Inside Out – The Grumpy Writing Coach

     As writers, we face a problem: We’re not the reader. This may sound obvious, but it has important ramifications. Our reader is, in many ways, unknowable, because we have no idea of who will end up picking up our work. We do know some things, though:
     Their background probably won’t match ours. Their tastes will be different. Their age group and education will be different to an unknown degree. And, there’s a 50-50 chance that their gender will be different, too. In fact, it’s unlikely that we and a given reader have all that much in common.
     Given that, how can we write anything that will be acceptable to all readers? The answer is, we can’t. It is literally impossible to write anything that will be viewed in the same way by all readers.
     So, do we accept the fact that the majority of people who read our work won’t “get it?” Or is there a way to eliminate those differences? Obviously, there is, or I wouldn’t be writing this article. The trick isn’t to make our work universally accepted no matter the reader’s background. It’s to make all readers the same.
     What we need to do is to make our reader become our protagonist. If we can make them see the situation exactly as the protagonist does; if we give each reader the same set of resources the protagonist will use; if all readers have the same desires, needs, and imperatives as our protagonist, then they will decide on what must be done next in exactly the same way as our hero will—and have that reaction before the protagonist does, and literally become our protagonist in the moment that character calls now.
     Do that and you avoid the impossibility of making the writing universal. Instead you’ll make your readers universal. So, with that as our goal, let’s see how we can make it work.

We’ve always relied on presenting the facts accurately, concisely, and dispassionately because that’s how we were taught to write. And it works well for book reports. But when writing fiction, instead of eliminating differences in viewpoint that approach encourages them. Everyone has their own interpretation of your presentation, based on what the words mean to them. Tell the reader, for example, that the protagonist is at peace, and each reader will take a slightly different meaning from the statement. To some, being at peace means there is no stress in their life. For others, that there is no war, or argument. In Islam, peace is, in part, based on submission and surrender to the will of Allah. And, there are hundreds of other shades of meaning to that one word. So expecting a reader to know our viewpoint by reading a given word is impossible unless we focus on that reader, and are able to interact with them, so as to refine our words to fit their background and preconceptions. But, make the reader know why the character feels they are at peace by making that reader view the protagonist’s world as the protagonists does, and the reader’s interpretation of the word no-longer-matters. They will feel as the character feels, emotionally, because for the moment, they will have superimposed the protagonist’s view on their own.
     Can we do this using the writing techniques we all learn in school? Hell no. Our teachers spent zero time discussing the nuance of viewpoint. They taught us how to write dispassionately, with our accuracy of observation being the most important item. Why? Because most people will do their writing in a business setting, where accuracy is critical. We were, remember, learning skills to make us useful to employers. Those book-reports we wrote were practice for writing business reports. Those essays, practice for writing papers and letters. No one explained how to use tags, how to structure a scene, or even basics such as the three questions a reader needs answered quickly when entering any scene so as to have context to make sense of it.
     Converting the reader into our protagonist requires skills that are unlike those used for telling a story in person, or for creating a story on the stage or screen. Our medium is different, and has different strengths and weaknesses. Instead of stressing fact and accuracy we stress emotional connection. Instead of presenting things from the narrator’s viewpoint we presented from the protagonist’s. Same story, but a very different approach to presenting it. And that means a very different tool-set must be used in creating the presentation.
     Our goal, remember, isn’t to make the reader know about the terror our protagonist may be feeling. Our goal is to terrorize the reader. We don’t want the reader to learn about the plot. We want them to live it, moment-by-moment. If you can make someone feel they must stop reading for a moment, to decompress, because the emotional situation is so intense they can’t handle it, you have a very happy reader.
     In the end, we have a name for this: it’s called viewpoint. And viewpoint is the single most powerful tool in your repertoire. It is the thing that makes all readers the same.
     John W. Campbell, a noted editor once wrote an article in which he presented a hypothetical situation involving an observer and a climber. It went something like this:

Observer: “Don’t climb that tree. If you knew what I know, that’s not just a tree, it’s being used as a power pole, so there’s dangerous high-voltage up there.”
Protagonist: “If you knew what I know…that I’m a trained lineman, doing my job with the proper equipment, you wouldn’t worry.”
Observer: “But if you knew what I know, that your safety gloves are from a shipment that contained defective product, you wouldn’t go.”
Protagonist: “Ah…but if you knew what I know, that we heard about the defect and have inspected them to remove the bad gloves—and that the gloves I use will be pressure tested just before I put them on, you needn’t worry.”
Observer: “But if you knew what I know…”

     Point of view is critical. In the example above, were the observer made to know the situation as the protagonist does, confusion would be eliminated and the conversation would never occur.
     Obviously, the protagonist could be wrong. He or she could be missing or misinterpreting data, as could the protagonist in our stories. But that’s okay, because both our protagonist and our reader will have the same misunderstanding and make the same mistakes, which drives our plot. And our reader will be just as surprised, shocked, or perhaps pleased to learn of the misunderstanding.

     So how do we do that? How do we gain those necessary skills? How can we turn our narrative around and make our reader view our story from the inside out, as against from the outside in? How do we change our own perspective of how to present a story?
     The answer to that is quite simple. We do that by learning all we can about point of view and the other important skills a writer needs. We add to our existing knowledge, just the way we did, grade-by-grade, as we built our current set of writing skills. And the more we know, the greater the number of viable choices we have when handling a given situation. The more we know, the better we know what a reader will respond to. And, the more we know the better we get at making our reader feel like our protagonist.
     Simple? Absolutely. Easy? Of course not. If it was easy we’d all be rich and famous. Any profession takes time and practice to perfect. So the question isn’t if it’s easy or hard. The question is, is it worth the effort? And that boils down to: should we continue to write using techniques inappropriate to the task, or should we add professional skills to our toolbox? I don’t think you need my help to answer that question.
     But still, that’s a lot of work, especially given that we won’t know if we have the potential to make effective use of those skills, and to be successful, until we own and apply them. And that’s a big if, especially since most of us are not going to have people lining up to buy our work. So in reality: do we want to be a writer badly enough to to invest lots of time, and perhaps a few dollars to become a writer as a publisher views that term?
     That’s a difficult question to answer, other than to say that if someone can talk you out of writing you aren’t meant to be one. Writers write. It’s what we do. It’s our curse and our blessing.
Something to keep in mind when making that decision: writing isn’t a destination. It’s a journey, one that lasts a lifetime. And if every day we write with a little more skill than we did on the previous day, and we live long enough…
     So…now that I’ve discouraged you with the news that you probably won’t get rich from your writing this year, let me make a suggestion as to how to begin your transformation from outside-in to inside-out writing.
     A very good article on creating a strong point of view can be found here. It’s based on the work of Dwight Swain, who is notable for having defined many of the techniques that professional writers use, in a clear and concise way. I’d advise you to read the article, think about it, and when it begins to make sense, check the fiction that made you feel as though you were experiencing it, to see how the author made the technique work for that story. And if it seems like something that would help your writing, pick up a copy of Swain’s book, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It both expands on that technique and will show you many others, equally meaningful. Read it slowly, stopping at every point where a new concept is introduced, to think about and practice that point, so as to make it your own rather than to simply learn that it exists.
     And when you finish the book put it aside for six months. Use what you’ve learned, gaining skill and competence. Then, read it again. This time, knowing where he’s going, and better understanding the concepts being introduced, you’ll learn as much the second time as you did the first.
     Will it make you a published author? Naa. That’s your job. What it will do is give you the tools with which to become one, if-it’s-in-you to do that. And that’s the best we can hope for. Maybe it will turn out to be something interesting, but still, success will still elude you. Could be. Happens to most of us. But still, new writers appear all the time. Why shouldn’t it be you? And as they say, you never know till you try.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.
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Author’s note:
These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

Naked Bitch

Oh naked bitch with whip and chain
You flay my soul, you burn my brain
You give me hate, and only pain
(Yet here I am with you again)
 
Oh naked bitch with eyes of flame
It’s not for me your heart to tame
To you it’s all a boring game
(I cannot seize your secret name)
 
Oh naked bitch when will it end?
My dreams you break, my soul you rend
In hell with you, my time I spend
(It’s me who’ll break, you’ll never bend)
 
Oh naked bitch with hip and thigh
Oh hear my prayer, and heed my cry
You bind my soul, my life you tie
(Please stop the hurt, and let me die)
 
Oh naked bitch, my life you crush
My dreams all torn, their contents gush
And yet to you again I rush
(And when I cry, you tell me hush)
 
Oh naked bitch, I made you so
With deed and word, and even blow
The things I did you’ll never know
(Oh naked bitch I love you so)
 
Oh naked bitch who I adore
Though thousands lay upon the floor
We run to you and ask for more
Oh naked bitch
Your name is War
 
*****

This poem came to me for unknown reasons, and is one of the darker things I’ve written, though one of my favorites. I truly didn’t know where I was going with it, until the last stanza, when I found I wasn’t writing about a woman, after all.

And, like most people who foist their poetry off on others, I have other bad habits. Thankfully, those I do in private.

 

The Church of the Really Nice Try

 
 
 

THE CREED OF THE
CHURCH OF THE REALLY NICE TRY

 

     The beliefs of the Church Of The Really Nice Try are firmly based on scripture, and are ever mindful of both the staggering complexities of the act of creation, and of the limitations of the creator—as defined through the word of that creator, The Holy Bible.
     To understand the beliefs of the Triers, as those of the church prefer to be called, you must go back to the very roots of all belief, the first chapter of the bible, and you must stand in judgment as a parable is told:
     There was once a great engineer, who began a project that pleased him mightily. He desired to create a habitat for himself: a house of many rooms.
     For long, he labored, executing each detail of the plan exactly according to his will, until at last the habitat was finished. And he was pleased with the work he had done.
     But as time passed, the engineer became dissatisfied. He’d not made the habitat fully self-sustaining, and if it was to remain in the state he desired he must either maintain it himself or create a device to do the job for him.
     Being efficient, and enjoying the challenge of creating something never before seen, the engineer built a device containing self-willed intelligence, plus the ability to modify its own program, as needed. He activated the device and saw that it was exactly as he had envisioned. And he was happy.
     But the device proved not quite adequate to the task, and required excessive attention. The engineer determined that there were some tasks that his creation could’t handle by itself, and there was no way for it to perform a valid self-check on its programming modifications without the attention of its creator.
     So the engineer produced a second device, to complement the first, and to interface with it in such a way that continued production of these care-taking devices would be both automatic and self-sustaining.
     But the new device began to produce feedback of an unexpected type, and to access unauthorized data sources, until the original functionality was all but lost. The engineer was very angry, and he cast the pair of creations from his house, into an environment that would bring them constant distress, pronouncing them useless and disobedient

° ° °

     Now, as a judge of the situation described you must ask yourself: who is at fault? Was it the creator, or was it the creation? Was the engineer justified in not only discarding his creations, but forcing them into an existence that he, himself, thought brutal and harsh? Or should he have changed the programming and functionality of the device to fit it more smoothly into his plan?
     The answer is obvious, God screwed up! But that conclusion is inherent in the very statement that God created mankind in-his-own-image. Like us, he’s fallible, subject to temper tantrums, and all of the rest of the characteristics that make the human race what it is.

° ° °

     Of course you must be demanding further proof of the fallibility of the Lord. That is the human and reasonable thing to do. So, though this is a rather abbreviated version of the creed of the church, let’s explore the matter further:
     Almost immediately after the description of creation there is a short chapter detailing the liaisons of certain occupants of the lord’s heavenly domain with the women of the Earth—often against their will—liaisons which produced children as a result. This chapter clearly shows that God has difficulty controlling, and even knowing about the actions of his underlings—scarcely the actions of an omniscient and omnipotent being.
     Directly following the described difficulty with his underlings, God looks out upon a world populated with the sons and daughters of his creatures, and he sees naught but chaos and evil. He becomes justifiably angry at the depravity and licentiousness of his creations, and states that he regrets having created mankind. Obviously, the idea that he knows all that will happen is flawed. He vows to correct the situation by putting all life on Earth to death by drowning, save for a favored few. The implication is that this single family will procreate, following the flood, and fill the world with decent human beings.
     The creator then causes Noah, the chosen one, to build a vessel with which to survive the coming flood. It is vitally important to note, at this point, that God planned to change the basic nature of mankind, in one single generation, without intervention on his part other than an act of genocide, directed against the rest of the planet’s population—good and bad—which is a bit of a setback for the concept of a merciful deity. Moreover, he chose the new breeding stock, not by characteristics passed on via genetic means, but by those qualifications that are a result of social and educational background. In other words, the plan was doomed from the start. In demonstration of that, shortly after the descendants of Noah repopulate the Earth, God is forced to destroy a city for precisely the reasons he destroyed the entire population of the planet. And though you and I can see the fallacy of God’s plan, God obviously could not—leading to the primary tenet of the church:

He Did The Job Without A Formal Education

 
      But who was there available to teach him? Who was there to suggest that he make changes in the human gene structure, rather than endlessly punish them for flaws he, himself, had inadvertently included within their basic mentality. Still, given the conditions he had work under, and the staggering magnitude of the task, we derive the second tenet of our church:

It Was A Really Nice Try!

 
     A really nice try. But the job was never finished, because of the nearly infinite complexities of the task, coupled with the limitations of the creator. Look around you. Is this what God had in mind for the human race and the planet? Of course not. Over and over, in the text of the bible, he tells us what he wants, and over and over he fails to deliver the message in a form suited to move humanity toward his goal, leading to both the third and fourth tenets of the church.

He’s Not A Good Talker
He Doesn’t Really Understand Us

 
     Like any engineer, he’s far better with things than with communications and relationships. After all, who does he have to discuss the issues with in order to gain experience and skill? No one. So it falls on us, the members of his church, to continue the task of building—which leads to the fifth, and most important tenant of the church.

It’s Time To Take Over The Job

 
     It’s time for you and I to realize that the task is incomplete, and that it’s been left to us to finish the work. Creation is over. The tasks that only a divine being could manage have been finished. Now the human part of the job must begin. Perhaps the task is too small in detail for his abilities, perhaps he’s simply given up. Whatever the reason, God cannot tell us how to live together, so it falls on us to solve that problem. We must manage the resources of a world, and must find ways of living together without constant warfare. We must make him proud of his creations, and justify his creation of the universe. This then, is the ongoing task of the Church Of The Really Nice Try.
     There are those who claim a direct contact with the lord, and a channeling of his power. But good people die while bad ones are miraculously healed, and the Lord allows millions to be murdered in the name of an ideology. More telling than that, he allows millions to die, sacrificed to his name. Which leads to the sixth, and final, major tenet of our church

Don’t Expect Miracles

 
     Certainly, one should hope for divine help, and certainly one should praise the Lord for having created the magnificence of the universe, but The Church Of The Really Nice Try is for work, not worship. It is for thinking, not blindly following, and it is for the greatest work a human being can do: The work of God.
     Visit your neighborhood Temple Of Brotherhood In The Faith Of The Really Nice Try. Or visit our webpage at:

http://www.NicetryChurch.com

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Author’s note:
 
     I began this in the spirit of fun, highlighting some of the inconsistencies of the Bible. My goal was to infuriate those people who have word “holy” appear on their forehead, while their reasoning powers diminish to zero, when religion is mentioned.
     But as I wrote this, a strange thing began to happen: I began to wish there were such a church, one focused on finding ways to get along, rather than punishing all who disagree with whatever ideology the group embraces.
     And that’s how I became founder, patriarch, and bake sale chairman of The Church of the Really Nice Try.
     At the moment I’m also the only member, true, but I get to wear some really cool purple robes and carry a staff. I get some funny looks, of course, but women really go for a man in purple robes.
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     I hope you enjoyed my little fantasy. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the piece is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well. And if you hate me for writing it, push share, so more and more people can hate me as you do. Win/win ;–)
And if, perchance, my efforts pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. And if it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me.
     If you’re in the mood for something a bit longer, make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

Let There Be, uhh… Light

 
 
Stray thoughts come. And as always, are going to get me into trouble.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
 
So all this talk about God liking or not liking gay marriage got me thinking on a simple question: why does anyone, today, buy into religion? Understand it, yes. Enjoy it as a social thing, of course. But believe without question? I certainly can’t explain it.
 
To start out with, we’re asked to accept as literal and unassailable truth a story that not only can’t be proven; it can be refuted on virtually every page by a reasonably knowledgeable ten year old.
 
Open to the first page of the Bible and what do we find? Right after zapping the universe into existence God creates light.
 
Light? God certainly doesn’t need any. According to dogma he’s been around forever, and only created the known universe on a whim a bit less than six thousand years ago. Obviously, he doesn’t need light. And the fact that he doesn’t while we do, kind of undermines the “created in his image,” idea.
 
Strangely, when light was created there was nowhere to watch from, and nothing to see. So why bother? Why not have light appear along with the sun and stars? That is where the light comes from, after all.
 
No one ever seems to ask about this point. Though the fact that the church used to burn people at the stake for asking inconvenient questions, and still discourages that kind of thought, might explain. Still, you’d think God would want at least the basic science right, like creating the sun, then setting the planets spinning around it. I sometimes wonder what he would say if he read the things they they report him doing.
 
