This is a post I expected to write, I just didn't expect it to be today nor did I expect it to be this year:

Today, my work appears in Brain Harvest. It's a short story. Just 750 words. I hope you enjoy it!

Read "How Duane Came To Be In The Bathroom" in Brain Harvest, an Almanac of Bad Ass Speculative Fiction.

I'm not really sure where 2009 will rank in the years of my life, but I'm fairly certain it will be hard to top it as a year of change. I left a job of seven years. I made my living by my wits (which is a huge accomplishment given my limited supply of brainpower). I moved across the country without my family. I wrote a novel. I worked myself raw. I forgot how to sleep.

But last night, in the middle of a snowstorm, I slept.

I slept for nearly twelve hours and when I woke I was published and my wife was 500 miles away making buttercream frosting with real Mexican vanilla. The sun is shining and someone finally figured out that salt melts snow and everything is dripping both above and below.

It looks happy outside and I am happy too, but now is the time to start again. Another story is waiting. Time to write...

Editor's Note: Wow... With a lead in like that, you'd think I'm laying claim to being the next Alice Munro. No, I'm no Alice Munro. I admire her work, but I find the universe far to funny to ever write a story like hers. Besides, as far as I know, Ms. Munro has yet to write a comedic story with overtones of necrophilia. So, I got that going for me, which is nice.

"It Likes Italian" is a short screenplay I've had kicking around in my head for awhile. If you want to get to the action, got ahead and skip down to the header below, but I thought I'd take a moment to talk about the process of writing this screenplay because I've never actually done one before.

Of course, this won't be a surprise to the screenwriters in the house as I've totally botched the formatting.

In any case, blasting out reams of dialogue is one of my oldest methods for starting a new story. I just sit down and let a group of characters start talking. Eventually, they tell me what's going on.

My work with Kip Frazier is a lot like this: he talks, I listen, when I interrupt he usually says something like, "Well, Mister Writer, you stick to the scribbling and I'll stick to the story spinning, cause I'm sure ain't nobody wants to hear it the other way around."

And, as usual, Kip is right. My job is to write. The characters are supposed to tell the story.

Another thing worth mentioning about "It Likes Italian" is that it has a liberal dose of colorful language. This is a little different from things I've posted of late, but I'm also trying to get back to writing from the gut... And as the son of a man who was a sailor and then a cop, my gut often coughs up some rough edges.

Of course, this story is really me, through and through (a little silly, a little strange, and a little WTF thrown in), and that's one thing I like about it.

Enjoy!

"It Likes Italian": A Short Screenplay

[Setting; Space]
[Open with a small research craft orbiting a gas giant planet. Close by is an enormous black sphere, metallic and smooth.]

[Interior of craft: One man is asleep at his terminal, while another pokes at the keyboard in a bored way.]

[Terminal Screen close-up: Saying hello in different languages, math questions. A delay... nothing comes back in response. Bored man at the terminal (Roy), stops the script. Types in something and chuckles.]

Roy: "Apparently, it likes Italian..."

[Clay wakes up]

Clay: "Huh? What do you mean, 'It likes Italian?'"
Roy: "The protocols weren't working so I tried flirting with it in Italian."
Clay: "What the fuck do you know about Italian?"
Roy: "I spent a summer in Rome."
Clay: "We're supposed to be following protocol."
Roy: "I know. I was just screwing around."
Clay: "Keep running the scans..."
Roy: [sigh]

[Roy goes back to running the scans, but there's no response. He looks to see if Clay is watching. He's back to sleep.]
[Terminal: Roy taps in a few Italian phrases. The entity answers back.]

Clay: "Are you doing the Italian thing again?"
Roy: "Yeah..."
Clay: [Frustrated resignation]

[Clay leaves his terminal and watches Italian streaming across Roy's screen.]

Clay: "Fuck. What are we going to do?"
Roy: "I guess we report in and say it likes Italian."
Clay: "Brilliant, Jackass... That'll look great on the report."

[Terminal: More Italian flowing across the screen]

Clay: "What's it saying?"
Roy: "I don't know. All I learned to do is flirt. I can ask directions too."
Clay: "Directions? Somewhere you need to go?"
Roy: "Hey, man, I'm just telling you what I know."

[Terminal: Italian insult]

Roy: "Oh shit."
Clay: "What's wrong?"
Roy: "I think it's pissed off."
Clay: "How do you know?"
Roy: "It just told me to fuck my mother. I think it's angry because I haven't responded."

[Terminal: More insults come across the screen.]
[Exterior shot: Entity begins moving toward the craft.]
[Interior: Clay and Roy see entity moving on the monitor.]

Clay: "Jesus! Well, if it wants a response - respond!"
Roy: "What should I say?"
Clay: "I don't know! Ask for directions or something!"

[Roy types quickly.]
[Terminal: A single word answer comes back in response "sì" ]

Roy: "Shit."
Clay: "Now what? What did you say?"
Roy: "Well, I asked it if it wanted to sleep with me and it said yes."
Clay: "Christ! Stop flirting with it!"
Roy: "What else do you want me to do? That's all the fucking Italian I know. It's all I ever needed to know."
Clay: "I took some Spanish back in high school. Maybe we could try that."
Roy: "I don't know. I think it might not like that."
Clay: "What the hell do you know? Now you're the shrink?"
Roy: "That never worked in Rome. The girls there got pissed if you tried to switch to Spanish."
Clay: "So now it's a girl?"
Roy: "It wants to sleep with me, doesn't it?"
Clay: "You don't know that. Shit. We need to call this in."

[Chiming sounds, warning bells]

Roy: "It's still closing."
Clay: "Is it going to crash into us?"
Roy: "No, it's on an intercept vector, maneuvering to come along side."
Clay: "I'm calling in."
Roy: "The communications array is dead. It's jamming us."

[Clay takes a seat at his terminal and starts pounding the keys]

Roy: "It says it wants to be alone with us."
Clay: "We're getting the fuck out of here!"

[Exterior: The entity closes on the ship. Grapplers extend and clamp onto the ship.]

Roy: "Too late..."

[Clay checks exterior monitors.]
[Exterior: Something else extending from the entity.]

Clay: "Are those arms?"
Roy: "No, they look more like..."

[Terminal: Sweet nothings murmurred in Italian]

Clay: "Oh hell no. This thing is not going to fuck our ship is it?"

[Crash into the hull, grinding of metal.]

Clay: "We're getting spaced raped!"
Roy: "Technically, the ship is getting space raped."
Clay: "We're in the ship, Roy. So, I think that means we're getting space raped by default!"

