Grave Dagger flash fiction #3
Mallory Smith balanced a carryout coffee tray in one hand, brushing hair out of her face with the other. The breeze off Lake Altana — humid and warm on this autumn evening — could be equally pleasant and annoying.
“You named it what?” Zoe Foxshade-Andeneka’s face showed a mix of humor and skepticism. “‘Ghost trauma,’ huh? That’s a new one.”
“Gotta call it something,” Mallory replied with a casual shrug.
…Grave Dagger flash fiction #2
Lieutenant Sagewater studied his foggy reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face looked blurred, weary, aged. He hefted a hand towel, wiped steam from the glass, and gave his reflection a wry smirk.
All things considered, he’d rather be back in Stoney Cove.
He left the bathroom door ajar and sat on the edge of his bed. The hotel room was comfortable but spartan, a combination he found both functional and off-putting. He switched the bedside lamp on, a beacon of artificial light in the early-evening dusk.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning of an advancing stormfront. Twenty-four hours since he’d arrived in New Beltwain, with zero relief from the incessant rain. Low barometric pressure was at least partly to blame for his headache — coincidentally also twenty-four hours in duration.
Sagewater didn’t believe in coincidence. He dialed an outside line on the rotary telephone.
…Grave Dagger flash fiction #1
Dalton Smith parked his car curbside in front of Central Precinct. A quick glance at his watch confirmed the time; he could safely ignore the parking meter.
“Free parking on weekends and after 6:00,” he said under his breath. He pocketed his keys and climbed the steps to open Central’s front door.
An aura of watchful efficiency dominated the foyer.
The desk officer, Constable Franklin, broke into a weary half-grin at Dalton’s entrance. “Good evening, Mr. Smith. All ready for your trip to New Beltwain?”
…Easter Eggs are fun no matter where you find ’em. The chocolate versions, scattered throughout the house; the hidden gems we used to scour the extended Lord of the Rings DVDs in search of; and — in my case — allowing some “behind the scenes” sneak peeks into those bits of world-building that authors are supposed to never reveal.
For example, how does an author choose names for their characters?
If you’ve ever visited a Montana’s BBQ & Bar, you can already picture the interior: rustic, highly-polished wooden tables and chairs, a canoe tucked above the bar, and a vintage 1940s-era pickup truck hanging at an awkward angle from the rafters.
A thirty-year Canadian restaurant tradition, nation-wide.
Now, picture yourself — an author with a glimmer of a story — enjoying a pint and some BBQ in a Montana’s while jotting down a few ideas. What kind of names might be inspired by such a rustic, western setting?
…
I added the 100% RAGe tag to the cover art on all my books over a year ago. It was my way of stating, unequivocally, that nothing I publish was created with the use of generative AI.
Technically, spelling and grammar checkers — whether online or built into whatever software we’re using — qualify as AI. But there’s a bottomless chasm between (a) using AI tools to edit our work or serve as prompts, and (b) using generative AI to write our books for us.
I like telling the (100% true) story of crafting my first sci-fi novellas on my mother’s 1950s manual Underwood typewriter.
In between the Underwood and my Powermac G3 (pictured here), I briefly owned a Compaq Presario and Serif PagePlus, on the advice of a family friend (Dave G), who encouraged me to pursue my writing more seriously.
Everywhere you turn, “AI” crops up in the conversation. As a creative writer and freelance editor, I see a steady stream of bright ’n’ shiny contract opportunities to carve out a cozy living by helping AI-bots replace writers and freelance editors.
On the other hand, I also hear reasonable voices inside the industry advocating for creatives to embrace AI as a writing/editing aide-de-campe.
Volleyballs and creative writing have a lot in common. You can shove a volleyball underwater—out of sight, out of mind—but it will inevitably escape its watery dungeon and breach the surface like a 40-ton humpback whale.
I wish I’d kept my first rejection letter. Among writers, that’s like framing the first dollar bill you earned.
But no, my first-ever rejection letter threw me into a wannabe sci-fi writer’s funk. My career was over … why would I want to keep a written record of rejection?
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If a picture paints a thousand words, what does that mean for book covers?
I’m currently reading Susan Bell’s The Artful Edit (because indie authors can never learn too much about editing). The content is great, but I’d also like to point out the exemplary cover design.
“Books are a uniquely portable magic.” (Stephen King)
“I can’t imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once.” (C.S. Lewis)
“There is no friend as loyal as a book.” (Ernest Hemingway)
If you’re like me, you discovered reading at an early age. My greatest ally in feeding my reading addiction? The local library. Closer to home, my school library proved to be a treasure trove, allowing me access to a wide array of books and their authors, many of whom I mentioned in my debut post.
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