Writing

Black History and current black issues are very important to know, but don't restrict your reading to only these things. And don't limit your reading to only black authors. To be a good writer you have to know a little about a lot. Also, by reading many different writers, you will gradually develop your own writing style. There are many times when I can tell what few books a young writer has read -- or who his or her favorite author is -- just by the way they write. So can most editors at publishing houses and magazines.

Imitating your favorite author is normal: in fact it's how most successful writers got started. But it does reveal that a new writer is still a little wet; and just as in most professions, whether trades, sports, music or film, very few people in the writing business have time to deal with a wet one.

A new writer may have tons of natural talent that shines through his or her rough or imitative style -- hardly a week goes by that I don't see an example of this -- but editors don't have time to help a new author develop their skills. Most editors are not writing mentors or teachers, they are business people, and their jobs are to chose books and stories that will make money for their publishing house or magazine.

The general attitude of most editors who encounter a gifted new author who hasn't yet polished their writing to a saleable degree is basically the same as a band leader or a film director when a talented but unpolished young musician or actor comes in for an audition... "nice, kid, come back when you've learned a little more."

There are many definitions of "writer". Can you call yourself a writer on the legit and not be published? Sure. There are lots of really great writers who aren't published yet, and probably just as many who will never be published, just as there are many great painters who will never be recognized, and many great sports players who will never be professionals. In many cases, these great natural writers will never be published because they either won't work hard enough polishing their writing to a saleable degree (which usually means learning the right form for novels and stories) and/or they won't put enough effort into trying to get their writing published.

Just as if you were a poor kid in rural Mississippi with a great natural talent for playing the guitar, the odds are that you're never going to be a professional musician and get paid for playing if all you do is sit on your porch and play for yourself and your friends. The chance that some big-time music promoter is going to break down in his Lex in front of your house and be captivated by your music is pretty damn slim.

Yet many great natural writers seem to think that some big-time book editor or literary agent is somehow going to stumble across their novel or story!

Just like that Mississippi boy, you're going to have to get off your ass, call attention to yourself, and show off your talent. You will probably be treated like shit by a few people, and have a lot of doors slammed in your face; but if you keep on trying and keep getting better at what you do, then sooner or later you'll land your first paying gig... sell a story.

No one is going to know how great your writing is if your story or novel is only shared with friends and family. You're going to have start sending your work to publishers; and you'll probably get a lot of rejections and be treated like shit by some people. But if you keep on writing and getting better at it, and keep sending your writing to publishers, then sooner or later you will be published.

Don't pay much attention to "writing tricks." The trouble with so-called writing tricks is that most editors already know them, and will see them in your work. Some editors will even know which "how to write" book you got those tricks from! A book of writing-to-sell tricks is a lot like those infomercials on TV where somebody who supposedly made a million dollars selling self-cleaning cat-boxes wants to show how you, yes YOU, can do it, too.

There's a big difference between writing-tricks and good writing. About the only real trick a black writer can use to sell his or her book is to tell the whitefolks what they want to hear about us -- a trick the whitefolks never wise up to -- but I assume you have higher standards than that.

But the only on-the-real trick to sell your writing (besides writing a good story) is to use the right form when shaping your story. Form is one of the writing rules you're going to have to follow whether you like it or not. Besides, if you need tricks to sell your work, then you're not much of a writer anyhow.

Obviously I can't go into every detail of how to write in the space of a web page: all I can do is give you some basic advice.

The basic form (or rule) for a short story or novel is that you have an interesting character (or characters) and your character is faced with a problem. The problem can be anything... something as simple as buying new jeans, right on up to getting drive-byed. It's up to you, the writer, to make your character and his or her problem interesting enough that someone wants to read about them.

Strong Language

English is a very useful language because there are usually a lot of words that can be used to describe the same thing but in different ways. Using the right words can make your reader feel the way you'd like them to feel about whatever you're describing. For instance, you could call a dog a "pup" or a "pooch" if you wanted your reader to like the canine, or you could call it a "cur" or a "mongrel" if you didn't. It's always important to choose the right words to describe a character, setting, or action, and also to set the mood you want your reader to feel.

Which of these two sentences puts a stronger, clearer, and more vivid picture in your mind of being attacked by a junkyard dog at night?

A large dog that did not appear to be very friendly, and was moving very fast, appeared unexpectedly in the inadequate light.

Or...

A snarling Doberman burst from the darkness!

Duh? Maybe. But you might be surprised at how many examples I see of writers choosing the wrong words... words that don't create pictures, aren't strong enough or are inappropriate for the mood or action, don't fit the context of the story, are too verbose (meaning there are too many words) or are just plain boring and as flat as a three day old beer. Action scenes, such as being attacked by a dog, are usually best written in short, simple sentences where every word counts. Using short sentences also gives the impression that things are happening fast.

For example, the short, simple sentence above tells your reader that the dog is snarling, therefore not friendly. It's a Doberman, which most people know is a large dog with a reputation for being aggressive. It burst from the darkness, therefore it was obviously moving very fast and appeared unexpectedly.

In this sentence every word contributed to creating a picture, setting a mood and describing what happened. Not only did every word count, but they were the right words to use in this context.

Likewise, anybody with legs that work can "walk" down a street. But walk doesn't tell your reader much except that the character isn't running. If the character is happy, he or she might stroll or strut. An energetic character might stride. A character on a self-righteous mission could march. If the character is unhappy he or she might shuffle or trudge. A nasty character might slink. A spooky character might creep.

Sometimes just choosing the right word can make a lot of difference in what your reader feels about a character or sees in a scene.

The words you choose should help create the mood you want your reader to feel. Not many people "skip" to a funeral -- unless it's for someone they hated -- and a "gray, rainy day," even though a stereotype, sets a more appropriate mood for a sad funeral than a "bright, sunny afternoon."

On the other hand, characters don't always have to "leap" from their seat or "burst" into a room... sometimes they can just get up or come in. Strong language is not always necessary, and if overdone it starts to look stupid. If you read a lot, you've probably seen examples of authors not using the right words to describe something, or overusing strong language.

You could say that strong language is like the F-word. If used at the right time it makes a point, but if used all the time it becomes meaningless.

Of course, not everyone is going to see or feel what you'd like them to, because words often mean different things to different people, and some people may not know what a certain word means or may think it means something else. This is also true with character names. If a reader has had a bad experience with somebody named Tyler, they're probably not going to like your hero Tyler no matter how good he is. There's nothing you can do about names, but you will usually have more success making your reader see and feel what you'd like them to by keeping your words within the context of your story. It also helps to imagine your audience... the types and ages of the people you're writing your story for.

Show, Don't Tell

One of the things new writers often hear (besides "only write about what you know," which is covered at the bottom of this page) is "show, don't tell." How many times have you read something like this...?