[Awkward moment for crew. Eventually, the grinding stops. A few moments pass. Terminal beeps.]
[Terminal: Murmuring in Italian]

Clay: "Now what is it saying?"
Roy: "It's giving directions. I think. I'm not sure."
Clay: "It's not letting go."
Roy: "No, I think... I think it wants to show us something."

[Terminal: Repeating on the screen in Italian]

Clay: "What is it?"
Roy: "It wants to show us the stars."

[Roaring sound shakes the craft.]
[Exterior: Entity's engines igniting]

Roy: "Detecting a warp field."
Clay: "Fuck, fuck! Drop the log beacon! Now!"

[Log beacon shoots out of the ship as the entity blasts into warp, taking the research vessel with it]
---
[Some time later... A military rescue ship arrives. Picks up the beacon.]

Captain: "No sign of the ship?"
Ensign: "No, Captain. Just her log beacon, but the data is truncated. They must have jettisoned early."
Captain: "What does it say?"

[Ensign works at his terminal.]

Ensign: "'Apparently, it likes Italian...'"

[END]

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!

Those of you who followed me in November know that Kip Frazier is the book I wrote for NaNoWriMo. In a nutshell, Kip Frazier is my take on Huck Finn meets Steampunk (plus some magic thrown in). It begins with the line...

"In all my life, ain't nobody ever caught me when I was running on top of the air."

Below is Chapter 2 of the tale.

Chapter 1 is a super hot action thing where Kip is introduced in media res. I'm sharing Chapter 2 first because I am in desperate need of another cup of coffee (you'll figure that out when you read it). Oh, and maybe I wanted to show that I maybe I can't write stories but I can write more than first chapters.

Note Bene - 'cause I'm getting all writerly now...

If you don't read SciFi or Fantasy, references to "the Fey" mean fairy folk. Fey is a medieval term. It wasn't my decision to use it either. Kip Frazier insisted. In fact, I have an entire author-character discourse in my notes were he berated me for trying to doll it up, "Writers! Always fiddling with the way things is! Stop it!"

Also, when I talk about clankers, I mean robots. This takes place in a time and place similar to Huck Finn, so I try to use words that fit into 19th century. Fantastic or romantic technology based on what was available to makers in the 19th century is an effect known as Steampunk.

READ Kip Frazier - Chapter 2: In the Biddy's Kitchen (PDF). Just six pages. Won't take long.

This'll probably get another polish or seven as I'm the worst proof reader in the world. Of course, when you write in a colloquial style, it gets even more difficult to proof because you're working off sound as well. It takes a long time to get this kind of thing right.

A big thanks to everyone who voted in my poll. It was a lot of fun to get back to this story, which of course is not a story but a novel...

"Aw, skip it already, Mister Writer!"

Sorry, Kip.

Back in October, I mentioned the story "Deepest Shade" while discussing the Terror of Titles:

Deepest Shade is a story I've struggled with for close to 10 years. It's been many things during that time but one thing is absolutely certain: Deepest Shade has always been the title. Or, at least I think it is. I'm still not entirely happy with Deepest Shade as a story. I think I really have two different tales going on not to mention the fact that I completely over edited the thing and now it feels sort of lifeless. Yet, I wonder if I haven't hobbled the story by forcing myself to stick with a phrase that keeps clinging to my brain.

Of course I couldn't just let the story go, or rather it simply refused to go away.

I don't know what it is about this story that I like so much. Perhaps it's the artistic struggle or maybe the interplay between Ali and Barbara. Maybe I just like the idea of blurring the possibilities of super high-end technology with the spiritual world, a bit of unexplained strangeness in an otherwise logical (and depressing world). Maybe I just like typing the word shikkoku.

Whatever it is, it's probably a good idea if I stop talking about the story. I can think of no better way to ruin the pleasure of reading fiction than by talking the story out of it. So maybe the thing I should say here is nothing at all. Just share the story and by that example show that when old stories "return" they're just stories that are not yet done and as a writer you should welcome that... though your readers may tire of messing with the same fluff again and again.

Click here to download the "latest" version of Deepest Shade.

I was thinking as an editor because there were certain aspects of Sean's story that reminded me of one I'd written three years ago. As I wrote my comments to Sean, I kept going back to that old story. What follows is a combination of my general thoughts on criticism mixed with an analysis of my own story.

Before I get rolling, I encourage you to subscribe to Sean's newsletter. He's a great writer. Certainly better than me.

The Best Criticism: Remorseless, Specific, Honest

I believe the best criticism has three main characteristics:

1. Honest - If the writing is crap, tell them so. Think about the flow of the story. Did it keep you engaged? Did you think about it afterwards? If not, why and how could it be better?

Were there any places where you just stopped reading? If so, why? Did the author surprise you by changing gears or flipping expectations upside down? Did the story end up giving you a start-stop-start sensation not unlike riding in a car with someone who has an unnatural love of riding the brake pedal. If so, explain it and show specifically where the pavement ended [or where the metaphors wore thin].

2. Specific - Most readers stop at number #1. They deliver line edits line edits, questions about word choice, and of course the ubiquitous AWKWARD scribbled in the margins. Let me say something here...

Nothing is more AWKWARD than seeing the word AWKWARD scrawled across the page. Be specific.

Show them where the bodies are buried [especially when they use cliché]. Point out the places where the beautiful poetry they've constructed kills the story. Seriously, cut and paste sentences or paragraphs and tell the writer why they do not work for you. The more specific you can be the better.

3. Remorseless - Don't be soft and try to pad your opinion with phrases like, "You show a lot of promise." If you're going to qualify a compliment with the word "but" or "however" strip that compliment off because you probably don't mean it. Just deliver the news directly.

Too many adjectives or adverbs (or not enough). Poor dialogue. Shoddy craftsmanship...

Don't worry about hurting feelings. You've been asked to give feedback, so give it. An editor won't be kind and neither should you.

Analyzing One Of My Own

Above I mentioned that when I read Sean's story, I found myself making mental comparisons to one of my own pieces. When began sketching out this article, I went back and read my old story and found that it was even more flawed than I remembered. I'll provide a small sample of my feedback below. The real McCoy would be way too long to put into a single post, but this should give you a flavor.

A Quiet Dinner [pdf] is a story that came together very quickly. I took the initial idea, blasted through the details, and executed the story in less than a week. Once I was done, I went on to edit it three or four times, beating it into a fine paste.

I think the result is a story that is too heavy on poesy and too light on story. This is pretty typical of my work. Just reading the first paragraph makes my stomach turn.

Brian walked through the dark house on the balls of his feet. He thought himself stealthy, but there was no one to disturb, except his wife and she was already awake. Rachel didn't sleep so well anymore.

