Natalie Ann Holborow

Writing, at its heart, is this strange and beautiful blend of craft and courage. The craft is what we hone over time – polishing sentences until they dazzle like fine cutlery, refining our voice until it resonates with the people who give their precious time to read it. 

Courage is what gets us to the page in the first place, what propels us into the unknown with little more than an idea and the stubborn belief that it’s worth chasing. But even the boldest writer can find themselves stuck in a rut, circling familiar territory, spinning variations of the same theme. I know, because it happens after every publication. Extensions of that work keep slipping out post-publication like an ex that just can’t let go (so please, slap my wrist if I use any more planet-related imagery in any future work).

When that happens, there’s only one solution: set yourself a challenge. Not a small one, mind you – a real challenge. One that scares you just enough to make you wonder if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. 

Because the best writing happens when we push ourselves to the edge of our comfort zones, when we’re forced to discover what we’re truly capable of. 

Why set challenges?

For many writers, routine is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it keeps us productive. On the other, it can lull us into complacency. We gravitate toward what we’re good at, what comes naturally. Poets write poems. Novelists write novels. Essayists write in impressive depth about their favorite niche topics.

But sticking to what you know can also become a way to stagnate. It keeps us in our comfort zones. What if we never actually know what we’re capable of? 

This is where writing challenges shake things up. They force us to approach the page with fresh eyes, to wrestle with unfamiliar forms, genres, and perspectives. They inject a sense of playfulness into the process, and when it comes to creativity, there’s power in the art of play. Kids don’t worry about whether they’ve created a masterpiece; they’re just thrilled they’ve made something (even if it’s dried spaghetti spray-painted on a piece of card). But this is where they learn what they’re good at and what lights them up.

Some kids love making up stories. Some love spending hours drawing their favourite cartoons. And others can build Lego constructions with ease, or choreograph their own dances.

Our fear of failure stops us doing that so much as adults. We stay firmly in our comfort zones, doing what’s familiar. Too often, we continue to do what we can rely on ourselves to do well, without ever discovering where our other talents lie.

Challenges, done with a sense of playfulness, helps us tap into that seemingly boundless creativity again.

Choose your writing challenge

The best challenges are those that stretch you without overwhelming you. It’s about finding that sweet spot between the achievable and the ambitious; something that feels like a stretch, but not an impossible leap.

Stuck? Here are a few ideas to get you started:

1. Write in a new genre

Trying a new genre is a bit like showing up to a party where you don’t know anyone. At first, you’ll hover awkwardly by the drinks table, clutching a plastic cup and wondering why the hell you thought this was a good idea. But then, with a bit of nerve and perhaps a little alcohol (metaphorical or otherwise) you’ll find yourself laughing along with someone, wondering why you were ever so afraid of stepping in.

Writing in a new genre works the same way. If you’re a poet, your comfort zone might be the precision of a line break or honing a striking metaphor. But what happens when you try short fiction? Suddenly, you’re grappling with dialogue, pacing, and the need to actually get to a point. Conversely, if you’re a novelist, used to long, languorous prose, what happens when you attempt flash fiction, where every word has to fight for its place on the page?

You’ll have to learn new rules and work with unfamiliar expectations, but those constraints can be liberating. Yes, it’s awkward at first, like trying to learn salsa when you’ve only ever shuffled at wedding discos. But once you find your rhythm (or at least stop stepping on toes), you’ll realise how exhilarating it is to write outside your usual boundaries.

The trick is to take your ego out of it. That’s easier said than done, of course, especially if you’ve had a slew of recent rejections, but try. Tell yourself you’re only writing for the bin. Give yourself permission to be bad – unreadably, laughably bad. Write the romance novel where your main character spends ten pages brooding over their lost sock. Write the sci-fi epic where you forgot to name the alien race until the final chapter.

It might feel like a waste of time, but even if what you create is ridiculous, you’re learning something. You’re giving yourself permission to play: with new tools, new ideas, and new ways to tell a story. Creativity comes more easily if you prioritise play over perfectionism early in the process. 

The worst that can happen? You write something hideous, burn it, and go back to what you know. 

The best? You discover you can write outside of the genre you thought you were committed to forever. And then you watch as exciting new doors open.

2. Set a word limit

If you’ve ever stared at a blank page and thought, I don’t even know where to begin, a word limit is your best friend. It’s a guardrail to stop your imagination from veering off into a ditch. A 100-word story, for example, demands ruthlessness. You can’t afford to waste a single syllable on flowery adjectives or languid descriptions of someone’s cheekbones. The same goes for a 1,000-word essay: you’ve got room to manoeuvre, but every sentence has to earn its place. There’s no space for your meandering digressions about how you really feel about the Oxford comma (important as that debate may be).

If there’s one thing my editors have taught me, it’s that sometimes less is more. Sometimes you have to “kill your darlings”. 

And often, what you’ve written is stronger when you get to the very heart of what you want to say (minus an excess of metaphors you’ve definitely become too attached to).

Imposing a word limit on yourself doesn’t just tighten your prose; it also sharpens your thinking. If you’ve ever gone on a long-winded rant only to realise you could’ve summed it up in three words, then you know what I’m talking about. A word limit forces you to clarify your ideas, to weed out the fluff, and to decide what really matters.

And yes, it’s hard. You’ll feel as though you’re leaving the best bits on the cutting room floor. You’ll mourn the loss of that clever tangent about the mating habits of penguins or that achingly poetic description of a sunset. But trust me, your readers won’t miss it. They’ll be too busy marveling at how tightly packed your story is, and how every word hits like a well-thrown punch.

Here’s a challenge: take a sprawling scene or idea you’ve already written – something you’re quite proud of, something important – and tell it in 100 words. Or 50. Or 10. It’s painful, yes, but also exhilarating. Like decluttering a messy wardrobe, you’ll be left with only the essentials: the shoes that make you feel powerful, the coat that gets you compliments.

It’s not about writing less. It’s about writing better. Cutting deeper. Saying more with less.

What is it that you really want to say?

3. Experiment with form

Let’s start with a truth that every writer knows but rarely admits out loud: the traditional rules of storytelling are comfortingly restrictive. They’re like a beloved but overbearing relative at Christmas dinner, forever droning on about how things should be done. First act, second act, climax. Beginning, middle, end. Lovely, sensible, predictable. But sooner or later, there comes a point when you want to chuck the turkey across the room and do something – anything – that feels a bit dangerous.

For example, Anne Carson’s Nox isn’t a book you can shelve neatly alongside the rest. It’s a physical artifact: a long accordion-folded elegy housed in a box. The fragmented structure reflects the process of grieving for her brother: messy, nonlinear, impossible to pin down. It’s part poetry, part scrapbook, and entirely original. Holding it in your hands, you realize that Carson isn’t just telling a story – she’s creating an experience.

Try writing a short story as text messages, emails, or a diary. Use the formats we encounter every day to make your narrative feel immediate and relatable.

The beauty of playing with form is that there are no rules: just possibilities. It’s a chance to create something that surprises you, something that reminds you why you started writing in the first place. So go on. Break the rules. Set fire to your old habits. 

And see what rises from the ashes.