Holiday Short-Shorts 2025-- Our Contributors' Gift to You!

 

As the Grinch learned, "Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store." The best gifts come from somewhere inside you, and if you're a creative, that's doubly so. 

In that spirit, our regular contributors to the blog are giving you the gift of holiday fiction. These are all original holiday-themed short-shorts written by our regular contributors. Thrillers. Horror. Crime. Drama. Family. It's all there. 

Happy holidays, everyone!

Note: All stories below are © 2025 by the author and are used here by permission.

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Last Christmas

I found him at last: Nick, skulking beneath the peppermint rafters where the toyshop’s shadows knot themselves into darker tidings, his trembling breath frosting the air like a naughty whisper. For centuries he’d dodged me, unraveling my spells, undoing my careful work, poisoning the holly with his sanctimonious shine. But tonight, sleigh bells rang for me. I crept closer, boots silent on sugared snow, heart humming with the warm thrum of justice long delayed. Now the North Pole is quiet again, and in the stillness, I savor the sweet, sweet taste of a world set right beneath my merry, crimson grin.

        -- Evan Slash Reed Peterson

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A Show for the Holidays

"Thank you," said Byron, as he took the mug of hot chocolate from his P.A. "It's just what I wanted. Well, more like what I needed."

"Sugar and just a little bit of the cold coffee poured in for caffeine and a kick."

Byron smiled. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"Enjoying the party?" Janet asked. "You don't strike me much as a partygoer."

"I'm not. I'm just here..." His voice trailed off. "Well, I'm here for something I want to see later."

"Oh," Janet mused. He meant the announcement of the big layoff for the lowest rung. His own suggestion for cutting 'unnecessary costs.'

The antlers on her Christmas moose sweater flopped as she motioned for him to take a sip. He did, downing a gulp before stopping with a weird facial tick. 

"Ooh. Cardamom? Nice touch."

She nodded. 

Cardemum, she thought. And the assload of thallium sulfate I put in the mug. There would be something to see, all right, but not the show her boss expected. 

        -- Sean Taylor

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Home for Christmas

Evie stepped up the familiar redstone steps to the front door of a house she once knew like family. She turned back to look down the steep hill toward the pine trees and the street and was sure, for half a second, she caught a glimpse of another house at another time, far but not so far from her. 

“Get on in here. It’s gettin’ chilly out.” Evie jumped and turned back to the door. 

“Momma?”

The woman smoking a cigarillo and dressed in a bright red sweater pushed the door wide to let Evie in. “You weren’t expecting Santa, were you?” She smiled. 

Evie couldn’t help but laugh. She’d forgotten that joke. It’d been so long. “Not yet.” She rushed to hug her momma, door slamming against her back. 

“I know. It’s been a long time.” Momma wrapped her arms around her. “But don’t you worry. We’re all here, and now we can have a real Christmas.”

The living room was lit by the enormous live Douglas fir in one corner of the room. Evie’s daddy was on a ladder hanging handmade wooden ornaments. It glistened with silver tinsel and huge colored lights, just like momma loved. She remembered how he used to give them to her children and her sister’s children when they were little. Her daughter still put them on her tree. 

Her daughter…

She gazed out the large window decked in large bubble lights. Just on the edge of the horizon, she could see her girl making ribbon cookies like she used to make until the year she couldn’t read the recipe properly. 

A tug at the shoulder brought her back. “Evie! Evie! Did you bring any cookies?”  She turned and saw the soft, impish face of her brother. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She should be with her daughter, not here. This is the wrong place and time. 

“I need to sit down, I think.” 

Momma led her to the couch. “Leave her alone, Mikey. I wondered when it would hit her.” 

Evie took in the scene. She was at home with her family at Christmas. There were bowls of candy on every flat surface, just as always. It felt normal and right, but then there were the other memories and other family just past her reach and on the edge of what felt real now. Daddy came down from the tree and sat with them. 

He patted her hand. “We’re all here. We’ve waited for you for a long time, Evie.” 

“You and momma keep saying this. Does that mean?”

“It means we are all together again!” Momma smiled and clapped her hands. “Your brother and sister will be here soon and we’ll have Christmas dinner, and it will be fine.” 

Evie went to the window and pointed out. “And what about them?”

Daddy joined her and squinted as though he could see what she saw. “She’ll bake those cookies and tell your stories. They’ll be with us soon enough.” He hugged her. 

Behind them, the dulcet voice of Brenda Lee began a verse of Jingle Bell Rock. Momma danced in with a plate of homemade cookies and hot chocolate. 

“Here’s those cookies you wanted, Mikey.” 

The teenaged boy laughed, and Evie couldn’t help but laugh too. It was good to be home.  

        -- Jessica Nettles

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An Encounter With Santa

“Santa!” the boy exclaimed.

He hoped the kid wouldn’t see him. Dressing as Santa to rob a bank during a Christmas party was smart, but he regretted sneaking into his ex’s place to hide a few bills in his kid’s stocking. He hoped the kid didn’t see the large roll of hundreds peeking out of his red pocket. 

Playing it cool, ‘Santa’ deepened his voice and whispered, “Well, Bill...you caught me. I was just about to leave you a special present.”

“But where’s your bag of toys?” Billy sighed. “Mom’s always complaining about how Dad never has enough…”

Always about the money, ‘Santa’ mused. Part of the reason they divorced was that he was a hard-working Joe who was hardly working in this economy. Ask her and she had “high standards”, but he felt she was more “high maintenance.” He did all he could to see his son, but he never seemed to have time…

Remembering where he was, ‘Santa’ crouched by the boy and whispered, “You want to see your dad, huh?”

“More than anything!” Bill beamed. 

“Tell you what,” Reaching into his pocket, ‘Santa’ withdrew a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be bringing your toys later tonight, but you have to be asleep. I’ll also...uh...swing by your dad’s place and let him know. I’ll make sure you meet him at your favorite place tomorrow.”

Clutching the money in his hand, Bill beamed as he went back to bed.

Glancing around the room, ‘Santa’ saw two stockings pinned to a decaying entertainment center. One said “Mom” and the other said “Bill”.

Pulling off a few hundred-dollar bills, he placed them in the stocking marked “Mom.” He hoped that she would spend them on Bill, but he knew better. 

As he heard her stir from her sleep, ‘Santa’ crept out the door. He already had plans to launder his stolen loot, hidden in a cubby hole in his apartment. Tomorrow, he would hopefully meet Bill at their favorite park.  He doubted it, but if it happened, it would be the best Christmas present ever. 

That and avoiding arrest. 

        -- Gordon Dymowski

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If Only In My Dreams

The house felt warm and cozy. Familiar. Loving. Safe. Inviting. The crackling fire in the living room filled the air with a hint of pine. Pleasant, it mingled well with the aromas emanating from mother’s kitchen. That mixture clung to his memory as powerful now as the first time. Mother’s voice, the sound of an angel, sang an old Christmas tune. She was slightly off-key, but that only added to her charm. He missed that sound. Father would avoid the kitchen, of course, cutting his beloved a wide berth until time to fix his plate. Turkey, ham, potatoes, dressing, gravy, green beans, and cranberries with fresh-baked rolls on the side. If nothing else, the family ate well on Christmas Day.

Just the way he remembered it.

It had been at least a decade since he last saw them. Even more time passed since those early holiday treats where family came together in love and compassion. One big mistake brought his life crashing down around him. Things were never truly as wonderful as his fractured memory, of course. No. Things were never as good in reality. That’s why he slipped so frequently into fantasy. Pulling the threadbare blanket tight around him, he closed his eyes and once more opened the front door and stepped back into a fond memory, slightly rewritten to recall only the good memories. Smiling, he stood in his mother’s kitchen and closed his eyes. It was good to be home again for Christmas.

If only in his dreams.

        -- Bobby Nash

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The Christmas Spirit

The holidays are always pregnant with memories. They used to be the happy ones, cooking the ham and mac and cheese together with Mom, tugging the fake beard off Dad's face and laughing, those kinds of things that made up the Norman Rockwell part of my life. 

Now the memories are darker, more melancholy, what I used to call bittersweet. Now I see only the open casket, the flowers that were already dying in the church, the people crying, the mechanical clicking as the expensive funerary box was lowered into the dark womb of soil. 

The fire in the hearth no longer gives me warmth. The feast has no flavor, so I have given up on trying to enjoy it. I ignore the presents under the tree. None are for me now anyway. 

My room is cold. Everything remains just as it was before, all my posters still in place, mostly just a little crooked, my cheap brand Les Paul guitar silent on its stand, my bed never unmade, not even when I lie down and try to sleep. 

The family gathers as usual. I watch without eating. I wait and listen. No one even attempts to draw me into the conversations. 

