Stephen Michael Roth

Why I Self-Published & Why You Should Consider It

Hello! Welcome back to the blog. It’s been a while since I last posted, so I should probably give you an update. Reel Ghosts is available for purchase on Amazon (there’s a link in the Books tab on the menu). It’s part of the Kindle Unlimited program. If you’ve read it, an honest review would be greatly appreciated. I’m currently reading the first draft of my next novel, The House That Wasn’t There. The possibilities are exciting. Enough about what I’m doing. Let’s talk about why I decided to go with self-publishing.

If my calculations are correct (something might have slipped through the cracks of time) then I have written 7 novels in my lifetime. The House That Wasn’t There will be number 8. Of Those 7 finished novels, 5 have been in the middle grade horror genre, while 2 have been adult horror. That’s a lot of writing, where much was learned about myself as a writer and the writing process. The first novel I wrote (a middle grade horror novel) wasn’t seen by anyone’s eyes but mine. That’s fine, as it wasn’t a good book. The second book (an adult horror novel) was better, yet wasn’t publishable. The handful of agents I queried agreed. For a span in my late twenties and early thirties, I focused on middle grade horror, finishing 4 novels. It was during that time I realized submitting to only a handful of agents wouldn’t get the job done (thanks internet). Querying more agents came with a drawback. If you have queried agents before, then you know what I’m referencing. Rejection. I received a lot of rejection letters and emails during that span. I wrote what I still think was the best middle grade novel I’m capable of writing. It was rejected. The early posts on this blog chronicled my journey as I switched from a middle grade horror writer to solely focusing on adult horror. Reel Ghosts was the product of that change in focus, a novel that attempted to blur the line between psychological and paranormal horror. I was and still am proud of that novel. Seeing it rejected was hard.

By the time I realized Reel Ghosts wasn’t going to be traditionally published, I had become jaded towards the mainstream publishing world. I had read books by authors whom I felt weren’t as talented as I, nor were their books as good. Jaded and more than slightly bitter, I know.

There was another problem. I felt as if I was stuck in an endless loop that kept repeating. Write. Submit. Reject. Write. Submit. Reject. The loop was a byproduct of my own self-confidence, caused by a single-minded focus that failed to see other avenues as valid. The loop needed to be broken. The choice was obvious, though difficult.

Self-publishing.

Self-publishing has its pros and cons. Pros: control, more accepted than in the past, access to a wide variety of readers are just a few. Cons: self-promoting can be an issue, standing out in the crowd, requires discipline.

It’s a hard road if chosen. I’m still learning lessons. Hopefully, in the future I’ll be able to write a post about how to be successful as a self-published author. Right now, I’m still walking that road.

Now, should you choose to self-publish your novel?

Do you want to take control of your writing and publishing future?

Are you good at self-promotion?

Can you properly manage your time between writing, revisions, and promoting?

There are a lot of self-published books out there. Can you stand out from the crowd?

Output is important in the self-publishing world. The more books you have out in the world, the more likely you are for a reader to find you. Therefore, can you write quickly enough to take advantage?

Ultimately, the decision is yours. I’m glad to have broken the loop and delved into a new adventure. Where that adventure takes me remains to be seen. Thanks for reading, and remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Roth

An Exciting Adventure

After a long journey of querying, I’ve made the decision to quit. Don’t worry, I’m not quitting writing. Instead, I’ve decided to quit waiting for the gatekeepers of the literary world (literary agents) for their approval. I’ve decided to quit allowing my self-worth to be dictated by someone else. I’m jumping the fence, so to speak. I’m doing this by self-publishing my book through Kindle Direct Publishing.

I’ll expand on this decision in the future. In the meantime, here’s the link.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DCDPYZWK/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=2GU3QJ3H2MOOW&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.cTJxIdYWFGGO0v-B5W1Vktokm8kUY37qEcz7ZnDAAmup21eV8rs9T57FKLG7BcdetAmg1l6ZkfC6GoS9X3nb4_VMmsFWwS0kNZQima9SBeXPma1bWC9ycsMZ0iKt0vrFVtiiE-6W0sXwBXRjdZS98Ry0Ezl0lgxFq126YjTeno3nBUcPjuH_o73RTQ2RLpQoAOfSS6X0aXTMJ2pSqYPkYA.eJn9eV7jY505uliQQ82ut37j_BczVXMeBy-L01g-qvw&dib_tag=se&keywords=reel+ghosts&qid=1723071793&sprefix=real+ghosts%2Caps%2C211&sr=8-1

The Assemblyman

In recent weeks, I’ve been working on something that has excited for the future and thankful to finally being moving forward with this journey. Stay tuned for more information in the coming weeks. In the meantime, allow me to tell you a tale that was inspired by the novel, 1984. This is the Assemblyman.

Enjoy.

In a large factory, an assembly line stretched as far as the eye could see. The products assembled on the line varied dramatically depending on the day. Yesterday, the three thousand assemblymen assembled bicycles one piece at a time. Last week, it had been a curious device with a trigger and a long shaft that none of the assemblymen would have recognized as a rifle. Today, it was a simple three-foot by three-foot box, assembled like a jigsaw puzzle one piece at a time. Assemblyman 274 didn’t recognize it for the busy work that it was. Keeping the body occupied was an important factor in maintaining order, not that 274 thought much about it. In fact, his mind was utterly blank as he applied a thick layer of glue to the unfinished box in front of him. The box moved along the line, where Assemblyman 275 inserted the wooden jigsaw piece into place, covering his gloved hands in sticky glue in the process.

The hum of the conveyor moving the assembly line steadily along was the only sound in the factory. That was until the sound of wooden jigsaw pieces clattering to the concrete floor echoed throughout the large space.

274 snuck a glance down the line to his right, doing so without moving his head.

A dozen workers down the line, a tall assemblyman crouched awkwardly to pick up the pieces off the ground. His hands moved quickly, piling the pieces on the table of his workstation. The area was littered with wooden jigsaw pieces. 274 looked away as guard 87 walked briskly in the direction of the assemblyman with his hand grasping the handle of the rectification rod attached to his belt.

274 stared straight ahead as he applied glue to the next unfinished box. The sound of solid wood meeting bare flesh caused him to cringe involuntarily. The screams of the tall assemblyman echoed throughout the large, empty space.

