It’s Thursday! You know what that means, don’t you?
This week’s edition of The 500 Club!
Before we get to today’s prompts, a quick recap of how to ride this bicycle:
Write a 500 word response to one of the prompts below.
Post your story on your blog.
Paste a teaser in the comments below, along with a link where we can read the rest.
Easy! You got this. Now for the prompts.
Today’s prompts are brought to you by the four elements.
1. Write a story involving water and fire. You can interpret these elements literally, figuratively, metaphorically, anthropomorphically… However you choose to use the elements, you must use specific, telling details.
-OR-
2. Write a story involving air and earth. You can interpret these elements literally, figuratively, metaphorically, anthropomorphically… However you choose to use the elements, you must use specific, telling details.
Remember, no pressure. Just have fun indulging your wordsmitheryness.
Once upon a time a fisherman went to sea. He’d prepared his hooks and lines. He’d set his nets. He’d checked the charts and paddled beyond the safety of the harbor to a quiet cove where the skies were clear and the water still.
He threw in his line and waited.
And waited.
The sun grew hot overhead. Seagulls swarmed, snatching fish all around, but his line lay untouched.
Undaunted, the fisherman reeled in his line and rowed further to sea. Beyond the cove and the feeding gulls. Far from the view of the harbor. He secured the anchor, checked his hook and threw in his line, sure this time he’d garner a catch.
The fisherman waited.
And waited.
The boat bobbed in the tide and the waves lapped at the wooden slats. The fisherman’s stomach rumbled. He was hungry. When he peered over the side of the boat, he saw multitudes of fish, swimming just beyond his hook, beyond the reach of his net.
Frustrated, he pulled in his line. Checked his bait. Sat back and wondered. He’d researched and practiced and crafted the tastiest hook. Why weren’t the fish biting?
He threw the line in again and waited some more. The sun continued its slow path across the sky. He pulled some older nets from his bag and set to work mending them, strengthening their binds and floats. He pretended to ignore his hunger, his frustration. But from the corner of his eye he watched the line.
Soon dark clouds bloomed on the horizon. He had a choice to make: return to the harbor or risk the storm. He peered into the distance but couldn’t see the shore. He left the line in the water and rowed, but the boat was too far to sea. The winds picked up and the rain came down.
As he shielded his face from the storm, he cursed his foolishness. What was he thinking, leaving the safety of the harbor? Who was he to think his hook would be so tempting? He should have left the fishing up to the seasoned fishers of the village.
The storm lashed the little boat, tossing it about on the waves. Rainwater pooled about his feet as he waited.
And waited.
Just him, his doubts, his fears and his hunger inside the little boat.
Finally, the storm passed and the sky returned to blue, the sea to calm. As the fisherman bailed water from his boat, he saw the line dip taught in the water.
A nibble.
He coaxed the hook along as he’d been taught, tempting the fish to take the bait.
He waited.
And waited.
Until–finally–the line caught in his hands and he reeled in his catch.
I’ve been writing stories since I could hold a crayon. I’ve attended countless writer conferences, workshops and seminars. I hold a degree in education.
But the concept of a story arc has always been somewhat of a mystery to me.
Obviously, I accept its existence. I bow to its importance. I would even venture to say I hold every story, whether I’m writing or reading, up to its brilliance.
But to have to explain one, especially to 300 wriggling children?
* shudders *
This past May saw the birth of my first picture book. I couldn’t wait to share my little Dragon with the world and eagerly set up an elementary school visit.
Rather than discuss the publishing process, I decided to try to inspire my audience’s own creativity. I wanted to show the students how building a strong story is like modeling a sandcastle. Each one needs its own set of tools. Each one requires a firm foundation upon which to build and sculpt the different layers. Each one flourishes with its own fine revisions.
It was all so perfect in my mind.
Until I realized that I would have to discuss the parts of a story and * gasp * weave them into a story arc.
I felt a bit like Noah. The drizzle had already started and I was presented with the challenge to build the “arc”.
“R-I-G-H-T. What’s a cubit?”
