Hey Lucy (Story)

The autumn breeze brushed against his cheek. He pulled the collar of his down coat higher. The brown grass crunched beneath his sneakers. The clouds hid the sun, coating him in shadow.

He could hear the rumble of a lawnmower in the distance, distinct and grating. Behind him, cars zoomed down the highway. The smell of cheap perfume assaulted his nostrils as he passed a crying couple.

Twelve rows down. Three to the left of the marble bench. Right behind the ornate angel statue. A nobody, with no one to afford a fancy tribute piece. Hidden amongst a see of the rich.

He knelt in front of the simple metal plate in the ground. The finish was wearing thin, and the coppery material peeked out at him. He used his left hand to brush the grass clippings from the headstone, pulling a few stragglers from the dirt.

“Hey.”

He separated the flowers in his right hand, laying the pink ones in a line. Six pink tulips.

“I, uh. I remembered your birthday.”

Three white carnations above the others. He rocked back on his heels and held his arms close. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing.

“Sorry I missed it last year.”

His throat hurt as he spoke. Dry sobs squeaked out as he tried again. He could see her face, all smiles and dimples. He could hear the laughter. A wave of pain ripped through his chest.

“I try, you know? I can’t remember the last time I… Fuck.”

He looked around at the cemetery. His sister was walking toward him from the car.

“At least I can’t… I’m sorry.”

Tears were streaming down his face by the time his sister sat next to him. She draped an arm over his shoulder.

“You have to stop sneaking out. They’re trying to help you know.”

He placed a hand on the flaking headstone. “Six.”

“Yeah.”

The Dreaded Rewrite (Thoughts & Ideas)

It’s been said a dozen times over that the first draft isn’t about good writing. You put down the story on paper as completely as possible, and fix the writing as you revise and edit future drafts. It’s also been said that there is a point when you have to let a story go; there’s nothing left you can do with what you have. It’s better to have a good story that hasn’t quite reached it’s full potential than to have an over-polished turd.

But there’s one aspect of writing that falls between those two points that no one ever talks about. Sometimes the story changes so drastically during the drafting process that it becomes a different story. Entire characters are removed, events shifted in a new and exciting way. You have to rewrite.

A rewrite isn’t like a normal draft. You aren’t making the writing better, you’re making the story better. But this leaves you in an awkward position as a writer. Because you are well past the first draft, and you should be focused heavily on making the writing as good as possible. You’re also in the process of putting the story down for the first time again. You are stuck in this loop of dual mentalities, and it makes the entire thing a nightmare to think about. How can you go full force into the new story without worrying about writing if you are also focusing on making the writing good?

I find myself in that place right now, and it’s given me new insight into the writing habits of other authors. You see, I write chronologically: The story begins, events progress, and then it ends. I never understood how so many authors could write the ending first, or the middle. It didn’t make sense… until I found myself unable to rewrite my current project the way I normally do. The story has already progressed to the end in my mind. I just haven’t written it yet. And that means that I find myself trying to write whatever scene I find interesting at that moment, instead of recording it in order.

It’s like remembering your favorite scenes from a movie. You never remember the entire movie in order, despite having watched it that way. I get it now… and I don’t like it. My entire writing process has been turned on its head, and I have to relearn how to write all over again.

Serialized Fiction (Thoughts & Ideas)

In the olden days, they put on radio shows. These shows ran once a week for a brief period (30 minutes maybe), and then they ended with a cliffhanger to keep you excited for the next part. They were small parts to an incomplete story that would be told over months. This worked well, because it brought in more listeners to a fairly new medium of storytelling. It hooked you when you had nothing else to hook you. It was an uncontested method of delivering fiction to the masses.

Then TV tried its hand at storytelling in small time frames. It succeeded by offering small, self-contained stories that featured the same cast of characters. Occasionally they would follow a very loose, secondary story arc, but mostly they were just adventures in a world different from ours. It was a new way to tell stories that had to compete with radios and movies for an audience’s attention.

Television has evolved (for better or for worse) to a more narrative driven medium. A season now consists of a very important story arc over months of episodes, while mostly maintaining the self-contained story aspect in most episodes.

