MITCH LITS BOOKS
 Random Writings 		          



Essays on Writing

Novel Excerpts (Coming Soon!)

Short Story







To order
DREAM TRAVELERS
and/or
A LITTLE OF YOUR TIME,
please click here:

Click here to order books!

Copyright 2008
Mitch Lits Books
Marietta GA
Site by Diana Designs



















































Essays on Writing

CHARACTERS
(Keeping them real)


To breathe life into your characters you must first think of them as flesh and blood people. This means that each character, whether good or bad, must contain a mix of character traits and emotions, both good and bad.

Nobody’s perfect. If you present a hero(ine), or protagonist, who is too good, too perfect, that individual won’t seem real. Even if your writing is of an exceptional caliber where you can make the reader suspend their disbelief, they will still view your character as sickeningly sweet, or—boring!

In real life do you know people who act perfect all the time? Do you believe them? Would you want to hang out with them? Now do you see my point?

We are all flawed. The ultimate goal of characterization is to have your readers identify and empathize with your characters. Give your characters at least one flaw or fear that your readers can relate to and they will care about them.

An example of this from my first novel, A Little of Your Time, would be the heroine, Lorelei Silver. Lorelei is smart, pretty, athletic and likeable. Despite all these positive attributes she is lacking in self-confidence, and sometimes her emotions overcome her better judgment.

The same principal holds true for the story’s villain, or antagonist. To give a villain depth and substance that character must possess at least one redeeming trait. Another example from my first book would be Panther Joe. He is a supernatural, seemingly immortal killer. He is an undefeated warrior who also possesses the ability to destroy people by aging them or fostering fatal illnesses within them. He can hypnotize his victims, bending them to his will. If this isn’t bad enough he is something of a pedophile, using his hypnotic abilities to seduce teenage girls. Yet, in a flashback chapter to another identity centuries earlier, he gives up a desirable existence of adventure and wealth to save the life of an infant he doesn’t know and re-unite the baby with its family. As horrific as Panther Joe is portrayed, in chapters like this the readers find themselves admiring him.

One more point relating to villains; they do not see themselves as evil. They believe in their cause, and anyone standing in their way is wrong, or evil. Just look and listen to the real world news around you. Terrorists and sociopaths who destroy lives don’t do it with the intention to be evil. They claim a cause they believe to be just. As insane as they and their actions are, they view themselves as righteous and those who stand in their way as evil.

We all have hopes and fears. Give these qualities to your characters. To ratchet up the tension in your novel you as a writer must delve deep within yourself. What is your greatest fear? What are the people who mean the most to you most afraid of? For realism to grip your readers and throttle them with dread, imbue your characters with your greatest fears.

For your story to be meaningful your characters must overcome a crisis, or conflict. For your characters to be more than ink on a page they must overcome both external and internal conflicts. External conflicts can be against other characters, nature, or fate. The resolution of external conflicts may be exciting, but they are not what give your readers the greatest satisfaction. For a story to resonate with readers long after they have finished your book, your main character must overcome an internal conflict readers can identify with. The main character must overcome a fear, a flaw, or an ingrained belief which has changed. At the end of a novel it is not enough for your character to overcome a crisis. Your main character must also, in some way, change.

Characters must each possess a unique voice distinguishing them from each other and the legions of characters that have come before them in countless literature. I will cover this in another lesson on dialogue.
I have reams of notes I have put together on characterization. I will stop myself at this point because I have intended this to be an introductory lesson. In the future, if viewers of my website so desire, I will provide an advanced lesson/workshop on creating memorable characters.

One last thing must be said: There is magic in creating real characters. It is one thing to read about this, and something totally different, totally awesome, to experience the magic firsthand. Characters must be real to the readers, but when they become real to the author, there’s the magic. One of my greatest joys as a writer is when my characters take on a life of their own; they tell me how to portray them, how they feel, and what they will or won’t do. Writing ceases to be work at this point, it becomes an exhilarating race where I must attempt to get my characters’ beliefs and desires on paper before their telepathic instruction fades.
Essays on Writing

WARNING—Writing Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

From elementary school through high school writing factual, non-fiction papers bored me out of my mind. But allow me to write fiction—tap into my vivid, OK weird, imagination—and I was totally there. In those twelve years of writing the occasional fiction story writing was just a pleasant pastime. I was innocent, totally naïve to the danger lurking in wait.

