Category: Blog (Page 14 of 26)

Gerald Barkley Rocks is Available Now!

Cover designed by Nathan Rumsey

What’s the overlap between fame and immortality? Is rock really dead? Are cats hiding something from us? These are a few of the questions that inspired my first novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks.

Let’s start with our protagonist. Gerald Barkley is a soon-to-be retired homicide detective who’s forgotten by most people as soon as they meet him. He’s also been diagnosed with a rare blood disease. When he wonders if anyone will notice when he’s gone, Barkley always comes to the same conclusion: Seems unlikely.

We contrast his life with that of Julian Strange, lead singer and principal songwriter of seminal rock band Black Cat Waltz. Strange is dead, and it’s up to Barkley to figure out why. The question is, how did Strange die? And what does it all have to do with Barkley himself?

Gerald Barkley Rocks is one part detective story, one part rock-and-roll elegy, and one part supernatural comedy. Buy your copy for  Amazon Kindle today!

So that’s what the book is about. Why should you read it?

For one, this book will appeal to anyone who likes rock-and-roll culture. I grew up not only listening to The Who, The Rolling Stones, and The Doors, but also reading the stories about them. In fact, I’d say the stories behind these groups are just as interesting as the music they made. They served as key inspirations for this novel.

You’ll see shades of Jim Morrison in Julian Strange, plus hints of Keith Moon, Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, Meatloaf, Ozzy Osbourne, Robert Plant, Warren Zevon, and maybe a few other guys. Heck, I even drew inspiration from This is Spinal Tap, which remains the greatest satire of rock-and-roll ever.

One thing I’m hoping I did not do is glorify the subculture. I love classic rock music and probably always will. But if you read enough about the people who made it, you’ll find that they were by and large not very nice folks. Many musicians of that era cheated on their spouses and regularly caused untold amounts of property damage. And the casual misogyny of the music is quite obvious.

Nonetheless, their stories are good inspirations for fiction. I tried to strike a balance between celebrating the music and questioning the behavior of those who made it when appropriate. Hopefully I succeeded.

You might also enjoy Gerald Barkley Rocks if you’re a fan of detective stories. I’ll admit, my knowledge of the subgenre is more localized to film; Chinatown, Hollywoodland, and The Ghost Writer are a few that particularly influenced this novel.

Lastly, my main goal with this book is to touch on the topic of death (but not in a super morbid way). Generalizations are dangerous, but I think it’s safe to say that most people fear death. I know I do. Humans have been speculating about what follows it for forever, and though there are many guesses, nobody can know for sure.

In Gerald Barkley Rocks, I’m not trying to answer that question. Rather, I wanted to tell a story about a character who’s not sure what comes after death, either. Which, in turn, might tell us something about life.

I think Gerald Barkley Rocks is a good book (though I admit I’m a little biased). I hope you feel the same way!


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 Rocksis available now on Amazon Kindle.

Gerald Barkley Rocks Arrives This Friday!

Cover design by Nathan Rumsey

I’m thrilled to announce that my debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, will be available this Friday, December 7th on Amazon Kindle! Here’s a synopsis:

Gerald Barkley is no stranger to death. Being a longtime, no-nonsense Los Angeles homicide detective, he sees it almost every day. Yet when his own demise draws near in the form of a rare and incurable disease, he’s not quite as prepared as he thought he’d be.

Add to that Barkley’s latest case: The mysterious death of Julian Strange, frontman, founder, and principal songwriter of seminal rock band Black Cat Waltz. Strange has been found with a copy of the world’s oldest song. What could it mean? And what does it have to do with his former bandmates and Gerald Barkley himself?

A supernatural detective story with a splash of rock-and-roll and a hint of humor, Gerald Barkley Rocks examines life, death, and what might come after both.

If you’d like to learn more, read this exclusive excerpt.

And don’t forget to sign up for my email newsletter below. You’ll receive an email when the book is live, plus a free short story just because you’re awesome. Enjoy!


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.

Staying Shameless When Self Promoting

Buy My Book!

For writers, self promotion is like visiting the doctor: necessary, but often uncomfortable.

Whether online or in person, self promotion can feel a little icky sometimes. So, when it comes down to tooting our own horns, here are some tips on how to toot without feeling guilty.

