All posts by stephen

Creativity, Shakespeare, Writing

Recontextulizing Romeo

Image by Paolo Dadda from Pixabay

I think there’s an opportunity to give Romeo and Juliet a very satisfying twist. Think on this: How does Romeo’s time alone in Mantua challenge his feelings for Juliet?

Read on.

Act Five, Scene Zero

OPEN: An inn in Mantua. Romeo, the innkeeper, various and sundry patrons.

Freckles! Ye lord, how he missed freckles.

Romeo gulped his ale in an ungentlemanly way, knowing that he was giving the innkeeper a poor impression of the Montague family. Still, Romeo’s letter of credit was authentic. Let him think what he wanted, Lord Montague would honour all reasonable expenses that Romeo incurred.

For the unreasonable ones, Romeo had his pouch of coins, some gold, mostly silver, with a few too many coppers mixed in. The coppers were growing, the gold not so much.

Freckles! He drank a deep toast to freckles. They filled his vision. Rosaline had them, around her nose and on the crest of her chest. If Juliet had any, he hadn’t found them.

He was such a stupid boy. No, a bewitched boy. That made much more sense, bewitched.

Fair Rosaline, a good girl, from a good family, auburn tresses with the slightest hint of sunfire. Surely he could have won her back if he hadn’t fallen under the spell of that Capulet girl.

And now … and now he was married! To her! Betrothed and consummated! And banished! Mercutio, dear, sweet Mercutio … dead. What a vile price Romeo paid, what a condemned fate!

Romeo shook his head, mumbling deeply in his own conversation, knowing that anyone observing him might wonder who he was speaking to. Had they not heard of soliloquies in this blasted town?

Damn you Friar Lawrence for not seeing and exorcising the spell that the Capulet harlot had thrown on him.

Why, oh why had he ever forsaken freckles?

Romeo thumped his mug for another fill, more saking of thirst. The innkeeper shook his head, a burly man with a burly voice. “Too much, young sir. Time yet to walk it off before vespers?”

Romeo staggered out into the streets of the strange city, seeking a public fountain from which to drink. The low sun cast long shadows, making faces hard to see.

Twice, Romeo thought he saw Benvolio walking in the distance.
Once he embraced a man, mistaking him through tears for Mercutio.

Always, he stumbled along, not sure anymore what he was looking for, except … water? Wine? Ale?

No, freckles.

THE NEXT MORNING: A room in the inn

Romeo dreamt of freckles, of citrus scented gloves, of a girlish laugh that was too real to be a dream. He opened an eye, unfocussed, thoughts buried in fog.

Freckles and a warm body pressed against his. Rosaline come to Mantua to save him?

No. He paused. These freckles, far too many, came with curled red hair, darker than he’d seen before, and deep hazel eyes, fixed on his. He fought to focus, eyes and mind.

Not fair Rosaline asleep beside him, though this one too smelt of citrus.

“Good morning, young stud. Did the lark awaken you?” She ran a hand down his body. “Or did I?” She squirmed ever so slightly, while playing her hand just so. “Why so shy? I’ve seen your pouch. You can afford, well, me.”

Before Romeo could confess his confusion, a lack of memory as to how he came to be in this woman’s bed, or even where he was, a knock on the not-too-sturdy wooden door interrupted.

“Romeo? Is this where you rest?” Balthasar opened the door cautiously, peered in. He saw the girl, frowned. “I could have guessed I’d find you thus.”

“I,” Romeo looked from the girl to his friend. “Balthasar? What brings you to Mantua? I,” Romeo gave a dismissive wave towards the girl, “was trying to break a spell.”

“Perhaps you did, then, if I understand the spell you fear,” Balthasar’s face was both conciliatory and stern. “For Juliet is dead.”

“Juliet? I …”

“Who is this Juliet?” The girl tossed her long red locks around her face. “He insisted on calling me ‘Rosaline’.”

“Juliet, his wife of two days. Now be gone, harlot,” Balthasar raised his hand as if to cuff her with the back of it. “You’ve caused enough grief.”

“And joy.” She laughed, “surely, joy.” She pulled a sheet around her and squeezed past Balthasar.

“Marta, come,” the innkeeper’s voice called from down the stairs.

“Marta? What a useless name! Marta no more, I think. I wish to be called Rosaline. Such a pretty name! An expensive name. Rosaline will earn me more than Marta.” Romeo heard her laughing as she faded down the stairs.

