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Writers on Writing Vol.4: Writers on Writing, #4
Writers on Writing Vol.4: Writers on Writing, #4
Writers on Writing Vol.4: Writers on Writing, #4
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Writers on Writing Vol.4: Writers on Writing, #4

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This is Writers On Writing, the fourth and final installment in the series – an Author's Guide, where your favorite authors share their secrets in the ultimate guide to becoming and being an author.

Line-up:
Blunt Force Trauma: How to Write Killer Poetry by Stephanie M. Wytovich
Happy Little Trees by Michael Knost
In Lieu of Patience Bring Diversity by Kenneth W. Cain
Networking is Scary, but Essential by Doug Murano
Are You In The Mood? by Sheldon Higdon
What if Every Novel is a Horror Novel? by Steve Diamond
Description: You Can't Win so Why Play by Patrick Freivald
Long Night's Journey Into…This? A First-Time Novelist's Odyssey by William Gorman
I Am Setting by J.S. Breukelaar
Finding Your Voice by Lynda E. Rucker

Writers On Writing gives young authors the guidance they need, but has advice for all authors, from the interested newbie to the seasoned veteran. This series of essays on the craft of writing include all topics related to writing fiction, including:
The Basics
Plot & Structure
Voice
Theme
POV
Characterization
Dialogue
Narrative
Creating a bond with your reader
Pacing
Advanced writing and plotting techniques
Writer's block
Marketing
Branding
Publishing
Self-publishing
Healthy habits
Bad habits
The Writer's Life
eBook formatting
Paperback formatting
Amazon keywords
Writing blurbs and descriptions
Cover design & layout
Productivity
The Classics
Short stories
Poetry
The Writing Process
Show don't Tell
Self-editing
Proofreading
Building a solid career
Targeting a specific genre
Genre Fiction
Literary Fiction
Sharpening your writing skills
Making every word count
Deadlines
Putting together an Anthology
Working with other artists
Collaborating
Grammar
Punctuation
Writing for a career
Treating it as a business
Running a small press
Financing your career
Keeping track of your royalties
Staying motivated
Writing movies
Writing comics
Writing games
Building a fan-base
Online presence
Newsletters
Podcasting
Author interviews
Media appearances
Websites
Blogging
And so much more…

Are you ready to unleash the author in you?

LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 11, 2017
ISBN9781386782070
Writers on Writing Vol.4: Writers on Writing, #4

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    Book preview

    Writers on Writing Vol.4 - Sheldon Higdon

    TABLE OF CONTENTS

    INTRODUCTION

    Joe Mynhardt

    BLUNT-FORCE TRAUMA

    How to Write Killer Poetry

    Stephanie M. Wytovich

    HAPPY LITTLE TREES

    Michael Knost

    IN LIEU OF PATIENCE BRING DIVERSITY

    Kenneth W. Cain

    NETWORKING IS SCARY, BUT ESSENTIAL

    Doug Murano

    ARE YOU IN THE MOOD?

    Sheldon Higdon

    WHAT IF EVERY NOVEL IS A HORROR NOVEL?

    Steve Diamond

    DESCRIPTION

    You Can’t Win, so Don’t Play

    Patrick Freivald

    LONG NIGHT’S JOURNEY INTO . . . THIS?

    A First-Time Novelist’s Odyssey

    William Gorman

    I AM SETTING

    J.S. Breukelaar

    FINDING YOUR VOICE

    Lynda E. Rucker

    THE END?

    BIOGRAPHIES

    INTRODUCTION

    Welcome, readers, to the fourth and final installment of what has certainly been an educational road trip—a journey through the literary minds of Jack Ketchum, Tim Waggoner, Brian Hodge, Lucy A. Snyder, Kealan Patrick Burke, Jonathan Janz, and so many more amazing authors.

    This volume will be no different, presenting you with ten essays written especially for you, ranging from writing dark poetry to creating setting and mood in your fiction. I trust that, although there are countless topics on writing fiction, this final volume will bring the series full circle for you, and further you along your career path.

    I hope you’ve had a great time with us and the Writers on Writing authors, and we all hope to ‘see’ you in our next non-fiction project/series.

    Never stop learning.

    Let the journey continue.

