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[reid-elliott]

Important Notice

I saw this and had to put out here.

If you see me talking to myself, just move along. We’re having a team meeting.

#WritingCommunity #AmWriting #WritersLife

[reid-elliott]

No Pep Talk. Just This.

You’re not crazy for wanting people to see you.

You’re not weak for needing a win.

You’re not failing because no one clapped.

If all you do today is breathe and not delete the work, that’s enough.

[reid-elliott]

Is the Stress of Writing Self-Inflicted?

I wrote a short piece about what happens when your own creativity turns on you—and you're stuck between quitting and pushing through.

Is it self-inflicted? Or is it just part of the work?

[reid-elliott]

Elise Brown —She Knows Everett

Everett wanted a sandwich. Elise wanted an answer. Do they each get what they want? Checkout their conversation.

[reid-elliott]

Some men build legacies. Others protect them.

Edward Brown has done both.

Wealth, power, reputation—he carries them effortlessly. But don’t mistake the polished exterior for softness. This is a man who sees everything and forgets nothing.

You don’t challenge Edward unless you’re prepared to lose.

Read more about him here.

[reid-elliott]

Slices Versus Squares

Everett: “Who the hell cut this pizza?”

Joe: “That’s just how it’s done, mate.”

Everett: “No. Pizza has SLICES. This is… a damn grid.”

Easton: “Pizza’s pizza. Shut up and eat.”

Emerson: “Somebody grab me a corner piece before Everett loses his mind.”

It’s been a long, sloppy, hard-writing week. But this? This is survival fuel.

#FridayVibes #PizzaAndBeer #SquareCutDebate #WritingCommunity

[reid-elliott]

The Brutal Middle Stage—Worse Than The Muddy Middle

How? It’s basically the same thing. You’re somewhere in The Middlelands—dry, flat, huge, and empty. Even the vultures don’t bother circling. It’s that bad.

The Brutal Middle Stage can be anything you want. Right now, for me, it’s this:

I’m burned out at work.

I’m getting bored with my own story.

I’m wondering why the hell I think someone else will read this if I’M losing interest.

Somebody stop the bus. I’d like to get off here.

My characters are talking, but I don’t know what to do with what they’re saying. Then I feel psychotic because I’m hearing these voices—people I created, people I actually enjoy spending time with!

WHEW! That actually felt good.

The Brutal Middle Stage has me pounding my head against the desk, the wall, whatever hard surface is nearby. It feels like failure that hasn’t failed yet—because there’s still plenty of time.

I pride myself on being a pantser—someone who writes without a detailed plan, letting the story unfold as I go.

But here’s the kicker: I actually have a playbook for THE ENTIRE REST OF MY BOOK.

I call it a playbook because I categorically refuse to call it an outline.

And yet—here I am, stuck in The Middlelands.

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What Keeps Me From Quitting?

If I say stubbornness, stupidity, or a bit of both, will that get me to the next level?

Hate to tell you—but in my case, it will.

I’m a little touched in the brain for even writing this, knowing damn well I plan to share it.

I’m REALLY stubborn because I’ve poured sleepless hours, bottles of Excedrin, and too many daydreams into seeing MY book on a shelf—one that’s not just my own.

If me being me is enough to keep going, then I’m still in the game.

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What About the Slumps, Reid? You Said You’re Running on Empty.

Yep. And yet, I’m writing this.

My mind still works.

I still have something to say.

If this is the best I can do right now, then as long as I do it well, I’m good.

Rants, rages, and ramblings? Part of the process.

I ain’t done yet. And I don’t need Hal to open the pod doors.

I got this.

[reid-elliott]

Looking For Feedback

It’s a common phrase with a lot of power. At some point, writers want to know how their idea tracks. Does it wander around in a word forest, or float in alphabet soup? Does it keep you up at night, turning pages, knowing good and well, “Hank’s graduation is tomorrow morning”? Or did you look at it and think, “Nice.”

We have one-thousand-word days, participate in Word Sprints, and adopt a motto of “No Zero Days.” This is how serious we are.

Writing is the process of turning thoughts into literary work.

“Huh? What’s she going on about?”

