The Dictator's Daughter - a sample chapter

Oh, you guys, this is terrifying!
This is the first time I've sent a piece of fiction out into the wild... But, like ripping off a bandaid, it has to be done sometime, right? So, with no further foot-dragging, here is Chapter 2 of The Dictator's Daughter.

***

The Brotherhood monastery was an ideal place for Liri and her guards to learn and train. Both scholars and soldiers, the monks stressed education of the body as well as the mind. The monks’ trademark walking staff was actually a weapon. All students learned how to use the long, wrist-thick pole, starting each day with basic defensive exercises developed by the monks over the centuries.

Every evening Liri met with her bodyguards in an inner courtyard for training exercises that went beyond the walking stick to include archery, sword fighting and close quarters combat.

The monks were under no illusion as to who Liridona was and why the three men with her were allowed access to her private quarters and the monastery’s inner grounds. President General Valon himself toured the monastery and paid twice the usual tuition to insure his daughter had the very best education and the most defensible rooms. He also paid full tuition for each of the three bodyguards and agreed to the stipulation that they would also genuinely study while there – or face expulsion like any other student, in addition to whatever punishment Valon found suitable for a guard who failed his duty.

That particular evening was sword practice. Liri was not surprised, given Max’s revelation, when Adrian launched immediately into an interrogation concerning her lunch partner.

“Who is he,” Adrian demanded, bouncing on his toes to get as close to her face as possible, not even bothering to greet her first. 

Although Liri had never fully trusted him, she could see the rage in his startling green eyes behind the thick fringe of heavy black hair. It caused an uneasy quiver in her chest.

“Why, hello, Adrian!” Liri said with false brightness to the shorter man, stepping way from him toward the rack of practice swords. “How was your day? What did you think of Brother Bora’s analysis of the Battle of the Shore?”

“I thought it was very interesting,” Olek volunteered when Adrian growled under his breath and turned away. Liri thought about Max’s evaluation of the broad-faced blond, and wondered what exactly went on behind that thick forehead. “Especially the counter attack the by the combined forces of monks and soldiers that eventually pushed the enemy into the sea.  Although it did surprise me that the military would submit to the leadership of the monastery.”

“I found it interesting, too,” Engel said. “Although I’m somewhat surprised you heard a word of it – with the randomly grinning and doodling the whole hour and a half.”

“Engel, of all people, you should know how well I already know that story,” Liri said as she selected a dummy sword from the rack. “It’s been my favorite since childhood. I used to make you play the invaders to my defending forces on the shore of the palace pond!”

“Yes,” Engel answered with a laugh. “And you still ended up in the water at least half the time!”

Liri grinned at him. “Brother Bora should be grateful I was in such a good mood this afternoon,” she said. “He barely touched on the role of the Sisterhood. You can be sure he’ll get his education in my term paper next week!”

“I’m sure,” said Adrian, still nursing a growl in his voice, while selecting his practice sword from the rack and swinging it over his head in a mock parry.

“To answer your curiosity, I had a very interesting conversation at lunch, not that it’s any business of yours.” Liri said. “However, since you’ve probably already sent an update to my father, you might as well do your background research on Max – but if I don’t get the exact same report you send home, I will make sure you don’t return here with me in the fall.”

Olek nodded, understanding a direct order when he heard it. Adrian’s nostrils flared a little wider letting Liri know her assumption was correct. Engel just grinned, like someone who was going to get a lot of mileage out of an inside joke.

“Now,” she said, swinging the sword into first pose, “Let’s get to work.” 

***

So? What do you think? Would you read more? Or should I spare the world further anguish and bury it in the back yard?

Jane Wells has always gravitated toward reading material that pushed other people’s buttons. In 2nd grade it was a dinosaur book that upset her teacher at a Baptist school. Now it’s vampires and dystopias that catch her imagination. In them she finds parables and allegories illustrating God’s ancient plan in a language that is uniquely modern – and easily understood by people who may have never set foot inside a church. Glitter in the Sun and Bird on Fireare the results.

