Santa’s Treasure Hunt Blog Hop

Welcome to Santa’s Treasure Hunt blog Hop.

All you have to do, is follow Santa’s sleigh as he travels around the world.

Write down the Christmas word, given on each blog. Then click the link to get to the next stop. Please comment on the Christmas stories and poems the writers have featured especially for you.

When you’ve finished the hop, email your list of the Christmas words you have collected to kazzmoss@gmail.com.

Everyone with the correct list will go into a draw to win all the eBooks in Santa’s sack; not only are there many books, but there’s also a huge range of fiction genres for you to enjoy.

This blog is hosted by karenjmossman.com. If you get lost on your way. Just pop over to my blog where I have all Santa’s stops linked up in order.

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A short story, by Paul White

Purely for your enjoyment this Christmastime 2022

_{©PaulWhite2022}

YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYBODY

Gary was a very happy man as he waited on the Northern line underground platform for the next tube to take him home to Finchley. He could not help but grin inanely from ear to ear as he considered the rich pickings he secured over the last few hours.

Work today had gone extremely well, it was one of those rare days when everything fell neatly into place when everything went perfectly.

Maybe it was because there were a lot of new tourists in town, this being the start of the Christmas season, or maybe it was the newly laid snow, the decorations, baubles, presents, lights, and lanterns that were encouraging the masses to venture into the city? Either way, the jostling, bustling throngs of unsuspecting transient punters made it the perfect working environment for Gary.

Gary’s first dip was a gift. He was leaning on a corner of a wall, scanning the crowds for an easy mark, when a young woman stopped next to him. She was juggling with a suitcase on wheels, some carrier bags, a handbag, and a Starbucks coffee.

She was oblivious to his presence as she stood her case upright, propped the carrier bags against the case, placed her handbag on top, and rested it against the pull-along handle. Balancing her coffee on a waste bin, the woman prized the lid from the paper cup, added three tubes of sugar, and stirred her skinny latte with the small wooden stick.

By the time she sweetened her coffee and raised the cup to her lips, Gary picked up her purse, and a brown envelope from her handbag, and collected two carrier bags before disappearing into the massed throng of pedestrians.

His second theft of the day was also simple. An old couple were arguing over some irrelevant minor point, while a young boy, Gary assumed a grandchild, was running in circles around them, screaming at the top of his voice.

As he approached the arguing pair, he used the child’s misbehaviour to fain a trip, falling against the old man. After telling the old folks they should keep their child under control in the future, Gary vanished into the crowd with a thick leather wallet, full of cash, lifted from the elderly man’s jacket pocket.

Gary loved the older people, the ones who still favoured carrying large bundles of cash rather than credit cards. He could spot a ‘cash cow’ at a hundred paces.

This was the way his day went. Easy mark after mark, purse after purse, wallet after wallet. It was a bumper day. Gary’s duffel bag was now so heavy with his ill-gotten gains, he decided it was enough work for one day.

Which was why he was grinning widely as he waited on the platform at London Bridge underground station. Two minutes later his train arrived, accompanied by the usual drafts of sooty-scented air, electronic wheezing, and metallic clattering. What was not so usual was the number of passengers, or indeed the lack of them. Possibly, he thought to himself, it was because he was travelling back home far earlier than usual, missing the rush hour madness.

Gary looked around the carriage, there was a blue pin-stripe suited man, reading the Telegraph newspaper, a woman, with a tiny dog, wedged into a plaid handbag, and a girl listening to her iPad.

It was the girl who he focused on.

He wanted an iPad, and this one had a pair of Dr. Dre headphones attached. He considered how he would acquire these items. Quickly deciding he would sit opposite the girl, and then, as the train was ready to leave a station, he would grab them, jumping through the sliding doors right at the last moment. He smiled, envisaging himself standing on the platform, waving to the distraught girl as the train pulled away.

Luck was with him once more as the other passengers, the blue-suited man, and the handbag dog woman, alighted at the next station leaving Gary and the girl alone in the carriage.

As planned, he sat opposite the girl, who momentarily glanced at him, before continuing to stare blankly through the window into the darkness beyond.

The train lurched to a sudden stop.

He was flung forward landing on his knees, his nose cracking painfully against the girl’s right kneecap. Blood erupted from his nostrils. With both hands cupping his nose, he sat back on his seat, moaning with the pain. The girl pulled a wad of tissues from her handbag, as she stood over him, concernedly, telling him to put his head between his legs; she said it was the best way to stem the flow.

