Theme Essay by Virginia Foley
When I need to dig deeper, get grittier, I imagine that smoke-filled room, the overflowing ashtray, the Olivetti.
When I need to dig deeper, get grittier, I imagine that smoke-filled room, the overflowing ashtray, the Olivetti.
My husband rolls his eyes, saying to our boy, 'Your mother is barely connected to this planet.'
Eight years, two books, and hundreds of op-ed pieces later, I no longer believe that authors must work an eight-hour day in order to be considered real writers.
It turns out that human beings—even writers—do need sleep. Authors are creative human beings, not machines.
Sitting down to write this is the longest stretch I’ve managed in two days, and it’s because I’m on a deadline.
I am a shy person. I have struggled my whole life to put myself out there.
This is the plight of the indie author. When you go it alone, nobody really knows you’re there.
Quibbling over a comma might seem absurd to anyone who isn’t an editor.
A work in progress can take on 'the glaze of finality,' especially when Word has made a rough draft look like a published piece.
Even small agencies are inundated by the river of junk that streams through their doors—and there's often little that's new and different.