There have been serialized books for a long time now, but they were mostly for younger readers, and they followed the original TV formula. Recently though (since the boom of Independent Publishing) books have gotten the radio show treatment. Many people cite the benefits of “Serials” as being short and easy to read in an afternoon, or during a lunch break. Others have cited them as a waste of time, not having a complete story or coming out so far apart that they forget the series exists.

I think that we (as authors) have been approaching this from the wrong angle. Radio dramas worked because they didn’t have any real competition. In the modern world everything competes for your attention; other books, movies, TV shows, Youtube, facebook, Twitter, podcasts, you name it. Your potential audience needs a definitive reason to stick with your work.

For similar reasons, we can’t use the modern TV formula either. They’re too much like the radio dramas, in that they require you to tune in to every episode. So what’s left?

Old TV. It was a brilliant way to pull the attention away from other media. Produce a work that can be enjoyed every week, but that doesn’t take a lot of time. We should be applying this to books as well (Though not every book. I still believe in the strengths of full Novels.).

Write a story; a self-contained story; centered around the hero you’ve written. Make it short (under 40,000 words, but preferably closer to 20,000 words). Now write another one. And another. Weave in some over-arcing plot that ties them together. Use subtle hints and recurring side characters for this. Make the over-arcing plot simple and easy to follow even if a book or two is missed, because it is the secondary plot. This is your hook. This series, a true “Serial”, grabs readers and thrusts them into your writer’s mind. It introduces people who don’t normally read to you as an author. It hooks them, so that they can’t help but read your longer works.

Now write a novel, or a collection of short stories. Produce a work that takes more than an afternoon to read, and your fans will devour it. You will have more success as an author (studies have already begun to hint at this), but more importantly: You will create more readers in the world. You will improve the state of written fiction by introducing people who “don’t like to read” to longer fiction. You will make them want to read.

Authors shouldn’t be trying to split a novel into multiple parts for a quick cash grab. We shouldn’t be trying to solely cater to fans of bite-sized fiction. We should be using the tools at our disposal to expand the minds of those bite-sized fans, while still catering to them and fans of longer works. We should be trying to better our world through the stories we tell, and not worry about if we can pay rent from book sales. Because if we manage to improve the world, financial success will inevitably follow anyway.

Adverbs & Why Stephen King is an Idiot (Thoughts & Ideas)

This isn’t a “Now that I have your attention” post. I firmly believe that Stephen King is an idiot, or a ruthless businessman thinning the competition. Those are the only two legitimate reasons anyone would tell potential authors to remove an entire Part of Speech from the English language. It’s idiotic, and it means potential authors will never be as good as current ones. It thins the competition and ruins our culture for future generations.

Stephen King is quoted as having once said (in a book targeted at potential authors) that authors shouldn’t use Adverbs. As far as I know (I haven’t read the book because I’m afraid it’s full of this kind of drivel) he gives no reasoning why. He just says “don’t do it, because they are bad”. Except that people have checked, and he uses them all the time in his writing. He clearly doesn’t believe his own words.

Adverbs have a place in the English language. They exist for a reason, and there are some sentences that just can’t be said without them. I’ve written sentences that either have to use an Adverb or make no sense. They can’t be reworded to remove the Adverb. You could remove the sentence completely, but that information is important to the reader.

There are times when an Adverb could be removed and turned into other Parts of Speech with rewording. Sometimes, upon reflection or an editor’s notes, you realize “I could say this better, or in a way that’s at least just as good, yet different.” But that isn’t always the case. Sometimes it has to stay.

When people take the (hypocritical) advice of a single person and start going around like it’s fact, the world becomes dumber. Every time you tell someone to remove an Adverb from their work for the sole reason that Stephen King told you to, you make yourself sound less intelligent. Not only that, but you come across as an asshole too.

Every time someone tells me that I can throw in an incorrect Adjective in place of a correct Adverb and it will be better, I just want to start telling them that replacing every fourth word with “pleasant” will improve their story. Because it makes about as much sense, if we’re being honest.

Let’s stop trying to correct things that aren’t incorrect and focus on actually improving things that need it. Like run-on sentences.

Punctuation (Thoughts & Ideas)

Let’s talk about the importance of punctuation, Punctuation is very important for conveying the end of a sentence, It helps you to understand what is a complete sentence or thought, This paragraph has been typed with incorrect punctuation,

Do you see that? A comma is not the appropriate punctuation to end a sentence with. You end a sentence with a period (.), an exclamation mark (!), or a question mark (?). Sometimes you end it with an ellipses (…) or hyphen (-) if the thought trails or is cut off abruptly. Never a comma.

