Category Archives: Writing

First Page Critique – This Uneasy Place

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by Debbie Burke

Today, let’s welcome another Brave Author who submitted a first page entitled This Uneasy Place. The genre is described as speculative with horror elements. Please read then we’ll discuss on the flip side.

~~~

Lennie was about to give up sifting through the book from the Dwyton estate when she found it. A stray envelope. Fountain pen writing and a green halfpenny stamp, dated close to a century ago. But empty, by the looks of it.

She picked up the envelope to set aside for the customer who’d been searching for that very stamp for years – he’d be tweedy, about seventy, with smeary glasses and a smile of yellowed teeth, and he’d have fluttered into her bookshop on a whim, shaking his mammoth umbrella and hee-hawing gamely about British summers – and a letter lay folded beneath it.

A squeak escaped her. Tweedy old guy vanished. Crowds materialised instead, salivating over the letter and its illuminating contents, or important writer, or… Lennie picked through two pages covered with spikes and curls of Edwardian handwriting.

…I cannot impart to you by words alone how unshakeably (and rather unnervingly) Loweheaf village believes in old superstitions…

She called past antiquated spines of calfskin, sheepskin, goatskin, aged hardback, paperback, musty velvet, on rows of bookshelves bathed in low-watt fluorescence, to where Ollie, her boyfriend, stood, his cigarette hand suspended out of the bookshop’s open door. Traffic hissed through pools of rain from the latest deluge of June’s utter drenchfest. The smell of wet London pavements intruded on the chocolatey fragrance of her mother’s shop. Her shop, now, yes. But her mother the silent partner in her head.  ‘Hey, look at this letter.’

‘Letter? Savill’s making you a reasonable offer, again? Foxton’s? Or is it John D. Wood you’re turning down this time?’

Hilarious. No estate agent was going to get its claws her mother’s shop. She still had time, still had enough money to keep it going. Before that ran out, there’d be a turning point.

…old superstitions…legendary creatures included…Surely not in 1909? Not when the industrial age had seen off phantoms of old beliefs, shone electricity into dark corners, sent behemoths roaring and seething on rail tracks to upstage childhood monsters.

 ~~~

I found this piece intriguing yet frustrating. The mystery of a century-old letter caught my attention. So did the humorous, somewhat caustic voice. But I got lost in long, convoluted, parenthetical sentences and wandering descriptions that held promise but led to dead ends.  

There were wonderful turns of phrase and descriptions like:

“he’d be tweedy, about seventy, with smeary glasses and a smile of yellowed teeth, and he’d have fluttered into her bookshop on a whim, shaking his mammoth umbrella and hee-hawing gamely about British summer.”

This character leapt to vivid life in my imagination, yet it turned out he wasn’t even the point of the sentence. Maybe he’ll reappear later in the story. I hope so. But for now, he was a disappointing dead end.

I had to chop through bramble-bush narrative to find the actual point: Lennie found an old envelope with a rare, interesting stamp and a letter, tucked inside a book from an estate collection.

“A squeak escaped her. Tweedy old guy vanished. Crowds materialised instead, salivating over the letter and its illuminating contents, or important writer, or… “

Now I’m thoroughly lost.

Was the tweedy guy physically present? Did he vanish in a poof of smoke? Or was he only a memory?

Where did crowds come from? Are they pushing inside the bookshop? Why are they salivating? What illuminating contents? Which important writer?

The visual detail about the letter is lovely: “two pages covered with spikes and curls of Edwardian handwriting.”

But the mysterious warning about “old superstitions” gets buried under a rambling 37-word sentence about “calfskin, sheepskin, goatskin, aged hardback, paperback, musty velvet on rows of bookshelves bathed in low-watt fluorescence…”

As a description of the shop, it’s vivid, sensory, and beautiful. I’d like to get lost in this cool old bookstore.

But a reader shouldn’t get so lost that they’re unable to follow what’s happening.

After three readings, I finally got the gist of this page. It’s a rainy June in London. Lennie’s mother died and left Lennie a store full of antique books from estates. Her boyfriend Ollie smokes but is thoughtful about holding his cigarette out the door. His jibes about estate brokers indicate he thinks she’s being unrealistic about the business’ prospects, but she doesn’t want to sell the shop because it’s her mother’s legacy.

Apparently, Lennie has a fantasy that she’s going to discover valuable documents hidden among the musty old books. Then historians and collectors will offer her lots of money for the treasure, enabling her to continue to operate the store.

A 1909 letter about old superstitions in Loweheaf village may be the treasure she’s been hoping for.

At least I think that’s what’s going on.

The style has a distinct British voice that sets the appropriate tone and mood. However, style shouldn’t overwhelm the plot and make the reader work to decipher what’s relevant amid extraneous (although beautiful) description.

Brave Author, this page is frustrating because your writing has exquisite sensory detail and a lush style that should be preserved.

However, you need to shorten sentences so they’re comprehensible.

Journalists are warned: “Don’t bury your lede.” Unfortunately, you’ve done that.

I’m guessing you’re well into the story to the point where you’re so familiar with Lennie’s voice that she sounds completely natural to you. But a fresh reader needs to get accustomed to her voice before they can grow comfortable with it.

You may intend Lennie to be an unreliable narrator who drifts between fantasy and reality. If so, you still need to first ground the reader in reality. If Lennie engages in flights of fantasy, give the reader more clues.

Here’s a suggested rearrangement:

The spikes and curls of Edwardian handwriting in the letter made her squeak with excited curiosity. One particular sentence sounded compelling: …I cannot impart to you by words alone how unshakeably (and rather unnervingly) Loweheaf village believes in old superstitions…

Could this be the discovery she’d dreamed of? Tweedy old guy vanished from her imagination. In his place, crowds of eager historians and collectors materialized, salivating over the letter and bidding on the illuminating contents from an important writer, or…

Lennie called to her boyfriend Ollie, “Hey, look at this letter.”

Ollie stood at the front of the shop by the open door holding his cigarette outside. 

Traffic hissed through pools of rain from the latest deluge of June’s utter drenchfest. The smell of wet London pavements intruded on the chocolatey fragrance of her mother’s shop. Her shop, now, yes. But her mother the silent partner in her head.

Ollie extinguished his cigarette and sauntered toward her, past rows of shelves lined with antiquated book spines of calfskin, sheepskin, goatskin, aged hardback, paperback, musty velvet. Low-watt fluorescence bathed the interior.

‘Letter?’ he asked. ‘Savill’s making you a reasonable offer, again? Foxton’s? Or is it John D. Wood you’re turning down this time?’

Hilarious. No estate agent was going to get its claws her mother’s shop. She still had time, still had enough money to keep it going. Before that ran out, there’d be a turning point. Her concentration returned to the letter.

…old superstitions…legendary creatures included…Surely not in 1909? Not when the industrial age had seen off phantoms of old beliefs. By then, electricity shone light into dark corners of ignorance. Fanciful childhood monsters had been upstaged by progress with iron behemoths roaring and seething on rail tracks.

 

Brave Author, as harsh as some of my comments sound, the fixes are easy.

Shorten sentences. Read the page out loud to someone else. One hint that a sentence is too long is if you run out breath reading it. Ask the listener if they can understand the meaning. Are they confused? If so, rewrite until it’s clear to them.

Most important, don’t bury the lede. Lennie’s excited about the possible answer to her dilemma. Fit the superb descriptions of the shop around that lede. Descriptions should enhance the story, not overshadow it.

