Rules of Writing By KL Forslund

My wife took several art classes in college for her degree. The students and teachers fixated on abstract art and called anybody’s work that looked good “commercial.” I quickly gleaned that this was coded speech for “we suck and call it abstract to mask our lack of skill.” Thus, I am wary when somebody says there are no rules in writing. Do whatever you want. Let’s rethink that.

The Obvious Example

If you randomly press keys and hand that in as your magnum opus of our time, you’ve failed to write because you’ve failed to communicate. You can’t claim the following makes any sense:

Fhskjdfh gdfgsd dfgsdfg sdfgsdf adfsg erge tr hty jtjytjtyu jytrt eryret ejtjh jeythe.

We need to use words that the reader knows. Maybe some words get new meanings, or go out of fashion, but comprehensibility is a hard rule. The idea that there are no rules is thus quashed. Clearly, there’s at least one. It’s the rest that might be negotiable.

Another Metaphor

I like woodworking. I’m no master, there’s no heirloom furniture coming out of my shop Though somebody’s going to inherit some odd pieces one day because they’ll last that long. In the old days, a master craftsman would take on an apprentice. The fledgling woodworker would follow directions and build basic things. They didn’t have the skills and attention to detail to make perfectly fitting joints and baby bottom smooth sanded surfaces. So they had to follow the rules and measure twice before they cut. Once they improved, then they could deviate and do things on the fly and still have it turn out great.

Best Practice Not Rules

Let’s move the goal post. The reason I might tell somebody to avoid passive voice or adverbs is evident in their work. If we mark that stuff yellow and then go blind by how brightly marked it is, they’re gonna get told that. The “rules” exist because a lot of somebodies overdid it. The rules are really best practices. What the pirates might call “guidelines.” Only a true pedant will mark up a lone adverb on a page. Ignore that guy. Most of the rules are like sanding and polishing a block of wood. Nobody wants to get a splinter or feel an uneven piece.

All those rules and tips folks might give you are about improving your chances of having good work. Yes, a master can break the rules, but that’s craftsmanship. The rest of us aspire to that, but in the meantime, we want to sell work and have it read.

Pablo Picasso

Back to that story from the beginning. Pablo Picasso made a lot of funky art. Abstract some might call it, though all his pieces had a basis in reality. Before he started down that path, he had studied with the greats and mastered the techniques. His brushstrokes are perfection and control, not random and sloppy. This is what those hacks from our university lacked. So it is with writing. Study the rules, get used to how they work and why. Master them. Then the training wheels fall off and you can get funky.

Dues Be Due

The life lesson here is to pay your dues. More old folks get published than young. For one reason, they’ve been writing longer. Now anybody can figure out their craft sooner. Age is not a requirement. But time in the chair, honing the craft is. Whether its fan-fiction, bad poetry, or another novel, keep at it. And keep learning what the rules are and see how they affect your work. By applying them and seeing the difference, you learn and become a master.

Epilogue of Craft

It can take a while to find a teacher or a place where you can learn your craft. Later in life, my wife attended classes at the local community college. There she learned figure drawing and how to approach drawing, painting, and sketching. You can find her work on Twitter and Instagram as @Faerywing.

If you enjoyed this article, follow KL Forslund on Twitter @KLForslund.

Road Song By Jared A. Conti

The road laid out before me, peels off the miles as the hum of tires on pavement sing a song only I can hear. It’s a haunting melody, one I’ve heard before, once upon a time. It comes to me in snippets, in dribbles and drabs, a catchy tune that I can’t quite place, but is an earworm just the same. If I don’t get to it before it vanishes…

Landscapes eeke out, familiar from years of travel. The river beside me as I ride, twists and turns that much different from the first days when these canyons were first cut. The reflection I afford myself, however briefly, shimmers just beyond reach much more so than the abyss I often find myself looking upon. 

It’s that darkness from which they’ve spawned, some sort of literary big bang that shuffled everything into existence. As timelines implode upon themselves, I see things as they were/are/have yet to be. Storylines dawn here, and that music starts again, another tune which I’ll have to stow away for later.

Sun careens over the mountaintop and constellations burst behind my eyes, seafaring beneath the stars as ideas come quickly now as the distance I’ve yet to go as sails unfurl with me, though there’s no wind. I’m mapping my own world that at times seems not altogether there. At times, I’m not sure I’m there either--am I a ghost sailing through these worlds--or something entirely different?

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Jared A. Conti on Twitter @oracularbeard.

Where Witches Wander By Alexa Rose

Melandra rolled the soldier’s corpse with her boot. She scrunched her brow as she stared at the body’s unmarked back and shook her head.

“Nothing,” Mela said.

“Fine. Check that one,” said Aszana as she shielded her kohl-lined eyes from the midday sun and pointed to another corpse.

Following the sorceress’s tattooed finger, Mela found clean footing between dead soldiers and emphatically pointed at a young man’s corpse with half a head. 

“This one?” Mela asked. She slapped at her neck and flicked away a burst insect. “These flies bite. You know that, right?”

Batting away more fat, black flies that buzzed from body to body, Mela turned away and drew in a breath of slightly less putrid air.

“No, no, the Saffasian officer beneath him.”

Holding her breath, Mela knelt to the bloody grass and pushed the young levy aside. The officer looked the sort with his high-born jaw, his widow’s peak and black hair, the sturdy armor with the flame insignia of Saffa. Despite every fortune, the very dead man had been run through from the front.

“He was not betrayed,” Mela said.

“How can you be sure?”

The sorceress’s voice hissed across the distance. It came as a grating thing chaffing at raw nerves. The search would go faster if she would sully her pretty hands and white blouse. But Mela said nothing. She did not need another fight today.

“The manner of cut tells me so. As does the blood on his uniform.”

“You are the killer. You would know.”

“Yes, I would.”

Mela left the officer to his death and kept moving. Floring Hill loomed to her left, and avian scavengers picked at the dead. Hours earlier, the army from Saffa and the warriors from Mors Caden had been alive. The hill might have been pretty with summer blooms. But no longer.

The wind came up. It carried the smell of rain from the south where clouds gathered over the pines of Mors Caden. Mela guessed she would be soaked and miserable by day’s end.

