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Village of Las Gaviotas, Columbia, SA Tears streamed down Jorge Manuelo’s cheeks as he stood with head bowed in prayer, listening to his brother’s screams. They had gone on far longer than should have been possible. How could Juan—hanging from the tree, his arms stretched above him as if reaching for heaven, entrails piled below like a pig being readied for Christmas day—live so long? He begged the Madonna to bring his own death more quickly. El Chuchillo—the man with the knife—turned away from Juan’s now silent body and lifted Jorge’s chin with the tip of his blade. “I have your attention?” Jorge wanted to answer but had no voice. The man holding him from behind gave his arm a twist and Jorge nodded, feeling a trickle of blood where the knife touched his throat. “You have disappointed us,” El Chuchillo said, wiping the knife on Jorge’s shirt—his own straw-colored linen suit miraculously free of blood—then slid it into its snakeskin sheath, only the silver handle left visible. “We gave you money, protected you from the police. Were we not kind to you?” Jorge didn’t know if the man wanted an answer but thought it best to show respect. “Yes, Jefe, very kind.” El Chuchillo looked past Jorge at the coca field, row after row of chest high bushes that should have been covered in dark green leaves ready for harvesting. Instead, there was only a carpet of brown, the leaves of the few plants still alive smothered in a white down. He turned back to Jorge. “Why have you placed this plague on your own crops? A thing no true farmer would do.” Jorge looked at the flies gathering on the gaping red hole where his brother’s chest and stomach had been. The man was right. He had betrayed more than the cartel. He had betrayed the land, the disease planted on the coca fields now spreading to the village gardens. “It was a prefect,” he said, his voice soft. “Miguel Tamayo, from Bogota. He came with an American who said they would send men to burn our crops, leave our families, our village with nothing if we did not do as told.” “The man with Tamayo, you are sure he was an American?” “Si. He wore a bright shirt and hair with the rubio color that is not real.” As in the confessional, Jorge found that once started he could not stop. He wanted to tell how the blond man’s belly hung over the too-tight pants, how he wore gold chains around his neck. But El Chuchillo stopped him with another question. “What did this man tell you to do?” “He said bags would be brought. Inside would be leaves, a rich mulch to place around our plants. We were to start at the far edge of our field and mark those plants. For this we would be protected and given money.” “That is all?” El Chuchillo shook his head, the doubt clear on his face. “Nothing more?” “Only that he would return to look at our crops.” “And has he returned?” “Only Señor Tamayo.” “What does he do when he comes?” Jorge made a picture in his mind. “First, he looks at the plants where we placed the mulch. He then sprays something on the plants next to them. After that he collects leaves and puts them in little bags, writing something on each.” “And the American, he never comes? “No. I think he is a man who likes the señoritas of the city more than work.” El Chuchillo looked at the rows of dead plants again. “I think I will speak with Señor Tamayo.” Jorge saw a glimmer of hope. “I can help you, Jefe. I could take you to him. I know where to find him.” “Yes,” El Chuchillo said, drawing the knife. “You will help me.” Jorge felt the grip on his arms tighten and closed his eyes. Father, take me to your breast as you did your son from the cross…. 1 Standing on the back deck, cold rain dripping down her neck, Tracy Hart watched her seven-year-old daughter struggle to unlock the door. With her arms full of groceries, all Tracy wanted to do was get inside where it was dry. But she controlled the urge to tell Melisa to hurry, knowing that the doors of the old Seattle craftsman were tricky and that her daughter was doing her best to help. Built in 1922, the house’s only upgrade was a tiny second bath squeezed into a former pantry. Other than that, the worn hardwood floors, narrow staircase, and slope-ceilinged upstairs bedrooms—an inconvenience when making beds—were pretty much as they had been a hundred years earlier. And Tracy was in no hurry to change that. It was the house’s scars she loved. People had lived here. It was a home. Her home. “Got it,” Melisa said, pushing the door open. “Put the keys in the bowl and hang up your jacket,” Tracy said, following her into the small kitchen with it’s blue-painted cabinets and Formica countertops—one of the few things she did want