You’ve written a story. You’ve poured your heart into it. You’ve rewritten sentences, perfected metaphors, and shaped characters you care deeply about. You’re sure it’s good, hell, maybe it’s even great. Yeah, the big names will want this one. It’s probably worthy of The Atlantic or the New Yorker. This could even be the one that finally nails the Pushcart Prize.
Then the wind goes out of your sails when the first person to read your masterpiece points out how you spelled the name of your main character differently in two places in the opening paragraph. How could you have missed that? You must have read through the story a hundred times with all the rewrites. It’s embarrassing and aggravating.
And it’s one of the most fundamental truths in writing: it’s incredibly hard for us to see the flaws in our own work. Here’s why:
We’re Too Close to the Story
Writers live inside the world they’ve created. We know every motivation, backstory, and all the subplots. The backstory that isn’t on the page lives in our heads “rent free” as the kids say. We mentally fill in all of the things we know about the story as we read through it. Your brain fills in the gaps, smoothing over inconsistencies and connecting dots that were never actually drawn and not clear to other readers.
We’re Emotionally Invested
We writers form emotional bonds with our characters and often fall in love with select scenes and phrases. This emotional attachment can make us blind to, or cause us to push back against, needed changes. Cutting scenes and characters, also known as “Killing our darlings” as the saying goes, feels like a loss to us even though it usually makes a story stronger.
Sometimes we don’t really know the Story We’re Telling
We often begin writing with an idea but no clear theme. Or we have a theme but it gets lost in the logistics of plot development. The result is a story that meanders or contradicts itself. I also tend to see a lot of what I call “lopsided stories” where way too many words are spent on things that do not advance the plot or develop the character.
Hard Work Doesn’t Make It Good
We sometimes confuse “I worked hard on this” with “This is the best it can be.” But hard work doesn’t guarantee a polished end result. Rewriting, re-envisioning, and sometimes throwing everything out and rethinking it from the ground up, often lead to better storytelling.
Our Brains Want to Be Done
Writing is hard. Getting through that first draft is a triumph. So when we type “The End,” part of our brain wants it to be done. The desire to move on and submit makes us less critical of our work. We stop interrogating where the story doesn’t work.
So What Can You Do?
Time: Step away from your draft. A few weeks or even months can give you enough distance to see it with fresh eyes. Sometimes when I go through my “false starts” that I haven’t touched in years, I am surprised at what I see. It often feels like someone else wrote the words I am seeing. (and I mean that in both in a good and bad way). This is the ideal kind of distance you want from your work, where you have forgotten about the story entirely and are coming at it completely fresh. Unfortunately that isn’t always practical.
Read your work out loud: A more immediate solution is reading your story out loud. In Steve Martin’s Masterclass he talked about how he reads his work to his cat. I will even record myself reading a story so I can play it back later and really listen. Hearing your story often reveals awkward pacing, unclear dialogue, or tonal shifts you might miss otherwise.
Re-outline: After the first draft, take the time to outline what you actually wrote. It often differs from your plan and can reveal plot holes. One trick I have learned, especially if if I have “pantsered” a story is to force chapter breaks and title those breaks in the story as though they were chapter headings. I do this even though I am mainly writing short stories, which don’t usually have chapter titles. It really helps me to see the plot progression and where I have sections that repeat information previously covered. It also really helps me to see where I can cut.
Get feedback from others: Other people have a fresh set of eyes and the advantage of knowing nothing about the story. No preconceived notions, no biases (other than these people are likely your friends so they might be softer on you than you need). Issues we tend to read past will stand out to them like a neon sign.
Recognizing that we have literary blind spots is the first step toward better writing. Every great story was once a messy draft, written by someone who couldn’t see the flaws, until they eventually found a way to work through them, often by giving a story time and/or getting feedback from others.
We often talk about the craft of writing as if the words on the page are the story. But that’s not quite true.
What you write isn’t the story, it’s the framework used to trigger an imaginative experience inside the reader’s mind. The real story happens inside the reader’s head.
Every reader brings their own experiences, biases, memories, and emotional context to your work. When two different people read the same story, they don’t actually experience the same story. One reader might see a character’s silence as deep introspection, another might read it as passive aggression. A setting described as “dusty and quiet” might evoke peaceful nostalgia for one reader and tension or dread for another.
It’s one of the challenges of storytelling. You have to structure what you write so that your readers fill in the blanks with their own intelligence and intuition in the way that provides the experience and emotion you intend.
This is where reading is very different from going to see a movie. When watching a movie, all of the images and sounds are pushed to us, predefined with little room for our own creative interpretation. Because of this, the story inside the head of every member of the audience will be very similar.
When reading, a story only happens when a reader engages with your words and transforms them into sights, sounds, feelings, and meaning.
I subscribe to the theory that most of what we are trying to do when we tell a story is get people to feel. Emotion is what makes people care about what happens to the characters in the story and that keeps the pages turning.
I also like to think of it in terms of writing to create an experience.
Be intentional, but not controlling. You can guide the experience, but you shouldn’t dictate every detail. The reader is your collaborator.
Embrace slight ambiguity. Sometimes, the most powerful moments are the ones left just a little open-ended, allowing the reader to land on their own truth. Be careful here, clarity is still king, don’t omit too much and leave the reader confused. Confusion makes the reader put down the story and walk away.
Revise with the reader’s interpretation in mind. Ask yourself: Will this paragraph spark the right images and emotions? Or am I over-explaining and closing down possibilities for the reader to work with my words to make the story their own?
A story only lives when someone interprets in within the context of themselves.
You will write a lot of words that never, ever get read.
I often wonder how much content writers like Stephen King have that will never see the light of day. We tend to measure how prolific a writer is by what makes it to print, but how many drafts and failed attempts are sitting back there in his creepy Victorian home that will never make it to print? I can only imagine it is double or three times what he has had published, probably even a lot more.
Chances are the vast majority of your words will go unread by anyone other than yourself. Even if you do manage to get published, the number of eyeballs parsing your prose is likely far fewer than you think.
I recall hearing the majority of traditionally published books sell between 200 and 2,000 copies over their entire lifetime and self-published books often fare even worse, with many selling fewer than 100 copies total.
