S. Evan Townsend's Blog, page 106

Have Your MS Read to You.

In my writing career I have found one method of editing a piece of work very useful: have it read out loud to me.

Now this isn't the only editing I do. I edit the manuscript at least three times the old fashioned way: by reading it. But between edits 2 and 3, I like to have the manuscript read out loud to me.  I listen to it, often with my eyes closed. Having it read out loud to me I notice things I missed during reading it. Things such as word repetitions, awkward sentence structure ("which 'he' am I referring to?"), and even statements by characters that seem out of character. It's a amazingly useful tool.

The method I use is I recruit my wife. She reads the manuscript off her iPad and when I say "stop" she does. I can often just come up with a fix there, she types it into her iPad, and then reads it back to me.  If it sounds good, I say "better" or "great" or something positive and we go on. The downside of using my wife is she won't say swear words, even mild ones such as "hell" and "damn." She'll be reading along and say "To heck with it" and I'll say "I'm pretty sure that's not what I wrote."

Last night we started on my latest work in progress and it took almost 40 minutes to get through the 1,067-word prologue because I kept noticing things that I don't think people would say in 1865 when it's set. I'm hoping the rest of the novel goes a bit quicker.

Someone once said I should follow along reading a copy of the MS as she does this but I don't think I should.  That would be too much like reading. You want to hear the words, not read them.  And don't do this right after doing a reading edit. Wait a while (I wait while my wife and my friend proofread the MS) then start this process.

If you can't get anyone to read it to you, I understand there are programs or online services that will read text for you. And if that doesn't work, at the very least, read the entire manuscript out loud to yourself.

Believe me, there is something about hearing it versus reading it that makes you find things you'll want to improve.

Flash Fiction Friday: The High Roller

Today's Flash Fiction Friday story is: The High Roller:

He threw the dice down the craps table.

"Seven!" the stickman called out.  He added more chips to Jason's pile.

Jason smiled and held out his hand indicating he intended to keep shooting.  The red dice with the white pips were pushed back to him by the stickman. "Let it ride!" he exclaimed, picking up the dice.

"Baby needs a new pair of shoes," he said, trying to be funny as he shook the dice in his hand.  The incredible blonde to his left laughed as if it were the funniest thing she'd ever heard.  He didn't know where she came from.  When he started winning and winning big, she just seemed to slink in by his side, touching his left hand whenever she could.

He tossed the dice again.

"Seven," the stickman said and more chips were added to his pile.

"Cash me out," Jason said, looking at the pile of chips.  A quick estimate was that there was close to a hundred thousand in that pile.

He handed one of the blue chips to the stickman as a tip.

"Thank you, sir," the stickman said.  Then called out, "New shooter."

Jason stepped away from the table and a casino runner started gathering his chips onto a tray.

"Hey, sweetie," the blonde said, "buy me a drink?"

Jason could almost hear what she was thinking.  He was the high roller and she wanted some of that loot.  She'd take him for everything she could.  He didn't care.  Easy come easy go and it'd be very very fun to use her as she planned to use him.

"Sure," he said.

She put her hand in the crook of his arm as he walked toward the cashier cage.  The casino's runner would bring the chips.

The cashier counted the chips after they arrived.

"Just a moment, sir," she said.  She was about a million years old and desiccated as if she'd been left outside all summer long by a neglectful child.

"Is there a problem?" Jason asked.

The woman didn't answer.

There was a moment when he felt the blonde almost seem to withdraw.  If he didn't have the money she wasn't interested.

An old man walked into the cashier's cage.  He leaned heavily on a cane and his back was curved like a integer sign.

"What is it, Miss Parker?" he asked the cashier.

"I don't have this much cash," she said, indicating the pile of chips.

The blonde started clinging again.  She was nuzzling his neck.

The old man looked at Jason.  "We need to do this in the back.  If you'll go to the red door to the right, sir."

"Of course," Jason said with a smile.

The runner picked up the chips and followed the old man who disappeared through a door behind the cashier's station.

Jason went to the red door, the blonde still on his arm, she was touching his hand with her free hand.

Jason opened the door and the old man was standing there.

"The girl will have to wait outside," the man said.

Jason smiled at her apologetically and she nodded her understanding.

Jason walked in, nearly tripping in the low gravity. As the door closed he noticed it sealed tight as most doors did here, compartmentalizing sections of the casino.