Yet, for some idiotic reason I can’t fathom, it becomes okay to end a sentence with a comma in dialogue. More than okay, in fact. Editors will berate you and make fun of you for ending dialogue with proper punctuation. It baffles my mind. (I literally just listened to a podcast in which a self-proclaimed editor berated another member of the podcast for not knowing that “You always end dialogue with a comma.” I almost shut off and deleted every episode of that podcast from my computer in protest of such an absurd statement.)

“Please don’t sit on the furniture,” He spoke softly as he paced the room. (What our society says is correct grammar for dialogue.)

Do you notice that both complete sentences are capitalized, as they should be, but that one of them ends in a comma? Unacceptable. There are two ways to correct this issue:

“Please don’t sit on the furniture;” he spoke softly as he paced the room. (Combining the two sentences into one via semicolon and removing the capitalization of “He”.) or “Please don’t sit on the furniture.” He spoke softly as he paced the room. (Ending both with periods, as is correct.)

Now, some would argue that He spoke softly as he paced the room is an exception and not the rule. It usually is He said. He said is a sentence fragment. He said what? If we go that route it becomes incorrect to put the descriptor anywhere except the beginning of the sentence. (He said “Please don’t sit on the furniture.”) It is still incorrect to end any part of that thought with a comma.

There is never a logical point in grammar to end dialogue with a comma, despite common practices. The rule is wrong! A comma means there is more information to the sentence than is there already. It means the sentence isn’t finished. We as writers need to put an end to this archaic practice of using incorrect grammar in dialogue just because it’s dialogue and for no legitimate reason.

As an editor I let it go. Authors are going to stick to the rules they were taught and I shouldn’t punish them for it when it is a widely accepted rule. I will occasionally make a note outside of the edit itself on why it is a bad rule, but I will never punish someone for trying to fit in. I will also not berate an author for doing it the grammatically correct way either though.

As an author I refuse to end dialogue with a comma. I will split dialogue with a comma: “Please don’t sit on the furniture,” He spoke softly as he paced the room. “unless you have bathed recently.” (Notice I don’t capitalize the middle of a sentence, which is another stupid common practice in dialogue writing.)

We should be smarter than this. We should be able to figure out that a practice makes no sense. Be smarter. Be better. Be competent.

Writer’s Block (Thoughts & Ideas)

How can one overcome writer’s block effectively? The simple answer is to write. I know that sounds like a stupid proposal up front (If I could write I wouldn’t have writer’s block!), but hear me out here.

When you are staring at that dreaded first page, trying to figure out how to start a story, or when you have the cursor blinking after the last paragraph you wrote several days earlier, and nothing is coming to you… Write something else. Write Flash Fiction, a random scene that you won’t use anywhere, a blog post, a letter, a Youtube comment(and then promptly delete it without posting because you don’t need Youtube stress). Just write something. I find that sometimes it helps to write a scene of dialogue containing nothing but the dialogue. No descriptors or notifiers of who’s talking, just pure speech. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or easy to read, because you probably aren’t even going to use it. Just write.

But that’s the simple answer, and it doesn’t always work for everyone. Try reading. If I want to write, but I can’t think of the words, I read. I can’t usually get two chapters before inspiration has struck. Reading something in the same genre, or with a similar tone really helps with this (try reading an author you like who conveys the emotions you are trying to portray).

Television and Movies can do this as well. If I’m writing a character driven drama (of any genre) that centers on loss, I watch the last few seasons of Bones. The anime Fullmetal Alchemist makes me want to delve into an epic fantasy story. I recently was writing a scene in an arena and I couldn’t figure out how to convey the feeling of being there properly. I went to Youtube and watched the trailer for Gladiator. (Sadly, this doesn’t work for comedy. You’re either funny or you aren’t, and no amount of television will inspire you to be funny.)

Another thing that helps me is exercise. I find that doing push-ups or shadowboxing really puts my head in a focused state. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, the exercise gets the blood pumping, which makes it easier to think clearly and focus the problem down.

