Tip O'Day #292 - Setting & Theme

The two previous blog posts have talked about the importance of setting, and the possibility it can actually become a character in your story - think The Perfect Storm. Another consideration is the use of setting to reinforce the mood and themes of your story. There’s a reason few noir scenes are set on sunny California beaches. The following is the third excerpt from my forthcoming thriller, Montana is Burning, which will be out in Kindle this summer.

The golden eagle sliced through the air, miles from where scattered rain drenched a small clearing and the stream that ran through it. She spiraled upward with little effort, riding a thermal current as she waited for the storm to break up.

The eagle was the perfect aerial predator, with cruel talons and a beak that could disembowel an adult sheep. She was death from the sky. Lacking an owl’s night vision, she couldn’t hunt after dark, even though high winds had kept her pinned to her aerie for more than a week and starvation threatened.

She circled and watched. In a valley far below, dry lightning struck a large snag and it burst into flames. Since no animals fled from the fire, the eagle quickly lost interest. She flew on.

The isolated storm finished venting its fury on the clearing and sped east. Dim memories drew the eagle above a stream where salmon returned each summer’s end and trout grew fat and pink on the helpless spawn – ancestral memories of hunts and feasts by eagles long dead but memories no less real. The raptor smelled blood and tasted flesh as if the kills had been her own.

The great bird spotted the glitter of whitewater skittering across rocks made smooth by eons of glacial runoff, and saw dark shapes carving their way beneath the surface.

She dipped a chocolate-brown wing and dropped below the air current. The eagle descended slowly at first, then folded her wings next to her body to plunge like lightning drawn to earth. Her freefall lasted hundreds of feet before she spread wide her wings, pulling out of the meteoric dive. With hardly an eddy on the water’s surface, she ripped a trout from the icy stream and started back to her craggy perch, blood on her talons and savagery in her cry.

As she climbed through the warm air, the golden eagle spotted the valley where lightning struck a snag earlier. Flames burned greedily and jumped to neighboring scrub pine. Only the eagle saw.

In the great bird’s wake, a wolf erupted into the opening and sprang across the stream, but the whitetail he had been stalking already bounded far down the slope, startled by the exultant screech from above. Stopping at the edge of the clearing, the wolf listened to the doe’s flight.

The wolf turned from the fading sound of escape. He jogged toward remembered cattle.

The world, after all, was full of prey.

Tip O'Day #291 - Setting as a Character

Setting can become a character in your story. In my novel Montana is Burning, a forest fire serves as not only backdrop, but also antagonist and instigator of events. In this second part of the novel excerpt, the fire faces death but survives.

The golden eagle circled high over a remote valley twenty miles west of Kintla, Montana.

A burning snag sent a faint column of smoke aloft. The eagle knew fire usually flushes small animals from their hiding places but not this time. A pine beetle infestation had devastated the valley, leaving behind mostly rotten stumps and scarcely any healthy trees. Despite a huge insect population, there were almost no green branches and so hardly any rodents, birds or small game lived there. Above the size of centipedes, practically no life survived in the valley.

The great bird found a sturdy branch high in an ancient pine. She waited.

Like waves rippling out from a pebble dropped in a fiery lake, a circle of flame spread around the snag, painting the pale underbelly of the clouds an angry red. The lower branches of several nearby spruce caught fire. The expanding pool lapped across the matted carpet of pine needles, burning into the forest floor until it ran out of air.

A dark cloud passed overhead, so heavy with water vapor that it began to condense. A shower doused the valley and the eagle sought shelter on a lower branch.

Flames hissed and wavered and then finally failed. As if to signal the fire's defeat, the blackened snag teetered and fell. A cloud of ash rose into the damp air then pelted back to earth with the rain.

The snag lay on its side like some grotesque wounded beast. Sheltered from the rain, its underside reflected a dim glow against the ruined forest floor. The fire lived.

The golden eagle took wing and continued her hunt.

This three-part novel excerpt concludes tomorrow, when wolf and eagle meet one another.

Novel Excerpt Exchange #3 - James Kellogg

Novel excerpt exchanges help expose readers to new authors, as well as being a way for writers to support one another. This is the third one for me.

The selection below is from novelist James D. Kellogg. He is a civil engineer by training and an outdoor enthusiast by choice, and both elements are obvious in his thriller, E-Force. He and his wife Kristen are raising their four kids near Glenwood Springs, Colorado. You can contact James by email or visit his website.

This 1,200-word excerpt is from chapter 5 of E-Force.

Tempers were flaring at the manager’s meeting. Colt was certain that the Salem Witch Trials couldn’t have been more chilling. With the suddenness of an ocean squall, the forum had degenerated into a hostile volley of accusations and defenses. The handwriting on the wall was plain for Colt to see. The days of EcoFriends were numbered.

