Michael Hiebert's Blog, page 2

How to be a Great Writer and Why That Still Doesn’t Matter

Someone from a writing group I’m in asked if anyone else was overwhelmed by the sheer number of writers out there today. And, it’s a valid question because never in the history of this world, has so many people decided they can write. And it’s not a bad thing. People need to express themselves. I’m sure for some people (like my daughter) just having things like social networks and blogs have allowed then to find catharsis through writing out their feelings. And somehow, the fact that others might be reading it makes it more attractive to these people. I think that’s a lot of the reason we’re seeing so many writers today. It’s not just because they KNOW they can self-publish if New York shuns them, and it’s definitely not for the money (it’s really hard to make decent money writing–I have four traditionally published novels and I may have to siphon gas out of the neighbor’s car at midnight if I want to go visit my girlfriend). So yeah, we’re not sitting back in the penthouse suite of Four Seasons sipping mimosa and sketching out plot ideas. Nobody’s in this for the money. You’d be better off working as a McDonald’s crew chief.

I also think a lot of people aren’t overwhelmed because they really don’t think in the back of their mind that they’re going to professional writers. They’re shooting for a couple short story sales, they want to finish their novel, self-publish it, maybe even publish it for free. They just want to express themselves and hopefully gain a little self-esteem boost in the process by finding those handful of readers who come back with something like, “You know? That’s a good book. You’re a smart guy. I don’t know how you did that.” I think that’s the real golden ticket in the Wonka bar for the vast majority.

So, how does this work with the people that DO really want to make it? Those who DO really want to become mid-list or (if you’re like me and already managed to do that) have their eyes set on the NY Times bestseller list?

Well, in that case, everything I’ve said up until now is good news. Because the playing field isn’t nearly as massive as it looks from the bleachers. There’s a lot of fireworks in the sky, but once they’ve done their short-lived explosions, the darkness once again settles over and you can see the stars. There aren’t as many stars and they aren’t as bright. But they’ll certainly glow a lot longer. And, for the most part, they’re stable.

So what does it take to stand out and be a star?

Tenacity. That’s pretty much all there is to it. The difference between a mediocre writer and a good writer is probably 200,000 words of FINISHED prose. To most new writers, that sounds like a huge mountain to climb. Especially the “finished” part. I do 200,000 words of FINISHED prose–these days–probably every six to eight months. I don’t think like a beginner writer anymore. I think like a professional. And I finish pretty much everything I start.

“So, 200,000 words will make me a good writer?” you ask. “That doesn’t sound bad. I can do that.”

I agree, you probably can. It’s just a matter of pushing through and ignoring that little voice that tries to tell you everything you’re writing is crap. Don’t listen to him. Even if he’s right (and he probably is. If this is your first 200,000 words, don’t expect to sell whatever it is you’re writing. It probably IS crap. But after that, you’ll be good.

Only problem: Good isn’t good enough.

Sure the playing field suddenly got smaller, but there’s still a helluva lot football helmets out there and the marching band just appeared. And their dubious of anyone with a stack of double-spaced paper in their hands.

If you want to be a real, honest to goodness, professional writer, you need to be great. Two things really, really improved my writing dramatically, almost over night. One was the day I emotionally disinvested myself from my work. I have my mentors, Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith to thank for this. At the time, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. They basically beat it out of me with a stick, but sometimes that’s what it takes. You are NOT your writing and your writing–even, I bet if you’re Stephen King–is not always going to be good. So get over it. Not every day will be a Hemingway Day. Some days are going to just be shitty crappy writing days. But don’t not write. You need those days. They are your practice days. And the whole point of practice is to refine yours skills and make your mistakes when they don’t really matter. Once you know longer have an emotional stake in your writing, suddenly every time someone tells you there’s something wrong or you have a feeling something in your plot has misfired, your reaction will be: Cool. How do i fix this? How do I make this great. Until you detach, you won’t have these thoughts. You’ll have that little voice saying, “Told you so. You suck.” And then another one coming into your head, “No, fuck him. He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. He’s stupid.” Before I detached emotionally from my writing, a lot of very stupid people critiqued my manuscripts. Ha ha.

But why don’t we KNOW the difference between our shiny work and our shitty work? We do. It just takes some time for that ability to reveal itself in the darkness. This is the second thing that rocketed the quality of my writing to a better place almost overnight: when I was finally able to objectively see my own work and realize the good stuff from the bad stuff. You’ll never be able to do this with 100% accuracy, but you can get close. I’m around 90%. Sometimes, I’ll be writing like a tsunami, thinking, Christ, James Joyce has nothing on me, only to give it to someone to read and get back a bland, “meh,” reaction (which is the worst!!). Those times, usually, once I’ve had a day or so away from the work and a half dozen beer, I’ll look at it with fresh eyes and realize I had been caught up with the passion of writing and it had completely destroyed my ability to see the forest for the trees. It really IS “meh.” But it’s all good. It was practice. I PRACTICED. You HAVE to practice. I also don’t ever throw anything away, so who knows? One day, something might come out of that trip to Boretown.

But the real thing that’s going to turn you from a good writer into a great writer? More of that tenacity. Probably you’ll need to put down another 800,000 words before you’ll be truly great. And by then, you’ll know how good you are and suddenly all that inner doubt dims (not completely, it’s never, ever gone for good. And usually shows up at the worst possible times). Once you hit this level, you won’t even show your writing to people nearly as much as you used to because you no longer need the affirmations. You’ll simply know you’re great. You’ll show it to actual READERS because you truly want good feedback.

