Category Archives: Fiction

Ride Along by Book Lover

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Always curious about the life of a journalist, I decided to do a “ride-along” with a well-known female television reporter. PS Garrett is a well-respected beat reporter for her station which is second in the ratings. I was intrigued by her unusual first name, PS, and hoped to discover its origin.

It was a warm February night on my first “ride-along” with Ms. Garrett. She parked her vehicle discreetly a short distance away from prying eyes at the crime scene. The feel of doom and gloom permeated the air at a suburban gas station where a double homicide occurred. Police officers, as well as reporters from competing stations, were milling around. Ms. Garrett entered her station’s satellite truck already parked at the scene.

I was mesmerized by the technician in the truck working feverishly to correct some technical difficulty. News had to be gathered quickly because they were on a tight deadline.

I paid close attention to Ms. Garrett’s conversation with the police chief as she tried to illicit details of the crime. Her gentle questioning of several locals at the scene helped obtain information about the two teenaged murder victims. Rather than take out a notebook, she committed the information to memory so as not to spook the townspeople.

Garrett — the only reporter from her station on the scene, and the photographer who joined her –worried about meeting the nightly news deadline with enough information to compete with the other stations.

Without crossing the yellow crime scene tape, Barrett saw something the other reporters missed. That disturbing detail sent shivers up my spine. The detail, reluctantly confirmed by the police chief, couldn’t be revealed to avoid alerting the murderer.

I wondered how she could possibly keep the detail from getting out. Would Ms. Garrett keep her job if her boss knew she squelched vital information on the case? She knew the police chief would owe her big time for keeping mum.

Already well past 10 PM, she spent a few minutes writing the story. The on-air broadcaster was hostile and angry that the story was coming in so late leaving precious little time for editing. Garrett readied herself for her live shot just as the antiquated equipment failed again.  She prepared go live without an edited script and no story on tape.

Just then, my doorbell rang. Darn. Company. I’ll have to put down this riveting book, Deadline! Book One by Paula Tutman, and answer the door. I hope my company doesn’t stay too long. Can’t wait to get back to the book. Care to join me?

The Contenders

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Received a lot of good responses to last month’s blog about coming up with a better moniker for Knock Softly.

Everyone agrees that the title is a deciding factor when selecting a new read. That and the cover image(s) are the only things people see before they pick up your book. Those two things and the blurb on the back cover have to say “buy me now.” If not, every other word you’ve written is pointless. I want a strong title that not only draws you in, but also carries its own ballooning weight as the story progresses. Ideally, this title should cause an afterglow effect once the reader has finished the novel. That’s what I’m shooting for.

The need for a title to “sum up” the story came into question, and that was unexpected. I was reminded that some of the best titles intrigue or entice without explaining themselves at all, or not until the very end. Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides is a good example. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind is another.

As far as which title everyone thought best, I have to laugh. As responses started coming in, I was reminded of something my brother, Dave, once told me way back in the 20th century. He’s ten years older and light-years wiser, and he said that, “People don’t know what they want, they only want what they know.” I laughed because all the first suggestions said don’t change the title, or put the ellipsis back in. Then, I started to get other suggestions. I’ve narrowed it down to seven, but first, here’s a draft of a 100-word synopsis for the back cover blurb:

There are things worse than death. Reoccurring cancer is one.

Elizabeth Bergman, mother, lover, wife and special education teacher, won her first bout with cancer ten years ago. She recovered and led the perfect life until an unexpected pregnancy coincided with cancer’s return.

Only mitochondrial DNA can save her now, but to get it, her husband must first unlock a dark and secret past his wife has kept from him and the children. Her desire to die with her secret is almost as strong as her will to live for her children and the child she carries, and for the life she hopes to carry on.

And now, the Contenders…

  1. Knock Softly…
  2. Knock Softly
  3. Ring Around the Twisted Ladder (the double helix & ring around the rosy)
  4. Carry on, Mrs. Bergman (or, Carry on, Mr. & Mrs. Bergman)
  5. Elizabeth! (Several by this title, none with the !, almost all about Queen E. or E. Taylor)
  6. Both Sides Now (Joni Mitchel’s song. Look up the lyrics if unfamiliar; spot on.)
  7. All to Die For (or, All to Die For, Baby. Liz’s outlook from start to finish)

The last two are somewhat ambiguous, but so are the first two.

Now what works best in your mind?

Black Wings

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The sun lit fire to the still and quiet water as it set. It was the exact opposite of how Melanie felt. Her insides boiled like an acid stew, her shame the meat of it. What she’d ended had poisoned her so deep that she would never be clean again. Beholden to her creator, she’d done even worse to herself. Time had stopped, holding its breath to see what she would do next as she sat on the black beach, the place was not familiar, but there was nowhere to go. All she knew was she was dead.

Callum had made promises, promises that had held Melanie together for a long time. To find out they were all lies…

The picture of his lean and muscular body came to her mind. He always got out of bed without a care about his nakedness. She lay sated after a forceful and wild coupling. He had marked her skin, making it red, his grip tight and unforgiving, just how she liked it. When she stared at him as he dressed, she had become quite aware of what he was doing when, with a satisfied and smug smile, he pulled out a gold band and slid it on his ring finger, slicing apart her heart as if he held the knife himself.