Even now, three years later, I remember struggling with that whole "balls of his feet" thing. How do I describe that? Oh, and that whole "Rachel didn't sleep so well anymore" could there be a more pregnant pause? Do we cue the dramatic music now?

If this were a detailed critique, I'd go through the entire text and point out places where things are just completed screwed. But, to save you the pain, let me share just a few choice bits that are way over the top:

The boys flew to Rachel.

Is this Peter Pan? A bit of sarcasm to be sure, but it's to the point.

Brian ran the disposal. He wagged the sprayer to keep down the foam. He rinsed off the dishes, and put the glasses he didn't wash into their slick dishwasher.

Maybe I should write down each and every time he takes a breath too and how that works. Just adding some fancy verbs won't make this any less boring and non-essential.

The moment was ripe for a grand statement about Art, but Brian remained still. How he used to go on! He could fill hours with talk that ranged across themes and entire schools of thought. For the few artists he admired, Brian displayed a grudging sort of reverence but for the rest he had nothing, only foul contempt. Such rage! How he used to go on! He left Rachel exhausted.

Ok, seriously. If I didn't need to type the number '1' every once in awhile, I'd honestly consider ripping the key off so as to avoid writing paragraphs like this. Nothing says, 'bla bla bla' like using exclamation points to emphasize how witty, verbose, exhausting, exasperating, etc a character might be.

Here's a long bit of crappy dialogue that totally screws up what could be an interesting bit of conflict between the main characters. I'm including the whole thing so that you can see just how bad it is:

The waitress arrived. She was young, but she tried to compensate with detachment and formality. She stood close to Brian and asked about the wine.
"Well, you see, this is where we have a problem," Brian said. "She prefers white, while for me there is only red."
"I know what you mean," the girl said. "I like dry reds, but my boyfriend, he'll only drink red if it's really sweet. But there is a solution."
She stepped closer. Her open palm drifted over the wine menu, and Brian's eyes followed her gesture to the bottom of the list.
"Half bottles."
Brian looked at Rachel.
"Could you drink a half bottle?" he asked.
"We can have red."
"Really?"
"It's fine."
Brian preferred Cabernet, but asked the waitress about the Merlot and the Pinot Noir.
"I'm a Pinot girl myself, but people like the Merlot."
Brian ordered the Pinot, and after the waitress left, he faced Rachel.
"I really like this place," he said.
"I can tell."
"It reminds of a place in Zürich I think you would like."
"Which one?"
"Bodega Espania."
Rachel nodded, and a smile began to take root at the corner of her mouth.
"I haven't told you about that place before?"

Who even wrote this?

"She prefers white, while for me there this only red."

I think it's a shame I screwed this part up. The waitress flirting with Brian could have created a nice bit of tension but instead I'm rolling my eyes at the language... Please step away from the melodrama.

Aside from the crappy writing, the characters in this story lack depth. The author of the story (that's me) seems more in love with words than they are with the characters. This isn't surprising as their is nothing interesting about them. They are the same at the beginning as they are at the end and all through the story they show only a single, stereotypical face.

If I were writing a real critique, I'd take this opportunity to pose a long series of questions meant to jar the author, make them think about how these characters could be improved and the drama deepened. I'd also tell them which parts are really screwing up the flow of the story.

Finishing Up

I've gone on about tearing a piece of work to shreds and generally being an ogre, but I'd like to wrap up with a word about kindness.

Delivering bad news about a bad story is part of providing good feedback. Some people may see this as demeaning or insulting, but I assure you that if you are very specific in your criticisms even a cutting tone such as the one I used with my own work will be helpful to the author. However, don't take this as a license to shred someone's person. Be nice.

Once you're done writing your critique, take a moment to breathe. Read through what you've written and make sure that it is actionable. If it isn't, strike it. Being nasty for nasty's sake is no better than writing dialogue that does the he-said-she-said bit without advancing the story. The reader of such a critique will be as bored with your thoughts as you were with theirs.

Hope this was helpful! Don't forget to sign up for Writer Dad's newsletter!

One must always begin at the Beginning,
For that is where one finds the End.
Betwixt the two comes the Middle,
And therein lies the story.

Image credit: wsmith (Flickr) with a bit of touchup by me.

--- 1

There is a dark, forbidden valley where travelers should never go, though sometimes, a careless soul manages to wander in and still make it back. Their hair gone white where once it was black. Their eyes never rest, and they look hard into the shadows. What they see we do not know, but they never, never sleep again.

"The wind may blow fierce, but it is not the cold that makes the trees shiver. Those poor, woody prisoners would burn their own branches, if only for the light."

--- 2

Jeremy Shade was a boy who treasured such tales. He collected them in fat notebooks with a fine and measured hand. He was careful to note each word as it was said, not wanting to miss the slightest detail or moment of dread.

His parents felt awful about this habit of his, wallowing in horror and fear. But try as they might, they could not convince him to give it up. He only laughed when something should have scared him, only giggled when terror should have gripped him, and rolled on the floor holding his sides when he should have been petrified.

--- 3

Wherever they went, Jeremy asked about ghosts and goblins and beasts without names. He wanted to know which houses were haunted, and where the people kept their graves. And all the while his parents tried, and tried, and tried to get their little boy, Jeremy Shade, to be like others his size.

But he wouldn't.

And his parents could only shrug when Jeremy asked what went into a witches brew. They apologized to strangers when he asked them who had recently died and how they met their end. His parents shook their heads so often, that Jeremy wondered if they might not come off at the neck. On this thought, Jeremy jotted a few words in his notebook.

--- 4

After a time, it came to pass that the family only went on vacation to places where horrible stories were to be found, or rather, Jeremy made sure that every place had a horrible story to tell.

When they went to the beach, dead pirates rose up from the sea and savaged the coast in search of their lost treasure. At the lake, Jeremy found signs of giant serpents and heard shepherds tales of entire flocks snatched from shore. There were ghosts in every hotel, and monsters lurking inside each museum.

It was hopeless for Jeremy's parents, for they hadn't enjoyed a wink of sleep on any trip for years. That is, until they heard about the Inn...

--- 5

Jeremy's father read the brochure one night at dinner, "Ringed by mountains and surrounded by forest, this secluded Inn casts the sole light for miles around. Here you can relax."

"I don't know," said Mother. "A lonely Inn in the middle of an enchanted forest? It sounds right up You-Know-Who's alley."

Jeremy smiled to himself and ate his dinner, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Surely though, this would be a truly scary place, he thought. His mind wobbled at the thought of all the stories he could put into his notebooks.

"No, no," said Father. "I called and checked it out. The Chef told me there were no ghost stories, nothing to fear. The place has been in his family for generations and there's not a dark thought in the whole valley."

