Writing Improvement

Daily Tip #52--Character Names Part 2

2009-05-11T13:43:00.000-07:00

MAY 11th, 2009

As I said before in the previous post, character names are an integral part of whether a reader likes your character or not. Of course, it's just peanuts compared to the character's actual attitude, personality, actions, beliefs, etc. However that doesn't mean it shouldn't have a good amount of thought put into it. It would be silly to just name a main character Bob Jones. Spice it up a little bit! Come on! Make him be Les Tuthor or something more interesting. That's another tip: don't use common, 'generic' names for your characters.

Next: Character Names Part 3

Cubby

Daily Tip #51--Character Names

2009-05-09T19:00:00.001-07:00

MAY 9th, 2009

I may have done this topic before, but I decided to go with it again and explain it in more detail for those three readers out there. You're going to have to choose character names carefully because they can influence the reader's opinion of the character. If you name your character Karl Marx, odds are that the influence will be great. Exotic names may alienate the reader. My suggestion is to go with comfortably familiar names. The only somewhat far-out-there character name I have is Roffle, a nickname for Raphael. I'll have more advice tomorrow, as my time is limited. I promise you, though, when summer comes, I'll be making longer posts. It's just that I have so much to do lately as all my teachers try to cram last-minute projects in.

Next: Character Names Part 2

Cubby

Daily Tip #50--Online Information

2009-05-08T13:47:00.000-07:00

MAY 8th, 2009

I'm sorry I haven't posted in four days, but I've been so very busy with school work; plus now I'm sick with the flu, so I haven't exactly had much time or willpower to do a post. But today I decided to drag myself out of bed and do it, for all those readers out there. At least, I hope all those readers out there. Maybe like, three? At most?

So, back to the topic at hand. Lately I've been posting about online publishing, weighing its benefits and risks to determine if you should do it. Well here is one more factor that goes into your decision on whether to publish online or not: online information. What I mean by this is your real name, address, phone number, etc. My advice: don't give any of it, especially your address. The Internet can be a big, bad place, so don't go off posting your address in random forums or giving your address to people unless you absolutely trust them. There are too many creeps out there who might show up at your door.

Next: Character Names

Cubby

Daily Tip #49--Even More Risks

2009-05-04T14:17:00.000-07:00

MAY 4th, 2009

Another risk, which is not exactly a risk but still a negative aspect of online publishing, is that nobody will read it. A good site may be full of excellent critics, but usually there are a limited supply of people willing to take the time to write a critique of your work, and those that do usually have limited time to do so. The problem is that you may get a critique a month, while you want practically one every day. The critics and reviewers get caught up with simply too many requests. Eventually they may feel overwhelmed and just quit. As more and more give up, a site dies, basically. The only thing you can do is craft a good piece of work that people will want to critique for you, and promote your work.

Next: Online Information

Cubby

Daily Tip #48--More Risks

2009-05-02T13:52:00.000-07:00

MAY 2nd, 2009

Some more risks inherent in publishing online are that you may get unwanted bad criticism. What I mean by this is that it is not constructive; it's the type of criticism that makes you not want to write and keep improving your skills, but instead make you want to quit and give up because of its harsh negative tone that just breaks your spirit. All I can suggest on how to deal with this type of unfair criticism is to just grin and bear it. You might be roiling with anger, but reread it and see if it makes any sense. If it does, then take that advice. If it absolutely doesn't, ignore it. Try to view it objectively, even though the criticizer didn't view your work objectively.

Next: Even More Risks

Cubby

Daily Tip #47--Risks of Online Publishing

2009-04-30T17:26:00.001-07:00

APRIL 30th, 2009

As with all personal things placed on the Internet, there are risks that you have to decide whether to take or not. If the good of having nice feedback outweighs the risks, then that's just fine. If it doesn't, then I advise you don't publish online and instead have family or friends read it. One of the risks, really the most obvious one, is stealing of intellectual property. What I mean by this is that someone highlights your online work, clicks copy and pastes it straight into Word. There you go, your work is stolen and plagiarized. It's almost a sure thing that there have been cases of people waiting for authors to publish more and more chapters so they can steal the work and label it as their own to a publishing agent. People who do this are sick and lazy at the same time. They are despicable, plain and simple.

Next: More Risks

Cubby

Daily Tip #46--Online Publishing

2009-04-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

APRIL 29th, 2009

There are many online publishing sites where you can put your stories and novel chapters on to be reviewed and critiqued and criticized to no end by good members. Plenty of sites have their not-so-good authors, but hopefully you're not one of them. Plenty of sites also have very good authors and writers who are willing to help any who ask. Some charge for their services, but usually it isn't an astronomical sum, just enough to keep the site going and authors writing. Some are more versatile than others; some are as busy as a beehive or empty as a barren desert. Obviously you will want to stay away from the desert ones, and definitely don't spend money at them. A site I suggest is http://www.storywrite.com

Next: Risks of Online Publishing

Cubby

Daily Tip #45--Flow

2009-04-27T14:53:00.000-07:00

APRIL 27th, 2009

By flow I don't mean like the flow of a river or the current in a lake. Flow means the fluidity of your piece of work; how easily it jumps from one sentence to the other, how it changes from characterization to dialogue to description. Flow can best be described as momentum, applied to a piece of literature. There are things that can break momentum up, and thus, flow. The first thing is bad grammar. I stressed it not only the past two posts but throughout the lifetime of this blog, so far. Bad grammar doesn't help you at all. Don't be lazy. Get out the red pens and spend the few hours it takes to make your work a whole lot better. Trust me, it will be worth it. Wrong choices of words break up flow as well. You want to create a natural-feeling fluidity to your work. Don't leave the reader bored in the middle section of the book. Even though the middle usually contains the most important information, a lot of writers tend to leave it more boring than the other parts. The beginning and end are exciting, but the middle tapers off a lot of times. Strive to keep your readers interested for the whole book, not just a few parts here and there.

Next: Online Publishing

Cubby

Daily Tip #44--Grammar Part 2

2009-04-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

APRIL 25th, 2009

I truly can't stress enough how important grammar is to your writing. It's not only the punctuation and the nouns and adverbs and adjectives and prepositions: the way a sentence or phrase is worded can greatly affect the flow of your piece. Jerky, stuttering fragments are no way to establish any flow or even a semblance of it. My advice: brush up on your grammar before you begin writing. Crack open that old English grammar book and read it for a few hours. Then, after you've written something, go back and re-read it. If there are any strange-sounding or oddly worded phrases, rewrite them. Trust me, it will make for a better reading experience.

Tomorrow: Flow

Cubby

Daily Tip #43--Grammar

2009-04-24T14:14:00.000-07:00

APRIL 24th, 2009

Good grammar is an absolute must-have for all writers and authors, from the little kid learning his ABC's in preschool to the aged veteran scholar with bookcases full of priceless tomes. If you don't have good grammar, frankly, people won't read your books. They'll become disgusted if you don't, proverbially, dot your i's and cross your t's. You have to have good grammar. People will quickly will get fed up with something that reads like chat-speak or text-speak. This includes words like 'u', 'lmao', or 'lol'. Never use those, ever, unless the plot absolutely demands it.

I'm short on time.

Next: Grammar Part 2

Cubby

Daily Tip #42--Pen Names

2009-04-22T13:36:00.000-07:00

APRIL 22nd, 2009

Pen names, or pseudonyms, are names that as an author you assume. It's basically the name you work under and the majority of people know you by. Pen names are not your real, parent-given name; they are a different name you choose to write under. Some use their first initials, of their first name and middle name. They say that some women readers are turned off to books by men and vice versa, so they take a name that can be either a woman's or a man's. Some people might not want their family or relatives knowing they wrote that piece of work for whatever reason. I personally don't take a pen name, but some do.

Next: Grammar

Cubby

Daily Tip #41--Themes Part 2

2009-04-20T15:11:00.000-07:00

APRIL 20th, 2009

A theme is a message you want to convey to your readers and demonstrate in your work. It can be displayed by different characters' qualities and thoughts and their actions or other plot events involving them. The description of the setting can contribute as well. If you want to have a theme about the beauty of nature, using image-inducing adjectives and adverbs will help convey that theme. If you're writing with a theme of loss of privacy in the forefront of your mind, have the character feel continually uncomfortable.

The point of themes is to make a statement about the world and society we live in. George Orwell's 1984 and Animal Farm had themes that could quite easily be applied to the world. It's what we as writers do and like to do. We take certain qualities of our society and thoughts and embed them in our works. Oftentimes it is unconsciously done. You don't go in thinking that you want to show how the economy was during your time; yet the end product does.

Tomorrow: Pen Names

Cubby

Daily Tip #40--Themes

2009-04-19T08:10:00.000-07:00

APRIL 19th, 2009

According to Wikipedia, a theme is "a broad idea, message, or lesson conveyed by a written text". This is for the most part right on. A theme is the overall underlying message you want to convey to the readers. Movies and other forms of art have undertones--themes--as well. It's pretty much a standard for any good book. When writing with a certain theme in mind, don't blatantly state it. Themes are best interpreted by readers from the book as a whole. If you want a theme of tragedy, a sentence like "Bob ate a sandwich" isn't exactly a tragedy. But if Bob then gets in a car accident, that is a tragedy. Themes work best when they are taken from the book as a whole, not from every minute sentence.

So how do you write with a certain theme, exactly? The main two things to use to convey a certain theme are characters and plot events. Characterize people to display certain qualities that reflect your theme. Show themes through actions and events.

Tomorrow: Themes Part 2

Cubby

A Good Healthy Dose of Enclosure

2009-04-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

APRIL 18th, 2009

I actually have twenty-one chapters of this and counting but I haven't posted them on here yet. So, without further adieu or delay:

CHAPTER 2

Nate’s heartbeat quickened painfully in his chest. His stomach growled angrily at him. “Hello?” he rasped.

“Nathan, hello. Was the mission a success?” Mr. Delea’s low, drawling voice said. He had a slight Italian accent.

“Of course, sir.”

“Any problems or hitches I should know about?” His tone was suddenly grave and suspicious.

“None to speak of, sir. No problems at all. Clear sailing, sir,” Nate assured the mob boss. A lengthy pause ensued.

“Very well. I will send Mr. Pele to collect the, uh—items from you. Standard pay rate will be given. Good-bye, Nathan.”

“Good-bye, s—” He was cut off by a sharp click. Nate laid down the phone and sighed heavily, fixing his spiked hair anxiously with thumb and forefinger.

“What’s wrong?” Beth asked softly, leaning against the wooden doorway to the living room. “I know something’s wrong, you can’t hide it from me.”

Nate sighed again and sat down in one of the old chairs, creaking as he did so. “I think Mr. Delea’s beginning to not trust us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he paused for a long time after I lied to him, and then his voice became low and just…strange.” Nate shook his head slowly, desperately. “Mr. Pele’s coming to pick up the stuff.” He emptied his jacket, and so did Beth of her own. They both stacked up the discs, batteries, and memory cards into a loose pile.

They waited silently for half and hour or more, until a sharp knock sounded on the front door. Beth got up and answered it. Mr. Pele, a tall, thin dark-skinned middle-aged man with gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses entered the kitchen with a plastic bag. He eyed the pile of electronics on the table. “That’s a mediocre haul. Mr. Delea would want more, but…I’ll be nice to you.” He swept the goods into his bag with one long arm, and placed some bills on Nate’s outstretched palm. Nate counted it quickly.

“This is thirty-five. You’re only s’posed to give twenty-fi—oh…” Nate realized.

“See? I’m being nice to you two.” Mr. Pele winked and smiled. He, at least, had tried to help Nate and Beth whenever he could. They considered him a friend.

“Guess what we got today!” Beth exclaimed happily, pulling the tender steak from the fridge. Mr. Pele whistled.

“That’s a mighty fine cut of beef, kids. Where’d you get it from?” Mr. Pele asked, adjusting his glasses. “Didn’t steal it, I hope.”

“From Marty.” Beth was practically jumping up and down in excitement. “He gave it to us for only three dollars!”

“I suppose I should pay that generous butcher for a visit. If he’s a friend of yours, he is of mine,” Mr. Pele commented, watching as Beth began to unwrap the plastic.

“Do you want some?” Nate offered, gesturing at the slab. “It’s the least we could do for your help.” Mr. Pele glanced at his watch and seemed to consider.

“Oh, I suppose I have enough time for it. The boss will just have to wait a while longer. I’ll tell him it was traffic.” Beth had finished unwrapping the meat by then.

“How do you want it? Cooked, I mean. Burger, steak, whatever,” Nate asked, sprinkling the meat with some oregano.

“Oh, I think I’ll take a steak, medium well.”

“I’ll make your burger, Beth, don’t worry,” Nate said in response to her somewhat disappointed look on her face. He split the cut into three equal pieces, about twelve ounces each. Bringing the pan down and lighting the burner with a twist of his wrist, he drenched the metal with vegetable oil and placed two of the pieces in it. They started sizzling and absorbing the yellow sheen of liquid. Instantly an intoxicating aroma spread throughout the tiny kitchen, permeating every inch of air. All their stomachs growled simultaneously. When the steaks were done, Nate pulled out some paper plates from the above cabinets and flipped the meat onto each.

Next it was onto Beth’s burger. He flattened the last piece with his hands and formed it into a rough circle. First he grilled the onions in the same oil, and slid them onto a plate. Next it was the meat itself, which added to the strong, nice smell already hanging around.

After everything was cooked, they eagerly sat down and ate. One bite in, Mr. Pele complimented, “Amazing. Never had better.”

Nate made a decision to come forward. “If I tell you something, can you not tell Mr. Delea?”

“Of course. We’re friends. I’ve got loads of secrets; one more won’t hurt.”

“We didrun into a problem,” Nate admitted, face turning red for no apparent reason. “We were stopped by some Mecs. It was a big confrontation. I pulled out my semi-automatic. We were at each other’s throats. But I was able to bullshit my way out of it.”

Mr. Pele started laughing. “I always knew you could bullshit your way out of anything. You look like one.”

“Um…thanks?” Nate’s face grew even redder.

“Well, that was the best meal I’ve had in too long a time. Thanks,” Mr. Pele said, the front door ajar, letting in the decreasing outside noise as everyone returned to their homes.

“You’re welcome. Take care,” Beth said, and he left and closed the door.

“Man, I’m tired,” Nate said, yawning widely. He took off his jacket and unzipped his thick sleeping bag. He always slept with his clothes on, in case Mr. Delea went on another paranoid rat hunt and needed him immediately.

“Good night, Nate,” Beth yawned, entering her own bag.

“G’night, Beth.” The outside lights of Apartment 1 Quadrant turned off, leaving them in remote, complete darkness. Curfew was in effect. The flashlights of Mecs passing by to go to their night shift positions reflected off the living room window. The air was still as the footsteps of the soldiers faded away into the darkness.

Nate began to unwillingly think about, well, everything. He thought about the thirty-five dollars he now had, which was safe in his jeans pocket. He reached into his jeans and pulled out the bills, to reassure himself he hadn’t lost them somehow. This could buy a whole week’s worth of food, with two meals a day even. This time was something he had to enjoy, because Mr. Delea would find out what Mr. Pele had done.

Nate had chronic insomnia. No matter how tired he could be, he simply couldn’t fall asleep. This contributed in great part to how scrawny, skinny, and rodent-like he looked. He had never gone to a doctor, in his life, for anything. He would sometimes steal sleep medicine or even tranquilizers but they would make him extremely sick. He didn’t think it was worth that for a few hours of sleep.

This was one of his good nights. He dozed on and off, about twenty minutes every half an hour. Beth’s breathing, besides his own, was the only sound he heard. It gently lulled him to an actual deep sleep.

That is, until the phone rang.

It nearly burst his eardrums and gave him a heart attack. The phone was right next to his ear, and he became dizzy and confused about where the sound was coming from until he saw the glow of the screen and let out a deep breath. Groggily he answered the cell phone. “Hello?”

“Nate! I need you to come to my office and then we’re going to kill a rat! You can do the honors this time!” Mr. Delea shouted into his tired ear.

“I’ll be right there, sir!” Nate yelled back.

“Just be careful gettin’ over here, son, it’s curfew, y’know, and it looks like they’re laying it on pretty thick with the Mecs. Get here as soon as you can! I won’t wait for long!” Mr. Delea exclaimed, and the line was disconnected.