Workshops, writer’s groups, meditation, and daily life all affect the manual labor of putting our thoughts—our ideas—into words. Into gemstones.

Planning, sacrifice, and dedication sort the rough drafts in our minds and put the words on paper, whether handwritten, computer-typed, or diligently smartphone-drafted.

Then we take a deep breath and ask the fateful question.

“Would you please give me some feedback?”

We ask friends, family—but preferably strangers—to give us their opinion of our precious stones. Clicking thumbs up, or down, says “I was here,” but did you read what’s written there? Feedback is a powerful tool—it can have mental and emotional impact.

I saw that eye roll.

“Yeah. Right. Sure you do—until someone doesn’t like what you’ve written.”

I can’t speak for all, but I can speak for some—that’s exactly what we want to hear. We need to be in the know. We’ve been looking at this damn thing for weeks, months, or even years, thinking it’s ready for the next step—sawing, grinding, sanding, and drilling it into shape for a publisher.

What we ask for—but don’t always get—is honest, actionable, constructive criticism to help us remove the dirt and debris from our rough gemstones.

Telling a writer what you think about their writing is crucial. “Yeah, it’s good.” “You’re wasting your time.” I might be, but can you give me more, please?

We need the ultimate feedback: How did our writing make you feel?

“What do I mean?”

Did you fall in love with or despise a character? How did you reach that decision? Did you feel like, “Oh shit, they’re in trouble now,” or did your eyelids droop as you asked yourself, “What the hell am I reading?”

We’re giving you the opportunity to affect our lives. Warm water, mild dish soap, and a soft brush—sometimes, that’s all it takes to tell someone the truth. And that truth comes from whatever emotion our gemstone made you feel.

[reid-elliott]

Bré Yarro – A Story of Strength, Passion, and Independence

Bria Stewart-Yarro — Bré to those who know her well — is a woman who sees the world in light and shadow, composition and angles. A photographer, an educator, an entrepreneur — she’s built a life on capturing moments that others might miss.

But Bré is more than her work. She’s quiet but not weak, kind but not naïve, resilient but never hardened. She knows loss, she knows betrayal, and she knows what it means to start over — not because she wants to, but because she has to.

Born with an eye for the world’s beauty and a heart for its stories, Bré’s path hasn’t been easy. A promising photography career took unexpected turns, forcing her to fight for the life she wanted. The world saw a young woman rising in her field; they didn’t see the cost.

For Everett Spencer Brown, Bré is the one who got away. The woman who challenged him without ever trying. The one who walked away when he wasn’t ready to admit what he felt. But Bré doesn’t wait for anyone — she moves forward, with or without him.

Now, back in Melbourne, she’s ready to build something of her own. The past still lingers, the wounds not quite scars, but Bré doesn’t look back. She’s too busy chasing the light.

Meet Bré Yarro in A Story of Our Own by Reid Elliott.

[reid-elliott]

Introducing Everett Brown…Against His Will

Everett Spencer Brown is a man of contradictions—his charm can tease, but his confidence can wound. He’s quiet until he isn’t—and by then, it’s too late. Standing at 6’5”, he’s hard to miss, but it’s his quick wit and piercing stare that hold a room.

The oldest of four, Everett grew up with the practicality of his father and the high-society expectations of his late mother—a woman whose polished veneer couldn’t hide what she refused to admit. Everett learned early that family isn’t about appearances; it’s about people—the ones who stick with you, push you, and call you out every time. For Everett, those people are his grandparents, Edward and Elise, who do their fair share of all three.

Right now, Everett is reluctantly starring as Love Interest #1 in Reid Elliott’s contemporary romantic drama, A Story of Our Own. Picture this handsome man with dark auburn hair rolling his deep blue eyes at the entire project. Romance isn’t Everett’s forte, but business is—and expanding his team’s reach was his priority. Until he met her.

[reid-elliott]

How I Found My Voice as a Romantic Drama Writer

Good question.

I never consciously thought about myself in my writing. I’m the one who has to organize this stuff — find writing software, even though I tend to handwrite. Pens — I love pens. And the right notebook—for when the laptop is at 25% and the phone is a brick. See why I like handwriting? Nowhere in there is my writing voice.

