I will present this in 5 parts. Remember, just because I say this is the way to do it, does not mean it is the way to do it. What it means is, this is the way I do it. Find your way…
PUBLISHED BY: Dell Sweet
Writing Basics is © Copyright 2021 Dell Sweet, all rights reserved.
Dell Sweet is a pen name owned by Wendell Sweet.
Additional Copyrights © 1985 – 2010 – 2012, 2014, 2021 by Dell Sweet, Wendell Sweet, the Estate of Wendell G Sweet All rights reserved.
This is an exercise in learning how to get past certain roadblocks and get what is in your head down on paper. Additionally, I will show you my own technique to continue to build the story using questions. I will cover critiques, your own belief in yourself, and how to write what you want to write, even if it may not be the day you want to write it.
I am the creator and author of The Earth’s Survivors saga, Billy Jingo and dozens of short stories and other writings including lyrics, plays, prose and humor. I write a weekly blog along with some other writers. Writing is my one real goal in life and has been since childhood. Life simply didn’t take me where I wanted it to. Adults didn’t help me when I needed it, and of course I did even more harm to myself than any of those things did by believing in them. Believing they were gospel. But there is a way I could have avoided that and it is actually very simple: Ignore it.
I had no guide to bring me into my own career, but once I found my way out of addiction I began my journey. I am not a popular author in the sense that I sell millions of books, but I do have fans that are very loyal and keep in touch with me. So, the things I write about here actually work, actually come from my own, real experiences.
I think that 99% of writing ability comes from the gut. That core belief that, One: You can do this, and, Two: It doesn’t matter who disagrees with that statement as long as you continue to believe in it. For all of your life, in everything that you do, you will have critics. Why? Call it part of human nature. Some people are miserable unless they have their hands in someones life. They don’t care about the consequences they may cause you. It doesn’t matter to them if you fold up your tent and move in. You actually mean nothing at all to most of them in a very good way.
How can that be? It can be very simply. You are a step. A step that raises them above the crowd. A way for their lonely voice to be heard. That is all. And it is not personal, because if they cannot get to you they will move on to someone else. The individual person means very little.
Now the second kind of person just means harm. Again, most of the time, it doesn’t matter if it is you or someone else. They will come a long and tear you up if they can. I had this happen to me once and was so shocked that I couldn’t think what to do at first. Finally, I got myself in gear. This is the age of the internet and you truly can not hide if someone wants to find you. Trace this account to that account, to that page, to this account, and soon you’ll have them. It was, in my case, another author who was angry that my books sold better than her books. My introduction to authors and how some of them see each other.
The point is this. These things hurt you only if you allow them to. If you internalize the fact that you are good: Remember that the term good is subjective, and realize that most of the time it is not personal, you will be fine. For those few times that it does seem personal? Well, like I said, it is easy to trace that feedback to an account, trace that to a website, trace that to another account, and eventually you will come to the person hiding behind it.
You are a good writer:
Internalize the fact that you are good: Do you believe you are good? Do you absolutely have to have someone tell you, you are good? This is something no one can do for you. You have to do it yourself. If you feel in your heart that your work is good, cap the whole argument right there. The rest doesn’t matter.
The Term Good Is Subjective:
The term good is subjective to everyone. What you might find good, I may not find good at all. I may not like it. I am very unlikely to go online and say so, that is not how I do things, but I will feel that way. A proof reader may find many mistakes in your work, does that mean your work is bad? No! It only means it needs some help. If you can internalize that the word Good can be subjective it will allow you to remove any idea of a personal attack on you or your work from the equation and that changes your outlook completely.
It is not personal:
The fact is that it most likely is not personal at all, just someones’ viewpoint. It seems personal because this is your baby. You worked your ass off on it and some clown came along, ignores all of that, and trashes it. It hurts, and when you hurt you react, but you don’t need to. Take a breath. Think it out. Even if it is spiteful, it most likely is not personal, because if it hadn’t been you they chose it could have just as easily been Betsy Blunderbuss and her book on changing diapers. It is not personal.