“I had assumed soldiers betrayed one another in battle,” the sorceress said. She flicked her hand, and corpses tumbled aside as invisible hands cleared a path toward the hill. “Was I wrong?”

Leaving the thought of rain for later, Mela followed. Ahead, she only saw death. So many bodies. Judging by the colors, the Saffasian army had held the hill, the warriors from Mors Caden had tried to take it, and both sides paid dearly. Soldiering is such a waste, Mela thought. Better to be a mercenary. At least she would make a fortune risking her life.

“Soldiers wouldn’t betray their own ranks,” Mela said. She ran her hand along the shaven side of her head. An idea came to mind, and she thought aloud. “But levies might. They would be commanded by an officer. And when they were ordered into a suicidal charge, they woul-”

“There.”

Aszana pointed at the base of Floring Hill. Four levies and one officer laid in the trampled grass. 

“I’ll look,” Mela said. “You watch for scavengers. And this time, say something if they’re coming.”

The sorceress waved her hand and turned toward the southern storms. 

“Yes, yes. Hurry, Mela. Rain’s coming.”

Grumbling, Mela picked her way across the battlefield. Every time, she promised herself she would not accept another contract from Aszana. Every. Time. And then those doe eyes dampened. She’d drag a tattooed finger along Mela’s jaw. Whisper an invitation. Better if the sorceress had cast a spell. Instead, Mela had to blame herself and her needy loins for walking through viscera and searching corpses for spell components.

The Saffasian levies had been peppered with arrows. One had a sword jutting from his belly. And they had died going up their own hill. Using the war hammer at her hip, Mela moved a levy and rolled the officer onto his back. He had a knife between the fourth and fifth ribs, left side. Killing thrust. Saffasian knife, too. It sure looked like betrayal.

Drawing her knife from its thigh sheath, Mela cut off the officer’s shirt. It had silver thread and cobalt dye. Gold buttons. The buffoon had spent his money on the shirt rather than functional armor. No wonder Saffa has lost its standing on the continent. Its noble sons were idiots.

“Here,” Mela said, holding the shirt aloft. “Clothing of someone murdered by betrayal.”

“Good,” Aszana said as she flashed a dazzling smile. “I think we will find the last component on the hilltop.”

Mela put her hammer away and waited for Aszana to take the bloody shirt. The sorceress didn’t pay any heed to the blood. Rather, she stuffed the shirt into a tiny pouch where it disappeared into darkness. Afterward, she wrinkled her nose at the blood on her fingers. Speaking in the sibilant language of magic, Aszana brushed her hands together and the blood flaked off like so much caked mud. 

“You know there will be scavengers up there, right?” Mela asked, her gaze dropping to her blood-soaked hands and the bits of stubborn ichor.

Aszana set her clean hand on Mela’s arm. Squeezed. Opened wide those damned doe eyes.

“That’s why you’re here, love.”

Mela loosened the bastard sword across her back. Yeah, she knew why she was here. Stupid loins. By the five gods, she needed a bath. Her chain shirt smelled of steel and sweat. She could only imagine how she looked with half her head shaven and the other half feeling like she’d had a night’s roll in a brothel. And now her clothes reeked of blood. 

“That’s why I’m here,” Mela said. 

#

The wind bit harder at the rise. Banners snapped and waved from their bent and broken hafts. The gold-and-blue Saffasian flag held on by one eyelet. Ravens and crows hopped from corpse to corpse, perching on bloodied steel as they pecked and cawed.

“All this for a hill,” Mela said. She counted several dozens of bodies. Maybe a hundred. Where the fighting at the base of the hill had left people stabbed or trampled, these bodies were in pieces. 

“Vela would have been up here,” Aszana said. She waved her hand at the scorch marks and ragged furrows on the bodies and ground. “This is her handiwork.”

Velanya of Briscroft. The witch of Cadiff Reach. Mela sighed. If the gods were fair, Vela’s corpse would be here. Alas . . .

“What’s the last thing we need for Xandra’s cure?” Mela asked.

Aszana took out her leather-bound journal and began to read.

“Tonic to lift a curse. In a cauldron of boiled water, add twelve rose petals. A vial of morning dew. One fly fat with a belly full of death. Green moss from a sapling. One garment from a betrayed man. The marrow of a magic-slain body. Stir and boil until black. Drain. Serve at room temperature.” At that, the sorceress returned the journal to her bag and pushed her long, red hair to the side. “Look for a corpse with a black mark and a web of bruises around it.”

Casting her gaze upon the hundreds of bodies, Mela asked, “What do I do when I find it?”

“Tell me so I can pry out a bone. We need the marrow.”

Shrugging, Mela knelt and tore at the nearest corpse’s clothes. 

“By the Five! You mercenaries are thick-headed,” Aszana said as she pulled a glass orb with glowing prismatic runes from her bag. “The spell had to target exposed flesh, so stop undressing that dead man and start looking at hands and faces.”

“Will you be joining me?” Mela asked as she moved among the bodies.

“I’ll focus on the magic,” Aszana said without looking up from the orb. She tapped a series of runes and the orb filled with flame, which the sorceress gathered into her hand and kept there as a fiery tattoo. “You focus on the dead.”

Working in a grid, Mela kicked dirt onto each body she inspected so she didn’t waste time on the same corpses. There were so many marks to decipher. Green splotches. Burns. Yellow smears. Rainbow bruises. But no black marks. No web of bruises.

There were opened bellies and exposed bones. Steel pinned the dead in place. Birds had eaten eyes and noses. Still no black marks.

“Melandra?”

Glancing at Aszana, Mela realized she had crossed the rise and started down the far side.

“Mind coming over here?” Worry edged into the sorceress’s voice. 

Mela broke into a jog. She saw flames gather in Aszana’s palms, and she drew her arming sword, slowed to a guarded sidestep, and eyed the horizon.

“There’s something in the ground,” Aszana whispered.

Mela watched the grass. Her eyes unfocused to better see movement. A heartbeat later, she saw a corpse jostle as though a dog chewed on it. The ground bulged around the body. Black spines poked through the battle-churned soil.

“Burrowers,” Mela hissed.

“Ghouls? Already?” Aszana asked as flames wreathed her fingers and a hot wind gathered around her.

