About “Power of the Pen”
Taking care of yourself through writing:
“When I started this project, I had no idea so many would join me. In late March 2020, I was quarantining in my parents’ attic, having left New York City as Covid-19 was surging. I was no stranger to isolation. For much of my twenties, I was in treatment for leukemia, unable to travel, eat out, see friends, even take a walk. Now isolation was back—this time on a global scale.”
“When you’re suffering—enduring some kind of rage or heartbreak, disappointment or plain human idiocy—it can feel like you’re alone, like you’re the only person who’s struggling this way. Often, the impulse in those moments is not to share or create but to hide…” Cont
By Concepción de León, The New York Time
As a tween, whenever my dad wanted me to do something for him, like deposit a check or write a letter or call customer service, he’d stop mid-instruction, give me a stern look and ask, “Are you writing this down?” Imagine a 12-year-old eye roll here. To my mind, I had an airtight system in place, relying on made-up medleys with a simple beat: check, letter, call Time Warner; check, letter, call Time Warner. If this sounds like a terrible strategy: You’re right, and it rarely worked. Read on
He made us lie on the couch in the small, dark apartment. This wasn’t just his favorite album; the work — from start to end — had changed him on a fundamental level. He wanted me to not just hear it, but experience it. My back against his stomach, his arms wrapped tightly around my too-small body. He suggested I close my eyes. His lack of embarrassment was astonishing, intoxicating. Several times I was on the verge of falling off the couch, but it didn’t matter. I had never believed in anything as much as he believed in this album. There was no world in which whatever came out of those speakers wouldn’t change me, too. I was already changed. Read on
by Felicia Sullivan
When people tell me that the mark of a writer is someone who commits to a word count or page count every day, I want to do two things: wipe their smug platitude clear across their face and laugh. Mostly, I laugh the laugh of crazed serial killers—the kind of back-of-the-throat guttural cackle that causes most people to slowly step away.
I’ve been writing since I was a child, and the idea of starting my day in front of a blank page is just as comforting as gouging out my eyes with an acetylene torch. Over the past decade, I’ve had two of my books published by traditional houses while balancing demanding jobs and a full-time life. And guess what? I didn’t have time for the romanticized writer existence where one sips freshly brewed coffee while wearing their threadbare robe as depicted in bad movies and blog posts. Of course, all writers are the coffee-guzzling, unkempt superstitious sort. Read on
By Brian Kurian
A simple guide you can use to find and develop your writing voice.
“When you are trying to find your writing voice don’t try to emulate any writer, not even your favorite. Sit quietly, listen, listen again, then listen some more and write out everything the voice says with no censoring — none — not one word.”
― Jan Marquart, The Basket Weaver
Many of you might be new to Blogging and writing. You might be reading some of the posts by some of the Writers on Medium thinking to yourself:
Good writing is hard. It’s okay to have help.
by Julia Rose
If it makes sense in your head, why doesn’t it sound the same when you write?
Translating thoughts and ideas to paper (or in the modern world, the Google Doc) is easier said than done. I write often and I appreciate the help of these 5 tools. Even if writing is not your profession, I’m certain you will enjoy using many of these apps.
We all write emails, texts, and facebook messages, after all.
Oh, did I mention they’re all free?
By Suleika Jaouad
My nomadic childhood as the self-anointed Mother Teresa of stray animals
I find the half-dead kitten behind a dumpster on my way back from the school bus. It lays motionless on the pavement, eyes sealed shut, gasoline-smeared fur glistening a burnt orange under the scorch of the Mediterranean sun. I scoop the kitten between cupped palms, careful to support its lolling head, and walk to the house.
In the heat, the white-domed roof shimmers; the sound of waves slapping sand beckon cool in the distance. I retrieve my tool kit and get to work in the courtyard, where palm fronds offer shade, mixing formula into a silky smooth consistency and filling the three-milliliter syringe. Cont
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Originally posted on The Renegade Press:
I was so busy chasing dreams that I couldn’t see that I was living in one. I was so concerned with telling everybody else how much I loved you that it never crossed my mind to tell you as well. I would wake every morning and gaze at your…
You will find stories about successful writers, as well as resources to become one yourself.