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A Confession About Revision—Let the Carnage Begin

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The hardest—and probably most painful—part of writing is accepting criticism. When I walk into class after returning their first edited manuscript, some students smile politely while mourning the loss of a limb; others behave as if I’ve performed a full lobotomy. I sigh the unavoidable sigh of a writing teacher, hand back the pages, and brace myself. There’s no other way out. I have to give them the news the same way I’d want it delivered to me. I still remember my first editorial review from a writing professor. I thanked him feebly, but panic nearly paralyzed me. Was he telling me my work was hopeless? Unrevivable? My only comfort was knowing he let me keep coming back. The first draft is a joyride—a glorious shut-off-the-brain sprint so the story can tumble out. But revision? That’s when the gloves go on and we start poking around inside the body. Is that a tumor? Will that limb need amputation? I nearly second-guessed myself into heart failure while learning to self-edit. Us...
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When Writing is Passage. . . and Prayer

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The bravest choice a writer makes is to tell the truth—especially when it means telling the truth about herself. I’ve watched new student writers hold back, protecting their protagonists (and, let’s be honest, themselves), leaving only a few peripheral characters—like ex-husbands or old boyfriends—to be sacrificed. The details of the human condition are often sanitized or gagged. We can’t connect with her story, because the wounded soul inside is dressed up in stretch-leggings and big earrings, like Malibu Barbie on her best day. But the confessional writer? She comes to the page like a wailing wall. She kneels, and the story spills—messy, improper, and real. It’s not a protest. It’s not graffiti. It’s an offering: fragments of what she overlooked, or what others missed completely. She risks exposure, yes—but she remembers what it was like to live in hiding. And that was worse. She can’t turn back now. This is how life has spun out of her: part vexing passage, part prayer.
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Those Wonderful Friends Who Read

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There’s something quietly beautiful about friends who follow their curiosity through books. They chase questions, dive into unfamiliar worlds, and emerge changed— sometimes in small ways, sometimes profoundly. If you’re lucky enough to have one of these readers in your life, supporting them can be a meaningful way to deepen your connection. Start by showing genuine interest. Ask them what they’re reading—not just the title, but what drew them to it. Let them talk about the ideas or characters that linger with them, and listen without rushing to respond. A thoughtful question like, “What surprised you most?” or “Has this book changed how you see something?” can open the door to a deeper kind of conversation, one that honors both the book and the reader. It helps, too, to share pieces of your own reading life—not as a recommendation list, but as an offering. If you’ve come across a book or a line that resonates with something they’ve mentioned, pass it along gently, with no pressure to r...
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What May Fly Out of the Writing Cave

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I remember the first time I sat down at a blank computer screen. I had finally organized my family and finances to carve out time for my first novel. What I hadn’t planned for was the screen’s intimidating glare. It stared back at me, daring me: Well, what will you do with me now? I had no choice but to plunge in and write wrong for a while. And then, one day, a viable story emerged. I finally sold my first novel after twelve failed book proposals. If luck resides anywhere near the number thirteen, I’ll claim it. Even after eighteen books, the fear of the blank screen still waits for me at the end of each project. Starting again—the next idea, the next best plot I can hope to imagine—remains just as daunting as it was the first time. Every writer must choose the next story. That decision either springs from a desire to please—or from somewhere deeper. Sure, we might sweat out these narratives for practical reasons, but something else drives us too. Stories echo around the cave of...
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For Days the Line Won't Move

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Sometimes the delay is the real turning point. I'm in the tenuous, last-week stage of house-building fatigue—those final days when you're buried in paperwork, chasing down missing items, and making constant Lowe’s runs to replace the things that won’t do. Out of print paper, we ducked into the neighborhood CVS to save a trip to the suburbs, hoping a single ream would cover the final round of documents to print and fax. I got in line with my paper and a few last-minute items. One lone, clearly exhausted checker was holding down the fort on this busy Saturday afternoon. At the front of the line stood a woman of foreign origin, her head covered, her body wrapped in bright fabrics. Her velvet-black skirt brushed the floor. I was customer number nine. The line stretched behind me—grumbling included a man with a cane who muttered loudly, "We should have gone to the Walgreens." I'll admit I was already weary. I took a deep breath and tried to battle back the impatie...
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Benny’s Story: Finding Voice and Power Through Writing

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I asked my students to write a personal essay — a story only they could tell — with rising tension and a clear beginning, middle, and end. Simple instructions. But then came Benny. Benny had arrived at our large city university from a rural community in North Carolina. Many of my students came from similar backgrounds, but Benny’s writing revealed deep struggles: he hadn’t yet mastered even basic subject-verb agreement. His sentences sputtered and broke apart like a puzzle missing key pieces. When Benny first met with me, he was petrified. “I’m going to flunk, right?” he asked. He wanted me to know he was good at math. I sensed he’d long avoided English classes, treating them as useless — like harp lessons for a Beluga whale. Despite the tangled language, Benny’s essay shone through with the weight of his large heart. I asked him to tell me the story aloud. Suddenly, his words came alive, raw and powerful. I was spellbound. “Benny, this is going to be one of the most important ...
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Dance With . . .

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