I am from (wands of unimaginable power) unsharpened pencils,

from Beanie Boos and Island of the Blue Dolphins.

I am from the broken alarm clock and beige walls cool to the touch

in a room that wasn’t mine,

doors that locked from the outside,

and a silence I filled with hour-long ballads about anything and everything.

I am from the trees I would lie under as after-school traffic died down,

letting the branches protect me as I grew familiar with love and fear

from my usual spot in their dancing shade, settled next to friends on the sidewalk.

I’m from “Band! Ten-hut!” group dismissals

and the exhausted, victorious atmosphere

after every run of the show at every marching contest.

From Tobias Soriano and Alexis Palacio.

I’m from the blunt, nerdy humor of Parker Boyd

and the hours of deep conversation and beautiful,

well-spoken honesty of Lauren Cram.

From “you can’t be trusted” and “you’re the most real person I’ve ever met.”

I’m from delivering Lemonades and finding a community;

from Panama City Beach, where God showed me

that there’s always enough hope to keep existing.

I’m from Level of Concern by twenty øne piløts,

expired Earl Grey,

leaning against trees whose roots grew over the empty sidewalk and writing a song about it.

From the rocky creek I jumped into with Parker,

where I simultaneously got my first kiss

and a cool scar on the bottom of my right foot.

The stickers on someone’s guitar whose sound I thrive on after school,

the voices and laughter of people I’ve just met but couldn’t bear to lose.

Scattered throughout my room, tucked away in desk drawers and on bookshelves,

are folded letters and useless objects

I somehow manage to keep finding places for.

I am from the pink scars and salty tears

of everything I have ever experienced,

unhindered and separate from the realm of blood and descent.

You ask how I plan to change the world.

I don't.

The world does not need

Any more changing.

Far from it.

Look at our surroundings.

Our trees filter sunlight

Through millions of green pages,

Like books that ache to tell a story

Through shadows dancing on the forest floor.

Our skies sigh softly

In cool billows of crisp wind,

Carrying dots of rain

To land on unsuspecting eyelashes,

Leaving morning dew

To be blinked away from wandering eyes.

Our artists beckon us with graphite lines

And textured mountains of color

And pages and pages of original combinations

Of ancient words and immortal sounds;

Redefining culture

By redefining the light spectrum and the world's acoustics,

Altering how our senses absorb the universe.

I am one of those artists.

I do not change the world;

I change our perception of it.

I am an artist;

But I am not your artist.

This is a planet;

But it is not our planet.

Earth is an artist alongside me.

She is a creator of new ideas,

A writer of songs,

A painter of landscapes,

An innovator of intelligence.

She has a portfolio of towering sculptures

And intricately carved woodwork,

And music that took eons to compose.

She is not ours.

No, I will not change the world,

For I am an artist.

I do not vandalize or take credit for

The work of other artists.

I will bring a shift

Into the minds of those who do.

At first

I used that one line

As a reminder

To never forgive them.

Every time they hurt me

I redrew it

And reopened it.

I wanted a permanent scar,

A tattoo of my home

So I would never speak to them

Too cordially,

Or trust them

With my future children,

Or sit by them

At family gatherings.

And then I drew more.

One for every time

They took away my hope

And my freedom

And my confidence.

I kept a tally of the days

They wouldn't let me breathe;

The days I couldn't let myself breathe.

I justified it in my head

With a projector

That displayed little white lies

Behind my eyes at all times

Constantly playing on repeat

At school,

At home,

At work,

In the shower.

I'm not hurting myself.

This is a physical representation

Of what they are already doing to me.

A little reminder I like to write

In red pen on my arm,

To remind me

That I'm not

A problem child

Who throws temper tantrums,

Who can't be trusted with

Shower water

Or a door

Or food

Or a school-provided computer

Or decision-making

Without supervision

And reprimanding

And punishment;

Who can't receive encouragement

Or praise

Or grace

Or happiness

Without taking advantage of it.

And I liked writing that reminder

A lot.

Maybe a little too much.

Because I began to write and rewrite it

All over my body.

It gave me peace

Knowing I could just look down at myself

And see those words

And automatically know

What my life consisted of at the moment.

And what it always would consist of.

I loved the familiar burst

Of dopamine

Running through my brain

Through my cheeks

Across my shoulders

And into my chest

Where it radiated

Throughout the rest of my body;

Specifically the sweet spots

On hidden areas of my left limbs

Where I sometimes wrote and rewrote,

traced and retraced it

In layers.