Jerod found himself becoming annoyed with his friends. What did they do besides sit there on the steps every day and smoke? His annoyance grew until it became anger, and he raised his voice to a loud and disgusted tone.

This is a narrator telling. The reader is told that Jerod gets pissed at his homies for doing nothing but smoke their youth away, and then the reader is told how Jerod expresses his feelings. To "show" how Jerod feels and reacts, the same scene could be written like this...

Jerod looked up to see Devon, Drae and Terry in their usual place on the building's front steps in a haze of their usual smoke. "You stupid shits!" he suddenly yelled. "You ain't goin' nowhere! You'll never be nothin'! You'll be sittin' there on your asses when you're forty!"

Of course, some telling is necessary to save space for what's really important, but showing is usually more interesting to read. Many times you'll find that you can get your point across faster and more smoothly by showing. For example, instead of telling how a character named Bilal felt... "Bilal felt uncertain about what to say next," you could simply have him say, "Um..."

Below is an excerpt from a novel titled, The Bridge. Hopefully it shows how using the right words can create an atmosphere without the writer actually telling the reader how to feel. The POV is Bilal's stream-of consciousness; there are descriptions, dialog, and maybe the right words to give the reader the feel I wanted to give. What do you learn about Bilal and his situation that I didn't tell you?

* * *

The school looked like the school in The Birds. It was two scabby stories of weathered white boards and stood in a weedy yellow field. To the right were rusty monkey-bars and other ancient iron things too dangerous for Oakland parks. Even parks where kids were capped. To the left was a crumbling basketball court with leaning poles and netless hoops. Behind was a dusty baseball diamond, a wooden backstop and rickety bleachers. A faded scoreboard across the field displayed the face of a snarling raccoon done in a bootlegged Disney style. RUST RACCOONS was painted above, and the mascot's name was, naturally, Rusty.

Boys were playing flag football while a coach who looked like a wannbe Rambo -- and way too old to play the part -- was yelling curses at them. The boys were mostly middle-school age, one team shirts, the other skins, and all pouring sweat in the blazing sun. Their shirts were the color of old life-jackets, their shorts as green as the grass should have been... Freddie Kruger colors. Most of the dudes were white but tanned as if they lost their shirts a lot, and several were factory brown, but nobody seemed to be black. A few were chubby or fat; and a pair of copper-colored boys with long black hair almost down to their waists, huge hanging bellies halfway to their knees, and chests like wobbling water-balloons were waddling slowly around a track in the usual pointless punishment for the sin of being obese. ...At least Bilal assumed they were boys because they didn't have shirts.

A girl's class played on a basketball court with a coach who looked like Godzilla's mom and sounded about the same. The girls were white or brown like the boys, and more than a few were super-size. But, except for the sweating P.E. classes, a rusty rack of bicycles, a few dirt-bikes and ATVs, and pickups and cars in a weedy lot, the school looked as dead as the town.

Bilal came up the cracked sidewalk across a yellow lawn. The underarms of his shirt were soaked, and sweat was trickling down his face. A porcelain plaque above the doors said THEODORE RUST MEMORIAL SCHOOL, 1923. That seemed to explain the name of the town and everything rusty about it. The brass door handles were half worn away from being grasped by a million small hands, and the hinges made a Munsters sound. It felt hotter inside than out in the sun. There was no guard or weapons detector. The air smelled of dust, old wood and kid sweat. A hall ran the length of the building, and sun glared in through open back doors revealing a glimpse of the copper fat boys who seemed to be sharing a candy bar as they casually waddled along. ...They had to be boys or else this place was really strange!

The hall was higher than it was wide. Its walls were painted a nasty green like demon puke in The Exorcist. It was lined with dented lockers, canned-pea green like Army Jeeps. The classroom door windows had wire in their glass like cop interrogation rooms, and their old-fashioned numbers were painted in gold. Dusty light fixtures like bowls of milk dangled on chains from the ceiling, but none were on and the hall was dark except for the patch of sun at the end. To the right was a three-faucet drinking fountain, chipped, yellowed, and streaked with rust. To the left was a staircase, its treads worn in hollows. Beyond the stairs were vending machines with candy bars, chips, Hostess fruit pies, cookies, Popsicles and Coke... the newest-looking things in the house. The usual stuff was tacked to the walls; little-kid drawings in waterpaint, most with Halloween themes, and anti-alcohol, drug, tobacco, gang, and obesity warnings. There were two posters for DARE. McGruff advised, "Take A Bite Out Of Crime," and a skinny cartoon kid was telling a fat one, "It's Cool To Be A Loser!" There was another poster of a stereotypical cartoon bully, a big fat kid with a pit-bullish face. His belly hung out of a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front, but his arms were around two smaller boys as if they were homies in Leave It To Beaver. The poster said STOP SCHOOL BULLYING, but didn't explain how that could be done.

Bilal considered the Coke machine but went to the drinking fountain instead. On the wall above were a few pencil scrawls -- Tad eats boogers, Swaggart sucks, Marie is a retard, and Goat Boy loves Satan, whatever that meant -- but nothing that looked like a gang tag. The water was warm and tasted like tin but at least it was wet and eased his thirst. He splashed a handful on his face and dried it with his shirt. Up the hall a little way was a sign on chains that said OFFICE. From behind closed doors came the murmur of kids and the boring drone of teachers. He wondered if anyone else was black besides himself and his cousin, but the wire glass windows were frosty white so he couldn't see into the rooms. The only other sound was a clatter of computer keys that came from the open office door. He stopped by a case of cheap trophies. All were tarnished and dusty, and many were projects for spiders. The newest was from a baseball game seven years ago. If it was cool to be a loser, the Rust Raccoons were freezerburn.

He wondered if he should wait and register on Monday; meet his cousins, check out his new crib. But, that would mean walking back to town, and it didn't seem smart to be cruising around, young, black, and toting steel. He tugged up his pack and entered the office.

The ceiling was high like the hallway, and bowls of milk dangled from chains. A fat pink woman who might have been fifty sat behind an Army-green desk that matched a row of file cabinets. Her computer was an ancient Mac, its keyboard as yellow as zombie teeth. A sign on the desk said Mrs. Wicket, though someone had messed with the T so it looked more like a D. A black iron fan rattled papers around, but didn't make anything cooler. The woman peered up over steel half-glasses, and the look on her face, mostly surprise, seemed to confirm Bilal’s suspicion that black kids were rare on this planet. She probably would have looked annoyed, bothered by any other kid, but seemed a little uncertain. Her eyes flicked to a purse on her desk.

"...Yes?"

"Um," said Bilal and tried Devon's smile, though his voice went white as snow again. "I need to register. For eighth grade."

Again the woman looked surprised, but then recovered and frowned. "You can't register yourself!" she snapped like he'd asked to piss on the floor. "Your parents or guardian have to do it."

