The material is right there in front of you. You’ve known yourself for, well, a lifetime—and you finally feel ready to share your story with the world. Yet when it actually comes time to put pen to paper, you find that you’re stumped.
Enter Adair Lara: award-winning author, seasoned columnist, beloved writing coach, and the answer to all of your autobiographical quandaries.
Naked, Drunk, and Writing is the culmination of Lara’s vast experience as a writer, editor, and teacher. It is packed with insights and advice both practical (“writing workshops you pay for are the best--it’s too easy to quit when you’ve made no investment”) and irreverent (“apply Part A [butt] to Part B [chair]”), answering such important questions as:
• How do I know where to start my piece and where to end it?
• How do I make myself write when I’m too scared or lazy or busy?
• What makes a good pitch letter, and how do I get mine noticed?
• I’m ready to publish—now where do I find an agent?
• If I show my manuscript to my mother, will I ever be invited to a family gathering again?
As thorough and instructive as a personal writing coach (and cheaper, too), Naked, Drunk, and Writing is a must-have if you are an aspiring columnist, essayist, or memoirist—or just a writer who needs a bit of help in getting your story told.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Naked, Drunk, and Writing|
|Release Date: 08-31-2010|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Ten Speed Press|
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Naked, Drunk, and Writing
That Which Is Most Personal Is Most Common
I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.
—Henry David Thoreau, Walden
By the time I passed thirty, I got it: I was not going to be a writer. Sure, I had impressed my sixth-grade teacher with my heroic dog stories, but now I couldn’t finish anything without balling it up in discouragement. So I did the next best thing and went after a job in a related field. I interviewed to be a copy editor at San Francisco Focus, the local city magazine, swearing to the managing editor that I wasn’t a writer, that my happiness lay in making sure that the absence of “h” in Natan Katzman’s name in the masthead was not an error.
I got the job. Pleased to my rope sandals to be hired at a real magazine, I proofread, fact-checked, and coded manuscripts for the typesetter. I sweated over the captions that came my way as if they were War and Peace, and wrote headlines such as “Swell Wines at Swill Prices” (which they rejected, the cowards). I called up writers to say things like, “Listen to this paragraph and see if you can live without the last two sentences.” I told myself it was terrific to be an editor, enjoying all those lunches out and wearing all those black outfits. All the time, though, I yearned to be one of the writers who came and went at odd hours, looking as if they had tramp streamers moored outside, or who had just left wintry palaces, and gave us their copy to edit.
My friend Cynthia, the production editor, wanted to be a writer as much as I did. She was as thin as a butter knife and wore her sweaters d