Seek out your passion, and you shall be happy.

Well, I have found my passion and happiness is not the word I would use to describe how I feel.

I’m terrified, lost in a maze where each dead end is at the end of a longer, more hopeful path than the last, and it is unclear whether my prize is at the…

"Although it's likely Walpole will have cleared it up" Madigan, one of my characters says, speaking of possible blood and gore.…

A propos of yesterday’s post, and coincidence rather than serendipity, today’s Telegraph reports the death of a woman known only for the fact of having written a book.  Entitled ‘Misadventures’ it was the story of an entirely unremarkable life, badly written in stultifying detail simply because she wanted to; once (and eventually) published, the cognoscenti apparently could not decide  whether or not it was…

Under the bridge it was cool and the earth was packed hard and was always in shadow where no flowers or stinging weeds could grow. The water would reflect the eerie wiggling light of the sun on the cement ceiling and her face while she wrote letters to no one in particular with the fountain pen she’d found and stolen from her father’s den. It was a secret place, a non-place, a place no one ever thought about or went to so she felt at home there. When she finished a page she would lay it flat…

Five words:  I wouldn’t have recognised them so can’t blame those who were there if they don’t either.

From these were spun tales such as the lady’s maid who turned poisoner…

"What would you say if you were about to die alone and could only write six sentences to the world?"…

Oh, what to write about when you have nothing to say, what to write about when nothing inspires, what to write when Calliope, Melpomene, and Thalia are sleeping one off holding empty clay jugs, lips purple from Bacchus's finest. 

I tried waking them up, I did, tried banging cymbals over their beautiful sleeping bodies, tried singing off key, songs of the sea, songs of the sirens, which seduce seamen, but did nothing to arouse the muses, who were just party girl bitches unable to…

One of the problems with putting into words a succinct little tale, and posting it here, is that more than intended import is thereby added.   So I’ll say that this is intended as reassurance, is not a cry for help, nor a boasting of any sort;  it is here and now merely because, a) one of 2013’s resolutions was to contribute more regularly (at least once a week) to 6S, and b) I was musing on writing distance…

The house guests have all gone, their crap along with them, yet the feeling that my time is not my own remains to haunt me. The parents-in-law have kindly offered to buy the iPad I've been wanting as a Christmas gift, including the detachable keyboard to make it easier for me to do my writing, which I'd been hoping to catch up on during our family Christmas at the beach (Galveston, TX).

But, alas, what follows, but 7 back and forth emails between my M.I.L. and S.I.L. about…

Writing in the nude can be distracting. Most would think about wrapping themselves up. Then again, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? It's important to strip ourselves of the excesses, unveil our vulnerabilities, let it all go free and show the world what we got. And what’s upfront really counts too. To grab attention, I’d suggest a provocative title for your story.

Since poetry is                                    sparks against darkness, conceived

in general                                              in private, so easily snuffed by any

such a subjective                               random draft, made yet not made.  Seek

art, I’ve found                                    …

Another small tidbit from Shadow Play. Hope you enjoy.

Kyra shook herself and examined the Shade standing in front of her. She wore a long white night dress, which meant she could be lingering from one hundred years ago, or one of the latest victims. Shades seldom shared why they lingered in the mortal plane, whether they knew they were dead or not. They differed from ghosts, which held memories of people and how they had died. Shades, on the other hand had substance, knew they no…

Click, click, click. The typing of the keys accompanied by the camaraderie of an eclectic group of writers. Pens flow with the ink of inspiration. Today is the day I break through my block. Perhaps I can gain some creativity through osmosis. I must write. 

He knew it, just knew it.  He had finally figured out the innermost workings of his brain. With a confused and racing mind, the words that would drool from his mouth produced an acidic metallic mush.  The taste of the mush was bitter, studded with prickles and he found few fellow minds that found pleasure in such pallid writing.  He sat with his friend at a table with bottled water in Soho and said, “I’m fragile, in need of help, but I keep spinning around and seeing only angry or bored…

As the rain pours down, so hard that I can swear I hear the mewing of cats and the incessant barking of dogs, my first thought is that I'm stuck inside until it passes through. The thunder is rolling and the sky is darkening and you've quickly run outside to try and mow the lawn before "it hits". Not that you haven't had a million other opportunities to do this, but what better motivator than the race against time? 

I am pleasantly sitting on the couch, purging myself on my…

It's laughable really, the way she keeps me locked up in a pdf file on the hard drive, pages incomplete, character undeveloped, secrets yet to be revealed. What is she waiting for? I want my story to be heard. I need my voice to ring out above the monotonous smut and rehashed vampire/zombie/prom queen/teen angst YA on the shelves. Is it so inconceivable that someone will relate? Keep writing. 

By which I mean what are their core responsibilities?

I ask because I assumed that ensuring correct use of English (inconsistencies of spelling and matching tenses for example) was a given.

And although I would hesitate to claim that they ‘ought’ to impose a minimum level of ‘good’ writing – for example, by suggesting that…

The idea of a winding sheet has always brought unfortunately humorous images to mind – something like a bandaged thumb, wrapped over and over in narrow white sheeting –  except that for it to work, visually, with a thumb said sheet would have to be not much more than a quarter of an inch wide, so that sufficient herringbone overlaps could be made.   Clearly impractical.…