Being Believable by Abby L. Vandiver

As a writing instructor and coach, people come to me for help when they want to pen their story. And they often find that writing it isn’t as easy as one might have thought. That it is not as simple as just sitting down to do it. Because, yes, there are secrets to writing a good book, and rules. Surprised? So was I when I first started writing. I often said, “who knew there were rules to writing. 

I’ve heard, a time or two, that everyone has a novel in them. And whether that’s true or not, it is imperative for those who plan on writing one to make sure they uncover the secrets of storytelling. Luckily, they aren’t hidden in some obscure place or only available to certain people or even at an impossible cost. All it takes is putting in the time to learn the craft.

In my opinion, a good place to start the learning process when you’re contemplating writing that book you want to pen is to write what you know. An old adage, to be sure, attributed usually to Mark Twain. But certainly, writing what you know is not where you want to end up.

Whatever you write—fiction, non-fiction, or self-help, you want your work to be authentic. Believable. It makes you, the writer, accountable and that is critical in satisfying your reader. When you write what you know, you show first-hand experiences by drawing on your own prior knowledge of things like places, subjects, and cultures. But writing only what you know will limit your reach in what you can write and stifle your imagination. It boxes you in. What is important is to turn that saying around, switch the places of the words “write” and “know.” I think the best advice is to “Know what you write.” And how do you do that?

To reach outside those firsthand knowledge boundaries, writers have to learn more. Experience more. Be more aware. Research is the key. There was a time when publishers would send authors on fact finding trips. And maybe some still do, but with such wonderful inventions like the internet, you now find it possible to write beyond your familiarity and understanding. Take the time to research your work before you even sit down to write. And along the way. Don’t do information dumps or be pedantic or boring, but know enough to be believable.

WALL STREET JOURNAL, USA TODAY, and internationally best selling author, Abby L. Vandiver, is a hybrid author, being both self and traditionally published. She writes as Abby L. Vandiver/Abby Collette and Cade Bentley. Abby has always enjoyed writing, combining that with her gift for telling stories and love of mystery, she became an author.                                                                                                                                                                Amazon.com

Summer Sillies by WWK Bloggers

 The Writing Prompt

I pumped my legs like pistons, climbing the stairs, and followed Burt, who raced ahead of me to the
roof. A flight below us, Jackson followed. He had a gun in his hand. His footfalls echoed ours as he chased us. The clang of the metal steps deafened me until Burt burst through the roof door at the top of the stairs. The heavy door banged shut behind us.

 

We were trapped. In a few seconds, an armed man would come through that door. I looked around to find a weapon or a place to hide.

 

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if you weren’t too nosy for your own good.”

 

Was Burt out of his mind? “This isn’t the time for recriminations,” I said, and scanned the nooks and crannies in the deteriorating brick I planned to restore for a rooftop oasis.

 

“You can’t leave well enough alone. You think you’re smarter than the cops.”

 

The door opened. The tip of a gun poked out like a periscope.

 

Our Endings

E. B. Davis

“No Burt, I don’t think I’m smarter than the cops.” I pulled my gun from my jacket pocket and aimed it at Burt. I took out my badge. “Because, I am a cop. Special Agent Renee Carter. Jackson here is my partner.”

 

Burt looked confused. “But you’re my neighbor. You’re a jeweler and an amateur sleuth.”

 

“I was undercover. We’ve been tracking your illegal activities now for over a year.” Jackson cuffed Burt and read his rights. I heaved a sigh of relief. Having to play sleuth with him had been trying. I bet he laughed after our investigative adventures. He’d thrown red herrings at me, trying to lead me away from his activities. But the herring I could deal with. It was the anchovies on his pizza I hoped never to smell again.

 

Tammy Euliano

“I am smarter than the cops. Get down.” I picked up a brick, measuring its heft in my right hand, and grabbed a small broken piece with my left. Burt lay on his stomach, out of Jackson’s line-of-sight. I tossed the small piece underhand to land to the left of the door, which swung wide at the sound. As soon as the back of Jackson’s bald head came into view, I threw a fastball – or fastbrick – right on target. He fell with a loud thud, the gun skittering from his hand. 

 

I retrieved the gun and handed it to Officer Burt. “You stay on meter maid duty, Burty Boy. Mom and I will take care of the real crime.” Breathless, she smiled at me from the open doorway, her cane pressed into the back of our assailant. This wasn’t the first mystery we’d solved together, and it surely wouldn’t be our last. Unless our publisher gets bought, of course.

