David R. Michael's Blog, page 47

Writing Short Stories Considered Useful

 
I used to subscribe to the view, "If you want to learn to write novels, write novels." The implication being that "Writing short stories only teaches you how to write short stories–and not novels."
 
Now, though, I'm much more in the camp of " Writing short stories teaches you how to write ."
 
When I finished my first novel back in 2005 and began editing it, I could clearly see that the last 1/3 of the book was written better than the first 1/3. It was obvious.
 
I hadn't made any special effort to be better. I think simple, raw production of words, sentences and paragraphs, combined with a few "breaks" from writing to cogitate on the story as a whole, worked a bit of magic. I had matured as a writer (some) just by writing.
 
Seeing that, and realizing that I had never made any real effort to deliberately improve my writing, was the genesis of my "short story a day" project that soaked up the calendar year of 2006.
 
Here's how I think writing short stories teaches you how to write:
 
Short stories allow for a rapid feedback cycle. Feedback shows you where you need to improve, and you can try again. The short format means you're never far away from your next bit feedback.
 
Short stories allow you to experiment. With the rapid turnaround of short stories you can explore different genres, viewpoints, tenses, and anything else, making them the ultimate tool for "writing practice".
 
Short stories give you practice completing a story. You have to write a few stories all the way to their end before you really learn how a story arc functions. And you can reach completion a lot faster with a 5000-word short story than with a 90,000-word novel.
 
Novels just take too much time and effort to be useful "writing practice". You'll get better, I'm sure, by the simple act of writing a novel from beginning to end (I have no doubt I did), but the feedback cycle is much slower, and there's a lot less room for experimenting. And even if you write at a snappy pace like 2000 words per day (more than I write), you'll complete far fewer novels in a year than short stories.
 
I'm not saying, "Don't write novels." I'm saying, "Learn to write by writing short stories. Lots of short stories. Then get on with the novel writing."
 
No sane person starts training for a marathon by tackling the whole 26 miles. You start small, and you build up. And you eat lots of carbs. But that's beside the point.
 
-David
 

Trikes and Aliens

 
by David Michael
 
The little girl walked up to Rala and stood there, watching him as he repaired his zip-about. Or as he tried to repair his zip-about.
 
Rala had seen the little girl playing in the sandbox before he landed. No help for it. He had to land. The little girl hadn't noticed him at first. She had been digging in the sandbox, burying a small, yellow dump truck. Now, here she was.
 
Rala smiled at her. "Go away," he said. He looked back down at the exposed engine of the zip-about, wondering if he would be able to fix it this time. These newer models had fewer moving parts, fewer options for getting back in motion if you came to an unexpected stop. Maybe he should just call the base, have a tow sent out for him. Except that might be hazardous to his dignity–and his career.
 
After a few minutes he looked up again, saw that the little girl remained standing there, about three meters away, watching. Rala drew himself up to his full height, which was, unfortunately, only a few centimeters taller than the little girl. "What do you want?" he asked.
 
The little girl giggled.
 
Suddenly self conscious, Rala checked his jumpsuit, his headset, his hands. "What? What are you laughing at?"
 
"You're funny," the little girl said. Then she laughed again at Rala's indignant snort.
 
Worry flashed in Rala's mind and he cast a quick glance at the human dwelling. Children didn't get left completely unsupervised, even here on this backward planet. He wondered how long he had before a full-sized human came looking for the half-sized one.
 
The little girl's gaze followed Rala's. "Momma's watching her show," she said. "If you want her, though, I can call her."
 
"No no no," Rala said. "That's alright." He looked back down at the unwilling engine. "I just need to get this going again, and I'll be on my way." He picked up a short probe, poked it against a connection, got the same reading he had been getting the last ten times. "Crap," he said under his breath.
 
"Are you an ay-lee-uhn?" the little girl asked. "Like E.T.?"
 
