Author Archives: James Scott Bell

About James Scott Bell

International Thriller Writers Award winner, #1 bestselling author of THRILLERS and BOOKS ON WRITING. Subscribe to JSB's NEWSLETTER.

Competent and Forgettable Fiction

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

We have a first page for critique today, with a twist. Read on to find out what it is,

Chapter One

The first scream barely made it through the hotel’s thick glass windows. But the second one cut through like a blade. Jack Rainer froze mid-step in the hallway of the Bellamy Grand, a five-star fortress in downtown Chicago. Rain hammered the city like it wanted to wash the whole thing away. Jack tilted his head. Third floor. Same as him. Room 314—just ahead.

He slipped his hand inside his jacket and felt the cold steel of the Glock. Habit. He hadn’t carried it in years, but tonight something told him to bring it. Instinct, maybe. Or guilt.

Another crash. Glass. A woman’s voice, shrill and panicked, yelling something unintelligible. Jack moved fast now, heart kicking into gear. He reached the door and pressed his ear against it. Silence. Too much silence.

He knocked twice, sharp and hard.

“Hotel security,” he lied.

Nothing.

He glanced up and down the hall, then used the heel of his boot to break the latch. The door slammed open.

The suite was trashed. Blood on the floor. A single high heel by the window. And a man’s body slumped in the chair, head tilted at an impossible angle.

Jack muttered, “Welcome back.”

***

JSB: I’ll let the proverbial cat out of the bag right now. The above was generated by ChatGPT, to the prompt: Write a 200 word opening page to a thriller.

I just wanted to see what it came up. My overall impression is this is a cliché-ridden, implausible scenario with nothing in the style to set it apart.

First cliché: Naming the character Jack. We have more than enough Jacks. Jack is no longer nimble in the thriller world.

Second cliché: cold steel. How many times have we seen that? Not as many as Chat, which has “read” every book on the planet.

Implausibility: If this is a “five-star fortress” hotel, a kick isn’t going to break any latch or slam the door open.

I pointed this out to Chat. It responded:

Great point—and you’re absolutely right to question that. A “five-star fortress” hotel would likely have solid, reinforced doors, especially for privacy and security. Kicking one in would not only be implausible for a lone individual, it would also make a huge racket—drawing attention and making the act feel more like an action movie than a grounded thriller.

To keep it realistic and suspenseful, we can revise that part. For example, Jack could use a hotel passkey he lifted from a distracted staffer earlier, or maybe he knows an old trick from his past life that lets him manipulate a door latch in seconds—something subtle and skill-based rather than brute force.

Well, at least it takes helpful criticism (it’s probably already sucked up last week’s post).

The writing itself is competent. That’s not a virtue. Marian Lizzi, editor-in-chief at Perigee Books (an imprint of Penguin Group USA) once wrote about reasons a submitted book gets turned down by a publishing company. Among them was the following:

Not remarkable/surprising/ unputdownable enough. This one is the most difficult to articulate – and yet in many ways it’s the most important hurdle to clear. Does the proposal get people excited? Will sales reps and buyers be eager to read it – and then eager to talk it up themselves?  

As my first boss used to warn us green editorial assistants two decades ago, the type of submission that’s the toughest to spot – and the most essential to avoid — is the one that is “skillful, competent, literate, and ultimately forgettable.”

That’s what we’re flooded with these days—competent and forgettable fiction. Not the kind that has readers going Ah at the end, but Meh. This does not create what we authors desire most—repeat readers who become super fans.

I won’t go into further detail on how I would change today’s submission from our “brave (new world) author.” I’ll leave that to you. Does this pass our “I would turn the page” test? What would you suggest to improve it?

Taking Criticism

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Recently, I was the subject of a silent auction at a writers conference. The item was a detailed critique of the first 3k words of a novel. The winner sent me her pages and I spent considerable time with comments, suggested edits, and ways to improve.

You never know how someone will take constructive criticism. In my email, I told her not to get discouraged, and that early on in my career I had a brilliant editor who was known for his lengthy, single-spaced editorial letters. Whenever I got one of these I placed it, unopened, on the corner of my desk, and circled around it for a couple of days. I knew there would be ample work to do.

And every time I did the work I came out a better writer.

So when I didn’t hear back from this writer, I wondered if I’d discouraged her. I was about to write her a follow-up email when hers arrived. It read:

Thank you so much for your encouraging words. Your notes throughout provide me with so much I can improve upon. I will keep at it! I am so thankful for you. Thank you for your time spent!

I wrote back and told her, “Now that is the response of a true writer.” Because to my mind, a true writer wants to get better and sees criticism not as an assault but as an ally. That’s the value of a trusted editor or beta reader (see Brother Gilstrap’s recent post and my comment therein).

