THE HABIT OF FORWARD

By Clay Stafford

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I didn’t realize when moving forward stopped being a conscious decision and became an ingrained habit. Initially, forward motion felt like discovery. Each new task I completed, each small success I achieved, fostered the sense that movement was shaping my future. I believed, even if I couldn’t articulate it then, that standing still carried risks I didn’t fully understand, that slowing down meant I was destined to live the life I had been given, even the life that was expected of me, not the one I truly desired. When I paused, my mind became habitually restless, always scanning for the next thing that might propel me further. I started writing and making 8mm movies. I sold a short story at ten. I became a publisher of a tabloid filled with gossip, short stories, and essays in the fourth grade and sold the newspapers to the student body for ten cents a copy. These early successes, though small, on my path to becoming who I would grow into, did not remain isolated. The process, the discipline, the passion, stacked into patterns that laid the foundation of my future self. Selling onions, homemade cinnamon toothpicks, a newspaper, stories, poems, and, later, soda and candy out of my school locker led to saving coins. Saving coins enabled me to buy animals and a farm before I even reached puberty. Buying animals meant watching them grow, multiply, and produce something tangible that had once only existed as a dream in my mind. Each step of creating, selling, reinvesting, and buying built upon the last, until the constant motion began to feel less like a series of actions and more like a compulsive current carrying me forward, whether I fought it or not.

There were mornings when I woke up already thinking about what needed to be done, long before anyone in the house moved. After doing morning exercises while watching Jack LaLanne and his white German Shepherd, Happy, on my small black-and-white TV, I often fixed breakfast myself because my mother liked to sleep until 10:00 and my dad left for work early. The day stretched out before me like a path already laid, formed in my sleep. I didn’t yet know to call it ambition. To me, it was simply a necessity, a compulsion. I felt responsible for actively moving the day forward, as if time itself might slow down or break apart if I didn’t keep it going.

I valued each night lying in the dark, listening to the window air conditioner and humidifier, both of which I had to have because I was a sickly child. I learned to measure days by how much I accomplished, rather than by reflecting on what I had become. A day that moved forward felt successful. Days when money was added to my piggy bank, hidden in the closet, felt successful. A day that didn’t yield the desired results felt wasted, and sometimes I’d struggle to sleep because of guilt and failure. Childhood was a stressful time, filled with disappointment: in myself, in the life I had been given, and in the family that kept me, not as a child to be loved, but as an example to their world that we were a traditional family, and that this was what was expected of parents like mine: to have a child. No one ever mentioned that the child should be nurtured and loved. Lying in the dark, seeking sleep that often didn’t come because of my early insomnia, it became clear to me that, at least in my mind, satisfaction and happiness could only follow successful effort. Finishing a task from the day left quiet proof that I was capable of shaping the world around me, that I didn’t have to accept the world I had been given. I was free, for this was true freedom, to build something beyond where I was, even if, as a child, I couldn’t yet imagine what that might be. To me, the proof and truth of this mattered more than praise. Often stressed, unhappy, and melancholy, the idea that I could design something bigger for myself mattered more than comfort. Somewhere along the way, movement stopped being just something I did and became something I was. It turned into a compulsion, and I was convinced that if I took action, results would follow; therefore, it was up to me to keep going.

I felt compelled to take action, even in the smallest routines: carrying buckets, feeding animals, selling onions and homemade cinnamon toothpicks, smuggling candies and sodas to kids in elementary school, writing stories, selling poems, and counting coins. It became an obsession: planning what might come next. I saw life as something that needed to be lived, something that had to be pushed forward, even forcefully. The idea of moving ahead and taking no prisoners grew stronger each week, leading to years of steady pushing. Every moment seemed to hold the potential for progress and for escape. Even rest started to feel temporary, a brief pause before moving on, a distraction even, so much so that I avoided going to bed and woke up early, getting ready for my day before sunrise. If I woke my parents, I knew I’d get a guaranteed beating, so I stayed in my room reading and writing until Jack LaLanne appeared, and then my day could begin.

There were moments when I sensed the shift but didn’t question it. I felt pride when work filled my hours. In school, I was constantly in trouble for daydreaming, staring out the window, or writing scripts instead of listening to math instruction. No punishment, not even Mrs. Running’s drill-holed paddle, could dampen the pride I felt when I was working. I was beaten at home, so why not at school? It didn’t matter to me as long as I was moving forward. When nothing demanded my attention, I felt uneasy and lost. Movement became essential. Being productive became normal. Stillness always carried a slight uneasiness, as if it revealed something I didn’t want to face. Movement became the only thing that mattered because it masked all of life’s uncertainties, even my own realities, with action. If I kept moving, I believed in my mind and heart that the future felt closer, more reachable, less abstract. One day, I would take the money from my hidden piggy bank and hop a train heading south or west.

The adults around me often talked about hard work, but their actions told a different story; their words seemed to fade into the background noise of their everyday laziness. They were stuck in their lives, living in leaky houses without electricity, running water, or a phone, because they lacked the drive to change. Their laziness taught me a lot, as did the emptiness of their conversations and the lack of effort in their actions. What stayed with me wasn’t what they said, but what I saw. I observed hands that sat still, as well as hands like my Grandmother Stafford’s that never rested for long. I saw bodies that moved despite exhaustion and bodies that never moved at all. I learned that survival depended on persistence, especially for a few in my family who tried to escape the poverty that seemed most natural and expected for most people I knew. These experiences shaped me, even though at my young age, I couldn’t yet put it into words. Consistent and deliberate forward movement became a direction I trusted more than any specific destination.

Throughout those early years, I developed a habit of seeing possibilities where others saw burdens. Chores became opportunities. Small responsibilities became proof that I was capable of more than that. Each task completed, each story, poem, or essay published strengthened the belief that effort drives movement and movement drives change. The cycle quietly fueled itself, without ceremony, bells, or whistles, until motion became a part of me, an understanding that it was the safest way to exist.

There were evenings when the world seemed to slow down after dinner, when the animals were settled and put to bed, and the air grew still. My parents watched television while I retreated to the backyard to lie in the grass and look at the stars, wondering if I would ever reach them. In those moments, I sometimes felt the quiet pressing in from all sides, but it did not feel peaceful. It felt unfamiliar. The absence of activity, the stillness and relaxation, left a hollowness in me that unsettled and even depressed me, as if something had gone missing because I had taken a moment to lie in the grass, listening to cicadas and frogs. I couldn’t stay still for long; I had to return to motion, whatever that might mean. Even in church, I practiced sleight-of-hand magic tricks beneath the back of the pew, sitting in a spot away from everyone and my family so they wouldn’t see what I was doing. I had to keep busy and keep improving, even as the preacher droned on about how much Jesus loved me. I often wondered if Jesus loved me that much and delivered people, when was he going to come and deliver me? I learned to rely on my own ability to do magic tricks. No one, not even Jesus, was coming to save me or heal the stripes on my back from childhood abuse. Everyone made a big deal about the blood flowing from the slices on Jesus’s back, but no one cared about me. I was alone and, if I wanted to escape, I had to do it myself. I always returned to motion.

Before I went to bed each night, I would stare at the ceiling in the darkness and look at the stars outside the windows built above the bookshelves my dad made for me to store my small library. I always planned the next day. I knew what needed to be done to make it successful, and if it wasn’t, I scolded my childhood self for a lack of discipline or for cowardice in letting adults change my plans. I vowed that one day I would not let anyone tell me what to do. In my mind, there was God, then me, then everyone else. I would only answer to God. So each night, I reaffirmed myself and what I hoped to see in the fog of my future. I counted what I had earned that day. I imagined what could be built from what I already possessed. Thinking about the next day’s movements reassured me. It gave shape to the uncertainty of my life. It created the illusion that time could be guided if only I worked hard enough, and working hard was what I intended to do.

What I didn’t realize in these early years was how easily my reputation became my identity. As I advanced in life, school, and ambition, the tasks increased, and the responsibilities expanded. The small successes of my childhood slowly hardened into not just actions and accomplishments but also into expectations. I came to believe that progress was not only desirable but essential. If movement created possibility, then stopping or even slowing down threatened it. This idea quietly settled into my mind, becoming less visible with each passing year. I began to feel most like myself and at peace when I was moving toward something. Not necessarily arriving or celebrating, but just moving. I achieved a lot, but there was rarely a moment to celebrate because, no matter what I accomplished, I always felt I fell short. Even success has its own form of failure.

The act of moving forward itself showed that my life had purpose. At home, feeling unwanted, I made my family my future, just like Jesus saying God could raise his children from rocks, not even from human parents. It became a sign that life was unfolding as it should. I was a rock. Even uncertainty felt tolerable as long as I kept moving. Stagnation, on the other hand, felt dangerous and deadly. It suggested that failure was imminent even before it had a chance to appear.

Looking back now, I see how easily motion disguised itself as identity, and I still struggle with the wiring my childhood brain formed. Each step forward in my brain’s synapses reinforced the belief that progress defined worth, that effort justified existence, and that movement protected against the uncertainty that lingered beneath the stillness. The childhood habits, built on fear, anger, sadness, and depression, formed quietly without notice. One day followed another. One task followed another. One tear followed another. What started as survival slowly became a rhythm as organized and structured as Jack LaLanne’s exercises. That rhythm turned into expectation. I didn’t question any of it because it worked and, to me, that was all that mattered. Movement produced results. Results built confidence. Confidence led to more movement. Together, all of this gradually changed my life.

By the time I reached fourth grade, I had become someone who kept moving forward even when no one was watching. I did it not because I was told to, not because I was beaten into submission or abused to make a point, and not because I was forced to, but because my father told me several times that I disgusted him because it seemed I was trying to “outgrow my raising.” I fell in love with moving forward because it felt like the natural state of being alive and, moreover, about staying alive. Once movement becomes identity, stillness then has no choice but to start to feel like loss.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Literary Alchemy: Ingredients of the Story – Conflict

A series designed to elevate your skills and empower you to write like a pro.

By Chrissy Hicks

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Since April is tornado season in Tennessee, it seemed a suitable time to examine this essential element of storytelling. Conflict is the struggle between opposing forces. We encounter this through mental battles and external forces.

Why use Conflict?

• A story without conflict is boring. Imagine if Yossarian never left the hospital in Joseph Heller’s Catch-22? For one, we wouldn’t have the classic novel that became a popular catchphrase. More importantly, it’d be a giant yawn. Who wants to read a story where nothing happens?

• Escalate tension and keep the reader on the edge of their seat. The type of conflict—its level of intensity—depends on genre. In literary fiction, internal struggles are often emphasized over external challenges, while in thrillers, although internal dilemmas are important, external conflict often takes center stage. Consider TJ Newman’s thriller, Falling, in which a pilot is given an impossible choice: crash his plane, killing hundreds, or witness the murder of his kidnapped family.

• Provide character insight. Internal conflict creates good use of interiority and helps us relate to characters. External conflict causes people to react, and these reactions show us their character and personality. In Michael Rigg’s Voices of the Elysian Fields, Jonathan Gray, a deputy coroner, struggles with grief over the traumatic loss of his child and anger at a broken, bureaucratic system (internal struggles), and fights through obstacles as he investigates connected events that reveals dark secrets within the city’s elite—people who will do anything to stop him (external battles).

• Art imitates life, and life is hard, complex, challenging, and conflicted. Simply put, conflict reflects real life. It’s intertwined with human experience. Not a day goes by without some sort of obstacle or difficulty, whether we like it or not. In my short story Baby’s Breath, a pregnant woman struggles to cope with an eating disorder while carrying her firstborn child, and deals with external pressure from a concerned boyfriend and the looming responsibility of motherhood. 

How and When to Use Conflict:

Conflict is the backbone of a good story. It forces characters to act; it can result from characters’ actions (or inactions), and it can come from anywhere, showing up in subtle or explicit ways. For the sake of example, I’ll split this section into two: Internal vs. External.

Internal

• Moral Dilemmas: Gray areas create drama. Bill Hoffman’s family was kidnapped—and he can do absolutely nothing about it because he’s flying a plane. But that’s not his biggest problem! The major conflict comes from the abductor’s ultimatum: the only way to save his family is to crash the plane. (Falling). 

Granted, not all moral dilemmas are this extreme. Take, for example, a young pregnant woman struggling with bulimia. A recent visit to the doctor reveals she’s losing weight. She promises she’ll eat more, but can’t overcome the bulimic urges, despite her desire to care for her unborn child. (Baby’s Breath). 

• Identity crises: Self-image, beliefs, and desires can create enough conflict to fill volumes. Yossarian constantly searches for connection and meaning in the face of war. In the chaos, he grapples with his identity as a soldier while overcome by fear. (Catch-22).

• Emotional struggles: Conflict reminds us we are less in control that we’d like to be, and some people will go to great lengths to avoid it. Instead of dealing with her past, Bella copes by bingeing and purging. “I’d been fine on my own, had everything under control, a high honors student on a fast track to pharmacy school; my bingeing and purging episodes perfectly strategized.” But the statement alone is contradictory—despite trying to convince herself and others she’s fine, Bella’s less in control that she believes. (Baby’s Breath). However, other characters find strength by turning their anger, sorrow, jealousy, or bitterness into action. Dr. Gray’s personal loss drives him to channel his heavy grief into activism. (Voices of Elysian Fields).

• Unreliable (or biased) Narrators: Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth? “Facts” told by a narrator aren’t often as black-and-white as presented, and an unreliable narrator can skew our perception, and the reality for those around them, creating conflict from their biases, lies, and little ‘t’ truths. Consider Rachel—an unemployed woman struggling with alcohol—who witnesses a shocking event that leads her to dig into a missing persons case, but can she trust what she saw? Or is her mind too far gone? (The Girl on the Train).

External

• People vs. People: Conflict can arise from characters’ actions or inactions. Aren’t we often the root of our own problems, too? Yossarian’s conflict isn’t just with the enemy he fights during WWII, but with those around him. He is constantly up against Cathcart, who represents the absurdity of bureaucracy, as well as Milo, who’s manipulative and solely focused on turning the war into a profit-gaining enterprise. (Catch-22).

• People vs. Society: This includes conflict stemming from cultural norms, traditions, or laws, economic wealth, or disparity. Dr. Gray contends with a bureaucratic system that has neglected the coroner’s office. Inadequate space leaves them dealing with bodies piling up (literally). His situation is exacerbated by corrupt politicians whom he suspects are at the core of a scandal. (Voices of Elysian Fields).

• People vs. Nature (Setting): Setting itself can be a character, and sometimes, an antagonist. In Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the bleak, ash-covered landscape acts as an adversary. Throughout much of this story, father and son grapple with natural forces, and the environment emerges as a significant character. 

• People vs. Supernatural: Spirits, ghosts, demons—anything not of this realm can be a source of conflict for our characters. In Claire Fraise’s They Stay series, the protagonist is up against supernatural forces, and she interacts with ghosts (both friend and foe). These paranormal elements are the backbone of all conflicts within the series.

• People vs. Machine: With the ever-constant rise in technology, we see this form of conflict played out daily. When the pilot drifts in and out of consciousness, Jo battles to land a plane with instruction from the tower; in this instance, the machine (the plane) has become a grave antagonistic force and the stakes are heightened—if she fails, everyone dies. (Falling). 

Lookout! 

Observe how conflict unfolds in your favorite movies and books. Study both internal and external conflicts and how they play out. If the internal conflict isn’t stated or obvious, can you infer a character’s inner struggles based on their actions and reactions to outer circumstances? How does the author or director make use of this device? Was it effective? How can your understanding of what they did help you accomplish the same?

Prompt 

Develop a character facing two conflicting desires. Perhaps he wishes to be closer to his girlfriend, who’s moving to New York for a dream job, but doesn’t want to leave his quiet life on a Pennsylvania farm. Then, choose from the list of external conflicts above and add that element. Perhaps ghosts come to settle on the farmland, disrupting his peaceful life. Or just as his girlfriend lands in New York, an autonomous AI-controlled technological barrier encircles the entire state, preventing anyone from entering or leaving.

