June 06, 2016

How memory holds us ... My father

In memory of my father, who died on June 6, 1999.

I wrote this in 2008, to hold, to honor, to recall:

Stock market crashed. No noise. Economy in dire straits.

Robert Rauschenberg died on May 12, 2008 at the age of eighty-two. That day I walked over to see his work at the Portrait Gallery near my apartment.

I saved the obit., got caught in the web of memory. My own straits.

My father’s white shirt, the ribbed, sleeveless undershirt beneath that as a small child I carried with me: “her schmata,” my mother called it. My father’s photo taken by my daughter when she was studying photography in high school, developing her own pictures in Bethesda Chevy Chase High School’s darkroom, hangs on the first wall to my left as I enter my bedroom in the flat where I live and write.

He is holding his pipe, one finger tamping down the tobacco, the can of Amphora nearby. The photo is black and white and my memory of him, faded to tone. He, a decade gone this June 6, eighty-four and crippled from Parkinson’s disease and a broken hip when he died. He comes to me like his home movies, overexposed, so much light that I can barely see him. Rauschenberg-white: my father’s white dress shirt. “I always thought of the white paintings as being not passive but very—well, hypersensitive,” Rauschenberg said. The schmata shirt beneath the dress shirt.

My 82-year-old father called me in the middle of the night before he died and in the anguish of aging, asked: “What am I here for?”—a despairing cry that expressed the humility of existence and underscored the imperative of continuing to ask the question even as the darkness moves across us. It is the autobiographical tautological question that starts and ends where it begins.

My father took my hand, and said, “There’s an inevitability about the present.”

I understood the way I’d understood when my mother, four years after her stroke, decided not to eat when the new year came, when she took my hand and said “Yitgadal v’yitkadash”—the first two words of the mourner’s Kaddish. It was five years later when my father took my hand one hot day in June.

We’d been sitting in the house with the old round Toastmaster fan blowing at our feet, humming the way old memories did inside my head. We’d been talking about the kind of housing called “assisted living.” “Assisted living,” he said. “Funny term. Either you’re living or you’re not, right?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m on my way down,” my father said. “I know that. This is just a stopover.”

“Stopover from what to what?”

“Don’t get philosophical on me, kid.”

My father’s eyes were brown like mine. I saw them full of light from the sun that angled through the window. I saw the green and yellow—the colors of my mother’s hazel eyes—there inside the brown. I remembered my dream after my mother died. In a haze of yellow light, my mother in a flowered housedress. I couldn’t tell the color of her hair—pure white when she died. But it must be dark—around her face in finger-placed waves, how it was when I could still fit beneath her arm, lean against her curve of breast. Then an empty chair. An elegant, suited man on the sidewalk. My mother, on the stoop of their row house. Her arm raised high in dance position. No one stands inside her hold. She leans to unheard sound. She turns round. A fox-trot circle. My father threads eight-millimeter film through the projector, on the wheel. A home movie. Overexposed. My mother. Like the whiteness of a leafing tree against night sky.

“Why are you crying?” my father said. “This won’t be the last time you see me.”

“It’s what I do. I cry, easily, often.”

“So do I,” he said. “It’s inherited.”


