Got Candles?

Not long ago when I sat at the table to draw with my grandsons, I looked at my blank sheet of paper and said, “I always draw candles—this time I’ll try something different.”

First Lines

How important is the first line of a book? Recently, when we played a game called Liebrary* , we learned that

Speed Pitching

Have you heard of Speed Dating (as in the movie Hitch), where women sit on one side of a long narrow table and potential dates sit across from them? Each pair gets only a few minutes

Pitching in Elevators

Who said that time in elevators is wasted? If you’re prepared, you might deliver a pitch on your way from the lobby to the eighth floor to The Agent who likes the premise enough to ask for the whole book. Next thing you know, The Agent loves the book enough to represent you. They say it happens.

Pitching a Book

When I first heard that writers have to pitch their books, I thought of a baseball pitcher burning the ball into the strike zone. No way—too rough! So I imagined gently tossing a large envelope containing my freshly-completed manuscript to a grateful agent—the catcher—who would open it and immediately start reading. Silly me.

Info Dumps and Other Writing No-Nos

When I began revising my novel recently with an agent’s feedback in mind, my writing flaws jumped off the page with such force that I had to run for cover.

A Heavy Parcel

Earlier this month a heavy parcel landed with a thud on my porch. My manuscript! With it came a nice rejection letter. I use the word nice

Pen and Paper Magic

Have you noticed that something curious happens when you write by hand instead of texting or typing? Already, as I type this post, my Internal Editor is insisting that I backspace and rewrite, while my Creative Writer side cares only about capturing ideas before they escape. But there’s mystique in putting pen to paper.

The Actress and the Diaper Pail*

When I was five, my dad was stationed with the U.S. Navy on Guam, where we lived in a Quonset hut with

Kids Speak

My daughter broke her femur while trying to stop her bike by skidding on gravel when she was only six years old. I held her hand as she lay sedated on the table in the emergency room. We were both in tears. “Honey,” I whispered, stroking her head, “I sure wish I were the one with the broken leg instead of you.” In a groggy voice, she said,