Author: Ken MacGregor

What do I mean by this ridiculous joke title? That we do not exist in a vacuum. Not as writers, not as purveyors of our word-vomit to the readers, not as human beings.

When I first started screaming into the void, crying out to whomever would listen, “Look at the weird stuff coming out of my brain!” I thought I was alone. I thought it was me against the tide of rejections and likely inevitable failure.

I was wrong.

From the very beginning, I found other writers, professionals, who were happy to help me. Seasoned wordsmiths reached out to me to let me know they were there if I needed anything. Well, maybe not *anything*, but advice, a sympathetic ear, help finding markets, yeah.

It was like I had opened the door to a old west saloon. I had expected the piano to stop cold and all eyes to turn my way, hands on the butts of their six-shooters. What I got instead was a friendly handshake, a hug, a “this first round’s on me.”

I simply could not believe how … nice everyone was. How supportive. How excited they were to meet someone who was new to the field. I was flooded with gratitude, and I never forgot that feeling.

So, when a new writer approaches me, I do my very best to help them out. I point them toward good source material. I tell them how to find markets for their work. I even (sometimes) offer to beta read for them. This last one has backfired on occasion: it’s really hard to communicate in a nice way when a story is truly, deeply flawed. If it’s something fixable, I give them advice on how to maybe make that happen. If it’s just awful, I try to find a way to let them know that they should maybe take some classes or something. I don’t want to crush a person’s dreams. However, I also don’t want to give someone false hope. Telling someone that their story is good, or has potential when it’s garbage is not doing them any favors.

Here’s how I curb this potential problem: up front, I say, “I will give you feedback, yes. But, I will be honest. And, you may not like what I have to say. If you still want my feedback, send it. If you have a hard time taking criticism, you may not want to have me read it.”

This particular, unpleasant scenario aside, I love it when I can help another writer. This is true whether they are novices or friends of mine who are already established.

When a writer friend has a new book out, I’ll read it and review it on Amazon. I’ll share the link on Facebook. I’ll tell people to read it. When I see a writer I admire pimping another writer’s work, I am interested. I want to read it.

Whereas, my gut reaction when I see a writer shouting “Buy my book!” on every social media platform under the sun, is to *not* want to read it. I’m not even sure why this is. Maybe it seems like they’re trying too hard. It makes me wonder, “do they have to scream about it? Why? Can the book not sell itself? Why is the writer the one talking about it and not someone who read it?”

When a book first comes out, I totally get the writer saying, “Hey! Look at the cool thing I just did!” I get that. I do it myself. But, when the same writer is still doing that months later, hitting all the relevant Facebook pages and tweeting about it every nineteen minutes, come on. It smacks of desperation, man. And, desperation is unattractive. Nobody wants to go home with the person at the bar who is wearing the “fuck me tonight” shirt. Nobody. Unless you’re shit-faced. Which is probably the only time you’ll buy that writer’s book, too. Don’t shop drunk, kids. You’ll end up with bad books and that stuff that makes your poop sparkle.

All of this is, somewhat surprisingly still on task with my original topic. By promoting other writers’ work, instead of our own, we are not only more credible to readers looking for a good story, but we are also helping our fellow wordsmiths.

And that, ladies, gents and people who identify otherwise, is what it’s all about. Give it back. Pay it forward. Be the karma.

But, don’t do the thing where you say you’ll promote someone else’s work if they promote yours. This is shallow and self-serving and not cool. I made a lot of rookie mistakes early on, and this was one. Of course, I also used to review anthologies in which I had a story (do not do this – I can tell you from experience that some publishers won’t touch you if do) – I have since deleted all of those. Shudder.

We learn from our mistakes. We learn from others’ mistakes, if we’re paying attention. We can also learn from others’ successes. We can pass on our own knowledge learned from all of these, and we should.

To quote words of wisdom from a great couple of guys who will, I hear, be making a comeback soon, “Be excellent to each other.”
Ken MacGregor 2016

The title refers to my career. Probably yours, too. When I was first starting out, trying to write stories, I had a hard time getting the words out. I had a ton of ideas – hell, I still do – but, the sitting at the keyboard, knocking ‘em out thing was hard.

I read a bunch of books about writing, written by writers, so I could see how they did it. Some of them were really good. My three favorites were On Writing by Stephen King, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. If you haven’t read these, I strongly recommend them. One of the latter two (I think it was Bird by Bird, but I can’t find my copy to confirm), suggested writing 300 words every day.

