The Fiction-Writing Directorate » Ethelie

An Exhortation: Concerning Inspiration

Ethelie — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 01:21:17 +0000

Some days, it seems the Halls of the Directorate are filled with Agents bemoaning their Lack of Inspiration.

Pah! What a feeble Excuse! Henceforth, any Agent who dares Proffer it will be Imprisoned in a dark Closet with the Plot Spider and her little Spiderlings. Perhaps the sensation of Thousands of tiny Feet clambering over your Helpless Body will prove sufficient Inspiration.

However, I fear that Agents who are not in the Environs of the Directorate may not Benefit from such gentle Inspiration. Hence, I offer alternate Sources. I encourage you to Peruse these Offerings. What exquisite Tales hide in each, waiting only for your Skill and Persistence to bring them Forth!

The Library of Congress digital collection contains a wealth of images, audio files, videos, and printed documents on any Subject you can Imagine. Who could not be Inspired by Images such as this?

Terror at the Library of Congress

Art: Tor.com’s A Is For Artist series neatly arranges Artists in Alphabetical Order, providing easy Access to Hundreds of images sure to Strike you with Inspiration.

Science: Peruse Scientific American or New Scientist for Tantilizing developments in the Scientific Arts. Consider these headlines:

Surely you needn’t even read the Articles to think of a dozen Tales!

Pinterest: Peruse collections of Images curated by other Users. (The Directorate wishes to thank Ms. Eliason for bringing this Web-Site to our Awareness.)

Lighten Up: Sometimes, the finest Inspiration comes in the form the subtle Humor of Ms. Hyperbole, and the Fish Post in particular.

Inspiration is Everywhere

If nothing else, I trust this List of Splendid Resources serves to Demonstrate the wealth of Inspiration that Surrounds you. Your Recalcitrance, I fear, has murkier Roots, and the feeble cry “But I don’t have an Idea!” is but a cowardly Facade. Wrest your Idea from the Aether — and then Confront the true Nature of your Reluctance, ere you are confronted by a Hound.

Upon what Sources of Inspiration do you rely? Share with us in the Comments, Brave Agents!

The NaNoWriMo Survival Guide

Ethelie — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 16:55:55 +0000

O my little March Hares! In a few short Hours, it will be November, which means Novel-Writing Season, under the Gentle Auspices of NaNoWriMo. For the Benefit of the Uninitiated, participants must Write 50,000 words in the month of November. Some Writers report tremendous amounts of Fun occuring.

The Directorate is of Two Minds concerning this Phenomenon. One mind Relishes the thought of so many Brave Writers simply Writing. Yet another Mind trembles: for each Writer that completes their allotted Words, hundreds — perhaps even Thousands — of other writers Perish in the Attempt, and their abandoned Words fester, and soon Rise and Walk the Earth on their Spindly Limbs, and Devour the Creative Soul of their Erstwhile Authors.

Indeed, it is the Mission of the Directorate to ensure that Words Get Written, lest the Worst occur; thus we Fear all the unwritten words Spawned by NaNoWriMo. Hence, we have Compiled our most Useful References for NaNoWriMo Participants. Read this List and Learn, my little Acorn Squash! We Trust it will be of Use to you in your Quest to subsiste sermonem statim et scribe.

Inspirational Guidance

How To Write a Novel in 30 Days, by Esteemed Novelist Catherynne M. Valente. The Directorate particularly enjoys Rule Five: Don’t Fail.

Next, turn your attention to Mr. Kerouac’s Belief and Technique for Modern Prose. You’re a Genius all the Time.

Finally, Sugar challenges you to Write Like a Motherfucker.

Plot Development Techniques

Some writers find it Felicitous to simply Write, and let the Plot unmask itself in the Moment instead of by Plan. Other Writers, however, suffer Great Anguish from not knowing their Plots in Advance. If you are the Latter type of Author, perhaps these Lessons will be of Benefit.

The Snowflake Method: Begin with a one-sentence Summary, and develop the Details in methodical way.

Sketch a Novel in an Hour exercise: Eleven questions guide you to a Plot.

Miscellanea

Lest ye Forget, Dr. Wicked’s Write or Die forces you to write Quickly or Suffer the Consequences.

Do not Underestimate the NaNoWriMo site itself as a Source of Encouragement and Wisdom. Your local Forums may provide Companionship and Solace; the National Forums may provide Information, Dares, and Support.