You’re a skilful writer with a wonderful eye for specific details. You can make this story compelling without much rewriting.

Thanks for submitting This Uneasy Place and wishing you good luck with it.

~~~

TKZers: what are your impressions of Lennie’s shop and the mysterious letter? Any suggestions for the Brave Author?

~~~

 

Binge on a new thriller box set. Three exciting novels only $7.99.

Tawny Lindholm Thrillers Volumes 1-3

How Gratitude Helps Writers

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“Gratitude is the sign of noble souls.” – Aesop

* * *

Many years ago, when my husband and I were just newlyweds, I came home from work one night and complained about something. I honestly don’t remember what it was. Maybe it was something I wanted but didn’t have, or maybe it had to do with work. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t happy about it.

Now I’m not normally a dissatisfied person. I’m more of a glass-half-full type, but I guess I was tired and out-of-sorts, and I let hubby know it.

My husband is a guy who loves math and science, and he’ll use any excuse in a conversation to bring up something that has to do with numbers. Percentages are especially dear to him, and Frank dropped a number into our conversation that night that wasn’t just informational—it was a game changer. He said (very matter-of-factly), “Don’t you realize you have more than 99 percent of the people on Earth?”

I’m not sure about the number he used, but his point was well taken. I was grumbling about some minor thing and missing all the majors. My glass wasn’t just half-full. It was overflowing.

I can’t say I’ve never griped about anything else since then, but that conversation made me acutely aware of how fortunate I am. And that knowledge makes each Thanksgiving season a meaningful reminder to count my blessings.

Why is Gratitude Good for You?

I’ve written about gratitude before on TKZ when I referred to findings by Dr. Robert Emmons from the University of California, Davis. Dr. Emmons is a leading expert on the science of gratitude. In his article “Why Gratitude is Good,” he lists a wealth of benefits experienced by people who regularly practice giving thanks. Some of these are

  • Stronger immune systems
  • Lower blood pressure
  • Better sleep
  • Higher levels of positive emotions
  • Relationship strengthening
  • Feeling less lonely and isolated
  • Increased daily word count in their writing (Okay, I made that last one up, but it’s probably true.)

Does Gratitude Help Writing?

As a matter of fact, it does. I found another article by Dr. Emmons in UC Berkeley’s Greater Good Magazine where he addresses the creativity aspect of gratitude. While his article was specifically about gratitude in the work environment, its conclusions on the subject of creativity apply to everyone.

Beyond the social sphere of work, gratitude also drives enhanced performance in the cognitive domain: Grateful people are more likely to be creative at work. Gratitude promotes innovative thinking, flexibility, openness, curiosity, and love of learning.

Emmons goes on to observe that researchers at the University of Zurich observed

grateful people were likely to be “idea creators”: successful with developing new and innovative ideas and reaching solutions in unconventional ways.

So it would seem that gratitude is the key to creativity, and creativity is the gateway to writing great novels.

Ted Talk about Gratitude

In addition to all the above, I watched an entertaining Ted Talk given by Shawn Achor on the role of gratitude in achieving success. I’ve embedded the talk below. It’s worth the twelve-minute investment, but if you don’t have the time, here’s a list of things Achor mentions that you can do daily to achieve that state of happiness and creativity. (Notice that naming three things you’re grateful for every day is first on the list.):

Here’s the Ted Talk:

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! 

* * *

So TKZers: What three things are you grateful for today?

* * *

Three things I’m grateful for:

  1. Having the time and resources to write.
  2. Friendships I’ve made within the writing community.
  3. Characters Reen and Joanie, the sharpest kid detectives ever, who won’t quit until they find the truth. (Click the image to go to the series page.)

 

 

New Words, New Worlds

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By Elaine Viets

 New words are multiplying faster than mosquitoes in a Michigan summer. I mean “official” new words. The ones enshrined in a dictionary.

New words are a sign that English is a living, active language. This year, the Merriam Webster Collegiate dictionary added some 5,000 new words and a thousand new phrases.

Some of us are already using these new words. Take “farm-to-table,” which Webster says means food that is “sourced locally and served directly to customers. Old news.

Here are a few other new words and phrases I’m pretty sure you already know:

“Cold brew” is coffee “made by steeping grounds in cold or room temperature water.” That phrase has been around for so long, Starbucks has about nine different cold brew flavors.

“Hard pass,” means not just no, but hell no. Excuse me, it’s a “firm rejection.”

Here’s one new word I’m not familiar with: “petrichor,” which is a “distinctive, earthy, usually pleasant odor that is associated with rainfall especially when following a warm, dry period . . .” I didn’t realize there was a word to describe that smell.

The Oxford English Dictionary has added another definition of the noun  “goo”: “characteristic babbling noises or vocalizations made by babies and by people interacting with them.” The OED reminded us to check out “goo-goo,” which has a similar definition for baby noises.

“Para-athlete, a physically disabled athlete,” is another already familiar OED addition.

And every TKZ reader and writer knows about the dreaded phrase “plot hole.”

The OED likes to add foreign words familiar to many English speakers, including “pobrecita.” The OED says, “Among Hispanic Americans and in Spanish or Latin American contexts” it’s “a poor or unfortunate girl or woman, especially one who deserves pity or sympathy…”

“Perreo” is defined as “a type of dance originating and popular in Puerto Rico and usually performed to reggaeton music, typically characterized by a female dancer  . . .” I’ll stop there. The rest of the entry is a bit spicy, especially for the venerable OED.

The most puzzling word of the year is Dictionary.com’s choice of “67” or “6-7.”

That word has been driving teachers crazy. When they tell their class to “turn to page 67,” or ask students to recite numbers one through ten, “six-seven” can cause pandemonium.

Avoiding ’67’ can be a mark of respect. TKZ reader Alan Portman said, “I was at a class last week. The instructor stopped saying 6 or 7 things and started saying 8. There were several middle school teachers in the room.”

What’s it mean?

Dictionary.com, which nominated “67,” isn’t sure.

“Perhaps the most defining feature of ‘67’ is that it’s impossible to define,” the site said. “It’s meaningless, ubiquitous, and nonsensical. In other words, it has all the hallmarks of brainrot. It’s the logical endpoint of being perpetually online, scrolling endlessly, consuming content fed to users by algorithms trained by other algorithms. And what are we left with in the wake of this relentless sensory overload? ‘67.’”

Don’t underate the power of “67.”

“ . . .it remains meaningful to the people who use it because of the connection it fosters. ‘67’ shows the speed at which a new word can rocket around the world as a rising generation enters the global conversation.”

Six-seven (never sixty-seven) belongs to Gen Alpha, mostly children born from 2010 to the present, though I doubt many babies care about 6-7.

SlangSphere.com gave an erudite explanation. It said, “Simply put, ‘67’ is a slang term that means ‘kill,’ or more broadly, to get rid of, drop, or even ‘leave’ something or someone. . . If someone tells you to ‘67 that plan,’ they mean scrap it.”

The article also has helpful hints on how to use 67:

“Do: Use it with close friends or in casual texting where informal slang is welcome.

“Do: Keep it light and playful—this is slang, not a serious threat.

“Don’t: Use it in professional or formal settings—your boss might get confused (or alarmed).

“Don’t: Use it toward strangers or in sensitive contexts—tone can get lost.

“Do: Use 67 when you want to sound casual and meme-savvy.

“Don’t: Panic if someone says ‘67’ to you. It’s slang, not actual harm.

“Do: Pair it with an emoji to soften the tone, like 😂 or 👋.

“Don’t: Use it to seriously insult someone.

“Do: Remember context is king—know who you’re talking to!

“So, next time you want to digitally ‘kill’ a dull plan or leave a chat dramatically, ‘67’ is your shorthand hero. It’s quirky, a little mysterious, and definitely meme-worthy.”

It’s mysterious, all right. So mysterious, I still can’t figure out if 67 means to kill something, or if it means nothing.

Is it a word with clearly defined rules of etiquette? Or is it a feeling?

67.

 

Preorder now: “Sex and Death on the Beach,” my new Florida mystery, will be published in paperback Dec. 16. https://tinyurl.com/mrc87fm7

“But why didn’t they just . . .”

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By John Gilstrap

As a thriller author, I know all about testing the boundaries of suspended disbelief. As a consumer of thrillers, I do it all the time. Coincidences have to happen to make a story work, and as writers, it’s our job to make the coincidences feel organic to the situation the characters are enduring. For the sake of tension and drama, we stack the odds against our good guys. That way, when they ultimately prevail, the victory feels that much sweeter.

We’ve been watching a lot of streaming movies and television shows in our special viewing room over the past couple of months, and as the tropes stack up, I’m having a progressively harder time keeping my inner commentary silent, earning a few elbow shots from my beloved and more than a few harsh shushes. Consider . . .

. . . When crashing the drug den and the SWAT team is stacked up behind a ballistic shield and armed with enough fully-automatic firepower to topple Venezuela, why is Detective Danny Reagan with his pistol and designer ballistic vest out in front of everybody?

. . . Why don’t detectives ever just turn on a light? Instead, the search the dusty darkness of a suspects bedroom–or the basement where all murders were committed–with only the illumination provided by a tiny penlight.

. . . Why does our brilliant good guy wait till he arrives at the site of trouble before he chambers a round into his pistol? That means he’s been driving around all day essentially unarmed.

. . . After prevailing in the firefight in Room A, why doesn’t our good guy take advantage of the relative peace to reload before moving to Room B? Never bring old bullets to a new gunfight.

. . . For heaven’s sake, good guy or bad, just friggin’ shoot! You’ve achieved your goal. You’ve got your prey in your sights. And let’s be honest: At that point, while the victim very likely cares deeply that you intend to kill them, they’re not really going to be listening to the why. If they’ve got any sense, they’re going to be focused exclusively on either how to get away or to kill you first. Any way you cut it, your best call is to pull the trigger. Conversely, if you change your mind, your only move is to run like a bunny rabbit because only bad things lie ahead for you.

I make it a point to never pick on particular shows by name, but there’s one very popular program that makes my head explode every week. Let’s pretend there’s a show called “Trooper” and it features a character named Dalton Shames. To our knowledge, Dalton’s never had a conventional job, but it’s clear that he was raised by MacGyver. Give Dalton a can of Dr. Pepper, and he can turn a paper clip into a flame thrower.

Okay, I joke about the flame thrower, but he routinely produces a full-size 1911 platform pistol from the waistband of his trousers, right at the small of his back. His limp-wristed grip is all wrong for that gun (that’s a real description, not a pejorative), and none of the nations most draconian gun laws apply to him. Not even New York or Los Angeles.

In last week’s episode, a plucky 19-year-old is able to infiltrate the lair of a dangerous drug kingpin with the intent of kingpin regicide. It’s quite a feat given the army of armed guards. Dalton, in the company of the local sheriff, who has inexplicably ceded all law enforcement powers to this stranger from out of town, raid the compound themselves by ramming their way through the front gate. They have to keep the 19-year-old from being killed by the cartel, don’t you know.

Here’s the plan: The sheriff will hold off the army with his six-shot revolver while Dalton makes his way to the kingpin’s throne room, where the plucky kid has his highness dead to rights, but can’t bring himself to pull the trigger. Yada, yada . . . shot from off camera, kingpin gut shoots plucky kid, Dalton shoots kingpin and takes off running with plucky kid over his shoulder. Bad guys with rifles can’t hit a running target at ten yards, Dalton can’t miss with unaimed shots while running.

All is well but for this kid with a hole in his gut. Not to worry. There’s a horse veterinarian with a pouch of goodies who says he can help.

CUT TO: A kingpin’s yard filled with cop cars that would have been really handy a little while ago. But the vehicle we really care about it the ambulance with our plucky-now-gut-shot 19-year-old looking like a million bucks, all cleaned up, sitting upright in the stretcher while Dalton tells him everything’s going to be okay. Then Dalton allows the paramedics to close the back doors and drive him away.

Sigh.

There’s suspension of disbelief, and then there’s no element of this story is possible so therefore none of the story is engaging. I am without a doubt becoming progressively more curmudgeonly about these things, but I swear that lazy storytelling is becoming the norm.

In these days of Chat GPT and even simple YouTube searches, even uninformed storytelling is lazy. A car door has never been adequate to stop any but the smallest bullet, but ten years ago, not knowing that was forgivable. Now, there are entire channels dedicated to what stops what caliber of bullet. I have to assume that s true of every other once-esoteric subject.

What say you, TKZ family? How forgiving is the suspension mechanism for your disbelief?

Five Lessons I Learned From
My Bad (Unpublished) Books

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By PJ Parrish

When I am anxious, I clean.. And since I am facing a flight to Detroit soon, I’ve gotten a lot done around the house these last couple days. Just hauled three bags to the Goodwill, including my 1990s skinny jeans and a cocktail dress I bought to go to the Edgars and never wore because I couldn’t figure out how to deal with a strapless bra. But my crowning achievement came when I found an old external drive while cleaning out my office.

When I plugged it into the laptop, up popped NINE books my sister Kelly and I had abandoned over the last two decades. They ranged from dumb ideas for our series character (Louis Kincaid goes to Nevada and solves a murder at Burning Man!) to a really gruesome attempt at erotica called Tarentella. (Opens with an American woman ah…bobbing for apples under a table at an Italian restaurant). It was like an out-of-body experience reading this stuff. Who WAS this person who wrote this junk?

In the end, it was humbling but really instructive. It made me realize I learned a lot since 1998. So I thought I’d pass along the five writing lessons I got out of this:

  1. Never let backstory go on for four pages or more.
  2. Please, dear god, please let something happen.
  3. Don’t write action scenes that sound like two squirrels fighting a death match on a metal bird-feeder.
  4. Don’t let your protag sit there like a stump.
  5. When it comes to description, metaphors and setting the scene, try to not mimic some Forties noir hack.

I’m going to show you a couple of our failures here in the hope you won’t let this happen to you. First up is First Page Self-Flagellation, my attempt at romantic suspense, circa 2005.

FRENCH TWIST

I should have shot him. I should have shot him right where he laid, right between the legs.

Let me tell you how close I came. I actually drew the Glock and leveled it at Sid’s nuts. I aimed at the right nut because I really wanted to hit the left one and I knew from experience that my Glock had a sighting problem to the side.

But I didn’t shoot. And Sid’s left testicle – and Sid — lived to see another day.

