K. R. Hill's Blog, page 8

Fiction's Forbidden Words!

I'm pissed. I had a great scene that I thought extraordinary, ground breaking. But then I realized I could not use the forbidden words of fiction: God or Jesus.

I was told by an editor that I'd lose 50% of my readers at those words. That is certainly not to be taken lightly. There simply are, she explained, loads of beliefs and emotions that readers attach to those words.

She mentioned the book, The Secret, which is arguably fiction. Never does the author mention the G word.

So what does an author do? You have to devise a different way to say the same thing. The use of 'love' is popular, or 'the universe,' or 'the light.' They allow an author to get across an idea without forming a blockage to fictive flow by dragging in memories of being forced to attend church, or of getting your knuckles whacked by wonderful nuns.

I continually remind myself that I am an entertainer. I will do anything to keep my reader in the fictive flow, free of outside interruptions. And if I choose to use one of those words the readers mind is pulled out of that flow. I can't risk it. So hopefully, by showing a situation with scene choice, etc., I can get my point across without using one of those words.

SUSPENSE

I'll be giving away hard copies of this book on goodreads. I hope you like it. I have the entire chapter 1 on notepad, and, I believe, I have earlier versions of chaps 1 & 2 here on the blog. Most of the book is set in a Mayan fishing village on the Caribbean.
CHAPTER 1

I was doing my nightly cop thing in one of those tall skinny houses in Amsterdam. If I wanted to sleep I had to check every access point before I went to bed. I started at the same door every time, pushed my shoulder against the warped old thing until I felt the bolt click into place, then walked to the next entry point, the bathroom window. Only another cop would understand.As I was drifting into sleep someone sat beside me. Someone was in the room. The mattress compressed and triggered an alarm in my head. Adrenalin hit my heart like a defibrillator jolt. I snapped awake but did not move. Gun and badge were on the bedside table. If the intruder had my weapon I was already dead. I waited for a pillow pushed against my head to silence the shot.   As my mind raced someone took hold of my arm. I shouted and jumped out of bed, grabbed my automatic and flipped the light switch, but I was alone.   It was the third time in a week something sat on my bed and grabbed me. I moaned and laughed and wiped sweat from my face. Strange sounds escaped my mouth as I slid down the wall beside the light switch. Cops don’t go crazy. I had to hold it together. There were attorneys to deal with and divorce papers to sign. For years marriage held together my life in Amsterdam. Friends, career, apartment and language were stuffed inside it like groceries in a paper bag. Divorce hit that bag like a stream of water. What had once seemed strong fell apart in my hands and left me juggling the contents so nothing would shatter at my feet. I remember the day everything changed. Michelle was across the kitchen, chopping asparagus for a midnight stir-fry, her blonde hair falling over a shoulder.  She had been out and looked so sexy and sweet standing there in black pumps and flowers on a blouse that hung low around her neck, shaking with the rhythm of the chopping. As I admired her and stepped close, kissed her shoulder, pressed my hand on hers, I smelled perfume and cigarette smoke from the club. The instant I touched her she started crying and dropped the knife. “Cody, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks. I met a new friend, and her husband, and it just happened with the three of us. I’ve tried not to see them, but I can’t stop.” It wasn’t so much the words that hurt as the look in her eyes, those green eyes once so full of admiration and hope and our love, now showed fear and a wanting to be somewhere else. Her simple admission cracked the foundation of our home, broke the concept of us. It was as though I had been slapped but it hurt more, a pain in my gut that sucked strength out of me because I knew what it meant. Michelle was the reason I came to Amsterdam, learned Dutch and joined the force. She was my Holland. Without her as my anchor in the Netherlands I could feel the tide of culture and language pushing me toward the beach of my home, my country, the USA.  Memories and plans danced through my mind as I sat with my back against the wall, the light switch beside me. Traffic in the street below turned silent. Laughing crowds had long since left the bars when I climbed into bed. I was sleeping on the horrible pull-out sofa, steel bars poking me when I moved, dreaming of Michelle cozy in our apartment, when I found myself staring at a man. I thought I was dreaming and rose on an elbow. He was in his sixties, dressed as a Wild West gambler with vest, Western bow tie, silver walking stick, a strange blue glow around him. I stared for a few moments before realizing I was awake. Fear shot through me and I jumped out of bed and ran for the switch once more. With light the phantom vanished, but his chair remained. Something had moved it from its place against the wall. Something real, with physical form, had moved it. I could have imagined seeing a ghost. Maybe I imagined something touching me night after night, but there was no denying something moved the chair. That freaked me out. The rest of the night I sat in the corner, firearm in my sweaty hand. I was safe with my back against the wall. If anything touched me I would instantly see it. I was losing sleep. It wasn’t something I could shoot or slap handcuffs on. Once or twice might have shaken me up, but could have been explained as a dream. I had to make it stop.I was lucky I still had my career and ran from the house each morning. But sketchy sleep was making me irritable and I often snapped at Michael, my partner, during the second half of our patrol. That was when I started worrying about going home, wondering when the thing would touch me again.  I needed somewhere to go where I felt safe and welcome. I couldn’t go to the people I loved in Michelle’s family. They had chosen sides. To them I was now a foreign intruder. I was isolated and alone, a man with a giant accent that made even the flower girl on the corner look twice and hesitate to answer, never having heard Dutch spoken by an American. One night, as I changed into my street clothes and shut my locker and walked out the back door of police headquarters, I knew I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t take something touching me again. Instead of walking my usual streets, along busy boulevards and side streets where I hardly had to look up to know where I was, I headed into Old Town. Out here, surrounded by traffic and business signs and shoppers, nothing weird could touch me. I walked city streets for more than an hour.Near the park, as the downtown lights faded and trees blocked the streetlights, wisps of fog floated along the cobblestones, past little houses pressed together, windows glowing with light through curtains. From one of the windows jumped a cat. I turned to watch it run and saw a man following me.  He was short with brown skin and black oily hair combed straight back. I was so concerned with what touched me when I slept that I wasn’t watching my surroundings. I was being street stupid. He might be some guy rushing home. That would be the best scenario. Or he might want to rob me. That I could deal with. But if he was connected to a case and seeking revenge, there might be several men working together. If an organized group were tracking me I was in trouble. I had to get among people and find out the man’s intentions before I called for help.I reached for my weapon and realized it was in my police locker. I crossed the street and stepped out of sight behind a van. That gave me a few seconds head start. The instant I stepped out of view I sprinted up the street and around the corner. I made it to the park and squatted in the bushes, panting, touching the damp leaves on the ground with a glove to keep my balance, waiting to see if I was being paranoid or really in danger. Within seconds the guy ran into the park and rushed to the restrooms, came out and turned a circle, searching, and ran to a side street. He was tracking me. Had some con with a grudge been released from prison?  For another hour I marched around the city, stopping in doorways and peeking out café windows to make sure I lost him. I followed one canal and then another and found myself where I felt best:  At the old three story bookstore that became my second home while studying for police exams. I laughed when I saw the building, skylights making the roof glow, little gargoyles hiding beneath the eves. Already I was loosening my scarf and taking off my gloves as I approached. For a while I walked around checking out old study spots: the huge leather chair by the elevator, the alcove beneath the stairs. Loud angry words pulled my attention toward the sounds of a struggle and I thought a woman might be in trouble. Customers sitting on the floor and standing in the aisles looked about. I marched across the store to the fighting couple. With a wave of my badge they froze. The woman had bright red hair that touched the spiked collar of her leather jacket. She smiled and jerked her arm away from the man holding her. A book flew out of her arms, hit the carpet and slid to a stop against my boot. I picked it up and gave the man a warning as the redhead hurried away.I carried that book under my arm and followed the woman from a distance. It felt good to have a big solid hard cover in my arms, like being a student again. I tapped it against my leg and pretended to be interested in automotive picture books as the woman ruffled through magazines. Not that I was interested in muscle cars or her, but I wanted to make sure Mr. Wrong wasn’t going to accost her when she left. And sure enough, a few moments after she hurried through the large double doors, flipping up her collar, the guy tried to go after her. I thumped him on the shoulder with the book. “Either you keep browsing for half an hour or I call a squad car.” From my post beside the exit, leaning against the wall and making sure he didn’t slip out before the woman was far away, I looked at the title of the book in my hands: Ancient Energy. On the back it mentioned beings from other realms and how a person goes about protecting themselves. That struck a nerve.      Could I read something like that? It was fringe material, I called such publications, for the marginally sane five percent of society. But where was I supposed to find answers about being visited by a man with a blue glow, or invisible things touching me at night? My friends would think I was crazy. It wasn’t like popping online and searching for a plumber or electrician. If the police department heard about it they’d yank my badge and gun and throw me to a shrink. I looked up and noticed Mr. Wrong was moving toward the other exit, so I walked across the store and positioned myself beside that door. I needed help and didn’t know where to turn, so I read the first sentence of the book: “Though out history humans have been visited by creatures of other realms.” That was all it took to suspend my disbelief. Every page shouted to be read. I felt like a kid who tries tennis or skateboarding and is hooked. It was what I needed, a friend speaking about the things happening to me. I bought it and completely forgot about detaining the guy. I carried that book everywhere. Before work, during break and evenings I read. After a couple of weeks I tried a chant that was supposed to keep away creatures from other realms. I was ready to try anything.
 Weeks passed and one book led to the next as though forming an intellectual path designed just for me. When I finished one book on spirituality I knew another was waiting and fingered through editions on the bookstore shelves until another title called me like a friend from across the room. From each I took bits I could use and put them to work in my life. The books became the comfort and guidance I needed.The only thing that stopped the touching was a recipe in one of the books. Several times a day I surrounded myself with the White Light, closed my eyes and imagined a bubble of light and love surrounding me. How strange it felt to be on patrol, the one American on the Amsterdam police force, and sit down in a toilet stall in the Red Light District, hookers and tourists and hash’ café’s outside, and imagine a bubble of love protecting me. I was a grown man after all, not some boy at Sunday school. Life on the force had changed me, toughened me. It meant rubbing against people with hatred pounding through their veins like a virus, and I was the serum injected into society to stop them. Yet here I was in a graffiti-covered toilet stall, shiny black shoes touching urine on the tile floor, a 9 mm strapped to my side with cuffs, radio dangling over my shoulder, outfitted for urban warfare, asking for love to surround me? I felt stupid imagining the bubble and would have dropped it in a heartbeat if it wasn’t keeping away the touching. Soon I was sleeping through the night and feeling stronger. I began visualizing the bubble more often.I don’t know if it was because I was getting stronger or because my energy or thoughts were changing, but I started getting flashes of intuition. While buying morning bread I got a glimpse of the baker having hot sex with another man. That made me recoil. It was too much information. When I spoke to the girl at my neighborhood news stand, who was all laughter and smiles, I saw her signing legal documents and knew she had come into money. Then the glimpses got serious. I shook hands with a bar owner during patrol and saw his basement filled with marijuana plants. After examining records of his electricity usage we got permission to search his property, and it turned into a nice arrest. Despite liberal marijuana laws, cultivation of more than five plants was a felony.It was a huge encouragement and I found myself speaking daily to the White Light. I didn’t want to label it God or Shiva or Buddha, because with those names came a steamer truck of beliefs and dogma. I didn’t want to be sucked into any one way of thinking. I had a private thing going with the Light and wanted to keep it that way. Then came the day that ripped my life in two and shook the Amsterdam Police Department.

