the show.
 
Before I read it out, you ought to know that this was part of a conversation on Teams about a mouse in their staff kitchen. But taken on its own, this person’s interjection has a touch of the short story about it. (I think you’ll see what I mean). She wrote:
 
“Hi everyone, I have just seen this chat, as I was about to leave a message. I was the last person to leave this evening and popped downstairs to leave my glass in the kitchen. All the lights were off. As I turned on the kitchen light and walked toward the sink, I became aware of something on my left that moved quickly behind the bin next to the fridge. I stood there for a while but it didn’t appear again. I will report this to Estates. From the message above, it looks like someone else has also seen our visitor.”
 
I feel like Harold’s boss has almost written a piece of microfiction by accident. If she can do it by accident, so can we, people. So can we.
 
What is it that makes it intriguing? All it is, is the way she writes about a mouse without saying it’s a mouse. So all the time, a part of you is asking, Is it a mouse? Or is it something else? “A movement?” Even if this was part of a story and it does turn out to be a mouse, this element of mystery, the way she writes, makes you hang on in case it might not be. The paragraph she wrote could be a starting point for a longer piece where it turns out to be an alien, or some other weird creature. “Our little visitor”!
 
And so it was the universe showed me, the day after I returned from Fantasy Con to so-called normality, that it’s actually quite simple. This is one very straight forward way to hook your reader from the first couple of lines: get them guessing. Tell them half-truths. Hint at things without giving the whole picture, then let things develop from there.
 
I know this. You know this. We know how to do this.
 
So let’s let loose and have some fun with writing flash fiction.
 
(And, thank you Harold. You saved me from my own overthinking.)
 
**
But first, I have some incredible short fiction to share with you: my talented listeners’ responses to a word combination that cropped up in the last show: “the silver-eyed scrutiny”.
 
Alessandro Bozzo wrote:
 
“As I stood under the silver-eyed scrutiny of the moon sipping the clear, refreshing water from that tranquil lake, I couldn't help but reflect on what I had done. I licked away some of the blood from my fur, trying to hide my true nature from the piercing moonlight that illuminated me for all the heavens to pass judgement on. What did they expect? I was a wolf. The first alpha. The pack leader. I had an obligation to feed my family. That deer was just a victim of circumstance. In the wrong place at the wrong time. I had no real quarrel with it.
 
I leaned towards the water to take another sip. The silvery reflection of the moon stared mockingly back at me. I rippled the water in defiance with my giant paw. The distorted reflection appeared to be laughing at me! I turned my head towards the stars and let out a roaring howl. The moon trembled as the clouds and fog rushed in to protect her. Protect her from me. For I am the wolf-god, Canis Lupus, and I shun your silver-eyed scrutiny. From this day forth, all my children will howl wildly at you in defiance and no mist will ever provide you any quarter.”
 
Interesting idea of how the moon is the silver-eyed scrutiny, and the way you’ve written it transforms the weather and natural phenomena like the clouds into… well, they’re kind of like characters as well. Thank you, Alessandro.
 
If you’d like to check out Alessandro’s children’s fiction, go to abozzproductions.com
 
Paul McMillan wrote:
 
“The rain hadn’t stopped for two days, and the city smelled like mildew and confession. I stood over what was left of Professor Mallory, who was sprawled across his office floor like a cautionary tale. The blood had dried like a dull wine stain on the carpet, and a dozen knife wounds were carved into his chest like punctuation. Someone had a lot to say. They called me in because I see things others don’t. Silver eyes, they whisper, like I bought them from the devil in exchange for knowing when someone’s lying. Truth is, I just listen better than most and notice what others miss. Mallory taught literature, which means half the town had heard him talk about love, and the other half had been dumb enough to believe him. Rumor around town was he had been sleeping with one of his students. Some said her husband didn’t take kindly to footnotes written in his own bed. I found a lipstick-stained coffee mug on the desk, the same shade as the blood on the floor. It wasn't proof, but close enough to start asking questions. Outside, the rain turned meaner, and I couldn’t help but think that every story needs an ending, but around here, they usually bleed out before the last line’s written.”
 
This is a fantastic example of how a first person narrative can really add a flavour to a story, and draw you in to the protagonist’s voice—with that menacing last line, too, lingering. Thank you, Paul. You can find Paul McMillan on X as Bookmarksloveandlore.
 
Paul Monteith wrote:
 
“Silver Eye Scrutiny

"It wasn't me," The Mad Hatter declared.

"Nor me," the Mad March Hare added.

"Then who put Dor in the teapot?" Alice asked.

The Demented Dodo and the Crazy Cheshire Cat busied themselves eating sandwiches and cake to avoid questions about Dor's confinement in the teapot, which was very upset. "I'm for the brewing of tea, not the stewing of a dormouse."

"There, there," Alice said as she gently patted the pot, attempting to console it. "It must be very distressing for you and Dor." There were muffled sounds from inside the teapot as Dor tried to tell the guests just how distressing her situation was.