Mela shook her head and said, “Vela would have summoned them.”

“Your sister has a way of bringing ruin,” Aszana said. She gestured at the corpse being eaten from below and asked, “Fire will work on her conjurations, yes?”

“Eh,” Mela said. She carefully stepped forward. “Probably not. Vela isn’t one for common fare. Best to beware their poisoned spines, don’t let them bite you, and by the gods, don’t run away. Steel and lightning should do just fine.”

Mela eased her war hammer from her hip and dropped both it and her satchel to the ground. She pushed her hair behind her ear and stared at the jostled corpse.

“I’ll draw it out. You stun it, and I’ll kill it,” Mela said as she hefted her sword and started forward, stomping with her front foot.

“To your left,” Aszana shouted.

More spines poked through. Black claws followed. That badger-like head erupted from the soil and sniffed. Damn things couldn’t see well, but they smelled everything. It made a sound between a whine and a growl, and then it came all the way out. Fully exposed, it had the size of a mastiff. 

Mela knew she could do this. She’d fought burrowers before. She had the scars to prove it.

The creature stalked forward on its claws. Its spines stood upright, and its head snapped toward Mela.

“Lightning. Now.”

A heartbeat later, thunder shook the hilltop as a bolt of lightning arced over Mela’s shoulder and struck the burrower. Sprinting forward, Mela brought her sword up, took it in both hands, and slashed across the dazed ghoul’s neck. Black blood spattered onto the grass, and the stench of a charnel pit filled the air.

More burrowers came to the surface. They gathered into a pack of three and began to chitter and bark. Not good. Ghouls weren’t smart, but they were dangerous.

“Keep casting!”

Thunder clapped, and one of the ghouls collapsed under a torrent of lightning. The other two split up and circled the mercenary. Too late, Mela realized they were avoiding her and going toward Aszana. 

Dashing to the stunned ghoul, Mela lifted a broken spear from the ground and jabbed it through the creature and into the soil. She shook the haft until that beast shrieked and gave a wavering call. The stalking ghouls stopped. Turned.

“That’s it. Come to me,” Mela said. 

Come they did. Loping, the monsters closed the gap in seconds.

Mela plunged her sword through the pinned ghoul’s head. She jerked the blade free and spun away as black claws raked the air. She hopped backward as the other ghoul tried to bite her thigh. Aiming a kick at the beast’s jaw, her toes broke against that dense bone. But she followed up with a cross-slash to the shoulder all the same, and the ghoul yelped and withdrew.

Aszana shouted something, and the ground beneath the remaining ghoul churned like boiling water. The creature barely whined before it sank beneath the surface. Mela heard the grinding of bones, and she turned her attention toward the ghoul she’d cut.

It growled and clawed at the ground, but it did not charge. Mela roared and waved her sword, and the beast fled the hilltop.

“Are there more?” the sorceress asked.

Mela studied the ground. Listened. Watched the bodies. 

“No.”

“Good. Now hurry. We need to find the last component before something worse shows up.”

“Ghouls probably ate the marked flesh,” Mela said. “They go for rotted meat first.”

Aszana cursed and took out her journal again.

Mela retrieved her items. She poured oil onto her foul-smelling blade and held it out for Aszana’s fire. As the blade ignited and burned away the tainted blood, she studied the nearby corpses. Thunder roared to the south where a sheet of rain fell over the pines of Mors Caden. 

Something silver caught Mela’s eye. She swished her flaming sword to fan the fire as she knelt beside a soldier’s corpse and pried its fingers loose. A silver locket with a broken chain nestled in his filthy palm.

Mela stuck her sword in the ground and took hold of the locket. She examined it. Turned it over. Opened it. Stared at tiny portraits of her and her twin. Velanya looked so innocent. So much unlike the witch she had become.

“What did you find?”

Closing her hand over the locket, Mela said, “A witch’s trinket.”

“Vela’s?”

Mela didn’t say anything.

“Leave it.”

Mela slid the locket inside her shirt. She felt Aszana’s hand on her shoulder.

“You know her best.”

“I did,” Mela said.

“Let’s keep looking. Maybe the back slope has a body for us.”

#

Fat drops of rain stung Mela’s head. Cursing the storm, she wiped water from her face and glanced at Aszana. The sorceress smiled and spread her arms, showing off her soaked shirt and leggings. She laughed at the storm and combed her fingers through her fire-red hair.

“It’s rain, Mela. A natural risk of being outdoors. Stand in it long enough, you might smell better.”

Lightning forked beneath black clouds. A breath later, thunder rolled down the hill’s slope. Look as she might, Mela could not see the hilltop through the downpour. She couldn’t hear the little sounds or smell anything other than rain.

“You want to find a body in this?” Mela called out as water filled her boots and thoroughly soaked her clothes.

“A spell component, yes,” Aszana said through her smile and laughter as she twirled and danced among the dead.

Mela threw her arms wide.

“Where? That one has a spear in its back. That one is headless. Magic didn’t kill anyone here.”

Aszana came close. She reached up and set her tattooed fingers against Mela’s jaw. She opened wide those blue, doe eyes. Leaning in, breathing on Mela’s ear, she whispered, “Want to go back? Tell Xandra goodbye? Or will you stay with me? I promise I’ll make this worth your while.”

Mela felt heat build within her despite the cold rain. Stupid loins. And she couldn’t abandon Xandra. Not now. Not ever.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“That’s a dear,” Aszana said as she patted Mela’s cheek. 

The sorceress looked over Mela’s shoulder and stumbled backward. Her eyes widened and her mouth went slack. 

Mela followed the sorceress’s fright. Two people approached on horseback. Squinting through the curtain of rain, she recognized the symbol of the Three-Faced God. Cultists. Graverobbers and necromancers. They’ve come to read the dead and portend omens.

“They’re witch hunters,” Aszana said.

Waving the sorceress away, Mela walked toward the riders. She raised her hand in greeting, and they greeted her in turn. 

And then she saw it.

The shimmer.

Rain struck a magicked barrier around their armor. 

One of the cultists spurred his mount and charged, lowering a spear as his horse’s hooves threw clods of mud. The other stood in the saddle and hefted a crossbow.

