Some days, I sit down to write and wonder what the hell I’m doing.

The words don’t flow. The structure feels off. My confidence has left the building and is probably sitting at a pub somewhere ordering beer, wings, and nachos without me.

You’d think after years in law enforcement, forensics, and now crime writing, I’d be bulletproof by now—impervious to self-doubt and rejection. But nope. There are days I feel like a cracked pot.

And that, my fellow Kill Zoners, brings me to a story I want to share with you. It’s an old one. A quiet one. But it says everything a writer needs to hear.

The Story of the Cracked Pot

There was an old man who lived in a village in India. Every morning, he would place a long stick across his back, hang a water pot from each end, and walk several miles to the river to get fresh water for his family.

But the two water pots were not the same. One had a series of small cracks in its side, causing it to leak.

The old man would fill both pots at the river, but by the time he got back to his home, the cracked pot would be half empty, the water having leaked out during the walk.

The cracked pot grew increasingly ashamed of its inability to complete the task for which it was made. One day, while the old man filled the two pots at the river, the cracked pot spoke to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed that I cannot fulfill my responsibilities as well as the other pot.”

The old man smiled and replied, “On the walk home today, rather than hanging your head in shame, I want you to look up at the side of the path.”

The cracked pot reluctantly agreed to do as the old man asked. As they left the riverbank and started on the path, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

On his side of the path was a beautiful row of flowers.

“You see,” the old man said, “I’ve always known you had those cracks, so I planted flower seeds along your side of the path. Each day, your cracks helped me water them. And now, I pick these flowers to share their beauty with the entire village.”

We All Leak a Little

That story gets me every time.

Because if you’ve ever tried to create something from nothing, to sit at a keyboard and bring life to characters who don’t exist yet, then you know what it means to question your usefulness. You know what it feels like to compare yourself to someone else’s perfect pot—and wonder why your own words keep leaking out, incomplete, imperfect, maybe even irrelevant.

But what if your cracks are the very thing that make your writing beautiful?

What if the years you spent doubting yourself taught you empathy—and now your characters breathe with it?

What if the rejections, the self-edits, the tough critiques… what if those watered something beside the path you just haven’t noticed yet?

I’m not here to hand you a participation ribbon or pat your head and say, “You’re special.” You already know writing is hard. It takes guts. It takes sitting with discomfort and pushing through.

But I am here to tell you that those imperfections you think are holding you back?

They’re feeding the flowers.

Keep Leaking

Maybe your story structure feels like a mess. Maybe your plot sagged in Act Two and hasn’t recovered. Maybe someone told you you’d never make it—and part of you believed them.

Here’s what I want you to remember.

There is no perfect pot.

Even the bestselling author you admire struggles with the page. Even the literary genius has doubt gnawing at the back of their brain. The difference is, they kept walking the path. Cracks and all.

And if you do the same—keep showing up, keep pouring yourself into the process, keep leaking a little water every day—you’ll be amazed at what grows.

You don’t have to be flawless to be useful. You don’t have to be brilliant to be beautiful. And you sure as hell don’t need to write like anyone else to make an impact.

You just need to walk your path.

Let the seeds you’ve planted over the years—your discipline, your voice, your scars, your strange and wonderful perspective—be watered by your imperfections.

Keep writing.

You have no idea how many flowers are blooming because of you.

Kill Zoners – Show us your cracks.

Sad news to report: After 42 years, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which showed how hilariously horrible the English language can be, is no more after its founder decided to retire it. Founded in 1983, the contest was to compose the most atrocious opening sentence to the worst novel never written.

If you think Edward Buller-Lytton’s opus, “It was a dark and stormy night…” was a masterpiece of pukable purple prose, you should check out some of the beauts and treasures housed at the BLFC website. I spent time scrolling through the list of winners and runners-up for each year. In no orchestrated and orderly organization, here are some spectacular and stunningly-silly specimens spewed by competent, creative creatives.

“Gwendolyn, a world-class mountaineer, summoned the last of her strength for one more heroic haul on the nylon strap (for she was, after so many failed attempts, dangerously close to exhaustion) and looked heavenward with resolve, aware that, in spite of her fatigue and anguish, she must breach the crevice in one well-coordinated movement, somehow cleave the smooth fissure with the flimsy synthetic strand even though she was chaffed raw by her repeated efforts, or more sensibly, just give the heave-ho to this new-fangled (and painfully small) Victoria’s Secret thong and slip into her well-worn – and infinitely more roomy – knickers.”