But they will later. They will after dinner, at least those who still visit the graveyard. I will travel with them, for then, they will remember I'm still a part of the family. Then, and for most, only then, will they speak to me.

Of course, they will never hear my answer-- nor even expect a response. Never again. 

-- Sean Taylor

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Down Through the Chimney

I opened my eyes. A sound from the roof woke me. “Santa?” I mumbled in my half-awake state.

The tin roof gave the distinct sound of sharp clicks followed by the soft tread of a padded foot. My mind recalled the old song, but it definitely wasn’t reindeer paws. Rolling out of bed, I ran to the window. Something growled from above me. I closed and latched the window, stepping back.

The sound, which started furtive, grew louder as something rushed towards the chimney on the other side of the house. I tracked the unseen visitor’s path as it thudded across the roof. The large open space gave me a perfect view of the fireplace. Too warm for a fire, it sat empty, a dark maw in the far wall. No stocking hung, no tree decorated. Just a sad room not ready for the current season. Grunts and scrapes drew my attention; this wasn’t Saint Nick descending. My feet refused to move as my heart pounded. Each echoing sound drew an involuntary flinch. The metal flue, still closed, groaned as an immense force pulled at it. Each bolt popped free, and I heard it drop to the metal grate where burning embers would sit in cooler weather. 

A dark shape lowered within the recess, a shadow within the shadows.  Bright yellow eyes turned and glared at me. My bladder emptied. No gifts this year, I must be on the naughty list.

        -- Seth Tucker

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The Night After Yule

Yule feast was done; trenchers stacked,

Pine needles underfoot, offerings packed.

All slept in the turf-house, children and gran;
Father lay dead-drunk like a felled, snoring man.

Only Mother stayed awake by hearth’s red glow,
Stitching knotwork on cuffs, sewing slow.

Through a shutter-gap Father swore he’d mend “soon,”
The aurora ran green on the snowlit dune.

Then bells—jangle, clatter—on leather drew near,
Not neighbor-folk homing; too many, too queer.

“Is it her?” breathed Daughter, as shutters went tap.
Mother murmured, “Hush now. Stay deep in your nap.”

“Will she take what we left?” whispered Son, pale with dread,
“My brightest cloak-pin? The sausages, the bread?”

“It isn’t the gifting,” said Mother. “Be still.”
“It’s how you’ve behaved; every deed, every ill.”

They remembered the summer: Father gone to the sea,
Grandmother ignored; the loom toppled with glee;

And sheep chased for sport till the byre rang with cries,
So they pleaded, “Hide us! We’ll help! We’ll be wise!”

“We’ll tend all the fires, wash dishes, and mind cows!”
Mother sighed, set down the thread, and slipped out, making no vows.

A whisper in darkness. The door swung with cold.
Grýla stooped inside, sack yawning wide, so bold.

Cat-eyes flashed ember; one finger: “Hush—hush.”
She drifted to Father like smoke in a rush.

She hefted drunk Father, still snoring, half-fed—
In the sack, he disappeared like a log from the shed.

Bells skated off. Night swallowed her track.
“Next Yule,” Grýla growled, “if they’re trouble, we’ll be coming back.”

        -- H. F. Day

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The Cold Side of the Bed

My wife died two days into Hanukkah but was back by Christmas. Her side of the bed remained empty only between her death and the evening after the funeral. She rested soundly, but never slept, never spoke, never offered a single argument against me, nor volunteered an explanation of why she had returned. 

She simply smiled using eyes, teeth, mouth, and dimples. Sometimes she stared, reclining in the dark green dress in which she had been buried, the silk gown that matched the one hanging in my side of the closet, for when we chose to "twin" on our dates. Each morning she was gone, and the sheets beside me were a good ten degrees colder than my side. 

Only once did she sit up and reach for my hands. I had made the mistake of drinking too much coffee before bed and couldn't sleep. She lay still until she saw the little dirt-colored bottle of pills. But she sighed silently and lay back down when she saw I only swallowed two of the round tablets. 

"I'm sorry," I told her. "I really am. I know we agreed, but I just couldn't do it. I didn't have the courage." 

She said nothing, merely smiling and staring, while I turned away so she didn't have to see me weep.

-- Sean Taylor

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Home for the Holidays

“Tonight is the fifth Christmas Eve since she died,” Jeremy said.

Dr. Morst nodded. “And how are you feeling about that?”

“I’m kind of used to it now,” he said. His hands twisted in his lap, squeezing and rubbing his fingers as though they ached. That would be difficult, since they were only stubs now. He’d lost most of his fingers when he was found in the snow, weeping and digging into the ice-cold earth of the cemetery with his nails, not long before he was assigned to Dr. Morst’s service.

“This is the night, then?” 

Jeremy stared down at what remained of his hands. “She scared the hell out of me the first time. Just her voice, on the other side of the shower curtain. Thought for sure I was nuts. Now I guess we know it, eh?”

“I don’t really care for the word ‘nuts,’ but I don’t think you’ve given yourself enough credit for the work you’ve done so far,” Dr. Morst said. 

“Not enough to get out,” Jeremy said. “The second time was while I was driving, and I crashed the car. The third time I tried visiting her grave, and that’s how I came to your tender graces, doc.” He finally stopped rubbing his stubs together and instead tugged at the soft restraints. 

“What about last year?” Dr. Morst asked. “You were committed before Christmas, but you still weren’t speaking to me.”

“I guess I have made progress then,” Jeremy said. “Last Christmas Eve, she was whispering under my bed in the ward. Home for the holidays. I screamed a little bit, and the orderly gave me a shot. I could use more of those shots, doc. It’s the only time I sleep.”

Dr. Morst tried not to check his watch. There was no clock in the room, but the shadows were getting long, and he was really hoping to make it home in time to wrap his wife’s present before she came home from work.  “Do you only hear her, or do you see her?” 

Jeremy looked up at him. “Her voice is terrible enough. I don’t want to see her. She’s louder every Christmas, ever since she died. Please, doc, I need you to make her stop.”

Despite himself, Dr. Morst felt a tug of pity. Jeremy was so earnest and quite articulate since he regained the power of speech. “Your new meds have been working so well, Jeremy. Trust in yourself, trust the progress you’ve made.”

“That’s worse, doc,” Jeremy said, tears starting in his eyes. “If I keep getting better, I’m afraid she’ll get angry. So angry. Every Christmas Eve.” He paused. “She’s probably upset about me killing her.”

A knock at the door told Dr. Morst it was time to stop. He waited while the orderlies took Jeremy back to his cell, and then he could glance at his watch. Barely enough time left to get home before Sandra, so he hustled back to his office to put on his coat and grab his briefcase. 

As he checked out of the ward, he could hear the commotion back behind the bars. It was Jeremy, screaming again. 

-- Elizabeth Donald

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Heavenly Peace

Wind screamed around the tent, threatening to cave in the canvas and polyester on top of me. In the midst of the banshee-like weather, another sound fought to cut through. A howl. Long and mournful, with a sort of rumble in it, like gargling a chainsaw. 

When the winds paused every ten or so seconds, I heard footsteps crunching the leaves around my tent. I had chosen my spot for privacy rather than a public campground to be alone for the holidays, and my view of the valley and the river below had been worth it -- at first. But now, alone at night with god-knows who -- or what -- stamping around outside, I wasn't so sure. 

A single point of pressure pushed in on the canvas wall, and I jerked around to shine the flashlight on it, but just as quickly, it was gone. Moments later, the other side bubbled in and then straightened. 

Trembling, I crept to the front and unzipped the flap a few inches, just enough to see out. A huge silhouette stood enshadowed by the bright moonlight. It reeked. It turned, and I caught only the glow of its eyes, the same shine as any other wild animal at night. In its hand -- it had hands, not paws -- hung a dead rabbit. 

Leaning down, the beast-man placed the animal on a stone beside the still flickering embers of my fire. It turned to face me. The chainsaw of its voice rumbled again. 

Then it was gone. 

After a few minutes, when I could no longer sense it nearby, I stumbled outside and checked the fire and the rabbit it had left. A clean kill. A broken neck. No pain. 

I forced a grin. 

"Merry Christmas to you too, big guy," I said. 

-- Sean Taylor

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See the Blazing Yule before Us

Tim patrolled along the backside of the graveyard behind the Maple Street Methodist Church as snowflakes began to flutter around him. He remembered a time when the cold would have bothered him, and he would have rushed to the small brick house not far from here to start a fire, make a hot toddy, and settle in with a good book. 

