I’ve written a new short story!

Last Saturday I turned a corner, mood-wise. After not being able to write for six months, I sat down and hammered out the first draft of a new flash piece. The story is something I’d been mulling over for a while; I had the genre (noir/crime) and a line of dialog, but that’s it.

But Saturday morning I sat down and told myself to write something, anything, even if it was crap. And the whole story came tumbling out of me.

It’s a huge relief, to know that I can still do it. Even if the draft is terrible, it exists, it’s mine, and that means I’m not hopeless as a writer just yet.

I’ve spent the week since working on a “Draft 1.5”, as I’m thinking of it. I’m still too close to the story to properly edit it into a second draft, but as soon as I was done with the first draft I started seeing areas where I needed to go back, add depth or look for a more creative angle.

In particular, the motive for the crime bothered me. The one in the first draft felt too pat, too cliché. Not real enough.

So one morning I took out my little notebook and went through the characters in the story, one by one, and wrote a description — personality, circumstances, and appearance — for each. I had only vague ideas of the characters when I started, but by the end of the exercise I had them firmly fixed in my mind, along with a better motive, and plot changes to reflect that.

Thus I’ve begun another draft to incorporate those changes. I know there’ll be more drafts after this one, including a proper second once I’ve let the story sit for a couple weeks. But for now I want to make this first draft a little stronger.

If you’re struggling with writing, and not sure you can hack it anymore, let me reassure you: You can! You might just need a break, or to try a different genre, or a different format. Me, I needed all three, including permission from a writing instructor to drop my current project altogether. It’s scary to contemplate, but liberating in the end.

Go forth and write messy drafts, write bad dialog, and create some one-dimensional characters. Whatever it takes to get the words out, to get your mind working on the story. You can always, always, clean it up later, but you can’t do anything without that first draft. So get to it :)

Written with: Ulysses

Under the influence of: “Model Citizen,” Meet Me @ the Altar

So I found a cure for the distractions last week: Stop reading the news.

I'm serious. Before last week, I'd check three different news sites in the morning, first thing, before sitting down to write. I felt informed, sure, but I also used up time in the morning that I could have spent writing.

So now I'm...not doing that anymore. I wake up and write, for about an hour, before doing anything else.

I still read the news, of course. I just do it after my writing is done, not before.

And so far, it's working! I've been able to churn out anywhere from 800 to 1,200 words a day, doing things this way.

Which is good, because NaNoWriMo starts on Sunday, and I've signed up for it again.

I know, I know. There's too much going on. I've already got a novel I need to doing additional editing passes on. And what about that series of short stories that I wanted to do, based on those horror writing prompts?

The thing is, I logged into my NaNoWriMo account last week, just to blow the dust off it, and I realized that every novel I've ever written started out as a NaNoWriMo project.

Even if I didn't finish the novel during that November, I got enough of a start that I eventually finished that draft.

So I signed up. I think the previous short story idea I had, about a woman in the eighteenth century who fights to protect an endangered species -- dragons -- has enough there to be longer than a short story. I already put off starting it once, because the more I worked on it, the longer it grew.

Well, if I just call it a novel off the bat, the length's fine, isn't it?

As training, I'm working through Lisa Cron's Story Genius. It's got a series of exercises for drilling into the bedrock of your story and figuring out what really makes it tick, so (presumably) writing the novel itself becomes easier. For example, writing a full scene from your main character's past that shows the origin of the internal issue they're going to work through (in the course of the novel).

I'm doing it for the horror short story, for now, not the novel (not yet). First because, well, doing it on the novel would be cheating. Second because I've not used this book before, so I wanted to try it out on something small to see if it works for me. And third, because I was kind of flailing on the short story. I hoped some structure would push me forward.

And it has, so far. As I mentioned, I've been churning out backstory scenes, working through my main character's personal issues so I know just what situation will push them out of their comfort zone (and into the plot).

I'm hoping to have enough worked through before Sunday that I can at least write a first draft of the story, and get it out of the way before I need to focus on the novel.

But if not...Oof. I'm not sure what I'll do. Start the novel, I suppose, in order to keep up with the NaNoWriMo pace? And pick up the short story on the other side, in December.

If any of you are doing NaNoWriMo this year, look me up! My user name's mindbat , let's be writing buddies, and help keep each other's spirits up!

Distractions piling up this week.

First, there's the upcoming election, which has my stomach in knots. We need to kick out the current regime in the US, but even if voted out, will they go? Even if they leave, what will they destroy on their way out?

Second, we're having some work on the main bathroom in the house. Which has meant days where the water's shut off. Days where the workers pounding on the floor right above my makeshift office feels like they're hammering directly into my skull.

Third, the short stories I've been sending out, including the one that I feel is the best thing I've written to date, are getting rejected, one by one. I know I'm not supposed to take that personally, but they make me question myself.

I mean, what am I doing, really? Building a writing career out of fifteen minutes here, thirty minutes there? Who am I fooling?

The writers whose stories I know, the ones that have made it, all have spent more time on it. More time writing, more time editing, more...time, in general. I don't know if it's a constant source of tension with their families, but...I can't take that kind of time.

So I'm down and doubting, dear reader. Unsure of myself, and this thing that I'm doing.

I don't want to quit, but...if all my writing has is a weird half-life, scraped together from minutes in the day, is it something I'll ever be good enough at? And if all I'm doing is doodling on scraps of paper that might end up on the fridge if I'm lucky, why am I doing it?

It’s done! The edits are done!

Well, this round of edits, anyway...There’ll be more, down the line.

But the third draft of the novel is finished!

This is the first draft that I feel can be seen, so I’m sending it out to beta readers, hoping to get some good (meaning: useful and thorough, not merely positive) feedback.

I’ll also need to send it to sensitivity readers, because some of the characters are from ethnic groups outside my own. I think I’ve done them justice, but I know I’m not the best judge of that. So I’ll ask some friends of mine to be additional readers, letting me know if I’ve messed anything up.

While I wait (and lean into my reading, to unwind a bit), I'm going to work on a short story or three.

Or five.

I found a horror anthology that’s accepting flash fiction on five different subjects through December. The topics are broad enough that I’ve brainstormed a few different story ideas for each.

Since they’re flash pieces, I thought I’d write one up for each topic, and submit them all (which they allow). Five little stories for my brain to chew on while I take a break between editing passes.

What about you? What do you do, between revisions of a longer work? Or do you take any sort of breathing room between them, at all?

I've been having incredibly vivid dreams.

Dreams that fade from memory when I wake up.

Parts of them linger, though. An accusation that was hurled at me. A song someone else was singing.

I think it means my unconscious mind is...bored? I haven't worked on anything new in a while, since I decided to focus on the novel edits. And as I near the end of the novel, those edits are becoming more re-phrasing and less re-writing. Less work for my imagination to do.

So I wonder if that's why my dreams have suddenly become full-color 3D rousing soundtrack level productions. It's my unconscious saying "give me something new to work on!" while I keep saying "not yet."

Because I do lean on my unconscious mind a lot when writing. Drafting or outlining, I'll often hit a wall, a place in the story where I'm not sure where to go, and I'll stop there for the day. Literally sleep on the problem, and come back the next day.

Usually, by the time I return to the work, I've got a solution. My unconscious has chewed on the problem all night, and delivers it up to me when I need it.

After...well, years...of working together like that, I'm wondering if my unconscious misses it. Even in the midst of a pandemic, even when I think (consciously) that I can't work on two things at once, it's saying "let's give it a shot."

So I guess I will! I'll pick up the new story again, wrap up its outline, and start drafting.

Or maybe even just dive into the drafting part, who knows? The outline's mostly done, and it's the writing itself that works out my unconscious the most.

What about you? Do you rely on your unconscious mind for help in your writing? Has it ever sent you a message, like it seems to be doing to me?

I feel like I'm telling this story to myself, over and over again, with each outline. New details get filled in, new connections appear, with each telling.

And each day I get up and tell it to myself another time, adding more pieces.

I so much want to just write, just set the words down on the page and let them fall where they may.

But then I'll be plotting out the second third of the story, and I'll have an idea that ripples all the way back to the beginning. And it makes me glad I haven't started writing anything more than snippets of dialog just yet. Because all of those snippets will likely need to change.

This story...It's more complicated than other short stories I've written. Less straightforward.

It's a five-part structure. One part setup, followed by three parts flashbacks (taking place over years and across continents), followed by a climax. And it all needs to hang together like a coherent whole, present flowing to flashbacks and then returning to the present.

I'm not sure I can pull it off, to be honest. I'll have to do a good bit of research for each flashback, just to ground them in reality. Then there's the problem of each flashback needing to be its own story, complete with character arc, while feeding into the larger narrative.

It's like writing four stories at once, really, with them nested inside each other.

Will it all make sense, in the end? Will the flashbacks prove to be too long, and need culling? Will my framing device be so transparent that it's boring? Will the conclusion be a big enough payoff?

Who knows?

All I can do is tell myself the story, piece by piece, over and over again, until I can see it all clearly.

I've never written a short-story this way before.