Always a writer, Jane’s “real jobs” have included newspaper journalism, youth ministry, sewing machine sales and marketing for a publishing house. Currently she is back to “just a writer” again, while juggling all the typical domestic duties of wife and mother, homeschooling two boys, managing two needy Golden Retrievers and answering to one very demanding cat.

Clarifying What's Passive

By Rebecca LuElla Miller

Instruction manuals and conference workshop teachers say to avoid passive voice, and there's a good reason to do so, but in order to follow that bit of advice, we need to have a clear idea what we're talking about. As it turns out, writers of all stripes -- including experienced novelists, MFA grads, freelance writers, and editors -- can be confused about the term "passive" when used in reference to writing.

Passive voice is a grammatical term identifying a particular subject/verb relationship---a specialized one that runs counter to the usual active voice.

Typically, the subject of a sentence is the agent that does the action of a sentence. In the examples below, the subject of each of these simple sentences is the agent doing the action.

• The writer cleaned off her desk. [Who cleaned? writer]
• The editor marked the final page of the manuscript. [Who marked? editor.]
• The publisher congratulated the team on a job well-done. [Who congratulated? publisher.

 In sentences utilizing the passive voice, however, the subject is actually the recipient of the action. Again, examples may be helpful.

• The book was published by WaterBrook. [The subject book is the object of the action was published rather than the agent doing the action.]
• The email was sent from her phone. [The subject email is the object of the action was sent rather than the agent doing the action.]
• Another writer was added to the group without advance warning. [The subject writer is the object of the action was added rather than the agent doing the action.]

Writing instructors discourage passive voice. Since the subject is, for all practical purposes, supine, there's not much for a reader to see in a sentence with a passive verb. Sentences, like good stories, need action. They need an agent who goes out and makes something happen. Passive characters make for boring stories, and passive subjects make for boring sentences.

So far, so good.

But here's where problems start cropping up. Some writers (and even some editors) have taken the concept of active subjects to mean that all sentences must have action verbs. Any verb of being, then, gets lumped in with the passive voice. Here are a few sentences with verbs of being.

• Despite everything that happened, the speaker still wasn't late to the conference.
• Her children are all gifted writers, singers, or artists.
• I am certain about this one.

In each of these sentences, there is no action, so consequently, the subject is not passively standing by having some action foisted upon it. Rather, these sentences identify a condition or a state the subject is in. These are legitimate sentences and perform necessary functions in our writing. Still, they play a minor role and should not be overused.

Another form that gets dumped in with passive voice, and isn't, is a helping verb working with a present participle (-ing form of a verb).

• The writer is finishing the last chapter.
• Her friend was posting on Facebook late at night.
• The members of his critique group were giving line edits instead of overall impressions.

This kind of sentence is clearly not passive. In each of the examples the subject is the agent doing the action, and there is a strong action verb.

Is there a reason to steer clear of these sentences? Perhaps, but for an entirely different reason than for the erroneous accusation that they are passive.

Sentences with ongoing action, which is what this verb construction communicates, are a little harder for readers to visualize. The beginning of a thing, we can picture, but what do we see when the action is ongoing?

In addition, if an entire paragraph or page or scene contains numerous sentences with this construction, the repeated -ing acts like any other repetition: it becomes annoying.

Believe it or not, there's one more sentence construction that gets accused of being passive, and it is innocent of the charge. These sentences are the ugly ducklings of writing. They have everything wrong with them -- no action verb, the subject in the wrong place, and a bland, unspecific word up front. I'm talking about sentences that start with There is or Here are and the like.

• There were three Facebook friend invitations in her email box.
• Here is your coffee.
• There aren't any more books available.

These sentences are as legitimate as any other. They serve a necessary purpose, but like other sentences with verbs of being, they should not be overused.

So here's what we covered:

• Sentences with verbs in passive voice aren't as strong as verbs in active voice. A writer would be wise to rewrite them.
• Sentences with state of being verbs are perfectly fine but shouldn't be overused.
• Sentences with helping verbs and the present participle (-ing) form of a verb, while not passive, nevertheless should be used sparingly, largely because of repetition but also as a means to help readers visualize scenes.
• Finally, sentences with construction similar to there is ... may look passive, but they aren't. The subject comes after the state of being verb, which adds to the impression that there's a passive something going on. But remember, with no action verb in sight, there is no possibility of a passive subject.