“I’ll be ok,” Gary mumbled through the bundle of tissues.

The girl found some wet wipes, cleaning the blood splatter from her leg. She placed a hand on the back of his neck, guided his head down. “Keep your head down for five minutes,” she told him, “It will help stop your nose bleeding” adding, “I know, I’m a nurse”.

Gary did as she instructed, keeping his head between his knees, and the tissues pressed to his nostrils.

The train stopped at a station, he could hear passengers boarding, wondering if this was the station he would have taken the chance of stealing the iPad from the girl. It probably would have been, he was never one to miss an opportunity, unless, like this dammed nosebleed, it was something out of his control.

Soon the train was underway again.  He was certain by now his bleeding would have subsided. Gingerly he raised his head, lifting the tissues away, ready to ram them back if his blood was still flowing.

It was not. The bleed had stopped, even if the aching pain remained. Gary looked about, wanting to thank the girl for her help. But she had gone, clearly, she got off the train at the last stop.

It was a pity; he would have liked that iPad, but hey-ho not to worry, excluding his nose it had been a profitable day as the contents of his duffle bag confirmed… his duffle bag… where was his bag?

Gary abruptly stood, staring open-mouthed at where he was sitting. He looked on the floor, under the seat. His bag was gone.

With some disbelief he realised someone had stolen his bag, his day’s takings… the girl… the bitch. She had made him put his head between his legs and then stolen his bag.

It was incredulous.

You just can’t trust anybody these days.

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I hope you found the hidden word in this story. Remember, everyone with the correct list will go into a draw to win all the eBooks in Santa’s sack. What fantastic PRESENTS they would make!

Now pop over to Chantal Bellehumeur’s blog and search for the next hidden word. Simply follow this blog hop link, https://author-chantal-bellehumeur.webnode.page/promotions/

Have a very merry Christmas, and may 2023 prove to be a most enjoyable year.

I hope you will find a few moments to browse my website, and even select a book or two, after all, you should treat yourself too at this time of year, you know you deserve it.

http://bit.ly/paulswebsite

Within the Invisible Pentacle

Each story Within the Invisible Pentacle explores the depths of human character, the quintessential disposition of living, and of life itself. They ask questions we often shy from, the ones we are afraid to ask ourselves, unearthed, revealed, and brought screaming into the daylight of recognition.

The prevailing factor is, each tale is written with consideration for our fragile human disposition, the fears, the dreams and wishes, the uncertainties and self-doubts we all carry inside ourselves, the human element of love, of life, of hope and survival.

Within the Invisible Pentacle is a collection of poignant, emotive stories, ones that will remain with you forever.

https://amzn.to/3ESY9Z2

Down by the River by Karen J Mossman

Electric Eclectic's Blog

It’s back! After being unpublished for almost a year, Down by the River has had a rewrite and now back on sale.

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Description

Shelby’s vision brings her home to the place she tried so hard to escape from.

Her best friend, Mary-Jo, has gone missing. When her body turns up by the river, Shelby’s visions become more disturbing.

Who is the killer?

Why is her vision so incomplete?

Rawden Hughes, the town’s sheriff, blighted their childhood. Did he make a claim on her that went wrong? Or could it be Mary-Jo’s drifter boyfriend, who was driven out of town for a crime never proved?

Returning to her childhood home, Shelby has to face her drunken Pa and the crumbling old house she grew up in.

Can she confront her past, whilst dealing with the guilt of leaving behind her best friend?

With the truth revealed, will…

View original post 182 more words

A Spooky Read for Halloween

Electric Eclectic's Blog

A Reviewer said:

So this one was pretty interesting actually, a very cool and very eclectic collection of stories.
All of them were very compelling in their way, they were a little of everything and that was a good look on the book because it has something for everyone, in this type of flash shorts it’s a very amazing approach.
In a way it seemed very fresh to me and that they are so short made them super exciting too, because you have less room to get lost and just get faster with the idea.

At thirty-six pages long this little book packs a heck of a punch.

A Flash Of Horror is a collection of short and flash fiction from my two collections Heads & Tales and Undressed.
12 chilling and thought-provoking tales that will stay with you for nights to come.
Are you ready to delve into the…

View original post 7 more words

Would You Like to Fly?

Electric Eclectic's Blog

Ka, half raptor and half man, must undertake three tests to become a member of the elite Icarian Squadron, flyers who dedicate themselves to the destruction of Summia and to an alliance with Imperiana. In order for him to succeed, he must first overcome his own fears, but in the process he discovers how Imperiana has manipulated the trials and Ka’s own emotional needs. Captain Harriman, under Imperial command, is ordered to make sure the fledgling flyers bow to Imperiana’s control. Will Ka be able to survive the trials and become an Icarian as his father was in the first war between Imperiana and Summia, or will his failure lead to disgrace and exile from the Rookery?

At 113 pages, this is a great book to kick back and relax with.

I loved it. Very imaginative. Who among us wouldn’t love to be able to fly in more than our…

View original post 50 more words

Perfect for Kids & Parents

I am not one for regularly promoting subscription services, even those about books, or with an educational bent.

However, this service, Amazon Kids+ is something I feel would benefit many children while giving parents the security and peace of mind about their children using devices.

Designed for children aged between 3 and 12 years, and parents of all ages!

Amazon Parent Dashboard

Discover the books, videos, educational apps, and games kids enjoy in Amazon Kids through Parent Dashboard. Also gain access to child activity and manage settings that include adding content from your personal library, setting daily time limits, modifying web browser behaviour, pausing the device, and more.

Time Limits

Limiting your child’s screen time can be challenging without the proper tools. Amazon Kids lets parents set daily limits, or restrict certain categories – like apps and video – while leaving unlimited time for reading.

Age Filters

Amazon Kids Age Filters ensure that your child sees age-appropriate content within Amazon Kids+. Parents can also adjust Age Filter settings to tailor the experience for each child.

Learn First

With Learn First, parents can block access to games and cartoons until after educational goals are met. For devices with the Bedtime feature enabled, parents can control when Amazon Kids shuts down for the day.

Individual Profiles

Parents can create up to four individual child profiles and give each child selected access to videos, books, Audible content, and apps from their personal library. It’s like giving each kid their very own personalised tablet.

No Surprises

While in Amazon Kids+, kids don’t have access to social media and can’t make in-app purchases without parental approvals.

Endless Fun for Kids.
Peace of Mind for Parents.

Amazon Kids+ is an all-in-one subscription that gives kids access to thousands of kid-friendly books, movies, TV shows, educational apps, and games on compatible Fire, Android, iOS, and Kindle devices.

Parents also receive access to easy-to-use parental controls that allow them to find the right balance between education and entertainment. Parents can personalise screen time limits, set educational goals, filter age-appropriate content, and also manage web browsing and content usage based on their preferences.

Starting at £3.99/month after the one-month free trial, Amazon Kids+ gives kids unlimited access to a world of content to explore and parents the confidence that all content is age-appropriate.

Click this link to see and read more, https://amzn.to/3bRQ76J

You got any ideas?

(A short story ©Paul White)

She is a 1970 Dodge Challenger RT. Ya know the one, like was in that film, vanishing something… anyways, when I got her she was as rusty and as bent as an old pie tin in a trash can.

Now, ha, well. I’ve sorta darned gone an put my mark on her, made her mine, all mine.

I spent hours downtown. Rented a workshop and kinda of lived there for a while, well like two years a while.

Sometimes I would sleep in the shop, not wash for days, not sleep much either.

I was constantly an oily, greasy mess. My hair was lank, and I stunk like the ass end of a skunk. If I ventured into town folk used to stare at me, wondrin what the heck I was.

I found their looks of total incomprehension an their slack-jawed faces as funny as Fu… well, darned funny anyways.

Two years I spent working in that workshop. Two years that just seemed ta be gone, like that.

Time flew by.

Time weren’t nothin though, not while I was working on her. Not until I looked back, an you know what?

A lot happened in those two fucking years.

My divorce settlement came. I spent all of it on tools and parts and spares and paint. Well not all of it. I got a little food and a bottle or two of Kentucky smooth.

I got the house from the settlement too.

I sold the house. Too many memories I did not want to be living with anymore. So, I moved here, to this small place out of town and out of the way. Moved the Challenger out here too, into the barn.

That’s where I finished her. That’s where I got her looking the way I planned.

Not once, not for one single, solitary moment in all those two years that sorta slipped away when I weren’t lookin, did I deviate a fraction of one iota from my plan.

She was my baby.

Everything under the hood looks pristine now, betta than when she was new, when she rolled off the end of that production line.

The pipes and hoses are coloured, pale blue for cold water, dark blue for hot. Red for fuel, green for oil and so on. What is not covered in colour coded silicone, or paint, is inside woven steel cable, or under bright, shiny, polished mirror chromium.

Inside the seats are covered in soft cream leather, handstitched by me, with deep pink piping around the edges. Just like the door and roof lining, and the deep pile carpets.

Polished wood, chrome switches, all original design. All of them, along with retro dials complete the dash.

Outside she was sweeter still, real sweet if you know what I mean.

I covered my baby in a solid, shocking pink paint, metallic flake topped with seven layers of high gloss lacquer.

Like I said, I’ve put my mark on her.

She was now a sorta Barbie car, a ferocious, mean, growling bitch of a Barbie car, a sort of Harley Quinn  Barbie, right down to the hood ornament, which I designed it myself; a chrome-plated sculpture of a severed penis.

Yeah, you heard right.

A small soft dick.

Just like my ex.

It puts the message out there. “Don’t you mess with this bitch; unless you want to lose your manhood.”

You see, two years livin in an oily back street workshop ain’t no place for a sweet girl like me, unless you gonna get something for keeps from it.

An I am keeping my girl.

Now, all I gotta do now is find a real good name for her…

If you got any ideas, gimma a shout?

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If you enjoyed this short story then check out my books. There are novels, short story collections, and novellas, some published as ebooks, or Pocketbook Paperbacks, and many full-sized paperbacks. You can find them all right here, http://bit.ly/paulswebsite , or scan the QR code below.

A free short story, just for you.

For those who don’t know…

I am Paul White, a multi-genre author of fiction, non-fiction, and semi-fiction.

Many of my short stories are available under the ‘Electric Eclectic’ brand, some are eBooks, others paperback collections, while a growing number are those wonderful Pocketbook Paperbacks that are increasingly popular because of their size, as they really do fit into your pocket. Perfect for reading while commuting or away on vacation.

You can find my books on Amazon and many other bookstores. All are shown on my website

Now, on with the story.

This one is titled ‘Free Spirit’, enjoy.

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FREE SPIRIT

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When I walked into the apartment, I knew this project was going to be fraught with difficulties.

Firstly, the place has been unoccupied for some time; a musty dampness prevailed its entirety. I sensed this staleness was not simply neglect but an ethereal odour of others’ lives, of previous tenants.

Secondly, there were many pieces of furniture still in situ; old, dusty brocade curtains hanging at the windows, personal effects, a small trinket box sitting on the dark wooden sideboard, a silver-backed hand mirror laid on the dresser, and a time-worn leather-bound book on a side table, near the musty, torn chintz-covered armchair, all emitting a staleness of abandonment.

Before I could start the repairs and redecoration, I would have to clear all this old junk from the building. That would involve putting in some extra hours, late nights I had not planned. I was sure the extra effort would be worth it in the end because it is not often one can find such a large home for such a low rent in a neighbourhood of this stature.

On Friday, after work, I hurried to the apartment, eager to begin the clear-out and clean-up.

Once achieved, I could start on the repairs. Tearing off the old wallpaper, ripping up the musty carpets, filling the holes where pictures once hung, all that sort of stuff.

Then I would be in the position to begin to decorate what was to be my new home, my first home.

Fresh paint, light colours on the walls, modern, sleek, designer-style furniture, new light fittings, and mirrors. I like mirrors, they lighten even the dullest corners. I wanted the place to be what I can only describe as understated urban chich.

I was excited.

Tonight, I would be alone. My friends, the ones who offered to help, were all out on the town, or so they said. I don’t blame them for not being here today, after all, it was a Friday night.

Tomorrow, I had promises, commitments from them. I would have a small troop of workers grafting away all day in return for cold beer and snacks, oh, and pizza at the end of the day.

But tonight, it was just me.

My first task was to wrestle the largest items of furniture into a group by the lounge door, so my team of workers could easily carry them out to the skip, which was due by eight o’clock in the morning.

I was surprised by the weight of the old furniture. I’m uncertain if it was Mahogany or Oak, but it took all my effort to ‘waltz’ it across the room. No wonder the previous occupiers had left it where it stood.

By the time I had shifted all the pieces, I was sweating from the effort.

Opening the window did not cool me down. The air was too heavy and humid, and too weak to do more than slightly move those heavy curtains.

It was now midnight, but before I finished for the day, I wanted all the drapes removed, the litter from the floors swept and binned. I wanted this room ready for paper stripping, and carpet removal.

By the end of the weekend, I would be happy if this room and the hallway were ready for my creative attention. If I could get at least one of the two bedrooms stripped too, well, that would be a bonus.

Right now, my stomach was grumbling. I needed to eat. Anyway, it was time to take a break. A stroll to the all-night cafe on the corner, where I could grab a coke, a sandwich, a pork pie, or toasted sandwich. It would do me the world of good to eat something.

Once in the café, I decided I would be wasting time if I stayed to eat, so I carried my refreshments back to the apartment.

Wearily lowering myself into the tatty chintz armchair, I froze. Looking around the room in disbelief. The coke slipped from my grasp, spilling over the threadbare carpet.

The furniture, and I mean all the furniture I spent the last few hours moving into a group close to the doorway, was now back in its original position.

It was as if I had not moved a single item.

The window was closed, the curtains still, the lingering scent of neglect somehow stronger than before.

There was something more.

I could hear a faint melody floating into the room. Trumpets, brass. Smooth music. Perhaps a nineteen-forties swing band?

I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts. This was not possible.

I moved the furniture. Placed it by the door.

I was trying to convince myself I had not, purely for my sanity.

The music was playing softly.

Surely it was coming from another apartment. Yet it sounded far closer, emanating from somewhere in this apartment.

Maybe I was overtired. Whatever; I needed to get a grip on myself.

I followed the sound, walking slowly along the hallway until I was outside the room where the music was coming from.

Someone was playing a joke on me. My friends have seen me leave, deciding it would be funny to mess with my head.

Angrily I snatched open the door, ready to yell at whoever was doing this, whoever found it funny to try and scare me.

The volume from the gramophone blasted out a crackling version of Chattanooga Choo Choo as I stepped into the room.

I halted, standing stock still.

I could not comprehend what I was seeing. This room was perfect. A nineteen-forties parlour. No damp, no faded wallpaper, no rotting furniture.

It was bright, new, perfect.

“Come in, David,” she said, “sit yourself down. I have been waiting for you.”

To my right, I saw a handsome-looking woman. She was wearing a flowing evening gown, long white gloves, and a pearl necklace.

In front of me, a well-ordered room, brightly lit and warm. Behind me, a cold dank hallway, the discoloured wallpaper peeling from the walls.

This was surreal.

“Don’t be shy,” she said, “come, sit, enjoy some champagne.”

She was holding out a wide-rimmed coupe glass at arm’s length. Hesitantly, feeling I had little option, I took the glass from her hand.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Oh, you young people, you are always in such a hurry,” she replied, smiling, and lifting her glass towards mine.

We touched glasses. Automatically I said, “Cheers.”

She smiled at me again, replying with a “Chin, chin.” She sipped her champagne without wetting her dark red lips.

I sat, bolt upright, in a small chair, and as nervous as hell. She lay back, relaxing on a chaise lounge opposite my chair.

If I were dreaming, this was far too real.

The woman spoke. “So, you want to move into my home, to come and live with me. Do you, David?” Her eyes were firmly focused on mine.

“There must be some confusion,” I said, “I have just bought this apartment, it’s mine.”

“Oh no, David,” she answered, shaking her head, “It will never be yours, it belongs to me, and forever will.”

 “I don’t understand,” I replied.

 She nodded understandingly, reaching out, placing a gloved hand on my knee, patting me like a reassuring aunt.

“My husband built this building back in the early 1930s. I have lived here ever since the day it was completed. I shall never leave. Now, I like you, David. You are a fine young man, so I am willing to let you stay if you wish to share my home with me?”  She left the sentence hanging.

I sat motionlessly, my mouth ajar. I did not know what to say.

“Well, David” she prompted, “what have you to say?”

“This place, it’s a mess, all old and rotting. I need to clean it up, do repairs, redecorate, get new furniture… except this room, your room, its lovely, I mean it’s really nice.” I knew I was gabbling, the words tumbling from my mouth faster than I could think.

“Oh, David.” She said, “don’t worry about that for now, just tell me if you will be happy sharing my home.”

“But when people come, my friends, family. How do I explain this room, or you?” I asked.