"Sorta," Rala said. "Except I can call home any time I want–if I want to be laughed at. And maybe fired. And I can't do that trick with my neck."
 
The little girl giggled again.
 
"Why do you do that?" Rala asked. "What's so funny?"
 
"You make funny sounds," the girl said. "And your lips don't match your words."
 
Rala considered trying to explain the translator in his headset, decided that would be a waste of time. So he turned his attention back to the ship, one hand rubbing his chin.
 
"Is that a space ship?"
 
"Nope," Rala said, not looking up. "Just a regular zip-about. Though without a lot of zip at the moment."
 
"It's broken?" she asked.
 
Rala nodded. "Yeah."
 
"My trike is broken," she said.
 
Rala looked up. "Is it?" he asked, scanning the yard. He spotted the three wheeler parked on the small patio, by the sliding glass door.
 
"Can you fix it?" she asked. "Daddy says it has broken speaks."
 
"Broken spokes," Rala corrected.
 
"That's what I said. Daddy says he can't fix it."
 
"How did the spokes break?"
 
"My brother is too heavy," she said. "He's twelve."
 
"I have a spot welder," Rala said. "I might be able to fix it. Bring it over."
 
The little girl's face lit up and she ran back to the patio. While she pushed the squeaking, galumping trike across the yard, Rala poked at the engine a few more times. Maybe if there were two of him, he could make it work.
 
"Sally," came a woman's voice from inside the house.
 
"What Momma?"
 
Rala punched the button on his wrist remote to activate the zip-about's cloak, then cursed all engineers and zip-about mechanics for the useless scum they were. With his engine on the blink, the cloak couldn't work. Not knowing what else to do, he stood very still and hoped he would be mistaken for a lawn gnome. In a jumpsuit. With a two-way radio clipped to one ear. And a finned zip-about with both its canopy and engine cover open.
 
"Daddy told you not to play with the trike."
 
"I'm going to fix it," the little girl said.
 
Momma stepped into view, behind the sliding screen of the patio door. Rala held his breath, resisting the urge to run like hell. Maybe laughed at and fired weren't such bad options, he thought. Either one beat incarceration and dissection. Calling now wouldn't help, though.
 
"How are you going to fix it, honey?" Momma asked.
 
"Gonna use a spot-weller," Sally said. She added, "And maybe a wrench."
 
Momma laughed. "OK, honey. Just don't ride on it."
 
"I won't. Not until its fixed."
 
Momma's eyes did a quick scan of the fenced-in backyard. Rala's heart almost stopped, but the woman didn't seem to see him. She disappeared back into the house.
 
Rala leaned against his zip-about, forcing himself to relax. That had been too close.
 
"Here it is," Sally said.
 
Rala jumped. "Don't sneak up on people, kid."
 
Sally giggled. "Do you have your spot-weller?" she asked.
 
"Hang on," Rala said. "Let me check out the trike first."
 
He examined the trike, found that three spokes in one of the back wheels had been popped loose. "Dang, kid," he said. "How much does your brother weigh?"
 
The little girl just shrugged.
 
Rala took a pair of pliers and his spot welder from his small toolbox. He bent the spokes back into place, then hit them with the spot welder. Sally watched all of this in wide-eyed wonder, blinking and rubbing her eyes after the bright strobes of the welder had subsided.
 
"I see green spots," she said, blinking her eyes slowly.
 
"You're not supposed to look at the strobe," Rala said.
 
"Will the green spots go away?"
 
"In a few minutes," he said. He gave the wheel a test spin. Then put all three wheels back on the ground. "There you go, kid. Have fun with it."
 
Sally smiled and started to get on the trike.
 
"Hold it," Rala said. "One more thing …" He went to his toolbox and came back with a small can of lubricant. He applied the lubricant to the trike's axles. "There. Now it won't squeak."
 
"Thank you," said Sally. She climbed on the trike. She put her feet on the pedals and pushed forward, then came backwards again. "It works!" Then her face got serious and she said, "Can you fix your zip-a-ship now?"
 
