D.P. Benjamin's Blog

After high school, I enlisted in the U.S. Army for a three-year tour of duty. Never having traveled farther than a car trip from Colorado to Iowa, I took the train to basic training in Missouri. Before I completed basic, President Kennedy was assassinated, and our inexperienced platoon of raw recruits and reluctant draftees was issued live ammunition and ordered to guard the perimeter of our base. After the crisis passed, I rode a cross-country bus to my training site in Long Island Sound, New York. While attending my military school, I got a three-day pass and took my first airplane ride to Washington, D.C. A month later, I was on my way to San Francisco where I joined the staff of a monthly magazine which served the patients and staff of Letterman Army Hospital. A year later, I shipped out on a troop transport to Korea where I served as editor for the Bayonet Newspaper, a weekly publication of the 7th Infantry Division.

I mention my military experience because, as soon as I was honorably discharged, I returned home to Colorado with the idea of making my living as a writer. As an older-than-average but still impressionable college freshman, I saw a magazine advertisement for the Palmer Writers School. This now-defunct correspondence school invited prospective authors to take a rather mundane four-part test and send it in for evaluation, as stated in the brochure:

“The purpose of this test is to give you an estimate of your writing capabilities. We will grade your test and return it to you as soon as possible with our frank, expert opinion of your chances for success as a writer.”

I must have fallen for this offer because, while cleaning out my old filing cabinet the other day, I ran across my old, graded test. In those days before personal computers, my answers had been carefully composed using a manual typewriter. I can’t recall what my expectations were, but apparently, I completed the test, used the supplied gummed label to seal it, and mailed it to the school in Minnesota.

My test was eventually returned. I was given a score of 90 out of 100 and someone had written, in red cursive letters, a single pithy critique on each part: “Interesting, Appropriate, Sets mood, Perceptive.”

After sending back my graded test, I undoubtedly received follow-up literature outlining the cost of taking the Palmer course. Whatever the price tag, as a starving college student, I’m certain I decided to pass.

I won’t risk lowering my score by reproducing the details of the squalid writing sample which I innocently mailed to Palmer more than half a century ago. However, I’ve reproduced Part A of that long-ago exam in case anyone would care to take a crack at it. Here it is:

“Part A. In the following paragraph from a published story, we have left out certain words. Read the selection carefully. Think about the mood and then write in the word that you think belongs in each blank.

She ____ her faded chenille robe around her as she _____ toward the door in her ____ slippers. The little dark eyes ____ suspiciously out of her ____ gray-crowned face. She seemed to ignore the ____ rose-strewn wallpaper, the ____ rag rugs and the white iron bed.”

These days, the online marketplace is awash with workshops, how-to videos, seminars, and virtual retreats aimed at writers. I didn’t take the Palmer course. I opted instead for four years of writing college term papers, followed by a master thesis, followed by decades of on-the-job training as a college administrator, legislative policy analyst, and journalist.

Like a character in one of my novels, I sometimes wonder how my story arc would have changed had I enrolled in the Palmer Writers School. I wonder about how my life might have been different, how my fortunes might have altered. I wonder about these heady topics, but mostly I wonder why this once-famous school didn’t include an asterisk in its company name.

Once upon a time, I taught cartooning and storybook illustration to elementary school children. At our first class meeting, I came prepared with a variety of fruits, vegetables, and inanimate objects like a stapler, a bottle, and a cup. I lined these objects up on a raised box and invited the children to tell me about each one in turn.

Typical responses were: “Something to eat.” “An old bottle and a cup you could drink from.” “Something you use to staple papers with.”

Pretty dull stuff.

“Those are all good observations,” I noted. “But can you tell me how they feel?”

This question generally went unanswered. The children fidgeted and remained silent. I could tell by their expressions that some of the more insightful youngsters were seriously beginning to doubt my sanity.

“Let’s try something,” I suggested.

I then produced a bag of googly-eyes, those round, flat plastic discs which resemble eyeballs. I pasted a pair of the wiggly eyeballs on each object and again asked the children to tell me how the objects felt.