(Okay, I know I’m dating myself, but if you’ve never heard Bill Cosby’s shtick on the conversation between Noah and The Lord when building the ark, you must take a moment and do so. Go ahead. I’ll wait. * nibbles chocolate *)
Don’t you just love Bill? But I digress…
No problem, I thought. I can do this. I have the Internet. I am linked to great minds throughout the world. So I searched. I Googled. I Binged. I Yahoo!ed.
I found countless sites discussing the parts of a well-crafted story. I found dozens of depictions of story arcs.
All different.
Seriously, I couldn’t find two that were the same. While some were very complex and others (thankfully) more simplified, it seemed the only consistency was that no one could agree on the parts of a story, let alone the specifics of the elusive story arc.
I nailed a few planks together. I feared my initial attempts at explanation wouldn’t float. Everything felt too academic. Stiff. Hollow. I could sense both the ship and my spirits sinking.
Upon further pondering, however, I realized I wasn’t looking for a smooth sail. I wanted to give these students a good ride. My arc demanded spark. I needed to find a new analogy.
I wanted a thrill ride.
And then, in a Lucy-Van-Pelt-makes-Schroeder-flip-in-the-air-“That’s IT”-revelation, it hit me.
Have you ever noticed how much a story arc looks like a roller coaster?
Think about it for a moment. First, you and your friends/family (CHARACTERS) arrive at the park (SETTING). You climb aboard cars that are all linked together. The first pulls the others along, each one dependent on the one before it (ACTION and PLOT).
Then the TENSION builds…clank-clank-clank…ever so s-l-o-w-l-y as you make your ascent. A cacophony of emotions (thrilled/terrified/ecstatic/exhilarated) mount as you continue that climb…up…up…up…! How your heart fills (with joy, dread, panic) at the tippy top (the CLIMAX) where you seem to hang – breathless! – for a split second until you – WHOOSH! – rush downwards through the twists and turns and loops to the final (RESOLUTION) stop!
And, to continue this analogy…if the ride/story is exciting enough, won’t you want to ride/read it again and again…and recommend it to everyone you know?
Look. I’m not saying that I have all the parts included or completely defined. And it’s very likely that I will come across English scholars/teachers/writers/readers/roller coaster enthusiasts along the way that will shoot my theory – and my simplified story arc picture – full of holes.
But it worked for me. Following our “ride” (and yes, we even threw our hands up in the air as we plummeted down!), these kids seemed to “get it”. They were actively engaged. They could name characters, discuss action and plot. They could identify the climax.
Most importantly, they were ready – and excited – to buckle in tight and create their own work.
After all, doesn’t every story deserve to be a thrill-read?
Jodi Moore is the author of WHEN A DRAGON MOVES IN (May 2011, Flashlight Press) and GOOD NEWS NELSON (Story Pie Press, tbd). Jodi considers books, along with chocolate, to be one of the main food groups. She writes both picture books and young adult novels, hoping to challenge, nourish and inspire her readers by opening up brand new worlds and encouraging unique ways of thinking. Jodi is the proud and (admittedly) neurotic mother of two incredibly talented young adults and never ceases to be amazed at how far the umbilical cord really will stretch. She lives in central PA with her always-supportive best friend/husband, Larry, two laughing doves and an ever-changing bunch of characters in her head. In addition to reading, writing and chocolate, Jodi enjoys music, theatre, dancing, the beach and precious time spent with her family. Finally, Jodi thinks it would be really cool if one of her stories eventually became a Disney or Universal movie or theme park ride. Or a Broadway musical. Just puttin’ it out there.
Sounds, uh, colorful, doesn’t it? I also toyed with the idea of naming this post “Spread em!” but I figured Amy Nichols and S.C. Green would probably hunt me down with those mutant wolveloceraptors they’ve been breeding in the secret subbasement of the Hotel San Carlos. (Pro tip: Don’t go down there.)
