Write Things: On More Than Four Minutes

Hello writers,

I’ve got a new prompt for you to work with this week—and a reason why I’d encourage you to stay with it for the full four minutes.

I’m also happy to share that the newest edition of the Write Things Podcast is now available, featuring work created by writers inside the community this past season.

Let’s get to it.

Gravity Shift: A 4-Minute Practice in Creative Trust

For many writers, the hardest part of writing isn’t finding time—it’s staying with uncertainty.

The moment things feel unclear, uncomfortable, or imperfect, the inner critic steps in. We hesitate. We stop. We tell ourselves we’ll come back when we know what we’re doing.

That’s why this practice is intentionally small.

Four minutes.

Four minutes is a finite, doable amount of time to stay in uncertainty. It’s long enough for something honest to surface, but short enough that you don’t have to solve anything. You’re not committing to a story. You’re not committing to quality. You’re just committing to staying.

Set a timer for four minutes.
Choose the first idea that comes to mind.
Write until the timer ends.

It might feel uncomfortable.
It might feel messy.
It might feel like you’re doing it wrong.

That’s okay.

This is how writers build self-trust—not by waiting for confidence, but by practicing staying present when confidence isn’t there yet.

This week’s prompt: Gravity Shift

Write without explaining.
Write without editing.
Write before you judge.

When the 4-minute timer ends, you’re free to stop.

And if you want to keep going—keep going.
Expand it into a fuller piece.
Sew it into a manuscript you’re already working on.
Or file it away as a potential future project.

Nothing written with attention is ever wasted.

Here are three quick writes that emerged when writers stayed with this same prompt:

Jill R.

It feels like a free fall. Has the gravity left the room or has my mind?

This weightlessness of not knowing, of wondering what comes next, of having a rug pulled out from underneath you.

Is there a floor below?

Or perhaps I'll keep falling, down through valley, caves, roots, dirt, earthworms and in the strata. The molten centre.

Would I come out the other end? Through layers of rock, scratched arms and legs, hands covering my head but eyes wide open.

The aquifers giving me the sustenance I need, fed like roots as I become a seed. Slowly, slowly, I push against my confines, little roots moving down - or is it up? A glint of sunlight as I find a crack in the surface.

Breathe.

Tanus T. M.

My center of gravity has changed. She was my beginning - everything I measured against. Now she is gone. The pieces of her live on in me. Where does her influence start and stop in my personality? What do I know is true and where has it come from? How can someone so small hold so much influence. Always in the background but never overlooked, she was the foundation of the family. The creator and the builder. She was the solidness in us all. Sometimes the solidness nearly did her in. The structure, the rules, the follow-through could be too constant, too consistent. When to give up and give in or fight on to the bitter end. She made the final decision, and it was her own. She left while she still could. While the decision was still hers to make. She walked on alone, with family surrounding her in love. She walked on.

Shawna T.

All it took was a shift in gravity. The trees are uprooting and I move through the forest rising up fast, a floating forest. Me and others. Some rise higher, some steer left some hang on tight to roots or each other. It’s like all of earth is the titanic’s final plunge in. We’re sliding and flailing, no music playing, all grasping at what we can. I was holding my cat but she jumped from my arms to a branch that has floated its own way in this scramble for life. I’m giving up. I don’t care. How often do you watch a whole planet float up and away. Oxygen runs out. But I take it all in. Can’t tell anyone what I saw or how I felt. Oh well. It’s my end, and what an end it is.

Each piece began without certainty.
Each one trusted what appeared.
Each one discovered something real by staying.

What This Kind of Writing Becomes in Community

These pieces—and many others—were written, shared, and developed inside the Write Things Community.

The newest episode of the Write Things Podcast features work created by community members this past season—not from this quick write, but from pieces they chose to stay with, shape, and deepen over time.

It’s a glimpse into what happens when writers are supported to write honestly, trust their instincts, receive thoughtful reader feedback, and keep going when things feel uncertain.

This January, the Write Things Community opens again.

You’ll get to do this kind of writing regularly. You’ll give and receive feedback that helps you see your work more clearly. And you’ll build confidence not by forcing it—but by showing up, staying, and practicing.

When you join this January, you’ll also have the opportunity to earn your entire registration back as credit, simply by participating and engaging in the community.

👉 Join  the Write Things Community this January: Register Here

If you’re ready to take your writing—and your trust in yourself as a writer—to the next level, you’re welcome here.

Until next time,

Keep choosing the small beginning.
Keep staying with the discomfort.
And keep trusting what shows up.

Wishing you and your stories all the best,

Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S.
If four minutes feels manageable, that’s the point. Learning to stay—briefly, imperfectly, honestly—is how writers grow. January is a powerful place to practice that. If you're ready to take the next step, I hope you'll join us.