Rala looked at the engine again, then back at the little girl. "Maybe," he said. "If you'll help me."
 
"I like to help," Sally said. She got off the trike again and stood there. "What do I do?"
 
"Here," Rala said, holding out a probe. "Take this. No, hold it like I was holding it." Finally, he took her smooth hands in his rough ones and put them in the correct positions. "Right. Hold it just like that. OK, now, come stand by the ship and poke it right … there. Great. Now … don't move."
 
The little girl held the probe with both hands, holding it at arms length, its tip just making contact with the distributer contact.
 
"Don't move," Rala said again. He hopped into the open cab, pressed the starter button.
 
Nothing happened.
 
"You moved," Rala said.
 
"No I didn't," Sally replied.
 
"Touch it again," Rala said, holding the starter button down.
 
The engine kicked once, then purred into life.
 
"Yay!" Sally shouted. "We fixed it."
 
Rala smiled. "Yes, we did." He jumped out, took the probe back from Sally, tossed it into the toolbox, packed that back into the cab.
 
"Bye bye, Sally," Rala said, climbing into the cab.
 
"Bye bye."
 
He closed the canopy and engaged the cloak. He watched her pedal away on her trike, then continued on his way.
 

THE SUMMONING FIRE Given 4 Stars at Blogcritics

Leslie Wright at Blogcritics gives The Summoning Fire 4 stars!


Prepare to be spooked in the most unusual way. The Summoning Fire by David Michael has such an effect. When you are in Hell on Earth almost anything can happen and usually does. Devils and demons roam at will, and death is as common as coffee…


This is a fast paced and extremely creative story, full of violence and horror. I would recommend reading this book in the full daylight unless you are sharing it with friends. Cover the windows and turn on the lights, be prepared to be scared.
 
Read the whole review here…
 
-David
 

The Dragon Hunts

 
by David Michael
 
Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!
 
The dragon stomped through the house, looking for its prey.
 
The dragon paused at a door, and peered in with one reptilian eye. It could see a man, his back to the door, typing on his laptop, oblivious.
 
The dragon held its breath, and pulled its wings in. Slowly, the dragon placed one clawed foot into the room, then another, creeping up on the man.
 
Type-type-type.
 
The man paused then, and leaned back in his chair.
 
"What am I doing wrong?" he muttered.
 
The dragon froze, not daring to move. Had the man seen it? The tips of its wings quivered. It prepared to flee or pounce, waiting for the man to make his move.
 
"Ah," said the man, still muttering. "That's what I'm doing wrong. I'm being an idiot." He sat up again, punched a key with one finger, hard, several times, then started typing as he had before.
 
The dragon waited, resisting the urge to let out a breath in relief. The man would surely hear that.
 
It edged closer.
 
Closer.
 
The dragon's snout came within inches of the man's ear.
 
The typing ceased again. The dragon, startled, nearly gave itself away. But it kept its nerve.
 
"Damn it," the man muttered. "Now what?"
 
He didn't lean back this time, though. He immediately started punching the same key as before, harder this time, and for longer. Then he reached for the cup of water he kept on his desk, and took a long drink as he stared at the screen.
 
The dragon waited until the man had replaced the cup in its coaster, then it attacked.
 
Squeaker-squeaker-squeaker!
 
"Augh!" cried the man, spinning around in his chair.
 
The little girl holding the dragon squealed, then giggled. She laughed and dodged her Daddy's hands as he grabbed for her, also laughing, then ran out of the room, taking her inflatable, plastic dragon with her, wings flapping.
 

Writing Progress Report

 
Writing progress report for the week starting Monday, October 11, 2010.
 








Writing Project


Words




Monday


"Encounter" (first draft completed)
"Evanescent" brainstorming.
Began editing "Afterimage".