Prepare Yourselves, young Writers!

Your adventure begins at Midnight.

How may we be of Assistance?

An Exhortation from the Giant Squid

Ethelie — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 16:00:16 +0000

AN EXHORTATION FROM THE GIANT SQUID, EDITOR-IN-ABSENTIA OF HIS POOR MOJO’S ALMANAC(K) AND RELATED LITERARY CONCERNS

My Dearest Scribblers and Scribblerixes,

Please pardon the dearth of prefatory pleasantries in this, my brief missive, but I fear that time is not in overabundance: I have just now had the good fortune to lay hold to a hand-crank cellular telephone clumsily left over-near my temporary confines here, and have but a brief moment to text unto you all my “OMFG”-worthy predicament, for I find myself held prisoner within the extensive bowels of what I am beginning to be made to suspect may be the main (or possibly prime subsidiary) offices of the Fiction-Writing Directorate.

GASP!

Indeed! Lower your shockéd and supercilious brows, Gentle Readers, for it is true: I am held here against my will, all due to what I have begun to suspect are the sinister machinations of the American Meteorological Society, in conjunction with the Target Corporation.

To abridge what might otherwise be an oppressively complex tale: Some months past I received a certified letter reminding me of an obligation I had made to George Dayton (founder of Target Corporation) in 1906, on the occasion of the celebration of the nuptials of his eldest son, David, and a distant cousin of mine, Beatrix–an invitation I had intended to decline, until I had discovered that I would already be in the vicinity on other business, and that a four-course dinner would be served with open bar (I was not always the well-to-do cephalopod you know and love today, Dear Readers). In the end, I was so charmed by the ceremony–not to mention the sight of Beatrix’s many silk-and-tulle-wrapped arms and tentacles arcing up out of the black and depthless waters of the Portsmouth Mine Pit to grip David’s puny human paws in deathless and dreamless matrimony, a sight whose inherent beauty was only amplified by the 72 mint juleps I had already imbibed–that I inadvertently agreed to aid in the promotion of the groom’s father’s burgeoning discount dry-goods business. The next morning, as I nursed my swollen and aching headsac, it dawned upon me that Dayton may have mistaken me for a more famous relation of mine–having seen snapshots from the event (to which I had chosen to wear the new copper-and-iron surface-walking suit that I had come to that region to fetch), I must confess that I did cut a handsome mien: The westering sun gleaming on my suit’s crystalline dome and brass pressure-fittings, the gouts of steam and smoke billowing from my dual-exhaust ports, the scythe-ish curves and gleaming serrations of the primary-manipulator claws–it was far from shocking that a noted Midwestern businessman might have mistook me for a Deathless Dreamer with deep pockets and noted leverage in local and state government.

In any event, I had presumed that the dissolution of this marriage four years later relieved me of my obligations to George Dayton and the corporate entity that ultimately inherited his personhood, soul, and vast, mechanized subterranean estate following Dayton’s exeunt from this material plane in 1938. Sadly, my lawyers inform me that, in this matter, I was mistaken. And so–despite a busy schedule, which included writing and revising my own weekly advice column, among other personal and professional obligations–I found myself hanging in a blue and cloudless sky, ensconced in my finest mechanical velocitating suit, dangling below a red-and-white montgolfière and above the scintillant waters of our own Detroit River, so that promotional “B-roll” might be shot for some upcoming commercial advertisements.

Then, without warning and despite assurances to the contrary by both the National Weather Service and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, violent thunderheads rolled in from the suburbs, blotting out the sun, and whipping me and my lighter-than-aircraft first out of frame, and then entirely out of the region. I was buffeted and beaten by the savage winds, draggéd through the peaks of uncooperative pines, harrowed by scavangerous birds, and ultimately suffered a precipitous descent after a clutch of nefarious robins loosed and absconded with a large portion of the stitching securing the deflation port of my balloon’s envelope. Fortunately, my acceleration was retarded when the sagging silk snagged upon the spire of a great, sooty, jackstraw building, Perhaps some disused factory or abandoned Rust-Belt fortification was my brief thought as I considered the gothic architectural flourishes and occluded crenellations–that is, prior to my velocitating suit swinging forcefully into the edifice’s rough-hewn brick walls, at which time I lost all sense for an undetermined period.