Of course, not all criticism is constructive; indeed, these days, it’s likely not criticism at all—it’s an eruption of bile directed at the author for some insular and dyspeptic reason. These diatribes are not offered to help a writer, but rather to make the writer feel like this:

I’ve never learned anything from a nasty, negative review. So I don’t read them. (I’ll read good reviews from time to time as a little shot in the arm, perhaps not the best metaphor these days, but there you are.)

Writers worth their salt (an idiom that goes back to how ancient Roman soldiers were paid) seek feedback on a manuscript. Not just to catch obvious errors, which we all make, but to spotlight areas for improvement. It’s up to the author what to do with those notes.

A few suggestions:

1. Find good feedbackers. We’ve talked about editors and beta readers a lot here at TKZ. How to find the good ones is a matter of research, trial, and culling. There are many experienced freelance editors out there. Check their background and client lists. I’ve heard good things about Reedsy. Try gathering some beta readers and cull the list to settle on one or two of the best. When you have those, shoot them some moolah for future critiques.

2. Be objective. To the extent you can, look at the suggestions as if you were a disinterested third party. Some things are worth fighting for, but not if you have a chip on your shoulder.

3. Listen, but remain true to your vision. There’s a famous story about Bennett Cerf, a legendary editor for Random House, suggesting edits to Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. She took a puff on her cigarette and said, “You would not cut zee Bible, would you?” No shrinking violet, Ayn. She won, and Atlas Shrugged still sells tens of thousands of copies a year. When you reach that level, maybe you can say the same thing. Until then, listen, assess, use what is helpful while, at the same time, keep the vision of your book intact.

You’re in this to write books not just for yourself, but in hopes of connecting with readers and turning those readers into fans. If you want to write just for yourself or, heaven forfend, let AI write for you, and throw stuff out there to see if anything sticks, well, it’s not illegal, just ill informed, ill fated, and will probably make most readers ill, too.

But if you want to keep getting better at your craft, form a plan to get helpful criticism. And ignore angry people with a shoe in their hand.

Agree or disagree? Have at it in the comments.

In Search of the Penny Drop

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Mutoscope at Disneyland

In the good old days (you know, before virtual reality, smartphones, TikTok, and even TV and radio) the kids loved to go to penny arcades. So named because almost everything in them cost a penny, they provided brief respite and entertainment from the drudgery of life. 

For that one copper coin you could play games—like the claw-grabbing-a-toy game—or get your fortune told. 

Most popular were Kinetoscopes and Mutoscopes. The former were short silent films, the latter a series of flipping photographs that told a short story. When you first looked into these machines you saw only one image. When your penny dropped you turned a crank and the “show” started. 

Which is where we get the concept of the “penny drop” in mystery fiction. It is that moment where something happens that triggers or points to the final solution. It’s that last bit that allows the sleuth to connect the dots. 

We see it in all classic mysteries, from Holmes to Poirot, Father Brown to Miss Marple, Columbo to Jessica Fletcher.

In my own thrillers, there is usually a mystery at the heart of things. Which means I need that penny drop. It is often the last thing I find. In my personal Scrivener template, I have a penultimate card labeled “Penny Drop” where I scribble notes as I go along. I’ll include memos sent by the Boys in the Basement when I first wake up.

When you nail the penny drop, it’s one of the most satisfying moments of the whole process.

Here is a description of the penny drop from Tom Sawyer’s excellent Fiction Writing Demystified (Note: Sawyer was showrunner for Murder, She Wrote.)

[T]he penny drops for the sleuth at the instant he or she hears, sees, tastes, smells touches or otherwise experiences something which—when combined (usually mentally) with a fact or facts gleaned earlier—tells the detective that till now, everyone in the show has been following false leads. Suddenly, the protagonist has it FIGURED OUT—if not all of it, most of it—and is off and running in the direction of the “Gotcha” scene, leaving the other characters, and the viewers, mystified as to what has been put together, how it has been accomplished, and where he or she plans to go with it.

And here is the #1 most important rule (there, I said it) of all:

[I]t’s important, even if the  penny drop is prompted for the protagonist by some lucky accident or coincidence, that most of the other elements of the equation are earned—the result of his or her doing.

Put that down on a Sticky Note and paste it where you can see it, or better yet burn it into your writer’s memory bank.

Now, mystery writers are all over the map when it comes to the who done it part. Some like to write a discovery draft to find out. Others, me included, like to start with the who and the motive, giving me a “shadow story” that helps create the plot. 

Whatever your approach, you’re going to need the right penny drop. How to find it?

1. Don’t settle on the first thing that comes to mind. It may be the right solution, but allow others to bubble up and audition. In my Romeo WIP, I seriously considered at least six possible drops. I woke up one morning with a seventh in my mind, and that’s the one I chose.

