September 21, 2026 · 6:00 am

Crafting the hook #writing

I started writing my very first novel in 1993. It opened with an info dump that went on and on, and on.

I didn’t understand the importance of starting with a strong opening paragraph that leads to an active first page. I didn’t know how to sustain the pacing, the rhythm of conflict-resolution-conflict that forms the arc of the plot.

It took a good writing group, numerous books on craft, and many seminars to get the education I didn’t have. Most importantly, I worked with an excellent editor (and still do) and over the years that experience has gradually shaped what I thought were final drafts into manuscripts I’m not ashamed to submit to her for the final edit.

The novels I love most all begin with a clear dramatic hook. This literary device should appear at the ends of scenes and chapters. The hook is sometimes a big problem that entangles the main character and promises a real struggle from the opening pages to the ending’s resolution.

Other times it is a small but intriguing mystery that leads us into a larger story.

No matter how the story opens, it begins with the opening act. The characters are introduced, and the scene is set. The plot will be hinted at and established in the first pages because that is where we:

  • Introduce the protagonist(s). Who and what are they?
  • Introduce the setting. Where are they?
  • Introduce the conflict. What does the protagonist want? What hinders them?

This is the first hook, the place where the author establishes the tone of what is to follow. Getting the pacing right in those opening pages and maintaining it to the last page in the novel is, in my experience, the most challenging part of making revisions.

Sometimes I open the story by dropping the characters into the middle of a mess. I still need a pivotal event at the 1/4 mark that upends what they know and sets them on a new trajectory. The destination ahead is now unknown, and this event launches the story.

The inciting incident does not necessarily have to be an event or tragedy. I have read and enjoyed many books where I became immediately engaged in the characters themselves, or the author’s writing style.

However, no matter how wonderful the characters are or how clever the prose, a story must change the characters emotionally. They must either grow in maturity or change for the worse.

I admit, I prefer character-driven stories. I love books where action and intrigue exist only to drive character development.

What about subplots/side quests?

If the subplot is the opening hook, why isn’t it the main quest? Does completing this quest drop us into the Big Problem? If so, great.

Cartoon: I am their creator. Why do they not obey me?If not, we need to rethink the plot. We do need roadblocks to success, and those often lead us away from the main path. As long as we can still see the ultimate goal, they will keep us entertained.

Side quests are a good way to develop characters and provide needed information or necessary tools. When the shift into the subplot is done right, it will keep the story moving forward. However, the transition must feel natural and organic to the main quest. Clumsy transitions make a story arc feel haphazard.

Also, while they are fun in an RPG video game, side quests that exist only to liven up a random, pointless plot arc don’t help.

In my favorite books, side quests worked because they were introduced after the book’s tone and central crisis were established, and they were crucial to completing the central quest.

A good, well-known example of a crucial side quest appears in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Bilbo must get lost in the Misty Mountains and stumble across the One Ring. Possessing this magical artifact is essential to completing the main quest.

The possession and destruction of the Ring drives his nephew Frodo’s story, which is covered in three epic novels: The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

So, yes. Subplots that advance the main plot arc can provide small hooks that keep us reading and develop the story’s emotional side.

But let’s go back to the opening hook.

An example of an opening paragraph that conveys visual information is this:

A noise at the mess tent’s door alerted Callie Hanson to her boss’s presence. She looked up from her dinner of soup and bread. Donnal entered, sitting opposite her. “I hate to interrupt your meal, but one of the searchers fell and is badly hurt. You’re needed in surgery now.”

In that short story, the opening paragraph consists of 50 words. It introduces the protagonist, tells you where she is, and hints at the larger problem. It also introduces the inciting incident.

But what does a final paragraph do?

Here’s another example I have used before. The scene prior to this paragraph details a tense discussion and follows after a (now former) landlord’s stormy departure.

I stuffed my now empty wallet back into my pocket. Then I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and looked around. No wife to kiss goodbye, no real home to leave behind, nothing of value to pack. Only the need to say goodbye to Portland and my failures. The quiet snick of the door closing behind me sounded like deliverance. I’d hit bottom, so things could only get better. Right?

The character in the above transition scene performs an action and moves on to the next event. It reveals his mood and some of his history in free indirect speech and propels him into the next chapter.

He does something: He performs an action, and that action gives us a great deal of information. It tells us that he is preparing to leave on an extended journey.

He shows us something: He shows us a barren existence and offers us his self-evaluation as a failure.

He tells us something:  He shows us his state of mind. The door has closed on an episode in his life, and he has no intention of going back.

This paragraph ends the chapter. When the next chapter opens, he steps into an opening paragraph that leads into the next action sequence. We find out who and what new misery is waiting for him on the other side of that door.

When you begin revising, look at the opening paragraph of each chapter. Ask yourself how you could rewrite it to convey information and lead the reader into the action. Then look at the final paragraph and ask yourself the same question.

Finding the right words to hook a reader, land them, and keep them hooked is a lot of work, but it will be worth it.

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September 18, 2026 · 6:00 am

#FineArtFriday: a second look at “Autumn Landscape (September)” by Lucas van Valckenborch, 1585

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Artist: Lucas van Valckenborch  (1535–1597)

Title: Autumn Landscape (September)

Date: 1585

Medium: oil on canvas

Dimensions: 116 x 198 cm Rahmenmaße: 131,5 x 214 x 6,5 cm

Collection: Kunsthistorisches Museum

What I love about this painting:

No matter how hard I scoured Wikimedia commons for the perfect September piece, I kept coming back to this image. It was first featured here in September of 2023, and I still  love everything about it.

We see an entire view of ordinary autumn life in the 16th century, but better than that, Lucas van Valckenborch shows us the passage of time. He depicts the chronology of how people lived and celebrated each week of the changing season by showing us September in the Netherlands.

The way he shows us this chronology is ingenious and is a signature of his work. The early weeks of September are shown in the left foreground, with laborers bringing in the harvest. Others are working to dry and preserve foods. The colors he uses are vivid, the last shades of summer.

In the bottom to middle right, he shows us mid-September with people relaxing, feasting, bowling, and dancing. The harvest is in, and people have a little time to enjoy the last days of good weather. The colors he uses are more muted, with shades of brown dominating. The leaves are brown and falling. Yet, there is a vibrancy about it, a sense of life. People celebrate a successful harvest one last time before winter’s cold grip closes in.

In late September, people fish, and the market becomes the center of village life. People are less active, but the market draws customers. The end of September presages colder weather and hints at the beginning of winter. This is shown in cool shades of gray, as if in a black-and-white photograph.

He is known for using this trick of color to denote receding distances. But he deliberately places figures performing specific activities within those colors, showing us how people lived and the passage of their days as well as distance.

The first days of September are bright, days of plenty. Yes, we’re working hard, but we’ll be grateful for the bounty when winter comes.

We look forward to the middle of September, because once the rush of harvest is over we will party like it’s 1585.

In the distance, we know the cold dark days loom, but we are prepared. Our cellars will be full and we will hunt and fish while we can.

Lucas van Valckenborch’s body of work shows us that he was a brilliant storyteller as well as an artist. Many paintings of that time show us the poverty, but here we see the prosperity of a village during the early renaissance. It wasn’t all doom and gloom after all.

About the Artist and his work, via Wikipedia:

Lucas van Valckenborch or Lucas van Valckenborch the Elder (c. 1535 in Leuven – 2 February 1597 in Frankfurt am Main) was a Flemish painter, mainly known for his landscapes. He also made contributions to portrait painting, and allegorical and market scenes. Court painter to Archduke Matthias, the governor of the Spanish Netherlands in Brussels, he later migrated to Austria and then Germany where he joined members of his extended family of artists who had moved there for religious reasons.

In their mixture of fantasy and accurate topographical details, van Valckenborch’s landscape paintings offer a view of the world and man’s relationship to it. This is particularly clear in his rocky landscapes in which the diminutive people on the winding path are reduced by the monumental cliffs. An example is the Rocky Landscape with Travelers on a Path (c. 1570, Sotheby’s 6 July 2016, London lot 3) where the distant goatherd and the silhouettes of his charges seem ant-like in comparison to the vast distance, and the vertiginous perspective of the scene. This dramatic visual depiction is clearly intended as a commentary on man’s place within the universe.

He also painted, between 1584 and 1587, a series of large pictures depicting the labours of the months, probably on commission for Archduke Matthias. These compositions, of which seven survive (five of which are in the Kunsthistorische Museum), present the various months of the year by showing the changing landscape and the traditional activities of humans during each month. It is not clear whether the five missing paintings were never painted or are lost.[4] Due to their realistic setting these compositions carry a documentary interest. The work of Pieter Bruegel the elder, who had painted a series of 6 on the times of the year, was influential on van Valckenborch. Lucas van Valckenborch moved away from the tradition of painting the landscape in three cascading distances that were rendered in three different colours: brown, green and blue for each receding plane. Rather he often left out the green tone for the middle distance. He also innovated the thematic scenes by developing them into genre scenes with a stronger narrative depth. [1]

Credits and Attributions:

[1] Wikipedia contributors, “Lucas van Valckenborch,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Lucas_van_Valckenborch&oldid=1173224796 (accessed September 14, 2023).

IMAGE: Autumn Landscape (September) by Lucas van Valckenborch. Wikimedia Commons contributors, “File:Lucas van Valckenborch – Autumn landscape (September).jpg,” Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Lucas_van_Valckenborch_-_Autumn_landscape_(September).jpg&oldid=618977280 (accessed September 14, 2023).

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September 14, 2026 · 6:00 am

Chapter length: What is enough and what is too much? #writing

Many times, I’m asked how long a chapter should be in a novel. Today seems like a good day to discuss this rather subjective topic.

Personally, I try to consider my readers’ comfort. I’m like many other readers. Once I begin reading a chapter, I want to finish it before I have to put the book down.