When I awoke I found myself here, presumably within the great and terrible confines of that building, rudely stripped of my modern (and quite comfortable) land-walking velocitating suit, and deposited in a tiled tank–perhaps a mid-sized swimming pool, or a bathtub formerly tenanted by William Howard Taft (who, as I recall, was likewise a cousin of Beatrix, but not mine–although I can no longer claim to recall the tortuous genealogical arabesque which made such a case possible).

In the intervening hours between that wakening and now, all manner of displeasantry has befallen me: A strange little dwarf of a man, Gustav, has stared at me for long hours, often making notes, and generally refusing to answer questions with anything other than a derisive tsk or tut; on two occasions he has been joined by bun-haired Ethelie, whose insistence that they “shall see good work of you, yet–or in the least, good canapés” is precisely as disturbing as one might suppose–although significantly less disturbing than the frequent visits by Lida, who sits upon the edge of my tiled temporary tank, gently stroking my left hunting tentacle and insisting that “this shall all be sorted out sooner than you’d expect.” Obviously, these visits are not disturbing in and of themselves, but are made so owing to the presence of the janitor Boggins, who stands in the doorway during Lida’s visits, his hands toiling within his trouser pockets in a most distressing fashion as his greasy eyes caress my visible convexities (the tank being somewhat shallow for one of my, ahem, girth). I have also been suffered to watch a great pack of delicious verbhounds chase and hector this same janitor, yet remain just beyond my grasp, here in this improvised tank. And I am so very hungry.

And all of this the more frustrating because I do, as a very important cephalopod, indeed have very important business to be about, such as my much-celebrated advice column.

So then, please, in the Section reserved for Comments, do tell: What commitments–real or imagined–keep you confined, and prevent you from returning to your prime and true work, that of writing That Very Special Thing Which You and You Alone Must Compose?

Update: You may also wish to Peruse the Squid’s First and Second Challenges.

—–

Poor Mojo’s Giant Squid writes his weekly advice columns and ongoing memoir from Detroit, MI, publishing these at www.squid.poormojo.org. He is aided in this endeavor by the Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) editorial team: Morgan Johnson, David Erik Nelson, and Fritz Swanson.

Your Directorate Requires Your Assistance

Ethelie — Thu, 20 May 2010 04:03:49 +0000

O my little Koala Bears! Your Attention, please.

The Fiction-Writing Directorate has decided to Offer a Free Course, to be delivered to your E-mail In-Boxes. It will Teach you how to more Effectively marshal your Forces and spend more time at your Type-Writing Machine writing, and less time playing Mine-Sweeper or examining the wares of the Pornographers. It will Help you become the Writer the Fiction-Writing Directorate demands you to be! It will be utterly Stuffed with our Most Effective and Fearsome techniques, and you will surely Benefit, whether you wish to or not.

I am Quite Sure that I know what you Need Most, and have designed the Course accordingly. But others in the Directorate foolishly insist that we Survey you, to find out your Challanges and Obstacles, so that we may be sure to Advise you in your Difficulties.

Won’t you Humor them?

Click here to take survey

Lida even insists on offering a Bonus: each Person who completes the Survey will be entered in a Drawing. One lucky Winner will receive a copy of a magazine called Shimmer. It looks like a Lovely magazine, so you may as well take the Survey.

Click here to take survey

An Exhortation on Habits

Ethelie — Tue, 18 May 2010 04:36:11 +0000

Ethelie

O my little Tulips! I suggest you read this Splendid essay by Miss Caine, to be found on the Inter-Net.

After our last Adventure, in which Gustav’s brave and hideously obese Cat, Markus, leaped into the Fiery arms of certain Death, we were not our Usual Selves. It was as if a Ghastly Maisma fell upon the Directorate, oozed through its Ancient walls, into our Chamber, and infected us with Gloom.

I, at least, was able to Revive my Spirits by gazing upon our beautiful Manifesto. Whatever the Cost, the Manifesto was surely Magnificent. Gustav did not Agree, and wallowed in the Depths of Absinthe and Grief. Lida claimed to be Distraught on Gustav’s behalf, and to Mourn the Miners with whom she had Tarried, but found Abundant Recompense in the arms of the Beastmaster. Neither of them would do the Slightest Bit of Work! I fear the Directorate languished while they let their Emotions master them. Nothing I could say could return them to their Work.

