Tag Archives: editing

Editing Pitfall by LV Gaudet

The Gypsy QueenI would much rather be lost in the heat of the moment, my fingers flying over the keyboard in a desperate bid to keep up with the story flowing through my mind.

 

When I’m really into it, the story comes out so fast all I can do is skim through it, putting down the premise of what is happening.  All the rest is lost. The details, conversations, and descriptions.  It is the worst form a blatant tell don’t show, the opposite of what you want.  But, the root of the story is there.

 

Then, when it’s done, and probably after letting it age like a fine wine (or those Christmas goodies you forgot are in your freezer), I revisit it for the dreaded first round edit.

 

However, I have so many of those first drafts that my story aging folder has more stories than I can know what they are.  Everything from novels to flash fiction.

 

So, I have made a vow to those forgotten stories.  I will give you life.  At least some of them.  I will re-focus time to that dreaded task of editing, and make myself work through editing them into being publishable.

 

Except for one problem.  I’d rather be writing than editing.

 

I hate that first round edit.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not just the first round edit I would rather avoid.  But it has its own special place.  I despise it like I despise cleaning up fresh steaming hot dog vomit.  I loathe to touch it like I loathe to touch and clean up the slimy cold in your grossness of cold dog vomit that you found only after it cooled and likely set the stain in your carpet.

 

And yet I thrill in it once I have started.  It is a revisit to a once time friend.  The creation of a story, because that’s what I have to do if I only wrote the description of what is happening and not the real story.  I have to recreate that story from an idea.

 

As the story is recreated, scenes evolve into a real story, are moved, added, deleted… the story changes and becomes something new.  Sometimes it is simply more.  Sometimes the original story is lost.

 

And then there is that first round edit editing pitfall.

 

I edit myself into hating my own story.

 

I have revisited a story I wrote in 2012.  The Gypsy Queen.  The idea came to me while listening to a song of the same name.  The song has no relation to the subject of the story, but that’s just how inspiration sometimes works.

 

 

First, my first mistake.  I get only so far in that first edit, ideas are flowing, I am adding, moving, deleting, reworking scenes.  I get ideas of what needs to be earlier in the story and I go with it, jumping back and forth over the parts I have edited.  Then I feel I have to go back and re-edit what I did.

 

I do this again and again, and never make it past the halfway point of that first draft.

 

And then I do it.

 

 

My second mistake.  I edit myself into boredom.  I’m bored with the story.  This is only one of the reasons I generally do a big edit and let the story age some more while I work on another one.  Once you have read and re-read the same story too many times, it is all too easy to lose interest in it. Seriously, how many times can you re-read the same lines without them losing their luster?

 

I did this with the Gypsy Queen with re-editing that first half over and over and over.  Without even skimming the second half of that first draft.

 

I’m bored.  I don’t like the story now.  And I’m thinking, “Oh hell.  If I don’t like it.  If I can’t get into it.  There is no way any reader is going to want to read this crap.”

 

At this point I am thinking it’s crap.  It’s dull, uninspiring to read on.

 

I am ready to scrap the book and leave it to molder, wither, and die the slow death of the un-read in The Forgotten Folder of Stories Told.

 

 

It is time for resolve and doing something.  I decided to hell with it.  I haven’t even gone past that halfway point.  I am going to force myself to finished that damned first round edit on the rest of the story.

 

And so I push on.  I force myself to go beyond that point I kept stopping at.  And I hate it.  I hate the story.  I resent it.  It is cold slimy dog vomit on my carpet.

 

It is boring.  I don’t want to recreate the scenes.  Now that I made myself bored with it, I feel like it is a waste of my time.  Nobody is ever going to read this rubbish.

 

And still I force myself to go through that first round edit.  I admit, I cheated.  I skimmed scenes and left them as a description of what is happening instead of fleshing them out.  I did it telling myself it is okay because the book is going to be too long anyway, so I need to speed up and shorten the word count somewhere while still telling the story.

 

It is lazy writing and something I know I would fix later anyway on a later round of edits.  And if the scene never does flesh out, then it probably isn’t necessary to drive the story forward.

 

At this point I am pushing myself on with the promise that finishing that first round edit to the very end will let me figure out what is wrong with this story and how to fix it.

 

Still, I am bored with it.  It has no life.  No oomph.  No I want to read on.

 

 

And then I discovered something.  I reached a jewel.  That gem in a whitewash of blah.

 

Up until now, the story is pretty much what I remembered writing five years ago. But now.  Yeah.  Oh yeah.  I hit a scene I completely forgot writing.

 

It is like finding that treasure in the lower end thrift store, the kind that carries the stuff the better second hand stores would have tossed in the trash.  It is the filet mignon hiding under the label of the machine tenderized to make them edible tough “fast fry” steaks.

 

I devour the scene and suddenly the story comes to life.  Now I am, “Wow.  This story has promise.  This is going somewhere.  This can be good.  The possibilities just opened and they are endless.”

 

Now, as I push on to the end, I just need to figure out how I am going to completely re-organize the events and move this scene up.  Because, unfortunately, it happens much too close to the ending.

 

It would make a good mid-point scene.  It promises.  It also promises to breathe a new life into the whole book with new ideas for new scenes, new drama, new ways to torment the characters.

 

Like the untold story you sit down to write with no idea where it is going to take you, the possibilities are endless.

 

 

This, my friends, is only one of the reasons I tell my mentoree to never completely give up on a story idea.  (Yes, I am pretty sure I just made up that word.  Mentoree.  My dreaded evil-minded Word spell check agrees.)

 

Just because you don’t like the way it is going.  Just because you are not currently feeling the passion.  Just because you cannot see where it is going.  Whatever the reason you feel you should abandon it, no story is truly hopeless.  And, you might one day regret deleting that story file.

 

 

And now, just for you, I will give you a glimpse inside a work in progress.  There are still many edits yet to go before the Gypsy Queen can come to life, just as she does in the story.

 

Disclaimer:  You will note, and this is a big distraction from the story, that I have not yet even named the characters.  Meet “Man1” and “Man2” and others yet to be named.

 

 

 

The Gypsy Queen

 

1    All That Glitters

 

YEAR (TBD)

 

Two men hunch inside their coats as if to protect themselves from the cold.  They are huddled against the worn wooden wall of a building at the edge of the docks.  They are too wired with adrenaline to feel the chill in the air.

The shrill cries of the ever present seagulls add to the cacophony of noise as they hover above, gliding in the air with the occasional flap of their wings.

Man1 looks across the crowded docks, taking the sight in, his eyes eager even as he tries to keep the eagerness from showing in his expression.

“Are you ready?”  He turns to his partner, looking for a response.

Man2 shakes his head grimly.  His eyes are nervous, not sharing in Man1’s eager excitement.  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It will be a piece of cake,” Man1 grins.

“We won’t get past security.”  Man2 frowns doubtfully.

“She’s launching soon.  We have to make our move now,” Man1 says.

Man1 studies the dock once more, looking for some sign it is the right moment.  He gives his partner an encouraging nod and a “let’s go” signal, and bolts through a gap in the crowd as it opens.

With a resigned sigh, Man2 follows, the crowd closing again to swallow them both up.

The stink of the river hangs over the docks with a thick musty odor that clings heavily in the nostrils.  People bustle about the crowded dock like bees buzzing around each other in a hive, their movements bumbling against each other in a jumble of bodies moving past each other, each with their own purpose.

