Passing the First Sentence Test

How do you decide which book to read? You’re browsing the shelves of the local bookstore or the electronic shelves of Amazon for your next read. How do you choose?

If a friend says, “Hey, you have to read this book,” I’m likely to check it out. As an author, I meet other authors online or at book festivals. I like to browse the Kindle shelves for the tomes these other authors produce.

No matter how I find a book, I make my purchase selection based on the first sentence. I enjoy reading the blurb in the Description section on Amazon and on the back cover if I visit a bookstore. But for me it’s about that first sentence. I call it the first sentence test. The big question is: Does the first sentence grab me.

A long time ago in a career far away, I wrote, “Quality writing grabs your attention and doesn’t let go until your message is delivered and understood.” At the time, I was writing about advertising copy, but the truth is it applies so well to fiction.

Now, it’s your turn to judge a first sentence. This is how I open my horror novel Hags:

From the mattress on the floor of the back bedroom of his antique Victorian fixer-upper, Micah Probert heard a far off scream.

Are you curious? Does this sentence make you want to know where the scream came from? If you do, then consider the second test of a good novel – the first paragraph test. Here’s the entire first paragraph of Hags:

From the mattress on the floor of the back bedroom of his antique Victorian fixer-upper, Micah Probert heard a far off scream. An equally distant clang of heavy metal followed. Then two muffled voices, a male and a female. The sound of feet scampering followed by a loud buzz made Micah picture a prehistoric dragonfly. Then came the silence.

Does the first paragraph of Hags snag your interest? Do you want to know what happens next? If yes, then Hags passed your first paragraph test.

While some authors prefer to set the stage for a few paragraphs or pages before the action begins, others, myself included, prefer to start in the middle of the action and then catch you up on the details as the story charges ahead.  It’s a matter of taste.

If you would like to know what happens next in Hags, click here. Only $.99 this month.

Hags Again

With Halloween around the corner, I have selected Hags as my focus novel for the month of October. The price of Hags has been reduced to $.99 for the Kindle version for the entire month. If you haven’t read Hags yet, here’s what it’s all about:

This Present Darkness meets The Blair Witch Project in my full-length horror novel Hags. After 15 years in prison for a crime he claims he didn’t commit, Micah Probert returns to his hometown of Naperville, Illinois, where he starts his first day by discovering a human-sized faerie flitting about in his backyard, a dead body in the parking lot behind his house, a pioneer ghost in his kitchen, and a local coffee shop that serves the darkest roast this side of Hades. It’s in this coffee shop that his ex-girlfriend from high school works and where he runs into her sister, the accuser in Micah’s long ago trial.

But the real action begins when Micah learns that the beautiful young woman living next door to his fixer-upper, the girl he has just started dating, may actually be a witch as wicked as any from medieval times. Mix in a few dark secrets, a serial killer or two, a hot romance or two, and this novel takes you deep into the heart of horror in the suburbs. Will Micah heed the call to spiritual warfare with the evil forces mounted against him in time to save the city of Naperville? And will he discover the secret identity of the second hag who is out to destroy him? Find out when you read Hags. For paperback or Kindle version, click here.

Novel Quote
"In the half awake time before rising when images, dreams and half dreams ascend from the darkness of the soul and imprint themselves on the memory for the rest of the day, Micah Probert observed the faerie in a mountain meadow."
Hags by Paul R. Lloyd

What Holds Your Attention in Speculative Fiction?

Speculative fiction includes science fiction, fantasy, horror and those creepy stories that don’t fit into a box with a genre label. Think of Twilight Zone and you get the idea.

What is it about speculative stories that hold our attention? A story works because the author blended the elements into a beautiful tapestry that delights and entertains the reader.

A well-told tale is located in a specific time and place. The author may change both as the story progresses, but the locale has to be believable. The location doesn’t have to be an actual place. Some of the best writing takes us to made up worlds like that galaxy far away that serves as the setting for Star Wars. Or you could tell a tale set in a real environment but with a dystopian twist like London after the zombie invasion has wiped everyone out except for a small band of intrepid survivors.

