Exercise: Writing in Second Person

It's rare to see an author tackle a story in second person point of view. In other words, to write a story where "you" are in it. Take, for example, this excerpt from my attempt titled "Escaping the Horde":

As you pass a large SUV, something suddenly yanks your shirt, pulling you backwards toward a rotten stench. It's moan sends a shiver up your spine, and the front of your collar digs into your throat sending nausea and fear to your gut. The sound of its clicking teeth echoes in your ear as you struggle to pull forward from its grasp. Your left hand pulls against your shirt to give you leverage against its firm grip while your right hand reaches for the cool steel stored against your hip. Just as your pistol comes free, a loud bang rings throughout the landscape and the pressure instantly releases from your neck. A quick look reveals the wasting woman at your feet, her dirty nurses uniform more evidence of her actions while dead than any living act of heroism. You turn toward Mike and give a quick thumbs up before sprinting toward the RV.

Instead of writing that "she" passed an SUV and "she" got yanked by a living corpse, I've put you in the story. Does it make a big difference in how the reader relates to the story? Possibly. With second person point of view, you are focusing on your reader and putting them in the action. While this tactic is more useful in advertising, never dismiss it from your writing toolbox.

In my example from above, this is actually a different perspective from a short story I wrote that eventually turned into inspiration for the novel I am writing. I took the original short story, shifted to a different person that was vital to the action, and put my reader right in the crossfire. This exercise really made me think of how I describe everything in my writing because I had to make sure I could put you there and that you could see the surroundings, smell the smells, and hear the echoes of the dead, explosions, or gunshots.

Here's my proposed exercise: choose a short story you wrote in the past and pick a character that is important to the plot but doesn't get much face time. Tell the story from that person's point of view but write it in second person point of view to put the reader in the story. You might be surprised where it takes you.

Word Prompt: A Piece of This, A Piece of That

Practicing 2nd Person: Escaping the Horde

     You cringe at the sound of your boots hitting the pavement and look around quickly to gauge the scene. So far so good. The old bus's door squeaks closed behind you, shutting you off from your only shelter and setting your body in high alert. The wind blows quietly from the west, waving your long red hair in your eyes and you quickly pull it back to clear your vision. Cars are piled over the horizon you're scanning, their wreckage hiding dangers you know are sitting in wait. The woods on each side of the highway are empty, but you know it's only temporary. A distant moan startles you, setting you into motion toward the two waving figures ahead. A soft click behind you is a reminder of the armed man watching over you. You take a deep breath as you wade into a graveyard of vehicles and dead.

      You start forward, bending your knees to duck down below the tops of the wreckage. Each hulking form blocks the breeze, keep your scent close and out of the reach of the hungry dead hiding yards away. The once distant shuffling of corpses creeps closer with each of your hurried steps. You constantly eye your surroundings from left to right as you keep a steady, fast pace toward your target. Every few cars you stop to lean against the safety of cold steel and aluminum and listen. With no unwanted sounds nearby, you start forward again. Two figures atop an RV lay low in wait as you close in.

      As you pass a large SUV, something suddenly yanks your shirt, pulling you backwards toward a rotten stench. It's moan sends a shiver up your spine, and the front of your collar digs into your throat sending nausea and fear to your gut. The sound of its clicking teeth echoes in your ear as you struggle to pull forward from its grasp. Your left hand pulls against your shirt to give you leverage against its firm grip while your right hand reaches for the cool steel stored against your hip. Just as your pistol comes free, a loud bang rings throughout the landscape and the pressure instantly releases from your neck. A quick look reveals the wasting woman at your feet, her dirty nurses uniform more evidence of her actions while dead than any living act of heroism. You turn toward Mike and give a quick thumbs up before sprinting toward the RV.

      The reinforced camper housed the young couple who had waved you down when they heard the bus's motor approach. You saw them sitting on the camper, arms waving silently, frantically, in hopes of rescue, and you knew you had to act. As you finally approach, you see evidence of their survival. Dark blood and scratches cover the sides of the RV and bodies of the dead litter the ground nearby. You smile as their feet touch the ground and waste no time turning back. Your eyes widen as you register movement all over the highway.