What got me started was a friend. She encouraged me — a lot. We would sit around drinking. HEY! I never claimed to be a saint. And we would come up with ideas from our lives, our friends’ lives — especially our family members’ lives. I told her, “I’ve got enough drama to write a book.”

“Then write it!”

And here I am. But that doesn’t answer the question, right? I know, but this will…

Once upon a time—that really is real, isn’t it?

Once upon a time, I met a guy I thought was the bee’s knees. (See how old I am?) We spent every waking moment together.

“Isn’t my girlfriend pretty?”

People — including me, after a while — would roll their eyes at that one, even if it was cool to hear sometimes.

He was an International Business major who pontificated about topics that would numb any thought you forgot you had. But I didn’t care. He was cute and funny and thoughtful. He seemed so genuine, it was like a dream. Until his representative fell asleep, and the real guy appeared.

Not a happy ending.

That kinda thing happened many times. I’m sure it happens to fellas too. I could be wrong. I dunno. All I know is, my experiences shaped how I saw love and romance. I was wooed, cuddled, felt warm and fuzzy — the sex wasn’t bad either. But eventually, the real person always got in the way.

I thought about what my Prince Charming would look like, how he’d treat me, and what our life together would be like. It was peaceful, happy, and new every day. Even arguments about leaving the toilet seat up wouldn’t be a big deal.

Then, Mr. Right got the memo.

Now, in my humble opinion, I’m too old to get married. So, we shacked up and played house — me, him, and his young son. Can you say DRAMA?

The former girlfriend — not even wife — wouldn’t let go. At the same time she constantly had last-minute visitation cancellations. Something, or someone, always came up. She was late on her child support, so he had to take her to court. Then there was HIS ongoing drama — sisters wanting us to get married and brothers who owed him money. I had to get out. Thank God we didn’t get married.

So, mixing my life with some of my family members’ lives — and a bit of imagination — gave me my material. For all intents and purposes, my friend Chellie gave me my voice…

“Then write it!”

[reid-elliott]

Are You Sure?

Please Note: This piece contains mature language and themes.

“Oi, mate. You sure you’re ready? How long have you known this girl? I mean, she’s cute and all. I can see fucking her for a…” That’s as far as Pete gets before Joe has me by the back of my neck, and Emerson’s in front of me with his hands on my shoulders. They’re both stopping me from grabbing Pete by his tongue, so I can yank the fucking thing out of his head.

Meanwhile, the Peacekeepers, Emmett and Easton are swiftly ushering the scrawny bastard out of my office.

“You have a fabulous support system Grandson, which indicates to me, you are too obvious and too slow.” What the fuck?" Old man, you’re next.

Either I am too obvious or Jeremy is observant. “Eddie,” Gran and Jeremy are the only two who call Grandad Eddie. “First, stop poking the fucking bear. Second, stop blowing bullshit. Everyone in this room knows you’d respond the same way. You and I know, you have responded the same way. You and I also know the outcome. That boy,” Jeremy says with more than a little salt in his voice. “Pete is his name?” Everyone nods affirmation before Jeremy continues. “He deserves what he was gonna get, which I know is a tongue extraction.” Jeremy looks at me with a raised eyebrow. I don’t respond. I merely stare at the open office door.

Joe looks over my shoulder at my face. Agreeing, with Jeremy’s conclusion no doubt. Emerson stares at me. When I shift my gaze back to my little brother’s face, he asks the magic question, without looking away from me, “How did you know?”

Jeremy clears his throat and addresses Edward, “Remember mate. We know the outcome.”

[reid-elliott]

The Big Bad Wolf and Don Juan

Please Note: This piece contains mature language and themes.

Having completed my studies at Yale, I did some traveling and met Sophia, on the Island of Crete. I brought her home to meet my family and ran into Everett. He invited us to the Family Home so my honorary relatives could meet her as well.

“Don’t worry Beckett, Sting Ray is taking extra classes this term. She won’t be there.” He raised an eyebrow at me when I let out the breath I was holding. “Afraid of a little girl are you?”

“If you’re referring to Elise, you and I both know she may be little, but she packs a big opinion.” And hers means the most to me.

