Oew wee. Now we’re having fun!

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John Ramsey Miller

The following are either two front page submissions…
or perhaps one is a real submission and the other a spoof…
or perhaps both are real submissions…
After reading them both tell me which is the real submission
…or which is a spoof, or if both are one or the other.
And tell me why.
tell me what you think about them.
Make it short.
Make it long.
At some point I will post the fact of the matter.
I am doing this because it is the way I think this will be the best way to have some fun.
Plus I am a loss for words.

WHILE I HAVE BREATH, I WILL NOT DIE
By Anonymous

It was a truly hot day. Rivers of stinky sweat ran from the killer’s armpits like thin clear soup that no sane person would want to put into a spoon. Of course, being on a deserted beach in south Florida as it was, there had been many hotter days, but not so many as a layman might imagine. His teeth were black crackly stumps, which probably accounted for his breath that was truly like rotting fish. The billowy clouds looked to the woman, who was lying on her back bleeding, like sweet fleecy sheep swimming across a river as seen from a good way up in the air, even though they were up in the sky.

“Oh, my, no, no, no,” she said in a dying whisper, blowing bubbles of blood as she spoke in a choked fearful rasp looking at the black handle of the butcher knife with a black handle that was erected out of her chest where he had left it. “I feel a little like Little Bo Peep.” She wondered which of the killer’s rusty eyes was actually looking at her lustily and fevered and which was looking somewhere else.

“I would not uv stobbed you, uf you wuz a mind to frisky with me instead of being all stuck-uppity. No all have ta run frum the poleeces and maybe be featured on America’s Most Wanted.”

Suddenly she started flipping around in the sand like a fish would if it was pulled out of the water. She jumped up onto her feet and jerked the knife out from her chest and waved it in the air in front of him like she was sending him a message with a signal flag that was dripping blood. Red blood spurted out of her many wounds the evil killer had made when he slammed the knife into to her beautiful body more than a dozen times, but probably less than fifteen she thought to herself, unable to count them in the horrible memory in her brain.

Fear filled the eye that was looking at her, the other looked out at the ocean on account of he was truly one walleyed, ugly, evil, stink-breathed man with huge wads of hair on his shoulders and a tattoo of a mermaid on his throat, and cut off shorts with the fringes all uneven like he’d bitten them off using his rotted teeth. And his feet had purple flip-flops on them, with toenails like walnut hulls.

With amazement, he said, “Holy God, gal. Won’t you never die? Give me at knife.”

“Not yet,” she said, surprised as he was that she wasn’t already dead yet from losing so much blood. The wounds really hurt and she was all swimmy headed. “Come a little closer, cooter face, and I’ll send you to Hell to shovel coal for the rest of all time.”

DAMAGED
By Anonymous

29th June 2004 – Tuesday

Something gruesome had happened in Morecambe.

Stu read, ‘Happy Mount Drive Murders: Neighbours ignored smell. The bodies of murdered Morecambe business-man, Paul Guerrero, 52, and his wife Jean, 48, had lain undiscovered for several days despite the appalling smell coming from their five bedroom detached luxury home. Neighbour Cedric Farnham, 45, explained their reluctance to investigate stating, “Mr Guerrero was a very awkward neighbour. He once accused my son of revving his motorbike in an intimidating and racist manner.” Farnham eventually contacted the police …’

Stu was suddenly aware of his own smell. Calvin Klein’s Obsession for men, applied liberally fifteen minutes earlier after his morning shower. Stu wondered why body odour was so repulsive? What’s the evolutionary advantage of males having a body odour that repels females? He resolved to look it up on the Internet.

Lindy, Stu’s nineteen year old daughter, interrupted his thoughts. “I met a very nice lady at the salon yesterday.”

“Good.” The distraction made The Times suddenly unappealing – he’d save it for later. He folded the paper along its length, plopped it on the table next to his buttered toast and picked up The Echo turning to the lonely hearts section. He never seriously considered contacting anyone. He imagined the women casting these text shadows, pictured them and idly thought about the part he could play in satisfying their needs for companionship; a dance partner, a fellow gastronome, or maybe more.

“She’s renting the Round House.” Lindy tucked wayward blonde strands of hair behind her ears then poured her dad more tea.

Stu turned past the lonely hearts, scanning the rest of the paper.

Lindy forded over the lack of response. “Her name’s Brenda, she’s forty-eight, works for The Echo, ironically.”