Still…
 
On the surface, light appearing before the sun comes into being seems a crazy idea. But only today. In past times, it not only made perfect sense, it fit the evidence, perfectly:
 
Assume for a minute that you’re someone who’s intelligent, but at the same time, ignorant of such things as diffraction, reflection, diffusion, and optics. In other words an educated and thoughtful person, living several thousand years ago. And as someone living in biblical times, you know with certainty that the Earth is flat. After all, if the world is round people would fall off. Any idiot can look at a steep hillside and see that.
 
So, our scientist storyteller is getting ready to tell his audience how the world and everything in it came to be. He’s fact-checking his story.
 
With that in mind let’s look at the evidence this early writer has, and apply both his intelligence and his knowledge to the world at large so he can write his story.
 
We know light travels in a straight line. We prove that easily enough by holding out a stick on a cloud free day. It casts a shadow exactly the size of the stick, something easily measurable. Raise the stick as high as you care to and the shadow cast by the sun remains the same size. The shadow of a building is neither narrower nor wider from bottom to top Conclusion: light travels in a straight line. And that also holds true if tested with a candle or a campfire. In fact, when tested with a candle as the only source of light, anything in the shadow of whatever is blocking the light is in pitch darkness. That’s an important point, too, because it has direct application in the next point.
 
In daylight, though, the darkness of the shadow isn’t absolute. Obviously, light is coming from all over the sky, not then just the sun. Inescapable conclusion: the sun is not the only source of daylight. And were it removed we would still have day and night.
 
Doubt that? Let’s go further and select a building with a window on the side opposite the sun. If you place an object in the light from that window the shadow, which obviously cannot be coming from the sun’s light, will narrow with distance from the object. Again, obvious to that ancient scholar: there are many sources for that light through the window, none of them sunlight. And since it’s obviously impossible to have light without a source, the fact that the light exists, in and of itself, proves that God exists and wants it to happen. We know better today, of course, we with our science and our instruments.
 
But people living in biblical times? They had a graphic demonstration of God’s amazing power every-single-day.
 
So certainly God would create that light first. In fact, by the text, he created light, then day and night, both brought into being before he made the sun.
 
So biblical storytelling makes perfect sense if you apply intelligence, coupled with a lack of any scientific knowledge, to the problem. And once it’s written, accepted, and the words are declared holy, who dares question? Only fools like me.
 
Who wrote that particular story? It can’t be God because whoever it was began to get their facts wrong at the top of the very first page. God’s version would be factual, and have the sun, not the earth, at the center of the solar system. After all, God wouldn’t lie. Would he?
 
No one ever asks who was there, taking notes on the day light was being created, either. The tale is written From the point of view of someone relating a memory—but who, in reality, is speculating based on an incomplete understanding of available data.
 
No one ever asks why, if the creation story is true, the light of stars residing millions of light years away from our little planet has already reached us, without the necessity of traveling for millions of years to get here.
 
The Bible is littered with such things. Yet strangely, millions of intelligent people, who could, and should see the obvious, read the opening of the Bible and say, “Yup. That’s exactly how it happened. It says so right there in my Bible.”
 
As you read this, science is driving a vehicle on the sands of Mars, taking pictures and firing lasers at rocks. Science has sent exploring ships to the planets, and beyond even the boundaries of our small family of planets. Science kept my wife and son alive after they contracted cancer. It makes possible such things as you reading this at the touch of a key, and the magic box in your kitchen that provides eternal winter inside its door.
 
Religion? They’re busy arguing over who can have sex with whom, and why they get to dictate.

 

Linda

 
 

     Linda sat, hunched forward in the rocker chewing her lip and ignoring the pain that came with each breath as she studied the man on the bed.
     Lying face down where he’d thrown himself, Jack sprawled across the bed in a stupor brought on by a night of drink and the effort of beating her. She could undress him, but that might wake him and bring a renewal of the anger. In the morning, sober again, he’d be apologetic—a model husband—but not now.
     Killing him would easy and satisfying, and she thought about that for a long time. The pleasure those thoughts generated a bulwark against the pain. But in the end, she decided against it. If she wasn’t able to do it quickly enough, and if he got his hands on her…
     Hands clenched in her lap, she mouthed the words she didn’t dare speak—the feelings she could never express aloud.
     She thought for a time on why she’d said yes to him as a second husband—the second man to treat her as an object on which to vent rage. Stupid? Yes. But at the time it seemed a necessary decision.
     How stupid she’d been, but how lucky she’d thought herself at seventeen, in finding Opie, her knight in uniform, who provided a way out of the battle-torn shack her parents called home.
     Opie, with his marine swagger and imperious manner had the worldliness of someone who’d traveled beyond the county of his birth. He seemed her great hope of escape. But it was an escape to something worse than home, a marriage that lasted only seven months, all of it downhill, leaving her alone, frightened, bruised, with pennies in her pocket—limping along a rural highway in Mississippi.
     This second marriage lasted a year. There would be no other.
     With a sigh, she leaned back into the old rocker, wincing at a twinge of pain from a new bruise. Like the other beatings, this one had its beginnings in events over which she had no control.

° ° °

     Jack came onto the porch, the hesitation in his step announcing that he was already drunk. She gave thought to hiding in the shed till he slept it off. But he was already reaching for the door. And, drunk or sober he’d been fairly well behaved since the last time, nearly a month before. And the one time she had hidden, he accused her of being unfaithful—of being out of the house with another man—and had whipped her with his belt until she’d prayed to die.
     Jack, angry and sober, was a far worse thing than when under the influence of a few beers. She thought then about leaving, had even begun packing, but in the end, returned everything to its place before he could notice. Without money or skills, and with Jack’s promise to track her down and kill her if she left, options were limited.
     Instead of hiding, this night, she forced a smile when he came into the living room, saying, “Hi, honey. How was your day?”
     He was five hours late for dinner, now long cold in the refrigerator.
     He growled something unintelligible and sank into the easy chair, blowing out a cloud of beery breath and scratching his stomach. Given the condition he was in, she breather a prayer that he wasn’t in the mood for sex. After a few beers, he lost what little consideration he normally had for her pleasure, using her as he might a druken slut, rather than a beloved wife. Sometimes, she wondered if he actually knew the meaning of the word love. Sober, he was a passable, if unimaginative lover, but drunk, he was an unfeeling brute, demanding things of her as he might a prostitute.
     She studied him, seeking some clue as to what kind of mood he was in, so she could adapt to it and get through the night.
     He muttered again. Missing his words a second time, she said, “What was that, Jack, honey? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
     He swiveled his head toward her, mouth turned down in disgust. “I said, I lost the fucking job, you deaf bitch! I lost the fucking job.”
     Oh shit! She clamped hard on the urge to run for the door. That would be suicide. Running triggered his hunting instincts, and he was sitting between her and the door.
     The problem wasn’t the loss of the job. He was a good mechanic—could be a better one if not for the drinking, so he could find another. The fear was for what that loss might mean for her.
     Forcing the chair around with a shriek of complaining wood, he pointed a grease-stained finger at her.
     “Let me tell you, something, baby. That Jew-bastard Koch—the fucker who owns the god damned agency—he wouldn’t know a good mechanic from a dumb nigger, but he’s gonna pay for this. I’ll tell you that. He’s gonna pay real good!”
     “What will you do, Jack?” Her voice was a tiny thing, mouse-like, and inoffensive, she hoped.
     He stared at her for a long moment, then mimicked her voice, bringing his own to a nerve-jangling falsetto screech she despised.
     “What will you do, Jack? What will you do, Jack? What the hell do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to kill that bastard. That’s what I’m going to do.”
     Her shock must have shown, because he abruptly stood, overbalancing and stumbling against the footstool, which he kicked out of the way with a crash.
     “Don’t you fucking look at me that way, you bitch! The whole thing’s your fault anyway.”
     Wise enough to keep her mouth shut, she said nothing, simply poised herself to flee, if necessary. With a growl, he waved a backhanded blow at her, mumbling, “Pow! I ought to do a job on you, but you’re too fucking dumb to change.”
     With that, he stumbled into the darkened bedroom, accompanied by her sigh of relief.
     Unfortunately, he was only passing through it, making a toilet call. He returned to the living room far too soon, then headed for the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator, bracing himself against the door as he scanned the inside.
     She got to her feet and began easing toward the front door, but before she could get more than a few steps in that direction, the door of the old refrigerator slammed shut, accompanied by the crash of jars spilling from the door compartments.
     “There’s no beer, you stupid bitch. I told you to buy some beer!”
     She thought of telling him the truth, that he hadn’t remembered to give her money for the beer, but that would only make him angrier.
     “I’ll go now, Jack,” she said, hurriedly. “I’ll run down to the store right—”
     Any further words she might have said were stilled as his hand clamped on her windpipe, nearly lifting her from her feet. The rest was a blur of pain and fear as he vented his rage on her, the cruel blows raining on her body like some demented parody of a boxing match. Only the fact that he would begin kicking her, should she fall to the floor, kept her on her feet, saying “please,” over and over in a litany of fear. When he threw her to the bed and began to tear at her clothing, it was a relief.

° ° °

     The beating hadn’t lasted long, nor was it as bad as some, but it finally broke something inside —a dam of pent-up anger and self-lothing that had been filling for years. First had been the endless years of warfare between her parents, with their insane and unpredictable alterations between passion and hate—with her used as both a weapon and target. Then, there was the stupidity of her first marriage, and the death of her dreams of romance and escape. Now, there was Jack.
     As she sat watching her husband—hating him with every fiber of her being—she wondered how she could ever have put up with him. Certainly he was the one who took her in when Opie pushed her out of the car and drove off, though she’d paid for that with the only coin she possessed, her body. Certainly, when he wasn’t drunk, he was a decent enough person.
     He was even handsome, when his face wasn’t flushed with anger. But at best, he treated her as an appliance, as though wives were bought at the discount store and had only certain, well defined functions: keep house, tend the small crop fields, wash his clothes, satisfy his sexual needs, and absorb his rage when necessary. It was assumed that any needs she had would be taken care of without his help. That he neither loved nor respected her was all too obvious.
     Reaching a decision, she limped her way to the closet where her battered old suitcase was stored, tucked behind a carton; hidden against her need. He’d thrown it away, snarlingly informing her that she’d leave at his convenience, not hers. But she retrieved the case, wiping away the mud stains before hiding it.
     Clearing the top of the dresser she opened the case, leaning the top against the mirror to hide her battered face from view. Moving quietly enough not to disturb him she began to pack, taking only what fit into that small case.
     Finally finished, she moved to the bed and began the most difficult part: getting to his wallet. Lost job or not, this was payday, and he would have two weeks pay in his pocket, maybe even something extra as severance pay. He’d been on that job for seven months.
     Her own money, saved penny-by-penny, amounted to less than fifty dollars, and would take her no further than the next man like Jack. But there’d be no more like him, and for that more than a few dollars were needed.
     Jack grumbled under his breath as she got into the bed, then settled down to snoring as she leaned against him, as though cuddling in her sleep. He never stirred as she removed the wallet.
     Nine-hundred dollars! There were nine one hundred dollar bills in the wallet, plus fifty in smaller bills. She didn’t take the time for an exact count, but there was enough to get her out of the county, even the state. Enough, perhaps, for a new start.
     Slinging her bag over her shoulder and picking up the suitcase, she cast a longing glance at the old sewing machine in the corner. Through the bad times it had been her companion and her solace. Leaving it was like leaving a dear friend. Everything in her wardrobe had been made on that machine, copied from the dresses worn by models in the newspaper and in the magazines she took from trash cans. Jack wouldn’t let her buy patterns for the clothing, grumbling over the expense of the cloth she used.
     Unable to simply pass by, she bent her footsteps toward the old machine, stopping to run her hand over its smooth curves, stroking the cool metal of the drive wheel and thinking about how well it would do to sew a shroud for her husband.
     About to leave at last, she turned her head for a last look at his sleeping form, then stopped, fingernails tapping the metal of the machine—wondering. She stood that way for a time, lost in thought. Then, with the beginnings of a smile, picked up the suitcase and headed for the front door.
     The night air was soft and filled with the growing smells of springtime, symbolizing, for her, a new beginning, one that would take her from this place and this life. Never again would she submit. Never again would she permit a man to dominate her life. A line had been crossed, and there would be no going back. The flame of anger had been hard to ignite. Life before this had seen to that. But now it burned with a clear and steady glow as she loaded her suitcase into the rear seat of the car. She placed her worn old shoulder bag on the front passenger seat, then slipped the keys into the ignition, where they would be ready. Sliding out of the car, she closed the door far enough to extinguish the overhead light and kill the warning tones, but left it unlatched, in case she might have to get into the car on a run. Finally, she headed back to the house.
     First, she bathed, flinching at the new bruises and scowling in disgust at the yellowed remains of the older ones. Then, she dressed herself in the best of the clothing remaining in her closet. Finally, she headed toward her sewing box for needle and thread.
     There was anger in her hands as she sewed, and anger in the teeth that bit off the ends of the thread she used to sew the legs of his pants together. It wasn’t the kind of anger Jack knew. His was unreasoning rage, destructive and wild. Hers was cold and controlled, serving her purpose. Moments after she began, her lips turned up in a grim little smile at the realization that there was little chance of him stopping her, with his legs immobalized, even should he wake.
     That complete, she rolled him onto his back and sewed his sleeves to his shirt front, using heavy duty button thread. Even should he wake, getting free would take more time than for her to reach the waiting car.
     But there was no need to run. He never woke as she pulled the sheets free from the mattress and tossed them atop his body, to form a form-fitting tube, which she sewed to his sleeves and pants.
      The task took several hours, but when she finished he was sealed inside a body-sack that bound his arms and legs far more securely than had she tied him. The sack she sewed to the mattress, laughing at the mental picture that brought, of him laboriously working his way to highway with that mattress on his back like a snail’s shell. By then, she was humming to herself, not caring if he woke.
     Finally finished, she had only to go over the hurried work she’d done in the beginning, reinforcing it, to be certain there’d no easy escape. He might work his way free, or worm himself out of the house and to the highway, but that would take hours. In any case, a call to the sheriff, when she was safe, would insure that he’d survive.
     He was awake when she cut the final thread, bloodshot eyes squinting in the morning’s light, his face filled with confusion. It was then that she sat back to admire her work, ignoring his angry questions. With a nod of satisfaction she stood, and then went looking for his baseball bat.
     Linda was humming to herself as she drove away, glad she’d taken the time to kiss him goodbye, even if he hadn’t noticed. It was, she decided, the start of a beautiful day.

Fin

 
 
 
Author’s Note
     This piece began as a dramatization of an event reported by a woman who was driven to emulate Willie Nelson’s first wife. When the story was complete, I was curious about what happened to Linda after that morning, so I began a novel that followed her life after that traumatic night. It’s about one third finished, and one of these days I’ll get around to completing it.
     I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the story is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well.
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a smile, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

Breaking Point

 
 
 

     The scene is a dank, dungeon-like space, the floor stained with old blood, the walls impregnated with the screams of the dying. Centered, is a table on which James Bond lies, shackled and helpless. With him stands a man in a tuxedo. His face shows no cruelty, only indifference, though his eyes belie that indifference. His eyes glitter with malice.
     “So, Mr. Bond, it’s down to this. You will tell me all your department’s secrets or you suffer more than you have believed humanly possible.”
     Cooly, and with a sneer of dismissal, James Bond shakes his head. “Do you think you can frighten me, Coldfinger? I’m a trained agent. Pain means nothing to me. You may kill me, yes, but I’ll never give in, and I’ll take my government’s secrets with me to the grave.”
      That brings a smile and a sad shake of the head. “You may believe that, Mr. Bond, but once I use this machine on you, you’ll be a spillway to everything I want to know.” He points to a small machine sitting on the table next to where Bond is chained. It’s a simple box, with only one control, a small push button. From the box two slim wires run, presumably connected to James Bond, in some unknown way.
      Bond turns his head as much as the shackles will permit. He frowns before saying, “What does it…do?” The simplicity of the thing obviously has him concerned.
      “It makes you talk, Mr. Bond. It makes any man talk. When I push that button you will know agony such as no man has ever faced. It’s connected to your neural system, and will make you know exactly how a woman feels in labor…hard labor.” Coldfinger grins, cruelly, as he leans back in his chair, his hand poised over the box, awaiting a response.
      For a long moment Bond stares, as though accessing the chance that the man is lying. He weighs his options and resources. Finally, he shrugs and takes a deep breath.
     “Okay…the man in charge of my department is named Quincy Farber, and he…
 

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Author’s Note:
     This was something prompted by my daughter’s pregnancy and long labor. I’d talk, too.
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well

 