I'm coming at it more like a novel. I'm outlining, then researching things like character names and historical towns to model the setting off of, then revising the outline, rinse, repeat.

So I've written very little of it, so far. And what I have written -- snippets of dialog and description -- might get thrown out later, as the outline changes.

I'm not sure it's better, this way. I feel frustrated at times, like I want to just write the thing and get it over with.

But I know -- well, I feel -- that that will result in a story that's not as good as it could have been. Like eating grapes before they've ripened on the vine.

And I do keep coming up with more connections between the various pieces of the story, more ways to tie it all together. Each one is an improvement. Each one makes the story stronger.

Perhaps that's how I'll know when to stop outlining, and start writing? When I literally can't think of any way to make the story itself better?

How about you? How do you know when it's time to write a story, and when it needs to sit in your mind a little while longer?

Started drafting a new short story this week.

I'm taking a different approach, this time. For short stories, I usually just sit down and write it out, all in one go. At least for the first draft.

For this story, I'm doing a mix of outlining and writing. I jot down lines of dialog as they come to me, or -- in one case -- the whole opening scene came in flash, so I typed it up.

But the majority of the story is still vague to me, so I'm trying to fill it in via brainstorming and daydreaming. Sketching a map of where it’s taking place, thinking through why the town it’s set in exists, what it’s known for. Drafting histories for the main characters.

It’s fun, so it’s also hard to convince myself that it’s work. Necessary work, at that.

Because my guilty writer conscience wants to see words on the page. No matter that I’m not ready, the ideas only half-formed. For it, it’s sentences or nothing.

So I’m pushing back by reading a book specifically about short story techniques, using the authority of another writer to argue (with my guilt) that it’s okay to pause and think. That progress can mean no words save a character bio. That every story needs a good foundation, and that’s what I’m trying to build.

It’s working, so far. My guilt does listen, just not always to me.

What about you? How do you balance the need to feel productive with the background work that every story requires?

Missed last week's Keeping Score, but for a good reason: I was wrapping up the second draft of the novel!

I set down the final words in the last chapter later that weekend. It's done!

Or rather, the current draft is done. I've still got some editing passes to do: for consistency, for character dialog, for general polish.

But this draft, which started out as minor edits and grew to become pretty much a rewrite, is finished. As part of that rewrite, it's grown, from 70K to 80K.

Ditto the rewrite I was doing for the short story, which I also wrapped up last week. The story's grown from a 3,000-word piece to something north of 8,000 words! Some of those might get cut away in editing, but it'll still end up more than twice as long as it was before. I had no idea there was so much story left to tell with that one, until I tried to tell it.

With two project drafts done, I've mostly taken this week off. I need the space for the novel to cool off so I can approach the edits with an objective eye. I might leave that one untouched for a month or so, just to get some distance.

For the short story, I think I'll start editing it this week. At least an initial pass for consistency and word choice, before sending it off to beta readers. Once I get their feedback, I'll make further edits, to get it into shape for submission.

Meanwhile, I've started brainstorming a short story idea I had a while back. Everything's still vague now, but it's about dragons, and mentors, and loss. I'm excited to see how it shapes up!

This week, I've been chasing the dragon of a finished draft.

I'm so close to being done with the short story revisions that I've been working on them every day, instead of alternating with the novel. It's like at a certain point, I can only hold one or the other in my head, and I've been holding the short story.

I'm still following the one-inch-frame method, jumping from scene to scene and writing a few paragraphs here, a page there, then coming back and joining them up later.

It feels like a cheat, sometimes, like I'm putting off doing my homework and playing video games instead. And I suppose I am, in a way, holding off from writing the parts that feel difficult in the moment and writing the ones that come easily.

But so far, I always end up coming back to the hard stuff, and finding that either a) It doesn't seem hard anymore, or b) It's not even needed.

The latter still worries me. How could this piece that I thought was essential not even need to be written? Am I not just procrastinating on my homework, but refusing to do it altogether?

I try to reassure myself with the knowledge that this is just a draft, one of many, and everything can be revised later. Nothing is permanent.

So here's hoping I can wrap up this draft over the weekend, and then push through the last scenes of the novel! Would be nice to end June with two projects completely drafted, ready to sit on the back-burner for a bit so I can come back and revise them properly.

How about you? When you're closing in on a finished draft, do you find you have little room in your head for anything else?

Current writing streak: 64 days.

Finally reached the part of the novel where I'm back to editing, instead of writing new chapters. It's made things easier going, on that front. Less intimidating to sit down with words already on the page, and know I've just got to make them consistent with everything else.

There's a few chapters at the very end where I'll need to be drafting from scratch again, but for now, at least, it's smoother sailing.

Of course, this won't be the end of my editing passes. I'll need to do at least one more of what I'm thinking of as "consistency passes" to check all the new material against what's already there. Then I'm planning on doing a dialog pass for each main character, to ensure they speak consistently throughout. Finally I'll do a phrase and copy-editing pass, looking for awkward wording or cliché description.

So still plenty to do.

I've also continued to work on the short story on alternate days this week. I wasn't sure I was ready to start writing the new section of that work, to be honest, but by focusing on just one little detail at a time -- Anne Lamott's one-inch frame technique -- I've managed to add ~1,000 words to the draft. If I keep this up, I might actually have the draft done (and ready to set aside, for later editing) next week.

Which would be...amazing. I wasn't sure I could ever get back to some sort of functioning writing schedule during the pandemic. Or get back to writing more than just a sentence or two a day. But something's happened recently, like a mental fog has lifted. I'm able to brainstorm again, and hold both of these storylines (the story and the novel) in my head again, and write a page a day again.

It may not last. I'm going to appreciate it while it does, though. I know not everyone has been as relatively fortunate as I have through this pandemic.

So I'm grateful, for the work I can do, while I can do it.

How about you? Have you felt like you've turned a corner lately? Or are things still too much in the air for your writing brain to settle into some kind of routine?

The streak's alive! I've managed at least 30 minutes of writing for 57 days straight now.

Alternating the days I work on the novel with the days I work on the short story seems to help, too.

I've even started tracking my daily word count again, when working on the novel. I don't let myself stop writing until I hit 250 words.

As a result, I've made notable progress on it. Finished three new chapters, and I'm ready to start editing down the next few.

And for the short story, I'm gathering notes on my research and getting plot points nailed down. This weekend (or early next week) I think I'll be ready to start writing some dialog, and then gradually fill in the rest.

Oh, and I have three other pieces submitted to paying markets. Keeping in the habit of sending them right back out a few days after a rejection comes in.

So this week has been good, relatively speaking. Still not operating at 100%, creatively, but I'm finding a new normal, a new pace of working to make a habit.

What about you?

It's here! The new issue of Galaxy's Edge is out, and along with stories by Joe Halderman and Robert J Sawyer, it has my very first short story sale: "Wishr"!

It's been a long road for this story. I wrote the first draft in September of 2016 (!). Since then it's been through five major revisions, and multiple edits on top of that.

Several of those were prompted by early rejections. I'd submit it, get a rejection, revise the story, get beta reader feedback, and send it back out. Over and over and over again.

A slow process, but a necessary one. I'm proud of the story that's resulted, and very proud to be a part of Galaxy's Edge magazine, which was edited by Mike Resnick until his passing early this year.

Many thanks and congratulations to both the editor, Lezli Robyn, and the publisher, Shahid Mahmud, for keeping the magazine going, and his legacy alive.

So check out the new issue, and let me know what you think of the story!

Current writing streak: 50 days.

50 days! That's 50 consecutive days of working, bit by bit, on the novel, several short stories, and essays for the blog.

50 days of laying bricks, one at a time. Of sending out stories and getting rejections. Of wrestling with file formats, and Scrivener settings, all to conform to the particular submission guidelines of each market (sometimes "always follow the directions" is hard advice to hold to).

50 days of shoving the pandemic out of my mind for at least thirty minutes, each day, to go visit somewhere else in my imagination. A dearly needed mental vacation.

So, what's new this week?

I've taken up the habit of alternating days in which I'm working on the novel with days where I work on something else. It's a way of giving me a break from the general slog of the book without going too long without thinking about it. And it lets me make progress on some other projects.

Like the short story I started submitting to markets...two weeks ago? One of the rejections I got resonated with me. It took a while, but eventually that resonation joined up with some things my beta readers said, and crystallized this week into me thinking up a different ending for it.

The new ending changes the meaning of the piece. Shifts its emphasis. But I think it's stronger, and more cohesive with the rest of the story. And it adds a little bit of just desserts for one of the characters.

So I'm going to give it a shot.

I say "give it a shot" quite deliberately. It might flop. It might make the story worse, not better. I might fail to execute properly. Any of which would mean I'd go back to sending it out with the original ending.

But I'd like to try, so I've been using my alternate days this week to brainstorm and outline the new ending. Sketch out scenes, decide sticky plot points, nail down questions that arise as I think it through.

It's a different way of working for me -- usually I just throw down the short story, outline be damned -- and it's slower, but I'd like to be more deliberate in the way I craft things. I feel like the more plot holes I can fill during the outlining, the smoother the actual writing process will go. It should let me focus on the writing itself, because I've thought through the action and character beats already.

