Book Review: GONE by Michael Grant

WARNING: This week’s book is actually edgy YA and it is filled with adult content. It is absolutely not appropriate for younger readers and adults should view it as the equivalent of an ‘R’ rated movie, which makes it awesome. If the reader in question can handle Ashfall by Mike Mullin, they'll be at home with Gone.

First Paragraph(s): ONE MINUTE THE teacher was talking about the Civil War. And the next minute he was gone. 
There. 
Gone. 
No “poof.” No flash of light. No explosion. 
Sam Temple was sitting in third-period history class staring blankly at the blackboard, but far away in his head. In his head he was down at the beach, he and Quinn. Down at the beach with their boards, yelling, bracing for that first plunge into cold Pacific water. 
For a moment he thought he had imagined it, the teacher disappearing. For a moment he thought he’d slipped into a daydream. 
Sam turned to Mary Terrafino, who sat just to his left. “You saw that, right?”

This will be our last book of the year, Esteemed Reader, as we'll have Michael Grant here on Wednesday to face the 7 Questions, and that's a heck of a way to close out 2017. After that, the blog will be quiet through the holidays and I'll holler at you on January 1st with my usual year-in-review post and we'll keep this middle grade blog going into 2018 and beyond as long as y'all keep showing up every week.

So this week's book is my newest obsession. Esteemed Reader, if you haven't read Gone, skip this review and just read it, and then it will be your obsession as well. I'm already tearing my way through its second sequel, Lies, and the seventh in the series, Monster, was just released in October. Part of the reason I'm not writing any more reviews in December is because I'm going to finish this series and I don't want other books getting in the way:)

I'm kicking myself for not reading Gone sooner, but in a way I'm grateful I didn't because now I get to binge read the whole series at once instead of having to wait like the suckers did:) I've read Mr. Grant's middle grade work previous, such as The Magnificent 12, which I reviewed here, and The Animorphs, which he wrote with friend of the blog (and his wife) Katherine Applegate. I was expecting more of the same with Gone, which would've been great, but what I got was something that caught me totally by surprise by how deeply Michael Grant instantly hooked me and has kept me reading.

It's so amazing that Stephen King blurbed this series because I would've classified it as Stephen King for the YA crowd (although, technically speaking, The Body and arguably It—depending on how cool the librarian recommending teen reads is—are Stephen King for the YA crowd). And you regular Esteemed Readers know how much I love my Stephen King (I've also written Stephen King-ish for the YA crowd). There's even a national park in the fictional universe of Gone called Stefano Rey, which is Spanish for Stephen King.

The language employed in Gone is nowhere near as foul as in a King novel, but otherwise this is a long story (581 pages depending on your edition) with an over-the-top Twilight Zone premise that's periodically very dark and inhabited by fully realized characters. Also, like King, Grant is playing for keeps:

She smelled something foul. Sickly sweet and foul. 
She looked at her shattered right arm. The flesh, especially the taut, stretched flesh that barely contained her shattered arm bones, was dark, black edging toward green. The smell was awful. 
Lana took several deep breaths, shaky, fighting the upsurge of terror. She’d heard of gangrene. It was what happened when flesh died or circulation was cut off. Her arm was dying. The smell was the odor of rotting human flesh. 
A vulture fluttered to a landing just a few feet away. It stared at her with beady eyes and bobbed its featherless neck. The vulture knew that smell, too.

To fully describe the plot of Gone would probably take up the entire review, but the short short version is that it's Under the Dome meets The Stand meets Desperation with some X-men and a whole lot of Lord of the Flies and just a dash of Saints Row IV. All of those are favorites of mine, so Gone had me from that first paragraph up above. If the short short version isn't quite clear, let me give the slightly longer version.

Don't let the length of this book intimidate you. As the opening paragraph above makes clear, this is a book that moves quickly and you'll be done with it long before you want to be. Grant starts with a sort-of/kind-of rapture in that everyone 15 and older disappears for a 20-mile radius from Perdido Beach in California. Soon, the remaining children discover that they disappear the moment they age out. That's plenty of conflict to sustain a novel:

This school was dangerous now. Scared people did scary things sometimes, even kids. Sam knew that from personal experience. Fear could be dangerous. Fear could get people hurt. And there was nothing but fear running crazy through the school.

Sam flashed on news videos he’d seen of school shootings. It had that kind of feel to it. Kids were bewildered, scared, hysterical, or hiding hysteria beneath laughter and bold displays of rowdiness.

But apparently that's just not enough conflict for Michael Grant, so he adds another layer. And what I want to draw your attention to is the way he adds it:

Astrid and Quinn thought today was the beginning, but Sam knew better. Normal life had started coming apart eight months ago. 

Rather than come right out and state his additional conflict, which is that the teens left behind in Perdido Beach, including Sam, are developing super powers and have been for some time, Grants lets the reader get there ahead of him by suggesting evidence of this before confirming it. This is a technique for suspension of disbelief I have discussed elsewhere at length, but it's ever effective to give the reader tantalizing hints that allow the reader to form a conclusion of something impossible before the writer openly states it.

And the fact that the super powers emerged prior to the disappearance of the adults deepens the mystery about just what situation our heroes have found themselves in. So are the powers related to the disappearance of the adults and the placing of the barrier? And what's the deal in Perdido Beach?

I'm not telling you what I know, but keep in mind that Grant's got more books to come, so don't expect every answer in this first story. Remember, a good mystery is created not by withholding things from the reader, but by selectively revealing things. And the mystery is a big part of what drives the story:

Maybe it was aliens and right now some creepy monsters were chasing her mother and father through the streets of Las Vegas, like in that movie, War of the Worlds. Maybe. 
Lana found that thought strangely comforting. After all, at least she wasn’t being chased by aliens in giant tripods. Maybe the wall was some kind of defense put up against the aliens. Maybe she was safe on this side of the wall.

“Maybe it was God,” Quinn said, looking up, suddenly hopeful. His eyes were red and he stared with sudden, manic energy. “It was God.” 
“Maybe,” Sam said. 
“What else could it be, right? S-so—so—so—” Quinn caught himself, choked down the panicked stutter. “So it’ll be okay.” The thought of some explanation, any explanation, no matter how weak, seemed to help. 

But even that STILL isn't enough conflict for Michael Grant. As I was trying to explain the plot to Mrs. Ninja, she was with me until I got to the part about the talking coyotes and flying snakes. Also, there's a mysterious darkness out in the woods communing with the animals, but I think some of these things are better discovered by the reader.

So that's where we'll leave the review. If you haven't read Gone, read it. It's amazing and it will keep you glued to your seat until it's done.

But you regular Esteemed Readers know that the point of these reviews is really for us to discuss the techniques a writer employs so that we can adapt them for our own stories. So let's do that now. For starters, that talk about God in the previous quote isn't an isolated incident:

“What did we do?” Quinn asked. “That’s what I don’t get. What did we do to piss God off?” 
Sam opened the refrigerator. He stared at the food there. Milk. A couple of sodas. Half of a small watermelon placed cut side down on a plate. Eggs. Apples. And lemons for his mom’s tea. The usual.
“I mean, we did something to deserve this, right?” Quinn said. “God doesn’t do things like this for no reason.” 
“I don’t think it was God,” Sam said. 
“Dude. Had to be.”

“She’s with God now,” Mary said. 
“I’m not sure there is a God in the FAYZ,” Dahra said.

That's an awful lot of God talk in Gone (said the author of The Book of David), and if you're looking to deduce the thematic concerns of the story, I'd recommend starting there. It's not heavy handed. Grant is far more concerned with terrifying the reader and driving the suspense than discussing thematic concerns at length, as he should be. But for no one to discuss religion in this rapture-like situation would be a glaring omission. And as the teens lose their faith and/or become motivated by an assumed belief, we get a metaphor for how our own beliefs both motivate and put us in conflict with each other.

