Writing Tip #31 - What’s the Foundation?

Recently, while searching the depths of the internet for interesting and new writing prompts, I stumbled across a quote. In the moment, it didn't really resonate, but I've thought about it for a while, and it's actually quite a good bit of advice for writers.

Anyway, the quote is this: A good character can carry a bad plot, but bad characters can't even carry a good plot.

Basically, this means that as long as your characters are compelling and interesting, you can have the world's most cliched plot, because your readers will want to spend time with your characters. They don't care about what happens in the story, they just want to see the characters grow and change.

Of course, this does bring us back to an age-old dilemma, the one concerning plot and characters. There are two types of writing, literary and character-driven, that spawned out of this dilemma. It's an argument about which is more important, the plot or the character.

Personally, I feel that they are equally important. Instead of seeing it as a progression, ranks of importance, it's more like bricks. The characters and the plot are your foundation. If those aren't strong, nothing else will stand. So you can have the most kick-ass setting in the world, but it's nothing without a plot. It could have the best plot in the world, but without characters, nothing else is going to work. It just won't.

You need good characters. They need to be well-rounded, interesting to read, and, probably most importantly, likable. If your character kicks dogs for the fun of it, that's not someone that your readers will want to hang out with. Unless, of course, there was some underlying reason, like a world where dogs are like pigeons, annoying pests that make loud noises at night and make a mess of everything.

But you can't just separate the elements of a story. Your world needs to be cohesive, to make sense altogether. That's why exercises that work with only characters, or only plot, or only setting, aren't all that useful by themselves. It's more of a symbiotic relationship, and if you remove one element, the others suffer. 

So, these exercises are useful, but as a whole. When you just create settings, it's fine, but your characters need to make sense. If you have a tiger on a planet with no prey, it doesn't make sense. Now, you could make it work, but that's up to you. I'm speaking generally, because writing is a complicated craft with thousands of rabbit holes that you can fall into.

Another example of the elements needing to work together is a clan of warrior monks living on a water planet. They fish for their food, meditate and generally keep to themselves. A plot for this book would not be something involving space travel, if these monks have no outside influence. Exclusively looking at these monks, they'd have no easy way to develop space ships or any sort of transport. Unless, of course, there's some sort of secret lab with magical scientists involved. But your setting is as much of a character as your characters are. Your setting can provide conflict.

Basically, what I'm getting at is that every part of your story is important. Sometimes some parts work better than others, but if the other parts are strong, they can carry the story without that part. 

Anyway, I wanted to offer an explanation for why I haven't been posting like usual. The main reason is that I'm working a lot, but there are a few other reasons. One is that I got really busy working on one of my stories. You can read that story on Wattpad, here. It’s called ‘The Silent Princess,’ just a little something to make up for my sporadic posts.

I have another reason, and that’s because I’m now working two jobs. At the end of the day, all I want to do is sleep and not think about writing. But I’m back now!

Writing Tip #30 - It's Worth A Shot!

 So, I know that it's been a while. I'm sorry. I've got an explanation, but that's for later.

Anyway, it's time for Tip #30! And that is to take a shot at anything. Not with a gun, of course, but just to try.

I've got an example, and it makes me really happy just thinking about it. I'm working on a story about a girl who can't speak because she was injured as a child. To make it realistic, I needed some info about injuries of the throat and what her injury would've looked like. 

So, to the computer! The internet was helpful, but I wanted to know a little more. And then I had an idea. The Mayo Clinic has an email contact on their site, so I decided that I would ask. It was hard to get the wording to sound right and not like I was a serial killer, but I managed.

Anyway, about a week later, someone replied! They answered all of my questions and really helped me to make it a believable side effect of this injury.

That was probably one of the coolest things to happen, but if I didn't ask, it would never have happened.

Writers really struggle with imposter syndrome. We all feel like we don't deserve to write and that nothing is going to work and that everything we try is doomed to fail. But it's not. If you are polite, and you explain yourself, a lot of people will help you with your writing, for free! It didn't cost anything to send an email, just took a little time.

So, give it a shot! Send the email, write your book, publish, send it to reviewers. The worst they can do is say no, and then you try again with someone or something else. 

Now for what I've been up to. I recently applied for a multitude of jobs, one of which was a position as a ghostwriter. I interviewed for the position, and just finished a practice project that was meant to assess my skills. I really don't know where I stand right now, but the editor loved my project. There were positive comments all the way through. 

Basically, I didn't have to apply for this job. I almost didn't. When they contacted me for an interview, I wanted to curl up and hide. But this is essentially my dream job, and, as far as I can tell, it's in the bag. It's incredible. 

So. Take that step you've been running from, Stop editing, start sending it in. Email someone. You never know what can happen. And you've already failed if you don't try.

Writing Tip #29 - It's OK to Suck

 Hey! So I know that I promised a rundown of how to self-publish the way that I do it, namely, for free, and I will. Jillian is frantically finishing her editing of Unquestioned, the second book in her series The System. As soon as she's done, I'll publish it and record it as I do so, so you can see the entire process from start to finish. If I don't record as I do it, I'm pretty much guaranteed to forget something.

Anyway, that's the plan. For now, here's Writing Tip #29.

Here we go. 

All too often, when I'm talking to other or aspiring authors, they mention how much their stories suck, and that they just can't get the words out in the right way. I always tell them the same thing: it shouldn't be perfect right off the bat.

Let me explain.

When you're writing your story, it's a first draft. That's a long way from the draft that you are eventually going to publish. Like, the difference between a skyscraper and a mud hut. BIG difference. That's why editing is an industry.

So, give yourself permission to suck. Let that writing be the dumbest thing you've ever written, or the dumbest thing in the history of writing. And remember that you're going to make it better, later. Right now, it's not your problem. Let your future self deal with it and worry about it. As I like to say, my future self doesn't have to like the me when I'm writing. She just has to fix her mistakes.

So yeah, it's OK to have a terrible, cliche first draft. Don't sweat it, as long as your final draft is beautiful and among the greatest things you've ever created.

That's it. 

The diary

 The house was old. When I was young, my parents would joke about it being older than democracy, and it sometimes still felt that way.

When something gets that old, has taken and held a piece of everyone who lived there, it begins to take on a life of its own. I used to sit in the dark upstairs rooms, my eyes closed, listening to the ghosts of lives that were past. Sometimes I’d imagine that I could hear the house itself breathing.

My parents passed away together, and I suddenly found myself the sole owner of the house, at a time when I needed my childhood home the most.

I spent days cataloging the rooms, listing what was in each one. My grandfather had gotten it named a historical landmark, to save it from demolition, but that meant any improvements had to be approved. 

The approval process meant that it was easier to just ignore the small issues that gave the house personality. Lights would flicker, windows fell open, doors wouldn’t quite latch properly.

It was my third day of cataloging that I found it. A small, leather-bound book, hidden in the back of a China cabinet that hadn’t been touched since before my mother was born. 

Gently, having grown up with antiques, I opened it. The spine crackled with age, and the leather smelled old and musty. The handwriting was legible, though. It looked like a diary, dated almost two hundred years ago.

Behind me, the door creaked open and the lights flickered. 

July 25, 1933

My ghost was back today. No one believed me three years ago, but now they’ll understand. I’m keeping a record this time.

I tried to find out a little more about her, but I can’t seem to find any record of a young woman dying here. Strange, considering that the house is older than the towns around here. Maybe there weren’t any records.

Her clothes are also strange. The patterns and styles she wears aren’t in the history books that I can find. I’m beginning to think that I’ll never know her story. 

Something about that is immeasurably sad to me. A young woman, whose life never meant enough to be recorded. She deserves to be remembered. I will think of something.

I closed the book as the cabinet doors creaked shut. A ghost, in a house as old as this? Of course that made sense. There should be whole congregations of ghosts, if the legends were to be believed. 

As I left the room, I took the ancient book with me. It intrigued me, the way a person's life can be reduced to a few words on a page, but it can still give a glimpse into their innermost thoughts. I loved diaries, even if I didn't keep one myself.

July 29, 1933

I wasn't careful today. One of the historians I was speaking to, about this young woman, asked why I was so sure she'd existed. There's no record of her anywhere.

I told him that she had lived, I was sure of it. That her existence was indisputable. 

The nerve of him, to question me. 

Anyway, as will sometimes happen in a small town, the fool gossiped. I fear that I shall be sent to the mental hospital again, this time for good. 

Today wasn't a total loss, though. I found her again, seated in my drawing room. She was seated on her knees, her strange clothes grimy with dust and dirt. It looked as though she was reading some old book. I've decided to commission an artist, to paint her. Maybe if I can present them with a picture, my relatives won't have me shut away into the hospital.

I can't go back there. I'll die first.

I felt a connection to this stranger, this person from so many years ago. The house touched his life, just as it had mine, but now I got to have a glimpse into what he was thinking, what his life was actually like.

There's no way to describe it, unless you've felt it yourself. 

July 30, 1933

The artist came today. He told me that I was crazy, but he needed the money, so he'd take the commission. I described the girl to him, and he took careful notes. He'll bring me some sketches, and if they're what I see, then he'll paint them.

I don't mind the cost of all this. To anyone else, they would be astronomical. But I have nothing, not since Elaine... I can't even write it. It's too painful to think about, and it's been three years. Just before I started seeing my ghost, actually.

She was back again today, the ghost. I watched her as she carefully went through the kitchen, picking up each item and examining it. I don't know what she's doing, but she hasn't done any damage. She's more careful with my, or her, possessions, than any of my relatives ever have been.

