Friday “Flash” Fics — 9 a.m. Monday, Sharp

Okay, so this isn't a flash fiction piece. It's a short story. Normally, I try to keep my Friday Flash Fics pieces around or below 1,500 words or so, but this story just kept going. The picture reminded me of an idea I'd once tried to work into a novella, about a house existing outside … Continue reading Friday “Flash” Fics — 9 a.m. Monday, Sharp


Review: Of Echoes Born by ‘Nathan Burgoine

I am not gonna lie. When a reader gets exactly what you were trying to do, it’s a magical moment.

Elliott Dunstan

Oh man. Oh MAN. So – I love short stories. They’re wonderful to rea to master, and the best ones leave you just wanting more.

Interconnected short stories are even better. Stories that share a few characters here and there, similar themes, trickling with the slow realization that this is really all the same story, told bit by bit, piece by piece. Lives don’t go from beginning to end – they unfold, and bump into each other, leaving little blooms of colour along the way.

I’m waxing poetic. But the point is, Of Echoes Born is really, really fucking good. I think what’s really astonishing me about it is that it’s an unusual kind of good – it’s the type of book I don’t think I’ve encountered before, and I don’t imagine I’ll see again. (Unless I can tempted Monsieur Burgoine into another. I shall prepare the cupcakes.) Nathan Burgoine…

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Sunday Shorts—Once Ghosted, Twice Shy by Alyssa Cole

Ohmigosh I really enjoyed this. First, I want to talk format. This Sunday Shorts series lets me take a moment to focus on shorter fictions, be it short stories, novelettes, short plays, or novellas, and this book was a perfect reminder why I wanted to take time every week to focus on those formats. I … Continue reading Sunday Shorts—Once Ghosted, Twice Shy by Alyssa Cole

Professional envy. Or, Damn all the words.

I feel this. So very much. (And I like the notion of taking it to a motivational place, frankly.)

Brey Willows

I’m pretty sure most writers have been, or will go, there.

You read a book by another author friend of yours. It’s fucking fantastic. You read the beautifully constructed sentences, the tightly woven plot, the unexpected twist. It’s all so clever and lovely and fucking excellent.

And you think, why can’t I write like that? Why didn’t I think of constructing that sentence that way? I’d give my best toenail to have come up with that idea first…

And so on.

And then you see the reviews. That’s fun.

Seven page articles extolling the originality, the excellence, the depth. Star ratings that catapult the author to (niche) demigod status. Fans clamouring for their next book, for their attention, who can’t say enough about this most amazing author, whose back catalogue you simply must read…

And you’re happy for them. Genuinely. You know how that kind of thing can feed an…

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