No, I eased off that trigger, turned around, and walked out of our bedroom, leaving my husband and his secretary Tammy all tangled up in blue percale. It was the right choice. If I had shot him I would have maybe gone to prison, certainly lost my job, and ruined a brand new set Ralph Lauren Southampton Seabreeze sheets.

I made a choice and I walked out. On Sid. On our remodeled home in Garden City Michigan. On my fifteen years on the Westland Michigan police force. On my idea of everything I ever thought I was supposed to be.

It was a choice that saved Sid’s life.

And maybe mine. Though that part is still up in the air.

“Madame?”

I looked up.

“Voulez-vous prendez un boisson?”

I stared.

The waiter rolled his eyes. “You want a drink?”

“Oh, yeah. Vin. Red. Rouge, I mean.”

The waiter slithered away and I went back to contemplating my new perspective on life. At this particular moment, my perspective is a corner table at Le Select cafe, at the intersection of rue l’Odeon and rue Racine, Paris, France. It’s about as far away from my old perspective as you can get.

I’m a cop, you see. Well, I was a cop. And I was a good cop, logging twenty-five years on the mean streets of suburban Detroit, busting kids for illegal skateboarding, rescuing cats from sewers and breaking up domestics at the Dunroven Retirement Village. I never caught a big case, but I was good. Good enough to make it to junior grade Detective but not good enough to make it to anything else that added one more word on my gold badge – a word like sergeant or lieutenant or God forbid, Captain.

There had been rumors that a female had made Detective Captain once, a long time ago. We had heard her name was Zelda Van Meister and she reportedly was shot and killed during a pursuit sometime around 1966, but no one could find any record of it and she wasn’t listed as one of our fallen officers, so no one seemed to know for sure. The old men who had been around in the sixties wouldn’t speak of her, but the women…

To us, she had become a legend and we spoke of her in whispers, as if she was a powerful spirit who continued to hang around the station to give us strength in mysterious ways.

__________________________

I kind of like the opening paragraph. But as you can see, the rest is backstory gone bad. (It goes on for three more pages). NOTHING HAPPENS. And I relied on TELLING about the protag (nameless!) instead of revealing her background and charcter by SHOWING. Here’s how I would write it now: New stuff in red.

FRENCH TWIST REDUX

I should have shot him. I should have shot him right where he laid, right between the legs.

Let me tell you how close I came. I actually drew my Glock and leveled it at Sid’s nuts. I aimed at the right nut because I really wanted to hit the left one and I knew from experience that my Glock had a sighting problem to the side.

But I didn’t shoot. And Sid’s left testicle – and Sid — lived to see another day.

No, I eased off that trigger, turned around, and walked out of our bedroom, leaving my husband and his secretary Tammy tangled up in blue percale. It was the right choice. If I had shot him I would lost my job as a cop on the Westland Police Force, maybe gone to prison and for sure ruined a brand new set of Ralph Lauren Southampton Seabreeze sheets.

I made a choice. It was a choice that saved Sid’s life. And probably mine. Though that part is still up in the air.

“Madame?”

I looked up.

“Voulez-vous prendez un boisson?”

I stared.

The waiter rolled his eyes. “You want a drink?”

“Oh, yeah. A glass of red wine, please.”

The waiter slithered away and I went back to contemplating my new perspective on life. At this particular moment, my perspective is a table at Cafe L’Alibi on rue Duc in what I’ve come to learn is a dodgier part of Paris. But the one-star hotel next door was all I could afford, and it was far from the Eiffel Tower as you can get, And as far away from my old perspective as I needed.

The wine came, but before I could take a drink, I heard a screech of tires and then a scream.

I looked out toward the street just in time to see two men grab a woman. She was fighting hard, screaming loud. One man ripped her hijab off her head, and as they pushed her into the car, I got a good look at her long black hair, whipping arround her terrified face.

I jumped up and ran toward the car. As it raced away, I caught the last three numbers on the plate — 445. It took me a second to realize my hand was poised on my right hip where my Glock used to be holstered.

See the difference? There’s enough backstory to establish her context professionally and emotionally. She’s trying to escape her past and yet she can’t escape what she is — a good cop. The rest of her backstory, including the cool stuff about Zelda can come in a later chapter. 

LESSON NO. 1: Yes, use some backstory to make us care about the protag, but get the story moving as quickly as you can.

Number 2: This is a stand alone we started very early in our writing partnership, before we decided to do a series instead. We were struggling with plot and our agent suggested some thrillers for us to read to get our gears going. Here goes nuthin:

MEMPHIS BLUES (good lord…)

Richard ran down the alley, gun out, breathing hard. The suspect turned left somewhere between the dumpsters or maybe before them. He couldn’t see. A streetlight flickered. Sirens wailed. Somebody yelled something over the radio but the words were static.

He jumped over a fence. The killer—he thought it was the killer—was a blur in a dark jacket, running ahead. The street names didn’t matter. He thought they were near Cowden Avenue or maybe over by Patterson Street.

The radio squawked again. He shouted into it, “I got him!” or “I lost him!”—he wasn’t sure what he said. It was lost in adrenalin.

A car screeched at the corner. Headlights hit the wall and made everything white. Then dark again. Richard slipped on something—ice, water, whatever—and slammed his shoulder into brick. His gun hit the ground. He picked it up, dropped it again, then ran. His heart hurt. He heard footsteps ahead. Or maybe just echoes.

He thought he saw a figure dart behind a stairwell. He pointed his gun and shouted, “ “Freeze!” But the guy didn’t. He ran harder.

The guy turned another corner. Richard followed but there were two turns, and he wasn’t sure which one. He went right. Wrong one — a dead-end alley. He turned back. The killer was gone.

He ran again anyway. His phone buzzed. His partner’s name flashed. He ignored it. A siren wailed closer. A figure darted ahead. He raised his gun. People screamed…people just people in the way. Richard lowered the gun and kept running.

At the next block, he stopped. Nothing. No sound. No one there. Then a door slammed somewhere. Richard ran to it, shouldered it open, went up stairs that smelled like fried food. A flouresent bulb blinked overhead. The hallway twisted left, right, then dead-ended.

He stopped. Listened. Nothing. Just his own breathing and a TV in another room. He looked around. Empty. He holstered his gun. Outside, another siren screamed. He leaned against the wall, dizzy, straining to hear if the killer was above or below or anywhere at all.

He couldn’t tell.

______________________

As we say here often, ACT first and EXPLAIN later. But do you see the problem? The chase goes on way too long, it’s numbingly repetitious, and as noisy as two quarreling squirrels.

We wrote this way back in 1998, and I can’t think of any way to salvage it. Because Richard is a cipher. He lacks personal context. He’s a faceless cop chasing a faceless guy with not a hint of motive. And Richard seems sort of dumb, doesn’t he? His thinking is fuzzy. (“He couldn’t tell…He couldn’t see…”) We confused obtuseness for suspense. Remember Hitchcock’s movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much? This is the man who knows too little.

LESSON NO. 3: Yes, open with a juicy action scene, but find a way to humanize your protag in the process. Make us care about them. And make sure your action choreography is fresh and vivid. 

Here comes number four. Try your best to stay awake.

MIDNIGHT PROWL

Sirens had been screaming all night long. A cop had been wounded in a gun fight on Getwell and Winchester, in the parking lot of the Pink Pony Strip club. A woman had been killed in a downtown alley for twenty-two dollars and a cheap gold crucifix. A fifteen year old boy lay in the morgue, a victim of a hit and run.

Nathan Snow glanced at his watch. It was not yet seven p.m. on a Friday night.

His eyes drifted to the short stack of folders sitting on the edge of his desk, near the Corona typewriter. Two were domestic violence homicides where the husband was caught standing over his wife’s dead body. The third was a thug who shot a rival in front of ten witnesses on Jackson Avenue in broad daylight. And to make his work even easier, all three pled out. Short investigations. No trials.

He sat back in the chair, stretched and yawned, his gaze continuing to drift across the doodled ink blotter, the blue MPD mug that held his pens and pencils, finally stopping on his detective’s shield laying near the phone. It was a beautiful badge, as far badges went. Under the glaring florescent lights, the plating looked like it could be 24K gold. The only other spot of color on it was navy blue, the wavy curve of letters that read Memphis Police.

He reached down for his mug, taking a sip of the cold coffee, the bang of the door drawing his eyes up. Two detectives come into the squad room. Breaths still labored, jackets dusty from a take-down. Neither of them looked his way as they headed directly into George DeMille’s office, the Detective Captain of Homicide. The thin wood door closed hard, shaking the wall.

_______________

I’ve read worse. But I think you know the issue. It’s all thinking, wool-gathering, and gorming out. Yes, we are TOLD that a cop has been wounded, a woman killed, and a kid died in a hit and run. (Past tense). But what are we SHOWN? The protag Nathan sitting at his desk, yawning. So are we. Nathan is doing nothing. Even when two cops come in breathless and dirty from a “take down,” Nathan remains inert. I don’t remember this story well enough to suggest a make-over. But Nathan needs to get some dirt on him fast.

LESSON NO. 4: Never let your protag be a passive observer in your opening chapter(s). Don’t let some nameless spear-carrier steal the spotlight. Show something happening to your hero or at least hint that it will soon.

And that leave us with the final entry. I don’t blame you if you’ve left by now, but I think you might enjoy this one. It will make you feel like a better writer.

MOON OVER MACAO

I landed at night that wasn’t exactly night because the lights on Avenida da Praia Grande keep rinsing the sidewalks with this lemony glare that looked like the reflection off a fish you don’t want to eat.

Mateo Hernández, I thought, you should have stayed in Colón or at least Taos where the street names don’t have accents that make your tongue snag on your teeth. But here I was, boots knocking on the tile of the ferry terminal walkway at the Outer Harbour, surrounded by people pushing plastic suitcases that squeaked like they had small mice trapped inside.

I tried to walk like I knew where I was going—past the Rotunda de Carlos da Maia where buses the color of pea soup ground around in loops that seemed designed to make you dizzy. I cut toward Avenida de Amizade because someone on the boat had said casinos are good for getting lost in, and getting lost sounded like the opposite of being found, because I knew I was being nose-trailed by a person with shoes that slapped the ground with a rubbery insistence. Probably just a kid with a pineapple bun, except the shoes sounded the same every time I stalled at a crosswalk. When I paused to stare into a pawnshop window, where a gold watch glowed like a jaundiced sun, the shoes stopped, too.

I cut right on Rua da Palha, a wide street with scooters and taxis that grazed your hip bones like impatient fish. I kept going past stalls selling almond cookies and beef jerky sheets that looked like shiny red roofs, and I told myself don’t look back. But I looked back anyway because I’m not a hero. That’s when I saw a guy in a gray hoodie with the face of a man who lost a bet with his barber. He looked up. Down. Up. He pretended not to know me, which is easy because he didn’t.

There was another man, smoking under a dragon-stamped awning, and maybe he was watching me, too. Maybe everyone was watching me. The tiles were slippery, and my right heel kissed an old gum spot and stuck for a moment—then I was moving again, past a noodle shop where a woman slapped dough the way an aunt slaps your arm when she wants you to eat more. Her radio chirped a pop song from Cotai that had a chorus like “ai ai ai,” which is exactly how my knees felt.

________________________

There’s more but you’ve suffered enough. It’s tragically bad. Yes, we wrote it. (Kelly has visited Macao several times). But it’s a ringer. We wrote it for a workshop we taught about five years ago, focusing on description, scene setting and metaphors. We wanted our students to understand that it’s vital to world-build your settings, that metaphors can move your readers. We purposely overwrote to make our point. I hope you got as good a laugh out of this as I did.

LESSON NO. 5: Put a rubber band around your wrist. Every time you are tempted to insert a cliche, adjective, adverb or metaphor, snap it. Of course you need modifiers, and a well-turned metaphor at the right moment is a thing of beauty. But less is always more. And when it comes to creating your setting, bring it to life with clarity and without cliches. Not just with random street names you looked up on Google Street View.

And that, my friends, brings me to the end of my sad foray into the past. Like my skinny jeans and my misbegotten cocktail dress, some manuscripts should never be seen in public. I hope you have a few hidden in a hard drive somewhere.

One final thought. When I was re-reading my old stuff, I remembered something I had heard Michael Connelly say. By his late 20s, he had earned his chops as a crime reporter. But he wanted to write a novel. He made a deal with his wife that he would get four nights a week to work on his book.

Fast forward ten years. He had finished two novels. Both unpublished. Because he knew in his bones they weren’t good enough. He started a third called The Black Echo. It got published. It won the Edgar. Last I heard, he was still doing okay in the writing business.

Declutter, crime dogs. Put the past away. But always keep going forward.

 

Signature, Please

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I had three secretaries in the twenty-five years I worked in school district administration. My starter secretary was a Texas wife, mother, and grandmother, who spoke with the slow drawl we all recognize here in the Lone Star state.

My second was from New Jersey. She had little accent until someone angered her, or when talking with her family, and especially her mother. That’s when Jersey came out thick and nasal, dropping her “r”s. You know it as “buttah” for butter, and the “a” sound changed in words like “towk” for “talk” or “dowg” for “dog.”

I tried to write “or” as “oa,” but that didn’t work in the above sentence. It does now, though.

Here we pronounce dawg.

She also took great delight in correcting my pronunciation of “pen.” Where I come from, we say “pin” and for the word “aunt,” “aint.” We also put those abandoned Jersy “r”s in words such as “worsh” for “wash,” and “winder” for “window,” and finally, “piller” for “pillow.”

“Open the winder and hang that piller case out to dry. Someone left a wet warsh rag on it all night.”

Thinking about her pronunciations this morning (and my own) brought up a trail of thoughts about how hard it is read someone’s work when they hammer us with local dialogue for an entire novel or short story. I recently read a story so filled with a character’s regional dialogue that reading became a 6,000-word burden.

Note to authors: You’re not Mark Twain writing Huckleberry Finn. I love that book, but the dialogue simply wears me out. Use it early in the story to give us that local flavor, or to identify a character, then use it sparingly throughout the book. I don’t need to be hit over the head with it until my skull is misshapen.

Here’s an example of Jim talking to Huck. “Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n’ for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on accounts o’ Huck; I’s a free man, en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it hadn’ ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you, Huck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever had; en you’s de ONLY fren’ ole Jim’s got now.”

That’s all I need. Now, give me something easier to read.

But back to “pehns,” and writing instruments.

Authors of a certain age began with big fat pencils designed for little elementary school hands.

We progressed to clear, cheap Bic pens which became the norm, but for a period of time, refillable cartridge pens were all the rage in my elementary. I had one of those, but most of the ink went directly from the nib and into highly absorbent Kleenex tissues, which bloomed nice and blue while Miss Russell droned on and on about diagraming sentences.

