A four-books series focused on vampires and werewolves was suddenly placed on the New York Times Bestseller list and was garnering international attention. Crying and screaming young girls, Team Edward and Team Jacob shirts, and vampire-themed merchandise became the new normal once he Twilight craze took off. As expected, among the crazy fanatics were the haters who criticized the author on her lack of talent and writing skills.
Lefty was only part Spitz. Her tail curled up, and she was about Max’s height, maybe two-and-a-half feet. Actually, she looked a bit like the dog you’ll find in old Neil Young photos from his Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere days. Just a friendly white dog who lived to love her people.
On every workday morning, I only gave myself forty minutes to commute to work.
You are in the park. It might be October, it might be July. You have packed a lunch for your son. He carries the lunch in his backpack. Peanut butter and honey. Apples and 7-Up. The stories you’ve heard, some of them are true, some of them can’t possibly be. Please enjoy your picnic.
“Let the reader get tearful; they often won’t if you’re already crying in their stead,” cautioned a mentor after reading an essay in which I’d admitted crying.
So you wrote a book. Congratulations! So did everyone else. One of the most common questions I get asked is, What now? What happens next? How does a writer proceed beyond this phase, and why is the world of publishing so inaccessible past the writing stage? How do I venture out, and how do I get noticed? I’m here today to take a little mystery out of this process, so you can feel safer in your lifeboat as you navigate the murky waters of starting-out.
In novels, plays, and motion pictures, it’s a well-known trope. From Star Wars to The Matrix, Lord of the Rings to Battlestar Galactica to Harry Potter and even Julius Caesar, there’s a prophecy, and the characters have been holding to it for many years — generations even. The problem is, the prophecy is so vague, no one can agree on its meaning.
She appeared like a butterfly, without making a sound. A cool breeze accompanied her, along with the faint scent of frangipani. Then she turned and sat on the bench opposite the door. Only then was the silence interrupted...
I became an English major for all the wrong reasons. I didn’t like the reading professors assigned in core classes; I didn’t understand the reading they assigned. I hadn’t understood most of the reading I had been assigned since I began high school. I was a math person...
In America, one might have an attic, a cubbyhole, but in France an entire, once livable room is preserved for the past's relics because days gone by deserve their own private enclave. A chest of priest's vestments in perfect condition from, no one knows for sure, 1920s? Newspapers in yellow bundles that crumble apart rotten communion hosts. They detail events of world wars and the deaths of presidents. Boxes of dolls from many childhoods of at least three generations of women. Life size babies with disconcertingly human eyes and coifs of horsehair. A tin container containing medallions of religious belief: blue jewel Marys, crosses with green serpents entwined, other crosses with ornately tortured Jesuses in tears of blood, and simple Celtic-like crosses aged in bumpy accretions of tarnish and mold obscuring silver plating. A find to excite even the staunchest of atheists. Boxes of postcards from such places as Lourdes, the Pyrénées, Corsica, Paris, Nice, Menton, Tunisia, Algiers– Europa Exotica. The photos they contain...