The Echo also lost its appeal. Stu folded it and placed it on top of The Times. “I think you mean coincidentally.” He took a bite of toast then sipped his tea.

See what I mean.

The Curious Case of the Overpriced Kindle

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By John Gilstrap

A friend of mine who happens to be a mega-selling thriller writer finds himself in an interesting spot. A month or so ago, Publisher’s Weekly gave his now just-released book a coveted starred review. That’s a big deal. Just about everybody in the book business reads or is familiar with PW, and a rave review from them can do great things for a book. It’s more important for newer writers than it is for authors of my friend’s ilk, but still, it’s quite an honor.

Imagine the disappointment, then, when I logged on to Amazon and I saw that his average review there is 2.5 stars. What gives? How can there be such a disconnect? How can a book that received such acclaim garner so many one-star reviews?

It turns out that there’s a readers’ revolution in play, and the cause they’re fighting for is fairly priced Kindle books. In my friend’s case, the Kindle version of the book is selling for $14.99—about a dollar more than the discounted price for the hardcover—and his fans are in full revolt. Their only weapons in this war are to boycott the author, and to pollute his rating with one-star reviews.

I get the anger over the pricing. Back when the Kindle was first making the news, the deal was clear: You could buy any book you wanted for no more than $9.99. Then the publishers revolted, and the so-called agency model was born, in which publishers get to set the retail price for their books. Thus, mega-selling authors have more expensive eBooks than non-mega-selling authors, and Kindlefolk feel betrayed.

I can’t begin to understand what the publisher is thinking in this scenario. In what world does it make sense to market eBooks at a higher price point than hardcovers? Add that to the list of bazillion things in the entertainment business that make no sense at all.

Because it makes no sense, I think the feelings of betrayal are justified, but the payback strategy feels flawed. People feel like they have to make their feelings known, and polluting the ratings feels good. It’s kind of the same thing as punishing a waiter with a bad tip because your steak was overcooked. It might feel good, but at the end of the day it accomplishes nothing.

If you read deeper into many of the angry reviews, you’ll find stated intentions not just to boycott the author whose book has been overpriced but his publisher, but—inexplicably, I think—to boycott the Kindle and eBooks in general. This is where I start to get pissed.

Why throw out the reading device? Why not express your anger by reading a new author in the same genre? Why not give a break to some newbie whose publisher is working hard to grab your attention? Are people so addicted to name brand franchise authors that they can’t take a chance on a new name?

If you’re angry about the price of the brand name books, and you want to get the publishers’ attention, I think you need to take your business to a different publisher. Not only might you find a new author to like, but your experiment would truly publish the offender you’re trying to get back at.

Off the top of my head, I can think of 11 mystery and thriller writers who would love a chance to be added to your must-read list.

Murder, Manure, ET, & Karaoke

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Poor Matt is in trouble and it’s already day 9. Catch you guys on the flip side of this critique entry with comments. And I hope you will join in the discussion to share your insights for the author of SKIN-DEEP MOTIVES.

Day 9
Matt Grudge
As my vision focused out of unconsciousness, I felt in my aching bones that my life’s work as an investigator and the murder of a tattoo artist were worth more than the taste of copper pennies in my mouth. My abductors must’ve believed it too, because they ripped the duct tape from my cracked, bleeding lips so I’d be able to speak. The warm mouthful of blood dribbled down my chin to spatter the concrete floor beneath my naked, suspended feet.

My wrists were bound in the cold stainless steel of a pair of handcuffs, while the burning throb in my taut biceps and pulled shoulders indicated my captors had hung me from a ceiling. The blinding light from a hand held florescent beam struck me square in the face and lingered long enough for its heat to singe my scruffy, nine-day growth of whiskers.

Metallic clicks and clangs echoed all around, and a steady leak dripped; it could’ve been water or my blood. Labored breaths came out through the nostrils of my broken nose in a wheeze. I re-opened my left eye slowly to discern images in the wall of white, my right too swollen shut from being beaten to operate. A cloud of flies buzzed around, reveling in the perspiration of my body that set off an indigenous stench of manure.

Two gray shadows materialized in the light. They seemed extraterrestrial to me in that I couldn’t tell what sex they were. The chemicals I’d somehow been slipped back at the nightclub had such a bending effect on my senses, the two people constantly morphed between being one person, sometimes three. The knockout drug also screwed with the pitches of their voices.

