Guess what I discovered inside my zipper? And no it’s not my lady bits. I discovered those decades ago. Inside my zipper I discovered a patch. Not that kind of patch either. (You’re dirty-minded, aren’t you?) It’s a patch of fabric running vertical that says “lucky you.” Now, I bought these jeans over a year…
Note: This post stemmed from a prompt flashback to misery. I’m writing a book and it’s a shitty long look backwards. I mean the writing isn’t shitty, but the looking back certainly is. Memoir seems to be a deliberately-written exploration of a series of miserable flashbacks. Or flashbacks on misery. Flashbacks with misery? Flashback…
I’ve read this in a book. You’ll laugh. It’s the story of a damsel. You’ll know exactly this story as soon as I start simply by the way this story begins. Once upon a time … … in a land [insert some adjective that indicates far, followed by one that suggests foreign and a third…
NOTE: The following post was based off this writing prompt: write a weather report. This is the first post about misguided romance and my unpredictable, somewhat tragic, and darkly humorous love life. There will be more. For now, you can view the description of my memoir (in-progress) to get a sense of what this is…
I’m getting ready to go to a writing event where for a small fee you can have fifteen minutes to pitch your book project to a literary agent. For those of you in the industry, you know pitching your book to an agent is a big deal and that fifteen minutes is generous. Many places…
Having a writing lifestyle takes commitment, effort, practice, and ownership. For all these reasons, it’s like a relationship. Or at the very least, it’s like any other lifestyle decision: establishing a workout routine; changing to gluten-free; joining a club or organization; introducing mindfulness to each day. I’m defining lifestyle as: a way of life or…
There was a time, in the not so distant past, when I feared the results of my writing so much that I failed to see the possibilities that could result instead. I feared not having enough to say. What I said not being said right or well. Having what I said hurt, impale, embarrass, traumatize…
Lets assume you read the first post (Just Another Writer). If not, stop reading this right now. Go back and read the other one. Then you’re welcomed to join us here. Here we are talking about this journey I’ve been on. Just kidding. You don’t have to go back. Stay with me. If you didn’t…
If you’re here reading this, then I’ve actually achieved something. I’ve accomplished some sliver of a 33-year old dream-in-the-making to become a writer. (I know, like we need another fucking writer. Especially here where I live. We’ve got more writers percapita than nearly any other state.) And a writer needs readers. Guess what? That’s you.…