A female manager turned on the other five women. “I’m not paying the price for the bitch that ratted on us! Everybody knows I’ve put my heart and soul into this organization.”

“You’d sell us out in a heartbeat if you could profit!” One fiery vixen charged at the haughty accuser. “How much is the FBI paying you?”

“That’s right. Fight it out!” A man pumped his fist.

“Let’s make them all take polygraph tests.” One board member stepped between the two potential combatants.

“There’re better ways to get a confession than that,” another person said.

“Enough of this!” Howard Anderson finally took control. “We’re tearing ourselves apart because of one traitor. If we’re going to survive, we’ve got to stick together. The truth is going to come out. Whoever is guilty has one last chance for redemption. I’ll give you until the end of the week to come to me and confess. Then we’ll figure out how to make things right again.”

Adjournment was an armistice in an escalating war. At the reprieve, people scattered. Colt looked for Deb, but she was gone. The air in the building seemed poisoned. He hurried outside where he could breathe.

“Damned horde of barbarians,” Colt muttered on the sidewalk, shaking his head with disgust for the behavior his colleagues had exhibited. The organization was supposedly founded on trust and loyalty, yet every leader was bent on crucifying one of their own.

Anderson has lost his mind. Colt stormed toward the street. It was insane to prop up the terrorist group E-Force as a means to stabilize EcoFriends. It’s like skydiving without a parachute so you didn’t risk getting tangled in the lines. Everybody’s following him into the sea like a bunch of damned lemmings.

Without a doubt, Colt regretted his involvement with EcoFriends. Foolishly, he’d been a complacent passenger in his life and work. It was time to move behind the wheel and take command. EcoFriends was going to be part of the past, not the future.

“Colt, wait for me!” a familiar voice said.

Colt turned to see Deb dart across the street. A car braked to avoid running her down. She drew alongside Colt, ignoring the blaring horn as the vehicle resumed course.

“You almost got killed!” Colt was alarmed by Deb’s reckless action.

“What does it matter?”

“I don’t understand why you would ask that.” Colt evaluated his friend’s pale sickly appearance. “What’s going on? Where’ve you been?”

“Vomiting in the restroom.” Deb’s voice wavered. “We need to have that talk.”

“Let’s get away from the street.” Colt grabbed her by the arm. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

The pair didn’t speak during the brisk trip to a parking lot at the end of the block. When they reached Deb’s vehicle, she couldn’t contain herself any longer.

“Colt, can I trust you to keep a secret?” Deb asked in a hushed tone.

“Of course you can trust me,” Colt said, frowning. “What’s going on Deb?”

“I’m the one who went to the FBI. I told them about the money laundering.”

“So it was you.” Colt’s pulse quickened. “Holy shit. The meeting must have been a nightmare for you.”

“I can’t believe what’s happening.” Tears welled up in Deb’s eyes. “When I called from a payphone, the FBI agent promised my statements were confidential. I don’t know how Anderson found out. Colt, I’m scared.”

“It’s going to be okay.” Colt dabbed a tear from her cheek. “Nobody can pin the leak on you.”

“There’s more to the story.” Deb’s eyes were hollow. “All the dirty money went to E-Force.”

Colt’s heart skipped a beat at the assertion. Deb had uncovered the truth. Months ago, Colt had discovered that tens of thousands were going to E-Force. But he had done nothing. Like a fool, he continued to divert funds from his chapter, knowing the money was being laundered and funneled to E-Force.

“Is that what you told the Feds?” Colt sputtered. “How do you even know that?”

“I overheard a conversation between Anderson and Cain. And, yes, I told the FBI!”

“Deb, keep your voice down.” Colt cast a nervous glance around. “Maybe we should talk inside your car.”

“I haven’t told you the worst part,” Deb said after they were seated in the vehicle with the doors shut. “I’m not sure if I should.”

“What could be worse?” Colt felt as if he was about to be sentenced by a judge.

“Zed Cain is part of E-Force.” Deb was trembling. “If he finds out I know the truth, he’ll do something terrible. Colt, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just calm down.” A shiver rippled through Colt’s body. “This is bad, but I won’t let anyone hurt you. Did you tell the FBI about Cain?”

“Not yet.” Deb was obviously struggling to retain her composure. “But I’m going to. It’s the only way to stop these crimes.”

“But you don’t know who tipped off Anderson.” A light bulb went off in Colt’s head. “Maybe he’s got somebody inside the FBI.”

Deb shook her head with doubt. “We’re talking about Howard Anderson, not some foreign government.”

“Then how did he find out?” Colt’s unease was growing. “That’s a serious question, and we’ve got to find an answer.”