It was calming,

A cure-all

For cancers,

Fevers,

Depression,

Anxiety,

Sleep issues...

It was like CBD

But less advertised.

I couldn't stop

To save my life.

But I did.

Eventually.

I can't wash the ink off,

Though.

I've tried.

I always just end up

Rubbing my arms and legs

Raw with a washcloth,

And I sigh

At the things

I would rather have left

Undone

And probably forgotten

By my ever-distracted,

Scattered mind.

I can hear them outside, wailing in their multitudes. They chomp and leer in the night, bay at the moon, calling out for murder, for death. My death.

When I first moved to this picturesque, coastal town, I was taken by its charm and beauty. Cobbled lanes and stone-walled cottages. Shadowed-draped pathways sneaking between buildings, too narrow to walk two-abreast. The wooden wharf, unchanged in decades but for the occasional application of fresh paint.

Truly, it was like living in a bygone time, a century in which I felt I belonged. It was an age of innocence and purity. And yet, it was in those yesterdays that the fear of the supernatural was at its strongest.

The first body to be found was that of a young woman. Alone at night, she had left her home and wandered to the cliff edge. No one knew how she had come to an end on the rocky shore – was it intentional, or something more sinister?

Many stated it was a freak accident, a tragedy. But some whispered of dark movement in the night, of a spiteful entity attacking the girl. At first, these tales were mocked as superstitious nonsense, old-wives’ tales twisted into nightmarish design.

Until the next victim was discovered, his blood spilled on the floor about his torn and tattered body.

I began to notice the townsfolk change from that point. It started in groups of two and three, huddling together in dark corners and mumbling among themselves. As the weeks went by and the deaths continued, those muttering groups grew. Six of them gathered, eight, a dozen. It would not be long, I knew, before the whole town was converted and the individual groups would merge and, no longer being in the minority, openly assault any who had not succumbed.

I expected to have had more time to arrange my escape from the stricken town. I had belongings and crates and heirlooms I could not leave behind; fleeing in the night was not an option for me. And now I regret my lingering, for now they are here for me.

I have barricaded the door, bolted tight the windows, but I fear it will be in vain. The sheer number of my enemy, and their strengthened determination to enter my home, will overcome any barriers I can place before them.

Sitting in my chambers, I am shaking with dread. A thunder of splitting wood heralds their ingress. The cries of the monsters increase in fervour and volume as they swarm through the ground floor. The stairway is narrow, and it will force them to ascend in single file. That is a small mercy though, for still they will come. Pushing at the one in front, hungry for my blood, they will rise like a river of flesh erupting from the depths of hell. The cacophony of their voices, words lost in the bloodlust, pounds at my ears.

The horde reaches the top floor and the door to my room shudders as they press against it. Hinges whine. Wood groans.

And then they are in, falling over themselves to get at me. In their hands they clasp artefacts of their madness – crucifixes, stakes, garlic – and I know that soon I will be dead.

Dead, no longer undead.

swaying swans sing so softly,

soothing soft sounds slowly swelling,

seeming suddenly strident.

swans seldom stutter,

songs sweet, stable, so steady,

simply saying smooth sounds,

sending sweet songs slowly soaring.

sinking, surging, swaying,

sonorous songs sweep sooty sands,

smoothing serrated sections,

sending swirling sand segments skyward,

sand swiveling in superior cyclones,

swirling, so spectacularly,

songs switching, soon submerging,

sinking in soothing space,

significantly savage storms

stretching skyward slowly.

shore and sea sway,

sufficiently synchronized,

shifting societal standards,

sinking suggestive sentiment.

some saturnalien scum scream:

“swan’s singing is supernatural!”

such screams seem

standard sentiment for suffering swans,

singing segregated,

surgical supression,

sulfurous stigma,

seperatist sentiment,

systematic suffering

sans suffrage,

seeking some suffering like

sick, substandard scavengers

seeking stiffs to scarf.

such slanderous statements

soliciting self shame.

such slander seems swamping,

senior stigmas sticking still, ceaseless.

still, such substandard slander

shouldn’t seem so standard.

surely, someone should say “shame!

shame on such sour spoken sounds!

shame on sickening scum!

shame on such cynical syllables,

shame on such senile schemes!

such scandalous sentiments should scarcely see spoken!”

swans singing should seem special, sinless,

supreme in sound.

still, some stay silent.

silence seems stinkingly substandard,

slimy sewage straining such struggles.

sound seems sanctioned,

silence supremely saddening.