Beth had stirred from all the noise the phone call made. “Where are you going?” she asked Nate, seeing him pulling on his jacket through the dim light streaming through the window from the Mecs’ flashlights. “Not another job? It’s curfew!”

Nate shook his head. “Rat. Again. And he wants me to kill the guy.” He shook his head again, more slowly. “I don’t think I can do it.” His eyes were sunken with worry and nervousness. He didn’t want to kill someone.

“Did he say who it is?”

“No.”

They were silent for a minute. “I’ve gotta go,” Nate said, and Beth whispered something like ‘come back alive’.

Nate went out into the hallway and made sure his semi-automatic was locked and loaded. Perhaps he could hold up a solitary Mec and steal his XM8. Taking a deep breath and exhaling it into spiky hair, he whispered to himself, “Time to go.” He unlocked the front door with his finger and opened it slowly, without noise. The hinges usually creaked, but he had mastered the art of opening it without making a sound.

He crouched on his knees on the steps, observing everything before him. Two Mecs were standing alertly at the passageway between the apartment quadrant and the market. Flashlights were strapped on top of their weapons, illuminating everything they pointed it at with unequaled brilliance. A fountain in the square a little to the left and in front of Nate was shut off, decorated with ornate sculptures harkening back to the long-ago Grecian era. Flowerbeds with cobblestone walkways separating them were wound around the fountain in a spiral. A few hovercrafts, obviously owned by wealthy people, were slowly traveling along, back to their mansions over in the English Quadrant. The affluent in all the Places had special privileges, like staying out past curfew.

Nate held firm his pistol in his right hand and rushed forward, bent forward. Unfortunately his foot tripped on a cobblestone and made a loud noise. The two Mecs instantly looked over, searing their flashlights into the steps of the apartment.

Nate was crouched down behind a stone bench, obscured by the flowerbeds. “What was that?” called one of the Mecs. “Who was that? Who’s there?”

“Calm down, man,” the other soldiers said, punching him on the shoulder. “It was just a little pebble, alright? Calm down.”

“I’m telling you, someone’s there,” muttered the vigilant, suspicious Mec.

Nate was quietly snickering to himself. Some of the Mecs were extremely smart, cunning, clever, and fast. These two obviously were not. He lay on his belly and crawled forward, getting closer and closer to the Mecs, whose backs were turned. Finally, he was only ten feet away from the closest. Nate stood up silently and tiptoed over behind the soldier’s back. He slipped his gun out of his pocket and with one move put the Mec in a chokehold with the gun pointed at his temple.

The comrade spun around and shouted with alarm. “Hey! Who the hell are you?” The man’s eyes, not obscured behind sunglasses, darted to his partner and the weapon of death pressed against his skull. The Mec smartly lowered his XM8 and slid it across to Nate, who flipped it up with a flick of his foot, grabbing it in his right hand while reasserting his grip on the chokehold with his left.

“Now,” Nate breathed to his captive, “if you want to leave here alive, you will both be silent and act normal until I go away, and not raise the alarm. Do you understand me? I’ll kill you if you don’t do as I say.”

The hostage gasped past his constricted throat, “You won’t kill me. You’re just a little kid.”

“Oh, really?” Nate stopped to consider what he was doing. He could just as easily use close quarters combat on these guys and just knock them out. “You’re right. I won’t kill you. But I will do this.” He kneed the man behind the left knee, crumpling his leg. Nate whipped around his pistol and fired, the bullet entering the Mec’s other leg with a loud echo. Before the man could scream, Nate swept down and covered his mouth with one hand, while aiming the pistol with the other at the comrade who was sprinting away. You only have one shot,span style=""> A cloud of blood exploded into the air, as he watched the cowardly Mec collapse and pitch forward.

Nate knocked out the first Mec with a quick slamming of the head onto the floor, leaving a bloody, sweaty spot that glistened like dew in the morning. The other man had fallen unconscious partly from shock and partly from hitting his head on a bench as he fell.

Nate turned and ran away. He ran away from the carnage he had wrought. Both of them probably wouldn’t ever be able to walk again. He thought of their families, of their mothers who would spend their lives wondering why someone would seek out trouble and injure their poor sons. He imagined himself on trial in court, and the two Mecs shouting, “IT WAS HIM!”

Nate shook his head and crouched behind a garbage can. His heart ached, and not at all from the exertion.

His innocence had begun to die.

CHAPTER 3

Nathan sat on his knees, the pistol in one hand, the other running through his hair periodically. His usually pale cheeks were fraught with color and covered with sweat. His heart pounded in his head, jabbing his mind with every subsequent beat. His chest fell and rose more than usual. A terrible sense of guilt began to overwhelm him. What if the Mecs woke up and called for help? More importantly, could he now live with himself, knowing he had caused irreversible damage to two people? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps nearby. "This is Alpha Base. We have a report of gunshots at the market-apartment gate. All regional units proceed," a Mec's earpiece said. The soldier was standing two steps away, back turned to Nate. It didn't appear he had any partners.

Nate watched as the Mec suddenly turned around, straight toward the garbage can. He compressed his thin body even more, nearly in the fetal position. With one eye he watched as the Mec crept toward the metal cylinder, like a stalking lion in the dry tall brush. Every sense Nate possessed went on alert. He gripped the semi-automatic in his right hand even tighter.

The Mec lunged forward, tackling the can and grabbing Nate’s ankle at the same time as he attempted to dive away. He was pinned down unceremoniously on his stomach, heart pounding and ears rushing as the can rolled away, clattering into the eager mouth of the darkness. The Mec’s stale breath wafted down to his nose, curdling his insides. “I knew you were there, you little rat. I could hear your breathing,” the soldier whispered with a victorious, superior tone. “Do you want to leave here alive?” Nate made no answer, only a small noise of pain. “Answer me!” Silence ensued, except for the frightfully loud echo. With a yell, Nate’s long hair was clutched in a visor grip, his head jerked up and smashed down. His nose shifted, cracked painfully and blood began to flow. The scarlet liquid entered his mouth, tainting it bitterly with iron as a testament to his injury.

“Yeah,” Nate replied thickly.

“Hey, the rat can talk! Isn’t that quite surprising? I would have thought you would be illiterate, like so many other petty thieves. After all, that is what you are. I’ve run into them before.” The Mec pushed Nate into the floor, crushing his nose downward. Unwilling tears dripped from his eyes. “So what’s a little vermin like you doing out here in a big attic like this? I thought rats stayed close to the walls, and never ventured into open territory.” The Mec sat on him, nearly cracking his ribcage. “Isn’t that the philosophy with you rodents? Or the Assassins as you call yourselves?”

Nate was silent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, collecting on the floor. His nose had become a dull ache across his entire face. His lank hair shielded him from the outside world; his vision was only of the collecting pool of scarlet liquid below him.
“Answer me, boy, or I’ll rip your nose clean off instead of the fracture you presently have,” the Mec threatened, gripping Nate’s hair again.

“I—I have no idea what the Assassins are.”

“Really?” He paused. “How come I don’t believe you?”

“Because—well—wh—what do they do?” Nate asked past the blood gathering near his lips.

“They’re damn good thieves and murderers! Employ fine young men just like yourself! Pluck them out of their good homes and lovin’ families and twist them to their own hideous likeness!”

“I don’t have any family.” Nate’s voice was low and grim. “I live by myself.”

“Now, now. That’s a crying shame, it truly is. Well, tell you what: you’ve persuaded me to let you go. If you aren’t an Assassin, and just a young man looking to get back to his abode, I’ll let you go. Tell you what, again…” The Mec stood up and relieved Nate of his prodigious weight. He flicked a business card at Nate’s face, which he caught with two fingers. The Mec whistled. “Good reflexes there, boy. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“Ray. Ray Moiter,” Nate lied. He glanced at the card. It was light blue, as blue as the ‘sky’ in the legends of old, with gilded gold letters spelling out ‘Escape’. A phone number was printed at the bottom, in swirling script. “Who are you?” Nate asked, the blood flow from his nostrils diminishing.

The Mec stared at him, eyes inscrutable behind his reflective glasses. He reached up and took them off with two fingers, revealing deep gray eyes, as icy as the perpetual rink on the third floor, illuminated by his flashlight’s glow.

“I’m…hope, son.” He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose, turned and ran away.

“Wait! Come back!” The luminescent glow faded quickly. Nate considered chasing Ol’ Gray Eyes, but decided against it. He was very late in reporting to Mr. Delea and didn’t want to get beaten, and his head was numb, distant, and felt like a bowling ball was placed on his shoulders. Checking his pistol absentmindedly, he wiped his nose, covering his hand with a sheen of scarlet. “Crap,” he muttered, wiping it on his jeans and rolling along the ground behind the corner of a stone bench. He darted from cover to cover, eventually reaching the far exit of the garden.

A wicker arch, formed of intertwined serpentine wood strands finished with a deep brown grain, loosely guarded the exit. Flowers were placed in the random spaces, fixed in place by golden twine. Gilded letters stretching across the curve in the arch’s spine read ‘Havlet Garden’. A statue of Jonathan Havlet, one of this Place’s most famous thinkers which there were few of, depicted a portly, kindly old man with a handlebar mustache and small round glasses bending down and lightly touching a blooming flower. The brass plate bolted to the base of the Havlet statue spelled out his birth and death date and contribution to philosophy and agriculture. His compact, mechanized farms saved every single Place.

It was behind this statue of a great man Nate crouched below as he watched a tight patrol of five Mecs dash past, no doubt responding to the distress call he had heard earlier on Ol’ Gray Eyes’ radio. Beams of light bounced everywhere, once illuminating Nate’s entire neck and head. The Mec stopped and stared for a few seconds, and was about to investigate when his comrades pulled him along, silencing his protests. Nate let out a held breath and sojourned forth, diving out of the garden and directly into Apartment 2 Quadrant.

These were the lower middle-class apartments, much larger than the Apartment 1 Quadrant, stretching for ten entire miles. Buildings were stacked on either side, not as crumbling or decrepit as Nate’s slum tenement house. No garden was here; instead was the Park of Lost Souls.

It was not a park anyone would wish to travel through. The park was enclosed by a fifteen-foot tall concrete wall that was riddled with graffiti and gang signs. Every time Nate passed it, he looked for any signs of Mr. Delea’s symbol of his Wolves; a wolf’s head in side portrait, howling upwards at an imaginary moon. There was no marking this time either.

The Park of Lost Souls weighed down on the Quadrant, on the people. Every resident considered it an eyesore, and would have considered it an abomination if they could think fully enough to formulate that kind of thought. It was known throughout the seedy underbelly of the Place, with unvaccinated population the majority and thus whole minds and conscience, that the Officials controlled everything. At birth every infant was injected with a special serum that implanted nanomachines into their minds, regulating their every thoughts, hopes, dreams, aspirations, and feelings.

Nate and Beth did not have that shot.

Their mother and father sacrificed their lives to prevent their beloved children from becoming mindless, thoughtless, emotionally empty beings that dragged their feet and hung their heads. At Nate’s birth, their mother, Caroline, refused to give him up to the doctors for his customary ‘preparation for life’, as it is officially called. Their father, Nathan Sr., protected her from the Mecs that soon arrived, beating them with his own fists, gathering the strength from his desire to have a peaceful, loving family instead of a pseudo-family with no moral wealth. They both escaped from the hospital, Nate crying the entire time, nearly giving them away to the Mec reinforcements.

They had Beth two years later, in the safety of their own home. But that safety was soon violated.

A Mec raiding party invaded the house, demanding that they give up the children and arresting them. When they did not give Nate and Beth up, having hidden them in a relative, Auntie Marshall’s house, they were executed on the spot.

Nate became weary recalling his parents. His only tangible memories were a small book Auntie Marshall had found in his pocket, with three pictures of himself, Beth, and Mom and Dad, and a few fuzzy images of shadowy faces. They looked so happy, so peaceful, so…not lonely, not poor, not petty thieves working for miserable pay and living terrible lives!
Then, Auntie Marshall disappeared one night. Nate and Beth attributed it to her being so scared that they were ‘marked children’, that the Officials would execute her if it was found she was their guardian.

Nate and Beth still lived in her former house.

Nate sighed, eyes heavy with unexpected sleep, and continued on through the curfew night.

CHAPTER 4

Nate hurried down a narrow alley between two of the apartment buildings. It was as slick as freshly frozen ice, from a leak that spouted from one of the vertical piped leading from the floor to the ceiling. Nate covered his face with his arm and tripped past overflowing garbage cans and bins. The Cleaners tried desperately to keep everything nice and tidy, but some areas escaped attention.

Nate stopped at a gray steel door wet from the leak’s wide spray. The window was aglow with yellow light. He rapped on the door three times with his knuckles. “Yeah? Who’s there?” Mr. Pele’s voice called out, from right beside the frame.

“It’s Li’l N,” Nate replied, cringing at having to use his assigned nickname. Li’l N sounded like a ghetto rapper with major bling-bling. Nate was the exact opposite of that stereotype. The sound of a lock turning echoed through the alley, and the door creaked open just enough for him to slip through.

Mr. Pele was standing there in the side foyer, a red-walled small room with a burnished oak table decorated with pictures of Mr. Delea and his family and a small chair Mr. Pele had been provided with. An armored steel door, unlike the outside entrance, was on the far side of the foyer. “Come in, come in. Any trouble? Oi—you look like you’ve been through a war, kid.”

Nate grimaced and said, “Yeah, I ran into a little trouble. Shot two Mecs in the leg, and was captured by their reinforcement. But he let me go.”

Mr. Pele cocked his head to the side like a confused dog. “Why is that? Mecs are the most brutish guys the Officials can find. They’re not capable of sympathy or compassion.”

“I know, but—this guy was different.” Nate wrung his hands nervously, a habit of his when he became stressed at all.

“How so? Have an M16 instead of an XM8?” Mr. Pele chuckled, punching him on the shoulder.

“No. He was—different. Like, personality different. Not just out to kill and pillage a village, he was…well, compassionate.” Nate’s cheeks flushed for no reason.

“All right. Maybe there’s some good in the Mecs. Maybe he’s one nice guy who slipped in, for his own, y’know, personal reasons.” He began to unlock the huge reinforced door, with all his fingerprints.

“He gave me a business card,” Nate said, pulling it from his pocket. “There’s a number at the bottom, but—I’m not gonna call it.”

Mr. Pele inspected the thin square of embossed paper, and handed it back. “Seems a rather legitimate card. Y’know, professionally made. Whoever gave this to you, Mec or otherwise, is a pretty affluent guy. Y’sure you don’t know who it is?”

“Positively sure I have no clue,” Nate smiled, and so did Pele. “But he said something else.”

“What?” Mr. Pele had finished unlocking the door, which stood ajar slightly.

“Something about the Assassins.” Mr. Pele’s eyes widened and before he knew it Nate was pinned by his arms against the wall. Mr. Pele breathed right in his face, which smelled stereotypically like spaghetti sauce.

“You best not talk about those scum around here, Nate. If Mr. Delea heard what you just said…boy, even I couldn’t save you from his anger. And I’m his number one man. Don’t ever repeat that around him, or your life will be forfeit,” Mr. Pele breathed gravely, eyes burrowing into Nate’s own.

“But what are they? Who are they?” Nate gasped, wind driven out of his chest.

Mr. Pele sighed and shook his head. “’Fraid I simply can’t tell you that right now, Nate. I would have to get clearance from Mr. Delea. And that ain’t ever going to happen. So just live your life not knowing about those feral beasts that call themselves men.”

“Come on, Mr. Pele,” Nate said, after he was released from the man’s grip. “Tell me one thing about them. Mr. Delea will never hear of it, I swear, I promise,” he pleaded.

Mr. Pele sighed heavily again, and scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Very well. Fine. I’ll tell you one thing about them. They’re a secret organization spread throughout the Place. They—they’re responsible for nearly every murder you hear about. Mr. Delea’s always hated them, been in a turf war with ‘em since the word go. They’re killin’ people, kidnapping people to find out the way out of here.”

“What, out of the Place? There’s no way.”

