Evelyn Freeling's Blog

Reading slush teaches you a lot about short fiction writing and, if you do it enough, you inevitably notice a pattern. Since I’m editing an anthology for Ghost Orchid Press (LES PETITES MORTS), and submissions for that open next month, I thought I would share some of what I’ve learned and put it into actionable advice any short fiction author can use.

First things first, the best way to gauge your writing and where you fall on this totem is by joining a writing group. Connect with other writers on Twitter, create or join an existing Discord channel, but whatever you have to do, do it. A writing group is critical. You need honest feedback because you cannot determine your own blind spots. The writers in your group should be serious about craft and dedicated to swapping feedback. Reading their work will also help frame how you examine your stories during the editing phase. You notice what other writers do well and not so well, and often that helps you reflect on whether those aspects of your stories are executed well or not.

The following writing advice falls under two columns: story element issues and short fiction craft issues. In the majority of stories I read, prose is not the issue. Often, the prose is good, even great, but it’s the story itself that isn’t working. Remember, editing isn’t simply perfecting a sentence, it’s rewriting and the first stage of that should be with a developmental focus.

Story Element Issues

If you fall into this category, I recommend studying the elements that make a story. This means studying external goals vs. internal needs, character arcs, exposition, structure, foreshadowing, and tone. The good news is all of these elements also apply to longer fiction, so whatever craft book you read can apply to much more than the short story you’re working on. Simply put, a short story is not a first chapter. It should feel complete on its own, with a plot and full characters who somehow change over the course of the story. I personally recommend THE ELEMENTS OF STORY by Robert McKee, but you can do research and figure out what will work best for you. Again, I have seen all of the following stories in well written variations. The prose 90% of the time is not the issue.

No Clear Concept or An Unrealized Plot

There are plenty of variations of this story. Sometimes this kind of story has lots of backstory and well establishes the characters, but lacks any forward momentum, clear goals, plot. Nothing seems to really happen. A character might go scene to scene and the things that do happen feel insignificant or totally random and have no real connection to the character except they happen to be there. In this kind of story, characters carry overlong conversations, run errands, and there’s no sense of tension, import, or urgency.

Werewolves, Aliens, Plot Twists, Oh My

Think of plot twists like evidence in court. In order to be permitted, the foundation has to be laid. There needs to be foreshadowing, hints of what’s to come. Often, however, inexperienced writers handle plot twists clumsily. They’re sudden, unearned, and often feel contrived. Usually, they also completely change the shape of the story. For example, on the second to last page we learn a character was a vampire/werewolf/alien/robot when, until the second to last page, it hadn’t been established that vampires/werewolves/aliens/robots existed in the story’s universe. The writer’s intent might be to shine a new light on the story so that upon re-read it takes a new meaning. Rarely does this work. Usually, it feels like a cheap trick.

First Page Is Not A Prologue

Okay, I’m not a prologue hater. I live for a well executed prologue. But short stories aren’t novels, nor are they chapters, and your first page shouldn’t read like a prologue. Short fiction is its own beast. When short stories open with elaborate info dumps of exposition (often establishing the world building, the magic system, the science, or even a character’s backstory) it usually signals one of two things: either the material might be too much to grapple with in a short format, or the author doesn’t yet have the skill necessary to thread exposition through the story in a more dynamic way.

Characters Are Stagnant

In my humble opinion, plot and story are two different things and successful fiction needs both. Your plot is the vehicle, but the journey the vehicle makes is the story and that journey is defined by the character driving the vehicle. In stories where the characters are stagnant, the issue isn’t that they aren’t doing enough, the issue is that they aren’t moving enough. The story doesn’t take us deep enough into the character’s being, we don’t explore their emotional wounds or discover the thing that makes them tick. There’s no internal change or emotional revelations. The character’s circumstances might have changed externally, but by the end of the story they are unchanged. Your story could have seen the world saved or destroyed, but if it doesn’t somehow change your characters, why does it matter?

Short Fiction Craft Issues

If this is you, study other short stories. Study award winning short stories. Buy the best of anthology in the genre you want to write in and read how other authors who do it well do it. Study the first paragraph and the first page. What does the author accomplish in those units? How do they accomplish that? How does the rest of the story fulfill the promises made in those units? How does it expand, go deeper than expected, and surprise?

Story Doesn’t Start in the Right Place

In these stories, the writer makes the reader wait until page three to understand vital things required to hook a reader: Who the character is, what they want or need, what their goal is, what the story’s hook is, what the dramatic question is (if there is a dramatic question at all), what the genre is. Many of these stories spend paragraphs setting the scene—and beautifully so. Again, the prose is not the problem. Personally, I continue reading at least until the end of page two if the prose is good, but a lot of slush readers don’t. A lot of them read the first two or three paragraphs before deciding whether they will continue reading. If a reader senses that you sat down, wrote your way until you discovered the story, then left your meandering on the page for the reader to comb through, you’ve lost them. Short stories need to be lean and compelling right away. Ideally, by the end of the first page, we should have an idea of who the character is, what the genre is, and what the hook is.

The Promise of the First Page Failed

The first page is a promise. In stories where the promise is failed, it’s most commonly because the story starts out about one thing and becomes about an entirely different thing by the end. For example, the story opens with someone mysteriously dead. In this case, the reader assumes the story will somehow reveal how that person died. In these kinds of stories, however, the plot takes hard left turns. For example, the protagonist becomes a vampire, but their becoming a vampire in no way reveals why the person from the first page died. Was the dead person drained by a vampire? Are they even dead or are they actually members of the undead as well? If the dead person doesn’t matter, why were they on the first page? Readers are left with too many questions and the story’s end doesn’t land with the necessary satisfaction or emotional impact.

Structural Issues

Often stories with structural issues appear as stories which start in medias res, then move backwards to show how the opening event perspired. The reason authors do this is because the opening event is interesting and tense, all of the things we want the first page to be. However, the rest of the story isn’t. These stories give us the highest octane moment, then ratchet the tension alllll the way down to zero. The problem is the reader isn’t willing to be bored for the next five to ten pages just to get back to the climax. A skilled author can make a character brushing their teeth or sitting around doing nothing tense, interesting, and meaningful enough to make it work as an opening scene.

No Opening Question

This is a technique that really great short fiction authors use all the time. These questions come in all forms. It could be a plot mystery, such as opening with a dead body or something as simple as having a sudden, unexpected meeting called at work. In the right author’s hands, both questions (who was this person/why are they dead/how did they die and why is this meeting being called suddenly) will be compelling and suspenseful enough to read on. It could also be a question related to a character’s backstory. Whatever it is, an interesting question is one of the best ways to get a reader to keep reading. I have a list of free, recommended reading below. If you read any, I highly suggest you pay attention to how questions are introduced and how the author answers them.

Recommended Reading

Mr. Death by Alix E. Harrow (fantasy)

Immersion Vortex by Jelena Dunato (science fiction)

Eating Bitterness by Hannah Yang (horror)

Your Eyes, My Beacon: Being an Account of Several Misadventures and How I Found My Way Home by CL Clark (fantasy)

In Haskins by Carson Winter (horror)

Yǒngshí by Ai Jiang (horror)

The Long Way Up by Alix E. Harrow (fantasy, and okay I’m a big Harrow stan)

Characters are the pulse which gives a story life. This is why character is a point of craft that writers continually return to. What makes a great character? How are great characters portrayed? What techniques do writers use to make us fall for characters? 

In this new series, I’m examining great characters in literature, film, and television, the qualities that make them memorable, and the techniques writers use to bring them to life. 

One of the first properties I thought of for this series was A Song of Ice and Fire. Arguably, George R.R. Martin’s characters are what make this series so remarkable. It’s difficult to single out just one great character.

