Benjamin R. Smith's Blog
April 4, 2013
Re-reading the scene where your protagonist and suspected antagonist meet for the first time.
So, I'm promoting Atlas on Facebook today with excerpts from the novel. In selecting my excerpts I read this brief scene where the detective, Victoria Rhodes, goes to publicly confront her prime suspect, Phillip J. Doe, with an accusation of Murder and Conspiracy. I've always liked the setting and chemistry in this scene. I'm still very proud of it.
Let me know what you think, huh?
____
When his eyes met with hers, Victoria was aware of it. Through the flashing of the camera lights and the frenzied movements of rubberneckers trying to catch a glimpse, she had felt his eyes locking with hers and holding steady. There was something in that instant when their eyes met, just before a bright flash had blinded him and he had turned away, that had caused her to inhale a soft breath.
The rain was falling at its heaviest, soaking the landscape all
around. The red carpet he walked on was sodden and small splashes of water showed as he moved with sure, heavy strides, moving to the left side of the carpet and then to the right to shake a few hands and exchange one or two pleasantries.
The media stood massed at the end of the carpet, cameras and booms, all covered in plastic, set up within close distance of the dais at the top of the marble steps just under the transom of the Arts Palace. Umbrellas covered most of the congregation while the rest wore parkas. Victoria seemed to be the one standing unprotected in the rain.
She never thought to carry an umbrella, never minded
when the rain fell and she found herself without one. The powerful man’s wardrobe was hardly fitting for the inclement weather, however. His dark gray topcoat had no collar he could turn up, his salmon-colored shirt with white cuffs and collar already seemed soaked through moments after his stepping from the car.
With his dampened hair, he looked dapper and stylish, smiling a broad smile while waving cordially.
The slender Asian woman -- clad in the latest junior executive fashion and sporting a large black umbrella -- swooped in, offering protection from the rain and placing her hand on the wealthy man’s shoulder to keep him moving.
Victoria followed them, pushing her way through the crowd of spectators and press, elbowing more than a few rudely to get through to a good vantage.
When she stopped, it was right between a reporter and her camera crew. Victoria glanced over once and recognized the face of the gossip girl from the AM webcast. The woman had just enough time to look indignant before her attention and the focus of her cameraman’s lens shifted forward to the steps under the transom of the palace where Atlas stepped to the podium regally.
The applause continued a moment as the man smiled into the microphone. He let it last a few seconds before letting his smile fade gradually. With his smile went the applause and within instants only the clicks and flashes from cameras and the soft droning patter of the rain continued.
Victoria shook her head when he drew his hands together on the podium and cleared his throat. The audience waited patiently to feast on any words that fell from this man’s lips.
“I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” he began. “As you can see I’ve already begun with a cliché.”
The audience made a small murmur of laughter.
Victoria shifted uncomfortably. His voice was deep and even, somberly soothing with the grace of perfect inflection and diction.
“I’m very proud and honored to be here today, standing beneath this beautiful reminder that a city can recover and rebuild itself. The Panama Pacific Exposition of 1915 was an event dedicated to progress, a celebration of the completion of the Panama Canal and the rebirth of San Francisco following the disastrous earthquake and fires of 1906. I am but one member of a coalition that has worked tirelessly over the past year to restore this national park and this monument of progress to their former glory."
"But,” he looked down, “the day’s festivities are overshadowed, for me and for the rest of this group of contributors and volunteers, by the news that an esteemed friend and, in many ways our project leader, cannot be with us today to see this park reopened.”
His gaze came up and it was as if his eyes met those of
everybody in the audience. “Though I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation into the death of Counselor Radcliffe, I can assure you that the SFPD and my company are working together, diligently, so that what facts can be released to the public will be released in due course.”
His brow had furrowed slightly with sincerity and now it
softened again with sentiment. “However, I knew Kate Radcliffe, as many of us here did. Where she here with us today, she would be giving this speech and I would be huddled quietly behind her, awaiting the moment patiently when she would declare this project complete, this park open, its beauty, its history and its meaning restored in the hearts of every San Franciscan. I thank you all on behalf of this committee and in the memory of Prosecutor Radcliffe.”
From the podium, he lifted a small pair of plain scissors and turned to the thin wisp of red ribbon. A snip and the ribbon fell and applause flooded the park for a few moments. The small Asian woman who had followed him up the red carpet came up to the podium, took the scissors from him and offered him the umbrella. He took it and began walking brusquely back down the red carpet toward the waiting car.
Victoria did not hesitate.
Seeing her chance, she pushed her way through the shouting reporters to the edge of the velvet rope lining the plush walkway, bisecting the man’s path. Above the calls for the man to “look here” or “give us a few words,” she called out with authority for him to “stop.”
It was not her voice saying the word that caused the
reporters to grow silent but his actually stopping and turning on the carpet to look directly at her.
In that instant, she felt every eye and camera lens turn and
focus directly on her. The rain had matted her dark hair to her forehead. She was small and too pale; her clothes were of a utilitarian fashion. She could feel every one of the people in the crowd growing confused that this insignificant little somebody might somehow have the authority to make one of America’s richest, most powerful men stop and turn from his course.
Her badge glittered gold from the outside breast pocket of
her leather jacket, drawing the attention of the blonde female reporter from SFN who had somehow managed to keep pace behind Victoria in the charge through the crowd.
“Inspector Rhodes,” the young reporter called. “A few
words on the Radcliffe murder investigation, for SFN 9, if you please?”
The resulting eruption of questions that followed that first from the gossip girl was enough to stagger Victoria back against the velvet rope.
In the seven years she had been attached to C.I.D., she had
never been at the forefront of anything having to do with the media. Though she had often led investigations she had left it to the department media liaison to impart information to the press while she kept her head down in as low a profile as possible, usually breezing right through reporters unnoticed mumbling the words “no comment.”
Now she felt a soft squeak in the back of her throat rising at the onslaught. A one-syllable word rode the little squeak that escaped her lips like the chirp of a small bird trapped in a net.
“I...” she managed to say, looking from camera lens to boom microphone.
She took another step back and felt herself bump against someone. A hand was quickly at her elbow. She looked around to find the man who had been the center of attention before her had come off the red carpet and grabbed her gently.
“Inspector Rhodes will no doubt give a statement through proper channels at Bryant Street when the occasion arises,” he said, holding up a hand and wincing against the halogen glare of a light shining directly in his face. He nodded to the cameras then as he pulled her out of the crowd. The velvet rope that had separated her from the red carpet was gone and then in an instant replaced, paring off the ravenous reporters.
All the while Phillip was still spouting off polite banter, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, folks,” he said. “The SFPD and I have official business. Enjoy your park!”
With that, he was gently pushing her down the carpet to the
open door of the long black limousine.
Victoria heard a whisper in her ear and the hand at her elbow moving to her lower back.
“Keep moving,” he said, softly. “Once we’re in the car we’re safe.”
Let me know what you think, huh?
____
When his eyes met with hers, Victoria was aware of it. Through the flashing of the camera lights and the frenzied movements of rubberneckers trying to catch a glimpse, she had felt his eyes locking with hers and holding steady. There was something in that instant when their eyes met, just before a bright flash had blinded him and he had turned away, that had caused her to inhale a soft breath.
The rain was falling at its heaviest, soaking the landscape all
around. The red carpet he walked on was sodden and small splashes of water showed as he moved with sure, heavy strides, moving to the left side of the carpet and then to the right to shake a few hands and exchange one or two pleasantries.
The media stood massed at the end of the carpet, cameras and booms, all covered in plastic, set up within close distance of the dais at the top of the marble steps just under the transom of the Arts Palace. Umbrellas covered most of the congregation while the rest wore parkas. Victoria seemed to be the one standing unprotected in the rain.
She never thought to carry an umbrella, never minded
when the rain fell and she found herself without one. The powerful man’s wardrobe was hardly fitting for the inclement weather, however. His dark gray topcoat had no collar he could turn up, his salmon-colored shirt with white cuffs and collar already seemed soaked through moments after his stepping from the car.
With his dampened hair, he looked dapper and stylish, smiling a broad smile while waving cordially.
The slender Asian woman -- clad in the latest junior executive fashion and sporting a large black umbrella -- swooped in, offering protection from the rain and placing her hand on the wealthy man’s shoulder to keep him moving.
Victoria followed them, pushing her way through the crowd of spectators and press, elbowing more than a few rudely to get through to a good vantage.
When she stopped, it was right between a reporter and her camera crew. Victoria glanced over once and recognized the face of the gossip girl from the AM webcast. The woman had just enough time to look indignant before her attention and the focus of her cameraman’s lens shifted forward to the steps under the transom of the palace where Atlas stepped to the podium regally.
