Interview with Michael Williams

 Copyright 2021 by Gary L. Pullman and Michael Williams

Michael Williams is the author of Twisted Tales, a superb series that consists, at present, of three volumes of flash fiction, Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, Tales with a Twist III, Tales with a Twist IV, and Tales with a Twist V. Besides writing, Michael especially enjoys sailing and “cultural exploration.” We're happy to share this interview on Chillers and Thrillers.

Q: What interests you in the super-short genre of flash fiction?

A: Alfred Hitchcock once said that a movie shouldn’t be longer than the capacity of the human bladder. I find I agree. Edgar Allan Poe considered the effect of short fiction to be more intense than that of longer works, such as novels or—my apologies to Hitch—full-length motion pictures. I also tend to concur with Poe: shorter fiction can pack more of an emotional wallop than longer forms. In our modern, fast-paced world, I think shorter fiction is also more convenient for many. A lot of people want complete stories without having to spend hours or days to read them.

Q: It seems that you prefer fantastic to realistic stories. Why is that?

A: Actually, I enjoy reading and writing all forms of fiction, but I think that tales of the fantastic, marvelous, and uncanny—handy distinctions that Tzvetan Todorov makes—add an element of magic to mundane experience, the icing, so to speak, on the cake. I also believe that, as Flannery O’Connor once said, a writer sometimes needs to use hyperbolic techniques to communicate with readers, and the shock of the surreal; the astonishment of the weird; and the wonder of the otherworldly, the supernatural, the occult, and the mystical provide these rhetorical approaches.

Q: As the titles of your books suggest, your tales are rather “twisted.” I'm going to ask the question most writers hate to hear: Where do you get your ideas?

 

A: I'm an eclectic reader. I enjoy learning about a variety of subjects. I guess you could say I'm a generalist. Sometimes, when the stars are in alignment, a remembered fact here will meet up with a recalled fact there, and, out of this connection of one thing and another, an idea will emerge. I might combine one of Thomas Edison’s inventions with the spiritualistic belief in the ability of the living to communicate with the dead, or I could update an ancient myth or a modern horror movie. As Arthur Golding wrote, in translating John Calvin, “All is grist for the mill.”

Q: I know you're something of a mariner. Does the sea ever feature in your stories?

A: Not as often as I might expect, but, yes, there is a sea tale or two. In one, the ocean solves a murder, which is rather a novel notion, I think.

Q: By definition, according to the title of your series, Twisted Tales, and by the titles of the books in the series, each of your flash fiction narratives contains a plot twist. How do you think up so many of them?

 

A: Usually, the story suggests one. However, I also employ a couple of tricks, or techniques—three, actually. First, when plotting a story such as those in Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, or Tales with a Twist III, I keep in mind the idea that almost everything has a direct opposite: new, old; lost, found; hero, villain; reward, punishment; rich, poor; right, wrong. Then, I start with one polarity and end with its opposite. The second way is more concrete. I keep a list of the plot twists I see in novels, short stories, movies, and TV series. Then, I adapt them to fit the situation or circumstances of my own stories. My third technique is to remember that there is a fine line not only between good and evil and right and wrong, but between all such polar opposites. A person who is cautious may become distrustful or even paranoid; a man who's strict can become controlling; a woman who's concerned with her own health and that of others—a doctor or a nurse, perhaps—can become a hypochondriac; a trusting person may become gullible. Each of these possibilities is a source of plot twists.

Q: How many of your tales with a twist are autobiographical?

A: Many of them are fantasies in which I explore how something might be if a particular set of unusual circumstances were to apply. Many of my stories are thought experiments, of a sort. I place a certain type of character in a particular kind of environment and see whether he or she adapts and, if the character does adapt, how he or she manages to do so. Frequently, the environment is physical, but it need not be; some of my stories' environments are philosophical, or moral, or psychological, or political, or cultural, or otherwise. The autobiographical element, when there is one, may be small—a detail here or there, the description of a place I've been, desires I've experienced, wishes I may have wanted to fulfill, thoughts or feelings or impressions I've had, that sort of thing, embedded in the narration, the exposition, or the dialogue.

Q: Let's talk a bit about some of the individual stories themselves. “Empty Pockets,” in Tales with a Twist, the first volume: where did that come from?

 

A: I remember reading about the childhood of Jeffrey Dahmer. By his own admission, he had nurturing parents and a good childhood. I never read anything that contradicted his assessments. Nevertheless, he turned out to be both a serial killer and a cannibal. I also remembered how, growing up, my brothers and I and the rest of the boys in our neighborhood carried a collection of odds and ends, some living, others inanimate, in our pockets. As a boy, what would a serial killer the likes of Dahmer of Ted Bundy be apt to carry in his pockets? What would his mother think if she discovered the contents of her son's pockets?