What I want you to understand is that it doesn’t have to mean a thing to you. Bad feedback will come, so will Good feedback. You can be offended, or you can learn from it. Change the way you write. Clean up those constant misspelling errors you have. There are ways around it. No, the person will not take that feedback back, but you will be in a position of knowing you won’t see it come again. You took care of it. You dealt with it and moved on from it.
So I hope you read this material closely. My goal is to give you some technique, but I would also like to get you to help yourself as well. Boost that confidence. This career, vocation, quest, longing is about no one but you.
Dell Sweet: 07-09-2015
It has been a rainy weekend here in New York, in fact it is still raining at the close of this late Sunday night as I write this. We have had some flooding here, but nothing like other communities have had. We have been lucky, most especially with all the snow melt and then more rain we have had on top of that.
I spent part of today updating sites and then working out writing projects, and then found myself in a conversation with someone about writing and how it works for me. I have received a few emails about writing and how I do It: Like I might have some sort of magic formula that I use. I said what I do is take a mental outline of what I want and go from there. Or I could commit those same things to a piece of paper and take it from there. It works the same no matter which way I approach it. So my friend said, “If I write an outline or basic scenario how do I start?”
It is pretty simple. The first thing is that you have to believe in what you are writing. If you don’t believe in it no one else will because you will not be able to convince them it is real or viable. For instance, if you want to write a zombie story but you have no faith that you can, you more than likely won’t write the story because no matter what you do write, you will not feel it, believe in it, and so you will continue to reject it until you hit upon something you do believe in.
Basic Outline: Some kids, let’s say three, go to make sure their grandmother is all right during the first days of the Zombie Apocalypse.
That is my kind of basic outline, usually scribbled on a scrap piece of paper, because it comes to me in the middle of doing something else and I don’t want to forget it. It is not complicated at all. It does not have a lot of meat or direction so whatever way it carries me will be fine as long as there are those three kids and their grandmother. I could keep that in my head, but for me, because of that constant stream of thought that most writers have, I should write it down or it will get swept away by that fast running stream. So I paused in the discussion of writing with my friend and wrote that down, and then went back to discussing other writing problems; like things that stop the story from happening once the outline is written. My most frequent in my early writing was that first sentence:
The zombie walked into the room.
Would a zombie walk into a room? Wouldn’t the zombie shuffle into the room? Of course he would. So I delete all of that and start over.
The zombie shuffled into the room.
Hmm. Doesn’t the zombie seem sort of like a wino now? Or a bum? Just shuffling from here to there? He does. Probably he also has a bottle in his pocket and takes a sip from time to time. This is a goddamn alcoholic zombie that will never get a damn thing done because he’ll be drunk and miss his cues every time. Dammit.
Wait a minute! How do I know that it’s a man zombie? I’ve been referring to it as a man, but it could be a woman!
And that is how my first sentence would go: Four hours later I had no more written than I wrote in those first seconds:
The zombie walked into the room.
I don’t know how you write, but my friends that I have talked to all have been in that place where the words seemed stopped or the phrasing won’t come. The thing is, it doesn’t matter. And the reason it doesn’t matter is that you are allowing yourself to get caught up in all the trivial things of your proposed story, so much so that you have frozen your creativity. You have no story because you are not allowing yourself to write it. You have dammed up that stream: Stopped the flow of information. What you need to do is write. Just push past that stoppage and write, and there are a few reasons for that.
First: Write it because writing moves you past that initial word on paper place. Just write. It doesn’t matter if it is misspelled, it doesn’t matter if the punctuation is incorrect, it doesn’t even matter if you have no idea where you are going with the story, even if it seems to not be adhering to your outline. Just write it. Let it flow. You can fix all the other stuff later. And, you wrote the idea down, so if this story coming to you is not the story you wanted, write it anyway. It is a gift. Take it. Write the other story some other day.
