Writing a novel is a complicated equation involving a lot of variables and moving parts — not the least of which are the authors themselves. In fact, the process of writing a novel is so arduous and soaked in magical thinking that many writers struggle to explain the process coherently,Read More
Our story is never-ending.
That to say, I will always love you.
Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.Read More
I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.
I will be, act, speak with intention.
I will be finished, will shop my novel.Read More
reveal yourself: what are some of your challenges, demands for 2018? I want the juicy details! let’s get through this together.Read More
I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?Read More
The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes. Oh, no. Not again. I bury face into the scarf. Traces of fig leaf and sandalwood bring her rushing…Read More
*unedited from rough draft (The Outsider: A Novel) I woke up one morning in a state of complete despair and found myself debating the absurdity of carrying on like this when I had options. They were clear as day and night and manifest out of who-knows-where: One, I could kill myself. Two, I could go…Read More
It’s that feeling like walking through a dream. When everything glows a soft infusion or orange, red and gold as if the world has absorbed the sun.Read More
by Richard Risemberg There are many ways to become a good writer, but one of the best ways to become a great one–besides giving yourself a thorough grounding in the mechanics of language–is to get over yourself. The fact of the matter is that, even though you’re writing the book, the book is not […] via…Read More
(from an old rough draft of The Outsider) It’s pouring out. The cobblestones are slick and the alley is narrow and dark and the sky above, that maroon storm-black. There’s smoke and exhaust hanging in the cold air. My breath is thick and the streets shine like glass below the lampposts. My pack is soggy,…Read More