Query Blog Hop 2.0

Well, I had some great comments on the blurb/query for my in-progress YA Magical Realism story, so this morning I tapped out some changes.

Here's the updated version... it's a little long at the moment, but hopefully the stakes are a little clearer :)

I plan to re-visit the other blogs in this blog-hop to check out their updated versions.

Dear Agent

Already famous at seventeen, Jason (Jay) Walker is an artist obsessed with light, but unlike the Impressionist painter, Monet, Jay would rather capture the reflective ripple of scar tissue instead of a sunrise over water.

Too bad he’s been in an artistic dry period since his hot girlfriend turned cold. Jay’s been left with an unfinished painting, no model, and a tight deadline for a competition that, if he wins, guarantees a fat scholarship to École des Beaux-Arts in France.

He’s got a plan though. Twice a week he ditches class to meet Kell in the cemetery that separates their two schools. Through an odd game of trading scars, and a little administrative blackmail, he convinces a very unwilling Kell to be his next model.

Jay only wanted to capture light reflecting off her torn surface, but after he starts working, he can’t help but want to paint it all, every layer down to the depths of her soul. But soon, Kell starts changing. With every session his work gets better, and she becomes colder, her eyes duller, and her wild emotions flatline.

And he realizes the same thing happened when he painted his ex-girlfriend.

Jay is sure to win another award for his new work, but this time is different. This time, he knows it’s happening, and this time, it’s Kell. Somehow her emotions are being absorbed into his painting and he’s not sure if he’s willing to sacrifice her for a scholarship, cash prize, and press write-up. 

What’s worse, he’s not sure if he can give up painting, his entire identity, on the slim chance it might save her.

SCARLIGHT is a WIP YA Magical Realism based off the old superstition that a photo can steal a piece of your soul.

Query blog hop

I've been MIA for a few weeks... got back-alley-jumped by the sick-fairy who hammered me with a sure-KO-combo of flu, cold, and the feeling of razor-blades down my throat that required a horse-sized dosage of antibiotics to kill off.

BUT, I found this query hop today (my first real? day of being back online) and I love queries, writing them, reading them, etc, so I thought it'd be fun to join in and get some feedback.

And the extra cool thing about it, is it's fine for WIP's too.

Since I'm a pantsing-style writer, I honestly don't know how the story is going to end yet, so my query is currently a little vague, other than the character arc/decision hanging over Jay's head. That, I always know :)

So, here we go!

Already famous at seventeen, Jason (Jay) Walker is an artist obsessed with light, but unlike the Impressionist painter, Monet, Jay would rather capture the reflective ripple of scar tissue instead of a sunrise over water.

Bored with the overly groomed, emotionally-cold girls from his elite private school, Jay wants to paint Kell, or rather the scars she hides under long-sleeved hoodies and skinny jeans. Twice a week, Jay ditches his tedious Art class to meet her in the cemetery which separates his school from the public fine-arts school she attends. Through an odd game of trading scars, and a little blackmail, he convinces Kell to be his next model.

Jay only wanted to capture her torn surface, but after he starts working, he can’t help but want to paint it all, every layer down to the depths of her soul. But soon, Kell starts changing. With every session his work gets better, and she becomes colder, her eyes duller, and her wild emotions flatline. 

And he realizes, the same thing happened to all his past subjects.

Jay is sure to win another award for his new work, but this time is different. This time, he knows it’s happening, and this time, it’s Kell. He’s not sure if he’s willing to sacrifice her for another cash prize, press write-up, and the fat scholarship he’s been offered to a famous art school. 

What’s worse, he’s not sure if he can give up painting on the slim chance it might save her.

SCARLIGHT is an in-progress YA Magical Realism based off the old superstition that a photo can steal a piece of your soul.

I don't have bad habits...

...I have idiosyncratic character traits.


During this past month, I've gone through the archive of posts and done something I've been planning to do for a while, but had never gotten around to:

Yup, it took a while.

Some stuff is still there, like when I did a series of nerdy posts last summer as kind of a 'this is how/why I write first-drafts the way I do', and I left all the flash fiction and (the long extinct) Six Sentence Sunday stuff since that particular story (Project #2/aka Simon's Oath) will be heavily rewritten when I get around to it.

One of the small reasons this took me so long to do was my arm was so bad there was no way I could hold a pen/pencil, and I wanted to post a fun little image as a consolation prize, like the Dead Monkey Day pic, and a few others I've posted.

As part of my re-hab/physio, I'm now at the stage where I'm 'allowed' to either write (with a pen) or draw for 1/2 hour every day to re-strengthen the muscles and get the blood flowing since my nerves are no longer as restricted.