I was like … What? That’s impossible!

Yeah. 300 seemed like an awful lot of words to me back then. And every day? I couldn’t imagine it. Looking  back, after co-writing a novel and over a hundred short stories (many of which come in between 2.000 and 7,000 words apiece), I can hardly believe I was ever daunted by 300 words a day. Just yesterday, I finished the final edits on a horror tale that came in at 7,140 words and sent it to the editor. Hope they like it. Well, let’s be honest: hope they buy it.

Jonathan Maberry once said he writes 4,000 words every day. That’s a big number. I actually managed to pull that off recently. One day. 4,000 words. I was super-proud of myself and immediately sent Jonathan a message on Facebook. He was excited for me. It was pretty gratifying to have someone I admire tell me I was doing a good job. You know? Anyway, 4,000 words sounds insane, but that’s his job. I have a day job, as I think most of us do. So, when one of us pumps out a ton of words like that, it’s pretty amazing.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. The more I do this, the easier it gets. I mean, I’ve already written 350 words on this post. Uh huh. Ten minutes. 350 words of thought-vomit. Easy peasy. But, that’s because I’ve been at this writing thing for five years now. Well, seriously for five years. I’ve been tinkering with it for pretty much my entire life. I had my first (and only) poem published in fourth grade. Sure, it was in the school newsletter, but it counts. I didn’t get a single other thing published after that until five years ago. In my defense, I only tried once. I sent a short story I had written to a publisher I found online. It wasn’t formatted correctly, and frankly, it was pretty awful. It got rejected, of course. The publisher? Apex.

I had no idea just how high I was aiming. I still haven’t sold to them. And, I’ve tried, believe me.

However, I have sold my stuff to a lot of other people, including several professional markets. And I’ll tell ya, when I open up an email from a publisher and it says they want my story, it never fails to make me grin like a damn fool. Acceptances never get old.

So, if you’re struggling to get the words out, and we all do sometimes, that’s okay. It happens. Rest assured though, it gets easier. The more you do it, the easier it gets. Before you know it, the words will flow from your mind like arterial blood from a nicked femoral.

I look back on the stuff I wrote when 300 words a day seemed daunting, and shake my head. Not only is most of it under 1,000 words, but the words themselves are kind of embarrassing. I mean, I had some great ideas back then, and I was writing stuff nobody else was, which is cool. But, the writing itself? Not great. So many amateurish errors. Dialog attributions! Passive voice! Exclamation points!

I am leaps and bounds better now than I was when I started. But, every time I encounter a new editor; every time I work with a new publisher; every time I read an amazing piece of writing (Paul Tremblay’s A Head Full of Ghosts, for example – if you haven’t yet, drop everything and go read it right now) I learn something. And, everything I learn makes me a better writer. I haven’t peaked yet, I don’t think, and frankly I don’t know if I ever will. I hope not. I want to improve with every story. I want each to be just a little better than the last.

They’re longer now. They’re better, too. That’s all a writer can ask for, I think. That, and for readers to enjoy them.

 

Incidentally, this is just over 800 words right here. And, I’m planning to work on some fiction today, too.
Ken MacGregor 2016

Yep. That’s right. Today, we’re going to talk about exposing ourselves.

No. Sorry. That’s not it. We’re going to talk about patience. Yup. Patiently exposing ourselves to the ones we love. Sharing our genitals for all to see…

Knock it off! It’s about being patient. Not about crotch stuff. Ew. “Crotch stuff.”

So, for real, keep your pants on, folks. I guess I mean that in both senses, but let’s focus on the implicit, rather than the explicit meaning of the phrase.

I touched on this briefly in my very first Brain Babies post, along with, like, eight other things. If you want to be a writer, there are a number of things you will need to get used to. First, of course, you will actually have to write. Duh. Second, you will need to act like a professional when dealing with the business side of things. You don’t have to be all stiff and formal, particularly if you already have a relationship with the person on the other end, but you do have to be polite and respectful.

Otherwise, your career will likely be a very short one.

Now, part of being professional is being – you guessed it – patient. We put our babies out there, cold and alone, in the harsh elements, not knowing what’s going to become of them. And we worry. We want them to do well, to graduate high school, get a job and support us in our dotage. Am I taking the metaphor too far? Probably. (Shrug.)

Here’s the thing, guys. It takes time. Sometimes, it takes a lot of damn time. From the moment you hit “send” and launch your precious manuscript, you begin waiting. Sometimes, you get an immediate confirmation of receipt. I love this! Sometimes, you don’t hear anything for months. I’m not so fond of this.

