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

Gordon Dymowski: Ideas Three for a Dollar

As a New Pulp writer, Gordon Dymowski has written many short stories, including the 2019 Pulp Factory Award-winning tale “Knights of the Silver Cross.” He has also crafted non-fiction essays for Crazy 8 Press, ATB Publishing and the DePaul Pop Culture Celebration. He also regularly contributes to I Hear of Sherlock Everywhere and the National Institute of Social Media. He has published with Pro Se Productions, Pilot Studios, Airship 27 Productions, and Space Buggy Press.

Tell us a bit about your latest work.

Currently, I have a short story titled “The Mists of Koramu” in CNI Classified Volume 4 from Blue Planet Press. I am also working on a Sherlock Holmes tale and a non-fiction project. 

What are the themes and subjects you tend to revisit in your work?

I rarely,  if ever, think about themes when I’m writing. It feels rather pretentious and can often seem rather deliberate in a “read-this-because-it-has-the-secrets-of-the-universe” way.

Looking back, however, I find myself focusing on issues around personal integrity, social justice, and complex morality.  That’s one of the reasons I consider myself a pulp writer: I can write about such issues simply and directly without feeling like I’m pandering or lecturing. Although  I’ve been more direct in my writing about such issues (see  “One Bullet Too Many” in Pilot Studios’ Always Punch Nazis Volume One), my preference is creating fictional scenarios to explore those themes. To paraphrase  Alfred Hitchcock, some stories are slices of life...mine are slices of cake. 

What happened in your life that prompted you to become a writer?

I grew up an only child, so I learned to entertain myself by creating stories when I was alone. My mother had given me a beat-up clipboard and used computer paper when I was six, and I remember consistently drawing and narrating stories. For a third-grade paper, I wrote a story about a boy who wanders into a “haunted” house making strange noises... and discovers a lost dog. 

But both parents fostered a love of reading: my father purchased several Dr. Seuss books right after I was born. My first “alone” trip was heading to the Brighton Park branch of the Chicago Public Library where I discovered both Sherlock Holmes and Doc Savage. In high school, I was often part of the “marketing”  team for various events, even down to writing and making announcements over the intercom. (My Joe Piscopo Sports Guy impersonation is second to none).

In college, I wrote a semi-regular column for the Loyola Phoenix, as well as various humor and music zines. That led to an online writing gig with Comic Related (which you can find via the Wayback Machine), which led to Airship 27 and Pro Se Productions, and the rest, they say, is history….

But if you want something more colorful, I was rocketed to this planet by my parents when Krypton exploded. That works. 

What inspires you to write?

There’s a store on 32nd Place and Aberdeen in Chicago, just across the street from the yellow pushcart hot dog stand. Head to the hot dog stand, and ask Mike for a “Nelson Algren special, hold the poppy seeds.” After that, I’m allowed into the store and I buy ideas three for a dollar. 

You don’t believe me, don’t you?

Inspiration comes from everywhere. It’s usually a case of me finding something or someone interesting and asking “What if?”

It also comes, on some level, from my fellow creatives. My fellow writers frequently craft stories that make me go “I wish I had thought of that”, but enable me to create something different with the same vibe. My musician/performing friends inspire me to stay in the moment, to “follow my muse” when I’m “in the zone.”

(I’m Generation X, so using “quotation marks” in that context is on-brand) 

What writers have influenced your style and technique?

Let me just name names and you can draw your own conclusions: Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Sara Paretsky, Jim Thompson, Elmore Leonard, Octavia Butler, Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir, Robert R. McCammon, Robert B. Parker, Jonathan Kellerman.

Where would you rank writing on the "Is it an art or is it a science continuum?" Why?

It’s both an art and a science. 

Now, the obligatory rant: two words are used when describing the creative arts that get on my nerves. They are franchise and content. 

I know franchise is used as a shortcut for “movies highlighting a character, characters, or premise”, but it makes such entities sound too clinical. It’s like characters are fast food. But content is extremely evil since it makes any kind of creative endeavor (novel, movie, book, comic, web site copy, social media posting) as equal...and they’re not. Each piece of media serves a specific purpose and has a specific set of instructions. We’re seeing too many people call it all “equal”…

Yes, I am calling out advocates of generative AI to craft “content.” It takes more time to craft the “ideal” prompt to get halfway workable prose and “tweak” it than to think through what you’re attempting to write and craft it. 