Bilal pulled out an envelope. "I'm supposed to give this to the principal."

The woman eyed him curiously, realized that, morphed back to a frown, studied the letter suspiciously, then glanced at a door behind her: PRINCIPAL was painted in gold across its frosted window. "Give it to me. ...Sit down over there." She pointed to a wooden bench where a million little squirming butts had probably waited for punishment. The world seemed full of nasty benches and people with attitudes at desks. The woman took the envelope as if it might be anthrax. She got to her feet, hesitated, then put her purse in a drawer. Then she knocked on the principal's door, waited a moment and finally went in, leaving it open a little.

Bilal's legs were tired but he stayed on his feet. He glanced at a fly-speckled clock on the wall, surprised to see it was almost 2:30. That trigged a growl in his stomach... he should have bought a burger. At least a candy bar. More posters hung on the demon-puke walls, including the blubbery bully and friends. He noticed a dusty painting of a big fat man in an old-fashioned suit who looked like Uncle Fester. On the frame was a tarnished brass tag: Theodore Wormington Rust. A minute later the woman returned looking more curious than ever. "Go in," she said, stepping aside as if Bilal was catching.

The principal's office was even hotter, demon-puke green with a milk-bowl light and reeked of old tobacco smoke. Another antique iron fan rattled papers like dead autumn leaves but only blew the heat around. Two tall windows were open, the sunlight filtered through rust-colored shades and giving the room a moldy glow. From outside came the squeals of girls and the roars of the coach cursing boys. A bony white man who looked like the preacher in Poltergeist II sat behind another green desk. His face was skullish with long gleaming teeth behind lips that didn't seem able to close, and his white dress shirt looked old and yellowed like something dug up from a crypt... or maybe it was only the light. He was tightening his tie as Bilal came in, his hands like twitching corpse's claws. On his desk was a butt-filled ashtray, and a haze of smoke still hung in the air despite the rattling fan. He studied Bilal from deep-set eyes that looked like empty holes. It was hard for a skull to look curious -- or much of anything else -- but this one didn't look happy. The bony hands gripped Bilal's letter, open on the desktop. A hollow voice said, "Close the door, Mr. ...Taimur. Did I pronounce that correctly?"

"Yea... yes, sir," said Bilal.

A skeletal finger pointed. "Please sit down. You may take off your pack if you wish. My name is Mr. Skelly."

Bilal wondered if the man was joking but then decided he wasn't. "Hi. Thanks." His voice came out white but he couldn't stop it. He closed the door behind him, glimpsing the woman who looked disappointed, then shrugged off his pack and sat down on a chair that felt like a torture device.

Mr. Skelly regarded the letter, then cleared his throat with a death-rattle sound. "I've already gotten an e-mail from the principal of your former school. He said you've been a good student." The empty eye-sockets studied Bilal as if trying to X-ray his oversize clothes. "Though your grades in physical-fitness leave a lot to be desired. I would have thought you were obese. Still, I'm impressed by your other grades... though your school may have lower standards than mine." He looked a little uncomfortable... pretty hard for a skull to do. "You've been in trouble with the law?"

"No, sir," said Bilal. "I got in trouble because of the law." He smiled like Devon again. "I tried to take a bite out of crime, but it bit me back."

The skull didn't look amused. "I hope you don't have an attitude problem."

Bilal wasn't sure how to answer that. "I'm hoping to go to college."

"...Good," said the skull, though seeming surprised. "What are you planning to study?"

"Horror movie filmography. I wanna do FX."

"...FX?"

"Special Effects. Like ghosts an'... monsters." Bilal had almost said skeletons, and Mr. Skelly was his own FX.

"...Interesting," said the skull. "I'm pleased to hear that you have goals. So many young people today just drift through life like..."

"Ghosts in a graveyard?" suggested Bilal before he thought about it.

"...An interesting simile... do you know what a simile is?"

"A metaphor with 'like' in front."

"Very good. So you realize the importance of studying hard and applying yourself. Thinking about your future. ...And staying of out trouble."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Skelly opened a drawer and took out a big brown envelope. "Your transfer came last week, but I must say this is unusual. At least in this school district. We don't have these kinds of... problems here. And we certainly don't want them."

"I didn't want them myself," said Bilal.

The skull seemed to listen for attitude, then maybe decide it hadn't heard any. "Your principal didn't give any details about the nature of your... problem. But I understand the police were involved?"

"Yes, sir," said Bilal. "But I'm not supposed to talk about it. I guess you could call OPD."

"Who?" asked Mr. Skelly.

"Oakland Police Department. Maybe Detective Thorne."

"I have." The skull looked annoyed. "He wasn't very helpful. But, I assume it's for your safety. In other words, you've been a victim?"

Bilal frowned but nodded.

The skull looked uncomfortable again. "You're a Muslim?" he asked, pronouncing it moose-lem.

"...Sorta," said Bilal.

"What do you mean?"

"...Well..." Bilal said carefully. "Are you a Christian, sir?"

The skull pondered that for a moment. "I don't attend church, though I do believe in a... higher power. But I thought your religion was... a bit more strict."

Bilal smiled. "Like, 'Anyone who works on the Sabbath Day must be put to death'?"

The skull looked startled. "Is that in the Koran?"

"The Bible. But maybe it's a metaphor."

"...I... may see your point," said the skull. "But, your religion has nothing to do with... your problem?"

"No," said Bilal.

Mr. Skelly glanced at the door where a shadow had darkened the glass. He flicked a switch on an old intercom that looked like something from Frankenstein's lab. "Mrs. Wicket? Will you get me a cup of coffee, please?" He waited until the woman replied with a scratchy cat sound from the speaker, then faced Bilal again. "By state and federal regulations we shouldn't be talking about religion. If you'd rather not I understand."

"That's coo... okay," said Bilal.

The skull seemed to ponder again. "This is a small rural school in a small and rural community where people generally get along. As you may have noticed it's mostly... white, though many farm workers are Hispanic. We also have a few Asians, and there is a small reservation of Native-American families. I'm not prejudiced, Mr. Taimur... of religion or of race... and I want you to know you can trust me." He slipped Bilal's letter into the envelope, put the envelope in a drawer and locked it with a small brass key, which seemed a bit dramatic. "I don't want to know what your problem was. And no one else here will know you had one." He looked uncomfortable again. "And, no one has to know..." He cleared his throat. "Not that I'm suggesting..." The skull looked very unhappy now. "You don't openly practice... Islam? Praying all day and... that sort of thing."

"Not for awhile," said Bilal. "Since my parents..." He stopped then said, "Which makes my grandfather sad."

The skull looked relieved. "My mother was religious. ...Not fanatical, of course. But she may have felt like your grandfather does when I stopped attending church in my teens."

"I think I understand," said Bilal.