"The Chef?" asked Mother.

"Yes, they have a Chef!" said Father. "Isn't that great? He was the one who answered the phone. Apparently, the restaurant is quite popular with the locals."

They talked like this for awhile. Father trying his best to convince Mother, and Mother trying not to get her hopes up. All the while, Jeremy ate his dinner and smiled.

--- 6

It was a long drive to the Inn. By the time they reached the little road that led to the valley, it was almost dark. The last orange-yellow light of the sun was fading behind the mountains. Father stopped to check the map, and Jeremy watched as night slid silently into place like a curtain coming down on a play.

As soon as all was black, a light appeared on a hill in the middle of the valley and the Shade family could see the Inn.

"Oh, there it is," said Father. "Just like the picture in the brochure."

He held up the brochure so that everyone could see. Mother frowned.

"I don't like the looks of this road," she said. "Did the brochure say anything about a gravel road?"

"I think it's quaint," said Father.

"I think it's spooky," said Mother.

And Jeremy? He smiled.

--- 7

The road to the Inn wound through the valley. With each turn, they could see the Inn through the shadowy arms of trees reaching for the stars. As they drew closer, the light of the Inn became many lights, and the Shade family could see that all of the windows blazed in the darkness.

As the road rose at a steep angle, a fog closed in around the car. They lost sight of the Inn and all its lights, and a hush came over the family. Even the sound of the tires churning through the dirt and gravel seemed far, far away.

The fog became a mist and then a drizzle, but before it could rain they reached the Inn. It came upon them all at once, like a beast pouncing from behind a tree.

"Oh!" said Mother.

Father stopped the car and for a moment, a single, terrible moment, it seemed that he might actually turn around. Jeremy bit his fingers, and hoped, and hoped, and hoped. And then, to Jeremy's great relief, Father continued on to the Inn.

--- 8

There in the night, in the fog and the mist, stood the magnificently horrible Spatula Inn.

Not on the very top of the hill, but almost, the Inn seemed to have grown from the rock itself. It had a great, craggy face, notched with tear-stained stones, the eyes of the windows recessed in mournful repose. The door of sturdy timber with iron bolts and studs gave little sense of welcome nor sense of comfort and rest inside.

With the wind just beginning to rise... What Inn, what castle for that matter, could have been more perfect for Jeremy Shade?

--- 9

Father sat still as a corpse behind the wheel of the car, while Mother gripped the brochure and desperately looked for a sign that they were mistaken. This could not be the Inn. This could not be the place where they were supposed to relax!

And Jeremy? He smiled.

--- 10

Father looked at Mother. She shook her head No, but just Father shrugged and smiled. He stepped out of the car and walked up to the Inn. He peered into the window to see who or what was within. Then with another shrug towards the car, he crossed over to the door, put his hand on the latch, and pressed on.

For some long silent minutes, while Father was inside, Jeremy thought he heard his mother cry - but really she was just murmuring and complaining to herself. So, Jeremy scribbled and sketched in his notebook.

--- 11

Father soon returned with a broad smile on his face.

"It's wonderful inside," he said. "There's a fire and it's all very cozy. The Chef said our supper will be ready as soon as we settled into our rooms and come back downstairs."

"The Chef?" asked Mother.

"Yes, he's the only one here tonight and we are the only guests."

Jeremy smiled.

--- 12

Inside it was as Father had said, a fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth and the floor was covered in rich, red carpets and on the carpets sat the most comfortable looking furniture Jeremy had ever seen. For a moment he was disappointed, because it certainly seemed like they would be able to relax.

But then, they met the Chef.

--- 13

The Chef was tall and lean and, save for his white hat and apron, dressed head to toe in black. His long, long fingers stretched out from his hands.

He bid them enter and brought them to the dining room.

"I hope this meets with your approval," he said and bowed.

"Oh but Chef," said Mother. "It is so late and you must be hungry yourself. Won't you join us?"

The Chef bowed again and shook his head.

"You honor me, dear lady, but no. I have already dined this evening. However, I will sit awhile with you if I may, and then I must return to the kitchen because I am expecting more guests this evening and their tastes are... quite particular."

--- 14

The Chef drew up a chair from another table and watched them eat. He smiled at Jeremy, who couldn't help but notice that the Chef's teeth were sharp and his lips were quite red.

"How old is this Inn, Chef Spatula?" asked Father as he stuffed more of the chicken into his mouth.

"Oh, it is very old indeed," said the Chef and he warmed to the subject. "It has been in my family for generations. My grandfather's, grandfather built this Inn and he was the first Chef Spatula. Since then, there has always been a Chef Spatula at the Inn, but I am sad to say that I am the last."

"But why?" asked Mother. "It's a wonderful place and that little village, what was it called? Bee Streets?"

"Alas," said the Chef, "Once it was very busy here, that is true. That was long ago, and now the people no longer come. I am alone here most of the time."

He said no more and in a moment excused himself to prepare for the guests expected much later.

For a long time, Mother and Father ate quietly. Jeremy picked at his food. He pushed it around on the plate, but he couldn't bring himself around to eating a single bite of it.

--- 15

Mother and Father had gone to their room without much further thought about the Chef. Jeremy on the other hand could not keep him out of his mind. He paced the floor of his room, looking out on occasion onto the forest, and then down, down towards the ground waiting for what? For the Chef's late guests perhaps?

Jeremy wondered who might come to the Inn at such a late hour.

As the clock neared midnight, the wind outside began to whirl and beat against the windows with a fierceness that could not be ignored. The trees outside whipped and turned, as if trying to free themselves from their roots so that they might wander about and do dark things in the night.

--- 16

The warmth from the fire made Jeremy drowsy. He thought of sleep, but he did not wish to sleep. He wanted to go downstairs and spy on the Chef. He wanted to see the guests with his own eyes.

Again, he felt the warmth of the fire. He looked to the comfort of the bed. It all made him feel even more sleepy, but he made resolve not to succumb, not to give in. Somewhere he found the determination to shake off the sands of night from his eyes and tread lightly towards the door.

By the time he took the doorknob in his hand, he was fully awake. The room behind me seemed draped in a fog that spoke of nothing but sleep and dreams and the lull of a night rocked by a strong wind. Looking back, Jeremy felt he'd walked away from sleep, a sleep that was not his own but something sent to him with the intent of keeping him in the room.

That thought strengthened his resolve, and he set forth into the dim hallway as quietly as he could.

--- 17

Midnight.

From down the winding stairs, Jeremy heard the mournful chime, the deep and resonate song of an ancient clock. The clock did not ring out the hour of twelve but drew out the one long note until it filled the whole of the Inn, seeping into every crack, under every door, into the minds of every sleeper in the place. Jeremy felt the vibrations in the boards beneath his feet, in the wobbling of the very nails holding the Inn together.