The historian refused to see me today, even though I told him that I would pay handsomely for his help. I understand. From his perspective, what I'm doing is futile and useless. 

Elaine's portrait finally has a home. She'll hang above the mantle in the library, where I can always go to see her, but she's not watching my life spiral downhill. 

My wife wouldn't understand my obsession with this ghost. She'd say that I was crazy, then laugh it off as one of my quirks. I don't want her to see how far I've fallen.

I don't even understand why I care about this girl so much. 

That's all for now for this story! Check it out later and I'll have the ending. It's a good one, I promise.

Writing Tip #28 - NEVER Give Up

 Never give up. Never, never never. 

You are the only one who can write your story, who can tell it the way you want to. You are the first one to put those specific words in that specific order, and there’s something magical and wonderful and incredible about that.

I have a quote, which is the background of my watch. It’s on my watch because I look at my watch more than my phone, in a standard day. Anyway, that’s not important. The quote says, “Someday you’ll be someone’s favourite author.”

That gives me the motivation to keep writing. Because books were my escape when I needed one, and if I can create that escape for someone else, I’ve done my part as a writer. 

So. If you’re writing for the money, for an easy cash flow, look for a different career. Invest in crypto or invent something. Writing is hard, harder than many people know. But it is rewarding, and wonderful. An author creates entire worlds with words, entire worlds that they’ve dreamed up and chosen to share.

Write for your readers, and never, never give up. Because one day, it will all be worth it.

Hey!

 Sorry, guys, having a bit of a bad week this week. We’ll get back to writing tips next week, I promise. In the meantime, here’s a picture of the stuffed animals I bought when we published. 

Writing Tip #27 - Keep your Secrets

 Seriously. This is something I struggle with myself. Basically, it means don’t give away too much right away. Secrets and mystery are what keep your reader reading.

For example, in a romance, the secret is whether or not the main characters will be together in the end, or in a fantasy, it’s if they will manage to save the kingdom in time.

Those are secrets that could also be referred to as plot hooks. However, there’s a different kind as well.

Character secrets.

Hidden backstory, some strange weapon, something they’re hiding, all of it counts as a character secrets. Something that’s hidden from both the other characters and the readers. These are like the little barbs on the hook, because often, the hook is cliche. Of course the two leads will get together in a romance, that’s how romance works. But, what is she hiding? How will that affect him? What will he do when he finds out?

Secrets keep the reader engaged, pulling them ever deeper on the quest for answers. Because basically, if a reader can put down your book after the first chapter and not want to keep reading, you’ve done something wrong.

Secrets also make excellent foreshadowing, because we never know just how the secret will affect the plot.

That’s all. Give your characters beans to spill, but spill them slowly. If you spill them all at once, it’s a nasty bean mess and no one wants that.

Writing Tip #26 - Wasted Words?

 So, a couple days ago I was trawling the depths of the internet, looking for interesting tidbits of information that I can pepper into my every day dialogue. 

Now, because I look up a lot of writing prompts or whatever when I'm bored, often the algorithms that decide which oddly personal ads we see show me facts and articles that have something to do with writing. 

I came across something that stuck with me, simply because if how absurd this 'advice article' sounds. In all fairness to the author, I'm not ignoring the possibility that it was an unfortunate wording choice. The article itself wasn’t all that bad, though it didn’t really fit with the title.

Anyway, the advice was to make sure that you don’t waste your words, as a writer. To make sure your book will stand as a novel, that you’ll be able to make a full story of it, not just some Frankenstein thing that’s missing bits and has an ear where the hand should be and an arm from the top of its head. You get the idea.

That article stuck with me because of how absolutely absurd it is. Waste words? You can’t waste words. Filibuster taught us that as long as you keep reaching for the words, there will always be more to take. They might stop making sense, but saying a writer can waste words is like saying a geologist can run out of earth. It’s simply not possible.

Rant aside, I’ll explain why.

Basically, what I think the article was getting at was wasting time, which is different than wasting words. I’ve probably written more that 200,000 words in all of my stories combined, and I don’t consider a single one wasted. But, there are stories that I’m ashamed to even look at, which could be classified as a waste of the time I spent writing them. 

That’s like saying someone is a waste of carbon, as an insult. Carbon is something recyclable, something that’s always being reused. It’s the same with my stories. Yes, some of them are not that great, some are downright terrible, but none of them were a waste of time or words. Because I learned from them. I learned to spot cliche, I learned about my style, about characters, about writing as a craft. And time spent learning is never wasted.

So write your dumb idea, the one you’ve been ignoring. Waste time and words, because neither your time or your words are wasted. As long as you are writing, consider it time well spent.

So, words can’t be wasted, and neither can time. Your terrible manuscripts are still valuable, and don’t discount the time you spent on them. Writing is never a waste of time.

Writing Tip #25 - Listen to the Voices

 All right. Anyone who isn’t a writer will tell you to see a doctor if you mention hearing voices in your head.

And yes, this is fantastic advice. At some point, if you can’t tell if these voices are characters or not, definitely see a therapist. Don’t hesitate.

However, these voices are an integral part of my writing process. Lots of writers will talk about their characters taking on lives of their own, characters begging to go a certain way, against the plot. Sometimes even stealing the spotlight. Often, this goes against what you have planned.

Let me get one thing straight, though. I’m not a planner. Not by any stretch. I write with the end in mind and let the story and characters go where they will. But this is still advice that I follow myself, because those little voices in the back of your mind often see more than you can in that exact moment.

So, follow the voices. Even if it breaks your plotted story, if it smashes everything to pieces. 

The voices are a part of you that notices inconsistencies, or is honest about your main character being flat.

As an example, Jillian is currently working on the third book in her series The System. She’s been working on it for quite a while now, and when I asked her why, she told me it was because of one of her characters. Basically, one of them seemed wrong where that person was cast, so Jillian listened to that little voice. Now foreshadowing in the first book makes a lot more sense, not to mention that the series ties together a lot better.

Yes, those little voices can lead to a lot of inconvenience for you, the writer. I’ve had to recast an entire story because of one. But your story is usually better for it.

Anyway, that’s all for tip number 25. Already a quarter of the way to 100! Fantastic. If you haven’t, check out Screenshot on Amazon or as an ebook wherever you get those, and email scribbler.collective@gmail.com if you wanted a free ebook for Unidentified. 

Writing Tip #24 - Hack your Brain

 All right. There’s some backstory to this, but first I’m going to apologize for not posting for a while. Things are crazy, as always.

First of all, some news. The sale on our ebook for Screenshot was extended to August 23rd, so you can pick up a copy for only 99 cents. If, like me, you prefer to have a physical copy, it is also available on Amazon as a softcover. Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.ca/Screenshot-Alice-Salvage  

Yes, it’s under my name. That was easier.

Anyway, on to writing tip number 23!

First of all, I need to clarify something. When I tell you to hack your brain, I don’t mean go to some mad scientist and get him to reprogram your brain with his laser beam or whatever he uses. If you know someone who can do that, talk to the police.

For those of you left, I’ll explain. 

By hack your brain, I mean train yourself to think along different lines. Reward yourself for writing, for meeting word goals and whatever. Tell yourself that you will have a chocolate after you meet your goal, and then do it. It won’t be instant, but after a few days of doing this you’ll start to be excited about writing, because your brain wants the chocolate.

This is the same principle that Ivan Pavlov used to train his dogs. Every time he fed them, he rang a bell. Eventually, they began to associate the bell with food. So, the doorbell rang, the dogs thought food and ate a delivery guy.

No. But they did salivate every time they heard that bell, because it meant something good was coming. 

That type of conditioning works on humans too. It’s like when you are potty-training a child and you give them a treat every time they use the toilet. They start to associate going to the bathroom with the treat, so then they want to go. If you associate writing with something good, you will want to write.

Also, give bigger rewards for bigger accomplishments. Whenever Jillian publishes a book (either hers or as part of a compilation) she buys a stuffed animal. This serves two purposes. One, she’s rewarded herself for publishing, in a way that is tangible, and two, because the treat is tangible and not consumable, she can look up and see it, and see what she’s done. It’s actually quite a good idea.

She keeps the two she has (Edgar the elephant for Unidentified and Renaldo the raccoon for Screenshot) on a shelf above her desk, where she can see them as she writes. She looks at the shelf when she’s feeling stuck or discouraged and reminds herself that she can and has written two books.

Yeah. Rewards. Pavlov.

Anyway, have a good week!

What if everything that came before was suddenly now?

 First of all, shoutout to Adrianna86 for the good question, thanks for commenting. Secondly, for those of you who figure that this sounds remarkably like the plot of a certain Marvel series that recently ended, don’t worry. No Loki spoilers. 

All right, here we go.

To start with considering this question, we need to define a few hard to define concepts. Namely, where the past ends and the present begins. Not to mention the past and the present themselves.

The present is a tricky thing. Most consider it the moment that you are currently experiencing, like me as I’m writing this and you as you read this. And usually, I would agree, except in this circumstance. Here, the present is more than a moment, it is a concrete amount of time that can have other, equally concrete amounts of time mashed into it.

So, for the purpose of this write up, I’m going to define present as a lifetime. So, for you, it starts the second you are born (or conceived, whichever philosophy you agree with) and ends the moment you die (disregarding all possibility of heaven or hell, for simplicity). That’s the present. One, finite lifetime.

Now we get the past. Similarly to the present, we’re going to define this as all the time before your lifetime, all the way back to the beginning of time. And where they meet, that would be where you are born.