“Run!” Mela shouted. She drew her hammer and leaned forward, open hand ready to grab the spear, hoping like hell the rain fouled the archer’s shot.

Aszana stood her ground, too. Lightning crackled from finger to finger. 

The crossbow bolt twanged past Mela, missing her by a whisper. Lightning erupted behind her. The bolt had pierced Aszana’s palm and detonated the spell, knocking the sorceress prone and setting fire to her clothes.

Mela focused on the approaching rider. She waited for the spear to dip toward her heart. 

Never blinking, holding her breath, she watched that wet steel speed toward her. At the last second, she sidestepped. Grabbed the haft. Pulled.

The rider didn’t let go, and Mela dragged him from the saddle. He bounced on the ground and barely settled when she put the hammer’s spike into his temple. She stove in his cuirass for good measure, crushing the steel against his sternum. 

She saw Aszana’s chest rise and fall. The sorceress lives, she thought.

Shoulders hunched against the rain, bloody hammer in hand, Mela turned to the other witch hunter. She started forward, glowering beneath her wet brow, knuckles white on the hammer’s steel handle.

The cultist tossed aside the crossbow and drew a sword. Dismounted and kept his footing.

“You travel with a witch,” the cultist shouted. “Stand aside or be purified.”

Mela meant to make this hurt. She stared at that breastplate. At the hinges and joints. At that shaven head and its snarling mouth with entirely too many teeth. Oh, she would fix all these things with her hammer.

But the cultist moved fast. He stepped left, moved right, got behind Mela, and cut the back of her arm. She spun with the attack and aimed her hammer at his knee, but he backpedaled to safety. The hammer wouldn’t work. Too slow. Too predictable. She let it fall. Drew her sword and knife. 

“You oppose the Gray-Faced God,” the cultist said. “You betray your own kind to consort with witches and devils.”

Mela stepped and thrust. Expected the parry. Ducked beneath the riposte. She lunged with her knife, but the cultist dropped his shoulder, and she sliced through his ear rather than his neck.

He screamed. His sword fell. His huge hands closed around Mela’s shoulders, and he head-butted her. Twice.

She lost her footing. Fell to her backside. Her weapons slipped from her hands. She tried to stand, but he put his foot on her chest and pushed her into the ground. Her fingers brushed the sword’s hilt. The knife had tumbled elsewhere. 

A wild, terrible howl pierced the storm and rolled across the battlefield. 

The cultist looked around. He put more of his weight on Mela’s chest as he fingered a dagger at his belt and called out, “Who’s there?”

Mela pushed on the cultist’s boot to no avail. She tried to breathe. Couldn’t.

A jagged bolt of green magic struck the cultist’s forehead. He teetered. His foot lifted. He pitched sideways and collapsed, his lifeless face inches from hers.

Gasping for air, Mela stared at the black mark and web of bruises on his face.

Strong hands slid beneath her arm and pulled her upright. Slender fingers combed through her hair.

“Why have you come into my wilds, little sister?”

Mela closed her eyes at hearing Velanya’s voice. She waited for the brief shock of death or the crackle of magic. Seconds passed. Neither came. When she yet lived, Mela let out a long breath and glanced at her sister. The witch of Cadiff Reach looked as wild as the stories described with her matted brown hair and rust-colored tattoos that glowed with an inner light. She wore stained, leather leggings and muck-covered boots, but she bore nothing above the waist.

“We’re trying to save Xandra.”

Vela’s lips curled into an ugly grin.

“That traitor? Feed her to the crows.”

Mela frowned and looked away.

“She saved my life after you left me for dead,” Mela whispered.

“I warned you to stay away,” Vela hissed. “You came after me with steel and magic. Your death should and Xandra’s curse should have been permanent things. But here we are.”

Mela said nothing. Instead, she reached inside her shirt and pulled out the silver locket.

“Give it back, Melandra,” Vela said, her voice heavy with threat. 

Mela coughed and sputtered in the heavy rain as she opened her hand. 

Vela plucked the locket from Mela’s palm and smiled. For a moment, Mela saw the sister she had once known.

“Finally lost your pretty dresses?” Vela ran her fingers over the shaved half of Mela’s scalp and said, “Loving this tough look, little sister. You’re out here playing the part of the mercenary. You even found your own witch.”

When Mela didn’t respond, when she only watched with a stoic expression, Vela smirked and brushed Mela’s hair from her brow. “You’re not so tough. Not so tough at all.”

A breath later, Velanya roughly slapped Mela’s cheek. The witch’s green eyes hardened into a glare, and she whispered, “Don’t come looking for me. We aren’t enemies, but we aren’t friends.”

And then the witch was up and away. Seconds later, a massive, white wolf joined her. She leapt onto its back and buried herself in its fur. The rain swallowed them both. A wild, terrible howl echoed through the storm and faded into the patter of rain.

Mela pressed her fingers where Vela had slapped her. She stood on unsteady legs and gathered her weapons. Her wound still bled, but she could feel her fingers. She saw Aszana had sat up. The sorceress’s hair had burned away in the front, and her white shirt had charred and burned through in places. The skin on her belly blistered. But she stood with Mela’s help. They bound Aszana’s hand and Mela’s arm, and together, they worked in silence to remove a length of bone from the magic-slain cultist’s forearm.

By the time they finished, the afternoon threatened to become evening and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Mela rolled the bone in a damp cloth and shoved it inside her satchel. She retrieved the cultists’ horses and helped Aszana into the saddle. Wincing, she climbed onto the other horse.

“We have everything we need?” Mela asked. She scanned the horizon and let out her breath. No more fighting today, gods. Just give me a warm bed.

“Yes,” Aszana said as she blinked slowly and wiped the wet from her face.

“Ready to return to the Vale? To Xandra?”

Aszana nodded. Said, “Keep close. I feel better when you’re close.”

Mela kept one eye on the sorceress as they left Floring Hill and headed west. She stayed within arm’s reach of her lover at all times and set a steady pace. 

“Think Xandra will be okay?” Mela asked after some moments passed and they entered the flatlands.

“Yeah.”

As Mela swayed in the saddle, she looked over her shoulder. “Velanya saved us.”

“I saw.”

“It’s more than I expected.”