Q. To paraphrase someone we both know, out of a connection between a remembered fact here and a recalled fact there, a story arises, right?

A: Precisely.

Q: “A Living Hell,” in Tales with a Twist II, seems to be a satire on life insurance companies. Is that what you intended?

A: Partly, yes. But I also wanted to touch upon the narcissism of some who indulge in high-risk activities as well as examine the potential consequences of insuring oneself against hazardous escapades. It's as much a spoof on the behavior of those who pursue an adrenaline rush as it is a lampoon of insurance companies that will insure anything if the price of the premium is high enough.

Q: “Love Bite,” in Tales with a Twist III, is a neat take on the vampire tale. Can you give us an idea how it originated?

 

 

A: I wanted to start with the my-boyfriend-is-a-vampire trope, but in reverse, so the vampire is the girlfriend, and I added to that the additional trope of the boy's being an unpopular geek—not a literal geek, mind you, who bites heads off chickens, à la Ozzy Osbourne with the bat, but in the sense of being a nerd. So that raised the question, for me, of what this hot chick is doing with him as her boy toy. I thought of a couple of angles, but I think the one I decided on gives the story both its twist and its kick.

Q: It's certainly a story readers can sink their teeth into.

A: Wow! What a great blurb! Do you mind if I use it?

Q: (chuckles): Help yourself, Michael. “Spirits,” in Tales with a Twist IV, seems to be a cautionary tale. Do you intend it to be such?

A: I suppose it is, yes. Its theme, although not overt, or explicit, is discernible in the fact that the culprit’s addiction survives his death. On a figurative level, this situation suggests not how difficult it is to overcome one’s dependence on a drug, but also the degree to which such dependence can affect someone; the effects can persist beyond the person’s own existence, affecting the lives of others, including even people who are strangers to the deceased. I’m not sure all that was there, the meaning, before I wrote the story, but it is embedded in the finished tale.

Q: The epigraphs of some of the stories in the fourth and fifth volumes of Tales with a Twist mention other writers: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Frank R. Stockton, Emily Dickinson, Ovid, Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe, for example; a couple of other stories’ epigraphs mention philosophers or artists as well: Paracelsus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Johan Wolfgang Mozart. Would you consider these individuals a major influence in your own work?

A: Let’s not forget Jonathan Edwards; he’s mentioned, too, indirectly, by way of the title of one of his sermons, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” I’d say that each of them, in his or her own way, has been, and remains, more or less influential and inspirational, as have many others, including H. G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Shirley Jackson, Ambrose Bierce, Bram Stoker, Ernest Hemingway, Ian Fleming, Daphne du Maurier, Lawrence Block, Bentley Little, Joyce Carol Oates, James Patterson, C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Robert Sheckley, Mark Twain, and, of course, William Shakespeare. (Laughs.) I could go on and on. Each of them has taught me something vital about writing.

Q: Could we have an example, please?

 

A: I’ll give you a couple. Bradbury, a consummate wordsmith, taught me that poetry need not be restricted to verse, that prose itself can be poetic. His diction, but also his images, his metaphors, and his other figures of speech, give his writing cadence and rhythm, nuance and color, magic and wonder. Wells and Poe, at least equally adept in painting landscapes and interiors of horror, are also excellent practitioners of the both the art and craft of writing, painting in words what Edvard Munch, Hieronymus Bosch, H. R. Giger, Frida Kahlo, and Renee Magritte, to name a few, captured with pigments. From Poe, Sherwood Anderson, and Shirley Jackson, I learned the nature and the use of the grotesque.

Q: One final question, if I may?

A: Please.

Q: Will your Twisted Tales series have more Tales with a Twist?

A: I'm working on the next one now.

Interview with Michael Williams, Author of the Twisted Tales Series

Today, we are honored to present the ongoing interview that Michael Williams, author of the (at present) four-book series of brilliant flash fiction series Twisted Tales: Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, Tales with a Twist III, and Tales with a Twist IV.

Parts of this interview originally appeared on the Campbell and Rogers Press website.

 

 

Q: What interests you in the super-short genre of flash fiction?

