Whew...

I've gained a little more insight on what Makos needs to face in his confrontations. He has trouble with other kids picking on him. He is a bit of a loner. He resents other kids his age automatically, feeling like they all judge him. He needs to make friends and learn to trust them.

Let's introduce a new friend.

Makos scrambled away on hands and feet with his back to the ground. He kept going until he bumped his head on another tree.

The monsters in the tree growled at him, "You better not try to run." They said, both voices the same, yet in eerie harmony to each other. "We will only get hungrier."

Makos picked himself off of the pine needle-strewn ground and ran in the opposite direction of the monsters as fast as he could while craning his neck to make sure they didn't follow.

Instead of climbing down the tree and chasing him, he was horrified to see the trunk of the tree divide from the ground up several feet. It formed into two legs. Feet of roots pried themselves out of the earth and the tree started walking after him.

Makos turned to look the way he was running and hit his face on a thick branch. His momentum carried on through his legs, which slipped on layers of dry pine needles. He fell onto his back and bumped his head hard on the ground.

For a moment, all he could remember was that he had been running from something. He tried to recall what it was, but the dancing specks in his vision made it hard to concentrate. In a few seconds, his sight came back into focus and the nauseous feeling passed. The first thing he saw was a giant pine branch shaped like a hand reach over him to pick him up. Everything came back at once, including his terror.

Just as the green, bristly hand was beginning to wrap its fingers around him, a flash of light blinded him. His vision cleared a moment later and he saw the branch was severed from the rest of the monster tree, smouldering where it had been broken.

A loud, discordant scream shook the air. Makos twisted his neck further to see the giant tree holding its damaged arm with the remaining hand. "I'll eat you first!" The monsters roared.

"You don't even know where I am." A calm voice replied.

They giant tree turned its 'head' back and forth. The yellow eyes searched high and low, but didn't seem to be having any luck locating whoever had spoken. "Come out! Stop hiding. We're going to catch you either way, so just give up."

A child's laughter came from many directions, switching from left to right, far to near. Makos tried to find who was laughing and was surprised when he saw the silhouette of someone small dashing between the trees. The person moved so quickly, he could only see the after image like a blurry shadow, but couldn't manage to keep track of it the whole time, even though tree branches shook lightly wherever it went.

Eventually, the laughing stopped and the rustling of the trees calmed down. The same quiet voice spoke again. "My plans don't include you catching anything, so there goes your argument." More laughter broke out. The sky was beginning to darken, Makos noticed, and he could see several glowing dots of light amidst the trees surrounding the monsters' tree.

"What is this?" The monsters cried out, their voices quaking in anger. Makos thought he recognized a hint of fear in it.

"Give up." The hider spoke. "I will let you go if you promise to never touch the evergreen trees again."

"I won't." The monsters said. "Won't promise!" The tree swung its good arm into a nearby tree, breaking off many branches from one side, though the arm remained undamaged.

The glowing dots of light closest to the monsters burst into flames. The flames spread down to the ground and lit the dry needles. A large fire grew into a roaring wall in seconds. It moved toward the monstrous tree like a towering wave, ready to crash down at any second. The monstrous tree took several steps backwards before turning around completely and running to the other side of the ring of trees.

It was met by more dim lights bursting alight. In fact, the monstrous tree tried to escape from several directions, but was hindered by more fires. The childish laughter rang out again from one side of the fiery ring. "You should have promised."

It wasn't long before the terrible screaming finally stopped. Makos was frozen in fear. He stared as the tree fell to its knees while flames engulfed it.

When the monsters had been silent for several minutes, he fire weakened all over. In a few moments, it shrank from roaring walls to tiny flickers of flame licking the charred form of a tree skeleton.

Makos almost wandered out before he remembered he had no idea who had started the fires. He didn't know if whoever it was would be friendly or a new enemy.

After minutes had passed and nobody spoke from the shadows, Makos creeped out of his own hiding place under some low-sweeping pine branches.

Interview #1

I feel like I need to flesh out my characters a bit more. Discovering them as I go is fun, but in order to get a feel for where they need to grow, I am going to do an interview with my characters that will reveal more about what matters to them and what are their weakness and strengths.

Interviewing Makos:

Q. What's your full name?

A. Makos Rendridge Highwhistle.

Q. How old are you?

A. I'm nine.

Q. What do you want to do when you grow up?

A. I'm going to tame dragons.

Q. Aren't dragons make-believe?

A. Yeah.

Q. Ok. Well, suppose you did something else. What would it be?

A. I want to find treasure.

Q. Like a pirate's treasure?

A. Yeah. Also treasure left behind by ancient civilizations.

Q. How are you going to find this treasure?

A. Well, I just have to tame a big enough dragon. Then I could name him 'Treasure Sniffer' or maybe 'Gold Scales.' We would fly around searching for it until he could smell it.

Q. Hmm. Sounds like you've planned this out.

A. Yeah. I'm good at planning.

Q. What do you like to do for fun?

A. I climb on top of big boulders.

Q. You don't climb trees?

A. Everyone does that. Boulders are more of a challenge. There's no branches.

Q. What do you do on top of a boulder?

A. Throw rocks at bullies.

Q. You throw rocks at them? Isn't that a little harsh?

A. Not really. Think about it. Would you rather get hit by a rock or a squirrel?

Q. ... I don't know.

A. I'd rather get hit by a rock. A squirrel can give you fleas, plus they bite and are unpredictable. With a rock, at least you know what you are getting. Much more humane.

Q. Are there many bullies that bother you?

A. Not anymore. I have a large stockpile of rocks on my boulders. If I run out, all I have to do is jump to another boulder.

Q. What do you do if they climb up on the boulder, too?

A. They can't. It's too hard.

Q. What about you? How are you able to climb them?

A. Hold on. Let me take off my socks.

Q. ...

A. See? I have extra long toes thanks to my dragon blood. I can grip the boulder with my hands and feet.

Q. Ah. Of course.

A. I can also breath fire.

Q. Really? Would you mind demonstrating?

A. Nah. It hurts to much.

Q. I guess that makes sense.

A. Yeah.

Q. Let's see. What's your favorite memory?

A. I remember going to see the fireworks parade in Gund with my family. That was back when my mom was still alive. There were explosions everywhere in all kinds of colors. They even let me light one of the big rockets. It was gold and green and sounded like an eagle.

Q. Do you miss your mom?

A. ...

Q. I'm sorry. It must be hard talking about her still.

A. It's OK. I do miss her. I just don't want to think about it.

Q. Alright. How about this: What's the best dream you've ever had?

A. Well, I haven't had it yet. I'm still working out the details, but it's going to be really good.

Q. You are designing your dream?

A. Of course.

Q. Hmm. What is it going to be about?

A. I don't want to spoil it, yet, but it will have a lot of dragons and treasure.

Q. I see.

A. It's going to be really good, though.

Q. What are you afraid of?

A. Nothing.

Q. Don't you get scared when it's dark?

A. Sure, but I don't let it bother me.

Q. So you feel fear, but you dismiss it?

A. No, I throw rocks at it if it makes noises. I have a lot of rocks under my pillow.

Q. Don't you get in trouble for throwing rocks in the house?

A. If it wakes Danos up, I just pretend to be asleep. He always thinks it was his nightmares or something and falls back to sleep.

Trouble

Makos' breath caught in his throat. Very slowly, he looked up. He didn't see anyone.

"Who's there?" He said, scrambling backwards. He tripped over his own feet and landed on his backside.

"Just me." The deep voice answered. Makos followed the sound high up into the top, sweeping, green branches of a large pine tree. There, peeking from under two boughs was a pair of big, yellow eyes. They were glowing from deep within the branches and about two feet apart, from what he could see.

Makos' jaw flapped open and closed. Nothing came out of his mouth, though.
Finally, he spoke, "W-who are you?"

The boughs lowered, concealing the eyes one at a time, and the voice replied, "Me? The name's Rory."

Makos was about to say something, but the voice cut him off. "Actually, I'm Ubert." The boughs lifted again and the yellow eyes stared down at him.

"What?" Makos asked. "Is it Rory or Ubert?"

"Rory." The voice paused. "Ubert." The boughs lowered again. A rumbling chuckle shook the whole tree.

Makos crossed his arms. "You're confusing." He stated.

The boughs lifted again and bent at angles to apear like angry eyebrows. "At least I'm not lost."

