silence and “alone time” are critical components of unlocking the wealth of creativity tucked away within us. If we are in constant connection with something outside ourself, how can we give our own muse the attention it needs to speak and be heard?Read More
As Scott Russell Sanders from The Georgia Review writes: “Instead of playing on our selfishness and fear, stories can give us images for what is truly worth seeking, worth having, worth doing.”Read More
I once read that some 97% of aspiring writers never finish the book they set out to write. In other words, only 3% succeed in bringing their unspoken story to life. But yesterday, exactly 10 months after I began writing chapter one, I finished my first draft of A Whitewashed Tomb.Read More
I’ve always been more of a sprinter than a runner, both metaphorically and physically... but as it turns out, those writers before me were right: having a daily word count can make all the difference.Read More
This week, I hit a major milestone in the writing of A Whitewashed Tomb: I’m at the midpoint of my first draft!Read More
This poem depicts something that I’ve wanted to capture for a long time: the mysterious experience when then sun dips just below the treetops before sunset, setting the leaves ablaze in vibrant green like the dying embers of an emerald flame.Read More
Wily winter snowflakes dance
Upon the wind they rise
Whispering of how they brought
About Autumn’s demise…
your protagonist is not you. He or she is a fictional character, a figment of your imagination, and letting go of your insecurities is one of the best things you could do for your story.Read More
Only 25 minutes long, this bite-sized course is a great way to kick writer’s block in the face and stay on track as you build your conflict towards the most emotionally satisfying climax.Read More
Bubbles on the pond:
Of the master
Of whom I am fond.
this poem was good for me to write, because it forced me to be honest with myself. I have been off my left foot for more than three months now, and am only just beginning the road to recovery after a serious injury to my ankle.Read More
Last night a good friend and I looked through some old pictures on my Facebook, and we came across some of me in my last relationship. It stirred this poem, in which I try to capture the interesting way in which we broke things off.Read More
I became broken, and it broke my pride.
I wouldn’t have let them all see when I cried.
When we get older, we put up these walls.
We do not hold hands and we don’t play with dolls.
Yesterday I said goodbye to my dear older brother, who had been visiting me from New York. Dropping him off at the airport, as gargantuan machines of metal soared overhead, I was reminded of this poem.Read More