We have to let it all sink into our flesh until we have no other choice but to write about it.
This is the plight of the indie author. When you go it alone, nobody really knows you’re there.
When I was growing up, I didn't have posters of rock bands on my bedroom walls. I had pictures of Leo Tolstoy, Ivan Turgenev, and Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Here’s what I see each semester when I look out at the crop of new faces: terror.
A thousand of your competitors are writing about life in New York. Who's competing with you to write about life in your town?
