Tag Archives: short story

Auspicious Pudding, Part II

Posted on by
Reply

This week we’re writing a Round Robin Story. Each of us are shooting from the hip to put a story together for your (and our) enjoyment. If you haven’t already, check out Part I here. Back? Good. And the story continues…

Part II

“The weald,” answered Jasper. He turned to Ty, a little exasperated. “Has the stomach rot gotten to your ears? I just said that.”

Ty’s stomach flipped at the mention of it. The pain didn’t last long as his attention quickly focused on the trees. The trees that shouldn’t be. That couldn’t be there.

They most certainly were there.

A clump of moss gave easily way when Jasper pulled it from the bark of the closest tree. Redwood? Was it even possible for a tree to grow that big?

Ty watched as Jasper sniffed the moss, nodded to himself ,and proceeded to smash the clump in his gnarled hands.

“What are you doing?”

Jasper just hummed to himself. The cuffing of his hands pounding the moss punctuated his song. The tune was only vaguely familiar to Ty. Just when he thought he could place it, Jasper stopped, picked up a sprig of pennyroyal and pressed it between moss-mushed hands. He gave it a good squish and then presented it to Ty.

“Nice. I’m impressed. No, really,” the sarcasm was like a candy coating over each word. “I just feel bad for leaving the Forestry Craft Badge at home. You so earned it.”

Ty went on to say more, but Jasper shoved the sprig in Ty’s mouth. Before he could spit it out, the old man had one hand on the back of Ty’s neck and the other covering his mouth.

“You can thank me later,” offered Jasper.

The grime on Jasper’s hand felt slick and coarse like wet sand paper on the back of his neck. His thoughts whirred from his now grim-streaked neck, to wondering how hands so old and knobby could still be so strong, to the horrible thing in his mouth. To say it tasted like minty dirt would be like calling the moon a rock. It combined the flavor of fresh lawn clippings with the grit of under-stirred hot cocoa. Sure there was an underlying hint of mint, but that silver lining was too thin encompass this gray cloud.

“Now would you stop struggling so I can talk to ya’ proper?”

Ty hadn’t realized he was jerking about, and when he did, he felt wholly justified. He kept it up for just a second longer as to not let Jasper think it was him telling him to that he stopped.

“That should settle your stomach for a bit. Yes, I know. Kinda’ feels like it’s going to do the opposite. It won’t though. Just chew a bit.”

Jasper’s grip loosen, but didn’t let go. He waited to see Ty’s jaw work the mush before going on.

“Good. Good. Now mind you don’t eat it. In small doses it’ll calm the rot. Swallow the whole of it, and we’ll be stopping at every other tree with a soft leaf.”

Ty didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel the knot untie itself in his gut. He didn’t fool himself. It was still there, only loosened.

“I can see it in your eye. It’s working.”

Jasper let go, leaving a mossy hand print in his place. He wiped the remainder on his pants and started rolling his sleeping bag and stowing his gear.

“How… Where did you… I mean,” Ty couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t even know where to begin. The trees? Magpies? The minty grit in his mouth?

“Can your auspex do that, too?” He finally asked.

Ty’s tone said jest, but his eyes begged for something to hold on to.

“Not just any auspex, that’s for sure. Now stop gawpping and roll up your bag. We got things to do and no telling how long to do them in. Move it now. Move.”

Whether by Jasper’s design or not, Ty was grateful for the busy work, moving in the familiar motions of breaking camp, rolling this, packing that. He didn’t know how longer Jasper had been talking before he started listening.

“—to see this. It’s good though. Very good. Maybe lucky even.”

“Jasper?”

“Son, if I told it all now, how am I to enjoy the look on your face when we get there?”

His smile was as much sincere as it was concealing.

Tune in this weekend for the stunning conclusion! (No pressure, Amy.)

Auspicious Pudding, Part I

Posted on by
1

Pianos. Penguins. Pandas. Ty rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Oh my God.”

Jasper wormed around in his sleeping bag. “What’s up?” he said muzzily.

“If a flock of crows is a murder,” Ty said quietly, “And a flock of rooks is a parliament, what’s a flock of magpies?”

“A tidings. Or a charm.” Jasper fumbled about in the grass next to his head, located his wire-rim glasses, and hooked them over his ears. “Or sometimes, also a murder.” He looked up. “Holy God.”

