Tuesday Teaser

It's been a productive week for me. Since deciding on a new profession for my MC, I had to scrap close to half the chapters I wrote during NaNo. This week I researched her new line of work, wrote a new outline, and began writing a new chapter.

So far, I think these changes are good for the project.

It's still to early to begin sharing teasers from the WIP, so today I'll offer a snippet from a short story I wrote in 2009, called Stopgap.


Liza pulled the Studebaker up to the gas station's store front. As Van yanked open the passenger door he saw the cashier watching him through the plate glass window. Van managed a smile as he folded into the car; the clerk didn’t smile back.

“I thought I’d drive. Hope you don’t mind.”

Van grunted, his attention on a black SUV at the pumps, where the man who'd smacked his young son in the cashier line stood shouting into his phone. Van’s father used to say, “Get your ass in the car and wait.” Silent or spoken, the threats had been fierce. Eventually, when he was about that kid’s age, the threats had evolved. He’d known, even at that innocent age, that his father liked knocking him around. It got the tension out; made life easier to deal with. If Van’s mother had lived, things would’ve been different. She’d have protected him. Isn’t that what mothers do? Where was that kid’s mom, he wondered. Liza’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Alright, we made it, babe! We’re home free: me, you, and all that cash!” She slapped a manicured hand on the steering wheel. “Damn, we make a great team!” She glanced over, her smile faltering. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled as the filling station disappeared from sight in his side view mirror. “How about some music?”

Van turned on the radio. He cranked the large, grooved knob and the red needle moved across the FM dial with jerky motion. Elvis’ voice issued suddenly from the scratchy speakers. Van noticed Liza’s fleeting grimace, but the nostalgic strains lightened his mood. He turned it up.

“Perfect, right?”

Liza lifted the hair back from her temple and hooked it behind an ear. “Yeah. Perfect.”

Two songs later and Van’s smile had returned. The conversation focused on how they’d spend the money. As they began the climb into higher elevations, the Studebaker’s underpowered engine showed signs of complaint.

Liza’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Van checked over his shoulder and scowled as if he got a whiff of a rancid odor. The black SUV came up fast behind them. It swerved across double lines and edged alongside the Studebaker.

The driver’s attention was fixed forward. What an asshole, Van thought with a sneer. As the SUV pushed past them, the small face in the backseat window came into view. For a suspended moment Van stared at the boy whose eyes appeared pleading to Van for liberation. A knot of remorse choked him as the truck shot forward and around a bend.

They heard the screeching brakes and sickening metallic crunch before the Studebaker hauled itself around the curve. Liza clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped as the scene came into view. The SUV lay on its side across the highway, its front end rumpled like sheets of an unkempt bed. Smoke hung in the air and angry splatters of blood wet the road between the vehicle and the dismembered deer whose eyes stared into nothingness. Van had the door open before Liza slowed to a stop. He ran around the top-side of the car.

The driver hung out the front, the jagged windshield embedded in his torso as if the car had tried to bite him in half. Van blinked hard and shouted, “Liza, don’t come over here! It’s bad.” The cell phone lay on the pavement. Snatching it up, he moved around the nose of the SUV, peering through the windshield. Seeing nothing, he clambered up onto the passenger side. The window was cracked so he was careful to place his knees on the door frame as he looked down into the back seat. He spotted the boy, lying in a ball on the window now flat against the road. The doors were locked. Van tapped the glass, and the youngster stirred. Van straightened and located Liza pacing in circles next to the Studebaker.

“Liza, the boy’s alive! I’m calling 911!” He placed the call then jumped down and ran to her.

“An ambulance is on the way,” he said.

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” She moved toward the car.

Van grabbed her elbow. “We can’t leave! That little boy may be hurt. He’s trapped in that car and his dad’s dead.”

Liza glanced at the wreck with tear-filled eyes. “Van, are you crazy? The cops will be here any minute. We have stolen money in our car! We need to get away from here!” Her voice rose an octave with each statement.

Van shook his head. “No. I’m not leaving that kid alone. I won’t do it.” His tone was even, determined.

“Well, I’m not staying!”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Thanks for reading!

Last day to enter the 100+ Significant Followers Give-Away is March 15th. Enter HERE!

Spotlight on Literary Fiction

Literary Fiction is often thought of as a catch-all genre for writing that doesn’t fit comfortably into easily designated genres like chic lit, mystery, science fiction, political drama, speculative fiction, etc. Most people’s definitions for works of Literary Fiction include phrases like: “provocative writing with heavier language and lush descriptions”; “complex character-driven plots”; “leaves a deep, powerful impression on the reader”; and “multilayered novels that wrestle with universal dilemmas.”

I consider myself a Literary Fiction writer because of the characteristics that naturally arise in my work. I’m drawn to the complexities of a character’s personality, and my focus is foremost on the inner conflicts pulling the person in opposing directions. My writing style tends to include desciptive language that shows more than tells, and I like to indulge in literary devices. Also, I want my work to say something. Usually, I don’t start a story with a character or plot idea. Instead, a theme forms in my mind and the story becomes a vehicle to deliver that theme.

My greatest challenges within the genre are coming up with interesting plots to support my characters’ journey of self-discovery, and finessing my writing so the tone and language aren’t pretentious or convoluted. Many of my rewrites concentrate on voice and making the writing sound poetic and beautiful instead of grandiose and ostentatious.

Goodreads.com defines literary fiction as: "serious fiction with claims to literary merit, and focuses more on style, psychological depth, and character. (As opposed to genre or popular fiction)." Here are the top ten Literary Fiction novels, as determined by site member votes. Are any of your favorites here?

To Kill a Mockingbird -- Harper Lee
The Catcher in the Rye -- J.D. Salinger
The Power of Persuasion -- Shelagh Watkins
Crime and Punishment -- Fyodor Dostoevsky
Jane Eyre -- Charlotte Brontë
Lord of the Flies -- William Golding
Gone With the Wind -- Margaret Mitchell
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe -- C.S. Lewis
Memoirs of a Geisha -- Arthur Golden
One Hundred Years of Solitude -- Gabriel García Márquez

To read the entire list of the top 100 member picks, click HERE.

I enjoy experimenting outside the genre of Literary Fiction, and have written short stories that include Horror, Speculative Fiction, Erotica, Action/Adventure, and Comedy. Even then, I noticed an aura of Literary Fiction aglow in each story. It's definitely true that an author's voice is as unique as her fingerprint, and its evidence can be found on everything she touches.