Typical responses were: “They’re alive.” “Yikes!” “He’s looking at me.” “The apple and the orange don’t like each other.” “The potato’s in love with the banana.” “The tomato is afraid and says, ‘Please don’t eat me!’” “The stapler is tired of working all day.” And so on.

The point being that the simple act of adding eyes to inert objects breathed life into them. This idea inspired the children to imagine and sketch incredibly creative and fanciful characters—everything from talking shoes to dancing noodles.

This concept might work to inspire writers as well and get them thinking outside the box (by putting a pair of eyes on that pesky box and literally molding it into a character.) Think of your story—that string of words and punctuation which you’re striving to corral, harness, harass, cajole, herd, and shepherd into a reasonable facsimile of a narrative. Think of that hot mess as, let us say, a zucchini.

And suppose, like many a misunderstood zucchini, your story is going nowhere. It’s just a vegetable, incapable of emotion, dialogue, and action. Ah—but what if you give it eyes? What if you give it a point-of-view, a way to see the world, a way for the world to notice it and consider its existence. For one thing, a zucchini with eyes might cause an observer to look more closely—taking a step which may lead to the discovery that it’s not a vegetable at all. Just for the record, it’s a fruit.

If you have created a wooden character, who refuses to become a waking, walking, talking, emoting being. Try giving him, her, or it a pair of googly-eyes. It might be just what’s needed to animate that character.

If you don’t use the idea of googly-eyes to spice up your characters, you could try putting a pair on your computer mouse or your desk lamp or the frame of your computer screen or a pen or pencil. Animating your writing instruments and your workstation may encourage you to interact on a more intimate level with the tools of the trade. Seeing familiar objects suddenly spring to life might even cause you to laugh out loud. Writing is a serious business—sometimes a bit too serious. Even the most dedicated writer could benefit from an occasional dose of comic relief.

Around lunchtime, in the year 79 of the Christian Era, on the coast of what is now modern-day Italy, a once-dormant volcano rumbled. Ash rained down on the first day as residents of the nearby city of Pompeii gathered their belongings and debated whether to leave or stay. A day later, Mount Vesuvius erupted in spectacular fashion. Filling the air with searing debris and gases, the eruption blotted out the sun and trapped the city, along with its lingering inhabitants, beneath twenty-feet of smoldering rubble.

The city lay buried for centuries until searchers began digging. Soon sizeable walls, expansive gates, colossal public buildings, and massive statuary were discovered, seemingly frozen in time and largely intact. Meticulous excavation of the 163-acre site also revealed tragic images of people, encased in cocoons of ash and pumice—some embracing, some in poses of abject terror, some clutching pottery, keepsakes, and other intimate possessions.

A few residents of Pompeii had fled their fate. Most had stayed—taking time to pack—a delay which sealed their doom.

Over time, archaeologists have relished the historic wealth of Pompeii. But they are not particularly impressed by the lavish public buildings or the statuary or even the mosaics and frescos adorning the floors and walls of wealthy residences. What most impresses those studying the soul of Pompeii are the number of well-preserved private homes and the shadows of ordinary people which offer glimpses into the city’s everyday life.

When we write, there is a tendency to trumpet the grandiose—focusing almost exclusively on our larger-than-life characters who are immersed, with burning passion, in the pursuit of magnificent goals. Often, we forget to draw attention to more ordinary characters who, with equal passion, quietly pursue less lavish, but nevertheless still noble dreams.

As we edit our craft, it will be best not to forget these little characters. Rather than asking after the motives of our most outlandish and heroic lead characters, it might be better to question other, more earthy personalities. Take the example of Pompeii. Which seems more interesting? And which would more likely appeal to readers? A tale of happenings in the city’s huge town square or gigantic forum? Or smaller stories of the final hours of families, caught in the grip of an unthinkable disaster, taking precious moments to collect loved ones and sentimental treasures, and measuring their chances before fleeing?

The English language is resplendent with homophones—words which are spelled differently but pronounced alike. By some estimates, there are more than four hundred such conundrums. Examples are the words ail and ale, bate and bait, cheap and cheep, and so on.

