Practical Writing Advice for #Fiction Writers from @Stone_Rik #SelfPub #WriteTip

The truth of the matter is a full length manuscript is nothing more than an expanded short story. And a short story is a blown up account of something that interested you over coffee, or in a pub, or a musing on the way to work, a joke, an anecdote, a newspaper article, an idea of what you might have done if you’d won the latest lottery (we’ve all been there). The source is endless. But whatever it is you come up with, it should have a beginning, middle and an ending. Obvious maybe, but having a complete idea of what you want before putting pen to paper is important.

The Story: A writer formulates a tale from a basic idea and helps it grow; no one sees every word, line, or chapter of their text in the preamble of thought. At some point it might take on a life of its own where you feel your hand is merely being guided, but that can’t happen until you’ve made a start. Write your idea down in its simplest form. As I said, it needs a beginning, middle and an ending. Beginning; Tom falls for Mary and she likes him too. But Mary is seeing a boy called Harry. Middle: Harry is a bully and Mary has been afraid to break up with him for as long as she can remember. Tom is no hero but feels compelled to be with Mary. Ending: Tom is forced to stand up to Harry. Things go wrong; Harry gives Tom a good thrashing. But this gives Mary the strength to dump Harry and go off into the sunset with Tom… Not a blockbuster in the making, I’m sure, but you can see where I’m going. Those few short sentences provide a skeleton to put flesh on. Now you have your own idea written down, think about it before going further. It’s better to rearrange the bare bones before you have to start pulling flesh out the way to get at them.

Research: Okay, the words flowed, your ideas were brilliant – but were they accurate? Unless you’re writing something like Sci-fi or fantasy there is a high probability that your narrative will incorporate real events – make sure what you write is correct else the reader will lose belief in your ability: try to use more than one source to verify your work.

Patience equals quality: You finish your tale, great, you’re excited, the world of readers must see it, and they must see it now. Nope! From my own standing, you must complete at least 4 drafts – up to you, but that’s my unwritten rule. Done it, good, but you’re not finished. The work should be edited by a pro, and that even goes for the pro editor who writes; it is too easy to overlook your own mistakes. You’ve got it back from your editor – rewrite. Do not look at it and say they were wrong. They might be, but their interpretation is how they understood your written word, so if they didn’t get what you meant then you probably didn’t make it clear. Accept the criticism, that’s what you paid for.

Finished: Not yet, you’ve rewritten the book and you love it. It couldn’t be better. So how come it isn’t finished? Well, it might be, but you’ve just messed about with work that has been professionally edited and the quality might have taken a dip. Pay out to have it copy-edited/proof read. The few extra pennies you spend will be worth it.

Done it all? Great, you’re finished – good luck with the next steps.

Set against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking, prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.

Buy Now @ Amazon, B&N, Kobo & Waterstones

Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://rik-stone.simdif.com

BIRTH OF AN ASSASSIN & What Inspired @Stone_Rik #Thriller #Suspense #AmReading

What inspired me to write my book?

Lots of people feel the need to write almost as soon as they learn to put words together. I went to school with girls who kept diaries and diligently made entries on a daily basis. Not me, I was like the other boys. If there was a ball to play with, we’d play football. If there was no ball, we’d find an old tin, maybe in a dustbin, and play kick the tin. In the late 50’s, early 60’s, where I came from that was what life was for a young lad – and I loved it.

I don’t remember the exact age, let’s say fifteen for the sake of argument, but I picked up a book I think was my uncle’s and began reading it. The novel was called The Carpetbaggers and was written by Harold Robbins. The first chapters, when the protagonist’s parents were murdered, absolutely enthralled me. I couldn’t put it down. Unfortunately, not enjoying the greatest of concentration at that time, I found the book too long, too slow, and soon got bored. However, when another novel by the same author showed up in the house, The Adventurers, I thought I’d give it a go. Once again the first chapters had me living the pages, but, yet again, as I delved further into the book my interest waned.

So, you might think, no signs of a budding writer here. But no, those first chapters in The Adventurers were about an author who’d made it to the top of his trade. He lay next to his private swimming pool in the garden of his grand house musing over what the point of his life was now he’d done it all. Without realising it at the time, that man by the pool had been so believably drawn by Robbins that he weaved himself through my skin. Over the years he held on to a compartment of my mind. I wanted what he’d had. You might think I mean his wealth and position. That would be nice, but no, my reasoning was that the stories of that fictitious writer were adored by all who read them. He had a worldwide following and his works were renowned. I think what I felt was that age old sin… envy.

This figment of some writer’s imagination grabbed a space in my mind from where he occasionally popped up to make sure I hadn’t forgotten him. I was fifty when I retired and I had no intention of donning a new harness belonging to someone else. At the same time I’m not one to sit around contemplating life and I’d been an avid reader for many years. The little man in my head chose that moment to highlight an opportunity. I did creative writing courses, bought and read a multitude of ‘how to write anything’ type books and started writing… and there I was, proudly presenting my debut novel Birth of an Assassin. An interesting offshoot to this tale; you can carry ambition around for many years without even knowing it.

