How To Write Good

1.    Avoid Alliteration Always
2.    Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3.    The passive voice is to be avoided.*
4.    Avoid cliches like the plague. They’re old hat.
5.    It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.**
6.    Writers should never generalize.
Seven: Be consistent.
8.    Don’t use more words than necessary. It’s highly superfluous.
9.    Be more or less specific.
10.  Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.

* Examples of Passive Voice

Passive voice focuses on the action and the recipient of that action, rather than the performer. It's formed with a "be" verb and a past participle. Examples include: "The window was broken" or "The cake was eaten".

Examples of Passive Voice:

    Original sentence (Active): The dog chased the cat.

    Passive voice: The cat was chased by the dog.

    Original sentence (Active): Julie rolled out the dough.

    Passive voice: The dough was rolled out by Julie.

  
** Examples of Split Infinitive

A split infinitive occurs when an adverb is placed between the "to" and the verb in an infinitive phrase. For example, "to boldly go" is a split infinitive because "boldly" is placed between "to" and "go".

Here are some more examples:

    Split infinitive: "I told him to carefully review the material."

    Split infinitive: "She decided to not attend the party."

While some argue that split infinitives should be avoided, many grammar experts agree that they can be acceptable in certain contexts. For example, they may be used for emphasis or to avoid awkward phrasing.

Here's how you might fix the split infinitive examples above:

     Move the adverb: "I told him to review the material carefully."

     Rearrange the sentence: "She decided not to attend the party."

To read more of my writing you can go to my substack page.

https://billferguson.substack.com/

Two Voices

That moment when two voices join as one.

Prompt by: Include These 4 Elements in Every Story Scene: Josh Louis Issue # 27

Phpyp by: Yan Krukau - Photography

“Excellent,” said Dennis.

“You weren’t too bad yourself. Hi I’m Dorothy.”

“Dennis,” he replied as he pointed towards the chair indicating she was welcome to join him if she wished.

“I think I will,” she said with a smile, as she sat down. “That was something special. I’m not ready to leave yet.”

---

Dennis sat typing furiously when his face frowned. He reached out for a sip of his coffee thinking about how to reword the sentence he had written so it made more sense. His ears perked up as his favourite song washed through the Cafe’s speakers. He was tempted to air guitar the opening riff but waited until the first verse started. He sang quietly along when suddenly a louder more tuneful voice crooned. Dennis rose to the occasion as they both looked at each other with a sense of surprise. Their voices rose together catching the interest of all the patrons in the cafe. As each sensed a growing confidence their voices grew in strength. Smiling with delight at this unexpected turn of events they performed the duet until the very end.  

After the applause died down they turned towards each other. 

“Excellent,” said Dennis.

“You weren’t too bad yourself. Hi I’m Dorothy.”

“Dennis,” he replied as he pointed towards the chair indicating she was welcome to join him if she wished.

“I think I will,” she said with a smile, as she sat down. “That was something special. I’m not ready to leave yet.”

 

April (week 4)

SPRING

Part V

Charlie hadn’t visited for a few day when he suddenly popped up to surprise his best friends.

“Well there you are,” announced Gertie, with a sigh of relief. “We were beginning to worry.”

“Sorry I haven’t been around,” apologized Charlie. He had taken a short journey away from the pond, finding himself in unfamiliar waters. There were plenty of stories about his adventures to share with Gus and Gertie. But first he wanted to know if life on the pond had been peaceful in his absence. They assured him it had and their little island was still their tranquil retreat.

“Now, do tell us about your travels,” pleaded the pair of geese.

“It’s a big world out there,” Charlie declared. “I met two more goose families, a beaver, a pair of herons and a group of little people.”

 Writing Exercise April 15 

Using a Picture Prompt

Here is my offering from yesterday. 

Photo by Nathan Wright on Unsplash

The skylights offered a darkened sky as Jim worked on his latest novel. His thoughts kept drifting to other times before this room became known to him. His grandfather had hidden this gigantic library within the walls of the manor, blocking off all acccess to it from the outside world. It was only by accident that Jim had discovered its existance while renovating one of the other rooms. Once he cleared the dust away he discovered this room was in the center of the manor. His grandfather had left detailed notes in different places that explained aspects of the room to Jim. Even after all these years there were still notes to be discovered. Just the other day he had come across one that led Jim to find the entrance to a basement room. Much to his delight he found bars of gold stacked on the shelves in the room. So far there had been no explanation of why or how they got there. Jim was grateful for the find. It offered him a it of comfort in these desperate times.

Another discovery was shelves of rolled of oil paintings hidden behind a secret door fitted to look lie a wall. Apparently his grandfather had commissioned a number of fake paintings done in the style of the originals. During the 1920’ s there were a number of scandals where paintings were stolen. They happened to match the paintings that Jim found. He had taken one to an expert who got very excited by the painting. The expert had just seen the actual painting in a museum. He was having a hard time verifying whether Jim’s painting was an actual painting or a forgery.

Jim was sitting at his desk mulling over an old ledger he had found that detailed money transactions during the 1920’s and 30’s. He was having a hard time trying to decipher the pseudonyms used to hide the personalities involved. Apparently smuggling liquor was another passion of his grandfathers during that time frame.

Jim turned to his novel organization page and started adding new details. Eventually he would get the story down and write an epic book. It may take him years or maybe even a two or three part story.

He smiled at the life his grandfather had led. It made his life seem boring. However he had to remember they were different times and the things they did could not be realistically done today.

