Author Archives: James A. Miller

Second-person Point of View

4 Replies

Second-person Point of View writing is an uncommon but rather unique POV. This is the one where the story is narrated as though it is being told directly to YOU. “You” is the giveaway when reading a Second-person Point of View story.

For example:

You go to the ballpark. Nina is there. She is wearing that red dress you gave her for her birthday last year. She says “Hi”, but you can tell her heart isn’t in it. You feel a pang of wanting her.

Full disclosure: I have not played around with Second-person Point of View very much. I really don’t like using it in my writing but I have some author friends who swear by it.  

So, what are some of the pros and cons?

On the plus side second-person Point of View carries an immediacy similar to, but not quite as good (IMHO) as first person. The story is typically about YOU and if there is one thing a reader can identify with, it’s themselves. That helps to grab attention right off the bat.

Another positive about Second-person Point of View is that the narrative voice can be omniscient, and therefore know things that the character would not otherwise know.

For example, “You don’t see the meteor coming.”

Or “Your sister is upset that you didn’t invite her to the party but is too shy to tell you.”

This opens up a few doors that a view point like first person doesn’t have. In first-person you can only live inside the character’s head and can only know what they know.

As you can tell from that second example, making the narrator omniscient can be a bit tricky if not handled well. The camera in the story is allowed to pull back from YOU and take in the world in a larger scene. This threatens to lose the immediate feel of YOU and distance the reader.

The threat is that the reader can start to become aware of the narrative voice, wondering who this character is, how do they know all of this, and what is their relationship to the characters in the story. That in itself can become something fun to work with – potentially having a further pull back and reveal, but then it sort of begs the question of why do you need second person at all? Why not just start with a third person in what is known as a “third-person deep POV” and pull back toward more omniscience as needed?

For example, second person with omniscient might sound like this:

You step into the tavern, certain that no one has noticed you, but the old woman by the fire has already counted the coins in your purse, and the prince hiding upstairs has just decided you are the one person in the kingdom foolish enough to save him.

Who is telling us what the old woman knows? Who is telling us what the prince has decided? Why are they talking directly to “you”?

The same scene in third-person deep POV might read:

Jaren stepped into the tavern and kept his eyes low, hoping no one had noticed him. He did not see the old woman by the fire watching his purse, and he had no way of knowing that the stranger upstairs had already mistaken him for a hero.

The third-person version still lets us pull back a little, but it does not call quite as much attention to the narrator. The reader accepts the shift more naturally because third person is made to handle that kind of distance.

This line of thinking relegates us to using second person the way it is typically used, in a Second person limited POV, where the narrative voice does not stray from the YOU character’s POV and knowledge.

Let’s check out that same scene written with a limited second-person POV:

You step into the tavern and keep your eyes low, hoping no one notices you.

By the fire, an old woman stops stirring her cup. You feel her watching you and check the purse beneath your cloak.

A floorboard creaks overhead and you glance toward the stairs just in time to see a shadow slip back from the landing.

We don’t get quite as much information but we stay in the YOU character’s head without feeling the narrator’s presence in the story.

You get done reading the blog post and consider commenting on whether you have ever written in Second-person Point of View and what you think about it. It would feel good to share your thoughts and others might like to hear what you have to say. Work is busy today but you have a few minutes so you decide to go for it.

-James

World Rules: The Extra Burden of Science Fiction and Fantasy

Leave a reply

When we write a story set in our regular world, we get a lot for free. If a character walks into a coffee shop, readers already know the basic rules. They know what coffee is. They know what money is. They know people are not going to solve an argument by casting a spell, opening an airlock, or consulting a sentient mushroom.

However, when we are writing science fiction or fantasy, the world in which our characters live cannot be taken for granted because these genera allow us to change the rules of reality. We can invent time travel, talking swords, alien governments, gods who answer prayers directly, or magic systems that run on memory, blood, music, math, or regret. This freedom is one of the great joys of the genres.

The challenge is that, as the writer, we have such intimate knowledge of the world we have created, it is easy omit something the reader needs to know.  It is important to keep in mind that when some aspect of the world isn’t clear, the reader will default to assuming the story world operates like the one we live in today.

For comparison, a murder mystery set in Chicago does not need to explain gravity, police departments, elevators, dogs, or cell phones but a mystery set on a generation ship orbiting Saturn might. Does the ship have artificial gravity? Is there a police force, or does the captain handle crime? Are dogs extinct? Do people still use cell phones or do they have implants that allow them to communicate telepathically.

These details matter because readers are constantly trying to understand what is possible. They have to learn what is normal, what is impossible, what is dangerous, and what is merely unusual. That means clarity becomes part of the storytelling.