“Juliet, dead?” Romeo searched his emotions. “Why am I not freed? Why do I still feel enraptured with her?” Grief hit him hard. “What have I done?”

“Betrayed true love, perhaps?” Balthasar bit back his anger. Why couldn’t his lord be more honourable, less impulsive?

“I must make amends. I must” Romeo stood, fiddling around for his clothes in the pile of bedding. “I must go to her, die at her side. I … Balthasar, I am a fool.”

“A banished fool, my lord.”

Romeo turned on Balthasar, a spark of his former self showing through. “What is the penalty, except what I seek?”

Balthasar nodded. It was going to be a long ride back to Verona.
As they walked out of the room, Romeo wailed. “Oh, Juliet, I have done you so wrong.”

A very long ride, indeed.

Exuent ALL

This story, Act 5 Scene 0 (Romeo’s Remorse) is included in the short story collection The Maiden Voyage of Novyy Mir and Other Short Stories.

Creativity, Science Fiction, Writing

Writing Assignment (Unsubmitted): The Dilettante, 1982

One thing about taking a writing course, often you write multiple entries for any given assignment, submitting one, discarding others.

During my first writing course, I wrote four different stories for the final assignment. We could only submit one. This is one of the ones I chose not to submit.

Image by Evgeni Tcherkasski from Pixabay

Man, we never even got started. Sam didn’t say it out loud. Jamie had heard it enough already. Still, it burned.

Just two weeks shy of Grad: All those SATs, stupid personal letters and essays, trying to nail exactly what some unseen authority would desire; All the anxiety and fear displacing excitement as the waiting dragged on.

Then a slew of rejections, and finally, acceptances. Plans had been set, unfettered futures just barely glimpsed…

Then the damned Dilettante showed up and wiped it all out.
Jamie was taking up a lot of Sam’s attention tonight. He wasn’t sure how much he really owed her. They were barely a couple, had only really had sex that once, the day after they announced the Dilettante. He wasn’t even sure that counted.

But she chose to be here, with him, now, up on the roof. That counted, for a lot.

He pulled a beer from the cooler, pulled the pop-top and chucked it over the edge of the roof. Have to pick that up before Dad mows the lawn, or he’ll be mad. Sam caught himself, but that’ll never happen.

He offered Jamie the beer first, knowing she hadn’t acquired the taste yet. She sipped, crinkling her cute little nose, handed it back.

There was an undeniable spark between them, a promise. They just fit; her snug on his lap, for all eternity. It wasn’t love, not yet. But this was all they’d ever have, so it had to be enough.

The damp May evening was a little chillier than they’d expected. Sam’s varsity jacket had slid off Jamie’s shoulders and she was shivering ever so slightly, fighting the chill, putting on a brave face for this crazy guy she’d somehow ended up trusting with her death.

He pulled the heavy jacket back into place. Honestly, a simple windbreaker would’ve been enough, but he wanted the jacket with him. He was too young to have many other prized possessions. Around her shoulders was the best place for it.

Besides, with the jacket set like that, he could steal a caress, even through a layer or two, of her nipples. She gave him an embarrassed ‘what are doing’ look. He whispered, “No one can see.”

But he stopped anyway. Tonight wasn’t about that.

Below, the gate between the driveway and the backyard clanged open, then didn’t clang shut. The ladder rattled as someone touched it. The others had arrived. Sam patted Jamie’s butt to let her know he needed to get up.

“I’m not climbing that ladder,” Sara announced her presence. Lots of strange pairings these days, Sam thought. Cats and dogs, Dale and Sara.

“What if I fall and break my leg?”

“Then we leave you there.” Sam called down. “What? I’m not missing this. Imagine being stuck in an ER when the Dilettante comes? What a fucking waste of a life.”

Sara often called Sam a ‘potty-mouth.’ He saw it as being more mature, more comfortable with adult language. Honestly, if they had made it to college, Sam was pretty sure he’d have left most of his friends behind. Only Dale was close to functioning at his level, maybe.

“Hey, Sam!” Dale called up from the backyard. “Joe Mendle said ‘You can kiss your ass goodbye!’ Live on air!”

Maybe not.

“What’re they gonna do, fire him?” Sam could just barely see that there was a third person there. “Oh, hey…Billy? Didn’t think you were coming.” He pointed into the darkness of the backyard. “Grab those lawn chairs.”
Sara stood two steps up the ladder and relayed the lawn chairs up. Sam pulled them the rest of the way.

“It’s getting cloudy. We even gonna see what happens?” Sara’s head cleared the rain gutter. Two more rungs and she could step off the ladder onto the roof.

Jamie offered a hand, didn’t let go until Sara found her balance on the sloping black tar shingles, much cooler now that the sun had set.

“Joe Mendle said the clouds would blow off just before, that we’d get a spectacular view, if we dared look.” Sam wouldn’t have gone to all this effort otherwise. He opened a lawn chair, set it firmly among the tiles.
Sara sat in the chair, fumbled with her over-sized purse. “I really don’t think he wanted to be on the air tonight.”

“Would you?” Jamie replied, helping Billy come up. “He’s got family.”

“Last I heard, he’d put on Dark Side of the Moon, side one.” Dale added as he climbed onto the roof, waving off Jamie’s help. “He’s probably home by now.”

“Hope so,” Jamie curled back into Sam’s lap, drawing Dale’s attention to the chair. “Hey, you got a frickin’ La-Z-Boy up here?” Dale chuckled. No rickety lawn chair for Sam. That was such a typical Sam move, a brazen, pointless gesture.

“Why not? Don’t have to worry about getting it down.” Sam popped the cooler’s lid and offered Dale a beer.

“How’d you get these?” Dale asked as he took the can.

“Like anyone’s checking ID today.” Sam lied. Even now, he wasn’t going to admit that his old man was cool enough to give him the beer.

Dale popped his can, took a swig, surveyed the valley downslope from them. He nodded toward a dark patch in the otherwise uniformly lit suburb below. “Remember that night we watched the fireworks up here through the fog? You couldn’t even see Union Park.”

“Yup.” Sam remembered. It was his inspiration for tonight.

“And the music?”

“Got it right here.” Sam tapped the Apocalypse Now Soundtrack cassette case sitting on the boombox.

“We just need the one song.”

“I know. Tape’s set.”

Sara pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels out of her bag, waved it for attention. Jamie saw it first. “Nice!”

“Unopened. Dad keeps a few in the garage, thinks we don’t know.”

As night took a firm hold of the valley, neighbours started setting off bottle rockets and dahlias, screeches and small bangers, portends that riled up all the local dogs too soon. Burnt sulphur mixed with the dew, wafted over the roof.

“Gotta use ’em up tonight, I guess.”

“Maybe,” Billy winced as another firework flared and extinguished in the sky. In that brief moment of light, Sam saw tears streaking Billy’s face. “Maybe being here is wrong. Maybe I should…be with my mom.”

“That old hag? Ow!” Sara punched Dale in the shoulder for saying it.

“Come on man,” He continued, “We’re your family, so much more than she is.”

“Yeah, but she’s alone.” Billy’s short, almost hyperventilating breaths revealed the panic they were all valiantly suppressing. “I didn’t think I’d care, but she was crying. I should go.”

Dale started to rise, but Sam waved him off. Let him go.

In his haste, Billy half slid, half fell down the ladder, then ran out the yard.

It was a good four blocks to his house. “Hope he makes it in time.”

“We expecting anyone else?” Dale asked. When Sam shook his head, Dale kicked the ladder away from the roof.

“It’s just us, now.” Sam approved. He met each friend’s gaze, resting on Jamie’s beautiful brown eyes, reflecting the fireworks. “We’ll do.”

They passed the whiskey around. After a few turns, Jamie pulled a joint out of Sam’s jacket pocket, held it up with mock surprise. Once Sam lit it, that too got passed around.

Sara took a long pull on the ever-shortening stub, passed it to Dale.

“What do you think the Dilettante thinks of us?” She asked, not expecting an answer so much as wanting to break the silence.

“We’re in the way.” Dale’s bitterness was punctuated by puffs of smoke.

“To where?”

“Wherever comets go, I guess.” Dale tried to pass the stub on, but Sam waved him off, beer in hand.

Sam’s other hand, slowly caressing Jamie’s back, felt a spasm jolt her spine.

“Guys! Across the valley, is that…” Jamie didn’t want to say ‘the Dilettante.’ Her voice cracked, almost failed. “Fireworks?”

No one needed to answered. A glow was building beyond the far ridge-line, getting brighter by the second. Pittsburgh, twenty miles that way, never cast so much light.

Dale pulled Sara onto his lap.

Jamie buried her face down into Sam’s shoulder. “Is it going to hurt?”