Those numbers might make you want to stop. Why write if no one is going to read it? Why struggle with plot, voice, pacing, or character arcs when no one will see it?
We say we write for others, but we actually write for ourselves.
It’s like working out. The final physique might be for the world. But the daily discipline of exercise is ours alone. The early mornings, the sore muscles, the days when you show up just to keep the streak alive, few see that (nor do we want them to) yet it is essential.
Writing is the same. Every word you write teaches you something. Every awkward paragraph, every overwrought metaphor, every false start are all part of the mental muscle-building.
Those words we throw out are the reps needed to get to the words we keep.
I’m not an expert on how to get there. Honestly, I’m probably a better example of what not to do. This very Blog is a great example. As of this writing, there is not a lot of daily traffic. I can blame it on the SEO algorithm, but it’s probably comes down to me not be writing what people want to read.
But still, I write. Ignoring the stats and pushing through because, while I hope people find value in what I have to say, the truth is these words are mostly for me.
If you’re a writer who feels unseen, just know that you’re not alone. Even if your words don’t find a large audience, they still matter. Words that are thrown away are essential. They are needed to get to the words we keep; the ones that end up being foundational elements for the strange and beautiful craft of turning thoughts into language and language into story.
So keep writing the words that don’t get read until you get to the ones that do.
“Andy knew this was his last chance to make things right with Cindy.”
With just one sentence, we’re already leaning in. The stakes are clear; there’s a relationship on the line. We don’t know the details yet, but we already care.
This is the power of starting with stakes.
When readers pick up a story, they’re subconsciously asking, “Why should I care?”
That doesn’t mean you need a car chase on page one. It means the story must immediately communicate that something is at risk, and that it matters deeply to someone. Stakes create tension.
Early Conflict = Early Investment
Going back to our opening line:
“Andy knew this was his last chance to make things right with Cindy.”
From this, we immediately understand:
There’s a broken relationship.
There’s urgency: a last chance.
There’s emotional weight: he wants to “make things right.”
We don’t know what Andy did and we don’t know if Cindy will forgive him, but we already want to see what happens.
The Mistake to Avoid
Too many stories start with background instead of conflict. A little background is fine. It helps to orient us as to what is going on and color in tone and setting. But often times I see stories where the author goes on for pages describing the setting or a scene before for we get to anything that matters to the character. The quicker you can get to the core conflict or stakes, the better.
Try This Exercise
Take the first paragraph of any story you are currently working on. Ask yourself:
What’s at risk here?
Does the character know it?
Will the reader care?
If the answer to any of those is “not yet,” consider revising to make sure these questions are answered.
Stakes are a promise to the reader
Keep in mind that starting with stakes is a promise to the reader. When we mention Andy’s situation in the opening line in the way we did, we are committing to our reader that by the end of the story there will be answers as to how Andy got into that situation and what the outcome will be for him.
Stakes make us care what happens and that keeps us reading.
When I think about the vast landscape of what I haven’t written yet it feels daunting. There are so many authors out there writing way more than me. I can picture them writing away at this very moment outpacing me word by word.
It takes a lot of stories and a lot of submitting for authors to gain even a small presence. Having had some success, I also know that you have to write a lot of bad stories before you finally unearth the good ones.
It’s a lot like the feeling I get when I have a big TODO list. it’d daunting, I just know I will never get through it all.
Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”
That mindset has helped me, no only with my TODO lists, but with writing as well. There is a power to realizing that I really only need to focus on the very next story. After that, I really only need to focus on submitting it. After that, move onto the next one. We eat the cow one hamburger at a time, as the saying goes.
If you are like me and often feel buried under the weight of what you haven’t written, step back from the overwhelming wide view and narrow it down.
It’s not: look at all I have to do!
But rather
What’s next?
Let me know in the comments below what’s next for you.
If you’re a writer of fiction with limited publishing success, consider writing nonfiction.
Why would you want to do that? Because it will make you a better writer.
The elements that make good fiction are the same for nonfiction. You need to tell a story. If you think about it, most stories are nonfiction. “Did you hear about what happened to Bill and Susie?”
You also have a better chance of getting published and getting paid.
There is a continual demand for nonfiction and there is money involved, primarily due to advertising revenue. If a magazine publishes monthly, with the ads already sold, when the first of the month rolls around you can be damn sure they will be putting out a magazine. And what do they place around and among all the ads? Nonfiction writing! Original words! Your story!
If you start getting published and receive positive feedback, it will inspire you to continue your writing journey. Writing is difficult and lonely. Making a connection with readers makes it less difficult and lonely.
——————-
Hello Breaking Into The Craft readers. I’m Matthew Walter, friends since first grade with your BITC creator, James Miller. Besides our friendship, we support each other’s writing and discuss the craft.
When James told me his idea for a new direction for BITC, I said, “Go for it! When you look at the supply and demand of fiction, there has to be tons of good stories that never see the light of day.” I’m glad to see his weekly posts and read some good fiction.
I love reading fiction and writing fiction. However, I’m primarily a writer of nonfiction. I respect you writers of fiction, because writing fiction is a struggle for me. But if your goal is to get published, try writing some targeted nonfiction.
For ideas, turn to your work and interests. If you’ve spent any time in a workplace, I’m sure you’ve been struck with an idea about how to make something better. See if there is a trade magazine that would publish your ideas.
If you have a hobby, chances are there is a magazine or website looking for content. I’m an avid disc golfer and I published a humorous piece on some of the disc golf forums. I received overwhelmingly positive responses, with a few negative (You have to take the good with the bad.)
Your local newspaper would almost certainly accept good writing on pertinent topics. Look for a question no one is answering. Do your research and become a reporter. Even Stephen King started out writing for his school newspaper.
Get writing and see what you can accomplish. You may surprise yourself.
I’ve been writing and selling my nonfiction writing for the past fifteen years. I started my blog, Curiousfarmer, in 2009. I had never written much before that. I liked the challenge of crafting an interesting story, and it was a way of capturing my thoughts and questions as I farmed.
Without ever proclaiming myself an expert, my blog quietly proclaimed it for me. It wasn’t long before an editor at Successful Farmingfound me and asked if I would contribute. I said sure. I was honored, as my family has been reading that magazine forever.
