I recently joked with someone who was lamenting their “writer’s block.” They said they kept getting stuck on whatever they were working on… and then immediately starting something new instead. I couldn’t help myself. “That doesn’t sound so much like writer’s block,” I said, “as writer’s ADHD.” (I made that up—but I do think it’s a real thing. Something we often mistake for writer's block, but isn't.

This past weekend, I was on a convention panel—audience watching, mic live, talking craft and storytelling with other writers. The kind of thing that looks calm and intentional from the outside. At the exact same time, someone at work called out. Meetings shifted. Schedules collapsed inward like a dying star. And suddenly, I found myself with multiple conference calls stacked on top of one another, all marked…

There’s a statistic that gets quoted a lot in writing circles: somewhere around 80–82% of Americans say they want to write a book. And yet only a tiny fraction—perhaps 1–3%—ever finish one. It’s easy to hear that and feel judgmental, or defensive, or quietly smug if you’re one of the people still showing up to the page. But I don’t think this gap is about laziness or lack of talent.

Moderating a convention panel is not about control—it’s about facilitation. Your job is to make the panelists comfortable, the conversation engaging, and the audience glad they came. The single most effective thing you can do is prepare questions in advance. Thoughtful, open-ended questions create structure without rigidity. Even better: share those questions with panelists ahead of time. This doesn’t kill spontaneity—it enhances it by giving people space to think.

Early on, comparison barely registers. When you’re just starting out, the gap between your work and the writers you admire is so large it feels abstract. You expect to be behind. You’re learning the rules. Everyone else seems to be playing a different game. Then something shifts. You improve. Your sentences get cleaner. Your instincts sharpen. You start getting better feedback, maybe even a publication or two.

I’ve been experimenting with dictation again, and this time it’s working—mostly because I finally stopped asking it to do something it never could. The first time I used dictation, it worked beautifully for blog posts like this one. Factual writing. Logical sequences. Structured arguments. I could talk through an idea and watch it appear on the page, mostly intact. That’s where dictation shines for me: when I already know what I want to say and just need to get it out efficiently.

Early success is supposed to be motivating. A first publication. A contest win. A personal note from an editor you admire. These moments feel like proof: I can do this. And often, they are. But sometimes , that early success becomes a strange kind of sticking point. The work slows. Submissions become cautious. Drafts pile up unfinished. From the outside it looks like confidence should be growing—but internally, something has shifted.

Being invited onto a convention panel can be flattering—and surprisingly stressful. You want to sound smart. You want to contribute. You don’t want to freeze or ramble or realize halfway through that you have nothing useful to say. One of the best ways to reduce that stress is to reframe the panel. You’re not being asked to deliver brilliance on demand.

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Last year I had 10 'Holds' from magazines for short stories - but only one turned into an acceptance in the end. This taught me that there’s a particular kind of disappointment that doesn’t get talked about much in writing circles: the story that almost worked. Not the obvious failure. Not the piece that was clearly broken from the start. But the one that came back with a personal note.

Scorned by society, a necromancer struggles to work for good. Written by Gideon P. Smith. Featured in Baubles From Bones: Issue 8.

People love labels. In writing circles we talk casually about beginners, emerging writers, mid-career authors, established voices. These terms get used as shorthand, but rarely do we stop to ask: what do they actually mean? For many people outside the writing world, the litmus test is simple: Have you written a novel? If the answer is yes, you’re a “real writer.” If not, you’re still practicing.

“Write what you love” is some of the best writing advice you’ll ever hear—and also some of the most incomplete. And with Valentine's day coming, it seemed an apropos theme for today. On its own, the advice is freeing. It gives permission. It pushes back against trend-chasing and imitation. It reminds you that the emotional engine of a story has to come from somewhere real, or the work will feel hollow.

Writers often talk around a distinction between literary and genre fiction without ever quite naming it. To me, it hinges on the relative importance of theme vs character. In literary fiction, characters are expected to be fully realized, three-dimensional, and psychologically believable. But here’s the uncomfortable part: they almost don’t matter. You don’t have to like them. They don’t have to change.

Writers talk about voice the way people talk about buried treasure. As if it’s something hidden inside you, waiting to be uncovered if you just dig deeply enough. Find your voice. Trust your voice. Don’t lose your voice. That framing sounds romantic—but it’s also deeply misleading. In practice, voice isn’t something you discover fully formed. It’s something that survives the process of writing, revising, cutting, receiving feedback, and writing again anyway.

For the last few years I’ve made a habit of writing a New Year's “Year in Review” post—a way to remind myself that even when the milestones aren’t the ones I once imagined, the work still matters, the trajectory still curves upward, and the person doing the writing continues to evolve. 2025 was the year that principle felt especially true. This was a year of middle grounds, of in-between places… but also a year with some of my biggest leaps forward.

