Photo courtesy pixabay.com

Hello, Anon du jour! Welcome to the neighborhood. Anon has brave submitted the first page of what appears to be a domestic thriller or gothic suspense novel titled The House on Horace Street which features an unsuspecting homeowner and an archetypal adversary known as a real estate agent! Just kidding. Let’s take a look at what we have:

Neither of them saw the cold black eyes that watched them from the bedroom window as the car meandered up the dirt pathway and pulled to a stop. A quiet eeriness hung heavy around the house. Theresa drummed her fingers on her knee. Joan, Theresa’s real estate agent, let out a nervous laugh. Theresa got out of the car and cupped her hand over her eyes to block the glare of the sun ash she stared up at the home. White with red shutters. Old. Solid. Proud. Nothing about it fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. The street was neatly lined with identical cape cods on both sides, each on a half acre. The 1790s colonial farmhouse sat on five acres of land in the middle of the neighborhood. At some point the entire neighborhood was once part of the five acres. The lot was in disarray: trees here and there with no order to them, grass that, upon closer inspection, was just weeds the current owner cultivated into a makeshift lawn, and an overgrown circular garden in front of the house that suffered from neglect. Still, Theresa was intrigued. She’d always wanted a hobby farm and the house on Horace Street fit the bill which made her willing to overlook the fact that the house changed hands 7 times over the past ten years.

“Well, the land is in desperate need of landscaping,” Theresa said.

“That just means you have the opportunity to design it to your tastes, and there’s plenty of open, level space perfect for the vegetable garden you said you wanted to have,” said Joan.

“Some of the trees will have to be cut down, too.”

“Free firewood for the fireplace.”

“Are you trying to sell me on this house, Joan?”

“I am a realtor!”

Their giggles chipped at the tension neither of them admitted to. Joan hesitated for a moment before she made her way onto the covered porch to get the key from the lock box. Theresa was looking at the porch, taking note of its sturdiness.

“The porch was rebuilt last spring,” Joan said, “wraps all the way around the house. Just needs a good staining and it will be beautiful.”

“Usually porches just go around one side.”

Anon, I got a kick out of your first page since I have had many conversations with real estate agents over the past few months. I live in an area where there is a very low inventory of homes for sale and very high demand, so I get called once or twice a week by agents who urge me to put my house on the market. You have their patter down, um, pat. Anyway, your first page has good bones. The interior, however, needs a bit of rearranging. So let’s roll up our sleeves and get to that.

— Let’s start with that first sentence. Move it to the end of this opening vignette — which is probably on your second or third page — changing it so that the car is driving away from the house rather than approaching it. You can then build your suspense incrementally, with the kill shot, if you will, coming at the end of the chapter or vignette.  Begin with the line “A quiet eeriness…” then go ahead and introduce Joan and Theresa.  Describe the outside as you have done (but see below), and then have Joan and Theresa go into the house and walk around a bit. If you haven’t already, set up the elements which hint that all is not right within. Let Joan and Theresa hear a couple of random creaks (“These vintage houses have good bones, but bones creak occasionally!”). Also have Joan notice that a couple of very minor things seem out of place from the last time she was there (if she was there), anything from a toilet seat being left up to a pencil being left on a counter or her real estate business cards being moved. Then, after they’ve left the house, mention how neither of them notice the cold black eyes watching them drive away.

— The rest of the first paragraph needs a bit of updating. We’ll talk about that in a minute. Before we do that, however, I’ve got a couple of punch list items that should be fixed:

1. There’s a glaring typo in the fourth sentence:  “in the sun ash she stared”…  I believe you mean “in the sun as she stared…”

     2. You describe the home’s lot with a long sentence composed of clauses with a colon            and commas:       

“The lot was in disarray: trees here and there with no order to them, grass that, upon closer inspection, was just weeds the current owner cultivated into a makeshift lawn, and an overgrown circular garden in front of the house that suffered from neglect.”  

Turn those clauses into sentences:

“The lot, however, was in disarray. Trees grew here and there with no order to them.  The lawn was a collection of weeds which threatened to engulf a neglected overgrown circular garden in front of the house.”

       3) I think what you are saying here is that some of the land that was a part of the original farmhouse acreage was parceled off to create the surrounding neighborhood and that five acres still belong to the farmhouse. If that is the case, the neighborhood wouldn’t have once been part of the five acres. It would have been part of a larger acreage that had been parceled out so that only five acres are left of the existing property. If so, you want to say something like this: “The surrounding neighborhood had been parceled out from what had once been a much larger farm.”

