I read a lot. When I switched from reading exclusively paper, to reading on a tablet, I REALLY amped up my reading. Before, I read maybe a book every few months. Then, I kicked it over to a book a month. A few years ago, I decided that I needed to give myself time each day to read, and now I read a book every week or two.

At first, I read a lot of “public domain” books… classics. I could snag them in the Kindle store and they were free. Every once in a while, I would grab a book on a free deal, usually the first of a series, with the author hoping to get me hooked enough to pay for the rest of his books. Sometimes that worked. There were several series I read a dozen books in. Other times, not so much.

But one night, a couple of years ago, I was reading a book that wasn’t particularly good. As a side note here, I have read through some books that were pretty bad. It is a point of pride for me to finish one I start, even if I don’t like it. A handful have been a REAL struggle, but only a couple have forced me to give up. Back to the issue… I was reading a book that wasn’t good. It didn’t completely suck, but it could have been SO much better.

“Lane, you could write a book better than this,” I said to myself.

“Put up or shut up,” I replied.

It took a few months for me to start it, but then… I started it. Three thousand typos later, I had a book. Actually, a book and three-quarters. It wasn’t AT ALL what I intended to write. Another side note: That book might still get written. But I had a story.

I read it again. Found a few hundred typos. Fixed them, and then fixed issues I found with the storyline. I put word out on the socials asking for friends to read it and tell me how to make it suck less. My hopes weren’t high. I got half a dozen volunteers to take it and offer feedback. A couple of them actually read it and gave me feedback.

“Your main character is a wimp and I’m shocked he ever gets the girl… then, poof, he’s the freaking Terminator? I don’t think so.” Ok, that isn’t what she actually said, but it’s close. I sharpened my computer’s virtual pencil and started re-writing. Did I mention that she found several hundred MORE typos? Fixed those, too. And I found some more that we’d both missed.

Back to reading for a minute… I was reading a popular author, one that pays a butt-load of money for editors that look for typos. They were still there. Not many, but a few.

I reworked the story until I thought there was no possible way there could be a mistake left in it. Then I figured out how to publish it on KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing), and hit submit. I told a few friends about it… and paid for a copy for me to read on my Kindle.

Guess what? That’s right… there were more typos. I found a few score. Friends that downloaded it also pointed out a few more. Cool thing on ebooks… they can be fixed. I fixed them and reloaded the book. Then, I tried to see if I could sell it. I gave away a lot of copies. Sold a few.

As a side note, a friend of mine read that first book a few months ago. He sent me a list of typos. About forty of those little monsters. Fixed ’em.

Piece of advice, perfect is the enemy of good. You will NOT write a perfect book. You CAN write a good book.

The first step is to write the book. You do NOT need a full outline of everything you are going to write in your fictional story. Ok, the first step is to start. Put something on paper (or virtual paper). Once you start, you can adjust. My story was going to be science fiction… it turned out to be a crime-thriller set in the 80s. That’s fine. I adjusted. But in order to adjust, I had to have a starting point. You can change the plot, the story arc, the characters… EVERYTHING. But you can’t change it if you don’t start it.

So, I said I would help. I’ll write a couple more posts to give you my “secrets” (they aren’t secret) of how I write a book. And if you decide to write one, I’ll be happy to be a “beta reader” for you. I can’t make a guarantee on my timeline, but I will try to read it and get back to you quickly with my feedback. I honestly don’t care who you are… if we are already friends, cool. If I don’t know you at all. Still cool. All I’ll ask in return is that you be willing to beta read for me sometime. Beta readers are WONDERFUL and I appreciate EVERY one of them that has given me feedback.

They have been an incredible gift to me and there is no better way for me to pay that back than to do it for someone else. And like I said last week, I have a bunch of stories in the pipeline.

In fact, I have 6 different books in various stages of development. Only one of them doesn’t have crossover characters. (all titles are working titles and may or may not reflect actual titles):

Skater – This one is set before Planning Vengeance, and has cameos by Jack Dixon, Nicole Dixon, Sherry Cross and Terry Gates. Terry and Nicole are the ones that figure the most prominently of the cameos.

Grafton – This is after You Don’t Know Jack, and obviously revolves around Gunny. Most of the good guy crew is involved, and we are introduced to several new characters, including Mali. She’ll kind of be a surprise.

Jenny’s Death Star – This is also after YDKJ, and has a couple of cameos so far… Gunny and Melody Grafton. Dirk Bryce is most involved in the story as well. Not just a cameo, but a supporting player.

New Life – This one is still pretty early in its development, but Bill Prince and Dirk Bryce will be prominently featured. It is also of the newer generation, after YDKJ.

