Tagged: Shada

How Stephen King saved my life

It’s not uncommon for people to admire Stephen King as a writer these days. His rebel years when he was the maverick genre writer of the publishing field, lacking the respect of the more august literary voices of the 1970s and 1980s, bucking trends to write horror fiction to a mass audience, are now well behind him. Now, he is an august literary voice himself, his novels having influenced one, and perhaps now two, generations of young writers.

So it’s nothing new or unique for me to cite Stephen King as a primary influence on my own writing, as I did frequently throughout my recently-completed blog tour for SHADA. Yet I have a different, more unique link to the master of modern horror than most writers. I can honestly say this:

Stephen King saved my life.

I mean that, literally.

No, Stephen King did not perform a life-saving operation on me in some secret second profession as a rival to Dr. Gregory House. Nor did he leap in front of me when we were walking down a lonely Maine road together as a dog-distracted driver bore down on us with his van.

Truth is, Stephen King and I have never met face to face. I’m not sure we ever will.

But despite the fact that we’ve never so much as shook hands or even passed each other in the airport, despite the fact that I’ve never even been to a book signing or writer’s conference where he was in attendance, one hard, cold fact remains true.

Stephen King saved my life.

How, you ask? Well, even though it’s true, that is a story in itself.

Allow me to set the scene.

The year was 1983. I was 16, in the middle of my high school career. And for probably the first time, I had some friends close to my own age.

That was an entirely new experience for me, and it had only developed over the past year or so. I was and had almost always been a bookish, shy kid. I preferred the company of books to the company of my classmates. Heck, I preferred hanging out with adults, for that matter.

Why? Well, I’d always been a bright kid. And not to verge on immodesty, but the gulf between me and my peers was significant enough to make me seem… I don’t know. Stuck up? Stand-offish? You’d have had to ask them, back then, at the time. Whatever the case, I didn’t “join in any reindeer games,” and generally kept to myself.

This landed me in trouble, more often than not. I’d be targeted for bullying. My mouth … I tended to be a smart-alack, as so many brainy, bookish kids are … often played a role in drawing such negative attention to me. And that happened enough that I ended up in a group counseling setting with some other kids close to my age. Kids who, like me, just didn’t fit in with “the general crowd” for one reason or another.

Slowly, I made a handful of friends. I started hanging out with them. The core group of us included three guys and one girl. The girl was dating one of the guys. (Not me.)

Anyway, we formed a bond and hung out whenever we could. We’d go to public parks and hang out until dark. We’d sing together. Whenever I was learning a part for a school play, they’d help me run lines. If I was memorizing a speech for speech competition, I’d recite it for them.

In fact, flash forward to my senior year in 1984-85, and the story I’d recite for them was “Strawberry Spring,” by Stephen King, a story out of his NIGHT SHIFT collection that was just short enough to… with a little selective editing to brief it up even more… fit within the time limit for the Dramatic Interpretation of Prose. I performed that piece well; in fact, I came one horror-hating judge away from going to state that year. But that’s a story for another time.

The point is, I learned to spook my friends out by reciting “Stawberry Spring” to them over and over again. They loved it, and loved getting spooked by it. And if we got too spooked out, we’d go back to singing Billy Joel and Wham! and Duran Duran songs to lighten the mood. I never would have come close to going to state with that piece without my friends being such a willing audience. I simply wouldn’t have practiced it enough without them.

But that’s not how Stephen King saved my life.

That’s yet to come. But what I need you to appreciate first is how important these friends were to me. These were not just my favorite pals from a certain time period. They were pretty much the only friends I’d made, ever, to that point in my life. At least among those who were my age, or close to it.

When a person has no close friends their own age at all, it’s actually easier to cope with. You don’t know what you’re missing. Because you never really had that. But once you’ve really had a tight group of friends, friends who accept you as you are… it creates a sort of magnetic field. You want to keep those friends. You don’t want to give them up. Even if it means making some personal sacrifices in your own life.

What kind of sacrifices?

Well, by the time I was in my junior year, I knew I was heading to college. I wanted to; I needed to. Grade school had been no challenge at all for me, and I knew I needed what college could offer… a chance to study in a way that would cause me to grow, to expand what I know, to push me harder than I could push myself. Because in high school, that’s the only time I learned anything: when I pushed myself.

But here’s the thing: it was also becoming clear to me that my three friends, the ones I was hanging out with as often as possible and who meant so much to me, were not heading to college with me.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with where they were headed. It’s just that my path was drawing me toward college, and their paths were drawing them toward different goals than I had.

