The Write Life for Me

New story published!

2011-11-15T09:53:00.000-08:00

Hello all, I just had another story published. It's called "Is Fear Itself" (I posted an excerpt in a previous post). It is part of an anthology called Dreamspell Nightmares 2. You can find out more here:
http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares2.htm

Enjoy!

Rejection hurts, or, What doesn't kill you...

2011-09-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

Being a writer requires a somewhat masochistic personality, I think. We love to write, it's our passion, but often we are left to dig our way out of the smoldering ruins of yet another rejection. This happened to me recently (again). Rejection hurts. But does that stop us from plopping down in front of the computer to work on the next story? No. I rest my case.

Writing is a lonely business, and when another rejection appears so unassumingly in my Inbox, I start to question why I even bother. It would be so easy to say “I don’t wanna write tonight,” and go watch Monday Night Football. I’ve even found myself wondering if I should give up the endeavor altogether. The eternal internal battle: self-doubt versus passion; fear versus dreams of avarice. So why do we continue to put ourselves in peril? Why risk the weight of all those rejections? Simple. Because we MUST write. We can’t picture our life without writing as a part of it. And because the asylum of characters, premises, story germs, plot arcs, and words-words-words running rampant in our heads won’t let us stop. There’s something wrong with us. We’re writers. Do we have any hope?

Yes.

Remember why you’re writing in the first place. What was it that originally juiced you to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard)? You have a story to tell. You have characters who are begging for you to bring them to life. You have an opinion to share. Or perhaps writing is a panacea for your inner peace, a therapy for dealing with strong emotions that need an outlet. That’s where you need to look for your reason to continue putting your babies out into the world where others will judge them—and possibly reject them.

Rejection hurts. But in the end, you will be stronger—both as a writer, and as a person.

Dialogue, Action & Narrative: Weaving story elements

2011-05-01T14:04:00.000-07:00

I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, a friend who has helped me create a three-dimensional feel in my stories. His name is DAN: Dialogue Action Narrative.

Dialogue: character’s words
Action: character’s movement
Narrative: character’s thoughts, which can include observation of setting or other characters, inner monologue, musings, etc.

Fiction is created using DAN in the right proportions. Certainly there are scenes in which only one of the elements works best, and learning which to use when comes with experience. But for this piece, I’m going to focus on how to use all three elements to create a smooth ride for your reader.

The concept of weaving these three elements should not be unfamiliar—we combine these three things in our normal life. You could be meeting a friend for lunch at a restaurant. What are you doing? You’re talking with your friend (dialogue), eating your lunch (action), thinking about what to say, the scenery, etc. (narrative). Writing a scene of fiction, then, is not much different. We want our stories to imitate life, so we need to show all of these dimensions of our characters’ lives at once. Not the boring stuff, though, but the stuff that adds to the plot and character growth.

What do you give your attention to when people around you are doing these three things? Obviously, we can’t read a person’s thoughts. Sometimes when people are doing certain things we take notice, wild gestures with their hands for example. But most likely, your attention piques when you hear someone say something interesting.

Dialogue and Action
In an action scene, people don’t stop talking. Nor do they give page-length speeches either. In a scene that’s mostly action, you want to sprinkle in bits of dialogue, even if it’s just a word or phrase. Without dialogue, the scene would feel stagnant and lifeless, even though your characters may be running away from a T-Rex (a la “Jurassic Park”). Action without dialogue often lacks substance.

Conversely, when creating a scene where dialogue is the prevalent element, make sure your characters are doing something. Even in those scenes that are nondramatic, have your characters engaged in some kind of activity while they’re talking. Dialogue can bring your characters to life, but action and dialogue combined create characters and a setting that are three-dimensional.

Dialogue Action Narrative
Simply put, narrative tells, dialog shows. While narrative can perform many important tasks in a story—reveal a character’s inner thoughts, describe setting, flash back into the past, for example—too much of it becomes boring. The best way to handle this is by weaving narrative into your dialogue in order to flesh it out. Take the following dialogue scene (excerpted from my own story, “Prey”) as an example, first using only dialogue:

***

“Harmless? A planet that would destroy itself…harmless? You are fahra-tog—barbarians. Your planet is dying. The Kashoori did you a favor. We saved you from your own foolishness.”

“You did me no favor by taking away my daughter.”

“She would not have been harmed.”

***

Though the above dialogue may be intriguing and suggest action and tension, it is lacking and makes the scene feel flat. Now let’s invite DAN:

***

“Harmless?” Her voice seethed with accusation. “A planet that would destroy itself…harmless? You are fahra-tog—barbarians. Your planet is dying.” She threw her jaw out. “The Kashoori did you a favor. We saved you from your own foolishness.”

He stared at her a long moment, eyes ablaze with hatred. Then, slowly, as though smothered by some deep pain, the fire in his eyes dimmed, and his face softened into an expression of melancholy. “You did me no favor by taking away my daughter.”