(Beware: Spoilers ahead)

The other thing I think Martin does magnificently is he subverts a lot of story conventions. In his series, the good guys don’t always prevail. In fact, in the start of the series, they’re often outwitted by a host of conniving antagonists. The first instance was such an unforgettable shock, so today we’re looking at the one and only Ned Stark. 

Reader’s Note: I’m disinclined to re-read the first book, especially since the series will likely never be finished (yes, George, we’re salty in the House of Evelyn). So, we’re looking at the first episodes of the HBO series for this.

Characterization Through Adjacent Characters

Ned is framed by his family. We meet him as Bran is practicing archery with Jon, who informs Bran their father is watching and encourages him to try again. Immediately, we know that Ned’s children respect and admire him, and aim to make him proud. Later, a

fter Ned has executed a man and Bran has watched, Ned takes him aside to explain, delivering a piece of dialogue that embodies who Ned is: “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

Ned doesn’t mince words even though Bran is young. He sees value in helping a young child understand the world and in teaching his children lessons about things as complex as honor and duty. 

On the return home, they come across a pack of direwolf pups. At first, he wants to put them out of their misery, but his children appeal to his mercy. He’s a reasonable father rather than a tyrannical one,  allowing his choices to be swayed by his children. 

Within the first half of the first episode, we know he’s inarguably a good father. What could be more likable in a man? We know his children love, admire, and respect him. Therefore, we do too. 

The Only Good Man in the Kingdom

One of the most significant aspects of Ned’s characterization, in my opinion, is the juxtaposition between his character and the other major players in the realm. Martin has established with surgical precision that Ned is honorable, duty-bound, and a good, loving father.  Viewers of the later seasons know that Cersei is a complicated woman who loves her children deeply, but that isn’t the Cersei we meet.

The Cersei we meet is a conniving woman who plots beside the deathbed of a man who was like a father to her king husband. She’s scorned publicly by her husband and has lost a baby, yes. There’s some empathy established early on, but by the end of the first episodes we also know she’s having a sexual affair with her twin brother and is so hellbent on maintaining her affair in secret, she’s willing to kill a ten-year-old child in order to do so. She’s also so manipulative, that she feigns to console the mother of the child she attempted to kill.

Likewise, Jamie Lannister has a redemption arc over the course of the series and viewers get to see the ways in which his toxic affair with his sister has corrupted him. But that isn’t how he’s characterized early on. Instead, he’s characterized as arrogant, abrasive (picking on Jon Snow at one point for no apparent reason), power-hungry, and also willing to kill a ten-year-old child to cover up his incestuous affair. In comparison to Ned, Cersei and Jamie aren’t complicated antagonists, they’re monsters.

Even the other protagonists in the series are deeply flawed comparatively. When we first meet Tyrion, he’s a womanizing drunk. Witty, yes, but he doesn’t use his wits for the benefit of anyone but himself. He does bestow wisdom on Jon Snow, even if unkindly so, but in contrast to Ned, he doesn’t exactly seem like a good man. A fun one, sure. Would you want to get a drink with Tyrion? Hell yeah. Would you want him raising your children? Probably not.

Similarly, King Robert is portrayed as a philandering drunk willing to publicly humiliate his wife. He’s complicated by his grief and enduring love for Ned’s dead sister, by his humor, and by seeming relatively down-to-earth for a king, but those aspects don’t redeem his negative qualities.

As all of these characters converge at Winterfell, Ned is arguably the only good man in the room. This characterization persists when he travels to King’s Landing and meets more conniving characters, all involved in intrigue. 

He Chose… Poorly

In the first episode, Ned is portrayed as a good man and a good father, but by the end of the second episode, his character is thickened.

His goals are brought into conflict. Ned is an honorable man bound to duty. For a long time, his two duties have been in harmony: his duty to his family and his duty to the realm.

Then, he’s asked to be King Robert’s First Hand. His wife, Catelyn, doesn’t want him to accept, and understandably so. She doesn’t want him to leave her for King’s Landing. When Bran is pushed and enters a coma in the second episode, the conflict between family and kingdom deepens.

His family needs him, yet he chooses his duty to the kingdom. He says he doesn’t have a choice, but he doesn’t put up much of a resistance. He’s doing what he believes to be the right thing, but for the first time we see that his sense of honor and duty can mislead him.

We also learn that this isn’t the first time he’s chosen poorly. Jon is his bastard son he fathered the last time he left Catelyn in the name of the realm. When he discusses the subject with King Robert, he shows clear remorse and shame as he’s never revealed the mother’s identity. This is his emotional wound. He’s an honorable man haunted by his past dishonor (at least that’s what we’re led to believe).

Takeaways:

A large aspect of characterization occurs through other characters. How do other characters perceive your protagonist? A protagonist telling readers they’re admired and respected by people is a lot different than a whole cast of characters demonstrating their admiration and respect.

Characters need contrast. If this series had been filled with a handful of good characters who always did what they thought was right, Ned’s character wouldn’t have been nearly as impactful. We wouldn’t have rooted for him so hard or been so devastated when he didn’t prevail. Martin included a spectrum of personalities for Ned to contrast with.

Ned operates around a single value: duty. But just like real people, Ned’s duty is bound to a variety of different subjects. How those various duties are brought into conflict is the crux of his story. This is an epic fantasy, so his duty to his family and his kingdom were the focal conflict. If it had been a family drama, it might have been his duty between competing family members. So, the questions to consider are: What is your character’s operating value? And how does that value position them to make choices that tear their lives apart?

Nobody is perfect, not even Ned. EVERY character has an emotional wound. Emotional wounds are often backstories that lead to character revelations later on. They can complicate a character, but also thicken plots like Martin’s revelation with Ned’s emotional wound does many seasons later. (More incest, yay.)

That’s it for today! I’ve been collecting a list characters via Twitter for this series so if there’s someone you want to see an examination of, let me know in the comments!

Last week I was invited by fellow author J.W. Donley to a challenge to read and dissect one short story from Paula Guran’s The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror Volume I. If you’ve read my blog before, you know I love a good dissection, so I happily jumped on board! 

The collection starts off with Rebecca Campbell’s “The Fourth Trimester is the Strangest,” winner of the Sunburst award for short fiction in 2020. The story was originally printed in Issue 05/06  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in 2019. You can find that issue on Amazon here (free to read for Kindle Unlimited subscribers) or purchase the Year’s Best collection yourself here! 

I highly suggest reading the story and following along because there are spoilers here!

“The Fourth Trimester is the Strangest” is a weird horror story about a new mom who’s haunted by a shadowy figure when she returns home with her husband and newborn baby. The story opens in the hospital with the protagonist listening to another woman screaming in the maternity ward while the protagonist herself is giving birth. 

When the protagonist arrives home, Campbell structures the story around a mystery—namely, the identity of the person who remains upstairs with the protagonist’s husband. She writes, “Upstairs, Greg was working. She could hear the creak as the two of them paced [...] sometimes she heard them come down the stairs.” (14) But Campbell was careful to include that the baby was in the protagonist’s arms at this time. There’s a tension insinuated into this mystery as well—is the reader to believe there’s truly an unknown person upstairs with her husband or is she unreliable?

About half-way through, it’s revealed the protagonist is experiencing postpartum psychosis when a nurse informs her that this third person is a hallucination. For anyone familiar with the mental illness, both the protagonist and her baby’s safety are implicated. Campbell plays on this implication, having the protagonist experience exceedingly dangerous hallucinations while continuing to hide her symptoms from her husband. 

Between the surreal and, at times, mystifying language and scenes, the narrator’s clear unreliability, and the reader’s need to know that the baby is okay, the last pages of this story keep the reader on the edge of their seat. 