Then, my little Quail-Eggs, I chanced to read Miss Caine’s work. She is splendidly Prolific, and in this Essay, describes her Method for achieving such Marvels. Can you guess? She has built a Habit of Writing, and now cannot resist Writing, any more than Lida can resist Temptation. She has built a Habit, and now it Propels her forward, inexorably. She learned the Skill; she learned the Iron Discipline; she now Produces with a Metronymic Regularity that is the envy of all.

Practice! Write! Improve! Write! Write!

Each Day, dedicate yourself to your Craft. Lift the Burden of your Words, that your Writing may become Stronger. Calibrate the Gears of the Machine of your Art, that it may Tick forward unceasingly. Be thou as a mighty Steam Engine, driving your Progress along great Steel tracks. All it takes is Daily Effort.

Indeed, when I chose to Create for myself a truly spectacular Laudanum Addiction, I found that daily Practice of my Art was essential, and that with sufficient Application, the Habit practically formed itself. Writing is much the same.

I must fly; Gustav just scurried into the Alchemy Lab, muttering something about an Elixer of Life. This cannot end well.

Tell me, in the comments! What kind of Machine will you Build for your Writing? What other authors do you admire for their Consistent Output?

On the Creation of the Manifesto, Part I

Ethelie — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 02:38:18 +0000

Ethelie

O my little Jelly Donuts!

Last week, we released our Manifesto, to great Acclaim. Our deepest Thanks to all who Read it and helped us Spread the Word. And if you have not yet read it, Fie! Read now!

We released it with a simple Click of a Button, a virtual Wave of the Hand, which made it look Effortless. So we Wished you to Believe: for we are the Fiction-Writing Directorate, and we are Experts. Yet the byword of this brave new Inter-Net is Authenticity. Vulnerability. And so we must share our Travails with you, in order that you may Learn from our Experience.

Thus, the Tale of the Manifesto’s Birth.

Our Rude Awakening.

O my little Acorn Squash! The Fiction-Writing Directorate has been having such a Lovely time with the Inter-Net. We’ve written Posts. We’ve gotten Comments. We’ve learned Twitter. We’ve made new Friends. We’ve helped Writers avoid the Terrible Consequences of not Writing. Everything was going Swimmingly — or so we Thought.

Our ignorant Bliss was rudely Interrupted upon receipt of a Missive from the Inter-Web Licensing Council. It said, it the Sternest Terms, that their Inspectors had determined we lacked a Manifesto, and if we did not Remedy this situation promptly, our Inter-Net License would be withdrawn!

O, the horror! I am ashamed to admit that I swooned.

When I awakened, one thing was Clear:

We Needed a Manifesto.

Never mind how we got this Far without realizing this Critical Requirement; all that mattered now was that we Remedy our Lapse.

“A Manifesto of the Quality we require can only be found in one Place,” Gustav told us. A terrible Shadow fell over his Face, as he Considered the true Horror of his words. “It can only be had at Great Personal Risk. It can only be had after Defeating sundry Enemies and our own Fear. However, it should be a Marvelous Adventure — if we Survive.”

“Why, that sounds like Writing,” simpered Lida. “Writing is also a Marvelous Adventure! Which requires Overcoming Fear, and Numerous Obstacles.”

“Except for the ‘only one place’ part,” I reminded her, sternly. We did not have Time to be Sidetracked by her Foolishness. This was no Metaphor; it was an urgent Mission. “Tell us, Gustav! Where must we go to obtain our Manifesto?”

“The Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan,” he said, and we heard Death in his Voice.

Our Arrival at the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan.

We had no Choice, so we Hurridly packed our Essential Equipment (such as Ropes, Pick-Axes, Bananas, Dynamite, several Lapsed Writers to serve in lieu of Canaries, and Extra Socks) and boarded Lida’s Zeppelin. Finally that showy Monstrosity would be of some Use. As we floated toward our Destination, Gustav told us Gruesome Tales of the Mines so that we would be Fully Prepared for what we would Face.

O, my little Mocking-Birds! You know I am no Coward; my Work requires the closest Interaction with Beasts and other Horrors; yet Gustav’s tales Chilled me to the Bone. The Manifesto Mines, he said, were simply filled with Terrors such as Goblins, Unionized Miners, blind Cave Bats, Noxious Gasses, assorted Wraiths and Haunts, tentacled Nightmares, ancient Demon-possessed Artifacts, &.