A big man grabbed Jason from behind.

"Now," the old man said as the gorilla in a suit held Jason.  "You Earthers think you can come to our little Moon casino and cheat.  I only want to know one thing before I throw you out an airlock."

"I didn't cheat," Jason said. He noticed the room had an airlock and that there were windows overlooking the sparse, gray lunar plain.

"Right," the man replied.  "And I’m Neil Armstrong."

Jason growled.

"So tell me," the man said, "How did you do it?"

Jason smiled.  "I'm a demon."

The man snorted.

"No," Jason said, "It's true.  Been living on Earth for about 50,000 years.  But Earth is old, all the magic is gone, my powers are weak there.  Here on the Moon, I can do whatever I feel."

"Oh really, Mr. Demon?" the old man scowled.

"Yes," Jason said.

And the room filled with fire, both men screaming in agony as the flames consumed them.
But the hot fire increased the air pressure in the room to the point that one of the windows exploded outward, and the room decompressed.

Jason died trying to breathe vacuum.

Movie Reviews: Lone Survivor and Noah

Last week I watched two movies from Netflix: Lone Survivor and Noah.  It was an interesting juxtaposition as each movie has completely different themes.

Lone Survivor is the true story of a SEAL team mission in the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan that went horribly wrong. While on a mission to capture a Taliban leader, the four-man team is hiding in the hills around a village when they are found by three goatherds. After some debate, they let the villagers go which proves fatal as one of them tells the Taliban of their presence.  The team then gets attacked by overwhelming force.

I like this movie for many reasons, not the least of which was its positive portrayal of the U.S. military. Men risk their lives for their comrades, in some cases for men they don't even know. The battle sequences are intense and realistic. These are probably the most intense battle sequences I've seen since Saving Private Ryan. If you can handle the gore and the intensity, I strongly urge you to see this film even though it is tough to watch.

On the other hand, Noah was a mess. Based (loosely) on the Biblical story of the Flood and Noah's
Ark, the movie takes that story and turns it into an ecological "man-is-evil/nature-is-wonderful" message. While the special effects are pretty good (apparently every animal was CGI), the story is plodding and pedantic. For most of the movie, Noah thinks the Creator (the word "God" is never uttered) wants to destroy all of humanity because, well, humans suck and nature is so much better. The Biblical story does talk about man's violence and the movie does address that, but I don't remember anything in Genesis about the ecology.

And if you think nature isn't violent, watch a cheetah take down an antelope. Oh, and there is a lot of violence in this movie, much of it done by Noah and his supernatural helpers.

Add in that there is a lot of yelling a screaming and you have one very annoying movie. I wouldn't recommend this film unless you are a masochistic member of PETA.

You Should Join Toastmasters

There is a wonderful organization out there that can help you be a better writer, a better public speaker, and have more confidence at signings and other public events that as an author you may need to be part of.  That organization is Toastmasters.  There are Toastmasters clubs all over the world (14,350 clubs in 122 countries).  But why would a writer need to know how to speak better in public and communicate verbally.  Well, you might find yourself in front of an audience at:
Public readingsCon panelsBook signings (even if the audience is just one person)Telling people about your workToastmasters has an education program that teaches you to be confident in public speaking and all interpersonal verbal communication.  And writing a speech is writing and can help you learn to organize your thoughts and present them in a coherent and understandable manner.
One of my favorite parts of Toastmasters (yes, I'm a member) is Table Topics.  This is where you may be given a topic or a question and you have one to two minutes to speak on it.  It really helps you think on your feet instead of stammering and hemming and hawing.
I've been in Toastmasters since April of 2011.  In that time I have given at least 33 speeches and I have learned so much about verbal communication.  I have two more speeches to go to earn the top speech education award in Toastmasters: Advance Communicator Gold.
Dues for Toastmasters are a very reasonable at $36 every six months (most clubs will round that up to $40 so the club gets $4 to fund their activities).  Compare that with a Dale Carnegie course that can cost thousands of dollars.  It really is a very nice bargain.
To find a Toastmasters club near you, go to their website.  You'll find a fun, friendly, and welcoming atmosphere to learn to communicate better.  And communicating better can and will help you in your writing career. Or any career, really.