For example, suppose a wizard is trapped in a locked room. In a non-magical story, the reader understands the problem immediately. Locked room. No key. Trouble. But in a fantasy story, the reader may wonder: Why not teleport? Why not melt the lock? Why not summon a rat to fetch the key? Why not turn into smoke? If the answer is “because magic can’t do that,” the reader needs to know. Otherwise, the attempt at suspense becomes confusion for the reader.

I also want to mention  very important concept called The Cost of Magic. I learned about this in Orson Scott Card’s awesome book, How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy.  Card outlined how there needs to be a price for using magic in fantasy, as the spell casters otherwise become omnipotent. While he talks about fantasy specifically, this is also true for technology in sci-fi, there needs to be limits to even the most advanced technological race or they essentially become all-powerful, which results in a very boring story.

I suspect this may sound backward as it is cool to think about a race that can accomplish anything and fun to explore that kind of power in a story, but a magic system where anything can happen at any time is not wondrous for very long. The problem with this is that it removes the challenge of conflict, which is the friction needed to develop stakes and drive the story.

Another special challenge of science fiction and fantasy is vocabulary. We need names for alien species, magical orders, invented technologies, rituals, and strange materials.

But we should spend those invented words carefully. This bring to mind another concept: The Shmeep. The Shmeep is a tongue-in-cheek terms for anything in a sci-fi or fantsay story that is something common to us but with a fancy-sounding name thrown on to make it more fantastical.  For example, if you write a utensil for eating into a story that is exactly like a fork but call it a “frong” to make it sound fancy, that’s a shmeep.  Please call a fork a fork and avoid using fancy words for things that would be almost certainly called what they are called today.

Note that when I looked up “Shmeep” there are a few varying definitions, but this is what I have come to understand it to mean from a writing perspective. If I am wrong about the definition, please enjoy the meta-level irony.

While I have spent a good portion of this telling you that you need to explain everything in the story world that is different than our current world, there is an exception to this. That exception is what I would call the “genera canon” that has already been established. The great Science Fiction writers and scientist that have come before us have established such concepts as space elevators, O’neil cylinders, and Dyson spheres. These concepts can be talked about in a science fiction story without much need for further explanation. However, if your take on these concepts has a special feature or some change to the core concept then you will need to elaborate on that. Also keep in mind that there are a few items that have been established that you need to be careful with: things such as WARP drive and Light Sabers speak to very established worlds that will frame your story as a clear derivation of Star Trek or Star Wars.  

So let me wrap it up with this: a good rule of thumb is that more the world in your story deviates from the world we live in today, the more you will need to clearly explain the rules of that world.

Let me know what your experiences have been with your world-building attempts in these generas in the comments below.

-James

You are using infinity wrong.

Leave a reply

An onus we writers have is to be very deliberate with our wording.

I was reminded of this recently when I saw one of my favorite pet peeves: the improper use of the word “infinite.”

I am a technical person, so my pet peeve rears its ugly head when I see someone use “infinite” to describe a feature that allows for “continuous” control or adjustment. This is typically when someone is describing a speed control that has a range from zero to 1,000 RPM and can be finely tuned to any speed in between. This, as opposed to a control that only allows for speed control to the nearest hundred RPM – like 100, 200, 300 and so on.

The range of 0 to 1,000 is not the same as infinite– which means “without end.” You can’t set it to 1,001 RPM  or -10 RPM for example. There is an upper and lower bound.

Now, it could be argued that there is an infinite number of speeds between zero and 1,000 RPM much in the same way there are infinite decimal numbers between 0 and 1,000. However, that is not true from a practical standpoint. 500 RPM and 500.0000001 RPM likely have no tangible difference in most applications. Or we could take the decimals out to a point where we would hit physical limitations of the motor before we exhaust infinity.

So, my term for this kind of controller situation is “continuous.”   That makes a lot more sense to me

Should this bother me? No, probably not.

But should a writer pay attention to details like this? Yes, I think we need to be good stewards of the language and take responsibility for such details.

But there are a couple of ways to look at such a thing:

  1. We should be diligent about using words in the manner in which the dictionary defines them.
  2. We should be faithful to the way in which it is used in practice, by the audience at large and the culture in which our story finds itself.

The first is easy to understand, but what do I mean by the second point? This is basically another way of saying “Write to your audience.” If I find that the group I am writing toward uses the word infinite instead of continuous, I may actually confuse that audience when I use the technically correct term. Note that there is another choice: I could describe the speed control using both terms, such as “…the motor is infinitely adjustable over a continuum of between 0 and 1000 RPM.” A bit wordy, but you get the idea.