She smiled like an understanding aunt looking at a child. Patting my knee again she said, “No one will know, David. No one except you.”

“But this room, when people look around, they’ll…”

She interrupted me. “More Champagne. You look pale, you’re shaking. A good drink will settle your nerves.” She continued, “Think, David. This apartment, how many rooms are there? Don’t answer, but this room is not one of them, is it?”

I was mentally counting, walking through the apartment. She was right, this room was not one of them. This room did not exist.

My mind was in a whirl. “I, I, I don’t know. The furniture, I moved it. I put it by the door, now it is all back where it was. Then I heard the music and… and, I followed the sound. It led me to this room.”

Her laughter filled the room, “Oh my dear boy,” she said, “I have thrown you into a right tizzy, haven’t I?”

I gulped the last of my champagne.

“I have something stronger if you prefer?” she said, “a whisky, perhaps. I know what you men are like.”

I was nodding. It was an almost unconscious action as my mind was whirring. Random pieces of thoughts flew through my mind.

“Do not fear. You may decorate the apartment as you wish. I will not stop you, David. That is, if you want to live here? Now, before you worry too much, I don’t leave this room, well, only when the need arises, and I am sure I‘ll have no reason to venture out while you’re here.”

“I would like to live here but, who are you?”

“Oh, my. I have been remiss, haven’t I? How rude of me for not introducing myself. My name is Evelyn, Evelyn Keyes-Johnson.” She held her hand towards me. “So, David, are we friends. Shall you be sharing my home?”

I took her hand and shook it, although slight, Evelyn had a firm grip.

“I would like to stay, and I would be happy sharing with you,” I said, although I had not totally convinced myself. “I do have a question though.”

“Ask away, young man.”

“Are you a ghost?”

Her laughter filled the room with lightness. She smiled a wide, bright grin.

“As I died many years ago some people may call me that,” she said, “but I prefer to consider myself a free spirit.”

END.

Free Spirit©PaulWhite2022

Projection of Thoughts through Space and Time… or Show, don’t Tell.

It’s been a while since I found time to write an informative post for ‘Ramblings’. The reason is, I have concentrated on writing, publishing, and marketing my books, as all good authors should.

The stimulus for me to write this blog post is, recently I have seen many people asking about ‘Show don’t Tell’. Questions such as “How do I do it?”, “What does it mean?”, and ‘why!”

In my regular rambling way… (hence the title of this blog), and without using any more technical terms than necessary, I shall endeavour to share not only what ‘show don’t tell’ means but why it is the golden criterion for all creative writers.

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SO, HERE WE GO…

Firstly, and without any reservation, to write well an author must understand narration.

Creative writing, which includes fiction, principally relies on narrative. The purpose of narration (sometimes referred to as the story’s voice) is to tell a story or ‘narrate’ an event, or series of events.

Inevitably, a major quantity of narration involves description. Description creates, invents, or visually presents a person, place, event, or action, allowing the reader to visualise what the writer is attempting to portray.

Descriptive narrative aims to make vivid a place, an object, or a character. It acts as an imaginative stimulus, allowing the reader to relate to the writer’s notions.

The writer should not simply aim to convey facts about the subject but give the reader a direct impression, thus allowing the reader, the recipient of those words, to create a mental picture that is in union with the writers’ thoughts.

Simply put, through the correct usage of narrative, a writer can project their thoughts into the reader’s mind. Virtually, a form of compliant subliminal connection. One which can transcend both space and time.

To achieve this, writers utilise a practice generally referred to as ‘Show, don’t Tell’.

<<>>

SHOW, DON’T TELL.

This term is often attributed to the Russian playwright Anton Chekhov, who is reputed to have said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

What Chekhov factually said, in a letter to his brother, was,

“In descriptions of Nature one must seize on small details, grouping them so that when the reader closes his eyes, he gets a picture. For instance, you’ll have a moonlit night if you write that on the mill dam a piece of glass from a broken bottle glittered like a bright little star and that the black shadow of a dog or a wolf rolled past like a ball.”

You may notice Chekhov does not go into a mass of detail in this explanation. Descriptive writing does not mean the author should attempt to portray the subject in every excruciating detail.

Ernest Hemingway, a notable proponent of the “Show, don’t Tell” style, sustained his ‘Iceberg Theory’, also known as the ‘Theory of Omission’, which he developed while employed as a newspaper reporter.

