Sitting before a beautifully blank page under perfect writing conditions and yet still being unable to put words to paper must be the single most exquisite form of torture known to humankind.



Good writers are good readers.

I never believed in this sentiment. I thought that any story worth telling would pour out of you, unhindered and unadulterated by the influence of others. Until now. Thanks to a fairly intense editing class, I have been force fed an abundance of short stories by American greats, analyzing them to death in quick succession and without time to pause for breath.

I have also started writing short stories, coming out of a year-long writers’ block by breaking into a format I had not seriously attempted before. Coincidence? I think not…


This week’s writing club session is going to entail reading snippets of our works-in-progress. Despite being the president, I am filled with dread. The dual forces of writers block and stage fright pay no heed  to hierarchy.


Take a nap in the middle of the day, preferably soon after a meal. Don’t just fall into bed, get comfortable like you’re turning in for the night. Sleep for at least two sleep cycles, and then wake up and record the dreams you’ve had. I promise you lots of inane and disturbing content.


Go out for a coffee on a rainy day. Sit in your car and drink it all by yourself. Turn off the radio, and listen to the hum of the engine and the patter of water on the hood, running down the windshield. Tell yourself a story in a low, sentimental voice between thoughtful sips of hot, sweet caffeine. Feel the inspiration come.


With extremely few exceptions, writers need to be roughly 30 to start writing novels. If you’re under thirty, cut yourself some slack – Douglas Coupland

This has got to be the most heartening news I’ve received all week.


“I don’t think you realize how far you are going to go …”

A friend told me this today in relation to my writing. He was right – I don’t realize it. At moments like this, with scattered little carcasses of story ideas scattered mangled and half-eaten inside my empty head, I see no reason I should go any farther than anyone else.