Sometimes, the projected wait time is right there in the guidelines. Yay! Now you know what to expect. And, frequently, they will tell you when it’s okay to query. Follow this. Seriously. Don’t query before, because it’s a dick move; don’t wait until long after, because they might not want your story, and they’ll tell you when you query if that’s the case. Then, you can sub it somewhere else. Yay!

Sometimes, it’s all very vague in the guidelines, and you don’t know when it’s okay (or even if it’s okay) to query. Here’s what I’ve figured out after doing this for five years and change: three months is safe. Here’s what I say, “Hi, (editor name). I submitted (story name) for consideration in (publication or anthology name) 90 days ago and haven’t heard back. Would it be possible for you to let me know if this piece is still under consideration? Thank you for your time.” Polite. Not whiny. To the point. Feel free to steal that if you want.

I have one story under consideration now that has been there for a year and a half. The publisher had some issues related to illness and deaths in the family that put everything on hold. They were kind enough to communicate this to their authors, so I left my (reprint) story there to see what happens.

I have a novel (co-written with Kerry GS Lipp – hi, Kerry!) that is under edits with a publisher and has been for months. We don’t know if it’s coming out this year or next. That’s how it goes. Sure, we want to know when it’s going to print. Sure, we’re excited and chomping at the proverbial bit. But, we wait. Because we know damn well that bugging them about it isn’t going to help and will probably annoy them.

You submit. You wait. It’s occasionally accepted (yay!). You wait. It gets published (yay!). And no one reviews it for months, years, ever. Mostly, you wait.

What should you do while you’re waiting? Why not write something? Work on the next story. Edit the last one. Do your damn job! Sorry. That was mostly directed at myself. I should be working on the novel right now (my first solo effort) or the story I’m writing for an extreme horror anthology (by invitation – yay!). Or any of the nine or so other works-in-progress I have going on right now.

Instead, I’m doing this. For you guys. Because I know how frustrating it is to have to wait. But, that’s the business we’re in, guys. It’s part of the gig. Along with the horrible Twin Demons of Self-Promotion and Meeting The Public (the latter I actually kind of enjoy, but the former turns my stomach), it’s part of being a writer.

So, take a breath. Let it out slowly. Grab a cup of coffee or a shot of something stronger if you like. And relax. You’ll hear from them about your (brain) babies. They’ll be fine. Let them climb on the monkey bars. Don’t worry so much. Sip your latte and chat with the other “story moms and dads” at the playground.

And go make more babies. But, keep your pants on, too. What? It can be done. That’s what zippers are for.
Ken MacGregor 2016

Let me come right out and say it: I’m married; I have two kids; I work full-time; I own a house, which constantly needs to be cleaned (kids); I try to occasionally see the people I call my friends. When do I have any time to write?

I don’t. I really don’t have any free time. It’s like they say, if you wait until you are ready to have kids, you will never have any. You won’t. Because, you can’t prepare for that. Having kids changes your entire life in ways you couldn’t have possibly foreseen. And it’s great! And it’s also mind-numbingly horrible sometimes.

You want an example? Sure. Both my children, whom I love more than anything in the entire world, Both of Them, have puked on me. The boy has done it twice. They didn’t mean to; they had the flu. It happens. But, still, we’re not talking about baby spit up here. That stuff is actually kind of cute in a mildly icky way. Nope. This is hot liquid vomit. This is splashing off my pajamas onto my bare arms and spilling onto the floor gut-bombs.

So, yeah. Kids are awesome. There is no more rewarding experience than raising a child. And yet, they’re also disgusting, nose-picking, farting, belching, puking, publicly embarrassing little pit fiends.

I digress. See what happens when you get me talking about my kids?

Finding time to write is tough. But, I do it. Or, maybe it would be more accurate to say I make time to do it. Small moments: a break at work; part of my lunch hour; after the kids are asleep ([cough]Bullshit! After the kids are asleep, we watch Torchwood.); sometimes, I even get up early to write. This last usually backfires, as my nine-year-old son seems to sense I am awake and gets up, too. I can’t begrudge him this, as it’s actually really nice just to spend one-on-one time with him. Same goes for the six-year-old daughter. It’s peaceful, relaxing, when it’s just one of them. Not so much when they’re together. There I go. Back to the kids again. I’ll try to stay on topic from here on.

