Joe Hart's Blog, page 8

Is there anything more intoxicating than a great story?

And I'm not just talking about something written in a book or magazine. Have you ever been completely ensconced with a friend's story about something that happened to them on vacation? How about a simple episode of your favorite TV show? Ever get caught watching a movie on TV THAT YOU OWN ON DVD?

I'm guessing yes.

Do you know why, as a species we're so enthralled by the elements of a story?

Because it transports us. It gives our minds room to run. It stretches the boundaries of our imaginations to places we never thought possible. A story is magic.

Which brings me to a piece of, not writing advice per se, but more of an observation. No matter what your style, prose, vocabulary, pacing, or character-

Story trumps all.

Now some of you might say that the above list is the story, but I beg to differ. I believe story is the idea behind everything, the lowest level of the pyramid that everything else is built upon. The story is what happens. The story is the path on which your walk, it is your guide, your light across the water.

Some of you are looking at me with raised eyebrows. I can feel it. Your raised eyebrows. Okay.

So here's an example of what I mean. The story can usually be charted by its summary.

Hamlet: While son is away, murderous uncle kills father, claims throne as well as mother, usurping son's chances at his rightful place as ruler and king. (I know, really boiled down but hey, I don't have all night to break down the million plot points and facets of Shakespeare's genius.)

Jaws: Enormous shark decides to terrorize (and eat) the town folk of a small oceanside city.

Watership Down: Group of rabbits leave their warren on a bad omen and seek out a new home, far away across dangerous country.

Get the idea?

Story is the base hook that grabs our attention and holds it. The great ideas that are born from a creator's imagination are the sparks that ignite the rest of the terms we know so well: prose, pacing, character, etc.

There's a million different pieces of writing advice out there. Here's two that jump to the forefront of my brainpan: destroy adverbs and immolate passive voice. Yes, I agree with these 100%. I try to shy away from them as much as possible, but you know who doesn't? J.K. Rowling. Take a look at any of the Harry Potter series and you'll find it dripping with adverbs. Every other sentence is "was running" or "were talking". But you know what? It doesn't matter. Millions upon millions of readers devoured J.K.'s books, myself included, and you know why? Her story was transcendent. It was beautiful. It was epic and magical and mystical. It blew people's minds. Now not to say J.K. is a bad writer, she isn't at all, I'm pointing out the fact that story comes before everything else. Yes, you can have a ground shattering idea and still butcher it with horrible writing, but the story still stands out to me as the most important thing to begin with.

Without it you have some pretty words on paper, nothing more.

No magic.

I know I comb my writing to make it better, as does my editor, but before I get to that point I make sure my story is original, gripping, and worth writing about.

That's where I start, and as long as I'm true to the story, everything else falls into place.

How about you?

So as the title of the post says, I have a new novel coming out this month. It's always an exciting and busy time right before a release but I thought I'd do something different this go around. I'm gonna give you guys a little look-see of the first chapter before it goes live on the 30th. The cover above was done by the very talented Kealan Patrick Burke who always does a fantastic job with my books. So take a peek at the chapter below and feel free to let me know what you think!


