Libby Drew
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Everything posted by Libby Drew
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The Writer's Life: A (mercifully) short piece on the evolution of storytelling.
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Chapter 1
Libby Drew posted new chapter in The Writer's Yellow Brick Road: Journey from First to Second Draft
The Writer’s Yellow Brick Road: Journey from First to Second Draft First drafts are often wordy. We make them that way because at the divine moment we’re crafting a scene, adding words is the only way to get the details across. Soliloquies abound. Descriptions clutter. Characters chatter. We pour thousands of words onto the page, reveling when the moving, Technicolor scene in our head has been perfectly translated to the reader, undiminished. It’s beautiful freedom. Second drafts hurt. The -
An article discussing a story's first round of edits.
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You're very welcome. Thank you for reading and commenting. Merry Christmas to you!
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Thank you! So glad you liked it. And I'm happy I had the opportunity to share it with everyone. Merry Christmas!
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Thank you! "Believable" is wonderful to hear. I'm very glad you enjoyed it. Your PM was lovely too, and I'll be replying to it very soon. Take care!
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Thank YOU for reading. It's always a pleasure to share something here. Happy Holidays!
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Oh no doubt. I've got it in my head too. But whether it needs to be told... I think that's the question. Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I'm thrilled you enjoyed it.
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I try, but it doesn't always come out that way the first time, believe me. LOTS of editing. Thanks so much. I'm glad you enoyed it. Have a Merry Christmas.
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I'm so glad you liked it. Thank you for the kind words.
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Hey the feeling's mutual. And thank you very much. Glad you enjoyed it, Mark.
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The Art of Walking in Snow By Libby Drew Jamie squinted to make out the faded words: Seasonal Help Wanted. Most would likely mistake the white-washed lettering as part of the painted landscape of the sign. Arched over a field of evergreen trees, nestled in a bed of snow, red stenciled lettering proclaimed Echo Valley Tree Farm was hiring—turn right at Perkins Market and drive a mile to the top of the hill. Jamie wouldn’t be driving. He hoisted his threadbare backpack higher on his sh
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Jamie doesn't let people get close, but his new employer refuses to play by those rules. Maybe this is the year Jamie will banish the ghosts of Christmases past.
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You'd think, wouldn't you, that rationality would prevail. The truth, I've found, is that it doesn't always work that way. Great insight. Thanks for the review.
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You're 100% right about that.
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Thank you very much! I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Best to you as well.
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One day, when Sam is sick of the endless sunshine, easy money, and no-strings fucking, he'll go back to college and write a dissertation titled Can't Buy Me Love, which, while lacking sophistication, has more truth in four words than this club's seen in four years. In Miami the bars are three stories tall and thump like a human heart, playing one identical song after another. The only thing that changes is the singer's name. Sometimes. Depends on the DJ. But this is the dark side of the moon.
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Thank you very much! I'm so glad you did.
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I'll admit I think of these characters often as well. I nearly considered finishing it for NaNoWriMo last year, but got bitten by another bug. Maybe someday... Thanks very much.
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V. Yellow Tiger Inn the sign reads in bold, antique script. It's mounted on a sturdy, white post, too clean and perfect to be anything but that fake-wood vinyl. A curving mass of yellow and black stripes underscore the letters. Est. 1934! The exclamation point makes him laugh, when the image of a 300 pound yellow-striped cat gets little more than a smile. To the young and idealistic, old equals quaint. Quelle surprise when they discover it actually means squeaky floorboards, thi
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I. His father dies on Wednesday. There's no fanfare, and little is said when the nurses file in to disconnect the machines. He simply stops breathing, chest rising in a series of short huffs before deflating like a balloon. Then nothing. Russ has been waiting for this moment for weeks. Each day has ratcheted the tension in his spine tighter, and now…nothing. At the very least there should be a glimpse of the Reaper or a beam of light. Something. He feels cheated, wants a chorus of danc
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You can’t die until you’ve lived, and you haven’t lived until you’ve loved. At least that’s the way Death explains it to Russ and Eric.
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Sam made a mental note: reviewing jet ski safety was exponentially more difficult when the father of your teenage customer was nestled under the counter in front of you, scraping his fingernails up and down your thighs. Scrubbing at his short, blond hair, Sam coughed into his fist. "If you get in trouble—" "I know. Wave the red flag. You already said." The girl popped her gum. Her fingers tapped on the sandy counter. Very polite. Apparently, in between giving blowjobs to Sam on Saturdays,
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Sam knows Tim is no good for him, but he can't stop. A story about how sexual chemistry destroys good sense.
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A jolt – a tremendous jolt – then a screech, then darkness. Then screaming. Derrick bolted upright. He drew a shaky hand across his face, grimacing when it came away damp with sweat. Still disoriented, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. A surreptitious glance at the few other passengers in his car eased his embarrassment. None paid him any mind, so he mustn't have cried out. With a deep sigh, he sank back into his seat and turned his attention to the pass
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