What if the fate of Earth rested in the hands of strangers thrust into unimaginable circumstances? What if the stars held not only answers but also devastating threats? These are just some of the gripping questions explored in Earth’s Last Hope, a science fiction masterpiece by Scott Taylor that blends cosmic mystery, survival, and human resilience into an unforgettable journey.
A Cosmic “What If” That Inspires Wonder
The seeds of Earth’s Last Hope were planted during a time when interstellar phenomena like ‘Oumuamua and 3I/ATLAS captured imaginations worldwide. Inspired by these celestial visitors, Taylor crafted a story that dives into humanity’s place in the universe and the choices we make when faced with the unknown. Adding a thrilling twist, he reimagines the possibilities of planetary alignment—a rare event that occurs every 13.4 trillion years—and weaves it into a narrative brimming with tension and awe.
Taylor, like any great sci-fi writer, thrives on “what ifs.” What if Earth’s magnetic poles shifted, throwing the planet into chaos? What if alien civilizations were quietly watching, waiting for their moment? By blending real science with speculative fiction, Taylor creates a story that feels both grounded in reality and boundless in imagination.
Meet Samantha Richards: A Heroine Worth Rooting For
At the heart of this riveting tale is Dr. Samantha Richards, a fiercely independent woman with a complicated past and a unique connection to alien technology. Samantha’s journey begins in Alaska, where she’s trying to escape her father’s shadow. But everything changes when she accepts a dare to survive 21 days on a cursed volcanic island for a reality TV show. What starts as a test of survival quickly spirals into something much darker and more mysterious. Her resilience, intelligence, and vulnerability make her a protagonist you’ll be cheering for long after you’ve turned the final page.
Joining her is Harry, a former soldier grappling with his own haunted past. Together, they face the unforgiving wilderness, a cursed island shrouded in secrets, and a cosmic mystery that threatens to unravel everything they know about the universe—and themselves.
An Island Like No Other
The volcanic island where Samantha and Harry find themselves stranded is more than just a setting—it’s a character in its own right. Taylor’s vivid prose brings the jungle to life, making you feel the suffocating heat, hear the whispers of the wind in the trees, and sense the looming danger hidden in its depths. But the island isn’t just dangerous—it holds a secret that could change the fate of humankind forever.
Science Meets Suspense
At its core, Earth’s Last Hope is a love letter to science and the mysteries of the cosmos. Taylor masterfully blends real-world physics with speculative fiction, exploring themes like planetary alignment, geomagnetic reversals, and the fragility of humanity in the face of the universe’s vastness. Every twist and turn is grounded in scientific plausibility, making the story all the more captivating for readers who love to think as much as they love to be thrilled.
A Story That Stays With You
While Earth’s Last Hope delivers on action, suspense, and cosmic intrigue, it’s ultimately a story about people—about love, loss, and the choices that define us. Samantha’s complicated relationship with her father, her evolving bond with Harry, and the struggles of the alien tribes searching for a new home all serve as poignant reminders of our shared humanity.
This is more than just a story about survival—it’s a story about discovery, both of the universe and of ourselves.
What Readers Are Saying
✨ “A gripping blend of survival drama and cosmic mystery. I couldn’t put it down!”
✨ “Taylor’s writing is vivid and immersive. I felt like I was right there on the island with Samantha and Harry.”
✨ “Equal parts thrilling and thought-provoking. This book will stick with you long after you turn the final page.”
If you’re a fan of science fiction that combines edge-of-your-seat thrills with thought-provoking ideas, Earth’s Last Hope is the book you’ve been waiting for. Don’t miss out on this unforgettable adventure through survival, discovery, and the uncharted territories of the human heart.
Grab your copy today and see what the stars have in store!
Imagine this: Just a few weeks back, I poured my heart into a story for a contest, a challenge sparked by a single, piercing prompt:
“Center your story around someone who’s tired of always being second best (or second choice).”
Now, pause for a moment.
Have you ever felt the sting of being overlooked? The frustration of putting in all the effort, only to watch someone else bask in the spotlight that should have been yours? If you’ve ever been the one doing the heavy lifting, holding everything together while credit slips through your fingers, then this story is for you.
Don’t Block the Light
They say her name, and the room detonates; applause ricochets off glass, off my ribs. I clap too, because that’s the rule when you’re paid to be second.
Priscilla skims to the front, hair catching the lights like a net of gold, heels fluent as a second language. She sells my dragons like she felt their heat first, like her fingerprints are pressed into every scale. The author leans in, hungry. The publicist beams, blinding. “Brilliant,” the client breathes, and my coffee-stained notebook stays shut on my lap, warming my thigh like a secret I don’t dare open.
I hold the smile that keeps meetings smooth and credit slippery. Her perfume hits before her words do, a soft, expensive fog that coats my tongue. I listen for my name, for a glance, a nod, any thin thread. The silence has perfect posture. I swallow the word that claws its way up, “mine.”
I know this choreography: keep the pitch in the air, juggling what no one can see, while someone else steps into the light and takes the bow. My palms sting from clapping. My chest hums with the dragons I birthed and cannot name. And still, I clap.
They’re lauding her pitch when my mind rips backward. Applause smears into a gym’s roar. I’m sixteen, the air tastes like rubber and dust; the lights are cruel; the floor is a mirror for every mistake. Match point. The ball sails long; I dive—knee slams. Pain blooms white. My palm finds leather, just enough to keep it alive. I’m still on the floor when the pretty blonde rises, arm a guillotine, and hammers it home. The crowd explodes… for her.
After, the coach presses the game ball into her hands. “We did it,” she says. I nod and swallow the word we, thick, chalky, like it might scrape me raw all the way down.
The conference room snaps back into focus. Priscilla wears that practiced, cheerleader-bright glow, teeth, lashes, shine, until someone asks how she came up with the idea. A hairline crack of panic splits her face. Her eyes hunt for me; I fix my stare just past her shoulder, gifting her nothing but air.
“Jamie and I were talking about it. Do you want to tell them what we were thinking?”
We, she says. Bullshit. It was me. But I’m paid to be part of the team, not the star; the chorus, not the solo. I clear my throat. The author leans in—the publisher stills. Perfume drifts. My pulse ticks like a metronome for a song only I know. The dragons kick against my ribs.
I glance up, let the silence tighten like a net, and hold it—right before I speak.
I clear my throat. The room stills.
“Dragons are about being chosen, and choosing. Adoption is the key.”
I let that settle, let their chests open for it.
“The idea is to hatch your dragon. A fast, intimate quiz: what scares you, what do you guard, when do you burn. It matches each reader to a dragon from the book. They get a named digital egg and a keeper’s guide.”
I can feel them leaning in.