Makos frowned. "I'm not lost!" He exclaimed. "I'm just hiding."

"Oh." Rory-Ubert replied. "I suppose that means you're our guest, then."

"Our?" Makos said.

"My." The voice answered.

"Is there someone else here?" Makos asked.

"Just us."

Makos watched the yellow eyes look to the sides quickly before settling on him again. He wondered what exactly he was dealing with, so he asked. "What are you?"

"That's rude." The voice said. "He treats me like a monster. No he doesn't. He is just confused. He said so himself."

Makos saw the eyes cross while the right eyebrow bent into a scowl and the left curved in a worried expression. He almost laughed at the sight of it.

"Now he's mocking me!" Rory-Ubert said. "Calm down, he's just a kid. They don't get a sense of decency for a few years."

When Makos heard that he frowned even deeper, with angry eyebrows. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it. I've just never seen anything like you before."

The tree shook to more chuckling, then leaned forward as if to get a closer look. "Yeah. I guess he is just a small brat still."

Makos grew even more frustrated. He didn't like it when Danos called him a kid. Hearing it from this strange tree wasn't consolation to him.

The tree bent down further. "Do you think he tastes better than normal?" The voice seemed to ask itself. "Maybe. You never know what an atittude like that will do to the flavor." Makos heard a loud sniffing noise and wind lifted his hair up.

Makos felt his blood go cold, and he crawled back a little further from the tree.

"Reminds me of that rotting goat carcass we found last October." Rory-Ubert said, leaning back a bit. "Yeah. I really enjoyed that one, too."

The tree leaned further in, this time. "I suppose a taste wouldn't hurt? Would it? Of course not. Hey kid," The tree called out, "Stick out your arm a bit, would you?"

The branches reached close enough to brush the top of his head. Panicking, Makos squeezed his eyes shut and swung his hands wildly in front of him.

"Yeah, like that. Now, hold 'em still."

Makos' eyes popped open. Why wasn't his power working? The tree should have been blown to pieces in an instant.

"Come on, play along." The tree said while both eyes stared at him intensely through the boughs.

In his terror, Makos noticed something. The eyes each belonged to a different face. Both faces had a huge eye socket planted right in the middle of a wrinkly forehead. Below that, mouths bore sharp fangs and tusks turning up on the left face and down on the right. Both were licking their tusks hungrily.

A drop of spittle stretched down and broke, landing on his hand. It smelled horrible.

The Story Continues

Makos is hiding behind a destroyed tent shop while a crowd inspect damage done by his magical power. He hopes they will leave soon.

 Makos heard the crowd talking. "What happened here?" An authoritative man's voice demanded.

"A little boy attacked the holiday shops." Another man's voice answered.

"A boy?" The first voice asked. "I doubt a small child could have done so much damage. Now, tell me, who is responsible for this mess?"

"It's true." A third voice, that of a woman, said. "I was walking by the shield maker's tent. There was one boy who starting shouting and attacking the other children with a toy shield. Then this happened."

"That isn't much of an explanation." The first voice said. "How does children playing end up in disaster?"

"That's just it," The woman explained, "I don't know that he was a child afterall. No normal child can break things by waving his hands at them!"

"Waving his hands?" The first voice spoke. "I'm still confused."

The woman replied. "The child must be a demon in disguise. See that?" A pause in speaking was interrupted by more mumbling from the crowd. "The demon boy jumped out of this tree and waved his hands at the top of this building and all of a sudden it broke off and nearly fell on an old woman."

"I'm fine." The voice of a very old woman said. "No need to worry about me. I dodged it at the last second. I used to be an acrobat in the circus, you see."

Makos felt horrible. He hadn't realized that someone almost got hit by what he'd done, let alone an old woman. The idea of her doing flips and cartwheels made a laugh burst through his nose. He promptly clapped his hands over his nose to hide the noise.

"Yes, very well." The first voice said. "It appears this is another of several pranks gone wrong this week."

"Pranks?" The woman said incredulously. "Explain how a prank did that."

"Mm. Yes. They are getting worse, but rest assured, this is no work of a demon. This is simply the result of gang wars."

Several people gasped.

"Gangs, here?" One man asked.

"Unfortunately, yes." The authoritative man answered. "The criminal factions of Untwine City have been seeking to spread their influence. That is bad enough on its own, I assure you, but where two or more gangs have their eye on the same town, things can get a little.. rowdy."

Makos began to feel relieved. He didn't know much about gangs, but he knew everyone was going to blame the entire incident on someone else. He would be off the hook and on his way in no time.

"But what about the boy?" One voice demanded.

Makos's heart stopped.

The crowds continued their discussion without him.

"What about him?" The first man asked.
"What do we do about him? He could be working for one of the gangs."

That was it. Makos had been targeted.  The people were going to find him and lock him up. Before he could think it over any more, he rolled onto his feet and scurried away into the bushes as silently as he could manage. When he reached the path that crossed through the park, he took off at a full run.

"Hmpf." The man snorted. "I suppose it is possibly the lad was coerced into helping. If he was serving as a distraction, he may know more about which gangs we are dealing with here. This is the first sign of their turf wars reaching our town. If we act fast, we may be able to stop it before any faction gains a foothold here."

"Then let's help the poor boy. He is probably very frightened." The woman said.

"Indeed. Everyone, form up. We need as many eyes out for the boy as we can manage." The authoritative voice mustered. "We shall use tightly-knit group tactics to scan the streets and locate this child. If you recognize him, shout after him to stop as loudly as you can."

Makos' mind reeled at the last thing he had heard. They thought he was working for criminals. He was an outlaw now. He would be forced to live his life outside of society. He would never be able to play with his friends again. He would have to learn to cook rats and sleep in trees. He probably only had maybe three days tops to gather supplies before people began to see through any of the disguises he would use.

Thinking it best to disguise himself sooner than later, he pulled his handkerchief out and tied it over the bottom half of his face. Nobody would recognize him, he was sure of it. At least it would buy him a little time.

A loud shouting made him stop in his tracks and turn around to see what was the matter. At the end of the path behind him, he say a large mob shaking fist and screaming, "Stop! Stop!" He looked about, but couldn't see anyone else around for them to be shouting at. The realization hit. They were after him already.

He acted on the first thought to enter his mind. He ran off the path and into the forest. It was thick with evergreens, and they kept scratching at his arms as he pushed through them. He didn't pay attention to where he was going. He just knew he had to keep running.

After what seemed like an hour or two, Makos began to get tired. His feet began to drag. the sky hadn't gotten any darker, but he was sure it must be getting close to night. He kept trudging along through the trees, but his foot hooked around a gnarled root and he fell on his face.

Tears began to well up in his eyes and he started lifting himself up from the pine needle-covered ground. "I wish I never got these stupid powers!" He shouted.

"Me neither." A deep, grumbling voice said.

Free Day #4: Writing Groups

You work through your rough draft, getting all of your story down to paper. You read it and reread it, checking for spelling errors, grammar issues and make sure all of it makes sense. You are confident that your work is complete and as good as it can be.

Then you face reality and submit your story to a writing group.

This is the worst moment in the process and at the same time the best experience. You get to lay your masterpiece before other writers or people who have a keen eye for detail and accuracy and have to sit back, shut up, and watch as they devour it.

Writing groups are assembled for one purpose: getting third party perspectives. This is also known as 'work-shopping.' Trust me when I say that it is very easy to think you have everything written in a way that any reader can understand what's going on and catch on to your intended moods. Easy to assume, but probably not entirely accurate.

This story is a product pulled straight from your own imagination. You already come with an understanding of what is happening. Sometimes what seems clear and obvious to you is not so for others because you left out certain 'obvious' bits of information. This can turn your hilarious scene into just a scene. It can be like telling a joke, but not building it up correctly. If you don't, the punch line just doesn't get that punch.

That's where writing groups are handy. You allow others to tell you how they see the story, how it makes them feel, and any points on grammar you may have missed.

Getting feedback will be difficult. Most of the time, someone will find something that needs work and you may feel like you have to defend yourself, explaining why you wrote it the way you did. What is important is that you refrain from responding in self defense. Answering questions is fine, but this really can undermine the purpose of the process. If they didn't catch on from your story alone, it isn't sufficient. You won't be there for every reader to explain why you made your character do something, or how they should be feeling about it.

