Monthly Archives: May 2010

Book Review: Love and Other Near-Death Experiences

Love and Other Near-Death Experiences by Mil Millington

I rather like the premise of this book. It’s not the big things in life that you should worry the most about. The big things, you can generally see those coming and can make a rational decision about them. No, it’s the little ones. The little ones matter the most, because you never know which of them is actually going to work out to change your life.

Rob bought some towels. They were cheap, bad towels. And he only bought them because a bunch of guys got in line at the hotdog stand just moments before he got there. If he hadn’t bought the towels, his girlfriend wouldn’t have made him return them, and if he hadn’t had to return them, then he’d have died in a horrible accident.  It was this one incident which sent Rob slightly off the edge; he’s about to get married but can no longer make simple decisions.

Chapter six, in its entirety:

The next day Jo [his girlfriend] came into the bathroom while I was standing there about to have a shower. Or about to have a bath. I’d been standing there for a little over an hour and a quarter.

Rob is a late-night jazz radio host, until one day he just loses it; he starts talking about the accident that nearly was, and all the emotions that are locked up with that. After nearly firing him, his producer decides to let him do a call-in show, rather than jazz. It leads to him meeting a bunch of other people who only escaped death through some inconsequential action, and the reveal of a grand conspiracy to kill off those who do survive. Rob goes on the run to figure out who’s behind it, along with a suicidal English teacher and a gung-ho American soldier.

The plot works, but it’s the style that I like the most about this book. It’s written almost conversationally; not every book that I’ve read has been able to pull that off very well, but this is one of them. At times, it feels like Rob and I are sitting in a bar and he’s telling me about the weirdest thing that ever happened to him.

It’s also peppered with great lines. Some examples.

“Please don’t bugger me,” I said…We were both a little stymied. I’d asked not to be sodomized, and he’d agreed to that request…it was no longer clear whether it was the done thing to move right on to his savagely murdering me, or whether we ought to have a chat about what we’d each last seen at the cinema first.

I wasn’t so hot for the ending. It came as somewhat of a disappointment to me, given the set-up. It felt almost like the author reached the 2/3 mark and suddenly wasn’t sure quite how to wrap things up. The ending felt slapped on and contrived. The very end was good (the last five pages), but the resolution to the conflict wasn’t.

Nonetheless, if only for the humor in it and the fact that if you start reading it in the evening, you’ll not get to bed until three in the morning because you want to read just one more chapter, I recommend it.

Rating: 4/5


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Deepest Apologies

I know there haven’t been any posts this week.

I got the Cold of Doom from my brother and am only just properly recovered from it. I don’t have the mental fortitude to write a post right now; I’ve not written anything at all since the 21st.

Next week there will be posts. A book review, May writing results,  my unwanted commentary on Avatar, and June goals. All that and I have a job interview on Wednesday, which means I get to take the train up to New York for the day. (Fingers crossed for me, everyone – if I get the job, I won’t have a choice but to move out of the house!)


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The Grown-Up List

(I’m afraid this is another post of me having a whine, so feel free to skip it if you’re here for my cunningly insightful gems on writing and what books you should be reading. As with last week’s late end-of-week post, we’ll go back to regular programming on Monday.)

At the ripe old age of 22, I’ve come to realize something. More than whether or not you can pass for a certain age (which I can’t), I feel like there’s a hidden list of requirements to be properly considered an adult. Now that I am out of school, I feel like I should be knocking them off one by one, until I can legitimately count myself as a grown-up.

Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe I’m too young to actually know what being a grown-up is actually about (and let’s face it, this one seems more likely, even to me).

I think I have stumbled onto some items of the Grown-Up Check-List, though, and I have to say that I’m not feeling all that optimistic.

1. Ability to Drive

This one seems like it’s basically an adolescent requirement, but I only just renewed my permit and, living in the ‘burbs, am functionally stuck in the house unless I can beg for a ride. Because I don’t particularly enjoy doing this, and am a morose, sociopathic loner on the whole anyway, this means that I pretty much stay holed up inside. I’m fairly sure that that, in and of itself, is a symptom of being un-grown-up-like.

2. Ability to be Employed

I know, I know. The job market sucks. Sucked since I graduated, just over a year ago. I don’t want to think about how many jobs I’ve applied to. Now I’m starting to apply to grocery stores, CVSs, maybe even restaurants if I can get the nerve up to actually ask for an application in person. I recently was rejected by a local grocery store for a position as a night stocker. At least they were kind enough to send a rejection.