to change. “Can I put the kitten on the tree?” Melisa asked, holding up the Christmas ornament picked up at the store. Tracy dropped the bags on the countertop and slipped out of her own coat. “Homework first, then you can turn on the tree lights and we’ll hang it up together.” Melisa pushed her lips into a pout. “Can we do it now, please?” With her short, straight, dark hair—so unlike her mother’s thick brown wave—she looked more like an elf concentrating on toy making than the begging child she was trying to portray. “Homework,” Tracy said. Melisa held the pose for another two seconds, then shrugged. “Okay.” Tracy listened to her climb the stairs, wondering if she was too hard on her daughter, trying to compensate for her own mother’s view of women and education. “Are you sure a doctorate in science is a good idea, dear? Most men don’t want to marry a woman smarter than they are.” “Then I won’t marry most men,” she had replied. While she had not married most men—Dan had graduated from West Point—her mother had been, to a degree, right. Dan was bothered by Tracy’s career. Particularly when she refused to give up her dream job—heading up her own lab—and leave Seattle when he was transferred. Taking out the groceries, she glanced at the receipt, surprised by how much she had spent. The price of vegetables seemed to have jumped an inordinate amount in just the last week. She might need to adjust her budget. Closing the refrigerator door, she put on the teakettle, then went into the living room to check emails. With her desk trapped behind the Christmas tree, there was no place to work except the couch. There’s a room in the basement, her inner voice reminded her. She looked at the cellar door next to the staircase. Dan’s mancave was down there. She should turn it into the office her work deserved. But each time she entered the room, it came back. Their argument. The last time she had seen her husband alive. She stared at the door another moment, then sat down on the couch and opened her laptop. The first email was from her friend Perla Mendez, head of the Tropical Plant Center in Rio de Janeiro. Expecting a holiday greeting, she was halfway through the first paragraph before she realized what she was reading. A new fungus had appeared in South America, spreading to a variety of plants, including some food crops. Perla wanted to send Tracy samples to see if she could identify the pathogen and suggest ways to control it. She should say no. She was under pressure from her boss, James Lathmore, to finish the special project he had assigned her. She didn’t have time for much else. She decided to say yes anyway. Perla was a friend. Besides, it probably wouldn’t take long. Unlike Lathmore’s unknown pathogen, anything as virulent as Perla described had likely been discovered long ago. It was probably something familiar that had mutated just enough to seem like a different species. She started typing her answer, then stopped, realizing Perla would have already thought of that. So, whatever the fungus was, it couldn’t be common. A rare one then, but still a mutation turning it more virulent. Like the one in her lab. She paused, staring at the screen. Was it possible? No. Lathmore’s fungus was so unique there wasn’t anything like it in the literature. A connection to what Perla had found was impossible. Wasn’t it?

My first three pages introduce the protagonist, a side character, a minion of the antagonist, and grounds in setting and place. You get the main plot and sympathy for the MC and SC, plus an intro to the emotional side plot. 1. Amalia and Clara drove to Sunday church service together that morning as they had for a year now. Amalia in a black linen dress with a lovely interlocking pattern of embroidered white flowers at the cuffs and bodice. Clara wore a gray sweater dress and a black crepe shrug. They both had on dark sunglasses, and not because they wanted to hide from anyone. The Nevada sun punished even the godly. They didn’t speak, parking and then walking to the front doors as the hilltop filled with cars for the 9 a.m. service. Fellow church members, God’s disciples in modern times. The community of Piles, Nevada lost Signor Tau Lasso a year ago on May 13. The tragedy had brought Tau’s daughter, Amalia, more into Clara’s life, and not just for the usual reason of mourning a father and mentor beloved by so many. The Word in Life Worship Center sat on a hill against a bright blue spring sky. Most buildings in Piles, Nevada were on a mound of dirt because the town was built over excavation sites and the residual of mine leavings. God’s house crested the largest pile, capped with a clay-colored composite roof gracefully sloping over the