One is focusing on quantity, the other quality. 

What is the most difficult part of your artistic process? 

Finding the time to write has been challenging, since I have been busy the past few years. Caring for my mother until her passing in 2022, dealing with a less-than-professional property owner, and regaining my professional footing have been exhausting. Plus, since my day job is focused on online meetings and consultations (I work as a copywriter and affordable housing advocate), that means I would rather not face the keyboard or sit down to write. Luckily, I manage to get some writing done per day, but it can be especially challenging at times.

Any other upcoming projects you would like to plug?  

Besides my short story, I encourage people to become a free or (preferably) paid member of my Patreon community. I’ve been working on increasing my outreach (and have been editing and writing some things), but I could really use the grassroots support. 

For more information, visit: 

Website: https://www.gordon-dymowski.com/

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/gordondymowski

Using Fiction Technique in Nonfiction

On the surface, nonfiction writing might appear to be much easier than fiction writing. With fiction, the writer has to create a distinct world, characters, atmosphere, and plot, engaging in cerebral “heavy lifting” to tell a tale. Nonfiction (in some quarters) is mostly seen as compiling facts, data, information, and the occasional direct quote. If you didn’t know better, you would swear that it took no effort to create a nonfiction piece.

But writing nonfiction can be as creatively engaging as fiction, and I have the experience to prove it. I have written newspaper editorial columns, zine pieces, pop culture essays (published in such fine collections as Rising Son Reruns and When the Shadow Sees the Sun), and even academic pieces for the DePaul Pop Culture Conference. Spoiler: writing nonfiction isn’t “easier” than writing fiction, but you can find fiction-writing techniques scattered throughout various nonfiction works.

First, consider your “main character” of the work. Whether you’re writing a biography, an oral history, or a narrative of an event, there is always a protagonist (or group of protagonists), antagonists, and a general sense of conflict. Highlighting those protagonists and their efforts, and finding a naturally occuring arc, can provide a sense of that the overall “story” is about. Harvard University professor Yunte Huang integrates themes around assimilation and Chinese-American culture into his work. Two of his books focus on specific individuals: the first, Charlie Chan: The Untold Story of the Honorable Detective and His Rendezvous with American History, not only focuses on the fictional character but also his creator, Earl Der Biggers, and how the character has impacted American culture. It also integrates Chang Apana, the Hawaiian detective who may or may not have influenced the creation of Chan, and provides insight into the relationship between a cultural assimilator and the assimilated. His latest work, Daughter of the Dragon, focuses on Chinese-American actress Anna Mae Wong‘s career and her efforts to integrate aspects of her culture into her acting and other professional efforts.  In my essay for ATB Publishing’s Outside In Regenerates, I used the fictional character of the Monk to generate insights into the Doctor Who story “The Time Meddler.”

Another technique is developing a unique atmosphere around your nonfiction subject through selected perspectives. Fiction handles this through descriptive prose and dialogue, establishing a sense of “world building” that engages the reader to dive more deeply into the subject. Two Marx Brothers-related works achieve such an atmosphere: one through engaging in a similar tone to their movies, the other through stark differentiation. Roy Blount Jr’s Hail, Hail, Euphoria!: Presenting the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup, the Greatest War Movie Ever Made provides a pitch-perfect match of scene-by-scene commentary and insight into their 1933 film that fosters both readability and strong narrative. In contrast, Robert J. Bader’s Zeppo: The Reluctant Marx Brother provides a down-to-earth examination of the youngest Marx Brother (and the one who seemingly has less of a reputation). Bader provides a historical and emotional context that provides a much-needed source of humanity and relatability to an individual who opted to wander back into relative obscurity. 