It’s natural. It’s part of growing up. It’s almost inevitable.

And it terrified me.

You see, having lived sixteen years as a loner, my best friends being books instead of people, had it’s up-side: for example, I had published my first short story at the age of 14. I had written a few novels and a lot of short fiction since, though it would be a while before lightning struck again. And while I was generally a creative kid, involved in acting and singing and speech club and writing… I knew writing was where I would land. Had to land. It was my biggest strength. And for that I needed college. Needed it because I required more than what my tiny public school was able to offer me in terms of writing mentorship, even though they did what they could.

So, as much as I knew about my intellectual needs… I also understood, perhaps for the first time, that I had social needs as well. I needed that group of friends. I wasn’t convinced that if I left them behind, I could ever replace them. After all, look how long it took me to find these three, right?

I began to wonder if college was the right path for me. If my friends were going a different direction, then maybe I needed to change mine.

Of course, that would have been a disastrous path for me. I lacked both the skill set and the interest level in the sort of opportunities that awaited me on the non-college path, to be successful by going that direction. I’d have ended up on a career path that wasn’t right for me, never excelling at it, all to keep the only three really close friends I’d ever known.

I’m about to tell you how Stephen King saved my life.

In 1982, Stephen King published his collection of four novellas, DIFFERENT SEASONS. I held off buying it right away. I kind of liked his short fiction, such as NIGHT SHIFT, but mostly I loved King’s long novels. CUJO, CHRISTINE, and PET SEMATARY were all books I’d grabbed right away.

But for some reason, I held off on DIFFERENT SEASONS for a year… maybe two. If I recall correctly, I bought it sometime during my junior year, and let it sit before reading it later that summer, before my senior year.

I learned I didn’t care for all the stories in the book, in fairly short order. “Apt Pupil” held no appeal. “The Breathing Method” was boring, to me, back then.

But I read right away, and loved “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.” Cool prison tale.

And then there was “The Body.”

I had no idea what I was in for. But that story was written for me. Whether Stephen King realizes it or not, “The Body” was written directly to a seventeen-year-old Craig Hansen, about to enter his senior year, both looking forward to college, and secretly dreading it because it might mean leaving his friends behind.

Maybe Stephen King lived through a similar time in his youth. Maybe one of his sons, Joe or Owen, faced a similar dilemma at some point. I’m not sure what his direct inspiration was. But “The Body” was written to an audience of one: me.

Because as I started reading “The Body,” I began to understand on a subconscious level, that Gordie LaChance was me. Gordie had three friends, just like I had three friends. And he feared entering college-track courses in high school that would separate him from his middle-school friends, just as I feared entering college would separate me from mine.

Gordie, you see, had a gift. He could write. He could story-tell. He had talent. Just like me.

And like me, “The Body” revealed, he was considering setting aside that talent to remain with the friends who meant so much to him. Just as I was.

So when Gordie shares his fears and his plan to blow off college-track courses to his best friend of the group, Chris Chambers, he expects approval; he figures Chris wants him to stick around, too.

But anyone who’s read “The Body” or seen STAND BY ME knows what happens next.

Chris threatens him to wise the hell up. “It’s like God’s given you this gift,” Chris basically tells him, “and if you throw it away, you’re an idiot.”

(Stephen King wrote that scene better than I’m retelling it. Go read it. Or rent STAND BY ME.)

The point is, with that scene, the older, wiser Stephen King was speaking directly to the teenage me. King was Chris Chambers to my Gordie LaChance, and he was telling me I was about to be a complete idiot. That my plan to hang onto the friends I had at age 17 at all costs … tossing aside my writing talent as a result … would be a completely bone-headed thing to do. A mistake. And one I’d come to regret only after it was too late.

King, through “The Body,” reached through the span of fiction, time, and space, shook me by the shoulders, and shouted, “Don’t be an idiot!” at me… just when I needed to hear exactly that.

Was King the only person who would have told me that? Probably not. I’m sure my mom would have said the same thing. Perhaps even my friends might have said it. But King is the one who said it… at the right time, and in the right way, so that it sank in and made a difference in the trajectory of my life, before I made that mistake. His was the one voice I wouldn’t have blown off, at that point in my life.

Now, had Stephen King written me a personal letter telling me the same thing blatantly, it probably would not have had the same impact. At all. I was bull-headed back them. Still tend to be.