Dodo suggested they call for Waxwing.

"Waxwing?" Teapot asked.

"Waxwing is a silver-eyed bird," Dodo explained. "According to native lore, the bird possesses an ability to see beyond the surface. If anyone can tell us who put Dor in the teapot, the silver-eyed scrutiny of Waxwing will."

The culprits behind Dor's potting, Hatter and Hare, were relieved to hear that all the guests at the tea party had never seen Waxwing in Wonderland.

"If not seen," Alice said. "He must be unseen, and that means we should not look for him."

Hatter nodded in agreement, though he wasn't sure why, only that not looking for silver-eyed scrutiny was in his and Hare's favor. But their relief was short-lived when an olive-green bird landed on Dor's rear end protruding from the teapot.

"Hello," the bird said. "I'm Waxwing. I hear you're not looking for me."”
 
Wow, this really captures the quintessential Alice in Wonderland whimsy with philosophical undertones, and the weird contradictions that make you question the logic within language itself. Thank you, Paul.
 
You can find Paul Monteith on Bluesky as Quantum Fairy.
 
Eric Montgomery responded to two writing prompts on the show. Firstly, the silver-eyed scrutiny inspired this, entitled, “of being measured”:

​This one is really interesting because you’ve got this feeling of the unknown, the unexplained, that’s running along the underside of what seems to be a really ordinary setting. Just a shop. Is there something magical going on, or not?
 
The second writing prompt Eric responded to is based on the short story—well, really it was a partial story in the last show, two scenes which featured a lizard-man using magic to disguise himself as a human, particularly through speech and communication, tricking people into believing he was speaking English, so he could prey on young women. I asked if anyone could write another scene that either continues the story I began in episode 93, or reimagines it, taking it in a different direction. Eric wrote:

I love how this shows how the lizard-man feels through his actions and speech, though it’s more like what he doesn’t say, or can’t say, that implies to us what’s going on. This is a more humane treatment of the lizard-man which stirs our sympathy for him this time, so quite a different flavour from the parts that I’d written. Thank you, Eric, for both pieces,
And you can find more of Eric Montgomery’s stories and poetry at madp03t.org, but the ‘o’ and the ‘e’ in ‘poet’ are swapped out for zero and the number three.
 
Thank you to everyone who sent in a story for today’s show, they were just brilliant. And, might I add, each of them began with that element of mystery, to hook us in from the very start: so, well done, people. You are there!

Right, it is time to reach for new possibilities both ridiculous and dark in the Socks of Destiny.
 
**
 
SOCKS OF DESTINY ORGAN JINGLE
 
This part of the show is un-transpose-able! There's much giggling and rustling of paper as I pull words at random from the Socks of Destiny to create three unique sentences according to the rules of Exquisite Corpse, going: “Describing word—noun—action—describing word—noun.” Today’s resulting sentences are:
 
1. The protective turkey baster left the dusty fallen knight
 
2. The brooding zombie indelicately invoked the hot butter spreader.
 
3. The blank-faced origami hid in the garden from the disgorging raven.
 
After some initial brainstorming, I use the "pause button" (at length!) to draft a scene or short story, using one of these as my chosen writing prompt. Here goes (fingers crossed)…
 
**
The Immortal Sandwich
 
The town clock chimed. From the back of the shop, Ella counted the bongs, silently moving her lips under her bowed head. Twelve? The lunchtime queues would be gathering across the square, a bustle of hungry people eager to form a line.
 
Except that it wasn’t twelve noon. It was midnight.
 
Rows of jam jars glimmered faintly in a shaft of streetlight from the town square. Pickled onions floated, as if they might swivel like eyes upon the almost empty kitchen. Laid out over the broad worktop, knives glittered, as if poised for an operation.
 
No-one knew the exactness required by this operation better than Ella. Working in a sandwich shop took speed, precision, a muscle memory for where each ingredient was kept so she could move and grab and cut and spread in an almost continuous motion. No time to take a breath, or check the clock.
 
It was true to say she hadn’t taken a breath in a while.
 
Her stony figure sat on a stool, rigid as lamppost. A stillness. Not quite sleeping. What was the point of going home to bed? Her cat bristled and hissed whenever she arrived, and wouldn’t touch her food until Ella had left. Her fridge was filled with things that held no temptation for her anymore. Time passed, mould grew, bluing the edges of her loaf, the half-finished jar of sauce, the vegetables, carrots sagging like giant, hairy fingers splayed on the glass shelf. Time gnawed at the living.
 
A frown creased Ella’s forehead, a statue remembering to think. Time. What had happened to time? But hadn’t this been her dream? To have endless time to build up the business, to do courses, to learn, perhaps even run courses herself, to start a pub--
 
She sprang up so fast, a pile of napkins fluttered off the counter. In the dull light, they scattered like paper birds and nosedived into the tiled floor.
 
Ella grabbed the butter spreader from the table, held it aloft like a tiny, silver blade, and cried, “Drake!”
 