A: Alfred Hitchcock once said that a movie shouldn’t be longer than the capacity of the human bladder. I find I agree. Edgar Allan Poe considered the effect of short fiction to be more intense than that of longer works, such as novels or—my apologies to Hitch—full-length motion pictures. I also tend to concur with Poe: shorter fiction can pack more of an emotional wallop than longer forms. In our modern, fast-paced world, I think shorter fiction is also more convenient for many. A lot of people want complete stories without having to spend hours or days to read them.

 

Q: It seems that you prefer fantastic to realistic stories. Why is that?

A: Actually, I enjoy reading and writing all forms of fiction, but I think that tales of the fantastic, marvelous, and uncanny--handy distinctions that Tzvetan Todorov makes—add an element of magic to mundane experience, the icing, so to speak, on the cake. I also believe that, as Flannery O’Connor once said, a writer sometimes needs to use hyperbolic techniques to communicate with readers, and the shock of the surreal, the astonishment of the weird, the wonder of the otherworldly, the supernatural, the occult, and the mystical provide these rhetorical approaches.

 

 

Q: As the title of your book suggests, your tales are rather “twisted.” I'm going to ask the question most writers hate to hear: Where do you get your ideas?

A: I'm an eclectic reader. I enjoy learning about a variety of subjects. I guess you could say I'm a generalist. Sometimes, when the stars are in alignment, a remembered fact here will meet up with a recalled fact there, and, out of this connection of one thing and another, an idea will emerge. I might combine one of Thomas Edison’s inventions with the spiritualistic belief in the ability of the living to communicate with the dead, or I could update an ancient myth or a modern horror movie. As Arthur Golding wrote, in translating John Calvin, “All is grist for the mill.”

Q: I know you're something of a mariner. Does the sea ever feature in your stories?

A: Not as often as I might expect, but, yes, there is a sea tale or two. In one, the ocean solves a murder, which is rather a novel notion, I think.

 

Q: By definition, according to the title of your series, Twisted Tales, and by the titles of the books in the series, each of your flash fiction narratives contains a plot twist. How do you think up so many of them?

A: Usually, the story suggests one. However, I also employ a couple of tricks, or techniques—three, actually. First, when plotting a story such as those in Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, Tales with a Twist III, or Tales with a Twist IV, I keep in mind the idea that almost everything has a direct opposite: new, old; lost, found; hero, villain; reward, punishment; rich, poor; right, wrong. Then, I start with one polarity and end with its opposite. The second way is more concrete. I keep a list of the plot twists I see in novels, short stories, movies, and TV series. Then, I adapt them to fit the situation or circumstances of my own stories. My third technique is to remember that there is a fine line not only between good and evil and right and wrong, but between all such polar opposites. A person who is cautious may become distrustful or even paranoid; a man who's strict can become controlling; a woman who's concerned with her own health and that of others—a doctor or a nurse, perhaps—can become a hypochondriac; a trusting person may become gullible. Each of these possibilities is a source of plot twists.

Q: How many of your tales with a twist are autobiographical?

A: Many of them are fantasies in which I explore how something might be if a particular set of unusual circumstances were to apply. Many of my stories are thought experiments, of a sort. I place a certain type of character in a particular kind of environment and see whether he or she adapts and, if the character does adapt, how he or she manages to do so. Frequently, the environment is physical, but it need not be; some of my stories' environments are philosophical, or moral, or psychological, or political, or cultural, or otherwise. The autobiographical element, when there is one, may be small—a detail here or there, the description of a place I've been, desires I've experienced, wishes I may have wanted to fulfill, thoughts or feelings or impressions I've had, that sort of thing, embedded in the narration, the exposition, or the dialogue.

 

 

Q: Michael, you've done it again!

A: Shhh!

 

 Q: Your latest Twisted Tales volume—I'd say they get better and better but, the truth is, they're all great reads.

A. My modesty forbids me from bragging, but thanks.

 

Q: I don't know how you do it. This is Volume IV, and it and its predecessors each contain at least thirty tales each. You've written over 120 tales with a twist.

A. Bourbon is my muse. Actually, I drink scotch. Or rum. Or tequila. Whatever's handy. Seriously, though, there are so many folks and so much chicanery and sheer madness in the world, my own included, that it's hard not to write if you're an author who enjoys parody and satire. If Tales with a Twist (psst! TV producers, I'm making a pitch here) were a television series, it would be going into its eighth season.

 

Q: Your maritime adventures notwithstanding, is there going to be a Tales with a Twist V, Michael?

A: As soon as possible. I mean, maintaining a boat ain't cheap.

