Calm_writer , to random
@Calm_writer@mastodon.social avatar

Good morning beauties, let's do an early

Post your 😭

Wivik , to bookstodon group
@Wivik@fosstodon.org avatar

"Les murmures de la montagne de métal (Partie 1)", or "Echoes of the Metal Mountain (Part 1)", is now available in both original French and English translation. A story where history encounter legends.

https://seb-astien.fr/fr/books/les-murmures-de-la-montagne-de-metal-1/

@bookstodon

CultureDesk , to bookstodon group
@CultureDesk@flipboard.social avatar

Today is World Book Day. If you've always wanted to write a novel but never known where to start (or you've started and stopped more times than you can count), be inspired by Justin Taylor's story for LitHub, an apology for why it took him a decade to finish his new book, "Reboot." "I started it on New Year’s Day 2014 and the first thing I did was write longhand for a week. The second thing I did was fail for seven years," he writes.

https://flip.it/CwkkpK

@bookstodon

CultureDesk , to bookstodon group
@CultureDesk@flipboard.social avatar

It's always been hard to make a living as a writer, but in 2024, it's harder than ever. Dirt has published this depressing but essential essay by David Hill, a union organizer turned author, on the grim reality of writing life. "At the time the National Writers Union was founded [in 1981], $1 a word was considered a bare-minimum rate for freelance writing ... Today it is no longer considered the floor, but a ceiling."

https://flip.it/86ezKz

@bookstodon

Wivik , to bookstodon group
@Wivik@fosstodon.org avatar

Avis à la communauté /

indépendant auto-publié, je suis toujours à la recherche de retours pour m'améliorer. Si d'aventure vous tenez une chronique lecture, seriez-vous intéressé(e) pour faire une d'un de mes écrits ? Si oui vous pouvez me contacter en DM ou sur mon site web.

(English is possible too)

@bookstodon

Wivik , to scifi group
@Wivik@fosstodon.org avatar

It is my pleasure to announce the upcoming release of my new : "Echoes of the Metal Mountain". It will be available on April 30th both in French and English.

https://blog.zedas.fr/posts/les-murmures-de-la-montagne-de-metal/

@bookstodon @scifi

Wivik , to bookstodon group
@Wivik@fosstodon.org avatar

Here is an update of my recent activities.

  • Some of my works are published on
  • New announcement, a dedicated post will be made once released

https://blog.zedas.fr/posts/writing-activities-update-april-2024/

@bookstodon

Wivik , to bookstodon group
@Wivik@fosstodon.org avatar

A little announcement for / Petite annonce pour les personnes amatrices de

J'ai commencé à publier certains de mes sur . Avec un chapitrage adapté à la plateforme.

English versions will come later.

https://fr.neovel.io/user/109551/seb-astien

@bookstodon

Wivik , to bookstodon group
@Wivik@fosstodon.org avatar

While starting to publish it at , I've made some corrections to my previous "The Patient Daniel" (typo / phrasing issues mostly).

Original French version : https://seb-astien.fr/fr/books/le-patient-daniel/

English translation : https://seb-astien.fr/en/books/le-patient-daniel/

@bookstodon

KitMuse , to bookstodon group
@KitMuse@eponaauthor.social avatar

One of the things we did "back in the day" (say early 2000's) was have author groups where maybe 5-10 authors were in a group, we had a website, a newsletter, I guess now there'd be social media presence, and we each agreed to promote the group in each others' newsletters .... I suppose that's out of fashion, but just thinking I'd love to get more 👀 on my books.

@bookstodon

NickEast , to writingcommunity group
@NickEast@geekdom.social avatar

I didn't realise this was a thing, do people really think Mary Shelly wasn't the first SciFi author? 🤔

@sciencefiction @writers @writingcommunity @writing

#MaryShelly #Frankenstein #Monster #SciFi #Author #Writerdons #Writers #Writer #Writing #WritingCommunity #Writinglife #WritersOfMastodon
#BoostingIsSharing

When Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein in 1818 (aged 19), neither Jules Verne, nor Welles were born yet (Allan Poe was 9). A teenage girl wrote what is still considered today the 1st science fiction novel. This article continues the long tradition of erasing her. Article by New York Times Books: With Jules Verne and the publisher Hugo Gernsback, H.G. Wells invented the genre of science fiction.
ALT
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    HenriqueGibaldi , to poetry group Italian
    @HenriqueGibaldi@zirk.us avatar

    A garden'

    As the bird eats
    The succulent fruit,
    and flowers are kissed
    by the host of bees,
    I see creatures in my garden
    from a world unseen.
    Behind perfumed Evergreens....

    write.as/gibaldi/
    @gibaldi
    @poetry

    egb , to poetry group
    @egb@mstdn.party avatar

    I’ve been doing this self-portrait poetry series every January for the past few years.

    I think it’s a cool way to see how my life has changed but also how my writing has evolved.

    #1 was written in Vermont, #2 was written in New Mexico, and #3 was written in Washington.

    Finished this year’s portrait a day late but I think it still counts.

    @poetry

    Self-Portrait in Solitude, Late January #1 (2022) She collects words and rocks them in her arms like a mother would her baby: Sallow, nighthawk, and serendipity. She presses her cheek against the window. The sun beckons, the cloud of heat both soft and heavy at the same time. She wafts into her socks and snow boots, tying first the left, then the right laces. She reminds herself to keep her heart always open. Outside, she looks for omens like a half-moon in blue sky or robins weaving ribbons in a nest. She kicks blocks of ice down the sidewalk until they break into dust. She grins. She asks herself questions just to hear them echo in the cathedral of her mind: When you enter a poem, who speaks through the mouthpiece? How come squirrels wonder where and corvids wonder why? If Sunday were forever, what would stillness feel like?
    image/jpeg

    Self-Portrait in Solitude, Late January #2 (2023) The dirty work is done; she retreats to the peak called Watch Tower, cross-legged on the street facing the Cathedral. She listens for the downhill silence, an echo of upwind's childish joy: lodine, sun-daze, tumbleweed. She devours heat and sound like a starved animal, a flea gnawing on the hides of time. Her thumbs ache and she thinks, here, at last, a pain that belongs. A QR code unfurls into a webpage full of lies. She remembers how to make a home, how to keep a fire burning through the long dark eve. Love and fear braided like sage and carried beyond the mountain range, from this coast to that, where the sun sets just a little bit later. She watches who's here and she wonders who's been here, beneath the roses. The ghosts of America, the barely not-consumed. Three black cats, buying suits for a wedding. She curls up to protect her face, her stomach. An old man nearby says to his companion: "Well, now that we're having lunch, what do you think we'll do for dinner?" A prayer for the life she couldn't afford to spare. A prayer for her lover's wife. A prayer for the body under the bridge with the bullet through its head. 6-7-7-2. She squints. "It's only this far on a map, though —which direction? Wish I knew."
    ALT
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