Campbell circles back to the opening when it’s revealed that the mysterious person upstairs first visited her in the hospital when she received her epidural. I love that the connection isn’t immediately drawn, but left for the reader to ponder: was the woman screaming in the hospital in fact this shadow side of the protagonist? (And those final lines? *Chef’s kiss.*)

My favorite aspect of this story was Campbell’s stunning prose. There were so many images that were so richly described, one of my favorites: “While they sat, the sky darkened but for the strip of dandelion yellow in the west, and between the sunset and the streetlights, there came the brief hour of fireflies darting in and out of green-gold luminescence.” (16) I also thought the interruption of narration with internal dialogue was a powerful invocation of the confusion and the detachment from reality that some PPD patients experience. 

I wondered if my enjoyment of this story was influenced by my personal experiences with PPD and the hardship of that proverbial fourth trimester. The feeling of being removed from the rest of the world really resonated for me. Have you read it? What did you think? Let me know in the comments and go check out Joe’s blog on the same article here!

If you liked Campbell’s story, you can find her on Twitter here!

At the beginning of this month, I took a virtual seminar with Rob Hart, author of works such as The Warehouse and most recently Paradox Hotel (both of which I highly recommend). The course was offered through Writing Workshops. Hart has some great things to say about writing, process, and publishing so if you get a chance to take a workshop with him, I highly recommend doing so. One of the things I’ve been reflecting on was an article Hart shared.

The article, penned by Lee Childs, is about creating suspense. I highly recommend reading the entire article here. A quick excerpt:

"How do you create suspense?" has the same interrogatory shape as "How do you bake a cake?" The right structure and the right question is: "How do you make your family hungry?"

And the answer is: You make them wait four hours for dinner. 

After reading this article, I found myself thinking over stories with elements of suspense that struck me. I wanted to take a deep dive into examining the function of dramatic questions and suspense in order to better absorb the rich lessons Childs offers in less than three pages. 

In order to better dissect these elements, there will be spoilers for each book. The sections will be headed with the title, author, and image so you can easily scroll without catching spoilers. I highly recommend scrolling to those you have read because there’s plenty of unpacking done here. I’ll be taking a look at Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, The House We Grew Up In by Lisa Jewell, Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, and Dark Matter by Blake Crouch. You can also scroll to the bottom for final key takeaways sans spoilers.

First Up:

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

In Rebecca, an unnamed protagonist marries widower Maxim de Winter after a whirlwind romance in Monte Carlo (I should say, she is unnamed until she becomes Mrs. de Winter). Upon returning to his home at Manderley, she discovers that his dead wife, Rebecca, haunts her marriage. 

Daphne du Maurier first injects the dramatic question of what happened to Rebecca at the tail end of the fourth chapter, when the trite Mrs. Van Hopper informs the protagonist that Rebecca’s death was a tragedy, that she was drowned and that “they say [Maxim] never talks about it, never mentions her name.” Naturally, readers mistrust the face value of his silence and intentionally so. Had du Maurier presented this initial information through Maxim, the reader might perceive him differently—as a widower meant to be sympathized. Instead, the reader is positioned to mistrust him. When the protagonist goes to Manderley with the husband she hardly knows, the reader is not only wondering what really happened to Rebecca, but if the protagonist might have married a murderer and, worst of all, if he might murder her as well.  

But what I love the most about Rebecca is the way du Maurier experiments with the shape of suspense. Instead of making the circumstances of Rebecca’s death the pinnacle dramatic question, the story takes a sharp turn at about ¾ of the way through when the dramatic truth is revealed: Maxim did kill Rebecca and her body has been discovered. Du Maurier spent so much of the novel positioning Rebecca as an invisible antagonist creating conflict and tension in the life of our unnamed MC, that the reader happily takes for granted that Maxim’s story about how and why he killed her is true. Thus, the final question that fuels the reader through the end is not, Did he kill Rebecca? But rather, Will he get away with it?

The tension peaks with the protagonist’s marriage crumpling under the weight of the initial dramatic question and the truths Maxim is withholding from her. Then, we’re allowed a fleeting breath of relief as they reconcile over the sharing of Maxim’s secrets. Moments later, however, the phone rings and we’re spun into the second dramatic question which propels the reader to an even higher level of tension—at any moment, Maxim could be thrown in prison and the protagonist’s new world will come falling down around her.

The House We Grew Up In by Lisa Jewell

The House We Grew Up In is a dual timeline, multi-POV family saga centered around the Bird family whose matriarch, Lorelei, suffers from a hoarding disorder. In the present timeline, Lorelei has recently passed away and the eldest daughter, Megan, is left to deal with their mother's home. The past timeline navigates the family's history, a tragedy that irrevocably changes them, and the secrets that drive them apart.

It’s Jewell’s work with multi-POV that really shines here. It’s a masterclass in how to craft suspense through dual timelines and multi-POV. It’s the juxtaposition between the family’s then and now that poses the dramatic questions: What happened to this family? How did this once close knit family fall apart? Then more specifically, about 10% of the way through, the reader is positioned to ask what happened between Megan and her younger sister Bethan. In the flashbacks, they’re inseparable, but in the present Megan hangs up on Bethan as soon as she hears her voice on the other end of the line. Why?

About 25% of the way in, we get the first flashback from Bethan’s POV where the seed of the answer is planted: Bethan harbored a crush on Megan’s husband, Bill, and we get a hint that he might have returned those feelings. But Jewell doesn’t walk us through the development of their affair, because the focal point of the novel’s suspense isn’t whether Bethan will or won’t sleep with her sister’s husband. In Bethan’s first scene, she has a crush on Bill and, thirty pages later, they are mid-affair.

The question Jewell poses isn’t, Will Bethan sleep with Bill? Or even, Will Megan find out? But rather, How will Megan find out? By interweaving between present and past, first letting us know that these once inseparable sisters no longer speak, the reader knows the secret is eventually revealed. The suspense of waiting for that dramatic revelation is like waiting for a bomb to go off and Jewell draws it out for 200 pages. 

Granted, Jewell did an incredible job plotting each family member’s storyline so that in those 200 pages there is plenty of character development and fresh drama that interweave into this main secret. There are scenes where Jewell teases the reader with the secret, such as when Megan and Bill go on vacation and she sees Bethan calling him. The Home We Grew Up In is one of those books that is quite literally unputdownable and all because Jewell let the reader in on this little secret. Sometimes posing questions isn’t about withholding information, but about giving just enough of the right information.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Never Let Me Go is a fantastic example of the suspense that can be crafted out of worldbuilding. In the opening scene we meet our protagonist Kathy, her best friend Ruth, and a temperamental boy named Tommy. We also get allusions to ‘carers’ and ‘donors’ and the mysterious donations they make, as well as an introduction to a strange boarding school. Because Ishiguro peppers these worldbuilding elements without any explanation, the novel is fueled by many questions—who are these donors and what are these donations? What is Hailsham and why are the students there? Outside of these questions, the novel is a coming-of-age story filled to the brim with teenage drama—love triangles, bullying, and sexual confusion abound. But the questions remain unanswered and the suspense that creates casts a shadow of tension over the otherwise trivial lives of the novel’s characters. 

Ishiguro reveals slivers throughout. We get hints in the first third of the book that their lives are limited, that they don’t have options such as regular children do, that these aren’t regular children at all. When the reader finally understands that these seemingly simplistic and shallow characters are clones created for organ harvesting, Ishiguro weaves a final question in: Can our protagonist and her love interest buy more time? So much of their lives had been wasted on tedious (frankly) bullshit, that the answer to this question is all the more important. 

Ultimately, this novel reminded me of Hitchcock’s classic suspense metaphor: A couple is sitting in a restaurant, unaware that a bomb is strapped beneath their table. They chat away and every second spent on small talk is a second lost to escape or somehow prevent their fates.

