What If You NEVER Ran Out of Writing or Sketching Ideas Again?

“The Word Pool” has MILLIONS of Writing and Sketching Prompts. Don’t Believe Me? Read This. Today’s Prompt? OPPOSITE STUDENT DIFFERENTIATES. WTH?!?! Right? Nope. My Brain Had This.

Inside this book is a creative system disguised as a game—built from over 5 million word pairings designed to spark unexpected connections, challenge your thinking, and unlock your creativity. Whether you’re a writer staring at a blank page, an artist unsure what to draw, or someone who “just isn’t creative,” this book gives you something most people are missing: A way to start.

Using simple but powerful techniques like Continuous Writing (Dr. Price’s “Rule of Apple”), associative thinking, and structured challenges like Campbell’s Mode, you’ll learn how to:

generate ideas on demand
push past creative blocks
connect unlikely concepts into stories, characters, and visual scenes
build confidence in your creative voice

This isn’t just a writing book. It’s a tool for teachers, students, writers, artists, and creators of all kinds.

Open the book.

Pick two words. Or three.

Write it. Sketch it.

Let’s go.

Here’s an example of exactly how to use “The Word Pool.”

Randomly, I’ve chosen “Student,” “Opposite,” and “Differentiate.” Now, a verb isn’t always necessary. Most of the time, I begin with simply an adjective and a noun. Recently, I had my Comp I students write a short story with 4 out of 6 adjective/noun combos from “The Word Pool.” Their combos were: Noxious Room, Incessant Secret, Fortunate Painting, Faux Email, Disloyal Blood, and Approaching Lantern. They chose 4 of these 6, which I had randomly chosen from “The Word Pool.” Their stories were AMAZING, verging on King-worthy creepy horror stories! I was thrilled to say the least, and enjoyed reading each one of them. Those students didn’t have those stories in their heads BEFORE the word combinations came their way … the word combinations sparked the ideas! This book gives birth and gives life to creativity! So, let’s get back to … “Opposite Student Differentiate!”

I’m going to set a timer for 10 minutes and see where my mind goes. I have no plan. Literally, I opened the book a bit ago, chose words at random by looking away as I flipped pages, pointing to a spot on the page at random, and then looking at where I landed. So, here we go.

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The light came in through the window as she sat staring off into the distance. To an outsider, it looked as if she were pondering which book to pull off the grand bookshelf, but that’s not what reality was in that moment. She hurt inside. She didn’t think she could pull it off, and everyone kept telling her she’d be fine; she could do it. But, she knew she couldn’t. She knew that she’d fail. She knew she was the opposite of what a student ought to be. She didn’t want to acquiesce to anyone else’s way of doing the things before her. She liked to live by the seat of her pants, be carefree, but they wanted to put her in a box … and she let them. Traveling. Disappearing. Hiking. Exploring. Go. Go. Go. That is what she wanted. She wanted to learn from life – meet people in strange places, delve into their cultures, experience humanity and landscapes, and all the beautiful things. But no, here she was in the great library, surrounded by books, the light from the outside pouring in through the window taunting her, telling her all that she was missing out on by being stuck in that space.

Learn all the things – learn the business.

It will be yours soon.

You have to study.

That’s what her grandfather said. He wanted to leave it all to her, and she didn’t want it. The whole family said their future rested on her shoulders, and she wanted to burst out of her skin. They all saw no other future for her, but she sat there knowing that she, the opposite student, differentiated between freedom and a state of giving up – and in that moment, as she sat staring at the bookshelf, lost in thought, looking like she was doing as expected, the escape plan began to shape in her mind. She had to leave, run, fly. Anywhere but here. They’d figure out how to pick up the pieces without her. She needed the sand between her toes, eagles soaring high above her, snowflakes hitting her face – so many wonderful places and so little time, and she would not waste a moment. No. Not me, she thought. I will be free.

“Mary Ann, your grandfather wants a word.” The voice snapped her out of her plan.

She looked toward the voice, and there stood her grandfather’s solicitor in his crisp three-piece suit. It was black, and it made him look like a funeral home director. For her, that’s what he felt like, and she simply nodded understanding. She looked out the window where her freedom lay, just briefly. She sighed, then looked at the solicitor’s unsmiling face. Quietly, she followed him out of her grandfather’s grand library and down the hall to the dining room, where she knew, at this time of day, her grandfather was having his fifth cup of coffee …

____________________________________________________________

And that is 10 minutes.

I don’t know Mary Ann, and I don’t know why she doesn’t want to run the family business, and I certainly do not know where that’s coming from inside me. We could have a psychology session, I suppose, and sit and dissect how Mary Ann represents a part of my psyche, and that could be fun, but that’s not the point. The point is, without the prompt “Opposite Student Differentiate,” that story would never have surfaced from my mind.