“You’re on your own now. That Pocahontas bitch you run with is gone. Time to pay your dues, punk.”

I began to karaoke a verse of “Come As You Are.”

Comments:
Under the guise of being in the head of Matt, the author also is in omniscient POV to give every detail of Matt’s situation like an out-of-body experience, right down to his drops of blood hitting the floor UNDER him. With Matt suffering extensive beatings and just coming to, he might not even know his name much less see everything around him with such clarity. An author has to see through the eyes of the character only that which the character would truly see, or feel or know.

NINE DAYS hanging by handcuffs? With no food or water…suspended? With this being the start of the novel, I don’t see a need to have the 9 Days tagline. It only raises questions like I have. And if a guy is being tortured, how would he know it’s been 9 days? The days would meld into a never-ending nightmare as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

And the first thing he’s thinking about when he comes to is his life’s work? He sure is coherent—and philosophical—right off the bat. Many authors try for that gripping first line to catch the interest of the reader, but this line doesn’t make sense to me. His PI work and a murder are worth more than the taste of blood in his mouth?

What is he being tortured for? If someone has to beat the guy senseless for 9 days, a bullet would make more sense to someone who has presumably already committed murder. (Since this is only 300 words, I’ll admit I’m expecting a lot for such a short word count, but an explanation to make things clearer would make more sense than what’s offered in this intro.)

Matt’s captors take off the duct tape on his mouth, but don’t really ask him questions. Nothing happens right after that, when I had expected dialogue to explain what’s going on. And one guy at the end makes a statement that Matt could have heard without the duct tape coming off. The action in this scene needs to be clarified with better motivation. And dialogue is really needed to give life to Matt and explanation for why this is happening to him.

One of the biggest issues I see is the overwritten prose. It reads as forced with plenty of author intrusion to “tell” the reader what’s going on. Below are a few lines that really pulled me out of the story, but can TKZers find more?

“As my vision focused out of unconsciousness…” (Vision can’t be unconscious.)

“…my taut biceps and pulled shoulders indicated my captors had hung me from a ceiling.” (After 9 days of beating, he might forget some details, but wouldn’t Matt already know how they had him strung up on that first day? It’s like Matt is trying to catch the reader up on what’s been happening, too.)

“The blinding light from a hand held florescent beam struck me square in the face and lingered long enough for its heat to singe my scruffy, nine-day growth of whiskers.” (If he’s blinded, how does he know the light is hand held? And with all that is going on with this poor guy, why would he bother being aware of his grooming? NINE days of whiskers?)

“A cloud of flies buzzed around, reveling in the perspiration of my body that set off an indigenous stench of manure.” (His perspiration sets off an indigenous stench of manure? The overly complex sentence has too much in it to make the author’s intent clear. And where does he live that manure is indigenous…a stock yard, farm country, my backyard where my dog poops like a goose?)

“…the two people constantly morphed between being one person, sometimes three.” (If he is truly drugged and the images are wavering, how does he really know how many people there are? Matt seems to be certain there’s two people from the start. And after 9 days, why is he still drugged…especially if they’re beating him?)

“They seemed extraterrestrial to me in that I couldn’t tell what sex they were.” (Matt has obviously never been to the French Quarter in New Orleans. But that aside, he is beaten for nine days, sees shapes eclipsing the light, and he thinks of ET and gender? Wouldn’t he already know who is beating him from day one? Even if they wore masks, he’d have a pretty good idea of their gender, if that’s even important to his situation. I think the author is grasping for film imagery from Close Encounters to help the reader picture what he sees, but it would be best to stay in the moment and truly describe what Matt is going through from a more realistic point of view.)

“The knockout drug also screwed with the pitches of their voices.” (Maybe Matt has discovered what had been wrong with American Idol’s Paula Abdul all along, but a knock out drug doesn’t affect anyone else’s voice pitch. It would only affect the hearing of the person drugged.)

“You’re on your own now. That Pocahontas bitch you run with is gone. Time to pay your dues, punk.” (I’d say that nine days of getting beat to a pulp constitutes “dues paid.” Short of killing him, what else do they have planned? This dialogue reads as cliché to me, too. And any guy who retaliates by singing a Nirvana song [sans karaoke machine] should have plenty of interesting things to say, yet in this scene, he doesn’t speak a word.)

