What Are You Writing?

    what are you writing

    What are you working on right now?

    Please share YOUR writing with us here at WTD.

    So what are you writing?

    A novel? A blog post? Your best article ever? A poem? A film script?

    Maybe you’ve just finished something you’re really proud of?

    Or you just can’t tell whether it should get a Pulitzer or be thrown into the trash?

    Here’s your chance to share and discuss with each other what you’re writing about.

    Whet our appetite with the opening paragraph of your future bestseller or give us a link to your best article.

    Tell us: what are you writing at the moment?

    Who knows, your piece might even attract the notice of a major publishing house!

    Here are some guidelines:

    Writers: Share Your Writing

    Tell us what aspect you’re working on. Or give us the link to an article or give us a snippet of fiction. I’d love to know what your challenges and joys are!

    Commenters:

    * When commenting, first list everything you really like about a piece.
    * Only then offer careful suggestions.
    * Treat each other with respect, friendliness, caring, and honesty.
    * Remember that we are all still learning.

    Now it’s over to you. Take a deep breath. Then jump into the comment section and bring out your treasures!

    About the author:

    Mary Jaksch is Editor-in-Chief at Write to Done. Grab her FREE report, How to Write Like an A-List Blogger. Mary has helped thousands of students successfully create profitable blogs at A-List Blogging, and is the blogger behind Goodlife ZEN.

    About the author

      Mary Jaksch

      Mary Jaksch is best known for her exceptional training for writers at WritetoDone.com. Grab a copy of her free report, How to Create an Irresistible Lead Magnet in Less Than 5 Hours. In her “spare” time, Mary’s also the brains behind AlistBlogging.net. and GoodlifeZEN.com, a Zen Master, a mother, and a 5th Degree Black Belt.

    • kimberly carel says:

      The most recent, a poem for my daughter on her birthday. I love to write but I don’t believe I have the ability to call myself a great or good writer, like those I have read on here. But here it goes:
      For Asia Bree
      Once upon a time..
      A woman,
      now a mother,
      had a daughter-
      her first born.
      without a doubt, adored.
      crystal, ice-blue eyes,
      like a perfect summer southern sky.
      dark, silk-like locks of hair,
      skin of porcelain, so fair.
      innocent and delicate-
      even elegant,
      her personality.
      no one quite as shy as she.
      her mother held her close-
      shielding of all might hurt the most.
      teaching all she believed and knew,
      to be strong and faithfully true.
      with every year passing-
      such joy and pride forever lasting-
      a bond unique of anything compared,
      a mother, her daughter eternally share.
      and now a mothers face touched of tears,
      as the passing of years-
      flying by within a blink of an eye-
      and standing now before her a magnificent sight.
      ready to find her way,
      greeting her world each new day.
      a mother tightly loosens her grip,
      as her daughters’ hand -across and pass her fingertips-
      hiding a quivering lip.
      a mother, am I
      her daughter, “Asia”-baby of mine!

      grateful, prayer gifted the perfect answer- thank you for reading
      written by Kimberly A Carel 04-18-16.

    • Joshua says:

      Dear Help,

      My name is Joshua, I apologize if this may seem informal but I’m a disabled writer with interest from a prominent literary agent in getting a publishing deal and hopefully the possibility of a lifetime movie for my first book which is approximately a 40,000-word count memoir. The complication I’m having is that my agent does not have the time or resources to help with a proposal and thorough editing. I am looking for a preferably published reputable author/editor who knows the business well and who also would be willing to work for sharing the royalties as I have no money to offer up front. I am eager to make the necessary changes to the manuscript to take it to the next level! Any advice or recommendations you can give on sources of editors/authors that would be willing to work with me will be greatly appreciated.

      Thank you sincerely, Joshua and Family

    • Hi all.
      I am trying to blog again.
      Wrote a little piece based on Steven Pressfield’s “The War of Art”.
      https://jcfoldings.wordpress.com/tag/writer/

      Hope you like it. ?

    • When ever i write something its grt bt when i read it again again i feeling what i am doing. How imporve my writing skills

    • SCO says:

      I started writing but have stopped and have not been able to regain momentum…..

    • McBEE says:

      I am currently working on a short story titled, SEEKING THE INNER SOUL. I’m not really sure if it’s good enough to publish but i would love to hear your comments regarding which category of novels it fits into. Fiction or non-fiction, fantasy or science fiction, etc… i need help, pleeeaaase!
      I’m still working around my blog trying to get the good impression that viewers want so any advice concerning my blog will be cherished.

    • Emi Ku says:

      Writing about How world changes everyday

    • amber says:

      I have been whiting this book for some time and don’t know if it is any good. but I am a beginner and I am willing to learn. here is a link to the story secrets of a lifetime. its a work in progress.

      https://www.wattpad.com/user/123Ambe

    • Jup says:

      I have a blog that talks about passion. Every now and then, I have the pleasure to interview folks who are pursuing their passion. Here is a recent interview –>

      • Jup Jup says:

        My blog talks about passion. Every now and then, I would interview people who are pursuing their passion.

        Here is the latest interview https://whereisjupjup.wordpress.com/2016/01/20/you-need-more-than-passion-meet-mary-yang

        Since the theme is about exploring our passion in our daily grinds, I started writing about things that we associate with every day, for example cars. Here’s the post -https://whereisjupjup.wordpress.com/2016/03/13/what-does-passion-have-to-do-with-cars

    • I just started a blog last week. The last post was on the fifteenth this month. I’m going to post more later. Here’s my blog: http://myjoyousfeature.wordpress.com

    • David Jenkins says:

      Hi, I’m just making some changes to my vampire film script and hope to send it off tomorrow.

    • sesan says:

      I just finished an interesting short book which i called How I Overcame Violent Anger. Its interesting because I described my personal experience with violent anger in this book. How it almost stopped my marriage. I listed more negative effects of this emotion on me and my family. The book also showed the simple things I began to do ro put violent anger under control in my life. I wrote an introductory article on this book at my blog at http://sesanoguntade.com/success-articles/violent-anger-control-techniques/

    • A.K. Zak says:

      I’m writing a neo-historical (post WWII to 2000) novel. Part love story, part suspense, lots of humor and pathos, strong characters and sense of place.

    • r grove says:

      Getting to his family was the only thought in his head as he gazed over the railing. It had taken forty-five minutes to cross the five blocks from headquarters.

      Black pungent smoke burned in his nose and throat. Mark rubbed his irritated eyes and backed away from the edge of the roof and away from the smoke rising from the street below.

      He had set off a flash-bang on top of an opened fuel tank of a tractor-trailer in the street. The sound of the explosion Drew the dead creatures away from the Santiago street entrance of the parking structure.

    • Hi everyone! I’ve loved reading through your posts. I just started my own blog – http://www.amarysplace.com/ looking for other avid readers who have strong opinions about what makes a good story into a great novel.

      I have a bad habit of starting a story only to get lost in the repetitive editing of what I’ve written instead of moving forward with the plot. I just learned a valuable lesson from my dog about living in the moment – versus getting mired in the expectation of what I think I should be seeing based on the past. http://www.amarysplace.com/?p=56

      I’m currently working on a sci-fi/love story mash-up and I’m hoping i can actually finish this one!
      In the year 2020, it takes just one man with financial power and the right connections to convince the government that he can safely and efficiently eradicate all illegal drugs in the United States. With the help of several pharmaceutical companies, and well-established under-cover DEA agents, RV2-8 is slowly and methodically introduced into mass scale quantities of cocaine, methamphetamine, marijuana, heroin, and MDMA. Over-land, maritime, and air contraband heavily laced with the mutated rabies virus flows easily into the hands of sellers, buyers, and users.
      News reports of violent deaths associated with drug use initially cause little concern among the general public. But as the incidences steadily increase, similar occurrences in multiple European countries make the local news, and the death tolls begin to include non-addicts, panic starts to erupt, and governmental officials begin to realize they no longer have control over the rapidly mutating virus.
      Amary Raynes has had a crappy year. Her perfect ten year marriage ended violently. She lost her family and friends. Literally. She lost her home and her beloved teaching job when her world fell apart. The men she’s met since have all been self-serving controlling Neanderthals who have effectively turned her off of males forever. Until she rescues him…
      Amary spends her days in the company of a little black dog aptly named Hero, and together they are managing to survive the harsh reality of her new life on the streets. With the help of Hero’s amazing nose, they avoid dangerous encounters with both humans and howlers alike. Although the howlers, people actively infected with the RV2-8 virus, now far outnumber the remaining humans, she was taught early on that her biggest threat comes in the form of other survivors. Content with her canine companionship, Amary avoids other people at all cost. Until she chooses to rescue him…
      One infected man may have the answer to this global catastrophe. He is one man among a small group of survivors determined to get him to a functional CBER before it’s too late. He feels the rage burning and he knows he’s living on borrowed time.
      Amary’s decision to face her fear and become involved with this little slice of humanity may just save the world, renew her faith in mankind, and bring her true love in the middle of the apocalypse.

    • Starting the outline of my next book, in which I will be modeling it with a speech of how our real estate and construction business survived during the recession. I also have a horror novel I’ve been working on for over a year that I write a page or two a month. It’s to bad work get into the way of fun…

    • christine Njihia says:

      Hi guys,
      Please check out my eBook ‘Walk with my Father’ on the link below
      http://www.wsicebooks.com/html/walk_with_my_father.html

    • Aaron R. says:

      I’m writing “The Epic of the Mundane,” which is an epic poem about a guy’s average day at work.

      • Aaron R. says:

        It’s actually a lot cooler than it sounds.

    • Eden Esmarosa says:

      (C)2015 KLovoy
      CHAPTER 1
      SEASON WITH A DASH OF PEPPER (FAMILY FICTION)
      CHAPTER ONE

      It is fresh into a new decade. Report cards in hand Eric and I walking on the sidewalk toward home. It’s the last day of the school year and summer vacation.

      “Did you pass Erin?” ask Eric as both of us carefully pinch the clasp on the report card envelopes to reveal the results.

      “Yes of course Eric I passed to the next grade. Which is all that matters to me.”

      “So did I. The teacher wrote a note by behavior, ‘ Eric is a class clown and ask a lot of questions.’ At-least my grades have come up since the beginning of the school year with all these ‘U’s’ in the first column. Now mostly ‘S’s’ and an ‘E plus’ in art . Mom said to make the teacher accountable and ask questions if I didn’t understand something because it is her job and why she is there.”

      “I got a note on my card also,under teacher comments,’ Erin is a good and quiet student but does not participate in class discussions.’ Well I’m glad the teacher notice I’m quiet. She would leave the room and stay gone for sometime and the whole class would get noisy. I sat there and continued with the English assignment and finished most of the book on the pastel notebook paper Grandpa bought me. There was another time she ask me to take names on the board while she was out of the class. I didn’t like that but I’m glad the class was quiet. I wonder who thought up this grading system? I have to look at the decoder above just to figure out where I score on grades.”

      In view even from the doors of the school there is a lot of action at the rental house where we lived for two years, located some miles outside the location of the base. It was a first to not have a long walk back and forth to a school. The moving truck in sight with ‘Mayflower’ and ship logo plastered on the sides and movers with dolly’s of boxes and furniture loading up. Mom and Grandma loading up the yellow Mercury station wagon for the trip; Grandpa’s next military duty station from Fort Worth Texas to a base in the panhandle of Florida.

      Eric and I are almost to the Stop sign curve to cross the street at the painted crosswalk. Grandpa in his dark blue Ford van towing a ‘ U-Haul’ pulls up,rolling windows down before the cross walk in his sarcastic joking tone,
      “You two want a ride home?” He is wearing his military uniform since he has been to the base taking care of processing out.

      A couple of boys walking fast upon and pass us. One boy speaks up,”Don’t y’all know not to accept a ride from a stranger.” and the other boy adds,”Yeah especially a ride in a van.”

      Eric replies, ” Don’t worry my Grandpa isn’t offering candy.”

      Grandpa hears the conversation, the boys already crossing the crosswalk, Grandpa in his bold voice with a smirk, “Hi Boys, I’m not a stranger just their strange Grandpa.”

      Eric responds to Grandpas’ question as he opens the side van door and jumps in, “Of course. Come on Erin! What timing Grandpa.” Eric calls out through the drivers side window behind Grandpa,”Bye Matt and Kyle.”

      Grandpa with his arm propped up and hand cuffing his left ear.”Yep, help Erin shut the door Eric. Hopefully the movers about have the place packed up and we can get the show on the road to Florida where your Aunt Myria and family also live. It will be a long trip and hopefully your Grandma didn’t over pack like she usually does. Maybe Elena discouraged and helped out with that.”

      “Grandpa, Mom already packed our stuff other day and managed to put mine and Eric’s clothes into one suitcase and we packed entertainment totes.”

      Grandpa with a mirrored reflection raise of an eye,” Entertainment totes you say. Well that sounds great,one suitcase for the two of you,hopefully that makes a big difference and Grandma doesn’t pack these two vehicles where no one can even move around in comfort. Why I went and rented this ‘U Haul’. Sure wouldn’t want to have to tie anyone or anything to the top of a vehicle.”

      Eric laughs and inquires, “Who is Aunt Myria?”
      Interrupting my vision of Grandpas’ comment of ‘ wouldn’t want to tie anyone….. to the top of the vehicle’,
      “Our Mom’s older sister.” I inform him.

      “Well does she have children? Where does she live? How far are we traveling? How long will this trip take?”

      Our Grandfather as he maneuvers parking interrupts Eric’s questions of excitement.

      “Yes Myria and Elena are my daughters and that makes your Mom and she sisters. Myria is married to Jody she met while he was in the service and they have two daughters in your elementary age group, Regina and Peyton. They live on the Gulf coast of Florida where your Uncle Jody grew up with lots of family. It’s a five hour trip from the next base we will be stationed at. The trip is going to be over twenty hours about three days is my plan for travel and stops.”

      Grandpa parks against the concrete curve of the street with the van slide door facing the house for the safety of us getting out and the convenience for loading.We all get out and Grandpa proceeds to greet the movers and talk to the mover with the clip board and roll of orange numbered stickers that is going on items and being documented. Mom approaches Eric and I before the van door is shut and tells us to leave the door open and to leave our stuff in the van for in fear that the movers will grab it and toss in a box. Eric comments, “Good thing I have a good report card.” One time when in kindergarten he hid his report card that included a long note from the teacher. Probably hoping it would be forgotten that it was report card day.

      Grandpa finishes his conversation with the mover apparently in authority and walks toward the van calling out,
      “Okay,troop gather around.” referring to our family with orders.”The supervisor says about thirty minutes and they are finished. So you kids figure who you are riding with and get what you are taking for the drive. Adults let’s get the vehicles and the ‘U-Haul’ packed.” Grandma had locked stuff in the garage to keep out of the movers hands. The movers have finished loading and lock down the moving truck door. Grandpa signs the clip board and shakes the guys’ hand.”Thanks guys,see you in a few weeks.” There goes the moving van with most of our belongings. Grandpa goes to his van and backs up the ‘U Haul’ into the garage driveway. When Grandpa has Grandma unlock the garage door his eyes grow large.

      “I hope you can get all this in the ‘U-Haul’ Francesca,if not it stays!”

      “Don’t worry Steve, I’ll make it fit. No telling how long before we get base housing and our belongings arrive.You’ll be glad that I thought about bringing necessity’s! ” Grandma responds smiling as if she enjoys the challenge and hands Grandpa some clothes to change into.

      Grandpa returns looking at all the stuff, shaking his head overwhelmed as Grandma takes his uniform he is carrying and places it on a hanger.Grandpa looking upwards with raised hands saying,”Why me.”
      “Here Steve,” Grandma hands him the uniform on a hanger to his raised hand.”Hang it up in the van.”

      Watching Grandpa emerge from the garage carrying his uniform to the van.
      “Look Erin, Grandpa is wearing his ‘Road Kill’ restaurant bright yellow tee shirt.”
      “Yeah the menu is on the back of the shirt and isn’t anything I would care to eat,Yuk!” I say with an ewe face.

      Eric shouts,”Grandpa, is that a real restaurant?”

      “Sure it is.”

      I ask Mom,” Is Grandpa joking with us about the tee shirt?”

      Mom replies,”I’m sure he is joking. Now Eric and Erin,you two need to check out the bathroom before we leave and the key is locked inside the house for the landlord.We won’t be stopping for awhile.”

      Our voices echo through the empty house and Eric continues,”One time Grandpa told me this story about living in Cambodia.He was at work and it was lunch time. A Taiwan man had a live big beetle on a string crawling on his shirt. The man took the big beetle and bit its’ head off and ate it whole.”

      “Well I’m not sure about the details but I recall the story about a beetle for lunch. I’ve heard that story on a few occasions and I usually cringe at the thought of eating some things. There are things in far away lands that we have never seen or heard about that are a cuisine.” Mom continues,”Okay Eric, Erin is finished so let’s get a move on,take care of your business.”

      Mom like a ‘mother bird’ that has built a nest in the station wagon, already has made the decision that Eric and I will be riding with her because she has our entertainment totes in the floorboard of the back seat and other items for our comfort. Eric has a box with a good collection of cassette tapes of music He is even bringing a table top player/recorder and some how has acquired Mom’s nice cushion headphones.Mom enjoys that Eric keeps the music going so we don’t have to listen to radio stations with commercials.

      There are cassette players in the vehicles also. We even have our walkies talkies. There are C.B.s in both vehicles with antennas on the roofs. Maps are also kept inside the glove compartment of the vehicles.

      The three of us walk to the dining kitchen area of the house and to the door that goes out to the garage to see Grandma giving orders to Grandpa to take a cooler she had packed of frozen food and for him to place it in the van.I can tell by his face that it must be really heavy. Eric follows Mom to the U Haul with a box labeled ‘kitchen’ and sits it down on the drive and catches up with Grandpa.

      Grandma hands me two coffee cans concealed inside each a roll of TP in a zip lock bag, She tells me to put one in each vehicle. I ask,” What are these for?” Her reply,” In-case one of ya kids needs to use the bathroom.” I thought to myself I hope it doesn’t come to that. Of course Eric asks me about the coffee can when I place the one in the van and I tell him what Grandma said. Both of us agree that we will make sure we go to facility’s each time a stop is made as to use a ‘Folgers Coffee’ can. Besides I have a shy bladder. Eric and I reassure each other that Mom will stop each time she sees a rest area sign. Eric says, “I really don’t have to worry about that since I’m a boy.”
      Grandma walking to the van with a few plants in hand and Grandpa is fussing at her about what all and how much more she has to pack.

      ” It’s almost all packed up,Steve!” responding as she places the plants and rearranges the rear of the van has also over heard Eric and I with the coffee can debate and comments, “Eric you best rethink that because lots of woods and terrain on this trip and that’s all you need to do is take a wiz on the side of the road and a snake get-ya.”

      “A snake!” Eric says in surprise of worry.Grandma with her just wait you’ll be glad I thought ahead and walks back toward the ‘U Haul’ and the garage for the last of items including some rose clippings I watched Mom place in a small garbage bag with damp paper towel the day before. She is determined to duplicate the pink rose bush that to my understanding is very sentimental since it was a gift from Eric’s and my father that started out as a bouquet. She has done it before since the evidence of her green thumb is to big to dig up and will remain planted at the rental house.

      Mom is in the ‘U-Haul’ shoving and making every nook and cranny count under Grandmas’ directions and guidance of expertise when it comes to packing.

      Grandpa piped up and says to Grandma, “Speaking of thinking ahead Francesca, that looks like everything, do a double check and load up.Let’s commence this on the road.Last call I’m locking the ‘U Haul’.”

      As Grandpa is locking the ‘U Haul’ Eric ask if he may do the C.B. radio check.
      Grandpa replies, “As soon as the last bag gets into the van,then Eric you can give me a shout on the C.B. You remember your handle and C.B. lingo?”

      “10-4 Blue Eagle.I’m going and get in Mom’s car,by the way what is the last bag?”
      “The last bag is known as your Grandma in C.B. lingo ‘ Better Half ‘ but I beg to differ.”

      Eric and I get in the Mercury wagon,and Eric takes the front passenger seat waiting with mic in hand. Grandpa is having chat with Mom through the drivers side window about the travel and stopping plans. Finally Grandma is walking toward the van. Grandpa acknowledges her with, “Are you ready?”

      Grandma replies as she opens the front van door and places her big heavy purse in the floor. “I will be as soon as I straighten the cab of the van and grab the children’ s report cards to look at on the ride out of the neighborhood.”

      ” Well if I’m in the drivers seat before you’re in the van I’ll leave without you.” Grandpa walks toward the van and shuts the side door also checking and making sure the back van door is secure as Grandma hoist herself into the passenger side ,”I’m ready Steve,come on let’s go!”she shuts the door.

      We were finally loaded and ready to go driving toward the highway.

      Grandpa speaks over the C.B.”Breaker Breaker for the Goose.”
      Eric responds,”This is the Goose,Coming in loud and proud Blue Eagle.”
      “10-4 Goose, Breaking the ole needle,Making our way out of cow town and headed for the bikini state ”
      “10-4 Blue Eagle signing off per the Mom-ma to play some jams.”

    • Terry Marchion says:

      I’m currently writing my first novella — science fiction for middle grade/teens . . . it’s been a process — I’ve completely re-written it twice now. I’ve learned so much about writing in the past month. I can’t wait to finish this thing and see what others think.

    • Annette Taylor says:

      I’m working on a short story and relearning how to write. I thought I was doing my best but apparently wasn’t. I have so many resources now I don’t which to use first. I have several ideas for novels and will try to write them if I can. Characterization, action, setting, and resolution are my weaknesses.

    • So far what I have been working on is my novels and putting up daily entries on my new blog website:themindofladylagoon.blogspot.com.I also plan to expand the Mind of Lady Lagoon by including short stories and little chapter reveals here and there of upcoming novels I’m working on currently.What you may read on my blog today,may be the NYT Bestseller Tomorrow!

      Great Blog Post.
      Vivere Una Vita Bella!
      Lady Lagoon

    • Is blogging same as writing, meaning “real” writing?

      Superior arguments have been built for and against the case of real writers as bloggers; arguments from each school of thoughts are carrying reasonable meaning to hold their ground. But with ground breaking arguments that bloggers are also real writers and greater counter-arguments are flowing thick and fast from the other side that real writers needn’t blog…the discourse is gaining its decisive direction.

      I write for the joy of writing and blogging has changed my way of thinking, I have stopped slogging…the links for the three intriguing post of mine are as follows;

      1) Write for the Joy of Writing – http://makeupandbreakup.com/just-write-for-the-joy-of-writing/

      2) How Blogging has changed my Thinking? – http://makeupandbreakup.com/how-blogging-has-changed-my-thinking/

      3) Stop Slogging & Start Blogging – http://makeupandbreakup.com/stop-slogging-start-blogging/

      So, what is the fundamental difference between both, if any and what the similarities between these two forms of expression are?

      Blogger is also a writer may not be a “real” writer but all writers not necessarily are blogger.

      Happy Blogging and Happy Writing!!!
      Breaking the Barriers and Making a Difference…

    • Salomon says:

      She is bisexual, and has to fight for acceptance throughout her life. She is an ‘over-the-top’ personality who people find hard to deal with. She is adored as much as she is abhorred.

    • I’ve been working on two projects, the manuscript for my first novel, and my author website and blog. I hope that you’ll feel warmly welcomed at jordyleigh.com. As for my novel manuscript, here is the first paragraph:

      A sudden sense that someone was standing behind her overwhelmed Louise in an instant. A hand came down on her left shoulder. A cold blade pressed against her throat, casting its chill down her spine. Her heart pounded in her chest and goosebumps scattered over her arms like marbles over frozen tiles.

    • Jo says:

      Hello,

      I’m in the process of finishing/editing the novel I’ve been writing on and off for thirty years. It’s a western, the theme of which is a novelised biographical story of my protagonist, a devastating, charismatic, beautiful tomboycowgirl/ outlaw/rancher/mayor. She is bisexual, and has to fight for acceptance throughout her life. She is an ‘over-the-top’ personality who people find hard to deal with. She is adored as much as she is abhorred.
      I’m looking for encouragement because I’ve found it hard over the years to bring this story to light, embarrassed as I was with the content of sex, bisexuality and violence. I’m now 62, have recovered from thirty years of depression/anxiety, and am on a quest to develop a kick ass life of creativity, including finishing my novel!
      I’m also looking for people to read parts of the story. I do have dedicated friends reading chapters as I send them, and they are extremely encouraging, but I feel the more the merrier. I would love to hear your opinion. Thankyou.

      Jo (UK)

    • Kim says:

      I’m about to start a blog of the most serious kind. Not just your dyi or quick tips or suggestions to achieve a goal.
      I want to blog and encourage others to follow along with their own stoiry of someone , particularly, a sibling who has passed to a violent crime. To help those of us who have an ongoing struggle to get on with their lives.
      Some would say it is too heavy of a topic but one that needs to be addressed.

    • Breezy Bre says:

      Hello, everyone. My name is BreezyBre. I’ve been writing for over 20 years, but I’m just now coming out of my shell and just beginning to share my writing with the world. I just started my own blog. I also just launched my author’s website. Not much on there as of now, but if you would like to see it go to http://breezewebsite.wordpress.com

      Here is a sample of my writing:

      You are trapped. There is no escape from the hell your life has become. You try to escape many times; only to suffer defeat and utter humiliation after each attempt. You have no control over your own life… Even the choices you thought you made of your own accord, end being devised by another. This is your own personal Hell, your so called life. After failing so many times, do you even have the strength to continue fighting what fate has obviously deemed the extent of your existence?

      There is only darkness left within you…. You have no light to guide your path. This fight is yours and yours alone. The battle for your life, your independence, your sanity. Coming out of the shell you have built up around yourself after your last failed attempt of escape, you find yourself staring into the eyes of your precious daughter… You see the disappointment etched across her sweet, innocent face. You see the hope that still lingers in her gaze that you will somehow return to her from the shell you are hiding within. How can you give up so easily with that face clearly begging you to wake up and take control of your life?

      You slowly, groggily, force yourself to sit up. She stares at you in wonder as you whisper her precious name… almost as if she never really expected you to whisper that word again. You wonder how long you have been out of it, and glance at the date on your phone. How can that be? You haven’t left this spot in days now. Sleeping without end. Nothing had awaken you; not hunger, the need to relive yourself, thirst, nothing. How had you been in bed so long? As the tears stream down your face and you lie back down, you watch as the shining hope fades from your daughter’s eyes and hate yourself even more… You fall back asleep as self-misery consumes you yet again…

      The next time you awaken, another day has passed. Your daughter is at school, and you notice you are alone in the house, for once… You start screaming: cursing the god you no longer believe in, the fate that you are destined to live, the cruelty your daughter is suffering, and worst of all, yourself for being such a failure. ‘Why can I not escape?’ you ask yourself. ‘Why can’t I just live my life how I want without someone controlling it? And why God, why can I not support myself without him? I can’t even support myself, much less my daughter!?! I’m a failure, and I want to die…. Just make me die!!!!’ you wail at the ceiling. Your husband enters the house and raises an eyebrow, seeing you out of bed. You flick him off, storm into the room, and hide under the covers once again. Damn him, for making you live like this…

      You lie in bed and pretend to sleep, but under the covers you replay the events of your life so far in your mind… How did it ever come to this? These are the events leading up until this point, as close as you can remember to the actual events….

      I also just finished my second interactive fiction novel. You can read it by viewing it here: http://chooseyourstory.com/story/Site_59_0x3a__No_Escape.aspx

      • Breezy Bre says:

        I forgot to add a link to my blog. You can view my blog by clicking here:

        http://justbreezingin.blogspot.com

        I have written some posts to help other writers, but this blog is mostly to share my writing with the world. I have posts discussing what I am currently writing, and I have shared many short stories. If this story caught your interest, please come read some of my other short stories. Thanks! Any support or feedback is much appreciated! Have a good day.

    • Glennis B says:

      My first novel, The Fortune Seekers, is currently being published, due out late April/ May.
      It’s a historical fiction novel based on my family history in the mid 1850s.

      Explores, through relatable conversations and action, many experiences of the time.
      Such as – the negative social reasons huge decisions are made to emigrate to distant shores.
      – the effects of having very large families,
      – poverty,
      – following the Australian gold rush,
      – the negative effects of strict nonconformist religion of the time,
      – and finding oneself and ones personal belief as the years pass.
      My website is not yet ready. It is being published with Xlibris.

    • Amy Kelm says:

      I completed a series of blog posts about 8 months ago centered around questions- subject matter for these posts are varied and each is written with the intent of consideration of all sides(and maybe alternatives.)
      Since then I have feeling out a new centeral focus for this most recent collection of writing. Most accurate way to describe them is a mixture of commentary and examination of ideas. Here is my most recent piece http://wp.me/p3pYKk-E2
      I have loved the last several pieces I’ve completed. More and more the voice is coming through more clearly, and that is exciting progress. I love that more people have begun to engage with these last few and it has encouraged me to keep going.

      Please feel free to comment (positive and negative are welcomed. I appreciate honesty.) thanks!

    • Lost three more paragraphs. Odd.

    • Here goes again: With Diane R. Beggin, RN, I am finishing HOW TO MANAGE NURSING CARE AT HOME. It is directed to those who are caring for loved ones and want to know the who, what, when, where, why, and how of such care. Some of it comes from my TING AND I: A Memoir of Love,Courage, and Devotion.

      For the past twelve years we have cared at home for my wife, Tina, who came from the critical care unit of the local hospital with a life expectancy of a few months, quadriplegic, on a ventilator, fed and medicated through a gastric tube.