Now you’re in the top 2% of all writers out there. So… where’s your agent? Where’s your big publishing contract? Where’s my mansion and super model wife?

Here’s where the story gets a little bleak. The simple fact is, talent is not all it takes. History is full of talented writers who went to their graves before anyone saw them shine. Many were suicides. Don’t let this be you. New York is fickle. Agents are fickle. The entire industry has had a humongous boot to its nuts and everybody’s suddenly gun shy. I quit my “real” job in 2002. It took me TEN years to find an agent. During that time, I wrote 16 novels and sent out not a single query letter. I also wrote around 75 short stories, which I did send out to magazines and places like that. I achieved minimal success with those. My biggest success with shorts has always been in contests. But, once I got a NY agent, she managed to sell some of my books within two years to a NY publisher. I then went on to write them two more books (not from my back list).

You may never get an agent. You may never get a publishing contract. These are simple facts of life. If you keep trying, you have a better chance, but you also have a better chance of throwing yourself into a dark depression of futility and frustration.

My last traditionally book came out July of this year. I have a few that are still coming out in mass market paperback (CLOSE TO THE BROKEN HEARTED will be out this January). Due to instances I have nobody but myself to point blame at, I am not sure if I will ever traditionally publish another novel. I hope I do. But I can’t stop. I’m way past stopping. So I am self-publishing my newest book, THE ROSE GARDEN ARENA INCIDENT (A SERIAL-THRILLER IN SEVEN PARTS). I’m not kidding myself, I know I’ll be lucky if I manage to sell a thousand copies. my other books? Twenty thousand. I think they printed fifty-five thousand paperbacks when DREAM WITH LITTLE ANGELS was released again just this past April. I’ll never see numbers like this. I simply don’t have the money to throw upwards of–I don’t know–$50,000, $75,000?–into marketing. I also don’t have the infrastructure put in place to do it. To sell a lot of books, you need to go through booksellers. Hocking ebooks on Amazon and maybe the odd createspace trade will not ever allow you to compete with dedicated marketing departments and distributors and all the interconnections that come with a brick and mortar publishing house.

And there’s always a slight chance my self-pubbed books could go crazy. I mean, it HAS happened. It’s just far and away not part of the belly part of the bell curve. Those stories (and there are probably less than twenty) lie out in the crazy, lunatic fringe.

But I’m okay with that. Writing has never been about the money. I write because I have to write. If I didn’t, I don’t think I’d ever have gone through those ten years waiting to find an agent while writing sixteen novels. I wrote those books to entertain myself. I wrote them because not writing is impossible for me. Not all the time. Some days, there’s nothing. Other days, it’s like someone has taken my soul and lit it afire and the only way to douse that fire is to hammer down 12,000 words. I’ve had 25,000 word days. I once had a 36,000 word day/night stretch. But then I’ll go two weeks with nothing. I don’t freak out (I used to) when that happens. I know eventually the fire guys in my stomach will return. Until that time, I focus on my family who really don’t see nearly enough of me.

I guess my point is this: don’t get discouraged by all the other writers out there. And don’t ever compare your “career” to someone else’s. And make sure you KNOW why you’re writing and that it’s not for the money. The thing that you have to remember is that very few “writers” actually write. They like to talk about writing. Oh Christ, for days on end. And they LOVE starting novels or NNARAMO or wtf it’s called. But only five percent of them manage to finish a novel. Two percent ever finish more than one. That wipes out a lot of the rabble. And, seriously, until you get at least two hundred thousand words under your belt, you’re a terrible writer. So that’s a lot of commitment, too.

Let me leave with something a little brighter than where this has gone:

Follow your bliss. Eventually, the money should come after you. That’s what I believe. But you have to be determined. There are time even now when I think back to how much time I just spent at my keyboard instead of with my kids (I wrote a million words a year, two years running–that’s just STUPID), and I shake my head. Is it even worth it? I don’t know. I don’t write nearly that many words these days. Maybe a quarter of that. But it still bothers me how much time I’ve spent on what some people would consider a “hobby.”

80 Proof

It’s the first of the month and time for the cover and title reveal of the next book in The Rose Garden Arena Incident series! The third book, called 80 Proof is now available for preorder! The story really kicks off here. With a cast as huge as I have in this story, it took two books to set everything up (not saying the first two were boring, check early reviews on Goodreads to see objective opinions

MOSH PIT Chapter One Reveal

I’ve posted the first chapter of Mosh Pit, the first book of The Rose Garden Arena Incident. Enjoy.

The post MOSH PIT Chapter One Reveal appeared first on Michael Hiebert's Official Website.

Mosh Pit, Chapter 1

I’ve decided to leak the first chapter of Mosh Pit, the pilot episode of The Rose Garden Arena Incident (A serial thriller in seven parts), just to give folk a taste of what they’re in for. This isn’t like my Alvin books. In fact, most of my work is different from those. You’ll see elements of my style in each, but there’s a lot more edge to my work normally. Anyway, without further ado, I bring you the opening scene of Mosh Pit …

RIGHT NOW

PORTLAND, OREGON.

 

Stephanie Banner was twenty years old the night Dakota Shane stood center stage at the Rose Garden Arena while six bullets rang out through the stadium. Five deaths occurred from those shots, although only four would go on record.

All four were women.