Anyway, I’m starting to think that I might not have Marketable Skills. In fact, I’m growing ever more certain of it.

3. Ability to Live Independently

I know, I know. Save having a job, or being independently wealthy, this is not something that one can just do because they feel like it. But there’s a real measure of grown-up-itude that comes from having to pay bills and buy groceries and generally fend for yourself in the world. Not that I enjoyed paying bills in my apartment, but it made me feel more adult to do so.

In my paranoid delusions, these seem like three of the top-most items on the grown-up list. If we’re using this as the test, then I basically fail at grown-up.

I know. I wrote this post with the intention of me failing. I’m sure there are plenty of grown-up skills that I could pretend to have. And I’m sure there are plenty of adults who get by fine without a car, or without a job, or without an independent means of living. I could probably do one or two of those myself and still call myself an adult.

I just feel like I’m getting younger and younger, living at home.

(This is not the way shit was s’posed to happen, man)


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10 Easy Steps to Being a Famous Published Author

Well, this post is dedicated to IR Serious, who seems to think that I’ve become “quiet and reserved” since November.

So, I present to you, Kate’s Method:

1. Type

No, I didn’t say write. I said type. Everyone wants to know how I write ten thousand words in a day, and still have both hands attached at the wrist. There are two answers to how I do it. The first is that I hand-wrote a 300,000 word novel when I was younger. Before that, I had hunt-and-peck typing skills at best. Type up three hundred thousand words, without thinking about content, without thinking about whether something worked or didn’t (and I really was too young to understand what did and didn’t work at that point), focusing only on getting it done as quickly as possible, and I’m now an excellent touch-typist. I don’t think that I use exactly the prescribed technique, but it’s probably close, and certainly works for me. It’s building in the muscle-memory of where all the keys are.

That’s the first part of it, and just like the second, it cannot be acquired without time and effort. The second is partly acquired through the first: strengthening the muscles of the hand and wrist, else you’ll do yourself a serious injury. There are tons of wrist exercises on the interwebz, plus taking regular breaks, and heating-icing during periods of particularly strenuous writing. I still go through it.  First week of every November, I feel like my hands are going to fall off. By November 30th, the most I get is twitchy, not sore.

2. Write

Okay, so now you’ve found something to type up. You’ve typed it up and now you’re a super-typer. Fabulous. Now you need to actually produce. Write every day. Every single one of them. That goes to the advice in the link in that post down there. You’re not a writer unless you write, and you’re never going to be published unless you actually have something, y’know, written. Seems kind of obvious, but the people who say ‘oh, I’ve got this great idea for a novel’ or ‘one day, when I have the time, I’m going to write a novel’ never actually do.

3. Be Dumb

You know that stupid idea you had? Yeah, I’m looking at you. The one you had at 3 in the morning, or when you woke up from that weird-ass dream you had the other night. Or even the thought that drifted through your mind as you were going through your day. The one that was too dumb to entertain? Go ahead and write it anyway.  I won’t say the only dumb story is the one that isn’t written, because I’m sure there are plenty of dumb stories that really, really don’t need to be written – but you’ll never know if it is or not if you don’t write it. You’re never going to get that great idea just by sitting around and hoping for inspiration to strike you. There is no such thing as a muse to kiss your fevered brow and deliver to you on a silver platter a plot and characters and the next Nobel Prize for literature. Write the smart stuff too, but don’t be afraid to write the dumb stuff. You don’t have to show it to anyone, if you don’t want to, but write it. It’ll only make you stronger.

4. Oh yeah, grammer and spellins and stuff

People assume that when I’m on one of those aforementioned writing sprees, that I probably don’t pay the slightest mind to spelling or grammar. I disagree; I hate those stupid red lines in word, and will never leave an intentional typo. Yes, sometimes I miss an occasional letter which transforms the word into another word so spellchecker misses it, but I’d be willing to bet that I don’t do it any more often than someone who’s typing more slowly. I appear to have fallen in love with dangling participles (as it has been recently pointed out to me), but I think that’s more that I only know grammar by feel and not by actual rote learning (something which I probably should rectify, to be honest).

