Focus Please!

You know, I started writing this post about being focused, and on how easy it was to lose that focus. But then I switched to how single-minded you can get when writing and waxing nostalgic, and I got up to ferret out a couple of stories I had stored on a USB key to check their length and on my way to doing that I went into the kitchen for another cup of coffee, had a text conversation with my daughter, and started to cook something to take for my lunch today. Then I sat back down in my chair – without the USB keys.

Got up and got my bag of keys, sorted through them until I found the one marked “everything” and stuck it in my lap top. But then there were all these folders to peruse. Some of the stuff was really old, I’d copied it off of a stack of floppy disks, and I couldn’t resist opening a couple of documents to check them out. One of them turned out to be a story I didn’t recognize as mine – it was a little rough but it had potential (sort of) – so I emailed it to the daughter, who also didn’t recognize it. Then I had to check on how my lunch was doing.

See how easy it is for me to lose my focus? I’ve been working on this post since 8 a.m. My mind keeps wandering off on tangents and I’m starting to feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. But when I started this blog 5 years ago I did promise to be honest.

When I first started writing, back in high school, I was very single minded. I’d do the assignments for my English classes (yes, I was one of those geeks who took 2 different English classes, one year I even took 3) – essays, poetry, whatever – but when it came to my own writing I stuck to short stories. I was going to be a writer of science fiction short stories.

And for it to be a legitimate short story, it had to be (in my mind) at least 4,000 words, but no more than about 6,000. If it ran longer than that, I abandoned it. I have at least three, maybe more of these longer stories stored away to finish one of these days.

The Moonstone Chronicles was one of these stories. The original story, Shades of Errol Flynn, made it all the way to Jessica waking up on the beach in the magical realm and meeting Prince Ewan, who was not, at the time, a dastardly prince. At that point, there were two ways the story could have gone and I had no idea which way to take it. So there it lay, abandoned, until I got the urge to turn it into a serial on a now defunct blog.

You may be wondering what the point of all this is. I have a confession. Me too. I know when I started this post I had a point in mind, but it got lost somewhere in the shuffle of social media, email, texting, and other assorted distractions. I’m sure it’ll come to me later.

But that’ll be a post for another day. :-D

Prompts of the Week

Prompt One
You were involved in a terrible car accident and have been in a coma for the past three months. What your family and the doctors don’t know is that you can hear everything that they say. Write the scene.

Prompt Two
A fortune teller at the local county fair tells you two things. She tells you something good that will happen, and something awful that will happen. What are these events or incidents?

Remember, don’t be like me and spend a lot of time on these, they’re just meant for fun. Take 5 minutes to think about it, then write for 10 or 15 minutes. And if it turns out you like what you’ve written, then by all means turn your exercise into an actual story. You can find these prompts, and others like them, at Writer's Digest .

Antique Dolls and Bootleg Games

The first prompt story ran so long that I didn’t think I was going to get anything done for the second one, but surprise, surprise, it just kind of popped into my head all at once.


Prompt One
While shopping downtown one day, you find an antiques store that has a rare, old doll. You buy it for your daughter. A few days later she tells you her new toy can talk. You don’t believe her, until one afternoon you find yourself alone in the house and it starts . . .

There was nothing Lucy enjoyed more than browsing through an antique or junk store. You never knew what treasure you might uncover. On this rainy Saturday morning, the treasure was an old doll, just like the one her grandmother had had.

Its green velvet dress and matching hat were a little moth eaten, the shoes were worn, as though the doll had walked many miles in them, and there were smudges on the porcelain face. But the blue glass eyes still shone brightly.

“I’ll take her,” she said to the woman behind the counter.

The woman took the doll from her, looking a little puzzled. “Isn’t that strange, I can’t recall seeing this doll before.”

“I found her on the shelf, right over there,” Lucy said, turning to point at the space between an antique hand iron and a cookbook that listed to one side without the support of the doll.

“There’s so much in here that sometimes it’s hard to keep track,” the woman said apologetically. She rang up the purchase and handed Lucy the bag. “Enjoy your doll.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said with a smile.

The woman smiled back, although her smile turned uneasy as Lucy left the shop. “I know I’ve never seen that doll before.”

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Lucy was a little disappointed at the lukewarm reception from her daughter when she presented her with the doll.

“It’s kind of old and beat up looking,” Janey said.

“Nonsense. It’s well-loved. And she’ll be perfect for that little wicker chair in the corner of your room.”