Words and Music – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer
 

Words and Music

     Music has the power to move us in ways that border the astonishing. With just a few notes it can change our mood in ways dramatic. A fanfare can make us smile, while a musical joke may bring a chuckle. Music can invoke the power of the raging sea or transport us to the tranquil moments leading to sleep. And it can do that all without words.
     Couple speech to that power and the possibilities are limitless. That combination of lyric and melody can inspire us to love, patriotism, and even despair. We whistle a happy song when we pass a graveyard, and celebrate the anniversary of our birth with a little ditty. It permeates our lives. Words bring the thought and music the emotion. Together they can accomplish miracles.
     So how, you ask, does that relate to writing fiction? That’s easy. Most of us have a voice, our instrument, that’s less than impressive. There are few, a very few, who were born with an intuition of song that makes them a natural fit to some aspect of music. The rest of us, should we pursue a singing career, must develop those skills through practice and study. And because the instrument we’re given as a birthright does not usually embody perfection, most of the most successful popular singers make do with something less than that. Even Ella Fitzgerald, the first lady of jazz, and someone blessed with a voice that only a precious few possess, had to be guided into the best use of her talents. And so it is with writing.
     The problem is that as we grow through our teen years we learn to present the emotional part of our stories through the physical techniques that are also useful when performing music. As we present the facts of the story with our words, we present the melody—the emotional aspect—though sweeping hand gestures, changing expression, intonation, modulation, body-language, hesitation, and the many tricks of delivery in the storyteller’s bag of tricks. We stop and shake our heads as if in sorrow, and our audience is given important emotional information. We lean toward the audience and speak softly, and they know we’re about to relate a secret.
     But then we turn to recording our stories in print. We can record the words, yes, but what about the music? What happens to the melody played by that marvelously expressive instrument, the human voice? Where is that interpretive dance we do to tell our audience, visually, the things they absolutely need to know if they’re to understand the character’s motivation?
     Gone. All gone.
     On the page lie our words, the lyrics of our song, lifeless, devoid of all emotion.
     And the reader, the one we’ve appointed to sing our song? What of them?
     Hand me the song lyrics to, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and the melody begins to play on the iPod of my mind before my eyes read more then the title. That’s true for almost any song we already know. But what about the song we don’t know? We’re handed the lyrics and told to sing to ourselves. But how can we do that? We don’t know what a line we’re about to sing says, factually or emotionally, until after we read it.
     How do we solve that problem when we give someone our brand new song? If we’re with them we sing it. If not, we may hand them a recording. But if neither are available? We supply the musical notation and the lyrics, the sheet music. The singer now has both, the words and music, the facts and the emotion. And in writing we have exactly the same situation. We need to present the reader with the facts of the story, while, at the same time, making them feel the emotion the character does.
     Over time, writers have developed the tricks of presentation that will give our reader what’s necessary to know our story as we do, from the inside, so to speak. Properly presented, we can make the audience feel is if time is passing, and can motivate the reader to speak the dialog as we would—as the actual character would. We can pass them the emotional part of the story by making them experience it, not just hear about it. It’s one thing to tell the reader that Sam was glad to see Ella when she enters the room, but quite another to make the reader say, “Damn, I’m glad she’s back. I like Ella.”
     The thing to remember: you’re not telling your reader a story. Your reader is a musical instrument—your musical instrument. They are both amazingly powerful and flexible, and certainly worth learning how to play. So don’t tell them a story. Take the time to learn to make them live it.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Author’s note:
     These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

Footnote

 
 
      “So,” Stan George called as he searched for the mustard. What did they say about the car?”
     Tim Shanken turned from the kitchen counter, and the book-bag he was exploring.
     “What?”
     “I asked when your car would be ready.”
      “They said it would be ready by tomorrow night, at the latest, but I’ll bet they don’t fix the problem. I’ve already brought it there twice for the same thing, and I’m beginning to doubt they have the brains to fix it.” He pulled one of the books from the bag and began to thumb through it.
      Stan backed out of the refrigerator, loaded with an assortment of sandwich makings, closing the door with a nudge of his hip. “I know about that, it took me three trips to get the Ford fixed when the transmission went bad last month. If it wasn’t in warranty, I’d go some place else… Mustard okay?” I’ve got ketchup in the fridge if you want that.”
     “Mustard’s fine,” Tim said with a shrug. He motioned toward the book he was holding. “Is this Mike’s? It’s been a lot of years since I read this.”
      Stan cocked his head to line up with the printing on the cover, then laughed. “Moby Dick? It’s been a few beers over the lips since I had to swim through that one.” He laughed again. “That’s Mike’s all right, but I doubt he’ll get much out of it. He’s already pretty ticked off over the fact that he can’t find the movie in the video store. It’s always been checked out by one of the other kids when he bikes over there to get it. Since they don’t have a waiting list, it’s first come, first served.”
      Tim slipped the book back on the bag and hitched himself up to sit on the tabletop, waving away Stan’s gestured invitation to start making his sandwich. “No, you go on. I’ll make mine after you finish.” He held out one palm in a request for more information as he said, “He’s not a reader?”
      That brought another laugh. “You might say that. If it’s not on video, he doesn’t do a book report on it—unless it’s assigned reading, like this one was.” Stan shook his head and added, “I guess I can’t complain, since lots of the kids do that. When I was a kid, my best friend and I would only do book reports on things we could get in the Classic Comic series.”
      That brought a chuckle, and, “Didn’t everybody? So what’s he going to do? Will he actually read this thing?” He pulled the book out again, hefting it. “This may be pretty heavy going for a modern kid. I read it a couple of times, and enjoyed it, too, but not until college when I had the background to understand it.”
      Stan put down the knife he was using to slice his sandwich, apparently thinking over how to say it without making his son look stupid. Finally, with a cluck if the tongue, he said, “He’ll read it, I suppose. He’s good that way. They told him to read it, so he’ll read it—even if he does find the video for it—just because they told him he has to.” He bit his lip before waving his hands in uncertainty, adding, “I don’t know how to put this, Tim, but…. Mike’s a good kid; he really is. He just doesn’t have any…” In frustration, he spread his hands, finally settling for, “Damn, I’m making him sound stupid, or lazy, and he’s neither. He’s just…” He sighed. “I guess I can’t complain—he does get decent marks. It’s just that he sort of drifts, when it comes to schooling. Like I said, he’ll read it just because they told him to, but he won’t pay any real attention, and he won’t enjoy it. He’ll just… just read it. When it comes to something like that, it’s like the old ethnic joke, where the way to keep someone busy for hours is to give them a card that has both sides printed with, ‘Turn this card over and read the other side.’”
      Tim shook his head. “I think you’re being a little hard on the boy, Stan. He’s a little better than that. He’s at least as smart as my Dan.”
      Stan laid the sandwich he was finishing on a plate and turned to Tim, wiping his hands on a paper towel and moving to where the other man sat as he did. He tossed the towel toward the trash and reached for the book, taking it from Tim’s hand and holding it up.
      “I’m serious. If I would put a note in the middle of this book telling him to start over from the beginning, he will, just because the note is there. The kid doesn’t think for himself. I dearly wish I could get him started doing that, but… Well, nothing I’ve tried so far has worked.”
      “You that sure?” When Stan shrugged, Tim slid off the table and moved to the opposite side of the work counter. He dug in the bag for a roll, and began to slice it, his expression thoughtful.
     “Okay, I’ll take that one,” he said, finally. “I can always use some easy money. Five bucks says he won’t do that.”
      Stan hesitated for a moment before nodding and placing the book on the table. He flipped to a page near the middle, motioning Tim over to join him. “Done! But you have to come over here and write the note for me, so he doesn’t recognize the handwriting and catch on.” He fished in a drawer for a pen, bringing it to the table and holding it out to his friend.
      “Here, just write, ‘Note to students: Stop at this point and return to the beginning.”
      Tim took the pen, frowning. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. The bet is that Mike comes to the note and starts over; that he does this because he’s as dumb as the guy who jumped off a building and stopped to ask directions on the way down. Further, that he does this without asking either the teacher or anyone else if the note applies to him, right?
      “You got it.”
      Tim bent over the book and began to write. “Okay, Stan, but this is easy money. No one is that dumb.”
      “We’ll see.”
 

*

 
      Tim pulled the throttle back to stop the engine, bringing the old mower to a halt, as he called. “Hey Mike! Got a minute?”
     As he waited for his friend’s son to walk to the fence gate, Tim fished a plastic bag out of his back pocket and opened it, preparing to empty the grass-catcher. He laid the bag across the mower handle as the boy came through the gate.
      “Yes, Mr. Shanken?”
      Tim studied the boy with interest. Mike was a typical sixteen year-old, awkward with his sudden new size and always slouching in an attempt to keep his eyes at the height they were last year. He was a good kid, and though Tim didn’t know him too well, Mike was a friend to his own boy since they were toddlers.
      “I noticed that you were reading Moby Dick, and I was wondering how you liked it.”
      The boy shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. I just wish I was finished with it. It’s pretty hard to read, with all that old fashioned language and all. Lots of what they do doesn’t make sense anymore, either.”
      “Oh?”
      Mike shrugged again. “It’s sometimes hard to understand why they get upset over something that would be no big deal today.”
      Tim’s respect for the boy went up a few points, and he decided that his father had underestimated his ability to absorb the story. Casually, he said, “So you’re finished?”
      He shook his head. “No. I would be by now, but there was a note from the teacher, near the middle, telling me to go back and re-read the first part. I guess she wants us to understand it before we go on, and since I don’t, I’m re-reading it. It still doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I see things I missed the first time, so I guess there was a good reason for the note.”
      As the boy walked away Tim reflected that technically he had lost the bet, but certainly not for the reasons his friend gave when the bet was made. He wondered if he had not done Mike a favor with the note. Certainly he would enjoy the story more.
 

*

 
      Stan leaned back in his chair and shouted up the stairs to the kitchen. “Hey Mike, would you bring us some more beer?” He turned back to the men gathered around the card table. “One of the advantages of having children is service like this. When Mike complained that I was treating him like a servant, I told him he gets the chance to have one of his own when he has children.”
      There was laughter as Mike came down the stairs carrying a six-pack from the refrigerator. He put it on the side table and was about to launch himself back up the stairs when Tim stopped him with a hand on the arm. “Did you ever finish that story, Mike?”
      That brought a frown. “No, I didn’t. I’m on the fourth time around, and I still haven’t found what they want me to see, so I can’t go on.”
      “Well maybe if you finished it you could see—”
      “No,” Mike said, firmly, waving his hand in negation. “No, I can see a lot of things I missed, like the fact that the whale is actually symbolic, as is a lot of what is going on in the story, but I don’t think it’s that.” He thought a moment, then sighed. “I guess I’ll know it when I finally understand it, but it’s pretty tough.”
      The boy sounded so troubled, and so sincere that Tim debated telling him of the hoax, but at this point could see no way to do so without hurting the boy.
      “Maybe you should talk it over with the teacher?” He took a breath before saying, “Maybe someone else wrote the note—a student, maybe.” He spread his hands. “You do have to turn in the report, don’t you?”
      The comment about the note being other than from his teacher only brought a stubborn look to the boy’s face, and, “Maybe… but if so, someone found something worth looking for, and I want to see if I can do it for myself. I did the book report on Great Expectations, rather than Moby Dick, since I couldn’t get through it. This is just for me.”
      As Mike vanished up the stairs Tim frowned, then frowned again as Stan said, “That kid’s strange, sometimes.” Tim stared at the empty stair-well for a moment, then, with a shrug, shook himself back to the present. When he turned back to the table he found his friend’s hand extended.
     “Which reminds me, Buddy. We have a bet, and you just lost. Pay up.”
      Itt wasn’t worth arguing so he paid Stan the five dollars, but he looked thoughtfully at the stairs up which Mike had gone.
 

*

 
      Tim pulled to a stop at the traffic light. He stretched the sleep out of his muscles, enjoying the early morning feel to the air. It was a perfect day for a round of golf. He glanced over at Stan, relaxing in the passenger seat, yawning himself awake. “So, Stan,” he said, with a laugh in his voice. “I hate to ask, but has Mike ever finished that stupid book, or is he endlessly cycling up to the note and back to the beginning? He seemed almost obsessed with it the last time I talked to him.”
      Stan turned his head and gave Tim a sour look. “Let me tell you, Buddy, that is one weird kid.”
      “Uh-huh? And?”
      “And, I asked him about it last Monday. He said he was reading it for the tenth time, and that he had a real grasp of the motivations of the people now, and more importantly, the author. He told me he was making a detailed outline of where he thought the story was going, based on his interpretation of the intent of the author. He also told me how he thought it ended, and he was dead on. He claims that before he read it he had no idea of how story went, except that it was about a whale. That’s scary.”
      “Yeah? I guess it is, if it’s true. He could have just forgotten he saw it as a cartoon, or something. You sound like there’s something else, though.” The light changed, and Tim charged forward to block a Toyota intent on jumping into his lane before adding, “You said this happened last Monday. I assume there’s more now.”
      Stan looked even more sour, as he shook his head. “I don’t know if you’d call it more, or just craziness. He’s now into an analysis of the printing process in general. He spent almost an hour just explaining such things as sans-serif type and another on the history of ink pigments. The kid spends half his spare time doing research and half re-reading the first part of that damn book.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’ll tell you, Tim. I really don’t know what to do about it. I’m glad he’s learning something, but it’s starting to worry me.”
      Tim drove in silence for a time, then ventured, “Have you thought of telling him who actually made the note?”
      There was an equally long silence before Stan quietly said, “I did. He said it doesn’t matter.”
 

*

 
      Tim reached for the phone, hurrying to answer it before it woke his wife. “Hello?”
      “Hi, Tim, it’s Stan. Thelma said you called. What’s up?”
      “Not much, it’s just that I happened to think about your son Mike today. What with the baby being sick and all, I haven’t heard a progress report for weeks. How’s he doing?”
      There was the sound of a long sigh. “How’s he doing? I really wish I knew, Tim. He’s been almost living at the library, lately, and he’s got a whole room-full of books on things like communication theory and the structure of languages. It’s starting to scare the hell out of me, but he’s aced every test he’s taken in school since the start of this thing, so it’s hard to complain. We may have created a monster, or pushed him onto the path of becoming a great scientist; take your choice. I’d rather it be the scientist, but I’m afraid it might be the other.”
      Tim hesitated before saying, “Is he acting strangely in other ways—skipping meals and such?”
      There was a snort of laughter from the phone. “The human garbage disposal skip a meal? You’ve got to be kidding. No, he’s okay except for that. In fact, he’s a lot more fun to talk to now. He reads the paper, and thinks about it, where before he only read the comics. No, I really don’t think he’s going crazy, or anything like that. It’s just that he’s always so… busy.”
 

*

 
      “Tim! Hey, Tim…up here!”
     Tim searched for the source of the call, finally locating his friend Stan at a second floor window. His voice had been half whisper, half shout, and his face bore a look of urgency.
      “Hi, Stan,” Tim called. “What’s up? You look like you’ve just caught Irma in bed with her grandfather again.”
      Stan ignored the attempt at humor and motioned Tim closer to the house. As he approached, Stan pointed toward the porch, stage-whispering, “Front door’s open, come on up here… and hurry.”
      Tim took the steps to the second floor two at a time, wondering what was going on, but afraid he knew.
     
      “He’s been like this for the past hour. Watch him.”
      Stan guided Tim to the door of his son’s room. Inside, Mike sat on the chair in front of his desk, staring at an open book, his body unmoving. He appeared to be looking at the book, but his eyes were staring—as unmoving as the rest of his body.
      Tim turned his head to speak, but Stan stopped him with a hand on his arm, whispering, “Just watch.”
     Tim did as he requested, and a few seconds later the boy reached out and turned the page, only to resume his motionless position. At Tim’s confused look, Stan motioned to the stair and headed in that direction. With a last look into the silent room, Tim followed.
     
      “He’s reading? It sure doesn’t look like it to me.”
      “Me either, Tim, but that’s what he claims to be doing. He says he’s teaching himself to take in the whole page in one single gestalt—of what is, and what was intended to be, and how it fits into the book and the world.”
      “Gestalt? What the hell is that? It sounds like something he pulled out of a psyche book.”
      Stan shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I looked it up, and it means the whole of a thing that cannot be derived from just the sum of its parts. I don’t know what the hell he means by it, though. He’s starting to really scare me and I don’t know what to do.” He looked at his friend, his expression hopeful. “Do you have any ideas? I’m fresh out.”
      Tim blew out a long breath. “None. This thing has really gotten wild. Have you taken him to a doctor?” At Stan’s affirmative nod, he added, “A shrink?”
      Stan looked glum. “A shrink, and a psychologist, and two other kinds of head doctors, too. They love him. They say he’s the most well balanced and intelligent kid they’ve seen in years. They think I’m crazy!” He held out his hands, as though seeking guidance, or at least a little reassurance. “I’m not, am I?”
      Tim thought that over for a time, then asked, “How is he when he’s not doing the yoga thing?” He pointed in the direction of the second floor, indicating Mike’s present activity.
      Stan deflated, leaning back in the chair and shaking his head in frustration. “That’s the hell of it, Tim. When he’s not like that, he’s great. He helps around the house, plays ball, and does all the things he always did; maybe even more. Hell, I’ve never seen him so full of energy.”
      Tim was at a loss to suggest anything, but a question occurred. “Um… When he finishes with that… uh, reading?” He wasn’t happy with the word, but plowed on anyway. “When he puts the book away, has he actually read it—gotten anything out of it?”
      Stan scratched his chin, thoughtfully. “Well, I can’t tell for sure, but he seems to. When he finishes a book, he can discuss what it was about, it just seems a weird way to read. He’d be a lot faster reading it the regular way.”
      “Have you told him that?”
      “Sure, but when I did he said he’s getting better and that he gets much more out of the book this way.”
      Tim was silent for a long time, and when he spoke, his answer didn’t satisfy him. He just couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Well, if it doesn’t hurt him, and he’s okay in every way, I guess it makes him happy. Who knows, maybe he’ll come up with a new way of reading. I’d give it a little while, and keep an eye on him.”
      It was obvious from the expression on Stan’s face that it was not an answer he was comfortable with, but there was little choice in the matter, and Mike’s energetic feet on the stair ended the conversation..
 