“For seven days, the egg warms. Short messages in the hero’s voice, in the dragon’s voice—belonging, anger, shame, bravery, love. The art darkens as the shell thins. Day five: a ten-second whisper. And on launch day, the egg cracks in AR. Lift your phone and your dragon unfurls across your room, leaves a scorch trail to buy, plus a dragon-type-only chapter.”
A pause. A pulse. I keep going.
“IRL: indie shops give foil ‘scale’ stickers. Show your hatch, get a scale. Collect three; a heat-ink code appears and unlocks a city map of secret roosts, murals, chalk sigils, and window clings, leading to prizes and a midnight Hatch Night projection where a dragon climbs the bookstore. Every hatch funds a school library.”
I let a smile find the edge of my mouth.
“Creators hatch early on BookTok and name theirs on camera. Tagline: Claim your fire.”
If they need the jargon, I hand it to them, palm up.
“If you prefer, call it omnichannel. I call it the click in your chest when the egg breaks and the feeling of being chosen washes over you. I understand that emotion.”
I meet the author’s eyes. Then the publisher’s.
“We should present it to them. We create the app. Users subscribe. If they gather enough virtual eggs, they’re rewarded with a discount code for your book. Meanwhile, participating bookstores are suddenly bustling. More feet, more hands, more heat. Tell me, what store refuses to stock the book everyone is crossing town to hatch?”
Priscilla’s smile held; her eyes cut like I’d let something loose. Heat from the lights on my face; a colder heat from her stare.
“I sketched the initial concept,” I say—five thin words. I open the old sketchbook—coffee rings, pencil ghosts—and Blair, the author, glances at me and smiles.
The publisher looks to Blair. A smile spreads, catches, multiplies. Nods land. The room clicks into yes. The deal is done. Blair and I make eye contact, a silent chord that says more than it should.
Priscilla’s glare blades across the table. Someone corrals us for a photo, shoulders touching, flash primed. The feeling of being caught doing something wrong rises from the pit of me. Did I say too much? Should I have handed it back, gift-wrapped, with her name on the tag?
The practiced smile slides on; my cheeks burn under it. The taste of pennies blooms—regret already shaping the word sorry.
I feel the apology rise, muscle memory. Give it back. Say we. Say Priscilla. Make yourself smaller; fit better. My tongue touches the word, and I swallow it hard.
I see the notebook: coffee rings, midnight sketches, the spine of the idea forming under my hands. Mine.
Her eyes say too much. My palms press together to stop the shake. Maybe this is it—finally enough to hear my name, even if only inside my own head. I hold it there, a small, stubborn ember no flashbulb can burn out.
I trailed the client into the hallway, applause still echoing like it belonged to someone else’s life. Priscilla slid past close enough for her perfume to touch my tongue, then her shoulder clipped mine—sharp, deliberate. My cup jerked. Coffee jumped. Heat slapped my white blouse and bled fast, a brown bloom across my chest.
“Sorry” rose out of habit, like I should apologize for straying into her orbit. I bit it back. She didn’t look over her shoulder. The click of her heels said everything: I’d talked too much. I’d forgotten to stay small. I wasn’t the pretty one.
Dan saw. He stopped mid-step, eyes dropping to the stain, then back to my face. The world tilted. Someone had witnessed the part where she shines, and I clean up. Heat crawled up my neck: coffee, humiliation, and something fierce that’s tired of swallowing itself.
I pressed my thumb into the cup, breathing through the bitterness. Dan’s gaze held—steady, alert. Not pity. Something worked behind his eyes, a shape he hadn’t spoken yet. He knew it wasn’t an accident. His mouth was tight, like he was holding a word between his teeth, something that could turn this into more than a stain, if I let it.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the week off?”
I didn’t know what to think, so I nodded, automatic, obedient. Maybe he knew a brown stain doesn’t just disappear. Perhaps he was offering me comp time before the cut, a soft edge to a harsh reality. Comp time before firing me. The thought flicked its switchblade open.
Her gaze lingered long enough to watch the coffee seep, the dark spreading fast across my white blouse. She grinned, a small, satisfied crescent that said I had it coming. Maybe I did. That’s a lie, I know by heart.
Dan didn’t want the odd one out. That’s what I heard in my head. The stain made me louder than I’m allowed to be. Priscilla made sure no clients were close enough to overhear; she scanned the corridor like a director protecting a brand. She was a vibrant splash of color stepping out of an advertisement, all gloss and glow, and I was the matte background that sucked in light.
Under the fluorescents, I could feel every imperfect edge of myself: the flyaway hair I’d smoothed twice, the scuffed heel on my sensible shoes, the blouse I bought on sale now wearing its stain like a name tag. I wasn’t the poster girl. I was a smudge on the poster.
Dan’s eyes lingered for a second too long, and I caught the unspoken memo: clean lines, clean faces, clean stories. I’m good at disappearing on cue. I folded my shoulders in, pressed the cup to my chest like a shield, willing the brown to stop blooming, telling myself to move, fix, be easy, anything but visible.
Before I could turn away, I caught Blair’s eyes. Brief. Bright. Not pity. A different meaning, a secret kept behind his teeth. Something like a door, neither open nor closed. A promise, or a plan. A look that said: this moment can be more than a stain, if you let it.
Priscilla’s laugh follows me down the hall, bright and hollow, like ice in a glass. I don’t have to turn to see her leaning in, voice dipped in honey, the others chiming all the right words—brilliant, inspired, visionary—like a chorus that only knows one name.
I hit the side door with my shoulder. The metal bar is cold; the air beyond it is hotter, heavy with exhaust and summer. The door thuds shut behind me, cutting off the performance mid-applause. My blouse has dried into a stiff shell where the coffee hit, a brown, uneven blotch blooming over my chest.
Out in the parking lot, my brain does what it always does to keep me from crying—it writes.
A kids’ book, simple enough for small hands to hold without it hurting too much. A girl with black pigtails, me, really in a too-starched uniform, knees scuffed, shoes half-size too big. She carries hot chocolate instead of coffee, careful as a tightrope walker. And a glossy-haired princess swings a backpack just wide enough to tip the cup.
The cocoa blooms brown on white. That high, tinkly laugh names you second before anyone votes. Teachers don’t look. The girls shrug. You stare at the stain and decide you’re the mess.
In your room, there’s a corkboard of second-place ribbons like a constellation you never asked for, chocolate rings ghosting the corners of worksheets, and you practicing small—shoulders tucked, breath quiet. The book gives you what I didn’t have: a voice that doesn’t apologize. You’re not the spill, kid. You’re the one who keeps getting up.
The mean girls? Peacocks in cardboard crowns, noise and shimmer that only gleam in borrowed shadow. You learn to steady your cup when they bump you, to wear the stain like a map that says I was here. Don’t shrink to be their wind. You’re the eagle, spread your wings. Hot chocolate in both hands. A real smile, not because the room demanded it, but because you know you don’t have to disappear to matter.
