Congratulations, you made it to another year. I raise my glass of apple juice to you and yours. But before you start to write down your New Year’s Resolution in your bullet journal. Before it becomes a mild disappointment at the end of January due to how many of those resolutions you have failed to reach, I want to impart to you a piece of wisdom I learned last year — the infinite power of saying no.
No is an easy word to say that requires less than a second of thought to implement, but what if you had to…
It’s time to learn how to declutter your writing. No more drumming up ideas that end in puddles of nonsense, leaving the reader and you exhausted.
So many writers and readers have fallen victim to 800-word pieces of SEO content.
State your intentions.
Repeat an idea no more than three times and always reword it.
Deliver with examples and precision.
Cut out words and ideas that do not contribute to the main topic at hand.
1) I plan to write an 800-word piece on How to Declutter Your Writing.
2) I will only repeat my ideas three times.
As shivers ran down my spine, I knew I had to do it. Maybe it was the fear of never finding something again that held me off so long, but I did it. I knew that with my chronic condition, there was little hope of continuing to work there. I was a content writer for a podcasting company.
No, it wasn’t as awesome as you thought. The funny thing is, I went in loving podcasts, and now I would rather cut my arm off than listen to one. I guess it may have been too much of a good thing.
Stories live in all of us, whether we learn how to publish them or not. It is a matter of living creatively. By nature, we create stories, white lies, fables to help us cope through the day. These jumbled-up lines are as much a part of our self-identity as our sexuality and religious beliefs.
They carve out pieces of our soul and place them on our sleeves to show off who we are and choose to be. The curious thing about writing stories that no one will read is the drive to improve. …
Saheem’s hands, worn from mistreatment and fear, shook in the darkness, gripping the small book tighter. The desert wind rolled across the dunes, blowing cold air into the night. There were no lights here, no wandering traveler, no village where he could rest his head for the night: just him, the clothes on his back, his cellphone, and a little black book.
Saheem groaned as he adjusted his chest binders, making sure the clasp had not left a mark too deep in his skin. His binders had become ineffective at hiding his chest since he turned seventeen last year. Maybe…
I stared at my laptop, crying again for the third time today. “Write,” I tell myself, “Please, for the love of God, write!”
And somewhere far above from where my body lay trembling, I look down at my silhouette and frown.
It’s the fear that gets me; it seizes my throat and takes hold of my fingers. My mind dives, and then no matter how much I beg and plead, I have nothing to offer but silence.
It’s maddening. I can hear the voices laughing; maybe this is what insanity feels like on a weekday. The same sad…
For six cents and not a nickel more
Right off the vine
You can still smell the earth on ’em
“Hey pretty lady, won’t you by some t’matoes for your family”
“No, I shan’t. I have no more money to spend in this place”
“Me lady, I’ll drop the price for ya”
“Just a nickel and this lovely bunch could be yours”
“No. it’s still too much”
“Then be off with ya!”
“Scatt! Begone. Ya poor sack of bones”
I sell my product fair and square
Never going above the price
And when the poor folks come