We'll see. Wish me luck.

This week has been...strange.

I received the contract (and check!) in the mail for my first short story sale, which is getting published soon in Galaxy's Edge magazine after being accepted last August. That's been an emotional roller-coaster ride all its own, but it's going to work out in the end.

The same day, riding high on waves of optimism, of the proof that I can write something someone will pay for, I received the latest rejections for two of my short stories that are out circulating.

I know I can't take any of it personally, but it truly felt like one step forward, two steps back, that day. Made me wonder if perhaps the one sale is all I've got in me. It's nonsense, of course -- I've got twenty or thirty years of writing left (with luck), and surely can improve a little in all that time -- but it's hard to stare self-doubt in the face and insist you know the future when everything is so uncertain, for everyone.

So, I'm going to do the only thing I can do: Write more, and revise it, and send it out. The only thing I have control over.

How about you? What do you do, when you feel like you're getting conflicting signals from the outside world about your writing?

Current writing streak: 29 days.

Another week of forcing myself into the chair, every morning, for at least 30 minutes. Am I writing new words all 30 minutes? No. But I'm working all the same: planning, outlining, brainstorming, and finally putting fingers to keyboard.

When I feel the usual terror setting in, I tell myself: Write one sentence. Just one. One sentence is a victory. One sentence is enough.

It turns out that once I have one sentence down, I can usually write another. And another. And before I know it, I've written a few hundred words.

Sometimes. Sometimes it really is just one sentence. And I have to treat that like the achievement it is; because that sentence didn't exist before, and now it does. It might be terrible, it might be great, but I can edit it later. It exists to be edited later, only because I've written it.

So while forcing myself into the chair, I've finished a few projects:

• Finished editing the short story I worked on last week
• Sent that story out to beta readers for feedback
• Submitted two more short stories to markets, one for the very first time

Next up: Back to the novel. I really, really, really want to finish the current draft; I feel like I've been working on it forever. It'd feel so good to have it done to the point where I could send it to beta readers, or at least have enough raw draft material down that I can whip it into shape via another editing pass.

Current writing streak: 22 days.

Switching from tracking words written to time spent writing seems to be working. So far this week I've:

• Finished the script for an 8-page comic as part of Gail Simone's Comics School
• Finished writing up an interview with a local author
• Finished revising 3 of 5 scenes in a short story
• Submitted a flash fiction piece to a new market

I'm trying to use one of the tools Gail Simone said we need in our toolbox to make it as professional writers: Focus.

For Comics School, it meant keeping the overall goal modest (an 8-pg story) and working each day on just one piece of it, till it was done.

For me, I'm thinking of it in terms of goals per piece. This week, my goal is to finish editing the short story I mentioned above. Then I can submit it to beta readers, and move onto the next thing while I wait for their feedback.

Next week, I think I'll finally return to working on the novel. I'd like to take it chapter by chapter, with the goal of finishing one per week. We'll see how it goes.

How about you? How are you measuring success, during the pandemic?

As we roll into the second week of 2020, I'm taking some time to look at where I am, writing-career-wise, and where I want to be at the end of this year.

2019 in the Rear View

In 2019, I did finally achieve one goal of mine: I got a short story accepted for publication.

Not published, yet, but accepted, at least. And that's something I couldn't say before.

I didn't finish the edits to the current novel, though, like I wanted. My internal deadline slipped from October 31st, to November 31st, to Dec 31st, and still I didn't make it.

So one win and one miss? Or one win and one delayed victory?

I'm going to work to make it the latter.

To that end, I'm adopting the following three writing goals for this year:

Four Short Stories

Maberry proposed this one at the last Writers Coffeehouse, and I think I'm going to adopt it.

It means one short story every three months, which seems doable. One month to draft, one month to solicit feedback, another to edit it into shape.

To that end, I've already started noodling on a new story. It's an idea I've been chewing on for a few months, looking for the right angle. I've decided to just go ahead and write it, dammit, because sometimes the best way to know what a story's about is to write it down.

Finish the Current Novel

And when I say finish, I mean finish. Edited, reviewed by beta readers, edited again, and polished as much as possible.

I want to be realistic, and not pick a date mid-year for finishing, this time. Progress on the book has been slow, so far. I'd rather be finished early, and not have stressed about it, then worry myself about a deadline that's only in my head.

So I'll aim to be done by December 1st. I'm again stealing the date from Maberry, whose reasoning is that if you finish by December 1st, you can spend all of December partying (instead of working your way through the holidays). Sounds like a good plan to me :)

Post More

Beyond writing fiction, I'd like to post more on this blog and on Twitter. Both to interact more with you, dear readers, and also to work on my essay skills.

Looking ahead a year or two, I'd like to be writing essays at a level I could sell. To get there, I'll need to practice.

So, more blog posts: movie reviews, book reviews, and the occasional counter-point to articles I come across.

I read a lot of writing advice. Books, blog posts, twitter feeds, you name it.

I know it won't all work for me. But how else can I improve my craft, other than trying new things, and seeing how it comes out?

So here's four techniques I tried out last year (or carried over from 2018) that have stuck with me, and that I'll be using a lot in 2020.

One-Inch Picture Frame

Source: Anne Lamott

My current go-to technique. When I'm sitting at the keyboard and the words won't come, and I think this is it, my imagination's run dry and I'll never finish another story, I reach for this.

The idea is simple, and powerful in the way few simple ideas are: Instead of worrying about writing the chapter, or writing the scene, I focus on writing only one little piece of the scene. Just describe how she feels after getting caught in a lie. Describe how he looks at his old room differently, now that he's been away from home for ten years.

Drill down into something very specific, and write just that. Nothing more.

The narrowed focus lets me relax a little. Because I can't write a chapter anymore, oh no, and I can't write a scene, that's for sure, but I can write how it feels to see someone you love after thinking they were dead. I can do that

And once that's done, once I've really described everything in my one-inch picture frame properly, I look up and I've already hit my daily word count goal.

Tracking Word Count Score

Source: Scott Sigler

This one's a carry-over. Sigler first laid out his points system for tracking word counts at a Writers Coffeehouse in 2018. I tried it out then, and it got me back on track to finish the first draft of my current novel.

Since then, I've kept using it: 1 point for each first draft word, 1/2 point for each word gone over in the first editing pass, 1/3 for the third, etc.

It's helped me feel productive in cases where I wouldn't, like revising a short story I finished months ago, to get it to the point where I can submit it to magazines. And it's pushed me to keep writing until I hit that daily word count, and relax when I do so, because I know by hitting it, I'm working steadily towards my larger goals.

Showing Emotion and Thoughts Instead of Telling

Source: Chuck Palahniuk

I was really skeptical of this one. He wrote it up in a post for LitReactor, and it's couched in language that's self-confident to the point of being arrogant.

But he's right. Switching from using language like "she was nervous" to "She looked away, and bit her lip. The fingers of her right hand started drumming a quick beat on her thigh, tap-tap-tap," is a huge improvement. It's pushed me to think more about how each of my characters expresses themselves in unique ways, and given me the tools to show that uniqueness to the reader.

Scatter and Fill

Source: V.E. Schwab

Schwab's twitter feed is a fantastic one to follow for writing advice. She's very honest about the struggles she faces, and how much guilt she feels over being such a slow writer.

But the brilliant results (in her books) speak for themselves!

In one of her posts, she talked about how when writing a novel, she doesn't write it in any sort of order. She'll fill in some dialog in one scene, then a set description in another, and then action in a third. She gradually fills in the work, like painting a canvas, where every brush stroke counts and adds up to the final product.

I've always felt compelled to write in strict order, start to finish. So reading this technique works for her was very liberating for me. I still usually write in order, but now if I'm finding it hard to get motivated, I'll skip around. Write down some dialog that comes to me, or an action or two. Sometimes I can hit my daily word goal this way, and sometimes it just primes the pump so I can fill in the rest. Either way, it gets me around my mental block, and lets me make progress.

3,026 words written this week.

Most of those are on the novel, but about a third are edits on the short story I wrote back at the SoCal Writers Conference in September.

Reading the story now, I think I like it more than I did before. Not necessarily the language the story's told in; I can see plot holes and awkward phrasing. But the story itself: The characters and the setting, how the protagonist's heart gets broken, and how she pieces herself back together. That's what I'm in love with.

A good sign, maybe? Certainly it motivates me to finish, to edit and polish the story until it's the best version I can produce.

But it also means I might miss flaws in the telling. I have to beware of liking my own voice too much, instead of the voices of the characters.

How do you balance being critical of the work versus liking it enough to keep going? Do you tend to err on the side of hatred, or do you fall too much in love with your work?

Only 450 words this week.

Instead of working on the novel, I’ve spent my time revising a flash fiction story, the one I wrote at WonderCon back in March.

The first two markets I submitted it to rejected it. I was about to submit it to a third, when I re-read it and saw some things that just…weren’t right.

So I printed it out and took it with me to this week’s Write In. I thought I’d be done with it in the first sprint, but I ended up working on it all night, trimming words here and there, rephrasing dialog, and dropping entire paragraphs.