For starters, remember that everyone, even non-writers, must promote themselves now and then. Take the job interview, for instance. We show up with a piece of paper listing our GPA, accomplishments, and past employment. Then we talk about ourselves for an hour. Promoting our writing is no different, and no less essential.

Even if we don’t like promoting ourselves, I’m sure we all like the work we promote. Why else would we spend so much time on it? We write because we love what we write, plain and simple. We should never feel bad about sharing that love with others.

A great way to overcome the initial discomfort of self promotion is to pretend you’re a publicist for another writer. Pretend that your favorite author wrote your book and that you’re telling a friend why you love it. What makes it special? What makes it unlike other books? I’m sure you’ve done this before with someone else’s book, so try it with your own.

A truism of writing applies to self promotion as well: show, don’t tell. In the above picture, my cat Luna orders you to buy her book. This form of self promotion is a tad aggressive. I’ve seen a lot of writers do it, both online and in person. I’ve done it myself a few times. Trust me—it doesn’t fly. Luna might instead share her published work on her website (see how shameless I was there?). If visitors like what they see, they’ll be far more likely to do as she says and buy her book.

Yes, self promotion feels weird. But we need to do it. So instead of feeling weird about it, let’s embrace it. Let’s have fun with it. It’s called shameless self promotion for a reason.

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.

3 Ways to Scare the Pants Off Your Readers

Wait, no, keep your pants on. I’m only being figurative.

Happy Halloween to you, reader! If you like the frightening, the demonic, the monstrous, or the sugary, today is your day. That goes double if you’re into horror fiction. And maybe triple if you write it.

So, as a horror writer, how can you scare the pants off your readers (again, figuratively)? It’ll take more than just ghouls and guts. In this post, we’ll cover three classic writing techniques from famous horror writers. And…go!

Hinting at Future Tragedy

Warning your readers about looming danger creates a nice sense of dread. It’s the literary equivalent of the murderer sneaking up behind the lead character in a movie: You can see it coming, but you can’t stop it. 

For an example, look no further than the modern master of horror himself, Stephen King. In his 1983 novel Pet Sematary, King explores the cost of death—and life. When the Creeds move into a new home in Maine, they find an ancient burial ground that magically resurrects the dead.

In this novel, there’s a particularly sweet (and later tragic) scene in which the main character, Louis Creed, flies a kite with his son, Gage. Here’s an excerpt:

“I love you, Gage,” [Louis] said—it was between the two of them, and that was all right.

And Gage, who now had less than two months to live, laughed shrilly and joyously. “Kite flyne! Kite flyne, Daddy!

There it is. Gage only has two months to live. Here we get a sense of tragedy. This poor little kid is going to die! In addition, the hint establishes that dread I mentioned earlier. We know that Gage will die, so for the next few chapters, we fear that moment. We know it’s going to be bad. We know it’s going to be horrifying. Yet it’s going to happen no matter what.

Inverting Natural Rules

Forget about flying—pigs shouldn’t be able to talk. Yet a pig talks in Clive Barker’s short story Pig Blood BluesAnd it’s nothing like Babe: Pig in the City. Check it out:

[The pig] watched them through the slats of the gate, her eyes glinting like jewels in the murky night, brighter than the night because living, purer than the night because wanting.

The boys knelt at the gate, their heads bowed in supplication, the plate they both held lightly covered with a piece of stained muslin.

‘Well?’ she said. The voice was unmistakable in their ears. His voice, out of the mouth of the pig.

“His voice” is the voice of a character named Henessey who hung himself and was subsequently eaten by the pig. Yummy.

Why is this so disturbing? Well, for one, because it’s impossible. In both horror and fantasy fiction, the impossible happens. The key difference, I think, is exactly what impossible things happen. In fantasy, the impossible inspires awe or wonder. Think Rivendell in The Lord of the Rings or Quidditch in Harry Potter. By contrast, the impossible in horror inspires fear and shock. Think the Monster in Frankenstein or Dracula in Dracula.

This is what we see in Pig Blood Blues. It’s horrifying to think that a pig might eat a corpse. It’s even more horrifying to think that the pig might then be possessed by the spirit of the boy it ate.

Turning Narrators Insane

The crazy first-person narrator is a hallmark of horror fiction. Just take the work of H.P. Lovecraft. He often wrote in the first person, and many of his stories end with narrators claiming that they aren’t insane (even when they are). Take his short story “The Rats in the Walls” as an example. Here are the closing lines:

When I speak of poor Norrys they accuse me of a hideous thing, but they must know that I did not do it. They must know it was the rats; the slithering, scurrying rats whose scampering will never let me sleep; the daemon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to greater horrors than I have ever known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the walls.