I wrote and sold three articles to Successful Farming. They pay well. When an editor suggests changes, I always have the revision back to them within 24 hours. They pay enough; I’m not about to argue my work is too precious to edit.
Successful Farming is in the commodity agriculture business and I’m a regenerative farmer, so ultimately we weren’t a good fit. If I could go back in time, with the writing experience I have now, I may try to pitch different ideas to work with them. But I let it go at the time.
I kept posting to my blog. I received some positive feedback, but was mostly internally driven, which is a great character trait for a writer. I had no real writing goals, but I just kept posting, building my body of work.
I partnered with another couple to market our products in Madison, Wisconsin under the brand name Jordandal Farms. When their marriage ended, the partnership dissolved and I didn’t want to pay what they wanted for their share of our brand name.
Voila! I started over as Curiousfarmer, with an online presence dating back nearly ten years and hundreds of posts. When potential customers wanted to check us out, I could direct them to Curiousfarmer.com. This thing I had been doing for no compensation other than the joy of doing it, was now valuable to me.
A couple years later, Covid hit, and when our farmer’s market was shut down, I was forced to pivot again. I had been assembling a small email list. I sent an email to all our customers asking if they would like to meet in Madison for a contactless meat drop off. Many of them wanted to!
If you remember the early months of Covid, there was a scarcity mindset but my business boomed. I added to customers to my email list weekly.
I settled on an every other week delivery schedule. On the Saturday I wasn’t delivering, I sent an email to my customers reminding them I was coming to Madison next week and to place their order if they wanted anything. I quickly got bored with the typical email, listing what we had in stock, what was good, etc. I was basically saying, “buy my bratwurst.”
I realized that besides good meat, most of my customers wanted a connection with a farmer, so I reasoned a short story about the farm might be appreciated. It was. I received even more positive feedback about my writing and felt the challenge to come up with a new story every other week. It propelled my writing to another level.
I started to really enjoy writing and the process of discovery. Not always, but sometimes, it felt like I was uncovering hidden treasure. I got busy after our outdoor farmer’s market opened back up when Covid tailed off. I decided to save my stories for the winter months when I would return to email marketing.
I’m not sure why, but I got the notion to try to sell some articles again. I was subscribing to two regenerative ag magazines, Acres USA and Stockman Grass Farmer. I submitted an article to Acres USA and was rejected. I submitted to Stockman Grass Farmer and was accepted.
I decided to concentrate my efforts on Stockman Grass Farmer as that seemed to be a better fit for my expertise. I asked the editors what they were after and then tried to shape my articles to their specs.
Its working. In the last few years I’ve published ten articles in Stockman Grass Farmer. This year is shaping up to be my best year yet, with four articles published already and four months to go.
I worked really hard last winter in my slower farming time and submitted eleven articles. Stockman Grass Farmer works a bit differently; they don’t tell you if they accepted your article, they either publish it or they don’t. The first time I know an article is accepted is when an issue comes out and I find one of mine in there. I receive a check shortly after. They usually don’t edit my articles, but when they do, they just do it themselves, sometimes in ways I don’t like, but they’re paying, so I never complain.
This is my experience with writing and selling nonfiction. Unless I become way more prolific, I’ll continue to focus on submitting to Stockman Grass Farmer as we seem to be a good fit.
In the meantime, to challenge myself, I’m working on fiction. I feel like I have a head start finding my voice because of all the nonfiction stories I’ve written. My wife sees the checks come in, so she never rolls her eyes when I say, “I’m working on my writing.”
Nonfiction has catapulted me into writing. It may do the same for you. Give it a try.
I thought I would take a moment to comment on the use of AI to write fiction. My position on it is that if you are using AI to write fiction, you are cheating yourself.
You also miss out on the opportunity to learn. Like many things, writing is about the journey rather than the destination. *
There is an in-the-moment cognitive side to writing, but there is also a muscle-memory subconscious side to it as well. As any writer can attest, when you are in the groove, or flow state it is sometimes called, you get to a point of uncertainty as to where the ideas are actually coming from. It can feel like there is place almost outside of yourself that you draw upon like a medium, allowing the words to funnel through you and onto paper. You get to the end of the tale and realize the story took on a life of its own; independent, and separate from your initial intended direction.
I do find AI to be a good educational tool when it comes to writing. For example, I noticed a lot of stories in Analog are in present tense. I don’t write in present tense very often (or very well), so I prompted ChatGPT with “Write a short fiction story in present tense” to see an example:
Title: The Elevator Stops at Floor Six
The elevator jerks to a halt.
I frown at the glowing button panel. No one pressed six. I’m alone, briefcase in hand, already late for the pitch meeting on twenty-one. The doors part with a reluctant sigh.
The hallway beyond is dark.
Not pitch-black, just… dim, like the building forgot to pay full attention here. The lights flicker weakly overhead, casting yellow puddles on the faded green carpet. It smells faintly of dust and something sharper—ozone, maybe. Like after a thunderstorm.
I shouldn’t step out. I don’t want to. But something tugs at me. Curiosity, or maybe the sense that I’ve been here before, in a dream I forgot to remember.
I cross the threshold.
The doors close behind me with a metallic whisper. I turn, startled, but there’s no button, no panel—just blank wall where the elevator once stood.
The hallway stretches in both directions. Silent. Still.
I pick a direction.
The silence isn’t empty. It hums. The way an old CRT TV would hum, just on the edge of hearing. And there’s something else—a soft sound, like paper rustling. I follow it.
At the end of the corridor is a door. Pale wood, unmarked, slightly ajar.
Inside is a room with no windows and a long table surrounded by mismatched chairs. A single incandescent bulb dangles from the ceiling. On the table: a stack of manila folders. Each one has a name written in marker on the front.
Mine is on top.
I don’t want to touch it, but I do. I open it.
Inside are photos—of me. Some are recent. Others are from years ago, moments I barely remember: my eighth birthday, the night I broke my arm in college, the exact second I decided not to call my father back.
I flip deeper.
There are transcripts. Conversations I’ve had, thoughts I haven’t spoken. One page reads: He steps into the hallway, knowing he shouldn’t.
