How to write freely and without fear

The Cat's Write

Have you ever sat down to work on your novel, only to have your fingers seize up and your imagination wither into a million atomic-seized particles? And was it because an adverb accidentally slipped out and you have no clue how to describe Becky’s great hair without saying it looked like a “tightly coiled halo of ringlets”?

If this is an accurate description of yourself, then you and I could be adverb soul mates! And if you’ve read On Writing by Stephen King, you will understand how much of a sin the adverb can be. Sorry, I said that wrong. It’s not a sin, but a hallmark of a bad writer.

And look, I’m gonna have to agree. It’s okay to use them sparingly, but if you search your WIP and can find more than 10,000 words ending in ‘ly’, then yes, you may have a problem, one that may…

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Forgetful

Frank Solanki

I think I am forgetting something I shouldn’t forget
I’ve marked it on the calendar but the reason hasn’t struck yet
Is it Anne’s anniversary? Is it Beth’s birthday?
Am I supposed to be at home? Or go out with Beyonce?
Am I supposed to be at Fred’s to catch a football game?
If I’ve stood you up today, I am not to blame
Blame it on my memory. It’s faulty and it’s frail
Storage is all well and good but retrieval is a fail
That’s what age makes you do. Everything goes astray
Oh boy I can’t remember just what it is today

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Castle in the air

Shreya Vikram

There is a castle I live in, with glass walls that kiss the sky.

It holds clasped around it an air of mystique, of whispered secrets and hushed murmurs, cloaked around those four glass walls no one has seen within. There are no doors and windows, no way of entering at all. The glass is tinted, so that everything inside is merely a grey blur.

Inside: the grass is dead, the air stale.

Each day, I step outside, and I am remoulded, recast into different flesh, en vogue.

I step outside and my shadow is lighter, as though I have left a shade of it behind.

I step outside, and my world is anything I want it to be.

I can be one amidst a million again, a thread blending seamlessly into the cloth. Or I can be a single streak of silver against black.


I am a storyteller: telling…

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