Author Archives: Amy K. Nichols

About Amy K. Nichols

Amy is an author, artist and designer. Visit her writing site at www.amywrites.com, and her media design site at www.quirkygirlmedia.com.

Cold Seeps (Part 1)

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This week we’re doing  a round robin story — a story written in three parts by the three of us. This story is inspired by the news of James Cameron’s adventure into the Mariana Trench. Below is part one. Part two will be posted on Wednesday, and part three on Friday. Hope you enjoy!

Cold Seeps

At the control panel,Trevor stared headlong into the last half-hour of his shift. Day shift, night shift, who knew anymore. 35,000 feet below, it was only midnight all the time. He flipped the port-side sensors to long-range and yawned. Maybe a few hours in the UV tank would wake up his brain.

Stone tapped on the portal door twice, a cold ping ping. “Want anything from the galley?” He jabbed a wooden toothpick between his teeth and probes. “I’m thinking tuna fish, myself.”

Trevor groaned. “How can you eat that? I eat the tuna and I’m on the john for a week.”

“Nothing, then?”

“Not for me, thanks.”

Stone tapped two more times — ping ping — and his footsteps faded down the hallway. Trevor pulled the report binder from the file shelf and flipped it open to the current page. Clicking the ballpoint open-closed four times, he wrote the day’s date in the left-most column. When the ink formed the last number, he stopped, holding the tip still on the page and making the calculations in his mind. Five months, fourteen days. A long time in the deep. And what to show for it? Pale skin and a serious lack of social interaction. Not that either of those mattered so much. Not as though he had much action above surface. He penned the shift’s counts and readings into each column of the report, noting the most exciting moment at 05:14:37 when a black dragon fish passed the starboard panel, catching Trevor’s eye with its green glow.

Stone returned balancing a carafe of coffee and two tuna fish sandwiches on rye. He fell into the seat at control station two, and spread his dinner (lunch?) out among the keyboards, knobs and switches. “Anything to report?”

Trevor looked at him dead pan and slapped the binder closed.

“You read the new contract?” Stone pulled the wrapping from the first sandwich as though peeling a banana.

Banana. A word picture formed in Trevor’s mind so bright he could almost smell the sweet, tropical flesh. “Haven’t got mine yet.”

“Mph?” Stone swallowed. “Got mine yesterday. You gonna sign back up?”

Trevor shrugged. There were advantages to living below. Peace and quiet. Minimal interaction. He’d learned to meditate and speak French. And he’d written nearly three-quarters of his novel to boot. Amazing what one could accomplish when free of distractions — other than the eight hours out of every twenty-four. But no one had done more than six months below. No one knew the long-term effects. This crew would be the first. The guinea pigs. “Murphy?”

“Ah, yeah.” Stone nodded, pushing food aside to make room for speaking. “He’s re-upped. Said the Mrs. agreed, no hesitation.”

The compensation was hard to turn down.

Trevor sniffed and rubbed his eyes. He’d probably just missed his contract among the other papers and rigmarole from Command. “Yeah. I probably will, too.”

“Racquetball at fourteen hundred?”

“Naw, not today, man. I’m gonna hit the tank. Need some V’s.” He pushed his chair back and stood. Stretched. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’m just going to beat your ass again.”

“Probably.” Trevor returned the report binder to the shelf and picked up his mug and backpack. “Have a good –”

The port-side sensor light switched from green to flashing amber and in a tidy, British accent, a female’s voice — the only female voice Trevor had heard in a long time — cooed, “Alert. Unidentified object located off stern. Distance, four nautical miles. Velocity, 64.7 knots. Vital signs, unconfirmed. Series protocol four-point-two recommended.”

Trevor mouthed the words in disbelief as the message repeated.

Four. Point. Two.

To be continued… 

500 Club (3/15)

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Pssst. It’s Thursday. Time for the 500 Club.

*silent squee*

Before we get to today’s prompts, here’s a quick recap of the rules.

  1. Choose one of the prompts below.
  2. On your blog, write a 500-word story or scene based on the prompt.
  3. Post a teaser to your story in the comments below with a link to where we can read the rest.

Easy, right?

Here are today’s prompts:

1. Write an action scene with just enough dialogue to establish character. Whatever action you choose — car chase, fist fight, peeling a potato — use the physical world to solidify the blocking/movement of your character(s). Avoid making your piece read like a list, e.g., he did this and then this and then this… 

…or…

2. Write a flash fiction story with the opening: “After [CHARACTER NAME] put out the fire…”

Happy writing!

Everything Feels Possible

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It’s a gorgeous day today. I’m listening to groovy music. My dog is napping in a shady spot and my head is swimming with ideas. I’m excited about the novel I finished. The veggies in my garden are growing. I have query letters out to agents. My house is clean. I just ate a super-yummy lunch. I’m working on a new novel (or four). I have super-secret projects in the works. My finger is stitches-free and healing. I launched a new site offering my graphic and web design services for authors. My family is happy. We might be getting a puppy. The sky is a beautiful shade of blue.

