Texas Outlaws

Hey, this is kinda like a continuation of the outsiders. Kinda what happens afterwards. Hope you like it. I would love for you to give me feed back, no matter if you think my story is terrible.

I chose this scene because Dally never really opened up about his backstory. In my theme, it was about learning about someone's past. I had said something about learning it about it indirectly or directly. I don’t want to change Dally and Johnny dying because it is a life changing moment between the greasers. It affected them all, but it affected Pony the most. Pony was really affected by Johnny and Dally’s death and he was very mournful about it. Pony came to be friends with Dally at the end and he might have wanted to know more about him. By using Pony’s dreaming, I was able to weave a short story about Dally having a twin brother who knew all about him, but got seperated. Then I was able to tell Dally’s life from before and possibly add some context about Dally’s past, that we haven’t learned about. Since Dally already died, I wanted a ghost from Dally’s past (Austin) to come meet the greasers

~Texas Outlaws~

I smile coming out of the movie theatre. It was Paul Newman’s latest movie, The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean. Paul Newman was wonderful as Roy Bean, and rest of the cast was amazing, especially Anthony Perkins as a travelling padre, Stacy Keach as Bad Bob, Roddy McDowell as a wormy lawyer, Ned Beatty as the outlaw who'd rather be a bartender, and John Huston himself as Grizzly Adams. The way Paul Newman played Roy Bean was so life-like and imaginable. 

After studying many films in college, it’s easy to tell if they’re just acting or if they’re feeling it. Paul Newman is an actor who feels the film. He really gets into character and really makes the audience feel for him.

Thinking about Paul Newman, I remember back to when I came out from The Outrage, the moment that changed my life. I look to the spot where I was jumped, and was surprised to see a familiar face. A long, elvish face. 

The colour drains from my face while my contented smile slips into a shocked frown. I stare at him, mystified , watching his white-blond hair blow around in the slight summer breeze. 

I close my eyes. It’s not possible. I think. It shouldn’t be possible. It can’t be possible. I shake my head, and scold myself. I’ve really tried to listen to Darry and stop daydreaming, but I can’t help it. I can’t help but lie to myself, even if it does ruin me. 

I open my eyes again and look back to the spot, but he’s gone. He seemed to have vanished from the face of the Earth. I heard no footsteps indicating that he ran away or even any scuff marks on the pavement.

I hear a high-pitched whistle and see Darry and Sodapop waving at me. I smile once more. I’ve been here for a day and seeing them almost makes me think I’m imagining things. I walk over and hop into the back of the black 1969 Ford Mustang they were able to get when I was away in college. 

“Where to?” I ask, trying to forget my ghost from the past. 

“First, we’re gonna pick up Steve and Two-Bit. Then we were gonna go to the Nightly Double. You wanna come?” Soda answers, keeping his eyes on the road in front of Darry’s watchful eye. 

I nod, grateful for the excuse to focus on something else. I start thinking about the Creative Writing homework I have to do over break. For the class, we’re were supposed to write our own version of a Shakespearean story. I chose one that I hope would be challenging. 

Realizing that I have to get the book, I look up to ask Darry about it when I see we’re at Two-Bit’s place. He quickly runs outside and opens the door on my side.

 “Scoot over, Pony.” He says, his voice sounding exactly the same from when I last saw him. It shocked me because that was so long ago. Maybe my friends hadn’t changed much at all, contrary to what I was worried about coming here.

  Moving to the middle seat, I smile, “Hello to you too.”

As he slides in on my left, he responds by giving me a vulgar gesture and I laugh. Steve opens the door to my right and climbs in and we nod to each other. We’ve come to a conclusion where we accept the other living. 

“Now I can’t spread out!” Two-bit complains. 

I laugh. Steve smirks and shares a look with Soda while Darry lets out a chuckle. 

“No, I'm serious though. You’ve gotten big since the last time I saw you. How long ago was that? 10, 11 years ago?” Two-bit claims, teasing me. 

“It’s only been 5 years.” I  don’t rise to the bait and smile instead, remembering the day I went off to college.  I sigh, remembering back to the story we have to write. 

“Hey Darry, what time does the library close?” I ask. Two-Bit starts to laugh but tries to suppress it when I elbow him.  “Quiet, I’m actually working on my life, unlike you” I jest. 