Out in the sultry parking lot, the only cheering is the rattle of the HVAC and a distant car alarm. I stood on oil-slicked concrete and let myself breathe, the taste of her perfume finally lifting off my tongue.
Inside, she’s winning them. I’m the echo that left the room, so no one had to hear it. I tell myself I’m getting fresh air. Mostly, I’m getting out of their way. And I can already see Monday: my things in little brown boxes, stacked neatly, the whole of me slid into the back of my car like I was never here at all.
I don’t sleep. Instead, I rehearse losing my job. Every time I close my eyes, I see Dan’s mouth flatten, hear myself saying too much, watch Priscilla’s smile slice four a.m. to ribbons. By then, I’m at the kitchen table in yesterday’s blouse, scrubbing at the ghost of coffee like I could scrub the night out of my head.
The rest of the week plays the same loop. I circle job listings in the paper with a dull pen while I polish my resume, swapping verbs, sanding edges. I tell myself I’m better than this, better than office politics, and repeat it until the words go tinny in my mouth.
On Monday, I arrive early. The office is a hush, the empty halls a place I can hide in. The garage hums; rain ghosts the air, threading itself through the thick smell of oil. My hatchback exhales into its familiar, sunbaked spot. I walk past the RESERVED placards like a gallery of names I don’t belong to, eyes down, counting steps, averting my gaze until the end of the row.
Her space was empty.
No red sports car gleaming under the soft lights like a trophy. No wink of vanity plates. Just a clean rectangle of concrete and a painted sign above it—Reserved—MVP—staring back like a punchline missing its laugh.
I stopped breathing. Such a small thing, a gap where she should be. But it felt like standing in front of a mirror and not seeing the person who always takes center stage. Late? Sick? Called in early to be crowned again? Fired, a wild part of me whispered, and hope flared so fast it scared me. I don’t think that way, not really.
I pressed my palm to the cool pillar until the heat in my face drained off. Don’t be stupid, I told myself. Empty doesn’t mean anything. Titles shift. People are late. I’m the one who gets fired in this story, remember?
Still, as I walked toward the elevator, the garage sounded different. The quiet didn’t echo with her. For the first time since last week, my chest loosened enough to let a full breath in. I slipped into the elevator before the feeling could notice and run.
Turning the corner, the long hall humming with tired fluorescents, I was already rehearsing how to make myself small. Then I saw it, right there on my desk—a clear glass vase. A single red rose lit up like a stoplight in the gray of morning, its stem needled with thorns, its bloom loud as a heart.
WTF. For a beat, I think I’ve wandered to the wrong workstation. My chair. My mug. My stack of marked-up briefs—and then the rose, impossibly bright, siren-red in a clear glass vase. A folded card leans against it. My name is on the front. My name.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting a camera crew or Priscilla’s laugh snapping shut around me. Nothing; just the copier grinding itself awake somewhere down the corridor. My fingers tremble as I slide a nail beneath the fold and open the note.
“Jamie, it was clear that you were the brainchild behind the campaign for my book after you left. I look forward to working with you, even if your teammates don’t appreciate you, I do.” — Blair Thomas
I read it twice. A third time. As if the ink might evaporate if I blink too hard. The paper is heavy, expensive, like proof you can hold. Heat climbs my throat, the kind that warns tears are loading whether I’ve granted permission or not. I press my thumb hard into the card’s edge until the sting steadies me.
Someone finally saw me. Not a coworker doing damage control, the author, the prize they were courting, while I ghosted through the side exit, coffee bleeding through my white blouse, sliding warm over my ribs toward my belly.
Inside me, the girl with hot chocolate and scuffed knees stands up a little. She squares her shoulders. She lets the smile happen, not because the room asked for it, but because it turns out my name sounds different when I say it to myself and believe it.
My first instinct was to hide it. I slid the card half under my keyboard, pulled it back out, then tucked it into my planner like a secret I wasn’t ready to let the light touch for long. I could already hear the spin if this got around. I could already see Priscilla’s mouth curdle at the edges. But for once, the fear didn’t sweep the table clean. It just sat beside the rose and made room.
I leaned in and breathed the rose. It smelled like something I couldn’t name—like a door opening. The empty spot in the garage flashed through my mind. The way Dan’s eyes had held mine. The hours I’d spent rehearsing the script where I was told I was too much.
Maybe I was. Maybe too much is exactly what it takes to finally be seen.
I straightened the vase, smoothed the corner of the note, and sat down. The chair felt different under me, as if it had been mine all along and I was only now letting myself believe it.
By noon, certainty unraveled. The rose looked like a mistake again; the note read like a fever dream. Then Dan pinged: “Got a minute?” My stomach did the trapdoor thing. I followed him past the bullpen, past the glass where I usually catch my small reflection, down the hush of the executive row. He stopped at the empty office next to his—the one everyone called the waiting room for gods.
The lock chirped. He opened the door and held out a keycard. “You’ll need this.”
The thin plastic was heavier than it should have been. It lay on my palm like a new word I wasn’t sure I was allowed to say yet. My pulse climbed into my throat. The rose’s red burned in my periphery, a stoplight turned green. I didn’t ask what for. I just felt the floor of my old story tilt, and the next one open.
I waited for the after, for the neat sentence that would put me back where I belong. Instead, he said, “Blair’s publisher called at eight. They want to scale your concept across their list. We’re building a dedicated group to do author campaigns. I want you to lead it.”
For a second, all I could hear was gym noise from another life. Match point. My knee hitting the floor. The cheer going to someone else. My mouth went dry. “Me?” It came out small and hoarse, a kid asking if the grown-ups mean it.
“You,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious.
He walked me through the space—where my team would sit, the whiteboard we’d crowd with ideas, the budget I’d sign off on. I nodded like I knew how to carry a room with my name on the door. Inside, the girl with the pigtails stared at the keycard in my hand and didn’t dare blink.
An hour later, Facilities emailed: Parking Reassignment. I took the elevator down just to prove it wasn’t a joke. The MVP spot wasn’t an empty rectangle anymore. A temporary placard was taped over the old sign. My name. Spelled right. I touched the paper like it might smudge, like names only belong to other people.
Back upstairs, I sat in my new office with the door half-open, the rose on the windowsill, the note tucked where I could see it if I needed proof. The publisher liked my idea. We were expanding. I’d be the one steering now—not just keeping the ball in play while someone else took the bow.
I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt careful, like holding something warm and alive that might choose me back if I didn’t flinch. I let my name be loud in my head for once. I let the chair take my weight. And for the first time, being second wasn’t the ending I was braced for. It was just a story. I didn’t have to keep telling.
I hope you enjoyed this story. Yes, sharing my stories is part of a marketing campaign, which, if you’re an author, you might try.
Keep an eye on this space for news about the release date of The Big Beautiful Book of Stupid Shit. Sharing with friends is encouraged, as is leaving comments.