All right. Now that our terms are defined, let’s jump right in.

What would happen if the past was spontaneously jumped forward into the present? Quite simply, I think that time would cease altogether.

Here’s why. Basically, we’re taking a (possibly) infinite amount of time, and trying to stuff it into this small box of present, a finite amount of time. As far as we can tell, the past goes back forever. Now, of course there must have been a beginning and all that, but for our purposes, the past stretches infinitely behind us.

But, our present is finite. As we define it, it lasts somewhere around 80-90 years, and then we die. At that time, our present, which has ended, becomes past.

So, even though it seems impossible to bring the past forward and making it the present, because we are trying to fit something infinite into something finite, the present is constantly being changed into the past, in the normal passage of time.

As far as anyone has observed, time is linear. Always moving forward. The past is the past, the present present and the future is the future. That’s not something we can change.

Now, it’s time to address time machines. I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately, and have come to the conclusion that the way Marvel presented time travel in Endgame was quite brilliant. Dr. Banner explains it briefly by saying that you can’t change the future by going into the past, because when you go into the past, that becomes your future. His wording is odd, but the standard reasoning actually makes some sense.

It has to do with the past, present and future and how we understand them. Basically, we need to consider the past unchangeable. We’ve all regretted that we couldn’t change something embarrassing. So, if we go into the past and say change something, steal a key object or whatever, if we use the traditional understanding, it creates a paradox. If we’ve stolen this object before it was important, how would we know to steal it?

That’s why linear time makes more sense. The past is a different version of the world, playing out set roles. Only in your present can you make choices that change the direction of the future.

Sorry that went a little long, it’s a big and complicated topic.

Just a reminder to everyone who’s gotten this far, email me at scribbler.collective@gmail.com and I will send you a free copy of Unidentified, Jillian’s book. Screenshot is available on Amazon, in print, and the ebook is available wherever you get ebook. Or send me an email and I’ll send out a copy.

Anyway, cheers, thanks again to Adrianna86 for a good topic and see you later!

Politeness is Key

 "All right, is everyone ready?" I stood at the front of my class, pointer in hand. This was a particularly rowdy bunch. The typical heroes, some sidekicks, a Mary-Sue. Even two anti-heroes. They always wrote interesting letters/.

"What are we doing here?" Mary-Sue asked. She was already perfect. It was surprising to see her here, honestly. Her writer would never let her write anything less than a cordial, polite letter, even if it was to her antagonist.

"Well, as many of you know, you are the protagonists of a story. Your writers have sent you here to learn how to write polite letters, particularly to your antagonists. As each of you have a unique story, these letters will all be unique, so a cookie cutter form will not do. You must learn how to properly greet, address, and then threaten your antagonist. Shall we begin?"

As I taught, I could actually see some pairs of eyes glazing over. The anti-heroes were making spitballs with their papers, which I didn't mind. I was here to teach them how to write letters, not how to be decent human beings.

"And that is how you write a proper letter to someone you hate. Any questions?" Every hand in the room went up, except Mary-Sue's. Sighing, I added, "That aren't about lunch or sarcastic?"

Every hand went down.

"That's what I thought. Now, you are going to write a letter and submit it to me. This is our only class, so show me that you actually learned something and that this wasn't just a waste of my time."

Pens went to paper, and they began to scribble away.

Most of the letters are hardly worth mentioning, as they were very similar to what I saw every time I taught this class. Perfect grammar, good punctuation, proper language, the whole deal. 

One stood out, though, because it actually made me laugh while reading it. I can't remember the last time someone actually used vulgar language in a letter. Apparently, one of the anti-heroes had become so engrossed in the intricate process that is spitball making that he hadn't paid any attention to my lecture.

My dear hated antagonist, it read. Obviously, he hadn't reached the point where he had met the antagonist yet.

I hope this letter finds you well, doing good things that would make your mother proud, as opposed to the last activities I am aware of you engaging in. 

What do you think of the weather we've been having? I don't really care for this sun, as it is bad for my complexion. Not to mention that large amounts of sun allow you to charge the death ray that you intend to vaporize New Haven with, which is also rather detrimental to my health.

Of course, that is my own opinion, one not necessarily shared by yourself or others around me. A balance is always best, and we should always strive to find the solution that makes everyone the happiest.

Forever the one who is destined to kick your ass,

Jard The Rogue

P.S. I know where you intend to place the death ray, and wished to politely inform you that I intend to intervene. Of course, this will likely involve either killing you or putting you in jail for what will probably be the rest of your natural life. A warning is only fair. Toodles.

Writing Tip #23 - Break the Rules, within reason

 Hey! Grammar has rules, English has rules, and there are certain rules that your teachers tell you never to break. Things like fragmented sentences, dangling participles, passive voice, head-hopping whatever.

Guess what! You can break them! As a writer, breaking certain rules will give your story a different tone.

Short sentences can help build tension. For example:

They’re watching.

Waiting.

Patient, ever patient.

They stand quietly, barely twitching. A swish of the tail, a blink of an eye.

Some say they’re friendly. But I can tell. They’re waiting for us to drop our guard.

Stupid cows.

See? That bit of writing is tense. It helps to set the scene and tell you a bit about the narrator. But I broke several rules. (Comment if you spot them all!)

As the saying goes, rules are made to be broken. But be intentional. Break rules with a purpose, not for the sake of breaking rules.

If you follow the rules, all the time, you will turn out a respectable book. It might seem a little dry, but your reader won’t know the difference. But by breaking certain rules sometimes, you vary sentence length, tone, and can even write less (words, I mean).

So yeah. Break rules. Intentionally.

Just so you know, I have extended the sale on Screenshot, so it is still only 99 cents. I’ll even give away a few copies of the ebook, just send me an email. 

Again, I am giving away Unidentified, so email me if you wanted a free ebook of that.

Writing Tip #22 - Learn from Mistakes

 It’s always a good idea to learn from mistakes. Often, it keeps you from repeating bad and possibly costly decisions. The mistakes don’t even have to be yours! This is great, because it means that you don’t have to go through the embarrassment and possible cost of a mistake.

The self-publishing community is still comparatively small, or at least the part that wants to make a living from their writing is. That means there are a lot of mistakes to be made and not too many people to make them. Therefore, wasting time making the same mistakes as everyone else means that there is less time to make new mistakes. 

Stay with me. I promise to get to the point.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is that those in the self-publishing community are friendly. There are some playful rivalries, but at the end of the day, no one wants to see anyone fail at a dream. So, self-published writers are very open about mistakes, very willing to share the nitty gritty of their story. Because when you share a mistake, it becomes a lesson, something that can help other writers to grow.

Let’s be honest here. Writing is hard. I’ve now published two books and made approximately thirty dollars (rounded up because I don’t know the number off the top of my head). It gets easier when we can help each other and learn from our mistakes and share those mistakes so other people can learn.

On that note, I have a mistake I’ve made and regretted. Some of you might know what I’m talking about, but I’ll tell the story for those of you who don’t.

Last year (2020) I published a book through a publishing company called Friesenpress. At the time, I was super happy with the services they provided, mostly because they did a lot of the formatting and things like that, which I wasn’t really confident with.

Over the last year, I’ve become more and more angry with Friesenpress, for several reasons. First of all, I cannot have any copies of my own book. I requested both a print copy and an ebook, but was told that I would have to purchase those.

In order for the discount that I get from them as an author to be worth it, I have to buy and store at least 100 books. The whole reason I went with a print on demand service was to avoid this problem. 

Another issue is pricing. I cannot change the price of my book, as if I do, there is a fee. Any changes I make have a few attached, and if I want the formatted copy (for printing reasons, if I were to go to another company) there is a charge for that. There is even a charge to get them to take down my book, so I can switch to a different company. It was an all around disappointing experience.

Speaking of my book, if anyone reading would like a copy of Unidentified, send me an email (scribbler.collective@gmail.com) and I will send a free ebook for you. This is my way of protesting against the disparity between what Friesenpress promised and what was delivered.

Also, our new book, Screenshot, is available on Apple Books, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble, as well as several other booksellers. It’s on sale until July 4th, with a chance of that being extended indefinitely.

Writing Tip #21 - Promotions

 I feel like I might have talked about this before, but there are certain marketing strategies that can help your book sell. These strategies might seem a little counter intuitive at first, but trust me, they can be useful.

One is called loss-leaders. You publish your first, maybe even the second, and make the book free. Bear with me. I know that you’ve spent lots of time on this and all you want to do is make a living. But charging for your first book will get you some buyers, but not nearly as many as you could get. Here’s why. People will take a chance on a new author if the book isn’t all that expensive. Free books are even more enticing. Give your readers a reason to pick up the book, so make the cover interesting, have a good description, the whole deal. And then sweeten that by making the book very cheap, or even free. If your writing is interesting and you keep them going, they are more likely to want the next book. This one can be sold at a discounted price, or even free. By the third book, your reader should be hooked.

If you don’t have a series, it’s still a good idea to do this. If a reader reads one of your books and likes it, they’re more likely to buy another from you.

Another option is promotional. Make the free book a promotion, for a limited time. Bundle your books together for a discounted price. As long as your readers are saving money, they will be more likely to at least try your books.

That’s all for the writing tip, but I have some personal news. We in the Scribbler Collective have published again, the compilation that I’ve been promising. Jillian opted to call it Screenshot, and it’s available on Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes and Noble and several other booksellers. It’s currently only available as an ebook, but Amazon will soon follow, and then it will be out in print. Here’s a link, if you’re interested: https://books2read.com/u/3LRZPw. As I suggest in this post, the book is $0.99 USD and will go up to $4.99 USD on July 4th. Depending on several personal factors, I might just make this a permanent thing, but we’ll see.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and have a good week!