My point here is – just because it’s a first draft, don’t throw spelling and grammar out the window. Mistakes are fine; no one expects anyone to be perfect, but every mistake you don’t fix at first is a mistake you’re going to have to fix later. Get it out of the way while it’s fresh on your mind.

5. Prioritize

This goes along with step 2. I know that most people have families and jobs and pets and friends and bowling leagues and PTA meetings and, you know, a hundred other things which threaten to rob every second of every day. And let’s be honest, no reasonable individual would ask you to give those up. But stop and think really, really hard for a moment. Are you really sure that there’s not twenty minutes anywhere in your day where you aren’t doing something? Are you sure that you need to watch 2 hours of sportscenter, instead of an hour and a half? Do you really need to play that extra game of freecell or spend those twenty minutes surfing the web? That’s not to say that you don’t get down-time. Everyone needs it. But if you can’t find even a few minutes to squeeze writing in, then you’re just never going to make it, because you’re never going to produce anything, and that’s sorta the point. Figure out what your priorities are, figure out what your have-tos are, what your should-dos and your I’d-like-tos, and then see where there’s a gap in there. Stick writing in.

6. Goals

Goals make us feel like we’re accomplishing something. Rome wasn’t built in a day; neither was a novel. Somewhere at the beginning of the middle, it starts to look like the end will never come. Everything starts to lag, and there are suddenly new projects that occur to you which are shiny and new and don’t have these annoying plot holes or characters who aren’t moving the plot along as well as you thought they should. So start setting goals. For me, the present goal is 2800 words a day (which doesn’t sound like it should be that hard for me, but surprisingly is). Your goal can be whatever you want. A hundred words a day; a scene a day; a chapter a day; a my-god-I’m-going-to-get-this-character-from-A-to-B-tomorrow goal. Because no matter how small the goal, you’ll feel better once you’ve hit it. You’ll feel like you actually got something done. Even if it was only getting Bob onto a bus.

7. Rewards

This one’s pretty logical, but I needed a sixth step. (9 Easy Steps just doesn’t have the same ring to it.) Rewards make people feel good. They’ll even make you feel good. They don’t have to be giant rewards. It can be something as simple as ‘write another 100 words and you can browse the web for 10 minutes’ (I’ve been using that one lately). It can be something bigger: “I’ll get that new playstation game if I can just finish this draft”. But a goal-and-reward system will get you through the days when even looking at the document seems too much of a struggle.

Stop. Go back, repeat steps one through seven, until you have a completed first draft. Only then should you continue.

8. Edit

This one also seems pretty logical, but sometimes it’s harder to do than it is to think about. I know that I always want to believe every word I write is awesome and will never need any changes. I want to believe it, though I know it’s not true. I make mistakes. In my WIP, one town abruptly changes its name from Newburg to Newtown because I couldn’t remember which I’d called it before and couldn’t be bothered to go back and look. And by the end, it’s Newburg again, for exactly the same reason.

This one also takes a long time. Times when you stare at a sentence and know there’s something wrong with it, but you don’t know what and can’t fix it. Times when you know that the third chapter is really the fifth chapter, but there’s no good way to integrate it into its proper place without rewriting chapters one, two, and seven. Times when the whole damn thing seems like it would be better suited in a burning fireplace than sitting on your computer. Those are the times when you step away and go play ball with your kid. Go for a run. Watch a really bad movie on late-night TV. Then come back, and try again. Repeat as necessary.

But don’t repeat forever. It’s never going to be perfect. There are never not going to be changes that could be made. Maybe they’d make it better. Maybe not. Write it until you’re proud of it, until it tells the story it was meant to tell and is as smoothly written as a book you’d pick up off a shelf. You might still cringe at the sight of it, but that’s only because you can see the stupid shitty flaws that no other normal human being would.

9. Don’t be dumb

Okay. So we’ve now got a shiny, polished novel. Sweet.  By this point, you should probably have already written a query letter and a synopsis. As I’m still incapable of doing either of those things, it’s a dumb idea for me to give advice on them. There are lots of better places where you can find advice on that – I recommend google.

Speaking of that, now you need to figure out how to unleash this stellar piece of writing on the world. There are a bunch of ways of doing this. Self-publishing, small-press publishing, getting an agent, subbing to a big publishing house and hoping to get lucky, etc.

But don’t be dumb about it. Aim high. You’re proud of this thing you wrote, right? You put your time and sweat and mental energy into it, didn’t you? So do your research. This is one really, really bad time to be dumb. Don’t give someone money to be published – money flows to you, not the other way around.