...and since even I can't read my own handwriting, it makes a lot more sense for me to draw silly cartoons instead of scrawling out pages of unreadably scratchy sentences. They'll probably appear sporadically on Bailiwick in the future, and they won't involve more than 10 minutes of cleaning up/throwing colour on in Photoshop. These are very basic sketches. More for practice at controlling my hand than anything.


As a fun little fact, though it's nearly impossible to read, the text in the image is from a fairy-tale I wrote, which was part of the mythology of Project #1 (the 'near-pemanently-retired' trilogy that was so incredibly dark I found it suffocating to work on).

And yup, my hair is getting pretty long, actually it's nearly touching my shoulders. It was only an inch long at the back when I donated it back in November, and was about nose-level at the front. Since it's past chin level now, I guess it's grown about 5+ inches?

FFF 21.2

(Hopefully) a funny one for you today, in at 100 words, about 10 minutes to write/edit:

You don’t call it ‘savage’ when justice is on your side. 

When someone does bad things, they deserve what comes around, and he was the worst of them all.

He terrorized us. Day after day, with no end, and no mercy.

A despot who, when verbal intimidation failed, leapt at the chance to draw blood. Some days, he leapt first.

So it was only right that we banded together, stabbing, scratching, swatting.

He may have only lost an eye, but the vet’s cone around his neck proves we won.

And as any cat will tell you, pride is what matters.

FFF 20.2

Sorry I'm later than usual posting. My day yesterday got away from me... After lunch out with my sister, nephew & mom, I walked to the closest off-leash dog park with Eva, which turns out to be 1 hour each way... then I headed out for dinner with my cousin's girlfriend, and the two of us went to see his band play (not the Brazilian jazz band, this one is a Beatles tribute band).

The show was amazing... and I ended up getting home around 1:30am.

Needless to say, I've been a little slow today ;) Though Eva and I managed another walk to the off-leash park... almost 3 hours when you factor in the off-leash-play time :)

So, here's my flash fiction. As per usual, I follow my own self-imposed rule of spending no more than 20 minutes on it. I think this took around 15 minutes, including the editing to get it down to 150 words exactly:

There are only two things in this world that terrify me. 

I haven’t bothered trying to count what scares me in the Other world, because the rules of this world just don’t work in the Other. Not even the kind we take for granted, like gravity, much less anything with more complicated, like ethics, or happiness. Even terror has a different shape and smell.

If you’ve never been to the Other world, you won’t get it.

The first thing in this world that terrifies me is being pulled into the Other world, because you can only go one way. You’re relaxing, maybe eating lunch, and then suddenly there’s the snap. The twist. The pain. The panic. The shock of landing hard in the Other.

If you’re lucky, they twist the hook out of your mouth and throw you back. 

The second thing in this world that terrifies me: fin rot.

FFF 19.2

I went a completely different direction than where I was originally planning to go. When I wrote the line this morning, I was thinking it was a great line for a killer or someone wrapping up a dirty job (with some kind of twist), with a great fast 'n action-y mood... but when I finally managed to sit down and write this while eating dinner, I ended up with this 100 word piece:

I don’t like loose ends.

Which is why I don’t get into relationships. 

There aren’t enough sharp edges, no definitive lines to clearly mark where they start and end. 

It’s easier to not have have friends, to not have lovers.

To laugh away each night with new acquaintances, and forget their names by morning.

I want simple. I want clean. Black or white. Yes or no.

No entanglements.

No longing.

No disappointment or hurt.

People are messy. Complicated. Selfish.

Like me.

Selfish.

Messy.

Complicated.

But the test in the trash is hCG positive.

Something inside hurts.

I need to breathe.

FFF 18.2

6 minutes :)

Beat that for a 100 word flash fiction!

He keeps looking at me with his groping, watching eyeballs. It’s a familiar feeling, but at the same time, new. 

This isn’t the kind of man who usually approaches me, but somehow I know it’ll happen, even before he slips up behind me with a grocery cart loaded down with Doritos and Dr. Pepper.

And he goes for it.

One hand reaches out, and grabs me, squeezing gently, like he’s unsure of what to do, or if he’s made the right decision.

Then he leans forward and inhales, drinking in my ripe scent.

Sweet. 

Just like an orange should be.

FFF 17.2

I know, I know, I dropped the ball... yesterday turned out busier than expected, what with picking up my nephew from school and entertaining him until my sister was done work.

I did start reading him a new book... "Rasmus and the Vagabond", by Astrid Lindgren (same author of the "Pippi Longstocking" series) which may be a little too old for him still (my nephew is 6), and we played Lego for several hours, and since I'm still fighting off this cold, I was wiped when my sister finally came to pick him up.