Second: Write it because the words will disappear if you don’t get them down on paper. I have heard many a writer say, “I had better write this stuff in my head down on paper before I lose it.” or “I had this story in my head, I should have written it down, I didn’t and now it is gone.” I have never heard a writer say, “I guess I’ll write this story down that I have stored in my head from two days ago.” They don’t say that because it is gone, so write it down. Yes, a story idea can get in your head and be there for months. Drive you crazy. But that is the idea. The idea without direction and that is not what I am talking about. I am talking about sitting on the couch watching TV, or driving to work in your car, and suddenly an idea hits you and goes past that and starts to formulate into a story. You can see it clearly, scene by scene, or however you visualize as you write…
…Okay, so there is this woman, and she has the ability to turn into a sparrow and fly. No one knows it but her, and she’s not even sure whether it is real or not, because it only seems to happen when she is sleeping. So how does she know it is real? She feels it. She feels it in her heart and she knows it is real. And then one morning she wakes up and there is a twig in her hand. A twig she remembers plucking from a tree with her beak as she flew as a sparrow in the dream world where she can fly. It is a real twig. A real twig from a place she can only reach in her dreams, but it is proof that that place exists…
Your idea can be like that, more or less complex. That idea is in my notes from 2009 and it is the basis that became The Dreamers. The woman became two characters. One a little girl named Sparrow Spirit trapped in a stone by trickery, and the other, the dreamer who could fly, became a woman who came to have that power, and had to learn how to use it to find that girl and release her from the stone. The point is I wrote it out. It was not exactly the story idea that came to me, and as I wrote it down it took on a life of its own.
So you have your idea written down, write it out now. See where it is going…
The zombie shambled into the kitchen and looked around.
When I wrote it, I mean when I just let the words go, it went where it wanted to go which is where I wanted it to go in my head. The brain has a pretty good idea of what it wants to do. When I did this earlier today, this exercise with my friend, that is what I wrote: The zombie shambled into the kitchen and looked around.
“So what is that zombie doing in that kitchen?” my friend asked.
Good question. What is that zombie doing in that kitchen? Where is that kitchen? How did the zombie get there? Who did it used to be? Question upon question if you allow yourself to ask them.
The zombie lurched into the kitchen from its hiding place in the garage. It had heard something… Some noise that had drawn it.
When I ask a question, my mind tends to want to answer it. (Notice I re-wrote that first sentence. That happened because the story began to flow. When that happens you sometimes end up on autopilot, along for the ride.) Now I know where the zombie came from, the garage. Why was it in the garage? Where did it come from before that? Does it even know? And I do stop to ask these questions, I just let the stream flow from me and I follow it as it flows: Because that is the other thing about this process. These stories come to you. I could not say where they come from either. Sometimes it feels like theft. They come so fast. So complete. So well formed. The characters all seem to be looking at me and asking, “Don’t you know me?” And I realize I do know them. I don’t know from where, or how, or why, but I know them. They came with the story and they are products of my imagination but my imagination wants them to live, and so it creates them and I am only the vessel with opposable thumbs that writes them out. And that is writing too. Acknowledging that this miracle came through you and you don’t have a clue how it did that. Still, take that gift, write it out and follow it…
The zombie stared around at the disorder of the kitchen. Its vision was not the vision it had once had: The crystal clear vision that the living enjoyed. This vision was more of a knowing, supplemented with shadows, blurred movements, and something else… Light, it decided, and it did not like the light… The light caused its head to ache… The light was… The light was bad, it decided.
The noise came again causing the zombie to tilt its head and stare down at the movement it had felt from the floor. Something squirmed there, moving with a purpose that suggested life.
More is more. The vision sequence came because I asked myself, how do zombies see? The zombie was in the garage. Some noise made it come to the kitchen. The kitchen is a wreck. Why? What is in the kitchen? What was in the kitchen? Remember, it doesn’t matter if there are misspellings, if it is missing descriptive content; we are simply getting the story out. We can come back later and flesh it out.
The cat stared up at the woman where she stood, head cocked, stopped halfway through the garage doorway, as if listening. The woman was different. Her stance: The way she moved. Even her smell was different. And she had not fed the cat in the past two days. Why, the cat wondered, was there no food when there was always food?