 

 

Describing Images of Horror as a Means of Enriching Narrative Possibilities

 Copyright 2021 by Gary L. Pullman

 

Describing horror movie images can suggest directions in which to take a story. A poster for Sweet Sixteen (1983) shows a young, topless woman hugging herself as she stands hip-deep in a dark body of water (most likely a lake), a night sky behind her. Rippling out from her, a shadow upon the surface of the water extends toward the bottom of the poster (and, seemingly, toward the viewer), transforming into the blade of a knife, the point of which is overlaid by the film's title and the production credits.

This poster suggests the transformation of woman into knife, of a naked (and, therefore, vulnerable) woman into a phallic weapon, of flesh into steel: the woman's upper body becomes the hilt of the knife, formed by the union of the woman's shadow with the blade into which her shadow transforms, just as darkness is transformed into the blood-red lettering of the movie's title and the credits. The female figure becomes a weapon. The image's suggestions create a series of contrasts: Woman, from whom life is born, becomes an instrument of death, just as darkness becomes blood, and nature points toward language, the medium of communication, a precursor to civilization.

Whatever metamorphosis the young woman is experiencing has to do with her coming of age, the title suggests. It is unlikely, though, that the red of the letters represents menstrual blood, because girls tend to experience the onset of menstruation at about twelve-and-a-half years of age, long before age sixteen. Therefore, the blood is likely to be associated with another coming-of-age experience, the loss of a girl's virginity, which is also an occasion marked by blood. This possibility is supported, perhaps, by the image of the teenager's nudity. Her innocence is gone; she is no longer “sweet” (that is, in this context, virginal) now that she has been deflowered. She owns the phallic knife that “pierced” her; in a sense, she has become one with it, a “phallic woman,” the Freudian notion referring “to the fantasmatic image of a woman (or mother) endowed with a phallus or a phallic attribute . . . . [and] to the fantasy of the woman (or the mother) retaining the phallus internally after coitus.”

The poster's tagline, an implied question that is concluded by the movie's title, “What terrors are unleashed when a girl turns . . . Sweet Sixteen[?],” suggests that the young woman's loss of virginity “unleashes” horrors.

My analysis of the poster's imagery seems quite plausible, but the movie's plot does not support it—at least, not entirely. A brief summary of the plot reads, “Teenager Melissa moves into a small town filled with racial prejudice and bullying, and each time she meets up with one of the boys in town, [he] end[s] up murdered—but who is the killer?”

A young woman, the virginal Melissa attracts boys. She is a seductress not because she intends to be, but because she, in the flower of young womanhood, attracts boys, as a blossom attracts bees. Her Aunt Tricia's attempt, in the guise of Joanna, to protect Melissa, due to Tricia's confusion of Melissa with her own dead sister Joanne, is Tricia's motive in killing Melissa's suitors. (Tricia killed her father to protect Joanne, but the patricide caused Tricia to go mad and she was institutionalized.) Tricia dispatches Melissa's pursuers with a knife, stabbing them to death. Therefore, it is Tricia who is the phallic woman. Her belief that her niece is her sister, whom she tries to protect from men, as she had tried to protect Joanne from their father, is the basis for her transformation not only into Joanne, but also into the phallic woman who stands up to men. Melissa transforms not herself, but Tricia, into a “knife,” but only because Tricia, in her mind, has first transformed Melissa into Joanne.

Although my own interpretation of the movie poster's imagery differs from the movie's plot, my interpretation is equally valid and could be the basis of a different plot that is also suggested by the poster's images. This possibility is not a surprising, because an image or set of images, like a situation, can be understood in several ways, each of which is both possible and feasible, which is why it is often said that a movie (or a novel) about the same situation or theme is apt to generate as many plots as there are writers. For this reason, the description of a horror movie's images can suggest not one, but several, viable directions in which to take a story, because there is not one, but many, valid interpretations of images and as many directions in which to develop a story's plot, as, for example, this Possession (1981) movie poster suggests:

 

The Ending of the Tale

 Copyright 2021 by Michael Williams

In this post, Michael Williams concludes his remarks about writing a well-plotted story along the lines laid out by Aristotle. Thank you, Michael, for your contributions to Chillers and Thrillers!

In his Poetics, Aristotle points out that the end of a story should be both logical—in other words, the cause-and-effect relationships that have existed among the incidents of the plot throughout the drama (or narrative) should be maintained—and emotionally satisfying. The end of the story, in other words, should “make sense,” both intellectually and emotionally. Otherwise, the audience (or readers) are apt to be disappointed. He used the example of the deus ex machina, or “god of the machine,” a device employed, in his opinion by inferior playwrights, for ending a play for no other reason than that the playwright wanted the story to end. An actor portraying a deity was suspended upon a rope, which was lowered by a stagehand situated out of sight, above the stage, to descend onto the boards and, by dint of divine fiat, bring the drama to its conclusion. Often, the conclusion had little or nothing to do with the performance prior to the descent of the god of the machine. The expression deus ex machina has come to mean, therefore, a “tacked-on ending.”