For context, the narrator ate Norrys. Yeah, like Hannibal Lector.

The horror here is the fragility of the human mind. At the beginning of the story, our narrator is clearly sane. He seems confident, intelligent, and refined. Yet when he sees what lies beneath his family’s ancestral home, it drives him mad. That’s all it takes. The line between sanity and madness is thin. There’s nothing like a first-person narrator to illustrate this idea.

Happy Halloween!

Okay writers. We’ve learned some scare tactics from the best in the genre. Now let’s go scare our readers!


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.

A Hidden Track: A Night with Black Cat Waltz, written by Bob Spellman for Soundwave Magazine, 1975

It’s Halloween night and Black Cat Waltz has sold out the Nebula Lounge in downtown Los Angeles. The feeling is electric.

“I hope they play ‘The World’s Gone Red.’” I overhear a young woman say this to a young man beside her. She’s dressed like Dorothy and he’s dressed like Toto. She smokes what is either a hand-rolled cigarette or a joint—the smell suggests the latter. “This is gonna be interstellar.

The night is crisp and tangy as an apple, which fits the season (it’s cold, especially for L.A.). I stand in a line that winds around the corner and out of sight. It’s composed of cats, vampires, ghosts, pixies, Holly Golightlys, witches, John Waynes, hobos, and more. I myself am dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, and loafers. If anyone wonders what I’m supposed to be, I’m prepared to say, “Journalist,” which is of course entirely true. Anyway, no one’s asked yet.

The mood is a rope ready to snap. Bits of B.C.W. songs float up from the cacophony, with different voices joining the chorus as they hear it. Shouts of “Let us in!” and “This should be a free event, man!” echo into the night. Cars pass cautiously, as if fearful of the gathered crowd.

Indeed, one can sense the single-mindedness of this group. This is not some random assortment of young people out to hear some live music—this horde is here for Black Cat Waltz. Or, perhaps more specifically, it’s here for Julian Strange.

I hear snippets of conversation. Oddly enough, they’re all about Mr. Strange. This seems nearly impossible when I reflect on it. No one’s talking about the end of the war or Jaws or Patty Hearst or the Thrilla in Manila. Here in this line on this night, we only talk about the man and the band we’re about to see.

“Open the doors!” someone shouts. And another person quotes, “You can’t see the forest from the trees, when you’re dead and beaten and down on your knees!”

Someone else: “Julian Strange will live forever!”

And another voice: “Open those doors, pig! We want in, pig!”

Presumably, that last comment is directed at the bouncers on either side of the door (though they’re not policemen, so far as I can tell). They stand there grumbling and looking murderous. The wrong annoyance would give them an excuse to hurt someone, I’d guess. They’d probably enjoy that.

A fight breaks out somewhere in line. Two of the club’s bouncers peel away from the door to end it. That gives others hope. Three men dressed as the Three Stooges make a break for it. They get halfway through the door before they’re hauled off by a fresh pair of bouncers. Curly screeches, “We just want to see him! We just want to see him!” That leaves only one man defending the entrance. He suddenly appears a deal less confident than he did a moment ago.

The moment doesn’t last long. The doors open a crack and a message is relayed; the single man at the door pulls it the rest of the way and stands aside, like a surfer avoiding the rush of a tidal wave. I’m pushed from behind and suddenly I’m running forward with the rest of them. It’s either that or be swept under.

We crash through the open doors and flood into the lounge. I spoke to the event promoter earlier in the day and learned the maximum capacity for this venue is 1,001. Judging by the size of the line outside, I expect the health department will receive a call sometime soon.

The chanting begins as soon as we’re inside. One name, repeated over and over again: “Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange!” There’s a band here tonight, though you’d think it was a solo act.

The chant continues and grows louder as new voices enter the space. I attempt to order a drink with little luck—Gandalf and a Janis Joplin look-alike cut ahead, and suddenly a fresh wave of bodies rushes forward. Oh well.

When the lights dim, the audience screams. The lights come up again, and for the first time I notice the stage is littered with gifts. Wrapped boxes, flower bouquets, lingerie, packs of cigarettes. More follow them.

The stage itself is a modest platform ringed by more expressionless men in black shirts. The crowd tries an approach, but even their shoving can’t break these guys. At least not yet. The equipment behind them is all set up: a many-piece drum kit, Marshall stacks, wires, monitors. One single microphone in the center of the stage. Rumor has it that while the other members of the band can sing, Julian Strange won’t allow it; he wants only his own voice heard during shows.

Figures appear onstage. The crowd explodes. My eardrums whine with the sound of voices, so many voices collected into one. The figures are as follows:

Warren Wilder, the band’s guitarist. He’s dressed as William Shakespeare, complete with a ruffle around his neck, tights, and an ink-stained quill in his ear. His blonde hair is shaped in the style of the Bard’s. He slips his Fender Stratocaster over his shoulder and bows to the crowd.

Then there’s Francisco Jones Jr., the band’s drummer. He places a foot on the shell of both his bass drums, and suddenly he’s standing atop his own kit, arms held high, forming a cross with his drumsticks. He’s dressed as one of the three little pigs, making the whole scene all the more surreal.

Next, Luther Bangs, the band’s bassist. I think he’s supposed to be a blueberry though I’ll admit it’s difficult to tell; he wears a blue shirt, blue pants, long blue socks, a blue hat over wild hair. Maybe he’s just a guy wearing blue clothes. He dons his Gibson Grabber and waits, elbows propped upon the top edge of his instrument, one leg crossed over the other. Bangs stands just out of reach of the stage lights, a man in the shadows. He fires off a bass lick, his fingers flowing deftly over four fat strings and composing a flawless scale.

Then comes a pause while the three men wait. There is a fourth member of Black Cat Waltz and the audience knows he’s back there somewhere. Their chant begins again, louder than ever before.

“Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange!”

Yet still no man himself. They roar, they shout, they scream their throats bloody, all for him, all for Julian Strange. Someone has fainted beside me and her friends are trying to haul her out while still keeping their eyes on the stage. The chanting continues.

The voices grow louder, somehow. It doesn’t seem possible, yet it’s happening. And they grow louder still at the sight of the curtain parting behind the stage.

An immense figure approaches the mic. His night-black hair is a silky curtain and his beard cascades down his face like a rushing waterfall. He wears a formless white gown. The room’s gone hazy with smoke, but one can still make out the crown of thorns circling the man’s forehead. Blood (I hope fake blood) leaks down his face and into his eyes. He raises his hands and reveals more on his palms. It would appear the origin points are two deep gouges in the centers of his hands. If I could see his feet from where I’m standing, I’m sure he’d have identical wounds there as well.

The man standing at the mic is Julian Strange. He’s dressed as Jesus Christ. Maybe tonight there’s no difference between the two.

“Good evening ladies. Good evening gentlemen. Good evening felines.” His voice is a comet rippling through space. More screams, most of which sound orgasmic. “Good evening, my children. Happy Halloween. I hope you came to sing and dance.”

More howls, more calls. The man’s presence is like blow to these people. I must admit, even I am drawn to his energy. He has a magnetism unlike any I’ve encountered, and he hasn’t even started singing yet. It’s amazing. It’s strange.

Julian Strange purrs something into the mic. “Do you need an exception to the rule?”

Jones strikes his crash cymbal, Wilder thunders a tremendous chord, Bangs’s fingers slide down the neck of his bass, and suddenly we’re off into the first song, this one titled, “An Exceptional Boy.” It’s a tongue-in-cheek semi-autobiographical song about Julian Strange’s own life, stylized as a musical tale about a boy named Little Mudge who loses his voice. (Mudge, of course, is Strange’s real surname.)

The audience erupts. There are no seats in the Nebula, but even if there were, I doubt anyone would be sitting. They bounce up and down and jerk from side to side and dance like devils around a pyre. They hang from low ceiling rafters and are eventually pulled down by security. They rush the stage and are cast backward. They reach for Strange and they shriek wild words. The music drowns them out.

No sooner has the song ended than another begins. The next one is “May I Have Another?”, a subversive condemnation of those who make war.