Sometimes my posts are non-fiction. Once I choose my word pairing, I sit down, open the laptop, and words just start spilling. If I “get stuck,” I employ my friend Doug’s continuous writing method (which is discussed in “The Word Pool” book) … apple, apple, apple, I just got a text from my son. He said something about eating breakfast. Wish I could be eating it with him. I hate the distance between us. And then, when I’m ready to get back on task … get back on task. Words can be edited. Rearranged. Changed. Just keep writing. Beautiful things come when we stop trying to control them.

Ah … that’s a lesson for life, too, is it not? Beautiful things come when we stop trying to control them. That’s bumper sticker stuff!

Long story short here … use “The Word Pool” to spark your creativity. It’s fun, and you never know where it will take you! Every time you sit down to write, something NEW happens. Or when you need an idea to draw … it’s in this book.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GTMH8JH6 -“The Word Pool” on Amazon.

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My student, Izabel Baker, permitted me to share the short story she wrote for Comp I. The assignment was to take 4 of the 6 “The Word Pool” word pairings and freewrite – let the words take you wherever they want. Those pairings again were: Noxious Room, Incessant Secret, Fortunate Painting, Faux Email, Disloyal Blood, and Approaching Lantern. Here is Izabel’s story. See if you can find the word pairings.

____________________________________________________________________

Dear Sadie, Please Come Home by Izabel Baker

Why? Why did I pick up the phone? Why did I listen? Why did I come here? Why? Why, after all these years, these long ten years, why?

Every morning, all the same, I awoke, I made breakfast, the phone rang, all the same. I ignored it, all the same, like every morning. It would pass, the tone would end, and it would be gone. I went on with my day. I got dressed, got my shoes, and got my keys. Then, unlike every other morning, the phone rang again.

That was wrong. It never rings twice; it only rings once. It couldn’t ring twice, no, no. There was no one to call twice; they were gone by this time. Every morning, they made the phone call and shortly after were gone forever. How could they call again? But all the same, I ignored it, as I should. Answering would be a grave mistake, grave indeed.

I left, left the house, left the phone behind, there, couldn’t answer it now. It couldn’t reach me now. I’ve moved one, moved one from that, left it behind me, gone forever—no point in answering.

Then I returned home, the phone was ringing when I arrived, and it rang all night; it didn’t stop. Finally, I couldn’t take it, that droning noise, piercing my skull, rattling my bones. I made a grave mistake, I picked up the phone, and I answered it.

“Sadie, are you coming home? We found your bed empty this morning. Mom’s really worried about you. We all are. I- I really need you, Sadie. Please, your little sister really wants you to come home. Please, Dad’s really mad, Mom’s just crying in the kitchen. Sadie, please come home.”

She sounded so real, so alive, so vivid, so visceral. I couldn’t. The sound of her voice chilled me, froze me. So why? Why did I listen? Why did I return?

The house emerged from the ground, surrounded by open fields. There were a few cows out there, what few could survive without human aid on just the grass that grew. I stared at it for a long time; that thing loomed over the road. Why didn’t I turn back then? All I would’ve had to do was turn the key and drive away, but something pulled on me.

Then I saw it and saw her. A young girl standing on the porch, holding a lantern, a small, dim lantern close to her chest. She was almost hiding it from me, like she didn’t want me to take it. It wasn’t Tammy, no, Tammy was only twelve years old; that girl was much taller, older, something about her felt a little familiar, though.

I got out of my car, and she turned into the house, but she left the door open. It was dark inside, and I could barely see in. I couldn’t decide how I felt. I felt repulsed, my mind told me to run, to leave, but deep inside of me, I felt compelled to enter. Maybe that’s what they call a soul; maybe it was calling for me inside. Left behind when I left here ten years ago. Now that I think about it, it was exactly ten years ago that I got the first phone call.

Every day for ten years, the phone rang every morning at 7:34, every morning since.

I took one step inside, then another, then another, then another, then the door slammed behind me. When I turned to open it, it was locked. I couldn’t leave. I never should have come in here. Why, why don’t I listen to my gut?

Then there she was again, past the foyer, at the end of the long hallway, that girl, but she was closer than before now, and her lantern was held so tightly; she held it just in front of her chest. I went down the hall toward her; dust floated in the air, the wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards creaked, bugs crawled this way and that. The water and termite damage had gone long untreated, ten years untreated.