She sniffed at the air. The smell was wrong. And something deeper than that was wrong, the cat decided. And just as the cat had made up its mind to spring away from the woman and leap for the front door that lay shattered and open to the elements, the woman bent quickly, snatched the cat up, and brought it to her face. The cat snarled and clawed, but the woman paid no mind. Her strange eyes locked with the cat’s own, and then the woman leaned forward and bit one of the cat’s paws off.
The cat yowled in pain, squirming desperately in the woman’s hands, trying to free itself as the woman turned shuffled back into the garage and slammed the heavy door behind her. The door rattled in its frame and then the kitchen fell silent.
And there is my story. The zombie came, it was explained, and then it left.
I think we both got a lot out of that exercise and then we began to wonder about comedy and zombies. Could the two mix? I thought about it for a few minutes and then I wrote the story that follows to illustrate how a simple approach of asking myself questions about the scene as I write, and looking at it in a comedic light could get me my story, the story I outlined at first and didn’t write. It is a continuation of the story that was in my head to begin with.
A few last remarks before you read the story: If you are capable of writing you already know it. It is something inside of you, some drive that will never let you be. Not a wish to make a lot of money, because I can tell you that rarely happens. Not a desire to be famous, another thing that happens to only a few and something some of us do not want at all. In fact I have always longed for a writing partner who likes that public attention and will handle all of that public face time so I can simply write. But we writers are all nuts, and so that is something that probably won’t happen because we would probably kill each other.
So it is not those things. It is another thing that eats away at you. It is the sometimes bizarre train of thoughts that parade through your head every hour of every day. Yes, you might think of something else for twenty five minutes, or even fifty, but it is coming back. Somewhere in that hour your mind will turn back to…
…What if there was a guy who lived his whole life as a slave to his computer business; no love life: No down time. And he drags himself from day to day feeling as though something is missing. He has money. He has material things, but his life is lacking something.
So here is this guy and one day the world as he knows it ends. Planes fly overhead and spray this blue shit all over people. The Earth tilts on its axis. The buildings, houses, and roads buckle and are consumed by the Earth in places. And life changes too. Death is now something else. It isn’t death. It is some other sort of life. And just like that his life is completely changed forever… I wonder what he would do. …
And that note to me became the Earth’s Survivors series. It took me two tries and thirty years to write it out. Most of that was because I left for the streets at age fourteen and spent the next two years living there. From there I went into the service. From there I became married, and life took over. But that need to write that story never stopped. The note above was written in prison, a great place for thinking things through. It made me write it out, and as I followed it, it turned into dozens of composition notebooks full of that continuing story, other stories, short stories, plays, lyrics, millions of words that I finally realized I could write out of me.
You see, writing is not about anyone but you. Sure, the popular authors will say things like “I wrote this one for the fans.” And in some ways that is true, but in all the ways that matter it isn’t true at all. You wrote it because it was in you and it needed to be out, so you opened up that doorway between your mind and your form of expression and you wrote it out of you. Gave it a life: Set it free. It doesn’t matter if ten thousand people hate it. If one likes it? That will make it all worthwhile. So it was for no one but you. It was because it was there and it was time for it to be birthed and you birthed it. So write that stuff inside of you. That is what makes you a writer that stuff that is there and will not let you be: If that is not there you are only a reader.
If you are a writer, don’t let people scare you away from it. I have seen many writers who lived parts of their lives in misery because they truly believed they sucked at writing because some dip-shit pencil pusher told them that. Hey, screw that guy or girl. Are they in your head? Do they see the ideas you see? No. They are the kind of people that like to judge people. Thank God that many of our writers went through that process and passed by it to become the writers we know and love or else the world would be a poorer place for not having them as writers we know and love. Three of my favorite writers, Mark Twain, Stephen King, Jean Auel, all received bad advice that told them they shouldn’t write. Some of that came after they wrote, some before. Some mild, some horrific, you suck, stop writing, etc.