“That’s what I said,” muttered Ty. The trees circling their campsite were covered in a flock of black and white birds. Branches swayed and sagged beneath their weight as they quorked and shat and preened. Endless pairs of dark eyes stared down and through him.

“There must be at least a hundred of them.” He looked more closely. Most of the birds were clutching green sprigs in their talons or beaks, maybe for their nests?

“An auspex would count them, and tell us the future.”

Ty glanced at Jasper, who was fastidiously settling his deerstalker on his bald head, his long fingers quivering. Jasper hoarded obscurities like they were two-for-one coupons. Was he taking the piss, as Effie would say?

“Don’t need an ‘auspex’ to tell us that,” said Ty, thinking of the twisted mass growing in his gut. In the movies, an alien would just hatch and burst out of your chest. Over quick. Industrial light and magic.

“I could do it, I think. There are several instructive folk rhymes to that purpose. Presuming the total number of birds divided cleanly into a number between one and ten. The real question is; what are they doing here?”

“Creeping me out?”

“Magpies are not indigenous to the area. They’ve come from somewhere else.”

Jasper unzipped his bag and stood. The magpies launched into the sky, a swirling flock, buzzing the old man like a swarm of bees.

Ty reached up and tugged Jasper to his knees. “Mistook you for a scarecrow,” he half-yelled over the burr of wings, “They’ll be gone in a minute.” He watched the birds circling directly overhead, wincing, then punched himself twice on the arm, trying to shake off the dread infusing his bones. That’s two for flinching.

“I should have counted them,” Jasper said, distraught.

“Call it a hundred. Ten by ten, nice and round. What’s ten?”

“Gold. Or a time of joyous bliss. Or, the Devil himself.”

Ty shook his head. Never one answer when three would do. Something plopped on his shoulder: a leafy sprig. More bits fell in a sudden pelting storm.

“Oh what the hell,” Ty shouted in exasperation. Both men ducked under the barrage. The rain of greenery was gentle, almost like a blessing. Ty found himself thinking distractedly of rice thrown at weddings. And then it was done.

Jasper picked up a bent blade adorned with small circular leaves. “Pennyroyal. Pudding grass if you want to get colloquial. I don’t know what they’d want with it; certainly not to eat.”

“Just saving it to heckle—” Ty exhaled as his stomach cramped tight. He rode out each pulsation of pain, biting the side of his tongue and clenching his fists. Jasper watched him worriedly, the unasked question plain in his pursed lips and half-raised eyebrows.

“Fine,” he managed, straightening. “No problem.” His eyes widened. “I take that back. Big problem.”

The unimpressive stand of birches they’d camped in had transformed into a hardwood forest, ancient trees rising forbiddingly tall, bedecked in verdant lichen and moss. The light overhead had taken on a cool quality, filtered through the layers of canopy.

“It’s a weald. Well, now we know from whence the magpies came.”

“Which is?”

To be continued on Wednesday….

The Red Pen of Doom

Posted on by
5

by Ari Marmell

I can’t help noticing that an awful lot of these guest blogs are focused, in whole or in part, on the process of getting published. Finding an agent. Using an agent. Finding a publisher. Dealing with rejection. Making yourself write even when the mood isn’t on you. And so on.

I also can’t say that I’m surprised at that, since variations on “How do I get published?” are among the most common questions I’ve been asked. (Second only, in recent months, to “Is there going to be a sequel to The Goblin Corps?” Which, obviously, isn’t exactly a question an author can complain about.) What I haven’t seen covered as much is a mistake that many authors, amateur and professional, make on a regular basis. It’s a mistake I myself have made in the past, and may, in fact, have delayed my success in becoming a published novelist by several years.

So, one of the big secrets that every one of us should know, yet so many of us forget: The editor is not your enemy.

(For the record, I’m also referring to other “official” feedback here—not just from editors, but agents, copy-editors, and possibly even fellow authors—but as editors are the primary source of such feedback, it’s to them that I’ll refer specifically.)

It’s not surprising that so many writers think of editors that way. Most of us have heard horror stories. The editor who altered the ending of a novel; who cut an entire chapter; who went through the manuscript and changed one particular character from a person into a badger. The editor, basically, who “just didn’t get it!”

…it takes a bit of ego, just the smallest touch of arrogance, to believe that someone else wants to read the ideas, the stories, the words that you put down on paper.

