Objects carry the weight of so many stories and emotions. They can be brilliant inspiration for writing. Clothes, hats, shoes, accessories or even tiny buttons are great for developing characters. Or pick something from nature – rocks, leaves or shells. These are great for fostering connection to the natural world, inspiring memories and practising description.
To begin
Find an object. It may be something precious you carry with you or pick something when you’re out on a walk, or something you’re drawn to at a charity shop. Maybe it’s old and you don’t know the previous owner, or maybe you wonder who made it. Describe the object with all your senses – what does it smell, feel, sound, taste, look like?
Write a letter to the object. Start Dear [object]…. You can give it a name! Include a question, or more than one.
Have the object respond to you. Write what the object has always wanted to say to you. Dear [your name]….
Go deeper
Sit with the questions. Leave them unanswered if you want to or answer them. Read through your description and your letters. Underline phrases you like. Write these out on a fresh page. See if something resembling a poem emerges. Or pick one phrase and go deeper. Freewrite from that phrase for 15 or 20 minutes.
If the emotion you feel when you consider the object leads you to a character, answer these questions and finish the sentence starters to find out more about them:
How old are they?
What do they look like? – Just jot down some notes.
Where do they live?
Give them a name.
What do other people remember most about them?
They are the sort of person who…
They want most of all to…
You’ll never believe this, but once they…
Every day, they…
They are so scared they’ll…
They love…
Last week, they…
Finally
Put this writing away for a while and notice which ideas stick, which images you keep coming back to in your mind, which voice is begging to be heard and next time you sit down with your pen and paper, start with the most insistent image, voice or idea.
Examples of object poems:
To a Potato by Diane Lockward (from her book Temptation by Water)
I love the smell of you just before bathing,
the earth that clings to your skin,
your skin scrubbed and peeled, salted and eaten raw,
prelude to the flesh inside,
pale flesh, multitudinous pleasures,
tender and hot, steam rising from the slit,
coarse, squashy, and fluffy, requiring a ritual
of preparation, the recklessness of butter.
Bit of a bother, actually, and rather dull on your own,
always in need of enhancement.
Sliced and diced, mingled with cheddar,
sautéed, and restuffed into your skin,
the Marilyn Monroe of potatoes.
As I clutch you, plump and firm, in my palm,
I recall your humble roots, your poisonous leaves,
you among potato pickers, a crude tuber,
feeding so many mouths, sidekick to fried hunks of fish.
You are a fat, dirty spud, a misshapen blob
of starch, carbohydrates, and useless calories,
disreputable nightshade, consort to blight and famine.
Some days I think you are merely a side dish.
Nights I suffer the pangs of starvation,
tantalized by dreams of french fries,
my mouth stuffed with crisp strips of gold.