Of more practical use for employment in most stories, let us examine how Grant introduces us to our main protagonist:

Sam Temple kept a lower profile. He stuck to jeans and understated T-shirts, nothing that drew attention to himself. He had spent most of his life in Perdido Beach, attending this school, and everybody knew who he was, but few people were quite sure what he was. He was a surfer who didn’t hang out with surfers. He was bright, but not a brain. He was good-looking, but not so that girls thought of him as a hottie. 
The one thing most kids knew about Sam Temple was that he was School Bus Sam. He’d earned the nickname when he was in seventh grade. The class had been on the way to a field trip when the bus driver had suffered a heart attack. They’d been driving down Highway 1. Sam had pulled the man out of his seat, steered the bus onto the shoulder of the road, brought it safely to a stop, and calmly dialed 911 on the driver’s cell phone. 
If he had hesitated for even a second, the bus would have plunged off a cliff and into the ocean. 
His picture had been in the paper.

One thing I've been stressing to the students in my fiction classes is that hero characters should be heroic. Grant right away gives us every reason to identify with Sam and to root for him. He feels out of place, belonging to no particular group and uncertain of his identity, just like, say, for example, every teenager ever. Sam is unassuming and humble, especially considering we're about to learn he can shoot light energy from his hands (which will definitely come in handy). Also, and this is very important, he has engaged in heroic activity.

Please note, however, that Grant doesn't leave Sam's characterization with this flashback incident. No sooner do things start to fall apart than Sam is in action doing heroic things that are shown, including his rushing into a burning building to save a little girl and defending another one from bullies. Both attempts end with the little girls in question dead because this is a darker story, but it's the attempts that counts:) This incident with the school bus that happened off screen is also important as it establishes Sam's credibility as a possibly heroic leader in the minds of other characters in the story.

As for this being a darker story, that's part of its appeal. Just as our old friend Mike Mullin did in Ashfall, Grant establishes credibility for his world through including grisly details. Multiple children die, and not in clean, painless ways. The world of Gone is cold and harsh, but not unrelentingly so. Grant doesn't want to bum us out completely as this isn't a historical tomb. Rather, the worst aspects of this story make the unbelievable situation seem more believable. So, in the interest of helping readers suspend disbelief, Grant shows us one of the probable consequences of everyone over the age of 15 suddenly departing the world:

Quinn hefted the hammer and swung it against the door, just below the doorknob. The wood splintered, and Quinn pushed the door back. 
The smell hit them hard. 
“Oh, man, what died in here?” Quinn said, like it was a joke. 
The joke fell flat. 
Just inside the door, on the hardwood floor lay a baby’s pacifier. The three of them stared at it. 
“No, no, no. I can’t do this,” Brooke said.

The world of Gone feels real enough while the story is progressing, which is all that matters, and it feels metaphorically real after the fact. A dead baby alone is not enough to convince the reader to suspend disbelief, though it's a good start.

One of the reasons the page count is higher is because Grant goes into so much detail about the world, all with the goal of overcoming the reader's natural suspicion of a world with talking animals and superpowers. To quote myself from a post on horror writing, "those seemingly mundane details add up, like the passes of a hypnotist's golden watch, to convince the reader the story is real and that they should be terrified."

Grant doesn't just sell us on the main characters. He takes the time to build up secondary characters and below. For example, see how he not only flushes out the third tier character of Mary (at least in this first book in the series) so that we believe in her, but how he also further convinces us of the reality of Gone's improbable situation through Mary's reaction to it. Her demonstrable belief in her reality lends some of her belief to the reader.

Mary had suffered from bulimia since she was ten. Binge eating followed by purging, again and again in a quickening cycle of diminishing returns that had left her forty pounds overweight at one point, and her teeth rough and discolored from the stomach acid.
She’d been clever enough to conceal it for a long time, but her parents had found out eventually. Then had come therapists and a special camp and when none of that really helped, medication. Speaking of which, Mary reminded herself, she needed to get the bottle from her medicine cabinet.
She was better now with the Prozac. Her eating was under control. She didn’t purge anymore. She had lost some of the extra weight. 
But why not eat now? Why not? 
The cold air of the freezer wafted over her. The ice cream, the chocolate, there it was. It wouldn’t hurt. Not just once. Not now when she was scared to death and alone and so tired. 
Just one DoveBar. 
She pulled it out of the box and with fumbling, anxious fingers tore open the wrapper. It was in her mouth in a flash, so good, so cold, the chocolate slick and greasy as it melted on her tongue. The crunch of the shell as she bit into it, the soft luscious vanilla ice cream inside. 
She ate it all. She ate like a wolf.

There are a lot of other passages I want to share with you and so much to more to discuss, but this post is long and needs to end. I'd love to talk more about Quinn and how he serves as an excellent foil to Sam. I'd also love to talk about his casual racism with Edilio, but we'll skip it, except to say that casual racism is a detail that further convinces the reader that these are real characters from our reality and not blank book heroes. I'd also like to talk more about Astrid and her relationship to Pete, her autistic brother.

Oh heck, there's time enough for that one. Astrid is a brilliant and beautiful girl who Sam has a thing for and because he's a hero and this is a fantasy story, she might just be into him as well. It's standard issue YA and it's fine. What I found more interesting about Astrid is that she is made more heroic through her shortcomings. Her little brother Pete is a lot to deal with, but she does it, not because she's a perfect person, but in spite of her desire not to have to deal with him. It's a far more realistic sibling relationship which pays off before the end of the book.

There were kid-proof knobs on the stove. 
Astrid noticed him noticing. “It’s not for me,” she said snippily. “It’s for Little Pete.” 
“I know. He’s . . .” He didn’t know the right word. 
“He’s autistic,” Astrid said, very breezy, like it was no big thing.

After he's lost for a time, our heroes find Pete once again. The following might be my favorite character beat in the whole book because it's the most effective detail at making Astrid fully three dimensional:

There, sitting on the control room floor, rocking slightly back and forth, playing a muted handheld video game, was Little Pete. 
Astrid did not run to him. She stared with what looked to Sam like something close to disappointment. She seemed almost to shrink down a little. 
But then she forced a smile and went to him.

Okay, for real, let's wrap this up. The last point I want to make is that none of this character detail or situation makes a difference without Grant's first laying a basic groundwork for his story. He gets the basics done before worrying about the awesome action sequences and monster attacks that come with the territory. We're given a main hero, a main villain  (read some one else's review to learn about Caine, I guess), they're put at odds with each other in such a way that they must do battle before the story is done, and because this is suspense, we're given a ticking clock to keep those pages turning because Sam is 14 going on 15:

“I have five days,” Sam fretted. “Five. Days. Not even a week.” 
“You don’t know that for sure.” 
“Don’t, okay? Just don’t. Don’t tell me some story about how it’s all going to be fine. It’s not going to be fine.” 
“Okay,” Astrid said. “You’re right. Somehow, age fifteen is this line, and when you reach it, you poof out.”

And that's it. Gone is fantastic novel to be enjoyed by readers of all ages without pandering to any of them. In fact, I encountered a a new word in this story I had to look up: insouciantly. If you have any desire to write YA, particularly horror or dystopian, you absolutely must read this novel. Really, if you like a good story well told, you have to read this novel.

As always, I'll leave you with some of my favorite passages from Gone:

It was Astrid Ellison, known as Astrid the Genius, because she was . . . well, she was a genius.

Impossible things don’t happen. That’s what impossible means.

“You seem like a nice girl, Astrid,” Diana said. “I’ll bet you’re one of those brainy, Lisa Simpson types, all full of great ideas and worried about saving the planet or whatever. But things have changed. This isn’t your old life anymore. It’s like . . . you know what it’s like? It’s like you used to live in a really nice neighborhood, and now you live in a really tough neighborhood. You don’t look tough, Astrid.”

