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When I was functioning as that lowest of all life forms, the unpublished author, I benefited from established novelists willing to share their experiences. This article is intended to give something back, especially since my experience had some unexpected turns.

I quickly learned to prefer sending queries by snail mail. Yes, it is slower, expensive, and more work, but my perception is that paper queries are taken more seriously and less likely to be ignored. They are also harder to destroy than merely pushing a delete key.

Where I struck out on my own relative to what I was reading on the Internet was the volume and velocity of my campaign. I sent out more than 500 queries, each a customized package, in three months. I scrupulously abided by all guidelines listed for each agency or publisher except one. I did not abide by the industry’s requirement of honoring exclusive reading policies of agencies who request it.

This is an unethical system that appears to have been deliberately rigged to unfairly favor publishers at the expense of writers. Although many publishers no longer ask for it, it is a disgraceful legacy that needs to be put out of its misery as soon as possible. Ignoring it in a massive way will do that. I do, however, think that, for now, writers should state clearly that they are making simultaneous queries.

Why such a massive, saturation bombing approach to querying? Well, life is short, and the more leads you put out, the greater the chance of a productive hit. I also needed it because I discovered that I was disadvantaged relative to many other authors. My novel, Coinage of Commitment, is a new kind of love story, one written of characters who love at a higher level than we see all around us. Plus it is fittingly written in a more emotionally vivid style than is currently fashionable.

Sales figures tell me this works well for readers, but it did not appeal to agencies who, I quickly discovered, are very conservative, extremely risk averse, and looking only for something they are used to or which has sold well in the past. Many have political or ideological agendas that bias their decision making. I never did come that close to landing an agent. Publishers were more sympathetic, more interested in literature for its own sake, but it was still a tough row to hoe.

The high volume approach to querying was decisive in my case because without it I would not have found the three royalty publishers who offered me contracts. Only after I had exhausted the list of addresses in print sources like Writer’s Market, and those on subscription sites like Firstwriter.com, did I go to open sites like Predators & Editors. There I discovered a new class of royalty publisher not listed in the other sources. These are small outfits with low overheads, who use POD print technology (which is becoming widespread), and who do not accept returns.

Otherwise their books are carried by the leading distributors. This is a group of publishers who have sprung up in the last five years. Many of these folks seem to be in it more for the love of books and literature than the profit motive. I found them much more willing to consider something new, like what I was offering, and this is where I hit gold with my own project.

There are other related issues: how to progress as a writer and improve your manuscript while also trying to sell it; how to deal with independent editors when you feel your manuscript is not good enough; and how to deal with the shadier side of our industry during a query campaign. But that is for a future article.

I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I’d never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.

I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.

After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn’t feel that they were family at all, but that’s what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it “opening night.” Here they call it “making goal.” As you can imagine, I was confused.

I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn’t really interest me. When they weren’t obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud. Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex.

Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal.

Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold. I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important.

So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I’d enjoy driving a cab for a living.

Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn’t want to chant with my corporate family. I was ecstatic.

But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner.

Wouldn’t you know it, I was written up. At first I thought I’d earned some good review on the little monologue I gave to the company president on corporate greed. Not so, I was put on probation and sent home to watch Oprah, the Secret and meditate on changing my life as I sat by the Hudson with my Pomeranian re-reading What Color Is Your Parachute.

After two weeks, I was back on the planet Corporate wondering how I’d get through it. I couldn’t quit, it was already going to take me two years to get out of the debt I’d accumulated relying on an income doing extra film work and occasional voice overs for pharmaceutical drug companies. I needed the damn job. But something had shifted for me during my little reprisal from the bull pen of consumption. Maybe it was Oprah, maybe the law of attraction really works. I sure was intending to alter my present state. And it happened just like that. I put all my efforts into seeing myself as a happy little puppy and lo and behold, I started writing a novel.