- - - - -

A former English teacher and an aspiring epic fantasy author, Rebecca LuElla Miller has been working as a freelance writer and editor since 2004. She has covered high school sports for a Los Angeles area newspaper group, published articles and short stories in several print and online magazines, and placed in the top twenty-five in the 2006 Writer’s Digest Short, Short Story contest. Most recently she is the author of Power Elements of Story Structure. She currently blogs Monday through Friday at A Christian Worldview of Fiction.

Her editing credits include non-fiction and fiction alike, most notably four titles in the Dragons in Our Midst and Oracle of Fire series by Bryan Davis and two novellas in the Mission League series by Jill Williamson. You can learn more about her editing services and read her weekly writing tips at Rewrite, Reword, Rework.

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Fiction Friday: The Telling

On the northern fringes of Death Valley, the city of Endurance is home to llama ranches, abandoned mines, roadside attractions... and the mythical ninth gate of hell. Little does Zeph Walker know that he is the only one who can close it. Here's the opening scene to Mike Duran's second novel, The Telling.

* * *

He used to believe everyone was born with the magic, an innate hotline to heaven. Some called it intuition, a sixth sense; others called it the voice of God. Zeph Walker called it the Telling. It was not something you could teach or, even worse, sell—people just had it. Of course, by the time their parents, teachers, and society got through with them, whatever connection they had with the Infinite pretty much vanished. So it was, when Zeph reached his twenty-sixth birthday, the Telling was just an echo.

That’s when destiny came knocking for him.

It arrived in the form of two wind-burnt detectives packing heat and a mystery for the ages. They flashed their badges, said he was needed for questioning. Before he could object or ask for details, they loaded him into the back seat of a mud-splattered Crown Victoria, and drove across town to the county morgue. The ride was barely ten minutes, just long enough for Zeph Walker to conclude that, maybe, the magic was alive and well.

“You live alone?” The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

Zeph adjusted his sunglasses. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t blame you.” The detective looked at his partner who smirked in response.

Zeph returned his gaze to the passing landscape. Late summers in Endurance were as beautiful as a watercolor and as hot as the devil’s kitchen. The aspens on the ridge showed gold and the dogwoods along the creeks had already begun to thin. Yet the arid breeze rising from Death Valley served as an ever-present reminder that beauty always lives in close proximity to hell.

They came to a hard stop in front of a white plaster building. The detectives exited the car and Zeph followed their cue. A ceramic iguana positioned under a sprawling blue sage grinned mockingly at him. Such was the landscape décor of the county coroner’s building. The structure doubled as a morgue. It occupied a tiny plot of red earth, surrounded by a manicured cactus garden complete with indigenous flora, bison skulls and birdbaths. Without previous knowledge, one could easily mistake the building for a cultural center or art gallery. Yet Zeph knew that something other than pottery and Picassos awaited him inside.

The bigger of the two detectives, a vaquero with a nifty turquoise belt buckle and matching bolo tie, pulled the door open and motioned for Zeph to enter. The man had all the charm of a cage fighter. Zeph wiped perspiration off his forehead and stepped into a small vestibule. “This way.” The cowboy clomped past, leaving the smell of sweat and cheap cologne.

They led him past an unoccupied desk into a corridor. Bland Southwestern prints adorned sterile white walls. The stench of formaldehyde and decay lingered here and Zeph’s stomach flip-flopped in response. The hallway intersected another where two lab technicians stood in whispered conversation. They straightened as the detectives approached. After a brief nod from one of the white-jacketed men, Zeph’s escorts proceeded to an unmarked room.

“We got someone fer you to I.D.” The cowboy placed his hand on the door and studied him. “You don’t get sick easy, do ya?”

Zeph swallowed. “Depends.”

“Well, if you’re gonna puke, don’t do it on these.” He pointed to a set of well-polished eel skin boots. “Comprende?”