2. Create a visual of all the main characters and look at them from time to time. I use two things for this: A Scapple (a Scrivener app that lets you create mind maps and connection); and a Scrivener corkboard with character photos (since you’re not publishing these, you can use Google images, which is my preferred method. It’s no secret many writers create their own images with AI).

3. Consider all the senses. As Sawyer points out, not every penny drop is visual. There’s sound (see Chesterton’s Father Brown story “The Queer Feet”), smell, taste, touch. Agatha Christie used every one of these at one time or another. 

Of course, not every book has a traditional mystery involved. But I contend page-turning fiction always has mystery elements that keep the reader wondering, Why is this happening? What’s going to happen next? How can the character possibly survive (physically, psychologically, or professionally)?

Instead of solving a murder, you can use the penny drop as a “big reveal” that explains all the happenings to the main character (as in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca) or to the readers themselves (Gone Girl).

It has been announced that the U.S. Mint will soon stop making pennies. I’ll miss them. I used to spend mine on Bazooka bubble gum, with its comics featuring Bazooka Joe. Will it now be a nickel for your thoughts? There’s inflation for you.

Here at TKZ, your thoughts are free, so go ahead and share them!

The Living, Breathing Novel

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

The other night, Mrs. B and I re-watched the 1999 BBC adaptation of David Copperfield. Superb. And what a cast: young Daniel Radcliffe as David, the legendary Maggie Smith as Betsy Trotwood, Bob Hoskins as Micawber, Ian McKellen hilariously chewing the scenery as Mr. Creakle, and so on down the line.

It made me wonder again at how Dickens, with quill and ink, turned out massive tomes, full of plot twists and unforgettable characters, like Peggotty, Steerforth, Mr. Dick, Barkis, Uriah Heep. Dickens never gives us colorless, throwaway story people.

So I went on a little journey to research Dickens’ method. I wanted to find out if he was an outline guy, a pants guy, or something in between. My conclusion is that he started a project with the “big picture” in mind, along with some main characters, but allowed himself room to expand and explore as he went along, with help from a trusted beta reader and his own wife.

We know Dickens wrote in serial form, sometimes in periodicals, sometimes in pamphlets. I read somewhere that anxious readers would often gather at the docks when the boats came in with the delivery of the latest installment.

I discovered a massive biography of Dickens by John Forster, the man who read almost everything Dickens wrote before it was published. In the clip below, Forster tells about the writing of Oliver Twist. (“Kate” was Dickens’ wife.)

Then, on a “Tuesday night,” at the opening of August, he wrote, “Hard at work still. Nancy is no more. I showed what I have done to Kate last night, who was in an unspeakable ‘state’ from which and my own impression I augur well. When I have sent Sikes to the devil, I must have yours.”

“No, no,” he wrote, in the following month: “don’t, don’t let us ride till to-morrow, not having yet disposed of Fagin, who is such an out-and-outer that I don’t know what to make of him.” No small difficulty to an inventor, where the creatures of his invention are found to be as real as himself.

The ending of The Old Curiosity Shop was suggested by Forster:

He [Dickens] had not thought of killing her [Little Nell], when, about half-way through, I asked him to consider whether it did not necessarily belong even to his own conception, after taking so mere a child through such a tragedy of sorrow, to lift her also out of the commonplace of ordinary happy endings so that the gentle pure little figure and form should never change to the fancy. All that I meant he seized at once, and never turned aside from it again.

This sums up the Dickens “method”:

Its [The Old Curiosity Shop] effect as a mere piece of art, too, considering the circumstances in which I have shown it to be written, I think very noteworthy. It began with a plan for but a short half-dozen chapters; it grew into a full-proportioned story under the warmth of the feeling it had inspired its writer with; its very incidents created a necessity at first not seen; and it was carried to a close only contemplated after a full half of it had been written.

I draw a few lessons from Mr. Dickens.

1. Plan your novel, but give it room to breathe. Dickens didn’t sit down with no idea of where he was going. He started with a main character in mind, a set of problems for that character, some secondary characters, and an envisioned outcome. But for each section he wrote he was flexible in how things developed. He could change his plan or his characters if he so desired. I can’t prove this, but I have a feeling James Steerforth in David Copperfield was such a character. Initially a hero to David, he became the driver of the tragic Little Emily subplot.

2. Unforgettable fiction is written when you are imbued with “warmth and feeling.” Note: You can’t get that from a machine. You get candy bars and soft drinks from a machine, not living, breathing, blood-pounding, heart-racing fiction, the only kind that turns browsers into readers, and readers into fans.

3. You produce warmth and feeling by experiencing the lives of your characters. The great alchemy of unforgettable fiction is moving your characters from your head to your heart. The great Dwight Swain wrote: “People read fiction for feeling. Whether they know it or not, they grope for stimuli that move them. The thing in fiction that gives them this stimulation is emotion projected through characters.”

