The Great Hook

“Ahoy there!”

I turned around and saw the fellow carrying his tackle box and life jacket. Around the rim of his floppy hat dangled tiny fishing hooks. The sight of him reminded me of that character who played the colonel in all those old M.A.S.H. episodes. “Pardon?”

“Sorry, I’m Frank.” The man held out his hand. After I checked it for any sharp points, I shook his palm. “Didn’t mean to be so abrupt. Saw you getting ready to head out on the lake. Wanted to extend a fisherman’s welcome.”

“Oh. Hello, Frank. I’m new at all of this so I guess I’m a little jumpy. My name is Michelle.” I removed my tackle box from the truck. “Do you come to this lake often?”

Frank nodded and grabbed my rod to help out. “Whenever the weather permits. There’s a lot of different fish in this water. I never know what I’m going to catch.”

We walked toward the pier where my new boat waited. I placed my things onboard before turning toward Frank. “Where’s your craft?”

“At the marina on the other side. Getting some work done on it. I’ll be doing some pier fishing today.” Frank shrugged. “Have yourself a good trip. Hope you catch a lot.”

I waved at my boat. “Come aboard, Frank. Plenty of room for one more and I don’t want to break any fisherman’s etiquette rules about leaving any man behind.”

Laughing, Frank loaded his supplies. He untied the boat from the dock as I revved the old motor. We puttered out into the middle of the lake, dropped the anchor, and readied our poles. I took out my special lures as curiosity got the better of Frank.

He leaned forward. “Never seen bait like this before? Is that a rolled-up newspaper?”

I chuckled. “No, it’s my manuscript. I’m fishing for agents.”

“Agents?” Frank’s eyes glazed over as his thoughts flipped through his mental fishing books for a creature by this name. “Are they related to carp?”

“I don’t think so.” I tied the lure to my hook. “I believe the Latin term for them is ‘literarius agens,’ or in English, ‘literary agent’.”

“Huh? Well, I learn something new every day.” Frank pointed at the end of my line. “What are those marks etched into your hooks?”

I took out a magnifying glass. “It’s my hook, or rather the pitch sentence for my story. I need to have something eye-catching to get an agent’s interest.”

“Um, they’re tiny words.” Frank’s eyebrows lifted in skepticism. “Are you saying agent fish can read?”

My laughter surrounded the boat. “They better, or they won’t be in business for very long. The words might look small now, but they will appear larger to the agents - sort of like sticking a straw in a glass of water. The part submerged always looks bigger than the half sticking out.”

“I only drink my beer out of the can. So I’ll just take your word for it.” Frank shook his head. He snapped his fishing line through the air and then sent it into the lake.

We sat in companionable silence for the next several hours. Frank’s fishing basket filled quickly while mine remained empty. When the early twilight settled over the lake and ground fog reduced our visibility, he began to bring in his line

“Doesn’t look as if you’re going to ca-“ He stopped as my line began to wiggle. Out in the distance, a large shape broke through the still liquid surface. It wiggled its tail end and flopped down with a huge splash.

“Wow! That has to be at least a 130-pounder!” Frank tossed nets out of the boat searching for the biggest one we had.

“I have to coax him in slow. I don’t want to upset him off my hook.” I tugged a little on the rod. My hand made circular motions as the line reeled in with thrumming tension. The large figure jumped from the water again, gleaming in the rising moon’s light, showing off his credentials. My hook had snagged a button on his shirt.

“Glad you drove here in that truck of yours. We’re going to have a hard time getting this baby in the back.” Frank’s hands grabbed the rod and held it steady so I could take a breather. One last big tug and we had my catch up in the air over the boat.

“Hmm.” I fished around in my tackle box until I found my flashlight. In the strong yellow glow, I scanned the papers in his hand. Then I shook my head. “I have to throw him back.”

Frank’s mouth dropped open. “What? But why? He’s huge! There’s no way the sots at the pub are going to believe this fish tale without evidence.”

I lowered the rod toward the water and pried my hook from the agent. He made one big leap and then swam away. In seconds he disappeared into the darkness and the fog.

