My Craft Stories Tall Tales of Sin

Greyhound Arriving: Chapter 10

He Like a Good Steak Todd Loudin owned a lot of places and people in Sin City. The people owed him favors; the places owed him nothing. The people usually ended up hurt; the places were infamous. He liked a good steak and no place proved better than the Golden Steer. Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack ate here, the King of Rock and Roll held court, and Natalie Wood bought her own velvet touch.…

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Scribbles

March 15, 2017 Scribble

I spent twenty minutes holding my head to the right as a doctor went in again for my fourth thyroid biopsy. “Boy this is really deep,” he said. “Yep, maybe you’ll be the guy,” I said. It is clear with have a nodule or two. We don’t clearly know if it is cancer. “At least if it is cancer, this is the best one to get,” said my endocrinologist. “It takes so long to grow.” Comforting.…

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Scribbles

March 3, 2017 Scribble

You can read this if you wish although it consists of thoughts and fragments as I attempt to free write 750 words every day. Some of this may end up in a Story or a Conversation. Anyway, this is how one learn and shapes up The Craft. America is divided. The Hatfield vs. the McCoys. #BLM vs #BLM. Of course, it is nowhere near the biggest mix up as The Orange and the Green.  At…

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My Craft

A Moment of Pure Truth

Christopher stood over the maze of workday and eyed the sea. A thin fog cloud floated passed his perch on the 45th floor. On the docks, sea lions barked at tourists. East Bay traffic sought a faster path, ships hauled electronics in and almonds back out, and the blood-red sun sunk into late afternoon north of the Golden Gate. In the conference room, five people sat in executive chairs around a table. Their faces reflected…

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On Writing

Inspiration: Mining Subjects Close to My Heart

I grew up trout fishing. But I will never be able to capture the river like Norman Maclean. I once toiled as an innkeeper. But my experiences were nothing like described by John Irving. Inspiration Comes From Experience I am a product of the American West and my inspiration comes from those people. I take inspiration from their stories and those subjects are close to my heart. When Tom Booker stopped at a remote four-corners somewhere between Nevada and…

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Tall Tales of Sin

A Tall Tale of Sin: Greyhound Arriving

I work downtown Las Vegas. For all of the glitz and wild scenes on Fremont Street, what is often overlooked is this town is a business. And that means for every cup tossed on the ground someone has to come along and pick it up. While the entire street is a stage, it still needs to rest, if only for a few hours between parties. I’m also fascinated with neon and what it means. Las…

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On Writing

The False Ending

I have mentioned that many stories fail to gain traction in the second act. This is where the viewpoint character forgets why they are in the story. Of course, it is the writer who has forgotten; either by writing by their pants or failing to plot in enough conflict to keep the story moving forward. Stories thrive on conflict and bad things must happen to the hero before it all ends up as good and…

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On Writing

Pantser Plotter

There are two camps of thought: the people who listen to the muse and write by the seat of their pants and the people who write an entire book-length outline prior to starting to write. I prefer to combine the two, without writing an entire book-length outline. Let me explain my thoughts on this debate. Pantsers argue they are free to listen to the story and the characters. It is a muse-centric approach, with the…

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On Writing

The Thrill of Writing

I started Wordsmith Holler to experiment and put myself out there. I have no other reason. It seemed pointless to keep writing first drafts and store them in the cloud. Stored and forgotten. Go ahead and post them and let others decide their true worth. I also do not understand the current publishing business. Writers are discovered online on Twitter. Can 140-character riffs really indicate your ability to write? I suppose if you are writing…

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My Craft

The Devil Knows You’re There

He hung 100 feet above Fremont Street, like Superman, tethered only to the narrow ribbon of wire in a harness. Unable to twist and look up at why he was stuck, he looked down at the street instead. A sea of tourists moved below him as if he was another attraction. A small boy let go of a smiley-face balloon and started to cry.  A bald dude stared at him in a peewee muscle shirt.…

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