Category: Blog (Page 12 of 26)

An Excerpt from “Monsters at Dusk”

Monsters at Dusk

For the past five months, I’ve been working on a new book. Today, I’m thrilled to share a piece of that book with you.

Just to be clear, this is a real thing (not like that April Fool’s joke a while back). It’s a short story collection and it’s called Monsters at Dusk. About 40% of the book is comprised of previously published short fiction. The other 60% is original material.

As the title implies, this collection is all about monsters. They range from real to imaginary, folkloric to original, and literal to figurative. The “dusk” part refers to the transitional state of all these monsters; each undergoes a significant change. (Also, I think Monsters at Dusk just sounds cool.)

In the coming weeks, I’ll share story titles, the book cover, and further information about the collection. For now, I’ve got an excerpt for you.

This sneak peek comes from a story called “The Megrim.” Weighing in at nearly 20,000 words (or 75 Google Doc pages), “The Megrim” is the collection’s lengthiest piece. I began writing it late last year while concluding edits on Gerald Barkley Rocks. It was one of those rare instances where I simply started writing without any specific story in mind. I imagined a snow-covered village, a bookish priest, an always-hungry mercenary, and a mysterious monster lurking in the woods surrounding them. The name of that monster came to me immediately: The Megrim.

“Megrim” is not a made-up word, by the way. I first heard of it here:

Megrim

Anyone who knows me knows of my love for the OG trading card game, Magic: The Gathering. One of the game’s most underrated elements is its use of language; there’s no shortage of obscure and interesting words in card titles. With names like “Avaricious Dragon,” “Abhorrent Overlord,” and “Immaculate Magistrate,” the game has no shortage of evocative words. So when I discovered “Megrim” wasn’t copyrighted, I stole it.

Not only did the word sound right for my monster, its definition aligned as well. According to the New Oxford American Dictionary, megrim is an archaic noun that means “depression” or “low spirits.” (Megrim also refers to “a deep-water flatfish of the European Atlantic coast,” but we’re not talking about that.) The words fit the monster, and so its title—and the story’s—were decided.

From there, the initial ingredients mixed together to form an epic fantasy/mystery hybrid, with a bit of horror sprinkled in. I loved writing it. In my (admittedly highly-biased) opinion, it’s the best story I’ve ever written.

So, without further ado, I give you an excerpt of “The Megrim” from the collection Monsters at Dusk. If you’d like to read the entirety of both, make sure to check back in the coming weeks for the official release date. Enjoy!

 

The Megrim

by Kyle A. Massa

 

1

When the first child vanished in the night, I called on the High Temple for aid.

Piebald the Cobbler laughed at me for doing it. “You’re always worrying, Pureman,” he said the following day as we trudged over fresh snow. “Too much for a young man like you. These children, they go wandering, they come back. I’ve got a boy of my own, you know. Once this one starts missing his sweets and his bed, he’ll return.”

Yet a day passed without sign of the child.

Halfmoon was his name. He had a permanent smile and a skill for mimicry. His imitations of Asrith the Librarian, Glubb the Builder, Murple the Veteran, and myself always drew laughs. Our little town felt colder after his disappearance, and not only due to the constant snowfall.

Each day I awaited a response to my message from the High Temple. Though I sent my fastest bird as courier, there were many leagues between our village of Greengrove and, well, anywhere. What’s more, we were surrounded by the Creaking Wood. Had my bird fallen prey to some creature of the forest? An owl? A hawk? Or something worse? Each day I waited. Each day I worried.

The second child disappeared three nights after the first. Her name was Zel and she was Bregna the Butcher’s daughter. She used to cry when her mother cut meat because she pitied the dead animals. I inspected the ground outside her home for tracks, but the night’s snowfall left nothing behind.

“I know who took them,” Pia announced one afternoon while we prepared the Temple for evening prayers. She was my apprentice, a girl of 11 with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. “Obviously, this is the work of a cannibal. Probably likes the meat from the young ones. It’s more tender, I’d wager. Easier to mince.”

I tipped my head to the sky. “My apologies for her morbidness, Goddess. She reads too many fictions.”

“Not so many as you,” Pia snorted. “When will you tell the Goddess I’m ready to be a Purewoman? You said I was the other day.”

“I did. Though I believe I used the word ‘soon.’”

“Soon. Maybe. Someday. Never. When adults say them, they all mean the same thing.” She sighed. “Who do you suppose took the children, then?”

My gaze drifted out the window to the trees beyond. “I am not certain we’re dealing with a ‘who.’”

The snow fell, our village of Greengrove slept uneasily, and the next morning, my bird returned bearing a note. It was sealed with the mark of the High Pureman.

For Pureman Wendyll, it read on the outside. On the inside: Help is on the way.

#

2

A woman strode into Greengrove three days later. When she saw me, she spat.

I was certain she was a woman, yet she had the frame of a man: broad in the shoulders, thick in the arms, legs of solid rock. Her smile revealed several missing teeth. Her black hair was shaved on either side but lengthy down the middle; it formed a braid that hung to the small of her back and appeared heavy enough to double as a whip. She wore two axes, the heads of which peaked over either shoulder like stern metallic faces.

Again, she spat. I cannot say it was the best first impression.

The woman’s next action, after the spitting, was to squint at me with a combination of curiosity and distaste. “Is this Greengrove?”