I find (make) time to write because it’s important to me. Because I’m passionate about it. Sounds cliche, I know, but it’s true, too. I’ve always liked making stuff up. I think we all do as kids, and some of us never grow out of it (yay us!). I’ve also always liked people to notice the stuff I made up. It’s why I was an actor for many years. Especially on stage, there’s that instant gratification of making an audience react to something I’m doing. Whether this is a laugh, a gasp, tears or whatever; making someone feel something is a special kind of power. It’s a rush. You can get the same thing writing, though the timing on the reaction is much, much further out. You might have to wait years for the feedback. That’s okay though. It’s still pretty cool when it comes. There is, I think, no greater pleasure as a writer than to have someone seek you out to tell you how much they liked your work. Getting an acceptance is nice; getting paid is wonderful; seeing your work in print is awesome; but, yeah … all of that pales in comparison to making that connection with a reader.

After all, isn’t that why we’re doing this? Isn’t that what compels us to put pen to page over and over, to slog through edits draft after draft? Don’t we shout into the void, hoping for an answer? Hell yes. That’s why I do it.

So, here’s what I suggest: keep a pen and notepad with you, always. When the ideas come (and let’s face it, the ideas are the easy part), write ‘em down. When you get to a computer, or journal, or whatever you write on, expand that idea a little. Incorporate it into the WiP, blow it up into a drabble, knock out a quick flash piece. Who knows? Maybe it’ll spark the outline to a whole new novel. Use your downtime to write. Every spare moment.

But, and this is important, don’t obsess. Don’t forget to live your life. Don’t neglect your family and friends. (In fact, I took the title of this post from something I actually said to my wife once. I do not recommend this.) Don’t not have a social life. I’ll tell you why: first, those things are genuinely pretty wonderful; second, everything you do, see, hear, feel, smell, taste, touch … it’s all grist for the mill, baby. If you’re not living life, what the hell are you going to write about?

Ken MacGregor 2016

The world is your oyster.

So, pop that fishy ball of phlegm in your mouth, feel it ooze down your throat and go screw like a jackrabbit.

Wait. I think I lost the thread of my analogy.

The world is your oyster. We’ll take the literal interpretation in another direction: The world is full of mucus-like nastiness that you have to dig through to get to the pearl. And, more often than not, there is no pearl. Only shellfish snot. That’s life, baby.

Where the hell was I going with this? Oh yeah. I remember. Forget the crustacean stuff for a minute. The expression means, as I’m sure you know, that everything around you is there for the taking. That’s what I came here to talk about.

Every moment of every day offers something to help make your fiction richer. The trick is to pay attention. I’m gonna assume most of you already know this, but sometimes, I myself forget, so I figure maybe some of you do, too and might like a reminder.

On the road today, I noticed how the gently falling snowflakes were swept along in the breeze; it looked like they were playing an elaborate game of tag before they hit the ground.

A teen boy came to the library where I work. His acne was pervasive. He only made eye contact when absolutely necessary; the rest of the time, he kept his face angled away.

When my glasses are really dirty, the room I’m in looks like it was shot for an old TV show and played back with shitty reception.

An astounding number of people pick their noses behind the wheel.

I know what my kids smell like.

When I burned my hand by stupidly touching the frying pan, it took a little while for the pain to register, for me to yank away. Less than a second, sure, but there was a delay.

My story collection, when nestled in among other books on the shelf, disappears almost completely. Its glossy black spine with white letters is the opposite of eye-catching. This makes me sad. What? It’s a thing. I noticed it. It counts. At least it wasn’t a blatant plug, right? It’s not like I said, “Title, from Publisher, available on Platform.” If you want to know, you can ask. Or look it up in the bio below. That, right there? That was the blatant plug.

So, yeah. The world is your oyster. Keep your eyes open. Listen closely to the sounds around you. Breathe deep and absorb the smells of your environment. Touch things with the gloves off. Put your tongue in new and interesting places to see what they taste like (be careful with those last two). Bring those experiences to the page. Make your reader feel like they are really there with you, in the tiny boat surrounded by angry, giant lamprey; in the spacious mansion haunted by the ghosts of farm animals; nestled in amongst the loving tentacles of Glorrff, God of Ugly Sea Creatures and Jewelry Made from Mucus.

The world is your oyster. Eat it. Then, screw like a jackrabbit. Because, really, that’s never a bad idea.

 

Ken MacGregor

2016

That’s today’s topic. As a rule, humans beings are pretty egocentric. I’ve known maybe one or two who put others ahead of themselves all the time. Those people are weird.