*

 
      “Hi, Mr. Shaken. I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you?”
      “Mmm?” Tim turned from polishing the car. “Oh, hi, Mike. I’m pretty fine. We’ve been at the lake house for three weeks.”
      Tim studied the boy for a moment, before going on, noting that he seemed changed since the last time he had seen him. In some indefinable way he seemed more grown up. For one thing, he stood straight, and had a look of confidence Tim had never seen him wear before. There was more, though. Tim just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
      “Well, Mike,” he continued. “You look pretty happy this afternoon.”
      “I am,” the boy enthused. “I finally broke through yesterday morning, and I have to thank you and my father for making it possible.”
      “Broke through? I’m afraid I—”
      “No, I guess you wouldn’t understand,” Mike said, with a smile, interrupting him. “What I mean is that I finally understand, and now it’s easy to learn.”
      Tim put down the rag he had been using to polish the car, and held out his hands in a request for enlightenment. “Mike, I’m afraid I—”
      “Still don’t understand,” Mike finished, interrupting him once again. He looked thoughtful for a moment, before saying, “It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have it, but what I now understand is communication, and how it’s really done. It means that I can pretty much tell what you’re thinking by watching your face, and that I can read a page by just glancing at it.” He shrugged. “In fact, if it’s an opinion book, rather than an accumulation of facts, I can usually tell what the thing contains from the first few pages. Most people are far too wordy when they try to say something.”
      Tim blinked rapidly for a few seconds, before Mike continued, speaking for him, and saying, “But that’s not possible, Mike, and you can’t know my thoughts.” He stopped, grinning at the expression Tim was unable to keep from his features, and there was laughter in his voice as he said, “Of course I can’t read minds, no one could do that, right?” He hesitated, still grinning, then went on more gently, moving away from the subject of mind-reading.
      “Anyway, I really want to thank you for making it possible, even if you didn’t have this in mind when you put that note in the book.”
      Tim just stared for a long moment, then tried again. “So—”
      “What will I do now?” Mike put a hand on the Tim’s shoulder, saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Shanken, I have to remember not to do that. It seems to upset people… Well, in answer to your question, I’ve read everything in the house, so I’m on my way downtown to read the library. Then, who knows? Maybe I’ll go swimming with the guys.”
     
      Tim watched him go, and had the thought that he ought to go find Stan and ask for his five dollars back.
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Author’s note:
     I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the story is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well.
     
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

What In The Hell Is POV – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer
 
 

What In The Hell Is POV?

 

     If there’s one thing that causes both me and new writers anguish it’s point of view. For them it’s the anguish of making it work. For me it’s the whimper when I read something as pleasant as fingernails on a blackboard. POV, as it’s usually abbreviated, is the single greatest hurdle in the battle to change from writing reports to writing fiction.
      We all know how to report, of course, it’s the essence of verbal communication. We tell about our day, our feelings, and our stories. Just visit Facebook and you’ll see that in action. It’s told as a report because we’re alone on stage, the star of our own one-person show. So naturally, when we begin to write fiction we tell the story as we always have.
      So why is that not enough?
      The setting for this example is easy. We begin with a single character standing on the shoulder of a blacktop road next to a field of soy plants. The character’s hands rest on a fencepost. Before them the ground is level, but it slopes away in the distance into a shallow valley a few miles wide and extending an unknown distance in either direction from the vantage point. In the distance, close to the far side of a narrow river, the shoulders of a mountain thrust upward, forming the backdrop of a truly magnificent view. As far as the eye can see there’s farmland, interspersed with wooded areas, with the tracery of roads and the border-lines of fields dividing the view into visual pixels.
      Above, the afternoon light throws a cloudy sky into relief, much of it heavy with the possibility of rain. The air, too, carries a hint of moisture on the gentle breeze, though the roadway behind is dry.
      Got all that? It’s the scene. Any character placed in that scene sees precisely the same thing. So, if you tell me, “small watercourses could be seen here and there in the valley,” it’s a report of what the writer visualizes, and what even people driving by can see. So who cares? It’s static. It’s unrelated to the character and what the character is doing. Unless I’m reading the work in search of a beautiful view, it’s a waste of time telling me about it. It’s a greater waste if the description is in prosaic terms.
      But every new writer does exactly that. They tell what there is to be seen, not what the character is noticing.
      Let’s look at something very different. We’ll look at the scene as several different characters see it by plugging them into the setting I detailed, above and talking about what they notice, not what can be seen.
 
The starving farmer:
      This man hasn’t seen rain for over a month. The valley is there for him, yes, and it’s just as beautiful as it always has been, but he sees it every day of his life, and it’s commonplace—unnoticed. He’s looking at the plants in the field in front of him and noticing the way the leaves are drooping, moisture starved and close to death. He’s noticing the clouds, poised so teasingly overhead. He frowns at the haze showing on the mountain where the breeze strikes the slope and sweeps upwards, condensing the moisture and causing it to rain on the flanks of that mountain, to run into the river and be carried away. He’s thinking of his family, and of how he’s not going to get through the winter if the crop fails. He looks, and he thinks, and everything he does is underlined by the prayer that fills his being: Please… Dear God, please send me rain.
 
The tourist:
      This person is a visitor from another country, where drought hasn’t struck. She’s an artist, here to paint, and she sees the view through the eyes of an artist. She views the roiling clouds in terms of their contrast to the serene scene on the ground. She sees the drooping plants but understands their significance not at all. She sees the rain on the mountain and feels pleasure at the way it completes the picture, and smiles over the fact that it’s not where she is, ruining her perfect moment.
 
The wet farmer:
      This lady is sullen. She stares at the rain clouds and hates every one of them. In the fine detail of her world the plants droop not with dehydration, but from drowning roots, as the result of a saturated summer and the probability of more rain conspire to push her to the brink. Her thoughts aren’t on beauty, but on giving in and accepting a man’s offer of marriage—he of the stinking breath and awkward hands. To her, rain and tears are inexorably intertwined. And everything she looks at reminds her of the decision she must make before nightfall. Beauty? There is no beauty there for her.
 
The lover:
      This man stands by the road, surrounded by glory, but he notices it not at all for itself. The fields represent life, and remind him of his lover, and the children they will have together. The vista, with its airy beauty, makes him reflect on the comfort he’s found with her. The mountains, reaching upward, remind him of her as she climaxed under his ministrations. He laughs as his eyes trace the series of peaks and his mind relives her gasps and clutchings. His focus is the coming evening.
 
The geologist. The bounty hunter. The land developer… All see the same image, and all take away only what they, uniquely, take away. And in doing so—in seeing something we wouldn’t see because our perceptions are shaped by our own needs—they take our interest.
      Each of us is unique. Each of us perceives the world in a way that’s shaped by our own needs and experiences. Each of us have a different story.
     Tell the story, not its setting.

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Author’s note:
     These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

Deconstructing Samantha – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer
 
 

Deconstructing Samantha

 

     Many people seem convinced that to learn to write, all you need do is read, and there on the pages lie the secrets of the masters, ripe for plucking. But can it be that easy? Can you learn to be a good bowler by watching an expert? Can we learn to cook by eating good foods? We all read, so it seems strange that so few of us achieve success of that level, if it’s that easy.
     Certainly, by reading we can develop a sense of what works and what doesn’t. And we can generate benchmarks for ourselves, with which to measure the success of our own work. But any profession has trade secrets. And any profession has a body of knowledge that must be studied and mastered by practicing until it’s automatic, because those things aren’t obvious—or intuitive.
     Reading, or even closely examining any finished product tells you little about the process—unless you know that process so well, yourself, you “recognize the tool marks.” And the whys—the necessities—of a line being stated as it is, instead of another way, aren’t obvious.
     Wouldn’t you love to have a marked up copy of your favorite favorite author’s first draft, to see what was changed in editing? How about a conversation with that author on what he or she was attempting to do, and what the role of every line is, in contributing to that goal?
     I’m not your favorite writer, and I make no claim to be a writer of great skill, but none-the-less, I’m going to take the opening scene of Samanta And The Bear and deconstruct it for you, so you can see why I did certain things. I chose Samantha for this because it sold, which means I was doing at least some things right. Plus, it’s been republished, and could use a bit of shameless promotion.
     A suggestion and a challenge: Read the scene first, without referring to the notes, to get your reaction and see if the situation becomes at all real to you. Then go to the comments to learn why I did a given thing. See how often you nod and say, “I knew that.”
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Samantha and the Bear – opening scene:
 
     It was the kind of cold that bit at her face like tiny rodent teeth—so intense that the moisture in her nostrils froze each time she inhaled[1].
     As the night deepened [2] Samantha worked her way deeper and deeper into the blankets, but there was no place left to go. She woke to find herself huddled into a heat conserving ball, shivering[3].
     The breeze that huffed around the building at dusk was now the angry hiss of wind overlaid with ice crystals[4]. The cold, unbearable then, was now beyond anything she could have imagined.
     Until tonight it was an annoyance to spend her time bundled up in layer after layer of clothing. Now, as she gathered her courage to leave the bedding she was afraid.[5]
     The van? The road was impassible, but its heater could still provide warmth[6].
     But she had no confidence in its ancient battery, and if she made the attempt and was unable to start the engine there was little chance she would survive the trip back to the house.
     Bracing herself, Samantha pulled the covers from her face, opening her eyes to near darkness. The lantern had gone out so the only light came from the burners of the stove, their flames reduced to half their normal length by the chill[7]. A glance at the windows showed new snow had drifted against the wall and was covering half the glass[8]. Sometime during the night a storm-front must have passed through the area, bringing new snow and an arctic cold.
     With an effort, she slid from the table and limped toward the stove, to warm her hands enough to change the tank on the lantern[9]. The house had no functioning heater so she was forced to sleep in the kitchen, where the stove burned constantly. It helped only a little.
     She tried to read the thermometer mounted just outside the window but there was not enough light. It didn’t matter, though. It was cold enough to kill her. Nearly fifteen below when she had crawled into the blankets, it was well beyond that, now[10].
     Ten minutes later she was trying to hold back tears. She had changed the lantern’s cylinder, but the cold was so great that she was unable to get the lantern to light[11]. Back at the stove once more, she huddled herself as close to the burners as she could without setting her clothing alight, listening to the wind and assessing her chances of survival. They weren’t good. Unless she found a way to warm her feet she would soon be unable to stand, and if she fell she would die. She estimated that she had less than a half hour before that occurred[12].
     If I could curl up in a frying pan like a strip of bacon, that would be heaven. She blinked, then, as something tickled at her cold-fogged brain. It was a stupid idea—a desperate solution to a problem that had no solution.
     But, if it works…[13]…
     Praying that she was not simply hurrying her death, she extinguished all but one of the burners. Then, on legs that were numb, and as responsive as stilts, she hobbled to the table for a chair, one with arms [14] that would support her in sleep.
     It took much of her remaining strength to lift the chair to the stove-top and center it over the burner[15]. Most of the rest was spent in wrapping aluminum foil around the periphery of the chair’s legs to keep her blankets from the flame.
     The rest of the job, moving her blankets and the dragging a second chair to use as a step-stool, were tasks she could never quite recall, but in the end she was enthroned high over the kitchen floor, the burner beneath her and warming her tented bedding.
     It took nearly fifteen minutes, but it finally came: first the jangling pain that heralded a resumption of feeling in her fingers and toes, then blessed, life-restoring heat. Not just warmth, but true heat, spreading through her like a balm, thawing her bones and restoring her soul[16].
     It was an uncomfortable place to sit and a worse place to sleep, but she didn’t care, she was warm, and nothing else mattered. Slowly, her chattering jaw unclenched, and slowly the shivering of her body subsided. Slowly, she came back to life.
     Just before she drifted off to sleep she imagined a snow sprite peering in through the window, its whiskers quivering in surprise to see the queen of winter holding court in a frozen Oregon kitchen[17]. The thought pleased her very much. I may look like an idiot, Mr. Sprite, but I won for a change. This time I won!
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
     The why of it:
 
1. The first line is the single most important one in the story, because you only get one chance at a first impression. I added this scene as a prologue to the novel, because the original first chapter, while it ends with excitement and what I think is a really good hook, began with: “Don’t forget the newspaper, Miss Hanover.” That’s hardly impressive enough to make you say, “I have to read more.” I also wanted the readers to know that Samantha is a stronger person than she appears to be in the following few chapters, so I inserted a prologue and began with a sensation that combines the cold most people have felt—cold that bites the cheeks—with the hair freezing in their nostrils, something most haven’t, to make them feel what she’s feeling. There was also a tiny hope that if they’ve never been out in –12 or lower, they would say, “Your nostril hair freezes? That’s gross… but interesting.”
 
2. I used this term, rather then something simple, like “passed” to take advantage of the connection between “deep in the night” and depth, as in the temperature being as low as it can get.
 
3. Everyone’s been there, at least so far as huddling under the covers. Again, I’m trying to draw the reader in via shared experience.
 
4. A simple line, but I rephrased it endlessly, trying to say it in an interesting way while giving a picture of the current—and past—situation, outside.
 
5. This paragraph both sets up for the shock of cold and gives tiny bit of backstory. Note that I framed it as information on the current situation, so the reader doesn’t realize they’re being fed a bit of backstory on what happened before they arrived.
 
6. I’ve coupled her actual thought with the meaning of that thought. It’s a part of my personal writing style, to show the thought and give its meaning, as if to herself. I can’t tell if it works, it just feels right to me. Others use different techniques, and there is no right or wrong way.
 
7. I placed her action before I filled in the details on the room so they could be her observations as she sat up. Note that doing it that way removes the need for the author to give the information or even put in “she observed,” etc. A little thing like “opened her eyes to near darkness,” tells us that Samantha noted darkness. Saying it as, “It was pitch black in the cabin when Samantha opened her eyes,” puts the author into the role of reporter rather then being a kind of translator.
 
8. Again, I use her action as a way to put in more of the scene-setting detail. The trick is that she now knows of what I described, and will react to it, which pulls me further from the picture. Even though I’m telling about the storm front, she’s the one seemingly observing it, so we’re inside her head, not mine. That matters.
 
9. Seemingly a straightforward action, but in reality a setup for disappointment. The next line is pure backstory, but I could see no way out of slipping it in, so I kept it as short and as related to her present condition as possible.
 
10. Adding in cause for her state of mind, here, and placing the reader there with her, as her hope has reason to ebb further. As a minor point, it’s bad form to start a story with only one actor on stage, for any length of time. Faced with the challenge of a single person on stage I created a second one—her enemy—the weather.
 
11. I’ve been there, too, as a scoutmaster to a troop waking up in a cabin in which the temperature was –12°f. The obvious solution is to hold the tank over the stove to warm it, but I wanted the reader to shout that to her, and realize that she was too cold to think straight. And if they didn’t think of the solution they see that she’s in trouble and say, “Oh shit,” along with her, so it still works. You need to be aware of the state of mind of your readers, both those who know less then you do about a given subject and those who know more.
 
12. The problem has been stated, and now we add in a deadline and penalty, to make it acute.
 
13. Strangely, I was painted into in a corner till she mentioned curling up in a frying pan. Samanta thought of the way out, not me—which is why you want to know your characters, and let the action flow from the way they would behave, not the way your plot seems to indicate.
 
14. A friend pointed out that she would tumble out of any chair that had no arms, so I mentioned arms on the chair to reflect that. You need readers to catch what you miss, and there will be a lot of that, because you see the scene in your mind, and know what’s supposed to happen. Unfortunately, what you typed may not be what you see.
 
15. My wife nearly killed me when I put a kitchen chair on our stove, to see if what I was having her do was possible. Pointing out that I’d put cardboard under the legs to keep from scratching the stove didn’t help much. I didn’t sit on the chair, though. A modern stove would support me but be damaged. An old time stove would handle the load easily. In any case, Samantha was past caring, at that point. Note that I didn’t dwell on the actual job of readying the chair because it has no importance to the story. It’s the result, a place to sit, that counts. I put in the aluminum foil business, though, because without it her blankets might burn—or at least some people might think so and would question that.
 
16. The pain was added because people who had been that cold complained that I didn’t mention it. And of course, it’s told from her point of view so you can feel her triumph.
 