Do you experiment outside your genre? Can you still hear your author's voice loud and clear?

F.Y.I.

Here are some fab contests you won't want to miss out on:

Guinevere at This Is Not My Day Job is having a contest to celebrate her 100+ followers. She's giving away two prize packages that include books and a hobo purse, inspired by Shards of Glass.

Noelle Nolan at A Life Unwritten is generating a strong following with her 150 Followers Contest. Once she reaches that magic number, she'll have a drawing for an Amazon gift card. Sign up to follower her today!

Sara at The Babbling Flow of a Fledgling Scribbler is having a major give-away contest, "Saradise Style!" She put the prizes up for grabs in a slide show -- too cool! Enter her March Madness Contest before March 22nd.

Hurry over to Sarah Jayne's blog at Writing in the Wilderness before 6:00 p.m. EST TODAY to get in on her celebration contest for reaching over 50 followers in just two months! Win a $20 gift card of your choice (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Borders, etc.)

And, Lindsay's Show Me Your Dangerous Contest is so much fun; share your "dangerous" story, scene from your WIP, poem, etc. I had a blast reading everyone else's posts! Zip over there before March 15th to play along!

Remember this....

Check your blogger profile page! When you sign on as my follower, I like to return the favor. I'm always sad when a new follower joins me on my blogging journey, and I click their picture... only to find there's no blog link to lead me chez eux. If you don't edit your profile page to include a link to your blog, I won't be able to find your corner of cyberspace :(

If you follow me and I don't follow you, please leave a comment with your blog's URL. Thanks!!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

The Empty Fish Tank

Almost exactly a year ago to the day my husband brought Mr. Odie home to live with us. He has been one of the best pets ever... considering he's a fish. For one, he hasn't died yet. In terms of our experiences with fish, he's a centenarian. Hell, he's freakin' Yoda.

The kids really wanted a kitten, in fact, Sidney had launched a full-blown campaign to persuade her father that our family was sadly incomplete without a pet. When Christian brought Mr. Odie home the children were enthusiastic (even Sidney, who declared this "was not what she meant by a pet"), especially since Mr. Odie was a Betta Fish. Up until then, we'd only welcomed standard Tetras and Mollies into our tank. They were fun to have around for the week or so they managed to stay alive. Betta fish are apparently much heartier creatures. In addition, Mr. Odie has real personality. He comes right to the glass when you peer into his tank. And they say a Betta Fish is as playful as a dolphin. If you drop a ping pong ball onto the surface of the water, a Betta Fish will push it around the tank with his nose. Although, if Mr. Odie can perform this trick, he's keeping it a secret from us.

In honor of Mr. Odies's annivarsary, I'd like to share a poem I wrote last year prior to his arrival.

You see, the fish tank occupies what I consider valuable real estate in the kitchen. It's located on a stretch of wall between the end of the countertop and the table -- a space where I have always envisioned a bulky, rustic sideboard-like piece of furniture where I could store table linens and the overflow of dinner ware. There was almost a year between the passing of the last fish and Mr. Odie's arrival. During that time, the fish tank was empty. I wanted it dismantled and moved to the garage, but Christian liked the look of an aquarium and enjoyed the percolating sound of water through the filter. So it stayed. Empty.

I'd planned on framing the following poem and hanging it above the vacant tank, as a passive-aggressive jab at my husband's stubbornness. Before I got the chance, he brought the Betta home. Mr. Odie, this one's for you!

The Empty Fish Tank
By Nicole Ducleroir

Giggling water gurgles
from a guppy's ghost town tank
It sits fishless in my kitchen;
Stubborn husband I have to thank.

He'd see the stretch of wall undressed
should the vacant tank disappear;
That the spot would sport a buffet
is ignored by his id austere.

The battle of mismatched iron wills
rages on the silent front line.
I'll bide my time, but once I find
that perfect piece....
The space is MINE.

I'd Like to Thank the Academy...

Whoever came up with the blogger award concept was a genius. Not only does receiving and passing along the award offer the opportunity to link some of your favorite blogs to your post -- thus generating new or return readership to those people, but learning someone passed it on to you gives your heart a little cyber-squeeze. At least that's what it does for me!



Perhaps the best part of all, though, is the fun of sending the award out to other blogging friends. Today, I have the pleasure of doing that four times over! With no further ado, here we go:









I want to thank Anne at Piedmont Writer and Tara at Feel of Something New for this award. Anne speaks from her heart, with a voice that is at the same time strong and humorous, and inviting and free-spirited. Tara is a talented writer whose creativity and kindness comes through every sentence she pens. I enjoy both these blogs on a daily basis. If you don't get your daily dose of these wonderful women, visit them today!



I'd like to pass the Sunshine Award on to these bright, new blogger buddies:



Heather at See Heather Write
G.P. Ching at So, Write
Terresa at The Chocolate Chip Waffle
Elle at The Writer's Funhouse
Tiffany at Tiffany Neal








Thank you to Simon at Constant Revision and Laurel at Laurel's Leaves for this awesome award. I love Simon's hilarious sense of humor! Every post is the perfect blend of serious and snarky. He shouldn't be reading this, because he's on a Blogger Hiatus...(*waves to Simon*)...If you don't already, go sign up to follow him! And sweet Laurel is another blogger buddy I read faithfully every day. She's going places; check her out!



The Creative Writer Award goes to these fab writers:

Rebecca at Diary of a Virgin Novelist
Courtney at Courtney Reese
Shelley at Stories of the Ordinary
DL Hammons at Cruising Altitude
Allison at Borrowing Heaven, Subletting Hell





Thank you, Jemi at Just Jemi, for this adorable award! Jemi's posts brighten my day and if you want a burst of sunshine in yours, click over to her blog today! Apparently, this award comes with the instructions to share with you how I like my eggs. Odd, but fun! My typical breakfast includes a four egg white omlette (which sounds like a lot, but it really isn't), paired with half a cup of oatmeal. I wash it down with at least 8 oz. of water and two cups of coffee. Yep...by the time I get to the gym at 9:00, I've gotta tinkle b a d! TMI, I know. Sorry!!