Large barges lay waiting to be loaded with goods and passengers for transportation.  Most of the boats that dock here now are large river barges transporting goods.

Heavily laden trucks trundle through the crowded docks to have their cargo transferred to the boat decks by looming cranes; their hooks dangling from above like giant fishermen’s rods waiting to hook one of the two-legged fish below.  Longshoremen reach for the hovering cargo containers dangling from the crane with their longshoreman’s hooks, swinging them into place before the crane settles the heavy load on the boat deck.

More longshoremen work together to roll heavy trolleys piled high with smaller containers up the gangplanks to fill the boats’ bellies.  Other workers are arriving and making their way to their respective boats.

Adding to the confusion crowding the docks are the hopefuls.  Men standing in groups in their work clothes, some holding their hats in their hands and wringing them anxiously, watching for anyone who might be in a position to offer them work. The depression has put a lot of men out of work.  Desperation has led them to be wiling to take any job, experienced or not, and to do anything to feed their families.

 

A man sits at a heavy mahogany desk inside a richly elegant over-decorated stateroom in the upper floor of a three story paddlewheel riverboat.  His chair is turned backwards to the desk as he sits looking out the window.  The view allows him to watch the river retreat behind the boat, churning beneath the blades of the paddle wheel.  Now, moored at the dock, the view is the hull of a massive river barge looming next to The Boat1, the metal sickening with rust and the growth of the river life that always clings to anything that spends too long soaking in its depths.

It is not a view he enjoys.  It makes him anxious to be moving and to return the splendor of the river to his view.

A knock at the door interrupts him.

“Enter.”

Man3 Man3lastname turns his chair around as the door opens silently to face the intruder of his thoughts.  Looking dapper in a well-tailored dress suit, his hair slicked back in the current in-style fashion hiding the salt and pepper of his hair,his expression is cold and calculating.  He is past his prime, now on the downward slope after reaching the mid-point of life.

Man3 smiles at his visitor. The smile does not reach his eyes.

The man who enters with a deferential bow is dressed in the formal uniform of a boat captain, his hat held respectably in his hands and the balding crown of his head laid respectfully bare.

“Sir, we are almost ready to cast off,” the captain of the boat says, unable to hide the inevitable nervousness he always feels in his boss’s presence.

“Right on time.”  Man3 glances at the ornate clock on the wall.  “I do like promptness.  Keep the ship shipshape and all that, right?”

He smiles at his own poorly quoted cliché.  The captain only nods agreement.

“All right then,” Man3 dismisses his own attempt at a joke, “let’s get started loading the money.”

The captain bows and backs out of the room.  He waits for his boss to lead the way to the wheel room.

Man3 gets up and leads the way.

 

Dodging through the crowd, Man1 leads the way towards the boat slips where the barges are being loaded.  Moving swiftly to avoid being run over by a large heavily loaded truck, he looks back for Man2 and pauses.

Stepping back a few steps quickly, he urges Man2 to hurry.

“You are a fool,” Man2 says when he catches up.

Man1 grins.  “But I’ll be a fool with money in a couple of hours.  Come on.”

He grabs Man2’s arm, dragging him along and trying to speed up their pace.

Man2 lets him drag him along, still regretting his choice to follow his friend.

Man1 ducks into the line of wealthy people, dragging Man2 with him and causing their neighbors to give them sour looks.

“There she is.”  He stares up at the boat with awe.  The Boat1.  She is larger than the average paddlewheel boat, and ugly in her richly ornate decorations.

Man2 shakes his head.

“You and your get rich quick schemes.  The only thing they ever get you is in trouble.  This won’t be any different.”

“Positive thoughts, my friend.  Positive thoughts.”  Man1 grins at him.

 

From his place of honour in the wheel room, Man3 looks down at the crowded dock, smiling.

“Look at all that money getting ready to board my boat.”

This particular pleasure boat has been converted into a floating casino and is owned by Man3 Man3lastname.

Man3 is a powerful man in more ways than his wealth alone could explain.  Man3 owns the waterways.  He owns the port officials, the Dock Workers Union officials, and the Dock Master.  He also owns all the gambling houses in the state and is confident in his ability to keep the gaming officials in his pockets.

The line of people waiting to board The Boat1 starts at the top of the gangplank, descends the length of the plank, and stretches in a snaky line through the endlessly moving crowds of workmenand trucks filling the docks.

A scrawny ill-kept young boy darts through the crowd below, looking for the chance to steal anything he might eat, his presence ignored by all.

Unlike the rough looking dock workers, thewealthy people lined up to board The Boat1 are conspicuously out of place on the docksin their fancy dress clothes, showing off their wealth with the men finely dressed in well-tailored suits and hats and silver-tipped custom carved walking canes.  The women are older women, since it is unseemly for a young woman to be seen at a place of gambling or any other less than respectable public place.  They wear fancy dresses and hats and glitter with gem-laden jewellery dripping from ears and draping from overstuffed necks.

Two young men waiting in the line are conspicuous both for their overly exuberant eagerness and their clothes.

While the rest of the passengers are dressed in their finest and standing there looking haughtily superior to the dockworkers surrounding them, these two men are more likely to be mistaken for dockworkers than passengers.  As if the poor quality of their clothes is not enough, their excitement is out of place in the crowd of bored wealthy gentry waiting in the queue to board.

Their eager antics, gesticulating, talking too loud, and even drumming on the railing make them all too noticeable, particularly to the security guards who are also watching the passengers from on deckon The Boat1.

People around them give the two young men annoyed glances, purposely not looking right at them, making it clear they do not belong among the upper class citizens.  The two men seem oblivious to being out of place.

Man3 frowns at the two unwelcomed guests attempting to board his boat.  He is not concerned.  His men will not let them board.

He turns his attention back to the string of wealthy people lining up to lose their money on his gaming tables.  They are not just the wealthy.  They are the moneyed influential people;corporate leaders, politicians, and those whose wealth is enough to be influential on its own.

 

Two beefy looking dark-suited men lean on the upper deck railing, looking out over the docks.  They study the guests waiting to board.  One of them has a stout straight cane with a heavy ornate carved ram’s head leaning against the rail next to him.  He does not look like he needs the support to walk.

On the main deck below them, two men in lesser suits resembling a ship-mate’s uniform stand next to the closed gate at the head of the gangplank.  They are watching the crowd snaking down the plank and through the crowdof dock workers while waiting for the signal to start letting the people lining the gangplank board.

Theyare not seamen.  They have one job and one job only, security.  The men aboveare the head of security for Man3 Man3lastname.   All of the security guards are dressed in business suits, except those few imitating the ship’s crew for the amusement of the guests.

One of thegate security men nudges the other, indicating the two overeageryoung men with a motion of his head and a smirk.  The other man shares his smirk.  It isnot unusual to have a couple of working classindividuals trying to board.

Part of their job is to keep them off the boat.

One of the gate security men turns to look up.  He can just make out the hands of the two men watching from the deck above, their arms resting on the railing and their hands protruding before them.  He has been glancing up every minute, watching for the signal to start the boarding.

One of the hands moves.  It waves.  That’s the signal.

He turns to his partner and nudges him, indicating the gate.  He moves to take his position on one side of the gate, while his partner takes the other side.  Placing his hand on the gate, he lifts the latch and swings the gate inward against the railing.