Because of those psychadelic blooms, and a distinct lack of interest, I still can’t diagram a sentence.

My writing output began with a Smith Corona portable typewriter, though the volume of work between 1970 and 1988 was dismal at best. I made beer money with it, though, typing term papers and reports all during college.

It was a 286 computer that finally set me free, and I haven’t looked back since. They keyboard is my friend, and I’m danged fast on this thing. I used to write newspaper columns on yellow legal pads (when I should have been listening in meetings…do you sense a pattern here?), and typed them into a floppy disk to print out on a tractor drive.

Those were the days.

I can’t write longhand anymore. My handwriting is somewhat akin to that of a doctor with alcoholic shakes, and I can’t make out what I scribbled.

So all I do is make hundreds of notes on small pieces of paper, which I forget or lose until months later. Sometimes those notes make no sense, and I have to wonder what idea had been rattling around at that time.

Others are great, and I’ll find somewhere to plug them in on this WIP. If you can’t read the top scribble, it says, “square-headed cowboy,” and the second is a possible book title, “The Dead Don’t Smile.”

I know authors who write longhand. Bestselling author Marc Cameron, of Arliss Cutter and Tom Clancy fame, and I were at an in-conversation signing a couple of weeks ago and he discussed his method of getting the first draft down with a box of Blackwing 602 pencils and a stack of legal pads. When he’s finished, he types it up and gives the pencil stubs away to fans.

All I would have is a stack of pads full of hieroglyphic scrawls that I couldn’t read no matter how hard I squinted at them with one eye.

But then I got to thinking about signing pens. That’s kind of a big deal to some folks, and here’s a question for the hive mind (and truly the point of today’s post).

What pen is best for signing copies of my work?

Some authors prefer old-school fountain pens, but I can’t keep them flowing. I’ll leave them on the desk for a couple of weeks and then have to soak the ink away. That’s irritating, though I love the looks of those instruments both in hand, and the way they write.

I have half a dozen pen sets that were given to me over the years. One set came from my mother when I graduated college. Now an antique, the pen and mechanical pencil is hand-turned walnut, and I used it for so long the oil from my fingers has stained the wood so deep it glows with a soft polish.

I don’t use it though, because I’d leave it laying somewhere. Note: Now I’m of the age I can’t find things. I went to get them for a photo to use here, and can’t remember where I put them so they wouldn’t get lost.

Sigh.

To make signatures special in my mind, I use pens (pehns) from the 21 Club in New York City. It was the haunt of my original writing mentor, Robert Ruark, (who passed in 1964). The las time I was there, they gave me half a dozen of those black pins (Texas for pens), with gold lettering, and sometimes fans notice when I’m signing and ask about them. That’s fun.

You can’t get them today, though. Covid killed the pre-prohibition club that had been open for over 90 years.

I’ve used a variety of rolling balls, and many almost skidded off the page. I loved them all, but as I said, I lost them and can’t remember which ones were the best.

I do not like signing with Sharpies. Period.

So, to all the authors out there, which do you use as your “signing pehn,” and where do I get one to try out?

It won’t be this one, though. It’s a scary weapon, I think.

Reader Friday-Wordsmarts

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How were you at spelling when you were a tyke?

I was an okay speller, but throw a number at me and I’d run like a bat out of . . . well, you get the idea.

I ran across a website the other day (when I was fleeing a number thrown at me) that turned out to be quite entertaining. I think you, as voracious readers and writers, will find it equally entertaining.

It’s all about words . . . words with the same definition, but that have more than one acceptable spelling. Now why didn’t they have those words in the third grade? We coulda had a choice and all have gotten an A on every spelling test, right?

Here’s the link:  https://wordsmarts.com/multiple-spellings/

Below is a sample of what you’ll see. And please note: Spell-check red-lined a few of these as I typed the list.   🙂

  • Grey/Gray
  • Duffel/Duffle
  • Adviser/Advisor

And my all-time favorite:

  • Donut/Doughnut

Here’s what I’ve been wondering. Is it just the English language that enjoys multiple spellings for the same words?

Any of you speak French or Russian or Latvian and could clue us in?

 

Two part assignment for TKZers today: Check out the website, then come up with your own words that could have given you first place in spelling bees!

 

 

Adventures at Book Signings

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Adventures at Book Signings
Terry Odell

Table display of books written by Terry Odell

First, forgive my absence here at TKZ. We were away for a week, and I was off the grid, and coming back to “real life” is a slow process.

I’m an indie author. The vast majority of my book sales are ebooks. But every now and then, I have the opportunity to get out among real life people who like to read print books. They refer to them as “real” books, but I’m not going to get into my feelings about that here.

Most of my signings are either at conferences or at library author events. As an indie author, I have to supply the books, usually sold on consignment if it’s a conference, or I handle the sales at libraries.

I’m not a big name. Occasionally, I get seated to a Big Name Author, and spend most of the time chatting with their long lines of people wanting their books. Craig Johnson, Julia Quinn, and Brenda Novak come to mind.

Once, back in the day, when I was with a small publisher, they sent the books to the conference. Twenty of them! I’m not a big name, and if I sell five, it’s a good day. I asked the organizers why they ordered so many, and they said, “Oh, you can just return the unsold ones.” What they didn’t know was that the publisher charged for returns, and I was out a bunch of bucks because I wasn’t going to ship them back to me, and they wouldn’t fit in my luggage.

But, last weekend was different. Our neighborhood/development/community has an annual Holiday Bazaar, and I have participated for the last three years. I set up a table with my books on display, and try to remember I’m supposed to be outgoing and personable. I ‘bribe’ people to my table with a bowl of chocolate, my lip balm, and post-it notes.

It’s an interesting event. Vendors sell jewelry, baked goods, photographs, and lots of other handmade craft items. I’m the only one selling books. Unlike a writer’s conference or library event, people aren’t coming predisposed to buy books.

I had one woman approach my table and ask if I’d read all the books I had on display. I smiled and told her I’d written them. She leaned forward and said, “I’m 73 years old, and I’ve never read a book. I don’t know how I graduated from high school.” I told her she had the opportunity to make one of my books her first, and she actually bought one.

Another woman approached with an image of the books she’d bought last year. She’d given them to her 99 year-old mother who loved them, so she bought some more.

I had one woman tell me she wrote a novel during the pandemic but didn’t know what to do with it, and could she pay me to help her get it published. Ummm… not sure I can be much help. I’ll wait to see if she contacts me.

**Note to self: Rookie mistake. Next time make a sign that says “Meet the Author.” Too many people looked at the books on display and it took them a while to realize they were all written by the same person, at which point they asked if I was Terry. (Except for the one guy who asked if I was Dan’s wife—he’s much more outgoing and involved in the neighborhood, and people know him. Me, I’m an introverted writer who likes sitting in my office with my characters, so I’m not known to many people, nor do I know many of them.)

Another mistake. I forgot to bring my business cards. Thought they were in my purse, but after all the switches because of our travel, they weren’t. Fortunately, my lip balm and my post-it notes have my contact information and website on them.

Since almost everyone who comes to the bazaar lives in the ’hood, they know each other, so a lot of their “shopping” time is spent chit-chatting and catching up. The noise level in the small building/room gets high. It’s as much a social event as a sales event.