Another thing to note is that not all feedback is correct. Someone may make a comment that something needs to be changed to something else or handled in a specific way because it just isn't working. Listen to the advice. Take note of it. When you review your notes, realize that the feedback means you might actually have a problem needing repairs. It doesn't mean what has been suggested is always the best way to solve it. The best method is to identify it and fix it they way your gut tells you.

Be aware, however, that not all feedback actually indicates a problem. Sometimes a reviewer may have a preference for certain parts of story writing, or they just do things differently than you. Write their advice down, then determine later if it is actually something you need to be concerned about. A good indicator that a problem most likely exists is when multiple reviewers mention it.

The rules of a writing group for when you submit something for review:

1. Close your mouth and take no part in the process.

2. Take notes.

3. Realize that not all feedback is an accurate solution to the problem, but can be an indicator of it.

4. Realize that some feedback may be more preference. Learn to pick and choose what needs to be repaired. If you incorporate everything, you may lose your unique writing style and it may just become a tried-and-true, bland version of your story without that special thing that makes you unique.

5. Thank those who gave you feedback. They could have just saved your book from complete failure!

The process isn't a negative one. This is all good and beneficial. Not all feedback will be critical, either. The jobs of writing group members are to check for issues, share their interpretation of mood and plot, and tell you what really works for them, what they appreciate and what excites them.

Nothing feels better than getting praise for your hard work! Well, getting paid for it would feel pretty good, too, but praise is always very nice and motivating.

The last rule is simple: Swap roles. Your writing group likely consists of more writers than just yourself. If someone else has something to offer for critiquing, help them out. You may learn a lot from seeing how someone else goes about building up a story. Things you find they were missing may open your eyes to similar problems in your own work.

I'm in a writing group. The group is named Reading Excuses and can be found online here. Earlier this week, I submitted a short story I posted on this blog (here), for some workshopping. I received excellent feedback on it and, with permission, would like to post some of what was suggested:

Mandamon said:

First off, I enjoyed this, even though it left me with more questions than answers.

Pg 1:  I'm interested already by the rain searing, and what cost it entails.

Pg 1: "dismissive" might not be the right word here?  She would be dismissive OF the pain.

Pg 2: I like that the light is playing with her.  It reminds me of a cat playing with a patch of light.

Pg 3:  While she's chasing the light around, is it still raining ?  You don't mention it, or the pain, again (edit: you mentioned it right after I wrote this).  Also, is the sun peeking through clouds?  Why is it disappearing in one spot and appearing in another?

--I think you address this point later too.  It might just be there's not enough mention of it at the start.

Does the rain make any physical mark on her?  Does she actually get burned, or is she just feeling it?

You make the sun a character as much as she is.  Does the rain have as much of a personality?  Do other objects or natural forces?  Does the sun make the wind blow, or did it talk to the wind?

I was a little confused at the end as to why a handful of gold dust would make the whole land fill with light.  Didn't her mother bring back handfuls of dust before?  Or did she bring something else?

Overall, a cool story.  I still had some questions on: why the rain hurt, what the sun was, and where the new sun came from (though I assume that was Sare, somehow).  Still, for the length of this, it works.  You never really answer any of the worldbuilding questions, but it kept my interest throughout.  There were a couple places where the sentences got a little wordy, but aside from that, well written.  I didn't have a problem with the new POV at the end, as I assume Sare isn't around any more to be one.  You could do the same thing through narration, but it wouldn't have the same connection to people like Torin and his father.

Mr. Wednesday comments:

Nice story! The main thing that concerns me is that the writing is a little vague in certain places. With something that is primarily action-based, you could probably tighten it up just a little bit in some of the ways Mandamon mentioned above. I'm really curious, is this a standalone short story or the beginning to a novel? Either way, assuming it is the very beginning of something rather than a later chapter, I would have liked a little more motivation for her actions from the beginning. I feel like it starts with a lot of action and it takes a little while before we understand what she's doing and why. 

Pg 1: I agree that "dismissive" isn't the right word in this context. Maybe "negligible"?

Pg 2: "Trying to stay in the largest patches, she soon realized it would soon disappear."  You use the word "soon" twice back-to-back and it makes the sentence a little awkward.

Pg 6: "She bore with the pain almost to the point of losing consciousness" I feel like you don't necessarily need the "with", "she bore the pain" seems a little bit more direct.

Pg 7: "Its comforting glow warmed her each time, yet she was feeling an odd emotion from it now." Going into the past progressive tense with "was feeling…now" makes this sentence a little awkward. You slip into the past progressive a lot throughout the story, and to me it gets a little murky. Also, I feel like you could be more specific about her odd emotion. What emotion is she feeling, exactly?

I kind of agree with RD about the abrupt shift in POV at the end. If this is a short story, I think it's a little dangerous to do so. I get what you were going for, I just feel like it's a bit too stark in this draft. It might work if you smooth out the transition a little bit, although I don't really have any recommendation for how you would do so.

Very cool concept overall! Keep up the good work!

So there we go. See any common trends throughout? It sounds like I need to work on my voice, for one, which is what lead me to write the post on that. It has also been pointed out several times about how the swap between point of view characters is disconcerting. One mentioned how it played a stylistic role.

All of the advice I received is excellent and priceless. I actually agree on everything that was said. On the differences of opinion, I need to weigh my options and determine if there is possibly a way to retain the stylistic effect without shaking my readers out of their immersion.

I am definitely going to continue submitting work, like all writers should. Most of what was said covered things I thought I explained, but definitely did not explain well enough, if at all. Now I know to be more careful in putting my ideas down more clearly. I even learned new techniques.

The last rule of writing groups?

Do it!

Meanwhile...

Time to jump over to see what the younger brother has been up to. The nice thing about this being a rough draft? I can always fill in the gaps later. HA!

Let's see. Before the brothers split up, they had just reached the outskirts of town. Makos saw celebratory banners and they realized it was the holiday 'Rune Day'. Makos begged to run on ahead and Danos relented. Danos ventured into a side alley. What about Makos?

After the story segment, I will talk about some ways to avoid passive voice and what that means. I will show corrections. Thoroughly.

Makos was doomed. He knew it in his gut. He would be in so much trouble when Danos found out.

In his right hand, Makos held a small, splintered piece of carved wood that was roughly in the shape of a kite shield. Blue paint strokes formed in a strange symbol were interrupted by a large chunk missing from the corner of the shield.

In Makos' left hand, he clung tightly to canvas draped over a tree limb. His feet kicked in the air, several feet from the ground. He frowned worriedly at the thin layer of grass beneath him, his one-handed grip slipping.

The stunned silence from the crowds was at last broken by one voice calling out, "How'd he do that?"

A murmur picked up from the gathering crowds and Makos blushed under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes.

'Don't move or it might happen again!' he thought, forcing his legs to calm down. As if to spite him, the remaining strength in his hand failed.

On his way to the ground, Makos couldn't stop himself from swinging his arms all over. He yelled out while green ripples in the air flung out where ever he moved his hands. His impact with the ground was met by a loud crunch.

His legs collapsed beneath him and he ended up on flat on his back. He could see the canvas from the shield stall flapping about with the leaves all around it. He closed his eyes and refused to open them. If he'd broken his leg, he didn't know what he would do.

Screaming from the crowds caught him off guard and he opened his eyes, leaning his head forward to see what was the matter. He saw the top of the brick building across the street was missing a section of wall, specifically the corner. Looking down, he found the missing brickwork on the sidewalk with people forming a ring about it.

'I'm so dead.' He thought. 'When those people come over here, they'll lock me up in prison for the rest of my life!'

He gave in to a growing nagging of curiosity and examined his legs and was relieved to discover they were undamaged aside form bruising. It was then that a brilliant idea occurred to him, promising hope. If he wasn't lame, he could escape quietly before people stopped inspecting the rubble.

Struggling to his feet as quietly as he could, Makos wobbled behind the rest of the shield merchant's stall and dropped to the ground.

'That fall took a lot out of me.' He thought. 'I'll just hide here a second and then sneak away after they start to leave.'

He hoped dearly that they would leave, specifically in the opposite direction.

Alright, let's analyze this a moment. What is passive voice? Well, it's the opposite of active voice. Real helpful, right?

A good way to explain is by showing an example:

I wrote a letter. vs. The letter was written by me.

Can you tell which is which?