The first sign of eagerness stirs through the bored crowd as their murmuring voices move down the line, announcing the opening of the gate.

 

Man1 is staring up at The Boat1 wistfully.  Images play in his headof the anticipated grandeur of what he imagines the casino room on the boat will look like.  The dealers calling out for bets, bells ringing, and the dull bop bop of the roulette ball bouncing around the wheel to the silky ticking of the wheel spinning.  The soft sliding of cards being dealt and clink money changing hands.

“You can walk in with little and walk out rich,” he thinks hungrily.

The eagerness slithering down the line of the bored wealthy elite stirring them to life sends excitement washing through him when it reaches them.

“Here we go.”  Man1 looks eagerly at Man2.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” Man2 says.  “They aren’t going to let us on.  Look at us.”He looks Man1 and himself up and down for emphasis.

“Everyone knows they won’t let anyone without a large bankroll on The Boat1.”

“You only live once, my friend.  You only live once.”  Man1 nudges Man2 to move in anticipation of the slow forward motion of the line reaching them.

Gentlemen and ladies start the slow shuffle up the gangplank, boarding the boat with a regal air of entitlement.

The burly security guards stand to each side of the opened gate, silently watching the passengers board, nodding a greeting to the occasional guest.  They miss nothing, ready to give silent signals to others waiting discretely on deck in case a passenger is to be quietly removed after boarding or taken to see the boss in his private office onboard.

Man1 has eyes only for the goal ahead.

Man2 keeps looking back anxiously, keeping an eye on their path out of this.

When the line of boarders finally brings the two unlikely pair of young men almost to the front of the line, one of the security guards raises a bushy eyebrow at their less than proper clothing.

Seeing the reaction and knowing it is meant for them to see, the nervous young men try to stay calm, not looking at the security men but not looking away either, as if they too are just another pair of bored wealthy passengers.

They hope by ignoring the guard’s look the guards will decide to ignore them.

Just as the young men are about to move through the open gate, amazed that they are actually pulling it off, a heavy stick thumps down across the opening and blocks their path.

They look down at it. It is made of stout wood, rod straight from tip to tip, and crowned with a heavy deadly hook on one end.  The other is attached to the meaty hand gripping it.  The gaffer hook bears scars that they prefer not to find out how they got there.  They follow the arm attached to that meaty hand up to the stern face of the burly man dressed as a seaman.

Behind them, they can hear snickers at their expense from those waiting to board.

They glance at the other man dressed in an identical faux seaman suit, and back to the larger man.

Without a word, the security guard shakes his head ‘no’ and points back the way they came, down the gangplank.

Man1 opens his mouth to plead their case, but Man2 gives him a warning jab from behind.

With a regretful shrug,they sheepishly turn around and squeeze their way all the way down the long gangplank past the glares of annoyed passengers who have to wedge themselves against the railing to let them pass.  Looks of relieved disdain and a few nasty snickers follow them down.

When they finally reach the bottom and break free of the crowded gangplank the pair burst free of the confines of the crowded path, turning to look back with regret.  The crowded dock isn’t much better.

“Well, Man1, we tried,” Man2 says.

Man1 shakes his head.  “We will find another way.  Man2 Man2lastname, there is one thing you need to learn in life, and that is when there is a will, there will always be a way.”

“They will never let us on board,” Man2 says.  “The whole idea was crazy.”

“We just have to not get caught,” Man1 says with a grin.  “What are they going to do once they are under way?  Toss us over the side?”  He shakes his head.  “We sneak on board and hide until they are on the river, then they are stuck with us until they dock.”

“How do we get past the security?” Man2 asks.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Man1 admits.  “I will find another way onboard,” he vows, looking lustfully at the ornate paddlewheel boat.

They wander dejectedly around the dock, man1 unwilling to give up just yet on their hopelesscause.

Man1 spots another gang plank running across from the dock to the rear deck and an open doorway into the bowels of The Boat1 instead to the passenger deck.  This plank is much wider and longshoremen are struggling against gravity with the weight of heavy crates being carefully drawn across the plank into the boat, gravity trying to pull them down with dangerous speed even as the men fight to control the slow steady pace of the rolling cargo.

Man1 stops, the grin coming back to his face as his eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Oh no,” Man2 groans.  “I know that look.”  It is a familiar look that his friend always gets when hecomes up with some crazy idea.

“There, the cargo door.”  Man1 thrusts his chin towards the gangplank.

Man1 and Man2 exchange a look.

Before Man2 can try to talk him out of it, Man1 quickly lowershis head and pullshis hat down low to cover his face.  He rushes forward purposely, moving eagerly and having to force himself to slow down.

With an unhappy sigh, Man2 follows suit, following him into the crowd.  They lose themselves in the group of workers. Man2 following Man1’s lead, they each grab a corner of one of the heavy crates being rolled into the boat’s belly on wheeled trolleys and lean into pushing it, putting their backs into it.

“Won’t get far with hats like those,” one of the longshoremen struggling with the cargo mutters.  He assumes these two are trying to press their way into getting hired instead of waiting for the Dock Masterto pick them out of the group of hopefuls.

“They must be inexperienced if they ain’t even got no proper hats,” he thinks, “probably just laid off elsewhere and desperate for work.”  He shrugs.  It’s not his problem to chase them off.

Once inside the boat, Man1 and Man2 take advantage of the hectic activityin the rush to load quickly, breaking away from the workers and sneaking off down a narrow passage.  They cross to another, looking back with relief to find they are not being followed.

“Okay, now what?” Man2 asks.  He feels a little dizzy and out of breath with the rush of sneaking onboard.

Man1 looks up and down the passage. His heart is beating fast with excitement and his eyes are bright with his eagerness to make their way up to the deck.

“This way,” Man1 says.  “We’ll hide and wait until the boat is moving before sneaking up to the casino floor.”

They move down the passage checking doors.  Most are locked.

They come to one marked “Utility” that opens and slip inside the very tiny closet.  The two of them barely fit, Man1 standing with one foot inside a large bucket that luckily is empty at the moment as Man2 tries to squeeze in with him.

Man1 looks down at the awkward spot his foot is wedged in, thinking that lady luck is already shining on him.

The closet turns black as the door clicks shut.

“I hope this doesn’t take long,” Man2 says, trying to shift so that whatever is digging painfully into his back will stop.

They wait, holding their breath every time they hear someone approaching and exhaling in relief each time the person continues on past.

“How long is this going to take?” Man2 whispers after what feels like an hour wedged in there.  “I’m getting a cramp.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” Man1 whispers back.  He pushes down an urge to open the door and peek.

At last they realize that they feel a rolling pulling that might be the motion of the boat moving down the river.

The two men listen, feeling out the pulling sensation, and finally decide to risk it.

“I think the boat’s moving,” Man1 whispers.

“I’m not sure.  It might just be the waves against the dock,” Man2 whispers back.

“No, this feels different; I think it really is moving.”

After an uncertain pause the decision is made.

“We have to check it out,” Man1 says.

“Ok,” Man2 agrees reluctantly, but with anxious relief.  He doesn’t think he can spend much longer wedged into that cramped closet.

Man2 slowly opens the door a crack, peeking out and expecting to have the door yanked from his hand at any moment by one of the two burly security men up top.

