Author: Douglas

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The Four Categories of Writing Advice

I’m often on the lookout for new good writing advice. There are four kinds to choose from: aphorisms, mechanics, grammar, and gimmicks.

Aphorisms get you things like “Write everyday” and “Read everything.” They each speak some level of truth and at times they motivate me, but none of them inspire or help.

Mechanics, for me, are about the structure stuff. When to climax and after how many acts. I’ve been gobbling this stuff up because it feels like a big hole for me.

Grammar—and spelling—is another hole for me, and I do explore here. I try not to get bogged down in the details though. I think the details are important, but I also think that I can do an end run on some of the details when such word-dodgery is required. I apply my learning here in chunks.

Gimmicks are almost always petty grammar foibles: “Know the difference between there, their, and they’re.” Really? Who the fuck is you’re target audience when your crafting that blog post?

My most recent bit of one of these four was an aphorism. It arrived amusingly enough moments ago. At 10:45 or so: “Don’t wait till the last minute to write.”

What I’ve been craving, and what I’ve been finding un…findable is a fifth category. The category which tells me when I’ve written a paragraph one sentence too long. The category which convinces me that I really do need one more point to make my argument solid. The category which screams “Now is not the best time for that much parallel structure. Tone it down.” The one that tells me to reorder this paragraph to the last rather than the penultimate. I guess—I hope—I get that from writing everyday.

270 words on day 846

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Frannie’s Finger Finale

Revisiting that dialogue exercise I came up with a few weeks past. No updates to the chokingly sluggish flow yet.

Probing-Rebuffing
“Where did you get that Pop-tart?” Momma asked.
Sarah stared at her mother. I climbed on the counter—which I’m not supposed to do. I got into the cabinet—which I’m not supposed to do. I tore open a new box because I didn’t want strawberry—which I’m probably not supposed to do. I used scissors to open the foil—which I’m not supposed to do. One fell on the floor and the dog ate it—which he’s not supposed to do. I’d better tell the truth: “I dunno.”

Sarcasm-Seriousness
“What? It’s black.”
“Chris, your aunt died. Take off the concert t-shirt and find something appropriate.”

Abruptness-Calming
Kevin twitched from a forgotten dream to upright in bed. A flop sweat adhering the sheets to his chest.
Socks purred in his lap and nudged his belly for attention.

Anger-Niceness
Captain Oswald Rockford slammed the canopy of the mech closed—a difficult task given the dampening effect of the nuematics—and stomped his boots into the actuators. He detoured eye contact with his co-pilot while he snapped on toggles and pecked at his screen hard enough to stun his fingertip.
“I bought coffee,” [some rank lower than captain] Marta Hanrahan said.

Despondent-Cheerful
“I’m never going to get this math done. I don’t understand the point of the quadratic equation. I mean, ‘Who cares? Who really cares?'” Brain tossed his book bag to the bottom of his locker like he was dumping a body.
“Did you see that Bonnie Archer transferred into our class though? Hot! Let get there early.”

Inhibitory-Encouraging
“You’re not going to be able to get to the mailbox without burning your feet. Get some shoes on or don’t go.”
“Mom, I’ll be quick and run on the grass. You’ll see.”

Uncooperative-Supporting
“I don’t care how much they ‘appreciate me volunteering my time and effort’. I’m not loading full porta-potties into my pick-up.”
“Kyle, what else are they going to do? It’s starting to rain and you’re the only one with a truck. Come on I’ve already got some other guys to help us lift them up and strap them down.” Todd jingled Kyle’s keys then then pressed them into Kyle’s chest when he didn’t immediately reach for them. “Circle it around back, bud. Thanks.”

Uncaring-Caring
“I just don’t care.”
“Well, I do.”

Demands-Trivializing
“Give me the gun. Now!”
“It’s not even loaded.”

Prohibitive-Unrestricted
The sign read: Authorized personnel only. No public entry.

Frannie shuffled the Post-it out of her pocket and tekked in the code on the keypad.