But through the art of story, the gift of fiction, the creativity and craft of tale-telling, King reached me. He convinced me that however scary leaving my friends behind might be, it’s what needed to happen. That however frightening a prospect college was, it would benefit me in the end and I needed to embrace it.

So, I did. I listened as Stephen King/Chris Chambers read the riot act to Craig Hansen/Gordie LaChance. And I did go on to college. And eventually, I did lose touch with those three friends, for a time.

And ultimately, one of them even came back into my life recently as a long-lost pal who I still share a bond of friendship with. We’re both older, carry more weight and have wives now. But at least one of those friendships came back to me, over time.

But if I’d not gone to college? Not pursued writing? Not had the courage to grow up and move out? Who knows where I’d be today? But it probably would be nowhere good.

And that’s how Stephen King saved my life.

And that’s why it was so important to me to write something like “The Body.” That’s why it served as my inspiration for SHADA. And while SHADA might never save some young girl’s life the way “The Body” saved mine … well … I’m sure Stephen King never imagined “The Body” would save anyone’s life, either.

A Paranormal Confession

Those of you who are not authors may or may not know this, but one of the most common questions writers get asked is, “Where did you get the idea for this story?” Considering I’ve just launched my newest book, SHADA, the first book in the EMBER COLE series, I expect to hear this question a lot.

Well, let me share with you a secret. At least one of the core episodes in SHADA is based on a personal experience. A paranormal one.

That might shock some people who know me. After all, I’m the author of a Christian fiction book, MOST LIKELY. And furthermore, those who’ve bothered to do any digging know I’m a Messianic Rabbi In Training (MRIT). (Though it’s more like In Waiting these days.) People who read this might say to me, “Hold on! Aren’t you kind of a religious guy? Are you really saying the paranormal is real? You, a guy who believes in God?”

Well, let me tell you my own personal tale. My brush with the paranormal, as it were.

You see, I haven’t always been an MRIT. A few decades ago, I was a kid, like anyone else. Bright for my age, perhaps, but not always wise. We’ve all been there, right?

Now, I loved to read from the my earliest years. And once a topic caught my attention, I’d devour stacks of books until they became repetitive and had nothing new to teach me. That’s how I became almost an expert on old films, TV shows, and radio dramas and comedies that had gone off the air long before I was even born. I studied dinosaurs, the planets, archeology.

And, of course, like most young boys, eventually my fancy turned to monsters and ghosts and the like. Whether it was Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, vampires, werewolves, UFOs or haunted houses, once my attention gravitated there, I had to read everything I possibly could on the topic.

For a period of time, séances fascinated me. Why? Just the very idea of being able to talk to people who lived before you did was tempting. What entranced me about séances was the same tantalizing question that Jeni Taylor poses to her friends at the opening of SHADA:

“If you could talk to a dead person, anyone at all, who would it be?”

Eventually, I became so excited by the possibility that I shared the idea with my sister. We sat down and made up a list of everyone we might possibly want to talk to. My sister was three years younger than me, so she couldn’t think of many people. That’s okay. I’d soon filled up two sides of a sheet of paper with different folks.

I had dead musicians, dead politicians, military leaders and other historical figures. I know Abe Lincoln was on my list. So was Elvis Presley. The problem for an imaginative kid like me wasn’t coming up with names, it was narrowing the list down.

I didn’t prepare as well as Jeni, Ember, Willow and Shada. When it became clear we were going to attempt a séance of our own, we simply waited for a time when our parents were going to be out of the house for a while. My sister wanted to invite two of her friends over, because she knew Elvis was on my list and her friends would want to talk to him, too, if we actually made contact.

This was the late 1970s, mind you. Elvis had died only a couple years prior to my little séance brainstorm. He was still quite popular, and some kids still remembered him and missed him.

I was maybe twelve at the time. It’s hard to remember for sure. That would have put my sister at around age nine. Her friends were ten and seven. I think I agreed to let them come just so we could have a group of four for the séance.

Now, as much as I’d read about séances, I’d never been to one, nor did I have a clue how to properly conduct one. I knew it would be good to have a candle or two lit. I knew the room had to be dark. And I knew, or thought I did, that we needed at least four people. How did one conjure forth a deceased spirit? As far as I knew, you just called them forth.

I figured the worst that could happen was … nothing. I was wrong.