(In my Rising Suns Reruns essay “Family Bonding Through Kaiju Fighting”, I started discussing the obscure tokusatsu show The Space Giants by describing the media landscape during my childhood…but framed it through my experience. It provided the proper historical context while generating empathy and identification for the reader. After all, many of us have rushed home from school to watch our favorite shows, but very few want to have a scholarly discussion of analog UHF/VHF broadcasting…)

One final fiction technique that works well in nonfiction is adopting a casual narrative tone. Like fiction, nonfiction strives to develop a unique voice that engages the reader. Although creating an atmosphere is critical in writing nonfiction, that atmosphere will not work if the writer takes a Jack Webb-style just-the-facts-ma’am approach. Finding the right approach to discussing a subject can differentiate between a piece read repeatedly for reference and a one-shot read that informs but doesn’t last. David Maurer’s The Big Con was initially written in the 1930s as a then-contemporary linguistic exploration of “con men” culture, but grew in prominence to eventually influence such television series as Mission: Impossible and Leverage through its descriptive and engaging insights into the workings of the confidence game. Another great example comes from Patrick McCray, writer of The Dark Shadows Daybook and The Dark Shadows Daybook Unbound. His essays about the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows take a casual yet insightful look at particular episodes of the series, integrating McCray’s experiences in theater with an extensive knowledge of the series’ storylines. 

(And I’m not just a reader – I’m a close, personal friend)

Writing engaging fiction is a challenge. Writing nonfiction also has challenges, but using fiction techniques can make it easier and your work more engaging.

(Visit the author's website.)

Titles and Stories (We Got Together, Like...)

This week, let's talk about stories and titles and how they go together (or don't -- I wan't presume your process!). 

What comes first for you, the story or the title? How does one drive the other through the process?

Sara Freites Scott: The title comes first but may change after I write the story! (Which actually happened with my first book.)

Bobby Nash: It could happen either way. Most of the time, it’s the story. That said, doing series work, like Snow or Tom Myers, I like to have a page at the end that states, “Tom Myers will return in…” and so I try to have at least a loose idea and a title for the next book ready to go. I have had instances where the title changed in the process.

Sean Taylor: I find it very difficult to write without a title. I'll jot down story notes and hold off actually writing the narrative until the right title falls into place. Yes, I know that (among other things) makes me an odd duck. 

Chris Riker: First - the moment. That one heart-wrenching scene. It contains the seeds of the story. It lives at the heart of the theme. Where do they come from? I live in a stressful world. Perhaps you've heard of it. Earth? Second - a few characters. Names. Quirks. Third - The ending. Not the plot; that's different. I need to know where my characters need to get to emotionally. Lastly: WRITE!

Jerry Motyka: Yes. Sometimes I get inspiration from a title, other times I get inspiration for the story and the title comes last.

Brian K Morris: Most of the time, it's the story, especially when I'm working with someone else's characters. Then again, I've come up with a title that practically writes the story for me. Also, I have to really put on my thinking cap to come up with a halfway pleasing (to me, at least) title.

Aaron Rosenberg: Oh, story 99 percent of the time, definitely. A lot of the time I'm scrambling for a halfway decent title -- I just use a placeholder to start, and hope something better comes to mind as I get into the book properly.

Gordon Dymowski: For me, the story almost always comes first. It's easier for me to come up with a killer title for a well thought-out story than it is a story for a killer title. I have several works in progress which I have named "Untitlted [INSERT GENRE OR CHARACTER" here to make them easier to track.

George Tackes: Always the story. Something in the story inspires the title. I couldn’t imagine having the title dictate the story. Because sometimes a story can go in an entirely different direction.

Iscah: Usually the story comes first, but it depends. Originally Seventh Night was called The Magician's Apprentice, and the story more heavily focused on Phillip. Then I saw a book with the same title at the store and decided I needed a new name. As the best fairytales are named after the princess, I went with *Seventh Night*, but this meant my title character was unconscious for two-thirds of the book. So, I reworked the middle to give her more to do and a bit more of a growth arch. I do think the story works a bit better that way.

When I say the story comes first, I tend to mean the general story. I usually have an idea for the title before I have finished writing. In some cases, it's a working title. I had a story called The Littlest Vampire, which is another title that I discovered was taken. That one has been sitting on my hard drive long that I may have to retitle it again if it ever comes out.

Some titles emerge while the story is still forming. I can be glacially slow from the spark of an idea and finding time to write it. So I have several backburner novels which are partially formed and still in the notes stage. Most of those have working titles.

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. 

Best Dialog Advice You Ever Received

 

I posted an open question on my various social profiles. I asked this: "What's the best advice you ever got for writing dialog?" Here are the results. 