His mulik. Tarayvi felt a twitch in her gut. She hadn’t expected that. She opened her mouth to speak but found no suitable words. The Terran young were the most important treasure from Earth; their youth made it easier for them to adapt, and therefore they were easier to assimilate into Kashoori society. And their energetic adolescent immune systems held the key to the disease problem on the planet—the Terran sickness, brought by the first human slaves. What could she tell this human?

“She would not have been harmed,” was all she could think of.

***

Quite a difference. See how much more the scene is fleshed out by weaving narrative and action into the dialogue?

Pacing and Rhythm
There are times when you’ll want to focus on only one of the three elements, but generally you’ll want to create a balance between the three. How you weave them affects your story’s pacing, so weaving well helps you find your story’s rhythm. So whenever you’re crafting a scene, don’t be shy, invite DAN. He’ll prove a good friend.

Dreamspell Horror Volume 1 now available!

2011-01-29T09:20:00.000-08:00

Dreamspell Horor Volume 1 is now available in ebook formats! Along with several other great stories by other authors, my short story "Wishes Are Forever" is in this book. The story is about two young girls who find a strange device in the woods that grants wishes. But its intoxicating power brings out the worst in them, and they end up wishing they'd never found the thing.

Available at Amazon (for Kindle) and AllRomanceBooks.com (PDF, Mobipocket and EPUB). Coming soon to Fictionwise too. Follow the link for more information on the book and where to buy it. Get your copy today!

http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellHorrorVol1.htm

Dreamspell Nightmares now available!

2010-11-12T07:03:00.000-08:00

Dreamspell Nightmares is now available in both print and ebook formats! My short story "Security System" is in this book (see a sample in one of my earlier posts), along with many other great stories by other authors. Available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Omnilit, and Fictionwise. Follow the link for more information on the book and where to buy it. Get your copy today!

http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares.htm

Excerpt from short story: "Is Fear Itself"

2010-07-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

Note: This story is being published in the L&L Dreamspell "Dreamspell Nightmares 2" anthology, coming out soon! (http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares2.htm)

A deep space salvage crew boards a derelict ship. Their mission: to prep the wreck for towing. But something onboard may wreck their mission instead.

Is Fear Itself

     As Scavenger 17 closed the distance to the derelict ship, a vibration ran through it. A metal panel buzzed. The ship shuddered, shaking the crew in their seats, then rocked as though struck by something.
     “Chrissake!” Talbert shouted.
     “Cheng?”
     “Heavy solar flare, Captain,” Iris Cheng reported. “There'll most likely be more. Star in this system is a hyperactive gee-one.” Brushing some of her long black hair over an ear, she gave Talbert a deliberate gaze. “Hot sector.”
     “Aw, you rock my world, Cheng.” Talbert shook his head, a goofy grin on his scruffy mug.
     “One thousand meters,” Devereux said. “I have the full ident: N'Sabi, D-S-one-seven-zero-one.”
     “Okay, focus people,” McInchak said. There was already one snafu because of the solar flares and he wanted his crew sharp. “Kennicot, start crawling. Cheng, run a hull integ on it, and try a biologic scan while you’re at it. Dev, open me a channel.”
     The cramped cockpit cabin of Scavenger 17 became a hive of activity, with the crew rustling about in their consoles, busy with their specific duties.
     McInchak rubbed his square chin. N’Sabi. He vaguely recalled some media buzz on her about six or seven years back, something about it being the first zoological transport to make a hyperspace jump with “live cargo.” Big news at the time, especially since she’d been commissioned only three years prior, and up to that point it was a feat no one else had been able to accomplish, the usual result being what was termed critter fondue.
     “You’re on,” Dev said, as the com unit crackled to life.
     McInchak cleared his throat. “D-S-one-seven-zero-one, this is Captain Ewan McInchak of the salvage ship Scavenger Seventeen. Do you read?”
     Only static emitted from the com unit speakers.
     “Com could be knocked out, Cap,” Dev offered, brushing his dark moustache with forefinger and thumb. “By the looks of her, she’s been through hell.”
     McInchak grunted. He could almost feel the worry lines around his eyes burrowing deeper.

Excerpt from short story: "Security System"

2010-03-21T08:10:00.000-07:00

Note: This story is being published in the L&L Dreamspell "Dreamspell Nightmares" anthology, coming out this summer. (http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares.htm)

Security System

     Cole Renier peered down at the foreboding building from his crouched position on the wet, sloping ground that ran down from the railroad tracks. A shiver went through his lean frame as he studied the huge, lifeless structure spread out below him, some fifty yards away. Until recently, it had been the site of the thriving A.B.T. Research facility; but now the place looked desolate and seemed to shun even the meager light offered by the stars. Wind rustling through some shadowy trees whispered a caution in Cole’s ear.