Anyway, one day my parents announced they were going into town to get some groceries. That guaranteed us at least an hour to ourselves. Paulette asked if she could call her friends and have them come over. Mom and Dad agreed, and left before they arrived. We were just beyond the age when we needed a baby sitter for short trips like this; or, at least, I was.

Once my sister’s friends arrived, we gathered the candle and matches and went up to my sister’s room, where we’d decided to hold the grand event. I had my list of names with me. It took some time to calm my sister’s friends down. They were all excited. We argued a bit about who to call forth first, but finally settled on Elvis.

Never once did it enter our minds that those who are dead, even if they could hear us, might have better things to do than come and chat with a bunch of pre-teen kids. Sure, they might have been too busy in life to have time for us, but now? They had eternity, right? It also never entered our minds that there might be, at any given time, dozens of other groups of kids, and maybe even some adults, attempting to call forth the same exact folks at the same exact time.

I think we assumed the omnipresence of God somehow extended to anyone who was dead. Or something. Maybe we were just too young to know any better.

Anyway, after a lot of hassles, we got settled, got the candle lit, and began our little séance. I hadn’t kept track of time very well, but I knew we need to “get the show on the road,” as my parents might say.

So, there in the candle-lit dark of my sister’s bedroom, the four of us joined hands. I began, for some reason, by reciting the Lord’s prayer. Not sure why. Then I cleared my throat and said the following:

“We call to the spirit of Elvis Presley. Elvis, if you are here, please give us a sign. Let us know you’re with us.”

What happened next scared all of us. But to understand it, you have to appreciate a few facts first.

First of all, my parents were not much into rock and roll. They loved country, polkas, ragtime, big band music, gospel, and jazz … but mostly, country. They had never before owned anything by Elvis Presley.

Second, you must understand that we lived in a small enough house that we ought to have heard my parents pull up and come in the house, returning early from their grocery run. But none of us did.

Third, you need to realize that what happened next took place perfectly on cue. As in, within a couple seconds from the moment I finished saying, “Let us know you’re with us.”

Here’s what we heard: The sound of Elvis Presley singing “Blue Hawaii.” And it was coming from downstairs!

We all screamed. My sister’s two friends turned five shade paler than pure white, jumped up, and ran down the stairs, past my confused parents and out the door and all three blocks home. Their mother and father didn’t let them come over for another visit for a month.

My sister screamed, too. I screamed a bit less, but I did scream at first. In the confusion, though, the candle got knocked over onto an old blanket we’d spread out and I had to put out the flame before it really caught on fire. As I was doing that, my sister high-tailed it out of the room and down the stairs.

The next thing I heard was my mother’s stern voice: “Craig Allen Hansen! Get down here right now!”

Being only twelve, and with all the commotion that had been caused, I had no choice but to confess to the whole thing to my parents. Fibbing about what we were up to didn’t even occur to me. I told them all about our séance plans and how, right when I asked Elvis to let us know he was with us, the music had started.

My mom told me their side of the story as my dad silently sipped coffee, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

When they went in to get groceries, there had been a stack of records on sale, most of them only a couple bucks, which was really cheap for album-length music, even back then. So, out of the blue, Mom decided to grab some Elvis records, even though she hadn’t listened to him much when he was alive, except for his gospel stuff.

When they pulled in the drive and carried the groceries in, Mom wanted to hear “how the record sounded,” and the first thing she did, even before hollering, “We’re home,” was put the Elvis record on.

Right as I was asking for a sign of his presence.

It was freaky, weird timing. Pure coincidence.

And it scared both my sister and me enough to know that séances are nothing to mess around with.

There are echos of that personal paranormal experience in SHADA. Whether the girls in my novel learn the same lesson I did, well … that would be telling, wouldn’t it?

But now you know, as Paul Harvey often said, the rest of the story.

SHADA cover reveal

Those of you who have been following me for a while know that I have been hard at work on my next release, a short novel known as SHADA, the first installment in the EMBER COLE series of young-adult paranormal suspense books. SHADA is on track currently for a September release, and will be introduced at the friendship price of only $0.99 in eBook format.

To help whet your appetites for the release of SHADA, I wanted all of you, my friends, to see the finalized cover for the book. The design is by Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics and I believe he’s outdone himself once more. Take a look… and get your $0.99 ready, folks. It’s worth it just for the cover alone!

SHADA cover
The cover for SHADA was designed by Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics.

SHADA to beta-readers, pondering strategies

My second novel, SHADA, is now in the hands of my trusted beta-readers. As of around 6 AM CDT this morning.