I know that I, myself, tend to be kind of self-focused. I wouldn’t go as far as to say self-centered. I’m not a complete prick. But, I tend to look out for number one. I think most of us do. Which brings me to my point.

I see, as I imagine many of you do, a lot of fiction calls for highly specific subsets of society.

Please, only stories from: women, PoC (People of Color), Canadians, Australians, New Hampshirites, Venusians, Arachnids. I see these calls, and they don’t usually apply to me. I am, in fact, a white male from the US. I’m the opposite of niche. But, you know what? I’m good with that.

I read a lot about white privilege. I know what it is, and I know I have some. I never asked for any. But, it’s there. That’s how it goes. I have certain advantages because I happened to be born this way. Okay. Cool. Thanks. I guess.

Now, here’s the thing: not everyone has the advantages I do. Some people need a little nudge to get them in the spotlight. So they can show you what they can do. Their voices might get heard simply because some publisher somewhere said, “You know what I want to see? A bunch of stories from one-armed pygmies who live in a shack on a beach!” Suddenly, all these incredibly talented, one-armed, beach shack pygmies have a shot at getting published. That’s awesome.

When I see a call to which I cannot submit, because I don’t meet the qualifications, if I have a good story for it, I will be disappointed, but I try also to celebrate that shit. I get excited for the ones who can sub to it. Go you! I’d like to read that book. Because, ultimately, that’s what this is about. We’re all in this together. Your success is my success. It’s every writer’s success.

We are putting ourselves out there in the world, exposing our hearts and dark little secrets to everyone. That takes guts, folks. And maybe a little bit of lunacy. When a writer has the courage to try, we should applaud them. We should support them. Say, “Hell yeah! Go with your bad self! You did it, you crazy, one-armed pygmy you!”

And, don’t worry. It won’t be long before there’s another call for subs. Maybe you won’t qualify for it either. But, that’s cool. You will for the next one, or the one after that. In the meantime, keep writing. Read a good book. Hug someone you love. Drink a beer. Do something that makes you happy. And, most importantly, be ecstatic for your fellow writers when they sell something. Someday, when you make it, I bet they’ll be happy for you, too. I’ll be clapping loudly for you myself.

Also, if you see any calls for spec. fic. from writers who are aging, white males with glasses, multiple tattoos and a bad knee, please let me know. Thanks.

Ken MacGregor 2016

When I see a painting by Luke Spooner, I immediately know whose it is. The guy has a very distinctive style. It’s unmistakable. Same is true for a lot of artists. You know when you see something by H.R. Giger, right? Can’t miss it. Picasso? Totally unique.

But, you know what? These guys all probably started out doodling on napkins. They took life drawing classes (where you get a naked dude for the first half of the semester, and then a naked woman; this is to weed out the bozos who only took the course for the naked woman). They copies other artists’ work.

Writers do the same thing. And, that’s okay. It’s perfectly normal to emulate our heroes. I wrote a lot like Stephen King and Piers Anthony when I was younger. But, over time and through experimentation, we begin to figure out who we are on the page. We start to develop our own unique style, our voice.

I can’t tell you what my voice is. I know I tend to write with some humor; I don’t shy away from disturbing content; I use a lot of dialog, because I used to write film and sketch comedy. But, do I have a “voice”? I’m sure I do, and maybe people who’ve read a lot of my stuff can see it. Maybe someone out there can say, “Oh yeah. That’s Ken MacGregor, all right.”

Wouldn’t that be cool? I mean, if some reader out there in ReaderLand actually recognized my style? Be even cooler if they were telling someone else they had to read it. I mean, that’s what we all want, right? And money. We want to get paid. I know.

But, I’m off track. Voice. How do you find it? I don’t know. I guess you just keep writing. Whatever bleeds out of your brain and onto the page, well … that’s your voice. Once you’ve stopped writing like the people you read, I mean. That takes a while. But, if you’re new at this writing gig, don’t worry. It’ll come. The nice thing about being a creative human being is that we’re all coming at this from a different perspective. You almost can’t help having a unique voice.

As I said, I can’t tell you what mine is, but I know I have one. I show up in a lot of anthologies (Yay! Anthologies!) so I get exposed to a lot of other writers and their styles. When I get to my own piece in the book (yes, I read my own stuff in books. Seeing my work in print does not get old.) it’s so clearly mine. It’s a kind of comfort, you know? Like sitting in an old chair that conforms to your butt. It even kind of smells like you. Nice.