Edit: How could I forget about music?! Music is emotion. Every time a track comes on, even when it sucks, it elicits thoughts and feelings that I wouldn’t have otherwise. I can click randomize on my musical library (and I often do when writing) and something will come to mind within the first few songs. Of course, with most of these tips, be aware of what you’re willing to do beforehand and stick to it. You can easily lose track of time and end up wasting the whole day in the pursuit of inspiration.

So the next time you’re stuck, go ahead and try one of these solutions. You might be surprised at the results. Or give your own tips in the comments. What works for you?

His Song (Story)

Every note was like a knife in her heart.

She raised the handkerchief to her cheeks and dabbed. When she pulled it away it was streaked with black, like some sort of hellish Rorschach test. It seemed she was wrong; there were still tears left. How, she didn’t know. The last two years were nothing but crying.

For the third time since she woke that morning, she closed her eyes and prayed. What do I do, Lord? What do you ask of me? The song reached a crescendo and her shoulders began to convulse. Her knees buckled and she wavered in place for a bit. A pair of steady hands guided her to a chair as her sobs stopped being silent.

Through blurry eyes she looked down at those hands that were now clasped around hers. Despite the obviously aged flesh, there was strength in those hands. Her gaze shifted up to the face. A wrinkled old woman stared back at her. The woman smiled warmly and nodded. As the music stopped the woman pulled her into a hug.

She wanted to push the woman away like she did everyone else; to raise the walls that had kept her together for so many years; but she couldn’t muster the will. It felt so good to let someone embrace her again. For a moment; a brief, wonderful moment; the pain was gone and it seemed like everything would be okay. Then she was alone.

No words, no warning. She was sitting on a wooden bench by herself, in an empty room. One single piano key sounded and her head whipped around to see the cause. He was there, wearing his favorite fire engine pajamas. Before he could react she was up. Her arms were around him and her face was buried in his hair.

“My little boy.” She sat him atop the piano. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He looked up at her with the saddest eyes. Eyes that spoke of an emotional maturity far beyond what a six year old should be capable of. “You have to go.”

“Where will we go?” She straightened his collar.

“Not we, Mom. You.”

Her head pulled back and she gripped his shoulders tightly. “I’m not leaving you again.”

“It’s not your fault. It was an accident.” She tried to speak and he put a finger to her lips. “He sent me to make you better.”

“I’m not sick.”

Tears welled in his eyes as he took her face in his tiny hands. “You will be. And when you are I want you to remember something. Promise me you’ll remember.”

“Anything.”

“Fight. Live. Not for me, or even for you. Live for Him.”

Her eyes opened. The bathroom light bathed her carpet in a yellow cream. She pulled her finger from her lips and lifted her head from the sticky, wet floor. The cold air bit at her cheek and she tried to wipe it dry. She succeeded in smearing it down her chin. A fresh wave of nausea overtook her and she added more bile and half dissolved pills to her bedroom floor.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the slowly spinning fan blades, a smile on her pale lips. I will.

 

A Chance Encounter (Story)

Grant crept down the hallway with his right hand against the rough, stone wall. It was impossible to see in the darkness.

“Why do the lights have to be off?” He whispered.

“Because,” The guide’s voice whispered back. “They don’t like the light.”

She still wouldn’t tell him what they were. “Navigating by hand is kind of difficult. Can’t we…”

Suddenly his hand was at his side, enveloped in hers. He could feel her breath on his cheek as her voice lowered to a barely audible level. “Don’t touch the walls. Use me.”

Then his hand was resting lightly on her hip. The blood rushed to his cheeks and he was almost grateful that she couldn’t see him. He slid his hand up and gripped her side as she began moving forward again.

For months he listened to stories of the caves. Stories of death and lost souls. Stories of horrible monsters. Not once did he ever get a description of the creatures, or how they killed. What was in here?

A faint violet light glowed just beyond his line of vision. Slowly, his head turned. Gone. Then another one to the right. This time it was closer. He could almost touch it.

“Focus on me.” His guide slid his hand back down to her hip. “Nothing else matters.”

What was she trying to hide from him? What could possibly be so bad that he couldn’t even know about it? Another light; two; three. It didn’t take long to see that they were crystals. Large, heavy looking crystals set in the walls. Was that it? Did the crystals have some sort of magic?

Then he was in her arms. Her embrace was stronger than he expected. Her forehead was resting on his. “Please, don’t look at them.”