The Quill Feather Award goes to seven cool chicks:

Abby at Abby Annis
Roni at *Fiction Groupie*
B.J. at B.J. Anderson
Elana at Elana Johnson, Author
Jamie-Kate at Jamie-Kate Writes
Lisa and Laura (BOTH cool chicks!) at Lisa and Laura Write






And to my friend, Shelley at Stories from the Ordinary, thanks for this award!! Shelley's creative talent jumps off the screen as I read through her inspired posts. She's got a wonderful voice; visit her today!



The Sugar Doll Award goes to:

Joanne at Whole Latte Life
Mary at Writer's Butt Does Not Apply to Me
Diana at Writing Roller Coasters
Chasing the Moon at Dancing Down Serendipity Street



*PHEW* That was a lot at once!! I hope you all check out these amazing and crazy talented writers' blogs. I enjoy them, and I know you will too!!

Don't forget to click HERE and enter my contest! Drawing on March 15th :)


Have a fantastic Hump Day!!!

Tuesday Teaser

I'm busy working on my WIP today. In fact, I have challenged myself with lofty writing goals for the month of March, and I'll rely on the next several Tuesdays to keep me accountable. I'll post teasers from my WIP in the next several weeks...but not today :)

Today's teaser is an excerpt I'm pulling from a short story I wrote last year entitled, "Under Dock and Key." The story was prompted by a photograph of a narrow, wooden dock stretching out from the shore of a lake. The still, mirror-like water reflected the sky across its surface. Enjoy!

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

...A minute later, Samantha pointed. “There it is!”

As Samantha steered the car from the dirt road onto a still narrower path, both women gasped. Into view appeared a quaint, white building with large windows overlooking a lake. The shore was lined with a sandy beach, and a narrow, wood-plank dock stretched thirty feet into the water. Gentle mountains rose in the distance, giving the scene a picturesque and protected semblance.

“No way,” Samantha exclaimed. “Do you think….?”

Marla tore the key off the paper. “Let’s see what this unlocks,” she said with a mischievous smile.

Samantha led the way up the steps. Rollercoaster riding had been one of her favorite childhood activities, and the excitement mingled with fear in her stomach now reminded her of the sensation she got standing on the quay about to board the ride. The key quavered in her hand but slid fluidly into the lock. It turned with a loud click and the door swung open a few inches. Samantha looked over her shoulder at Marla, who gave her a reassured nod.

Light flooded the cottage’s main room. Out the lakefront windows, the cloud cover was breaking apart. Dazzling sunlight danced on the gentle waves near the shore; its fiery flecks reflected like diamonds across the ceiling. The space was divided into areas of function: one corner housed a kitchenette outfitted with a sink, gas range, refrigerator, and café style table and chairs; the opposite side sported a seating area with overstuffed armchairs and coffee tables stacked high with glossy books. The center of the room was dominated by a rustic oak table. One end served as a desk, with writing implements and papers. The rest of the table was littered with tubes of paint, jars of gesso, and vases sprouting from their necks paint brushes of every size and shape. A large easel holding a half-covered canvas stood at the table’s edge.

Marla approached the table, while Samantha moved to the paintings hung on the walls. The subject of every one was a female child, though no two were portrayed with the same physical characteristics. She took a few deep breaths to slow her racing heartbeat. She was startled when Marla called her name.

Samantha joined Marla at the table. “Look what I found!” she said, handing Samantha a leather-bound journal. Samantha opened to the first page. In handwriting she now recognized as her mother’s, Samantha read aloud, “June 28th: Dear Baby, I can’t wait to meet you! I’m Donna, your mommy, and your daddy’s name is Seth. We found out today that you are on the way, coming into our lives, and we are so excited! I am going to write in this journal daily so when you read it some day, you’ll know exactly how you came into this world!”

Stunned, Samantha looked up with large, dewy eyes. “I don’t get it?” she whispered. She began scanning the pages covered with descriptions of doctor’s visits, sonograms and morning sickness.

Reading over her shoulder, Marla suggested, “Sam, skip ahead to your birthday.”

“Good idea.” She flipped through the months looking for March 10th, but following the February 17th entry the pages were blank. Shaking her head, Samantha turned questioning eyes on Marla. She thumbed the remaining pages and discovered more writing further into the book. Opening to where it recommenced, Samantha read, “December 5: I haven’t had the courage to write since the fire.”

Samantha gasped, her hand covering her mouth. Marla slipped an arm around her waist, sending waves of comfort up Samantha’s back. Samantha took a deep breath and read on. “I lost everything that night. Seth is gone. The baby is gone. And what’s left of me is hideous and repulsive. All that’s left for me is pain.”

Samantha stopped. Marla said softly, “Why don’t you take your time with this?”

Without a word, Samantha took the journal to an armchair and began to read in silence...

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Thanks for reading!

~ If you haven't entered my 100+ Followers Contest, click HERE! ~

Contest!!!!

Exactly two months ago, on December 29, 2009, I nervously launched my blog. I had no idea how much I would love blogging...no idea how many amazing people I would meet...no idea how rewarding it would be to hear other creative writers talk about their crafts. Here I am, still the giddy novice, reveling in the joy that comes with realizing people are actually reading what I have to say each day, when in the midst of this blissful, whirlwind experience I realize I've almost arrived at THE first major blogging milestone. So, in the grand tradition of celebrating one hundred "Significant" followers, I'm hosting a Give-Away!

In a drawing on March 15th, a lucky winner will receive:

A signed copy of The Writer's Bump Anthology, Volume One, in which my first published short story appears! (*does the goofy Arsenio Hall "woh-woh-woh" fist thing*)

In addition, I'll include a Barnes and Noble gift card worth $25!

You have to follow my blog to be entered in the Give-Away. Here's what to do to maximize your chances to win:

Leave a comment telling me you stopped by = 1 pt.

Sign up as a New Follower = 1 pt.

Current Follower = 2 pts.

Blog about this contest = 1 pt.

Add a link to this post on your sidebar = 1 pt.

In your comment, tell me which you prefer, Milk Chocolate or Dark Chocolate :) = 2 pts.

Bonus: For every 25 new followers that sign up before the Give-Away on March 15th, I'll include another cool prize!

Thank you, Significant Followers, for welcoming me with open arms, for encouraging me to be more diligent writer, and for inspiring me with your creative talent!

Blogger Buddie Award!

Thank you, Kristin Rae for this sweet award! There are so many amazing blogs to read each day, and sometimes I have to pick and choose due to limited time and crazy schedules. But, I check out Kristin's religiously because she has such a fantastic voice and her personality shines through everything she writes. If you don't follow her yet, scoot over there and sign up today!


