Three days after you read this blog post, I am going to start writing my third novel. I already know this because I have planned a gathering of writers in my house for this weekend, and we will all be holed up in our separate spaces working on our manuscripts. The difference with me is that my manuscript will be completely new on Saturday morning. I will be sitting down to write the very first sentences of the first draft.
May 27, 2015 | Henriette Lazaridis
I had always wanted to write a book – and in 2009, I got serious about it. It took me two years to sign a contract and another two for my first book to come out (Reinventing You in 2013), but here’s what I learned in the process about how to build a strong platform and land a (nonfiction) book deal. I’m now on my second book, Stand Out, which was just released in April.
May 26, 2015 | Dorie Clark
Why am I drawn to scary stories? Because they're hard to write well, and challenge is always attractive to me. But also because fear is primal. Fear is part of who we are (or at least part of who I am), and I'm interested, more and more, in how people respond to what terrifies them. Psychological terror intrigues me most. I'm less interested in blood on the page than I am in perceived danger that might or might not be true
May 22, 2015 | Ron MacLean
The only way to find the story is to lose the moment. Forget checklists, guidebooks, and maps. Stop asking for directions. Walk the crumbling footpaths and forget where you're going, where you are.
It never occured to me that losing my way would give me direction, but it did. The picture above was taken two weeks ago in the city of Pompeii. I had no map. My idea of Pompeii was circumscribed by a diarama I'd done as a child, and though I had to realize, I tell myself now, that the city was surely larger than a shoebox, I roamed Pompeii without care
May 21, 2015 | KL Pereira
I arrived in Keflavik at four in the morning on April 8th, midnight in Boston, and tottered through immigration. The officers on duty beckoned me through with a wave.
“How was your flight? Good? Good! Welcome to Iceland. We hope you enjoy yourself here.”
They were a chipper pair, sunny golden-haired young men in beige shirts that tightened around the biceps. They stamped my passport in front of a window brown with the whale-back of mountains just before dawn.