By John Gilstrap

During my 35 years as a firefighter and safety engineer, I conducted a great deal of training to professionals whose products and services I did not fully understand. That lack of understanding could become a problem only if I let that happen because let’s face it: the safety and reporting requirements for a degreaser are largely the same whether you’re degreasing razor blades or gun barrels.

To streamline the teaching process, I created the generic franistans and fornasteins to serve my purposes as I needed them. The two items were always incompatible. If it was an electrical safety class, they’d be of different voltages (or different continents), if they were bits of fire apparatus, the threads wouldn’t line up. And in a hazmat class, god forbid that you store franistan chloride next fornastein sulfate, lest you create a cloud of methyl-ethyl badsh*t.

As an aside, a blithwhap is any item that is not a hammer yet is used as a hammer.

It occurs to me that franistans and fornasteins form the basis of a great deal of science fiction and fantasy. Just because a thing or a planet or a people aren’t real doesn’t mean that they can’t be assigned characteristics that make them real. That’s what this fiction gig is all about. In the case of fantasy in particular, it’s a personal bugaboo of mine that if I cannot pronounce a word in my head, I cannot read the story, and as a result, I know I’m being ejected from a lot of really good storytelling.

Want to know what you got wrong?

I was at a party the other night when the hostess told me how much her husband loves my books, but how he makes notes on details that I get wrong. “He won’t share them if you won’t ask for them, though.”

Hell shall freeze over. And here’s why: 1) her husband is a good friend and he’s got a fully functioning voice box with which he could ask me himself if he wanted to share his insights; 2) the book is already out and the damage already done; and 3) I probably won’t care.

<cue organ chord>

It’s not that I won’t care care, but that the areas of this friend’s expertise are very high-tech, and I will therefore always get things wrong, and the mistakes are of a nature that only he and a dozen other people on the planet would notice. This is the wondrous element of fiction: it’s mostly made up.

If your story needs a bajillion millimeter bombinator to launch a thousand-ton projectile to Mars from Bikini Atoll, I say go for it, but be very careful of the point of view from which you report the launch. If it’s from the POV of a kid on the playground, it’s probably just a big loud rocket ship. If it’s from the POV of launch control, well, you’ve got some serious explaining to do. Start with the chemistry and physics. At its heart, though, the bombinator is just a cousin of the franistan.

I set Burned Bridges, the first in my new Irene River thriller series, in Jenkins County, West Virginia, which might as well be Franistania, West Virginia. Set in the Eastern Panhandle, Jenkins County physically resembles the actual Berkeley, Jefferson, and Morgan Counties that define the Panhandle, but it’s got an entirely different political structure. It’s a fictional nonfiction place.

We all know that guns will get you in trouble when you write about them. The average mystery fan is probably fine knowing that Detective Jones is carrying a pistol. The average thriller fan will want to know that he’s carrying a Glock. My fans will know that he’s carrying a chambered Glock 19 in a Kydex holster on his right side with two spare 17-round magazines on his left.

The point here is to write for the audience you most care about, and accept that someone will always be a little disappointed.

By PJ Parrish

This was a good week. Found out my dog Archie doesn’t need $800 in dental work. My physical therapy is working wonders on my bad back. And best, I finally got some traction on a short story that I agreed to do for an anthology. In honor of all this, I think I deserve a break. Actually, I admit it. I just ran out of time this week to do a good thoughtful post on writing. So I hope you will give me a hard pass this week. I have a really good post in the works on backstory…I promise.

In meantime, let’s have some fun. I have been bingeing of late on old Turner Classic movies. In the wee wee hours last night it was Joan Crawford in a A Woman’s Face, a twisty noir wherein Joan plays a horribly disfigured woman who will do anything to get her beauty back, including blackmail to pay for a plastic surgeon. Does she start a new life or return to her dark past? A risky part for Joan, who fought hard to star in this remake when Garbo turned it down. Juicy stuff!

Anyway, this movie reminded me of a little quiz I saw in The Atlantic. I had to admit, I had trouble figuring out my answers. So I thought I’d ask you guys. Go get some Sno-caps and fill in the blanks:

1) Worst well-regarded film
2) Most overhyped film (note that this is slightly different from above; the first measures the absolute badness level, while the second measures the delta between reputation and actual quality)
3) Worst film to win a best picture Oscar
4) Most disappointing film (ie should have been good but wasn’t)
5) Worst movie, full stop. (Must have been a major motion picture release–no direct-to-video, or film festival torture tactics, please)
6) Worst movie with good direction (ie terrible script, awful acting, producer interference, etc)
7) Biggest unknown treasure

Here’s my picks:
1. Unforgiven (sorry, Clint)

2. Cleopatra (Just re-watched this on TCM recently. Even stentorious Richard Burton couldn’t save this toga dog)

3. Vintage version: The Greatest Show on Earth (Jimmy Stewart as Buttons, the murdering clown!) Modern version: Crash (a total wreck)
4. Godfather III (no contest. I will die on this hill)

5. Staying Alive (John Travolta as a loincloth-clad Broadway gypsy; a crass sequel attempt to cash in on Saturday Night Fever)
6. 2001. I have watched this a million times and still can’t figure out what the hell is going on at the end.