“For a moment, yeah.”

“Then what?” She pleaded. Sam bit back a sarcastic, ‘then we die.’

“Don’t know.” He settled on. “Whatever comes next, I guess.”

He stared as the sky flared, willing himself to witness every last moment. Not that Mendle will ever know, but I dared.

The clouds blew off, as predicted. The stars, even the crescent moon, disappeared in the wash of brilliance that followed. A shockwave pulsed through the ground, subsonic vibrations shaking the house, joist and joint, followed by a staccato rending of earth and rock.

Jamie moaned and clung to Sam’s chest. Sam kissed her on the forehead, reached down beside his chair, and pushed play.

The sky was too bright to look at. Sam buried his fave in Jamie’s hair, smelt the strawberry conditioner for the last time.

On the boombox, the sitar started its slow, hypnotic pulse, barely audible over the death screams of the world. Even as the boombox bounced into oblivion, Sam heard Jim Morrison’s melancholy voice kick in, “This is the end, beautiful friend, the end.”

Creativity, Science Fiction, writer's life, Writing

Kill Your Darlings: There Goes A Whole Theme

Image by MasterTux from Pixabay

One theme I wanted to explore in the first Deacon Carver book was how bureaucracy weighs down organizations. One of my key scenes for demonstrating that was in Deacon’s onboarding process, where he confronts the concept of “cost-to-company.”

Now, late in the development of this story, I realize that this theme may be one too many to try to carry, and really, this scene in particular serves no other plot purpose than to highlight the theme.

So, here, for your enjoyment is the most-likely-deleted onboarding scene.

+++++

The ship’s bursar handed Deacon a tablet.

“What’s this?”

“Compensation package. You need to agree and give banking details.”

“That…” Dee looked at Char with a newfound respect. “You make that much working for the IU?”

“No, no, no,” The bursar interrupted. “This is our cost-to-company of keeping you. From that we’ll deduct IU income tax, the cost of your billet and meals, the cost of transporting you around, medical coverage, sundry other expenses like uniforms and port entry taxes.”

“Wait, so how much of this do I end up getting?”

“Next screen.”

“What? That’s like next to nothing.” Deacon looked over the numbers carefully. “So you’re going to give me this, then take back twenty percent off the top for income tax. Then you’re going to deduct costs that I can’t control…. You’re going to force me to absorb costs that I might be able to source cheaper,” Deacon saw a look of puzzlement, “Medical Insurance? That’s a hell of a premium you’re charging. I could get better for cheaper.”

“But our sickbays and medical facilities only accept one insurer: This one.”

“So in the end, my take-home pay is eighteen percent of … what did you call it?”

“Cost-to-company.” Char spoke softly. She remembered her anger when she’d seen these numbers.

“Cost-to-company.” Deacon concluded.

“We do feed you and keep you safe.” The clerk pointed out.

“So if I eat elsewhere I can get reimbursed?”

“No.”

“If you don’t keep me safe, I can get reimbursed?”

“No. But it’s good medical insurance. If we can’t fix you we’ll find someone who can, and you won’t pay for it.”

“If you can’t fix me, it’ll be because I’m dead.” He turned to Char.

“Seriously, why do you put up with this?”

“I was under arrest when they recruited me. The alternative…I didn’t really have one. You do, though. You can walk away. But honestly, you don’t really have any expenses while onboard, so even though it’s only a little, you save almost all of it.”

“Save? I’ve got…” Deacon chose to pick his next words carefully. “It’s less than day’s work from my old job. Now it’s a month’s take-home pay?”

Char chuckled, responded to a ping from her infopad. “I’ve got to go. Come to my office when you’re done here.”

“Can you supply a recognised financial institution with an account in your name?” The clerk continued, oblivious to Char’s departure. “Otherwise we’d have to hold it in escrow for you until such as time as you’re discharged, at which point we can give you a lump sum with interest. You can borrow against that escrow as needed, say, when in port.”

“From what I hear, the IU is dying. Anything held in escrow will be bad debt.”

“Be that as it may, this is how we function. Do you have a financial institution you want to register with us?” Dee shook his head. He wasn’t letting these people anywhere near his finances.

The clerk held the tablet up for Deacon’s thumb print.

“Idiots,” Dee muttered under his breath as he pressed his thumb. “And now I’m one of them.”