It’s also true that most authors (and yes, I absolutely include myself in this generalization) have something of an ego—maybe not in all aspects of our lives, but about our work. It’s almost a job requirement; it takes a bit of ego, just the smallest touch of arrogance, to believe that someone else wants to read the ideas, the stories, the words that you put down on paper. (Or on the screen.)

Said ego is also, however, often fairly fragile. Everything we do is about putting ourselves out there for others not only to see, but to judge. An attack on our work is an attack on us, or at least often feels that way. Our level of success is measured entirely by whether more people like our work than don’t.

Is it any surprise, then, that many of us react negatively to the idea of someone else coming in and changing our work? I’m not talking about correcting typos or the like, but tweaking the story? The characters? Word choice? Many authors have an almost knee-jerk objection to the notion. We crafted the story as we wanted it to appear, damn it! Who are you to change it? You want to shape a story, go write your own! And get off my lawn!

Okay, but here’s the thing. In the first instance, yes, there are some bad editors out there, and horror stories do happen. But that’s the case in any business, any industry. Judging all editors by those examples is like judging all movie directors by Ed Wood, or all swords-and-sorcery by the Gor series, or all politicians by… Well, okay. Bad example. Point is, those bad apples represent only a minority, and if you get stuck with one of them on one book, well, you’ll probably be more fortunate on the next.

But the part that really gets in some writers’ way, the part that often takes time and painful experience to learn, is this: Your writing’s not perfect. It has faults. It has places where it can be tightened up, or where changes are beneficial. The best writer alive, the best writer in history, wasn’t so flawless that a decent editor couldn’t improve their work somewhere.

The best writer alive, the best writer in history, wasn’t so flawless that a decent editor couldn’t improve their work somewhere.

It’s just the nature of the beast. We get set in our ways. We know our story so well that we don’t see the cracks; our brain just fills them in. Our eyes gloss over the errors. We get so attached to a great turn of phrase, a great description, or a great character, that we fail to recognize how wrong they are for the book.

It happens no matter how good we get, how creative we are, how certain we are, how famous or successful we are. And this applies equally to self-published books as to traditionally published ones. If you’re not going through a publisher who employs editors? Hire your own. But however you do it, work with one.

My first published non-tie-in novel, The Conqueror’s Shadow, includes short vignettes at the start of each chapter that fill in bits of the characters’ and setting’s history—mostly during an earlier period that’s often referred to in the book, but only lightly explored. Because of these vignettes, the characters are far deeper—in terms of growth, personality, and motivation—than they ever could have been without them.

They were a late-draft addition, and the idea of including them came not from me, but from my editor. I will happily go on record saying that The Conqueror’s Shadow would be a much lesser book without his input. Yet I was absolutely certain, when I submitted it, that it would almost certainly not change dramatically in rewrites.

I might have published an earlier draft of The Goblin Corps quite a few years ago, if I’d been willing to make some hefty alterations to the book. I’m actually glad I didn’t—I think it’s a great fit at Pyr Books, far better than it would have been for the publisher in question—but the fact remains that I wouldn’t even listen to said changes, let alone consider making them, because I was so thoroughly convinced that my writing didn’t need someone else fiddling with it. It took me years of growth, and of learning how to accept feedback thanks to my freelance game writing, before I was in the proper headspace to recognize that my fiction wasn’t some sort of holy writ.

(That innate writer’s arrogance I mentioned earlier? Yeah, that’s what happens when you let said arrogance grow too big.)

Any reasonable editor can and should be willing to debate with you, and explain their reasons if you don’t agree.

I’m not saying that even the best editor is flawless either, of course. Any reasonable editor can and should be willing to debate with you, and explain their reasons if you don’t agree. The same editor who elevated The Conqueror’s Shadow? He and I went back and forth something like six times on a particular chapter of the sequel, The Warlord’s Legacy, which he wanted to cut and I didn’t. Ultimately it stayed (and, I still feel, for the better)—but the point is, it was a discussion and a conversation, not a unilateral refusal on either side to consider the other.

Bottom line to all this? If you share the tendency with so many other authors (especially new ones) to assume that the editor is an adversary, rather than an ally, then not only are you less likely to see your books succeed, you’re less likely to be happy even with those books that do make it to shelves. The author’s ego is a rough beast, but one of the best things you can possibly do, if you want to be a writer, is to train it to play well with others.

