Every day before breakfast, Mariela crept out to see the fairy’s maze. She took her mother’s old mirror from the top of its mahogany dresser, blowing off the scraps of crumbling wallpaper, and swiped a scone from the cook’s first batch of the day.
Reading is good for you. It's good for learning empathy and it's good for honing your writing skills. Find time to read during the day the same way you find time to write: a paragraph at a time, in between tasks, in pieces and sometimes in the sly.
Here we are, on the verge of Nanowrimo month. Last week I was nervous about all the spare time I wouldn't have, but now it's starting to hit--the Nano High. I'm hyped!
You may or may not have noticed that Google AdSense finally bought my soul after weeks of me trying to sell it. Apologies from Phantasmagorium if the old girl's a little rough around the edges while everything gets figured out.
I understand I ought to be outcast from the blogging community for neglecting Phantasmagorium, but I was on the road. So I'll just have you write about outcasts instead!
I admitted to the leader of a prose-writing workshop my worst fear was being misunderstood. He misunderstood what I meant.
Every now and again I'm just going to need to share album covers. I had to gush about Sonata Arctica's "The Ninth Hour" last time, but now I have to gush about Sonata Arctica's "Stones Grow Her Name." I mean, look at it.
There's nothing better for healing than sleep--or writing. Having spent my weekend finally getting to do plenty of both, that's my testimony. I'm not snake-oiling you here, folks, some good, cathartic writing will cure what ails you.
For better or worse, it's Scott Fitzgerald's birthday today--author of "The Great Gatsby," or at least the bits his wife Zelda didn't write. To be perfectly honest, they both sound like the kind of people you would want to go to a party with but the people you would absolutely not want to be your minders for said party.