In my opinion, nothing is better than a long winter’s weekend spent sitting on the sofa in my comfy jammies, reading a book I’ve waited more than a year for.

However, life is hectic, and most of us rarely have the opportunity to sit and read all day, no matter how much we wish we could.

Having said all that, each author must decide what their style is based on their own reading preferences. This opinion might change as a writer’s career progresses, and it may not.

I’ve read and enjoyed many books where the authors made each scene a chapter. I barely noticed that detail because:

  1. Their transitions were smooth.
  2. The pacing was flawless.
  3. The story was engaging.

Some well-known authors limit their chapter length. One suggested 1500, while another has said not more than 2500.

One of my favorite authors sometimes has chapters of only five or six hundred words, which keeps each character’s storyline separate and flows well. For my storytelling style, 1,500 to 2,500 words is a good length. This allows a reader to take a break for whatever reason, and if the hook I ended the chapter on is good, they will return as soon as possible.

I feel that each chapter should detail the events of one scene or several closely related scenes. I see chapters the way I do paragraphs. Cramming widely different events into one place throws off the pacing. It makes the narrative feel erratic and disconnected.

Some books require longer sections. This is true of my novel, Julian Lackland. The overall story arc is comprised of short stories that detail important events in chronological order.

So, what is a transition?

Transitions move us from one scene to the next. They offer a chance to convey necessary information in just a few words.

Soft transitions: Brief conversations make good transitions to propel us to the next scene. They also offer ways to end a chapter with a tidbit of information that will compel the reader to turn the page. Information is crucial, so we want to provide it when the protagonist and the reader require it.

Hard transitions: This chapter is over. A new chapter begins.

Sometimes, a hard transition consists of a hashtag or extra space between closely related scenes. This is useful in a short story or when small incidents combine to form a larger crucial event that should be covered in one chapter.

When the next chapter opens, the protagonist steps into an opening paragraph that leads into the next action sequence. We find out who and what new misery is waiting for him on the other side of that door.

I use fade-to-black transitions only to finish certain kinds of events. I haven’t written smut in years, and don’t see a reason to start now. So, I use that literary device when two characters are romantically involved.

Consider the passage of time. When a real chunk of time has passed between the end of one event and the beginning of the next, end the chapter and give it a firm finish with a hook. Good hooks encourage the reader to keep turning the pages.

With each scene, we push all the main characters forward and raise the stakes a little more. Action and information keep the reader engaged. Good transitions are crucial to pacing. They let the reader reflect and absorb what they’ve learned before moving on to the next scene.

This brings me to how the narrative point of view can influence the length of a scene or chapter. Some editors suggest you change chapters, no matter how short, when you switch to a different character’s point of view.

I agree with this stance, as a hard transition when you switch narrator-characters is the best way to avoid head-hopping and subsequent confusion.

But what is head-hopping? When you change the narrative point of view in the same scene, one paragraph to the next, with no definite separation, you create a “viewpoint tennis match.”

First, you’re in Character A’s head hearing her thoughts, then you’re in Character B’s head hearing his. Then you’re back in A’s head. It becomes challenging to know who is speaking or thinking. The characters tend to lose their individuality and begin to sound the same.

However, sometimes it is okay to switch narrator-viewpoint within a chapter. Some events require showing more than one character’s perspective. However, be careful how you handle the narrator change. Use a hard break, such as an asterisk between the paragraphs where the switch is made.

Between the larger scenes and within the chapter, we might include bookend scenes as a soft transition. These will only be a paragraph long, a few words exchanged between characters as they progress to the next event, or even a mention of the world through the protagonist’s eyes. These scenes are short but should reveal something and push the story toward the unknown.

Bookend scenes lay the groundwork for what comes next.

The short transition from scene to scene does the heavy lifting when it comes to conveying information. It is the best opportunity for clues about the characters and their history to emerge without an info dump.

You may be wondering: should I use numbers, or give each chapter a title?

If snappy titles pop up in your mind for each chapter, by all means, go for it. Otherwise, numbered chapters are perfectly fine. Whichever style of chapter heading you choose, be consistent and stay with that choice for the entire book.

I try to end my chapters at a logical place with a hook that entices the reader to continue reading. Sometimes I am successful at that. Other times it’s hard to think of a good hook.

But each narrative has logical places where chapters should begin and end. You, as the author, get to choose what those places are. The length of your chapters is up to you.

 

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September 11, 2026 · 6:00 am

#FineArtFriday: Landscape with Haywain by Worthington Whittredge 1863

Artist: Worthington Whittredge (1820–1910)

Title: Landscape with Haywain

Date: 1863

Medium: oil on canvas

Dimensions: 24 x 36 in. (61 x 91.4 cm.)