      I would appreciate volunteers to serve as “beta readers” when this is in draft final form a month or two from now. Currently: 55k words of a likely 60k.

    • John says:

      So, a big thank you to everyone who posted. It takes real courage to post your work, unsure of the feedback you will receive!

      I have just finished a novel, of which I am SUPER proud! But, to avoid seeming spammy, here is a short blurb I was asked to write which, oddly enough, revolves around feedback!

      Voices

      “What could you possibly have offer?”
      “You don’t have the experience.”
      “You don’t have the influence.”
      “You disgust me.”

      I wished these voices were coming from inside my own head. If they were, it would be easier to tune them out, or turn them off. Unfortunately, although they were only audible inside my head, they were the voices of people who were dearly close to me, at the time they were spoken.

      These were not acquaintances, people I saw once a week at church or cousins twice removed. These were the messages from a few of the absolute closest people in my life. People to whom, conventional wisdom told me to listen. People that should have been my support team, people who I thought knew what was best for me.

      I was wrong.

      So were they.

      The funny thing about building something valuable, creating something influential or leaving your dent in the world is how difficult it is for people to understand, and at the same time, how important it is for people to understand. You can’t make change on your own. You need the support of friends, customers, influencers, critics and more. But you will have those in each group who can’t understand, who won’t understand and who speak just as loud and intelligently as their counterparts. The question is, which group is right?

      I dropped out of high school at 17. I slept in a trash trailer, had a substance abuse problem, anger issues, a criminal record and much more. Clearly, the critics were right.

      And yet . . .

      I learned to make great money, became a college professor, lived in beautiful homes on three of the Hawaiian Islands, published books and continue to coach underdogs to incredible success. My supporters were right as well.

      If you do anything outside the limits of average, you will face loud and unyielding support and opposition, from friends and foes, winners and losers, geniuses and idiots. Both camps will have both views on your effort. So which group is right?

      The group you choose to hear.

    • I’m a frequently published novelist and optioned screenwriter — but, lately I’ve been working with a co-creator, Charlene Brash Sorensen, on creating the next in our comic book series Planet Of The Eggs – Eruption.

      In a world where eggs don’t hatch, but evolve into Egglanders, eggs large and small on the forefront of the battle of light against dark, led by the six eggs of destiny and their mentor, the wise, if occasionally scrambled owl,Eight Hooter, the portals open an the adventures begin. Book one started it all with Cracked Open. The second followed with Grimore Book Of Spells and the third Mummified Egg.

      Check them out on Amazon in Kindle and paperback editions.

      It’s a great project, fun-filled and exciting to create.

    • Manfred Astel says:

      I’m writing a series of speeches. I’m wanting to become a speech writer and need a portfolio.

    • I have just finished a short, psychological thriller novella called “My Abigail.” It is also a romance, but between two teenagers so there are no sex scenes or anything like that. It’s meant to be disturbing and memorable.

      If you’d like to check out the first five chapters, go here:
      https://www.wattpad.com/story/64829315-my-abigail-a-psychological-thriller

      Have a nice day 🙂

    • Chris P says:

      I’m at present completing a final edit on one of my ‘Lena’s Friends’ novels: ‘Retributions’ – it’s not the next one to be published, but the one that follows that one. – I’ve just finished ‘tidying’ this charming scene of tranquility and calm (Heh heh heh… Yeah, right!).

      I hope you enjoy it… I’m not sure that all characters did.

      The location for the scene is at an old priory somewhere between Bath and Gloucester in the UK.

      Bishop Tobias shook hands, then embraced the Abbot, before getting into the back of the waiting black taxi. He shivered involuntarily from the unaccustomed chill of this early summer morning. The cabbie closed the door quietly, in deference to both the location and to those around him, then walked around to the driver’s door.

      He nodded to the Abbot just once, it was almost a bow, as a mark of respect, then he got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

      The African raised his hand in a half hearted wave to the Abbot, which the Abbot returned almost as casually.

      Pulling away, the cab moved slowly down the flagstone drive that led from the priory to the old, and no longer occupied, gatehouse. The manicured lawns that flanked the drive were shrouded by the early morning ground mist that seemed to glow ethereally in the early sunlight.
      The Abbott watched as his guest went away until the taxi had almost reached the arched gateway. He was thinking to himself how beautiful and how tranquil the grounds looked at this time of day, with the dawn sun illuminating the low lying mist and making the dew on the spiders’ webs that were draped so delicately over the bushes look like filigree silver works of the finest jeweller’s art.

      He turned to go back into the priory. He hadn’t been quite sure what to make of this charismatic African Bishop who’d been availing himself of the order’s hospitality for the past few days.

      He knew that some of the Brothers had been uneasy over Tobias’s strong opinions regarding the future activities of the various Churches of Christ. If he were to be completely honest, he hadn’t really warmed to the man.

      As he swung the heavy studded oak door closed, there was a flash, instantly followed by the sharp sound of an explosion. A split second later he could feel the door resisting his attempts to finish closing it, before it pushed him backwards as it was forced open again by the full pressure wave from the blast. There was a sound of breaking glass from all directions as the leaded panes flexed and released their ancient stained glass panels to shatter upon the tiled floor.

      Shaken, the Abbot looked out of the now wide open door to see a burning mass of twisted metal blocking the arched gateway. He started to run forwards, gathering up his habit to prevent him from tripping. Other friars came running behind him, having heard the blast, or even having watched it happen from the windows of the building.

      Almost unbelievably, they saw the taxi driver stagger out of the burning wreckage holding his hands to his ears and screaming uncontrollably.

      As the Abbot arrived at the scene, he could see that the blast had taken out the rear of the vehicle completely, yet had left the front seat and the bonnet end of the vehicle virtually undamaged apart from the starred cracking of both the laminated windscreen and the glass divider between the front of the cab, and the rear passenger compartment. There was a plume of black smoke rising high into the sky accompanied by the sickening acrid smell of the burning rear tyres and diesel fuel that was puddling across the drive from the ruptured fuel tank.

      Across the road from the gateway was an expanse of well kept grass with benches and picnic tables, along with swings, roundabouts, and a slide for children seeming to float in the layer of fog. Fortunately, due to the early hour, there were no families enjoying the morning sunshine.

      Beyond the grassed area, was a piece of woodland with footpaths criss crossing it. The woods were popular with dog walkers, joggers, cyclists, and in the evening with young courting couples with nowhere private to go.

      Had the Abbot and his friars turned their attention away from the burning taxi and its distressed driver, they may have seen the back of a tall figure cycling silently away from the edge of the wood to disappear from sight into the dark shadows under the trees.

    • Many Thyson says:

      I’m just about to create a blog about using goat’s milk and am writing the first posts.

    • Nicole Michelle says:

      This is the start of a short story I’ve been working on for some time now! Would love some feedback –

      It was dusk by the time they arrived at the abandoned Milton West Manor. The remnants of the dying golden sun peaked through the trees and watched Derrick and Joan as they hiked up the path towards the iron gate. It had taken them twelve hours of driving and four miles of hiking through rocky terrain to reach this missing piece of Joan’s family history. The manor had been abandoned since 1925 in a hidden part of the Epton Woods, a 200 square mile expanse in the northeastern part of the state. Derrick had hiked through these woods before. Once as a kid as part of a field trip, and a few other times during his twenties. Never had he been to this side of it before nor had he heard of the area’s disturbing history. He only heard about drifters and the homeless crowd taking a liking to this area, which set him on edge even though they hadn’t seen anyone since nearing the manor.

    • PD Simeon says:

      I’m about to set up my author website and plan to publish the prolog of my novel there so that people get a taste of what my novel is going to be about.

      • That’s a great idea PD Simeon 🙂 My email is [email protected]. Can you send me a message with a link when your website is up and going? I”d love to check out your prologue.

    • Stefani Stoyanova says:

      Currently working on a fanfictional story for a group I joined some time ago. The plot involves an aspiring young female journalist looking for her missing father and how her search takes her to a small city near Prague, Europe where she meets the man she will fall in love with. A man who holds two great secrets which are key to solving the mystery of the young woman’s father.

    • I’m a self published author currently working on the third edit for my eighth book before sending out to my beta readers for feedback, and more re-writing as indicated. I’m a professional psychic and most of my books are about practical metaphysics, but I’m diverging from my main topic to write a book about renaissance faires and how to have the best visit to a faire possible.

      That would make me a niche author 😉

      (Want to take a peek at my books? Try here at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/CKane )

      Tomorrow, I’ll be taking a brief break from my editing to write more posts for the two blogs I run- my writing blog ( https://catherinekanewrites.wordpress.com ) and the blog I run about practical metaphysics ( https://foresightyourctpsychic.wordpress.com )

      Then it’s back to work on the editing 🙂 …

    • Millie Green says:

      I’m working on wrapping up the writing on my first ebook. It’s an easy guide to understanding Music Theory and also reading musical notation. At the same time, I’m finishing the proposal to a publisher for another book in progress: a sewing guidebook with projects, for girls. I’ve also been trimming the outline and researching for another book, on the topic of Natural Health. This looks like it might want to be a cookbook too and become two projects instead! But before I can work on all that, I must finish finessing a blog post to publish today. Thanks for asking; I hope you are well!

    • Soon Wah says:

      Mary,
      This is a timely event. I did a post yesterday which I enjoy reading as it takes me back to the years when I was enjoying the 9-5.
      This is the link: http://www.findhappyfast.com/quick-hits/gossip-do-you-do-sleep-working/

      I hope to receive some pointers for continuous improvement. Thanks

    • Heather Marsten says:

      I am enjoying reading what others have shared. I’m editing my memoir – and this is part of a chapter on when I tried to pray – this is a memoir about sexual abuse and there are allusions to stuff my father did.
      Tell me what He Did – by Heather Marsten
      (Part of Chapter 4 – Mrs. Drennon my third grade teacher – I was eight
      Mom’s orange juice was vodka and orange juice.)
      Gladys – friend of my mom’s. Never met her in person but had to call her Aunt.

      All this religious stuff Mrs. Drennon talks about makes me wonder. Maybe I should try and pray like Christians do. Maybe God will stop Daddy from touching me. Does God listen if you don’t go to church?
      I kneel by my bedside like people pray on TV. The linoleum’s hard. I shift around so I don’t hurt the scab on my left knee. Hope God doesn’t mind if I kneel more on my right side than my left. How do I hold my hands? Some people keep their hands straight; others lace their fingers together. I’ll go with straight. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. “God, make Daddy stop doing these things. Make him love me.”
      When I wake, the sun shines through my window. God heard me! Daddy didn’t come into my room last night.
      ###
      Monday night Daddy’s not home and Mommy wants my company so I stay up past my bedtime. At ten she says, “Go to bed, you’ve got school.”
      I kneel and pray, “God, please stop Daddy from doing these things. Make him love me.” I’m afraid to skip one night of praying. Don’t want God to forget.
      Next morning I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and swish Listerine around my mouth before going to the kitchen.
      Mommy says, “I heard him in your room last night; tell me what he did.”
      I stand by the kitchen door and say, “He made me touch his thing and kiss it.” Maybe I didn’t pray right. No amount of toothpaste in the world makes my mouth feel clean.
      “Did you suck it?”
      “No, just kiss. And he touched me here and here.”
      Mommy writes it in the notebook. “That son of a bitchen bastard. I’m going to call Gladys and tell her what that no-good bastard did.”
      She takes her orange juice to the telephone in the hallway.
      I’m not hungry, but force myself to eat my Frosted Flakes. Before I’m finished, Mommy says, “Come here. Tell Aunt Gladys what the bastard did.”
      She hands me the phone. I say, “He touched me.”
      “And…,” Mommy motions for me to continue.
      “Made me kiss his thing.” The words come out squished together. It’s harder to tell this Gladys person, whoever she is, than to tell Mommy.
      Gladys says, “Oh dear, you poor, poor thing. When he goes to touch you, push his hand away and tell him to stop.”
      “Okay, thanks.” I hand the phone back to Mommy and harrumph under my breath. Yeah like I can do that.
      I go back to soggy Frosted Flakes.
      Mommy talks a while longer and hangs up. “Son of a bitchen bastard.”
      I escape to school. It’s hard to pay attention in class when I remember Daddy’s visits. I want to get home and hide in my room.
      ###
      At bedtime, I get on my knees and give God another chance. “God, if you won’t stop him and make him love me, kill him.”
      I wake to the smell of bacon and eggs and hear him and Mommy talking. So much for that.
      After he leaves for work, I brush my teeth and swallow some Listerine to kill the germs in my stomach. At the kitchen door I answer her question. “He touched me where I pee.” I won’t say anything about sucking his thing and the icky taste of the wet stuff. Don’t want to be forced to tell Gladys.
      ###
      I say, “Last chance God. Since you didn’t stop Daddy or kill him, kill me.”
      I wake up.
      ###
      When I go to bed, I don’t kneel. I’m not praying anymore. Why bother? Maybe God only answers Christians’ prayers. Maybe God doesn’t like me. Maybe I’m so bad even God can’t love me. Maybe He loves Daddy more than me.
      After Daddy leaves my room, I moan quietly. There’s no one to help, not even God.
      In the morning Mommy says, “Get the notebook from your sock drawer. I heard him in your room last night, tell me what he did.” She writes it down and says, “Put it back and get dressed. I’ll put toast on for you.”
      Before I put it back in my drawer, I thumb through the notebook. Shouldn’t have, makes me feel worse. Each page has at least two visits and she’s filled three-fourths of it.
      Wish she’d die so I could give the book to the police. No, it’s bad to think like that.
      ###
      After school, I huddle on my bed. I’ve got to do something to stop this. If God won’t kill me, I’ll kill myself, take some poison and die. While Mommy watches As the World Turns, I look under the kitchen sink for something poisonous. All I find is a can of Drano. I pour some into an empty pill bottle.
      Sitting on my bed, I open the pill bottle and flick the little white and green crystals with my finger. Now or later? Later – if things get really bad I have a way to stop the pain forever. I hide the bottle in the back of my closet where Mommy won’t find it.

    • Beverly Taylor says:

      I have been writing since the age of 12….needless to say I am now retired. I write poetry and am currently working on a novel. I believe that I am finally brave enough to lend my voice and thought to the world. Please let me know if you think the world is ready for my :). Following is one of my poems and the Excerpt from my novel.

      A Touch

      A touch, the communicator of the soul
      Expressing feelings our mouths cannot hold
      Feelings of love, support, comfort and “I understand,”
      All transmitted through the gentle touch of a hand.

      A touch, the perfect communicator in every way.
      Never having to fumble for the right words to say.
      Recognized by a lover, stranger, child or a friend
      They all perceive a touch’s meaning from beginning to end.

      A touch doesn’t come to hurt, use your body or mind.
      It just hopes that in it some comfort you’ll find.
      It doesn’t come to cause you worry or concern.
      Its only expectation is to be touched in return.

      The warmth of the touch creating a vessel of trust
      Not one of hatred, envy or lust.
      A mutual touch not meant to deceive.
      Conveying only to one another, “message received.”

      Excerpt for Reparations Novel

      It is Black History Month at Davis University, a predominately white institution located in the mid-west. Dr. Cyra Hamilton, Associate Provost of Minority Affairs and Dr. Stephanie Samuel, Dean of Residential Life, are in charge of coordinating the main event for the celebration and have secured the Rev. Dr. Serenus Sanford, a renowned civil rights activist and leader for reparations for slavery as the guest speaker.

      When Dr. Tibias is unexpectedly murdered in front of them and Stephanie’s 10-year old daughter, Roni, is kidnapped, Cyra and Stephanie are forced to confront harsh realities that they may not be ready to face not only about themselves, but about others they care about and thought they knew.

    • I’m working on the sequel to a novel currently being published (Purgatory’s Angel Launches in May) called Resurrection’s Angel.

      Purgatory begins: Why do I find it safer to have romantic thoughts about someone I’ve just killed or one I’m about to? No commitments? No worries he’ll turn out to be a bastard when I get to know him better? Probably. Or maybe I don’t want to explain who I am and what I do. Luckily, I’ve never had that conversation, I’m a dark angel, I kill demons in my sleep. And you? What do you do for fun? Never imagined it to go over well under any circumstance. Guess that’s why I’ve never tried.

    • Jim Grant says:

      Most of my adult life i have been fascinated with things new and different.I don’t eat the same food twice in a row I read several topics daily, not just focus on one. I at one point thought i was ADHD or had a serious problem with focus in life.I have discovered through much research and self reflection that this is not all bad.Mankind has used the affinity for the new and novelty to adapt to change.What better thing to do in these fast changing times that we live in.I now embrace new and different and use it to my advantage.I have gone from being out of work to successful as a business man and a civic leader in my home town.I did that by focusing on my fascination with New ideas,new businesses and new information.I listen to my inner need for New in my reading and learning.I am and will continue to be successful because .I seek new information continually, I am The New Infosumerist – Jim Grant

    • My publisher, First Realm Publishing, has graciously allowed me to post the opening paragraph of Book Two, The Brede Chronicles:

      “Elektra!” Brede screamed chasing her at full run. People he couldn’t toss out of his way dived out of it on their own. “Elektra!” Regardless his speed she stayed at the edge of his sight, the occasional bob of her blonde hair between the turbans and black hair of most of the residents of New Cairo, Egypt, Earth. The faster he ran the less he could keep up with her; his steps pounded the ground and yet he never came nearer. She stopped, glanced back at him once and then disappeared into the souk leaving Brede doubled over, sucking in breath. At length he straightened and leaned back against an ancient wall eyes closed shaking his head. He wanted it to be a dream. It had to be a dream. At least in dreams he could wake up; set his mind on the day and not some ridiculous waste of time chasing someone who was dead.

      P.I.

    • I’m working on a novella: The New Girlfriend. It’s a story of transition from endings to a new beginning. It’s the first story I’ve written from the first person POV. It’s like writing your autobiography while pretending to be someone else. It’s also a change from writing murder mysteries. So far it’s been a lot of fun.

    • Cynthia Pearson says:

      At the moment, I am writing a poem about a maddening experience. Here is the first draft:

      Maddening

      I was sure of it.
      I was going mad.
      Tilting over, my neck bent,
      I punished one side of my head
      Slapping hard, my face
      Bruised, my head hurt while
      I hopped like a kangaroo
      From one end of the yard to another,
      Trying to dislodge the annoying pest.

      The buzz-like sound crawled into my brain
      Driving me crazy,
      I felt it scampering, flitting around,
      I shuddered,
      My finger digging deep,
      Pushing the thing into the canal
      While the drum did a painful
      Tympanic, maddening throb.

      Swaying with vertigo,
      My stomach heaved with puke,
      Then to my relief
      The maddening sounds died,
      For drowned and dead was the gnat
      That floated on top
      From the warm water
      Poured into my ear.

      Cynthia Pearson

    • Stephan Etienne says:

      I’m currently writing my hope-to-be-published novel about a high-school teenager with superpowers resisting against a large private military army that’s trying to take his powers. Im still in high-school myself and this whole writing thing is pretty hard. I’ve written some parts but I’m revamping the entire thing due to bad plotting, dialogue, character etc. Even though, I’m still going through it and seeing what I could do.

    • I’ve just got my manuscript back from the editor, so I am working on making my novel, “Karrana”, set in a thriving natural setting (“the bush”) during the forties and fifties in Australia. i’m also writing a book review about my friend’s finished manuscript, “Capriccio”, and finishing my memoir “River Girl”, about a dysfunctional family, told with an ironically humorous edge. Plus there’s always my ongoing blog “Write to Publish”. Thanks for this opportunity, Mary. Always appreciated.

    • Jack Allen says:

      I have been writing a few blog posts for Oilpro.com collectively called Boom Town Rats. I hope to compile all of them together in a cohesive collection at some point in the form of a book.