The one word, “married,” echoed throughout the small one room cabin that they had been coming to for over six months, bitten out through her swollen pink lips, as she lost all control.

Melanie had screamed her rage making her throat raw, attacking him with fists, teeth and nails, making him bleed for what he had done to her. His grunts joined their struggle until he grabbed her by her arms and threw her away onto the bed. Melanie looked around, her eyes wild, until they lit on the knives in small kitchen. Before Callum knew what she was doing, as he drew on his coat and headed for the door, she grabbed the biggest blade and launched herself at him, the knife coming down and into his chest over and over as she kept yelling, “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” with each strike of the knife.

She yelled the word now at the still water, the scream so powerful, if she had had super powers the water would have rippled as if hit by shockwave after shockwave of sound. She looked down at the blood congealed on her wrists, hers and Callum’s blood mixed as one. The tears that came did not wash away her sin.

“Melanie,” the male voice boomed all around her, behind her, inside her. She froze, her hands digging into the sand as if she could hide the gaping wounds she had cut into her skin. Afraid to move, afraid to speak she waited for her punishment.

“Melly. Stand up.” Her entire being, down to her soul, jerked with the word. She stood instantly, her body not in her control. Fear raced up her spine. The only person who had ever called her Melly was her mother. Social workers had taken Melanie away from her. She was only six.

“Turn to me, Melly.”

Her body shook as she complied with his command. The choice to turn was her own as she stamped down her fear of what might happen.

Melanie’s mouth went dry as a surge of heat, so strong, went straight to her core, almost causing her to fall to her knees. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen. His chest bare, the muscles forming like he were a god, his skin tone glowing bronze to the suns red, the black designer slacks he wore fitting as if born to him, and his eyes hot as he took her in from her polished toes to unruly golden hair. She shook her head back and forth. Melanie shouldn’t be feeling anything for anyone. She didn’t deserve to feel good.

“You turn to me freely?” She shrugged her shoulders, not willing to show how much he unnerved her. There was nothing really to say anyway. Melanie was ready to accept whatever punishment she deserved.

His gaze bored into hers as if he was reading her soul. Maybe he was. Eyes firing brighter than the sun, she couldn’t cover her own as invisible arms came around her holding her body still. There was no need. It was as if the light was coming into her, filling, pressing to every corner of her mind; peeling away all her layers, her secrets. Everything.

She sobbed.

“I know what you have done to your lover.” She said nothing. He came closer lifting one of her wrists. “You dare take your own life.” His words reverberated through her making her shiver.

“There will be an agreement between you and me,” he said, his arms wrapping around her in truth, his light surrounding them both. The light was cold and fractious. It wasn’t warm, as she would have thought, making her bones ache and her want to wrench herself from his arms. His grip tightened. “The agreement is really no agreement at all. You are mine, one of many in my army, but special nonetheless. Your sins demand it.” His hand reached out as he looked down on her, as his fingers stroked her cheek and came down to her neck and back to her nape. He gripped hard and she sucked in a breath. “For taking your own life you are mine to command and do with as I will it.” She thought about what she had done to Callum.

With a piercing tear, Melanie’s body arched as his fingers became claws tearing through her skin and bones, just below her shoulder blades, reaching in and taking hold. She screamed and screamed. The pain was so great she couldn’t see and collapsed, but his arms still held her until he drew his claws out, his hold now onto something else that felt foreign yet a part of her. Her breaths bellowed from her chest and out of her mouth, her distress searing his skin. Her heart beat frantically banging against his chest as he held her with one arm, when suddenly, she saw lustrous black wings, spread so wide behind him, she stopped breathing. And when he let her go raising his arms behind her back she tried to step away but then he yanked hard on something that was…attached…to her.

“Oh, God!”

She wrenched her neck around and gasped. Mirroring his wings, were a pair of wings so black, so grand, they sucked up all the light. She had no words.

Melanie looked up into this being eyes, not a man at all. “What are you?” she whispered grabbing onto the taut skin of his shoulders, her balance unexpectedly shifting.

“I am what you are.” He paused, taking her shoulders and bringing her up so her lips were an inch from his. “I am vengeance!”

She licked her lips as her eyes dropped to his.

“And you are mine.”

His lips came down hard on hers and somehow she knew that the promise in his kiss was more than anything she had ever known, the warmth that starved the original chill suffusing them both, sealing something between them forevermore.

Write This Not That

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Completing a 100,000 word manuscript is a daunting task. Craft elements can go rogue and crash a well-intended plot. Months, and yes, years pass in the process of writing and editing. Babies are born. Children graduate from school. And everyone grows older except for the fledgling characters in the story. For many, even writers disciplined enough to attend writers’ groups, workshops or conferences, the hurdle of a completed manuscript is too high, at least initially. If the goal is publication, then contests are an opportunity to build a writing resume.

Ah contests, I remember them well – working each entry until the last minute before the midnight deadline, correcting stupid (and stupider) mistakes and editing phrases or lines to finish with the right word count or page number. For the price of a contest entry fee, you get all this nail-biting and neurotic sort of fun.