7. Cinema Paradiso (Okay, so it’s not unknown. It won best foreign film but it’s still my fave “little” movie. I also have a soft spot for Downhill Racer (Robert Redford going against type as a bastard Olympic skier.)

What say you? And thanks for letting me take it easy today. And now….HERE’S JOAN!

All summer in New England, the heat and humidity has been brutal. There’s a big difference between 90 degrees in dry heat and 90 with humidity so high the heat index rises to triple digits, the air so soupy and thick, even people without breathing problems still struggle to breathe.

We can’t help but complain about how miserable it is. Talking about the weather isn’t pleasant chitchat around here. It’s a serious subject discussed year-round.

Characters from New England will absolutely mention the weather—snow, ice, heat, or humidity—at one point or another. The topic is ingrained in us from birth. If the character never mentioned, or at least thought about, the weather in New England, they would lose all credibility.

Now, I’m not suggesting we include long, boring conversations about the weather. If you choose to include a line or two of dialogue, make it memorable…

“Man, this heat. I feel like a racehorse in last place.”

Or better yet, show us their sweat while exerting energy or their faces numbing from an arctic chill.

Even the shingles sagged, too drained from the heat and humidity to hang on.

Be clear about the weather without telling the reader.

After I weeded my garden yesterday, I rung out my hair, every pore of my body open and crying, sweat stinging my eyes, salt niggling my tastebuds.

The setting should become a character in and of itself. Make the reader experience it as if they were there.

Floridians might scurry to board up windows before a hurricane. Californians might whip up an evacuation plan when wildfires are near. Or maybe, these characters are old pros who aren’t fazed by hurricanes or wildfires and wait till the last minute to prepare. That would tell us a lot about them.

The setting can convey mood, tone, or characterization. It can also become a constant obstacle for the main character as it actively participates in the story.

Heavy downpours are wet and loud and can interfere with one’s ability to hear. What if a secondary character tries to warn the hero via text? Chances are they won’t be able to hear the notification.

What if the electric grid can’t handle the overload of air conditioners? A blackout is rife with possibilities.

What if the full moon brightens the wooded landscape too much? It’s more difficult to hide in the light.

Tips to describe the setting:

Sensory Details: Don’t only include visual elements. Vivid descriptions use all five senses to bring the setting to life. Every character interprets the setting differently. One might revel in a star-filled sky, where the other can’t see past the army of mosquitos.

Dynamic Changes: Depending on where you choose to set your story, the setting can evolve over time. Environmental changes, mood, or plot events all impact the setting.

Emotional Connection: A well-developed setting can evoke strong emotions in the characters and readers, like New Englanders this summer.

Symbolism: The setting can also have a symbolic meaning that might reflect and/or contrast with the theme(s) or characters. Hiding symbolism within the plot is also a ton of fun.

Take your time when deciding where to set your story. If you’re unfamiliar with the area, take a trip or find a local. Social media is an excellent resource for this. A local will be able to tell you about the community, weather, landmarks, and add rich, visceral details that you can’t find anywhere else.

Where does your WIP take place? How do you incorporate setting into the plot?

If and when the apocalypse finally happens and I survive, I’m gonna be the most pissed-off human left on the earth. I can’t stand for my hair to be long, and I have to shave every day. The stubble under my neck drives me crazy, and all the Road Warrior gangs better steer clear.

I finally found a real barbershop. Not a hair salon, stylist center, hair spa, or hair stylist. It’s an old-school barbershop with hair on the floor, slightly uncomfortable chairs, and the smell of Barbicide or Pinaud, with an undertone of cigars and pipe smoke.

A rack of magazines sits beside the door, ranging from shooting sports, hunting, cars, or anything with Texas in the title.

The two barbers who’ve retired from either law enforcement or the military. How do I know? Their own haircuts, tattoos, and the subject matter they discuss. I haven’t asked, though.

Most of the time I simply walk in and one of them is available, scissors in hand and lightly clicking as if waiting for a head.

Today was different. Both chairs were occupied, and I was in a hurry. A lively discussion about wild hogs bounced back and forth between the barbers and one customer who was draped and seated.

A redheaded gentleman sat beside a mom concentrating on her phone, waiting for her son’s fancy haircut to be finished. Beside him, a bent man with hair whiter than my own listened to the exchange, hands on the head of his cane and smiling as if he knew a secret.

Barber One stepped back to judge the length of his young project’s sideburns. “Well, I believe we can’t kill enough hogs. I hear there are nearly three million of them in the state.”

Feral hogs are so destructive to crops and land, it’s estimated they cost Texans between $400 to $500 million dollars each year. They’re dangerous to humans and animals, destroy habitat, and carry communicative diseases that can be passed on to livestock.

