Write What You Know

Why do my stories die? My family offers no straight answers and the one friend who was willing to read my work keeps forgetting to finish. I’m pretty sure it’s not my dialogue or plot, maybe it's my descriptions or my characters that just aren’t believable. I need help figuring this out.

That’s why I’m at my first day with the new writing group. They meet bi-weekly on Mondays at the local library, a short drive from home. I found the group on a Facebook post: 'Retired murder mystery writing group,' While spending days researching famous unsolved killings and ones where killers almost away with it. I hoping it helps bring more realism to my work. This group seems perfect, especially since I sold my business a few months ago.

The meeting time, 8 PM, is reasonably late. Maybe someone has connections to the owner? I haven’t contacted anyone to ask but I'm sure the time helps with the ambiance.

Moths berate my stomach as I approach the front door. I knock, checking my watch, 8pm precisely. I didn’t want to come early for small talk and long, drawn-out greetings. Now that I think about it, there may still be small talk.

The door cracks open, revealing a tall, hefty man with gray hair and a cleanly trimmed beard peering down at me. I don’t hesitate to introduce myself.

“I’m John. I commented on the post yesterday. I’m interested in the writing group.”

The man raised an eyebrow, deepening the large lines on his forehead, gazing intensely into my eyes. “Did you bring a manuscript?”

I pulled the papers out from under my arm. “Yes, just a few chapters, though.”

His demeaner softened. “Great. Come on in. Everyone’s already here.”

Walking in, an eerie tension filled the air, giving me goosebumps. The man locked the door behind me. “Feel free to take a seat.”

The library was small and quaint. Only a tiny area on the right was lit where two other gentlemen sat. I notice the only empty chair placed in front of them. I glanced back-- the hefty man wasn’t there. A chill continued down my spine. Where could he have gone? A ruckus in the darkness between bookshelves startled me. The man emerging from there with a chair in hand, relieving the stress I had just built up.

The man pushed the empty chair a bit and sat down, still keeping the circle structure of the seating arrangement. I still stand there awkwardly as he makes himself comfortable.

“I’m Chris, the Poindexter is Dylan, and the Crome dome is Alan. Fellas, this is John. He will be joining us.”

“No need for name calling. Please be seated John.” Dylan smirked, gesturing to the empty chair next to him.

Sitting down, the observations that the nicknames implied are very accurate. Dylan wore mildly thick glasses and has a combover trying to hide the thinning of his dirty blonde hair. His outfit is black slacks, a leather belt with a tucked in white dress shirt and a long red tie. My attention was drawn to his well-polished black dress shoes and long knee-high socks as he sat with one leg thrown over the other, holding it in place with both hands.

Alan has no visible hair on his head or face except for his thick, well-kept eyebrows. He wore a thin brown turtleneck with a black light demon jacket over. His pants matched the jacket, making me think of someone dressing for an average winter day in New York.

Chris is only uniquely dressed in comparison to the other two. Wearing only a plain blue button up and tan cargo pants with nice work boots. After getting a good look at them I felt like the young one in the group, which is not a normal feeling for me.

Alan straightened the papers on his lap. “So, what are you known for doing?”

It’s an odd way to frame the question. “I started out with a love for cutlery, wanting to invent new and better ways to butcher. I learned tricks of the trade from my father after he came home from Vietnam. What started as a simple butchering passion turned into managing too many parts. I ended up well off, though. I’m sorry, I’m rambling on.”

Alan strokes his finger and thumb over his mouth, like rubbing an invisible goatee. “Impressive. What made you retire?”

All three of them gave me their undivided attention. “Mostly, I was just sick of pretending. The passion was drained out of me.”

Chris grunted. “That can happen.”

“What about all of you? I’ve been talking too much about myself.”

Alan replied first: “I worked with children.”

Dylan readjusted his glasses. “I worked on art with women as my musses.”

I turned my head towards Chris, anticipating his answer.

“Hunting equipment. Now let’s get started before we waste the night on chit-chat.”

“I’m sorry. How do we get started?”

Chris pulled out a half-folded stack of papers from his large side pocket, handing it to Alan. “Dylan, you and John trade manuscripts. We read at least two chapters then give feedback.”

While trading papers with Dylan, I nod in acknowledgement at Chris.

Dylan’s manuscript is immaculate, as if he just printed it and put it on the clipboard holding the papers together. Not a single noticeable crease.

“My apologize, I only brought few chapters that are in the middle of the story.”

“Its alright. I look forward to reading it anyways.”

Dylan looked down to begin reading what I handed him. “Excellent.”

While reading through, I start getting a bit confused. Not because it isn’t good writing. Its fantastic but it read like an intimate love story rather than a murder mystery novel. Though I need to keep reading to really judge. He did say it was the middle of the story. Perhaps its just side plot with the main characters love-interest to build up the stakes.

I am mesmerized by the way he can paint the images in my head of the woman’s body and small acts giving that feeling of intimacy between the characters. The describes and light subtextual clues gives out the idea that he doesn’t want to wake her but he hasn’t established when this is happening, in the middle of the night or morning. I’ll have to keep that in mind for my feedback.

Dylan breaks the long silence in the room. “I have to get this out now.”

I’m quit concerned with that statement. “What’s wrong?”

Now really drawing the attention of everyone to Dylan.

“Your deaths and thrill of the act from the killer is bland and not believable. No dismembering or much description of the body after death. Not even a mention of the use of a knife! This might as well be gang violence. As a Butcher, You sh…”

My phone loudly interrupts Dylan’s train of thought. “Sorry about that, It’s my wife. I need to take this. Please excuse me for a moment.”

I take the call in the bathroom so as to not have to go outside. After I agree to come home, I return to explain, standing at my chair a bit embarrassed.

“Sorry, gentlemen. I have to make my way home now. The wife’s nagging, and I don’t want it to escalate to the point where I have the urge to kill her, like my ex-wife.”

Chris gives a small chuckle. “Been there.”

I trade back manuscripts and shake Dylan’s hand. “Perhaps we can pick this back up next time. I definitely value your advice. Your writing is amazing.”

“Thank you. I can shorten what I intended to rant about into a great writing cliché: Write what you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll be working on it.”

I move to shake Alan’s hand and Chris gets up from his chair pulling out a set of keys. “I’ll be lockin the door when you leave.”

We make our way to the exit, unlocking it. I face Chris.

“Thanks for having me.”

“No problem. Glad to get a new addition.”

As I finished shaking Chris’s hand and stepped out. I hear Alans voice: “You were awfully nice to the new guy, CAPTAIN KANE.”

Chris’s muffled snap back came as he locked the door. “Knock it off!”

That name. It sounds familiar. I’m sure I have read it somewhere recently. I’ll look it up when I get home.