seeking success shouldn’t seem scandalous.

still, silence and slander stays strong.

such sentiment stains swan’s singing.

supernatural? surely senseless!

stupid semantics of superstitious stupidity.

swans sing sans spectral supplements!

spooky specters swiftly scamper,

scared of such supreme swan sounds.

spooks spooked by splendid splendor.

supernatural singing?

silly solution to senile stigmas!

swans scorn such spiritual silliness.

singing is simply spontaneous skill,

skill and some strong seasoning.

still, skepticism stays strong.

sans suspicion, swans sing still.

seeking some sadly screened support

for some splendid singing.

singing seems so shortening.

swan songs seem so superior.

swirling, sublime swan songs,

sacrificing sand for sky.

splendid sunsets streaking

smog suffused skies,

saturated stains;

saffron, scarlet,

seceding to shadowy sapphire,

sundown, song still sustaining,

sun and sunset’s sweet satellite spinning

seldom stop such sweet swans singing.

swans seldomly seem superstitious,

still, songs seem supernatural,

savages slinking in sluggish streams.

spiritual souls singing spirits into survival.

specters sway in sophisticated shapes,

spectral simulation,

schizophrenic supercomputer of spiraling skulls,

strange sounds of sightly sinful serpents.

since such sounds seem supernatural,

shouldn’t someone say swans singing is superior?

sage swans sing such strength saturated songs,

sending song scales spiraling skyward.

songs, scaling slippery slopes;

straddling stars in space,

stretching to star systems,

swimming in stacks of suns.

sitting in swells of singing swans,

sobbing songs of sugary sadness,

so soon, sorrow shifts to soothing sanctity,

sickness, soothed.

sadness, squashed.

suffering, scrubbed.

snow, seceded from summery skies.

songs surfacing from swanly speech.

striding stepping stones,

seeing sightly scenery.

songs sliding southwards,

slipping, somehow.

sonnets stirring streams,

sequestered swans singing

striding such senseless stockades.

spawning statuesque serenity in shivering streams,

seldom settling somewhere,

ceaslessly shaping some splendid space,

shaping, switching, shifting:

shifting solid stones.

sweet, saccharine songs,

standing strong,

staying stentorian,

strident sounds,

sliding sweetly

seeking spectators,

seeding sensitive saplings,

sprouting splendid stems,

seeking sweet sunlight.

sun shines ceaseless,

stalling for some sought space.

some secret section,

super secluded from such simultaneous spoilage.

simultaneously, swans sing,

seeking some sort of

settlement for such sinister suffering,

seeking some sort of sweet satisfaction,

sounds squeezing secluded souls,

someday shading cities,

shining seas and shaking structures,

seamstresses soon sewing

spectacular scenes.

songs sung somewhere

sad, sweet, suggestive.

songs swans started.

songs swans sung.

songs swans sowed.

still, swans shuttered,

slammed, scattered, sunk.

species said

“songs seem saturated in suggestive sin.”

still, some stole such strong swan songs,

stealing superb scales for selfish services.

snatching songs,

stealing spots,

swindling such sugar sweet singing.

so swans surrendered,

staring sadly skyward,

such sour savagery

solicits savage storms.

since shelter stolen, survival seems strenuous.

sad swans sunk southward,

snuggling with suffering,

sinking subterranean.

swans sang sirenlike,

spawning sordid superstitions.

shores where swans sat seemed shrouded in strangeness.

swans seldom cease singing,

still, swan’s strength seems strained.

sapped by superstitious stigma.

so such sweet, soft, struggling swans

stopped singing such splendid sounding songs.

such silence slowly suffocated said swans,

swans seemed striding to secede from sickening silence.

such supressed songsseeingly spawned self scorn,

swans strangling selves to supress sudden songs.

suicidal sadness, staining songs,

siring sinister scrutiny.

songs and swans surrender in sync, severing,

splintered segments spinning

shattered stars,

slumping scalps,

some suck satisfaction from straws.

some slice selves senseless.

some surrender, suicidal,

seeking solace in swaying strings,

survival’s strings snipped shamefully short.

some seek serenity in schizophrenic sources.

some still see serenity in such ceaseless suffering.

still, summation of such sad swans

smooch sorrow so severely

that such sickness seems ceaseless,

submerging sweet songs in still spreading sadness.

significant shadowed space,

sun stymied,

stars snuffed.

sinning spreading starkly,

silencing serene swans,

stifling silver sterling stars.

should swans still start songs?

or should silence stretch ceaseless?

song seems salient to such soundless suffering.

such senses seem safe.

still, suspicion, stigma

staying stuck in some spacey souls.

serenity slips, sinking subterranean.

sadness sways,

swallowing some spacious cities simply.

swans suffer, species swallow sorrow.

strangling on soundless sickness.

silence seems like sickness.

sagely, someone suggests

some supreme suggestion,

stupidly seeking

some sure solution:

since swans seemed secondary.

schooling seems significant.

some say swans swim subordinate;

suggesting stereotypical stupidity:

some species seem stunted,

societal straitjackets, strangling sweet singers,

scapegoating swans.

sometimes suspicion stays stuck.

such stigmas seem super strenuous to shake.

still, someone should stand;

seek the spunk to say:

“species sustain soul,

safeguard sentience,

spawn saccharine songs,

sabatoge solitary strays,

soon, subsidence stays sure.”

swimming swans, slithering snakes,

sewing silkworms, slimy salamanders

slippery salmon, strong scorpions,

stalker sharks, special seals

sprightly seahorses, stinky skunks, and slow sloths.

soaring sparrows, spinning spiders, scurrying squirrels and squirting squid,

sacred scarabs, squirming starfish, shrunken shrimp,

shriveled shrew, slimy slugs, shelled snails, silky servals,

stately stags and spirited storks.

each species seems salient and splendid.

even small sardines: significant.

such species seem small,

scarce, sporadic, strange, substandard.

such stigmas are slipshod.

so species still seem salient,

spurning such stale sentimentality.

swans seek survival,

subsistence, not superiority.

such selfishness is senseless.

such species spurn seeming sheeplike,

shunning shepherds.

species seek strength.

strength, scornless spans of survival.

seeking seen: strong, splendid, sweet.

some still searching sundry sands

so someone still stands satisfied.

sailing sun stained seas,

sapphire swells surging to sandy shores,

spawning sudsy cerulean surf.

sequestered shores, subtly shadowed.

sparkling sunbeams shuttered,

sending swans to sibylline shade,

searching stripped shores for sidelined silvery stashes,

sanguinely suppositions of safety and salvation.

swans searching, shepherding scheduled saints.

scavenging sandy shores,

and slothlike, shattering.

swans start slipping.

slowly, souls shrivel, semitransparent.

searching for supreme solidarity,

sidestepping serious storms.

surely, success sits somewhere,

secluded in shadowy shores.

success should be sought speedily.

strife seldom stops simply.

serenity seeking swans still sing,

starting songs supplementary.

suddenly, swan source surfaces,

striding stormy seas,

seeking spawn’s songs.

she searches for strayed sons.

she seeks to spark satisfaction.

swan’s source has seen suffering.

she seeks to soar skyward,

spurring swans to surmount sad situations.

seek sustenance!

swan source symbolizes success,

seeking strength in scary scrapes.

swan source saw small sons suckling from soft spheres,

seeking sweet solution.

she says, “seek survival!

seek satisfaction,

seek serenity,

satiate starved swan sanity!”

she shows swans skills,

students studying stateliness.

swans still sailed skyward,

so she shows swans supplementary sailing:

swimming salty sapphire seas.

such shining seas sequined with shining sunlight,

such sojourning seems sufficiently satisfying.

“spurn stereotypical status!” she says.

she starts shifting said status:

swans see what she sees.

swans surround system’s stop,

swamping sectarianism,

so simple, so sophisticated.

simply stunning, sublime,

stimulating, stirring sleeping soldiers,

spurring salient strides,

striding sagely,

surpassing senseless slights,

supressing stalemate,

smothering such senseless slander,

sailing sinking ships to shore.

struggling swans swung swirling shouts,

scouring shores, ceasing strife.

such splendid savagery,

so sour shifted sweet,

swan source scored success.

she significantly shifted such sights.

so stigmatized scorn shifted to celebrated.

scratch shabby slants,

substitute sincere sentiments.

surround, subdue senseless slander,

swans sing still,

swearing no cessation,

stubbornly securing ceaseless support.

standing still, strong,

smashed scizzors still slice separated;

suddenly shining swordlike.

sprouting sudden splendid shoots,

swans seem suddenly successful.

still, swans seldomly succeed stopping seiges solo,

so swan’s serendipity strays.

still, swans search.

seeking sweeping songs,

swelling stations,

successfully suprising.

suitability supercedes sameness,

surely, shouldn’t stay synonymized.

such stories solicit sincerity,

supposing stories sit secure,

solemn, stirring,

superposing sciolism.