It was not a loud sound, but it was everywhere, thrumming and throbbing, humming long after it should have died away.

Jeremy crept quickly down the stairs. At the bottom, he was careful to be sure the Chef was not about nor anyone else. The lobby was empty, but he heard at the door the sound of laughter. Someone was approaching the Inn. The guests of the Chef! He had to find a place to hide before they came in and saw him standing there where he should not have been.

There was no time to lose. Quickly, he looked back to the stairs and thought of running back up to his room. It was then he noticed a door leading to a space under the stairs. He dashed to the door. Inside, it was dark.

The guests were now pressing to the entrance of the Inn and in a moment they would open the door and be inside. He had no choice but to plunge into the dark and take his chances there.

--- 18

It took a few moments for Jeremy's eyes to adjust to the darkness, but as they did his ears seemed to hear better than they had before. He could hear the conversation of women, three distinct voices. Whatever they were talking about must have been dreadfully funny because they laughed and laughed about it.

Then, he heard the voice of the Chef...

"Good evening, ladies," said the Chef. "It is good to see you in such fine spirits."

"Spirits?" said the women all together, and then they laughed.

One voice then spoke out from the rest, "Yes, yes! My dear Chef, we are in good spirits this evening!"

After which, they all laughed again, even the Chef whose own laugh made Jeremy draw in his breath for it was something like a wolf huffing and not a laugh.

"Please, ladies," said the Chef and all laughter stopped. "Allow me to direct you to the dining room. I've prepared your supper and it is waiting. I do not wish it to grow cold, and there will be time for our little jokes. Yes, there will be much time this evening I think for the Inn has guests apart from yourselves and they are sleeping above in the highest rooms."

To this news, the ladies clapped their hands excitedly, and together they all headed towards the dining room.

--- 19

Jeremy found a chink in the wall to which he could place his eye and see out into the room beyond.

And what a room it was! This was not the dining room he'd eaten in before but some place carved out of the very earth, with roots hanging down from the ceiling and things long dead staring out from the walls. The room smelled of stones washed by the rain, but a rain from long ago. There was the smell of rotted moss and of moldy leaves. The dampness in the air passing through the chink made Jeremy shiver.

The cavern was lit with hundreds of candles, some burning low and orange.

At the center of the room ran a long table with two dozen chairs, eleven on each side and capped on each end with great thrones, carved from the blackest wood wrapped with dragons and snakes and vines, with claws grasping the floor at the bottom of all four legs and arms twisted and knotted like the muscles in the arms of the fishermen.

Set into the walls of dirt and stone were pictures in gold frames. The gold was tarnished and barely reflected a flicker of the candlelight, the paintings though... How they sparkled - like fantastic showers of diamonds and jewels - they displayed scenes of horrible doings by horrible things. The eyes of the monsters in the paintings gleamed as if alive, their fangs and claws looked sharp enough to tear themselves off the canvas.

Jeremy saw their teeth and their smiles as they chased the people in the paintings through dark woods, or crept out from under beds in middle of the night. Jeremy saw those teeth and perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight but he could swear that on occasion some of the mouths moved, gnashing those flashing teeth or ruby red tongues darting out to lick their sharp edges.

--- 20

In the air of the room, the women seemed changed. Before, they were not unlike any other woman you might meet upon the street. Their clothes plain enough, their faces smooth and unremarkable. But here in the chamber, their fingers grew long in the strange light. Jeremy could see that they were much older than they appeared at first.

Much, much older.

They did not stoop as old women do, but stood as tall as their spines would allow, but their hands long and lean with skin just hanging off the bones had the shiny appearance of leather. Their fingernails, long like the fingers, were pale such as the moon is when seen through a fog. He looked to their faces and saw eyes that no longer held the whites of a woman's eyes, but a green like the top of a fetid pond. Their hair came down around their dingy faces in greasy streaks and lay flat against their dresses which also looked suddenly old and tattered.

The Chef stood as he always did, in black with his white apron and hat, but in the candlelight he too seemed changed. Jeremy thought that he could see just a glint of redness in his eyes, red like his lips, and when he spoke in low tones, Jeremy saw the Chef's needle-sharp teeth.

A sound in the chamber startled Jeremy. It was the howl of a dog, which was followed by a sharp bark and then laughter.

With a long sweep of his arm, the Chef motioned to the door, "It seems the rest of the guests have arrived!"

--- 21

The chamber filled to bursting with every imaginable horror of night and gloom and fairy tale. A beast with the horns of an elk and the face of a boar stood towering over the crowd. Those horns were bathed in a dull, orange flame that flicked like the candles and seemed to grow brighter when the creature laughed.

The sound of the dog Jeremy matched to a great hairy man, almost as large as the beast with the horns. The man, if he indeed was a man at all, had a snubbed muzzle seemingly like a dog or a wolf. His ears were sharp and tufts of white hair sprouted from inside.

There were others as well, so many others Jeremy found himself lost in the variety of color and form. Beast and human and even plant and mineral, all mixed together in the candlelight which if anything shone more brightly than before. There were so many other things to see, so many in fact that instead of being a horror it became to my eyes something ordinary. To see a woman dressed in a shower of blood with her eyes dangling from their sockets was nothing more gruesome than the seven little children, or what Jeremy took to be children but was not entirely sure, whose heads sprouted the short horns of goats and made rough clicking noises on the stones with their little cloven hoof-feet. Hovering above the crowd, taking rest occasionally by grasping at the roots of the ceiling, a bat, though larger than any bat Jeremy had ever seen, dashed to and fro. Its eyes were red and the teeth in its mouth could be seen at times, white, gleaming as such, and clearly sharp.

--- 22

For a time, Jeremy watched the bat for it was the only thing he could truly recognize and understand, but it was not a moment later that the bat flew out of the chamber and a second later that the Chef entered. With his tall hat, he was as large as the boar beast with its flaming horns. With his presence, a hush fell over the room and all eyes turned toward him.

The Chef bowed to the guests as was his custom, and said, "Dinner is prepared. If you would all be so kind as to take your seats, I will have it served."

Even though the table was large, Jeremy couldn't see how so many different creatures might find a place, but as they all crowded about the table the chairs seemed to multiply of their own accord and the table stretched to accommodate each and every body that came to its side. The very chamber itself seeming to expand as necessary as the roots grasped at the edges of the dirt walls and pulled the space open.

Jeremy looked for the three women and he found them at one end. They were smiling and waving and looking too all the other guests to be sure they each found a spot. The boar's head beast took one of the great chairs on the end and even his massive bulk seemed to be swallowed by the chair as the back of it rose above his horns and reached for the ceiling with black, wooden tendrils.