Stepping out of the closet, they pause in the passageway and listen, feeling the motion of the floor.

“It is definitely moving,” Man1 nods.  “Let’s go.  They open the tables as soon as the boat leaves the dock.”

He leads the way up the passage and down another until they find a sign marked “Stairs”.  Looking cautiously around the open doorway, they see a narrow set of steep stairs leading up.

“This place is big,” Man2 whispers, amazed at how big the boat seems below deck.  And this doesn’t even include the cargo hold, the galley, or anything else that may be down there.

They duck through the doorway and up the stairs.

The top of the stairs opens to the deck level of the boat.

Hiding in the doorway, they look around.  Behind them is a walkway between the railing and the wall, behind which they are sure the casino tables are housed.  Ahead of them the open deck portion at the front of the boat sprawls. Lights that would be lit before dusk closes in are strung elegantly above the deck.  White clothed tables with elaborate settings are strategically scattered at one end near a closed door that has to be the galley.  Dinner will be served on this cruise.  An open space that appears to be a dance floor is bordered on one side by chairs, presumably for musicians.

Man1 nudges Man2, nodding towards the path between the railing and wall behind them.

They both look that way.

The ringing and clanging of machines, babble of bets being made, and calls of the card hustlers running the tables of the casino floor comes from doors left open to the railing and cooling river breeze.

The young men imagine they can feel the warmth of that room already embracing them with its warm lights and the heat of sweating bodies clamouring to win or lose their money.

With a grin at each other, they sidle up the passage and slip into the room, sticking close to the wall as if that might prevent them from being seen before they are ready to start trying to gamble.

They stare in slack-jawed awe around the casino room.

The walls are painted in off white with gaudy golden trimming everywhere.  The thick trimming seems to roll in every direction.  Carved trimming runs parallel to the floor around the entire room.  It runs up and down the walls every six feet, bordering every doorway and window, and matches the heavy painted carved bases of all the wall lamps and trim circling the ceiling lights.  Large elegant glass chandeliers drip from the ceiling.

In contrast, the carpet is a dark patterned red and black mosaic.  Richly red heavy curtains hang open and drawn back with golden tasselled tie backs at the sides of the windows and open doors that lead to the deck.  Staff doors are painted to blend in with the walls.

One-armed machines lined up against one wall glitter in the lights, their bright colors and rolling wheels of pictures of cherries, grapes, and coins promising happiness and fun.

Dark stained wood tables with rich red felt table tops suggest wealth and prestige with the fine dark leather stools sitting stoically before them.  Men in striped dress shirts and slacks call out the chances as men and women lay down their bets in the form of colored discs.

Like a carnival game, the roulette table wheel spins, clicking and clacking around and around like a spinning wheel that ran out of wool, its dark wood and elegant frame giving the impression of something meant only for the wealthy.

Statues and plants are placed strategically, adding regal elegance to the room.

Even more awe inspiring are the people themselves.  Wealthy men and women showing off their status with their rich clothing, gold watches, and gaudy jewelry dripping from the women, all flashing their money around.

The two security men dressed in business suits standing unobtrusively in a corner notice the two conspicuously under-dressed men the moment they slip into the room.  The guard with the stout ram’s-head topped cane nudges his partner, nodding towards the two intruders.  They move together, working their way discretely towards them.  They are already moving in on them while Man1 and man2 are still taking in the room’s ornate gaudiness.

Man1 and Man2 are drawn forward, nearly salivating in their eagerness.  They move away from the wall, moving through the crowded casino room, looking around like little farm boys who have never seen the wonders of a bustling city.

Their presence has not gone unnoticed and curious looks are already being passed their way.  It is not proper for deck hands to be seen on the casino floor and a few of the guests are even feeling a little alarmed that something might be wrong.

On the floor, they are even more awed by the flagrant wealth being tossed about and lost on the gaming tables.  Stacks of high value colored discs pass back and forth between dealers and players as bets are called and closed, cards are played with deft precision, and dice are tossed.

Their eyes sparkle and their minds reel with the imagined possibilities, Man1’s in particular.

Man1 is dazzled by the sheer sickness of wealth surrounding them.  Just making money betting on the tables is no longer enough.  He burns with a new desire.

“This could be us.  What if we could be running the show and raking in all this easy money?” he thinks, excitementcoursing through him as he absorbs the elaborate furnishings and money everywhere.

“Let’s try this table first,” Man1 nudges his partner.

Man2 looks doubtfully at the wealthy people playing at the table.

“Maybe we should try the machines first,” he suggests, nervous about going face to face with these people.

Grabbing his arm eagerly, Man1 pulls Man2 along to the blackjack table.  The people there shift over nervously, giving them space but unwilling to abandon their game, uncertain about their presence.

Man1 fishes some bills out of his pocket and plunks them down on the table.

The dealer looks at the crumpled handful of bills then up at Man1, his mouth creasing into a snide grin.  He makes no move to touch the offered money.

A heavy hand falls on Man1’s shoulder followed by another on Man2’s.  They both turn to look at the burly suited man standing between and just a little behind them.

Man2 gulps, his eyes immediately moving down, half expecting to see the man somehow holding some weapon in a third hand.

Man1 smiles sheepishly at the guard, although it is more like the sheep who just found itself surrounded by wolves.  He is trying to look casual, like he belongs, and is failing.

“Well now gentlemen,” Guard1 says with a smile more suiting a shark about to eat a baby seal, “how are we this evening?”

Man2 reflexively glances at the open doorway and the sky beyond.  The sky is still bright with the late afternoon sun, the deeper evening dusk still a couple of hours away.

The security man continues without pausing to let them answer.

“If you fine gentlemen wouldn’t mind coming with me for a moment, my boss would like to meet you.”  His hands resting heavily on their shoulders tighten into a vicelike grip as he directs them around and away from the game table, leaving the crumpled bills behind.

Man1 glances back at his money, wanting to reach out and snatch it off the table, but he is drawn away too quickly and isn’t given the chance.

“Damn,” he thinks, “that was all the money I had.”

As they turn and walk away, Guard1’s hand releases their shoulders and he casually grabs the heavy cane he left leaning against a table behind them on the way past.

The other guard waits behind them to follow them away from the table.  The moment the other three step away, he reaches out and casually pockets the crumpled bills.  He nods to the dealer to continue with the betting.

The dealer immediately goes back to business, calling out the bets.  The gamblers close their ranks on the hapless pair as if to prevent them from intruding on their table again.

“Mr. Man3lastname is waiting for you gentlemen in his office,” Guard1 says as he leads them casually out of the casino room.

Instead of taking them to the deck as the two men expect, he directs them to one of the staff doors blending in with the walls.  On the other side lies a narrow passageway with doors opening off it.  They pass those doors, not given the opportunity to pause and see what might be inside any of them, and round a corner that brings them to a set of stairs leading up.  At the top of the stairs is an elaborate smoking room for special guests, and Mr. Man3lastname’s office.

The dark wood lustre of the smoking room beckons to them as they pass through it, pausing at the closed door to the office.

The guard with the cane knocks on the door and a voice beckons them to enter.

Opening the door, he directs the two men to enter ahead of him.  The two security guards follow them in, closing the door behind them.

The office is as richly decorated as the rest of the boat with oiled wood panels and a large mahogany desk.  It is more richly decorated and substantially less gaudy than the casino floor, flaunting wealth, not flamboyance.