When I looked up, she was gone, but to my left, there was a door. A faint light came from within; I turned inside. The study. I never came in here. Dad would yell if I ever did, but yelling was all he ever did. A lamp flickered in the corner, the books on the shelves were sloppily thrown in, and the old computer was covered in dust. I doubt the keyboard even worked, not that I cared to see what he had been doing on it, just when he was on it. He was occupied then, in his own room of the house, for just a few moments, I could forget about him.

On the wall, there was a painting. What a fortunate painting it was. All of us, mom, dad, me, and my little sister, all smiling. It didn’t see the real us; it saw the nicely kept home, not the stains and messes. It saw a happy family, not the horrors left by our father. It saw an able-bodied woman, not a mother whose health declined further every day.

Tammy, you bright little girl, you had the biggest smile. I like to believe a little bit of it was real. You were always so positive. I did my best to keep you safe so that you could keep smiling. I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry, you probably didn’t smile again, did you?

There she was again, that girl with the lantern; she was standing in the doorway, holding the lantern a little closer to me. She turned away down the hall, but when I got there, she was gone again. There wasn’t a faint light this time; it was darker than before.

There wasn’t any direction; I just wandered for a bit, turning through the halls. The home was larger than I remembered. There was a stairwell; the boards had been chewed through in some places, probably termites, possibly mice. The railing had fallen out in some places and was left in pieces on the floor below. I found myself ascending the stairs, up to the top, then down to the right, a room with an open window; the wind blew the curtain around.

This was Mother’s room.

This was where she looked out, her only window into the outside world. She used to knit blankets, clothes, and tablecloths. Then her health declined; she stopped smiling, stopped knitting, barely moved, only to cook and clean when she could, when the pain wasn’t too much. But it usually was, so I did.

The room hadn’t changed, except for the condition of it; like the rest of the house, the wood was damaged, but even more so up here. I didn’t trust the floorboards; I shouldn’t have. I made my way downstairs, then… the floor gave in.

My heart lurched for a moment; it felt like a moment in a cartoon where the character is suspended in the air for a moment before falling to the ground. But just like in the cartoons, I eventually fell. Unlike in the cartoons, I wasn’t fine and revived after. My breath left me; maybe it was my lungs that had been suspended in the air, not me.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even scream.

I had fallen through the floor onto the dining table, which cracked in two. It felt like my back had done the same, but I managed to get up. A part of me wished I couldn’t so I could lay there and die, but something called for me, not a voice but a feeling. She was closer than ever before, that girl, her lantern stretched out towards me, almost a full arm’s length. For the first time, her mouth moved, and she spoke, “Remember, remember what you did. Those splats of blood, that disloyal blood. Remember why you left, why you abandoned everyone.”

I looked beside me. There were drops of blood on the table where I had fallen, bits of wood had scratched into my skin, leaving gashes. I tried to wipe it away, but it smeared across my arm. I burned everywhere: the bruising on my back, the cuts on my sides, but I had to keep moving.

I felt bits of resentment towards that girl with the lantern, forcing me to come here, forcing me to feel this pain, forcing me to relive this place, forcing me to remember.

I felt tears come up; they came through gasps of pain and gasps for air. I struggled to move forward on the other side of the door, leading out of the dining room was the kitchen. I went to the wall and slid down it. I didn’t need to know what was on the other side; I could smell it, that thick, pungent odor of blood. There must have been so much on the other side; the wounds must have gone deep. They must have been in so much pain. It was my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t left, I would have stayed. If I had come home sooner, maybe then.

I almost began to sob, but the shaking of my body was so excruciating that I clenched my throat in an attempt to stop it. That noxious room on the other side felt like it was growing larger, more powerful, more gruesome. The longer I waited here by the door, the stronger the smell grew; I heard dripping.

Blood dripping, drop by drop by drop, onto the tile.

I knew I needed to turn the corner. One inch at a time, then another, then another, I peered around the door. I never should have, never should have picked up the phone, never should have listened, never should have come here, never, never. Never should have turned that corner. I never should have left, never should have left Tammy behind. I should have taken her with me, should have gotten help, and done something. But no, no, I left by myself, escaped, I used to say, but no. I didn’t escape this place; I abandoned my sister, my little sister. It was my responsibility to keep her safe, to protect her. I hated my mom, my mom never protected me, never kept me safe, why then, should I for another? Why? Why did I let my resentment for her allow Tammy to get hurt?

She was there, right on the floor. She must have run to the door, tried to escape, but bullets are much faster. Blood soiled her clothes, spilled around her in a pool on the ground. I started to tremble, felt like screaming, felt like running, but I couldn’t. I was frozen, stuck staring at the scene.

Mom lay on the ground, shot straight through the stomach. My eyes followed her to a large metal pot in front of her, to a pair of large boots, and up to a man. I knew who it was, but if I were a stranger coming across the scene, he would have been unidentifiable. His face was gone; the skin seemingly melted off in a spot where his left eye should have been. Large blisters swelled around the area across his neck and arm down to his hand, where a gun still lay. Oil and blood dripped from his face onto the cold tile.

What happened first? Did mom attack him, and then he shot her? Did he shoot Tammy, and Mom throw the pot at him? How? How could something like this happen? Why? If I had stayed, was there something I could have done?

“No point.”

I turned around, there she was again, right behind me, holding her lantern, but still far away enough that I couldn’t quite make out her features.

“No point in asking questions, you know what must be done. Now go, do it.”

She didn’t sound sympathetic; I wouldn’t either. Who else was there to blame myself? But I knew what she meant. I knew what must be done. I went to the back door and found it unlocked. I dug three holes, took what felt like hours, but the sun wasn’t even considering rising yet. I went inside the house, for a moment I considered leaving my father there, but in the end decided he ought to be placed in the ground anyway, it wouldn’t be fair for my mother and Tammy to be laid below our father.

I couldn’t fashion a true gravestone, not now at least, but I found old scrap wood and a knife from the kitchen and scratched into it plates for my mother and Tammy. “Here Lies Tamala R. Julias. May 2, 2004 – April 10, 2016. Rest in peace, Bright Child.”

I didn’t make one for my father; he ought to be buried, not honored or respected.

I stood, my work was done, and I saw an approaching lantern. The girl came all the way to me. This time, she was close enough for me to make out her features, my own features. She was fifteen years old, with a bruise on her arm, sullen cheeks, and so much shame.

Maybe, maybe I ought to forgive myself, or rather, forgive her.

She was only fifteen, I was only fifteen then, the past is behind me. I can only move forward. That old version of myself, a ghost, a memory, whatever the vision was in front of me, handed me the lantern. It felt nice, expelling some sphere of warmth around it. I looked at fifteen-year-old-me, “You poor thing, please, please move on, I forgive you.”

With that, a smile, albeit a painful one, stretched across her cheeks, and she faded away. I was alone now, but then again, I had been alone for many, many years.

Tammy would forever be gone, but I found a new part of myself.

Life wasn’t over, mine wasn’t. Tammy would probably tell me I should keep on living.

I found a picture of Tammy, Mom, and me, one of the few that was just the three of us. I decided to keep it; every night on my bedside table, I told them goodnight, and maybe beyond the veil, if there is one, they said it back.

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Dacia Lené Cunningham is an Assistant Professor of English at Tulsa Community College, where she blends creative writing with real-world communication in courses ranging from Novel Writing to Composition.

She is the author of novels, short stories, and children’s books, including A Kiss in the Rain and The American Queen, and she founded the TCC Writers’ Series to bring authors and publishing professionals directly to her students. https://guides.library.tulsacc.edu/TCCwritersseries

She believes anyone can write—you just need the right tools.

“The Word Pool” – New Book Review!

The Word Pool” is a beautifully written book devoted to writers who love to play with language. The idea of pairing unrelated adjectives and nouns together to impregnate them with new meaning makes for unforgettable writing, Thomas Paine wrote about the “summer soldier and the sunshine patriot.” His purpose was to steel the resolve of the American Army in the face of overwhelming British military power. His use of words was unforgettable, inspiring Americans for 250 years.

“The Word Pool” gives writers the tool to match unlikely words together to create new meaning. Complete with exercises and examples, this work is pure genius. It is a “must have” for every writer’s library.

Merle Davenport

President

Tulsa NightWriters

www.tulsanightwriters.org

https://a.co/d/01MDEqI8 – The Word Pool

Let Me Be Clear – Rhetoric at its Finest

The buzzword in politics is “Clear.” Both sides say it, and as soon as it comes out of a politician’s mouth, I distrust them; I’m going to side-eye that individual from those words forward. It disappoints me. If you have actually researched and your argument stands on its own, there is no necessity for the words, “Let me be clear.” They’re rhetoric. Pretty words. A veil. A covering. It’s like liars who use the word “Honestly” to ensure you believe something they’re going to say. My response? How about no. If you’re a truth teller, you don’t need to qualify anything you say with “Honestly” or “Let me be clear.” Those words are rhetoric – words chosen with the intent to persuade a reader/listener. The actual definition, according to the Google Dictionary/Oxford Language, is “the art of effective or persuasive speaking or writing, especially the use of figures of speech and other compositional techniques.” The ART of using words to persuade. Rhetoric is fun and effective to use if you’re a politician because, well, most people do not think for themselves. We are like sheep joining a sheep circle, going round and round and round, just following whoever looks and sounds like the leader. Hence the term “wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Let me be clear” is telling the listener to believe what you’re going to say – that you’ve done all the research necessary and you are trustworthy. What you say is clear and accurate. There is no need for a listener to question the authority of your words. You are clear. There is an element of imposed guilt on a listener if they dare to question the statement made by the individual who says it is “oh so clear.” That is in quotation marks, so you read it in my sarcastic tone. “Let me be clear” is an excellent tactic on many people, which is why it is used so often nowadays in politics and in the media. Listen for it. Start counting the number of times you hear it. Make it a drinking game when you watch the “news” (sarcasm again – they’re not reporters now, they’re commentators/opinion givers) if you’re not an alcoholic.