What impressed me most is how this strategic weaving of suspense through worldbuilding allowed Ishiguro to break a number of writing rules. Characters were constantly relaying conversations, nearly every scene transition was handled rather haphazardly, there was a heavy reliance on showing, the characters never had any clear goals until the very end of the novel, and yet it was gripping simply because Ishiguro withheld the right information and made the reader hungry to understand Kathy’s world. 

Dark Matter by Blake Crouch

As a final examination, I wanted to look at one of my all-time favorite books, Dark Matter. One of the things that impressed me upon re-reading is the way Crouch crafts suspense at a micro-level, sentence to sentence. We get this from the very first page when Crouch serves the reader a spoonful of dramatic foreshadowing. He interrupts a seemingly mundane moment depicting protagonist Jason’s Thursday night with, “I’m unaware that tonight is the end of all of this. The end of everything I know, everything I love.” 

The foreshadowing is on-the-nose, yes, but it immediately challenges the reader to guess at what’s about to happen. Ten pages later, the foreshadowing is recalled: “Without thinking, I step into the street against a crosswalk signal and instantly register the sound of tires locking up, of rubber squealing across pavement.” 

The narrow miss is a tease, reminding the reader some big event is looming in the shadows, waiting to ensnare Jason. But what?

When Jason is kidnapped a few pages later, Crouch continues injecting questions beyond the obvious ‘Who is this person and why are they kidnapping Jason?’ The details of Jason’s home and work addresses in the kidnapper’s GPS clue us in that this isn’t a random encounter, they’ve been following Jason, but how long and what for? Why is the kidnapper’s voice familiar? How do they know each other? 

Even Jason’s attempt at getting help is framed within a question. He doesn’t simply send a text message on his phone, but first risks “an experiment,” first taking his hand off the wheel, testing to see if the kidnapper notices so that another question is inferred, Will Jason be able to send a text message for help? Crouch drags out Jason’s clumsy attempt at alerting his wife for nearly two pages before he’s finally thwarted by his kidnapper.

Then, Crouch layers in more questions: How does his kidnapper know intimate details about his life? Who his old roommate was, that Thursday nights are family night, why does he care what Jason’s schedule for tomorrow is? Crouch even has Jason wonder questions for the reader: “Why the hell does he want me naked?” (23) “What if he tries to rape me? Is that what this is all about?” (24) “Does he have plans for Charlie and Daniela?” (26) 

Crouch begins character turns with questions. When Jason reflects that he’s following the kidnapper’s instructions so obediently he asks himself, “Does this mean I’m a coward? Is that the final truth I have to face before I die? No. I have to do something.” (29) Positioning the reader to wonder what Jason is going to do to get out of his situation now. 

Crouch even ends the chapter on a question, “Now what?” And the answer is so vague (“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”), it solves nothing for the reader, creating the perfect cliffhanger to propel the reader forward.

What can writers learn from this?

First, boil down your dramatic question. What is the twist of your novel? What is the final revelation that pulls all of your narrative threads together? If, for example, your novel is a murder mystery, the dramatic question might be about the murderer’s identity. But maybe it’s deeper than that, maybe it’s the murderer’s motive or their connection to the victim. Whatever the ultimate twist is, make sure you find a way to allude to the question early on. 

But also, don’t settle there. When you’re editing scenes, find ways to create suspense at a paragraph and line level. Find a scene where some new information is revealed to the protagonist and instead of simply having the protagonist find out, try first creating a question within the scene that is then answered. I won’t pretend to be a master of suspense, but you can check out the results of doing this exercise with my WIP below:

(Before)

(After)

That’s it for now. If you try this scene level exercise, share it on Twitter and tag me!

One of the best things to happen to horror is comedian-turned-director Jordan Peele. His debut film, Get Out, won his first Academy Award for best original screenplay. The film is terrifying, thrilling, at times funny, and truly embedded itself in our nation’s milieu as a commentary on racism and race relations. It’s also a goldmine of lessons for writers. So without further ado, here are the writing lessons you can take away from Jordan Peele’s Get Out. 

(Warning: Spoilers. If you haven’t seen this masterpiece, do yourself a favor and go watch it, then come back here for the lessons.)

Stakes:

All stories require stakes: what will happen if the protagonist doesn’t achieve their goal? What will be lost? What price will they pay? Often epic fantasy and science fiction feature stakes that implicate the fate of the entire world or galaxy. If Frodo doesn’t destroy The Ring, all of Middle Earth will fall to Sauron. If Luke doesn’t defeat Darth Vader, the entire galaxy will fall to the empire.

In thrillers, the stakes are often life and death. Thomas Harris raises the stakes in Silence of the Lambs from justice vs. injustice (if Clarice doesn’t catch Buffalo Bill, a murderer will go free) to life and death when a US senator’s daughter is kidnapped (if Clarice doesn’t catch Buffalo Bill, the daughter will be killed).

Life and death may seem like the penultimate stakes for any story, but in horror, the best stories put even more at stake. The writer goes beyond this and puts the character’s very soul at stake by facing them with a fate worse than death: damnation.

That’s the case here in Get Out. 

If Chris Washington doesn’t escape the clutches of the Armitage family, he won’t simply die. In fact, he won’t die at all. He’ll be alive, but his consciousness will be trapped as he’s forced to spend the rest of his years watching someone exploit his body. Peele ups these stakes by showing both Chris and the audience exactly what the sunken place means when Logan wakes up. It’s an effective showing moment so that we don’t simply have to take the Armitage’s word for it. With stakes like this, a simple death looks good.

What can this tell us about writing?

Look beyond life and death when plotting your character’s stakes. Read The Shining for a stellar example of this. If Jack Torrance doesn’t solve the mystery of the Stanley Hotel, he won’t simply die but will be responsible for the death of his wife and child. This fate is also inherent to the possession trope, where characters are already living a fate worse than death. Think Evil Dead where killing the possessed is a better fate than what will follow if they don’t. In Hellraiser, if Kristy doesn’t deliver Frank to Pinhead, she won’t simply die, but her soul will be torn apart.  Ask yourself, what is your character’s hell? For more on genre stakes, I also suggest reading The Story Grid.

Subverting Tropes:

Get Out does a lot of things brilliantly, but one of its greatest feats is how slickly it subverts the white savior trope. Peele pulls this off by starting early, with Chris and Rose on the way to her family’s house. Rose hits a deer and a cop comes to the scene. Naturally, the cop does what cops do best and gives the innocent black man crap. By having Chris act obliging and non-confrontational when the cop asks for his identification, it gives Rose the opportunity to say what we all wish Chris could say for himself. By using her white privilege to defend him from racist treatment, it forces the audience to root for Rose.

It’s a subtle but important decision as both the audience and Chris are positioned to mistakenly believe she has his back. When she turns out to be a central aspect and not only a willing but enthusiastic participant in her family’s plot, the revelation becomes a shock.

What can this tell us about writing?

The best subversions of genre tropes aren’t achieved when authors nudge their readers with a wink and say, “See what I’m doing here?” The best subversions of trope are achieved by reinforcing the elements of that trope in order to mislead the audience so that they don’t see the twist coming. If you want to subvert a trope, brainstorm what elements reinforce that trope. How can these be implemented into your story? Which ones can be turned on their heads to leave your readers gasping? 

Endings and Audience Needs:

In horror, I think happy endings tend to be a bit controversial. Some people love them, some people hate them. Every story requires what it requires, but I think Get Out offers a lot of food for thought. My favorite moment in Get Out (and arguably in all of cinema) was the moment when Chris finally escapes and defeats Rose, only to find red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

The entire theater had an audible reaction. That single moment, in my opinion, has said more about our society than any other purely because of the reaction it elicited. When Rod emerged from the car, the theater erupted in cheers. Literal cheers.