Josh Nealis: Dialogue is tough. Generally, on my first draft, the dialogue is more or less kind of a placeholder for kind of what I want the character to say. Once the entire story is written and I know the Arc of the character on the second and third passes you can go back and fix the dialogue to Trend in the way you want it to. Always think about what the character is trying to accomplish in that moment or 

Anthony Taylor: This: ", he said."

Cully Perlman: Stick as best as you can to “he said” and “she said” for dialogue tags. Be sparse with anything else. Especially adverbs.

Ef Deal: Tags are not always necessary. Intersperse dialogue with action instead.

Shannon Luchies: Say it aloud. If it sounds wrong, rethink it.

Lucy Blue: If you’re not sure, try reading it out loud. Would you say it? If somebody said it to you, would it get the reaction you intended? Remember, people tend not to talk in long, complex sentences even when they “monologue.” You ain’t Shakespeare; you’re writing conversation, not poetry. Dialogue is my favorite thing to write; it comes most easily to me. It’s descriptions that hang me up.

Susan H. Roddey: It should always sound natural when spoken aloud.

Lainey Kennedy: Read it out loud. You will catch more weirdness from hearing it than reading it on the page.

Devin Hylton: Dialogue is not actual conversation.

David Wright: Find the rhythm in the speech. Don't overburden with tags. Let word choice be governed by character and setting.

John Morgan Neal: As has been said by many already, read it aloud. But I would add to try and read in character. That way avoids all characters 'sounding ' the same.

Angela Hope: Death to adverbs!! (via Stephen King)

John French: (from my high school freshman English class) When writing dialogue, the rules of grammar do not have to be strictly followed.

Jessica Hodges: To help the verbal exchange between characters feel more organic, replace repetitive dialogue tags with action beats.

Jesse Baruffi: Don't spell words differently based on characters' accents. Let word choice make their accents come out.

Characters should not be constantly setting each other up for clever wordplay. Such things occasionally happen, but it is best when it's surprising, and doesn't feel like the author's hand at work.

If all the characters sound the same, it's your voice, not theirs.

Let your characters listen poorly and talk past each other, so only the reader often hears them.

Characters, even honest ones, should usually hold back their feelings and intentions as much as they can until there's no choice but to reveal them.

Also, don't have the characters tell each other things the audience already knows.

Kay Iscah: I disagree with this to a point. Some authors do a fantastic job of conveying accent with dialogue, and it creates a richer experience. But it requires really knowing and understanding the accent.

Don't use an accent to mock a character, but there is a place for regional flavor. I think A Secret Garden is a book in which this works well. But it is extra grating if done badly, so if the accent is slight or unimportant to the story, probably best not to try to imitate it.

I used a very heavy, almost unintelligible accent for one of my fantasy novels, but it was done with purpose, not to mock anyone. But I had to craft rules for it to keep it consistent.

Listen to how people speak, but dialogue can be the characters saying the things you wish you had said an hour later. Unless you need to show nervousness, minimize the "um" and rambles that often come in real conversation. And this does vary a bit by genre, so understand if you're writing an adventure or screenplay dialogue should be very tight. If you're doing a leisurely slice-of-life novel, then you can meander more.

Taylor Mosbey: Read more Mark Twain.

Anna Salazar: I go to a coffee shop and eavesdrop.

Gordon Dymowski: Make a point of focusing on how a person speaks - what vocabulary are they using? Is that person's vocal rhythm unique? Thinking of dialogue like music is one of my key go-to strategies when writing dialogue.

Ali Marceau: Write the conversation that's in your head first...actions and reactions will come to you the more you "study the lines" and you're less likely to forget the feelings of the scene.

Bobby Nash: Walk around the house reading dialogue aloud.

Scott Rogers: Give each character their own way of sayin’ something so their personality comes through. Read what you have written aloud after you have written it.

Ruth de Jauregui: Read it out loud in the cadence and accents of your characters. Words too. So if the Latino across the street says oh my god, it’s in Spanish, then continues in English with his accent. And words spelled differently to mimic the accent, ok, maybe sometimes, but if the book is filled with it, it’s hard to edit and honestly distracts from the story.

Robby Hilliard: Read it out loud. Listen to someone else read it out loud.

