Write Things: On Finding New Stories to Write

Hello writers,

I’ve been there.

When I joined my writing group, I found it easy to write to a prompt or assignment. But when that structure was gone, so were my ideas.

Let me tell you how I worked through it—and how you can too.

Mindset Shift

First things first: when you try to think of something to write, do you feel stress or pressure? Maybe it’s frustration or anxiety. Maybe you can’t even put a name to it. That’s okay—just noticing is the first step.

More importantly, what’s your reaction when you don’t know what to write?

• Do you avoid it?
  
• Convince yourself it’s not important?
  
• Tell yourself you need to do more “research” or “learning” first?
  
• “One-day” it or give up altogether?
  

If so, you’ve attached a false expectation to your writing. In other words, you’re choosing to believe something is at stake that isn’t.

That’s what I was doing. I thought I had to have the right story idea. One worth my time, energy—something people would enjoy reading and pay money for. I wanted certainty that this was the best story to write next.

Was I aware of this? Nope. I just felt stress and pressure. But when I sat with those feelings, I realized I wanted a guarantee that I had a “good” idea.

Unfortunately, that guarantee doesn’t exist.

There’s no promise anyone will want to pay for, or even read, what we write. And if we’re writing for approval, popularity, or fame, we’re no longer creating art.

Writing—whether personal or fictional—is an act of self-expression. We practice language and technique, revise and edit, to ensure what we’ve written effectively transfers that expression to our reader.

Once I realized this, I understood my only job is to write what excites, interests, or inspires me.

I had to release the idea of my audience in order to find my audience. And the only way to find your audience is to write what you want to write.

So, the next time you don’t know what to write, check the story you’re telling yourself. Is there an expectation or outcome you’re writing for? Or are you writing something you’d personally enjoy?

My suggestion: choose the latter.

That way, you’ll enjoy both the daily process and the finished product.

Trust that the same spark that gave you the desire to write also gave you the guidance to find your stories.

✨ If you’re ready to find your stories, join us for three months of support, guidance, and inspiration inside the Write Things Community.

As a bonus: if you write consistently for all three months, you’ll earn 100% of your investment back as credit. I’ve only got a little time left to meet with people to see if we’re a good fit. Grab one of the last spots here:
👉 https://cal.com/trevormartens/write-things-community-challenge-1-1

Offer ends this Sunday. Doors won’t open again until January 2026.

Your Next Four Minutes

Prompt: “The knock at the door.”

Write about a time someone knocked and you didn’t know what waited on the other side. Or invent a fictional moment where a knock interrupts life and demands a response.

Set a timer and write freely on the topic above. Don’t edit. Don’t worry. Just go. You can post your quick write below to share the raw magic with others. No editing please, just share what you wrote in four minutes below!

If you decide to develop your quick-write into a piece:

Technique Tip:
👉 Use sound — rhythm, repetition, or sudden silence — to heighten tension and expectation.

From the Write Things Community

Here’s some 4-minute writes from members of the Write Things Community:

Katrina Z.

Three quick knocks. Pause. Then two more, staccato, slower.

Breath escapes my lungs in a gust, lungs deflating as my chest caves under released pressure.

They’re here.

I unlock the door but leave the chain. I poke my nose in the gap and eye the drenched figure before me. “You’re late,” I say, eyes sharpening.

She sighs. “Yes, yes,” she waves me off. “I know, but the wipers broke down and…” She huffs, interrupting herself. “Doesn’t matter. Let me in. It’s dangerous outside.”

Wood splintering in the overgrown forest nearby underscores her words. I don’t hesitate to undo the chain, quickly closing us in once she gets inside.

“Dry your things by the fire,” I nod toward the hearth, small fire like the little engine that could.

She takes off her overcoat, revealing a dirty flannel underneath.

“They took the cure,” she says, eyes on the flames. My bite itches.

Michelle K.

Sent the dogs into a tizzy.

Barking. Whining. Tip tapping.

She stayed on the couch waiting for the silence to return.

Knowing she was hidden in the blankets and soft light.

But another knock starts the cycle all over.

Why?

Why must it be this way?

And who is knocking on the door?

The dogs run from the window to the door.

Window to the door.

It’s like a racetrack with well-worn grooves.

And yet she still stayed under the blankets.

Knowing there is no one important enough at the door for her to leave the cocoon.

The dogs were barking.

Karla W.

It had been a visit that she had expected, although she’d told no one. She knew it in her sinew, felt it with the sixth sense her grandma Sadie told her all the women of her family possessed. The gift. The knock was firm, sharp, and delivered a clear message before she opened the door. What could she say when words crossed over the threshold. Would life as she knew it ever be the same? With trembling hands, Emily reached for the doorknob.

Kristin D.

Jill sat at the dining room table, seemingly composed, calmly scrolling her phone, ever the picture of a blonde, beautiful 17 year old. She was so quiet. Too quiet. Too still. I could hear the traffic outside as I asked her if she was ok. She spoke is a hushed voice, unusual for her. She had walked the short way home in early spring daylight from her afternoon shift at McDonald's. As she entered our back alley, a way she didn't usually go as the alley was very icy, some creep decided to sneak up behind her and grope her.