Here we go, quickly written, unedited, and it may be worse than usual due to my foggy brain :)

The term ‘cut-throat’ isn’t an empty cliche when you see it happen in real life. One moment there’s life, then the skin peels open along the blade, a gush of blood bursts over your hands, and the heat and heartbeat evaporate in seconds. It’s fast, so fast you could fool yourself into thinking there was never life in the first place, but that’s what’s strange. 

Cut-throat usually means ruthless, or fierce, but when you see it happen, it’s the opposite. A quick and near-painless death, the blood pumping out before adrenaline can take control and crank the muscles into fight-or-flight hardness.

It’s messy though. 

A bullet would be neater, but I suppose cleaning up is part of this job as well.

But I’ll tell you one thing, after working as a butcher’s assistant, I’ve now turned vegetarian.

Flash Fiction Friday 16, & 16.2

I'm going to be selfish today and mix FFF up a little...

Do you know why?

Not only is it Friday the 13th today (which is AWESOME, of course), it's also my birthday.

...so instead of giving you a sentence, I'm going to give you a theme:

Write about the best, or worst birthday gift you ever received, or a gift that you have some kind of strong memory about. I'd prefer it to be from your real life... 'cause then I get to know you better :) But if you want to stick with fiction, go ahead ;)

...and because I'm *selfish* and am scooting out to see my family right now (actually, I'm spending the weekend there...), I'm going to take the day off and re-post a relevant flash fiction piece I wrote for a Unicorn Bell submission and not write a new one for today:

My first memory is the day I told my first lie.

It was my third birthday and, as only the second grandchild born, I was a little bit spoiled in having all my aunts, uncles, parents and sister gathered together at my Nana’s house to celebrate.

What I wanted was a truck, a gloriously heavy yellow metal Tonka dump-trunk like my sister had, large enough for a small child to sit in. I was not allowed to sit in hers. What I got was a blonde doll who you fed water to with a bottle... and then you would sit the doll on a pink plastic potty where... well, you get the idea.

I remember the moment unwrapping it, I remember the disgust I felt when I figured out its very limited purpose... and I remember the brilliant smile on my Nana’s face, so excited was she that I had opened her gift first.

My first memory is the day I told my first lie. Somewhere in a photo album, there is a picture of me with my Nana, my tiny face twisted by the new and unfamiliar desire to please someone other than myself. And though I hated that doll and never played with it, I can clearly remember that ugly, pink plastic potty.

FFF 15.2

7 minutes...

I had fun with this one, though it ended up as more of a character sketch than a story.

I just brought another load of stuff to the Kits place, and after I haul it in and unpack, I'm going to scoot out and give Eva a good long walk. Then I'll be back to read your stories!!! YEAH! So excited!!


200 words:

Jasper McFee was one hell of a guy. Not one hell of a good guy, or one hell of a bad guy. He was the kind of guy where you never knew if what was spewing out of his mouth was fact or fiction. I’m not talking tall tales, or fishing stories where a wide-mouth bass was thiiiiiiiis big, or even dame stories, like some triple-F-cup decked in leather throwing herself at him in a bar.

No, with Jasper, it could start out with a parking ticket, and end up with him naked in an alley four cities away with the police on his ass or gangsters emptying lead at the dumpster he was hiding in.

He’d be knocking back a pint while telling you his story, fresh bruises on his face, or a nasty-looking bandage on his arm, and just that way he’d tell it, you’d have no idea if he was full of shit. You’d say, ‘Good one, Jasper’, but he’d just smile in that funny way of his, shrug like he didn’t care if you believed him, and something about that look on his face would make you sober up and stop laughing.

FFF 14.2

Alright, I got home at 5:45pm, now it's 5:57. I think this is the fastest one written yet...

200 words:

I knew it would be an ugly morning when the smell of scotch was stronger than the smell of coffee. 

My boss was holding the mug, which doubled the ugliness factor, then tripled it, considering it was Friday, and the numbers from last quarter would be in by now.

Was I about to get fired?

She sipped her coffee, both hands wrapped around the black ceramic mug, long red painted nails tapping out the intimate rhythm of an unknown song. I wiped my palms on my pants and straightened my tie.

“Eddie, I want you to take a look at your client list and tell me why you’re here.” She parks a sheet of heavy-gauge paper with embossed edges on the desk.

I glance down the list of names, only first names, of course, scrawled in her sharp, confident calligraphy. Beside them are dollar figures. Dollar figures that look a little too low.

