I hate writing exercises.

No, you don’t understand. I genuinely hate being handed a writing assignment at a workshop and being asked to write something on the fly. I hate it more than getting up early, eating rutabegas, or going to the dentist.

Okay, so I don’t hate them more than going to the dentist, but they rank right up there.

The reason I hate them is simple: I want to write what I want to write, when I want to write it, in the specific way I want to write it. I don’t want someone else giving me an assignment, no matter how infinitely more-knowledgeable they happen to be about how to write. This is one of those areas that I know I need to work on, but also one of those areas in which my inner “control freak” likes to kick in.

One of the workshops I wanted to attend at Ravencon was called “Writing the Hook.” The description warned participants to bring their writing materials because they’d be expected to produce the all-important hook for a novel or short story.

So I promptly cheated. The night before, I re-wrote the prologue for my novel, making some adjustments — most of them minor — that I’d been contemplating for a couple of weeks. The next morning, I walked into the boardroom, where there was no sign of Donald Trump, with my pre-written assignment in tow. I was ready.

The workshop was led by novelist Allen Wold, an entertaining and engaging speaker, who remarked that the description of the workshop wasn’t entirely correct. In ten minutes, we were going to write the hook for a new short story. Within 100 words or fewer, we had to create a character, a setting, a situation and a compelling reason for the reader to want to continue.

Curses! Foiled again!

I could have just written down the first 100 words or so from the prologued I’d smuggled in, but since it’s the hook for a novel, it’s longer than 100 words. (Most novel hooks are closer to about three pages on average.)

So I was forced to come up with Plan B on the fly. Remember how much I said I hate writing exercises? Coming up with “Plan B on the fly” is only about two or three steps below writing exercises on my personal enjoyment scale.

I thought about a short story that I had recently worked on, and specifically about the opening scene that I wasn’t thoroughly happy with. So, very aware of the ticking clock, I started writing. And I realized that what I was putting on the page didn’t seem so bad. Allen and the other moderators assured us all that they’d be merciful when it came time to give their comments about what we’d written: “It’s your first draft. It’s going to be very rough,” he said.

I was also very aware of that phenomenon many writers have to deal with: the idea that whatever they have written, no matter how bad it really is, is the greatest thing in the world because they’re so close to it. I don’t think that I’ve suffered from that phenomenon to a great degree because I think I’m more the opposite: I dread others reading what I’ve written out of the sheer fear that they’ll ball up the pages and throw them at me, laughing as they yell, “You want to be a novelist? Are you kidding??” I think I’ve had a couple of nightmares to that effect, in fact. I’m sure that other writers feel this way, but they don’t admit it nearly as often as I’d like.

On the other hand, if I was enveloped in such a rose-colored glasses perspective with regard to the 100 words I was writing, I would naturally be the last one to know. So I just tried to write what I’d want to read, a technique I try to keep in mind no matter what I happen to be writing.

At the end of the ten minutes, we were required to read what we’d come up with out loud, and the panelists would then offer critique, criticism, and suggestions for improvements. I was about the fifth or sixth person to read mine, and shortly before it was my turn, Terry Brooks entered the room and asked to sit in on the exercise.

So I read my short story hook, trying to pretend that there were no pro writers in the room. After the deed was done, I took a deep breath and waited for the laughing and finger pointing. Much to my surprise, the response was quite positive. The worst thing said about what I’d come up with cold was said by Wold himself: “You don’t quite have a hook, yet, but you have a strong barb and I’d definitely keep reading.”

Brooks suggested one minor change that might add to the tension. It’s a suggestion that I think would work very well with the scenario I’d created. (And after all, when a novelist of Brooks’s success makes a suggestion, you’re an idiot if you don’t at least give it serious consideration!)

Maybe these writing exercises aren’t so bad after all.