He drawls, “That you do. I’m content on just shoplifting and taking care of the family.” He smiles. 

“It closes at 11. Why? What do you need to go for?” Darry asks. 

“I have to write a re-telling on Othello…” I explain my project to them. 

When I finish through my whole explanation, Two-Bit yawns, as if he’s been asleep, and jokingly looks around then looks at me. “I’m sorry, was I supposed to be listening?”

The group of us laughs while I punch him playfully. I turn forward, supposedly watching the road, and to my satisfaction Two-Bit is discreetly rubbing the spot where I hit him. 

Two-Bit was right though, I think to myself. I have grown. I’ve been working out in my spare time. That is, in between studies when I have the time. I want to be strong enough to fight back when the Socs attack, or during a rumble. 

A flashing sign draws me out of my thoughts and I see the drive-in. We pull in, and we all climb out and walk to the front where we sit down on the grass in front of the screen. 

“Pony! You’re back!” A voice exclaims behind us, and I turn to see Marcia and Cherry along with a little girl I don’t recognize. 

I smile at them. “Yep, got back yesterday…” I trail off, looking behind them and see him buying a drink at the concessions. He’s facing away, but no one has the same hair as he does. 

“Hey Pony,” Cherry waves a hand in front of my face. “You okay? It looks as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

The others look concerned as they await my answer so I nod and say, “Everything's fine, just a little jet-lagged.” 

To my relief, they look at ease and turn to talk to each other. 

I glance back and he’s gone. I then peer over to the little girl and I see her looking at me with big gray eyes. 

I walk over to her and she hides behind Marcia’s leg. I crouch and extend an arm. “Hello, name’s Ponyboy. What’s yours?”

“M..Mary.” She stutters shyly. 

Marcia looks down lovingly at her daughter. “She’s a little shy at first. But, if you get to know her, she’ll be just like her father.” Marcia looks up at Two-Bit, catches his eyes, and laughs. Two-Bit laughs and goes back to his conversation with Cherry and Soda. 

“Mary, how old are you?” I ask softly to Mary. 

After she holds up three fingers, she loses interest and goes to play with another kid she seems to know. 

We all settled down and stopped talking during the movies, except Two-Bit, who had to comment on everything. 

When we finished, we left and all went our separate ways. Two-Bit hitched a ride with Marcia, Cherry and Mary, and Steve was staying the night so we could drive straight home without dropping him off.

The next morning, I walk into the kitchen and see Soda sitting there, chocolate all over his mouth. His plate is covered in chocolate crumbs, and he looks longingly at the rest of the cake. I laugh, remembering how he’s always like that. 

Darry is sitting next to him decently. I shake my head. The difference between them always catches me by surprise. One who’s as solemn as death, the other who’s as energetic as a colt. 

My eggs are in my usual spot and a plate of chocolate cake is beside it. I sit down, and start eating the food. 

With my mouth full, I ask, “Where’s Steve?”

“Oh, he left early for repair.” Soda answers, smiling at me. 

I swallow my food then question, “And why aren't you there?”

 I mean, they’re never late for work. No matter how much Soda tries to prolong getting to work, he always seems to be there on time.

Darry smiles, “We’re taking the day off.”

It takes me a minute to process what he had just said. I stare at them dumbly until it registers. I let out a big smile, “Really?!”

Soda nods and I take the last bite of my breakfast excitedly. “What are we doing today?”

Darry smiles, “Oh you know. The usual Curtis stuff.”

We all smile and Soda and I race to get the dishes done, one of the first chores I had done since I got home. 

We walk out the door and jump into the car. Darry pulls out of the driveway and we drive towards the country roads. Darry and Soda are in the front, deep in conversation, leaving me to my thoughts. It’s really remarkable how we all are the same yet so different. 

Soda is still as lively as ever, but he has this calm feeling about him now. Two-Bit still acts like a child but he’s grown so much since I’ve last seen him. Steve is still cold towards me, but at least he respects me. Darry, he is still stiff but he has gotten so much easier to hang out with. He actually smiles now. 

I smile to myself. But look at me. Ever since I wrote about everything of what happened, I actually finished high school. I had put my story in my Portfolio and when I was issued into college, they suggested I publish it. I’ve been editing it ever since, afraid to publish it. I think that it’s because people will know what my life was like, that they will pity me. But, then again, it could also inspire so many others. I really should publish it. Then I can use the profits to get Darry into college like he always wanted and help out the rest of the greasers. 