"Are you questioning your faith?"

"I'm questioning lot of things."

"That's perfectly normal at your age. ...You don't object to Christmas? We have a school tree and a manger scene."

Bilal shrugged. "I always gave my friend a present, an' he always gave me one. That kinda stuff makes people happy. Christmas trees an' Easter eggs. Ramadan an' Kwanza. Only a stupid hater would hate them, or try an' make trouble for people who like them."

"That's a very tolerant point of view. One should always be tolerant of other people's differences. But, religious beliefs aside, you're our first African-American student. And that, of course, is obvious."

Now it was Bilal who looked startled. He almost asked about his cousin... but maybe it was best to stay cool?

"As I said," the skull went on, "I'm not in the least prejudiced. I served in Vietnam with many of... your people. But neither am I a Pollyanna. ...Do you know what that means?"

"Um," said Bilal. "Somebody who thinks, like, everybody is basically good if you just give them a chance to show it?"

The skull almost smiled, though Bilal was glad it didn't. "I doubt if many students here would know the definition." But then it frowned as the boys' coach yelled, "Move it, you fat little blanket-asses!" ...Whatever that meant. Finally it studied Bilal again. "You sound like an intelligent young man, so I won't put a candy coating on this. Problems often follow your people. ...African-Americans." He rose and went to the windows, his thin shape stark against the sun as he raised a shade and looked out... a skeleton waiting for sunset to go and haunt somebody. "Rust may not be a pretty town, at least aesthetically. ...Do you know what that means?"

"How it looks?" asked Bilal, thinking of candy and wishing he'd bought some.

"Good," said Mr. Skelly. "But, while we have a few minor problems... underage drinking, a bit of 'weed'... there is no gang violence or crack in this town, and many people still don't lock their doors. There hasn't been a... murder... here since 1899. The people here may seem a bit slow compared to those you're used to... maybe not very 'hip' or 'down with what's up'... but they all have eyes in their heads, and they notice anything different. ...Such as drugs or crime." He dropped the shade and faced Bilal. "Do we understand each other?"

Bilal's voice slipped back to normal... at least what he'd thought was normal. "People are gonna be watchin' me to see if I'm a monkey."

The skull frowned. "That sounds like attitude."

"No, sir, it's just a metaphor."

"...I see," said Mr. Skelly though he obviously didn't. He returned to his desk, and Bilal expected a clicking sound as his bony butt met the unpadded chair. "I'll have Mrs. Wicket type your schedule and give you a copy of our rules." He scanned Bilal's jeans. "Which include a dress code. ...May I ask you to raise your shirt?"

Bilal pulled his shirt up to his chest.

"No looser or lower than that."

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you're not becoming obese. You could lose a little weight."

And you should gain a ton! thought Bilal. "I'm also tolerant of people's size."

"...Yes," said the skull. "It's easy to forget, er... size discrimination in a culture where health is important."

"Or just looks?" suggested Bilal. He realized that his white voice was useful; it seemed to make white people think he was smart. "We're taught that some looks are better than others, even if they're not."

"...Well... unfortunately that's true." Mr. Skelly seemed to sigh. "But the new state guidelines emphasize health so I'm forced to at least make a comment whenever a student is overweight."

The coach's voice roared again, "You got tits like a girl, you want ovaries, too?"

The skull really sighed. "But, back to the matter at hand. No graphic T-shirts with violent, obscene, or hateful motifs, including drugs or alcohol."

"Yes, sir."

"Graffiti is an instant suspension... I assume you call it 'tagging'?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I ask what you're wearing around your neck?"

Bilal pulled out the chain. "Anubis."

"Is that an Islamic symbol?"

"No, sir."

"Why do you wear it?"

"It belonged to a friend of mine."

"Nothing to do with gangs?"

"No, sir."

"Then it's acceptable jewelry... 'bling' perhaps?"

Bilal caught himself before rolling his eyes. "Some people call it that."

"Any... er, tattoos?"

Bilal felt Devon's smile again. "No, sir." Then he added innocently. "I can take off my clothes if you wanna check."

That got past the attitude radar, and Mr. Skelly looked startled. "That... won't be necessary. But, of course you'll be dressing down for P.E."

Bilal sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Our school gym clothes are twenty-dollars... twenty-five for triple-X sizes... but if you need financial assistance..."

"I might," said Bilal. He thought about the long-haired boys who might have paid fifty for only their shorts.

"I'll make a note of that. ...No wireless phones on campus."

"Yes, sir."

"And, of course, no weapons or firearms."

"Of course," said Bilal.

"The standard lunch is two dollars a day, though assistance is also available."

"That's coo... okay," said Bilal.

"Good. And there are vending machines in the hall. Their proceeds help maintain our school."

"You got a lot of good stuff."

"Have a lot of good stuff."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. Of course, the students' likes and dislikes determine the selections."

"Nobody ate fruit at my school either unless it was a roll-up."

"...Yes. And, this is a closed campus." Mr. Skelly smiled like a nightmare. "No sneaking out to the Burger Barge, but the Tugboat Triple 'rocks'."

"Yes, sir."

In the distance, from down the road, a hoarse iron bell clanked three times. Beware the cracked chimes of Saint Toads, thought Bilal.

Mr. Skelly glanced at his watch. "Since we're halfway through last period, it might be more convenient for you to start on Monday."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, Mr. Taimur." The man extended a grisly hand. "Welcome to Theodore Rust Memorial."

Bilal took the hand, which felt like bones in a paper towel. "Thank you, sir."

"By the way," said the skull as Bilal got his pack and turned to leave. "I'm sure Coach Swaggart would welcome you on our basketball team."

"I'm not very good at sports," said Bilal.

The skull looked disappointed.

* * *

Also choose words that fit the context of your story as well as the POV. In the example above, 13-year-old Bilal is basically telling the story so he can't use words and descriptions that most boys his age wouldn't use. Likewise, you, the narrator, shouldn't use words that don't fit. Bilal would more likely "piss" in the weeds by the side of the road than "urinate."

Don't use "big words" unless you understand what they mean, know how to use them properly, and are sure they fit the context of your story. For example, Bilal would be a lot more likely to "check a cool ride" than to "examine an expensive automobile." Likewise, he'd probably "think about scoring a forty," rather than "cogitate upon the purchase of an alcoholic beverage."

Never use big words just to prove you know them. Your readers aren't interested in you, they're interested in the story.

Below is a chapter from one of my novels, When All Goes Bright. This might give you a few more examples of the things we've talked about: the POV is Nicole's stream-of consciousness; there are descriptions, dialog, and hopefully the right words to give the reader the feel I wanted to give. This may also illustrate how the mood and pace of a story can be changed by a sudden shift from long descriptive sentences to short action sentences...

* * *

"It's, like, Thomas The Tank Engine, mom."