The term itself originates from Hemmingway’s 1932 bullfighting treatise, Death in the Afternoon.

Hemmingway writes.

“If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows, and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.”

Creative literature, in general, hinges on the artful use of a wide range of devices (such as inference, metaphor, understatement, the unreliable narrator, and ambiguity) that rewards the careful reader’s appreciation of subtext and extrapolation of what the author chooses to leave unsaid, untold, and/or unshown.

<<>>

George Singleton explained this concisely with this notable quotation.

“You do not have to explain every single drop of water contained in a rain barrel. You have to explain one drop – H2O. The reader will get it.”

These examples suggest the writers understood the need to respect their readers, who should be trusted to develop a feeling for the meaning behind the action, without having the point painfully laid out for them.

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Examples follow.

Telling:

He knew something was wrong because he could see the fear in her eyes and that she was trembling.

Showing:

She trembled, looking up at him with fear in her eyes.

In this example, ‘Showing’ uses fewer words but packs twice the punch, because you are seeing her actions demonstrating her fear, instead of being told what one character noticed.

It is rarely the function of a character to notice something, that is the reader’s role. By showing the action, the reader (and the characters) figure it out simultaneously, creating a wonderful ‘aha’ moment using a gripping narrative.

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Telling:

Roger was never very bright when it came to figuring things out, he could never seem to do even simple things right.

Showing:

Roger worked on the crossword puzzle for two hours, scribbling out more incorrect answers than correct ones. The result of all his hard work? Ink stains on his hands.

This example demonstrates the character’s qualities by showing he cannot complete a crossword puzzle and does not realise a pencil would be more practical than a pen.

Showing how your characters behave, readers will interpret their traits automatically. You should not need to endlessly describe every characteristic they have.

<<>>

Telling:

There was broken glass on the floor and a pool of blood behind the bar.

Showing:

His boots ground the glass shards on the floor with each step. He let out a gasp as his eyes focused on the puddle of blood behind the bar.

Showing allows the reader to experience the scene through the character’s experience, and places it in context, as does the character’s emotional reaction.

<<>>

Telling:

The pancake tasted bitter; he couldn’t stand it.

Showing:

He spat out the pancake. The congealed mess landed on his plate. “Darlene, why have you put so much baking powder in these pancakes again?”

<<>>

You can use dialogue to show ideas, emotions, and actions, which is far preferable to telling the reader. Tasting, for example, is an experiential verb, never tell readers about the experience a character has. Let your reader find out by being part of the action.

When your characters have experiences, you should be showing your reader those experiences through strong scenes and action, not by talking to them from a third-person perspective. This disengages the reader from the story.

If an author understands and utilises ‘Show don’t Tell’ effectively, they will project the essence of their narrative onto the reader in such a way the reader will become fully immersed.

Once the author has ‘captured’ the reader, and they become ‘lost in the book’, then the book becomes ‘unputdownable’, simply because the reader, by their own will and desire, creates a compulsion to find out ‘what happens next’ to the characters within the tale, with whom the reader will now be totally, and emotionally engaged.

This is what makes a good story, a great story.

It is why people read, to escape, to be immersively absorbed and entertained.

It is what sells books.

Remember, someone could be reading your book, anywhere in the world, and at any time in the future, even one hundred years from now, an exchange of extraordinary connection through space and time.

This is one reason I love being an author.

Keep happy, Paul 😊

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Paul White is a prolific author with more than twenty-eight published books, including an Amazon no.1, and an international bestselling author.

He is the Principal of Electric Eclectic books, a founder member of the Authors Professionals Cooperative, and a member of #Awethors, an independent authors’ international alliance.

A good introduction to Paul’s works is, ‘Within the Invisible Pentacle’, a collection of short, and not so short, stories.

Available via Amazon. UK, https://amzn.to/3HRUGrC All other areas, mybook.to/wtipentacle

Your website is now irrelevant

NOTE: This is, unapologetically, long post. You will know why once you read it!

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The thing is, I am so busy with various projects I rarely find the time to write anything of substance for these ramblings, and I don’t want to fill these pages with the type of uninteresting drivel I see on so many people’s blogs.

I assume they do so simply to fill their pages with ‘content’, regardless of quality. Something I am not prepared to do.