My breath catches.
I look up.
There’s someone in the chair at the far end of the table. I didn’t see him come in. He’s wearing a suit that doesn’t fit quite right and has a face that feels like it’s borrowed—familiar, but wrong. He smiles gently.
“You’re early,” he says.
“For what?”
He opens a folder of his own.
“For your reassignment.”
I stare. “I don’t work here.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “But you came to floor six.”
He gestures around the room. The walls are pulsing slightly, like they’re breathing. The air smells like memory.
“This building is a little miswired,” he continues. “Sometimes people press twenty-one and end up here.”
“What is this place?”
“A sorting room,” he says simply. “Some floors are about destinations. This one’s about decisions.”
I back toward the door. It’s no longer there.
“You can go back,” he says. “But you won’t be the same. That’s the price of seeing this place.”
“What’s the other option?”
He taps my file. “Stay. Help sort.”
I look down at the folder still in my hands. My photo stares up, mid-blink. I can’t tell if it’s asking or warning.
Behind me, the hum grows louder. The lights flicker once, then steady.
I pull out the chair beside him and sit.
Ok, that’s not too shabby. Maybe not the best short fiction I’ve ever read, but it did what I asked and gave a me respectable short fiction story in present tense.
Will I ever be tempted to submit this and feel like I was in any way the one who “created” it, just because I came up with the promp? No. Absolutely not. That is crossing my moral boundary and firmly against the rules of most markets.
(And yes, I do see the irony of publishing it on this blog, even as an example.)
Do I think AI will get even better in the future? Yes, absolutely it will.
AI will be able to emulate other writers and may even come to have a voice of its own (which is a weird and unsettling thought for me) but my voice is unique as well, and it is really up to me to put in the time and effort to build my body of work so I can be heard.
And I also think there is something cathartic about expressing ideas in your own distinct voice.
So until AI pries the keyboard from my cold dead hands, I will continue to write. I do it for the journey, for my own mental health, and just in case someone out there might read it and think, “Hey, I like what this guy has to say.”
-James
* I fully acknowledge this must sound like a bit of double-talk coming from a place with a tag line that reads: “All about getting published,”
Wow, I can’t believe it has taken me this long to find Aeryn Rudel’s wonderful site Rejectomancy
I’m a guy who landed his first published piece by blogging about the hidden meaning in all the rejection letters I was getting so it amazes me I haven’t come across Aeryn’s site earlier.
You basically score points for rejection letters, acceptance letters and the situations around them — like getting two rejections in one day or whether or not the rejection was a personal rejection or a form letter.
The XP points correlate to different levels which correlate to “spells” (which appear to be still under construction) and to Resistance levels, which have fun names like “Baby Bunny” and “Adamantium.”
I love the way Aeryn has taken something like rejection letters, a thing that can be negative on a personal and emotional level, and gamified it into something fun and motivating. This tells me a lot about how he must handle adversity. I wish I had that kind of attitude!
Make Believe comes to us from Kurt Fillmore. It has been [mistakenly] rejected by the following:
The Sun Magazine
The Atlantic
The Boulevard Magazine
Kurt provided the following Bio:
I was born in the central valley of California in 1960. I spent my early youth moving between Fresno, Merced, and Dinuba. After that I did a hitch with the U.S. Navy, reaching Photographer’s Mate 3rd class (E-4), and getting an Honorable Discharge in 1985. Along the way, I was writing. Some short stories, but mostly Motion Picture Screenplays. I never did sell anything, but my skills improved. I bopped from job to job, moving to Sonoma County in Northern California and getting training in Electronics technology. I began work as a Technician testing and repairing board level circuits in 1996. Various economic down turns took their toll and I was again moving from job to job. I’ve been working as a Technical Manager for a family fun center, or arcade, since 2015. After the Screen Writer’s Guild Strike I gave up on my dream of selling a screenplay and moved back to writing stories. In 2025 I made my first sale. ‘Make Believe’ is my second. I will continue writing fiction in various genres, inventing characters and situations that I hope readers will enjoy.I am active on Bluesky – where I follow writers, artists, and filmmakers.
When I asked Kurt what he loves about this story, this was his response:
As to what I love about this story, I think I love the first person immediate way it’s put together. When I wrote it I knew I wanted a back and forth between the director and the producer. Didn’t really have a plan, just let things evolve naturally.
Make Believe, by Kurt Fillmore
Charlie’s got me cornered up on a scaffolding. We’re watching as carpenters tack wood moldings down a length of wall, shots from nail guns sounding all around. Behind Charlie a pair of muscular twins, both union painters, sweep hoses over the facade, spraying brown paint in a mist and breathing through their respirators.
In a few weeks we’ll be filming the big bank robbery scene. I’m directing, from a script that Charlie, the producer, hired a writer to bang out. But Charlie’s been messing with the story, and I’m not happy.
“Two people come out of a building,” he says.
“Yeah, and?”
Charlie toys with the flaked end of his cigar, well chewed, but never lit. “I’m getting to that. It’s raining, see?”
“We’ll have to tent the cameras and bring in a crane,” I say, “spray rigs, hoses.”
Charlie waves off my concerns. “It’s cheap, Maxie owes me.”
About then I hear faint strains of music.
My one, my only prayer, is that someday you’ll care.
Charlie’s watch chimes “It’s Only Make Believe” every hour. On set he bunches up the sleeve of his suit and presses hard against his wrist at 8:59, then at 9:59, 10:59, and so on. I think his wife got him the watch, and some color blind, long-distance trucker turned fashion consultant talked him into that white suit with the wide, cream lapels.
I nod and check my own watch. Just two o’clock.
The craft truck, with treasures of iced bottled water, waits two stories below.
And Charlie stands between me and the ladder.
“The two people walk under a street lamp and we see it’s George and Annabell.”
I groan and look off at the horizon. The edges of Charlie’s mouth move down; the tip of his cigar sags.
“You don’t like her,” Charlie says, “I know.”
“I like her fine, Charlie. It’s a bit role, and what little talent the gal’s got I can work with.”
“A bit role? I’m talking about changing that. Putting more meat into it.”
Yeah, he’s putting the meat in all right, I think to myself.
