I think it’s because that’s when I finally had time to sit down and do something for myself.  When I was a kid, that’s when the chores were done–homework was done–and the folks were off to bed.  I’d sit in my room in the quiet and write my stories.  After having kids of my own, night time was the only time I had to myself and didn’t have babies under foot.

Now that my kids are all grown, you’d think I’d be able to write anytime I wanted.  The truth is I still do my best work after everyone has gone off to bed.  It’s quiet and the ideas rolling around in my brain start to get a bit louder than normal.  I find it relaxing and it even helps me sleep better to get all that stuff out of my head because it can get quite noisy in there and it’s hard to sleep with all those people in there yakking and trying to get their voices heard.

When is your best time to write?  Are you a day writer or do the words flow more easily at night?

If you write poetry or short stories, try starting a critique group or discussion group. There are several options for this online or you can get one started in your own community. Another idea is to create a forum or message board for those who write in your genre. If you’re a non-fiction writer, you might look into ghost writing. Another option is to talk to some of your local businesses about doing ad copy for them. You’ll be amazed at how many store owners know nothing about advertising.

Some writers have created their own author pages, giving details about their achievements and any upcoming events. Some have used their knowledge to create online e-courses, while others have created their own writing services. Just remember that if you do something along these lines, always check your facts. No matter how much you know, or think you know, there is always someone out there ready to point out your mistakes.

Whatever project you create, set goals for yourself. Start out small and work your way up to bigger and better things. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, even if they sound dumb to you. There are lots of other writers out there who are more than happy to help. Most importantly, never give up. Even if you only work on your project for an hour a day, keep at it. You might just end up creating something that the rest of the world has been waiting for and didn’t even realize it.

As he climbed through another clump of bushes, Paul could see the mouth of the cave.  There it was just as the old map had shown.  Could he possibly be in a place that hadn’t seen a human in almost two hundred years?

Six months earlier, Paul Montgomery was in a small town library in upstate Maine.  He was going through and studying some of the local manuscripts and newspapers when he spotted something that instantly caught his eye.  In the middle of one of the books of court papers from the original village was an old hand-drawn map.

Paul had been around this region off and on for almost twenty years and knew there was something different about this old map.  According to the older map, there was a cave just forty miles from town.  When he looked at a current map there was no sign of it and that set Paul’s mind in motion.

He talked to some of the older folks in town trying to get as much information about the cave as he could, but nobody seemed to know anything about it.  He did, however, pick up on one of the local legends and thought that maybe the two went together.

The story said that before there was a village, pirates camped on an outcrop that had once jutted out over the ocean.  They supposedly buried a large amount of loot in a deep pit in the rocks.  The ocean protected the rocks for all but one hour of every day.  Otherwise the waves would crash in with such force, that to try to steal the bounty would surely get a man killed.

Finally the legend claimed that Captain Frederick Smythe went mad with fever and murdered his entire crew, fearing that they would take his treasure.  He killed the last man beneath the outcrop where they had camped which angered God so much that he caused the earth to shake and the outcrop crumbled down on top of the captain.  The rocks that held his stolen treasure were lost to the sea forever.

Paul learned every detail and version of the story he could and tried to find the few shards of truth within them.  He sat for hours on the rocky shoreline, searching for a hint of what was no longer there.  He took dozens of pictures from every possible angle and studied them relentlessly.

Finally he began to put all the pieces together.  He laid a tracing of the older map over a current map.  He figured that the cave would show up somewhere within the harbor, which had been proven to have widen since the late seventeenth century.  To his surprise it showed that the cave was quite a ways inland and should still be there in the forest.

Quickly he threw some supplies into a duffel bag and jumped into his jeep.  He followed the road as far as it would go but the cave was shown to be at least another five miles into the forest.  He left the jeep there and started climbing through the bushes which had brought him to this moment.

Slowly he moved on, knowing that there could be any variety of wild animals inside.  He pulled a flashlight out of his pack and picked up a small tree branch.  Wildly, he began yelling and banging the branch on the sides of the cave entrance.  Hundreds of bats swarmed from the cave and caused Paul to fall back down the hill.