I had people come up to my table who told me they were so glad I’d come back—but they didn’t buy. Others marveled at my output. Most of them didn’t buy, either. But I did make enough sales to make it a respectably profitable day.

This year was the first time we could take credit card payments. (The building now has wifi). Technology! I have a Square card reader, but it’s old, and I haven’t used it in a couple of years. Turns out my new phone has a different plug in thing (I don’t speak tech), but I have an older iPad mini that uses the same connection, so I figured I’d be able to keep up with the times. However, I thought I’d try to be more up to date, so I ordered one of the new gizmos that could take chips and tap to pay. It was supposed to be delivered the day before the bazaar, but of course, it was delayed, so I was back to using my iPad mini.

Once at the venue, the woman at the table next to me told me if I had the Square app on my newer iPhone, it would take charges without needing a gizmo, and she walked me through using it. When my gizmo finally shows up, it’s going back to the store.

Something else that I think helped sales. Most of the people who came to buy were used to paying with cash, so although I’d bumped up my prices a little to cover fees, I told them I’d discount cash sales. People love a bargain.

  • To recap. My takeaways:
  • Make it obvious you’re the author.
  • Have swag to attract people to your table.
  • If you’re indie and can set your own pricing, make things look good. I had a ‘bundle’ price, and a lot of people bought three books when they saw they were getting a bargain.
  • Stand, don’t sit all day. Initiate conversation. It’s hard for me, but got easier as the day went on. One lead-in that worked for me (and killed more than one bird), was to ask if I could answer any questions about my books.
  • If you have more than a couple of books on display, get ready to talk about which one(s) you’d recommend. When people ask which is my favorite book, I ask if they have children, and if they say ‘yes’ I ask which is their favorite. I try to find out what their interests are, or point out things about my books–especially the ones based on my travel–that might engage them.
  • Think of it more as introducing yourself and making contacts, not sales.

Anything you have to add?

New! Find me at Substack with Writings and Wanderings

Deadly Ambitions
Peace in Mapleton doesn’t last. Police Chief Gordon Hepler is already juggling a bitter ex-mayoral candidate who refuses to accept election results and a new council member determined to cut police department’s funding.
Meanwhile, Angie’s long-delayed diner remodel uncovers an old journal, sparking her curiosity about the girl who wrote it. But as she digs for answers, is she uncovering more than she bargained for?
Now, Gordon must untangle political maneuvering, personal grudges, and hidden agendas before danger closes in on the people he loves most.
Deadly Ambitions delivers small-town intrigue, political tension, and page-turning suspense rooted in both history and today’s ambitions.

Preorder now

Terry Odell is an award-winning author of Mystery and Romantic Suspense, although she prefers to think of them all as “Mysteries with Relationships.”

Flathead River Writers Conference Recap – Part 3

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by Debbie Burke

Welcome to Part 3 of the rundown on the Flathead River Writers Conference. If you missed anything, here are links to Part 1 and Part 2.

In Part 1, emcee Kathy Dunnehoff observed that normally introverted writers are “like dogs at the dog park,” ecstatic to be around other writers.

On Saturday evening, conference attendees congregated at the literary version of the dog park—the bookstore in downtown Kalispell. It was party time at The BookShelf.

Conference committee member Shira Marin laid out a sumptuous spread with wine, jumbo shrimp, cheeses, sandwiches, fruit, and more. We noshed and gabbed and renewed friendships from past conferences. Plus we met new folks who will likely become critique partners and beta readers.

Now back to the conference speakers…

Memoirist Robert Petrone

Robert Petrone developed an interest in memoir writing as a result of growing up with a father who spent 30 years in a nursing facility because of MS. Yet, the five Petrone children were not allowed to speak of his condition. Illness was considered shameful, and he felt burdened with guilt because of his father’s disability.

With a PhD in English Education, Robert is currently an associate professor at the University of Missouri and has been exploring memoir writing in depth.

He describes the “hallmark of memoir” as the “double perspective” of two voices. One is the external narration of events as they unfolded in the past. The second is the internal narration of looking back and reflecting on those events.

The memoirist has “two perspectives that equal two selves that equal two voices, then and now. One is the voice of innocence, the other is the voice of experience.”

In the first draft, the author relates scenes, dialogue, and thematic tension.

Robert likens the second draft to “therapy,” layering in the author’s realizations about the meaning of earlier events.

He suggested an excellent visual to help writers distinguish between the two voices: display a photo of yourself in the past beside a photo of yourself now.

Another trick Robert uses are color-coded index cards pinned to a wall. On one side is a summary of the external narration. On the other side is the internal narration about the event. Each character in the story is represented by a different colored index card. Robert’s visual aid ideas especially appealed to me since those options are low-tech and easy to use.

In addition to memoir, Robert’s research focuses on curriculum development for youth, especially in rural and Native American schools. That dovetails with Jake Arrowtop’s teaching at a high school on the Blackfeet Reservation, covered in Part 2. Between their sessions, Robert and Jake found much to talk about.

~~~

Jonathan Fetter-Vorm

Jonathan Fetter-Vorm is a self-taught graphic artist, driven by his love of drawing. He admits, “Until I had a family, my lifestyle was very unhealthy, eating junk food and drawing sixteen hours a day.”

Although his father dismissed his art as “fatuous indulgence,” Jonathan’s early passion wasn’t quashed. In college, after reading Beowulf, he turned the epic poem into a comic book.

He opted for an MFA in creative nonfiction rather than going to art school because he says “art school doesn’t teach art.”

Pop up classic book by Jonathan Fetter-Vorm

Working as a book printer and binder, he created beautiful handmade illustrated books. During his talk, he passed around several examples of miniature pop-up books with exquisite artwork that retold classic literature. But he says, “I couldn’t make any money doing that.”

Writing as a career discouraged him so he quit. “I turned to comic books and started making money.”

He found a niche market of young readers fascinated by his illustrated recounting of historical events like the Civil War (Battle Lines), and the Apollo 11 moon landing (Moonbound). In 2013, his story Trinity was selected by the American Library Association as the Best Graphic Novel for Teens. In it, Jonathan chronicles J. Robert Oppenheimer and the building of the first atomic bomb.

He describes his meticulous research, which includes near-microscopic study of photos and original documents to ensure every detail is accurate, down to the cabin measurements in Apollo 11. He used Kodachrome photos from the 1960s for the color palette as well as to capture clothing, hairstyles, appliances, and objects from everyday life in 1969.

To build a graphic novel, Jonathan suggests three methods:

  1. Start from a script then add drawings;
  2. Start with character sketches;
  3. Start with a scene.

His preferred style is to draw first. “If I could, I would draw until I had a heart attack.”

If he tries to write the script first, he jokes about his constant distractions: “I need a snack. I need to go to the bathroom.”

A 150-page book contains six panels per page, requiring a lot of detailed drawing. However, he says, “You really only need three to five truly impactful scenes.”

I left Jonathan’s talk with a fresh appreciation for comic books and the creativity behind them.

~~~

Jess Owen, J.D. (Jenn) Evans, Debbie Burke

How much fun is it to have a sibling who’s also a writer? Ask J.D. (Jenn) Evans who is Jess Owen’s sister. For much of their lives, the sisters have brainstormed, critiqued, and beta read each other’s work.

Jenn is a former Army officer now living in North Carolina with her husband and “two attempts at mini-clones gone rogue.” She laughingly complains she has “too many stories in her head.”

