O my little Opium Poppies! I am Delighted to see you again, and while I wish I could Trust you have been Diligent in our too-lengthy Absence, I fear a Noxious Slackness has overcome you. Fear no more, Faithful Agents! The Fiction-Writing Directorate has Returned.

The Directorate wishes to offer its Most Sincere Thanks and Appreciation to the Giant Squid, for kindly Guest-Posting. Even my great Shock at his most Scandalous Accusations does not negate my Gratitude.

Where were we, you Inquire, most nosily? O my little Whip-Poor-Wills, we traveled to a Distant and Mysterious city to learn the Ancient and Bizarre art of Shiva Nata.  It is an Extraordinary practice, one Sure to help Dissolve even the most stubborn of Writer’s Blocks. We look Forward to bringing these Teachings to our Students.

After our Class, we retreated to the Directorate’s secret Hide-Out in Tibet, where we hid from the Sweltering Summer and Meditated deeply. Very very deeply! When not Meditating, we were engaged in Useful Tasks, such as rescuing unfortunate Wretches (and their Kittens!) from a Burning Orphanage, comforting and aiding Widows, and succoring the Poor. It was very very Noble of us and I –

O! I cannot continue this Foul Lie! My little Pomegranates, we were not in Tibet; we were not being Noble at all. Nay! We returned from our Training to find ourselves Mired in a most insidious Writer’s Block of our own! The Horror!

Perhaps you can Imagine our Consternation. That we, the entire Staff of the formidable Fiction-Writing Directorate, should find ourselves so stymied. We wailed; we gnashed our fearsome Teeth; we threatened ourselves with Dire Punishments; we coddled ourselves with Pie; yet we found only the slightest Glimmers of Relief from our terrible Condition. Only Boggins seemed Immune, and went about his Tasks with his usual unsettling Cheer.

Even though we feared our Condition was Terminal, we Persisted; we had no Choice. In time, we clawed ourselves out of the Abyss into which we had Fallen, and now return with a Flourish of Triumphant Trumpets, to bring you:

Three Wholesome Teachings on Writer’s Block

The First Teaching

You are not Broken. You may feel Crushed under your Block; you may feel Hopeless; you may feel Doomed to everlasting Darkness; you may feel the Holy Fire of your Writing has been Permanently Extinguished. O my little Russian Wolf-Hounds, please know that you are Not Lost. Even if you are nothing more than a Brain floating in a Vat of Murky Brine, and can see no cause for Hope, you must not Despair. With appropriate Persistance, you will Find your Way. You are not Broken until the Hounds have Licked the last fetid fleck of Marrow from your Crackling Bones.

I Promise. Trust Me, if you cannot trust Yourself.

The Second Teaching

You do not need the Holy Fire of Inspiration or Purpose to Write. If all Inspiration has Abandoned you, if all the world is Gray and Tasteless in your Mouth, if all that Thrums in your Veins is Laudanum, be Thankful! For now you can learn to Write by virtue of your own Skill, which is vastly more Reliable than a Flickering and Unsteady celestial Flame. O my little Rhinocerous, I know it is a terrible Cliche; but there is terrible Truth in the Ancient Words: There is no such thing as Janitor’s Block.

Make Boggins your Model, and simply Carry On, until you find your Biscuit.

The Third Teaching

Help Others. Even as we were Crushed by our own Block, we found Solace in helping other Writers. It is vastly easier to help Others than to help Yourself, we Realized. Our teaching of the Strange Art of Shiva Nata helped two Agents begin their Novels; and seeing their Progress inspired Us, after all our other Techniques had Failed miserably. Even when we were at our most Recalcitrant, we could not help but be Improved by our own Wise Counsel.

Your Turn.

Please tell us how you Consoled yourself in the Long and Sorrowful period of our Absence. Or tell us how you Intend to apply our Three Wholesome Teachings to the Foulness of your own Writer’s Block.

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

My Dearest and Devoted Scribblerians and Writorios,

I text in haste, and I fear without sufficient care for, I am exhausted: Today, I am to be transfered from the relative comforts of my tiled tank here in the Directorate’s tower to either the primary or sous-kitchen, so that I might be butchered and yet live again, first as sashimi, then as handrolls, then as calimari, then as taco salad, then as “seafood medley,” and finally as some abomination which Boggins reports Gustav has called “meatloaf surprise.”