There is a 3rd (and probably the most fun) way in which specific words can be selected and that is the manner in which characters in your stories use language.  If the word “dog” is redefined to mean something we would never use it for — say, a sunspot — then this builds a lot of interesting dynamics to the world in which your characters find themselves.

Note that word redefinition should not be random, but make sense within that world and have some sort of natural, organic beginning and evolution. For example, maybe in the world in which “dog” means “sunspot” there was a historical event where a scientist determined how to use labradoodles to detect solar activity. OK, I am being a bit silly, but I think you see where this line of thinking is going.  There should always be a reason for the words used within a language.

What you think? Should we writers be dogmatic and stick to the dictionary approved usage for words or can we take liberties by using the words the audience may related to or redefine words to mean something else entirely within in our stories?

Grok your understanding in the comments below.

-James

Why I Provide Feedback on Submissions to BITC

Leave a reply

Keeping up with a weekly blog post and accepting story submissions on this site takes more work than you might think (or than I originally thought, anyway).

My motivation for maintaining this site is threefold:

  1. There is a panning-for-gold aspect where I KNOW there are solid stories being rejected that should be published for the world to see.
  2. Forcing myself to verbalize why I am rejecting a story makes me a stronger writer — at least in theory.
  3. As a writer myself, I got tired of getting form “Sorry, this one isn’t right for us” rejections that gave me no clue as to why my work was being rejected. As a way of giving back, I am trying to help others by providing feedback as to why I think their story may not be getting published.

A lot of my time is consumed by providing written, often detailed, feedback to authors whose stories I have rejected. I am often fearful that some may be offended or see me as trying to “rewrite” their stories when I do this.

Below are excerpts taken from email responses to rejections. These tell me my efforts are predominantly seen as helpful. I find joy in knowing most writers are earnestly grateful for my unsolicited advice:

“Thank you for your feedback on my previous submission! I edited the story based on it and found a home for it! “

“Wow, thank you for giving me feedback! I haven’t gotten that yet.”

“Thanks for the kind words and feedback, James!”
“Thank you for your constructive feedback – most appreciated.”

“Thanks for reading my story and for the feedback! You’ve raised some interesting points to consider in revising my story.”

“Don’t mean to bomb your inbox but I do want to say I appreciate your taking the time to provide feedback on my submission”

“Thanks so much for taking the time to read my work and even giving me helpful feedback”

“Thanks for the typo spotting and feedback, I appreciate it”

“You may not read this since this is a response to a decline on my submission, but I would still like to reach out and thank you for your time and notes. I really appreciate you going the extra mile in providing feedback and your points will be very helpful in sharpening this piece as well as future submissions.”

“Thank you for your thoughtful, detailed comments. They’re greatly appreciated!”

“Thank you so much for this feedback, James!”

“Wow, thank you for such detailed feedback!”

“Your detailed and constructive comments are very encouraging”

“Thanks so much for reading the piece and providing your generous feedback! I’m excited to incorporate your insights and hope that you can draw some joy in knowing that if I find a home for this story you’ll have played a part in helping make that happen. I truly appreciate your time and I hope you have a fantastic weekend!”

“Thanks for taking the time to read it and for the detailed feedback. I truly appreciate it”

“Just wanted to say thank you for taking the time to leave kind and specific feedback on the story.”

“I am amazed at the detail. MANY THANKS. A critique of this level is pure gold.”

“Thanks for the feedback! will use it to improve the story.”

“Thanks for your kind words, James.”

“Thanks for your close reading of my story! Your idea of continuing the narrative is a good one and I’ll take it up.”

“Thanks for taking the time to comment on my story- points well taken.”

“Thank you for the feedback. Much appreciated!”

“Such helpful feedback. Thank you so much.”

Thank you to everyone who has submitted to Breaking Into the Craft and to those who come here to read short fiction and my posts on writing advice. There is a great feeling of community when I see the comments, site stats, and submissions.

Take care,

-James

How to Write a Great Hero

Leave a reply

Most great stories need a hero for us to root for but what makes for a good one?

Here are some key characteristics that work for me:

Relatable

A hero does not need to be exactly like the us, but we do need to understand them.

This relatability often comes from emotional truth. What tends to make them tick? What is interesting to them and why? This interest or desire isn’t their main goal in the story but can relate to it. It’s more about how do they operate and often hints at why.

One character that comes to mind as an example could be a Heavy-Weight boxer who loves to raise pigeons. The characteristic of being a boxer is rather one-dimensional but add in the facet or raising pigeons and he now becomes more interesting and gives us a broader character to work with. There is a softer side to this brute which makes him interesting. Here is a person who can crush a man in the ring but also cares for fragile creatures. We want to know why he desires to care for the pigeons. Is it because he has a hard time relating to others? Does he see hope in the way they escape every day and fly off into the blue because he wants to escape his life? Does he find solace in how they always return home to him, something he may not have gotten from the people in his life?

