How tremendous are the mountain peaks
Stately pinnacles dipped white and blue
In full winter flare makes all seem bleak
To brave climber’s adventure they pursue
How dense are the shadowy glades — full bright
Towering high in tangles: branch and leaf
Roots and Flowers fill eyes with delight
But direction is abandoned for grief
How white is the froth on the blue waves
Flowing down the river stream, “Come play”
It calls fair the boat man to his grave
For it pulls its friend under anyway
How sly the tiger creeps. Its golden eye
Due to the quarantines around the world, writers might be finding themselves with a lot of free time. If I wasn’t already working from home during this pandemic, I know that I would have been extremely motivated to finally start writing my book. A month (and now it sounds like we are getting yet another month) is quite a long time when you really start to plan a goal around it. So, if your goal is to use this time writing, here is my advice on how to maximize your productivity.
Habits Don’t Change Overnight!
If it’s been quite a…
It had been Mr. Turner who had seen Dale Sanders last. Mr. Turner spent most of his time snooping on his neighbors, and Mr. Sanders was the most interesting as of late because his wife had recently passed. The Turner’s house was just across the street from the Sanders’, which gave Mr. Turner the perfect view from his front window. More than a few times a day he would shuffle his way to the window and peer out saying to his wife, “Have you seen Dale lately? I’m worried about him. He doesn’t usually stay in the house all day.”
The front-page article, printed August 15th, 2000, in the local paper of Blackridge, California began like this:
Butterfield Arcade Set To Close This Fall After Owner Passes Away at Fifty-Six
Underneath the heading was a wide copy of an old photo. In it stood a thirty-one year old Charles Butterfield with wide dark rimmed glasses and a shaggy moptop haircut. He was dressed in flared brown trousers with a mustard colored button up shirt. Behind him stood the newly opened Butterfield Arcade. …
Until his death at eighty-five Aaron Cotton Vicker enjoyed retelling the story of how he had bought the leather couch. At that time Ampanill was still a vast fruitful land, with rolling hills of crumb deserts, where cotton fields grew in abundance. Atop the hills that surrounded the village of homespun houses where Cotton Vicker lived grew clusters of velvet trees, which could be seen from people’s windows, and it was known to everyone in the village that just beyond the ridge lay a dense forest. It was required, at that time, to travel miles to visit a neighbor, for…
Disclaimer: This story is by no means attempting to make fun of people who are overweight or struggling with obesity. It is a surreal dream about a man who struggles with years of body shaming and the metaphorical effects that it has on him. It’s about him removing all of the negative advice and harassment, allowing him to finally see himself clearly.
One morning, after a night of terrifying dreams, Collin Willis awoke to find that he was morbidly obese. He had gained so much weight in the middle of the night that he couldn’t even move. …
Camilla Katrina Camarillo was an impulse buyer, but more importantly she was obsessed with infomercials.
Camilla was a thirty-five year old woman with jet black wavy hair and a thin figure. She had two large bright brown eyes, which shone with an intensity of self-confidence. She had every reason to be confident. She was beautiful. She owned her own house on Park Court, which was painted a lovely ocean blue (a color she had chosen). She had a respectable job as a translator at her local elementary school. Plus, she was dating the man of her dreams, Dominic Ramirez.
“Thank you for your purchase! Happy Valentine’s Day!”
The valentine was on Digz Fellor’s terminal that morning when he arrived at work. It was sealed in a burgundy envelope and smelled of Cloud 26. Molly Chase’s Cloud 26.
Digz felt his face grow hot when he saw it. He shot anxious glances around the room wondering who else had seen. The fifteenth floor of Lucidity Studios was a long white room. Stationed in precise rows around the room were the egg-shaped terminals. It was exactly 9:05 in the morning, and everyone was already secure in their sensory pods. Looking up…
I can already hear the resounding screams of protest. It’s OK. Take a deep breath.
It has been my experience that this topic divides large groups of writers directly down the middle. It’s a topic fueled with passionate opinions and stubborn decisions. The general consensus falls upon two distinct lines.
The First: That mainstream fiction is nothing more than fluff. It should never be considered literature.
The Second: That literature is outdated, intimidating, and difficult to understand.
I don’t think it has to be this way.
I have a bachelor’s degree in English literature. However, for much of my…
Josh Gonzalez is a writer and artist. He has a Bachelors degree in English Literature, and enjoys collecting books.