I tell my students to be aware of rhetoric – understand it. Recognize when it’s used on you. Know how to effectively use it on others if you so choose. Law. Politics. Sales. Media. These career fields exist on the back of strong rhetoric. Persuasion is the euphemism. Manipulation is the curse word. Rhetoric.

One of my major teaching points in Comp I is Stephen King’s brilliant, rhetorical move in the short story “The Man Who Loved Flowers.” My favorite paragraph in that piece is this:

“The radio poured out bad news that no one listened to: a hammer murderer was still on the loose; JFK had declared that the situation in a little Asian country called Vietnam would bear watching; an unidentified woman had been pulled from the East River; a grand jury had failed to indict a crime overlord in the current city administration’s war on heroin; the Russians had exploded a nuclear device. None of it seemed real, none of it seemed to matter. The air was soft and sweet. Two men with beer bellies stood outside a bakery, pitching nickels and ribbing each other. Spring trembled on the edge of summer, and in the city, summer is the season of dreams.”

“The radio poured out bad news that no one listened to:” is the opening line of the foreshadowing paragraph. In this paragraph, King tells the audience what the situation is, but it is sandwiched between “Don’t listen to this” and “None of it seemed real, none of it seemed to matter.” None of what King just had the radio say matters. Don’t listen to it. It’s not real. It doesn’t matter. And then, the air is soft and sweet. People are kidding around. And summer is the season of dreams. King effectively told the significant plot point but hid it inside rhetoric. “Don’t listen” and “It doesn’t matter.” And the reader falls for it. The reader doesn’t remember that a hammer murderer is on the loose. And that is the truth of the short story. There is a hammer murderer, and as the reader, you already met him, but you don’t know it. A reader in 1969 would have had further complications in pointing out the foreshadowing because each of the items that follow “a hammer murderer is on the loose” are actual things happening in May of 1963, in New York City news. That audience would be red-herring distracted from the hammer murderer. A rhetorical move well done. Well done. Personally, I find this paragraph of King’s to be brilliant rhetoric. Beautiful, actually.

I can appreciate rhetoric; I find it useful in the classroom, but I do not use it as a weapon. I use it to engage my students, to open minds to new ideas. I do not use it to manipulate or trick them. When I see that happening in media and in politics (and in sales – like car sales – my least favorite shopping venture), it grates on my ever-loving last nerve. “Let me be clear” … I think not. No, thank you. If you had anything of actual value to say, you would have no need to use a subversive, fad-driven, rhetorical device/buzzword.

Remember when someone on the news said J.D. Vance was “weird” – and within days, every station was using that same rhetoric-driven buzzword. The fad began, and people watching those particular news shows believed the word. Thus, J.D. Vance was indeed weird – declared by not only news stations and politicians but also SOCIAL MEDIA – and we all know that social media is reliable for information gleaning (again, sarcasm by me – I hope you do know to sift through anything you read on social media. It’s a rhetorical minefield). Social media, where information is validated because “everyone” says it. LOL … oh man. Seriously. Maybe it’s not that J.D. Vance is “weird,” it might just be that he is different from you – maybe he has a message that someone does not want you to hear or believe. So, rhetoric is employed, and he is called “weird,” so that the masses of people who easily follow and believe what the media tells them will distrust him. Please stop and think. If we are going to play that rhetorical game, J.D. Vance probably thinks that the individuals calling him weird are “weird.” Geez, people. Think for yourselves. Don’t fall for rhetorical terms tossed out by people who want to invalidate another individual – and we just let it happen. It’s far too easy for those skilled in the art of rhetoric.

Let me be clear ...

How about no?

Writer Interview: Me, Interviewed by a Former Student. Q&A.

What got you interested in writing?