What inspired me to write my book?

Lots of people feel the need to write almost as soon as they learn to put words together. I went to school with girls who kept diaries and diligently made entries on a daily basis. Not me, I was like the other boys. If there was a ball to play with, we’d play football. If there was no ball, we’d find an old tin, maybe in a dustbin, and play kick the tin. In the late 50’s, early 60’s, where I came from that was what life was for a young lad – and I loved it.

I don’t remember the exact age, let’s say fifteen for the sake of argument, but I picked up a book I think was my uncle’s and began reading it. The novel was called The Carpetbaggers and was written by Harold Robbins. The first chapters, when the protagonist’s parents were murdered, absolutely enthralled me. I couldn’t put it down. Unfortunately, not enjoying the greatest of concentration at that time, I found the book too long, too slow, and soon got bored. However, when another novel by the same author showed up in the house, The Adventurers, I thought I’d give it a go. Once again the first chapters had me living the pages, but, yet again, as I delved further into the book my interest waned.

So, you might think, no signs of a budding writer here. But no, those first chapters in The Adventurers were about an author who’d made it to the top of his trade. He lay next to his private swimming pool in the garden of his grand house musing over what the point of his life was now he’d done it all. Without realising it at the time, that man by the pool had been so believably drawn by Robbins that he weaved himself through my skin. Over the years he held on to a compartment of my mind. I wanted what he’d had. You might think I mean his wealth and position. That would be nice, but no, my reasoning was that the stories of that fictitious writer were adored by all who read them. He had a worldwide following and his works were renowned. I think what I felt was that age old sin… envy.

This figment of some writer’s imagination grabbed a space in my mind from where he occasionally popped up to make sure I hadn’t forgotten him. I was fifty when I retired and I had no intention of donning a new harness belonging to someone else. At the same time I’m not one to sit around contemplating life and I’d been an avid reader for many years. The little man in my head chose that moment to highlight an opportunity. I did creative writing courses, bought and read a multitude of ‘how to write anything’ type books and started writing… and there I was, proudly presenting my debut novel Birth of an Assassin. An interesting offshoot to this tale; you can carry ambition around for many years without even knowing it.

Set against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking, prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.

Buy Now @ Amazon, B&N, Kobo & Waterstones

Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://rik-stone.simdif.com

#Action #Excerpt from The King of Sunday Morning by J.B. McCauley @MccauleyJay

Dusty

She sat under the shade of a very old tree. Its branches stretched out overhead like a network of broken fingers. She let the strange music wash over her. The tree stood to the left of the dry, dusty square. To the side of her sat trestle tables decked with exotic fruits and pastries. A goat kid was being roasted on a spit, the carcass continually turned by a boy enveloped in a traditional white gown. He had a small white hat atop his head and was obviously concentrating on his task as the smoke stung his eyes.

On the other side of the square, a group of boys, also in traditional dress, were running around after a half deflated football. The square was surrounded on all sides by dilapidated mud brick dwellings. They were crumbling at the edges but were the homes for large extended families. As she looked up on to the surrounding hills, she could see herds of goats being cared for by more small children. She knew if the music hadn’t been there, that she would be able to hear their distant bells as the animals searched for their sporadic feed.

Fatima was with Ali. In traditional bridal wear, face covered to protect the men from her beauty, she danced with joy. The women warbled their joyous cries and the men slapped each other on the back as the great day began to turn into night. She watched her friend. She didn’t really quite understand how she could go from an educated woman to this subservient bride but she was happy for her. Ali was a good man and most of all, they loved each other.

She had always intended to come here, even though she knew that at some point she would become melancholic. This was her friends’ day after all. But things like this were a constant reminder of what she had lost.

Her mind wandered as the dancers moved in faster and faster circles, whirling around at fever pitch. She was hiding here. She knew it. Hiding from the world that had caused her so much pain. There was danger here for sure but that gave her a thrill. She felt alive here.

After the funeral, she had gone home completely devastated. Jimmy had told her that Tray was married. How could he? She had always assumed that Tray would wait for her. But in reality, how could he?

She had been away from him for three years. He wasn’t able to talk to her. It was too dangerous for him, her and her Dad. She had always believed that one day they would be together but Tray had read the situation different.

She knew that Sam had come back a supposed cripple. Word was that he would never walk again. Poor Betty. Her family had been decimated because of Tray’s mistake and he knew it would haunt her until her dying days.

Jo had not got in contact with the family. She couldn’t put Tray in that sort of danger. They couldn’t
have anyone make the connection. That had hurt her but they had their own problems. Apparently it had taken a good couple of years for Sam to come good. In that time he had met a nurse who had cared for him. He worked in the family business so that Jimmy could keep an eye on him.

She never heard anything much about him. He didn’t go out. He didn’t mix in any of the old circles. She had driven past the shop a couple of times and saw him seated next to the washing machines and ovens outside. How she wished she had the guts to rush out of the car and ask him what had happened to Tray.

But she kept her word. She hadn’t seen Jimmy and Sam again until that day at the cemetery. Sam had looked embarrassed when he saw her. There was genuine grief in both the men’s hearts and there was something else. She didn’t see it then but after, in the confines of her little flat, she recognised it as guilt.

