"Take this, Boris! May it serve you well," the booming voice commands. A hand, holding a shining writing implement, extends towards me. I was all of thirteen years old when the Hand from Above bestowed the Pen of Plenty upon me.

"Take this, Boris! May it serve you well," the booming voice commands. A hand, holding a shining writing implement, extends towards me. I was all of thirteen years old when the Hand from Above bestowed the Pen of Plenty upon me.
I’m not marketing – I’m generating mail for myself. That makes it so much easier than pressuring myself to advance my writing career.
Ideas are always circling us. Like young children with butterfly nets, it is our job to catch a few and develop them into stories with strong leads, robust middles, and fabulous endings.
Words, plots, characters gushed out of me yet never once did I take the time to see if the words were apt; if the plot had inner consistency; if the characters were realistic and likeable.
When I die I want to take along a book, but not just any old book. It has to be one with an ending so strong that it stopped my ticker for good.