Creativity, Science Fiction, writer's life, Writing

Writing Assignment: 500 Word Scene

In my writing course, we were tasked with writing a scene. it was to be exactly 500 words in length, and during the scene, the reader was to become aware of a truth without it being said.

Here was my submission:

The Man in Black sauntered into the bank, right past the Pinkerton’s detective, sitting just inside the door. The detective stood up, slowly drawing his six-shooter. There was no way that thief would rob this bank twice.

The outlaw just stood there, staring at the clerks cowering behind counters, as if his mere presence was an announcement.

The silence dragged on.

Finally, The Man in Black bellowed, “Well?”

The newly-minted Bank Manager approached cautiously. He’d never met an outlaw before.

If this was the famous gunman — the suave, debonair brigand wanted in four states for larceny and two more for violating young ladies’ honour — he certainly looked nothing like his Most Wanted bulletin.

He was shorter than expected. His clothes were too big, hitched by a makeshift rope suspender. His gun was slung loosely on his hip. His spurs didn’t jingle jangle jingle; They were bent and beat up. In fact, his boots were brown.

He’d lost weight. His face was sunburnt. His hands were gnarly, no sign of his famous rings. That scraggly beard was not fit for kissing women.

No wonder he was so hard to find.

However, that was his famous black hat, red beaded brim, black feather slicked back, sitting a bit low, touching his ears. The iconic black vest…did it have holes? The signature black denim trousers with red piping, held up by that rope, were torn, almost worn through at the knees, cuffs rolled up and dusty.

“Are you The Man in Black?” The Manager asked, unsure.

“I am now. An’ I got me an I.O.U.” The outlaw pulled a crumpled telegram out of his vest pocket. He straightened it out, showed the Manager. He pointed at each word, speaking slowly. “Wichita. Central. Bank. That’s this here place.” He pointed at other words. “Ten. Thousand. Dollars. I came for my money.”

The Manager repeatedly tapped a different word. “Reward,” He said.

“What’s that, French? What’s it mean?”

“It means you just gave us ten thousand dollars.” A discrete nod, and the detective disarmed the outlaw.

They tied up The Man in Black and put him in an office where they could watch over him until the Sheriff could collect him.

“But for the clothes, this don’t really look like him.” The Pinkerton’s detective looked up from the bulletin. “You sure he’s The Man in Black?”

“You heard him, he is now.”

Creativity, Writing

Writing Assignment: Overheard on the Underground

As part of a writing course that I was taking, we were given a promote form which we were supposed to rite a descriptive scene.

I don’t usually use people I know as an inspiration, in fact after a friend asked me “am I in your book,” I made a video explaining how and why the answer is ‘No.’

But this time it just fit so well. As soon as I saw our writing prompt, I knew exactly who this was, an old co-worker.

Here’s the prompt:

You know why British people don’t talk to each other on the Tube? There’s no weather down here to discuss.

And here’s my submission:

Hey, I think I know this guy. He’s a junior-level accountant from Canada on an extended business trip to London. He’s cocky, confident, and has no filters. He isn’t talking to anyone in particular, he’s telling everyone within earshot his opinions of you Brits.



He does this daily on the Tube (or Toooob as he insists on saying it. He thinks he’s funny.). And he has a lot to say.



Please understand, until he opens his mouth, he presents well. He is clean-shaven, neat, and well-dressed —competitively so — but he avoids sitting or standing near the sharply-dressed businessmen with their impeccably-tailored suits. He may be competitive, but his suit is still off the rack. He justifies this as common sense. Besides, he tells himself, he carries it well. Surely, most people would assume it’s tailored.



The weather, and the way Brits talk about it, is just one flash point for him. “It’s raining; it’s drizzling; intermittent showers; perhaps it’ll rain later, carry an umbrella.” He almost sings. “Get some real weather, you wimps.”



If that leads to a fight, well, good. He’ll show you a good ‘shirting.’

What? You think Canadians are docile and polite?

He’ll change your mind.

For him, nothing’s as good as back home, especially nothing British. 

For one thing, there’s no hockey on TV here (Don’t you dare call it “Ice Hockey,” it’s hockey, dammit! He should know, he used to play it. True, he wasn’t good enough to rise above the Junior B level. There were no scouts following his stats, no university scholarship, no professional career. But in his heart of hearts, he’s a hockey star, Wayne Gretzky’s true successor.).

What goes with hockey? Beer.



He wants you to know just how much British beer sucks.



