On Writing Like Pros: How Students Can Ace Creative Writing Challenges — Hasan Maruf

It was a sultry Thursday afternoon, and my Year 10 class was already restless. You know the kind—the sort of restiveness that hits just as the creative writing assignments are handed out. I could practically see the thought bubbles forming above their heads: “I don’t know how to write a story!” and “What do they mean by ‘reflective essay’?”

At that moment, I knew I had two options. One, I could try to pry meaningful words from their copies like a dentist pulling teeth. Or two, I could take a more inspiring approach: "So," I announced with a flourish, "how would you like to write like Edgar Allan Poe? Or, if you prefer something less... creepy, how about Maya Angelou?"

The eye-rolls were instant. Fairoze, my serial eye-roller, grumbled, “Sir, I’m not into weird old writers.”

“Fairoze, you love Stephen King,” I pointed out. “If anyone’s a weird old writer...”

And there it was. The hook. Suddenly, students who had been slumped over like zombies moments earlier were now leaning in. What Fairoze—and her quizzical classmates—didn’t yet fathom was that mastering the art of creative writing, whether for descriptive essays or narrative pieces, wasn’t about some quirks or outdated styles. It was about knowing the secret techniques, the potent literary devices, and the craft behind storytelling that Poe, Angelou, King, and even their favorite TikTok poets all used.

Descriptive Writing vs. Narrative Writing: The Devil’s in the Details

First things first. Descriptive writing and narrative writing are not the same beast. But, once tamed, they can work together like peanut butter and jelly—if peanut butter had a creepy basement like in The Tell-Tale Heart and jelly recited beautiful, soulful reflections on life like in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Here’s the deal. Descriptive writing is all about painting a picture. It’s that moment in a story when time stands still and you describe everything solely concentrating on the scenes in an unchanged realm. The color of the sky, the feel of the breeze, the sound of your feet crunching over leaves—all in rich, vivid sensory detail. It’s the art of making a reader feel like they’re standing right in the middle of your story. Narrative writing, or fictional story-telling, on the other hand, is the storytelling engine. It’s what happens—the events, the character’s actions, and how they interact with the world you’ve so painstakingly described.

Let me illustrate. A student once asked me, “Sir, is this a good opening for my descriptive essay?” He then read aloud:

The trees were tall.

I tried not to cringe. “Let’s poe this up a bit, shall we?”

“Poe this up?” he inquired, now intrigued.

“Let’s go darker, deeper, and more vivid.” We worked on it together, and after some tweaking, he wrote:

The towering oaks stood like silent sentinels, their twisted branches scratching at the sky as if pleading for release from their eternal watch.

Now that’s descriptive writing. Same trees, but now we’ve turned them into characters of their own—alive, brooding, and packed with atmosphere. The trees are no longer just there; they have meaning, tension, and depth.

When it comes to narrative writing, however, you need action and emotion. In a classroom discussion about how to start a narrative piece, I always ask: “What’s happening? Why do we care?” A flat opening, like “One day I went to the store,” doesn’t grab anyone. But start with action—a bang, a problem—and suddenly we’re hooked. Take this reworked line from another student's essay:

It was three minutes past midnight when I heard the first knock. And then came the second...

Now you’ve got suspense. You’ve got questions. What’s happening? Who’s knocking? Why is this happening at midnight? This is how you pull readers in with an immersive narrative energy.

The Secret Power of a Killer Opening Line

Let me tell you a well-guarded secret in the writing world: The opening line is everything. If you don’t grab the reader by the throat (metaphorically speaking, please), they’ll drift away faster than a student in a double period on a scorching Sunday afternoon.

Consider how writers like Poe, Angelou, or even contemporary writers like Neil Gaiman open their works. They understand that the first line needs to beg the reader to keep going.

Let’s go back to good old Poe, who, in The Tell-Tale Heart, opens with:

“True! —nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?”

Talk about diving in headfirst. Right away, the reader is flung into the middle of the speaker’s mind, with all its irrational, unnerving intensity. Poe has already created mood, character, and plot potential in one fell swoop.

Now, Angelou’s openings are a different flavor. Consider the first line of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings:

“What you’re supposed to do when you don’t like a thing is change it.”

That’s not just a sentence. That’s a life philosophy in under 10 words. It’s immediate, it’s powerful, and it makes you think.