 

Unfortunately, in genre fiction, some authors, including Stephen King, have sometimes tacked on just such arbitrary and unsatisfying conclusions to their novels, an offense that is especially annoying in volumes of the length that King writes. The violation is all the more offensive when, on a previous page, the author has already provided several other, more plausible possible causes of the novel's many apparently otherworldly incidents, as King does in Under the Dome (a 1,074-page tome).

 

Bentley Little, once praised by King as “the horror poet laureate,” is notoriously lax about ending his novels well. When it comes to endings, he puts little or no effort into writing a conclusion that makes sense of the mysteries of his plot and in no way satisfies his readers, especially when his books are really rehashes of the same formula. How many times can readers stand another slight variation on a worn theme, especially when there is no meaningful (and, often, no intelligible) resolution to his books' conflicts, no meaningful motivations for their characters' actions, and no discernible theme?

To read such books is to understand not only the wisdom of Aristotle's demand for an intellectually and emotionally satisfying ending, but also to see what the lack of such an ending does to a book as a whole. Playwrights and novelists ignore Aristotle's advice at their own peril.

 

If the beginning of a book shows characters undergoing a quest, the end must show them fail or succeed in discovering the object or, perhaps the truth, they have sought (Dorothy discovers that happiness is in her own backyard).

 

If a novel sets forth a mystery to be solved, the end must solve the mystery—and the solution has to fit the facts and account for any apparent contradictions and red herrings (Paula Darnell's Amanda Trent always explains to the readers of her A Fine Art Mystery series not only who committed the novels' murders but also how and why the dastardly deeds were done).

If a tale showcases a series of bizarre incidents, these incidents must be explained through logic; through scientific knowledge, theory, principles, or verifiable empirical means; or through other pertinent and convincing evidence (after presenting us with an invisible creature in “The Damned Thing,” Ambrose Bierce is good enough to explain to us why the creature is invisible).

 

If beginning a story in media res avoids providing a context for incidents, the end of the story must establish this context (we may not know why characters are being attacked by supernatural creatures during the beginning of AWhole World Full of Hurt, but we learn the reason [and a whole lot more] by the novel's end).

Only when these tasks have been accomplished will readers be satisfied that they have read the full, complete story.

 

Michael Williams's Twisted Tales series, consisting, at present, of Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, and Tales with a Twist III, is available on Amazon. Not only are they entertaining, but they're also textbooks on how to write fantastic flash fiction!

 

The Middle Course

 Copyright 2021 by Michael Williams

  

In this post, Michael Williams contributes another superb article, full of insights, concerning the inner workings of plots related to all genres of fiction. (Thank you, Michael!)

 

Writers in various genres have tried-and-true ways not only of beginning, but also of continuing, stories, of extending them though their narratives' middle courses, of connecting the beginnings of the tales with their endings.

Let's review some of the traditional ways in which writers accomplish this objective while maintaining, or even heightening, suspense.

 

In Desperation, after gathering his characters together, Stephen King uses various mechanisms of repetition to keep his novel moving along while maintaining or heightening suspense, among which techniques are—

• Adding new arrivals to the ranks of Sheriff Collie Entragian's captives;

• Increasing characters' personal stakes in the conflict between Sheriff Collie Entragian and the demon Tak. (For example, David's kid sister “Pie” is killed);

• Requiring Tak to “jump” from one possessed person to another after the demon's intensity physically destroys one after another of his temporary hosts; and

• Following one bizarre incident with another.

  
   

The middle of Dorothy's quest involves the use of such tactics of development as—

• Frustrations of her desire to return home to Kansas by various means, including the Wicked Witch of the West and the Witch's minions' attacks; problems associated with the Wizard (fraud), the Scarecrow (lack of self-confidence), the Tin Man (susceptibility to rust), and Cowardly Lion (cowardice), and Toto (aggression); and problems associated with herself (passivity, dependence, uncertainty); and

• Dorothy's ignorance of her ruby slippers' power to transport her home at any time.

   

Geoffrey Chaucer extends The Canterbury Tales by—

• Descriptions of each of the characters;

• Each character's telling of a tale;

• Other characters' reactions to the tales; and

• Arguments among the characters.