What this post is really about, though, is researching markets and using Excel to track your story submissions. Yes I know that’s MUCH less exciting, but it is very useful. You can organize your spreadsheets any way you want, here’s how I do mine:
FOR SHORT STORIES
So you wrote a story. Now you gotta send it somewhere, right? Better dig up some market listings. As I only write SFFH, I like Ralan for listings, as they are organized by pay rate. When I have a story ready to market, I always pop over there— are there any new anthologies that my story might be a fit for? Is one of my target markets currently closed to submissions? Is someone doing a theme issue? Once I’ve sussed out at least three or four places that look like a good fit for my story, I pop open my Excel spreadsheet, aptly named SUB TRACKER, and click on the first tab, which is my short fiction tracker. My columns are labeled thusly:
STORY TITLE/SUB DATE/SENT TO/SEND NEXT TO
I try to always have at least 3 more markets lined up, so if/when the story comes winging back my way, I can send it back out into the world that same day. Why?
Catching your story on the rebound is key to avoid emotional wallowing. And of course as I am prepping my cover letter I pop over to the next market’s website to make sure nothing has changed since the last time I checked out their submissions page. Market needs change every day, it’s best to make sure you are armed with the most current information possible.
NOVELS
The second tab on my spreadsheet is for agents. Agent Query is a great place to glean info— so is the back page of your favorite paperback, where the writer you adore likely graciously thanked her beloved agent. I open up a Word doc and make a list of prospective agents, and then go look at all their websites and figure out if they would be a good fit for me. Then I open up the next tab in my spreadsheet and fill in the following info.
AGENT/SUBMISSION REQUESTS/IN AAR?/CONTACT INFO/AVERAGE RESPONSE TIMES/ALSO REPS/REJECTED OR REQUESTED?/REASON FOR REJECTION?/OTHER TIPS
Agent (name) sub req (what they want) contact info (where to send it) and so on are pretty self-explanatory. This weekend I decided to add in the “Average Response Times” category, and it saved my butt— although we writers spend a lot of time bellyaching about waiting on agents, I found that most of the agents I’m eyeballing turn around queries in a month or less. That meant that my current plan of querying on the novel I am not quite finished revising was pretty effin’ dumb. Some of these guys request on the same day! What if that actually happened— I’d be screwed! So, it was a good thing to research.
“Other Tips” is where I put my stalking info— tidbits I’ve gleaned through blog posts, twitter, and online interviews of any pickiness, pet peeve, or preference that I might use to advantage in crafting my personalized query letter to a particular prospective agent.
So, if you’re getting ready to submit, make sure you are prepared! Track where your story/novel goes, make sure you’re up to date on the demands of the market, and enable yourself to bounce that story right back out into the big bad world when it comes back to you.
Scar *always* reads his MSs out loud. (I wish he'd read mine out loud.)
Oh and one last thing, ALWAYS print out your story AND cover letter and read it over OUT LOUD before you send anywhere. I don’t care if it’s an e-sub. Print out and read your work and you WILL catch embarrassing mistakes, I promise. I almost mailed a story to “BA” instead of “VA” last week. Ugh. No Birginia, there is no Santa Claus. So be prepared.
Read Part 1 here and Part 2 here. Now, for the conclusion of The Heist…
“Move that load,” McLaren barked, and his voice snapped the tension like a stick. He rolled the train door open, his pistol ready. As soon as he stepped into the sunlight, the shooting riled up. Foss and Slim grunted, working to right the fallen crate.
“No. The other end, idiot.”
“Heavy.” Foss stumbled in the spilled sludge and cursed. “Slippery, too.”
Beyond him the creatures shifted in the cage. Their talons screeched against the metal bars, sending sparks up Clark’s spine. McLaren’s words slithered through him. Halves.
In his half-seeing eyes, he saw his mother, her braid snaking own her arm, her hand doling out sand. As she painted the ground, she sang the night chant, her words weaving together a powerful healing, a return to balance, to order.
The spirit wind carried the sand away.
Slim’s scream pierced the dark, jerking Clark to action. He slinked through the crates to the far end of the car. The cage end. Clark fought against the stench, and darted to avoid the creatures’ mirror eyes.
Slim had gotten too close. A taloned hand had reached through the bars, caught him by the belt. Outside the train, the sounds of gunfire and death.