Ari Marmell is a fantasy and horror writer, with novels and short stories published through Spectra (Random House), Pyr Books, Wizards of the Coast, and others. Ari’s most recent novel, The Goblin Corps, was released July of this year from Pyr Books and will be followed up with Thief’s Covenant due out early 2012, also with Pyr. Although born in New York, Ari  has lived the vast majority of his life in Texas—first Houston (where he earned a BA in Creative Writing at the University of Houston), and then Austin. He lives with his wife, George, two cats, and a variety of neuroses. For more information on Ari, please visit his website, www.mouseferatu.com.

Hidden Freak, Part 2

Posted on by
1

This week we’re writing a Round Robin story. S.C. Green posted part 1 on Monday. Amy McLane will post the conclusion on Friday. For now, though, settle in for part 2 in our tale of circus weirdness…

Hidden Freak, Part 2

Fix reached the edge of the woods first. Bobby ducked beneath an elm branch and stopped beside him.

“Whatcha waiting for?” Bobby reached both hands up to grasp the branch and let his tall frame fall forward.

Fix said nothing. Just spit.

“Scared?” Bobby knew which button to push.

“I ain’t scared.” Fix’s bicep swelled as he squeezed his right hand into a fist. He sniffed and curled his lip like a gash. “Just looking for the right way in.”

Bobby kicked away a pine cone. “Uh-huh.” And he strode off toward the big top.

The fence surrounding the carnival was rickety at best. Easy pickings. The hardest part for Bobby would be to slip his height through unnoticed.

Fix followed him out from the cover of the woods, his steps scuffing the dirt faster to keep up. Neither spoke. Bobby kept his hands tucked in his pockets and felt his pulse knocking at his temple. Thinking and doing are two different things. But Bobby was determined in the doing.

The carnival hadn’t officially opened. Come dark, the place would swarm with the townspeople, curious to see anything outside the daily drudge of their dull lives. But now, midday on an otherwise sleepy Thursday, the grounds were all but quiet.

“Going through the front door, dumbass?”

Bobby hated when Fix took that tone. Same one he’d heard his whole life, teased and knocked around. So he didn’t answer. Just kept walking, listening to the wind rustling back in the woods and the occasional sound from the tents and trailers ahead.  When he got close enough, he rounded the chain link and headed toward the back. Later, the action would be inside the big tent, sure. But Bobby knew the trailers were the place to start. Bobby searched beyond the fence for signs they’d been seen or trouble to get into. Fix followed, marking his path with globs of rancid spit.

“There,” Fix said, and Bobby looked to where he pointed. The break in the chain link that would let them slip through. Disappointment twisted Bobby’s stomach. He wished he’d seen it first. He ducked his head beneath the chain and the other six feet of him followed. Fix had more trouble with his bulk. He masked his pain with indifference as the metal scraped his spine; but Bobby saw. Bobby knew.

Inside, they both stood rooted, looking. Listening. A line of road-worn trailers circled the back of the lot. Cheap, splintered siding and windows pocked with rock holes.

“Which one you think’s got the clowns?” Fix whispered. He cracked his knuckles real slow.

Bobby shook his head, his eyes trained toward the end of the line, on the shiny Gulfstream with the plaid curtains flapping out the windows. Clowns or freaks, he didn’t care. That trailer was the one that called him. Three wooden steps led to its metal door. He’d have to bend nearly in half to get through.

“Come on,” he whispered. He had no doubt Fix would follow.

To be continued…

Novel Overhaul and Other Stuff

Posted on by
Reply

This last month has found me more productive than I can remember being in the last year. I’m trying to recall the moment when the switch flipped, but I’m straining and don’t want to risk pulling a brain muscle. Regardless of the reason, progress was made and I feel good.

My first novel has finally gone into revisions. I’ve tweaked things before, but this will be the first real overhaul. More than a tune-up, the whole engine will be dismantled, fixed, cleaned and reinstalled one part at a time. The prospect of doing that in the past has caused me to turn a blind eye to the project, but now I’ve got my tools in hand and working one scene after the other. Currently I’m looking at weaving in a subplot, maybe adding a relation between characters that wasn’t present before, and clearing up a plot question that, surprise-surprise, never got answered by the end.  I want the revised draft done by the holidays. The holidays, by and large, were meant for stresses of a different nature.

On top of that, I’ve also written an entirely new short story. With some cleaning up, I’m planning something special to do with that one later this year.

So now what?