I smile at the thought. I will publish it. As soon as I get back in the winter, I will go up and publish my story. 

Soda yells excitedly, interrupting my thoughts,  “We’re here!”

I look at the window and smile at the small town. To our left, we’re idling in front of a barber shop, but across the street is an antique shop. We cross the street, walking leisurely, and enter the antique shop. 

My eyes go straight to the books. I know that Darry goes to the sport cards while Soda’s eyes find the horse pictures. I look over and sure enough, Soda is standing in front of the horse pictures gazing at them. I’m sure he’s remembering Mickey Mouse and reliving their happy moments. 

I turn around fully and try to find Darry, but he disappeared behind the shelves.

 I turn back the the shelves and run a hand over the classics. Charlotte's Web, The Christmas Carol, Pride and Prejudice. I smile, remembering reading and analyzing each one for class.  I open up a book I haven't read, Great Expectations, and I sit down, drawn into the world of orphans and finding happiness. 

After finishing the book I begin to realize something. The books remind me of Dally. He was an orphan lost in the streets, and he has always had the worst of luck. He was always searching for happiness and he found it when he met Johnny. Johnny was his happiness, his strength and weakness. 

My eyes start to burn and my throat begins to close but I try to shove the emotions deep inside. I blink away the tears threatening to come out, remembering the promise I made to myself long ago. 

I stand up and go to find Darry and Soda. 

I look over to find Soda now talking to the cashier, a bald old man, and I decide to get Darry first. I walk through the shelves filled with history and backstories when I finally see Darry looking tenderly at a musical box. 

I stand behind him to get a better look. The porcelain figure was holding a baby in her arms with two children wrapped around her long, flowing skirts. The woman’s face was graceful, with clever jade green eyes. Her long wheat-gold hair was crowned with a flower crown and her body was clothed in a fern colored dress. The dress was simple, tight in the bodice with a flowing skirt reaching her ankles. 

“She looks so familiar,” Darry comments, and I agree with him. She looks so familiar but I can’t place a finger on who it is. 

I stare at the figure, the music playing a mix between a nursery rhyme and a ballad. “Could it be someone we know?”

Darry snaps his fingers, maybe finally realizing who it is. “Or someone we knew. It looks like Mom, Pony! It looks just like her!”

I gape at the figure and watch the similarities fall in place. “We have to get this Darry! We just have to! It’s like it’s been waiting to find us!”

Darry nods. “Yeah, let's go pay for it and than we can go get food.”

We walk over to the counter and the old man stops talking to Soda and turns to us, “Hello, did you find everything you were looking for?”

“Yes, we did.” Darry gave the man the hunter green music box and the man rings it up. 

“That will be $9.45.” The old man informs him, and Darry gives him the money. 

“Thanks.” The three of us say simultaneously, Soda waving goodbye to shopkeeper as we walk out of the shop. 

We walk down the street, looking for food. 

“DQ!” Soda exclaims, pumping his fist in the air. 

Darry and I laugh, as we watch our brother run to the menu, motioning us to hurry up. We stop in front of the menu and gaze at it. We discuss our meals. 

Soda goes up to the person working the shift and says, “I’ll take three vanilla milkshakes, a pepsi, two cokes and uhh…. Three chicken sandwiches. Oh and three chips. ”

Darry and I go over to the groups of tables to claim one. 

We sit down and wait for Soda. He comes out with a tray with all of our food on it. He places the food on the table and sits down. 

“Crap, I forgot napkins.” He glares at the food for a moment, and starts to get up. 

“I’ll get them,” I announce . I know he and Darry work hard, and they deserve this day off. 

I jump up, taking a swig of my Pepsi, and go towards the condiments. 

I grab dozens of napkins and walk back to the table. When I get there, I notice their expressions. Soda’s face is pale and Darry’s face is stone cold, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re not paying attention to me, but rather something else in the distance. 

“What is it?” I ask in a cheerful tone, trying to settle their emotions. 

Their eyes slowly focus on me while I sit down across from them. Their eyes are filled with negative emotions: loss, regret, remorse, anger, sorrow, and confusion. 

“Well, what is it?” I repeat and look behind me. 

