Welcome to my website and welcome to my world of fiction writing. My work does not claim to be a child of Hemingway, King, Poe, or Tolkien. My words are not meant to be fashioned after Lovecraft, H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, J.K. Rowling, or The Death of Grass writer, John Christopher. Nor do I knowingly pen my stories with the hand of Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, John Wyndham, or George Orwell. To share with you the good word that I am part and parcel of any of these great and talented writers would be but a fool's fantasy. Yet what I do share with you, is me, the writer, and my own world of fiction writing. My thoughts, emotions, opinions and ideas are laid bare under the Journal Posts' tab. From here I offer you an eagle's eye view into my world and into my four manuscripts in progress. For many months I've nurtured, molded and prepared these projects for publication. At times, it seems a deed fit only for a manical masochist. Yet with many more months of writing, deleting, pasting and decisions ahead, I still look forward to the challenge of the journey - a journey with its destination unknown. So let the art of the manuscript begin.
This website tells the story about a writer and his stories; posts touch on story writing throughout our recorded history and reiterates the fact that nothing must deter a writer’s journey, least of all, themselves.
Stories don’t grow on trees, they grow in the minds of writers. So as a determined novelist, I set out on this quest in search of that slippery and illusive identity called success, an identity that haunts us all – writer or not.
Thanks for checking out my website. My name is Ronald N. Sullivan. Gee, who would have guessed?
Imagine this: you have a long list of books published, you’re rolling high on a writing wave dream, and all those publishers and literary agents are lined up at your door screaming for your manuscripts. It’s a scenario made in writer’s heaven – a heaven that for now, is just plain fiction. Sound familiar? You bet it does.
When a female writer friend tells you, “Writing is like childbirth,” you tend to believe her. After all, pain rides shotgun for most writers.
Some fiction writers spend hours on research, planning and the construction stages of a project.
Meticulous mapping? Well, maybe in my head. Although some mapping does get done along the way as characters begin to reveal themselves. But . . .
LOCATION: MY WRITING DESK, VICTORIA, B.C., CANADA
I’m on holidays this week – from my real job – and I’m enjoying every minute of it.
It’s stifling warm here in Victoria. Temperature is 32 degrees Celsius – 89.6 degrees for Fahrenheit lovers. Finally pulled out those khaki army shorts – Bluenote Vintage ’84. I’m a mid-twenties kind of guy when talking summer temperatures.
LOCATION: VICTORIA, B.C., CANADA
“When I close my eyes I see nothing; when I open my eyes I see everything.” In this post one of my manuscript characters interviews me. Good idea? We’ll see. After all, I am the boss – I created him. So why not? I mean how crazy can it get? Right?
This interview lives somewhere in the shadows between the dark and the light of imagination; it is a place where fiction and reality co-exist.
LOCATION: FICTION, YOUR WORLD
“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”
Although Albert Einstein said nothing about fiction, it’s quite evident that we crossover into that world time and time again without even realizing it. Everyday we’re trying to make reality out of fiction. Take the system called CAVE2.
LOCATION: IMAGINATION, YOUR MIND
Books, reading and writing. These musketeers of imagination ignite the air around us. They co-inhabit a special place in time. They burst with endless hopes and dreams. Take away our books and you take away the heartbeat of civilization. For the power of the pen is equal only to the imagination of the mind. What a wonderful world this world of books – whether you read them or you write them.
LOCATION: PARIS, FRANCE
Strange books that were never written? The words rattle around in my head as I place Alberto Manguel’s book The Library At Night on the table in front of me. Pages from the chapter, Library As Imagination flip over and over in my head. My small library of books stare back at me from their homes on my writing desk, my bookshelves, my table tops. I mutter the words, “Strange books that were never written. What the hell . . ?”