Stories revolve around characters. Ordinary stories feature ordinary characters in ordinary situations. Speculative fiction may have its share of ordinary characters, but you also find a few extraordinary characters in extraordinary places doing extraordinary things.

Speculative fiction moves at a pace appropriate to the tale. Science Fiction tales may need extra time for the author to create the fantastic world of the story, including an explanation of the science behind space travel, time travel, atomic fallout’s contribution to the size of insects, etc. But once the story is setup, it takes off at lightning speed. That because fantastic journeys are rarely languid. There’s simply too much going on to maintain a slow pace.

Location, characters and pace are three of the many elements that form the fabric of a good story. They provide clues to solving the mystery of my new novel Steel Pennies. The location is a working class neighborhood of a small Pennsylvania town in 1960. The characters are a group of teenagers whose summer is destroyed by a serial killer. The pace is fast as you might expect from a thriller. Check it out on Amazon by clicking here.

How Young is Too Young for a Teenage Relationship?

Teen couples experience emotions at the extremes. They call lust love while having little understanding of the commitment love requires. If they learn the lessons of love, the lust will give way to a loving, committed relationship. If not, they eventually tire of each other and move on to new objects of desire. The extremes of love and lust among teen couples are fun to write about and a pleasure to read. There is no need to delve into the pornographic details of a backseat romance, but teens have an awkwardness and innocence that is both a joy to see and a cause of breakups.

As a writer, I consider age important to whether my characters will have a successful loving relationship. In my stories, teens of the same age have a chance, but it will be tough for them. The maturity level of the boy and girl are important to their success as a couple. Because girls mature earlier than boys, successful relationships happen when the girl dates one or two years up. Boys succeed when they date one or two years down.

A big age gap creates its own problems. For example an age difference of three years is too much because it tends to be abusive. It’s difficult to have an equal status when one of the teens is that much older.

An example of a couple with a three-year age gap can be found in my new novel Steel Pennies. Penny Durkin loves Tommy McConnell, but Penny is 17 and Tommy is 13. The story is a thriller that requires Tommy to protect Penny from a serial killer. That’s a big burden to place on a 13 year old boy’s shoulders. The love story weaves as a thread throughout the novel as Tommy and friends attempt to solve the case. At first, Penny plays with Tommy’s affections because she knows he has a crush on her. As the story progresses, watch how this playful teasing evolves into a classical romance between two star-crossed lovers. The ending is a shocker so I’ll let you read the story and enjoy it without giving away any of the secrets of this full length novel.

Check out Steel Pennies on Amazon by clicking here.

Frankenstein’s Rant

Mrs. Frankenstein, like all women, doesn’t leave the old castle the way us regular men do. No, Mrs. Frankenstein, my darling Hildegard, has to get ready first. Let’s say we’re due at the Coplenopolis’s at 7 pm. Guess what time Mrs. Frankenstein saunters to the front door and announces “Okay, I’m ready?”

Go ahead, guess. If you said 7:05 pm, you’d be correct. Does she then proceed to the family SUV? Of course not. “Okay, I’m ready” translates into “Okay, it’s time to check to make sure I unplugged every plug in the house, turned off the stove, shut off the dryer, turned down the heat, put the trash out, fed the dog, made sure the cat is back in the house, and given written instructions to the babysitter for little Frankie and Franny.

At 7:25 pm, she slides into the passenger seat of the SUV. We need a big one because, if you saw the film, you noticed we are tall people. I think old Doctor Frankenstein added extra parts in us. I put the SUV in reverse and back out of the driveway while the missus yells at me for driving before she has a chance to buckle up and settle in.

When we finally arrive at the Coplenopolis’s, it’s 7:45 pm. But do the Coplenopolis’s see our scarred good looks at 7:45? Don’t be silly. You could stick four guys in a car and drive somewhere, I don’t care where, let’s say I haul my buddies the count, the werewolf and one of those mummy chaps to choir practice (strip joint). What do you think we do when we get there?  Exactly. We get out of the car. Four doors on the old SUV pop open at approximately the same time – immediately upon stoping.

Now, let’s consider Mrs. Frankenstein, who by the way, is like most women you know, if a bit uglier, well, I shouldn’t say “uglier.” It’s an ugly word. She’s just a little bit scar-challenged if you get my drift.

