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Do You Live a Writer’s Life?

I know I’m always inside one or the other of my stories or my novel. I’m watching and listening to my characters talk to each other, imagining their repartee, their tears, their devastation, their joys, their peccadilloes, their ambitions. I’m wondering ‘What if’ as I watch people, or “What’s their story?” Writing never leaves me…

Do You Live a Writer’s Life?

I know I’m always inside one or the other of my stories or my novel. I’m watching and listening to my characters talk to each other, imagining their repartee, their tears, their devastation, their joys, their peccadilloes, their ambitions. I’m wondering ‘What if’ as I watch people, or “What’s their story?” Writing never leaves me…

What’s Behind That Face?

 If you have 9 minutes, they would be well spent watching this heartbreaking video on comic Anthony Griffith. “Comedians spend years honing their stage persona, but when all-star comic Anthony Griffith tells the story of his life as a comedian and as a father, not even he can keep it together. To be honest, I…

I’m Not Scared of My Novel

the writer is not a pastry chef, he is not a cosmetician and not an entertainer. He is a man bound by contract to his sense of duty and to his conscience. Once he undertakes this task, it is too late for excuses, and no matter how horrified, he must do battle with his squeamishness and sully his imagination with the grime of life. He is just like any ordinary reporter. What would you say if a newspaper reporter as a result of squeamishness or a desire to please his readers were to limit his descriptions to honest city fathers, high-minded ladies, and virtuous railroadmen? To a chemist there is nothing impure on earth. The writer should be just as objective as the chemist; he should liberate himself from everyday subjectivity and acknowledge that manure piles play a highly respectable role in the landscape and that evil passions are every bit as much a part of life as good ones.

I'm Not Scared of My Novel

the writer is not a pastry chef, he is not a cosmetician and not an entertainer. He is a man bound by contract to his sense of duty and to his conscience. Once he undertakes this task, it is too late for excuses, and no matter how horrified, he must do battle with his squeamishness and sully his imagination with the grime of life. He is just like any ordinary reporter. What would you say if a newspaper reporter as a result of squeamishness or a desire to please his readers were to limit his descriptions to honest city fathers, high-minded ladies, and virtuous railroadmen? To a chemist there is nothing impure on earth. The writer should be just as objective as the chemist; he should liberate himself from everyday subjectivity and acknowledge that manure piles play a highly respectable role in the landscape and that evil passions are every bit as much a part of life as good ones.