Once I began, the words just flowed. I wrote and I wrote till my little fingers twitched. My life was altered forever by that simple action. I now started to wake at five am with a passion I hadn’t felt in years. I threw myself at the keyboard for an hour or more. I filled my weekends weaving a story, creating characters that I couldn’t get enough of. My joy was abundant.

Wouldn’t you know it? The bull pen became tolerable. Even the ice queen melted a bit and the complicated hidden agendas of coworkers became insignificant. My head was filled with plot and character. Who cares who wants my head on a corporate silver platter? What cared I for corporate agendas when my chapters flowed off the page? I thought about nothing else. My sales numbers even increased, as did my tolerance for the ice queens and bully boys on the Planet Corporate. How strange it all was.

Now I have a book, actually several books. You see, I stole back my time. I found a place that I wanted to be. You might say I took back my soul to write. I would advise anyone out there who has found themselves on an alien planet, to follow their passion as well, even if it doesn’t get you back on the planet Earth right away, I can assure you that eventually, it will, one way or the other. You see, your freedom will come out of the creation and your joy is in action, not the inaction of just feeling miserable. Writing is a place no one can enter or soil with demands you may never reach and definitions that limit you. So find your book and write it. If you don’t, your Corporate family will become the title of your life, and the spirit who longs to fly free will loose touch with the words that might have been, and the key to the door not taken.

I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I’d never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.

I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.

After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn’t feel that they were family at all, but that’s what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it “opening night.” Here they call it “making goal.” As you can imagine, I was confused.

I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn’t really interest me. When they weren’t obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud. Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex.

Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal.

Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold. I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important.

So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I’d enjoy driving a cab for a living.

Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn’t want to chant with my corporate family. I was ecstatic.

But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner.

Wouldn’t you know it, I was written up. At first I thought I’d earned some good review on the little monologue I gave to the company president on corporate greed. Not so, I was put on probation and sent home to watch Oprah, the Secret and meditate on changing my life as I sat by the Hudson with my Pomeranian re-reading What Color Is Your Parachute.

After two weeks, I was back on the planet Corporate wondering how I’d get through it. I couldn’t quit, it was already going to take me two years to get out of the debt I’d accumulated relying on an income doing extra film work and occasional voice overs for pharmaceutical drug companies. I needed the damn job. But something had shifted for me during my little reprisal from the bull pen of consumption. Maybe it was Oprah, maybe the law of attraction really works. I sure was intending to alter my present state. And it happened just like that. I put all my efforts into seeing myself as a happy little puppy and lo and behold, I started writing a novel.

Once I began, the words just flowed. I wrote and I wrote till my little fingers twitched. My life was altered forever by that simple action. I now started to wake at five am with a passion I hadn’t felt in years. I threw myself at the keyboard for an hour or more. I filled my weekends weaving a story, creating characters that I couldn’t get enough of. My joy was abundant.

Wouldn’t you know it? The bull pen became tolerable. Even the ice queen melted a bit and the complicated hidden agendas of coworkers became insignificant. My head was filled with plot and character. Who cares who wants my head on a corporate silver platter? What cared I for corporate agendas when my chapters flowed off the page? I thought about nothing else. My sales numbers even increased, as did my tolerance for the ice queens and bully boys on the Planet Corporate. How strange it all was.

Now I have a book, actually several books. You see, I stole back my time. I found a place that I wanted to be. You might say I took back my soul to write. I would advise anyone out there who has found themselves on an alien planet, to follow their passion as well, even if it doesn’t get you back on the planet Earth right away, I can assure you that eventually, it will, one way or the other. You see, your freedom will come out of the creation and your joy is in action, not the inaction of just feeling miserable. Writing is a place no one can enter or soil with demands you may never reach and definitions that limit you. So find your book and write it. If you don’t, your Corporate family will become the title of your life, and the spirit who longs to fly free will loose touch with the words that might have been, and the key to the door not taken.

Love songs are everywhere. But does anyone have a definition of love, which &ndash people claim &ndash makes the world go around? Sure, it’s easy to tell when you’re in love with someone. [The heart pounds and you act like an idiot.] But it’s much harder to say if you actually love someone.