1466




Tuesday


"Evanescent" brainstorming.
Finished editing "Afterimage".
Started on draft 2 of The Door to the Sky.







Wednesday


"Evanescent"
Copy edited Horse Girl.


2001




Thursday


"Evanescent" (abandoned this version of the story)


674




Friday


"Evanescent" re-brainstorming.







Saturday








Sunday


















Total



4141




YTD Total: 73773 words
 








Marketing/Submission




Monday


Posted "Like a Ghost" to the blog.
Ordered proof copy of Serene Morning.
Submitted to Spalding's Racket, twistedmindemporium, fatally-yours, novellopublishers, gaspetc, fearzone, theundeadrat/horrorbooksco, dreadcentral, bloody-disgusting, horrorworld, houseofhorror (accepted for review, need to send paperback).




Tuesday


Started the ball rolling for a cover for Horse Girl.




Wednesday


Posted "A Bedtime Story" to the blog.




Thursday


Sent review requests for The Summoning Fire to readersfavorite, podpeep, chrischat, thebestreviews, theshortreview, monsterlibrarian, thebookpedler, thenovelblog, bookilluminations, marthasbookshelf, thebookconnectionccm, thebooksmugglers (oops…double-send).




Friday


Sent review requests to annasbookblog, kbgbabbles, bibliophilemusings.




Saturday





Sunday


Sent review requests to graemesfantasybookreview, nethspace, gavreads, janicu, opinionatedme, presentinglenore, robotsandvamps, thebookzombie, thedistinguishingfangirl, thevaultofhorror, sheneverslept, bardsandsages.




 
Reading List

Haiku by Andrew Vachss.
Extraordinary Engines, edited by Nick Gevers.

 

Book Review Policy

 
I read a lot of books, both fiction and nonfiction. I don't know that I tend to read any particular type of book, though, since I read almost at random. I let my friends and family suggest books to read (some times at my own risk) and I request books from the library that I see mentioned in articles (or even other books) that catch my fancy. Sometimes I even grab books at random off library shelves. Sometimes I do go looking for a new book by an author I like, but usually when I have nothing else lined up. Lately, since I bought my Kindle, I've started reading indie/self-pubbed books (The Translated Man by Chris Braak was my first indie book).
 
With all that reading, and a blog that needs content, I've decided to start posting reviews of the books I read and enjoy. That second part of that equation, "and enjoy", is the most important for me. That means I won't be posting reviews of books I read but didn't/couldn't finish or that I simply didn't like.
 
Here is a summary of my ratings:

– I enjoyed the book enough to finish it and I have positive things to say about it.
 
– I really liked the book and I have no hesitation about recommending it.
 
– I liked the book enough that I decided to buy my own copy (in the case of library books) or I liked it so much that I think I'm likely to re-read the book in the future.
 
I will be using these ratings in all the reviews I do from today forward. 3-star and 4-star will be the most common ratings. I'm very stingy with 5-star ratings of anything.
 
Why won't I post negative reviews review? Simple: I'm a writer. I don't think writers should write negative reviews about the work of other writers. I might gripe about a book that disappointed me to my close friends and family, I might even send the author feedback (if I know them personally), but I won't post a public bad review of the work.
 
Just because I hated a book (or even mildly disliked it) doesn't mean it's a bad book (even if I do actually think it is a bad book). It might not be the book's fault. I could just think vampires are overdone (I do) or know more about the subject matter than the author did and find it hard to get past glaring errors and misrepresentations or maybe I'm having a slow sales week and feeling really bitchy. Why be all negative, I figure? And why immortalize that negativity on the Web? I'll just let it go and move on with my life.
 
So I won't post the negative review of the book I gave up on yesterday (oh, yeah, I wrote it, with the final statement "2-stars–on a good day"). My review was funny, I thought, as well as accurate–but it was mean. And unnecessary. Seriously, you won't even miss it.
 
-David
 

How to Write Slowly

 
Check your email every 100 words or so.
 