Further Reading: 

• https://literarydevices.net/what-is-the-main-conflict-a-quick-guide-for-writers/

• https://literarydevices.net/internal-conflict-explained-a-literary-device-for-writers/

• https://writershelpingwriters.net/thesaurus_sample/conflict-thesaurus-supercharge-your-story-with-225-conflict-scenarios/

• https://writershelpingwriters.net/2025/12/four-moments-when-you-should-hold-the-conflict/

• https://writershelpingwriters.net/2025/08/strengthen-your-story-with-conflict/

THE FIRST MOMENTUM

By Clay Stafford

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The first time effort changed my world, I felt it before I understood it. It wasn’t a dramatic moment; it was an impulse. We had few neighbors during my boyhood, but as I walked down the road, I saw wild onions growing in their yards. Someone had mowed their spring grass, and the scent of onions was strong. The night before, my mother had cooked beef liver and onions for dinner, which was one of my favorite childhood dishes. Something aligned in my four-year-old mind. We planted onions in our garden, but the onions in the neighbors’ yards required almost no effort at all. Everyone I knew cooked with onions. I saw an opportunity and walked up the Ledford’s driveway. “One cent for five freshly dug, spring onions,” I offered. I didn’t realize the offer was accepted not because they wanted the onions, but because they wanted them gone from their yards. Regardless, I made my first sale. I went home, got a mattock, dug all the onions from the yard, and made a small pile of change. I offered my services to other neighbors.

It all happened quietly in a private corner of my mind, where work first intersected my imagination without witnesses. Even at this age, I wanted to leave my childhood behind and escape for many reasons. Selling wild onions to neighbors from whom I picked them, essentially selling something that was already theirs, caused a shift inside me. A small inner hinge turned, and a life that had once felt mostly imaginary (getting out) started to seem possible for the first time.

Before that moment, effort mainly meant doing what I was told: chores for my parents, helping both sets of grandparents with their farms, working alongside my father as a mason’s assistant, and managing projects when assigned. But with onions, I became self-directed at a very young age. It came from listening to adults talk, especially my father, that if I worked hard, I would achieve what I wanted. Before walking up the Ledford’s driveway, this advice, ingrained from such an early age, felt unfamiliar to my experience. I understood the words, but they didn’t truly resonate with me until I perhaps sensed a hint of opportunity in the smell of fresh-mowed grass.

I had dreams before then, of course. I’d stand between the ties of the L&N railroad tracks and look one way and then the other, knowing that there had to be something at the end of each direction. I dreamed of finding what was at the end of them, like that pot of gold hidden at the bottom of rainbows that my Grandmother Stafford told me about. These were carefree childhood dreams, the kind without experience, simple dreams, the kind that come before the realization that dreams will eventually face obstacles. As a child, I was Superman. I did not yet know my kryptonite. At that age, it’s easy to imagine many futures, even conflicting ones, like a boy imagining a distant city. I had never been to a large city, though I had seen Chattanooga, and that was enough to imagine one. But as I gazed north and south along the tracks, it seemed unlikely that the futures my small, inexperienced mind envisioned could be reached by walking there. It would require the jets I sometimes watched fly overhead.

At that age, I truly had no understanding of how the world worked. Effort felt abstract then, something distant from my everyday life. The outside world seemed vast and complicated as I tried to understand it by looking at pictures from my mother’s National Geographic subscription. Whatever movement or life existed inside it seemed to belong mostly to other people: older individuals, those who knew what they wanted, my older brothers, people who seemed to know things I didn’t and couldn’t grasp. Then, almost by accident, I did something on impulse: I went door to door with a mattock, selling people their own wild onions. Part of me felt I was pulling a fast one on the neighbors, not realizing they were doing the same thing, but I approached this new venture with a seriousness I hadn’t felt before until the wild onions went back into summer hibernation. I know it made me want more, but wild onions only grew so fast, so a second understanding began to develop: patience. Selling wild onions meant returning to the effort more than once, checking the yards to see how fast the onions were growing. This required a stubbornness that even surprised me, even as I felt it taking hold. I didn’t tell my parents what I was doing, nor did I let them see the money I earned. This was mine: my idea and my rewards.

When I was six, something important happened. I had been secretly saving my money in a Mason jar hidden beneath the debris in my closet to prevent anyone in the family from stealing it. My grandfather Parker, Papa, must have known (I guessed the neighbors had talked about what that Stafford kid was doing), and when he appeared, he offered to sell me his eighty-acre farm if I had $10 to buy it. I eagerly accepted, and I now owned a farm, much to the anger of my father and one of my brothers, who believed the farm should have gone to them. This opened a new door. With more money I saved from wild onions and selling vegetables to neighbors from my family’s large gardens, I began buying cattle, then poultry, and then selling cows, poultry, and eggs. I even started breeding and selling mice wholesale to pet stores. The work I started on impulse (selling wild onions) began to open up more opportunities. For a long time afterward, I looked back almost suspiciously at how strange it seemed that a boy like me should own a farm, make money, and plan his own escape.

Although I couldn’t name or verbalize the idea, I realized that my world wasn’t moving randomly. It moved because I kept putting in effort. I understood it not intellectually but physically, the way a body learns something before the mind does.

Once that understanding arrived, even in its smallest form, it changed the atmosphere of everything around me. I got involved in small businesses, using the money I had to generate more money. I opened a bank account by the time I was eight and moved money from my Mason jar to a safer place where it earned the most interest. By fourteen, I started my own production company, which I even registered as a DBA with the state of Tennessee. I didn’t realize it then, but it would change the course of my life and open the door for the escape I had hoped for so long. The world didn’t seem easier through all of this; it felt more demanding, but it was a demand I welcomed. Most importantly, life and effort no longer felt indifferent. My father was right: if I worked hard, the things I wanted would come.

There is a current beneath everything that effort seems to touch. It felt intoxicating to me in a way I didn’t yet recognize, but I sensed the addiction and the rush. Effort carried the promise of movement: the gap between imagination and reality might not be as wide as I thought. I began noticing what effort could do in everything around me. I saw it in the quiet persistence of people working long after anyone was watching. I saw it in the small improvements from consistently returning to the same unfinished task. I saw it in the steady accumulation of results that, from the outside, looked like sudden success. But nothing was truly sudden. Patience played a role once again. Yet what stayed with me most was that initial feeling of discovery: if you knocked on the door, people would buy their own onions. Effort created something, even as simple as a knock and an offer. It wasn’t luck. It had nothing to do with timing. It only existed in the realm of self-chosen and self-directed effort.

I still didn’t realize how complicated the truth would become later in life. I hadn’t yet understood how often my future efforts would face resistance or how many things the world would refuse to move, no matter how patiently I pushed. In my young Appalachian life, things moved more simply and slowly than what would eventually come. But I knew one thing, and I would never forget it: selling onions changed my life. Work could change things, and because I had felt that even in its simplest, smallest form, I could never forget it. Early effort shaped the way I approached everything afterward. Not exactly with confidence; confidence would come much later, but with quiet curiosity about what might happen if effort was applied again, and then again.

Effort as an adult can be unpredictable. Sometimes it yields nothing, and the world remains exactly the same. But at times, in those precious moments, things change. A little progress here, a small breakthrough there, a quick “yes” when it’s most needed, a faint sense that movement has begun where there was once only stillness or even stagnation. Looking back now, I see that what started on the day I walked up the Ledford’s driveway wasn’t success; it was momentum. It was the subtle pull forward that appears when effort and possibility first meet. There was no certainty or clear direction. It simply came as an impulse: the feeling and belief that once motion begins, it can create something new, and perhaps even keep offering its own kind of blessings in response to the effort I put in. That was enough. Once I sensed the world responding to my effort, even once, like when I pulled those first pungent wild onions from the Ledford’s front yard, I would never again believe that standing still was all the world knew how to do.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

This Crazy Writing Life: Four Million And Counting! Please, Somebody, Make It Stop!

By Steven Womack

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As I mentioned in a previous installment of This Crazy Writing Life, it’s impossible to determine how many books are published each year throughout the world. However, most experts seem to agree that our best guess estimates now pop four million a year.

Four million books a year!

It gobsmacks the imagination. And with the advent of generative AI, that number’s going nowhere but up. It’s indicative of how much alarm this has caused that Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP)—Amazon’s indie pubbing platform—now limits you to publishing three books a day. If you’re good with AI, you can produce a “book” in under an hour. There’s evidence that there are thousands of accounts out there uploading more than 100 books a month.

It’s insane.

So when British writer and indie pubbing guru James Blatch (who is perhaps best known as Mark Dawson’s partner in what used to be called Mark Dawson’s Self-Publishing Formula before rebranding itself) wrote a Substack post a couple of months ago in which he suggested that KDP should charge $300 per upload…

Well, as we say in the screenwriting biz, chaos ensued.

This sent people straight into panic mode. I get it; most self-published books don’t earn $300 over the course of their entire lives (and a lot of trad books don’t). This would put a ton of folks out of business. And it’s going against the tide of where the indie-pubbing industry is headed. Ingram used to charge to upload a book, but now they’ve dropped that.

Apparently, Blatch (who is a genuinely nice guy; I had dinner with him and Mark Dawson at the Novelists, Inc. conference a few years ago) received nothing short of an avalanche of insults and threats over this idea. In a follow-up to the original Substack post, he wrote that:

Clearly the figure of $300 was the main issue. Even if it covers all derivatives, including translations, it would adversely affect more authors than I considered. But I will stand by the theme of the post.

Blatch makes a good case for putting up some kind of seawall against this word tsunami. If there’s no limit to AI slop, then we’ll all soon be drowning in it. Let’s also not forget The Elephant in the Middle of the Room, which is that a great many human-written indie-pubbed books should have never seen the light of day either (okay, there, I said it).

Of course, I’m not talking about your book or mine, but c’mon folks… We’ve all seen indie-pubbed books that are, frankly, embarrassing.

Prior to AI, my reasoning would have been that the market would have been the seawall. Word gets around that a book sucks and nobody will buy it. But these AI-generated tomes are also encased in AI-generated covers and backed up by AI-generated marketing. And if you’ve ever noodled around with AI covers and marketing (I have), you’ll soon learn that AI can produce some pretty good B.S. Their covers aren’t bad either.

This massive digital landslide hurts serious indie-pubbed writers. Amazon doesn’t give a rat’s rusty flip about you as an author. What they do care about is profit, and how do you protect profit?

By not p^*#ing off your customers.

Blatch wrote that Amazon has achieved this by altering its algorithm so that indie titles are penalized and held back from some chart positions. The algorithm has been tilted to the conservative side, so that books that make the best-selling charts tend toward those with a larger sales history.

I get why Amazon does this.

But it still hurts.

What we’re up against is the business model of AI-generated books. Humans who take writing seriously want to produce quality work that sustains itself over a long period of time. In the early days of my writing career, I imagined that my books would be a kind of annuity that would support me in my dotage and then continue to produce for my family after I’ve gone (reality quickly shut that dream the hell down).

AI-generated books are a new business model. When you’re producing a hundred books a month, if each one sells a couple dozen copies before people realize they’re drek, then you’re on your way to making a good living.

All this sounds like there are people running clandestine AI-slop farms from obscure offshore locations with no extradition treaty, like the folks with exotic accents who call me ten times a day offering me help with Medicare or make an offer on my house. That’s not always the case, though. Consider romance novelist Coral Hart, who was profiled a couple of months back in The New York Times. Ms. Hart is open and aboveboard about it: she creates romance novels with AI (specifically Anthropic’s Claude). She produced more than 200 last year, selling over 50,000 copies, and earning a good, solid six figures. To prove it could be done, she generated one while being interviewed.

It took her not quite 45 minutes.

So that’s what we’re up against. The competition was bad enough before AI. Now it’s even worse, and it’s not going away.

Now this effluent storm has even hit the trad publishing space. Hachette cancelled publication of the horror novel Shy Girl by Mia Ballard in the wake of The New York Times raising suspicion about the book. The cancellation of the novel, originally self-published and then picked up by Hachette after presumably good numbers and reviews, has caused a real ruckus in publishing. Apparently, there was a lot of speculation about AI content in the book from the get-go, but Ms. Ballard has vehemently denied in interviews and statements that she had anything to do with this. She maintains that the editor used AI to change some of her text without her knowledge.

But this begs the question of why a professional author wouldn’t go over the editorial revisions and catch the AI changes. Most writers that I’ve ever known, myself included, go absolutely medieval over a manuscript that’s been touched by an editor. Sharyn McCrumb once told me she was so put out over a copyeditor’s changes to her manuscript that she had two rubber stamps made. The first read Stet. The second read Stet, damnit!

The other issue that pops up here is why didn’t Hachette catch the AI problem before the Times pointed it out. Publishing industry guru Jane Friedman speculated that perhaps publishers need to start taking advantage of tools like Pangram, which are designed to detect AI. Maybe trad publishers are just behind the learning curve on AI.

But, Friedman pointed out, the real issue is that AI has now evolved to the stage where it’s going to get harder and harder to detect it. As she wrote: “I hope (finally?) that this is a wake-up call for publishing professionals. This is just the tip of the iceberg.”

Jane Friedman is spot on with this one. AI isn’t going anywhere; in fact, it’s going to get a little bit better each day. I read a blog post by a very famous and important writer (no need to name names here) who raged against AI, saying it was the devil incarnate and he’d never have anything to do with, never touch it.

I think that’s short-sighted. For one thing, if you don’t know anything about AI and refuse to even look at it, then you won’t notice it when it sneaks into your life. If you consider AI the enemy (and I don’t, by the way), then the first rule of war is know your enemy.

To circle back around to James Blatch, he wrote recently that he’d had a conversation with a senior Amazon executive, who told him that Amazon would never introduce an AI checker. As soon as you created one, AI would find ways to get around it. The technology moves too quickly on both sides of the equation.

I don’t have an answer to this one. I’ve noodled around with AI and found it to be an incredibly useful tool. I’ve done everything from generating marketing copy with AI just to see what it looks like, to screening stocks for options opportunities, and planning travel itineraries. AI’s like any other tool; it can be used for useful, worthwhile purposes or it can be used to cause great harm.

The one thing I would never do is use AI to generate copy that I then put my name on.

Bottom line: this is the price we pay for, as the old curse says, living in interesting times.

Next month, I’ll have some news on a project I mentioned in a previous column.

Until then, as always, thanks for playing along.

Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know About Real Police Work: The Bladed Stance: Why Do Cops Stand Like That?

By David Lane Williams

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One of my students recently observed two police officers interviewing an intoxicated man who’d caused a disturbance in a downtown bar. The student is pre-law, taking criminology electives to better understand a profession she’ll often engage with after she passes the bar. The incident she witnessed took place in a party district near her campus, an area dominated by college kids on any weekend night. 

She had questions about how the two walking beat officers engaged with the belligerent man. One of her questions concerned how the officers were standing. In her words: “There was something odd about their posture, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.” 

What she described is something that writers of police procedurals or mysteries involving police officers should understand. Knowing how and when this “odd” posture comes into play could give your work an insider detail that other writers might not know to include in their stories.

Watch a cop the next time you see him talking to someone he doesn’t yet know if he can trust. I predict you’re going to see him standing in what is called a “bladed stance.” Think of a boxer staring at his opponent across the ring. His hands are up, one leg is in front, the other back to lend stability in case he takes a punch.

The bladed stance in police work is the same thing, except the officer’s hands aren’t raised in fists. The stance is taught in police academies around the world because it works well for what it is supposed to do. It gives tripod-like support from behind in case the officer is punched or shoved, while allowing the cop to move out of the way faster should the suspect(s) suddenly try to tackle him. 