“I know.”

“It’s more than I deserve.”

A pause, then Aszana whispered, “Leave Vela to the wilds. We have us.”

Mela took a steadying breath and let it whistle between her lips. 

“Think we’ll be okay?”

Aszana reached over. Touched Mela’s jaw. Looked at her with those blue, doe eyes. Said, “I know we will be.”

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alexa Rose on Twitter @RoseRhigo.

So You Think You Want to Be Published by M.Dalto

Before we begin, I want to say thank you to Gillian for once again inviting me back to participate in this year’s #GBWritesWithOthers.

When I started writing this blog post, I thought I knew exactly what I was going to write about. Granted, the last few years had a little more of a theme, but for this year, I had had carte blanche– anything goes. And I was in the middle of my post when… a lot of things in the publishing industry happened. Some personally involved me. Some involved similar situations to my own. And some were so far beyond me that though I wasn’t personally affected, I was just so angry at the people involved. So what did I learn in all of my findings?

The publishing industry sucks.

Is this me saying everything in the publishing industry is horrible and we should all just stop trying?

Absolutely not…

Though, not that I’m going to lie to you, but I would love to see what would happen if we did.

It is also ironic that I say this being co-owner of my own independent publishing house.

But my fellow authors…

I am tired.

First, let’s address the revelation that those infamous Big Four in all actuality have no idea what they are doing with their authors’ books, and that is absolutely terrifying. Too many authors strive for that goal of being picked up by an agent who will sell them to the highest bidder, but with the news about what these conglomerates know– or in many instances, do not know– I hope they are reconsidering what they consider their endgame.

As an author, marketing is one of the most important efforts you need to put forward and there remain many who think that once you’re picked up by an agent or a publisher, your work is done. And this is furthest from the truth. In fact, when I was a baby debut author, I wish someone had held my hand and given me this heads up because I was not ready for half of the things I was going to need to be responsible for if I wanted my book to get in front of any potential readers.

And here are these Big Four or whatever, who have the money to help their authors with marketing needed to succeed and they’re funneling it to all the wrong places, especially places that don’t need their support in the first place.

Second, how many authors have dreams of walking into a store like Barnes & Noble and seeing their books on the shelves? I can definitely say that this was my personal endgame– walking into my local B&N and seeing a book of mine on the shelf and taking it over to the nearest clerk and asking to sign it because it was mine.

Goals.

Too bad the chances of this actually happening as slim to none, especially now in 2022.

Not after Barnes & Noble has come out claiming to be changing their market plans, where books from popular authors will be the only ones to be carried, and not even every book of their series, and don’t even think about it if you’re an indie or debut author who isn’t getting the marketing push from the clueless Big Four.

Am I angry?

You best believe I am.

And this is all before the collapse of a handful of small presses makes things more difficult for the rest of us who are actually trying to do right by our authors.

When my best friend and I opened our press over two years ago ( and no, I’m not going to use this as a marketing campaign so I’m not going to refer to it by name, but if you know me you know anyway, so…), we had both been burned by our own experiences with independent publishing, both as authors and behind the scenes, and we knew that we wanted to take care of our authors first and foremost. We knew it wasn’t going to be about numbers and money, we knew we wanted it to be quality over quantity, and we knew we wanted to be fair.

When there are small publishers who not only are offering acquisitions to authors without a contract to review, and then blasting them on social media because they questioned their methods, only to then go and close their doors, abandoning all of the authors who were depending on them to achieve their dreams? What’s another publishing house to do but open their doors to these authors looking to give a new small press another chance?

But there have been so many times I have heard of authors turning up their noses at submitting to a small press because of the bad rep they’ve received because there are so many indie publishers who just don’t think about everything that is required when it comes to publishing someone else’s work. They want the glory without doing the work.

It’s painfully unfortunate for all involved.

This is why our press has tried our best over these last two years to be as honest and transparent to our authors and our staff throughout every step of our process. That more small, independent presses don’t that this stance if beyond frustrating to watch, especially when such practices are straining and already taut industry.

So to the new authors whole are getting whiplash from all of the recent publishing news and updates, all I can say to you is to do as much research as you can– do your own due diligence for the sake of your own career. Ask questions, read contracts, and never settle. And always remember that even when you think you have made the best decision, even the best can fall on hard times, and you can find yourself in a situation no research could have ever prepared you for.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow M.Dalto on Twitter @MDalto421.

Walk Away from Your Keyboard By Renée Gendron

No matter which genre, authors strive to create interesting and relatable characters. If your readership can’t empathise with your main character, they’ll put down the put. There are many ways of improving your craft and walking away from the keyboard is one of them. 

I encourage authors to take writing lessons, join writing associations, and form critique groups. It’s important to have a community of practice around you who understand the struggles of stringing together words into compelling sentences. These are all critical behaviours to success. Let’s not forget time management to ensure you have a regular writing schedule. 

The often-overlooked component of excellent writing is understanding human behaviour. You might not be writing about humans, but observations of domestic animals, wildlife, and humans can help flesh out credible characters. 

Through interactions and experiences, writers gain content for their characters, the punchline of a joke, the subtle mannerisms that shape a character, and the push-pull of conflict. Conflict drives character growth and the plot. 

Realistic details into speech patterns, facial expressions, how people move about, the inflexions of their voices, and behaviour provide an author with material for compelling writing. We can all write: he chuckled. However, that gets boring and tired. An author observed someone might write: he chuckled, the same shy chuckle he had when he was put on the spot. The author can add context to the chuckle because they have insight into someone’s personality. 

Here are some things to observe: 

• Body language (position of torso, legs, feet, how they walk, how they sit, where they place their hands) 

• Language (word choice, degree of vulgarity, type of accent and if it thickens if the person is emotional or drunk or interacting with someone from the same region)

• How often the person speaks, what they speak about, how long their sentences are, how confident their voice is 

• Interactions that made you laugh

• Interactions that made others laugh 

I’d like to distinguish between research and non-writing experiences. I, like many authors, will spend hours reading about historical events and technical terms for a profession and watch how-to videos on Youtube. Some authors will also take a course or interview an expert. These are critical components to creating a realistic world and showing the competence or incompetence of a character.