“It is,” I replied. “Are you journeying to the capital?” I loved my town, but I had no illusions of its appeal to outsiders (or lack thereof).

“Been there before. It reeked. You the Pureman here?”

“I am. Wendyll is my name, Pureman Wendyll. And you are?”

The woman extended a hand. The hand was missing a pointer finger. That gave us something in common, for I too was missing fingers. Three, from my right hand.

“Name’s Nairn Lockwood,” she said. “Sent by your High Pureman to solve your little mystery.”

Nairn Lockwood. Nairn. Lockwood.

I’d heard the name before—or rather read it. Nairn Lockwood was a mercenary from distant lands who’d fought battles and liberated prisoners and dared to accept missions no sane person would take. Nairn Lockwood was the subject of countless books ranging from fact to fiction to somewhere in between. Nairn Lockwood was called Life-Ender, All-Warrior, Death-Blessed, and, for reasons I’d never discovered, No-Leftovers.

Nairn Lockwood was, in a word, legendary.

“Forgive me,” I said, taking her hand and shaking it. “I had not expected…”

“What? A woman? And an ugly one at that?” Her laugh sounded like a boot scraped over gravel. “And I hadn’t expected a schoolboy in a holy man’s robes. How old are you, Pureman? Eleven?”

“One and twenty,” I said, forcing a smile. “You misunderstand me. I had not expected the Temple to send someone of your reputation. Is it true you defeated the Champion of Luxdale in single combat?”

“Aye,” she said, dipping into a pocket and retrieving a strip of dried meat. She chewed, swallowed. “Thrice. I killed him, then someone claimed his sword and called himself the new Champion of Luxdale, so I killed him too. Then a third one named himself Champion—killed that one next.” She squinted at the sky. “Hmm. Was there a fourth one in there? Can’t recall.”

“And the conflict in the Nightlands. Did you truly negotiate the peace yourself?”

“More’s the pity. That war was good fun. But Empress What’s-Her-Name offered me thrice my weight in gold. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m a hefty lass.”

“And what of the Ventillion Mystery?”

“Wasn’t much of a mystery,” she mumbled through a mouthful of jerky. “Not after I solved it.”

“And now you’re here.” I pursed my lips. “Which I’m happy for, truly happy, but…isn’t this job a bit mundane for someone of your reputation?”

Lockwood said nothing. She only stared at me. The sound of wintry wind spoke for us.

“Lady Lockwood? Did you not hear me?”

“I did. But I don’t answer stupid questions. Now…” She finished the rest of her jerky in three titanic bites, then plunged her massive hands into her coat. “Shit on a brick, where’s that damn writ? Supposed to get me free lodging. And more important, free food.” (By now I was beginning to understand the “No-Leftovers” title.)

I inclined my head. “I’ll take your word for it, Lady Lockwood.”

“Oh no. No more of that ‘Lady’ shit. Lockwood is fine enough. Say that.”

“Lockwood, then. We thank you for coming.”

“Aye, whatever. Now where’s the dead boy?”

I blinked. “Girl. The latest is a girl. There are three of them in total: First a boy named Halfmoon, then a girl named Zel. And a third one just last night. My…my apprentice. Pia.” I swallowed down tears—I’d cried enough of those already. “They’re not dead, Lady—I mean, Lockwood. They’re only missing.”

“If you say so. Show me where the last one disappeared.”

“Her home? I think it best not to disturb the family at a time like this.”

“Do they want the boy to be found?”

“Girl. She’s a young girl.”

“Whatever. Do they want her found?”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“Then I’ll do some disturbing. Lead on, Pureman.”

Reluctantly, I led her through the streets (well, street) of Greengrove, to the home of Pia and her parents, Lara and Lorn. Our houses and shops were buried in snow, yet still I knew them: the leaning old library, Bregna’s box-shaped butcher shop, Glendon Glubb’s small abode, Mollo Murple’s even smaller one. And, rising above them all, the looming bulk of Lendo the Versatile’s mansion.

We reached the house a minute later. It was a modest dwelling, humble even for our little slice of the world. We stood on the edge of the village, mere yards from the trees of the Creaking Wood. Their bare branches reminded me of exposed bones. I dared not look too long.

“Here. This is Pia’s home.”

“‘Is’? You speak of this girl as though she’s still alive.”

“I pray that she is, and the others. The Goddess shall protect the young and innocent. I’m sure of it.”

Lockwood spat, then produced a blue sphere from another hidden pocket. “The Goddess protects nobody and nothing. In my experience, missing is usually dead. Cockatrice egg?”

I shook my head. Lockwood shrugged, then cracked the shell upon her knuckle and slurped the contents. “Mmm. I like them raw. Toughens the tummy.” She tossed the remains aside, approached the house, and thumped the door.

I hurried after her. “Pia is a curious girl. Insatiable. No matter how much she knows about a subject she always wants to know more. She reminds me of myself in that way. One day she’ll lead a Temple, and I’m sure she’ll do a better job of it than I have. She’s a kind child, a resourceful child, and she’s only just gone missing. I do hope you’ll be soft with her parents. This is a trying day for them. Will you promise me that?”

I stared at the mercenary. She stared back at me.

She said, “Sorry, did you say something? I wasn’t listening to any of that.”

