Yes, that’s a nod to I’m Afraid You’ve Got Dragons by Peter Beagle, a cozy fantasy story I read last year. Unfortunately, we do in fact have mice. Or, at least, we had a mouse living beneath our sink. The mouse is no longer with us, but the lingering dread with which I hunt for droppings remains.

Perhaps the only thing I appreciate about vermin problems in the house is how we’re forced to become master storytellers when faced with an infestation, troubleshooting the pest’s origin story, its pedigree, its likes and dislikes, its habits, hopes, and dreams.

Where did it come from? we ponder. Does it have a family? Would it prefer peanut butter or Nutella before it dies? The more we know, the better prepared we are to write the final chapter in which the main character (that’s us) has restored their house to its former glory.

Much like the mouse in my cupboard, I was in survival mode through most of July, scavenging the crumbs of extra time and mostly coming up empty. We road-tripped to Santa Cruz for a wedding and took the long way home, up the coast and through the Redwood Forests. When I did snatch a cheerio crumble of time I was frantically finishing some contract writing that I do on the side and preparing the syllabi packets for my Camperdown students. Oh, and compiling material for a secret project that I’ll hopefully get to start working on in September.

I was also given one last chance to make corrections on The Second Greatest Thief. It’s rare to get a second pass on pass pages, but there were a few lingering issues we needed to resolve, and I was grateful my editor let me give my input.

As summer winds down, I’m prepping to begin work on the next book I’d like to sell in New York. I have a great concept and I’m hoping to write a few chapters and send them to my agent for feedback.

How fondly I remember the summers I spent reading at the pool while my children swam and played, but alas, no one needs me at the pool with them anymore, and if my time to work was measured in Cheerio crumbs, then my time to read would amount to a sprinkle of rice-cake dust.

I did read The Door Before by N.D. Wilson which was a great crossover prequel between two of his series: 100 Cupboards and Ashtown Burials (Speaking of Ashtown, did you know you can preorder Book 4 now?? Exciting stuff.)

And on audiobook, I listened to Half a Soul by Olivia Atwater which was a fun, quick story about fairies and marriage proposals.

Someone wrote in and asked for help writing an Aha! moment that isn’t cheesy.

This is a great question, but I think we should define some terms first. An Aha! moment is a lightbulb moment for the main character, often when they realize some fundamental misbelief that they held about themselves or the world.

Something can be cheesy either because it’s forced and unbelievable or because it’s true but you flunked the delivery. We’ll tackle these each in turn.

1.     Lack of Believability: Sometimes, you simply didn’t earn your Aha! moment, which is why it feels forced. A lot of storytelling is taking your character from somewhere flawed, revealing to them that flaw, and telling them they can either change or die. But the road to that revelation is very, very important. If your character is a chronic liar and in one scene they get caught and receive a gentle slap on the wrist, we probably won’t believe it if they’re hit by the full ramification of their actions and become a whole new man. If, however, they tell a lie and because of that, their house burns down, we would find their remorse and change very convincing. Another way to think of this is: the weight of the circumstances leading up to the revelation should match the weight of the Aha! moment. You'll often find you failed this direction if a beta reader says, “I don’t understand why he feels or thinks this way now.”

2.     The Flunked Delivery: Let’s say the character’s house does burn down, and they’re standing beside the smoldering ruins tearing their hair, weeping, sobbing, shrieking “No!” to the indifferent stars above, while the rain begins to fall and their tears mingle with the raindrops and their eyes glisten with the sorrow of a thousand dying stars. This is what we might call purple prose, and what it actually is is the author not trusting that they’ve created a compelling enough moment on its own. Here’s another example: I was in the theater watching The Impossible which is a very compelling story. A family separated by a tsunami doesn’t need a lot of extra help to get you to feel invested in the moment. However, at one of the most emotional moments, the composer decided to add a whole swell of violins, and I found it extremely distracting. It was as if the producer was saying, “Look!!! Isn’t this SAD??” But I’d already gotten it. And so then I just felt insulted. The remedy for this particular issue is to cut. Less is often more, and we are far more impacted by one strong line then by five overwritten ones. If this is your temptation, maybe ask your beta readers to just write “too much” in the margins.

Lastly- one of the very best things you can do to learn this skill is watch for the Aha! moments in great literature, the ones that really get you, and see how those authors did it. Spend at least ten minutes deconstructing the scene until you can say with certainty how they brought you to that moment.

That’s all for now! See you in August.