I think the resulting story is shorter and stronger. The one thing I’m unsure of is it introduces a bit of jargon, a word that the two main characters (who are non-human) use to refer to humanity. I think it fits the world they’re in perfectly, and ties into the story’s ending, but then again, maybe it’s too subtle? Or jarring?

It’s hard to judge. I’ll probably send it out for one more read-through by some friends before submitting it again.

What do you do, when writing other worlds that might have different vocabulary from our own? Do you explain them bit by bit? Minimize it as much as possible? Or embrace the jargon, and count on the story to carry the reader along?

Only wrote 1,263 words this week (so far). But I feel like I accomplished a lot.

I went back to the write-in event this week, and again, having two hours of unbroken writing time is simply fantastic. I finished an editing pass on a short story, helped one of the other writers brainstorm ideas for her story, and wrote two pages on a new scene in the novel I’ve been revising.

I’ve also noticed printing out the text I’m editing seems to help. There’s something about being able to cross things out and scribble notes in the margins that lets me treat what I’ve written as more of a work-in-progress, instead of a delicate glass bird I might shatter if I alter it too much. It’s liberating, and I think I’m going to do that with all my work from now on.

Who knew that buying a home printer (for a totally different purpose) would have such an impact on my writing process?

What about you? What helps you get into editing mode? Is it just time away from the work, or do you do something to force you to see it differently?

1,134 words written so far this week. So I’ve got some catchup work to do this weekend.

About half of those words are from revising the flash fiction story I wrote at WonderCon. I tried to do it right this time: I put it aside for a week, sent it out to some very kind friends who were willing to read it, and then started working on it after I’d had a few days to digest their feedback.

I feel like this second draft is orders of magnitude better than the first. Though even calling it a second draft is somewhat disingenuous; I’ve written three other drafts of the same idea (different characters) before, neither of which really worked. So in some ways I’ve been working on this story for just two weeks. In other ways, I’ve been working on it for (checks date on Scrivener) almost a year.

Ye gods.

Found another gem on Twitter this week, from writer A Lee Martinez, that I’d like to share. It pushed me to re-examine my own dialog tags, and tighten things up a bit in that short story I’m working on.

The whole thread is good, but this is the bit that resonated with me:

It's like this:

"I don't know." He turned to her. "I don't."

VS.

He turned to her. "I don't know."

Even something as minor as that can turn a sentence, turning a scene, turning a chapter, turning a whole book. It's not that every word matters, but the ones that do, really do

What about you? What piece of writing advice has made you change something, however minor, in your own writing?

A few days later, Wright was standing outside my door again. I looked past her, at the uniformed cops dragging a handcuffed Dave away from his condo.

Wright was smiling. “Thought you’d like to see the fruits of your labor,” she said.

I shook my head. “I still can’t believe you found proof.”

“Well, he was clever to pump out the urine. Not so thorough about getting rid of it. Or his tools.”

“Guess we got lucky.”

“You got lucky, kid.” She chuckled. “I just did my job.”

She started to follow the uniforms out, then turned back. “Speaking of which, you should be getting a check from a thankful city soon.”

I grinned. “Thanks. But how will I cash a check made out to ‘Anonymous’?”

She smiled back. “Well, I might have listed you as a consultant on the case. Don’t thank me too much, though. You gave us a pretty cheap rate.”

She strode down the hall, whistling.

I went back into my condo, wondering how this would affect my unemployment.

Brian’s doubts gnawed at me all the way back from the pub.

As soon as I got home I went to the police department’s website to look for any information on Emily’s death. I found it under the heading “Police Investigate Death in Little Italy.”

The article didn’t say much more than the officer had told me earlier. Two things stood out: the cause of death was still listed as Unknown, and Dave hadn’t been booked for murder.

That should have settled it. After all, if the police didn’t think Dave was involved, why should I?

Besides, how much did I really know about Dave and Emily? Were we even friends on Facebook?

I logged in to check. We were.

Feeling a little guilty, I started reading through Emily’s timeline. I told myself I was just trying to get to know her a little better, a silent memorial to the neighbor I’d lost.

And I did learn some new things. She’d been a nurse, working shifts at Sharp Hospital. She posted several photos of dinners made for her by Dave, a consolation at the end of her workday. She’d been thinking about getting a dog, and posted pictures of cute ones she’d seen on the street.

Just for comparison, I clicked over to Dave’s timeline.

Not much there. A couple of bitter-sounding posts about how the recession was supposed to be over. Half-hearted attempts to promote sales at the Macy’s he worked at. Some back and forth arguments about politics around election time.

Oddly enough, though, his relationship status was set to “Single.” I double-checked Emily’s, which was still set to “Married.”

WTF? He’d changed it already?

I scrolled all the way back to the top of his timeline. Sure enough, at the very top of the page, it announced the change in his relationship status.

It was dated 6:53 pm on a Monday, two weeks ago.

I felt a chill go down my back.

Why’d he change his status so early? Were they having problems?

I dug through their timelines for another hour, but couldn’t find anything. If they were on the rocks, they weren’t posting about it. I suppose that made sense, but why else would he update his status?

Why else, unless he knew what was going to happen?

I chuckled at myself. What did a Facebook status prove? Brian’s comments had gotten me pretty worked up, to be thinking the guy next door had killed his own wife.

And how would he have done it, anyway? If there’d been any obvious marks on the body, the cops would’ve cuffed him then and there, right?

I checked the time. 6:00. Dave’d probably be home from work by now, assuming he’d even gone. I hadn’t talked to him since last night. Shouldn’t I go over and offer my condolences?

And wouldn’t that be a great way to get some more information?

Dave answered the door after my first knock, surprising me.

His eyes were red and bloodshot. “Yeah?” His gaze wandered down to my shoes, back up to my face. “Oh, it’s you. Sean, right?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I uh - " the speech I’d prepped seemed false, inadequate. “Can I come in?”

He nodded, opened the door wider. “Sure. Come on in.”

His condo was laid out basically the same as mine, but reversed left to right. His kitchen was on the left side of the front door, with the living room stretching ahead and to the right. A closed door at the far end of the left-hand wall led to the bedroom, I assumed.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, thanks, Dave.” I took one more look at the kitchen, at the dirty dishes piled in the sink, the empty wine bottle in the trash, and stepped into the living room. “Actually, I was wondering if there was anything I could do. You know. For you.”

He nodded, his gaze wandering over the furniture. There was just enough room for a couch and two small chairs, all three of which were covered in a combination of cardboard boxes and candy bar wrappers. He sighed. “Thanks, Sean, but I’m doing ok so far.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He rubbed his hand over his face. “Um, not really, thanks. Did enough talking with the cops and the doctors and the " - his voice caught - " the funeral home. I’m all talked out.”

I nodded. “Okay. I understand.” I gestured at the boxes. “Are you moving?”

He tensed, then shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. Might move back east. I’ve got family in PA. Don’t really want to stay here anymore, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

He let out a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m staying in a hotel tonight. Just gotta - " he waved his hand in the air - “gotta get away for a bit.”

I nodded again. “Gotcha. Well, if you need anything over the next few days, just let me know, man.”

He smiled a little. “Thanks, Sean.” He walked over and re-opened the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I stepped out, raised a hand in farewell, and went back to my condo. I slumped on my own couch, thinking.

What had that accomplished? Wanting to move wasn’t telling enough. Who would want to stay in the apartment your spouse had died in? The candy wrappers didn’t speak too well of his eating habits, but that was it.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember what the living room and kitchen had looked like. Was there something I’d missed?

There was. Hanging on the living room wall, right next to the bedroom door, was a framed movie poster for Arsenic and Old Lace.

Hadn’t I seen that movie mentioned recently?

I flipped open my laptop and went back through Dave and Emily’s Facebook pages. There, listed on Emily’s About page, was her favorite movie: Arsenic and Old Lace.

I don’t know why, but I looked up the movie on Wikipedia. The movie poster on the page looked just like the one I’d seen on Dave’s wall, except his had a couple of stains near the center.

Still wondering why I was being so paranoid, I read the plot synopsis. That sent another chill up my spine.

The “friendly aunts” in the movie had poisoned their victims with a mix of arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide. How had they given it to their guests? Mixed in with elderberry wine.

It was probably a coincidence. But it didn’t feel like one.

I wondered if I should go to the police. But what would I say? My neighbor changed his Facebook status too early, and happened to give his wife elderberry wine on the night she died? Even I knew it didn’t amount to much.

I pulled out the business card the cop had given me that morning. She said to call her if I thought of anything, right? That everything was important?

I dialed her number on my phone. Maybe I could convince her.

She picked up on the fifth ring. “Detective Wright speaking.”

I swallowed, told myself I had nothing to lose by talking. “Hello, Detective? This is Sean Cook. We spoke this morning?”

I heard a chair squeak on the other end. “Mr. Cook? In Acqua Vista, is that right?”

“Yep.”

“How can I help you?”

“You said to call if I remembered anything else?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, I’ve remembered a few more things.”

More sounds on the other end, like a notepad being dragged across a desk. “Such as?”