And when you get rejected – by an agent or a publisher – as you almost certainly will, it’s okay to be sad. But don’t let it mean defeat. After ten rejections, it’s okay to be sad. If you’re getting form rejections, it might just be that you still have a sucky query. If they’re detailed, critique-y rejects, think about what’s being said and decide if things need to change in your story. It’s okay to admit that you were wrong and that someone else might be able to see the flaws.

Eventually, you’ll find an agent or a publisher; someone who is as much in love with the book as you are. Someone who will get it onto the shelves and get a nice check into your bank account. Then that day will come when you walk into a bookstore, walk down the aisles, and There It Is. Your Book. Right Next To All Those Other Books.

10. Rinse and repeat

Oh yeah. You’re going to have to do it all over again. Books don’t write themselves, you know.

Fine print: This method has not actually been tested all the way through, and so your results may vary. These steps will not guarantee that you become a Famous Published Author, or that you will even become a published author at all. See Ruminative Rant below to see just how full of shit I am.

(By the way, blogger says that this post is just shy of 2000 words, and was written in a bit under an hour, if we’re still keeping score. Are we?)


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Book Review: Frindle

The book on offer today isn’t SFF. It’s not even adult literature. It’s Frindle, by Andrew Clements.

I knew I wanted to be a writer since I was a little kid, but beyond that, I always loved books. They’ve been passed down in my family. My little brother (now nearly 15) has a bookcase in his room that is populated almost entirely by mine and my sister’s childhood books. In the basement, there are at least three boxes I know of with children’s books, up through YA. I have some of them still on my bookcases in my room (of which there are three). Most prominently are the children’s classics book series I got (about a dozen books) when I was real, real young. Things like The Secret Garden and Alice in Wonderland and Tom Sawyer. Anyway, my point is that my interest in books came when I was very young, and fairly recently, I’ve gone back through some of those books. Just for fun, to spark old memories, that sort of thing.

I came across Frindle. I’m not sure whether it was my sister’s book or mine (we’re only 2 years apart, so it’s possible either way).

This is the sort of book that I would recommend to every child. To every young adult. And to every adult who wanted to remember what it’s like to be a kid again.

The premise is pretty basic. Nick Allen enters the fifth grade, where he meets a seemingly dictatorial teacher who has a love for the dictionary and the written word. One day, he asks why a word becomes a word, and Mrs. Granger tells him that words are what they are because people decide that’s what they mean, he takes the idea and runs with it. With a small group of friends, he decides to rename the word ‘pen’ as ‘frindle’. Why? Because if that’s what they choose to call it, then why isn’t it a word?

The one thing that struck me about this book is the love of words in it. Mrs. Granger makes a worthy adversary in her defense of pen and it’s noble Latin heritage; Nick makes an equally passionate case for “well, someone had to make up the Latin word, once upon a time, didn’t they?”.

This is a book about one boy, with a mind of his own and a desire to test the boundaries of his world. It’s simple enough for a child to understand (it was published in 1996, when I was 7/8); it’s moving enough for a young adult of 22 to still get tears in her eyes when she gets to the end. If any writer, any reader, ever has the feeling that they’re falling out of love with the written word – this is the book to read. The book that will reanimate your passion for writing and reading and maybe even make you remember what it was like to be a kid again, when the whole world was open and nothing was impossible.

I will be keeping this book. Should I ever have children, they will read this book. Failing that, I’ll make sure my nieces/nephews get a copy. I don’t care that it’s nearly 15 years old; there is a timeless quality to this book that will make it just as valuable a read in 1996 as in 2026.

Even if you don’t have kids, or don’t read kid lit, this one’s worth the trouble.

Rating: 5/5

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Department of Motor Vehicles

Dear Lurky Readers,

Today is storytime.

This story is called Kate Renews Her Permit at the DMV.

As mentioned elsewhere, Kate never learned to drive when she was 16. I got a permit about a month after my 16th birthday, and happily let it expire without going out driving more than once or twice. By the time I was ready to graduate college, I realized that it was probably a good idea to get one again. So I got another medical exam, passed the permit test again, and got my new permit. Last March. They’re good for a year, so mine expired a couple of months ago.