“I began to karaoke a verse of “Come as You Are.” (Beside the fact that “began to” is passive voice and the word “karaoke” isn’t synonymous with singing—EVER—I’m not sure why this guy would launch into a Nirvana song. Try hanging from handcuffs for nine days and see if you can breathe, much less have the lungs to sing.)

Recommendations:
There’s nothing wrong with simpler lines. Short fragments can also establish Matt’s disoriented state. And the disjointed thoughts can add tension for the reader too.

I also recommend new authors read their work aloud. This process can pinpoint things that don’t make sense. And it can also help establish good cadence in the sentence structure. When I do my edits, I still read my work aloud. Anything I stumble over gets changed.

Understanding “Point of View” is vital. I usually pick one character per scene and stay in that character’s head, using the senses that he or she can reasonably see or feel. Resist the urge to purely describe the scene as if you are looking down onto it. Only write what the character can see through their eyes or feel through their body. (Don’t describe his chin stubble when his hands are bound over his head with handcuffs. If you want the reader to fear for Matt, stick to those things that would frighten him. Chin stubble shouldn’t even be on his radar.)

The following sentences also are either too stilted and formal sounding (“indicated”, “in that”) or they are structured such that the author distances Matt from his own pain, as if he’s observing his body from the outside. Generally, the main focus isn’t Matt. It’s the knockout drug or chemicals, rather than how these things make him feel. If I had a broken nose, I wouldn’t be thinking of my “labored breaths.” Wouldn’t that hurt like hell…or maybe the swelling would throb?

my vision focused out of unconsciousness

pulled shoulders indicated my captors had hung me from a ceiling

Labored breaths came out through the nostrils of my broken nose

The knockout drug also screwed with the pitches

The chemicals I’d somehow been slipped

seemed extraterrestrial to me in that I couldn’t tell

To add depth to the “voice” of this character, I would recommend giving Matt an opinion about his predicament. That opinion will reflect on him—giving the reader insight into who he is—but it will also describe the setting to place the reader there with all their senses. A sentence like “metallic clicks and clangs echoed all around, and a steady leak dripped…” sounds rushed and reads like an inventory of the setting, rather than Matt’s experience. These are good sounds to describe, but think of different ways to say them that trigger something for Matt.

Version 1 (from a more serious and poetic dude) – I couldn’t tell what was real. A haunting clang of metal nudged an old memory of a playground swing until pain reminded me where I was. And coming out of my fog, I heard an incessant dripping. Those drops became my lifeline. I focused on them and counted each one, clinging to any fragment of reality that kept me on the right side of oblivion.

Version 2 (from my kind of tough guy) – The clang of metal was driving me nuts. Damn it! Make it stop. That torture pulsed in my head like a fierce hangover. I wasn’t exactly a stranger to the self-inflicted wound of a tequila bullet to the brain. And a never-ending dripping grated on my nerves, reminding me how much I needed to piss.

(I’m sure you guys could do better, but I hope you get my point about making each description count.

Any other recommendations? Please chime in.

First-page critique: THE LATERAL LINE

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By Joe Moore

As we continue with our annual springtime first-page critiques, here’s an anonymous submission called THE LATERAL LINE. My comments follow.

Gabriel knew this day would come. It had taken fourteen years and more warnings than he thought necessary but fate had caught up to them. The danger he saw years ago had come to meet them head on. The alarms sounded shrilly over head and the sprinkler system made it rain indoors. An eerie red glow from the emergency generators made navigating tricky, but Gabriel knew where he was going. All he had to do was follow the trail of bodies.

His feet slapped the puddles on the floor as he ran, his breath come in gulps. He had one chance to finish this, to do what should have been done years ago. Fear made his hands shake but he knew he couldn’t fail this time. A side hallway brought him out ahead of the boys he followed and as he rounded the corner he saw he judged correctly. Gabriel stood at one end of the long hallway and watched as his sons walked toward him.

They were silhouetted against the flashing emergency lights and dripped with water, but they walked confidently forward obviously not concerned that their father waited. Half-way up the hallway, they stopped. It was close enough for Gabriel to see the cocky grin on Cross’s face. That only served to convince Gabriel this needed to be done. He brought the gun up and leveled it with Cross’s head. His brother stepped forward, concern etched into his features.

“Just let us walk out of here, Dad. No one else has to get hurt,” Kale said. Cross just glared and kept quiet. Gabriel never took his eyes off the boy.