Difference Between a Pro and Amatuer Writer:

This so tickled me that I wanted to post it for others. I believe it was somewhere in Writer's Digest I read it.

Not an exact quote: An amatuer is a writer with 100 pages of the greatest novel ever written in a desk drawer collecting dust. A professional writer has a finished first draft of a shitty novel and is working daily to improve it.

WRITERS: THROW IT IN THE FAN!

Everyone knows I'm working on the final draft (is there such a thing?) of my novel. While rewriting one of the last chapters I saw that I had committed an error. I tend to think logically from point A to Z, and that is how I write. I began the chapter here, had my characters do their dance, so to speak, moved the plot along, and that was the end of the chapter. It bored me to death.

You see, readers want to feel that on edge feeling, as if the unexpected has happened and everything is about to explode. I did not have it in this chapter. Yes, I managed to create some suspense and action, but ... I could make it better by throwing the crud in the fan. How, you ask, did I do it?

I asked myself what would happen if one character showed up late to the kidnapping described in this chapter. The protagonist has set a trap for a rapist on a secluded road through the swamp. Guns are drawn. The bait, a teenage boy, is on the road. The suspect's SUV is due ... when a missing friend drives up on his motorcycle and stops to talk. If the rapist sees this man he will flee.

But I had to write it nice and orderly before I could see that some disorder would create some great suspense and drama. So I rewrote it five quick times to see if I could capture that spark, that panic that readers love.  Here is a bit:

*It should be noted that I offered ample foreshadowing to tell the reader that Mexican soldiers often hitch hike along the road in this scene.