Usually these awards come with the task of revealing something about yourself, so in honor of a recent event in my life, here are five things about me/my past:



1. Thanks to Google and Blogger, a long-lost friend I haven't been in touch with for twenty years found me and dropped me an email. ~R~ is male and we were great friends -- platonic -- and hung out for two years in our early twenties. So glad to have ~R~ in my life again!!

2. I met ~R~ back in 1990, when we both worked in the Client Accounting department at what was then known as Chiat/Day/Mojo Advertising (today it's TBWA/Chiat/Day.) The agency, located in Venice Beach, CA, was perhaps best known for its Energizer Bunny campaign. While ~R~ and I worked there, we witnessed the building of, and move into, this crazy building by architect Frank Gehry:





Yes, the entryway is fashioned out of two gigantic binoculars. The right side of the building is made with copper that was shiny in the early years, but is now a wonderful greenish-brown patina.

3. The week before my first Christmas at Chiat/Day, a semi-truck showed up and delivered hundreds of large, identical, rectangular boxes. Turned out, agency owner Jay Chiat had purchased a beach cruiser bicycle for every employee, as a Christmas gift. At the time, the agency resided in an old drapery factory. The space was cavernous, with polished cement floors and exposed pipes across the ceilings. Workspaces were dictated by partitions and clusters of cubicles. That day, the guys in the mailroom assembled bike after bike, and for a week everyone opted to ride their cruiser inside the building, to the conference rooms, fax stations, or coffee room, in lieu of walking.

4. Since we were one block from the Pacific Ocean, I often had lunch on the beach. I used to see this guy all the time:





He always sang the same song to me. The lyrics began, "I wonder what a man would do on Mars?" He sang to people up and down The Strand all day, so he must have had other songs in his repertoire, but I never heard any others... He was there the day I got my nose pierced during my lunch hour, in a striped tent on the beach, before going back to work. Crazy times!

5. ~R~ and I used to take off on weekends and catch as many of the Grateful Dead's west coast tour as possible. When we didn't have camping reservations, which was often, we slept wherever we could. Once we woke up on the beach in Santa Cruz to the bark of noisy sea lions. Here's a pic of me one morning when we did have reservations:





~R~ and I lost track of each other after I moved east and later joined the Peace Corps. He went on to realize his dreams of being a copywriter. I'm so happy we've reconnected, and I've learned that he's doing great with his wife and two kids. I miss our crazy days, ~R~'s red VW Bug convertible, and sunny California days.

Thanks Kristin Rae, for the award that sparked this little California dreamin', and thanks to all of you for taking this mini-walk down memory lane with me!

I'm passing this award on to these awesome blogger peeps:

Lindsay Brooks @
Dangerous With a Pen

Dominique @ En Violet (Happy 1 YR Blog Anniversary!!)

Little Miss J

Eva @
Screaming Whispers

Kristin Torres @
Write in the Way

Have a fab weekend!

Show Me! Don't Tell Me.

I was watching last night’s American Idol on TiVo as I drank my first cup of coffee this morning. Cutie sixteen-year-old Aaron Kelly sang a Rascal Flatts song I’d never heard before. (I like country music all right, but I rarely pay much attention to it.) I didn’t catch the title when Ryan Seacrest introduced him, but as Aaron sang the opening verse, my writer’s ears perked up.

It begins, "I can hear the truck tires coming up the gravel road / And it’s not like her to drive so slow, (must be) nothing on the radio / Footsteps on the porch, I hear my doorbell / She usually comes right in…"

These lines demonstrate perfectly the power of Show, Don’t Tell descriptions. There was no doubt in my mind that something was wrong, that “she” was the bearer of bad news. The anticipation I felt and the strong mood those opening words created made the chorus that much more poignant: "Here comes goodbye / Here comes the last time / Here comes the start of every sleepless night / The first of every tear I’m gonna cry."

Showing descriptions pull your readers into the story. By asking your audience to pick up on the important clues sprinkled across each sentence, to connect the dots and reach the correct conclusions, you invite readers to participate in the story. Reader interaction can’t be underestimated. Your readers will become emotionally involved on a deeper level with the characters and plot, which boosts the overall entertainment factor of your work.

When do you concentrate the most on writing showing descriptions? Does it come naturally to you and appear in your first drafts/word vomitting sessions? Or do you comb through your scenes during the revision process and incorporate showing descriptions where you just "told" in the first draft? Or both?

In Suspension of (Dis)belief

I raised an eyebrow when I turned down the hallway at six a.m. this morning and spotted the light spilling out from underneath my daughter’s bedroom door. Usually, waking my kids for school is like rousing a couple cadavers, (corpses who, to my chagrin, effortlessly self-resurrect before sunrise on Saturday and Sunday mornings). Sidney had complained about a tummy ache yesterday, so I half-expected that a campaign to miss school was underway. When I pushed open her door though, I encountered a smiling little girl.

She stood in the middle of her room, her belly button peeking out beneath a too-short pajama top, and her long braided hair bent into a pair of boomerangs flanking her shoulders. In her hand she held her diary.

“You’re up early, sunshine,” I greeted her. “Is everything okay?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Mommy!” she began. “James-y woke me up.”

James was our sweet kitten who passed away from feline-leukemia a few weeks ago. As Sidney's declaration sunk into my pre-caffinated brain, a smile remained fixed on my lips but my eyebrows knitted a little closer together. “What?” I asked.

“James woke me up, but it was still dark. So I peeked out my window and you know what I saw?”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. Drawing in a deep breath that sent her belly button a little further into the room, she said, “Down by the tree, I saw three black cats! They were so cute, Mommy, and they came right up to my window.” She held up her diary. “I’m going to write about it!”

That’s my girl!





Our reality is dictated by our beliefs. Sidney believes James woke her up so she wouldn’t miss seeing those cats. Why not? (I hope it’s true!) One of the goals I embrace as a writer is drawing my readers into my brand of reality, suspending their disbelief. It comes down to the level of authenticity in the writing which can be achieved many ways: through the logical chain of events in the plot, believable dialogue, realistic characterizations, etc.

What’s your favorite device for creating authenticity in your writing, or for suspending your readers’ disbelief? Can you think of a time when you were the reader or viewer, that your disbelief wasn’t suspended? (Think Clark Kent hiding his Super Identity behind a pair of glasses!)