“I can’t let that happen, Kale. You know that.” Gabriel’s head buzzed with the intrusion he felt from Kale. The psychic push he understood his son was capable of. Gabriel knew if he wavered now, he would end up like the men and women he passed in the hallway. He was the only thing that stood between a terrible mistake and a messy death.

“This ends now,” Gabriel said and pulled the trigger.

I think this is a terrific first draft. It has all the right stuff: conflict, tension, suspense, action, mystery, and more. There’s no doubt that something really bad happened here as Gabriel navigates a “trail of bodies”. And the fact that a father is faced with possibly having to kill his sons is about as tragic as it gets. I assume the two boys are responsible for the multiple deaths, and judging from Gabriel’s determination to stop them, this is not the first time they have killed.

I get the feeling from the statement “The psychic push he understood his son was capable of”, that we’re dealing with the supernatural or horror genre. Just need to get rid of the dangling preposition.

Thankfully, there’s no backstory or flashbacks to slow us down. The author tosses us right into the “middle of things”. Within a few paragraphs, he/she has cut to the chase and we’re whisked along for the ride. There’s a strong sense of place and a threat of immediate danger.

I think the only thing needed is a surgical pass through this sample with a sharp editor’s knife. Despite a need to tighten and clean up, this submission shows great promise and I would definitely read on.

How about you? Would you keep turning the pages to find out what happened?

**********

THE PHOENIX APOSTLES, coming June 8. Preorder now at Amazon or B&N.

Today’s critique – TRUTH BE TOLD

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Today we have an intriguing opening page. The story is called TRUTH BE TOLD. My comments follow the asterisks.

She had handled the photograph so often its surface was lined with creases and vein-like cracks. Tiny chips of colour would deposit themselves in the grooves of her fingertips, leaving the smiling faces pockmarked with spots of white. She was clutching the photograph now, tightly between forefinger and thumb. Her fading eyesight meant she had to hold it up close to her face if she wanted to see it clearly but it mattered little. The image was indelibly imprinted in her memory and had been ever since it had landed on her doormat, along with the note.

With considerable effort, Sadie Cardle craned her head towards her bedside table. The exaggerated numbers on her alarm clock told her Della was late again, by almost 20 minutes this time. Sadie hoped she wouldn’t be much longer. They had few moments left to spare.

Her death was fast approaching. Sadie knew because her body was telling her so. The disease that germinated in her right breast had spread to her lymphatic system. Nothing could be done to halt its progress and Sadie could sense its wretched presence as it silently stalked her body, filling every nook and cranny with its poison. The morphine that dulled the pain could not quell the sensation her body was gradually shutting down. Her limbs were beginning to feel numb and detached, as though they were no longer fused to the rest of her. She was exhausted from the effort it took to draw air into her lungs. The nurses wanted to administer oxygen to ease her discomfort but Sadie refused. Not yet, she told them. She wouldn’t be able to speak properly if a breathing mask was obscuring her face. And she desperately needed to speak to her granddaughter.

*  *  *


There are many things to like about this first page. It quickly draws you into an urgent situation–an old woman, dying, clutches a faded photograph. She’s trying to resist death long enough to convey a message to her granddaughter. Whose faces are in the photograph?  What secret is she about to tell? I’m hooked.

There are a few changes I’d suggest.  I might try switching the first and second paragraphs. Have Sadie realize with dismay that her granddaughter is late before you get into the photograph discussion. (The opening line could be “Della was late again.”) I think that change would result in an even greater sense of urgency. The way it’s written, you have to get to paragraph 3 before you realize she’s in a hospital. By that point in my reading I’d already envisioned her at home.

In the current second sentence, the use of “would deposit” took me out for a moment, because it interrupted the sense of time. The spelling of “colour” and use of “towards” (instead of the more frequently used toward, in the US) was distracting to this American reader. I’d also avoid the cliche “nook and cranny.” Here and there I also would have liked to see an additional comma used (but I’m old-fashioned when it comes to liking commas).

But those suggestions are really just nits. Overall I liked this piece, and would keep reading.

Thoughts?

