"You never thought about moving?" "And leave this view? Screwdriver." "Huh?" "Screwdriver. Please." "Shane, how many boards do we need?" "As many as this boat gives us."
Fred, just turned nineteen, gripped his rifle tight against his chest. Soot and dirt caked his face, giving him an ashen mask over his pasty, Irish skin. His throat hummed but his lips trembled and chopped up the melodic breathing.
Procrastination and an impromptu list on why I love writing to get me out of this recent funk.
My mother told me to stay on our side of the yard. Every time I came to visit, after moving out and starting my own family, Mom said that I needed to say on our side of the yard.
These are my raw thoughts this week. This is a part of the creative process. You have personal rough patches. Acknowledge them, feel them, but power through. It will be worth it soon enough.
SNL creator and producer Lorne Michaels famously said, "The show doesn't go on because it's ready; it goes on because it's 11:30." Recently I've been living by this motto more.
As I move forward with my first novel, I go with the motivation of a mental halfway mark. I'm reminded of nights in my dorm room, hammering out pages of fiction for classes that week, and being happy. I listened to my younger self, who said he wanted to be an author and an actor, and here I am at 23, actively chasing it.
"So, Linus, what do you do for a living?" I'd been here a thousand times, knowing that this potential relationship was already doomed. So, I decided to have fun with it. "I'm a freelancer. Kind of between jobs." She sipped her champagne. Her eyebrows leapt with a feigned spark of intrigue.
1. Trust yourself. 2. If you're not excited about your story, neither will your reader. 3. I support the Oxford Comma...
“Here,” Mom said, sneaking ahead of me. She pushed the door open. Its hinge popped in intervals. The dark cabin felt stale and musty. Mom reached her hands into the shadowed threshold. “Everyone back up. Unless you want to be doused.” We shuffled against the cabin’s siding, clearing the way behind her. With a swoop of her hands, a low wind reverberated through the log home. Mom stepped out of the doorway as a pluming column of dust and cobwebs blew out of the cabin and settled over top nearby ferns. “Mind if I take the bed?” Melinda asked. Mom gestured to the doorway. “Please, by all means.”