“Ah, but there have been rumors abound about a service exit of some kind leading outside, down in either the Waste Disposal, Agriculture, Theater, or Administration Quadrant. The Assassins are capturing government Officials, trying to find out the exit to get the hell out of this place and explore the world that they think is still outside. Y’know, where it rains and snows and there are—what’s the word?—seasons, and—and wild animals, like dogs and cats but not pets or anythin’. Meadows and mountains as far as the eye can see.”

“So what makes them so bad?” Nate asked, visualizing a rolling green pasture larger than the whole Place itself, and farms and buildings and cars and the mythical sunlight. Some elderly people still talked about it, passed down from generation to generation, about free golden light that was all natural and not electric at all. It was hard for anyone to believe.

“They were all injected, unlike us. The nanomachines have warped their brains and their sense of right and wrong. They recruit young men and women, not much older than you and Beth, and inject them with their own blend of nanomachines. Downright cruel and inhumane. And they have a huge arsenal of high-tech weapons. Probably stole ‘em from the Armory Quadrant. These are no puny XM8s, see. These are laser scope sniper rifles that are bolt-action so they can fire ten without pausing to reload and still having deadly accuracy. Assault rifles with grenade launchers under their barrels. Flash, explosive, fire grenades that are largely destructive. Carbines and machineguns. These kiddies aren’t playing around.”

“So basically stay the hell away from them?” Nate asked, pushing the door open with one hand.

“Yeah. Now, remember, we never had this conversation, Nate, right?”
“Right. I just forgot it, officially.” Mr. Pele chuckled at that, and they continued through the door, coming upon the elegant dining room. A long, eight-seated mahogany table embossed with intricate genuine gold in twisting patterns dominated the room, complimented by lighter green walls and a dark brown chest full of jewelry and decoration. Paintings of once-Italian landscapes Mr. Delea had salvaged somehow hung on the walls. Light music was playing, coming from the old 1950’s style radio resting on the chest. A large, oval, polished mirror hung above the radio.

The swing door leading to the kitchen opened. Mr. Delea stepped in, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a deep red tie. His bald head was drenched with sweat, and the mustache above his lip was gray and aging. He was thin and not the least muscular, as one would expect of a mob boss. In fact, he looked more like an accountant than a killing crime committer. He always licked his lips nervously, as if he was perpetually trapped in a desert. At this particular moment, he had a gun holster up near his left pectoral, with a 10mm submachine gun sheathed in it. It was a longer handgun with a short barrel and a 12-round clip, dark silver in hue. Mr. Delea was also carrying two assault rifles, which Nate recognized as AK-47s.

“Good evening, boys. The muscle is on the way, they’ll meet us at the, uh, spot. Our man is Ken Tyler, who I thought was a good guy but he’s obviously not.” Mr. Delea didn’t wait for someone to ask ‘Why not?’ “I’ll tell you why. So, a couple days ago,” he started, pacing back and forth, “he was supposed to close a pot deal for me, down in the agriculture quadrant. You know, we got Harry down there, makin’ sure it gets plenty of light and all.” Mr. Delea pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “Want one?” he offered to both Mr. Pele and Nate. Mr. Pele took one, but Nate didn’t. He vowed never to smoke, ever. It killed you faster than the line of work he was in.

Smoke coiled from the end of the cigarette held loosely between Mr. Delea’s index and middle fingers. “So he’s s’posed to close the deal for me, for this month. Well, he does, but he don’t give me the pot! He runs and hides somewhere, and now somehow I have Mecs all over my ass! It’s not a coincidence, I can tell you that. Steal the goods and rat us out…Jesus Christ.” Mr. Delea released a cloud of gray smoke. “I’m warning you guys, this won’t be an easy hit. His place is guarded with tons of Mecs, I’ve heard through my connections with the Motticellis, and the place is under constant surveillance and guard. That’s why I’m bringing ten other guys besides you with. They’ll be meeting us three blocks from the place, some with sniper rifles, some with assaults, some with grenades and shotguns. Here, I’ve got some body armor that I scrounged up for you two…” He went back into the kitchen and returned with two old 2000s style Kevlar vests. “Not the best, not the newest, and not in the greatest of shape, but it’ll do.”

Nate was handed the vest, which he inspected. It was thickly padded, shaped in the form of a tank top, but had a few holes in it that looked like they were caused by bullets. Nate didn’t feel very confident this could save his life.

“Oh, geez, what happened to your nose?” Mr. Delea asked him. “Well, it’ll have to wait. Suck it up, boy. All right, you two should put the armor on under your shirt, just in case a patrol stops us and so they don’t see we’re prepared for damn army combat. Go on, go.”

Nate reluctantly pulled off his shirt, afraid of what he would see. In the mirror he saw an extremely, gauntly, scarily thin frightened teenager. “You gotta beef up, Nate, get some carbs or meat into your system,” Mr. Delea commented. Nate so wished to tell him he couldn’t on the mob boss’s crappy pay, but instead said nothing and put the armor on and then his shirt. The armor was surprisingly smooth against his skin, but heavy, about fifty pounds.

“Okay, take your 47s and we’re outta here.” Mr. Delea checked his silver, expensive watch and swore. “We’re already late. Let’s go!”

They snatched the weapons from the table and went out the door into the cold, dark night.

CHAPTER 5

Mr. Delea led the way, nearly doubled over as he crouched by the exit of the alley. A few Mec flashlights lazily turned in their owners’ hands in the far distance. The two Nate had shot must have been being helped by the surrounding Mecs in that area. Sweat trickled down his face uncomfortably. The AK-47 felt like a ton of bricks in his hands. He had never been in a full-scale gunfight before, with people dying and muzzles flashing crazily in chaotic manner. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of his stomach. “Now, each clip in those 47s,” Mr. Delea whispered, readjusting the grip on his own, “holds thirty rounds. You run out, use your pistols. You run out of that, use your hands. You run out of that, you’re dead. Got it?” Mr. Pele and Nate nodded solemnly, contemplating how close they would be to cold death. “Good. We’re goin’ to those Mecs in the distance. Three blocks away, stop and we’ll join up with the muscle.”

Without another word, the trio scurried along, around the giant Park of Lost Souls. Dim light from Mr. Delea’s watch was their only illumination, which cast everything in a sickly green pallor. Grotesque, twisting graffiti stained the wall of what was once a solitary confinement prison set in the middle of the Quadrant to deter crime. Mr. Delea frowned at the gang signs and symbols. “They’re all small-time deals on here. What’re they tryin’ to do, increase their confidence or somethin’?” Thirteen people were executed there in the early days of the Place, until it was shut down with the Liberty Movement. Now all prisoners were kept in the Justice Quadrant, down near the Officials’ offices. The Park was rumored to be haunted, especially by Jimmy ‘Jigsaw’ Jones. He was said to come after any people inside the Park after curfew, holding a bloody saw in his hands. Every student was required to walk through it, to scare them from crime. Their minds were already controlled of course, but the Officials wanted a failsafe just in case. Nate remembered seeing the stained, empty, silent concrete cells and the large room with the trapdoor in the floor where the hanged were dropped to suffocate into death. Nate shuddered.

Eventually they arrived near the Mecs, stopping at an alleyway a few blocks distant. Ten muscle-laden stereotypical Italian gangsters in black suits with white roses in their lapels were huddled in the alley. Shotguns, assault rifles and sniper rifles were cocked and loaded and otherwise readied at the sight of the boss. “A’ight, I’m not gonna waste my time introducing everyone. This is the muscles, muscle, this is Nate and Pele. You will protect them with your lives. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” they all replied in eerie unison. Nate was rather surprised at Mr. Delea’s order. After all, he regarded Nate as lowly as could be.

“Let’s set off, then, gentlemen. This rat is going to be drowned,” Mr. Delea proclaimed, shouldering his AK-47. “Snipers, rip those sentries up.” Three of the men rushed forward and lay on their bellies just outside the edge of the alley. The rifles were large, equipped with a scope and silencer.

“Three targets. Ray, left, Tony, middle,” the far right muscle muttered, aiming and adjusting the angle of the muzzle carefully. “Ready? Three—two—one—” The weapons erupted in a chorus of bangs not loud enough for the targets to hear. Sick splattering came from around the corner. “A’ight! Headshots, bitches!” The three idiots high-fived each other in very unlike gang manner.

Nate peeked around the corner of brick, finding three dead soldiers resting on the sidewalk. Blood was slick on the sidewalk. The innards of their necks were exposed, gushing scarlet liquid. Nate had to fight down the steak that seemed to rot immediately in his stomach. “Good job, boys. Let’s go,” Mr. Delea ordered upon observing the dead bodies.

They all began sprinting down to the target house. Their footsteps were the only sound, echoing off the apartments. As they reached the mess of humans deceased, the front door of the apartment opened and gunfire erupted from six separate muzzles. Three muscles were stricken instantaneously, blood flying in a shower of drops. Nate gasped and dove behind a concrete cylinder with a light embedded in it. His chest rose and fell heavily. Sweat stung his eyes. Carefully he peeked around the edge of the cylinder.

Mr. Delea, Pele, and five muscle were crouched in an alley close by but an eternity away. Nate was stranded out in the relative open with only a stick of concrete separating him from death. His pitiful life flashed in his mind, depressing him even more as he stared down six barrels just aching to put a bullet in his forehead. Mr. Delea was motioning something, which seemed to mean make a run for it over to them. Nate slightly shook his head no, and cocked the AK-47, feeling the bullets slide into place. “Hey, we know you’re there,” a Mec popped his head around the door frame and called out. Nate took a quick breath, leaned out to the left of the post, and fired once. Blood and shards of frighteningly white skull launched into the air, forming a cloud of scarlet gore. The body instantly crumpled, falling forward. Nate ducked back behind his cover just as a storm of bullets pummeled the concrete. His heart ached.

He had actually killed someone. He could imagine God up in Heaven, damning him to Hell right at that moment. The adrenaline made all rational thoughts go away, numbing his reaction to his first murder. He was quite sure he would feel so much guilt later it would make him insane, but he didn’t care right now. All he cared about was getting out alive.

The dead Mec’s comrades were now scared, hiding even further behind the door and whispering fervently among themselves. “That little--! He’s gonna die!”

Nate’s hands had begun trembling, the knowledge of his homicide beginning to set in as the minutes passed between the action and his heart settled down and his mind wandered. He shivered bodily, feeling sick suddenly. The head of the soldier exploding replayed in his mind again and again, clenching his heart in his chest every time. Nate’s stomach gurgled and forced out its contents violently. Afterwards, he stared into the pile of sick and watched it dry up. He was convinced he was going to hell. He had shot two Mecs and killed another. The dead one looked like a young father, probably had a family, two kids, a beautiful, loving wife…had he just ruined a whole family? Was he the sole provider for them? Would they now drop like stones and be thrown out on the street? All because of him. No, not him; damn Mr. Delea! He’s the one who should be blamed, getting Nate into all this shit. Oh, it’s a rat! Let’s go kill him! Go ahead Nate, you can do the honors. Frustrated, Nate pounded his fist on the concrete pillar, hurting it and it consequently swelling up. He felt so guilty he wanted to just cry and give himself up and die already. Tears were actually welling up in his eyes when a battle cry from behind sounded and Mr. Delea, Pele, and the muscle leaped out, guns blazing. Bits of brick spiraled through the air, accompanied by a fountain of blood. The Mecs didn’t even have time to return fire; their bodies were pummeled by bullets and fell backward, limp as rag dolls. The gunshots sounded distant to Nate, who had slipped into a turmoil mental state, going back and forth about his guilt. He barely noticed when Mr. Pele lifted him up and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Eventually he came out of his waking dream and found himself in a small dingy room with a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling on a thick black wire. The wallpaper, silver with roses on it, was peeling from the walls, like the walls themselves were tainted and the paper was escaping. He was sitting on a flimsy metal folding chair. Mr. Delea and Pele were on either side of him, clutching their AK-47s. Nate’s was slung across Pele’s shoulder in a harness.

Ken Tyler was strapped to a chair in the center of the room, the legs of the chair swallowed up by dirty gray shag carpeting. He was a large, rather fat man who looked to be middle-aged and balding. His eyes were small and pig-like, obscured by large glasses that distorted them unsettlingly. His red polo shirt was soaked with sweat, and his legs were bouncing up and down in nervousness. Constantly he tapped his fingers on his knee, to the point where Mr. Delea shouted, “Stop it! You’re annoying me.”

Mr. Delea then stood up, and paced in front of Tyler, whose mouth was covered with duct tape. “You are a rat, Tyler. I trusted you.” Delea bent down in front of the rat, glaring at him through his large glasses. “And you betray my trust!” Delea shouted, harshly loud to Nate’s tired ears and troubled soul. “You dare to cross me, leader of Delea’s Wolves! I practically raised you, Tyler. I fucking raised you! You were like a son to me. Your parents were members too, so you were, naturally. Then they got killed. And who took care of you? I did. I did. And this is how you repay me?” Mr. Delea punched Tyler in the left cheek, snapping his head to the side. “Twenty-five years of feeding you, clothing you, sheltering you from all your enemies you accumulated over the years. The Motticellis, my good friends and partners, wanted your blood on their hands. But I said no, you were practically my son. I sacrificed so much for you. Do you realize that? I staked a crapload of my reputation, my services, my name on you. You were my son! My own was killed, by the Assassins. Are you one of them? Answer me!” Mr. Delea, red-faced and veins bulging, ripped off the duct tape from Tyler’s mouth.

Tyler winced and said in an extremely small voice, “I didn’t need your protection. I was always one of the Assassins. That was why I had so many enemies breathin’ down my neck, and yours. And I wouldn’t change a thing. I know you’re going to kill me. Go ahead. Give my blood to the Motticellis if you want. But the Assassins were, are going somewhere, unlike your…pathetic Wolves. They’re getting out of this Place. And they’re going to burn it down behind them.” Tyler flashed a wicked smile before Mr. Delea slapped the duct tape back on his mouth.

Delea pulled out his semi-automatic and pressed it up against the traitor’s forehead. “I’m going to ask you one thing before I kill you. Or rather, Nate kills you.” Nate felt an enormous sense of guilt immediately and began crying uncontrollably. A myriad of sorrowful emotions swept through him. The teardrops fell to the floor like crystalline spheres. His thin shoulders shook terribly with his weeping, and Mr. Pele went so far as to steady him from falling off his chair. “What’s your problem? You better be ready to do this, or you’re dead too, Nate.” Delea breathed straight into Tyler’s sweaty face.

“Where are the Assassins?” Delea ripped off the tape.

At first Tyler was completely silent. Then his mouth widened into an eerie smile, and he spat, “I’ll never tell you, Ignatius. Never on my mother’s grave would I tell you.”

Delea shouted angrily and stomped over to Nate, who had subsided into intermittent uncontrollable sobs. He opened Nate’s clammy, pale, trembling hand, pressed the pistol into it, and closed the fingers around the grip. Delea took Nate by the shoulders, hoisted him up and dragged him over to Tyler. Finally, he raised Nate’s arm to Tyler’s expansive forehead.

Delea breathed in his ear, “Pull the trigger.”

Nate did. An explosion ensued. Blood soaked his face, dripping down off his chin onto the floor. The dead corpse of Tyler spiraled backward, chair and all, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Nate followed, collapsing into darkness.

Daily Tip #39--Actually Writing

2009-04-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

APRIL 18th, 2009

What with a lot of your time being taken up by school, homework, work, TV shows, sports, watching sports, etc., there's not a whole lot of time for actually writing. The same goes for published authors--they have book signings, book tours, blogging (if they want to keep in touch with their fans), editing, family, and a whole lot of other stuff not writing-related. It can be almost insanely difficult to find the time to actually write. What with all the other stuff in your life going on, you get only a few scant minutes here and there or maybe even an hour, and even when you do find time to write, you feel like you're rushing and you're not doing the best job you can. Every sentence seems to drag on when you're typing it. The minutes seem to fade away like sand in an hourglass.

You have to make time to write and do a quality job. It's a difficult task, but it has to be done.