He managed to get up and headed back for the cave.  He picked up his flashlight and went inside.  The stench of bat was almost more than he could bear, but still he pressed on.  Deeper into the cave, he began to see a faint scribbling on the walls.  It was three letters and a date.  “CFS 1692”, he stated out loud, “Captain Frederick Smythe”.

He looked around the cave a little longer but found nothing else.  He left feeling as though he had been transported through time.  He had stood in a place that hadn’t seen another person in two hundred years  Though he knew he had a lot more searching to do, he was thrilled to know that he had found a  little piece of truth in an old legend.

Herman Silago was a bit actor who played Uncle Emil in three episodes of the popular television series The Five Sisters. He had hoped it would turn into a regular gig, but the show’s producers decided that his character should have a heart attack at the end of his last episode. It didn’t take much to realize that he wouldn’t be returning the following week.

Herman had been working as an actor for some 18 years, but had never hit that one role that would have made him a star. He had been stereo-typed for most of his career as either a simpleton or as a villain, which usually meant that his character wouldn’t last long in whatever he was playing. Now, his hair was thinning and a few wisps of grey were beginning to show. Though make-up artists and stylists could easily take care of those problems, it was the mere thought that seemed to torment his mind.

As he sat in his modest home, he began to reflect on the past. How his agent had kept telling him that his big break was just around the corner and that he just needed to hang on a little longer. The truth was that his time had come and gone, and he’d missed out on the best years of his life. Herman had never married nor had children, but until that moment, he’d never really thought about it. He had made his career his only focus, believing that once he made it big, the rest would fall into place. Now, it was just him and the bottle of rum he clutched in his arm.

When the phone rang, Herman checked the caller ID to see his agent’s name. There had been a time when he’d have answered in a heartbeat, but these days it just didn’t seem to matter. He heard the beep of the answering machine, and listened to the message as it was being received. “Herman, dude. Michael Valentine here. Say, wanted to let you know I just landed a commercial for you. They need an older guy for a Hair Plugs For Gents spot. Only one line, but it’s a paycheck. Give me a call when you get this. Ciao”. The line went dead while Herman took another swig from his bottle.

He sat there and watched the little red button flash. The idea of doing a spot for hair plugs made him want to throw in the towel. This was not the way it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be a star by now. He should be getting scripts from all the major studios, instead of throwing out one-liners about going bald. He tipped his bottle back one last time, finishing off in a single gulp.

He laid down on his couch, listening to the silent background. He stared at the ceiling, remembering the ways things had started out for him. He’d done a couple commercials for local businesses, then landed a national ad spot. That’s when he contacted Michael Valentine to act as his agent. Within a few weeks, Michael had gotten him a part on a daytime soap opera. Though it wasn’t a major role, it was something worth putting on a resume’. Before he knew it, he won a spot on a pilot for a sitcom. That’s when things took a turn for the worse.

After only two episodes, the show was cut from the network’s lineup and Herman was out of a job. His manager tried to get Herman to change his name, but he refused. He knew his mother would be devastated. She and his father prayed for a son in order to pass on the family name, Herman Melville Silago III. As he lay there looking back, he wondered if he had made the right decision.
As the rum coursed through his body, Herman began to drift off to sleep. He thought he heard the phone ring again, but wasn’t sure. After the answering machine picked up, he was awake enough to know that it was the phone. Thinking it was probably his agent again, Herman drifted off to sleep.

In his dream, he saw himself standing on the red carpet, beautiful woman on his arm. The crowds were cheering his name. The flash bulbs were going off all around him, while the sounds of drums beat in the back ground. Soon, the sounds of the crowd was being drowned out by the beating of the drums. He looked around and the flashes were gone, the crowd had disappeared, and he was all alone. Yet, the beating of the drum echoed all around him, with a faint sound of his name in the distance.