       4) While we are talking about numbers, you want to be consistent in how you state them. I’m referring to the house changing hands “7 times over the past ten years.” Try “seven times over the past ten years” (my preference) or “7 times over the past 10 years.” Most but not all writing guides say to use words instead of numbers but consistency is key here.

— Now, let’s go back to the paragraph in general; You discuss the house exterior and lot, then talk about the neighborhood, then return to the house and lot. Let’s describe the house and lot first from Theresa’s viewpoint, and then talk for a second about the neighborhood in comparison to the house. While we are doing that, let’s break that long paragraph up into shorter paragraphs. I think it will be easier to read::

Theresa got out of the car and cupped her hand over her eyes to block the glare of the sun as she stared up at the home. She had done plenty of research on the 1790s colonial farmhouse when she had first considered looking at it.

She felt that the house and lot were a mass of contradictions.  The house itself looked old, solid and proud. Its white color set off its red shutters nicely. Its fiveacre lot, however, was in disarray. Trees grew here and there with no order to them. The lawn was a collection of weeds which threatened to engulf a neglected overgrown circular garden in front of the house.

Nothing about the house fit in with the rest of the neighborhood.  The street was lined with identical neat cape cods on both sides, each of which sat on a half acre. The lots had been carved from what had been the much larger working farm property at some point in the past. Theresa was intrigued, however, even considering the property’s drawbacks. She’d always wanted a hobby farm and the house on Horace Street fit the bill. It made her willing to overlook the fact that the house had changed hands seven times over the past ten years.

In short, Anon, your first page is a fixer-upper but has good bones and with some updating and changes, your story will find a good home with lots of prospective buyers. Good luck!

I will now attempt to remain uncharacteristically silent as I turn the page over to our many friends at The Kill Zone for their observations. Thank you, Anon, for bravely submitting your work to our First Page Critique!

Whenever the “boys in the back room” go on strike and fresh writing ideas are nowhere to be found, social media can sometimes provide a quick injection of inspiration. It can also  function as a needed cattle prod to getting off one’s lazy caboose.

A late-night surfing safari turned up a few of these little gems from social media cicerones:

From the “Thing Could Be Worse” files

How writers should handle bad reviews

“You are without a doubt the worst writer I’ve ever heard of.”

“But you HAVE heard of me.”

Thanks, we think 

Instead of angsting over your inner clouds, spread a little sunshine 

And know this: we are all in this together

What about you? Do you ever turn to the web for uplift or creative inspiration? Any good sources you can share with us?

By John Gilstrap

Today’s post responds to a request from a TKZ reader who asked about internal monologue. (I’ve heard this referred to as internal dialogue, as well, but outside the world of psychoses, I’m not sure such a thing is possible.)  This is my take on the way to present thoughts on the page.

Narrative voice.  For fiction to work at its finest, every word of every line of every paragraph should advance either story or character, preferably both. I discussed this previously in a post I called The Point of View Tapestry, and more recently, I addressed it in a video on my YouTube Channel in a piece I call, Point of View and Voice. When writing in the first person or close third person, every line of narration serves as a presentation of a character’s point of view. As an example, consider this paragraph from Scorpion Strike, the next Jonathan Grave thriller (July, 2018):

[Gail] was still trying to process what she had just seen.  She understood that she’d fallen in love with a crusader whose combat skills had been honed over nearly two decades of training and experience with the most elite Special Forces unit in the world. Yes, she’d seen him kill before.  Indeed, she’d killed right alongside him. But those incidents had all involved firearms and extraordinary marksmanship.  Killing with a knife seemed so personal, and Jonathan had wielded the blade with such expert precision that it took her breath away.

That entire passage is, in effect, internal monologue.  We are seeing the world through Gail’s eyes. And, because this scene comes from very early in the novel, we learn a little backstory, too.  In the previous scene, separated by a space break, we were in Jonathan’s point of view as he killed their attacker with a focused precision that clearly comes naturally to him.  That scene was essentially internal monologue, as well.  Done effectively, your narrative voice carries a lot of the water for internal monologue.

Quoted thought.  The accepted practice these days is to italicize quoted thought, and then tag it as if it were dialogue: Nice place, Jonathan thought. It’s a simple, effective convention that I believe can easily be overdone.  If the narrative voice handles the description of a place well, the reader–who is firmly rooted in a character’s point of view–will know simply by word choice whether or not the character is impressed or repelled.

I approach italicized quoted thought with the same trepidation with which I approach dialect. Misspellings and startling contractions stop the narrative and break the spell for the reader.  (I feel the same about expressions in foreign languages that are then translated for the reader. A much better approach is, “Please have a seat,” he said in Russian.  Why make me plow through unintelligible Cyrillic characters first?)  A little bit goes a long, long way.