Nicole regarded the ancient train, which was clearly of antique British design. In the U.S. it might have been on display in a children's park or a railroad museum, but here it stood panting, sweating and leaking, presumably going somewhere. Behind the engine were six flatcars. Two carried lengths of iron pipe, possibly for a water project, and that at least seemed hopeful for a primitive African country. Three other cars were loaded with lumber, sacks of cement and building supplies -- wheelbarrows, shovels, picks and hoes -- which also suggested progress. The sixth flatcar held steel drums that were probably filled with diesel fuel, gasoline or motor oil... all had flammable warnings. Last in line was a passenger car, another shabby Victorian relic without any glass in its windows. It didn't seem especially safe behind the flammable liquids, but maybe the fuel or oil was safer away from the spark-throwing engine.

Zack had been checking the locomotive: all young boys liked trains. The thing looked about to explode any moment, a hissing, spurting, time-bomb on wheels; but neither the engineer or fireman -- sooty, soot-colored, shirtless men -- seemed concerned they oiled things with long-nosed copper cans. Resisting the urge to pull Zack away, Nicole lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Like you said the other day, they don't have all the new things we do. But they take good care of their old things, which is something that most Americans don't."

"Like, they recycle better than us?"

Nicole glanced again at the panting relic. "That's a good way of putting it. ...Maybe we should get on board." She gently took his chubby hand and led him away from the dangerous engine. "This is the only train for a week so we wouldn't want to miss it."

"Yeah," said Zack, holding a Coke he'd bought in the station. As always, his jeans were about to fall off, their tumble of cuffs dragging over his feet and hiding all but the toes of his boots. White didn't stay white very long in the bush, and today he was wearing a tan T-shirt and one of the khaki boonie hats that Nicole had brought for the trip. Nicole was wearing the other hat, along with the practical shirt and skirt she had worn on their Hillbrow safari. Zack's forearms and face had darkened to gold despite her warnings to use sunscreen. His body was also lightly tanned from an afternoon spent in the hotel pool, comfortably sprawled on a floating lounge chair, where he'd punished Nicole's expense account by ordering tons of overpriced snacks. He gulped from the can and wiped sweat from his face. "Too bad we couldn't find a plane, but ridin' this train should be cool."

The little border station was only a shack of rusty tin. The sun beat down on its wooden platform, while heat shimmered up from the tracks. It was only about nine in the morning, but already close to ninety degrees. Nicole eyed the windowless passenger car, thinking this trip would be far from cool. "They said a plane was coming today that usually went to Kiwanja. I know how much you like airplanes."

"Cool airplanes," corrected Zack. "Passenger planes are boring, mom. Like gettin' stuffed in a big metal tube an' nothin' happens between here an' there, unless you get hijacked by terrorists."

"Bush planes are usually more interesting. What did you think of Selinda?"

Zack took another gulp of Coke and politely half-smothered a burp. "The hippos were cool, but there weren't no lions. I wish we coulda seen some lions eatin' them big fat hippos."

"Any lions, and those hippos, Zack."

"Sorry."

"I wish we could have stayed longer. But this is a business trip."

"I know," said Zack. "But, maybe we can come back someday."

"Do you like Africa?" asked Nicole.

Zack pulled a Nestle bar from his pocket. "The food's real good, an' the people are nice."

"Remember we've stayed in hotels so far." Nicole had a vision of facing Meg Tanner and justifying all her receipts. "Dammed expensive hotels."

"Yeah," said Zack. "I guess when you're rich then everything's nice."

"What did you think of Hillbrow?"

Zack considered while munching chocolate. "I guess there's, like, ghettoes all over the world. An' a lot of poor people who have to live there."

"But, you knew that already, didn't you?"

Zack licked his his fingers. "Kinda. But it's different when you really see it. Makes you sorta sad."

Nicole smiled. "I'm sure we'll see lions in Kiwanja."

"Hey!" said Zack. "Are those, like, African Boy-Scouts? ...They get to carry M-16s?"

Nicole tensed a bit as a dozen boys, ranging from ten to maybe fifteen, rolled up in a dusty army truck. All were clad in sand-and-tan that matched the vehicle's camouflage but didn't quite work in this lion-colored land. Captain Keto's ambers and golds would have blended in much better here. But, now it was suddenly clear to Nicole why most of the Barrymore uniforms being sent to Kiwanja were small. There was something a little ironic about it; a company making toy soldiers also making soldier suits for real soldiers of toylike size. As if kids were the ultimate war toys. The boys and their uniforms may have been small, but all were packing big black guns. Like Zack had said, they were M-16s... Defenders Of Democracy genuine accessories. Or, as Tom had said, leftover junk from the Vietnam War.

Could Tom have known about this, she wondered? No, she decided, he couldn't have known: he surely would have told her. Countries that forced their children to fight were usually suffering civil wars, and sometimes ethnic cleansing. She watched the boys clamber out of the truck, raising more dust as they hit the ground, then realized Zack was waiting for answers.

"They're Kiwanji soldiers, Zack."

"But they're only kids like me."

"Remember what we talked about? Different cultures..."

"Yeah, I know," said Zack. "But, they have kids in their army?"

"Many nations do, Zack. And not just in Africa."

"Those kids fight wars an' kill people, mom?"

"Kiwanja isn't at war, Zack, or I wouldn't have brought you here."

"So why do they need to have kids in their army? Like, where are all the men?"

Nicole scanned the camouflaged, gun-toting boys, who looked rather grim for their ages. Or maybe they were tired. There was no horseplay or childish chatter. What words they exchanged were in Swahili, the same archaic dialect of the boys who'd shared their taxi. "It might be... community service."

Zack raised an eyebrow. "You mean if you're bad... like get busted for beer or smokin' weed... you get put in the army in Africa instead of just pickin' up trash?"

Nicole felt as if she was pitching product she didn't really believe in. This hadn't been in her job description: she'd agreed to go look for some bootmakers, not to plunge herself and Zack in the boiling pot of some little war. She thought of the phone in her tote, a direct line to Tom for a few direct questions. Or maybe some revelations for him. Tom wouldn't blame her for backing out now...

Then she pictured herself facing Dwane Barrymore in another boardroom meeting; explaining to him and the rest of the gang why she had failed her mission. Aaron Steele would likely be there, and would probably drop the biggest bombs... maybe taking her son had been a mistake? Understandable, of course. A woman did have maternal feelings. Really no more than a slight handicap. ...But in this case a little expensive.

Of course, she would pay for Zackary's trip, but still she would have accomplished nothing and wasted her company's money. It would take more than a few Captain Ketos to put her back in the glass-ceiling game.

She thought of Tom again... the alternative is Aaron Steele. Would Aaron have given up now, she wondered? Be frightened away by a few little soldiers? She had already seen the risks he would take... assuming the rumors were true. And, even if they weren't true, he'd still put himself in real danger to possibly profit his company.