It’s often said that moving is one of life’s top stressors—right up there with divorce and death. Having endured a move earlier this year (complete with nightmare movers and chaos in cardboard), I can confirm that’s no exaggeration. But whoever came up with that list clearly wasn’t a writer. Because if they were, “literary rejection” would be right up there too.

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One of the most thrilling moments in a writer’s life is receiving that long-awaited yes—an acceptance letter after dozens, maybe hundreds, of rejections. It’s the kind of moment that’s meant to be savored, a bright spark of validation in a career often defined by perseverance and uncertainty. But sometimes, even that joy can curdle. Recently, I had a piece accepted by a publication.

As a slush reader for various speculative fiction magazines, I’ve learned one fundamental truth: taste is messy. It’s subjective, inconsistent, and often deeply personal. If you’ve ever submitted a story and been rejected in the first round, you’re in good company—and you might be surprised to know how many of those rejections have less to do with quality and more to do with the unpredictable Venn diagram of reader taste.

Amazon.com: Twisted Trails: Tales of the Weird Wild West (Shacklebound Books) eBook : Fomley, Eric: Kindle Store

As a slush reader, one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve experienced is seeing a story I loved—a story that stood out from the pile, that felt fresh and alive—come back as an R&R (revise and resubmit)... and lose everything that made it special. It’s not that the writer lacked talent—far from it. The original version was strong enough to catch an editor’s eye, after all.

To be succesful at writing, I've come to believe that its more your ability to juggle, than anything else that will help you. But there’s a peculiar myth that runs through popular culture—the idea that success boils down to one secret, one golden rule, one repeatable habit that will unlock greatness. Ask a Hollywood star how they got shredded for a role, and the answer is often “chicken.” Just lots and lots of chicken.

Writers love control. We plan plots, build worlds, craft character arcs, and agonize over word choice. Writing can feel like architecture—careful, precise, calculated. But sometimes, we need a little chaos. Enter randomness. Randomness might seem antithetical to craft, but it’s actually one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s creative arsenal. Whether you’re rolling writing prompt dice, opening a dictionary to a random page, or combining unrelated ideas (pirate + ghost + IKEA catalog = yes please), inviting chance into your process can unlock surprising depth and originality in your work.

Dragon Con is an annual multi-media and pop culture event held on the Labor Day weekend in Atlanta, Georgia. Hosting the parade, gaming, art show, awards, and other events.

When you start going to the gym, it’s hard. Your muscles ache. You’re not in the habit, so every visit feels like a chore. But then—suddenly—it starts to click. You feel stronger. You might even look a little better in the mirror. The early “easy gains” roll in. You get hooked. And then? It gets hard again. You’ve passed the beginner gains, and to improve now, you have to lift more.

Earlier this year, I found myself hitting a wall with my longer writing projects. I don't mean my novels here, I'm referring to the longer short story, novelette territory. The same issue kept cropping up: I'd get to about 7,000 words, and then... poof. The excitement fizzled out, and my story would lose its spark. At that point, I'd hit a frustrating dead end.

Press Release - Baen Books Announces Winner of the 2025 Baen Fantasy Adventure Award

Five years ago, when I sat down to write a short story, it was a different experience entirely. Back then, my main concern was the plot: What was the neat science idea? What was the twist? Once I had delivered a clean arc with a beginning, middle, and end, I called it finished. A quick polish for spelling and grammar, and I moved on.

Press Release - 2025 BAEN FANTASY ADVENTURE AWARD FINALISTS ANNOUNCED

Sometimes I find it hard to get started. Ironically, this happens most when I have too much time to write. You’d think a wide-open afternoon or a quiet weekend would be ideal—a golden opportunity to sink into the novel, churn out a short story, or finally respond to one of those tempting calls for flash fiction. But instead, my brain spins.

Writing dialogue can be one of the most challenging aspects of storytelling. Well-crafted dialogue brings characters to life, advances the plot, and engages readers. Poor dialogue drags, bores, disconnects your reader from your character and derails your reader's experience. To help you master the art of dialogue, here are some dos and don’ts I have been told and found to be true.

When I paint, I begin with a ground—a foundational layer brushed across the canvas to prepare the surface. Sometimes it’s a neutral tone, sometimes a subtle color. You don’t see it in the final image, not exactly. But it’s there, affecting everything laid on top. A cool blue ground makes the warm tones above it vibrate with contrast. A red-toned ground can lend even a green landscape a strange sense of urgency.

Editing, is actually one of my favorite parts of writing. It’s where your rough draft is polished into something professional, compelling, and clear. But what is the best way to optimize your editing time? I've come to an approach through trial and error, and I hope these tips and tricks will help you refine your writing and bring your best work forward.