“Emile Zola wandered the dank and soggy streets of a gloomy Parisian night, the injustice of the Dreyfus affair weighing on him like a thousand baguettes, dreaming of some massage or therapy to relieve the tension and pain in his aching shoulders and back, and then suddenly he thought of his Italian friends and their newly invented warm water bath with air jets and he rapturously exclaimed that oft misquoted declaration — “Jacuzzi!”

“She strutted into my office wearing a dress that clung to her like Saran Wrap to a sloppily butchered pork knuckle, bone and sinew jutting and lurching asymmetrically beneath its folds, the tightness exaggerating the granularity of the suet and causing what little palatable meat there was to sweat, its transparency the thief of imagination.”

“Ulysses Simpson Grant, having just finished a meal of Virginia ham, stretched out in his underwear of Mississippi-grown cotton, puffed on a Georgia cigar, swilled straight Kentucky bourbon whiskey, and thought just how good it was to be in the Union Army.”

“Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin’ off Nantucket Sound from the nor’east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.”

“A small assortment of astonishingly loud brass instruments raced each other lustily to the respective ends of their distinct musical choices as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur comprised of angry yapping bullets that nipped at Desdemona’s ankles, causing her to reflect once again (as blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd) that the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein was a stupid, stupid idea.”

“Gerald began–but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash–to pee.”

“Seeing how the victim’s body, or what remained of it, was wedged between the grill of the Peterbilt 389 and the bumper of the 2008 Cadillac Escalade EXT, officer “Dirk” Dirksen wondered why reporters always used the phrase “sandwiched” to describe such a scene since there was nothing appetizing about it, but still, he thought, they might have a point because some of this would probably end up on the front of his tunic.”

“Through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, along the greasy, cracked paving-stones slick from the sputum of the sky, Stanley Ruddlethorp wearily trudged up the hill from the cemetery where his wife, sister, brother, and three children were all buried, and forced open the door of his decaying house, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe that was soon to completely devastate his life.”

And this one wins the Christmas turkey…

“Space Fleet Commander Brad Brad sat in silence, surrounded by a slowly dissipating cloud of smoke, maintaining the same forlorn frown that had been fixed upon his face since he’d accidentally destroyed the phenomenon known as time, thirteen inches ago.”

Kill Zoners — Who feels creative and wants to take a crack at competing for a Bulwer-Lytton even though the contest is officially closed? If you don’t feel creative, there’s always ChatGPT.

“Hello, Americans. I’m Paul Harvey… Stand by for news.”

If you grew up with a radio anywhere in earshot from the 1950s through the early 2000s, chances are you’ve heard that familiar, melodic cadence. Paul Harvey’s voice wasn’t just a part of American broadcasting—it was American broadcasting. Like the tick of an old kitchen clock, his short-form radio features delivered history, mystery, and moral insight in under five minutes. But what truly made his stories unforgettable were the endings—those last few lines that turned everything on its head.

“And now you know… the rest of the story.”

That catchphrase was the kicker. The hook. The twist. The reason we all kept listening, leaned in, smiled, gasped, or even teared up. And for us writers, it holds a masterclass in storytelling structure, suspense, and emotional payoff.

Who Was Paul Harvey?

Paul Harvey Aurandt was born in 1918 in Tulsa, Oklahoma. After losing his policeman father to a tragic shooting when Paul was only three, Harvey grew up in a world shaped by grit, survival, and the power of words. He started in radio as a teenager and worked his way up through the golden age of broadcasting.

By the 1950s, he was a national presence. With his distinct pauses, curious phrasing, and Midwestern moral clarity, Harvey captivated millions of listeners across decades. He delivered daily news commentary, but it was his mid-day feature—“The Rest of the Story”—that elevated him from commentator to storyteller.

These were not breaking news segments. They were human stories—true stories—told with elegance, economy, and a surprising punchline.

The Structure of a Paul Harvey Story

Every episode of The Rest of the Story followed a similar template:

1. Set the Scene – Often vague at first. He introduces a person, place, or problem, but not the full identity.
2. Build the Curiosity – Facts are layered. Oddities emerge. You’re engaged but unsure where it’s going.
3. Reveal the Surprise – The identity or twist is saved for the final sentence. A famous person in disguise. A historical icon before they were known. A legendary outcome from humble beginnings.
4. Moral Undercurrent – Often subtle, but present. There’s usually a sense of justice, fate, irony, or redemption.