Today, everything feels possible.

How are you?

When Is It Too Much?

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When is it too much?

When have you gone too far?

Too Much is one of those things I can easily identify in other writers’ works, but find difficult to see in my own writing.

Overwrought description. Dialogue that meanders into meaninglessness. Emotions that spill all over the page.

(Was that Too Much?)

There’s something about Too Much that ruins the illusion of reality that a good story creates. A bit like breaking the fourth wall in theater, Too Much has the effect of the author pointing out his or her writing. “Look at me go!”

The other night my husband was reading a book that shall remain nameless. “Listen to this,” he said, and he read a sentence so heavy laden with adjectives and importance it nearly drowned under its own weight. I groaned and thought, Really? In that book?

But I do it, too. I imagine we all get carried away from time to time.

During our workshops, Jim Sallis points out Too Much by saying, “This is too on the nose.”

Too Much does all the work and leaves no space for the reader. “Don’t you see?” Too Much says, “My story is about (fill in the blank).”

Some of the best writing advice I ever heard came from Ron Carlson. He looks at the subject of a story like a target. The theme or point of the story is the bullseye. He suggests writers circle the target, aim to the side, and never hit the mark dead on.

Such a great solution to the problem of Too Much. Unless of course you then move into the opposite territory.

Writing Too Little.

*sigh*

500 Club (2/23)

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Happy Thursday! It’s time for the 500 Club!

Before we get to today’s prompts, here’s a quick recap of the rules.

  1. Choose one of the prompts below.
  2. On your blog, write a 500-word story or scene based on the prompt.
  3. Post a teaser to your story in the comments below with a link to where we can read the rest.

Easy, right?

Here are today’s prompts:

1. Create a character who is the opposite of you and write a scene from his or her point of view. Be sincere. Honest. Don’t judge your character.

…or…

2. Write a flash fiction story with the opening: “The day the sun went dark…”

Happy writing!

Turning Your Rough Drafts Into Gems

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(I know it's not quartzite, but it's pretty.)

“Mom, what does sandstone turn into?”

My daughter recently finished a geology unit at school, and was quizzing me on the things she’d learned.

“Quartzite,” she said. “What does the sandstone need to turn into it?”

She didn’t really wait for me to answer. “Heat, pressure and time.” She launched into an explanation of the process, using her hands to illustrate the pressure transforming the metamorphic rock.

It got me thinking about writing. (Okay, most things make me think about writing.)

The process writers go through transforming a work from first draft to finished project is similar.

The writing process requires heat, in the form of energy, passion.

It requires pressure, in the form of revision. Putting each sentence under scrutiny, and making it do as much work as possible.

And it requires time. Time for writing. Time for letting a manuscript simmer. Time for critiques and revisions. Time to cultivate the next idea.

Remove any part of the process and you don’t end up with a finished project. You still have sandstone instead of quartzite. And what is sandstone, compared to quartzite? Weak. Brittle. Unable to stand the test of time.

I guess the takeaway is simple: trust the process. Provide the energy. Do the work. Give it time. You may just end up with a gem.

Auspicious Pudding, Part III

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This week we’re talking about endings. So it seems appropriate I should finally write my installment — the ending — of our most recent round robin story, Auspicious Pudding. Be sure to read parts one and two first, or this conclusion will make little sense. It might make little sense regardless. 

Auspicious Pudding, Part III

Ty followed Jasper’s steps over the rocks and tree trunks. Placed his feet where Jasper’s had been. They soon fell into a rhythm–one two, one two–and Ty filled in the third beat in his head. Three’s a better number than two.

He’d given up talking. Each time he’d opened his mouth, Jasper would tell him to hush it. He’d wanted to talk about the birds. To ask again about the trees. See if Jasper knew why the branches moved when there was no breeze. Most of all, though, Ty wanted to ask about his belly. About the mass growing up and down and out.

Jasper hopped onto a log, took a deep breath and let out a yell that stopped Ty in his tracks. Sent a shudder through him that about knocked him to his knees. He wiped a hand over the sweat on his face.

“What you go and do that for?”

Jasper said nothing. Just watched the trees before continuing on his way.

Ty didn’t like this anymore. Jasper had said this trip was for fun, but all it’d been was weird. Birds and bellyaches and–

The ground shivered. Jasper dropped his pack and turned in a circle, his arms out at his sides.

“Jasper?” Ty eyed the trees above. Felt the knot in his middle twist. “Why–”

“Shhhh.” Jasper held a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

Ty held his breath and listened beyond the beating of his heart. “I don’t–”

Jasper held up a hand and raised an eyebrow. He stood so close, Ty could smell his musky breath. The ground shivered once more, and with it the coil in Ty’s belly. When Jasper spoke, his voice hissed like water. “The king is in his counting house, counting his…”

Ty wiped away a fleck of Jasper’s spit that had landed below his eye.

“Counting his what, Ty?” Jasper leaned in even closer. “What does the king count?”

Ty turned, catching his foot on a rock, and he fell. He spine cracked against the rocky ground, shattering the silence not with the thud of flesh but the sharp jangle of metal. He tried to reach down, to touch the jagged mound stretching the skin of his belly toward the sky. He gasped. “Can’t move my arms, Jasper.”

And then, “Jasper?”

His friend stood just out of sight. But Ty knew he was there from the laughter. Low like a growl, but building like thunder.

“Gold.” Jasper’s feet stomped the ground–one two, one two–raising a cloud of dust Ty could see from the corner of his eye. One two, one two, Jasper’s feet danced. He added a clap in for the third beat. Three’s better than two.

The branches shook and the sky turned inky black. Hundreds of magpies filled the trees. In quorky voices they repeated the answer to Jasper’s riddle.

He leaned over, blocking Ty’s view of the murder in the trees. “Does it hurt now?” he asked. “In your belly?”

Ty shook his head. He felt nothing beyond his shoulders.

Jasper nodded and rubbed his chin. “What was it you said was the number ten? Gold, a time of joyous bliss and what?” He leaned in, his face twisting to grotesque. “The devil himself?”

Ty screamed. Jasper clapped his hands twice and the forest went silent. “Traveled so far, haven’t you?” he called out to the birds. “Ain’t you feeling peckish?”

Gold gold gold, the hungry birds answered.

With a flourish of his hands, he stood aside and the magpies rained down, pelting the taut skin until it broke forth. Ty felt nothing–a small mercy–as he gaped in horror, watching each bird carry away a shining coin.

Writer, Interrupted

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It’s confession week. Here’s my confession:

My writing has been hampered of late.

Here’s my reason:

Ouch.

A couple of weeks ago, I cut my finger catching a broken drinking glass. Stitches and steri-strips and numbing shots, oh my!

Needless to say, I’m behind in just about everything. But the good news is today I got my stitches out and I am typing this post 100% unhindered. Hooray!

This means it’s time for me to get back to writing. And if any drinking glasses should throw themselves hari-kari from the countertops again, I shall LET. THEM. FALL.

500 Club (2/2)

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Hello. Welcome to today’s 500 Club. We’ll be taking off for our destination momentarily. Today’s cruising speed will be 500 words and we’ll be flying at an unlimited altitude. The sky is the limit. As we taxi away from the gate, we’d like to review the guidelines for flying with PLC airlines.

  1. Write a 500 word response to one of the prompts below.
  2. Post your story on your blog.
  3. Put a teaser in the comments below, and include a link to where we can read the rest of your story.

Now, please fasten your safety belts and secure your tray in its upright position.

Prompt #1: Write a story involving flying. The concept of flying is open to your interpretation. Focus on description.

…Or…

Prompt #2: Write a story about a missed flight. What is the consequence of missing the flight? Focus on emotional content.

We hope you enjoy your flight. And thank you for choosing PLC airlines.

Stuck in the Middle

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This week we’re talking about middles. Not middles as in waistlines. Middles as in that section of your novel that connects your brilliant beginning with your stunning conclusion.

Middles can get murky. They can catch you like quicksand and suck you down to oblivion. Stall you out like the doldrums. Cut you off at the knees.

Okay, enough dramatic cliches.

There are some telltale warning signs you’re headed into a swampy slowdown.

You might be in trouble if:

  • Your character stares out the window, thinking
  • Two characters pass the time talking about what’s happened up to that point, rehashing information they both know but are saying anyway for the reader’s benefit
  • You take up wide swaths of chapters describing the scenery in minute detail while your characters sits at a table doing nothing

Do you see a common denominator? No movement.

The key, I’m quickly learning, to getting through the murky middle is to keep your characters actively moving through the story. In order for them to do so, you’re going to need…

A plot.

I used to be a pantser. I would sit at the keyboard and wait for the story to land in my head and flow through my fingers. And too many times my novels fizzled about halfway through.

I had no plot.

And then I read Save the Cat, by Blake Snyder. And I learned how to map out my story before writing it.

Guess what? It worked.

I’ve written two manuscripts since I learned how to Save the Cat, and both times, I’ve zoomed right through the middle. My stories maintained their energy and the momentum carried them through to the conclusion. Yay!

Now, you might be shaking your head, thinking outlining and plotting aren’t for you. That’s fine. We all have our own processes. But the next time you find yourself stuck in the middle, you should consider evaluating where your character is, where you need him to be, and how to get him there before you write another word. It’s okay. Your character will wait for you. He’s not doing anything anyway. He’s just staring out the window.