What do the following have in common?
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A rustic stone church in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, Mt. Etna, the Temple of Zeus in Agrigento, the old merry-go-round in Oak Bluffs, the Chihuly Glass Museum in Seattle, and the Palantine Chapel in Palermo.
All of these are sources of inspiration for my next novel, the sequel to The Children of Darkness.
I've always believed that the difference between the creative and non-creative person is not the
This week, a story came out a in my alma mater's alumni site. It started by highlighting the wisdom of my first writing mentor:
"'Drama,' Brandeis Professor John Matthews was fond of telling the students in his playwriting class, 'is conflict with something at stake – the higher the stakes, the higher the drama.' David Litwack ’68 was listening closely."
The article brought back memories of a time of aspiration and possibilities. I winced a bit at the "nearly
Yesterday, I received word that two of my novels won bronze medals in the 2013 Readers’ Favorite awards. There Comes a Prophet won in the Young Adult – Coming of Age category, while Along the Watchtower won for Fiction – Drama.
Of course, I was pleased. But what to make of it?
I’d applied to several contests before. All are different, with various categories an author can specify. Most of the categories are genre specific—romance, mystery, paranormal,
Where did some of the ideas come from for Prince Frederick's fantasy world?
From World of Warcraft, of course.
As research for Along the Watchtower, I played a lot of World of Warcraft. I started when my son, an avid player, invited me to meet him in Azeroth and go on quests together as a way of visiting. With him on the west coast and me on the east, it was an invitation I could hardly ignore.
I’ve always been fascinated by how we perceive reality, each of us bringing our own experiences and biases into play. But it's when we’re ripped from our normal lives and placed in extreme circumstances that our reality becomes totally fragmented. Such is the case with hospitals and war.
A couple of years ago, I became engrossed in the online game, World of Warcraft, thanks to my son. I’m on the east coast and
My smart phone beeps and the tracking text from UPS appears: Your delivery is at the front door.
I go to the entrance of the house, open the door and gaze too long at the shipment sitting on the stoop, then carefully bend at the knees and lift it up. I lug it into my office and rest it on the desk, the place where I’ve spent all those hours writing. Then
The Boston Marathon course ran past the front steps of the apartment building where I grew up in Brighton. We lived a bit after the twentieth mile, just over the crest of Heartbreak Hill. Since Patriot’s day was a holiday and we had no school, we’d go out every year and watch, a rite of spring, along with opening day at Fenway Park.
Back then, there were a paltry two or three