--- 23

Once everyone was seated, the Chef clapped his hands once and silence fell immediately and the sounds of lonely footsteps rang out from the hall. Jeremy listened as everything else in chamber listened, to each step. The flames of the candles grew higher. The whole room brightened such that it stung Jeremy's eyes, but what he saw took his breath away.

Slowly entering the room, came a man and he was not alone. Behind him followed a woman, and each of them carried a silver platter. They walked as if asleep, their eyes open but not seeing and their steps. The Chef's eyes blazed red and horrible as guided their movements with his eyes.

The creatures clapped while others politely hooted and howled their approval at the sight of Jeremy's parents walking step by step towards the hungry guests.

Mother and Father placed the platters upon the table and lifted their covers to reveal dishes even Jeremy felt he should not describe.

--- 24

"My guests," said the Chef, "my friends. These three lovely ladies, the so-called Witches of Exmoor, have called you here tonight. It is my honor that they choose my Inn in which host this grand gala. It is my deepest desire that you enjoy your feast and the pleasure of each others company. You see that I have new servants this evening, but that is not all. No, the food and the companionship is not all that will amuse you. First, we will have a hunt, for I was not to have two servants this evening but three. And the third, wherever he may be, will be a bit of quick sport if it pleases you."

Jeremy gasped and all eyes turned to chink in the wall. A smile made its way around the room and then the Chef finished his speech.

"My guests, my friends. Tonight we dine!"

Jeremy slipped back through the passage as fast as he could. When he emerged from the cupboard, he was relieved to find that he was all alone but it was only a temporary respite. He heard the sound of chairs scraping in the cavern and the stamping of so many feet. He had no idea what to do or where to go, so he ran to the door and out into the dark and the storm.

-- 25

Jeremy was well into the trees when he heard the first howl. The cold sound struck him dead where he stood, but then he pressed on down the hill as fast as he could go.

The forest seemed to reach out and grab him and tear at his clothes. Jeremy ran faster. He stumbled and fell. Lightning flashed and another howl ripped through a thunderclap. There were sounds in the forest, sounds of feet and hooves and heavy breathing. They were getting closer, closing the gap quickly in a rush. Jeremy struggled to his feet and tried to move, but his knee was aching and he felt like he couldn't take another step.

And then Jeremy Shade felt something odd. He felt something very old had opened inside.

The hoard of the feast arrived and yet Jeremy Shade was eerily calm.

He turned to face them. They were all teeth and claws, eyes shining in the night, and the boar-headed beast and the Chef himself, patches much darker than all the rest.

He said quite softly, but in a voice that shook them all, "I am Jeremy Shade."

--- 26

At first the beasts did not know what to do. They shuffled their feet. They growled. The boar-headed beast roared, but Jeremy Shade cut him off with a casual gesture.

"I recognize you now," Jeremy Shade called aloud, "Each and every one of you. I have you, all of you, in my notebooks. You are mine and I am not afraid."

The Chef stepped forward, tall and somber, the lightning ripped the sky above and lit up his pale face. Jeremy Shade saw a smile on those red lips.

"Welcome home, Jeremy Shade," said the Chef. "Welcome home to Spatula Inn."

This story started life as a poem back in 2004. It rambled on through many a verse until it sort of drifted off into prose. Over the years, it's gone through several iterations but I never quite figured out an ending.

In this particular version, I cut out a lot of description to shorten up the little chapters. It could probably use some more work, but at least it has something of an ending now.

I love titles.

When you've only got a title for your story, the whole world is open and free and wonderful. You don't have to worry about plot threads that make no sense. You don't have to fret about characters who won't do as their told. No, when all you have is a title, your story is perfect bliss, just a shade more substantial than an idea.

I'm the sort of writer who likes to have a title before I begin working on a story. It doesn't always happen that way but for the most part I have some sort of title before I begin pecking away that the keys. Sometimes the title comes right away and that makes things easier (at least I know what to save the file as, which is a start).

But what happens when the title won't come? Do you stress out about it? Does it keep you awake at night?

The title for my NaNoWriMo novel is The Fantastic Adventures of Kip Frazier, but the nugget of an idea from whence this title was born, has like sixteen different variations. Since I added the title to my Wrimo profile, I changed it three times. Small changes to be sure, changes that really mean nothing to the actual draft of the book.

Or do they?

I find that having a working title for a story often influences the style of my writing. I know this sounds sort of odd, but when I write I tend to fall into character as I work and the title helps me get there mentally. Sort of like a series of rituals helps prepare the mind to receive cosmic goodness.

Without a title (or one I particularly like), I futz about in a haze of uncertainty. I get frustrated. I get snippy with the characters. There's a real danger here that I might actually destroy the whole thing. Of course, it's entirely possible to hang onto a title for too long. Let me give you a few practical examples (because Kip Frazier is a title I am very happy with).

Deepest Shade is a story I've struggled with for close to 10 years. It's been many things during that time but one thing is absolutely certain: Deepest Shade has always been the title. Or, at least I think it is. I'm still not entirely happy with Deepest Shade as a story. I think I really have two different tales going on not to mention the fact that I completely over edited the thing and now it feels sort of lifeless. Yet, I wonder if I haven't hobbled the story by forcing myself to stick with a phrase that keeps clinging to my brain.

There are other stories in my archives like this one, stories I've wrestled and tried to fit into the title I've found myself infatuated with. A few posts ago I put up a chapter from my last book Revisions. The original title of the book was The Man Who Forgot Language, which is about as horrible as a title could get. When I wrote it down, I used it as a placeholder for a filename. Eventually, I went about seeking another title, which became The Slaves of Burt Thompson. Again, wretched, but it kept me going on the story (and in fact shaped the plot a bit (if I can call it a plot). I settled on Revisions long after the final version was done and put to sleep in the depths of my hard drive and I like it. In fact, I like the title enough that I may even dig out the manuscript some day and fix all the things that are wrong with it - mostly by starting over.

The point of all this rambling is that I want to show you that titles are important for many reasons, but I also want you to see that you can change the title anytime you want. If you're struggling for a title for your NaNoWriMo book, you could do a lot worse than just calling it BOOK.

NaNoWriMo Fun

Stories begin life in many ways. You may have an idea for a character or perhaps a floating bit of dialogue. You may even have a complete and perfect picture of a series of events that comes in a flash of pure artistic insight (in which case I recommend you keep the origin to yourself lest you receive a beating from those less fortunate).