Morality

A hero needs some kind of moral compass.

That does not mean they always make the right choice. In fact, seeing them not make the right choice is often better as perfect decision-making makes for a dull character. But inside them, there should be a sense of right and wrong, and it should often be tested.

The hero’s morality can help to give a story weight.

When a hero is faced with a difficult choice, we tend to feel what is stake internally for that character. Will they make the choice demanded of their moral code or cross the line?

The best heroes are compelling because temptation costs them something. Having them, crossing the morality line can also give us great material to work with in our stories.

Adversary

A good hero needs a good adversary because opposition gives the hero shape. Much in teh way we do not have black without white, or a front without a back, a hero is defined by what stands against him/her. The adversary reveals who the hero truly is.

A strong adversary challenges the hero’s beliefs, highlights our hero’s flaws, and pushes them to grow. The villain’s actions should challenge our hero’s deepest weakness.

The villain/adversary is a kind of mirror. They reflect what the hero could become if they give in to their flaw. The better the adversary, the more clear and compelling our hero becomes. A great hero rises to greatness because of what stands in their way.

Goal

Our hero needs to want something. The hero’s main goal gives the story direction and is something that we can plot the story around.

The main goal is usually external: win a competition, solve a murder, defeat the villain, return home etc. But strong stories pair the external goal with the hero’s internal need.

The hero may want to win a competition, but what they really need to do is to stop measuring their worth by each victory. They may be tasked to solve a murder, but what they really need is to forgive themselves for a past mistake. They may want to return home, but what they really need is to realize they no longer belong there and can never go home again.

External goals are used to drive the plot while internal goals drive the character arc. Having a great character arc, which is essentially just showing the character change or grow in a positive way, is one of the most powerful aspects to storytelling. It is very rewarding to the reader as we can all relate. We want to see the hero become better because we, too, desire to be better.

Flawed

Giving our hero a flaw may be the most important ingredient of all.

Flaws create friction. They create bad decisions which have consequences. A hero’s flaw typically relates to a “sin” (action that will be taken or has been taken in the past) at the heart of the story which will need to be addressed before they can attain the desired goal.

For example, Tony Stark in Iron Man begins as arrogant, selfish, and careless about the consequences of his weapons. His intelligence is not the problem. His wealth is not the problem. His flaw is his moral blindness. The story forces him to confront the damage caused by his own choices. Only when he takes responsibility does he begin to become a true hero.

I am also reminded of Robert Zemecis’s interpretation of Beowulf in which the hero king’s sin was to sleep with the tempting demon that bore Grendel, who later came to destroy the town. His flawed decision literally came back to haunt him.

A great hero needs to be relatable enough for us to understand, moral enough for us to care, and flawed enough to change.

Readers love our heroes because they struggle, fail, rise again and are morally better for the experience by the end of the story.

Let me know if the comments below characteristics you feel are important for strong heroes in our stories.

-James

My Checklist for a Good Story

Leave a reply

Here are the checklist items I look for when editing my stories.

Is the need of the protagonist clear from the beginning?

The protagonist needs to have a goal. They need to want something. The quicker I can establish this, the better chance I have of the reader engaging.

Is the obstacle for the protagonist’s goal clear from the beginning?

This is the converse of the first item. There has to be an obstacle that stands in the way of the protagonist’s goal. A story where the main character is able to just breeze through the story and get what they want is not a rewarding story for the reader. Even kick-ass heroes need to have a weakness or flaw. Every Superman needs to have his Kryptonite.

Are the characters unique and memorable?

This is one I picked up from Stephen King when reading IT. That book has a lot of main characters introduced right away. Normally this can be confusing to the reader, unless you do what he did – he gave each of them memorable attributes to help us keep track:

  • Bill Denbrough: Severe stutter and natural leadership.
  • Richie Tozier: Compulsive joke-telling, comedic “Voices,” and thick glasses.
  • Beverly Marsh: Striking red hair and a dead-eye aim with a slingshot. Only female.
  • Eddie Kaspbrak: Constant reliance on an asthma inhaler.
  • Ben Hanscom: Severe obesity paired with a brilliant, analytical mind for engineering.
  • Mike Hanlon: The town’s sole Black youth. Had a deep knowledge of Derry’s history.
  • Stan Uris: Rigid logic, an obsession with order, and a passion for birdwatching.

Are the characters fleshed out, or are they just 2D stereotypes?

This aligns with the above “memorable” concept but goes a bit deeper. Even the secondary characters should have clear motivations to make them feel real. A reader can pick up on when you are creating a character just because it’s handy.