I turned toward Frank. “When you go fishing and catch something that is undersize or out of season, what do you do?”

“I toss him back in the lake.” Frank scratched his head. “But you came here to find an agent. And he definitely wasn’t undersized.”

“But he wasn’t the one for me.” I sighed. “I know the excitement of finding one can be overwhelming and sometimes we will reel him in without hesitation. Yet we have to keep a clear head about things. He might not be the right one to market my manuscript, or have the type of working relationship I would want from my agent. He has to be right for me just as much as my manuscript has to be right for him to represent. If it’s not, things will go bad fast.”

“Yeah, I understand how that one goes. Once, I scooped a fish out of the water and stuck him in my basket without checking him out. Didn’t realize he was rotten and ended up spoiling the rest of the catch by the time I got home.” Frank started the motor as I placed my hooks away. “What a mess that was for me! Now I always make sure to take the time to check them out.”

In thirty minutes we were back on dry land. I had my truck loaded up as Frank came over to shake my hand in goodbye before he made his way home. “Sorry you didn’t find the right catch today. Hope things will be better for you next time.”

I nodded my head. “I hope so too, Frank. Enjoy your fish dinner tonight!”

I WON!!!!!!!

Okay, Michelle. Deep breaths. In... out... in... out...

Ahem. I won a query critique from Bethany and Suzette over at Shooting Stars. Even more, Elana Johnson, author of "From the Query to the Call," volunteered to do the query critique.

Yippeee!

Writing Contest... without the writing!

The ladies at Shooting Stars are holding a contest. All you have to do is leave a comment on their blog, become a follower, or talk about this contest to enter.

The Prizes:

Two query critiques

Two first five page critiques

A signed copy of The Dark Divine by Bree Despain.

Well, what are you waiting for? Get your butt over there!

Adding the Senses into the Spice of a Story.

Yes, all five. A dash here. A smidgen there. Mix well. Bake until the crux has turned a bubbly golden brown. A wholesome meal good for the mind as you lick lips at every savory word.

Okay. I’m talking about writing, not cooking. So you can stop gnawing on the keyboard now.

I talk about writing whenever I am on the verge of starting a new project. I sit for a time while thinking of all the good parts and tips I had learned in the last story. Then I remember all the new ideas I want to pursue this time. Some of the things I need to immerse myself in (and talk about today) are the human senses: sight, touch, taste, smell, hearing.

It is incredible how these things can shape a story. They can grab the readers’ attention and have the people fall headfirst into your writing as they send you the hospital bill and a summons to appear in court to pay for damages. But oftentimes we forget to explore such realms, except for two: touch and sight. We are doing a disservice to our stories when these are the only senses we concentrate on. And it doesn’t matter what genre you are writing in: literary, commercial, romance, YA, thriller, science fiction, fantasy, or short fiction (especially short fiction.) You need to make your story come alive for the reader. You need to capture all their senses until the readers feel as if they are in the room, leaning against the wall, drawing in lazy puffs of cigarette smoke, and wanting to join in or at least take pictures of the scene so they can sell it to the tabloids.

Do you want examples? Of course you do. Everybody loves free samples, er, I mean examples. These are just the ones I have written. You might have a few that can better express the senses.
******************
Sight:

A click sounded and the door swung wide. Mitch had seen a clumsy landscaper’s misplaced delivery in the bedroom. Yet that was in the Spring. This was Summer. Things had changed.

Bushes. Flowers. Thorns. Everywhere. Boards boxed in the floor around the bed and dresser to keep the soil away from the area near the door so it could swing open and close. The dirt lay piled up to two feet high in some places with long rods inserted in the mounds. Wire tied the woody limbs to the stakes to keep them upright. Branches reached outward almost engulfing the few pieces of furniture in the room. They surrounded the bed and over it, allowing a small space for someone to climb in. Leaves created a natural blanket for the sleeper.

I saw movement in the soil and in Clare’s bed. I could guess what it was but flicked on the light anyway to get a good look. My body leaned forward as I saw the earthworm tumble off the pillow and down into the soil on the floor. My fingers reached over and flicked off the light. I backed out of the room. The key made sure the lock caught.