Elmore Leonard’s Rules

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By Clare Langley-Hawthorne

I borrowed Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing the other day from the library – although I had read many of his rules before, I realized I hadn’t actually read the whole (albeit very short) book. Since we have been doing our first page critiques, I thought it was probably a good time to highlight his rules – many of which we have already discussed in our critiques – and to also fess up to my own shortcomings…

Here are his 10 rules…
1. Never open a book with weather
2. Avoid prologues
3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue
4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said”…
5. Keep your exclamation points under control
6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose”
7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly
8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters
9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things
10. Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip

While these are excellent rules, I have to confess to breaking at least half of these in my own work. I have used a prologue and (mea culpa) even the word “suddenly” on the odd occasion.

As a writer of historical fiction I also admit to giving pretty detailed descriptions of places, things and people in order to give the reader insight into the time period. However, the hardest rules for me, are rule number 3 and 4. While I certainly try and avoid overusing adverbs and bizarre speech handles such as “asseverated” I find when I try and limit my dialogue to using only “said”, it becomes stilted and hollow. My solution has been to try and limit my adverb use and to highlight gestures, actions etc. to provide appropriate texture to the scene – but still, I fear my dialogue drafts are way more ‘flowery’ than Elmore would like:) As part of my editing process I am extra vigilant when it comes to this rule, but also equally aware that stripping my work down too much saps it of its color. It’s a balancing act, as with most things in writing.

So what about you? Which of these rules have you broken in your own work?

The Flashback Quagmire

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Today’s entry in the first page critique roundtable brings up the issue of flashbacks. Let’s have a look, and then we’ll talk.
***
Bobby was at a dead sprint when the first bullet hit him in the kidney. He went down hard face first on the concrete and fought to catch his breath. He’d never been in so much pain, but the adrenaline coursing through him forced him to his knees and back to his feet. He was bleeding badly, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He knew he was about to die but couldn’t bring himself to stop running.
The rotted corpse of Holy Cross High School, vacant for decades, loomed in front of him. If he could reach the school he might be able to hide from the men hunting him and die in relative peace. God only knew what they had in mind for him if they caught him.
Another shot was fired, but didn’t hit him. He knew he’d be easy to track with the amount of blood he was losing. He was growing light headed and his vision was clouding. He was struck by a sudden sadness at the thought of never seeing his family again, and wished he’d listened to his father when he told him to stay the hell out of New Orleans.
Hours earlier, Bobby was laughing and drinking beer in Johnny White’s bar on Bourbon Street. A natural extrovert, he did his best to keep a low profile but he couldn’t help chatting up some of the more attractive clientele. He never even noticed the young guy with a buzz cut watching him from across the bar.
The buzz cut didn’t miss a trick. He watched Bobby drink several beers, make time with a couple of vacationing coeds, and then settle his tab with a Kennedy half dollar. He made a note of the bartender’s name, and debated whether to include it in his After Action Report. It was handy to know who did business with freebooters in New Orleans, after all.
As Bobby was leaving the bar, the buzz cut bumped into him and apologized. It never occurred to Bobby that the stranger who bumped him planted an infrared tracking device on him. From then it was just a matter of time.
***

Let me say a couple of things about the first three paragraphs.
Our POV character in this scene is Bobby. And he’s been shot. He’s on the run. We have a chance, then, to become bonded to Bobby and his plight right away.
That’s why I need to feel a bit more of the pain and fear in Bobby. Right now I’m a little “outside” the action. Part of that is do to this passive construction: Another shot was fired, but didn’t hit him. We need to be in Bobby’s head. He heard another crack. Asphalt splattered in front of him. Etc.
It’s not enough to have an action opening. It’s what the action feels like to the character that’s essential. 
You’ve got a potentially arresting hook here, but for it work to the max we need that POV “heat.” See John G.’s post on Friday. Play the scene in your mind several times as if you were Bobby, then re-write it.
Okay, so now you’ve got this guy being shot at, chased and then . . . flashback!
Ahhhh!
Don’t do this. I know it feels like a little “teaser” but to the reader it’s more like a “cheater.” It’s too obvious you’re manipulating them by inserting a flashback to create an artificial cliffhanger.
So here’s a rule (even for people who say there are no rules in writing): No flashbacks in the first fifty pages! When you put in a flashback too soon it stops the action cold and jars the reader. It pulls them right out of the fictive dream you’ve been weaving. (Note, I am not talking here about a “frame story,” where we begin in the present then have the bulk of the book take place in the past. That’s another matter entirely.)
Also, you’re using an omniscient POV in the flashback. If Bobby never even noticed the young guy with the buzz cut, the only one who can see him is the author. This removes us further from Bobby. Keep the POV “hot” even in flashback scenes.
Now, what about flashbacks later in your fiction? Remember, by definition they stop the action, so you’d better have a very good reason for using one (e.g., essential character background info that is so crucial you need to dramatize it).
And if you do use a flashback it needs to stand alone as a scene, with all the sensory description and intensity of a scene from the main plot line.
Flashbacks. Handle with care. But in the opening chapters, don’t handle them at all.
***
Speaking of getting more emotional heat into your characters, that will part of My “Sell Your Novel and Screenplay Intensive” coming up June 4 & 5 in Los Angeles. 