I glanced at the wall I shared with Dave’s apartment. What if he could hear me? “If it’s ok, I’d rather not say over the phone.” Shit, I thought, I made it sound like I knew something really important, not just some details scraped from a Facebook page. “Could I come down to the station and talk there?”

She sighed. “Sure, Sean, that’d be fine. We’re on Imperial and 25th. You know where that is?”

“I’ll find it. Thanks.”

She hung up.

I took the trolley as far down to the station as I could. 25th was way past what I considered the safe part of downtown.

Good thing I was going to hang out with the cops.

The one at the front desk made me wait while he paged Detective Wright. She showed up just five minutes later, but even that felt like an hour.

She took me back into one of their interrogation rooms. Asked me if I wanted anything to drink. When I said no, she sat down in the chair across the table from me and crossed her arms.

“So, Sean, what did you remember?”

I told her what I suspected: that Dave had poisoned his wife using cyanide or arsenic mixed in with the elderberry wine he gave her the night she died. I described how it matched up with Emily’s favorite movie, and that Dave had changed his relationship status too early.

It still sounded crazy, even to me, but I tried to make it as coherent as possible.

When I finished, she nodded, but kept her arms crossed. “Interesting theory, Sean. But it’s missing a couple of pieces.”

I sighed. “What’s that?”

“Motive, for one. Why would Dave kill his wife?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Your second problem is that cyanide leaves very distinct traces in the body: hair, nails, even urine. We always test for those in cases like this. And guess what?”

I hung my head. “You didn’t find any.”

She smiled. “Bingo.”

She stood up. “So, unless you’ve got a motive for me, or can explain how someone could poison another person without leaving any sign, you should go home and stop worrying about your neighbors killing each other. Ok?”

I nodded and stood, feeling foolish. “Ok.”

She escorted me back to the front desk, then left me to sign out on my own.

I trudged out of the station and back to the trolley, wondering how I could be so stupid.

How could I have forgotten motive? What possible reason could Dave have for killing his wife? I’d never heard them argue, never seen either of them bring a stranger home, nothing.

And of course the police checked for poison. It wouldn’t cost them anything, and would catch all the usual suspects.

I told myself to face it: I’d had a hunch, but it didn’t hold up. I almost felt like I should try to apologize to Dave for thinking bad of him.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept jolting awake, frightened by dreams of some mad tea party with all the colors drained out of it. Dave was there, hanging in the background, screaming “Charge!” every five minutes.

Not relaxing.

After I gave up on sleeping and just got up, I dressed and went downstairs to fetch the mail. I’d forgotten it the day before, and was hoping my unemployment check would be in there.

Instead, I found the motive.

Tucked between a junk circular and a bill from Cox Cable was a letter from a law firm to Emily Ericson. It was stamped “second notice” in big red letters. The mailman must’ve pushed it into my box by mistake.

Normally I just push these mis-filings back into the mail slot, so they’ll be sorted properly the next day. This time, I carried it up to my apartment with the others.

I looked up the law firm online. Their specialty was Estate Planning and Wills.

Had Emily recently updated her will? I went back through her timeline. Nothing in there.

Maybe someone in her family had died?

I used Facebook to track down her sister and brother, which gave me her maiden name. Their posts led me to her mother’s blog, whose most recent, sad, entry talked about the death of Emily’s aunt two weeks prior.

Perhaps her aunt had left something for Emily in her will?

I knew it was a federal crime to open someone’s mail. I told myself Emily was dead and wouldn’t mind, especially if it helped catch her killer.

Sure enough, the letter was a notice from the law firm that Emily’s aunt had recently died and named Emily as the prime beneficiary in her will. The lawyers needed Emily to come down and sign some paperwork to make everything official.

It didn’t seem that exciting until I Googled her aunt. Turns out she’d owned a majority stake in an international shipping business, with branches on both coasts. The stock alone was worth a few million.

Had Dave kept back Emily’s mail? If she didn’t have a will written up, he’d get everything now.

I called Detective Wright. I didn’t mention the letter, just suggested that she look into Emily’s extended family. I told her it was something I’d heard from Emily a few weeks ago, about her aunt being sick.

I could tell she didn’t think it was important.

Two hours later she called me back.

“I don’t know how you knew,” she sighed, “but it seems Emily stood to inherit a lot of money before she died.”

“Did she?”

“Don’t gloat, kid,” she chided. “You haven’t explained the disappearing poison.”

“Yeah.” I glanced at my laptop, open to an article on cyanide poisoning. “Still working on that one.”

“Well, if any more ideas hit you, give me a call. If it helps, I’ll put it down as an anonymous tip, see if we can’t pay you for your time.”

Seriously? “Um, thanks,” I mumbled.

“No problem,” she said, and hung up.

I went back to reading the article.

According to it, a person could die from ingesting just a little bit of cyanide. In a low enough dose, the person would slip into a coma, twitching a little before going into cardiac arrest.

Sounded to me like what had happened to Emily.

But where was the evidence? Cyanide victims were supposed to get a pink flush, and leave traces of cyanide in their blood, their lungs, their urine. Where could it have gone?

I kept thinking about the question through lunch, turning the problem over in my head like some homework assignment.

Maybe I was thinking about it in the wrong way. If I were Dave, how would I get rid of it?

The answer hit me like a slap in the face. In the urine.

I dialed the detective’s number. As soon as she picked up, I burst out with “Did Emily have any urine in her body?”

“Sean? Is that you?”

I cleared me throat. “Yes, Detective Wright, it’s me. Look, I think I’ve figured out what happened to the cyanide. Did Emily have any urine in her body when the EMTs got her?”

She sighed. “I can’t tell you that, Sean. Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll look into it?”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. I think Dave gave her a really low dose of cyanide in the wine, just enough to turn her sleep into a coma, and slowly kill her.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Most of what her body didn’t absorb went into her urine.”

“Possibly.”

“I think Dave somehow pumped the urine out of her, so we wouldn’t find anything.”

She sighed. “That’s kind of a stretch, Sean.”

“I know, I know.” I swallowed. “But there’ll be evidence. He had to get rid of the urine, right? He probably flushed it down the toilet, which means he might have splashed some around. And -”

“And if he threw away the container, it’ll be in his trash,” she finished. She was quiet for a few seconds. “All right. I’ll check into it. If I find anything, you’ll know.”

“How’s that?”

I could hear her smile through the phone. “We’ll be making an arrest, that’s how.”

By the time I made it to Shakespeare’s Pub, I’d calmed down a little. Brian was already there, flirting with one of the waitresses. She stuck around just long enough for me to order a Guinness, then hurried off to check on her other tables.

Brian stared at her as she left. “Man, those British accents. They make any girl sexier, don’t they?”

I snorted. “Whatever you say, man.”

He turned back to me. “Hey, what’s wrong with you? Why’d you need a drink in the middle of the day?”

I told him everything I’d learned that morning: how my neighbor Emily had died in her sleep sometime last night, how her husband Dave had called it in, how the cops had grilled me about it.

Brian let out a low whistle when I was done. “That’s fucked up, man. Do they think Dave did it?”

I shook my head. “Dunno. They’re probably just getting all the information they can. I didn’t see them arrest him or anything.”

He nodded. “Right.” He tilted his head. “Was Emily the blonde in 405, or the brunette in 410?”

“Brunette.”

“Damn. Always wanted to fuck that one.”

I set down my drink. “Dude, too soon.”

He glanced at me. “Right. Sorry.”

We both took a sip of our beers.

He sighed. “It’s just - she was a little older, right? But still in great shape.”

“Brian-”

He held up his hands. “Hey, I know. I’m just saying, how does a healthy chick like that just go in her sleep?”

I shrugged. “That’s what’s so fucked up about the whole thing. No warning.”

Brian lifted his glass. “Well, we’re still kicking, and I’m grateful for that. L’chaim!”

I raised my own glass, tapped his, and drank. “L’chaim."

“Could you repeat that, sir?”

I tore my eyes away from the body being wheeled out of my neighbor’s condo and turned back to the police detective standing outside my door, notepad in hand.

I cleared my throat. “He said he just wanted to borrow some milk.”

She checked her notes. “That would be David Ericson, correct?”

I nodded.

“Did he say anything else?”

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to remember. “No, not really.”

The cop looked up at me. “Not really? What does that mean?”

I sighed. “Nothing important. I mean, I asked him what he was cooking, that kind of thing.”

“Everything’s important. What’d he say?”

“He said he was making dinner for his wife again, forgot a few ingredients. Said the milk was for his almond-crusted chicken.”

“And that was the last time you saw him?”

“Um, no. Actually, he came back a little later for some flour. Traded me a glass of elderberry wine for it.”

The cop glanced up again. “Elderberry wine, huh? Any good?”

I shrugged, not sure it mattered. “Yeah, I guess.”

The cop flipped her notebook closed, then pulled out a business card. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Cook. If you think of anything else that might be relevant, just give me a call.”

I took the card. “Will do, detective. Thanks.”

She nodded and strolled back next door.

I stepped inside and pushed the door to.

My neighbor was dead. Not ten feet from where I slept, another human being had died. How fucked up was that?