The latch clunked promisingly, but the door to the man-trap didn’t open. She pressed and held the clear button for a moment and started over—this time using a four instead of the nine she’d thought it was the first time.

The latch clacked. Even more promising!

Frannie twisted the knob and stepped into the man-trap—just one biometric hack away from the raised floor. She saw the entry-alarm strobe to life in the next room but couldn’t hear the siren through the thick bullet-proof glass. The sentry startled to his feet and would have knocked his coffee off his folding table if food and drinks were allowed on the raised floor.

She snatched her photo-ID up from the zip lanyard on her belt and held it up as proof of her authority. The sentry shook his head and pointed to a blank space on his side of the man-trap which matched up with a fingerprint scanner on her side. Frannie held up her index finger like a question; the sentry looked exasperated and motioned again to the scanner on her side.

Frannie pressed her finger lightly to the scanner so that the frayed edges of silicon wouldn’t register.

629 words on day 844

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Rhoda’s Death

Let’s get Rhoda killed off already…

Rhoda coughed then cringed from the pain. “Dammit.”

“Hold still, Rho-sweet,” Wendel said. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ve only been abed a day. We’ve got the time to find Morgan.” From behind Wendle, a monk squeezed her arm firmly then released his grip slowly; it was as bad as it looked.

Wendle tucked a few of Rhoda’s lavendar highlights behind the girl’s ears. This close she looked like her older fair-haired sister Morgan. Wendel knew they looked alike, all the Bearforts favored their father’s northern heritage, but she had not realized how much the girl’s dark hair and braids defined her. Nor how much she herself had let that dark hair convince her that Rhoda wasn’t Morgan’s little sister.

Wendle felt Rhoda’s warm breath on her own lips, and when she closed her eyes she betrayed Rhoda with a thought of Morgan. [expand that here, but not now]. Wendle opened her eyes to the cooling sensation of Rhoda inhaling.

“Is it dead?”

Wendle bit back a sob and nodded her head just enough.

“Good. I lost my foot though?”

Wendle echoed the nod. Rhoda looked to the darkness in the rafters for a moment. Then, reclaiming Wendle’s attention, she said, “Skin it. And have it taken back home.” The girl hadn’t lived on the Bearfort estate since before Wendle and Morgan were wed, but there was no question which home she meant. “Tell my father it choked on my foot. That’s good for a laugh at the table.”

Wendle nodded a third time and felt a smile stretch across her face. “It is and I will.”

Rhoda pressed the cuff of her shirt to Wendle’s tears. She surprised Wendle by hugging her close where Wendle smelled the girl’s black hair and tan skin. Melon from their bath this morning; dust from the road this afternoon. The undabbed tears on Wendle’s opposite cheek smeered through the würm’s blood on Rhoda’s own. Then, in her ear: “No one cries for me. No one. Now get out and get Morgan.”

The strength of Rhoda’s shove put Wendle on the polished floor and sparked the monk up from the stool where he waited for today’s last death. The monk insinuated himself to Rhoda’s side; rough fingers searched out a pulse on her neck. Wanting to do as Rhoda commanded—wanting to find her Morgan, Wendle stood but didn’t leave. “Is she?”

The monk situated Rhoda’s lolling arm to her chest. “Near enough.”

“Will she…”

“No,” he said. His placid face emphasized the point. “If you leave a little money, we’ll see she’s taken care of.” Wendle wanted to rain fire down on the man and his monastery. How dare he dismiss her death like turning a page to find another waiting. Blah blah….

Wendle looked at the girl. “She was a sorceress. A…the Bearfort sorceress.” She snatched the monk’s attention from the floor. “And my sister.” Wendle’s words dropped like a bell from a tower.

“Then you have my gratitude for being able to serve [our lord] and my assurance all will be well taken care of. Thank you.”

When Wendle reached the infirmary’s archway to the outside hall she stopped then turned and came back to Rhoda’s bed. Kissed her sister’s lips and left faster this time than the first.

There are pieces to this that I very much need to clean up and pieces that need repairing but for now I’m done.

578 words on day 841