I thoroughly enjoy these quasi-magical bursts of wordsmithing output. I find it akin to a runner’s high. Now here’s my worry. Usually these peaks of output are followed by valleys of writing drought. Up and down, up and down like waves in the ocean or squiggly lines on some monitor found in the TARDIS.

This month I plan to keep the momentum rolling forward. I won’t expect brilliance everyday. That would be an unreasonable expectation. I’m not even going to set a daily word goal. Since my focus is mainly revisions, that wouldn’t serve with cuts involved. I just plan on doing something, anything, everyday.

The Heist

Posted on by
Reply

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!

When is it done?

Posted on by
3

Our topic this week is “When is it done?” Or in other words, when is the thing you’re writing ready to be sent out into the world.

Can I just say: I feel completely ill-equipped to talk about this subject. Quite simply, I don’t know the answer.

I once heard Kevin McIlvoy speak on revisions, and he talked about revising a story 48 times and having it published and then revising it some more even after it was published because for him it wasn’t done yet. And, man, do I get that. I can stay in revisions forever, finding a better word, a better sentence structure, something more authentic or punchier or compelling.

But then…

I recently heard James A. Owen address revisions. His advice was to stop revising when you’re just making changes to make changes. In his words, endless revisions is like riding twenty miles on an exercise bike and getting nowhere. And I totally get that, too. Sometimes endless revisions is a way of hiding. It’s not done yet, so I don’t have to show it to anyone and face possible rejection.

If only there was some kind of recipe or formula. Maybe something like:

X words × Y drafts ÷ Z minutes = Done

(I never was that good at math.)

Does it depend on the project? In my experience, there are stories that race out of my brain almost complete. They require little revision. And there are stories that feel like pulling deep-rooted teeth and require many drafts before they’re even coherent. Both kinds of stories get rejected. Both get published. Revision seems to have little to do with it.

Is it done when there’s nothing left to change? I recently read a well-published novel that had several glaring copyediting errors. Was it not done yet?

So, because I have more questions than answers, and because this is something I wonder about and wrestle with, I’d like to hear from you.

When is it done?

The Night Shift, Part II

Posted on by
Reply

Part I of The Night Shift is here. Part III will be posted on Friday.

The kid jumped at the sound of her voice. He spun, a neat heel-toe that I never would’ve guessed was in him. Then he hissed at the chef. If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’.  Frickin’ hissed at her. I thought that was super weird.

Things got weirder directly.

“Oh shit,” said the chef.

They ran at each other. At least, that’s what I thought was going on. But the kid, he runs down aisle two at the chef, and the chef runs up and jump-kicks the shelving , like she’s the goddamn Karate Kid. The whole thing tips. The kid skids on a packet of Skittles and bites it just in time for the metal shelving to smash down on top of him in a hail of Snowballs and Corn Nuts.

I thought my brain was going to short-circuit.

“Oh my God!”  I hustled out from the counter. “You all right son?”

“Stay back,” said the chef.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I’m screaming now, and I don’t care. “You think you can just come in here and fuck up my store, kill some kid cause he looked at you funny? You think you’re some kind of fucking gunslinger or something?”

“Nothing is wrong with me, sorry about the mess, he’s not dead-”

“He’s not?”

“-Hell no, and he’s not a kid. And no, I’m not a gunslinger.” She hooked a thumb on the black nylon strap on her shoulder and swung her bag around so I could look at it.

“THE ULTIMATE EDGE,” I read. Okay. She was nuts. As if there was any doubt at this point.  Just gotta keep her calm until the cops get here. “I don’t know that purse brand, but I’m sure it’s a great one.”

“It’s a knife bag.” She squinted. “Ted.”

I rubbed my hand over my name tag. Back and forth.  Back and forth. “Knives, huh? For cooking.  At your job. ‘Cuz you’re a chef.”

The chef turned, set THE ULTIMATE EDGE on the counter.

“You don’t have to show me-” I said as she pulled on the zipper.

“Name’s Teresa. You can call me Reece.”

“Ted.”

“Yeah. I got that.” Reece unpacked THE ULTIMATE EDGE. Knives glittered. Big ones. Small ones. Skinny ones. Mean ones. Reece picked one up.

“Do you mind not doing…that?” I asked. Something rolled against my foot. I looked down at a can of Vienna Sausages. I looked over at the kid, still pinned beneath the metal shelving. His eyes were open. He wiggled. One arm was almost free.