“‘O ‘ab him.” Free of effort, Clark’s mouth formed the ancient words. They are coming.
The creature eyed him, cocked his head to the side. “‘O ‘abai him.” They are here.
Clark nodded. Understood. He watched the talons ease and Slim scuttled away, eyes wild as a cornered coon. “Devils,” he said. “All of you.” His boots found purchase and he bolted from the car, leaving the door pen behind him. Sunlight splashed across the crates bringing with it the sharp tinge of sulfur and gun smoke.
“Don’t just stand there, Walker.” Foss’s hands still gripped the end of the crate. , his hands still gripping one end of the crate. “Get the other end.”
Clark stepped through the sludge, feeling it collect around his feet as he worked. Set his hands to the crate handles and heaved. Heavy. How much had been harvested? He pressed away the sick chill and wiped an arm across his forehead. The grey sludge sank into his skin, vanished into his pores. He knew it–understood it–and not just from the look on Foss’s face. Clark reset his grip on the crate handle. “Let’s move.”
Together they shuffled their burden toward the door, knocking over other crates, making a mess of metal and wood. Outside the battle quieted and Clark’s stomach twisted inside him. What fate awaited them on the other side?
Clark felt the change in his hands first. The surging of nail growth. The knotting of knuckles. The prick of pin feathers forming along the tendons at the backs of his hands. The swath of sunlight that lit his skin confirmed what he already knew.
Kahkag. Carrion.
Foss fumbled out the door as Clark’s face stretched to razor-sharp. Clark let the crate go, let the jars tumble to ruin. He rolled the heft of the door, closing out Foss’s cruse. The creatures moaned, the blood of their kin felled to dust.
Clark turned toward the darkness. “Hema,” his voice rasped. One.
His steps light, he wound his way toward the cage, pulled the pearl-gripped Colt from his bag and fired a single shot. The lock gave way. The cage door swung open. Sunlight split the car in two.
He waited for the others to find their way, waited until the change grew complete.
At the door, he stretched his wings wide. Caught an updraft of arid wind. His eyes searched out the carnage below. The vengeful spilling on the sand. A returning to order, to balance.
His cry of defiance rendered the air. Free of effort, the spirit wind carried him away.
Let’s take a break from this week’s Round Robin story and see if we can’t help spark some of your own original shorts. Relax and let the story take you where it wants. Just hold on and enjoy.
First those pesky rules:
Write 500 words based on one of the two prompts below.
Post it to your blog. No blog? Paste it in the text box in the side widget, conveniently labeled “500 Club”.
Give us a small taste in the comments below along with a link to the full text.
And now on to the prompts:
1. Take Western and flip it on its ear. Blend in some science, steampunk, werewolves, or whatever you like. Make it fresh and fun in 500 words.
2. Finish this opener: In one hand Paul held a knife, dull and pitted with rust. The other held a jar of copper liquid, mercury-like in nature. If only he didn’t have to make the choice…
Part I can be found here. And now back to our story…
The smell of decay, feces and gun oil stopped them more effectively than the door with the lock. Slim heaved alongside the rail car, splashing orange against the steel tracks. If Clark hadn’t been too wound up to eat his breakfast, he’d be adding to the mess on the ground. As it was, he gagged and covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow. He tried to use the burlap sack he carried, but it was too thick to catch the smallest of breath through.
Foss cackled and twisted his waxed whiskers.
“Told ya you shoulda’ waxed it. Smells no worse than a night after Cappy’s chili.”
Clark wiped the tears from his eyes. He didn’t have time to get used to the smell. They had a job to do. He stepped into the rail car and assessed what he could carry. Pistols, rifles, and crates filled with who-knows-what lined half the car. The other half was caged off and steeped in shadows. That had to be where stench came from. Clark did his best to avoid that side of the car.
He grabbed a Colt Peacemaker off a shelf and spun the cylinder. Though it was heavier than it looked, the polished wood grip fit nice in his hand. It beat the hell out of scrap he carried now.
“Gimme that.” Foss yanked the colt from Clark’s hand.
“More gun than you can handle, Walker.” His last word spoken like he took a swig from a spittoon. He went on to grab indiscriminately at guns and bullets, shoving them in pockets and belt loops.
A series of gun shots fired. It sounded to Clark to be several cars down. No time to get pissed over a stolen, stolen gun.
Clark opened his bag, and threw gun after gun into it. He came across another Colt Peacemaker with pearl grips. Looking over his shoulder he saw Slim and Foss trying to lift a crate of rifles, and he quick-swapped the rust-pocked revolver in his side holster for the Peacemaker.
A loud crash from behind and Clark nearly jumped his skin. Slim had dropped his end of the crate, smashing it on the floor. It wasn’t filled with rifles.
The crate spilled out small brown jars. Several shattered revealing thick gray sludge. Groans erupted from behind the bars on the other end of the car. Shadows moved behind the bars as shadows moved across his mind. The feeling had him gagging all over again.
The door was between him and the cage. He needed out and took a step toward the door. A gun fired from just outside and McLaren ducked into the car, his shirt sweat-soaked and dark beard covered in dirt.
“And where do you think you’re goin’?” He stared at Clark through squinted eyes. “Your bag’s near empty, Walker.”
“Half,” Clark said more as reflex than defiance.
“You’re still sticking with half are you?”
McLaren kicked open the door all the way, letting light fall into the cage. Fur, feathers, and flesh all trembled at the light. Taloned hands covered human faces, paws and feet paced back and forth. They screamed and growled and pleaded. Clark heard in his ears, and even clearer in his head.
“These are the only Halves I know, Walker.”
Clark counted five… what? People? Animals? Monsters? He wasn’t a monster. They weren’t skinwalkers. The screams in his head said otherwise.
Foss and Slim laughed and scooped up the unbroken jars.
“Break any more and it comes out a your cut. And you, Walker.” McLaren pointed his gun at Clark, a small tendril of smoke escaping the barrel. “You. I’ve got something else for you.”
“Sure, boss. Whatever. You know I’m good.” This wasn’t the time to press his luck with McLaren. Failing this job would leave him in a cell or worse.
“Glad to hear, Walker.” A smile split his beard wide, but he didn’t lower his gun.
Yelling came from outside. Whatever guard was on the train sounded like they were regrouping. Time was up.
“Now tell me again what makes you half a skinwalker? Nevermind, I don’t care. The proofs in the Walkin’, right?”
McLaren pointed to the caged monstrosities with his other hand.
“Start Walkin’.”
See how it all ends on Friday. You won’t want to miss it.
I’m going to talk to you about my basement. (Don’t role your eyes at me–even my kids will tell you that’s not a good idea.) Yes, I know I’m supposed to be writing a guest blog post, but all I can do is obsess about being dab-smack in the middle of water proofing the basement. It’s all I can think about. I’ve spent endless hours hauling musty, dusty, nasty things that I’ve stock piled over the years, to other locations around the house and yard. I’ve tried to decide what to clean up and what to toss. I’ve found treasures packed away that I’d forgotten I had and I’ve found more than a few unpleasant damp and moldy surprises. In fact, as I’m writing this, there are guys in my basement ripping out flooring and walls and ceiling. Very soon, there will be four ungodly days of jackhammering and pump installation. To survive it all, I’m dreaming about how awesome the basement will be when it’s finished, dry, clean, organized, up-to-date and loved by all.
I know that talking about my basement means I run the risk of losing you to another blog post–DON’T LEAVE! I have important information for you. I’ve discovered that revising your manuscript and water proofing your basement are almost interchangeable activities—accept that you can’t store things in your manuscript—like real life things in giant plastic tubs. But, aside from that, the similarities are astounding. Let me prove it to you.
After you write the first draft of a story, unless you have a freaking magic wand, (and if you do I want to know where you got it) you novel probably looks something like this.
The “cute” thing about that first draft is the bliss you feel when you’re done. You’re just so happy to have the whole darn thing piled in one place. You can’t believe you’ve gotten the whole thing in the basement down on paper. When I typed the last word of my first draft, I laid my head down and cried with joy and relief. I was a winner. I was also exhausted. I had blown every last ounce of energy I had on that draft. Putting it away was not only advisable, but also necessary. I was more than happy to do it and it sat there for a couple weeks collecting spiders and dust bunnies until I felt ready to revise. Unfortunately, I had a problem. I knew revision was something I had to do, but I really didn’t know exactly how to go about doing it. But the professionals in the biz seem to advocate the practice, so I shooed a couple spiders and did a little rearranging. Revision done! Now my manuscript looked something like this.
Familiar, huh? Sadly, I didn’t find this problematic. Instead, I declared it READY. To my credit, I think I had a niggling feeling that this wasn’t the best my manuscript or my basement could look. So I hired a professional to edit it for me. She gave me incredible insight into the changes I might need to make. Unfortunately for me, I was not developmentally ready to implement that advice. I tried. I took everything I’d unpacked, dusted it off and laid it out the best I could. My manuscript now looked a little bit like this.
Not bad–absolutely a significant improvement. I used the tools I already had in my box, the floor plan I was comfortable with, I painted (until I got bored, tired, ran out of time) and now I was ready to invite agents into my average, partially painted, slightly damp and musty basement.
*sob*
They didn’t want to come. Can you believe that thirty-two different agents didn’t want to hang out there? Truth be told, I wasn’t focused on what my basement lacked, rather, crazy thoughts were running through my head. I wasn’t happy they declined my invitation to be a best-selling novelist (with a mediocre, sub-terra, living space.) But we all know the rules…
Instead, I started to read about revising. I devoured everything I could get my hands on. I was even watching tutorials on YouTube. Then, something unexpected happened. The Greek Gods had mercy and an agent ask for a full. She passed, but my battery was recharged. She also gave me some editorial advice. I read her suggestions and it was like fireworks going off inside my head. I knew what to do. I had a vision at last. Ironically, the agent’s advice was eerily similar to what had been suggested in my critique. The difference? I’d learned a lot in a year.
Now I understood that this is what a real revision looks like.
And when I did that—this happened…
My name was in Writer’s Digest!!! Can you find it? SQUEE!!!!
But don’t get too excited, because the renovations revisions never end. Guess what happened when I got an editor? I had to do this. It’s hard, dirty work.
I’m still doing edits, although I’m beginning to see the finished product a little more clearly. I’m not 100% certain what it will look like when it’s ready for the shelves, but I have a good idea. And I’m excited. I believe that people will want to come to my basement and read my book. And although it’s been a long road, I’m absolutely sure it’s been worth the effort.
So what am I working on now–besides the last of those edits? I’ve got a work-in-progress that needs my attention. Have I also mentioned that the garage could use a makeover?
Kim is a former Special Education Teacher who is now a stay-at-home mom and a part-time dance instructor for 3, 4 and 5 year olds. After her dad passed away in 2005, she used writing as a way to make sense of the experience and discovered that she’s full of questions that need to be answered. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her husband and three boys. Kim writes Young Adult fiction and is represented by Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary Agency. She is thrilled to be part of the “Wolf Pack.” TOUCHING THE SURFACE is her debut novel. (Simon Pulse – Simon & Schuster, Fall 2012)
The red-tail hawk coasted on an updraft of arid wind. Clark harnessed the bird, using her sharp yellow eyes to search for the 6:15 train running late out of Jerome. The hawk screamed defiance, but then her hunting instinct took over. Prey was prey, after all.
She spotted the long black beast approaching the cut crossing Stolen Horse Gulch and banked, preparing to dive and snatch the snake in her claws.
Clark crashed back into his body. His legs were numb, his hands sweating a storm inside his leather gloves. Catching his nerves, Pally snorted and shifted beneath him. Clark ran a soothing hand along the horses’ neck. The big pinto gelding always had been too clever for his own good.
“Well?” Foss prodded, his face wrinkled in disgust. The rancid oil he used to wax his mustache gleamed in the slanted afternoon sunlight.
“Let’s go.”
Clark put his heels to Pally, acutely aware of how Foss watched him, like a cur he wanted to kick, but didn’t dare in case the dog was rabid. This might be the crime that made him part of the McLaren Gang, but Clark would never be one of them, no matter what he did. Foss, Slim, even McLaren himself— they would never believe that he was only half a skinwalker. And wasn’t that always the way of it. Clark never caught himself a break, just the scraggedy tail ends of ‘em. Couldn’t get into any school. Tried his hand at farming, but even his dirt crops had been poor— fields rocky and thoroughly studded with caliche, a bastard clay that was too coarse to be useful and too tough for anything but weeds. He’d considered looking for his mother’s people, but Daddy swore up and down that they were all gone. Everyone said Mama was a Navaho or else maybe Yavapai but Daddy claimed her “O’Odham from Snaketown,” which made no sense any way you spread it, seeing as there was no such place and no such people—not that he’d ever heard tell of, anyway. He wondered what she’d think of him now, joining a band of toughs to take this train. Granted, if McLaren hadn’t managed to board in Jerome, there’d be no heist at all.
The sound of squealing breaks snapped Clark’s attention: McLaren had held up his end of the bargain.
“Think of the devil,” Clark muttered to Pally as they swept alongside the train. McLaren was spooky like that. Man gave Clark the cold shivers, truth be told.
Beside him Foss and Slim began to holler, firing into the air. Clark shook his head at the waste of bullets. Didn’t those fools reckon they’d need ‘em more in a moment? The guards weren’t going to go down without a fight. Reaching the express car, Clark dismounted, drew his piece, and approached. Foss jumped down to cover Clark as he wrenched open the cargo door.
“Holy God.”
And thus concludes today’s installment of THE HEIST. Tune in Wednesday for the next episode!
Back in January I set goals for the year. In years past, I set very specific goals: finish novel, save money for a new house, train dog to eat the neighbor’s flowers, et cetera. Most of which I failed to accomplish by the end of December.
Cue the pity party music and drolling woe-is-mes. You know, all those things that make a person unbearable to be around. And the party rages on until I reset the cycle by setting new goals. See the pattern?
This year I took a new approach and focused on three words, Fortitude, Adaptability, and Follow-through. The way I figured it, as long as I kept those three words in the forefront of my thoughts, it would positively effect my daily life. Everything I accomplish would be pluses, and the lack of specificity would make it almost impossible to fail.
Here’s how it’s going so far.
My fortitude faltered somewhere around the beginning of summer. The evil bastard part of my brain that speaks harsh words and untruths had nearly convinced me to throw in the writing towel. There was no time for this hobby of mine, it would say. By the end of summer my fortitude strengthened and I found my way back to pen and paper, the evil bastard properly bound and gagged. My output is back up, and there is no question that I intend to write through to my grave day.
That’s right about the same time my adaptability kicked in and had me bending about like a master Yogi. I had to create ways to get writing time. Set small goals, in lieu of large ones. Carve out new writing digs. Dust off old ones. It boiled down to being satisfied with multiple small output periods (SOP) a day and one or two large output periods (LOP) a week. I used to balk at SOPs, figuring they didn’t do me any good. The math shows otherwise. Four SOPs a day at 100-150 words yields between 400-600 words a day versus the alternative to not write at all. Four hundred is more than zero. So long story short (too late), I sucked it up and now do SOPs.
My first real act of follow-through came late this year. A novel isn’t finished after the first draft, or even after light revisions. It comes after weeks and months of cutting, rewriting, deleting, pasting back in, five empty bottles of scotch, and a plethora of paper cuts. So I cracked open my first manuscript and attacked with red ink. It looked a bloody mess and still does. I won’t lie. It’s like pulling teeth. Sans the Novocaine. Those are the moments I look to the future, to the pretty polished manuscript you’d never guess needed braces. In the end, it’ll all be worth it.
That’s my track so far. Good and bad, but making it through. How are your New Year’s resolutions holding up? Let me know in the comments below. I’d love to cheer your successes as well as commiserate any set backs. I for one have had them both.
