202Done

When 2020 began, I set for myself the goal of revamping my languishing author platform. I had several problems. My email list was stuck at about 120 subscribers, most of whom never opened a newsletter. Worse, I hardly ever sent a newsletter. My website featured a stale blog, and my social media accounts fared little better. In many ways, I may as well not have had these tools.

Not being a marketing genius, I signed up for a free email marketing course. I then formulated a simple plan based on what I learned and, early in January, began to execute it. Along the way, I took some liberties and made adjustments. I even discovered a powerful tool that wasn’t covered in the course. I’ll share that with you in a moment. …

By now you’ve probably heard that Jupiter and Saturn are approaching their “great conjunction” on December 21, 2020. The two largest planets in our solar system will be a mere tenth of a degree apart in the sky that evening, only one fifth the width of the full moon. Nobody has seen the pair this close since 1226, 794 years ago!

So you really ought to see it. Because weather can play havoc with the event, look for the pair every evening from now until the end of the year. They appear in the southwest once the sun has set. You’ll see Jupiter before the sky is fully dark. Saturn will appear a bit later. And if it’s too cold to go outside, turn out the lights and look out the window. …

“Human nature.” Ron panted and pulled himself forward. “People don’t look up.”

Worming through a crevasse so narrow and twisted we had to crawl sideways, we certainly didn’t. Grunting, I inched forward, pulled on jagged rock that sliced my fingers, winced at the rough wall scraping my back.

“You’ll see,” he promised. “It’s brilliant.”

After five minutes of torture, every muscle screamed for rest. After ten, I dreaded entombment in the passage. After fifteen…

“Ah!” Ron vanished into darkness. Then a light flicked on, revealing him upright. I struggled to freedom, hauled myself to my feet, and was dumbstruck by what his LED flashlight revealed: a sea of gray spires, some inches high, some tall as us, an impenetrable mass of jagged teeth sparkling with moisture. …

It didn’t seem right, threatening such a pretty young woman, but Harrison’s plan allowed no room for sentiment.

The bank teller — Samantha, so her name tag said — glowed in the fluorescent light. Her dark hair and pale skin, her brick red lipstick and white smile topped with a cheery greeting nearly derailed his resolve, but he refused to melt. He had his note at the ready, simple instructions written left-handed with a number two pencil. He had but to slide it across the counter and wait. Returning her smile, he did just that.

She read it, frowned at it, frowned at him. …

The flickering glow of the jack-o-lanterns painted Simon’s face orange-yellow, and Bess’s, too, as she stood by his side, waiting for his reaction. When it finally came, it was underwhelming.

“Not bad.” He nodded and repeated it. “Not bad at all.”

“Is that all you can say?” Bess complained.

Simon squinted at the black cat carved on the middle pumpkin, the spider to the left, and finally the wicked face to the right. “What should I say? That you’re an artist? Okay, you’re an artist.”

Bess pouted. “You never listen, do you? What did I say before I lit them?”

“You said they’re gateways. …

Accompanied by a fluttering of dry wind, a lanky fellow in a ten-gallon hat stepped around the corner of the decaying stone wall and smiled at roving photographer Randy Ferguson, who was focusing his tripod-mounted camera. Startled, Randy straightened.

“Afternoon.” The stranger touched the brim of his hat. “Water? Food? Room for the night? You’re in the right place.” Laughing, he gestured at the brown grasses, brown earth, distant brown hills. “Only place, in fact.”

“Was this a roadhouse, then?” Randy asked, “Maybe two centuries ago?”

Cocking his head, the stranger approached. “A tenth that, mister. My father built it. I run it now. Pop’s old, going a bit…” He tapped his temple. …

All that day, rain soaked the land. It ran in rivulets down the streets, pooled in low places, carved gullies in the hillsides. Barrages of lightning seared the sky as thunder shook the town’s bones. Not even the oldest folks had seen such storms before. It might be the end of the world.

But the world didn’t end. Come nightfall, deluge, thunder, and lightning slipped into the darkening east, leaving a cold sky aglow with the light of a full moon. The higher it rose, the more the air chilled, the colder the damp soil grew, and here they were, two figures in dark overalls and dark shirts, bandanas tied about their faces to counter the stench of death, flinging cold, dark mud from a cold, dark hole in the ground while the moon cast ghost-like shadows into the grave. …

See if you can spot the error in the following snippet of story:

“Don’t you ever do that again!” Petunia shrieked as she slapped Robert’s face hard enough to spin his head.

Robert rubbed the sore spot. “Do what?”

“You know damn well what!” She stomped out, leaving him staring at the wide open front door, clueless as to what had sparked the outburst.

Dinner was a tray of microwaved mac and cheese. The mark on Robert’s face had faded, but the memory hadn’t. He replayed the scene over and over, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.

Yeah, that was pretty easy, wasn’t it? In moving between the third and fourth paragraphs, the reader got slapped in the face, too. One minute we’re standing at the open front door, the next we’re sitting down to dinner with no idea how we got there. It’s an example of a rough transition, a jarring switch from one subject to another. …