At least she’d died in her sleep. That’s what the cop told me, anyway. Maybe she said that just to make me feel better. They don’t really know these things till later, do they? Don’t they have to do an autopsy or something first?

I realized I didn’t want to be alone. I called up Brian, convinced him to meet me at Shakespeare’s.

I really needed a drink.

If you like my short story, Chase, consider grabbing an ebook copy. You’ll be buying it direct from me (via Payhip), so no DRM!

Part One: Angela

Part Two: Jack

Part Three: Jack

Part Four: Jack

Part Five: Angela

Part Six: Jack

Part Seven: Jack

Part Eight: Angela

Part Nine: Jack

Part Ten: Angela

Part Eleven: Jack

Part Twelve: Jack

(Start with Part One)

After all, if I knew the story behind that scream, I might go a little crazy myself.

(Start with Part One)

We were on our way up to UCSD, hoping to find Ms. Hernandez. She wasn’t in her apartment, but a couple of photos were: two young boys, both just now reported missing.

I was almost glad Blake had taken over the case. It kept getting stranger, and the woman in the back of the ambulance following us meant it would probably only get worse from here.

It was bad enough when it was just groggy kids. Now it felt like some cult was stirring up shit.

We pulled up to the building Hernandez worked in. The ambulance stopped behind us. Two guys in dark suits just like Agent Blake’s hopped out, then hustled to the back, where they pulled out a stretcher.

“She’s not going in with us, is she?” I asked Blake.

“Of course she is.” He replied, climbing out of the car. “That’s why we brought her.”

The two other suits helped Blake lift the coma patient out of the ambulance bay and onto the gurney. They strapped her down, checked her IVs, and nodded at each other.

“Let’s move,” Blake commanded.

Lacey got out of her own squad car and joined me as we followed Blake and the gurney into the building.

“Any idea what’s going on?” I whispered.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t let us bring more backup.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the vegetable here counts.”

We split up once we got inside. The suits and the gurney took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Lacey, Blake and I started up the stairs.

“She should be in one of the labs up here,” Blake whispered to us. “Room 408. Let me go in first, then the patient, then you come in, ok?”

“How about we leave the patient outside? You’re just giving her a hostage.”

Blake shook his head. “She goes in. Can you follow directions or not?”

I felt like punching him. “Yeah, sure. It’s your freak show.”

We rejoined the suits and gurney at the elevator. It was quiet on the fourth floor. We’d called ahead to the other labs to try to get everyone out of the building.

The door to 408 was open just a crack, enough for us to hear someone weeping inside the room. I thought of the kids, probably scared out of their wits, and pulled out my gun.

Blake swung the door fully open and stepped in, no gun, just a grin on his face.

“Lieutenant Angela Burns,” he beamed, “it’s good to see you again.”

Hernandez had one of the boys cradled on her lap, her face buried in his hair. When she looked up at Blake, I could see black streaks on her face where tears had run through her makeup.

“David?” she said, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s time to go home, Lieutenant,” he said, stepping toward her. The suits pushed the gurney further in, turned it so the patient’s left side was right behind Agent Blake, then started pulling on what looked like thick leather gloves.

I glanced at Lacey. She raised her eyebrow, then shrugged and moved to her right. I moved left, keeping my gun up and aimed at Hernandez.

“I found him, David,” Hernandez whispered. “I found Jacob. I found our boy.”

I glanced at the kid in her lap. I recognized him from the photos back at the station. That boy’s name was Marcus, not Jacob, and his mother was most certainly not a pre-med college kid. Hernandez was raving.

Blake just nodded his head, like everything she was saying made sense, and took another step toward her. “That’s great, Angela. Now, let’s take him home.”

She pulled back at that. “Home. No. I’m not going back. You took him from me. Why did you take him from me?”

Blake stopped. Hernandez stood up, clutching the little boy, and started looking for a way out.

“Don’t move, Hernandez!” Lacey barked. “Let the kid go, and step away!”

Blake pointed at Lacey but kept his eyes fixed on Hernandez. “Stand down, Detective.”

Hernandez looked from one to the other, hesitating. “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?” she asked Blake. “You’re going to take him away again?”

Blake lunged for Hernandez. Her eyes widened and she turned to run, still holding on to the boy.

She couldn’t move fast enough with the child. Blake slammed into her. All three of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

I moved closer, preparing to take a shot if one came, if it was necessary. From the corner of my eye I saw Lacey doing the same on my right.

The two suits by the gurney ran toward Hernandez as soon as they saw their boss jump. A few seconds after Blake, Hernandez, and Marcus tumbled to the ground, they moved in, efficiently extracting Hernandez from the pile.

“No!” she screamed. “Don’t take him away again! David!”

Lacey put her gun away and ran in to help Marcus to his feet. I lowered my weapon but stayed back, ready in case Hernandez should break free and try to run for it.

Blake stood up. “Hold her still,” he ordered the two suits.

He pulled a small case from inside his jacket, opened it, and withdrew a syringe. He strode over behind Hernandez and stabbed it into her backside, then pressed the plunger down, injecting whatever it was into her system.

She struggled and screamed for a few more seconds. Then she shivered, and her body slumped between the two suits.

“Get her to the gurney,” Blake ordered.

His men lifted Hernandez off the ground and carried her next to the coma patient. Blake walked over to stand behind the patient’s head. He put one hand on her forehead, touching it with just his fingertips, and placed his other hand against Hernandez' temple.

He whispered something I couldn’t make out. Then the coma patient blinked and opened her eyes. Her eyes focused on Blake. I heard her whisper, “David?”

Then she looked down at her own body, and screamed.

I’ll never forget that scream. It held such unbridled horror, and so much despair. Just thinking about it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

Blake only nodded and grinned. He pulled another syringe from the case, and injected its contents into the coma patient’s IV.

She stopped screaming. I holstered my gun, realized I was shaking. I took some deep breaths to try to stop.

When I felt like I had it under control, I walked over to where the suits were still holding Hernandez in the air.

“Can I cuff her now, Agent Blake?” I asked, reaching for my handcuffs.

He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Detective. Take that young woman home.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” I whispered, trying not to be heard by Marcus just a few feet away. “She just kidnapped two kids!”

Blake stared down at the coma patient. “No, she didn’t. Go easy on her.” He waved his suits to lower Hernandez to the ground. “If she’s lucky, she won’t remember any of this.”

(Start with Part One)

I watched the two of them sleeping while I waited for the blood test to finish. Little chests rising and falling. So adorable.

And one of them was my Jacob.

He didn’t look like me at all, of course. He’d swapped bodies a few times already. That’s why it’d been so hard to track him down.

There are ways to tell that a body has been swapped. You can’t access any memories, so meeting old friends or family is always awkward. They’d trained us in some techniques used by stage magicians to fake being able to read minds so we could pass as the original person. That’d only get you so far, though.

The chronic sickness was another way to know. No antibiotics would cure that.

Turns out the host bodies start making cells of the swapper’s blood type. Eventually the body is making two types of everything, incompatible with each other and fighting for resources. That’s what makes us sick, why we have to leave every body we swap into.

So if you test someone and find two blood types, you know the body has been swapped. I was a little proud of myself for figuring that out. No need to question every kid, no need to wait for them to get sick before moving in. Just a little blood, a quick test, and you knew. Cheap, easy, and objective.

The test finished. I checked both tubes looking for the telltale signs of two incompatible blood types.

There. I set the tubes back down, gazed back over at the boys, and started crying.

I’d found him. The one on the right, the one calling himself Marcus. That was my son.

(Start with Part One)

The man in the charcoal grey suit smiled at me. “True. But the FBI has clear jurisdiction here, and they’re turning the case over to me. Trust me, you don’t want to fight this one.”

“Fuck you.”

The man - he’d introduced himself as Agent Blake, but he was The Man to me - nodded as if I’d just said good morning. “I’ll need all your files on the case, of course. And access to your witness.”

“My what, now?”

He glanced at his smartphone. “I believe her name is Mary Rogers?”

“That’s our suspect, asshole. She didn’t witness anything she didn’t do.”

He grinned again. His teeth were way too bright. And even. “Right. Silly mistake. Suspect. I’d like to talk to her, please.”

I sighed. “Yeah, sure.”

I led him to Interrogation Room 2 - the smallest one - then called for Mary to be brought over.

He poked his head out of the door. “You will, of course, not record anything said in this room, or watch behind the false mirror?”

I tried to smile at him. Failed. “Of course.”

He nodded once, then ducked back inside.

I went in to the observation room to turn off the recording equipment before Mary got there.

We had plenty of footage of Mary already. Mary crying when accused of kidnapping those kids. Mary taking the psych eval, and coming through as a scared but perfectly normal person.

Mary insisting she didn’t remember anything of the last three weeks.

She shuffled in from the stairwell, escorted by a uniform. She kept her eyes locked on the floor in front of her, raising her head only to cough. She looked better than when we’d brought her in: not as pale, and able to walk without stumbling. Still had that cough, though.

The uniform escorted her into the interrogation room, then came back out half a minute later. Agent Blake didn’t want anyone to see or hear his talk with Mary, it seemed. The uniform stood sentry next to the door, thumbs hooked in his belt.