Dakota was a superstar of magnificent proportions. People had camped out the two days before ticket sales started, trying to cop good seats. The show was a sellout. Twenty-thousand tickets in four hours.

Stephanie hadn’t bought a ticket, but she’d managed to get one another way. She and her friend, Brenda Coleman, had floor seats. Good ones, too—close to the stage and everything. So close, they could see the cobalt blue of the superstar’s eyes—part of the sex appeal that rocketed her to international stardom.

So close the police would later call the area where they stood dancing in front of their seats “Ground Zero”: target point for bullet number one.

So many people. It could have been anyone, but it happened to be Stephanie and Brenda that initial shot hit. The round clipped Brenda first, grazing the side of her head, before moving on and giving Stephanie the worst of it. She took the bullet in her upper chest, slightly off-center above her right breast.

It took Stephanie a moment to notice. She was in shock. It wasn’t until two more shots echoed through the arena that her mind managed to grasp the fact that there was a bullet inside her.

She wasn’t the only one in shock. The whole audience seemed to catch a breath before reacting.

The first sound of gunfire ripped through Dakota’s smash hit “Right Back Where We Started,” and before Dakota even sang a word, a wave of panic rocked the stadium. The music stopped as screams burst from the lower sections, reverberating through the concrete mezzanine, a wailing shriek of frenzied bats.

One single thought played over and over like a skipping record in Stephanie’s head: I’ve been shot. I have a bullet in my chest.

She touched the entry point, just above her pink wrap-around top. Her fingers came away bloody.

I’ve been shot. I’m bleeding.

Brenda turned toward Stephanie, her ashen face a blank look of horror. “Go,” Stephanie yelled. “Go! Get moving!”

Taking Brenda’s hand, Stephanie began pushing through the mob of people rushing for the stairs. Hysteria ran through the crowd faster than the latest Dakota Shane single “Stuck with Your Gun” had scampered to the top of worldwide billboard charts.

Stephanie’s heart lifted as she caught a glimpse of the concrete steps. They were closer than she’d expected—maybe another twenty yards. She looked back at Brenda, wishing she could read her friend’s face. She appeared so calm. Detached.

Not like the throng of arms and legs, pushing and pressing, tripping and tumbling.

It was then Stephanie realized a crowd has nothing to do with people. A crowd is a beast all its own. It lives. It’s an entity with its own motivation, its own goals. This one had only one thought: escape.

As Stephanie pushed forward, the crowd pushed back, rocking forward and back, forward and back. A wave pulled by the tide. Stephanie lost ground, almost stumbling. The crowd entity lunged desperately for the exits but, for all its force, it lacked rational thought. It had no capability of constructing an actual plan. The crowd was all about reaction. It didn’t see the big picture.

Tightening her grip on Brenda’s hand, Stephanie continued forward, momentarily forgetting the bullet inside her. The people in front of her became a tangle of arms and legs. They collapsed to the floor, forming a writhing hole. Whirling, spinning. A vortex in the abyss.

Stephanie scrambled to find a way around it as the rest of the crowd beast simply swallowed up the people falling to the floor.

They disappeared.

Stay on your feet, Stephanie thought. Stay on your feet and press ahead. Don’t let go of Brenda. This became her mantra.

Most of the chairs had been knocked over. They looked like dead birds. Stephanie stumbled over them, trying not to fall.

People clambered onto the few chairs still standing, thinking they may offer an expressway to salvation.

Then a loud crack! sounded out from Stephanie’s left. The folding metal seat right beside her bucked and bowed before collapsing under the weight of the cowgirl on top of it. The girl toppled to the floor, giving Stephanie a blurred glimpse of ponytail, boots, and vest before the girl’s full weight landed hard on Stephanie’s outstretched arm, the hand which desperately clung onto Brenda.

Stephanie lost her grip. Both their hands were too slippery with sweat for Stephanie to keep her fingers intertwined with Brenda’s. Their hands gently slipped apart.

Time stretched as Stephanie looked back and watched the churning throng close up around Brenda who struggled desperately to stay on her feet. It was a losing battle, and the crowd’s giant maw clamped down fast and hard, closing around her as she fell backward. Stephanie was helpless to do anything but watch her disappear.

“Bren!” Stephanie screamed. She glanced around on her toes, looking for any sign of her friend. All she saw was a morass of boots, buckles, halters, and hats. It was like losing someone at sea during a dark thunderstorm.

Stay on your feet and press ahead, Stephanie’s brain told her, modifying her mantra so it no longer factored in Brenda.

Stephanie took another glance at the churning mass of people behind her and then looked toward the concrete stairs. They were close now. By herself, Stephanie would have no problem reaching them. Stay on your feet and press ahead.

With a deep breath, she decided her brain was a selfish asshole. She couldn’t leave Brenda behind. She wasn’t about to go any farther by herself. She had a hard enough time living with herself already. She didn’t need leaving Brenda behind thrown onto her conscience.

The image of the bullet lodged in her chest came back to her mind. Maybe none of this mattered anyway. Maybe, right now, Stephanie was slowly bleeding to death internally. Maybe she only had minutes left.

If you get outside, you can get help. There will be ambulances.

Turning around, she dove against the current of everyone else.

Elbows hit her face, something hit her face hard, crunching her nose. She didn’t care. It hardly mattered.

Blood dripped from her nostrils, running down and over the top of her lips. It tasted like buckshot. She sliced her way through the flailing hands and wailing arms.