As the Director of the Carrollton League of Writers, I talk a lot about marketing. Like, a lot. Why? Because, as a writer, you’re basically doing one of three things at any given moment: writing, editing, or trying to convince people to buy the damn thing you wrote. And let me tell you right now: that third one is where dreams go to die.
That’s why I tell people to keep their day jobs. Seriously. Writing is a business, sure, but half the time, it’s just a fancy way to justify a tax write-off. “No, honey, it’s not a failed hobby—it’s a business expense.” And let’s just say most writers aren’t exactly raking in Stephen King-level royalty checks.
But hey, I’m not here to crush your dreams of being the next EL James (although I could). Instead, let me help you out with some marketing tips. Because let’s face it: if you don’t sell your book, nobody’s gonna read it. Well, except for your mom—and even she might “accidentally” forget to finish it.
1. Develop a Book Marketing Strategy
This is step one, folks. Before you do anything else, you need a plan. I know, planning isn’t sexy or fun, but neither is explaining to your friends why your book has been on Amazon for two years and still has zero reviews.
Here’s the deal: set some goals, figure out who the hell you’re writing for (hint: it’s not “everyone”), and decide how you’re going to reach them. A clear marketing strategy will help you avoid wasting time on pointless crap that doesn’t work.
2. Build Your Author Platform
Look, if nobody knows who you are, nobody’s gonna care about your book. That’s where your author platform comes in. It’s basically your online stage—so make sure you don’t look like a total amateur while you’re standing on it.
Create an Author Website: Think of this as your digital home base. It’s where people will go to learn about you, your book, and why they should give you their money. Plus, it’s a great place to collect email addresses for future marketing. (Yes, we’re going to talk about email lists later, so don’t roll your eyes yet.)
Engage on Social Media: This is where you can pretend you’re a celebrity, even if you’re just a writer with 12 followers and a lot of opinions about coffee. Platforms like Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok are your friends—if you use them right. Post updates, share behind-the-scenes tidbits, and actually interact with people. Nobody likes a self-promotional robot.
3. Prepare for Launch
Your book launch is a big freaking deal. It’s like a party, except instead of booze and karaoke, you’re hoping people will buy your book and leave nice reviews. So, yeah, slightly less fun, but still important.
Write a Killer Author Bio: This is your chance to convince readers that you’re an actual human being and not some faceless entity who churned out a book because ChatGPT told you to. Be relatable. Be funny. (Or don’t be funny, if that’s not your thing—but at least try to be interesting.)
Build a Launch Team: Gather a group of people who are willing to hype you up. These could be friends, family, or random strangers you bribed with the promise of free copies. They’ll leave early reviews, share your book on social media, and generally make you look like you’ve got a whole squad cheering for you.
Find Reviewers: Bloggers, influencers, that one book nerd you know—they’re all fair game. Reviews matter. A lot. Especially on platforms like Amazon. Without them, your book might as well not exist.
4. Optimize Your Book’s Online Presence
Your book’s online presence is like its dating profile. If it’s boring, confusing, or full of typos, nobody’s swiping right.
Metadata and Keywords: This is the boring part, but it’s super important. Make sure your book’s title, description, and keywords are optimized for search engines. Basically, make it easy for people to find your book when they’re browsing online.
Decide Where to Sell: Amazon is the obvious choice, but you’ve got options. You could go exclusive with Kindle Direct Publishing (and maybe Kindle Unlimited) or distribute your book more widely. Just know that Amazon is kind of like the popular kid at school—if you’re not hanging out there, you’re probably missing out on a lot of attention.
5. Promote Your Book
Here’s where the real hustle comes in. You’ve got to put yourself out there and make people want to read your book.
Leverage Social Proof: Translation: beg readers to leave reviews. The more people are talking about your book online, the more likely it is that others will check it out.
Reach Out for Publicity: Bloggers, podcasters, and media outlets can help spread the word. Guest blogging and podcast interviews are great ways to get in front of new audiences. Plus, you get to feel important for a hot second.
Run Promotions: Discounts, giveaways, limited-time offers—these are all great ways to generate buzz. Everyone loves free stuff, so use that to your advantage.
6. Keep the Momentum Going
Here’s the thing about book marketing: it doesn’t stop after your launch. If you want your book to keep selling, you’ve got to keep working at it. (Yeah, I know. It sucks. Welcome to the grind.)
Build an Email List: Remember when I said we’d talk about email lists? Well, here we are. Use your website and social media to collect email addresses, then send out regular newsletters to keep your audience engaged. Think of it as your personal fan club.
Keep Marketing: Try new things. Experiment. Fail. Learn. And then try again. Marketing is an ongoing process, and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.
Start thinking about marketing before you finish your book. I know, it’s tempting to just focus on the writing and hope people will magically find your work later, but that’s not how it works. The earlier you start planning and building your platform, the better your chances of success.
And hey, if all else fails, at least you can say you gave it a shot. Worst case scenario, you’ve got a great story to tell at parties: “Remember that time I tried to be a famous author? Yeah, that was wild.”
If you want me to dig deeper into any of these steps—or if you just need someone to commiserate with—I’m here for you. Let’s make your book the next big thing (or at least a thing).
Point Blank: Lessons I Learned on the Wrong Side of a Badge
A Book You Didn’t Know You Needed (But Oh, You Do)
Let me hit you with a question: Have you ever looked back on your life, shaking your head like, What the actual hell was I thinking? Ever had cops point guns at you like you just robbed a damn bank? Or been pulled over for speeding, on a bicycle? If you answered yes to any of that, welcome to the club. And if you didn’t, buckle up, because this book will give you a front-row seat to the kind of weirdness you didn’t know you needed in your life.
Now, take that “what the hell” feeling, crank it up to eleven, sprinkle in a heaping dose of stupidity, and slather it all with dark humor. That’s my life in a nutshell. Well, that, and now it’s also my book.
Point Blank isn’t just a catchy title, it’s basically the theme of my existence. It’s a front-row seat to the absurdity of growing up chasing lizards in Carrollton, Texas, and somehow ending up walking a tightrope between comedy and total catastrophe. And let’s be real—who hasn’t been there?
This book is my love letter to the moments that make life… well, incredibly dumb. It’s a collection of stories, life lessons, and the facepalm-worthy memories that prove one thing: no matter how much you think you’ve got life figured out, you don’t. (Spoiler alert: no one does.) But honestly, isn’t that where the fun is? In the ridiculous, the unexpected, and the holy-crap-why-is-this-happening moments?
So, What the Hell Is Point Blank About?
At its core, Point Blank is a comedic deep dive into life’s dumbest moments. But it’s not just that. It’s part memoir, part roast, part free therapy session (for me, not you). It’s the kind of book you pick up when life’s been kicking you in the teeth, and you need a reminder that you are not the only one out here navigating the chaos.
