WriteForTheStage

You wouldn’t run a marathon without warming up; likewise, it can be difficult to sit at your desk expecting yourself to be ready to commit ideas to the page without mentally preparing yourself. And this is where playwriting exercises come in, helping us test our language, structure, and tone in the privacy of the draft.

When I sit down to write, I’m not looking for comfort; I’m looking for friction—the kind that makes a line wobble, a silence ache, or a comic beat turn sinister.

This article shares 10 playwriting exercises that could help sharpen your dramaturgical instincts, stretch your tonal muscles, and remind us that playwriting is, at its core, play.

Playwriting Exercises #1: Interior Monologue in Fragments

Most playwrights at some point fall into the trap of writing inner thoughts in dialogue as tidy, grammatical sentences. The danger is that this serves as exposition rather than active, lived psychology.

To break the habit, try drafting a character’s interior monologue entirely in fragments. No full sentences, no neat syntax—just shards of thought.

For example: “Keys. Door. Late again. Don’t look. Smile. Pretend.”

Why this is helpful

On the page, this fragmented style creates a jagged texture that mirrors how thought actually arrives—disjointed, overlapping, sometimes contradictory. It sharpens your ear for rhythm: the length of each fragment becomes a beat, and the sequence of fragments creates a pulse.

You’ll notice:

• Menace in the gaps
• Sincerity in the repetition
• Comedy in the abrupt pivots

Consider the emotional architecture that emerges from the fragments? Does the silence between words carry more weight than the words themselves?

This exercise teaches that characters are defined as much by what they don’t articulate as by what they do. It’s a reminder that the page can stage silence as effectively as speech.

Playwriting Exercises #2: Lexical Ban

Choose a word that feels central to your scene—“love,” “death,” “sorry”—and forbid yourself from using it. Write the entire exchange without that word.

At first, the constraint feels artificial, even frustrating. But soon you’ll discover how characters invent new strategies to express themselves.

A lover might circle around “love” with metaphors: “You’re the gravity I can’t escape.” A mourner might avoid “death” by describing absence: “The chair stays empty, no matter how I set the table.”

Why this is helpful

On the page, the ban forces you to interrogate cliché. It reveals how often we rely on shorthand rather than specificity. By removing the shorthand, you sharpen sincerity.

This exercise also teaches you to embed subtext: the forbidden word hovers in the margins, unspoken but present. Readers and audiences feel its absence as strongly as its presence.

Consider if the ban heightens tension? Does it force invention? Does it reveal new tonal possibilities?

This exercise is not about clever avoidance—it’s about discovering elasticity in language. It proves that constraint is not limitation but provocation, and that the page thrives on rules broken deliberately.

Playwriting Exercises #3: Echo Dialogue

Write a scene where each line must repeat a word or phrase from the previous line. For example:

• A: “It’s late.”

• B: “Late is when the truth arrives.”

• A: “Arrives, but never stays.”

It doesn’t need to be the final word as demonstrated here. Mix it up.

On the page, this repetition builds rhythm and tension. It creates a visual motif as well as an auditory one. The exercise forces you to think about how words echo, mutate, and accumulate meaning.

Why this is helpful

Repetition can create menace, comedy, or ritual depending on how it’s handled.

Each repetition must transform the word—shift its tone, alter its context, bend its meaning. That transformation is where dramaturgy lives. You’ll find that repetition sharpens rhythm, and rhythm sharpens emotional architecture.

Consider if the repetition traps the characters, or liberates them? Dies it create sincerity, menace, or absurdity? This exercise teaches that rhythm is not decoration—it’s meaning.

On the page, echo becomes architecture, proving that language itself can carry dramaturgical weight without stage action.

Playwriting Exercises #4: The 60‑Second Script

Write a complete scene that fits on a single page. Limit yourself to one minute of imagined stage time. Compression forces precision. Every beat must matter.

You’ll discover how urgency can be created by line length and pacing alone.

Why this helps

While a theatre scene is typically much longer than a single page, this exercise helps you to get to the point quickly. It could help you find a theatrical beat, which could spark a longer scene.

On the page, brevity sharpens the stakes. A single page demands ruthless editing: no digressions, no filler. The scene becomes a crucible where rhythm and tone are tested under pressure. You’ll notice how punctuation choices—dashes, ellipses, abrupt line breaks—become dramaturgical tools.

Reflect on:

• How the compression heightens urgency?
• Does it force tonal pivots?
• Does it reveal what matters most in the exchange?

This exercise teaches that urgency is not about plot twists but about rhythm. Every beat matters when time is scarce.

Playwriting Exercises #5: Overlapping Syntax

Write dialogue where every line begins before the previous one ends—on the page, overlap is shown with ellipses, slashes, or dashes.

