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Tim Chapman is the author of the Sean McKinney series of mysteries, plus edits LitBop, a literary magazine. You can find out more about him on his website, www.timchapmanauthor.com, or by clicking here, read his last post here, and buy his books here.

            Around this time last year, I wrote a blog post for blackbirdwriters.com titled Listen Up. In it, I discussed dialog and mentioned that one dialog writing tool I enjoy is eavesdropping—listening to conversations in public settings. I don’t mean using what you hear word for word but rather, getting the flavor of real conversation. It’s risky, but I haven’t been punched—yet. It can be a good way to lend realism to your writing, and you just might hear something interesting.

            I was in a sandwich shop in Ohio, sitting next to a table of Amish teenagers, when a middle-aged couple wearing tight biking shorts came in. One of the teens loudly whispered, “Well, Spandex isn’t her friend,” and they all laughed. I remember thinking it seemed out of character for the teens, which shows how little I know about Amish culture, but it also gave me the inspiration for a short story.

            In addition to listening, another tool is looking. This is a great way to generate writers’ prompts. I mostly use these for short story or flash fiction ideas. Shopping districts, and malls, public parks, grocery stores, city buses: all are great locations for a little prompt shopping. You can write a description of what you see, draw it on a sketch pad, or take a photo with your phone. Just like eavesdropping, though, DO NOT GET CAUGHT. It’s not illegal. In fact, merely by being in a public space, we have given consent for our image to be photographed and published, provided it’s not being used for commercial purposes (First Amendment). But try to explain that to your subjects. One thing we learned during the pandemic—despite giving all our most secret and sensitive information to Zuckerberg and Musk, people are still a little sensitive about their privacy. ;^)

            So, how do you use a picture as a writers’ prompt? Here are two photographs I shot on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, the Michigan Avenue stretch of expensive shops north of the Chicago River. In one, a street-corner musician is playing her cello. In the other, a shopper is standing near a homeless man. Who are they? What brings them to this location on this particular day? What do they want/need? Do they know one another? Will their lives intersect. What happened to them right before the pictures were snapped? What will happen right after? Answer these questions, and you’ve got the bones of a story.

Some authors love writing short stories while others feel constrained by the limited space. The form still requires narrative and character arcs and should follow the same rule of “show, don’t tell.” And the reader has to care about the characters. Accomplishing that in a novel is difficult enough. Doing it in ten-thousand words or less is a unique skill.

            The protagonist of my crime novels, forensic scientist Sean McKinney, first appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. That story can currently be found in the anthology “Taking Flight” along with great stories by nine of my fellow Blackbirds. You can judge whether or not our stories follow the rules by (shameless sales pitch) going to Amazon and picking up a copy.

            Flash fiction is a whole ‘nother animal. Generally less than a thousand words, flash fiction is more about eliciting a feeling than telling a story. The flash tales I like most attempt both, but it ain’t easy. Having narrative and character arcs in such a small space is, well, good effin’ luck, Jack. My very first published story was flash fiction. It appeared in The Southeast Review, and here it is again. Approximately four hundred and forty words titled:

Downsizing

            Franklin asked his father why he decided to stop using his arms.

            “Well,” he said, “after the plant closed I didn’t have anything else to do, really. I felt like a tennis racket at a hockey game.” He sipped some coffee through a straw. “It’s not so bad. At least now I have an excuse for not doing anything.”

            “But it’s not a legitimate excuse,” Franklin said.

            “Maybe not to you but I’m perfectly happy with it.”

            He had seen a documentary on cable TV about a man who was paralyzed in a train derailment. The man couldn’t use his arms so he taught himself to paint by holding the brush with his toes.

            Franklin’s mother didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t just let her husband starve, but she wasn’t interested in spoon-feeding him either. Sometimes the food wouldn’t make it to his mouth, and it disgusted her to see a grown man with clam chowder on his chin.

            “Won’t you even feed yourself?” she asked. “All you do is sit around watching television. It’s shameful.”

            “I’m going to learn to paint with my toes,” Franklin’s father said. “Beautiful paintings of household pets. I’d like to try for the style of John J. Audubon, the famous nineteenth century bird artist.”

            He began painting watercolor portraits of all of his friends’ dogs and cats, holding the brush between his toes. His paintings looked more like a child’s drawings of pumpkins or softballs than animals.

            Franklin’s mother finally had enough and went to stay with her sister in Cincinnati. She said it was creepy to see him walking from room to room with his arms dangling at his sides.

            “He looks like one of those zombies,” she said.

            One night Franklin was channel surfing and ran across a documentary about a paraplegic who traveled around the country giving inspirational talks to people with physical disabilities. It was during dinner, which Franklin’s father now ate by lowering his head to the plate like a dog.

            “Maybe,” Franklin said, “you could travel around the country giving inspirational talks to healthy people who wish they were disabled.”

            Franklin’s father considered it. Franklin pointed out that most people would think it was contemptible, and a few might even take a poke at him.

            “I don’t know,” his father said. “The world’s changed. I bet there are lots of folks who’d at least think seriously about trying it.”

            Franklin thought about it. Then his arms started to feel heavy. His fingers grew numb and clumsy.

            “What do you know?” he said.

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