Inscriptions: signed and dated ‘W. Whittredge./1863’ (lower right)

Collection: Cleveland Museum of Art

What I love about this painting:

Harvest is upon us! September has arrived and it is time to get as much hay stored away as possible. Whittredge has painted a glorious day at the end of summer. Everything is meticulously done, from the house on the shore of the lake below us, to the boulders left behind by glaciers, and the hayfield itself. Neat stacks of hay wait for the men to load onto the wagon, raked and stacked by the women.

Every member of the family is working together to get the job done, as they must get it under cover before the autumn rains come. Damp hay or straw goes moldy and becomes inedible. Worse, the heat generated by decomposition can cause it to spontaneously combust … and fire is a thing no one wants to have happen in their barn.

In centuries past, hay and straw were indispensable commodities. No family could do without either. Along with grain, hay fed the animals. Straw was useful as bedding for livestock and people, and when firewood ran low, it could be twisted tightly into logs and burned. Certain kinds of straw could be used to thatch a roof.

Making hay was a harvest-time activity that took place across the countryside in past generations and still does in our local farming communities. While tractors and baler machines have replaced horses and some of the labor, one can still see giant rolls of hay in the fields, waiting to be transported to the barns.

About the Artist:

Thomas Worthington Whittredge (May 22, 1820 – February 25, 1910) was an American artist of the Hudson River School. Whittredge was a highly regarded artist of his time, and was friends with several leading Hudson River School artists including Albert Bierstadt and Sanford Robinson Gifford. He traveled widely and excelled at landscape painting, many examples of which are now in major museums. He served as president of the National Academy of Design from 1874 to 1875 and was a member of the selection committees for the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition and the 1878 Paris Exposition, both important venues for artists of the day. [1]

To read more about this artist and his work, go to Worthington Whittredge – Wikipedia

Credits and Attributions:

IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons contributors, “File:Worthington Whittredge – Landscape with Haywain – 1975.20 – Cleveland Museum of Art.tiff,” Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Worthington_Whittredge_-_Landscape_with_Haywain_-_1975.20_-_Cleveland_Museum_of_Art.tiff&oldid=1259548575 (accessed September 8, 2026).

[1] Wikipedia contributors, “Worthington Whittredge,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Worthington_Whittredge&oldid=1366270905 (accessed September 8, 2026).

 

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September 7, 2026 · 7:23 am

The Fight Scene: What is enough and what is too much? #writing

A few years ago, I attended a seminar offered by Lindsay Schopfer, From Body Language to Brawls. While I have a method for describing fight scenes, I liked the way he pointed out that action is about so much more than merely brawling. The concepts he presented were in line with my theory that every scene is an action scene, even the quieter moments.

Lindsay is also a screenwriter. He offered five thought-provoking questions about planning the action in each scene.

First, he pointed out that thinking is an action scene, as are conversations. In his own writing, he asks himself, “What does this character do while thinking?” He explained that a side character with a certain amount of screen time, but who isn’t the POV character, can feel real when they have a small personal habit that appears from time to time.

However,  this is one area where visuals are important, a moment when new writers should be careful. If we give one or two side characters an occasional personal habit, we won’t muck up the visuals with a barrage of personal tics. They are like salt and garlic seasoning: some is good, but too much is disgusting.

Another question he asks of his characters is this: “What does their body language show about them when they are worried?”

That is a good question. At some point in every plot, if our characters aren’t worried, they should be. So, how do we show our characters’ individual ways of handling worry? We all exhibit signs of anxiety in different ways, and writing it in a coherent way takes some thinking and planning.

Lindsay asks three more questions of his characters:

  1. How do our characters look when they’re happy or excited?
  2. How do they look when they’re angry?
  3. How do they look when they’re depressed?

I’ve talked at length about how we can show these emotions through facial expressions or physical reactions, combined with internal dialogue or conversations. But for me, the hardest part of writing is balancing visual indicators of emotion with exposition that shows the deeper, internal clues.

An excellent resource that I regularly recommend is the Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi. This guide offers helpful hints for showing what a character is feeling when you know what you need to say but not how to phrase it.

However, I must emphasize that discretion is crucial when showing emotions. I say this because when a character’s facial expressions take over the scene, they become cartoonish, two-dimensional displays of emotion with no substance.

A story is like a pond full of words. The words are the surface, and below the surface are several layers. The inferential layer is the layer in which readers draw conclusions from the clues we offer them.

We want to hint at the reasons for the physical reactions. We do this with small bits of exposition. It takes work and practice to write a narrative without telling the reader what to experience.

We must use words that offer the most information in the least amount of space so the words we choose make the narrative worth reading.

I’m still trying to master this.

I do put a book down unfinished when an author leans too heavily on slowly painting visual descriptions of the characters’ internal struggles. Eyebrows regularly going up and down as if they operate independently on every page could be trimmed back to only when necessary.

Another thing came up in this seminar, something I firmly believe: word count matters in a fight scene.

Detailing a war will involve page after page of discussion because that conflict drives the story. But when a fistfight or sword fight takes up three pages of description, I can’t suspend my disbelief as a reader. I say this because physical fights in real life are fast, violent, and over in a space of ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes. It’s not humanly possible to go on and on with no rest. That is why matches between professional boxers are broken into rounds. They fight a while, rest a while, and so on for 15 rounds.