      Mike's shot had awakened the hibernating dead throughout the highway. The moaning, shuffling corpses bob and weave amongst the wreckage, honing in on the loud sound that disturbed their slumber. The dead wander in your path, their moans growing to a loud chorus as more begin to move and salivate at the smell of dinner. Your blood runs cold as they begin to notice the living in their midst and you immediately reach for your weapon. Aiming your pistol forward, you move toward the bus, mouthing a silent prayer and steeling yourself for a fight.

      A stream of loud bangs begin as you start forward. The sounds of your steps echo over the highway, but there is no time to stay quiet. You step over the corpses grounded by Mike's shots, black liquid oozing from the holes in each head. Businessmen, repairmen, teachers, children. One by one they drop to clear your path. A loud scream tears through the air as you whip your head around to the couple behind you. A tatter-suited man has the young woman by the arm, his gaping, black mouth inching toward her as she struggled from his grasp. Just as you aim toward its head, the corpse drops, revealing the young man bringing up the rear. A woman in military uniform has him pushed against the door of a red Cadillac, her mouth reaching for his throat but not faster than the shot that tore through her rotting head. She drops to the ground as you yank the woman forward and hope the young man follows.

      Your heart sinks as you gain a clearer view of the bus. The dead crowd it three bodies deep and even from afar you can see the terror in Mike's eyes. You see him shouting as you continue sprinting with the others in tow. Head continue to explode around you as the movement on top of the bus increases. Suddenly, you see Mike motion for you to hit the floor as a corpse falls at your feet. Yanking down the woman behind you, you drop to your hands and knees and brace yourself.

      A loud boom hits, followed by a second. Your ears begin to ring as you see debris rain upon the men hugging the roof of the bus. Mike waves you forward and you hesitantly rise to your feet, waiting for some of the straggling dead to pass toward the blasts before streaking toward the bus. The door flies open just in time and you climb aboard, letting out a long-held breath and urging your heart to slow its hectic rate. Your fellow survivors begin checking you over, but you brush them off and drift in a daze toward the nearest empty seat. You drop down and lean against the back, watching the group take care of the newest members and listening to the bumps of the dead hitting and squishing beneath the bus.

      Just as your eyes close, you hear someone drop from in from the roof. Mike crawls onto a seat a collapses into a tired heap. You gather your last bit of strength and go to him, laying your body upon his and taking in his comforting warmth. You lean in and kiss his lips, his eyes opening to meet yours.

      “Never again, woman,” he sighs sleepily. “You're going to be the death of me.”

      You smile shyly and lay your head on his chest, the sound of the dead beneath the tires lulling you to sleep.

40 Ways to Strengthen Your Writing and Avoid a "Very" Weak Word

Writer's often hear a simple, yet vitally important, piece of advice:

Never use the word, ‘very.’ It is the weakest word in the English language; doesn’t mean anything. If you feel the urge of ‘very’ coming on, just write the word, ‘damn,’ in the place of ‘very.’ The editor will strike out the word, ‘damn,’ and you will have a good sentence.

- William Allen White

"Very" often serves as a go-to word for many, but it simply leaves writing flat. Good writing draws the reader in and creates the writer's world in the reader's imagination. People imagine things with various differences, but when an author really paints a perfect picture, it helps readers to better "see" what the author "saw" when drafting the novel or poem. Compare the following three descriptions of the same scene:

Some rights reserved by Nick Kenrick.

1. Vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges blew very slowly across the sidewalk.

2. Vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges blew lazily across the sidewalk.

In this example, the idea is the same, but the presentation stands stronger because the word is stronger. As an intensifier, very is a modifier that provides no real meaning except to enhance or add force to the words that it modifies. Simply put, it's lazy filler. Admit it: it's easier to say something is very tall instead of thinking of a more descriptive word (such as towering) or thinking creatively (maybe using a metaphor or simile?). Shortcuts don't always breed success, however, and a good writer understands that readers desire substance, thought, and ingenuity.