Chapter 1
The Storm

The night my family was taken from me I’d had too much to drink. Storms did that to me. For as long as I could remember, clouds, thunder, lightning—any of them started the feeling inside. The itching feeling of something with too many legs crawling, first, in the base of my stomach, and then up into my chest, where it sat and prodded my heart into a staccato rhythm. I’d start sweating and shaking, and before I knew it, I’d reach for a bottle. It was worse when I was younger and wasn’t allowed to partake in liquid courage. I’d huddle in my room until the storm passed, after which I felt like I’d just escaped something that had been looking for me, hunting me. My parents did what they could, assuring me it was an entirely normal fear that many people dealt with, but hearing that others go through the same thing as you do doesn’t make it any better. When they couldn’t calm me and my terrors got worse, they took me to a therapist who talked in a quiet voice and asked me so many questions I found it hard to follow where he was going half the time. I guess my parents thought the therapy helped, since I was always fairly relaxed when I came out of that little room with two chairs and a single fountain between them, the water trickling over a few rocks and never failing to make you want to pee. Problem was, there were never any storms raging overhead when I went to see the good doctor. It’s easier to talk about something you’re afraid of when it’s not there staring you in the face.So the years went on like that. I’d get up every morning and check the weather for the day. I came to know which weathermen knew their stuff and which were just shooting from the hip. Some days, when I knew a storm was imminent, I’d sneak back home after heading off to school and sit in the basement of our house, the quietest part I could find, and just wait it out. The muffled rumbles and strobes of the lightning still reached me there, but it wasn’t near as bad as having a panic attack in the middle of a history lesson with thirty other sets of eyes on you. No, for a fifteen-year-old kid there isn’t much worse than that.I found out that drinking helped when I was a senior in high school. My best friend, Bobby Anderson, snuck me a half-empty bottle of Malibu in the empty locker hall between fifth and sixth hours. “Dad won’t notice it’s gone, he hates that shit,” Bobby said, pushing the bottle deep into the recesses of my backpack. I was scared to death to try it, having never taken so much as a sip in my life (my parents both grew up in alcoholic homes and were deeply set against anything that resembled recreational drinking). But a storm showed up around two that next morning, and in the flashing light outside my window I spun the cap off the rum and swallowed three mouthfuls before I could taste it. After the burning stopped, I nearly threw up but managed to keep it down long enough for a warmth to spread out from my stomach to my limbs. The thunder came down a few decibels and the lightning didn’t make my breath catch like it usually did. I was in love. The therapist had mentioned sedation only once to my parents, and they’d firmly shut him down on that front. To be perfectly honest, pills scared me too. But I was mature enough to know when I’d found a solution to my problem—if not the best one—and at the tender age of eighteen I began to self-medicate.I was able to hide the drinking from my parents until I was a junior in college, majoring in conceptual design. They stopped by the little house I rented on the outskirts of my college town for an unannounced visit. They found me passed out beneath the dining-room table, an empty bottle of wine and two beer cans clustered around me like a miniature defensive wall. This isn’t to say I was an alcoholic at that point. I actually didn’t even like the feeling of getting too drunk. For the most part I would relegate my self-medication to only when I needed it, which was sometimes three times a week and at others once a month. Needless to say, my dad had a few choice words that day after they’d roused me from beneath the table. I understood. How could I not? And I nodded along with them once my dad stopped yelling and my mom stopped crying. We sat down on the sofa and had an honest heart-to-heart about the dangers of drinking, and I swore to them that I wouldn’t touch a bottle again. I’d go back to counseling for the astraphobia, as it came to be named. It was the first lie I ever told my parents.I realized over the years that prolonged fear does something to a person. This isn’t an excuse, just a truth that I learned in time. It curls you in on yourself like paper in a fire and cuts you off from the rest of the world, which doesn’t deal with the lurking terror that never truly leaves. Fear drains life of hope. It only lets you see as far as tomorrow, which might be as bad as or worse than today. It crushes you with arms that wrap you so close, you can’t tell someone what normal actually feels like. So by the time I met my wife, I’d become somewhat depressed and reserved. I’d just started at a company designing brake systems for jet aircraft, and she was a vice president’s secretary. I can remember the day I first saw her. I had to go up to the executive offices to present a report for our fail analysis, something I hated to do since it involved enough questions to choke a mule. Jane was at a desk just outside the vice president’s office, trying to repair a heel that had come off one of her shoes. Her legs were crossed and she was wearing a modest skirt that had ridden up her thighs as she examined the break in her shoe. I couldn’t help but notice she had great legs. I told her this later when we were married, after she’d asked me what was the first thought that went through my head when I saw her. She’d slapped me hard on the shoulder and called me something equivalent to male swine, but I could always see in her eyes that she liked it. I offered to help her fix her shoe, and after some prodding, she let me take it back to the workshop downstairs, where I applied a simple bonding compound on the break. You would have thought I moved the earth an inch. We married a year later, and nine months after that our daughter was born. We called her Sara, after Jane’s grandmother, and when a baby boy followed a short time later, I got the honors and we named him Jack. I always liked the name Jack; it’s a good, sturdy name, the name of a detective or a construction worker. Someone tough who wouldn’t be bothered by the stresses of the world or phantom fears that came and went without boundaries or concern. For the first few years of our marriage I tried to keep the fear and the drinking a secret from Jane. I kept a flask of vodka in the back of my sock drawer, tucked behind a divider. She knew I didn’t like storms, but I usually retreated to our bedroom when one came and sipped from the flask until everything faded to an acceptable level.One rainy Saturday afternoon she caught me slumped in the corner of our bathroom, the flask loose in my grip. There was a falling-out. A reckoning, if you will. At first she just asked questions calmly, but by the end both of our voices were raised. It wasn’t until Jack knocked politely on the door to our room that we both stopped. She asked me to go to counseling and I refused on the grounds that I’d already tried that for years and it had solved nothing. I wouldn’t have some quack tell me I needed a bottle of pills and to come to terms with my fears. But, in truth, I knew why I didn’t want to go back. In my own way I’d found how to cope, but it was more than that—it was addiction. To put it in any other terms would be a lie. You can’t drink as much as I did for twelve years and not get addicted. I knew that I was because I’d find myself having a drink even when it was sunny or when Jane and the kids were out shopping. I remember rushing to the bathroom more than once to use mouthwash so they wouldn’t smell anything but pure, fresh mint on my breath. Addiction is the tiger in the grass. You don’t know it’s there until you feel the teeth close around your neck. I half expected Jane to leave, to just take the kids and go, but she didn’t. She stayed, and when I explained everything to her about the anxiety and fear that took over whenever there was a storm, she understood. She relented and allowed me to drink when I wanted to and, believe it or not, it angered me that she let me do it. In some insane way I always expected her to give me an ultimatum that would force me to stop, but it never came. So the tiger pounced and locked its jaws in place, and that was how we lived our lives. I remember the last storm. I’d been tracking it on the weather radar all morning