Janey just sighed a long-suffering sigh that spoke of knowing not to cross her mother when it came to decorating, and dutifully took the doll, placing it on the chair.

Three days later, Lucy came across the doll, sitting on a shelf in the bookcase in her office, right above the box of donations she kept meaning to take to the church. “Janey, what’s your doll doing here?”

“I don’t like the doll,” Janey told her.

“Don’t like it?” her mother repeated. “What’s not to like? She’s beautiful and her dress matches the ivy on your wallpaper.”

“There’s something broken inside her. She makes noises like she’s trying to talk and I can’t sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lucy frowned at her daughter. It wasn’t like Janey to be fanciful. “They didn’t make dolls that talked back when she was made; it’s just your imagination.”

“I don’t like her – she’s creepy!” Brown eyes, so much like Lucy’s own, filled with tears.

“Fine.” Lucy threw up her hands in defeat. “You don’t have to keep her in your room. But you’re being ridiculous about her trying to talk.”

That evening, as Lucy was catching up on some work in her office, she thought she heard whispering. She cocked her head to one side but couldn’t identify the source. The sound was muffled, like a radio left on in another room.

Over the next several days the sounds persisted, but only when she was in her office. They became stronger, more defined, but she still couldn’t make out the words. It was like whatever was being said was in a different language.

Janey refused to set foot in the office, and she and her mother argued every time Lucy came out, which was getting less and less often.

But as suddenly as her mother’s odd behaviour started, it stopped. Janey came down one morning, figuring on cold cereal for breakfast and peanut butter and jam for lunch – again – only to find Lucy in the kitchen at the stove.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Just time. The sausages are on the table and the French toast is just about done.”

“Mom?” Janey asked in disbelief.

“Who else would it be, silly? Now eat up or you’ll miss your bus. Your lunch bag is on the counter.”

Janey didn’t question her mother’s change in behaviour, she was just happy things were back to normal. She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek as she raced out the door to catch her bus. Lucy waved from the door, her blue eyes glistening like glass in the sunlight.

Closing the door, she went into her office and picked up the box of donations to take to the church, the doll in the green dress sting on top, its brown eyes staring vacantly in its porcelain face.


Prompt Two
You’re playing a video game called Wizards & Warriors when, suddenly, lightning strikes the house, searing you and causing you to black out. When you wake up, you’re trapped inside the game. The only items you have is a sword, a backpack and a note attached to your shirt that reads, “Beat me and I’ll send you home.”

Damn! No more drinking and binge gaming. My head felt like my brains were leaking out my ears. I didn’t think I’d had that much to drink, but obviously I was wrong. Now what I needed to do was open my eyes. I knew for sure I wasn’t in my own bed, and the chances were good I wasn’t even in my house. It felt like I was outside.

“C’mon Ryan, open your eyes,” I told myself. “Stop being a wuss.”

I took another minute to psyche myself up, then cracked open one eye. Damn, that sun was bright!

With a groan I pushed myself up into a sitting position, my head throbbing. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all. I was in some kind of wooded area, it kind of looked like the woods from the latest RPG I was into. What the hell had happened to me last night?

The last thing I remembered was playing Wizards and Warriors. My buddy Paul had got his hands on the as yet unreleased newest version of the game and I’d just cracked the code to start playing. There was this flash of light, then . . . here I was. Wherever here was.

I got to my feet and just about tripped over a backpack.

“What the hell?”

It was a sturdy pack, bulging at the seams and totally unfamiliar to me. And there was a sheathed sword attached to it. I brushed my hands over myself to clean up and found a note pinned to my shirt.

“Beat me and I’ll send you home.”

Beat me? Beat who?

I grinned suddenly. Who cared? This was too cool.

“Game on, dude,” I said, picking up the pack.

The End of It All

Some writing advice came up in my Facebook feed the other day, and it said to “write the ending first.” It was linked to an article that listed 7 reasons why you should do this. I’m not going to go into all the details, if you want to read the entire article you can do it HERE, but I will agree that it makes some good points – but only if you’re a plotter and not a pantser.

Oh, c’mon. You know the difference between a plotter and a pantser right? A plotter starts out with an outline, plotting every step of their story. A pantser writes by the seat of their pants, taking the story as it comes.

When I wrote my first serial, which had the working title of Space Opera (later to become An Elemental Wind), I was a total pantser. I had no idea what I was doing, but I’d been challenged to write a serial on my blog and I was not going to back down from a challenge. It was kind of nerve-wracking – each week I was expected to provide a new instalment and I wouldn’t know what was going to happen until it did.