Personally, I was surprised to learn, this wasn’t the original ending. In the original ending, Chris is arrested by police after murdering Rose and goes to prison. In an narrated version of the alternate ending you can find here, Peele explains that he changed the ending because he felt that what viewers needed at the time was hope. 

What can this tell us about writing?

First, Peele’s happy ending is punctuated by the gut punch of those flashing lights. Would the audience have cheered as loudly had Rod arrived in a normal car? I’m not certain. If you hear writers talk about turns, THIS is what we mean. Skilled writers know how to direct reader expectations for maximum emotional impact.

Now, there are different camps in the writing community. Some authors believe their artistic vision matters more than keeping readers happy. Stephen King wrote a whole book about readers versus a writer’s artistic vision. I, for one, am in the camp of satisfying readers. However, like Jordan Peele, I don’t necessarily believe in delivering the reader what they want, but rather what they need.

Writing the most grim, depressing ending tends to be the default for some horror writers. Regardless of what camp you reside in, all writers should be able to clearly articulate their artistic choices. So, ask yourself, why this ending and why now?

That’s it for now. What lessons did you take away from Get Out? What movie would you like me to dissect next? Let me know in the comments!

I began this blog series because I think it’s interesting to see what other writers are reading, what they enjoyed and (most importantly) what they learned from reading. Be forewarned, I’m not a reviewer. That said, here’s the list for January

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Dr. Montague is an occult scholar who arranges a study at the infamous Hill House in order to find solid evidence for a real "haunting." The participants include Eleanor (a lonely woman haunted by the death of her ill mother whom she cared for), Theo (a spunky livewire who has a difficult time maintaining relationships), and Luke (a family member of the person who currently owns Hill House). They all arrive and, naturally, horrors ensue.

Luckily, I didn’t realize that the Netflix series is completely different from the novel. I loved the show, but liked not knowing what to expect. Jackson’s prose and her command over the narrative voice are both spectacular.

Her experimentation with emotion fascinated me as characters have unexpected reactions during the haunting scenes. It was an interesting way to add an extra dose of dread to the atmosphere. It isn’t as plot heavy as I had hoped and feels rather short, but the characters and the way Jackson draws them into conflict were incredible. A horror/gothic classic for a reason.

The Echo Wife by Sarah Gailey

Evelyn Caldwell is a genetic researcher who’s perfected the art of cloning. Her ex-husband also stole her research to create a clone of her, Martine. When Martine murders said ex-husband, Evelyn and Martine must work together to cover the murder up or else Evelyn’s career will go up in smoke.

This was an instant buy for me given the blurb. Ex-husband, clone, and murder? Sounded like an edge-of-your-seat thrill ride, which is exactly what I was dying to read (and am still dying to read). Sarah Gailey's writing is incredibly beautiful and they unflinchingly explored the complicated emotions of victims and survivors in this story about grooming, abuse, and identity. Seriously, Sarah can WRITE. That said, if I learned anything, it’s that the marketing of a novel is vital.

This wasn’t at all the thriller I expected and I wasn’t in the headspace for something so emotional, so didn’t quite connect the way I would have if I had picked it up another time. That said, it’s on my shelf to re-read another day when I’m in the mood for an emotionally dense novel with lush prose.

The House We Grew Up In by Lisa Jewell

A dual timeline family saga centered around the Birds whose matriarch, Lorelei, is a hoarder. In the present timeline, Lorelei has recently passed away and the eldest daughter, Megan, is left to deal with the insanity that is her mother's hoard. The past timeline navigates the family's history, a tragedy that irrevocably changes them, and the secrets that drive them apart.

This novel is a masterclass in using multi-POV to interweave family drama and build suspense. With all of the juicy secrets Jewell created, I breezed through two hundred pages in one day simply so I could get to the revelation scene (which was explosive and perfectly rendered). Jewell strung so many more mysteries and drama throughout those two hundred pages, that I was absolutely riveted the entire time.

On top of that, this is an excellent lesson in portraying an oft exploited mental illness with the utmost empathy. I admire Jewell so much for the research she did to understand a character like Lorelei. I applaud her for choosing to show the humanity rather than the horror, which the hoarding reality shows are all too eager to exploit for ratings. One of my top reads of the month and converted me to an official Lisa Jewell stan.

[image error] Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Noemi is a socialite in 1950s Mexico City. Her father offers to support her to attend university to pursue anthropology on one condition, that she travel to High Place to check on her cousin Catalina. Catalina has sent Noemi's father a concerning letter and appears to be mentally unwell, but her husband Virgil refuses to let her see a psychiatrist. Off Noemi goes. High Place is a mansion on a remote mountain belonging to the Doyle family who once ran a profitable silver mine. Noemi quickly finds she is treated more like a prisoner than a guest.

If you want to learn how to write a modern gothic, this is the place to start. The atmosphere, the mystery, the prose, the slow-burn romance, it was all a big YES for me.

I’ve been big on paying attention to how authors handle emotion recently and I loved how Moreno-Garcia reigned in Noemi's reaction to her treatment at High Place. Most of the time, her anger felt rather subdued. I thought it was a surprising but effective choice, as her subdued emotional reactions gave me more space to be outraged on her behalf. The midpoint twist was such a weird, wtf moment that felt like a risk and may have turned away readers who aren’t used to weird horror, but Moreno-Garcia went for it and, man, it paid off for me. Lesson: TAKE THOSE RISKS.

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

The unnamed protagonist in REBECCA by Daphne du Maurier marries widower Maxim de Winter after a whirlwind romance in Monte Carlo. Upon returning to his home, Manderley, she discovers that his dead wife, the titular Rebecca, haunts their marriage.

A well-written suspense that turns the structure of the traditional murder mystery on its head. For the last third of the book, I found myself utterly gripped with what would become of the protagonist and Maxim. The final twist involving Rebecca's death was surprising and I loved how it only cast more questions instead of really resolving anything, allowing the reader to end the book and wonder.

I thought du Maurier did some interesting work with the unnamed protagonist. Personally, I love an unlikeable protagonist, but those protagonists are unlikeable for obvious, often abhorrent reasons (psychopaths like Gone Girl’s Amy).

The unnamed protagonist in Rebecca, however, was unlikeable (to me) for entirely different reasons. Her incessant insecurity was frustrating and her abject sensitivity felt, at times, confounding. For much of the novel, I thought she was rather melodramatic and that the antagonism she felt from Mrs. Danvers might have been completely imagined on her part. Yet, the surprise that unfolded from that seedling of doubt du Maurier planted was delicious. For me, it was an unusual experience, reading and constantly being at odds with the protagonist. By the end, it totally paid off.

The Violence by Delilah S. Dawson

Chelsea Martin is a wife and mother of seventeen-year-old Ella and five-year-old Brooklyn, with a nasty secret: her husband, David, abuses her regularly. However, a new pandemic has broken. Infected persons blackout and rampage, often leaving someone dead by the time they come to. The government has created a hotline for civilians to report infected persons, which swiftly results in the infected person being taken to government-facilitated quarantine cells. Chelsea sees the perfect opportunity to finally get rid of her husband. Once gone, though, Chelsea finds life is harder than she expected. When she becomes infected, her and her girls are forced apart and they each find themselves on their own off-the-rails adventure.

This is a new release that I received a digital ARC from Netgalley and the publisher. I appreciated the content warning at the beginning of this novel. Be forewarned, there are heavy depictions of domestic violence in this as well as one scene of animal abuse.

The choice to provide three distinct POVs from Chelsea, Ella and Chelsea's mother, Patricia, was fantastic and paid off in the end. It was a brilliant examination of how abuse and trauma are inherited generation to generation and the reasons young women such as Chelsea fall for abusers. Dawson also wove great character arcs for the three of them and though the middle felt a bit bulky, the ending was great and well worth the read. This was also another case of an author taking risks. The plot gets zany, but I was here for it!

