Interview with Maria Rochelle

Get to know Nicholas over this discussion on travel, literature, writing, life, love and losing oneself in the beautiful madness of modern life.

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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,

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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.

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Prologue to a Memoir: A Rough Draft, a Novel, a Working Confesson.

A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,

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In My Heart of Hearts, I Will Always Love You. | An Open Love Letter, Deep in Memoir: The Boy Meets World, the Conflicted Future Self.

“My sudden love of these two women came into existance upon two separate planes of thought
Like a split in the multiverse that is the self.
Shay. Shay is stability. Comfort. Success.
Whereas Ingrid. Ingrid claims the part of me which belongs to the world. A manifestation of my desire to roam freely and simply be.

But, I know in my heart of hearts these two worlds can not coexist. 

For they, separately, are everything. Yet together, in the folds of life, they cancel each other out.”

–In Another Country

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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?

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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 rushing…

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A Triangle Under a Spotlight Sun

“I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. Feel the sun beating over my brow, speckled and damp and her brow wet like honey. The blood rushing and wet like honey. The blood rushing. The beating heart in Kansas City. The honeyed skin, the beating hearts, the beating suns. Wet like honey. A triangle…

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