Low-cost ways of doing research: 

• Library (books and documentaries and guest speakers) 

• Youtube (verify the credibility of the presenter)

• Ask people around you for subject matter experts to interview or spend time observing what they do or as expert critique partners for specific passages/excerpts 

• Follow experts on social media for advice and insight. It doesn’t hurt to send them a message with a question. They may or may not respond, but at least you reached out 

In addition to this research, I encourage authors to have activities other than writing. Such activities may mean sports, other creative pursuits, spending time with family and friends, and travel. If you’re always in writing mode, it’s hard to gain perspective on a tricky transition, a flat character, or a plot that lacks tension. 

Allow yourself to walk away from the keyboard and roll those observations into your writing. Your characters will be more interesting, the world more developed, and your readers will thank you.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Renée Gendron on Twitter @ReneeGendron.

Reflections By Erin Robinson

There are moments in life that pass so quickly, before you can even think to blink, that will never come back to you. Other moments linger forever like a stain on your soul. Both are important - they make you who you are. Each person’s tapestry is full of these and you wrap that quilt around yourself like a shield against the world. Sometimes, you’ll pause and look at all of those squares - the memories that are fading and ripping at the seams. 

Some people will live a long life. One hundred years. Eighty. Some will be cut short in minutes in one of those tragedies that you can’t ever process. I’ve thought a lot recently about where my life will take me, and I’ve analysed my inner tapestry like a work of art hanging in a museum that only I can visit. My fingers slide past the changing materials, they get caught in loose threads and in the holes where my recollections are failing me. The picture isn’t as clear as it once was. Now, the colours that shine brightest are the ones I don’t want - how can this be the reflection of myself? 

Not everyone has the luxury of believing they will live forever. Too many things, once promised, are no longer certain. This is not an exercise in pessimism. This is only about realism, and the knowledge that life ends regardless of a person’s hopes and dreams. People talk about legacies which I feel are outside of my own grasp, not for lack of trying, not for lack of care, not for lack of dreams, but just because I am tired. I am already tired. 

People think I’m bleak when I say I don’t want to live until I’m old. They say it’s my mental health, that the depression I live alongside has tainted how I perceive. Perhaps my tapestry has been stitched with black threads but that doesn’t make it less beautiful. I still have colour. I still burst free in vivid reds, in yellows, and greens, and blues. The canvas in my mind is private. I don’t have to share the images that make up who I am, and when I do it becomes faded by the judgement of others who can’t see beauty outside of themselves. 

My body is failing. I feel it in the morning when I can’t move - when pain hums through my bones like a low electrical current, and the fatigue weighs me down as though my muscles are laced with lead. Each movement demands a repayment until I’m falling into debt. Sometimes it is like floating in the wind. Forever paused. Knowing that, should I push through those walls, I will lose time on the other end. Every moment that I grab my energy, my determination, my frustration, my desperation, I have to make a choice; do I want to live more right this second, or do I want to live longer? Forever paused. Do I want to run through the park or do I want to watch my son get married? Do I want to walk through the lanes I did as a child, or do I want to see my grandchildren? I don’t want to choose. I pause. 

Staying alive is not passive. I feel myself fading in the mirror with each passing day, as though I am no longer a participant. I am a spectator in life. A witness. Life glitters past me in glorious high definition, but I can’t touch it. My life is at a different frequency where the sounds don’t transmit. Perhaps I am more like the swan who glides seamlessly but paddles beneath the depths, pushing through the water in its own private struggle. 

Should I have a dream? Should I want a legacy? My greatest achievement will always be the life I brought into this planet, despite my crumbling body, and even with the cost of it all. His life bursts colours that mine could never create. His tapestry will be one of his own. Perhaps I will be a square on the blanket that protects him as I help him to stitch those first few memories and build the foundation he will one day look back on. Yet, I still pause. Will my colours leak into his? Will I taint those squares that are so precious and shining? 

Internally, I throw paint at the walls. I slam my fists against the confines of my own mind and scream for the exit. Sometimes I grab my tapestry and pull - I want to rip out the squares; I want to throw it into the depths of the ocean; I want to make it shine like the lives of everyone else. Those tears, in those moments, are lasting. I look back in regret at the newly formed holes and wonder if I can ever be repaired. 

It’s ok. Just breathe. I can perceive me as who I am - I don’t embody the perceptions of others. Comments are thrown at me as though they can touch my soul. People reach out to touch my tapestry, and my inner canvas, as though my inner self is up for grabs. Don’t they know the museum is closed? Please don’t touch the exhibits. I slam the doors in their face to block out all the noise. In the silence I remind myself: just breathe. 

My life is behind the glass. The sun rises in yellows, and sets in shades of pink. Time loses meaning. Forever paused, but the hands still reach for me and try to pull me into a life I used to live. For a while, I will follow, and soak up all those colours in the hope of adding to myself. Sometimes, it works. My soul soars just watching others build their tapestry. I smile. 

Another pause. There is a path laid out in front of me and I’m walking it alone. Every person who loves me lights the way like a star in the sky so I am forever grateful not to be left in darkness. On my way, I wonder which parts of myself could be classed as the best. There are years and years and years ahead of me. Is my best already gone? If my canvas stays locked up within myself, will there be anything to remember me by? 

It’s ok. This truly isn’t an exercise in pessimism. My path is more like a maze of mirrors and with each turn I face a different version of myself. I reach out to touch, but that person no longer exists. I’m searching for my true reflection. I’ll find it soon. Then, I will paint a new canvas, even if I’m paused, even if the colours don’t shine so bright anymore, and I’ll throw open the doors so everyone can see it. Then I’ll breathe.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Erin Robinson on Twitter @flossybunny.

My Annie Wilkes By Joseph D. Slater

In my circle of writing companions, I’m known for being the one who is the first to compliment someone’s work. I know how hard it is, and we deserve to have a cheerleader.

I’m also known for giving criticism that instead of cutting the manuscript apart, show you ways that it can be built up to be the best possible book you can create.

I’ve told this story to a lot of my friends, but it’s finally time I brought to light how I am able to find my fire and passion in writing.

When I started taking writing seriously, I was just a thirteen-year-old kid with blue pen, a lined notebook, and a dream.