What had she done so far? Pressured her boss to pay her son's way on what should have been a business trip. Stayed in obscenely expensive hotels and wasted a day watching hippos. And now she was thinking of bailing her butt because she had seen a few boys with guns. Jenny had probably seen a lot more, and not in a disciplined Army.

Nicole considered alternatives. She could send Zack home with her backup plan and keep to her company quest. But, what would he have learned? That, except for a glimpse of an urban slum, Africa was expensive hotels, smiling servants and lavish food. A banquet spread for the color of privilege. A land that begged to be exploited by light-skinned people just like him? He hadn't even seen a lion.

"We can talk about that on the train," she said.

"But, like, could they shoot us?"

Nicole frowned a little. "Not everything is 'like' something else. Lots of things are what they are."

"It's like, just an expression, mom."

"I know. I used to say it myself, but it's a hard habit to break." She glanced at the soldiers again. "A cop in America could shoot us. Or all those guards in airports."

"But, those are adults," said Zack, finishing his candy bar and washing it down with Coke. "They’re supposed to know who to kill."

Nicole remembered the letter she carried; a genuine U.S. Government letter addressed to Kiwanja's President. She assumed at least some of those soldiers could read. "I'm sure these young men are well-trained."

"Yeah," said Zack after a moment. "I guess you wouldn't give kids guns unless they knew how to use 'em."

"Have you ever smoked weed?" asked Nicole.

"I checked it out, but I like beer better."

"Me too," said Nicole.

"How come they're not ridin' inside with us?"

The soldiers were boarding the freight cars. Two carried an olive-drab wooden box that might have contained ammunition. "It's probably for security."

"Do they have terrorists here, too?"

"The world has never been safe, Zack."

"Don't people have a right to be safe?"

"Too many people think they do, and that's something we can talk about. But no one is going to be safe in this world until they start giving instead of taking."

"An' we're here to give them somethin', right? A chance to make money by sellin' their boots?"

"Yes," said Nicole. "Do you feel okay?"

"About what?"

You're not upset, are you? Or maybe a little scared?"

"Oh. No, mom," said Zack. "This is, like, educational. An' better than the Discovery Channel."

Nicole pressed Zackary's hand. "Yes, it is." She gazed across the sun-shimmered land, amber-grassed and mostly flat except for occasional humps of hills that looked like sleeping camels. The sky was clear and blue above, and the tracks seemed to dwindle away in the distance like a lesson in vanishing-point perspective. According to the stationmaster, the trip would take about eight hours. Maybe Kiwanja wasn't as small as Washington, or Tom, seemed to think? More probably the train was slow. It was already over an hour late in simply getting started, though apparently had been waiting for guards. She noted canteens on the soldiers' web belts.

"Did they have any water for sale in the station?"

"Nah," said Zack. "Just a Coke machine."

Nicole had sandwiches packed in her tote, bought yesterday in Selinda, along with four bottles of water, but she should have been better prepared. "I'll buy us a few more sodas," she said. "You get on, stow our luggage, and find good seats. Okay?"

"Sure, mom."

There were no good seats, Nicole discovered, boarding the train a few minutes later. In George Orwellian New-Speak terms, all the seats were "un-good," some just double-plus. Most of the cushions were bleeding stuffing, and some had been colonized by ants. The floor was covered with dun-colored dust, and the single washroom had no water. Yet, all this neglect seemed recent. This antique car, like the train itself, could not have survived a hundred years without a better class of care. She wondered when that care had stopped and, maybe more importantly, why? President-General N'dila was supposedly bringing progress, yet the trains didn't even run on time.

Zack had chosen a pair of seats near the forward end of the car, which were less un-good than many. He'd stowed their suitcases up on a rack, and that surprised Nicole: she wouldn't have thought he was strong enough. But, there wasn't any need for space; there were only four other passengers at the opposite end of the car. They seemed to be native people, a thirtyish woman with two small boys, and a man who might have been her grandfather. They could have been urban Kiwanjis -- if that wasn't an oxymoron -- residents of the capital town, though obviously not upper-class. The man and woman were shabbily dressed in the second-hand, civilized-castoff look of many Third-World people. Nicole noted ancient sport shoes on their feet. The kids wore nothing but ragged shorts. The adults didn't seem to resent her and Zack, but avoided making eye-contact; though the big-eyed boys were openly staring as little kids did everywhere. Neither boy was shockingly thin, but both could have used a few Big Macs.

Nicole smiled at the woman, who returned the smile but looked a bit nervous. That was probably logical; she couldn't have seen many white people, and certainly not on this battered old train. The woman noticed her children were staring, and made them switch seats so they faced away. Nicole had been hoping to practice Swahili and learn the Kiwanji dialect -- not to mention the subject of boots -- but this didn't seem like a promising start for what would be a long, hot trip. The train's whistle blew, not the deep mellow blast of American trains, but a high-pitched, almost hysterical scream.

"Hey," said Zack. "It's like that movie, Murder On The Orient Express."

The train gave a jolt and began to move, huffing, puffing, gathering speed, pulling away from the tiny station and chugging across the lion-colored land.

"James Bond rode that train," said Nicole. And Sherlock Holmes might have ridden this one.

"I seen that movie too," said Zack. "Some Russian spies were tryin' to kill him. ...It was fun playin' spies, wasn't it, mom? Pretending to be from Canada 'cause them dudes didn't like Americans."

"Those dudes," said Nicole. "And I wish we hadn't had to."

"But it's cool now, ain’t it?" Zackary asked. "Like, to be ourselves again?"

"Isn't it."

"Sorry."

"I'm sure it is."

"'Cause Kiwanja is on our side, huh? Against all the terrorists in the world. So everybody will like us here?"

Nicole thought again of the three scruffy boys, and the angry, possibly hateful, look the fat one had given to her. "That's what Tom said."

"Too bad he couldn't come with us."

"That would have been nice," agreed Nicole.

"You really like him, huh?"

"I do."

"You think it could get, like, serious, mom?"

"...Well... how would you feel about that?"

"He seems cool."

"I'm sure the helicopter helped."

Zackary laughed. "Def."

Dust blew in through the window frames, along with bitter coal smoke, as the train finally reached a cruising speed of maybe thirty-miles-an-hour. The car rocked and pitched on the uneven rails. Its woodwork creaked and rattled. The forward door swung back and forth, its latch apparently broken. Nicole caught occasional glimpses of the soldiers riding the creaky freight cars. One young boy around Zack's age was dozing atop an oil drum, his rifle across his legs. Heat shimmered up from the other drums so he seemed surrounded by ghosts.

"I'll fix that, mom," said Zack. "Keep some of the dust an' smoke outta here." He got up and flattened his empty Coke can beneath the tire-tread sole of his boot, then wedged the can under the door, which still had a cracked pane of glass in its window. "That's better, huh?"

"Thank you, Zack."

"Can I have another Coke?"

"You'd better drink water instead. Sodas don't keep you hydrated."

"I'm gonna give it to him," said Zack, pointing to dozing boy. "He looks really hot out there. ...Is that okay? Like, it's not against regulations?"

"...I'm... sure it's all right," said Nicole. She handed Zack a soda. "But he probably doesn't speak English."

"Coke is Coke in any language."

Nicole thought of adding a warning -- like, don't surprise the soldier -- but Zack had already opened the door and called to the uniformed boy. The kid jerked awake, clutching his gun, but then studied Zack and relaxed. He slid off the drum and accepted the can across the clanking couplings.

"He said Asante sana,", Zack announced, returning.

"That's thank-you very much."

"Is it hard to learn African, mom?"

"Africa has a lot of languages. Swahili is fairly easy to learn. It was basically a trading language. I brought a phrase book."

"Can I check it out?"

"It's in the side pouch of my suitcase."

Zack stretched up to the overhead rack, baring his belly and part of his shaft, reminding Nicole of his midnight twin as he'd tied the sack of yams on the cab. He found the Swahili book, then unzipped a pouch on his own suitcase and pulled out the eight-track player, along with a bag of Simba Chips. The Hillbrow shopkeeper hadn't lied when saying the antique player worked, and Zack had bought batteries at the hotel. As he had on the lengthy airplane flights, Zack created his own little space, popping a tape in the player -- a Rolling Stones album, Out Of Our Heads -- and plugging in his I-pod headphones.

Nicole's parents had that album, which featured the song, Satisfaction. It had been one of the favorite tunes played by troops in Vietnam... usually when dropping bombs or spraying napalm on villages. She recalled a line from some old moive -- napalm sticks to kids. --which sounded like an ad from the company that made it.

"Is it cool to lose my shirt?"

Nicole turned to look at the other people. The dust and smoke was like dirty brown fog. The children had opened the car's rear door and were standing out on the platform. It didn't look safe to be out there, but safety was a relative thing in a land where kids carried guns. "It's cool," she said.

Zackary shed his sweaty shirt and settled back in the worn out seat as if he was on a first-class flight. Nicole hadn't thought he'd adapt so fast... he didn't look very adaptable. He opened the chips then opened the book. "Can I have a Coke?"

"Drink a bottle of water first."

"Tell me if you see any lions."

"You watch, too, I might take a nap."

"You think we'll stop somewhere for lunch?"

"If we don't, you know where the sandwiches are."

Nicole was snapped awake by a scream. At first she thought one of the kids had fallen. She squinted through the haze of smoke, but both little boys were sleeping in seats, along with the man and woman. The scream had only been the whistle. Zack was also sprawled asleep, his breasts and belly bobbing about to the rattling rock of the train. The bag of chips was empty, along with three Cokes and two sandwich wrappers. His body was almost brown with dust, his hair a sooty lion's mane beneath the khaki hat. Nicole wasn't any cleaner. She hoped Kiwanja's no-star hotel would have a working bathtub.

She wiped dust from her watch: two hours had passed. The country looked the same outside, shimmering flats of amber grass, crossed by beds of meandering streams, dry as bones at this time of year. There were scattered groves of acacia trees, little islands of gold and green, and distant clumps of camel-like hills against the clear blue sky. She saw a small herd of small antelope, but if there were lions they must have been napping, possibly in the acacia shade. Risking a faceful of cinders, she leaned out the window to scan around. The train was approaching a line of hills. Ahead was a long wooden trestle across a waterless river bed that would probably be a roaring torrent during the rainy season. Most of the soldiers seemed asleep in the blazing sun on the clattering cars, though several were smoking cigarettes and gazing across their little land. Maybe they were thinking of home, of villages not too far away, a few day's walk at most. Had they joined the Army willingly? Did it offer opportunities, education, social status, or simply regular meals? Many had lost their shirts like Zack, including the boy on the oil drum whose tummy was healthily round. They were probably taking turns on guard, though there didn't seem much to guard against. Assuming there were any terrorists here, they would have been seen for miles away. But, what would they get for attacking the train... wheelbarrows, pipe, lumber, cement? No weapons of mass destruction; the U.S. supplied all the war toys. But, terror was also destruction on any kind of scale, disrupting a nation's economy and keeping its people in fear. Terrorists wouldn't want any progress under the current govenment; no water systems, modern housing... and certainly not a boot factory.

The train started over the trestle, which creaked and groaned beneath its weight. Zack opened his eyes, glanced out, and yawned. "Are we there yet?"

"Still a long way to go," said Nicole.

Zackary closed his eyes again. "Wake me up for lunch."

Nicole looked down at the dry riverbed, jagged with rocks and bristling with thorns: not a happy landing place. The hills rose up on the other side where the tracks made a curve and climbed a slope then disappeared into a cutting. The engine slowed and began to puff harder, reaching the end of the rickety bridge and starting up the grade. Nicole felt relieved when the passenger car was back on solid ground.

Suddenly there were gunshots! Ragged roars of auto-fire. Bullets twanged off iron and crackled into wood. Splinters burst from flatcar decks. Ricochets screamed and whined away with Hollywood movie sounds. The train whistle shrieked hysterically. The soldiers scrambled for cover behind the rattling freight. Bursts from their rifles blasted the hillsides, tearing up dirt and clumps of grass, though Nicole couldn't see any targets. More splinters burst from a window frame a few seats down the aisle.

"Mom!" In a second Zack had grabbed Nicole and tumbled them both to the floor. She didn't have time to be surprised... Zack was actually sheltering her beneath his twelve-year-old mass.

"Stay down, mom!" he shouted.

Dimly through the smoke and dust, Nicole saw the woman and elderly man also down and protecting their kids. Then there was an explosion, more like a gigantic WHUMP than a blast. The car seemed leap in the air. The floorboards smacked Nicole in the face, ramming dust in her eyes. The automatic fire increased. Young voices yelled in Swahili. The whistle continued to scream. More bullets ripped the roof of the car and shafts of smoky sun stabbed in.

"Stay down, mom!" yelled Zack again.

If the car had really been blown in the air it must have landed back on the rails. The train was still moving, whistle screaming. The day was suddenly black with smoke... they must have been pouring on the coal, trying to get away. The gunfire lessened a little, shorter bursts, single shots... maybe the smoke was hiding the train? Trying to wipe the dust from her eyes, Nicole caught a glimpse through a window of three young boys in loincloths firing down from a hillside. Their loincloths were amber and gold that blended into the waist-high grass. Their dusky bodies were shadows. Then the smoke closed in again.

"I don't think they're shootin' at us," panted Zack.