Enter the mind of Harry Jenkins, as he is about to make love to Natasha,

And then he laughed at himself as he sank beneath the covers. No sane man would question such free and voluptuous pleasure, as if it could only be valued through thought. Only an idiot or a fool would try to analyze love and passion.

Nonetheless, like the fool, I seek a definition. Perhaps it is the lawyer in me. On the subject of love, Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist, is a sobering read. All of us, supposedly, carry within us, an animus [if you're female] and an anima [if you're male], which is the idealized image of the person you love. And so, when you are in love you are projecting this idealized image on a real, live person who might be naturally quite entitled to be different.

After the honeymoon, those annoying little cracks in the image appear, which could certainly explain the high divorce rate. When you find the real person doesn’t exactly match your superimposed ideal, what do you do?

All of these thoughts led me to explore people’s ideas of all kinds of love, not just the romantic variety, in Final Paradox, the second in The Osgoode Trilogy.

Harry Jenkins is the lawyer protagonist throughout the trilogy, which contain story lines of murder and fraud. He is in the thrall of the beautiful Natasha. His aging father, who abandoned him as a child, has just asked his forgiveness. Harry can’t seem to find that in his heart. Natasha asks him&ndash

What do you think love is?

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s about wanting someone as part of your life. Wanting them always with you.” He looked into her eyes. “Why? What do you think?”

“I think it’s about getting outside yourself and seeing another person’s life from their point of view. At least that’s a start,” Natasha replied.

Harry heard his father’s words. It’s all about you, is it? Would he always be the kid, he wondered?

Another character musing about love is Norma Dinnick &ndash an elderly client of Harry’s who trips back and forth between lucidity and madness. She recollects her stew of feelings for various men.

Going back to her hotel, Norma tried to understand. She knew about affection and caring from Arthur, her husband, who kept her safe from the emptiness. But she did not understand this business of love, which David talked about. She did know that such emotions gave her a sense of power. The sheer lust she experienced in the presence of George made her feel weak and vulnerable.

Norma simply doesn’t understand about love and neither does Bronwyn &ndash another character. An embittered soul, she has married a gay man and on her honeymoon – She wandered the narrow beach of sand and stone where the boats ferried back and forth to the grottos. No Peter. But then she saw him at a distance on the beach walking slowly with a younger man she did not know. Where had they come from? Right from the start, she had known. Of course, the bargain was unspoken, but well understood. For money and security, Bronwyn had sacrificed any chance for love.

But in the end, Harry does begin to get it. In bed with the lovely Natasha, he was

…transported outside his own body, he was overcome with the desire to know the dreams, fantasies and mysteries she held within. He would enter her world with love and understanding and never leave. The awe he felt in her closeness made his breathing slow and deepen in rhythm with hers. He watched his hand reach out of the shadows to smooth the sheet. She was at last in his bed and, fearing a mirage, he dared not wake her. In the past two weeks, his world had been shaken. His mind had become a jumble of colliding, conflicting events and consequences. Now he felt her power to draw his life together. A still peace gently settled over him like a silken web of meaning.

(Reprinted from Final Paradox by Mary E. Martin with permission).

Love songs are everywhere. But does anyone have a definition of love, which &ndash people claim &ndash makes the world go around? Sure, it’s easy to tell when you’re in love with someone. [The heart pounds and you act like an idiot.] But it’s much harder to say if you actually love someone.

Enter the mind of Harry Jenkins, as he is about to make love to Natasha,

And then he laughed at himself as he sank beneath the covers. No sane man would question such free and voluptuous pleasure, as if it could only be valued through thought. Only an idiot or a fool would try to analyze love and passion.

Nonetheless, like the fool, I seek a definition. Perhaps it is the lawyer in me. On the subject of love, Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist, is a sobering read. All of us, supposedly, carry within us, an animus [if you're female] and an anima [if you're male], which is the idealized image of the person you love. And so, when you are in love you are projecting this idealized image on a real, live person who might be naturally quite entitled to be different.

