Poetry Memoirs Novels & Stories

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

She channeled her experiences into writing, penning a memoir that not only chronicled her own path but also served as a source of inspiration for others facing similar challenges. The release of her memoir was met with critical acclaim, touching the hearts of readers worldwide. Katie's story became a testament to the power of perseverance, the healing nature of love, and the strength found in embracing one's true self. She was hailed as a beacon of hope, an embodiment of resilience, and an advocate for self-acceptance.

I imagined her replying. "I mean it." "I know." --- The waves crashed. The stars shone. And somewhere in the garden, under the fig tree, Celeste rested. Not because she was gone. Because she'd taught me that the memoir is not about what you did — it's about who you became. And I had become someone worth remembering. End of Chapter 198

I said to Fabian, "Honestly, I don't remember much of our past." His eyes grew red-rimmed when he heard me, but he forced a smile. "Anya, I came to confess something. I won't ask for your forgiveness, but I think I should tell you the truth," he said. "Do you remember the vitamins I gave you a few months ago? They weren't really vitamins but an experimental drug I developed. They can erase parts of a person's memory, and they haven't been released outside the lab."

The happiest day of my life just happened to fall on the same day Audrey was sentenced—she got ten years in prison for buying illegal drugs and attempted assault. My parents, buried in debt and unable to pay the fines, had every last asset frozen. Their names went on the blacklist. Now, they spent their days washing dishes in small diners, scraping by. As for me, for the first time, I had a brand-new life. And I was finally in charge of my own happiness.

"Amethyst, these are books that I recommend you to read. That...that is simply a tale. It does not contain relevant and accurate facts and data like what you are looking for," I looked down at the book in my hand. With him here, I had to admit, scouring through this massive book depository seemed easier. I allowed myself to utter my gratitude as I accepted the books he had offered. After a few moments, I began reading all over again. This time he was right. Pages after pages, I learned most of the basics. Rather than a creative narrative, the text appeared to be written like a memoir, as if the person who wrote the passages witnessed the brutality firsthand. It was making me feel nauseous al

It's the most personal writing I've ever attempted, and the hardest. "Why write it?" Adrian asks one evening, finding me stuck on a difficult chapter. "Because my students need to understand that even experienced practitioners struggle. That impossible choices don't get easier with time, you just get better at carrying the weight." I stare at the screen. "And because I'm fifty-five. If I'm going to tell the full story while I can still remember the details, now's the time." The memoir is slow work—not just writing what happened, but reflecting on what it meant, how it changed me, what I learned. Some chapters take months to complete because I'm still processing the events even thirty-five ye

She thinks about the third book. Not the content — she does not yet have the content, only the argument sentence that has been forming since Beatriz asked the question three years ago. The form. What kind of book can say: the first life is not a mistake, it is the research, without saying: and here is how I know, from personal experience, that this is structurally true in a way that the argument alone does not account for. The form is not memoir. She knows this. Memoir requires the specific named, and the specific is hers and will remain hers. The form is something else — the argument wearing the clothes of the life without the life being exposed. The evidence without the exposure.

"I understand, Perer. We are good friends. Aren't we?" "Yes, we are." "Good!" Henry acknowledged. "Now, tell me about this diary of yours you have been writing for almost a year now." “You want to hear all about it?” “Yeah! Tell me all about it.” "Well," I started, trying to bring my diary/book/memoir into a positive limelight, "the book I am writing is basically a diary. Inside it, are events of my life that I have recorded. Though, there are times I would like to see it as my memoir but I can't due to the nature of it. My book is not something you will see on every regular bookstore in the market. It is unique and addresses the reader in a way you have never seen before. I know you know it

And it did work, I didn't notice that I survived that day without being jealous of the others for that whole day. The next painting on the other corner still on the left side shows a bunch of broken things. An eyeglass, vase, face mirror, and a phone that has flooded with unread messages. Only the phone has the blood on it. This is the painting I made the day my parents told me that I will be engaged to someone.