Is the ending rewarding to the reader? Is it surprising yet inevitable?

This one is a bit trickier to quantify. It is easy to feel that any twist you throw in at the end is enough to make it “surprising” but the ending needs to be earned and realistic and not one that is occurring due to chance. The word that is often used is “Payoff” and that is a great way to think about an ending. What is the reader’s return on time invested in your story?

Have you taken out all the parts that do not serve to advance the story or develop the character?

This one is my word lawnmower. It helps me a ton when I am reading through my stories for a second time. I may love a section and the way it flows but if it does not provide insight into the character or serve to advance the plot, it has to go. This is especially true for shorter fiction. In flash stories every word has to have a reason for being there.

Is everything clear and understandable?

This is more common than you might think. When you are the author of the story there is a lot of understanding and backstory inside your head that makes the words you put on the page very clear. This isn’t true for other readers. Clarity is also an issue when an author holds too much back believing they are building tension via curiosity.

Has the story been reviewed for grammar and punctuation?

This should be obvious but I think the tricky part is that we can read past some of these issues many times when editing our own stories. As an editor, one or two issues like this won’t cause me to reject an otherwise great piece but more than that and it can take me out of the story. Note that other editors may be more particular than I am.

Did I remove all of the adverbs?

“All” may be excessive, but in general adverbs make writing weaker. Try it on your own writing and see if anything feels like it is lost when taking them out.

Is the tense consistent?

Tense changes are useful for providing immediacy (present tense) or for revealing facts that have occurred previously (past tense) but writers get in trouble when they change the tense within the same sentence. Even within the same paragraph tense changes can be jarring to the reader. A good way to check for this is to have others read your story or record yourself reading your story aloud.

Have I let it sit for at least two weeks before revising it?

One of the best practices and one of the hardest to do. When I am done with a story, the first thing I want to do is to share it with friends and/or start submitting it. Resist that urge and get away from it. When you come back to it, you will be amazed at how different it looks.

Did I find myself (or did my first readers find themselves) thinking about the story after reading it?

If people are thinking about your story after they read it, asking you questions, telling you about some part they thought was cool, that is a very good sign. This is often a metric editors (myself included) use when they are considering whether or not to buy a story.

Is it interesting? Did I take out the boring parts? (Never waste a reader’s time)

This is another one that is hard to quantify. It is usually best to get this information from your friends that provide feedback for you. Asking them when it felt like the story was slow reveals this.

Keep in mind these are the checklist items that seem to work for me. Your mileage may vary.

Let me know in the comments below what you look for when editing your story.

-James

Talking to Other Girls, by Monti Sturzaker

2 Replies

Today’s story comes to us from Monti Rodgers.

Monti’s story was previously [Mistakenly] rejected by: Fractured Lit, Flame Tree Press, Psychopomp, The Final Girl

Bio: Monti is a New Zealander living in London with her two rescue dogs, Echo and Whisper. She’s previously published with Nature Futures, The Fantastic Other, and Indie Bites.

When I asked Monti what she loves about this story, this was her response:

I love how well the themes of this story work together: it captures growing up in New Zealand, combined with the natural anxieties girls face as we progress to adulthood: desire for belonging and fear of what womanhood means for our safety. The girl in this, like most tween-age girls (although taken to a wild extreme) is both her own best champion and worst enemy.

Talking to Other Girls, by Monti Sturzaker

I hear the front door slam open and my hand slips with the knife, catches the edge of my finger. The sounds of Livvie’s Glassons jacket. Shoes against tiles in the entranceway. I breathe a sigh of relief; she and her friends have made it back safely. The house inhales cold air. My spine pricks.

“Hello girls,” I call. A bead of blood blossoms on my skin. I run the tap, washing crimson down the sink. A murmur of response, footsteps retreating up the stairs. The light flickers in the kitchen. I think to follow them, eager to greet Livvie’s friends – but it’s better to meet teenagers armed with snacks. I cut the rest of the carrots carefully into sticks, out of time with that thomp thomp of my heart.

The Otago Daily Times’ headline glares at me from the counter, and I feel a twinge of guilt. The latest missing girl stares at me from the front page. Five, now. Most are from Columba Girls, Livvie’s school. The police don’t know what to do. After number three, the opinion columnists started flooding in: the town is haunted, they say. Books flying off shelves, doors slamming shut. Spectral figures looming near the girls’ houses. Livvie’s obsessed with the stories of ghosts. Their poor parents, I think, staring into the chilly brightness of the refrigerator. Hopefully the police will find them soon. Carrot sticks, dip, kiwifruit, apple wedges. Are they too old for fairy bread? I try to remember what I liked at her age. 