After the honeymoon, those annoying little cracks in the image appear, which could certainly explain the high divorce rate. When you find the real person doesn’t exactly match your superimposed ideal, what do you do?

All of these thoughts led me to explore people’s ideas of all kinds of love, not just the romantic variety, in Final Paradox, the second in The Osgoode Trilogy.

Harry Jenkins is the lawyer protagonist throughout the trilogy, which contain story lines of murder and fraud. He is in the thrall of the beautiful Natasha. His aging father, who abandoned him as a child, has just asked his forgiveness. Harry can’t seem to find that in his heart. Natasha asks him&ndash

What do you think love is?

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s about wanting someone as part of your life. Wanting them always with you.” He looked into her eyes. “Why? What do you think?”

“I think it’s about getting outside yourself and seeing another person’s life from their point of view. At least that’s a start,” Natasha replied.

Harry heard his father’s words. It’s all about you, is it? Would he always be the kid, he wondered?

Another character musing about love is Norma Dinnick &ndash an elderly client of Harry’s who trips back and forth between lucidity and madness. She recollects her stew of feelings for various men.

Going back to her hotel, Norma tried to understand. She knew about affection and caring from Arthur, her husband, who kept her safe from the emptiness. But she did not understand this business of love, which David talked about. She did know that such emotions gave her a sense of power. The sheer lust she experienced in the presence of George made her feel weak and vulnerable.

Norma simply doesn’t understand about love and neither does Bronwyn &ndash another character. An embittered soul, she has married a gay man and on her honeymoon – She wandered the narrow beach of sand and stone where the boats ferried back and forth to the grottos. No Peter. But then she saw him at a distance on the beach walking slowly with a younger man she did not know. Where had they come from? Right from the start, she had known. Of course, the bargain was unspoken, but well understood. For money and security, Bronwyn had sacrificed any chance for love.

But in the end, Harry does begin to get it. In bed with the lovely Natasha, he was

…transported outside his own body, he was overcome with the desire to know the dreams, fantasies and mysteries she held within. He would enter her world with love and understanding and never leave. The awe he felt in her closeness made his breathing slow and deepen in rhythm with hers. He watched his hand reach out of the shadows to smooth the sheet. She was at last in his bed and, fearing a mirage, he dared not wake her. In the past two weeks, his world had been shaken. His mind had become a jumble of colliding, conflicting events and consequences. Now he felt her power to draw his life together. A still peace gently settled over him like a silken web of meaning.

(Reprinted from Final Paradox by Mary E. Martin with permission).

It comes along more frequently than not: The thought that you’re insane and should pursue a career that doesn’t stomp on your pride or demolish your ego. You have the hopes of fame and fortune to comfort you at times, but not often enough to keep doubt from gnawing at your mind.

Discouragement is a constant companion. You face rejections. You spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain (and if you’re published, you face rejections; spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain). You endure looks of healthy disdain from people when you reveal you’re a writer. If you’re a literary writer, you’re regarded with some awe; a genre author; however, is looked upon with the same reverence as a stripper.

At times like these, quitting seems like a sensible thing to do. I would encourage it, if you are constantly depressed and on the verge of madness. It isn’t worth your sanity and publishing isn’t an industry that is concerned with keeping you sane. Drinking may no longer be common among writers, but it certainly is a temptation.

If rejections make you want to bang your head against the wall, writing is painful and the thought of another damn story swimming in your head makes you nauseous – Stop. Now. If you can’t stop, there’s help. Here are five reasons to stay a writer:

You don’t have to submit your work. There’s no obligation for a writer to share their work with editors and critics (Emily Dickinson is a fine example) you can write for the pleasure of it. If you do wish to publicize your work, you can self-publish. However, you don’t need to be published to be a writer (I know I keep saying this, but I will continue to do so until I am believed). Validation is great, creation divine. Create, explore, indulge! Be free. Write.

