Stephanie is an award-winning copywriter, aspiring novelist, and barely passable ukulele player. Here, she offers writing prompts, tips, and moderate-to-deep philosophical discussions. You can also find her on and Pinterest.

Inspiration Monday: Don’t Look Up

Okay, I just saw someone refer to last night’s game as the “Superb Owl.” It is difficult for me to express how awesome this is, especially as a copywriter forced to use phrases like “Big Game” and “Game Day” to avoid trademark infringement.

And oh look! InMonstories!

TheImaginator

PrincessDeloso

ARNeal

The Rules

There are none. Read the prompts, get inspired, write something. No word count minimum or maximum. You don’t have to include the exact prompt in your piece, and you can interpret the prompt(s) any way you like.

OR

No really; I need rules!

Okay; write 200-500 words on the prompt of your choice. You may either use the prompt as the title of your piece or work it into the body of your piece. You must complete it before 6 pm CST on the Monday following this post.

The Prompts:

DON’T LOOK UP

IRREPLACEABLE

CRACKED PROMISES

YESTERDAY’S NEWS

SNAKE OIL BARON

Want to share your Inspiration Monday piece? Post it on your blog and link back to today’s post; I’ll include a link to your piece in the next Inspiration Monday post. No blog? Email your piece to me at bekindrewrite (at) yahoo (dot) com. (I do reserve the right to NOT link to a piece as stated in my Link Discretion Policy.)

Plus, get the InMon badge for your site here.

Happy writing!

How to Write Formula Fiction

Image by J. Finn-Irwin

Image by J. Finn-Irwin

You’re probably thinking this entire post should consist of one word:

“Don’t.”

But it’s not going to. Because as it turns out, there is a right way to write formula fiction.

Let’s start with the preliminaries.

What is formula fiction?

Wikipedia defines formula fiction as “literature in which the storylines and plots have been reused to the extent that the narratives are predictable.”

Why does formula fiction usually suck?

“Predictable” is the operative word. If you’re in the first few scenes of a book or movie and are already able to predict who’s going to die, who is the murderer, or who’s going to fall in love with whom, that’s because it’s formulaic. Mac ‘n’ cheese. The same ingredients every time. The writer isn’t pushing anymore. The story is boring and unoriginal.

Why do we still like reading bad formula fiction sometimes?

For the same reason we like Easy Mac—those little plastic bowls of instant mac-and-powdered-cheese you’re horrified to admit you’ve eaten. Though it’s probably made of packing peanuts and crushed up beetles, and though a $10 plate of gourmet macaroni with gruyere and applewood smoked bacon tastes infinitely better, sometimes you just want some Easy Mac. Cheap. Fast. Cheese-ish.

How can I make formula fiction awesome?

Perhaps I should have titled this post “Wodehouse fills my heart with joy,” because I’m going to turn right around and tell you that one of my favorite authors is, technically speaking, a writer of formula fiction.

Since Anne informed me back in April that I had to read P.G. Wodehouse (or, presumably, no longer be allowed among the ranks of People Who Know About Good Books), I have devoured four Wodehouse volumes (20+ separate stories) and have started on a fifth.

P.G. Wodehouse is best known for his series about Bertram Wooster and his valet, Jeeves. These stories usually go something like this:

  1. Bertie or one of his friends either needs to escape from an engagement, or to convince a rich relative to let him marry a girl of questionable status.
  2. Bertie seeks advice from his brilliant valet, Jeeves.
  3. Jeeves coldly fails to offer help. Bertie surmises it is because he has recently bought some article of clothing of which Jeeves disapproves.
  4. Determined not to be ruled by his valet, Bertie elects to keep said article of clothing, and comes up with his own plan to get out of the bind.
  5. Bertie’s plan fails miserably.
  6. Suddenly, everything works out – and we discover it was all Jeeves’ doing after all.
  7. Bertie, overcome with gratitude, offers to let Jeeves dispose of the aforementioned offensive article of clothing.
  8. Jeeves informs Bertie that he has already taken the liberty of doing so.

Occasionally a plot involves betting on the fatness of uncles or on community sack races. But you get the picture.

Yet, with such predictability, I am never bored. Here’s why.

Wodehouse’s Points of Awesome

Hilarious Voice.

Although Wodehouse gives us plenty of situational comedy, very little (besides your serotonin levels) has changed by the end; the story serves more as a vehicle for wit than as an end to itself – wit which continually surprises when the plot does not.

Iconic Characters.

Wodehouse’s heroes are more iconic than cliché, and the contrast between Bertie’s bumbling lovability and Jeeves’ sophisticated stoicism is inherently funny, in much the same way the contrasts between Kirk and Spock, Holmes and Watson, and Gimli and Legolas are inherently funny.

Running Gags.

This is a case of Manuel explaining to Mycroft the difference between “funny once” jokes and “funny all the time” jokes. Some things are funny because they’re unexpected; some things are funny because “oh, that is so like him!” such as Garfield kicking Odie off the table, or the Earth getting blown up in the Hitchhiker’s trilogy.

Surprises.

While Wodehouse’s work usually follows a pattern, occasionally he still surprises you – like when Jeeves narrates instead of Bertie, or when a friend forces Bertie to masquerade as a mass market romance novelist. The patterns then serve to make the surprises all the more delightful.

Someone in an Amazon review called Wodehouse the Mozart of formula fiction; I’m inclined to agree. Wodehouse may always use the same ingredients, but they are quality ingredients.

So if formula is your forte, don’t use the stereotype as an excuse to be sub-par. Strive instead for the above four Points of Awesome. Strive to make the best macaroni and cheese ever.

Inspiration Monday: Digital Ghost

I had an awesome weekend. Wrote 3,400 words, had my tires rotated, and watched The History of Future Folk (which I highly recommend) with the family.

How about y’all?

Here’s a way to start your week off right:

ARNeal

Chris

Elmo

Evan

PrincessDeloso

The Rules

There are none. Read the prompts, get inspired, write something. No word count minimum or maximum. You don’t have to include the exact prompt in your piece, and you can interpret the prompt(s) any way you like.

OR

No really; I need rules!

Okay; write 200-500 words on the prompt of your choice. You may either use the prompt as the title of your piece or work it into the body of your piece. You must complete it before 6 pm CST on the Monday following this post.

The Prompts:

DIGITAL GHOST

NEVER SEND A MAN TO DO A BOY’S JOB

FIDDLESTICKS

BLACK LIGHT

WHAT DOES THIS BUTTON DO?

Want to share your Inspiration Monday piece? Post it on your blog and link back to today’s post; I’ll include a link to your piece in the next Inspiration Monday post. No blog? Email your piece to me at bekindrewrite (at) yahoo (dot) com. (I do reserve the right to NOT link to a piece as stated in my Link Discretion Policy.)

Plus, get the InMon badge for your site here.

Happy writing!

Inspiration Monday: The Doctor is Sick

To the British InMonsters: y’all aren’t those folks posting Sherlock spoilers on Pinterest, are you? ‘Cause seriously, it’s like England is trying to get back at America for that whole independence thing. For crying out loud, that was 200 years ago! What would River Song say???

Here, let’s consume some content that gets released to all countries simultaneously:

SAM

Evan

DJMatticus

Eleenie

PrincessDeloso

ARNeal

Chris

LLDFiction

TheImaginator

The Rules

There are none. Read the prompts, get inspired, write something. No word count minimum or maximum. You don’t have to include the exact prompt in your piece, and you can interpret the prompt(s) any way you like.

OR

No really; I need rules!

Okay; write 200-500 words on the prompt of your choice. You may either use the prompt as the title of your piece or work it into the body of your piece. You must complete it before 6 pm CST on the Monday following this post.

The Prompts:

THE DOCTOR IS SICK

STAGE PRESENCE

ANALOG

SPOILERS*

UNDER THE FINGERNAILS

Want to share your Inspiration Monday piece? Post it on your blog and link back to today’s post; I’ll include a link to your piece in the next Inspiration Monday post. No blog? Email your piece to me at bekindrewrite (at) yahoo (dot) com. (I do reserve the right to NOT link to a piece as stated in my Link Discretion Policy.)

Plus, get the InMon badge for your site here.

Happy writing!

*Yeah, I know.

Death of a Hero

Image by Neil McIntosh

Image by Neil McIntosh

I don’t usually go to the parades. It seems in bad taste. They can thank me if they want, but the it’s-what-anyone-would’ve-done shrug is part of the unwritten heroes’ code.

Besides, it’s just awkward.

But this time, I needed to look into their grateful, shining eyes. I needed to feel I’d done the right thing. I ­knew I’d done the right thing, but feeling it is something else altogether.

I watched from the back of the square, on the darkened threshold of a closed office building. A four-piece brass band was playing strains of the Wonderkind theme song some web-lebrity had written the year before. A black and gold confetti hurricane swirled above the heads of the crowd, who were singing the lyrics like it was some anthem of hope for humanity. A man with a goatee sold t-shirts printed with the silhouette of my mask.

I didn’t make myself known until the speeches began. Two dozen first-graders and their parents sat in folding chairs on the stage. At a sign from the mayor, the first couple stood. The woman stepped up to the podium; I stepped out of the shadows. At first, nobody noticed me.

“My little girl, Madison, is seven years old,” she began. A roar went up from the crowd as I floated into the air. At least two thousand smart phones were raised and pointed in my direction, and I saw my masked face take over the jumbotron. For a moment, I was afraid they would rush me; for a moment, the woman was stunned. But then she kept talking, directing her words to me instead of to the crowd.

“She’s my baby,” said the woman, “And I would have lost her that day if—”

Her husband put an arm around her as the tears drowned the words in her throat, but everyone knew what she was going to say anyway.

And it went on like that, parent after parent, at the podium, telling me thank you, thank you, thank you. Getting all choked up thinking about what could have happened. What they would have been grieving, if it wasn’t for me. But as I kept glancing at my face on the screen—it was unmissable—I never saw the pain leave my own eyes. All I could think about was the couple that was grieving, the one that had lost their baby. The mother who had hugged me when I told her what happened, who said she understood, it wasn’t my fault. The father who nodded his agreement, but who couldn’t look me in the eye because he was thinking the same thing I was. Why couldn’t you save her, magic man? You break the laws of physics all the time. Couldn’t you do this one little thing?

But doing one impossible thing doesn’t mean you can do them all. Gravity may mean nothing to me, but I’m not bulletproof. I can’t shoot lasers out of my eyes.

I can’t be two places at once.

Suddenly, the speeches were over, the crowd was roaring again. I realized I’d sunk quite a bit, and was now hovering just above the ground. Just at the level for the reporters to get at me. The first was a brunette woman with a mini sound recorder.

“Tiffany Starling, Canfield Gazette. In all the years you’ve served our city, Mr. Wonderkind, you’ve never come to any of your own celebrations before. Why this one? What has changed?”

She pointed the recorder at my mouth, waiting for my answer: I just looked at the faces around me. There was some naïve admiration and gratitude, but there was more curiosity, lust for gossip, hunger for scandal and fame.

“I understand a young woman, a Sandra Ellis, was killed on the other side of town around the same time you were saving the bus. There have been rumors that you were in a relationship with Miss Ellis. Is that true, and if so, how are you dealing with her loss?”

Their phones were raised; several steps away, but still in my face, thousands of eyes drinking me in, begging for juicy clips to become their tickets to viral success.

“Did you know she was in danger?” the reporter continued, taking my silence as confirmation. “How did you make the heart-wrenching decision to save the children?”

Heart-wrenching. What a sensationalist cliché. It was true, of course. Truer than anything ever was, but speaking it somehow cheapened my pain. My hand moved unconsciously to the pistol strapped to my leg. Camera phones flashed around me as the crowd took advantage of one of their favorite Wonderkind poses.

Only slightly discouraged by my failure to reply, the reporter tried again. “Seeing the hope and the joy and the…the gratitude all around you, right now, what are you feeling right at this moment?”

That question, I would answer. I drew my pistol.

I shot her in the face.