Thus, it should shock none that I suffered some measure of insomnia this past evening, passing the night in the company of Lida, who throughout the thin and gruesome hours stroked my tentacles and helped me dream of the life that we might have together, were I not destined for the chafing dish. Together we fantasized in great detail of our frontier life upon the prairies, she in her bonnet, me in my homespun, steam-powered velocitational suit, the bright and life-giving sun lending my brass fittings a warm glow as I cut the sod for our house, set the timbers for our barn, and dismembered the still quivering and lowing cows for our dinners. Meanwhile, Lida would spin us fine angora wool from our many angora cats, which we would then weave into angora nets, and use to scoop up the delicious angora children from the neighboring angora villages, so that she might school them in the finer points of general literacy, poetic license, and flower-identification and pressing, prior to my spit-roasting them and selling their meats to nearby encampments of zombie Confederate soldiers, gathered to repel the onslaught of clockwork Union infantrymen come to staunch the flow of our dear Bleeding Kansas.

But, Dear Readers, note that it is not the exhaustion of my long night of “could have beens” with Lida that makes my time so short this morning, for just moments ago my fair mistress and hostess excused herself to “powder the room.” When I heard the door creak again, revealing creeping, and undeniably creepy, Mr. Boggins accompanied by none others than several members of my troupe of francophonic chimps long in my employ!

“I wired your monkeys,” Boggins said simply, “They’ve got your walking suit tip-top and coming up to steam, and are prepared to haul it most of the way to you, then you the rest of the way to it.”

“My Mr. Boggins!” I did exclaim, “Why, I am somewhat indebted to you, I imagine!”

“Yup,” Boggins said simply. “I figure I’ll let Ethelie and Gustav think that Lida let you slip away, and then find a way to get her out of the mess, and in the end she’ll fall in love with me.”

I must have looked dubious, for he then added, “There’s still details to work on.” I opened my beak–despite my best interests–intent on helping Mr. Boggins realize just how many details he might be hoping will sort themselves out when my chimp Claude taped on the face of the fine chronometer strapped to his hirsute wrist, and I took his meaning: It was time for us to make our exeunt, with all due celerity.

And so it is I live to write another day.

DEAR READER-WRITERS, I ENJOIN YOU:

Take a moment, for a moment is all you have, to very gently explain to a very lovely confidant why you have abandoned her to her no-doubt complicated fate. Time yourself; pen for no more than seven minutes, revise for exactly three, and work ardently to leave her heart intact . . . now WRITE! GO!

—–
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.

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

My Dearest Typistas and Quilleros,

I fear matters have, for me, become substantially more grim since our exhortation earlier this week. Specifically, despite Lida’s insistence that we shall soon sort out my implicit confinement here within the strange towers of the Fiction-Writing Directorate, I seem to have, in the meantime, dug my own grave–or, essentially no different, garnished my own serving platter.

Yesterday I enjoyed a mid-afternoon interview with Ethelie and Gustav, the latter clutching yet a new and even more be-paperéd clip board, quill in hand. Gustav was especially particular in noting, in great and terrifying detail, the increasing debts I incur as they quarter me here.

Gustav further made clear that my vast writing credentials and experience in project management of both supergun and weather-control projects (leaving aside my brief, non-contiguous stints as President of These United States and frontsquid of a glamorous rock-whilst-rolling minstrel’s band) earn me little formal recognition among the upper management and investors of the Directorate, in terms of gainful employment.

Ethelie then indicated that, having analyzed their staffing needs, the Directorate currently has only two open posts: a) a French translator (by which I took her to mean one who could translate from French to English, the lingua non-franca of the Directorate itself, rather than a generic translator who is of French extraction) or b) a source of valuable and tasty protein for the cafeteria buffet.

Having been briefly tutored by one of my several francophonic chimps prior to spending four days and three nights in Quebec City several years earlier, I elected to interview for the former position–yes, I was less qualified for it, but it was nonetheless more desirable, as it started at a higher wage, included a matching 401k fund, and did not result in my immediate death and dismemberment.