Here’s a little teaser of what you’re in for:
Lessons I Learned While Staring Down the Barrel of a Gun
Pro tip: Don’t try to argue your case with the cops on the side of the road. Just don’t.
How to Survive a Head-On Collision (And the Bureaucratic Circus That Follows)
Because apparently, getting hit by a drunk driver isn’t enough. Nope, fate has to throw in paperwork, insurance nightmares, and a side of complete nonsense.
The Great Paper Route Fiasco
Picture this: ink-stained hands, 5 a.m. bike rides, and a not-so-charming run-in with the local cops. (Spoiler: they weren’t impressed.)
“Arrest-Me Red” and Other Car Choices I’d Like to Forget
Fast cars, flashing lights, and one particularly chaotic road trip from Miami to Key West that felt more like a cop magnet convention.
Reinvention 101
From engineer to IT guy to sci-fi writer, because apparently, I like to keep my life as unpredictable as possible.
Why You’re Gonna Love This Book
Okay, I get it. You’re probably thinking: Do I really need another book about someone else’s ridiculous life? But hear me out, this one’s different. It’s not just about my life. It’s about our lives.
It’s about the universal stupidity we all encounter—the shared facepalm moments that remind us we’re all just winging it. You’ll laugh (hard). You’ll cringe (probably harder). You might even tear up a little, but only in that holy crap, this is too real kind of way.
Think of Point Blank as sitting down with that one friend who’s been through some serious shit, lived to tell the tale, and somehow managed to find the punchline in every disaster.
Who’s This Book For?
If you’ve ever made a decision so dumb it deserves its own monument, this book’s for you.
If you’ve ever looked at someone else’s life and thought, Well, at least I’m not that guy, this book’s definitely for you.
If you’re a fan of George Carlin’s brutal honesty, Douglas Adams’ absurd humor, or David Sedaris’ ability to find hilarity in misery, congrats—you’ve found your new favorite read.
If you just need a good laugh, a break, or a reminder that life’s most chaotic moments are often the most memorable, this book is 1000% for you.
Where to Read It
Picture this: You’re sitting on the toilet (don’t even pretend you don’t scroll or read in there), flipping pages or swiping through your phone, and suddenly you’re laughing so hard you almost fall off the damn seat. That’s what this book is for.
It’s for the bathroom, the waiting room, the coffee break, the long-ass flight, or those sleepless nights when you just want to escape the madness for a bit.
A Final Word
Point Blank isn’t just a book. It’s an experience. It’s a rollercoaster through the highs and lows, the WTF moments, and the laughs that make life worth living—and retelling.
So here’s the deal: Buy the book. Read the book. Laugh at the book. Share the book. And who knows? Maybe you’ll start seeing your own life in a slightly less serious, slightly more ridiculous light.
Because let’s face it, isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? Find the humor in the madness, make sense of the chaos, and keep moving forward, one hilariously stupid moment at a time.
Go grab your copy of Point Blank. Trust me, your life will be better (or at least funnier) for it.
Then do me a solid, give it a review from where you bought it, or even read it for free on KDP.
A lot of you are staring at flat sales and asking me the same thing I see in my inbox every week: are people still reading?
Short answer: yes. Longer answer: hell yes, but reading has changed outfits. People still love romance, fantasy, and thrillers, yet a lot of them are grabbing audiobooks, e-books, and snackable serials on Wattpad and Substack. Attention is a fragile little beast, so readers also go for shorter, punchier stuff, or they want summaries and adaptations like podcasts and quick recaps that fit between life, work, and whatever Netflix is feeding them tonight.
Where Are People Reading?
Online platforms: Wattpad, Kindle Direct Publishing, Substack, and even Reddit are buzzing with new voices and weirdly passionate niche communities.
Social media: Instagram’s Bookstagram, TikTok’s BookTok, and Twitter’s BookTwitter can catapult a book from “who the hell is this?” to “I saw that everywhere.”
Audiobooks and podcasts: Multitaskers unite. People listen while commuting, cleaning, working out, or pretending to stretch.
Why, you might ask. Have you listened to the news? Then you know the answer.
How Can an Unknown Writer Get Known Today?
1) Social media is a tool, not a religion
Use it if it helps. It’s great for visibility, networking, and actually talking to readers, but it shouldn’t swallow your writing time.
Yes, some authors thrive with little or no social presence. They are the exception. For most of us mortals, social helps put the work in front of eyeballs.
2) Other ways to get noticed
Self-publishing: KDP and Wattpad can get your work to readers without asking anyone’s permission.
Newsletter and email list:Gold. You own that relationship, and it beats shouting into the algorithm void.
Collaborations: Guest posts, podcast interviews, swaps with other writers. Borrow audiences like a pro.
Local events: Bookstores, libraries, and fairs still move the needle. Also, free cookies sometimes.
3) If you do social, do it smart
Go where your readers hang out. TikTok is huge for YA and romance. Twitter is strong for sci-fi and literary fiction.
Post more than “buy my book.” Share behind-the-scenes bits, the messy writing process, personal stories, and jump into reader conversations. Be a human, not a billboard.
The Business of Writing: From A to Z
Writing a great story matters. Editing matters. Neither will save you if you treat your book like a message in a bottle. Authors are not just artists. You are a business. That means strategy, systems, and marketing that moves people to talk about your work and you.This is not selling out. This is how you get read.
What “Business” Means for Authors
Product: Your book, your series, your backlist, your bonus content.
Brand: The promise you make to readers and the vibe you deliver every time.
Distribution: How your work reaches people, both digital and physical.
Marketing: How you attract attention and convert it into actual readers.
Operations: Calendars, budgets, deadlines, tools, contracts, taxes. The glamorous stuff.
Analytics: Knowing what works so you can do more of it and stop guessing.
The A to Z of Author Biz
A — Audience: Define a reader persona, not a vague blob. Who are they, what do they read, where do they hang out, why do they care.
B — Brand: One line that nails your promise. Keep your covers, copy, and tone consistent.
C — Copywriting: Your blurb and ad hooks must carry their own weight. Clarity beats clever.
D — Distribution: Go wide, or go exclusive. Pick based on genre norms and your goals.
E — Email: Build a list. Own your audience. Send value, not spam.
Invite participation: Polls, challenges, reading sprints, live Q&A.
Close with an ask: If you loved it, tell a friend, leave a review, join the list. Simple and direct.
Now, for all this free advice…My latest creation The Big Beautiful Book of Stupid Shit is almost ready for publication. If you like what you read, give me a follow, a thumbs up, hell repost it for me because what I have written will not only assist other writers but this book which is as large as “The Big Beautiful Bill.” is almost ready.
Years ago I worked at an advertising agency. We had to be creative. Today while watching the news I was shocked by the big pharma ads. The tag line: is death right for you, came to mind.
Thinking back to those days, I formulated an ad campaign that would never get played, but it should. Do we really need pills that keep us hooked on more pills to fix the side effects of those pills?
Tell me what you think.
Alright, team. Gather ‘round. I’ve got a pitch for you that’s equal parts brilliance, absurdity, and just the right amount of “what the actual f***.” You’re going to love it. Or hate it. Either way, we’re making history—and probably pissing off Big Pharma in the process.
Picture this: A pharmaceutical commercial. But not just any pharmaceutical commercial. Oh no, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill “cure one thing, destroy seven others” nonsense. This is bold, it’s darkly funny, and it’s honest. Strap in, because I’m about to sell you the next big thing in healthcare advertising.
Opening Scene: A Hallmark Dream
We start with the usual formula—because let’s face it, the best parody thrives on clichés.
Imagine a serene meadow: golden sunlight pouring through the trees, a golden retriever frolicking in slow motion, and a woman spinning in circles like she just discovered her life has been sponsored by Xanax. The piano music? Uplifting. The visuals? Pinterest-worthy. The voiceover? Smooth as silk.
“Are you tired of your minor discomfort? Is that pesky rash ruining your Tuesday? Does your slight headache feel like the universe is conspiring against you? Introducing PanaceaX™—because being mildly inconvenienced is clearly the worst thing that can happen to you.”
Cue the woman laughing with her family. She’s baking cookies with zero regard for her gluten intolerance. The dog’s wagging its tail like it’s auditioning for a Disney movie. You feel warm, cozy, safe. But then… oh, then, the voiceover takes a turn.
The Twist: Side Effects from Hell
“Side effects may include nausea, dizziness, dry mouth, explosive diarrhea, uncontrollable vomiting, hallucinations, existential dread, spontaneous combustion, and, oh yeah—death.”
Pause for dramatic effect.
“Ask your doctor if PanaceaX™ is right for you.”
Now, let’s linger on this for a second. Death. We’re not even trying to sugarcoat it. We’re leaning all the way in. Because, let’s be real—half the drugs on the market already come with side effects that sound like rejected horror movie plots. Why not own it?
The tagline? Simple, catchy, and just the right amount of nihilistic charm:
“PanaceaX™: Because if you’re gonna die anyway, you might as well do it medicated.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But how do we make people laugh about something as horrifying as spontaneous internal bleeding or uncontrollable rage?” Easy. We do what pharmaceutical ads already do—bury it under a montage of happy people living their best lives. Except we call attention to how absolutely insane it is.
The voiceover speeds up, auctioneer-style. You know the drill: “Nausea. Vomiting. Headaches. Diarrhea so explosive it’ll put food poisoning to shame. Dry mouth so bad you’ll think you’ve been licking sandpaper. And for those of you lucky enough to hit the jackpot: sudden personality changes, hallucinations, and the occasional bout of spontaneous combustion. PanaceaX™: Because nothing says ‘healthcare’ like becoming a walking dumpster fire.”
Meanwhile, the visuals continue to show people doing things that have nothing to do with the drug. A dad teaching his kid to ride a bike. A couple on a beach. A grandma knitting a sweater for her cat. No one’s vomiting. No one’s combusting. It’s all lies. But that’s the beauty of it.
Let’s Talk About the Rare Side Effects
Now, this is where we really shine. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill “oops, I sneezed too hard” side effects. Oh no. These are the real gems. The ones that make you question your life choices.
Uncontrollable Rage: Perfect for holiday dinners with the in-laws.
Sudden Hair Loss: Because bald is the new black.
Loss of Taste: Both literal and metaphorical. Say goodbye to your sense of flavor and your fashion sense.
Spontaneous Internal Bleeding: A fun surprise for everyone involved.
Death: The ultimate cure for all ailments. Guaranteed 100% effective every time.
And we have to include this one: “May cause an irrational fear of ducks.” Why? Because it’s weird, it’s random, and it makes people pay attention.
The Irony of It All
Here’s the kicker, folks: The diseases these drugs are treating? They’re usually not that big a deal. Heartburn? Allergies? A little anxiety? You don’t need a pill for that—you need a nap and a decent therapist. But no, we’ve been conditioned to think that every minor inconvenience requires a chemical solution. And let’s be honest, we eat it up. Why? Because the ads show us what we want to see: happiness, health, freedom.
That’s the genius of it. They dangle the perfect life in front of us, and we bite. Even if the fine print basically says, “May cause your organs to implode.”
Final Scene: The Closing Pitch
So here’s how we wrap it up. The screen fades to black. The piano music swells. The logo for PanaceaX™ appears, glowing softly. And the voiceover delivers the final line with just the right amount of smug optimism:
“PanaceaX™: Ask your doctor if death is right for you. (Spoiler alert: It probably is.)”
Cue the woman spinning in the meadow one last time, but this time, she’s holding a giant bottle of PanaceaX™ like it’s the Holy Grail.
Why This Works
This pitch is self-aware, sarcastic, and just unhinged enough to go viral. It pokes fun at the absurdity of pharmaceutical advertising while staying true to the format. It’s dark, it’s funny, and most importantly—it’s memorable. People will be quoting, “Ask your doctor if death is right for you” for years.
So, what do you think? Are we ready to take the pharmaceutical world by storm, or should we just prescribe ourselves a big ol’ dose of “f*** it” and call it a day?
A Taste of Stupid Shit (Coming Soon to a Brain Near You)
That, my friends, is just a tiny sample of the glorious nonsense you’ll find in The Big Beautiful Book of Stupid Shit, which is currently in the editing process. Yes, I’m editing it—because apparently, society frowns upon just flinging raw stupidity into the world without a little polish. Go figure.
I’m hoping to release it in the next few weeks because, let’s be real, the world desperately needs this. We’re drowning in stupidity every day—on TV, on social media, at family reunions—and someone (me) needs to catalog it, mock it, and gift-wrap it for your reading pleasure.
So, do me a favor: subscribe, follow, comment, and tell me what you think. Or don’t. I’m not your mom. But if you do, you’ll get to say you were here before this book becomes the literary equivalent of a viral cat meme. And let’s face it—who doesn’t want that level of cultural credibility?
Go forth, let your voice be heard and spread the word far and wide. Or don’t. No matter what, this book will come to fruition, and it promises to be an exceptionally enjoyable experience. Stay tuned, and prepare for comedy gold written in bite-sized chapters that will have you laughing as if you were at a live show.
I surrendered the glow. The soft, blue hum that filled the room after dinner. I set the remote down the way some people set aside sugar for Lent—deliberately, almost ceremonially—like I was laying a coin on a ferryman’s palm. The one-eyed monster blinked into its own reflection, and the living room exhaled. No laugh track. No canned cliffhanger. Only the fridge whispering, the clock ticking, the house going quiet enough for another world to speak.
That was the night my AR clicked on.