My favorite pair is cereal and serial. A misuse of this duo gives a whole new meaning to the phrase cereal killer.

I recently struck a deal with our local newspaper to publish my latest novel in a weekly serial format. Thanks to a generous editor, for two years and encompassing 92 episodes, local enthusiasts were able read a serialized episode every Wednesday morning. Some of my more insightful followers had even taken to referring to the continuing story as their breakfast serial.

I have no intention of correcting them.

Taking my draft manuscript and dividing it into sequential 9,000-word episodes—each closing with an appropriate cliff-hanger—presented a unique challenge. The word count was essential so that each episode would fit on a single page of newsprint. In addition to the episode itself, each segment requires a “tickler” opening. For example, the tickler for Episode 11 (Missing Person) read as follows:

“Mountain: A Cautionary Tale is an alternative history covering 1936-1942. Set along the Kansas-Colorado border, it’s the story of a misguided man, his star-crossed family, and an enormous public works project, gone terribly wrong.  In Episode 10, Mountain workers helped Iris Hazelwood retrieve her luggage. In today’s episode, she expands the search for her missing brother.”

Moreover, each episode required an image illustration which hinted at the topic but didn’t represent a spoiler. So, the serial turned out to be quite a project, but well worth the effort since knowing each weekly episode would be read by a couple of thousand subscribers certainly compelled me to keep the story fresh and moving.

Serializing a novel was once a widely accepted practice. As my editor, Stu Carlson, put it in introducing the concept on January 4, 2023:

A note about serial novels – A serial novel is a work of fiction that is published in sequential chapters or episodes. In the early 1800s to the mid-1900s, serialization was a popular form of publishing. Works published in serialized form gave authors a much wider readership, since nearly everyone at the time read their local newspapers. Many works were later revised and published as complete novels. From “The Count of Monte Cristo” and “A Tale of Two Cities” in the 1800s to works like “In Cold Blood” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” in the mid-20th century, many seminal works of fiction began their lives as serials. The following is the first episode of a novel written by local author Don Benjamin. We hope our readers enjoy this limited weekly segment. Each episode can also be found at HighCountryShopper.com as they are released each week.

If this blog topic has sparked your curiosity, you can join our local population in following the serial because the episodes have now been compiled into two volumes available through our bookstore at this link.

I live in a rural community where it’s common practice to acknowledge a passing motorist. If the acquaintance is a casual one or even a complete stranger, lifting a single index finger will suffice. If the relationship is closer, a purposeful wave is best.

When creating a character, I apply the passing motorist test.

Meeting someone for the first time, on a single-finger basis, generates superficial questions. What’s the motorist’s name? Where is the driver coming from? Where is the driver going?

Meeting again on a lonely road inspires deeper questions and answers—inquiries which generate plot lines and bring a personality to life. A character who’s better-known has a history—a background which, whether shared with the reader or residing in the writer’s mind, ignites memories of previous encounters and speculations regarding future action.

Fashioning a complex character, a writer’s thoughts dive deeper: Joe’s pickup is caked with mud. He’s been to the lake no doubt. Does he remember that summer we swam there as boys? His sister almost drowned that July. I wonder how she’s doing since her husband died.

Allowing a character to travel on unrecognized without a familiar wave and a desire to pursue probing thoughts is a missed opportunity, reducing that fleeting personality to a casual passerby. A reader won’t relate to such a one-dimensional character. A writer should care enough about a character to slow down, pull to a stop, roll the window down, and bide awhile in the middle of the road, vehicles nose-to-tail, chatting over old times, debating the present, and making future plans.

A few years back, I found myself on the Arizona primary ballot as a candidate for President of the United States. No kidding. In order to qualify for candidacy, I had to create a formal platform. I’m reproducing it here in hopes that current candidates will read the details and perhaps modify their own platforms to include these essential reforms. Here’s the link to my platform.

