A Little Light in a Dark Room

This is what I've learned:

1. Most of my "readers" are also writers. The situation will likely remain this way until "big commercial success".

2. "Big commercial success" isn't what I thought it was. Like the proverbial kid who dreams of NBA millions, I fell for the illusion of the Kings, Grishams, and Pattersons of the world.

3. The publishing industry is designed to "discover" the best sales representatives for their work. This may or may not coincide with transcendent (or at least thought-provoking) fiction.

On item 1.

Face it, when most of what you've published is short fiction (and I'd argue genre doesn't matter), most of your readers will be other writers (or writer-hopefuls), especially when you publish in semi-pro mags (and below). This is how it works. Taking another step, the small genre press (even the good publishers) aren't read all that broadly. Sorry, but I'd never heard of Nick Mamatas, Jeff Vandermeer, Laird Barron, or other fine genre authors before I started to write. All write well. All are well reviewed. Maybe the market isn't there. Maybe their writing isn't all that accessible to the masses (not necessarily a bad thing). Maybe it's something else. (see item 3)

Item 2: So you wanna write full time?

Writing and making a living is a hard effing job. Read JA Konrath's "A Newbie's Guide to Publishing" to see how hard one writer works. A single NY Times bestseller would not allow me to quit my job, even though NY Times bestseller level of sales would require a whole butt-load of greasing palms on my part. (again, see item 3) Super agent Nathan Bransford addresses this issue on his blog a few days ago.

So I won't be buying that cabin in the mountains any time soon.

Which brings me to item 3.

There's a good deal of discussion out on the 'net about the "unfairness" inherent in the publishing "system". Stop whining already, will you?

1. Publishers are in business to make money.

2. Agents are in business to make money.

3. Writers are not always in business to make money.

(screech of brakes...what?)

3. Writers are not always in business to make money.

Think about it. A writer-hopeful writes a book. What do they want? Go on, ask them. I'll wager most would answer "to have my book published" before "make money". Doesn't the continued success of vanity presses (um, Publish America isn't exactly bankrupt yet) provide enough evidence? Regardless of how you may feel about Harlequin's move to create a vanity publishing arm, they are a publisher, and publishers are in business to make money. Seems like they see the potential to make money, eh?

So there's a huge amount of folks wanting to be published. All are reaching for the brass ring. The dream. Agents sort and sift through the best pitches, request fulls on only the best books, offer to represent even less. Not every represented book is sold to a publisher. Talk about the camel through the eye of a needle.

And some books flop after being published. I've read something like 1 in 5 actually makes money. (yeah, I'd love to cite a source, but it's the 'net...could you trust it?) There's a glut of "the same book" on the shelves all over the place. (um, paranormal teen romance featuring vampires, anyone?)

Why?

The "unfair system" (again, suck it up folks) is designed to find the writers who can sell. All those authors of "unnamed paranormal teen romances" can scrap it out on the bookstore shelves and signing tables. Need I remind my dear readers that publishers and agents are in business to make money? Who cares if Slash's memoir is a piece of dog crap. It's going to sell.

I can't say it better than The Publishometer at Editorial Anonymous. So what if you've written a transcendent book that no one wants to read? Go on and complain about Dan Brown's crappy writing; he won't care, being too busy counting his money.

Sometimes the audience is too small for "Big Commercial Success". See the authors I mentioned above...all good, but they aren't going to bring in Dan Brown numbers because of what they write. Hell, maybe it's partially because of how well they write. (now that's a double-edged sword if I ever saw one)

To sell well, a book must be accessible to the masses. There is a paste-pudding blandness to pop culture. Transcendence doesn't sell well.

But I'll take it.

Sometimes, They Don't Come Back

Sometimes they come back on time. We sort them, plop them in place on the cart, and ship them back to the shelves to be handled and picked over. But too often, they’re overdue. Occasionally they show up with a handful of coins. No note. No “sorry”. Others never pay their fines; we just find the books in the outside bin.

After they’ve been gone for a long time, the pages are usually creased and wrinkled, the corners bent—even on sturdy, library bound specimens, and all too often they have water damage. But I like to use the phrase “liquid damage” because you can never be too sure what caused those stains, especially when they’re discolored or dark.

The stains bother me. Total lack of respect.

Once, a young woman with fresh stitches and a black eye brought a self-help book back with some of those dark stains. She handed it to me, offered a weak grin, and shuffled out without a word. The book was only overdue by two days. She never paid the fine.

Sometimes the books come back, but sometimes they don’t.

