Skimming the stories I loved so, I saw the growth of a writer. Glimmers of the novel I am drafting now and the woman I am becoming shine out in those early pages of limping syntax and predictable plots. Every now and then, a good sentence or single word stands out and says, “There is hope for you yet, Scribbler.”
Expectation: Showing off your stellar vocabulary. Reality: Spending ten minutes trying to remember how to spell “potpourri” because you’re too proud to look it up.
I was inspired this morning as I walked to practice piano for an upcoming recital… this would have been great, had I been inspired to
When night falls yet I cannot sleep, words crowd my brain. The following two poems, one serious and the other silly, are the products of
I have already blogged a series of writers’ confessions, but find I must once more come clean about some things… I (somewhat) enjoyed my term
People often ask, “How is your writing going?” or some such question. Well, to answer that… What I think: My novel is sadly forsaken but