17. This was added later, as a foreshadowing. The man is real, a neighbor, though she’s still too fogged with hypothermia to realize that.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Author’s note:
     These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

Batman Is My Role Model – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer
 

Batman Is My Role Model

 

     People sometimes ask me what books they might read to learn the craft of fiction writing, and I usually suggest, Dwight Swain’s Techniques of the Selling Writer, or perhaps Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation and Conflict. But lately, I’ve been telling them to read a comic book, because everything that matters can be found there. Batman can teach you how to write.
     People often look down on comic books, and those who write them as unworthy, but many of them are master writers, who know their craft, and know what really matters, so far as getting a story told.
     So let’s look at a typical comic book and see what makes it tick:
 
     When we enter the story things are going well. Our hero, Atomic Wedgie-Man, has a nice supply of criminals to thwart, who never seem to wise up to the fact that they can’t win. So, life is good. This is pretty much what you can expect at the beginning of any novel. We meet and get to know the characters. They have dreams and plans for a predictable future, but we know that’s not to be. Things will go to hell pretty rapidly, because it’s the nature of stories to have that happen.
     And sure enough, on a routine patrol Wedgie-Man encounters a problem, the foe who refuses to be classified. Our hero tries the usual things, but they prove ineffective, and because of some unexpected ability or device, the criminal escapes. It’s more annoying than troublesome. But still, our protagonist seems to have lost the skirmish. He needs to treat his wounds, salve his damaged pride, and decide what to do next.
     In a novel, we often call that the inciting incident. Your protagonist’s comfortable and stable world has been knocked over. Perhaps he’s just met the woman who makes him say “wow!” and she seems uninterested. Perhaps the pilot of an airliner has just learned that one of his passengers is a madman. Whatever it is, uncertainty has just entered the story and a new long-term goal has been introduced. It might be revenge, survival, or a date for the prom. But no matter what it is, it’s something the protagonist both wants and needs. And, it’s something with just a bit of urgency to it, which brings with it what the reader feeds on: tension.
     So, with a new plan and renewed dedication, Wedgie-Man reenters the fray. But, victory is not his, and his nemesis not only wins again, our hero must retire from the field or lose everything. Things have just gotten a whole lot more serious. Our protagonist may be wounded. He may escape thru some “just in case,” contingency he carried into battle. But make no mistake, he has lost the battle, and knows it.
     As in our novel, despite everything our hero has done, the girl he favors still thinks him a fool. Worse, she’s showing interest in the man who wants her only to thwart our hero.
     And that sequence continues: regroup and rethink, try the new plan and fail again—in scene after scene, as the stakes are raised and the focus inexorably narrows. One by one the options fall away. In fact, things become so serious, and so personal, that Wedgie-man questions his own dedication, and the need to continue—as do we. As readers, we may even suggest he say to hell with it. Yet, what choice does he have? One by one, as we watch, his options disappear, till all that’s left is to run or risk all in a hopeless final confrontation. But flight, while it may be attractive, isn’t one of his options. Perhaps the city is held hostage, endangering many lives. Perhaps a woman who Wedgie-man loves or respects will be harmed if he fails to act. Whatever the reason, he has no choice but to continue, though the situation appears hopeless.
     And so we have the black moment, when the climactic battle has been joined, and our hero is on the threshold of defeat. In that moment, in desperation, our hero looks around seeking something, anything, that might be used to turn the tables. And there it is, the lucky break that poetic justice says must be there. It may be a piece of discarded chain lying within reach. It might be a handful of dust snatched from the floor. It could be the admission or compromise the protagonist swore never to make, thus changing his definition of what he will and will not permit himself to do. For Wedgie-man, it might be a chance glimpse of the antagonist’s waistband protruding at the back of his pants as he bends over to administer the death-blow. But whatever it is, we take advantage of the hero’s one true and reliable weapon, dumb luck, in order to snatch victory away from the antagonist. A reach, a grab, a quick pull and Atomic Wedgie-Man is once again victorious.
     And that climactic moment, as always, brings us to our feet, cheering. Our hero has prevailed, and all that remains is the denouement, where the hero learns what the prize is, for having been steadfast and heroic.
     Okay, laugh if you will, but that sequence encapsulates humanity’s hopes and dreams, and has been bringing cheers from listeners, viewers, and readers for thousands of years. It’s what made the movie Rocky so memorable, and it fueled every Batman film. It played out in The Devil Wears Prada, and in every Nora Roberts novel.
     But is it simply a formula? Is it, “Do this,” followed by “Next, do that,” with no talent or creativity involved?” Does it reduce our writing to a sheeplike, “me too,” status? Of course not. Godzilla and Changeling both follow that same path, as did, Lord of the Rings, and, Harry Potter. Does that mean there’s no creativity that went in their creation? No. A great deal of creativity is required to convince the reader that this story is unique, and not at all like those they’ve already read.
     Are they simply different tellings of the same story? Yes, they are, in the respect that there is constantly rising tension, interrupted by places where a reader can “catch their breath,” followed by the climax and the denouement, playing out as they always have. But are they lifeless retellings because of that? Of course not. They’re a recognition of human nature, and desire. They’re what has often been called the hero’s journey.
     Can we vary from the formula? Sure, if we do it knowingly and with purpose. But would you want to invest hours in following a protagonist who, in the end, turns out to be unworthy of the time you’ve spent with him/her? Do you want the story to end, after the hero has been steadfast and resourceful, in defeat with no hope of redemption, and the hero unchanged from when we met him/her? Maybe, as a change of pace, and if the author can deliver an exciting and satisfying reading experience. But, read that as a steady diet? Absolutely not.
     So what should you be looking at to learn how to write? I’ll still go with the two I usually recommend, first, but for a good overview of how and why it works, go read a comic book.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Author’s note:
     These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

It Never Gets Old

     Releasing a novel is very much like releasing your grown children into the world. You’ve had your time to shape and guide them, but now your job, that of preparing and advising, is complete. Now it’s time for them to accomplish whatever they can on their own.
     But still, like any proud parent, I cannot help but point with pride.
     And so, Foreign Embassy, my third released novel, appears—hopefully to provide as much pleasure in the reading as I enjoyed during the writing. I’m especially pleased with the cover, a Deron Douglass original. Using my comment that the Talperno Embassy—the foreign embassy of the title—was a slightly futuristic, albeit flying, office building, he captured exactly what I’d been visualizing.
     Embassy is a first contact story, but not one you’ve seen before. The Talperno didn’t just come visiting, they came prepared. Forget the idea of traditional spacecraft and intergalactic landing fields. They flew the whole damn office building, then set it down on the grass by the reflecting pond, next to the Washington Monument.
     It’s only three minutes after landing and they’re already open for business, welcoming their very first guests, a group of boy scouts from Philadelphia.
     There’s an excerpt, here.

 

Care and Feeding of Peeves – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer
 
 

Care and Feeding of Peeves

 

     At times, it seems the job of a grumpy writing coach is a lot like that of a zookeeper, because of the number of pet peeves I have to feed and care for. And lately, the biggest one, the podium peeve, has been a positive pain in the neck.
     I’ve been making the rounds of the various writing venues, and counting the stories that are told as a transcript of the storyteller at the podium, against those in which we seem to literally be with the character, as observers and participants. By my count, it’s close to ninety-five percent told as if the reader were sitting across the table from the writer.
     Now, good sense would seem to say that they’re on to something, and that if so many people write that way they must be right. Certainly, the reviews people give each other on such sites would seem to say that. Unfortunately, a look at the bookstores says that while many books are written in omniscient mode, few are written as an extended one-sided conversation between writer and reader.
     So the question arises: How can intelligent people make such a dumb mistake? Why don’t those stupid editors realize they’re wrong and embrace the majority viewpoint?
     It’s the answer to that question that’s the subject of this particular rant.
     First, I need you to perform a thought experiment. You’ll like it because we’re about to make you a famous storyteller, one who fills theaters with people anxious to hear what you have to say.
     Ready? Here we go:
     Tonight’s storytelling performance will be especially good, and the house is sold out. It’s a story that has love, betrayal, adventure, and a host of subplots that will grab the audience where they live, and bring a standing ovation at the conclusion—and it has every time you’ve performed it.
     There’s only one problem. It’s a half-hour before curtain time you’ve come down with laryngitis. You can’t even whisper. So what can you do? Cancel, and refund the ticket price? It looks like that’s the only choice, until…
     The stage manager says he has a great idea. His nephew has volunteered to take your place. The boy’s not a trained storyteller, of course, and he’s neither read nor heard the story. In fact, he’s never been on stage before. But he loves to read, though he stumbles occasionally on unfamiliar words.
     Unfortunately, because of the short time before the curtain goes up, and your uncooperative throat, you can’t even give the boy stage directions, or pointers on how to present the various characters. So it’s going to be a cold-read of the words of your presentation, by someone without a clue of how you want it done.
     
     So, here’s the question: Given that situation, what do you think the chances are that there’s going to be a standing ovation tonight? What are the odds the nephew will duplicate your expression, body-language, tone, delivery, and those little pauses you toss in for emphasis? How about where you just sigh, give the audience a long suffering look, and then spread your hands in the eloquent shrug that’s your trademark? Will he know to do that—and where?
     You had better be saying “really good,” because that is precisely the job every writer assigns their reader. And that’s exactly how much training they have for the job.
     That reader takes your words and will apply the proper voice to it as they read—but only if you make it clear exactly what that voice is. And if you don’t, they’ll have to guess, and do that before they even know what a given line will say.
     So… Would you like to know why you can’t use a transcript of you telling the story, directly, and why the techniques of the fiction writer are a lot more than just fluff? It’s because the reader can neither see nor hear you. It’s that simple—or should be. Somehow, though, no one ever seems to get it—other then those pesky editors who keep rejecting our stories.
     Since the reader can neither see nor hear you, how can you talk to them? You can’t.
     How can you let them know about your protagonist, and what their life has been like? You can’t.
     Who is there to bring the reader up to date and introduce the opening of the story? No one. You just open it. You raise the curtain, cue the actors, and you get out of their way while they perform your little play—or better yet, live it.
     Is it beginning to dawn on you that you haven’t a clue of how to do that? It should. It’s what I’ve been telling you for all along. Face it. You can’t write. Your mother can’t write, and your neighbor is even worse. Why? Because writing fiction is no more a natural skill than was learning to place words on the page in the first place.
     There you sit, ready to write your story. You’ve even diagrammed it, so you know every character, every thought, and every expression on everyone’s face. All you need do is record it. But in what medium? You have a choice. It could be told on film. It could be a play. You might tell it verbally. Or, you could turn it into a novel.
     Now, if you write it as a screenplay, do you need specialized knowledge? Of course. And if you write that film script can it be used for a stage version? Of course not, the constraints of the media differ. Having a slow motion fight on stage would be pretty silly, for example. But slow motion is an effective tool in filmed work.
     My point? Why would you believe that storytelling and novel writing use exactly the same techniques? Given that you were taught nothing about making a film in school, why would you believe you were given what you need to write a novel—or a story to be told by the campfire?
     But we all believe we know everything about the act of writing. Every single one of us, even our teachers believe that. When we sit down to write that story we’ve mapped out, we never doubt, for one second that while we would need to learn the craft-set used for what amounts to brain-to-screen translation, we already own the brain-to-novel set, and the brain-to-storyteller set. But we don’t. What we do own is the brain-to-gossip set, and the brain-to-office-writing set. And it all boils down to something I’ve already said, in quoting Mark Twain, who was an extraordinarily perceptive man: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
     So you want to be a writer? Great. I applaud you, and encourage you to go for it. The world needs more crazy people. And you want to be a published author? Fantastic. But here’s a secret: Experience is a stairway, one that leads upward. But education? That’s the Star-Trek transporter that allows you to zap past whole flights of stairs.
     If you’re looking for a shortcut to success—the magic bullet that rockets you to the top—turn to another writer, W. Somerset Maugham, who said, “There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”
     So what can you do? Where do you turn for a writer’s education that will give you the tools you need but won’t bankrupt you? Start at your local library, there’s a wealth of information there, written by those who know from experience what works and what doesn’t. And while you’re there, look for a book titled, “Techniques of the Selling Writer, by Dwight Swain.” It’s the book that every writer needs to have in their library, because it covers the basics of how to approach the job—the nuts-and-bolts elements that all stories have in common. It tells how to get out from behind the podium and into the prompter’s booth, giving direction and purpose to the actors without getting in their way. And if Swain’s work isn’t there, look for Jack Bickham’s, Scene and Structure, a book almost as good.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Author’s note:
     These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

My Father My Friend # 3

My Father Is Possessed

 
Another excerpt from the memoirs of Dave Cook: My Father, My Friend—a not yet published novel. Presented just because it was fun to write. In the actual sequence this is chapter two.
 

     I’m not quite sure when it happened, but, for a time, my father was possessed by an alien being from Beta Cignis, whatever that is. Actually, he was first converted to a robot, which led to his being taken over by the alien.
     I know that sounds confusing, but a great deal of what happened between me and my father is probably confusing to anyone who wasn’t there when it happened.
     I think I was six when I refused to go to bed for the first time. I mean really refused to go to bed. I wasn’t sleepy (at least I insisted I wasn’t), and I wanted to do what I wanted to do. My father promptly agreed with me, saying, “I don’t blame you, Davy. I wouldn’t want to go to bed if I were you, and I don’t want to have to put you to bed, either.” He continued climbing the steps, with me in his arms, as I tried to understand how I could be going to bed when we both agreed it was not a good idea. It helped a little when he added, “I don’t want to, but it’s time.” He shrugged his shoulders at that, in a “what can you do” gesture.
     Somehow, I found myself without anyone to argue with, yet I seemed to have lost the argument. It was only years later that I understood what he had done. If he had insisted I go to bed, I would have insisted, just as strongly, that I didn’t want to, which was an argument I couldn’t possibly win. It was also one that would have left us both angry, and me in bed. By refusing to force me into that situation, he saved wear and tear on our tempers and I was introduced the concept of a higher authority, one to which even he had to demur.
     I tried again about a week later, as I sincerely said, “Daddy, I really don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay up and play.”
     I looked at him for reaction, but he stared blankly ahead, ignoring me. “Daddy!” I shouted, trying to get his attention. His only response was to slowly turn his head in my direction.
     “Daddy?” I was becoming worried.
     “I-am-not-your-father,” he informed me in a droning voice, devoid of any emotion. “I-am-your-undressing-robot.”
     I think I giggled.
     “It-is-time-to-undress-the-David-person,” he informed me in a monotone, headed in my direction with machine-jerky movements.
     He came to me then knelt in front of me, saying, “I-must-remove-your-hat-first.”
     I tried to tell him that I wasn’t wearing a hat, but he paid no attention, and carefully, but ineptly, removed the non-existent hat from my head, obviously crumpling it in his hand as he did so. “I-will-put-it-in-the-closet,” he said, as he opened an imaginary closet door and threw the hat inside.
     “Now-it-is-time-for-your-coat. Stand-over-here.” He pointed to one side of where I was standing, but I made no move to comply. I was too busy laughing at him. My lack of cooperation didn’t make too much of a difference though, as he simply waited a moment, said, “Thank-you,” and began to remove an invisible coat from an equally invisible David. He ignored me when I jumped on his back, shouting, “It’s not me. It’s not me,” over and over. From the looks of his motions, though, he pretty well destroyed the coat he was removing. I was glad I hadn’t been dressed for the outside.
     After he finished pretending to hang up what might have been left of the coat, he turned to me once more, saying, “Now-I-will-carry-you-up-the-steps-to-the-bed-place.” So saying, he proceeded to pick me up in such a way that I found myself hanging upside down as he carried me upstairs; all the while talking to my feet as though he was holding me upright.
     Somehow, I was undressed, washed, and put to bed, laughing the whole time. My dad returned to his normal self, though, to read me my nightly story, give me my good night hug, and to sit with me. He always sat in the dark with me for a few moments after the light went out, to chase away the nighttime monsters, and get me settled down. He claimed it was peaceful sitting in the dark, and that went a long way toward calming my fears.
     Lying there, after my dad was gone, I thought it was really strange that somehow, after deciding that I was not going to bed without a battle, I had cooperated wholeheartedly with the process. Once again I found myself tucked in, on the verge of sleep, and feeling pretty good about the whole affair. I decided that my dad was pretty tricky, but still, I was looking forward to the next night. I did that every night of my life, as long as my dad tucked me in. Even now, getting ready for bed is a friendly and relaxing kind of thing.
     