For immortality. When you die, there is a distinct possibility that your unpublished works will be discovered, you’ll be proclaimed a genius, your books will be translated into many languages both live and dead, turned into a film every few decades and inspire legions of writers who are obscure and writing anyway. If you don’t write, there will be nothing to discover.

Revenge. Remember that teacher who bloodied your beloved essays with red marks? That scathing critique partner with ‘helpful advice?’ That insolent editor who didn’t even bother to send a form rejection, but scribbled ‘No thanks’ on your query? Well, write to show the bastards! Strong emotions are a great motivation to write. Write to prove them wrong.

We need stories. Naturally, literary snobs would beg to differ, thinking literature is being polluted by uneducated neophytes who have the audacity to write because they have the ability to type their names.

Fortunately, I find their opinions as necessary as Athletes’ foot. Therefore, I implore you to tell your tales in your voice. No copycats please. It doesn’t matter if your prose doesn’t ring like Jane Austen, echo like J. California Cooper, bellow like Mark Twain, sing like JK Rowling’s or linger like Anne Lamott’s. We need stories to survive. Help us.

You get to determine your success. Writing can afford you big and little successes. The poem that brought a smile to your friend’s face, the essay that saved the front page of the neighborhood newsletter, the short story that helped a lonely teenager through a hard time, the novel that opened someone’s mind to a new way of thinking.

Okay, so you may never hit the bestseller’s list, win a National Book Award or any award for that matter. Perhaps only the sky will know your gifts. You’re living a dream few people allow themselves to experience. They talk about writing–some very loudly–but few do it. The world bends to those who proclaim who they are without apology (okay it doesn’t actually bend, but it does bow a little).

Because you must. That’s reason enough for me. I don’t have a style or voice that many know and my work isn’t breaking any records. There are times I want to throw up my hands and say, “Enough! I quit!” And the world sighs with relief, and I sigh feeling in control of my future. I stand up from my desk determined never to return. Then a little voice says… “There was this woman who discovered she was married to the wrong man…”

It comes along more frequently than not: The thought that you’re insane and should pursue a career that doesn’t stomp on your pride or demolish your ego. You have the hopes of fame and fortune to comfort you at times, but not often enough to keep doubt from gnawing at your mind.

Discouragement is a constant companion. You face rejections. You spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain (and if you’re published, you face rejections; spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain). You endure looks of healthy disdain from people when you reveal you’re a writer. If you’re a literary writer, you’re regarded with some awe; a genre author; however, is looked upon with the same reverence as a stripper.

At times like these, quitting seems like a sensible thing to do. I would encourage it, if you are constantly depressed and on the verge of madness. It isn’t worth your sanity and publishing isn’t an industry that is concerned with keeping you sane. Drinking may no longer be common among writers, but it certainly is a temptation.

If rejections make you want to bang your head against the wall, writing is painful and the thought of another damn story swimming in your head makes you nauseous – Stop. Now. If you can’t stop, there’s help. Here are five reasons to stay a writer:

You don’t have to submit your work. There’s no obligation for a writer to share their work with editors and critics (Emily Dickinson is a fine example) you can write for the pleasure of it. If you do wish to publicize your work, you can self-publish. However, you don’t need to be published to be a writer (I know I keep saying this, but I will continue to do so until I am believed). Validation is great, creation divine. Create, explore, indulge! Be free. Write.

For immortality. When you die, there is a distinct possibility that your unpublished works will be discovered, you’ll be proclaimed a genius, your books will be translated into many languages both live and dead, turned into a film every few decades and inspire legions of writers who are obscure and writing anyway. If you don’t write, there will be nothing to discover.

Revenge. Remember that teacher who bloodied your beloved essays with red marks? That scathing critique partner with ‘helpful advice?’ That insolent editor who didn’t even bother to send a form rejection, but scribbled ‘No thanks’ on your query? Well, write to show the bastards! Strong emotions are a great motivation to write. Write to prove them wrong.