Strange preens about the stage, leers at the audience, jumps so high that at times he appears to float. A man his size shouldn’t move the way he does, but I’m watching it and I know it must be real. On the guitar, Warren Wilder’s fingers dance over his fretboard. His string bends are impossibly crisp. I’ve seen Hendrix, Blackmore, and Clapton live, and though this man isn’t them, he is damn close. Behind him, Jones rages away at his drum kit, striking it like an enemy in battle. And Luther Bangs stands off to the side, edging closer still to the backstage. His rumbling improvised basslines wind around the main melody and form a counter-solo to Wilder’s, yet the man himself is almost like a ghost. One might wonder where the sound of his instrument comes from.

They play “There’s Starlight in Your Future,” “Cue the Music,” and “Sing Us a Song (But Not That One),” all in rapid succession. The room itself seems to bounce; the air is heavy with the smell of marijuana and booze and human perspiration. At first I recoiled from the Halloween fabric rubbing against my skin, but now I’ve accepted it. In this room, one is not allowed personal space.

I keep expecting a mid-set break, but Black Cat Waltz never takes one. They continue with a pair of ballads: “Love is for Strangers” and “Janine.” Their energy seems inexhaustible. Julian Strange has by now torn off his gown to reveal the hairy chest beneath, which seems to contrast with the usually hairless image of Jesus Christ. He’s also not so skinny.

Some cops have entered the floor. At first I take them to be attendees in costume, but when they snatch joints from people’s lips and haul them toward the exits, it becomes clear they’re the real deal. One of them gets up toward the front of the crowd and screams something into the ear of one of the security guys. The guy listens, leans back, shakes his head, and shrugs. If they’re trying to shut the whole thing down, it seems that’s not going to work.

Onstage, Waltz plays a song called “Mortal Man Blues,” a psychedelic 12-bar jam from their first album which stretches as long as 15 or 20 minutes when they play it live. I have no idea how deep we are into this rendition; their presence on stage seems to warp my perception of time.

At some point, the bulkiest and meanest-looking cop of the bunch bellows something at the audience. Problem is, he’s having a shouting match with Luther Bangs’s amplifier. He’s not winning. His face is all red and spittle flies from his mouth; the veins in his thick neck stand out like clutching fingers. He screams, and no one reacts. All we hear is Black Cat Waltz. He waves his arms toward the exits, even tries dragging someone off, but he’s a siren in a hurricane. He’s been rendered meaningless.

After another minute of this impotent posturing, the cop turns to the stage. The band has not stopped playing since they started, and it’s almost midnight. I can’t see the cop’s face, but I can imagine the expression upon it: awe, disbelief, hatred, embarrassment. When he turns back to the crowd, he’s deflated. He disappears within the audience, and I don’t see him or his men again.

By now the show is winding down. I never thought it would happen, truth be told, except they’re now playing “Interplanetary Freeway,” which is another double-digit minute composition. This one always comes before the encore, I’ve heard. It’s as good as you’d expect, down to the improvised guitar jam, an extended drum solo, and a bit where Strange repeats Wilder’s guitar licks with nothing but his voice.

“We thank you,” Julian Strange says to the crowd when it’s all finally over. “You’re the best audience we’ve ever had.” (I’m told Strange makes this assertion to every audience he plays for.) “We’ve got to be going now. Bless you, thank you, and goodnight.”

Shrieks as they leave the stage. The lights go out and we’re plunged into blackness. Maybe it’s the reefer mist I’ve been inhaling, but I swear I’m seeing things in the dark. Glowing eyes, bared fangs, leathery wings, tails, tentacles, tongues. They must be costumes—though I don’t recall them looking so horrifying in the light.

A woman’s voice asks if I’d like to make love on the floor. I decline, explaining that I’m actually working. She growls something that sounds more animal than human. I’m jostled and bumped from all sides. Twice I’m nearly knocked off my feet. I don’t know what’s going on around me, but I don’t question it. This is no longer Halloween—this is the night of Black Cat Waltz. Of Julian Strange.

They’re calling Strange’s name again. This time it’s louder than before, more desperate. They scream and cry and beg not for Waltz, but for Strange himself.

An amplified voice answers them. “Meow,” it says.

The crowd shrieks, the lights come up, and there they are. Black Cat Waltz.

For the encore, Julian Strange wears his crown of thorns and nothing else. This, of course, is completely illegal: appearing before hundreds of people entirely naked (with a massive erection, no less) is not exactly by-the-book. It doesn’t matter. The music plays on.