The next time you find yourself writing that damn word very, sit back and reconsider. The English language overflows with synonyms for the simple word you chose. That's what makes writing so wonderful: the only limit is your imagination. Be creative! If you find yourself stuck, try one of the 50 very good  excellent replacements below.

very	bad	Awful	Atrocious
very	cold	Frigid	Freezing
very	wet	Drenched	Soggy
very	expensive	Costly	Pricey
very	sad	Depressed	Melancholy
very	fun	Entertaining	Delightful
very	happy	Ecstatic	Pleased
very	cute	Adorable	Precious
very	hot	Sizzling	Suffocating
very	painful	Agonizing	Excruiciating
very	tired	Exhausted	Pooped
very	comfortable	Cozy	Snug
very	boring	Monotonous	Tiresome
very	bright	Radiant	Vivid
very	dull	Dim	Witless
very	dark	Murky	Somber
very	clean	Immaculate	Unblemished
very	deep	Profound	Fathomless
very	young	Youthful	Juvenile
very	late	Belated	Delayed
very	tall	Lanky	Towering
very	short	Condensed	Abbreviated
very	small	Minuscule	Petite
very	big	Gigantic	Substantial
very	hairy	Fuzzy	Bewhiskered
very	shiny	Sparkling	Lustrous
very	calm	Harmonious	Serene
very	angry	Furious	Enraged
very	dry	Arid	Parched
very	long	Elongated	Stretched
very	gentle	Amiable	Tame
very	harsh	Bitter	Coarse
very	loud	Roaring	Boisterous
very	quiet	Muted	Hushed
very	nasty	Noxious	Vulgar
very	good	Favorable	Pleasing
very	smelly	Fetid	Rancid
very	bloody	Grisly	Crimson
very	thirsty	Parched	Droughty
very	hungry	Ravenous	Starved

The Stairwell

Week after week I saw him. He slowly descended, step after step, holding onto the railing for dear life as people absently rushed past. The elevator in our crumbling complex had failed some time ago and now this stairwell buzzed with activity. People raced and skipped over steps and puddled landings to reach their destination before the dank smell settled firmly in their noses. But not him. 

I watched him from the top one morning. Briefcase in one hand, the other attached firmly to the rusty rail, he creeped down the concrete steps with wide eyes and slow breaths. His once pressed suit hung wrinkled from his stiff shoulders. He pulled into himself more with each person who brushed past. I wondered briefly why he was alone. Many times we'd shared the elevator to our floor, his smile wide as he tightly grasped the brunette's hand and kissed it sweetly. 

As I descended behind him, he stopped and waited for me to pass. I stood beside him under the flickering overhead light. Our feet rested side-by-side, toes hanging over the edge to shadow the next step. He glanced quickly in my direction then stared right back toward the floor.

“Good morning,” I greeted, leaning forward to catch his eyes. “I saw you walking and thought we might walk the six flights down together. It's a long way to the bottom when you're alone.”

A shy smile graced his face and he nodded slowly. I stepped down and waited. He hesitantly eased his right foot out and let it drop to the next rest, allowing his left to carefully follow. And so it repeated until we reached the first landing. He timidly eyed the next step as we edged forward.

“I'm Rachel, by the way,” I grinned, holding my hand toward him.

“John,” he mumbled, eyes glued downward with his hand still fused to the railing.

I shrugged internally and stepped down to begin the next descent. He followed. 

“I remembered you from the elevator,” I spoke, breaking the unsettling noise of the failing light and constant drip, drip, drip to floors below. Another step down. “You're three doors down from me, I think. Where's the woman you're usually with?” 

He stopped and turned toward me, his eyes screaming and body rigid. “I...”

My face heated. “No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so nosey. We've only just met.” Backpedaling, I smiled shyly and started again. “So, umm, where do you work?”