You’ve got to feel the emotion before you can project it. An added benefit, Swain says, is that this how you produce “zest”—the “best way to escape the fatigue and boredom that endless hours of writing often bring.”

Recall what Forster said, that “the creatures of his invention are found to be as real as himself.” In the 1850 preface to David Copperfield, Dickens wrote:

I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret—pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions—that I am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private emotions.

4. Get the benefit of another set of eyes. A great editor or beta reader is gold. You’re too close to your manuscript to spot subtle—or sometimes obvious—errors. You may be blind to an obvious plot hole or undeveloped character motivation. If you don’t deal with them now, readers and reviewers will deal with them later.

5. Be developing your next project. Dickens had a family to support and debts to be paid. He always had a next project in mind. He kept a notebook of ideas. Forster: “In it were put down any hints or suggestions that occurred to him. A mere piece of imagery or fancy, it might be at one time; at another the outline of a subject or a character; then a bit of description or dialogue; no order or sequence being observed in any. Titles for stories were set down too, and groups of names for the actors in them.”

And that’s not humbug. Comments welcome.

The Long and Short (Story) of It

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

If I may indulge in a little horn toot today. My latest release has dropped—just don’t drop it on your foot. Because the print version comes in at a honkin’ 612 pages (173k words). It looks nice on a shelf but will also work as an emergency doorstop. It sells for $28.95.

The ebook is considerably lighter, and is a “steal” at the special launch price of just $3.49. You might want to hop on that, as the price goes up to $6.99 in a few days.

Down These Streets is a complete collection of my short stories. From the introduction:

I’ve always considered short stories the hardest kind of fiction to write and—at the same time and in the right (write) hands—the most powerful form of storytelling.

I can still feel the emotional jolt of many Hemingway stories. “Soldier’s Home,” “Hills Like White Elephants,” and “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” come to mind. Even the work that got Hemingway the Nobel Prize, The Old Man and the Sea, is really a novella, coming in at a modest 27,000 words. But you’re knocked out at the end. The old man was dreaming about the lions.

In college I was fortunate to get into a workshop overseen by an acknowledged master of literary short stories, Raymond Carver. From him I learned the value of “the telling detail,” a small item in a story that reveals a universe of a character’s inner life.

The term literary is used primarily to distinguish such stories from other genres, like pulp fiction. Oh, how I love the world of classic pulp (1920-1950), so named because these magazines were printed on cheap, wood-pulp paper so the publishers could sell them for a dime or a quarter on newsstands. Writers like Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Carroll John Daly, and Erle Stanley Gardner ushered in the hardboiled school of pulp writing.

In junior high, I found another kind of short story in Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. Here were flights of imagination mixed with sparkling prose and a “kicker” ending. Man, I wanted to be able to write like that (a desire not uncommon to nascent writers reading Bradbury). He seemed to be saying to me, “The door is open to my story world. Come in! But keep watch, for you never know what’s waiting for you at the end.”

This collection, then, is my homage to all these styles. There are stories with a twist, stories with a heart (the “literary” type), and stories with a punch (about a 1950s boxer in L.A. named Irish Jimmy Gallagher).

My title is taken from a Raymond Chandler essay on the fictional detective, which every pulp writer knows practically by heart. It begins: “Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.”

I’ve also included a good chunk of my flash fiction (stories under 1,000 words). These are perfect when you need some quick escapism, or are fighting boredom in a waiting room or the grocery store line.

In fact, there are stories for any occasion—except, perhaps, rock climbing.

The door is open. Come in, enjoy, but keep close watch—because you never know what’s waiting for you at the end…

Order on Amazon.

Outside the U.S. go to your Kindle store and search for: B0FD4RYY9P

The main craft tip I have on short stories is this: every successful short story is about “one shattering moment.” That moment can be quiet or big; subtle or blunt; or a great plot twist that changes everything. And it can happen in five different places:

  1. Before the story begins (the story itself shows the aftermath of the moment)
  2. At or near the beginning
  3. In the middle, changing the entire trajectory
  4. At the end (best place for that juicy twist)
  5. After the story (the implied shatter)

I even wrote a book about this, with examples. But I don’t want you to buy that book. Not today, at least! Today the star is my own collection.

Thanks for your kind indulgence.

What’s one of your favorite short stories?

Lessons From Literary Dads

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there! Don’t forget to tell a #DadJoke today.

What happened when two slices of bread went on a date? It was loaf at first sight.

Thank you! Tip your server on the way out.

Which brings me to four literary dads and what we can learn from them.

