It feels like an impossible task to write good stuff when you're mad, sad, or tomorrow's concerns eat you away. "No good fruit comes out of a bad tree," the Big Book says. Sometimes, you force the words out of you, not minding if you're being a hypocrite at the moment. "They won't notice it,... Continue Reading →
The pile of memoirs on my desk is, lately, the most pleasant sight. This year started well for my reading life, especially that I got all three of Frank McCourt's works and The Trip to Echo Spring: On Writers and Drinking by Olivia Laing, mostly through my cousin's help (Ate Flor, my book angel). I'm... Continue Reading →
Writing, per se, is scary. Writing to be read is horrifying. Imagine that risk you put yourself in when you expose your choice of words, your thoughts, and a precious piece of yourself to - who knows how many - people. You throw a sentence or two onto their table and give them the permission... Continue Reading →
I never imagined myself getting a hand on any type of business. The term "business" used to sound foreign to me. It may run in my blood since my mother's family used to own businesses, and my parents themselves built one before. But I never explored that world, never attended any seminar about it. I... Continue Reading →
If you'd browse my stack of old, worn-out, messed-up-to-the-last-page journals, you'll see how plenty of check boxes I had drawn there with the words "write and publish a book" beside them. Month after month, year after year, I would write on the last page of a journal notebook then get a new one. And each... Continue Reading →
Elaine Marie Factor 