     We met Rudolfo and his son across from the police station on the square. As the sun began to set we discussed the plan and walked out of town on the swamp road. Half way to the main highway we stopped. Brisker, Rudolfo and I hid beside a tall bush on one side of the pavement, while John, the handsome teenager, waited on the other. Every time we saw headlights approaching the boy pulled off his shirt and walked toward them, looking like a Mayan kid walking home.      An hour passed and we were getting eaten by mosquitoes.      “So Rudolfo,” I asked. “Do crocodiles attack people out here?”     “Only at night.” He laughed.     Two vehicles passed. Out of the darkness a bicycle came squeaking and rattling up the road and a fat Mayan called a greeting.     “Crap!” shouted Brisker, pulled his weapon and ran into the street.     I hurried after him and grabbed his arm. “Wow, are you going to shoot the guy?”     “Hell yes. He’s seen us. I don’t want the Mexican police knocking down my door if he blabs.”     Rudolfo cursed and hurried out of hiding and stopped the bike with his hands on the handle bars, leaned forward and jabbed a finger in the man’s chest and spoke Mayan.      The fat man nodded several times and stared at the asphalt like a guilty child being scolded, then peddled away.     “Oh, let me shoot him.” Brisker aimed the automatic.     “I told him that tonight he has no vision or memory. Until he dies he will never speak of this night. He is Maya.”     About twenty minutes later Brisker said: “That sounds like Nick’s Harley.”     One headlight vibrated about as a motorcycle drove toward us. And from the other direction I saw a set of headlights coming fast.     “Crap, we got one chance to take the priest,” I said. “Nick is going to screw this up. Everyone hide.”     Brisker looked up the road.“Yeah, that's Nick’s bike. I could tell that Harley anywhere.”      “Let him drive by or we'll miss the priest. Hide!” I shouted.      We must have been too slow because Nick pulled up. As the brake light flashed I saw his long hair dancing in the wind behind him. A moment later his two slobbering terriers ran up and hurried about smelling and licking everyone.      “Cody, that vehicle is coming,” shouted Rudolfo.     Nick flipped out the kick stand with a boot. “Dante, Sheila, come here.” He grabbed the dogs and ordered them to sit, then suddenly snapped upright and his face changed as though he'd seen a UFO in the swamp. “Cody, what the hell is that?”      In the distance, across the black water, several people walked single file through the swamp, their lanterns and flashlights reflecting off the water around them.      I looked at the vehicle speeding toward us, turned to the lights in the swamp. “This isn't good. Pack it up! Let’s get the hell out of here.”     If the lights spooked me I should have known what they’d do to Brisker.     “It’s a set-up. They’re trying to flank us,” shouted Brisker, pulled his weapon, glanced at the lights in the swamp and marched toward the headlights speeding toward him on the road, shouting and cursing, both hands on his weapon, an extra clip sticking up between his fingers.      “No, let him pass, Brisker. Get off the road,” I shouted.      Nick was already pulling from a saddle bag that old army colt he took everywhere. My simple abduction was about to turn into a gunfight.     “How many rounds you got?” Nick shouted, dropped to a knee and aimed. “Are they coming for us?”       “I brought three clips,” said Brisker.     “Put away the guns.” I ran over and shoved Brisker, but he wouldn’t lower his gun.      Then the SUV stopped. From inside came a bunch of shouts and rustling about, and suddenly the doors flew open and four Mexican soldiers, who looked fourteen years old, jumped out and fell to the pavement with rifles, shouting as they belly crawled under the vehicle.       I should have jumped on Nick’s bike and drove away right then, during that moment of silence, but I waited too long and heard Brisker say, “I see you butt man, boy rapist.”      Brisker’s first shot exploded the windshield and the second burst the radiator. 
     After the second shot I ran into the swamp, splashing through the water and shoving bushes aside, branches scraping my face and arms. Behind me I heard Nick’s cannon fire, and the percussion smacked my chest. I stumbled to a trail and followed Rudolfo and John, running for life toward the flashlights and lanterns.        Up the trail I saw three or four muzzle flashes from the brush. And behind me the shots ripped through the SUV, shattered a window and burst a tire.     “Cody! Run this way.” It was Felix with a group of Maya.     As I stumbled up the trail and pushed through bushes the Maya extinguished their lights and the area went black. A moment later the Airedales came up the trail ahead of Brisker and Nick.     “Just lay down, everyone. That is how we disappear in the swamp.” Felix flapped his hands in the air.      After a moment Brisker rolled through the dirt to one of the Maya who was sighting along his rifle. “Want me to take a shot?” he asked.     Felix laughed. “My men could put out the soldiers’ eyes, but we are trying to spare lives, not take them.”     When Brisker spoke again Felix cut him off. “If you speak again before the soldiers leave my men will shoot you.”