We need stories. Naturally, literary snobs would beg to differ, thinking literature is being polluted by uneducated neophytes who have the audacity to write because they have the ability to type their names.

Fortunately, I find their opinions as necessary as Athletes’ foot. Therefore, I implore you to tell your tales in your voice. No copycats please. It doesn’t matter if your prose doesn’t ring like Jane Austen, echo like J. California Cooper, bellow like Mark Twain, sing like JK Rowling’s or linger like Anne Lamott’s. We need stories to survive. Help us.

You get to determine your success. Writing can afford you big and little successes. The poem that brought a smile to your friend’s face, the essay that saved the front page of the neighborhood newsletter, the short story that helped a lonely teenager through a hard time, the novel that opened someone’s mind to a new way of thinking.

Okay, so you may never hit the bestseller’s list, win a National Book Award or any award for that matter. Perhaps only the sky will know your gifts. You’re living a dream few people allow themselves to experience. They talk about writing–some very loudly–but few do it. The world bends to those who proclaim who they are without apology (okay it doesn’t actually bend, but it does bow a little).

Because you must. That’s reason enough for me. I don’t have a style or voice that many know and my work isn’t breaking any records. There are times I want to throw up my hands and say, “Enough! I quit!” And the world sighs with relief, and I sigh feeling in control of my future. I stand up from my desk determined never to return. Then a little voice says… “There was this woman who discovered she was married to the wrong man…”

Sitting down in front of a blank screen, you type out a sequence of words followed by a period. You pause for a moment, you backspace it all away and you type another new string of words. You know what I mean?

Why is it that at times writing comes easily, but at other times it barely trickles out? Part of the reason may be that you are losing all of your best ideas in between those sit-downs at the computer.

When you have ideas or see things which get you thinking, write them down. Collect them in some way. Odds are within a few days of doing this you will see relations and trends you would not have noticed before. This will lead to more quality content. Think of the outstanding quality of articles that you’ll be writing over the course of weeks and even months?

Something I have found myself doing since I began blogging, is writing a huge amount of memos and small notes. They can be either halfway completed or standing as headlines only. While it can be daunting to stare at a big list of articles waiting to be written, it can also make the process of beginning to write a bit easier when you hit a creative roadblock.

It can also be very helpful to use a writing tool that tracks changes. I use Writeboard, but there are others out there. Even MS Word can track changes if you want. Keep your ideas flowing, and keep working on them over time.

Do not skip over silly ideas and stories. You never know what might come in handy later.

Actively investigate the world around you. Be a journalist all the time. Ask questions and look for details. You might be surprised at how many ideas jump out at you.

For more details and my inspiration for this article you can visit my site mentioned in the Author field.

Sitting down in front of a blank screen, you type out a sequence of words followed by a period. You pause for a moment, you backspace it all away and you type another new string of words. You know what I mean?

Why is it that at times writing comes easily, but at other times it barely trickles out? Part of the reason may be that you are losing all of your best ideas in between those sit-downs at the computer.

When you have ideas or see things which get you thinking, write them down. Collect them in some way. Odds are within a few days of doing this you will see relations and trends you would not have noticed before. This will lead to more quality content. Think of the outstanding quality of articles that you’ll be writing over the course of weeks and even months?

Something I have found myself doing since I began blogging, is writing a huge amount of memos and small notes. They can be either halfway completed or standing as headlines only. While it can be daunting to stare at a big list of articles waiting to be written, it can also make the process of beginning to write a bit easier when you hit a creative roadblock.

It can also be very helpful to use a writing tool that tracks changes. I use Writeboard, but there are others out there. Even MS Word can track changes if you want. Keep your ideas flowing, and keep working on them over time.

Do not skip over silly ideas and stories. You never know what might come in handy later.

Actively investigate the world around you. Be a journalist all the time. Ask questions and look for details. You might be surprised at how many ideas jump out at you.

For more details and my inspiration for this article you can visit my site mentioned in the Author field.