So does the music… Don’t get him started… Oh, wait, someone’s listening to Adele just a little too loud (probably trying to drown out his voice).

There he goes…

“The last good band to come out of England was the Stones, and even they peaked forty years ago. Why can’t Brits listen to real rock, like Canadian rock? What do you mean, no one’s ever heard of The Tragically Hip?” 

Don’t get him wrong, The Hip may be his favourite band, but Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” is his personal anthem. Its Ayn Rand philosophy calls to him. Not everyone has a personal anthem, he informs me, but true men like him do.



And British food? “Chicken Masa-something…what the actual foreign crap is that? Where do they keep the real food? Hello-o? Where’s the beef? No, not a stew, dammit!”



He can’t wait for the day he gets to go home. Neither can London.

Mind the gap.

Creativity, writer's life, Writing

(Where is) A Writer’s Toolbox (Part 3)

This is long overdue, and I apologize. But it will be a while yet. There are two reasons you haven’t seen this post yet:

First, because I’ve discovered great new free tool for writers, however I haven’t figured it out completely yet. And I’m not sure it’s stable. I’ve installed it in four websites. In two it works perfectly, in the other two, it doesn’t work at all, and I can’t figure out why.

Second, I’m feeling a little pissed. After I quickly launched my first two parts, a ‘friend’ cannibalized my content and posted it on social media, a little each day, gaining a whole bunch of exposure, new followers, and grateful friends in the writing community, without acknowledging that I was the source. When I contacted her about this, she deleted the posts, then blocked me.

So I’m feeling a little salty about posting things I’ve learned that could help the community.

I do intend to post it eventually, but for now, I’m waiting.

Creativity, writer's life, Writing

A Writer’s Toolbox (Part 2)

This is a three-part post.

The first focuses on software and websites that offer Software as a Service. The second is focused on people, the third on building a WordPress site.

People and Groups


The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association, (SFWA) runs a semi-annual mentoring program. I was fortunate to have a mentor for the first 3 months of 2023. It’s not just for members (I’m an Associate Member, the lowest level), and anyone can apply, not just science fiction  or fantasy writers. (There’s a large romance community within SFWA).

I used to be a member of the British Science Fiction Association (BSFA), but it didn’t compare to the SFWA, so I’ve let that lapse. I know next to nothing about the Society of Authors, perhaps someone here knows about them? I understand that they’re a good ally.

Brandon Sanderson is one of the best-known active fantasy authors. He was also a lecturer at Brigham Young University. All of his lectures are on YouTube. It’s a lot, but if you have time, they can be very informative.

Writing Excuses is a podcast I mentioned elsewhere. It was created by the aforementioned Brandon Sanderson and Mary Robinette Kowal (current President of the SFWA) among others and is in season 18. Each episode is about 15 minutes long. it’s fun and informative, and develops a real sense of community as you listen to it. If you wish, there’s writing prompts at the end of each lesson. I found seasons 6-13 to be very beneficial.



Janice Hardy runs a website called Fiction University. They dissect craft, focussing on what does and doesn’t work. They also occasionally post writing prompts where you can post your effort for feedback. 

Need some motivation to write, or at least an external goal?

Jane Friedman‘s newsletter is considered a must-read in the publishing world, and it’s free.

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is a free challenge to join, every November. You’ll be assigned a team, based on geography, and you’ll each be challenged to complete 50,000 words in one month (Making the goal isn’t as important as attempting). Of note, participants often get real discounts on software like Scrivener, Plottr, Atticus, etc. If you’re looking to form a writing group that’s all local to you, this can be a great way to find writers.

They’ve also added Camp NaNoWriMo, a July run of the same program.



As you get further in your writing career, you might want to pay attention to the following sites. 

Victoria Strauss’ Writers Beware (sponsored by the SFWA) helps writers avoid scammers trying to separate you from your money. 



The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi) is a very helpful organisation (I’m a member) that vets service suppliers (like editors) and will also give you advice on any publishing contract you’re offered. When Disney started underpaying writers, and withholding royalties, ALLi and SFWA were on the front line raising awareness in the media and hiring lawyers to pressure Disney into honouring its contractual obligations.

At some point, you’re probably going to want to build a newsletter so you have some form of direct link to your fans (they subscribe to it). There are many newsletter delivery services that offer a free option if your newsletter is below a certain number of subscribers (usually 1,000).. Mailerlite, Convertkit, and Mailchimp are the ones usually recommended. If you have money to burn, Constant Contact is great (I used it for a client). A friend swears by Email Octopus, but I’d never heard of it.