The applause continued a moment as the man smiled into the microphone. He let it last a few seconds before letting his smile fade gradually. With his smile went the applause and within instants only the clicks and flashes from cameras and the soft droning patter of the rain continued.
Victoria shook her head when he drew his hands together on the podium and cleared his throat. The audience waited patiently to feast on any words that fell from this man’s lips.
“I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” he began. “As you can see I’ve already begun with a cliché.”
The audience made a small murmur of laughter.
Victoria shifted uncomfortably. His voice was deep and even, somberly soothing with the grace of perfect inflection and diction.
“I’m very proud and honored to be here today, standing beneath this beautiful reminder that a city can recover and rebuild itself. The Panama Pacific Exposition of 1915 was an event dedicated to progress, a celebration of the completion of the Panama Canal and the rebirth of San Francisco following the disastrous earthquake and fires of 1906. I am but one member of a coalition that has worked tirelessly over the past year to restore this national park and this monument of progress to their former glory."
"But,” he looked down, “the day’s festivities are overshadowed, for me and for the rest of this group of contributors and volunteers, by the news that an esteemed friend and, in many ways our project leader, cannot be with us today to see this park reopened.”
His gaze came up and it was as if his eyes met those of
everybody in the audience. “Though I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation into the death of Counselor Radcliffe, I can assure you that the SFPD and my company are working together, diligently, so that what facts can be released to the public will be released in due course.”
His brow had furrowed slightly with sincerity and now it
softened again with sentiment. “However, I knew Kate Radcliffe, as many of us here did. Where she here with us today, she would be giving this speech and I would be huddled quietly behind her, awaiting the moment patiently when she would declare this project complete, this park open, its beauty, its history and its meaning restored in the hearts of every San Franciscan. I thank you all on behalf of this committee and in the memory of Prosecutor Radcliffe.”
From the podium, he lifted a small pair of plain scissors and turned to the thin wisp of red ribbon. A snip and the ribbon fell and applause flooded the park for a few moments. The small Asian woman who had followed him up the red carpet came up to the podium, took the scissors from him and offered him the umbrella. He took it and began walking brusquely back down the red carpet toward the waiting car.
Victoria did not hesitate.
Seeing her chance, she pushed her way through the shouting reporters to the edge of the velvet rope lining the plush walkway, bisecting the man’s path. Above the calls for the man to “look here” or “give us a few words,” she called out with authority for him to “stop.”
It was not her voice saying the word that caused the
reporters to grow silent but his actually stopping and turning on the carpet to look directly at her.
In that instant, she felt every eye and camera lens turn and
focus directly on her. The rain had matted her dark hair to her forehead. She was small and too pale; her clothes were of a utilitarian fashion. She could feel every one of the people in the crowd growing confused that this insignificant little somebody might somehow have the authority to make one of America’s richest, most powerful men stop and turn from his course.
Her badge glittered gold from the outside breast pocket of
her leather jacket, drawing the attention of the blonde female reporter from SFN who had somehow managed to keep pace behind Victoria in the charge through the crowd.
“Inspector Rhodes,” the young reporter called. “A few
words on the Radcliffe murder investigation, for SFN 9, if you please?”
The resulting eruption of questions that followed that first from the gossip girl was enough to stagger Victoria back against the velvet rope.
In the seven years she had been attached to C.I.D., she had
never been at the forefront of anything having to do with the media. Though she had often led investigations she had left it to the department media liaison to impart information to the press while she kept her head down in as low a profile as possible, usually breezing right through reporters unnoticed mumbling the words “no comment.”
Now she felt a soft squeak in the back of her throat rising at the onslaught. A one-syllable word rode the little squeak that escaped her lips like the chirp of a small bird trapped in a net.
“I...” she managed to say, looking from camera lens to boom microphone.
She took another step back and felt herself bump against someone. A hand was quickly at her elbow. She looked around to find the man who had been the center of attention before her had come off the red carpet and grabbed her gently.
“Inspector Rhodes will no doubt give a statement through proper channels at Bryant Street when the occasion arises,” he said, holding up a hand and wincing against the halogen glare of a light shining directly in his face. He nodded to the cameras then as he pulled her out of the crowd. The velvet rope that had separated her from the red carpet was gone and then in an instant replaced, paring off the ravenous reporters.
All the while Phillip was still spouting off polite banter, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, folks,” he said. “The SFPD and I have official business. Enjoy your park!”
With that, he was gently pushing her down the carpet to the
open door of the long black limousine.