Someone To Share My Nightmares by Sonora Taylor

I’m making it a point to read at least one collection of short stories each month. Taylor’s collection was everything I needed right now. The blend of romance and erotica with horror tropes was *chef's kiss* AMAZING. For me, this was an absolute banger and taught me one important thing: WRITE WHAT YOU WANT TO READ. Because, I promise, someone else out there wants to read it too. A quick rundown of my favorite stories:

Someone To Share My Nightmares - Kristin lives in a small North Carolina town where her favorite horror director has recently died in the very woods that haunt Kristin's nightmares. When she meets the star of the film that is no longer shooting, Joshua, romance and horror ensue. The creepy setting, the spicy scenes, the achingly gorgeous love interest, and the brutal deaths. MORE OF THIS PLEASE HORROR WRITERS.

You Promised Forever - Carrie agreed to become immortal after falling in love with vampire, Cody. She questions her choice as she discovers happily forever after isn't all she thought it would be. Vampires they might be, but still their relationship is plagued with the everyday quarrels any long-term human couple faces. I absolutely loved this examination of love, relationships, and the things we sacrifice for them. I'm all for an honest portrait of love through a well-loved genre trope.

'Tis Better To Want - Ummm... Did you know Krampus was hot? Because I did not and now I need to get on his naughty list because this story was IT. Lydia has a bit of a rebellious streak. When she meets the Christmas demon and sees his crimson cleft chin (drooling), she must have him. The erotic scene in this had me giggling behind my hand it was SO good. If you like steam, you definitely need this short story in your life.

The Sanatorium by Sarah Pearse

This has been on my TBR for nearly a year and I read it after, finally, finding it at my local bookstore here in Dubai. Elin Warner is a UK police detective on the brink of retiring after a traumatic chase with a murderer sent her off-the-rails. She’s on holiday for her brother’s engagement celebration at a posh hotel recently converted from a historical sanatorium (read: mental asylum). When her brother’s fiancé goes missing, a hotel maid is found murdered, and local police are prevented from investigating thanks to an avalanche, Elin is forced out of her early retirement and takes charge.

This is a great novel to study for anyone who wants to write a contained murder mystery. The detective with a troubled past, the setting and the way it locks all of the characters in with the killer, the constant twists, all of it was cleanly done. It hits all of the right genre beats.

Additionally, it taught me a bit more about what I want to read and write. As well-paced and well-written as it was, I like my thrillers dark, gruesome, and a bit fucked up. If it doesn’t make me drop my jaw and gasp because of something shocking or appalling, is it really a thriller?

I’ve been dying to read just that all month and none of the thrillers I picked up quite hit the note I was looking for (I’m thinking Gone Girl, Verity, and Postmortem). If you have any recommendations for a thriller that does, drop them below. Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter and Crash by J.G. Ballard are next on my list because I was promised they will shock and appall me.

My love for horror began with film. It wasn’t until I was a teen and I got my hands on my first Stephen King novel (Pet Semetary) that I even realized horror novels were a thing. Of course, as an adult, my love for horror hasn’t waned, but now that I’m a writer, I examine films a bit more critically than ‘that was awesome’ and ‘that sucked.’ 

So, I decided to start a blog series dissecting what I learned about writing from my favorite horror flicks. Starting with one of my top modern releases, Ari Aster’s HEREDITARY. Spoilers entail. If you haven’t watched the film, do yourself a favor and go watch it, then come back to this post. 

Opening Images: 

The opening image in a film is like the first line of a novel (or the opening paragraph). Filmmakers and authors can use this moment to achieve a number of things: Set the tone, introduce a theme, establish setting, plunge us into a character and their voice. It’s a matter of taste.

Masters like Ari Aster do it all at once.

The opening image in Hereditary establishes the setting by panning from a shot out a window at a treehouse into a workspace and a bunch of dioramas. The shot zooms in on a bedroom of one diorama until we notice a teenage boy, Peter, asleep in his bed. Altogether, these things are very much horror genre conventions. We have an eerie house and we can immediately assume that a lot of horror conventions that take place within the home are fair game. We get a dose of the theme, that this family is a group of characters in a larger play dictated by forces they aren’t aware of, pawns if you will. But most importantly and, most subtly, we open with the central character. The thing is, the viewer doesn’t realize Peter is the central character until the end. So much of the movie focuses on his mother, Annie, and her grief. It isn’t until the end that we realize that the entire plot of the film has revolved around Peter and the antagonists’ objectives for him.

What can this tell us about writing? The best novel openings exert a mastery over all of these things as well. Readers are sprung into the genre, the themes, the setting and the central character. The first opening line that comes to mind is the first line of Donna Tartt’s prologue in THE SECRET HISTORY (will say as much as I can without spoiling this one for anyone who hasn’t yet read):

“The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.”

Immediately, Tartt delivers the reader genre expectations (someone is dead, who is Bunny and how did they die?). The third line tells us this is happening in Vermont. This is a story about a group of people, people who might be naive and have learning to do, which sets the novel up for its themes around enlightenment. 

When Breaking Genre Conventions Works:

In horror, there are several ‘beats’ that are essentially mandatory to the genre. The ‘attack of the monster,’ ‘in the monster’s lair,’ and ‘at the monster’s mercy.’ The thing is, on first watch HEREDITARY doesn’t necessarily feel like a horror film at all, but a family melodrama instead. It doesn’t seem to feature a monster and the only thing the family seems to be surviving is grief and tragedy. On first watch, Ari Aster skips over the standard genre beats. There’s no ‘attack of the monster’ as an inciting incident. There’s no investigation leading the protagonist into the monster’s lair. There doesn’t seem to be any monster at all for the majority of the film. All of that changes, though, when Annie discovers the truth about Joan and her mother. Suddenly, viewers realize that the family has been at the mercy of the antagonistic force all along and it puts every other moment of the story into perspective. 

That said, on second watch, HEREDITARY does in fact follow genre conventions. The inciting incident and the initial ‘attack of the monster’ beat is fulfilled when Charlie is tragically decapitated. Ari Aster hints at this by breaking up the party scene leading into that horrific moment with a shot of Annie’s diorama and a miniature version of her dead mother in a nightgown, standing in the doorway watching as Annie’s miniature self sleeps.

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On second watch, Annie does go into the monster’s lair when she visits Joan and, to top it off, while she’s there she makes herself incredibly vulnerable. She confesses things to Joan that viewers assume she hasn’t confessed to anyone outside of her family, things that are disturbing to the viewer such as she may have tried to kill her children (because was she really sleepwalking?). 

What can this tell us about writing? Genre conventions and beats matter. HEREDITARY works so well because it appears to break conventions, without breaking those conventions. I argue, Aster knew exactly what he was doing. The shot of the diorama in the middle of the party scene, Annie’s vulnerability during her confession in Joan’s apartment, the bit of sediment Annie finds on her tongue while drinking Joan’s tea, all of these things demonstrate that Aster was aware these horror beats would appear to be missing on first watch and so he instilled moments that injected the mood of those beats back into the scenes. In order to subvert expectations, you have to understand why those expectations exist. As frightening as HEREDITARY was the first time around, it’s all the more horrifying when you rewatch it and these beats all the more delicious.

The Art of the Scene:

Aster masterfully crafts scenes in HEREDITARY. They’re all nuanced and layered and offer new meaning with each watch. One of my favorite scenes is Annie’s visit with a grief group after her mother’s funeral. She delivers a long, brilliant monologue. On first watch, the scene appears to be about her, her struggle with her emotions, and her complicated relationship with her mother. The monologue’s exploration of her emotions and her family’s past is so well crafted, the scene is totally gripping even if it only serves that purpose.