Slowly, Herman began to wake. He noticed traces of daylight coming through his living room drapes. Again, he heard the banging he’d heard in his dream. “What is that”, he thought out loud. Once again, the sound of beating came from across the room and the distant sound of someone one calling his name. As the fog began to clear from his mind, it dawned on him that someone was beating on the front door.

“Yeah, just a minute”, he yelled from the couch. He needed a minute to gather his thoughts. Finally, he got up to answer the door only to find his agent standing there. “Dude, why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been trying to contact you since about 9:00 last night. Where have you been?”. Herman just turned and walked back into the house, Michael right behind.

“Herman, what’s up?”. Michael could tell that the aging actor wasn’t himself. Herman sat back down on the couch, staring at the floor.

“Mike, I think it’s time to give up. I’ve been working at this for almost twenty years now, and I’m still struggling. I just don’t want my career to come down to a hair plug commercial”.

Michael sat down across from his client. “Dude, that’s why I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. After last night’s episode, the phone lines went nuts. Apparently, killing off your character made a lot of the viewers mad, and they’re protesting the studio. You’re a hit”.

Herman sat in silence. He thought maybe the booze from the night before was still reeling in his head. “What?”

The agent chuckled to himself. “Dude, they loved you. The public loves Uncle Emil. This is it. The studio called this morning and they want to talk. This is it, my friend, your big break. I told you it would come if you just waited. Now, get cleaned up. We have some negotiating to do”.

Herman remained still, the words vibrating in his mind. He’d done it. He finally managed to catch his break. After all those years, his talents had been noticed by the people who mattered most, the audience. It was finally time for Herman Silago’s star to shine.

I’ve never loved like that since then,
And I’m not sure I will again.
My broken heart is all I own,
And feels as if it’s turned to stone.
You’ve become a world away,
As my sky’s gone from blue to gray.

I miss the way you made me feel,
My soul was not yours to steal.
I wish somehow that you could see,
Just what it is you’ve done to me.
Now that you have gone away,
My blue eyes are turning gray.

I found that a gentleman by the name of Ollie Lind had read one of the poems I’d posted here and not only liked it, but offered up the link to his own readers.  How cool is that?  So, I spent a little time at Mr. Lind’s site and was amazed at what I found.  Ollie Lind is quite the poet in his own right, and has even released his first book of poetry titled Reflections of Life.

Now mind you, I was a little intimidated about reading Ollie’s work.  Several years back, I’d posted some of my poems to a critique group and almost quit writing poetry all together.  I write in rhyme.  One of the people in the group had told me that it was a sure sign that I was nothing more than an amateur.  I was devastated.  I’ve tried my hand at free verse, but I have to say that I totally SUCK at this form of poetry.  Everything I wrote in free verse sounded forced, so I just gave up.

Anyway, I decided to read a few of Mr. Lind’s poems and fell in love with his writing style.  He’s a rhymer.  His poems come together in a magical way that dances across the heart.  It gave me hope that my poems might not be dead after all.  It also caused me to pull out my dusty old book filled with the poems I’d written so many years ago.  And, it made me realize that just because one person in this world didn’t approve of my style, someone else out there might enjoy it.

Thank you, Mr. Lind.  You helped put a spark back into my soul that’s been silenced for a very long time.  They say that all things happen for a reason, and I believe that you reading my goofy little poem was no accident.  May all your writing dreams come true.

Then there are all the styles of poems.  One of these styles is known as a Cinquain.  The cinquain is a very simple style of poetry, based on syllables instead of stanzas.  Cinquains are made up of 5 lines of verse.  It will look something like this:

Line 1=2 syllables
Line 2=4 syllables
Line 3=6 syllables
Line 4=8 syllables
Line 5=2 syllables

The thing about cinquains is that they can be based on any topic or theme.  They can be totally silly:

Pork Chops
Each night at six
Father demanded them
Just once I wished we could have
Fish sticks

Or they can be completely serious:

Soldiers
Freedom fighters
Sent to lands far from home
Protecting the lives of millions
Bravely

