Reading. Writing. Me.
There were pancakes everywhere. The whole house was covered with them. There was no rhythm or logic to their placement, no obvious tale they were meant to tell. Yet it was clear that they were the key. The issue of the issue.
The longer I write fiction, the more I realize that my version of "write what you know," looks like me working through my trauma by writing it. The first time I knowingly wrote my trauma into a story was when I wrote about a character being molested. It was supposed to be her story, part... Continue Reading →
This summer, I'm trying to buckle down and get through a complete rewrite of my fantasy novel, Immortal Bond. It's been slow going, not just because of our upcoming bundle of joy, but because of the growth I've experienced as a writer since last summer. I started my rewrite by analyzing my characters in each... Continue Reading →
I'm not accustomed to this level of praise from anyone but my husband. My professor is holding out my short story to the rest of the class, my √++ a loud red against the white paper. It's screaming, "loved it" almost literally, because that's what he's written next to my grade. "Look at the format. This is... Continue Reading →
R. C. Svendsen 