Waves crashed on the shoreline of a sun-soaked beach in an undisclosed location. Knox had set his woven beach chair close enough to the water so his toes would be tickled by each incoming wave. He closed his eyes, taking in the crispness of the water on his parched skin. A few seconds of bliss later, and it was over. Another would soon replace it if he was patient enough.

A seagull squawked repeatedly somewhere overhead. His moment of tranquility interrupted; Knox opened his eyes. The flying rodent in question was circling overhead making an obscene racket. A larger seagull, obviously as annoyed as Knox was, flew by and delivered a peck to the noisy bird. The squawking ceased.

A buzzer sounded in the factory from a speaker mounted to the wall, signifying the end of the working day. The final wooden box had reached the end of the assembly line seconds before the buzzer went off. This happened daily, regardless of the time, though without a clock in the factory 274 had no way of noticing the discrepancy. Simply, the workday wasn’t finished until the work was finished.

274 stood in unison with his fellow assemblymen. They exited the factory, walking in a single file line. Sky blue painted the walls of the hallways as they walked, as if they were walking through a sunlit park surrounded by trees, rather than in a building surrounded by concrete. Being outside would have been quite upsetting for 274, as he hadn’t felt the warmth of the sun upon his skin since he came of age. Those memories were supposed to be suppressed, though he had cordoned off select memories. He could only draw upon those memories during the hours when They thought he was asleep. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring anything forth any other time.

The line slowed as they entered the cafeteria. The concrete walls were painted white. Concrete flooring had given way to white tiled flooring, with a large red arrow indicating the direction the line was to move, despite not needing the help. Large tables with bench seats lined the room. Each person procured a tray, which they put a bowl, spoon, cup, and napkin on.

274 watched as a spoonful of beige mush was dropped into his bowl by a slack-faced woman wearing a hairnet on her auburn hair. A similarly slack-faced man pressed the nozzle on a dispenser, filling his cup with a cloudy liquid that was supposed to be water.

Meal in hand, he followed the line until they arrived at the empty table near the end of the row. He waited for the table to fill, then they sat in unison. Spoonful by spoonful they ate the mush with slack faces, staring into their bowls all the while.

The sun was setting as Knox got out of the beach chair. He knew he should move the chair away from the water, lest the coming tide wash it away. Of course, that had never happened, so he walked away, leaving the chair where it lay.

It was a short walk to the cantina where he dined every day. He followed the wood slats on the boardwalk that conveniently led from his beach spot to the cantina. While he walked, he gazed at the remaining blue in the sunsetting sky.

The cantina was a small building, if it could even be called a building at all. It had a deck constructed of heavily weathered wood that somehow managed not to splinter his bare feet. There was a canopy overhead, made of bamboo and palm tree leaves. It was open air, so Knox could enjoy the sunset while he dined. A bar constructed of bamboo ran the length of the cantina. There were a dozen tables, though he never saw anyone else sitting at them.

He was greeted with a smile by an olive-skinned bartender. She was as mysterious as she was beautiful. The rays of the setting sun seemed to find their way into the cantina to shine off her black hair. Her crimson lips reminded him of an apple, both begging for a touch from his lips.

Sitting on the bar in front of her was a plate of freshly caught fish, rice, and grilled vegetables. It was the only way he would eat mushrooms. The beautiful bartender—whom he still didn’t know the name of, even after all these years—seemed to know that without him having spoken so aloud.

He returned her smile, grabbed his plate, and took his seat at his usual table. He watched the sunset in silence.

After dinner, 274 stood, again in unison with his fellow assemblymen. As they exited the cafeteria, each deposited their tray and utensils into the appropriate slot in the wall, where each would be washed and readied for tomorrow’s breakfast service.

In the hallway, the walls had changed from sky blue to black. The lighting had also dimmed, signifying the coming of night.

He shuffled along, following assemblyman 273 until he came to a door marked 274. Each of them stopped at the door with their number written in black lettering. A buzzer sounded when everyone was in place. In unison, they opened their doors and entered their sleeping quarters.

Inside, all the rooms were the same, industrial and void of personality. The walls were unpainted concrete, the floor was the same. A bed with a green wool blanket and insufficient pillow was mounted on one wall. There was a toilet and sink in the corner.

274 took off his gray coveralls and hung it on one of the two hooks by the door. There was a matching set of coveralls on the other hook, ready for him to wear tomorrow. When he arrived after work tomorrow, there would be a replacement, as there was every day.

The lights went out as he climbed into bed. 274 lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting.

It was a short walk from the cantina to the small bungalow where Knox slept each night. He enjoyed the sound of the tide washing along the shore as he walked. It was a fine evening for a walk.

The bungalow had simplicity in mind, as he didn’t require much. A place to rest his head, simple as that. There weren’t walls, as he had never been bothered by anyone during his stay in this tropical paradise. A hammock hung from the rafters of the roof. He climbed in the hammock and was quickly asleep.

Images of his childhood flooded 274’s thoughts. They came out of nowhere, as they did every night. One second his mind would be curiously blank, only to be replaced by thoughts or memories from his childhood. He had tried to draw upon more recent memories but had failed. Everything from after he joined The System seemed to be off limits.

In the memory, it was 274’s birthday. His twelfth birthday, to be exact. It was an important milestone for those living both in and out of The System. His family was of the latter group, though it didn’t matter. In The System or out, they would find you when you became of age. His parents were also of age, obviously, though had been deemed unworthy—or was it untrustworthy?—of a transition to a life within The System.

He knew they would come for him on this day, like they had for his brother two years prior, also on his brother’s twelfth birthday. He hadn’t seen his brother since. Yet, he willed it not to happen. Other children whispered about an omnipotent deity in the sky watching over them. They did so with an eye on the instructors in the reformatory, knowing if they were heard the punishment would be severe. 274—his parents had given him a name back then, though he couldn’t remember it now—hadn’t a notion if such a being existed, but on his twelfth birthday, he did something he hadn’t done before. He prayed to this deity, asking to be saved.

Later that same day, he could curse the deity with tears in his eyes as he was ripped from his mother’s arms.

The memory was replaced by an image of a sandy beach. It was a curiosity for one reason. 274 had never been to the beach, therefore, it wasn’t a memory. Then what was it?

He fell asleep still pondering the answers.

Knox awoke the next morning feeling as he did every morning, surprised by his surroundings. It was as if his mind went somewhere else while he was asleep, only to awaken back in his body. By the time his feet hit the wood planks of the cabana, his bearings were back. The view of the sun rising over the open ocean didn’t hurt either. Instantly, he knew it would be a good day.

He walked to the beach wondering what he had done to deserve this paradise.

If 274 had a functioning mind, he would have wondered what he had done to deserve the hell he found himself in. Each day was a mirror image of the previous day. The only thing that changed were the voices of his fellow assemblymen screaming in agony as they were beaten. It was a mindless existence, while his mind had been with him the previous evening, 274 had the brainwave that was exactly what The System had in order.

Breakfast was the same beige mush he had eaten the previous evening for dinner. Luckily, he didn’t have the consciousness to wonder whether it was freshly made or had sat out all evening, only to be reheated come morning, or what in the hell the mush was made from.

Instead, he ate while staring into his bowl. His mind was void of thought.

Knox ate a refreshing omelet with cheese and peppers for breakfast in the cantina. When finished, he walked to his usual place on the beach. His beach chair was untouched by the tide. He sat, wondering what he should do today, then did nothing.

As he sat on the beach, doing nothing, something happened that hadn’t happened before. Yet for some reason it happened on that day.

Knox fell asleep.

Assemblymen 274 looked around the room with utter clarity for the first time in…well, he wasn’t sure how long. Probably since that fateful day twenty years ago when he was taken from his mother’s arms. Wait, he wasn’t supposed to be able to remember that now. That memory was locked away, sealed behind an impenetrable door. Yet, remember it he had. If he could remember, that meant he could think, truly think for himself.

An unfinished wooden box passed along the conveyor belt in front of him, waiting for the glue so 275 could insert the jigsaw piece into place. It passed without an application of glue from his brush. This had occurred for two reasons. First, 274 had been stricken motionless by his sudden ability to think for himself. Second, he recognized the wooden box for what it was, a useless piece of wood that was only meant to keep the assemblymen busy between important jobs. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, as his mother had been fond of saying when he was a child.

Another box passed in front of him. Again, he didn’t apply the necessary coat of glue. Assemblymen 275 glanced in his direction before putting the piece into place without glue. 274 knew it didn’t matter. The System likely had a disassembly crew that would break the boxes apart, leaving the jigsaw pieces ready for another use. 274 knew this just as he knew the name his mother had blessed him with at birth.

Something struck the back of his head. Blackness engulfed assemblymen 274.

The bright florescent lights of the factory hurt his eyes as he stared at the ceiling from the ground. There was a throbbing in his head, the back of which was sticky with his own blood. Despite the pain, there was a clarity that had never been there previously. Something had happened while he had been unconscious, a merging of two entities, once thought to be separate from each other and oblivious of each other. Now those entities were one, never to be separated again.

“Assemblyman 274, stand up!” guard 87 ordered in a commanding voice that had never been defied.

He stood slowly, as the pain in his head caused the ground to sway on its axis.

“Assemblyman 274, you may resume your work. Take your seat.”

Blood dripped from the thick end of the rectification rod still held tightly in the guard’s hand.

“No.”

Guard 87 struck with both speed and ferocity, hitting him in the stomach. The blow brought him to his knees. After a couple deep breaths, he stood again.

“Assemblyman 274, retake your—”

“My name is Knox,” Knox said, sealing his fate.

Thanks for reading. Until next time, remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen M. Roth

It’s Okay to be a Quitter

Last month, I stopped writing a novel mid-first draft. It was the first story I had quit in more than ten years. Was it a return of a much-maligned phase from my twenties, in which I seemed to quit more stories than I finished? Was my writing career over? Should I stop querying my novel and give up every literary based dream I’ve ever had? Obviously, I’m dramatizing, but only slightly. I spent a week panicking, but eventually realized it was for the best. That’s right, dear readers, being a quitter can be a good thing, though it will take me a thousand words or so to explain why.

The trouble with Dirt (the tentative title of the story) started from the beginning of the planning process. It was a story that I felt readers would enjoy, though didn’t bring forth much excitement from me. Now, I had wrestled with such stories before, and thought I could handle it, after all, I had been writing for twenty years. I would buckle down and write the novel. It was the wrong decision.

Things started rather promising, as I constructed the foundation of the novel through character development. My main character was complicated (read not entirely likable), which happens to be the type of character writers tend to enjoy writing. Unlikeable characters are fun because they don’t act like your typical protagonist. Instead, they make decisions that causes the reader to question their judgement. It’s the type of character that leaves a reader screaming at a book, leaving people around you to question your sanity.

The main problem with Dirt was the introduction of an unimportant secondary character. This character had a run-in with the M.C.’s wife while in a cafe. Dazzled by my own writing abilities, I allowed myself to integrate this character into the main plot of the novel, therefore, changing the plot entirely. She was much too interesting to be a sidenote, she needed for the entire novel to revolve around her! It turned the novel about city slickers dealing with strange happenings on a farm into a love triangle. It was not the novel I set out to write.

I forged on, figuring that while I didn’t set out to write a love triangle, some readers would enjoy it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t enjoying the writing process. I avoided coming to the laptop after work during my regular writing time. Eventually I had to face the truth. I wasn’t enjoying the novel; therefore, it would never get done. I decided to take a break.

Two weeks later, I returned to the story having solved my character problem. I would kill the meddlesome character, which worked for the overall plot of the novel. Problem solved, right? Wrong. The trouble was me. I still wasn’t enjoying the story and the words abandoned me. I was blocked.

When you quit a story there are a lot of thoughts that flood your mind, most of which pertain to being a failure. At least, those were my thoughts. In my twenties, I had a problem with quitting novels. You see, in those days I was a short story writer focusing most of my time and energy into building a resume so I could acquire a coveted literary agent. My brain worked on the scale of the short story, therefore, writing a novel was a daunting task (ironically, now I’m long winded and writing short stories is much harder). I would start with a flurry, but eventually would grow bored and quit. It took discipline before I was able to finish a novel, though it wasn’t a good one.

Had my old habits returned? I don’t think so, though I have yet to start a new novel (only time will prove me right). Instead, the failure of Dirt can be accounted for by several errors on my part. I chose to write a story I thought would interest others, rather than myself (always write for yourself, outsiders should be involved only after the first draft). I also broke a big rule of mine, which is listen to the story, for it is king. The story didn’t need that secondary character to take a front seat, she was well-placed in the back seat where she belonged. If you only listen, the story will tell you where it wants to go. I stopped listening. I thought I knew better and was humbled for it.

