How To Keep Your Writing Cooking

By Lizbeth Hartz | August 10, 2014

MG McClintock, author of “Bastard Sons of Ireland,” tells amusing anecdotes about famous authors’ rituals to keep themselves writing. Benjamin Franklin soaked in the bathtub. Truman Capote wrote lying down. Maya Angelou used legal pads, sherry, cards, a Bible and thesaurus while lounging in a hotel room. Shakespeare picked up his pen, turned around, rolled…

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Mystery Writer Woes

By Lizbeth Hartz | July 21, 2014

“Know how your story will end before you begin to write it…think over various solutions to your character’s problem, remembering that she has to solve the mystery herself.” Joan Lowery Nixon Sounds good, Joan, but I’m clueless about how the mystery novel I’m trying to plot will end, or even what it’s about. So I…

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Present Moment, Wonderful Moment

By Lizbeth Hartz | July 8, 2014

Yesterday, the impulse to unclutter grabbed hold of me. I sorted through stuff Barry and I hadn’t used for five years or more, and made piles of unwanted books and magazines, frayed clothes, and chipped kitchenware. I discarded torn, stained, or broken items and donated usable items to charities. Winnowing through my files, I discovered…

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Resurrection Song (first version of two)

By Lizbeth Hartz | June 30, 2014

This version of “Resurrection” was born after I told a talented young singer/musician, Megan Petrie, the story of Vic, Jaku, and me. I often talked to her when she made me smoothies in a health food store I was fond of visiting in Haleiwa Town on Oahu’s north shore. Even though Megan was busy getting…

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From Book to Blog

By Lizbeth Hartz | June 22, 2014

Killer, not filler, posts are the ones I strive for. That’s why only one or two posts make it into my blog most months. It takes tons of time to find a fitting topic, write a draft, let it set, edit it, and write and edit some more. As I often do when seeking a…

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After Birthing a Book Blues

By Lizbeth Hartz | June 10, 2014

Forty five years ago, in spite of shaking in my shy shoes beneath the bright lights shining on my high school stage, I enjoyed donning different identities and acting out bit parts in theater productions. But on the first morning after the last curtain call, the post-production blues invariably set in. The magic vanished, daily…

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