This post, which I have titled ‘Your website is now irrelevant’, came from a discussion I watched on the BBC last night, or rather during the early hours of this morning. (11^th of January 2022)

The subject of the conversation was regarding the first anniversary of the Capitol Riots in the USA when ‘a violent mob’ stormed the Capitol building as Congress was certifying Joe Biden’s victory in the 2020 election. (The ‘riots’ happened on January 6^th 2021)

Now, the TV program was about the media action/reaction to this event more than the actual event itself.

During this discussion, an editor from Vibe Media, (I did not catch her name), said something which I found interesting enough for me to be motivated to write this post, as it is something I believe we, as indie authors, who self-market our books, try and maintain a strong social media presence, and promote our ‘brand’, should take seriously.

We all know the world, particularly in respect of the internet and communications, is exponentially changing, and this continuous transformation is difficult to keep abreast of.

One of the basic premises of marketing most indie authors have adopted is having an author or brand website.

We use this as our home for all things bookish and publishing. We use it as the solid base from where we promote and market our works. To entertain and inform our readers, to attract ‘new’ readers to our books.

We spend hours creating, editing, altering, and polishing our websites to make them attractive enough to seduce people to buy our books. (Not to mention the costs involved in maintaining a good site.)

These sites are often treated as our ‘babies’. The hub of our author presence on the net, the web, and on social media.

However…

I love a ‘however’, so I’ll say it again.

However…

According to Vibe Media, your website, my website, most, if not all websites, are now archaic forms of internet interaction.

Soon websites, as we know them, will become superfluous.

They are becoming outmoded with every day that passes and will soon be redundant.

This got me thinking… and researching.

Now I agree.

This ground shift is happening, and it’s happening right now.

It’s all to do with effective connection to the masses.

You see a website, any website, yours, mine, theirs, is a static medium.

To get traffic you must attract people to visit your site. This means promoting the site, advertising, posting, and such.

Secondly, you need them to interact, buy, click links, comment, subscribe and, most importantly, and return frequently.

I don’t know your websites numbers, such as visitors, bounces, returners, or how long visitors spend browsing, or even buying stuff.

I guess it’s not as many as you wish, and not often enough, even if you have spent a fortune on learning about funnelling or paying a tech guru to assist you.

Author websites are good for storing a ton of information about you and your products/books, but not good for ongoing engagement in the marketplace.

I mean, when was the last time you found people working their way through your site’s archives and reading the information and posts? (I won’t wait for an answer.)

Taking into consideration you need to write and curate a ton of fresh content, constantly and continually. It’s a lot of hard work, especially when you should be promoting your books and writing the next.

Bearing this in mind, I agree with Vibe.

Websites are no longer the go-to places people look for engaging content. Especially the younger ones, those born since the year 2000.

This age group prefers online media, TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, YouTube, Twitter, Tumblr, Live.me, and Facebook.

Of course, there’s more site our younger generations adopt; WhatsApp, Omegal, MeetMe, Yubo, Monkey, Whisper, and so on. These tend to be ‘Chat’ sites, many only known by the Gen X’s and Millennials.

Some of these are ‘self-destructing’, they erase all, (text and images) after a certain time making communication private… and possibly dangerous… I’ll just leave that one here.

So, what is the point of this post from our, the indie author position, and our rapidly becoming redundant websites.

It is for us to accept change is inevitable and to change our ways along with the inexorable shift. (Yep, it all happens so quickly ‘Nowadays’!)

I am taking a leaf out of Vibes marketing strategy. My author website will remain, but only as a repository for information, such as my library and author info.

I will not be promoting it as much as previously. I certainly won’t be spending hours creating and curating content, which after posting about new content, the initial flow of visitors dries up, meaning you need to do the same all over again.

Instead, I shall concentrate on creating posts I can post directly onto the social platforms where there are either substantial numbers of people hungrily devouring its content, or directly onto sites, pages, and platforms where I know my target market is engaging.

The time and effort in doing this will only equal, if not be less than the time needed to housekeep my website, or websites… some I’ll soon be closing, as time is more important to create quality media which will be seen, rather than simply tending to what was once my baby.

Although I doubt William Faulkner could have envisaged the internet, let alone social media, I do think his quote, “You must kill off your Darlings” expresses this concept perfectly, even if we need to interpret it in a new light.

Let me know your thoughts.

Keep Happy, Paul

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While I still have a website! Please visit and browse through my books, artworks & Photography. I am certain you’ll find something you’ll enjoy reading or seeing.

http://bit.ly/paulswebsite