Both sentences say the exact same thing, but the first example is in an active voice while the latter is written in a passive voice. Why does it matter? When should an author use one or the other? Maybe a better question is: What sort of feeling do you get from each sentence?

Active voice is direct. There is an actor who is doing something to something.

Passive voice is indirect. There is something that is being acted upon by something else.

Active voice has an inherent effect of putting a sense of responsibility on the actor. Ever hear someone try to avoid the responsibility of a mistake? If, as a child, I had broken my mother's favorite fragile, expensive plate, I would try to get out of it by saying, "Your plate is broken" instead of "I broke your plate."

Something interesting about passive voice, as I just used, is that the one who causes the condition doesn't even have to be included. I didn't mention the plate was broken by me. This phenomenon allows for a fun little tool to identify passive voice in a sentence.

As explained by Mary Robinette Kowal in Season 9 Episode 17 of the Writing Excuses podcast, you know a sentence is in the passive voice if you can add "by zombies" to the end.

"Your plate was broken by zombies." Passive voice.

Imagine my mom coming home to that explanation.

The other main feature of passive voice is it creates a sense of detachment and leaves room for confusion and a hazy picture of the scene. Active voice solves this by saying exactly who did what and to what or whom they did it. There is no doubt. Information is available and the reader can move on without wondering what they are supposed to be visualizing.

In the case of writing novels, it's obvious we only want to use the active voice. No one should ever employ the passive voice, right? Isn't that obvious?

Well, if you want to only write in an active voice, go right ahead. Just remember, however, that just like ingredients in a potential meal, anything and everything can be employed in some way, breaking rules in some exceptions where a more powerful effect can bring about more powerful flavor.

Bitter flavor, while almost always a negative thing, can be used to compliment other flavors in a way that turn the dish into a true work of art.

One last quick word on a benefit of using passive voice: If you want to bring more attention to what is being done, where the actor isn't so important, passive voice is a perfect fit.

Time for some editing. (Note: Normally when I write, I ignore the editing process. The first draft is the rough draft. Repairs and modifications can be included later. For the purpose of demonstration in this post, however, some editing may prove worthwhile.)

Let's start with the first paragraph.

Makos was doomed. He knew it in his gut. He would be in so much trouble when Danos found out.

The very first sentence here is a perfect example of good use of passive voice. All we are concerned about is how Makos is feeling. He has a sense of dread. Who or what doomed him? Did you find yourself asking this question? If do, then awesome! This is also what is intended. I have opened your mind up to start paying attention to the details that follow, or things you have already seen. Now you are hooked and I can unveil the cause of his distress.

The second sentence is in an active voice: He knew it. An actor doing something to something. In this case being aware that he is doomed. The last sentence is passive, but changing that wouldn't really work, would it? Maybe it would. Please comment below if you think otherwise.


In his right hand, Makos held a small, splintered piece of carved wood that was roughly in the shape of a kite shield. Blue paint strokes formed in a strange symbol were interrupted by a large chunk missing from the corner of the shield.

All of this is active.

In Makos' left hand, he clung tightly to canvas draped over a tree limb. His feet kicked in the air, several feet from the ground. He frowned worriedly at the thin layer of grass beneath him, his one-handed grip slipping.

The first part is also active. The second phrase is odd. His feet aren't kicking anything, they are jsut kicking. I suppose you could say they are kicking themselves. In that case, the sentence is has an active voice without defining the target of the action. It is simply implied.

An alternative view would be that Makos is the actor, as opposed to his feet, and his feet are the things being acted upon. He is willing his feet to kick about. In passive voice it would be said that His feet were kicked, not even mentioning the actor. Does it really make a difference? I don't believe so. The action doesn't really have a huge impact other than painting a scene, and in this case, I want the focus on the action, so passive voice is perfect for it. Either way, I've accomplished my purposes here.

The stunned silence from the crowds was at last broken by one voice calling out, "How'd he do that?"

Uh oh. This is passive and has no good reason to be passive. Perhaps I should reword it:

A single voice broke the stunned silence of the crowds, "How'd he do that?"

Wow! I really like that. Not only is it more concise, it holds a better focus and is more efficient on page space. Would you rather waste an extra second reading those extra words? One sentence may not make much of a difference, but after thousands of sentences, it could create a lot of drag and wasted time.

A murmur picked up from the gathering crowds and Makos blushed under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes.

Another example of strangely worded passive voice. The crowd is cited as the location from whence it rises, but doesn't exactly attribute the acting as the crowd's fault. Makos blushing is self evident that he is acting upon himself, in this case his face. I like the focus being on the sound of quiet talking. The point is that he needs to feel pressure from others. Who cares who they are? Personal choice here.

'Don't move or it might happen again!' he thought, forcing his legs to calm down. As if to spite him, the remaining strength in his hand failed.

Thinking is obvious, like talking. The next part assumes that he is forcing his own legs, hence the comma for borrowing the same subject, making it active voice. Strength failing is active, acting upon itself.

On his way to the ground, Makos couldn't stop himself from swinging his arms all over. He yelled out while green ripples in the air flung out where ever he moved his hands. His impact with the ground was met by a loud crunch.

All active up until the last sentence. I actually like this the way it is, if only for the purpose of timing. Maybe I'm strange, but I think a lot of impact can be gained from saving the critical details for the very end.

His legs collapsed beneath him and he ended up on flat on his back. He could see the canvas from the shield stall flapping about with the leaves all around it. He closed his eyes and refused to open them. If he'd broken his leg, he didn't know what he would do.

Active voice throughout. The green section is where two phrases overlap. In the first half, 'he' is the actor while in the second half 'the canvas' is the actor.

Screaming from the crowds caught him off guard and he opened his eyes, leaning his head forward to see what was the matter. He saw the top of the brick building across the street was missing a section of wall, specifically the corner. Looking down, he found the missing brickwork on the sidewalk with people forming a ring about it.

All active, with some inferred elements like before, and another example of target serving as an actor later in the same sentence.

'I'm so dead.' He thought. 'When those people come over here, they'll lock me up in prison for the rest of my life!'

Active voice.

He gave in to a growing nagging of curiosity and examined his legs and was relieved to discover they were undamaged aside form bruising. It was then that a brilliant idea occurred to him, promising hope. If he wasn't lame, he could escape quietly before people stopped inspecting the rubble.

I highlighted a section in orange to point out now. He was relieved to discover. He is the actor, as inferred. Being relieved is the action. To discover almost looks like the target, like a state of being. Well, don't let this confuse you. He is targeting himself. The further action of discovering is just a reason why he is relieving himself.

Struggling to his feet as quietly as he could, Makos wobbled behind the rest of the shield merchant's stall and dropped to the ground.

'That fall took a lot out of me.' He thought. 'I'll just hide here a second and then sneak away after they start to leave.'

He hoped dearly that they would leave, specifically in the opposite direction.

I'm actually surprised I used as much active voice as I did. Good! That means my practice is working.

In summary, there is a purpose to active voice and a purpose to passive voice. Be sure that you use the right voice for the right impact, or you may suffer from loss of potential impact or even downright confusion and not feeling immersed in your characters' experience.

Here's a fancy tool someone pointed out to me that I set as one of my homepage tabs. I use it regularly to find instances of passive voice in my work, just in case I didn't intend to have it there.

Free Day #3: Pacing

Today I want to talk about pacing. I am taking today as a Free Day since I didn't use it yesterday.

What is pacing and why use it?

Pacing is like the tempo in a song. It can be fast or slow; energetic or calming. Like music, pacing can help set a unique mood.

Pacing is also like motion blur in a video. I know. I already used that example on Free Day #1
That's fine. In that article, I discussed how the level of detail in a scene can change the reader's focus to those things more fully described. It is also a great tool for setting the pace of a story.

Here's some sample text:

Gus walked up to a box. He punched a hole in the box. It punched him back.

Here are two examples of the same text paced differently using level of detail:

Example 1:

Gus walked down the gravel trail. Evergreens to his left and right swayed in a sudden breeze. The wind blew through his wavy, black hair. It was a refreshing cool gust leftover from an escaping winter season.

Gus stopped in front of an obstacle in his path. It was an ordinary box of ordinary tan coloring. It was a little taller than him and twice as wide. He grumbled to himself. "What is with this box?" He shook his head. "It doesn't even have a label."