The Call – This one is contemporary. Jack and Amy have a son, and Nicole and Rolf have a son and a daughter. Jack and Amy’s son is center stage on this one. It looks like Nicole and Rolf’s son might be prominent, too. Jack and Amy are certainly around, and we have mentions of Dirk, Jenny and Ellen (from Triple Cross)

The one that doesn’t have any of the core Dixon-Prince characters is called The Cruise.

“Go away!” he heard growled from inside. 

“I have a package… I need a signature.”

“Didn’t order nothin’.  Don’t need nothin’.  Go away.”

“Sir,” he said, worry creeping into his voice, “I was told to give you fifty dollars if someone signed for this.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled bill.

“You shoulda led with that,” the man said, a bent cigarette dangling from his lip as he pulled open the door. 

“This is for Lucinda Stevens,” the courier said. 

“What if she ain’t here?” 

“When will she be here?” the courier replied.

“I want my fifty bucks,” the man said, his voice low and threatening.  He turned and looked back into the darkness behind him.  “Luce, this asshole needs you to sign somethin’, but I get the fifty bucks.  Git yer ass over here.”

A thin, bedraggled woman emerged from the darkness of the interior.  She was the polar opposite of the man she slipped up behind.  She was slight, like a forest nymph, where he was more like a troll that might live under a bridge.

“Yes?” she said, her voice soft. 

“Can you sign this please?” the courier asked, holding out his clipboard. 

She took the pen in her left hand and quickly jotted an elegant signature.  The driver handed her the small package, but the man snatched it from the air between them. 

The courier backed away, and quickly headed toward his van.  He fired up the engine and spit gravel from the tires as he floored it to leave. 

“So… what’s this, Luce?” the man asked, his tone accusatory, the threat of violence barely below the surface. 

“I don’t know, Whit.”

He tore through the plastic envelope, spilling the contents onto the floor between them.  A black, leather-bound notebook and an old flip-phone.  Before Lucinda could pick anything up, Whit reached down and scooped up the former contents of the envelope into his large paw and walked into the kitchen. 

“What do we have here?” he said, tossing everything onto the kitchen table. 

He picked up the flip-phone.  He flipped it open as the screen lit up.  He pushed the buttons to see if there were any calls in the memory, but it was wiped clean.  He dropped it back on the table.  He turned his attention to the notebook.

Lucinda Stevens,

Wages and Stamps, Attorneys at Law, request your presence tomorrow at 9:00am.  A car service will pick you up at 8:25am in order to make the appointment on time.  Transportation is only available for you.  If you have any questions, please use the provided phone to contact our office.  Calls will be answered from that number only at any time of the day or night. 

Regards,

Lyle Stamps

Whit looked at Lucinda, who’d been unable to read the entry on the first page of the book.  “What the hell is this?” Whit asked her. 

“Can I look at it?” she asked, her voice soft and demure.  The last thing she wanted was for him to be upset. 

He tossed the little black notebook down on the table.  “Knock yourself out.”

She read over the note, then fanned through the rest of the notebook.  Aside from the first page, it was completely blank.  “I have no idea, Whit.  I don’t know who those people are.  I’ve never heard of them.”

Whit snatched the phone back up from the table and opened the notebook again.  He dialed the number and held the phone to his ear as it rang.  Lucinda, standing on the other side of the table, strained to hear. 

“Yeah… this is Whit Stevens and I demand to know the meaning of this package you sent my wife,” his deep voice rumbled into the phone. 

His eyes narrowed in response to whatever he heard.  He glared at Lucinda as he continued to listen. 

“And if she don’t?”

Whit turned away from her as he listened to the voice on the phone.  When he turned back around, his mischievous grin held no joy.  He closed the phone and tossed it back on the table next to the small, black notebook. 

“I’m going out with the boys,” he said, turning and walking from the room without another word.

“What did they say, Whit?  What is this about?” she called after him to no avail.  She heard the front door slam as Whit left. 

With nothing left to do, she read an old magazine in the failing light until it was too dark to read.  Then she fell asleep on the lumpy old couch. 

Lucinda woke up as unfiltered light streamed through the living room window, highlighting the squalor of the old trailer she shared with her husband.  She looked at the wind-up clock on the mantel.  7:48.  She walked down the hall to the bedroom.  Whit was passed out on top of the covers, snoring loudly, his face smashed into the bed.  She could smell the reek of cheap booze all the way from the doorway. 

Lucinda slunk across the room to the broken-down dresser.  She pulled out her nicest clothes, then slipped from the room to shower in the bathroom.  She was in and out, plunging into the unheated water to get wet, turning it off to lather up, then quickly rinsing and drying off.  She toweled her hair as well as she could, then quietly dressed. 

Stepping into the living room, the clock indicated it was 8:23. 

She picked up a jacket from the floor and walked out the door. 