The sound of his own name snapped Jack out of his trance. “Yes.” 
“Come.” 
Jack fell into step behind Diana, ashamed of his instant, doglike obedience.

Lana lay in the dark in the cabin listening to the mysterious sounds of the desert outside. Something made a soft, slithery sound like a hand stroking silk.

“Sadism,” Diana said. “The enjoyment of another person’s pain.” 
Drake stretched his shark grin. “Words don’t scare me.” 
“You wouldn’t be a psychopath if they did, Drake.”

His narrow lizard eyes narrowed further.

“Where are we going?”
“How about not here?”

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: All reviews here will be written to highlight a book’s positive qualities. It is my policy that if I don’t have something nice to say online, I won’t say anything at all (usually). I’ll leave you to discover the negative qualities of each week’s book on your own. 

NINJA STUFF: On Heartbreak And Diversity In Traditional Publishing (Part Two)

Last Time On Ninja Stuff: The YA Cannibals went to a SCBWI conference on "Finding Common Ground In Diverse Characters" held in one of the least diverse places I've ever been: McCormick's Creek State Park in Spencer, Indiana. There I learned the first girl who ever broke my heart now, 16 years later, runs a popular blog where she interviews writers and literary agents like the one she just signed with; my agent. I talked about heartbreak and how there comes a time when, with perspective, it just doesn't hurt anymore.

And now the thrilling conclusion...

Don't worry, Esteemed Reader. This isn't to be another post about me crying all over myself on a picnic table in a fashion most un-ninja like, or me talking about how the secret of life is my baby boy:) I don't want to blog about none of that crap! Today we're going to talk about writers, writing, publishers, and publishing, the proper subjects of a blog supposedly about reading and writing middle grade novels utilizing ninja stealth and skill. And we're going to discuss diversity in traditional publishing and some of the reasons there isn't more of it. But, if you'll permit me, I want to talk first briefly about some kook stuff.

Reality gets fuzzy around the edges, Esteemed Reader. It's a problem. 

I'm not particular in my religious views and I'm not about to discuss religion with you unless you've purchased a copy of one of my zombie stories. However, I can see the appeal of the strict atheist view of the world: We live, we die, and because there is no us after death, it's not something to be worried about. There's Nobody in the sky watching out for us, sorry to say, but we don't have to answer to Him/Her/It either, so you take the good with the bad. Things happen because of human action and natural action and that is all. The universe is random and does not care. If it seems otherwise to you, you might be slightly mentally ill, and the poor atheist has to contend with life among the vast majority of us who are all suffering varying degrees of mental illness:)

I could hold with the atheist view if life didn't get weird every so often. But it does and I'm not the only one who's noticed. It could be I get weird and every time a coincidence happens, I go off thinking the universe is trying to tell me something because it's all about me, baby. Could be.

I submit to you that if I'm suddenly struck dead, all consciousness gone in an instant, and I believed kooky stuff right up until that moment, it's not going to bother me one bit as there will be no me to be bothered. But a whole lot of people feel the presence of Something in this world and I've felt It as well. Refusing to acknowledge that because of a belief it's not possible is as much of a dogma as actual dogma. I'm perfectly willing to say I don't know how the universe works, and it doesn't bother me since there's way more stuff I don't know than stuff I do.

But dude, SOMETHING is up.

I had such a wonderful time at the conference and before I say some negative things about traditional publishing, let me first thank SCBWI for holding such a fine event as I have no doubt it took a great deal of work. Let me also thank the writers and publishing professionals who traveled to Nowhere, Indiana, to participate. At no point in what follows do I want there to be any doubt that their efforts weren't appreciated. I hope Indiana conferences will continue to draw such excellent guests.

I do so hate bitter indie authors and when I decided traditional publishing and I had to part ways for a time, I promised myself I wouldn't become one of them. But I understand. Traditional publishing broke many of our hearts. It didn't mean to. Traditional publishers aren't out to get anyone. They just do what they do, much of it in response to a global market that moves faster than their business model can adapt, and writers get hurt unintentionally.

During a Q-and-A session the last day of the conference I stood up and asked a question—the question—I most wanted to ask at the perfect time to ask it. And if there was a betrayed quality to my voice, it's because undeniably a part of my question was "Why didn't you love me?"

Let me back up and set the scene. Remember, as I've said, this was the whitest conference in one of the whitest towns in America gathered to discuss diversity in children's literature. The majority of the panelists were white and an even greater number of the participants were white. The whole thing felt a bit like satire.

And it just so happens that of all the publishers in all the world, two of the representatives who came to Spencer, Indiana were from two of the publishers who came closest to publishing Banneker Bones and the Giant Robot Bees. Of all the girls in all the world who could've signed with my agent, it's the one who broke my heart that did and against all odds, the news came to me without my looking for it or even wanting to know it. Reality gets fuzzy around the edges.

I didn't even want to go to this conference. Mrs. Ninja and I just bought a house and I didn't want to spend the money. All nine members of my critique group had to sign up and practically drag me there and even then, I still didn't want to go (I had to take off work and be away from my kid). I only went because my wife told me that she didn't care about the money, I needed to attend a conference about diversity in children's books. The universe aligned to get me in that auditorium for that panel and as Shrug Avery might sing, "Maybe God is trying to tell you something..."

I believe somebody was. You believe what you want. But there were strange winds blowing and whispering through the woods of McCormick's Creek State Park last weekend.

In response to a previous question, one of the editors told us her house had to fight to accept a book about a transgender character written by a heterosexual white male. Many of the folks involved in the publication approval process wanted to know why this author would write such a thing when he himself was not transgender. They were suspicious of his motives. Many of the senior editors didn't want to publish the book, regardless of the man's reasoning (most of his friends and a family member were transgender), and it's still not published, so the fight goes on.

And a part of me, the cold part, understands this is a simple risk vs. reward business decision. Doesn't make it right.

"Who has another question?" the moderator asked.

My hand shot up and someone gave me the microphone. I remember my question almost verbatim: "As you can see," I said, every eye seeing me, "I am a heterosexual, white male." Nervous laughter from many locations, most notably the panel. "What you can't see is I'm married to a black woman and we have a son. I've written a middle grade adventure story about a biracial boy good enough to have received a blurb from Richard Adams." And I never get tired of telling people about it:)

"I have a literary agent who passionately submitted this book to many publishing houses—" (your publishing houses) "—where individual editors told us yes and then editorial committees said no. We came so close and it got back to me that the reason it was turned down is because I'm white. And you say you're having difficulty publishing a transgender-themed book for the same reason. I take umbridge at the notion that I can raise a half-black boy, but I can't publish a book about one. 

"Speaking for a room of mostly white faces in our conference about diversity—" a lot of nervous laughter from everyone save for the lone black woman beside me (not my wife, but a fellow zombie author) who gave me an "Amen," "—what can we white people do to overcome this obstacle?"

It was an unfortunate position these editors found themselves in and I want to be clear: they were and are not my enemies. I've got nothing against them and though they represented the publishing houses what done me wrong, so far as I know, they had nothing to do with the decision personally. I wouldn't have wanted to sit in their seat and answer my question or the one asked immediately after mine. These are smart people who love authors and publishing books and we can absolutely be friends. I was asking about an issue in publishing far bigger than any one publishing house and certainly any one editor. But they were there to represent the institution from which I wanted an answer.

And I got it.

"It's an unfortunate scenario," said one editor, and I'm paraphrasing from memory here, "but it is common. I'd hate to think that was the only reason your book was rejected, but..." the editor trailed off and shrugged, implying it might be. "It could be something else about the project, but the author's race is an issue and one that in the current market can be impossible to overcome." The other editor agreed.

There was a lot of talk about finding a small press or perhaps the writing of something different first, the implication being something with an all or mostly white cast, with maybe a more colorful friend in a minor role. Ya know, the sort of book that gets published.