“Once Cain and Anderson are behind bars, it won’t matter. Then I’ll be safe.”

“It’s not going to be that simple.” Colt gripped Deb’s shoulder and looked her in the eye. “Something’s not right. There’s a hidden trap waiting to snare anyone who decides to be a hero.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Deb thumped a fist against the steering wheel. Another tear rolled down her cheek.

Colt suddenly felt conspicuous. “I don’t know yet, but we need to continue this conversation at a different time and place.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Deb nodded and reached for a tissue. “I’ll call you when I get back to Boise.”

They hugged for a few seconds before Colt stepped out onto the pavement. Deb ventured a weak smile and waved goodbye. Feeling lost and lonely, Colt looked after her car until it was swallowed in the traffic.

With eyes cast downward, Colt turned and walked away. Before he traveled twenty paces, a shadow crossed his path. Colt looked up to find Zed Cain standing in front of him. The man’s tall figure was imposing. With long black hair, he resembled a fierce Comanche warrior from days of old. Colt stopped dead in his tracks.

“Are you lost?” Cain asked without an ember of warmth.

A chill went down Colt’s spine. Did the alleged E-Force member suspect something? Maybe he overheard part of the conversation with Deb.

Colt managed a dismissive air. “I forgot where I parked. My vehicle’s over there. See you at the next meeting.”

Colt moved past Cain and retreated toward his Land Cruiser. He maintained a casual stride and resisted the urge to cast a backward glance.

Novel Excerpt Exchange - Karen Vaughan

Some of the folks at the FB Suspense/Thriller Writers group are doing an excerpt exchange, and I was invited to participate. An excerpt from my novel, The Assassins Club (which will be released in JUST FOUR DAYS!!!) will appear in Karen Vaughan's blog. Below is about 1,100 words from Dead Comic Standing by Karen Vaughan.

An up-and-coming comic was just exiting The Laff Attak. The comedian usually left through the alley after his sets, usually two per night, 30 minutes per set. Like other wannabes, he worked two clubs per week whilst working part time at an upscale Coffee Emporium. This guy didn’t want to spend the rest of his career as a part-time Barista /Comic. Oh no, this dude had plans, he was going to be the Robin Williams for the next generation. Well, skip the 'Na-noo-Na-noo' bullshit that Robin had to tout, in his early years.

In the meantime, bills had to be paid and the comic had a wife to support as well. Debbie worked as an insurance adjuster for a huge HMO management company. She technically supported him and his “hobby”. At least it was a marginally paying hobby. The young man walked around the corner down another alley, a supposed short cut on his way home. He feared nothing, although he would never have let Deb do this, day or night. Her argument was why should he? Did he think he was “Iron man” or something? The young dude lit up another smoke, a filthy habit and Deb hated it. Another reason she thought he might die young. She just didn’t get the part about a good smoke, after coming off stage. Comics had to be the worst chronic smokers. He had to do it here because once he stepped into the house, no more ciggies. He might as well smoke now ‘cause Deb wouldn’t let him smoke after sex. Smoking brought him back from the adrenaline high of being ‘on’. No matter what shit hit you throughout your day, you hit the stage running with a smile, ready to show the crowd the time of their miserable lives. He stood in the shadows taking a few pulls on the Camel, dropped it and ground it into the asphalt with the other discarded cigarette butts. Debbie, as much as he loved her, had her phobias. She was convinced that some guy would jump out of the shadows and knife him to death, when, in reality, the worst killers came wrapped in cellophane and cardboard.

The next step he took into the alley was his last. A hand holding a butcher knife came out of nowhere. If this weren’t the end for real, he would have found a place in his act for the scenario. He felt the knife blade plunge into his stomach, and he went down on his knees, and then fell onto his back.

“Fuck man, if you want my wallet, just ask.” Dave was gasping for air.

“It’s not about the money, asshole. I just didn’t know how else to tell you……”

“What?” Dave croaked weakly.

The stranger grabbed the hilt of the knife, and yanked it out of his victims gut.

He looked straight at him and said, “YOU JUST AIN’T FUNNY!”

Then the killer slit the young man's throat.

* * *

The room was packed. People were lined up at the bar three deep, and all the tables were full. Jeffrey Beals, the owner and operator of Comic F/X was looking forward to a good night. His headliner, Phil Vetters was a real crowd pleaser for sure. He was more concerned about Shelley, the new girl starting tonight. She auditioned well, and Jeff had no doubt that she had talent. However, Shelley clearly admitted that her club experience was limited and most of her experience had been in an auditorium setting, doing comedy for educational purposes. This worried Jeff. Shelley was a small girl, and guys tended to eat people like that up, especially after a few stiff drinks. Great prey for hecklers and perverts.