“Hey!” I said. I walked over to the kid on legs shaky with relief. “Anything broken?”

He looked at me, mute.

I bent closer. “I said-“

His hand shot out from under a bag of Fritos and grabbed me by the throat. The pain was instant. I couldn’t breathe. I pulled at his hand with both of mine, but he was strong.  A shadow fell over me.

Reece.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Reece shouted at the kid.

The kid spat at her.

Reece screamed in pain as the kid’s saliva struck her skin.

“You’re 86ed, you dumb mother,” she said, and stabbed the kid in the chest.

Green stuff came out, the exact green of those pine tree shaped car fresheners.

No red. No red at all.

I finally got the kid’s hand off me. “What. The. Hell?” I choked out.

“I told you he wasn’t a kid. They’re Nightwalkers, Ted, and where there’s one, there’s always more.”

I looked at the green puddle spreading across my floor.

“Tina’s gonna kill me.”

“Tina is not who you gotta worry about. Unless-”

“Unless?”

“She the owner?”

“Yup.”

“That would explain it.” Reece sounded almost relieved.

“Explain what?”

Reece looked at me.  “She’s their Queen.”

Most Important: Ignore The Rules

Posted on by
Reply

by Beth Bernobich

When a new writer joins a workshop, they often run smack into a wall of ruls. No head-hopping! Kill all adverbs! Third person only!

Usually, the ones spouting those rules are semi-new writers, the ones who have absorbed these absolutes through critiques, but who have not yet figured out which rules are really necessary. Their intentions are good. The problem is, they don’t necessarily understand the reasons behind those rules. Worse, they sometimes mistake stylistic choices (omniscient POV) with genuine errors (sloppy POV shifts).

In truth, the only genuine rule is: “Whatever works.”

Otherwise? Rules are nothing but obstacles. They trip you up, stifle your voice, and tie your inspiration into moldy wet knots. When someone says, You must, ask them, Why?

Pay Attention To The Rules

This is not a contradiction. What the phrase really means is that it’s useful to know the so-called rules because they often turn out to be useful guidelines. But! Use those guidelines wisely. Learn the reasons behind them. (Too much head-hopping might confuse the reader. Strong, specific verbs make for stronger prose. Choose the POV that works best for your particular story, not the one that comes easiest.)

Discard the rules whenever it makes your story stronger, but know why you are making that choice.

Write What You Know

If you were born in a particular city, grew up in a particular culture, lived through the history of a particular time and place, you know that complex tapestry of taste and scent, images and emotions, and all the other myriad details that transform your story from the superficial to the real.

Know What You Write

At the same time, you should not restrict yourself to the confines of your gender, race, or past. (Or any other identification.) If you decide to write outside your so-called boundaries, however, research is your friend. Use primary sources, not secondary accounts. Don’t depend on one set of opinions. Look for contradictory perspectives. If you can, talk with people who lived through those events. Extrapolate from your own experiences to fill in emotional details. And did I mention research?

If you choose to write about a world outside your own, do so with respect.

Write What Bothers You

Be suspicious of that first idea, the one that comes slipping into your imagination as though it were coated in olive oil. Sure, that might end up being the right approach to a story. Then again, maybe it’s easy because it’s superficial, because it slides over the rough patches.

Look for the story that chases you through your dreams, and itches at your subconscious. Those are the stories that will live longest with your readers, too.

Write What Makes You Happy

Or rather, write the kind of story that speaks to your heart. If you love intricate mysteries, write them. If you love slow-paced character studies, write them. If YA stories are your deepest, truest love, then dive right in. Whatever calls to you, write that. Never, ever, let anyone tell you what kind of story you ought to care about.

Be Arrogant

Your stories are important. Your stories—yes, yours—will lift someone’s heart, make them laugh, make them think, and comfort them when they grieve. Your stories will transport them into worlds and lives they never imagined before. You are the only one who can tell those stories properly. So write, and be damned the ones who tell you otherwise.

Be Humble

Understand that writing is not a short journey. There is no end to the learning, to improving your craft. Complacency kills the writer more often than editors, critics, or indifferent readers. Forget your ego. It’s a trap. All you should care about is making your story as strong and true as you can.

Remember To Breathe

Writing can be a lonely, frustrating process. And when it’s not lonely, it’s often filled with criticism. If things get rough—and they can—talk to your writer friends. Pet your cat. (Or dog. Or parrot.) Search for the balance point inside your soul.