The only computer access I had was at my local library, and even those computers were a few years behind the rest of the world’s.

I had dial-up internet there where I could spend the whole day on forums, and reading other people’s short stories, and even submitting a few of my own.

I remember specifically of one forum website I was on where it was a pretty small crowd.

There were English professors, European publishers, and a couple people from the deep south who had more than thirty years on me with writing, and this one particularly gruesome man under the username, Sharky.

Sharky used Alan Rickman’s face as his icon, and seemed to be the first person to comment on anything I ever submitted.

I’d spend my free period in high school writing short stories and scenarios that played out in my head instead of the Spanish homework I should have been working on.

I remember pouring my soul onto that site, and sure enough, Sharky would be right there to give me “advice”, such as saying things like, “I’m just taking you under my wing so you can be better,” and “Just stop. I don’t mean the story, I mean writing in general.”

“Stop writing, kid,” he’d say, “you’re not cut out for this kind of thing.”

Sure, Sharky was a monster, and every time I saw Alan Rickman’s face, my heart would stop, and I’d brace for impact.

He was ruthless, but there were some things he did that were right.

I was a snot-nosed teenager who didn’t know the rules of writing, and if I’m honest, it was probably the worst writing I’d ever done.

Sharky showed me where I did things wrong. I had to read between his lines of ruthlessness, and learn from my mistakes. If my descriptions were terrible, he didn’t shy away from asking me if I even considered what my character looked like.

If I had an inconsistency, he’d swoop in like a vulture to vomit in my face, pushing me further from my project until I hated it.

There were days that thought I’d never write again, but honestly, I couldn’t afford any other hobby. It wasn’t a mystery that I grew up poor, but it was difficult to pick a creative hobby that didn’t include buying a bunch of things.

I had to do it. I had to subject myself to the criticism, despite what Sharky would have to say.

Finally, there was one day where I’d written a short story about simply waking up in a grassy field, and not knowing how I got there.

It couldn’t have been more than six-hundred words long, but there it was, ready for the next viper strike from the dreaded Sharky.

I had to wait all week for the comments, and remember applying all the things that he had taught me I was stupid for doing, until teh following Tuesday, I ran to the library after school, and after what felt like three-hundred years of loading the page, the dial-up showed me his remarks.

“This doesn’t suck,” was the first reply the story got, and I remember feeling ten feet tall when I walked out of the library that day.

There was something about that moment that occurred to me; I was learning.

Sure, some people would ask me why I would keep posting to said site, but I knew it was making me better.

I decided to keep to it.

Over the next couple of years, I learned how to speak Sharky’s language, and decipher what I could learn from the abuse, and the more I applied myself, the more he realized I was getting better, too.

There was a spell where he came down on me with harder comments, telling me I knew better when I wrote bad things, but with each bad thing, I learned.

Like a scrap metal artist, my garbage was turning into something resembling art.

He gave me fire, and I was so competitive to show him what I could do. I took the insane things he said to me, and I wanted to tell him not to mess with me when he saw me write something. This competition in me continued throughout my life to today, where when I write, a primitive nature takes over my insides, and I write with all the passion I can muster.

All those mistakes I make along the way will be edited later. I will come back to them, and learn from them. I will prove to my readers that writing is an art form of the soul, and not a simple text on paper.

Eventually, the site died off, and all of us were forced to go our own ways.

I remember going through all that, and in my senior year in high school, I remember the comments my classmates got would decimate their confidence with their projects, but the corrections I got felt more like just that. I wasn’t told to quit, or run from it.

In fact, I barely got corrected at all with my class assignments, and the standard for my work was getting extra credit.

I had to love writing. I had to know that I could do incredible things with it, but I never would have gotten to where I am if I quit the first time I was hurt by someone’s comments on my work.

I of course learned to let go after all this, and to this day, there are times where I ask myself what Sharky would say towards my work, because despite the monster he was, he brought out the best in me. He was my Annie Wilkes from Stephen King’s book, Misery.

I never would have gotten to where I am now if it weren’t for him.

I don’t know if he’s out there somewhere, yelling at teenagers still, or perhaps he’s passed on. I have no way of knowing this.

This being my first experience with writing, I have become the member of my local writing groups who accepts criticism well. I look at writing as an opportunity to grow.

Before I start working on my book at night, I even pull out my journal, and write all my insecurities before writing. It get’s me loosened up for the main project, and it gives me a minute to purge my inner doubt.

In time I learned not only to forgive Sharky, but to thank him for beating the iron until it created a sword.

It’s important to know when to take advice, and when to ignore ignorance, but above all, put a Sharky in the back of your mind, and show him who the hell you are.

If you liked this piece, please follow Joseph D. Slater on Twitter @JosephDSlater.

Twelve Ways to Get Grandma to Open Up About Her Hoe Phase At Holiday Dinners By: A.P. Miller Author, Novelist, and Reigning Archduke of Mayhem

You may be asking yourself “what kind of low brow caveman would write such a piece?” The short answer: a guy who refers to himself as “The Archduke of Mayhem.” This piece, however, was a semi request/dare from Ms. Gillian Barnes herself. I made a joke about writing a piece about getting your grandma to talk about her hoe phase at Thanksgiving dinner, and Gillian’s reply was “OMG Write That.” If this year’s “Gillian Writes With Others” is starting off with bathroom humor, blame Gillian.

Also: MANY thanks to Gillian for allowing me to contribute to her event for the third year in a row! Thank YOU for reading my piece! I’m contributing for the same reasons I’ve contributed the past two years: Gillian has a great network of talent and voracious readers and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity for my work to be seen in front of such an incredible audience!

Introduction: If you weren’t aware, I am very sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but your parents had sex at least once. By proxy, that means your grandparents (both sides) had sex, at least once. I live for absurdity. I look at my grandmother and see a woman who washes her hands nine-billion times after trimming her nails, thinks the handsome gay couple next door are two of the best friends on planet Earth, and I know that I’ve never heard that woman drop the F-Bomb once. The absurdity of thinking that Grandma was once dancing on top of a bar, like the movie Coyote Ugly, makes me giggle.