He wondered who sat at his fireplace now. It’d been almost a full year since he’d taken the mantle of grim and been transformed into the semi-eternal black-dog guardian of this congregation, both dead and alive. The former grim, a gentleman who’d served as grim for more than eighty years, faced off against a gang of young, ambitious vampires, but it came close to ending him. He searched out a replacement and discovered Tim, who’d just been buried after a terrible motorcycle accident over on 41 Highway coming back from karaoke. 

So here he was now, patrolling. After the vampire thing, there’d been a few stray vandals and a couple of witches who wanted to raise some hell in his cemetery that they’d dealt with together, but Tim knew that Jez was fading. His time of training was coming to an end. It was more than most grims got, to be real. He’d discovered he could enter buildings without being seen, even beyond the church grounds, so he went to the library and read up on his new career. Being a grim was serious business. Guarding the church against demons and evil, death announcements, and generally being a good dog. It wasn’t like being a human, but it was better than an eternal dirt nap for sure. 

Tonight, he felt a difference in the fabric of things around him. The air, the snowflakes, even the lights from the houses and the trees that were decorated outside seemed thin and strained. 

A cough drew his attention. “Jez?” he woofed. 

“Quit dawdling, kid. It’s almost time.” The elder grim, a broad-shouldered black Shepherd with flecks of silver around his face, stepped from around a gravestone that looked like a small angel. 

“I’m not dawdling, dude.” Tim sniffed the crisp air and nipped at the flakes, which were getting fluffier by the second. “Besides, we’ve got until the end of the year, right? It’s not even Christmas Eve.”

Jez dropped his head and sighed, the way he did when Tim said something stupid. 

“What did I say?”

“Tonight is Yule…winter solstice,” said Jez. The snow began to stick to his fur, adding to the silvery halo around his face. 

Tim blinked. “And?” 

Jez nosed him hard and woofed, “You dumbass. I thought you’d read up on traditions. The Inside, here with the living, and the Outside, where those who are not living reside, the veil thins. My time ends tonight. I leave for the Outside permanently. This gig becomes yours.” 

“Well, shit.” Tim knew but thought he had a few more days…weeks. 

A jaunty fiddle rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy”  from the center of the graveyard. Jez chuckled. 

“Ol’ Bobby-Jack is warming up.” Tim saw a tall, lean figure of a man wearing overalls begin wandering through the stones. 

Jez howled and trotted toward his friend. Tim followed. 

The lights from the neighborhood around them dimmed as a single bright glow of gold, silver, green and red rose at the center of the graveyard. What should have been silent and dark was filling with people Tim hadn’t met before, dressed in all manner of ways from various times. There were three young ladies in pink and green fitted dresses with skirts poofed out by crinolines and decorated in tacky 50s-style Christmas trees. Nearby were several gentlemen in top hats and tail coats, checking their pocket watches and exchanging small gifts. An entire group of tiny children was running around, giggling and playing like they hadn’t had a chance to in a while, and several younger women dressed in longer skirts chased after them. One lone gentleman wandered among them, making sure everyone had a bite of candy out of a white bag he held in one hand. In one corner of the graveyard, the fir that looked so alone and grim most of the year stood tall and was covered in tinsel. Tim was sure he could smell hot cider. 

The man with the candy bag climbed up on a rather large stone, and a cup appeared in his hand. 

“Blessed Yule, my friends! Blessed Yule! Tonight, we welcome our dear friend and guardian, Jeziziah Mason. He has been our grim for lo these eighty years.”

“Here! Here!” Several voices shouted from around them. The man shushed them. 

“He comes to join us in the Outside and leave the hard work to young Tim McBride here, who I believe is worthy to fill Jeziziah’s shoes…or rather paws! Anyway, here’s to them both!” He lifted his cup as did the whole party. 

Tim glanced at Jez. “So this is it?” 

“Consider it your Christmas gift, kid.” Jez bumped up against him. 

“Gee, thanks. I don’t even get an instruction guide?” 

“You’ve had a year with me. You’ll do fine.” 

Jez stepped forward and shook his body. His fur began to fade away. He put his front legs up on the gravestone where his friend stood. Then he shifted from dog to his former human form. Tim was not shocked that Jez was broad-shouldered and built like a blacksmith. What did surprise him was the dark black hair and the dance of joy the man did as he changed. 

Jez turned to him and gave him a broad grin. “Blessed Yule! Now go kick some ass.” 

        -- Jessica Nettles

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While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night

Hazel stood in the cold wind, her skin bubblng up with goose pimples. She looked like a plucked chicken, she knew, but what did she care. She was way past her glory days. Who the hell was she planning to impress now? 

The little row of fir trees on the other side of the road were strung up with lights, and a wooden, hand-painted sign that read "Merry Christmas! God Bless Us Every One!" was nailed to the base of the center tree. 

She pulled the phone from her back pocket and took a photo, but when she searched her contacts, she realized there was no one to send it to, not really. No one who would be expecting anything from her, especially something like a photo of something she thought was cute. Only friends did that. 

Her friends sat squarely in her rear-view. 

The motorized rattling of the cab -- a converted minivan -- emerged from the curve about a hundred yards to her left. It stopped on the road barely a yard from where she stood. 

"Happy Christmas!" said the driver, a Middle-Eastern man with a large bald spot. "Big day, huh?"

Hazel shrugged. 

"Where to, Miss?"

"Is there a diner close where I can get some hot chocolate?" she asked. 

"Sure. Good pie too." He held on to his big, wide smile as though it kept his face from falling apart. "After that?"

She shook her head. "After that, it doesn't matter."

She climbed in and dropped her duffel bag on the seat beside her. As the cab made a U-turn and rattled away back up the road from where it had come, she glanced back long enough to see the Hollis Country Penitentiary sign disappear behind the trees.

        -- Sean Taylor

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Krampus at the Bass Pro Shop

“You ain’t Santa!” roared the great horned figure that pushed its way through the front window of the Bass Pro Shop. 

My fake beard dropped to my feet as I stood up and pushed the small girl who moments before sat on my lap, asking for a toy I’d never heard of between me and my plywood throne. “And you ain’t the clerk I sent to get me hot cocoa and cookies either.” 

The parents screamed louder than the kids, as the hairy demon bashed the gigantic moose near the registers with his holly-bound staff and clacked his hooved feet against the tile floor. 

A voice in my head whispered, He knocked ‘Rain clear out like she was a doll. Ava is froze. 

That was bad news. I’m pretty powerful, but not Krampus powerful, and familiars can only do so much. I guess I should explain. I’m ‘Rain’s familiar, Zeke. I can appear in lots of different ways. Usually, I’m a possum. Today, I’m a really bad Santa. I don’t human that well. 

The demon paused and grabbed one of the clerks in the gun department and stuffed him in the bag. “You’ve been stealing from the store, mister!” 

The little girl behind me bolted and when the rest saw her make a run, the others followed, even the adults. Krampus turned and snapped his clawed fingers. “Not yet. I get my due. It’s my night.” He pointed at me. “And YOU know it even if you ain’t Weihnachtsmann.” The crowd froze in place, and the only sound in the store was George Michael singing “Last Christmas.” Not only was I being threatened by some angry German Christmas demon, but he managed to send me to Whamhalla.

“I don’t know who that is, so you’re right. I ain’t that guy. Still, you don’t get to scare little kids on my watch!” I focused and shaped my magic into a sword. He’d try to kick my ass, but not without a fight. 

‘Rain’s up and she’s pissed. Iva, one of ‘Rain’s sisters and fellow witch spoke in my head. 

Well, get your asses over here pronto. 

Krampus laughed as he moved through the aisles of sportswear and fishing equipment. “Weihnachtmann…he has possums working for him now?”

“It is the South? Who did you expect? Some guy named Bubba?” I raised my weapon. 

He dropped the bag filled with gun clerk and drew back his staff. It glowed a menacing crimson. “Don’t mention that name.” He growled. 

“Bubba. What? Is he on your naughty list too? Oh, that’s too bad. I’m gonna take you down long before you get to him.” I began to chant an ancient spell I learned from an old Scotswoman 200 years ago. My sword glowed bright gold like a star. I felt a lightness fill me and song flood through me. All I could do is laugh. 

What the hell is that, Zeke? Iva’s voice punched through the choir in my head. 

All I remember is rushing him and seeing his eyes go from cold and confident to mortal terror in two seconds flat as I swung my sword and it bit into him. The scent of pine, hot cocoa, and the sharp edge of fresh snowfall surrounded me as I attacked over and over again. When it the energy, light, and scent faded, all that was left was the sack and the young gun clerk passed out on top of it. Before I passed out myself, I swear it was snowing in the Bass Pro Shop. I guess Christmas magic and maybe this Weihnachtmann guy is real after all. I mean, why the hell not? 

        -- Jessica Nettles

Fiction Like White Elephants: Subtext in Your Stories

Let's talk about subtext, you know, that stuff that's hidden subtly in your stories even though it never really leaves a footprint.

Dialog. How important is the stuff your characters don't say or avoid saying to each other in your work?

Terrance Layhew: Creating subtext in conversation is necessary. It immediately gives an inner world to the characters and a larger world at play. What people avoid saying directly or indirectly raises stakes, but done too much makes the story a melodrama.

Elizabeth Donald: If my characters are as close to living, breathing humans as I can make them, the things they don’t say are wildly important - just as they are for us allegedly-real people. When a married couple sits at the dinner table and says nothing but “pass the salt,” that tells us a great deal about their relationship, their thoughts and feelings, the comfort level they have reached (or not) between them. There are many times when we feel spurred to speak and do not, either for fear of social or professional consequences, adherence to behavior norms in society, or our own personal tendencies; a person who is generally conflict-avoidant may remain silent when insulted, even as they are burning to speak - or shout - on the inside. All of these should come to play in our characters, if we are to make them real. The worst thing you can do is an “As you know, Bob…” where a character explains the blatantly obvious to a person who already knows this information. A little subtlety goes a long way.

Sheela Leyh: From my own experiences, the subtext and context both matter. What is said is often just as important as what isn't said. It can and does affect your readers, as well as how your communication is received and does affect meaning.

It is important in mine as I hear dialog early in the writing process, even before the plot unfolds fully. What isn't said is often left for the reader to piece together as part of my thisness layer, as well as to help hold the reader's interest. For context, thisness is an older writing technique that helps make a place more real to a reader without jarring the reader out of the reading experience. The Oxford Writer channel on YouTube does one of the best explanations on the thisness concept that I've seen so far. By trusting the reader to fill in some gaps by leaving out only what needs to be left out, it helps build that relationship with the readers.

Jessica Nettles: Dialog: Silence is a lot like white space on a page. It gives room for the reader to breathe and feel and think thoughts about what ought to happen. With dialog it also give space for things to grow between characters. Kate and Shadow have a LOT of unspoken stuff between them. For instance, neither of them have to say, “I respect you.” They say it in the way they work. There are readers who have picked up something more between them—and maybe it’s there. Shadow certainly won’t say what he feels about Kate, mostly because he isn’t sure what to do with that feeling. He files it under respect, but he would defend her until he faded away. She sees him as her equal, which is once again, never spoken.

Smuttin' It, Smuttin' It, Genre Style

Hey, all you writer types. Let's look at spicing up your genre (or even literary) stories with a little (ahem) action. How do you incorporate sexy time into your stories?

Let's say for you a publisher is open to spicy but not all-out erotica, how do you determine where to draw the line yet still keep the sexy actually, you know, sexy?

Elizabeth Donald: Sex is part of the human experience, to a greater or lesser degree according to a person’s personal drives. We don’t have to literally shine a spotlight on the penetrating moment in order for sexuality to be at the forefront of the story. A character may be consumed with deep need and powerful attraction - indeed, it might be the driving force of their actions and even the plot, without us actually following them under the sheets. It’s not censorship to construct a story about sex and sexual attraction without actually depicting the act; if you’re doing your job right with evocative language, the reader will feel all the things you want them to feel, regardless of the explicitness of your story.

L. Andrew Cooper: In the fiction I've published, at least, the sex I've described has always been horrific in some way, from attempts to conceive a child for sacrifice in Descending Lines to the relentless taboo-breaking of Alex's Escape. I guess some scenes in The Middle Reaches are steamy, but they're still weird. So mostly I don't have to worry about sexy... I have to worry about explicit description ("showing") parts and acts. I guess if I have to satisfy a prudish publisher, I describe less or cut more.

Chris Riker: Sex is a great time for internal dialogue. A writer doesn't have to re-invent the old Penthouse Forum; he just has to tell us what the sex means to the characters. 

"Then, while I was still trying to plot her trajectory, she said, “I won’t do anything on a futon, Zebulon.” The futon was in good shape, only a few beer stains on its lime green canvas, but it was a futon, so, as the French would say, ‘non humpez vous.’

I said, “There’s a big bed. The sheets are clean. And call me Zee, please.” I was hoping. Really hard. She kept me waiting a solid minute, standing there, considering her options. Then…

“Zee,” she said my name that way for the first time and put her arms around my neck. “Take me to the big bed with the clean sheets.”

Yes, I remember how her pencil skirt slid off her hips by lava lamp and the way her voice rose in primal song as she taught me to please her and the smoothness of her skin and the way my lungs drank in the scent of her hair. I remember giggling together afterwards and not being able to stop or wanting to. And when at last Jing fell asleep in my arms, I remember lying awake and feeling… real." - Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army

Sean Taylor: I love to focus on the after or the before. I think there's a lot of magic to be covered there in the buildup or the afterglow. People get real then. Case in point, in this scene, Rick Ruby is visiting one of his, ahem, informants, a nightclub singer named Donna:

Creative Non-Fiction

Hey, writerly types, we spend a lot of time covering fiction on this blog because that's the main topic we discuss. But what about the other side of creative writing? No, not poetry. I'm referring to creative non-fiction. Let's bang that drum this week, shall we?

What kind of non-fiction do you prefer to write/read? Personal essays, how-tos, researched topics, true accounts (biographies, true crime, etc.)?

Alisa Richie Childress: I write personal essays. I write stories from my own life about mental health struggles (mine and my son's). Caregiving for me mother who passed from Alzheimer's last year. A lot about grief as I lost both of my parents in three years, my dad from cancer in May 2020, and my mom from Alzheimer's in June 2023. I write about parenting and what it is like to raise a child who had a major mental health crisis and who is gay (we live in a red state with conservative family members). Mostly I with about whatever I feel like I need to get out and what I hope will help others. My blog is alisachildress.com. I have been published in physical and online journals and write a lot on Medium.

Brian K Morris: I like to read mostly historical and scientific books when I read nonfiction. These days, I'm mostly into the business behind the creative efforts (such as how the comic companies were run by people affiliated with organized crime, or the boom/bust periods of comic books) these days. I also enjoy books on writing and marketing because I always want to do better at my job.

L. Andrew Cooper: I’ve been writing a lot of interviews for which I do extensive prep and into which I put significant thought, so that’s a biggie. Otherwise, I’ve done a lot of academic literary and film criticism, and after a long hiatus, I recently got back into film criticism a bit and found I still enjoy it. As for reading, I enjoy reading non-fiction for research related to whatever I’m writing (fiction or non). Otherwise, I enjoy reading philosophy.

Elizabeth Donald: Nonfiction is my bread and butter. I took my journalism degree into the newspaper world in 1997 and have worked in the news ever since, including my time on the national ethics committee and as president of the St. Louis Society of Professional Journalists. I was a full-time newspaper reporter for more than 20 years and I covered every beat except sports. I have stood in the snow outside a murder site and waited for an indicted governor at the end of a long dusty road and interviewed a president before he was anybody. Sometimes it was the county fair and sometimes it was the vicious beating death of a toddler. I wrote stories that changed the law and stories no one read. 

I went freelance in 2018 so I could have the freedom to go to grad school and begin teaching, but I have continued to work for local and regional news organizations, for regional and national magazines and so on, including a few investigative pieces. Freelancing has also given me the freedom to write more personal essays, writing essays and other free-form nonfiction, most of which is published on Patreon and Medium if it is not picked up by a magazine.

Scott Roche: Read - Biographies, history (particularly of science), and religious topics (not solely my religion, though primarily). Write - How to, reviews, commentary, and I'm getting to the point where I want to write some memoir-adjacent stuff.

Sean Taylor: I read a lot of various shades of nonfiction, everything from religious stuff (both classic like Augustine's City of God and contemporary progressive like Jim Wallis and Keith Giles), political/cultural stuff (currently reading White Rage and Hatemonger), to history (my fave is Lies My Teacher Told Me), and then also more fun stuff like books about horror and giallo movies and bios of my favorite actors and actresses. In terms of writing, I tend to do more essays about reading (like here on the blog), movie reviews (for a new book), and articles about the art and craft of writing. 

Van Allen Plexico: Most of my top sellers are nonfiction. Two books about the Avengers comics (I edited and coordinated both and wrote sections) and five books about Auburn sports (co-authored with my podcast cohost).

The Avengers books got me badges to Heroes Con and raised a lot of money for charity; the Auburn books have gotten me TV and radio appearances, speaking engagements before alumni/fan groups, and several book signings.

So yeah, I love writing nonfiction.