Excalibur London_Film_Museum_ via Wikipedia

Also, if you are writing about sword fights, remember this: they are physically exhausting.  At the Olympic level, competitive fencing matches have rest breaks: each bout continues until one fencer scores 15 hits, or until the 9-minute total fencing time is reached. Those 9 minutes are split into three 3-minute periods with a 1-minute break separating each period. That amounts to 12 minutes total, and at the end, both combatants are exhausted.

Mob violence is different. It can go on and on for hours or days. Mob violence is war on a smaller, local level.

So, when a fight scene that should be over in twenty minutes at most runs on for more pages than my patience can handle, I will skip forward, or worse, set the book aside.

Every November, I use those thirty days to write at least 50,000 new words as quickly as possible. In the process, I lean too heavily on my crutch words, relying on a lot of smiling and shrugging.

During revisions, I look for my crutch words. They’re markers for the second draft, words signifying scenes where more effort is needed to flesh them out. This is where writing becomes work.

If you haven’t seen this before, here is a list of telling words that often find their way into a first draft, and sometimes into the final:

  • Admiration: Her admiration was clear. (How was it clear? Did someone notice it?)

The rest of my “code words” show up in sentences and paragraphs the same blunt way in that first draft and inspire the same kind of questions:

  • Affection
  • Anger
  • Anguish
  • Anticipation
  • Anxiety
  • Awe
  • Confidence
  • Contempt
  • Defeat
  • Defensiveness
  • Denial
  • Depression
  • Desire
  • Desperation
  • Determination
  • Disappointment
  • Disbelief
  • Disgust
  • Elation
  • Embarrassment
  • Ethical Quandary
  • Fear
  • Friendship
  • Grief
  • Happiness
  • Hate
  • Inadequacy
  • Indecision
  • Interest
  • Jealousy
  • Love
  • Lust
  • Powerlessness
  • Pride
  • Regret
  • Resistance
  • Revulsion
  • Sadness
  • Shock
  • Surprise
  • Temptation
  • Trust
  • Unease
  • Weakness

 

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September 4, 2026 · 6:00 am

#FineArtFriday: revisiting “The Munitions Girls by Stanhope Forbes,1918” #LaborDay

L0059548 'The Munitions Girls' oil painting, England, 1918

Artist: Stanhope Forbes (1857–1947)

Title: The Munitions Girls

Date: 1918

Medium: oil on canvas

Dimensions: height: 103 cm (40.5 in); width: 127 cm (50 in)

Collection: Science Museum

About this Image, via Wikimedia Commons:       

Commissioned by John Baker & Co, this famous oil painting, The Munitions Girls, shows women working at Kilnhurst Steelworks during the First World War. The artist was Alexander Stanhope Forbes (1857-1947). Like many other steelworks during the war, John Baker & Co’s Kilnhurst site was converted to make shells and ammunition. As men volunteered or were conscripted to fight in the British Army, women became the main work force in industry and farming. Munitions workers could often be picked out in a crowd because of the distinctive yellow coloring of their hair and skin caused by the sulfur used in production. They were nicknamed canaries. [1]

My Usual Fine Art Rant Goes off on a Tangent:

The women in this picture are shown doing dangerous, dirty work. They stepped up and did what they had to do to make sure their husbands and lovers had the weapons they needed to defend their country.

And they are doing it for very little money, less than men would have earned. While that is slowly changing, some things remain the same. It’s difficult to find people who want to do the “ordinary work,” jobs considered blue-collar, or manual labor.

In real life, someone must do the dirty jobs, the work that no one else wants. I have nothing but respect for those who work long hard hours in all areas of the service industry, struggling to support their families. Look around you, and see the people who make your life easier, by being there every day doing their job.

Every one of them is a person just like you, a living, caring human being with hopes, ambitions, triumphs, and tragedies. Every one of them has a story and a reason to be where they are, doing the task they have been given.

Say a little thank you to all those who take your unintentional abuse when you are stressed out and “don’t have time to wait,” or are upset by things you have no control over and need to vent at someone who can’t or won’t fight back.

The women in Stanhope Forbes’ painting are all gone now, memories of a moment in history. But what they did was important. Give a little thanks to those who do the dirty work and enable you to live a little easier.

About the Artist, via Wikipedia:

Forbes was born in Dublin, the son of Juliette de Guise Forbes, a French woman, and William Forbes, an English railway manager, who was later transferred to London. He had an older brother, Sir William Forbes, who was a railway manager for the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.

He was married in the summer of 1889 to fellow painter Elizabeth Armstrong at Newlyn’s St Peter’s Church. Their first home was at the “Cliffs Castle” cottage, which overlooked the sea. They had a son named Alexander (Alec). The couple had a home built for the family in Higher Faughan, Penzance. Elizabeth died in 1912.

Forbes generally painted genre scenes and landscapes en plein air.

Beyond his plein air painting, he also made interior scenes and was adept at capturing the “warm and charming” effects of lighting on a room and the people in it, such as The Lantern, made in 1897. More poignantly, Mrs. Lionel Birch writes of his style and particularly the painting The Health of the Bride: “[The painting depicts the] dominant note of his life’s message, his sense of sympathetic humanity. These people in their humble little parlour, are real and living. Intolerant of all shams and false sentiment, the painter has made himself one with the people he depicts; he has understood the humour which lies so close to tears.”

Of Forbes’s works, Norman Garstin said: “he is a good unsentimental painter, his work has a sense of sincerity that appeals to everyone”. [2]

Credits and Attributions:

[1] IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons contributors, “File:’The Munitions Girls’ oil painting, England, 1918 Wellcome L0059548.jpg,” Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:%27The_Munitions_Girls%27_oil_painting,_England,_1918_Wellcome_L0059548.jpg&oldid=726770400 (accessed September 1, 2026).

[2] Wikipedia contributors, “Stanhope Forbes,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Stanhope_Forbes&oldid=1367410732 (accessed September 1, 2026).

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August 31, 2026 · 6:00 am

Course correction, or navigating the unexpected #writing

Even if we begin with a plan, which I usually do, we never really know how a story will go. Somewhere along the line, I will deviate somewhat from the original outline. In my work, the major events usually remain as they were originally plotted, but not always.

However, an outline keeps me on track with length. Also, an outline keeps the action moving.

SO, I have recently discovered that the reason a work-in-progress that is 40,000 words toward completion doesn’t make me happy is that I have missed a great opportunity and am trying to force the plot in a direction that no longer works.

This means that while a lot of what has already been written can be reused, a fundamental part of the character arc may have to be cut and rewritten. Also, the story’s arc will change, and if I am going to stay on track so events progress logically, I need to write a new outline.

SIDE NOTE: Everything I have written and then cut is fodder for other uses. I NEVER trash anything that was already written, although I do save it in a file labeled “Outtakes.”

Even though each manuscript starts linearly, I work “back and forth” when writing rather than in a linear fashion. When I am laying down a first draft, each section of my novel is written when I am inspired to work on that part of the tale.

I list the central plot points I currently know on the outline, then write them. That will amount to about 20,000 words in five or six sections. Then, I write connecting scenes to ‘stitch’ the sections together when the draft is complete, like assembling a quilt. That brings the manuscript to about 40,000 words.

At that point, I am looking for the ending. On rare occasions, I know how it must end, but even in those cases, writing that final 20,000 words is Literary Hell, an abyss from which it feels as if I will never emerge.

And then … into the darkness comes a ray of sunlight … the seeds of the true plot begin to sprout, and suddenly I am off to the races.

At some point I will need to open my stylesheet/storyboard and correct it to show my new timeline and order of events so everything flows, with one scene transitioning to another and no jarring “Wait … what just happened?” moments.

I was a bookkeeper for most of my career, and I use a program I am familiar with, Excel. But you can use Google Sheets, a whiteboard and sticky notes, or a spiral notebook. Use whatever works for you and that you can update as needed, but my storyboard works this way:

At the Top of page one: I give the piece a working title.

When I have an idea for a short story, I include the intended publication and submission deadline (not needed if it’s for a novel). I make a note of the intended word count. Having a word count limit keeps me alert for unnecessary backstory. For most publications, you must keep strictly within their word count requirements.

Page one of the workbook contains the personnel files.

Column A: Character Names. I list the essential characters by name and the critical places where the story will be set.

Column B: About: What their role is, a note about that person or place, a brief description of who and what they are.

Column C: The Problem: What is the core conflict?

Column D: What do they want? What does each character desire?

Column E: What will they do to get it? How far will they go to achieve their desire?

Page Two: I create a page for the projected story arc on page two of the workbook. I list each chapter by the events that need to be resolved at various points in the manuscript.

Page three of the workbook is the most important—the Glossary. This list of made-up words, names, and places is crucial for the finished product. The way words appear on this list is how they should occur throughout the entire story, novel, or series. This page ensures consistency and keeps the spellings from drifting as I lay down prose in the first draft.

I update the glossary page whenever a word or name is added or changed. I do this even in my non-fantasy work, as it gives me a quick, easy-to-access reminder of how real-world names and places are spelled, and what story I used them in.

Page four will have maps and a calendar for that world. The calendar is a central tool that keeps events happening logically, and maps keep the traveler on the correct, previously established path.

The image below shows the page tabs for a storyboard I created in Excel for a series, and it has evolved since 2009. As you can imagine, it has grown since I took this screenshot, but it is still manageable and still useful. 

Even after five or six drafts, my editor will find things that didn’t get listed but should have been and will update the stylesheet.

Writing a novel is a process of growth and development. It doesn’t stop until you sign off on the proof copies and the book is on sale.