Flash Fiction Friday: The Dance

Today's Flash Fiction Friday: The Dance

Mortimer looked across the room to the shy yet lovely girl leaning against the wall.  The term "wallflower" never seemed more appropriate for the lass.  Mortimer smiled. He didn't know why she was so quiet and not popular, not being asked to dance by all the boys there.  She was beautiful with long red hair, a constellation of freckles across her nose, and the most expressive and deeply blue eyes he'd ever seen.

Perhaps it was her clothes.  Plain and simple, it was obvious she didn't have the money to spend on accouterments other girls had.  Or maybe she was just painfully shy.  It didn't matter to Mortimer. He knew this girl was going to be his wife, even though they hadn't even yet exchanged a glance.

He walked over, adjusting his bow tie and brushing imaginary lint from his white suit jacket.  He crossed the dance floor, ignoring the couples locked in embraces, holding each other but not too closely so as not to attract the ire of the adult chaperons.

She looked up and saw him approach and he could see the fear in her face.  But he smiled sweetly and walked to her with all the confidence he could muster.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, holding out his hand.

She smiled, it was a very shy smile, and nodded.  She held out her hand and he took it.

They walked to the gymnasium floor, now being used as a dance floor, Mortimer's steps seeming lighter than air as he could feel her hand in his, her skin, the warmth of her body.  He thought he could even feel her heartbeat as they walked.

Picking out a spot on among the other dancers, he turned and took her into his arms, looking into her eyes. She looked away.  It seemed her touch on his back and in his hand were withdrawn as if she were unwilling to be even this intimate with him.

"I'm Mort," he said.

"Penny," she whispered.

They danced in silence after that, but as the movement went on, she touched him more willingly, moved her lithe body closer to his, as close as they both dared.

They finished that dance, then the next, both unwilling to let the other go.  She was now looking at  his eyes, smiling at him and he was gazing at her, his heart swelling with his new and growing love.  They danced and danced . . .

"Time for your bath, Mr. Johnson," the nurse's aide said

Mortimer looked up at the large, black woman in the white uniform standing over him as he sat in his wheelchair.  Then he looked back at the picture on the dresser of the beautiful redheaded woman. It was in a simple plastic frame and the colors had faded with time, turning her red hair pink and her blue eyes grey.

"Let's go, Mr. Johnson," the aide said with growing impatience, her hands on her ample hips. "Just because you can't talk don't mean you can't take your bath."

Mortimer nodded but didn't take his eyes off the picture until the aide turned his wheelchair and rolled him out of the nursing home room.

"Sometimes I wonder what you're thinking, Mr. Johnson," she said as they moved down the corridor. "Sometimes I wonder where your mind is at."

Mortimer just smiled.  The music was playing for another dance.  It didn't matter that it was just in his head.

You Should be in a Writers' Group

You should be in a writers' group.

"Oh, but I'm a writer, a loner, an introvert."

Yes, and you should be in a writers' group.

I'm a bit embarrassed that I lived in this town for about 13 years before I found a writers' group (in my defense, 11 of those years I was working more than full time at a day job and had little time or ambition to write).  And to be honest, they found me.  A member hunted me down at a signing and I'm so glad she did.

So why should you be in a writers' group?  Well, for the fun and camaraderie to start with.  Now each group will have its own dynamic and if you live in a populated area you may be able to find one that meets your style (I live in a small town and am limited to one group, which luckily is a great group for the most part).

"But what can a writers' group do for me?" you're asking.

I'm glad you asked.

A writers' group is a great place to share and develop ideas.  You can brainstorm plot points, plot holes, plot development.  I was recently stuck for how to proceed on a work in progress (WIP).  So we brainstormed ideas and one of them ended up being in the book.

And they will encourage you to write.  I know I wouldn't have started let alone finished Gods of Strife without the "let's sit down and write" part of my writers' group meetings.

Members will have different expertise.  Some might be great with grammar, some might know publishing inside and out, some might be able to format books for the Kindle and other eReaders.  Some might know about cars, guns, military equipment (that's me in my group).  In the same WIP I mentioned before, one member helped me with horses.

Members can exchange beta reads and give good, constructive feedback.  Be aware, if you are going to ask for beta reads, you're going to have to do beta reads.  But it's worth it.  The feedback and ideas and proofreading will improve you're writing tremendously.

A writers' group can hold you accountable and encourage you to actually, you know, write.