I lift the screenplay, rolled into a pastel blue baton, and tap a clean spot on the scaffold’s railing.
“The last rewrite you submitted cost us three days. The one before that almost a week.” I smack the rail again, putting a crease into the paper. “No more.”
Charlie stands straighter, takes the cigar out of his mouth and smacks his lips.
“The story’s not done. I’m still exploring options.”
“You’re banging Annabell.”
“So what if I am? She’s talented. More than you with your little Clio’s and your ‘People’s Choice’ pretending to be a feature film, music video shit.”
In this business, scriptwriters get rewritten, temperamental stars get thrown out, and directors get replaced. ‘Creative Differences’ means that somebody somewhere didn’t want to play ball. You never hear of a Producer getting the sack — and I mean never.
“I’ll have to see the pages,” I say. “I probably won’t like ’em.”
“Like, don’t like, whatever, you just set it up and shoot it. That’s your job.”
“You’re trying to inflate her role. For what, a little more sack time?”
“Stick to pointing the camera around. Leave the details to me.”
I swear under my breath and duck under the railing, ever mindful of physics and the pavement below. I shimmy along the outside of the scaffold to the ladder and climb down, half tempted to toss the script.
I hit bottom and march to the craft truck.
Later that evening our little group has a banquet table at Morten’s. Charlie sits next to Annabell, who’s all thin giggles and heavy sighs. I’m across from Dan Arbrist, the money man from the studio.
“Mike, the footage we’re getting looks great,” Dan says.
Charlie leans in, “didn’t I tell you? The kid’s a natural.”
Annabell nips at her lower lip, gives a shoulder-hunching grin of joy. She clings to Charlie’s arm.
George Deveroe and Tischa Berringer sit to my right; the male buddies of our heist picture. George toys with a silver dessert spoon, moving a thin sludge of chocolate around the bottom of a serving dish. He smiles when he catches me watching.
The last man at the table is Achmehem bin Taschem. He’s putting up two thirds of the production money. The studio, via Dan, is putting up the rest. Charlie’s the hub. He purchased the story rights from a second-rate crime novelist eager to push paperback sales.
“There have been many delays,” Taschem says.
“A few things,” Charlie says. “It’s in the budget allowance. Speaking of which, I’ve got a scene to add where George and Annabell come out of the Depository building.”
Dan and Taschem stare at Charlie.
“We need it, hand of God,” Charlie says, raising his own. “Annabell’s the wedge that comes between George and Tischa. We’ve got to show the moment they connect.”
Charlie grabs his cigar, waves it at me. “And if Junior here would pick up the pace, it won’t cost us any extra time.”
Now Dan and Taschem stare at me.
“I’m right on schedule,” I say. “This is my first feature. I don’t need any delays; I want everything to go smoothly.”
Taschem nods. “Of course.”
Tischa pulls a cigarette from a thin, black metal case. He taps the filter hard against the metal, then stops. “Shit, we can’t smoke in here, can we?”
“Let’s go out on the terrace,” Dan suggests.
So out we go.
The heat has mellowed with a soft breeze coming up from the coast. The seven of us make a rough oval; talking shop about the movie and upcoming scenes.
Taschem opens his briefcase and lifts out a box of cigars.
“A gesture, for everyone.” He scoops up several cigars, cuts the ends with a bronze finger tool, and hands them out.
“To our success on this venture,” Taschem says.
Annabell cups her cigar. “Thank you.”
George accepts his, but Tischa declines with a wave of his smoking cigarette.
“Are these Cuban?” Charlie asks. Taschem nods. Charlie throws the worn stub of his previous chew toy off the balcony, bites down on the new one.
“Tischa, lend me your lighter,” I say.
Tischa flips the lid open, spinning the striker and igniting it in one smooth, even motion. He hands it over.
I raise the flame to the end of my cigar, but don’t light it.
“Actually Charlie,” I say, “you’re the man tonight; the reason we’re doing this picture.”
I lean towards him, enjoying his scowl as I raise the lighter.
Charlie glances from face to face, smooths his suit jacket with a free hand. “That’s, well, to say”
Taschem closes his eyes and purses his lips, waves his thick fingers beneath his own nose. “These cigars are the finest available to man. I’m sure you will enjoy their rare qualities. I relish them.”
Annabell’s arm is looped around Charlie’s. He’s stuck and he knows it.
“Charlie?” I ask. I grin, and light his cigar.
Charlie sucks and the flame pulls towards the end. The tobacco smolders, lines of combustion run along the edges of the leaves. Charlie draws in again, and the end starts to glow. Another puff and smoke billows around the corners of Charlie’s mouth.
I draw the lighter back and bring the flame to my own cigar. It’s good, though rather pungent. I lean towards George, Dan, then Taschem, lighting each in turn.
“Charlie, are you okay?” Annabell asks.
A flush of red shows at the hollow of Charlie’s neck. He draws away from Annabell’s grip, touches the tip of his nose with a finger. “Sweetie, I’m just…”
He coughs and a drip of something green flips over his lower lip.
“Excuse me,” Charlie says.
He runs, coughing repeatedly, and drops to grab the rim of a potted palm. He pukes, and up comes seventy-five dollars’ worth of beef, rice pilaf, and Dewar’s Gold Label.
Annabell darts towards him, legs swishing left and right, but Charlie’s already up and running to the rest room.
Taschem tugs the sleeve of Dan’s suit. “Is he all right?”
“I hope so.” Dan frowns, then glances my way, the whites of his eyes giving an angry flash.
I puff my cigar. “The delays we’ve had so far, have been story-related.”
Taschem nods.
“Assuming no more story changes, we should stay on schedule.”
“Very good. We add the Depository scene, and then we are done.”
“Right,” I say, “after that, no more story changes.”
Almost a month later and we’re on the studio back lot, getting pelted by man-made rain.
“And – Cut!”
The first assistant repeats my command and the camera eases to a halt. I give a thumbs up, adjust my poncho, and step away from the dolly.
We’ve been on night shoots now for over a week. George and Tischa have played out their friendship across steel cables, along the edges of buildings, and down service access ways into bank vaults.
“Let’s wrap,” I shout.