Eliseu Gouveia: I usually use movie actors as proxies. I had a dialogue scene where a guy was trying to convince his pissed-off girlfriend to quit smoking. So, in my mind, I projected The Shoveler (Mistery Men) for the guy role, and Morticia Addams/Anjelica Huston as the girlfriend. The results were... unexpected. 😊

John Hartness: Read David Mamet.

Jessica Nettles: Watch Aaron Sorken shows. Read Neal Simon. Listen to real conversations and language. Understand that every person has their own language music and patter.

Nancy Hansen: If I can see the character in my mind's eye, I'll figure out the background, and then the dialogue comes more naturally. Sometimes I'll hunt for the right look online, and either find it in a celebrity or other recognizable person, or maybe some random picture I stumble across. Ethnicity and local/period slang and phrasing will figure in, but as Ruth said, in small doses. Like adding spice to a dish, it gets overwhelming if you add too much. For example, in the Jezebel Johnston pirate series, which takes place in the mid/late 1600s I decided from the outset to not use the 'thees and thous' sort of parlance that was popular in the day. It's hard to do well and gets tiresome to read after a while. I do my share of pirate talk though, just not the theatrical stuff. I also dump in the occasional phrase in French, Spanish, Dutch, Italian, etc to remind readers that seafaring was a melting pot affair.

Charles Santino: Less is more. Clever is bad.

Jamais Jochim: Be passionate.

Allen Hammack: Ninety-nine percent of dialog lines should use "said." The very rare substitution should emphasize something important.

Michael McIlvain: Keep it understandable. Eliminate any possible question in the reader’s mind.

Pj Lozito: Don't let any character give a speech...

B. Clay Moore: Don't work to emulate the way people "actually speak." Work to make the way your characters speak seem believable. Also, dialogue comes easily for me once I can "hear" a character's voice in my head. That comes from *knowing* who my characters are. Everything follows from there.

Michael Woods: Dialogue isn't what they say, but how they say it.

Sorella Smith: Writing dialogue and how you tag it are not the same thing. for me, simply saying 'said' can often understate the intent of the dialogue. For others, adding a descriptor devalues the dialogue, gives too much weight to the narrative. Figuring that balance out is separate from writing good dialogue. Dialogue should be suited to the character. Dialogue isn't what should define the character, but it should inform the character and everything about the character should inform it.

Hilaire C Smith: Not really advice for writing so much as personal insight... I learned I am a wordy b**** 😂 and use $5 words regularly... the "would YOU say it like that" doesn't help me. 😂

Also, most of my characters are Southern precisely because I cannot excise my Southern roots from my grammar/vocabulary. Along those lines, some advice: avoid regional dialects as it can be done badly and come off as bigoted if badly done. Ie, it's fine to toss in a "y'all," but making a character sound like Boomhauer might not go over well and will be tiresome to read.

Aaron Rosenberg: Listen to how people speak. Hear your characters speak in your head. Read what they say out loud. Then go listen to people more. 

James P. Nettles III: I’ve been known to dictate, poorly acting out the character voices to get the first draft. And also, listen to old radio shows - very tight dialogue.

James Tuck: if you are having a conversation between two people, once you establish who's talking trust your audience to keep up. You do not have to he said she said that shit all the way down the page.

Jen Mulvihill: I listen to other people interact in dialogue and take note of how they communicate then I play it out in my head with my dialogue then I listen to what I have written in audio playback.

Shannon Murphy: Don't worry about grammar. Nobody speaks in perfect grammar. Write dialog the way people actually speak. That is, if your book is contemporary. If you're writing of another time, you'll have to research how they spoke then. No one in Victorian England is going to say, "Hey, dude!"

AIRSHIP 27 PRODUCTION PROUDLY PRESENTS THE CHALLENGER CHRONICLES

George Edward Challenger is a fictional character in a series of fantasy and science fiction stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Unlike Doyle’s intellectual super detective, Sherlock Holmes, Professor Challenger is an aggressive and hot-tempered, dominating figure. The fearless scientist was accompanied on his perilous missions by reporter Edward “Ned” Malone who narrated the adventures.

“After the tremendous success of our Holmes series, it was only natural that we’d one day take on Prof. Challenger,” reports Airship 27 Production’s Managing Editor Ron Fortier. “When Gordon Dymowski approached us about that very concept, I suggested he go ahead and write the bible for such a series. He did so with panache and just like that three of his writing colleagues signed on. We are extremely excited about this first volume.”

Now Airship 27 Production is thrilled to debut brand new adventures of this classic pulp character as written by today’s finest New Pulp scribes. In this premier volume, writers Gordon Dymowski, Barbara Doran, Michael Panush and Samantha Lienhart sent the daring Challenger to strange and exotic locales always in the search of new wonders and thrills. Artist Clayton Hinkle provides both the interior illustrations and the dramatic color cover. 

AIRSHIP 27 PRODUCTION – PULP FICTION FOR A NEW GENERATION! 

Available now at Amazon!

Thankful Writers Pass the Turkey

Let's get some November thankfulness in here on the ol' blog. I'll set the virtual table with imaginary turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce, but I'll need you to bring the thankfulness. (And don't even try to touch that mac and cheese. That's all mine. LOL)

What are you most thankful for this year as a writer? 

Ef Deal: Thankful to be writing with ease. It's as if a dam broke and the stories keep pouring out of me. I don't write many things, but I am three and two-halves into a paranormal pre-steampunk series that I just love, and book one has been contracted for publication.

Robert Krog: My first published novel.

Bobby Nash: I think I wrote some good stuff this year.

Brian K Morris: An overabundance of work.

Jason Bullock: That I survived Covid related complications when so many others didnt last year or this one.

Tamara Lowery: The invaluable source of information the author community here on FB has been in my journey to re-release my Waves of Darkness series as self-published. You guys ROCK!

Gordon Dymowski: Managing to balance creativity, work, and caregiving for Mom.

Krystal Rollins: Inspiration from you.

Tried and True Methods To Create and Maintain... Suspense!

For our next writer roundtable, let's talk suspense. What are your tried and true methods for creating and maintain suspense in your work? Feel free to quote examples you've written.

Bobby Nash: If my POV character is the one experiencing it, I use short, choppy sentences, disjointed or incomplete thoughts, distractions that move from one to the other. It feels frantic in that character's thoughts. I try to have the reader feel the character's anxiety.

Corrina Lawson: Ticking clock.

John L. Taylor: I use descriptive cues in their environment. One I used in a yet unpublished manuscript was to have a seemingly unmenacing character began talking to the POV character while Greig's "In the Hall of the Mountain King" is being played on a piano in the background. His tale gets more and more morbid with the music until the POV character realizes she's talking to the Angel of Death who's threatening to kill her entire city at the crescendo. It doesn't have to be that blunt, but even like a mounting noise like scratching, or a smell the protagonist is gagging on. Mix these with their rising suspicion or internal monologue and I find it builds effective tension. Also, have an event that the reader is waiting to happen, then tease it coming. In the same horror story, we read in the prologue that the POV character has snow-white hair. In chapter one, I describe her hair as naturally raven black. The reader knows something supernatural and extremely traumatic is going to happen, something that changes the protagonist's entire core nature. So I drop hints every four chapters or so until the event happens in the climax. Remember though, the more tense wind up, the bigger the payoff must be. So don't overdo it. Sometimes the moment you're building to isn't a climactic event, just a part of the journey. Place tension appropriately within the POV character's arc.

John Linwood Grant: I quite like to reflect the ‘feel’ of what is coming, to build suspense, by including aspects not immediately relevant to the expected action. So the time by the clock, in the first example below, is symbolic of something coming, as is the restlessness of a dead fox in the second. It’s about planting the idea that things are about to change, without saying it openly.

“The moon is near its first quarter, a bright crescent barely clouded now. The silver wound of it illuminates Commercial Street and the ways beyond. Almshouses and chapels, slum tenements and public houses, some showing a faint light. Mile End in the distance; breweries and rookeries around. The hands of the Christ Church clock, not so far away, stand at almost four in the morning…” (Assassin’s Coin)

“A dead fox stirs, unable to rest, its white bones gleaming in the tough grass. The owls do not call.” (Horse Road)

Bill Craig: Create a sense of urgency, as if the hero is racing against a clock.

Brian K Morris: In my writing, I like to establish that the character is moving towards something mysterious, unknowable. It's even better when I remove their support systems and any reasons to retreat from the danger.

Marian Allen: I put my characters out of their element or out of their depth and make sure the readers know it. In my mystery/comedy Bar Sinister, the "detective" is a naive busybody poking around a murder as if it's a fun puzzle. In my historical (1968) mystery A Dead Guy at the Summer House, the main character is trying desperately NOT to be told what happened before he was hired as a handyman, and doesn't even know a murder has been committed -- but other people think he knows ALL about it. I like for my characters to be -- with the readers' knowledge -- to approach danger unawares, so the reader can sit on a bus and shout aloud, "Don't go in there!" Good times.

Ian Totten: Stillness in the air coupled with distant sounds (cars on a highway, a dog barking) and an overall sense of quiet where the scene is taking place. If I can’t sense the dread and suspense in my head, it needs to be reworked until I do.

Krystal Rollins: Broderic Martin sat behind his desk, in his luxury office that overlooked a beautiful waterfall fountain. His office window would open about a quarter of the way up, just enough to hear the water splash back into the concrete pool below. He loved to listen to the water drop in sequence, people everywhere were in a cheery mood and police sirens whaled in the distance. After the sun went down was his favorite time to sit back and relax in his leather chair; the light bulbs in the pool lit up in color. It was mesmerizing, almost like a woman in a colorful silk nighty walking up to him. Anything that he wanted, she would do. The night secretary would quietly lock up his office but didn’t dare disturb his peaceful thoughts before she left for the night. He used the classic excuse to his wife that a couple of his friends from different states flew in for an all-night poker game. But instead, he used the time alone, the time to clear his mind, time to meditate, time he needed just to wind down. To see the colors of the rainbow under the water come to life, sometimes he broke down and cried. A cleansing. It was a life that most would love to have; a casino hotel that made him millions per year. A beautiful wife that looked at him all day through an eight by ten glass who wanted him home more with her and the children. He had employees by his side that would do anything he asked them to and top-notch security when he needed it. Broderic controlled a part of Las Vegas, taken over from his dad who did everything by the book. It was a different time, a dog-eat-dog world. His father made lots of friends, all Broderic did was make enemies and that’s why in his mind, everybody wanted to be around him. Ever since college, he always wanted to have fun all the time; dinner parties, expensive cars, children in private school and all the women his could desire.

Earl Carlson: Hideous and horrid, she stands over me, savoring her triumph, threatening me with finger wiggles, and salivating at the prospect of gluttonizing on my unsullied flesh. The blood of her last meal, still fresh and flowing, drips from her jowls, and her fangs gleam a ghastly white amidst the gore. I cannot help myself. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to shut her out – to make her go away. Please, Devla, make her go away. And I scream. All my terror, all my hopelessness, all my anguish coalesces as a flaming liquid in my belly, and emanates from my every orifice, my every pore, in one final, one last-ever, forever scream.

Gordon Dymowski: Bring your audience to attention, give them a clue as to what may happen....and leave them there.

Suspense is all about letting the audience come to their own conclusion before you add something that makes them want to know more. Only resolve the tension when there's no other alternative.

Hiraeth Publish: The best way is to create and develop a character who connects with the reader, and put that person in credible, yet outre jeopardy.

Jason Bullock: I like to take the reader through the scene at the beginning with a volley of description in and around all the senses a character could experience it in. The following paragraphs lead up to the climax of the scene like a roller coaster edging to the crescendo waiting for the moment of conflict to strike the Bailey so to speak.

Sean Taylor: There are several techniques I like to go to as my stand-by methods. The first is to vary the sentence length. Short sentences increase reading speed, which can also increase tension. Then hit 'em with a long, compound sentence for a sort of full stop, like hitting the pavement from a great height. 

Another is to use a repetitive phrase that draws readers back to the central idea they're supposed to be in suspense about. Nothing cheesy, but subtle enough to keep that ticking clock or pending appointment they just can't miss fresh in their minds. 

The sounds of letters and words themselves also contribute to suspense. Easy to skip letters like "s" and "z" and "m" give a reader a sense of peacefulness, all is well, you can just skip over this quickly and go with the flow. Hard sounds like "k" and "p" and "d" mess up a reader's pattern, almost guttural stops, potholes in the reading that keep a reader wanting to move faster in the text than they're able usually. 

But the best way, I've found is to keep asking myself as a writer, "What's the worst thing that could happen at this moment?" and then having the guts to put my characters in those awful situations until the story needs to start digging its way out of the hole.