As he studied the box, he realized how much it reminded him of his third-cousin. He had met the relative at a family reunion two years ago. Charlie was his name. For some reason, he never did like Charlie. That kid was always in his way.

Gus fumed at the thought of meeting Charlie again. He imagined what his reaction would be if Charlie tried getting in his way again. As he dwelled on that concept, Gus noticed that the box was about Charlie's size. He frowned, imagining his cousin in place of the box. If he was ever given another chance he would punch Charlie right in the face.

It only took a little effort of picturing his obnoxious cousin instead of the box. Gus glared at it and imagined it saying to him in Charlie's annoying voice, 'What are you going to do now, cousin? Here I am, in your way.'

"Oh, I'll show you what I'm going to do." Gus said, gritting his teeth, brow furrowing. Gus pulled his arm back and flexed it. He formed his hand into a tight fist. His knuckles cracked under the strain. Gus could feel his blood begin to boil.

Clenching his abs all at once, Gus took a half step forward and extended his fist at lightning speed. Gus felt his knuckles meet resistance at the surface of the cardboard. At first, it bowed behind the might of his attack. Next, bends began to appear and the box began to fold around his fist. Finally, his fist broke the surface. He saw the little tear peel back into a hole, which peeled back into a larger hole, which grew by the millisecond until his entire fist penetrated the cardboard. The sweet rush of adrenaline made his eyes dilate and he smiled wickedly.

Gus' forearm passed into the box halfway to his elbow before he pulled it back with the recoil. He brought his arm back into position for another strike, then let his arms drop. He smiled and nodded once. The box was done for. That would teach it to never block his path again.

Gus shifted his foot so that he could step around the failed obstacle, but he was interrupted. His head pushed back as his shoulders tried to move forward with the rest of his body. Gus saw a muscular arm extending out of the hole in the box where he had broken in. The arm's hand was a fist, gloved in red and blue material, but the fingers were bare, protruding from the glove. The brightly colored material was in contact with a large section of his face.

Gus blacked out.

Example #2:

Gus approached the obstacle in his path. It was a large cardboard box, standing upright in the middle of the road.

He glared at the box. It reminded him of his obnoxious cousin, Charlie, always in the way.

Gus blinked, seeing Charlie standing there instead of the box. It made his blood boil.

Without hesitation, Gus laid a heavy fist right through the front of the box at eye level.

Before he even had a chance to smirk, a muscular arm sprung through the hole in the box, fist first. It connected with his face.

Gus blacked out.

 In these two examples, we can see how the level of detail determines a lot about how fast the scene plays through. The same thing is happening in each, but one feels like it is happening in slow motion. The other ends after a few seconds, it seems.

A benefit of using high level of detail is that it helps to immerse the reader. This can, unfortunately, also destroy the mood that really needs to exist in this scene. Not only can descriptions immerse readers, but the mood to a scene can as well.

Ever watch a suspenseful movie? How much do you remember of the rooms in which a furious gun fight takes place? A general sense of it, right? Of course you remember the balcony. That's where the bad guy fell from the thirtieth story while the good guy jumped after him, unloaded several well-aimed rounds for good measure and then wing-suit-glided away over a busy city backdrop.

What do you mean you don't recall the room number or what time was displayed on the clock? You don't even remember the bad guy's name? What do you mean he was just bullet-fodder?

Oh, I see. None of those things were the focus and it was an action-packed, suspenseful scene. IT still drew you in, though, did it not? These same principles apply in writing.

Set your pacing according to the mood you want to enlist. Is the dance hall supposed to be lively? Add lots of vague comments about strobe lights blaring and thrumming beats while people swing their arms all over and jump around. Want it to be romantic? Then mention the way the dim light pools in the dancers' eyes as they hold each other and slowly spin to the calm music that evokes rich emotion. Describe how the dancer's feel being in each others' arms and how their nervousness melts away.

Want a real challenge that is bound to be a headache of fun? Describe the romantic couple waltzing in the lively dance hall.

Continuing the Story

Continued...

Danos shook his head and leaned forward to make certain of what he was seeing. There, not three feet away from him, stood a man no taller than four inches. He was dressed like a gentleman, with nice slacks, a white shirt with a darkly colored bow tie, and shiny shoes. He also wore a fancy, pinstriped jacket.

His head was covered in curly hair of various shades of gray, receding at the sides. Danos had to squint to make out the gold belt buckle made of braided metal bands. He also thought he recognized a pocket watch chain stretching from a button hole in his shirt to his left pants pocket.

The diminutive gentleman squinted back up at Danos. "Not big on personal space, are you?"

"Personal space?" Danos asked. "You can't even reach me."

"As I recall, one's stature and wingspan have nothing to do with it." He frowned harshly until Danos took a long step backwards.

The man let out a relieved breath. "Better. Now, I believe you owe me an apology, son."

"Um. Sorry." Danos obliged.

"Um sorry is a poor excuse of an apology, but I'm in a bit of a good mood today, so it will do." He put his hand beside his mouth conspiratorially, then whispered loudly, "It's a holiday, you know?"

Danos nodded. "Rune Day."

"Well, yes, that." The man flipped his hand dismissively. "It is also the anniversary of my election."

"Congratulations." Danos said. "What were you elected for?"

The man folded his arms and stuck his nose up into the air. "Don't you recognize your own governor?"

"You?" Danos asked, marveling. "You're the governor?"

"You find it hard to believe?"

"Well," Danos replied, "I've seen the governor once before and you aren't exactly the same."

"You are referring to my height, yes?" The governor supplied.

"Yeah." Danos nodded. "That, and you don't have a hat."

"And therein lies the problem." The governor said, shoulders slumping. "I was searching everywhere to find my hat after it blew away in a rather strong gust of wind. You see, the hat is special."

"Special how?" Danos asked.

The governor grinned at him. "Would you believe its magical?"

Danos laughed, bringing a frown to the tiny official's face. "I wasn't laughing at you. It's just what you said. This isn't the only case of magic I've seen since yesterday."

"Oh, really?" He asked in a curious tone.

"Let's just say I believe you." Danos said.

"Well alright." The governor raised a tiny arm and beckoned him closer. Danos stooped down and moved his ear closer.

The governor quietly said, "When I wear my hat, I can change size at will."

"Wow." Danos said. "So you can become large again?"

"I could have, at least until I lost it." He said as his shoulders drooped inwards.

"Ah. Right."

"Yes." The governor continued, perking up and glaring back up at Danos. "I could have found it by now, but someone decided to frighten my domesticated rodent. I suspect I won't ever find poor Quicksilver again."

Continued tomorrow.

At Last! A New Character

The story is moving along. Answers need to be found that will provide direction. Some clue needs to exist that will lead the heroes on to the resolution. This story is not so short, is it? Oh well. I plan on writing full-length novels anyway, so I may be better off starting with one.

Onto the story. Let's see if I can pick up the pace a little and get our heroes on the right track without making everything too complicated.

Something caught Danos' eye while he watched his brother disappear into the gathering crowds. He turned and saw what he could have sworn looked like a tiny man disappearing around the corner of the alleyway to his left.

He shook his head and then scratched it. "You really are going crazy." He mumbled to himself, then strode to the alley's entrance and looked down it more closely. He took quiet steps down the narrow path between mismatched brick walls, feeling sillier the further he went.

He began to turn back, certain he had imagined it, when he heard a faint scuffling sound around the corner at the end. It sounded like paper tearing and dragging along rough cobblestone. 'Probably just a rat.' Danos assured himself while he approached the turn as silently as he could manage and peered around the edge of the wall.

"Sure enough." He laughed. There was the rat, dragging a scrap of paper on its back.

At the sound of his voice and laughter, the rodent bolted, shooting right down the alley to the next bend. Danos chuckled at the creature as it still dragged along the patch of old newspaper. 'Must be grimy paper, sticking like that.'

Something deep inside him built up, making him want to act like a kid again. At first, he rejected the thought, but after realizing there was nobody around to see him, he grinned and chased the rodent, letting out a "Ha ha! I'm gonna catch you, rat!"

The rat reached the turn and scurried to the right. A few steps behind, Danos leaped out past the corner and spun to face it with a snarling sound.

The rat had reached a dead end and it was struggling in a corner to run up the walls with no success. Each time it tried, it got a little higher, but fell to the cobblestones, landing on all fours. Realizing that Danos was getting closer, the rat turned around and backed its hind end up into the corner.