That said, possession of raw materials is not a story. You can forge a wonderful bit of prose from the portrait of a person or even a sequence of beautiful events, but it isn't a story. People may read your carefully wrought masterpiece and sigh from the sheer pleasure of your words careening about in their heads, but it isn't a story... A story needs something more.

The actual Albany Cutter.

Down at the bottom of this post is a piece called "Albany Cutter". This piece was inspired by a weekend in the deep country. My wife's family farm had just gone to auction and sold, and the family was gathering for Easter. My father-in-law had salvaged an old sleigh from the woods near the farm and I was overwhelmed by the sight of this ravaged bit of history in his workshop.

Mixed in with lots of other emotions I probably had some wonderful material for a poem or even one of my little travel narratives. But underneath all of that, I began feeling the stirring of something else, something that did not exist anywhere but in my own mind. I felt like I had a story.

So I set about trying to create a story from this material. I began by writing down everything I knew about the events of the day and then I stitched them into a more palatable sequence for dramatic purposes. After that, I looked under the covers to see what magic could be found.

By "magic", I mean the things that never happened. All of those characters and actions that never existed anywhere but in my own mind. As I dug there, I found that I had a very dark story emerging and I was afraid of it. I was afraid because I was worried that I would hurt someone's feelings if I told it as it was being told to me.

Now, let's think about this for a second. I was worried about something that didn't exist anywhere but in my own mind. Truly, there is nothing to connect what I was thinking to the real events of that day or the people in my wife's family. It's completely made up. And yet, there is that fear. What on earth was I afraid of?

When you feel that fear creeping in, you're on track to getting the story out of your raw materials.

This doesn't mean that every story has to be some dreary affair where people are tortured and killed or lots of bad things happen (although it helps). The fear is just a guide, a marker, that indicates the entry-point to the dramatic events that should shape the story. As a writer of stories, you have to dig into this fear and find out what's itching under the surface.

The reaction from readers of "Albany Cutter" (and editors who rightly rejected it) was fairly universal, "Nice. Nice but... 'Meh.'" When I look back at this piece and my notes, I see that I was reaching for a large social commentary on the decline of the rural way of life, the farming life. Nothing wrong with that, but it's just a theme really, not a story. The story is completely untold.

So where is the story? The jumping off point is way down on page 9...

George put the boy into the bucket. How he knew to snap the reins, George couldn't guess, but he laughed and played along while the boy went like hell across the countryside on a frosty winter's evening.

But where did they really go in that cutter? George wondered if they raced it across the powdery snow of early morning or under the stars all night. A person couldn't take a fancy sleigh like that to church. It was only big enough for one person anyway, like something that might have belonged to a doctor.

I wrote up a little section about the real story in my notes and in fact it is the place where I completely froze. I had a picture in my mind of a man, a horrible man who ruled his family like a tyrant. He'd race that sleigh like hell over the froze road, like the devil himself churning sparks in the pitch black night. This man was absolutely brutal. The real story is the murder of this man at the hands of his son who butchered him one night in the snow outside their house.

This is how the cutter came to be forgotten but also how the family could never seem to get rid of it. Only the old man (Henry in the story) knew the real story. Of course, Henry is based on a real man but the events I just mentioned above are completely fabricated - mostly.

Yes, that mostly should make you wonder and I think that's inherently what makes a story a story. The something that is mostly if not probably true, if not in deed at least in thought. This is what makes you pause before writing or holds you back completely.

You must push through the fear or else you'll end up with piece after piece like "Albany Cutter."

Albany_Cutter.pdf

"It is in the impartial practice of life, if anywhere, that the promise of perfection for the novelist's art can be found, rather than in absurd formulas trying to prescribe this or that particular method or technique or conception. Let the novelist mature the strength of their imagination among the things of this earth." ~ Joseph Conrad

A shoddy sketch of Joseph Conrad.

I'm not really sure I know what all that means, except that maybe I shouldn't be putting it at the top of a post that has absurd formulas and prescribes techniques and methods for dealing with failed books. Still, if I let the espresso do the talking, I have a sense that Mr. Conrad is saying something about creating fiction from life and not allowing ourselves to define failures by the strictures of others. And if not that, well, at least it reminds me of the shoddy sketch I made of Joseph Conrad in my notebook last year.

My failed books are a favorite pastime of mine. In fact, every 18 months or so I take it upon myself to make a private journal entry where I list all my past failed books and then set about tearing myself to pieces. It's good fun and it's probably something that sounds familiar to many of you.

In case you were worried about me going through the list right here, let me put your mind at ease. The list is my own private issue. However, I do have some criteria I'd like to share because not just any bit of scrawl makes it onto my list of failed books.

Criteria for a Failed Book

1. The written form of the book needs to be at least 10,000 words.

While I'm all for picking arbitrary boundaries as a means to defining success or failure, I actually have a reason for this number. (Shocking, yes, I know.)

Between 7,500 and 10,000, a bit of developing fiction might still have hope of becoming a story. Yet, once I get beyond the 10K mark I find that I just have too many threads going to hope for getting away from the tale. Clearly, if I can do what's necessary to produce 10K, the thing is really gnawing at me.

2. A deep sense of dread about never being free of the story or fear about having a story too big for my talents.

Believe it or not, I've written stories I've completely forgotten about. Right now, I can open up the folder where I keep all my stories and find a wonderful trove of surprises. That's what short stories tend to be for me. Little interludes. Intense interludes, mind you, but interludes nonetheless. I write them and then I pass on by.

Books are different. They usually start as stories (although I've had two that began with a full flash of the entire thing laid out end to end) and as I uncover the details and begin to allow the characters to take hold, they just keep expanding. I have no idea where all of this comes from, but this is how a story becomes a book in my eyes.

The sense of dread enters when I realize that I've got a big fish on the line. I see that I've blundered into something important, a bit of life that feels so real that I feel bad for the characters for having such a poor vessel as myself to bring their tale to light. Rather than butcher the thing, I bail. But it's too late to bail. The proverbial big fish that got away is already at the surface and I'll never forget it. This is one reason I can't watch melodramas on television. Once I see what's coming, I feel all nervous and I don't want to see what happens next even though I know exactly what's coming.

3. I have more notes than story.

I like to write out my thoughts about a story. It helps me work through the details. If you read these notes, it would be no different than sitting down across from me at the cafe and hearing me go on and on. The only difference is that the notes are actually cogent.

So when a book takes hold, I tend to work out about a thousand different angles. I write about the characters and the places. I write about potential plots, scenes, bit of poetry I'd like to work in, the grand themes. It all sounds great but of course these are just notes.

In my last post I mentioned the book called Revisions. The text of that book is about 70,000 words. The notes are well over 150,000. I have another fragment that is about 30,000 words but again the notes crack the century mark.