slashing superficial standards.

swan songs stain sciolistic spirits,

supporting schooling simpletons,

scattering scorn.

simple strains spawn sophisticated speculation,

soul symposium,

sole soprano singing sonorous,

strong swan singers synchronizing.

some struggle to strangle such sounds,

souring such sweet swan style.

still, sighing swans stop scarcely,

songs soaring skyward,

sky sketched silver,

smog, spinning string,

shaping sheepskin shrouds.

suffering seemingly spawns

some super special songs,

sending such supremely splendid signals.

songs start seeming like sheets of spectacular sky

stretching stately,

surrounding swans,

skin of soft support,

suspending swans in stunning stillness.

still, shouldn’t stop.

still, ceaselessly strutting,

seldom setting selves south of success.

swaying, synergized song.

synchronized, spiritual, shatterproof song.

spectacular, significant, substantial song.

so suspend scaredness,

swans shouldn’t stop singing.

still, songs sustain significant significance.

such style, such symmetry,

shouldn’t stop,

shouldn’t stay still.

so swan songs seldomly suspend.

sustaining seems salient.

ceasing soon? surely silly!

swans should scarsely stall!

surely, such superior singing stays.

slackening, strengthening,

simply swaying,

subsisting silently,

suggesting simple songs,

still, striving for sophisticated sounds.

ceaseless sound,

stopping seldom,

subsisting in seemingly silent states,

staying sonorous in shining stars.

swans started sweeping sojourns,

searching for some same strategy

as similar successful species.

swan songs steered

such stigmatized species

somewhere super special.

swans seem so special someday starting soon.

such sentiment should stay.

such sentiment should have stuck from start.

still, swans strove to swim skyward, socially,

seeking society’s summit.

such struggle seems so serviceable.

stop settling for supression.

stop silencing spectacular sounds.

celebrate surpassing societal summits

swans should serve as similes

for societal supression.

schooling is super superior,

spawning sensible solutions,

stirring students to seek some

substantial shifts in sectionalist sentiments.

seems sensible that some stuck in similar situations,

such sad species seeking some support,

should study swan’s successes,

striving to simulate shangri-la’s smooth skies.

He wanted to play. So I did. First we played the way he wanted me to. I let him pin me and take control. When he asked me to lead I pinned him open. Layer by layer. Holding him in place by his ankles and wrists, I peeled back his skin. Needles holding open raw flesh. Burning him open down the seams. Slicing down his sides with a ratchet knife. I like playing my men clean cut. Skinning them open like I would a deer. It can get messy, but I like taking my time. I like watching them wince. Their pain completes me. Eyelids pulled out wide exposing the spherical whites around their irises, held so elegantly in a frame of red and pink flesh. Lips pulled open. Cheeks slit. Sometimes I pull teeth. Or simply place a few of their chopped fingers between molars, exposing an open mouth and wide throat. I like to play with their tongues. Holding them in the grip of tongs or my finger tips. I like to play with them pinned and cut open. It makes me feel complete. Now, time to slice open his “you-know-what” and see it inside out. That part is fun. It sometimes gets hard, but it eventually goes limp when I cut through it. Ready to play?

The clock struck midnight and I drew the curtain aside to glance out the window. The sight left me feeling flustered; chills running down my spine.

At the heart of our existence, the secret to longevity, and the meaning behind human life is compassion. A pandemic unearthed our deepest, darkest thoughts, the reality behind our masks that we put on to show the world and brought it to the surface for everyone to see. Panicked families in my city left their temporary living quarters and embarked on their way back home without a thought to their own health and safety. Without food or water, they began their journey homeward hundreds of miles away, they walked from noon well into the early hours of the morning. Stopped at the border, roughed up for wanting to return to their families, their parents, their children. Beaten up, their souls broken, their dignity crushed - only a painful reminder of their former selves. Transported in the back of an unseemly truck, huddled together like rotten vegetables in chafing burlap sacks, the horrors of the night made all too clear when the dead were reserved a spot right beside the living.

As I drew the curtain aside, I saw men, women, and children, laying on the street with their worldly belongings strewn about. Waiting for a rickety bus to take them home. A disease looming over our heads compelled us to stay indoors, stay safe and then there were our people who did not have that privilege, that luxury we took for granted. A bus finally arrived after hours of them pottering about in 50 degree weather - sweltering, melting heat. A crowd gathered at the doors for this golden, maybe the only, chance to return to their villages. Some climbed on the roof of the bus while some could only grab the handle and pray they reached home without falling back.