On second watch, though, viewers realize the scene is loaded with foreshadowing and vital backstory. Annie’s father starved himself to death. Her brother killed himself and claimed their mother was ‘trying to put people inside of him.’ On second watch, viewers realize her mother has tried to do this before, that this antagonistic plot has been foiled in the past.

Could Annie have foiled the cult’s plan if only she realized sooner? Could a simple accident (such as Steve running a red light and getting t-boned after he picked Peter up from school) have changed their fates? Was it really fate in the end? Clearly, the cult and Paimon aren’t unbeatable, they’ve been beaten before. By including this backstory and foreshadowing, Aster interrogates his own themes. Ultimately, then, the scene serves three functions: Exploring character emotion, using backstory to foreshadow, and interrogating the film’s themes. 

What can this tell us about writing? Quite simply, writers can make their scenes do more and writers need to challenge themselves to do so. Take a scene you’ve already written and ask yourself, ‘what is its central function?’ Then, ask yourself what other functions it can serve. Push yourself to dive deeper, to come up with at least two additional functions, and try reworking the scene with these in mind.

That’s it for now! Let me know what you think and if there’s anything you learned about writing from Hereditary.

a poem by Evelyn Freeling

When your feet bleed from running,
and you are forced to face the griefs
that chase you, weep not for me. 

I am all I could not be before.

I am a seed in a dandelion, 
waiting to be plucked, made to carry
the wish of a child, 
never again a man’s desire. 

I am a drop of water in the sea,
slipping through grips that cannot hold me,
evaporating and raining on the skin 
of those who need cleansing.

When you hear my whisper in a wind,
wonder what secrets I never shared, know
they are yours and hers too, but weep not for me.

I am a petal, there to tickle your nose,
to remind you of sweet things
that still exist, anticipate us,
in this thorny world. 

I am the star winking back, holding
the sky for the weary woman who never sleeps,
who finally crawls out of bed just before dawn,
to search the horizon for a sign like persist.

When the season passes and you laugh again,
then remember all the moments
we have lost, weep not for me.

I am a leaf in the sycamore with branches
sturdy for climbing. I listen to summertime
screams and, in the autumn, catch
the carefree falls of children.

I am a sun finger, stretching through space
and time, through clouds, windows 
and pillows, one hundred million miles
to dry a girl’s tears. Yours too.

When you’re on the bus, riding through the city,
absently gazing through crowds, and for a split 
second you see me in a stranger’s face, weep not for me.

I am there too.

I wanted to start sharing what I read each month. Not because I’m a reviewer (I’m not), but because I think it’s interesting to see what other writers are reading and what they enjoyed. Because I’m not a reviewer, I’m not sharing EVERYTHING I read in December. There was a book I DNF’ed this month. I’ll only be sharing what I read and enjoyed. That said, here’s the list!

Immortelle by Catherine McCarthy

This is a beautifully written quiet horror story centered on Elinor, a ceramics artist and single mom, whose daughter Rowena dies under suspicious circumstances. As Elinor grieves, she begins to receive visitors from beyond the veil who help her discover who is to blame for her daughter’s death. The historical period, the atmosphere, the Welsh setting were a whole mood and though it isn’t a haunted house story, this will definitely appeal to anyone who enjoys gothic horror. Catherine McCarthy shows her talent in strides with this and I look forward to reading more from her in the future.

The Changeling by Victor LaValle

Apollo and Emma are a modern day romance. When they welcome their baby boy, they seem to be living happily ever after. Then, Emma commits a horrific act and vanishes into thin air. Apollo will stop at nothing to find her. If you like novels that contend with genre, this is definitely a read for you. Written like a modern day fairytale, it’s written with an expert command over prose and is, at times, funny, others horrifying, and explores the fantastical in the day and age of iPhones and computers. The depiction of family life after welcoming a baby was so real, it hurt. The characters are wonderfully developed and the emotional depth Victor LaValle infused Apollo and Emma with was heart rendering. During a Q & A with the author, he said he wanted to write the protagonist to show, “not how bad men fail the people they love, but how good men do,” and he accomplished that marvelously. Highly recommend this to anyone who wants to shake up their TBR. 

A Darker Shade of Magic by VE Schwab

Like a lot of millennials, I grew up reading a plethora of fantasy series (especially by she who shall not be named).  When I went off to college, I stopped reading for fun and, when I finally started again as an adult, I didn't pick up fantasy for some reason. A Darker Shade of Magic was my first foray into the fantasy genre as an adult and it did not disappoint. The characters VE Schwab crafted drew me in and, once again, I found myself lost in a new, magical world I wish was real. Schwab's writing is beautiful. The tension escalated perfectly, making this a super addictive read. One of those books that, if I wasn't a parent, I would have happily devoured in a single sitting. I will definitely be reading the rest of this series and look forward to seeing the movie whenever it finally comes out because I can't get enough of these characters and this world. 

Zero Saints by Gabino Iglesias

I picked this up because Gabino Iglesias is killing it and I wanted to see what he’s about. Zero Saints did not disappoint. Fernando is a small time drug dealer in Austin who escaped certain death in Mexico only to be kidnapped by some gangbangers, forced to watch as they cut his friend’s head off, and thrust into the middle of a battle over Austin’s downtown drug business. As he works to beat the gangbangers at their own game and avenge his friend, he discovers that their leader may not be entirely human. A brilliantly written mix of crime and horror with splashes of spectacular violence and the occult. The one thing some readers might have a problem with is the amount of Spanish. I would estimate 15-20% of the book is in Spanish and, if your Spanish is as basic as mine is, you’ll need to translate. I recommend using a microphone with whatever app you use (I used Google Translate). For me, it was worth the extra time and actually became quite fun as I learned a lot of colorful curses (pinches pendejos). This made me pre-order his upcoming book, The Devil Takes You Home, which is already being turned into a film. Like I said, killing it.

Bloodlines: Four Tales of Familial Fear

Each story explores different aspects of the horror genre as well as different aspects of family. Definitely a great addition to any horror aficionado's TBR.

“Our Migraine” by Christopher O’Halloran - Three sisters are tormented by a supernatural migraine that requires one of them to carry the migraine at all times. I loved the exploration of sibling dynamics in this piece and the ways family emotionally manipulate one another to achieve their aims. As things broke down among the sisters, I felt myself completely riveted by the characters. And the ending! The body horror! A fantastic start to the anthology.

“Nos Da, Tad” by Antony Frost - Owen learns his estranged father has passed away and that he has inherited his father's home. During a visit with his partner, Owen discovers clues and has strange visions that lead him to discover the dark truths about his father and, possibly, him. I immediately connected with this piece as someone who grew up without a father. I loved the protagonist and the exploration of losing someone you’ve never truly had.

“I Am Not To Be Replaced” by Carson Winter - A ghost lingers over her family's holiday, jealous of the replica who has replaced her. I enjoyed this exploration of familial expectations and the consequences of not living up to them. It was a fun twist on the means with which family tries to change or improve those who don't meet their standards.

“The Heads of Leviathan” by Alex Wolfgang - After their mother’s death leaves five siblings stranded on the strange island they were born and raised on, the eldest uncovers clues about the secrets their mother kept from them. This is the story I’m still wrapping my head around. Beautifully rendered with lush and captivating prose, the portrayal of grief and the way it draws families into conflict was raw, and the story totally strange and surreal.

Nightmare Yearnings by Eric Raglin

My author friend Emma E. Murray (go follow her on Twitter @EMurrayAuthor) recommended this collection to me and it did not disappoint! Full of surreal horror that captured the jarring nature of a nightmare, seeded in reality yet layered with an overwhelming sense that things aren't quite right. There were no duds, but definitely some stories that stood apart from the rest. Some of the best stories explore themes and topics relevant to millennial and gen z readers. I’m listing only a few of my favorites below because there were many. You can find the rest of my faves on Goodreads!