Tomorrow: Themes

Cubby

Daily Tip #38--Reading Others

2009-04-16T13:23:00.000-07:00

APRIL 16th, 2009

As writers we want to be the best. We each want to be ahead of the pack when it comes to compelling stories, interesting characters, breathtaking descriptions, realistic dialogue, relevant topics, and (some would say--not me, though) a New York Times bestseller. Some writers are clearly in it for the money, even if they do have comparable skill. They get book purchases just because they are supposed to be good, even if they stopped being readable a long time ago. I'm looking at you, Stephenie Meyer; I don't like your books or your characters, yet you make a lot of money and have a lot of fame. It's not that I'm envious or jealous; I just don't think her work is good enough to have the kind of fame and publicity that it does.

To me, some writers are too competitive; of course it's a race to be good and try to be the best, but some people take it too far. To me, and I can say this without lying or hidden shame, making one person happy, entertaining just one person and seeing how happy my work made them: that's truly enough. You're probably thinking yeah, right but I'm serious. If just one person likes my work, then that's enough for me. Like Winston Smith's phrase about two and two equaling four, I say, If you can entertain one person, then all else will follow. The big book deals, the publicity and fame, the mounds of money--these things aren't important. They may come, they may not. If they do, then all right, good for you. If they don't, just keep on working to entertain. After all, that's what we do as writers: we entertain. But for a price. =) (That's probably the only text-speak I'll ever have in a post--well, maybe not. Probably not.)

My point of this post is that as competitive and fierce as we may become, we should read others' work. If they're better than you at dialogue, strive for improving yours. If their description is top-notch and yours isn't, work hard to make it top-notch. Remember, we're all humans here--we don't have to act like ferocious animals, ready to bite at each other's throats and do anything to be the proverbial pack leader. Keep your cool and read others' work. Make friends with writers you like, or at least email them or go to see them and let them know just how much their book made you happy or glad or how much it entertained you. It brightens up their day and probably yours as well.

If you get published, then, return the favor. Make public appearances. Go to signings at bookstores. Meet your fans and maintain an open line of communication with them. Meet other writers and get acquainted with them. Get used to not being as good as other people. It's only incentive to work harder to improve yourself.

Tomorrow: Actually Writing

Cubby

Daily Tip #37--Pace

2009-04-15T14:02:00.001-07:00

APRIL 15th, 2009

No, not the Pace salsa (as good as it is), pace as in the speed of your story and plotline. This is really just like pace in any other art form: movies need a good pace so as not to bore the watcher and music needs a good pace so as not to bore the listener. You need to keep things flowing at least faster than frozen molasses trying to drip down a wall. That's a strange analogy, I know, but the point is to keep things at a healthy rate of speed. Keep things moving; make things happen. If a page is a little bit stale, make the next interesting and flow well. Or you can go back and edit it. The whole thing is, make everything interesting and not boring. Humor is a good thing to use to lighten things up and get things going on a good pace again, if they become stale in the first place.

Tomorrow: Reading Others

Cubby

Daily Tip #36--The First Third

2009-04-13T13:54:00.000-07:00

APRIL 13th, 2009

I consider there to be three parts in a story or novel, and many people already know what they are: the beginning, the middle, and the end. This is relatively simple, right? The beginning starts us off, the middle reveals a lot of backstory and is usually the biggest chunk of the novel, and the end wraps it all up neatly, tying the loose ends together--unless you're writing a series. I like to think of my novels, and short stories, as divided into three parts. I don't literally divide them because I'm not that neurotic, but I like to think of them that way. It's a lot easier to organize the story as well.

The first third's content, namely your beginning, should include the start of your story, the introduction of characters, plot, and setting, and get your book off to a good, healthy pace. Speaking of pace, that's the topic of tomorrow's post. Did you like that little slip in there? It can often be hard to write the first third. You fret about introductions, pacing, "is that too much info or too little", setting a tone and mood, things like that. When that happens, just keep writing. Get it down on paper. If you need to go back and revise, go ahead and do it. If it just doesn't seem right, throw it all out and rewrite it. I know it can be painful, but do it. It will be better in the long run.

Tomorrow: Pace (not the salsa)

Cubby

Daily Tip #35--Fans Part 2

2009-04-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

APRIL 10th, 2009

Once you get fans, you'll need to know how to treat them well. It would probably be wise to start a blog for all your news, announcements, and tips, if you don't already have one. Then when you get high and mighty enough, and your pocketbook can sustain it, start giving away free stuff. People love free stuff; I know I do! Give away books, T-shirts, coffee mugs, anything and everything. But not everything literally, because then you'd be in the poorhouse.

The point is, do a little fan service and recognition. These people are the ones who made you what you are. They are the ones who bought your books, read your blogs, and camp out front of bookstores for a midnight opening or a chance to see you in person. Show a little gratitude towards them. Don't be cold, indifferent, and distant; that's sure to make your base drop dead like flies during the winter. Extend a hand towards them and they'll keep on being your fans.

Try to maintain a level, un-swelled head. Success goes to your brain, but don't let it go too much. You'll come off as arrogant and selfish if you walk around with an inflated ego. Maintain an open, friendly personality. You'd be surprised how much a smile and warm handshake can influence a new possible fan's first impression.

Tomorrow: The First Third

Cubby

AFRAID Review

2009-04-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

By: Jack Kilborn (J.A. Konrath)

Safe Haven, Wisconsin, seems like the perfect all-American small town. There's a local sheriff, a down-home diner, a small junior high school. Life is simple and nice. There's not many outside distractions, and the 900 or so residents live in quaint peace on the two lakes.

This is where AFRAID begins and ends, although Safe Haven drastically changes during the course of the book. This is the first effort by one Jack Kilborn, who is really J.A. Konrath writing under a pen name, and a gruesome horror book that your brain will scream at you to put down but you won't want to.

Life is normal until one seemingly quiet night when a black, unidentifiable helicopter crashes into the woods along the lake. The house nearest the crash is where the terror begins, and it doesn't stop until the very last sentence of the book. The terror comes in the form of five Red-Ops soldiers, specially modified former-and-current killers that come in one flavor: twisted. They are the source of all of brutal torture of the town's residents. Mystery shrouds them like a cloak, and it's not revealed for a good long while why they are there, except one clue they keep repeating.

The horror is not suspense. If you're looking for a lot of tension, you should look elsewhere. This book is proud of its gore. Bitten off toes, shotguns to the face, poison gas, fire, mutilation, practically every conceived method of death is around in one way or another. You might feel the blood seeping out of the pages onto your hands; the red stuff flows in a thick river. If gore and viscera are not your cup of tea, keep on moving. However, if you're looking for a book that makes your bones shake and become cold, then this is one for you.

What surprised me is the almost superhuman resilience of the main characters. There's a *wily* old sheriff who's getting old and broken down, but somehow fights through a terrible injury that I won't spoil. There's the heroic single mom who will do anything for her son. There's the son himself, who gave surprising buoyancy to the story, lightening up a bit of the gore. And there's the firefighter, who broke up with the said single mom and regrets it. They all undergo horrific physical and psychological stress, and while each has a strong motivation to fight through the pain, sometimes it seems like they have too much resilience. The characters occasionally lose believability in that they can get through everything no matter what.

With a pretty good plot twist about two-thirds of the way through, and bone-chilling horror that will make you fear the dark when you flip off the light, Afraid by Jack Kilborn is an enticing book indeed. It's not for everyone, but if you're looking to get scared one night--or day--go ahead and give it a try.

Cubby

Daily Tip #34--Fans

2009-04-09T20:03:00.000-07:00

APRIL 9th, 2009

You're a new writer and you've just gotten published. People are now free to crack open your new book, smell the scent of fresh writing, and dive into your novel, immersing themselves into your characters, plot, dialogue, and setting. They just might like it enough to anticipate and eagerly await your next work. If you win them over again with your next piece or novel, they'll slowly turn into a fan. Fans are necessary to have a successful career; however, you don't need a huge fan base like other authors strive for, like, say, Stephenie Meyer (bleh) or J.K. Rowling.

Tomorrow: Fans Part 2

Cubby

Daily Tip #33--Confidence

2009-04-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

APRIL 8th, 2009

As a budding writer you must have the utmost confidence in your abilities. A lot of pressure can be placed on a writer, especially if you get published and acquire a decent number of fans, to do well and pull everything off. I think it's one of the most high stress, mentally, jobs. Physically, no, there's not much to worry about, but mentally you'll feel like you're being crushed under an unbearable load. You'll doubt yourself if you get bad feedback and start over-thinking everything. Just like in sports, if you over-think about what you're going to do, you'll mess up. If you think about throwing a pitch right down the middle, it'll end up in the dirt. It's generally not good to think about what you're doing. I'm not saying write like you're brain dead, but maintain a good level of thinking without going overboard and making your fingers twitch from anxiety. That can never be a good thing, ever.

Unfortunately I'm running short on time again.

Tomorrow: Fans

Cubby

Daily Tip #32--Sympathy and Empathy

2009-04-06T18:24:00.000-07:00

APRIL 6th, 2009

Sympathy and empathy go hand-in-hand with each other, when applied to characters. Sympathy, according to Wikipedia and my own definition, is "a social affinity in which one person stands with another person, closely understanding his or her feelings." Empathy is defined as "the capability to share and understand another's emotion and feelings." How it is applied to characters is that readers should be able to sympathize and empathize with them. They should be able to feel what your characters feel, investing their own emotions and mood into your characters, fictitious or real as they may be. It gives a greater sense of immersion and makes the reader wish to keep reading, because they have an emotional investment in wanting to see the character live and thrive.

Of course, you need to craft different moods and feelings for your characters. People will get very bored very quickly if you have your characters thinking and feeling the same emotion over and over. You can word it differently however much you want, if your character is always angry or sad or happy or scared, the reader will get bored and you probably will too.

What about villains, though, evil people? The people who readers probably don't want to feel what they're feeling or think what they're thinking? If you truly want to create a realistic, believable character, you'll do it anyway. Throw the reader directly into the person's mind and soul. Put them in just as you would do for a good, positive character.

I was wrong about not posting today, I found enough time. So that's a good thing, I guess.

Tomorrow: Confidence

Cubby

Sorry

2009-04-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

APRIL 6th, 2009

I'm very sorry, I know I didn't post yesterday, but I can't post again today. I'm simply too busy, but rest assured, I will post tomorrow.

Tomorrow: Sympathy and Empathy

Cubby

Daily Tip #31--Editing

2009-04-04T15:08:00.001-07:00

APRIL 4th, 2009

A lot of writers will tell you that they hate editing, that they don't like to sit down with their own work and look at it with the harshest eye, circling things in red pen and crossing out paragraphs. It's a grueling, mind-numbing process that seems to drag on for eternity. The writer's version of hell is an editor barking in their ear while they're searching for typos and inconsistencies. However, as long and endurance-requiring the process of editing is, it is an essential one and must be done on every writing, even if you're not a writer and it's an essay for school. My English teacher will only accept ten errors per paper; if you go over, she gives you a zero and stops reading right when she finds the tenth. What I'm stressing is that although editing frankly could go live in a cave and never come out and nobody will be sad about it, it's vital to getting published and getting recognized for your hard work.

An editor or literary agent has a lot of requests to go through, and they may fix a few in a transcript you send them and give it back to you to fix, but more times than not you'll get no help with a rejection letter stapled on top. These people don't have time to circle every little thing, and every reader gets frustrated when they read something with a boatload of errors, whether they be grammatical or story-related. The point is, keep editing until you can edit no more and your work is the picture of perfection.

For those authors who somehow don't know, editing is the process of going back and revising awkward sentences, bad paragraphs, addressing story inconsistencies, and looking for typos or grammatical errors. It takes a long time and at least a few packs of red pens. It also takes a lot of commitment and endurance, to keep plugging away and be calm enough to do so. It gets very annoying very quickly to rip your work to shreds, but it helps in the long run.

Some authors argue about when to edit. Some say do it as you go: write a chapter and spend a day going back and making it perfect. Others say wait until the end and then go back. The former is basically a 'let's get it over with' thing, while the latter is a 'let's put it off' thing. Usually I go for the latter, but it's your choice. Edit whenever you feel comfortable with doing so.

Tomorrow: Sympathy and Empathy

Cubby

Daily Tip #30--Making Readers Understand

2009-04-03T08:59:00.000-07:00

APRIL 3rd, 2009

As a writer, it's pretty much our job to tell a story. Actually, it is our job. That's what we're hired for and that's what we do. But it's kind of pointless if the reader doesn't understand what the heck you're talking about. If your reader doesn't understand, you'll like you're a monkey banging at a typewriter and screeching like a banshee. It alienates the reader when they don't have any clue or semblance of a clue as to what you're talking about or telling them or even what's happening in your book.

Some of this can be attributed to the time gap, between old classics that we still read today. The writers used parts of their own society and thinking at the time. It's almost impossible not to imprint some qualities of your current society into your writing, and that's the same case with many classics. We will be culturally relevant for a long time--hopefully--but our current society's status and characteristics will morph and change. There really is no way to guard against that.

Another part of this can be attributed to unclear explanation. You don't have to literally spell everything out for the readers, but don't make it obscure and vague either. Nobody likes to be taught to like a three-year-old or a wise old sensei who knows and sees all. Find a comfortable middle ground that works for you.

Tomorrow: Editing

Cubby

Daily Tip #29--Humor

2009-04-02T06:59:00.000-07:00

APRIL 2nd, 2009

Humor definitely has a place in your writing. It lightens up what might otherwise be a dark or grim mood. Usually some horror books have a hint of humor in them, if only to further unsettle you when you think, How can these people be laughing? We all love a good laugh, though, don't we? The only bad part about humor is that if the joke pancakes (i.e., doesn't work or isn't funny) then the book kind of becomes awkward. Then again, people might laugh at the bad quality of your jokes. Anyways, making readers laugh is a beneficial thing.

Although, you should be good at it. You don't want readers laughing because they're thinking, This guy is pathetic. I once had a biology teacher who was so bad at jokes, we laughed not because they were funny, but because they were so pathetically bad. One of them was, "I'm a fun guy!" (Fungi, get it? I know, I know). The point is, try to actually be good at humor or one-liners before you start throwing them haphazardly into your story.

But Cubby, how do you know if your jokes are good? There's a simple test called the Try-it-Out Test. Tell someone else a joke, if they laugh, then it's funny and you can use it.

Simple as that.

Tomorrow: Making Readers Understand

Cubby

Daily Tip #28--Plot Twists 2

2009-04-01T07:13:00.000-07:00

APRIL 1st, 2009

April Fools, everyone! All right!

But seriously, we have to continue our discussion on plot twists. Plot twists are the shifts in events of a storyline, whether it be in movies, video games, or our most pressing interest, novels. They are very difficult to pull off effectively, often entailing huge amounts of explanation that can be hard to place in a story without breaking the flow. The solution to this is to streamline it as much as you can. Give the basic premise of the twist and explain it as your story continues, not all in one swing. This overloads the reader with too much information, which is a bad thing. Yes, the reader gets the information, but it becomes annoying to slog through solid paragraphs of static info.

I'm sorry, but this post will have to be short because I'm extremely low on time.

Tomorrow: Humor

Cubby

Daily Tip #27--Plot Twists

2009-03-30T18:50:00.000-07:00

MARCH 30th, 2009

Plot twists are changes in the direction of your story's plot. They aren't always in books, either: they can be found in movies, video games, plays, whatever. Just about every respectable form of entertainment with a plot will have a twist thrown in it. It's almost to the point where readers have come to expect a major plot twist, and will try and guess at what it will be. This ruins your story and the readers' experience of it. I myself have found myself guessing at what might happen, whether it be during a movie, reading a book, or playing a game with a plot. It's becoming inevitable, and frankly, it kind of dampens the experience. If the thing that happens is profound, almost knowing ahead of time lowers the effect it has on you. Entertainment is not only to entertain but to examine a slice of life, of reality. If you know what is supposed to be secret ahead of time, it kind of ruins the twist.

So how do we, as writers, prevent this sort of thing from happening, stop our reader from knowing what's coming next? How do we send them blindfolded around a sharp turn? The answer is: extremely hard work. For as long as this blog has been up, I've been stressing just how stressful and time-demanding this job really is. A lot of people say writers have it easy, but we have it hard. We're expected to entertain, to write witty dialogue, to pull off every character and plot and setting no matter what. If a movie or video game flops, big whoop. The companies have enough money to smooth it over. Us writers only get a chance--if you get a few, you're extremely lucky--which means we have a humongous amount of pressure on us to blow people away with our talent. We have to be on our A game every time we sit down to write. This also extends to plot twists: books started them and they'll keep being expected to do them.

Tomorrow: Plot Twists Part 2

Cubby

Daily Tip #26--Proofreading

2009-03-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

MARCH 29th, 2009

You must, must, must proofread your work. Proofreading should be worked into your daily writing routine. Whenever you are finished with your writing for the day, print it out, take a red pen (or possibly a few) and sit down to read. Any author who doesn't read their own work is not a very good author. With your mighty red pen, circle any typos or errors that you obviously don't want in your work. Note any inconsistencies in the characters or plot. Don't have too many twists in the plot. Also don't have your characters do something out-of-character too much; a few times is okay, especially in a pressure situation, but don't confuse the reader by creating a character for them and then abruptly changing him or her or it.

You can never do too much proofreading. You should know your story or novel inside-out and side-to-side. You should know every detail of the plot, characters, and setting. That way, if you get published or an agent you submitted to asks you to clarify on something, you can do it right away without spending a few hours slogging through all your work. Trust me, it will prove easier and much more efficient in the long run.

Editors, if there are too many typos in the work you submitted to them, will throw it in the trash or recycle bin and send you a standard reject letter. Proofreading and fixing those errors will help reduce that chance by a large amount. You don't want to succumb to lazyitis. Proofreading is a vital part of getting a story or novel prepped for submission.

Make notes on the tops of pages. Rewrite whole paragraphs if you have to. Keep proofreading until your work is as perfect as possible.

Tomorrow: Plot Twists

Cubby

Daily Tip #25--Cliches

2009-03-28T07:54:00.001-07:00

MARCH 28th, 2009

Cliches are commonly used phrases that are used too commonly. They are overused and annoying in large quantities. An example of a cliche is like "All roads lead to Rome" or "Like father, like son".

So, should you use cliches in your work? The answer is both yes and no. Yes, you can use them, and no, you shouldn't use them. Cliches can help easily get your point across but at the same time become irritating if you use them profusely. We often use many cliches in our everyday conversations. As I've said before, you should write how you talk. Unless you're a hillbilly redneck that says y'all in every sentence, write like you talk.

However, have a kind of limit on how many cliches you use. You might use a lot and not notice them. Then, when you go back to read it again (always read finished work again!), you'll be disgusted and irked at how many stupid phrases you used. A personal example from me is using 'he got the short end of the straw'. We've all heard this one, haven't we? It's to express misfortune or bad luck. Gary Alexander, one of my friends over at Storywrite that I've mentioned before, caught this in my work and said "NO!". After rereading it it didn't fit the situation at all. So I suppose my advice is to think before you cliche. (And yes, I just made a verb out of a noun.)

Tomorrow: Proofreading

Cubby

Daily Tip #24--The World

2009-03-27T14:38:00.000-07:00

MARCH 27th, 2009

Here is a rule for you to write by. Keep your story connected to reality. It doesn't have to parallel World War II or make fun of Soviet Russia like Animal Farm, but make sure your story isn't pie-in-the-sky and unbelievable. Readers will most likely become confused and disgusted with your book and throw their hands up and say, "I'm done. This thing is stupid." You must, must, must keep it somehow connected to reality. You can have an elf with pale skin and amazing strength, but don't give him pink hair. Unless there was synthetic hair dye in the Middle Ages, that elf can't have pink hair.

I'm not saying you can't have an elf with pink hair, but give an explanation for it. As writers we have a license to take certain liberties. Not explaining the reason for the pink hair pulls the reader out of the engrossing story you've hopefully written and makes them second-guess you as writer. They'll find other non-explained things and keep going, thinking all the while, "He/she doesn't explain very well." At the end, it leaves a kind of sour taste in the mouth.

An engrossing, believable world is hard to come by and create. You can do this, though, by trying to explain everything you possibly can. It doesn't have to be through straight narration, either. It can get kind of annoying to feel like you're reading a history report. For those who've read 1984, when Winston reads Goldstein's book, that is a good example of what not to do. Sure, it was informational, but instead of pulling you in like good information should, it pushed you out.

A world should be described in the greatest detail possible. Although, don't break the rule too often. You can occasionally, but don't make it a bad habit. It utterly, overall, bogs down the flow of the story.

Get the reader to believe in what you have created. It takes skill, but is needed for a good book.

Tomorrow: Cliches

Cubby

Daily Tip #23--Style Part 2

2009-03-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

MARCH 26th, 2009

A distinctive style can separate authors from being successful to failing miserably. If readers think you're a unique, fresh writer with a cool style you're more likely to be bought (your book, not you). Speaking to readers is a very important element and factor of whether they purchase and enjoy the book or not. Style is the vehicle in which you make connections to reality. As I've said before, making a believable story is crucial. If it's pie-in-the-sky, you'll come off as out of touch and strange. Style helps anchor your book firmly in reality.

Style can stretch beyond mere words, though. When you get published, you will have a long road ahead of you still. Yes, the arduous process of getting published is no joke, but even after you do, a long journey is still ahead of you. You will have to gradually build up a fan base by hard work. Long, hand-cramping hours will have to be dedicated to book signing. Punishing editing processes might push you to the physical and mental brink. Bad criticism will come; it's basically a constant in the profession. Even though you might not want to, you will have to grin and bear it. Shaking hands and smiling and talking comfortably with your fans will really show that you're just a normal person like them.

Through it all, you must maintain a good style, a good attitude. If you do not, chances are you won't get very far in the writing world. People will be turned off by your bitter demeanor. Competition is fierce out there, and a fresh style should get you far. However, there are other elements you must keep in mind. Have an open mind on what elements of your writing need improvement.

You'll also need to have an open mind on what kind of style you write in. Oftentimes a style will just develop on its own. Occasionally, though, you'll have to create a new one to write a particular kind or genre. Don't be afraid to challenge yourself.

Tomorrow: The World

Cubby

Daily Tip #22--Style

2009-03-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

MARCH 25th, 2009

Style is a very important element of writing indeed. What is style? Style is defined as the way you write, the words you choose, the characters you make, and the dialogue you write. It's basically the conglomerate of all your writing. Every word is a part of it and contributes to the reader's perception of your style. For example, J.A. Konrath's style (look on the right for his blog) is very quick and witty. Someone like Charles Dickens, for example, is more slow-paced and methodical.

So how can you develop your style? Much as it makes you seem nerdy and geeky, read the dictionary each day. It doesn't have to be much, maybe a page each day or two. This will help you expand your vocabulary and word usage; it gets kind of annoying if you read a whole paragraph that reuses the same word over and over again. A good myriad of words will make the reader like your style more and make your story not seem like it was written by a two-year-old banging at Mommy's computer.

Also key to developing your style is practice, practice, practice. Keep writing and eventually a style all your own will emerge, seemingly from nowhere or out of the woodwork. As you write more, your style will mature more, and you'll get better overall as a writer. Practice makes perfect. It's a cliche, but it's a tried-and-true cliche. Just as a pitcher must practice every day, so must writers. It goes back to yesterday's post about setting time out for just writing. No distractions, no TV, no sitting around staring at the screen. That's the key to being productive and making good quality stories, while at the same time developing your style.

There are different genres of styles, stereotypes if you will. There's the first-person spunky teenager who makes sarcastic comments (someone I've created), the strong, hardened woman, the weak damsel in distress who relies on everyone else, the technogeek who lives with his mom, and so on and so on. Of course, it's not required to fit into these stereotypes/genres. Do whatever you want.

Tomorrow: Style Part 2

Cubby

Daily Tip #21--After the First Chapter

2009-03-24T16:25:00.000-07:00

MARCH 24th, 2009

Your first chapter is now the picture of perfection. It can't get any better. There isn't a word out of place or a descriptor too many. Everything is introduced perfectly and the reader is engrossed completely. All that is unrealistic, but your first chapter should be somewhere near it. After all, the first chapter, sometimes even the first sentence, can be the difference between a purchase and a put-it-back-on-the-shelf. So what do you do now? Write the second chapter, of course.

The second chapter of your novel should more fully explain the conflict, situation, and setting. Characterization on your main ones and some on your secondary characters should continue. Keep providing details on what exactly your book is about.

Try to maintain a consistent voice and style throughout not just the first two chapters, but throughout the whole novel. Don't suddenly change viewpoints or style of writing unexpectedly in the middle of a novel.

Tomorrow: Style

Cubby

Daily Tip #20--Writing Time

2009-03-23T16:42:00.001-07:00

MARCH 23rd, 2009

We won't get much done as writers if we don't set out time specifically for writing. Of course, our schedules can get pretty crammed full of things other than writing. For example, you might have a huge business presentation coming up and you skip writing for a couple days. Then you don't feel like writing after the presentation and then not a week later and everything snowballs into you just not writing anymore.

As productive writers we can't have that. Our skills will deteriorate before you can say 'Go'. It's just like pitching in baseball. If you don't practice every day, every week, and every month your pitches will go anywhere and everywhere. If you don't keep writing, your quality and quantity will be all over the place. Though most likely they won't go up at all, instead dropping like a rock that fell into the sea.

A good writing time is one where you aren't overly tired or distracted. Like I've said before, try to eliminate outside distractions that aren't necessary to writing, except music, which I think can be extremely beneficial. A time that I usually write is right when I wake up. My brain is fresh from sleep and raring to go. Plus you may have just come from an imaginative dream and have a good idea or two.

You don't even have to have a set time. I don't think, "Okay, I'm writing from 4 to 5, no matter what." I just squeeze in my writing wherever I can. But always make sure you squeeze in half an hour at least each day.

Tomorrow: After the First Chapter

Cubby

Daily Tip #19--Symbolism

2009-03-22T07:18:00.000-07:00

MARCH 22nd, 2009

Now we're getting into advanced stuff here. We've come pretty far, haven't we? But we still have a long, long way to go before we're anywhere near finished with honing our skills.

Symbolism is something that your characters, plot, setting, or description represents. Usually they represent something in the real world, but also can be an abstract idea, something intangible. For example, if you write a story about a spiraling economy, it can be symbolic of what's happening right now. Symbolism, if you are writing fiction, draws parallels between the world you made up and reality. This can make the reader consider the story as relate-able and will most likely be prompted to keep reading.

However, there is a pretty strict limit on symbolism. If you read Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, for example, and read all the notes on the vague social comments, you won't really care. It was a completely different time period back when the book was written and society has changed a great deal. That's the limit on symbolism: if you relate it to events or finite places, chances are eventually the meaning will be worn down and become outdated.

Symbolism, I think, is inadvertently done in most cases. I know for me I unconsciously relate my work to the real world while writing, and then people will comment on the connection and I'll think, "What connection?" The point I'm trying to make is, that I don't really focus on making connections. I think it's just part of human nature and the way we write: we want to connect to other people and places.

An example of symbolism is, well, let's take a rose. The petals are unfurled in delicate ways, as red as a sunset. Dew gathered on the healthy green stem. The sunlight seemed to awaken it, like an alarm clock. The husband and wife both picked it from the garden at the same time, their hands touching each other. Now, see, we can see the rose is a symbol of love. I know it's a known symbol, but I wanted to use a familiar example.

Symbolism can also be difficult to pull off effectively. Don't use an inside joke between yourself and a friend: chances are the people other than you and your friend won't have any idea what you're trying to say. Don't make it too obscure as well, like representing something as a little-known war and then basing your whole book or short story off of it.

Tomorrow: Writing Time

Cubby

Daily Tip #18--Tone

2009-03-21T08:12:00.001-07:00

MARCH 21st, 2009

The tone of a writing is the overall mood and feeling it puts the reader in or makes the reader feel. Horror stories, for example, may put a reader into a depressed and frightened mood. Meanwhile, romantic novels will put a reader into a sappy, loving mood. Whatever you choose, try to keep it in synchronization with your story's idea, plot, and theme.

The tone is a very important piece of the literary puzzle. You can have the roundest, most knock-your-socks-off-amazing characters and plot, but it will all seem a little dull if the reader isn't sucked in to a new emotion and mood. For example, reading George Orwell's 1984, if it had no tone, it would seem like you were reading the back of a cereal box. The power of tone is humongous. If you write a sad story and you can make readers cry, then you've got your tone nailed to a T.

But how do I write with a good tone, you may ask? Well then, it's time for...

Cubby's Tips for Tip-Top Tone

1. Use your characters. Make good use of the people or things you've created. Convey your tone through dialogue, actions, and thoughts. For example, if your story is from the vein of, say, Friday the Thirteenth, and your main character is a blond girl who somehow falls into the simplest of traps, have her scream and run away, well, girl-ily.

2. Setting is important. Continuing with the example, make your setting reflect and convey the tone you want to use. For example, make it set in a haunted house and describe the cobwebs and state of disrepair and the spooky creaks with no rational explanation. Eek!

3. Description is vital. I have a motto about description. "If there ain't enough of it, you don't got a good story." If you ignore the bad Southern-esque grammar, you'll see that it's true for tone as well. Have fleshed-out descriptions of everything from characters to setting, using word choices that go along well with the tone you want to convey. Although, remember the rule: "If you use two or more adjectives to modify a noun...it means you haven't found the correct one!"

4. Feel the tone yourself. Read over what you've written. Try to view it objectively, as a fresh reader who has just bought your story or novel and has just cracked open the cover. If you can feel the tone you intended, then great job. If you can't, go and rewrite it until you can.

Tomorrow: Symbolism

Cubby

Daily Tip #17--Writer's Block

2009-03-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

MARCH 20th, 2009

A lot of writers, students, and people in general who have ever had to write something, have complained about writer's block. They use it as an excuse as to why they have bad quality writing or not that much in general. They say that the blank page is impossible to overcome. I say, no way. These people are either lazy, don't want to do it, or have no skill. In most cases it's a mixture of all three.

However, I will admit that facing a completely blank page with nothing more than an idea in your head can be a bit daunting. The emptiness seems to mock you as you futilely try to fill the white void. You can't seem to get your structure right. The flow seems strange and sloppy and slow. (Whoops, I broke my own one-descriptor rule there!) Everything seems intimidating and after numerous tries of getting it right you storm away from your computer in a terrible mood.

So, even though I don't believe that writer's block exists, I'm going to give you a few tips on how to overcome the blank page.

Cubby's Tips for the Blank Page

1. Starting out can be difficult. This is quite true and I have had it happen to me a few times--well, more than a few times. A way to overcome this is to write one word. Start with 'the' if you want. Then write another word. Complete a sentence. Then another. Finish a paragraph. And keep going. Eventually you will get a flow, a momentum worked up that has you keep writing more and more.

2. Don't fret or worry. Being anxious about overcoming the blank page will get you nowhere. Simply start writing and settle in. Get into a smooth flow and the anxiety of the quality and quantity of your writing for that day or time period will melt away like warm chocolate.

3. Try to eliminate outside distractions. About the only thing you should have going while trying to vanquish the blank page is music. Music, as I've said earlier, lightens your mood (hopefully) and inspires you to write more than you usually would. Other distractions such as homework, TV, and video games only serve to slow you down. They also break up any flow or even semblance of flow that you've worked up, like a diesel engine warming up.

4. Keep going. No matter what, keep going. Don't stop writing for anything. Even if your house is burning down, keep clacking at the keyboard like a crazed monkey. Disclaimer: Do not do this. If your house is burning down, get out. But at least save your work to a flash drive first.

Those are the four tips that I have for you guys to live by. Make it a part of your daily doctrine. Every morning when you wake up, repeat to yourself, "Start, don't worry, no distractions, keep going. Start, don't worry, no distractions, keep going."

If you follow these tips, the blank page will be conquered in no time.

Tomorrow: Tone

Cubby

Daily Tip #16--The Job of Writing

2009-03-19T11:57:00.001-07:00

MARCH 19th, 2009

A lot of people say writing is the absolute easiest job a person can have the pleasure of holding. After all, we get to sit around at home on our lazy butts in front of a computer, clacking away all day with nothing else to do and not a care in the world. We can sit around and drink coffee and stay in during the bitter Chicago winters (or wherever place you live, summers if you like). We have the license, the privilege basically, to create and do whatever you want. Now I don't mean running naked outside on the sidewalk stealing everyone' s papers; that's not the kind of freedom we have. We have complete intellectual freedom. We are the masters of our mental domain; well, usually. Sometimes our thoughts control us instead of us controlling them.