 

The movie Armageddon develops the middle of its plot by—

• Having the characters undergo training;

• Teaming Americans with Russians;

• Missing the landing point;

• Performing drilling operations;

• Exploding methane gas;

• Dying (on the part of most of the landing party).

Many detective stories advance their plots by—

• Showing the interviewing various suspects;

• Disclosing clues (or red herrings)

• Otherwise investigating a crime (usually a murder).

In horror stories, the middle of the narrative often progresses by—

• Expanding the area involving the initial situation to include other towns, a whole country, or the entire world;

• Introducing new characters (often victims);

• Seeking clues as to the nature and origin of an unfamiliar or alien creature, force, or situation; and

• Varying the types of threats;

• Fending off attacks.

Falling Down uses these methods to get from A (the beginning) to Z (the end):

• Introducing new characters;

• Providing examples of moral, economic, and political decline;

• Developing the contrasting parallel personal lives of William Foster and Detective Martin Prendergast;

• Escalating Foster's aggressive behavior; and

• Visiting various areas of the city.

In developing the middle of a story, writers keep these purposes in mind:

• The beginning of the story must connect to the end of the story in a logical, emotionally satisfying way, and the middle of the story is the connector between these two points;

• The middle of the story's incidents are related through cause and effect;

• The middle of the story must escalate the conflict and, therefore, the suspense;

• The middle of the story must be appropriate for the story's genre (for example, things allowed in horror aren't usually welcome in a romance);

• The middle of the story (usually, the middle of the middle) contains the plot's turning point;

• The middle of the story is developmental: it develops elements introduced by the story's beginning: multiplies horrors [Desperation], complexities a quest [The Wizard of Oz]; more fully characterizes its players [The Canterbury Tales]; increases an already difficult challenge [Armageddon]; exemplifies a character's point of view [Falling Down];

• The middle of the story's tone must be appropriate to the story's genre and theme.

For examples of these techniques in action, so to speak, check out Michael Williams's own tales of horror, fantasy, and suspense, the Twisted Tales series: Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, and Tales with a Twist III.

 

In the Beginning

 Copyright 2021 by Michael Williams

 

Since 1976, Stephen King has been killing trees left and right. In both its paperback and hardcover incarnations, King's Desperation (1996) is 704 pages long; 'Salem's Lot (1975) is 672 pages (paperback) or 464 pages (hardcover); the length of his IT (1986) isn't measured by page count, but by the pound (2.1, paperback; 3.49, hardcover).

Buy 'em by the pound!

 

How does an author write such massive tomes, one after another, seemingly tirelessly, for 45 years? That was my original question, which mutated into, How does an author even begin such a massive volume? From there, my query branched, as thoughts—at least, my own—often do, becoming, What are some of the conventional ways by which authors start books?

Taking the Aristotelian approach, which is descriptive, rather than prescriptive, meaning that the philosopher didn't tell how something was to be done, offering rules and dictating procedures, but, instead actually attended plays and described what he saw playwrights actually do, I compiled a short list of techniques that writers of various genres have used successfully in beginning their own books in effective and engrossing ways. I am pleased to share my observations with you.

Gather characters. In epic-length (or even in not-so-epic-length stories), writers often have their characters undergo a quest of some sort, literal or figurative, which requires, of course, that the characters gather together to begin with. We see King use this technique in Desperation, as the demon-possessed Sheriff Collie Entragian arrests travelers bold enough to drive along U. S. Highway 50, “The Loneliest Road in America.” We see it in The Wizard of Oz (1939), when Dorothy Gale is joined by the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, as she journey to the Emerald City of Oz in the screenplay, by Noel Langley, Florence Ryerson, and Edgar Allan Woolf, of L. Frank Baum's novel. This technique is also employed by many others, including Geoffrey Chaucer, whose Canterbury Tales (c. 1400) pilgrims entertain each other by telling tales as they journey to the shrine of St. Thomas Becket at the Canterbury Cathedral. Indeed, the gathering of characters is a time-honored (meaning really, really old) means of beginning a story in a manner that is likely to engage readers.