     “What’re we waitin’ for?” Angelo said, his voice a little too loud for Cole’s liking. “Let’s get down there already. We wanna be first ones in, don’t we?”

     Annoyed, Cole glanced at his stocky, dark-haired friend, who was squatted next to him in the underbrush. Angelo Cirelli was somewhat of a loose cannon—fearless, with too much adrenalin at times—but he was a good friend, and definitely made their urban explorations more interesting.

     Cole knew that Angelo was fired up about this place. With its recent unfortunate history, the site held great promise. The urban legends surrounding it had created quite a buzz within the urbex community. Word was the building still had a heartbeat. But to Cole’s knowledge, none of the other urbexers had breeched its imposing, windowless walls, though it was rumored that a group called The Interlopers had plans to infiltrate the place. “First ones in” gave you bragging rights online.

Writing a Book Is Like...

2010-01-01T07:33:00.000-08:00

Having spent a year researching, planning, writing, revising, rewriting and editing my first novel, expending no small amount of time, energy, blood, sweat and tears, one would think that the hard part was over. Au contraire, mon frère.

The actual writing of a novel is the fun part, the "easy" part; what comes after is the "not-so-easy" part: finding an agent. If you're of the squeamish ilk, then you'd better grow a thick skin--fast. Nothing can be so discouraging as the consistent chime of your "new email" alert nonchalantly apprising you of the form rejections dropping callously into your Inbox:

"Please be assured that we have given your project careful consideration. Unfortunately we don't feel the manuscript is right for us at this time."
Etcetera.

Then it's back to more agent research (GLA, online agent sites, the Jeff Herman Guide), putting together and shipping out Query packages, and waiting for more (most likely) rejections.
Etcetera.

But then one day it happens: an agent offers to sign you. Glory be! Now you're on easy street, right? Not by a long shot. Now comes more revisions and editing, until both you and your agent are satisfied. Only after that does the agent begin trying to sell your manuscript to an editor at a publishing house (hopefully one of the big six). And IF (notice that's a big "if") an editor offers to buy? Then comes even more revision and editing, more back and forth...
Etcetera.

Do you get the impression there exists a great deal of these "etceteras"? Uh huh. But hey, whoever said getting a novel published was easy? Probably the same folks who tell you that you can get rich quick in Multi-Level Marketing schemes.

No matter. If your passion is to write, then write is what you'll continue to do, whether you get paid for it or not. Of course, we all dream of having our words reach multitudes of readers with the hope that maybe--just maybe--we can touch those readers with the magic of our stories. Until then, we dangle an enticing carrot in front of ourselves and stretch for all we're worth.

And of course, we diligently put our butts in our chairs every day, and we write. And write. And...
Etcetera.

The Long Walk Home

2009-02-10T14:42:00.000-08:00

I was 13 years old when Sean and his family moved away. That was in 1975, more than thirty years ago now. They were moving to a place far away, a place I’d never heard of at the time. It’s funny; I have a memory of the incident being unremarkable, though I feel now that it must have been at least a little traumatic for me. I mean, how can you watch one of your best friends—one you’ve spent the past six years with—so nonchalantly disappear out of your life forever and not be affected by that?

I stood there for a while and watched as they drove away. After they turned onto Joy Road, heading west, I just stared, realizing that I would never see them again. Six years of close friendship now gone in an instant, never to return. I looked at the house they used to live in—a home where childlike exuberance rang through the halls, a home that had become a second home to me—and felt the pangs of abandonment. Six years of climbing trees, drawing comics, watching monster movies, acting goofy and making each other laugh—all gone. A sigh that was nearly a moan escaped me. I wasn’t sure what to feel, so I just felt empty.

It’s sad like that sometimes, how friends disappear during the span of a lifetime. One minute you’re hopping fences and sharing mischievous adventures together, and the next there’s this big hole in your life where your friends used to be. Looking back, I can’t help but puzzle over how these people so inconspicuously snuck out of my life. Where did our roads diverge? How did we become so separated from each other? I often think about friends I had growing up; I’ve never had friends like that in my life since. And I wonder why it has to be that way.

Normally it only took me five minutes to walk home from Sean’s house, since I lived right around the block. I’d been to Sean’s house hundreds of times—it was my home away from home—and the walk was always the same. The day Sean’s family moved away, everything changed. I was only 13, and Sean had been my best friend for six years—a long time when you’re a kid. Now he was leaving forever. I was there when they packed their last few boxes and cases and bags into their car and drove off. The final goodbyes still ring in my ears to this day. I had to live with the realization then that I would never see Sean again, and that this would be the last time I ever walked back home from Sean’s house.

It was a long walk home.

Memories of a Friend

2008-11-07T05:04:00.000-08:00

June 11th, 2008.
No matter how I tried to disbelieve them, the words seared into my mind: “… died Jan 29th, 2008, after a courageous 12-year battle with cancer.”