How could she possibly know what he was doing in this blanket of black? He tried to push free of her, but to no avail.

“It’s my gift. I can feel you… Feel them.” A delicate hand slid up and cupped his face. “They’ve noticed you looking. It won’t end well.”

“I don’t…” Then he saw them. Humans; or at least they appeared to be in the dim, purple glow. They wore nothing, their forms bare for all to see. But it wasn’t their nakedness that held his attention. Nor was it the pulsing crystals where their hearts should be. It was their eyes.

Brilliant, lavender eyes. Empty, soulless eyes. They seemed to stare straight into him, to dig around in the darkest places of his being and lay bare all of his fears and failures. A shiver ran down his spine and he felt his partner tremble in response.

“I begged you.” He could hear the desperation in her voice. “I warned you.”

Her mouth was at his neck. Slow delicate sucking pulled his focus back to her. Her embrace had tightened impossibly and her teeth grazed his flesh.

A short reprieve. “They’re going to eat us. It’s too much.”

He heard the bite more than he felt it. A wet, tearing sound mingling with his own yelp of surprise. He didn’t feel any pain. Just a warm trickle down his neck.

She tugged at his neck with her teeth and the pain kicked in as she ripped into him. He fought the dizziness and the lust. He pushed them back as he focused on the memories of the spell. He only had one chance to save them.

His knees gave way as more of his flesh was pulled from his body. Laying helpless on the floor, the woman laying atop him, he felt the mass of bodies close to him. He could smell the wet earth inches from his face as a second set of teeth sunk into his left thigh.

White tunnel. Focus. The spell coalesced in his mind as he lost feeling in his right arm. He felt the familiar tug at his insides as the energy surrounded him.

Silence. The creatures were gone and she was no longer trying to tear him apart. It worked. His voice hoarse and low, he mumbled out an apology.

“Shh…” she was sitting on him now. “Don’t try to talk. You’re too injured for that. Think. Your thoughts are mine, remember.”

Saying Goodbye (Story)

Back in 2012 I was asked to enter a Flash Fiction writing contest. Flash Fiction, for those of you who don’t know, is a short (usually under 1000 words) story written around a specific prompt. Sometimes it’s a phrase or a name, and sometimes it’s a picture. This particular one was a picture. I had 650 words to tell the story of this little girl on a beach. What follows is my entry.

——————————————————————————————————————

She ran. Her golden curls flowed behind her as the cold water splashed under her feet, the sand squishing between her toes. She giggled as she caught up to her younger brother, easily overtaking him as he slowed to a walk. He bent to inspect something and she turned to watch.

His eyes lit up as he lifted the seashell. She smiled. It was rather beautiful, with its pink and white swirls.

“Mommy!” He called as he ran back toward his parents. “Look what I found.”

His mother knelt to his level, smiling warmly. “It’s very pretty. What are you going to do with it?”

He pushed his mother’s hand away as she tried to fix his hair. “I’m gonna make a necklace for Rose.”

The mother continued smiling, though it was no longer a happy smile. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

He looked up at her expectantly. “Can I give it to her today?”

“Of course.” The woman held out her hand. “Let me hold onto it for now. I think you can play a bit longer before lunch-time.”

He handed her the shell and ran back. The girl giggled again as he zoomed past her. The race was back on. She kept up easily, but it was fun to let him think he was winning once in a while.

After a while the mother called for the boy to come back. As he turned to go, the sky suddenly became dark. The girl frowned. It was too early for night; in fact it was barely time for lunch. And why didn’t anyone seem to notice?

“Because they can’t see it.” An elderly voice answered the unspoken question.

The girl looked up into the face of her grandfather. “Why not?” She asked without hesitation.

“Because they aren’t on this side of the veil.” His hand stretched out to her, cradling her small one. “I think we should go now.”

She sighed. “Thank you for letting me play with him again.”

The elderly man said nothing in reply as his granddaughter longingly watched her family pack up their things. He simply stroked her hair and let her have her moment.

“Goodbye Terry, Mom, Dad. I’ll see you later.” Tears had formed in her eyes, making it hard to see them as they got further away.

“Are you ready Rose?” The man asked.

“I think so.” She answered softly.

The two faded from the beach, leaving nothing but a pair of footprints behind; an unnoticed reminder of what once was.