Bionic Commando. Copyright Capcom Co., Ltd.

Stories, verses and prose decorate all rooms inside the House of Words. Today, we abandon the library for a tale forged over the workshop’s tepid fires. A fable inspired by true events and forever laser-etched behind my blue eyes…

A hot November morning after a humid evening of passing hurricane rain, we gather for English Lit. in one of the academy’s open-air classrooms.

“Come in. Good morning,” Mr. Torres says behind dark-rimmed glasses. “I have a surprise test for you today.”

Forty grumpy teenagers groan. Spanish, both proper and the street’s, travels the green concrete and blasts the aluminum windows.

The girls wear thick, burgundy, two-fingers-below-the-knee-long skirts and matching vests. The boys dress in brown, baggy jeans and white, emblazoned polo shirts. ‘Academia Santa María,’ the embroidery reads.

“Sit down, sit down.” Mr. Torres hurries us along as we drag our feet and exchange concerned glances. “I told you Friday there’d be a test this week.” He taps the forsaken paper stack and gestures to the first chair of each of five rows of creaky, metal desks. “Take one and pass the rest.”

I receive the document and a lone drop of salty dew finds its way underneath my shirt. Ranked #2 in the class, but still human; an impromptu eight-page exam is enough to jingle anyone’s medals.

I look up.

Our teacher, and tormentor, wears his customary blue polo in contrast to the blackboard, still chalked with hieroglyphics from yesterday’s algebra. He nods and offers me a mischievous grin.

“Don’t forget to read the test before you begin.”

I bite off the ballpoint pen’s cap and plaster true or false as fast as my pale, fat fingers allow it. Five minutes in, I turn to Viviana, one of the smarter students, on my left. The tanned girl with wet, curly hair sits cross-legged, paper down, and a half-smile on her face.

“Huh?”

Her brown eyes enlarge just the tiniest when she finds mine. The smile widens. I sweat again, then devour the next six pages so fast I almost start a fire:

‘Describe the theme.’

‘Discuss the protagonist’s conflict.’

‘What is at stake?’

One last swipe and the wretched words beam. Mr. T’s closing statement explains his grin:

‘Write your name, today’s date and place your test face down. I will come to your desk and grade you 100%.

Thank you for following instructions.

Enjoy your day – E. Torres.’

“Maldición,” I say, damning all, and break the pen.

Mr. Torres taught me a life-long lesson that day. And it’s not about following instructions. His advice later solved complex Calculus with me in college. Joined me for many insightful shower thoughts. And debugged crazy-difficult software glitches over a Microsoft desk.

‘You are not alone inside that head.’

The subconscious is a powerful tool. We don’t control the wonderful beast, yet there it is, gifting knowledge, perspective and wondrous creativity. Your brain quietly analyzes all you read and hear and see. Visualizing math problems iterates over memorized equations. Breaking for coffee from buggy code dreams up new threads to follow.

The subconscious even assists with programming interviews. Next time you schedule a field trip to the accursed whiteboard, bring a cup of something, anything. When the interviewer barks, lift the blessed holder of refreshment to your lips and sip. Every conscious micro-moment equals two laps around the Sun of behind-the-scenes computation.

The rule reigns true in creative writing as well. It is the reason many editors, literary agents, writers both published or starving – and published and starving – recommend we ‘Put down the manuscript for a few hours,’ ‘Read another’s book,’ or ‘Let the query letter breathe a week before re-reading the draft.’

Efficient proofreading and editing require perspective. Polishing manuscripts into art requires ruthless perspective. Dean Gloster shares this meaningful quote: “Write without fear; edit without mercy.” Separating ourselves from newborn prose gains us the mythical perspective writers valiantly seek.

Mr. Torres and I never crossed paths again. He was a wise one, that man and his mischievous grin. He was kind too; kind enough to gift me another blank sheet before the other kids discovered his shenanigans. With Viviana’s tip and a teacher’s clemency, little Alvin scored 100%.

Next time your fingertips crawl, or the muse huffs and spits out sand, don’t be hasty. Your brain already read the test. It wrote the damn thing.