Yeah. All right. A plant nursery grew in my grandmother’s bedroom. I could handle this despite Granny Clare having my mind tripping at the sight without the drugs.
******************************
Touch:

Forgetting the missed cue, Trevor lost himself in the music. His voice thundered into the microphone with his mind completely locked into his special place. Now it was just Trevor and his guitar, as he stroked the strings and they responded to the caress by purring out their notes in satisfaction. His pants tightened below his waist while feeling the vibrating instrument rub against him in this musical game of give-and-take. Pleasure. Sheer pleasure.
*****************************
Smell:

I placed my cheek on the floor, devastated to the point of tears. Musty. The linoleum smelled musty with an old fruity aroma of many shoe prints. Overripe with what the previous occupants had brought inside. Excitement caused by the job promotion as they had never seen the yellow puddle in the grass from the feral cat. Happiness from winning the basketball rematch as the players’ sweat from the auditorium had filled shoe treads. Sadness created by the bad report card as they had stomped with frustration upon every unwary bug on the sidewalk.
*****************************
Taste:

Cold mint. George’s tongue ran over the surface holding a bitter tang and sweet snap of sugar euphoria that he enjoyed when chewing on black licorice dipped in Dr. Pepper. The heat from his mouth stripped away the first savory layer. Yet he lingered on the second. The flavor had changed. Deeper. Pungent. Dirty in the way of many hands covered in salty sweat and bitter perfume and deep-fried foods overcooked until charred.

He tried to tug his tongue away. Yet the chill air had frozen the saliva against the flagpole, fastening his tender taste buds onto the metal. George knew he should have never accepted that sucker bet.
********************************
Hearing:

I pulled my eyes from Mitch’s entry. My feet walked over toward the circular spot staining the gypsum board above. It must have been here Grandpa referred to in his journal. Yet he had mentioned a plaster ceiling. Was it the original covered over by the second made of tiles?

My hand reached up but I was too short to bump a tile out of the metal track. Not even the bone helped as I stretched it upward to scratch the rough surface. I hated drop ceilings. Saw no real use in them. My childhood home had one, and I could hear scratching noises as the mice played relay races on the tiles. Scritch-scratch toward one wall then the same sound toward the other, knowing my father had laid down traps as I waited with anticipated dread.

Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-SNAP. Silence.
**********************************
The senses. Explore them all. Place them in your writing. See what you can bake up. But don’t forget to send me a slice. This post has made me hungry.

Quirky Characters

Today, I want to talk about quirks.

We all have quirks, whether it’s the eye roll whenever we hear a tasteless joke, the habitual clearing of the throat to gain someone’s attention, or the hip thrust with the hand placed on one side in the indignant pose when someone is acting silly.

Your characters do have their own unique quirks, don’t they?

If not, you are seriously missing an important element in your writing: creating an engaging character. In my last post, I rambled off a little story post. In this, a child was experiencing her taste of winter as her mother walked into the kitchen. The mother had a very interesting quirk. Let me refresh your memory with a snippet.
*****
The water in my palm splashed onto the outdoor carpet as I wiped my hand on the hard fibers. I scooped another unformed snowball up, flicking away the tainted bits until I found a clean spot. My teeth bit down, shoveling the flakes inside, cooling my tongue. The cold white caused a brief shiver through my muscles and brought a grin to my lips. The snow tasted like presents.


The snorts proceeded her into the kitchen. My mother sucked in air through her nose claiming her allergy irritated sinuses. Every five seconds it happened, punctuating the air and halting her mumbling words spoken to herself. Yet the action seemed more instinctual.


When she had watched television, the noises would stop with her fully focused on the glowing screen. After the show had ended or an annoying commercial appeared . . . snort-snort-snort.


Back in the kitchen, I heard a large deep snort of disgust. She must have noticed the open porch door, felt the cold draft, realized whose shadow sat in front of the sun-filled storm door window.


“CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR.”
*****
For the mother, her snorts became her quirk. A psychological tendency she had during her boredom or when angry as she showed her disgust. When her mind focused on something, like watching television, the snorts never appeared.