The story deviated a great deal from the original idea. And then it turned into a series. When I started writing it I wasn’t thinking beyond just getting the book done, but once I was at the end it seemed only logical to continue on. After all, there were three other elements to write about.

Being a pantser has its drawbacks though. Sometimes you start working on an idea and because you don’t know how it’s going to end, sometimes the story just peters out. I don’t know, maybe there’s something to this whole plotting thing after all.

At the very least, maybe I might consider working on the endings a little sooner.


Prompts of the Week

Prompt One
While shopping downtown one day, you find an antiques store that has a rare, old doll. You buy it for your daughter. A few days later she tells you her new toy can talk. You don’t believe her, until one afternoon you find yourself alone in the house and it starts . . .

Prompt Two
You’re playing a video game called Wizards & Warriors when, suddenly, lightning strikes the house, searing you and causing you to black out. When you wake up, you’re trapped inside the game. The only items you have is a sword, a backpack and a note attached to your shirt that reads, “Beat me and I’ll send you home.”

Remember, don’t spend a lot of time on these, they’re just meant for fun. Take 5 minutes to think about it, then write for 10 or 15 minutes. And if it turns out you like what you’ve written, then by all means turn your exercise into an actual story. You can find these prompts, and others like them, at Writer's Digest .

Curses and Clowns

Not only is the editing moving along, I managed to write something for both prompts. They’re not particularly good pieces, but they’re something. And I’d like to take a moment to remind you that they’re completely unedited.


Prompt One:
You put your house on the market and on the first day an extremely old woman comes knocking on your door. She’s not interested in buying your house though. Instead she tells you that this is the house she lived in as a child. The friendly mood suddenly changes when she reveals something terrible that took place in the house years ago.

The viewing of the house was supposed to be by appointment only. So Vanessa was a little surprised by the old woman who showed up on her doorstep.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Vanessa told her politely. “But if you want to see the house you’ll need to make an appointment through the realtor.”

“You misunderstand me, my dear. I don’t want to view the house – I know all its nooks and crannies first hand. I wish to talk to you about the house. There’s something you need to know.”

Vanessa’s curiosity was piqued. It would have been easy to dismiss the old lady, tell her firmly no and close the door, but in the light of what had been going on lately she figured she had nothing to lose.

“Why don’t you come in,” she said, opening the door wider.

She had the woman seat herself in the small living room while she hurried into the kitchen to make some tea.

“Thank you, dear,” the woman said when Vanessa set the tea tray down and handed her a cup.

“You said there was something I needed to know, Miss . . .” Vanessa prompted.

“Rose, you may call me Rose,” the woman said, taking a sip. “Skipping the niceties and straight to the point, I like that.” She nodded. “Saves time.”

“About my house?”

With a sigh Rose put her cup down. “You know of course the house is haunted?”

Vanessa’s cup rattled in its saucer. “Haunted? What makes you say that?”

“Come, come, my dear. The visions, things moving around, the voices?”

“How—how did you know?”

“Because the same thing has happened to every other owner of this house.” Rose leaned a little closer. “This house isn’t just haunted, it’s cursed.”

For a moment all Vanessa could do was gape at her. Then, “Cursed? What kind of curse?”

Rose relaxed in her seat again. “The original owner of this house was a witch. She was powerful but for the most part tried to do good. But for all of her power there was one thing she could do – halt time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She got old,” Rose said dryly. “So she created a spell, one that would let her live forever. All she needed was a sacrifice, once every seven years.”

“Seven years?” Vanessa repeated faintly. She’d been in this house for almost seven years.

“There were only two catches. First, the spell wouldn’t reverse the aging that had already taken place. And second, the sacrifice had to have lived under this roof for at least part of those seven years.”

Vanessa felt a numbness starting to spread through her. “And the ghosts? They’re what’s left of her victims?”

“My, you are a sharp one, catching on so quickly. Yes, the poor things were trying to warn you to get out before it’s too late.”

Vanessa stared at her mutely, unable to move.

“But don’t fret dear, you’ll be joining them soon. You can talk to them all you want then. Won’t that be nice?”


Prompt Two:
Your wealthy Aunt Edna has died and left you all of her money. At first you’re excited as you’ve been living paycheck-to-paycheck your whole life, and this newfound money offers you endless possibilities. But, in her will, Aunt Edna left one big catch – and, if you don’t do it, all the money is to be given to your most unlikeable cousin, Wilfred.