An active group will be looking for signings, promotion, and public event opportunities.  It was because of my writers' group I went to and participated in my first con and sat on panels and gave out swag and got my name out there.

Yes, we are all introverts, preferring to stare at our computer screens rather than interact with humans.  But a writers' group will help your writing and your career.  So get out there and find one.  Maybe check bulletin boards at bookstores?

Flash Fiction Friday: Caveman

Every morning I wake up in the armpit of this alien world.

Life has a way for making funny turns.  I was a wealthy shipping magnate, moving cargo and beings between planets.  I had thousands of employees, a young, attractive wife who at least pretended not to only love me for my money.

Then came interstellar war and "civilian shipping" was a "legitimate target" and the insurance wouldn't pay because it was "an act of war" and I lost everything.  My yacht was confiscated in orbit around this planet where I hoped my creditors wouldn't find me.

So here I'm stuck, trying to make enough money to buy a steerage ticket back to Earth.  Or work as a deckhand on a ship going back to Earth.  Or stowaway on a ship going back to Earth.

Only problem is, no Earth-bound ships come here since the Gralvalians won the war.

I sat up on my rock and stretched my body. Fifty-year-old humans were not designed to sleep on rocks.  But the natives of this planet haven't invented the bed, yet.  And they wouldn't for about 50,000 more years.  I walked to the entrance to the cave where I slept.  Because the only transportation on this planet was walking, I was stuck withing about a 20 mile radius of where the repo company's landing boat set me down with only the clothes on my back, which were now rags.  I'd have to kill and animal for some skins, soon.  That was not a problem, I'd gotten quite used to killing animals for food.  I'd developed some weapons of a fashion: a spear, a flail with a rock at the end, and even, of course, a club.

I looked at the sun.  I rued that sun, about 52,000 years younger than I remembered it.  And I swore next time I hid from repo men, I wouldn't go back in time.  And now that the Gralvalians have captured all the wormholes, I'll never go forward in time, either.

A nice seeming Neanderthal family had moved in a bit away.  Maybe I'd go visit them.  Archaeological evidence was that "modern humans" and Neanderthals interacted, including interbreeding.  Funny, I could be the cause of the very articles I read 52,000 in the future.

I slung my club over my shoulder and headed out.  I'll call the neighbors "The Jones."

Movie Review: The Lego Movie

Last night I watched The Lego Movie with my 22-year-old son who really really really wanted to see it again (he'd seen it in the theater).  And I could see why.  It's funny, clever, with parodies of Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and even pokes fun at . . . Legos a bit.

When I was a child I loved my Legos.  I built worlds and would then tell stories (which is what I do now, just not with Legos).  I got a very nice Lego set at a rather young age and I don't remember there being instructions.  Doesn't matter, I never followed instructions.  I built things from my imagination.

Since I had children, they always had Legos with instructions: this is how to build what's on the cover.  And I thought, "Okay, they are learning a few things, but they aren't really using their imaginations, much."  And often they would build the things, set them on a shelf in their bedrooms (or around the house) and never touch them again. (I have a space shuttle built of Lego on the window sill of my office, given to me by one of my sons.)  And this annoyed me.  "Build something original!" I would say to myself.  The same 22-year-old son did actually make some original creations, but if his brothers did, I never noticed.

(Yes, that paragraph is relevant.)

So I was happy when, in The Lego Movie, there were people who just followed the instructions and there were "master builders" who could build things from their imagination.  The character arc of the protagonist, Emmett, is that he goes from only following the instructions to using his imagination and building original creations from Lego.

My biggest complaint about the movie was the name of the bad guy was "Lord Business."  I mean, come on, isn't that a bit obvious.  And his actions are more of someone named "Lord Government."  But, I will admit, toward the end when it was (sort of ) explained I wasn't quite as annoyed.

A fun movie, good CGI, fun use of Lego memes (and Legos).  Worth watching at least once.  Or twice if you're my son.

UPDATE: My son had a birthday last month and is now 23! Just when I figure out how old they are, it changes.

Volcanos

Mt. Hood from the Portland, OR area
(Lynn D. Townsend)I like living in the Pacific Northwest (PNW) and except for short stints in California and Texas during my time in the Army, I have lived here my whole life.

One thing you have to contend with living here is vulcanism.  That is: volcanoes.

Now we don't have hurricanes and we don't really get tornadoes (and if we do they are small and limited in damage).  But, especially on the coast, we have earthquakes and volcanoes.  Both are caused by plate tectonics, the movement of Earth's crust plates.  Here in the PNW we live with the results of the subduction of the Juan de Fuca plate under the North American Plate. (This is part of the "Ring of Fire" that surrounds the Pacific Ocean with volcanic activity.) This causes . . . volcanoes.  Now this is a eons long process and the Cascade Volcano Arc has been active for 37 million years.  But just 34 years ago, Mt. St. Helens erupted catastrophically with loss of life and a large amount of economic damage.

Living with volcanoes is a double-edge sword.  We have beautiful mountains and other geological features as a result.  Where I grew up in Southeast Idaho there were lava plains and Craters of the Moon National Monument.  We could see extinct volcanoes on the desert floor north of town.  When I moved to Washington State a few years before Mt. St. Helens erupted, I learned about columnar basalt and Mt. Rainier, the tallest volcano in the US outside of Alaska.  Then on May 18, 1980, Mt. St. Helens erupted and the resulting ash plume buried the town I lived in in nearly 6 inches of ash.  That after the ash blocked out the sun at 1:00 P.M. turning day into night.
Mt. Rainier from my deck. (S. Evan Townsend)
But still, I love volcanoes.  From my back deck I can, on a clear day, see two Cascade volcanoes: Mt. Rainier and  Glacier Peak.  Admittedly, I can only see the tops of them as they peek out from behind the other Cascade Mountains.  But still, I can see them.  With binoculars on a very clear day I have see volcanoes as far away as Mt. Hood in Oregon.

Because of PNW volcanoes, I can visit without too long of drives Yellowstone National Park, Crater Lake, the Columbia River Gorge (formed by fire and ice), and see pretty mountains whenever I drive west.

Now, there are worries.  Mt. Rainier is close to heavily populated areas such as Tacoma and Seattle and is overdue for an eruption.  It is being eaten from the inside by sulfuric acid and if part of it collapses without an eruption, it can send lahars into the populated Puyallup River Valley south of Seattle.  Even today you can see the evidence of lahars in Western Washington were valleys will have abnormally flat floors where a lahar "spackled in" the valley.

The beauty of the PSW is born of fire (volcanoes) and ice (ice age glaciers).  We love it.  But we have to be aware of its dangers.

Flash Fiction Friday: The Hunger

Today's Flash Fiction Friday is: The Hunger

Lord Vlad hated this era.  Once he was called "Lord" by the servants, soldiers, and serfs of his little kingdom in what is now someplace in Romania.  He ruled over all he could see or conquer.

But then he met her.  She was a maid, beautiful by the standards 500 years ago.  His attempted seduction of her had an outcome he did not expect as the pain grasped his neck and wouldn't release him.  And hasn't released him, for 500 long years.

And now he was a vampire, living in the Twenty-first Century, and just another man with a social security number and living off the interest from his 500 year old investments.  But money did not interest him other than it was needed in this era to keep a place for his coffin.

And tonight, he had the hunger.  Worse than ever before.  He skulked through the darkness, avoiding streetlights and brightly lit storefronts. He was dressed in a black suit with a blood red tie.  Clothes in this era are so unfashionable, he thought.  And wearing armor was completely passe.

But tonight he would feed, late into the night, satisfying the need, the want, the desire that only one thing could satiate.

A young girl, couldn't be more than 20, was walking down the street.  He could smell her, smell her warm flesh.  The blood she held would be warm and salty and would keep him alive another decade.

He smiled as he walked past.  She whispered, "Creep" and kept walking.

No one respected him anymore, he growled to himself.

Then he saw his goal.  Glancing at his watch (one of the many technological marvels of this age that he really couldn't appreciate still longing for a time past), he knew it was not too late.  It was summer, the sun did not go down early and this late at night was his only chance.

Stealthily he approached his goal.  Unfortunately, it, too was well-lit with those damnable electric lights.  He so much preferred the flicker of a candle but that, too, was a relic from the past denied him.

The door opened easily despite the late hour.  He quickly walked forward, squinting against the bright florescents overhead.

The girl smiled at him and he smiled back.  Yes!  This was it.  This would feed his hunger.  The hunger that started at sunset when he arose from his coffin and could only be satiated by this.

"Welcome to Taco Bell," she said.  "May I take your order?"