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Bruce found himself doing something he hadn’t done in the better part of a year: strutting down the street. It was intoxicating to see his feet hadn’t lost their ability to move with a swagger in their step.

He pressed himself to recall the last time he’d won a negotiation before this afternoon. There had been plenty of pleading with the bank not to foreclose on him, and begging for someone to hire him at countless job interviews, but this deal with the school teacher finally ended the longest dry spell of his life.

Like riding a bike.

Bruce read the name on the bill: Hamilton. It had been so long since he’d seen one, he’d forgotten which president was on it. When he was a big shot, he would’ve never touched a denomination this small, not even to blow his nose with. Now, it was his most prized possession since he’d moved into the park.

He chuckled to himself imagining the look on Hakeem’s face when he bought tonight’s bottle of cheap whisky with an actual ten dollar bill. Hakeem was sure to shit bricks at the sight of it. Most of the time, Bruce dumped a mountain of coins and one dollar bills on the counter that he’d accumulated over a couple of days.

Bruce looked up to see where he was, and for the first time, noticed the stares he was getting from the people who actually spared a glance at him. Most were too busy orchestrating deals on their phones, hailing cabs, or talking to one another to even notice him. He was just another derelict who’d ventured into the financial district, and as long as he wasn’t hassling them for money, they were more than willing to ignore him.

His throat ran dry. The half bottle of whisky he’d poured down his throat today felt like a distant memory.

Why? Of all the places to meander to, why’d my feet carry me here?

Muscle memory, he supposed.

He felt himself shrink under their hostile gazes. For a moment, he hugged his ten dollar bill tight to his chest in fear, though not because he believed any of them would waste the effort to try and take it from him. They were all like him. Or rather, they were all like he once was. Bruce cradled the bill closely because it was the closest thing he had to a security blanket.

Please, he begged. Please don’t let any of them recognize me.

Though he was being analyzed by some hostile eyes, he was grateful there wasn’t the faintest hint of recognition in any of them. He had marched up and down this street proudly for a whole decade, but that old version of him was clearly long forgotten.

His eyes scanned up and down the sidewalk. So much was still familiar. Emilio was still running his taco stand at the corner, with his usual line of twenty people taking a late lunch. Rebecca was lazily waving people in and out of the paid parking lot while never putting down the latest book she was wearing out. Even old Mr. Garrison was leading a group of executives into his limo to head off to some restaurant or golf course to conduct some business.

So much looked the same, and yet everything felt so foreign. No one in a power suit sharing the side walk recognized him, but at the same time, he didn’t recognize any of them either. They all looked much younger than he was when he was trading stocks.

A slight breeze picked up, ripping a napkin from the hands of one of Emilio’s customers. Bruce watched it dance along the sidewalk until it brushed up against a building whose windows and doors were boarded up. His breath caught as he took in the monstrosity for the first time in years.

The building was the old Midwest branch of Preston and Moore.

I always love seeing the finish line when I’m writing a story. At this point, I’ve been fleshing out the idea for some time, months, if not years. The idea will have hit me at some point and wouldn’t leave me alone, forcing me to think about it, explore it, and decide that there was an actual story there instead of something that just sounds a little interesting.

After this preliminary stage of exploration, I’ll have spent months outlining how the story would unfold, what kind of characters would participate in these events, how they got there, their motivations, until I’ve fleshed out enough of the story to start telling it. I never know everything when I start writing, and there’re always discoveries to be made as I start writing that first draft, but I’ll know enough about the world to get comfortable starting.

The way I approach writing leaves it so I’m never overwhelmed with what I want to write in one day, setting me up to reach my daily goals because I never have to write more than four pages. The tradeoff to that is that it does mean it may take me more time to compose the first draft. Dig Down, being on the shorter side, took me about forty days to write a first draft, but for most other books I’ve written, that first draft will take months to write. Add to that the time I’ve spent sculpting the idea in my head, and you’re looking at a massive investment of time just to complete a rough draft.