main sanctuary. A wooden cross perched jauntily to the side. That morning, a bit of cheap pink fabric had caught in the wind and wound itself about the crossbar, the loose material flapping gently in the wind. Clara paused, looking up askance. That should’ve been their first clue that something strange was in the wind. They walked on to the steady pounding of their grief. Clara recalled Tau’s funerial procession, but them so far behind that even though the coffin was buried a year ago they still hadn’t caught up with the reality. Grief had no prescribed span; it stayed with you until something else took its place, maybe not even then. Their grief was still fresh as the year before. This had been Clara’s first real experience with death. It was even worse in their case because Tau’s story had no true conclusion, not for Amalia. Not for Clara. They couldn’t finish his story in their minds, so how could anyone else? Little did they know, that was exactly what everyone else had done. The front doors opened, exhaling a floral scent so strong, Clara thought the cherry blossom air fresheners in the church bathrooms must’ve exploded. That should’ve been their second clue that the tone for this day was not what they were expecting. The church greeter was sweat-sheened toadie Kenny Susich. At first Clara wondered how even he could smell of roses. But no. Pink roses and peonies clustered on draped tables in the foyer. Amalia sneezed into her black hanky. Kenny’s broad face shifted into a concerned expression as he evaluated their somber attire. "You needn’t go into mourning yet, Clara. Your time will come. You may soon have one." His large globs of flesh constituting two breasts and a stomach pressed against the yellow fabric of his church branded T-shirt. He foisted a pink rose on her with a wink and a lecherous grin. "Have one?" At first Clara thought he meant the rose, which she tried to pass on to Amalia. She wisely refused any gift from Kenny Susich. Clara had acted automatically, not thinking about it first as she should have done. "Have one of what?" His arm pits sweat stained, wispy blond hair featherlight into a horn just over his forehead. Kenny’s light eyes were smaller still when he smiled, his grin displaying every tooth. Clara could count them if she wanted; she didn’t want. He laughed. She didn’t. Kenny struck a pensive pose: chin on his right knuckles, arm propped up as if taking a school photo though he was standing in the doorway, blocking everyone. "Don’t you know what today is?" It was the one-year anniversary of Tau Lasso’s death, Clara knew that for sure. She looked at her friend. Amalia didn’t seem to be in the mood to unpuzzle a conversation with Kenny Susich. She propelled them both forward. "What did I just miss?" Clara asked her friend. Amalia: "Mother’s Day, Clara. Of the two of us, apparently Kenny thinks only you can birth a child." She gave her friend a wary eye. “Better watch out for that one. He’s chosen you.” Children: the church’s entry hall was filled with them, galloping free in the only other place they could get away with it besides their own homes. Mothers and daughters. Mothers and sons. Mothers and their mothers. Mothers and graduates. Not only was it Mother’s Day weekend, but it was also the graduation celebration for all the high school seniors in the church. Children were hanging from the balustrades and the teens weren’t behaving any better. "But Did Kenny Susich just insinuate that you’re old enough to be in menopause?" Clara ground her teeth. In addition to having a jaw like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, she also felt any perceived insult or injustice against one her friends. She wound a long gangly arm through Amalia’s. Also like a T-Rex, Clara had small hands and feet that would’ve been lovely if not so incongruous with the rest of her body. Amalia waved it off, not even bothering to be insulted or argue the point. She was only 45 and Clara had just turned 30. "I’m surprised a goober like Kenny Susich even knows what menopause is." Clara dropped the pink rose he’d given her, hoping it would be trod over. But then she regretted it: that rose, all these roses, had cost the church money. Today wasn’t a day she wanted to celebrate, the anniversary of the death of Tau, father figure to Clara, beloved father to Amalia, but that didn’t mean she should spurn an investment of church funds. Soon she would find the invoice and see just how much that investment had been. It probably wasn’t possible that others’ joy sucked life from you, but Clara felt it then, the certainty everyone else was living and she and Amalia were stuck in the past, their days diminishing before their eyes.