Danos lifted one leg high above the ground, then slapped it down, making a loud clap as leather soles slapped stone. The rat jumped two feet into the air, legs reeling, and somehow managed to catch its forelimbs on a gap between bricks. It clung on dearly, but slowly began to lose its grip.

Feeling extra mischeivious, Danos stook another step forward, slapping the other foot down and yelling "Boo!"

The rodent lost it. A damp spot covered the wall as it launched another two feet into the air, flailing its whole body about midair. Through the whole ordeal, the scrap of paper hung on, until the rat finally landed on its back with a loud "OUCH!" It then flipped back onto its feet, and dashed madly between Danos' legs, only to disappear around the corner.

Danos watched it as it left, stunned. 'Did that rat just say...'

"Ow!" A small, though loud, voice repeated from the dead end.

Danos turned back around and stared wide-eyed at the spectacle. Where the rat had fallen was a little man, sprawled out on his back. He managed to sit up, his back making little popping noises, and Danos could see the string tied around his waist which was looped through holes in the paper at each end.

"You've really done it this time!" The little man yelled up at him, which was only as loud as a normal person's talking volume. "You've gone and broke my back at last!" He picked himself off the ground and dusted off his backside.

"Where are you?" Danos managed to say in amazement. It wasn't what he meant to ask, but he was lucky to have gotten out a proper sentence anyway, the way his mind was reeling.

"Where am I?" The man glared up and him. "I'm in the middle of nowhere without a steed, that's where. And its no thanks to you!"

Danos tried forming his mouth into the beginning of another sentence, but failed, looking like a fish out of water.

"Wait. That's not right." The little man held his head. "I mean its ALL thanks to you!" He then crossed his arms and added, "Not that I'm thanking you, mind."

I think I'll stop this here for tonight. Its got momentum and will be much easier to motivate myself to keep the ball rolling as opposed to starting from a lull again.

Plot

Plot. What is plot?

You plot a course, right? Right. The characters are going to go through something, do something, go somewhere. And then we have plot twists. Often against the designs of the protagonist, the plot is changed; a new direction is forced or the reality of the course is made evident, where the protagonist was fooled or unaware.

For my story, the brothers have a plot. They are going to live their life, but the story begins with a twist warned to happen. Before that can even occur, a stranger shows up who takes away any chance to prevent the plot twist. This forces a change of direction. Now the boys are on their own and they have to save their father. They confront the stranger and banish him with newly discovered powers.

This is great for the characters. Things are becoming exciting and easier. That's no good for us, though. We don't want exciting and easier, we want exciting and dramatic! How to fix this? Balance the playing field. The younger brother has a magic power. We just need to make more people with powers who are in opposition to his goals. Let's allow him to assume he is still unique, however. The reveal will be made more dramatic.

The boys got up the next morning and ate a simple breakfast: oatmeal. Without milk or brown sugar or butter. After cleaning up the dishes, they said their farewells to the clock that was their father and headed for town.

"Do you think anyone will really know how to change him back?" Makos asked while flicking a stick around like a whip.

Danos kept his eyes on the dusty road, watching the sunlit patches as they approached them. When they passed into one, warm tingling on his skin pushed away the damp chilly air of the morning. He sighed, and said. "I don't really know, but what else can we do?"

Makos' swings with the stick calmed down to more thoughtful circles aimed at the road.

Danos eyed his brother, then added. "If you think about it, though, chances are someone saw him come into town and talked with him. You know how Baker Jim is. He'd want to welcome a new face in to sample some of his banana nut berry bread. Everyone always buys a loaf once they taste it."

Makos lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. "That's true." He said in an upbeat voice. He ran out in front of Danos and held up open palms, somehow holding the end of the stick with just his thumb. "Wait! You know what? I heard father say the governor arrived yesterday."

Danos smiled broadly. "You're right! That means he was inspected with everyone else. Makos, you're a genius."

Makos put his hands to his hips and showed off all of his teeth with a grin. "That'll teach you to not listen to me more often. What if I hadn't said anything?"

Danos rolled his eyes. "Come on. You have to admit, most of your ideas are kind of..."

"Awesome?" Makos suggested.

"Childish." Danos shrugged.

"Childish?" Makos demanded. "You just don't have any imagination."

Danos raised an eyebrow. "What does imagination have to do with starting a fire so you don't have to do your chores?"

"It was only a little fire!" Makos replied, scowling. "I wasn't anywhere near the stables anyway. You were the one who kicked the embers close enough for the hay to burn up."

"I was too worried trying to make sure you didn't burn yourself to notice how many 'little fires' you had made." Danos said, returning the scowl. "Do you realize how much trouble your fires caused for father? He lost a full day of wages because you couldn't keep out of trouble."

Makos crossed his arms and turned around, walking down the road faster than Danos, only slowing down once he had gotten a few yards.

"Always pouts like a child. Never learns." Danos mumbled to himself.

After an hour of silent walking, the scene of the town seemed to have a magical affect on their moods. It was only every other week their father took them into town. It was already six weeks into August and they hadn't made a trip yet that month, so it felt like a dream.

"I can see banners!" Makos cheered. "They're red and green!"

"Is it already Rune Day?" Danos wondered aloud.

"I can see the shield shop!" Makos said. "It must be!"

"Now that I recall, it did come late March last year, so yeah. It must already be Rune Day, then." Danos had to catch the hem of his brother's coat before Makos went dashing off to the storefronts.

"Remember," He said. "We don't have any money, and we are here to find help for father."

"I know." Makos said, his shoulders slumped a little and his voice lost a little emphasis. "But Maro always has free shields for kids!" He added, grin returning. "Besides, I can ask Maro if he's seen the governor yet today."

"Okay." Danos relented. "Just don't try begging for an extra shield this time. It's not fair to the others."

"I won't." Makos hurried on ahead, leaving Danos shaking his head in disbelief. Had he been as excited as that two years ago? He didn't see what the big deal was now. The shields were only cut-out pieces of scrap wood painted with fake runes.

Check back tomorrow for more!

Free Day #2: Designing Magic

Today I am going to practice coming up with ideas for magic systems following Sanderson's Laws:

Sanderson's First Law defines the difference between hard magic and soft magic. Hard magic has almost scientific restrictions and reasoning whereas soft magic has more loosely defined capabilities.

Sanderson's Second Law states that the restrictions placed upon a magic system inherently make it more interesting as we watch the character work around those restrictions.

Sanderson's Third Law involves limiting the number of abilities so that your characters are forced to learn to use what they have in smart news ways to overcome new situations. Don't just grant them more and more powers for everything that comes up. Put them in a bind and watch as they use their ability in a previously unforeseen way.

Right now, I have two magic systems in my book so far. The clockmaker has something in his cupboard that when people look at it, they turn into grandfather clocks. The younger brother has the second ability, being able to create waves of energy that fling things far away. My story concept is that everyone finds their own unique power, but I believe I can get away with this without breaking the three laws of magic.

Makos will never get another ability, but honestly, it's a great ability already. What does he do when someone tries to attack him? He swings a few waves toward them and they end up a mile away after a rough landing.

What are its limitations? He has to move his limbs to do it, so he can't if he is tied up. By putting him in a situation where he can't move, it will prove his weakness and make things more suspenseful. It can also force him to adapt by testing them capabilities of his power. What if, in a last ditch effort, he discovers that kicking works, too? What if he can cross waves together to create stronger effects?

How about a cost involved in using the power? Maybe he can only do it in the moonlight.

As for the clock transformations, I may want to use this magic more as a soft magic, where it merely puts pressure on the boys, but is never really explored other than finding a cure for it. With soft magic, as Brandon Sanderson suggests, it is better to not let the protagonists use it, at least not successfully. If they do tamper with the power, it should set things back, causing more trouble than its worth, otherwise, it must become a defined hard magic so as to not render the characters without challenges.

Time for a bit of writing practice using incorporating these laws:

The globe exploded into a thousand, multicolored shards of glass.

"Nab Daggit!" Surlon swore while dodging a rather large glass projectile. "Every single time!"

The apprentice scratched his head from the safety of the upper observatory. "Maybe you need to use more gunpowder." The voice crackled over the radio.

Surlon snorted. "More gunpowder? Are you telling me you included gunpowder to this batch?" He brushed bits of glass off his protective leather suit.

