For a long time, I resisted prompts. Resisted is a nice way to say, they frustrated the crap out of me.
Not because I was too cool for them. Not because I didn’t need them.
But because every time I sat down with one, I felt like I was being told where to go, and maybe even who to be, when all I really wanted was to be asked,
“Where are you already headed?”
I found for me that prompts, even the most well-intentioned ones, can so easily become direction. And direction, when you’re trying to find your own voice, often turns into a detour from your internal compass.
For me most prompts are too loud. Too bossy. Too specific. (I really don’t like to be told what to do).
“Write about your favorite childhood memory.”
“Write about your biggest accomplishment.”
“Describe your morning routine.”
“Your favorite character”
“A self-portrait”
“A remix of your favorite artwork”
“Recreate the 10th image saved on your phone”
There’s nothing wrong with those questions. They’re great for structured creating.
But when you’re trying to meet your truest voice, the one still unsure if it’s even allowed to speak, those kinds of prompts can feel like standing in a room full of fluorescent lights, being asked to perform.
My creative voice doesn’t respond to interrogation.
She responds to invitation.
Lately, I’ve been experimenting with something I call
“Soul-Listening Invitations.”
They’re not really prompts at all.
They don’t direct, they don’t assume, and they don’t expect.
They’re more like a friend leaning in and whispering,
“I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
They’ve changed the way I show up to my writing.
They’ve softened the way I approach my sketchbook.
They’ve helped me hear myself, instead of fearing it didn’t exist.
These invitations don’t ask me to be anything other than exactly what I am in the moment.
Some days, they lead to raw truth. Other days, they lead to color swatches and a sentence fragment I don’t understand yet. But every time, they make space for my voice to emerge, rather than be shaped or polished too soon.
Here are a few of my favorites:
Tell me something real. I’m listening.
What’s here, right now, waiting to be seen?
If nothing needed to be profound, what would you write?
Let your breath write the first sentence.
What are you not saying, and why?
Start with a color. A texture. A word. Let it lead.
No pressure. No expectation.
Just a gentle place to begin.
If you’ve been frustrated with prompts.
If you’ve ever felt like they took you further away from your true voice instead of closer to it,
I want you to know: you’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just someone who needs more space to listen.
You’re not looking for prompts that dictate your voice.
You’re looking for ones that invite it to emerge, without assumptions about what you write, where it comes from, or what kind of artist or writer you’re supposed to be.
You want space.
You want a doorway.
You want someone to lean in and say:
“I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
And I think your voice will know what to do from there.
30 Gentle Invitations to Awaken Your Voice
Tell me something real. I’m listening.
What’s here right now, waiting to be seen?
What do your hands know that your words haven’t said yet?
What’s whispering under the surface?
Begin with a sound, a color, or a feeling. Let it lead.
If you weren’t trying to be understood, what would you say?
What’s the thing you’re circling but haven’t named?
Let today speak. What’s it trying to tell you?
What part of you is asking to be witnessed?
Let the page hold what you’re not ready to explain.
What’s alive in your body right now?
Start with one word you feel but can’t quite describe.
What’s hiding in plain sight?
Speak from the silence. What would it say?
What would you say if you weren’t afraid of being misunderstood?
Begin with: “I didn’t expect to say this, but…”
If this moment had a texture or temperature, what would it be?
Let your breath write the first sentence.
What’s been repeating lately, in thought, in image, in dream?
Say something you’ve never put into words before.
What are you not saying, and why?
Describe something without naming it.
If this page were a mirror, what would you see?
If nothing needed to be profound, what would you write?
Begin with: “What I know is…”
What is ready to be released?
Let the words come before you know what they’re about.
Don’t explain. Just express. What’s there?
What’s your language? Try speaking it.
Write as if you were talking to yourself in the dark.