I stared at the words, numb, incredulous, and felt as though I were inside a lightless, soundless room, the air pressure squeezing my head. My brain couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t want to make sense of it. Memories of the times we had shared together all those years ago flooded in. It couldn’t be her, I desperately told myself, it just couldn’t be. I had always believed that some day we would meet again, when we were both ready. But now I was staring at words that told me I would never see her again. Time stopped.

***

I was 26 in 1988, the year I first met Barb. There was something about her that drew me to her—a certain spunkiness … and a certain melancholy. She was 34—more than seven years older than I—but that didn’t matter at all; she had the heart and spirit of someone ten years her junior. We really hit it off and for the next seven years we had a close—albeit somewhat tumultuous, on-again-off-again—relationship. But through it all, our friendship endured.

By 1995, though, the relationship had become strained. I was feeling smothered and was pulling away from her, and she was desperately trying to hold on. I wasn’t very nice to her in those days, something I truly regret now. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to feel that she was special to someone. But at that time in my life, I just couldn’t give her the commitment she needed. And so, in August of that year she finally made the decision to let go of me. I still remember that phone call. It was to be the last time I ever spoke to her.

It would be the following year the lump in her breast was discovered, and even though she’d had a successful lumpectomy, she would never be rid of the cancer.

***

Throughout the years I’d think about her now and then, wondering how she was doing, hoping that life was treating her well. I really wanted for her to have found someone special. There were many occasions where I was tempted to try and find her again, to see how she was doing. But we hadn’t parted on the most amicable of terms and I felt that she might not appreciate me calling on her. I believed she needed to be free of me, so she could move on. Still, I always hoped that somehow our paths would cross again.

For 12 years she battled her cancer, until January 29th, 2008, when her body just couldn’t take any more, and she succumbed to the disease.

The last time we’d spoken—all those years ago on the phone on that warm summer day in 1995—she told me that I’d never find another person like her, that I would miss her. At the time I wasn’t sure I believed that; I suppose I may have been too arrogant. It wasn’t until a warm summer day in 2008—the day I saw her obituary—that I realized her words were true. Barb was one of a kind. And I do miss her.

And it’s the little things I remember: jogging together in the park by the flat I used to live in; breakfasts at her house on Sunday mornings; songs she liked for me to sing to her; a walk to the Dairy Queen; a day at Four Bears Water Park; how she loved Puffalumps. Those are the things that gave her life then … and keep her alive in my memories now. I’m a better person for having known her.

Twenty years have passed since the day I first met her. Although I hadn’t seen her in more than twelve years, I know I’ll miss her forever.

A Lesson in Perseverance

2008-10-29T06:16:00.000-07:00

As a writer I am often faced with rejection. Though not the most enjoyable part of the process, it is inevitable. But I try to look at it with a different perspective, one that’s at least better for my ego: Rejections are badges of honor. I mean, hey, if I’m getting rejections, it means that I’m actually writing, doing the work. And I’m courageous enough to let my babies go out into the world to be judged, right? And then there’s the whole Law of Averages thing. Babe Ruth rang up so many home runs because he kept swinging at the ball. Eventually he would connect. Same goes for writing—you keep swinging and eventually you connect.

However, when you go through months of rejections and no responses and nothing good happening with your work, you begin to second guess yourself, to doubt your talent as a writer. Another swing and a miss. Your batting average has dropped to zero and thoughts like, “Maybe my work does stink,” and “Who do I think I am, sending in my work alongside the thousands of writers out there with real talent?” start to waft through your troubled mind. You start to feel exposed, vulnerable, hopeless. You’re aiming for center field, but center field sure looks a long way off.

But you don’t stop writing—you can’t stop, it’s your passion. And as the saying goes, “Obstacles are the stepping stones to success.”

So you keep plugging along, letting your little fingers tap merrily away at the keyboard, all the while hoping you’re not just producing more crap. But in the dark space in the back of your mind you see vultures circling. And they taunt you: “Your words will die on the page.” That’s when you wonder if you’re simply wasting your time, and when you become paranoid that the sideways glances your wife gives you are her way of saying she’s tolerating your “little hobby.”

But take heart. Life has a way of letting you know when you’re on the right track by rewarding your perseverance with little gifts. I received such a gift two days ago in the form of a notification. A short story I had entered into a contest won third prize. Not a home run, but I had entered a half dozen contests prior to this one with no results at all. Not even a “Strike three, you’re out!”

At that moment, a Bronze was worth its weight in gold.

It was the shot in the arm I needed, and I realized that I’m still in the game. The center field bleachers are reachable . . . if I just keep swinging.

Brevity

2008-10-28T09:30:00.000-07:00

Since this is my first attempt at blogging, I'll be brief.

'Nuf said.