By John Gilstrap

I have been blessed with nice offices my entire professional life. Not that I’ve always had an office job, or that my office jobs didn’t take me out into the field for many days out of the year, but when I was in town, in headquarters, I always had a door and walls. In several of my Big Boy jobs, I could look beyond my door to see other toiling in the cubical farm, but I’ve never had to endure the challenge of trying to concentrate in a crowd.

Ninety percent of the time, my door remained open, especially in my true safety engineering days, working at the explosives plant, because the open door encouraged drop-ins. “Hey, John, there’s a problem, I think, down at Building 240 . . .” On the flip side, the open door allowed me to catch in the hallway that person I needed to talk to who was never in his own office.

If my office door was closed–or is closed today–it’s a rare enough event that everyone knows I need to be alone. Back in the day, it could have been because of a personnel issue or a classified project, but now it’s because I’m in the Zone, or on a phone call or doing a YouTube video or Zoom meeting.

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I like comfort and I like my things. My stuff. Don’t get me wrong. I can be productive in a hotel room or sitting at a bar or in a coffee shop, but to feel at home, I want to feel special in my office space.

The office furniture I’d had for the past fifteen years or so was designed for a different time and for different priorities. My desk had a big cabinet for my tower computer and a slide out tray for my keyboard along with chases for a few cords. If I wanted to write with pen and paper–which I frequently do–I merely slid the keyboard into its slot and worked on the desk space. None of this affected the music I was listening to from the Bose CD player on the bookshelf.

Now, my laptop is my only computer. The keyboard tray is still the proper typing height, but I could no longer slide the tray in without closing the lid on the computer, which was also the source of the music or white noise I was listening to, not to mention the gateway to the internet research I needed to take notes on as I wrote by hand. It just didn’t work for me anymore, and after the move to West Virginia, the furniture didn’t really fit the space.

So, I designed myself a new office.

I like dark colors and I like the look of the hard surfaces. My old office provided just one horizontal surface and it was hard to access if I wanted to do anything by hand,. Here, the wrap-around design allows me to swing my chair around and have immediate access to more desk.

But let’s talks about some of the stuff.

This little guy never had a name but he was my childhood Teddy bear. One of my most prized possessions, he got me through some tough times.

On October 19, 1983 at 3:10pm, a contaminated batch of propellant for the Navy’s Standard Missile Program exploded about 400 yards from my office. The pressure wave blew in my window and collapsed my ceiling. This piece of shrapnel missed me.

While I was researching SIX MINUTES TO FREEDOM, President Bush invited Kurt Muse and me to Houston so that we could interview him for 20 minutes. We stayed for and hour and a half.

I was invited to teach a writing class to the military and civilians at Guantanamo. While there, I was interviewed by the base radio station, where I got a Fidel Castro bobblehead. The station motto is, “Rockin’ in Fidel’s Backyard.”

I’ve been trading Jonathan Grave challenge coins for a while now–long enough to put together a nice collection. Every one of those represents service to the nation or the community. It warms my heart to look at them.

A little daily encouragement from Dad.

And now, finally, time to go back to work.

By PJ Parrish

I was about fourteen when I read The Collector by John Fowles. Probably too young for a novel about a lonely pyschopath who abducts a young woman and keeps her captive in a remote English farmhouse. But in those days, during my peripatetic teenage existance, I was captive in whatever library was nearby. So I read a lot of inappropriate stuff, including most of Nabokov. Even today, novels about captives get to me, in a way other thrillers do not. I don’t mean thrillers wherein a child is kidnapped and the clock is ticking. Or even wherein the victim is long gone and the cold case haunt-hunt is on. I like the books where the captive still has a voice. This is what we have here with today’s First Page Critique. Not merely a captive. But a voice. Let’s read and then talk.

Never Spoken

She was eight years in chains. I think I’ve been in this place, one window, barred and filthy, lights too high to reach, bed, water, battery radio and a book, about 25 weeks now. She endured eight years in the book. I am a novice.

I’ve talked to no one. Well, I have grunted with; the faceless person that brings me food and water each day, but no talk.

I know why I am here. Money of course. Someone is probably telling some grand story about political values to those who will listen, the press loves that stuff. But I am pretty sure it is money.

And I am fine. No injuries. I sleep at night, read during the day, listen to the news, watch out the window. I am fed fresh food. Better than the packaged crap from Tesco. They probably do this to keep the evidence trail concealed. In the book she said she never knew if they were going to rape her or just kill her. They did neither, but they fed her well. Fresh food, no packaging.

She said rape or “just kill”. She thought killing was better.

I have learned sounds. In the book she says that where senses lack, sound is easiest to be entertained with. She said not to think about the why, as that will drive you crazy. She said make it all a game and play with it. So, I play with my senses. I didn’t at first, but it’s been a half year now. It is a game.

I can hear vehicles come and go outside. There is a door a few rooms away, that gives a creak, just before it latches with a click. Water runs in the wall from above, toilet flush or drain. I am starting to be annoyed by it, as if I am the second-floor tenant in a three-floor walk-up.

I hear the coffee in the morning, a moka pot, he makes good coffee. I hear his footsteps when he is walking to my hatch. I call it the doggie door, big enough to pass things through but too small to climb through unless I starve myself.

And I have the book. A book on being a hostage in first person narrative. A book he gave me without instruction, a guide on how to survive or die, my choice.

_________________________________________

I really like this submission. Yes, it has a couple of issues, including with its opening paragraph, which with a little tweaking can go from good to really tantalyzing. We’ll get to that in a second. But allow me a little rope so we can talk first about this sub-genre of captive narrators. What interests me in these novels is not so much the solving of the crime as the psychological push-and-pull in the narrative (or in many cases dual narratives).

In John Fowles The Collector, we are introduced to the abductor, Frederick Clegg. This first person narrive sets up his chilling, self-justifying thought process and his obsession with his victim Miranda. But part 2 switches to Miranda’s diary, and we see her as a completely different person that Clegg believes her to be. We get her perspective on her own fears, inner demons and, this being John Fowles, her thoughts on class struggle.

{{{{Spoiler alert}}}}

The ending is bleak. Clegg finds her diary and plans a suicide pact. Miranda dies from neglect. After he reads in the diary that she never loved him, he buries her body. The final scene is Clegg in a nearby town, stalking another young girl who resembles Miranda.

Another captive novel I liked is Chevy Steven’s Still Missing. The first person narrator is abducted but the narrative toggles between then and eight years later, where she is trying to re-piece her psyche via psychiatry sessions. (Hence the title, she is still missing).

And so to our submission. Like Chevy Stevens does, our writer relies heavily on sensory details to create tension and gain our sympathy. Here’s Steven’s description of the abduction moment:

I realized he was too close behind me. Something hard pressed into my lower back.
I tried to turn around, but he grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back so fast and so painfully I thought a piece of my scalp would tear off. My heart slammed against my rib cage, and blood roared in my head. I willed my legs to kick out, run— to do something, anything— but I couldn’t make them move.

“Yes, Annie, that’s a gun, so please listen carefully. I’m going to let go of your hair and you’re going to remain calm while we take a walk out to my van. And I want you to keep that pretty smile on your face while we do that, okay?”

“I—I can’t—” I can’t breathe.

Voice low and calm against my ear, he said, “Take a deep breath, Annie.”

I sucked in a lungful.

“Let it out nice and easy.”

I exhaled slowly.

“Again.” The room came back into focus.

“Good girl.” He released my hair.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I could feel the gun grinding into my spine as he used it to push me forward. He urged me out the front door and down
the steps, humming a little melody. While we walked to his van, he whispered into my ear.

“Relax, Annie. Just pay attention to what I tell you and we won’t have any problems. Don’t forget to keep smiling.”

As we moved farther from the house I looked around— somebody had to be seeing this— but no one was in sight. I could hear small sounds behind me, could tell he was doing something back there, preparing for something. I waited for the click of the gun being cocked. My body shook with terror. Was this it for me? My life was going to end with me facedown in the back of a van? I felt a needle stab into the back of my thigh. I fl inched and tried to reach back to touch it. Fire crawled up my leg.

When she wakes up, again Steven keeps with SENSORY DETAILS: the feel of a scratchy blanket, the faint scent of perfume. A pillowcase in the wrong color. This is what our writer today is doing well — the creak of a door and a click as it closes, the smell of coffee, the sound of running water and a toilet flushing above. The writer is giving us JUST ENOUGH sensory detail so we can FEEL her limited existence. The writer is trying to show us, not tell us, the horror.

Another thing I like about this submission: The mysterious book. It is introduced in the first paragraph, a veritable Chekov’s gun. Chevkov advised other writers: “If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.” Our writer tells us book was given to her so she can learn from a previous hostage how to survive. Nice! I have to trust this book will figure prominently in the plot. If not, well, I will sic Chekov’s ghost on you, dear writer.

Now, one last comment before we go to a little line editing. That opening paragraph. It has two terrific teases inbedded in it: The book. And the fact the book’s writer endured her captivity for eight years, and our narrative has a long rough road ahead. A really good set-up.

But if I might, I am going to suggest that the paragraph can be better. It’s a tad confusing as it. I don’t normally rewrite, but I can’t help it here. Maybe something like this:

She was here for eight years. I think I’ve been in this place for only about six months now. I am not chained like she was. I can move around my prison some. One window, barred and filthy, lights too high to reach, a bed, a water bucket, a battery radio. And one book. The book she left here. The book she wrote. Eight years…

I am a novice.

Now this might not exactly serve your purpose. But the book is THE TELLING DETAIL. I strongly suggest you break it out on its own. I also think the novice line needs to stand on its own, as it goes right to the heart of her mindset.

Speaking of mindsets, I will ask the group: Do you think this needs a tad more emotion in her thoughts? She seems awfully at ease with her situation, given that the writer stresses what is tolerable, rather than terrifying, about it. I get no really gripping sense of terror from our narrator.

A quick line edit, as this is pretty clean. My comments in red.

She was eight years in chains. If you want to keep this detail, you have to tell us if the narrator is also chained. If you mean this symbolically, I don’t think you need it. I think I’ve been in this place, one window, barred and filthy, lights too high to reach, bed, water, battery radio and a book, about 25 weeks now. She endured eight years in the book. I am a novice. Like this paragraph kicker. But note rewrite suggestion.

I’ve talked to no one. Well, I have grunted with; the faceless person that brings me food and water small detail: You said she has water in her “cell.” each day, but no talk. She has a hatch or dog door, no? Can she see anything? A telling detail: what kind of shoes does he wear? Beat-up sneakers or shiny broques hint at something. You need to start building the bad guy in the reader’s imagination.

I know why I am here. Money of course. Someone is probably telling some grand story about political values to those who will listen. The press loves that stuff. But I am pretty sure it is money. You said she has a radio. Surely in 6 months she has heard news of her abduction. Why be so vague? WHO IS MISSING HER? You missed a chance to drop a nugget about her background. If this is about money, she comes from wealth, no? Can you give a hint? 

And I am fine. No injuries. I sleep at night, read during the day, listen to the news, watch out the window. I am fed fresh food. Better than the packaged crap from Tesco. So we are in UK. I only know that cuz I Googled Tesco. Might want to drop another hint. They probably do this to keep the evidence trail concealed. I don’t understand this line. In the book she said she never knew if they were going to rape her or just kill her. They did neither, but they fed her well. Fresh food, no packaging.

She said rape or “just kill”. She thought killing was better. Are you going to quote from the book at all? I think you should as it not only creates tension but HUMANIZES the previous hostage! You might want to start here. Rather than TELL us what she wrote why not begin to show it. Something like:

It was one of the many lines from the book I had committed to memory: “I don’t know if they are going to rape me or just kill me. I now pray it’s the second.”

I have learned sounds. A problem with first person is you have to use a lot of “I” to open graphs;.you have three in a row. Something simple like inversion: Sounds are important, I have found. In the book she says that where senses lack, sound is easiest to be entertained with. She said not to think about the why, as that will drive you crazy. She said make it all a game and play with it. So, I play with my senses. I didn’t at first, but it’s been a half year now. It is a game.

I can hear vehicles come and go outside. Try to make this work harder. Does she hear tires on gravel? The wheeze of an old engine. Can you make her more perceptive via what she hears, that she thinks she’s in the country vs a city? Six months is a long time. WHAT HAS SHE LEARNED??? There is a door a few rooms away,she can’t know that, only that it is nearby that gives a creak, just before it latches with a click. Water runs in the wall from above, toilet flush or drain. I am starting to be annoyed by it, as if I am the second-floor tenant in a three-floor walk-up. Again, she sounds oddly blase about her situation. Annoyed? 

I hear the coffee in the morning, a moka pot, A have a moka; it makes no particular noise so your sensory detail is off here. How can she know it’s a moka? He important misstep here. You said earlier she “grunts” at a faceless person who brings her food. Is this the same person? Make it clear that we are dealing with either one captor or a team. makes good coffee. I hear his footsteps when he is walking to my hatch. I call it the doggie door, big enough to pass things through but too small to climb through unless I starve myself.

And I have the book. A book on being a hostage in first person narrative. A book he gave me without instruction, a guide on how to survive or die, my choice. Again, look at your use of the pronoun “he.” If you are creating a John Fowles-esque bad guy, start to lay out the bread crumb hints more strongly. HE is faceless, soundless — for SIX MONTHS? Think about doing more with HIM. 

So, good work, writer. I think you’re off to a roaring good start. You have a voice. But now think about adding some emotion to your narrator’s voice. Watch for places to insert more details that start building up her background. And, most important, find ways to make your protagonist more than just a food-bearing schlub at the dog door. Right now, all we know is that he makes a darn good cup of coffee. Even this early in your story, he needs to be a threat — to her and for the readers to care about her.

Memory fails, and I think I might have discussed awards sometime back, but I recently had a discussion with another well-known author about contests, and the mega-selling New York Times writer made a couple of good points.

“I like awards because I’m a little selfish. I enjoy seeing my work recognized and the truth is, they look good on my wall and in my office. They go hand in hand with the satisfaction of a job well done, and that’s exhibited by my body of work itself.”

I agree completely.

Neither he nor I came from the Participation Trophy world, and value well-earned recognition. It’s the inspiration that feeds souls.

I was a baby-teacher way back in the late 1970s when that idea of Trophies for Everyone was announced in a staff meeting.

“Each child who participates will get a trophy,” said my moronic starter principal. I worked under several great educators, but this guy phoned it in with two tin cans and a string. Though I have to admit, participation trophies weren’t his idea, but I wouldn’t have put it past him. “It’ll make the kids feel better to take something home for their effort, and will build their self-esteem. There will be no losers.”

Even though it was a faculty meeting, and I was an adult, I raised a hand as I was taught back in elementary school. “No one will try as hard if everyone gets a trophy.”

“The winner’s trophy will be a little bigger.”

“If everyone wins, no one wins. Let em put it this way, once they get out in the real world, they won’t be handing out trophies for a job well done. They’ll distribute paychecks, and there will be no reason to try harder than others, if everyone gets the same amount.”

He blinked once. “You can put your hand down now. Any other questions?”

“Yep. Why did Nixon get us in bed with Communist China?”

“You’ll have to ask the government teacher over there. Now, moving on, some of you are backing into your parking spaces, and that gives our parents the wrong idea that you’re in a hurry to leave school once the day is done…”

All right, I come from a generation who likes to win. I was once cheated out of a first place ribbon in an elementary school three-legged race when the binding came untied after my partner and I crossed the finish line, but I don’t hold that against Coach Mankin (I really do).

One of my grandsons was cheated out of first place in a rodeo mutton busting contest last year. He held on for the full eight seconds, but another competitor took home the buckle because her parents were part of a prominent local family. I knew we’d lost when I saw they were all in their Sunday best and were already lining up for a photo even before the winner was announced.

But back to awards for writing, my friend was right. For authors struggling for recognition in a crowded and confusing landscape, awards offer credibility and a somewhat elevated status for others to see. With 11,000 books releasing every month in this country, these nods toward hard work and creativity help us gain recognition in a firehose output of new books.

I’ll be at the Will Rogers Medallion Award ceremony this time next week, and I’ll find out where my novels The Broken Truth and The Journey South fall as a finalists in Western Modern Fiction, and Western Traditional Fiction categories, respectively.

The awards won’t be accompanied by a check, only by the satisfaction that they were deemed worthy by my peers. That’s what I’m after.

There are two Spur Awards on my wall from the Western Writers of America association. Many of the traditional westerns I read as a kid proudly proclaimed they were Spur winners. As an adult I looked for that recognition on the covers of their books.

I wanted one of my own.

I count six Will Rogers Medallions in my office, and no matter if the above-mentioned novels win Gold, Silver, or Bronze, two more will look good in this collection, in my opinion.

I was also honored with a Benjamin Franklin for my first novel, The Rock Hole, and John Gilstrap and I learned a few years ago that we’d won the Kops-Fetherling International Book Award for our work. I still don’t know what that one is, but the gold award seal is nice.

I once took first place in a photographic competition. The photo was a silhouette of my cousin leading his horse into a barn. I had to wake him up late that morning after he’d been out all partying all night, and simply getting him to walk in a straight line was a challenge. The horse cooperated and only required a couple of carrots.

By the way, that barn, the hallway they’re in, and the often patched tack room on the right figured in more than one novel through the years.

Winning that little contest helped spur me on to an extremely successful side career in photography. It lit a fuse that still glows from time to time.

I now have my sights set on a Bram Stoker Award for Comancheria next year. If I win, great. If I don’t, I’ll know that I was in the company of great authors. That’s enough, but I don’t want a participation trophy. Only the real thing, because…

…a respected book award reaches out to both online and store browsers saying, “This is a great book, and worthy of your time and money.” It helps readers weed through the thousands of books that figuratively sag the shelves every year.

It also builds personal self-esteem in an extremely competitive business, and are a way to let other authors know that people out there value your work. Awards come with a word of caution, though.

Some entries require a submission fee. This often comes out of the writers’ pockets, but many times publishers accept that responsibility.

Just because you win first place or gold, doesn’t mean your book will sell any better. There are no guarantees in this business. However, it’ll look good on a resume.

Judges are human. They might see something different in your book, be it good or bad. I’ve judged a number of contests, and when my list was compared to other judges’ opinions, they might not have been the same.

So why bother in the first place?

Personal validation is the best reason I know of. If you see it as that, and no more, you won’t be disappointed.