I have three uncles; add in my mom’s birthday, and the math says my grandparents took the bus trip to pound town at least four times. My absurdity angle? What if I could get my grandma to admit that she was a wild-child in her youth? For this year’s “Writes With Others,” I’m giving you twelve ways to get Gran-Gran talk about her hoe phase.

[WARNING]: Following this advice is going to cause Nana to talk about the times she’s taken a ride on the space needle. It’s going to be uncomfortable, you won’t be able to look her in the eye for a while, but the sheer look of disgust on your parents’ face will be worth it!

One: Tell Grandma a joke — Any classless, dirty joke will do, but it has to be one that Grandma will laugh at. After delivering the joke, encourage Grandma to tell one back. We’re trying to establish rapport. If you can get Grandma to laugh at a joke like “Pointer? I don’t even know ‘er!” you are going to get her to tell some classic gold. The more Grandma’s denture grip loosens up, you’re on the highway to hearing about all of Grandma’s scores and sores.

Two: Ask Grandma when she discovered Grandpa had “Low T” — This tactic is to get Grandma to think back to the times when she was getting lovin’ on the reg. Admittedly, no one wants to think about their Grandfather not having mojo, but getting to the jackpot of getting Grandma to admit that she was a “Runaround Sue” might be worth the wretching. Asking Grandma about Grandpa’s Low T is going to get her talking about how regularly she was getting it, that opens up spots to ask about times before Grandpa when she had to get dressed in a rear-view mirror so that Great-Grandpa didn’t find out about teenage indiscretions. 

Three: Tell Grandma your mom or dad was “hoe shaming” you — This is a two-parter. Essentially, you are trying to play the sympathy angle and get Grandma to open up about your parents’ hoe phase, which will be brutal enough to hear, and then you have to double-down on the sorrow. If your Grandma knows her grandbaby, she’ll start talking about those pep-rallies back in the day. A word of caution: if you have to lie, your parents may turn this around as an admission of a hoe phase and you might be in trouble, or ex-communicated (depending on your familial religious affiliation).  

Four: Tell Grandma you watched “an old movie,” that you think she may have been an “actress,” and ask her if she’s ever been in “movies” under a “stage name” — If you are going to allude that Nana may have been a Mattress Actress, you had better be vague! One, you run the risk of telling everyone at the holiday table that you enjoy vintage smut. Two, you run the risk of hearing about relatives’ smut proclivities. Use this one with absolute caution!

Five: Booze — I don’t know about you all, but distilled refreshments is the easiest way to get me to open up about stuff. It’s mostly my opinions on whether the death penalty is the appropriate punishment for animal abuse (it is), but it is undiluted truth. Start pouring out drinks and start asking the heavy questions. Caution: please be aware of Mee-Maw’s medications, and how they react to alcohol, before you start getting Grandma doing body-shots.

Six: Indignification at the “how many girls does a guy need to sleep with to be called a slut?” double standard — Would my Grandma respond to this? No, but my Grandma is also the same kind of woman who would say she’s having trouble with her hearing aid, even though she doesn’t wear one. With this tactic, you’re trying to tap into Granny’s youthful rage, and rebellious fire.

Seven: Watch “Forrest Gump” with Grandma — Jenny, cinema’s most loveable hussy. The great thing about the movie is that it is all the historical context you’d need. Jenny is doing ballet on a balcony while Free Bird is ripping, piles of booger sugar on the table, Grandma is thinking about years gone by. Once she’s invested in the movie, you are one “was it really like that?” away from getting Grandma to talk about how youth, and possibly how many notches were on her lipstick case.

Eight: Play records from Grandma’s youth — When I get old, oldies stations are going to be playing “Butterfly” by Crazy Town, “Low” by T-Pain, and “Hot In Herre” by Nelly. Nursing homes are going to have signs that say “no twerking during lunch service” and it will be glorious. I make this point because songs of one’s youth is the fast track to memories. I’m not sure if the Beach Boys have an equivalent to Flo Rida’s “Whistle,” but it is sure to do the trick.

Nine: Ask Grandma which vintage vehicle has the roomiest back seat — Obvious, right? Be prepared for Grandma to answer and for Grandpa to realize he never drove that kind of vehicle. Grandpa may start talking about how roomy his backseat was, but f*** him, he grew up in a day and age when no one talked about guys being hoes.

Ten: Use the phrase “Like a sailor on shore leave” and see if Grandma goes somewhere in her mind — This tactic works GREAT with the booze tactic. Understanding that I am an idiot who enjoys familial friction almost as much as he loves absurdity, I would use this one because my Grandfather was in the army, and I wouldn’t mind seeing him get taken down a few pegs.

Eleven: Ask Grandma what it was like wearing the first two-piece bathing suit — Grandma is a human being, right? People want freedom, separation from norms and obligations, and I’m sure Grandma is no different. I’m sure Grandma remembers what it was like not having to wear a swimsuit that went to her wrists and ankles, just like she remembers where she was when historical events happened. Grandma is going to remember that freedom, and may even remember the name of the first boy who got to see her navel.

Twelve: Straight up ask “Grandma, have you ever had a hoe phase?” — Grandma is old, but she isn’t stupid. She’ll figure out quickly what you’re up to. If you think about it, Grandma raised a line of people who resulted in the person you are. If you have the stones to wonder what Grandma’s life was like, surely Grandma has the stones to tell you about it if you ask.

While writing this piece, I got to thinking about Grandmas as people—not mine, she’s an android—and the lives they must have led. We’re in this ever-evolving state of change and our Grandmas are evidence that we come from durable bloodlines that have the strength to endure what the world will throw at us. If your Grandma had a hoe phase, do we really give a rat’s ass? Was it a hoe phase, or did Grandma have a unique way of expressing and receiving love? What one does with their corporeal form is of no one’s concern but self.

Have fun with Grandma this holiday season, but also give her a hug, and acknowledge that she was a vibrant main character in a wonderful story—tell Grandma you’d love to hear that story again as many times as she’d like to tell it. 

Thank you again to Gillian for allowing me to contribute to this year’s event. Also, congratulations on the new addition to your family. When that child has a child, and that child says says “Grandma, do you want to hear a joke?”, remember that you brought this on yourself.

Sincerely,
-A.P.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow A.P. Miller on Twitter @Millerverse.