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The Dreaded 2nd DraftDarling Mionette's
A Writer's Guide To The Second Draft
Oh noes. Let those be my first words in this tutorial. Now that I've gotten that out of my system, may I never mutilate the English language in that manner again. Welcome to my tutorial on the dreaded "Second Draft" of creative writing. If you've read my other tutorial (How to write - and love it), then you're well aware of why I call this the dreaded second draft, but if you haven't, then let me explain: I am a firm believer that all editing in creative writing should be left to the second draft. The first draft, should remain edit-free so as not to stem creativity.
Going into this tutorial, I am making the assumption that at this point, you have finished your first draft completely (from beginning to end) and now have a finished (albeit in need of editing) novel sitting in front of you. If you don't, don't worry, most of the information in this tutorial can still be applied. So, for those of you who haven't finishe
How To Write - And Love ItDarling Mionette's
How to Begin To Write
Welcome to my tutorial on how to start writing. This tutorial isn't going to teach you the rules of grammar, or punctuation. Let's face it there is a plethora of such tutorials already out there. Instead, this tutorial is going to teach you the tools you can use to get a head start on writing.
You Are a Writer
First things first: acknowledge that you are already a writer. What? You're not? You could have fooled me. Let's face it; from the moment we're born, we're unwittingly taught to become writers. Language is one of the first tools we learn, and along with that, story telling. You may have never sat down and written a full-length novel, but I assure you, you are a writer.
Throw Out Your How-To Guides
The first thing you should do when you want to begin writing is throw out every dictionary, thesaurus, and writing guide you've ever owned. (Well put it away anyhow). I've found that one of the bigg
Within Abandon - Ch. 5"Stay in the truck." I commanded as I slid open the sunroof of the jeep and climbed through. I pulled my legs up after me, and reached my hand down into the cab.
"Rifle." I glanced around the area as I felt the cold metal of the riffle barrel touch my hand, and I pulled it up through the sun roof with me. "Keep an eye out. Every living thing within a mile heard this jeep. The rain may or may not keep the packs at bay, but the roaches will come to investigate. If they keep to their pattern, they'll stay out of sight, but don't be surprised if you spot one sneaking around." I glanced down at Broderick in the cab of the truck.
"Be careful." He called up to me.
"I always am." I whispered under my breath as I stood, and jumped down from the roof of the truck onto the hood, and then to the pavement. We had pulled up to the West entrance of the mall, where old iron shop-front grating blocked off access to the interior of the mall. I had blown off the locks long ago and replaced them with my o
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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