Another Way To Become A Better Writer

With your pen and notebook, you blow me away...

“Every artist was first an amateur.”― Ralph Waldo Emerson

The first essay I read by Emerson was on Self Reliance and I hated it. Hated it because I was 14 and couldn’t find a way to relate, but that boy has long since disappeared into the shadows of life and now Emerson is a trusted friend.

I produce more content than most not because I am a writer but because the only way to become a better writer is to practice writing. I understand that to mean that I need to practice multiple forms and not just limit myself to one.

That is part of why I have a blog dedicated to fiction. It is a different way to write but still a form that provides the benefit that come with practice. Fiction requires the same ability to provide a beginning, middle and end as an other piece, except that it needs a few more spices included in it.

Footsteps is the opening salvo of a story that I am working on. It has received a warm response, but if you aren’t among those who have read it I would love for you to take a moment to do so.

It starts just below this line.



The footsteps paused briefly at her doorway.  She listened for a knock at the door and when that didn’t come she figured it was just another salesman and went back to getting dressed for her run.

Autumn was among her favorite seasons and the best time to run alongside of the lake.  The crisp air was invigorating and the bone chilling cold of winter was still to come. An early morning run followed by a shower and the perfect cup of coffee were a ritual she had started in college and maintained through her marriage and divorce.

Running was where she did her best thinking and the time when she almost always figured out the answers to things that troubled her.

It took less than ten minutes to get dressed, throw her hair in a ponytail and head out the door.

Five more minutes took her around the corner and down the street towards the lake. Somewhere during the moments when she waved at the ducks resting from their southern journey the footsteps that had paused at her doorway returned.


He had been watching her for three months now, studying her routine and habits. He knew that she would be out for no less than 40 minutes and no longer than 63.

The cameras he had installed inside her home had helped him figure out that her post run routine took approximately 37 minutes and that at least 13 of those were spent in the bathroom.

That was twenty minutes less than her evening routine which included a long stint of brushing her hair and various other female grooming habits.

His notebooks contained many more details about what she did, how she did it and who she did it with. Those books and his methodical nature were a big part of the reason he had never been caught, that and twenty years of experience.

Twenty years of experience had taught him much and helped him refine his approach, manner as well as develop a certain style.

He had only killed his prey a handful of times.


The first time had been a huge mistake.

She had tried to fool him. She had welcomed him, encouraged him to do what he had to do, not to her, but with her and he had believed her.

Of course he had tried to make her prove it, demanded she show him she could be trusted. She had smiled at him, kissed him and begged to have a chance to show him what she could do if her hands were free.

Youth, arrogance and ego had made him think it would work and he had freed her hands.

She climbed onto his lap, straddled him and pushed his head into her cleavage.

He remembered inhaling deeply, intoxicated by her scent and the amazing feeling of her legs wrapped around him.

And then came the pain of the scissors she jammed into his shoulder blade, the scream of rage and the surprise he felt when she didn’t let go.

He stood up, and she stayed with him, legs still wrapped around his body, her fists pounding his head and back.

That was her mistake and what saved him.

She hadn’t hit anything vital and he was still much bigger, stronger than she was.

He was angry so he punished her by being rough and when he was spent she was no more.


Lesser men would have taken that experience and learned to never let their prey use their hands, no matter how they begged or what they promised. He wasn’t one of them.

He knew he had a larger destiny and that there were many ways to control people. It was part of why he studied them.

Some were shown pictures of family members and told a lack of cooperation would be bad.  When they didn’t believe him he would show them pictures of body parts and a chain saw.

The thought made him laugh because the pictures weren’t his work, but they were effective. They always did as he asked and played whatever part he wanted, but variety is the spice of life which is why he had learned how to make a certain cocktail that removed inhibitions.

It also removed basic muscle function.

They were aware of what was happening but unable to do anything about it. Sometimes it was fun to make a puppet to play with.

The cocktail had created a few issues for him. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask a doctor or pharmacist to teach you to make, so he had been forced to experiment. That had been rough, a couple of his guinea pigs never did wake up again, but that wasn’t the worst part.

Every time he was with one of his playmates he wanted to see their eyes and those early times had made them sleep through it.


Time was wasting away and it wouldn’t be long before she would return.  It was time to start the preparations.

He began by going to the nightstand and pulled out the gun that lay inside. He was feeling saucy so this time around he thought he we would leave it there, disabled of course.

The thought of the look on her face when she realized it wasn’t working made him dance with glee.

He took out the tape, the rope and a couple of toys and waited where he knew she wouldn’t look. He would give her time to get in the shower and he if she fought she would have time to get her gun.

But there were other preparations to make, things to do so she couldn’t call for her help or run outside.

The chimes from the clock in the hallway made him look up– five more minutes and play time would begin.

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  1. penneyfox January 11, 2013 at 11:55 am

    I’m sorry Bridget was upset but I was intrigued, kinda like James Patterson and Alex Cross with a bit of Criminal Minds thrown in.

  2. January 9, 2013 at 10:06 am

    Here’s the thing, as someone who was once raped and nearly killed this is incredibly disturbing. I think your writing is great like always but I honestly don’t understand the fascination with evil. I think the world is better served by putting out more positive and less damaging material.

    • Jack January 9, 2013 at 1:54 pm

      Hi Bridget,

      I am very sorry for what happened to you and I hope you understand this story isn’t supposed to hurt anyone. When I write I just let the words flow. Sometimes they are filled with sunshine and sometime they aren’t.

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