January 18, 2016

How Brassiere Straps Bind

In memory

How Brassiere Straps Bind

An old family story says that my Aunt Libby, whose birthday is today—she would have been 104—and my mother, Freda, who died more than two decades ago on this day, were once so drunk after a family party that they ended up lying down in bed together, that they passed out and that they woke with the back hooks of their brassieres linked inside one another, back to back, connected.
The jokester who did this to them, whoever that may have been, was wise.
Because so it was with them—hooked inside each other’s lives.
My mother went to Libby and Milton’s apartment every day —my mother and her brother Milton had been deeply affectionate siblings; Freda, the youngest of the eight children, and Milton, the next to oldest—she went to help relieve Libby, the registered nurse, from the tedium of caring for Milton after he’d come home from the hospital to die of the cancer in his colon, his liver. That was the way he wanted it, or so I like to think, and, while he starved toward death, getting frailer, thinner every day, Libby and Freda tended him and one another.
I remember standing at the window of our apartment—by then we like them had moved away from the houses where the parties were held, where the young women who never drank got drunk—I remember watching my mother outside the house in her car with her head against the steering wheel. I could see my mother’s arms wrapped around the wheel, could see the sadness in her back, knew that she was weeping. But my mother didn’t talk about her grief. She was like Libby in this way. She simply bore it, composing herself before she came inside to fix our dinner.
Goodness in the face of death, Milton’s, the deaths of all my mother’s brothers and sisters. Libby, the in-law deeply entwined in all their lives, binds me to their generation, the link to them all—the one who was there, saw it all, knows the secrets.
My Aunt Libby and I and her son, Milton’s son, my cousin Mark  have a secret that she never told. But it’s mine so I figure I get to tell.
When I was five and Mark was ten, I had loved him. When I was ten and he, fifteen, when I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, when I was nineteen and he was twenty-four, I had loved him. It was a childish love, a crush. But when I was twenty, when he buried his father, when he kissed me on the mouth in the apartment building’s back stairwell during Shiva, told me that he loved me too, I thought he had waited for me, the way no one else would ever do again. The impropriety of the kiss, its urgency, its passion mixed with mourning, made it seem profound. He asked me to marry him. I said, Yes.
The cousin I almost married. We were briefly—over almost before it began—engaged. Libby, the mother-in-law I almost had.
Libby was relieved when it didn’t happen. She told Mark, “Don’t marry Mary. She cries all the time.” And, indeed, I still do. My father, who loved Mark, took him to Colt games in Baltimore before the Colts absconded in the middle of the night one day to Florida. My mother would look at Mark and remember her brother. Mark had Milton’s dark exotic color, and I, when I was young, had my mother’s ivory white skin. She could imagine the grandchildren. But I suppose my parents were relieved, too. Afterwards, we just went on. Never talking about it. Cousins marrying! We put it away like a dirty little secret.
Many years after I’d married and so had he, he came to see me alone. He was short, shorter even than I remembered. He was fifty-five, with graying curly hair. He’d let his hair grow longer than when I’d loved him, when he’d kept it cut close to his scalp to hide the kinky curls that now framed his wizened, yellow face. He’d always looked old to me. Perhaps it was the olive tone of his skin like the grave dark faces of the characters in Lawrence Durrell’s novels of betrayal, characters who uttered wise things ordinary people never said. I remembered a line from one of those novels I’d read when I was in my twenties and still young enough to be mesmerized by the lush philosophical prose: Truth is what most contradicts itself.
He’d saved all the love letters I’d written him after the Shiva, while we were ever so briefly engaged, when he went back to Alaska, a captain in the Airforce, a dentist. The letters, in blue air mail onion skin envelopes with their thin red borders, in his hands. The letters were tied with a piece of string. He laid them on a side table and began to talk. He recalled the time he’d taken me sailing in his tiny Sunfish on the Maggothy River. I was eighteen, a freshman at the University of Maryland. He was in the U. of M.’s dental school. While he talked, my mind drifted to the images from that time before he’d kissed me, before his father died. I remembered how our hands brushed when he pulled the sail to turn about, how with my head bent, I looked up into his face. I thought of all the years I’d done that, when I was smaller than he. I remembered how tongue-tied I’d been the whole trip, how I always feared speaking to him, how my shyness, the shyness that had plagued me since I was little, worsened in his presence.
In the letters I didn’t speak of grief, but we were both in mourning: He, for his father; I, for the uncle I adored. My uncle—he was the one who gave me the first stamps for my album. I said to Mark when he visited that day, “Do you remember how he used to save them up until my mother and father brought me over for a visit? And when he was dying, when he lay there in the den on the old couch, and I would come? It was so hard to look at him—he was so thin. He was all teeth. And he would smile at me.”
In the letters, I wrote about Thoreau and E.M. Forster, about being awake to life, about the things that won’t forsake us. About connecting, paying attention to the details, thinking of life as one critical hour.

One critical hour. One critical hour. A lifetime. I am bound, engaged in that metaphorical hour like my mother and Libby, bound in brassiere straps, in laughter and losses, in secrets kept and revealed.