A quirk can be anything, but it has to first identify the character. Even more, a writer can change such a trait - evolve it - with their character whose behavior should evolve and change with the story plot.

An example: You have a shy female character. Her quirk could accentuate this shyness, like a lopsided grin she only allows herself as she hides her laughter. By the end of the story, events change where she is more comfortable with herself. The defining moment is when she lets out a guffaw of laughter around those people who once made her feel uncomfortable.

Another example: You have an intelligent male character. His quirk is the classic raising of the eyebrow when around those people he feels are intellectually inferior. During the plot, he meets a mentally-challenged person whose childlike tendency softens his heart. Whenever this person shows bursts of compassionate wit, the intelligent male character no longer raises his eyebrows but scratches them in humbleness.

A quirk doesn’t have to take a center stage in the story. I’ve read one where the quirk was so dominant in the character, spread throughout the text constantly, that I grew bored and disconnected with the book. This was a true shame because it was a really good story. But a writer can kill an audience’s interest instantly when the only thing holding together the storyline is the quirkiness of the character. (I find this happening more often in humorous stories than anywhere else.)
*****
Here are a few types of quirks you can give to your character:

Reflexive reaction/motion - This is when a character’s quirk only appears if something else happens. Oftentimes it covers up their own emotions.

- A peculiar sneeze or a cough during an embarrassing situation.
- A muscle tick or chewing on fingernails in nervousness
- A tapping foot or cracking knuckles in impatience.
**
Psychological habit/tendency - This goes at a deeper level. Something traumatic had happened in their past and it forces them to have such a quirk today.

- A trembling leg whenever seeing a dog cross the street caused by a dog bite happening during their childhood.

- The rubbing of hands when hearing a news story about a house fire or seeing someone flick on a lighter. Perhaps when he or she was a teenager, the character had vandalized a house by setting fire to it without knowing there was someone else inside.

- A clearing of the throat and spitting on the ground when seeing a parent verbally disciplining their children. It goes back to the character’s past when their parents disciplined them, perhaps in a negative way.
*****
These are but a few idiosyncrasies I have listed. I encourage you to find your own to fit into your particular storylines. Give your characters quirks to make them unique to the reader, but don’t overdo it. As with every element involved with writing a good story, find a balance.

Just rambling today to make a post

White. Stark. Cold.

Ice filmed the opposite side of the pane, sloping in a gentle curve, fattening at the bottom. My finger traced the line down, skiing the steep slope, creating a squiggly wake of clearness along the breath fog. I blew air from my chest, long and hot. The line faded beneath the mist. Now I closed my hand into a fist and pressed it sideways against the haze.

My hand peeled away, leaving a sole impression of a baby’s foot. Four dots with my index finger made the smaller toes and a thumb blot created the large piggy who would be going to the market while the others stayed home. A footprint stained the glass, my mark on the world, as ethereal when cast in fog on a warming windowpane as it would be on sand near rising ocean tides.

I looked through the frail imprint. Two white flakes skipped along the pane, blending in the cover of white throughout the backyard. My body shifted to sit on bent knees. I snagged the black pushbutton handle for the storm door. The blast of cold hit into my chest, lungs contracting, airway passages confused over the drop of temperature. Irritated wheezes crawled from my throat as I pulled in large gasps ending in ragged coughs.

I fought off the rising asthma attack. My arm reached out to scoop up a palm-sized wad of snow. It wasn’t entirely white like it should’ve been. It was cold, and it was melting. But the snow wasn’t entirely white. Black specks dotted the surface. The first lick of my tongue lifted my upper lip into a grimace. Gritty. Foul. Beyond the crack along the door, a billowy gray cloud settled onto the barren flowerbed. Smoke blasted from the chimney settled onto the snow, tinting it in specks of burnt coal dust.

The water in my palm splashed onto the outdoor carpet as I wiped my hand on the hard fibers. I scooped up another unformed snowball, flicking the tainted bits away until I found a clean spot. My teeth bit down, shoveling the flakes inside, cooling my tongue. The cold white caused a brief shiver through my muscles and brought a grin to my lips. The snow tasted like presents.