Madam Ethelie quickly rattled off a looping, staccato chain of French declarations trailing a single lilting interrogative. In response, I deployed the first French phrase that came to my razorish beak–and, incidentally, the only French phrase I know which is not directly related to procuring food or drink, booking passage by freight train, or complaining about the qualities of bed-and-breakfast accommodations–having been under the impression that it served in something of the same manner as “And a many and fine good day to you, sir or madame”:

“Va pèter dans le trèfle, maudite fausse-couche!”

Had a Victrola jukebox been playing at that moment, its needle would have noisily scrapped free of the record, and in the ensuing silence crickets would have sang but briefly, then stopped. Gustav’s jaw dropped, and Ethelie’s glacial face began to calve, only to halt itself mid-collapse and petrify, her lips a line thin and sharp enough to slice a hard cheese. Even the janitor Boggins briefly paused in his trouser-pocket toils. Lida, sweet and well meaning Lida, giggled, then covered her mouth to stifle the trickle, then guffawed.

Ethelie turned on her hob-nailed heel and, stately as a cloud of mustard gas, left my room. Gustav mad a single, authoritative tick on his papers, then followed. I was soon thereafter informed that I had been hired to serve in the cafeteria.

NOW, DEAR READERS AND WRITERS, I NOTE:

There is truth–often unintended truth–in the speech of our mouths, and although my Quebecois greeting held not the meaning I had intended, its Truth is beyond doubt. Today’s exercise is this:

Quickly, and without undue pre-consideration, settle upon two characters whose goals are at crosscurrent: Perhaps you might imagine a car salesperson who desperately needs to sell an ill-used 1982 Chevrolet Chevette at a slightly exorbitant rate, despite the dismembered corpse concealed in the bay which ought to hold the Chevette’s spare tire. His counterpart is, of course, a purchaser who is anxious to transport a soon-to-reanimate corpse, but whose bejeweled Lana Marks Cleopatra clutch does not contain funds sufficient to the demands of the lusty salesperson–although it does contain a gun, which lacks bullets, and which she would prefer not to reveal.

Write them into a dialogue in which all of the above is revealed, despite the speakers’ best efforts at concealing these facts. Do not use the words “corpse” or “gun.” That the corpses are siblings, and the buyer and seller likewise, may or may not come into play.

—–

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.

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?

—–

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.

Angry Monster

Darlings! May I introduce you to this fierce beast? Willie Hewes drew him for me, and what an angry creature he is.

He is the voice of Failure. He is the voice of This Is Why Not. He is the voice of all the reasons why I should not write; indeed, he is the voice of why I should not do anything at all.

“You insipid slut!” he shouts. “No one wants to read anything written by a harlot like you! Don’t even bother!” He lists all the ways in which I am doing it wrong, all the ways I doom myself to failure and dying alone and in poverty, all the ways I will regret ever even trying.

Terrifying, isn’t he, Darlings? But here is the secret about monsters–this little chap, and all of your foul beasties, too–he’s trying to protect me. If he keeps me scared enough, he thinks, he’ll be able to keep me from writing and all the risks it entails: exposure and rejection and failure.

Sweet angry monster! Here, would you like a nice glass of absinthe? Or perhaps some laudanum? What you must understand, O Monster, is two things: first, that there is a very good chance that writing will lead to boundless successes, not dismal failures; and second, that I have failed over and over and over again before, and am perfectly fine. In fact, Monster, the louder you shout, the more likely it is that I will get nervous and fail. What’s worse, Monster, is that not writing is itself a failure. Yes, indeed, Monster, you yourself are creating my failure.

You’re sorry? Not so angry any more? Yes, I love you too, man; that absinthe is delicious, isn’t it?

Sweet darling monster, I know you are trying to help: but let us find a way to work together, yes? Certainly, you may have some more absinthe. Here. You’ve been working very hard and deserve a break, do you not? A time to rest? The rest of the bottle? Certainly. I shall be over here, writing.

And perhaps I shall examine my copy of Miss Caine’s Awesome Fear-Wrangling manual for further inspiration.

What do your monsters say?

Tell us in the comments, if you like. How are they trying to protect you? How can you thank them for their work, and convince them to let you move ahead? Tell us, Darlings!

Gustav

Not long ago, I was charged with “counseling” a recalcitrant writer. Agent Cloudfeather should have been working on his horror novel about the zombie invasion of a small Western mining town.  O, Yes, dear reader, our recent mining experience makes this novel particularly harrowing for me. Nevertheless, I did my duty and and ensured that this author completed his work.