The city

 Water dripped from everything. Constant rain meant Deluge was always flooded, a modern Venice, even after the original Venice had been swallowed by the ocean. Historians had even referred to the event as a new Atlantis, a crisis that drowned an entire city.

Here, though, it was different. Deluge celebrated the rain, using boats to navigate the flooded streets. Filters kept litter and garbage out of the water, so it was safe enough for children to swim in. On the few sunny days, people gathered on the roof of their house, waiting for the moment the clouds parted. They loved the sun, but they loved the rain too.

Like the seasons, the weather each day brought was celebrated. Umbrellas were a fashion statement. No one would be caught dead without one, and children and adults would often carry individual pieces of artwork, all decorated with beautiful, whimsical designs.

You could tell how much a person made by the style of their umbrella. The rich carried covers made of gold fabric, spun by master artisans. The poor used cheap cloth, waterproofing them with candle wax and melted plastics. Decorating them with love and care.

But class wasn’t important. Often, a rich man would share an umbrella with a member of the poor, listening to stories of struggle and hardship, stories that helped him understand what he’d never experienced. In return, the poor man would be fed and clothed, his ragged umbrella carefully washed and repaired, sometimes replaced with one that was higher quality.

This was a city where the rich listened to the poor, listened to the cries that came from below them. A city where the helpless were protected. A city that was a fountain of not equality, but something better. A city of brotherhood.

Apologies!

Hey everyone! Just a few updates for you today. First of all, I’m sorry I haven’t posted in a while, but that’s because things are really coming down to the wire. Screenshot comes out on Monday, so we’re all rather busy with getting our stories to Jillian. I’ll post links after I receive them.

Other news, Jillian is working hard on her series. Last I heard, she is going to republish book 1 and publish books two and three as a single book. Of course, I don’t really know for sure.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Have a good week!

Writing tip #20 - Descriptions are good, kinda

 I’ve ranted against the whole culture of show don’t tell, and I’m going to do it again, but particularly against a strange fascination that writers feel with description. Yes, there can be too little description; but too much is also not a great idea.

So. Here we go.

Every time I get another aspiring writer to read and comment on my book (kinda a cross between a beta read and an edit) there is always some sort of comment about description, describing things and show don’t tell. But sometimes, you can have too much description.

For example, I recently had someone edit the second book of my series, and one of the comments was that I didn’t describe a particular building that was part of the first book and the second one. I took issue with that, mostly because they edited the book as though it was a standalone, which it is not. I’d already described the building in the first book, when the characters first encountered it. Because it is a series, I don’t feel that the second description is necessary, unless something significantly changed. Try not to describe the same things over and over, because you will bore your readers, and that is never a good thing.

Another good thing to remember is that not only is the description significant, but so is when you choose to describe something. 

People are fascinated with knowing what colour eyes their characters have, and often want the reader to know as well. However, in real life, how often do you notice a person's eye colour when you walk past them on the street. Very rarely. I’m with some of my coworkers for eight hours a day and I still can’t tell you what colour eyes they have. It’s really just not something people tend to notice.

Characters. Every writer wants their readers to picture what their people look like, so description is rather important there. However, you don’t need all that much. If I told you someone was slimy, you probably have at least some idea of what this guy looks like. 

If I tell you that an old witch had scraggly gray hair, wrinkled skin and knuckles bent and twisted with age, you probably have some sort of idea what this woman looks like. I don’t have to say that her eyes were a clouded blue, sunken beneath eyebrows that were whisky as clouds on a summer morning. I don’t have to say that she has a wart, with two little hairs sticking out of it, close enough to her snaggle-toothed mouth that food would sometimes catch in the hairs, like the beard of a young boy who has no business growing a beard.

Details are good, don’t get me wrong. But too much detail, all at the same time, is too much. You can sneak it in. Have a child stare at the witch in fear and then ask his mother why the woman had no eyes. Besides, how often do you stare at the mirror in the morning and evaluate each part of your face like you were monologuing for someone?

So. Be sneaky. Pepper in details about physical appearance through dialogue and surrounding events. Just don’t do it all at the same time. Remember that the reader is quite good at filling in holes in description. Often what they create will be clearer than anything that you come up with. They are an asset for you, and you need to use them. Let the reader do some of the work.

Writing is telling stories that other people will read. Not everyone gets the same mental picture from a description. It’s ok if the reader doesn’t see exactly what you do, and they like to create their own images for the stories.

What’s the first thing you think when you see a movie based on a book (after you read the book first)? Personally, I think that the character doesn’t look anything like the representation of them on screen, because I had my own picture. And that, quite frankly, is ok.

The Goose

 So. A lot of the stories have been rather dark lately. Let’s try for something a little lighter.

The old wizard chuckled to himself as he mixed and poured. Usually, he didn’t like to make his enchantments by hand, but this one was different. Special. It had to last.

Beside him, Esmerelda chattered to herself, preoccupied with whatever geese think about.

As his familiar, she’d been with him from the beginning, ever since he was just starting out as a wizard. That’s how it was. After the magic came the familiar, the keeper of both ideas and memories. And the old man had plenty of both.

“But they won’t get them, will they, Esmerelda?” His voice was raspy after years of the harsh language of magic. That was a price most were willing to pay.

The goose honked.

Over the years, she’d never aged. No familiar did. They got crankier, and reflected their companion’s temperament. She would die the day he did. And that meant that his memories, his spells, the horrible things he’d done, would all be laid out for anyone to find. That couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it.

The cauldron before him let out a sweet smelling bubble. The brew was ready. He dunked a slice of bread in the liquid, liberally coating it. “Here, Esmerelda,” he said, offering the food to his goose.

She gobbled it, never one for self control. And then burped, an odd sound coming from her. Esmerelda was usually so polite.

“Good?” he asked, grinning at his friend. She burped again, and then disappeared.

Sighing, the wizard slumped into his chair. He’d done it. Years of research and planning was finally coming to fruition. Esmerelda would be safe from his enemies, his friends and his enemies disguised as friends. No one who had any idea what she was capable of would be able to hold her for long enough to glean the secrets she held. Not unless she chose to give up those secrets. “She’s stubborn,” he said to himself. “She’ll keep immortality safe, probably forever.” But there was a hint of sadness in his voice. He knew that he would never see his friend again, not before he died.

They came for him the next day. His enemies, though there were a few faces that he was surprised to see. Saddened to see.

Those he’d once trusted too much dragged him out, making his old bones creak and moan. Once, the immortality spell had been for him, to help him never see the day when his eyes faded, when his hands shook too much for any spell work. But he’d seen the folly of it. Esmerelda would benefit, even as she kept the knowledge.

“Where is it?”

“What?” The old man couldn’t remember. Once he left the last place he’d seen Esmerelda, the memories he’d passed to her faded like a winter snow. Many of those who surrounded him were now familiar strangers.

“You know what, old man. Where is it?”

Smiling, the wizard closed his eyes, ready for the pain that would end with his life. He didn’t know what he’d hidden, but it was obviously important. Otherwise he wouldn’t have hidden it.

*****

“It’s got to be here,” Daner muttered, frantically turning pages. Beside him, Maleia searched as well, her hair skimming the pages as she turned them.

Suddenly she stopped and began to chuckle, just a little. 

“How do you find this funny?” Daner snapped, closing the tome and throwing it to the floor.

“It was here,” Maleia said, flipping back to the first page of her own book. “See?” She pointed to a chapter title that made Daner’s heart race.

“It has a chapter on Rosen’s Immortality?”

“Flip to it.” Maleia passed her brother the book. He tore some of the fragile pages in his haste, but barely noticed.

On the page, the one that could’ve ended his search, he found nothing of use. The ink had been completely removed, so completely it could only have been done by magic. In its place was a large, very detailed sketch of a goose. “Whoever this guy is, he’s getting better at drawing,” Meleia said. 

The goose looked familiar, somehow. Danerq had seen it, and not just on every other document that used to hold the clue to immortality.

Under this drawing was a word. A name, really. Esmerelda. Daner tapped the word, thoughtful.

“What was that hedge witch named, the one that said my hair would look better on a pig?”

Meleia’s face brightened as she remembered. “Esmerelda! Of course. As a hedge witch, she had all sorts of animals.”

“We’d better go take a look at those geese.”

As the pair ran from the library, hearts pounding with excitement at their discovery, they didn’t notice a goose watching them. A goose that burped, honked a little and then wandered off to study the rubble near the table, searching for edible goodies that could have been dropped. After all, the two had summoned her from her nap. The least they could do was leave her some food.

Writing Tip # 19 - Actual Motivation

Hi! So, last week I posted about character motivation. Today, this post is about tricks to help you concentrate as a writer.

So. There are a LOT of posts on Pinterest and Tumblr and Instagram and Reddit about how hard it is to actually write. (Seriously. Look up ‘writer struggles’ on any one of these and you should get something.) I’ve got a few tricks to help myself get past the old Procrastination Monkey.

First of all, make sure that your idea will carry you through. Yes, any idea can become a novel, but that doesn’t mean every idea should. I could make a lot of my short stories that I’ve posted into novels, but short stories are just as good. Sometimes it’s better to make a story a short story.