With a twang of shock I realize who they’re looking at. He’s standing against a table in the park, talking to a blond chick. He looks over at us, somehow sensing us gaping at him. He looks exactly like the night he died, just minus all the injuries.  

“Dally….” I whisper, shock filling me. I look over and Darry and Soda are staring at me with the same confusion. 

“You see it too?” Darry asks, his voice soft. “I thought it was just my imagination.”

Soda and I nod in agreement. We turn to look at him again, but instead of finding him with that chick, he’s walking towards us. 

I panic, stage-whispering to Darry and Soda, “What do we do?” My voice rises at the last word in a panic and I feel like someone is trying to smother me. Black dots fill my vision and I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Pony! Calm down!” I hear Soda say. 

“Deep breaths Pony. Work with me,” Darry jumps in. His voice is soothing and I follow his instructions. “In, two three four, out two three four. In, two three four. Out, two, three, four. In two three four. Out two three four.”

I finally can breathe. I open my eyes and see Darry and Soda looking at me with worry. They look behind me, and share a look. 

“Maybe we should go.” Soda says. 

I nod and we all stand. Soda collects the trash and goes to throw it away. I walk closely to Darry and he puts his arm arounds me. I’m almost his height, standing at 6’0, so it’s harder than it used to be but Darry still makes it work. 

Soda jogs back to us and goes to my other side. They walk beside me and shield me from the outer world. 

I stay at home for the next few days. I’m left to my own devices and after rereading most books in the house, I finally decide that it’s time to go grab Othello from the library. 

I grab my leather jacket, the one Dally gave me all those years ago, and put it on. I can almost feel the heat on the back from when it caught fire. That was the day we saved the children. That was the day Dally and Johnny were still alive.

After I walk out the door and start walking to the Library. These days, no one seems to be awake at 10. 

As I walk along the rough concrete path, I hear a scuffling of heavy boots behind me. 

I stop suddenly and spin around, but see nothing. 

Great. I'm hearing things now. 

I continue my path, and I hear the boots again. I turn around to see nothing. I turn back and  continue walking the path. As a near the street I hear the boots a third time. 

An idea strikes me and as I near an alleyway, and the idea begins to form. 

I turn into the alley and I wait behind a crate, like a cat ready to pounce. Whoever is stalking me will follow me, and walk straight into my trap. 

When he walks in front of my crate, I tackle him and we fall to the ground. The guy breaks my fall and I rip his hood down. Staring at me with wide eyes is Dally. 

I jump back and step backwards until my back is against the wall. I slide down until I sit, and start rocking back and forth, nearing a panic attack.

“He can’t be here. He can’t be here. He can’t be there,”  I talk to myself, staring right at him, as if I could will him away. I try the breathing exercises Darry encourages me to use, but they don’t work. I start to panic more. 

He looks at me, still confused. “What do you mean I ‘can’t be here’. Did Dallas tell you about me?”

I ignore his third person talk and continue to talk myself. “He can’t be here. He can’t be here. He frickin’ died. He can’t be here. I saw him die.”

He walks to me, and covers my mouth with his hand. 

I freeze and stop chanting in fear. He continues to hold his hand, silencing me from protesting. Was he kidnapping me?

He then growls, “What do you mean I died?” He lifts his off my mouth and glares at me.

“I saw you. You were shot. You were shot…” I trail off, starting to sob. 

“I didn’t die.” He shakes his head in confusion. “Whose side were you on that night? The Vipers or The Reapers?”

I stare at him in confusion. With tears running down my face, I manage to talk, “What...What are you talking about?”

He stares at me, realization dawning across his face. “Who do you think I am?”

After several deep breaths, my tears have subsided and I glare at him, “This is no time to mess around Dally! You’re frickin’ alive, and I saw you frickin’ die. Want to explain that?”

He laughs at me, “I ain’t Dally.” He shakes his head and mutters something to himself. He turns to me, watching me glare at him. 

“Than who the hell are you?” I ask, my voice venomous. I was aware of the hostility in my voice, but if he was telling the truth, who was he?

“I am Austin Winston. Twin brother of Dallas Winston.” He smirks. “Never thought someone would mistake us.”

I observe him, realizing he was right. He had a long scar from his temple to his jaw, something that Dally never had. But then again, it’s been 7 years, anything could have happened in that time. 

“Is there anyway you can verify? Where did Dally grow up?”

“New York.” Austin beamed. 