“I’ve invested in you, and your career. Contacts to give your eyes a touch of green, and the personal trainer to sculpt those biceps. They’re not here for conversation, they’re here to spend money, so let them. More champagne, Eddie. Get them drinking the good stuff.”

FFF 13.2

Alrighty, I found a couple minutes to type something out, and I played off a familiar creep-tastic theme/idea from this previous FFF, and (to a lesser extent) this one too.

...and after you read this, you will understand why I don't write romance...

200 words for your enjoyment:

No one ever said it was easy to love a god. I think it’s because humans and gods love by different standards, so it’s more difficult to understand each other.

While humans like kissing, touching, gifts, and kind words, some gods love through prayer, or meditation, others by music, dance, painted bodies, and incense. Some gods want grand temples and statuary, mosaics, or ephemeral offerings of food and flowers. Those relationships could probably work, with effort, but I think it would be harder if a god only loved through self-flagellation, war, destruction, or suicide.

The god I love resides in a tree.

I don’t know if it’s male or female, or if that even matters. I know it loves me from the kind sound of wind through its branches, the caressing touch of its leaves on my skin, and the gift of cherry blossoms in the spring.

In return, I feed the one I love with my words, with my touch, and with the gifts I bury deep in the soil. When I kiss its rough bark with my lips, and breathe the scents of growing life and decomposition, I know we have connected, that our love is real.

FFF 12.2

Well, here's my swiftly written flash fiction piece, enjoy! I hope there aren't any major spelling/etc mistakes as I didn't edit this one... 10 minutes, I think?

She held a gun to my head, and asked one question.

“Crown Royal, or JD?”

“Crown.”

She spun the gun by its trigger guard, holstered it, and pulled out another. I raised my glass, and she shot once, twice, hitting the inside rim at just the right angle so the alcohol swirled 180 degrees before mixing into the Coke.

Paul slapped my back. “I told you this place was great. Check out the lights.” Gold plated AK-47’s hung on the walls, stocks polished, and camo-patterned shades over red and white LED bulbs. The floor was untreated pine, and the booths and chairs padded with army-green canvas.

The bartender was holding up her next customer, the eerily realistic gun pressed to his forehead, her voice husky enough to frighten, just a little. She wasn’t wearing especially tight clothes, or a low neckline with a push-up bra. She wasn’t decked out in leather, or brimming with aggressive feminine sexuality, but she didn’t need it. That voice, and those eyes. They sold it. Sold her. Even though I’d known the gun was fake, in that moment, I really believed I was going to die.

I lifted my hand, making like I was brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, but that wasn’t it at all. The imprint of the barrel had faded, but there was still a lingering sensation on my skin. I slugged back the rum and Coke in two swallows, and watched for my chance to order another.

Bang, bang, bang. Customers lined up at the bar shot dead in a moment, just like me. Fear, adrenaline, alcohol, war, and sex.

Even without Paul, I’d be back.

FFF 11.2

Mine turned out a little less like a story this time...

Here are my 200 words, please excuse any spelling/auto-correct errors as I am typing on my phone:

No matter what they say about happily-ever-afters, fairy tales are always tragedies. Sure, the youngest son always gets the girl, and the cursed princess always goes free, but what about everyone else? All the other princes usually die horrible deaths trying to slay the giant or ogre. Brothers who were not smart enough to solve the riddle are humiliated, and both sisters and step-sisters of the girl who marries the prince fall into ruin. Sometimes the king or queen is already dead, or dying from a mysterious wasting illness, or they can only have one child, so the fate of the kingdom rests on a single soul.

And those are the cleaned up fairytale versions. You don't really want to know what happened with Little Red Riding-hood, or Sleeping Beauty hidden away in her tower. Jack the giant killer wasn't exactly a hero, and Tom Thumb wasn't noble or stalwart. Kings and princes raped innocent girls, and queens and mothers killed children and ate their flesh.

Sure, sometimes there's a happily-ever-after waiting at the end of every tale filled with deceit, violence, selfishness, and debauchery.

Maybe that's the real lesson of fairytales. To find happiness within the anarchy.

FFF 10.2

There's a nice, warm drizzle outside, and you know how much I love the rain ;)

Funny how the more I write these flash fiction pieces, the less I end up editing. My first draft was 218 words, I fleshed it out to 263, then I re-wrote a line and cut out a couple extra words to make it 250:

It was nearly morning. The moon was an overturned bowl shaking the last drops of milky starlight into the silkscreen washed sky. Tomorrow it would be a waning crescent on its way to a new moon. Funny how a lightless night, after the moon has been extinguished, is when it’s thought to be reborn.