Nothing. A beat passed, then another. In the distance, a fox shrieked, answered by a dog’s nervous barking. A squeak of a window above a shop as someone yelled “Shut up!” into the night.
 
Ella exhaled a breath she didn’t need to take, and sidled to the window. A pool of moonlight lit the cracks in the pavement—except, no it didn’t. It was just another streetlight.
 
How come nothing was ever as it seemed?
 
Shoulders sagging, she turned—and shuddered at the sight of Drake standing there, next to the worktop, in his pristine black suit.
 
“You rang?” he said, droll as ever. Wincing, he waggled a finger in his ear as if to dislodge the echo of that awful shout she’d made.
 
“Yes, I did.” Ella straightened up, gathering her courage. “I called you, because I don’t understand.”
 
Drake raised his eyebrows, pouting at the floor where the napkins lay in a tangled heap. How could he behave so much like a nineteenth century footman—still, after all these centuries?
 
“Yes,” Ella persisted, to spite his silence. “I need to understand why. Why did you do this to me?”
 
Drake’s forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows shot up even further. “Why I gave you eternal life? Why I endowed upon you the most precious gift, after you begged and pleaded? After you beleaguered me with such tales of woe and endless frustration? That there was never enough time to do anything, to ‘get where you wanted to go’, or somesuch phrasing, I can’t quite recall…”
 
He shook his head at the corner of the worktop, as if the impertinence of Ella’s entire character rested on that single protrusion of scrubbed marble.
 
“I mean…” Ella blinked and tried again, lowering her voice this time. “I mean, why did you do it, from your point of view? What was in it for you? And why didn’t you tell me it would be like this? No sense of time, all feelings of purpose gone, lost in the endless stream of work without play, rest without sleep…”
 
“Life without death?” Drake added, his lips pinching the end of his question.
 
Ella took a step closer, her features softening. “Why turn a humble sandwich-maker into an immortal, when you could have chosen a doctor, a surgeon, a scientist trying to cure cancer?”
 
As her voice rose in frustration, the butter spreader held aloft, Drake pushed aside the steel implement with a firm finger and an expression of distaste.
 
“Because, my dear, I really, really like sandwiches. Now shut up and make a BLT.”
 
**
And that is why “The brooding zombie indelicately invoked the hot butter spreader”, or, I should say, invoked with the butter spreader the person who had changed her into a (sort of) zombie. At least, an immortal who has lost her zest for life—if she can be said to still be living.
 
Now, I’ll tell you what I did, because I did use a different method this time, based on what I’d learned from the flash fiction workshop at Fantasy Con. I sat down to brainstorm all the possible story ideas I could come up with, in 2-3 minutes. Except that… I took 10 minutes in the end.
 
The fact is, these Exquisite Corpses are real puzzles, some of them, so I’m not just doing a brainstorm on, say, an object, like a mug or a pair of boots, or how a relationship between a mother and daughter might go wrong, or the word “poison”. I was working with an entire sentence that didn’t make much sense and which contains several different elements. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!
 
But seriously, it’s always going to be the case that different methods are going to work for different people—and different stories. And the fact is, I found this really helpful to try, because it was new to me: this idea of not even attempting to write any scene in that first brainstorm; just to focus on getting down all the different possibilities I could imagine. So by the end of it, I had a wider selection to choose from, than if I’d used that brainstorming session to begin writing in earnest. One thing I focussed on in particular was the protagonist’s character and her personal reasons for having become an immortal: whether intentionally or not, and her reasons for being unhappy about it. Even in a short space like this, I think it makes all the difference to work out the central character’s motivation. Like I’ve before, the heart of a story beats with the reason why.
 
After this 10-minute brainstorm, I let it rest for at least a day. I didn’t come back to my notes until I had another dedicated writing slot. Then I attempted a 20-minute writing session, but it turned out to be 30 minutes. The results of that second writing slot were rather scrappy scene-writing and more notes, very patchy, but even so, I’d worked out what the beginning and the end of the scene would be, and firmed up my decision about who Ella was, how and why she came to be in this situation, and what her conflict was.
 
Finally, a couple of days after that, I returned to my scrappy scene and pulled it all together. While I was starting off with a low word count, I could immediately pick up the atmosphere and tone of the piece, and both characters had had time to clarify themselves in my mind’s eye. So by now, it was much easier, because the story felt ‘ready’ to flow.
 
I will definitely be using this method again.
 
Now, what can I tempt you with this time, for a short story or poem, or just a story description? Of course, you may pick any word combination from today’s Exquisite Corpses, that’s entirely up to you, but I’d like to suggest the “blank-faced origami”, which could be interpreted as the “blank-faced origami expert”.
 
So tell me what you’d make of that. You know what to do, max. word count of 250 words, go to annatizard.com and hit the ‘contact’ button on any page footer, and make sure you get it to me by the Friday following the release of this show, so I have time to include it in my recording.
 
Until next time, go forth and be inspired!