Freda and Gerson

September 11, 2015

On 9-11-2015 SPEAK!

9-11-2015: After the moment of silence today at at 8:46 AM (Eastern Daylight Time),
the time the first plane, American Airlines Flight 11, struck the North Tower of the
World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, SPEAK!
On 9/11/01, while in my flimsy white cotton nightgown watching NBC news with  Katie Couric and Matt Lauer, the plane hit the tower, live, real, dead-on—and I was struck dumb.

I taught creative writing at George Washington University in D.C., so close to the Pentagon, a field in Pennsylvania, and, yes, New York City.
I wondered:  "How do I ask my students to write?"
I answered the question with a question: Isn't the gift of language, the foundation of our humanity?
So here I am fourteen years later again trying to put words around the unexplainable, acknowledging my inability to understand.
Paul Celan
Paul Celan, the poet, came home one day to find that Nazis had taken his parents during an overnight raid in Czernowitz in 1942. At the time he was 22
and was away for the night. The door, when he returned, was sealed and never again did he see his parents, speak to them. Celan was left, I have to believe, trying to explain the unexplainable.
I went to his words the day after 9/11 to find something to read in my classroom about writing fiction and memoir and I found the right words for me within the midst of the long talk Celan gave in 1961, translated from the German by John Felstiner. Celan spoke on the problem of making art, of writing poetry, of speaking the words he spoke when he received the Georg Büchner Prize, the major German literary award.
Like his poetry, his words are full of loss, but still he offered words. I read them to my writing students—and goodness only knows what they thought—from the speech Celan gave entitled "The Meridian":
Ladies and gentlemen, I find something that comforts me a little at having taken, in your presence, this impossible path, this path of the impossible.
I find something that binds and leads to encounter, like a poem.
I find something—like language—immaterial yet earthly, terrestrial, something circular, returning upon itself by way of both poles and thereby—happily—even crossing the tropics (and tropes): I find ... a meridian. [ellipsis, his]
A meridian, as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, is "the great circle that passes through the celestial poles."
If we had any doubts before 9/11 about the connectedness of humankind on this globe, for good or for ill, we could have none after that day. So I say, yes, let's have moments of silence on this the fourteen-year anniversary of such a great world-changing tragedy—but then SPEAK.
"Modern Book Printing", fourth sculpture (from six) of the Berliner Walk of Ideas

Know that I use the term speak metaphorically: Make something on 9/11.
If you're a bricklayer, place a brick in its right place in a building on 9/11; if you're an accountant, place the sum as the right answer on 9/11; if you're a bartender, make the perfect cocktail, set it down with your hand in front of your customer—and connect on 9/11.
Hold your children, hold each other, take the hand of another, believe that goodness lies within your reach.
I say here today, fourteen years later, that no matter how or when we are cast into the abyss of existence, speak. I say, in whatever ways we live in the world, make something.
Connect the meridian that encircles us all. Affirm our shared humanity.
And I ask you this question: Why even talk, let alone write poems or stories, build bridges or buildings if nothing is nothing is nothing?
Photo: Paul Celan, b. 11/23/1920 d. 4/20/1970)
Narrator of YouTube video "Take a Day to Remember the Day That Changed Us Forever": Robert DeNiro
Photo: Walk of Ideas, Berlin-Mitte by Lienhard Schulz
"Modern Book Printing", fourth sculpture (from six) of the Berliner Walk of Ideas on the occasion of 2006 FIFA World Cup Germany. Unveiling: 21 April 2006 at Bebelplatz, square near the Unter den Linden in front of Humboldt University. It is to commemorate to Johannes Gutenberg, the inventor of Modern Book Printing around 1450 in Mainz.

August 09, 2015

The Block Party and other fun things about Wattpad

The Wattpad Block Party Summer edition and more reasons why you might want to take a look at Wattpad. In this entry I’ll highlight the block party, talk about Thomas Bonnick’s 5Qi interviews and explain why a literary writer should think about Wattpad.

The Block Party: 

The Wattpad Block Party is the brain child of @KellyAnneBlount. Note here that all the @ links take you to Wattpad.com. It’s a free site that if you are a literary snob—stop reading right now. 

