The Secret to Writing a Novel

Welcome, readers, and especially writers searching for that ever-elusive secret of how to write a novel! It truly is the fountain of youth, the holy grail, the lost car keys for every writer looking to make that leap into the long-form of prose that has foiled so many seekers before! In trying to uncover this enigma, I consulted with the authors here at Adventure Worlds Press. Their advice will shock you! Do you dare read on, and at last reach the secret to writing a novel?

Are you still here? Good. Then let us continue.

I first approached Ben Van Dongen, the triple-threat of the company. Short stories, novellas, novels, he’s done them all! Surely he knows the secret to writing a novel? Let us see what he has to say:

“Writing a short story is easy. A monkey could do it in her sleep. You’re smarter than a monkey, right? Just write the thing.

Novellas require the kind of free algorithms you can download off the dark web. Usually Russian or Chinese in origin, expect to have to do some translating, but it’s not much more work than what the monkey does.

To write a novel on the other hand (a novel worth reading at least) you need to go to your local library. Give the librarian the secret handshake and a crisp hundred-dollar bill. They’ll take you to the hidden section where you can get a book to summon a demon. Make sure to get one with a really long name. The short name ones are bad at spelling.”

Ah, yes, the age-old bribing-a-librarian-to-reach-diabolical-novelistic-heights trick! But is this truly the secret to writing a novel?

I continued my search, next seeking out Christian Laforet. Recently signed on to a two-book deal with Raven’s Tale publishing, he would be the logical person to ask about the holy grail of novel writing. His comments:

“Marry someone with money. Lots of money. That way there’ll be no pesky day job to interfere with the writing of you masterpiece.”

Another solid piece of advice! Those day jobs, sucking the creative spirit from the genius novelist, ah! Best to seek out a wealthy partner and sponge off of them for life!

But again, I was not satisfied in my quest for the secret! As a last resort, I took to the deep, grim forest paths that lead to an abandoned cabin where they say at least three ghosts reside. I gathered my courage, and went inside, where I found C.M. Forest, roasting marshmallows over a space heater.

“Please!” I begged him, “My search has been so long! What, oh what, is the secret to writing a novel?”

C.M. Forest turned to me and said: “Write every day. Even if it’s only 500 words. 500 words a day will give you two novels by the end of the year.”

The horror! I ran from the cabin screaming and have never been the same since. My quest for the secret to writing a novel was all in vain!

Unless…

Do you know the secret?

Do you?

Better than One – Part 2

By Edele Winnie

Sheila’s dead aunt had made a pile of tin cans in Sheila’s kitchen. The horrible shrunken head had respawned there and then rolled out smiling its sickly yellow gray smile.

“Wassup?” The head said. “I’m thirsty.”

Auntie turned to Sheila. “Do you have any Lime drinks?”

“What?”

‘Something lime. He likes limes.”

“Not lemons.” The head shrieked. “I hate lemons!”

“No.” Sheila stammered. “No limes, sorry.”

Auntie turned and walked to the front door and went out. Apparently to get something lime.

“I think I’m losing my mind.” Sheila grumbled.

“Better than losing your body.” The head said and then cackled delightedly.

“Wait.” The head ordered when Sheila began to walk out of the kitchen. “I can make you live forever.”

“I’d like that.” She answered, and forced herself to look at the thing. It was shrivelled and brown but its eyes were bright and alive and staring back at her. She went over to her big flour bin- a plastic container only a third full of flour at the moment. She snapped off the lid and dumped the flour into the garbage can.

Wassup?” the head said. Continue reading

Better than One – Part 1

By Edele Winnie

Sheila found the shrunken head after her aunt passed away. The poor old woman had been a miserable crank pot. Even though Sheila was young, she had done her best to make Auntie comfortable in these last months, but the shrivelled old woman had only been angry and full of complaints. Her habits were extremely odd- she hoarded empty tin cans and set out hundreds and hundreds of unbaited but ready to snap mouse traps. As far as Sheila could tell there were no mice in the house.

When it was announced from the hospital that Auntie had passed, Sheila got to work. She’d bundled her short dark hair under a kerchief and rolled up her sleeves.

There had to be thousands of empty tin cans in the house and Auntie had removed all the labels. Sheila loaded them into boxes and dragged them outside. She didn’t know if the recycle truck would take so many. It would probably require more than one truck.

At first the cans had seemed fairly new- still shiny. But deeper into the piles and stacks the empty cans were rusted and discoloured. At the very centre the cans were blackened with mould or age or something. In the centre of the blackest cans she found the head. Continue reading