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Lately every story I read, (ironically in in the middle of Needful Things), I’ve been flipping the script and see what I get. It’s a fantastic exercise.

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This is exactly what I'm dealing with now. I have a book called Driftwood on submission with agents. It's getting rejected before any request for a full MS. They like the writing but from the synopsis they consider it's not commercial enough to take on. I had the same response with How the Wired Weep. It was considered too gritty/urban for crime fiction and didn't have that "hook". I self-published it in the end because the story is good and I believe in it.

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🤯Holy crud. How did I miss the apocalyptic ending in Baxter!?! All the dead birds. Totally missed this during my reading of it. I am so blind! Makes the ending of that story waaay cooler.

Makes me think of the Lullaby cover now. Also apocalyptic.

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I’m all over this…

Are we encouraged to share our feeble efforts?

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I'd call it Bleed All About It.

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Considering that digital news is now more popular than printed newspapers, a new telling of the story would maybe best be centered in the realm of the internet.

An army of mangler smart devices, all of which are possessed/powered by the hatred/disdain that wide reaching media outlets have circulated throughout the population.

The monster could be AI/a digital hive-mind, more paranormal based or a mix of the two.

Picture a gargantuan monster constructed out of smart devices and electronic parts-- all the different components that would makeup its body. Now imagine a multitude of them -- they’re everywhere. Maybe they meet and whenever they do they join up the construct an even bigger monstrosity.

(Yes. This idea is a mix of Skynet from ‘Terminator’ and the pink slime from ‘Ghostbusters 2’. Innovative and the most shit-your-pants terrifying concept you’ve ever encountered, I know.)

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Love this prompt. Also, bummed to be missing the grand opening of the new study hall this evening but will be there in spirit. Looking forward to a return to form next week!

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This also reminds me of The Machinist.

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I’ll be surprised if his son Joe Hill (the superior writer of the two) doesn’t write something similarly stellar soon.

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*Raises Hand*

I think I might have a bad habit when I write. Or maybe not? I’m not sure and I’m hoping you could give some insight. Here’s the question: How do you balance writing in the moment without knowing what will happen next vs writing on a whim but writing the best (most fitting) thing to come next? In other words, how do you know that what you’re writing is the right direction for the story? What questions can be asked? Are there times you should really slow down and think about what you’re going to write next? Do you take a break to think it through or what? It seems challenging to be spontaneous but also purposeful in moving characters through the story and shaping it in the right direction. Sometimes I think I’m writing something that’s a great idea, then I second guess it later and hate it, then I come back to it again and like it again… I know this is all a part of ‘excavating’ the story, but what tools (rules) are used to make sure you’re not about to break something precious? I think at times I mistake spontaneity for good story telling.

I have a little cheat sheet I typed up based on some of the things you’ve said here. This has helped, but I feel like I’m missing some considerations per the above. Here it is:

What is the purpose of this detail or passage?

1. Is it meant to pass time? (Why?)

- Are we passing time to heighten tension?

- Is it a gesture to distract from tension?

2. Is it meant to build authority?

- Are we showing a character’s base of knowledge or experience?

- Is it meant to play a part in a character transformation?

3. Is it setting up a future event?

- Is this building a pattern for the reader to identify?

- Does it relate to a gun? (How the story will climax)

- Does it relate to a clock? (When the story will climax)

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This isn't a story from the prompt, but I spent 40 years in the newspaper business and had to relate this actual event. I was the publisher of a small-town newspaper (this was in the mid-90s). I had hired a young woman as the first female press operator at the company. I didn't run the press, but often I would stand in the pressroom to watch it run. Paula (the young lady) was reaching in to adjust some ink keys, while wearing big rubber gloves, of course. She reached in too far and the press rollers, going full speed, grabbed the tip of her fingers. I stood not three feet away, where I had a good view of her hand flying out the other side, still in the glove. Instinct kicked in, thank goodness or I might have just fainted dead away, and I hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her and led her to the industrial sink. She's holding her arm, cradling it against her chest, in absolute shock. I probably was too, a bit. I had to convince her to open up so I could see just what we were dealing with.