Candace pulled the wig more firmly down on her head, the bright red curls jiggling madly. Satisfied it was secure, she inspected herself as best she could in the hand-held mirror. Face paint – check. Big, billowy, polka-dot outfit – check. Floppy shoes – check. But there was something missing . . .

Right. She dug around in the makeup case until she found it. One big red nose, coming right up.

This was the last time she’d have to do this, and truth be told she was going to miss it. The first time had been nerve-racking, but the joy she brought was infectious.

The terms of Aunt Edna’s will had been clear. Once each month she was to make a charitable donation dressed as a clown. The lawyer had the list of recipients as well as the envelopes with the cash. All she had to do was dress up like a clown and make sure no one uncovered her secret identity.

Candace had no idea what had prompted Aunt Edna to make such a stipulation in her will, but she was willing to do just about anything to keep her smarmy cousin Wilfred from getting his grimy paws on Edna’s money.

The newspapers had taken to calling her the Benevolent Bozo. Each month there was speculation on where he or she (there was no telling under the voluminous costume) was going to show up and who would receive the next envelope of cash. She wondered what they’d say next month when she failed to make an appearance. The thought made her sad.

Wait a minute. Candace stopped as a sudden thought struck her. After today, Edna’s vast fortune would be hers. There was no reason she couldn’t keep making these gifts if she wanted to.

No reason at all.

A Tale of Two Word Files

Remember a few weeks ago I was whining about how I had two documents for Wandering Wizards and I didn’t know which one I should keep, so I deleted the shorter of the two thinking I must have edited stuff out of it? Then I printed out the one that was 165 pages so I could edit it.

I settled at the dining room table to work and I’m editing away, making pretty good progress, but I start getting the feeling that something’s missing. Weren’t my heroes at an inn near the beginning when Sebastian, the bard, gets a message about his mother? And wasn’t there a scene shortly after that with Dominic and Jessica on a boat?

Where’s the boat?

So I flip a few pages ahead and the first mention of Jessica and Dominic is pretty far in and there’s no Sebastian and I start getting this sinking feeling. I check the folder I keep all the files about Wandering Wizards in and I see one marked “throw away” and something clicks in my head.

At one point I had two copies of the original draft. One copy (the one that got printed out) was the original. The other copy I used to copy/paste into a new draft that I was adding new stuff to as it came to me. I was up to 150 pages of the latest version (and down to about 50 pages of the one I was cutting/pasting from) when I put everything aside for NaNo. And then I forgot what I was doing.

Fortunately the recycle bin in Windows does not automatically empty and I was able to restore the version of Wandering Wizards that was only 150 pages. Then I added in the remaining pages of the cut and paste. Then I deleted all other drafts.

Now I have a single, 200 page draft of Wandering Wizards, which I’ll still have to edit, weeding out the unnecessary NaNo fluff, before I can finish it. There’s still a lot of action between where I left off and the actual end of the story, but my hope is that this will wrap up the trilogy.

Barring any more stupidity on my part.

Prompts of the Week

Prompt One
You put your house on the market and, on the first day, a extremely old woman comes knocking on your door. She’s not interested in buying your house, though. Instead she tells you that this is the house she lived in as a child. The friendly mood suddenly changes when she reveals something terrible that took place in the house years ago.

Prompt Two
Your wealthy Aunt Edna has died and left you all of her money. At first you’re excited, as you’ve been living paycheck-to-paycheck your whole life, and this newfound money offers you endless possibilities. But, in her will, Aunt Edna left one big catch—and, if you don’t do it, all of the money is to be given to your most unlikeable cousin, Wilfred.

Remember, don’t spend a lot of time on these, they’re just meant for fun. Take 5 minutes to think about it, then write for 10 or 15 minutes. And if it turns out you like what you’ve written, then by all means turn your exercise into an actual story. You can find these prompts, and others like them, at Writer's Digest .

Gambling and Tattoos

I may not have done a lot of writing this week, but I did manage a short piece for both of Tuesday’s prompts. They’re a little on the dark side, but that’s the kind of week I had. :-D

Prompt one:
Dampness lingers in the midnight air. Nearby, an unidentifiable sound pricks at your nerves, repeating every few seconds. Your breath catches in your throat as a long shadow cleaves through the light spilling from a street lamp just around the corner ahead of you. You consider turning back…what happens?