Jeff tried to keep society’s baser elements out of the club. However, some just seemed to slip through the cracks. They walk in seeming quite civilized but once a female comic hit the stage, all vestiges of humanity escaped through their assholes.

Comic F/X was full of yuppies out for a few laughs. The club was a brightly lit establishment. There was no smoking allowed and there was a three drink minimum rule. The basic premise was to serve up good drinks and provide quality entertainment. Jeff wanted people to come back time after time, to see the rising stars of tomorrow. He hoped Shell was one of them. Jeff had heard she came from a tough neighbourhood, a white girl surrounded by Hispanics and African-Americans. It was everyone for themselves and one had to develop a thick skin and a strong backbone.

Shell was doing her initial sound check on stage. “Hear the one about…..”

“Never mind the jokes sweetie, just show us yer titties.”

“Hey guy what’s your name?”

“Who wants to know?” Shelley shielded her eyes from the spotlight to see the person who had addressed her and spotted a large man sitting at a center table. Oh god no, why couldn’t hecklers be gorgeous? Why were they always butt friggin’ ugly as well as obnoxious? So if she had to put up with this moron, she might as well have fun with him. Maybe the toad would get the message and back off.

“Well pal, I just don’t open my shirt for just anyone. I like to be on a first name basis with my voyeurs, if ya know what I mean?”

“If I tell ya will ya take it off?”

“I don’t know, by the looks of you, you seem to have a bigger rack than I do.”

“You Little Bitch!”

The guy was steaming as the audience watched her dismantle his ego one line at time.

“Whoa boy, you better put on your big boy pants to use language like that, you wanna take your potty mouth and go to the washroom?”

Jeff was watching the impromptu exchange, and decided that Shelley could handle herself. Gord-o was a dog, but Shelley was having an easy time having him neutered. If Gord-o had gotten out of hand, Jeff would have had him thrown out on his ass.

“Very funny girlie—God gave you a sense of humor –‘cause you just can’t please the boys. Gord-o can teach you what you need to know.”

“Well Gord-o, what you can teach me won’t take more than two minutes.”

“Au Contraire, sweetie, I could have you yelling Gord-Oh by morning.” Gord-O was giving back what she gave him.

“No doubt, loser, it would take you that long to get it up!”

The audience was enjoying the impromptu exchange between Shelley and Gord. There was a lot of laughing and clapping. Gord-o was starting to look the fool. Something he hated, especially at the hands of a chick. “You freakin’ cow! No one makes me look like an ass, and gets away with it!”

“Gordie, my dear, you don’t need my help to look like an ass. You’re doing a good enough job on your own.”

The purchase link at amazon.com for either paperback or e-book is http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Comic-Standing-ebook/dp/B005PIYMNI/ref=ntt_at_ep_edition_2_1?ie=UTF8&m=AZC9TZ4UC9CFC

Tip O'Day #17

Make sure your first page engages the reader.

You walk into a book store (for future readers – a retail establishment selling words printed on paper). You pick up a book and turn to page one. You might read for 30 seconds or so, maybe 15-20 lines of text, to see if the prose has any appeal. Sometimes that's all it takes - Grisham's "A Time to Kill" had me hooked from the first few lines.

So that's the test: does the prose intrigue us? Does it set up a dramatic or humorous situation, a unique character, or a fascinating locale? Does the author have a Voice that grabs us by the collar and won't let go? Is there some intangible quality to the writing style that we've admired in other books? For a real eye-opener, check out the one-page posts on WeBook website. Some are awesome but it’s amazing how other wannabe authors can fill a page with word after word and yet NOTHING HAPPENS. For some amazing examples of first paragraphs, check out Nate Bransford’s “finalists” blog post – link is to the right.

Allow me to inflict upon you an early version of the opening for my crime thriller, "Montana is Burning”. I don't have the emotional distance to tell whether this is any good, but my aim was to intrigue the reader with an interesting protagonist, locale and situation.

Paul Longo eased his lanky frame into a chair at the New Accounts desk and waited for the statuesque blonde – Elizabeth from her nametag – to get off the phone. Her shimmering emerald dress clung to all the right places. Paul didn’t mind the wait. He looked around the lobby. A small bank for a small town. Some of the windows had the bluish, dimpled look of antique glass. The pressed tin ceiling looked authentic, suggesting the building was a hundred years old or more.

The guy pushing through the copper-and-glass doors didn’t seem the slightest bit authentic. A little man, maybe five-foot-four and 130 pounds, who looked full of meth. Bulging eyes flicked nervously around the lobby, and one cheek twitched a furious beat. Still had prison pallor from his most recent stint. Both hands jammed deep in the pockets of a down vest, despite the unusual autumn heat.

Detective Paul Longo slipped the 44 caliber Super Redhawk from the shoulder holster and dangled it behind his chair. The end of its nearly ten-inch barrel touched the floor.