My earliest memory of enjoying writing is Ms. Campbell’s English class in 6^th grade. One particular assignment was that she gave us a list of random words, and we had to write a short story that included each word. It has been 41 years, and I still smile when I remember that assignment. It was a challenge, and it inspired me. She is also the teacher who stirred my interest in reading. During 7^th grade, under her tutelage, I ventured into “Wuthering Heights,” and the rest is history. Ms. Campbell was my English teacher in 6^th, 7^th, and 10^th grades. She encouraged me. She pushed me. She challenged me.

Was there a specific moment when you realized you wanted to become a writer, and when was that?

Although I dabbled in writing a never-seen-the-light-of-day book during high school, it wasn’t until I was deep into my Master’s in Creative Writing that I submitted a memoir piece about something that scared me as a child, which I did. When the teacher, Craig Schneider, handed it back, he said, “You should get this published in a horror magazine.” THAT is a moment I will never forget. Who? Me? Horror? Oh my. It turned out to be my first published piece.

What have you done in your career as a writer?

In addition to teaching creative writing courses (Novel Writing, Introduction to Creative Writing, Poetry) and Composition courses, I enjoy writing on my blog. I have four published short stories (“The Devil’s Promenade,” “Full Moon,” “The Echo of Alone,” and “Mom in the Middle”), three novels, two of which are in current publication (“A Kiss in the Rain” and “The American Queen” – the third is “For Love of Words”), and two children’s books (“Not Real and Never Will Be” and “Giraffes are People, Too” with my daughter, Kennedy). This past year, I headed up the creation of a Writer’s Series that is housed in the TCC Library, in which I am blessed to interview authors, poets, publishers, and editors for TCC’s students. https://guides.library.tulsacc.edu/TCCwritersseries.

What do you do currently in your writing career?

Teach creative writing. Write on my blog when I can. https://lenazyslife.home.blog/. I have been making notes for a memoir on recovery and survival, which I will accomplish with Stonebrook Publishing (hopefully) sometime in the next two to three years. I also challenge students to improve their creative writing, so I talk about writing daily! I stay affiliated with the Tulsa Nightwriters, though I don’t attend as regularly as I should.

What is your favorite thing about writing?

Expressing my thoughts and feelings, they flow more smoothly through my fingers than they do my mouth. Unless I’m in front of a group of people, one-on-one talking ties my tongue; I’d rather have a keyboard and my fingers. I can write for others, and I can write for myself. It is an expression of what is deep inside me, either way.

What are the things you don’t like about writing?

That my fingers move faster than my mind sometimes because I get excited, and my fingers fly, and the squiggle lines occur in abundance on the screen! But I’m okay with letting them sit there. I’ve learned to let go and let the fingers fly. However, there’s a part of me that wants to slow down and beat the timed typing test every time.

What has been a challenge as a writer?

Initially, negative self-talk. Not thinking I had anything to say or to offer. Once I began my Master’s courses, peer review tested me and almost knocked me out of the game. I stuck it out, though, and I came to love peer review and workshopping. Understanding the vital necessity of critique to make the writing better. Through workshopping and peer review, I learned how to set my feelings aside and focus on making the writing its best.

What surprised you most about this career?

I don’t write for a career, so I cannot necessarily speak to that, but as for teaching creative writing, it brings me joy! That doesn’t surprise me, though. What surprises me is that 17 years ago, I was a stay-at-home mom and had been for the 12 years before that. I’d forgotten that I had a mind and how to use it. Now, to see myself as an Assistant Professor, Career Faculty Fellow, and President-Elect of the Faculty Association at my school is a dream. Something completely unexpected.

Any advice for someone considering a career in writing?

It’s not a quick way to wealth. That’s for sure. This is something we do for the love of writing and expression. This is something you do because you are passionate about it. You write whether you make money at it or not. In “On Writing,” Stephen King says he would write even if he didn’t make a dime at it because he is compelled to. I get that. I often feel compelled to write – like I have to write, or I will lose my mind. So … write … write so you don’t lose your mind. 

What does a typical day as a writer look like?

This one does not apply to me as much; I write when and where I can.

What does your writing process look like?

Before writing a larger work, I take notes on paper, getting to know my characters, giving them quirks, and dreaming up scenarios that might take them where I want them to go, although they’ll ultimately decide where they go on their own. When writing fiction, it is me and my laptop. I play instrumental music to match the mood of what needs to be written. When writing nonfiction, such as my blog, I write the piece in Word first, freewriting and then editing. Once completed, I copy and paste the piece into my blog. If I were to write a research paper, there is a whole other process that includes outlines and notecards, rough drafts, and peer reviews. So, the writing process is situation-dependent for me. Kind of hypocritical because I teach students one method for the writing process. But shhhhh.