“No, sir. I mean—yes! Yes, sir.”

The detective scowled, then pushed the door open, waiting.

Zeph’s heart was doing double-time. Whose body was he about to see? What condition was it in? His mind raced with the possibilities. Maybe a friend had suffered a car accident. Although, he didn’t have many friends to die in one. Perhaps the Hitcher, that mythical apparition who stalked the highway in his childhood, had claimed another victim. More likely, Zeph’s old man had finally keeled over. However, he was convinced that his father had stopped living a long time ago.

Zeph drew a deep breath, took two steps into the room, perched his sunglasses on the top his head . . . and froze. In the center, framed under a single oval swath of light, lay a body on a autopsy table—a body that looked strangely familiar.

“Take a good look, Mr. Walker.” The detective’s boots clicked with precision on the yellowed linoleum. He circled the rolling metal cart, remaining just outside the reach of the fluorescent light. “And maybe you can help us figger this out.”

Yet Zeph remained near the door, hesitant to take another step.

“Go ahead.” The second detective sauntered around the opposite side, gesturing to the body. “He ain’t gonna bite.”

The detectives positioned themselves on either end of the table. They watched him.

A black marble countertop, its surface dulled by a thin blanket of dust, ran the length of one wall. In front of it sat a single wooden stool. The low-hanging lamp bleached the body monochrome. Zeph had seen enough procedurals and CSI knock-offs to know this was not an autopsy room. Perhaps it was used for viewings, maybe occasional poker games. But as the detectives studied him, he was starting to wonder if this was an interrogation room. Scalpels, pincers, saws. Oh, what exotic torture devices one might assemble from a morgue! Nevertheless, this particular room appeared to have not been used in a long time. And by the fevered sparkle in their eyes, these men seemed inspired about the possibility of doing so.

Zeph glanced from one man to the other, and then he edged toward the corpse. Its flesh appeared dull, and the closer he got, the less it actually looked like skin. Perhaps the body had been drained of blood or bleached by the desert sun. He inched closer. Sunken pockets appeared along the torso, and he found himself wondering what could have possibly happened to this person. The head lay tilted back, its bony jaw upturned, cords of muscle taut across a gangly neck. A white sheet draped the body at the chest and just above it a single bloodless hole about the size of a nickel notched the sternum. He crept forward, trying to distinguish the person’s face. First he glimpsed nostrils, then teeth, and then . . . something else.

That something else brought Zeph to a standstill.

How could it be? Build. Facial features. Hair color. This person looked exactly like him. There was even a Star of David tattooed on the right arm, above the bicep—the same as Zeph’s.

What were the chances, the mathematical probabilities, that one human being could look so identical to another? Especially in a town the size of Endurance.

“Is this . . .” Zeph’s tone was detached, his eyes fix on the body. “Is this some kinda joke?”

The detectives hunkered back into the shadows without responding.

Goose bumps rose on Zeph’s forearms as the overhead vent rattled to life, sluicing cool air into the room. He took another step closer to the cadaver until his thigh nudged the table, jolting the stiff and bringing Zeph to a sudden stop. He peered at the bizarre figure.

Their similarities were unmistakable. The lanky torso and appendages. The tousled sandy hair. Thick brows over deep-set eyes. This guy looked exactly like him! However, it was one feature—the most defining feature of Zeph Walker’s existence—that left him teetering in disbelief: the four-inch scar that sheared the corpse’s mouth.

Zeph stumbled back, lungs frozen, hand clasped over the ugly scar on his own face.

“Darnedest thing, ain’t it?” The cowboy sounded humored by Zeph’s astonishment. “Guy’s a spittin’ image of you, Mr. Walker.”

Zeph slowly lowered his hand and glanced sideways at the man. “Yeah. Except I don’t have a bullet hole in my chest.”

The detective’s grin soured and he squinted warily at Zeph.

“Indeed you don’t.” The second man stepped into the light. “But the real question, young man, is why someone would want to put one there.”