So yes, we look. We search. We make every effort to find our missing books. I’ve scoured abandoned houses, located volumes tucked in furniture at Goodwill, and tracked down a particularly valuable copy of Alice in Wonderland in a bowling alley bathroom. A few years ago, I found a few volumes of Dickens, torn into strips and shreds and stuffed into a dog kennel behind old man Bernard’s place. He had used early illustrated copies of David Copperfield and Great Expectations with a gilt pressed covers for dog bedding, and he only raised mutts.

Some of those volumes are so battered and stained, even destroyed, recovery becomes a symbolic act.

But even worse than the stains, even those dark smudges which just might be human blood, is when I can’t find the books at all. Sometimes they disappear without any trail, and those…those are the ones that really bother me.

Thankful

It's Thanksgiving in the U.S., and while I take a break between shoving the turkey in the oven and peeling potatoes, I want to express my thanks.

To my family, for being there, as a jab in my side when I need one or a rib-crushing hug.

To my job. Thanks. It's nice to have a steady paycheck and a career that fills me up.

To the world. You know why. The mystery and wonder you share is pretty damn special. Even when I'm scared (like in the dark).

To the Interweb^TM for brining me in contact with a talented group of writers and artists. Blog high-five.

To that talented group of writers and artitsts...thanks to you, too, for inspiring me to keep at it. Whatever "it" is.

To my brain, imagination, and stubbornness: all for one, and one for all. I'd be drooling in a corner with out you "guys". Sometimes I still am.

So thanks. Those of us in the U.S. don't own thankfullness today, so go get some. Or share some. Or whatever.

Out.

WIP Wednesday: Getting My Hands Dirty

Loathsome has some kinks, but I'm rolling up my sleeves and pushing my fingers into the mud. It's a helluva lot of fun right now. I just edited the first big attack from the Ruined Men. Good stuff.

I like this excerpt because it reveals a little about some of my characters (before the attack, they've just found a body on the beach with its throat torn out):

“Oh?” I pushed the brass gadget into my pocket. “We have what choice, Mr. Olson?”

Olson looked down the line at each man in succession. Captain Greig’s eyes were fastened to the water at his feet. John stood tall, the gun still dangling like a toy at his side. Jim held his rifle cradled at an angle across his chest; his eyes shot occasional daggers at Silas who stood a step behind me and to the left.

“Well, given this,” Olson waved to the black smoke rising from the burning body, “we can head pack to St. Helens. Tell them it’s not safe. We need more men. Different men. The Army.”

Silas stepped forward. “Listen, Mister Olson, it’s real easy for a fella to die out here. Mr. Nobody back there isn’t a sign of anythin’, let alone a reason to tuck tail and scramble back to yer mother.” He glanced at Jim next. “Even though I doubt a mountain lion’s gonna take after a full grown man like that.”

Olson’s eyes widened at Silas’s verbal onslaught, and he took a step back.

“What Mr. Kirchmier is saying, I believe, is that we have a job to do, and the river will not traverse itself. If we stand here and talk about it, we’ll loose the light before we make the first station.” I glanced skyward to emphasize my point. Silas relaxed his shoulders, and Olson nodded with resignation. Jim shook his head.

Too bad most of those guys will be dead by the end of the book.

NaNoWriMos...can you smell the finish line? (If so, what does a finish line smell like?)

What I Owe Boris Karloff

As a senior in high school during the fall of 1992, I purchased a copy of Frankenstein (1931) on VHS. I was on an extending field trip (3 days and 2 nights), and didn't watch the film until returning home. I'd grown up with the monster series from Crestwood Studios, but had never seen the film.

I have always been a fan of dark things. Even though doing so brought nightmares, I watched Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th with my neighbors, the Sullivans. We played silly games in the basement, games designed to terrify each other. They had a collection of old copies of Fangoria and Famous Monsters of Filmland.

But I hadn't actually seen Karloff in action until I was 17.

Elm Street and Friday the 13th weren't my style. Too much gore. Too little introspection. (Yeah, I was as goofy as a young kid as I am now) But the Monster...under all that make-up, Karloff pulled off pain and longing and betrayal and confusion and...

Wow.

There's more, of course, and part of Karloff's story should be an inspiration to anyone working to make a go of his/her dream. The man made dozens of films and worked as a stage actor before Frankenstein, but work was never consistent. He filled the gaps with manual labor, digging ditches and driving a cement truck. Times were tough, and Karloff quite lean at 44 when the Monster was unleashed in 1931's Frankenstein.

The inspiration? Don't quit. Don't give up. Keep plugging away even when the dream is impossible.

Thanks Mr. Karloff. Thanks for bringning the monster to life. Thanks for inspiring my love for the weird and gothic, and my continuing affair with Mary Shelley's hideous progeny. Most of all, thanks for all the hard work.

NaNoWriMos, as you near the end of the month, keep going.

Things Ruinous, Things Unexpected

If you haven't heard already, the magnificent Arkham Tales #5 is out, but dead on arrival. This will be their last issue. My short story, "Little Fingers", scheduled for a future issue, is now an orphan. But don't weep for her. Weep for good, weird fiction. Arkham Tales always provided a solid read. Head over and download the whole archive if you haven't already.

I dove editor-first into Loathsome, Dark, and Deep this weekend. I like it. The challenge...finding a publisher/agent for a weird, steampunkish romp through the Pacific Northwest in the 1880s, haunted by selfish men and monsters. Le sigh. Gonna be a damn good book, though. (so says the author bent on self-promotion...ha!)

The Chiefs rescued me from my post-Arkham Tales blues a little, thanks to an improbable victory (in overtime no less) over the reigning champion Pittsburgh Steelers. Maybe you can allow over 400 yards passing and win...

Okay, not a strategy to try again.

Finally, The Boris Karloff Blogathon starts today, and I have a little tribute up at my Classic Monsters blog. Check it out if you have a chance. Karloff was the consummate professional, and a real inspiration to just keep working...good things will happen. Yes, NaNoWriMos, that little bit was for you. *winks*

Smoke

When Ernst woke, he smelled the smoke first, even before he felt the rough cord wrapped around his wrists. His eyes began to water, burning from the ash in the air.

"Hallo?" he called.

Shapes shifted in the darkness. Ernst tried to move his head, but stopped as nylon rope scraped his throat. At his back, a square post, the corners digging into his flesh despite his woolen jacket.

The shapes came forward. Books. The cover of each speckled with morphing yellow and orange firelight...each having sprouted arms and legs of black shadow. One volume of dark green leather plucked its cover open with a shadow-hand. On the open page in front of Ernst, words stood out in the flickering light.

He began to cry. The rope at his throat constricted as he gasped for air, cutting into the soft skin. "Ich bin traurig," he gasped and closed his eyes, remembering the bonfires in Berlin, the piles of smoking pages. He understood the heat that began to sting his toes.

__________

Yeah, a little preachy today. Fahrenheit 451 does that to me.

For your viewing pleasure, I present:

All of the Dead

A brilliant blend of zombies and Legos brought to you by Tim Drage and Tony Mines. (no embedding of this video, but you'll be glad you checked it out...you can download if you want)

Finally, I'd be remiss not to mention the release of the special Road Trip edition of the Monsters Next Door. The best thing to come out of my experience running cross country in high school* is within, a little story I call "The Qualifying Run". There's fiction by some good peeps inside, so enjoy.

*What, you thought it was the shin splints or stress fractures?

I Hope They Burn My Books Someday

We're wrapping up Fahrenheit 451 in one of my classes, and I just want to share my love of Ray Bradbury. I hope they try to burn my books someday.*

(Bradbury's notes about the book title. Click for more from The Big Read.)

Read the Coda to Fahrenheit 451 to find out why.

NaNoWriMos...please write very flammable books. They're the only ones worth reading.

WIP Wednesday: Reading with My Kids

Owen is in first grade, mired in learning to read. He brings home a few new books each night, and we spend a chunk of the evening sounding out words. Last night, we read:

Horror-writer dad jumps up and yells "hooray!"

The Boogly came out of the swamp. Chased a kid into his room. The last page:

...and then I woke up.

(dagger to the heart)

Great for a kids' book, but ouch. The one-ending-that-is-never-okay-in-horror-fiction. We read another book (Spooky and the Wizard's Bats) about a wizard who sent bats to torment a poor black cat (Spooky) every night. The cat's former owner, a witch, was delighted, saying she wanted to see the kitty cry. That particular book was pretty scary. Of course Spooky wins in the end, stealing the wizard's wand (which is subsequently tossed in a fire by Spooky's new owner).

So we went 50/50 on sweetly creepy books for kids last night. Here's my NaNoWriMo moment of the day: make sure the ending works. Don't cheat your readers. *shakes fist at The Boogly*

I finished another short with a title nod to Joe R. Lansdale: "The Night they Went to the Horror Show". It didn't turn out like I planned in my head...which has been happening a good bit of late.