“Bren!” she called out again, but it was pointless. Her voice couldn’t be heard above the roar.

Then it happened. The impossible.

Somehow, she found Brenda. Stephanie stood a moment, letting the people spill around her. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Brenda lay on the floor in front of her, sitting back on her elbows. Shoes and shins pummeled the back of her head. Her face was awash in confusion; she didn’t appear to have any idea what was going on. Panic swelled in Stephanie’s chest. The bitter taste of bile mixed with the blood in her throat.

Something’s wrong. No, everything was wrong. Brenda was hurt, and Stephanie had a bullet inside her.

Those thoughts weren’t helping at all, but Stephanie couldn’t shake them. Swallowing hard, she wrestled to stay in control. For the first time since she and Brenda met, Stephanie was suddenly in charge. She was responsible for their survival.

Stephanie reached out for Brenda. “Come on! Grab my hand!”

Brenda’s eyes rose to Stephanie’s face and Stephanie’s panic almost took over. There was nothing in Brenda’s eyes but a cold emptiness. All Stephanie knew was that none of this was good.

Does she even recognize me?

Now was not the time for questions. But there was no time for wondering.

“Move!” Stephanie yelled. “Take my hand! Now!”

Brenda heard her. Pulling herself up to a seating position, reached out and once again clasped Stephanie’s hand.

Stephanie strengthened her resolve and yanked Brenda to her feet. “Okay! Let’s get out of here!”

Pulling Brenda as close as she could, Stephanie asked, “Are you okay?”

Brenda either didn’t hear or didn’t process the question. She just stood there, her eyes fixed on some place in the floor.

“Tell me later!” Stephanie said, letting out a big breath. “We’re almost to the stairs.”

A new worry fell over Stephanie. It was hard enough getting through people down here. How hard would it be on those stairs? The steps up to the mezzanine were solid concrete. What if I lose hold of Brenda halfway up . . . ? She didn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t finish it.

It all felt so impossible.

Not impossible. Not today. Today there’s no impossible. There can’t be.

They made the stairs with Stephanie managing to keep Brenda on her feet. She was far from stable, though.

Something was wrong, but Stephanie didn’t have the time to worry about it right now. She decided putting Brenda in front of her was the best way to tackle the stairs. Stephanie held tightly to her friend’s waist. This way, Stephanie figured, if Brenda started to stumble, Stephanie might be able to stop her from falling. Or she’ll just knock us both down.

Thankfully, the stairs turned out to be easier than the floor. The people here weren’t as thick as the mob down below. People were climbing, not just pushing each other blindly.

They reached the mezzanine and Stephanie relaxed. Her heartbeat thumping in her eardrums slowed. The crowd was thinner up here.

Stephanie set her sights on EXIT E, the doors of which weren’t more than fifty feet away.

That’s when Brenda went down again, only this time not because of anyone stumbling into her. She just collapsed on her own, right in front of Stephanie. Luckily, Stephanie was able to catch her.

“Hey, whoa,” Stephanie said, propping Brenda back onto her feet. “What’s going on? You okay?”

Brenda said nothing, just looked back, her face flushed with confusion.

Stephanie put her mouth right against Brenda’s ear. “You fell!” she yelled. “Are you okay?”

Brenda didn’t seem to understand. Stephanie let it go, deciding instead to concentrate on just getting the hell outside. Pulling Brenda’s arm up over her shoulder, Stephanie put her other hand around Brenda’s waist. She walked her awkwardly like this the rest of the way.

It may have only been fifty feet, but the closer they got to those doors, the heavier Brenda became. By the time they made it to the exit, Stephanie was practically dragging Brenda across the floor. Luckily she wasn’t too heavy.

The doors were all wide open. As Stephanie pulled Brenda through, six cops quickly ducked past them, entering the Arena. All Stephanie saw were uniforms, hats, and boots. Their eyes wide with anticipation, their guns snapped in their holsters on their hips.

Nothing in Stephanie’s life ever felt as good as that chilly spring wind hitting her face. She relaxed into it, taking deep breaths. It almost felt sexual. The sensation tingled through her whole body, lingering in her hands and cheeks, a warm exhilaration. A feeling of exhaustion and success. We made it. And we’re still alive. Despite everything, a small smile came to Stephanie’s blood-cracked lips. She closed her eyes and let herself relax.

Sirens screamed out in the night, some nearby, others sounding more like alley cats screeching from far away. Stephanie decided the best thing to do now was to find somewhere to sit.

People gathered tightly in the area right outside the exits. Stephanie took Brenda away from the center of the crowd.

The landscaped areas outside the Rose Garden Arena were wrapped by concrete landings and walkways that curved around the stadium. The big landing in front of the door went on maybe a hundred feet or more as it fanned open to stairs leading down to the parking lot. Stephanie spotted an island of shrubs hugged by a three-foot retaining wall.

With her eye on that wall, Stephanie negotiated Brenda toward it. Rhododendron bushes, budding azaleas, and large hydrangeas spilled over from the raised garden on the other side. Beneath their heavy leaves, tulips and daffodils all pink and yellow, purple and orange, had already burst into bloom. Their leathery leaves gleamed beneath the Arena’s outside lamps. They were a non sequitur in this, the most jagged and broken of nights.

Carefully, Stephanie set Brenda down on the wall’s edge. Her hand came down in the dirt behind her, squashing one of the bright yellow tulips.