Writing from a picture prompt

 (Writing time limit: approx. 22 minutes, edited later)

SOMETHING ON THE STAIRS

by Adrian

Ellen was sure she had heard something on the stairs. Positive in fact. But she was a nervous sort and lived alone so she was hesitant to investigate. She considered phoning down to the super, but he was a surly old Portuguese gentleman, who spoke little English. Ellen thought this to be a ploy to avoid as much work with the tenants as possible, but she couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to cause a ruckus.

So, she took the chain off the door and took a peek out. What she had heard wasn’t somebody climbing the stairs. She would have recognized that. It was more like a heavy, sliding sound. Very odd. It had been loud enough to snap her out of this week’s episode of Matlock. (The new series).

She waited a moment and was about to close the door when she heard the sound again. This time coming from the stairs towards the roof. Ellen lived on the floor second from the top and she had rarely ever ventured upwards. Besides there were only two apartments on the fourteenth floor. One was owned by a retired military man who was away most of the time travelling. The other was sitting empty and had been for years. Or at least as long as she had lived there.

There was the sound again only this time it seemed closer and somehow a little bit wet. Ellen didn’t have much curiosity, but the little she had was becoming too powerful to ignore. She went back into the apartment and took a flashlight from the drawer. One of the bulbs was burnt out on the fourteenth floor landing and she didn’t like the dark.

She went to the bottom of the stairs and peered up. Slowly, she started to climb, turning the light this way and that as she ascended.

When she got to the top of the flight, she paused on the landing. She could see up to the next floor and saw the doors there., The military man’s door was closed, but she realized with a start that the door to the empty apartment was open by a good ten inches.

Oh no, she thought, a burglar must be in there. She certainly wasn’t geared for this, so she started to turn to go back down the to the safety of her own place. Then she saw the two eyes, close to the ground and further down the hallway.

She stood there, transfixed, as the eyes began to get larger and gasped when she realized they were getting closer. Then, from the shadows, there emerged the head of a huge snake.  Its green slit eyes blinked rapidly, in the glare of the flashlight. Its red, forked tongue flicked nervously in and out as it slowly made its way towards Ellen.

Ellen shrieked and turned to run but she slipped and fell, twisting her ankle as she collapsed on the landing. The giant snake was at the top of the flight now and was just about to descend on Ellen when another figure appeared behind it. A hand flashed out and grabbed the snake just behind its head. It was Major Jonathan Stevenson Pike, retired.

“Come with me, Robert,” the Major said, disapprovingly. “Naughty boy. Sorry about that miss. I brought him back from Borneo with me. I’ve been keeping him in the spare apartment for the time being.”

“Why would you keep a huge hideous beast like that here!” Ellen complained, wincing in pain.

“Oh, Robert’s not so big,” said the major glancing over his shoulder towards the open door of the dark apartment. “You should see his mother.”

The Mists Of Time

The Mists Of Time

April 10, 2024


Prompt by: THE FICTION DEALER

Microdosing Fiction - 70mg of Mists




Photo by: Kasuma - Photography


Angela’s mother opened the door and stood aghast.

“Angela, what did you do,” she asked, pointing to a gigantic puddle.

“Oh that,” replied Angela. “The mists of time parted. Papa stepped through to talk to me.”

“Angela,” replied her exasperated mother.”You shouldn’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. He gave me this,” pulling out her mother’s wedding ring.

“That was buried with him,” her mother said before she fainted dead away.

 

Writing exercise April 15

Using a picture prompt

                                     painting by Kaoru Yamada.AI Generated

 

 Prisoner in the Attic

Sarah was sixteen when her parents inherited a house on the Yorkshire Moors—a house that had been in the family for hundreds of years. Without hesitation, they committed to renovate the crumbling estate and transform it into a bed and breakfast. No one bothered to ask Sarah’s opinion.

On the day they moved in, she felt nauseous. The house was isolated, surrounded by desolate moorland. It smelled old and damp. To her, this wasn’t a fresh start—it was a jail sentence.

While her parents buzzed with excitement, sketching out plans for their new life, Sarah wandered from room to room, her heart sinking with each step. Climbing a worn staircase to the bedrooms, she felt a growing sense of dread. How was she meant to survive in this place that felt more like a prison than a home? 

Another narrow flight of stairs led her to the attic. She pushed open the door at the top of the stairs—and paused. For the first time that day, she wasn’t feeling despair. The room was small, furnished as if untouched for a century. A coating of thick dust covered every surface and the air was heavy with the same musty scent as downstairs, but here, something felt different. This would be her escape. 

Determined to make the space her own, she set to work. She would transform the room making it bright and cheerful.  First to go would be the depressing paintings on the walls. As she took the pictures down, one frame, already loose, slipped from her hands and broke apart when it hit the floor. As the canvas came free, so did something that was tucked behind it—a notebook—its pages yellowed with time and filled with graceful handwriting. 

On the first page, just one sentence: “I’m being held prisoner in my own home.” Sarah sat on the dusty chair and began reading the journal. 

The entries began in December 1924 and the writer was Sarah’s age. Her mother had discovered she was pregnant and confined her to the attic room to keep the scandal out of sight. 

“I write only at night, by the light of the moon,” the girl wrote, “If they find out, they’ll take this from me too.”

She wrote about her view of the snow covered moors and the rolling hills in the distance. She wrote about the world she remembered beyond the window and wondered if the world remembered her. 

The entries continued regularly to the spring of 1925. But in May they were brief. She wrote about her changed body, and her fear of being unattended when the time comes.  At the end of May, just one entry; her baby girl was gone—taken away by her mother. And she was left alone, certain she would not survive.  

Her final line—“The moon is full tonight, and I am empty.” 

Sarah closed the notebook, suddenly realizing the young girl, who called this her home, must have been a distant relative. She promised her that the world would remember the attic prisoner.