Fortunately, there’s a provision that you can renew your permit as long as it’s not been more than 3 years since your medical exam (the form actually reads that you must pass your Road Exam within 3 years).  “Great,” says Kate to herself. “I can just fill out this stupid form, beg the parent to drive me to the local DMV, and get it done with.” I print out the form and fill out the half-dozen boxes that apply. (No, my eye color hasn’t changed, for the record).

The DMV is about 35-40 minutes from where we live, and the parent’s car is hot and old and generally unpleasant. None of this particularly well disposes me for dealing with bullshit when I get there.

I don’t know what DMVs are like throughout the rest of the state, or the country, but at the one I go to, before you can take a ticket and sit down to be served, you have to go through a front desk. I step up to the front desk, with my form, my check and my wallet (within are important pieces of ID like my social security card and my green card).

Mr. Wispy (for his beard, as I don’t know his name) asks me what I’m here for. I tell him.

“Do you have your passport? Birth certificate? Two proofs of address?”

“What? The form only says I need this form and a check.”

“What about a PA ID card?”

“Uh…no. Here are my green card and social security card. Are they good enough?”

“No. You still need  a birth certificate and passport. What about proof of address? ”

I glance at my mother. “Well…uh…I live at home. So I don’t get the bills.”

“Payment slips?”

“I…uh…don’t have a job.”

“W2?” [tax form]

“Did I mention I don’t have a job? No income.”

“A doctor’s note?”

“I haven’t been to the doctor’s in a while.” (Because, uh, I’m uninsured)

“So you don’t have anything?”

I think frantically. “Uh…what about bank statements?”

“That’s great.”

“But I only have the one bank account.”

Mr. Wispy looks at my mom. “Well, if she brings a proof of address and is willing to sign an affidavit that you live there, that’ll be good enough.”


We leave. I am in a really, really, really bad mood right now. And when you piss me off enough, I get upset – tears in my eyes upset. There is nothing I want more than to throw shit back in this guy’s face, so we drive the 35 minutes back home.

I get a folder. In it, I put my passport, a recent-ish bank statement, and then scour through the mail for anything that might have been addressed to me. I find a statement from my old (really old) savings account that’s only a few months old. That goes in the folder. My mom finds my long and short-form birth certificates. In they go. Then she finds a couple of utility bills just in case. But, oh wait. My dad pays the bills, so her name isn’t on them. Given the kind of mood we were in, and the annoying ridiculousness of the situation, we throw in my parent’s marriage certificate as well. We drive back. Another 35 minutes. By now, we’re less annoyed and more amused at the situation, but I am still more than ready to throw a total bitch-fest. I am an intelligent, articulate person who does not deserve to be fked around by a bureaucrat who looked like he actually enjoyed turning me away and seeing me flustered.

We get back there. Mr. Wispy is still there. I step up to the counter, a smile on my face.

“Oh, back?”


“What was it you didn’t have last time?”

I put the folder on the counter. “Tell me the things that you need me to have, and I’ll get them out.”

“Was it your social?”


“Oh, your green card.”

Nope.” Both are now out of my wallet and on the counter. “I showed you both of those last time.”

“Then your passport or birth certificate.”

I smile. “Which do you want? Here’s my passport.” I take it out. “And my short-form birth certificate. And here’s my long-form.”

“Proof of address.”

I pull a couple of envelopes out of the folder.

He doesn’t even look at them. “Good, good. Now, what did you say you were here for?”

Renewal of my permit.”

He prints out a ticket. “Go and sit over there and wait for your number to be called. And just breathe.” He grins.
“And not fire.”

Obviously, he didn’t miss my mood. Good.

I gather everything back up and stuff it in the folder to go sit down. Fortunately, we’re only waiting 15 minutes or so before my number is called and I go to Mr Sallow. My spine is steeled now, and I am more than prepared to bring out my final weapon (weeping like a little girl; it works on men more often than it really should).

“What are you here for?”

As he’s done nothing wrong, I’m perfectly happy to be polite. “Renew my permit.” I take out the form and give it to him, and then begin to ruffle through the hundred other things I’ve got with me.

“Just need your green card and social,” he says.

Just my green card.

And my social security card.

Which I had the first time.

I never had to prove my address. I never had to show my birth certificate. Or my passport, for that matter.

We were in and out that second time in half an hour.  But that’s not the point. We should have been in and out the first time in half an hour.