Walk away. Try it. Walk away and let the subconscious fill your cup. Then drink and advance with caution, impartial and refreshed, as one with the monster inside your head.

Enjoyed this literary snack and the tropical wisdom in its words? You might also like It’s dangerous to go alone. Take this!

Leave a comment or share with others. Feedback, thoughts and perspective are welcome too.

The Legend of Zelda, copyright Nintendo Co., Ltd.

This is the first of a series of posts on writing tools. Yes: writing tools.

Your journey against hyper-intelligent antagonists, pouty naysayers and those road warriors who illegally pass you on the emergency lane needs more than fists and a piece of paper. Martial arts training and a brooding vigilante complex didn’t make Batman. The tool belt made Batman. If you want to be a writer, a great writer who produces quality prose that commands the World’s attention, get used to the extra weight around your pelvis.

Two years ago, I finished the manuscript for NATURAL SELECTION, BOOK 1 of my young adult dark fantasy series CONCEPTION. I didn’t use any tools. I didn’t study or practice the writing craft. I merely poured my exposition, characters and dialog – my world – into Microsoft Word until the soul offered a firm handshake to the brain and they pranced out into the night to celebrate. The end result? Garbage.

“B-but why, Alvin?” Asked my drunken spirit while the cerebellum prepared the defense’s opening statement. “It had the themes, the emotion; it had the imagery. It painted colorful characters and weaved them into the high-staked story you wanted!”

“The writing, man. The writing sucks,” I said and stormed past the screen door.

NATURAL SELECTION’s first draft – and second and third and tenth – stumbled about with weak verbs on wobbling crutches made of adverbs (e.g. walked slowly instead of sauntered, or walked quickly instead of hurried); lazy descriptions (e.g. the great big mountain vs. the mountain towered); amateur dialog tags (e.g. Joseph said, Mary replied, little Jesus hollered) and my favorite, and by favorite, I mean bang-head-against-wall hellish: enough passive voice to melt action scenes into PowerPoint slides.

Tools like Hemingway App and AutoCrit saved the day and about 200 editing hours later, I produced a polished manuscript composed of beautiful prose.

Then, I lost my voice.

Protect that precious voice box. The endless task of self-improvement through the torturous realm of editing is coarse. The tools were designed for quality, specifically molding your hands to create what publishers and literary agents consider quality writing. Yet, they have the side effect of making you sound like a drone. If this lasts more than six hours, you should definitely contact your doctor… or an exorcist.

I glanced at the hospital on my way to church but rebelled and hired myself a chemist instead. Together, we brewed the following formula to guide my prose:

Write whole chapters to your fingertips’ delight. Write and write, unjudged, untested, free words belonging only to the wind and yourself.
Let your art sit for a day or two, and take plenty of showers to let the shower thoughts run. More so, if lots of good plot points were involved. Plot points, like wet cement, need to set just right.
Pick up some tools and put your words on the grinder. Shave off those adverbs and correct your pacing. Remove unnecessary filler words (e.g. that, then and just), excessive dialog tags and clichés (no one needs to hear “Forget everything you think you know!” again). And lastly (Gasp, an adverb!): revise overuse of the passive voice.
Re-read the piece, fix and tweak, until your voice is smeared all over that thing like a buttered-up, Aunt Jemima-oozing, stack of pancakes.

You’ll be exhausted after this and crawl out asking why the hell you write at all; questioning whether it’s worth the trauma to publish professionally. Have a drink, or a chat with a good friend. Remind yourself you write because the world needs your voice.

Yes, yes it does. And pardon the cliché, but it does get better over time. I found my new eyes the best outcome of the grinder and can now produce a higher quality first draft. The tools trained me to recognize the glitches. Some even plague this post (Gasp, again!)

There are no shortcuts here. Write every day, edit every other day. Then band with others who love the same craft. Find one better at it, and learn. Find one worse, and teach. That is the key.

Of them I’ll talk on the next Tools post. Them, wielders of truth. Banner men and women, unafraid to lunge their sword and cut you, but never hesitant to loan their shield. It is of them Zelda’s wise man in the cave spoke when he said: