How DO I write? This way: I write cover to cover in a style that I enjoy reading…
As I sat at the man’s desk, my father-in-law next to me, as she stood a couple of feet away she asked next: “Really? What are you doing here?”
I have said here previously that I don’t count words when I write. (I disagree with the idea of measuring “progress” by daily “bean counting.”) I don’t even really look at page numbers. Early on in a manuscript especially, I just write and write and write.
Ladies, your man may want to say something extra-special to you today, but he may not be able to find the right words. Be understanding, please. It has always been such with many of us men.
When a relative – the same one I’d mentioned last week – messaged me yesterday through Instagram that she wanted me to suggest which of my novels she might read first, I had no choice really. I had to talk about them directly…
I recall being assigned it in graduate school (too long ago now) in a course on Russian government/history. (There’s a real shocker, eh?)
So much for “privacy,” and “controlling” and “protecting” your personal data, eh?
My favorite men in novels? That was actually a much tougher question to answer because as I thought about it I realized I tend to find women characters more interesting.
I didn’t ask, but I’m thinking some are “his” books and some are “hers.” If you are not yet in a “live-in” relationship, you need to know this, because it’s important: when you end up living permanently with a “special someone,” their books will likely come with them.
I want to begin the new year by saying “Thank you” for your readership. Some of you have stumbled upon me due to my most recent novel…
For a Christmas post, how about a series of short – a few seconds each – videos. So you know, they contain SOUND.
The holiday happiness all around me was not making me happier; it was getting on my nerves. I’m unhappy with certain other extended “family” so-called relationships as well. Other life issues are also frustrating me. It all became an angry jumble, bubbling under my surface as the day wore on. I was “overheating.”
Thirty years ago today, Pan Am 103, a Boeing 747 that departed Heathrow for JFK, was blown up at just after 7pm while at 31,000 feet over Scotland.
Over the previous three years, I had also fictionalized her in three novels, the last being that one above. In them I included reconstructions of various real-life interactions and even disagreements between us from back when I was in my 20s and young 30s. She never knew I had sneakily done that.
I’ve been deliberately reserved especially towards younger members of the family. The reason for that is simple: aside from the first book of that trilogy, Passports, which is probably the closest I’ve come to writing what might be termed borderline “young adult,” my novels are not really meant for “under-18s.”