Victoria heard a whisper in her ear and the hand at her elbow moving to her lower back.
“Keep moving,” he said, softly. “Once we’re in the car we’re safe.”
January 2, 2013
Maintaining a Positive Outlook
When I was in High School my English Teacher gave us an excerpt from Stephen King's book ON WRITING in which he described the long and arduous parade of rejection slips he received. Apparently he put them on a long metal spike on his wall above his desk so he could see the thick mess of paper every time he sat down to work.
In the age of e-mail, I don't save my rejections, but I can honestly say without shame that I've received more than my fair share of "unfortunately we have to pass at this time" letters. It is part of an author's life, and, now that I am an independently published author, I'm still trying to get the odd short story published here and there.
I have no shame when it comes to writing short stories. I go where they will publish me and take what pay I can get. I've written clean to dirty, long to short, happy to sad all with the express purpose in mind of maintaining the strictest professionalism. I want to be respected and remembered by publishers, editors, and agents as a civil person working hard to improve my craft and make an honest living in this arena of fiction and prose.
So, with that in mind, here are my tips for maintaining your cool when you receive a form rejection slip.
First, reply almost immediately to the rejection with a short, simple, and never cynical thank you to the person who took the time to read and consider your story. Even if they say "no" you should be grateful to have had their consideration.
Second, get out your submission letter, your sample materials, your manuscript, and your notes and take another good long objective look at everything. I find the best ideas come to me when I've been rejected and that editing and revising, tidying up my manuscript and re-working some things (even if what I originally sent in was good) helps me to cope and to improve on things. Remember, your book is never too perfect ;)
Third, avoid depressants. Brew some hot tea, go for a walk, play with your kids or your pet, find a friend and go for a walk, do something that floods your senses with positive energy.
Finally, don't dwell on what you can't change and focus instead on what you can. Maybe you can start a new project? Maybe you can change genres? Maybe you can indulge in a hobby or a craft other than writing for a while. Stimulate other parts of your brain and then come back to your submission materials in a week or so.
If you have any helpful tips for handling rejection, please post them in the comments section.
Happy writing,
Ben Smith
In the age of e-mail, I don't save my rejections, but I can honestly say without shame that I've received more than my fair share of "unfortunately we have to pass at this time" letters. It is part of an author's life, and, now that I am an independently published author, I'm still trying to get the odd short story published here and there.
I have no shame when it comes to writing short stories. I go where they will publish me and take what pay I can get. I've written clean to dirty, long to short, happy to sad all with the express purpose in mind of maintaining the strictest professionalism. I want to be respected and remembered by publishers, editors, and agents as a civil person working hard to improve my craft and make an honest living in this arena of fiction and prose.
So, with that in mind, here are my tips for maintaining your cool when you receive a form rejection slip.
First, reply almost immediately to the rejection with a short, simple, and never cynical thank you to the person who took the time to read and consider your story. Even if they say "no" you should be grateful to have had their consideration.
Second, get out your submission letter, your sample materials, your manuscript, and your notes and take another good long objective look at everything. I find the best ideas come to me when I've been rejected and that editing and revising, tidying up my manuscript and re-working some things (even if what I originally sent in was good) helps me to cope and to improve on things. Remember, your book is never too perfect ;)
Third, avoid depressants. Brew some hot tea, go for a walk, play with your kids or your pet, find a friend and go for a walk, do something that floods your senses with positive energy.
Finally, don't dwell on what you can't change and focus instead on what you can. Maybe you can start a new project? Maybe you can change genres? Maybe you can indulge in a hobby or a craft other than writing for a while. Stimulate other parts of your brain and then come back to your submission materials in a week or so.
If you have any helpful tips for handling rejection, please post them in the comments section.
Happy writing,
Ben Smith
September 30, 2012
Going From Erudite to Accessible
Several months out from publishing my first novel, an aunt of mine read it. She read it in one day and summarily called me to share her opinions about my writing style, my characters, and various little problems she had with the story.
Of all the notes she gave—and she gave more than a few I confess I wish she’d have given me before I published—the one that has stuck with me is how “surprising” my book was.
Knowing me and how I talk and how much time I spent in higher education, my aunt was not the least bit cagey in telling me that my book was actually very accessible and geared toward a populace audience. When she considered me as a person, she had expected an overwrought drama of a very high and dry literary tone.
I’m sorry to say, folks, that even a college graduate can guess how long a book without a hook can last in a competitive fiction market.