So how do my students apply this? I challenge them to start their stories or essays with conflict, tension, critical quests, or an arresting statement. One student, after we brainstormed together, came up with this beauty for their reflective essay:

“There’s nothing quite as terrifying as being told you’re moving to a new country at the age of thirteen.”

Not only does this give the reader context, but it sparks tension, fear, and curiosity. “Why is this terrifying? What happens next?”

Show, Don’t Tell: A Writer’s Golden Rule

Ah, yes. The classic advice—every student gets at least ten echoic reminders in my English class: “Show, don’t tell”. Sounds simple enough, right? And yet, every year, I find myself explaining the concept to my students as though it’s some ancient and elusive magic spell. With sorcerer’s exhilaration, I would pour deep into my students’ souls how the magic mantra of writing: “Show, Don’t Tell” would unravel toothsome bags of simile, metaphor, onomatopoeia, personification, pathetic fallacy, alliteration, sibilance, oxymoron, and myriads of trickeries to unveil wizardry in their creative writing.

Here’s how I always break it down: telling is stating facts, while showing is using vivid imagery, actions, emotions, or dialogue to convey those facts without ever saying them outright. It’s the difference between saying, “Fairoze was scared” (tell) and “Fairoze’s hands shook as she fumbled with the doorknob, her breath shallow and rapid” (show). The first line gives you a bland fact. The second makes you feel Fairoz’s fear in your own hands.

In class, I often run an exercise where I give students bland “telling” sentences, and they have to “show” them through vivid, descriptive details. A favorite from the class practice went like this:

Telling: “It was a hot day.” Showing: “The sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat pooled at the back of my neck. Even the air itself felt heavy as if the world were holding its breath.”

See the difference? The student used sensory details to convey not just the heat but the experience of the heat. This is what makes writing come alive—it engages the reader’s imagination and emotions, not just their brain.

Literary Devices in Storytelling: From Poe’s Unnerving Suspense to Angelou’s Poetry Reflection

Ah, literary devices—the hidden pearls of writing. Let’s unpack two of my favorites, straight from the toolkits of Poe and Angelou.

Foreshadowing (Poe’s best friend)

In The Fall of the House of Usher, everything, from the decaying house to the trembling air, foreshadows the inevitable doom that’s coming. Poe doesn’t just smack you in the face with horror. He whispers it to you throughout the story, like a distant rumble of thunder before the storm hits.

I once had a student writing a gothic narrative about a mysterious house (Poe, Eat Your Heart Out). At first, they described the house in neutral terms—cold, stone walls, dark windows. But we worked on some foreshadowing:

“The windows gaped like hollow eyes, and I could feel the house itself leaning in, waiting for something... someone.”

Now we’re talking. It’s subtle, but it hints that something isn’t quite right, making the reader (and, of course, your very own petrifying examiner) twitch like dilemma-struck patients to find out what.

Symbolism (Angelou’s specialty)

Angelou was a master at embedding symbols into her reflective writing. In “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”, the caged bird becomes a symbol of confinement, struggle, and eventual freedom—a reflection of Angelou’s own journey.

In my classroom, I encourage students to look for unique symbols in their own lives when crafting reflective essays or stories. One student wrote about a broken bicycle they couldn’t part with. On the surface, it was just a bike, but as they wrote, the bike became a symbol of their childhood—something they couldn’t fix but couldn’t let go of either. Suddenly, a mundane object became the emotion of their reflection.

Vocabulary: Connotational Words that Sparkle or, Terrify

I can’t count the number of times students have asked, “Sir, how do I make my writing sound better?” My answer is always, “Don’t make it sound better—make it sound right.”

Poe knew this. When he described a character’s heart “beating like a drum,” he wasn’t trying to sound fancy. He was choosing the precise word to capture the intensity of the moment. Angelou, too, could find the perfect word to evoke an emotional truth without overloading the page with arrant adjectives.

I challenge my students to replace ordinary and dull words with meaningful and emotionally charged connotational words. Instead of stating: “The forest was dark,” they could use: “The forest loomed, shadows twisting between the trees like primeval secrets.” Suddenly, the forest isn’t just dark—it’s alive, mysterious, and vaguely terrifying.

Out-of-the-Box Story Ideas for Descriptive and Narrative Writing

One of the most common questions I get from students is, “Sir, what should I write about?” Cue the collective panic of a roomful of students staring at blank notebooks. But here’s the thing: creative writing isn’t about finding the most epic, unique story ever told. It’s about telling any story in a unique, engaging way.