Are there valid reasons for quitting a story? That depends on your point of view. Here are the various reasons I’ve found for quitting a story in the past:

Writer’s block
Didn’t enjoy the story
Didn’t plan enough
Planned too much
Got bored

How about a positive list? Here are some ways to avoid quitting:

Choose a story that you’ll enjoy writing.
Whether you’re a plotter or a pantzer, choose a method of story planning that works for you (I’m a hybrid).
Don’t tackle a novel until you’re sure that you’re ready.
Shake things up if you get bored.
Listen to the story, it’s king, after all.

One last thing about quitting. I found my voice while attempting to write that elusive novel. I never would have finished one if I hadn’t started in the first place. So, if you’re waiting for an invitation, well, allow me. Go ahead, write that novel, and don’t be afraid to quit if things go awry. Just don’t make a habit of it. Until next time, remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Roth

A Reintroduction

It’s been a year and a half since my latest post. What has happened in that span? Will this blog change? What does the future hold?

I realized that working a full time job, writing a novel, and keeping up with this blog was hard. Something had to give. Unfortunately, it was the blog.
I work in a warehouse that specializes in shipping bbq and meat packaging supplies across the country. That entails lifting heavy packages, shipping packages, and being on my feet all day.
I have four children. Their ages are 16, 11, 9, and 3 (we think of the youngest as our special blessing, which I wrote about in this post).
I’ve been busy querying literary agents about my novel, Reel Ghosts, over the past year. Fifty queries in all, yet no offers of representation. Not so much as a request for a full manuscript reading.
I’ve realized that traditional publishing isn’t in the cards for me at this time. So, I stopped querying. I felt like I was stuck in an endless loop where I repeated the same mistakes over and over, hoping and praying for different results. I decided my self-worth will not be defined by a literary agent’s opinion.
While I was querying, I started a new novel. It was a story that had been on my mind for a year at that point.
The writing process was rife with trouble from the beginning. I really should read my own blog and take my own advice, as I broke several of my own rules. I started a story that I thought people would like, rather than one that I liked. That lack of enthusiasm on my part led to trouble, as I would avoid writing after work when possible. I thought I knew best, rather than listening to the story. That decision led the story to change into something I hadn’t meant to write. So, I took a break, knowing full well that I wouldn’t return to it. Yet, I surprised myself by returning to the novel after 2 weeks. I had solved my problem. I would kill a troublesome character that I had morphed from a single scene side story into a novel stealing problem. It would have worked (at least I think so) had I been able to find the words. I was blocked. The troublesome story was dead, and I had killed it with my ego, forgetting that I’m not the stories creator but a conduit by which the story is told.
In a previous post, lessons learned, I listed some of the things I have learned as a writer. A lot of these were through my own experiences and mistakes. I thought I was done making mistakes in this field. I was wrong.
Now I’m searching for a novel to write, while embarking on an exciting new adventure. Which is…
I plan to self-publish Reel Ghosts.
The timetable for publishing Reel Ghosts is uncertain. Currently, I’m reading through the manuscript, and putting a final polish on it. There will be some formatting that needs to happen in order to publish. Lastly, I plan on asking a few trusted people for their opinions on the novel before publishing. I’ll update on this blog and on social media when I have a publishing date.
Here’s a hard truth. When I started this blog, I didn’t know what it was going to be. Years later, I still don’t know. I knew that a writer needed a website or a blog in order to be taken seriously in the publishing world. Is that a good reason to have a blog?
I’m still not sure what this blog will look like going forward, however, I can promise insights from my personal experience, along with an occasional story.

Hopefully, you won’t have to wait a year and a half for my next post. Until then, remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Roth

Lessons Learned

Last month, I turned 38 years old. I submitted my first story for publication at 19; it was rejected. With nearly twenty years of trying (and mostly failing) in the books, I thought others could learn from my experience. It’s said that we learn more from our failures than our successes. It feels true in my case, and I’ve learned a lot. This is by no means a comprehensive list. It’s also a more personal one than you’ll find other places. Enjoy.

Write. Simply write.
Read. Simply read.
Be yourself (I’m working on post about this topic, as it’s an important recent lesson).
A writer must have thick skin. You’ll spend dozens of hours on a story (much more in the case of a novel). That story will become an integral part of your life; it’s your baby. You’ll show off that baby to others (magazine editors and literary agents among others), who don’t find it as darling as you. They’ll thrash your baby. You’ll get defensive, being the protective parent you are. Don’t.
Rejection isn’t personal.
Rejection isn’t personal (the lesson so important I listed it twice).
Don’t immolate your heroes. There are dozens of people already doing this. Instead, be original.
Only editors like editing, but nothing makes a story better than a proper edit from the creator of the story.
Be thankful for the words that come because there may come a time when the words stop.
Know when to listen to criticism and when to put your fingers in your ears like a five-year-old repeating, “I can’t hear you.”
Celebrate achievements. There’s usually someone who has been missing you while you’ve been tucked away in the office working on that “damned novel.” Take them out to show your gratitude.
Your self-worth shouldn’t depend on others.
Story is everything…
Unless it isn’t. Voice matters.
Let the story speak to you, go where it chooses, haters be damned.
Write what you know sounds good in theory but is also bullshit in most applications. Sure, a lawyer writing a legal drama makes sense. In the horror world, however, few of us are experts on serial killers or ghosts. But…
Do your research. Your search history will look questionable, and you’ll likely end up on a watch list by the FBI, but it’s the price to be paid when not an expert in the field.
Social media isn’t that bad.
Finish the story.
It’s okay not to finish the story. I’m aware this counteracts the previous lesson. Look, there are times when a story doesn’t come together for various reasons (too vague of an idea was my main failure in my twenties). It’s okay. I wouldn’t recommend making a habit of it, but it’s okay.
Don’t take breaks from a story. When I was a young writer, I took a long weekend away from the keyboard. That weekend turned into a week. When I returned to the laptop, the story didn’t come with me. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was blocked, but I couldn’t find the right tone again. Perhaps that is blocked, sobeit I was blocked.
Unrelated, seemingly trivial stories can connect to become profound.
If you learn from failure, it becomes a lesson. If you fail to learn, it’s simply failure.

What lessons have you learned from writing? Feel free to add your own in the comments.

Thanks for reading,

Stephen Roth

A Note: Some may have noticed this is my first post in some time. I apologize for my absence. A full-time job, a wife, four kids, and my creative writing have my plate filled. However, I will try to post on a more regular basis. Thanks again for reading.

Talking to Non-writers

I’m back! For those of you that aren’t familiar with this blog, it’s been some time since my last post. My absence can be explained by several factors. You only have to go back and read my previous post to learn that I have a baby in the house. Those late-night writing sessions disappeared for a while in favor of a bottle and a baby. I have also been working on a novel, which I finished the second draft of while on vacation last week (yes, I write on vacation). I also started a new job doing pick and pack in a warehouse. It’s a good gig but leaves me tired at the end of the day and with little time for writing. The novel is entering the editing phase, the baby is starting to sleep through the night, and the job has moved to part-time until business picks up in the autumn. That’s a long way of saying I finally have a small amount of free time to do things like this. Enough fluff, let’s get down to the business we love.

As writers, we all understand why it is we do this thing called writing. We don’t have to ask. We know not to ask another writer where they get their ideas or what they’re working on at the moment. We know that we do it because we must, that we don’t know where our ideas come from, or that we’d rather not discuss a work in progress. Non-writers, however, aren’t privy to this knowledge. They ask these questions or comment absurdly on the writing world, our world. What are these questions and comments? What do you want to say? How should you? Let’s discuss.

You’re still writing?

What you want to say: “No, I suddenly lost all my passion and resigned myself to a life without my creative outlet. I’m dead inside, thanks for asking.”

What you should say: Nothing, just smile and nod. Explaining passion to someone who has the audacity to ask such a question is a waste of time.

I’m thinking about writing a book (or other various forms).

What you want to say: “Don’t. It’s mentally draining, time consuming, and impossible for more than a select few to earn a living at. You want a hobby? Take up knitting.”

What you should say: “Great! The creative process is the best outlet I have. I’d love to give you some advice when you start.”

What are you working on now?

What you want to say: (Insert five-minute monologue about the main character and story arc here)

What you should say: (Give them your one sentence hook instead)

Where do you get your ideas?

What you want to say: “From a belligerent muse that sits in the corner drinking cheap whiskey and smoking cigarettes. As long as I keep both on hand, he’ll keep the stories coming.”

What you should say: “Well, every writer has their own process…” You know what? Give them the belligerent muse line.

Oh, I’ll have to watch my grammar around you!

What you want to say: “If I went around checking everyone’s grammar, I’d have to quit my day-job.”

What you should say: “That’s okay, listening to you speak naturally will help me with realistic dialogue.”

When is the book coming out?

(This is only annoying to those of us that don’t have a publishing deal or aren’t ready to self-publish.)

What you want to say: “As soon as I finish writing it, spend six months searching for an agent, wait another six months to find a publisher, then get to fix the novel that I thought I was done writing.”

What you should say: “In time.”

Do you know any famous writers?

What you want to say: “Obviously not or I’d have a literary agent.”

What you should say: “No. Why? Do you?”

I don’t read much.

What you want to say: “It shows.”

What you should say: “Really? You should try (insert name of author you genuinely believe they would enjoy).”

I hope you don’t write about me!

What you want to say: “I try to have interesting characters.

What you should say: *wink* “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

Obviously, these are in jest. Remember not to use any of these comments on your loved ones. They are patient and supportive while we are toiling away at that next masterpiece, return the favor. Until next time, remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Roth

A Grand Entrance

Today, I’d like to take a detour from our usual writing related topic in favor of a story that is near and dear to my heart. It’s a story I’ve told a number of times in the three weeks since its occurrence. Why is that? Well, it’s a doozy of a story, if I can say so myself (and I can since I was there). This is the story of how Wyatt James Roth entered the world.

For the past nine months my wife has been carrying our fourth child within her womb. It was a surprise pregnancy that came when our minds were still set on getting her health back to 100% after a noncancerous brain tumor was removed. Three or four years ago, we had decided to try for another little bundle of joy. Over time we had realized that it wasn’t meant to be and went about our lives, loving and raising our three daughters. Of course, for reasons that escape me now (and her likely as well) we didn’t go back on birth control.

I won’t go into detail about the journey of fear and faith we went through while she was in the hospital in Kansas City for the surgery to remove the tumor and later at home for the therapy to bring her back to normal—asking me to do so is asking me to relive the darkest days of my life. Know that one was conquered, while the other renewed. As I see it now, God thought we deserved some good after months of trials and tribulations. That came in the way of child number four.

Jokes ran rampant amongst our families during the nine months that Baby Roth grew in her stomach. “At this rate Stephen will be delivering the baby.” You see, my wife has been called a baby making machine (the words of one of the nurses who was present for the birth of Adelynn, baby #3). Each delivery has been faster than the previous. A worrying fact considering how quickly Avery, baby #1, entered the world. My sister in-law, who has a four-month-old daughter in which the delivery was over thirty hours, quipped, “All your deliveries don’t add up to that!” I don’t have to do the math to know she’s right. Adelynn, baby #3, was born just over an hour after my wife awoke me in the middle of the night. Luckily, in that instance I had the forethought to warn the nurse of the rapid progression that had flustered previous nurses and planned on doing the same this time around. I didn’t get that chance.

“At this rate Stephen will be delivering the baby.” It was only a joke. Now? Well…

Fast forward to May 27, 2021, one week from the due date. My wife had an appointment with her OBGYN that morning. Everything looked good. 3cm dilation and 70% effaced. I was thinking today might be the day, as she had gone into labor on the day of a doctor visit before. Sure enough, I got a text from my beloved later that her contractions were bad and five minutes apart. I grabbed the ready-bag and jumped in the car to pick her up from the in-law’s house. While I was there, I gave the girls a hug and we were off to the hospital.

As we got into the car, I thought about how strange it was to be heading to the hospital in the daytime—our three girls were born in the wee morning hours after little or no sleep. However, they say that boys are different. Right they are.

By the time we got to the hospital, I was sensing that it might not be the time. Her contractions had lightened in severity and distanced themselves. When she was checked in the hospital room by a doctor, she was still at 3cm. They waited an hour and checked again. Still the same. At that time, they started talking to her OBGYN about the next step. While she laid in the hospital bed, the contractions had distanced to a span of one every twenty to thirty minutes. The doctor came in and asked us how we felt about going home, which I had been expecting since a similar scenario played itself out with Abigail, baby #2. “Yes, if you think that’s right,” was the gist of what we told the doctor.

Now, herein lays the single problem I have with the way things played out. As they were talking about sending us home, which we agreed was the right call at the time, an hour had passed since she was last checked. For most women that wasn’t likely a problem. For the woman dubbed a baby making machine? Fuhgeddaboudit. You better check or else. Or else what? You’ll see.

Anyway, they sent us home with a warning that contractions were likely since she had been checked three times in a single day. She had two contractions as she got dressed. Hmm, interesting. Two more on the way to the car. Okay. Several more on the drive home. Uh, really? They said this would happen, so it was normal, right? That was what we talked about in the car on the way home. It was normal, right?

When we got home, I knew we were likely headed back to the hospital within a few hours, a la baby #2. But we had time for some grub, right? We ordered soup and sandwiches to keep it light, because, hey, she might be having a baby tonight. Soon after ordering, I realized it was likely a mistake. The contractions had increased in strength and frequency since we arrived home. She went to lay down in bed, while I had second thoughts about going home without insisting THEY CHECK HER.

The food arrived while she was breathing through the discomfort on the bed. Great! Who’s hungry? Not my wife, because she just vomited into the trashcan. I had a flashback to Abigail, baby #2, again. You see, when we were sent home with Abigail, we had enough time to eat a late dinner before going back to the hospital. That dinner ended up in a trashcan in the birthing room while the nurses were out of the room prepping for delivery—hence my warning to the nurse with Adelynn, baby #3. When she was done vomiting, I knew two things were true. 1) We needed to get to the hospital. 2) We needed to do it quickly.

I threw the food in the fridge, grabbed the trash bag full of vomit, and escorted the wife to the car (oh, the bag O’ vomit went into the dumpster, if you’re wondering). On the drive to the hospital, I encountered two slow moving drivers that happened to be side-by-side, because isn’t there always when you’re in a hurry? Great. Luckily, the drive was a short one. Was it short enough? Well, I wouldn’t be telling you this story if it was.

Eventually, I turned onto a different road, escaping the slow-moving duo. It was the home stretch; the hospital was a few minutes away. As I was preparing to turn onto the side street where the hospital’s parking garage was located, when my wife said the words I had been fearing. “My water just broke.” Luckily, she had the forethought to grab a towel from the linen closet, saving our seat in the process. Unfortunately, having been present for all her deliveries, I knew that the minutes between water breaking and hearing the first cries of a baby could be counted on a single hand.

I turned into the parking garage and started looking for the expectant mother parking. We had been fortunate enough earlier in the day to find such a parking spot. However, all were full as I scanned the parking garage. “Hurry, just park!” she said. “Where?” I thought or maybe said, I don’t remember. I continued along, following the arrows and panicking. Finally, an empty parking spot, and not just one but three.

I pulled into one of the three spots and went around to help her out of the car. “No, I’m not going anywhere. He’s coming!” she said as she stood beside the minivan.

“Should I get help?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. He’s coming!”

I scanned the parking garage for anyone that might be able to get help. It was empty. There was a door some thirty feet away. I hurried over to it. The door was made of glass, revealing a long corridor that disappeared around a corner. If I went in there, I wouldn’t be able to see my wife. No, that was no good. Next to the door there was a metal box with a picture of a phone and sign that said “emergency phone” on the front. I looked at the metal box in confusion. I touched the box. No obvious phone, nor were there hinges to indicate a lid or some other opening. Was it magic? Well, I’m not Harry Potter and Hogwarts never sent me a letter, so I abandoned it.

When I looked at my wife, I realized I had been away from her for too long. Later, I would find out she was busy pushing our son’s head out while I was busy with the door to nowhere and the magic box. I ran back to her side. She proceeded to tell me that his head is out and he’s coming. Thinking quick, I opened the sliding door of the minivan and flipped the captain seat back and out of the way. “Sit down,” I said to her. She didn’t want to. I insisted a few more times before giving up.

In a last-ditch effort to get help, I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the hospital’s number. I sighed in exasperation as I got an automated voice giving me options that I couldn’t comprehend in my panicked state. While I was holding the phone with my left hand, I was feeling between her legs with my right hand. Yes, the baby’s head was out.

Now, I’ve told this story several times in person to other men, husbands and fathers alike. Some have voiced their awe that I did what I did, while voicing their inability to do it themselves. Hogwash, I say. That’s the woman I love and the mother of my children. In her time of need am I present and responsive or absent and inactive? You can either be the man who caught the baby or the fool who stood and watched while she reached between her own legs and grabbed that baby—I don’t know about other women, but that’s the way my wife would’ve done it. I know my answer.

Decision made, I tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat of the van and knelt on the dirty parking garage floor. His head was fully out at that point, yet still held in place by the tight fit leggings she was wearing. The time for modesty was well passed, so I pulled her pants down, she even helped with a shaky hand. A final push from my wife and his torso was visible. At that point I grabbed him underneath the arms and pulled him free (probably not the best technique, but it beats landing on the concrete).

I pulled him close to my chest and patted his back. He let out a warbly cry in response. Then he peed on my shirt, which was already damp from the birthing process. I was about to take off my shirt to wrap him up, because we’re in a parking garage, you know, when my wife handed me the towel she had been sitting on in the van. Yeah, that was probably better than displaying my Dad Bod for the entire hospital to see.

So, there we were, my wife with her pants around her knees, while I’m kneeling in front of her holding a naked baby wrapped in towel. A naked baby that had since stopped crying, mind you. Perfectly ordinary, right? Well, it certainly seemed that way, because we had to stop a stranger walking by to ask them to alert the hospital, which she kindly did. As we waited, a car pulled into the empty space next to the one we were standing in. Two men got out and walked towards the hospital without batting an eyelash. People are in their own worlds these days or so it seems.

Remember when I said that Wyatt had stopped crying? Well, evidently the hospital had alerted a response team via an overhead page. They were listening for a crying baby.

Kneeling on concrete for ten minutes isn’t comforting to the knees, so I decided to try to stand. My beloved reminded me that I couldn’t do that because the umbilical cord was still attached to the placenta that had yet to be delivered. No problem, kneeling on concrete while holding my newborn baby boy wasn’t so bad. I was still kneeling when an off-duty nurse who had heard the page on her way out of the building approached us. After making sure that both mother and baby were doing well, she was able to get into quick contact with security. We owe a debt of gratitude to that off-duty nurse, who returned to check on both mother and baby the next day, this time in their room.

The response team was there within a minute of being made aware of our location. No less than a dozen nurses and staff members swarmed us. They loaded my wife, now carrying Wyatt in her arms, into a wheelchair. There was a spare wheelchair, and a nurse offered to give me a ride because I looked pale. Having made the long walk to the birthing and delivery floor once already, I agreed.

During the day and half stay in the hospital, it seemed everyone who entered the room commented on the delivery. “You’re the one that delivered in the parking garage.” It’s a story that we’ll likely be telling for a long time. The story of how I held him first (just kidding, honey). That’s the story of Wyatt James Roth and his grand entrance.

The picture at the top of the page was taken by my sister-in-law upon visiting Wyatt in the hospital and was where this story happened. The post today was longer than normal, but I hope you didn’t mind. I sure didn’t. Until next time, remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Michael Roth

The Long & Short Game

Yesterday, I finished reading the first draft of my horror novel, tentatively titled Reel Ghost (not a typo but an intentional play on words). At 136K words, it’s far longer than any story I’ve tackled in my many years writing about fictional people doing fictional things. No doubt it will go on a diet during the drafting/editing process; yet will remain a lengthy beast of a story when finished. I prefer a period away from a writing project after the first draft before I set about ripping it to shreds during the edit. This time around I spent that time editing a few short stories I had written before the novel. The longest of those short stories came in around 6K words, a far departure from the project I was taking a break from.

Working on three stories that were less than *pause to check and recheck math* 5% of my previous project was an experience I hadn’t been prepared for at the onset. Over the last few years, I have focused my attention on obtaining the seemingly unobtainable goal of becoming a traditionally published author (we’ll save the debate about traditional publishing vs self-publishing for another day). Naturally, a novel is the best way to achieve such a goal. Therefore, I have spent more time on novels and less time on the short stories where I honed my craft. I was focused on the long game—the novel—while getting lax with the short game—the short story.

“But both are stories! Aren’t all stories the same?” you say. Well, no, as a matter of fact, they aren’t. I will say that both need to contain the elements that all successful stories must have (voice, plot, effective characters, conflict, setting, beginning, middle, end, etc.). However, the nature of which a writer tells a short story is much different. In a novel there is room to expound on a subject to the writer’s content. The writer of the short story is awarded no such luxury, as the limited wordcount requires conciseness. A novel is like running a marathon, whereas a short story is a sprint. Sure, both involve running but any runner will tell you that the skills involved and the mindset for each are vastly different. If a runner starts a marathon at a blistering pace, they’ll likely run out of steam before reaching the finish line. A runner taking a leisurely pace in the 100-yard dash would have equally disastrous results, being left in the dust out of the gate as his competitors finish.

Writing a story with the wrong mindset can be disastrous for both the story and the writer. I spent most of my early twenties writing short stories to build my resume of publishing credits for an eventual novel. Spending more than a couple years focused on the short game meant a grim awakening when I decided the time had come to write the novel. That realization: writing a novel is hard. Brilliant, I know. Looking back, I’m not surprised I failed to complete those first few novel attempts, after all, I was a sprinter running a marathon. I was fast and furious out of the gate, straight into the rising action of the plot instead setting a comfortable pace by laying the groundwork of character and eventual conflict. Those first novel attempts were all abandoned, and some with a heartbreaking number of words and time spent in a futile effort to curtail the flailing efforts of a writer out of his depths.

I did eventually finish a novel and submit it to a few literary agents. The consensus was no. Of course, those agents were right. That was more than ten years ago, and I’ve grown as a writer and a storyteller since then (yes, those are different). It was a halfway decent idea written by a halfway decent writer, and this was a scenario where two halves didn’t equal a whole. No matter, we learn from our failures and I’m filled to my receding hairline with knowledge.

(A short aside for you young writers out there. I did a few things right and a lot more wrong in my younger days. Attempting to find my voice writing short stories? Right. Quitting multiple novels? Wrong. Only querying three agents when I did finish a novel? Wrong. Deciding that I wasn’t good enough and going back to writing short stories? Wrong, at least in part. Remember that attempting part of the first question? Well, I found my true voice while writing short stories the second time around. As for the deciding I wasn’t good enough part, well, I think we all have a voice inside our heads that is afraid of being rejected, of not being good enough for others or even ourselves. The best thing you can do, writer or not, is locate that annoyingly negative voice and rip out its tongue.)

Like I said earlier, I’ve dedicated the last few years in pursuit of a career as a novelist. When I have spare time between drafts of novels, I try to write as many short stories as I can. In the years that I focused solely on the short game, the average story was 3-4K words, with a few exceptions on both sides of that spectrum. Those are easily readable lengths that most magazine editors desire when space is at a premium. The short stories have gotten longer with my continued focus on the long game. I’ve found myself wanting to give as much detail as possible, while creating a fully developed character in the process. Of course, those things happen all the time in short stories, though keeping it brief can frustrate the most talented of writers. The script had flipped, this time around I was playing the short game with a long game mindset.

So here we are, the original plan for this post. Call them suggestions, tips, or general rules to follow when approaching the long and short games.

Novel (the long game)

Set a wordcount goal. Most writers that have been doing the deed for any length of time likely already do this. If you don’t, it’s a good suggestion, especially when tackling the marathon-like novel. Setting a wordcount goal is akin to a runner picking out an object, say a tree in the distance, and shooting for that rather than focusing on the 26.2 miles that lay ahead. When you get to the tree, pick out another target. Personally, I set both a daily goal (1K-2K words depending on the day) and a weekly goal (10K).
Have a plan. I’m not suggesting that pantsers should morph into planners by any means (for more information on plotter vs pantser click here). Yet knowing what you’re going to write before you sit down at the keyboard can expediate the process. I take a plantser (plotter/pantser hybrid) approach to novels. Several pages of notes that include character details and plot highlights are written before I start writing chapter 1. I also tend to plan 2-3 chapters ahead, so I know where I’m going, but still have creative freedom to scrap it on a whim (which does happen).
Take a break. No, not a long break. I speak from experience when I say that a long break from a novel can become permanent. Think of it more as a timeout. When focusing on a novel, I write 6 days a week and take 1 day off (usually Sunday). Troublesome storylines and unfulfilling characters can happen during the writing process. Often, I’ve solved these issues while my mind was elsewhere.
Remember it’s a marathon, not a sprint. Writing a novel is a long-term project that can’t be finished overnight. The first draft of Reel Ghost took around five months to complete. The subsequent drafts and edits will likely take the same amount of time—at least for me. Days can drag and you’ll find yourself looking in the distance for the finish line, only to find it isn’t in sight. Do yourself a favor, enjoy the process.