I flicked my lighter, the tiny sunspot of manufactured light as fast and ephemeral as a single heartbeat. My thumb pulsed, keeping time with sparks and the sharp scent of flint. Not the same as gunpowder, but close.

The lights were still off in the house, doors and windows latched for the night.

She’d be out soon. She ran every morning for an hour, her Belgian shepherd, Kali, keeping a loping pace at her side.

Flick, spark, burn, wait.

A razor gap of black widened as she opened the front door in the dark. In a pink sports-bra and knee-length shorts, she bent to tug the laces of her shoes tight. She took a few minutes to stretch, her hamstrings first, then planted her hands on the door and leaned into an almost-kneel to target the tendons in her calves and feet.

I checked the holster straps, ran my hand over the butt of my 9mm. 

She took off jogging, and I let her get half-a-block away before I followed. In this light, I didn’t want to be seen.

It was time to do my job.

I would keep her safe.

FFF 9.2

Alrighty, here's my quick (and this time unedited!) flash fiction piece for (belated) flash fiction Friday, and it's a mightily short 75 words:

It was her red ribbon, Anna’s ribbon, drowning in the murky pool of decomposing leaves and run-off water. Bright, like her smile, bright, like the fervor that burned through the town when she disappeared, and bright like enamel against dust. They found her by the gleam of her teeth in a trick of light down by the river.

I want to ask mayor Silas why Anna’s ribbon was in the ditch outside his garden.

Obvious, right?

Sometimes you whirl around a situation so many times you lose sight of the obvious. Until someone smacks you upside the head with it...

Thanks, Lydia for commenting. I really needed to be beaten-down with the obvious:

That query POV issue is always hard. You just have to pretend you're pitching it out loud to someone. It's hard!

So how do I talk about my murky main character when I'm talking to someone, out loud, about the story?

After 2.5 hours of sleep, I bolted awake at 4:30am this morning and typed this 3rd POV query for 'TRoRS' on my phone as an email to myself:

For the nameless, gender-ambiguous main character (MC), riding shotgun in Triss’ car is normal. So is sleeping in her car when it’s not safe to go home, and eating her leftovers cold from a brown paper bag. When the car starts breaking down, it’s normal for the MC to help when Triss gets involved in a twisted game of manipulation so she can pay for repairs. 

At parties Jackson hosts, their game runs on in the background, where they bet on who’s going to get wasted and do something stupid. The bets start out normal, but they quickly escalate until one night, everything goes wrong, and people aren’t like cards or poker chips. They have baggage. They get angry. They want revenge.

Six weeks after that party, Jackson ends up on the wrong side of dead, and now nothing is normal. There are rules when you ride shotgun, because the driver holds all power and responsibility, but when there’s a corpse in the trunk, the car is breaking down, and Triss starts to lose control, the MC must reevaluate the rules of their relationship, and ultimately when to break them.

THE RULES OF RIDING SHOTGUN is a 60,000 word YA Contemporary in the tradition of Courtney Summers and John Green, with a little bit of Justine Larbalestier’s LIAR mixed in. The main character has no name, and no defined gender, as relationships are all about the lines we draw, and the lines that are drawn for us.

Yeah. Still needs work. It's boring and not quite *voice-y* enough, but it's a place to start, and not bad considering I'm deliriously tired from almost two straight weeks of insomnia... or maybe I'm so overtired I can't tell good from bad anymore...

Thoughts? Impressions? The writing sucks, so I'm asking more about the angle... the points I'm focusing on.

Okay, I'm going to try to get a couple more hours sleep. Today's Flash Fiction Friday may go up later than normal, but it'll still be going up.

Every word counts: streamlining

Okay, I promise this is the last nerdy post for a while :) This one’s the wrap-up.

...do I hear a collective sigh of relief? Yes, yes, here’s the ladder, so those who jumped in here with me and have kept reading can now climb out of the rabbit hole and scurry to safety...

(isn’t ‘scurry’ a wonderfully delicious/strong word?)

If I’ve managed to succeed in even the smallest way, I hope you can see your writing through slightly different, OCD-tinted lenses.

So, what about application? I’ve thrown eight looooooong posts at you, this is number nine (over 9,000 words and counting), but I originally talked about method, strategy, process.

I think the best way to learn to recognize, and rectify the amorphous ‘show vs tell’ is to write, and edit flash fiction.

Start with a 500 word story, and whittle it down to 300 words. Write a 300 word story, and make it 200 words. Take a 200 word story, strip it to 100 words. Write a 100 word story, and edit until it’s 75 or even 50 words.