I always encourage students to think beyond the obvious when brainstorming ideas for narrative, descriptive, or reflective essays. Some of the best stories come from unexpected places. Here are a few ideas that have led to top-scoring responses in past exam papers:

The Reverse Story: Start with the ending. In one memorable narrative essay, a student opened with the line, “By the time I found the note, it was already too late.” From there, they worked backward, revealing the chain of events that led to that final, devastating moment. The reverse storytelling format added tension and intrigue, keeping the reader hooked until the very last word.

The Inanimate Object’s Perspective: I once had a student who wrote an entire descriptive piece from the perspective of a crumbling brick in a centuries-old cathedral. The brick “remembered” the people who had walked past it, the birds that perched on it, the rain that wore it down over time. It was wildly creative and earned them full marks. Sometimes, thinking outside the box just means flipping the perspective.

The Unexpected Hero: Everyone loves a good underdog story. In a recent KS5 narrative exam, a student wrote about a seemingly insignificant character—the quiet boy in class who always sat alone. But as the story unfolded, he became the hero in a subtle, emotional way. No superheroes, no magic—just an ordinary person facing an extraordinary challenge.

Developing the Story: Characters, Conflicts, and Climaxes—Oh My!

"Sir, how do I make my characters, like... real? They’re so flat!"

Ah, the eternal cry of every student halfway through a creative writing task. Developing characters, building tension, and landing a powerful climax—this is where the real magic of storytelling happens. You can write the most exquisitely descriptive sentences and master every narrative device, but if your characters are cardboard cutouts who only exist to walk around in the plot like they’re in a boring tourist brochure, then we have a problem.

The key to any unforgettable story is to create characters who feel alive, throw them into the most compelling conflicts you can imagine, and then watch as they stumble (or triumph) toward a powerful climax that leaves your reader reeling. That’s what makes a story stick.

Let me invite you back to a creative writing task from last year. We were in the thick of it, tackling the dreaded "create your own protagonist" exercise. Firoze, fresh off her victory with the serial killer cat idea, was now stuck on a human character. She raised her hand. “sir, I’ve got a character, but they’re... kind of lackluster.”

“Tell me about them,” I said.

“Well, they’re brave and smart and always make the right decisions,” she said, her fervor wavering.

There it was—the classic blunder. Too perfect, too shiny, too meh. “Fairoze,” I said, “I hate to break it to you, but perfect characters are boring. Give them flaws. Make them messy.”

I pointed to one of our recent reads in class—Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby.”. Gatsby is wealthy, charismatic, and driven, but he’s also tragically flawed by his obsession with Daisy. His inability to let go of the past is what drives the entire plot and makes him interesting.

I encouraged Fairoze to think about what his character wants most—and what flaw might keep him from getting it. By the end of the lesson, Fairoze had turned her shrewd, brave character into a guy who was a genius... but had crippling social anxiety and a tendency to lie to make himself seem more important. Suddenly, Fairoze’s protagonist had gone from forgettable to fascinating.

In another classroom example, a student writing a narrative about a young athlete competing in a final race was struggling to give their character depth. I suggested they add an internal conflict—something personal the character was grappling with beyond just winning the race. They eventually wrote about a strained relationship with their father, and suddenly, the race wasn’t just about victory; it was about earning his approval. Bam—emotional depth, relatable conflict, and a protagonist worth rooting for.

Once your character is fleshed out with strengths and weaknesses, you need to throw them into conflicts. Conflict is the heartbeat of your story—it’s what keeps readers turning the pages. But here’s where students often stumble: conflict isn’t just external. It’s not just about dragons or robberies or apocalyptic-level disasters. The most powerful conflicts are often internal.

Let’s look at Shakespeare for a second—because why not? Take Hamlet. Sure, there’s the whole murder-revenge plot, but the real conflict is internal. Hamlet’s wrestling with his conscience, his grief, his indecision. Does he act or not? This is the engine that drives the entire play.

I once had a student writing a short story about a girl who discovered her best friend was lying to her. At first, the conflict was external—she confronted the friend, there was drama, and then, well, nothing. The story fizzled out. “What’s the real conflict here?” I asked.

After a long discussion (and probably too many appetizing snacks), we realized the real tension wasn’t about the lie itself—it was about trust, betrayal, and whether the protagonist could ever forgive her friend. Now, the character had to grapple with a tough internal question: Is it worse to lose a friend or live with someone you can’t trust? Conflict doesn’t always have to be explosive; sometimes, the quiet, personal struggles are the most compelling.