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   Convene a group. In the award-winning A Fine Art Mystery Series, Paula Darnell's protagonist Amanda Trent is a member of an artists' guild; in the 1998 movie Armageddon, Harry S. Stamper gathers a team (Chick, Rockhound, Max, Oscar, Bear, and Noonan) to help him stop an asteroid on a collision course with Earth; in the TV series Murder, She Wrote (1984-1996), Jessica Fletcher, who writes murder mysteries for a living and solves them as a sideline, lives in Cabot Cove, an idyllic coastal town in New England; in Gary Pullman's dark urban fantasy, A Whole World Full of Hurt (2016), the leader of a witches' coven gathers sacrificial victims, whose life-essences provide the spiritual energy she needs to conquer rival covens. The tactic of convening a group is frequently used in the 2014 TV police procedural series The Brokenwood Mysteries as well. The sereis is set in the New Zealand town of Brokenwood and involves murders among such groups as a traveling theatrical troupe (“To Die or Not to Die”), bicycle racers (“Tontine”), ghost train passengers (“Scared to Death”), steampunk festival participants (“The Power of Steam”), a hunting party (“Hunting the Stag”), Lord of the Rings tourists (“The Black Widower”), and a local historical village's staff (“Stone Cold Dead”).

    
   

   
   
   Show a series of bizarre events. Many novels and movies start by showing a series of bizarre events, which, because the explanation of them is withheld, appear mysterious, enhancing readers' or moviegoers' interest in them. The Taking (2010), by Dean Koontz, employs this technique, as do many of his other novels. An eerie scent lingers in the air. A strange rain falls; thick fog drifts through an isolated small town. Mysterious lights float among trees. Reports of bizarre weather are broadcast. As the residents of the community band together, they come under attack, but they don't know who—or what—their predators are. Pullman's urban fantasy also begins with a series of strange incidents: a college student is attacked when he collects for a subscriber on his little brother's paper route; a bride is assaulted from within,  during her wedding; a cemetery caretaker meets his end as he rests from his labors; gargoyles atop the Washington National Cathedral eerily come to life; a young woman vanishes while taking a bath. What is behind these bizarre incidents? Audiences will continue to watch as the film progresses; readers' curiosity will keep them turning the pages.

    

   
   

   Begin in media res. Writers also frequently start a story in media res, or in “the middle of things.” The audience or readers have no idea what led up to the current events in which the character (often the protagonist) finds him- or herself, which is one reason for their absorption in the story's initial action. In the process, the writer might involve the character in a problem; then, the audience or the readers have another reason to continue to watch or read; the suspense—and the moviegoers' or readers' curiosity—is doubled: they are curious about how the character got into his or her present situation and about how or whether he or she will get out of it, and the audience or readers are also curious as to whether the character's related problem will be solved and, if so, how or, if not, why not. Falling Down (1993) starts with the protagonist, William Foster, stuck in traffic; he is shown as frustrated, easily angered, at the breaking point. He solves his immediate problem by abandoning his car on the jammed freeway, but the greater question of whether he will solve his ability to cope in a society that he believes is “falling down” around him remains unresolved, so the suspense continues. By combining an in media res beginning with an enduring problem for the protagonist, storytellers hook their readers twice.

These are only a few of the many ways, of course, that novelists and screenwriters create and maintain suspense while establishing their stories' settings, characters, conflict, and tone. Maybe, in future posts, we can look at some of the techniques writers use to encourage audiences and readers to continue the story through its middle and how writers conclude their tales in an emotionally satisfying manner.

Note: Michael Williams is the author of the Twisted Tales series, which presently consists of three volume of suspenseful flash fiction, mostly in the fantasy genre, Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, and Tales with a Twist III.

US → C → E → FO w/ T

 Copyright 2021 by Gary L. Pullman

Today, Michael Williams, the author of the Twisted Tales series, which presently consists of three books, shares a few tips about how he writes some of his flash fiction stories.

One way that I generate some of my Twisted Tales is by using a formula I've invented. It consists of four steps. First, imagine an unusual situation (US). Second, account for this unusual situation by showing its cause (C). Third, show the effects, or results, of the unusual situation (E). Fourth, show the final outcome, being sure to include a plot twist (FO w/T).

Here's an example, based on one of the stories in Tales with a Twist IV, which will appear on Amazon and other online retailers' sites.

US: A woman begins to hear voices.

C: She's not human; she's a android, and she hears the voices due to a faulty transmitter implant.

E: She is kidnapped.

FO w/T: In rescuing her, police stumble upon a top-secret government experiment gone awry: she is a prototypical android scheduled to be mass produced.

Of course, the steps, or elements, in the formula can be rearranged. Here's another possible configuration for the story:

US: A woman begins to hear voices.

E: She is kidnapped.

FO w/T: In rescuing her, police stumble upon a top-secret government experiment gone awry: she is a prototypical android scheduled to be mass produced.

C: She's not human; she's a android, and she hears the voices due to a faulty transmitter implant.