Overcompensate. Overwrite. Yes, that's what I'm saying, and that's the reason I posted first-draft material as examples, 'cause I do it ALL the time. Every word counts in the end, but often it's easier to use many words until you've nailed down your point, then delete the unnecessary/filler words later. This is also a good way to figure out what works best for the voice of your characters. How would they describe/explain something? Write it three different ways, then choose the best one, and delete the rest.

In first drafts, I always circle my point like a vulture over roadkill... and only feast when I’ve whirled around and around, and I recognize the piece I want by its perfectly ripe flavor.

If you don't like writing flash fiction, or find it intimidating, you can also do this by choosing one scene from a larger manuscript, which is what I'm going to use here to hopefully illustrate my point.

This is also a great test to see if your characters have distinct ‘voices’ by removing as many dialogue tags as possible.

I'm not actually a chronic over-writer... I used to be, but my first drafts have become way more streamlined/clean from practice. Now I tend to start with very little information, and flesh it out later, which is how I do get myself into trouble once in a while. Janice Hardy had a challenge on her blog, so this is what I edited down to fit the requirements. 

I'm going to post the original first. It was 648 words, I also specifically edited out all swearing (I try to be considerate when it's on someone else's site):

(by the way, this scene is the second half of the one used for description/body language)

Then there’s a double-fisted bang at my door. 

I jump.

I breathe.

I wasn’t breathing until now. Not enough. I’m lightheaded. Blink, breathe. Eyes are dry. Hands, still moving?

“Jay, X-Box!”

Damn it. It’s Donovan.

He pounds again. “Jay, it’s already hooked up, so take off your lipstick and panties for an hour, and come down.”

“I’m working.” My hands are trembling, fingers black. God, it feels so damn good to draw.

“No you’re not.” There’s a shuffle and squeal as the door cracks open. Donny wedges his head inside. “Oh, that’s not the hot white chick you were painting last year.” 

Before I can dignify his incomprehensibly obvious statement with a response, he makes it worse by speaking again.

“Why do you have a Mexican in your room? Are you paying her in food stamps to take her clothes off?”

Blood may be thicker than water, but it’s not thicker than bigotry. The guy is a serious asshole. I’d like to say he grew up in a cult compound, had nut-job parents who taught him to fear his own shadow, or maybe blame it on generations of inbreeding, but that’s not it at all.

Donovan is just an ass, but at least he’s equally an ass to everyone. He calls me a homo ‘cause I paint, and his dad a redneck, even though my uncle is an accountant of all things.  Maybe ‘cause the guy drives one of those small Toyota pickups. I’ve even heard Donny call his mom a bitch, right to her face. Actually, I think he calls all girls ‘bitches’.

I know you can’t choose your family members, but I sure as hell believe you can choose to walk the other way when you see one coming.

Since it’s my house, and my workroom, this isn’t a case where I actually could walk away, but I put down my stick of charcoal and turn around. It’s more difficult than I expect to control the volume of my own voice. “She’s not naked, and she’s not Mexican, you half-wit.”

“She’s brown, ain’t she? That wasn’t racist, y’know, ‘cause she is brown, and anyways, I have the right to free speech.” Donovan winks and flips up both middle fingers. “First amendment, all the way. If you don’t like it, suck it. We’re in America.”

An instant migraine spears through my frontal lobe, and I’m about to yell at him again, when Kell breaks in.

“Wow, double-digit-IQ here knows which country he lives in. Gold stars all around.” She doesn’t sound angry, or even sarcastic. There’s amusement sparking in her low voice.

I manage a tight laugh. “Southpark here gets all his charm from from YouTube. He’s a sophomore at St. Anthony’s.”

Her lips stretch in that weird, not-a-smile way. “I didn’t know private schools consider geography an elective class. I suppose it’s considered extraneous, along with diplomacy and etiquette.”

Donny snorts, tugging at his blue and red striped tie. His shirt is untucked, his pants wrinkled, there are grass stains on his knees. “I’m taking automotive shop, not French.”

Kell’s mouth may not be curved, but her eyes are dancing. “I guess changing oil is one step up from making fries.”

“Hey, Taco Bell, go back to Mexico so Jay and me can shoot shit on the seventy-two-inch plasma.”

“Donovan!” I’m about to get seriously pissed.

But Kell leans forward, out of the good light. “Call of Duty?”

“Fuck, yeah!”

Then she’s off the stool and navigating the room like she’s twirling through a choreographed routine she could maneuver in her sleep. “You better bring your A-game, Butters, ‘cause I’m going to kick your ass.” She pounds a fist into Donny’s shoulder as she slips past him into the hallway.

He turns and gapes at me. “Damn, that kinda hurt!”

Then he’s chasing her downstairs.

Now, here it is edited down to exactly 250 words. I did it really fast, so I know I could have removed more, or been more effective:

There’s a double-fisted bang on my door. “Jay, X-Box.”

“I’m working.”

“Take off your lipstick and panties for an hour!” Donny wedges his head through the crack and sees Kell. “Why do you have a Mexican in your room? Are you paying her in food stamps to take her clothes off?”

Blood may be thicker than water, but it’s not thicker than bigotry. I know you can’t choose your family members, but I sure as hell believe you can walk the other way when you see one coming.

I put the charcoal down. “She’s not Mexican, you half-wit, or naked.”

“But she’s brown. That wasn’t racist, y’know, ‘cause she is brown, and anyways, I have the right to free speech.” He winks. “First amendment, all the way.”

Before I can yell, Kell breaks in.

“Double-digit-IQ here knows what country he lives in. Gold stars all around.” She doesn’t sound angry, or even sarcastic.

I manage a tight laugh. “Donny’s a sophmore at St. Anthony’s”

“I didn’t realize private schools consider geography an elective, along with diplomacy and etiquette.”

Donny snorts. “I’m taking automotive shop, not French.”

“Changing oil is one step up from making fries.”

“Hey, Taco Bell, get out so Jay and me can shoot stuff.”

“Donovan!” I’m about to get seriously pissed.

But Kell leans forward, out of the good light. “Call of Duty?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“Then I’m going to kick your butt.”

He grins. “Well, I don’t mind if you’re wearing lipstick.”

So, what do you think? Did I lose any of the essence of the scene? I lost bits of action, lines were simplified, explanations trimmed, the last line changed, but the voices of all three characters remained distinct. Even when I took out a bunch of the dialogue tags, you should still know which character is speaking.

Take one of your own scenes, and start cutting.

When it’s trimmed down, read it again, cut more.

Think about everything we talked about: description, voice, body language. Think about subtext. Can you use one word/image to imply multiple meanings, or to suggest state of mind? Can you add words from a description, or take away, to accentuate what the character cares about? What about body language? Can you express emotional/psychological/physical state of one character, simply through the observational skills of another character without ‘telling’? What words are you using that are weak, and can you swap them out with a few strong ones?

Now start adding back in.

Alrighty, that’s my process for new scenes, first-drafts, flash-fiction, and novels. Those are the main components I always keep in the back of my head when I write, when I measure/analyze/edit my own words to death, and when I critique my CP’s writing. It’s why I don’t normally do line edits, because sometimes there ends up being more blue text (my comments/questions) than black text.

Okay, this series is now finished, so what did you guys think? Did I miss something, or totally go off-base? Was there something that could be explained better, or confusing parts? I’m definitely willing to refine the posts if you have things to say/critiques/suggestions, or write a new post if you anyone has questions.

Was this helpful at all? I’m never sure when I skulk off on nerdy-tangents whether anyone enjoys it, or if you’re all rolling your eyes and wondering when I’m going to shut up.

It took about 10 hours to write these posts... about 10,000 words in one day (except the examples from SCARLIGHT), and by the end, it felt like my brain was skipping around like a carbonated wasp. I’m sure there were points where I utterly failed at clarity, if not managed to completely bastardize the English language. I expect to be strung up for my crimes, eventually.

Now, anyone who still wants a critique, todays' the last day to email me. 250-ish words only, please.

...after today, that’s the end of it, and only my CP’s will get to enjoy? my insanely OCD-over-analysis-editing of their writing. (Y’know, there might be a reason I keep moving... so no one can sneak up in the middle of the night and take revenge)

Oh, I've decided not to post them online, just to email them back to those who send them to me.

That be all, folks ;)

Back down the rabbit-hole I go :) It was nice having you visit the unfortunate, over-cluttered insanity that is my brain. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to live in here?

FFF 8.2

Okay, my first-draft was 136 words, and I slimmed it down to exactly 100 by the time I finished my coffee. Nice thing is, I did it in less than half an hour!

...but I kinda wish I hadn't wasted an entire 26 words with that first sentence/prompt...

Kiyoshi didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, but when a third crow landed on his mailbox, he felt led to reevaluate his thoughts on the matter. His fingers fell silent against his keyboard, the flashing cursor on his screen forgotten. Mid-scene. Mid-sentence. Mid-murder. 

The crows worked together, beaks and claws cooperating to hoist the tiny metal flag usually flipped by the stumpy hand of the postman.

When the flag had been raised, they flew off, or up, rather, into the shivering limbs of a naked cherry tree. The soil below, disturbed. 