Change it up. Write outside, write with a pen and paper, a quill, blood on a mirror, whatever. Just close the laptop and write. Doesn’t even necessarily have to be the story you’re working on. Writer's block is just that. A block. Too much going on, so nothing is moving. Write whatever nonsense comes to your head, and just get it out.

Listen to a specific song when you write, or a specific sound or something. Basically you’re doing what Pavlov did with his dogs when he rang a bell every time he fed them. You know what happened? The dogs ate one of his neighbours who just wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. 

No. The dogs learned that the bell meant food and they started drooling. After long enough, your brain will know that that specific music means that it’s time to write and you’ll have less distractions.

Also, take breaks. If you plan to write for an hour, break that up into two twenty-minute writing stints and two ten-minute breaks. Those breaks are when you’d check your phone or pretend to do research. Actually set a timer, so you can see how long is left.

Here’s a weird one, but write in a messier font. For example, I write and edit in Comic Sans MS, because my brain likes it. Ideas come easier when your work in progress looks unfinished. Fonts like Times New Roman and Calibri just look professional and fancy, so you don’t really want to change them.

Another idea is to write in the morning. Here’s why. Your nasty inside editor is still fast asleep and won’t interfere with the shy writer you by telling them that anything they write is trash. Because the shy writer you gets hurt easily and the editor you is a bully. But, because the editor you is lazy and wants everything to be perfect, they tend to sleep late, meaning that the shy writer can come out and play.

That’s all for now. Have a good week.

Monsters of War

Rain dripped from the trees around me. The cobblestones that were left from the tower that used to stand there were cold under my bare feet. I shivered. 

He emerged from the darkness ahead of me, his cloak clutched tight around his side. Without even seeing the wound, I knew what I would find. I also knew what had given him the wound that caused him to stumble, the same wound that made him fall to his knees, blood dripping from his hands, mixing with the water pooled underfoot.

It was all so surreal. After a few more heartbeats, I ran forward, kneeling next to my friend. "James," I whispered, pulling at his cloak.

"Don't." He pushed my hands away. "It's too deep, Ilana. There's nothing you can do."

Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. "No. There's always something. Always."

"Not this time. I'm sorry." He closed his eyes, blood mixing with the water. Leaving the last bit of himself he ever would.

I fought back the tears. The person who'd done this to my brother would pay.

*****

"Ilana, what are you doing here?" Nicholas turned to me, the sword that killed James in his hand.

"How could you?" I whispered, hiding in the shadows.

"What? Ilana, why are you dressed like that?"

"I think you know."

"Wait, was it you? Were you the one who's been hunting my team?"

"Don't move, Nick. This ends here." I pressed my knife to his side.

"What do you mean? What ends?"

"I asked them, every single one of them."

"When, before you cut them open and left them to die?"

"Like you did to my brother?"

"Who?"

I twisted the knife, just a little. "You know who. Walk."

He walked forward, slowly. "Please, Ilana. You don't need to do this."

"Keep your hands where I can see them. We're going for a little walk. See if we can dredge up some memories."

"Ilana."

"You killed my brother, Nick. He went to make peace, and you killed him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He died in front of me. Bled out in the rain. Maybe it's time you learned how it feels."

"And killing my team doesn't cover that?"

"Keep moving."

"When did you become a monster?"

"Oh, I became the monster, Nick?"

"You did kill six of your former friends."

"James was your best friend. And he went to make peace, and you murdered him. Cut him open."

Nick turned to gape at me. "That's what this is about?"

"What did you think?"

"Ilana, please. James came to kill me. He wanted to take me and trade my life for the lives of a group of children that were kidnapped."

"No. That's not true. James would never hurt a fly."

"That's what I thought about you, Ilana. But now look at you. What happened?" He stepped closer to me, bringing back memories of a happier time. A better time.

"You killed my brother." 

He moved closer again. "Ilana, don't throw your life away. Let me help you."

"No, it's too late. Turn around, keep walking."

"Ilana. I thought we had something. I thought we could've been more than just friends."

"It would never have worked, Nick. Especially since you killed my brother. Keep moving." I dug the knife into his side again, 

"I can't do that, Ilana. You know that. You killed six people."

He gripped my wrist, twisting my arm behind my back. A blow made me drop the knife, and then I was on my knees. "Besides," he whispered, "I know you would never have been able to kill me. We both do."

Tears began to stream down my cheeks as Nick pressed the knife to my exposed neck. "We're at war, Ilana. We don't have time for sentiment."

Writing tip #18 - Motivation

 No, this is not about the motivation to write. If you're here, it's rather likely that you've already found that motivation in your own life. This refers to your characters. 

In every scene, every character should want something, even if it's just a glass of water. That is what will help keep your story moving, rather than getting mired in the murk and muck of small talk. Characters could make small talk, but have them genuinely want to know something. For example, to actually know how the other character is doing, or have them start the conversation as a discussion. 

The idea of opposing wants can also help to act as a catalyst for conflict. If two characters want things that can be considered opposite (person A wants to prove that person C is guilty and person B wants to prove them innocent) the clashing of these wants will make the conversation interesting and can help to move the story along, revealing things about the characters.

Of course, you shouldn't reveal these motives right out. That's too easy. Make your readers work for it, but not too hard. 

Body language is a really useful tool for this. For example, if a person wants to leave a conversation, or just doesn't want to be there, they will be more closed off. Arms folded, squared shoulders, clipped replies. And whoever they're speaking to will be the opposite. with more of an open posture. They'll be relaxed, friendly, almost bubbly.

Also, certain wants will be easy, at first glance. Another example would be a character who wants a drink of water. Make it hard. Make them fight for it. You could have them struggle with anxiety, waiting until someone else asked for a drink. Have your character be the kind of person who waits until someone else hands in a test before they do. Have them be too proud to ask for it, Drop them in the middle of the desert and have them literally die for it. 

Wants can help to make your characters human. Even someone who claims to not want anything will want something, deep inside. They'll help to take a flat character and make them rounded. And whenever your character is 3D, that's a good thing.

A character that would especially benefit from well-thought out motivations would be your villain. True, they could be the kind of person who just wants to watch the world burn for the sake of the fire, but that's rather cliché. Give them a failed character arc, some kind of tragedy in the past. Better, make them believe that they are doing the right thing. Make them stop at nothing to save someone's life. They can be the kind of person who cares so much about their own that they'll kill anyone who messes with them. Your villain's motivations can almost be more interesting than the hero's, because the villain can do anything to get what they want.

Yeah. Motivations. Make them dark, make them edgy, make them epic. But actually give your characters something to fight for, beyond just 'good' and just 'evil'. A good motivation can be the difference between a hero and an anti-hero. Or the difference between a villain and a father who will stop at nothing to keep his son out of prison. 

Legacy

My father was a hero. Mom whispered it to me every night, reassuring me over and over. He died during the final battle with Malou, the dark lord. Somehow, despite a wound that should've killed him instantly, he got back to his feet, managing to deal a deathblow to the scourge that wanted to destroy the country. Not long after that, he succumbed to his wounds.

That story was legend. My father was the man who killed the dark lord, the man who lived a foot soldier and died a hero. He was the only man to receive a commendation for bravery and service to his country after his death.

Now, though, Mom didn't like to talk about him. It had been years since he died, she would say. Why did I care so much about the dead? This was a time for the living.

I suspected it was painful. She could humor me when I was young, when the pain was fresh, when it felt good to talk. Now, though, it was like digging into a healing wound, causing it to bleed. So I stopped asking. Just studied the picture of the man on the mantle and wondered how I was going to live up to his legacy.

Of course, stories about heroism stay with you. Everyone remembers the tales of knights and horses and castles that they were told as children. Perhaps not all the details are perfectly clear anymore, but that's all right. Age can dull the imagination.

When I was young, my mom pleaded with me not to tell anyone about my father. Being the daughter of a hero could make my life hard, harder than it was. If they knew my father, there would be no peace. 

I promised, and kept my word. Even when I was taunted for not having a father, even when the war veterans stared at me in suspicion, even when I was held up as an example to the class. Mom refused to let me go to the gatherings, dinners and training exercises that supposedly would unite our people, making it impossible for another dark lord to rise.

When I was a year from graduation, having grown into a quiet young woman who kept herself to herself in a class with very few secrets, our teacher announced a field trip. This was a mandatory trip, part of our studies into the dark lord and the factors that had allowed him to seize control of our then-fragile country.

Deep down, I was excited. Of course I was. My classmates would finally see what a hero my father actually was. 

"All right, everyone," my teacher, Miss Caddel, called out. "Pay attention! A few of your fathers are on display in the museum, as you probably know. I'll try to point them out as we walk through. Of course, there will be time at the end of the tour for you to explore by yourselves."

"Miss?" a girl named Samantha raised a hand.

"Yes, Samantha?"

"Is it true that they've recently opened an exhibit displaying the dark lord and his highest officials?"

Miss Caddel nodded. "Very good. Yes, there has been a display created, simply because there were two sides to the struggle, not only one. When we remember that, we are much closer to peace."

"So you support it?"

"Pardon me?"

"You support the display, especially the statues, that immortalize the dark lord? Wouldn't it be better to let the world forget that he existed?"

Our teacher stared at her. "My personal views on the matter don't have anything to do with the tour. The bus leaves in a few minutes for the museum. Line up, choose a buddy. Just like in Kindergarten, you don't go anywhere without your buddy. Got it?"

They lined up, and, like always, I was alone. It was a perk of being in a class with an odd number of people.

"Guess we're partners again," Miss Caddel told me. 