“Thank God,” George says. He disengages from Annabell, steps over the chrome track and walks around to the monitor. “Can I see the playback?”
“Sure.”
I tap the Operator on the shoulder and he speaks into his headset mike. A moment later the LCD flat panel comes to life; and there they are, George and Annabell, walking through a backlit cascade of rain. George pulls the monitor closer, extending the rod and swivel.
Annabell glances around, nibbles her lower lip again. Sorry kid, Charlie’s been laying low.
George shifts the monitor to the side and waves Annabell over. She crosses the rails carefully and ducks under the camera tent. We watch the scene play out and Annabell breaks into a huge grin when she and George kiss.
“Nicely done,” I say. “Good job George, Anne.”
Maxie, Charlie’s brother-in-law, steps up beside me. His poncho rustles as he looks around my arm at the monitor. He nods. “Nice. Kill the rain then?”
“Sure Max, kill the rain.”
Max sweeps two fingers past his temple in salute. He raises a walkie-talkie, thumbs the switch, and gives an order. The rain stops and clear blackness tumbles down behind it. Maxie wanders off to see about hoses and other matters.
Everybody removes their rain gear. The grips start tearing down stands and unhooking cables. The Operator and Focus Puller unbolt the camera from the dolly jib, then place it carefully into its aluminum crated foam.
The First Assistant hands me a clip board with tomorrow’s schedule. “Good one Mike,” she says. “Print ’em all?”
“Last three,” I say. Then to George and Annabell, “Call’s at six.”
Annabell shivers as she tugs the soaked coat free from her shoulders. “How many more nights on the schedule?”
I check. “Just two, we’re zooming right along.”
“Now,” George says.
I smile. “Yeah. Now.”
All the details get tidied up and I walk away from the facades, down the pavement and along the back lot buildings towards my car. I hear water trickling from somewhere; maybe a drain. As I walk the sound gets louder, the syllables more distinct.
I look up to the tops of the buildings. Girders and braces form triangles, shoring up what appear to be coarsely grained bricks of Brownstone buildings. An eight inch hose snakes below the truss, black against silver, held up by loops of rope.
There is still the sound of water.
I groan, then shift my shoulders, moving around a frigid drip that’s run down my neck. I look up and spot a stream of water escaping from the hose and arcing over like a crystal geyser into my convertible.
My car is full of water. The body has squashed down over the tires and now rests almost on the rims. Ripples lick over the surface; dart between the headrests. A flotilla of baby ducks could paddle back to front, plunge down, and feed over the floor boards.
Then I hear music, faint but getting closer:
My hopes, my dreams come true, my one and only you.
Charlie and Maxie come around the corner, Charlie’s arm wrapped over Maxie’s shoulders.
“The rain was beautiful, just beautiful,” Charlie says. “We might get an Oscar for cinematography.”
They both stop at the sight of my convertible. Maxie laughs then cuts it short with a hand fastened to his mouth.
“My god Mike, I’m so sorry,” Maxie says. “I thought I was losing water pressure somewhere.”
Charlie chews a new cigar. He looks down at the sheets of water pouring over the door of my car, splashing across the pavement, and puddling at his feet. He smirks at me, lips curling up around those neon white, capped teeth.
“I hope those Clios are water proof,” Charlie chuckles.
“I’ll shut it off at the mains. Right now,” Maxie says.
He and Charlie walk away, but it seems to me that they’re not hurrying much.
I grip the door handle, and open it, letting loose the inevitable flood.
A week later and I’m standing in a Marigold orange vestibule at Casa Charlie. Someone’s hung a neon painting of the Madonna on black velvet in the alcove on the right.
“Mike, I’m so glad you could make it,” Mrs. Charlie says. “Did you get your car fixed up?”
“Yes Ma’am, it’s in the shop.”
“Call me Helen,” says Mrs. Charlie. She’s ten years younger than Charlie, and her arm flesh wobbles a bit beneath several layers of white silk. She toys with a chunk of Tiffany that hangs around her neck.
“I hope it wasn’t expensive.”
“Nothing that a three picture deal won’t fix,” I say.
She laughs. “Come in and join everybody.” She steps towards the living room, then frowns back, eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
I point to the Madonna. “One of yours?”
“God no. Charlie won’t let me take that hideous thing down. I’m tempted to throw a drape over it whenever we entertain.”
I chuckle and follow her.
She gives me the short tour, and along the way I get introduced to society mavens, a few film critics, and one member of the Motion Picture Ratings Board who also attends Mrs. Charlie’s church. The house is open to the gentle night air. Festive lights fill the expansive drawing room, illuminating various groups as they move from the open bar and Hors d’oeuvres table to the Tiki torches outlining the backyard.
Mrs. Charlie drops me off and goes to make sure the ice buckets are full. She never makes it, strutting away instead to answer the jangle of the doorbell.
George, Tischa, and Annabell stand beside Charlie, along with another man I don’t know.
“I’ve thought about it,” Charlie says, “and the only thing that makes sense, is that Annabell’s an FBI agent, undercover.”
“Could be exciting,” the other man says.
Dan the studio rep joins us, a tumbler of golden liquid over ice in his hand.
“FBI?” Dan says.
“You bet,” Charlie says. “If Annabell can get both guys falling in love with her, it throws their game off. And if she’s a fed, then George and Tischa are in huge danger. They could get arrested, they could get shot. It changes everything.”
Dan sips his drink, “I thought we agreed no more changes.”
“The story’s got to have what it needs,” Charlie says. He grins at Annabell and she wrinkles her nose like a pleased little ferret.
“We already have a story, Charlie. You paid for it, remember?” I say.
“That story was shit.”
“But it’s the story we promised the studio,” I say.
The other man’s face pales a bit. “You are gonna to make the release date? Right?”
Ahh- another studio bean counter.
Dan sighs. “Of course we’ll hit the date. Mike’s got thing’s moving pretty well.”
“I don’t want any more story changes Dan,” I say. “I’ll be sweating in post just to get this thing cut the way it is now.”
“Junior’s a little nervous is all,” Charlie says. “A woman brings in the female ticket sales, you know, the love story angle.”
Dan’s eyebrows go up and he nods.