[Artwork at the top of this post by Joied6]

Tuesday Teaser

In 2008 I took part in a creative writing workshop that explored the genre of memoir writing. At that time, I'd only written fiction, so stepping outside my comfort zone was exciting and nerve-wracking. Adding to the challenge was the fact that two of the writers taking part in the workshop were hilarious women well-known for their quick humor and funny storytelling styles. One assignment was to write a short comedic piece based on something that happened in our homes. I'm not a comedic writer! But luckily for me, (but not so much for my son), something had happened the night before and became the subject of my workshop homework:

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

Uncontrollable laughter had broken out, the kind that is almost silent except for the occasional snort that perpetuates the hilarity. Still seated around the table, my husband and I, and our two kids had just come to the end of a meal when it happened.


Mealtimes are reverent moments in my household. My husband is French, so for him partaking in a meal involves careful attention to detail and certain protocol. It is insulting to his palette to eat fruit during the same course as the meat. And there is no going back to the meat course once the fruit has been served. I, thankfully, LOVE to cook, and was a willing student under the tutelage of my mother-in-law in the early years of my marriage when she worried that her son would suffer a life-sentence of American fare. What some consider gourmet dishes are mainstays of my daily menus. I am also an avid advocate of eating healthy and exercising, and many heavy sauces and butter-soaked recipes clash with my idea of sane nourishment. So, careful planning goes into each repast, from leisurely weekend meals to time-pressed weekday meals, to ensure a balance of nutrition and taste.


This particular evening, I had chosen a side dish of sliced zucchini, lightly sautéed in olive oil and garlic. My daughter, who is always in a rush for dessert, complained about the vegetable throughout the entire meal.


"This broccoli doesn't look right," she whined.


"It's zucchini and it's delicious. Just eat it."


"It's BROWN," she said.


"It's a little seared. It has more flavor that way. Just eat it."


She pushed it around her plate with her fork. She sighed. "It's gross and mushy." Oh, for heaven's sake. I tried to ignore her.


My son was drinking from his water glass, when suddenly he started to cough. It was one of those coughs that comes from deep in the throat, and seems to have mixed along the way with a burp. His face turned red and his violent coughs would not allow him time to get a breath. My husband thought he was choking, but my mother instincts quickly ruled that possibility out. Just as I knew intuitively that he wasn't choking, I also knew the boy was going to throw up. I knew it, and I didn't want it to happen on my table.


I sprang from my chair and grabbed Cody by the back of the neck, pulling him to his feet with my other hand. I was racing the vomit's arrival, and in the panic lost track of the next installment of my plan. Where should I allow him to vomit? The trash can!... No, no good. He'll have to angle the vomit's trajectory and it'll wind up all over the place. I turned Cody with the back of his neck. The sink! Perfect! I half dragged the choking mess of a boy, a bit surprised that he hadn't heaved by now. Once he was safely held over the kitchen sink, what turned out to be a vomit-free coughing fit subsided. I kept him bent over for safe measure a few moments more, until he finally said, "God, Mom, let me go!" At this point I checked him out properly, making sure he was indeed ok, and gave him a loving escort back to the table.


Everyone asked him if he was alright, and my husband shared how frightened he had been that Cody might have been choking. Cody wiped his still teary eyes with his sleeve and reassured everyone that he was feeling better. My husband said, "You must have swallowed sideways, or something."


My daughter mumbled, "It was probably the broccoli."


She delivered the comic relief that diffused the whole drama, and we roared!

It's Like Riding a...Rollerblades

I had a fantastic time this weekend with friends from France, who spent Thursday through Sunday at my house. All five of them can speak some English, but we spoke French ninety-nine percent of the time. My husband was born and raised in France, but since he learned to speak English, it has become his preferred language for day-to-day conversation. This is unfortunate for me, who desperately needs to practice my French. More often than not, when I begin a conversation with him in French, he responds in English, even though it's generally considered bad manners among bilingual people to answer in "Language B" when someone initiates a conversation in "Language A" (provided, of course, that both speakers are fluent in both languages). As a result I am perpetually out of practice, and the first two and a half days of our friends' visit were torturous for me and my tongue.

It struck me, as I stumbled over pronunciation and searched for every third word, that there's actually a lot in common between being thrown back into using your second language and picking up rollerblading after a couple years off skates. How, you ask? I believe it comes down to muscle memory.

A few weeks back I took my daughter and her friends to the roller skating rink. In my twenties, I lived on the coast in Los Angeles (Hermosa Beach) and clocked more time on my rollerblades than I did in tennis shoes. However, tying a pair of skates on after all these years proved deceptively challenging. I could keep up with the girls, propel myself forward, glide, and come to a reasonably quick stop, but all my movements were jerky and barely in control.

After a few dozen laps, I felt the muscles in my shins relax. My inner thighs remembered to do most of the work. As I sat back more on softer knees, I noticed my weight transfer from over my toes to over my heels. I got my glide on. It was as if the clock had turned back a decade and the fluid, slolam sashay returned to my movements. With little effort, I sped down the straightaways and crossed my outside skate over the inside one on the curves. It was awesome, like flying.

This kind of muscle memory also comes into play when picking back up a second language. English speakers keep their tongues more or less in the center of their mouths when they speak. When speaking in French though, your tongue must perform crazy acrobatics in order to push the correct sounds out. Also, English is spoken from the front of the mouth, where French is throatier and more nasal. It took several days for my throat to relax and my lips to adopt the proper pouty purse. It wasn't something I could force, because the more I concentrated on how French I sounded, the more I lost track of the words I was trying to say. Either way, I stumbled. It was frustrating, but sure enough after a little time, my fluency came back.

Of course, as soon as that happened, it was time for our friends to leave. (*sigh*) Oh well, at least I won't have as much trouble getting back into the swing of French this summer when we spend three weeks at my husband's family's home...I hope :)

How was your weekend? Did you do something you haven't done in a long time, or did you try anything new?

A New Award!

Thank you so much, Kimberly Franklin, for this beautiful award! If you aren't following Kim yet, hop over to her place today. She's got a talented, cheerful voice and her new blog layout is fab!

This award asks me to tell seven things about myself. Here it goes:

1. I'm the oldest of five siblings...all female. As if that weren't complicating enough, our parents gave us all first names that start with the letter "N." By the time I was five, I thought my name was "Na--ni--no--nay...YOU!"

2. Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.

3. In college, I joined a local sorority because the national Greek organizations had to follow too many rules.

4. I started watching Guiding Light with my cousin and her mother when I was ten years old. I knew those characters (...and their children, and their children after them...) as well as I knew my own family. After thirty-three years of being a faithful viewer, I bawled like a baby when its final episode aired last September. With its record-holding 72 years of broadcasts, it is the longest running television series in history, debuting on radio in 1937 before moving to television until 2009.

5. Both my children were born in France and have dual nationality. According to French OBGYNs, "normal weight gain" for a pregnant woman is between 12 and 24 pounds. A woman with a normal delivery is welcome to stay five days in the maternity ward, in a private room with her newborn, to recover from delivery and rest up before bringing baby home. Women who experienced complications can stay longer. I neither received a bill from the hospital, nor paid any money. We were only required to file a couple social security papers before leaving the hospital.

6. And, on the subject of childbirth, I assisted in over thirty live births when I organized, and participated in, a midwifery training program in Central Africa. What an experience that was!

7. I found out yesterday that out of 104 entries, mine won first place in Writing.com's official contest for January 2010. The prompt was: Write a motivational letter to yourself outlining your writing goals for the year. The prize was $100 worth of Gift Points (that's a cool million in cyber bucks) and bragging rights, of course (LOL). You can read my letter HERE.


I'd like to pass this award on to five of my new blogging buddies, and one dear friend who I know inside and outside the blogosphere:


SarahJayne at Writing in the Wilderness
Abby Annis
Anthony Duce
Megan Rebekah
Noelle Nolan

And to my dear friend and nextdoor neighbor, Tonya at Tonya Talk

I also want to thank Laurel at Laurel's Leaves for giving the Happy Award to me! I look forward to passing that along at a later time. In the meantime, pop over and visit Laurel's blog! She's always got something creative and fun to say :))


I have good friends coming from France this week. They'll be here Thursday through Sunday, so I won't be able to write or read blogs much during that time. (*breaks out in cold sweat at the thought*) If I don't get another chance, let me wish you all a wonderful weekend!

Tuesday Teaser

I didn't work on my WIP this week, taking advice from all you fab Followers who commented on my post Confused, and Hating It. You guys rock!! I felt uplifted by your words, more encouraged than I've felt in a while. Thank you, everyone, from the bottom of my heart!

While I sort through the new leads I've come up with for my novel-in-progress, I thought I'd share a piece of flash fiction I wrote some time ago. I've always appreciated a good twist, a line or a moment near the end of a story that turns the plot on its head. For me, the most clever twists are those you never see coming, the ones that throw into a new light everything you've understood about the plot and/or character(s).

The prompt for the following story was, "Tell a story in 300 words or less about someone who can fly." There's a twist. Will you see it coming?

Flight of Freedom

By Nicole Ducleroir

“So, nervous?” the man asked, tightening the harness around my torso.

“Terrified,” I confided. “But she finally caved, I can’t back out now.” I nodded toward my mother, conspiring with the helmsman. “She treats me like a child. I just want a chance to test my wings."

“You’ll be fine, she’ll see.” He tugged on the line connected to the chest clip, pulling me off balance.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

The boat's engine revved and we accelerated. The parachute above me rippled noisily just before obeying an insistent gust and snapping open. Suddenly, my feet lifted off the deck. I heard Mother nervously cheering me on, but I couldn’t concentrate on the sound. My mind went blank, as if my thoughts couldn’t keep up with the swift ascent of my body. Adrenalin-infused exhilaration issued from the depths of my soul, eradicating my fears. I unclamped my hands from the straps, and spread my arms open wide.

For precious fleeting moments I was a sylph soaring through the balmy air, freed from the heft of my oppression. Time was irrelevant; the past and the future ceased to exist. The heady perfume of thalassic air intoxicated me. I heard howls of carefree laughter, yet didn’t recognize my own voice. It was over too soon.

I was immediately aware of my descent. The world came back into focus for me. I heard the boat below, and Mother’s overprotective voice urging the crew to be cautious. Spray from the wake diffused a mist of sea water on my face as I was reeled in; I tasted salt on my lips. Assisting hands pulled me to the deck.

“How was it?!” gushed Mother.

“Amazing!” I beamed.

“Here,” she said, “I’m handing you your cane.”

My smile quavered as I reached out to accept it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I'd love to hear your reactions to this flash fiction piece. Also, how important is a twist at the end of a story?

Jungle Love

[This was my Valentine's Day post, that I didn't get a chance to post yesterday. It's the story of how my husband and I first met. I hope you enjoy it!]

The sound rumbled like sudden thunder, shattering the still African night. Vibrations coursed through my mud brick house with fingers that stripped me of sleep and forced me upright in the bed. I knew my searching eyes were open, but I was blinded by the inky air, devoid of light. In my confusion, I couldn’t get my bearings. Then I realized what I was hearing. The sound, coming in waves of intensity, was a car engine being revved on the dirt road in front of my house. Not a car, I thought, a truck. And then I heard a man’s voice call out.

“Pascal! Ouvres-moi toute suite!”

My heart, hammering in my chest from being shocked awake, skipped to a new tempo. Christian! Christian was here. I sprang into action just as I heard Pascal respond with a sleepy “Oui, Patron.” It would only take him a few seconds to open the wide bamboo gate and emit the Land Cruiser. I scrambled across the lumpy mattress to the edge of the bed and groped for the mosquito net. Clumsy, misjudging hands pushed hard against the coarse openwork, knocking a candle to the floor from its perch atop the three-legged stool outside the mesh, pushed up against the bed frame. No matter, I thought. I knew besides the candle and the book I was reading before I blew it out, there was a flashlight on that stool. At the edge of the mattress, I grasped two handfuls of the netting just as the engine cut outside, and silence rushed into the darkness around me.

I yanked up on the mosquito net and it came untucked from the mattress. I paused, heard Christian speaking in a muffled tone to Pascal, the Central African employed by the Peace Corps to guard my house each night. I wondered if Christian was scolding him for sleeping on the job. Christian was a Frenchman employed by an Italian construction company, working on a World Bank funded project to resurface the country’s dirt roads washed away each rainy season. Unlike me, he hadn’t been sent to the Central African Republic on a grass root mission. He was a boss man, un patron, a kota zo. Someone the Africans respected without question.

