I know you think you understand what I said but what you dont understand is that what I said is not what I meant
Elizabeth Spann Craig’s Twitterific writing links a couple weeks back led me to Ryan Lanz writing about stretching your word count.
In a moment of weakness, worried that Anodyne is too short, I followed it.
Expecting smarmy tricks, I found solid advice, which if implemented properly and with good motives is, what’s the phrase I’m looking for . . . oh yes; Good Stuff.
The 5 stretches listed by Lanz:
More than one person has generously compared my book A Long, Hard Look to Raymond Chandler.
One person asked why, and posted my answer at her review website.
Give it a read. Comment. (Let’s make others think I have a huge audience of loyal supporters, eh?)
Special edition post; I’ll keep it brief and direct.
Get a free digital copy of A Long, Hard Look at Story Cartel. Write a review, and you’re entered to win a print copy.
More importantly (to me) you’ll be spreading the word about my writing, and giving me honest feedback on my latest book.
Don’t say no.
Download it right here: http://storycartel.com/books/a-long-hard-look/
I could probably title every post I ever write with a quote from O Brother, Where Art Thou?
When Pete says the above to Everett, his reply is one of the foundations of art: “It’s a fool who looks for logic in the chambers of the human heart.”
During the final proofreading of A Long, Hard Look James discovered a logical anomaly. Since that’s part of his job, he done good. Next book he proofs, I expect no less.
I’m leaving it the way it is. Here’s why: Continue reading “That Don’t Make NO Sense”
No one door opens and closes properly. Some do one or the other quite nicely. Some do neither.
The front door technically opens and closes just fine, but since we don’t have a key for it, well, there’s that. The screen door (no longer a storm door because half of the glass is missing) has to be kicked open and closed, which we wouldn’t except the mailbox is hanging right there beside it.
The nice solid pine doors on the coat closet, which match the solid pine walls in the dining room/office, open just fine, but neither will really close. Continue reading “Doors (Excerpt from an Unpublished Work)”
This is an excerpt from an unpublished work.
“Jacob, are you even listening to me?” His mom always seemed to think he was ignoring her.
“I didn’t hear you. Sorry.”
“I’m standing right here. I’m glad you love reading, but honestly, you get so lost in those books. Are you going or not?”
“Aw, mom. It’s a bunch of girls and they don’t even like music.”
“You can talk to girls. And even, heaven forbid, people who don’t like music.”
This is an excerpt from an unpublished work.
It was summer and they were crossing the sea. It was pleasant sailing. There was nothing exciting going on. Which meant that after napping 18 hours a day, Ginger was bored. When he got bored he looked around to see if anything exciting was happening. And if nothing exciting was happening, he looked around to see if he could make something exciting happen.
The Music
When he first realized that no one else heard the music, he went to his room, sat on the bed, and stared at the closet door. It had never occurred to him that he was a freak, walking around with this noise in his head all the time.
When his father used to tell him to turn off the record player and enjoy the peace and quiet, he’d been too baffled to respond. Continue reading “The Music – Excerpt from an Unpublished Coming of Age Novel”
This is an excerpt from an unpublished novel.
You have to wake up early to beat the summer sun around here. I must have fallen asleep before 9 last night. Dark meant it wasn’t even 6 yet. By 6:00 the far side of the lake would already have a glow behind it as the sun rose.
Yup; clock on my phone said 5:50. I felt restless, anxious. I wandered from room to room as I drank a mug of coffee. Felt like I was looking for something that I knew wasn’t there.
The neat columns of boxes here and there, the big empty spaces where I had nothing, the quiet and dark drove me out.
A run was still the best way to clear my head, morning or evening. I paced myself to let the thoughts percolate and dissipate. I know you can’t go around the grieving process, you have to go through it. Doesn’t make it any less painful. At least I could be doing something I loved as it happened to me.
The slower pace took me farther than my sprint had yesterday. I realized I was running around the south end of the lake, running toward the sunrise. The trees thinned, and I could see more of the pink behind. It was as if the sun were making a sound, a rushing sound like water. I knew I’d drifted away from the lake by now, farther south. I couldn’t see water to the left at all, just the gentle slope down from the little ridge I ran along.
The sparse grass and dirt gave way to flat rock, shale, maybe, like the places I ran in Ireland. Hard on the legs, but here I expected it to turn back to springy soft forest floor again.
Instead, it turned into nothing at all.
If I’d been running any faster I’d have gone right over the edge. The rushing sound I’d been hearing was the lake pouring out through the narrow outlet Mrs. Wright had mentioned. I slid to a stop at the sharp edge of the rock. The water scrambled through an eight-foot-wide channel, pressed by the rock walls.
It was probably deep enough that if I’d fallen, I wouldn’t have been injured by hitting bottom, but water is powerful. When you’ve been slammed by ocean waves in California you develop a healthy respect for it. The best case scenario would involve being dragged downstream far longer than I wanted to walk back wet.
The other side of the chasm looked different. Sycamore or elm or something like that instead of pines. Approaching from the other side wouldn’t have been as frightening. The shale had broken off and was a foot lower than this side. You’d probably notice the gap.
It would also help that it was clear, not covered with pine needles like this side. Pine needles on smooth rock are slippery as ice.
It didn’t look too wide to jump, but the slippery edge made me too nervous to try it.
I wasn’t going any farther around the lake this morning, so I turned around and headed home.
I’m working on a light mystery novella. (It’s either a big novella or a short novel. Seems I keep hitting the word count just between established norms. Surprise.)
Been posting a 1,000-word chapter every weekday at my personal blog; 17 so far. Start reading Chapter 1 now. Unless you have an important appointment in the next hour. Think potato chips.
What Readers Say:
I love it so far!! – Rebeccah
I love the way you continue raising questions to be answered throughout the chapters instead of just having the murder itself as the puzzle. That made for a great hook. – Elizabeth