This may be a little discouraging to think about how much time it will take just to finish a first draft, which by no means will be perfect and still require a lot of work to mold it into the polished story you want to tell. But that’s the wrong perspective to take. If you’ve reached this point in the writing process, it’s something to celebrate. You’ve accomplished what a lot of people who want to write a book never have: you finished telling your story. It might be a little rough around the edges, but you stuck with it long after most others would’ve quit.

Writing is hard. Its victories are earned. That’s why whenever I complete a draft, I acknowledge the feat I’ve accomplished, and give myself a little vacation from it. Once I’ve completed a draft, I don’t pick it up and look at it for two weeks. It gives my mind a little reset from the idea I’ve been obsessed with for months now, and allows me to spot mistakes or areas to improve a little bit easier.

So if you find yourself running into a wall in your own writing, stop and think about how far you’ve come. Have you been at it for a while? Are there some personal victories of your own along the way? Acknowledge them. That positive reinforcement might be just what you need to finish.

I loved writing the tense chase and action sequences in Dig Down. To me, this was one of the key ingredients that made the story stand out among all the other stories out there. A lot of books have glossed over scenes containing combat. I remember when I read Lord of the Rings epic battles were boiled down into an overview of how the battle was progressing with a few moments sprinkled in where the main characters felled some orcs. Other novels I’ve read that are even categorized as action have hand to hand conflicts resolved very quickly.

I don’t mean this as a critique on these other books. Lord of the Rings had deeper themes it focused on, and the trilogy is a masterpiece for it. Those action books that I read usually had an intriguing plot, whether it was unraveling a cover up or getting entwined in some conspiracy, and the action scenes were sprinkled in there to keep the reader engaged. All I mean is that I noticed that if I focused on putting Rob Moore in dire straits constantly, my story would stand out in the marketplace.

As I wrote last week, I wanted to put my main character through the ringer as he was running for his life. If there was something that would make his life even harder, I threw it at him. I absolutely believe it was the right call for this type of story, but as I was writing it, I came to appreciate why so many other stories don’t go into the weeds like I did describing tense action sequences.

If you’re an aspiring writer who wants to write books loaded with action, be forewarned: this is extremely challenging.

At any given point, you have to be omniscient about spatial awareness among your characters. The mall sequence is a good example of this. I had to constantly know where the characters were in relation to each other and their environment. When Rob first enters the mall, I had to know the distance between him and Rocco. If Rocco was too close, how does Rob lose him in the crowd? When the sicarios enter the mall, where is Rob so that they all see each other? When Rob’s trying to evade them by following Rocco but not so closely that Rocco sees that Rob is behind him, where are they all in relation to each other, and what is keeping Rocco from turning around and seeing the man he’s after. The more creative I was with my scenes, the more I had to account for.

The same went for the suffering I put Rob through. As I also mentioned in last week’s post, I wanted the reader to feel the impact of everything that Rob went through. When I had him jump off the roof of the mall to escape the sicarios, there was repercussions for doing so. In keeping himself alive, Rob injured himself mightily. It affected not only what he did next, but his ability to move through the rest of the story.  It factored into his decision about whether to pull up into the driveway of Vicky’s house or park in a neighbor’s and walk the rest of the way because he suspected an ambush. Having the car right there would make his escape attempt quicker, but the sound of the car pulling up would tip off anyone waiting inside that he’d arrived. If he walked there, he might be able to spot the ambush before they even knew Rob was there, but if Rob was spotted, he’d then have a hard time escaping because his max speed was hobbling.

Don’t read this as a deterrent, just keep this in mind if you ever decide to venture into writing action. You’ll need to constantly keep these aspects in mind, both in setting up the tension and conflict, and in executing the scene. It’s challenging, but it can be done. And if you stick to it, you’ll find it very rewarding, your story will stand out among its peers, and it will be better for.

“I’m very sorry that this is what you have to settle for as a bed,” she said, though her face looked anything but sympathetic. At facing his initial resistance, her cheeks had started to blossom into muted reds. But now that he’d stood his ground after she had tried a second time, her whole face had turned a dark crimson.