Let’s pretend you’re playing a game in which your opponent gets a point every time she throws a rubber ball and hits you in the chest. Were you to stand with your feet planted firmly facing your opponent, your ability to move out of the way is slower when the ball is thrown than if you were to stand slightly sideways. The bladed stance allows you to move quickly while only moving one leg back the moment the ball is thrown. Now, imagine replacing the rubber ball with a fist or an attempt to grab you. Being able to move nimbly and with minimal coordination between your feet makes you faster and better able to dodge or absorb the impact. 

A bladed stance also offers the distinct advantage of placing most of the officer’s weapons farther from the suspect. There are people in this world who seriously practice grabbing a cop’s gun out of the holster. Outlaw motorcycle gang members have been known to hold practice drills for their members to perfect this dangerous attack. Subsequently, cadets in police academies practice blocking such an attack so that they are never caught off guard or stripped of their weapons during a physical confrontation.

Take a moment to observe a police officer engaging with a citizen the next time you have the opportunity. Chances are, he’ll have his gun, baton, and pepper spray on one hip, with his radio, flashlight, and taser device on the other. In a bladed stance, the deadliest weapon is on the opposite side of the cop’s body from a suspect or detainee. 

This makes it more difficult for someone intent on taking a cop’s weapon and using it against him to reach a gun holstered on the opposite side of the officer’s body. The bladed stance adds a layer of protection, making this type of attack less likely to succeed. 

There is an additional detail I’d like you to observe next time you’re around officers. Watch their hands. Well-trained and experienced officers will most often stand with their hands in front of their torso while engaging in conversation with someone they’re trying to size up as a potential threat. Some steeple their fingers, others clasp one palm against another. This stance with their hands out in front offers a couple of advantages. 

First, their hands are in the perfect position to respond to a surprise attack. I used to have a police chief who would bellow all kinds of less-than-kind things if he spotted a cop standing with his hands in his pockets. The chief’s communication skills could have been better, but his reasoning was sound. Only a brazen idiot stands with his hands in his pockets when facing someone who might mean them grave harm. Being ready for anything means standing in the guarded position I’ve described but doing so in a way that doesn’t telegraph your plan. 

Second, a police officer who keeps her hands visible is proactively using body language to convey peaceful intent. This is especially important when dealing with someone experiencing anxiety or who does not automatically trust the police. We talk a lot about training officers to be good communicators in stressful situations. While that certainly means using our words to de-escalate tense moments, this also means conveying benign intent with our entire bodies. 

Policing is both a science and an art. The bladed stance is data-proven to be reliable when violence erupts. Great communication skills learned and utilized during some of the most stressful moments between human beings is an art form. Being able to seamlessly blend such science and art is foundational to great police work, and applying such skill to your protagonist makes for outstanding prose that your readers will appreciate and remember. 

Carry on.

THE QUIETNESS BENEATH THE STRIVING

By Clay Stafford

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In that quiet moment, I realized I was no longer striving. For most of my life, I chased something I could never quite name. I moved against the ticking of an internal clock only I could hear, always aware that time kept moving forward.

No actual Big Ben was telling the time, but I felt its presence in how I approached work, opportunities, relationships, meals, sleep, and even the ordinary moments of each day. My life carried a quiet urgency that fueled my ambition. I rose early, pushed forward with determination, pursued the next project, the next mountain to climb, the next room, the next possibility, hoping it meant I was moving in the right direction. Movement was always necessary. Ambition was desired. Action was virtuous. I questioned none of these. Movement, always, justified itself.

Although I always felt overwhelmed and behind, those outside my mind admired my life and career, often complimenting me on how much I had achieved with so little sleep. I worked hard. I built things. I wrote. I traveled, spoke, taught, and organized. My days were packed, seven days a week, driven by what I saw as purpose, and I rarely questioned purpose when it showed measurable results. Invitations came. Opportunities followed. Doors opened. I moved through them all with the confidence of someone who has long believed that forward momentum is the key to a well-lived life.

A ghost haunted me. No matter how much I searched within myself, I couldn’t see it clearly, but there were many small, hollow, and lonely moments when I sensed something hidden just beneath my movements. I couldn’t quite grasp it and mistook it for guilt for not working harder. I walked the hotel hallways late at night, stared at the stars after a long day of writing or directing, and always, there was a lingering vibration inside me, something unsettled. My days went well, but it was the quiet of the night that seemed to condemn me. I searched for the source of that restlessness but could not name it. How could I feel so empty when the day had gone so well?

Caring and striving were like twin threads woven together in my mind. I grew up in and intentionally stepped away from circumstances where effort wasn’t optional if you wanted to escape a room with no doors or windows. If something mattered or freedom was vital, I approached it with intensity. “How would you describe me?” I would ask my friends when we sat around reminiscing about our day. “Intense” was the word most often used when describing me. And why shouldn’t it be? If something truly mattered, didn’t it demand intensity? If a dream was worth chasing, didn’t it call for force? The world does not open easily, and I learned early that doors had to be pushed because something on the other side was always pushing back. Over time, through experience and different situations, my mind rewired itself, and my posture hardened into a habit. I became skilled at many things, especially pushing.

The work itself never felt wrong. I loved writing. I loved creating in many forms. I loved teaching. I enjoyed building companies and projects. I cherished the strange and wonderful spaces where ideas moved between people and something unexpected appeared in every room. Those moments of exchange and growth felt like the closest I knew to being true to myself, but the path to them still carried a constant, underlying tension that I rarely examined, even though I always felt it. I assumed it was simply part of the deal. Years passed this way, much of my life.

The shift happened gradually enough that I didn’t notice it at first. Nothing sudden or dramatic took place, no failures, no collapses, no abrupt rejections that forced a change in direction. I kept climbing. The work continued. The invitations kept coming. The doors I pushed so hard against started to open. I kept writing, speaking, and building the things I believed were worth creating, but something began to change within the movement itself.

I started to notice, gradually, that the urgency that had driven me and been inside me for so long was beginning to fade. Projects still mattered, but they no longer felt like evidence of anything. Conversations still energized me, but they didn’t carry the same weight to confirm my place in the world. My focus started to expand beyond work. I didn’t lessen anything; I added my family life to the mix with the same sense of purpose. Professionally, then personally, the invisible clock kept ticking. Yet, something strange happened: the constant ticking somewhere behind my ribs and in my gut began to fade, then grew oddly silent, enough to scare me. At first, I wondered if I had lost my edge, or maybe I had climbed so high that there was nowhere left to climb.

To me, intensity was synonymous with vitality. As intensity faded, it left behind an unfamiliar silence. I lacked the experience to understand or accept it. Sometimes, I would sit down to work in the mornings and notice that the old edge, the one that had propelled me forward for so many years with relentless energy, was no longer there in the same way. It felt unsettling. Shouldn’t I be feeling stressed this morning? The absence of stress felt wrong, as if a hole had opened somewhere. The work was still there. The desire to do everything well persisted. What had disappeared was the feeling that the work needed to justify my existence.

For years, I believed and knew that striving was the driving force of my life. Without it, I thought, the entire structure of who I was and what I had built might fall apart, yet the opposite seemed to be happening. The work continued, but it changed. The writing deepened. The conversations felt less like performances and more like authentic encounters. I found myself listening longer, talking less, pausing before responding, and letting ideas come in their own time instead of forcing them. I began to see my mind shift from rapid change to deep transformation. I wondered if it was age. I questioned whether something essential was fading. But it was something else, still without a name or face. The love of the work was still there exactly as before. What had vanished was the tension that once surrounded it.

I began to realize that much of the effort I had invested wasn’t really about the work itself. It was about what the work might prove. Every project once carried a subtle secondary goal: to confirm that I was moving in the right direction and that the path I chose mattered. When that need was alleviated, writing felt less like arguing with the future and more like engaging with the present. Teaching felt less like displaying knowledge and more like sharing a space with people who were thinking their way through something together. Even the long days of organizing and planning, which once felt like necessary battles against time, began to take on a calmer rhythm. As I loosened, my work shifted as well. The life I loved no longer required the intense striving that once defined it. The realization was both simple and disorienting.

One afternoon, while at my desk, I realized that hours had passed without the usual tightness in my chest that often came with long periods of focus. I had been writing steadily, absorbed in my work, moving smoothly from one idea to the next with a calm attention that felt almost strange. When I got up and went into the kitchen, I noticed that the day had gone by without that old sense of pressure. Nothing had been forced. The work had simply happened.

I reflected on earlier years when every step forward seemed to need a kind of inner strength, as if the next moment might demand more effort than the last. I remembered the determination that carried me through those times, the relentless push that opened doors that might otherwise have stayed closed. The past brought me to where I am today. I don’t regret any of it. The effort served its purpose. It carried me through landscapes where effort was the only language that worked. It built things that mattered. It took me to rooms I had once only dreamed of entering, but somewhere along the way, the reason for that stance quietly faded. The work I love no longer needs to be defended by force. It has become its own justification.

Looking back on the past, I see my younger self moving forward with admirable determination, overcoming obstacles that once seemed impossible. I feel gratitude and tenderness for that version of myself. That younger man believed that intensity was the price of meaning, and in many ways, he was right; however, the life that followed didn’t require the same approach. The projects still mattered. The conversations still mattered. The writing still mattered. My family still mattered. What changed was the environment around those things. The atmosphere felt clearer, the movements lighter, and living no longer carried the burden of proving anything beyond itself. Instead, it demanded attention. When I finally saw it, the fullness of life had always been there.

I still worked. I still built things. I still loved. I still followed the ideas that sparked my curiosity and the conversations that drew me deeper into the strange and beautiful experience of being alive, but the motion felt different. The clock had stopped ticking somewhere beyond my awareness, and when I finally noticed the silence it left behind, I realized that the life I had been chasing had quietly been walking beside me all along.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

WHEN BEING SEEN WAS COSTING ME MY VOICE

By Clay Stafford

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I had been visible for years before I realized I was disappearing. My name appeared on programs. My work circulated in rooms I wasn’t in. I was introduced, quoted, and invited back. People recognized me in hallways and said kind, even effusive, things about my presentations. From the outside, it looked like presence. From the inside, it felt like a faint but steady misalignment I couldn’t put my finger on, as if I were arriving everywhere slightly ahead of myself, leaving something essential behind.

At the time, I did not have the words for it, but I could feel it. I knew only that I could move through a day of being seen, noticed, acknowledged, and included, and still return to my hotel room with the peculiar sensation that nothing of me had truly been encountered. The interactions had been real, the exchanges polite, always warm, encouraging, and welcoming, yet something beneath remained untouched, like a current beneath the visible surface of water that no one had dared to step into. This was when I realized that remaining visible on others’ terms was costing me my own voice.

For a long time, I mistook participation for expression. I spoke when asked, contributed when invited, shaped my words to the room’s tone, adjusted emphasis, softened angles, and translated what I meant into what could be easily received. I had been taught and trained that these were exemplary traits of a professional speaker. It did not feel dishonest; it felt appropriate, even skillful. I believed I was being effective by being flexible and quick on my feet.

There were advantages to this way of moving: doors opened, conversations stayed smooth, I was easy to place and include, and I played the game well. I rarely disrupted the existing architecture of any space I entered. Whatever I carried that did not fit the frame, I held back without quite noticing. I conducted myself as a seasoned professional. It seemed natural to assume that whatever was most central in me would eventually find its way forward once conditions allowed. However, conditions remained remarkably consistent.

I began to notice that the more visible I became, the more carefully I edited myself in real time. It was not overt suppression but a series of small internal calculations: this part later, that part reframed, this angle unnecessary, that thought too sharp for this context. I watched myself adjust mid-sentence, reading the audience, sanding edges before they reached the air. Others responded positively. I was articulate, measured, constructive. I left interactions intact. I also left them unmarked by anything that would have required me to stand fully behind what I knew but had not said. I sought to encourage and entertain, never saying anything that would lessen my audience’s zeal. The cost did not appear as a loss; it was loaded with positives. The audiences were left uplifted, but I was left fatigued without an obvious cause. I still couldn’t put a name to it.

There were evenings spent in those hotel rooms, looking out over whatever new city I was in, when I could not find exactly what had been spent. I had not argued, had not defended, had not even disagreed strongly enough to be memorable, and yet I felt as though I had been slightly erased in my own presence, the way a photograph fades not all at once but in increments too small to notice until a comparison is made, a hollowness that could not be explained.

The recognition came during an ordinary conversation while I was delivering a speech on “Thinking Outside the Box” to a group of high-ranking officers in the U.S. Department of Defense, following the usual pattern. I was asked a question that touched something I cared about deeply. I began to answer, but halfway through, I heard myself shift tone, redirecting toward safer phrasing, aligning with the prevailing view before my own thought had fully formed. The person in the audience who asked the question nodded, satisfied. The exchange moved on. Another question, another sincere but necessarily incomplete answer. No one would have registered anything unusual, but I felt the moment standing there on that stage in front of a couple of thousand intimidating individuals that I had stepped aside from myself.

It was not dramatic, but I felt myself stumble and pause, then kick back in professionally as if nothing had happened. No one interrupted or contradicted me, and nothing external kept me from finishing the thought as it had first formed; I doubt anyone in the audience noticed. The change came entirely from within, so practiced that it barely registered. That was what stopped me: how automatic it had been, how quickly I had chosen to align with the room’s expectations of what they wanted to hear rather than with myself. The presentation and question-and-answer session ended. I left the stage, hearing the echo of applause, but also the echo of what I had almost said.

What startled me was not fear. It was recognition. I had done this many times. I had mistaken being allowed to speak for being willing to say what was true. I had accepted inclusion that required no more than participation. I had equated circulation with expression, and in doing so, I had stayed visible in ways that asked nothing of me that might have cost me acceptance or an invitation to return.

I began, quietly, to track these moments in future speaking engagements, not correcting them yet, only noticing. The sentence softened before release, the point abandoned mid-formation, the thought translated into something adjacent yet less precise. Each instance was minor, but together they outlined a pattern I would later reflect on in my hotel: I had learned to remain seen without risking being fully heard.

There were reasons. Early experiences in which speaking or writing directly carried penalties, contexts in which smoothness ensured safety, and environments where standing apart invited correction or withdrawal. Adaptation had been intelligent. It had worked, and professionally, it had worked well. It had also lingered long past the conditions that required it, operating now in rooms that might have held what I actually meant, had I placed it there. What I confronted was not silence imposed from the outside but a self-maintained narrowing of what I allowed to be revealed.

The loss revealed itself in the absence of resonance. Interactions ended cleanly but did not land. My contributions were acknowledged, yet others shifted only within their comfort zones, including mine. I left exchanges intact yet untouched, as if I had hovered at the edge of my participation. The visibility remained, but I realized the genuine encounter had not.

Sitting alone in the hotel room, I felt grief in that quiet realization, not for opportunities missed or recognition withheld, but for the accumulated distance between what I carried and what I allowed into the conversation with those around me, those who had trusted me and looked to me for sincerity. I had not been prevented; I had remained within boundaries that required only parts of me.

I did not change abruptly. I could not, because I had been developing my style and presentation for decades, but I did begin to allow one thought to finish before editing, then another. Sometimes the room shifted slightly; sometimes it did not. But I could feel myself shifting. Occasionally, there was friction, but more often there was simply a different quality of attention, one that met what I allowed myself to say rather than what I had made acceptable to the room. I felt exposed in unfamiliar ways, yet exhilaratingly present, and, to my surprise, audiences engaged more, not less. New boundaries were approached by all of us.

What I noticed most was internal: a reduction in that unexplained fatigue, a sense of having stayed intact through an exchange, and the absence of that faint afterimage of self-erasure. Being heard did not happen everywhere, but it did not need to. What mattered was that I had remained audible to myself.

Visibility continued, and speaking engagements increased. Invitations continued, and nothing outward collapsed, but the terms shifted, first privately, then publicly. I no longer assumed that inclusion required dilution. Some spaces held what I brought, while others did not. I began to recognize the difference not by response but by whether I had departed from myself to remain.