Atticus Finch

At the top of the list is, of course, Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird. A widower, Atticus is faced with the prospect of raising two young children without a mother. His daughter, Scout, presents a particular problem. She has budding prejudices as the result of her social environment, the deep South of the 1930s. She also likes to solve her disputes with boys by beating them up.

His greatest challenge is the heart of the book. It’s when he is asked by a local judge to undertake the defense of Tom Robinson, a black man accused of raping a white girl. Atticus takes the case, knowing he is going to lose. So why does he do it? He tries to explain it to Scout:

“Scout,” said Atticus, “when summer comes you’ll have to keep your head about far worse things…it’s not fair for you and Jem, I know that, but sometimes we have to make the best of things, and the way we conduct ourselves when the chips are down – well, all I can say is, when you and Jem are grown, maybe you’ll look back on this with some compassion and some feeling that I didn’t let you down. This case, Tom Robinson’s case, is something that goes to the essence of a man’s conscience – Scout, I couldn’t go to church and worship God if I didn’t try to help that man.”

Lesson: Live by the higher ideals, even if they fail in some circumstances, or any hope for civilization crumbles.

Daniel Peggotty

In David Copperfield, Daniel Peggotty offers a crucial counterpoint to David’s cold-hearted stepfather, Mr. Murdstone, as well as the odious and oily Uriah Heep (one of the best character names ever). Daniel’s love and loyalty to his family is the epitome of paternal virtue. He is the brother of David’s beloved nurse, Clara Peggotty, and happily welcomes young David into his home, treating him as he would a family member.

In particular, his devotion to his niece, Little Em’ly, results in a sacrificial quest to save her after she runs away with James Steerforth. He declares, “I’m a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any hurt should come to me, remember that the last words I left for her was, ‘My unchanged love is with my darling child, and I forgive her!’”

Lesson: A father protects his family, no matter the cost.

Vito Corleone

Wait, what? Don Vito Corleone in The Godfather? He’s the opposite of Atticus Finch, operating on the wrong side of the law. He has murdered and ordered murders. Now as he ages, he knows the future of his family is in the hands of his youngest son, Michael. Here he is, warning Michael of an impending attempt on his life…and sharing his sadness at Michael’s fate.

So why do we care at all about Vito Corleone? He’s the head of a crime family, for crying out loud. I think there’s a literary secret here. You can pull for a character who is not entirely good if, within the story context, he is “better” than the other bad people around him. In the case of The Godfather, Vito has refused to partner with another Mafia family in the drug trade. This leads to his attempted assassination. Thus, Michael’s revenge is understandable within that story world.

Lesson: You can love your children, but crime still doesn’t pay.

King Lear

Boy, what a bad dad. Which shows us we can learn from the negative (the raison d’etre of tragedy).

Lear is the opposite of Daniel Peggotty. Instead of familial loyalty to all three of his daughters, he rewards vain flattery and punishes the one daughter who expresses love, Cordelia. It isn’t long before the other daughters, Goneril and Regan, conspire to strip him of his power. He’s left a wandering lunatic, and runs for Congress. (I may be misinterpreting that last point.)

Lesson: Pride goeth before a fall. So, despite what TikTok says, life is not all about you.

In the immortal words of Graham Nash, we must “have a code that you can live by/And so, become yourself.” Nash wrote movingly about the inspiration for this song:

The origin of the song came from my recent infatuation with art. I had begun collecting photographs around that time, powerful images that had an emotional effect on me. One, in particular, was a Diane Arbus image of a boy in Central Park. It spoke volumes to me. The kid was only about nine or ten years old, but his expression bristled with intense anger. He had a plastic grenade clenched in a fist, but it seemed to me that if it were real the kid would have thrown it. The consequences it implied startled me. I thought, “If we don’t start teaching our kids a better way of dealing with each other, humanity will never succeed.”

Enjoy your day, dads. You matter.

Grammar Still Matters, Don’t It?

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

What does a grammatically correct owl say? “Whom, whom.”

We all know the language, and the uses thereof, have fallen on hard times. Don’t U feel it 2? Texting, combined with the loss of grammar studies in schools, have set us on the slide toward becoming the Eloi, that docile future race in the The Time Machine who barely talk and are easy prey for the Morlocks.

Sites like X are rife with mistakes, of course, due to dull thinking and quick typing. I recall one of those innumerable back-and-forths dripping with vitriol, where someone ended with this zinger: Your ignirance is not a good look. That used to be called being “hoist on your own petard.” (Now it’s a “self own.”)

In the golden age of newspapers, you had reporters who pounded out stories that were examined by crusty, eagle-eyed editors with blue pencils and cigars, who put the writers through their paces.

What great wordsmiths we had then. I grew up reading the L.A. Times when it was owned by the Chandlers, and had columnists like Jim Murray, Jack Smith, and Al Martinez. And then there were the syndicated writers like Art Buchwald and Jimmy Breslin; and for laughs, Erma Bombeck.