OPENING SCENE: Introduces Ezra Porter (the protagonist) just after his senator father (the antagonist) made his first move against his son. A disturbance comes in the form of discovering his father’s motives from a reporter who wants Ezra’s help in taking down the senator. When Ezra realizes he can secure the proof for the accusations against his father himself, he decides to beat the New Yorker to print and use this story to cut the strings of his father’s control. Setting, tone, obstacles, and stakes for all parties involved are revealed in this scene taken from the first chapter. I’m distracted again. Not by thoughts of my father, but the movement of some guy down the block. This city always smells of sour milk and decomposing flesh, but suddenly I’m hyper aware of it. The fight or flight instinct has turned on like a light switch. And my senses are firing at peak levels when I realize this creep down the street sneaking glances at me isn’t a crackhead seeing things, it’s that leach of a reporter, Trey Edwards. “Fucking hell, not today,” I say under my breath as I shove my hands in my pockets and try to make fleeing the scene look casual. I round the corner and look to see if he’s following. He is. Ten years ago, this walking byline was entering his early thirties, desperate to break a story. And boy did he fucking do it. An exposé crediting my high school girlfriend and me getting caught fucking outside her mom’s megachurch as the event that ultimately caused the small town of Oak Haven, Texas to lose 500 jobs. I’ve been trying to distance myself from that story—and this fuckhead—ever since. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him step on and off the curb. Trey is someone with all the ingredients of a great person—investigative journalist, rural small-town family, charitable—but trust me, he’s a certified scumbag. Out for number one. He needs something, and he’ll use me to get it. This isn’t the first time he’s conveniently run into me, usually banking on small talk to somehow confirm his suspicion that my father and I work together. We don’t. But following me like a rat toward the scent of New York sidewalk trash feels downright invasive. I decide to get this over with and say as little as possible. “Why are you here, Trey?” I ask, not bothering to turn to face him. The scumbag answers, talking to my back and matching each of my foot falls along the pavement. “Because I know daddy needs you home. Maybe now you’ll be willing to talk.” Confirmed. He knows I’m a fucking puppet, and Jack Porter is pulling the strings. We’re both aware my father didn’t build his wealth on intellect or ingenuity. No, he’s climbed to the top by being a ruthlessly selfish master of manipulation. I’m not even the slightest bit surprised I’m his latest victim. I find it hard to believe that would surprise Trey either. But the intrigue as to how he already knows is too much to fight off. I stop, whirling around to see him. “How do you know?” Trey’s standing near the curb with an old school briefcase in one hand, a shit eating grin on his face, and taking in the scowl marking my features like the cat that got the fucking milk. He’s noted there will be no pleasantries. He’s right. There won’t be. “Because the only logical choice he has left is to fall back on nepotism,” he says. Not an answer dumb fuck. We’ve debated this already. It seems to be the topic du jour every time we run into each other like this. We both agree nepotism is problematic in the best of situations. It’s terrible for company morale and a breeding ground for corruption. Sure, I’d claim the act of hiring or transitioning power to kin is in and of itself corrupt, but he’d argue I’m too focused on the act and not the motives. It’s almost always an indication that there’s a need to maintain secrecy. But unfortunately for Trey, I know nothing. I haven’t gotten my hands dirty, and I plan on keeping it that way. I wait Trey out, wondering if he knows how fucked I am too. Does he know about the debt? “Why now?” he asks. Come on, man. I’m not that easy. “You’re the reporter. Tell me.” He squints and peers into me like he thinks I’ll cave. Or more likely, calculating whether whatever he’s about to say is worth conceding. If my father taught me anything it’s that everyone is negotiating. Always. And now, I’m interested in what he knows. “It’s an election year,” he spits out. And sure enough, the first bargaining chip hits the table. “Ever stop to wonder why his opponent pushed so hard for that new prop that just passed? Up until this point holding office in Jersey while running the business in Texas was no problem. But now, it will be all but illegal for him to do both. I find it ironic that your father didn’t see that coming.” Anger trips the live wire within my chest with electricity flowing through my extremities, seeking the nearest exit point. My heart is pounding, but I’m playing along. Feigning apathy to keep him talking. “Or he did and just happens to be ready to hand over the company.” “A man like your father doesn’t hand over things that belong to him. I’m starting to wonder if you even know the truth, Ezra?” I can’t stand the fact that I’m dumb enough to be hearing my father’s motives from Trey fucking Edwards. And the worst part is, I need it. But there will likely be blood when I release the tight grip of my nails into my palm because there’s no way I’ll let Trey see a hint of surprise on my face. It’s not a bargaining chip if he thinks I know what he knows. “What do you want?” I say, calm indifference scraping my vocal cords. “We can help each other, Ezra.” I smile. “What, you want to run the Porter House blog?” “No,” he says, matching my cocky attitude. “That would imply that I actually think you’ll accept your father’s offer.” Well, unless Trey’s offering me eight