Bruce could tell before she even got the words out that she was still going to insist that he leave.

“But I’d just really appreciate it if you could move along until we’re gone.”

Seeing him fight back a smile didn’t improve her mood in the slightest. He couldn’t help it, and he didn’t care either. It felt good, watching his predictions come true. It made him believe he could still read a situation, still forecast the results.

A sense of vindication pulsed through him, reinforcing his belief that he should’ve never been fired.

“I know you’re giving up a lot, stepping away from this park bench, but maybe it’ll give you a better perspective,” she said. Bemused, he turned to her, his silence imploring her to go on. Her eyes went wide when she realized he was putting her on the spot, waiting for her to provide more.

“You could…” she stammered for a moment, before regaining herself. “Maybe it’ll be good to stop wallowing in your own self-pity all day. Maybe you lose claim to this bench, but if you do, you’ll see it’s not that big a loss because it wasn’t that much to begin with.”

That cut deep. Bruce knew better than most of the vagrants who slept in the park how little the bench really was because he once had more than they ever did.

“Maybe you’ll see the reason you ended up on this bench was your own doing.”

That was where he drew the line.

“What could I have done differently?” he shot back at her.

“What?”

“What could I have done differently?” he repeated, more collected this time around, but his voice cooler.

“Well, I mean…I don’t…” she let her voice trail off as she glanced over her shoulder, looking to her colleagues for help. They were busy yapping with one another, still none of them intervening with the kids and the ducks.

She turned back to him. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you,” she admitted, but the way she spoke made it sound like she expected him to justify her point for her.

“That’s right, you don’t,” he said, before taking a swig of the whisky he kept in his paper bag. He frowned when he felt how light it was. Not so much an idea, but a high popped into his head. He’d gotten such a rush when he guessed correctly she’d still push for him to leave that he wanted to chase that feeling.

It was one of the few good thoughts he’d had since he’d taken up residence in the park.

“Tell you what, I’ll leave,” he saw, relishing the way she perked up before he dropped the ultimatum. “For twenty bucks.”

Her eyes dropped down to the bottle he kept in the brown paper bag. “You’ll just drink it all.”

Bruce shrugged. “What’ll you care? I’ll be gone.”

She glared at him for the longest time. He got the impression she regarded herself as a princess, expecting everything her heart desired the moment she asked for it. He almost barked out a laugh thinking she was the kind of girl he used to try to pick up in bars, drawn to that insatiable thirst of wanting, taking it up as a challenge to try to deliver their every demand for as long as he could.

When he refused to look away, she finally fished through her purse. “All I’ve got is a ten.” He snatched it from her and sprung from the bench in the same fluid motion.

Still got it.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever read about writing was to beat up your characters. The advice didn’t mean have them physically assaulted in the story. Rather, constantly throw obstacles and hurdles at them, escalating the severity of the challenges that they have to face, so that they’re constantly just able to overcome one before another is thrown at them.

I knew that I wanted Dig Down to have intense sequences where Rob was in immediate danger. The premise for the story is that he’s managed to piss off lots of shady characters who now all want him dead, so these scenes needed to be as brutal as possible. If I just say he’s in danger, have him get cornered by one of the people after him, only to get away unscathed, there would be no lasting impact on the reader. They might get a thrill seeing him in hot water again and again, but if he kept getting away just before things got rough, I think the audience would see it as formulaic and forgettable.

That’s why I focused a lot of love and care into crafting the scenes in which he’s in danger. I wanted the reader to feel the impact of his situation. The book, and the experience the reader had, would be all the better for it.

When Rob is trying to escape with the briefcase, I went the reader to feel the turmoil that he’s in as he’s trying to escape from his pursuers while having to haul the heavy contents along as well. I did my best to remind the reader about how much of a burden carrying the case is during his escape by having him constantly switch it from one hand to another, or setting it down every moment he gets.