Milestones

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I will be mercifully short this week. I drove to Baton Rouge and back from Westerville, Ohio for a quick two day visit and am still working the road whine out of my ears and catching up on the archeological dig which I call my desk. I do have something to share with you, however.

This week marked a couple of personal milestones for me. The first, and more important of the two, was that on April 1 I completed twenty years of sobriety. I believe in giving credit where credit is due and the credit in this case is due to a now-retired Baton Rouge pediatrician named Leon Bombet whom I was fortunate enough to meet in 1989. Dr. Leon at that time had been sober for nine years, and my reaction, which I kept to myself at the time, was “What?! Nine years?! Without a drink! Wow. I’m sure glad I don’t have a drinking problem.” Of course, I did. I eventually stopped stuffing my life down the commode and it has been Dr. Leon’s friendship and example, and that of his wife Susan, that have kept me on the proper course some two decades down the road.

The second milestone was the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself as an urchin in short-pants in 1962. When I wasn’t sneaking Shell Scott and Mike Hammer paperbacks into my bedroom, I was reading a lot of science fiction. Ace Books at the time published a number of titles per month, Dick and Vance and Zelazny, oh my, as well as reprints of Burroughs’ Tarzan and John Carter titles with those beautifully painted covers by Frank Frazetta. I promised myself, at the tender age of eleven, that I would be published by Ace Books one day. That happened this week with the publication of Dark Delicacies III: Haunted, an anthology of original fiction in which my story “Starlets & Spaceboys” appears. “Starlets & Spaceboys” was inspired by a hallucination I experienced some six years ago in the New Mexico desert just west of Albuquerque while driving with author Marcus Wynne; the title was graciously given to me by my lifelong friend William D. Plant III. I would not be sitting here today but for the friendship and assistance of both of those gentlemen.

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What I’m reading: The Priest by Gerard O’Donovan. Just get it and read it, whatever you do. You won’t be sorry. You will have nightmares.

Method Writing

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By John Gilstrap



I used to be fairly addicted to James Lipton’s show Inside the Actor’s Studio, during which he would conduct incisive interviews with famous actors. It used to come on every Sunday night, but got shuffled in the schedule a while ago, and I’ve not been able to catch up with it again. The stories of creative courage, and of success in the face of repeated rejection inspired me. I think the show was inspiring to anyone of a creative bent.

Back in high school, I used to toy with the idea of becoming an actor—having been a star in our production of Godspell and learning to love the sound of applause. (I’m the holder in the picture, not the holdee) Then I was cast as George in the school’s production of Our Town, and I realized that I was far too self-conscious to strip away the social armor of adolescence and show real emotion to a room full of strangers. I went through the motions because that was what I’d signed on to do, but acting was not for me.


I chose instead to do my emoting on the page, where I have the luxury of limitless attempts to get it exactly the way I want before I show it to anyone. It’s part of my nature as a control freak.


While the up-by-the-bootstraps stories were inspiring, I also took great interest in the guests’ discussion of method acting, in which actors insert themselves emotionally into their character’s reality, and then leverage their own emotional and sensory memory to deliver a convincing performance. The Method, as it is called, contrasts with “classical” acting, in which actors merely simulate their characters’ emotions through external factors such as voice and facial expression. (Thanks to Wikipedia for the definitions.)


We talk a lot about point of view here at The Killzone, and for me, there’s a lot to be learned about POV by what little I understand about The Method. I’ve never articulated it as such, but when I write any given scene, I am in the emotional space of the character to whom the scene belongs. I see and hear what they see and hear. When I’m truly in the zone, writing a scene is merely a matter of reporting what I see and what I feel. I can be that much in the moment.