Gwen shoved him. “You’re a weirdo, Grant. W-E-I-R-D-O.”

The insult was lost in the slamming of his door. Grant knelt and peered in the window. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He tapped the flashlight and started for the dark wall of trees at cemetery’s edge. The old fence was still there, hanging loose on gnarled posts. He tightened his grip on the light, feeling the rubber grooves of the handle press into his hand. His feet scratched through rough grass as he walked. Gwen mumbled and cursed him from the car, but the yellow beam of light in front held him on course. She was eight years too late for that night, for the path, the pond, the old boat…

I'm going to start editing Loathsome again. I promise. (I think I thought of the missing piece.)

"In the Primal Library" up at Three Crow Press

"In the Primal Library" is one of my favorite stories. It isn't all that "original" and doesn't "add anything new" to the genre. But it was fun to write. I grew up with a library just like the one described, and yes, the second floor was spooky as hell. They even had collections of National Geographic in boxes. At right around 1,500 words, it's perfect 'net length, so give it a whirl if you have a spare 5-10 minutes.

So I've been debating a "collection" of my work. I have a pile of published stories in print and online, and I'm sorta-kinda proud of some of them. Here's the dilemma: collections don't sell all that well (so I'm discovered through bits of research...and I believe it), especially by a nobody like me, so I'd have to proposition various small presses. Not a bad thing, in general, but most (if not all) small presses utilize POD technology (Lightning Source etc.)--the same technology to which I have access. Personally, I don't see any value in trying to find reprint homes for these stories individually (not when I'm still writing new stories and trying to place them). Value in a collection of them, sure. Value in individual reprints, no. Am I making sense?

Sorry for all the parentheses. (really)

But what do I do? I've imagined releasing a free/cheap ebook collection of them myself, printing a copy for my mom (you know how moms are, surely). My goal is to have people read my work, not necessarily make money. I'd love to add value to the collection, too...like explanations of the inspiration behind each piece. Desperately seeking advice here.

Well...enough of that. Today's NaNoWriMo inspiration:

Remember: characters must be pushed beyond their limits to see what they're really made of.

Written by Me (and Send in the Clown)

KV Taylor wrote about recurring themes in her fiction last week (okay, one theme really, but it was blood, and blood is like ten themes in one), and my response:

At the core of most of my schtuff, I guess I’d have to say family dynamics, especially dysfunctional families. Maybe families that are trying really hard to be functional. Single parents. Dead siblings. Poverty.

...well, you read it yourself. Family dynamics are huge: the brothers' relationship in "Tesoro's Magic Bullet" or unresolved issues between the father and son in "The Sub-basement" or even the father and son with absentee mother in "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". Why family dynamics?

I don't know if I've revealed this little tidbit before, but my father died of "complications" related to a brain tumor he developed when I was five. By "complications", I mean the fact that in 1980, when he was diagnosed, radiation was a relatively new treatment for cancer. They bombarded him with radiation, and yeah, it killed the cancer. But his brain started dying, too. You can imagine the changing family dynamics during the following nine years (he died when I was fourteen).

So that probably had a big impact on my life. You think?

I also write about poverty at times. Not about poverty per se, but about characters who aren't social elites. I weary of stories in which all the key characters are professors or princesses or doctors or *ack* writers. You know what? Most people aren't. My characters have worked at meat packing plants, auto parts stores, as secretaries, teachers (duh), custodians, clerks at fishing tackle shops...normal jobs. Not exactly poverty, but definitely with a trend away from high power careers/royalty.

So yeah, that works. There's also the strong inclination toward the unknown. Stranger things happen. I believe in weird. I prefer to watch "average Joes/Josephines" deal with the odd and uncanny than a princess.

I'm quite average, myself. What about you?

Now, I know some of you have come here for NaNoWriMo inspiration. No picture today, I'm afraid, but I do bring you:

The Happy Clown!

(and a friendly reminder to do something unexpected in your novel)

Musical Inspiration for a Grey Day

(photo by Dirk Delbaere)

It's dark and dreary here, so I've dusted off an old song from a forgotten project for a little musical inspiration today. The tune goes well with the photo; if you aren't writing your way down a dark path, download and give a listen some other time, huh?

"Whispers" (mp3)

Happy writing.

The Revolution

Janice woke to a loud crack and tinkle of broken glass. Her eyes opened and fell on the shelf above her desk--the shelf on which she kept her words.

One jar was missing.