The snorts proceeded her into the kitchen. My mother sucked in air through her nose claiming her allergies irritated sinuses. Every five seconds it happened, punctuating the air and halting her mumbling words spoken to herself. Yet the action seemed more instinctual.

When she had watched television, the noises would stop with her fully focused on the glowing screen. After the show had ended or an annoying commercial appeared . . . snort-snort-snort.

Back in the kitchen, I heard a large deep snort of disgust. She must have noticed the open porch door, felt the cold draft, realized whose shadow sat in front of the sun-filled storm door window.

“CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR.”

The squeak of hinges betrayed my movement when I tried to quietly swing the door shut. Garfield slippers scuffed underneath as I scrambled on hands and knees to the kitchen screen door, keeping low as it banged behind me. Against the dryer, I huddled while spying around the white edge, smelling springtime freshness from leftover fabric softener sheets.

Knowing the dialect

After centering your story on a region where the plot takes shape, you must be aware of not only the temperament and the idiosyncrasies of the nearby habitants but also their diction - their accent.

You DO know where your story is based at, don’t you?

Okay, let’s go back. A writer has to know where the story takes place, even (especially) if your characters will be moving to different places. In fantasy, a writer can get away with a lot simply by creating the world from scratch. Science fiction is also a genre with an easy out with the characters zooming through outer space visiting strange new worlds based purely on the writer’s imagination.

Yet for standard fiction, the plot line has to begin at some region unless you plan to have your characters out swimming in the open ocean. In that case, equip them with scuba tanks and teach them sign language.

If the setting takes place in a foreign country, then there must be people communicating in their native tongue. If the plot takes place in a certain region of your own country, as in mine - the United States, then the characters have to adopt those present characteristics of the area. Rural? Inner city? Suburb? Ghetto? Everybody talks and acts in their own funny, strange way. This is true in real life. If you want readers to relate to your story, mimic this true life.

Here is an example from my finished ms, The Stone Man. The setting takes place at the rural outskirts of a small town in Pennsylvania.
***
The cattle scattered as Graham navigated around the dark cow pies and neared the house. Both dogs trotted out the barn, took one look at the intruder, and barked madly. The farmer came out and gave a curious stare. Graham never knew what Cotter’s first name was and never asked whenever he snuck into the henhouse at night for a chicken dinner.

“Aye, help y’all with something? Um,” Cotter thoughts stumbled for Graham’s name. The farmer recognized the face enough where he felt comfortable with seeing the man on his property.

“Baxter,” Graham said with a shrug. He’d take the situation friendly, like two honest men having a conversation before they conducted their business. He’d ease into it while bringing up the subject offhandedly. “Where’s my dog?”

“Dog?” The farmer took out his plaid handkerchief and rubbed at the sweat on his neck. “Only dogs ‘round here are those two sheperds right there. Petey! Zeus! Quiet. In the barn.”

Both dogs released low growls and then slunk away. They stretched bodies on the loose hay at the barn’s entrance with their eyes still fastened on Graham.

Graham lowered the bat and leaned against it. “Miter. Bloodhound. He’s gone missing. Was in my trailer, sleeping on the bed. I heard a strange noise. Doors locked but the window open. He’s too old a dog for a jump out. Bad legs.” Graham’s hand pointed at the henhouse. “Both of us know about things when involving your roasters, yeah?”

The tone in Cotter’s voice turned cooler. “Yea, I know about y’all. Have that sick boy in the hospital. Wife ran off. Makes due with what y’all gets at the quarry. Sheriff Becken’s always heckling me into filing a report about the hens. Never did it. Saw no need, not with what y’all do for the kids and the owners at the fort. I saw the carvings done for free. Good work. Even trade for a lost hen now and then. Think I took y’all dog?”

“I don’t think you did it. But maybe one of your boys did as a prank? Don’t want to accuse you. But no one else I can think of who could’ve. Everything happened too fast.” Graham felt stupid for carrying the bat. Always thought people wanted a fight and he’d get in his licks first. This was partly his fault for the ban at the hospital.

