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He eagerly ran down the staircase, his backpack bouncing from shoulder to shoulder. Before I could even finish telling him to be careful, he slipped on the wet porch and fell forward. I ran out the kitchen. There he was, holding a beam and grinning at my worried face. "It's okay. Caught myself."...

In the center of the crop field, there is a hole. Under the hole, there is a tunnel. And at the end of the tunnel, there is a cavern. All along its surface is the eerie blue glow of jewels and gemstones. Even without a lantern, when it is pitch black, it glows profusely, like a dusted star under...

Sometime between lunch and dinner, my house exploded and my family died. So I ate a sub for dinner. It was there in Subway I supposed I should have avenged them. There could have been a witness or two, and according to the law, blowing up things and killing people is illegal.

The last person who read this book, Jason read, died. He didn't last a second.

He stood up straight, stiff, lifting his head up, and shook hands with the old man who just walked in. He was dressed in formal colors, in a formal style, with formal shoes, and a formal watch. His hair was closely cropped, and the medal pinned to his blazer shined powerfully under the faint...

He had a way of carrying himself; a certain kind of a weak sway or sleepy drone, partly exaggerated by his wan face and hollow gray eyes, which, assisted by his slow, somber drawling, and his stiff, mushy movements, seemed eerie at night and out of place at day.

He must have done something awful because one morning Arthur Doe woke up and found himself wrapped in a straitjacket.

Blood dripped from the ceiling, and the walls arched back and forth, back and like a pulsating membrane. He staggered forward through the fog, the dank yellow fog the seeped in from the ceiling, stinging him, blinding him. There was nothing but yellow, the pale, horrible yellow that surrounded...

Hell: All around, there was blackness – the long, wide vacuum of space stretching infinitively in all directions; dark, desolate, empty; encompassing his numbing senses as he fell through the void, weightless. Not a star was to be seen, not a single source of light. And when he screamed, cried...

We were riding down the country road, passing the great forests and lakes, when suddenly the engine died and we found ourself stranded in the middle of nowhere, without food, shelter, or bullets.

"Well, can't argue with that logic," he sighed, pulling the trigger.

Of course I'm exaggerating when I say never or ever. There are no absolutes. What I mean though is that a majority of the time, maybe 89% of the time, characters get emotional in response to essential plot points. Being essential plot points, most of them have to be dramatized so it's "live" in...

What in God's name--?

Don't describe emotions head on. Ever. Let the reader feel the emotion through actions. "'Dammit!' he yelled, clenching his hand as he recoiled from the stove. He immediately whipped his head to the door, glowering at it. He knew those knocks. They were all too familiar. Twisting the stove...

Wherever he went, it followed.

As was yours, Joke. As was yours... Here's mine: I never really intended to write this book, but the barrel of a .30 revolver to my head on the quiet spring day in the park on April 29, 2004 convinced me otherwise.

There was something odd about him, though he stood there laughing with his friends. Under normal circumstances, I would have thought he was drop dead gorgeous, a male model or something. He had a perfectly featured face. Dreamy eyes, a radiant complexion, shining white teeth that sparkled in...

Show, don't tell. Have a focus. I had no idea where you were going with this or what exactly was going on. I suggest you focus on one thing at a time, and narrate the story in chronological order, telling important details. It seems to leap all over the place, and I couldn't follow anything...

"Whoah, brother, calm down!" said the thug, backing away.

Um, it’s fantasy. Do whatever you want. Readers are more than willing to suspend their disbelief. Fantasy is not about the socio-political consequences of slaying an autocratic ruler. Nor is it about the economic considerations for breeding giant pink elephants. It’s definitely not about the...