I pushed my legs out and let them dangle off the edge of the bed while I pulled the bottom of the mosquito net behind my head. I was naked. At just four degrees north of the equator, there were exactly twelve hours of daytime and twelve hours of night. At six in the evening, the sun slid below the horizon during a five-minute-long dusk that reminded me more of God simply hitting the wall switch. Darkness as black as midnight reigned for the entire twelve hours, but the intense heat absorbed by everything during the day radiated long into the night. Inside my stifling bedroom, pajamas weren’t an option.

There was a quick succession of raps on the door that I felt in my chest. Christian called my name through the rough wood. I shouted, “Just a minute.” My toes felt around for the flip flops on the floor, and my hands fumbled for the flash light on the stool. I was more awake now, and suddenly nervous as hell.

I’d met Christian the week before. I was riding my Peace Corps issued mountain bike back home, from the little town ten kilometers away where I’d chosen to launch my project. The day had been brutally hot, and no shade reached me as I rode along the wide, dirt road. Periodically, a bush taxi the size of a yellow school bus lumbered past. Each time I had to stop, straddle my bike, and cover my nose and mouth as a choking two-story-high cloud of red dust engulfed me. It clung to my sweaty skin, and I looked redder and redder as the day wore on. New rivulets of perspiration left tracks in each subsequent layer of dust. To add to my less-than-alluring appearance, my long hair was pulled into an unattractive ponytail, and I wore my glasses since the dust was certain torture for my contact lenses. I shudder imagining what I smelled like.

Christian pulled his Land Cruiser up alongside me. Through the open passenger side window, he introduced himself in French and commented on the heat. He asked where I was headed and I told him I lived in Bambari. I still had about seven kilometers to go, so when he offered me a lift I took it without hesitation. Plus, I thought he was pretty cute.

The conversation was surprisingly easy, considering my French was so bad. We laughed easily, and the ride was over too quickly. He lifted my bike from the back of his vehicle and propped it against the gate in front of my house. My smile stayed on my lips long after he drove away.

The next day, I saw him again on the road, and he asked me to lunch the following Sunday. I’d been in-country for almost a year at this point, and I hadn’t felt excitement like this since leaving the dating game behind in the States. I even pulled out my dusty make-up bag, vainly included when I packed but not taken out of my luggage since arriving. The mascara was clumped from the humidity, but I managed to coat my lashes just the same. We spent an amazing time together, and I didn’t make it home until Monday morning.

That was three days before, and I hadn't seen Christian since. In a world with no telephones, there was no way to talk to someone unless you were face to face. Those days following our date were torturous. I wondered if I’d ever see him again. I worried he’d lost respect for me, or that I’d lost respect for myself. As the days went by, I second-guessed every conversation, every look, and every touch. And now, in the dark of night, Christian was here, knocking on my door.

My heart pounded. Every nerve was alive. My hand closed over the flash light and I pressed the button. Nothing happened. In the dark, I jabbed the button over and over, but the flash light remained off. Shit.

“Nicole? Tu es lá?”

“J’arrive!” I called out. Goose bumps covered my body now. Reaching under the mosquito netting, I pulled the queen-size sheet off the bed. I stood, wrapping the cool, white cotton fabric around my suntanned back and under my arms. I held the whole thing about me like a giant bath towel; gathered fabric excess fell over my arm like a train. I could feel my long, bed-mussed hair drape across my bare shoulders and fall down my back. Shuffling across the gritty cement floor, feeling my way through the gloom, I made it to the front door.

When Christian tells this story today, he says that when I pulled open the door, I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

Confused, and Hating It

I can't get the story out. I wanted to say something, make a statement with my work. But now I don't know what it is I wanted to say. It's gone. Evaporated, making me doubt it was ever really there in the first place. What do I do? The idea well has dried up and I'm dying of creative thirst. Where are you, muse? Why have you foresaken me? The original premise was so promising, so full of suspense. But it's been weeks now that I've tried to craft the rest of the plot, fill up the arc and connect the dots. I've got Point A and Point Z, but the rest of the alphabet won't come out of the the shadows. Any storyline I think of is like a wisp of smoke rising from an extinguished candle, that fades the more I watch it, lost to the air. The frustration is terrible. Do I give up? Isn't there a time when writers just have to admit the project is over?

Maybe I waited too long. The story's energy consumed me at one point. But now, I feel unoriginal, uninspired, and confused. I read an article once in Writer's Digest that the author presented as an open letter to his unfinished manuscript. He told it he was breaking up with it. Leaving it for another. He said he was done with their inability to communicate, done with the dysfunction. Have I reached a similar impasse? Have I been hanging on to a dysfunctional relationship I have with my story?

Writing a novel is a long process. I don't want to waste my time, spinning my wheels and getting nowhere. Or is this THE process? Am I going through something normal and necessary, some kind of first-time novelist's trial by fire? I'm so confused and so disheartened.

Does anyone remember a time they felt like me? Is this writer's block? It sucks. Whatever it is.


~Artwork above created by the talented Choiseul @ DeviantArt.com. View the whole portfolio here~

Review: The Giver

[Back cover blurb:] Jonas's world is perfect. Everything is under control. There is no war of fear or pain. There are no choices. Every person is assigned a role in the Community.

When Jonas turns twelve, he is singled out to receive special training from The Giver. The Giver alone holds the memories of the true pain and pleasure of life. Now it's time for Jonas to receive the truth. There is no turning back.

The Giver is one of the most thought-provoking books I've read in a long time. Lois Lowry created a world where society has eradicated hunger, poverty, and war. There is no inequality, no conflict. And no choice.

The story is told through the eyes of young Jonas. It begins, "It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened." By the end of chapter one, I'd assumed a truth about Jonas, one he'd soon learn about himself: He is special. This was made known to him at the annual Ceremony, when he and the other "Twelves" (the Community identified its children as groups based on their age) were to receive their life assignments. The Elders brought each Twelve to the stage one at a time, and Jonas watched with anticipation as his friends Asher and Fiona went before him to receive their occupations. But when it was his turn, Jonas learned he has been chosen for something rare, a unique vocation bestowed on only a few in the history of the Community. This honor put him under the tutelage of The Giver, an Elder who must pass the torch of knowledge and wisdom to Jonas.