Jenn writes a romantic epic fantasy series, Mages of the Wheel, that unfolds in the World of Tamar. Her books have garnered thousands of four and five-star reviews and are rated as “#Best of Booktok.” Readers become entranced by the magical world thanks to beautifully rendered maps of various story locales.

She actively engages with her readers on multiple social media outlets and has a large loyal following. Fans even share their own art that depicts Jenn’s characters.

Because of overlapping breakout sessions, I missed Jenn’s presentation about how to create relationship chemistry. But Jenn, Jess, and I got together for a panel as the last event on Sunday afternoon.

Usually, that time slot means many attendees have already left but a fair number of people remained to hear us discuss our different journeys in the traditional and indie publishing world.

Jenn indie-published her romantasy series but remains open to other routes if good opportunities come around.

Jess used crowd-funding to indie-publish her first four books, The Summer King Chronicles, a fantasy series with lush illustrations. Her next two books were contemporary YA. A Furry Faux Paw and Don’t Ask if I’m Okay were traditionally published. She is considering a return to indie pub for future books.

My first thriller Instrument of the Devil was traditionally published but six months later the press closed its doors. I received a couple of offers from small publishers but decided to get my rights back for the first book and have indie-pubbed all my books since. The control and ability to release books on my timeframe is important, rather than waiting for the much slower traditional process.

We all agreed that the marketing burden falls on the author, no matter how they’re published.

Jenn and Jess are both active on numerous social media outlets. I always learn about that unfamiliar territory by listening to them.

Jenn discussed that today’s authors must be able to pivot, whether they’re traditionally or indie published. Readers’ tastes and trends often change quickly. Indie publishing allows Jenn to switch directions and adapt immediately to her readers’ wants.

Newer publishing options continue to evolve with online outlets like Royal Road, a fan-driven site of serializations. I’d heard an enthusiastic buzz at the conversation among younger attendees about Royal Road.

Jess and Jenn are always lively, intelligent, and knowledgeable. Being on a panel with the two sisters was great fun.

~~~

Claudia Cassidy Bennett, PhD

The conference could not have happened without the steady guiding hand of chair Claudia Bennett. Whether she was juggling plane flights for out-of-town presenters or finding a missing dongle for my power point presentation, Claudia handled all challenges with serene graciousness and efficiency.

Perhaps she perfected that calmness while caring for her mother who had Alzheimer’s. She memorialized the experience in her touching book Caregiving Reimagined: A Practical and Spiritual Guide for Family Caregivers.

Sunday evening, the 35th Annual Flathead River Writers Conference wrapped. Tired but energized attendees hurried home to apply lessons, insights, and renewed inspiration to our works in progress.

Hope to see you in Montana next year!

MG is for Middle Grade

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“Access to books and the encouragement of the habit of reading: these two things are the first and most necessary steps in education and librarians, teachers and parents all over the country know it. It is our children’s right and it is also our best hope and their best hope for the future.” –Michael Morpurgo

* * *

I’ve spent the better part of my writing time in 2025 writing and publishing Middle Grade novels, and Sue Coletta’s recent TKZ post on Writing for Children inspired me to share some of the things I’ve learned.

I asked my good friend and TKZ contributor emeritus Dr. Steve Hooley to help me. I had interviewed Steve on my blog earlier this year about his Middle Grade Fantasy series, The Mad River Magic Series. Steve’s thoughts about writing for the 8-12 year old level were so insightful, I asked his permission to quote from that interview and from later email exchanges. So here are some thoughts about Middle Grade books from both of us.

WHAT CONSTITUTES MIDDLE GRADE?

Steve:

Most authors define “middle grade fiction” as being written for ages 8 – 12 (third grade through sixth grade), and containing no sexual content or realistic violence. I think that another way to look at it is the intelligence and information processing skills of the reader. “Children” of this age are reaching the age where they can understand adult logic and reasoning. And they are not yet filled with the adolescent hormone-driven physical and sexual attraction that is found in young adult material, and that clouds their thinking.

They differ from books for younger readers in that they are more like adult books, longer, with plot and structure. And they differ from books for YA and adult in that they usually contain no profanity, sex, or overt violence.

Kay:

I like what Steve had to say about adult logic and reasoning. In my books, the two main characters solve mysteries by looking at things from multiple points of view. I believe this introduction to analytical logic and critical thinking skills will serve young readers well. (And I know Garry Rodgers will like that.)

 

WHY WRITE MIDDLE GRADE?

Steve:

In my opinion, the age group of readers of middle grade books is in the innocent age of transition to adulthood. This permits the reader to learn principles from the book that will prepare them for their adult life. And it gives the author a unique opportunity to present material which the reader can evaluate and consider regarding choices for their adult life.

Kay:

I had included two young girls, 10-year-old Reen and her 9-year-old cousin Joanie, in my third mystery novel, Time After Tyme. The girls were very popular with readers, and several people encouraged me to give them their own series. Although I hesitated for months while I worked on another novel, the idea of writing books that would contribute to a child’s intellectual growth appealed to me.  I decided to try to create an entertaining story that would have traces of problem-solving, teamwork, fair play, and persistence without preaching.

 

HOW MANY WORDS?

Steve commented on my blog that most of his Mad River Magic books are around 80K words, so I would put those books in the Older MG category.

Each of my books is around 30K words, so I think younger readers can handle the straightforward plotting and limited number of characters.

 

WHAT GENRES ARE ACCEPTABLE?

As we mentioned above, Steve’s books are in the Fantasy genre; mine are mysteries, but according to a recent post on Jenny Bowman’s site, MG books can cover a wide range of genres. She mentions mystery, fantasy, adventure, historical fiction, and even the re-telling of classic stories like Les Miserables.

In place of a romance genre, best friends and strong relationships are appropriate. And MG kids love to laugh, so humor is always welcome in Middle Grade fiction.

 

FINAL THOUGHTS

Steve included these thoughts in a recent email

  1. The name of genre (Middle Grade) makes no sense. It is not Middle “School” age.
  2. The wide discrepancy of reading skills in that age group. Some are reading adult books by the end of “middle grade”. Others (according to recent testing) are reading very poorly.
  3. Should there be two genres, a boys’ and a girls’ genre? Girls are always asking for romance by the 7th and 8th grade. While boys want adventure without all the icky girl stuff. (ex. Nancy Drew series vs. Hardy Boys)
  4. Marketing is difficult, unless you are trad published. Teachers want to recommend books that have won awards to their students.
  5. At that age, most readers are not buying their own books.
  6. At that age, readers can’t leave reviews on Amazon.
  7. Contact with students for beta reading must be handled with care. The best is to find a gifted and talented coordinator who will be the intermediary, because most teachers don’t have the time or the interest.

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So TKZers: Have you written any Middle Grade Fiction? Have you read any MG novels? What are your thoughts about writing for children?

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Whether they’re searching for hidden treasure in Bellevue or chasing tricky thieves through famous landmarks in Manhattan, Reen & Joanie are up to the job. Join the girls and make the world a better place.

Click the image to go to the Amazon series page.

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A hero on crutches, flying barrel carts, Indian magic, and a glow-in-the-dark magic pond, Bolt and the Mad River Magic gang have it all, living in the enchanted forest with their grandparents and practicing light magic.

Click on the image to go to the Amazon series page.