Janice slipped her legs from under the warm blankets. Her feet pressed against the cold hardwood as she delicately shifted her weight and stood. Outside her window, trees brushed their leaves together. A car moved down the street in front of the house. But something else, a scratching sound, pulled her attention away from the other night whispers.

She moved toward the doorway, stepped on a bit of broken glass, and let out a yelp. Pain danced through her shin, up her thigh, and across her back as she tip-toe danced to the doorway and the light switch, hoping to avoid another shard.

The light flickered. Tiny shadows scurried for shelter under her bed, the desk, anywhere the light wouldn't reach. She looked at the mess on the floor.

"Shit."

The words were gone.

Janice sat down on the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and grasped the slick piece of glass, wincing as she pried it from the thick callous on her heel. Blood smeared across the bottom of her foot like finger paint.

Then a smell. Ink.

Janice blinked, unsure of her eyes. Like waves of ants, the words came. They mounted an assault, driving their tiny, sans-serifed feet into the soft flesh of her ankles, calves, and the back of one hand as she leaned on the floor. The pain burned, a thousand pinpricks of fire, and she slumped back, cracking her head.

They blotted her eyes, swarming toward her mouth, and she could scarcely hear the other jars as they struck the floor, one after another, as the rest of her words joined the onslaught.

Going Down?

Hello, NaNos. One of the common themes in classical literature is the "hero's" journey into the underworld. Odysseus had to do it. So did Orpheus (and we all know how well that turned out). Most Harry Potter books (all of them?) involved our intrepid young wizard in the Forbidden Forest at one point or another. The underworld is usually a place of learning or trials, a place for your MC to meet a mentor or gain wisdom, an important stop on the journey to solving his/her/its "big problem". It doesn't even have to be underground (um, Forbidden Forest, anyone?)

Take your protagonist on a trip to the dark side. He/she/it will emerge stronger, wiser, and/or ready to slay the dragon. (unless, like Orpheus, he/she/it doesn't listen to directions and crosses the streams--er, that's from Ghostbusters)

WIP Wednesday: It Gets a Little Murky

Sometimes, writing feels a little like walking through these woods. A little mystery never hurt anyone, but along with mystery comes the possibility of danger. What, exactly, lurks out there in the fog and shadows?

Like: why am I trying to write a piece of science fiction? Well...it's more horror, really. A man signs on to be the custodian of a group of colonists as they take a thirty year journey into deep space. He only signs on because his family suffers in abject poverty. He won't see them again, but they will live a healthy, safe life thanks to his sacrifice.

Of course...

Seven years, three months, and twenty-two days on route, ship’s custodian Gant Forres dreamed of the rats.

After that, he starts hearing them in the hull of the Rocinante. (nods to Lovecraft)

Let's just say it gets dark from there...

Contrast This!

This one could easily be titled "grow where you're planted", but I'm not going that cliché. No, this photo is really about contrasts. Does your novel have them? Does your protagonist have a foil, another character rife with opposing characteristics--greedy when the MC is generous, vindictive when the MC is forgiving, meticulous when the MC is slovenly...

Contrast helps bring out a character's traits and creates drama and suspense. Contrast makes for good fiction.

Hope your day is full of contrast. In a good way, of course.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Yes, NaNoWriMos, sometimes things need to get physical. Sometimes characters need to physically assault one another, regardless of the genre of your book. Physical altercations amp up the drama, the threat level (hey, I could bleed here), and provide much needed umph when we've had too many pages of dialogue. Remember, any good fight scene is like a good sex scene: let the reader fill in as many blanks as possible. It's easy to overwrite both. No one needs a two page nanosecond by nanosecond recap of one fist coming into contact with another character's jaw. Maybe your big fight scene doesn't move past one character snapping a pencil in two when he/she sees a rival. That works, too. Physicality makes those characters' emotions real.

Fighting isn't your protagonist's style? No one said your MC had to be in on the action, did they?

Faith at Every Day Fiction

...and yes, I've realized there is a misused word in the last paragraph. Yes, adsorbed is a "real word". It just doesn't mean to permeate the skin.

So, if you can stomach a little vocabulary infraction and some Nyotaimori, read "Faith". Let me know what you think. The story came about after reading a random news bit about the "dish".

Today, dear NaNoWriMos, investigate your protagonist's deepest beliefs. These will bubble to the surface in times of trial, either crushed by circumstance or strengthened.

The Tibetan prayer flags are in honor of K.V. Taylor's wonderful entry, "Boudha" in Grant's Pass. Have a lovely Saturday.