I unwrap the loaf of bread and lift the margarine out of the fridge. Healthier than butter. My heart thrums a jagged rhythm I can’t interpret. Livvie’s first sleepover. I feel free and giddy – and weighted and anxious. All churning up inside. Gotta get this right. She’s an unpopular kid, I know. Always by herself, poking at dead bugs and pushing those big glasses up her nose. It’s my fault too, not trying hard enough to get her into dance or drama or gymnastics – something to get her talking to other girls. Other girls talking to her. Perhaps I should have given her a sibling. Why was she never interested in other girls, I wonder? 

Fifteen. Soon she’d be a young woman. When she’d announced she wanted a sleepover I’d been caught off-guard. Agreed too quickly. Her face had soured and I couldn’t stop the guilt. You don’t think I can have friends, she’d said, flat affect. A statement. How does one refute a statement? Instead, I’d asked her more questions: what snacks did she want, what time would they be coming over, did she want me to pick up some movies from the video store? None, 5pm, no, the answers had come. They’d go to see a film at Rialto first, she said, pick up food on the way. Don’t disturb us, Mum. 

Perhaps I’m wrong to let her have a sleepover; collecting a lot of girls in one place might be akin to tempting fate, I think, sprinkling the hundreds and thousands across the sliced bread. But Livvie has friends! She’s been so interested in witchcraft books lately, I wonder too late whether these girls are even friendship material. Should I have rung their parents, reassured them that Livvie might be odd, but she’s also sweet? Could’ve sought the same reassurance in return. I eye the food, nervous about meeting her friends. Is she at that age where parents are embarrassing? 

I pause, listening to the reassuring chatter from upstairs. Livvie’s voice, still high-pitched and girlish, rises and falls with the fervour of a story. I’m surprised to find tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, my heart swelling with emotion. A twinge of guilt at feeling joy for my child when so many parents are worried about theirs. Collecting the plates of snacks and a bag of chips, I trod carefully up the stairs, savouring Livvie’s muffled voice through the walls. The temperature drops suddenly, and I shiver, anxious not to spill the food. It must be quite a story, there’s not a single peep from any of the other girls. I open the door. 

My Livvie’s back is to me, her hands raised in oration. Around her are five whispery, ethereal forms. Candles drip wax onto the floor. I drop the tray, fairy bread and carrot sticks skittering away. Livvie turns.

“Mum,” she starts, the I-can-explain dying on her lips. My heart resumes beating; each beat pulsating thickly in my veins. I’m freezing. A pentagram charcoaled on the carpet, a ghost at each point, risen from thick locks of their hair. 

“Did you do this?” my voice trembles: from fear or anger I do not know.

Girls. Their faces all paint the same picture, eyes widened into orbs, lips pressed shut, terror exposed. Apple wedges strewn across the floor. Five other girls.

“You wanted me to have friends, Mum,” – accusatory, whining. I stare at her.

Spectral; Livvie’s open curtains and lime walls visible through their too-skinny bodies. The full moon highlights the scene with grotesque silver. I recognise the ghosts from their headlines. 

“I never… They didn’t like me. They didn’t… I… This was the only way… You don’t understand…”

My mouth opens and closes, useless. What can I possibly say? She did this to them, I realise, the shock striking like lightning. My hands shake. Bile rises in my throat. Livvie sighs. 

“They never wanted to play,” she says, petulant, truth spilling like blood from a wound. “Everything they had to say was boring and I wanted friends that would do what I wanted to do and listen to what I wanted to say and play what I wanted to play.”

The ghosts look at her, their eyes pleading. Kiwifruit crushed into the carpet. 

“But… but isn’t this what you wanted, Mum?” she smiles, fragile. My daughter. My Livvie. My eyes find the girls’ faces again, blood thick in my chest.

The ghosts’ lips aren’t pressed shut, they’re sewn.

Language Drift Over Time

Leave a reply

I was in high school in the mid-1980s, which means I lived through the Valley Girl era in real time. I remember an older kid telling me: “Don’t even get out of the chair or I won’t even hit you.” (Yeah, we had a real weird double-negative talk going there for a while at our High School.)

But every generation has its own version of language and slang.

Today I am picking up language from my 13 year old: “peak,” “mid,” and “low key.” Something can be “peak,” meaning excellent. Something slightly disappointing is “mid.” And “low key” seems to be something that is true but in a casual non-exciting way.

I am also hearing a lot of “Let’s goooo!” as a term for something exciting happening and from a wider audience than just teens.

When I was a kid I recall my grandmother being confused when I had referred to something as “Awesome.” She was a school teacher and I think she felt I was using the word incorrectly. To her, I probably was, but to me it felt perfectly legit 😉

Go back a bit further to fast-talking movie chatter of the 1930s and 1940s and think about the kind of clipped, snappy dialogue in old films. In It’s a Wonderful Life, there’s a tough-guy 1940’s rhythm when Clarence and George get thrown out of a bar: “That’s does it. Out you two pixies go. Out da door or through da window!”

The 1980s were only about forty years ago. The 1940s were less than a century ago. And yet the language from those times already has a foreign feel.

Going back even further, old books ask more of the reader because of language. The sentences are overly wordy, abbreviations and contractions are odd, and the syntax feels awkward at times.

Take the opening of Pride and Prejudice from 1813:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

We would look anyone saying that today with a raised eyebrow. A modern version might be:

“All rich single guys want a wife.”

Shakespeare is another great example:

“Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

Today we might think that Juliet is asking where Romeo is, but she is really asking him why he has to be Romeo and belong to the enemy family. The context of the words have shifted over time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how languages changes over time because of a story I am working on. It’s set aboard a multi-generational ship traveling at 0.9c for 500 years. Generations are born, live, and die without ever seeing the point of origin or the destination. Twenty-three generations will pass aboard that craft. I have to think that language would change a hell of a lot in that time. If the ship has schools, archives, films, instructions, legal codes, songs, and AI systems preserving the original language, then people might still be able to understand older speech. But their everyday language would almost certainly mutate.

I can see meaning of common words changing over time. Shipboard terms would probably become metaphors. Technical jargon would become slang. New insults would appear. (And I am particularly looking forward to playing around with that last one.)

A phrase like “grounded” might lose its Earth meaning and become archaic. “Up” and “down” might depend on spin gravity or deck layout. “Outside” might mean the vacuum of space. “Weather” might mean radiation. “Sunrise” might be ceremonial rather than literal or forgotten altogether.

The fascinating thing is that language change would not just be decoration or a nice nuance. It will be a fundamental part of worldbuilding. Language can also be a great way for me to orient the reader as to what generation they are reading about, particularly if I need to flash back and forth in the story.

I can picture the last generation, getting ready to land the ship at the final destination encountering recorded instructions back from the time of the launch 500 years ago. These characters will probably understand the words, but they will sound the way Shakespeare sounds to us. I could play around with this fact and set up a nice bit of turmoil due to the misunderstanding of the context of some key words.

I am not sure how much I will ultimately rely on the drift of language over time in this story, but I am sharing it as an example of all of the challenges and opportunities language drift can afford us in our writing. It’s one more tool for the toolbox.

Let me know in the comments below whether language drift over time has played a role in any of your stories.

-James

The Stanley Hotel

2 Replies

A couple years back I got to visit the Stanley hotel in Estes Park Colorado. The Stanley is where Stephen King got his idea for The Shining – A classic novel, and later movie, about a writer and his family becoming caretakers of an old hotel during the winter season.

In 1974, Stephen King and his wife, Tabitha, were living for a short time in Boulder, Colorado and were taking a driving trip up past Estes Park. They did not intend on staying in Estes Park, but the heavy snow prevented them from driving on so they decided to spend the night. The hotel was closing for the winter, but, after some negotiation, allowed them to stay as the only guests in the entire place.

That eerie setup gave King the perfect atmosphere for a horror writer: long empty hallways, a quiet dining room with chairs stacked on tables, canned orchestral music echoing through the building, and a bartender named Grady serving drinks in the hotel bar. At one point, King wandered into the bathroom, saw the old claw-foot tub behind a pink curtain, and had the thought: What if someone died here? According to King, that was one of the moments when the idea for The Shining began to take shape.

The night also gave him a nightmare that helped seal the story. He later described dreaming about his young son running down the hotel corridors, terrified, while being chased by a fire hose. King woke up sweating, sat by the window looking out at the Rocky Mountains, smoked a cigarette, and by the time he was done, he said he had the basic structure of The Shining in his head.

It should be noted that the movie is very different than the book. King did not like what Kubric did with the story and eventually filmed his own version at the Stanley hotel. I did enjoy Kubric’s vision for the movie but, to me, the book is definitely better.

The Stanley is also where part of Dumb And Dumber was filmed. Supposedly actor Jim Carrey was staying at the hotel (in room 217 – the same room the King’s stayed in) with the rest of the crew but he got so freaked out by something in his room he left in the middle of the night. He stayed elsewhere in town for the rest of the shoot. He has never publicly talked about this experience.

I loved hearing how the location and creepy old hotel gave King the idea for his book. We never know where story ideas will come from. It was thrilling for me to walk through the buildings and think about how that place in Estes Park triggered his imagination so many years ago.

What has been the most unexpected trigger for your story ideas?

-James

What Happens Next? Holding Intrigue Without Losing the Reader

Leave a reply

One of the most common problems I see in newer writers is the idea that mystery automatically creates interest.

It can, of course. Suspense matters. Curiosity matters. The reader absolutely wants a reason to keep turning pages.

But a lot of novice writers end up holding back so much information that it becomes difficult to care about the main character. This makes the whole story hard to care about. The reader becomes confused, and confusion is one of the main reasons readers quit reading.

There is a real difference between making the reader ask, “What happens next?” and making them ask, “What is going on here, and why should I care?”

Driving curiosity

Readers do not keep reading just because information is missing. They keep reading because they have just enough information that they want more.

They need to understand who they are following, what appears to be happening, and what kind of direction the scene is moving in. They do not need every answer right away but they do need enough clarity to form questions that feel meaningful.

If I open a story and a woman runs out of a church crying, clutching a torn envelope, I already have something to hold onto. I may not know what was in the envelope. I may not know why she is crying. But I understand enough about her plight to feel pulled forward. I have some open questions that keep me interested: Why is she crying? What is in the envelope that has her so upset? Why is she fleeing the church?

If, on the other hand, if the woman is crying and she doesn’t understand why or we are not given enough hints to suggest why, then that kind of mystery often creates distance instead of momentum. This is especially true if the reason for the crying remains open for a long time.

Withholding everything is rarely the answer

I think a lot of new writers believe that if they explain too much, they will ruin the suspense but usually the opposite happens.

When writers withhold too much, the story starts to feel evasive. Scenes hint at danger without defining any real stakes or conflict. The reader is expected to stay invested without being given enough reason to keep going.

You only need to hold back the key information

We do not need to hide a lot. We just need to hide the right thing(s).

Let the reader know the scene, the character’s emotional charge, and the general direction. Hold back the one crucial piece that changes how we interpret it.

Good mystery fiction is a great example of this. A detective can arrive at a crime scene, notice the broken watch, the open window, the missing photograph, and the mud on the carpet. This gives us a lot to work with. The writer is not starving us of information. The writer is guiding our attention while withholding the one or more facts that will reframe everything for us later on.

This set up feels satisfying to the reader because they are engaged in active discovery.

Suggest a direction

One of the best ways to keep readers hooked without becoming obscure is to suggest a direction.

Even if the final destination turns out to be different from what the reader expected, that sense of the story “going somewhere” is important. It gives the reader a line to follow.

If the story offers no direction at all, the reader has to do too much work just to understand why the scene exists. Sadly, sometimes a scene like that shouldn’t exist.

A few useful examples

I remember reading Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery In high school. It’s a great example of controlled withholding. Jackson does not explain everything right away, but instead gives the reader a clear setting, a social ritual, and an ever-growing sense that something isn’t quite right. But she does it in a way where the story doesn’t feel vague. The withheld information is such that we don’t feel lost in the story or confused. She omitted just enough and that kind of precision is what gives the twist ending its force.

You can also see this in film. In Jaws, we do not need endless concealment to feel tension. We know there is a shark. We know the beach town is in danger. We know Brody is heading toward a confrontation. The intrigue comes from escalation and anticipation. There are specific details – in particular the sight of the shark – that is withheld in a way that builds wonderful tension. If you have a chance watch jaws again, it is interesting to see how little of the shark is actually shown. So much is revealed by showing us the effects of the shark but not the shark itself.

Readers want discovery

Readers love putting clues together. They love sensing that there is more beneath the surface. They love the moment when a scene shifts and something clicks into place.

If you want people asking, “What happens next?” then give them just enough to believe the answer will be worth it.

Hold back one or two key pieces but suggest a direction. Then let your story lead the reader into discovery.

A good question to ask while revising

When I am looking at a scene that is supposed to feel suspenseful or curious, I like to ask myself:

Am I causing the reader to leaning forward into the story, or am do I have them confused?

This is a lot trickier to answer than it seems. We know everything about the story so it is hard to fully picture where we might be leaving out too much. We often expect the reader to make bigger jumps and put more together than they often can because we know how it all fits. This is where clarity is once again king. Note that clarity is not the same as revelation. you can be clear and still withhold key information.

If the scene is clear about character, stakes, and objectives (telling us why we should care) , the reader will usually lean into the story.
If the scene is built on a hazy reality with a lot of omission, the reader will usually drift away. I see this a lot in stories where the protagonist is unaware of where they are and what they are doing there. Starting with amnesia is a tricky bit. I loved the movie (and the book even more so) Project Hail Mary but I felt that aspect should have been done differently.

Let me know in the comments below what your thoughts are on how to omit key information and still keep the story engaging.

-James