To the degree that I have a gift for writing (how’s that for a pretentious phrase?), I think that gift lies in my ability to bring readers into my characters’ heads. I’d been writing that way for long before I watched my first episode of Inside the Actor’s Studio and learned about The Method, but the more I think about it, the more I believe that the processes are similar.


As I write this, I realize that there’s also a writing analogy to the classical style of acting. It manifests itself in the writing styles of many of the titans of the mystery genre, starting with the Great Agatha. While I enjoy her stories, I never feel terribly bonded to her characters emotionally. I admire them for their puzzle-solving abilities, but I don’t feel that I know them personally. (Having written this paragraph, why do I feel like I should be digging a bunker to hide in?) As a result, those stories feel dated to me.


What about you, fellow Killzoners? Do you think there’s a link between acting and writing?

The Creative Bond

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by L.J. Sellers

Since there’s an extra Thursday this month, Jordan and I decided to host a guest blogger. So today L.J. Sellers stops by to discuss her latest thriller, and the benefits of working in tandem…

Last fall my husband started building his seventh trike, just as I started writing the fifth book in the Detective Jackson series (my tenth novel altogether). Dying for Justice was released last week, and yesterday Steve took his first ride on the new trike. Always having a creative project in the works is one of the bonding elements of our 23-year relationship. He listens while I talk about plots, publishing, and promotion, and I listen while he yaks about Type 1 Volkswagen engines, fiberglass bodies, and adjustable foot pegs. He reads my novels, and I take trike rides with him. I believe he gets the better deal, but I’m biased. Still, I think the three-wheeled motorcycles are so cool, I’ve given my main character, Detective Jackson, a trike-building hobby.

You wouldn’t think a three-wheeled motorcycle and a crime fiction novel have much in common, but the creative process is surprisingly similar. Both start with a concept, a simple idea that each of us has been thinking about and can’t wait to develop. For me, it could be a vivid opening scene or a character that sparks the whole novel. For him, it’s often a type of engine or a new way to connect the two halves of his vehicle.

Next is the planning/designing phase. The first part of this process is all mental. We both spend a couple of weeks thinking about our projects, turning them over in our minds until they began to take shape. I can look at the expression on his face and know he’s thinking about his next trike. Honey, you’re focused on your trike and haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you? On the other hand, I do a lot of my brainstorming while I’m exercising. (Those endorphins help produce some great plot twists!)

Then the tangible planning takes place. For me, it means outlining. Determining and plotting, day-by-day, what happens in the story and in the investigation, then mapping it out in a Word document. For Steve, my trike builder, planning means drawings. He starts with a pencil drawing of the whole trike, then progresses to CAD versions of all the individual components, including dozens of parts for the frame alone. We each modify our plans as we go along, seeing what works and what doesn’t.

Then he starts building and I start writing. For both of us, this is the hands-on work, the joy, and how we spend the bulk of our time. We’re both happiest in the crafting phase. Of course, we have occasions when we get stuck. I’ll realize a plot element doesn’t work because of wrong timing and have to back up and revise. He’ll recognize that two components don’t fit together the way he envisioned, so he’ll stop and redesign.

But it’s just part of the process. We know from experience that we’ll work through whatever glitches we encounter. In all our years, he’s only abandoned one trike project, and I’ve only abandoned one novel. (But my agent at the time discouraged me from it, and I may finish the thing yet.)

I don’t mean to imply we’ve always worked in tandem—in fact, we’re often in different phases—but we do have a similar process and timetable. And eventually, we both end up with a finished product that we’re proud of. Some people insist that what we both do is art, but we think of our projects as crafts…and now, small businesses.

Here’s where the difference comes in. Steve sells each trike (or motorcycle) to a single individual to enjoy, and I sell my novels to thousands. But we both love what we do and can’t imagine our lives without a project in the works. Sharing a creative compulsion is a big part of what keeps our relationship healthy.

What is your creative process? Do you have someone you can share it with?

L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist and the author of the bestselling Detective Jackson mystery/suspense series. The Sex Club, Secrets to Die For, and Thrilled to Death have been highly praised by Mystery Scene and Spinetingler magazines. Her fourth Jackson story, Passions of the Dead, has just been released. L.J. also has two standalone thrillers, The Baby Thief and The Suicide Effect. When not plotting murders, she enjoys performing standup comedy, cycling, social networking, and attending mystery conferences. She’s also been known to jump out of airplanes.