BookFunnel will help you find readers for your newsletter, and help give them a digital gift. BookFunnel works well with most if not all of the newsletter services mentioned above.

Draft2Digital and its subsidiary, Books2Read are very helpful in distributing and selling books, if you self-publish.

Additions from friends in the writing community:

As well as Email Octopus, my friend recommends “a great book on newsletters, Newsletter Ninja by Tammi LaBrecque.”

David Gaughran has an email list, a series of classes on advertising and many books on creating a fan base, and how to work with Amazon, Bookbub, etc, and overall thoughts on marketing. 

The annual Inkers Conference ( both virtual and in person). This is a writing conference that provides tons of topics like craft, marketing, etc. You can then watch all the sessions at your leisure for three years post event as they are all filmed and posted. This is also a very active community on facebook. You will also get invited to some free one-off sessions.

The Editorial Freelancers Association is where you can search for a professional editor.

That’s it for Part 2. Go to Part 1. Go to Part 3.

Creativity, writer's life, Writing

A Writer’s Toolbox (Part 1)

This is a three-part post.

The first focuses on software and websites that offer Software as a Service. The second is focused on people, the third on building a WordPress site.

Software and Websites

For note-taking almost any app will do. Don’t overlook your email app. I often write or dictate notes on the go directly into my iPhone email app and send them to myself. I use the story title as subject to make it easier to search them later on my laptop.

When it comes to writing, long form, I love Scrivener. I was about 80,000 words into a novel when I found that Word just couldn’t give me what I needed – the ability to re-arrange scenes, find specific points in the story, try different flows for pacing. Scrivener makes all of that easy (and so much I don’t use, like research, timelines, plotting tools). It has a 30-day free trial. I bought it on day 6. I can use it to write the scene that is the set up and the scene that is the pay-off at the same time, then move them to their respective places in the story. Within 6 months, I had a 135,000 word draft of a complete story. (It still needs revision, but that’s on me, not the software)



If you’re a more linear writer, then Word may work fine for you. I know other writers who swear by Google Docs, but I’ve not used it.



Plottr is a relatively recent piece of software that helps writer who are plotters, well, plot out their novels. Again, I’ve not used it, but I’m told it works for many types of plotting, like linear and snowflake plotting.



Grammarly advertises everywhere, and it can be very useful for discovering your mistakes, but it can also over-power your voice. That’s also true for these next two recommendations. I don’t use Grammarly, I use the free levels of both Hemingway App and ProWritingAid. And I use them both, in that order, as they do slightly different things, and catch slightly different mistakes. Hemingway will tell you how readable your text is, and at what grade level, as well as flagging complex sentences. It also catches passive voice.

ProWritingAid will catch many more grammatical and spelling errors. You don’t need the paid versions, in my experience, as long as you’re not offline when you need them. None of these supplant the need for a human editor.



If you’re a self-pubber, you’re going to want to format ebooks at some point. Scrivener does this quite nicely, but there are some specialized tools that may be better. Vellum and Atticus are the two that come to mind. I’ve not used either, as I know Scrivener well enough for my needs, but they both have a high profile in the self-pubbing community. 



Canva lets you make decent covers without needing to know Photoshop, but if you’re serious, you’ll end up using (or hiring someone who is using) Photoshop .



I do my print layouts in InDesign, but Vellum or Atticus should be able to do those also. Technically, you can do those layouts in Word, but I wouldn’t expect to get good results without a lot of pain.



I want to mention BookBrush. this is for creating ads for self-published works. Again, there are many paid tiers, but the free tier offers a lot of good stuff. You upload your book cover, select from a generous listing of free mock-ups and download the image of your cover embedded in the mock-up. A much more limited version of this, but also free, is DIY Book Covers.

That’s it for Part 1. Go to Part 2. Go to Part 3.

errata

No Opinion is the Safest Opinion

Since the rise of social media and the polarization of all public discourse (they are one and the same, no?), it’s become imperative that everyone have an opinion about everything. But not just an opinion, you must have the Correct Opinion™ whatever that may be.

There are issues where I care enough to have read multiple perspectives, and developed a specific (I would like to think “informed”) opinion. But there are many areas where I just don’t know enough, and honestly, offering an opinion is unwise.

But you’re not allowed to not have an opinion these days. Not if you’re anywhere on social media or those who want you to have an opinion are anywhere on social media.

