Download PDF Writing in Overdrive: Write Faster, Write Freely, Write Brilliantly

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Those four books seemed to pour out onto the page in a burst of uninhibited creativity. If you want to write more quickly, freely, and creatively, this book will show you how. It will transform the way you write almost immediately. My goal is to give you the tools to improve your writing skills right now. I call this book Writing in Overdrive for a very good reason.

In automotive terms, an overdrive is a mechanism of the transmission that allows a car to sustain a high rate of speed at a reduced engine RPM. The ability to cruise in overdrive enables a car to go farther on a gallon of gasoline, and to work less hard, causing less engine wear. In the same way, a writer cruising in overdrive is able write faster, write longer, and be more productive while working less hard.

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I will show you:. The tools and insights in this book will enable you to write with greater speed, confidence, and mastery, whether in traditional publishing or the indie publishing world.


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Yes, Bethany! That was in Fortunately, it worked very well. I am eager to try that strategy myself. This book is wonderful! It is everything Jim promises. This book is a must read for every writer. Terrific book, Jim! Solid advice delivered with punch and verve and wisdom. Your techniques will go into play tomorrow. You are commenting using your WordPress. Instead, we can show our characters in interaction with each other and allow our readers to interpret those words and actions as they choose.

Subliminal impact. It all impacted me at a subliminal level, making the place seem more real and forbidding. How do we create these subliminal effects? We can tap into moods and emotions with the rhythm and sound of the language. We can use long, run-on sentences to increase reading speed and create an effect of frenzy and panic. We can use short, staccato sentences for impact and emphasis. Through the subliminal impact of our words, the reader will be drawn into the vivid intensity of our story. Zero distraction. Great stories do not feel written, they feel real. Emotional connection.

The Star Wars saga taps into our love for great themes that thrill the human heart: love, heroic sacrifice, the fight for justice against evil, the urge to be free, the longing for redemption. Our stories should stir strong emotional responses in our readers. We achieve an emotional connection by conveying images and emotions instead of information. We use words to inspire moods of anger, fear, love, remorse, sorrow, and joy.

Economy of words. Similarly, storytellers should use concise language. Simple sentences deliver impact with immediacy. A good role model for concise writing is Ernest Hemingway, who packed complex ideas and deep emotions into deceptively simple sentences. Instead of dumping a lengthy prologue or backstory on your readers, build a world out of well-chosen words and turn your readers loose to explore it.

No fingerprints. Her hair is coppery brown, with streaks of gold like the rays of the sun itself. Her suit, a tankini I think they call it, is modest and hugs the curves of her slight frame. She is beautiful. In that natural homespun kind of way.

The Smarter Artist Locker: Five essential writing books. One amazing collection.

But I only watch her from a distance, as she smears suntan lotion on her long thin arms and legs. Someone else is though. A wanna-be golden boy with platinum hair squats beside her lounger, grinning with pearly teeth. She scowls back at him and shakes her head. Would she send me away as well? I watch her until the sun begins to slide behind the mountains. Watch her as she reads a book, sips on a soda, takes an elegant dive into the water. She emerges, sparkling with the diamonds of water droplets clinging to skin. Another boy offers her a towel, but he, too is shunned and walks away dejected as she shakes her head and retrieves her own towel.

And again I wonder if she would turn me away as easily as she did these others. I pack up my towel and folding lounger and trudge back to the cabin up a windy dirt road that my parents rented for the summer. So I climb the steps to the yard, then the steps to the porch, then higher still to the loft that is my home for the next nine weeks.

Though the girl is no longer there, I gaze that direction, remembering the breeze that tug at her hair and brought the smell of her lotion enticingly to my nose. Perhaps tomorrow, I will be brave enough to say hello, to introduce myself to her. But what if she rejects me like she did the others? What then?

Writers Who Kill: Speed Writing

But what is it I really want from her? Maybe all I really need is a friend.

But how do I know I can trust her not to? It seems to take hours for the chirping crickets and croaking frogs to lull my mind to sleep. I sleep in fits and starts. First dreaming that the beautiful bronzed girl shares my affections, sending my heart into overdrive and a flush of warmth through my veins. Then the images morph and she scowls bitterly at me, rejecting even my hand of friendship, and slaps my stricken face leaving my cheek stinging with fire. More boys make advances and each is turned away, especially the guy who is obviously in his thirties and way too old to be hooking up with a teenage girl.

I want to leap up and attack him, the perv, but she handles him and sends him packing like the rest. The other girls on the beach are smug, snubbing her in envy because all the boys want the golden girl with sunlight in her hair. Although, when I walked past her on my way home she gave me a tantalizing coy smile. My heart skipped a beat and my mouth fell open in shock. And again my sleep comes in fits, and I dream the same dreams as before. I feel sick. Summer sick. Or maybe just sick from the nervousness that has sent my body reeling too often.

I shamble to the resort after breakfast, sure I look every bit the zombie I feel like. Oh well, it was a nice fantasy while it lasted. After a refreshing swim, I towel off and plop unceremoniously into my chair. The sun bakes my skin and leaves me drowsy. Soon I succumb to the draw of sleep. All I can see is a thin silhouette towering over me like a giant. I flail in my chair and am only stilled be a quiet sound. The golden girl is kneeling by my side in the gritty sand, staring at me. A zillion thoughts race through my head like an Indy race at the finish line.

How can she talk to me? What if I open my mouth and say something stupid? What if I do manage to say something intelligent but she still rejects me?

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I know who I am and what I want, but what if that scares her away? The girls around here are not really very friendly.

Something like hope thrums in my chest.