Breathe. 

And remember the joy of telling stories.

Beth Bernobich is a writer, reader, mother, and geek. Her short stories have appeared in such publications as Asimov’s, Tor.com, Interzone, Strange Horizons, and Postscripts. Her first novel, Passion Play, appeared from Tor Book in October 2010. It won the RT Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Epic Fantasy, and was long-listed for Tiptree Award and the British Fantasy Award. Her first YA novel, Fox and Phoenix, is forthcoming from Viking in October 2011. You can learn more about her from her website, http://www.beth-bernobich.com.

The Night Shift

Posted on by
Reply

The world doesn’t end once the sun goes down. The last tail light fades to a red pin prick before guttering out, but I’m still here, a creature of the night. Now don’t go yelling vampire or demon spawn or some such crazy nonsense. There’s no such thing. I’m just Ted.

The night clerk.

Once the street lights come on, I clock in and man the bullet-proof cage that hasn’t seen anything stronger than a .22 caliber spit wad in the twenty-some years I’ve worked here. Tina says I can have all the coffee I want while I work. She thinks it’ll help me stay awake through the night, and I’ve been known to go through more than two pots on my shift. Truthfully, I just like the bitter, no cream or sugar taste. I have no problem staying up till sun rise.

I think the common misconception is that nothing happens in the middle of the night when you’re outside city limits. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. I see all sorts.

Just the other night this lady comes in wearing a black shirt with two columns of thick buttons. The cuffs were rolled several times just so her hands wouldn’t get lost in the sleeves.

‘That’s an interesting shirt.’

‘I’m a chef,’ she told me as she reached for a pack of cigarettes on the display case.

‘Let me grab you a fresh pack from here,’ I said. Those packs on display haven’t been rotated out in years. If someone should steal one, I’d hate for them to enjoy it, too.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

As she put the pack back on the shelf, the cuff pulled back just far enough for me to see a light scar across her wrist. She must have seen me looking because she said, ‘Cooking accident. An oven doesn’t care how long you’ve been using it. It’ll bite you just the same.’

Her mouth might have smiled while she said it, but her eyes looked tired from repeating it.

‘Ain’t that the truth. That’ll be three seventy-two.’ I took her money and a couple pennies from the spare change tray and gave her thirty cents back.

Now on a different night, or maybe a different time that same night, I might have chatted a bit more. It’s not often I get to talk to an actual chef. Outside though, another car pulled in the lot, and most people won’t talk to a stranger if they know another stranger will overhear them.

‘Do you mind if I stand outside and smoke?’

‘Sure, sure,’ I said. ‘Just don’t get near the gas pumps. Nothing might happen, but we could get an earful if the wrong person sees you.’

‘Got it.’

The chef lady pounded the pack of cigarettes against the palm of her hand as she walked out the doors, sounding the electric chime as she crossed the threshold.

No one had gotten out of the car yet, but I could see two people talking in the front seat. I’m pretty sure the car was green. It was hard to tell being that it was covered in mud, most of it fresh. Usually I’d wait behind the counter for someone to come in, but instead I waddled out from the bullet-proof cage and headed for the beer coolers. My knee was acting up that week, so it took me a bit to get up to speed. Sometimes I tell people it’s an old football injury acting up, but really I’m just getting old. I also used to tell people to avoid getting old until I thought about the alternative.

So I waddled to the beer coolers and locked them. I still had an hour before last call, but it could save me some grief later. At least so I thought. I poured myself another cup of coffee and headed back to my little cage of glass. It’s more like plastic, but they tell me it’s bullet-proof.

The passenger door opens up and a kid gets out. Maybe he’s not so much a kid, but at my age, if your hair ain’t gray or falling out, you’re still a kid to me. He’s got his hood pulled up, hands in his pockets, and never looks up as he comes in the store. I couldn’t keep from smiling as he headed for the beer. He pulled on the cooler door and nearly lost his balance when the door didn’t open like he expected.

Now I could’ve just asked the kid for his ID. That usually sends them running through the door. But I was enjoying watching him fumble around, staring at a seventy-five cent bag of Doritos as if there was something meaningful to find in its list ingredients.

That’s when the door chime went off again. The chef lady was back.

‘I think I’ll bring home a nightcap, too,’ she said.

As soon as that chime sounded, I knew this would go sour. Well, less amusing anyway.