      These are stories about my personal experiences working the oil fields of western Oklahoma in the early eighties. Here are a couple of examples. You will have to copy and paste the links in your browser, I am not sure how to make a clickable link.

      http://oilpro.com/post/9625/boomtown-rats-an-oilfield-story

      http://oilpro.com/post/20899/boomtown-rats-worm

      Jack Allen

    • I’m rewriting”The Littlest Pirate”, a juvenile. I got the idea for it at a Tartan Day several years ago when I saw a little girl dressed as Jack Sparrow. She was so cute that I couldn’t resist taking a picture of her, and then later writing a story about her.

    • Mary Ellen says:

      Just thought that – – that a good word needs to be sent to all of the above posted writers – I am still doing some witting on the fourgrandmas.com – my legacy that my grandson Alan set up for me – – so – – that all the family will have a remembrance of my life and the lives of all the family – – that I have photos of – – and also – – the new day to day stuff that I can think of – – to post.

      Check out “Words to LIVE by.” – something that I posted today. Still learning and hoping to do better…each day. – – Thanks for reading and your comments – Mary Ellen

    • Thank you for this encouraging opportunity to share our work within a community of writers. Putting any writing out there for the world to see can feel daunting and make even the most self-assured writer feel vulnerable. I think having the support and feedback from others who can relate is helpful, comforting, and provides motivation. I just launched a website/blog featuring posts that are relevant to parents and educators of teens covering an array of teen topics. This week’s post was about test anxiety. Input is appreciated! Looking forward to connecting with others. Link: http://inbetweenyears.com/schoolhow-to-prevent-test-anxiety-from-stifling-your-child-in-school/

    • Rob Lee says:

      Well Mary, you asked for it. This is (approximately) the first chapter of a book I started writing a while back but is seriously stalled. The opening may be a little unsavoury, but it is a general introduction to the main protagonist Marlon, who at the time we meet him is an artist in ascendance in London in the 1980s, riding high on his success, and living a rather debauched life style. The idea is that later in the book he becomes jaded, and goes to India (or somewhere) to seek spiritual development. This of course could come about in a sequel, should this first book ever get finished. There’s also a lot of stuff about his rather mad family interwoven throughout.
      Re-reading it now it all seems rather clumsy, and perhaps a bit stereotypical. I look forward to hearing readers comments.

      CHAPTER 1

      Marlon opened his eyes with difficulty, they seemed to be stuck together with a glutinous substance that had dried and solidified. Having achieved this relatively simple operation, he tried to bring his bloodshot and bleary eyes into focus. After much straining of eye and facial muscles he eventually achieved this, and the resultant image was reflected onto the back of his retina. A moment later his brain was able to interpreted the information: it was a mosaic — a strange, curved, florid affair which he had somehow failed to notice when he tumbled into bed, sometime in the early hours of the morning without much recollection of what day it was, let alone which room he was in. This colourful apparition began near to where his head now lay and formed an arc of two or three feet before fading out into the vertical magnolia surface to which it was attached — a wall of some sort — he guessed. On closer inspection he recognised a sliver of carrot in the shape of a crab; a water chestnut flake; a bean sprout or two; several pieces of unidentifiable meat fibres and the hundreds of small pieces of vermicelli noodles, bitten, chewed, semi-digested and reassembled into an intricate pattern of an exquisite delicacy. Alphabet spaghetti had nothing on this, nor the ancient stones of Egypt, this was a new language — a new art form! In a single act of unconscious projectile vomiting he had created the perfect artist’s statement in vermicelli hieroglyphics. He was overcome with gratitude for his seemingly inexhaustible creativity.
      Having struggled for weeks to come up with an idea for his new exhibition, his mind raced ahead to the possibilities that lay before him.
      Projectile Vomiting — a new work of extraordinary brilliance, startling and daring originality by Marlon Dante, the artist who brought you Exploding Sheep and My Mother’s Fanny.
      He now understood how Michelangelo must have felt — when seeking inspiration for the Sistine Chapel ceiling — faces and figures appeared in the clouds above Rome… or was that Charlton Heston in The Agony and the Ecstasy? Anyway, he cared not, he was lost in this new and beautiful world and failed to notice the door open and a shadowy figure enter, carrying a steaming bucket of water and disinfectant.
      ‘Emmanuelle, darling, what are you doing here?’ He croaked through his smoke encrusted vocal chords.
      ‘Oh, I… just happen to live here, remember?’
      ‘Oh yeah, I thought the walls looked too creamy for my gaff.’
      ‘Well, I wish you’d puked up over your own walls, and not mine. I just happen to have planned a romantic meal for two this evening which, with any luck will develop into something a bit more raunchy shortly after the crème brule and Brazilian high-roast coffee. Now, tell me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think the smell of vomit is much of an aphrodisiac — even for a man of your perverted tastes.’
      ‘Emmanuelle, you randy bitch. Who’s the lucky fellow?’
      ‘None of your business. Now will you please get that cleaned up, I have to leave for work in precisely four minutes.’
      ‘Work? What time is it?… Come to think of it what day is it?’
      ‘Seven thirty, am,’ said Emmanuelle, then added, for no other purpose than that of sarcasm: ‘Friday the fourteenth of March 1986… London, England, Northern Hemisphere, Planet Earth… 20th Century… Ano Domini.’
      ‘Fuck, I better get up then, I don’t want to miss breakfast. Hang on a minute though, did you say seven-thirty?’
      ‘Yes.’
      ‘Am?’
      ‘Yes.’
      ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, that’s normally round about the time I go to bed.’
      Emmanuelle reached down with her free hand, grabbed the bottom of the bucket and began to swing it. Marlon leapt out of the bed in an instant, his palms outstretched to protect himself.
      ‘My God,’ said Emmanuelle, lowering the bucket.
      ‘What is it?’
      ‘Your body… what on earth happened?’
      Marlon looked down at his arms, legs and torso: he was extensively tattooed with patterns made with makeup, lipstick and eyeliner.
      ‘Oh yeah, I remember now, I had my body decorated by some serious A-List pussy last night. Shit… I wanted to get it photographed, make a fantastic exhibition, don’t you think?’
      ‘Just as well you didn’t,’ said Emmanuelle, a feint smile creeping across her face as she indicated with her eyes that he better check-out his manhood.
      ‘What do you mean?’ Croaked Marlon as he looked down to see that his impressively large, but wrinkled penis had been embellished on either side with lipstick elephant ears. The trunk had been decorated with ribbons and sequins.
      ‘Fucking hell — The Elephant Man,’ was all he could say before the newly oxygenated blood reached his head, quickly followed by the shock wave of nausea, dizziness, pain and blurred vision. He crumpled back onto the bed grabbing his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, my head! Get me a doctor, quick. Seriously: I’ve got a brain tumour — or something worse.’
      ‘I doubt it,’ said Emmanuelle, setting down the bucket and turning to leave the room. ‘Tumours generally need a living organism to grow on. Oh, and… by the way,’ she called back, making her voice perfectly clear to the prostrate Marlon. ‘I’ve put those jazz records you leant me in the oven and set the timer, so if you don’t get up pretty sharpish, you’ll have some melted plastic to clear up as well.’
      Marlon covered the ten yards to the kitchen in under three seconds, the patches of dried vomit on his neck, arms and chest making his skin feel like old parchment. He pulled open the oven door and stared inside — it was empty.
      ‘Very funny,’ said Marlon, his head pounding alarmingly, on the verge of exploding.
      ‘Microwave!’ shouted Emmanuelle, from the bedroom.
      He slammed the oven shut and managed to open the door release of the microwave at the third attempt. The red neon letters were frozen on 002, which struck Marlon as a parody of an early James Bond movie, or any James Bond movie come to that.
      As Emmanuelle appeared at the kitchen door, Marlon quickly retrieved Kind Of Blue, Round Midnight and Early Bird from the microwave and clutched them to his naked chest, as if to protect them from her.
      ‘Pathetic,’ she said, blew him a kiss, and left for work.

    • Still working on the elevator pitch for my blog (I’m open to suggestions). And also trying to streamline my focus. But in a nutshell, it’s about observing the (mostly) crazy times we’re living in and poking lots of fun at it. Here is a recent post:

      Handy Guide for Sporksmen

      http://www.markkwasny.com/handy-guide-for-sporksmen/

    • Eric Owens says:

      I’m adding content, self editing and improving my novel I’ve been writing for more than a year. It’s a type of genre I would read myself. I love history especially European history. I love mysteries. I am a self taught writer and will never master writing. But I will spend the rest of my life getting better at it and hopefully publishing soon. I love writing. It’s a freedom I’ve never had. It’s a WIP and I could really use some editorial feedback. So I’ll share a snippet of the chapter called Castle History with you. This novel is full of history, mystery, bad guys, treasure, secrets and adventure with a little romance added.

      Chapter Snippet – Castle History

      She set the book down as her curiosity got the best of her when she noticed what appeared to be a small door that was in-between the bookshelf, and the fireplace. Jennifer glanced around the room making sure she was still alone. It was small but enough to allow her to crawl through it. Inside it appeared to be a hidden passage. The soft light from the library had shown enough that she noticed a long metal box sitting on a shelf. It was more long then wide. The dust was so thick on the box that it built a layer over it that was more like fur. Fragments of the old cobwebs hung from the walls. It didn’t appear to be locked. It was too dark to read so she walked back out to the library with box in hand. She was still alone so she knew she would not be interrupted.

      The rusting hinges squeaked as she opened the box revealing a rolled up document sealed in wax, and a note inside the box. The seal looked familiar to her. Reaching for the necklace her uncle gave her Jennifer unclasped it and compared it to the seal. It was an exact match. She broke the seal, and opening the scroll she read it aloud to herself:

      When night is upon me the moon will rise coarse unseen across the skies, take me back in time to where I’ll find, the truth of Shaldorn in place and time.

      The hair on her arm stood tall as cold air passed through her while she read the note in the box. Frightened Jennifer turned with a snap thinking someone was behind her. She let in a gasp but no one was there. Turning back to the document thinking to herself.