I also enjoy reading it a lot -- as a History professor I sort of have to -- and I find nonfiction works better in general on Audible than fiction does. So it's easier for me to listen to.

When writing non-fiction, particularly if you also write fiction, how does your routine or strategy differ from when you write fiction (if at all)?

Elizabeth Donald: Nonfiction and fiction use completely different brain cells, at least for me. My newspaper colleagues used to joke that I could sneak in a novel when the police beat was quiet, but I can’t work that way. After 25-odd years of writing news every day, I can turn out a high-quality news story in 15 minutes. It’s like falling off the proverbial log. Fiction, on the other hand, requires a good energy environment, the right caffeinated beverage, the alignment of the stars and planets and possibly the sacrifice of the nearest available virgin for the words to come. You’d think it would be easier to write stuff you can make up rather than the stuff that has to be accurate, ethical, responsible and all that jazz, but for me, the reverse is true. This goes back to one of those old writing saws we all hear and ignore: practice practice practice. Every word you write makes you a better writer, and I know journalism is easy for me because I’ve written 2-5 stories every day for decades. If I wrote fiction all day, every day for the next 20 years, maybe that would be like falling off a log.

Van Allen Plexico: I've found that when writing nonfiction I tend to outline very carefully beforehand--more even than I do in fiction. With fiction, I'm usually trying to leave myself lots of leeway to change the story as it wants to change when it unfolds.

With nonfiction, I need to know up front, "Okay, this section will cover the Sonny Smith years of AU Basketball; and this first chapter will be about how Auburn hired him and his first press conference and the preseason and then how his first team fared. And then the next chapter will be about how he recruited Charles Barkley and about Charles as a freshman. And then a separate chapter just of funny stories about Charles. And then..." sort of like that.

Alisa Richie Childress: I do not really write fiction, but I would like to. I have written a short piece in the Imaginarium anthology and am working on another. I have some ideas for novels. But I do not have a good fiction writing process. Or really a great writing discipline at all. I am working on this.

L. Andrew Cooper: Although I’m big in outlines for both fiction and non, for non, there’s an even more structured funnel process that goes from reading and research to organizing notes into conceptual groups that become outline points that become sections, paragraphs, etc.

Sean Taylor: It's actually easier for me to write nonfiction than fiction. I think this comes from being a Literature major in college and having to write so many essays and papers. They just kind of roll out of my brain onto the page. Fiction becomes so much more personal and that slows me down a lot because I really try to get my first draft super close to the way I want it. Nonfiction is the kind of thing I tend to trust myself to go back and edit/rewrite as needed.

Brian K Morris: Before I focused on New Pulp fiction, I wrote a number of articles about comic books. Usually, I'd look for the drama in the project (editorial whims, stumbling blocks in the production process, inherent challenges in changing a series' direction, etc.) and build a narrative with a satisfying conclusion. For instance, one of my favorite articles for Back Issue Magazine was about the final tales of the Silver Age Supergirl, how she'd gone from Superman's Secret Weapon to public acceptance, on-off powers, different locales, then her eventual death to become a spirit that helped talk people off the ledge, returning to her roots as a "secret weapon" for good.

What do you find most fulfilling about non-fiction writing?

Scott Roche: For me, any writing scratches roughly the same itch. Writing non-fiction does tap into a different vein. It requires more research/experience. For me it requires a different kind of brain work. I wouldn't say it uses a different part of your brain since I haven't done that research and am not a psychologist/neurologist, but it would make sense to me if it did.

Elizabeth Donald: I always knew I wanted to write and create, and I wanted to be in public service. Journalism allowed me to indulge both, while also engaging my brain, and I was able to make some small difference in the world around me. It is an incredibly difficult job, poorly paid with wildly unpredictable hours and an enormous emotional and mental toll, and as a weekend bonus, absolutely everyone hates you! We burn up new journalists at an alarming rate. But I loved it, and I still do. Doing what we do is a privilege, and one I’ve never taken for granted: we tell people what happened today, because they need to know. It’s that simple, and that complex, and completely unappreciated in this modern era. We write the first rough draft of history, as Phillip Graham said, and that is an enormous responsibility, as well as our honor.

Sean Taylor: When I write about writing, which is the bulk of my nonfiction, I'm telling the story of who I am directly. When I write fiction, it's still telling my story too, but it's far more subtle, far more hidden behind the symbols and the themes. With nonfiction, I can just come out and say what I think, feel, believe, etc. 

Van Allen Plexico: The really creative part of that kind of book for me is when I write the beginning and the ending, where I lay out what the book is trying to do, and then I make the closing argument at the end for what I was trying to say in it.

L. Andrew Cooper: I get to say what’s on my mind quite directly!

Alisa Richie Childress: The type of writing I do is very cathartic. Putting it all in paper helps me to organize me thoughts and my feelings in a way that I cannot do if I keep them in my head, it even if I am just journaling. Having an imagined audience to talk to helps me with clarity. I also hope that I am helping others. It really makes me feel good when someone tells me how much something I said resonated with them or helped them in their journey.

Brian K Morris: I enjoy finding out new ways of looking at something real, whether it's the history of a comic book character, getting perspective on a creator and their thinking, or instructing WHY something has merit, such as writing book reviews and how simple it can be.

Adult Writers, Child Readers?

For our next roundtable, let's look at being child readers and how, if at all, that influenced us as writers. 

Were you read to when you were a toddler/young child? Do you remember favorites that you continued to read alone once you learned how?

Ef Deal: I wasn't read to, but I learned to read very young, three years. I read in secret by the wedge of light from the bathroom after bedtime. Then I found the town library was on my street and ripped through the children's section in six months. Got a library card before I was five. My dad was a reader -- of trash. 

Elizabeth Donald: I learned to read when I was three (or so I am told), so I don’t have strong memories of being read to, but I know I was. My earliest associated memories are of reading to my parents. In fact, I recall sitting next to my mother reading her a Berenstein Bears book and she suddenly stopped me and summoned my father. I had no idea what was going on and wondered if I’d done it wrong. 

Instead, my mother asked my father to please get the box of Nancy Drew books from the attic. They were her books from her own childhood, those older 1950s blue tweed covers with the silhouette of Nancy and her magnifying glass (which I do not recall appearing in any of the books.) Mom realized at whatever age I was -- 6, perhaps? -- that I was ready for chapter books. I dove into Nancy Drew and never looked back. 

From there I discovered Judy Blume, Black Beauty and The Black Stallion, fought beside Johnny Tremain, explored the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, climbed My Side of the Mountain and attended Sweet Valley High. Then Lois Duncan introduced me to horror, which eventually led to swiping my mother’s Stephen King hardbacks which I wasn’t supposed to read but I left the dust jackets in their places so she wouldn’t realize they were missing. When Star Trek: The Next Generation premiered I was hooked into Trek, and started devouring every tie-in novel I could find. Then it was, “Hmm, I like this Peter David guy. I think I should see what else he’s written…”

Jen Mulvihill: Yes absolutely, my mother read all the horse books to me, International Velvet, Black Beauty, Little Nick, all of them. Then she read all the Laura Ingles books to me. When I got older I started reading L. Frank Baum, I still have not read them all yet.

Scott McCullar: I don’t remember my parents reading to me as a child. Perhaps my Mama did when I was a toddler, but I just do not remember it happening in my life. Instead, she would have conversations with me and would encourage me in my love for art. I know my Mama gave me the Little Golden Books before kindergarten. I think I was more infatuated with the illustrations. 

When I was a little older in kindergarten circa 1976, my Daddy started buying me comic books as an incentive to help me learn how to read. At that point, I was this little blonde-headed kid with freckles from Tennessee living in California who still retained his thick Southern accent. The school out in Fresno wanted to put me into speech therapy classes to lose the accent. The other kids in class made fun of me constantly with my Southern drawl – especially when it was time for me to read the “I See Sam” yellow children’s books. I was so infuriated at the time at the other kids that I refused to talk in class and it impeded my reading development at that time. With that, comic books solved the problem and I became a voracious reader. By second grade, I was reading biographies of historical figures like Babe Ruth, Davy Crockett, Abe Lincoln, and others. 

John Morgan Neal: I have no memory of being read to. First reads were Batman comics. And S.E. Hintons's The Outsiders.

Gordon Dymowski: My parents instilled a love of reading from an early age - according to family legend, my father purchased a copy of ONE FISH, TWO FISH, RED FISH, BLUE FISH the day I was born. Not only was I read to, but I was encouraged to head to the local library when I was a kid. Between Chicago Public Library and my Catholic school, I read several series multiple times: Alvin Fernald, Danny Dunn, Tom Swift Jr...and eventually, Sherlock Holmes.