“Well, no worries there boy even the Bookends won’t be around so you won’t have any competition, in your age range.” He winks at me and I know he’s referring to Emmett and Edward. Those two? Each one alone can wreak havoc on one’s psyche, but the two of them together can be an emasculating experience.

“Sure thing Brown, we’ll see you and the ole men around 7 PM.”

Everett claps me hard on my shoulder. “Good boy. See you this evening.”

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

____________

We arrived a little after 7 PM. I knew this would be bad, an obvious understatement. There was no need to go to a movie as I was about to live through a horror story this evening.

It started when Edward opened the door, “Well hello Liam, how wonderful to see you.” I missed two giveaways. He called me Liam, not Beckett, and he smiled, which is always a sign of trouble.

“Hello Mr. Brown, it is good to see you as well. Everett suggested we stop in for a visit this evening. I trust it is alright with you.”

“Certainly young man. Who do you have with you? Hello Miss…” He reaches out to grasp her hand and again, he’s smiling. There’s a definite twinkle in his eyes and at this moment, he reminds me of the Big Bad Wolf.

“I apologize. This is Sophia Alanis. Sophia, this is Edward Brown.” She drops her head slightly and looks up at him through her eyelashes, which she has the nerve to bat at the old man. Right. Fucking. In front of me.

Um. Hello! You arrived here with me. What the fuck are you doing?

Edward gently kisses her hand and makes a big production of the gesture. I half expect him to lick his way up her arm. “Miss Alanis, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he purrs. Have you ever heard a man purr? It’s sickening. Which is followed by the almighty wink, I knew that was coming.

The click of expensive shoes on the marble floor announce his presence, “I thought I heard voices out here. How are you Liam, it has been a long time since we have enjoyed your company.” He too falls into a Paramount Pictures, Emmy Award winning routine, complete with double-take. “Who pray tell is this lovely creature?” His voice, smooth and mellow, burns my ears.

I make the introductions while Sophie giggles and Emmett proceeds to kiss her hand and her cheek. The fucker even whispers something in her ear. I feel like my head is gonna explode.

Each of those bastards tucks one of her arms in his and saunters away, leading her past the grand staircase into the Great Room. Suddenly, an amused Everett stands beside me. In my line of sight he pats me hard on the shoulder again immediately getting my attention. He leans in to quietly tell me, “You won’t last long, you know that don’t you? I have it on good authority there’s more to come and this little thing of yours,” he clandestinely gestures to Sophie, “will be over and done with soon.” He, too, has a shit-eating grin on his face.

I’m speechless, I mean gaped-mouth, stock still, astounded. “You pricks are doing this shit to me on purpose?!” I whisper-yell. Not that it would make a bit of difference because Sophia is too preoccupied with the overtures from the Big Bad Wolf and Don Juan. “What the …”

Everett turns me to face him, and looks me square in the eyes. We are exactly the same height, build and have the same demeanor. There’s no throwing either of us aside and no getting around us, alone or together. “Are you ready to lose your Sting Ray Beckett?”

“What are you talking about Brown?” I growl. I’m tired of his, his father and his grandfather’s bullshitting around.

“I’m talking about Elise finding out you’ve spent the last year with that slutty gold-digger.” He jerks his head back, toward Sophie, who’s still eating up the flattery she’s getting from Edward and Emmett, without even a side thought about me it seems.

“I blame this on your psychopathic, suave relatives. What it is, a fucking full moon? Since when do they lay it on this thick?” I look over Everett’s shoulder and see Edward holding Sophie’s hand as she daintily sits on the loveseat, Emmett by her side.

Moving his head so he’s, once again looking me directly in the eyes he says, “They want you to see what they’ve read about.” His brows raised. His eyes piercing into mine.

Read about? Read about? Realization slaps the shit out of me. “They did a background check on her?” I whisper, softly this time. Everett nods once then looks back over his shoulder at the trio.

“If they’re wrong, they’ll apologize, you know that, but…judging from the looks of things”, he turns back to face me, “I wouldn’t wait around for one.” Everett shakes his head, squeezes my shoulder and asks, “Wanna a drink?”

After one last glance at the horror story playing before my eyes I look at Everett, “YESSS…” I hiss.