College—same thing—writing non-fiction term papers turned my head to lead. Non-fiction bored me to a near catatonic state. Then, at nineteen, I took my first creative writing course and my life was irrevocably changed.

I became infected by the writing bug. For this and three subsequent creative writing classes schoolwork, homework, no longer felt like work. My first creative writing course was an introductory class consisting of various writing exercises, culminating in a final term project of writing a short story a minimum of five pages.

Well for those of you who have experienced college—you know how it is—you’re bogged down with homework. Most of my classmates’ stories met the minimum requirement of five pages. One ambitious classmate wrote eight. Me, who always tried to skate by with the minimum required work, turned in a 10,000 word, forty page typed manuscript. My story received the highest grade in the class and I, a B- student, received an A for the course.

I didn’t realize back then that I had acquired a chronic illness for which there is no cure.

Writing fever infects everyone differently. The pattern of my illness for the next few decades was this: The fever would rage in me for several months. I would always have pen and paper handy, in my car, during long walks in the woods, and even by my bedside in case an idea came to me in a dream. I could be out jogging , and if ideas entered my head, I’d race home to frantically jot them down, before taking that much needed hot shower, lest I forget.

Then after a few months the illness would go into remission, sometimes for several years. Months of feverish writing of short stories, followed by years of remission; that was the pattern until 2002 when I started my first novel.

Novel writing became my ultimate high, but it came with a heavy price. My illness manifested full-blown, no longer subsiding with periods of remission. Quite the opposite—if I attempted to take a break from writing that’s when I felt violently ill.

When my 1st novel, A Little of Your Time, was published in 2004, I came to the hard realization that my writing illness had become terminal. Since there was no cure, all I could do to cope with my condition was plunge into my 2nd novel, Dream Travelers, and not look back.

I have no regrets. I have adapted, learned to live with my illness. I am now 45,000 words into my 3rd novel, Destiny’s Call. If there is a cure for writers’ fever, which there isn’t, I no longer desire it. I will write until the day I die.


So if you are an aspiring writer heed my warning!


If you contract writing fever there is no cure. Once you are infected, writing will progress from a hobby to a passion to a need.


I implore you to take caution from my experience. For me, if I don’t get my daily fix of writing I go into withdrawal, becoming increasingly edgy and despondent. And there is no rehabilitation program for writing addiction. The only way to avoid the dark symptoms of withdrawal is to keep writing.

But there is a terrific upside. There is no greater high than when I am in the zone and can’t get my thoughts onto paper fast enough; it is the ultimate rush. There is also magic in writing—for example—when my characters take on a life of their own and tell me what to write.

If you have visited my website, mitchlitsbooks.com, only to read my writing, all’s well and good. I hope you enjoy the samples of my writing provided, and I hope you buy and enjoy my books.

If you are visiting my website to learn more about writing, please download my free lessons on writing.

But if you are visiting my website harboring aspirations of becoming a writer yourself—well, shrug—you have been warned.



Go Back
-- Mitch Lits
Essays on Writing

WHY I WRITE Teenage/Young Adult Literature

It comes down to the “I am, or I will” generation vs the “I did, or I wish I did” generation.

What do I mean by that?

I have two daughters, ages seventeen and thirteen. As I get older I am distressed by an expanding pattern among other adults. Many reach a plateau in their lives where they talk of their existence in the past tense—“I accomplished this…I used to do, or be, this…I wish I had done this.”

Why do people talk like that? I’ve no clue. But it makes me angry, sometimes sad. It makes me want to shout - “You’re not dead!” As long as an individual is alive and they possess a vibrant mind, they have the ability to change their lives, re-invent themselves into whoever, whatever, they want to be.