P.G. Wodehouse went about writing books in a similar fashion. He's write about 150,000 words and then he'd get on with the tale. At least, this is what I read in his book on writing.

What to do about Failed Books?

It would be a little silly of me to talk about the right course of action for dealing with failed books. After all, I have half a dozen that fit the criteria above along with two others that are actually "complete" and yet have not been published. Still, here are a few things I know:

1. Understand that your book isn't as bad as you think it is.

Truly, it isn't.

This doesn't mean that it isn't a bad book, but I seriously doubt that it's so bad that a mob of literati are going to appear on your doorstep and demand that you give up your typewriter so that they can destroy it in the town square. No, I assure you that your book isn't that bad.

If you keep thinking your book is bad, you will abandon it just like I have done with each and every one of mine. Your book will sit in your drawer unfinished, just like all of mine. And if that doesn't sound like the enough fun, you will find yourself haunted by those books for the rest of your life (or at least for a brief period every 18 months like me).

2. Get a second opinion.

Who reads your books? Your mom, your spouse, your best friends?

You need to get a second opinion from another writer, preferably one who has actually published a book or two or ten. While finding that person may not be the easiest task, it isn't climbing Mount Everest either, unless the people you seek are wildly popular or dead writers of immortal literary stature.

Right now I'm reading Wallace Stegner's On Teaching and Writing Fiction. I like what I'm reading but Mr. Stegner is not available to give me a second opinion on my books. Mr. Stegner is dead and has been for a long time. Another option is Philip Roth, but for some reason he isn't returning my phone calls.

3. Get over yourself or at least get out of the way.

A friend over on LiveJournal put up a link to my last post and then went on to talk about her problems (which are different than mine). She talked about getting over herself so that she could move on with writing what needed to be written. I like that idea though I usually see it as getting out of my own way.

I've talked about both angles many times here and if you reread that section about making more notes than fiction above you'll see that I tend to get in my own way quite a bit. I figure that I won't ever get away from making notes about my work, but what I can do is realize that I'm only hurting my chances of finishing the book if I stay in that world too long. That outcome has to become unacceptable - I have to get out of my own way.

In keeping with my new habit of sharing actual writing, I've attached a chapter from a book called Syntax. (I know, I know.... What's with these one word titles?)

Syntax is a book based roughly (and I mean very roughly) on the time I spent in Switzerland some years ago. I actually started writing this book before I took up the character of Burt Thompson in Revisions. I ended up bailing from Syntax for the reasons stated in #2 above: I saw the whole story in front of me and I became afraid of writing it.

The book meets the minimum requirements as defined above. I have about 20K words along with 80 or 90K of notes. And of course, I've never forgotten the story. In fact, I recently wrote out 15 long hand pages about the story.

The chapter is about 20 pages (~5900 words), and this time I've even figured out how to spell "chapter" correctly in the filename. Hooray for me!

Syntax-Chapter-2.pdf

"In order to move others deeply we must deliberately allow ourselves to be carried away beyond the bounds of our normal sensibility." ~ Joseph Conrad

Considering the highly personal posts on this site, it may seem strange to hear that I have a problem sharing my work. Writers who have been in this position will recognize my anxiety not only in its description but in the work itself. The work tends to be far too tight, wrung clean of many emotional passages as described above. And yet, as Joseph Conrad said above, when I was drafting the work something helped me toss aside the normal sensibility to produce original works that had the potential to move others deeply.

Over the years, I've learned to take great comfort in the process of revision. It's a safe place. A place where no one needs to read what I'm working on, or if I do share it, it's "just a draft".

As a draft, the story retains all of it's potential. However, after each revision, it gets a bit more difficult to carry off the next round. Friends who may be involved in the process lose interest in reading yet another rendering of the same old scene. The author (i.e. Me) begins to whittle away at the real energy behind the characters and the dialogue. Those moments of complete abandon that formed the near magical paragraphs written by someone else end up falling to the wayside in favor of safer alternatives.

For example, below is a paragraph from a book I wrote six years ago. The text comes from the seventh revision:

Thompson sounded like her father. His hand had worked its way down to her hip and it made her cringe. He was old enough to be her father. Trying to let the genie out of the bottle, Thompson rubbed her hip, but Renee was iced up, a ghostly harbor in the arctic. He rubbed harder.

Now, let's go back to the very first revision:

His hand on her hip made her cringe. He sounded like her father. He was old enough to be her father. He was rubbing her hip, trying to let the genie out of the bottle. She was cold inside, frozen like some ghostly harbor in the arctic. He rubbed harder, trying to loosen her, make her warm.

Of course, dealing with paragraphs in isolation is not very helpful for getting past a fear of sharing the work. I know that you, the reader, have no context here so the paragraphs probably mean next to nothing. Who is Thompson? Who is Renee? What is the relationship between these two? Why on earth do all male writers insist on stereotyping women as frigid and then slap on tired metaphors about the arctic and assume they are creating art?

If we lay aside the bad writing for a moment, the real question is - why am I not sharing the whole page with you?

Frankly, the page in question makes me feel uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. The whole scene is uncomfortable. I use the excuse of poor writing to hide it away, but the subject itself is what I'm really trying to shove into a corner.

If I shared the entire book, you would see the fear reflected throughout the story. There are places where I go way off track, trying to distract myself from the real core of the story. The result is a disjointed hodge-podge.

Get on with it...

The real way to deal with your fear is to stop beating about the bush and put it out there.

It doesn't matter how it got written. If the story meant enough to you to work on for weeks, months, years (decades?), you ought to share it. So, I'm going to put up the chapter that includes the paragraph above.

Although the book had a few very bad titles (including The Slaves of Burt Thompson), I eventually settled on Revisions. Revisions is the story of Burt Thompson, an award-winning novelist in his later years who feels like his entire life's work is a failure.

As a cure for the "ills" of storytelling, Thompson takes it upon himself to forget language, to completely divest himself from the ability to understand or use words. He figures that if he doesn't have the capacity to understand language he can be free from the stories that plague him and insist on being written (does this sound familiar?).

The novel begins with Thompson after he has achieved his dream. However, even though he is completely happy with his new, language-less self, a drama erupts around him as his agent, his ex-wife, and a young writer try to unravel the mess and restore Thompson the Novelist.

Disclaimer: The entire text of Chapter 15 just seven pages) is in the linked PDF file below. I feel like I have to say that this is not sunshine and roses. It contains adult themes, adult language, and some truly awful writing. If that isn't enough to whet your appetite, let me just say that I'm putting this up because I believe that fear of sharing deeply emotional work is something all writers deal with.

Chatper 15 of Revisions