“Every man’s memory is his private literature.” Aldous Huxley Today we spent time reading, eating Mexican, drinking margaritas, driving under pink Arizona clouds. These things helped to lessen the impact of yet one more form agent inquiry rejection letter. This … Continue reading
“Bread and books: food for the body and food for the soul — what could be more worthy of our respect, and even love?” — Salman Rushdie A perfect thought for a Sunday evening. That, and this picture from a … Continue reading
Every writer should have a dog, don’t you think? A faithful companion gazing into the hearth while the writer sits at a desk, hammering out beautiful prose on that old red, Remington typewriter that has served without a breakdown since … Continue reading
I’d like to step away from character selection today and get back to the subject of our aching, whining, Wrists-That-Shall-Not-Be-Ignored. For those of us who suffer repetitive motion injury, here are a few tips that may make life more keyboard-friendly: … Continue reading
Continuing with my discussion of character development, I’d like to discuss those lesser characters … you know, the folks who drop by now and then to say howdy, only to leave a package of misery for your main character to … Continue reading
I’ve talked recently of character development and how their development processed through my first two novels. Naively, the structure of the characters in those works came easily; they simply presented themselves within the framework of this writer’s vivid imagination. I’m … Continue reading
I recently had dinner with friends who wanted to know how I make up characters in my writing. I don’t remember the more-than-likely lame answer I gave them about making fictional composites of people and personalities … blah, blah, blah. … Continue reading
I’ll never forget the day I trotted out the first pages of my story, All the Dancing Birds, only to be met with howls of disbelief from my writer’s group. “Nice writing, Auburn, but the viewpoint is wrong.” “You can’t … Continue reading
Every day, there’s a question that rolls around under my skin, and makes me nearly crazy with its implications, its insinuations, its persistence. It’s a simple question – not much to it, really. This inquest contains only two words. Nevertheless, … Continue reading
My mother grew rhubarb in her Portland garden; she planted it on mounds of dirt along the fence where it she said it got the most sun. Now and then during the summer, she would pull on her gloves and … Continue reading