-David
 

Book Review – HAIKU by Andrew Vachss

Haiku by Andrew Vachss.
 
I read my first book by Andrew Vachss when a friend of my wife's was giving away paperbacks he had read and no longer needed. That was Blossom, one of Vachss's "Burke Series". I was blown away by the raw violence and the gritty, street-level view of American city life. Across 2006 and 2007, I read 5 or 6 of the other books in the Burke series as I saw them at the library. Vachss, along with Neil Gaimin, helped me see the full range of what could be expressed with the written word.
 
Unfortunately, I was thinking "Burke" when I read Haiku.
 
There are some similarities: there is the street-level view of an American city, characters with a wide range of dark backgrounds fallen on hard times (or having chosen the street), and compassion and justice for people and situations that the middle and upper classes of America tend to not even see.
 
I enjoyed reading Haiku. But I'm not sure I really got it. Which could be because I was Braced for Burke, but I think there's more to it than that. Haiku is a much more subtle novel than any of the Burke books I've read. Burke books are about revenge, hard-edged street justice, usually involving robbery, assassination, or both (and more). There is violence in Haiku, but it's not the point. There is even a Burke-like robbing of a wannabe-pimp, but, again, that's not the point. The point, I think, of Haiku is about people finding themselves again (or maybe for the first time).
 
Vachss isn't at his storytelling best in Haiku, maybe because he was trying to not write just another Burke novel. There are some backstory/flashbacks near the beginning that could have been handled more deftly, I think. And the story itself seems to twist and turn, focusing on this, then that, almost like it's being blown back and forth as the novel continues. Maybe this is more the subtlety that I wasn't prepared for…or maybe not.
 
In any case, Haiku is a good read. I like Vachss, and I like his view of the world. And it looks like I've got a good dozen or so books of his to catch up on…
 
-David
 

A Bedtime Story

 
by David Michael
 
"Daddy Daddy Daddy", the little girl said, scampering into the living room in her Dora the Explorer pajamas.
 
"What? What? What?" he asked.
 
She jumped into his outstretched arms, and hugged him around the neck. "I want you to tuck me in tonight."
 
Mommy came into the living room. She caught Daddy's eye, smiled and shrugged.
 
Daddy stood up, exaggerating the effort. "Oomph," he said. "You're getting heavy."
 
The little girl giggled.
 
As Mommy settled into the spot on the couch he had left, Daddy carried the little girl to her room. With a flourish and a "Swoosh!" he laid her down on the bed.
 
He pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Am I telling you a story tonight?"
 
"Of course," she said.
 
"And what story am I telling you?"
 
"How I was born."
 
"Didn't I tell you that story last night?"
 
"No-oo!" she said. "You told me about how the first missionaries built their little church."
 
"Ah, right," he said, nodding. Then he smiled. "What would I do without you to remember these things for me?"
 
The little girl just giggled.
 
"And speaking of remembering," he went on. "Can you help me out? I can't seem to remember how the story started..?"
 
"It was midnight," she said. "You were watching a movie."
 
"Which movie?"
 
"The Catalina Caper!" she said. "It's a Movie Science Theater show."
 
"Mystery Science Theater 3000," he corrected her.
 
"Right," she said. "And Mommy's water broke."
 
"She made a mess on the couch."
 
"Did you have to clean it up?"
 
"Yes," Daddy said. "I cleaned up the couch while Mommy called the doctor. Then we went to the hospital."
 
"Mommy tried and tried to have me."
 
"But you just didn't want to come out, you little rascal." He tweaked her nose and she giggled. "The doctors even gave Mommy medicine to help you come out, but you wouldn't budge."
 
The little girl giggled again. She said, "I was stuck."
 
"You sure were," he agreed. "Finally, the doctor came to give Mommy her epidural."
 
"What's that?"
 
"You should know exactly what that is by now," Daddy said. "How many times have you heard this story?"
 