Cinquains can have a nature theme to them:

It’s cold
The winter storm
Creeps in without a sound
Laying down a blanket of snow
Frigid

Or they can have a love theme to them:

For you
The one I love
I’ve never known just how
To tell you of my true feelings
For you

They can even have an artsty feel to them:

Moments
Like living art
Each person around you
An actor in an unknown film
Captured

The cinquain is one of the easiest poems you can write, and they can be written by anyone.  It doesn’t matter whether or not you’re a creative writer, or just looking to release a few pent up emotions.  The cinquain is a great way to let your emotions flow.

Word association is one of the easiest ways of coming up with ideas that I’ve ever personally used.  In a nutshell, it goes like this.  Write down any word that comes to mind.  Doesn’t matter what, just write it down.  Now, write down 3 or 4 different ideas that come to mind from that first word.  Keep going from one idea to the next until you see an idea begin to form.

Another idea I created for myself is a little thing I call N.A.V.A.  These stand for Noun, Adjective, Verb, Adverb.  I just write down one of each, not thinking about how they go together or anything like that.  Then, I work at trying to find a way to link them to each other.  For example, my page would look like this:

N=Basketball
A=Globular
V=Crash
A=Sensationally

Now, I’d try and get each of those words to coincide with each other in a story or an article.  For instance, I could write a story about a basketball player in a car crash.  Or I can write about the sensation exploits of professional basketball players.  There are several ideas that can be obtained from just these four words.

Mind you, these are only a couple of ideas to help you get over your writer’s block.  One of the best ideas, though, is to create your own ways of overcoming this obstacle.  If you can create your own ways of beating writer’s block, there will always be something to talk about.

There are a lot of different topics to choose from, as well as different publication choices, such as text articles or videos.  Text articles must be at least 250 words in length, but no more than 1500 words.  Videos should be no more than 100mb in size.  If you’d rather add an audio clip or a slide show presentation, these options are also available.

Due to the fact that this site is still rather new, there are still some bugs that need to be worked out here and there.  For the most part, however, I’m pretty happy with this place.  I have read some negative press about Bukisa, like you have to give up your rights to your work once published on the site.  According to the site’s CTO, Simon Gelfand, this simply is not true.  Everything you post on the site remains your property.

Minimum payout is set at $10, and is paid through PayPal.  Payments are sent within 30 days of whatever month you reach payout level.  Basically, it means that if you reach payout on the 14th of December, you’ll get paid by the end of January.  Site revenues are made through a wide array of venues, including text ads, banner ads, and email marketing, just to name a few.

I can’t say whether this site is going to last or not, but from what I’ve seen so far, I’m pretty excited.  I’ve published 2 different articles on the site and have already had quite a few views.  As time goes by and I add new content, I’ll be able to tell if this site is worth the time or not.  For now, I’m happy with everything I’ve seen.

In order to really make your writing stand out in the crowd, you need to find your own style.  If you try to write like anyone else, your work will may have a stale feel to it.  By putting your own personality into your work, you make it fresher and more exciting.

There will be many experts who will tell you that you should write in a certain tone, depending on your topic or chose genre.  This may work for them, but that doesn’t mean the same is true for you.  The best writing comes from your heart, not from what youve learned from the experts.

I learned this many years ago, when I had some of my poems critiqued by poetry experts.  I’ve always enjoyed writing verse poetry, or poems that rhyme.  According to these experts, my poems were clearly written by an amateur who had no business writing poetry, simply because they rhymed.  I was so devastated that I didn’t write another poem for nearly a year.  That’s when it hit me, I needed to write for me.

I decided to keep writing in my own style, no matter what these experts thought.  I felt that if I changed my style to fit their ideas of what a perfect poem, it was no longer mine.  Since that time, I’ve written my poems in my style and though the experts may hate it, they make me happy.

Don’t let anyone else out there tell you how your work should sound or be written.  Always write in your own unique voice.  Your readers will know the difference and appreciate your efforts.