When Spirits Touch ...

In the mid eighties I sold everything and moved into an abandoned house a hundred feet from the Caribbean, in a tiny fishing village. I had a dream of writing a novel and took with me a portable typewriter. I slept in a hammock surrounded by a mosquito net, and learned to raise the hammock to window height to capture the breeze.

It was an adjustment living without electricity or running water. I had to carry a twenty liter jug to the spigot at the street, my sandals sinking from the warm top layer of sand to the cool beneath, to flush the toilet. Geckos roamed my walls and sounded like old women laughing when they called at night. But, with the gentle wave noise filling my sleep, the house was magical, and often I awoke singing a song carried from a dream.

I learned to love the village that took life and made its own rules. The bank opened at 9am, or 10am if the teller drank too much Cuban rum the night before, or had a quickie before work. If any particular house party you were at ran out of rum, well, you simply drove to Jose's house and paid him to open the back door of the Liquor store and sell you enough libations to keep the merriment going. If you had too much 'fun' the night before, well, you could always go to the pharmacy and get an injection of B12 to set you right.

My village was a child growing up. Because of that joy, that excitement for life and unique way of
doing things, I returned to it and used my memories as a setting for a novel. I hope you enjoy it. Here is a brief summary of Touching Spirits:

   Could you live beside the Caribbean in a hut with a palm leaf roof?
   With men following police Sergeant Cody Brannon, and some sort of spirit taking hold of his arm each night, he moves to a Caribbean village to draw the men stalking him away from his family. The moment he arrives he is followed. Strange Maya sit outside his hut day and night.
   While Cody prepares to be attacked he learns of love from the beautiful Clarissa. Love enables him to see what comes to him at night, and to solve the mystery of why women are being killed around his village.

I will be offering a free book giveaway on Goodreads and Amazon. Get a copy. Kevin R. Hill

KILLING YOUR DARLINGS

I have not posted recently because I am in the midst of the final rewrite of my latest novel, Touching Spirits. While working on the manuscript I realized there were a few areas that bothered me. I thought them author intrusions, where I wrote, possibly, out of the narrators voice.

On final look I realized I was holding on to them because I thought the writing exceptional. They were my 'darlings.' It was exactly what the master, William Faulkner, meant when he said: ' In writing, you must kill all your darlings.'

If it slows you down to admire it, or gives you an odd feeling when you read it, or you think it exceptionally written, chances are it is a 'darling.' And chances are it will slow the reader, pull them out of the fictive realm you created, out of the flow of your prose. Your best, where you raised the bar, may be a hindrance to the reader.  You want your work to be effortless to read.

Keep up the good work. Kevin R. Hill

ABOUT COVERS...

I want to write a bit about covers for ebooks, and ask readers for help as well.  I started with this cover:

but thought it too vague. (I also began with the title, The Mayan Secret, but found Clive Cussler has that one.) I didn't think the reader could peg the book with a glance. Is it about aliens or ghosts or what? 

This image I purchased on Dreamstime and sent it to a designer on fiverr for the title and to have my name added. Because it didn't grab me and say immediately what type of book it is, or because I thought the title/image combo didn't work, I decided to take another approach.

I bought a ready made cover from Damonza dot com for $175. It is completely different, and loosely fits the book.

With the second cover it is immediately clear the book is action, that something has happened, that a new dawn is emerging, and that it is a love story. Which cover do you prefer, and why?

As a writer the image can't reveal an entire book, can't convey all I hope to show the reader. I believe that one has to trust a professional and let the book go. Ultimately the writing, the story, the writer's skill, has to sell the book.

I guess that still there is part of me searching for an image that will tell the reader of the spiritual transformation the hero experiences, the love that changes his world, his life, and allows him to share his heart. Where do I find that image?

Thank you for your time and help. Kevin R. Hill

 

THE PYRAMID AND THE NOVEL

Gabriela Pereira's article The Great Revision Pyramid, in the September issue of Writer's Digest was a great help with the rewriting of my novel, Touching Spirits. Ms. Pereira's approach is to divide the work into sections or layers of 1. narration, 2. characters, 3. the story (plot and structure), 4. the scenes, 5. cosmetics (grammar, punctuation).

That meant going through the manuscript and labeling the sections for reference. It was there, however, that I took a different path. And I believe every writer needs to find the system that works for them. Instead of breaking down the book as Ms. Pereira recommends, I divided my novel into character stories.

The author (on knees) teaches class at Home Depot.I see novels that I write as ropes. The rope is made up of many strands of fiber. Each strand is a story, a character's story that is wrapped into the whole rope or novel. Since the problem I had was showing why a character did a terrible act, it made since for me to go into that characters strand or story and redefine it for the reader.

It was, once again, Writer's Digest magazine, with Ms. Pereira's article, that came to my aid. WD has been my constant companion during the writing of this novel as I stride to improve my skill.

Using the Pyramid article as a guide, I went through the manuscript and labeled each character interaction with color coded Stick 'em's for easy reference. That way I could go back and follow a character's strand,story, from beginning to end. It helped me keep the story tight and moving with the plot.

*Plot is the backbone of the book. I asked my sister, Shera Hill, herself a terrific novelist, whether characterization or plot were more important. "Plot," she replied, "because without a good plot no one will read the story."

To summarize, again I learned and benefited from a great writing reference tool: Writer's Digest. In this situation I found a new system to help me with rewriting my novel. I highly recommend utilizing the magazine. Their classes are great too, even the fifteen pages of rules for pronoun usage in the grammar class. Yes, fifteen pages!

I added the photo because a large part of being a writer is claiming the title. That means struggling with the day job. I have said many times and will say it again if only to myself: Writing means pushing against life to set time aside to put butt in chair and write. Writing is meditation in motion. 

I wish all who read this tremendous success. Kevin R. Hill 

Real Life Writing/Writer

I got up early and drank a pot of Trader Joe's dark from my venti size mug, petted my senile nineteen year-old cat.
The stage was set to finally lay out the article in Writer's Digest, The Great Revision Pyramid, by Gabriela Pereira, and begin revising Touching Spirits, my action novel that has been waiting for completion.

I am anxious to begin, and excited to have this article guide me.  I was feeling overwhelmed with the project. Now it is a comfort to have a guide, although I have done it with two other novels, if I can find a new approach, one that may cut down the time involved and offer new insights into the process, then yes, I am all for it.

Alas, the course of my day changed in an instant. As my fiance was leaving the house her heel poked through the back porch. It is crumbling and is officially a hazard. I saw my writing time float out of reach like a cloud of cigarette smoke. I had to rebuild the porch before one of us got an unexpected sleigh ride to the ground, six feet below.

And because I am a living on a shoe string budget, supporting myself by working at Home Depot, guess who had to do the work. Ho hum. I could not avoid it. I had to enter the world of Steinbeck, the realm of labor, swinging a hammer instead of verbs and analogies.

But when things like this happen it is important to push back against the universe and the people you care about.  Writing is the most important aspect of my professional life. To prove that to myself and others I carved out two hours to write. 'Come hell or high water, I will write.'

Readers, you can't allow life to cancel your writing. You have to push back and maintain a routine, even if that time is drastically reduced. Paint on the butt glue and sit your butt in a chair and write EVERY day. Even when life throws you a curve. If you only get twenty minutes, you are still sending notice to yourself and those around you: I am a writer.

Then I set about tearing apart the porch and rebuilding it. And yes, the only thing holding it together was the termites were holding hands. The lumber compressed and crunched like toast, the inside eaten by the insects.

SHOUTING FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOP:

I have a novel that I have worked on for three years. A couple of weeks back I published it on Kindle. But some readers noticed some issues so I suspended publication so I could make corrections and revisions.

It has to be as strong as I can make it.

As always, WRITER'S DIGEST has come to my rescue. I have taken their classes, studied their articles, kept editions beside me as I wrote, and now the new edition has an article just for me (of course): The Smart Writer's Guide to Revision.  Just when I need it it is here.

I am going to use their system, their articles, and apply it to TOUCHING SPIRITS, my novel. Will it work? Will it help? I am going to find out.

I will be writing a series of posts about how I am doing it, and what I think of it.

Ultimately, the book itself will be alone out there with readers, and it is its quality or lack there of that will create success or failure, but it is reassuring and helpful to have professional guidance from Writer's Digest.

Stay tuned for following articles.