The 9-Minute Novelist: How to Write a Novel in Just Minutes a Day (from Writer’s Digest)

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,

To the One Who Never Will

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.

Flash Poem to Self: “Be confident, not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar:” On Writing, the Bohemian Lifestyle, and Balancing Art/Mind.

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. 

Meet Nicholas: or, Hello There! | Crafting My Author Biography

Novelist. Reader. Archaeologist.

After high school I hit the road. A spontaneous bus ride to Mexico City led me into the hazy mountains, the deep emerald forests of Chiapas where I discovered the beautiful and heartbreaking world of the Maya (yes, they still exist) and found something deeply rooted, down in my heart of hearts: A need to be part of something greater, to commit myself to people less fortunate.

From the Rooftops of Granada — an excerpt from my manuscript for ‘The Outsider.’ A Confessional Memoir/Novel on Identity, Love, Travel and Revolution in the Arab Spring.

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?

Opening lines: A Story About Identity, Revolution, and What it Means to Be a Modern Human. A Work in Progress #LiteraryFiction

Excerpt from The Outsider: A Memoir?
“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.”

The Outsider

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 rushingContinue reading “The Outsider”