Mary and Blake stayed in the room over an hour. Mary came out with her head up, looking around like she’d never seen the place before. She didn’t cough once as the uniform escorted her downstairs.

Agent Blake poked his head out of the door again, waved for me to come inside.

“What did you find out?” I asked. I settled into one of the hard chairs as he shut the door.

“Nothing I can tell you about,” he replied, taking the other chair. “This is above your pay grade.”

I gritted my teeth, but didn’t say anything. He smiled.

“Now, I need you to go over what happened when you caught her.”

“It’s all in our report. Or don’t you know how to read?”

“I’m quite familiar with reading, Detective, but sometimes verbal questions are best. Now, walk me through that day, step by step.”

Just to piss him off, I started at the beginning, with my regular morning BM. I moved on to talking about traffic, how some jerk had cut me off before my exit that day. I went through how well the morning coffee tasted, the dead leads Lacey and I had followed through most of the day, then how we finally got the address of the last set of plates. How we checked the owner’s background, canvassed the building before getting a warrant for it that evening. How we entered Mary’s place, chased her down, then brought her in.

Through everything, all the mundane details, Blake sat in his chair, fully at attention. He didn’t take any notes, didn’t yawn, even nodded along with me when I bitched about my commute.

That pissed me off even more.

He didn’t stop me until I got to our first interrogation session with Mary. “Thank you, Detective, that’s far enough. Tell me, what happened to the owner of the apartment you and Mary barged into?”

I rolled my eyes. “I already told you. She was pretty shaken up, but there hadn’t been any damage. We talked with her a while till she calmed down, then left.”

“Who talked with her? You?”

I shook my head. “I was busy getting Mary back to a squad car. I think Lacey spoke with her, maybe a uniform or two.”

Agent Blake stood. “I’ll need to talk with anyone that had contact with that girl.”

I sighed. “Really? Look, I can tell you everything you need to know about her. She was this tall, maybe early 20s-”

“Can you tell me her name?”

I blinked. “No, I don’t remember. Lacey might know.”

He smiled. “Bring her in here for me, so I can ask her, will you?”

I swore and stormed out. Crazy feds.

Turned out Lacey didn’t remember the girl’s name. Neither did any of the uniforms that had talked to her. Apparently they’d asked her her name first thing, but she’d been so freaked out she hadn’t answered.

Blake just smiled at that.

Two hours later, he slapped a warrant for her arrest on my desk. “Her name is Daniela Hernandez.”

(Start with Part One)

I was careful this time. I picked a runner, someone who could last long enough for me to find Jacob. Someone with a flexible job, no current boyfriend, and family out of town.

Someone that wouldn’t leave any tracks if she went out searching every night.

They almost had me, would’ve caught me if that girl hadn’t opened the door. Lucky break, there. Swapped just in time.

I was still shaking when they dragged the old body away. So close.

But I’ve got a new body now, and a new name. Plenty of fight left in this one for grabbing the last two.

And some other advantages. They took all my notes, all my equipment. According to my new body’s id, though, I’m pre-med at UCSD. Should be able to score replacements there.

I’d hoped to catch the last two one by one, spaced out at least a week apart. But if the cops know, that means the Department will be here soon.

If they find me, I’ll never see Jacob again.

(Start with Part One)

When we questioned her about the kids, she insisted she had no idea what we were talking about. Lacey leaned on her hard, shoving pictures of each kid in front of Mary, yelling at her to talk about why she took those children.

That only made her cry, though. Eventually she threw up, all over the interrogation room’s floor. We moved her to a holding cell while we cleaned up the mess.

Lacey came to see me after, sat on the edge of my desk. She looked frustrated.

“Get any on you, Lacey?”

She checked her shoes, shook her head. “No, thank God.” She sighed. “If she’s faking being sick, she’s missing out on an acting career.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Funny, none of the kids have gotten sick. You’d think she’d have given it to ‘em.”

She shrugged. “Could have just gotten it herself.”

“True,” I agreed. “Think it’s messed with her memory, too?”

Lacey chuckled. “Now that, she’s faking,” she said, sliding off my desk. “Forensics is going over her place now, and the bike. There’s going to be plenty of evidence to help her remember.”

I nodded. “She hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet, has she?”

Lacey shook her head.

“Good. Let’s go ahead and get a preliminary psych eval, then. While we’ve got her here.”

Lacey raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it the DA’s job to worry about the insanity plea?”

I grinned. “Humor me.”

“All right. Go check if they’ve finished pulling all those photos off the stalker wall for me, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

She went back to her desk, and I headed downstairs to Evidence.

Something was seriously wrong with this case. Everything pointed to us having the right woman in custody - the photos in the closet, the bike, the needles we’d found in the apartment.

But the perp wasn’t reacting right. She didn’t have Dahmer’s inhuman stare, or Manson’s crazy one. She didn’t even act like she was hiding something. It was like we’d picked up some soccer mom and accused her of plotting to kill the President. She acted like she’d never even thought about doing what the evidence told me she’d done.

I hoped the shrink would be able to make sense of it.

(Start with Part One)

I waited one heartbeat, two, three. No answer.

The cheap lock gave easily when I kicked it. One more kick opened the door wide enough to see the entire studio apartment.

I went over the potential hotspots: kitchen to the right, bathroom on the left, balcony just past the kitchen. Gun held out in front of me, I ran to the right, along the living room wall. Lacey went left.

No one in the kitchen. I looked over at Lacey coming out of the bathroom. She shook her head. No one there, either.

Shit. That left the balcony, or nothing.

The balcony door was closed. Lacey slid it open while I watched for signs of movement outside, pistol ready.

As soon as it was open I hurried through, gun pointed to the right, towards the balcony corner we couldn’t see from inside. Other than a few recycling bins, it was empty.

“She’s not here.” I said it out loud, just to cover my disappointment. We’d finally managed to come up with a suspect from one of the plates: athletic woman that lived alone, kept weird hours, owned a red Suzuki bike. Neighbors said she was usually home this time of the afternoon. We’d hoped to grab her, finally put a lid on this case.

Wasn’t meant to be.

I went back inside. Lacey was already poking around the living room section of the apartment, checking the magazines left on the coffee table, pulling a cigarette butt out of the ashtray for later DNA testing.

There were two closets, one beside the area she’d turned into her bedroom, the other along the wall facing the bathroom. The first was mostly open already, filled with an assortment of women’s clothes.

The second one held a goldmine of evidence.

I had to turn the bathroom lights on to get a good look inside. The closet doors folded almost all the way against the wall, leaving plenty of room for a small desk, a chair, and hundreds of photos and news clippings lining the walls.

Lacey let out a low whistle when she saw it. “Looks like she’s been doing this a while.”

I nodded. “And not just here. These clippings are all from Arizona, those are from Texas, and those are - Jesus Christ - those are from Virginia.”

Lacey arced an eyebrow.

“The Trick-or-Treat kidnappings? From last October?”

She continued to stare at me blankly.

I sighed. “A dozen kids went missing around Halloween in the Shenandoah. I’ve still got family up there. My dad joined one of the search parties.”

“My god. Did they find the kids?”

“Yeah, they found ‘em. Wandering along a country road, scared out of their minds, with no memory of how they got there.”

Lacey’s radio crackled. “Suspect entering the building. Shall we intercept?”

She unhooked the unit from her belt. “Negative,” she barked into it. “We’ll get her from here. You cover the exits in case she flees.”

“Roger that.”

I moved into the kitchen and crouched behind the counter. Lacey took a position against the wall where the opening door would hide her.

A few minutes later, we heard a racking cough from outside the door, then keys jangling and the lock turning.

As soon as I heard the door swing open, I popped up, gun in hand. “San Diego Police! Put your hands in the air where I can see them!”

The woman coming in - blonde, in her 30s, wearing a red leather jacket - dropped the bag of groceries she was carrying and ran out the door.

I swore. Lacey called down to our backup while I hurried to follow the suspect.

Right out the door to the hall, then left, my heart pounding in my chest, yelling at her to stop. Then down two flights of stairs, into another hallway.

I was catching up with her. She looked back, saw me getting closer, gritted her teeth.

Down another flight of stairs then, and right down another hallway. She was headed for the back. I knew we had the exit covered, but I wanted to catch this one. I pushed myself to move faster.

Almost to the next stairwell. Movement to my right - someone opening a door. I yelled at whoever it was to stay inside, but it was too late.

The suspect pushed into the apartment, started to slam the door behind her.

I dove for it, made contact just before the door shut, pushed back. I heard a high-pitched scream on the inside, then the resistance against me went slack.

I tumbled into the room. A college girl was standing on a couch, screaming and crying. The suspect - Mary, I told myself, the woman that took those kids is named Mary - was laying on the floor, coughing.

I cuffed her before she could stand and started reading her her rights.

“No more kids for you, you sick fuck,” I whispered in her ear.

(Start with Part One)

I’m too close to go just yet, though. I’ve narrowed it down to two. Just two more catches, and I’ll know.

I’ll have my son back.

Those bastards pretending to be doctors told me he was dead. Lied right to my face. Kept me doped up so I wouldn’t resist, wouldn’t know what was really happening.

Had to swap to an orderly’s body to find out the truth. Just 15 minutes walking around: that’s all it took to learn the hospital was a jail, and my son was being raised by someone else. Someone they had picked.

I didn’t stay long after that. Swapped the orderly for a nurse, the nurse for a cop, and the cop for a string of truckers to follow my son’s trail.

Now I’m almost there, almost to him. Just gotta keep this body together for another day or so. Maybe three.

I can swap out once I’ve found him. He’ll understand. After all, he’s just like me.

(Start with Part One)

“I took the liberty of going through the footage,” she announced as I came in. She waved me over and spread out some glossy photographs on her desk. “We’ve got shots of three different red bikes at that light in the last two weeks. Two of them multiple times.”

“Plates?” I asked, afraid the answer would be no.

She beamed at me. “Tech came through for once, we got plates on all three. We’re running ‘em down now.”

“Wow. You’re beautiful, Lacey.”

She nodded. “And smart.” I laughed. “What’d you dig up at the Walker’s?”

I shook my head. “Mostly nothing. Kid saw a red bike, all right, even gave me a drawing - " I showed her the sketch - “but that’s it. Didn’t see the driver’s face, didn’t hear their voice, nothing.”

“That’s too bad. I’ll let you know as soon as we have names and addresses for those plates, then.”

“Thanks, Lacey.”

“You can thank me by getting me some coffee. Venti soy latte, with an extra shot.” She nodded toward the door.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, heading right back out. Small price to pay for a break in the case.

(Start with Part One)

It was street parking only, so it took me a good ten minutes to find an empty spot. The walk back to the house gave me time to think of the questions I wanted to ask little Justice.

Mrs. Walker answered the door, barefoot and wearing a light blouse and skirt. Small wrinkles around blue eyes.

She smiled when she saw me. “Detective Jack. Good to see you again. Please, come in.”

I did my best to smile back and followed her into the house. It felt bigger on the inside, with high ceilings and a mostly open floorplan.

I settled into an easy chair in the living room as Mrs. Walker went to fetch Justice, her bare feet brushing the hardwood floors.

They came back a short time later, hand-in-hand. Justice looked better than when I last saw him: less pale, eyes not as wide.

“Hello, Justice,” I said, offering my hand. “How have you been?”

He looked up at his mom, who nodded, before shaking my hand. “Okay,” he replied.

“Justice, could I ask you a few more questions about what happened three weeks ago?”

“I guess.” Mrs. Walker led him over to the couch, so they could sit facing me. Justice looked down at his toes, as if he’d been caught doing something bad.

“I know I asked you this last time, Justice, but do you remember anything from before you were knocked out? Anything you might have forgotten when I talked to you last time?”

He nodded.

“What’s that?”

“There was a motorcycle. A red one.”

“Ok, a red motorcycle. Was there anyone on it?”

He nodded.

“Do you know who it was?” He shook his head no. “Did you see their face?” No again.

“Justice, could you draw the motorcycle for me?”

He looked up at me then, thinking, then nodded.

I handed him my notepad and pen. He set the pad on the coffee table, then slipped off the couch onto the floor. Bending over the pad, he started sketching.

When he was satisfied, he hopped back on the couch and handed me the pad. “It looked like that.”

I checked the drawing over. The sketch was more blob than bike, but he’d tried to put indentations in certain spots, to give it some shape. It looked like it’d been a snub-nosed, compact bike, though - maybe Japanese? - not some long-necked Harley.

Again, not much. But more than I’d had before.

“Thank you, Justice. This is a good drawing; it’ll help us catch whoever hurt you.”

He nodded, looking down at his shoes again.

I stood up. “Well, thank you again, Mrs. Walker, Justice. I’d better be heading back to the station.”

Justice and I shook hands again, and he ran off back to his room.

Mrs. Walker stopped me at the door. “Do you have any more you can tell us, Detective?”

I hesitated. Could I tell her there’d been other kids? Would it make her feel better or worse?

“We have another witness that can confirm a red motorcycle and a helmeted rider in the area,” I admitted. “We’re tracking down traffic light footage to try to get a good photograph, maybe pull a license plate.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she sighed. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything more from us.”

The door clicked shut behind me as I trudged back to my car. I hoped Lacey’d been more lucky than I had.

(Start with Part One)

I groaned. “This a real one, Lacey? Or just another groggy?”

“See for yourself.” She dropped a pile of papers on my desk. “The parents are coming in in an hour.”

I sighed and sat up in my chair. Pulled the latest stack a little closer so I could start flipping through it.

Taylor Benson, age 8, left for school at Washington Elementary at 7:30 yesterday morning. Half an hour later he showed up at home, with no memory of how he got there or why he had a cotton ball taped to the inside of his elbow. Photographs showed a small, neat hole underneath the cotton ball on the boy’s arm. A few drops of blood on the cotton matched the kid’s. No prints on the cotton ball, no witnesses saw the boy being taken, nothing explained what had happened to him.

Another damned groggy.

The third one in as many weeks, which was three too many for me. They weren’t really kidnappings, since the kids were always returned. But why take them at all? And why poke a hole in their arms?

Thank God no one had talked to the press about this. None of the parents had known each other - the first had been in Encinitas, the second in Del Mar, this was the first one downtown - so as far as they knew, it was just some random weirdness that hadn’t really hurt their kid.

Lacey tapped my desk, breaking my reverie. “The Bensons are here. Room 3.”

“Thanks.” I stood up, grabbed the Benson’s casework, and strode over to the cramped meeting room.

The Bensons looked young enough to make me feel old. Firm handshakes from both - Mrs. Benson’s toned arms meant she probably did yoga, Mr. Benson looked like a runner. Young, trim, nice clothes. They looked more puzzled than angry, shocked that something like this could happen to their kid.

“We moved to Little Italy because it was quiet,” Mrs. Benson - Tanya - explained. “Taylor could walk to school, and we both work downtown, so…”

I nodded understanding. “Can you tell me if you’ve seen anyone new, anyone strange, hanging around your building?”

Mr. Benson - Jeff - shook his head. “Not really. There’s this one guy that likes to hang out at the 7-11 and ask for change, but he’s been there for months.”

I walked them through the rest of the routine. Had they met any new people that showed an unusual interest in Taylor? Were there any bullies at school that might have wanted to scare him? Were they Russian spies whose bosses were sending them a message?

Okay, I didn’t ask that last one. But it would’ve explained a lot.

When I’d run through all my questions, I thanked them for coming in and told them we’d be in touch as soon as we knew anything. I could tell they were both frustrated, but they just nodded and left.

I took my notes and the rest of the file back to my desk. Just to see if it jarred anything, I rummaged around until I found the files on the other two groggies and flipped them open.

Justice Walker - poor kid, with a name like that he’d have a hard time at school - was the first case. 7 years old. Snatched while riding his bicycle to a friend’s house. Dropped off 45 minutes later at home. Woke up crying and shaking.

Billy Jessup, age 8. Disappeared from a playground three blocks from his house. Found at home 20 minutes later, still bleeding from the tiny hole in his arm.

I started making more notes. All the victims were white males. All about the same age. All sent home after being taken, so the perp probably knew them socially. No ransom calls.

It wasn’t much to go on, but I had to start somewhere.

My desk phone rang. It was Jeff Benson.

“I, uh, just thought of something,” he said. “Last week, Taylor told us this story about how he escaped from a crazy guy on a motorcycle. We thought he was just making it up - he’s really in to spy movies - but after yesterday–”

“Anything seems possible.” I reach for a pen and started jotting some notes. “Did Taylor tell you anything about the bike? Did he get a look at the rider?”

I heard Jeff sigh on the other end. “No. The rider had a helmet on. I think he said the bike was red?”

A red motorcycle. One more tiny piece of the puzzle. “Red motorcycle. Gotcha. Thanks for calling, Mr. Benson, every detail like that helps.”

He hung up. I strode over to Lacey’s desk just as she was hanging up the phone. “Lacey, can you pull the video from the traffic camera at India and Grape?”

She grinned. “Sure. It’ll take a couple of hours, but you’ll be busy anyway.”

“How’s that?”

She nodded at the phone. “That was Ms. Walker. Seems little Justice has just remembered something about a guy on a bike chasing him.”

“You’re right, Lacey,” I admitted as I grabbed the Walker file and my coat. “I’m gonna be out for a bit.”

I chase children. Strictly catch-and-release, though. I bag ‘em, tag ‘em, and let ‘em go.

Almost didn’t get the last one. Every time I thought I had him he darted in front of an oncoming trolley, forcing me to tip my bike over to keep from crashing into the side of the train. The third time he did that, I spent a week nursing a nasty road rash, then finally nabbed him while he was walking to school.

Turned out it was a waste of my time. All that work, and he was the wrong one.

I don’t hurt them. I’m not a pervert looking for a sick time. I just knock them out and pull a little bit of blood. I run a few tests, then drop them off at home before they wake up.

I would never hurt them, because one of these kids is mine.