    Joe Mynhardt

    CEO/Editor

    Crystal Lake Publishing

    BLUNT-FORCE TRAUMA

    How to Write Killer Poetry

    Stephanie M. Wytovich

    Blunt-force trauma is defined as a serious, sometimes fatal, injury caused by a blunt object or surface. It’s a physical act. A beating. A bludgeoning. It doesn’t always have to be thought out. It can be an accident, a spontaneous act fueled by rage, by sorrow, by passion. Or it could be the result of something methodical, well-planned. Maybe the inflictor had been contemplating the idea of murder, getting the feel and taste and scent of homicide all over and inside his or her body. Blunt-force trauma is visceral, raw, and either way, it’s the resulting aftermath of one’s instincts and morality at war. It’s an assault on the body, but the trauma also leaves a lasting impression on the mind and the spirit, as well.

    And that’s what poetry is all about.

    It’s the meditation on and exploration of the wound and how it came to be.

    I started writing poetry—probably like most of you—in my teens. I wrote in journals for years, but I never let anyone read my work because I had a hard time talking about a lot of issues and concerns that I was having at that point in my life. My then-therapist mentioned that if I was having problems exposing, accepting, and expressing my pain, that I should try poetry as a way to dissect the images and emotions that I was stuck on or having trouble moving past. She told me poetry would step in and be my medication, my catharsis. If I wrote every day, I would feel better.

    And so I did.

    At first, my pages were filled with line after line of purple prose—a style of flowery, overdramatized language—and it was dark, and sad, and borderline gothic in a way that gave emo a run for its money. But having said that, my bad poetry did something that was a necessary and important part of learning the craft: It taught me to be honest, to put exactly what I was feeling, and how I was feeling it, right on the page. It gave me permission not to hold back, to be frank with myself, and to do and say what I needed to in order to tell my story.

    The blank page let me yell. I could scream and curse and draw blood and it accepted it without complaint or fight. It let me get angry, and it was there for me when I needed to cry. I wrote without revision like that for years, just filled journal after journal, notebook after notebook, and when I went to college, I used Duct Tape to bind them all shut so no one would ever read them (at least not without a struggle). I spent a year or two reading nothing but poetry, and it was at that point I realized that while I liked what I was doing, I didn’t have a style, a niche. I was writing memoir, but I wasn’t exactly writing prose. I was incorporating elements of speculative fiction, but I wasn’t quite writing horror. I got really frustrated and realized that when it came to writing poetry, that I was more or less a verbal loose cannon and that I had no idea what I was doing at all, other than being honest about my fears.

    So I went home one weekend, ripped open all of my journals, and flipped through them one by one as I took notes in a separate diary. I collected images, phrases, connected themes and motifs. I analyzed the demons that had been following me for years, and I accepted the darkness that was still lurking inside of me and causing conflict.

    I made a collage of my injuries, my lesions, and my bruises. I watched myself grow up, listened to my heart break, and I revisited the places in my mind that I went to when I needed protection. Then when I had what I needed—my style, my niche, my memories—I threw those journals into a fire pit and said goodbye to weakness, to suffering, and to vulnerability as I watched my past burn while I paved a new path for my future.

    That was the day I remember becoming a poet. It was in that moment when I accepted my scars not as something that made me weak, but rather as something that made me strong, that I found my voice. Not just my poetic voice, but my voice as a woman, as a feminist, and as a soon-to-be writer with a flair for confessional poetry and a dark, speculative edge.

    I independently studied poetry for years after that. Outside of my classes in college, I read voraciously and I took note of my reactions to certain poems and artists. I read poets from different countries, from different religious affiliations, genres, and gender/sexual preferences. I took notes on how I felt after reading their work, and I studied their structure, their habits, their tells. I went to readings, I listened to lectures, but when I would sit down to write, I always felt as if I were knocking on a door that was never going to open.

    How was I supposed to get into the asylum of my mind?

    What was my poetry lacking? Where was the intensity? The blunt-force trauma?

    I asked myself these questions and thought long and hard about them. I had spent four years studying literature and art history, but that was only a part of me and a fraction of what I wanted to do with my writing. That’s when I made the decision to go to graduate school, where for another two and a half years I did nothing but study horror and learn about gore and murder, monsters and madmen.

    At that point, my muse developed a face.

    And a motive.

    And a weapon of choice.

    Meshing literary and speculative fiction together was something that I felt—and feel—strongly about. I think there is something hauntingly beautiful

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