The door swung open to reveal a woman and a man. The woman had thin lips and hair like straw. The man had a round belly and no hair at all. Both had red-rimmed eyes.

Lara and Lorn. Pia’s parents.

“Pureman,” said Lara, inclining her head. She then regarded Lockwood.

“This is our investigator,” I explained. “Nairn Lockwood. She’s come to help us find Pia.”

“Greetings. You know the name. A pleasure to meet me, I’m sure. Yes, all the stories are true. By chance do you have any pickled basilisk tongues? I’m fresh out of snacks and still feeling a bit peckish.”

Lara and Lorn gaped at Lockwood as though she was a speaking bear. “We…no. We have none.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Show me the last place you saw her.”

The couple led us through their house. It was a compact space, just a common area, two bedrooms, a hearth. The floorboards groaned with each step Lockwood took.

“Pia’s room is here.” Lorn pointed to a door, and then he began to weep. That made his wife weep, and together they excused themselves.

“Why do the bereaved always start crying before I can ask them questions?” Lockwood muttered.

I frowned at her. “Have you no compassion?”

“Com. Pash. Un.” She shrugged. “Never heard of it.” She pushed me aside and pressed into the room.

I am not a large man but Lockwood is a large woman. In that room there was barely enough space for us both. The window stood ajar, a detail which was common to all three disappearances. I relayed this information to Lockwood. “No noise in the night. No evidence of forced entry, not with any of them. Only open windows, like this.”

Lockwood poked her head out the window. She looked left, right, up, down. She turned, leaned over the child’s bed, and sniffed. “Are we to assume nothing’s been touched since last night?”

“I believe so.”

“Then look at the sheet. Tossed aside as if she rose from bed for a late-night pastry.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about thinking. Hush.” Her eyes bounced about the room: the bed, the door, each wall, back to the window. They stopped there. “A sleeper would have a clear view out that window, yes? Don’t answer that—I’m thinking aloud.”

She wasn’t wrong. From her bed, Pia would see…

“…The Creaking Wood,” I murmured.

“Aye. That.” Lockwood poked at a gap in her teeth with her tongue. Then she sprang to the bed and dove under the sheets.

“Lockwood!” I cried. “What in the name of the Goddess are you doing?”

“Putting myself in the victim’s shoes. Somewhat literally. Children don’t wear shoes to bed, do they?”

“But—but you’ll corrupt the scene.”

“Or I’ll have a sudden epiphany. Perhaps both. Now move, Pureman. You’re blocking my view.”

She was here to solve the mystery, I reminded myself. She was here to find Pia, and Zel, and Halfmoon. The High Pureman sent her to save our poor children. If she could do that, I could endure her rudeness. I released a breath, then stepped aside.

Lockwood stared out the window at the trees beyond. “I’m a little girl,” she chirped. “Imagine I’m just an innocent girl dreaming of candy and sunshine and whatever the hell else the little shits dream of. I’m dreaming, dreaming, and then—ah! Who’s that at my window? Pureman, stand outside the window for me.”

“What? Whatever for?”

“For the sake of authenticity. I must needs visualize the event, and you seem the sort who lurks outside rooms at night. I’m asking nicely.”

I don’t believe she was, but I stepped through and hauled myself outside anyway. “Does this suffice?”

“It’ll do.” She took a moment to consider me. “Are you sure of your age, Pureman? You still look like a child to me.”

“Now probably isn’t the time for such talk, Lockwood.”

“Very well, child. Knock on the window.”

“Knock? Why must I knock?”

“Must you question my every order? Just do it!”

I knocked on the window.

“Not so loudly, you dolt. You’ll wake the girl’s parents and be found for the villain you are.”

My face turned red. I do not often feel anger, but at that moment, it surged through me. “I did not commit this terrible deed!”

“Perhaps not, but you’re acting. You know of actors, yes? You have one here in town, I hear? Actors pretend, and so must you. Softly, please.”

I knocked. Softly. Lockwood nodded to herself. She rose, feigned drowsiness, then tottered to the window and climbed out, just barely squeezing through the frame. She stood there next to me and pondered. She stroked her chin with a finger—or would have, if the finger had been there.

“Sheets tossed aside, window unlatched, nothing broken, nothing heard. I do believe our girl went willingly to her captor.”

A fine observation, yet one I’d already deduced with the previous two disappearances. I informed her of this, and she glared at me.

“Fine then. A step further. I believe we’re looking for someone from your town, likely an older, charming presence. Someone others admire and respect. This is no stranger nor monster—this is someone the girl trusted, and trusted well enough to approach in the dead of night. What’s the population of this place?”

“Forty nine,” I said. “Or 50, if you count the babe in Lady Lobell’s womb.”

“That’s our list. Next comes a process of elimination. I suppose we can start by scratching off the babe.”

“But can you be certain we’re dealing with a human?” I countered. “Could it not be something more…supernatural?”

“Supernatural?” Lockwood made a face like I’d just removed my clothes and rolled in the snow. “What’s your evidence, Pureman? A sign from your Goddess?”

I pointed downward. Lockwood followed my gesture. Her eyes widened.

“Ah,” she murmured. “Interesting.”

Tracks. Tracks in the snow beneath our feet. Jagged, splayed shapes, monstrous and strange. Seven toes on the left foot, six on the right. Though our own tracks intermingled with them, these were significantly larger—perhaps two or three times the size. I had seen the tracks of the wyvern in a volume from the library, and the gray lurt, and the five-eyed lizapog. These tracks belonged to none of them. This was something much larger—and plainly not human.