In the world that we live in, inequality, inequity, and disparity soon become the tenets of a democracy. Rather than being for the people, it is against them. The others. A lack of agency, lack of money, lack of power left them helpless out on the streets with no one and nowhere to turn to. Is that all human lives are worth?

A group of people made to sit on the ground with their back to the authority, all they see are shadows - intimidating, suspicious, and moving. A mist suddenly engulfs them, enveloping them in a cough-inducing cloud. The smell, a burning smell of alcohol invading their senses and they realised what has been done. They were being sprayed with disinfectant to protect those who might eventually come in contact with their group. For whose benefit? Not a flinch or a shadow on the unperturbed faces of the perpetrators; they were just following orders. They too lack the agency to make better decisions, or so it seems.

Compassion, or lack thereof. Humans are not equal. We are different, we are diverse. We do not want to be treated equally, we need to be treated with equal respect. Treat us differently, respect our differences. Create space for the individual who is different, feels different, looks different. We need choices and then we need room to say yes or no. We want rights and then we need the authority to exercise them. Be humane, not just human. Stay true to your words. If you have the power that means we gave it to you. Respect that. It is not yours to abuse. It is not yours to exploit. Relent, repent, apologise and maybe our lost souls will forgive you for your wrongs.

Did you really think it was okay to put me down over and over and use our friendship to get what you wanted? Is it fair that I won't ever stop caring for you because I still value our past? You're going to say it, aren't you? I know, life isn't fair, it never is.

If it was would we still be stuck in this stupid feedback loop of one-sided affection?

If you want to write, then write. Don’t focus on anything else. Don’t compare your stories to anyone else’s. Don’t say, “They’re so much better”. Don’t listen to the darkness in your head, or embrace the fear that you might fail.

If you want to write, then write. Don’t write long stories, if you don’t want to. Don’t plan and worry and trouble yourself over words that don’t make you happy. Don’t make things more elaborate than they need to be. Write for yourself, not to impress.

If you want to write, then write. Don’t write short stories, if you don’t want to. Don’t try to cram your thoughts into a few paragraphs if a couple pages will do. Don’t censor or edit yourself to make others happy. You can’t make everyone happy, anyway.

If you want to write, then write. Pour your soul into the words on the page. Write like a river, ebbing and flowing with emotion and story. Don’t get hung up on the rocks of sentence structure and expectation. Don’t edit, don’t stifle, and don’t change. Just let it out.

If you want to write, then write. If you don’t tell your stories, who will?

My first inclination is to speak in generalities, but I’m going to instead post random bits of things that work for me. They might not work for you; that’s fine. Disregard at will. But for 20 minutes I’ll imagine I know something, toss out some thoughts and post them, and perhaps someone will find something helpful.

1. Show, don’t tell, as all the writing instructors say. Never tell your reader what to think when an image will do.

2. While editing, you can probably strike half your adjectives. If you use an adverb, too, you’d better have a damn good reason.

3. Does it really matter what color your character’s eyes are?

4. Listening to the right album or playlist while writing can make a big difference, in no small part because

5. you should never neglect mood.

6. Hemingway for economy (even if he is a bastard) [“Old Man at the Bridge,” “Hills Like White Elephants”], Virginia Woolf for lyricism and her ability to narrate silence [To the Lighthouse, for a start], Thomas Hardy for scene setting linked to narrative vision [Tess of the D’Urbervilles], Joseph Conrad for frame narrative [Heart of Darkness, though Achebe’s right about the racism], Jane Austen for wit and restraint [Pride and Prejudice], Flannery O’Conner for the sickening irony and portrayal of a fallen world [“A Good Man is Hard to Find,” “The Life You Save May Be Your Own”]. The Great Gatsby gets my vote for The Great American Novel (TM). I’ll take Ta-Nehisi Coates over any living essayist I can think of, though I’m less widely read in that genre than I ought to be.

7. And to flip to a different medium for a hastily-considered list, Vertigo, The Virgin Suicides, Moonlight, The Third Man, and The Illusionist, and Tokyo Story all have things to teach a writer.

8. Sections of dialogue become more vivid with properly-timed descriptions of physical actions and setting, which can also provide pacing.

9. Balance the abstract and the concrete.

10. Find a reader and editor you trust (easier said than done, but incredibly valuable and rewarding).

11. Leave your reader space to interpret. Guide the reader, but don’t shoehorn them into a lesson.

12. Being a good Proser means reading, not just writing.