It was like pulling teeth, but with each easy tug, he relaxed and opened up a little more. When we finally reached the bottom, the sight of daylight streaming through into the stairwell brought a slow sigh from his lips. His face brightened as we stepped out and the sun shimmered over his messy golden hair. We waved goodbye as we went our separate ways.

The next morning I caught up to him at the fifth floor entrance. After a short greeting, we descended to the sound of scattered chatter and echoing steps. Our mornings began the same for the rest of the week. 

On Monday, he was waiting for me at our entrance. His suit had been pressed and hair combed in attempt to tame its wild ways. As we started down the steps, I noticed his movements quickened. His knuckles remained white as he gripped the railing, but his feet were ready to move forward. Our conversation flowed easily and he cast his eyes toward me rather than toward the next drop.

When we reached the final step, I was so lost in chatter that I failed to notice the slick puddle underfoot. I stepped down and felt my pump slide forward as if on ice. My foot slid from under me as my body tumbled backward, but thankfully I only injured my pride. John acted just in time to catch my waist and break my fall. 

“Did you know,” I howled between giggles and embarrassment as I stood and reached out my hand, “that two-thirds of all falls on stairs happen on the first or last three steps?” 

He shook his head as he took my outstretched hand.

“Did you know,” he smiled while rising to his feet, “that thanks to you I have to go change my stinking wet pants?”

Our laughter echoed up the empty stairwell. 

“Thank you,” I grinned, wrapping my arms around his neck and resting my lips shyly on his cheek. 

After a sharp intake of breath, he sighed. “Thank you.” 

John squeezed my waist tightly and turned toward the stairs. I stepped back and picked up his discarded briefcase, dusting it off and handing it to him.

“Do you want me to walk with you?”

He waved me off. “No, I don't want you to be late. It'll only take a minute.”

I nodded. With a quick embrace, he turned and moved swiftly, taking the steps two at a time. As his footsteps drifted away, I smiled.

Upon return from work the next evening, there as a group huddled in front of the elevator. The light above the door descended: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. People packed into the small room like sardines, content to infiltrate one another's personal space just to avoid the sticky, moist stairwell. My heart sank when my mind drifted to John. What would happen to our mornings? Would he take the stairs? Wait for me by the elevator? Our morning chats would be significantly shortened with this new development.

A hand on my shoulder jarred me. “Hey there,” he smiled, messy mane blowing in the breeze. “Finally fixed, huh?”

“Yeah, finally,” I rolled my eyes.

The ding of the door opening caught my attention, urging us to enter the shiny square. I punched our floor and leaned against the wall with eyes closed.

“Long day?” he asked from my left.

“Always,” I snorted with a shrug.

A few seconds passed before I felt warm fingers lace with mine. My eyes opened slowly to see John's shy face redden.

“Is this ok?” His eyes widened as he started to withdraw his hand.

I squeezed tightly and inhaled his woody scent, a pleasant change from the musty stairwell. My smiling eyes met his. 

“Always.”

Mother Knows Best

I had to write many short stories in one of my courses last year. This is one.

Mother Knows Best

     Once the sound of rushing water met my ears, I released a breath I'd been holding for days. My pounding heart eased to a slow, steady beat as I kicked off my shoes, dropped onto the couch, and finally let the tension drift away. The worn leather wrapped me in a cool cocoon, a sharp contrast to the heat building in my cheeks. It's odd how months of worry, stress, and heartache can evaporate once it's done. When they're gone. My face flamed, ashamed.

     A friend told me this was how it would be. Bessie shared her husband's horrible last months. Bed-bound. Struggling for air. Wasting away, body and mind. Screaming and thrashing. Morphine. Even though I'd witnessed it in family after family, I never believed that death could be anything more than a crushing cinder block, making each breath heavy and beat of the heart weak. No. After begging for a miracle or a quick final slumber, it's more like a void. Conflicting emotions have canceled out and now there's just something missing. Sighing, I let Bessie's wise advice wave away the shame.