Bobby Nash: I don’t remember being read to as a kid. I probably was, but don’t recall. My mom did like to read so that got me interested in reading. She used to get the Reader’s Digest collections. It was there I read my first novel, The Snowbound Six. I was hooked. From there I went to Han Solo’s Revenge and comic books. Plus, The Monster at the End of this Book with Grover was a favorite.

Brian K Morris: Yes, my mother read an assortment of Golden Books to me. My father tried to read some of my comics to me, but he grew bored with the task. I don't recall any of the books from back then, aside from The Night Before Christmas (which I own several editions of), but I loved them a lot.

Sean Taylor: Absolutely. Both my Mom and my MeMe (grandma) read to me. And they were both always buying my books. I was fortunate in that all my sets of parents and grandparents (as a child of divorce and remarriage I had "bonus" grands) supported me in being a reader from an early age. When I was able to read for myself, I always went back to the ones I remembered most and best -- The Pokey Little Puppy, Never Talk to Strangers, The Sailor Dog, and How to Make Flibbers, etc. : A Book of Things to Make and Do. I still own each of them, and they are still barely holding it together after all the years of love I gave them. I hope to pass them down to my own grandkids and build memories of reading them together. 

Susan Roddey: My mother read to me every day until I learned to read. It was always my favorite part of the day. My absolute favorite book was called "There are Rocks in my Socks," Said the Ox to the Fox. I bought a copy of it for my own kids... they were not impressed.

How often did you read as a child? Where were you on the spectrum that goes from "lock me in my room with my books" to "please don't make me read"?

Bobby Nash: I loved to read. Comic books became a huge favorite. Spider-Man, G.I. Joe, Space Family Robinson, Star Trek, and the big treasury editions of Captain America, Battlestar Galactica, and Star Wars were constant companions. I read novels. Those small paperbacks of the 70’s were a big influence on me.

I hated being told what to read. That’s probably because I don’t like being told what to do.

Brian K Morris: I grew up in the country, so books, comics, and TV were my real friends back then. I learned to read when I was three so throwing me into my room with my reading material proved to be no punishment for me.

John Morgan Neal: All I needed was to be in my room with my comics and my toys to reenact or create new stories from the characters I loved. School introduced me to The Outsiders, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty Four, and such.

Gordon Dymowski: I read voraciously as a child, and my parents encouraged this habit. I read everything from catalogs and newspapers to books and comics. If there's a statement that describes my youthful reading, it would be "Go find a book and entertain yourself." (Keep your minds out of the gutter, people)

Susan Roddey: I started reading early, and have been a voracious reader ever since. I was the kid they punished by telling me I wasn't allowed to read.

Scott McCullar: After discovering comic books in kindergarten where I learned to read and moved on to other “real” books, I became a lifelong reader. I didn’t have to be “locked in a room”, I just instead took books with me wherever I went. To the living room on the couch. Outside under a tree. On the bus with me to school. Wherever I walked.

Jen Mulvihill: I read all the time. I would sneak books in school instead of doing my school work. I didn’t have many friends so I would almost always be reading. You could usually find me in an apple tree eating green apples and reading.

Elizabeth Donald: So I was the bookworm, the kid who had a book hidden in her lap for those long stretches of math class (and got yelled at by my third-grade teacher in front of the whole class for READING when I’d finished the math assignment. “You spend your whole day with your nose in a book!” It did not occur to me for years to question her priorities.) My parents gave up grounding me, as I didn’t watch much television and ordering me to stay inside and not go out to play? Gee darn. Being a shy bookworm with unruly hair and thick glasses, naturally I was a target for bullies (mostly male, the girls just ignored me). So hiding in the storage closet during recess (with a book) or staying inside instead of going to the park (with a book) was definitely me. Instead, if my parents needed to ground me, they grounded me from my books, which got my attention. 

Sean Taylor: I read every time I could. I would spend hours in my MeMe's front bedroom (we spent a lot of time with her) reading. The books got more complex and longer and I branched out more in non-fiction too. I would read every book I could get my hands on about sharks, snakes, spiders, or dinosaurs, and I devoured my set of Childcraft Encyclopedias too. And I went from re-reading the children's books to reading the illustration and abridged versions of classics (not to be confused with the Classics Illustrated comic book though I read those too) with an illustration every other page. I particularly enjoyed the Verne and Wells abridgments. That's also when I found my favorite book that I probably read at least 200 times between the time I was 7 and 15 -- The Adventures of Monkey by Arthur Waley. I was very much into adventure stories at the time. 

Mari Hersh-Tudor: We had a big family so we got sent to the library a lot to keep us out of mom’s hair. Alone with a book was infinitely preferable to getting bullied by sibs. I was reading Asimov and Tolkien by age eight. 

Did those early experiences help to instill in you a love of stories, and how did that reading stories bug transform into a telling stories and writing stories bug?

Susan Roddey: I've always loved everything about the written word. Even before I understood how to write stories, I would pretend to be a writer. It's always been a part of me.

John Morgan Neal: Not sure instill is the most accurate word. Awoked. Revealed. Because I think it was always there.

Brian K Morris: Being in the country, the only companions I had were imaginary. That's who I read to when I was younger. And the storytelling bug is still strong in me.

Mari Hersh-Tudor: Dr. Seuss first showed me what imagination can do. My imagination always took anything I read and made whole universes out of it. And never stopped.

Scott McCullar: By fourth grade, I was writing my own stories. I won a “Young Author’s” contest at school for my first story “Mice Wars” which was loosely based on the historical story of The Alamo with a cast of characters that were all mice. I would continue to write stories here or there in my spiral notebooks, but my other interest wanting to illustrate also pushed me in the direction of wanting to be a comic book creator who handled both the writing and art chores in his own work. 

I just loved storytelling in all forms. Whether it was books, comic books, illustrations, television, film, or even audio-only sources such as radio dramas, records, or listening to someone speak in a lecture, interview, or tell a tale around a campfire, etc.

Elizabeth Donald: I have always been a storyteller, in any form. From my very early childhood I was writing, way back to early-80s Smurf fanfic. I was never going to BE a writer, mind you -- you needed Dumbo’s magic feather and to live in New York for that, or so I believed. But books were absolutely integral to my childhood, developing my imagination, and entry drug after entry drug kept me in fictional magic. I wrote my first novel in high school and it was terrible, as most first novels are. And I rewrote it a couple of times in college, and it was still terrible. I wrote plays as a theater major and they were terrible. But that’s the gig, isn’t it? The more you write, the less terrible your writing. Every word you write -- and every word you read -- makes you a better writer, in tiny increments. Those baby steps start with the Berenstein Bears and Nancy Drew and end up with your name on the cover displayed in the front window at Borders. 

Jen Mulvihill: I really think it did have an impact on me. Especially when I became a teenager and started reading Science Fiction, I could not get enough. But now I see in my writing a little bit of influence of a mix of Baum and Heinlein. As a child and teenager, I used to make up all kinds of stories in my head, sometimes I wrote them down and sometimes I didn’t. I still have an old suitcase full of old short stories, songs, and poetry.

Bobby Nash: Oh, yeah. I started thinking of ways to do my own stories. I studied the books and taught myself how to write, how to create stories and characters, etc. That urge has not diminished over the decades.

Ef Deal: I couldn't separate reading from imagining, so I began writing early, and yes, because I was an avid reader.

Gordon Dymowski: Since I grew up as an only child, I relied on my imagination and curiosity to provide entertainment. One method was drawing stories on scrap paper my mother brought home from work. I think that experience shaped my ability to tell stories since I knew I could take characters from comics and translate them into rough narratives. It wasn't until college that I started writing short stories...and developed a large collection of rejection slips.

Fortunately, the past eleven years as an author helped me realize I have a knack for this whole writing thing. It's still a learning process., but I feel more confident in my abilities now than I ever did in the past.

Sean Taylor: I don't think there's any denying how important the stories I read were to making me want to tell my own stories. I did it with everything from paper to pencil to playing with my action figures. I never played with them correctly. Luke and Leia were never Luke and Leia. Nope, Luke was a swashbuckling hero while Walrus Man wore the Jawa's cloak and became an evil wizard who captured Leia (I was a kid. I hadn't learned yet women didn't need us men to save them.) and foiled Luke's plans with his giant robot (Mazinga) while keeping hidden in my Fisher Price castle with the secret trapdoor. That play became stories that still influence me to this day, hence my love of adventurous tales of heroes and heroines in outlandish situations. 

The Green-Eyed Monster: A Writer Roundtable

We've all seen the meme. It's the standard visual for jealousy now, it seems. A man and a woman are walking and the guy looks back at another woman, an action that causes the woman he's with to cast them both a sidelong glance (or glare). But what about jealousy in regard to our writing careers. Or maybe it's just plain envy. I wanted to know, so I asked a few folks who have been in that life of words for a while what they thought. 