Remember, these were editors who came all the way to Spencer, Indiana, to talk with us and I don't want to paint them as villains because they most certainly were and are not. To my mind they're heroes because when asked an extremely difficult question, they gave honest answers, and what more could I possibly ask from them?

But there was a different feel to the room after that. A crowd of almost all white writers heard a very specific message: it's all good and well to talk about diversity, but if you want to be published in the traditional way, don't write about it. 

Fortunately, Skila Brown, whose debut novel, Caminar, has rocked my world, lightened the mood when she told me I should keep working and keep fighting to reach readers. After all, she's a white woman married to a Latino man and raising biracial children herself and she was able to use the traditional route to publish a novel set in 1981 Guatemala. On the whole, I was so very impressed by Skila Brown and I hope to feature her here. After her keynote, I gave her a copy of Banneker Bones and the Giant Robot Bees so that she would know I never even considered not fighting.

"There's time for one more question," a much wearier-looking moderator said. And look at that, just behind me, Indiana celebrity author Mike Mullin had his hand raised. Mike is an award-winner and friend to librarians everywhere. He participated in some of the conference events and was practically faculty. There were other hands raised, but if there was a safe person to call on after the previous question, surely it was Mike Mullin.

I've been accused of being too nice to Mike over the years. I would say I'm too nice to everyone as I try never to criticize books on this blog even if they deserve it. You may have read my glowing reviews of Sunrise and Ashen Winter, but you didn't read my critiques of their early drafts full of complaints and tough love. Mike Mullin is an impressive writer and better than me at a lot of things, which is why I think it's a good idea to listen when he talks, but I've also heard him say some pretty dumb stuff (and vice versa). We've had squabbles and disagreements and he never seems to let me forget how bad my unpublished book about aliens was or how I should've listened to him about the original cover for All Together Now in the first place.

But Esteemed Reader, I wish you could've been there on Sunday to see my friend Mike Mullin address that panel. I wish there was a YouTube video of it to go viral. In a few words, Mike earned every nice thing I ever said about him and more. I wish I could remember his exact wording, but I can't, so I'll have to settle for giving you a summary of the content of his question. Just imagine the most courageous man you ever saw.

Mike asked about the practice of traditional publishers using unpaid interns, which seems like a small thing unrelated to diversity. But statistically, the only folks who can afford to work for publishers unpaid are mostly white and of the upper-class. With publishers slashing budgets and having to rely more and more on these unpaid interns, doesn't this create an issue of an overwhelmingly similar well-to-do white staff that is then in a position to be promoted up the ranks? Isn't it dangerous to have only a certain group of elites able to make decisions for the rest of us and doesn't that make a lack of diversity in traditional publishing an institutional problem?

Oh Mike Mullin, you magnificent ba****d:)

There was a lot of hemming and hawing among the panel, but the man had a point. Both editors agreed that this was an economic reality of today's publishing market. Sure, one of the editors insisted their interns were paid, but didn't say how much, nor brag about their diversity. The other insisted their interns, though unpaid, only worked 20 hours a week. They're mostly white though, the editor agreed, and I got the sense a part of the editor (avoiding pronouns) wanted to be standing with us calling out this issue rather than stuck at the front of a crowd defending institutions with systemic problems larger than any one person.

The Q-and-A quickly ended after that.

And there it is. Take another look at the graphic above, which I shamelessly stole from Skila Brown's keynote address. That overwhelming stack of books about white characters written by white authors is no accident. If books by diverse authors about diverse characters have such a low success rate of being published and white authors, who can evidently more easily get published, can't write about diverse characters, just where are all these diverse books publishers claim we need going to come from? The whole situation writers of diverse books find themselves in reminds me of the words of another white, male author:

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And then one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

But let us end on a more positive note than Mr. Fitzgerald's. Our mostly white conference on diversity was more successful than I would've ever imagined. After all, the first step towards any solution is admitting you have a problem. We need diverse books. And it's going to take a hell of a lot more than a hashtag to get them. 

As for me, I left the conference feeling elated. I knew from reputable sources that Banneker was rejected for the reasons above, but a part of me might have always wondered if I hadn't heard it straight from the mouths of the publishers themselves. These same publishing representatives told my fellow writer that the zombie market is over saturated, so she should set her zombie books aside and write something else.

Well, maybe. But I leaned over and let her know I'd paid for my hotel room with money I made selling books about zombies.

You broke my heart traditional publishing. I needed you to be better than you are. 

It's okay. I've had my heart broken before and I know what to do. I learn from the experience and move on.

I came home to find audiobook chapters of Banneker Bones and the Giant Robot Bees ready to be approved and soon people around the world will be able to listen to them. Before long, there will be a second Banneker book and it too will be available to every reader in the world who wants it.

I will not be stopped. I will not be thwarted. I will write books about characters of whatever race I see fit and they can be read by anyone who wants them.

If traditional publishers won't give us the diverse books we need, if they can't, then we'll have to get them from some other source. Don't tell me the indie revolution isn't real. Don't tell me it isn't necessary. We've never needed it more.

NINJA STUFF: On Heartbreak And Diversity In Traditional Publishing (Part One)

Oh Esteemed Reader, my mind is filled with all the thoughts as I've just come from a SCBWI conference where I had a breakthrough moment and also learned odd news of an old nemesis/ex-girlfriend-kinda-sorta, and since I've just attended author Skila Brown's session on compelling openings, I'll hope to hook you by saying she's someone you may know (it's a little weak, but I save the good hooks for the writing I'm allowed to charge money for). It was a long, weird weekend in which the universe threw me an opportunity to mend old heartbreak. 

I'm going to share some personal stuff, partly to get it off my chest, and use my heartbreak to talk a bit about an issue with diversity in traditional publishing as I see it. If you'd prefer to read an interview with a more talented writer than myself or an editor or literary agent, that is perfectly understandable. You'll be happy to know I've secured some future interviews to share with you, but today it's just little old me.

I haven't attended a writer's conference since I made the decision to publish independently, mostly because I had a new baby and getting away has been a hassle. Also, one nice thing about publishing my own books is I'm allowed to query myself in whatever way I like, so there's no need for me to sit through an eleventy-billionth session on writing the perfect query letter. 

But the other YA Cannibals (my beloved critique group) signed up for the conference which was held 90 minutes away and only cost $150, which I judged to be a fair price for a weekend of drinking with my buddies. Author Mike Mullin and I are dangerously obnoxious around a bottle of booze, but I've only had a drink once in the 15 months since my son was born and I was overdue for some adult fun--and thankfully, no one recorded our buffoonery. Even so, I had Mrs. Ninja send me multiple pictures of Little Ninja eating and playing because two nights is the longest I've ever been away from him, and as much as I love my friends, I couldn't get back home fast enough.

I've written before about attending a conference with the YA Cannibals. We had a marvelous time, as usual, and I don't have words for how grateful I am to have such wonderful people in my life. But I don't want to bore you with a bunch of stories such as author Shannon Alexander's 7:00 am text of "Wake up, B*****s," which you really had to be there for to find funny. My legs still hurt because someone thought it was a good idea to let the author of Ashfall lead our hike through the woods and we scrambled over rocks and nearly died multiple times following a path Mike swears was an official trail, but I have my doubts.

The conference was held at McCormick Creak State Park in Spencer, Indiana where the next most exciting event planned for the week is the feeding of a small turtle in a tank (they had signs advertising the time and day of the turtle's feeding so we could make sure we weren't late). The theme of this year's conference was "Finding Common Ground In Diverse Characters" and to fully appreciate just how hilarious that is, you have to visit Spencer, Indiana with its white crosses everywhere and gun shops. You can't even get there by highway and one can almost hear the dueling banjos when one drives into town. Most of the diverse folks I know wouldn't let the sun set on them in such a place. In our conference I saw only two non-white faces who hadn't been imported as guest speakers. 

I'll say a great deal more on all that in the second part of this post, but as promised, this first part is about me, the most diverse of heterosexual white males:) Life is very strange, Esteemed Reader, and if it should some day be revealed we're actually living in a computer simulation as some have claimed, I won't be completely surprised. Reality sometimes gets fuzzy around the edges, that's all, and there are odd coincidences too strange to be ignored. I spent part of my weekend collecting ghosts stories and a tale of a grandmother who could accurately predict deaths of family members based on recurring dreams she had. I'm working on a new horror novel I'm quite excited about and such tidbits are of great use to me.

A few months back, I got an out-of-the-blue email from another conference I sometimes attend containing an interview with the newest faculty member. I usually delete such emails without opening them, but the email caught me on a morning when I was avoiding writing and the picture at the top of the interview caused my heart to skip a beat as smiling back at me was a face I banished from my mind many years ago, her face. Somewhere far off I heard Sarah McLachlan singing about the arms of the angel, which was the theme of a prom I once attended (sort of funny, given what Angel is actually about). I banished that song from my house long ago as it brought with it too many painful memories, but these days it just makes me think of those commercials about unwanted puppies and kittens.

I checked the bio and the first name was the same, even if the last has changed. I hadn't seen that face in 16 years and the last time I saw it was through the windshield of my car when I nearly hit her while delivering pizzas. She ran out in front of me and I slammed the brakes because I hadn't seen who it was first:) But all that took place in an Indiana town smaller than Spencer when I was much younger and she's someone I haven't spent much time thinking about since.

The interview came with a website link and would you look at that, she's still writing, is in fact an aspiring young adult novelist who now runs a very popular blog where she interviews writers and literary agents, which is why I'm not using her name as you may have read it. There can only be so many YA authors blogging in Indiana and attending conferences and my thought was "F**K! Sooner or later I'm going to bump into this person (God, anyone but her!) in a professional setting and wouldn't it be nice to not have that blow up in my face.

So I shot her a quick email: "Hey, how you doing, sorry I nearly killed you with my car 16 years ago, remember when we tried to make that movie about giant robot bees, well I haven't changed much, if you see me in public, let's not be awkward as we're adults now, peace!" She responded, "Hey, glad you didn't kill me, what a small world it is, and look at you, also all still alive and stuff." And I offered her a review copy of a book because, ya know, I have books to sell and she does run a very popular blog:)

The End.

Except her name came up at the conference this weekend as Indiana is a very small place and the Hoosier writing community is even smaller. I didn't bring her up as for me, she'd already disappeared back into that same ethereal nothingness that swallowed most of the other folks I knew when I was a teenager and whom I also have no overwhelming desire to ever see again. Apparently she's just signed with a new literary agent. My literary agent. 

"Huh," I said to the person who mentioned this to me. "She and I used to date,"--which is not quite accurate, but it's the closest shorthand word for our extremely unhealthy, dysfunctional relationship/dramatic love triangle that involved me paying for a lot of food, some dancing, some kissing, and tears--"and she's a liar."

Whoa! Easy, killer! How long has that anger been rattling around my subconscious?

Immediately, I had to back up. "I'm sorry," I said. "She's probably a wonderful person now and I don't know her at all. She's a total stranger to me, which is a relationship that's going really well and I hope continues. I read she's married and has kids and if she ever publishes her novel, I'll probably read it as her writing was the thing I liked most about her. I'm sure she's very truthful."

Oh my God, my agent and the first girl who broke my heart! The first girl who broke my heart and my agent! But this means... But this changes... And how does all this effect ME!?!

It doesn't, actually. It's a little weird, but it doesn't mean anything. It changes nothing. After all, my agent's got to sell somebody's book, so why not somebody from my hometown who I certainly thought was someone special once upon a time?

If this were a novel, there'd be more to this story, perhaps when she and I got booked working the same booth at a conference and the power suddenly went out! Fuzzy around the edges it may be, but life isn't a novel and I think this story ends the way so many of reality's stories end: with a bit of self reflection followed by the next chapter in life.

And as I drove the 90 minutes from Spencer back to Indianapolis, memories seeped through my veins and I thought for the first time in at least a decade, probably longer, of that sweet madness, ohhooooh, and gloryeeeeous saaaaadnesss, that brought me to my kneee-eh-heeeees (writer tip--always reference copyrighted lyrics in a free blog post rather than your fiction so you don't have to pay Sarah Mclauglin squat, though I promise to adopt another animal some day).

The first time your heart breaks is the worst. When it happens to Little Ninja, I'm sure I won't understand, as no parent does, and I'm no longer sure I understood my own. Because I remember weeping in a park after an encounter with this person, and not just crying, but sprawled out on a picnic table moaning and writhing as though I'd been in a war.

Sorry, young me, but I'm laughing at you. I can't help it. You were ridiculous! Teenagers, am I right? That's probably why in the only young adult novel I've written, I killed them all:) And as I drove, I began to remember the actual events of 16 years ago, not the fiction I weaved for myself as we writers are predisposed to doing. I looked objectively (mostly) at just the facts, forgetting I was the hero and she was the villain, and tried to piece together what happened as well as I can this far removed.

The conclusion I came to was that if I had a daughter, I wouldn't let a boy like young me anywhere near her. For the first time it occurred to me that this person who shall not be named was not Sauron, the dark lord, but just some girl growing up in the same Indiana town as I who had the misfortune to meet me in my awkward transition to adulthood, though judging by some of this weekend's antics, I'm still transitioning:) She's just another writer, and I know a lot of those, so can I really be surprised she occasionally behaved in strange ways? I certainly did (and do). She was no more innocent or guilty than I was, and even if one of us could definitively be proven to have been the bad one, we were children. We survived, we're both still writing, we have families, so it's to be happy endings all around. 

Had we met now for the first time as writers with families, we might have shared some writing tips and never spoke again. And in the event I bump into her some time, which somehow seems likely in this teeny, tiny state of ours in which the cast of characters apparently does not change, I don't need to be awkward or afraid or any kind of way. Two writers growing up in the same small town at the same time and then going on to run similar blogs and be represented by the same literary agent isn't fate or proof reality is a simulation, but a coincidence.

Probably:)

And when I reached home and came through the front door and Little Ninja, who only just started walking earlier this year, came running toward me with his arms raised and yelled "Da-da" and my heart really, finally, and truly did explode with a happiness that brought me to my knees, and Mrs. Ninja, my faithful partner and best friend gave me a big kiss, I wondered how I could ever have thought I knew what love was when I was so very young, and so very stupid.

But I won't be too hard on myself. Later, as Little Ninja stumbled around our new home shouting gibberish and smacking things, he fell and hurt himself and wept. Naturally, I pulled him to me and held him and made soft sounds and whispered "All Right Now" TM:) But Little Ninja wept and screamed and was inconsolable for several moments until at last I tickled him and got him laughing, and then everything in the world was the best thing evah!!! again.

And that's what it was for me! I thought.

I'm doing the best job of parenting I can, honest, but unless you tie them up, kids fall down and bump themselves. Sometimes dinner isn't ready the exact moment it occurred to him he should have it and sometimes he doesn't want to go to bed yet and sometimes the cat runs away before he can smack her and each time it's the worst thing that could ever happen or has ever happened in the history of all mankind and inconsolable weeping is the only appropriate reaction he can be expected to have. And as I hold him and do my daddy duty, I hurt for him because I know he has no perspective and it really is as bad as all that until he learns there are degrees of pain. 

I was a child who got his heart broken, that's all. It wasn't the last time a girl broke my heart and it wasn't the worst time (not blogging about that one, but I might put it in a novel someday). I know I broke a couple hearts myself. But I never again behaved so badly after a heart break, because I gained perspective.

So I reach back through the years and pat young me's shoulder as he makes a mess of himself on that picnic table. You fell down and bumped yourself, young me. Learn from it and move on and know that one day you will write a very long post on a blog that's at least as successful as hers and snort laugh about the whole thing. 

And also, SMACK!!! Pull yourself together man! People might see you! Put those cigarettes down and would it kill you to get a haircut!?! Get a pen, young me, because we have a long list of behaviors that need to be modified. 

Oh, and those casually racist thoughts I know you sometimes have? One day you're going to occasionally appear on lists of bestsellers in African American fiction, so you're definitely going to want to rethink some things:) Let me show you a picture of your future wife and son because this is going to blow your small-town mind.

Which brings us back to diversity in traditional publishing and the other did-that-just-actually-occur-in-reality-for-real thing that happened when Mike Mullin and I asked some pointed questions about diversity to publishing representatives during a Q and A at this weekend's conference. But this post is out of control long, so I think we'll save that strange tale for part two. 

Come back on Friday for more, same Ninja time, same Ninja channel.

And if you happen to be she-who-must-not-be-named and you found your way to this post, how weird must that be for you!?! I totally didn't write this for you and kinda wish you hadn't read it as it's not actually about you, but if you did read it, I hope you got a laugh and I'm sorry for being a jerk way back when:) And please take comfort in knowing that being a jerk to you got me to the place where I could be less of a jerk to others, which doesn't really help you out, but I'm sure 16 years is enough time to let it go (this post aside). Congrats on signing with the world's best literary agent and good luck.

NINJA STUFF: Calling All Guest Posters

Do you have thoughts on writing and/or publishing, Esteemed Reader? Would you like to share those thoughts with the world, or at least, the portion of the world that reads this blog?

Then my blog is your blog, my Esteemed Readers can be your Esteemed Readers. If you have something interesting to say and can say it in less than 2,000 words, email me. I'd like to fill up this page of guest posters with thoughtful posts a notch above what regular Esteemed Readers expect:)

In less than a year, I've become an author as well as a father and I'm busy, busy, busy doing things I mostly love, such as preparing audio book versions of my stuff. I have to type this fast before Little Ninja screams for his morning bottle, at which point I'll transition to editing the middle grade book I'm writing for next year (so nice to work on a story in which no one gets eaten by a zombie). 

As a result, this blog is going to remain as slow as it's been. I'll still be reviewing books once in a long while and I'll still refer to them as Book of the Week posts, I guess in memory of their previous frequency. But I have a hard time just now responding to review requests, let alone accepting them. And posts like this one will remain rare. 

I so admire Hugh Howey (you know, of course, because I never shut up about him and I made gratuitous references to Wool in All Right Now). He gets involved in interesting author issues and keeps an amazing blog I read every week. I admire that he doesn't have to do squat (his books are selling just fine whether he advocates for authors or not) and it would probably be in his best interest to say nicer things about traditional publishers or at least not to encourage his competition. You don't see James Patterson running around telling other would-be authors specifically how they can cut in on his fan base (quite the opposite), though he will let up-and-comers write his books for him:)

Hugh Howey doesn't have a new baby. I'm not convinced it would slow him down much if he did, but it slows me down and I also work 40 hours a week in a completely unrelated field. Even if I had the talent to compare myself to Hugh Howey, I don't have the same lifestyle, so I'm just gonna focus on being the best me I can be. If I reach the point where I can write full time, I'll make regular posting here more of a priority and I might even get informed enough to tackle publishing issues (the internets need my take on Amazon v Hachette: Dawn of Justice). 

Every month, my royalty checks are growing and I've got more books on the way. Making a living as a writer is no longer an impossible dream of mine. Writing could one day be a practical way to support my family. I've been publishing for less than a year and to date I've got one novel and two shorter works earning for me--and they are earning. It kind of blows my mind to see how many people are willing to part with cash for something I've written, but not only are strangers buying my books, they're buying T-shirts (more on that in a moment). 

So, in the event all these newfound readers don't disappear and I continue to reach new ones through word of mouth (how else can I explain strong sales in India where I've never been?), I could reach a point of dependable income from writing. At this moment I don't see this as the inevitable outcome of my efforts, only as a possible outcome, but that in itself is amazing and inspires me to write every morning. Because if I'm doing this well on three ebooks, how well will I do on four? Five? Ten? There's only one way to find out and this quest makes writing books more fun than it's ever been. 

While I'm busy finding out, this blog needs posts! So if you're looking for a way to reach new readers, and if you're a writer, you should be, why not try reaching my readers? I'm calling all authors and publishing professionals who have something interesting to say. Why not say it here? 

And that's it, except I wanted to comment on that T-shirt link that now appears in the upper left-hand corner of the blog. A while back I had a shirt made of the All Together Now cover so I could wear it around as a billboard because I'm shameless and also because I'm proud of that book and Mike Mullin has an Ashfall T-shirt  he wears to meetings of the YA Cannibals and it made me jealous:) Since then, several folks have asked me where they could get their All Together Now shirt, which is awesome, but I didn't want to have to make a new shirt every time someone asked. 

So now I have a Zazzle store with T-shirts bearing all my book covers. I can't imagine I'm going to get rich, but that's not really the point. Most of the items available there are either things I want (heck yes I want a Banneker Bones light switch cover!), my friends want, or that I think it's funny to create. I don't know who's going to use the All Right Now pacifier, but it amuses me that it exists and I cackle every time I see the Pizza Delivery cutting board. And why not? One day soon we'll all be dead, so let's have some fun now:)

NINJA STUFF: The Cannibalization of All Right Now

After All Together Now, I wrote a popular post about the cannibalization of that story and I thought it might make for a fun post to actually "live revise" the first chapter of All Right Now. If that sounds boring to you, Esteemed Reader, the good news is this is the internet and there are plenty of things to read elsewhere:) For the one or two of you still reading, let's have some fun. I promise not to spoil anything beyond the first chapter

My writing group, The Young Adult Cannibals, gave me several notes for the new story, most of which I'm putting to good use. They also gave me some expectation of reactions when the novella is presented to Esteemed Reader. The Cannibals were divided. Some were happy with the direction of the new story. Some were disappointed that All Right Now is not a young adult story, nor is it a traditional sequel. If Esteemed Reader is hoping for an extension of All Together Now, there isn't one. I love that book, but I've written it and I wanted to come at All Right Now from a different perspective than a moody teenager writing a journal (as much as I loved Ricky).

It's good I have these reader reactions in advance of publication while I can still cater to them, within reason. In all decisions I remember whose name is going on the book's cover. The cannibals are passionate artists and their insight shapes my vision of my story, but it is my story.

However, in writing as anything else, allowing my ego to drive my decisions is the surest way to fall flat on my face.There's a reason I love the YA Cannibals beyond friendship. They're really smart writers and anytime one of them makes a suggestion, I listen. I need them to save me from me. If two or more cannibals suggest a change to my story, I almost always make it. On the rare occasions I don't, I'm better for having thought through my decision and having my artistic conviction strengthened.

In the case of All Right Now, one thing the cannibals were united in was that Chapter One is confusing and needs revision. I like my chapter as is, naturally, but as the beginning is the most crucial part of any story, I've got to address this concern. My stellar second chapter does me no good if Esteemed Reader doesn't get through chapter one.

Let the live revision begin! What follows is the original draft of the first chapter of All Right Now as I presented it for critique. We'll meet up after to talk about the revision notes, then we'll end with a fully revised chapter. Ready, break:

1

RICHARD MACOMBER IS TERRIFIED. THIS is the most terrified he's ever been or will ever be, he thinks. It's a thought the day ahead will test.

     It's 6:00 in the morning. He's slept maybe two hours for the first time in 48 hours.

Elisha called him at work Saturday morning. She didn't call him from home when she was thinking of calling the doctor, or from the car once the doctor had advised her to come in, but from the maternity ward of Wyandotte General.

     By the time he drove to Harrington from Indianapolis, Elisha's labor was being induced and Eunice was already there.

     Of course.

     Eunice sat in the sole glider beside Elisha's bed, holding her daughter's hand, muttering prayers and reciting scripture, despite Elisha's having had an epidural administered Saturday morning. Elisha had some pain through the drugs, but mostly she stared at the television as one evangelist after another preached, wearing an expression approaching euphoric.

     Visiting hours ended at nine for non-spouses, but visiting hours mean nothing to Eunice, and her sitting in the glider beside his wife is the first thing Richard sees when he awakes from the office chair at the foot of the bed. His mother-in-law volunteers at the hospital with her group of holy rollers and the nurses wouldn't dream of asking her to leave.

     She isn't what terrifies him.

     Eunice's purple T-shirt hugs her frame tight enough he can see the wrinkles in her blouse, bulging beneath the shirt's white cross. She always wears a blouse under her Jesus T-shirts. Richard has often wondered if she honestly believes people will mistake the bulk beneath for blouse rather than Eunice.

     Her brown hair is mostly gray and curled close on all sides of her face, which is pudgy and wrinkled like a pug. There's so much flesh bunched around her eyes, one doesn't immediately notice how small and beady they are behind her enormous bifocals.

     "Wake up, Richie!" she calls, her voice hoarse from singing hymns all night. He's given up asking her to call him Richard. "You're about to be a daddy!"

     Her accent is one he's come to think of simply as "Indiana hick" and it grates, especially the way she drags out the 'aaaaa' in daaaaaddy. She could tell him he's won the lottery and so long as she said it in that low, undereducated drawl, he'd be convinced she was giving bad news.

     He stands and rubs a hand down his face, smashing each of his features in turn. "What's going on?"

     There are five people already in the room and three more coming in: doctors, nurses, techs, and whoever else is needed. No one even looks at him, except a nurse who asks him to step back, sir. They focus on Elisha.

     Richard focuses on Eunice. "What's going on?"

     She hears him, he knows she does, but her response is to clutch her bible to her bosom and sing, "Once I was all alone mired in sin. My wicked self had usurped His word."

     In the bed, Elisha joins in the song, though her words have the slow, lazy sound of a drunken slur. "When I felt most afraid, the Shepherd called, 'Lost lamb, come join the heard.'"

     By the time Richard deciphers that a cesarean surgery is necessary to deliver his son, the hospital people are rolling Elisha's bed out of the room.

     She and her mother sing, "All together now, we're all together now. Yea though we perish, yea though we die—"

     Richard moves with the bed, but a woman in scrubs holds up a hand. "Stay here."

     When he ignores her, she plants her palm on his chest and actually pushes him back; not hard, but firm.

     Elisha cries out as they push the bed through the room's one door. No one stops or even slows. They take his wife (and son) away; now you see them, now you don't.

     From the hall, Elisha starts singing again, though much weaker than before. Eunice never stopped singing.      "We'll all be together in the sweet by and by. All together now, we're all together now."

     And then everyone's gone.

     Richard stares at the door, waiting for someone to come back and explain things to him.

     He turns to Eunice. "What happened?"

     The old woman's piggy eyes are squeezed so tightly shut he can see her facial muscles straining. Her left hand clutches the good book. Her right is raised in the air to address the heavenly Father.

     "Be with my Elisha as You were with Noah when the waters rose, flooding the earth save for two of all Your magnificent creatures afloat in the great ship."

     "Eunice, what happened?"

     "Comfort her as You comforted Jonah in the belly of the great fish."

     "Eunice!"

     Something in his cry, probably the panic, convinces her to open one eye. "Richie, I'm talking to the Almighty."

     "Talk to me!"

     "Pray with me, Richie. Bow your head and close your eyes." She reaches for his head, but he ducks.

     "What's wrong with my wife?"

     "Same thing that's been wrong, Richie. It's her blood pressure. Doctor was debating whether or not to do a cesarean for about ten minutes."

     "Why didn't you wake me?"

     "We didn't want to upset you."

     "You didn't want to upset—"Richard laughs, the sound filled with more exasperation than mirth.

     "Calm down, Richie. It's gonna be okay. The doctors are delivering my grandson and I've asked the Lord to guide their hands and He will. Matthew 18:19: 'Again I say unto you, if two of you agree on earth about anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven.' Now bow your head and pray with me, Richie."

     "I think I've had enough Jesus for one morning, thanks."

     "Blaspheme! I'm gonna pray for you, Richie. I'm gonna pray for God to mend your sinful mind and turn you toward Him and give you the fatherly wisdom He gave Abraham."

     "You do that," Richard says and strides to the door. There's no one in the hall.

     He steps out of the room and a nurse he was introduced to yesterday but whose name he can't remember comes around the corner. "Congratulations," she says.

     "Did she already deliver?"

     The nurse shakes her head. "They're still prepping her. Would you like to join her in the OR?"

     "Absolutely."

     The nurse hands him a bundle of paper clothing: a gown, a hat, and bright little footies to put on over his shoes. Eunice is praying loudly when he steps into the room to get dressed, but she stands as soon as he puts on the hat.

     "Where's my gown?" she asks.

     Richard is terrified, it's true, but he doesn't miss the look on his mother-in-law's face when the nurse informs her only spouses are allowed in the operating room. And a part of him, the part not panicking, savors her expression and files it away for later enjoyment.

     Eunice seizes his shoulder and some of his terror flares in her eyes. "You take care of my babies."

     Richard shrugs her hand away and strides into the hall, saying, "Pray for us."

     He can hear the old woman wailing "Blessed Redeemer" as the nurse leads him away.

     Even then, he'll think later when he marvels at how quickly the whole world fell apart, even then, under his mother-in-law's caterwauling, he can hear faint screams in other parts of the hospital.


The Cannibals found both the first and last line of the chapter offensive. I like the first line because I like emphasizing Richard's terror of fatherhood over his later terror of zombies. But the Cannibals found it annoying and with the exception of the one other father in the group, no one got why Richard was terrified. Also, me telling the reader Richard's emotional state rather than showing it is weak writing (but easier).

The chapter's last line creates a potential story issue. I want to promise readers that zombies are coming even if the first two chapters are all about new fatherhood and the first zombie doesn't shamble onto the scene until chapter four. The Cannibals rightly point out that the zombies aren't going to politely wait off stage for two chapters. So both my attempts at cheap hooks have failed to impress the Cannibals. I'll end the chapter instead with Richard telling Eunice "Pray for us," as it's a strong exit line and it immediately endears Richard to me:)

Revision one: Drop cheap hooks that open and close chapter. Open with new cheap hook that assures horror fans the whole story isn't going to be just about having a baby:) Naturally, this means I'll have to remove all other references to Richard being terrified.

I like this as a new opener: THE FIRST DAY OF CHARLES Macomber's life is the last day of life for most everyone else in Harrington, Indiana. (zombies coming y'all! hang in there)

The Cannibals aren't crazy about all the time hoping as it creates too much confusion here in chapter one when Esteemed Reader would rather be focusing on getting to know the characters. Fair enough. My main goal in chapter one is to introduce the conflict (always a reader pleaser) between Richard and his mother-in-law. It's the reason we open in the room before the birth of Richard's son rather than during the birth, which I want to show to invest Esteemed Reader in this father and son before I chase them with zombies for the rest of the story.

Some of the cannibals suggested I open the story with Richard arriving at the hospital or perhaps returning from the bathroom to find doctors in his room. But I like that Richard wakes up to find the world in motion and everything in flux. Also, selfishly, waking up after 30 minutes of sleep after two and a half days of no sleep to find doctors taking my wife to surgery is one of the few autobiographical parts of this story. No doubt, Mrs. Ninja pities how I suffered:)

Revision two: drop all flashbacks and focus only on the present action, simplifying the narrative. This requires some rewriting. 

The Cannibals who are mothers got on me about Elisha's expression approaching euphoria while in labor, despite the epidural. I personally witnessed Mrs. Ninja's expression approaching euphoria during labor, but it's a small thing and why tick off mothers who didn't have the good fortune to get the drugs Mrs. Ninja got:)

Revision Three: remove offending description. 

Revision Four: there are too many medical staff members. Reduce them (I hear the crying out of voices suddenly silenced).

The cannibals didn't understand why the nurse who brings Richard scrubs congratulates him. The answer is because the nurses who came to get me after Mrs. Ninja was taken for a cesarean operation congratulated me and even in my terror, I thought they were jumping the gun. However, "it actually happened" is never a good argument for why something should remain in fiction unless I'm writing about fact. As this is a zombie story, there's no need to preserve the historical evidence of my own experience.

Revision Four: remove nurse's line and clarify that medical staff is not set against Richard, even though it felt that way to me in real life. Make her the same nurse who stops Richard leaving the room earlier and describe her with a unique detail or two to mark her: "a short woman in scrubs and plastic glasses with large shields."As Richard is no longer allowed to be terrified, there's no need to confuse the reader.

Revision Five: change description of Eunice's "bulk" to "rolls" for clarity. 

Revision Six: change "glider" to "rocker" for clarity (if this word gave a cannibal pause, it will probably bug at least one Esteemed Reader, and that's one too many).

Revision Seven: change "heard" to "herd." Die of embarrassment for misspelling the lyrics to my own song:)

Revision Eight: add quotation marks to "step back, sir." and capitalize Step.

Revision Nine: I like the names Eunice and Elisha and I like that mother and daughter both have 'E' names, but it adds an extra layer of difficulty for the reader to remember which name is which as they're learning who everyone is. I think making the text clearer and easier to read trumps my joy of alliteration. Therefore, Elisha will now be Deborah, thanks to my handy list of biblical names:)

As I'm going through the cannibal's notes, I see we have a talking head situation late in the chapter, which is to say lines of dialogue not broken up with description or body language. That's okay sometimes and can be used for good effect, but I'd like just a little something more, so I've added He turns to leave. after "I think I've had enough Jesus for one morning, thanks."

And that's it... for now. The next step is to sleep on these changes. Tomorrow, I'll reread this chapter in the Kindle viewer the same way Esteemed Reader will likely be viewing it to make sure it works. Then I'll hand this draft off to my editors and test readers for their feedback.

Here's the new and improved chapter:

1

THE FIRST DAY OF CHARLES Macomber's life is the last day of life for most everyone else in Harrington, Indiana.

     The hours before Charles's birth are the longest of his father's life. Richard Macomber has been awake for the two and a half days of his wife's inducement and for 30 glorious minutes he's been reclining with his eyes closed on a flimsy office chair in a tiny maternity suite at Wyandotte General Hospital.

     He's forced to sleep in the uncomfortable chair at the end of his wife's bed as Eunice, his mother-in-law, sits in the rocker beside Deborah, holding her daughter's hand, muttering prayers and reciting scripture.

Eunice is the first person Richard sees when he opens his eyes

     Visiting hours ended at nine the night before for non-spouses, but visiting hours mean nothing to Eunice. She volunteers at the hospital with her group of holy rollers and the nurses wouldn't dream of asking Eunice to leave.

     Her purple T-shirt hugs her frame tight enough that he can see the wrinkles in her blouse, bulging beneath the shirt's white cross. She always wears a blouse under her Jesus T-shirts. Richard has often wondered if she honestly believes people will mistake the rolls beneath for blouse rather than Eunice.

     Her brown hair is mostly gray and curled close on all sides of her face, which is pudgy and wrinkled like a pug. There's so much flesh bunched around her eyes, one doesn't immediately notice how small and beady they are behind her enormous bifocals.

     "Wake up, Richie!" she calls, her voice hoarse from singing hymns all night. He's given up asking her to call him Richard. "You're about to be a daddy!"

     Her accent is one he's come to think of simply as "Indiana hick" and it grates, especially the way she drags out the 'aaaaa' in daaaaaddy. She could tell him he's won the lottery and so long as she said it in that low, undereducated drawl, he'd be convinced she was giving bad news.

     He stands and rubs a hand down his face, smashing each of his features in turn. "What's going on?"

     Two people are already in the room and three more are coming in: doctors, nurses, techs, and whoever else is needed. No one even looks at him, except a nurse who asks him to "Step back, sir."

     They focus on Deborah, who had an epidural administered yesterday, and her pain registers on her face only as a weak broadcast sent over a corrupted network.

     Richard focuses on Eunice. "What's going on?"

     She hears him, he knows she does, but her response is to clutch her Bible to her bosom and sing, "Once I was all alone mired in sin. My wicked self had usurped His word."

     In the bed, Deborah joins in the song, though her words have the slow, lazy sound of a drunken slur. "When I felt most afraid, the Shepherd called, 'Lost lamb, come join the herd.'"

     By the time Richard deciphers that a cesarean surgery is necessary to deliver his son, the hospital people are rolling Deborah's bed out of the room.

     She and her mother sing, "All together now, we're all together now. Yea though we perish, yea though we die—"

     Richard moves with the bed, but a short woman in scrubs and plastic glasses with large shields holds up a hand. "Stay here, sir."

     When he ignores her, she plants her palm on his chest and actually pushes him back; not hard, but firm. "Let us take your wife first, and then you'll be allowed to join us in the OR."

     Deborah cries out as they push the bed through the room's one door. No one stops or even slows. The medical staff takes his wife (and son) away; now you see them, now you don't.

     From the hall, Deborah starts singing again, though much weaker than before. Eunice never stopped singing. "We'll all be together in the sweet by and by. All together now, we're all together now."

     And then everyone's gone.

     Richard stares at the door, waiting for someone to come back and explain things to him.

     He turns to Eunice. "What happened?"

     The old woman's piggy eyes are squeezed so tightly shut he can see her facial muscles straining. Her left hand clutches the good book. Her right is raised in the air to address the heavenly Father.

     "Be with my Deborah as You were with Noah when the waters rose, flooding the earth save for two of all Your magnificent creatures afloat in the great ship."

     "Eunice, what happened?"

     "Comfort her as You comforted Jonah in the belly of the great fish."

"Eunice!"

     Something in his cry, probably the panic, convinces her to open one eye. "Richie, I'm talking to the Almighty."

     "Talk to me!"

     "Pray with me, Richie. Bow your head and close your eyes." She reaches for his head, but he ducks.

     "What's wrong with my wife?"

     "Same thing that's been wrong, Richie. It's her blood pressure. Doctor was debating whether or not to do a cesarean for about ten minutes."

     "Why didn't you wake me?"

     "We didn't want to upset you."

     "You didn't want to upset—" Richard laughs, the sound filled with more exasperation than mirth.

     "Calm down, Richie. It's gonna be okay. The doctors are delivering my grandson and I've asked the Lord to guide their hands and He will. Matthew 18:19: 'Again I say unto you, if two of you agree on earth about anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven.' Now bow your head and pray with me, Richie."

     "I think I've had enough Jesus for one morning, thanks." He turns to leave.

     "Blaspheme! I'm gonna pray for you, Richie. I'm gonna pray for God to mend your sinful mind and turn you toward Him and give you the fatherly wisdom He gave Abraham."

     "You do that," Richard says, and steps out of the room.

     The short nurse with the shielded glasses meets him in the hall. She hands him a bundle of paper clothing: a gown, a hat and bright little footies to put on over his shoes.

     Eunice is praying loudly when he steps into the room to get dressed, but she stands as soon as he puts on the hat. "Where's my gown?" she asks.

     Richard's heart is racing, but he doesn't miss the look on his mother-in-law's face when the nurse informs her only spouses are allowed in the operating room. And a part of him, the part not panicking, savors her expression and files it away for later enjoyment.

     Eunice seizes his shoulder and some of his terror flares in her eyes. "You take care of my babies."

      Richard shrugs her hand away and strides into the hall, saying, "Pray for us." 


Want more? Buy the book:)