“Can you sit okay?” Stephanie asked. Her ears rang. It felt like she was under water. “You’re not going to fall again are you?” she asked Brenda.

Brenda looked back with that same detached look she’d had ever since the concert went to hell.

The people outside the door had broken off into small groups. The wind carried the skunky smell of marijuana and Stephanie couldn’t help but be a little envious. Any escape would be good tonight. “ . . . yeah, cops said we’re not supposed to leave,” she heard someone say. “We gotta wait till they clear us, in case they need a statement.”

“Screw that,” someone responded. At least a third of that group broke off and headed down the stairs.

Brenda’s lack of response was starting to really worry Stephanie. “Bren? Seriously, are you okay?”

Brenda nodded slowly. “I’m good,” she said quietly.

The Milky Way twisted overhead into a golden braid and the half-moon hung yellow and low in the east like a frozen bullet. The pounding of thick soles against stairs preceded five more cops coming up, almost in a jog. Again, Stephanie’s attention was pulled to their guns. As they went past, she caught a wisp of conversation: “—has any idea what the fuck’s going on. That’s why it’s important that we—” That was all she managed to catch.

Thoughts began converging on Stephanie’s mind like an army of bark beetles scuttling an attack against a pine tree. Bad thoughts. She had to think it all through. She had to at least be able to answer one of the questions her brain wanted to understand. What the hell just happened?

Her brain had another question, but it was one she knew there was no point in asking yet. She was sure though, very soon, an answer would be forthcoming, even if it came from the tabloids.

That question was: Why? Why would someone just start . . . shooting people?

Not just people. Stephanie. And Brenda. What were the odds? They weren’t even supposed to be at this show. Another thought came to her: What if the bullet went all the way through? Her pulse sped back up as she reached behind her back, trying to touch the area she expected the bullet may have exited. She couldn’t feel anything. She examined her fingers and found no new blood.

The bullet’s still inside me.

Stephanie touched the entry wound again. There was still blood, but less than before, certainly less than she expected. Some ran down into her pink wrap around. It was drying fast now that they were outside in the cold.

Her eyes fell to the three cuts on her inside left forearm. They weren’t from tonight. She’d made them on Wednesday, the day she and Brenda had concocted their plan to acquire tonight’s concert tickets. Already, they had started to scab. Soon, they would be nearly invisible like the others beneath and around them.

She took a deep breath, trying to put her attention elsewhere. “Sure is nicer out here, hey?” she asked Brenda. “I mean not only because we aren’t being trampled to death—although that’s part of it—but also because it’s really a nice night.”

Brenda brought her arm up and wiped the sweat from her face. Then she ran her fingers gently along the side of her head where the round had grazed her. It was just above her right eye.

When she spoke her voice sounded hollow and quiet. “Is it raining?” she asked.

Stephanie thought she could make out blood under Brenda’s hairline, but it was too dark to be sure. Slowly Brenda brought her fingers back and looked at them. There was blood. Not a lot, just a smear.

Confusion fell over Brenda as though she was unsuccessfully trying to figure out what the red on her fingers might be. She once again touched the side of her head. Her expression seemed almost dream-like as she pulled her fingers from her temple. This time, a large chunk of her skull fell along with them.

Stephanie held back a gasp as she brought her hands to her mouth. She felt a scream building up in her throat, but she was gagging on it. It wouldn’t come out. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she looked on in horror at what had just happened.

Then someone from the crowd noticed. And, like a forest fire, awareness spread through all the people standing outside the exit doors. The night once again was split open by terrified shrieks, but still Stephanie made no noise. She just sat there, hands clasped over her mouth, staring as Brenda picked up the piece of skull from where it had tumbled into the dirt of the tulip and daffodil garden.

She turned it over in her hands, looking at the smooth inside and the dark outside where some of her hair had stuck to it. Still, she seemed more confused than anything else. Slowly she lifted her gaze to Stephanie, but the last thing Stephanie wanted to do was look into her eyes.

Stephanie’s attention went to the people staring at Brenda. “Are there ambulances here yet?” she asked loudly. “Do any of you know if there’s any ambulances? My friend needs to get to a hospital!” She’d already seen cops. Weren’t they usually the last to arrive at a scene? After the fire trucks and the ambulances?

Sirens still sang from somewhere out on the edges of the night.

Finally, four more uniformed people ran up the stairs, these ones EMTs—a black woman and three white guys. The guys all had short cropped hair. One had a goatee.

“Take care of her,” the woman said to the EMT with the goatee, nodding at Brenda.

He crouched down and examined her head with his blue-gloved fingers. He smelled vaguely of Axe deodorant.

The woman ordered the other two EMT guys to clear away all the people. Nobody bothered to tell her what the cops had said about taking statements. Then she squatted in front of Stephanie. Her name tag said Delray.

“You okay? Is it just your friend? Or you, too?”

Stephanie’s hand went to her chest.

Delray, the EMT, immediately saw the bullet hole above Stephanie’s top. “We’ve got two here,” she called out. Pressing her fingers around the wound, she asked Stephanie, “Does this hurt?”

Stephanie slowly shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know. I can’t really feel anything right now.” She wondered if Delray was the woman’s first or last name.

“What about your extremities? Can you feel your legs?”

“No, I mean, everything’s so . . . I’m a little overwhelmed. Will my friend be okay?” Delray didn’t even glance to the other EMT tending Brenda.

Stephanie heard another ambulance pull into the lot. A moment later, four more technicians came up the stairs. Delray yelled to them. “I need a stretcher! Now!”