I took some extra time since Sunday’s post to really polish the draft up one more time, out of respect for the time of my beta-readers. After all, why should I ask them to find the stuff I can easily find on my own, with a little extra effort?

My new editor for SHADA tells me he’ll have the novel turned around in a couple days for me, once I pass it on to him. I’ll do that after I get the feedback back from my beta readers.

As I’m set to release my second novel, and the first that has its origins in the present, and represents the beginning of an ongoing series, I’ve been contemplating my approach to this blog.

I love letting readers know what I’m working on; but the audience for my weekly efforts might not be the same as the audience for my novels. So, inspired by John Locke, I’m thinking about posting here less often, but more effectively, by directing my blog entries here directly at my readers.

For my fellow writers, I’m thinking about moving this sort of content, of interest to my fellow writers, over to my catchall blog focused on writing and reading, ScriptSuperhero.com. But I won’t do that without some warning.

What do all of you think? Would you follow my weekly ROW80 posts just as willingly at another domain, so I can dedicate my author site to the interests of my readers? I welcome your feedback.

Second Sunday update

Wow, things went very swimmingly today.

After conquering the climactic scene of SHADA, I became very motivated and productive. I wrote a couple thousand more words, wrapped the novel in a bow and typed: THE END. In its current draft, the novel runs just under 30,000 words. That’ll change as I send it out to beta readers and my editor, I’m sure.

I’m still probably a month away from seeing SHADA reach publication, but this is an exciting moment in the history of this short novel. So it’s time to update my Round 3 goals:

DONE 1. Finish SHADA, the short novel prequel to EMBER.

The deed was complete around 5 PM CDT on Sunday, July 31.

DONE 2. Send SHADA to my beta readers.

Technically, it’ll be done before I hit the sheets tonight.

DONE 3. Audition editors and select one to handle duties on SHADA, since my regular editor is unavailable.

Did this earlier this week. I think I’ve found the editor I’m looking for, so I’m counting this as done.

That just leaves the following. I’ve pushed some of my tasks until after the move because my wife and I have a lot to do yet to prepare for the move. So… there’s that.

4. Revise SHADA based on feedback and send to editor.

5. Move to Oregon.

6. Revise SHADA based on editor’s feedback.

7. Publish SHADA to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.

8. One-week blog tour supporting release of SHADA.

9. Following move, publish print/CreateSpace version of SHADA.

10. Work on EMBER whenever I have time to fill out Round 3. Attempt to finish EMBER by the end of Round 3.

Wow. Just… wow.

Never tell me that everything in a novel has to be obsessively plotted out and planned. Not after what I just experienced today.

When I began writing this afternoon, I was well over 25,000 words and the big, climactic scene in SHADA was about to begin. I was completely at a loss as to what to do with it. I know the typical expectations of the paranormal suspense genre. I understood the conflicts and inner turmoil that had brought all my characters, but especially Ember, to this point. And the best idea I had involved a vague notion of EVPs or a floating Ouija board spontaneously responding to questions.

In other words, cheesy genre concepts I wasn’t completely happy with. And even what I had written so far was evidence of my aversion to those solutions. It was as though my creative instincts were telling me no, even though my conscious mind had no firm Plan B waiting in the wings.

But I began to write, and, well…

…don’t tell me that everything in a novel has to be obsessively plotted out and planned. It doesn’t. It just doesn’t.

As I was writing, I just let the characters and the situation take over. I wrote without thinking about it. I wrote the moment and just let things happen.

And a solution appeared.

I’d love to tell you about it. Really, I’m burning up here with anticipation to see what others think of it. I want to shout for joy and share this experience about how I solved the biggest conundrum in all of SHADA … what to do with the climactic scene … and how the best possible, most unexpected way of handling things just … appeared on paper as I wrote.

It’s a perfect, perfect moment that, in a real out-of-left-field way, but in a way that completely works, just does everything that needs doing in a way that will take readers by surprise and, hopefully, leave them satisfied.

But.

If I did that … if I shared what appeared as I typed the scene out here … it would spoil the entire SHADA short novel. Absolutely ruin the surprise. No, this is something I simply have to keep to myself. It has to be part of experiencing the story, or it might never make sense. And it certainly wouldn’t be fully appreciated out of context.

No, I’m keeping my trap shut on this little tidbit. If you want to know, you’ll have to wait until SHADA is released. You’ll have to buy the book and read it for yourself. And since it’s going to be released at only $0.99, there’s practically no sane reason not to.

