You closed your laptop and turned your back on writing. Over the weeks, months, years, you worked through churning emotions. Powerful things, those emotions. I won’t call them bad. Nor are they good. They just are. They’re with you, sometimes they even feel they are you, and sometimes they act like a bad friend whispering lies—that you are the sum of your feelings. You long for peace. What’s better than walking on a cool fall day wrapped in a comfortable sweeter, the

You’ve been writing your first work like a crazy woman or a madman, and suddenly, you wonder what happens next. Doubt in your writing is like cruising your bike along a trail and someone shoving an iron rod through the spokes. Or thinking the earth is a giant Peanut M&M and you dig a hole through the candy shell and chocolate layer to arrive at the center of the earth and find a giant, overcooked chickpea. You’re thrown off-track, and things aren’t quite like what you’d tho

We want more from ourselves. I mash the remote to watch someone make chocolate cake with chocolate chunks, chocolate frosting, and chocolate candles. I’m on the couch and reach for the Peanut M&Ms on the coffee table. I drop the remote. Argh. I lean over and pick it up and set it on the armrest. Thankfully, I didn’t have to drop the raised footrest. I refocus on the food connoisseur, who is taking the time to choose chocolate either from Ecuador or Côte d'Ivoire. I admire

We like to think writing is a solitary, confined activity. However, with a toddler on one arm, someone talking in another ear, and a Cheshire cat on the keyboard tapping 45,835 pages of the letter ‘M,’ writing is hectic. And then the teamwork begins. Growing up, I was a runner. I loved the solitude of jogging South Dakota’s endless country roads, sometimes 10 or 15 miles. A skinny kid with speed, I did okay zooming past strong farmer boys in cross country and track. My

If you were to make a hierarchy of important things in a person’s life, where would you put writing a life-changing novel compared to watching the telly? Hovering with wings on one shoulder, dressed in white and wearing a golden circlet, a figure whispers, “Be the change you want to make happen. Write the book for your fellow man.” On the other shoulder, clad in red and black and emitting an alarming heat signature, a tiny demon says, “Don’t underestimate how tired you are th

The ground around us rumbled as his anger shook the building. “It’s all against us.” He bemoaned so loudly, people at the writer’s conference dove under tables and ducked under sturdy door frames. “I don’t understand.” I gripped a nearby support beam. “Only romance is published!” “Ah.” I rubbed my ruptured eardrum. “You write action, lots of violence. Right?” He told me about the attack jet F-15’s new forward cannon that fired silver bullets to tear demons to shreds.

I labored to create a writing career. As I climbed the ladder of writing success, the view above was surprisingly uninspiring—someone’s backside. I let go of the rungs and found another ladder. After climbing a few steps, I found another posterior—different, but still another fleshy part a person uses to sit. Hmmm. I tried an author's ladder whom I admire, and while I climbed rather high, the view before reaching my dream was still the same—the tail end of another wri

I’m typing this blog with one hand. Because of an incident. The incident involved a 41-year-old active male, a city-league softball game, a pop fly to left field, a mitt on a left hand, a fence to mark the boundaries of a homerun, a leftfielder with a tendency to forget fence locations, and a glove bouncing off the hand. The story also includes a pinky, a rush to the emergency room, a specialist, surgery, and finally, a writer typing with one working hand. For least five

I danced around the diners at the college cafeteria and spotted my target. She was cute. And I wanted to ask her to the skate party. Her eyes widened an inch and her foot moved toward me as I approached. “Hey,” I said. “Hello,” she answered, her voice sultry. I’d repeated the words in my head one dozen times, but here’s how they came out. “Are you going to the skating party?” “No,” she said. She set a hand on the table, opening her posture. “Oh.” My arms pulled in tight again

You have an idea. A thought that thrills. You want to write a book. Give up the dream of being a published author. Let go the hopes of notoriety, of money, of telling highbrow conferences you’re already booked. Forget that you ever wanted to be popular. But you use those petty desires to start your novel. You call on your imagination to piece together sounds which form words to convey ideas from your consciousness. You heed advice and write a blog. Another human being underst