Do you get jealous of the success of other writers you know? How do you deal with that? How do you avoid the comparison trap? 

Elizabeth Donald: Another writer’s success does not diminish my success, my accomplishments, or my potential for either. There isn’t a finite quantity of success to go around; it’s not pie. When my writer friends have a great new contract, a stellar review, major sales, etc. I am happy for them. I know they have worked very hard to get where they are, as I do, and I have faith that one day my hard work will be rewarded as theirs was. I find it distasteful when I see a writer complaining about someone else’s success, or that they don’t understand why it hasn’t happened for them yet. Is it so hard to simply be happy for someone else’s good fortune?

I remember something Frank Fradella said once when we were holding a Literary Underworld panel: that when many authors support each other and provide an artistic community for each other, the work is inevitably better. I am mangling what he said, but he brought up the Lost Generation of writers like Hemingway and Fitzgerald bashing around Paris together in the 1920s. And he wasn’t arguing that we were all incipient Hemingways and Fitzgeralds, but more that their natural talent was enhanced by being in community with others. (Not that Hemingway is a great example of lack of competitiveness, be that as it may.) It’s one of the reasons the Literary Underworld exists; to help authors support each other and help each other succeed. Jealousy, competitiveness, resentfulness… None of these things make any sense to me. They’re counterproductive to the goals of art, and they eat away at the soul.

Ef Deal: Another writer's success means people are still reading and books are still important. I feel confident there will be readers for what I write, and I say huzzah to all.

Just one thing more: I set a modest goal for myself when I was very young (9) that I would publish in Fantasy & Science Fiction and I would publish a novel. I've done both, and I'm still writing and publishing short stories and I have at least a few more novels to put out there, so I don't feel any reason to be jealous of someone else. Would I like to be #1 on some list? Sure. Would I like to win some obscure or famous award? Absolutely. Will it change anything about my writing? Not likely.

Susan H. Roddey: For me, it's not "jealousy" so much as a feeling of inadequacy. It's Imposter Syndrome, and thanks to being a card-carrying member of the Gifted Kid Burnout clique, I'm exceedingly hard on myself for reasons that have nothing at all to do with other people. Even when I do experience success, I'm always looking for the storm cloud to block the silver lining. Success for others, though... I'm 100 percent here for it and will be the biggest cheerleader anyone has seen. I WANT my friends and colleagues to do well.

Relevant aside: This weekend Misty Massey won an award that we were both nominated for, and I am so ridiculously happy for her that I could burst. Am I disappointed that I didn't win? Eh, kinda. Or I was for a whole quarter of a second. I know she absolutely deserved to win though, and we still have cause to celebrate.

Bobby Nash: Another writer's success doesn't make me jealous. I'm thrilled to see others succeed.

HC Playa: Generally I am inspired by other's success....even when that success doesn't particularly seem warranted. Say a work isn't really that good. We can all point to well known titles that hit it big and got movies, etc, but they are at best mediocre, sometimes downright trash. It can be easy to play the 'why not me' game, but rather than fall into that trap, it's better to say "Well, if they found success, so can I. I simply have to keep writing."

For the vast majority of writers, it's a long game; intermittent success amid many rejections. I focus not on comparing myself to other writers, because that too is an easy trap to fall into and self-sabotage, but on the fact that the feedback I have gotten from my stories is overwhelmingly positive. People enjoy the stories. No, I haven't hit it big, but I am doing my job well--I am writing stories that others enjoy. All the rest is luck.

Alan J. Porter: Jealousy doesn’t really enter the equation. I’m always happy to see others succeed - especially if it’s someone I know. And seeing other writers succeed is always an inspiration to keep pushing on. 

An editor told me early on not to make comparisons as no one else can write the books/stories I write the way I write them. - One of the best pieces of advice I’ve had.

H. David Blalock: As print books become scarcer, magazines go online, and AIs become authors, it's hard to be jealous of anything coming out today. I'm just grateful there are a few human beings left actually writing and not depending on AI or ghostwriters to flesh out their ideas. Kudos to the actual creators. More power to them.

John Linwood Grant: I go down into the cellar again, and trawl through my collection of other writers' hair, toenail clippings, and general bodily detritus - until I find the right bits for my next set of clever little clay dollies. 🙂

Sean Taylor: For me, it gets down to what I see as the difference between envy and jealousy. Jealousy for me is when I want someone else's stuff and I don't want them to have it. Envy is when I want to achieve the same kind of things. For example, when I was writing for Gene Simmons for IDW, I tried and tried to parlay that into a new gig for when that one was over. But it didn't happen. I got a few invites to pitch for everything from Jem and the Holograms to Transformers, but either the line was going to an author that fit the demographic better and was more well known, or the whole license was moving to another publisher. So, when I failed, and then I saw folks I had worked with before move into major gigs like TMNT, Ghostbusters, Godzilla, and New Warriors, I got frustrated. Sure, I was envious and I wanted to understand why and how they could translate one gig into something bigger and I hadn't been able to. But in the end, it pushed me to keep trying, sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding. And yes, I was incredibly happy for those friends to succeed at bigger gigs, but I could be happy for them and a little envious too, couldn't I?

Krystal Rollins: I'm not jealous of others' success. I applaud them. Just makes me work harder.

Josh Nealis: I always say there's good jealousy and bad jealousy. Bad jealousy is obviously being mad that somebody else is succeeding where you have not. Good jealousy is the same thing except for you understand that it's likely they deserve what they've received, and you be happy for them, but you turn that jealousy into motivation and push yourself harder.

Brian K Morris: It's been a long time since I compared my skills or success (or lack thereof) to any other writer's. It's just not a productive use of my time or energy.

When my friends succeed, I find it a cause to celebrate. Their accomplishments make me work harder so when they move up, I still can justify my presence at the table with them.

James Tuck: I love seeing writers I know succeed at this weird wonky gig we all chose. I hope every one of them kicks ass!

Balancing Backlog: When the Well Overflows

Let's talk about balancing ideas and projects. I can't think of a single writer I know who doesn't have ideas that float around in their head to wake them up or keep them up at night -- and typically ideas not related to the current WIP. Oh, what's a poor writer to do?

Are you the type of writer who has a massive backlog of ideas to explore in your stories or the type who deals with one idea at a time and then turns on the idea machine afterward? How do store that backlog, whether digital or on paper?

Marian Allen: I have so many projects already in the pipeline, I don't have the brain capacity to do anything with new ones. EXCEPT! I do Story A Day May every year, and those flashes of ideas are great to prompt daily stories. I also have a big folder with story ideas in it, and, in the rare times when I need something to write, I dig into that. I've used it for many stories.

Jay Requard: Massive backlog. It is currently all in notebooks but I'm transcribing one part to digital after the baby got a hold of it.

Elizabeth Donald: Ideas are fleeting little butterflies that need to be captured in jars before they get away. I keep a folder on my computer titled “Marinade” where I put the stray ideas. They have to sit there and think about what they’ve done, and when I need help I go for a walk through the folder. My first novel is in there, in all its drafts going back to the utterly dreadful high school novella, and there are reasons why it’s never seen the light of day. The next oldest file in there is from 2002 and may not actually be translatable now, but why would I let it get away? If I’m not near my computer when an idea strikes, I will use voice-to-text to stick it in my phone until I can translate it to my Marinade file. If I tried to keep it on paper, I would inevitably lose it, and there goes my Pulitzer.

Bobby Nash: Depends on your idea of massive. There are many ideas tucked away for future use. Some I will never get to, I suspect as new ideas keep working their way into my brain. One of the best things about having these ideas sitting in writer limbo is that sometimes, I realize that two of them are part of the same story and blend them together.

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: I have a backlog of ideas. All of them swarming around in my brain. I keep them in journals or post-it notes that I have stuck all around my desk top. What percentage actually gets done? I don't know, man. if I start keeping score, I'll just get constipated and never do another damn thing. I just keep trucking. If the idea is good enough, it'll last until it's time to get inked.

B. Clay Moore: I have a huge backlog of ideas, and now and then one pops back into my head to either inform a new idea or as the impetus to rework it in a new direction.

John French: I have a legal pad on my desk, with separate pages for each "project". On these pages, I write notes, story and character ideas, etc. Right now I'm about 10-15K away from finishing one with five more warming up in the bullpen waiting to get the call.

Good ol' fashioned notepad.