"Uh." The radio buzzed. "The recipe called for three hundred grains of GP. That stands for gunpowder, doesn't it?"

Surlon stared at the young man as he slipped off a thick glove, then slapped his forehead. "GP is the bio-alchemical denotation for gouda cheese."

"Cheese?" The apprentice responded. "'G' for gouda, then, but what does the 'P' stand for?"

"'P' stands for cheese." Surlon explained.

"Uh. That makes no sense, sir."

Surlon waved his hand around. "'C' was already taken."

"Ah." The young man replied. After a moment, he asked, "Then what's 'C' stand for?"

"Fish bones."

"I think I am starting to see a pattern here." The apprentice said.

"Good. That's what I am paying you for." Grumbled the old scientist. "I hate to say it, but I may never live to see the day alchemy becomes a practical source of anything useful. If you witness my failures now, you hopefully will not repeat them, saving more time to get closer to the solution."

I am going to have to pick this story back up later. Check back on Monday for a new post!

Making Plans

Continued from yesterday:

"Well," Danos said, "I don't think he will be bothering us again."

Makos let out a nervous chuckle. Danos followed suit. Soon, respective states of shock diffused into raucous laughter. When it died down at last, Danos caught his breath and turned to regard the light brown clock. "What are we going to do?"

Makos sat up from where he had fallen on the grass and placed his forearms over his knees. He stared at the carvings on it, then replied. "What can we do? Father is a grandfather clock now."

"A father clock." Danos corrected.

"Yeah. I guess so." Makos agreed.

Danos rubbed his chin. "I don't know. Do you really think it's him?"

Makos nodded vigorously. "I heard him yell through the glass before it fixed itself."

"Hmm." Danos crossed his arms. "I have no ideas."

"Me neither." Makos added, just before a cold drop of rain landed right on the tip of his nose. He glanced up at the black sky speckled with stars, and a slight breeze rustled through his hair.

Danos followed his gaze. "I suppose for starters, we better bring him inside, just in case."

---------------

A couple of hours later, the clock rested upright and undamaged in the corner of the den a few feet away from the fireplace. The boys sat on a green and brown woven rug before a toasty flame. Both were soaked and shivering and both studied the clock as it softly ticked and tocked away.

That sound accompanied by a heavy rainfall thumping on the roof shingles seemed to hypnotize the younger boy into a doze. His brother's voice shook him back to consciousness.

"We can try going into town and asking if anyone knows who that man was." Makos watched Danos' expressions in the flickering firelight as he talked. "There has to be someone who knows how to undo this."

Continued tomorrow.

Mixing things up!

Do you ever get bored with a project you are working on? Does it ever lose its excitement? What do you do when that happens?

I definitely have wanted to drop projects before, and done so. The problem with this is that we gain experience by going through the process. If all I ever did was write through acts one and two, then lost steam at act three, I would never learn how to write that third act, how to wrap things up.

This story is getting kind of boring for me, but I don't want to quit. I really want to gain the understanding, so I need to finish it. What's my solution? Either I can drop the project and miss out, or I can mess around and make it fun again. Maybe I will end up destroying the entire story by being too crazy, but why bother writing if I never finish anything?

Let's get crazy!

What are my plans? To answer that, I need to establish what I already have that I like. Alright, then what do I like so far?

I really enjoy the idea of turning people into clocks based on their memories and desires. Its not that exactly that catches my interest. Its more the fantastical magic of it derived from features of the mundane person. What if I had that same principle applied to a lot more scenarios?

My solution, then, is to introduce the emergence of magic in everything and everyone in this world. It is just beginning, but eventually, everyone will be affected. The brothers still have the goal to turn their father back to normal, but they will find the means by delving into their developing abilities that are based off of their traits.

"No thanks." Danos said, stepping back slowly. "Whatever's inside it is what turned him into a clock, isn't it?"

"Oh, but I insist. Here, let me just open this door and you can see for yourself." The old man grabbed the handle and began to pull it open.

Makos couldn't stand it. For all he knew, something inside that cupboard was about to turn his brother into a clock, too. As the door began to swing open, Makos acted on instinct, flinging his hand in front of the old man as he let out a cry of frustration.

Waves of rippling energy flew from Makos' arm. He was stunned as the air shifted and undulated, crawling through the air toward the clockmaker. As the fast-moving waves collided with the old man, they folded around him like a rubber band, pushing his arms to his sides between the rings of waves.

"What the...?" The old man managed to say before the compounding ripples snapped back into straight lines. The waves threw the old man so hard, he flew over the horizon and out of sight in a few seconds.

Makos stood with his arm up and to the side. His mouth hung open as wide as it could go. Danos' shared his expression, looking in the same direction.

"What...?" Makos began.

"...did you do?" Danos finished.

Both looked at Makos' hand, which he pulled in close to his face for immediate inspection. Neither noticed anything different about it. Just a normal hand attached to a normal boy who had done something so abnormal, it was impossible.

OK, folks. Time for some application of yesterday's lesson. I am going to go back and apply some more immersion elements. I'll highlight the parts I change or add.

"No thanks." Danos said, stepping back slowly. "Whatever's inside it is what turned him into a clock, isn't it?"

"Oh, but I insist. Here, let me just open this door and you can see for yourself." The old man grabbed the brass handle and began to pull it open.

Makos' heart began to thump wildly. For all he knew, something inside that tall cupboard was about to turn his brother into a dusty, old, grandfather clock, too. As the door began to squeak open, Makos acted on instinct, flinging his hand in front of the old man as he let out a cry of frustration.

Waves of rippling energy flew from Makos' arm. He was stunned as the air shifted and undulated, turning the color of the air an emerald green while it passed. The waves crawled through the empty air toward the clockmaker, who stopped opening the door once the green ripples stole his attention. As the rapidly pulsing waves collided with the old man, they folded around him tightly like a series of thick rubber bands, pushing his arms to his sides between the rings of waves.

"What the...?" The old man managed to pronounce before the compounding ripples snapped right back into straight lines. The waves tossed the old man so hard, he flew over the horizon and out of sight in a matter of five seconds.

Makos stood with his arm extending to the side. His mouth hung open as wide as it could go. Danos' shared his expression, staring in the same direction.

"What...?" Makos began.

"...did you do?" Danos finished.

Both looked at Makos' extended hand, which he pulled in close to his face for further scrutiny. Neither noticed anything different about it. Just a normal hand attached to a normal boy who had done something so abnormal, it was impossible.

Continued tomorrow!

Free Day #1

Well, to start off this post on the right foot, it turns I made a bad call yesterday. While, yes, I came to the same conclusion as horror story author Dan Wells about character reaction being important, the podcast in which he mentions this happened two months prior... so...

Oh well... maybe next time. Now I get to shake my fist at his portrait on www.WritingExcuses.com for time-traveling in order to foil my master plan.

Let's get on topic. Today I would like to use this Wednesday to mix things up and try something else out before continuing with the current story. Today, I would like to talk about immersion.

What does it mean, immersion? In the world of storytelling of any sort, immersion is the process of cognitively experiencing a different state, independent of your current reality. Pretty simple, right? Basically, it means putting yourself into the shoes of the view-point character.

How does one do this? At what point does one become immersed? The answer is in the senses.

Where are you right now? Think about it and analyze it. Me? I am in my bedroom. How do I know? Well, I can see the four walls and my furniture. I can hear muffled traffic coming from the window. I can feel the carpet under my bare feet and the mattress I am sitting on.

These senses confirm the fact to me that I am in my bedroom. It's a fact because I can prove it with my senses. These senses are constantly rooting me into this world. I have described my 'scene' very roughly. Readers can enter into a book's world by imagining the same sensations as they are described, plus any they add on their own to fill in the blanks.

This is probably the biggest reason I get upset over movie portrayals of books: because the director was in his own version of the world than my version. In my version of the Mistborn trilogy, for example, Ham shares the voice of the generic Nord man in The Elder Scrolls video games. When the movies come out for that series, if they don't use the same voice, I will be thoroughly disappointed!

Anyway, back to the discussion. Want to visit my apartment? Let me create an elaborate scene to serve as your doorway.

The first thing I saw as I entered through the plain wood door was a matching plain wood flooring covering half of the open space; the other half was covered in a short-cropped, beige carpet. As I entered the apartment, I turned to close the door and flipped the stainless steel lock handle shaped like a semi-circle with a pot belly that hung beyond the lock mechanism. I heard the sound of it clunking into place.