Not augmented reality. Author Reality. The dimension that lives behind every closed door and blinking cursor. It doesn’t need a headset, and it doesn’t apologize for being demanding. It’s the world that asks you to show up with the same seriousness you bring to your job, your family, your grief, your joy. It rewards the faithful, and it keeps its secrets from the curious who wander in for a minute and wander back out.
Is it worth it? Depends on what you want from a story: to be carried, or to build the boat.
Here’s the rhythm I’ve learned, the three-beat cadence of making a book: if I’m not writing, I’m editing. If I’m not editing, I’m sharing—sending flares from my lighthouse so readers can find the shore I’ve drawn by hand. The work doesn’t pause when inspiration does. The tide moves with or without me, and the only way to get anywhere is to put an oar in the water every day, even when the fog is thick.
In AR, everything means more than it looks. A mug of coffee stops being a mug. Steam rolls out like sea fog over the harbor city I sketched in a January notebook—the one with crooked alleys and market bells and a lighthouse whose stair treads know my footsteps by now. The keyboard isn’t plastic and wires; it’s a compass that points toward scenes I haven’t met and scenes I’m avoiding. The cursor blinks like a beacon: here, here, here. Come back to work.
Characters are the first to step through. They don’t knock; they appear mid-argument, mid-laugh, mid-betrayal, dragging weather from their world into mine. A woman with ink-stained fingers and a secret she thinks is hers to keep sits across a table I’ve never owned, tapping out a rhythm that nags me until I write it. A courier with a map stitched into his jacket refuses to sleep until I let him miss his train. They bring me their trouble and their hope and ask me to be brave enough to tell the truth about both.
Writing is the first excavation. It’s the rush of discovering a bone in the sand and imagining the whole animal in a heartbeat. Then comes editing—the archaeology that happens with a brush instead of a shovel. Line by line, brush, brush, brush. I dig out the clean edges of the story from the clay of my habits. I cut the clever lines that don’t serve the skeleton. I sand away the splinters of scenes that snag but don’t support.
Editing is humbling. It asks: if you were a reader with a train to catch and twenty minutes to spare, would you keep turning pages? It makes you honest. It makes you protective of the reader’s time like it’s your own. It teaches you that your favorite sentence is sometimes the one that has to go.
Then there’s the sharing. I used to call it marketing and feel like I’d swapped my compass for a billboard, but that was before I understood it as lighthouse work. A story without a reader is a ship locked in the bottle: complete, exquisite, invisible. So I keep the glass polished. I write the note that says, “This is the world waiting inside,” and I send it in a thousand bottles. I accept that some will wash back to my own feet. I light the lamp again tomorrow. Maintenance isn’t glamorous, but neither is missing land because the light went out.
What did I trade for this? The easy glow of someone else’s story. The comfort of predictable arcs and neat resolutions. I traded hours that evaporated into hours that accrue. The time I used to float became time I build.
Not all trades feel noble. There are nights when the couch calls me by name, when the news scrolls like a slow-motion car wreck and every good show has three seasons ready to swallow me whole. There are mornings when the alarm sounds like a dare. I don’t always win. But I keep a little ledger—a trade log that tells me, honestly, what I gave up and what I made instead.
Gave up: an hour of television, a mindless scroll, a snack I didn’t need. Built instead: 827 words that moved a character from lying to telling the truth. Reshaped a chapter so the secret doesn’t leak too soon. Jotted a note about how the lighthouse uses a lens I’d never heard of before—Fresnel, a word that tastes like a bell.
Some nights the ledger holds only this: showed up. Sat with the blank and did not run. That counts. That’s a bead on the string.
Is it worth it? I don’t pretend I don’t miss the weightless time. Ease is its own kind of bliss. But there’s another kind: the exhale that comes when a paragraph clicks into place after a week of sanding. The email that says, “I brought your character to the doctor with me; she kept me company in the waiting room.” The message that says, “I didn’t think anyone knew how this felt until I read your chapter.” Those are the moments when the ledger pays interest.
Author Reality is not glamorous. It’s not a montage scored to moody piano. It’s a series of ordinary choices that turn into extraordinary pages. It is the practice of saying no to something pleasant so you can say yes to something that will outlast you. It’s a room you have to reenter every day because the door locks when you leave. And it is, somehow, always worth the key.
Maybe you feel the familiar itch in your palms. The tug toward building instead of consuming. The quiet knowing that you are meant to make something you cannot yet see the edges of. If that’s you, come with me. We can navigate together, even in different boats.
Here’s how to open your AR door:
For one week, switch off the one-eyed monster. Thirty minutes a day is enough to crack the seam between here and there. Put your remote in a drawer, set a timer, and let silence stretch long enough to get uncomfortable. On the other side of discomfort is a voice that wants to talk to you.
Choose your role each day so you don’t fight your own weather. Calm sea? Write new words, even if they’re ugly. Wind picking up? Edit yesterday’s draft with gentle eyes. Fog horn blowing? Share a piece—a paragraph, a line, a feeling—with someone who might need it. Writing, editing, sharing. Every day has a job.
Keep a tiny trade log. One line. What you traded. What you built. Gave up: 40 minutes of scrolling. Built: 3 new pages and a better scene transition. Gave up: a second helping of dessert. Built: the energy to reread my own work without hating it. The log is proof. The log is a map.
Offer a postcard from your AR. A sentence, a sketch of a character, a logline that scares you a little to say out loud. Tell me why it matters to you. We anchor each other when we speak our worlds into air.
You don’t need a headset to live in augmented reality. You need intention. You need a door you’re willing to close and a light you’re willing to switch on. You need the courage to choose your story over the millions that want to borrow your attention for free and charge you with regret later.
I won’t pretend it’s easy to keep that light burning. But I can promise this: the worlds we build in AR have a way of building us back. They give us patience and precision and a tenderness for our own imperfect drafts. They teach us to wait for the fog to lift and to move forward anyway, even when it doesn’t. They send back echoes in the shape of readers who bring our characters to breakfast, to chemotherapy, to bed. They make meaning out of minutes.
The light is on. The keys are warm. The door is unlocked. If you’re ready, step into your AR. Leave your shoes at the threshold and carry only what you need: your stubbornness, your curiosity, a pen that doesn’t mind being chewed. I’ll be in the lighthouse, keeping watch, sending signals. When your boat appears on the horizon, I’ll wave you in.
There are so many aspects to writing that I think we can get lost in the weeds.
Today I want to focus on pacing. What is it?
Pacing refers to the rate at which a story unfolds, influencing how quickly or slowly the narrative progresses. It is a crucial element of storytelling that affects reader engagement, emotional impact, and the overall mood of the piece.
The length of scenes can significantly affect the pacing. Short, punchy scenes can create a fast-paced narrative, while longer, more descriptive scenes tend to slow the pace down.
The intensity and frequency of action sequences versus descriptive passages also play a vital role. A story filled with rapid action will generally feel faster-paced, while a narrative that delves deeply into character emotions and settings may feel slower.
Different genres often dictate pacing styles. For example, thrillers typically have a brisk pace to maintain tension and excitement, whereas character-driven novels may adopt a slower pace to allow for deeper emotional connections.
Effective pacing often involves varying the speed throughout the story. This technique can help maintain reader interest and build tension, creating a dynamic reading experience.
The primary purpose of pacing is to control the speed at which the story is told, which is not always the same as the speed of the events occurring within the narrative. By manipulating pacing, writers can enhance tension, develop characters, and evoke specific emotional responses from readers.
A thriller might exemplify effective pacing through a combination of short, action-packed scenes and longer, descriptive passages. The rapid shifts between intense action and slower moments allow readers to catch their breath while still maintaining a sense of urgency throughout the story.
Tension through pacing is all about rhythm and balance. By using techniques like short sentences, fast dialogue, controlled information release, and alternating speeds, writers can craft a narrative that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. Whether it’s a high-stakes chase or a quiet moment of dread, pacing allows authors to manipulate the reader’s emotional experience and maintain suspense throughout the story.
Many can write a good story, but can they captivate their readers? Pacing is a key element in maintaining reader engagement.
Common Pacing Mistakes to Avoid
Pacing is a delicate balance in storytelling, and mistakes in this area can disrupt the flow of a narrative, disengage readers, or confuse them. Here are some common pacing mistakes and how to avoid them:
1. Rushing Through Key Moments
The Problem: Important scenes, such as climactic moments or emotional turning points, are glossed over too quickly. This can leave readers feeling unsatisfied or disconnected from the story.
How to Avoid: Slow down during pivotal moments. Use detailed descriptions, internal monologue, and sensory details to fully immerse readers in the scene. For example, explore their thoughts and feelings in depth instead of rushing through a character’s emotional reaction.
2. Dragging the Narrative with Too Much Description
The Problem: Overloading the story with excessive description or unnecessary details can bog down the pace, making the narrative feel slow and tedious.
How to Avoid: Be selective with descriptions. Focus on details that are relevant to the plot or character development. If a scene feels slow, consider cutting unnecessary exposition or dialogue.
3. Uneven Pacing
The Problem: The story alternates between being too fast in some parts and too slow in others, creating a jarring experience for readers.
How to Avoid: Plan your pacing intentionally. Use faster pacing for action scenes and slower pacing for introspection or world-building. Balance is key—vary the tempo to keep readers engaged without overwhelming or boring them.
4. Too Many Filler Scenes
The Problem: Including scenes that don’t advance the plot or develop characters can make the story feel stagnant and cause readers to lose interest.
How to Avoid: Every scene should serve a purpose. Ask yourself: Does this scene move the plot forward, reveal something about the characters, or build tension? If not, consider cutting or reworking it.
5. Overloading the Reader with Action
The Problem: Constant action without breaks can exhaust readers and make the story feel monotonous, even in genres like thrillers or action-adventure.
How to Avoid: Alternate between high-intensity action and slower, reflective moments. This gives readers time to process events and connect with the characters.
6. Skipping Over Transitions
The Problem: Jumping too quickly between scenes or events without proper transitions can confuse readers and disrupt the flow of the story.
How to Avoid: Use transitions to guide readers smoothly from one scene to the next. Even a brief sentence or two to establish time, place, or mood can help maintain clarity.
7. Ignoring Genre Expectations
The Problem: Pacing that doesn’t align with the genre can alienate readers. For example, a slow-paced thriller or a fast-paced literary drama may feel out of place.
How to Avoid: Understand the pacing norms of your genre. Thrillers and action stories typically require faster pacing, while literary fiction or romance may benefit from slower, more introspective pacing.
8. Failing to Build Tension Gradually
The Problem: Jumping straight into high-stakes moments without proper buildup can make the story feel rushed and reduce the emotional impact.
How to Avoid: Gradually increase tension by layering conflicts, foreshadowing events, and raising the stakes over time. This creates a more satisfying payoff when the climax arrives.
9. Repetition of Similar Scenes
The Problem: Repeating scenes that cover the same ground (e.g., similar conversations or conflicts) can make the story feel redundant and slow.
How to Avoid: Ensure each scene adds something new to the story. If two scenes feel repetitive, combine them or cut one entirely.
10. Overcomplicating the Plot
The Problem: Introducing too many subplots or unnecessary twists can overwhelm readers and make the pacing feel erratic.
How to Avoid: Streamline your plot. Focus on the main storyline and ensure subplots are relevant and resolved in a timely manner.
Many of you know I frequently submit contest entries to Reedsy, aiming for several submissions each month.
While the tease, the carrot, if you will, of $250 is nice, the reality is that I don’t even consider that part of the prize that I am seeking.
People around the world read my stories. While a simple “like” is an affirmation in that they took the time to click like, it is for the critiques of other writers I seek.
Since they don’t know me, they can tell me what they honestly think or feel. I also reciprocate for the stories that I read. I do that with the good, the bad, and the ugly.
This week’s entry was posted, and I received the following review.
Scott, your story masterfully blends humor, serendipity, and heartfelt moments into a captivating narrative that made me feel like I was right there in the snowed-in airport. The line, “No, I’m not tired,” he whispered sadly, “but I’m also sad to see the blizzard ending,” encapsulates the bittersweet feeling of fleeting connections and new possibilities. Your depiction of Victor and Emma’s banter and chemistry, especially their shared frustrations and quick wit, is utterly delightful. The humor throughout the story—like Emma’s hilarious commentary on airport bars—kept the mood lively while the underlying emotions added depth. Your vivid descriptions, especially of the bustling airport bar and Victor’s nostalgia for Toad Suck, created a rich, immersive backdrop. This is a wonderfully crafted piece with humor, heart, and charm. Thank you for sharing such a delightful read!
I am not sharing this as a brag but as an example.
Countless similar contests, with their own unique rules and prizes, undoubtedly exist across various platforms and communities. For me, these contests are much like a recess from grade school—a welcome break from the pressures of work, a chance to let loose and have some fun, just like those carefree days of childhood. The prompt transports me from my project – be it the chilling winds and barren rocks of an alien planet or the plush carpets and rich scents of a movie star’s boudoir. The challenge is to meticulously plan my writing, unlike my spontaneous, free-flowing pantster style. With a maximum of 3000 words, creating the arc, the storyline, and so on is excellent practice for that New York Times bestseller that is looming in the near distance of my imagination.
Recently, I published a book of these entries called Ephemera, Tales of the Fleeting and Profound. Another book with the same name, Vol II, is in the making as I take these stories, edit them, add to them as I see fit, and re-publish them as a book of short stories. You can find my work here.
Welcome to 2025 and your personal connection to someone passionate about the craft of writing. Cheers!
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