People envy us, to be able to--to them--do nothing and get paid exorbitantly large amounts of money for clacking away on a keyboard. "A bunch of monkeys could do that!" they say. "Why do you get to sit around while I have to go to a boring office job?" The answer is...well...I don't really have an answer. We just can.

Those who say that writing is the easiest occupation in the world are then rebutted by the writers and authors themselves, who say that it's the hardest thing in the world. We have to have cramped muscles in our hands from clacking away so much. We have sore eyes from staring at the computer screen for hours on end. Our creativity and minds are exhausted by the end of the day. Yes, I'm kidding about all that. But it is true that while our physical conditions are pretty comfortable, our mental ones aren't.

What I mean by that is that we have to live and breathe writing. It has to course through our blood; if we accidentally get a cut, letters and clauses will fall out. Writing is one of the crafts that requires practice over and over, almost an inordinate amount. When you first start out, you have to have low expectations and work your way to the top. It's just like any other job. It hurts, also, when you get your first harsh, true criticism. I know my first was painful. Writing and then publishing online or showing your friends and family is like sending your child out into the world without a helmet or any protection: you don't know what to expect. Then, gradually, you have to build up mental confidence and work hard on improving your skills, all the while not overthinking writing as oftentimes happens. Then, if you eventually get to the proverbial 'top', the place where you've sold millions of books, done your own marketing, have the best stories out there, and your name is a household word, everyone has high expectations for you. So you have to continuously, no matter what position you're in, keep working meticulously on your skills, honing and refining them. It's a difficult process that extends beyond what a C.E.O. or company president has to do when they reach the top. Our work never, ever ends until death.

However, just as difficult as writing is, it's also a very enjoyable job. If you create an engrossing story, round characters, and imagine everything in your mind, writing is a very thrilling occupation indeed. You can live the lives of your characters, who are your kids, really, guiding them through difficult situations and pouring your heart into them. You can pour your heart into your stories and wear it on your sleeves.

Writing is a liberating thing to do, despite all the hard work.

Be thankful for it.

Tomorrow: Writer's Block

Cubby

A Small Announcement

2009-03-18T15:35:00.000-07:00

MARCH 18th, 2009

I just want to shortly announce that I will be writing reviews and posting them for books, short stories, and with the author's permission possibly a feature of online-only stories, primarily from Storywrite.com.

I'll try to focus, for books and short stories, not on the classics as they already have enough attention, but instead take the path less traveled as advised by the great Robert Frost.

Cubby

Bonus Daily Tip #1

2009-03-18T15:22:00.001-07:00

MARCH 18th, 2009

I had a few minutes so I thought I would share some more with you. The topic of this post is music. Not the preference of music, but the inspiration you gain from music. For example, right now I'm listening to Kenny Chesney's 'I Go Back' and it just makes me happy and want to keep writing. Yes, I am a country music fan.

My point is that music serves as a kind of background to our thoughts. Sure, the theme or lyrics of the song may not fit with what you're writing--probably ninety percent of the time they don't--but it serves as a kind of pleasing preoccupation for your brain. It's definitely more interesting to have your favorite music playing in the background than just the sound of computer keys clacking away like a chicken pecking at the ground.

Some music can even inspire you to write a whole lot more than you normally would. Generally music you like will put you in a good mood and usually I've found productivity and quality both increase dramatically the happier mood you're in. I've written some of my best stories and chapters listening to my favorite country songs.

I don't think the quality is affected by the type of music, as long as it's of the type you like. If you like country and are listening to heavy metal ear-bleeding screaming music, chances are your mood won't improve at all and instead decrease dramatically like a rock dropped in water. You'll hit bottom and so will the quality of your work.

I think music is a nice sort-of distraction to have, an almost guaranteed mood improver. That is, if you don't get stuck somehow with music you hate.

Tomorrow: The Job of Writing

Cubby

Daily Tip #15--Character Development

2009-03-18T14:24:00.000-07:00

MARCH 18th, 2009

Flat characters damage the Interesting Factor a whole lot. Some writers will say that characterization isn't important if the plot isn't interesting. That is true, but it also works the other way. Without round, full characters, a book or short story is about as interesting--forgive the cliche--as watching paint dry.

Your characters aren't required to even be human. If you want your main character to be a large oak tree ticked off by the bugs all around it and so pulls up out of the ground and tours the country looking for a bug-less place, it's your prerogative. That is what makes writing so free and liberating: we can do whatever the heck we want to and get away with it. For example, if you turned in a business report about a cat who could predict a company's death. The point is, you can make the characters anything you want.

But even if you have a magical dog who can cast spells with just a shake of a paw it doesn't matter if you don't explain the character. You don't necessarily have to say, "Sarge the Sorcerer is an excited little dog." You can indirectly reveal this by action and dialogue. As is the cliche, actions speak louder than words.

It doesn't matter if you're writing in first or third-person, characterization can be done by showing feelings and thoughts. First-person does this more intimately and often it develops a stronger bond with the reader than third-person. Then, though, there are first-person's limits to consider.

Dialogue as well can flesh out a character. For example, if someone (or something) said, "Yo, what's up, dawg?" I think we can all make our assumptions about that person (or thing, yes).

Tomorrow: The Job of Writing

Cubby

Daily Tip #14--The Interesting Factor

2009-03-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

MARCH 17th, 2009

Now I'm going to talk about something I call the Interesting Factor. The Interesting Factor is basically making your story, plot, characters, and setting all interesting enough that a person won't fall asleep after reading the first sentence. The key factors of the Factor are to get all of these things correct and realistic.

What I mean by correct and realistic is that the plot, characters, and setting seem to come from way out of left field and are unrealistic. Try to take care to add elements of realism to your story, even fantasy, so as to not completely alienate the reader. I've read a few books that I won't mention here that seem to come from a strange place and end up just confusing the reader.

The plot must be logical. You can't really effectively or believably put in too big of a twist. Twists are great for keeping the reader interested and contribute greatly to the Factor, but too extravagant or liberal use of them will just make the plot seem unrealistic and have the reader thinking, That could never really happen. You, as a writer, don't want to do this. Oftentimes--most times, really--if the plot gets too pie-in-the-sky, the reader will put it down in disgust and never look at it or think about it again.

Characters must be believable. I can't really stress this enough. For example, take Edward Cullen, from Twilight. He's every writer's--every person's, really--dream of a perfect person. That's the exact problem with him. He's a Mary-Sue. A Mary-Sue is like the perfect person: he can do no wrong, looks great every second, can always justify himself, hates no one, and just likes to go frolicking in fields and picking flowers. He's unrealistic and gives people a bad standard to hold other characters up to. That is why I don't like Mary-Sues.

For characters, no matter what kind of story it is, throw everything you can think of at them. If the subject is an awkward geeky high school sophomore whose only wish is to get a girl to go with him to Homecoming, have him be turned down a few times before succeeding. If the subject is a scientist working for a cure to some horrible disease, have him fail a few times. The point is, if your characters don't fail sometimes like normal people do, nobody will believe them and it will definitely damage the Interesting Factor you have going. Not having anything bad happen to them is also a characteristic of a Mary-Sue. Don't write a Mary-Sue, whatever you do. (Hey, that rhymes!)

The Interesting Factor is most affected by characters and plot. You can't have a mundane storyline and forgettable characters. Make their personalities pop off the page and have the reader clinging to every word and begging for more when it's over. That is basically our job as writers, to interest the reader every step of the way. It's what we get paid for. It's what we do, basically.

Tomorrow: Character Development

Cubby

Daily Tip #13--Adjectives

2009-03-16T14:27:00.000-07:00

MARCH 16th, 2009

Once, recently actually, a good friend of mine over on http://storywrite.com gave me excellent advice. I've been using too many adjectives and descriptors lately, and it just bogs the story down way too much. So he gave me a little rule I write by now: "If you use two or more adjectives to modify a noun...it means you haven't found the correct one!"

Now first let me give a little shout-out to that friend, Gary Alexander, over on Storywrite. He's probably one of the only published, experienced writers that won't give you comments or feedback with things like 'Whoo! I loved it! You rock, man!' Comments like those are like candy. They're sweet and make you feel good but they're not good for you. (By the way, that's from J.A. Konrath, not from me.) ...It seems like I'm copying everyone today.

My main point for this daily tip is to not use too many complicated words. You might be thinking, "But you said that yesterday! Tell us something new, you lazy bum!" This actually is a bit different from just the type of words, though.

Besides the type of the adjectives, there is also the number of adjectives. Usually, now at least, I like to stick with one that describes the noun the most effectively. For example, in a description like 'dilapidated, old, crumbling factory', you don't need that many descriptors at all. You can simply shorten it down to 'dilapidated'.

Then there is the issue of using an adverb along with the adjective. For example, we can take that factory and make it 'expectedly dilapidated'. You can do this if you want, as it does describe the factory (or whatever the noun is) more than just the adjective, but generally I like to keep descriptors, adverb, adjective or otherwise, to one.

There are exceptions, as probably many know or expected. For example, something like 'the red, soft shirt' can't exactly be compressed down. Unless you want to invent a new word, it's not possible, so you can--must, really--make an exception then.

Cubby

Daily Tip #12--Vocabulary

2009-03-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

MARCH 15th, 2009

There are certain generalizations that can be made about vocabulary. Generally, a younger writer has a less advanced vocabulary. And generally, an older writer has a more advanced, in-depth vocabulary. Yet you see younger writers able to write as well as older. Why is this so?

It's so because most authors use a happy medium of sorts in terms of vocabulary. What I mean is that they have a few complex words here and there but also simple ones as well. It's usually a mixture of them, and it comes off as both easy to understand and professional. Of course, like the political spectrum, there are extremists, like those who use sentences like 'People laughed at the girl', or, conversely, 'A myriad of pernicious rumors spread by filthy delinquents perpetually tarnished the spry cheerleader's illustrious career.'

Both of these examples sound pretty stupid, frankly. A happy medium re-working of it would include some complex words and some simple. For example: 'Due to stupid rumors, the cheerleader wasn't as popular anymore.'

Also take care not to use slang or text speak in your writing as well. If it fits the situation, then fine, but don't use it too much or your work will appear sloppy. For example, only if you're writing about life in the slums should you use any slang.

Cubby

Daily Tip #11--Motivation

2009-03-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

MARCH 14th, 2009

Sure, you may have the idea, title, characters, plot, setting, and dialogue all worked out, and you're ready to pen the next great American novel. All right, hot shot. Here's a question.

Why?

Why does it have to be you who writes the next amazing novel? Why do you have to slog through all the hard work of writing, editing, getting it published, and finally promoting it? Why can't we just leave it to someone else, someone other than me?

Because we, as writers, have an incessant drive to write the best we can, get published, and then be able to die happily, knowing someone benefited from your book. Because we, as writers, want to prove everyone who says that writing is the easiest job in the world wrong. Because we, as writers, strive to succeed and hopefully make the world a better place.

It helps, when you hit a creative wall, to have that motivation to break down that barrier and keep going. We do what we do not because we like it--okay, probably a lot like it--but because we want to. It's the little voice inside you that keeps saying, "Go! Go! Go!" It's the satisfied feeling after finishing a novel and seeing it published, seeing your creation go out on its first steps. It's the smell of a fresh piece of still-hot short story. It's the late nights you're staying up just so you can keep doing what you love:

Writing.

Tomorrow: Vocabulary

Cubby

Daily Tip #10--The First Chapter

2009-03-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

MARCH 13th, 2009

Now that you've got all the basic tools for writing, it is time to start. The first chapter is crucial to the whole book itself. Of course, other chapters are important as well, but this has even more special significance.

A first chapter introduces the main character or characters, although don't have too many introduced all at once. A jack of all trades and focus on none does not a good first chapter make. Also, set your setting up, at least giving it some description and if required a name to go along with it. Include some description of your characters' appearances well; this depends on the type of description you will use, as detailed in an earlier post.

Be careful not to overload the reader with way too much information. For example, the first novel beginning I wrote is way too complicated and detailed, and will likely scare away readers intimidated by the complexity.

So, an example of a good first chapter is, of course, supplied by me. This is the first chapter of my novel Enclosure, a work still in progress.

Be warned. In this novel there is violence and swearing.

Nathan Andrews perused the magazine rack, flipping absentmindedly through the pages of a Mall Weekly. He was truly keeping an eye on his sister, Beth, over across the aisle near the electronics section. He scanned an article about increased security and watched her with his peripheral vision. "Come on, Beth, hurry up," he hissed under his breath. She was standing at the Green-Ray movie racks, wringing her hands conspicuously and nervously.

Nate was beginning to reconsider his choice to allow Beth to do this job. Mr. Delea wouldn't like it if they failed again. He was already feeling pressure from the Mecs, and was worried that a rat could be lurking around, betraying his every move. Although Mr. Delea was always paranoid about rats. Once he even questioned and nearly accused Nate of being one. Nate! After fourteen years of service from birth you would think he would be free of such paranoia.

Beth, with trembling fingers, grasped five of the cases and stuffed them in her thin jacket. She also freed some battery packs from their shelves and some memory cards. Briskly Beth walked away, not turning around while she pushed a strand of her light brown hair back behind her ear. Nate closed the magazine and placed it in it's rack, falling in step with his sister as she strode by. "You scared me, Beth. You looked so...obvious." He thrust his hands in his pockets and kept his head down as a Mec passed by, fully armed with an XM8 assault rifle. The security soldier's glasses reflected the overhead fluorescent lights.
Nate let out the breath he had unconsciously held. He felt the Smith and Wesson Military and Police gun in his back pocket, a .40 caliber semi-automatic he had since the age of seven. Mr. Delea had given it to him as a birthday present. He had only ever fired it once, at a rabid dog chasing him through the Entertainment Quadrant, and only then in the leg, a non-fatal wound. He had never killed a person, and he didn't plan to. He didn't have the stomach for it at all.

Finally they reached the exit and entry to the Wassen Department Store. Five Mec soldiers in full gear were guarding it. Nate and Beth kept their heads lowered dutifully and were one step away from exiting when "Halt!" rang out like the Liberty Bell.

Immediately all five Mecs converged on the pair. Five XM8 muzzles were pointed at their foreheads. Nate clutched the pistol in his back pocket, and his eyes flicked back and forth, analyzing the situation. "Your coat is looking mighty lumpy there, lass," a large freckled Mec said with a thick Scottish accent. "Open it." Beth looked nervously and expectantly at Nate.

Nate said forcefully through his teeth, "She has nothing. Let us go."

"Excuse me? You don't tell me what to do, you skinny little rat! Have you ever eaten in your life? You look like you weigh less than her," the Scottish Mec retorted, stepping forward. Nate unwillingly flinched. "He even twitches like a rat!" All the soldiers laughed loudly, cruelly.

"Don't tick me off, man. I'm warning you," Nate breathed, brow furrowed in anger.

"You don't tell me what to do! Are you a deaf invalid or some crap?" the Scot insulted. He aimed his XM8 at Nate's neck, lifting his chin with the barrel. "Now make her give back the stuff, or I'll kill you." The Mec smiled, baring yellowing tobacco teeth.

With one motion, Nate slipped the gun out of his pocket and pressed it against the brute's face. Immediately his comrades cocked their rifles, two at Nate and two at Beth. "We're at a standoff," Nate whispered past a hard lump in his throat. "If we shoot each other, it will depend on who's faster with the trigger. I've had this gun since I was seven. You probably just got off the training range for your first time, looking for trouble to boost your rookie ego. Am I right?" The Mec swallowed unconsciously, which was answer enough for Nate. He lowered his pistol and slipped it back in place. "We don't need to kill each other. She has fifty bucks of stuff. There are thugs stealing way more than that. Go catch them."

The soldier's eyes darted between Nate and Beth. A crowd of people was tentatively watching, had formed a loose circle around the conflict. Finally, the Scot relented and shouldered his rifle. Nate rubbed his neck where the barrel had pressed against it and waved. “See you later,” he said, grinning slightly and grabbing Beth’s arm, who gratefully followed him.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the Mec squad, Beth’s face exploded into a smile and she laughed, holding her jacket closed. “How did you do that?”