He felt the moisture along his eyes. The farmer had taken him off balance with those words. Graham wasn’t expecting such understanding or compliments. He held the tears in with all his strength. “Bloodhound is all I got now.”

Cotter nodded. He shouted at the house. “EDDIE. GEORGE.”

They heard the running footsteps inside as the farmer’s sons came out and jogged toward them. When they caught a look at Graham, both boys turned meek. They held hands behind their backs. Their eyes gazed at scuffing feet against the dirt.

Cotter caught their expressions and glowered. “Y’all knows this man? Living down Hanna Mill? Does all them statues for the fort?”

Both boys shrugged.

Cotter cleared his throat. “Was y’all near his property messing ‘round? Did anything y’all shouldn’t be doing? ‘Cause if y’all lies and I find out the truth from someone else . . .”

“George gone and done it! I just followed him,” the younger boy spoke and received a jab in the side by his brother’s elbow. Yet once the squealing started, nobody could stop Eddie in claiming his innocence. “I just carry the tools. He went crawling under the man’s truck. ‘Fix him up right for stealing our hens,’ George said. He was under there for a good two hours. Did something. Don’t know what though. That ‘fore it up on those cement blocks.”

This took both Cotter and Graham by surprise. Someone had tampered with the truck? Yet it made sense to Graham. It’d felt strange when he and Tony went along the dirt bike course. The truck had responded sluggishly whenever Graham turned the steering wheel and pressed on the brake. He figured the bumps did it. Then the truck had slammed down off the big hill and the front axle cracked. He had the truck towed off the track. He’d figured he caused all the damage.
Graham had figured wrong.

The farmer’s face turned a deeper tomato red than one of his prized vegetables for the county fair. He grabbed both boys by their shirt collars and knocked their heads together. “Y’all can go get someone killed like that! Ain’t any bird in the world worth it. His doings in the henhouse are my concern. Ain’t up to the younglings to go meddling with a grown man’s affairs or stepping into their pop’s shoes.” He pulled his sons forward, knocked their noggins again for good measure, and then pushed them away.

Eddie and George fell backward, smacking their rumps hard against the ground. Both rubbed backsides and hung heads. The younger one started crying. George sat there in silence. His sight stayed glued on his shoes, the boy too mad at his brother’s tattling.

Cotter shifted around toward Graham. The farmer’s face filled with remorse. “First I heard about them with your truck, Baxter. I pay the damages my boys gone done. Was y’all in an accident ‘cause of it? Hands cut.” He pointed at Graham’s palms. “Anyone else hurt ‘cause I make good for their medical bills too?”

Graham shook his head. “Cuts on my hands are from handling some barbed wire. As for the truck, I drove it off a hill and messed up the front axle. Nobody got hurt. Only damage is to the truck beside what they might’ve tampered with under it. Don’t know for sure what though.”

“Finds out. Finds out good and I pay for it.” Cotter undid the belt buckle. He left the leather strap still through the jean hoops as he glared down at his sons. “What ‘bout this man’s dog? Bloodhound. Named Miter. Y’all go steals him today? Snuck into the trailer and take the dog this noon?”

“No, sir.” Both boys scrambled backward a few feet when seeing their father unclasp the belt buckle. George pointed one shaky finger at the house. “Go asks Ma. She tells you. We’ve been up in our room all day playing video games.”

“Where y’all shouldn’t have been with all the farmwork we need done outside,” the farmer grumped. He sauntered toward them, and they cowered to the sides as he walked past. The porch door banged after he went inside, leaving Graham near the farmer’s sitting sons. Eddie sniffled and wiped at his wet face. He kept his body tense while ready for the run of his life whenever the door reopened. With features a mask of rage and loathing, George had his eyes focused on Graham.

George muttered, “Your fault for getting us in trouble. Your fault for stealing our hens.”

“Your pop’s right though. No bird is worth killing someone over, and no boy’s business in bloodying his hands with a man’s life,” Graham remarked.
***
And there you have it. Know the dialect. Know the region where the story takes place. Most important, write what you know and research what you don’t know. It’s as simple as that.

