This is my favorite time of the year—a time to reflect and give thanks. This season reinforces how lucky I am to be a writer. It doesn’t matter if you’ve published or not. Pause for a moment and think about all that is great about being a writer.
Every day, we have a laser focus on our surroundings. There’s a story behind every bush, building, and mountain. We look at bars, churches, and the kitchen different from anyone else. We look for meaning behind the lost glove on the street. Continue reading “Giving Thanks That I’m a Writer”
Each of us has our own idea of success in writing. I’ve found that out the past few weeks in the comments on my past few blog posts for Indies Unlimited. Some are in it for the pleasure; others are in it for the dough. By no means does that represent every reason for pursuing our passion for writing, but I believe that it does provide for the two bookends of our main reasons for what we do. The question is … have we really thought about how far we can take this thing? Continue reading “What’s our Ceiling?”
I first acknowledged I was a writer in my heart when I read a dozen writing reference books cover-to-cover as though they were novels. There was a thrill in discovering something both foreign and familiar — learning about the nuances of development that I itched to put into practice, at the same time recognizing techniques that I do instinctively, pleased to think there was a writer’s scaffold in my brain.
Sometimes I forget that excitement, and writing feels like a commitment that I’m in too deep. Everything new I write sputters and dies within pages, if it doesn’t put me to sleep first. After the usual period of thinking it was all a mistake and I should quit right now, I find myself flipping through a few trigger books on my shelves, reading the underlined passages that clicked the first time I read them. Eventually that little glow starts to flicker inside again. So, I thought I would share some of these books with you. Continue reading “Reference Books for Inspiration”
by Mira Prabhu
It’s the Manhattan winter of 1992, less than three months since I’ve left my mate of fourteen years, losing, in one fell swoop, all the solid props of my life.
To stay financially afloat, I take on freelance administrative gigs in arguably the planet’s most frenzied and high-stakes city.
Weeks are busy, but weekends are poisoned with a high-octane cocktail of anxiety, guilt and confusion; I cannot seem to extricate myself from the tangled nest of viperous thoughts that paralyze me into a state of chronic despair. Have I done right in placing personal integrity above the comfort of family and economic security? Continue reading “Quiche, Coffee & The Morning Pages…”