This structure was no accident. Harvey understood how people listen, and more importantly, why people listen. He didn’t just tell you what happened. He withheld the obvious until it would land with maximum impact.

Why It Worked So Well

Harvey’s genius was in the setup. He trusted the intelligence of his audience. He guided us with breadcrumbs, letting us build assumptions—only to gleefully knock them over at the end.

He leveraged:

• Suspense through omission
• Familiarity cloaked in unfamiliarity
• Emotional resonance through the unexpected
• A moral twist embedded in fact

He also knew how to perform a story—his pacing, tone, and silences were part of the storytelling. A well-timed pause said more than a paragraph ever could.

Greatest Hits from “The Rest of the Story”

Here are a few classic Paul Harvey closers. (Spoilers ahead!)

• A young boy with a stutter who found his voice onstage—James Earl Jones.
• A failed artist who became the world’s most famous cartoonist—Walt Disney.
• The man who couldn’t afford college, so he audited classes—William Hewlett, co-founder of Hewlett-Packard.
• The boy kicked out of school for poor learning—Thomas Edison.

Each story was true. Each one held a lesson. And each left the listener with a sense of awe: Wait… really? That was who?

Now think of the emotional arc in those tales—curiosity, empathy, admiration. That’s what made Harvey unforgettable.

What Writers Can Learn From Paul Harvey

If you’re writing novels, short stories, true crime, memoirs, or blog posts, the Paul Harvey method has gold to offer. Here’s how to apply it:

1. Start with the Setup, Not the Star

Instead of opening with the known, open with the unknown. Create a character or situation that invites questions. Let the reader lean in, not back.

2. Use Withholding as a Tool

You don’t have to reveal everything up front. Create tension by what you don’t say. Let the reader work a little. We love to fill in blanks.

3. Save the Reveal

That final “aha” moment—that’s your money shot. Whether it’s in the climax of your thriller or the final line of your blog post, hold back until it counts.

4. Layer with Moral Resonance

Harvey’s stories were often about perseverance, redemption, or ironic justice. That’s the stuff readers remember. Don’t preach. Just infuse meaning.

5. Let Style Be the Vehicle

Paul Harvey’s voice was unmistakable—rhythmic, quirky, personal. As writers, we all have a voice. Don’t sand it down. Sharpen it.

And Finally… the Rest of This Story

There’s something timeless about what Paul Harvey gave us. He didn’t just relay facts—he made us feel them. In a world that’s more crowded, distracted, and cynical than ever, the ability to pause a reader and make them say, “Wow… I didn’t see that coming”—that’s real storytelling.

So what happened to The Rest of the Story after Paul Harvey passed in 2009?

Here’s the kicker: The show continued briefly with his son, Paul Harvey Jr., but never quite recaptured the magic. Why?

Because Paul Harvey wasn’t just a format. He was the story.

And now you know… the rest of the story.

Kill Zoners – Who around here is young enough to remember Paul Harvey? If you do, what was your favorite episode? Mine was the story of the recycled timbers in a New England barn being traced as originating from the scrapped ship, Mayflower.

Between 2007 and 2016, sixteen disarticulated human feet encased in running shoes were found washed up on Pacific Ocean tidal shores in northwest Washington State’s Puget Sound and the southwestern British Columbia Gulf Islands. It’s also known as the Salish Sea.

Theories of dark and sinister forces emerged. A foot-fetish serial killer? A podiatrist cult ritual? A prank pod of kinky killer whales?

The truth, it turns out, was stranger than fiction. And it happened at a time I was a coroner tasked with investigating unexplained human deaths in this jurisdiction.

When I first began contributing to the Kill Zone, Thursdays were marked as true crime sessions. I’ve deviated from that to all sorts of topics I thought would interest readers but, today, I’ve returned to the roots. And rather than rewriting an evergreen post, I’m simply sharing a link to the article I wrote on my home website at www.DyingWords.net. Over the years, this piece has been reproduced by many online agencies including the Huff Post where I once was a regular contributor.

So, if the Creepy Case of the Floating Feet intrigues you, here’s the facts of what happened and why it happened. https://dyingwords.net/the-creepy-case-of-the-floating-feet/