“Don’t worry,” says the missus. “Everyone always comes late.” She says this with a straight face while I’m checking out the 32 automobiles stuffed into the Coplenopolis’s driveway. I make the mistake of popping my door open. Big mistake. Wife says, “Where are you going?” Doesn’t she know?

Okay, the search for her purse begins. Then she asks if she should wear her sweater into the house. “Why’d you wear it, if you didn’t want to wear it?” I ask. This conversation is a repeat of the same stupid conversation we’ve had since 1889 so you’d think I’d learn a new line or two, but no, I’m Frankenstein’s monster. He didn’t exactly steal the high IQ brain for my head.  Anyway, the wife has removed the sweater and is now going through her purse. “Purse,” of course, means that giant tote bag she drags around with her so rummaging through it takes a while.

“Aren’t you ready yet, dear?” I ask repeating the century old script.

“In a moment, darling. I want to check my makeup.”

Let’s think about this, boys and girls, she wants to check her makeup. Mrs. Frankenstein wants to take a gander at her face. The mirror cracked the first time she peeked at her mug in this vehicle, and that was a long time ago so I don’t  know what’s she’s expecting to see. Did you ever try to check a face full of scars in a cracked mirror?

A few minutes go by. The face that could sink a thousand ships now has shiny red lips and some rosy colored rouge smeared on her scarred cheeks. The scars now stand out as deep rose lines against a pale-as-death complexion because the rouge settles in the deepest places.

“How do I look?” she asks.

By this time I remember the consequences of truth. “Beautiful, my darling.”

She gives me an angry look. “Why are you just sitting there? We’re late. Let’s go.”

Yes, finally, she exits the SUV and heads for the front door. I’m about to ring the doorbell when she says, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Where have I heard that before?

She smiles like there’s no reason in the world why I should be beside myself with Frankensteinian anger. She says, “I think I’ll take my sweater after all. Will you run to the car and get it for me?”

THE END

Deep inside many a monster is what used to be a troubled human. Dracula was once a medieval count with a propensity for scaring the delights out of his enemies, especially the invading Turks. The Werewolf of London was an English bloke who minded his own business until one day a dog bit him. Well, he thought it was a dog. Our friend Frankenstein was a pile of dead bodies without a care in this world when a crazy scientist began sewing bits and pieces of people together.

In my new novel, Steel Pennies, there’s a monster loose who doesn’t look like a vampire, werewolf or a hideous pile of spare parts sewn together, but my character is a human monster just the same. Your challenge is to figure out who the monster is before this character kills Tommy’s girlfriend. Tommy is the main character in this teenaged romance gone wild. Blending humor with horror is a fun challenge for me as an author. But the humor fades away before the shocking conclusion of Steel Pennies. Did you enjoy reading Frankenstein’s rant? If yes, you’ll love the fast paced action of Steel Pennies. Check it out on Amazon.

The Dead Werewolf’s Rant

I’m dead, not undead, not a zombie, not a vampire. I’m dead, plain old dead-as-a-doornail dead. Let me explain while my body transforms from the wolf state back into something resembling a dead human.

I was minding my own business in the front yard howling at the full moon the way I did every month. I heard a loud pop and felt a sharp pain in my chest. Since werewolves rarely have a heart attack, I figured right away it was a silver bullet. Sure enough, that weird kid down the street came charging over to me with guns blazing. Where does a nineteen-year-old semi-hermit accumulate enough silver for a fistful of automatic weapons clips?

I bled out long before the police arrived. And that silver dissolved my heart along with half my chest cavity by the time the flashing ambulance lights spun down my street.

No, I’m not going to be revived. Dead werewolves return to their human state for the funeral. The end. All she wrote. But before I leave this life, I want to warn you mothers out there to beware of your sons.

You  know the boys I’m talking about. They’re between about fifteen and thirty. They’re peculiar. I know you’re in denial. I can hear you right now saying, “There’s nothing wrong with my Harry. He just hasn’t found himself yet.”