 

Grace Topping

I waved my arms at Jackson as he peered through the narrow opening. “Okay, Jackson, we’ve had enough. Your invitation to a murder mystery dinner sounded like fun, but this has gotten a little out of hand.”

 

“I told you we shouldn’t have come,” Burt muttered.

 

A shot rang out and bits of stone exploded on the wall beside my head.

 

“Yikes, duck,” Burt shouted, pulling me down beside him near the floor. “I don’t think we are playing anymore.”

 

That realization struck home just as the bullet had landed. Now what could we do? We were unarmed and this was no longer playacting. Just then I caught sight of a long-forgotten television antenna that lay on the floor. I grabbed hold of it.

 

“Distract him while I come at him from the other side.”

 

“How in the hell am I going to do that?” Burt’s eyes were wide and frantic.

 

“I don’t know. You’re the mystery writer here. Think of something.” Spotting a brick nearby, I grabbed it and thrust it into his hands. “When I say now, toss this at him as he comes through the door.”

 

With that, I snuck around the roof skylight that was just high enough to cover me.

 

Jackson pushed open the door, stepped out, and fired another shot.

 

“Now!!”

 

Burt tossed the brick at Jackson. It didn’t land anywhere near him, but it was enough to distract him. Coming up from behind him, I swung the rusty antenna at him, hoping to knock him over and then we could pounce on him.

 

The antenna hit him with just enough force to cause him to lose his balance. He wavered, and 

before he could stand erect, he plummeted over the side of the building.

 

Burt looked stunned. “How are we going to explain this to the police, especially since you threatened him during dinner?”

 

“I was only following the script he gave us.”

 

Burt and I collided at the door trying to get through it at the same. With any luck, the script I left on the dining room table was still there and no one had taken it.

 

Kait Carson

Those people who think locked room mysteries are impossible puzzles should try meeting a gun-toting madman on a roof. I raced for the edge. My head spun as I looked to the street below. Down had been much closer the last time I was up here. Only one thing to do.

 

“Follow me, Burt.” I hooked a foot into a gap in the bricks and came down hard on my chin. The bricks were my salvation. Ignoring the pain from my bleeding lip, I grabbed a brick and hurled it in the direction of the stairwell. The clink of brick connecting with metal and the sound of a shot exploded in my ears. The gun, knocked from Jackson’s hand clattered to the pebble rooftop.

 

Burt’s laughter rang in my ears. He stooped to pick up the fallen weapon. A double-barreled shot-gun now pointed directly at my chest. “Maybe I should have said you wouldn’t be in this mess if you weren’t too nosy for your own good.” His finger tightened on the trigger. “You’ll never bother me again.”

KM Rockwood

I grabbed the edge of the door and gave it a mighty heave.

 

Jackson stumbled forward, his arms flailing wildly as he tried to regain his balance.

 

I zipped around behind him, dashing through the door as it clanged shut behind me. I threaded the sturdy padlock through the hasps and slammed it home.

 

Jackson wasn’t getting through that any time soon.

 

As I started down the stairs, I heard a single shot.

 

And I probably wouldn’t have to worry about that jerk Burt giving me a hard time any more.

 

Warren Bull

Burt rammed his shoulder against the door. Jackson cursed. He dropped the gun when the door slammed against his hand. The door swung open wide.  I dived at the weapon. As if it had a mind of its own, the gun bounced back through the opening. I heard it hit the metal steps as it careened down to the bottom.

Jackson was injured and unarmed. Great. But he was enraged. He burst through the doorway, growling like an animal.

 

“I can toss you both off the roof with one hand,” he said. “It’ll look like an accident. I’ll be long gone before the police arrive.”

 

"Not if we cooperate," I said, throwing a brick at his head. I missed, but it didn't matter.

When he lunged at me, Burt hit him in the back of the head with a piece of masonry. Jackson whirled so he didn't see the chunk of brick I threw that hit Jackson in the back. We kept it up and Jackson kept turning and lunging uselessly until he heard the police sirens. Then he dragged his wounded body back to the stairs. He started down much slower than he had mounted the stairs.

 

We watched the police arrest him and retrieve his gun.

"Okay, maybe you were smart to get him to chase us to where we could defend ourselves and keep him occupied long enough for the cops to get him. I bet that was the murder weapon and his fingerprints will be all over it," said Burt.

I smiled and said nothing. I had fled in panic. Burt saved us by ramming the door, but I was never going to admit it.

 

Shari Randall

“Oh, ye of little faith.” I reached into the pocket of my cocktail dress – how I love a dress with pockets! -  and pressed the button on a micro transmitter. The blades of a police chopper thumped in the distance. I sighed. It wouldn’t be here in time.

 

I hefted two bricks, one in each hand. I hurled one at Jackson’s hand, knocking the gun to the ground. As he bent to retrieve it, I hurled the other, hitting him square in his hipster glasses. As Jackson sagged to the asphalt, I grabbed his gun.

 

The chopper pulled even with the rooftop. Burt gasped, his face pale in the police helicopter’s spotlight. “What just happened?”

 

The chopper hovered, the down draft swirling as SWAT officers leapt to the rooftop and secured Jackson. I pulled Burt close. He was cute, but a little slow on the uptake.

 

“I’m not smarter than the police,” I said in his ear. “I am the police.”

 

James M. Jackson

Which was really bad technique since if I had been standing there, I could have grabbed the Sig Sauer P365 and twisted it from Jackson’s hand and broken a finger. But I wasn’t, so I picked up a brick. I didn’t bother pointing out to Burt that since I was the one who figured out Jackson was the killer, I was smarter than the cops (and that it was Burt who had taken the front stairs up, not the back stairs down).

 

All 5’2” ninety-eight pounds of Jackson slipped through the doorway following his P365, which was the thing I stared at.

 

Jackson directed the gun at my chest. “You got prayers to say, now’s the time to say them.”

 

I looked up at chimney swifts chittering overhead. “Thank you, Lord for the safety you have provided me.” I rifled the brick at Jackson’s knee. 

 

The fight was over in five seconds. I had Jackson pinned beneath me and his P365 secured in my pocket.

 

“You’re crazy,” Burt said. “He could have shot you.”

 

“He tried,” I said, “But he forgot to release the manual safety.

 

Margaret S. Hamilton

Little did Burt know. I had a plan. I padded in my sheepskin boots to the other side of the roof and whistled.

Herschel poked his big black head outside his rooftop kennel. Alert, poised for action, awaiting my command.

“Hershey, come!” I slapped my thighs. “Time for fetch!”

All hundred pounds of Cane Corso coiled muscle, topped with a massive head and heavy jaw, sprang to attention, crossed the roof, and made the four foot leap between buildings to join me, a wooden rolling pin clamped in his huge jaw.

Herschel dropped the rolling pin at my feet and woofed, tail wagging. I slipped him a treat from my stash behind a loose brick in the wall.

I picked up the rolling pin, but instead of throwing it, I screamed “Get the gun!” and added “Burt, out of the way.”

Herschel charged across the roof and leaped for Jackson’s gun, clamping Jackson’s lower arm in his mighty jaws. Jackson screamed and dropped his gun, Herschel still holding his arm.

I raced across the roof, snatched the gun, and handed it to Burt. “Make yourself useful while I call the police.”

I fed Herschel a handful of treats, and spent the next thirty minutes throwing the rolling pin for him. Herschel periodically stood on Jackson’s prone body, making sure his prey hadn’t gotten away.

Burt said, “I thought you spent time up here working on renovations, not playing with a guard dog.”

I rubbed Herschel’s short, coarse, coat. “You never know when you might need a Cane Corso.

 

I Swore I Wouldn’t Do It Again

by Jim Jackson

I swore I wouldn’t, and I lied. Not to someone else. To myself.

How sad is that?

I had the pleasure last week that all novelists know. I typed “THE END” on the first draft of a novel. It’s a major step in completing the publication path, but a fleeting joy because first drafts need massive amounts of work before they become published books.

My problem did not come with finishing the draft; it came three days earlier. That’s when I broke my self-made promise. Before we get to that, let me explain how I create novels. I begin with something that interests me. Often it’s a crime, but it could be a personal conflict, or a location. This time, I was angry at corporations that deliberately structure their business to maximize profits and then walk away from their environmental disasters, leaving a corporate shell with few assets. What would happen if Niki (my protagonist who works undercover) had to infiltrate and shut down domestic terrorists of a different stripe who took revenge on the corporate executives—blaming and shaming and in a few cases by killing them?

It’s the second book in the series, so I chose Niki’s “helpers” from the first book’s secondary characters. I created a cast of bad guys, one of whom, unbeknownst to the others, was the killer. Those bones were more than enough to get me going because I don’t (er, can’t) plot my stories. To discover the plot, I must write them.

Here’s where the promise to myself came in. The day I typed “THE END” for the previous book’s first draft was also the day I changed which character had masterminded the crimes. I’ve joked that if I’m surprised at who done it, readers will be too. The problem is when you change the bad guy at the last moment, it requires a lot of rewriting in the next draft for the story to work. That’s when I promised—pinky-swore, right hand to left—that in the future, I would know who “done it” by the middle of the first draft.

Which I did until I changed who the killer was three days before I typed “THE END.”

I love my revised choice. But not only did I break my solemn oath, I gave myself more work to complete the second draft. I suppose I should look on the bright side: this time I had three days of writing during which I knew the bad guy’s identity. That’s progress, right?

I swear I’ve learned my lesson, and I will not make that mistake again. Next time, I’m not promising anything.

* * *

James M. Jackson authors the Seamus McCree series. Full of mystery and suspense, these thrillers explore financial crimes, family relationships, and what happens when they mix. Furthermore, a novella is the most recent addition to the series. You can sign up for his newsletter and find more information about Jim and his books at https://jamesmjackson.com.

Time for Beta Readers

 

With my debut novel out for a month, it’s time for the sequel…actually, according to my publisher, it was time for the sequel in January, except they didn’t mention that until August and, well, turns out I don’t write all that fast. It’s not that I don’t write fast, it’s just that the majority of what I write fast ends up being rewritten…and so on and so on. But here we are in April and I’ve written The End (twice), and I’m ready for someone else’s eyes.

At this point, a lot depends on where I think the story is. In this case, I think it’s close. It’s a sequel, so I know most of the main characters quite well. The voice needs to be consistent with Book 1, and I’m pretty clear on my plot, so I don’t think I need a developmental edit. I obtained one in the past for another novel. It was extremely expensive, but at least it took EIGHT (8) months. Seriously, the feedback was useful, but I was repeatedly promised, “just a couple more weeks.” I don’t have that kind of time, and while I could certainly find someone more reliable and less expensive, I plan to skip that step, at least for now.

Instead, I have had great success with beta readers I find through Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/50920-beta-reader-group. I’ve not tried the “free” option, figuring you get what you pay for, and I’m happy to pay someone to critically read my novel. The charge is usually around $100 for an 80K word book, some a little more, but always reasonable in my mind, and agreed upon in advance. It’s a self-explanatory process on the site. You post in the appropriate group what it is you’re looking for, your genre, the length of the book, and your timeframe, then you sit back and wait for replies, often they start appearing within the hour. Most have a website to check out with their rates and offerings and reviews. Some are less official looking, but provide references and I’ve had at least one good experience that way, and she was less expensive.

A few weeks later, you’ll receive a detailed review of the book. Generally a letter that lists overall impressions, and another more detailed chapter-by-chapter summary of what they like, what they don’t like, where they were confused or noticed errors. It’s not a line edit, and not a developmental edit either. This is a reader’s impression of your work, not a writer’s impression, which is quite different I think. Where a developmental editor will tell you what doesn’t work and ideas for how to fix it. A beta reader will mostly just do the former.

So, the new, as yet untitled, sequel to Fatal Intent will be off to the beta readers this weekend…then the nervous wait begins. I think I might write a prequel short story to offer on my website in the meantime…or maybe I’ll catch up on some sleep!

 

~Tammy Euliano

Author of Fatal Intent

“THE END” is the Beginning

by James M. Jackson

Last Friday I typed “THE END” to the first draft of the manuscript I’ve worked on for the last three months. It’s a domestic thriller and its 104,201 words took longer than I expected for a variety of personal/family reasons.

Getting to the point where one can legitimately type “THE END” provides physical proof that the first step in producing a marketable novel is complete. It’s a step many wannabe writers never achieve and always a reason for celebration.

For me there is another reason to celebrate. By the time I typed THE END, I had finally figured out who the bad guy(s) is/are for this story. [See this 2018-11-04 WWK Blog in which I discuss my approach to determining the villain(s)] Once again, I didn’t figure it out until close to the end. This time was worse than most. I finished the manuscript on a Friday afternoon, and this is where I left it Thursday:

Niki opened the door slowly, standing well back from it in case someone inside had a gun or tried to charge her. She protected her gun hand, holding it close to her body.

Inside was dark.

She sensed more that heard a movement and assumed a shooting position, training her pistol into the void. “Come out with your hands up so I can see them.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a voice from behind her spoke. “Lower the gun to waist height and drop it. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

I read that passage to Jan before dinner. She asked, “Do you know who’s saying those words?” I replied that I thought so, but you never knew what might change overnight. The next day I found the last 2,105 words to complete the story and knew for sure the mind behind the mayhem.

My celebration of finishing the first draft was brief; I know typing “THE END” is just the beginning. My first drafts are an unholy mess: They include subplots that no longer make sense. They rarely include enough setting. Four of the five senses are under-represented. Some subplots must be expanded. I have transitions to add, many to shorten. Word choices need much work. Although I probably have the right number of commas, they need to find their proper places in sentences.

My second draft will fix most of the story issues. Later drafts improve the writing. I’ll use as many drafts as it takes to get it right. But the first thing that needs to happen with this WIP is rest. The worker bees under the surface of my conscious will keep thinking on this novel even while I turn my attention to polishing the final draft of False Bottom (Seamus McCree #6) I expect the bees to unearth a few gems; I’ll include them in my notes of things to change in the next draft. Sometimes after reflection, I’ll reject those suggestions. Mostly they are good, and I’m glad for them.

Readers do you enjoy knowing how the book-sausage is made? Authors, what’s your process?

AN UPDATE: This post was written almost two years ago, so you might be curious what has happened in the meantime with this manuscript. Draft two straightened out the storylines, more or less. Draft four went to my editor last fall, and I am working on draft five to reflect her suggestions. It's nearly to the polishing stage, but not quite ready and still coming in at 104,000 words -- which I expect to get under 100,000 before I am done with it.

I am 30,000 words into the first draft of the second novel in this spinoff series. In the meantime, I've published the sixth novel in the Seamus McCree series (False Bottom) and a follow-up novella (Furthermore).

~ Jim

* * * * *

James M. Jackson authors the Seamus McCree series. Full of mystery and suspense, these thrillers explore financial crimes, family relationships, and what happens when they mix. Furthermore, a novella is the most recent addition to the series. You can sign up for his newsletter and find more information about Jim and his books at https://jamesmjackson.com.

I’ve Got an Idea!

(Linda Rodriguez previously published this on WWK.)

Right now, I’m in the middle of a book. Actually, I’m usually in the middle of writing a book or about to finish a book or about to begin a book. It’s the cycle of life for writers, especially novelists. The middle of the book, though, is the hardest because it’s where it all begins to break down or bog down or seems to. I know of very few writers who haven’t faced despair, or at least mild depression, somewhere in the middle of the book.

That brilliant idea that sent me excitedly to the keyboard to start this journey of words seems further away from actuality than ever. It’s very hard work to try to get it on paper and make the reality the reader will find on the page match up to the beauty of the idea in my head—and of course, none of us ever quite manage it. That’s part of the reason why we keep trying.

Right now, though, I’m struggling as I try not to drown or suffocate in all the thousands of words I’ve typed and continue to type, which seem more and more shabby and mundane—and very far from that shining thing in my head that I’m trying to make real on the page. I’m tired and overwhelmed. And I just want someone to come take this magnificent idea and make the book for me. Isn’t it enough coming up with such a grand concept?

For a moment, I revert to the childlike person who approaches writers so often to say, “I’ve got a great idea! You can take it and write it up into a book, and we’ll split the profits.” We writers shudder when such people come around, not wanting to insult them with the truth—“You want me to do all the work and share my money with you?”—or—“Buddy, getting the idea’s the easy, fun part.” But at this stage of the book, I have brief stressed moments of the same kind of magical thinking.

I turn to some of my favorite writers at times like this.

“It is only by writing, not dreaming about it, that we develop our own style.” – P.D. James

“A work in progress quickly becomes feral. It reverts to a wild state overnight... it is a lion growing in strength. You must visit it every day and reassert your mastery over it.” – Annie Dillard

“One word after another. That’s the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes into Chapter Nine, it’s the only way to do it.” – Neil Gaiman

I go back to the mess of a manuscript because that shining, brilliant edifice in my head will never become real to anyone else if I don’t slog through the swamp of the middle and get it down on paper. And I hope that some little sliver of its real gorgeous beauty somehow ends up sparkling on the pages of the finished book. Never enough of it, of course, because that’s the impossible dream that all we writers chase, but some small gleaming piece.

If any of you are facing the same situation, please realize that it’s pretty universal among those of us who try to write novels. We know we can’t recreate that perfection on the page, but we have to give it our best shot. Because even our imperfectly realized vision is still something only we can give the world. To quote Neil Gaiman again, “Do what only you can do best.”