How do you think AI will affect the writing field, and what are your thoughts on AI?

AI “hallucinates,” is what my friend Adam the Librarian told me, and I’ve seen it in essays “written” by students. AI is easy to spot. It fabricates quotes and attributes them to sources that they are not from. AI cannot write creatively. It cannot write conflict. It steals your voice if you allow it to edit your writing; it words things how you, the writer, would never dream of wording your pieces. It’s not you. It cannot be you. What you, the writer, have to offer is far better, more creative, and imaginative. I allow AI to help me with grammar and punctuation from time to time, especially when I’m doing the flying fingers thing, though I keep my own voice and style; I give the AI suggestions the boot. How will it affect the writing field … sadly, it can take the place of artistic writing voices and replace them with lack of imagination and dullsville writing. I hope more writers will avoid AI than will choose to use it. I will continue to do my own writing – good and bad.

Overall, do you think the internet has improved or worsened the writing field?

It has greatly improved opportunities for sharing your voice and publication; however, the field is oversaturated, which means that voices, if they get heard, don’t get much more than their 15 seconds of fame. It’s the same in music and art. We are oversaturated, and because of that, it isn’t easy to stand out. Push, though, don’t stop. Keep going because you love it. Write because you’re compelled to. I am not fully answering the question, so back on track … in the sense that there are more opportunities, this is a vast improvement. However, those same opportunities have saturated the writing field with overwhelming amounts of poor writing.

Does location (the state you live in) matter when looking for jobs in writing?

I’m a college professor, not a full-time writer, so I’m making an educated guess, but I would think that states with large cities would offer more opportunities.

Is writing a fairly flexible job, as far as having an independently made schedule, juggling a family, and other things in life?

It depends on what variation of writing you’re involved with. Are you a freelancer? Are you a blogger? Are you a reporter? The answer to this is also dependent on the person. Go-getter? Get-by-er? Personally, as a college professor, I have time for writing when it isn’t a day of nose-to-the-grindstone essay grading. My schedule is fairly flexible, allowing me to find moments here and there to pour out my thoughts on a keyboard. But speaking to writing as a job, again, that’s not something I can fully speak to.

What is something most people don’t know about careers in writing?

That not everyone can be Stephen King. Each semester that I teach Novel Writing, students come with high expectations of publication and living that writer life, and then I give them writing assignments that have about half of them second-guessing their life choices. In my world, these are not challenging assignments, but for those who underestimate the amount of thought and planning that goes into even beginning the work, it can be daunting. Writing takes thought, planning, and determination. It takes the ability to push through, have thick skin, and care less. It takes understanding that editing is the magic and the work, and you cannot expect to write anything well right out of the gate. There is work involved. Also, people have no idea how much work a writer like Stephen King puts into the novels that decorate our shelves. He has a strict process, thick skin, and determination. He also has an author, who King says, will not let him be Stephen King.

What are good skills to have as a writer?

Beyond skills, having an open mind, a creative and curious spirit, a love of language and communicating ideas, and determination are essential. As far as skills, at minimum a decent command of vocabulary and grammar/punctuation, plus the ability to use tools such as Hemingway Editor without letting it change your voice. Computer skills are imperative. The ability to use Word or Google Docs, or a desire to learn how to do it, and the stubbornness to figure it out for yourself. I had a ‘learn it or else’ attitude with myself, and it paid off when it came to formatting a manuscript, which I had had no prior knowledge of how to do. I am self-taught – that stubborn determination got me there. Also, and this is essential, the skill to participate in peer review—to accept feedback from others and be willing to edit your work, putting the benefit of the work above your feelings. My husband frequently says, “F*&^ your feelings,” and he’s not wrong.

Can you describe writer’s block and how you deal with it?

Writer’s block, schmiter’s block. You have writer’s block? Write about it. Write about how it feels. Write about the frustration. Be raw in your description … let the anguish out. Say it all. Say things no one else will. We all have these pent-up irritations like “writer’s block,” so write it all out. Write about what it feels like to be blocked, to be stunted, to be held back, even by yourself … and then, once the “writer’s block” loosens, which it will, give all of that emotional gunk to one of your characters! Because, hey, characters need to get stuck in their thoughts, too. Use your “writer’s block” to push yourself to better descriptions and characters built out of authenticity that pours out of your own negative experience. Heck yeah. No more excuses. No more “writer’s block.”

Are you working on any books or writing projects right now?

Yes. I have a lot of pre-work completed. Somewhere around 50,000 words of pre-work. That writing is a fictionalized account of my life story because, at the time I wrote it, it was too personal, and I needed to separate myself from it. So … fiction. Now, an intense year and a half of growth, open heart surgery, and healing has passed, and I have new eyes with which to view my own story. It has grown and changed in my heart, and it will now be more than a description of surviving abuse; it will now be a focus on recovery and living life to its fullest despite the past. I have notes. I have ideas. I’m constantly mulling it over, and I have a potential path toward publication. Timing is essential, and the day is just not right yet to get fully started on my memoir. I aim to achieve this feat within the next three years. Additionally, I have considered creating a writing textbook for my Comp II courses, which is also on the burner. Not necessarily the back burner, but it is behind the memoir.

Writing on my blog is a fairly regular occurrence, so that doesn’t fall in this answer/category. Every time I hear of a writing contest, my ears perk up, and I think, I could do that! And then, it’s time to grade papers ….

Any advice or resources when narrowing down and deciding career paths?

Find what you’re passionate about and pursue that.

When you do what you love for a living, you never work a day.

Those are cliché sayings, but they’re true. I live them. Every day.

A Despicable 4-Letter Word

To say 4-letter word usually evokes an F-bomb in the mind, but that’s not the word I’m disgusted by. Over time, I’ve come to appreciate the appropriate use of a strong f*#k in making a point. Overusing that word is an unknown tragedy to its users because it doesn’t land how they think it does. It becomes routine to their vocabulary and thus just indicative of someone who doesn’t pay much attention to their word choices, much less the power behind them. To me, this very point leads to the 4-letter word I despise.

Lazy.

It’s not the word itself; it’s just a word. It’s what the word indicates about people—an attribute or characteristic I do not understand nor can I abide by, and it is all around me—us. It’s everywhere, like a contagious infection, festering and spreading through whatever is out there that traps people into doing nothing productive or caring that they’re doing nothing productive.

Never do I ever want lazy to be a word that describes my character. Since I was a kid, I’ve been go, go, go like my sweet momma was. I’m going to figure it out. I’m going to be busy and productive. I’m competitive, and I love a challenge. I’m independent-spirited and never lazy. When I see laziness, I recoil internally, and I thank God that I am who I am, realizing I am not without faults because I have those in abundance, but laziness is not one.

This is on my mind today because there is a young generation of folks just entering their twenties who are content to be lazy, and I do not understand. I started working when I was 16, and I have ever since. In my stay-at-home mom years, I ran a home daycare—caring for my own growing brood of 6 and many other children over a twelve-year period when I rarely sat down. Around 35 years old, I went back to school and achieved my master’s degree,e all while working full-time, assisting with operations for a lawncare/tree service, and raising six children. Again, I’m not saying I did any of those things well, but I was not lazy. I worked. I want to earn the things I have; it feels good to do so.

Ranting, I suppose. Regardless, I don’t understand laziness; I find it abhorrent. Now, to be fair, I know that conflict avoidance is something I have to work on …

Accept Critique or Decorate Your Refrigerator

Just completed filming a new author interview – with novelist and OU Professor Rilla Askew and TCC Professor Kyle Hays. This one is TCC official, and I am excited about it. One thing Rilla shared that I feel compelled to share with you now is this … She shared something she heard regarding not accepting critique well. This is especially to those among us who believe their work does not stink or is perfect. The words stuck with Rilla, as I am sure they will with me, and now with you …

If you do not want to accept critique as a writer or artist, “go be talented in your room.”

Ouch, right?

It should not be ‘ouch.’ Artistry in its various forms is communal. Sure, as writers, you write the first draft alone, but every stage beyond that should be with peer eyes on your work. They will invariably see mistakes you cannot, do not, and will not. As writers and artists, we must develop thick skin. We must be willing to be laid bare, vulnerable, and open to growth. We must lay our work out as a sacrifice to the opinions of others in our field. Listen to them. Be willing to consider their ideas. Admit you cannot see your own errors much of the time …

Or … don’t, and “go put it on the fridge with the other macaroni art” (Kyle Hays).

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Sidenote: Professor Hays and I will film 6 author interviews for TCC (Tulsa Community College) this school year, which will be housed in the TCC Archives and made available to TCC students and the public later this year. The 2024-2025 school year interviews are:

Josh Wann – Poet, Short Story/Play/Comedy Writer, TCC Adjunct Professor

John Andrews – OSU Honors and Creative Writing Professor, Author, Poet

Dinah Cox – OSU Creative Writing Professor, Poet

Joshua Danker-Dake – Editor, Science-Fiction Author

Nancy Erickson – Owner of Stonebrook Publishing – St. Louis, Owner of “The Book Professor,” – Focus on Non-Fiction writing

Rilla Askew – OU Creative Writing Professor, Author – Historical Fiction, Short Story Writer