And even then, you will think of things you could have done better. That’s the curse of being a writer.

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August 28, 2026 · 6:00 am

#FineArtFriday: The Narrows from Staten Island by Jasper Francis Cropsey 1868

Artist: Jasper Francis Cropsey (1823–1900)

Title: The Narrows from Staten Island

Genre: landscape painting

Date: 1868

Medium: oil on canvas

Collection: Amon Carter Museum of American Art 

Why this painting makes me happy:

It’s a glorious summer’s day beneath a wide blue sky. A few wisps of the morning’s mist are drifting away, gradually giving way to the midday sun. The Narrows (a tidal strait separating the boroughs of Staten Island and Brooklyn in New York City) is alive with small sailboats. People are out enjoying the summer weather and soaking up the sun. Even the cattle seem to be enjoying themselves.

This is a painting that invites you to set aside your cares and enjoy the moment.

About the Artist:

Jasper Francis Cropsey (February 18, 1823 – June 22, 1900) was an American architect and artist. He is best known for his Hudson River School landscape paintings.

Cropsey trained as an architect under the tuition of Joseph Trench in the early 1840s, a period in which he was also trained in watercolor painting, instructed by Edward Maury, and took some life drawing courses at the National Academy of Design. He set up his own architecture office in 1843, but began exhibiting his watercolors at the National Academy of Design in 1844. A year later he was elected an associate member and turned exclusively to landscape painting; shortly after he was featured in an exhibition entitled “Italian Compositions”.[1]

To learn more about Jasper Francis Cropsey, go to Jasper Francis Cropsey – Wikipedia.

Credits and Attributions:

IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons contributors, “File:Jasper Francis Cropsey The Narrows from Staten Island Amon Carter Museum.jpg,” Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Jasper_Francis_Cropsey_The_Narrows_from_Staten_Island_Amon_Carter_Museum.jpg&oldid=1123783444 (accessed August 26, 2026).

[1] Wikipedia contributors, “Jasper Francis Cropsey,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Jasper_Francis_Cropsey&oldid=1364518894 (accessed August 26, 2026).

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August 24, 2026 · 6:00 am

Channeling memories to create drama #writing

I once had the distinctly shocking experience of viewing a natural disaster as it occurred, albeit from a distance. In that, I was fortunate. We were not harmed, yet what we saw deeply affected us.

On May 18th, 1980, my friends and I watched the eruption of Mt. St. Helens from atop a hill in the middle of nowhere. My children had visited their father for the weekend, so my friends and I planned a fishing trip to a beaver pond in the next county.

Successful fishing trips usually begin before dawn. My friend’s Land Rover pulled up in front of my home at about 5:00 am, and we set out with all five of us laughing and having a great time. It was a long drive on narrow, dirt logging roads, but the possibility of trout for supper was just an excuse for a day spent in the deep forest.

The radio in the Land Rover had never worked, but the cassette deck did. Led Zeppelin, Robin Trower, Genesis, and Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow were the soundtrack to our trek through the tall Douglas fir forests of Lewis County.

At about 09:00 am, we came up over the top of a treeless hill. The view was breathtaking, as if all the world lay before us in springtime glory. Conversations suddenly stopped, and my friend pulled off the road, turning the engine off.

We got out and stared, first at the raging column of dust, rocks, and lightning that dwarfed the mountain and then at each other. Helicopters and airplanes from news agencies and the USGS circled like so many carrion birds.

What so many people had thought was just hysteria had suddenly come true.

Mount St. Helens had erupted.

We never did make it to the beaver pond. The only fish we caught that day were the tuna sandwiches we had packed. While the food was good, the conversations were sober as we stared at that unbelievable sight.

This was before cell phones, and with the radio broken, we had no way of hearing the news. But we knew it was terrible, that some people had died and others had lost everything. We had no idea just how bad it was, that one of my father’s favorite places to fish, the Mount St. Helens Lodge at Spirit Lake, had disappeared along with its cantankerous owner. Harry R. Truman had become famous in the weeks before the eruption for refusing to evacuate.

Toward midafternoon, we returned to Olympia. We were grateful to have homes to go to, and when my friends left me off, I was still in shock, still unable to believe what I had seen. When I turned on the television and found that more than fifty people had lost their lives, I felt devastated for them.

The story is in the hectic start to the morning, of five friends off on a day trip to go fishing. It is in the peace of the deep woods along those old dirt roads.

The camera zooms out and now we see the idyllic serenity of a clear sunny morning on Spirit Lake and Harry doing his morning chores.

This allows us to see what will be lost.

Then disaster strikes. The side of the mountain gives way, and the eruption is on.

Contrast that catastrophe against five people serenely picnicking on a hill, observing the apocalypse as it happens. The drama is in old Harry R. Truman’s stubborn end, and how it didn’t occur to us who watched from a distant hill that we would never rent a boat from him or fish in that lake again.

The bad juxtaposed against the good is the plot, but the experiences of those who witnessed it is the story. Contrast provides drama and texture, turning a wall of “bland” into something worth reading.

