Editor's Note by Martha Nichols
Forget the muse. My attention thief looks like Harpo Marx. He’s the guy honking his horn or grabbing my leg, whether I’m sitting at the computer or under a tree.
Forget the muse. My attention thief looks like Harpo Marx. He’s the guy honking his horn or grabbing my leg, whether I’m sitting at the computer or under a tree.
An experience of trauma—either long-term or instantaneous—rocks us out of our familiar relationship with words.
I’ve learned to live among the blooming trees, Sunday church traffic, and love of bacon.
If you’re stocking the shelves of your survival shelter, don’t forget to throw in a few gripping novels.
Don’t worry about the expectations you imagine others have; play with the mud you’ve found, like a child.
It felt like being on a ledge, with vast emptiness below my feet. I wasn't writing—but I wasn't not writing.
You can’t assume that teenagers are interested in what you have to say—it’s your job to pull them in by intriguing and delighting them.
No wonder readers often skip description—they were with the character, and suddenly the author steps in with dry facts.
Writing is hard. Entering is hard, but being rejected for any prize should make you more determined to write with passion.
Write your stories very slowly, word by word, trying to please everyone but yourself.