“Gray Matter” - A caretaker of an elderly widower with dementia recounts the events leading up to his patient's disappearance. This one is a fantastic take on the story-within-a-story structure, the tension and pacing are deft, the scares come in early and it has one of my favorite body horror moments I've read all year long.

“For My Final Girl” - A couple get their cancer surviving daughter a neuro transference to make up for all of the lessons she missed during her treatment. The doctor who performs the surgery, however, has dubious intent and soon after they arrive home following the procedure, their daughter begins acting strangely. A well-paced sci-fi thriller with well-layered mysteries and plenty of tension. This one was marvelous.

“The Reveal” - A couple host a gender reveal party in the Red Woods and things go awry. The character work in this piece was remarkable. Raglin fantastically drew a character who was, on one hand, meager and resigned, yet made her resignation relatable. Sometimes we don't realize we're with the wrong person until we're already in a life commitment with them. The dynamics between her and her husband had me looking forward to the tragedy that seemed to await them and and the horror elements and dramatic ending were particularly memorable.

Finally…

I wanted to list some short stories I read this month that I thought were fantastic and worth recommending to other writers who want to check some stuff out.

The Fish Aren’t Biting by Christopher O’Halloran is available to read for free on The Dread Machine. A grandson and his sober grandfather go fishing. This is a great take on adult issues told from a child’s POV. There were so many moments that had me on the edge of my seat.

I also purchased a digital copy of Vastarien Literary Journal (Fall 2021issue) this month and holy crap, it’s such a great investment! I wish I lived in its shipping areas because it’s a freaking book (over 300 pages). I still haven’t gotten through the entire thing, but

“The Mushroom Men” by Carson Winter - A man grieving the loss of his child goes hunting for morsels with his friends. A beautifully written mind fuck exploring grief and reality itself. Seriously, the prose in this is topnotch.

“Heartstrings” by Philippa Evans - An epistolary musing on language, meaning and perception. Also beautifully written and a bit of a mind fuck. If that’s your thing I think this issue is for you.

“She Ain’t Stoppin” by Christi Nogle - A man attends his wife’s family reunion and things get weird. Another well written beast, I love how Christi masterfully circled the story’s end back to the beginning. At some points it felt like Midsommar, but on more drugs.

What about you? What did you read this month? Have a short story I should read?

When I was a teenager, I would go through periods of uncontrollable sobbing followed by feelings of despondency. My parent told me it was normal teenage hormones. I was probably going to start my period soon.

I thought about the futility of life a lot, especially for a young woman with her entire life ahead of her. My moods consisted of wild vagaries I felt like I had little control over. At times, I was laser-focused on school and extracurriculars and ambitions I had, but those times were always followed by periods of total disinterest. Some semesters I was a 4.0 student working two jobs. Others, I failed classes because I couldn’t pull myself out of bed, lost jobs, and at one point dropped out of college altogether. (I went back!)

I didn’t know these things were symptoms of depression. In my naïve mind, depression was wanting to die. Sometimes there was that, but much of the time (gratefully) there wasn’t. My assumption was that there was something wrong with me. These weren’t symptoms, but character flaws on my part. It was jarring to realize years later that depression is actually considered a disability. To this day, it’s difficult to untether myself from the incessant self-loathing that comes with depression (What’s wrong with me? Why am I like this?) and accept that the symptoms I experience—the sometimes debilitating mood swings, the fatigue, indifference, intrusive thoughts—are part and parcel of a medical condition.

Then when I became a mother almost two years ago, I experienced postpartum depression. Again, I didn’t recognize the symptoms right away. I did, but I didn’t. There was the crying in the shower after I couldn’t get the baby to stop screaming or couldn’t get my breasts to produce milk or couldn’t get my weight to go down or couldn’t bear the thought of spending another day at work smiling and pretending that I was okay.

That was easy to recognize, but then again, every new mom gets the blues. That shit is hard. Entering motherhood is like entering pure survival mode. We spend pregnancy daydreaming about all these wonderful truths and experiences we’ll share with our babies, but when the baby comes, that fantasy is shot to a horrible, loud, exhausted death.

The things I didn’t recognize were the bouts of rage. I lost my temper over the smallest things. Relatives not sticking to her feeding schedule, not burping her right. Being invited places infuriated me, because didn’t people know that we had to get ourselves and a baby ready now? How dare they. I made a habit of cursing a whole lot more than I ever did before. There were intrusive thoughts I still can’t bring myself to admit outside of a therapist’s office.

The disconnection between mother and child turned out to be nothing like what I expected the “disconnection” to feel like. I loved her. There were times I felt frustrated (that is probably the understatement of my lifetime), but I loved her. When I heard about the disconnection mothers feel during postpartum depression, I thought that meant the mother didn’t feel love for her child. For some women, that might be true. It wasn’t for me.

Instead, at times, I felt like she didn’t love me, like I wasn’t a good enough mother and she knew it. I worried over the fact that she took a long time to develop the ability to smile while she was awake. I thought it meant she wasn’t happy. How could I know for sure? That insecurity felt shameful, like admitting that I worried my baby wasn’t happy was the same thing as admitting that I was a terrible mother. Good mothers make their babies happy.

It took me a long time, but eventually I sought medical help. Admitting I needed help was painful. It was like looking at myself in the mirror and admitting there was something wrong with me. At least, that’s what I felt. I had friends with mental health struggles, though. Never did I think there was something wrong with them. For some reason, I resisted showing myself the same empathy.

Then came admitting I was getting help, which I didn’t. To anyone. Not even my husband. Most of my friends didn’t have children. The one who did was an incredible mom who made it seem so easy I was convinced she could raise a child in her sleep. My family? I didn’t want to make them worry.

Truly, I didn’t want anyone to see past my veneer. I was supposed to be a supermom. I was supposed to bear my child and get back to business, no falter in my step. In some ways, I did. I worked in fundraising at the time and raised nearly $500,000 for cancer patients, but I suffered the entire way.

I wrote the novel I’m currently querying during my experience with postpartum depression. The ideas for my novel were very much inspired by these experiences. However, my experiences are only mine. They aren’t universal truths. I don’t have the prescription for overcoming postpartum depression. I don’t have advice except seek medical help. I wouldn’t want to pretend otherwise.

My perspective on art, is that the artist should convey what they know to be true. While writing this novel, I asked myself that a lot. What do I know to be true about mental illness?

Not much, except that there is a divergence between the information that is available to patients about mental illness and the beliefs we hold for ourselves. Thanks to much important activism, most of us have learned to show empathy to those dealing with mental illness. Yet when we struggle with it, this knowledge can be difficult to apply to ourselves. Sometimes, it feels impossible.

Women are forty percent more likely to suffer from depression. That percentage jumps even higher for women of color. Here, I think opportunities exist for important conversations about trauma and the role gender and race play in being exposed to trauma. Here, I think we should talk about the pressure women put on themselves to do it all, to be perfect mothers and employees and whatever other roles we take on, and the ways in which that conflicts with admitting we need help, and then accessing it. Then, of course, there’s a huge, unavoidable discussion about accessibility of mental healthcare.

Not much, except that postpartum depression is still an awful, isolating, sometimes shame-filled experience that anywhere from ten to twenty percent of new mothers experience (probably higher considering the number of women who don’t seek help). Despite all of the awareness that’s raised for mental illnesses, so much of postpartum depression and women’s mental health remains mystified.

I won’t pretend like my novel answers any of these questions, or solves any of these problems. It’s merely a story that I hope other people (and particularly mothers) who have experienced mental illness can read someday and say, “Hey, me too.”