But that’s a ways off yet. I am at just over 27,000 words and have a few thousand more to go before everything wraps up, giving the novel closure. Then there is the beta-reading and the editing and the revisions yet to come. But trust me, I can now say with full confidence, it’s going to be worth the wait.

SHADA has a resolution that will take you by surprise. Guaranteed.

And until I actually wrote it, I never even saw it coming.

So, again, never tell me that everything in a novel has to be obsessively plotted out and planned. Not after what I just experienced today.

What constitutes a story?

Over at KindleBoards.com, there was a recent discussion thread where a fellow author wondered about whether he should publish his novel as a novel, or as three shorts novellas. He was concerned because he knew of a reader who had read an eBook and expressed a preference for reading a complete novel, rather than, “a one-act novella.”

He asked for feedback and I posted my response before reading what anyone else wrote. I’ve adapted it here for my writer’s blog because I think it’s an important question to consider.

You see, I think novellas are a wonderful thing.

But only if a complete story is being told; something with a beginning, a middle, and a satisfying resolution. A one-act story that’s obviously part of a longer work, where there’s not much middle and no resolution/end, is not, to me, satisfying.

I think of some of the short novels and novellas I’ve read and loved over time.

RITA HAYWORTH AND THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION by Stephen King:

This short novel by King contained more plot, detail, story and memorable characters than many authors offer up using twice the number of words. It wasn’t part of a series, though; King resolved everything that needed to be resolved within that form.

THE BODY by Stephen King

Again, a short novel by King that offers a complete reading experience, in and of itself. And one of the most influential novels on MY life that I’ve ever read.

These are a handy pair that leap to mind immediately.

What is less satisfying is when one is offered a short novel, but all it does is introduce and establish the cast and the basic conflict, without really telling any story. That’s a sin that, I contend, is exactly what the first two books of Stephanie Meyer’s TWILIGHT series do. There’s really nothing in those first two novels.

And a lot of paranormal romances are like TWILIGHT.

Now, I’m all about writing novels that are part of a series. It can be a fun thing to do. They can even be a pleasure to read. But each installment must have a sense of something happening, and something being resolved by the end of it, even if more story lay ahead.

Think of it this way: The Hardy Boys Mysteries by Franklin W. Dixon were a very popular series from the 1930s on. Each novel followed Jim Shooter’s rules for storytelling (even though they were written before Shooter was born).

Introducing characters, establishing conflict, building suspense, and reaching a resolution to… something! That’s not the complete list, but that’s the essence of it.

Would the Hardy Boys have been as good a series, as popular with readers, if it were structured like modern-day paranormal roamnces? Here’s how that might look.

MURDER AT BLACK ROCK: Book 1

Joe and Frank go to Black Rock Summer Camp and find themselves … accused of the murder of nerdy science geek and fellow camper, Brad Brent!

MURDER AT BLACK ROCK: Book 2

Joe and Frank escape from police custody and are on the run from the law as they seek to discover the identity of the real killer of Brad Brent before he strikes again. But then another camper shows up dead: head counselor and Joe and Frank’s main suspect, Robert Worrell!

MURDER AT BLACK ROCK: Book 3

Accused of both the murder of Brad Brent and Robert Worrell, Joe and Frank call their police-chief father to come to summer camp and help them solve the murder. On the drive up, he pulls to the side of the road and takes a nap. When he wakes up, he’s being held captive by… Camp Founder Nathan Vean!

MURDER AT BLACK ROCK: Book 4

Joe and Frank elude capture as their father fights for his life against Camp Founder Nathan Vean. They stumble upon the cabin Vean is holding their father in, overcome Vean, and expose him as the culprit of the crime. END OF MURDER AT BLACK ROCK.

Be sure to buy our next Hardy Boys Saga, A SERIOUS EYE INFECTION… a mystery in SIX PARTS!

Would that have led to success for The Hardy Boys?

No. Of course not. Readers would have been ticked off.

We need, as writers, to realize that novels are NOT episodic television. What works for DOCTOR WHO or THE KILLING does not work in novel form. And the fact that DOCTOR WHO novelizations gather the old Tom Baker serials (and the serials of other Doctors, too, of course) into one novel per story, instead of taking a seven-episode story and making it seven short novels, should tell us something.

I have an interest in how to approach this sort of conundrum.

I am working on a series next myself. The EMBER series of novels. There are certain character arc elements to my series that will carry over from novel to novel.

But one thing I won’t be doing with EMBER is telling an incomplete story and calling it a novel, or even a short novel.

I’m working on the first installment, SHADA, which is a prequel of sorts to EMBER. Call it “Ember, Book Zero” if you wish.

It’s already over 25,000 words and will go at least 30,000, maybe even 35,000. It’ll go as long as it goes, I guess.

Why?

Because as much as I want SHADA to be a short novel, I want even more for SHADA to be a complete reading experience in and of itself. Some of the characters will move on to the next book. Others may fade out.

New characters definitely pop up as the series goes on. But the main story of SHADA is the story of a camping trip these four friends go on and their adventures during it. When the words THE END appear at the conclusion of SHADA, that camping experience that the novel is about is done, over, told.

The ramifications of it may ripple into future novels, sure. That’s fair. But that particular adventure is complete.

So, these are my thoughts.

I love short novels.

I love series.

I don’t love incomplete reading experiences, though. So if something needs to be novel-length to be complete, make it novel-length. If something’s a short novel length and is complete, let it be a short novel.

GOLDEN RULE: Short stories, novelettes, short novels and novels are not episodic television. Each story needs a beginning, middle and resolution/end. Anything less, and whatever it is, it’s not a story.

SHADA over 25K

Well, I’d love to report that SHADA, the short novel that will introduce the EMBER series to the world, is complete at this point. But it’s not.

At the moment, SHADA is over 25,000 words in length, but the novel’s just now reaching its denouement. It will definitely last through the 30,000 word benchmark, and could even see 35,000 words on the horizon before it’s done.

This is not a result of poor plotting or anything like that; it’s a result of me not wanting to hurry the story along. I want to give the narrative room to breathe and be a reflection of the lives of the main characters, rather than a headlong rush to the closing action and a hurried finish.

I’m fully committed to making even a short novel feel like a complete story, a complete and unique experience all its own. That is why SHADA is stretching out the way it is. Sure, I’d love to be done with the story, move on to the next step and start saying when the short novel will debut. But I can’t. Not until the story is done. That’s not something a writer wants to rush through.

Print version of MOST LIKELY approved, available

Today, my second proof of MOST LIKELY arrived from CreateSpace and everything looked gorgeous. So I approved the book and, well, it’ll take a few days to show up on Amazon and a bit longer to proliferate out, but the book is available and has ISBN numbers that will allow those interested to order it from any bookstore, as well as online sources where print books can be found.

But for those who are impatient, it can be ordered right now, direct from CreateSpace, here. I have to say the book looks far better, far more impressive, far more professional, now that every chapter starts on a right-hand, odd-numbered page.

As for SHADA, the story has progressed a couple thousand more words and is showing signs it could run as long as 30,000 words instead of 25,000. So that’s my check-in for now.

Closing in on the denouement

Well, I have another “late” weekend update on my ROW80 goals. I haven’t been making the steady progress on SHADA that I’d hoped, but in my defense, my wife and I put a lot of energy into our move to Oregon late last week. We selected an apartment and secured a lease and have had to fill out a ton of paperwork online.

We did not have the budget or ability to go to Oregon to select an apartment in person, so we’re doing this kinda blind, but with all the information available online these days, we have a pretty good sense of the place. And last night I worked on a packaging task that look longer than I thought.

And of course, I was dealing with receiving my first proof of MOST LIKELY from CreateSpace, making corrections, submitting the changes, and updating the eBook versions to boot, so…

Yeah, bottom line, I’ve made progress but SHADA isn’t finished just yet.

However, I did write something like 2,500 words since last check-in, so I’m now over 20,000 words comfortably and can just relax into letting the story finish up without wondering whether I’ll reach my minimum length goal. I’ve met it.

The good news is that I’m closing in on the denouement, the climactic scene, which is, of course, the seance itself. It may not play out quite like longtime fans of paranormal fiction are accustomed to; but since The Body by Stephen King is my distant inspiration, that ought not be a huge surprise.

But there are many interesting developments in that scene, and in the closing action that follows. Hopefully no one will hate it! And that’s where things stand right now. See you all again on Wednesday!

Past a significant benchmark

I’m not yet done writing the first draft of SHADA, but last night I passed a significant benchmark.

You see, for a long time, I’ve been describing SHADA, the first installment in the EMBER series, in this shorthand way: “It’s like Stephen King’s ‘The Body’ with a female cast.”

Now, I don’t mean that I’m templating King’s plot precisely, or that it follows his novel on a stroke-by-stroke basis. I only mean that it’s of a similar spirit; in his tale, four boys go hiking and camping on the final summer before they enter high school and grow apart, with the goal of seeing their first dead body.

In SHADA, I spin the tale of four girls who go hiking and camping in the final summer of their shared friendship. One of the girls is a year older, and another, a year younger, but two of them, including Ember, are in their final summer before high school. Their goal isn’t to see a dead body, but they do have a similarly dark goal… which I won’t reveal here just yet.

I’ve been having fun writing SHADA so far, telling a generous tale and building out the lives of these four girls. And even though I am not following “The Body” as a strict template, I’ve been feeling like SHADA has been lacking … something. Last night, I finally reached the point where I realized what it was.

At one point in THE BODY, the boys gather around a campfire and writer-to-be Gordie LaChance spins a tale of his own creation, the funny and yet very gross fable called, “The Revenge of Lard-Ass Hogan.” While some have claimed the story is an example of King trying to wedge a tale he wrote when he was younger into another work, I don’t agree; the Lard-Ass story matches the tone and themes of “The Body” and tells us something about Gordie himself. Also, it’s exactly the sort of funny, gross-out tale a group of young boys might enjoy on a dark night gathered around a campfire.

As I reached that “gathered around a campfire” moment in my story, I knew my four girls needed a similar moment. They didn’t needs a tale like Lard-Ass Hogan’s, but they needed a story to tell.

Without planning, I began writing and the elements of just the right sort of tale for SHADA began to form in my mind. Before I started, I had already written for a couple hours (and close to 1,500 words), but I knew if I called it a night at that point, the moment would slip away from me.

So I began writing.

There was a mythology of Hope, WI, that I wanted to build out, revolving around a landmark that plays a key role in both SHADA, and the first long novel in the EMBER series, EMBER. That bit of mythology revolves around the Elk Ridge River Bridge.

At some point in the past, at least fifty years ago, a kid used the bridge as a diving area into the river, and died in one fateful dive. I had settled into the idea that this was just a parent’s tale, a way to get their kids to stay off the bridge and not engaging in the risky activity of diving off it, since the river, like most rivers, has shallow spots and then a drop-off into the deep, where a dive from that height would be safe.

But I began asking myself: what if there was a kid who’d died jumping off the Elk Ridge River Bridge? What would make him do such a thing? And how would his tale be told and retold so that, by the time my girls gather round the campfire to spin it again fifty or sixty years later, it has the feel of a campfire tale, and not the sad reality of a decades-old news headline?

Thus was born, in the wee hours of this very day, “The Legend of Abe Windler.”

I won’t go into the nature of Abe’s tale, here, but it’s a fascinating and tragic tale that fills out SHADA just right, and gives my work in progress that necessary “Revenge of Lard-Ass Hogan” moment, while still maintaining my tale’s own unique identity and tone.

By the way: my Abe Windler tale added about 2,000 words to my word count, putting SHADA well into the 19,000-word length region and allowing me to see the 20,000-word benchmark nearby. That’s significant, because once my short novel has reached 20,000 words, I can just relax and know that it’ll be “long enough.” For pacing reasons, I’m now relatively sure SHADA will end up reaching closer to 30,000 words than 25,000. Too much tale left to tell.

But if you’re interested to read more about the Legend of Abe Windler now, good. Look for SHADA, coming soon to an e-Reader near you, later this summer!

(In the words of Bugs Bunny, “Aren’t I a stinker?”)

First Round 3 Check-In for Craig Hansen

Okay, so when I started ROW80 Round 3, I was approximately 10,000 words into my EMBER prequel, the short novel I’ve decided to call SHADA. SHADA is a short novel is feels like it’ll wrap up somewhere between 25,000 to 35,000 words. That’s a decent length for a short novel.

As of check-in time tonight, I’m at 13,811 words, which is pretty close to reaching 2,000 words a day, which is what I’ve set my copy of FocusWriter 1.3.3 to track me at. I’m hoping to grow that total be leaps and bounds this week and be in a position to ship the tale off to my beta readers early next week.

I’d write about more than just this, but for the moment I’m in a good groove writing-wise and I also have some contract work I need to make progress on, so forgive me if I keep this brief. See you all Sunday, by which time I should be at around … 21,000 words or so and closing in on the resolution of SHADA.