hundred thousand dollars to pay off my newfound debt, there’s no use in continuing this conversation. “We’ll see,” I say, then turn to keep walking. But it’s only a few steps before he doubles down on this negotiation. Hurls a verbal dagger that strikes a nerve I didn’t think existed anymore. “I spoke to Henley the other day.” Below the belt and he knows it. I should fucking leave, but that girl I’d deported from my mind for the last ten years has apparently never left home soil. Just hearing her name, a flicker of a thought snakes its way through me. I’m still in love with her. I’ve done blow and prescription shit I shouldn’t have. But I have self control—not an addictive personality. Yet somehow, that name makes me feel like a junkie waiting the twenty seconds it takes their meth to cook on a spoon over the flame. The air rushes from my lungs in some big release. In perfect detail. In 4 fucking K. I can see her under the bleachers outside her mother’s megachurch. My dick is eighteen all over again. My mouth salivates recalling the way the mixture of foil and latex tasted as it lingered the last time I saw her. I’d brought the square packet to my lips, ripped the condom free with my teeth. Her panties dangled from her left ankle, hips circling against me as I crept her Sunday’s best up to her waist. In my head, I’m already hiding the tip. I want more of her. But I shut that shit down. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Long story short, I’ll also never forget the light that hit her bottom lip. Not because it illuminated the way she was literally chomping at the bit for me to slide myself inside, but because of the source. A perfect angle from the Texas sun off the silver badge proudly strapped to the Oak Haven police chief’s utility belt. And because she wore her preacher’s kid persona like a second skin, the first question asked was “Is this young man forcing himself on you?” And fuck that, like I said, I was in love with her. I didn’t force myself on her. I’m not that guy. But her route to damage control was to fall fucking silent in the face of a national scandal—yes national. The mega in megachurch can mean many things, in this case we’re talking live-national-broadcast mega. But I guess Henley chalked one up for the side of the superficial bullshit personas. Because like my father, it was all about reputation for her, and she used hers as the get out of jail free card. It worked perfectly. I’m past the lustful memories and now fully engulfed in the betrayal. The anger pulls me back to the present. I’m not sure if I’m hardened or dead but whatever it is, I’m nothing but cold now. Trey’s loving whatever he sees on my face. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe Jack didn’t want you close to the Jones family?” He’s rattling me, and now my words come out with a sharpened edge. “Yeah. Because they claimed I forced myself on her. And no contact meant no police report.” I’m reminded of his article. His questions of what constitutes a conflict of interest when church and state mix, but he used our scandal to prove how the lines can become blurred. Never once mentioning the police report. I looked like the guy that used the girl and moved on. “Your lazy reporting failed to mention that part.” “Or that part wasn’t true,” he says. “Believe what you want, Trey.” “Oh no, it’s believable. And Henley seemed believable as well when I saw her last week. And she claimed to have not a clue as to what I was talking about when I asked about the threat of a police report.” “She’s lying to you.” “Oh, someone’s lying but it’s not her. I don’t think you’re lying either. I might look a little closer to home.” Neither of us speak. We’re staring at each other like this can only be settled with fists. But I’m reminded of what this asshole and I have in common. I hate my father as much as he does. But where Trey and I differ? Well, he wants to know what the good senator and Porter House Whiskey are hiding. He wants to reveal it. I’m well aware that the mask my father wears to the public is anything but the shadows that lurk beneath. But I want nothing to do with it. I want out. Which gets me thinking. What’s he onto? How much does Trey Edwards know about the man controlling the line I’m dangling on? Is it sharp enough to cut the strings? This is the pitfall of investigative journalism. You poke your head in too many doors and someone might get smart. I just got smart. Fine, Trey. I’ll play along until I get what I need. I slide my entitled, elitist, rich kid, son of a senator cosplay mask on without a hitch. I’m ready to participate in Trey’s game hoping his excited desperation is enough to let the act slip past him. It works like a charm. “Ezra,” he says, then lowers his voice. “Massive, unaccounted campaign funds have been rolling in from Houston, Texas.” I have no idea how to process the bomb Trey just set in front of me. I’m staring at the red numbers counting down, and wondering which wire do I cut to save myself? Red? Blue? Black? “I’m publishing an exposé. Work with me. What do you know about your father’s ties to the Calvary Megachurch, beyond your little, insignificant scandal?” And with that one question, I pick a wire and cut. The bomb dismantles and clarity floods in to replace the panic. This isn’t about my father. Or Trey’s tireless smears of my dad’s campaigns. It’s not even about the lack of the senator’s ethics. Trey’s trying to connect Calvary Megachurch—Henley’s mother’s church—to my father’s bank accounts. And that’s why he spoke with Henley, too. Everything stops. I dig deeper because memories are just electrical and chemical signals in the brain that connect together in certain patterns called synapses. Simply triggering these synapses should bring about the act of remembering and they do. She knows more.