The reader who asked me to address this topic presented to me in an email a passage for which his freelance editor took him to task.  He granted permission for me to share it here.  This is a paragraph from his work in progress:

Phil was right. I’ve been doing my best to keep evil out or to deny it. But what’s the alternative? Permanent depression? I’m pretty depressed right now . . . Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Lara was with some guy and something happened and he panicked and had to ditch the body.

His editor told him–and I agree–that this passage comes off as “inauthentic” if only because we don’t actually think in words. We certainly don’t think in complex logical analyses. We think in bursts of reaction and instinct that can be an enormous challenge to present effectively on the page. The example above doesn’t work because it is too complex.  In this case, the fix is simple:

Phil was right, Paula thought.  She’d been doing her best to keep evil out or to deny it. But what’s the alternative? Permanent depression? She was pretty depressed right now . . . Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Lara was with some guy and something happened and he panicked and had to ditch the body.

The same passage that feels clunky in italicized thought works (though it’s absent context) as straight narrative and communicates the same thoughts.

As a further example that’s a little closer to my wheelhouse, there are probably dozens of considerations in drawing and firing a pistol, and while all of them are present in the shooter’s head, it would be inauthentic to articulate them on the page.  Imagine . . .

If the wine is sour, throw it out. — Michelangelo

By PJ Parrish

Have you ever wanted to just say the hell with it and give up?

I have. I’ve been publishing fiction in one form or another since 1980 and I can’t count the number of times I have wanted to pack it in and go drive the cart at the airport for a living. Sometimes it was a bad editor who brought this on. Or being dropped from a publisher (twice). Or doing too many book signings where the only people who showed up were the staff and a homeless guy trying to get out of the rain. Or being caught in the dreaded Barnes & Noble Death Spiral. (this is an official term for the dynamic of mediocre-sales-so-we-won’t-stock-you-but-no-way-to-increase-sales-because-we-won’t-carry-your-books.

Or sometimes it was simply because I thought I had run out of energy or worse, ideas. But maybe the worst kind of giving up is the one where you have invested a lot of time and energy into a book and there’s this little voice inside your head whispering, “This is pure crap.”  And you know the voice is telling you the truth.

When is it time to give up on a story and start over?

Michelangelo is the one who got me thinking about this. Or actually, Charleton Heston. Last weekend, my bad cold had me mainlining old movies and I happened upon The Agony and the Ecstasy.  Charleton Heston as the artist and Rex Harrison as the pope who commissions him to paint the Sistine Chapel. Good movie, based on the bestselling novel by Irving Stone. Michelangelo is maybe a couple hundred feet into his backbreaking project but he’s haunted by self-doubt — especially over the fresco he has painted depicting the face of God. He retreats to a tavern, where he sketches the peasants as models for apostles. But it’s God’s face who taunts him. Michelangelo takes a drink of wine, spits it out and yells, “This wine is sour!”  The tavern owner tastes it, agrees, and uncorks the cask onto the floor, saying, “If the wine is sour, throw it out!”

Michelangelo has his epiphany. He goes back to the chapel and takes a scythe to God’s face, scraping it off.  A year of work demolished. He starts over.

If the wine is sour, throw it out.

Flashback to 1998. I am writing my first attempt at a mystery. My first chapter opens with a Miami homicide detective sitting in a fishing boat in the Everglades. She is thinking…mourning…remembering…her husband who got blown up in a drug deal gone bad. Do you see the problem? She is thinking. She is…doing nothing. If you don’t get it, go back into TKZ archives and search for any of James Scott Bell’s posts on characters thinking and not doing.

I finished that first book and sent it out to agents. I got oh, maybe twelve rejections. Not one agent was kind enough or smart enough to tell me what was wrong. I tossed the whole book and started over. About two years later, the first book in the Louis Kincaid series got published. (For the record, it opens with Louis unearthing a shallow grave in rural Mississippi and finding a skeleton with a rotted noose around its neck).

Okay, flash forward to now. After our book She’s Not There was published last year by Thomas & Mercer, they asked to see a sequel that centered on a subplot featuring a secondary character named Clay Buchanan. Six chapters poured out of my laptop. I was on a roll.

Then this little voice started whispering. I ignored it, plowing on through a hundred pages. Finally, I went back and re-read Chapter 1.

I had opened with my protagonist Clay Buchanan sitting in a boat in an Arkansas bayou. He is a skip tracer by trade but also an avid bird-watcher.  He has come looking for a woodpecker that’s supposedly extinct. But he is thinking about his wife and infant son who disappeared ten years ago. This quest is supposed to a metaphor for his hopeless search for something lovely that he knows is really dead. Beautiful chapter, full of poignancy, dripping with Spanish moss and symbolism.