"...What?" Nicole gasped stupidly. Zack's weight on her back made it hard to breathe, even without all the smoke.

"They're shootin' at the soldiers."

There was another muffled WHUMP, and again the car seemed to leap in the air. The door window shattered and more smoke poured in. Through the rattle of gunfire and ricochet screams Nicole heard the engine's chugging speed up. Yet the car was suddenly slammed to a stop, throwing them both against a seat. Then she smelled burning oil.

"Zack! We've got to get off!"

"Stay down, mom!"

"Zack! ...NO!"

Between the smoke and her grit-filled eyes, Nicole could hardly see. She felt Zack scramble to his feet. "ZACK!" She made a frantic grab but missed. The engine was chugging faster now... moving away from the motionless car! She heard a roaring rush of flames. Grabbing the back of a nearby seat, she struggled onto her knees. "ZACK!"

The engine's puffing was getting fainter. She realized the shooting had stopped. She couldn't see a goddamn thing; her eyes were streaming tears. There was a clanking sound, and a hiss. The car began moving, slowly at first, wheels squealing over the rails.

"ZACK!"

The smoke was beginning to clear a little. Through burning eyes she saw a shape approaching from the front of the car. Zack? But, it was too big... and had more than two legs. Would a lion have braved all the shooting and fire? A very hungry lion might.

"Zack...?"

"It's okay, mom. I unhooked us."

Nicole wiped her eyes with the tail of her shirt but still saw nothing but shadows. The smoke was rapidly clearing as the car began to pick up speed. The reek of burning was fading away, the crackle of flames growing fainter. "...What?" she rasped.

"I unhooked us," Zack repeated. "The oil drum car was on fire. I think it got its wheels blown off. It's probably gonna explode. They always do in movies."

Nicole forced herself to chill out and think, letting the tears wash the dust from her eyes instead of stupidly grinding it in. Zack was still only a blurry shape, but somehow too large... and with too many legs. "You, unhooked...?"

"Like in the movies. The Silver Streak. You just pull a handle. We're rollin' backward away from the fire."

"...Oh..." said Nicole. "...Where's your hat?"

"It got kinda burned. Sorry."

"...Burned?"

"The handle was hot. ...Like, 'cause of the fire. I wrapped my hat around it. Sorry."

"...Oh."

"The rest of the train ran away."

"...Oh."

"You okay, mom?"

Her vision finally began to clear. Zack morphed into a pair of boys. He stood supporting the child soldier.

"He got shot in the leg," said Zack.

The boy was younger than Zack by a year, and didn't look much like a soldier now -- shirtless, capless, tears on his cheeks -- even still clutching his big black gun. Smoke curled out of its muzzle as Zack set him down on a seat.

The car was still gaining speed, clicking and clattering over the rails, starting around the hillside curve. They were aboard a runaway train -- part of a train, anyhow -- but were getting away from the fire. They were actually going faster than the ancient engine had ever gone. But the land was flat across the bridge so they would eventually coast to a stop. After that... Nicole didn't know. Would the terrorists come after them? Or maybe hungry lions? But at least they were safe for the moment.

Then she remembered the other people. The man, woman, and kids were gone. The car's rear door swung open, revealing only the curving tracks around the grassy hillside.

"They jumped off," said Zack. "I think they were all okay."

"...Good," said Nicole, all she could think of. She turned to the soldier and asked in Swahili, "Are you all right?"

The boy wiped his eyes and choked back a sob. "My leg hurts."

"Let me look at it," said Nicole. "Zack, get a bottle of water. There's a first-aid kit in my suitcase."

Zack stretched up to the overhead rack, almost losing his jeans again. But then he suddenly stared down the car to the open door at the end. "Mom! They blew up the bridge!"

That's the basics

So, we've covered the basics of writing a story: you need an interesting character with an interesting problem to overcome, and you need a point of view from which to tell your story.

Bad advice

Finally, I want to warn you about what I think are probably the two all time worst pieces of advice young writers can get... usually from English or Creative Writing teachers.

First, don't ever... ever... let anyone tell you that you must only "write about what you know!"

Did space aliens write Star Trek? Do real detectives write most mystery novels? What do you think?

One of the best novels about the American Civil War, The Red Badge of Courage was written by someone who had never been in that war.

Better advice would be: If you don't know, don't guess.

If you don't know, don't guess

If you don't know, don't guess, and don't fake it -- do your research, get your facts and details right. The less you know about something, the more research you should do so you can write about it convincingly and make it sound on the real. For example, in the chapter above Kiwanja is a fictional country. Yet even a fictional country has to be somewhere on earth. Kiwanja is in south-central Africa, so the landscape, trees, plants and animal life are appropriate to that region. Likewise, Kiwanja's language is in context for its location, as are the African character names. Even the country's fictional name translates roughly to "valley of lions." This is something to consider if you're setting a story in some other land: don't just make up names that sound ethnic or you might find that you've named your hero Toilet or Pond Scum.

Sometimes less is more

On the other hand, there's usually no need go into each and every detail about a subject just to convince a reader you know what you're talking about. For example, there is usually no need to describe a junkie shooting up or a crackhead getting high as if you were writing an instruction manual. Sometimes using too much detail only makes it look as if you are trying to convince a reader that you know what you're talking about. Again, a reader isn't interested in you, they're interested in the story.

Writing "outside your race?"

The second worst piece of advice, often flung in the faces of non-black authors, is that they should never try to write from a black point of view. Bullshit! It should be more than obvious to anyone with the brains that God gave a lizard that there are way too few positive books and stories written for young black people... by black people. As far as I'm concerned, anyone who wants to write good positive stories for black youth are more than welcome to. When black people dis a non-black writer for writing about black life, it reminds me of a white writer who wrote a mystery novel that featured a black detective hunting down a serial killer. The writer was constantly questioned about how he could write from a "black point of view"... yet no one ever asked how he could write from the point of view of a serial killer!

Steven Spielberg was constantly dissed for daring to make The Color Purple. As a result, he vowed never to make another black film. That's our loss, folk, not his.

On the other hand, I've written from the point of view of drug dealers, murderers, women, gay males, child molesters, ghosts, zombies, and Satan himself, but no one ever asked me to explain my "qualifications" to write from any point of view... until I wrote from the POV of a white person.

Think about it.

George Orwell once said that, "good novels are not written by people who are frightened." And remember that no matter what you write about, and from whatever point of view, someone will always dis or challenge you. You can either cower in fear and never dare to write the things you really want to write, or you can accept this fact of life and do what you really believe in.

Socially-conscious writing is always going to offend someone... it wouldn't be socially-conscious if it didn't.

Write about anything you damn well want to. Just write about it well.

Dream!

And never be afraid to dream!

If anything here has been helpful to you, a note of thanks and/or a dollar or two in PayPal is always appreciated.