At the far wall, a glass sliding door was closed and had vertical blinds pulled across it, which matched the carpeting. The blinds were slightly opened, granting a meager sight at the lawn out back and a concrete block wall. The wall to the left had two doors; three on the right, all hudled in on each other where the wood flooring paved a very short hallway. All doors were closed.

To my right stood an island counter, and beyond it, a series of cabinets were mounted to the wall and butted up against the ceiling. The smell of something slightly burnt wafted across my nostrils, and I turned past the cabinets, counters and sink to face a stove-top oven.

There lay the culprit: a slightly blackened pizza. Closer studying revealed peperoni and sausage had been laid asymmetrically across the pizza. It had already been cut into slices, so I helped myself. Hefting the the weighty slice which began to droop between balancing fingertips, I opened my mouth and swung the dangling cheese and sausage in. It was still warm, and the tangy pizza sauce pronounced itself nicely beside the savory meat and mozzarella flavors.

So there's my kitchen and living room area. The pizza, by the way, is not that fancy, at least in my version. It also burned the roof of my mouth just behind my upped incisors, in case you are interested in knowing such details.

Notice how the details of the apartment are sparse, and the sink is barely mentioned, while I give full attention to the pizza? It's just like a video camera. I rush over things, leaving a motion blur, only settling at certain spots that catch my eye. The pizza is obviously the star of the show, however, and, lucky for you, this camera is equipped with taste, smell, and touch delivery systems as well.

Now, let me create a new scene. This time, I won't blur over much.

"The cave walls were cold and damp, leaving moisture on my hands as I supported myself against them. I had to stoop over in order to progress, occasionally smacking the back of my head on rough or sharp protrusions from the irregularly shaped ceiling. Looking down the tunnel, it made me think of what the inside of a worm looked like, all wrinkly and bumpy and long and dark and covered with the occasional patch of green and tan lichen patterns.

The echoes of my tennis shoes dragging along an identically stone floor sounded hollow and strange, almost muffled. I began to feel claustrophobic. In the beginnings of my panic, I felt adrenaline dump right into my arteries like cold water. I began to move faster, sweating more than I should have been. My armpits grew damp and I felt sweat rolling down the sides of my face. One drop managed to veer into my eyebrow, where it held for a moment, before slipping down into my right eye.

The salt burned my eye and I tried to blink it away to no avail. Growing frustrated, I made the mistake of rubbing my eye with a dry-mud-encrusted forearm, not wanting to get the dirt from my hand in my eye, of all things. I pulled on my shirt roughly and scrubbed everything out of my eye and off my face very quickly, before pulling my shirt back down and huffing.

The shirt pulled at my back as I did so, and I was compelled by my discomfort to adjust the soaked patch of cloth before turning my attention back to the never-ending tunnel. Before I made it even five more feet down the cavern tube, a rebellious drop of sweat shot out of my pour and flew down my forehead, heading for the left eye. In a mad dash to intercept, I slapped my forehead, earning myself an angry headache, only to aide the drop in clearing the runway of my eyebrow, bypassing my nose altogether, and landing in a mouth currently producing curses.

It tasted salty.

I took several deep breaths of the warm, musty air before half-calming myself down, half- growing more claustrophobic. I took a second to consider if the tunnel had gotten smaller, but was rudely interrupted by a clacking noise. As is the case in any never-ending tunnel obviously made by doom worms, I had no way of telling whether the sound came from before me or behind me, only that it wasn't closer than three yards, nor farther than a couple miles, give or take a few inches.

It was then that I noticed my feet were moving to the sides back and forth beneath me. Then they were above me and my back felt the full impact of various edges careening with my spine. All I could remember for a long while was not wanting to get up. That, and the smell of wood smoke.
 
Did I get all of the senses? Sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste. Check! So, did you experience that tunnel? Did you feel and see and smell and taste and hear the same things in your mind? If you did, you were immersed in the scene.

In conclusion, if you are writing a story, but are having trouble finding a sense of connection to it, even though your ideas are marvelous and dialogue is fantastic, perhaps you should consider spicing things up and building all five bridges of sensation to the equation. It takes some thought to get started, but if you keep at it, you'll find it rolls out easily and people's mouths will water when you describe the succulent juicy taste of that first bite of sweet watermelon, or squirm in their seats when you enlist details of how it felt when your main character got a millimeter deep paper cut right across the edge of her lower eyelid. Do I even need to describe how that feels?

The Quest: Part V

I just listened to a podcast at WritingExcuses.com and, as they always say at the end of a 'cast, I'm out of excuses, now I must go and write! So here I go and write! Yes. Writing. Definitely doing it. Okay. This counts, right?

Let's focus today on something discussed on the podcast I just listened to: personalities! How to differentiate characters and make them stand out and be unique! I gave myself a high-five, which turned out like an awkward clap, when Dan Wells mentioned how characters become more distinct when you see their subtle reactions. Source: Season 10, Episode 7 ~9:45. Oh yeah! I totally said that before he did! ... At least this time! Another achievement earned!

At least this time! Now is when I compare my writing skill to Master Wells' and we all have a good laugh and then I run home and cry under my bed. But enough about me, let's move on to the story! While implementing Dan's advice of adding subtle reactions!

"By now," the clockmaker said, "You will have certainly noticed an odd feeling. Am I right? Can't quite move as well as you once could, hmm?"

"What are you-" Mr. Highwhistle began to ask, but what cut short as a loud noise like wood plank groaning under stress interrupted.

"Filnewood, very nice. You are off to a great start, Mr. Whistle."

"What is this magic? Stop this!"

 The stranger chuckled in harmony with the sound of cracking glass. "You assume much. Why should I? Have I not kept my part of the bargain? Now, you are keeping yours."

"I didn't agree to this! Please, just-" More creaking cut him short.

Makos was about to dash out, turning back to make sure his brother wasn't watching, but realized Danos was just disappearing around the clock himself. Makos ran after him.

Both boys stopped in their tracks. Before them stood the stranger dressed in an ornate, purple and black cape with black pants, dark leather shoes, a fancy dress shirt that flared rather far at the collar, and a red hat that was crowned with a circle of feathers from various kinds of birds. He held a red coat beneath one arm, and the other hand was holding a large pocket watch, which was chained to his brown leather belt.

The man stood beside a grandfather clock, which was facing the man, but the direction Makos had run around their cover had brought him to stand where he could easily see the front of it. It was made of a blonde wood with decorations carve up and down it of horses of different kinds all posed as if galloping outward from the glass pane in the center of the door.

Makos was not quite angled so as to see through that pane very well, nor see past the moonlight glare at the face of the clock, but he could see a crack down the center of it.

To his amazement, Makos heard his father's voice yell as if from inside a closed room. "Run!" A loud sound of breaking glass peeled out as the crack in the clock face uncracked, sealing itself up so as to make it impossible to know it had ever been there.

"What did you do?!" Danos yelled. "How did you-" he seemed to not believe he was asking that question, and instead asked another. "Where is my father?!"

The stranger turned his gaze to the older boy and smiled. He spoke up in a cheerful mood. "Ah yes! I was just showing these fine clocks to Mr. Whistle when all of a sudden we came across one he particularly liked. He must have got it into his mind that he would like to buy it. Perhaps he has gone off to the bank to collect some funds so that he might fulfill his desire."

"Wha?" Danos said breathlessly. "At nine-o-clock?!"

The man nodded at the blonde wood clock. "Nine-o-nine, actually, it seems."

"You're a liar!" Makos screamed. "I heard it! You turned him into a clock!"

"I do not lie." The man spoke the words angrily, then continued in a softer tone. "I simply report things as I perceive them, and I say your father is no longer here. As for turning someone into a clock." He sniffed. "What nonsense. I can't do that. What are you trying to say? That you believe in wizardry?" He clicked his tongue. "Unbecoming of a young man if he is to grow up to become a fine horse trainer like his father."

Danos stepped forward, staring up at the clockmaker intensely before stating, "I don't know what you did, but our father is gone, and you are behind the reason." Makos eyed his brother carefully. He had never seen Danos act so serious or angrily before.

"I'd like to see you produce evidence of that." The man snickered.

"What's in the wardrobe?" Danos asked.

"Ah." The man said. "Please, why don't you have a look?"

That's it for tonight, folks. To be continued.