When I confronted Agent Cloudfeather (gently, I assure you! why, I bought him a delicious coffee beverage at a local cafe!), he swore to me that he had the finest of intentions, but did not know what to write about. His plot had stymied him. This agent’s complaint is all too common among the writers with whom I work; and in nearly all cases, the true problem is some species of neurosis and insecurity, rather than a dearth of ideas. Nevertheless, I humored Agent Cloudfeather and took his complaint at face value. I now share with you the wisdom I imparted to him, and trust that it will be of some use.

Don’t Do This.

What you must not do is impose your own lack of ideas and direction upon your character. Do not have your poetess protagonist mope listlessly about the drawing room, complaining that her muse has deserted her; do not have James K. Polk, the star of your epic poem, blather on for stanzas about how he cannot think what legislation to craft next; do not write a short story called “The Day The Earth Ran Out Of Ideas.” Those are all perfectly horrid schemes, and I think we can all agree that they are the last refuge of the unimaginative.

Instead, Try These Techniques.

Practice. The phrenologists tell us that the organ of Generation, or the ability to generate ideas, is located at the crown of your head. While the phrenologists may claim that your destiny is writ in bone, predetermined and unchangeable, you can in fact strengthen your organ of Generation, and develop the power to generate ideas at will. Simply write, simply subsiste sermonem statim et scribe, and in time, your generation skills will improve immeasurably. One splendid internet site where you may practice your generation skills is Liberty Hall; each week, you will get a trigger and 90 minutes in which to craft a story. You will be astonished at the speed with which your idea-generation skills improve.

Consequences. The Fiction-Writing Directorate is particularly fond of consequences, for all human beings can become extraordinarily creative if the consequences are dire enough. If there is not a handy VerbHound, please consider Write or Die, from our dear friend Dr. Wicked. This cunning device deletes your very words if you do not type fast enough; you will find sitting and staring at your computer screen rapidly loses its appeal.

Ask for Help. You may also ask a friend, acquaintance, or innocent bystander for assistance. Simply framing the question may lead to inspiration; it is much like when you go to the doctor, only to find your flu healed as if by magic. Sometimes, it is enough to simply ask.

Alternatively, your friend may provide just the idea you need (or you may find an idea in the afrighted glance of the stranger you approach with your unsettling question). If so, rejoice! and promptly return to your type-writing machine, and write.

There is a third possibility. Agent Cloudfeather asked me what he should write about. “Write about my cat, Markus,” I told him. “Write about his valour, his sacrifice, his bravery. Write about the softness of his fur, once the mangey patches healed. Write about the sheer bulk of his purring body. Write about his adoration. Write about my loss–” I fear I could not continue; tears filled my eyes.

“I don’t want to write about your cat!” protested Agent Cloudfeather. “I want to write about… dinosaurs! Dinosaurs! I need a tyrannosaur! Oh, Gustav, thank you!” He gathered up his papers and fled the coffee shop, leaving me alone with my memories of Markus, and a rapidly-cooling latte. O, Markus. I could only console myself with the knowledge that I had helped Agent Cloudfeather: for he had found his path while explaining why he could not use my ideas.

Comment, please.

If you cannot write your novel, at least write a comment. Try these techniques and tell me how they work; tell me what other approaches you have used.

You may also write about my cat, Markus. I miss him so.

Pay clear Attention, quislings! Today we have the Honour of a Guest Lecture. An Adept of a Strange (and Possibly Oriental) Path of Awesomeness, Catherine has some Excellent Advice which you should Heed.

Umm, hello everyone.

It’s a dreadful honour to be here, and a little intimidating, too. It’s been some time since I was, ah, disciplined by the VerbHounds, but certain parts of my anatomy remember the encounter very well.

I wanted to tell you about a phenomenon I see regularly. It doesn’t fill me with the same rage that Ethelie would undoubtedly feel, but it does make me sad and angry. It’s about websites.

(And Moleskines, and iPhones, legal pads, dungeon walls, parchments, and all of the other flat objects we use to house our words.)

And the problem I have with them is…

None of them matter if you don’t write.

Far too often I see this doleful sight: the owner has spent many dollars and hours building the most beautiful, user-friendly, search-engine-optimised, social-media-integrated, delightful website of all time. It has everything it needs, except for content.