The thing is that that can not matter too deeply to you. Yes, you hear it, but do not let it own you, drive you, do not invest in it. What has to matter deeply to you is writing. That sounds selfish and it is. Lovers will hate you. Kids will feel neglected. Life will pass you by and you will wonder where the hell it went to. Other writers will feel jealous, even hate you, or love you or a million other things… Write the stuff that is in your head and demands to be written or else all the bad shit that could happen to you in your life will happen anyway and you will find yourself at the end of your life, a miserable person who never wrote those things and figured out what this world, or that world that existed entirely in your head, was about.
I have been many things in my life. A drug addict, a prisoner, a bad guy, a carpenter, a father, a husband, a friend, a lover, and through every one of those things that I was, I was also a writer, except it was not always as well. Sometimes it was everything. Because being a writer and having these things inside of you that need to be written out can be a curse too. It can cause you to neglect the things you should not neglect. It can cause you to need that drink to cap those thoughts, that drug, that distraction. It is a blessing and it is a curse. And many writers have handled it poorly in public. I don’t handle it in public anymore, but I did, what a mess I made too: The same as many other writers with the same predilections and addictions to sort through. The same obligations they ignored. All to chase that thought to its conclusion. So forewarned is forearmed, isn’t it? Don’t say you didn’t hear the truth from me. And yet, for me, I will still chase that story to wherever the hell it is leading. I’ll open that door, go into that room that I shouldn’t go into, I don’t care.
I was told in my career as a writer that I would not make it. Too much of my past would hurt me. I would not be able to control the bottle, the drugs, the world, the thoughts. The time I spent on the streets as a kid robbed me of an education. If you cannot spell and properly construct a sentence, how can you be a writer? The time in prison would work against me. And besides, you suck as a writer too. It all made me laugh. It used to make me mad, but eventually when I learned to look at it for what it was, it made me laugh. It made me laugh because there is not a choice here. It is what I do. I get up every day and do it. I know when I do it that there are people who will hate what I write, hate me, and I know there are those who will read it. That is life. It is the way the world has always worked and nothing that you and I can do will change it; except you must ignore it if you want to write. Remember two things: One: Only you can say whether what you wrote is worth something. Two: Opinions really are like assholes. Everyone has one and some people seem to have more than one.
I can assure you that I care what readers of my novels think, but I can also tell you that a few years back I pulled the plug on the most popular series I wrote. This is personal and public, heart wrenching and soul quenching. I write. It is what I do: Until I die it is what I will do. That is the passion you need to have to write. If all of those things I just wrote are true about you to any degree? You should stop fighting it and write.
What follows is the balance of the exercise, the little story I wrote. I liked it. I did not ask anyone else…
Copyright 2018 Dell Sweet. All rights reserved.
THE HUNTINGTON RETIREMENT COMMUNITY
Day Three of the Zombie Apocalypse:
“Shush… Shut the hell up!” Danny hissed loudly.
“Don’t be telling me to Shush… Or to shut the hell up either,” Tamara said.
Danny turned around and stared at her bug eyed. “What? Are you frickin’ kidding me? A zombie frickin’ apocalypse happening, and you know those frickin’ zombies come right to the goddamn noise…”
“That’s true. They do come right to the noise,” Agnes agreed.
“Girl! What the hell?” Tamara said. She stared at Agnes hard.
“Well they do!” Agnes thrust her hands on her hips, jutted one hip out and tried to look older than her twelve years.
“Both of you all shut the hell up,” Danny said. “Shush” He placed one finger over his lips to illustrate. Just then a sliding, shuffling of feet came to them from the door that led into the garage.
“Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus,” Agnes said in a whisper moan. “That is a goddamn zombie right there… A goddamn zombie… Already ate grandma and now it is gonna open that…” Her words broke off suddenly as Tamara’s hand clamped across her mouth.
“Ain’t no zombie… It ain’t… It is grandma…. We came here to find her, right? Well she has just been waiting back in the garage for us… Only place safe,” Tamara whispered in a squeaky, scared voice. Agnes frightened eyes looked up to her own.
“Mooser?” Agnes asked in a muffled whisper.
“I’m sure,” Tamara agreed.
They had stolen a car in the city and drove themselves out to the Huntington Retirement Community where grandma still lived to make sure she was all right.
The apocalypse had started two days before. Slow at first, just a murmur of problems, but yesterday it had gone full tilt crazy. The zombies were everywhere, taking over the city, but most likely there had not been too many dead rising out this way yet, Tamara thought. The problem was that grandma’s front door had been splintered apart. Someone’s leg, hairy, so it wasn’t Grandma’s, probably, Tamara thought, had lain just inside the door.
“That’s a man’s leg,” Danny had said.
“’Cause it is hairy,” Agnes asked?
“No, ’cause it has got half a…” Tamara had slapped him in the back of the head.
“Don’t you be saying things like that in front of this child,” Tamara said.
“I ain’t no child,” Agnes had said loudly. And that had been when something had crashed in the garage.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Danny had said, and jumped about a foot off the floor. Now the shuffling of feet came to them again, followed by a low growling sound.
“Oh, Jesus, Oh Jesus,” Agnes said before Tamara clamped her hand back across her mouth.
“Grandma never growled like that,” Tamara said.
“Yeah?” Danny turned and looked at her. “Well maybe that is Grandma’s cat… Probably been locked out there in the garage with nothing to eat for two days ’cause grandma done passed out in one of them dialectic comas, or whatever the hell you call them, so the cat is hungry… I would growl too if I was hungry… What we better do is open the goddamn door up before that cat decides to eat grandma!”
“Are you stupid?” Tamara hissed. “Grandma ain’t got no goddamn cat… Never had no goddamn cat… Hated cats… Idiot.”
“Thasafwukinzwombi,” Agnes said in her muffled voice.
“It’s not a frickin’ zombie,” Danny told her. “See what you done? Scared a little child.”
The garage door rattled in its frame.
“Gwamoo?” Agnes asked.
Danny cleared his throat. He was carrying a huge shovel with a pointed tip that he had found laying in grandma’s garden when they arrived. He tapped at the door with the shovel end. “Grandma?” he asked.
A low snarl came from behind the door, a rustling busy sort of sound and then a solid weight hit the door, rattling it in the frame.
“Stay behind me,” Tamara said as she released Agnes mouth and quickly looked around the kitchen. The door rattled a little harder; her eyes fell on the coffee carafe sitting on the counter. She snatched it up and turned back to the door. The door rattled once more and then stopped.
“I told you it was the frickin’ cat,” Danny said.
“It’s not a…” Tamara began, but just then the door slammed open, bounced off the wall and then closed once more on itself. It had been just long enough to show grandma standing in the doorway, eyes glowing red, something like foam dripping from her jaws, her hands clasping some unrecognizable thing tightly.
“That wasn’t no cat,” Danny said. “That was grandma… Dead… Shit comin’ out of her mouth an…”
The door slammed open once more and grandma lurched into the room. She dropped the stiffened cat she had been holding in her hands onto the floor, and lurched after Danny who stood still, mouth open in shock. His eyes fell to the cat and then flew back up to grandma.
“We came to save you grandma… we came to save you! What the hell you been into grandma…” She lurched forward and fixed him with her yellow-red eyes. “Wha… What the hell you been doing… Eatin’ that cat? What did you eat the cat for, grandma. What the…” Grandma lurched forward again and Danny finally realized that she was coming after him. He turned and jumped backwards as Tamara stepped forward and slammed the nearly full coffee carafe into the side of grandma’s head. The glass shattered, coffee sprayed across the kitchen and poured down grandma’s face in a brown river, shards of glass protruded from her temple. Her face began to twitch and shudder.
They all quickly sidestepped as grandma let loose a snarl and tried to claw Danny with one hand. Agnes began to scream, grandma’s rotting head swiveled toward her and she took a step in that direction. Tamara gripped the handle of the carafe tightly, looked at the sharp curve of glass still attached, and then stepped forward and drove it into grandma’s temple. Grandma collapsed in a heap, her head jerking and twitching, and then silence descended all at once.