Basing your story scenes on actual places

- He rubbed at the beaded water while imaging the train whistle and the whoosh of steam from the pipe. The closest railroad crossing ran along the other end of Hanna Mill Road, past the dairy farm and old fort -

No, I write fiction. But this doesn’t mean I can’t use an actual location to build a fictional story around. It gives the story a solid foundation, a starting point that you can see and walk around and experience for yourself. When you develop real-life memories and incorporate them into your stories, those stories will become more real for your readers. They can relate to your writing.

The first two sentences in this post are from my finished manuscript, THE STONE MAN. I mentioned a place called “Hanna Mill Road.” The road is real, although I changed a bit of its name: Hannastown Road.

Along Hannastown Road are many dairy farms. You can smell the fresh cow manure a mile away. And yes, there is also a fort along the other end of the road - a fort I visited as a child during an elementary school trip.

I can close my eyes and remember the colonial wax makers, the bakers, and the blacksmiths. I remember the fairs and the flea markets and the hot air balloon competitions held in the nearby field.

I mentioned all these things in my story. A part of me lies among those pages. I recreated the smells, tastes, sights, and sounds for the readers to now experience.

There is nothing wrong with creating an entire fictional world. But if you have the opportunity to use an actual place to bring a realness to your story, use it. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by giving your imagination a little extra help by using a real-life place.

Walmart’s “Writer’s First-aid Kit.” Get it while it lasts!

I’ve finished my next manuscript, the Stone Man. I would like to say it was grueling and an emotional roller coaster for me.

It wasn’t.

I would like to say it will need major work to fix plot errors and leaps in logic.

I don’t think it will during the revision stage. I’ve got the main story along with the plot arcs to how I wanted them during the first write-through. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I can find all the minor discrepancies and they will be easy fixes.

My major problems involve wordiness and fixing up transitional scenes to make the overall writing flow smoother. And I need to work on my voice to make the story interesting enough for people to want to read it. Those are the sticklers irritating my sides: wordiness and voice. I don’t know why I have these problems, or maybe my “mind’s eye” simply doesn’t catch the problem while I’m typing. I would never make the claim that a first draft should be free of all typos and grammar errors. You won’t ever hear me utter the words that it is a masterpiece ready to be sent out without revisions and editing.

If that were true, I would already be a published author.

I suppose every would-be author wishes these tasks were as simple as stopping by the local Walmart and picking up the “Writer’s First-aid Kit” in the stationery aisle. We could pop open the box, and tiny elves whom the jolly Christmas fat man laid off due to downsizing would sprinkle their dust over the pages and the sentences would rearrange themselves into a saleable book.

Oh, how the imagination can sometimes twist the dagger into the heart!

Yet since this will never become true (Gawk!), I’m hoping the limited knowledge I have will be enough to fix and tweak this story to a readable quality. I have finished the manuscript, but I still have a long solitary road ahead. It’s time for me to lace up my shoes and head out.

Maybe Sam’s Club sells those writers’ kits, in bulk. Or I can find one of those elves to work for me in exchange for gingerbread cookies.

Becoming your character - or our characters becoming us

I’ve begun to notice a strange trend happening while I write. Whenever I have my character sighing, I sigh to imitate their current emotion.

Is this normal?

I can understand why this may happen. We spend so much time perfecting our characters, bringing out their personalities for months or even years. It’s no wonder that we will sometimes take on their characteristics, if only to focus our own thoughts on the particular scene we are writing.

An itch scratched on the character’s leg becomes the writer’s scratch on the head wondering where the plot goes next. A wince of eyes for them at the terrible accident becomes a wince for us wondering if we should tone things down. A tear shed from their eyes signifies the sorrow in our hearts for a tragedy that may have personally affected us and seemed best to add to the story.

Am I imitating my character, or am I writing to make the character imitate me?

Has it come down to having his life as really mine that I wished to live, an alternate reality that can soothe me when I missed out on such comfort?

Have I carbon copied my life with the emotions I should have had for the situation yet can redeem myself in my character’s eyes?

Fiction in reality, or reality turned into fiction? Either way, I plan to make the best of the story.