That evening, as she had sat all alone with just a bottle of merlot for company, she went through the old job offers she had received. She poured over them, concentrating on the ones that were furthest away. The next day she would see if they had anything for her. It was time that Jo Flint took control of her life.

But she hadn’t really. Everywhere she went, every man she met, reminded her of him. She just hadn’t found anyone who matched his heart. It was causing her some concern. She hoped she wasn’t going to end up an old maid. She wondered what he was doing now. If he had kids. What kind of man he had become? Was he still the best man she had ever known?

She sipped the grape juice in her hand and closed her eyes. A stiff evening breeze coming down from the mountains was replacing the dwindling sun. She shivered a little and began to doze off.
She woke with a start as a hand grabbed her shoulder. It was Fatima. Her eyes the only visible part of her face that Jo could see.

“So Jo Flint! You like Afghanistan now?”

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Genre – Thriller, Action, Suspense, Gangster, Crime, Music

Rating – PG-18

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Birth of an Assassin by Rik Stone @stone_rik #Thriller #Crime #Excerpt

Jez turned his head and saw jeeps stacked up one behind the other, coming at him. They were equipped for combat with mounted mortar cannon and sub-machine guns rigged on the integral bases behind the front seats. The heads of soldiers bobbed behind mortar blast protectors as the vehicles maneuvered over snowdrifts. He couldn’t tell how many vehicles, but seeing them fan out and fire, the number no longer seemed relevant.

He ran. He wanted to drop the ski jacket to quicken his pace, but he’d lose his weapons. The only thing he could do was wind in his head and race flat out. WHUMP! A mortar shell exploded 50 meters forward and to the right of his position. Shrapnel whizzed by, and though he could hear it, he felt nothing. He hadn’t been hit. He crouched lower, but the rabbit-skin hat fell off. No time to pick it up. Stop for nothing. With the rifles set to automatic, they traced straight black lines in the snow on either side of him and then swept horizontally across his horizon – Kalashnikov AKMs. They didn’t quite have him in their sights, but they would get there soon enough.

Not safe running in a straight line, he zigzagged, sacrificing distance for evasive tactics. Even so, it wouldn’t take them long to get a bead on him. He looked ahead for anything that might impede his progress, and saw a murder of crows take to the air on the opposite side of the nearest hill. If only he could join them, he thought. Instead, he ran a short distance to the left and then a longer distance to the right, on occasion reversing the strategy so as not to reveal a pattern.

WHUMP! WHUMP! One after another, mortar shells exploded; and while Jez’s evasive actions proved successful, progress slowed. The jeeps occasionally stopped to drop-blast their mortar shells more accurately, but it didn’t stop them gaining ground.

Clearly, while the snow slowed him, it had no such effect on the pursuit vehicles. They would catch him before he could get to the hills. He had to make a stand. WHUMP! A shell exploded 30 meters ahead. That would do, fight from the mortar’s footprint, die like a soldier. He ran towards it. The jeeps closed in. WHUMP! Another explosion – and it was in the same hollow he was headed for. He ran in the opposite direction to make them realign their weapons.

The aim moved. Shells exploded away from the crater, so he veered back and got close enough to jump. Any other time of year the landing would have been soft, but now solid ground jarred his bones as he made contact with the fissure’s base. The earth moved and rumbled, feet banged against brittle crust that cracked and broke beneath him. A thin layer of earth had been all that remained after the two explosions and Jez crashed through the crater into another hole.

He dropped the depth of the first hollow and through into the hole below. But he couldn’t see out to shoot. If his life hadn’t been about to end he might have laughed. Too low to make a stand, he would have to… but just a minute, what was that? He wasn’t in a hole, but a pothole, a chance, a slim chance, but a chance.

He pulled the landfall aside, squeezed through and scrambled along the tunnel in a direction in line with the hills. The cave got bigger. He could stand up straight. He started running again, and half a minute carried him 100 meters in. WHUMP! Grit and soil blasted along the chasm behind him, stung his legs, back and buttocks as fragments struck. They’d realigned a fix on the crater too soon. It had to be Mitrokhin up there. The regular army weren’t that good.

With adrenalin pumping, he gave that extra push, but the channel narrowed and lowered. Lack of headroom forced him to his hands and knees. Movement slowed. The ground shook. Tremors shuddered through his arms and legs, and then a blast was followed by a rumble.

The channel collapsed and fallen earth charged towards him. Rapid breathing, his heart raced, but he had to steady his thoughts. He couldn’t lose control, but the ground rumbled, ever closer.

Still on his hands and knees, he pushed his back hard against the roof. Earth fell around his feet and legs as the miniature cave fell in. But his body remained rigid, acting as a stanchion. His part of the crown hadn’t fallen, but ahead and behind, the rumble continued and the fragile earth crashed down. The structure of the hollow folded, and when it stopped he’d become entombed. Panic engulfed him. There was no way out.

Set against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking, prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.

Buy Now @ Amazon, B&N, Kobo & Waterstones

Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://rik-stone.simdif.com