Agnes sucked in a deep breath and started to sob in a muffled voice, her face pressed into the crook of her arm.
“I told you grandma had a cat,” Danny said. He stepped forward and toed the cat with one boot. The cat suddenly flopped around and fastened its teeth into Danny’s boot. “The frickin’ cat,” Danny screamed. “Grandma’s cat’s got me!” He remembered at the same second that he had the shovel clasped tightly in his hands and thrust it down, knocking the cat’s head away from his boot. A second after that he bought the shovel down hard, and the cat’s head rolled of into the corner where it snapped and snarled at grandma’s flowered wallpaper. Danny tried to backpedal, slipped and sat down hard.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Tamara growled. She stepped forward quickly and crushed the cat’s head with one booted foot. Danny looked up at her.
“I told you she had a cat,” Danny said.
“Oh, Jesus, Oh Jesus,” Agnes said. “This is worse than when Billy Parkin’s showed me his woo who.”
“What?” Danny asked. “Billy Parkin’s showed you his woo who? What the hell?”
Agnes peeked out from the crook of her arm and nodded.
“So what,” Tamara said. She fixed Danny with a hard look, reached down one hand and tugged him to his feet. “Showed me too. Don’t worry, they aren’t all that small.”
“Yeah. Showed me too,” Danny agreed as he dusted his hands against his jeans.
“You were looking at Billy’s Woo who?” Agnes asked.
“Well I wasn’t looking at it… It sort of,” Danny began. Grandma suddenly groaned from the floor and began to squirm around once more. Danny jumped forward and slammed the shovel down on her head over and over again until she stopped. The silence fell once more.
“We had better go,” Tamara said as she stared down at the smashed ruin of grandma’s head. “Find a safe place.”
Danny lifted his eyes up from the floor. Started to toss the shovel away and then decided to keep it. He nodded.
Agnes came forward and threaded one arm into Tamara’s own.
“Ready, punkin?” Tamara asked her. She nodded. The three turned and began to walk from the kitchen.
“What were you looking at Billy Parkin’s Woo who for?” Tamara asked Danny.
“I did not say I was looking at Billy Parkin’s Woo Who,” Danny started as they walked out onto the front walk. The day was fading fast, dark clouds moving in.
“We have to find a place, don’t we?” Agnes asked.
“We do,” Tamara agreed. She looked off down the street to a cluster of buildings that looked promising. Community Center, a sign hanging over the nearest buildings entrance said. She thought for a moment and then moved off toward the building, the others following.
“You did say it,” Tamara said as they walked.
“I didn’t say it,” Danny replied with a shake of his head. “I didn’t.”
The three moved off down the street toward the community center building, their voices a soft hum on the cooling air as they walked.
I hope you got something out of this. I read Tom Sawyer (Mark Twain (Samuel Clemons), it made me want to be a writer, I thought: Except that bug was in me already. I read The Stand (Stephen King) and I realized that people really did write things that mattered. I read Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean Auel) and realized that the past was a real place, alive and breathing.
I mention those books because I want you to read the feedback if you check out them out. I’d really wish for you to read those books if they are your speed. Some people didn’t like those books. In fact some hated them. You have to internalize that. Do you want to write? Then write something. Stephen king has a great book on the art of writing, but he loves to talk about writing in the introductions to nearly every book he has written. Samuel Clemons talked about it as well. Jean Auel has given insight several times on what it took to write her book series. Be encouraged. Write. I would love to read it.
Option One Includes: RAD Sandbox: Rad Sandbox is a fully featured Game Maker and will run on Windows XP – 10
It is a 32 bit application. It comes with its own compiler, so you can easily compile and share the games you make.
It has many examples you can easily modify to make your own games.
Option Two Includes all of the above and the OFX 3D Modeler. OFX 3D Modeler: OFX modeler includes the OFX 3D Modeler. Sample models, the ability to open Direct X, 3DS, DXF, OBJ and more.
Export 3DS, DXF, STL, VRML. Includes built-in animation suite and complete documentation.
|Platform:||WIN XP, 7, 8, 10||E-Everyone|