"If you don't mind, Miss, I'd like to explore on my own. I've been waiting for this trip for a very long time."

"Mia?"

"My father was one of the men who took down the dark lord. My mom never wanted to take me to the museum and wouldn't let me go alone. I'd like to see it by myself the first time. Somewhere in that museum, my father's name is on the list of heroes. Please, Miss."

She looked thoughtful for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes, Mia. But don't tell the others, all right?"

It was my turn to nod.

When we arrived at the museum, I waited for the others to leave, then stood up. 

Once inside, I made a beeline for the new exhibit, dodging around some of the smaller groups that were wandering around. Still carrying my backpack, even though we'd been told to leave them on the bus, I knelt down in front of the statue, 

"You thought that I wouldn't know," I said, out loud. I guess I was talking to the statue, but even a little to myself. "You begged Mom not to tell me. She was willing to lie to me, for years. She wanted me to remember you as a hero, the man you were in your last moments. But that doesn't erase the rest of your life." Looking up from my work, I met my father's eyes, eyes that were forever staring over the shoulder of the dark lord himself. "But Mom got tired of lying to cover for someone who was never coming back. She knew that I would find out anyway. Someone had to tell me, eventually. They hated and shunned me for something that wasn't my fault. Something that I never even witnessed. And that was your fault. So, you really can't blame me for this. For a very, very long time, you had this coming."

Behind me, I heard someone come in. Because of the controversy, this exhibit had not been very popular with the public. No one wanted to mess with the past, especially not the villains.

"Look at this," Samantha said. "I thought you looked familiar."

"What do you mean?" Her boyfriend was not an airhead like she was. He was one of the few who had actually tried to befriend me. His name was David, though he preferred Chipmunk. Well, he hadn't come up with that himself. It was gifted to him after a particularly unbelievable win in a marshmallow eating contest.

"Mia. Look at her, and then look at General DeSanto."

Chipmunk stared at me for several minutes, and then his eyes widened. "Mia?"

"Yes, he was my father. No, I never met him. Yes, I hate the bastard as much as the rest of you do."

"What are you doing, Mia?" Samantha had apparently noticed the apparatus behind me.

"You know what, Samantha? I'm done with your drama. How about the two of you turn yourselves around and walk back out of here?"

"Fine Mia. You're such a freak." Samantha grabbed Chipmunk's elbow, swinging him around and out of the room. "Let's go find ourselves some of the bags of spiced nuts or something."

Once I was finished with my contraption, I tucked it under the platform for the statue. Then I lifted my now much-lighter backpack and made my way back to the bus.

Later that day, I was eating with my mom, for the first time in weeks. There wasn't much we could talk about anymore, but she liked to play the news. Several of the doctors I spoke with said that her obsession with current events was a result of her involvement in the war. She had gone from being relevant, important and needed to being a nobody. It was a blow for anyone.

"Today, in the museum, an explosion destroyed the new exhibit, titled Villains in our Time." The newscaster was a male, and his voice was remarkably dry. "Three civilians were killed in the blast, and five others were injured. Two of the fatalities were students at a local school, one David Killinger and Samantha Burton."

Mom sat up a little straighter. "Didn't you have class with them?"

"Yes, I did."

"You went to the museum today, didn't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

She stood up, knocking her chair back onto the floor. "Mia, what did you do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Mia, where is your backpack? Where is it, Mia?"

There was a knock at the door. In a split second, I was out the back and running. I had to live up to Father's legacy.

Writing tip #17 - ‘Said’ is usually fine

 You’ve all read it. The book where characters scream out their point, they mumble, they gasp, they sigh, they breathe, they cry. But it never seems like they can bring themselves to just SAY something. That’s because, a lot of the advice for writers concerning dialogue tags is about words that can replace things like said, or asked or whatever. Often, this is bad advice, for several reasons.

First, how often would you use words other than said to describe yourself speaking? Your characters are a bit of a reflection of you, and in real life, people don’t breathe words. They say them. Of course, there are occasions when you do breathe your words, or pant them, or whatever. But then make it clear from the character’s body language. If said is a word that never appears in your story, that’s not a good thing.

Said is also a throwaway word. By this, of course, I don’t mean that it’s a word that should never show up in your writing, but rather that it disappears. It’s a word that readers tend to expect, and if you use it, they won’t really notice. Words like gasped and breathed and sighed when describing dialogue can break up the story, because this is now something the reader has to think about. If you mention that a character sighed before they speak, you’ve had the action, and it’s easier on the reader.

If you’re spending more time looking for increasingly fancy words to use for dialogue tags, don’t. Chances are, if you don’t know what it means without asking Google, neither will your readers. 

Sometimes, it can feel like your story is a never ending string of the word said. When that’s the case, look back over your writing and see if you can take out some dialogue tags. In a conversation between two people, they aren’t really necessary after the first few. Unless you break the rhythm of the conversation of course.

I know I’ve touched on this before, but posts with what appear to be more descriptive words for said bother me, because it’s an excuse to tell rather than show. Sometimes that’s good, but it’s usually better to use wording and body language to give the context and tone for a conversation

Day 261

 Day 261

We found it. An hour ago. We found the weapon that the Professor told us would finally stop the Apocalypse, his greatest creation. 

We often wondered why he couldn’t just tell us what it was, as that would make our search easier. We understand now. Everyone does.

The child sat in the corner, his legs pulled tight to his chest, shaking with cold and fear. As far as we knew, he’d been alone since the whole disaster began. It was a miracle he’d survived. Children were a rare sight these days. The aliens knew that our advantage lay in the fact that we could multiply faster than they could, so a disease that targeted children and pregnant women was devastating. Just like that, they’d built a stronghold, a blemish our planet might never recover from.

“He’s just a kid,” Jamie muttered next to me, his rifle casually slung over his shoulder. All our old weapons were useless against the aliens, that race of energy beings. We still carried them, though, to defend ourselves against anything else that roamed and wanted us dead.

“The Professor should be happy,” I replied, not wanting to let my friend know how wrong I thought this was. 

“All right!” Devon’s voice brought us snapping to attention, standing up straight. The kid flinched. “We’re moving out! The Professor will know what to do. Sammy, you help the kid. Make sure he gets there in one piece.”

I nodded, saluting.

The little boy shrank away from me as I approached him. It wasn’t surprising. We’d essentially kidnapped him, even if it was to save his life.

"It's all right," I told him, keeping my voice low and reassuring. "I won't hurt you. We just want to get you somewhere safe."

“Where?” He stared up at me, eyes huge in his thin face.

“We move around.” I nudged his side, prompting him to move over. “Gotta stay one step ahead, you know?”

The boy nodded, relaxing just a little.

“What’s your name?” I asked quietly. “Mine’s Sammy.”

“I’m Damen.”

“That’s a strong name.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m strong.”

It was sad, how quickly he’d grown up. When I was his age, all I worried about was catching bugs and staying up past bedtime. War has so many casualties that no one even remembers. Youth is a big one.

“We should head out,” I told him, getting to my feet. “It’s safer for us to be with the others.”

He nodded and followed me.

“How did you find me?” He asked after silently keeping up with my much longer steps for long enough that I stopped checking to see if he was next to me.

“We have ways. Basically, we tapped into the vermin communication systems. We’ve been interfering in every disturbance and investigating any reports of children.”

“So there are other kids like me?”

For a moment, I hesitated, wanting to shield him from at least a little of the darkness in the world. But it was foolish. He’d find out, and not telling him the truth now would make it harder later.

“No. They were all infected by the time we got there.”

“Why not me?”

“Hopefully we can answer that.”

He fell silent, keeping his head down. “How did you hack their comms? The old reports said they were encrypted, protected by some cyber bug.”

“They were, until the Professor  cracked the encryption. Some of the guys joke that he slayed the bug.”

It took such a long time for him to reply, I glanced at him. He’d stopped, staring. There was something like horror on his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, turning around.

“You’re with the Professor?” He asked. 

“How do you think we knew to look for you?”

The terror on his face scared me. “Does he know you found me?”

“We radioed in the moment we confirmed it was you.”

Resolve slowly replaced his terror, bringing colour back to his face. “Then I’ve got no choice. Sammy, I’m going to need your help. Otherwise everyone is going to die.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Professor is not human, and he’s definitely not helping you. He’s the reason those creatures gained a foothold at all. He’s also the one who created the virus.”

Now he had me staring at him. “No, that can’t be true. The Professor lost his wife and child to the disease, he’s been the leader of our organization since the war was lost.”

“And how much have you rebels done? Killed a few aliens, here and there, barely enough to make a difference. Moved around, under the guise of hiding? Why do you think the Professor wants me so bad? I know what he is.”

“How?”

“Children can see through their cloaking for some reason. That’s why the virus targets them. Adults can’t see that their world was already quietly taken over long before the guns came along.”

“But what does this have to do with you? Why not let the virus take you and be done with it?”

“I’m immune. They did their testing on me, before the virus was strong enough. I got antibodies, so now I can’t die from it. He needs to kill me so I can’t tell what I know.”

I thought it over for a long while. Even if I didn’t know who this kid really was, I kinda believed him. Enough to speak to the Professor about it, anyway.

“All right kid,” I finally replied, “you hide in the rubbish here. I’m gonna go talk to the Professor, see how much is true. If it is, I’ll kill him right there, no matter the consequences. If it’s not, I’ll come back with guards and bring you in. If you aren’t waiting here when I come back, I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself.”

He nodded. I longed for the day when threatening a child would get me arrested. Times were different now.