"Hey, I’ve got the best bullshit you’ve ever heard. You know that,” Nate laughed, looking wistfully through a plate glass window at a pair of shoes that cost five hundred dollars. “That’s what I want for Christmas.” They stopped and fell silent, staring at something they could never have. “Sure.”

People passed by as they walked in silence, contemplating their lives. Nate was just a petty thief, working for a mob boss, Mr. Delea. He didn’t want Beth to do what he did, but she was younger than him and idolized him as her hero, wanting to do what he did. She was the sweetest girl alive, but she was getting into the habits he had: the wrong ones. Stealing was but one of them; drinking another. He so desperately wanted to protect her.

They arrived at the mall’s playground, a huge ten thousand square foot metropolis of dirty plastic and metal. Groups upon groups of kids, from babies to toddlers, jumped and screamed and just had fun. Nate felt distant from such mirth, as his life was rugged and rough, bouncing from one foster home to another. Beth was captivated, watching the kids go down slides and across the monkey bars.

Eventually he tugged her sleeve and whispered, “Mr. Delea will be waiting. Let’s go, Beth.” She nodded and came along.

Finally they reached the boundary between the Mall Quadrant and the Market Quadrant. Soldiers armed with XM8s stood guard, watching everyone who came and went behind their dark glasses. Occasionally they would stop someone, ask a few questions, and let them continue on their way. Nate swallowed and told Beth, “Give me some of the stuff so you’re not too obvious.” Nate opened up his own coat to reveal a faded blue shirt that hung loosely on his frame. She leaned up close to him and transferred some discs to him.

“Ready?” Beth asked, zipping up her black jacket again.

“No time as the present,” Nate commented and nodded his head, briskly strutting to get by as fast as possible. Above the large walkway was a neon sign, green and fully lit up, advertising the market and some of its farmers. “Maybe we could pick up a few apples to eat too,” Nate chattered as they passed a particularly burly Mec. “I mean, Grandma told us not to, but…I’m hungry.”

“I know! Let’s get some bananas too! And oranges! And—and—” Beth stuttered to a stop as they exited the range of hearing of all the Mecs. “Come on,” she instantly lowered her voice to a murmur.

Stands were set up all over the huge plaza. Cartons of fruits and vegetables and slabs of meat and seafood were stacked diagonally against the wooden and metal counters. Fountains were set up periodically, flowing with crystalline-clear water that fell into a lower basin and recycled. They stopped at a butcher’s stand, one they knew very well, Marty. He was chopping up a huge side of ribs into individual ribs. A cylinder of pork was spinning slowly vertically, slathered with marinade and Marty’s own selection of spices. Some ground beef was already packaged, cooling in the under-counter refrigerator.

“What do you got for us today, Marty?” Nate said, placing a few dollars on the table that he had pulled from his pocket.

He looked up from the bloody beef and smiled toothily. “Nice to see ya, Nate. Milady.” He tipped his white hat to Beth, leaving a scarlet fingerprint on the paper. Marty eyed the scant dollars laying on the counter and said, “That all for today?”

Nate turned out his pockets symbolically and shrugged with a guilty look on his face. “That’s all I got, Marty.”

He rubbed his wobbly chin with thumb and forefinger, pondering the money and his products. “Alrigh’, alrigh’. It’s not as much as I hoped, but I’ve got a real byootiful cut for y’all that I’ve been savin’ for ya.”

The large butcher turned around and placed his thumb on the metal cabinet. It unlocked and opened, and he bent down. He came back up carrying a prodigious cut of meat which he placed on the counter. It was a nice pink steak, marbled with white streaks of fat. It looked so tender, Nate’s oft-empty stomach growled just looking at it. The smell was great; fresh and natural, which was hard to find in the Place.

“I just got this today, from one of my suppliers. Owns one of the last independen’ farms in this beastly Place. I heard he’s even bee’ ou’side once, when he was a chil’. He described for meh the greatest meadows and fields in the worl’, ou’side the place. He even went swimmin’, in some great lake they covered up to build this Place. He tells the most wunnferful stories, I tell ya.”

Neither Nate nor Beth were paying particular attention to Marty’s anecdote. They were too preoccupied thinking how great having a full stomach, with quality food in it, would be. Marty patted him roughly on the shoulder, saying, “Come back, me lad. I’ll wrap this litt’e babe up for ye.” For a few minutes he wrapped the cut in successive layers of plastic and then slapped a sticker on it to prevent it opening. “Now there ye are.”

“Marty, you’re the best.” They shook hands as was customary, and headed off on their way.

“Thanks, Marty!” Beth waved, grinning as Nate had never seen her grin before.

“Ah, it t’were nothing, milady. Anything for a great lass like yerself!” Marty called, waving a meaty hand in the air. Another customer came then and blocked Beth’s view of the large man behind the counter.

“I say we should split it and cook it up when we get home,” Nate said, holding the steak tenderly like it was his own kid. “I can cook a little, y’know. Put a little vegetable oil, some oregano…voila!”

“Well, I say we should grind it up and make some burgers. A little butter, some onions, voila!” Beth suggested, making the famous bon appetite move.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Nate chuckled, happy that Beth was happy.

Beth started humming some happy tune to herself as they continued along the farmer’s market. Only a few farms were left in the Place, making it harder to get food. The Officials were trying to solve it, bringing in food from other Places, but it was really affecting the poorer classes.

Nate and Beth were in the poorer classes. If it wasn’t for Marty, they wouldn’t be eating tonight. Mr. Delea occasionally looked out for them and fed them sometimes, but he couldn’t be counted on to be so generous every day they couldn’t provide for themselves. The low pay Mr. Delea gave compounded that problem. They only worked for him because their parents had made them promise to before they died. Nate wasn’t planning on breaking that sacred promise anytime soon.

Eventually they reached the Apartment 1 Quadrant, passing through the Mec-guarded entryway the same as the last and entering one of the stacks of buildings with their roofs nearly against the ceiling of the Place. Nate used his key, his fingerprint, to open the front door and entered their tiny flat. Mr. Delea provided it, because there was no way Nate and Beth could pay the expensive rent. It was one of the only things Mr. Delea did for them.

The yellow paint was peeling off the walls, the carpet was in shambles, the living room had two sleeping bags and nothing else, and the kitchen had a one-burner range, a pan hanging over it, and a small oven. An old fridge hummed against the wall. Two overhead cabinets held all their clothes and valuables. An old oak table Nate had purloined from a dump—illegally—and two chairs he had taken along with it—illegally—were in the center of the tiled floor, with a cell phone on top.

“Home sweet home,” Nate said, placing the steak in the fridge until they decided what exactly to do with it. “Ah, nothing as good as the smell of asbestos.”

Beth observed the fridge and found an onion, a little ripe, but edible. Nate found an old bottle of vegetable oil and a tiny jar of oregano in one of the cabinets. They looked at each other and were about to say something when the phone rang.

Nate answered it, pressing the old talk button. “Hello?”

It was Mr. Delea.

So, that is my example of, I think, a good first chapter. It gives the reader enough information to understand what is happening and what the novel is about.

A nuance of a first chapter is also to hook a person into the story and want to keep on reading more. Make them want to crawl across a desert of broken glass just to read one more chapter. Make them craving for more when they finish the book.

Now, of course, writing a compelling chapter, whether first or last, requires a certain amount of skill and experience. Even before I began publishing my stories online, about a year and a half ago, I had been writing my whole life. Not necessarily well, but still writing, and that all added up to give me experience. Sure, I had a pretty large ego that I was the best writer in the whole world and that people would bow down and worship me as the next Dickens or Hemingway, but that quickly was crushed. I was told, quite frankly, that my stories sucked. I wanted to give up, to throw in the towel. I didn't care then about good first chapters or realistic dialogue. My ego had been damaged and I didn't like it.

My point is, that an exceptional writer must keep a balanced head, and keep learning from past and new experiences.

Try writing a first chapter today. Then reread it. Then rewrite it. And rewrite it again. And again. And again.

It will definitely give you experience.

Tomorrow: Motivation

Cubby

Pain

2009-03-12T14:15:00.000-07:00

Be warned. A few strong swears follow in this passage.

He’s come to accept the pain. Instead of struggling and getting all fatigued and chronically tired, he’s just come to accept it as a way of life, unavoidable, inevitable. All the doctors he’s seen have ended up hating him, simply because he has a way of pestering them that seems to verifiably get on their nerves. Every single bottle strewn across the ugly plaid blanket covering the decades old mattress he is laying on does nothing. The little capsules, colored every one in the spectrum it seems like, are more like candy than medicine. He usually takes a couple as an after-dinner mint, to chase down the whiskey.

With a sigh he razes his hand through his light blond hair that is swiftly turning gray, and keeps his arm raised, staring at his watch, at the seconds hand tick away methodically, counting the seconds of his life he’s wasting embracing the pain. It’s a Rolex, a fancy model made of gold and silver, with square diamonds forming the lines and numbers around the perimeter. He supposes even when you’re rich, women won’t come to you if they are horrified by you.

He ponders about if embracing the pain is a waste of his life. Plenty of other people work their asses off their whole life, saving every little penny, scrimping every dime, staying home on Sunday night when they could perfectly well go out to eat a gourmet dinner, all to build a little nest egg to retire on and spend their last years blinded by cataracts, afflicted with arthritis, but safe in the knowledge that their children will live with something more than they had. He hasn’t had to work a day in his life, always pampered by his mother and father—God rest their souls—and safe in the knowledge that his family had money to burn. Rather, he hasn’t worked a day ever, unless he would count his hobby.

When he was a child, he was exposed to Spiderman, Batman, Superman, and every other superhero ever conceived and printed on cheap paper in only a few colors, all to delight children every week or two with made-up fiction that looking back upon now, he thinks is utterly ridiculous drivel. When he was a child, the tales woven by the seemingly masterful writers would absorb him, make him lock himself in his bedroom and simply read, and reread his entire prodigious collection. How the adventures fascinated him, how he so wished with all his heart and soul to be able to obtain and use the extraordinary powers displayed by pure-hearted people only wanting to do good for the world. That’s how he views his obsession now, but back then all he truly wanted was to be cool, to fit in, to be able to fly and save people and be the hero, get his own parade, the key to the city, and leave an indelible legacy.

How far the dreams have fallen, have changed. The custom sniper rifle with the high-grade Leupold scope is leaning up against the wall, black, shiny, just polished, and ready to fire its death metal. With a tired eye he casts his gaze upon the machine, holds a hand out over the side of the rickety bed, and strokes the end of it, feels the barrel and the dark oil and grease that frequently accumulates. The pain tonight is nestled in his right ankle, forcing him to stay upon his bed and silently wait for it to relocate. Out of contempt and being bored, he pops a few capsules in his mouth and swallows them without water, feeling them slide like miniature rockets to his stomach. After twenty minutes, the expected wait time for their effectiveness to kick in, nothing happens. He scoffs, snorts, and spits onto the wall which the beautiful rifle leans up against, and absentmindedly watches the globule of saliva trickle down, its innumerable facets glimmering brightly, until it sinks into the dark gray carpet and simply spreads into a short-lived spot.

Insomnia is regularly a problem for him. He supposes, assumes it is when he first began his hobby. When his dreams changed, when his aspirations embittered, when the pain began as well, and never stopped. This night, though, perhaps from the medicine, as one of its side effects, his eyelids begin to thankfully droop, almost closing fully, listening to the cars on the expressway go by his window at sixty miles an hour, dimly watches their headlights pierce his curtains in white rays. He just curls up underneath the hideous plaid blanket to fall into the comforting darkness of sleep, where even the pain, although formidable, cannot ever reach him.

Then the phone rings and buzzes in his pocket. For the first time in a long time, he feels true, inspired anger, and pulls the annoying device from his pocket and stares groggily at the screen. Unfortunately he knows the number, and must pick up. He wanted so badly to disconnect them, hang up on them and become drowsy again, drift in between consciousness and unconsciousness, the sacred place where no outside distractions can reach you. Instead he answers the phone and puts it against his cheek, noticing the five-day growth of stubble on it before saying, “Who’s next?”

"Two hicks out in the boonies. Fifty miles west of Springfield, Illinois. 208 West Winston Street, no town. I’ll call periodically to give you directions. First go down the side road, at the back of the hotel. I expect you to be set up by seven o’clock and scoped the place out. The money will be wired into your account, when the deed is done. And be sure to blow their fucking heads off.”

He knows not to ask any questions, accept his orders, hang up, and go out and perform them. He knows not to piss the man on the other line off. Perhaps the pain, throbbing somewhere within his ankle, without an identifiable source, drives him into a brief moment of insanity. Before he can pull them back, the words escape his lips: “What have they done to you?”

A long, arduously long silence ensues, heavy breathing heard through the phone speaker. Then, “What the fuck are you talking about? We have an agreement. You don’t ask questions, be a good little boy, and run off and do what I tell you to. If you keep this up, I’m going to have to find my satisfaction elsewhere.”

The pain spurs him on heedlessly. “Give me a reason, and I’ll shut up.”

“I’m not giving you any damn reason. Now go and blow their fucking heads off, and get it done quickly, before I come and murder you too!” the man on the other line yells frighteningly loudly, and a sharp audible click sounds as the receiver is slammed down.

He presses the disconnect button, and sighs, running his hands through his hair and replacing the cell phone in his pocket. Tenderly he presses his right ankle to the floor, feels the throbbing increase rapidly, and hisses through his teeth, steeling himself. First he mutters, “Nice life, huh? You’ve fallen so far…taking orders from a hateful bigot…” With one quick move he launches onto his feet and hops to his rifle, placing it into its waiting black leather case and snapping the silver lock handles shut. He gathers all his supplies: three gallons of bleach, ten rolls of paper towels, a pack of matches, a gallon of gasoline, and white latex gloves. Outside the hotel, he starts up his pickup truck, which rattles sickly but still pushes itself out of the parking lot and swings onto the side road the back of the seedy hotel connects to. His headlights are the only illumination as he drives along, lighting up cornfield after cornfield with no houses in sight. He grows bored of the monotonous scenery and flips on the radio, finding some local country station playing the greatest hits. Absentmindedly he hums along to some old nameless George Strait tune, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, periodically eyeing his rifle case lying on the front seat next to him.

The phone rings then, and he slaps it to his ear, pimping the wheel with one hand resting loosely on the top. “Turn left at the next intersection.” Click. Periodically the man on the other line called him, to give him directions, until finally he was on the home stretch, an expanse of road with two houses other than his target, spaced half a mile away from each other.

He rolls to a stop in front of his target house, a quaint two-story whitewashed abode, with red shutters around the old, frail windows and ancient seventies’ furniture visible through the window. Also visible through the front, expansive window were two heads in identical rocking chairs, going back and forth in an almost hypnotizing rhythm. Both were gray, one chronically bald and liver-spotted on the top, the other with a beehive almost like woven cotton candy. Their wrinkled hands were folded with each other’s, their fingers interlaced, showing how their love hadn’t died since marriage.

He wonders why the man on the other line wants these people’s heads blown off. Then he reminds himself he isn’t supposed to question his employer, and instead waits for the call. He checks his watch somewhat impatiently, and sees it is 6:59. He’s one minute early, sure to please the man on the other line. Sure enough, the phone rings in his pocket and in one swift motion he removes it and answers the call. “I’m in position.”

“Good. I’m watching. Do it, now, and then it’s standard procedure from there.” The line clicks, and he disconnects the phone, slapping it onto the leather seat. He sighs and picks up the rifle, cradling it in the crook of his arm and resting the barrel on the dashboard, squinting one eye as he lines up the shot, going for the man first, in the Leupold scope’s crosshairs. He’s hit a dime at two hundred yards before; he can hit a liver-spotted egghead any day, any time, anywhere. The crown of the poor old farmer’s head is in his sights, and his breathing quickens and his palms sweat. Much as killing is supposed to be wrong, once he gets into the act, he loves every second of it. The exhilaration, the feeling of being the predator stalking the prey, and the absolute power over another person is intoxicating; you get one taste, you don’t want to, and won’t, ever stop.