Bickering Feds

Here's a scene that didn't make the final cut for my unpublished novel, MONTANA IS BURNING. I liked the characters too much to kill them off, though, so they do appear in a few later scenes. Oh, wait a minute. I just remembered - I DID kill off one of them...

Six hundred miles south of Mullen County, Montana, FBI special agent Jordan Pelzner handed an airsick bag to his traveling companion and looked past him out the window. To the east, the sun edged from behind mountains dusted with early snowfall. Pelzner looked beneath the 737’s wing at the intricate network of dikes and roadways surrounding the Great Salt Lake. Some reservoirs were full of water, others evaporated to salt beds. He wondered how many tons of salt the Mormons had extracted over the last hundred and fifty years.

The retching at his side interrupted Pelzner's wool-gathering. He handed a napkin to Fred Rugar, the senior ATF agent for the Western Region. Rugar patted the pointy chin that anchored his heavy jowls and stuffed the napkins into the airsick bag. A sour odor drifted toward the FBI man.

"You know," said Pelzner, "you have an unusual method of preparing for an investigation."

"Shut your damn face."

“Is that standard operating procedure in the Seattle ATF office -- drink yourself blind and then bust up a gay watering hole? Or is it usually the other way around?"

"For freaking missionaries, they sure got a mess of gay bars."

"Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms..." Pelzner mused. "I suppose you can't smoke or shoot worth a damn either."

"Heaven protect us from self-righteous Fibbers. My damn head is ready to burst and here you’re thumping a bible for all you're worth. Lemme die in peace."

"That's a tempting thought, my friend, and you certainly couldn't smell much worse. Might even be an improvement for the first few days."

"I had any strength, I'd yank your tongue out."

"No, Agent Rugar, I can't let you die. Too much inter-departmental paperwork and besides, you're the big cheese on this case."

"Aw shit, don't mention cheese."

"I’m afraid explosives mean this one's an ATF case. The FBI just came along to smile at the reporters and pay the bar bill."

Rugar’s hands trembled on his lap. "Don't remind me what we're headed for. I was hoping to coast into retirement without sniffing any more crispy critters."

Pelzner watched he poor bastard’s shakes grew steadily worse. He wondered if there were any medical personnel on board. The ATF agent gripped the armrests as if the seat bucked under him. The tremors finally subsided and Rugar took a few long, slow breaths.

“Your color’s coming back, my friend," the FBI agent said. "But you’re still a bit green around the edges.”

"Takes me freaking days, sometimes weeks to get the smell of burnt flesh outta my hair and off my skin. Don't know how many suits I've gone through in the last twenty years. Stunk too much to dry clean, just threw them out."

"That's why you get the big money."

"Hah!" The ATF agent’s bitter laugh turned into a wheezing attack. Beet-red jowls quivered as he pounded his barrel chest with one hand, tightly holding the armrest with the other.

"Great impression. That's from The Exorcist, right?"

"Lord," said Rugar, raising his eyes in mock prayer, "help me live through this flight and I'll do any penance you name. Go to church. Shoot a Fibber. Any-damn-thing."

"I notice you failed to mention celibacy."

"Leave your mother and me outta this, Pelzner."

"So the subtle Fred Rugar wit lives on, despite the anticipated demise of the body. I'm sure the locals will be suitably entertained."

"Yeah, I’m really looking forward to meeting Barney Fife and the rest of the Mayberry gang. I swear, if I find one piece of evidence mishandled, I'll rip each freaking bugger a new anus."

"My friend, your attitude bodes poorly for cooperation with the Mullen County Sheriff."

"Those hicks probably don’t handle twenty felonies a year. Best for them to stand back and let the pros take over."

"You take over, Agent Rugar. I'll hold your jacket and lead the applause."

"Just make sure there's a freaking rental car waiting in East Cupcake."

"That's Edgerton."

The ATF agent turned away from Jordan Pelzner and looked at the morning sun rising past the Wasatch Mountains. "Whatever."

Showing "A Typical Day"

At the first writers conference I ever attended, I had the opportunity to have a literary agent critique the first 50 pages of my premier novel. It started with action, just as a hundred other writers had suggested, but the agent didn't like that. I needed to show what a typical day was for the protagonist, she said, and do a better job establishing the setting. So I went back to the computer and did exactly that.

Ever since, everybody who's looked at my story says the same thing: start with action and knock off all the description.

Okay, okay, back to the opening scene where the flawed detective is sitting in the bank lobby when a meth-fueled robber walks in. But when you buy Montana is Burning, this is the descriptive, textured opening you will miss:

An Indian kid was dead, and nobody seemed to care except a lawyer barely old enough to shave.