“What age did he get first arrested and leave New York?”

His smile fades. “10.” 

“Why was Dally here and you weren't?” 

He pauses, considering and weighing his next words. He takes a shuddering deep breath and quickly says, “Because he thought I was dead.”

My eyes widen and I gasp, unable to help my imagination run wild. “And were you? Did you come back alive like a zombie Frankenstein?” He sits besides me and looks me in the eye. 

“Not exactly,” He smiles, and pauses for a beat before going on. “When we were younger, our parents died. No warning. Just came home to a fuzz who told us. That arse left us soon after he told us, not bothering to help us. Then these official people came, taking away our home and kickin’ us out. We were about 6, I think. Next thing we know, we were on our own. We got beat up pretty regularly with the other orphans, fightin’ over everything. Food, clothes, water. Dally and I were often known for stopping a fight though. We both knew that everyone was goin’ through the same thing, and we didn’t see the point in fightin’. One day, we were maybe 8, we came across a young girl gettin’ beat up by a group of guys.

 “We saved her, and gave her shelter and food at this warehouse we stayed at. Turns out, it was a gang leader’s little sister. The gang was The Vipers. They invited us in, and we accepted. We helped them run cons, and even at 8, we would get in gang fights. The two of us were known as the Texas Outlaws. One day, we were in a gang war with The Reapers and one shot me in the shoulder, right by my heart. I remember Dally over me, shaking me, while I was bleedin’ and telling me to stay alive. Than another round of shots fired, one hittin’ Dally in the arm. There was so much blood and Dally was so lost. He thought I was dead but he was still holdin’ on to me, crying. I vaguely remember him leaving me. When I awoke fully conscious, it was 3 months later. I later heard the tale of my brother. After he thought I died, he went against The Reapers, killing the leader, the second in command, and put their gang in frenzy. They ended up surrenderin’ and Dally took off. For months we heard nothing about him.

 “After the war, he disappeared. No one knew or heard of where he went. A few months later, Autumn came, and our birthday rolled around. I celebrated my tenth birthday by myself for the first time. Than, around Christmas, a newspaper came out. The front page story was about a little boy rollin’ a bank. He was carrin’ a heater and clearly he was boozed-up. That little boy was Dally. He was ambitious even back then. The Vipers and I read the paper and it turns out, he was getting money to help us and to build me a memorial. He was sentenced a year in the cooler. I waited to hear from him, to me or any of the Vipers. When I didn’t hear from him at 12, I went to look for him. I’ve been searchin’ for years and only just managed to find his trail here.”

He finished telling his story and all I could do was stare at him. “That’s what he went through?”

Austin looked at me, “Yeah. And that’s just skimmin’ it. Why? Did he not tell you any of this?”

I shook my head, “He only mentioned going to the jail at 10 and growing up in New York. He probably said more to Johnny though.”

Austin look at me. “Who’s Johnny?” He must’ve seen my face fall because he quickly says, “Hey, ya don’t have to tell me.

“Thanks,” I mumble, not wanting to talk about Johnny. 

He stands up, brushing off his hands on his jeans. I follow him and also get up. We walk towards the opening of the alley and walk to the direction of the library. Same like before, when I was walking there without knowing he was there, except this time we’re talking and I know that he’s there.

We start talkin’ about the difference between Oklahoma and New York, and the similarities between us growing up poor. Then we go on about being orphaned. It surprisingly doesn’t hurt when I talk about my parents. 

Out of nowhere, Austin asks,  “Anyways, when can I see Dally?” 

I stop, and stare at his back, realizing that he  never was told about Dally’s fate. “Austin, you can’t…”

~The End~

Author's Note

comment on whatever you think is necessary

Reviews

[JayG]

• I would love for you to give me feed back, no matter if you think my story is terrible.

This line, in and of itself, encapsulates the problem that trips so many hopeful writers, the idea that it’s the story—the plot progression—that makes people love or hate a given piece of fiction. But think about this: Readers are volunteers, not conscripts. So they'll turn the pages for only as long as you give them a reason to WANT to.

Think about yourself when you audition a book to see if you want to commit to reading it by taking it home. How many pages will you read of a book that doesn’t “grab you” before you put it back and turn to another? I mention it because if the reader isn’t hooked quickly, and closes the cover, who cares how good the story was? They’ll never see it.