Looking back, I do not see deception in my earlier ways of speaking. I saw that the way I had learned to present myself no longer matched what I knew. I saw habits that had outlasted the conditions that formed them. I saw a skill settle into habit without being questioned. I saw how easily I had stayed visible in versions of myself that asked little of me. The moment I realized hiding was costing me came not when anyone refused to hear me; it came when I heard myself step aside and recognized that no one else had asked me to.

Since then, visibility has felt different, less like light falling on a surface and more like space in which something either stands or does not. I still speak carefully and consider context, but I no longer edit the core before it reaches my speech, writing, and life and relationships. What remains unsaid now is unsaid by choice, not by reflex. I am still seen in many of the same places, but now, when I leave, I am there too, and I leave whole.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Column 14: The Missing Hour: The Curious Elasticity of Time

By Andi Kopek

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Last night was one hour shorter than usual.

My phone said so, my car clock confirmed it, and my coffee maker seemed slightly offended by the sudden schedule change. At two in the morning, we simply moved the clock forward and politely agreed that sixty minutes had vanished.

This annual ritual is called daylight saving time. Yet it rarely makes me think about daylight, and it certainly doesn’t feel like savings.

What it really makes me think about is something much stranger. Time.

Time appears perfectly orderly when we look at a clock. Seconds march forward with mechanical confidence. Minutes stack neatly into hours, hours into days, days into years.

But the moment we pay attention to how time actually feels, the neat machinery begins to wobble.

Five minutes waiting in line for coffee can feel longer than two hours spent sipping it with friends. The last ten minutes before a deadline accelerate with alarming enthusiasm. Meanwhile a “quick check” of the phone somehow lasts forty-seven minutes. And childhood summers, when we were eight or nine years old, somehow lasted forever.

Clocks measure minutes. Humans measure experiences.

Writers know this especially well. Three hours at a desk may produce a single stubborn paragraph. Yet occasionally an idea arrives and five pages appear in twenty minutes as if the words had been patiently waiting somewhere outside ordinary time.

For the reader, of course, the ratio reverses. A page that took three days to prepare may be consumed in thirty seconds.

Writing, in this sense, quietly bends time.

Time becomes even stranger when we start moving across the planet itself.

One of the most delightful examples appears in my all-time favorite book, Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne, a storytelling genius. In the novel, the famously punctual Phileas Fogg travels around the globe to win a wager that he can do it in eighty days. When he returns to London, he believes he has lost the bet by a single day.

But he has forgotten something subtle.

Because he traveled eastward around the Earth, crossing time zones along the way, he quietly gained a day without realizing it. While racing the clock, he had slipped ahead of the calendar itself.

Travel in the right direction around the planet and time behaves differently.

Our modern system of time zones is surprisingly recent. In the 19th century every town in America kept its own local solar time. Noon simply meant when the sun was directly overhead. That worked fine until railroads appeared. Suddenly trains were trying to run on hundreds of slightly different clocks. In 1883 the railroads solved the problem by introducing standardized time zones across North America.

On November 18, what became known as “The Day of Two Noons,” thousands of clocks were reset in a single afternoon. For a brief moment, some cities experienced noon twice.

Modern science fiction has pushed this idea even further. In Interstellar, directed by Christopher Nolan, astronauts visit worlds where gravity stretches time so dramatically that a few hours for them equal years back on Earth.

You do not need black holes, however, to find a planet with a different clock.

I am currently working on a science-fiction novel that takes place partly on Mars.

A Martian day, called a sol, lasts about twenty-four hours and thirty-nine minutes. Each sunrise arrives just a little later than the one before it, as if the planet itself prefers to linger.

Even more striking, however, is the Martian year. While Earth circles the Sun once every 365 days, Mars takes 687 days to complete its orbit. A year there is almost twice as long as ours.

The simple astronomical act of circling the Sun for nearly twice as long as Earth has surprising consequences.

A ten-year-old by the Martian calendar would be roughly the same age as a twenty-year-old on Earth. Education might unfold differently. Careers might develop at another rhythm. What does retirement mean if a year is nearly twice as long? And what exactly is a thirty-year mortgage on a planet where years stretch so far apart?

Birthdays themselves might become rarer and perhaps more meaningful. On Mars, a child might wait nearly two Earth years before blowing out another set of birthday candles.

That reveals something quietly profound.

A year is not a universal measurement of time. Change the planet and you change the calendar. Change the calendar and you change the meaning of life.

Which makes our annual daylight-saving ritual seem almost modest by comparison.

Last night we misplaced an hour when the clocks jumped forward. Jules Verne once showed that a traveler could gain a whole day by circling the Earth. And somewhere on Mars, a twenty-year-old visitor from Earth would discover that, by the local calendar, they are barely eleven.

The more we think about it, the stranger time becomes.

We imagine it as something universal and precise, yet it quietly shifts depending on where we stand, how fast we move, or even which planet we call home.

Einstein showed that time is relative. Perhaps it is more like an ocean, and every world simply drifts through it at its own pace.

Last night was one hour shorter than usual for some inhabitants of the pale blue dot drifting through endless space.

But if that missing hour sparks a moment of reflection about lost hours, gained days, and life on other planets, then perhaps it was not lost at all.

Andi

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, feel free catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

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MEETING MYSELF LATER THAN EXPECTED

By Clay Stafford

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I realized I had become someone I didn’t recognize. It didn’t come with an announcement. It was a transformation unfolding in the most ordinary circumstances. I was standing in a doorway, of all places, listening to someone speak harshly to me about a matter that, at one time, would have sent adrenaline through my ears, tightened my chest, and flushed my face.

I remembered, even as it was happening, the version of me who would have rushed to repair the moment, to blow it up, to soften the other person’s discomfort, to slam them verbally against the wall, to explain myself more fully than was asked, to restore ease as quickly as possible, or to press the plunger that would blow the whole bridge. The reflex for all of these seemed to live benignly in memory, and I could almost anticipate them waiting behind my ribs. But they did not arrive. I observed them, and they sat there, like old bottles on a dusty shelf.

I stood there, leaning on the doorframe, hearing the words, feeling nothing but a strange steadiness I had never known before. It wasn’t disrespect or defiance. It wasn’t withdrawal or cowardice. It was nothing, really. I can’t say I felt nothing, because I did; it just wasn’t anything that prodded me to act. It was simply an absence of the urgency that had plagued me my whole life, one I had always called care.

I answered the reprimand briefly. I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t feel the energy to defend. When the exchange was over, I felt surprisingly nothing. I didn’t replay it. I went back to my work, got back into my Zone, and went on with what I had been doing as if what the person had said, or even the person themselves, weren’t important enough to acknowledge. It wasn’t the conversation, but the fact that I was nonplussed that unsettled me.

This was a small moment, a brief encounter with another person known for being a jerk (we always encounter these people), someone I had previously tried to appease in an old pattern. I don’t think the moment was big enough for anyone else to notice anything unusual, except the other person, who probably took my single answer, “Okay,” as a dismissive “Whatever.” But the exchange stayed with me for days, the way I might turn a stone over in my pocket, testing its shape, or fiddle with a cuticle that really should have been trimmed a few days ago. The incongruity of my own reaction was what bothered me. Something inside me had changed without announcement. There were no trumpets. There was only “Okay” and “Whatever.” The person (me) I had watched do this, as though standing outside myself, did not match the person I still assumed myself to be, and I wondered where this new person was coming from.

I spent days overthinking this disorienting experience of discovering someone I quietly did not yet know. For decades, I had measured myself against an internal image formed years earlier, full of traits I believed defined me: accommodating, responsive, eager to smooth edges before they hardened, mixed with indignation when misunderstood, and a tendency to shut someone else down quickly by whatever means necessary when I felt they had crossed the line. Here, I did not care. I did not care in the way I once had. And what had been discussed was a big deal, but for the life of me, I could not make it one in my head or heart. “Whatever.” Over the following days, I remembered how quickly I had once moved toward tension, how readily I had assumed responsibility for the emotional weather around me, calming the storms when I wished and bringing cyclones when I thought that appropriate. That self felt not only familiar but moral, as if vigilance and universal alignment were a form of kindness to both myself, those around me, and the world. Yet here I was, answering “Okay” without haste, leaving without rumination on the incident (only on its aftermath), and, frankly, feeling no corresponding loss of care other than the puzzlement over my own odd behavior and changed emotional center. I truly didn’t care if I was right or wrong; I frankly didn’t care when I thought I should.

The new quietness could have been mistaken for several things: lack of caring, retreat, indifference, fatigue, insubordination, or bravado, but it was none of these. The urgency was gone, not the concern. It was just “Okay, whatever.” What I found was a narrower channel of attention, a more focused self, as if energy that had once scattered outward now gathered close and stayed.

The change continued in other conversations and altercations. I didn’t give a flip. I listened, then went back to what I was doing. “Okay, whatever.” There had been no decision on my part. Whatever had transformed within me was not the result of one inciting incident but, as I look back, years of smaller negotiations, responsibilities accepted without spectacle, disappointments without rehearsal, and choices made under pressure when no ideal option presented itself. Each instance, each small thing, had asked something of me, and I had given it, without declaring or even noticing that anything fundamental was shifting until that one cumulative moment when I stood in my overcontrolling, micromanaging boss’s doorway.

Again, none of this was planned. I did not react the way I had to anything before. I was more concerned about my work and the quality of my life than about others’ opinions and their dramas. I noticed other small deviations from the earlier version of myself. I paused longer before answering questions that once would have prompted immediate reassurance or a firm confrontation of the other person’s subjective opinions. I began declining invitations I would previously have rearranged my life to accommodate. I gained time and emotional and mental energy by explaining myself less, not because I was trying not to rock the boat or out of secrecy, but because I knew that what I thought and felt needed no explanation unless I felt inclined to give one. None of these felt like personality shifts. I was trying on the new coat, and it seemed to fit well, but it certainly wasn’t the same cut. All of this felt like an efficiency of time, space, emotion, and thought, adjustments made in passing. Yet taken together, they described, if I looked at myself in the mirror, someone I had not consciously intended to become, but one I did like the reflection of.

I think what troubled me most was the lack of ceremony. There had been no threshold, no announcement, no prior thought, no acknowledgment, no moment when I had declared that I was leaving one part of myself behind, a mask I realized, and entering another that wore none at all. The transition, gradual as it was, had gone unmarked, which meant I continued to describe my masked self in ways that no longer fit. I kept expecting reactions that never came, anticipating moments that should have been sprinkled with more than “Okay” or “Whatever,” but those impulses had faded. Those motivations, whatever they were, had lost their force, yet I felt bad because I didn’t feel bad.

After weeks of observing my changed interactions with others, I recognized how partial my earlier understanding of my true self had been. I had believed I was defined by responsiveness and good manners, by the ability to read and accommodate others’ needs, even by the absence of my own sanity. But that trait, that mask, had carried costs I had once accepted without question. When those costs became less bearable, the change began, not by declaration but by attrition. Some habits fell away like dead skin. Some roles loosened. “Okay.” “Whatever.”

My newer self felt quieter, less big, less explosive, less performative, less pleasing, and less eager to be legible in every exchange. The absence of my old turbulence could be mistaken, even by me, for diminishment rather than strength. I no longer required intensity or tangled emotions to feel present. I no longer organized my responses around anticipating others’ reactions. I stated the truth, and when others received it, no matter how they took it, it was once again “Okay, whatever.” Certain parts of myself that had once seemed in constant need of defense now rested unguarded. I no longer needed a fortress; I no longer needed to play that game.

Recognizing this new self took time. I had to revise the internal map I had used to orient myself. I had to release descriptions that once felt accurate but now constrained my true perception of who I was, how I saw the world, and what I expected of myself, rather than what others expected of me. I saw the mask clearly. It had been given early, by upbringing, by conditional love, by shunning. The new or rediscovered me felt unfamiliar. What bothered me most was the lag between change and recognition. It was longer than I expected. One would think I was a smart guy and could have figured this out earlier. I was not that smart. Even after the change and the realization, I continued to live as someone new while still believing in the old.

What I had taken in youth to be identity turned out to be provisional, assembled from early circumstances, early fears, and early approvals. As these conditions shifted, my identity changed not by addition, as one might expect, but by an odd subtraction. I relinquished the need to be seen in a certain way, the reflex to repair every discomfort within reach, and the roles that once organized my behavior because they kept me safe and others happy at my expense. Each relinquishment felt minor at the time. Normalcy is an incredible liar. Together, being told who I should be and accepting others’ definitions left me with no plan. Sloughing off the deadness of it all revealed someone I never foresaw.

When I look back on my earlier self, I feel neither rejection nor nostalgia. I feel recognition of continuity, the same attention and care, now expressed with less urgency and less diffusion. The difference lies not in substance but in boundary. I never lost what mattered, but I shed what no longer served.

Meeting my new self, this new person, later than expected, carried a peculiar strangeness. I moved through familiar settings with altered reflexes, speaking in tones that once would have surprised me, letting moments pass without intervention, whereas I once would have stepped in, and letting encounters fall away before I reached the end of the hallway. I watched myself do things with a mild astonishment that gradually softened into acceptance of this new self. Accuracy replaced familiarity as a measure of self-recognition.

In this transformation, I did not become someone else. I arrived at myself, slowly enough that when I finally noticed, I had to meet myself for the first time and say goodbye to an old friend I thought I knew. The mask went in the trash. “Okay, whatever.”

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Literary Alchemy: Ingredients of the Story – Misdirection

A series designed to elevate your skills and empower you to write like a pro.

By Chrissy Hicks

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Misdirection is a sneaky literary device that leads readers to believe one thing while hiding the truth. Consider the shocking betrayal on the Ides of March, when Caeser’s best friend stabbed him in the back. Et tu Brutè? Likewise, you want your reader to never see it coming.

Why use Misdirection?

• Maintaining suspense is a primary reason to use this mechanism. Keep your audience guessing what happens next. In Lest She Forget, by Lisa Malice, the main character awakens from a coma with no memory. The storyline is chock-full of misdirections, as readers are thrust into a twisty narrative with one reveal after another, often contradicting what we (and the protagonist) originally believed was true.

• Big reveals will be more impactful when the truth contradicts earlier assumptions. Through clever misdirection, you can achieve the coveted “plot twist” reviewers can’t stop talking about! In The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), even the title hints at the main character’s rise and perceived success, leading readers to expect the realization of his dreams. Yet the true nature of Gatsby’s wealth and George’s mistaken identity, leads to a tragic ending which comes as a shock.

• Show complex character traits by exposing their true nature only when the time is right. Consider the classic by Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None. Dr. Armstrong initially comes across as competent and professional, but his past indiscretions are later revealed: operating on people while drunk and covering up his involvement in a patient’s death. These reveals create uncertainty and suspicion.

• This technique mirrors the uncertainties of real life. People often make erroneous judgments based on incomplete information. At the start of my flash piece Overdue, Marty assumes he’ll quickly find something he can pawn from a suburban house in a well-to-do neighborhood, but the outside doesn’t match what he finds on the inside.

How and When to Use Misdirection:

Utilize misdirection by introducing seemingly factual information which later proves deceptive, paving the way for shocking plot twists that captivate and surprise your audience. This can be done through:

• Characters’ Secret Pasts: Clues of a character’s past can seem innocent until pieced together for a bigger reveal later that exposes their secrets. For example, Dr. Armstrong presented as a trustworthy doctor. His claim of not knowing a patient was a lie (though the reader doesn’t know this yet): “The name meant nothing to me when it was spoken. What was it Clees? Close? I really can’t remember having a patient of that name, or being connected with a death in any way.” It wasn’t until people were picked off one by one by an unidentified murderer that the survivors confronted him, and his deception was revealed, leading to a tense scene where his past failures were exposed. (And Then There Were None).

• Setting: Consider how you can use the expectations of a setting and flip them upside down. “Marty crept toward the two-story cookie-cutter house in the quiet cul-de-sac... Rumors had painted the residents as well-off... he needed the extra cash rich people left out—a purse on a table, a coin jar on the counter...” The reader, like Marty, encounters anything but the norm they presumed: 

Entering the dining room, Marty’s heart sank. A handwritten grocery list lay abandoned on the table, shoved aside a stack of bills stamped ‘overdue’ in violent red ink. The familiarity hit him like a gut-punch. They were trying to survive. (Overdue).

• Unreliable (or biased) Narrators: In The Great Gatsby, Nick Carroway, though not entirely “unreliable,” idealizes Gatsby, focusing on his dreams and aspirations while glossing over his flaws and the moral decay. Because we only see the story through his biased perspective, readers are misled regarding Gatsby’s true nature, such as his involvement in illegal activities and his obsession with Daisy. 

• Subplot: A subplot that distracts from the main conflict can create an excellent ruse. For example, in Lest She Forget, a mysterious visitor arrives, leaving the protagonist unsure whether he’s there to protect or harm. What’s more, there’s an underlying attraction between them, hinting at a possible past relationship. This thread keeps the reader guessing about their true connection and adds to the protagonist’s confusion. The reader is left to wonder whether this subplot is part of the major conflict or something else, and leads to a surprising discovery.

Red Herrings: Red herrings are misleading elements that divert readers by suggesting something through foreshadowing or clues about a character’s intentions, goals, or traits, ultimately revealing all is not what it seems.

• In Christie’s book, we question Dr. Armstrong’s innocence when we discover the poor choices in his past. When Captain Phillips is accused, readers are distracted and pointed away from the true killer.

• In Malice’s book, several women died during the blizzard, and we suspect a cover-up regarding the protagonist’s survival, though the motives remain unclear. The mysterious visitor could be friend or foe, and the protagonist must rely on her gut instincts for survival. All these point us away from the truth and further into the protagonist’s confusion and terror. 

• A subtler red herring in Fitzgerald’s book, is Gatsby’s wealth: the focus on this and his extravagant parties detract the reader from what he’s really after (Daisy) and the illicit origins of his fortune.

• At the start of my flash piece, readers might perceive Marty as a typical burglar, but when he breaks into the house, he’s confronted with his own traumatic past and a startling revelation about the family he’d planned to rob.

• Omission: What’s said is often as important as what’s left unspoken. Consider what a narrator leaves out, or what a character fails to notice. By the time you drop your plot twist, your readers won’t have seen it coming, but it should still ring true. When Nick tells Gatsby, “I thought you inherited your money,” Gatsby replies that he’d lost most of it in the panic of the war, then adds nonchalantly that he’s been in several things and changes the subject: “‘Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?’ Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.” The reader is immediately drawn to Daisy, and we’ve forgotten all about Gatsby and his “business affairs.”

Lookout! 👀

Be on the lookout for signs of misdirection (through red herrings, omissions, secrets, etc) in your favorite movies and books. Consider how the author (or director) accomplished the use of this device. Was it effective? What hooked you and made you turn the page or keep watching? How can your understanding of what they did help you accomplish the same?

Prompt 📝

Write a scene where your protagonist is misled by another’s actions. The actions could suggest this secondary character is heroic or villainous, then twist this so the protagonist realizes the character is the opposite of what they initially believed. The reveal should be surprising but believable, stemming from a misunderstanding rather than an implausible shock.

Further Reading: 📚

• https://literarydevices.net/red-herring/

• https://literarydevices.net/ad-hominem/

• https://authorspathway.com/writing-process/writing/the-power-of-the-unspoken-how-omission-creates-tension-and-subtext/

• https://writershelpingwriters.net/2023/01/build-suspense-with-secrets/

Headcase: How To Avoid Eye Strain, Headaches, and Pulling Your Hair Out

By Mary Lynn Cloghesy and Jason Schembri

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While most of our healthy living articles are divided between the physical conditions and mental or emotional challenges that can affect a writer, this one addresses both. Why? Let’s try a little experiment. Go and stand in front of a mirror. What do you see? Most people will say “myself” or “me,” which suggests that we identify most closely with our faces. 

If we asked you to look at your arm or knee, your answer would likely have been different. Because the neck, head, and face are so intimate to our understanding of ourselves, it’s important to take a more holistic approach. As bestselling, nonfiction author Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., has said in his titular book, “The body keeps the score: if the mind is traumatized, the body bears it.” Let’s explore this further.

First, we’ll consider three afflictions that can cause pain or discomfort from the neck up, namely eye strain, tension headaches, and Upper Cross Syndrome (UCS)—sound familiar? At the beginning of this series, we wrote an article on UCS, so in this one, we’ll focus specifically on “Tech Neck.”  After that, we’ll take a look at the self-care practices that a writer must develop to deal with rejections, criticism, and creative blocks.

Three Conditions, One Root Cause

The three pathologies mentioned above share one root cause: musculoskeletal dysfunction based on prolonged periods of sitting and/or focused attention. We consider this to be the number one occupational hazard for writers. A lack of movement signals the body to compensate or create patterns that hold you in place but impair your overall health. In order to understand how this works, we’ll give you a primer on the new science of fascia. 

Fascia: What Is it? Why Does It Matter?

Fascia is the biological fabric that knits you together, meaning the soft connective tissue throughout your body. You are composed of about 70 trillion cells—neurons, muscle cells, epithelia, and others—all working in conjunction to keep you healthy. Fascia is the three-dimensional, “spider web” that binds structural units together and secures them in place. Think tendons, ligaments, bursae, and the tissue in and around your muscles, as well as the “bags” containing your organs. 

Here’s what it does for you:

• Provides Structural Support: It pins every muscle, bone, nerve, and blood vessel in place, serving as an inner “invisible body suit."

• Enables Smooth Movement: Fascia allows tissues to glide fluidly as a substance between its layers called hyaluronan acts as a lubricant.

• Transmits Force: Its webbing transmits the force generated by muscular activity to the bones and joints. This tissue is highly innervated and responds to injury first.

• Detects Sensation (Proprioception): Because it is densely packed with nerve endings—even more so than your skin—it helps the body understand its position, movement, and internal state.

• Acts as a Protective Barrier: It separates muscles and shields all your organs.

When fascia becomes unhealthy—meaning dehydrated, tight, sticky, and/or clumpy—it loses its ability to glide, leading to widespread structural and functional issues. Unhealthy fascia essentially transforms from a slick, lubricating web into a stiff, tangled, painful, and knotted structure. Impaired fascia is referred to as having adhesions. 

Unhealthy Fascia = Eye Strain, Headaches, and “Tech Neck”

Eye strain can be characterized as an overuse “injury,” associated with heavy, tired, aching, or burning eyes. Tension headaches often accompany eye strain, as the eyes orient the head and neck position. Here’s another quick experiment: try to balance on one foot with your eyes open. Now, close your eyes. You’ll quickly appreciate the role your vision plays in aligning the body. “Tech Neck” refers to chronic pain or stiffness in the neck, shoulders, and upper back caused by repeated forward-bending while using smartphones, tablets, or computers. 

Imagine sitting down to write and having to think about holding your head up. . . Impossible, right? The good news is fascia does it for you based on mechanoreceptors (Ruffini and Pacini receptors) that detect the speed, direction, and intensity of your movement—or the absence of it. Here’s the ironic part, even if you use pen-and-paper to write, you can still suffer from “Tech Neck.” Fascia doesn’t care why you’re immobile. It responds the same way. 

Fascia and Stress

For a writer, rejection and criticism not only land on the page, but also in the nervous system. Emotional resilience, defined by the American Psychological Association as “the process of adapting well in the face of adversity, trauma, tragedy, threats, or significant sources of stress,” is dependent upon self-care and awareness. Some research scientists and holistic therapists believe that fascia actually “stores” emotional energy. 

An article by the Somerset Osteopathic Clinic lists these potential reasons:

1. Neurological Pathways: During times of stress, the sympathetic nervous system (the body’s fight-or-flight mechanism) can signal your fascia to tighten as a protective response. Tight fascia in the scalp, temples, jaw, and upper neck can create that band-around-the-head feeling.

2. Biochemical Changes: Stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline can influence the elasticity and hydration of the fascia. Chronic stress reduces the fascia’s flexibility, creating adhesions and restrictions.

3. Memory and Somatic Imprints: Negative emotions, such as grief, anger, or anxiety, can leave somatic imprints in the fascial system, much like a scar left by physical trauma.

Whether you agree or not, it’s indisputable that the body contains biochemical and biomechanical markers of stress. For the sake of argument, let’s consider the three issues of rejection, criticism, and creative blocks to be traumatic for a writer. Referring back to The Body Keeps Score, author van der Kolk claims, “We have learned that trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the imprint left by that experience on mind, brain, and body. . . It changes not only how we think and what we think about, but also our very capacity to think.” 

Clearly, writers require a multipronged solution. We’ll start with some physical remedies, then move on to more “heady” matters. 

What You Need to Do to Stay Healthy. . . 

• Move More Often Than You Think: Fascia responds to biomechanical signals. Sitting for hours at the keyboard (or writing by hand) causes it to lay down layers that reinforce your seated position that thicken over time. Frequent movement breaks matter more than ideal posture. Short breaks = more glide + flexibility + ease. For every hour you write, move for fifteen minutes.

• Hydrate Well: Fascia is a water-dependent tissue. Dehydration can cause stickiness and pain. As a writer, think of yourself as an endurance athlete. The longer you sit, the more you need to restore your tissues. Drink water regularly. Check-in as to your balance of coffee or tea and water. Water wins every time. (Avoid sugary drinks like sodas)

• Use Slow, Varied Movements: Pulling or tugging on tight tissues won’t help, whereas gentle twists and stretches keep fascia elastic and responsive. Remember, support = release. Use the floor, a chair, or other supports when you move or stretch to maximize the benefit and minimize any latent injuries. 

• Manage Stress and Emotional Load: Mental, emotional, and physical tension is evident in shallow breathing and tight fascia, especially around the neck and shoulders. Pause, breathe deeply, and check in with your body and mind before returning to writing. Short mindfulness breaks and/or practices like meditation can reset your nervous system.

• Prioritize Sleep and Recovery:  Fascia repairs and remodels during deep rest, as does your mind. Ensure you stop writing when your body tells you to. Hint: if your eyes ache, or you find yourself rubbing your neck, it’s time to stop. Your muse can wait, but your tissues can’t.

• Feed Your Mind with Perspective: Treat rejection, criticism, and creative blocks as normal. Learn from other writers and discuss your journey with trusted peers or mentors. Meet any feedback with curiosity not self-doubt. As van der Kolk has said, “Being able to feel safe with other people is probably the single most important aspect of mental health; safe connections are fundamental to meaningful and satisfying lives.”

Top Tip: Your body can deal with almost any situation you throw at it related to daily living, but only for a period of time. There are three key factors that will cause your system to thrive or fall apart: fuel, movement, and rest. 

Give your body the energy it needs to meet the challenges of each day by fueling it with “real food.” Real food is unprocessed (with ingredients you can pronounce). Movement, even something as simple as a daily walk, can be tremendously beneficial, especially for your fascia. You won’t regret committing to your health, but if you overdo it, you can move on to the final element: rest. Circadian rhythm studies show that your body was designed to work during the day and repair at night. Writing a manuscript late into the evening will prevent you from recovering properly. So, to keep it simple, fuel early in the morning, move throughout the day, and get yourself to bed at a reasonable hour to maximize your deep sleep cycle.

We’ll finish with reassuring words from The Body Keeps Score, where van der Kolk states, “Until recently, this bidirectional communication between body and mind was largely ignored by Western science, even as it had long been central to traditional healing practices in many other parts of the world, notably in India and China. Today it is transforming our understanding of trauma and recovery.”

ON TIME

By Clay Stafford

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Who can turn the world on with her smile?

I grew up watching The Dick Van Dyke Show and The Mary Tyler Moore Show, so I was bouncing off the wall, as a young screenwriter, when Mary Tyler Moore’s MTM Enterprises (co-owned with Grant Tinker) wanted my script. Mary Tyler Moore was an icon. Then it fell apart. The disappointment, embarrassment, and failure did not end me, though for a long time, I truly believed it might.

The opportunity arrived unexpectedly through a mutual friend, wrapped in the kind of moment I had always imagined would confirm everything I had been working toward. It was the legend of being discovered, that old Hollywood myth, suddenly stepping into my actual life.

When Mary Tyler Moore asked to see the screenplay, it took everything I had to remain vertical. I still remember the sweet elation of that moment, the sense that something I had been moving toward for years had finally turned and recognized me. They wanted it. Now. I said it needed one more rewrite, perfectionistic as I was. One of her producers gave me a reasonable due date. We shook hands. The deal was on. I was so elated at the fulfillment of a dream that it was difficult to settle into the work itself. All I could think was that I had finally arrived.

When the deadline came, what I had written still hadn’t risen to the heights I knew I could give. I ghosted the producer and dug deeper into the script, convinced that better mattered more than time, despite knowing one of filmmaking’s simplest truths: on time and on budget. I missed the deadline.

I delivered the script anyway and waited for the applause. The producer refused to read it, handing it back to me directly. The look on my face was probably good fodder for his lunch that day. “What a look,” I could imagine him saying, friends laughing. It was the best work I had ever done. But the fact that I was unreliable showed brighter than the script itself. I had been dismissed. I had delivered late. I blew it.

Nothing dramatic happened in my world. Life continued as normal, except for the depression that crushed my heart. No public failure marked the moment, though friends occasionally asked how the MTM project was going. It was acid on my soul. Total embarrassment.

Yet while licking my wounds, something inside me began to shift. The lost opportunity started to feel less like a single event and more like a doorway into a future I had already begun to inhabit in my mind. When the door to MTM closed, the loss was not only external and emotional, but structural. I wandered off course, without direction, not knowing how to orient myself once the outcome I had taken for granted had been stripped away.

Over the next six months of beating myself up, I slowly realized that I had built parts of my identity around results I believed I could control, assuming effort alone would secure them. Before the balloon popped, I had believed progress followed sincerity, that as a craftsperson and artist, vision was what counted. It wasn’t that I thought anything else was unimportant; it was my naïve belief that vision was all there was. I believed that if the work was good enough, and if I cared enough, things would align to match its quality. Deadlines felt negotiable compared to devotion. Precision felt morally superior to completion. I had never questioned those beliefs because they had always carried me forward. Missing the deadline didn’t contradict my core loudly, but when the door closed, I was left staring at it and gradually began to see that even quality had limits. Some birds, no matter how ready, must fly when the appointed time arrives.

What unsettled me most in the long run was not the lost opportunity itself, but my own part in it. I had not been denied arbitrarily. Purchased scripts often never see production. But I had killed the chick before it could come out of the egg. I had participated in the loss.

That realization reached deeper than ambition or even culpability. I began to see how easily good intentions became excuses, how care could turn into delay, and how quietly I had assumed the world would move at the pace I set for myself.

In the months that followed, no earthquakes occurred. What came instead was a quieter reckoning. I began to see how much of my direction had depended on imagined outcomes that ignored external reality and requirement. I saw how often I measured movement by where I expected to arrive and by the quality and applause waiting there, without recognizing the outer structures that also shaped my path. Without that full interior and exterior reference together, I was unmoored, as though the map I trusted no longer matched the ground beneath me. It was seismic.

Getting cut by MTM didn’t erase my hopes. It changed my proportion. I began to understand that effort and result were related, but not the same; that devotion did not replace structure; and that aspiration, no matter how noble, did not suspend time.

These realizations did not arrive as neat conclusions. They gathered slowly through self-incrimination, discomfort, reflection, and a gradual willingness to see what had been invisible while success had seemed so close.

Over time, the disorientation eased. I went back to work on the next project, but differently, not less carefully, but within forms that honored both my inner standards and the outer realities of the world I wished to belong to. I did not become immune to disappointment, but I became less dependent on projection. My work continued with a steadier proportion between what I could shape and what I could not, and within the confines in which I had to do it. The world did not operate around me. I had to operate within the world.

The opportunity I lost never returned in that form. Something else did: a clearer understanding of responsibility, restraint, and completion that might not be perfect. I no longer mistook perfection for devotion or delay for depth. My work reached others when they held out their hand, never later. And because of that, a career took shape. My path altered. The failure did not end me. It became a necessary step in my growth.

I came, eventually, to cherish it. I told the story to others, laughing at my own naïveté. Because of MTM, I rewrote the map by which I moved forward. The experience served me better than if the script had been produced, because it changed not my career, but who I was and the professional I longed to be.

And so, thanks to Mary Tyler Moore, I realized: you’re going to make it after all. I now toss my hat into the air at the proper musical beat.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

There’s No One Right (or Write) Way

By Lois Winston

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Lately, I’ve wanted to crawl into bed, pull the quilt over my head, and not emerge until we return to a time before the pervasive “My Way or the Highway” mentality that has taken us to the edge of a cliff. Remember when people could agree to disagree and still be friends? Remember when we didn’t cringe whenever we attended family dinners that included certain relatives who hold opposing views and who take every opportunity to try to convince us that they’re right, and we’re wrong? Hold the roast beef and mashed potatoes. Pass the Tums and Xanax.

This “My Way or the Highway” attitude has seeped into nearly every aspect of our lives, even our writing lives. Internet articles and various “experts” (who may or may not actually be experts) tout the best way to write a novel, how to get an agent, how to market your books. They’ll tell you agents and editors only want A, B, and C. Or if you don’t do X, Y, and Z, you’ll never sell a book. Some of this information is only a click away, but others first want your credit card number before imparting their knowledge.

I’m on quite a few listservs with both published and unpublished authors. Every day an unpublished author will either post about great information she found online or ask whether such-and-such service is worth the money.

Writing scams are a topic for another day. Today I want to discuss information posted online or provided in other ways. Writers should never believe everything they read and hear. For one thing, much of it is often contradictory:

• Always plot out your novel.

• Plotting stifles creativity. Just write. 

• You must produce at least 1,500 words a day.

• Don’t worry about word count. Just write. 

• You must write every day.

• Don’t stress about writing every day. It’s counterproductive.

• Always write forward. Never go back to reread/tweak what you wrote the day before. 

• Always go back to reread/tweak what you wrote the day before.

• Never edit while you write your drafts.

• Whenever you change something, always go back and edit your other pages.

• There’s no such thing as writer’s block. 

• Writer’s block is real.

I have heard well-known authors state all the above. However, the statements were made in the context of what works best for them. Their process. Not as “rules” that must be adhered to if you want to get published.

I recently saw an interview with Ken Follett. He spends a year writing the outline for each of his books. He then sends successive drafts to family, friends, editors, and even historians he pays as consultants for their input. That’s the process that works for him. He wasn’t suggesting that his way is the only way to write. He wasn’t even suggesting that anyone should mimic his process. Yet, there are probably some who will come away from watching that interview thinking that Ken has the secret to success, and if they do as he does, they’ll get published.

I find it disheartening that so many writers are so desperate to get published that they spend too much time searching for a secret sauce that has never existed. They constantly fall into the trap of believing they should follow every piece of advice they come across. Their self-confidence continually takes a hit when what they believe to be the secret sauce doesn’t work for them.

But who are the experts doling out this advice they cling to? Sometimes, they’re not experts at all. In my writing infancy, I entered many contests for unpublished romance authors. When the contest was over, most supplied entrants with the judges’ scoresheets and comments. The draw of these contests was that the finalists were judged by editors and agents, and there was always the hope that these professionals would like what they read enough to request the full manuscript.

I finaled or won many of the contests I entered, but I also received some very questionable advice from some of the anonymous first-round judges. One wrote, “I don’t really understand point of view, but I’m marking you down because I don’t think you do, either.” There was nothing wrong with my point of view according to the two other judges who gave me top scores on point of view.

Another wrote, “Editors want the hero and heroine to meet within the first three pages. Yours don’t meet until the end of the first chapter.” That might be the case for a 45,000-word Harlequin short contemporary romance, but I had entered the mainstream category where manuscript lengths were a minimum of 85,000 words.

Advice is only as good as the expertise of the person giving it. However, even when the advice comes from an expert, that advice is always based on that person’s experiences. What has worked for them. It may be the best advice you ever receive. Or it may not work at all for you.

Process is individual and develops over time. No two writers approach their writing the same way. The trick is to keep learning and keep writing, but don’t ever believe everything about your writing sucks based on one rejection, one how-to book, one article, one author talk, or one conference. Or even multiple rejections and more than one person’s advice. After all, Stephen King had decided to give up after thirty publishers rejected Carrie. Luckily, his wife convinced him otherwise.

Yes, there will be aspects of your work that need improving. Every author I know wishes she could go back and rewrite her earliest books. Some have. We all continue to grow in our writing. As you work at your writing, you’ll hone your skills. You’ll develop confidence and hopefully learn to view “My Way or the Highway” advice through a more discerning lens.

Constructive criticism and advice should never be discounted. It very well may be exactly what your manuscript needs. However, that’s not the same as someone insisting that their way is the only way to success. Think twice about that kind of advice and always check the credentials of the person dishing it out.

Meanwhile, my only advice for dealing with family dinners that include a “My Way or the Highway” relative is to take a book with you and hide in an empty room if the conversation gets too heated.

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USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. A Crafty Collage of Crime, the twelfth book in her series, was the recipient of the 2024 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Comedy, and Sorry, Knot Sorry, the thirteenth book in the series, recently won the 2025 Silver Falchion Award for Best Comedy. Embroidered Lies and Alibis, the fifteenth book in the series, releases February 10th. Learn more about Lois and her books at www.loiswinston.com. Sign up for her newsletter to receive an Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery.

LIMITS

By Clay Stafford

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I was raised to believe that when I came to an obstacle, it was a personal shortcoming if I did not push through, a personal failure if I did not succeed, and a personal cowardice if I gave up. Those beliefs inhabited the marrow of my bones and festered in the recesses of my brain. I had no natural limits, none of us did, or so I thought and was bred to believe. Even giving credence to such an absurd suggestion felt irresponsible. I knew I and everyone else could overcome anything if we only pushed hard enough. There was no skill we couldn’t learn, no talent we couldn’t expand, no mountain we could not climb. I not only judged myself; I judged everyone. I taught it to my students and in my lectures. We all needed to be responsible for the optimal performance of our lives. It was called being dependable, being responsible, rising to the challenge, working harder and smarter, and pushing through. The push was always highly emotional, causing stress and conflict not only in me but in all my relationships, where others’ performances fell short, but I knew it was worth it. It brought out the best in all of us. Like a winning coach, I pushed myself and those around me. And when they pushed back, I viewed their lack of participation as denial and even laziness. Emotionally wrought, I could never see the mental clarity lost in this thinking. From the dejected faces of those I lived and worked with, it seemed I failed in the very presence that I thought I was being, the one I thought I was protecting. Even in that, I strove to do better.

The satisfaction of control brought me peace, or so I thought. I put myself in charge of my destiny. I oversaw my own future, and nothing could get in the way of that, and very little did. I offered every problem and relationship a doorway that could make things easier for me and everyone around me, but if it was blocked, I had no qualms about going through the wall. Pushing longer, harder, and stronger was, to me, a form of commitment. Staying with a problem until the end of the day, even if that day ran into the night, or even several days without sleep, was applaudable devotion and intention. Accepting limits or growing tired meant one had no self-respect. This was how a meaningful life was to be built; the lives of the great men and women I read in biographies exemplified that. They pushed through because they had something all of us could acquire: character. They built meaningful lives; I would, too. Endurance, discipline, and refusal to quit were the framework of success. Refusal to quit meant refusal to retreat, like cowards, like those who were weak. Even rest itself, I told myself, could wait. “I can sleep when I’m dead” was not uncommon coming out of my mouth in reply to those who were close to me and cared, as I popped my trucker’s caffeine pills, drank my ten Cuban coffees, and my gallon of daily tea.

The cost of this thinking and living with such force didn’t show up immediately. It took decades. That’s the deception we take to heart when we believe the deceitfulness chocked at us by the sycophants of the famous. The famous lied to the watching world, the obsequious flatterers lied to readers of books about great men and women, and then I took those as truths and lied to myself. Sure, the lies gave me extra waking time, or something that resembled it anyway. I learned how to stretch the day thinner, how to draw more from myself than I thought I could. The point that activity didn’t always equal accomplishment, though, was often lost on me. What I gained in hours, I lost, though I didn’t realize it, in life and relational clarity. After decades of this rat race, my attention to the important things, not just the walls to burst through, began to dull. My decisions about where to focus slowed. Simple things began to take longer, though I attributed that to age. Regardless, the very life I had always believed I was protecting by defining my own fate began to resist me.

I began to see, or rather I began to feel, that the very wall that I could not seem to push through was myself. Nothing dramatic happened to show me this. Fatigue didn’t announce itself to me publicly. Nothing in my life collapsed. Feeling tired all the time wasn’t bad; it was my baseline. Yet, focus began to take on the persona of irritation toward my work, myself, and the people around me. I no longer set out to tackle only the big things; small problems now carried more weight than they should have, and small mistakes by others began to irritate me. Life began to feel painful, even at times undesirable. Everything became such a big deal. I found that where I used to slam through walls, I began to make choices not out of intention, but out of relief. I became drawn to whatever would end the discomfort the fastest.

Being successful, I began to wonder, why did I feel at rock bottom? Being high in my profession, having relationships others would envy, having built the life I envisioned, something had to change, though I didn’t know how to give it a name. My choices began to become ill-guided, not from indifference, but from dullness. The part of me that once noticed nuance grew silent. Subtle distinctions in life, work, and people disappeared. I lost my sense of when effort was required and when time was the truer answer. I could still function, but I was compensating, now relying totally on force on everything where attention and inspiration once worked cleanly.

Then came denial, and the emotional cost that followed. Each time I overrode the yokes, big and small, that pulled me down, I taught myself not to listen. Signals that I used to welcome began to annoy me. They were inconveniences to my peace. Discomfort became something to suppress, to submit to silently rather than with understanding. Gradually, all trust eroded, not just in my body, mind, emotions, or energy, but in myself in general. A faint impatience began to settle in, yet flat, a sense that I was now pushing through life, all parts of it, still accomplishing, but rather than moving with it, things were no longer flowing.

As a result of shutting out the world and the world within my own head, my world narrowed. Limits began to change perspective. Everything became about getting through the day. Curiosity, my lifeblood, even began to fade. I knew something needed to be done, but that was the problem. I had everything I could ever want. Recovery from that seemed crazy and certainly ungratefully indulgent. Surprise began to have no place or excitement. My world was perfect. I was not in crisis, yet I was living as though I were. Survival mode replaced presence without my consent. Everyone around me felt it or felt the brunt of what I would not share.

I think the most dangerous part was how ordinary it all felt. Nothing told me to stop. Nothing told me to slow down. Nothing hinted at any type of collapse. Nothing told me I needed to stop bashing walls. No one told me I had a problem, or if they did, I didn’t hear. What I was doing, though, was operating below capacity, and I’d been doing it for way too long. I focused on my limitations to the point of obsession, at the expense of seriousness and gratitude about what I could control. There were limitations that I could not power through, I realized after too many years. And because I didn’t realize this earlier, all limitations, even challenges, began to operate out of the same intensity. Out of the blue, it hit me that if I couldn’t power through certain things that didn’t erase who I was or what I could become despite them. I realized that maybe those walls were there for a reason, that maybe I was meant to be something I didn’t consciously see myself as. The realization was slow and painful, but my life began to change. Centering took the place of warfare.

My limits took on a new light. They were never obstacles; they were misconceptions on my part. They were even guardians of who I was meant to be. The sad thing is, I had been deluded and deluded myself for a lifetime. I recognized the pundits of the super life were frauds. I began to respect those limits. At first, I didn’t respect limits dramatically or perfectly, but rather honestly, and, when I did, something softened inside me like the Grinch’s frozen heart. Efforts on things that were within my limits became cleaner. Decisions within my framework grew quieter and more precise. Life began to deepen again, rather than merely expanding. I began to do less because I stopped slamming into walls and instead spent my time doing more. That was the paradox. In fact, I did better at everything I did. The cost of refusing to stop at natural limitations had been the gradual loss of the very capacities that made my efforts meaningful in the first place. Limits and walls became not challenges to defeat, but invitations to stop long enough to acknowledge, honor, and preserve those things that did matter within the sphere of life I’d been given in which to live. Limits became no more than a beautiful river in my life, a life without a boat, that asked me to choose the path to the left or to the right when it told me in so many ways I could not cross but promised adventure no matter which direction I chose.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know about Real Police Work: PTSD

By David Lane Williams

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This month, I thought I’d write about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as it applies to first responders. I went back and forth about taking on such a serious topic, but my job in this column is to help you comprehend people like me so you can better understand the characters you’re creating. I just took a few deep breaths, and my head is right. Let’s dive in.  

I’ve been streaming The Pitt, a series set in a woefully short-staffed, often hostile, and always overcrowded emergency room in Pittsburgh. Each season tells the story of a single shift in a place where tragedies and miracles happen every hour, and the medical staff is composed of naïve rookies and burning-out veterans. It is a glorious series that has been in my head since the first episode.  

Other than taking a few unnecessary potshots at cops, it felt so real and accurate for me. It took me back to the glory and gore, the terror and elation in those early days working in Austin when AIDS didn’t even have a name yet, and gang violence swamped swaths of the city.

Our “Pitt” was Brackenridge Trauma Center—Brack—and this show hit those old vibes with an accuracy I’ve rarely seen in medical dramas. I experienced adrenaline dumps at some points, heartache at others. I became choked up during some scenes, glad to be alone with just my dogs and all those memories. One of the characters made a comment about crying: “Tears are just grief leaving the body.”

Amen. 

I don’t know a single police officer, paramedic, or firefighter who doesn’t have some emotional scarring after a few years on the job. Like a combat veteran, the carnage and cruelty can get to you after a while. Multiply that times a twenty, thirty, or longer-year career, and there is little to no chance of escaping without some damage. If you’re going to write about veteran first responders, you have to understand that this is part of the story. It doesn’t have to be front and center all the time, but your cop protagonist has a demon inside his brain, and the demon is always whispering. 

The trick is to learn coping skills, the earlier the better. It can be a nightmare if you don’t. Depression, anxiety, and suicide are all facets of the equation. Careers and marriages are cut short, and officers who had always performed rock-solid in the past make rash, bad decisions. 

I’ve always considered myself lucky. My symptoms include some mild anxiety when in public. People close to me notice that I look over my shoulder as I walk through a parking lot and scan the tops and higher windows of buildings. If I sleep on my back, I have nightmares of being attacked or of drowning, so I always place a pillow on either side of me in bed to stop from rolling supine in the middle of the night. I probably check door locks more than necessary, and I use cameras and motion-sensor lights around the perimeter of my house. 

Despite this, I still consider myself an optimist. While I harbor concerns about some humans, I remain hopeful for humanity. I believe our evolutionary path is leading inevitably toward a new species I like to call Homo Pacificus— Peaceful Man. I’m realistic we’re not there yet, but I believe our descendants will make us proud—even as they wonder how the hell we survived one another. 

I know cops who take a pistol with them into the bathroom and shower. They eat family dinners with one strapped to their ankle, and they get almost frantic if their wife forgets the family rule about always being on his off-hand side as they walk in public. They tend not to associate with others outside their police family because they have serious trust issues. 

Part of this trauma is related to specific cases. Perhaps the nightmares come from the images of destroyed children or a body charred in a house fire. Maybe the pain lingers from seeing a teenage girl ripped in two from a car wreck or a mother who committed suicide during a post-partum depression crisis. Maybe it’s from having to tell one too many parents that their child is never coming home again.

Irrational fear and anger can come from too many people treating the officer like the enemy or Satan for doing their job. Imagine starting a career with ambition and a passion to help, only to find you are not trusted or appreciated, and often despised. 

Then, of course, there are the life-shaking moments when someone tries to shoot you or gets the better of you in a deadly street fight. Winston Churchill is quoted as saying, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without results.” 

He’s right. It’s thrilling to survive a close brush with death, but weeks, months, or years later, the thrill is gone, replaced with jagged nerves and trembling hands. It’s trauma, and it’s real, and it’s prevalent. 

So, how do first responders cope? Some, too many, crawl into a bottle or seek relief through opioids. Others live at the gym, where every rep of every set is a struggle just to keep the demon exhausted, so sleep will finally come. Some take the stress out on their spouses and kids, and others become hermits except when they’re on duty. 

Culturally, PTSD is kept at bay with dark humor. People who have died violently—especially those who were doing something stupid at the time—can be targets of the most obscene jokes back at the station. Someone who died in a fire is a “crispy critter,” and a motorcycle rider without a helmet is an “organ donor.” The only joke territory considered off limits is children. 

I know how appalling this sounds, but that obsidian-dark humor may be the most reliable and effective means of keeping more cops from hurting themselves and others. If you’re writing about a first responder, bleak humor has to be part of the package. Humor bonds first responders, and sarcasm can keep them sane.

As I mentioned, I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a knack for putting bad thoughts in a file cabinet and closing the drawer. As I write this, I know that comes off as denial. I think of myself, however, as an empathetic human being who wants everyone to be safe and feel safe. That can’t always happen, so my ability to put sad or tragic thoughts away for a while has been beneficial. I know there are therapists and care providers out there who just groaned. I’m aware that shutting haunting thoughts deep into the recesses of my mind might not be the best long-term practice, yet I could also argue it has worked well in my life for four decades. 

I used to carry a little bottle of soap bubbles in my duty jump bag. The kind kids blow at birthday parties. Sometimes I’d pull into a secluded area such as a park or an empty drive-in theater when all the filmgoers had gone home. I would then stand outside my car and blow bubbles, watching them rise and fade in the dark. This practice had a way of taking the edge off whatever stress I’d been fighting. Four, five, maybe six bubble blows later, I’d be ready for whatever the Dispatch Center sent me on next. I never shared this with my colleagues—no one needs a nickname like “Bubbles” in a police squad room—but it was a coping mechanism that worked for me. 

I continue to be proactive in retirement. I exercise six to seven days a week, and I only hang around with people who are healthy, balanced, and humorous. Writing is about the best medicine for me. I don’t self-medicate with opioids, and I am not much of a drinker. I have a wife who cares about me, checks in, and listens. My veteran sons understand me about as well as anyone could, and I am surrounded by family and friends who I know will always be by my side. 

I believe PTSD is like sludgy sewage that has been dumped into a river. It is awful and destructive, but given time, coupled with being around good people and action designed to mitigate the pollutants, the river can clear the toxins. 

Your protagonist has PTSD in some form—why do you think there are so many alcoholic private detectives out there in noir land? I am convinced that writers who keep this in mind create deeper and far more interesting characters. 

And just in case you were thinking about having your guy blow bubbles, I’ve already called dibs on that one.  

Onward.

LISTENING

By Clay Stafford

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I always believed that human glory and life’s meaning were found in the senses: what I saw, touched, felt, heard, smelled, and tasted as I sped down the passing lane of accomplishment. These things provided the richness of living, complementary to the mountainous regions of sentience, the arcs and trajectories of being, and the hills and valleys of experience, the satisfaction of the present moment, and the excitement of things to come. Moving through those elevations and absorbing the delight of each moment seemed attainable only through effort and discipline, verified by visible signs of progress. Passivity, I believed, would not allow fate to deepen. Nor would acceptance or routine. I was not born intentionally appreciating what surrounded me. It was up to me to seek it out. Without intention or constant effort, something in me dragged me downward, turning me negative, and closed my eyes to the beauty held even as close as a flower in my hand.

For me, work and sacrifice were never separate. I approached my work the same way I approached my love of conduct: as a builder, a creator, someone constructing what I envisioned and leaving nothing to chance, mitigating the risk of even a moment lived without purpose. Committed to experience and beauty and the love of spirit, I lived with the belief and what felt like proof that if I worked hard enough, planned carefully enough, and remained devoted to improvement, the more profound human aspects, such as spirituality, intellectual pleasure, and emotional fulfillment, would arrive on their own. I only needed to lay the tracks. I assumed understanding, timing, and wisdom would naturally follow once the visible work and confirmation to my senses were undeniable. What I did not realize was that the skill that mattered most, the one that would ultimately transform my existence and my relationships, was not something I could see, touch, feel, hear, smell, or taste. It was not visible at all. It belonged to the category of things I assumed would take care of themselves if I were disciplined enough to live an examined, well-lived reality.

Whether innate or shaped through observation as I grew and matured, I came to believe that vitality was shaped entirely by purposeful intention. When something failed to work, maybe a relationship, a decision, or a season of my lifestyle, I tried to fix it the only way I knew how: by adding more effort, more thinking, more explanation, more force, more control. Wasn’t it my responsibility to build an existence I could eventually look back on without regret, one I could reach the end of and say, well done? For me, clarity came from that assertion, from believing meaning could be pressed into place if I pushed hard enough and demanded transformation. It was unsettling to discover that my diligence, the very trait I trusted most, was often working against me.

At one of my lowest points, I realized that one’s lot was more than experience, sensation, and action. Viability, I found, communicates just as clearly when it is encountered quietly, indirectly, and without urgency. Being a fixer revealed its limits in moments that required no solution, situations that asked for no action, and questions that had no immediate answers. I flailed there. I didn’t know how to stand still. I wanted so much more from destiny than what I believed I had been given that I failed to notice what was already present. When this recognition arrived, it did so subtly, yet with quiet unease. The problems that continued to trouble me were not rooted in lack of effort or achievement. They stemmed from failure to listen to things that did not need to be, but were, without asking for my attention.

Hearing and choosing when not to attend was what I had missed. Discernment. Not paying attention for approval or instruction, but being attentive for boundaries, for signals, for the difference between what wanted to be rushed and what needed time. I had to hear the quiet truth that some things were not asking me to act, repair, or improve; they were asking me to stop interfering. And yet, I wasn’t taking heed.

To my surprise, taking into account itself became an act. It was not passive. It required restraint and patience. Concentrating asked me to tolerate uncertainty without rushing to resolve it. It asked me to leave unfinished things unfinished, to resist tidying them up or wrapping them up prematurely. Keeping my ears open meant trusting that clarity sometimes arrived only after I stopped demanding it.

At first, this felt unproductive. From the outside, monitoring resembled hesitation, pausing instead of advancing, waiting instead of fixing. When I stopped pushing, I felt lost. In doing nothing, I wondered what I was doing at all. There were fewer markers of progress, no surge of momentum, no thrill of accomplishment. Slowing down felt uncomfortable in a world and in my own world that rewarded decisiveness and speed. And yet, something began to change.

When I took note instead of forcing outcomes, the quality of my decisions shifted. My perceptions changed. I stopped shaping results that didn’t truly fit. I recognized when something was complete rather than refining it beyond necessity. I learned, often uncomfortably, that others did not always want solutions; they wanted to be heard. Silence, I discovered, could carry weight without being filled, and tuning in altered my understanding of doubt. Uncertainty became information rather than a shortcoming. Things were not broken; they were unresolved, and that distinction mattered. It gave me patience I had never practiced before.

I came to understand that the apparent inactivity of focusing was itself a form of action. It was not instinctive. Like any skill, it was built slowly through humility, repetition, and restraint. It sharpened not through effort, but by stepping back and allowing actuality to reveal itself without interruption. Once perceived, it grew. It became the foundation beneath every visible skill, every tangible accomplishment. Everything I did depended on this quiet test for its truest execution.

The quietness began to permeate my continuation. I found myself longing for it. No amount of effort could replace it. No amount of planning could override it. Without lending an ear, progress dissolved into noise. A new reality had come. And in returning to the full circle, I discovered something unexpected: even stillness had direction. I had not underestimated listening because I considered it unimportant. I underestimated it because it was quiet.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The API of the Human Heart, or Why Your Characters Keep Misunderstanding Each Other

By Andi Kopek

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There has been no shortage of criticism lately regarding artificial intelligence (AI). Some of it is thoughtful, some quite theatrical. I may dedicate a future column entirely to the ethical, economic, and existential anxieties surrounding AI. Today, however, I want to focus on something far less dramatic and far more revealing: how advanced AI systems actually talk to one another, how this can shine new light on human communication and miscommunication, and how it could inspire a modern writer.

Beneath the glossy headlines and dystopian forecasts, most modern digital systems communicate through something called an API, an Application Programming Interface. An API is essentially a structured contract that defines how one program can send a request to another, what format the data must follow, what information is required, and what kind of response will come back. In other words, before artificial intelligence can destroy our civilization, it must first agree on grammar.

Imagine two computer programs trying to talk. They cannot rely on vibes. They cannot roll their eyes. They cannot say, “You know what I mean.” They must follow a strict contract, a rulebook for how one system talks to another. An API. If the message does not match the expected structure, it fails. Not emotionally. Structurally. The receiving system does not feel hurt. It returns an error code: 400 (Bad Request).

Let’s have a little fun and apply this communication model to human interactions. Every person you know is running an API. It is undocumented. It is unstable. It auto-updates without notice. Your internal API defines what tone you accept, what topics are permitted, what context you require, what emotional load you can process, what you interpret literally, what you interpret as subtext, what feels like attack, and what feels like affection. When someone speaks to you, they are making a request against your interface. When you respond, you are sending data formatted according to theirs. Conversation is not just expression. It is parsing.

In programming, parsing means interpreting incoming data according to a defined structure. If I send { emotion: sad } but you expect { mood: sadness, intensity: 0.7 }, the request fails. Not because we disagree about sadness. Because we disagree about formatting. Now consider the most dangerous sentence in the English language: “I’m fine.” One person means: I am overwhelmed but not ready to unpack it. The other hears: Everything is okay. Same words. Different schema. According to our little game, human miscommunication is not malice. It is incompatible parsing.

If humans were honest, we would speak in status codes.

200 OK: I understand you.

401 Unauthorized: You do not have access to that story.

403 Forbidden: That is a boundary.

404 Not Found: I do not recognize the version of me you’re describing. 429 Too Many Requests: Please stop asking.

503 Service Unavailable: I am exhausted and pretending otherwise.

Instead, we say things like, “Whatever,” which is the emotional equivalent of a corrupted packet.

In AI networks, data can be corrupted, and signals can degrade. In humans, fatigue, stress, trauma, and cognitive overload can increase the error rate. The same sentence can succeed at 9

a.m. and fail by the late afternoon. Moreover, different neurotypes run different parsing defaults. As a simplified analogy, consider autism as a condition where parsing is more literal. If someone says: “It’s cold in here,” one person hears a temperature observation. Another hears a request to close the window. Different inference engines. Not broken. Just different schema.

From this perspective, depression can look like low processing bandwidth, high error sensitivity, and reduced response generation. Instead of getting a return of 200 (OK) for a typical request, the system returns 503 (Service Unavailable). Anxiety resembles a hyperactive validation layer. Every incoming message is checked for threats, rejections, or hidden errors. Neutral packets get flagged as suspicious. False positives multiply. Psychosis might be described as a model in which incoming data is integrated into a framework that diverges from shared consensus reality. The API still functions internally, but its mapping to the broader network has shifted. The person is not failing to process. They are processing through a different model.

AI systems do not have feelings, though they are becoming increasingly sophisticated at parsing human emotion in text and speech. So what about empathy, a feature we tend to reserve for living organisms? Some would say only humans. In this model, empathy is not absorbing someone else’s emotions like a sponge. Empathy is adaptive formatting. It is the willingness to say: Let me rephrase that. What did you hear me say? What did you mean? How would you prefer I ask? Empathy does not eliminate conflict. It reduces unnecessary 400 errors. Rigid APIs cannot do that. Flexible ones can. Consequently, the opposite of empathy is not cruelty. It is interface rigidity.

Since I’m writing this in February, I cannot ignore Valentine’s Day. Love, perhaps, is long-term API alignment. Over time you learn each other’s required fields. You anticipate response formats. You adjust rate limits. You recognize known error codes. You stop assuming malice in malformed packets. I think we could use more long-term API alignment right now.

Now, writers, this approach can be useful to your craft. Characters do not fight because they disagree. They fight because they parse differently. One character speaks in subtext. Another requires explicit declarations. One needs reassurance before vulnerability. Another needs vulnerability before reassurance. Each is making valid requests against an interface the other does not fully understand. Conflict is born in the gap between intention and interpretation. A character says, “You never listen.” What they mean is: “I don’t feel seen.” What the other hears is: “You are incompetent.” Boom. 400 (Bad Request), followed by 500 (Internal Server Error).

In thrillers, the villain often exploits API weaknesses in other characters. The villain withholds required fields, manipulates format, overloads of the emotional bandwidth, and sends signals designed to be misparsed. Gaslighting, in this model, is deliberate schema corruption. It forces the victim to doubt their own parsing logic.

And when two characters finally understand each other, what has actually happened? As in love, they have aligned their APIs. They have learned that “I’m fine” sometimes means “Please try again.” LLMs (Large Language Models) require enormous amounts of training data to achieve alignment. We train on years of shared experience. And still …

We live in an age obsessed with communication tools. Faster messaging. Smarter devices. Infinite connectivity. And yet our communication remains fragile and far from perfection. The next time a conversation collapses, pause and ask: was this bad intention from a sender, or bad formatting in the receiver’s API?

I hope that this little mental exercise will help to deepen characters in your story, sharpen your dialogue, and make the conflicts feel inevitable rather than contrived. And in your own life, you may discover that many arguments are not wars. They are documentation failures. Which, hopefully, can be revised.

Andi

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

website: andikopekart.ink
FB: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100093119557533
IG: https://www.instagram.com/andi.kopek/
X: https://twitter.com/andikopekart
TT: www.tiktok.com/@andi.kopek

THE CHAIR IS STILL THERE

By Clay Stafford

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Mostly working from home for the majority of my life, there was no boss to meet, no comptroller checking my clock-in for work, no meetings I had to be on time for, only me, waking up and stretching in bed, thinking of how I envisioned my day to play out.

Most days were and are filled with excitement. I knew what I was going to do. I loved what I did. I was blessed to be able to do it. Most mornings were filled with ambition and excitement, so I couldn’t wait to get to work and get started. But there were those dreaded mornings when I awoke, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no fuel in the creative engine for the day. On those mornings, there was no urgency to get out of bed, no spark inspiring me to begin. There wasn’t even resistance. In the dim light of the morning sun coming through the cracks of the closed plantation shutters, there was simply a hollow quiet where momentum typically was and should have been. Those moments felt empty, nothing resembling the welcomed heaviness of life, just a distant void, as though everything that normally mattered had somehow, during the night while I was dreaming, slipped down the hallway to another bedroom and closed the door, sometimes even locking it behind it, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers over its head.

Those were days that felt like failures even before they began, and because I predetermined them while lying in bed, they usually turned out as I expected. I used to think I could only show up for my life when my inner world was in agreement, when want and purpose matched, when I knew why I was doing something, and when the effort made sense. I could only do things when I felt like it or when the meaning was clear. When that alignment was absent, I assumed the day was already lost and a wasted day of failure lay ahead. I felt it in my heart and even in my bones. I hadn’t yet learned that the real discipline of my life wasn’t built on feeling ready, but on returning.

It wasn’t until later in my life, when maybe maturity or practice, or even serendipitous events, proved me wrong, that I realized these mornings were simply a different kind of threshold, their own unique entry into a day that, at first glance, felt formless and uninspired. Somewhere along the way, I learned that discipline, what I needed to create the perfect day, was less about preplanning, force, or even intention, but more about presence.

I don’t know when my thinking started to shift. I certainly didn’t make it happen. I didn’t will it. It certainly wasn’t some trite self-help or productivity hack. It didn’t even arrive with some revelation. It came oddly and unplanned, as a habit. Whether I had the vision for the day or not, I got my coffee as usual, set up my desk, and sat down in my chair to work, even when I didn’t know what I wanted to work on or, if I did, even when I wasn’t inspired. Motivation didn’t earn me a spot at my desk. Routine did. On those days, I kept the bar low. I didn’t promise much to those hours except the assurance to my computer that I’ll be close by if needed. No plans were negotiated, no meaning defined, and rarely was any enthusiasm offered to the Muse as tribute. Sometimes on those days, I thought my purpose in life was to drink a cup of coffee, watch my birdfeeder, and ponder, in the world of evolution, what crazy lizard found itself jumping out of a tree and realizing it could fly, thus creating a new species of birds. In other words, with no plans or inspiration, I sat there because I didn’t know what else to do.

It surprised me at some point how little was required to sit there. It was freeing. Even on those hollow mornings, the chair was still there, waiting. I didn’t need conviction. I didn’t need direction. I didn’t need to believe that anything I was doing mattered. I only needed not to leave. I needed to sit with whatever drifted through my mind. The common thread behind it all was my chair, on productive days and on days of nothing. It was always sitting there, consistent, no matter where my head was. So, I returned to it, some days with more fervor than others, but always with a refusal to hand over control to the weather outside (I write outside on my porch) or even the weather, no matter how calm or turbulent, going on inside of me.

Those neutral days of nothingness were not heroic. They were days that neither lifted nor dragged, days that offered no motivational or dramatic reason or inspiration to move forward, but at the same time, no compelling reason not to be there. It seemed on those days that the world asked nothing of me other than attendance in that chair, across the lawn from the birdfeeder, pondering the processes of the past few million years.

When I think back on my own evolution now, what strikes me is not how much time I wasted sitting there, but rather how honest those hours were. Out of boredom, I did begin to tinker, but without the need or motivation to impress, accelerate, or aim beyond the moment, I moved straight to the essentials as they popped into my head. It was all rather casual. There was no adornment, no performance, no word count, no chasing of superiority. Just small, impulsive, inner-driven activities, whether rain or shine, just some sort of private continuity with days more productive, but with no invisible audience or ego applauding, but at the same time nothing left undone. When inspired, sitting in the chair, I did what I felt inspired to do, letting direction come from the nothingness.

Over time, something shifted. Those neutral (I wouldn’t call them wasted) days, those unremarkable returns to the chair each morning, began to alter the way I understood myself in the same way that I could envision lizards growing wings millions of years ago. I don’t think I ever patted myself on my back for my consistency of sitting in a chair (that hardly seems a heroic act), but I did begin to trust it as an inkling of something I couldn’t put my finger on began to take form in my consciousness, in my being. Showing up and sitting down, I began to sense that I did not need to feel aligned with my work or even with myself to remain connected. Just drink coffee and watch the birds, and occasionally look at my computer screen. I didn’t need the weather, inside or out, to give me permission. Before I stepped into the day, I needed to go to my chair and sit. And, surprise to me, somewhere along the way, my fingers would find their way to the keyboard, and I would start to type. Somewhere by the end of the day, I would pause and look back on all that I had accomplished, even though I had had no preplanned direction.

Trust accumulated in ways I couldn’t have articulated then, but it did soften the drama around the difficulty of being aimless. It quieted the argument between desire and duty. It reframed commitment as identity rather than effort. I began to see that most of what endures in life is built not on bursts of certainty but on the steady, unimpressive, evolutionary cadence of return.

The curious, but also understandable, thing is that the work of my life didn’t constantly improve in those days, but my relationship with my work, and even myself, did. Sitting down in my chair became less conditional, less dependent on mood or inspiration, or the unpredictable tides of self-belief or raw motivation. Sitting down in my chair became, instead, something like a morning welcome, a companionship, coming with the predictability and comfort of knowing that the sun will rise each day and I will sit: steady, imperfect, patient.

Looking back, I never found the dramatic clarity I once believed I needed to move forward. I saw something quieter. I discovered that life continues, like birds in flight, even when eagerness does not. I found that meaning doesn’t always come hand in hand with willingness. I discovered that neutrality is fertile in its own way. We don’t need a parade; we only need a chair.

I once thought that discipline was a loud, cinematic declaration, something founded in great ambition or proven with relentless, knock-the-walls-down drive, but the truth, for me, instead lived in a place outside on the back porch, an ordinary chair, waiting without fanfare, and asking for nothing other than my presence. “Come as you are,” it called. “If nothing else,” it said in its Southern way, “just sit a spell.”

Perhaps the unexpected lesson for me is this: the parts of life that endure are not always those born from passion, certainty, or predetermination while lying in the bed in the morning and staring at the ceiling with the morning light coming in through the shutters, but instead it is from the steady, unremarkable decision to get my coffee, in my routine, and sit in my chair long enough for meaning to find its way back. The chair is always waiting.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Literary Alchemy: The Ticking Clock

A series designed to elevate your skills and empower you to write like a pro.

By Chrissy Hicks

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The “ticking clock” is a narrative device that introduces a time constraint or deadline, heightening tension and urgency in a story. It compels characters to act quickly, often leading to dramatic stakes and heightened emotional engagement. This device not only propels the plot forward but also immerses readers in the characters’ race against time, making every moment feel critical.

Why Use the Ticking Clock?

To effectively use this technique, include a deadline—whether it’s something drastic like a timed bomb, or something more subtle, like a bus arrival or cigarette break—the type of deadline will depend on your story’s plot. This can create:

• Heightened tension since a looming deadline creates a sense of urgency that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. In 24 (TV Series), Jack Bauer’s race against time to thwart terrorist attacks amplifies the stakes, making each second count.

• Further character development as the pressure of a ticking clock reveals a character’s true nature, showcasing their strengths and weaknesses. In The Woman in Cabin 10 (Ruth Ware), Lo Blacklock frantically attempts to get the crew to take her seriously about a crime she’s witnessed. If she can’t convince the crew or find evidence of the crime before docking, she risks losing the chance to address the situation entirely, as the potential perpetrator could escape or cover their tracks.

• Gain plot momentum and lose the muddy middle. Time constraints can drive the plot forward, forcing characters to make quick decisions that lead to unexpected twists and turns. In The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown), Robert Langdon, is thrust into a race against time to solve a murder mystery. The urgency is heightened by the fact he must decipher these clues before a powerful organization can act on their own agenda.

• Pacing is enhanced with this method, because it creates a sense of rhythm that propels the narrative forward. This urgency keeps readers eager to turn the pages, as they feel the pressure alongside the characters. When Lo finds herself trapped below deck, readers are wondering what will happen next and if she’ll escape before the boat leaves the dock (The Woman in Cabin 10).

How and When to Use the Ticking Clock:

To incorporate the ticking clock into your narrative, consider the following techniques:

• Set Clear Deadlines: Establish a specific time frame that characters must adhere to, whether it’s a countdown to an event, a deadline for a mission, or a race against an impending disaster. “I am going to ask you one last time. Who are your co-conspirators? You have until the count of three, or I will kill you” (24).

• Create Consequences: Make it clear what’s at stake if the deadline is missed. This could involve personal loss, failure of a mission, or even life and death situations. “The answer was Trondheim. . . All I had to do was make it until dawn.” (The Woman in Cabin 10).

• Use Real-Time Elements: Consider employing real-time storytelling, where events unfold in sync with the ticking clock, enhancing the urgency and immediacy of the narrative. “Gray... people in this country are dying, and I need some answers. Are you gonna give ‘em to me or am I gonna have to start hurting you?” “Actually, you're hurting me now.” “Trust me, I'm not” (24).

• Incorporate Flashbacks or Foreshadowing: Use these techniques to reveal past events or hint at future consequences, deepening the emotional impact of the ticking clock. “Now, with over four million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages, Opus Dei was the fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei’s escalating wealth and power was a magnet for suspicion.” (The Da Vinci Code).

Lookout

Pay attention to how the ticking clock is used in movies you watch and books you read. Analyze how the author or director builds tension and urgency. What techniques do they employ to keep you engaged? How can you apply these insights to your own writing?

Prompt 

Write a scene where a character faces a looming deadline that forces them to make a critical decision. What if you condensed 24 hours to 15 minutes? Consider how the pressure of time influences their choices and the emotional stakes involved.

Further Reading: 

• Screenwriting from Iowa: Ticking Clock

• Narrative Tension and the Ticking Clock

• Use the ticking clock device to add suspense to your stories! (Video)

This Crazy Writing Life: When Publishing Throws You A Curve Ball—Again—And The Scammers Circle Above

By Steven Womack

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We plan; God laughs.

In last month’s episode of This Crazy Writing Life, I told you the long, epic saga of a novel that my writing partner, Wayne McDaniel, and I wrote nearly a decade ago; a book called Pearson Place. The novel is based on/inspired by a true-life fact: Pearson Place is real.

Located in Queens, it’s a four-story warehouse that takes up an entire city block. This massive warehouse in the middle of one of Queens’s most industrial areas is the repository of every piece of evidence collected in every investigation of every crime by the New York City Police Department going back decades.

The stuff in there gobsmacks the imagination. Every illegal drug ever synthesized or grown; every weapon you could ever imagine using in a crime, ranging from the most modern high-tech anti-tank weapons to medieval maces and lances… Stolen electronics, illegal pornography. High profile crimes like evidence from the Central Park Jogger case. If it’s evidence associated with a crime, it wound up in Pearson Place.

In 1992, Donald Trump’s then-girlfriend Marla Maples’s publicist stole over two hundred pairs of Marla’s very expensive heels and had sex with them. He was charged with theft, found guilty, and his conviction overturned in 1994. He was retried and found guilty again in 1999. Needless to say, Marla—by then Mrs. Donald Trump—didn’t wanted the abused shoes back and they’re still in an evidence locker at Pearson Place. Wayne’s seen them and described them as icky.

Or as Wayne referred to them in the manuscript to Pearson Place: Mrs. Trump’s Humped Pumps…

Anyway, Pearson Place is the story of a single mother who’s an NYPD cop with a special needs toddler. She’s broke, desperate, looking for any way to make an extra buck. She takes on extra shifts guarding Pearson Place. Then she discovers she’s terminally ill. Even more desperate now to leave a legacy for her kid, she decides to pull off the heist of the century by ripping off the NYPD warehouse she’s supposed to be guarding.

Chaos ensues…

Last month, I described how after years of passes, rejections, and radio silence in response to our queries, we found an editor at an established prestigious house who loved the book and wanted to buy it. Everything’s done by committee, though, and there was one holdout on the acquisition team. She tried everything, including having Wayne and me do a rewrite, before finally giving up.

This took just over a year to resolve itself.

Frustrated beyond belief, Wayne and I decided to serialize the novel on Substack. We broke the manuscript up into digestible hunks, created a Substack account, and were writing supplemental material to go with it.

Then, out of nowhere (as happens so often in publishing), I got an email from a very successful writer and close friend whom I’ve known for decades, literally since she published her first novel in 1987. She read my column, said the book sounded interesting. Were we sure we wanted to go the Substack route?

It may be the only route left, I answered.

Let me talk to my editor, she said. Maybe she’ll take a look at it.

A couple of days later, an email from my friend’s editor landed in my inbox. She would love to read Pearson Place. Send it on.

So the Substack project is, for the time being, on hold.  I’ve been in this business too long to be anything but cautiously hopeful. But this book’s going to see the light of day, one way or another, even if—as Major Kong said in Dr. Strangelove—it harelips everybody on Bear Creek.

There are two publishing life lessons to be taken away here: 1) in publishing, you never know when the next curve ball’s gonna come at you, and sometimes it’s a good curveball; and 2) more than anything else, publishing is a people business.

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Speaking of people, there’s some real bad guys out there these days. Take Sherry J. Valentine, for instance. She sent me the following email on January 27th:

Hi Steven,

Blood Plot is deliciously dangerous, the kind of thriller that blurs the line between ambition and obsession until the distinction disappears entirely.

The premise alone is irresistible: a critically praised novelist no one reads decides to give audiences exactly what they crave, only to discover that authenticity has a terrifying cost. Watching Michael Schiftmann cross from observation into participation, and then into addiction, creates a chilling psychological descent that feels both satirical and deeply unsettling. It’s smart, twisted, and disturbingly plausible.

At Book and Banter Book Club, our readers are drawn to suspense that interrogates creativity, morality, and fame, stories that ask uncomfortable questions about what success demands and how far someone might go to achieve it. Blood Plot is exactly the kind of novel that sparks intense discussion, ethical debate, and “just one more chapter” nights.

We’d love to feature Blood Plot as an upcoming spotlight read, purchasing copies for our members and centering a full month of conversation around its themes and characters. A spotlight feature includes:

• A dedicated month-long focus, exploring Michael’s transformation, the cost of ambition, and the novel’s sharp commentary on the publishing world
• Organic reader buzz, with reactions, quotes, and insights shared across our club discussions and social spaces
• Author discovery, introducing readers to your broader body of work and award-winning career

Book and Banter exists to turn bold thrillers into shared experiences, stories readers don’t just finish, but dissect, debate, and recommend.

If you’re open to collaborating, we’d love to talk about bringing Blood Plot to our readers and giving it the thoughtful spotlight it deserves.

Warm regards,
Book and Banter Book Club

Now what, you might ask, is so objectionable about such a flattering email and an offer to help promote a book that, God knows, could use every little bit of help it can get?

Well, friends, let me tell you…

It’s a scam, a complete AI-generated con designed to lure unsuspecting, desperate-for-attention writers (which includes all of us) into a scheme to separate us from as much cash as possible. Once you’ve been around a while and have found enough of these missives in your inbox (I get them several times a week), you begin to develop your very own Spidey sense. The flattering text about my novel is clearly AI-generated. No one really writes like that, even if they’re real and really do love your stuff. There’s something about it that’s too slick, like a TV preacher or something.

And the emails are always from some generic mass-market server. In Ms. Valentine’s case, the incoming came from a Gmail box.

To make this even slicker and more insidious, there actually is an organization of readers and book clubs that share and discuss their favorite reads. Only it’s not the Book and Banter Book Club; it’s the Books and Banter Book Club.

Pretty clever, huh? Almost got that one past me.

A couple of Google searches revealed all this. Plus, I searched for Sherry J. Valentine and while there are lots of Sherry J. Valentines out there, not one of them had any association with the fake Book and Banter Book Club or the real Books and Banter Book Club. There’s also no mention of her on the real book club’s website.

So what’s the takeaway here? As I mentioned in the very first episode of This Crazy Writing Life nearly two years ago, writers have been prey for centuries. In our desperate longing for validation, affirmation, and the inevitable fame and fortune we all deserve, we’re often blind to those whose motives may not be as noble as ours. From the Famous Writers School of the Sixties and Seventies to the contemporary companies who will “publish” your novel and distribute it for a mere thirty-five grand, writers are seen by many as sheep to be sheared.

How do we protect ourselves? As Matty Walker said in Larry Kasdan’s magnificent Body Heat: Knowledge is power. Read the trades, scour the websites, especially SFWA’s fabulous website Writer Beware. It highlights specific scammers and con artists, exposing them by name.

And always remember the adage that’s as true in life as well as publishing: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. A little dose of cynicism never hurt anybody.

That’s enough for now. As always, thanks for playing along. See you next month.

Oh, and Ms. Valentine? Just for S&Gs, I answered her email.

So far, crickets…