at work. My job as lead design manager dried up along with the company two years before, and we’d moved back to my hometown in the northern part of the state. At the time there was nothing resembling what I really wanted to do, what my degree said I could do, so I settled for a mechanic’s position at a small shop on the edge of town. I worked with the smell of grease and oil in my nostrils every day until it felt like the only odor I’d ever known. When I clocked out that particular night, it was almost six and the evening sun was gone, lost behind pallid layers of gray clouds. The trees were beginning to tip like wavering tops in the wind. I drove as fast as I could to our small development and pulled into my spot beside Jane’s minivan. A fat raindrop splattered on the windshield as I got out, and I bolted up the steps before any other cold drops could touch my skin. The wind tugged at my shirt and I shivered. It was uncommonly cool for the first week of June, even for Minnesota, where sometimes you had to wear a sweatshirt in July. Our house was a modest one-level identical to three others in our neighborhood, but Jane made it comfortable and our own in the way I think only women can.I came inside and shut the door against the storm. The smell of cooking beef met me and I inhaled the small comfort it brought. There was the pounding of little feet and then Jack was in my arms, his six-year-old body so warm, it always felt like he had a fever.“Dad, you’re late again!”“I know, I’m sorry, buddy.”“Are you shivering?” he asked, his little head tilted to one side. I tried to smile. “Just chilly outside.”“Dad! It’s summertime. You can’t be cold.”“It’s the storm,” Sara said as she rounded the corner to the mudroom. Her hair was drawn back beneath a headband, exposing her mother’s features. It still stunned me how much she, at only eight, resembled Jane, and I knew she would become as beautiful as her mother before she hit fifteen. “Hi, kiddo,” I said as she came to my side. “Hi, Dad. It is the storm, right?” she asked, hugging me around the waist.I nodded. “Yeah, just the storm. I’ll feel better when I get settled.” I set Jack on his feet and he rushed off to his room, no doubt remembering his Legos desperately needed to be built into something grand. Sara trailed after me into the kitchen, her eyes glancing around the room as if she would find a way to ask the question she held by searching the walls and ceilings. “What is it, honey?” I asked as I squirted a generous amount of soap into my blackened hands. Sara hopped onto a barstool on the opposite side of the counter and smiled.“How did you know I wanted to ask something?” “I can read you like a book.”Again the smile. “Ashley asked me to come to a sleepover tomorrow night at her house, and I wondered if I could ride the bus there.”“Well, let me talk to Mom and we’ll see. Are you okay with staying all night at her house?”“Yeah, Ashley just got an American Girl doll for her birthday and I’m going to bring mine, and we’re going to play house.”I chuckled as I attempted to scrub the grime from beneath my fingernails. No matter how many times I washed my hands the dirt never really seemed to go away. “Well, it’s fine with me, but I’ll check—” My voice was lost in a parade of thunder and I stopped. My heart did a funny flip, as if it were doing a trapeze act in my chest. “Okay, Daddy?” I swallowed as the vestiges of thunder rolled across the sky. “Yeah, just fine. Why don’t you go play in your room for a few minutes?” Her eyes, the only feature she’d inherited from me, searched my face for a moment, and I wondered when she’d become so much older than her years. “Okay,” she finally said, and disappeared through the archway, into the living room. I dried my hands and fumbled a glass tumbler from the cabinet. Without bothering for ice, I went to the pantry and pulled the dark bottle of rum from the highest shelf. I filled the glass half full and took two swallows. The burn of the liquid as it first went down was like finding the right key to a lock after searching for hours. Immediately my muscles began to unclench and my breathing deepened. I put the bottle back on the shelf and stepped out of the pantry, almost running into my wife as she rounded the corner.“Jesus! You scared me,” she said, putting a hand against the wall. “Sorry.” I leaned in and kissed her. She smacked her lips and raised her eyebrows when I pulled away. “Wow, I think I have a buzz now.”I sighed and turned toward the fridge to pull out a bottle of iced tea. My hand shook a little when I registered a flash of lightning through the window above the sink. I topped off the glass and set the bottle of tea on the counter; I’d need it again soon enough.“How bad is this one supposed to be?” she asked, occupying the stool Sara sat on only minutes before. Thunder grumbled nearby and my gaze shifted to the ceiling involuntarily. “It looks pretty severe. No tornado warnings out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a few later.” I saw a crestfallen look ripple through her features and knew what she was thinking. “I’ll only have a couple,” I said. She nodded without looking at me, but managed a smile after a few seconds. “There’s burgers still warm in the pan.”“Sounds great. I’m going to shower first,” I said, heading for the door to our room. Before the shower got hot, my drink was gone. The storm was quieter in the bathroom and the streams of scalding water helped iron my nerves a little.By the time I changed into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, I felt almost normal. I heard my son singing a theme song to a cartoon in his room, although I couldn’t place which one it was. Jane was folding laundry in the living room, and I tried to make as little noise as possible while I poured my second drink of the night. “Sara wants to stay at Ashley’s tomorrow for a sleepover,” I said as I leaned against the archway. “What did you tell her?” Jane asked.“That I’d check with the emperor of the house before I gave her my blessing.”She shot me mocking look and stuck out her tongue. “It’s okay with me.”“Good, I’ll tell her.” I started walking across the living room, toward Sara’s door.“Michael?” My full name stopped me in my tracks. She called me by that only when she had something important to say. “Please, just a couple tonight?” I looked down at the floor, a tumult of emotions rip-tiding through me. “Yes, I’ll try,” I said. I started walking and after two steps the lights flickered. I tried to stifle the breath that my lungs attempted to heave inward in panic. The answering machine beeped to life in the kitchen, and I took a long pull from my glass, leaving only an inch of liquid at the bottom.Sara sat on her bed combing the hair of her prize doll, Megan. She’d saved her money for nearly six months to purchase the toy, and even after several talks about the high cost, she went ahead and bought it. To her credit, it almost never left her side at home, the doll’s dark hair and stylish red dress staples amongst the other stuffed animals that adorned her bed at night. I sat down beside her on the bed, my weight pushing the mattress down so that she fell off balance and tipped into me, laughing.“Dad, you’re too heavy!”I scrunched my face and looked at the bed. “No, this bed’s just a piece of junk. We’ll have to get you a stronger one.” She giggled. “I heard you guys talking.”“About what?” “About my sleepover.”“You little eavesdropper.”She frowned. “What’s an eavesdropper?”“Someone who listens in on other people’s conversations,” I said.“That doesn’t make any sense. How would you hear someone if you were dropping off their eaves?”I laughed and hugged her. “You’re right as usual. And yes, you can stay at Ashley’s tomorrow.”She hugged me back and leapt from the bed to her closet, her feet barely touching the carpet. “Awesome! I’m gonna pack right now! I’ll have to take Megan’s party dress and her brush and her shiny shoes.”“Don’t forget your own clothes,” I said, standing. I’m not sure if she heard me. Her head was buried beneath a pile of blankets, in search of her doll’s necessary items. I smiled and left her to it.I crossed the hall and peeked into Jack’s room. He was there, in the middle of the floor, toys of all kinds spread around him as if he were at the epicenter of a G.I. Joe–Lego explosion. The wind moaned outside and nudged the house, causing loud creaks and cracks. I finished my drink and set the empty glass on the floor of the hallway. My head swam as I stood up and took a deep breath. The rum was doing its job. I pushed the door open and stood there, watching my son play for a moment. His little fingers spun a bright yellow Lego in several different directions before seating it into a makeshift wall his army men hid behind. I traced my memory back as far as I could go and tried to remember a time when I’d been as carefree as he was right then. Soft images came to me: playing cards with my father, a simple game of go fish, I think; my mother humming a soundless tune, her hands thrust in soapy dishwater while I pushed small cars around her feet. But that was all. The rest was a choppy blur of rain and low clouds that made my guts writhe. I steadied myself and stepped into his room.“Whatcha doing, champ?” “Playin’ Joes.” He didn’t raise his head from the small figures on the floor. I knelt beside him, picked up a particularly frightening member of Cobra, and made the figure’s knees flex wildly.“You Joes are cowards! Hiding behind a wall!” I said in a mockingly high voice, and followed it up with a raspberry that made Jack’s eyes widen and then close with belly laughs. “Laughing at me? I’ll show you!” I made the figure trudge up to the wall Jack had built and aim a kick at its bottom. “Ow, oh no, I broke my foot!” I cried.That did it. Jack fell backward in gales of laughter. I watched him, giggling a little myself, painfully aware of how brittle and fleeting this moment was. There would come a time when he wouldn’t laugh so easily at his father’s simple jokes. Someday the toys he loved so fervently would be packed away and forgotten. I hoped he wouldn’t forget the feeling of easy laughter, or the joy he got from the make-believe worlds he created, or what it felt like to be young.Jack opened his eyes as his laughter subsided, and sat back up. “You’re so funny, Dad. You should be on TV.”“Am I better than Diego?”He thought for a few seconds. “Yeah, I guess so.”“You guess so? Come here!” I yelled, and began tickling him. He screamed laughter again and rolled away from me. Thunder slammed overhead and echoed into the deepening night like a rockslide. I sat up, my throat tightening, threatening to strangle me right there on the floor. A small hand on my arm brought me back, and I looked down at Jack’s upturned face.“It’s okay, Dad. The storm’s outside and it can’t get in.”Tears welled up in my eyes, and the sadness I only allowed myself in moments of complete solitude tried to rise. Sadness for feeling so paralyzed that my six-year-old had to comfort me, sadness for sitting in his room with booze on my breath, sadness for feeling like a failure.I leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head. “I know, buddy. You’re too smart, you know that?”He just smiled and came closer. “Dad?” he asked in a whisper.“Yeah?” I whispered back.“Can I have a candy bar?”I burst out laughing again. “Sure, buddy.” He responded with a small whoop and raced out the door, nearly tripping on my empty glass.Before I made it back to the living room, I heard Jack exclaim to Jane that he was having a treat at my bidding. Jane raised an eyebrow at me as I walked through, and I merely shrugged and acted as if it was the first I’d heard of it. As I came closer to her, I could smell the familiar fragrance of her shampoo mixed with her own, more subtle scent. It was the smell of her skin, organic and real and singular to her. I put my hand on the small of her back and guided her away from the laundry. Her face was close to mine and a little smile played at the corner of her mouth. I kissed her. In that moment—with my children happy, one in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, my wife pulled against me—I was content. I savored it. We finally moved apart, Jane’s smile now complete.“What was that for?” “Because I love you,” I said, simply. She hugged me close again and my eyes strayed to the window at her back. I stiffened. Our front yard was dark. Darker than any yard should be on a June evening, a little past seven. Night had come early with the storm. Clouds thicker than I’d ever seen before coated the sky just above the tree line surrounding our home. I expected the tallest tops of the pines to actually scrape the hide of the storm at any moment. But what approached from the west cooled my blood and sent a runner of fear down my spine. A roiling whirlpool of clouds turned in a flattened spiral formation in the sky. It was enormous. Lanky tendrils of root-like thunderheads trailed up to a central black eye that rotated, swallowing the rain-laden clouds and spitting lightning every few seconds. “Jesus” was all I managed. Jane pulled away from me and turned to the window. A hand went to her mouth.“Is it a tornado?” she asked, transfixed by the swirling storm outside.“I don’t think so, but we can’t be too sure.” Thunder roared like an enraged freight train and lightning touched one of the trees across the street, creating a shower of sparks and flying wood. I swore and pulled Jane back from the window, my hands shaking on her shoulders. “Get Sara,” I said. She nodded and ran toward the opposite end of the house. I made my way to the kitchen, my knees threatening to drop me to the floor every few steps. Jack sat at the counter, contentedly chewing on a chocolate bar. “Jack, sit down in the archway, right now.”Something in my voice must have registered, because his eyes widened and he nodded. Without so much as a word, he slid from the stool and went to the main archway leading to the living room and sat at its base. I turned to the pantry, my heart leaping in alarming directions within my rib cage. The bottle of rum was in my hand before I knew it, and I put it to my lips and swallowed one, two, three gulps before I had to take a breath. I shook my head as I capped the rum and set it in its place, noting with crazed amusement that it was almost empty.There was a loud snapping sound, like a hundred rubber bands breaking at once, and the lights went out. “Honey?” Jane’s voice was high and tight with worry. I stumbled from the pantry, amazed at how black the house was. I made out the oblong shape of the counter and the islands of stools beside it. Just a few more steps and the archway should be there. Lightning lit up my path, and in its flicker I saw my family huddled together in the archway, Jane’s arms cuddling both of the kids close, their small faces white in the electric glare. They looked scared. Perhaps more frightened than me, but I doubted it. “Flashlight,” I said and turned back to the kitchen. Wind pushed at the walls and made the house moan like a ship at sea, as I finally found the drawer I was looking for. Pencils, pens, paper, coupons ... finally my fingers touched the hard barrel of the Fenix light I kept there. I clicked the bulbous switch and cool, white light flooded the ceiling. I swung the flashlight around and focused on my family again, securing them in the beam. My nerves still felt like ragged live wires, but I could breath and my heart had slowed to a normal rate. I made my way around the end of the counter as lightning strobed again, suffusing everything. My flashlight fluttered with it. I stopped, sure I had imagined it. The beam was steady, and I could see Jane raising a hand to block its glow. A word seemed balanced on her lips—perhaps a plea to shine it away from them? I didn’t find out because lightning flashed again at that moment and my flashlight went out for good. I stood, stunned for what felt like an eternity, shock radiating through me as my mind tried to catch up with what had happened. Electromagnetic charge in the air from the storm short-circuited the minute board within the light? Batteries dead? Coincidence? I shook the light. Nothing. Flicked the switch on and off. Nothing.A roaring began to build beyond the roof, as if a wildfire burned above us. It grew louder with every passing second, and I wondered if this was what everyone meant when describing a tornado’s sound. Raising my head, I realized I was still flash blind from the combined brightness of the lightning and flashlight. There was a floating afterimage in the darkness of the living room. Three glowing, elongated shapes hung there in the black. I blinked, thinking they would be there on the inside of my eyelids too, but instead they disappeared. My stomach lurched. I opened my eyes as the golden points of light grew and sharpened in the room beyond my family. I tried to run. I tried to move to them, to pull them away from what my senses had already deemed real but my mind refused to accept. The giant eyes and mouth hovered in the darkness. The mouth smiled.I let out a half scream as lightning flared again, and I saw inhumanly long arms and hands scooping my wife and children into an embrace. Thunder roared and the floor shuddered beneath my feet. I lunged toward the doorway as the lights came on, in a mockery of my horror. I tripped over a stool and fell to my knees in the now-vacant archway. My family was gone.

I can't stand the term writer's block.
It sucks in a way that makes me want to jam my head through sheetrock. To me this term speaks of an individual gifted with a talent to tell stories, to weave lives out of mid-air, to take an everyday situation and turn it into a spectacle of conflict, and who suddenly can't write a single coherent word. 
"Oh, I've had the worst writer's block, I couldn't write a thing yesterday so I just watched a movie." 
"I hear you, Barty, I had a nasty case of it last year that I just couldn't wash off." 
Blech. 
If you're a writer you've come to a halt in a story in some way, shape, or form. You've run up against a wall, busted your nose open and stepped back wondering how the hell it got there without you knowing it. You stop and look around, there's walls everywhere you turn. You begin to panic, knowing exactly where you want to go but have no idea how to get there. *Hyperventilates, falls on the ground clutching throat*. You whisper through spit and blood, "writer's block." 
Nope. 
Psst. Turn around.
You're not in a locked room, you're in a labyrinth and guess what? 
You created it.
Because that's what a story is, a giant maze with characters and plot lines and conflict all racing to find the center, or the way out, depending on where you start your story. You got here somehow. It's time to backtrack my friends and see where you took a wrong turn, because that's all "writer's block" is, a wrong turn somewhere behind you. A wall didn't magically grow in your writing, you put it there many words ago and now it's thicker than a White House safe room bulkhead. Turn around and follow your tracks in the mud, Danny Torrance that shit until you find where you went wrong. And do it however you need to, I know I made fun of just up and watching a movie, but if that helps, go ahead. Go for a walk, lay on your back and stare at the ceiling fan, take a shower, whatever, but sort it out by retracing your steps.
And backtracking is not being blocked. There's a difference, at least in my mind. Blocked says game over, it says you shouldn't have started this project in the first place. Blocked is a fatal term that I won't put in my vocabulary. 
There's always a way out.
So don't be afraid to pause and ponder where you went wrong. Every writer does it and has to tie up loose ends or re-write an entire chapter to find their way. Happens all the time. So don't panic if you come to a dead end and have to turn around. 
You're still moving forward even if it feels like going back.    

I've said a few things about this topic, nothing too inflammatory and nothing outside of the truth, but I've come to a realization and it's a simple one.

It doesn't matter which path you choose to get your work out, just get it out.

Others have touched on this, Chuck Wendig did a great post on it awhile back but I thought I'd add my own two cents.

I'm and independent author. I rely on no one but myself to get my stories to my readers. I hire out my editing, cover art, and formatting and I have great people who help me with these aspects that don't involve the creation of the actual words. At this point in my life it's working out great. I'm having more readers, success, and money come in than I ever thought possible and I love it. I'm in control of my content, covers, descriptions, and formatting. It's a lot of work but it's extremely gratifying to know that I can change it at the drop of the proverbial hat.

Now don't get me wrong, this isn't a bash-the-shit-out-of-the-big-six/five/whatever. It really isn't. Honestly I might even pursue a publishing opportunity with one of them someday. You know why? Because they can reach even more readers than I can by myself. They have more marketing muscle and clout than I might ever have alone. I undoubtedly will give away some of my control, but perhaps it will be an even tradeoff that I'll be willing to make. The other thing people talk about is the collapse of the publishing industry as we know it. I think that's blowing things out of proportion. I think there will be restructuring and basically a shift, but the industry will still be there in fifty years.

The point is that you need to do what works for you.

If you get rejected by a hundred agents and a thousand publishers, publish it yourself! Put it out there. Kealan Patrick Burke once said that independent publishing isn't removing the gatekeepers, readers are the greatest gatekeepers out there. You'll find out soon enough if your work is up to snuff, your readers will tell you.

If you think self publishing isn't what you want, find an agent, don't quit til' you do, keep submitting manuscripts until one sticks and you get an offer from a publisher.

In the meantime keep writing, don't wait around sitting on your thumbs while they could be hitting the spacebar over and over.

"Oh my God!" she yelled pointing at the screen.
"What?" her husband said and came running from the kitchen.
"A one star review on Amazon for my book!" Tears poured from her eyes and she curled into a ball in the corner of the room, rocking and holding herself muttering something barely resembling words.

Sound familiar?

Well, maybe not that bad but it's not a good feeling getting a negative review. Basically it's like stranger going out of their way at the talent show to tell you your son or daughter did a rotten job singing Call Me Maybe. If the world was perfect there'd be no negative reviews, everyone would love your book and sing your praises to the heavens.

But then again, in a perfect world you'd write the perfect book.

What I'm saying is there can be a lot to learn from negative reviews.

Constructive criticism is a big one. If someone does a two page thesis on what's wrong with your book complete with footnotes and a bibliography, that person has too much time on their hands. But, you should really read what they said. Did anything ring true to you? Did they put their fingers into a festering wound your story was bleeding from? See if you can glean anything constructive from their criticism and if you can, improve it on the next project.

What if someone basically writes ten words telling you that you should be shoveling shit in hell instead of writing? Well, it sounds like they didn't like the story. Which is just fine.

Repeat after me: It's okay that someone didn't like my book.

If you write enough and enough people read it, eventually someone will tell you that you suck at your true passion, a stunning blow in any profession, but you must take these as the flip side of the coin. Does your book have mostly positive reviews? Yes, okay, don't worry that a one star is going to deter your sales, it won't, especially if the person writing it had nothing other to say than they didn't like it. They're entitled to their opinion, let them broadcast it from the rooftops if they want. Constructive criticism is productive, you can learn from it, make yourself better. Someone not liking your story is a shoulder shrug before you continue working on your next project.

My daughter said something to me the other day and I'm sure it's been said before, but I like it.

"Every road has bumps."

Fuckin' A.

Get back to work.

So you've got an idea for a novel.

You've been mulling it over for some time now, I can see it in your eyes. You've got a main character and secondary characters and even the annoying bastard you're going to kill off horribly in chapter 23. So before you buckle down to start writing, I ask you this:

Do you have an outline?

You know, a guide, something to go by, a map so you don't get lost in your own head because that's a messed up place, let me tell you. My head, not yours, well maybe yours too, but anyways.

Where was I? (consults outline for blog post)

See what I did there?

Anyways, outlining is a controversial thing. Some writers always do them, some never do. I think Stephen King tries not to plot his story out ever, he just sits down and writes, sees where it takes him. Chuck Wendig on the other hand does pretty in depth outlines and even uses excel to keep track of characters, conflicts, scenes, and every other wacked out thing that goes on in a novel.

So should you do one or not?