“See?” Charlie says. “Drama. The kid doesn’t know how to make a good story yet, but I’ll teach ‘im.”
I hold back any retort. After all — the producer never gets the sack.
I spend the next hour fuming and drinking. A lady film critic pesters me about our project, asking for “just a few juicy bits, for my readers.”
We’re standing in the backyard. The hot tub is silent. Cupped petals of frosted white plastic hold floating candles that drift across the larger body of the pool. Reflections from the Tiki torches bounce across ripples stirred up by the night winds.
“Sorry,” I say, “the only thing juicy here is you.”
She blushes on que then gives me her business card and pirouettes away. When I glance up from reading her phone number, she’s smiling over her shoulder at me.
I smile back, then wander inside to freshen my vodka.
“You should eat a little something Mike,” George says.
I cap the bottle and glance at the tidbits on the next table. Nothing looks appealing.
“How are the crab cakes?” I ask.
“Not bad. Better than three shots on an empty stomach.”
Annabell has been hovering about the food table. As much as I’ve been drinking, she’s been sneaking bites of cheese, sausages, and crackers. Now she’s grazing towards the spinach dip and pita platter.
“I ate earlier.”
“Don’t like party snacks?”
“Not so much, no. What’s Annabell drinking?”
George looks over. “White Zin, I think.”
I nod, put my own glass down and uncork the bottle. I walk over.
Annabell pokes half a pita chip into her mouth, then swallows quickly and tries to hide it. “Mike. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m doing good Anne.” I raise the bottle and she smiles and holds out her glass.
“I don’t know what year this is, but I like it,” she says.
I fill her glass —
— and slip my present into her handbag.
“So tomorrow we shoot George and Tischa breaking into the vault,” I say.
“Silly boys. They’re hogging all the glory.”
I smile. “The story is about two guys robbing a bank.”
“Charlie says he’s going to schedule some reshoots.”
Something in my face puts her on the defensive. She squirms, knowing that she’s given away some secret.
“Charlie said he wants to focus more on me, on what my character is going through.”
I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say. “If that’s what Charlie wants.”
“Really? You’re all right with that?”
I shrug. “Come the day, we’ll shoot the scenes and see what happens.”
Annabell hugs me, and I nearly drop the wine bottle. I glance around, but nobody notices my shock. She steps back, “I’m gonna have to rethink you, Mike.”
“Rethink?” I say.
“You surprise me,” she says, then scrapes white cream cheese and green spinach onto a cracker.
I cock my head and grin. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”
Later I find Charlie presiding over Dan and the studio bean counter. Dan’s eyes droop, his chin follows, and then he jerks his head upright.
“Not boring you, am I?” Charlie asks.
“It’s getting late,” Dan says. “I should go.”
“You should have Mike drive you,” Charlie says.
The other man grins. “Someone with some sobriety should drive,” he says, and Charlie laughs.
“I’ve got to be going as well,” I say. “Charlie? When were you going to tell these gentlemen about the reshoots?”
Charlie chokes a bit, glances from face to face. Dan is suddenly alert.
“That was just, something I was toying with,” Charlie says.
“Annabell seemed fairly keen on it.”
The other man squints his eyes at Dan. “Missing the release date kills the deal.” He looks at Charlie. “The picture’s already booked. We’ve scheduled advertising, junkets, merchandising plugs. We can’t miss the date.”
“We won’t miss the date,” Charlie says. “Mike’s just got to quit using those fancy camera setups. They take too much time.”
Dan’s jaw flexes. “I think I’m with Mike on this one, Charlie. No more story changes, and reshoots are out of the question.”
“It’s not a reshoot per se,” Charlie says. “Just a few pick-ups. To focus on Annabell’s FBI thing.”
“No,” Dan says. “I can call Taschem to confirm if you want, but I know what he’ll say.”
Charlie goes rigid, then runs his hand over his jaw, behind his ear, and into his hair. He relaxes himself.
“Okay. Like I said, I was just toying with the idea.”
“Fine,” Dan says. He turns and walks towards the front door, not saying goodbye.
The other man follows.
Charlie glares at me as soon as soon as we’re alone. He takes the cigar out of his mouth. “You think you’re smart, huh? You think you can beat me?”
“I don’t want to beat you Charlie,” I say. “I just want to finish the picture. On time. The way it was written.”
Charlie starts to say something but Annabell and Mrs. Charlie walk up, tittering over some girl talk.
“Good night, Charlie,” Annabell says. “Thanks for the lovely time.”
“You should stick around,” Charlie says, “things are just getting interesting.” He gives me a scalding look.
“Early call you know. This film’s very important to me.”
“You’ll have to get used to all this attention,” Mrs. Charlie says. “Once you’re a big star I’ll expect you at all my get-together’s.”
Annabell grins and hunches her shoulders. “Okay. Sure.”
Mrs. Charlie gives her a peck on the cheek.
And then we all hear the music, loud and clear; My only prayer will be, someday you’ll care for me.
Annabell digs a watch out of her handbag. Her face flushes and she gasps, as if fighting for a breath.
“Honey,” Annabell says to Charlie, “you must have left it the last time we …” and she stops, unable to finish. She gives frightened glances at Charlie, then to me, and finally to Mrs. Charlie.
Mrs. Charlie’s eyes go wet. Her lips push tightly together and the corners of her mouth pull down hard.
My stomach clenches and a spasm starts in a muscle towards the back of my thigh. I don’t feel clever anymore. I feel like shit.
“Helen, please,” Charlie says.
Mrs. Charlie bolts for somewhere else, her waving hands leading the way. Charlie goes after her, leaving Annabell reaching for his back. Annabell whirls on me, spots my guilt, and throws the watch at my face.
I spend a rough night, waking up several times with the sheets tangled around my legs; body coated in sweat. At about four, I throw myself into the shower, drag on whatever clothes I find in the closet, and drive my loaner to the studio.
I wander around the bank vault set, downing my second cup of hot coffee, my mood improving.
I stroll behind the riveted steel plates. On this side they’re just plywood sheets, braced with one by six boards held by screws. Thirty feet overhead are the catwalks where Electricians hang lights. Farther up, the roof girders are streaked with rust. Pink fiberglass spills out from torn plastic hung between the beams; reality is dirtier than illusion.
