Welcome to the Ghostwriters Central blog. This blog will be authored by me, for the time being. We do hope you will find it to be useful, informative or entertaining. Or all three. –Michael McKown.
I get up in the morning, torture a typewriter until it screams, then stop.
Anecdotes don’t make good stories. Generally, I dig down underneath them so far that the story that finally comes out is not what people thought their anecdotes were about.
Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.
No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.
Thank your readers and the critics who praise you, and then ignore them. Write for the most intelligent, wittiest, wisest audience in the universe: Write to please yourself.
Every writer with half a brain knows to surround himself or herself with editors who are smarter, far more articulate and infinitely better looking.
I have a structured songwriting process. I start with the music and try to come up with musical ideas, then the melody, then the hook, and the lyrics come last.
In Hollywood, the woods are full of people that learned to write but evidently can’t read. If they could read their stuff, they’d stop writing.
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs.
If you haven’t got an idea, start a story anyway. You can always throw it away, and maybe by the time you get to the fourth page you will have an idea, and you’ll only have to throw away the first three pages.
I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has just put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or banana split.
It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.
Socially, a journalist fits in somewhere between a whore and a bartender. But spiritually he stands beside Galileo. He knows the world is round.