Not to mention the workaday reporters who wrote clear, concise, and factual (remember factual?) stories.

As the publisher Joseph Pulitzer (for whom the prize is named) said of newspaper stories: “Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it, and above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light.”

Did you notice the word whom in the above parenthetical? That’s because I learned the trick of saying the sentence using him or them, and noticing the m, which means you use whom.

But today, with instant digital publishing and the lack of educated editors, we get the “mistake creep” that threatens to become epidemic. Here are just a few examples I’ve collected over the years:

The trick play gave Georgia a 14-0 lead, while the Michigan defense looked lost on defense on consecutive drives. (Where else would a defense look lost?)

Which doesn’t quite jive with Sunday’s piece. (I’m as much a fan of jazz as the next guy, but jibe is the word.)

I don’t know if the victory that’s already been had will get the attention commiserate with its significance. (Um, commensurate.)

Both real estate agents were reticent in not requesting an amendment to the contract of sale at the time the buyer made the statement. (Reticent means reluctant in speech. The word should be negligent.)

Besides being an alumni at the university, Smith revealed that the young woman also attended the graduate school. (The singular for a female graduate is alumna, but that’s another can of worms. Worse is that the object of the first part of the sentence is the young woman, not Smith. That’s a common error following the comma in a prepositional phrase. See the next example.)

As someone born in 1985, Reagan was long gone from the national scene when I came of age politically. (A neat trick to serve as president before you’re even born.)

I didn’t like it when my beloved English teacher, Mrs. Bruce, made us parse sentences. But I learned. Today, students do that homework by typing, “Grok, parse this sentence for me.”

I’ll quickly add, however, that AI can check your writing like one of those old-time editors, and that’s a valuable tool. Just be sure to ask for notes, not a re-write. Preserve your voice and your humanity. And know that AI may skip aspects of your writing that could be sharpened, so keep on learning your craft. That’s why I keep a copy of Strunk & White and Jan Venola’s Write Right! by my desk. And every so often review my heavily highlighted copy of William Zinsser’s On Writing Well.

An article from Writer’s Digest (Aug. 2002, written by Becky Ohlsen) contains some solid advice on avoiding grammar and stylistic pitfalls.

Lose the flab, modifiers that say nothing, e.g., really, truly, very.

Sentences that start with “There was” or “There are.” Rewriting makes the sentence stronger.
NOT: “There were three people dancing in the street.”
THIS: “Three people danced in the street.”

Do a search for adverbs, words ending with -ly. Find a stronger verb.
INSTEAD OF: “He ran excitedly down the hill.”
THIS: “He bounded down the hill.”

Replace vague adjectives with actual description.
INSTEAD OF: “His shirt was quite loud.”
THIS: “His shirt was iridescent chartreuse with an orange quilted collar and 16 whalebone buttons.”

And learn the differences between homophones (words that sound alike). Two common mistakes:

Affect vs. Effect. A retired managing editor once explained it this way: The verb affect means to influence; the noun effect is the result of the influence. Example: How you spell will affect (influence) your pay. The effect (result) of poor spelling may be a pay cut.

Principal vs. Principle. A simple trick is to remember that principle is like a rule (both words end in –le). A principal is a main thing (the –a in main reminds you of the –al in principal).

Yeah, it’s work. But do you want your prose flabby or firm? Do you want readers putting your book down (at The End, mind you) with the feeling they especially enjoyed that ride, even if they can’t identify why? Do you want them anxious to find more of your work, or have them muttering, Meh, it was okay…

Up to you.

By the way, my favorite movie about a crusty but benign newspaper editor is Teacher’s Pet with Clark Gable and Doris Day.

So what is your relationship with grammar? Any common goofs you see out there that chap your hide? 

Satisfaction, Hey Hey Hey

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

There are two questions which currently occupy the greatest minds of our generation.

First, how does quantum physics explain the existence of the cosmos?

And second, how is Keith Richards still alive?

The latter inquiry was the subject of a recent article.

Richards shared with The Telegraph he quit smoking in 2019 and hasn’t lit up since. Additionally, he kicked his heroin habit in 1979 and stopped doing cocaine in 2006. However, Richards does indulge in a cocktail every so often, but he doesn’t drink to excess anymore.

He said, “I still like a drink occasionally – because I’m not going to heaven any time soon – but apart from that, I’m trying to enjoy being straight. It’s a unique experience for me.”

Being on the straight-and-narrow must be unique for someone like Richards, who has been tied so closely to “the rock and roll lifestyle.” There have been plenty of jokes made about his drinking and drug use over the years. Frankly, it’s a miracle he’s alive.

Keith Richards rocks on

Alive and rocking. At 81, he just had a solo effort hit the UK charts with Live 3.10.22, backed by the band the X-Pensive Winos.