Elegant pieces of art are displayed safely behind shallow glass cabinets.

The man sitting behind the desk is wearing an expensive suit.  His carefully barbered hair has not a strand out of place and smile wrinkles crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

He isnot smiling now.

Man3 Man3lastname looks them up and down with a steady gaze, measuring them up.  His disdain for the pair of loafs sneaking onto his boat is clear.  His confident air also makes it clear he is not accustomed to not being obeyed.

“What makes you pair of nitwits think you can come on my boat?” he asks, his eyes deadly cold on them.

Man2 looks at his shoes, trying hard not to fidget awkwardly.

Man1 tries to meet his eyes, shifting nervously.

“Um, sir,” Man1 starts.

Man3 holds up a hand, stopping him.

“Did you have a good time down there?” he asks.

Man2 swallows the lump in his throat.

Man1 nods, stiff with fear.

“Now, how do you think it looks to my guests, people who can afford to be on my boat, when I let someone like you on board?  It’s not exactly good for my reputation, now is it?”

“Um, no sir,” Man1 mumbles.

“People like those pompous asses below don’t want to rub elbows with the likes of you and I, now do they?”

“N-no sir,” Man1 manages.  That the man they’d been brought before is putting himself on the same level as them with that last comment makes hope stir in his chest.

“Ok, maybe this won’t be so bad after all.  Maybe the guy is reasonable after all, a regular guy like us,” he thinks.

Man3 continues.

“The wealthy clientele who come to a boat like this,” he spreads his arms to indicate the luxuriousness of the vessel, “donot want to taint their reputation by being seen appearing to cavort in an establishment with penniless oafs who donot know their station.”

Man1’s heart sinks.

Man1 only hopes they will get out of this with only minor injuries.  He knows Man3 Man3lastname’s reputation. Unfortunately for Man2, he had kept that information to himself.

“I have to protect my reputation, and that of my establishment,” Man3 says.  “You understand, don’t you?”

He leans forward, raising an eyebrow in expectation of an answer.

Man2 nods, swallowing the bile threatening to come up his throat.

“Yes, sir,” Man1 stammers.“We are sorry sir.”

“You won’t try something like this again, will you?” Man3 says, more a statement than a question.

“No sir,” Man1 says.

Man3 looks to Man2, waiting for a response.

“No sir,” he mimics.

Man3 nods.

“See, we are all reasonable gentlemen here,” Man3 says, smiling.  He turns his smile on the two security guards, a signal he expects a response from them.

They both nod agreement, their expressions as bland as before.

“Yes, reasonable gentlemen,” they say in unison.

Hope stirs again in Man1.

Man2 feels it too, but pushes it down, afraid that any hope is futile.

“Now, please remove these gentlemen from my boat,” Man3 says, dismissing them.

“Thank you sir,” Man1 simpers nervously.

Man2 nods.  “Th-thank you,” he manages.

The two security men step forward, one opening the door, and they indicate the two young men should come with them.

Man1 and Man2 go submissively, following the two larger men’s leads, one security man ahead and one behind them.

After they turn down the second hallway and are still unharmed, Man1 daresto breathe an internal sigh of relief.

“So, how are you putting us ashore?  Are you docking?  A dingy?”

The security men remain silent as they lead the pair down a set of narrow stairs to the deck.  They exit to the deck towards the front of the boat.  A narrow passageway leads the way between the boathouse and the railing towards the front of the boat.

They are led along that narrow walk,the wind whipping at their clothes and rustling their hair.  Here, mooring lines are carefully coiled and lifeboats are hung.

“Ah, so on aboat then,” Man1 says, eying the boats doubtfully.  None of them have been prepared to be set in the water.

The security men stop next to the rail where there is a space between two boats, the two young men between them.

“It’s time for your departure, gentlemen,” Guard1 says.  The emphasis he puts on the word ‘departure’ makes both their stomachs turn sour.

Man2 leans over the rail, watching the fast moving current slipping by the boat.  He pulls back.  The current is strong and the waves seem higher than they should be.

“Is it from the wind whipping them up?” he wonders.  “I thought the wind I felt was only from the forward motion of the boat.” He cannot deny the stronger buffeting of a real wind thatis blowing.

Man2 starts turning towards the others.

Before either man can react, the two security men grab Man2. Using the railing as a focal point to spin him over the railing, they drop him over the side of the boat.

He vanishes with a shocked cry and a splash.

Man1 stares at them in surprise, flapping his mouth a few times before he manages to find the words to express his shock.

“But, the current-.”

The security men step forward.

“We will never be able to swim against it to shore!”

They grab him just as he moves to flee, each on one side.

He struggles.“We won’t make it, we’ll drown!”

Guard1 presses his face close.“You are not expected to,” he says wryly.

They fling him overboard using the same motion, flipping Man1’s weight over the railing like a teeter-totter someone forgot to fasten down.

His scream is swallowed by the splash below.

They turn away from the railing, satisfied with a job well done.

“How much did they have?” Guard1 asks.

The other man grins in amusement, jamming his hand in his pocket at the crinkled bills.

“Enough for a couple of drinks I think,” he jokes.

 


where the bodies areL.V.Gaudet is the author of Where the Bodies Are and The McAllister Farm

What kind of dark secret pushes a man to commit the unimaginable, even as he is sickened by his own actions?

 

Where the Bodies Are:  book 1 in the McAllister series.  What secret pushes a man to commit the unimaginable, even as he is sickened by his own actions?

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000035_00023]

 

The McAllister Farm:  book 2 in the McAllister series.  The secret behind the bodies is revealed.

 

 

Links to purchase these L.V. Gaudet’s books

 

Link to reviews of Where the Bodies Are on Angie’s Diary

https://angiesdiary.com/bookoftheweek-web/081-botwoct262014.html

 

Follow L. V. Gaudet:

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WordPress:  LV Gaudet, author

 

 

 

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On Writing, Editing and Forgery… by Sheila Deeth

Once upon a time I wrote computer programs.

Did you know, a good program should always be designed to be read by human beings as well as machines? Why, you might ask, and the answer is: so that when you, the programmer, have left the company, the human being who replaces you might know what you thought you were doing.

Good programs are also designed to be read by machines, of course – think two-year-olds. The instructions are written in code – think “Yes” and “No.” And instruction lists are broken into short and clean subroutines – like chapters in a book.

Finally, good programs are supposed to be impossible to misread, which brings me to my next job – breaking computer programs. Technically I was a Quality Assurance engineer at the time. I ensured the quality of programs (or at least tried to) by searching for every possible case the programmer might have missed, then breaking things in every way my limited brain could imagine – failing to test for Divide by Zero was, of course, a classic example (and became the title of my first novel). Since I was married to one of the programmers, we’d often joke – “No dinner tonight unless you fix this bug!”

But now I write and edit books.

There are similarities. Mostly I don’t write for two-year-olds (human or mechanical) anymore; but I still hope to write clearly enough so when I, the author, have left the page the human replacement, or reader, can easily work out what I was saying. I still use code, or symbols, to evoke feelings and memory. I still try to simplify – never use two words where one will do? And I still break my tales into chapters and scenes. Then I edit.

I’ve learned that editing uses those same “break things” muscles as being a QA engineer, looking for ways a reader might misunderstand, misread, or wrongly imagine the interpretation of words. “Time flies like an arrow,” is a classic example here – was time flying, or was little Freddy following the flight of bugs? The editor irons out bugs from the program, or book (sounds rather messy) and then…

But editing for someone else has another aspect too – one that came into play for me, somewhere between writing and breaking programs. I spent quite a number of years at home with small children then, in preschool with small children, in elementary school, in chess club, and more. And during those years I learned to be a forger of children’s art.

You see, these were the days before scanners and Photoshop, and we wanted all the kids’ self-portraits on a tea-towel to be sold in a fundraiser. But how would we get the artwork from scraps of torn paper onto one two-foot by three-foot paper template? The answer is, yours truly took the pictures home; studied the way the lines were drawn – where did the pencil hit the page… did this kid use smooth curves or sharp angles, press hard, press lightly, make holes in the paper… and did the eyes fit in the face? Then I copied the pictures, one by one, redrawing and resizing into equal spaces on the template. Neither moms nor kids could see the difference – except in size – and that was the idea.

That’s the idea with editing for someone else as well – no one should see the difference between the editor’s suggestions and the author’s original ideas. And perhaps it’s the idea with writing too – no one should see the difference between the author’s words and the character’s thoughts. But forgery might pay better.

Sheila Deeth is the author of Infinite Sum, soon to be released by Indigo Sea Press. And Sylvia Steepleton, the protagonist of Infinite Sum, was a character in Divide by Zero who demanded to tell her own story. Read Divide by Zero, meet Sylvia, and ask why she let it happen. Then  find the answers, as told by Sylvia and written down by Sheila, in Infinite Sum.

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It’s Time For the Final Review by L.V. Gaudet

I have some delightful news to share.  I have received the final review file for The McAllister Farm; book two of the McAllister mini-series.  I have also been in communication with the publisher regarding the cover art.  This means The McAllister Farm is very close to seeing publication at last.  I hope I’ll soon be able to reveal what the cover is going to look like.  The excitement it tempered a little, however, by the knowledge that nothing happens very fast in the publishing business.

 

 

*** SPOILER ALERT *** 

The McAllister Farm does contain a big spoiler.  So, if you have not already bought and read your copy of the first book, Where the Bodies Are, you will want to do that now.

 

Don’t worry; the story does not stop here.  I am working on writing the third book, which follows the twisted lives of, well you’ll guess who after you read Where the Bodies Are, bridging the gap between the first two books to bring the stories together in what might just turn out to be an explosive conclusion – either literally or metaphorically.  I haven’t figured that out myself yet.

 

This breaking news brings me to our topic today – doing the final review before publication.

 

What does it look like and what is expected of you?

 

I receive it in the form of a read only pdf file.  That is the file format used by Adobe Acrobat reader.  If you are like me and runner on the free version of Acrobat, there wouldn’t be much more you can do with any pdf file anyway.

 

You get the file as a read only for a very good reason.

 

Before you even query a publisher, you should have already put both yourself and your book through the ringer, tearing down and rebuilding through rewrites and edits, possibly even questioning your very existence.  Your book should be polished to absolute perfection; critiqued, been through the hands of beta readers, and have you feeling pretty darned good about yourself and confident in your book’s chances of success.  (Hint: this is what we tell ourselves, that we should feel confident.  But really, we all have that big white gorilla in the closet that we sometimes aren’t sure we should talk about – the fear that nobody will like our book and everyone will think it is absolute rubbish.)

 

After your book is accepted by a publisher, they will then have their editing/proofreading people take a stab at it.  They may require you to make revisions, maybe little things or possibly entire re-writes. Don’t take this personally.  They just want your book to be the absolute best it can be and have their own ideas of what that looks like.  Unless you too have published hundreds of books, it’s a fair guess to say they have more experience at what sells than you do too.

 

After all that is done and your book has gone through all the edits and revisions, and is polished to perfection once again, your publisher will have their people format it for print, both physical and electronic.

 

Now your publisher sends you that glorious read only file for final review.  This is your last chance to catch any mistakes, both yours and the editor’s, as well as any issues in the formatting.  You get a read only file so your publisher knows that you did not inadvertently monkey around with any formatting.  At this point, your publisher wants to have absolute control over all changes because they are ultimately responsible for the quality of the books they put out.

 

Carefully note any errors or changes, including the page number and location on the page to make it easier for your publisher’s editing people to find, and send that information on to them.  With luck, you will see your new book in print within the quarter. Of course, that all depends on how fast your publisher is, what kind of a publishing schedule they are working on, and about a hundred other factors, not all of which will be in your publisher’s realm of control.

 

Watch for these titles at Indigo Sea Press:

where the bodies are

 

Where the Bodies Are – (Now available!)  A woman is found suffering from a horrific attack.  Kept in an induced coma due to her injuries, both physical and emotional, she is the only known witness.

More women’s bodies turn up, left in places the authorities believe are meant to cause an increasing media frenzy.

Detectives Jim McNelly and Michael Underwood are tortured by their inability to stop the killer, each for his own reasons.  Jim McNelly is tormented by his failure to protect every victim, secretly grieving his wife, and taking each failure personally.  Michael Underwood feels a special connection to the victim, dubbed Jane Doe, her real identity unknown.

Only the killer knows who she really is, and her identity is what draws him back to her, within the detectives’ net.  Will they be able to stop him before he comes back for Jane Doe?  Before he kills again?  Maybe not.

One woman is still missing, her body the second shoe waiting to drop.  Katherine Kingslow is the killer’s best victim yet, aside from Jane Doe.  Held prisoner, Kathy lives in torment and terror, at the killer’s mercy.

Lawrence Hawkworth, a reporter of questionable morals, may just hold the key to finding her and stopping the killer.

There is a much darker secret lying behind the Jane Doe case, one that may ruin the detectives and everyone else touched by this case.

 

Coming Soon-The McAllister Farm - twitter

 

 

 

 

 

 

The McAllister Farm – (Coming soon!)  Take a step back in time and meet the boy who becomes the man who created the killer in Where the Bodies Are.  1981 to be exact.

The McAllisters are a secretive family, and for good reason.  Proud and stern, William McAllister rules both his family and his business with a firm hand and sense of strong morals.  The most important thing to him is protecting his family, second only to protecting the family business.

When William’s son Jason starts getting in trouble and bringing attention on the family, it is the beginning of the downward spiral of their world.  William’s reclusive and eccentric behavior makes him the prime suspect when someone starts killing local young women, guilty in the eyes of every person in the community.

His wife Marjorie, who does not handle stress well, is pushed in the middle of the growing animosity between the community and her husband.  Timid and nervously wringing her hands, she too wants only to protect her family, her children.

Can they keep their family and their secret safe?  They are the keepers of a dark secret that will continue with Jane Doe and the killer in Where the Bodies Are.

 

work in progress

 

Working title: The One That Got Away (title may change)  – This story brings the characters of Where the Bodies Are and The McAllister Farm together in a conclusion that will leave you wondering.

run awayEvents escalate in the search for answers.  Lawrence Hawkworth returns as he searches for answers to his own secret, one not of his making, one that haunted his mentor and likely caused his death.  It is a secret that may bring him closer to the secret behind the Jane Doe case.

Jim McNelly can’t let the Jane Doe case go, nor the bigger darker secret they learned in the woods behind the old McAllister Farm.  He can’t let go of the one who got away either.  Certain that Katherine Kingslow and Jan Doe are dead; he can’t rest until he can recover their remains and bring their killer to justice.

Michael Underwood is chasing down his own murky secret.  He returns to his past, drawn by haunting memories, down a twisted dark well that may lead to a revelation he will not want to learn.

All of these secrets lead towards the McAllister family and the events of 1981.

 

work in progress2

 

White Van – The white van is back.  This is a twisted tale that exists on the outskirts of the McAllister mini-series.  How many have heard real life urban legend tales of the white van?  Everything from missing and murdered victims to stolen dogs, and the always-elusive suspect white van.

white vanWhite Van reveals another piece of the puzzle in the secret behind the bodies in Where the Bodies Are.  A secret you will learn more about in The One That Got AwayWhite Van gives a glimpse into how much larger the secret is than you may have thought.

 

 

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The unexpected inconsistency of coffee, by Sheila Deeth

Pattie’s sitting at the table with Mary, drinking coffee, eating cookies, and trying to encourage her friend. But it’s time for work, so she tidies away the cups and plates, leaving Mary staring down into the dregs of her… cup… Really? And leaving me wondering how I failed to notice this inconsistent caffeine, through gazillions of edits, proof-reads, beta-reads, sanity-checks and more. But, alas, there is more…

“At least you didn’t give up entirely on the math,” says the professor, placing another page of Jeremy’s manuscript on the table. But then he stares at his coffee cup, and it’s left to the reader to guess why cup or page might have provoked his comment.

Then there’s that conversation between Troy and his dad. I know they’re at the garage, but all the reader knows is they’re drinking coffee. So why does Troy suddenly throw down an oily rag?

The good news is I’m getting better. I may not have spotted these errors in those earlier gazillion edits, but I saw them this time. And I fixed them. I know Murphy’s Law says there’s bound to be something more, but when Divide by Zero is re-released, it will rise renewed with Second Wind’s angel and a mug of coffee brewed to a three-times better consistency.

With Easter coming at the end of the week, what better time to celebrate renewal?

So thank you Second Wind for giving my first novel its second wind.

Sheila Deeth is the author of Divide by Zero, Infinite Sum and Imaginary Numbers, all coming soon from Second Wind.

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The Good, The Bad, and The Useless

Just like gossip, give a story to five different editors and you might get back five different edited copies. When this happens to me, I try to find a common theme in the critiques. In one instance years ago, a novella I wrote was reviewed by seventeen different classmates and received seventeen wildly different edits. This was the first, and so far, only time I’ve had that happen.

When you submit your writing for editing and critiquing, what advice do you consider accepting? What do you reject? And what editing do you merely shrug your shoulders and laugh at?

In some cases, it may depend on the type of person you are. Do you follow the crowd or do you break out of the pack? Do you believe everything or do you always have questions? Or, like most of the rest of us, are you a little of both? Whatever your personality, taking advice from someone else concerning your writing should always be taken with a grain of salt and a good sense of humor.

Individuality makes a story glow. If the advice you receive from someone else changes your story too much, then it ceases to be your story – it turns into someone else’s writing.

I have a friend who is a literature professor and he’s just like that: the only high grades in his classes are from those students who learn to mimic my friend’s writing style. I’ve never let him edit any of my own efforts because I already know how it would turn out: my story would cease to be my own and would mutate into his version.

That’s not to say some stories don’t need major overhauls – some of mine have and I’ve redone them accordingly when I’ve received good advice. However, when a good story you’ve written is edited with the intent to change the theme or style, that’s when it’s useless advice. Stick to your guns, or pens, and get a second or third or fifteenth opinion.

Bad advice is just that: bad, mean-spirited and it follows a dark path.  Bad advice is recognized by its very personal overtones: phrases like “This really sucks” and “I’ve never heard anything so stupid” or, the classic, “You call yourself a writer?” and other direct attacks.

Good advice is free of personal diatribes and has a very constructive style to its critique. This type of advice will help you turn your story into a work of art. Like a good mechanic who gives your car a tune-up that lasts, a good editor/advisor will help you fine-tune your writing. Instead of personal attacks and instead of trying to turn your writing into a clone of their own, good advisors will help you polish your work into a diamond.

How often do you get bad or mediocre advice? Are you able to “read between the lines” and recognize when someone is purposely trying to mislead you? What is the best advice you’ve been given and by whom?

J J Dare is the author of two published books, several short stories and about thirty works-in-progress.

Current enthusiasm is co-authoring at Rubicon Ranch

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Valentine in the snow

Is it really Valentine’s Day tomorrow? Will you celebrate Valentine’s Day in the snow?

Our snow began to melt on Tuesday. I walked across the field, but the green was a swirl of light and dark, under a mist almost brighter than sky or ground. Grass lay like paint splatters in splotches, bright with water, as the snow gave way. Thick snakes of gray-rimmed paths rounded corners to invisibility. But strangest of all was that line of bright pure white, thicker than the height of a man, stretched out like a curious ribbon across the center of the scene. Trees branches feathered against the sky while their trunks stayed completely hid. It was strange, surreal, and truly beautiful.

Without that line of mist it would just have been another winter’s view; like on Wednesday, when snow-paint splattered a grass-green canvas; or today, as iron rain falls down from iron-gray sky. But the mist held secrets and mystery. The mist made it worth looking again, and kept me walking forward, seeking more.

When I got home I returned to editing, and thought how the scenes I cut are kind of like that line of mist. Not everything needs to be told. Not every tree trunk needs to meet the ground, and not every character has to reveal why he thinks and feels this way. Perhaps the tales untold might keep the reader moving forward, seeking more, walking deep into the plot, and perhaps my story will seem better this way.

That’s what I’m hoping for anyway; and maybe for more flowers and less snow on Valentine’s Day.

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Writing What’s in Your Heart

When your heart is full…grab a pen. When your heart is low, grab a pen. A little inner voice told me to do this, and I have been listening to that inner voice a lot more lately as I see the the combination of the chapters I’ve shelled out this way.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I grabbed my Ipad with a heavy heart thinking of how my father in law must just simply want his wife to come home…to get to talk to her and see her smiling face.

I wrote:

Cloudy rainy Sunday’s were the hardest days. She didn’t even want to go to services. Worship seemed impossible to get through when your heart was broken. It was like telling your heartache to a trusted friend or your Mama. Going to church like this was telling it to God who is the ultimate friend. She knew the tears would roll uncontrollably and everyone would wonder what in the world was wrong with her. Immediately after services, the gossips would make it their mission to find out what sin must be weighing her down.

Every chime of the hour brought a new wondering of what he was doing and if he ever thought of her. She had to stop thinking like this, and move on. Every time she tried, she failed, but she kept starting the cycle over, even though everything seemed to remind her of him. A good movie he would appreciate, a meal he loved. Thinking of him was too much, and not enough at the same time. She hung her head wondering if this gaping hole in her heart would ever be filled.

I do miss my mother in law, but I am happily married and my husband is well and by my side. So my heart doesn’t feel the aches and yearnings my character’s does. I have to draw on my experiences in love and life, of those close to me as well as pay attention to my mood. I can give my writing a quality no one else can by including myself and my thoughts in with the necessary moving parts that keep the plot moving forward. Of course, I have to be a good editor too, because sometimes what comes out is that garblygoop stuff no one wants to read, or I don’t want people to know I even thought! More times than not though (at least it’s my hope that) what comes out of these notes are things in my writing that will resonate with anyone who reads my work that has been there too.

So what are your techniques for capturing little parts of yourself and putting them into your character?

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Waking the Sleeping Writer by J J Dare

“When are you going to start writing again?” a friend asked me a few weeks ago. The question didn’t catch me by surprise since I am well aware I’ve been neglecting my written creations for the past few years. But, I have the feeling I’m in the process of waking from my writing coma.

Nightlife in NYC (and in my mind)

My many half-finished works gave up on me and I fear they are on the edge of a coup. I strongly suspect they are the ones who killed my laptop in an effort to get my attention.

Surf’s up

It worked. I’ve opened a few documents and started editing. In a strange twist, I found five partially written manuscripts and, when combined, these five made two complete novels.

I’m thinking about my short stories. Since shorts are my strong point, I need to heed the advice I was given three years ago and combine them into a collection.

Acrobatic dragonfly

The sleeping dragonfly is waking up. Excuse me while I dive headfirst into these mischievous manuscripts.

🙂

J J Dare is the author of two published books, several short stories and triple digit works-in-progress.

Current enthusiasm is sharpening intangible knives and co-authoring at Rubicon Ranch

Facebook addiction

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Edit for the Editor – by Deborah J Ledford

Whether you write novels or short stories, once you’ve polished your final draft give your pages another look and keep the following in mind.

Simple editing examples:
Rework “was” words to make more active:
1) “He pointed to the hat that was on the counter.” = Merely deleting “that was” makes the sentence more active.
2) “There was the smell of garlic in the air.” Instead consider: “The aroma of garlic permeated the air and filled his nostrils, taking him back a decade to his grandmother’s kitchen.”

By presenting the passage this way, you not only kill the “was” word, you present the character’s emotion, and tap into the sense of smell, which is the strongest memory center of all the senses.

PET PEEVES:
WORDS: Was, that, with, it, just. In many cases you won’t need “That” or “with”.
Clarify “it” whenever possible.
Reword sentences with “was” whenever possible. Sometimes only “was” will work, however do your best to fully flesh out your sentences actively.
ADVERBS: Kill them all—if at all possible.
CLICHES: Never
SIMILES: Do your best to avoid them, or make the “was like” an original description.

Word Counts (markets may vary—check Submission Guidelines on websites):
Flash Fiction: 50-500 (sometimes up to 1,000) words
Short Story: 1,00-7,000 (although many editors prefer to receive no more than 5,000 words)
Long Story: 7,000-10,000 words
Novella: up to 15,000-40,000 words
Novels: 80-90,000 words maximum ideally (except for Historical Fiction)

PRINT OUT YOUR PAGES and read them out loud. You’ll be amazed by how many errors you will find. Especially echo words.

READ:
Read a lot. Read everything. However resist reading within your genre while you’re writing your first draft. You don’t want to risk finding yourself falling into another author’s voice.

You will also need to be familiar with authors and titles within your genre to get a feel for the market when you’re ready to compile your query letter list for agents, or publications for short story markets.

MY PERSONAL WORK PROCESS while writing a first draft:
I shoot for 2,000 words, or one full chapter per day. I compose the first draft of the chapter, print it out, edit, load the revisions to my Master File, print that version out, revise, load revisions…and so on until I’m pleased with the chapter. Then I print the pages out once more and read them out loud.

This turns out to be about the 7th or 8th draft, which saves me a lot of time editing subsequent drafts.

BUT overworking can be detrimental. I keep a DELETES file and drop elements I kill into that Word document. You never know what you will want later.

REMEMBER, your main objective is to complete your writing journey. If you prefer to write your novel straight through, even if it comes to 200,000 words, that’s fine. Every writer has their own process. Do whatever works best for you.

Your editor will love it if you keep all of these elements in mind.

Deborah J Ledford’s latest suspense novel SNARE, The Hillerman Sky Award Finalist, is book two of her Deputy Hawk/Inola Walela thriller series. STACCATO, book one of the serial, is also available. Both novels are published by Second Wind Publishing. To find out more about Deborah, receive a Free Download of the first chapters of her novels, and to read a few previously published short stories, she invites you to visit her homepage at the Second Wind Publishing website and her personal website.

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The Kinship of Music & Writing

How many times have we heard from our editor that our sentences are choppy, or sluggish, or don’t have flow? What does that mean?

I’ve found that years of studying music has helped me enormously with my writing. Music, like writing, has rhythm, flowing passages, abrupt changes, accents, etc. These entities are also present in sentences and paragraphs in writing.

In evoking a calm mood in a story, sentences can be longer with mild descriptive phrases much like the terms ‘largo,’ ‘andante’ or ‘legato’ that are present on our sheet music. If urgency or danger is something you want to demonstrate, shorter or more abrupt sentences may be in order; i.e., ‘allegro,’ ‘vivace,’ ‘presto,’ maybe even, ‘staccato.’ Dialogue can be emphasized in the same way. Choice of words is important. If a powerful, angry or frantic mood is present, words and phrases that are short and precise work better than longer ones. It sounds like common sense, but so many of us get this wrong in our excitement to establish the scenes. In music, one sees the symbols, ‘p,’ ‘pp,’ ‘mf,’ ‘f’ or ‘ff,’ which correspond to soft, very soft, slightly loud, loud, very loud, and ‘marcato’ is a term indicating accents. Those lexical items can also be accomplished with words if the writer is careful about selection.

I don’t know if what I’ve said has made any sense to you, dear reader, but, how about examples?

In my book, SHE HAD TO KNOW, an example of a calm setting with longer descriptive sentences is:

Massive stone pillars guarding the entrance stood like monoliths. Between them, intricate wrought iron gates shadowed black lace patterns on the lawn as the sun cast its late afternoon beams through the ancient ironwork.

Notice there’s a gentle rhythm to the words in the sentences as they meander through the description. The sentences are generally longer and the rendering of iron, lace, and sun are all complimentary to one another. The sentences flow.

If I were to write:

There were massive stone pillars guarding the entrance. They looked like monoliths. The ancient gates cast shadows that looked like black lace on the late afternoon lawn.

The information is basically the same, but the sentences are choppy and have no mood or flow.

In the next example, I deal with a tense, frightening moment:

Pressing her body flat against the wall, slowly inching further in, she stood dead still, praying she wouldn’t be seen. The footsteps were quite close now. Sheena held her breath. Turned her head to see who was about to pass. She wasn’t cold any longer; perspiration streamed down her body. Her head and heart beat like jackhammers. The lantern light was almost upon her. The footsteps sounded like claps of thunder in her ears.

Notice in this example, the sentences are choppy and shorter. This is intentional so the reader can feel the sense of urgency and fear in the words. Here I’ve used word accents like perspiration, heart beating, and loudness to give the reader the image of what is happening. These words are not equal to the others. They stand out in emphasis. ‘Mercato,’ in music.

If you think of your writing as a music score while you construct your sentences and paragraphs, you may very well have some really interesting passages. I test mine by reading them aloud. I’ve taped myself and played the tape back to get an even different perspective. Our own voices often sound strange to us, so it’s almost as though someone else is reading and we can hear when the rhythm is right. Try it. You might like it.

Anyone else have a trick they use to create a smooth flowing symphony of words?

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