The band launches into “Gift to the Universe” and the crowd sings along. Pure hive mind, as if everyone in the room knows every word. I even find myself joining them, though I’ll admit I don’t know the whole song. Doesn’t matter. My voice joins the others and for a while, there is no individual singer. Even Strange’s voice, loud as it is, weaves together with the rest. We’re all one for this last number, and it is glorious.

When they finish, Strange says nothing. He and his bandmates bow and wave and blow kisses, and then they vacate the stage without another word. It’s an amazing feat, what they’ve accomplished. The crowd seems finally sated. They turn their backs on the now-empty stage and head for the exits. I follow them.

Outside, the night feels colder than it should. You don’t have to listen long to hear voices singing the songs. They disperse into the dark, yet a part of Black Cat Waltz stays with them. A part of tonight will stay with me as well.

I spot Dorothy and Toto wandering down the sidewalk, arms locked around one another. Dorothy says, “See? What did I tell you? Inter-fucking-stellar.”


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.


© Kyle A. Massa, 2018. 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.

Ignoring the Internal Critic

My Internal Critic is a jerk. So is is yours.

Everyone’s Internal Critic says the same things in different ways. It tells us we’re not good enough, that we shouldn’t publish our work, that other writers are better. Internal Critics are those voices in our heads that remark, “I don’t think I would’ve used that adverb.” I’m going to date myself here, but I imagine the Internal Critic as a mini Simon Cowell.

Yes, the Internal Critic can be a jerk. And the truth is, you’ll never quite silence it. However, I believe you can learn to listen to it less. Here are several ways to do it.

Take a Break

Internal Critics love criticizing current projects. Nostalgia usually prevents them from lambasting older projects; anticipation does the same for future projects.

Therefore, guard your current project by making it a past project. Take a break. Let your Internal Critic forget about the mistakes of the past. The Internal Critic is usually an opportunist—it likes going after whatever’s closest. Put down your project, then come back to it.

But make sure you come back to it! Don’t let your Internal Critic talk you out of your work. When you return, you’ll probably be more objective than you were before. There will likely still be problems, yes, but you’ll also spot delightful bits you hadn’t noticed before. That sharp line of dialogue will jump off the page. That sick description will spark your imagination. It will impress even the Internal Critic. So don’t miss this opportunity!

Remind Yourself of the Next Draft

Hey, Internal Critic. There is such a thing as a second draft. In fact, the first draft is always bad. So don’t criticize it so harshly.

Reiterate this to yourself (and your Internal Critic). The first draft is bad, yes, but it’s also just the beginning. Criticizing a first draft is like criticizing a team at their first practice. Of course it’s going to be bad. Of course there will be mistakes. Expecting immediate perfection isn’t just unfair—it’s downright unrealistic!

Improvement is an iterative process. If your Internal Critic forgets that, remind it.

Listen (A Little)

It might sound odd, but sometimes it’s beneficial to take the Internal Critic’s advice—at least at the beginning. For example, imagine you’re writing a novel with multiple point of view characters. Four of them work great, but the fifth feels increasingly unnecessary to the plot. Cue the Internal Critic.

“Hey buddy. IC here. Listen, I’ve been wondering. That fifth POV character. Umm…why?”

Despite the obnoxious tone, you might try considering the Internal Critic’s critique. Treat it like you would any member of your writer’s group. If it’s helpful advice, use it. If it’s just the Critic being critical, discard it.

A Few Exercises to Try Against Your Inner Critic

  • When you feel your Inner Critic pushing you, push back. Evaluate all the reasons your Inner Critic is wrong.
  • Hey Internal Critics! Just because you aren’t the best doesn’t mean you’re not good. That would be like saying Scottie Pippen is bad at basketball because Michael Jordan’s better. Pippen’s still one of the all-time greats, even if he’s not the greatest. So, even if you aren’t as good a writer as Margaret Atwood or Kurt Vonnegut, that doesn’t mean you aren’t a good writer. And if you work hard enough, maybe someday you’ll become better than both.
  • If your Inner Critic constantly reminds you how hard writing is, say, “Yeah. You’re right!” Writing is hard. Writing is very hard. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. In truth, it’s a good thing. Because most of the best things in life require dedication. Easy tasks are forgettable. Difficult ones are meaningful.
  • Remind yourself that everyone has an Inner Critic, and that everyone’s Inner Critic is hardest on themselves.

Let’s ignore those Internal Critics as much as possible. Who needs ’em, anyway?


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.