      The truth of Shaldorn…why would someone put such a poem inside a scroll, and hide it in a hidden passage?

    • I have recently self-published my Y.A Novel “The Makutu Stone” It is actually book1 of a trilogy.
      I am working on book’s 2 & 3.
      It is available on-line as a paperback or E-book.
      Hope you enjoy it if you purchase it?

      Colin

    • Gary Moore says:

      Hi everyone. I am a children’s color book author. Currently have 91 books for sale on amazon. Here is a sample one::http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00DU0NJ8W. also make T-shirts on amazon. Example :http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B019LFO8Y8. I am geting ready to start making adult coloring books, if I can figure out how to format them for Amazon.

      Have a great weekend.

      Gary Moore

    • Rick says:

      In February I launched the fiction audio-mini series ‘The Behemoth’ at http://thebehemothseries.com . It’s 4 episodes into a 20 episode run and doing quite well. Just this morning I took a deep breath and started scripting a second show (tentatively scheduled for release this summer).

    • I’m an author who has mostly been lurking here while writing. This is the first chapter of my just completed 78,000 word mystery. It’s been through beta reading and editing. I’m proofing it one more time and then will be sending to agents. It is the first book in my new series. My last series of three books involves a different protagonist who uses handwriting analysis to help pinpoint suspects. See: http://www.judymehl.com
      This protagonist, Lizzie, brings her background skills to the fore as she confronts victims and killers at an herbal conference that she attends on her humorous path to seek redemption for past wrongs.
      Let me know what you think. Thanks.
      Chapter One
      A gun sure would be handy.
      Lizzie sighed. She’d left it at home. No sense in an 82-year-old woman arguing with airport security over a missing permit. Who knew she’d find a gun useful at an herbal conference? It’s about peace and light and the natural way. Right? She inched closer to the shouting.
      Nasty man! Wincing, she paused thirty feet away, monitoring the eruption of profane epithets aimed at her friend, Natalie. The man’s face flared from red to purple. “This is a damn disaster.”
      The enemy volley flew by and Lizzie advanced with caution. She had come to the vendors’ hall to invite her friend to breakfast, not gun a man down her first day there, metaphorically or not. Maybe her friend Natalie could handle it—a young conference chair didn’t need an old woman interfering—but she itched to put the guy in his place.
      In her hidden position, she listened to the one-sided conversation. Her jaw firmed as tvulgar language reverberated around her. How loud it it must be for poor Natalie. Putting my past behind me will be trickier than I thought. Asking for God’s help first would be more in keeping with this gentle, herbal way of living.
      She repositioned her weight to peek around the corner. Not sure why she bothered with stealth. They guy locked onto diatribe and couldn’t see past his anticipated profit. Still, eavesdropping left Natalie in control, but her friend found little to say. Maybe she wanted to let the fire burn down before she made a stand. He seemed to have limitless fuel for his anger, like a life’s worth.
      Get a grip. The man’s trying to sell some herbal stuff. How bad can he be? Remember, new world, new rules. On the other hand, his vicious onslaught ratcheted up.
      Please Lord, help my friend. I’m ready as back-up. That guy truly needs to be put down. I promise I won’t kill him.
      The man slapped a huge palm on the counter, snapping her out of her monologue with God. He bellowed, “People like you ought to be shot.”
      Maybe God was out on break. That did it. The man was dangerous, at least verbally. Natalie is saddled with this idiot vendor. Enough of his vile language. Lizzie struck, stepping into sight to bark, “I’m trying to be nice here, but if you keep going I’ll tear that nasty tongue out.”—her words as sharp and more lethal than his—with years to hone her skills. You missed civility by a bit there, Lizzie Try again. “We don’t talk like that around here.” Her friend turned but Lizzie saw the smile she attempted to hide. She refocused on the man who’d just become her enemy.
      He snarled, “What the hell?” His harangue froze when he saw her. He unbent his threatening stance, eyes widening.
      Humph, didn’t expect an old woman who sounded like a drill sergeant, Lizzie girl.
      His train of thought only sidetracked for a minute. He gestured toward Natalie. “This dumb broad needs to change the location of my booth. Right now. What business is it of yours?”
      Lizzie reached into her pocket. She’d worn a long skirt to blend with the conference theme of living naturally. It brought her back to the earth movement days. But now, the deep pocket served another purpose as she pressed a couple of fingers forward.
      Maybe I could just break his arm if he gets worse; no gun needed. That wouldn’t delay the conference, would it? Breathe. Use your words, Lizzie.
      “Dagnabbit! Close that foul mouth,” she said. “What’s her business is my business.”
      The man withered.
      Wow. My words worked.
      Shoulders back, head held high, Natalie withstood his outbursts and Lizzie’s show of force. She said, “This man thinks he deserves the prime spot by the door, even though he is a new vendor and squeaked in just before the deadline.”
      Lizzie admired her friend as she traded verbal assaults with the lanky man. He looked like a scientist and talked like a longshoreman. His porcelain-white skin reminded her of the pasty inventor slaving in the lab all night like those portrayed in horror movies.
      Natalie breathed deep, motioned toward the booth, and edged a soft voice with ice. “You registered so late you’re lucky I assigned you more than a tiny hole.”
      That a way, girl. You tell him.
      With full light, the hall could overwhelm with sensory perception. Scents maintained a pleasing aromatic blend with hints of zestful spices. The pungent lemon balm and tarragon were almost a distraction as Lizzie listened. She noticed most of his bottles and containers sat among a nest of packing material on the floor. He must have stopped when he saw Natalie to demand the location change. Surprised that he waited this late to complain Lizzie figured he arrived just under the wire and needed to set up or lose out. She listened while she glanced around the hall. Just like Natalie, everything was in place, except for this last booth. About all he accomplished was setting down a small placard stating “Alexander Howell, Proprietor.” Only one row of bottles stood on the counter awaiting their mates. That’s what brought Natalie to the hall early this morning to check the empty spot.
      The bottles intrigued with their simplicity. They drew her and Natalie to take another look. Lizzie interjected a question and he moved in for the sales pitch. She hoped his anger would mellow. She remembered such products claimed to inhibit the enzyme telomerase, which causes aging and disease, so she monitored their discussion . Who knows, maybe I can learn a thing or two about aging before it gets to me. Not that I do so bad. Still, I’m getting on in years. Wouldn’t hurt to listen to this jerk. In case he knew something worthwhile.
      He said, “Some reputable firms are confirming similar results, and formulating commercial plans. However, my Telomerase Might is pure and produced under the same stiff requirements. I did it sooner and a lot less expensive.”
      Lizzie watched his chest expand in proportion to his pride.
      Natalie feathered the air in front of the bottles with her fingertips. “They’re all clear glass.”
      It amazed Lizzie how Howell tamped down his anger and moved in to clinch a sale. He rattled on,“That’s right. Light doesn’t affect my merchandise but I use a sterile, glass pharmaceutical container for strength and purity. This conference will launch my product if I get the best location. I need that spot. It’s near the herbal stuff and away from my competitors.”
      His voice rose. Lizzie resumed her cautious stance. His product results seem iffy. This man should be delighted he was admitted at all. She raised her eyes heavenward. Remember Lizzie girl, you’ve come to speak. To help friends. Keep your lip buttoned.
      She hoped this Howell guy would calm down before his blood pressure spurted like Mount Vesuvius. Ah, maybe he would deflate and save us some trouble. Not the nicest thought, but there it stood, naked and true.
      “Dammit! I have to have this location.” His voice rose in a crescendo of angry words as he recovered from his fear of Lizzie and approached Natalie with an arrogant step and a repeat outburst, as if his boasting about his product reminded him what he wanted.
      Lizzie moved back, again, letting her friend control the moment, for now. The man didn’t complement this immaculate and organized hall, sporting blooming pots of herbs throughout. This guy sure ruffles my ire. Still, I hope you’re noticing, God. I’m keeping my cool.
      Natalie remained firm. Her face reflected warmth, even in the lowered lighting in the yet-to-open hall. As chair, she’d have researched every vendor. She said, “This Telomerase Might borders on inappropriate for this type of conference. Count your blessings that you’re standing here.” His rants escalated when Natalie told him this. He lunged to grab her arm. She stood her ground but Lizzie saw her indecision on how to control the irate vendor as his spewed string of obscenities turned physical.
      Lizzie kept her eyes on Howell and couldn’t see what Natalie looked like. Her face probably dripped with spittle from the man’s words erupting like the volcanic ash of sound. More filthy language interrupted Lizzie’s thoughts and churned her temper.
      “Motherf. . . .”
      The man crossed the line of propriety
      She stepped close before he continued. With a practiced scowl and her fingers jamming her pocket forward, she said, “Don’t.”
      He dropped Natalie’s arm and swung at Lizzie. She ducked out of range, her movements graceful and clean. His elbow nicked one of the containers on the counter, starting a chain reaction. Natalie reached to stop them from falling over.
      Howell swatted at her hands. “Don’t touch my stuff!”
      Natalie jerked away.
      Lizzie grabbed his arm and twisted. On the surface it looked gentle. She didn’t want her friend disturbed by a surprising display of might. Natalie was the daughter of one of her dearest friends. A beautiful child who became a woman that exuded kindness. And didn’t need to see ugliness.
      Natalie had treated him with patience and calm, yet bile leaked out with each of his words; he was an unvarnished man. Some men just exhibited rough edges but held an inner core of decency. Alexander Howell not only lacked veneer, he lacked moral integrity. It was all Lizzie could do not to smack the guy upside his head, but as chair, it was Natalie’s call. Lizzie bit her tongue.
      Natalie straightened her spine and said, “That’s it. Set up or pack up. I’m sending someone in to supervise. No more invective attacks and tantrums or you’re out.”
      Howell backed down.
      This Health Naturally Conference 2016 was yet to officially open and trouble brewed. Natalie rushed out into the corridor and Lizzie followed. As she turned her head to see what Howell was doing she saw him standing, legs spread and arms akimbo. His heated glare could set her hair aflame. “Watch out in dark parking lots,” he shouted.
      How infantile. Besides, I work best in the dark. Did. Did work best in the dark. Now I like the sun. Remember, Lizzie, that’s why you’re here in Florida.

