The blog of author Harper Alexander

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A Terrible Secret Only the Flowers Know

Hub of Harper

Another excerpt from the editing of Wonderland! Enjoy.


Past the threshold of the island, into the depths of the jungle, through unfamiliar overgrown territory, it occurred to Shiloh that Fate was perhaps as ironic as it was an opportunist. For she was struck not by the raging violence that was known to inhabit the wilderness, but the vast, overwhelming loneliness. It was a quiet day, a thick, eddying tranquility saturating the perfumed air. She stopped in a sweeping glade to look around at the rippling wildflower emptiness, and a haunting nostalgia came over her. In that moment she truly felt how haunting the beauty of Paradise was, like a fairytale under a curse.

Because even on a silent, peaceful day, the silence represented the fact that no human life thrived here, and the why was a tragic, bloody memory trapped in the quietly blooming hush.

A terrible secret…

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Write the Scenes You Don’t Think Belong in Your Book

A Writer's Path

books scenes

by Meg Dowell

Last week, I wrote a scene that both surprised and amazed me. NOT because I’m the best writer ever or because it’s the greatest piece of prose a human has ever written (nope and, uh, NOPE), but because I never planned on writing it at all.

In fact, the moment the idea wedged its way into my head, I immediately tried to reject it.

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The Charmed Life of a Writer – Day 2

Hub of Harper

The acrid, cozy musk of yesterday’s fire still lingers in the air, wafting from the charred, white-brick fireplace. Even thicker than the smoky scent in the air is nostalgia. The kind that comes with evergreen trees and twinkly lights and glitter-frosted fluffy scarves and the slant of the winter sun cutting through cold windowpanes.

We’ve decorated the hearth with two miniature trees, the branches enchanted with pin-prick white lights; the mantle drips with glistening, snowy Poinsettias.

A make-shift desk has been propped in front of the fireplace, because I couldn’t stand not to make this my newest writing haunt.


The slant of the sun glances off the laptop screen, making me squint to make out what I’m typing. But I’m piled with at least two books that I take turns reading intermittently, and at least three notebooks that I pause to scrawl notes in. (Shame on me for ending on…

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