* * *

Mike Duran is represented by the rockin' Rachelle Gardner of Books & Such Literary. Mike's novels include The Telling, The Resurrection, an ebook novella, Winterland, and his newly released short story anthology Subterranea. You can visit his website at www.mikeduran.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter.

Godzilla vs. Story

People went out in droves to see the new epic battle of Godzilla and his revamped foes. Me included. I had mild expectations, thinking it would be on the caliber of Pacific Rim or Battleship, not anything too deep, but fun. And didn't the preview make it look scary and visually awesome? But what I encountered was a strange battle of my mind instead, with a lot of "huh?" and "what?" rolling around my brain. I felt as if I was watching a series of events explained by The General or The Scientist who somehow, miraculously knew #AllTheThings. While the man who knew nothing was somehow, miraculously always in the wrong place at the wrong time. As well as his wife and child, later on. 

This is, in my opinion, a fatal flaw that I see in a lot of stories lately, and makes it difficult for me to connect in any real way. The shock and awe becomes the Implausible, with little or no explanation. I can handle one coincidence, maybe two, but continuous such events stretch my patience. 

In our stories, as we read or write, we expect several foundational elements to the structure. If those elements are missing, the story itself falls flat. Here's three core things I, personally, find important. 

1. Motive (or Why Edward Doesn't Eat People): Random won't cut it. If it's unexplained or stretches credulity a reader won't be able to relate. Edward doesn't eat people because he fears for his soul. We as the reader know this—he won't stop telling Bella all about it. So, we get it. We may not like it, but we get it. ;)

2. Pacing (or Why Hobbits Talk About Food): Don't run me ragged. Let me pause and soak in the world and the characters every now and then. Let the story be about more than go, go, go. Frodo isn't running head-long to Mordor, he and Sam and Golem have moments of oddity and whimsy on the dark journey to break up the monotony. Pippin and Merry love to obsess over their pipes. We see them and we get to know them, we don't just scream our whole way to the end.

3. Expectations Met (or Why Harry Potter Had To Die): We need to know what's coming and see it coming along the way. BUT even when it hits us, we should have an element of surprise. This is probably the most difficult thing to accomplish. However, when it's done, and done well, it raises the story from satisfying to Epic. The stories of Harry became larger and larger with each installment, until the journey, the world, and the characters were truly personal. This created an effect that culminated in the last battle, where we all knew that it could not end well. STILL, we also knew it would all be okay. And in the end, it was so. Satisfying adventure, becomes Epic Experience. 

Now, obviously, these are just the things I look for personally in a story. I am finding more, however, that these things are thinner and thinner in the Hollywood writer's tool box. I know sensational sells but isn't the art of weaving a tale also worth a gander every now and then? It's true, there is nothing new under the sun, but our book shelves and box offices are screaming for a fresh look at Story once more. 

Rachel A. Marks is a writer and artist and mother of four. You can read more about her and her work on her website: 

www.RachelAnneMarks.com

Homage to Pulp Fiction

by PJ Regnier

I’m a sucker for pulp style fiction. Whether it’s Conan the Barbarian or John Carter, I love reading a good adventure tale.

Some might say the stories are simple or lack depth but frankly I think they’re missing the whole point. It’s adventure for the joy of the journey with engaging characters that leap into action and never look back. To me, the stories are pure, straightforward, bold journeys into unexplored lands.

I feel the freedom of the writers as I explore the fantastic worlds they seem to splash onto the pages with bold strokes of the pen. It’s almost as if they’re writing simply for the enjoyment of it and not worrying if anyone will ever read, much less critique, their tale spinning.

Although I will readily admit that learning the fundamentals of plot, structure, character development and all the other foundational techniques are important, I like to relegate these gatekeepers to the editing stages.

I think my ultimate goal is to write rough drafts as though I were a kid merely delighting in the adventure, free from any constraints.

As I was finishing this post, I looked up quotes by Edgar Rice Burroughs and found a fitting one that sums things up nicely.

“No fiction is worth reading except for entertainment. If it entertains and is clean, it is good literature, or its kind. If it forms the habit of reading, in people who might not read otherwise, it is the best literature.” 