The elements should be arranged in the manner that best conceals the story's mystery (she's an android) until the end of the tale and best delivers the plot twist that represents the story's “punchline.”

There are plenty of other examples in the Twisted Tales volumes.

Watch this space! Michael may be back, as a guest speaker, sharing more tips on how he writes his Twisted Tales!

Interview with Michael Williams

Campbell and Rogers Press has just published my fellow author Michael Williams's Tales with a Twist III, the third installment in his Twisted Tales series. As someone who has followed Michael since his first book, I am delighted to recommend his series. I love the short, short form and the variety of his flash fiction, and I believe you will as well. Check out his interview, below. He is a man with an imagination and a vision that is on fire!

Interview with Michael Williams

Q: What interests you in the super-short genre of flash fiction?

A: Alfred Hitchcock once said that a movie shouldn’t be longer than the capacity of the human bladder. I find I agree. Edgar Allan Poe considered the effect of short fiction to be more intense than that of longer works, such as novels or—my apologies to Hitch—full-length motion pictures. I also tend to concur with Poe: shorter fiction can pack more of an emotional wallop than longer forms. In our modern, fast-paced world, I think shorter fiction is also more convenient for many. A lot of people want complete stories without having to spend hours or days to read them.

Q: It seems that you prefer fantastic to realistic stories. Why is that?

A: Actually, I enjoy reading and writing all forms of fiction, but I think that tales of the fantastic, marvelous, and uncanny—handy distinctions that Tzvetan Todorov makes—add an element of magic to mundane experience, the icing, so to speak, on the cake. I also believe that, as Flannery O’Connor once said, a writer sometimes needs to use hyperbolic techniques to communicate with readers, and the shock of the surreal; the astonishment of the weird; and the wonder of the otherworldly, the supernatural, the occult, and the mystical provide these rhetorical approaches.

Q: As the titles of your books suggest, your tales are rather “twisted.” I'm going to ask the question most writers hate to hear: Where do you get your ideas?

A: I'm an eclectic reader. I enjoy learning about a variety of subjects. I guess you could say I'm a generalist. Sometimes, when the stars are in alignment, a remembered fact here will meet up with a recalled fact there, and, out of this connection of one thing and another, an idea will emerge. I might combine one of Thomas Edison’s inventions with the spiritualistic belief in the ability of the living to communicate with the dead, or I could update an ancient myth or a modern horror movie. As Arthur Golding wrote, in translating John Calvin, “All is grist for the mill.”

Q: I know you're something of a mariner. Does the sea ever feature in your stories?

A: Not as often as I might expect, but, yes, there is a sea tale or two. In one, the ocean solves a murder, which is rather a novel notion, I think.

Q: By definition, according to the title of your series, Twisted Tales, and by the titles of the books in the series, each of your flash fiction narratives contains a plot twist. How do you think up so many of them?

A: Usually, the story suggests one. However, I also employ a couple of tricks, or techniques—three, actually. First, when plotting a story such as those in Tales with a Twist, Tales with a Twist II, or Tales with a Twist III, I keep in mind the idea that almost everything has a direct opposite: new, old; lost, found; hero, villain; reward, punishment; rich, poor; right, wrong. Then, I start with one polarity and end with its opposite. The second way is more concrete. I keep a list of the plot twists I see in novels, short stories, movies, and TV series. Then, I adapt them to fit the situation or circumstances of my own stories. My third technique is to remember that there is a fine line not only between good and evil and right and wrong, but between all such polar opposites. A person who is cautious may become distrustful or even paranoid; a man who's strict can become controlling; a woman who's concerned with her own health and that of others—a doctor or a nurse, perhaps—can become a hypochondriac; a trusting person may become gullible. Each of these possibilities is a source of plot twists.

Q: How many of your tales with a twist are autobiographical?

A: Many of them are fantasies in which I explore how something might be if a particular set of unusual circumstances were to apply. Many of my stories are thought experiments, of a sort. I place a certain type of character in a particular kind of environment and see whether he or she adapts and, if the character does adapt, how he or she manages to do so. Frequently, the environment is physical, but it need not be; some of my stories' environments are philosophical, or moral, or psychological, or political, or cultural, or otherwise. The autobiographical element, when there is one, may be small—a detail here or there, the description of a place I've been, desires I've experienced, wishes I may have wanted to fulfill, thoughts or feelings or impressions I've had, that sort of thing, embedded in the narration, the exposition, or the dialogue.

Q: Will there be further Tales with a Twist?

A: I'm working on the next one now.