Once you’ve dragged your characters through emotional (and maybe physical) mud, it’s time to bring everything to a head. Enter the climax—the point where all the tension, conflicts, and stakes come crashing together. This is where your characters are tested, where they face their greatest fears, and where you get to deliver the ultimate payoff for everything you’ve built up.

Think about the climax of “To Kill a Mockingbird”. The trial is where all of Scout’s naive childhood ideas about justice, morality, and human goodness collide with the harsh reality of racial prejudice in her town. Everything in the novel builds toward this moment, and the result leaves both the characters and the readers shaken.

In a recent narrative writing task, one of my students wrote about a boy trying to win the approval of his distant uncle through a science competition. The boy had worked vigorously, convinced that winning was the key to his uncle’s heart. But at the story’s climax, just as he’s about to present his project, he realizes that winning won’t actually solve anything—it won’t make his uncle care any more than he already (or doesn’t). His emotional breakdown in front of the judges is the real climax, not whether he wins or loses the competition. The student had tapped into that golden narrative rule: the climax isn’t just about external resolution—it’s about internal revelation.

So, there you have it. You’ve built your characters, given them flaws, thrown them into a vat of conflict, and pushed them to their breaking point at the climax. That’s how you go from a basic, run-of-the-mill story to something that sticks with your reader—something that makes your teacher (or the examiner) leap up a little and think, “Well, that was amazing”.

Powerful Endings: The Twist, the Revelation, the Echo

Yes, the ending now—the cherry on top of your literary sundae. Poe and Angelou may have written different genres, but both knew how to end a piece memorably.

In Poe’s The Telltale Heart, the narrator’s guilt overwhelms him until he’s screaming about the heart beneath the floorboards. The ending doesn’t just close the story—it jolts you, makes you question the narrator’s sanity, and leaves you unsettled long after the last word.

On the other hand, Angelou often leaves us with hope or revelation. At the end of her poem Still I Rise, she declares, “I rise, I rise, I rise.”

This repetition becomes a crescendo—a triumphant echo that stays with you long after the poem ends.

I often push my students to end their pieces with a bang—whether it’s a twist, an emotional revelation with an epiphany, or a powerful image. One reflective essay ended with the line, “In the end, it wasn’t the new school that changed me. It was the fear of being invisible.” Not only did that resonate deeply, but it also left me, the reader, with a sense of cathartic closure.

Writing Like a Pro (and Scoring Like One Too)

By the time we reached the end of that lesson, Fairoze and the rest of my reluctant pupils had turned from skeptical scribblers into full-fledged story-weavers. I could see the flickers of excitement popping out in their eyes—the beginnings of masterpieces they didn’t even know they were capable of writing. It wasn’t just about finishing a school assignment anymore but about discovering the thrill of storytelling. Suddenly, creative writing wasn’t a chore; it was an opportunity to generate an imaginary realm, breathe life into characters, and make their readers feel something.

By the end of the lesson, Fairoze’s face was lit up with a mix of mirth and mischief. “Sir, I’ve got a matchless story idea. My next-door neighbor isn’t just a genius scientist—he is a night crawler who bumps into a coffee bar in search of his next experiment, which he keeps screwing up following a boisterous wrangle with his wife. It’s genius!”

I burst out laughing. “Fairoze, that’s not just genius—it’s an absolute stroke of brilliance.” And that’s the thing about creative writing, isn’t it? Sometimes, it’s the most unexpected, ridiculous ideas that turn into the most compelling stories. Whether your protagonist is a mad scientist with eccentric intent or a teenager facing off against her greatest insecurities, the key to powerful writing is letting your imagination run wild—while grounding it in real human emotions, rich characters, and conflicts that resonate.

So, to all you secondary, upper-secondary, and university freshman-year students out there—while staring at your blank pages cluelessly: idea-starved and word-possessed—remember this—whether you’re weaving suspense, reflecting on life’s meaning, or imagining the weirdest, most out-there scenario, you can dream up, and your words matter. You have stories inside you that no one else can tell. Don’t be afraid to let them out.

The author is a teacher of English Language and Literature (IGCSE, GCSE, A-Level, and IB Diploma); he is also an ardent literary enthusiast, a fiction writer, researcher, poet, and public speaking trainer.