Two of them headed back down while the other two continued on into the arena.

“Are there a lot of people hurt?” Stephanie asked Delray.

Delray didn’t answer. She continued pressing Stephanie’s skin. “You sure you can’t feel this?

This doesn’t hurt?”

Stephanie shook her head again.

Delray asked her to turn around. “Gently, now. Don’t twist.” She examined Stephanie’s back, pressing there, too.

“My friend’s going to be okay, right?” Stephanie asked.

“You just worry about yourself right now. We’ll take care of everyone else,” Delray softly said.

The two EMTs returned with the stretcher. They put it between where Stephanie and Brenda were seated. Delray looked up at one of the technicians. “Which ambulance?”

“Thirty-one.”

“We cleared to go back right away?”

He shook his head.

“Shit,” Delray said. “Why not?”

“Someone else is coming out. Should be any time. Pregnant. Shot in the abdomen.”

“Jesus Christ, this is a mess,” Delray said.

The EMT didn’t reply.

“Can you stand okay?” Delray asked Stephanie.

Stephanie nodded and began to get up when the male EMT stepped forward and helped her. Before she knew what was happening, he and Delray had her on the stretcher.

“No,” Stephanie said. She started telling them they were making a mistake. Brenda needed the stretcher more than she did. She told them to stop. She was fine. She wasn’t critical. Half her skull wasn’t missing. They needed to go back. Brenda needed to get in the ambulance first. Surely everyone could see that. Stephanie tried to sit up, but Delray gently held her down, her black hand pressing firmly on Stephanie’s midriff. “Shh,” she said. “Just stay calm, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

The two men began wheeling Stephanie away. “Try not to move,” one of them told her.

Craning her neck, Stephanie looked back at Brenda. She’d been placed on her side on the walkway. She lay there on the cold concrete, her eyes wide open, watching Stephanie being wheeled away. Stephanie could see it in her eyes: she knew the stretcher was supposed to be for her.

A dark red pool of blood formed beneath Brenda’s head, matting her auburn hair before forming tributaries that ran down the sloped walkway as though trying to catch up with Stephanie’s stretcher.

Brenda got smaller and smaller until she finally disappeared behind a leafy lilac bush and some hydrangeas.

The stretcher went quickly down the wheelchair ramp and to the back of a waiting ambulance. Lifting Stephanie inside, the men then locked the stretcher in place as Delray appeared again at her side, this time wearing a stethoscope. She pressed the cold metal chestpiece against Stephanie’s skin on the edge of her wound. “Deep breath,” she said.

As Delray listened to her chest, Stephanie noticed her glance at the scars on Stephanie’s forearm. She looked at Stephanie, the ambulance’s interior lights glinting in her grey eyes, but all she said was, “Keep breathing. Just like that. Deep breaths.”

Stephanie did as she was asked. Her heart pounded strong and fast as a realization poured over her. A memory of something she’d witnessed only moments ago was now registering in her mind. Just before Brenda had disappeared completely from Stephanie’s sight, as she lay there staring with all that blood gathering around her head, an EMT had crouched down and, with two blue-gloved fingers, closed her eyes.

Stephanie swallowed hard. Her breath caught in her throat.

Brenda was dead.

A scream caught in Stephanie’s throat. She could no longer breathe. “No,” she said in a clipped whisper. “No.”

Delray pulled the stethoscope’s chestpiece away. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“Bren!” Stephanie said wildly. “She’s . . . oh my God. She’s . . . ”

“Listen,” Delray said. “You have to calm down.”

Stephanie tried, but she couldn’t. She fought to sit up again but, like before, Delray held her down.

“Bren!”

“Shh,” Delray said. “Settle down. Try to relax.”

The lights all blurred as tears welled in Stephanie’s eyes. She began quietly sobbing, her chest heaving. “No,” she said, her lips barely forming the word. “She wasn’t supposed to die. Why does everyone keep dying?” Her hands clenched her pink wraparound, twisting it. She felt one of her breasts pop free but didn’t care. Then, another thought struck her, this one full of iron. Not everyone, she thought. Just the people I love.

The wheels of another stretcher skittered down the ramp. It was lifted inside and locked into place beside Stephanie. Stephanie continued staring up into the lights. She didn’t need to look at the other victim, she knew it was the pregnant woman the other EMT told Delray they had to wait for. Stephanie knew this because the woman’s husband refused to listen to anyone. He pushed his way into the ambulance behind her, screaming. “My wife’s pregnant! Tell me if she’s going to be okay! Tell me! I’m a cop! Tell me!”

He repeated this over and over. He yelled it at the EMTs, he yelled it at Stephanie, he yelled it at the oxygen tanks and face masks secured in the corner.

His voice was slightly accented. Italian, Stephanie guessed, only because he sounded a bit like Tony Soprano.

Stephanie turned her head to look at the woman lying beside her. She was motionless, her eyes closed, either asleep or unconscious. Judging from her bulge, she was very pregnant. A tear ran over her nose and across her cheek.

“I’m a cop!” the man yelled. “I’m a cop, and my wife’s pregnant!”

Stephanie continued quietly sobbing.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, leaving Delray and the loud cop inside.

“Tell me if she’s going to be okay!” the man demanded. “I’m a cop! She’s pregnant! Tell me if she’s going to be okay!” Delray didn’t respond, so he yelled it again.