Short Stories (the short game)

Omit needless words. It’s true this is a piece of advice that should be carried into all facets of writing. Yet it should be taken into particular account considering the limited wordcount of short stories. After all, as a writer you’re combating the reader’s waning attention span and a literary magazine’s print space (or lack thereof).
Be mindful of your pacing. Having a story rejected is a harsh reality for a writer, but seeing comments attached to the rejection can offer an outsider’s perspective on the story. Years ago, I received a rejection with one such critique. The editor complimented my writing and several aspects of the story. The problem? According to the editor two scenes in the story were too long (his words). Confused because I remembered the story, I opened my Word document and doublechecked. All sections in the story were within two hundred words of each other, with the two in question falling in the middle. The sections weren’t too long per se, but rather dragged and slowed the pace. These sections contained character building elements and plotline developments integral to the story. A short story needs to deliver these elements in as concise a package as possible (omit needless words, remember?) or you might get an email stating “Thank you for submitting your story, but…” Also, it might be a good idea to save that two-hundred-word piece of dialogue for something else, like a novel.
Experimentation is fine. Ever wanted to write a first-person story from the perspective of a zombie? Perhaps you’d like to try your hand at writing science fiction. The short story is a wonderful conduit for stretching your creative muscle. If the story doesn’t work out? Hey, no big deal, you’ve only wasted a few days, not the months it takes to write a novel. Be prepared if you’re planning to sell your story to a magazine, however, not all editors are open to experimental work if you happen to stretch the preconceived notion of normal.
Remember it’s a sprint, not a marathon. I tend to write short stories fast and furious, then slow down for the editing process. Have a weekend to yourself and don’t know what to do? A five-thousand-word story should keep you busy. The beauty of a short story is in its briefness, which is what makes them so difficult to write. Yet with practice the short game can be mastered (I’ll let you know if I ever get there).

The wordcount tells me it’s time to end, dear reader. Until next time, remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Michael Roth

A Horrifying Mind

I am in possession of a horrifying mind. It’s both a blessing and a curse to have thoughts that instantly turn to the dark and macabre side of life. While on vacation a few weeks ago, my 13-year-old daughter and niece of the same age played in the ocean jumping waves and drifting ever so slowly away from the shoreline. My mind drifted to the rip tide warning and their foreseeable demise because of teenage obliviousness. All ended well (though they did receive a stern lecture from my wife, who went Mom/aunt mode). The knowledge of the ocean’s dangers and the strength of the tide was both a blessing and a curse during those five days on the Florida beach.

Yet there is something else in this horrifyingly macabre mind that I must share with you, dear reader. Like the knowledge that the ocean is both beautiful and deadly, it is a blessing and a curse.

I know what scares you.

The sound that emanates from another room in a house where you are supposed to be alone. You clutch yourself tighter as a chill courses through your body. The room catches your gaze as you contemplate investigating.

Shadows cling to the edges of a dimly lit parking garage as you hurry to your car. The support columns make a perfect hiding place for someone or something…

The black SUV with the tinted windows made identical turns as you and remains in your rearview mile after mile. It’s probably someone who lives in your neighborhood on their way home after a long day’s work. It’s nothing, nothing. Probably.

A young child stares at you with blank eyes while in a crowded space. There are many people around, but for some reason you have caught this youngster’s attention. You smile to deflect your unease. The child only stares back. Your brow gets sweaty as you avert your eyes, though you keep checking. Still the child stares.

The circus is in town for the weekend. Naturally, you take your family. A fun time is had by all. That is until the clowns make their way into the audience. Your pulse quickens as you watch them get closer and closer.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Comes a sound that reverberates throughout the house. You sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake. Someone is at the front door. A glance at the clock reveals a time in which no good news is unleashed.

A basement. Damp and dark and without lights.

If asked, you’d say you don’t believe in ghosts. Yet you cross to the other side of the street when passing that long-abandoned house. It’s the subject of whispers and rumors. You don’t believe it, of course. Your footsteps quicken while stealing glances out of the corner of your eye, nonetheless.

You stop for a bite to eat in a quaint little burg just off the highway while on a road trip. The streets aren’t exactly deserted, though the few people you do see return your gaze with icy glares of their own. On second thought, you aren’t hungry after all. What’s a few more miles?

Alexa/Siri suddenly speaks from across the room, answering a question you hadn’t asked. The room falls silent as your brain starts churning this over. If she is always listening, what else does the AI know?

You’re tossing and turning beneath the soothing fabric of your sheets in bed. Yet for an unknown reason you have awakened ever so slightly with a sense of unease. Your fluttering eyes catch glimpses of a small figure standing by your bedside. Now sitting up, you turn to see your child staring at you with a sleepy gaze. You wait for them to speak as your heart beats irregularly.

An elevator lurches as it starts its descent from the top floor of a high-rise building. It’s empty, other than you, of course. The pocket computer that is your cellphone has amazing reception all around the country, except in the elevator for some unknown reason. You look up at the surveillance camera wondering if anyone is truly manning the security desk, and if they’re awake.

While out about the town you have an encounter with someone claiming to know you. They know your name and even specify where you met. You have no recollection of this person despite your best efforts. Are you losing your mind? Or is something dastardly afoot?

If none of these rendered your spine tingled or your flesh speckled with goosebumps, don’t worry. There’s more in this horrifyingly macabre mind. However, I’ll save those for our next meeting in the confines of the imaginary world we create when writer and reader connect. In the meantime, I’ll return to the written page, pen in hand—my weapon of choice—to bring your fears to life, if only in your mind.

Because I know what scares you, even if you don’t.

I’ll see you on the written page and perhaps in your dreams. Thanks for reading. Remember to follow your dreams, even if they terrify you.

Stephen Michael Roth