This is where I envy my wife. She does have a facebook account (and no other social media), but she only visits it maybe once every few years. She uses the account so rarely that we were married before she accepted my “friend” request. The totality of our relationship to that point had happened between times she’d checked her social media.

Sometimes I try to tell her about whatever shitstorm is eating Twitter or Threads and she just asks why am I there?

As someone who is trying to build an audience for my stories, I have no choice but to be on social media to some extent. If you go to almost any social media platform, you’ll find I’m there in name, if not much in presence. But as someone who wants to be seen, I also don’t want to be seen when it comes to being dragged into certain issues.

I could make a list here of issues I do have opinions about, and those I don’t, but why set myself up? Why risk pissing off someone I’ve never met, and risk them calling on legions that again I’ve never met, to harass me for not sharing their defined Correct Opinion™?

So I use social media less and less, reducing my footprint, my reach, and any hope of building an audience. But if you have “the Correct Opinion™” you have nothing to fear, so why not make your voice heard, someone right now is thinking.

That’s not true.

Once you’ve stated an opinion on a crucial topic, you will be forced to stick with it forever, even if your opinion changes.

Here I will state an example. As someone who has done a lot of charitable work within Africa, I am a big fan of solar power and internet by satellite. For a while, this made me a big fan of Elon Musk. He was making something that the underdeveloped world needed into a profitable venture, not charity. That’s huge.

I’m not a fan now, he’s embraced so many extreme(ly stupid) people and causes. But that’s irrelevant. Anyone who wishes can drag up posts of mine from five or six years ago and use them against me.

I do stand by what those opinions represented at the time. I still think that changing the improvement of underdeveloped societies from a charitable activity to an economically sound activity is the cornerstone to pulling more people out of poverty.

I don’t stand by the man who was this movement’s poster child. And I don’t stand by a revisionist interpretation of my ideas through the lens of the Correct Opinion™ on social media.

In this polarized age, once you’ve stated an opinion, you’re simply not allowed to change. Not in today’s discourse, not on social media. So why do it?

I can’t be alone. Self-censorship, withdrawal form the public discourse, emboldens extremism. But what’s the option? Be sacrificed by people you may support for not being extreme enough in your voice?

errata

Naming Names

In a series that I’m developing, I’ve got a bunch of characters from a variety of backgrounds and cultures. But … the story is set thousands of years in the future and the cultures aren’t the same as what we know.

Even given that, some names sound like cultures that exist today, but others sound exotic to our ears.

One of the characters, who I don’t want to sound too exotic to a western reader, is Brett Westmoreland, head of security on the IUDV Chaucer (Interplanetary Union Diplomatic Vessel).

While that name has withstood any number of revisions and edits, it’s started to cause a conflict. You see in the latest round of layering edits, I’m adding a weapons officer, and her first name is definitely Brita.

But Brita and Brett, two people who are on the bridge of the ship, speaking important info, during crises, may cause confusion in the reader’s mind. So I’ve been looking for an alternative for Brita.

Instead, I found one for Brett.

I’ve been re-reading golden age science fiction, and I’ve just finished The Naked Sun by Isaac Asimov. This murder mystery culture clash of the future is an interesting story to deconstruct in its own right, but for our needs today, there’s only one element I need to discuss: the name of the murder victim, Rikaine Delmarre.

Rikaine is an interesting name. It jumped out at me every time it occurred. Maybe it could replace Brett.

Rikaine Westmoreland.

Why Westmoreland? In my lifetime there has been a high profile American general named Westmoreland. I like the connotation of the name in the reader’s mind, for my chief of security.

I have another character whose name I want to mention, Char Osbaldiston. This character started out as a man, but Char is an ambiguous name, and once I’d written a bit more, it made more sense to flip the character to female.

Here’s where it gets fun. As I’ve been developing Char, I’ve given her a lover, a younger, male crew member of a lower rank (it’s a scandal). But in the prequel story that I’d started mapping out before I switched Char to female, Char has a girlfriend.

I’ve decided I’m going to leave both as is, without any commentary from crew or narrator (except for the lower-rank scandal). I feel that’s the right way to write this character; she’s comfortable with who she is, so no one challenges her lifestyle.

FYI, the name “Osbaldiston” comes to me from a Canadian Football League kicker, although his name may have been Osbaldistan. I don’t care which it was, this is the name as I’ve decided it exists in that universe and fits Char.