“Just like Writing!” Lida said, though she should have been Focusing on Piloting the Zeppelin; I had no wish to die in a Firey Crash before we reached our hideous Destination.

I sighed, Patiently. “Our Courage and Skill shall make these Horrors mere Inconveniences,” I said, firmly, for I could show no Fear, lest my Doubts infect the Others. Confidence!

After Skillfully navigating through Ferocious Winds, a modest Hurricane, a pack of angry and shrill Ban-Sidhe, and even the wrathful Tentacles of a lonely Kraken once when Lida dozed and the Zeppelin fell too low toward the glowering Sea (O! that Child! I wish she would pay Attention instead of risking us All!), we arrived in Kazakhstan in the darkest hours of the Night, in a Thunder-Storm. Trembling, Weary, and Hungry, we disembarked, and Gasped: for we were surrounded by Angry and Rebellious local Miners with Rifles.

“Just like writing,” Lida muttered.

“Shut up,” I said, and pushed her toward the nearest Rifleman.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Fiction-Writing Directorate Manifesto

Ethelie — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 17:49:53 +0000

O my little Bunnies!

All good Web-Sites, we are told, must have a Manifesto, lest they risk losing their Internet License. Thus, we present Our Manifesto:

http://www.verbhounds.com/manifesto/

We are terribly Excited to present our Work to you. It will Inspire! Inform! Terrify! Elucidate! And Inspire some More!

I shall not Blather at you any Longer: you must go Read it Immediately, and Obey.

Update: If you Desire knowledge about the Creation of this Magnificent Manifesto, the following Web-Pages will be most Informative.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

An Exhortation: Three Agents and the Mountain

Ethelie — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 00:32:12 +0000

O my little Goths and Visigoths! I write to you tonight with words of Exhortation, Caution, and Lamentations. I shall speak to you with a Metaphor, for you are all writers of a Poetic Turn of Mind.

Writing a significant work of Fiction, I believe, is like summiting a mountain: a Queen of Mountains, like Everest. You climb, and climb, in bitter Snow, fighting your own Exhaustion, following your Sherpas, uncertain whether the Visions you see are real or Hallucinations caused by Oxygen-deprivation, and making critical Decisions when your Vital Forces are at their lowest ebb.

Fear not, I might say, were I a different Person; but instead, I say, Fear, yet climb.

I shall tell you Tales of three Agents and how they Face the Mountain.

Agent K and the Zombie Sherpas

Agent K, O Poor Agent K; I am not sure he even reached base camp. Instead, I am told, he whiled away his Hours drinking Yak-Urine Wine to dull his Senses, for the Fear overwhelmed him. He was set upon by Zombie Sherpas, who gnawed off his Limbs. Agent K is now nothing more than a Brain and a Type-Writer, floating dully in a Murky Vat of Brine.

Luckily for Agent K, steadfast senior Agents have retrieved most of his Limbs and Organs (at least, we are lead to Believe they are his), and stored them safely in an Ice House. Agent K may be reunited with his Limbs — but not until he has Written.

Be wiser than Agent K, my little Mallards! Write, despite your Fear!

Agent M Hesitated

Agent M learned from Agent K’s unfortunate Circumstances, yet hesitated at Base Camp. The mountain loomed over her, steep and Shrouded with Clouds. The wind howled Obscentities in her delicate Ear. The way was Uncertain, and she could not know whether she had Sufficient tanks of Oxygen, and Sufficient cannisters of Tang (or other Nourishment). She could not Know if the Sherpas she hired were Trustworthy or Treacherous Reanimated Corpses who sought only to strand her in an Icy Crevice and devour her Limbs.

She will never Know; for a Blizzard destroyed Agent M’s tent, and she Froze to Death. An examination of her Camp and her Circumstances revealed that both her Supplies and her Sherpas were Satisfactory; if only she had not Hesitated!

Be wiser than Agent M, my little Cardinals! You will never Know if you are sufficiently Prepared. Climb, and find out! For if you Tarry, you will surely be Destroyed.

Agent L Reached the Summit

O Glorious Agent L! He reached the Summit, bravely Trudging past the well-nibbled Corpses of previous Mountaineers. He Basked in the splendor of the View from the Peak. Perhaps he even Danced, despite his Weariness, at the Top of the World.

Yet like many formerly-intrepid Mountaineers, Agent L was Overcome by Weariness and Overconfidence. Perhaps his Foot slipped as he Danced; perhaps he Tumbled into an Icy Ravine as he made his way Down the Mountain, mind filled with Visions of Warm Meadows and Butterflies and the occasional Unicorn. One thoughtless Error was all it took! (Or was he pushed by a Persistent Zombie Sherpa? No, no, I shall not cast further Aspersions on the noble Sherpas.)

Be wiser than Agent L! Caution, Courage, and Unrelenting Focus must be your Companions as you return to Camp.

Write!

Write your Words, Loyal Agents; they may fill you with fear and loathing; the way may be Hard and Cold; but the Consequences of Failure are Worse than than even the Foulest Fiction that may spring from your type-writing Machine.

What will you Write?

What will you Write this week, Brave Agents? What Mountain will you Climb? How will you be Braver and Wiser than Agents K, L, and M? Tell us in the Comments!

An Exhortation: Stop Whining and Get Back To Work

Ethelie — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 22:32:29 +0000

O my little Ant-Eaters!

Ethelie

Today I read this Interview with Miss Elizabeth Gilbert, an Authoress. I was particularly Struck by this Passage wherein she paraphrases Mr. Werner Herzog: “It’s not the world’s fault that you want to be an artist… stop whining and get back to work.”

Upon reading those Words, I leaped from my Bed in the Infirmary. The Surgeons and their beastly Nurses cried for me to Return to their Tender Care, but I could Tarry no Longer. No matter the cost to Myself, no matter the Cost to my Health, it was Time for me to get back to Work.

For look what has Happened! Pie! Celebration! Shameful Harlots! A Horrifying attack upon my Person! Is there no End to Lida’s shenanigans? She has Shamed the entire Directorate with her Wanton Acts; and so I must, as Mr. Herzog said, stop Whining and get back to Work. Never again shall I turn to the sweet Comforts of Laudanum; never again shall I let Anything At All deter me from my Duties to the Directorate.

At least Lida is in Majorca, and I do not have to Suffer having her Zeppelin in my Parking-Space any longer.

This is your Mission today, my little Emperor Penguins, is simply this: read Miss Gilbert’s Essay, and then, get back to Work. Yes, yes, Miss Gilbert also offers words of Support and Encouragement and Self-Forgiveness, but I suppose no Authoress is perfect. Get back to Work! Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe!

Tell us in the Comments: What is your Work? What can you do for your Work this week? What keeps you from doing your Work?

Training Exercise #21: The Five-Minute Miracle

Ethelie — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 22:54:43 +0000

O my little Robins! I have a special Treat for you today!

So many Agents are Frustrated, Afraid, Struggling, Overwhelmed. You are Daunted by the Vastness of the Task before you; you Doubt your ability to do it Well; you are Busy with the Multitude of Interests and Responsibilities that make up your Life; You are Swamped by the Demands and Expectations of Others; you simply don’t Want to.

But I promise you, my Darlings: if you have the Time and the Courage and the Freedom to read these Words, you have Everything you need to create Miracles in your Writing. The task I propose for you is no more Difficult than reading this Post.

It is a Tiny task; yet undertaken Faithfully, will change Everything for you, in mere Moments.

Are you Ready, my brave little Rosebuds?

It is simply this: Write for the next Five Minutes, and then Stop.

You don’t have Time to write? It is only Five Minutes; I know you can find the time.

You have Other demands upon you? It is only Five Minutes; I know you can put off your other Responsibilities for that long. Steal Five Minutes while the Baby slumbers or the Stew stews.

You can’t Bear to be Awful? It is only Five Minutes; I know you can Survive engaging with what you see as your Flaws for that long.

You can’t see the Point? Ah, my little Cranberry, Writing is nothing more than a series of Five-Minute Miracles, one after the other. You do not need to Build the entire Road today; just lay the first Cobble-stone.

It is too Easy to be Consumed by Despair, to be Caught up in our Fears and Excuses, to forget how to Perform the Task at hand. It is too easy to believe it is Impossible.

The Five-Minute Miracle reminds you that Writing is simple, and all you Must do is Simply Write. Set aside all the Reasons you Don’t write for a moment, and Write. Once you are Finished, you may Return to your Doubts and Fears and Impossibilities.

Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe.

Report below when you have Completed today’s Mission.