I must admit, I relished the shock on Lockwood’s face, however briefly. “We townsfolk already tried following them,” I said. “They become lost among the underbrush of the forest. Yet their presence reinforces my theory. This was no human. This was the work of the Megrim.”

“The Megrim?” She laughed. “But why not the Wooly-man, or the Frostling, or the Naked Sprites of the Woods?”

I did not rise to her gibe. “Follow me,” I said. “I have something you ought to see.”

###


Kyle A. Massa is the author of the novel Gerald Barkley Rocks and the forthcoming short story collection Monsters at Dusk. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. He lives somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats.

 

© Kyle A. Massa, 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.

Pulp Fiction and the Art of Non-Linear Storytelling

Movie script

Pulp Fiction is a great film. I don’t think I’m alone in thinking this.

One reason I dig this movie is its non-linear narrative style. Rather than employ a traditional cause-and-effect plot, writer/director Quentin Tarantino sequences Pulp Fiction out of order, on purpose. If each scene is a card, it’s safe to say Tarantino shuffled his deck. Or, more accurately, he stacked it.

Non-linear storytelling is challenging. Nonetheless, the payoffs are quite strong when it’s done well. Here are three benefits to using non-linear narratives.

Satisfying Complexity

While conventional storytelling is often made better by trimming complexity, non-linear stories work in a different way. Deciphering them is half the fun.

For example, you’ll remember a scene in Pulp Fiction in which Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames) pays Butch (Bruce Willis) to lose his next fight. In that  same scene, Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson) enter the scene wearing faded t-shirts and boxers. It’s a little odd, especially considering the previous scene in which they wore sharp suits. We don’t discover what happened until later in the film: Vincent accidentally shot a guy in the back seat of his car, making a bit of a mess. Those nice business suits had to go.

This is one advantage of non-linear storytelling. You can present an intriguing element in your timeline, then explain how it happened later.

Intersecting Characters

In non-linear stories, the main plot can often be divided into smaller subplots. This presents myriad opportunities for character arcs to intersect.

Take, for example, Honey Bunny (Amanda Plummer) and Ringo (Tim Roth). They’re the first characters we encounter in the film, and by the end, we’ve almost forgotten they appeared at all. Yet when Vincent and Jules enter the diner in the film’s final scene, we realize that all four characters were in the same place all along. We just didn’t know it yet.

It’s these intersections of plot that I just love. They’re super interesting, and they create a puzzle-like wonder for the writer. Where do these plots intersect? How do the paths of these characters cross?

Time Distortion

I think one of the coolest and weirdest parts of Pulp Fiction is the scene in which Butch kills Vincent. Whoops, spoiler. Anyway, I love that scene.

It’s cool and weird because Vincent is kind of the star of the movie. So there’s a big “What just happened?” moment when he’s killed in such an inglorious way. And yet, as mentioned earlier, Vincent’s death doesn’t preclude him from appearing once again in the film’s final act.

This departure from the linear plays two parts. For one, you get a jolt of confusion, especially if it’s your first time watching the film. When Vincent reappears after his death, you might ask yourself, “Wait a second…didn’t he get shot?” Then, as the scene plays out, we realize we’ve actually jumped back in time. And we finally find out where the t-shirts came from.

Also, the time shuffle adds a hint of sadness to that final diner scene. Because even though the film ends with Vincent and Jules walking off into the sunset, so to speak, we know that Vincent will later be killed. Sure, he’s a hitman. But he’s a likable hitman.

Non-linear storytelling is endlessly fascinating, and Pulp Fiction proves it. If you’re looking for a master class in the form, I highly recommend it.


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now on Amazon Kindle.

You Need To Turn Off Your Internal Salesperson

If you hadn’t noticed already, this is a post by Levi Jacobs. And, as I’m sure you can tell by this website’s URL, Levi Jacobs is not my name. We’re doing a guest post!

Levi is a fantasy and science fiction author I’ve known for a long time. He’s a hardworking, innovative writer and he’s neck deep in independent author marketing tactics. Without further ado, I’d like to hand it over to him. Levi, the floor is yours.


It’s an old adage in writing that you need to turn off your Internal Critic if you’re going to get anything done. Maybe that’s why the same adage-dispensers advise us to write drunk and edit sober, because booze turns off the critic (or makes him or her more entertaining, at least). And for the most part, it’s good advice. You don’t know how good something is until it’s written (which yes, means you really should finish that novel)—but that’s not what we’re here for today.

Today we’re talking about turning off the Internal Salesperson.

Salesperson? you ask. I don’t have a salesy bone in my body.

Ah—but do you want readers? Do you want somewhere in your heart of hearts to give the finger to your middle manager and boldly earn your living writing stories in your PJs?

If so, you will eventually meet your Internal Salesperson. She is the one who wakes up wondering if anyone downloaded your book, if anyone read pages (this extra torture reserved for those of us with books in Kindle Unlimited, meaning we can see daily how many pages of each book the world has read). And she is the one who will say, tugging at her checkered and elbow-patched jacket, that there is really no point in writing today, since no one’s reading your stuff.

Now if you happen to be selling gangbusters, perhaps you can ignore this advice. Maybe you want, in fact, to turn on your Internal Salesperson (you’ll have to find out what he’s into). But likely even for you, oh Gangbusters-Selling Author, there will come a day when you load up your sales dashboard to find a much lower number than you or your Internal Salesperson hoped for. Maybe even a zero.

And for many of us, that zero has a pernicious way of translating into our word count for the day. Of unlocking the closet in which we have stuck our Editor for those few precious hours that we get to tell stories, and we all three stare at a blank page, saying, “Well no one’s going to read it anyway—they haven’t even read book one,” and, “This is obviously garbage—remember how much we revised Book One? And still no one’s reading it,” and maybe even, “Do you think our middle manager took that middle finger the wrong way? Maybe we could send him a nice email, see if he’s got any work around.”

No, friends, the Internal Salesperson is not your friend. She’s either inflating your ego to the point the Internal Editor can’t get a word in edgewise, or they’re piggybacking on each other to make sure you feel too dismal about your hopes as an author to actually do the work of authors, which is writing, of course.

So what to do? Turn the Salesperson off of course.

Easier said than done, because sales are the best estimation we have for how many people are reading our books, and most of us authorly types are very interested in people reading our books, and smartphones make it oh-so easy to check how many people have purchased said books, and the tab is right there on your computer as you sit down to write. And the minute you click that tab, the Salesperson wakes up, and he is sure to have an opinion. And you haven’t even had your coffee yet.

So, some strategies:

One: Set your expectations low. Set them at zero, in fact. Then, if you’ve had five pages read today, why, that’s five pages more than you were expecting! If someone’s bought your book, the Salesperson is sure to be pleased! Meditate on that fact deeply: you are getting read. You’re doing it. Then go happily about your words for the day.

Two: Don’t look at your sales every day. A watched pot never boils. If you’re the one in charge of running your advertisements, etc., then set a day once a week to evaluate the last seven days and make changes. But this refreshing the KDP Dashboard every 15 minutes? You’ve got to quit it.

Three: Don’t look at your sales until you’re done with words for the day. This is my approach: I get my words in, I sometimes get a little rush of joy when I see good numbers, and when the numbers aren’t stellar, my Internal Salesperson often has something useful to say.

This is his territory, you see: he has as little place in the word document as a used car salesman has at the Tesla factory. But out on the lot? The Salesperson is your man. Even if he’s not a particularly wise or informed fellow, his negativity may spur you to action (yes, you will have to tell people about your book to sell copies at first), and often he’ll have some insight about a slogan, or key word, or ad image, or salesy what-have-you that will get a few more people to read your words.

And that’s the whole point. So maybe you do need to learn how to turn on your Internal Salesperson, as well as turn her off. She has her place, as your Internal Critic does.

It’s just that most of the time, that place is locked in the closet. You run this show, not the Salesperson. Run it how you like.

Hope that helps.


Levi Jacobs is the author of the fantastical Resonant Saga, as well as the near-future science-fiction novel ACHE and the forthcoming Water of Night series. He has received the Colorado Gold award in Speculative Fiction, taken first place in The Zebulon Fiction Contest for Science Fiction, and had shorter work published in Spark: A Creative AnthologyJungle Crows, and Perihelion SF. Hailing from North Dakota, with much of his formative years spent in Japan and Uganda, Levi has an MA in Cultural Anthropology and sells fruit in the oil fields to make a living. Learn more at www.levijacobs.com.

Research Tips for Writers: Lessons from Jackie Chan’s Uncle

Research books

When I was a kid, Jackie Chan Adventures was one of my favorite shows. No, this series didn’t actually offer research tips for writers (at least not that I remember). But it did have Jackie Chan’s uncle, Uncle.

Uncle had a lot of catch phrases. One of the best was this: “You must do reee-search!

…Listen, I promise it’s better when you hear him say it. Anyway, Uncle’s message still rings true today, especially for writers. We must do research!

Full disclosure: I do not like research. It might be one of my least favorite aspects of writing. It’s time intensive, sometimes not so interesting, and isn’t actually writing. Nonetheless, whether we like it or not, research is essential to writing a good book. Here are some research tips that would make Uncle proud.

Ask Others for Help

Just to be clear, I’m not suggesting that you hurl a dusty tome at your friend and say, “Tell me what it means!” Instead, try learning from people who’ve already done the research you need.

For example, I recently completed a short story entitled Virus/Affliction/Condition/Curse. I very much hope to share it with you soon. Without giving too much away, it’s a story that relies on legal procedure. And since I’m not a lawyer, I knew I’d have to do research.

Fortunately for me, I got lucky. A member of my writer’s group is married to a lawyer, and she very kindly offered to read my story. Afterward, she provided excellent feedback on the legal aspects of my piece. This allowed me to add legitimate experience to my writing without doing the research myself.

So my first research tip for writers is this: talk to people who know what they’re talking about.

Avoid Researching Too Much

Research sharpens the details of your story. But in and of itself, research doesn’t make a good book. We still need strong characters, compelling plots, rich settings, and more.

Instead of dropping sick beats of knowledge on every page, focus on details that are actually relevant to your story. If your book takes place during the Civil War, for example, yet the entire thing is about one specific battle, you might not need to research the entire war for months on end. That time might be better spent actually writing the book.

A good rule of thumb is to begin with enough research to feel comfortable. Then write! When questions come up along the way, delve further into the details.

Accept Common Historical Misunderstandings

During an interview on Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy (my favorite podcast), author Mary Robinette Kowal offered an interesting anecdote about research for writers. Her latest novel of the time took place in Victorian England. And in this novel, she used the word “dude.” Yes. Dude.

Her beta readers challenged her on that, and for good reason. Dude is the proper title of Jeffrey Lebowski, not some old English term. Right?

You might be surprised. Through research, Kowal found that the word “dude” did indeed originate from Victorian England. So even though she was correct in using it for her book, she still couldn’t. That one word disrupted readers too often.

Yes, I suppose this is a fairly niche example. But I think it’s worth discussing. If you’ve researched an established norm in pop culture and concluded it isn’t technically correct, you might as well use it anyway. It’ll be cleaner than explaining the truth.

In the words of Uncle, we writers must do research. I hope these tips help.


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now.

Zombies, Storytelling, and Why Dead Ideas Don’t Die

Zombie

If someone tells you a genre, subgenre, or story trope is dead, they’re probably wrong. Like a good old rancid zombie, stories never die.

Speaking of zombies, consider zombie stories. They’ve made regular appearances in American cinema (both big screens and small) for decades. Some zombie stories work, some don’t, but one thing remains the same: they just keep on coming back. Kind of like, well, zombies.

Take, for example, the latest star-studded zombie movie. It’s called The Dead Don’t Die. It’s written and directed by Jim Jarmusch and it stars Adam Driver, Bill Murray, Chloë Sevigny, Selena Gomez, and Steve Buscemi. (Also, for some reason Tilda Swinton plays what appears to be an albino mortician wielding a samurai sword.)

You’d think stories about local law enforcement battling zombies with makeshift weapons would’ve fallen out of favor. I’d guess if you wrote this screenplay, some might say something to the effect of, “The world doesn’t need another zombie movie.” And yet here it is. Another one.

No matter how many times a story’s been told, it can always be told again. In today’s blog post, I’ll do my best to convince you.

Consider Station Eleven

In 2014, you’d probably guess readers had had their fill of post-apocalyptic fiction. Within ten years of its release, we had The Road (and a film adaptation), World War Z (with a film adaptation), The Left Behind series (plus many adaptations), The Host (adapted), The Passage (adapted), and The Water Knife (no adaptation yet). And if we expand this list to include original films, consider After Earth, WALL-E, The Book of Eli, This Is the End, and my personal favorite of the bunch, The Happening. Oh, and let’s not forget one of the most popular shows of all time: The Walking Dead.

So, as you can see, there was no shortage of post-apocalyptic fiction around the time the book was published. Some, in fact, complained there was too much of it. Yet that year Emily St. John Mandel released a novel called Station Eleven. It received all kinds of acclaim, such as nominations for the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction, and the National Book Award. In 2015, the novel won the Arthur C. Clarke Award.

(By the way, if you haven’t read Station Eleven, you really should. It’s an amazing novel with an unusual narrative style, interesting characters, and a rich story.)

So why did this work? Why did Station Eleven succeed when it seemed we’d hit a saturation point on post-apocalyptic fiction?

Nobody Cares About Subgenre as Long as It’s Good

Station Eleven works because it’s an excellent book. It’s that simple.

Of course, for writers, it’s not really that simple. Writing greats stories takes years, even decades of dedication and practice. And even books of great quality aren’t always commercially successful.

Yet I feel many writers (and for that matter, publishers) get too concerned about what’s been overdone. The truth is, you really can’t overdo any subject. We saw this with Station Eleven, and who knows? We may see it with The Dead Don’t Die, too.

Look to vampire fiction for another example. I’ve submitted my short fiction to many online publications, and there’s one guideline I notice over and over: they don’t want vampire fiction! We all know who’s to blame for that. But I think it’s a mistake to proclaim vampire fiction off limits. After all, vampires are cool (so long as they don’t sparkle). They’re embedded in folklore across centuries and cultures, so clearly we have a fascination with them. All we need is a great vampire book or movie, sort of like the Station Eleven of vampires, to reignite our interest in the subgenre.

What Does This Mean for Writers?

I’m a writer, so I like writing about whatever I want. I’m also a reader, so I like reading good books. It would sadden me if I or anyone else abandoned a book they were passionate about simply because they thought their subject matter was “dead” to audiences.

Well guess what, friends. The dead don’t die. No genre, subgenre, or subject is dead. As long as we write good stories that mean something to us and our readers, our work will have a pulse.

So go read Station Eleven. If you see The Dead Don’t Die, let me know what you think of it. And, if you have a story you want to write, write it. I can’t wait to read it.


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now.

The Question of Simplistic Morals in Epic Fantasy

What’s one of the key differences between J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire?

Nope, I don’t mean the treatment of dragons. I’m not thinking of dwarves. And no, I’m not referring to uses of the word “fucking.” I think the key difference between these two giants of the genre is their treatment of morals.

The Lord of the Rings has clearly defined sides: The Fellowship is good. Sauron is evil. Though some characters switch sides (most notably Saruman), it’s mostly obvious who you should root for and against. A Song of Ice and Fire is far less clear. The series was more or less written in response to LOTR, and one can see how: The characters in this series are morally dynamic, all of them ending up somewhere in the middle.

I’ve heard a lot of readers suggest George R.R. Martin’s approach is the better one. ASOIAF is more realistic, making Tolkien’s LOTR simplistic by comparison.

Yes, I agree. Lord of the Rings’s morals are simplistic. But I don’t think simplistic morals make for a worse story. Quite the opposite, actually.

Listen, I love both of these series. I ranked them in the top two of my fantasy power rankings. But I think there’s something to be said for Tolkien’s clearly-defined good and evil.

First of all, fiction is often about wish fulfillment. One of the most satisfying elements of a story is seeing an event reconcile itself within a truncated timeframe. Oftentimes, these are huge problems which realistically can’t be solved, at least not in the way presented. For example: a character reconciles the death of a loved one. Though this process would likely take years, fiction allows us to view this process within a few hundred pages. Wish granted.

Let’s bring this conversation back to Lord of the Rings. The wish fulfilled by the end of the novel is that all evil is vanquished. The One Ring melts into the lava, and boom. World saved. That’s a wish everyone can get behind.

Of course, we’ll likely never see a reality without evil. But fiction need not reflect the possible. Rather, it’s satisfying because it shows the impossible coming to life.

While I love A Song of Ice and Fire, it’s all too often a reminder of the world’s nastiness. If that’s what you’re into, I can see why you love it. I love it, too. But since the world is already a place filled with atrocities and death and violence, sometimes it’s nice to get away from all that in a book, rather than be reminded of it.

Sometimes the very best fiction is transportive rather than reflective. When we step into Middle-Earth, we can’t help but feel that we are elsewhere. We’re in a world where there are good people who fight for justice, where the seemingly insignificant become heroes. We get a little bit of that in Westeros, but mostly we get Red Weddings. Listen, I’m getting married soon. I don’t want to read about Red Weddings right now.

So yes, The Lord of the Rings is kind of simplistic. But sometimes, that’s what we need most.


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now.

3 Reasons to Join a Writers’ Group

When I say “writer,” what image comes to mind?

You might picture a veteran wordsmith hunched over a desk, scribbling away at the last pages of a swollen manuscript. You might picture a twenty-something at Starbuck’s equipped with coffee and a laptop, earbuds blasting something by Radiohead. Or you might picture a guy with an axe chopping a hole in a bathroom door.

Anyway, there’s a common thread among all these hypothetical writers: they write alone. And though writing is often an individual activity, being a writer should be collaborative.

One of the best ways to collaborate on your writing is to join a writers’ group. Here are three reasons why you might want to try it.

They Encourage You to Write

For me, the next project is always more exciting than the current one. When I’ve been working on the same characters for three months, sometimes it’s difficult to muster the same enthusiasm I once had.

That’s where writing group members come in. If you’ve got a good group, they’ll encourage you to keep working on your projects. In my group, for example, we always start our critiques with compliments. This often gives me the confidence to proceed with projects I might’ve otherwise tired of.

They Provide Deadlines

Deadlines are powerful. And when you join a writer’s group, deadlines come free.

In my group, we always send submissions one week before meeting times. It’s not a hard deadline, per se, but we all respect each other, so we stick to those deadlines.

Though they might seem intimidating, deadlines are actually awesome. They force us to finish our work rather than return for the hundredth rewrite.

They Give You Great Book Recommendations

This one might not be obvious, but it’s true. The best writers are great readers. So, odds are your fellow writers will recommend great books you’ve never heard of. They might be fiction or they might be about writing itself. Whatever the recommendations are, you can be sure you’ll enjoy them.

I’ve found that since everyone in our group shares more or less the same interests and goals in writing, I’ve gotten some great book recommendations from them.

I’m Convinced! Now How Do I Join?

I discovered my writers’ group on Meetup. There are also numerous online groups one might join, such as Codex and WritersCafe. And, of course, Googling “writers’ groups near me” could work. Join a group today!


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now.

Announcing Wee Stories: 1,001 One-Word Tales

You know that second between chewing a Cheez-It and swallowing it? Or the moment it takes to flush a toilet? What about those 10 idle seconds spent waiting for the light to turn green?

For the voracious reader, these moments are opportunities. All you need is a story of the proper length.

With that thought in mind, I’d like to introduce you to my latest book. It’s called Wee Stories: 1,001 One-Word Tales.

Wee Stories Cover

If you maximize your screen by about 200 percent, you might be able to read the text on this cover. This is an intentional artistic decision, one that reflects the minuscule size of the stories within. At one word each, they’re the shortest short stories you’ll ever read. They’re so short, in fact, that I call them microstories.

Novels take months to read. Short stories take hours. Even flash fiction stories take a few minutes. But microstories? They take mere seconds.

Consider this one. I call it Crossing at Dawn. Here it is, in its entirety.

Turtles.

It took me six months to write that piece. I tried to imagine what animal would be most likely to cross a road at dawn. A squirrel felt unremarkable, a chicken too cliche. Finally I settled upon the present form. I’m thrilled with the results.

There are 1,000 more microstories in the book but I’d rather not spoil them for you. Instead, I ask you to purchase Wee Stories when it goes on sale in June.

Until then, I encourage you to think about how many microstories you could’ve read in the time it took to read the blog post. By my count, it should be about 200 or so. Now that’s efficiency!


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now.

The Anatomy of a Line Break

Writers can do a lot with a line break.


Whether it looks like the one above or the one below…

#

…the line break is a fantastic tool for writers. I’ll admit, I think I have more fondness for it than the average person does. Truth be told, I might use it too much. But no matter—today, I’d like to share my love of the line break with you. Let’s get started.

Line Breaks Suggest A Narrative Shift

In my fiction, some of my weakest writing comes when I’m trying to get my characters from one setting to another. I often find myself over-describing their form of transit, or what they saw during their journey, however brief. It’s rarely important to the story I’m trying to tell and often ends up feeling boring.

That’s why I love the line break. It’s an elegant way to suggest this idea: “Hey reader. We’ve shifted settings.” It cuts down on extraneous words and boring scenes. If a transition scene is a long, windy road through the mountains, think of a line break as a shortcut.

In addition, line breaks are an excellent way to signal point of view shifts, particularly within a chapter of a novel. There’s no better way to write from multiple characters’ points of view without cutting your chapters short.

Line Breaks Suggest a Passage of Time

When jumping from one scene to the next, adding a line break is an excellent way to show that there’s been a slight passage of time since the last event. Just make sure it’s slight.

Are you jumping ahead a few minutes into the next scene? By all means, use a line break. Are you jumping ten years into the future? You probably need something a bit more obvious.

In other words, line breaks are excellent for signaling relatively brief shifts into the future. Less so when we’re talking dramatic leaps forward.

Line Breaks Provide Heavier Meaning to Parting Words

Let’s say you’ve got a profound piece of dialogue floating around in your head. Where should you place it for the optimal impact? I’d suggest just before a line break.

Words often gain greater emphasis when they come at the conclusion of a paragraph, scene, or chapter. Recency plays a huge part in memory, so it makes sense that the last thing we read would be the most memorable.

I hope you now share my love of the line break. Try using it in your writing!


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now on Amazon Kindle.

The Grand “Finish It!” Initiative

Finish It!

I’ve noticed a trend in my short stories. Many of my drafts have no endings!

Let’s back up a moment. I’m releasing a short story collection in June called Monsters at Dusk (more details coming soon). As part of the collection process, I scoured my hard drive for on-theme stories. I found a bunch. Problem is, many are unfinished.

I doubt I’m the only writer with this issue. When a story’s not working, it’s tempting to abandon it and start fresh with another. Therefore, I’ve assigned myself a new task. I call it “The Grand ‘Finish It!’ Initiative.”

The initiative is simple: I won’t allow myself to move on from a draft unless I’ve completed it first. Here’s why I’m doing it (and why you might want to do it, too).

We Need a Structure

Completed first drafts provide structure for later drafts. They’re ugly, but they’re essential.

I tend to forget this. Midway through the writing process, I sometimes think, This story isn’t that good. Truth is, I’m probably not wrong about that—detail is almost always lacking in a first draft. But first drafts aren’t final drafts. First drafts are structure. We sometimes worry too much about setting, character, and specificity in early drafts when we should focus on the underlying structure. This leads to abandonment.

That’s not to say we should blindly accept everything we write. Some pieces are experiments. Others are educational experiences. We might finish a draft and decide it doesn’t work, and that’s okay. However, it must be a finished draft before we can fairly make that determination. After all, you wouldn’t look at a sketch of a painting and decide the painting’s unworthy of your time. You can’t decide until you see the final product!

We’ll Become More Selective About What We Write

Writers often have more ideas than they’ll ever be able to write. By committing to completing every story, we’ll become more selective about the projects we take on.

This comes down to mindset. Imagine writing with this notion: If it’s not working, I’ll quit on it and move to the next project. What’s the point of being picky? You can explore any old idea just to see where it takes you.

Now imagine this mindset: I’m going to finish what I start. This approach speaks of discipline and careful selection. If we don’t allow ourselves to abandon half-finished projects, we’ll prioritize our best ideas. Doing so focuses our work and ensures we use our limited time in the best way.

Of course, there’s always room for experimentation. Furthermore, for some writers it’s impossible to tell which ideas have the greatest potential without writing them first. However, the point remains: Focus your efforts on your most powerful ideas. They’re the ones you’ll be happiest to complete.

We Need to Practice the Entire Form

Finishing a draft from start to finish allows us to practice the entire process. If we proceed to the next project without finishing the present one, we’re not getting enough practice on endings.

I consider this in terms of sports. Let’s take basketball as an example. Between dribbling, rebounding, shooting, passing, defending, and more, there are numerous skills a basketball player needs. Depending on their position, a player might excel at one skill or another. However, in order to play at a high level, a basketball player needs competency at every skill. Shaq was a bad shooter, but he at least knew the proper technique.

Likewise, an author must practice every step of a story. Sure, some authors might excel at establishing a world or surprising readers with second act twists. But if we don’t finish our work, we’ll never develop our ending skills. That’s like a modern basketball player shooting with two hands.

For an example from the literary world, look no further than fantasy author Brandon Sanderson. He wrote somewhere around 10 complete novel manuscripts before he published his first. Those 10 were full practices. If he’d decided to move on to the next before finishing the last, he might never have developed a talent for writing entire books.

Conclusion

As part of the Grand Finish-It Initiative, I’ll do my best to never proceed from a project until I’ve finished my current one. I hope you do the same!


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now on Amazon Kindle.

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