That's really a question you have to answer for yourself. I've actually done both. I've written a story without so much as a note, just sat down and started writing the first thing that came into my head. My first novel, Lineage, on the other hand, I plotted out and outlined pretty extensively. It really rests on what kind of writer you are. Some people fly by the seat of their pants through life and write the same way. Others are more careful and meticulous, especially concerning their craft. My advice is try both and see which makes you more comfortable. After you do one of each you'll most likely know exactly which you like better.

Like I mentioned above there's also a wide array of outlining. For me what works best is a basic run down of the story once I have the plot in mind. I write out who my characters are, what they want, and what's holding them back. I write the "hooks" or the twisty plot points down if I have a few in mind just to make sure I don't forget to put them in where they need to go. Usually as I write, the story becomes more solid and I start to see other nuances of the plot I hadn't thought of before. If these bits are small but important I'll jot them down. If they're major changes or ideas like an entirely new ending to the story, I let them sit and stew on the back burner until I get to their stage time.

But that's just me. You're different and that's great. Try the two different ways and see which works. Run with it and write your novel, and don't look back.

Hey guys, a few quick thoughts today and a little announcement.

Yesterday I hit a major milestone in my writing career. My latest novel, Singularity, really took off from the free giveaway I did last week which propelled me into the top 100 on Amazon UK! It stopped and held at #74 for most of the day. Can't be more pleased right now, just thought I'd share since I'm still riding high. Currently it's ranked #108 and is #2 in horror, horror thrillers, and police procedurals.

Now onto the important stuff. The idea for the post today has been hovering in my mind for some time and I never really realized it was a substantial thought until now.

What does it mean to have a reader's trust?

This question might be more difficult to answer if you're an author than if you're a reader. I know, I know, if you're an author then you're a reader, but sometimes I think authors get sidetracked with the million other things that go into writing a book, and that's fine. In fact if you do most things well in writing a story then you don't have to worry as much about your reader's trust, but in any case here's just a few of my ideas on what the answer to the question above means.


Trust is a hydra isn't it? When you trust someone you have a multitude of feelings toward them: love, security, and confidence are just a few. This is the same for an author writing for an audience. You want your readers to love you, love your words and the way you put them together. You want them to feel secure and confident in where you're taking them. They invest their hard earned money in something you're selling and you have to deliver. This brings me to the next stage of the question.What does a reader expect from an author to gain trust? I would say the first thing would be a well written story. This means great characters doing interesting things with many twists and turns resulting in a satisfying ending. I think a reader has to see closure on every aspect of the book to have confidence in an author. There can't be major plot holes or characters that act out of character for no apparent reason, and the ending has to make sense. Now note I didn't say it had to be a happy ending, it just has to make sense. If you have these things you can move onto the next aspect.Editing. Your story must be well edited for a reader to trust you. You can't have commas thrown in at random like a punctuation grenade went off in the middle of the page and your sentences must be complete. On a wider stance, your scenes must drive the plot onward instead of treading water ; a reader always wants to move forward, deeper and deeper into the story. If your novel is edited well and flows you're doing well.Genre. This one's sticky and I find myself ruminating on this quite a lot. I like a wide array of books but my preferred genre is horror. Anything within that area is my comfort zone. Transitionally, that's what I like to write. But as an author at times I want to spread my wings a little and test out new ground. If I stray too far from where my readership expects me to go, they might be upset after they purchase my book and it's no longer horror but a guide to pruning desert cacti instead. This said, an author has some range within their preferred writing zone. My first novel was a ghost story, my second a police procedural with horror underpinnings, my third will be a dark fantasy with elements of horror. If I wanted to write said cacti trimming book, I would most likely have to publish under a pen name. Again, that's just my opinion but I think most authors would agree with me.Quantity of books. This is your own pace type of thing. Everyone writes at a different speed. As an independent author I have more control over my release dates. All I need to do is write the book, get it to my editor and beta readers, make the correct changes, and publish. In this arena I can realistically publish 4 titles a year at my writing speed. This is my promise to readers: you'll have a new release from me every 3 months unless something catastrophic happens to me or my family. An author might publish 4 times a year or once every 3 years but the reader comes to expect a pattern from them. I would say this is the last arm of trust, or head if we're still speaking in terms of mythological multi-headed creatures. All in all if you write a quality story that's well edited within your preferred genre that you've built an audience for, and if you're able to produce work on a consistent basis, you should be good to go. Your readers will trust you and love you. 
I know I feel all warm and gooey inside, how about you?

This week I thought I'd write down my thoughts on the creative process in birthing a new story or novel since I'm at that point right now.

Just recently, last Tuesday in fact, I released my latest novel, Singularity. It's a mish-mash of horror, police procedural, and thriller. I'm really happy with how it turned out and I'd love for you to take a peek. Since my book was published on Tuesday there's been a lot to do between marketing, promotion and whatnot, but my thoughts are finally turning to my next project. And you know what?

I have no idea what it's going to be.

My imagination is a blank slate right now, the equivalent of a chamber pot that's been purged of all the floating nastiness. (Clears throat) Sorry about that last part, but it fits. I love the feeling of freedom that comes with starting a new project. So how does it all work for me you ask? I'll tell you.

My novels usually start with an image or a concept. Something will pop into my head and stick against the wall in there, and that's where it begins. When I have an image locked in my mind then I start to ask, okay, what's going on here or what could go on here? Because that's what it's all about, isn't it? What if? What could happen to an individual and why do we care? That's how it begins with me.

The next thing I do is find out who my characters are. What do they want? What drives each one of them? Who's the good guy and the not so good guy? What extremes will each go to to achieve their goals? Once I have the people in my head somewhat figured out I start creating hooks.

What are hooks?

To me hooks are the really excellent twists and turns that inhabit the plot and drive it forward. They are spectacles and betrayals, triumphs and pitfalls, jealousy and violence. They are the sudden amusement rides in the middle of your book that you have the reader step into without knowing. I like to put a lot of hooks in the stories I write, but not so many that it sacrifices plot or character.

While we're talking about it, let me touch on plot. Plot is great. Plot is the house in which your characters live. It's the surroundings your readers find themselves in. But it ain't shit without characters. It's just an empty house that no one cares about. Characters fill the plot, give it life, make it sing. The plot fades a little with good characters.

The ending of my stories are some of the funnest parts. It's the payoff that the reader's waiting for, so do not, I repeat, DO NOT chince on the ending of your book. Don't always give the main character the easy way out, don't always tie things up nice and tidy either. There's some very memorable and haunting books out there that leave things open to your own discretion on what happened after the pages ended.

Do I outline? A little. Sometimes a lot. Mostly a little. Outlining for me is a general sketch of the bigger picture. It's a candle for me to see by when I start. As I get going in the novel, then I turn on the spotlight and start shining it around.

So that's pretty much my process for writing and creating a novel or story. Every person has their own way and there's no wrong way. Just start thinking and let your mind wander, you won't believe where it'll take you.

Hey everyone, just a little plug today for my latest novel. The title is Singularity and it came out this morning on Kindle with paperback to follow within the next week. You can take a peek at it here. Really appreciate any feedback and comments you have and thanks so much for stopping by!

Hey guys, little change of pace this week. Doing a blog hop and answering some questions about my newest work. Enjoy!

So, what is a blog hop? Basically, it’s a way for readers to discover authors new to them.  I hope you'll find new-to-you authors whose works you enjoy.  On this stop on the blog hop, you'll find a bit of information on me and one of my books and links to four other authors you can explore!

My gratitude to fellow author, Adrienne deWolfe, for inviting me to participate in this event.  You can click the following links to learn more about Adrienne and her books.

Her Next Big Thing:  http://writingnovelsthatsell.com/blog-hop-for-authors/2013/01/


Her Website:  http://kathycarmichael.com/
Her books: http://ebookdiscovery.com/AdrienneDeWolfe.html 


In this blog hop, my fellow authors and I, in our respective blogs, have answered ten questions about our current book or work-in-progress (giving you a sneak peek).  We've also included some behind-the-scenes information about how and why we write what we write--the characters, inspirations, plotting and other choices we make. I hope you enjoy it!

 Please feel free to comment and share your thoughts and questions. Here is my Next Big Thing!

Q: What is the title of your upcoming release?

A: The title is Singularity, the cover is at the top of the page. It will go live on Tuesday, January 29th.

Q: Where did the idea come from for the book?

A: The idea for the book came right after I finished Lineage, my first novel. The area in which I live in was struck by a monumental downpour that created flash floods in several towns and cities, especially the neighboring city of Duluth. The idea for the story spawned from hearing about another town called Moose Lake and a prison that is nearby. The town itself was surrounded by water and when I heard about it I wondered what would happen if the prison instead of the town was cut off, and Singularity was born. 

Q: What genre does your book come under?

A: The genre doesn't fall in one specific category but in several. This story is a police procedural, has elements of horror, and takes the fast pace of a thriller all in one. I think that by blending genres an author can create a more satisfying story that touches on many levels. 

Q: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

A: Wow. If I had to pick I would probably choose Clive Owen to play the lead character of Sullivan Shale and Dean Norris from Breaking Bad to play his partner Barry Stevens.

Q: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? 

A: A haunted BCA agent travels to an isolated prison during a torrential downpour to investigate a horrendous murder of one of the inmates.

Q: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency?

A: It is self-published.

Q: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

A: The first draft took about four months to produce writing in the evenings and on weekends.

Q: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

A: My beta readers have compared it to Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane and Pines by Blake Crouch.

Q: Who or what inspired you to write this book?

A: I was basically inspired by the idea of the setting: a prison surrounded by a flood in which the water is rising higher and higher. Other than that the thought of writing a creepy police procedural was very enticing and it turned out to be a lot of fun.

Q: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

A: This is truly for fans of police procedurals and horror fans. Once the stage is set the action and sequences are pretty much non-stop until the end. I think anyone who likes a fast paced thriller with touches of horror will really enjoy it.          

Below you will find authors who will be joining me virtually, via blog, next Wednesday. Please be sure to bookmark their sites, and add them to your calendars for updates on their upcoming books!  Happy Writing and Reading!

Craig McGray   http://craigmmcgraywrites.blogspot.com/Adam J. Nicolai   http://anicolai.blogspot.com/Jillian Eaton   http://www.jillianeatonbooks.blogspot.comShirley Ford http://fordsthoughts.wordpress.com  
Thanks very much for everyone stopping by!