Anyway, if you’re starting out, go ahead: write like other people. Experiment with how you sound. Write poetry. Write outside your comfort zone. These things are good for you. But, keep writing. Once you figure out what you want to say, and how you want to say it, boom. That, my friend, is your voice.

Once that happens, I believe you’re just kind of stuck with it. Your voice will probably change and grow in subtle ways over time, but it will be yours. People will recognize it.

Someone, somewhere, will read you, and they’ll say, “Hey. This is (Your Name Here). You gotta read this book!” I hope so. Maybe it’ll be me. I read a lot.

Writers are artists, like the painters we talked about at the beginning of this. Each of us has something new and unique and exciting to bring to the table. Each of us has something to say, and their own way to say it.

So, go do that. If you’re lucky, someone will pay you for it. If you’re very lucky, someone will read it and love it. If you’re insanely lucky, someday, you’ll be able to quit your day job and write full time.

Me? I’m waiting for my wife to start making six figures, so I can do just that. Or, you know, maybe my book will get optioned for a movie or something. The former seems a bit more realistic.

Keep writing. Your voice, if you haven’t found it yet, will come. Give it time. Nurture it with practice. Feed it ideas.

And when you do find your voice, use it to shout from the rooftops: I am a WRITER! Because, you should be proud. That shit is cool.

Ken MacGregor 2016

Got your attention with that title, didn’t I? Good.

 

Seriously, though. It works if you think about it. Writing is an exercise in honesty. When we put words on paper, we are opening our hearts, pouring our guts on the page. We are making love to the reader (not literally, sicko – put that back in your pants). It’s an intimate thing, reading a book. There’s a connection.

You want, and I’m quoting Bruce Lee here, “Real, emotional content.”

Adult content, on the other hand, is people acting (though, as an actor, I hesitate to use the term) like they’re enjoying themselves. They are pretending to have a connection beyond the obvious literal, physical one.

The pizza guy shows up, and within seconds, someone is going down on him. This, naturally, leads to all kinds of other acrobatic hijinx and extreme close-ups of orifices. Yeah. Realistic.

I once saw a movie in which a woman was getting nailed by the pizza guy (naturally) and then other guys showed up. Maybe fourteen of them total. Out of other rooms in the house; from the balcony; from behind the camera-person. No explanation. Just a whole lot of dicks.

So, that’s adult content. No plot. No story. No emotional connection. Don’t write like this. Please.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t write sex. I write sex, and it’s a hell of lot of fun. Especially, if you can kill the people in some awful, graphic, deeply personal, genital-mutilating way during the act. Heh. That’s what you get for showing up in one of my stories, pal.

By all means, write sex if you want, but only if it furthers the story. Same thing goes for splatter. This may be a touchy subject to bring up with horror writers, but I’m serious. Gore should serve the story. There should be a point. Putting it in there to shock or disgust is cheap. It’s the equivalent of the cum shot in an adult movie. Which, really, when you think about it, is just gross. Why do I want to watch another guy blow his load? I have never understood the appeal. Shrug.

I’m not saying gore is bad. But, a little goes a long way. Your readers have amazing imaginations. You give them a tiny taste of the ick, and they will fill in the rest. And, you know what? They’ll do it way better than you ever could. I’m including myself in that “you”, by the way. Readers are better than all of us at this.

When I write, I try to take the reader right up to the edge and let them do the rest. Sex, horror, suspense, whatever. The reader will do the work, and you know what? They’ll thank you for it.

They’ll say things to their friends like, “This book is insane, man. It goes too far!” But, it doesn’t. Not really. And that’s the trick.

Seduce your readers. Court them. Send them flowers for no reason. Take them somewhere fancy for dinner. Woo those people.

Don’t just walk in with a pizza, drop your pants and start slapping people in the face with your genitals. Nobody responds well to that. As far as I know. Maybe some people do. People are weird.

Anyway, the point is: make a connection. Bring some real emotional content to the table.

And maybe, just maybe, the reader will fall in love with you. Then, they’ll stick by you, follow you around, tell everyone how great you are. Tie you to a bed and cut off your feet.

Wait. Not that last part.

I’m gonna say it again, because it bears repeating: romance your readers. Whisper in their ears. Kiss them on the neck. Brush their hair. Gently slide the scalpel into their waistband and cut away their pants. Maybe take out the ball gag so they can breathe a little more easily.

Write with passion and honesty. Don’t be the pizza guy.

Thanks.

Ken MacGregor 2016