Carefully, Delray pulled Stephanie’s top back up over her exposed breast. She pushed a needle into the vein on Stephanie’s left wrist, fully exposing the three scars on Stephanie’s inside forearm. Again, she said nothing about them.

“Tell me if she’s going to be okay!” the man repeated. “She’s pregnant! I’m a cop! I’m a cop, and she’s pregnant!”

The ambulance’s siren sounded miles away. The liquid in the bag hanging on the metal tree beside Stephanie jostled as they began to move.

“Goddamn it!” the man snapped at Delray. “How long until we get to the hospital? I’m a cop, goddamn it!”

“Just calm down sir,” Delray answered calmly. “We’re doing everything we can. Just calm down.”

“She’s pregnant!”

Delray snapped off her blue gloves and dropped them into a bin for hazardous waste. She lifted Stephanie’s right hand, gripping it lightly with two fingers while she watched her wristwatch.

“Tell me if she’s going to be okay!” the man yelled. “Tell me, Goddamn it! I’m a cop!”

“Please sir, just calm down,” Delray said with the same calmness. She placed her palm on Stephanie’s forehead, pushing up her hair. “Do you feel hot?” she asked.

Stephanie had no idea. All she knew was the world had taken a bite out of her once again. No matter what she did, everything always wound up the same. Sooner or later, everybody leaves. One way or another. She wondered if the image of the EMT closing Brenda’s dead eyes would ever go away. She didn’t think so. That one would be burned in her mind forever.

Even though she knew, she had to ask. She had to hear it. “She was dead, right?” Stephanie asked Delray. “My friend?” The words came out quiet and broken, like her heart. Only her heart had come that way right from the beginning.

“Your pulse is a little low,” Delray answered softly.

Stephanie tried again. “Tell me, please? I need you to. My friend . . . she’s dead, isn’t she?”

Delray’s lips pressed into a thin line as she looked up into Stephanie’s eyes with just the slightest nod of her head. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Stephanie sobbed harder, her chest buckling as more tears came. Brenda’s gone. She’s dead. A crack had appeared in the world tonight and everything had fallen into it, leaving nothing behind except hopelessness, loneliness, and death.

The post Mosh Pit, Chapter 1 appeared first on Michael Hiebert's Official Website.

The Humongous Mosh Pit Contest

With less than a month left before the rollout of Mosh Pit, book 1 of The Rose Garden Arena Incident, I am holding a contest with over $600 in cash and prizes. The contest has an affiliate link, so if you repost it anywhere and someone uses the link to enter themselves, you get a second entry automatically. It’s pretty sweet. Check it out here.

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Monthly Cover / Title Reveals

Starting September 1st: Monthly Cover Reveal!s

September 1st we’ll be unveiling the final cover for book three of The Rose Garden Arena Incident, along with the title. Following that, for the next four months, each new cover and title will be revealed at the beginning of the month. Be sure to tune in October 1st for book four, November 1st for book five, December 1st for book six, and New Year’s Day for the seventh and final book of the serial thriller.

The post Monthly Cover / Title Reveals appeared first on Michael Hiebert's Official Website.

Huge News!

Coming Sept 19: My Newest Work
The Rose Garden Arena Incident

A Serial Thriller in Seven Parts

 

My newest novel, The Rose Garden Arena Incident is being written and released as a seven-part serial thriller. The parts will come out in separate Kindle ebooks and Audible audiobooks with the first one being released September 19. After that, installments will follow roughly a month apart. Currently, the first two books, Mosh Pit and Media Frenzy are available for preorder from Amazon.

This is far and away my most ambitions and best work ever. The story is incredibly complex with a big cast of indelible characters. So far, beta reader response has been incredible. Which reminds me, if anybody would like an Advanced Reader Copy to review on their blogs, website, or elsewhere, just let me know. My email is all over the place on this site, but just in case you can’t find it, you can reach me at michael@michaelhiebert.com.

 

For more information, check out The Rose Garden Arena Incident, or click on the covers to preorder from Amazon.

The post Huge News! appeared first on Michael Hiebert's Official Website.

Website Update

Well, as you can probably notice, things are changing on the website front. Hopefully for the better, although at this point I am so frustrated I want to just tear my hair out and go back to communicating with two tin cans and a piece of string covered in candle wax. Did that ever actually work? Will my site? Stay tuned for the answers to all these questions and more…

Seriously, though. I think it is looking better. I need to streamline everything. The way I have it now, anything I blog and post as “News” shows up on my front page. This is all great and will be a wonderful time saver, however, I’d really like to be able to make one or more posts “sticky” so it/they stay at the front of the pack. Not sure how to do that or even if I can without rewriting significant portions of my WordPress site. And, even though I used to program video games in a previous life? I can barely handle the modicum of CSS (never mind the PHP) needed to make even these subtle changes. Wow, become a professional writer for fourteen years and twenty odd years of computer science just gets thrown to the wolves.

Anyway, you’re probably going to see a bit of repetition in my posts of things you’ve already seen on my home page as I try to get the information back up on the front that I had. I apologize in advance for this inconvenience.


 

Micheal out.

The post Website Update appeared first on Michael Hiebert's Official Website.

The Rose Garden Arena Incident: One Month to Liftoff

Things are progressing well with The Rose Garden Arena Incident, my serial thriller in seven parts. I’ll say one thing, this is far, far more work that I ever anticipated. Holy cow. Writing seven complete books—even if they are all one big story—is a lot of work. Especially when you throw in all the coordinating with editors and artists and narrators and producers and… whew.

I am managing to keep up, though. Currently, I’m a couple books ahead. And here’s some fantastic news: preorders are going great! I hoped my fans would have the same interest in this project as I do and it appears they do. So that’s really nice. It’s one thing to be doing all this work, quite another to actually be doing it for folks.

Marketing, advertising, and promotion hasn’t kicked off yet. That will happen sometime in the next handful of weeks. Right now you may have seen the odd Facebook post or tweet (or blog post !!), but other than a few basic memes, there really isn’t anything throttling up yet. That will change as we come closer to launch date (which is September 19 for book one, Mosh Pit).

Anyway, thought I’d take a break from all the pounding of keys and write a quick update. Really, if you’ve been watching my site and checking the odd blurb elsewhere, you pretty much know what is going on. At least as much as I do, anyway.

Hope y’all are having an awesome summer! I’ll be back with a more informative post soon.

 

Till then,

 

Michael out.

The post The Rose Garden Arena Incident: One Month to Liftoff appeared first on Michael Hiebert's Official Website.

Cowgirls and Bullets, Songs and Sorrow, Creepshows and Car Wrecks

Works in Progress

I know it’s been a while since I’ve blogged, but I have a great excuse this time. I have been busy. I mean, super busy. What have I been working on? Well, for starters, I am more than halfway through a quirky little mystery story with some SF elements that kind of reminds me of a sort of “edgy GONE GIRL meets JUNO.” Funnier than snot, it’s hard to describe. The current working title is Breaking Up Is Hard To Do, but I don’t really like it, so I doubt it will stay attached to the book through to the end. It should be released sometime around the beginning of next summer.

I’m also rewriting a book I’ve been dabbling with for a few years called Lab Rats. This is a fairly big multiple character tale with a storyline that twists and turns and intersects itself so many times it’s crazy. Cause always precedes effect, but it’s not always immediately obvious what the cause was, or even whether or not the resulting effect was intentional. I know I’m being purposely vague, but I want to wait until I’m a little closer to releasing it before giving away too many teasers. If all goes well, it should come out a year from this September. Just in time for a good fall read or a Christmas gift for those on your list who like my work.

Sometime before the end of this year, I will be doing a rerelease of my first short story collection, Sometimes the Angels Weep. This Second Edition will come out in trade paperback and Kindle ebook versions. It sports a new, much nicer, cover and contains over 20,000 words of added content. That’s like the third of the size of normal novels. I’m doing this for a number of reasons, not the least of which is so that it is set up and its cover matches my second short story collection, Sneakers that will be coming out sometime in the fall of 2017. Keep your eyes open and check back here for more information on all these upcoming projects as their schedules get closer.

Or, better yet, make sure you’re a member of my VIP Club by simply entering your email address in the green form at the top of the sidebar just right of where you’re looking at this (or after all the posts if you are on a mobile device). Not only does being a member keep you updated to new books that are coming out, you also get access to a “secret” part of this site containing all kinds of free stuff. And it’s good stuff, too. Free stories, free audiobooks, deleted scenes. You’ll also be eligible for special offers and crazy promotions and a whole lot more. And if you’re worried about my spamming your email box, forget about it. I’m much too attentionally-deficite to send out more than an email every month or two. Seriously.

 

The Rose Garden Arena Incident

Now for my big news (and you already know what this is, since I put it in the title and threw the memes in the previous section). It’s the thing that keeping me busiest right now, is my seven part serial thriller, The Rose Garden Arena Incident. The nine books are being released as kindle ebooks and Audible audiobooks. Eric Bryan Moore (who is just a fabulous reader) is doing the narration. Each of the books will be released roughly a month apart. I’m hoping to have the fourth book in the can before the first one comes out September 19, but that may be a pipe dream.

Speaking of the first book, it just had a last minute name and cover change. It is now called Mosh Pit. Both it and the second book, Media Frenzy are already available for preorder on Amazon. Click either of the book covers see more.

Far and away, The Rose Garden Arena Incident is my most ambitious and—so far, at least—best writing project to date. With an ensemble cast, each character has his or her own voice and their own story, but their stories weave intricately together as they follow each other through the eight days leading up to Dakota Shane’s fateful Saturday night concert where everything will suddenly go off the rails, touching and changing everyone involved in ways they can’t possibly imagine.

I’m incredibly excited about this book. I’m writing my ass off trying to keep up with my schedule. I have a rough draft and a ton of notes and a pretty good outline, all which should get me through. In fact, I’ve broken things down so well, I can tell you each of the first five books will come in around 24,000 words (about a quarter the size of my debut novel, Dream with Little Angels. The last two books will be pretty much double-sized, coming in between 40,000 and 45,000 words. This should make the story an overall size of around 180,000 words, or double the size of Dream. It’s a big story with a lot of vital components, but it’s also an attention-grabbing, focus-riveting suspense thriller that will keep you interested in everyone’s lives for (I hope) a long time. Even after the book has finished.

Feel free (or should I say, please, please, please) share the memes, repost my blog, repost or retwitter anything of mine that goes out about ROSE GARDEN. You guys are all so awesome. I am dumbfounded daily by the fan mail and comments you leave me. I really want to make sure I can keep writing books and getting them out and into your hands.

That’s about it for now. I’ll try to post more as I pound out new words through the following weeks. I hope everyone is well.

 

Michael out.

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