Before, we’d decided that Mr. Wispy was, while annoying and officious, merely trying to streamline the process by making sure that everyone had the proper documents, and saving everyone extraneous time and hassle. By the time we were driving home the second time, we had come to another conclusion: Mr. Wispy just has no idea what’s needed for any of the myriad services that the DMV offers, and so simply demands to see every imaginable thing before granting us the Holy Ticket. That’s worse; an arrogant idiot who is in a position of power over me, over all the patrons of the DMV, and who can allow us in or not, not because of the service we require, but based on our possession of documents that we simply do not need.

Mr. Wispy is not on my list of favorite people in the world right now. He had no reason to refuse us the first time, and cost us an extra hour and a half of driving and waiting time, when we really did have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.

Anyway, to close this story, I present to you the list of other documentation that my mother and I came up with to prove your address and your identity. I think that the DMV should really look into adopting some of them.

Proving You are Who You Say You Are and You Live Where You Say You Live

the DMV version

1. Take the man back to the house and showing him the bedroom you sleep in.

2. Get sworn affidavits from all the neighbors that you live there.

3. Swear away your firstborn if you lied.

4. Sign the following form

I, the undersigned, do so swear in blood that the form I have signed is accurate

5. Do a dance and song before everyone in the DMV to prove just how sincere (and desperate you are).

But, seriously.

My green card has my picture on it, my INS number, and my address. There is nothing on either my birth certificate or passport that is not included on my green card. The renewal form asked if I wanted to keep the same address on my permit or not. If I was changing it, sure, I accept I’d need to prove I now live somewhere different.

I feel thoroughly jerked around today.

I understand that it is a privilege and not a right to be able to drive. I really do get it.  But for all that, the DMV is there to service the people who have various needs. The top of the paper I got with my permit attached reads “Congratulations on receiving your Pennsylvania Learner’s Permit. You, our customer are important to us.”

The customer.

I am the customer.

If there was a satisfaction survey that I could have filled out on my way out, I certainly would have.

This, dear lurkers, has been storytime.

Join me again on Monday for a return to our regular programming.


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Why I Don’t Know Anything (ruminative rant)

First, I’m a 22-year old chick, unemployed and living with her parents. I’ve got very little life experience worth mentioning, and the stuff that might be worth mentioning is just plain boring. Who else can’t tell you what it’s like to grow up as the oldest child in a family of three, or what it’s like to come to America (and not even from somewhere exotic, but from the UK)? Sure, I can spout my wisdom from all of my lofty years, but good god, what’s it worth to anyone?  At best, everyone smiles politely and moves on; at worst, I look like a faux-know-it-all teenager (and given that I look like one, it’s really not an image I’m keen to foster).

Sure, I could talk about the stuff I think I know about writing, but really? Do I actually know all that much? As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve never read a book on how to write and anything I’ve written since I learned what the alphabet was has been me trying to figure out what does and doesn’t work. I’ve heard a few favorable comments about stuff I’ve written, and I won that contest up there, but that does that make me an authority to talk about anything? I’m not published, I’m not agented. Even if that day does come, who’s to say that my what-works is going to work for anyone else? Hell, I’m not sure what works for me.

I even feel a little bad about writing the book reviews. Sure, I know what I like, and I can occasionally articulate what I mean, but is my opinion worth anything? I mean, yes. As a consumer, my opinion is worth something. But as a book-lover, can I adequately express myself to other book-lovers in a way that will either make them want to or not want to buy the book that I’m going on about?

The only time I really felt comfortable doing this blog, was during NaNoWriMo. I was doing something interesting, I was doing something on the stupid side of extreme, and it was fun to talk about it and to be part of a community. Since then, the main reason that my blog has been sporadic is a) there’s not even been anything interesting to talk about in my personal life and b) all the above reasons about me putting out writing advice.

Since I started trying to do this three times a week, it’s forcing me to think more about the process of writing. I don’t like talking about things that I’m not 100% sure about, even if it’s just to internet strangers who have never and probably won’t ever meet me in person. It’s not because I don’t like criticism, it’s that I hate being shown how I’m categorically wrong about something (thus proving that I should never have tried to talk about it in the first place). Maybe this is just me exposing my insecurities to the world.

In any case, I’ll close this little self-indulgent blog with an excellent link that’s fairly relevant. It’s also about how to write!

Everything There Is To Know About Writing

Peace out, lurkers.


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