Otherwise, keep reading. For the links, you do need to join. But all that’s needed is: a moniker (anything you like), a password and an e-mail address. No spam ever comes from the site and only folks you follow will be able to send you alerts. It’s safe and it’s full of discoveries.

 Click  ➾➾ Why I am on Wattpad for more information about the site and why, I—a literary fiction and memoir writer—decided to join.

I was lucky to be included in the Wattpad Block Party-Summer Edition. My entry is entitled click  ➾➾ Mary Interviews Herself on Wattpad to read what I did on the site itself.

If you’re not on Wattpad, you may read the interview here. I’ve posted it below. And below  are links on Wattpad to all those who participated in the block party during the month of July. 

For all of you who entered the Wattpad Block Party-Summer Edition Giveaway: The Giveaways have been randomly chosen (Rafflecopter did it for us.). And the winner of the audible.com version of my novel Who by Fire is the lovely @SmeraGoel who lives in India. She now has the novel, narrated by me. She will also receive from me a written note and my signature postcard.

designed by ZAARA

The biggest fan winner of the party is cheer_tyme01  I will write her and send her a post card for her use.

See what she wrote and the lovely words of two runners up: Tusli107  and AprilDanfields 

Why Wattpad? More on this question

Wattpad is a glimpse into the digital future. Sure you’ll find vampires and fan fiction. You’ll find chick lit and rants. But here’s the thing, if you want to read me for free, you may here—including the new novel that I’m writing live—when I’m not overwhelmed by my renovation of a 1927 flat in Hyde Park, Chicago. The novel’s title is Passing Through.

Here’s the bigger thing: You will find gems that you can read for free and that you’d never have expected.

Here are just a few examples: 

@barry205 is a Brit who now lives in Qatar and spent many years in the military, Iraq and Afghanistan: He writes about his experiences as a male nurse, soldier and leader of his medical team in Afghanistan. His poetry soars, his prose bleeds on the page. Unforgettable writing.

I posted this comment on When You’re Wounded and Left on Afghanistan’s Plains: “The backstory here about your move up the ranks, your work as a nurse and your sense of being a parent to those younger than you when you at 35 reach this point in Afghanistan sets the stage here for what comes. Then you with no sentimentality you chronicle what you see. This, sir, is the art of writing. Voted big time.”

Yes, you get to vote on Wattpad and comment and engage with the writer. If you find a writer like me, you’ll find someone who responds to every single comment and you’ll make a connection that might change that writer’s life or yours. I’ve been in conversation with all my readers and my life has indeed been changed by this experience.

On Wattpad, I met Thomas Bonnick. He’s @5ifthproject on Wattpad, Thomas lives in Canada, was born in Jamaica and came up with the generous idea he entitled, click on 5Qi to see and read after you join Wattpad. Thomas asked writers of all ilk, the fantasy writers, the vampire worshippers, poets and others to tell why they write.

First: Here’s what Thomas says about himself—and yes, you will be charmed: “My journey started many years ago, far away from Canada where I now call home. Four and a half hours in the sky, over the open sea. Somewhere warm, friendly and colorful. A place where the change of seasons doesn't require a change of wardrobe, a place where flowers bloom and robins sing all year round. A place where our motto is: ‘Out of many, one people.’ I'm from the beautiful Island of Jamaica.”

He presented to me and many others FIVE interview questions (of course, 5ifth project is his moniker!) and each of us could add a sixth, bonus q.

I mentioned these other writers: discoveries you wouldn’t expect because Wattpad is just that: Not What You Expect. These were my high fives to writers who have inspired me with the risks they take on the page and for the fact that they shoot for the moon:

@AlanSkinner raises the Young Adult novel to a level of literary writing, intrigue, and gives us his love of a female heroine. Don’t miss his articulate essays. They soar with savvy commentary on actors, the arts and more. Alan now writes a column for Click  ➾➾  Facts and ArtsHe’s so worth reading.

@grapher writes stunning poetry that feels as if she’s drawing with words.

@tamoja may be the most generous reader I’ve encountered here: When she loves you, she reads you straight through. Check out her Snippets: a gift in itself.