     The undressing robot put in occasional appearances over the next year or so, but he was eventually displaced by the inept alien space-traveler. That happened one night when I was hoping my father would play the “dead” game. I know that sounds pretty morbid, but it’s not what you might think. My father simply closed his eyes and went totally limp, usually without warning. The idea was for me to, somehow, force him back into the world of the living. That had to be done without hurting him in any way (which made him angry and ended the game), and sometimes involved a good deal of inspiration on my part.
     Dad had somehow managed to convince me that he wasn’t ticklish. I didn’t find out until I was nearly fifteen that he had gone through hell, pretending that my attempts to tickle him were unsuccessful. Because of that, I didn’t try, which was just as well, as it would have forced the game to end long before it had.
     Part of the fun was when I forced open his eyelids with my fingers. My dad was able to roll his eyeballs back into his head, so that when I looked, there was nothing but blank whiteness, and a voice that said, “Nobody’s home.” The words were my father’s way assuring me that he was only playing. He would even argue the point with me, as I insisted that someone must be home because he was talking to me, but he wouldn’t to talk about anything else. Sometimes, when I peeled back the lids, he would be home, so to speak, and his eyes would look directly at me, the pupils fixed and staring. That was far more spooky then when there was nothing but white there. When that happened, I invariably let go of his eyelid and pushed his head away from me, saying, “Yuck!”
     I managed to “wake” him in a variety of ways, almost always fun. Sometimes it was a jelly bean or M&M pushed into his mouth; once a marble. Sometimes it was something as simple as a hug, or a kiss. Untying his shoes often worked, but I once managed to unbutton his shirt, remove both his shoes and socks, and was working on his belt before he stopped me.
     This time, however, he slowly opened his eyes, looking at me curiously, as though he had never seen me before. Then he looked around the room, equally slowly, while I wondered what new thing was about to happen. Finally, he turned back to me, his movements awkward, and his voice odd. “Is this the center?” he demanded, angrily.
     “What center?”
     Once more he studied the room, saying, “There has been a terrible mistake, for which many will be destroyed.”
     Entranced, I asked, “What kind of mistake?”
     He ignored my question, and asked, “What planet is this? What place?”
     At last I was on firm ground, and informed him that he was on Earth. I wasn’t totally sure what a planet was, but I knew mine was called Earth.
     Frowning, he said, “Earth? What sector is that in? I thought I knew the names of all ten thousand worlds in the Plampillian empire.” Before I could answer that, he suddenly glared at me and then looked wildly around, as though struck by a frightening idea. “Is this an enemy world? Have I been captured by the hated Comex alliance?” He leaned forward. “Have you intercepted the theta wave that was carrying me to Kuto?”
     He had asked far to many questions, and I wasn’t sure of the rules of this game yet, so I simply said, “This is the Earth, and we aren’t part of anything.” At least I was pretty sure we weren’t.
     That didn’t seem to satisfy him, so I asked him who he was.
     His voice was haughty as he informed me, “I am Togar, the master of the ten-thousand worlds. I am the great king of kings; the supreme ruler of the Plampillian empire.” He allowed me to absorb that for a moment, then added, “I am also now the ruler of the Earth, which I claim for the empire.” He waved a casual hand at me and said. “You are honored to be the first to know.”
     I knew it was a game, but my father was good at that sort of thing, and in the back of my mind, there was the thought that maybe he wasn’t playing, and that somehow, this was real. That was a scary thought.
     I decided to sidestep the issue, and asked, “How did you get here?”
     That earned me a sour look, but he grudgingly explained. “My mind was being transferred from my palace on Beta Cignis to the body of an id holder at the prime battle center on the planet Kuto. As usual, I was being sent via theta wave transmitter.” He indicated himself with his hand. “I am much too important to have my actual body sent there, that’s waiting back in the palace.”
     He frowned in thought for a second, before saying, “I should have arrived in the center at once, but there appears to be an sub-muvian storm, and my titanic intelligence was accidentally placed in the head of this poor excuse for a being, on this obviously backward planet.”
     I didn’t understand some of his words, but I got the general idea, and hastened to defend my homeland and my father, who, presumably, was the poor excuse for a being he had referred to.
     “This is not a backward planet,” I insisted. “We have a lot of modern things.”
     “Such as?”
     I thought for a moment. “We have television,” I ventured.
     “That is?”
     “It has pictures that go through the air and get shown on the television screen.”
     “A flat screen?” he sneered. “Glass?”
     “Well… yes.”
      He waved a negligent hand, yawning. “As I said, backward. I don’t suppose you have hypervision, or realvision, or even feelvision on this ugly dirtball.”
     I knew it was a game, but he was getting me angry. “If you don’t like it here,” I said, “why don’t you just go back home?”
     That earned me another angry glare. “I can’t,” he admitted. “I’m stuck here until they get a message to pull me back, which may never come. I just hope they have enough sense to pull me home when they don’t get a signal telling them I arrived on Kuto safely.”
     He looked unhappy for a moment, then seemed to be struck by a sudden inspiration. “Hey, I could build a theta wave transmitter here and send myself home. Do you have any tools?”
     I nodded, not sure of what he wanted.
     “A double distolated framisizer?” he asked, “and a whatsismaker with a flirp mode enhancer?”
     Now I was sure it was a game. Framisizer was what my father called a variety of things when he didn’t want to explain their operation. “No, we don’t” I said, happily. “This is a backward place, remember?”
     My father angrily pounded a fist into his other palm. “Damn,” he said. “I just wish…” With that, he collapsed onto the bed. Happily, I bounded onto his stomach and shook him, prepared to peel back his eyelids, but he opened them before I could start.
     “Boy, I feel strange,” he said, shaking his head. He glanced over at the clock, then looked puzzled. “That’s funny, I could have sworn that clock said ten after seven just a second ago. Now it says twenty after. I wonder why? Did I fall asleep?”
     I tried to explain what happened, but he dismissed the whole thing, complaining that I was being silly. It had all the earmarks of a game that was going to last a long time.
 

*

 
     It was nearly a week later when I noticed my father staring at me strangely. We had just finished with the bath game, and I was putting on my pajamas, hurrying to put my head through the neck hole. For some reason, I’ve always hated when my eyes are covered by clothing.
     My dad’s next words, and the odd tone he used in saying them, informed me that the alien had returned.
     “Oh no, not again!” he moaned. “I gave orders that I was not to be sent here again.” He covered his face with his hands for a moment, then sat up, all business.
     “Well,” he began, brightly. “How would you like to be the hero who introduces space travel to your world?”
     It sounded fine to me, and I told him so, asking what I had to do.
     “That’s simple,” he assured me. “You simply help me build a matter transmitter, and turn it on. After that, we can send the parts through from my empire to build lots more of them. In fact, after we turn on the one we build, the rest will be put together automatically, and send themselves all over this world, so the solders can come through and take over.”
     “Solders?” I didn’t like the sound of his last words, but he covered up quickly.
     “Solders? Did you think I said solders?” He waved a hand in negation. “No, no, I said Rolgers. That’s what we call the people who run the machines. That’s what I meant by take over.”
     “Uh-huh.” My dad had just established one of the finer points of the game. The objective was to conquer the Earth. Playing my role, I asked, “What do you need from me?”
     “Well,” he said, in an offhand manner. “Since you don’t have the tools I need, you can take me to the ruler of your country.”
     I shook my head. “I don’t know the ruler. I don’t even know who he is. I think he’s called the president, though.
     “Okay, the ruler of your city, then.”
     I only shook my head, then did it again as he ran through the ruler of the neighborhood, and finally just a policeman. In mock despair, he threw up his hands and said, “Okay, then just drive me around and I’ll find them for myself.”
     It was fun to watch him throw a temper tantrum when I told him that I couldn’t drive, and that my mom wasn’t home. I was sorry when the alien suddenly departed.
     The alien king game lasted until I was nearly ten years old, and evolved into quite an involved thing before I decided that I was too old to play. Until then he would appear at odd times. We might be driving to the shopping mall, or walking in the woods, when my father would announce his coming with a groan of, “Oh, no. Not again.” Before it ended, though, it got to the point where he was “aware” of the alien, and claimed that he was being forced to do things by him, simply by hearing certain words in his head—a sending from the king. When pressed, he told me the word was u-n-d-e-r-w-a-r-e, carefully spelling it out. It caused him agony when he heard it spoken, he claimed, even silently in his head. Naturally, I let the word drop into the conversation, just to test it out. Sure enough, my father feigned unendurable agony and begged me to stop. Naturally, I agreed, but managed to drop the word into the conversation at least five times before the day ended. My mother, as usual, tried to ignore my father’s bizarre behavior. I think she thought it was some sort of male thing that she would never understand.
     The next day, when I worked the conversation around to the forbidden subject, his only response was a disgusted look. When I expressed surprise, he informed me that there was a new word each day. That resulted in a battle for the current word, in which he pleaded that he didn’t trust me because of what had happened the day before. I, of course, swore I would never use the word if he would only trust me once more.
     Of course he gave me the word, and of course I used it. His lack of response, then, he claimed, was because he had given me a false word to test me. I countered that I had to use the word once to test him.
     Naturally I “convinced” him to trust me, and naturally I betrayed that trust. That was how the game worked, but I thought a lot about trust as a result of that part of the game. I think that was part of the reason I stopped playing it. I no longer enjoyed a game that condoned betrayal.
     Much later I developed a love for a game called Diplomacy, which is all about betrayal. Strange, isn’t it? I know I’ve never even thought about betraying a person in real life, though. I already know how easy it would be to hurt them, and how delicate a thing trust is. Still, it was a fun game while it lasted.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Author’s note:
     When my own children were young, the things presented in this and other sections of this story were part of the family’s daily life, though I was not nearly so benevolent and wise as Davy’s dad—nor did the events occur in as conveniently dramatic a way. Still, it was great fun, and if, you’ve children of your own, these are some things that might be fun to try.
     I suppose it does explain why my children tend to walk into walls and fall down a lot, though.
     I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the story is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well.
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

My Father My Friend #2

Story Time

 
Another excerpt from the memoirs of Dave Cook: My Father, My Friend—a not yet published novel. Presented just because it was fun to write.
 

      I loved story-time with my dad, but I remember most strongly the battles to get him started reading. He would often begin with lines from another story, and swear that the printing actually said what he was telling me. One of his favorites, at least in the beginning, were the lines, “Pick, pick, pick. Dig, dig, dig,” from the Richard Scary books. After enough jumping on his back, he would have a revelation that the book must have been magically changed so that it appeared to be something else, and that my jumping had broken the spell. Once, for nearly a week, he claimed the printing appeared upside down so he had to hold the book upside down in order to read it. Amazingly, he could read the book that way almost as well as normally. I think he must have practiced. I know his back got a lot of wear and tear that week, as I bounced my way through the story.
     For several days in a row he claimed that his eyelids were transparent from the inside, and that he could read through them. It took me a while to discover that he was only closing the eye that I could see from where I lay. When I countered that by lying on my back so I could watch his eyes, he opened them only the tiniest of slits. Since I didn’t know such a thing was possible, and could only slit my eyes by scrunching them up, it took me a while to catch on.
     He once tried to tell me it was necessary for him to dry his tongue, and that as a result, he had to read the story with his tongue limply extended. After I found I wasn’t strong enough to force his teeth closed on his tongue, I countered that one by bringing a wet sponge to bed, telling him I would wet his tongue to keep it healthy.
     After a while, bored with switching things around and drying his tongue, dad began to freewheel with the stories. He might begin a chapter with a made-up conversation between characters who belonged in another book, or those from the book in progress, placed in some other situation. Usually, I took steps to force him to read properly, but then I took to allowing him to go on, enjoying the wild situations he put the characters into; daring him to get himself out of it.
     Trapped into continuing the nonsense stories, he took another tack. One night he began, “Princess Ozma walked toward the building, but before she could enter, a man came through the big doors. He was a large man, tall and handsome, with beautiful brown hair. Ozma gazed with awe on this handsome man, honored to have met him. ‘Oh, you must be the famous Ted Cook,’ she said. ‘I’m thrilled to finally meet you— ‘Oof!’ ”
     The oof was the result of my leaping on his back.
     
     For nearly a week I put up with variations on that theme. There was always someone who was honored beyond words to meet my father—who was always good, and wise, and beautiful. That week my father took a lot of abuse, and the bed got a good workout. It was a great week.
     Finally, on Thursday, I made my mistake. I complained that I was not in any of his stories.
     The next night’s story began as usual, with a beautiful woman meeting and being awed by my father. Added to that was a new theme, however, as he began to describe the horrid, ugly, and repulsive little boy with him: me. Of course that meant war, and I did my best to kill him with my bare hands. I surprised myself with how many nasty things I could call him without using any of the forbidden words. It was also the best wrestling match we had in a long time, and we never did get to reading the story that night.
     After a week of insults, with me beating away on him, I finally said, “Daddy, please don’t make me ugly all the time, it’s not fair. I want to be handsome, too.”
     He promised to correct the situation, but I forgot who I was talking to.
     At first, it went well. The next night’s story began in the usual way. Then, he got to talking about me. I was pleased to find that the princess he’d invented was properly impressed with my beauty, exclaiming that I was so handsome she couldn’t believe it.
     I was still grinning when my father added, “But he smells so bad I can’t stand to be near him.” He got as far as having all the townspeople run from the way I smelled before I covered his mouth with my hand.
      “But you promised,” I said, angry now. “You said I wouldn’t be ugly and repulsive.”
     “But you weren’t,” my father protested, leaning back on the pillow and bouncing me on his stomach. “You were handsome, exactly the way you wanted to be.”
     “But I smelled bad,” I pointed out, while I tried to honk him on the nose. “You made me smell terrible.”
     He nodded, slowly, as though he was worried. “I wondered about that. You probably should have taken a bath.”
     “Daddy! I don’t want to smell bad, and I don’t want to be ugly.”
     The next night he obliged. He made me handsome. He made me smell okay. He also made me incredibly stupid.
     The night after that, at my request, he made me smart, handsome, and pleasant smelling. He also made me a troll. It seemed that while I was as handsome as could be to another troll, normal people ran screaming in horror when they saw me.
      After nearly a week of arguing and adding restrictions I presented him with a list of all the things I wanted to be, plus another containing all the things I could not be. I spent a long time going over those lists, making sure he couldn’t slip something past me, like having me a handsome human among a gathering of trolls. I handed him the sheet when he came home from work. It was my first research paper, and I was proud of it, even if most things were spelled fairly creatively.
     He read it carefully, nodding as he did, stopping several times to allow me to translate some of my worst attempts at phonetic spelling. When he finished, he said, “Very well, Davy, I’ll be sure to pay careful attention to the list.” Then he hugged me, tousled my hair, and went off to show the list to my mom.
     That night I waited, breathlessly, as he listed all my attributes, not missing one, or adding anything that offset them. I nodded happily with the recitation of each one, pleased that I had finally pinned my father down so well that he could not wiggle free. Then, after a hesitation, he mentioned that it was a shame that we were both encased in spacesuits that covered us so well that those watching couldn’t tell what we looked like.
     It seemed that my father was a very tricky man.
     
 

*

 
     I don’t know exactly how the subject of Super-Heroes entered the nightly stories. After the night of the list, my father cut back on the part about me being repulsive. I guess he had called it a draw. I had forced him to make me everything I wanted to be, even if he made me impossible to see, in the end. He settled for placing us in impossible situations, which we usually got out of by dumb luck. I think I was the one who decided that I should have super powers, in order to rescue us from whatever he had imagined was threatening us that night. Whatever the reason, one night he prefaced the reading of the actual story with a tale of me as Super-Davy.
     “Well,” said, my father, gazing intently at the book, as though the words he spoke actually came from the printed page. “One day the radar stations all over the Earth picked up a very strange signal. Something was coming toward the Earth from outer space. It was coming from very far away, and moving at mind-boggling speed.
     “When the scientists turned the Earth’s telescopes in that direction, they were astounded to see the figure of a small boy, streaking through space. He was an especially handsome little boy, and he was wearing a costume with a big red D on the chest.
     “ ‘My goodness,’ said all the scientists. ‘It must be some sort of Superboy.’ ”
     That got a big grin on my face, and I wondered what my dad was up to.
     “Before they could make up their minds,” he continued, “the boy reached the Earth, landing on the lawn of the White House, where the president lives.
     “The president was amazed, and rushed out to stare at this stranger. Finally, he held out his hand and said, ‘Welcome to the Earth, Super-Person.’ ”
     By this time I was grinning so widely my face hurt. But then my father went on and my grin turned to a frown, as he said, “The handsome boy, who looked a great deal like you, Davy, just said, ‘Blupot smurpnet kormles.’ ”
     “ ‘What?’ said the president.”
     At this point I interrupted to complain that I would never say such a thing.
     “But Davy,” dad said, as though surprised I even mentioned it. “If you come from another world, you speak another language, right? Of course they don’t understand you.”
     While I gritted my teeth and prepared to do battle with this monster who called himself my father, he went on to explain that since the super person had arrived without a passport he was an illegal alien, and since he had no money, couldn’t speak the language, and had no means to pay for anything he needed, they locked him in jail.
     When I complained that I could bash my way out of the jail, so locking me up wouldn’t do any good, he countered with the fact that doing that would be illegal, too. He also pointed out that without money there was no way to buy food, or even clothing and a place to stay. “Do you want to be a criminal?”
     
     The next night I was let out of jail, since I learned the Earth’s languages—every one of them—in only a single day, due to my enormous intelligence. That pleased me a little, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find a job (or so my father claimed). Since I needed money for food and a place to stay, I took a big lump of coal and squeezed it so hard it became a diamond. That was a good idea, I thought, but according to my father no one believed I made that diamond. Instead, they locked me up again, on suspicion of having stolen it.
     “I don’t like this, Daddy,” I complained. “I want to have super-powers, but I want to rescue people, and fight crime.”
     “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow, if you like, you can tell me how you do that.”
     “Out of jail at last, Super-Davy leaps into the sky, cape flapping in the wind. As he flies over the city he sees men with guns below him.” Dad looked at me for help, asking, “What does he do, Davy.”
     “He flies down and takes the guns away, then beats them up,” I said, instantly. This was more like it.
     My father smiled. “Okay kid. If that’s what you want to do, you’ve got it!” He patted my head and continued.
     “With a shouted battle cry, Super-Davy dove, striking terror into the hearts of the men below him. In a flash, he had torn the guns from the hands of the men, sending them fleeing. But that was not to be. Escape from Super-Davy was impossible. With another burst of speed, the heroic boy was among them once more, dealing out justice with his iron-hard fists.
     “ ‘Wait,’ they begged. ‘Oof,’ they cried as they flew through the air. ‘Cut,’ cried the director… who was very angry.”
     “Director?” I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Director? What kind of director?”
     “Why the movie director, of course.” You mistook a movie being made for the real thing.”
     “But that’s not fair,” I protested, crossing my arms and glaring at the man. “You never told me it was a movie. You only said it was a bunch of men with guns. That’s not fair!”
     My dad gave me the grin he always saved for when he tricked me into doing something stupid, then said, “I guess it’s important to be sure you’re doing the right thing before you bop somebody, huh? Anyway, you’ll probably be out of jail, again, by tomorrow.”
     He would have said more, but I was busy bopping him, something I never had to think about. Of course I was using my pillow, but that made it even more fun.
     Over the next few weeks the battle raged. At my request, I attempted to rescue a ship stuck on a reef. But when I tried to lift it free from underneath I made a hole in the bottom of the ship, and it sank, drowning dozens. He claimed that you can’t lift a ship out of the water with only hands. The ship’s hull isn’t strong enough for that, unless you use magic, and my father refused to allow me to use magic. In fact, since I had to get my super powers from somewhere, and the somewhere was the food I ate, he claimed that when lifting heavy loads I would have to be eating constantly. He also informed me that, as a result, I would be making trips to the bathroom every few minutes. In fact, he claimed that if I flew very far I would not only have to carry food along, I would be more of a hazard to those below me than birds are to walkers, if you know what I mean. Somehow, it took some of the glamour out of the Super-hero business. Luckily, he didn’t insist on that being part of the stories.
     When I demanded super-speed he gave it to me, but the wind of my passage blew people around, and resulted in “hurricane” damage all over town.
     Then, when I thought I finally had everything under control, and could be a proper Super-Hero, he ran in the Super-villain, with powers exactly equal to mine. In fact, he once sent in ten of them. That’s when I surrendered.
     