Teenagers revel in the present and eagerly anticipate the future. That is why—even though I am old enough to be (gasp!) your father,—I admire your enthusiasm.

I refuse to be a part of the “I wish I had done that” generation.

I have been a respiratory therapist for over twenty years and have drawn much satisfaction from improving people’s health and the quality of their lives. But I have been restless. Ever since I took my first creative writing class in college my dream has always been to be a writer of supernatural fiction. Sometimes we get sidetracked from our dreams. That’s OK; it doesn’t mean we have to give them up. For the past five years I have pursued my dream with a vengeance and have turned it into a reality. I have two teenage/young adult novels completed. A Little of Your Time was published in October, 2004. Dream Travelers will be in print this November. I am currently 200 pages into my 3rd novel, Destiny’s Call, and I am also working on an anthology, Legacies.

Adults reside in one of two camps. There are enlightened adults, and there are ignorant adults. The enlightened ones are your allies. These are the adults who realize nature’s imperative—youth can not be denied. They are the people who will share their knowledge and experience with you to enable you to grow and become a dynamic force within our shared society.

And then there are the ignorant adults (you can’t see me as I am writing this, but I’m shaking my head.) These are the people who do not yet recognize you as people. Instead of sharing and helping, these individuals condemn your lack of experience and thrust their beliefs upon you. So wrong (I am shaking my head again.)

There are myriad levels and layers of experience. For those teenagers who may aspire to become writers—and you can accomplish this starting now—keep a lookout for my upcoming blog on ‘Life Experience vs Writing Experience’.

I tend to go off on tangents when I’m excited about something. Sorry. Let’s get back to teenage-young adult energy.

Experience comes with time, and with the constructive focusing of your energy. Yours is the generation that says, no shouts—“I am doing this… I am this…I will be this!” Your enthusiasm and determination is electrifying, very exciting. I’d say “way exciting”, but adults shouldn’t try to pass themselves off as teenagers; the attempt will come off as nothing but embarrassing for both generations.

As an adult writer of teenage supernatural fiction I promise to remember my place. I will not embarrass myself, or my daughters, by trying to sound like a teenager. But what I will do is provide my readers with teenage characters that sound like today’s teenagers, and resonate with the angst of your most pressing concerns.

The awesome thing about today’s teenage-young adult literature (if there are a few teenage critics sneering at my use of the word awesome, awesome belongs to both of our generations) is that there is a virtually invisible line as to what defines young adult and adult literature. That thin barrier is what the anal, holier than thou critics of the world view as taboo. Fortunately as our society becomes increasingly enlightened towards recognizing teenagers as young adults, less and less in modern young adult writing remains taboo.

I believe it is not the content of the subject matter, but how that subject matter is presented, which should define what is appropriate for today’s youth. If a writer is to bend, or break, existing writing taboos, it is acceptable only if done in a tasteful, sensitive manner conducive to promoting self-awareness towards positive growth, both for their characters and their readers. No writer of young adult literature should ever break society’s taboos merely to shock their readers, or sensationalize their writing.

So what is the difference between teen-young adult and adult literature? At its core, only this—the lead characters in teenage literature must be teenagers.

I’ve lots more to say. When you get me talking about writing which is one of my greatest passions it’s hard to shut me up. But I don’t want to cross the line between holding your interest, or going on too long and making your eyes glaze over and roll back into your head.

To keep your interest, please visit my website, mitchlitsbooks.com, to read samples of my books and upcoming writing, and to participate in exciting contests and events.

Go Back
-- Mitch Lits




















Short Stories

A Keen Eye for Detail

Grandma always said I had a keen eye for detail. Ever since I was little I can remember her constant faith in me and her ongoing encouragement.
“Lauren, you are fated for great things.”
“Me, Grandma?”
Grandma was short, but her confidence in me was always tall as a skyscraper. She waved her tiny hands with enormous enthusiasm and said, “Lauren, my favorite granddaughter…”
“I’m you’re only granddaughter,” I interrupted.
She laughed with that musical tinkling laughter of hers that made me smile not only on the outside but deep within my heart. “Be that as it may, I’ve known you all of your life, and I know you well. Your appreciation for beauty, combined with your strong powers of observation, destines you for an artistic calling.”
“Are you sure, Grandma?” I loved art, but doubted my own abilities.
“Positive. Now we just have to find out exactly what your artistic talent is.”
For my tenth birthday Grandma bought me an easel, palate, brushes and paints containing all the colors of the rainbow. I was ecstatic. I was inspired. It was truly the messiest summer of my life. Despite that, for the next six years Grandma never gave up on her conviction that I possessed some latent artistic talent.
When I turned twelve Grandma bought me a charcoal and sketch pad set. I dreamed every young girl’s dream of one day becoming a top fashion designer. Not a super-model—I had no desire for a commitment to starving myself to death—but a fashion designer, yeah that was my new dream. But as it turned out, charcoal and me was not a good mix. I still smile to this day remembering Grandma’s good natured amusement as she chuckled at me, and said, “Lauren, you look like a chimney sweep!”
Grandma kept up with the latest technology. For my fourteenth birthday she bought me my first computer. Maybe when I went to college I would major in computer graphics and animation. My parents pitched a quiet fit at Grandma’s purchase of a computer without consulting them. But they could not bring themselves to express this to Grandma; she was getting pretty old by now and had nothing but the best intentions.
Grandma never gave up on seeking out my hidden talent. And last July for my sixteenth birthday she nailed it, the coolest gift ever was a digital camera. Awesome! It was totally loaded with special features that included a huge memory card, and a timer to give me the option of being in my own pictures.
My Grandma loved both me and my brother Danny. But she always knew how to make me feel special. I loved her so much. I’m glad I took pictures of her with my camera last summer. Even though I was too sad to upload those pictures into my computer, or use the camera since then, I cherish Grandma’s gift. It will always remind me of her. Last July, two weeks after she had given me that camera for my birthday, Grandma died.
“Lauren.” My thoughts were interrupted by my obnoxious little brother.
“Quiet, Danny.”
I can’t help thinking how life can be so totally unfair. Grandma was a nurse for over forty years, always helping people. Then when her heart weakened and gave out no one could help her.
“Lauren, it’s boring in Grandpa’s house,” whines Danny. “Come on and play with me.”
Sixteen and saddled with a six-year-old pain-in-the-butt little brother. God hates me. “Why don’t you go outside with Mom and Dad and help them shovel Grandpa’s snow?”
“I don’t want to. I want to play with you.”
I stand over Grandma’s old armchair looking outside at the wintry landscape. Icicles hang from maples and oaks. Frost plumes from Grandpa’s and Mom’s and Dad’s breaths. The snow shovels scrape silently; no outside sound penetrates through the thick double-paned window glass.
My eyes are suddenly wet. Like a thick down blanket this house smothers me with memories of Grandma. I ache; I miss her so much. But whenever I’m here I always feel like she’s close to me, watching over me, and I’m also filled with joy. I wipe at my eyes.
Danny obstructs my view by standing between me and the window. He breathes hard, fogging up the window and drawing nerdy pictures of rockets and dinosaurs on the glass. “Danny, why do you always have to be up in my face? Get a life, will you?”
He places his hands on his hips and bellows like a bullhorn, “I’m bored! I just want to do something!” Then with an attention span as long as a blink he races across the living room to Grandpa’s candy dish. His face is now a chocolate mask as he continues to whine and wheedle me. “Come on. Play with me. Pleassse!”
His voice buzzes through my head like a relentless 2 A.M. mosquito. “All right you little brat, you win. What do you want to do?”
Even when I give in to the little terrorist’s demands he still has to torment me. Danny’s holding his stomach with one hand as he slowly brings his other hand up to his mouth. “Ooh. I ate too much candy. I feel sick.”
Throwing up always grosses me out. I start running from the room. Then I hear the creepy faker laugh. I move toward him for the kill.
He reaches into the candy dish. “What’s this big red one?”
What little patience I have for this brother I never wanted is gone. “Drop it, butt-head. That’s a jawbreaker. You’re way too careless to eat that.”
Danny sticks his tongue out at me. “Then let’s do something.”
I sigh, and say, “O.K. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s take some pictures.”
I feel blood rushing into my head. My anger boils like a tea-kettle on a burner set on high. “Give that to me you little creep! What are you doing with my camera?”
He shrugs his scrawny little shoulders. “Well you never use it anymore.” He hands me my camera. “I’m sorry I took it without asking. But can’t we please take some pictures?”
“O.K. You win. Go stand by the window and I’ll set the camera for the proper light.”
“Thanks, Lauren. I’ll be right there,” he says, racing for the candy dish.
I shake my head, position the camera pointing toward the window, and set the auto-timer. I look up and see Danny standing by the window with a puzzled look on his face. Then Danny looks scared. He tries to speak, but no words come out. His mouth is covered with chocolate and a bright red smear.
“No,” I murmur. “Please, God. No.”
Now Danny’s clutching at his throat. His body’s jerking like a puppet with spastic strings. There’s an empty jawbreaker wrapper crumpled up by his feet.
I’m freaking; I can’t handle this. I run to the window and scream for help. The window won’t open and the double glass is too thick for anyone to hear me. I pivot to run outside for help.
There isn’t time! Danny’s eyes are bulging white and his skin has a bluish tinge. Uselessly I pound him hard on the back. His head whips back and smashes my nose. I’m choking on thick coppery liquid filling my throat. Blood’s dripping down my shirt. It’s my blood! I feel sick; I think I’m going to faint.
Danny’s face is now a mottled purple. Get it together, Lauren; you can’t faint.
Grandma once mentioned wrapping arms around a choking person and squeezing hard to free an object from their throat. I forget what it’s called, although I’ve seen the posters in restaurants countless times without really seeing them. I wish I’d paid attention. I stand behind Danny and wrap my arms around him. Grandma also said the maneuver wouldn’t work unless the person was standing. Now Danny’s sliding to the floor and I can barely hold him up. My little brother’s choking to death and I’m so freaking lame! Tears blur my vision. I didn’t mean it about not wanting a little brother. What do I do?
Suddenly I feel a pair of arms wrap around me and Danny. A pair of hands guides mine. My right hand makes a fist with the thumb pressing up just below Danny’s ribcage. My left hand wraps around my right. My hands press in and up, hard.
A bright flash of light blinds me. I hear Danny gasping air as the jawbreaker flies from his mouth. I remain holding Danny for several moments, hugging him hard and crying. I can still feel someone holding me.
I realize the bright light was the automatic flash from my camera. Blinking, I turn around to see who helped us. There’s no one there. I look outside at Mom, Dad and Grandpa. They’re totally unaware as to what just happened. What did just happen?
Neither Danny nor I wanted to endure the inevitable fallout from our folks if they learned how careless he had been, and how careless I had been for not watching out for him more closely. We made a silent pact to keep what went down our little secret.
He should never have taken my camera without my permission, but I owe the little bugger. I should never have tucked away the camera in mourning. My last gift from Grandma, I should have enjoyed the camera and my memories of her. I finally got around to uploading all of my pictures of her from last summer onto my computer.
Grandma always said I had a keen eye for detail. I’m surprised that Grandpa, Mom and Dad all fail to notice that in one picture of Grandma with her arms around me and my brother, Danny looked taller than he had when grandma was alive. Also, none of them commented on the red smudges on Danny’s mouth and under my nose.
I’ll always keep that picture close to me; just like the feeling I have that Grandma’s always close to me. I’ll look at that picture everyday even though it always gives me a chill. Outside the window, over Grandma’s shoulder, the trees are covered with snow.






Go Back
-- Mitch Lits