I came across this today via Twitter, and I thought it was so good, that I needed to keep it on my blog, so that I would always have a copy.

Here’s the advice:

First — keep reading. Writers are readers. Writers are also people who can’t not write.

Second, follow Heinlein’s rules for getting published:

1. Write it.
2. Finish it.
3. Send it out.
4. Keep sending it out until someone sends you a check.

There are variations on that, but that’s basically what works.

Ciao,
Annie

It’s from novelist Anne McCaffery who died today at 85. I wasn’t aware of here, but when I read the blog post about her death and it noted this piece of advice, it made such an impression on me that I posted it on all my Social networks, but also felt the need to keep it on my blog.

You’re blog on you’re own domain, I think is important, because things like Twitter, Facebook, are great for “Real-Time” but they are ephemeral, and you tend to forget what you posted after a few days, much less can you find things that you need.

One of the things that resonates with me on her list is “Finish it.” I’ve noticed that with songs: Even if you don’t necessarily like your lyrics, it’s always so much better to finish the song, rather than leave it lingering, waiting for the “perfect” lyrics to “someday” come. Someday never will come, but if you finish the song as best you can, then it takes on a life of it’s own and has the opportunity to get better.

“Done is Better than Perfect.” is a sign that they have around Facebook’s Headquarters. Very à propos.

We can all be good.
The rough beast crawling towards Bethlehem
says, “You should.”
But we can let it go,
face in the wind, rain, and snow,
as the falcon of our soul soars off Kilimanjaro.
The distant bells
are Black Sea shells,
and her lips sail closer
as we fall deeper
into a dreamless sleep, dryer than the Sahara,
only broken up by the sparkle of the Sun lasered sand
that the beast remembers as a once fruitful land.
At once we transcend Pharoah’s gold
and the story of Yusef that’s been told
of falling in a well and into Egypt being sold.
It doesn’t hold as much for us anymore now that the fire
has colored the mountain and drinken from the well
of thirsty distraction that’s blinded to the veil
covering the passage to the Promiseland.

We hold true to these words,
heart given to each other,
and our congregation formed like a ring of birds.

One for the Trinity two for the show
three to take the chances so that all can know.

Isis can hold us up even as she nurses the productions of time
in search of her husband the divine.

We sit on the throne, a Supernova
that produced all this gold,
as the serpent slithers towards Rome.
Ptolemy falls from the Alexandrian stacks
carrying the Moon and stars on his back.
Someone such should know
that the Caliphs have buried his secret scroll.
The priests drown the halls in chants
as the prince discovers the burning bed.
Each Irish maidens’ beauty more spectacular than the next
as Olympus opens each door to the morning breath,
and Demeter sprints to Avalon
with the message of Aquinas’ last glance.

I love your Spanish talk.
The soft ground around you
Hovers as you walk.
Chinese flowers grow out of me
like dreams lifted under a bed
of yellow Lantana and grapewood rosevine.
Midnight and a sleep walking Sun
dip its claws into the milky Moon.

She blows a serenade and makes a note in her diary: March 14th;
Or was it the other day when we played through the woods in the synagogue’s court?
I kept my diary clear
with liquor? hidden there.

All those cars have resisted, and those children inside us have died,
but the moist oil still grasps at the roots of the darkened cells.
(It’s old, and the unmarried couple inside still snuggle closely to the foot of her screaming limb.)

Once a bold, minted Moon?struck the head like a bell and turned us red,
And the merry men of the next town whistled “Dixie” all the way down
to the smoothed River’s bed.

A maestro, that dark little secret, always dancing and standing still.
(She, seh, was the dear. May we call you dear? Take our collective blue beard hand.)

Governor rubs the chocolate chip lips of white faces that read: “never washed hair.”
Steers calling sisters for dates and the narrow alley was our field with its
one chilling little blade.

All the sorcerers were baked
Inside a street lit with humiliating desire.
That moment never turned or backed up when the future,
blinded, uncaring, unknowingly,
decided to run us over.

Someday they will tell me she still lives there,
every soaked board still crying, trying to pull out the rusty nails
of the last conversation made,
and yet, still, even with all the talk,
That she is never at home.