     “She will be just as relieved as you are that her suffering is finished, so remember her fondly and smile when those good memories show their face,” she patted my hand as she glanced toward Harry's photo on her nightstand.

     I took a ragged breath and met her kind eyes. “But how do I help him do the same?”

     She grasped my hands tightly in hers and squeezed as hard as her frail hands would allow. “For now, just be there. When the time comes, you'll know.”

     My feet tapped absently against the hard wood floor as I took in his apartment for the first time. The many times I'd visited the past six months had always been heavy and distracted, and I never noticed the things around us collecting a heavy layer of dust. I shuffled in sock-covered feet toward the kitchen and searched under the sink for his cleaning supplies. Armed with only an old rag, I began dusting every surface. Tables. Shelves. Frames. The television. The-.

     I stopped in my tracks when my eyes registered the familiar image. The large canvas sat on the wall by the hallway, its black frame polished and dust free. The black and white photograph of us had always been one of my favorites. Well, it wasn't really of us. It was a memory from our graduation trip: our feet brushing as they hung over the dockside. A view from his mom's lens.

     The sound of the shower stopping barely registered as I stared. We'd been best friends since childhood. Instead of going on our class trip, we begged our parents to take us somewhere different. Somewhere special, just us. Ever since we were kids, our folks vacationed together at Spigner Lake. When I decided to go to college in New York, my parents decided to sell our vacation home to pay for it. They kept the lake house long enough for one last trip. Gavin's mom took us for an entire month that last summer. I spent the whole time pining over him, and it was on that dock that we shared our first and only kiss. We went our separate ways the next week.

     “That seems like so long ago,” a deep voice solemnly offered, startling me. Gavin rested a hand on my shoulder and rubbed his thumb along my collar bone as I placed my hand over his.

     “Ten years, “ I trailed off simply, lost in my own thoughts.

     I hadn't registered his absence when he returned and offered a steaming cup of coffee despite the late hour. Graciously, I took my mug and followed as he nodded toward the couch. Sitting side by side, we stared forward in silence, my hot cup the only anchor holding my seasick heart. I tried to focus on the heat and aroma filling my senses, but I could only worry about the heartbroken man by my side. The sound of his mug meeting the table brought my eyes to his, offering him a small smile.

     “The service was beautiful. I think it was exactly as she wanted,” I started, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly in my lap.

     “I think so. Or, at least I hope so,” he smiled softly. “I'm glad you were there. I couldn't have done this without you.” His eyes watered slightly before he grabbed his cup and took a quick swig, awkwardly trying to cover his emotional reaction.

     I cleared my throat. “Bessie wanted to tell you she's sorry she couldn't come. You know, her-”

“We'll go see her tomorrow,” he quickly interrupted, stopping the conversation in its tracks. These past few months Bessie'd been our rock, a second mother to us both. Now her health was deteriorating quickly, and with the recent events, the idea of losing her brought a wave of fresh anxiety. The wounds from Anne's death were too raw. We were too drained.

     Reaching for the remote, I turned on the television to relieve the need to fill the silence. We sat staring at infomercials, my head leaning on his shoulder as a familiar comfort to us both.

     “She never understood, you know,” he cut through the silence.

     “Understood what?” Confused, I sat up and eyed him in question.

     His eyes remained glued to the television. “Why I let you go.”

     My heart fluttered at the mention. “You didn't let me go, Gavin. We both drifted apart and let life get in the way.”

     “She thought I did. She thought I should have begged you to stay that summer...” he trailed off as his green eyes finally met mine.

     “She also thought I should have begged you to come with me. She said 'oh, that boy can learn photography anywhere',” I revealed, rolling my eyes and smiling at Anne's antics. “She wanted us married before we were out of diapers.”

     A grin broke over his face. “You know it's only because you were the daughter she never had,” he teased. “I think she would have traded me for you if given the chance.”

     “Oh please!” I waved him off. “You were Anne's golden child! Her photographer protege!”

     Gavin smiled and stared down at his fidgeting fingers. “She never thought I'd be a corporate man.”

     “She was so proud of you, photographer or not.” My hand squeezed his. “She told me so every time we talked about you.”

     His arms snaked around my waist and he hugged me tight, trying to mask a small sniffle. When he finally pulled back, his hand reached up to cup my face as his eyes found mine. I offered a small smile and covered his hand with my own.

      “Manipulative or not,” he whispered, “mom was right.”His lips gently touched mine.

7 Ways to Boost Creativity

Ever get stuck in a writing rut? I know there are times when I just cannot get the creative juices flowing. Sometimes it helps to step out and try something different. Next time you need a creativity boost, try some of these on for size.

1. People watch. Go out somewhere in public and just observe those around you. A park, the mall, a coffee shop. It doesn't matter. Find a place you are drawn to and park it. You see so many things when you take a minute to stop and pay attention. Inspiration can be found all around you.
2. Pick up a book. I love to read, and sometimes it helps me to just let go and read someone's work. Choose poetry, short fiction, or even non-fiction and take a break to let your mind stretch and recharge.
3. Listen to music. Put on your favorite tunes and just jam! Research indicates that listening to music makes us happier, which helps improve cognitive performance. I can definitely say that I seem to be much more inspired while I'm listening to music, and I write much more than normal. Give it a shot!
4. Daydream. Studies say it works! Let your mind drift and see where it takes you.
5. Get tired. As I wrote in a previous post, you are much more creative when you're tired. Stay up late, let your mind get fuzzy, then put that pen to paper.
6. Move your eyes bilaterally. According to one study, subjects who moved their eyes bilaterally from left to right were much more creative than those who stared straight ahead. The movement is said to increase communication between the right and left hemispheres of the brain, thereby increasing creativity. 
7. Write while emotional.  A study in 2007 revealed that creativity receives a significant boost when emotions are running high. Next time you are very happy, angry, sad, etc, try to write and those emotions just might pay off.

What are some ways you boost your creativity?  Feel free to share in the comments!

The Writing Journal: Practice, Practice, Practice!

When teaching and developing literacy in children, the most important tool at a teacher's or parent's disposal is practice.  PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE.  The more students practice writing, the better their writing becomes because they learn what works and what doesn't through hands-on assignments, especially with the proper guidance.  Journaling provides vital practice to young students, and it should become apart of your daily routine as well.  

The best tool at an aspiring writer's disposal is a journal.  Electronic or paper, whatever.  Write about your day, express your feelings, complain about the jerk who cut you off in traffic.  Write down ideas as they come, brainstorm for something you're currently writing, create simple poetry.  Write short stories, complete writing exercises, describe that character or scene you just can't get out of your head.  It doesn't matter what you write, just that you write.  Pick a certain time of the day and write as little or as much as you like but make sure that you write consistently.


I have a notebook at work and at home, but I also use features on my iPhone when I don't have a pen or have a thought I'd like to remember later.  My tendency to think of things when lying in bed at night has made this essential; after all, I can't write very legibly without a light (especially if it's long), so my phone is the perfect solution.  I cannot begin to count the number of ideas, sentences, characters, etc, that were lost due to the dark midnight hour.  What can I say? My muse is a night owl!

When you get to the point that you're writing creatively on a daily basis, I suggest "upgrading" to a writer's journal.  While there's no requirement to completely abandon the original journal, a writer's journal is important because it focuses on what you're writing.  Specifically, it provides a special place to document your journey and keep ideas, notes, and research that you can refer to as long as you write.  Explore thoughts and feelings related to characters, scenes, or plots.  React to your own work.  Flesh out histories, settings, or descriptions.  Create a journal entry as the character you're working on.  Make notes on where to pick up tomorrow.  Ultimately, the way you use your writing journal is up to you.  Use it to the fullest extent because you never know when something old might complement and infuse energy into something new.