The true story of that day in my life is not the only time disaster contrasted against calm and tranquility.

At 11 o’clock on the morning of February 28, 2001, I was at work when a strong earthquake shook the Pacific Northwest, magnitude 6 point 8. I was terrified, thinking the building was going to come down on me. Fortunately, it did not.

I came home to find my dishes flung from the cupboards, the lamps tipped over, my cat hysterical, and my 17-year-old daughter at my mother’s house. A boy from her art class had driven her there when school closed early. He carefully drove down the narrow back alley behind my mother’s house as the road in front had collapsed.

(Sidenote: My daughter and that 17-year-old boy have been married for 23 years and have four boys. Not everything that happens as the result of a disaster is terrible.)

Stories that detail apocalyptic catastrophes capture our interest and glue us to the television. We write novels detailing them because disaster drives humanity to bigger and better things. The acts of heroism and the people who survive and rise above the disasters keep us turning the page.

We want to know how it will all turn out.

Disaster isn’t always apocalyptic. Dramas regularly happen on what seems an unimportant level to people who have resources. Not everyone has money, and not everyone can surmount the odds. The story is in the battle.

Think about those small daily tragedies people face, deeply personal catastrophes, which only they are experiencing. Love and loss, safety and danger, loyalty and betrayal are the eternal themes of tragedy and resolution. These are the seeds of a good story.

The contrast of ease against hardship can add drama to worldbuilding and storytelling. Writers want their readers to think about the story and those characters long after the last paragraph has been read. Drama and resolution are the keys to a great story.

Drama and disaster can and will happen on a wide scale in our real lives. Tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes, and droughts … the path of a natural disaster is erratic.

Sometimes trouble misses us, and we are merely bystanders, witnesses to the tragedy that unfolds in another person’s life. Other times, trouble strikes nearer to home.

What struggles have you faced? How can you channel the memory of the emotions you experienced to add drama to your work-in-progress? Your memories and experience of emotion can add depth to your writing. They were already paid for in pain and joy, so use them!

Credits and Attributions:

IMAGE: Eruption of Mt. St. Helens May 18, 1980, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

IMAGE: McLane Pond in July 2018, photo by Connie J. Jasperson © 2018.

IMAGE: Spirit Lake near Mount St. Helens in 2009, in Washington State. Photo by Steven Pavlo, via Wikipedia.

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August 21, 2026 · 6:00 am

#FineArtFriday: Indian Canoe by Albert Bierstadt ca. 1886

Artist: Albert Bierstadt (1830–1902)

Title: Indian Canoe

Date: circa 1886

Medium: oil on canvas

Dimensions: height: 69.2 cm (27.2 in); width: 90.8 cm (35.7 in)

Collection: Blanton Museum of Art

What I love about this painting:

I love the quiet beauty of this faithful and respectful representation of a Native American paddling a canoe. It shows a scene from the times just before the native peoples were taken from their lands and forced onto reservations.

A time when the land was theirs, and future troubles seemed far away. Bierstadt was criticized in his time for portraying the native peoples with dignity and respect. It was a different time, and as most people now believe, that criticism was only a hint of the terrible prejudices that destroyed an entire culture’s way of life.

The landscape itself is reminiscent of the coastal landscape of the Pacific Northwest and is beautifully done. I especially like the way Bierstadt portrays the late afternoon sun as it slides into dusk. The evening mist rises, lending a mystic quality to the scene.

This is a moment of quiet serenity, and I am fortunate to be able to share it with you!

About the author, via Wikipedia:

Albert Bierstadt (January 7, 1830 – February 18, 1902) was a German American painter best known for his lavish, sweeping landscapes of the American West. He joined several journeys of the Westward Expansion to paint the scenes. He was not the first artist to record the sites, but he was the foremost painter of them for the remainder of the 19th century.

Despite his popular success, Bierstadt was criticized by some contemporaries for the romanticism evident in his choice of subjects and for his use of light, which they found excessive. Some critics objected to Bierstadt’s paintings of Native Americans, believing that including Indigenous Americans “marred” the “impression of solitary grandeur.”

Bierstadt was born in Prussia, but his family moved to the United States when he was one year old. He returned to study painting for several years in Düsseldorf. He became part of the second generation of the Hudson River School in New York, an informal group of like-minded painters who started painting along the Hudson River. Their style was based on carefully detailed paintings with romantic, almost glowing lighting, sometimes called luminism. Bierstadt was an important interpreter of the western landscape, and he is also grouped with the Rocky Mountain School. [1]

Credits and Attributions:

IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons contributors, “File:Albert Bierstadt – Indian Canoe.jpg,” Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Albert_Bierstadt_-_Indian_Canoe.jpg&oldid=1059522793 (accessed August 20, 2026).

[1] Wikipedia contributors, “Albert Bierstadt,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Albert_Bierstadt&oldid=1365544126 (accessed August 20, 2026).

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