Richards, of course, co-wrote with Mick the monster hit “Satisfaction,” as in “I can’t get no…” The song is about the vapidity of consumerism and the frustrated pursuit of, ahem, amorous congress.

Which brings us to the question of the day: Do you get satisfaction from writing fiction?

There’s an old saying: I don’t like writing; I like having written. I have never related to that, even when the writing is frustrating, as it often is. Because working through the frustration to a breakthrough is one of the most satisfying feelings a writer can have.

I’ve written before about the “30k Wall.” Most of my novels have run into that edifice, but each time I found—after a period of agony—the way around or through it. That’s a great feeling! And it comes out of the frustration, not in spite of it. Hello frustration, my old friend (apologies to Simon and Garfunkel).

Here are some other things that give me satisfaction as a writer:

  • Writing a particularly sparkling sentence.
  • Coming up with a twist.
  • Bringing a character to life.
  • Receiving a nod of approval from my tough but compassionate first editor, Mrs. B.
  • Seeing what needs to be fixed and figuring out how to fix it.
  • Writing an ending with resonance, especially when it brings a tear.
  • Nurturing a killer idea for a new project.
  • Finding just the right “mirror moment.”
  • Getting a startlingly good memo from The Boys in the Basement.
  • Hitting the flow state as I write.

In fact, they all make me more than satisfied. They make me happy.

This kind of joy cannot be handed to you by a bot. It only comes from “doing the work.”

I know there is a very small subsection of typists (I hesitate to use the term writer) out there who think writing fiction should never be “work.” It should only be “fun.” It should never involve taking constructive criticism, or sweating the small stuff (or the big stuff, for that matter), or even editing beyond the occasional search for typos. Books written this way may be fun for the creator, but not for the reader.

On the other hand, Mr. Stephen King extols the value of revising after others have read the manuscript. In On Writing he explains that his first editor is his wife, Tabitha. Then: “In addition to Tabby’s first read, I usually send manuscripts to between four and eight other people who have critiqued my stories over the years.” His practice is “two drafts and a polish.” In other words, does the work, and I’m absolutely certain he’ll break out someday.

“The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary.” – Vince Lombardi

Where do you find satisfaction in your writing life?

Reader Friday: What Happens Next?

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Fredric Brown (1906 – 1972) was a spec-fiction pulp writer and a master of flash fiction—short-short stories with a twist. (I love his collection Nightmares and Geezenstacks.) He wrote a famous story called “Knock” which begins:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.

Without looking up the story, write the next line (or paragraph if you are so moved).

And AFTER you’ve done so, you may read the story here.

What Writers Can Learn From Stagecoach

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

In recent years, when I’ve done live teaching, I’ve noticed something. The audience keeps getting younger.

How’s that happen?

And I’ve noticed something else which astonishes me. More and more of these aspiring writers have never seen Casablanca! Or lots of the old classics.

Let me remove my ear horn for a moment and declare that when I was their age, everyone who wanted to write—indeed, most everyone at all with a streak of the artist in them—knew classic movies from the “golden age” of American cinema.

Yeah, I know, it’s generational. When I was a lad, we had three networks and a few local channels. We didn’t have 24/7 stimuli pounding our eyes and ears. We knew the richness of movie history—the poetry of Ford, the heart of Capra, the pure genius of Welles, the mean streets of noir. Astaire-Rogers. Tracy-Hepburn. Bogart-Bacall.

I’ve heard on more than one occasion from someone in their 20s or 30s that they just don’t like black-and-white films. They would rather watch full-color TikTok videos of dancing parrots and people slipping on ice than the greatest movies ever made. It’s a pity, because writers can learn so much from past masters of film.

Case in point is Stagecoach (1939), directed by John Ford.

This is the movie that turned John Wayne into John Wayne. In 1926, when he was playing football at USC, Wayne (then known by his given name, Marion Morrison) got summer work moving props for the studios. One day John Ford walked by. Knowing Wayne was a football player, as Ford himself had been, the director challenged Wayne to try and knock him down. Wayne, not knowing how important this guy was, did so. Ford took an immediate shine to the strapping lad.

For most of the 1930s, Wayne starred in low-budget, forgettable Westerns produced on “Poverty Row.” But when it came time to cast the central character of the Ringo Kid in Stagecoach, Ford fought to cast Wayne. The rest, as they say, is history.

While Stagecoach has many familiar tropes of the traditional Western—Apache attack, the cavalry, bars, a climactic gunfight—most of the movie is a tight drama about nine people on a stagecoach journey across the prairie to a town called Lordsburg. How did that plot birth a classic?

Orchestration

First and foremost, all the characters are distinct and contrasting. I call this orchestration. Just like different instruments blending together create a beautiful symphony, so disparate characters make for compelling drama (and, I might add, comedy).