The Power of Revision

Here’s a fact of fiction writing: nobody gets it right on the first try.

You’ve probably heard the phrase “great books aren’t written—they’re rewritten.” I totally buy this. It’s the power of revision. It’s chiseling a block of formless stone into a statue. I found this out first-hand with a recent project.

A few years ago, I wrote a manuscript entitled Who the Hell is Julian Strange? It was a novel about a famous rock star, Julian Strange, who got whacked. The rest of the story was about all that happened in the wake of his murder. The novel’s ensemble cast featured a journalist writing Strange’s biography, Strange’s former band mate, Strange’s biggest fan (also kind of a stalker), and a few others. One of those others was a mopey Los Angeles police detective named Gerald Barkley.

For a while, Who the Hell is Julian Strange? felt like an Infinity Draft (more info on what that means here). I started and restarted and found nothing interesting enough to keep me going. Finally, I shelved the project.

Months passed. Eventually, it was my turn to submit to my biweekly writer’s group meeting. I went delving through my files and found a chapter about a guy named Gerald Barkley.

I’d almost forgotten about this piece. One line in particular jumped out at me:

“Detective Barkley sipped at his seltzer. He wondered if anyone would make a toast to him when he died.

Seemed unlikely.”

I’m not sure what it was about this sentence that I liked so much, but I wanted to learn more about Gerald Barkley. Why does he care about his death? Why does he have such a low opinion of himself? Where is he? (Also, I liked that he likes seltzer. I like seltzer.)

I revised my entire draft, this time focusing on Gerald Barkley instead of Julian Strange. Since the former is more relatable than the latter, I found the essential conflict worked much better. The characters felt natural and authentic rather than cartoonish and forced. When I finished my new draft, I renamed it Gerald Barkley Rocks. 

But choosing a new focal character wasn’t all I did. I revised. I revised for about eight months before I shared with family and friends. I spent even more time afterward refining Barkley’s story. I asked myself, “Does this book stink?” It went through many iterations, but finally, I got my story to a place I like. Gerald Barkley Rocks is not yet published, but it will be soon. I’ll let you know more details when I have them.

Anyway, my point with this post is simple: revision is essential. The first draft is never, ever good enough. Characters change, plotlines shift, and your work decides its own path. Keep on revising until you discover the story you were meant to tell. You’ll dig the results.


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.

3 Signs You’re Starting Your Story in the Wrong Place

Story Beginning

Beginnings. They’re a pain.

Starting your story might be the most challenging part of any short story, book, script, or whatever. It’s difficult to pinpoint that exact moment when the festivities should commence, and when it’s most appropriate for readers to enter your world.

In fact, your story might start in the wrong place without you even knowing it. Here are three signs that’s the case (and some suggestions on fixing it):

1. Readers Think Your Intro Needs Work

Last time I submitted a book to my writer’s group, many members were iffy on my first chapter. To put it simply, they found it boring. When I cut the chapter, I found the piece worked much better. You might find a similar solution in your work.

Why does this happen? It’s often because we’re still getting to know our characters. We might not even have a firm grasp on what our book is about, let alone our characters’ personalities. We have to explore through writing, and most of the time that exploration is done in beginning chapters. These chapters prove useful for writers, though not especially interesting for readers. Write them, learn from them, then cut them.

2. You’re Not Excited By Your Beginning Chapters

This is a telltale sign of a story starting in the wrong place. If you can’t get excited about your writing, why should anyone else?

Copywriting guru Joseph Sugarman said the purpose of the first sentence of copy is to get the reader to read the second sentence. Similarly, the purpose of a story’s beginning is to get readers to read the rest. So trust your intuition. If you feel your writing isn’t grabbing readers, it probably isn’t.

In this case, try starting elsewhere. Try a different scene, or focus on another character, or cut your previous intro entirely. When you find the right fit, you’ll feel it.

3. You Constantly Reference Events Preceding the First Chapter

Flashbacks are one thing. Constantly referencing events from before is quite another. If your first chapter is entirely backward-facing, it might be because you’ve started your story not too early, but too lateIt’s uncommon, but it happens.

This is tricky.  Some stories might have many flashbacks, even with a proper beginning. Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, for instance, is about both the present and the past. There are two parallel timelines, so numerous flashbacks are essential to the plot itself.

If you’re unsure, consider leaning on the first two signs for reference. They could point you in the right direction.

In Conclusion

Beginnings are a pain, but they don’t have to be. Regroup. Restart. Trim where necessary. Begin your story with a flourish.


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his fiancee and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction.

6 Telltale Signs You’re Reading an Epic Fantasy Novel

Fantasy is a fantastic genre. And thanks to the brilliance of series like The Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire, epic fantasy has become one of the most popular flavors of fantasy. How do you know you’re reading epic fantasy? These six signs should point you in the right direction:

1. There’s a Prologue

I’m starting to think literally no other genre has prologues. Though, to be fair, many epic fantasy novels probably don’t need them, anyway. Prologues are supposed to set the stage for the book, but often they just add a few pounds to an already hefty volume.

2. It’s Part One of a Ten Volume Series

Fantasy authors have a definite obsession with the multi-volume epic. For example: “This is part one of the first trilogy of three interconnected trilogies, all set in the same world.” Even Tolkien would be giving you the stink eye right now.

3. There’s a Map

I think it’s safe to say we can blame J.R.R. for this one, too. They’re not necessary to the story as it is, but whatever—they give authors an excuse to make up names for cities their characters never end up visiting.

4. Quotes Begin Every Chapter

These tend to be passages from books within the book or quotes from people with silly names. Either way, you don’t feel too guilty for skipping them.

5. Peasants

No fantasy story is complete without illiterate peasants, presumably speaking with cockney accents.

6. Every Character is a History Buff

In many epic fantasy novels, characters possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world—even the peasants. Which is funny, because most people in the real world probably can’t even tell you who the 30th president of the United States was (I definitely cannot). And in fantasy novels, they don’t even have Google.

Okay, that’s all I can think of for now. What did I miss? Let me know in the comments!


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.

Be Concise

Ever heard the phrase “brevity is the soul of wit”? Though William Shakespeare coined it four centuries ago, this proverb remains essential for writers.

Here’s a less fancy way of saying it: one can often do more by saying less. Here are some ways to do that with your writing.

Cut Redundant Actions

I tend to overpack my sentences with actions that don’t contribute much. For example, here’s an excerpt from a piece I’m working on now:

“‘Oh, yeah, absolutely.’ Watson smiled, nodded, and flashed her a thumbs up. ‘You’re the boss.'”

In this sentence, Watson performs three actions that express one idea: He approves of the plan. Three verbs make the sentence a tad jagged, not to mention longer than necessary. Let’s revise this to one action:

“‘Oh, yeah, absolutely.’ Watson smiled. ‘You’re the boss.'”

It’s a minor edit, but it makes a big difference.

Limit “Verb to Verb” Sentence Constructions

How many times have you heard a sentence like this: “She started to rise from the couch”? Or, “He began to collect all fifty two discarded cards”?

I’ve noticed this sentence structure in other people’s writing, as well as my own. It’s fine for emails, but otherwise clunky. But this mistake, like the last, has a simple solution: cut “started to” and “began to.” Get ’em outta here!

Of course, things get trickier when specifying timing. For example: “She started to rise from the couch when she heard a noise from the other room.” If it’s imperative to describe that timing, go for it. I’d just remember that such sentences are distracting and should be streamlined whenever possible.

Excise Adverbs!

Adverbs are words that modify verbs, usually ending in -ly. Quickly, widely, really, strongly, quietly, strangely. We all use them. While they shouldn’t be completely avoided (there’s one right there!), they’re best kept to a minimum.

Adverbs are like fat on a steak; They add weight to the cut, but they don’t have much nutritional value by themselves. Overusing adverbs slows a reader’s progress without adding anything nutritional.

For example, try this sentence, “Soley happily leapt after the bee as it carelessly flew on the softly-blowing breeze.”

This is one fatty sentence. Let’s trim it down a bit.

“Soley sprang after the bee as it glided on the summer breeze.”

The second sentence works far better than the first. The verb “sprang” hints at the happiness we mentioned in the original version, but here we get the same meaning from one word. The verb “glided” conjures up ease and grace. The summer breeze adds context to the scene while also providing subtle sensory details. This sentence now reads much more smoothly (whoops, sorry).

Like fat, adverbs are acceptable and even healthy in moderation. If you feel a particular sentence requires an adverb, use it. (Using them ironically is also encouraged.)

Since brevity is the theme of this post, I’ll keep my conclusion short. Let’s all write less!


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.

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