You’d think I would have learned something in twenty years.

Yesterday, I threw it out, all hundred pages.  It took me five months to get to this point. That’s a lot of wine on the floor.  But it had to be done. The idea for the book is solid but the first five chapters are not working. I knew it in my heart.

Why do we resist starting over? Well, after twenty years, I’ve got my thoughts.

Deadlines: It may be an actual contract deadline, or one you set yourself (I will finish this book by July! I will write 1500 words per day!) It is also the pressure of our genre, the idea that you won’t get noticed or survive unless you can produce good books at a steady clip.

Deadlines can be bad — the tyranny of the ticking clock can make you burp out some bad stuff.  But deadlines can be good — a finite amount of time forces you to write instead of playing Spider Solitaire or folding laundry).  Deadlines can make you angry. Deadlines can make you feel frustrated and exhausted. As a classic procrastinator, I’ve learned it’s best to try to embrace a deadline. Think of it as having a pet porcupine.

Self-doubt: This can be bad because it can eat away at your soul. (I’ll never get published. I can never write as well as fill-in-the-blank. I’m out of good ideas.). But self-doubt can be good because it forces you to slow down, reassess and reflect. When things look dark, sometimes it’s not a bad idea to pump the brakes so you don’t drive off the cliff. If your novel is going badly, you might need to set it aside, let the frustration cool, and go back later. Divorce or reconciliation? It’s easier to decide with a clear head instead of a heavy heart.  Some books can, with hard work, be saved. Others have to be abandoned.

Negative people: This can be bad because sometimes you have to literally live with these folks. Your spouse might not be supportive enough. Your friends might tell you your wasting your time. Your “real” job screams at you like a harpy. But it can be good if you’ve got someone in your life who can, with a clear critical eye and kind heart, tell you when your book has lost its way. All of us want praise. But what we really need are folks –a trusted beta reader or a good critique group — who will tell us “This ain’t working.”

Now I can hear some of you saying, “Okay, that’s the agony. When does the ecstasy kick in?”

I can’t say. It’s a personal thing. Each of us handles disappointment and defeat in his or her own way.  I can only say that once I made the decision to throw away the first hundred pages of Clay’s story, I felt…good.  Like Michaelango, I had a clean white canvas again. I’ve been here before. I can do it again. I’ve only got, oh, about 100,000 words to go…

Happy New Year! As promised, what follows is my account of meeting Fats Domino…

(c) Copyright tripadvisor.com. All rights reserved.

One of the first rock ‘n’ roll records that I recall hearing was “Blueberry Hill” by Fats Domino. I was blessed to have grown up in the 1950s and 1960s, when Top 40 radio was a wonderful mix of rockabilly, soul, rock, doo-wop, country & western, and r&b. It made for some exotic blocks of music — Everly Brothers followed by Barbara George giving way to Ferrante & Teicher and then Rick Nelson — but it was never boring. If you didn’t like a song, you just waited. You’d hear something you would like before too long. It was Fats, however, more than anyone else, who spoke to me. I had a friend (and he’s still a friend) whose older sister, LM,  had one of the best record collections I’d ever seen or heard at that point in time, and it included all sorts of Fats Domino 45s, many of which I’d never heard up until that point. We spent hours listening to them, particularly the ‘B’ sides, which were rarely played on the radio. I remember leaving his house one afternoon, my friend and me and another guy singing Fats’ infectious “I’m Gonna Be a Wheel Someday.” We were 10 years old at the time. We all got old, but the songs never did.

(c) Copyright Capitol Records, Inc. All rights reserved.

Fast forward to 1999. 45s had become a novelty, confined to limited pressing collector item releases. What were called “car phones” were being replaced by “cell phones” and “cell phones” didn’t have cameras or GPS or maps yet. The first iPhone would be released in eight years. Something called “google” was about a year old and something else called “wifi” was slowly making its way into the lexicon. Primitive times. November of that year found me in New Orleans on business. It was during this particular visit that I had lunch with a local musician who we’ll call J and whose extended family had for three generations been an integral part of the early days of rock ‘n’ roll. While we ate a couple of coma-inducing po’boys we talked about the city’s history. He looked somewhat askance at me a couple of times from across the table, expressing wonder at how a middle-aged white guy “not from around here” knew so much about his family and their musical contributions. The wonder turned to amazement when I took him back to my hotel room and played him some CDs of New Orleans music I had brought with me — iPods were two years away — which included recordings his relatives had played on but that he had never heard. We talked a bit more and were almost wrapping up when he said, “Hey, what are doing this afternoon? You got a car? You wanna go by Fats’ house?”