I called the non-emergency police number and with relief, very soon after we heard a loud knock at the door. Two large uniformed police officers came in, keys jangling, and boots stomping as they kicked off snow. My distinct phone signal "a train whistle" kept going off as worried neighbours noticed the cruiser parked outside out house. I silenced my phone and so did Jill.

The creep was a repeat offender and they really wanted to catch him. Jill did a great job of describing the jerk, filling out the report and she had even managed to get a picture of him from behind. They asked her not to post it. One of the officers did a sweep of the alley and side streets. One stayed with us the whole time, checking to make sure Jill was ok, reassuring her and letting her know they would get him.

Jill still suffers from PTSD from the encounter. She is afraid of alleys, walking alone, startles easily and hates the sound of feet walking on gravel.

(They did catch the guy and the worst was he was a girl's soccer coach in Calgary wanted in Croatia for inappropriate behaviour with young girls. Jill's accurate description really helped)

Jill R. 

Knock. Knock.

"Who's there?"

"Baaaaaa"

I raise an eyebrow as I look at the door, wondering what prank someone is playing on me. I open it.

A sheep.

A black one.

"I'm baaaack. Finally, here to stay." it bleets as it ambles past me and plops itself down on my couch. Oddly, it looks like it belongs here. A wave of strange relief crashes through my body.

"Where have you been?" I ask.

"Away. You weren't ready for me yet." it answers.

I shrug, somehow satisfied with this response. I go back to the couch and sit beside it, studying it. Coarse, curly black coat, bright but beady eyes, and large velvety ears. I give it a pat. It purrs.

Its comfort comes over me too. My muscles relax, my shoulders finally break free of their stubborn spot up by my ears. I let my eyes close and drift away.

Marcie H. 

We had just finished supper after waiting as long as we could. Not unusually, Dad was a no-show. At 11, I had long ago realized he would never be reliable. That doesn’t mean I liked it, though. There was a time when I would do as Mom asked and call the local bar at 5:00. “Is Bill Lambert there?” I would ask, although I already knew the answer. After a minute he’d come to the phone and assure me that he’d be right home. Then I would call at 5:30, 6:00 and 6:30. Each time his words were a little more slurred and a lot less sincere. I decided at 10 I was too old to play that game.

I was watching tv with my brother and sister that night when two headlights shone through the living room curtains as a car pulled into the driveway. We all knew it was too early for Dad.

Mom answered the knock at the door and we could all tell something was off.

“Are you Anne Lambert?” asked the RCMP constable.

Catherine S. 

I tried to see through the peep hole, but the person on the other side was blocking. Knocking. Screaming. Help, help. I dialed 911 and opened the door. Girl with blood oozing in dozens of little pinpoints all over her head and face. Crying. Help, help.

911 op comes on the line. I try to say what is happening. I’ve just woken up out of deep, deep sleep. I don’t understand anything. The girl turns to go down the hall. Suddenly I have a small towel in my hands. Hand it to her. She paces erratically. "Wipe your face."

911 says in my ear, what is happening? My name. My address. I’m babbling. The girl yells. "My friend." Runs to the next apt. "I have to get her." I watch her swinging my towel. Close the door.

Who is her? I wonder, or rather some part of my frazzled brain does. Not me.

911 says DON’T OPEN THE DOOR AGAIN.

I do.

Josie M. 

The door opens and two women embrace. One is younger by 20 years than the other. The other recently widowed. They are still hugging. One offering comfort. The other accepting it.

One is now alone for the first time in 60 years. The other will never know companionship for that long, but she understands the beauty of it and expresses compassion as the other cries for what she is missing.

“Everywhere I look in this house, I see my Denis.”

“Of course you do.”

“I haven’t been able to open his closet doors.”

“Of course you haven’t.”

“I can only wear dark clothes; he hated seeing me in black.”

“It’s okay, he understands you need to do this right now.”

And they spend the rest of the afternoon together, talking about the past, the present, and the future.

Denis F. 

Summer of ’67.   The music is blaring, and Yvonne is cleaning the house with her oldest girl.

They did not hear the knock on the door.  Not the first time. But then they did, louder, more urgent.

On the front porch, her three younger children, aged 6, 4, and 2, are on the porch. Dishevelled, dirty, bloody.  And a stranger. Not really a stranger. An acquaintance from down the street.

Panic.

“There’s been an accident.”

“Papa was in an accident. He has blood all over.” The two oldest children began to cry as they each tried to tell the story of what happened less than an hour ago, at the corner of St. Mary’s and the perimeter highway.

“An accident,” the man repeats.  “I recognized the kids when I drove up, and so I took them and brought them home. “

“How’s my husband?”

Want to Hear Writers Read Their Stories?

Check out the Write Things Podcast!
🎙️ Listen to past episodes here: https://www.ihelpyouwritethings.com/podcasts/write-things-podcast/

If you enjoyed this edition, please share it with a friend. The more writers we get writing, the more wonderful stories we’ll have in the world.

Until next time, I wish you and your stories all the best,

Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things