Words Per Minute

The man with nine fingers leans forward, his face cut with shadows and light under the lamp. "You got 'em, Manny?"

"Sure." Manny places a crinkled paper sack on the table, reaches inside, and produces a rag. He unwraps the first layer of the rag, revealing dark stains on the folds underneath."Five choices this time...hope one works."

The man with nine fingers slides his right hand under the lamp. The pinkie is severed at the second joint, a clean cut with little scar tissue.

"This one ain't gonna work," he says, lifting one finger from the cloth. "Too short. They'd snipped it at the wrong knuckle."

Manny nods and dabs his damp forhead with the back of his arm.

The man with nine fingers procedes to try each remaining pinkie next to his stump, scrutinizing them under the harsh lamplight, comparing skin tone, size, fit. With a grunt, he tosses the last on the rag with the others and pushes away from the table.

"No good?" Manny asks even though he knows.

"No."

Manny collects the cast offs in his paper sack. "I'll see what I can do...but really, is it worth--"

"Yes, it is." The man with nine fingers frowns. "I don't mind the quotation mark so much--I don't write a lot of dialogue. But the return. The return key is a stretch. Slows me down."

Manny fidgets with the paper sack, crinkling it in his fists.

"It's NaNoWriMo, Manny." The man with nine fingers knocks on the table. "I gotta get my WPM up there. 50K ain't gonna type itself."

No Rules. No Guarantees.

Hey, nobody said NaNoWriMo (or writing in general) was going to be easy. But there's another message in that sign. Take chances, make the courageous, daring choice, write hard. No one wants to read another version of what's come before. No one wants the same thing, warmed over, and served cold. This is a time to be bold and foolish with your writing; you just might like the outcome.

WIP Wednesday: Yes, Danger

What nameless disease are these members of the Policia hiding from? Danger is vital to good fiction, regardless of the genre. Even literary tales have a solid dose, whether it be the threat of physical harm or more subtle dangers (living outside one's social circle, trying a new career...etc.).

My WIP? I finished another story (now I have two in the revision que). "_____" (insert story name here) is about a pair of mismatched friends growing up in a small town about to be flooded by an Army Corps of Engineers reservoir project. "Creatures" in the woods and the soon-to-be flooded river haunt one, while the other must deal with his shiftless, alcoholic father.

The grasshopper worked its thick hind legs, fighting in Johnny’s grasp. Its mouthparts massaged a drop of brown sludge, trying to smear the offending liquid on the boy’s fingers, a defense mechanism the boys called “chewing tobacco”—a stain the insects would leave behind on their human captors. Johnny thought of the hook, the sharp, sun-sparkling barb pushing through the mottled green of the insect’s thorax. He imagined the strong legs kicking in the water as the grasshopper drowned, lost in the black water, and he felt the fear in his throat.

Perhaps all the NaNo talk out there has inspired me. I've started laying the brickwork (i.e., backstory) for a new book, a haunted house tale which I hope takes a different angle from what's come before. Time will tell.

In the meantime, I leave you with danger.

Now, Let's Have A Traffic Jam...

So you've discovered what your protagonist lusts after, now frustrate her/him with a good old fashioned traffic jam (I'm writing metaphorically here, unless a real traffic jam works).

Nothing creates dramatic tension (uh, suspense) more than making the protagonist wait, and every good traffic jam carries an element of danger (more suspense!). Would you really want to find yourself in the middle of the cluster-$&#^ above?


Speaking of traffic jams (I don't have a better segue), A very nice review of Triangulation: Dark Glass popped up on Sunday at SF Crowsnest, including a favorable mention of my story, "Dancing Lessons".

Although well-written these didn't hold up as well as Arron [sic] Polson's very short story, 'Dancing Lessons', where a small girl briefly aids a resurrected hobo who was temporarily augmented as his body started to fail...

Nice mention. Nice blurb to add to the website and all, but my name...oh well. What's in a name, anyway?

That's Right, NaNos: Lust.

Remeber your main character has to want something. Lust for something.

Sure, it can be a man, woman, what-have-you in a sexual sense, but lust can also refer to power, money, objects, etc. Lust is also a nice reminder that the best verbs really grab a reader.

Hop over to Nossa Morte when you have a spare moment and read "Tesoro's Magic Bullet". And have a great writing day.

Charge, NaNoWriMos!

Yes, that's you, NaNoWriMos. A charging rhinoceros on day one. Cruise past 1,667 words. Charge right toward 5,000. No one can stop you.