There were three of us standing around, after a meeting, chatting. Making small talk, about the elections, work, kids. One of the somebodies brought up my blog, commented they read something I wrote and really, really liked it (which I can never hear too much of). She then asked what I’m working on now. “Oh, I dunno. I’m trying to figure out what I want to do, and how to do
Authors discuss if blogging is real writing and my head explodes
Twice, (okay, maybe three or four times) recently I have been insulted to the level of despair, which is in part, why I got my blogging ass to a BinderCon NYC (a serious writing conference for women and non-males), and why I committed to doing #NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) to post one blog a day for 30 days of November (this is #5). Here’s how one such insult went
Vaguebook to a writer’s rescue
Been struggling a bit with the writing. My writing. To do or not to do. Not with content, this is not writer’s block. I’ve got content believe me: everywhere I look life is screaming to be heard, stories aching to be told. Laughed at. Exposed. Teased, tormented, loved, shared. Told.