My answers were “nothing,” “yes,” and “hell yes.” It was a trip I had wanted to make on previous visits but given that the New Orleans street system — designed, apparently, by a spider on LSD — was daunting,  I had over the course of a few visits only slowly started to venture into the city’s neighborhoods and out of the French Quarter. So, yes, if J wanted to direct me to Fats Domino’s house — deep, deep in the ‘hood known as the lower Ninth Ward — I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. After a sinus-clearing trip on the freeway with J’s occasionally helpful guidance (“left…no…no, right…no…left…NO, RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!”) through a heavy thunderstorm, we wound up driving down Caffin Street and approaching its intersection with Marais Street I saw what I was sure was the house in question on the right. It appeared to be a shotgun-style duplex, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, with the words “Fats Domino Publishing” spelled out in lights on the front of the house.

When J had asked if I wanted to “go by Fat’s house” I assumed that he meant drive “by,” as opposed to “stopping.” And going in.  As we were um, driving by, however, J said, “Pull over there” pointing to a portion of the driveway which was in front of the house outside of the fence. I did. He got out of the car, then looked at me funny as I remained in the car, still not fully comprehending what was happening. He said, “C’mon!” and I did, turning off the engine and then stumbling a bit as I followed him. My brain and my body hadn’t quite synced up with the concept that I was walking into Fats Domino’s house. J in the meantime had negotiated the fence gate as the front door of the house opened. And there stood Fats.

I have often described myself as being too short for my weight (as opposed to weighing too much for my height) and such was certainly true of Fats. He had the appearance, as he stood there smiling shyly, of being compressed. Still very substantial at 5’4” and over 200 pounds, he nonetheless gave the impression of being possessed of a certain physical frailty. J introduced me as his “manager” (I wasn’t) and I shook hands with Fats (even as I write those words, I still can’t quite believe it) as he ushered us into his house. Please note: we were in Fats’ house, which was a combination annex and office. His HOUSE, actually, was next door, a huge place on Marais Street where he and his family (and several large automobiles) resided. The world-famous Cadillac Couch, however — a three seater fashioned from the tail-end of a Cadillac — was in the annex. Fats waved me over to it, saying something. I at that point in time was very unfamiliar with the New Orleans patois (which varies from neighborhood to neighborhood) and will confess that I couldn’t understand what he was saying. When I continued to stand there, however, he laughed and said, “Siddown!” I did. Carefully. He and J sat and talked for a bit — I couldn’t follow the conversation, but it was something about one of J’s relatives — and after about ten minutes they finished up their business. As we got up to leave, Fats shot me a smile and walked over to a beautiful piano, where he sat down, and then played and sang the introduction and opening verse of “Blueberry Hill.” It would be an understatement to say that he still had the magic. His voice was strong and his playing was complex, confident and flawless. It was if a switch had been flipped on inside of him when he sat down, releasing the muse entrapped from the reserved, seemingly infirm man with whom I had spent the past several minutes.  All I could think was, “I wish that LM were here.”

(c) Copyright Capitol Records, Inc. All rights reserved.

When Fats stopped playing I started to clap but he ducked his head shyly again and waved me off. J said to him, “Why don’t you give him one of those Christmas records?” and he did, handing me a copy of a disc titled Christmas Is a Special Day.  I thought later that I should have asked Fats to autograph it. I was still catching up, however, with what was going on and where I was, standing next to a man whose work I had been listening to for over five decades.  I had no way of otherwise memorializing it either — no camera or camera phone —  but that was okay. We said our goodbyes and I walked out of the “house” (as opposed to the “HOUSE”) into a world which was much different than it had been just a half-hour before.

(c) Capitol Records, Inc. All rights reserved.

The world almost twenty years on from that day is also much different. One constant, however, is that Fats’ music remains timeless. His first single, “The Fat Man,” is considered by many to be the first rock ‘n’ roll record. Listening to it seventy years after its release one can hear Fats and the assembled musicians, under the direction of bandleader Dave Bartholomew, galloping into a previously uncharted musical territory. Then there is “I’m Walkin,” which, sixty years after its release, was licensed for a FitBit commercial. It’s a perfect pairing, given that one can’t sit still while listening to it. And of course there’s…but I need to be quiet and go away. I’ve prattled on too long. Anyway, that’s my brush with stardom. I’ve met a number of my idols since that time, but my meeting with Fats is in a class by itself.

Your turn now. Have you had any meetings with a major and famous influence in your life that you would like to talk about? I am going to attempt to stay uncharacteristically silent while you inform us, but I can’t promise anything. Thank you.