@Lisaner hasn’t been seen lately on Wattpad, but she rocks with Rock Poetry that will knock your socks off and she’s a generous and dear woman.

Before I go back to highlight Kelly’s Blockpad Party, I want you to consider this:

Why a literary writer should be on Wattpad: 

The future is here and it’s digital. Think about the way you discover music today, songs you find on the Internet first and then buy the album. Of course I want readers to buy my published three books, hold them in their hands, an yes I want folks to discover the new novel Passing Through that I’m writing live on Wattpad. I do. But here’s the thing: I’ve been in the literary world for the biggest and best part of my life, published stories in literary journals, won literary contests. On Wattpad I’m flourishing in a way I don't think possible anywhere else. I have readers, writers, community, feedback—it’s constant, encouraging and often brilliantly insightful –and all this from folks I would never otherwise know.

I see potential on Wattpad for both literacy and writing, serious writing that matters. Let’s talk for a minute about literacy and art: Think of a child paints a painting and you love it and hang it above your piano as I have. A child writes a poem and you save it and read it at their bat mitzvah or confirmation as I did. Literacy and art hold hands like children in a circle. They dance together. To think that Wattpad is not literate enough because young people are trying out writing, risking is to not understand the relationship of art to life from the get-go. From birth to death. Art emerges on Wattpad. Writers on Wattpad of all ages and languages and countries all across the world are taking risks here, bleeding on the page.

Invention comes only when the writer is willing to risk. When you find that on the page here on Wattpad, you know it. You see it. I can’t help but comment if you are already reading and studying literature. And if you’re really lucky, you’ll find a mentor/teacher who will tell you when you “hit” it but who won’t throw the invention out with the bath water. When I see that glimmer of invention in work here, I want more than anything to comment, to say so—to say, I see it, go for it!

Back to the Block Party!!!

Here’s my self interview (in full :))

Q: Why would anyone want to do a self-interview? Isn’t that the height of naval gazing?

I got the idea from a cool site entitled The Nervous Breakdown. I think most writers—and I’m no exception—think they’re on the verge of one. So here goes.

Q. But you didn’t answer the question about naval gazing? Do you think you’re self-absorbed?

Writers are regularly accused of being selfish because they openly admit to being interested in their own thoughts—as if no one else has that so-called problem. The real self-absorption would be concern about others being interested in what I have to say. Why should you be interested in me or my writing? If I’m continually asking myself that question, that would count as self-absorption. I never ask myself that question.

Q. Okay, how about this one: Do you think self-revelation is part of the process of writing?

Any writer who denies it, lies. I agree with David Shields who argues in Reality Hunger and he actually says this one—in case you don’t know that book and you should, he quotes mercilessly without formal attribution: “So: no more master, no more masterpieces. What I want (instead of God the novelist) is self-portrait in a convex mirror.”

Q. Did you achieve that in your novel Who by Fire, the one you’ve NOT posted on Wattpad?

Hard to say. Achievement is a big word. But I would say this: The writer needs to be fearless to be worth reading. That means all subterfuge about who you are must come off when you write either fiction or memoir. What’s in this book is closer to the emotional truth of my own process of self-discovery than anything I could tell you in this interview.

Q. Give me an example.

I was in Whiting, Iowa, when the fire occurred, a controlled burn. It was a long, long time ago and when I saw it I knew I would write about it some day. I didn’t know why. So now I had the burn.

And then I found an article in the newspaper about a baby that had been found in an attic in a house on Veazey Street in DC and I saved it.

Now that I’ve read the novel aloud—I’m the narrator for the audible.com version that is my giveaway for the block party—I could see it anew by hearing myself read. It was as if I heard the novel for the first time. Here’s one of the things that happened:

I see my sister who lost a baby, a baby that died after 23 hours, bubbling up in the book. I didn’t know I was hitting that memory when I was writing the book. I was 16 when this happened and I saw the baby with her flash of black hair in the nursery. My face was pressed against the glass. How could that not have something to do with me? It did. It still does.

Q. So isn’t that navel gazing?

One of my biggest worries in the novel is that it’s highly interior. I’m inside the narrator Robert’s head all through the book. He tells the story.