The fall air was damp and cool. Somewhere a clock tolled twelve as I hurried down the path. I shouldn’t be here; I knew that but the shortcut through the park was the only way I’d get there on time. I stumbled as a faint sound filtered through the darkness. Again it sounded, and again. What was it? Not a chime, not the bell from the clock tower…was the noise made by human vocal cords? Lord, I hoped so. The noise kept repeating every few seconds, growing closer. Or maybe it was just me getting closer to it. There – the park gates. I was almost to safety. The street lights on either side of the gate were the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. Suddenly I stopped. A whimper escaped my dry lips as a shadow formed in the light. Yes, taking the path had been a gamble. And I’d just lost.

Prompt two:
You are showering one morning when you notice a tattoo on your body that you’re quite sure you don’t remember getting. What is it, how did you get it, and what does it mean?

From all accounts it had been a wicked cool party. I just wish I could remember it. I remember Joyce talking me into going, I remember having a drink of the mystery punch, but everything was blurry after that.

I have no idea how long I was there or how I got home. And I certainly don’t remember getting the tattoo I discovered on my left hip when I woke up.

I made a few phone calls to friends who’d also been at the party, but their memories were as foggy as mine. Six of them also ended up with tattoos they didn’t remember getting. That made seven of us altogether.

It was Brian’s idea for us all to meet up to compare tats. At first we thought they were all the same but placed on different parts of the body – hip, thigh, chest, back, shoulder, leg, arm – but identical other than that. But Jackie, the artist of the group, noticed subtle differences.

Terry suggested we’d all joined a cult or something while we were high. I wanted to know what was in the punch, but no one knew who brought it. Then Simon suggested we’d been marked for something, but we laughed at his paranoia.

We stopped laughing when the first body showed up. One by one we’ve been killed, each time by a different method by all during the night of a new moon. Even though I’m under police protection I’m resigned to my fate. Tonight is the new moon. And I’m the last.

False Advertising

There I was, merrily peddling away on my stationary bike as I read a book I found quite entertaining, when all of a sudden I see this: Ready for more Cry Wolf? Grab the next two books in the Cry Wolf Series Boxed Set…

Say what? And, seriously?

Okay yes, this was a freebie on Amazon, and yes it did show on the cover that it was Cry Wolf book one, but when I checked the next book in the series it was about someone different, so I downloaded this one thinking I had a complete story. Nowhere, neither in the blurb nor on the cover, did it mention that volume one was actually a three book set.

There’s only one thing worse than a book that is serialized – and by serialized I mean that the full book is spread over several smaller books – and that’s a book that has no warning that story has been serialized. It’s a cheap tactic that shows that the author is only in this for the money, not the story.

But wait, you say, what about your books? Aren’t they a series?

Yes. The Ardraci Elementals and the Moonstone Chronicles are both series, but they have not been serialized. These books are complete stories that also happen to be part of a larger story. You do not have to read the entire series to get a complete story from each book.

A serial is a single story broken into episodes.

A series contains the same characters throughout, but each episode is a different story.

With a serialized book, you have to buy several such episodes to buy the whole story. In the 19 century it was common for novels to be serialized in periodicals. But the thing is, people knew from the start of the story they’d have to buy several issues to get the complete story.

My beef is with the authors who don’t warn you ahead of time that the book has been serialized, that you won’t get the whole story unless you’re prepared to shell out for several volumes.

I have no problem with a book that’s been serialized. If the story is well written and piques my interest I have no problem paying for several volumes to get the complete story. But when I read a book with a story I’m really enjoying and at the height of the action I suddenly get presented with what amounts to “to be continued in the next book” then all I feel is cheated.

How about you? Do you enjoy serials or would you rather read a series?


Prompts of the Week

Prompt One: Dampness lingers in the midnight air. Nearby, an unidentifiable sound pricks at your nerves, repeating every few seconds. Your breath catches in your throat as a long shadow cleaves through the light spilling from a street lamp just around the corner ahead of you. You consider turning back . . . What happens?

Prompt Two: You are showering one morning when you notice a tattoo on your body that you’re quite sure you don’t remember getting. What is it, how did you get it, and what does it mean?

Remember, don’t spend a lot of time on these, they’re just meant for fun. Take 5 minutes to think about it, then write for 10 or 15 minutes. And if it turns out you like what you’ve written, then by all means turn your exercise into an actual story. You can find these prompts, and others like them, at Writer's Digest .