All my life I read books that captivated me as a reader. Any author who forgets to entertain his audience first is a moron and I can be the first to say I’d rather write a thousand good entertaining books than one great boring book.
Of all the notes she gave—and she gave more than a few I confess I wish she’d have given me before I published—the one that has stuck with me is how “surprising” my book was.
Knowing me and how I talk and how much time I spent in higher education, my aunt was not the least bit cagey in telling me that my book was actually very accessible and geared toward a populace audience. When she considered me as a person, she had expected an overwrought drama of a very high and dry literary tone.
I’m sorry to say, folks, that even a college graduate can guess how long a book without a hook can last in a competitive fiction market.
All my life I read books that captivated me as a reader. Any author who forgets to entertain his audience first is a moron and I can be the first to say I’d rather write a thousand good entertaining books than one great boring book.
May 21, 2012
Dead Heat On A Merry-Go-Round
Introductions are funny things when made through such impersonal means. This age of ours grows more and more agoraphobic and I, as a result, feel isolated and impersonal in all of this online self-promotion.
Readers are wonderful people to meet and great. The smell of books on shelves in bookstores, the sound of people rifling pages and clinking coffee cups upon saucers are rare in this eBook revolution and when a typewriter still acts as my go-to drafting machine, I'm forced to feel old at 27 dealing with all these blogs linked to blogs promoted through tweet decks and uplinked to facebook. This information age of overload is grating on my nerves and I'm really shocked, therefore, to write and publish my first novel about the day after today.
When I was 14 and first beginning to fool around on the old Smith Corona Electric in the basement, I'd always imagined I'd write hard boiled crime novels in the vein of Raymond Chandler and Loren Estleman. Ross MacDonald and Richard Stark, Jim Thompson and Charles Williams set my fingers dancing over the keys, punching them to the bell and carriage-return "Spurrpt-Ka-Tump." I loved those books and still hope to one day dabble in noir fiction and pulp quality publishing.
Nonetheless, college reading lead me into the depths of Isaac Asimov and Phillip K. Dick, discovering their turmoil and philosophy draped in the mystery of tomorrow.
Powerful prose and strong characters have always driven me towards perfection of craft. Words have unlocked so many doors for me that I can think of no profession more poignant and challenging than that of the highly prolific multi-genre writer. At times erotic, sometimes provocative, but unafraid of tackling a story with both hands and wrestling it to the ground, I only hope to become an author worthy of my reader's time.
Thank you so much for visiting my humble page. I wish you happy reading and invite you to comment, like, tag, tweet, review, and discuss as much as you can. Let your fingers fill the internet with you intellect, prowess, and passion.
Good reading and fond wishes for a bright tomorrow!
Sincerely,
Benjamin Smith
Readers are wonderful people to meet and great. The smell of books on shelves in bookstores, the sound of people rifling pages and clinking coffee cups upon saucers are rare in this eBook revolution and when a typewriter still acts as my go-to drafting machine, I'm forced to feel old at 27 dealing with all these blogs linked to blogs promoted through tweet decks and uplinked to facebook. This information age of overload is grating on my nerves and I'm really shocked, therefore, to write and publish my first novel about the day after today.
When I was 14 and first beginning to fool around on the old Smith Corona Electric in the basement, I'd always imagined I'd write hard boiled crime novels in the vein of Raymond Chandler and Loren Estleman. Ross MacDonald and Richard Stark, Jim Thompson and Charles Williams set my fingers dancing over the keys, punching them to the bell and carriage-return "Spurrpt-Ka-Tump." I loved those books and still hope to one day dabble in noir fiction and pulp quality publishing.
Nonetheless, college reading lead me into the depths of Isaac Asimov and Phillip K. Dick, discovering their turmoil and philosophy draped in the mystery of tomorrow.
Powerful prose and strong characters have always driven me towards perfection of craft. Words have unlocked so many doors for me that I can think of no profession more poignant and challenging than that of the highly prolific multi-genre writer. At times erotic, sometimes provocative, but unafraid of tackling a story with both hands and wrestling it to the ground, I only hope to become an author worthy of my reader's time.
Thank you so much for visiting my humble page. I wish you happy reading and invite you to comment, like, tag, tweet, review, and discuss as much as you can. Let your fingers fill the internet with you intellect, prowess, and passion.
Good reading and fond wishes for a bright tomorrow!
Sincerely,
Benjamin Smith