Ef Deal: When I started writing, I had a character arc that consumed me, and I'm not through with her yet after 35 years. In those pre-computer days, I filled blank books and spiral notebooks and steno pads. I just kept writing. I couldn't stop. She's a rich mine of stories. I've written a lot of flash pieces and other short stories in the meantime, but I keep coming back to her and that universe. I really hope she sees print one day because she's a fantastic badass. When I started this new series The Twins of Bellesfées, I found myself picturing the twins in so many steampunk / paranormal crossover situations I couldn't stop writing. The more I researched the more ideas for novels I got. 

Michael Dean Jackson: Oh, hells, yeah! I have a Word document listing a dream schedule of almost 20 projects, only half a dozen of which have been completed. I have worked on a few of them off and on, I have sketched thumbnails of potential book covers. They're all there in my mind floating around. Every once in a while I grab one and wrestle it to completion (but not as often as I'd like! The Dream Schedule is seeming more and more like a dream the longer it takes to actually get them to completion.)

My unwritten ideas sometimes seem more attractive than the one I'm working on, but they usually behave.

HC Playa: I feel like maybe I'm weird 😂. I hyperfocus on a WIP...maybe. I literally avoid going into that musing headspace of new ideas until I have a rough draft down for whatever I am working on. I don't mind at all doing edits on one while creating another.

Ernest Russell: In my story ideas folder there are 35-40 ideas, from a couple of sentences to a pitch to an outline because I really want to recall where I was going with it. The journal I carry with me has story ideas, notes on current projects, notes from panels and lectures, turn of phrase I heard/saw that I liked. No sketches though, my stick people look sick and trees look more like cotton swabs.

Jonathan Sweet: Definitely a massive backlog. I've done a better job lately of storing them -- I keep a running file on my phone so I can get them down when I think of them. (I tend to find they come up when I'm off doing something else, so my previous goal of "I'll remember them when I get back to my desk" never seemed to work.)

How big a distraction do your unwritten ideas become when you are on another project? How do you balance their demands with those of the primary stories?

Teel James Glenn: I'm pretty good at controlling the 'I've gotta do this' with "I owe this to a publisher'-- the hardest is that I need to have short story 'space' between novels' so they can circulate while the months of working on the next novel...

Ernest Russell: Jot it down. If I can't seem to let go, I'll write a synopsis or an outline to revisit. Then back into the current projects. When I finish a project, if there is nothing pressing, I'll look through the ideas and dust one off.

Starting to get out of hand, huh?

Spencer Moore: I have no “process.” But I have like, a zillion different narrative bits that I’m always fooling with in my head, like an 800-pound Rubic's Cube with about a million different sides… Seriously, I’m locked and loaded for whenever the money guys come a’knockin’.

B. Clay Moore: My last Aftershock book, Miles To Go, combined two different ideas I'd had around forever, and *also* included a scene I'd written 15 years ago for a graphic novel I never finished, based on a real experience.

Jay Requard: I outline my ideas if they have any real pull with me, so once that outline is filed away I go about what I'm working on which is usually 1-2 manuscripts and an editorial project but I'm actually reading again for. Part of the hard answer to your question that might rankle people is psychological: why would an idea bother me when it's the next thing I can do? If you have this idea in your head that there is no real rest in this *life* as an author, then you finish one project and immediately go on to the next. Having that backlog keeps the work going and the chance of making it continue.

Timothy Joe Kirk: Middling, sometimes I've got to make a note right now but can write it and go back.

Jonathan Sweet: They can be a distraction when the writing isn’t going well on my current project. They’re that bright shiny object over there … I try to balance the demands by jotting down notes as those story points come to me and then jumping back over to the current project

Bobby Nash: When something new hits, I jot down some notes to return to later. If it's an idea related to one of the projects in some form of production, I go ahead and start writing it down. Yesterday, oddly enough, I wrote a chapter for the 3rd Sheriff Myers book, which I technically haven't started writing yet. The chapter was so vivid in my mind I went ahead and wrote it. Unusual for me as I don't generally write my first draft out of order, but I knew if I didn't, I would forget it. Or, at least part of it.

Elizabeth Donald: My ideas are never a distraction. Unfortunately, sometimes they grow into fully-fledged stories with plots and twists and characters and all those lovely nuances just waiting for me to hamhandedly put them on the screen. When they reach maturity but I don’t have time to write them, it gets annoying. I was just telling a colleague last week that I have Novel A at the nine-tenths mark with a publisher waiting, Novel B plotted but not written, Collection A half-written and Collection B at the one-quarter mark, and all of these are potentially paying projects, plus a burgeoning master’s thesis. So what’s occupying my mind when I’m two minutes from falling sleep? Novel C, which no one wants and isn’t on anyone’s schedule. Stop it, Novel C! Wait your turn!

Let's be honest, what percentage of your ideas, at least those interesting enough to record for "one day," ever really make it to the forefront of your brain and get worked on as potential stories? How do you prioritize what becomes a valid new project versus what must remain in the "not yet" pile in your inventory of ideas?

Michael Dean Jackson: Honestly, I don't know how many of the dream projects will ever see the light of day. On a good day, I'd say maybe half, but realistically I'd have to say four...maybe five... and only because I have actually taken a stab at writing those

Ef Deal: My head is full of stories all the time, but they don't interfere with my writing. If I get stuck on a piece, I turn to another idea for a bit. Then I see an anthology opening, and five new ideas pop into my head, and I write them.

What do I work on next?

Roger Stegman: From 1997 to 2006, I had more ideas than I could write, so I posted them on bulletin boards. I posted at least an idea a day, and most years I posted from 50 to 400 extra ideas a year. Going through some at one time or another, one or two a month were really good. Most were drivel, but I never knew that until long after it was posted.

Jonathan Sweet: A pretty small percentage. The ideas keep coming because that’s the easy part for me. The unused story idea is the wonderful, perfect, unspoiled nugget. Sitting down and cranking out the stories are always more of a challenge. I’ve accepted that a lot of these ideas will never make it to full story form.

HC Playa: I don't really have extensive notes. I might scribble an outline, some brainstorming plot, and conflict ideas, but I tend to keep it all in my head until I build a world that is too complex. Sometimes I'll get a story started, run into a plot issue and set it aside, but that's the extent of my "idea" log.

Ernest Russell: To date, I've had three accepted and are awaiting publishing. There are perhaps half a dozen with progress made on them. Currently, I have nothing on a deadline. I've been working in collaboration on a novel, I have a sequel to a novella started, and an ongoing story a friend and I share just for the fun of it. Once the first draft of the novel is completed I have a collection I've worked on here and there, I want to concentrate on it. It's the furthest along of my different WIPs. It has the benefit that I already know there is interest in it. Beyond that, Whichever one strikes my interest. When it does, magic happens. Sometimes, nothing happens.

Bobby Nash: I don't know numbers, but there are germs of ideas that will probably never go beyond that unless another idea comes along that adds to that idea. Ideas are always flying at me, but there's more to a good story than just an idea. Sometimes, you have to wait for the right idea and character to meet.

Elizabeth Donald: I’d say maybe 30 percent of my ideas eventually come to fruition, but they may linger in the Marinade file for years. One concept went through five iterations before it morphed into the project that I sold. And really, that last part is what’s key to which ideas become a valid new project and which ideas go to the back of the line. Harlan Ellison once asked me how many stories I had sold, and I flubbed the question because Harlan made me nervous. But it occurred to me later that he didn’t ask how many ideas I’d had, or even how many stories I’d finished to my satisfaction. He asked me how many I had sold. Because when you do this for a living, that’s how you pay the rent. I’ve been told that perhaps I focus too much on the salability of a project, perhaps to the detriment of the art. That’s possibly true, but there’s also a lot of privilege to the idea that we should do art first and market second. When you have the rent paid by other means, maybe you can do art first. But when you feed your family by the written word, you need to prioritize what you can sell and keep your work out where the eyeballs can find it. So call me a craven commercialist, but buy enough of my books so I can go write Novel C, would you? That book won’t shut up.

B. Clay Moore: Just had a new book approved with a publisher, and should be outlining it while waiting on the contract, but another old idea that I'd partially developed with an artist a decade ago jumped up and bit me, and I'm now polishing that to pitch. 

If an idea is good but doesn't fly, I always keep it in the back of my busy brain.

My organization is more like "dis-"

Jay Requard: I would refer to the answer in my second question, but basically if it sticks with me for a bit I finally get to writing it down in an outline. I do have outlines I will never touch in that notebook, but I also sold three stories last year from something I wrote two years ago in it. I'm also proud to say I've completed a number of them as well.

Timothy Joe Kirk: Quite a few, sometimes I find a better way to approach the idea later.

Matt Hiebert: Three novel-length ideas in the background. If I start something I have to finish… at least a first draft. I plan to finish at least two of the novels.