She laughed. "Tell me!"
 
"It's like a medicine," he said, "to make it easier to push the baby out."
 
"Does having a baby hurt?"
 
"That's what they tell me," Daddy said. "It hurts a lot, and the epidural makes it hurt less."
 
"But it didn't work, did it?"
 
"No, it didn't."
 
"Because I came too fast."
 
Daddy only nodded, then looked at the wall, remembering.
 
The little girl waited a minute, then said, "They made you wait in the hall."
 
Daddy nodded. "Yup. There I was, standing in the hall, waiting for them to let me back into the delivery room." He paused. "Then, behind me, a red light starts flashing, and an alarm goes off. All the people, all the nurses and the doctors, who had been walking about, doing their jobs, were suddenly running."
 
"Running at you?" the little girl asked.
 
"Past me," Daddy said. "They ran past me, into the delivery room."
 
"Did you go in?"
 
"You know I did."
 
"Were you scared?"
 
"Yes. Flashing red lights, alarms, people running. I was very scared." He blinked. His eyes had become shiny. After a second, he went on, "I stood in the room, watching everyone push the bed and equipment around. They put Mommy's feet into the stirrups and lifted her legs. 'She's fully dilated,' one of the nurses said. 'Get the doctor in here now.'"
 
"What is dilated?"
 
Daddy didn't seem to hear her question. "I saw a woman come in, the doctor. She had barely stepped into the room when two nurses wrapped her in scrubs. Then they put a mask on her and pulled gloves onto her hands. 'Don't push, honey,' a nurse said. I looked back at Mommy. One nurse sat between her legs, another stood beside her holding her hand. 'Tell her not to push,' said the one between her legs. 'I know it's hard,' said the other nurse, 'but you need to not push.' The nurse between her legs called out, 'Doctor, she's crowning.'"
 
"I was coming out too fast?" the little girl asked.
 
"You were coming out too fast, yeah. 'Her face is blue,' said a nurse. The doctor said, 'Stop pushing. The cord is around her neck. We have to work it loose.'"
 
"The umber cord was choking me?"
 
"The umbilical cord, yes. It had wrapped around your neck. Twice. Mommy was crying. I was trying not to cry too."
 
"They got the cord off of me, Daddy. Everything was OK."
 
He smiled. "Yes. I watched them unwind the cord from your neck. 'OK,' the doctor said. 'Push. Let's have this baby.'"
 
"And I just slid right out of Mommy's tummy?"
 
"More or less, yeah. You just slid right out. All gooey and bloody and crying. 'Do you want to cut the cord?' the doctor asked. I nodded." Daddy stopped talking.
 
"Did you cut the cord?" the little girl asked.
 
"You know I did. I cut that damn cord right off. I couldn't cut it off you fast enough. Then they wiped you off, some, and gave you to Mommy."
 
"And you hugged us both?"
 
"As tight as I could."
 
"Were we all crying?"
 
"I think so, yeah. I think we were all crying."
 
They sat in silence for a minute, then Daddy said, "And that's how you were born."
 
"Tell me another story," the little girl said.
 
"Nope. It's time for you to go to sleep."
 
The little girl sighed, gave Daddy one last smile, and then closed her eyes.
 

Like a Ghost

 
by David Michael
 
He heard a sound behind him, and turned to look.
 
His little girl was on her hands and knees, a white blanket draped across her, crawling towards him.
 
He smiled. "Hi, Baby," he said.
 
"Unh," she said, and sat back on her knees, the blanket falling off her. She stood up and wrapped the blanket back around her like a cloak. "I wanted to scare you by being a ghost," she said.
 
The father laughed. "Even with a blanket on, I know who you are."
 
She pulled the blanket up higher. "This is how you're supposed to wear it," she said. Now only her face showed. The rest of her had been wrapped in the blanket.
 
"Like a cloak?" he asked.
 
"Like a ghost," she said. And she floated away.