     My father continued to read to me until he found me reading one of the books from his library. We talked it over, and agreed that I could do my own reading. I was sad over the ending of the stories, but by then there were many other things we did together to make up for it. I still miss our nightly battles, though.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
     When my own children were young, the things presented in this and other sections of this story were part of the family’s daily life, though I was not nearly so benevolent and wise as Davy’s dad—nor did the events occur in as conveniently dramatic a way. Still, it was great fun, and if, you’ve children of your own, some of what’s presented here might be fun to try.
     I suppose it also explains why my children tend to laugh demoniacally now and then for no discernible reason.
     I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the story is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well.
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

Am I Ready to Submit My Work? – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer

Am I Ready to Submit My Work?

It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.
~ Mark Twain

     At some point every writer asks the same question: “Am I writing for myself? Friends and family say they like my work, but would someone who doesn’t know me—someone knowledgeable about the craft—say the same thing?”
You write, you polish, you edit, and you even submit your work to a publisher or two hoping for lightning to strike. But in the end one thought circles, needing an answer: “On a scale of from one to ten, where seven is publishable and ten is godhood, how close to eight am I?”
That question brings you to the grumpy old writing coach, with your work in hand, hoping for a bit of advice and maybe a number on that one to ten scale—hopefully some praise, too. That’s as it should be, but you need to be aware of one important fact: Of the first time offerings, virtually every single one displays the same recurring problems. The words change. The story changes, but invariably, the problems are the same.

It’s Not My Fault
Not only are the problems the same, when I point that out, what do I hear? “No Jay! Take a closer look. My work is the exception. I have a natural talent for writing. Everyone tells me so.”
Uh-huh, but it also could be that instead of trying to argue the reader into liking the work the writer should be asking: “Why? What could make everyone screw up in exactly the same way?”

Blame The Schools
The answer to that is a classic Catch-22 situation. The people who plan the school curriculums aren’t fiction writers, and haven’t a clue that writing fiction requires as much training, experience and practice as any other profession. And of course, the teachers presenting that “creative Writing section of the curriculum are training those who will take over their job when they retire, perpetuating the problem. Undergrad creative writing courses in our colleges are very often no more than a continuation of that training.
A well kept secret: The successful writer is not someone with a knack for storytelling, though that does help. The successful writer is someone with a knack for using the tools of the writer. Why? Because craft is the horse your talent must ride. Given that, it makes a lot more sense to be riding Pegasus than the puny little pony issued by your school system.
A second secret: In school they’re teaching you to write reports, not fiction, and reports require the fact-based techniques of the non-fiction writer. Schools were created to provide employers with a standardized work force, remember, and fiction has little place in office writing, other than in stockholder reports, and advertising, of course.

But… but I’m a great storyteller… really
You might be the most brilliant storyteller of your generation. But without the necessary tools—without the emotion-based techniques of the fiction-writer—new writers are forced to graft their existing verbal skills onto the non-fiction tools they’ve learned in school. But can we do that? A storyteller is alone on the stage, taking every role. It’s damn hard to be all the people in a conversation, so the storyteller increases the role of the narrator, until the story becomes an interpretive dance, in which the choreography includes body-language, tone, delivery, facial expression, and cadence. Of necessity, the storyteller talks about the story, because one can’t very well stab a character, be stabbed, and be the bystanders, too. And of course the techniques of the non-fiction writer appear to mesh with that because they’re fact-based, too.
When the audience can see and hear the storyteller that approach works. And as they say, the best place by the fire is reserved for the storyteller.
But… pluck out that marvelously flexible instrument that is the human voice. Remove the visual portion of that dance. Remove everything but the words the reader sees when they open the page. What’s left? A parade of facts about the story that will drone in the reader’s head like the voice of a text-to-speech program: It’s the lecture hall, when the reader expected to ride a roller-coaster. Think of yourself in an office with me, trying to tell your favorite story by scribbling it on paper slips and handing them to me. How much emotion and excitement would there be in what I got?

Am I tricky enough?
Desire is fine, but if the only tool you own is a hammer everything is going to be whacked on the head, because everything is going to look like a nail. So, let’s see how many tools you own.
• When we begin writing there are a host of tricks and techniques we assume we already know, through osmosis, because we’ve been reading for most of our lives. But, because art conceals art, we see only the result of using those professional skills. Look at some basic terms below. If you don’t recognize and use them all you may be in trouble:
Black moment, info-dump, Motivation-Reaction Units, three act structure, inciting incident, backstory, climax, scene and sequel, fly-on-the-wall, omniscient, third person limited, scene-goal, tag, prose, exposition.
• Do you have the feeling that if given your choice you’d rather submit something other than your first chapter, because all the background material you had to include makes it a bit less exciting than you would like? It’s a common new author problem. Simply put: Start your story where the story starts, and feed in backstory unobtrusively, and only as needed for the reader’s understanding of that story at that point. We forget that people read when they have time, like at lunch break. So it could be a week since they read the point you expected them to remember from previous chapters.
• Look through the work. Do you have more than a handful of exclamation points in the novel? In most cases, lots of bangs say you’re trying to put excitement into prosaic language through delivery tricks, like gluing on glitter.
• Do you use the word “had,” in the sense, “He had been thinking about it all morning,” in your work? If so, you need to rephrase the line in more current terms, because everything after “had” can only come from the author, and the reader wants to walk in the character’s footsteps, not yours. There is an old expression, that says to really know someone you need to walk a mile in their shoes. The goal of fiction is to make the reader make the journey in the character’s shoes, not just know where they went.
• Does your story read like something you would relate after saying, “Wait till you hear this,” told all in the storyteller’s voice? That’s as exciting, emotionally, as reading a transcript of a boxing-match announcer at work.
• Do you, in your voice as author, talk about a character, or something within the scene, as though you were there watching? Did you feel the need to explain something to the reader that wasn’t obvious? This is the second most common cause of rejection.

One Strike And You’re Out
Sad but true: when an agent or editor looks at your work you have one chance. Bore or confuse them for one single line and it’s over. So, in continuation of the points above, open your story to page one and let’s check for what an editor may find as a rejection point. And when I say rejection point, make no mistake. I mean that editor stops reading right then.
1. A “told” story: It reads like one side of a phone conversation. It’s a storyteller’s dance without the dance steps. This is a problem with the vast majority of work submitted by new authors.
2. Backstory: In an attempt to bring the reader up to speed the author talks about the characters rather than opening the story with action, so the first chapter is a history lesson. Zzzzzzz.
3. The info-dump. The author calls for a freeze-frame, locks the characters in place, and then pours in buckets full of backstory, area history, and a host of things unnecessary to the action that we’d much rather be experiencing. An info-dump of backstory is boring to read, just as the name implies.
4. The explainer: The author, an invisible character in the story, follows the characters around and volunteers information and gossip about them to the reader. And strangely, though they politely wait until it’s over, none of the characters seem to notice, and none ask who that stranger in their bedroom is.
5. The big bang: Having gotten a discount on exclamation points at the grammar store the author sprinkles them ten to a page rather then ten to a novel.
6. The beauty pageant: The author in trying to be poetic uses three paragraphs to say, “It was a nice day.”
7. Said-Book-itis: There was once a small tome that listed all the alternatives to “he said,” and the writer is trying to hit them all.
8. The philosopher: The story opens with a dissertation on why the story is being told.

Everyone Writes Crap, We Just Write Less Of It As We Progress.
The odds say you’re still reading because you need advice on filling that tool kit and in making that effort you’ve spent on creating your story work for you.
So let’s get the bad news out of the way, first: You can’t fix the story, you’ll probably have to rewrite it… from scratch… twice. (Lord, I love telling writers that, especially when they whimper)
The good news is that unlike most professions, once you know how to use the tools of the writing trade, the experiences you’ve been accumulating for years, through just living, give you things to write about.
More good news is that the university-trained fiction writer has no major advantage over the person who takes a more humble but diligent approach. That’s because successful authors and writing teachers like to write about what works for them. For less than the cost of dinner at a nice restaurant you can have a conversation with writers like Ben Bova, Stephen King, and Debra Dixon. For the same price, editors like Sol Stein, teachers like Dwight Swain, agents like Donald Maass, and a host of others, will sit at your elbow and whisper their secrets in your ear as you write.

Writing Is A Journey, Not A Destination.
So what do you do? You get to work collecting the tools you need, and perfecting their use as you slip them into the toolbox. If you have no more training than English class and maybe a freshman creative writing course, you might want to take it as a given you need to spend time with a book or two on writing technique. If grammar is your weakness, let Strunk and White’s Elements of Style be your Bible.
And when you think you have things under control, workshop a few pages, posing the question most new writers forget to ask:
“If you found this in your bookstore among the new books, would you pay the going rate for it? Would you choose it over what you usually find there If not, why not?”
Take a deep breath, then, because the answer might sting a bit. It will, though, tell you what you need to know, rather then what you hope to hear.
And when you get response, always remember Shel Silverstein’s observation that if you pay attention to the good reviews you also have to listen to the bad ones.

The most important thing:
All of us—every single one of us—start out not knowing which end of the crayon goes on the wallpaper.

* Lots of writers haven’t heard of this one (though if they’re selling they’re using it), but it’s an important point. There’s a pretty good article on it here: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

 

My Father My Friend

An excerpt from an as yet unsold novel, My Father My Friend.
 

In Which I Meet Magic

 
 
     The nice thing about my dad was that he was not only my father, he was also my best friend. I hope you’re one of the lucky ones who has a dad like that. If he’s magic, too, like mine, then you’re doubly lucky.
     I guess I better explain about his being magic. He was that, but not quite the way you might think. It’s not that my dad could fly, or make rabbits appear from a hat. His magic wasn’t that kind, at least most of the time. He could do what they call slight-of-hand magic tricks pretty well, but that’s not what I mean, either, and I’ll talk more about that later. The kind of magic I mean is different. It’s the kind that comes from within, and makes every day exciting; it’s the magic that can make something as simple and normal as going to bed into an adventure.
     The first time I remember something strange happening was when I met Floorzan. I must have been about four years old, but I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was in the living room of our house, just lying on the rug and feeling pretty good. We had just come back from my grandmom’s house, and I always loved to go there. My grandpop is a pretty neat guy, and grandmom always has lots of good things to eat, starting with a chocolate kiss, which I thought was the greatest food in the whole world. This day they gave a new toy, which I thought was wonderful, and which I was examining. It’s funny that I can remember everything else that happened, but I can’t remember what the toy was.
     Then, from the heating vent on the floor, came a really strange yodeling noise. At the time I thought someone, or something was inside the floor. You might wonder why I was fooled so easily, but I was four years old, and for me, strange things happened all the time. After all, television sets and telephones talked, why not floors? For a while, I just stared at the vent, wondering what was going on. After all, it’s a surprise when something you always thought was a quiet part of the house begins to make noise. It’s more of a surprise when it begins to talk, which the vent soon began to do. When the first sound had repeated itself several times, I hurried over to the vent for a look. I was a little nervous about what I might find, but figured the vent, itself, would keep whatever was making the noises safely inside the floor. Besides, no one ever said the vent could be dangerous, and they surely would have if it was, right?
      I strained to see into the vent, but it was pretty dark in there. In any case, before I could do much in the way of checking, a really weird voice said, “Hello?” You can bet that got my face back from the vent with a jerk. I would guess my eyebrows probably tried to climb into my hairline, too.
     I suppose I should have been scared, and maybe I was for a moment or two, but now, I only remember being surprised and intrigued. In the interest of establishing communications I said a friendly “Hello?” I was still a bit unsure.
     “Who’s that?” asked the voice, as though it had been expecting someone else.
     “I’m David,” I informed the voice, intrigued, and wondering what it was. “Who are you?” I asked, turning the question around.
     “I’m Floorzan,” the voice informed me, continuing with, “I’m hunting meeses. Where are you? I can’t see you.”
     That set me thinking. In the first place I didn’t know what a meese could be. Added to that, I really wanted to ask the creature what it was. Four year olds aren’t able to handle too much at once, though, so I concentrated on the problem of where I was, informing Floorzan, “I’m here.”
     My statement wasn’t too much of a help, I suppose, because he asked, “Where’s here?”
      That, also, set me to thinking. I had never given much thought to the idea that the term “here” might not mean the same thing to someone else as it did to me, or that it wouldn’t tell them too much about where I was, especially if they couldn’t see me. I must have waited too long, because Floorzan prompted me with, “Are you in the floor?”
     That made me giggle, that he could be so silly. “No,” I said, laughing, “Of course not.” Then, I had a thought and stopped laughing. I leaned close to the vent to ask, “Are you… do you live in the floor?” That was an intriguing possibility.
     “Sure,” he answered. “Doesn’t everyone? Where else would—” He stopped, abruptly, and sounded scared as he said, “You’re not… not a Wallzan, are you?”
     By then I was having a wonderful time so I lay down next to the vent and rested my chin on the back of my hands, asking, “What’s a wallzan?” It sounded as though there were a whole host of things about my house I didn’t know.
     The voice first asked if I was sure I wasn’t a wallzan, then explained, “A wallzan is a tall thin creature who lives in the walls. Wallzans scare me, because they’re mean and rotten, and they eat floorzans whenever they can. That’s why I never get close to the walls, and why I use the vents to get from one floor to the other.” He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What do you look like? Are you handsome?”
     With four year old brilliance, I said, “I look like me, David, and of course I’m handsome. What do you look like?” Like all four year olds, I knew I was good looking, everyone told me so, especially my mom and grandmom.
     Floorzan thought about that for a while, and then said, “Well, I’m very handsome, too. I have ten beautiful legs, and—”
     I couldn’t let that statement pass uncommented on, so I interrupted with, “You have ten legs?”
     “Of course. How many legs do you have?” He sounded surprised that I would ask.
     “I have two,” I told him, firmly.
     There was wonder in his voice when he finally spoke. “You have only two legs? How horrible. Did a wallzan catch you and eat the rest off?” He sounded as though he was really sorry for me, but I laughed.
     “No,” I said, still giggling. “Everybody has two legs.”
     “I don’t,” he pointed out. Then, in a voice that was just as assured as mine, he said, “I have ten, just like everyone else.” There was a sudden frown in his voice, when he said, “Hey, what are you? Aren’t you a floorzan?”
     There I was on firm ground. I knew I was a boy, and told him so, but he only asked what a boy was, and when I told him I was a human, he asked what a human was. That had me stumped, but before I could say anything in response, he suddenly said, “I have to go now, I hear a meese.”
     With that, he began the strange yodeling sound again, sounding as though he was going away. I called, but there was no answer.
     Several days passed before I heard from Floorzan. This time I was in my bedroom, investigating the underside of my bed. It was much more interesting than the underside of the dresser, which was just unpainted wood, with scribbled pencil marks here and there. The bed had an interesting cloth that covered the bottom, and if you pushed up on it with a fingertip there was nothing on the other side, so it just stretched upward. There were holes marking the spots where I pushed a pencil through, trying to write on it, and I was wondering what was on the other side. I was trying to decide if I should try to spread one of the holes with my fingers, so I could find out, when, suddenly, from the bedroom heating vent, came the call of the Floorzan. By then I pretty much knew it was my dad. Impressed with my own deductive powers, I hurried to the vent, laughing as I said, “Hi Daddy.” I hadn’t figured out how he did it, but still, I knew it was him.
     “Daddy?” asked the voice. “What’s a daddy? And who are you? I was looking for the David creature. Have you seen it?” He sounded confused, and I wondered if I could have been wrong about it being my father.
     I was about to insist, when I realized that if I did, and I was right, the game would be over. I was having too much fun for that, so instead, I said, “You’re silly, a daddy is somebody who takes care of you. Do you have a daddy?”
     As though I hadn’t questioned his reality, he went on with the game, deliberately skeptical of my assumptions—forcing me to think for myself, and challenging my tiny intellect to solve the problems he posed. Over the next few years I came to know and love Floorzan, in all his many permutations. There was Carzan, the creature who lived under the car seat, and Frank, the vent cleaning beast, who only came on Thursdays. There were many other creatures who lived under my floor, and I loved them all.
     I never was able to catch my father at it, though I tried pretty hard for a time. He always heard me coming, or guessed by my silence that I was stalking him, and when I charged into the room where he was, he was always well away from the room’s heater vent, reading, or pretending to be asleep. If I mentioned Floorzan, he always denied that such a creature existed, claiming I had an overactive imagination.
     Of course my friends thought my father was crazy, if he did it when they were visiting, but they all loved it too. I can’t wait until I have kids so I can do the same thing to them.
     
     
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Author’s note:
     Presented for no special reason other than that my last blog reminded me of the events that led to the writing of this story. In our house, Floorzan was a member of the family.
     When my own children were young, the things presented in this and other sections of this story were part of the family’s daily life, though I was not nearly so benevolent and wise as Davy’s dad—nor did the events occur in as conveniently dramatic a way. Still, it was great fun, and if, you’ve children of your own, and hot-air heating, something that might be fun to try.
     I suppose it also explains why my children tended to avoid dark places and hide when I came into the room.
     I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the story is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well.
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

Interesting Facts for Children

Odd but interesting facts for children, to broaden their knowledge of the world

The Elephant (Elephantidae of the family pachyderm)

     Although it’s not widely known, the elephant, for all its bulk is a very light animal. This accounts for the reputation of being able to move almost silently in the forest.
     The reason for this is that, though it sounds unlikely, the elephant is hollow, a living balloon. That explains its inflated, puffy appearance. It also tells us why Dumbo, changed from a normal elephant only in having giant ears, was able to fly by flapping those appendages. The empty interior also explains the legs, which appear more constructed of stuffing than would a racehorse brought to that size.
     The elephant, being a herbivore, eats massive quantities of leafy matter, which results in lots of gas in their digestive tract. This gas is diverted to the body, its pressure regulated by the elephant’s gasomotus organ, located below the liver.
     When lifting heavy loads the elephant diverts more gas to the body, lightening the animal, and allowing it to almost float the load it’s carrying. When putting down such a great load the excess gas is vented, which is not a pleasant experience for those nearby, as anyone who has visited the elephant house at the zoo can attest.
     For many years, scientists were baffled by the fact that people could find no trace of dead elephants, causing them to speculate on the existence of the fabled “elephant’s graveyard.” But now we know, that with death, the beast’s gasomotus can no longer perform its function, so the creature simply deflates to a flat sheet on the jungle floor, which is quickly cleaned up by the ever-present elephant ant. Not even bones remain, because like any balloon, there are no bones.

Eggs Are Actually Called Neggs

     Although we commonly buy the product of the female fowl we call chicken (Gallus gallus domesticus), and find the package labeled “eggs” the true name was originally, Negg. Over the years people saying, “I’d like a dozen neggs,” and “I’d like ham and neggs,” for breakfast slurred the sounds into a single all inclusive sound, which, for reasons too lengthy and filled with technical terms to define here, reduced to “A dozen eggs, please.”
The history of words, called Etymology, has many fascinating byways such as this.

Spaghetti Grows in Our Garden.

     Although little known outside the agricultural sector, many of the pasta products we treasure are actually a product of the fruit of the Spagattie plant (Pastamotous Glutionous Major), thought to originate in China, though now cultivated throughout the world and prized for its many varieties (though, sadly, these days the artificial pasta industry has all but crowded out the true product).
     In its natural state the spagetti plant bears a long cucumber-like fruit, a mottled green in color when growing, but a beautiful and shiny umber when fully ripe. They are harvested in the fall, typically, after an eighteen week growing period.
     The fruits are first allowed to dry a bit, and to ferment—to stabilize the natural tendency toward gumminess that would make the individual strands difficult to separate. This drying was originally done by the sun, but modern processors perform the initial drying, called, batching, in large, many-shelved ovens, in batches of as many as three tons at once. Placing the fruit as closely as possible, without contact with another fruit (which would result in cracking and breakage of the individual strands) is a balance between maximizing either profit or quality. The necessary hand placement and attention to detail is the reason the natural product is being replaced by the less costly, but inferior artificial pasta.
     Once dried the pods are carefully opened. The strands are removed and separated, and placed on a conveyor belt, where they are moved through drying ovens and trimming stations where the strands are cut to the same length in order to fit neatly into the packaging. Excess pasta, or trims, as they are called in the industry, are sold to commercial canneries where pre-made products such as spaghetti and meatballs are produced.
     Careful breeding has generated many other related plants, such as macaroni—which acquires its distinctive curved shape after chopping to length and drying—and such decorative varieties as bow-ties.
     The original plant, the grandfather of today’s pasta, so to speak—as it was before the intensive breeding program that resulted in the Spagattie plant—may be found in your local market, and may be grown in your own garden. Ask your parents to make a spaghetti squash for dinner tonight.

Shampoo

     Although you may use shampoo to clean your hair, you are probably not aware that the all but forgotten product, Poo, was the hair-cleaning product of choice until the early part of the twentieth century. Poo, a vegetable product, is extremely mild, and gentle on the hair, and was prized because it didn’t have the drying effect of the lye-soap commonly in use at the time. It does have a strong, extremely unpleasant taste, however, with the result that when people got a trace of it in their mouth they called it by name, Poo.
     With the advent of chemical detergents, such as tri-sodium phosphate, it was hoped a product could be developed that would provide the gentle cleaning action of poo, combined with the strength of modern chemistry.
     The solution eluded researchers until Howard Buskin developed his now famous formula for artificial poo, which he called, Chemipoo.
     Though the product tested well, the name was unfortunate. The test users reacted negatively to the idea of a chemical hair cleaner, so Mr. Buskin decided to keep the origin of the product secret by labeled it, Crowning Glory Poo.
     The product became highly popular, until it was revealed as a sham, and identified as a re-labeled version of Chemipoo.
     Driven by the poo lobby in congress, Mr. Busken was required by law to label his product as a sham poo. Because of the popularity and quality of the product, however, this proved not to be a handicap. The rest, as they say, is history.

The Golden Ball Tree (Rutilus Ball Nemus)

     One of the true oddities of nature is the golden ball tree, a rare and useful species that grows the world over.
In aspect, the tree is the straightest growing tree on planet Earth. Tall and majestic it gathers metal salts within the core of the tree, as it grows, using the magnetic field it induces around them as the template for its unusually straight trunk growth.
     Then, as the tree attains maturity, those salts condense to provide the strong yet flexible core that also makes the tree far less vulnerable to wind damage then are most trees.
     GBT trees, as they are known in the trade, have a long life span, but it’s what happens when the tree dies that makes it of most use to humanity. As the tree slowly rots around that metal core, what remains is a tall shaft of metal, capped with a gold colored ball.
     These trees are so rare and so majestic in aspect, that we often convert them to flagpoles, and build edifices like schools and government buildings next to them.
     Unfortunately, cultivation of the GBT seems to be beyond our present capabilities. One reason is that they are solitary, by nature, because of their nutritional needs. Still, because of a concentration of metals in the soil, they occasionally, grow in clusters of two and three trees. One of the largest concentrations of such trees in a single forest can be found in the Washington DC area, and is the reason the area was chosen as its nation’s capital city.

The Bellybuttom Fairy

     The Bellybutton Fairy is one of the least known and hardest to see. But still, they are the most important of the fairies. Only Dewdrop fairies, who place dew on the grass and flowers each night, are more numerous. The task of the Bellybutton fairy—the thing that sets them apart—is that they are responsible for human growth from birth to adulthood. Without them there would be no adults, and the human race would perish.
     During our growing years, each child is visited, daily, by one of the bellybutton fairies, though never when it can be observed. Mostly, they come at night. When that’s not possible, they slip in during a time when the baby is unobserved. It’s thought by many that they are able to change both shape and coloration to avoid detection—much like some lizards and fish—though there is no direct evidence to support that theory. We do know, however, that when a child is placed where the fairy cannot visit the child does not grow. And even though they might be removed from that sealed environment at some future time, and have growth resume, that child will never reach normal height.
With hidden cameras great patience, and a bit of luck, scientists have been able to catch the fairies in action, and the sequence is always the same:
     On arrival, when the fairy is satisfied that it is unobserved, it loosens the child’s clothing to gain access to their navel. Then, placing two fingers on either side of the baby’s navel, they gently spread the opening. Science cannot explain what happens next, because humans cannot reproduce the effect, but after a moment the opening created by the fairy abruptly spreads and a small rolled up tube pops from inside the navel.
     The fairy then unrolls the tube, which appears hollow, and fastens its mouth to the end to blow two quick breaths before rerolling the tube and tucking it back inside the child. Then it dresses the child and is away to the next child.
     Learning of this fairy was a boon to science because it explained a lot. Because fairy size varies, and since the same fairy may not visit the same child, from night-to-night, the size of the two breaths given varies, too. A child who is visited primarily by larger fairies will be larger than one visited primarily by smaller ones. Growth spurts are easily explained by the child being visited by a series of larger fairies for a time, as periods of slow growth are caused by the opposite.
     It was also noted that girls are only visited by female fairies, and boys by males. Since female fairies are almost always smaller than the males, this explains why human girls are usually smaller than boys.
     Please note that while we would normally include a picture of the fairy, this was not done for two reasons. First is that the only pictures that scientists were able to capture were done in nearly total darkness, and so are of poor quality. A second reason is that Belly Button fairies are physically adapted to their task, so their mouth is extended and tiny, to fit the tiny belly-button tubes of children, giving them an almost insect appearance that might frighten a child who reads this article without an adult who might explain and calm them. We hope you will understand.

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Author’s note:

When my own children were young, I presented them with twisted encyclopedia definitions for fun, and to encourage them to never simply accept what they’re told without question. The spaghetti definition was inspired by a segment on the TV program, That Was the Week That Was, where spaghetti was shown growing on bushes, then harvested. I changed the story a bit because there was a spaghetti squash in the refrigerator waiting to be prepared for dinner.
     I told the story in the afternoon and as you might expect it was greeted with derision. You can imagine my son’s expression when we sliced that spaghetti squash and the stands popped out.
     I suppose it explains my children’s tendency to twitch and suffer occasional bouts of gibbering, though.
     I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, and got here from Facebook, pressing the “Share” button at the page bottom will let others know the story is here, and give them the chance to read it, as well.
     And if my little story pleased you, I’m glad. There are other stories posted, as well. You and others like you are the reason I write. If it did bring a moment of reading pleasure, take a moment to rate it. Feedback matters to me. And if you’re in the mood for something a bit longer. make a stop to look at my novels, and read the excerpts to see if they please, as well.

 

 

Wolves In Hiding – The Grumpy Writing Coach

Part of a series of articles for the new writer
 

Wolves In Hiding

 

      Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately…
 
      So begins the response to that fragile carrier of your hopes and dreams—the query letter.
      We’ve all been there, and it hurts. It hurts a lot. But it’s how the writing game goes, so we shrug, hone the query, and fire off another batch… and another—while depression deepens and self-worth hovers one notch above absolute zero.
      Then it happens, you discover the ad in the back section of Writers’ Digest: Agent accepting new clients. And best of all they’re looking for unpublished authors! Sure, your daddy told you that if something sounds too good to be true it probably is. But hell, if we had an ounce of brains we wouldn’t be writers, would we?
      With trembling fingers you stuff a query into an envelope, cross your fingers, and hurry to the post-office. A week later back comes amazing news. They like you! They like your work enough to want to see more. They like you so much that your brain turns off, and you never question that terribly reasonable explanation of why you should also send a shovelful of money along with the manuscript. “The sample chapter was wonderful,” they gush. “But since so few unpublished authors have it exactly right the first time, we need to see the entire manuscript, just to make sure the loose ends are tied up.” And surely you can’t expect a busy agent to give up precious time without charging you a teeny little service fee, can you? Well can you?
      You sure as hell can. The simple truth is that an agent or editor who makes a living through selling other people’s writing can recognize writing skill in a paragraph and marketability within a page. You prove that true each time you take a book from the rack at your local bookstore. When was the last time you read more than a few pages before you decided not to buy? The difference between you and an agent or publisher is only that they shop from the comfort of their desk.
      No reputable agent charges a fee for reading. Engrave that statement in stone above your desk. They’d love to charge, if for no other reason than in retaliation for having to spend so much time wading through crap submissions. But they don’t, because the rules of The Association Of Authors’ Representatives, the AAR, forbids that.
     And reputable agents don’t, as a rule, recommend a specific editor to an unknown writer who’s making a submission, though they may suggest editing. Edit Ink*, the most notorious example of abusing that suggestion, paid a commission to the agent or publisher who recommended a client. A submission to one of their shill agencies (never a member of AAR) was likely to bring a letter suggesting that they might be interested… after editing. And, “oh yes, we’d suggest you use our good friends at Edit Ink.” The insidious part of that is that the agency—who made a fifteen percent commission if you took the bait—and Edit Ink are in different parts of the country. There couldn’t be an unsavory connection there, could there? There were millions of dollars charged for editing work done by college students and new grads working at minimum wage rates, money that will never be recovered.
      Book-doctors are another thing to avoid if you write fiction. Why? Use your brain. If someone could take your book and fix it so it would sell, they’d be selling their own work and making a lot more money. And forget the idea of giving your manuscript to a published author in return for cover credit for supplying the story idea and rough draft. All new writers lust after that one, but any competent writer can fire off ideas faster than you can record them. It’s writing well that’s hard. That author would have to know your story as well as one they wrote, in order to meaningfully rewrite it. Starting from scratch is easier and more profitable.
      Read those advertisements carefully for the scam tip-offs, like the mention of representing poetry or short stories. No reputable agent represents poetry. The fifteen percent agent’s commission on what the average poet makes on a sale won’t pay postage for the submissions. And no reputable agent is interested in short stories because the effort of selling a three-thousand word short is exactly that of a selling one-hundred-thousand word blockbuster. Any agent who claims to sell either poetry or short stories is to be avoided, and those who request a “one time reading fee” or money in advance for reproduction and mailing, are to be laughed at.
      So how can you tell if you’re ready to submit your work professionally?
      • Study writing. Craft is invisible, but necessary, and as I mentioned a few issues ago they didn’t teach it in grade school. Some of my personal favorite books on the subject are: Techniques of the Selling Writer, by Dwight Swain; GMC: Goal Motivation and Conflict, by Debora Dixon; Sol Stein on writing, by Sol Stein; and Writing the breakout Novel, by Donald Mass. And if you’re broke, look for Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones in your library. It’s an older book, but a good solid introduction to writing technique.
     But, those are just a few. Everyone has their own favorite, and there are many available.
      • Do your research. Don’t submit a two-hundred-thousand word family saga to Precious Gems, or fiction to an agent who specializes in cookbooks.
      • Join a critiquing group—one composed of writers whose work you respect—people with skills matching (and hopefully, exceeding) your own. Your local library is a good place to find notice of what’s available. Almost nothing is as useful as the feedback you get from a writer of greater skill.
      • Find a grammar fairy to touch your manuscript with stardust. You want nothing to distract the editor’s eye from your glorious prose.
      • Study under the masters. Once you know what you’re looking for, analyze your favorite authors to see what made you like them. Look at how they handle dialog and characterization. Do they favor long sentences or short? Rewrite one of their scenes in your own style, and then compare the two for content and readability. Did you tell as much in as few words? Did you stay as focused? Do your words flow into the reader’s mind as smoothly?
 
      The odds are against us succeeding. That’s a given. The success rate for manuscript sales by a new author is less than one in one-thousand—with good reason. No one is searching the stores for a book with your name on it other than your mother, so editors are looking for something extraordinary, not a “good enough,” novel. They already have more “good enough” writers than they need.
     But in spite of those odds, lightening does have to strike, so it could well be you. That kid shooting baskets in the playground could wind up stuffing them in as part of a professional team, and you could be the next great author to be discovered. So keep on studying and keep writing. If nothing else it keeps us off the streets at night.
     Just keep your eyes open and your wallet closed.
 
 
 
* Now out of business. To see a history, visit http://www.sfwa.org/beware/cases.html

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Author’s note:
     These articles are not presented with a, “Do this and you’ll be a published author,” attitude. Anyone who tells you they can provide success via a few words on a blog page is scamming you. Instead, they’re one writer’s view of the ideas put forth by the writing teachers I admire and respect. I’ve done the series as part of what’s sometimes called a Benjamin Franklin debt. If some of what I say seems to make sense, I urge you to seek the teachers themselves, people like Dwight Swain, Debra Dixon, and a host of others, and read their advice directly.

 

A Small Yippee

I started this blog with the idea that it would focus on some writing help for the beginner, a sample of my own writing for fun—and to demonstrate that I follow my own advice—as a sales tool, and as product pages for the released novels.

But today’s blog is for none of them. It’s a small yippee, and a thank you to Double Dragon Publishing for having offered me a third novel contract, this one for, As Falls an Angel.

Angel was great fun to write, and literally told itself, which made it exciting to write because I was never quite certain of where it was going, so in many ways it was like reading the story. I began with the idea that I was creating a light romantic short story, based on the premise: Angels exist, and can do amazing things, but must work within the framework of existing natural law.

That was the plan, but my characters refused to stick with the script, and began to meddle with the plot. And as so often happens, I fell in love, and could deny my characters nothing—especially my angel.

Before I knew it characters were screwing with gravity and going into battle. At one point I found myself typing, “Twenty years later,” skipping two decades of my character’s lives—something I never expected to do when telling a story.

And in the end I learned that Satan’s real name is Suzanne, which, when you think about it, may explain a lot.

No idea of when it Angel will come out, I still have to sign the contract and await an editing slot, but my guess is some time before the end of the year.

I’m stoked. After all, I stand to make tens of dollars from this.