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Years ago I stopped reading books that gave writing advice. Too often, instead of helping, they confused or even discouraged me. So last Christmas someone who knew I shunned books on writing decided that maybe I would enjoy a book on the more general topic of creativity. The book was Big Magic by best-selling author […]

I wrote the following poem on a day when some absurdly minor mishap propelled my mood into a downward spiral. My poem did what writing often does: it made me feel better. I want to share it. I live in fear of the toppling tap The nudge that sends me reeling The paper clip that

Stamps bored him, and butterflies were too hard to catch, but inventor Maxwell J. Peabody was an avid collector of oddities, and of all he had collected, nothing ever truly satisfied him until he began collecting human minds. He would leave world-ruling to other “mad scientists,” the lazy, ferret-stroking, cackling geriatrics who needed armies to

If you read much advice on writing fiction, you will at some point encounter questionnaires meant to help you build your characters. Questions about characters include: “What are their specific gestures? How did their culture impact them? If they had a day to themselves, what would they do?” For many years those kinds of questionnaires

The world of writing is where my mind lives even when I am away from home. In a grocery store, when my companion wonders why I have a faraway look in my eyes or why am being so quiet, the answer is simple: I am writing. And in many cases, what that specifically means is,

George Orwell said, “All art is propaganda.” This quote haunts me. But should it? Propaganda is not necessarily evil; it is just “anything that promotes a cause or idea.” Yet the word feels sinister to me; I envision Hitler Youth posters or soaring statues of communist dictators depicted in “glorious” battle postures. But Orwell was

Some people say they remember past lives. Not me. I remember my future. I am ten, but I know what it is like to be 80. I also know that if I had not come back when I did I would be dead. I remember the future like glimpses of a dream. I even remember

I have always longed to be a prolific writer, to write fast, to soar on waves of creative energy. But I also want to write well, which usually means taking my time. I am always seeking a balance: to avoid taking more time than I really need, while maintaining high quality. I have no interest

There was always something a little depressing in high school and college about telling anyone I was a writer, because they would always want to know, what have you written? The question should not have been a stumper, not tough, but it was, even though I had written lots of things, many beautiful beginnings: two