Detective Paul Longo looked across the street at a storefront law office. Main Street in Kintla stretched all of ten blocks, and nothing much moved in either direction this autumn afternoon. Just dust and a dry wind. Paint blisters pockmarked the brooding gray edifice opposite Paul, revealing previous incarnations of chocolate brown and light blue.

The town straddled both banks of a river on the floor of a narrow valley, so the cigar box building stood stark against lodge pole pine and western larch that swept up the foothills from a mere three blocks away. Years ago, somebody had removed the large letters that ran across the second story of the stucco facade but hadn’t bothered to repaint, so the outline was still clear: Woolworth’s. On the right side of the building, a sign said Kowboy Kafe, but that door had been boarded up for years. On the left, amateurish gold lettering on the plate-glass frontage proclaimed the law office of Kevin Waagel, Esquire, the attorney retained by the tribe to look into violent or suspicious deaths, on or off the nearby reservation.

Paul pushed back the new Stetson and wiped his forehead dry. He liked the hat, a present his first day on the job from Sheriff Clyde Frye. The only nice thing anyone in Mullen County had done for him so far.

He sighed, wondering again at the wisdom of his move to Montana. A glance at his watch -- twenty minutes early for his deposition. He decided to take care of some business he’d been putting off for a month. The office of Kevin Waagel, Esquire, would still be there when he finished.

A Mullen County patrol car pulled up to the curb across the street. A deputy sheriff climbed out and nailed a sign to a telephone pole reading Re-elect Sheriff Frye. One block north, another deputy rounded the corner and stopped to pound a Holland for Sheriff sign into the library’s front lawn.

Paul shook his head and started toward Kintla State Bank.

Five minutes later, he eased into a chair at the New Accounts desk and waited for the statuesque blonde to notice him. It took awhile, what with her chatting on the phone while she rasped an emery board across a fingernail. Her shimmering emerald dress clung to all the right places. Paul didn’t mind the wait.

The tempo in these small towns, he mused, took some getting used to. Back in Phoenix, a bank would pink-slip any employee that didn’t handle the required number of transactions in the requisite time with fewer than the allowable amount of errors. This quiet valley in northwest Montana ran at a different pace than Paul had grown up with. The important things got done but with fewer ulcers in the process.

The blonde ended her conversation. Blue eyes sparkled as she pasted on her best customer service smile, but it seemed a shade brittle. I save my warmth for people who don’t sit down uninvited, the smile said.

“Elizabeth, I’d like to open a checking account.”

“Do I know you?” She wrinkled her nose. “I think I’d remember someone as tall as you and--”

“And with a nose like a hatchet, I’m not so easy to forget.” He pointed at the nameplate on her desk.

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I’m getting paid next week and figured I should put my check someplace safe. A bank came to mind.” He reached past the shoulder holster into his blazer’s inside breast pocket and pulled out a fifty. “This can start things off, until I get my first paycheck.”

Elizabeth tried her smile again. “New to the valley?”

“Been here long enough to get all my clothes out of cardboard boxes. About four weeks.”

“Goodness, how ever did you last that long without a checking account?”

Paul shrugged. “Mostly use cash.”

Her brows bunched together.

"I work for the Sheriff, Elizabeth. Believe me, cash is perfectly legal.”

“You’re that new detective, aren’t you?” The pleasure of discovery lit her face yet a shadow lurked in her eyes. Paul wondered what she’d heard. The new detective with all the big-city ideas? The one who acted too good for the local cops? The square peg?

She tapped a couple times on her computer keyboard and began taking Paul’s vital statistics, seemingly glad to be in safe territory. He answered automatically as he glanced around the historic building. With a pressed-tin ceiling, the bank must have been at least seventy-five years old, maybe a hundred. Some of the windows had the bluish, dimpled look of antique glass. The main doors were sheathed in copper both inside and out, maybe from the mines in Butte, and Paul guessed the appearance of Old-World craftsmanship was authentic.

Then a man walked through those same doors. He didn’t look one bit authentic.

First Lines

Michelle McLean, one of the fine ladies blogging for Operation Awesome, recently had a post about how first lines can captivate us:

I recently finished reading Rick Riordan’s The Lost Hero. Aside from really enjoying the book, I was struck by how many awesome first lines he had. The first line of the book was amazing:

Even before he got electrocuted, Jason was having a rotten day.

My inner editor immediately stopped to admire that incredible bit of writing. As first lines go, that is made of total win (at least imo).

But it didn’t stop there. Several times throughout the book, I’d turn the page to start a new chapter and got blown away by that chapter’s first line. Here are a few of my favorites.

1. Leo wished the dragon hadn’t landed on the toilets.
2. As soon as Jason saw the house, he knew he was a dead man.
3. Leo’s tour was going great until he learned about the dragon.
4. After a morning of storm spirits, goat men, and flying boyfriends, Piper should’ve been losing her mind.
5. Jason would have died five times on the way to the front door if not for Leo.
6. When Leo saw how well Piper and Hedge were being treated, he was thoroughly offended.
7. The plan went wrong almost immediately.
8. Leo hadn’t felt this jumpy since he’d offered tofu burgers to the werewolves.

In my work in progress, Assassin’s Club – Doing Good by Being Bad, the first sentence doesn’t exactly slap you in the face, but I’m pretty proud of the first 20 lines.

The man fights his way through the surf. A giant wave crashes over his back, knocking the air from his lungs.

He struggles to stand upright, his arms and legs heavy as lead. He doesn’t remember much. He vaguely recalls thrashing around in the cold water and turning around in time to see the stern of a sailing ship as it glided toward the horizon, jaunty carnival tunes in its wake.

Did I fall from that? Or get pushed?

The water tugs at his legs like a needy lover. Finally he finds himself on hot, dry sand and falls to his knees. He has a pounding headache and blood on his hand from when he touches the throbbing knot on the back of his scalp.

Where the hell am I? Who am I?

The voices in his head provide no answers.

A hazy figure appears far up the beach and so he walks in that direction. The sun feels good on his back. Overhead, seagulls circle and chatter in their private language. After a few minutes he can make out some details of the approaching figure – a tall woman in a flowing white gown with sunflower-gold hair. She walks with her head down as if overwhelmed by a great sadness. Or maybe just looking for pretty shells.

A terrible fear jolts his heart.

She’s in mortal danger. Something awful is about to befall her.

Close now, she looks up and laughs at him. “Jesus, you’re naked!”

So that’s who I am.

The first line of chapter two (which was originally chapter one, until I decided my serial killer needed a friend to play with) was more successful, I believe:

Tyler Goode didn’t know the man’s real name until he read the obituary three days later.

Writers can engage the reader without needing an exploding helicopter in the first paragraph, but the opening should at least raise the reader’s curiosity about the dramatic, humorous or informative material to follow.

Old Farts Club excerpt from "Montana is Burning"

At the 2010 Flathead River Writers Conference, I had a very encouraging talk with Gordon Warnock from Andrea Hurst Literary Management. However, he informed me that my (supposedly) completed novel is about 30,000 words too long for a first-time author. Ouch. So I must say goodbye to some (in my opinion) wonderful chunks of verbiage that develop characterization, establish mood, and plant clues. I need to do those things with greater brevity, it appears. So here's a chapter that's being lopped out:

Ole’s Café, Kintla, Montana

Saturday – 10:00 a.m. (The morning after a nearby abortion clinic was firebombed)

Surely every coffee shop on the planet has one, a large table where the Old Farts Club gathers each morning to complain about the world going to hell in a hand basket. The round table in Ole's Cafe in Kintla had eight oak chairs.

Ralph Morrissey, the town's funeral director, walked into Ole's and saw several reporters forced to stand at the counter, even though there was still an empty chair at the big table. It was gratifying, he thought, to see that some things in this world could still be depended upon.

He took the vacant seat between banker James Otto and rancher Duke Overbeek. Everybody nodded at the mortician and Otto flipped over a clean cup for him. As usual, at least three different conversations were going on, with some fellows jumping from one to another depending on which topic caught their interest. Morrissey jumped in with the group discussing last night’s firebombing and was immediately interrupted by Huz Brandt, the local accountant.

“You missed a couple great jokes, Digger," Brandt said. "You know what you get when you cross a Mormon with an Indian?"

“A basement full of stolen canned goods," blurted insurance agent Jay Aster.

Despite having heard the joke minutes earlier, the table erupted in laughter. Morrissey, who had both LDS and Native American friends, sat stony-faced. He noticed Bobby Jones looked like he'd gotten a whiff of something rancid.

Jones spoke before Morrissey could think of a comeback. "I heard there's no humor without an element of truth. Maybe we oughta change that to humiliation."

"Lighten up, Bobby," Brandt said. "Don't tell me you didn't bust up some prairie niggers off the Rez when you were carrying a badge down in Missoula."

A muscle twitched on the retired deputy's square jaw. "Naw, I was too busy writing DUI's for members of the Chamber of Commerce."

Brandt's cheeks turned crimson. Everybody at the table knew the CPA had recently picked up his third drunk-driving ticket. They all looked around at nothing in particular, hoping somebody would change the subject before things got even more unpleasant.

Bobby Jones jumped in again to change the subject. "I almost made my first taxi trip yesterday. This college kid got busted at St. Joseph and the Border Patrol confiscated his daddy's Mercedes. He hitched a ride into town, then showed up on my porch with his sad story. 'Just some seeds, Man. Just some seeds,' he says."

"What happened?" Brandt asked. "No money?"

"Naw, he showed me more'n enough for the trip. I told him to come back at six and we'd go to Edgerton after supper. Musta got another ride, because he never showed."

Overbeek leaned forward. "Speaking of no-shows, did you hear Chief Holland ducked out of the limelight and put that new detective in charge of the arson investigation? You know, the religious nut.”

"Paul Longo is his name," Jones said. "I bumped into him at the courthouse last week. Didn't seem like a nut to me."

Huz Brandt sneered. "There's a lot of local boys coulda done the job just as well. They know the valley better than some kid just rolled into town."

"He’s no kid, Huz," Jones laughed. "Trouble is, you think anyone not drawing Social Security is still in diapers. And just because he doesn't swear every fifth word, that doesn't make him a Jesus freak."

"It's all just politics," Overbeek said. "Frye probably hoped Holland would stub his toe on this abortion clinic thing, so Holland put one of the Sheriff’s boys in charge of solving it.”

"Then the Chief’s got the wrong guy," Jones said. "Longo's no politician. Hell, he’s the only one on the force who’s not up to his butt in the election.”

Meanwhile, a discussion across the table about forest fires had evolved into a diatribe against government is general and Congress in particular. Jay Aster, the coffee klatch’s token Democrat, was taking a merciless ribbing from the other men. He turned to Morrissey after a few minutes of this abuse.

"Hey, Digger, I've never seen you this quiet before. Business can't be all that bad, I hear people are just dying to get into your place."

"Oh, I'm busy enough but the cremations are killing my bottom line. The only bright spot is the folks who choose a box-and-burn job are usually cheapskates like you who’d stiff me on the bill anyway."

James Otto, the banker sitting next to him, cleared his throat. “Wake up on the wrong side of the embalming table?”

"I’m fried over those nuts that bombed the clinic," Morrissey said. "What with them and this new militia group people are whispering about, plus the morons we send to the legislature, I'm ashamed to call myself a Montanan."

"Didn't you move here from Oregon?" Brandt needled.

"I'm serious here," Morrissey said. "The more I think about it, the more steamed I get. There's not one Montanan in a thousand who thinks murder is the way to win a political argument."

"Damn right," Overbeek said.

The funeral director brought his fist down on the table, rattling coffee cups and saucers. “The rest of us have to stand up to the pinheads responsible for this terrorist act and let them know we won't tolerate such an outrage.”

“I'm with you a hundred percent so far,” Jones said. "You got something in mind?"

Morrissey stood up. “You bet I do. Come over to the mortuary chapel at one o'clock and bring a couple friends.”

The Wolf

I fell in love with this small section, but finally came to realize it simply didn't fit in my "Montana is Burning" novel. So enjoy:

As shadows lengthened in the forest, a wolf waited.

He awoke at daybreak far to the north with an empty belly. The last surviving member of his pack, he’d eaten nothing but a few rodents the last few days. Alone, he had little hope of killing larger prey.

The wolf turned south and loped toward memories of slow-moving cattle that grazed away from human scents. He stopped to rest when the sun shone directly overhead. A swath of land denuded of trees stretched into the distance to both left and right. He could smell and hear much further than he could see, and sensed no men nearby. He sprinted across. He rested again and then urinated to mark his mission and direction of travel before continuing his journey. The wolf trotted over the Whitefish and Salish Mountains before a familiar scent stopped him on the edge of a grassy meadow.

The cattle still lay in his path but only after many hours’ journey through rolling sand hills. His stomach ached. The wolf ignored his hunger and waited.

Shadows stretched into the clearing below him, masking a swift stream in smears of gray and black. The wolf breathed deep of the warm air and smelled deer once more.

A female. Closer this time. Down-slope and upwind.

The wolf tensed his haunches in readiness.

The whitetail deer edged closer through the shadows, yet not close enough.

The wolf felt the weather change. A storm front was passing by. The humidity rose as clouds rolled overhead, smothering the landscape in featureless murk. Lightning crackled in the distance.

The lone male might as well have been blind. Yet he smelled the sweet fragrance of tamarack, pine and aspen, the loamy earth, the rich droppings left by beast and bird, and the salty blood coursing through the doe. Even through the noisy turbulence of wind and nearby stream, he clearly heard the prey set one hoof on a leaf.

The wind began to swirl. A fat plop of rain struck the cracked earth between his paws. Water sprinkled across the parched clearing. He sensed dusty treetops shuddering at scattered drops. A blanket of heavy, moist air settled around the hunter and now he sensed only water.

He stretched out on his belly and waited.

There you are - the rest of it at the next posting.