Freebie: Blackman: The Revolution Short "STL"

This writing is pretty clean, so not only is it a shameless plug for my "Blackman" series of short stories on Amazon (ahem!), but it's also an example of writing fairly free of passive construction, passive voice (there is some), adverbs, etc.



STL

Her words poured over him, cold at first and then biting into his sweat glands like acid.


“I’m not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not going? You’re my wife.”

She stared nails into the palms he proffered. “I am not going to Ferguson, Missouri. People are getting *killed* there. Your stunt with the kid was bad enough. Are you going to take him, too?”

“If he wants to go, I don’t see why not.”

She threw her hands into the air, making strangled noises. Her hair whipped out around her when she turned. The floor creaks diminished as she stamped deeper into the house.

Alone. He’d have to do this alone. Her position was written all over her face, even if he pretended he couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t go. She wouldn’t let him take Big D, their ersatz foster kid. Maybe it was the way her jaw worked or the set of her spine as she left, but he knew. He’d do this alone.

If he did it at all.

People were getting shot. Mike Brown did, and now protesters, too? Maybe it was too dangerous.

Or maybe it was exactly the time. The time to talk peaceful protest. The time to talk signs and words, not guns and knives.

The carpet scrunched under his toes. The cool air (Damn that polar-bear wife!) blew over him, raising the hairs on his arms. Turning the corner to the kitchen, he spotted her cradling the mug of hot cocoa. Damn, she must be upset. Hot cocoa was PMS medication, or Somebody Died therapy. Not some trifling thing.

“A superhero isn’t needed when everything’s OK. He’s needed when it’s dark and dangerous.”

She eyed him over the brim of her cup.

Fuck.

Her voice echoed, hollow and scary, from the ceramic. “You are not a super hero. You are someone who shoots videos, not guns. That shit you pulled at Tops? That ain’t never happening again. And you are NOT going to St. Louis to fight no goddamned race war.”

He tried a smile on: “You know I like it when you talk ghetto.”

A manicured nail sparkled in the kitchen’s light. The middle one.

“I’m going.”

“You are not.”

“I’m going, Madeline. You know I have to. They’re sick out there. Sick with rage. They shootin’ and lootin’ because they can’t find their voice, like when you stormed out of the bedroom. They can’t talk about what’s wrong ‘cause it’s just so much that’s wrong. 300 years and it’s got to stop. And they gotta breathe. And someone’s gotta get them talking instead of fighting. But fightin’s all they know, and it’s all they’ll do unless I go out there and show them otherwise.”

“You’re serious? You think you got some super-powers now? Because you know the names of little kids who steal food. Because you know the name of a beaten prostitute?”

“Because they didn’t shoot Big D. Here, I can show you.”

“Show me?”

Her hand heated his. The air around her smelled like hot cocoa and buttery lotion. A habit she’d picked up from him, putting lotion on every day out of the shower.

The heat of the day beat on them as soon as he opened the door. Gray sky hung over them, sealing them in, as it did most days in August. Rocks stabbed the soles of his feet but he half-jogged through the gap in the fence toward the parking lot.

“Where are we going? Why don’t you have shoes?”

He ignored her. His cheeks hurt from smiling. He pulled her toward the street, slowed down. “Stand here.”

She stood, holding onto the pole of the bus stop sign out of habit. Anchoring herself. “What are you doing?”

“Just stay there.”

The bus stop shelter smelled like piss in the heat, but he ducked behind it anyway, careful not to touch it. Soon enough, the stop light turned yellow and then red. Cars piled up quickly, forming perfect rows, waiting for the light to change.

“Listen up.”

She turned toward his whisper, and he stepped out from behind the shelter. “What—?”

“Shh. Listen.”

Cement struck his heels as he strode toward the stop. At first, nothing. Then a single *chunk* of a door lock.

Madeline’s hair shined gold as she spun toward the sound.

Another step. *chunk, chunk*

Now he was even with the pole. He looked into the passenger window at dyed-red wiry curls. White wrinkled neck dripped over the seat belt.

Step.

Chunk. Chunk. Pop chunk chunk pop snap chunk.

He turned back toward his wife, arms up and shining blackly in the sun. “See? Superpowers.”

Her finger came up again. Not to him this time, but to every car stopped at the light. “Fucking racist assholes!” She turned to him, gray eyes flashing. “I’m coming with you.”

When You Want to Quit

That voice that sounds suspiciously like the most disapproving person in your life will, at some time or another, tell you to give up on writing. You suck. You write like a five-year-old. Stephen King was younger than you when he first published.

And that voice is probably right about most of it. You probably do suck, compared to where you will be in five or ten years. You might write like a five-year-old, if the five-year-old is a wunderkind. Stephen King was, indeed, younger.

But you shouldn’t quit.

That voice is the voice of dissatisfaction with where you are in your writing journey. We all hear that voice. And we’re all faced with a choice: quit or get better.

Because, obviously, that voice won’t let you stay where you are right now.
Quit or get better. Shit or get off the pot.

I’m a proponent of getting better, not quitting. I like to crack open a book right about then, and say to my father’s voice, “We’ll see about that after I learn some stuff.”

Why? Because rarely in life do we get to choose our turning points, but this is one place where we do. We can quit writing, sure, but most of us don’t. That means we can ignore this voice and simply have a fling with writing until the voice comes back, or we can face the voice head-on, arms akimbo and chin outthrust.

Nose in book; red pen on essay.

Accepting critiques or applying lessons in writing manuals are some of the toughest things we do. Acknowledging that our prose isn’t perfect, that our poetry doesn’t evoke, necessarily hurts. It stings. It damages our tiny cat feelings. It sucks.

But if we don’t acknowledge room to improve, we’ll battle all our lives with that voice that says “you aren’t good enough.” Because you know what? We aren’t good enough. We are not good enough today for tomorrow. We do not know everything. Assuming we do is hubris.

“But I can’t afford it. I don’t have time. But it’s my unique writing voice. You just don’t understand my art.”

Listen here: ANYTHING you say back to the voice in your head is an excuse. It’s not the real reason you’re reticent to take that critique. It’s not the reason you’re unwilling to pick up a book. It’s a cover for being afraid. Afraid the voice is right.

So if you acknowledge that the voice is right, you can save yourself a lot of arguing.

But shouldn’t you write for the sheer joy of writing? Yes. You feel super-joyful when you’re wondering whether you should give up your dreams. Time. Of. Your. Life.

Look, writing is awesome. That’s how it got you hooked. And sometimes it sucks, like when you have to sublimate your ego. But it will get awesome again if you get over yourself. Try it.

Just write. And learn. And write some more.

And when you hear that disapproving voice in your head: welcome it. It means that there’s something you need to learn. Dollars to doughnuts, you know what that “thing” is: it’s whatever’s bothering you about your writing. Your characters suck: go study character building. Your world is flat: go study world building. People don’t understand what you mean: study sentence structure. Your prose drags: learn to activate your verbs and select your nouns.

It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. It means the end of angst and the beginning of an exciting journey toward awesomeness.

But only if you don’t quit.

Feedback Loop-or How to Become a Better Writer Fast

Feedback. Whether it’s a screeching speaker or screeching colleague, we all learn to hate it, dodge it, avoid it. When someone offers feedback, we may feel like saying, “Go ahead, tell me what’s wrong with me.”

In writing, feedback is easy to get. You post a paragraph or two, and your friends and family, teachers and associates, all tell you it’s wonderful.  You’re the next Stephen King or Stephanie Meyer, and it won’t be long until your books line their shelves.

Yeah, OK.

Part of you knows they’re blowing sunshine. And that little part of you, your internal editor, knows that you need someone to give you the other kind of feedback, the painful kind. Inner editors get demonized in writing circles. You can’t complete Nanowrimo with your inner editor on your back. But that little voice has a purpose, and its purpose is to show you the drivel.

Not that you produce any drivel. That must just be me. So why don’t you take a break and let me talk to your inner editor for the rest of this piece.

Feedback. Screeching. Pointing out flaws. You know you need it, but how are you going to get it? If you post a portion of your masterpiece, people will misunderstand. They’ll lack context. They’ll tell you that you don’t need ten pages of backstory, but you know you do. So what do you do?

You enter the feedback loop.

There’s a reason that many authors start with short stories (event though short stories can be even tougher than novels sometimes). First, it’s simple. Only one plot-line to contend with. Only a character or two. One decision in your climax and Boom! It’s done.

The second is because you get your feedback faster.  You crank out a short story, you get feedback. 95 people say they love it, but that curmudgeon in the corner always talking about “passive voice” starts in on you. And that’s the person you want to listen to. A thousand people singing your praises won’t make you a better writer; facts-based editing will. And there are facts to writing. There are rules.

Short stories also promote good storytelling. Those ten pages of backstory? Yeah, your reader doesn’t need them in a short. So you learn to write without them. That entire chapter of tea and biscuits where you catch your reader up on what’s transpired? Can’t do that in a short story. A lot of classical mistakes can be avoided in a short, so you can teach yourself not to make those mistakes in the first place.

And that’s what does it: what turns you from a dilettante to a real writer is feedback: the scary kind. The harsh kind. The kind that makes you open up textbooks or manuals of style when you feel like refuting what the critic said. The kind that causes you to clap your hands over your ears and scream, “I’m not listening.”

Because your inner editor is listening. Your inner editor is whispering, “yes, this is what’s wrong with it. That makes sense.”

Your inner editor is learning what kind of feedback to give you, so when you do Nanowrimo next year, your draft doesn’t suck quite so bad.

I write short pieces—fiction or essay—almost every day. Not for the half-dozen people I know will purr and rub against my post, but for the one or two people who will nudge their glasses higher on their noses and say, “You don’t need a comma there. This sentence drags. Passive voice.”

Because, really, the only way to get better is to know where we’re screwing up. It’s scary, yes, but also liberating. The first time you post a rough draft and no one has any crap to say about it? Priceless. Or better, when you post something and only noobs are ragging on it, and saying terribly inaccurate stuff: boss. Then you get to correct them AND rock the emotive monster.

Try it. Join a critique group (I know a good one), or a writer’s prompt group (I know a good one), or get a writing coach (I know agood one), and dive into the experience of actually becoming a better writer. The feedback loop is the only way to improve. Get out of your own way and grow!