    • I’m writing an article about Jefferson, Texas, a small town in which my daughter and I have made many wonderful memories. When I say small, I’m estimating a population of around 8,000, however, this little place packs quite a punch.

      My daughter was only around 12-years-old the first time we went there. Jefferson’s claim of being the most haunted town in Texas was our first inclination that this was the place for us and it didn’t disappoint.

      There is so much more to tell about this little haunted town. Here’s the lead.

      The asphalt roads on which I’ve been traveling are typical of present times; however, they have suddenly transformed to the brick paved streets of centuries ago. The beautifully conceived architecture of the historic homes is not from this day and time. They’re a 100-years-old if they’re a day.

      They invoke the image of a southern belle in a long skirt and petticoats who is resting in the shade of the wrap-a-round veranda while sipping her tea. I’m not taken by surprise when a horse-drawn carriage actually passes us by. It’s fitting and feels quite natural in this tranquil little town of Jefferson, Texas.

    • I’m working on my next book, Writing Devotionals That Stick.

      A snippet: http://www.nonprofitcopywriter.com/devotional.html#sthash.nSJwOCjv.dpbs

    • Rebecca Scott Boddie says:

      My book in progress is a Persian cookbook/memoir. I worry that it will be such a narrow niche.

      • Varina Suellen Plonski says:

        A Persian Cookbook and Memoir sounds interesting, though, Rebecca! Maybe it’s a niche, but perhaps not as narrow as you might think. People are always looking for new and interesting foods; people who long to travel but can’t afford it might still want to try the traditional foods of the country they want to visit.
        Will you be giving the background history of the dishes as well as your memories of the times you eaten or cooked it? That would be a wonderful framework for each dish.
        I do have one suggestion: please give the name of the dish in Persian as well as what it might be called in English. I was given a Greek cookbook with interesting recipes, but it doesn’t give the traditional Greek names, so I can’t tell if the recipe I want is in there or not. For example, Spanakopita is sort of a spinach quiche, but there are two or three recipes with spinach fillings in phyllo dough. Which is the one I want? Don’t know, because it doesn’t use the right name. Your readers might remember the dish’s Persian name from a restaurant or a visit to your country, but if they can’t identify it in your cookbook they may be disappointed.

    • I’m doing a final revision on a novel before I send queries to publishers/agents.

    • A writers guided journal and notebook!

      A single source for all your story characters, ideas, notes, and draft.

      https://www.facebook.com/Writers-Journal-Notebook-915164508532818/?ref=bookmarks

    • Karen says:

      My About Page Copy. Argggg. I’m ALWAYS working on it, it seems.
      Here it is right now:
      People say I will talk about anything.

      I blame the media. And maybe people. I mean who doesn’t have something to say when there’s so much to talk about?

      People are far more interesting than they admit. I should know. I’ve interviewed plenty of them.

      When I’m not looking for story ideas, I’m looking for reasons to stay out of the kitchen–

      though I once baked a pie that was in the Guiness Book of World Records.

      But enough about me.

      What would you like to talk about?

      Contact me.

      [email protected].

    • Christi says:

      I don’t have any of the actual story done yet, but I’ve got an outline and 3 seven page long character write-ups done for my first NOVEL! I’ve written loads of short stories, poetry, articles, and essays in the past, but never felt confident enough to do a novel. Well here we go!

    • A YA fantasy set on another world where teen outcasts fight against religious and cultural oppression.

      Two short stories as part of a proposed anthology with a theme of psychological manipulation. The first is about a man who seems certifiably insane but who also appears to be remarkably prophetic about the nature of reality. The second is about a man who pursues a young woman only to find he has competition. He wins the girl then decides he doesn’t want a relationship.

    • Wow. Tear jerker. Captured and celebrated her love of life so well. Loved it!

    • Abraham says:

      Hi Mary,

      Okay, let’s see if I can do this.

      I just finished writing a blog post titled:

      11 Ways to Get Your Writing Momentum Rolling When You’re Stuck

      And this is the introduction:

      ——–
      I know the feeling.

      It weighs heavy on your chest like a ton, and it’s so real that you could imagine yourself literally rolling it away as if it’s a stone.

      And oh, why should it be when you’re writing? Or when you want to write?

      The desk has been arranged neat, notepad and pen at the ready. Even the word processor is at your service.

      But you write that sentence repeatedly.

      Because you kept deleting it every time you do.

      You’re stuck, right?

      Here are eleven ways to snap yoursee.
      —–

      It’s not published yet.

      What do you think?

      Abraham.

    • working on a novel. Here’s the opening:
      The ocean almost looked like a glass floor. Jack knew he’d sink if he tried to walk on it. And he didn’t know how to swim. But he wanted to try. He put his hands on the railing and lifted one leg up to the first bar. His mother stepped up beside him, and held his hand. She said, “Happy birthday, Jack.” He knew it was a warning. His mother was subtle like that. Her closeness did make him hesitate. If he jumped in, she would jump after him, and then she would tell Grandma Eloise and Aunt Dolly and Uncle Tim and they would laugh. Not in front of him, but they would laugh about it later, when they thought he wasn’t listening. He looked longingly out to sea.

      A mermaid! Looking just at him. Her orange ringlets swirled like seaweed. She waved to Jack. He smiled. This was better than walking on water. He wanted to say something to the mermaid. But his mother would ask who he was talking to. And if he said, “that mermaid in the ocean,” she would say he was “imagining things again.” So, he waved back to the mermaid. His mother asked, “Who are you waving to, Jack?” Jack put his hand down, and held the railing. His dad came up beside them and put his dark fingers on Jack’s shoulder.

    • YA fantasy that takes place on another world where teen outcasts fight against religious and cultural oppression.

      Two short stories for a proposed anthology with the theme of psychological manipulation: One about a man who seems certifiably insane and paranoid but also may be prophetic about the nature of reality and one about a man who pursues a young woman, discovers he has competition, wins, then decides he no longer wants a relationship.

    • I should receive the editorial letter for my debut novel by the 19th (A Season to Dance, Bling! / Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, May 2017). While I wait, I’m editing my second novel, The Song of the Desert Willow. It’s hard to switch back and forth because the new novel is deep third person POV and the first one is first person. But it’s all coming together. I’m excited. This past week I blogged about Twitter growth for pre-published authors: http://internationalchristianfictionwriters.blogspot.com/2016/03/the-truth-about-twitter-by-patricia-beal.html
      Patricia

    • Debbie Griffin says:

      I am a member of Gold Country Writers in Auburn, CA. We have been challenged with a fun writing contest to write a very short story consisting of exactly 59 words. Here is my entry. Would be interested in your comments.

      Aunt Judy

      It’s her 100th birthday. Bouquets of red roses and fragrant lilies adorn her apartment. Dear friends gather to celebrate the milestone. She savors chocolate raspberry cake and Champagne.

      “I’m soooo looking forward to it,” Judy giggled with excitement over the phone. “Only two weeks away.”

      She didn’t make it. The casket closed on 99.

      I grieve a life well-lived.

      • Aunt Judy seems interesting. A story usually has a problem and an effort to solve that problem. Is the 100th anniversary of her birth emotionally complex for Aunt Judy? If so, what is she doing about it? What is the result. I know that’s a lot to put into 59 words. Play with it and see what happens.

    • Val Hamann says:

      I have just finished writing a Christian based short story (11,000 words) called: Solitary – a story of how cruel solitary confinement can be, especially when wrongfully incarcerated.

      You are welcome to download and read it from Obooko Website.

    • Arfa says:

      When it comes to writing, I am a beginner and willing to learn everything about writing. Here is my link to an article of my blog https://arfanazeer.wordpress.com/2015/08/20/girl-not-an-ordinary-human/. I am interested in working on the faults and hopeful to receive little appreciation on my topic.

      • The life of a female in any culture is different from that of a male. I think a blog is a great way to explore this in small pieces. How is a newborn girl treated differently from a newborn male? A toddler? Pre-school childhood? Beginning school? After school activities? Home life? Chores? Homework? Community activities? Puberty? Sports? Earning money? High school? Dating? Choosing a spouse? Planning a wedding? Married life? pregnancy? childbirth? Or what if the couple is not fertile? Or if the woman chooses not to marry? Or if she has a child without marriage? Or if she is LGBTQ? Or if she chooses to adopt? Motherhood of a baby, a toddler, pre-schooler– all the stages through being a grandparent and a grandparent? Death of a child? Death of a spouse. You’ve got years of topics here. You don’t need to cram them all into one blog. The fact that you practice Islam is also interesting. How do you see the life of a Muslim woman as different from women in other religions? Once you get started on this, your readers will send you questions. You will be busy for the foreseeable future.

    • PD Simeon says:

      I’m working on my thriller, The Brazilian Incident. I’ve been reading a lot about plotting and creating an outline. I’m getting there.

      I’ve written the Prologue and the first scene. It’s exciting.

      • Hi PD,
        That’s exciting news! Thanks for sharing. I know how I felt when I made progress like this on my novel.
        Best
        Sally

    • Tony Brenna. says:

      How do I know my ideas won’t be ripped off. Isn’t it risky putting one’s best work on a site like this?
      What sort of guarantees do you give that my work won’t be lifted by others? These are valid questions I would like answered.

    • Jim says:

      No comments should be allowed.

    • We’ve got a glitch in the system which makes it difficult to publish a comment. We’re working hard to fix it. Please be patient!

      My apologies to you all…

      – Mary

      • Beverly Taylor says:

        I posted a poem and novel excerpt yesterday and now it has disappeared. I don’t know what happened to it.

        • Hi Beverly, I can see your lovely poem. It’s here in the comments!

          • Beverly says:

            It was the weirdest thing. I looked and it was gone. I turned off my computer and turned it back on later and there it was! Strange. Thank you for the compliment.


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