My epic fantasy "Stone Bride" was recently recorded as an audiobook. A talented British voice actress, Melanie Crawley, brought my characters to life. After listening to the audiobook, I now believe that daunting princess, her brave mate, my boisterous pirate, my humble talking dog, the evil soldiers, and all my other creations are genuinely real! What a great experience! You can hear a sample at this link: https://www.audible.com/pd/Stone-Brid...

Every author should know a guy named Joe

In 2021, my wife and I closed on our new home in the village of Cedaredge on the wild Western Slope of Colorado. It’s a beautiful place with mature landscaping and spectacular views. Deer pass by, birds fill the trees, and the tumbling waters of Surface Creek flow just down the slope from our backyard.

To connect our property to the creek, the previous owner had poured a concrete slab on the ground to create a winding access trail. The concrete pathway seemed out of place in the otherwise rustic setting—like a sidewalk in a meadow. We decided it had to go in favor of a bucolic set of stairs constructed using natural materials.

Enter an acquaintance with stonemason skills who embraced the project. The first order of business was to pulverize the existing concrete. Joe arrived one morning with safety goggles, a 9-pound sledge hammer, and an unerring knack for striking the concrete just so. Our goal was to reduce the unappealing slab to rough-hewn, fist-sized chunks. The shattered concrete was to be repurposed as ballast to fill a gap in the pathway, thus creating a solid base for our vision of improved stair-steps.

I watched, mostly, until Joe invited me to take a few whacks at the slab. I took seven mighty swings, but each proved inconsequential. The concrete was immune to my ill-placed blows which did nothing to reduce the obstacle or advance the project. I surrendered the sledge and Joe finished the job.

Thinking it over later that day, I realized I’d encountered a lesson in editing.

There are times when my writing hardens; times when I interrupt the natural flow of a story and make the mistake of paving over a perfectly serviceable pathway with a jarring layer of unexpected and unwelcome concrete. This happens when I become obsessed with creating prose which smooths out every crack and crevice. Often, such unwise manipulation leads to dull and lifeless writing which forms an unwelcome slab of cement to confound and frustrate a reader’s journey.

An essential function of editing is the art of recognizing one’s cement and knowing how to repurpose an encrusted façade of comfortable ideas. The trick isn’t to abandon the ideas. Better to reduce the illusionary perfection to more primitive elements, then rework those unfettered pieces to form a base for something better.

When an author is embroiled in concrete and unequal to the task of extraction, it’s time to hand the sledgehammer to an impartial Beta reader or, with luck, pass it off to an editor named Joe.

The title of this blog reflects two themes:

1) It’s been twelve months since I last posted on my author webpage. Thus, my January and December posts can be thought of as forming literal and figurative ‘bookends.’

2) When writing, I begin each new novel by composing the last chapter first. Thus, I have a target toward which to steer my narrative.

Regarding my first theme, I’m not proud to admit that I’ve neglected my blog posting. My main excuse is to say that I’ve been busy with other things. Such as writing actual books. I’ve published three this year: a cozy mystery, an epic fantasy, and a true history. And I lost nearly three months to COVID. Plus the fishing was good this year, so angling took up quite a few mornings and evenings–those hours being the peak times when fish are biting.

Regarding my second theme, I’m not kidding when I declare that I write the endings first. In practice, the initially drafted ending may need to be adjusted when the preceding narrative takes (as it often does) an unexpected turn. Sometimes what I thought to be the quintessential climax turns out to be (as we say in mountaineering) a false summit or anti-climax. But–even given qualifications, caveats, and provisos–writing the ending first still helps me craft my stories.

Look at it this way. How can a person tell a joke if they don’t know the punchline?

Independent authors who dream of publishing might be living in a fantasy world. On the other hand, they might just turn that imaginary world into a published novel. My creation of a unbridled world in my debut epic fantasy, "Stone Bride," was inspired by a desire to write unimpeded by such contemporary challenges as ubiquitous cell phones and the constant drumbeat of a 24/7 news cycle.

And so, just in time for the 77th birthday, I'm officially launching my debut fantasy novel. I'm marking the occasion with two events: 1) an in-person open house hosted by myself and another local author and 2) a Goodreads Giveaway.

For more information, visit my webpage:
https://benjaminauthor.com/