Hi Everyone, I'm attaching another story of mine, Crime Warp. It's the first installment in a planned series of 5 stories (sequel written, 3 others fully outlined). The main premise of the series are my MCs use a technology called Projection (similar to time-travel, but with differences), to solve famous unsolved mysteries and cold cases. I've pasted a plot summary below and a short, but not sweet, chapter one. I appreciate all feedback. ==================================================================================================== When you want to solve history’s greatest cold cases, you don’t find the witnesses, you become the witnesses. Seasoned and sarcastic investigative reporter Carl Axford is recruited by Limbo, a covert organization using a unique technology called Projection to solve cold cases. Seduced by a Trial Mission that sells the romantic side of this innovation, Axford is offered the opportunity to identify Jack the Ripper. This observe-and-report mission is too good to be true. In 1888 Whitechapel, Axford’s presence is ghost-like, allowing him an up-close and personal view of the Ripper murders and anything else he chooses to witness. But London’s East End holds revelations that Axford hasn't bargained for—revelations that not only influence The Ripper legend and its present-day perception, but who lives and dies by The Ripper’s hand. Limbo is pulling strings from the present day. With a clear attempt to interfere with history, (a policy they claim to never violate), none of their Agents are safe. With his life now in danger, Axford finds he is poorly armed in a battle where knowledge and truth are the ultimate weapons. Identifying Jack the Ripper is not the only challenge Axford faces as he realizes there’s much more at stake, here in Whitechapel, and back home in his native Chicago. What began as the story of a lifetime is now a life-and-death game of chess spanning three centuries. 1 September 8, 1888 All precious life drained from Annie when her throat was slashed. Dawn ascended on Whitechapel, doing its best to expose it. Light crept up on the city’s shadows, casting a spotlight on her savage murder. Annie’s final expression was panic, a realization that death had preyed upon her, but not knowing why it had pounced. A fatalistic look of horror remained in her eyes until a coroner would later close them. Having delivered the fatal cut, The Ripper laid her down in the Hanbury Street yard. It was time to get to work. He observed her blood on his hands, a deep almost purple, contrasting with the red stripes on her stockings. The stillness of the yard at sunrise offered a convenient silence. The Ripper stared to his left, looking toward the furthest fence from the house. While his hat, shadows, and a scarf covered most of his face, there was no concealing his eyes. They projected pure evil and a lust for death. Annie Chapman was more than just a victim. She had been laid out, presented for the world to see. A trophy for a fiend rising to the heights of his notoriety. If Polly did not provide a sufficient warning of his menace, Annie would certainly sound the alarm of terror throughout the East End. Whether Annie was headed to be with angels or not was uncertain. What was clear was that hell had played its hand in delivering her. The Ripper turned from the fence, refocusing on his prey. He needed to hurry. Jack was certain he was being watched.

Robert Pfaff, Shrunken Heads, Book Reports Book Reports: The Art of Fiction (Gardener) 1. I have loved John Gardener since I read Grendel in high school. He validated my instincts. For example, I like to break the rules but have always believed that you have to master the rules before you can break them well. Learning a musical instrument or a foreign language teaches you the same idea. You must understand and appreciate structure before you can manipulate it. 11. 1) He debunks certain myths like “Write what you know.” It’s a good departure point for a first book, and my first book is a memoir. But I prefer to write about topics that inspire me to learn new topics, even when it requires years of research to acquire a credible grasp of the subject matter. 2) He embraced the idea of crossing genres, and blending thematic element, which has been on my mind a lot (and often the subject of online debate). I struggle with the concept of genre. My marketing research tells me that genre exists from the summit, as boxes. There are clearly westerns, romance, murder mysteries, etc.…. From a lower altitude, the idea of genre starts to blur. For example, one of my comparables was Karen Robard’s “The Last Victim,” pitched as a ‘romance supernatural suspense thriller.” At the granular lever – the decision-maker’s level, the idea of genre appears to depend on buzz words that appeal to an individual agent or editor. To use one example, I discovered that an Author’s Salon representative with a major publishing house who asked for my manuscript at the conference also purchased the rights to a “supernatural suspense” novel in 2013. I would not have unearthed that information by searching under the genre “horror” on Publisher’s Marketplace. I had to experiment and analyze multiple, related keywords. 