Day 25: Tumbleweed Girl

The yard behind the atrium was empty of the harem children and their carers. Only half of the parakeet cages swung outside, empty of birds. The only noise between the evening gusts was their metal hooks, clicking and creaking on their lines. A single white-robed woman stood in the yard’s center, standing on a block to pull the cages down.

Writer Confessions 3

Talking writer problems to a non-writer is a bit like chatting up a flat-earther: you assume you're on the same page until you aren't. Every writer writes differently, of course. But on the off-chance you relate, here are the deep, gritty confessions (and precautions) of a habitual fiction-writer.

Writer Confessions 2

Writing is the longest, most elaborate improvisation you will ever have to pretend is not an improvisation. Writers, incidentally, get up to a lot of nonsense they don't really teach you in Lit class. For instance: