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.

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)

Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know About Real Police Work: Garrity Warning

By David Lane Williams

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This month, I’d like to dovetail off a previous article on the Miranda Warning (April 2025) and talk a bit about the Garrity Warning, a cousin to Miranda that writers of true crime and crime fiction should understand. The Garrity Warning is issued to government employees, usually police officers, who are suspected of committing a crime and of violating departmental policy. 

Let’s use an example of a police officer who took a bribe to look the other way as two men robbed a bank, effectively delaying a police response until the robbers could get away. In this scenario, the officer is an accomplice to a serious crime, and he also violated departmental policy regarding graft and corruption. Our plot advances when one of the thieves is caught and makes a deal to inform on the officer in exchange for leniency. The corrupt officer is about to have a very bad day. 

As a cop, you know you must abide by a direct order from a superior officer (unless that order is, itself, illegal or unconstitutional). If a captain says you’re going to answer questions about a bank robbery, you’re duty and policy-bound to answer any questions the investigator assigned by the captain may ask. 

However, answering those questions would likely incriminate the officer in our scenario. He’s stuck between having to answer questions to keep his job or rank and wanting to exercise his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. Enter The Garrity Warning. 

In our scenario, there should be two different investigations. One is for the crime itself (accomplice to a bank robbery), and the other investigation is for departmental policy violations. Such a two-pronged investigation involving a public employee requires two different investigators. 

I investigated several such cases during my career. One involved a violent incident in which an officer had attacked his wife. My job was to determine the facts of the matter on the criminal side, which meant that any statement I took or evidence I collected would go to the prosecutor’s office and potentially result in the officer’s arrest. The other investigator was a police lieutenant who was investigating for the policy violation of “Conduct Unbecoming an Officer.” 

In such cases, I tried to be the first investigator to speak with witnesses. Witnesses may clam up after the first interview, so I tried to be the first in line. It didn’t always work out that way, but that’s how it goes sometimes. 

Anything I gained during my investigation was open book for the administrative investigation, but the opposite was not the case. In other words, that lieutenant was not allowed, due to the rights afforded by the Garrity Warning, to share what she’d discovered in the course of her investigation. This is always a bit frustrating for the criminal investigator, but it is the only fair and constitutional way to conduct an investigation. 

So, how does this apply to what you may be writing? Let’s say you’re crafting a novel about a good-guy cop who is being set up so that it looks like he took a bribe and helped bank robbers pull off a heist. The cop must endure an investigation and perhaps even a trial. The Garrity Warning, and all it implies, can allow you to raise those dramatic stakes. Now he’s not on trial just for the criminal conspiracy; his career, pension, credibility, and rank are all in peril. He’ll feel pressure from not one, but two investigations and two different detectives, all while still dealing with the real bad guys trying to set him up. Knowing how Garrity works can be part of your strategy for piling on the drama in order to reach a more satisfying and heroic ending. Have fun with it.

The Importance of Honest Feedback

By Judy Penz Sheluk

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Writing is a solitary pursuit, one where we spend countless hours of our lives, often laboring over a single sentence or paragraph for more time than most of us care to admit. So, it’s only natural that we become protective of our words. After all, something that took hours to perfect must be, well, perfect, right?

If only that were so. Unfortunately, as writers, we are simply too close to our work to see the flaws. Oh, we may find the typo on page 75 on reread, the one where we’ve called a car a cat (though even that is iffy), but the overuse of a favorite trope, phrase, or gesture (my characters love to nod). Maybe not so much. And that’s why we need feedback.

Feedback comes in many forms and at various stages of the writing process. The most important thing to remember is that you are looking for an honest and unbiased evaluation of your work. You may not agree with every comment or suggestion, but you should at least consider each one without becoming defensive. Consider it “thick skin” training for the rejections you’re almost certain to face going forward. 

Let’s look at some options:

Writing Critique Groups

While there are no hard and fast rules, these work best if the group is small—three to five people—allowing each member time to read and respond without becoming overwhelmed. It’s essential to establish parameters from the get-go, such as weekly word count limits and the type of feedback expected. 

While critique groups can be invaluable for some writers, they should never be the final step in the review process. As you become immersed in your work for months on end, you lose objectivity. Those intimately familiar with your work will too.

Alpha Readers

Readers who provide detailed and constructive feedback, both positive and tactfully critical, about your book’s premise, plot, characters, and other elements. This is the place to include readers who have knowledge of the technical elements in your manuscript. 

Whether you choose to hire a professional, or ask a trusted friend or relative, they should be aware that they are commenting on an unpolished (first) draft. They should also be avid readers of your book’s genre or sub-genre. Consider this the first test drive of your overall story from a reader’s perspective. 

Beta Readers

Beta readers (or betas) critique finished manuscripts before they are published. It’s advisable to have betas who are familiar with your genre/sub-genre. Betas can be friends, family members, teachers, members of online writing groups, or other writers willing to do a manuscript swap. This will help identify the finer points of your book that may need an adjustment. Ideally, you’ll have no fewer than two and no more than five, allowing for a comparison of opinions without the risk of opinion overload. If one beta reader doesn’t understand why your protagonist hates red, that might be a point worth clarifying. If two or more betas don’t get it, it’s a must-fix. 

While betas are an excellent way to obtain (often free) feedback, they do not replace the role of a professional editor. There is one school of thought that because traditional publishers pay for editing, there is no need for authors to incur this expense if their intention is to traditionally publish. 

Let’s look at that statement. Is it true that traditional publishers hire and pay for editing services? Yes. However, it’s equally true that agents and publishers receive thousands of submissions from aspiring authors every year. While there are no guarantees, a professionally edited manuscript may increase the odds of acceptance. 

Developmental Editing

Also known as substantive or content editing, developmental editing is the first step, focusing on big picture story elements. The developmental editor will also assess and shape draft material to improve flow and organization by revising or reordering content and clarifying plot, arc of action, characters, and/or thematic elements.

Line Editing

Also known as stylistic editing, the line editor focuses on coherence and flow, eliminating jargon, clichés, and euphemisms, while adjusting the length and structure of sentences and paragraphs, and establishing or maintaining the overall mood, style, or voice.

Copyediting

Ideally combined with line editing, the copy editor checks spelling, grammar, punctuation, and usage, and ensures consistency in character names, places, descriptions, and other details. Copy editing also covers fact checking and/or obtaining or listing permissions needed (e.g., use of song lyrics or trademarked products). The copy editor may create or work from a style sheet.

And there you have it, feedback in a nutshell. Now all you need to do is write that book. Hey, if it were easy, everyone would do it.

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About the author: A former journalist and magazine editor, Judy Penz Sheluk is the bestselling author of two mystery series: The Glass Dolphin Mysteries and Marketville Mysteries. Her short crime fiction appears in several collections, including the Superior Shores Anthologies, which she also edited.

Judy has also written two how-to guides to publishing. Finding Your Path to Publication: A Step-by-Step Guide was the Winner of the 2024 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Nonfiction. The follow-up to that book, Self-publishing: The Ins & Outs of Going Indie, provides an insider’s insight into the world of self-publishing. 

Judy is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, the Short Mystery Fiction Society, and Crime Writers of Canada, where she served on the Board of Directors, most recently as Chair.

The Mystery of Creativity

By Avanti Centrae

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Imagine: Sherlock Holmes smoking his iconic pipe. Wonder Woman wielding a golden lasso. Glow-in-the-dark lightsabers clashing during an epic battle for the future of the Empire.

Have you ever wondered how authors come up with those types of larger-than-life characters? How we work in the jaw-dropping plot twists and design stories that keep your head spinning? Or are you curious about learning tips to utilize in your own creative endeavors? 

I’m here to share my secrets with you, gentle crime aficionado. I’ll pull back the curtain in the hope that you’ll use these techniques to make the world a better place. We’ll all win.

My background is in tech. The very definition of left-brained work. I got a degree in computers from Purdue University and several decades later climbed the ladder high enough to become an IT executive for a well-known Silicon Valley firm. My world was spreadsheets, PowerPoint slides, and meetings. Oh, the meetings...talking on the phone while answering emails from my manager while simultaneously dealing with four instant messages. Argh! PTSD flashback! 

I digress. The point is that’s a left-brained world. I wanted to be a thriller writer. Right-brained inspiration required. But how do I get the creative juices flowing?

I began my novel writing journey with an outline—the left brain’s answer to plotting. But as I added layer after layer, I found plot twists and character traits coming to mind at the oddest times. I’d be on a walk with the dogs, and an idea would come to me. I’m sure the neighbors thought me strange as I jotted down ideas in my BlackBerry while the German Shepherds pulled me down the street by their leashes. Or I’d take a hot shower, and that pesky plot problem would magically resolve itself. After toweling off, I’d take notes for later. The same thing would happen during yoga class, when meditating, or when I first woke up in the morning. Eventually, I realized my right brain, my subconscious, was adding its fingerprint to the story. 

Once I realized when my muse liked to contribute, I started to use those times as windows of opportunity. Before I went for a walk, I’d mentally pack a chapter that I was writing in my backpack. When I stepped in the shower, a thorny plot twist would rest next to the soap bottle. The two halves of my brain work differently, and I learned to schedule writing time at a point in the day when I’m not answering emails, updating my website, or doing other heavy-lifting type thinking tasks.

I also studied brain wave patterns to find out how our minds work. In simple terms, we can all move from a problem-solving beta-brain-wave pattern to a right-brained alpha/theta creative pattern by visualizing and deepening our breath. That made sense to me, as walking, showering, meditating, and sleeping all involved physical activities that inspired my creative self.

After completing the first two books in the five-time award-winning VanOps thriller series: The Lost Power (2019) and Solstice Shadows (2020), and then writing an award-winning standalone called Cleopatra’s Vendetta (2022) I’ve figured out how my creative process works. There’s a dance between my logical brain and my creative side. I just have to set up the dance floor, turn on the music, and let the two sides tango.

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Avanti Centrae is a former Silicon Valley IT executive turned #1 international bestselling thriller author. Her multi-award-winning novels blend intrigue, history, science, and mystery into pulse-pounding action thrillers. Download the first six chapters of her edge-of-your-seat VanOps series at www.avanticentrae.com.