How to Enter + Prompts for your Writing
Pen-demic is a writing opportunity to take you away from your quarantine blues. Spread your love of words; share your creative writing . . .
We invite Hunter Writers Centre members and the Heart Open community to send us creative works in response to the written or visual prompts below.
Be in the running to win cash prizes: 3 x $50, and $100 to the best 4 works.
First, we will publish your poems, stories, rants, scripts, opinion pieces, reflection essays here on this site.
Guidelines for submission – let’s keep it simple and enjoy each other’s writing:
- we welcome any number of (free) entries.
- How to enter? email your creative work to Hunter Writers Centre and we will publish.
- max word limit: 500 words.
- closes Noon, Tuesday 12th May.
We wish all our members the very best during this difficult time. Keep writing. Stay in touch.
Prizes will be allocated by Karen Crofts (HWC), Alexandra Morris (Heart Open), Keighley Bradford (Creative Industries UoN postgrad student), Michael Byrne (The Press Bookhouse), Adrienne Lindsay (HWC President)
Written and Visual Prompts for your Writing
"She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together." — J. D. Salinger, A Girl I Knew "I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart; I am, I am, I am." — Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar "Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living." — Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close “For her I bend, for you I break.” ―"At the still point, there the dance is." — T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets "I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark." — Raymond Carver, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love "When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman." ― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own “That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.” ― Emily Dickinson “Nice people don't necessarily fall in love with nice people.” ―
Edward Hopper, Morning Sun (1952)