My rifle slung over my shoulder, I strode into our hideaway, nodding to the guards. 

“Where’s the kid?” Jamie asked.

“Around. I need to talk to the Professor.”

“Sammy, he’s not seeing anyone. Especially not you. Something about a betrayal. I’m sorry, but I have to arrest you.”

I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. We’d been closer than brothers since the apocalypse started. “What do you mean?”

“Either you come quietly for me, or you will be forcefully taken by the crew. Orders. From the Professor himself. I don’t know how he knows.”

Silent and wary, I handed Jamie my gun, feeling like I was cutting off an arm. This couldn’t be happening.

Devon stood in the centre of the mess hall, arms crossed.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll beg for forgiveness,” Jamie whispered behind me, but I ignored him.

“Sam.” Devon’s voice was harsh, harsher than he’d ever spoken to me. “Are you aware of the accusations?”

“No, Dev.”

My brother was tearing himself apart. I could tell from his eyes that he was beating himself up over this. “Where is the boy, Sam? What have you done with him?”

I paled. Somehow, the Professor knew what Damen had said to me. He had to know. “He’s safe. But he can’t come here.”

“Why not, Sam? Where is he?”

“The Professor wants to kill him. The kid is immune to the virus.”

“All the Professor wants to do is study him. If that kid has the cure for the disease, we could win the war.”

I stared at my brother. He rarely disagreed with me, at least not on anything important. 

“The Professor is one of them, Dev. He’s an alien, and the kid knows it.” A small part of me wondered when I’d accepted what Damen said as truth. It didn’t matter. I believed him.

“Listen to yourself, Sam,” Devon was getting angry. The conflict that had been barely hidden was gone, replaced with fury. “He saved both our lives. How can you say that?”

“It’s true. You have to believe me, Dev.”

My brother shook his head. “You’re crazy Sam. Somehow, the kid got to you. This is for your own good.”

Jamie pulled a pair of restraining tablets from his pocket, warming them in his hand.

I didn’t even think. All I knew was that I had to get away or I was a dead man. Senses honed in the decade of war lent me speed and strength. 

I pushed Dev to the floor, knocking him out with a swift, hard punch. Behind me, the others were scrambling for their guns. But it was too late. I was free. I was out of stun range....

A sharp, jarring pain sent me to my knees. I was out of stun range, true. But as a traitor, they were authorized to use lethal force. And the lethal rounds went twice as far as the stun rounds did before they lost their charge.

Hot, wet blood ran through my fingers as I desperately clutched at the wound. Trying to hold the flood in my body. I lay on my side in the rubble, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Devon leaned over me, shouting at someone, shouting something. But it was too late. The world was disappearing into a flood of darkness at the edges of my vision. And then there was nothing.

Writing Tip #16 - Characters Aren’t your Babies

 All right. Many writers have a tendency to be overprotective of their characters. They take care of them, pamper them and make sure that nothing truly bad ever happens to them. Perhaps this character loses their dog, but find it back before the end of the book, or they get a bruise when bones should’ve broken. Either way, it’s rather easy to spot these books. The protagonist usually sees the world through rose-tinted glasses, and they invariably end with all the conflict tied in a happy little bow. Nothing wrong with a happy ending, but the happy ending will be sweeter if your character had to fight to get there, rather than float nonchalantly through life, protected by the unseen force that is the author’s  pen.

These characters are flat, stale, and boring. If you want to see what your character is made of, you need to take them to the breaking point, then beyond it. The worst should happen. 

Imagine that your characters are like geodes. They're a bit boring on the outside, with dirty, lumpy bits. But if you smash them, it reveals the beauty inside. And you will never know about that beauty unless you break them.

Of course, there are certain lines that each author needs to draw for themselves. For example, if you don't want to kill any of your characters, have logical ways for them to survive. A character that is always miraculously getting out of life-threatening and usually fatal situations won't be the same as a character who was in a terrible situation, but escaped due to prior planning, or some exploitation of weakness (a kidnapped character being found due to negligence on the villain's part, or a brief moment of freedom to speak with someone not connected to the villain is often more believable than the character being found out of nowhere, because of a single footprint left by a henchman, or something like that. Foreshadowing is key in making things believable. If your villain is a monster, it doesn't necessarily mean that those around him are.) 

You can decide that, even though your character might be tortured, they won't be left with any obvious scars. This opens up wonderful opportunities for things like psychological torture and other devious methods of gathering information from someone. Some authors will murder people by the handful, but will never hurt an animal. Some could benefit from letting a few of their characters survive.

So. Kill the dog. Murder the friend. Make your team fight, disagree, even betray one another. Give your character something to fight for, because a character without suffering is a character without substance. Give your happy 

Build a character, make them human, give them names and families and lives. And then break them. Your writing will be a thousand times more interesting.

(An important thing to note is that I don't write children's books, and you shouldn't be looking for advice on children's books here. I'm a novelist. Children's and picture books are a whole different pot of tea.)

Recruit

 He found the journal on the train. Of course, being a conscientious person, he normally would never take something that didn’t belong to him, and certainly wouldn’t read someone else’s journal. But this journal spoke to him, called to him. And he couldn’t resist.

He sat back in his seat, fascinated with the journal. It was worn, the spine creased from being opened and added to. 

Opening the cover himself, he began to read.

*****

If you're reading this, it's already too late for me. If you hurry, you might be able to save yourself.

My name isn’t important, and it isn’t one that you’ll know. Just know that there were others who went before me, and there will be those who come after. You are one.

If you are reading this, the journal called to you. Your mind is curious, open and ever growing. Exactly the qualities you’ll need to survive.

Not everyone believes in an all-powerful good, but everyone is at least aware that things don’t always go right. This is because there is an evil in this world, an evil that taints everything it touches. Long ago, humans were touched by this evil and the Earth was wiped clean. But that was long ago, and humans have forgotten.

Evil is real. Luckily for us, so is good. And this is where you come in. You are the newest member of a secret society that works to uproot the social system through good. Historical figures like Abraham Lincoln, William Wilburforce and Mother Theresa were all members of this group. Of course, we do not have a monopoly on goodness. Once in a while, someone will come from the darkness and help with our work, having never even been contacted.

There are many of us, and yet the enemy has even more agents working for him, working to stop us. The man who assassinated Lincoln was such an agent, one who took revenge for the blow to their cause.

But what is your task? It is a simple one. Do as much good as you can. Look out for those who can’t help themselves, speak for those who have no voice. Fight for peace and justice.

So far, I’ve mentioned two groups, those who fight for good and those who fight for evil. But there is a third, and this group is the largest of the three. It’s the group of ordinary people, those who don’t fight for anything. They are ignorant of the battle that is waged around them, unaware of the toll it could take on their lives. But they are a vital part, because they have the seeds of both tremendous evil and tremendous good inside them. They can be swayed to fight for us, if you are careful and meticulous. 

This is why my task, and now yours, is such an important one. We are the foot soldiers, those who walk among the ignorant. We are responsible for small acts that can change a person's life, acts as simple as smiling at someone. 

You have no supervisor. No one will be holding you accountable, other than your own conscience. What you do with the information I have given you is your choice. But remember. If you aren’t for us, you are against us. Apathy is giving the enemy a helping hand, simply because there is one less soldier fighting on our side. A single grain of rice can tip the balance.

*****

He stared at the worn leather book in his hands. This couldn’t be real. There was no way. It was some kind of sick joke, or a work of creative  writing, forgotten by an absent minded author.

But then he felt the eyes. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood up, sending tingles through his body. This wasn’t a feeling he’d felt often during his ordinary life, but it was unmistakable. Fear rose in his throat.

“You know it’s real,” the woman next to him whispered, still facing forward. “And they know you know. You need to get off this train.”

He stared at her, thousands of questions forming. Then she smiled, and it clicked into place. The journal was hers. She was the one sending him onto a path that would change his life forever.

The train slowed to a stop, and she elbowed him. “Get off, now. Before they realize I’ve passed on the mission. The journal will help you. Read more when you are safe.”

“But, but,” he whispered, desperately trying to come up with a protest. “Why me?”

“You read the journal. It’s your purpose. To create chaos in the ranks of evil through good deeds. Honestly, once you get going, it’s a lot of fun. But if you don’t get off the train, we’ll both die here.”

“Are there others?”

“More than you can ever know. Now go.”

He got up, gathered his things, and left the train, glancing back to see that the woman was now surrounded by men in black suits. “FBI,” one said, “We need you to come with us.”

As they escorted her off, she caught his eyes, holding them for one long second. Then she was gone, and his life would never be the same.

The Bicycle

 It was a bicycle any kid would die for. Shiny, cherry red, glistening chrome handlebars. It even had white racing stripes. The kind of bike any kid wants, needs. Every day, the kids who walked to school walked past the store to make sure that wonderful bike was still on display. It was a bike that would make its owner instantly a star.

Every town has that parent. The one who should never have had a child, yet somehow managed to find a mate anyway. Jared Krasin was such a parent. Scatterbrained and violent, he’d grown up the child of two rather respectable Protestants, but had fallen away in rebellion against them. Party after party, girlfriend after girlfriend and suddenly there was a baby to deal with.

Jared never really cared for his child, regardless of the fact that the boy was his own flesh and blood. No one knew what had happened to the girlfriend. She was there one day and gone the next. Rumours spread that Jared had murdered her, but one old couple occasionally got mail postmarked from a town two states over. They knew of the child, but had no interest in dealing with a man they had never approved of.