And there... solid black on an otherwise very white, fair complexion redhead, was a hand. Totally black. Smashed? Bruised all the way through? In the meantime, another press operator had grabbed her glove that landed several feet away. There was no hand in it as it was still attached to Paula's wrist.

We got her to put her hand under gently running cool water and most of the black washed right off. Ink.

I drove her to the ER (not waiting for an ambulance). She had fairly well smashed three fingertips. Lost a couple fingernails in the process.

She hadn't been able to find the gloves she always wore. The ones that fit her. So she'd grabbed one of the guy's spare set, gloves that were way too big for her. The rollers had grabbed the empty fingertips of the glove and thwopped it right off her hand. Very fortunate for her, although if she'd been wearing the right gloves, her fingertips probably wouldn't have come close enough to the rollers to get nabbed.

But I'll never in my life get the image out of my head: her hand flying out the other side of the machine right in front of me.

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The lyrics from Marilyn Manson's This is the New Shit comes to mind after reading this.

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I chuckled when I read “neg runner” because I imagined you jogging past, telling me I look fat in these pants.

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My dad was a printer, just retired last year. He owned a small printing press, Japanese built from the early 50s. I always felt like it had an odd haunted quality to it, maybe something to do with the time and place that it came from.

Anyway when he closed down his shop, I helped him disassemble the press and carry it, piece by piece to the curb. A local guy who collects scrap metal came by within less than an hour. I'll never forget how heavy that roller-head assembly was (probably 300 pounds).

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Apr 8, 2022·edited Apr 8, 2022

The newspaper I work for used to have their giant presses in a building a block away, which was turned into a building for the Masons later after the presses were removed. I was given a tour where the presses used to be—- we went all the way into the basement where I saw very heavy wooden supports that were still holding up the floor where the presses used to sit. 2 men had died from getting caught in the presses not long before they were dismantled. New hirers. Very eerie feeling in that basement along with a the offshot view of a small room with a beaten down greyish navy blue pinstriped mattress. A woman’s long brown wig was thrown off to the side as well. At that point, I started heading towards the steps quickly as my tour guide started to give me some serious creeps.

Just retelling that made the hair stand on my arms! Eeeeek.

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Alright, I commented with my selfish and long-winded question earlier. Now I’ll contribute a story that relates.

I went to college in a town that was small enough that you’d always run into someone you know at the bar and big enough to always meet someone new. One of my friends was Mike. Mike was big. Mike could dunk a ball barely even jumping. And we’re not talking skinny. Mike was full of muscle and Mike always attracted fights. He never started fights. People just always wanted to fight him. And he’d be blasted drunk at that point usually. He was tough and tempered. I saw him put a cigar out on his shoulder once when he was pissed off. Then two days later he’s talking about what a moron he was and how much the wound now hurt. Things like that happened all the time with him. Smashing liquor bottles on walls and slicing his hands open. Stuff like that. Kinda fun to watch.

Anyway, he starts working at this dog food factory. It’s actually the same factory that had a major salmonella outbreak that year, which killed a bunch of dogs and got them sued into the ground. Mike liked to stay relaxed and he was known to take quite a lot of pain killers. One day he comes into the bar with his entire arm wrapped up from fingers to shoulder. When I asked him what happened he went on the explain that he’d been working on the conveyor line when he passed out and got his arm caught in the belt. Apparently they had to shut the line down because it turned into a blood buffet. When he unwrapped the bandages it was the nastiest wound I think I’ve ever seen. From hand to upper arm his skin was completely stripped off. Unfortunately for Mike, his post-accident urine specimen tested non-negative for opioids and he lost his job and paid a hefty hospital bill. But hey, he got to feed dogs human blood nationwide.

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