Writing Exercise: Letting the Story Guide You

In this exercise, you will be given a story prompt to explore your own unique creative path. Your task is to read the story below, visualize how it might unfold, and imagine where it could lead. What could the ending be? Where will you take it?

Remember, if this story were given to ten people, they would each write ten different versions. The beauty of storytelling is that there’s no “right” way to finish a tale—only your way. So don’t overthink it. Let your creativity flow freely, trust your instincts, and allow the story to guide you wherever it wants to go.

Now, take a deep breath, and dive in. If you enjoyed doing this, a writing holiday might just be for you?

It’s evening. As you gather with your group on the veranda, watching the sun sink behind the Tuscan hills, a deep sense of contentment washes over you. The meal you’ve just shared, bursting with the freshest ingredients you’ve ever tasted, lingers on your palate. The conversation during dinner had flowed easily as each person revealed their reasons for being here. Some had arrived on strong recommendations, others had fallen in love with the region years ago and had always intended to return. A few were enchanted by the villa’s photos, drawn to the idea of living in a Tuscan palace, if only for a little while.

The atmosphere is warm and relaxed, a gentle camaraderie spreading among the group. Some have written before, while others are only just beginning. Here, you feel at ease, among kindred spirits. You can be yourself. But none of that is what has you smiling so unreservedly this evening.

The villa’s location is nothing short of breathtaking. The rolling green hills around it are dotted with vineyards producing some of the world’s finest wines. You are in the homeland of Chianti and Montepulciano. The food, sun-ripened under the Tuscan sky, is sourced from local farms and markets. The villa itself is a marvel of medieval architecture, with its ancient candelabras and weathered gardens whispering tales of centuries gone by.

Yet, even with all this external beauty, the peace you feel runs deeper. It’s as if something inside you, long dormant, is finally waking up. This retreat is more than just a break; it’s a gift to your creative self, one that has been long overdue. You realize how much the demands of everyday life have drained your well of inspiration. Now, with time to replenish that well, a serene calm has settled over you. It feels good—no, it feels right—to be giving attention to this neglected part of yourself. Almost immediately, as if your inner creative knows it’s safe to emerge, ideas begin to stir.

You think of that story—the one you started with such hope, the one you thought would be a novel before it fizzled out. You’d given up on it, hadn’t you? But now, sitting here, you sense it’s not dead after all. She—the character you created—has followed you here, whispering for a second chance.

You imagine seeing her at the airport, peeking out from behind a bookstand. Dressed in her signature white trouser suit, dark Dior sunglasses, her hair perfectly coiffed beneath a long white scarf—pure Old Hollywood. She’s been waiting for you. She’s come to be reinvented, to have her story retold.

At first, you resist. “You can’t seduce me into writing you back to life,” you murmur to her. But she only smiles, that knowing, irresistible smile.

“Oh, don’t be such a buzzkill,” she teases. She knows she has you.

She approves of this place, Tuscany’s rolling hills and ancient charm. It’s the perfect backdrop for her return, she says, her confidence as alluring as ever. You don’t press too hard, afraid that if you do, she might disappear again.

“So, there’s more to the story?” you ask gently.

Her voice is soft, almost a purr. “My story isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

There’s a new lilt in her voice—something Southern, perhaps? “Where are you from?” you ask.

“Carolina, originally. But that’s a long time ago, darling. Let’s talk about now. About the future.”

“Alright,” you hear yourself saying, feeling the pull of her world.

“Call me Carolina this time. Sissy never quite fit,” she says, glancing at her reflection as if it’s all a game. You grab your notebook, ready to catch whatever comes next.

“And do let some air in,” she adds, pulling the curtains back to reveal a night sky sprinkled with a million stars. The scent of roses fills the room, thick and heady.

“Ralph adored roses,” she muses. “My second husband. He had a vineyard not far from here. Did I ever tell you about Ralph?”

You scribble furiously as she recounts the tale of the man who first showed her Rome. Her story isn’t what you expected—it’s richer, deeper. It’s evolving. You’ve always heard that stories take on a life of their own, but this feels different. You thought you were writing a novel once, but when the words ran dry, it became something less—another unfinished project. Maybe, just maybe, it was always meant to be a novel, and now it’s finally ready to bloom.

You’re not in control here, you realize. The story is. And that’s okay. You’re just the conduit, letting it flow through you. You can see her now—this character, this force—so clearly it’s as if she’s standing in front of you. She’s not pleased with the rushed ending you had once written for her. No, she deserves something grander, something that fits the woman she is. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, carried by the gentle whirl of the ceiling fan. Her silk scarf brushes your cheek, as real as a whisper.

And you’re smiling because you know this story has life in it yet. Something bigger than a short story, something longer than a novelette. You might just have the beginnings of your first novel.

Six glorious days lie ahead, days to drink in Tuscany’s inspiration, to dream under its endless skies. Before now, she might have slipped away, lost in the noise of daily life. But here, in this quiet, this place meant for reflection, you’ve found her again. Or perhaps, you’ve finally given yourself permission to listen.

The beauty of Tuscany has inspired writers for centuries, and now you understand why. It’s in the air, the soil, the culture—an ancient muse calling out to those willing to listen. You feel it too, deep in your bones. As you lie in your bed beneath the centuries-old wooden beams of this villa, the possibilities shimmer before you. You’ve come to the right place.

This just might be where your novel finds its ending.