The shot is perfect, and he squeezes in the trigger, expecting to see a cloud of red mist splattering into the air. Instead he hears a click; the chamber is empty. Wondering how he forgot to load the specially-made brass into the rifle, he does so, shoving in five sharp-tipped bullets, chambering a round with a resounding click, and then adding one more. With luck, and his marksmanship, he’ll only need two shots.

e He

He carefully lines the shot up again, sure to factor in for wind resistance, and then squeezes the trigger, his heart pounding in excitement. With a bang the man’s egghead explodes into a cloud of shocking scarlet, which splatters across the glass window, partially obscuring his view. A grin spreads across his face, and the pain is instantly gone. For a few weeks, it will remain as such, and he will live somewhat normally. When it is back, the man on the other line will call. He quickly lines up the next sitting duck shot, what with the woman kneeling next to the crumpled corpse of her husband, tears visibly rolling down her face and her hands wiping her eyes, and fires once more. Her head explodes as well, and her glasses fly up and spin through the air in almost impossible fashion. Immediately he springs into action, hopping out of his truck, not limping anymore thanks to the restorative properties murder holds for him, and kicks open the farmhouse’s door, cracking the jamb and entering the living room directly.

Everything is a complete mess. Scarlet is everywhere, and messy bits of flesh scattered about haphazardly as well. A few chunks of gray matter stained crimson dot the walls, and he realizes it is brain tissue. Smiling at the pain having disappeared, he strips the bodies of their clothes, rolls it all up into a ball, and douses gasoline onto them, emptying the whole gallon tank. He liberally pours bleach over them, rubbing away the blood after snapping on latex gloves, and using the paper towels to completely dry them. Next he scours the house, gathering anything of use to him; jewelry, hidden money, bank account papers, social security cards, anything of value. They serve as his payment, and today he has a pretty good haul. By his estimate, he’s going to be up $20,000 for the day, not bad for two old farmers’ house.

He walks by the corpses casually, caring his stolen valuables in a black trash bag, and takes out his pack of matches. On the third try he gets one to light and then tosses it onto the clothes bundle, sprinting out the door at the same time. The dusky orange glow of flames flickers on the walls and through the front window as he starts up his pickup truck and steers it back onto the roadway, leaving the house and corpse to burn, making it appear as arson or an accidental blaze.

He goes back to the hotel and enters tiredly, the pain already returning, this time pounding in his head. Helplessly he curls up onto the bed, and stays there for two weeks, only getting up to relieve himself and eat and drink.

After two weeks, the phone rings. “Hello?”

“Blow their fucking heads off.”

“Okay.”

And the cycle of pain continues.

This is my most recent short story. Tell me what you think.

Daily Tip #9--Dialogue

2009-03-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

MARCH 12th, 2009

Before I begin this post, I want to give a shout-out to all my friends over on Floort, a great opinion web site with a truly tight-knit community.

Dialogue is one of the most difficult things to get right. Don't be afraid to go back and edit it or even take out a few paragraphs of it if it doesn't seem realistic. An important thing to keep in mind when writing dialogue is to structure it after how you would talk: it's what I do, and people have told me that it's a very strong point in my writing.

However, while writing dialogue as if you were the person speaking, don't load it up with bad grammar, too-simple vocabulary, or even text speak. I've actually seen some stories with text speak in them. If your plot requires it--for example, the story is about a teenage girl ticked off at getting her phone taken away and spontaneously talks to people in 'lols' and 'wtf?s'--then it's okay, I suppose. But probably 95% of stories won't be based on that kind of thing.

There is also another rule when writing good dialogue. You don't want to have a simple kind of sentence like 'see Spot run', but also don't want an overly complex sentence. Many people don't talk like "this homework is both profuse and tedious".

So, what is an example of good, wholesome dialogue? I'll take the liberty to give you one.

"Hey, man, do you think this tie looks okay?" Joe asked, looking self-consciously in the mirror and adjusting the cool blue tie, smooth against the white dress shirt. He nervously slicked his already greased black hair back and in force of habit wrung his hands together.

"Dad will work too, you know," Bill, Joe's dad, answered, placing a large hand on his son's shoulder and using the other to perfectly tune the tie. Sweat poured down Joe's neck in anxiety, and his hands were actually trembling at his sides as his father fiddled with the cloth. "If you don't stop sweating, Joe, you'll look like you just came from a shower. Just calm down. Everything will be okay, son."

Joe swallowed past the lump in his throat and stomach and jerkily nodded, barely mumbling out "I'll try" in a voice weak enough to be beaten by a whisper. "Okay," he mentally told himself. "It's only your freshman homecoming. It's only the first girlfriend you've ever had. It's only a do-or-die thing." For some reason, the knot in his stomach tightened.

"I'm telling you, everything'll be just fine. All you have to do is stay calm and not stink like a donkey. I'll be right back, okay?" Bill left the room, shaking his head at Joe's unparalleled nervousness.

Joe kept repeating to himself, "It'll be okay, it'll be okay, it'll be okay." He leaned against the wall and tested out different facial expressions to use when he first opened the door. "No, you look like a stalker. No, that looks stupid. No, you look too happy. No..."

The doorbell rang.

*

Eight hours later, at two o'clock in the morning, Joe came home, opening the heavy wooden door, surprised to see his dad sitting in the living room with a lamp on. "How did it go?" Bill asked, folding up the newspaper he had been reading and yawning widely.

Joe smiled. "Everything was just fine."

The key is to not overthink your dialogue, but also not underthink it. It's a precarious balance, yes, but once you strike it, it will make your writing much better.

Tomorrow: the first chapter

Cubby

Daily Tip #8--Character Introduction

2009-03-11T15:22:00.000-07:00

MARCH 11th, 2009

Character introduction can greatly affect a reader's view and opinion of them. How the character is first described, or the situation they are introduced in, changes someone's view.

The way they are introduced also is a contributing factor. To me, there are two principal ways to describe and introduce a character: complete physical and mental description, or rough outline, leaving the details for the reader to imagine.

As one can imagine, there are drawbacks to both.

Complete Description

Pros: A benefit of giving a complete description is that it gives the reader the whole state, mental and physical, right from the get-go, eliminating a need for much further comment on it, except for changes in it of course. However, this also entails the use of third-person point of view, so adjust accordingly.

Cons: A possible con is that it needs third-person to be done effectively. After all, a first-person narrative can't really tell another person's mentality and thoughts, now can it? Another drawback is the constricting of the reader's imagination: if you give someone a specific map to follow and make them follow it without deviating, they can't very well discover new places on their own.

Rough Description

Pros: A pro of giving a rough description is letting the reader's imagination flow. If you give an artist a blank canvas to work on, you will always get a different result. Every person who reads a particular book will each have different images and impressions of the characters inside their own heads.

Cons: There are not too many cons with this kind of description. Both first and third-person work for this. However, some readers and perhaps other writers put extreme amounts of effort into detail, and when reading something with less than they have, will look down upon it as childish, with no effort. This is just a warning.

So, what's an example of each?

Complete Description

Joe sat down in the creaky wooden chair and pulled the delicate wine glass, its rim reflecting the dusky orange flicker of the shrinking candle, and stared into it, contemplating his life. He had just been laid off, just been made another person in another statistic in the spiraling economic downturn, falling like a bird with a broken wing. A sense of foreboding and anxiousness permeated him: foreboding of the future and what was to come, and anxiousness at eating away at his life's savings. With a sigh, he popped open the soft, bouncy cork of the thirteen-dollar convenience store wine, poured the sickly sour smelling dark liquid into the glass, and swallowed it in one gulp. As expected, the taste was somewhere between a boiled shoe and sewer water. With another sigh large enough to shake the leaves on a branch, he let the glass fall from his hand and shatter into a million crystalline pieces.

Rough Description

Joe sat down in the chair and brought the bottle of cheap wine from the 7-Eleven and an old wine glass to himself. He had just lost his job, and he didn't know what he was going to do at all. With a sigh, he poured some wine, barely swallowed past the bad taste, and let the glass fall onto the floor with a crash.

Do you see the difference between those two passages? One gives the complete mental state and much more detail, while the other lets the reader run free.

It's your choice.

Cubby

Daily Tip #7--Point of View

2009-03-10T17:49:00.000-07:00

MARCH 10, 2009

There are two important points of view available to a writer: first-person and third-person. There is a second-person, but it consists of pronouns like 'you' and isn't generally a good choice. First-person consists of pronouns like 'I' and 'me', and the story is told from only one perspective. Basically it is the character's thoughts, emotions, and dialogue. Third-person has pronouns like 'they' and 'them', and the story can be told from many more perspectives than the limiting one of first-person.

Which one do I use?

First-person should be used for those writers that want to offer the reader, for lack of a better word, an intimate approach. If written well, first-person can possess a raw power of emotion and thought that third-person can't ever achieve. It provides a more detailed approach to a subject or topic, and allows the writer to make personal comments and jokes. However, it can be restricting in how you tell your story, so watch out.

Third-person should be used if you want to give a more complete, omniscient overview of everything. While first-person reveals only one character's thoughts and feelings and actions, third-person can potentially reveal as many or as few as you wish. It loses the closeness of reader-character that first-person possesses and does so well, but also can provide a much clearer picture.

My suggestion:

Even though it is technically wrong to, I use both points of view in my novels. Short stories, not so much, but switching back and forth to provide more insight or information seems more effective to me.

Cubby

Daily Tip #6--Outline

2009-03-09T14:38:00.000-07:00

MARCH 9th, 2009

A good idea for any writer is to create a rough outline for their story or novel. What I mean is making a list of characters, settings, plot events, twists, clues, and other essential things, maybe even a bit of dialogue. Usually it helps to separate all this into the chapters (for novels) or segments (for short stories) so as to organize your thoughts. Personally I've never created an outline (then why are you telling us to? =)) but I've seen examples of them from other writers. A word to the wise: don't make the chapters or segments too detailed, otherwise you might as well write the whole chapter out.

An outline serves to create a rough storyline to follow and guide you. Of course you can make additions, revisions, and twists as much as you want to, it's your prerogative, but it helps to have some of the side plots and obviously the main plot worked out.

Other writers I've talked to have said that it's more fun and daring to simply wing it and not meticulously plan everything out, that it takes the fun out of writing. I somewhat agree with them: coming up with a plot in a few minutes is a lot harder and disheartening than spreading it out over a longer period. But whatever way works for you is fine: just beware. I've had a novel or two I've had to put to the grave because of too many plot twists and clues and needless introductions of worthless things that was too much to figure out.

Cubby

Daily Tip #5--Time Period

2009-03-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

MARCH 8th, 2009

You have the title, the idea, the setting, now you must think about the time period of your novel or story. It is important to make the time period clear, so as not to confuse the reader. Also, you must make the era consistent with the idea and content: you can't have an 1800s Western set in the year 3500. It's not realistic and people won't believe it, that is for sure.

Research on the time period you choose will be beneficial in the long run. Sure, you may be itching to get writing right away; "I've got to start NOW!" But reading an article or two will help you in creating an atmosphere suitable for both the idea and the time.

So what do I suggest for a worthy time period? Any. Choose whatever you want. Just make sure that it fits your idea and you research it thoroughly.

Cubby

Daily Tip #4--Setting

2009-03-07T13:23:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry I haven't posted for a while, but now I'll be back.

MARCH 7th, 2009

A story is nothing without a good setting. Now what's a good setting, you may ask? A good setting is one that allows the reader to imagine it, and, it must be interesting. For example, would you want to read a story set in an old, crumbling, treasure-laden temple or a boring office cubicle? Of course, fantastic stories can be made out of either, but which is more exciting?

Conversely, it can be as exciting as watching molasses flow, and yet still be great. How? Through imaginative storytelling. As much as I think setting is crucial, the style in which it is described and used can make a cubicle come to life.

You might be thinking, but he just contradicted himself! And yes, I did. My explanation is that it depends on what kind of storyteller you are. If you like not much exposition and action, action, action, go for the temple kind of place. If you like more explanation and subtle details, go for the cubicle. It just depends on your style and idea.

Cubby

Daily Tip #3--Beginning

2009-03-03T18:31:00.000-08:00

MARCH 3rd, 2009

Now that you've got your idea and title, it's time to begin. A lot of trouble writers have when starting a story, especially a novel, is getting the basic concept out without overloading the reader with information in giant, block paragraphs or cheaply through dialogue of characters consisting of them asking each other, "Remember this?" or "What about [blank]?" The second way is particularly transparent and see-through, and reveals to the reader that the writer has a lack of experience.

Both those methods sound and appear tacky, yet it is difficult to get the story started any other way. So what method do I suggest, you may ask? Reveal a little bit in a narrative paragraph, whether first-person or third-person, and then intersperse these between action and dialogue. Not only does it not overload the reader, it reveals the concept and plot gradually, which will hopefully keep the reader interested and guessing at what will happen next, and want to find out what happens next instead of absentmindedly reading and not caring.

Remember, don't give away too much or too little in your beginning. Striking a balance can be difficult at first, but eventually you'll get the hang of it.

Cubby

Daily Tip #2--Title

2009-03-02T08:08:00.000-08:00

MARCH 2nd, 2009

Now before I start this tip, let me say that no, you do not need a title right away. You will have plenty of time to think of a title that suits your novel, short story, novella, whatever you write. However, I'm going to explain the importance of a good title.

Consider what I call the absorbing factor. Does your title, working or final, pull the reader in and make them want to read more? For example, what would you rather read: 'The Adventure' or 'The Wacky, Wild, Wonderful Adventure of Skip Magoo'? Now of course that's a kiddie title, but I hope you get the point that the more exciting, more interesting title you have, the more a person will want to read it, whether online or in a bookstore.

Even though it may be as little as one word, the title has to be interesting enough so some potential buyer will wonder, "Hmm...I want to see what happens in here."

Don't fret over it too much, but understand just how much power a few simple words can hold over a potential purchase or not.

Cubby

Daily Tip #1--Brainstorming

2009-03-01T19:08:00.000-08:00

MARCH 1st, 2009

So this is my first daily tip in what I hope will be a running series of them. These will usually be a paragraph or two long. Then on every Sunday, I hope, I will be able to publish a big, in-depth post.

BRAINSTORMING:

Some people, during boring parts of their day, say like at an office job with nothing to do, will stare off into space for periods of five minutes at a time and just let their thoughts wander. Or maybe it will be during a particularly sleep-inducing class at school where the teacher has a monotonous, droning voice when you space out. The point is, letting your thoughts and thus your imagination run free is key to getting good brainstorming done. Or perhaps during your dreams, you let your imagination go wild, unbound by the restrictions of reality.

So what is brainstorming, and why is it so important as I make it out to be? Brainstorming is the process of thinking up new, interesting ideas that won't bore the socks off of somebody. The simple answer as to why it is vital is because it gives you inspiration and ideas. All grammar and no inspiration makes Book a dull read. Without a good, twisting plot and fleshed-out, believable characters, no matter how impeccable the grammar and structure are, people will pass it by without even a moment's careless glance. Brainstorming is the key to shattering this lock: let your imagination run free for a while, and you'll be surprised at what crazy hare-brained ideas you unearth in your mind. Then eventually they will come together into something resembling a plot and you're on step one.

A story is boring if there is no motivation for the reader to continue. If the plot is ridiculous and the characters flat, nobody will read it.

So for a few minutes today, every day, let your imagination run wild.

You never know what you might find.

Cubby

My First Post--About Me

2009-03-01T19:03:00.000-08:00

Okay. This blog will be dedicated to helping others write better, giving any writing advice I can, and of course showcasing and showing off my own writing. Currently I've been writing an as of yet unnamed series, starting with the first book, Revolution, and the work-in-progress of Rebellion. Please be cautioned, some serious-swearing-to-younger-kids will most likely be present in these works. If you do not wish to see this, do not read it. I am editing out extraneous curses, but that will take time.

I hope to publish a daily tip daily (no, really?) and a big, detailed post every Sunday. Once I really get started, I will settle into a comfortable pattern.

So, let me tell you about me. I am currently 15 going on 16, a sophomore in high school, and as evidenced by my username, a writer hopeful for maturing and advancing his techniques and overall skill. Along my journey through writing, editing, developing, and hopefully eventually publishing a book, I'll be sharing any advice I have for others to help them improve their grammar, vocabulary, writing techniques, tones, plots, character developments, etc.

I am a huge Cubs fan, so if you wish you may call me Cubby, it's what others on many other sites do as well.

I hope to hear from any readers on how to improve my blog as I really develop it and its content, and hope to hear any feedback about my own personal writing.

Thanks,

Cubby