Fortunately, contests also provide a test market for your work, a marking to market of your ability. In other words, how do I compare to a pool of equally aspiring writers? Sometimes, the winners, especially in literary magazines, are so amazing I’m tempted to abandon writing and begin any number of long neglected chores like taxes, continuing education or even cleaning. Other times, the winning entries bring a jaw dropping, head scratching, and audible “huh.” Writing is the quintessential Olympic ice dancing event as opposed to the timed or measured track and field sport.

You can slant the odds in your favor. Creative pursuits require sound project management grounded in probability. For example, is it possible that I might get my first-ever written manuscript published? Yes, but it’s not probable. Can I hone my skills and compete in contests with a possibility of publication? More probable. A combination of strategy, research, practice and numbers makes small wins lead to bigger wins.

Strategy begins with contest selection. Highly advertised contests receive more entries. If my odds of getting struck by lightning are higher than winning – all ego aside – I’m skipping the contest. Contests held by non-writing organizations draw a wider range of writing levels and are better for increasing the odds of placing at the top. Note – the uber literary MFA types are less likely to enter a short story contest sponsored by Ducks Unlimited. Competing against unpublished writers, defined differently by each contest, is another viable strategy. Additionally, research can enhance strategy. I read the publications hosting the contest or writing samples of the past winners. If the judge is announced, I research (i.e. internet literary stalk) the judge’s style, education, publications and demographic factors that might make an entry emotionally connect with him or her. Know the audience. My writing improves from the research alone (if I’m not driven to binge cleaning by the past years’ winners).

Compared to the first two steps, practice is the easy part of the process. This year, my practice area is short stories, and in the coming blog posts, I will share more about short stories, contests, and publications. Finally, the contest process depends on the law of averages – the numbers. The more contests a writer enters (assuming strategy, research and practice) determines the likelihood of success. With that in mind, here is my plan for the coming year, and perhaps, your plan also:

  1. Search for smaller, less publicized contests.
  2. Compile a contest spreadsheet sorted by deadline and word count lengths.
  3. Assess your current writing inventory available for contests.
  4. Look for opportunities to experiment with different lengths or genres.
  5. Identify specific contest deadlines within the next three months.
  6. Research the publication, contest winners, and judges.
  7. Write. Edit. Edit. Write.

Submit. Wait. Submit again.

How Important is the Title?

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What weight should we give to the title of a novel?

If the sum of a book is 100%, is the title worth 20% or 80%? On the one hand, if the title isn’t catchy then potential book buyers may never pick it up. All the efforts the author has put in will never be tested. What a waste for both author and reader. On the other hand, if the title is too convoluted readers may not understand the direction the author is taking them. Like a four-star chef, authors want readers to finish their creation. Putting it aside half-finished is worse than having never started. It is the difference between telling the waiter, “I’ll try something else, thank you,” and telling your friends, “I’ll never eat in that restaurant again.”

This question has been weighing heavily on my mind for the past few months as I turn the final corner on writing Knock Softly (working title). I’ve asked a few fellow writers – those who are in my writing group and have read the manuscript so far – to think of something better. Nothing is sticking. I try not to fret about it, tell myself it’s not important until you finish, but that finish line is now in sight and the fret is turning into sweat.

Let’s look at the responsibility of a title. That’s right, a title has responsibilities. First and foremost it has to succinctly sum up your story. It also has to be catchy enough to cause a reaction. It should say either “pick me up” or “not for me.” But is that all? Shouldn’t the title also come into to play at the end of the read? Shouldn’t the reader be able to see that title again on someone else’s shelf and be able to recall the entire story? Have an engaging conversation with that person over the book? Gone with the Wind does that. So does Hunt for Red October and To Kill a Mockingbird, and numerous others. That’s my dilemma with Knock Softly. I want a title that will recall the entire tome when next you see it again.

I came up with Knock Softly strictly as a constant reminder to myself that no main characters die in this story – there are things worse than death. Cancer is the villain. Curing our heroine is the story’s master thread, and keeping that central to the other events in the story hasn’t been difficult. Those other events include our heroine’s infidelity and a tortured past life she’s kept secret from her husband and children. Only mitochondrial DNA can save her now. To get it, her husband must delve into her dark past. Her desire to die with her secret is almost as strong as her will to live for her children and the child she carries. Knock Softly doesn’t convey any of that.

In Knock Softly, we have a mother of two, pregnant with another man’s child and suffering stage-4 cancer. She refuses to abort the baby, even though it increasingly diminishes her own chances of survival. Her husband rides the full length of the emotional rapids as he discovers there is so much more to the woman he married.

I don’t have the answer to my question; what weight should we give to the title of a novel?

I suspect it’s a squishy number, based on how strong the author’s own name is. Steven King could call his next novel Untitled and it would sell out. I doubt 100 copies would sell if my name were on it. For someone like me, a mild-mannered suspense writer whose day job is composing coherent internet ads in forty characters or less, I suspect the title is worth nearly half of everything written. It is in advertising, and in selling newspapers.

Now taking good suggestions for A.K.A. Knock Softly. Anyone?