For example:

• A: I was trying to—

• B: Trying to what, exactly—

• A: Speak. I was /trying to

• B: You never /change.

• A: I love you.

BEAT

• B: What?

• A: Nothing. It was /nothing.

• B: Say it /again.

• A: No. I’m sorry.

Why this can help

On the page, overlap destabilizes rhythm and creates a sense of chaos, urgency, or comic menace. This exercise forces you to think about how syntax itself can fracture tone.

Reflect afterwards: did the overlap create tension or comedy? Don’t be afraid to breath that rhythm, like I did above with the BEAT.

Consider whether the overlaps sharpen rhythm or muddle clarity? This exercise teaches that typographic choices are dramaturgical choices. Overlap is not just performance—it’s architecture on the page.

Playwriting Exercises #6: Pulse Writing

Draft a scene where each line has the same syllable count—say, ten syllables.

Then, break the pattern deliberately.

On the page, the steady rhythm creates expectation. The rupture becomes a dramaturgical event that the characters must react to.

Why this helps

This exercise sharpens your ear for rhythm in text. It teaches you to think of dialogue as music, with beats and measures. The break in rhythm jolts the reader, creating menace or comedy depending on context.

Consider whether the steady rhythm lulls the reader or does the sudden rhythmic rupture shock them?

This exercise proves that rhythm is expectation, and breaking it offers dramaturgical shock.

Playwriting Exercises #7: Object Transformation

Introduce an object early in a draft and force yourself to return to it later with altered meaning.

For example, a teacup appears as comfort at the start of the scene, then shattered as betrayal at the end.

Or a friend showing off their engagement ring, only for it to get stuck on their friend’s finger.

Why this works

On the page, objects can represent dramatic significance and transforming its impact creates a resonance that changes the world of the play. The exercise teaches that meaning is not static—it evolves.

Think about how the object’s transformation sharpens emotional stakes? Does it create menace or sincerity? This exercise reminds us that simple devices can subvert the action.

Playwriting Exercises #8: Conflict‑Free Scene

Write a scene where nothing overtly happens—no arguments, no revelations. Two characters fold laundry, or sit in silence.

Consider what they want to say or do, but daren’t. And by purposely avoiding conflict, it creates its own innate conflict.

Why this works

On the page, the challenge is to sustain interest without conflict. Rhythm, tone, and subtext must carry the weight. The exercise shows us that emotional architecture can sustain a scene even when plot does not.

Reflect afterwards: did the absence of conflict actually heighten the tension? Did it reveal menace in the ordinary? This exercise proves that overt conflict is not always mandatory. The page can stage silence as drama.

Playwriting Exercises #9: Reverse Drafting

Write the final scene first, then draft backwards. See how the suspense shifts: the inevitability of the action we’ve already seen becomes its own dramaturgical engine.

Why this works

On the page, this exercise forces you to construct revelation differently. You know the ending, so every earlier scene must foreshadow or destabilize it. The exercise shows us that suspense is not always about surprise—it can also be about inevitability.

Reflect afterwards: did writing backwards sharpen structure? Did it reveal how peril or sincerity is constructed? This exercise proves that dramatic architecture is flexible, and the page can stage inevitability as powerfully as revelation.

Playwriting Exercises #10: I Remember

This is one of my favourite character exercises—one I use regularly to find out more about the people I’m writing about.

Think of your character, then write a list of sentences starting with the words “I remember…”

• I remember the time we met in the bar, and you smiled at me like I was the only person who mattered.
• I remember the sound of the door clicking shut as you left in the middle of the night after we made love.

Why this works

This is a great way to discover back story. Keep writing for ten minutes and allow yourself to find contradictions and dangerous details about your characters.

Consider how a greater understanding of your character’s total narrative brings them to life. Do other versions of this exercise by starting with:

• I love
• I hate
• I protect
• The Page as Stage

These exercises offer ways to test rhythm, menace, sincerity, and tonal pivots until your craft feels alive under pressure. They remind us that playwriting is not inspiration alone but a rigorous practice of disruption.

When you forbid a word, you discover elasticity. When you compress a scene to a single page, you sharpen urgency. When you explore a character’s back story, you discover new ways to heighten the conflict. Each exercise asks: What happens if I break this rule?

The answer is rarely tidy. But that’s the point. Playwriting thrives on constraint and play. The page is your laboratory.

Join us in January 2026

Over the summer we ran some summer schools and a digital writing retreat, and we had participants from all around the world.

In January, we start our brand new 5-week course: Top of the Stack—aimed at helping new and existing playwrights hit the ground running with their script, to help ensure a full read in competitions.

Thanks for reading