Kiyoshi went to check his mailbox.

Subtext makes for some interesting math

The previous posts about strong words, the benefits and dangers of implied meanings, voice, body language, and description were all a way of talking about subtext.

Now, I know this isn’t true for everyone, but I’ve read some posts/blogs where people seem to want to create a marked division between commercial and literary writing. Often one side is bad-mouthing the other.

I’ve heard ‘subtext’ thrown around like it’s a dirty word.

Subtext isn’t exclusively for literary works, for MFA grads looking down from lofty, academic heights on the commercial-lit slums.

Subtext IS showing, not telling. It’s using implied meanings, it’s using subtle word play, like when the character uses ‘I’. It’s in body language, metaphor, description, and a million other fun things that give writing depth, and make it memorable. Chances are, your favourite scenes from your favorite books are packed-full of subtext. Remember this exercise I linked earlier?

Words without subtext are dead, nothing more than the bland combination of letters. 2 + 2 will always equal 4, but with subtext, it could equal 5, 10, or 23, because the reader is bringing in that added element themselves.

Subtext brings life, it brings breath, it brings volume, it brings weight and depth.

I’ve said, oh, so many times that I am sick of hearing myself say it, that I hate writing background. I prefer to write the implication of background, hand it off to my beta readers, and go kicking and screaming into edits... adding in the absolute minimum of background information so the story makes sense.

Here’s another rough first-draft snippet from SCARLIGHT, pay attention to what I’ve bolded. Also, since we’ve talked about the use of ‘I’, pay attention to where it shows up, and where it doesn’t. What does Jay notice/describe, and what does he ignore? Think about what the implied background is. What am I saying, not directly, but through subtext about Jay, his father, Aricia, the principle, etc?

They try to call dad. Of course they do. Of course he doesn’t pick up. The end-of-day bell rings, the halls fill with bodies. I ask for a box from the office and clean my locker out. Everyone watches, lingering, whispering. Even Ari slows down as she goes by, the buckles and chains on her Coach bag catch the dull, fluorescent light and transform it into something beautiful.

When I’m done, I march back to the office and stack the school textbooks neatly on the secretary’s desk. I sit on the sofa, the leather one which is dyed British racing-green and has mahogany-stained claw legs. The box on the floor, and my bag is on my lap. I could listen to music, but I don’t. I could pull out my sketchbook, but I don’t. I sit. I wait.

They keep calling dad. He still doesn’t pick up.

Actions speak louder than words.

I’m all packed up, ready to leave if they can’t do what I asked.

There are phone calls. School is out at three o’clock. Four-thirty rolls by, the halls are empty, the secretary is long gone, but the principle is still in his office with Dreschner.

He comes out only once to ask me if I know the girl’s name.

“Pink dreadlocks, green eyes. There’s got to be only one.”

He frowns, and closes the door.

One line I really hope you paid attention to was, “Actions speak louder than words.”

Look at the placement.

It’s not in the paragraph where Jay is making his very obvious point... sitting on the sofa with his stuff in his lap, not listening to music or opening his sketchbook.

It’s after the line about his dad not picking up, then is followed by Jay saying he’s ready to go if they don’t do what he wants.

What am I trying to say by placing it there, specifically?

...hopefully, you’re getting that Jay has learned this behavior, this ‘lesson’, from his father’s own actions. I wanted to link them together, so I moved lines around so I could position it in that exact spot.

Another small thing, I don’t know if anyone got, is the line about Ari. Jay talks about ‘everyone’ in 4 words. He takes 29 to notice Ari (his ex-girlfriend) slightly slowing down, and stares hard enough to know her bag’s brand, and how light plays on the accessories.

Description, voice, subtext: it’s often in what’s not said directly, but the clues are all there, if you take the time to line them up, and that’s what I mean when I say 2 + 2 could add up to 5, 10, or 23. Some readers love hunting out subtext, others would have skimmed the line about Ari and not given it a nanosecond of additional thought.

There’s no right or wrong, but I think, as a writer, I want to cater to both kinds of reader. SO, I don’t want to mire anyone in unnecessarily convoluted words to draw attention to the subtext and bore the heck out of those who hate it, nor do I want to leave it all out and leave hungry-subtext-lovers dissatisfied. There’s a happy medium when you go for quality over quantity. Efficiency.

Choosing strong, effective words allows you to keep subtext short and effective. One word instead of ten.

Whether I succeed or not is up to the reader. All I can do is state my intention, my reasoning, and my strategy for achieving it.

This is how I like to write.

Good or bad, love it or hate it, these are qualities of my voice, as a writer.