“Oh, the book… I wonder if I’ll need the book?” she asked herself as she went back in to retrieve it from the table.  She was going to get the phone, too, but it was missing. 

When she stepped back outside, there was a black limo waiting, the driver standing next to the back door. 

“Mrs. Stevens?” he asked, his accent British, his voice friendly. 

“Yes,” she answered as she stopped and looked at him. 

“My name is Thompson.  Are you ready to go?” he asked, opening the door to the shiny black car. 

Lucinda smiled and slowly walked toward the car.  She looked at Thompson.  He wasn’t tall, only slightly taller than her five-foot-seven frame, but he was powerfully built with a broad chest and shoulders.  He wasn’t classically handsome but had a strong jaw and cheerful eyes.  Under one of his eyes was a jagged scar.  If not for the softness of his eyes, which telegraphed sympathy and trust, she would have been scared to get into a car with him.

“Inside you will find a selection of pastries and beverages in case you’ve not had breakfast,” he said just before closing the door. 

She looked around the back of the car.  It wasn’t a long stretch limo, but there was plenty of room.  In a cupholder was a cup of orange juice and in another, a cup of coffee.  On the seat next to her was a box with bagels and various spreads, and doughnuts. 

The partition rolled down between them.  “If there is anything else you need, Mrs. Stevens, please do not hesitate to ask.  We have plenty of time, so no worries.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” she replied. 

“Just Thompson, Ma’am.”

She felt the car smoothly pull out of the tight confines of the trailer park.  As it reached the road, it accelerated away. 

She watched through the window as the car pulled to a stop inside a parking garage.  They were downtown, she assumed under one of the big skyscrapers that she could see dotting the skyline from the playground near the trailer park.  A moment later Thompson appeared at her door. 

“Right this way, Mrs. Stevens?” he asked, holding her door. 

He opened the door to the elevator lobby, an elevator awaiting her.  As she entered the elevator, he waved a cardkey over a sensor and stepped back out, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her reflection.  There weren’t even any buttons or a display to busy herself with as it whisked her away. 

She glanced in the mirrors, seeing her reflection stare back at her.  Her gray dress pants hung off her oddly, being a couple of sizes too big, but they were clean and had relatively few wrinkles. The white, silky blouse wasn’t as lucky.  It had a couple of faded stains she pulled her jacket tighter to try to hide them. 

As she pulled the jacket tighter, she saw how thin and pale her hands looked.  Then she looked at the reflection of her face.  Gaunt was the word that came to mind.  She hadn’t gazed at her own reflection in months.  The mirrors in the trailer were tarnished or broken. 

“Just like me,” she said to her reflection, “tarnished or broken.”

She watched as a single tear escaped her eye and rolled down her face. 

“What happened to me?” she asked her reflection. 

You gave up, Luce, it replied. 

The doors slid open and a man stood in front of her. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

“For what?  I have no idea what this is about.”

“My name is Lyle Stamps.  Please, follow me,” he said, leading her to a glass enclosed conference room.  He pointed her to a seat. 

“Do you have the black notebook?” he asked her after she sat down.

She slipped it from the pocket inside her jacket, laying it on the table in front of her. 

“Turn to page three,” he instructed her. 

As she did so, she saw there were several lines neatly handprinted that she was positive hadn’t been there the evening before. 

Lucinda,

You have before you a choice:

-We can disburse to you $50,000 for you and your husband

Or

-We can disburse you $20,000 and you’ll never have to see him again or share it with him. 

The choice is yours.  Are you ready for a new life?  You have five minutes to decide. 

“Mr. Stamps, what’s the meaning of this?” she asked, but the room was empty, aside from her.  She stood up and looked around.  The glass windows had turned a semi-translucent green.  She was completely alone.  Lucinda walked to the door, but it was locked. 

“Who are you?  What is going on… I don’t understand?” she cried to the room. 

She walked back to the notebook.  Opening it up again, she saw that the next page was printed. 

Lucinda, do you want to be free?  This is your chance.  You can do whatever you want to do. 

Three minutes remaining.

Her head was spinning. 

More text appeared on the page.

Or you can go back to your old life.  Your choice. 

One minute remaining.

A moment later she heard the door click.  Mr. Stamps stepped through the door.  He held two envelopes. 

“When the timer hits zero, I put these away,” he said, putting a timer down in front of him.  He then held both envelopes up. 

She watched as the timer counted down.  He stared at her blankly. 

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

“Quickly, Mrs. Stevens,” the lawyer said.

Four.

Three.

She didn’t know what to do.

One.

She snatched one of the envelopes just before Stamps could put it away.  Opening it, she saw the two neat bundles of ten thousand dollars each.  She looked up to ask Mr. Stamps a question, but he was gone.