Redhead chuckled. “About half of them are rooting up my pasture.”

“I heard Constable Rick killed one off his porch the other morning,” I said.

Barber One shook his head. “Well, that leaves two million, nine hundred ninety-nine more.”

Barber Two paused, thinking. “How many piglets can a feral sow have at a time?”

“Six to twelve,” I recalled. “Usually six, I’ve heard, but I don’t know anyone who goes out and counts them.”

“Well, then we’re back up to three million and five by now, as fast as those things reproduce.”

The discussion continued until it was my time in the chair. He shook out the drape and clipped it around my neck.

“What are we doing for you today?”

“Short. No skin showing.”

“Got it.”

The youngster stepped down from Barber One’s chair, to be replaced by the white-haired man who creaked his way to the chair and settled in. I met the elderly gentleman’s eyes and he nodded a hello.

The barber wrapped his neck. “How are we cutting today, sir?”

“Make it look good, like it’s not a fresh cut.”

“Trying to make an impression?”

“I have a lot of people coming to visit.”

“Birthday. Anniversary?”

“Funeral.”

“Sorry to hear. Hope it wasn’t someone close.”

“About as close as it can be. It’s me.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.

The elderly man smiled. “I’m dying.”

Barber Two chuckled. “Aren’t we all.”

I closed my eyes, listening.

“No. Really. The doctors released me a few days ago after I was in the hospital for several weeks. Said my kidneys are failing and there’s nothing else they can do. Sent me home with hospice.” He sighed. “I have a kidney infection now, and they figure I won’t see Monday.”

My barber paused. “Well, doctors don’t know everything.”

“They don’t, but I know how I feel.” He chuckled and I cracked an eye open again. He was honestly cheerful, and I still thought he was setting us up.

“But it’s okay. I’ve done it all. I was married to a wonderful woman who’s already up there waiting for me. My daughters are successful businesswomen and moms, and my son’ll come to his senses one of these days. Maybe this’ll straighten him out.

“I’ve traveled the world, vacationed in every state. Hunting and fished here in the U.S., shot big game in Africa, caught marlin from blue water and sailed on a big three-masted schooner.”

The shop was silent. Even their scissors weren’t clicking.

“I’ve driven good cars, eaten fine food, though I still think home fried chicken is best, and watched good people do great things.”

Barber One started to speak, but had to stop and clear his throat. “So you figure you needed a haircut.”

“Wanted to take one last thing off my list.” The gentleman’s smile was as wide as a four-lane highway. “I have most everything else taken care of. Gave my guns away to son-in-laws and good friends who’re still young enough to use them.

“I just wish I could hunt quail one more time. I miss that most, following dogs on a chilly morning. I wonder if quail and dogs will be in heaven.” He paused, veering off again. “No matter. You know, I’m looking forward to seeing my mama again.”

A few minutes later, Barber Two gave my shoulder a pat and spun me around to face the big mirror on the wall. “All finished.”

Apparently, my instructions weren’t clear enough. My hair looked as if I’d just joined the military. “Well, thanks.”

I stepped outside to consider my new head and what I’d heard. It was a lot to absorb, and I was still standing there when the old gentleman came outside.

He gave me that same wide grin and I couldn’t help but smile, too. “I know you.”

“You do?”

“Yep, I’ve been reading your newspaper columns for years, and most of your books, though that spooky one was a little much. Reading this last few years has been all I can do, so your stories have help passed the time.”

We stood there for a second before I held out my hand. “Thanks for reading my work.”

He nodded. “Not much to say, is there?” He shifted his cane and paused. “I’d rather have a hug, if it’s all the same to you.”

There in front of the barbershop, we hugged, and I let him be the one to step back. He winked. “Good luck.”

I patted his shoulder. “At least you got a better haircut than this one.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” he said and walked slowly away.

On the way home, other similar conversations came to mind, and that’s the purpose of this discussion. As writers, we’re entertainers, and our work is impactful in more ways than we expect. More than once I’ve heard my brother from another mother, John Gilstrap, say we’re entertainers, and that’s the God’s honest truth.

During a signing at the Barnes and Noble in Garland, Texas, about five years ago, a woman asked me to sign a stack of books bearing my name. “I have your new one here, but these others belonged to my husband.”

For once I knew when to keep my mouth shut, so I waited.

“He died a month ago from cancer, and your books helped him get through the chemo and these last months. He made me promise to buy everything you write, because he was such a big fan.”

Eyes stinging, I stepped around the signing table, and we stood there with our arms around each other long enough for a couple of other fans to tear up. My allergies must have been acting up, because my eyes watered for a long time after that.

Not getting too deep into a friend’s life, but a woman I’ve known for several years also gave my earlier books to her son who was suffering from cancer. He had a rough time of it, and at the end, she and his young wife read aloud to him when he could no longer focus. I had the honor of talking with him on the phone from across the country and had to clear my voice several times. We visited until his strength went that day and he was gone not long after that.

Don’t underestimate your work. It will impact others, and you probably won’t even know about it.