Take it a step further. For the books you said yes to, was it because of what was happening in the scene, or because the people taking part in that scene, and the scene's presentation interested you? Studies have shown that the average person makes a buy-or say-no decision in three pages or less. And how much “story” has taken place in three pages?

See my point? Forget story. A great writer can mesmerize you with a tale of taking out the garbage. A good one can keep you reading it to the end. The average hopeful writer will lose you in a page. Great writers don’t come up with great plots, they’re great WRITERS. They’ve learned the tricks of making the writing so real to the reader that they’ll weep, laugh, feel terror, or rage in response to the protagonist’s plight. That writer will make the reader live the story in real-time, AS the protagonist. They invite the reader in, they don’t talk TO them. And they can’t, because the reader can’t hear the emotion in narrator’s voice. And since they don’t know what a line WILL say, they can’t even guess. And that doesn’t take into account that they can’t see your performance, either. So gesture, expression, and body-language are gone, too.

But…talking TO the reader is how we were taught to write. As the narrator, we were taught to explain the facts to the reader and inform them on the subject of the discussion, be that astrophysics or how to knit. In other words, we're trained to give them an informational experience. And we honed those skills via endless reports and essays.

But did even one of your teachers explain the nuance of dialog, and cover tag usage? Did anyone, ever, explain why a scene on the page ends in disaster for the protagonist, and should? No. Nor did they explain why a scene on the screen must differ from one on the page. And that is the problem you need to address.

In other words, though we’re not aware of it, we leave our school days exactly as well prepared to write fiction as to pilot a 747. Why? Because all professions are learned in addition to the skills our schooldays give us.

That doesn’t say you can’t be a writer, or that you have to spend thousands of dollars to acquire those skills. You can find the information you need in the fiction-writing section of the library. There are articles by the thousands online, and I immodestly suggest chewing through a few of the articles in my writing blog, to get a feel for how different fiction-writing technique is from the nonfiction skills our schooldays gave us.

My personal suggestion is, to pick up a personal copy of Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, though there are many more.

To give you an idea of how a reader—who knows nothing you haven’t told them, and who possesses only the context your words provide—will react, look at a few lines of the opening:

• I smile coming out of the movie theater.

So someone I know nothing about smile for unknown reason as they leave a theater in an unknown place. As a reader, why do I care? You’re thinking cinematically, and telling me what I would see on the screen were this a film. But will eight words give me even a fraction of what I'd get in an eyeblink's time in the theater? No. It gives you the proper picture, but you cheat. You call up up from memory as you read the line. The reader has no access to your memory.

• It was Paul Newman’s latest movie, The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean.

Not having seen the film, and having no idea of why this film relates to the scene, why do I care what film it was? Why does the reader care what the protagonist thinks about an actor or a film? Does it move the plot to know that? No. Does it develop character? Perhaps, but since it doesn’t relate to what’s happening, this is not the place for it. In fact, you never refer to it again, so other than delaying the actual beginning of the story, what did the discussion of how YOU feel about Paul Newman do for the reader?

The first two paragraphs take up 124 words, or more than the first standard manuscript page. And what’s happened in the story in that time? Nothing. And in the first six paragraphs, the reader has no context to make sense of what's being discussed. The protagonist talks about another time, and things meaningful to them,for which the reader has no context. Then he or she (we don’t know the protagonist’s gender till over 1000 words have passed, or four full pages which takes more than five minutes to read, because a “Pony” can be male or female) is upset over seeing a face described as elvish? What can elvish mean to a reader?

All of this makes perfect sense to you, because you know the story, the characters, and the setting before you begin reading. And you have intent for how the reader should take the words. But does intent make it to the page? No, As a reader, I don’t know what century, or country, or area this takes place in.

My point? Had you known that the reader needs three subjects clarified quickly on entering any scene, you’d have opened differently. Had you known the tricks of placing the reader into the protagonist’s viewpoint you wouldn’t have tried to “jazz up” the writing with first person and present tense (doesn't work or everyone would be doing it).

It’s not that a matter of talent or how well you’re writing. It’s as Mark Twain put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” You can’t use the tool you aren’t aware exists, and you can’t fix the problem you don’t see as being one.

But...add in the tricks of the profession, and all those problems solve themselves, and, the act of writing becomes a lot more fun.

So dig in. And as you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/