Rob takes his fair share of abuse from many people who are after his hide. I wanted to make sure the reader felt the impact of every blow his body sustained through the course of the novel. The damage he did to his ankle lingers through the rest of the story, influencing where he has to go next to deal with it, and cutting out the option of a possible escape later. It’s also on his mind as something he has to compensate for when he enters places he feels where he feels someone might be waiting for him.

I made the death of Spears particularly vicious so that it would be something that tormented Rob throughout the story, an ugly conclusion he’d have to face himself if he were to be caught by the police. I wanted to make sure everything Rob was going through as he made his escape felt suffocating to him.

Judging by the responses I’ve gotten to Dig Down, I’m glad I did. So if you’re writing your own story, once you’re done with your first draft, go back and reread it to see how tough you’ve been on your characters. Have you been lenient at times with them where you could have put them through the ringer? Is there something you can add that would spice up these points in your story? If so, I’d recommend making those changes. Your story will be a richer experience for it.

Bruce’s eyes had started to grow bleary eyed from the whisky he hadn’t even noticed the teacher approach him until she had pulled up alongside the bench.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said tentatively, and he recognized she was doing her best to be overly polite while she spoke to him because the way her eyes scanned him over told him she viewed him as lower than dirt.

At that moment, for the first time in (…weeks?…months?) he felt sheepish for drinking out of a bottle this early in the day. It felt heavy in his hand, but he didn’t want to let it go either.

It was one of his few worldly possessions.

She cleared her throat. “Sir,” she said a little louder, even though they both knew he’d heard her the first time. Bruce knew she wasn’t going to just walk away, and turned his head as slightly as he could. She understood it at as the only acknowledgement she was going to get.

“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to leave for a little while,” she said. “You’re frightening the children.”

Bruce’s bleary eyes drifted back across the park. The kids that weren’t still trying to feed the ducks were playing tag, or eating their lunches. The few that were facing his direction were too absorbed in their own worlds to notice he was there.

“They don’t look scared,” he said, not bringing his eyes back to her.

The teacher sighed so deeply Bruce would’ve thought she leaned over to exhale directly into his ear. His skin crawled as he felt her eyes examining him, and the bugs that had nested in his scraggly beard a couple weeks ago felt like they were gnawing on his chin again.

“Well, you’re scaring me.”

Bruce pursed his lips. It both felt ages ago and not that long ago that he would’ve been approaching a woman like her at a bar on a Friday during happy hour. She would have gone out with a couple friends from work not looking to meet anyone, just to “unwind.” It felt like bragging now thinking he could have picked her up, gotten her number. Even if she turned him down, it had always been thrilling going for it when someone caught her eye.

His barhopping days had been back when he had an intoxicating confidence about him after long hours at the office. Now he couldn’t get out in and out of the liquor store fast enough, especially if there was more than just the cashier in there.

“I scared you into coming all the way over to tell me I’m scaring you?” he challenged.

He could feel her whole body stiffen in frustration that he wasn’t complying with what she thought was a very reasonable request, and his own frustrations started to surface. Bruce finally turned to face her, fighting the urge to look away from her eyes.

It’d been a while since he’d looked someone directly in the eyes.

“This is where I live now lady,” he growled at her. “It’s not my choice, but it’s what I got. This bench,” he patted the rumpled newspapers, “is what I have to settle for as a bed. If I get up and leave, there’s a good chance it’s claimed by someone else by the time I get back. If I’m lucky, it’s someone who just wanted to come to the park for the day, but then I have to wait for them to leave until I can get it back. But it might be taken by someone else who’s also looking for a place to use as a bed for the night. So realize what you’re asking. You want me to clear out while the kids are here, but you’re acting like I’ve got another place to go. And you’re not just asking me to stay on my feet until it suits you, but possibly give up a bed for the night.

“So, if you were in my shoes,” and he involuntarily wriggled his toes to see how deteriorated his footwear had become, recognizing he’d have to fish through the garbage for another pair soon, “would you risk all of that just because you were scaring someone?”