Played by some of the best character actors of the day, we have:

  • A drunken doctor (Thomas Mitchell, who won the Best Supporting Actor Oscar)
  • A nervous little whiskey drummer (Donald Meek)
  • A sly, Southern gambler (John Carradine, based on Doc Holliday)
  • A woman of ill repute (Claire Trevor)
  • A pregnant wife trying to get to her soldier husband (Louise Platt)
  • A goofy driver (Andy Devine)
  • A bank embezzler (Berton Churchill)
  • A sheriff (George Bancroft)

John Wayne as the Ringo Kid

Along the way they pick up Ringo (with a great visual intro of Wayne spinning his Winchester, an image for the ages). The sheriff places him under arrest.

Lesson: A great novel orchestrates its cast. Even the minor characters. This enables endless possibilities for conflict and tension. Take time with this when planning (or pantsing), as it will pay big dividends as you unfold your story.

Style

Ford was one of the great visual artists of cinema. Parts of Stagecoach were filmed in what became Ford’s favorite outdoor venue—Monument Valley. His use of horizon and sky is unmatched (see also The Searchers). He once said, “Monument Valley is the place where God placed the West.”

His interiors are just as striking. His use of light and shadow is masterful in Stagecoach because it’s in black-and-white.

Lesson: I liken this to a writer’s style. We’ve had lots of discussions about this. Is it worth it to hunt for the right word? The right sound? Or in this age of pervasive sameness, now churned out by bots, is such care merely slowing us down in our pursuit of prolificity and page reads?

You have to decide for yourself. John Ford could have churned out Westerns every few weeks, like the Poverty Row guys. He could have added mere content to the glut. Instead, he made his movies unforgettable, shot by shot.

This is where voice comes in. Take some time to develop this “secret power.” It will lift your work above the lifeless ubiquity of botness that marks our era.

Stretching the Tension

The stagecoach journey is leading up to Ringo finding Luke Plummer and his brothers in Lordsburg, to avenge the murder of his father and brother. The last part of the movie is the countdown to the gunfight.

Ford doesn’t rush it. He begins with Luke and his boys in a saloon, hearing that Ringo is in town. Doc Boone (Mitchell) has a tense encounter with Plummer, warning him that if he takes the shotgun just handed to him, he’ll have him indicted for murder. The moment stretches. Will Plummer gun down the doctor? Smash him in the face? This silent moment lasts nearly seconds. Finally, with a wry smile, Plummer tosses the shotgun on the bar top. “We’ll tend to you later,” he says. When he and his two brothers walk out, Doc takes a swift drink. “Don’t ever let me do that again,” he says to the barkeep.

Outside, a woman on the balcony tosses Plummer a rifle.

We cut to the newspaper office. The editor rushes in and tells his typesetter, “Kill that story about the Republican convention and take this down. The Ringo Kid was killed on Main Street in Lordsburg tonight! Among the additional dead were…leave that blank for a spell.”

“I didn’t hear any shooting,” the typesetter says.

“You will.”

Step by step, the Plummer boys head for the showdown. Ringo, spurs jingling (another trope), comes up the other end of the street.

Lesson: When you’ve created a good, tight scene with great tension, don’t cut it off too soon. Stretch that tension. Read the opening of Koontz’s Whispers, which takes 17 pages to describe a rapist stalking a woman in a house. Study the last fifty pages of a Jonathan Grave thriller. Stretch tension as far as you can in a first draft. You can always cut back when you edit. But I think you’ll find you won’t want to.

Twist in the Tail

Usually in a Western, the climactic gun battle ends the movie. The townspeople gather around the hero and his woman embraces him; or the lone hero mounts his horse and quietly rides into the sunset as THE END appears.

In Stagecoach, there’s an added beat, because Ringo is still under arrest and headed for prison…or is he?

I’m not going to tell you because I want you to watch the movie!

Suffice to say it’s perfect.

A twist in the tail is a super satisfying way to end a story. And to bring us back to Casablanca (watch it now!), that movie has perhaps the most famous tail twist of all time, the one that ends with, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Lesson: How do you come up with a great twist in the tail? You write two, three, of even more possible endings. Choose the best one for your actual ending, then use the next best for your twist.

Here’s a further hint. A great ending often involves sacrifice; the hero offers his life (Casablanca) for a greater good. But the twist gives him a reward, a new beginning, another chance at life. It’s right there in Stagecoach, too.

As film critic Roger Ebert said, “Stagecoach holds our attention effortlessly and is paced with the elegance of a symphony. Ford doesn’t squander his action and violence in an attempt to whore for those with short attention spans, but tells a story.”

Wouldn’t you like to tell a story like that?

Comments welcome.