When it comes down to it, Writing is easy. When you are in the zone, content can flow from your fingers like water, or the beast of inspiration can sit on your back, driving you forward with a story that is desperate to be written. It can be a long process, an epic journey from the first word written to a completed story, full of tears and energy and sometimes nearly insurmountable blocks. But in the end, you do it; you cross the finish line.
This week in Seamus explains it all, expect some short fiction on Monday (more time spent in East Bay. Creepy!), and a Writing Workshop on Thursday. We will be going over types of editing, and some of my own techniques for getting a story into third draft mode. Don’t miss it!
A heavy grey hung over the city. I had no idea where the smog ended and the fog began, just that it was everywhere and clung to everything like a burial shroud. Its omnipresent gloom stifled both sound and light… and something hungry was stalking me in the dark. The wet, clammy footsteps could be heard clearly, even through the endless mist.
I searched the darkened corridor quickly, looking for anything that might be a clue to the mysterious owner. The only light here was from the cloud-filtered moonlight that seeped in through the six-foot-high window at the far end of the hall. The darkness made things difficult, but with the butler downstairs I didn’t want to arouse more suspicion than I had to. It’s not like I was here legally. At least the plush carpet that ran down the center of the hallway deadened the sound of my oxfords on the floor. Continue reading The Gilded Cage
Presented for your pleasure: an excerpt from my first full-length book, Midwinter Gifts. Meadow Lily and her father are crossing the mountains in the dead of winter, which while beautiful, are full of peril…
The path still rose steeply, but the stone seemed cut into long, shallow steps, flattened in a path wide enough for three to walk abreast. She swore that they seemed deliberately laid when she caught glimpses of them beneath the snow. No trees lived here except some solitary brightneedles or pines, and precious little foliage of any kind other than the occasional scraggly bush, crawl of aelfivy along the stone walls, and patches of green and violet Dur-moss on the underside of the oddly regular rock outcroppings.
Christmas is a time for ghost stories. Everyone knows that. So when Sheila told her best friends, Alice and Jenna, that they thought they should summon a ghost, they thought it would be fun – a laugh. A hoot. The three girls gathered together the things they had found in the attic: a tattered, stuffed doll, a chipped mirror, a faded gingham dress. Relics of a life forgotten. Tools to speak with the dead.
Just so you know, friends, if you struggle with writing some times – if the words won’t come, if you feel drained of ideas, if everything you write feels stale and dumb – you’re not alone. It happens to all of us. Just keep going; maybe drink some water, too, have a snack, watch a show or read a book. It will come, I promise. Just remember input matters.