Because I was so worried about his self-reflection, his navel gazing, I worked hard on the plot to move the book forward and get the reader in real time as soon as I could manage. That means two married couples, a partner in each couple cheating on the other. The narrator Robert discovers after Lena his wife dies that she’s cheated on him. Robert discovers how all that happened through memory and through what he finds out after his wife’s death.

But truly, only the reader can answer this question: Is this navel gazing? And was it worth the read and the ride?

Q: Are you obsessed with heroes? Your narrator certainly is.

I want to understand what the word hero means. One could argue that we have few if any modern books in literature that folks would identify with a hero, the kind we find more in film than in books, unless we go to the romance novel or supernatural stuff. I think that’s one of the reasons Wattpadders are driven to the supernatural.

I actually think Wattpadders obsessed with vampires and other supernatural heroes are raising the philosophical and literary question: Is heroism possible in reality-based writing? Are heroes in real life possible?

I explore that last question all the way through the book.

Q: You kill your main character on page one of this novel. If you’re in the book in some way, doesn’t that mean you plotted your own death?

Golly, I hope I didn’t plot my own death. But of course I did think about it. In a sense, if I’m in any way Robert’s wife, I do kill Lena on page one, arguably in the first sentence. So I guess you could argue that’s what I’m doing. But at the time of the writing of the book, I was losing my husband—see (Re)Making Love right here on Wattpad.

I now realize that Who by Fire is a love letter to him, that I wrote it in the hope that I would get him back.

I wrote in Robert’s voice, a man’s voice, because I was trying to understand the man who left me, the man I loved.

More key, though, is this: I don’t think anyone who is thoughtfully alive and human can avoid considering his own death.

Q.: Why would anyone want to read about that?

Because the book is about love, not death. You know that love is the answer.

Q: But what, pray tell, is the question?

Now that’s what Who by Fire is really about: Love is the answer. Now, what was the question? Read it to see if I ask and answer. Then let me know.

Other links, other folks—no, not all literary—so if you’re a snob, don’t read on. If you want a glimpse, do and join Wattpad and skulk around—you may be surprised. After all I found Alan Skinner and Barry205 there!

Here are the writers from the Block Party! All links lead to Wattpad.

KellyAnnBlount Presents: Captured – The Untold Story

Foreversmilin’ Presents: All About LaZY LOTUS, ZOEY ANDYAS

Takatsu Presents: Of the Pen and Dreams and Coffee

DelShereeGladden Presents: An Exclusive First Look

Aggressively Presents: Character Interview from The StolenHeart Series 

RSKovach Presents: KINCADE – The Pirate King and I 

XxSkater2Gril16xX Presents: Q&A with the APR Cast &Never Before Seen Chapter

Cold_lady19 Presents: 10 crazy facts about me &Exclusive chapter in Evan’s POV 

JessicaBFry Presents: A Mysterious Setup for an Interview of Her Leading Ladies

xPureChances Presents: Interview with the Garment Series Boys

Cathartics Presents: Jae, Rose, and Dylan Q&A and Get a Little Personal

Monrosey Presents: Strawberry Wine Bonus Chapter

Natsaninja Presents: A Few Thoughts & A Dictionary

_smilelikeniall Presents: Frequently Asked Questions

HarneetBajwa Presents: An Untitled Poem

AprylBaker7 Presents: The Writing Process 

ceaseless_mind Presents: Writing Your Future 

MichaelWeekly Presents: TMI with Bronwen 

LaDameBlanche Presents: A New Chapter From The Dark Heart 

SteveBevil Presents: Sneak Peek of Chapter Two of Drawing Bloodlines 

Ivojovi Presents: A Glimpse Into The Life Of Scarlett Rowe 

Paraeeks Presents: Words from Paraeeks (Co-Author of No Children ALLOWED) 

AmberKBryant Presents: Wattpad Contests and the Secret of Winning Even 

Hepburnettes Presents: Q&A with Noelle 

ThePurpleRose Presents: Upcoming, What to Expect for Sleep Deprived 

Colourlessness Presents: A Book Lover's Guide to the Perfect Summer

RobShapiro Presents: Advice That None of You Asked For 

KnightsRachel Presents: Sneak Peek at One Step At A Time 

TheUJelly_ Presents: A Sneak Peek of Hysteria 


JessGirl93 Presents: Behind the Scenes with JessGirl93 

Fallzswimmer Presents: Sneak Peek at Ali's New Paranormal Novel 

KrisKosach Presents: The Terrifying & Tragic Last Days of Betty Laverne Carter 

Lana_Sky Presents: A Sneak Peek At Dragonfly 

5ifthProject Presents: A Selection of Poetry and 10 Reasons 

AE_Kirk Presents: Writer, Ambassador, and Club Moderator

Linna1029 Presents: Feray Tremonte 

SallySlater Presents: Sneak Peek at the Paladin Prequel 

Francisxyzk Presents: A Sneak Peek at Numbers 


JuliaCrane Presents: Top 10 Pieces of Advice for Writers 

SaraBensonBooks Presents: Cast Interview 

ReganUre Presents: Alpha Bonus Excerpt 

RobertBeattyAuthor Presents: The Joys and Challenges of Making a Book Trailer 

JenMarieWilde Presents: Three Tips For Making the BEST Cover On Wattpad 

Jonathan-Yanez Presents: All the Beautiful People

xXAmy_CXx Presents: Q&A Session 

Tamaradw Presents: Skipping Time, Fun "Top Fives," & Interview with Jess 

GinaWriter Presents: Writing Q&A with Gina 

Priya-Reader Presents: All About Me

GailWagner Presents: 5 Pieces of Advice for Writers 

MichelleJoQuinn Presents 

GemmaLawrence31 Presents 

AmandaEStrong Presents: Kiss of Time, Chapter One 

N_D_Iverson Presents: Summer Movie Blockbuster Interview 

Shimaira Presents: Did you Know... Millennium Facts

AhsokaJackson Presents: A Little of This A Dash of That, and a Sneak Peek 

maryltabor Presents: Mary Interviews Herself on Wattpad 

Cherry_Cola_x and TaintedRain Present: CHARACTER INTERVIEW 

ConnerKressley Presents: My Totally Last Minute Bucket List

Gabycabezut Presents: A Bonus Chapter for Prince with 

Blumhouse Books Presents: The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares 

Sincerely_Mickey Presents: Q&A and a Sneak Peek of a New Book 

CatinaBurgess Presents: Inspiration and Ideas 

StylesLegend Presents: Anarchy 

JoshSaltzman Presents: Writing for the Screen 

JessiGibson6 Presents: Little Bit About Me and Prologue 

AlinaKG Presents: Intro and Writing Tips 

TaranMatharu Presents: Seven Fantasy Elements found in The Novice 

Michell007 Presents: How Deep the Roots Go and Q&A? 

TheStoryofAshlyn Presents: Sneak Peek, Author Interview, & New Projects 

Leila_Adams Presents: The Surprise Party 

YoursTrulyRina Presents: Interview with Drew, Jasper and Adam

Brucerelgin Presents: Planting Seeds For a Big Payoff 

KanyeInterruptedMe Presents: An Interview with Andrei 

SandraCorton Presents: Interviews from The Chase Begins and from Finally 

PattyBlount Presents: A Sneak Preview of Nothing Left to Burn 

KatherineArlene Presents: My Writing Process and The Boy in the Woods 

Sparklin_DeWs Presents: MAGIC DUST CAFÉ

AlyssaBrandon Presents: How To Finish A Novel 

HallyWillmott Presents 

RobThier Presents: Top Ten Reasons to Read Storm and Silence 

Kelliscope: Creating Emotion in Your Story 

BrittanieCharmintine Presents: The Night I Should Not Have Kissed Waverly 

DoNotMicrowave Presents: The Cell Phone Swap: Alternate Reality 

The End of the Party: KellyAnne weighs in 

My PS with help from the poet William Carlos Williams:

Wattpad is rich with the undiscovered, the voice that waits to be heard.

Here’s why: As William Carlos Williams said in his poem "Asphodel, that Greeny Flower", with word poem here think of invention, of art.

                        It is difficult

to get the news from poems

            yet men die miserably every day

                        for lack

of what is found there.