One of the biggest problems I see facing young writers is a lack of constructive criticism. Bad books get self-published because friends and family didn’t want to be mean. People are delusional that they’re good writers because no one has ever told them otherwise.
And it’s hard, giving negative feedback. But it’s necessary. It’s so, so necessary. (more…)
They say, if you want to be a writer, read. This is, of course, true. You’re not going to get a feel for the language if you’re not experiencing it through the lens of people who are much better at putting it together than you are.
Fitzgerald, Austen, Tolkien, Kerouac. Salinger, Twain, Melville, Wilde. And so many more. There’s a reason that many of the sentences considered the most beautiful in the English language were written by them. (more…)
She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. The strung lights cast long shadows as she curled her perfectly manicured toes against the rough wood. It was the first time in a long time her toenails had all been the same color. She covered her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the stupid white painted flower. Instead images from earlier flashed through her mind. His smile, his bare feet, the way his skin looked against the white button-down. His frown, the hurt in his eyes… She fell backwards with a groan. This is not how this night is supposed to end. Her fingers traced patterns in the white bedspread as she stared at the wooden ceiling and the impractical mosquito net. This night was supposed to be perfect—for both of us. A single tear dropped from her eye. This is stupid, she thought. Screw them. Screw him. He’s worthless, anyway. She didn’t mean to say it out loud. She hadn’t heard the door open; but she heard it close.