From time to time, I write a under a male pen name. I cannot tell you what the name is nor will I disclose what I've written, but it's been used across poetry, essays, and stories. Nobody--including my family--knows this about me, but I am telling you now.
Read moreI'm Speaking at AWP
It's an honor to be selected as a panelist for a discussion on how email, texting and digital writing hinder or help the creative process. We'll be presenting at AWP15 in Minneapolis.
Read moreResolve.
We'll all need more of it in the coming year. Bring candles.
The Scientist and the Empty Compass Case
More flash nonfiction and musings for you this week.
Read moreA Room of One's Own
A tour of where I write, contemplating a room of one's own, and the importance of dedicated creative space.
Read moreThe Privilege of Madness
What is the purpose of the mad narrator? When an author begins a story, he or she should never start with this question.
Instead, they should ask: How will a mad narrator show the reader an unique experience?
Read moreSchmidt's Desert Island Books
If you've watched The New Girl, you may enjoy Schmidt's list of desert island books.
Read moreThe Disappearing Act
This week, I'm on a writing retreat. You don't have to go too far to get a lot of writing done--you just need to create the time and space.
Read moreAnne Carson: You Can Never Know Enough
Anne Carson offers up some wisdom (as she does) for writers and artists.
Read moreLev Grossman: For a Reason
Lev Grossman, author of The Magicians, talks about the kind of fiction that makes him tick.
Read moreWhere Souls Reside
I am off for the weekend to finish two big writing projects, so instead of blabbing here, I'll let one of my favorite writers take over. Here is an excerpt from Jim Harrison's The English Major (a book I enjoy very much, and you should, too)...
"I pulled off the road and took a stroll up a hill in the Ochoco National Forest. I didn't recognize the type of pine I was walking through which were more sparsely needled than the pines of Michigan. Looking upward at their boughs I tripped and fell painfully forward on my chest, my head narrowly missing a large rock. For unclear reasons I began laughing though it was an uncomfortable laughter. I slowly rolled over feeling a sharp ache in my left-side ribs. When I was a kid out in the woods I'd wave my walking stick and say, "I'm the king of all I survey," doubtless got from a children's story. It was not exactly original to have exhausted one form of life and to try and turn to another. I had a sudden stroke of pure luck when a yellow and black-headed Scott's oriole landed in a branch of pine directly above my head. We didn't have this oriole back in Michigan but I was familiar with it from my third-grade Audubon cards. I stared up at this bird and it stared back down at me. Parts of life are truly beautiful I thought. Here I was flat on my back in an alien forest with an intermittent throb in my ribs and along comes a bird yellow as liquid sun to keep me company. My friend AD told me that in some primitive culture, I forget which, the souls of stillborn or aborted babies are thought to reside in birds. I wondered where Lola's (the dog) departed soul resided. She knew enough not to bother porcupines because when she was young she had gotten a few quills in her nose. However, she remained fascinated with them and would sit there under a tree and stare up at porcupines for hours. I discarded the porcupine as a home for Lola's soul and then decided the subject was beyond my ken. Life is clueless in such matters."
10 Places to Write Outside Your Office
Need to get the heck out of your office (or corner of your bedroom)? Here are ten places you can go to jumpstart your imagination.
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