3) The concept of the novel as the fictional dream became important to me: shorter, action-based scenes that use vivid imagery and senses to tell the story and induce empathy in the reader, without tripping over false allegory. I make use of one brief allegory in the novel, because psychoanalysts are prone to “deconstruct” simple nursery rhymes or myths to an erotic extreme. This hyperbole fits squarely within the character’s mentality. III. I read the book when I first started this program more than six months ago, and reviewed my notes before I answered these questions. I do not recall anything that directly contradicts what is taught in this course. His approach is less prescriptive – he does not adhere to a particular kind of plot structure, but the “nuts and bolts” six-act, two-goal plot structure taught in the Authors Salon is what I needed to learn at this time. Writing the Breakout Novel (Maas) I. Overall, his insights into how the publishing industry works and what agents and editors are looking for is the overall best lesson gleaned from this book. II. 1) He validated both how I defined the protagonist and the antagonists. The protagonist is the person who has the most to learn from the events that transpire. The primary antagonist is not a one-dimensional serial killer, but a complex, oddly sympathetic monster who believes “it” liberates souls from bad brains. The “red herring” antagonist is a complex, sympathetic young woman at first, troubled by delusions about replicas and robots. 2) He inspired me to move the backstory into the novel as a murder mystery subplot. In the first two drafts, five of Leonard’s former patients and lovers were “missing,” but never participated in the plot. Now they have left the wings and play important roles in driving a subplot that I believe makes for a tightly coiled plot. To save his daughter’s soul from the vengeful spirits, he must risk everything tracking down a serial killer that both 1) has wielded the vengeful spirits embodied in Marta determined to possess his daughter but also 2) holds the mystical secret to her salvation. 3)) His emphasis on bringing the reader deeply as possible into the character’s experience, whatever the point of view, and his emphasis on credible setting within a given historical and cultural setting. In this respect, I have studied down to the historical weather reports – and through subscriptions to The Boston Globe archives – to provide a surreal narrative and its supernatural elements with historically accurate underpinnings. III) Again, I read this book six months ago when I first started this course, and I do not recall direct contradictions. Perhaps the only exception that qualifies is that he validated my initial, first-person “flash-back” approach to writing this novel from a point in the future, as a series of first-person letters from father to daughter. I see where that is discouraged as less marketable in the Author’s Salon modules, but not prohibited. Write Away (George) I. The best image that comes to mind is how the best novelist allow the story to blossom like a flower bud throughout the narrative, planting clues without tipping your hand. II. 1) She embraces the “issue-based” approach to novel writing – suggesting that you write about your passions, both political and philosophical. She does discourage storylines that have a thematic agenda. What asks you to write about what “riles you up?” 2) The chapter (11) on “Tricks of the Dialogue Trade” was exactly what I needed to help distinguish one character’s voice from another, with examples provided above. 3) The emphasis on Unity in all aspects of the novel beyond theme stood out to me. As a result, I have striven to ensure that all scenes in the first 100 pages adhere to a unified cause-and-effect, and conversations between characters echo the unity as well. 4) I will also add the hero’s journey based on Joseph Campbell’s archetype. The ordinary and often flaw protagonist steps over a threshold that takes him on a journey to his inner depths (the approach to the inmost cave) facing many “ordeals,” with “enemies and allies,” until he reaches an epiphany, which leads to his “resurrection,” and then returns with a “reward.” III. It seems that the reading assignments complement the course modules, so I do not see major contradictions. She does promote a standard “three-act” structure, but acknowledges variations exist and that there are no “hard and fast rules.” The Writing Life (Dillard) I. The ultimate trade off that a committed writer must make between creative autonomy and that likelihood that no will care and your sacrifices will not matter struck me hard at this crossroads in my life. II 1) The questions that every write must ask: Can it be done? And can I do it? Resonate with the hurdles I faced when I first waded into this book three years ago. 2) She places an emphasis ion trusting your instincts, suggesting that if your gut signals you to keep something in the book rather than hold back gave me the confidence to trust y instincts when my inner critic told me, do you really need to that paragraph. I allowed me to say I may not need it, but I like it, and I think it will appeal to the reader. 3) The trade-off between a propensity for the metaphysical and the “commercial claptrap” to borrow her phrase, represents an endless challenge for me. She suggests that when drawn to the metaphysical, its best to provide the plot with the most realistic underpinnings possible. This led me to explore topics that not only gave me the realistic underpinnings I needed, but taught me that the horrors of the real world are far more perverse and sinister that I summoned from the musty basement of my imagination in the first two drafts. III. Yes, her approach is less structured and systematic that what is taught in the modules. However, she is describing the challenges that writer’s face, and not writing much of a how-to manual.