You want to write better. You want to write more.

Ann Linquist I’m Ann Linquist, freelance writer and online writing instructor.  Whether you’re interested in writing fiction, creative nonfiction, or effective business documents, I invite you to explore this site and find out how to reach your writing goals.

Take Me to Your Leader

Just trying to get your attention.  This challenge is one more galumphing bonanza.  Try it!




–Letter opener


It’s Haiku Time

Late winter’s beige grass

By the deep blue of spring skies

Scent of snow, no buds.

Home Stead

It occurs to me that one of the icons of our lives is our home ground, our home stead, our point of origin, or perhaps the destination we’ve always yearned for.  Even so, that’s not a story until you describe how hard it was to either survive it or reach it.

Location is often the origin of story.  Where are you now?

Give Me a Story

Give me a story that includes these five elements:  a crack in the sidewalk, rat poison, rust-colored corduroy pants, leftover lasagna, and Einstein.

I could use a good story.

What’s in Your Junk Drawer?

Here’s what I found in mine.  What did you find in yours?

  1. Stick-on Googly Eyes
  2. Five screw drivers, but never the one I am looking for.
  3. Three tubes of dried up Super Glue
  4. Old unused stamps in very odd denominations that I will never use.
  5. A shoe box filled with pens, pencils, and markers—more than I can use in a lifetime.
  6. Batteries that may or may not still work.
  7. A ruler and a protractor
  8. A small compass and a step minder that work, but not for me
  9. Three hand calculators
  10. Notes for poem and story ideas that I may or may not write
    1. A flap of skin next to my thumb nail catches on everything
    2. Anger as a lifeline
    3. Dear Hillary: Thank you.
    4. The Abortion Diaries
    5. Forgiveness, redemption, surrender, evil, suffering, healing

Now What?

I invite you to predict the future of America.  If ever there was a time for writers to write, this is it.  Give it some thought and words.  Your honesty–and creativity–are always appreciated.  You are poets and word wielders.  Take us into a possible future, give us a new perspective, or blat out a personal reaction.

How Many Genres Can You Mix?

“Shields up,” Captain Ransom Nevermore barked.

“Aye aye, Captain,” said First Officer Angelina Octarina, just before the AI unit attacked her, ripping the top of her uniform half off as he moaned with repressed desire.  She grabbed the tattered shreds of her uniform and tried to conceal her two ivory orbs.

The resident deconstructionist author tapped her note pad.  “Can someone turn off that AI unit?  His moaning is making it hard for me to write this fascinating multi-genre interaction.”

“El Capitan,” said Jefe Carlos, materializing on the bridge with five Mexican banditos wearing battered sombreros.  “Hand over your weapons, por favor, or we will have to toast you over a slow fire.”

The incognito Secret Special Forces Agent in Charge stepped forward to confront Jefe Carlos.  “Produce your Certification of Authority, or I will be forced to put you under arrest.”

Carlos sneered.  “Badges?  We don’t need no stinkin’ badges.”

“Did someone say the Badgers stink?” A man in a plaid flannel shirt and baseball cap that had a big red W on it barged forward, looking for someone to fight.  “We’re 14 and 1.  We’re going to the Rose Bowl and UCLA better watch their backs and eat their sox.”

“Here’s my trenchcoat, sweetheart,” the man with the Fedora told Angelina Octarina.  He spoke with a Camel dangling from his lip.  “We can’t have those twin bazookas distracting the troops.”

Chief Engineer Wonky Spanner stuck his head up through a floor hatch.  “I’ve fixed the shields, Captain.  All it took was some ladies’ hair pins, a sticking plaster, and a Rube Goldberg contraption I put together from an umbrella, a bicycle pump, and sixteen gears driven by a moaning AI unit I handcuffed to a treadmill.”

Meanwhile Carlos and his banditos had begun to harmonize to an upbeat version of La Bamba.  Not to be outdone, the man in the Fedora teamed up with the Agent in Charge to croon a melancholy, One for My Baby, and One More for the Road.  Incensed, Captain Nevermore and Engineer Spanner tried to tune everyone out by breaking into the chorus of Nessun Dorma, from an opera by Puccini.

First Officer Angelina Octarina looked around, sighed, and straightened her trenchcoat.  She waved at the writer, said the magic words, and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.