And so it’s a beautiful, optimised, delightful… failure.

Content is the most important

Don’t spend three hours changing your font size instead of writing. (Don’t spend three hours gluing stickers onto your notepad, either.)

Start writing while your website is still ugly. Start writing before there’s a website at all!

Before you know who your audience will be. Before people approve of your ideas. Before you know what you’re writing about. Before you find a partner. Before anything.

At worst, your drafts will be used to start a fire in the pot-bellied stove and you will need to write more. This will be so much easier now you’re a Regular Writer; twice as fast is not an impossible feat.

The perils of putting it off

If you delay until you have all the Answers? Your writing muscles will be weak and unable to carry your new inspiration. Your first entries will be so lamentably flawed that you will wonder if your idea isn’t quite right yet. (It is! But you’re not ready.) There are those, depressed by the “failure” of their idea, who abandon it and start again.

Often, of course, they don’t write then, either.

Poor fools. The Hounds will see to them.

The monster under the keyboard

Is fear.

A thousand horrifying flavours of risk and uncertainty and consequences; a hundred imaginary perils, a dozen judging voices (some of them yours)… fear is the monster under the keyboard. We must learn to tame our fears to write great work.

Not exactly news, I know. But something you might not know (or have forgotten) is that writing is a great antidote to fear. Writing is action, and action is the single best fear-tamer there is. It doesn’t have to be great writing. (It doesn’t even have to make sense.) Every time you gather yourself and start the keys (or the pen) moving, you get stronger. Braver. And much, much less likely to acquire entertaining scars from the VerbHounds.

I have gathered my own small wisdoms on the subject of fear and websites and turned them into a resource:
Awesome Fear-Wrangling: tame your website fears, grow an awesome website (affiliate link). If you think it would be helpful to you, come over and have a look. You can use the word “scribe” to get a discount of $20.

Or you can save yourself a bit of money and follow the simplest advice ever:

Subsiste statim sermonem et scribe.

Lida

Darlings!

Thank you so much for participating in our Survey. The results are simply delicious, and will be tremendously useful to us.

Almost three-quarters of you wish to write every day: yet you don’t.

Almost half of you don’t write each day because you believe you are lazy; a similar number fear that others will laugh at you.

Half?

My goodness. Those are some weighty issues, darlings, even without the zombies, even without grouping similar responses together.

Our free e-mail course will help. I’ll tell you more as it develops.

I promised we’d pick a winner: our Random Selection Device has chosen Ms. Lipten to receive a copy of Shimmer. Congratulations!

If you missed the chance to take the survey, but still have some Thoughts you would like us to hear, either comment below, or send us a message from our Contact page.

And if you’d like to know more about the results than this summary, let us know that, as well; I can post in more detail if there is sufficient interest.

Kisses to all of you!

Lida

Darlings! Thank you so much for your responses to our Survey! With your fabulous input, our upcoming Course will be even more magnificent than we imagined. We truly are listening!

For example, a startlingly large number of you aren’t writing because you fear being eaten by zombies. O, Darlings, we can help you with that, and are already working on a new zombie module for the Course.

If you haven’t taken the Survey yet, I would be absolutely thrilled if you’d do it! It only takes a few moments, and you might win a lovely prize.

Your Exercise

In all the excitement of the Manifesto, I’m afraid we’ve neglected your Training Exercises. I’m so sorry, Darlings! Let’s kick things off again with a deliciously simple Mission: comfort. Ethelie will frown, as she ever does, but let’s not think of her tonight.

Set your timer and freewrite for ten minutes on the subject of Comfort. Keep your pen moving, even if you believe you have nothing to say; simply keep writing until the time has elapsed. Write by hand, on creamy and blank white pages, with a darkly flowing fountain pen, if you find that comforting. Or sit at your Type-Writing Machine, and be comforted by the sound of keys striking crisp paper. Simply keep the words coming.

What does Comfort mean to you? What experiences, sensations, tastes, scents, thoughts, do you find Comforting? Why do you deny yourself Comfort? What memories do you have of Comfort — or its lack? How do you Comfort others?

When you are quite finished, look over your writing. Find one comforting thing you can do for yourself right now — and do it.

Then, refreshed and rejuvenated, get back to your writing! Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe!

In the Comments

Tell us what you learned!

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