Jimmy, as the child was called by anyone who knew him, was a quiet little boy, one who flinched at loud noises and only spoke when he was addressed directly. The kind of child you forget after the initial introduction.

There was never any evidence that things weren't right in the Krasin home. Or very little, other than the absence of a mother for Jimmy.

The boy, as his father referred to him, was a good student. He was never late to school, never caused any trouble. His teacher, Miss Sanis, would look forward to seeing him every morning. They had a bit of a bond, a shared love of reading. She took Jimmy under her wing, became something of the mother he’d never had. But even though she pressed, he would never share what happened when he got home in the evening.

Like all the other children, Jimmy knew about the bike. He could hardly miss it, as it sat in the window of Denson’s General Store, on the way back to his house. Sometimes, Jimmy would stop and stare at the bike, dreaming of flying down hills and along roads in a blur of chrome and cherry-red.

Snow began to fall as Christmas drew nearer. Jimmy shivered a little in his thin coat, his hands and cheeks pink with cold when he entered the classroom. Miss Sanis gently asked if he needed anything, but the boy shook his head.

“Money’s tight,” he’d say, shifting his desk a little closer to the heater. “But we’ll get by.” Some of Jared’s pride proved to be genetic. If young Jimmy had a flaw, it was that he’d never ask for help.

Once, just once, Miss Sanis caught a hint that Jimmy was hiding something. She was supervising a pop quiz, and Jimmy was bent over his desk, working hard. His longish hair dangled over his paper, revealing a dark purple bruise at the base of his neck. It wasn’t something they spoke of. Even without asking, she knew what the boy’s reaction would be. He’d close himself off, hiding even from her. But she watched quietly for something she could act on, something he wouldn't be able to hide.

About a week before Christmas, Jimmy trudged home through the snow, his arms wrapped around his torso, trying to conserve at least a little heat. The bike was still in the window, that marvelous, wonderful bike. For a few freezing seconds, Jimmy stopped to stare at it. Apparently there were some left, despite the claims of his classmates. It seemed like every single one of them was absolutely positive they would get that bike for their Christmas gift. 

As Jimmy stood there, a warm pinprick of hope sprang to life in his chest. He hadn’t asked his father if he could have a bike. He’d never asked for anything. Not once. Surely, just this year, he could have a bike. One present, one amazing present, and he would be satisfied. 

A new spring in his step, Jimmy walked the rest of the way home. That small spark of hope warmed him so much he barely noticed the cold.

That same spark of hope also kept him from noticing the empty beer bottles on the porch, from seeing that his father was already on a second bottle of scotch. There was no way the boy could’ve been at fault for his father’s drinking, but, as always, he would bear the consequences.

Jared had spent most of the afternoon staring at a letter from his ex-wife’s lawyer. She was going to take him to court, to have Jimmy removed. It was the ultimate betrayal. She’d already taken his pride, his reputation and half his money. There was no way he would let her have his son.

Jimmy, of course, didn’t know this. He took a seat across from his father and made his request, voice trembling a little.

“What did you say, boy?” His father looked up, bloodshot eyes peering out from behind thick eyebrows. 

“Please, sir,” Jimmy’s voice was stronger now, fueled by a strange mixture of fear and hope. “There’s a bike. In the window at Denson’s. I was wondering if it might be my Christmas present?”

Jimmy didn’t go to school the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Worried, Miss Sanis called his father, and was gruffly informed that his son had pneumonia, along with a request that he not be bothered again.

Two weeks later, the school contacted Social Services, as their policies mandated. The woman who was sent to check on Jimmy can only be described as ‘grandmotherly’. There was enough of her for a multitude of children to hug all at once, and her hair was a charming, dignified shade of grey. A small mole above her lip had two brown hairs growing from it.

When she emerged from the dirty, rundown little house, she was visibly a few years older. Once she judged herself to be a safe distance away, in her car with the doors locked, she made the call. “That child is abused,” she told her superiors. “He needs to be removed.”

“How do you know?” asked her superior, a young man without the experience or knowledge that the woman fifteen years his senior possessed.

“It’s textbook. All the signs are there. When you’ve worked as long as I have, you’ll be able to spot them a mile away.”

She drove away, worrying about the child that she’d just made her problem. His life was about to change forever. If she was wrong....

Due to a series of administrative errors, and the fact that Jared was known to be a violent man, it took four days to organize a team to take Jimmy from his father, by force if necessary. No one wanted to escalate, but every member of the team that was present was ready, just in case.

The social worker knocked on the door, glancing nervously at the two police officers flanking her.

“Waddya want?” Jared snarled, opening the door barely wide enough to see one beady eye.

“Mr. Krasin, we’re here for Jimmy.” The social worker was petrified of this man, but didn't show him her fear. The officers at her shoulder did wonders for her confidence.

“The hell you are,” Jared replied, moving to close the door.

One of the officers tried to stop him, but Jared was a big man. Alcohol and constant physical work made him stronger than he looked, and his nature made him mean. The door slammed shut, and they heard a series of locks clicking shut. There were at least four.

“Jared!” One officer began pounding on the door. “Jared, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way!”

There was no reply inside the house.

“Ma’am, you need to back away,” the second cop ordered, gesturing the social worker behind the protective line of officers.

Two shots rang out, from inside the house. 

With cool professionalism, the smaller of the two officers smashed one of the dirty porch windows, glancing at his partner before slipping inside and unlocking the door. 

Weapons drawn, they proceeded to search the house. 

Upstairs, in a bedroom that overlooked a field, they found the bodies. Jared’s blood stained the wall, gun still clutches in his lifeless fingers. Jimmy lay curled in a pool of his own blood, more seeping from a wound the two officers couldn’t see.

“It’s clear,” one officer spoke into his radio, turning away from the grisly spectacle. “They’re both dead. Looks like the dirtbag shot the kid and then himself.”

His partner crouched next to Jimmy, feeling sick to his stomach. But, because he was closer, he spotted the slight rise and fall of the boy’s chest. “He’s still breathing. Dan, the kid’s still alive.”

Dan informed those outside of the discovery, then hurried to find something so that they could bandage the wound in the child’s chest.

The other man was left to comfort the dying boy, so he knelt in the puddle, ignoring the blood that now stained his uniform.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently grasping the child’s hand. “Hey, look at me. It’s gonna be okay, all right? We’re gonna get you out of here and somewhere safe.”

Jimmy coughed, his lips speckled with dark red blood. "I-I just wanted the bike," he choked out, voice rasping. "Wh-why?"

Like the child was made of porcelain, the officer pulled him close, cradling his head. "Stay with me, Jimmy. All right? My partner is bringing help."

It took five minutes for the paramedics to arrive. What was left of Jared was covered with a blanket, but no one dared to move Jimmy. Despite the makeshift bandages that were pressed to his wound, the bleeding didn't slow. Jimmy didn't speak again, just held eye contact with the officer holding him. His breath came slower and shallower, with heart-stopping waits between each shuddering gasp. But the boy clung to life.

"They found his mother," the social worker bullied her way through the small group of officers surrounding the boy. "She's being flown to the hospital. Paramedics are on their way." She took in the scene in a moment. Jimmy was pale, paler than the clouded sky outside. 

"It's gonna be okay," the officer told the boy, his voice quiet and clear. "Your mom is waiting for you at the hospital. Just a little longer, all right? You can do it, Jimmy. Hold on. You'll be fine."

The last words Jimmy heard were a lie. Is it a lie if it's to comfort someone? 

He was already gone when the paramedics arrived. Only the officer who cradled his head knew the exact moment, the second that the light left the boy. Tears streamed down his face as anger surged through him. Jared was lucky he’d taken the coward’s way out. 

In the window of Densen's General Store, a cherry-red bike with sparkling chrome sat in the window. An ambulance raced past, splashing muddy snow onto the window. Obscuring the coveted object. It was a bicycle any kid would die for.

Writing Tip #15 - Use your Resources

 Hey! So, this is an important tip, especially if you’re a teenage writer without much access to funds and or internet.

What I mean by use your resources is that there are people around you who can help with the aspects of your book that you aren’t sure you can do on your own, or just don’t want to. For me, it was an editor, who was a friend of a friend, and I would never have gotten my book edited professionally if not for her. 

The hardest part of this is actually asking people for help. Seriously, that is really hard. Especially because you aren’t sure if you can pay them or not. But you’d be surprised how many people will be willing to get on board and help with your book, for almost nothing. It is polite to thank them in the acknowledgements, so keep that in mind.

Quite often, you know somebody who would be willing to help. One of my friends is willing to design a cover for my second book, which I really hope to have out in May. (Fingers crossed, sacrifice 30 chickens to the writing gods, all that whatnot) If you know me, then you’ll know that I am not good at art. Like, at all. As I’ve put it, I paint pictures with words and monsters with everything else. In terms of cover design, I am absolutely hopeless. 

Anyway, talk to the people around you. Tell them that you've got a book that you are looking to publish. Ask them if they know designers and other people who can help, because your book will inevitably be better for it. 

I've heard that you shouldn't write books for your family, or that many writers have family members that absolutely do not like their stories, or read in their genre. That doesn't mean that you shouldn't at least tell them that you have a book that you published, or intend to publish. Because if your family is truly your family, they will want to help and support you. (If nothing else, they can pester you with questions about when your next book in a series is coming out and where it will be published and keep you supplied with chocolate and caffeine as you slog through an intense writing session.)

That's all I've got for Tip #15. If you have suggestions, or thoughts or anything else, please comment on the page or email me at scribbler.collective@gmail.com.