In this provacative, John Newberry Award winning novel, Lowry asks her readers to contemplate the price of utopia. If, by collective concensus, humanity organizes itself in ways that only tolerate fairness and equality, then every citizen prospers. The risk of famine disappears when overpopulation is resolved. When children are observed from birth, and their natural talents and aptitudes are recognized, they can be placed in occupations which will render them the most content, productive, and successful. But at what cost?

In the course of his training, Jonas learned hard truths about freedom and choice. Justice and injustice became blurred, subjective, and confused to his new way of thinking. Rules didn't look the same to him anymore. As I followed Jonas in his journey of awareness, I began to see my own world through new eyes.

One of my favorite moments in this book (the following is not a spoiler) was when Jonas realizes there is color in the world. The Sameness his society had adapted, and which he had always known, relied, in part, on the absence of color. This concept made me think about what we classify as paranormal. There are documented cases of people who possess the ability to read minds, travel along astral plains, move objects without touching them. Yet the overwhelming majority of our society disbelieves these possibilities. Most grow up being told paranormal experiences aren't real. They don't exist. Perhaps, like Jonas, we only have to believe those things are possible to bring them into our sphere of reality. The first time Jonas glimpses color reminded me of the first time I saw an aura. I was overwhelmed with emotion, in part because I could finally confirm auras do exist, and partly because I realized I'd always been able to perceive auras, I just didn't know what it was I was seeing.

The ending of The Giver is as debatable as the questions raised throughout the book. In fact, I was inspired by the last chapter of this book to write yesterday's blog post about story endings. Lowry doesn't hand her readers the story's conclusion wrapped up with a pretty bow on top. Instead, she lets you interpret her words. My son, Cody is eleven and read The Giver before me. Yesterday, I asked him what he thought happened at the end. I won't share our conversation, except to say one of us sees the ending through the eyes of an idealist and the other through those of a realist. I don't think it matters who's right. Regardless of how you interpret the ending, Lowry uses The Giver to make a statement: Free will is synonymous with Freedom.

The Giver is book one of a triology. The other two book are:

Gathering Blue -- In this speculation on the nature of the future of human society, life in Kira's community is nasty, brutish, and, for all the ill and dis-abled, short.

Messenger -- In this novel that unites characters from "The Giver" and "Gathering Blue," Matty, a young member of a utopian community that values honesty, conceals an emerging healing power that he cannot explain or understand.

I highly recommend this book. Book clubs will love discussing it!

The Giver, Copyright 1993 by Lois Lowry

Published by Dell Laurel-Leaf, an imprint of Random House Children's Books

ISBN: 0-440-23768-8

How to Avoid Weak Story Endings

A story, like all “good things,” must come to an end. The ending, also known as Denouement,

The final outcome of the main complication in a play or story; sometimes referred to as the explanation or outcome of a drama that reveals all the secrets and misunderstandings connected to the plot.

is as important to the story as the Beginning

or Exposition

and the Middle

includes Rising Action, Climax, and Falling Action

. A good ending leaves the reader with a sense that the story has come to a logical, satisfying conclusion. For writers, it's important to remember what an ending shouldn’t do. By understanding what constitutes a weakly executed ending, we're more likely to avoid these pitfalls in our writing.


A story ending SHOULDN’T:


Leave Unanswered Questions – Regardless of the length of a story, be it flash fiction or a novel, the ending should tie up all the loose plot strings. All issues, minor or major, introduced in a story must serve a purpose and move the plot forward. By the end of the story, the reader should have answers to all questions posed in the narration and have learned how the character(s) cleared all their obstacles.

Make the Reader Decide What Happened – You want your reader to feel satisfied by the outcome of the story. This doesn’t mean you need to spoon-feed exactly what happens in a play-by-play commentary. Readers enjoy having enough information to imagine what happens next, beyond The End. What frustrates most readers is realizing the story has led them to a plot intersection, and the author has placed on their shoulders the burden of deciding how the story ends.

Be Too Abrupt – Have you ever read a story that was chugging along at an enjoyable pace, and suddenly it was over? This usually happens when the climactic scene is pushed up against the ending, and the writer skipped right over the falling action. Authors need to be mindful of the pacing of events and manipulate the emotional impact each moment has on the reader. The reader should be left with the impression the ending was the natural conclusion to the story, the terrain that leveled out at the bottom of the hill, rather than feel like the plot had been pushed off a cliff.

Be Too Long – Another pacing problem occurs when the time between the climactic scene and the story’s end is too long. The story seems to fizzle out. All the excitement of earlier scenes is forgotten. If your ending is too long-winded, you risk boring your reader.

Be Illogical – Your ending must make sense on two fronts, Plot and Character(s):

Plot: Resolution of the central problem has to be achieved by means of a logical chain of events. Suspension of belief

When the reader forgets s/he is reading a story, and becomes involved in the story.

is sacrificed when the ending promotes a breakdown of cause and effect. The reader simply won’t buy it.

Characters: If during the story’s ending, a character behaves in a way that is in direct contrast with his or her established personality, with no logical explanation for the shift in behavior, the reader is going to raise an eyebrow. The character, and the ending, will feel false and contrived.

Be Too Predictable – Readers love a story with a twist. It doesn’t have to be something earth-shattering. However, a creative ending that sheds new light on what the reader believed to be true will ‘up’ the entertainment factor of the whole story. On the other hand, if the reader has suspected a predictable ending since the rising action, s/he will feel let down, and the entire story will seem uninspired and weak.

Have a “Night in Shining Armor” Save the Day – Readers want to feel emotionally invested in the main character’s future. They embrace the hero or heroine, who is flawed with conflicts s/he must rise above in the course of the story. When readers have been rooting for the heroine, cheering her on through her struggles, they aren’t going to appreciate someone else swooping in at the end of the story and saving the day.


The ending you write is important to the overall success of your story. It will show how far your characters have come since the beginning and wrap up their story. A clever ending leaves your readers inspired, satisfied, and intrigued. And even the strongest writing will fall short on the reader’s entertainment yardstick if the ending is weak.

The following article is a must-read! Willie Meikle explains ten overdone, clichéd endings that he feels, (and I agree!), should be avoided at all costs:

10 Story Endings To Avoid

I just finished reading The Giver, by Lois Lowry. (Look for my review in tomorrow's post.) The ending is cryptic and could be interpreted in several different ways. Do you like endings that ask you to interpret their meanings? Or do you prefer an ending that gives you the sense that you know what has, or will, happen? Is a "good ending" a "happy ending," in your view?