Turn the corner and I’m back in a two story, maximum security bank with motion sensors, cameras, upper balconies, and security terminals to unlock the gleaming, chrome-plated vaults.
But it’s not real. It’s just kids playing ‘make a fort’ with empty cardboard boxes.
Mrs. Charlie’s face comes back to me and my stomach clenches again. I only met her the one time, but I know she’s real. Annabell’s real. Even Charlie, poor pathetic Charlie, is real.
I sigh and drop my chin to my chest, then walk up the stairway grating to the upper balcony. Pretty soon the rest of the crew starts to arrive.
“Do you know what you did?” Charlie says. His voice, full of gravel and venom, carries across the set. Several grips working below set up C-Stands and lights. Electricians lace cables across the floor. Nobody approaches us to ask about the first shot of the day.
“Helen was screaming at me. Screaming.” Charlie raises his arm, pulls back his sleeve, and waves his watch in my face.
“I showed her I still had my watch; God damn it. It took all night to try and convince her it was just a mistake.”
I sigh, then look at Charlie’s face.
“So. Now what?” I say.
“Now what? You’re fired is what,” Charlie says. “You’re so fired. You’re fired back to some ad agency making ice cream commercials.”
“Charlie,” I say, “you win.”
“Oh, I win?”
“Yeah, you win. Anything you want, I’ll do.”
“Oh, now you’ll do what I tell you?” Charlie says. “Like you suddenly got smart and realized who’s in charge around here.”
“Like I got smart and decided what’s important.”
Charlie looks me up and down like he can’t figure out why I’ve changed my mind. The end of his cigar waves in the air as he thinks.
“If you have to get somebody new,” I say, “it’ll just take them more time to finish up.”
Then Charlie bristles and dismisses me with a wave of both hands. “Forget it, you’re fired. You march your ass off MY set. I’ll finish this bitch myself if I have to, but you ain’t here. Not anymore.”
I glance around the upper balcony, from the lights above to the set floor below.
It had been a nice ride.
I shuffle past Charlie towards the stairs. “Try not to ruin the picture, Charlie. It was a pretty good little story.”
“Piss off. You wouldn’t know a story if it landed on you like a bird droppings,” Charlie says. He turns away from me and heads around the balcony.
“Charlie, stop!” I shout.
He flips me off over his shoulder and keeps walking.
I sprint towards him. “Charlie!”
The crew all look at us but nobody can prevent it.
Charlie steps past the secure, braced area of the balcony and onto the fake section.
The balcony splits and balsa gives way, crumbling as Charlie’s bulk plunges through. He gives a surprised shout that separates him from his cigar. There’s a flash of white suit, and Charlie’s gone.
Crew members race across the floor and I see my Second Assistant already on the walkie talkie, calling for paramedics. A Grip pulls back a wall panel, and one of the camera guys helps. Nobody gives a damn about union restrictions in an emergency.
I creep towards the hole in the balcony and peer down to where Charlie lays, his right leg bent out from his body at an unnatural angle.
Then we hear the music:
But it’s onnnnnlllly make – beeeelieve.
We can’t help ourselves. Everybody on the crew checks their watches. It’s a seven a.m. call.
The ambulance finally arrives and they get Charlie hoisted onto a gurney. At the hospital, they take good care of him. The arm break is bad, but manageable. The leg’s worse, but a metal pin and a cast take care of that.
Afterward, we don’t see much of Charlie. He spends the rest of the production at home in bed, his leg in a sling, watched over by the ever-dutiful, and ever-possessive, Mrs. Charlie.
Filming moves forward and something shifts.
We shoot the remaining scenes as written, no delays, no rewrites.
Post goes great; the music and sound effects come together like we’d planned it that way all along.
At the first screening, everyone claps. Some of the crew even cheer. Once the film gets released it brings in solid box office numbers. A weight lifts off my shoulders I didn’t even know I was carrying.
I’m offered another project, and for once, I don’t hesitate. Even the lady film critic calls back.
George and Tischa split off for solo roles, each with nice salaries.
Let’s face it the world’s a little rough around the edges right now. We’re all just trying to hang on with a sense of dignity and maybe some semblance of joy. What better way to bring that spark back than through laughter?
Humor in writing isn’t just about cracking jokes or tossing in a punchline here and there. It’s also about making people feel a little more hopeful. When you get someone to laugh—really laugh—you’re giving them a moment of relief, and that’s no small thing. In a world full of stress, division, and doomscrolling, writing that makes people laugh is practically a public service.
But Humor Writing is Hard
Yes it is. Humor writing is an art form that often doesn’t get the respect it deserves. It’s not easy to be genuinely funny on the page. Timing, voice, rhythm all has to be just right. It took me several tries and multiple submissions before I landed a humorous list article in Chortle
It’s true that there aren’t a lot of markets explicitly dedicated to humor fiction but that doesn’t mean the world isn’t hungry for it. We live in a content-rich era where new voices and niches emerge every day. If you’re funny and you can write? That’s power. That’s potential. That’s brand-building magic.
Look at the Legends
Let’s talk about The Simpsons for a second. When that dysfunctional, animated yellow family debuted in 1987, there really wasn’t a flourishing market for adult animated comedy. But now we have Family Guy, South Park, Archer, Rick and Morty, BoJack Horseman, and even Futurama (RIP) They all owe a nod to that one oddball show that made us laugh and essentially started a whole market segment. That one funny voice became a cultural juggernaut and opened the doors for countless others. Humor doesn’t just entertain it expands what’s possible.
So What’s the Takeaway?
We need more funny people in the world right now. If the geopolitical landscape is telling us anything at the moment, it’s telling us that we need clever observations to remind us not to take it all too seriously. We need stories that make us laugh and forget our troubles for a few minutes.
So go forth and write something hilarious. Be brave enough to be funny. Your sense of humor might just be someone’s favorite moment of the day.
Side note: I am going to be a first reader for Alex Shvartsman’s UFO anthology again. He is up to number 10. I believe submissions will be opening up around April 2026, so start working on those humorous Sci-Fi stories!
Breaking Into The Craft 