― Edgar Rice Burroughs

Author: You Can't Afford to Be a Social Media Illiterate

I used to hate Twitter and often vowed to remain Twitterless. Now, I have well over 1,000 Twitter Followers and am a fairly big Twitter fan. A few other things happened since then. I have purchased an SEO friendly web template, embedded social media widgets below every blog post, joined LinkedIn, Goodreads, Pinterest and Instagram, developed an RSS feed, and expanded my Facebook presence.

So what happened? How did I go from being generally resistant to social media, to jumping on the bandwagon?

Well, basically, I just got serious about my writing career.

Call me a sellout or a shill, but I came to realize what most experts are saying: The market is changing and authors need to adapt. Because of the decreased investment of publishers, platform development has become a necessity for the aspiring author. Nowadays, publishers want to know that authors are working the system, using all the tools at their disposal. And really, the market was wide open.

The only real obstacle was me.

Once this sunk in, I realized I could either rage against the machine or get in line. I chose the latter. And it’s paid off. But not everyone is so easily swayed.

I spoke via email to an author recently about ways to increase their web traffic and expand their web presence. They did not know basic HTML, were not interested in optimizing their website, did not Tweet, retained a rather small circle of Facebook friends (and liked that), and generally viewed social media with disdain. When I pressed this author about expanding their use of social media, they fell back on four common objections: 

• I don’t have the time for social media. 
• I’m not computer savvy. 
• Social media takes away from actually writing. 
• Social media requires marketing skills, which I don’t have. 

Okay, if you’re Stephen King or J.K. Rowling, perhaps I can understand using these excuses. Apparently, social media is a luxury for some best-selling novelists. But if you’re a new, midlist, or unpublished novelist, believing the above excuses are self-sabotage. And let me be clear: These ARE excuses. But I’m NOT computer savvy, you object. I’m NOT a marketer, and I really DON’T have time for Tweeting and Facebooking and blogging. I can’t be a writer AND be a social media expert.

Maybe that’s part of the problem: We think we have to be experts, as if only savants can master social media.

Listen, I can sympathize with these objections… if they were leveled by your 92 year-old grandmother. However, managing a blog, Tweeting regularly, learning basic HTML or web design, and building your own platform, doesn’t require some unique, high-level skill set. Yes, it involves time. Yes, it involves a certain acumen. But this is not gene research, people. I’ve been married for 33 years and I can assure you, understanding HTML is a lot easier than deciphering female communication. So when I hear authors go on about computer illiteracy and reasons they avoid social networking, all I tend to hear is blah, blah, blah.

Several of my Facebook friends happen to be children of people I know. Not long ago, one of those kids (a 20-something) began posting some risque pictures and saying some naughty things. Hey, she’s an adult. However, I happened to speak to the parent about this and they shrugged. “How am I supposed to monitor her when I can barely check my own email?” As if ignorance is a reasonable rejoinder. Memo to parents: If your child is computer literate (especially a teen living under your roof) and you are not monitoring them on the grounds that you are a computer illiterate, please check yourself. Parents CANNOT afford to be computer illiterates nowadays.

Well, the same is true of authors. Authors cannot afford to be social media illiterates.

If you choose to remain Twitterless, blog irregularly, shrug off platform building, and disavow social media, you forfeit the right to bitch about your writing career.

Of course, these things are no guarantee of increased sales or a bigger fan base. In fact, the author who is shrill, one-dimensional, insecure, and uncreative, will only amplify their issues with social media (which may be one reason why writers subconsciously avoid social networking). Nevertheless, there are very few legitimate reasons why an aspiring author should not be growing in social networking.

Part of the beauty and power of social media is that it is accessible to the average person. You don’t need a degree, a diploma, a brand name, or tons of money. Yes, it takes time. It takes persistence. It takes creative energy. And I’m guessing you have those things. Everything else is just an excuse.

* * *

Mike Duran is represented by the rockin' Rachelle Gardner of Books & Such Literary. Mike's novels include The Telling, The Resurrection, an ebook novella, Winterland, and his newly released short story anthology Subterranea. You can visit his website at www.mikeduran.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter.