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I had a friend who when she did not like a book was not content to merely dislike it. She was ready to tear the book to pieces and consign it to the lowest levels of hell. Sometimes the books she hated were books I loved, and her gagging fits baffled me. How could the […]

My growth as a writer has depended upon learning ways to protect myself from myself. Having bipolar disorder, I have had to learn to see flaws without self-abuse, and to correct my work while keeping despair at bay. While trying to avoid mood crashes during painstaking revision, I stumbled on a way to improve my

When I was a college student I was hungry for any tips that would further my dream of becoming a professional writer. I eagerly read through stacks of magazines and books on writing. But a lot of the advice, even from my favorite authors, confused and upset me. Often the advice givers had “clout,” so

Last weekend I bought a sketch pad and a pencil set and have been drawing again. Though I majored in art many years ago, I am way out of practice and feel like a kindergartener learning to draw for the first time. My efforts do not bring the aesthetic rewards I get with writing, my

The representative Diane Arlington at Doppel-Bot told me my therapy would not be easy. “Many people think that they may overhaul their personality patterns, their habits, and their responses to stimuli on a whim, or simply by making a resolution.” “But sometimes resolutions do work,” I protested. “Do you mean we can never change? For

I hear writers say all the time, “I am stuck.” And I know how it is. I have been there. But I feel distressed when those who complain of being stuck include my writer friends who have read my book on getting past block, A Trail of Crumbs to Creative Freedom. When I hear them

Last winter I was feeling discouraged and I announced that I would be changing my blog into an all-fiction blog and that I would no longer be writing about writing. There were several reasons for this. One was that I thought I had run out of things to say about writing and was afraid of

If you see them coming, leave. That is what I did. I am an exile by choice. More than that: I am a man without meaning. I long ago learned to mistrust those with meaning; that is to say, most everyone I know. They come in armies. They come bearing metaphysical torches. Mostly, they smile.

When I was an art major trying to master drawing, my professors would sometimes say that drawing well required “learning to see.” The phrase always sounded too mystical to me. But now, after having done a lot of writing or “drawing in words,” I understand. Writing can only be as powerful as the perceptions of

I recently read an interesting blog post about the need to find meaning in life. My visceral response was: “I have meaning.” But what did I mean exactly? After all, it seems a little arrogant, like I am claiming access to some cosmic secret denied to others. Of course, that was not what I meant