You, lady, are in denial about your son. If he is on medication, if his brain doesn’t work the same way as most people’s brains, if he is the loner type, if he is this stranger in your home, please, for all our sakes, get the guns out of the house.

Yes, your husband has the right to bear arms. And he has a right to defend his home. But he also has the right to use a little commonsense. If the kid just ain’t right, get the guns out of the house. Stash them at Aunt Edna’s home or in a storage locker away from the kid.

Okay, I know you’re saying your child is a sweet boy, really, and would never harm anyone. And you’re about to tell me that young people with his particular condition are never violent. But, mom, that’s exactly what those other moms said in Colorado and Connecticut and Arizona and wherever else some sweet, innocent, but slightly deranged young man opened fire on a crowd of equally young, innocent and normally arranged people.

And it’s not just people. I was a werewolf for crying out in the light of the moon. Give me a break. Who gives a hoot about werewolves? It’s not like we hurt anyone, right? We just howl once a month. And okay, maybe we’re a little aggressive at the meat counter and always order our hamburgers extra raw, but is that any reason to shoot a werewolf?

Well, it’s too late to give me a break, but give the kindergarten children in your neighborhood a break by getting those guns out of the house. And the silver. Do you know where your silver is at this moment? Jerrold Slimpnickel’s mother thought her silver was in the dining room in that drawer in the middle of her china cabinet. Turns out her silver was melted down six months ago in the basement and made into silver bullets for killing werewolves like the late me.

Your boy will thank you later when his only friend, Norman Boingbanger, gets arrested on the way to your local elementary school with a boatload of his dad’s automatic rifles. So yeah, hide the silver and get those guns out of the house.

THE END 

Quotable
"She placed her left hand on my right cheek, the one on my face."
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies
    

Networking with Hobgoblins

When Merrimat’s pickup shook from bumper to bumper, he pulled over and spotted six little people, each about two-feet tall, crawling out from under his truck. The laughing little critters sprinted into the cornfield adjacent to the road.

While charging after the diminutive culprits, Merrimat clicked on his cell phone and attempted to engage its onboard video camera. Despite hitting the right button, the darn thing wouldn’t come up. On the fourth try, he spotted the cornstalks dashing by on his screen, but it was vertical format. He turned his smart phone sideways and waited for his screen to adjust.

And waited.

He kept running while waiting.

He arrived at a place in the cornfield that reminded him a those corn mazes farmers create to earn extra money at Halloween. His video camera adjusted to the horizontal so he was able to shoot excellent cell phone quality video of the crop circle and several pathways leading out of the maze or maize depending on your preference.

Merrimat heard laughter to his left and followed the path in that direction. He came to a junction, turned left on nothing more than a gut feeling. Fifty yards later he arrived at a smaller crop circle with a half dozen of the ugly little scamps milling about. They brewed coffee over a camp fire.

“Who are you people?” Mirrimat asked.

“Don’t insult us, please, human,” declared one of the tiny folk.

“Sorry. What are you?” Mirrimat asked.

“Much better. We’re hobgoblins. What did you think we were? Trolls?” The little fellow appeared to be the leader because he talked while the others kept their own counsel and he was a bit huskier than the others.

Merrimat shrugged. “I simply didn’t know. That’s why I asked. Have you always been in this neighborhood?”

“Our kind always live right in the same neighborhoods as you humans.” the hobgoblin leader passed coffee to Merrimat in an old fashioned six ounce cup of dainty china. 

“Why did you shake my car?” Mirrimat sipped the coffee. It was dark roast with a hint of exotic spices and campfire charcoal.

“We wanted to get your attention. We need to speak with you,” said the lead hobgoblin.

“What about?” Mirrimat asked.

“Are you prepared for retirement? What would happen to your family if you should pass away? Would they have the financial security they need? Let’s talk about your financial future.”

Mirrimat ran screaming from the field not bothering to follow the path laid down by the hobgoblins. On the way he kept thinking about how he must warn the others. He hoped the cellphone video turned out because he doubted anyone would believe his story.

He was wrong, of course. Turned out his friends all knew about financial planners.

THE END 

Quotable
"The aroma of dead flesh became worse as I approached Penny."
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies