It’s a Good Day to Write Like Water!

Dear Writers: Meet me over at The Narrative Project for a class on story structure I’m teaching on Thursday, October 29, 5 p.m. Pacific via Zoom.

Over the years, a lot of the requests I get for help with memoirs and novels pertain to structure. As we all know, establishing the architecture of a story can be tricky because the story’s structural design is both a writing tool and a container for the action line, but the structure should not upstage nor inhibit the unfolding action of the narrative, and neither should it be confused with the plot. One issue we all face is that despite everything we know about story and structure, every story is ultimately unique, so we have to somehow apply everything we know and simultaneously forget everything we know each time we conceive, refine, diagnose, and maximize a story’s structure. I have some techniques I use in my editing that authors and publishers have appreciated, so I’ll share those as a type of To Do list I hope you will find helpful.

Here’s the link for my latest post about the class, as featured on The Narrative Project blog.

Be sure to register in advance for Write Like Water. After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting.

Oh, yeah, the class is free. Cheers!

XO Laurel Leigh

Darrell, In Milwaukee

Dear Writers:

Years ago, I walked into a grocery store parking lot and saw this awesome blue van that had an old camper shell framed into its top, curtains on the windows, and one undersized spare tire.

The van became a feature in my story “Darrell, In Milwaukee,” published by CLOVER, A LITERARY RAG in the Winter 2013 v6 issue. It was the first story of mine that CLOVER published, and it always will be a very sweet memory to have worked with the marvelous editors, Mary Elizabeth Gillilan and Norman Green. CLOVER retired last year and sold out its back issues, so I’m putting the “Darrell” story here in its entirety. I hope you have half the fun reading it that I did writing it!


Guy name of Ken—that Darrell knew from around—had picked up a ’62 blue Chevy van at the junkyard run by that Dakota fellow. Ken cut out the roof of the van and framed in the top section of a camper shell he found at the same junkyard. Most of the camper windows were busted out and had plywood over, but the van had all its windows so a guy could still see out the sides if he hunkered down a bit.

Not bad, Darrell said, when he first saw it.

The Chevy’s engine ran rough and one of the front wheels was an under-size spare, but Ken rarely drove it farther than the mini mart for cold ones. Which he and Darrell drank while sitting on the lawn chairs Ken kept in the van. Sometimes they watched TV. Ken ran an extension cord out the laundry room window of his house and in through one of the van windows to plug in a portable set. But then Dot grew embarrassed by that wreck of a—well, she hardly knew what to call it, and right there in the driveway where everyone could see. She told Ken it went or she went.

I’ll go a buck and a quarter, Darrell said. About half what Ken was into it for. But Dot wasn’t happy, which meant Ken wasn’t happy, so he told Darrell, You’re an asshole, and handed over the key.

Darrell felt a freedom in the Chevy. He’d been without wheels for a while and liked that he could go somewhere and his new house came, too. The first place he drove was to the Y to collect his gear and ask for a refund on a week’s rent. Against policy, but Mickey was good that way and handed him the cash right back.

Going off with la mujer? Mickey asked.

Darrell had sneaked the same gal up to his room a couple nights. Also against the rules but, unlike the weekday manager, Mickey never hassled a guy.

Ain’t seen her around, Darrell said. I think she quit at Goldmann’s.

The elevator was still broken, but to keep fit, Darrell liked to take the stairs anyway. He got his duffle bag out of the fourth-floor room and jogged back down the steps.

Buena suerte, Mickey said, when Darrell went by him again to leave.

You too, Darrell said, and held out his hand.

He spent what Mickey gave him and then some on a used rim and tire for the Chevy. Since getting to Milwaukee, he’d been taking day jobs, banging nails, pouring concrete, but it was time for a step up. After swapping out the wheel, he went to see about a job driving backhoe for the same outfit Ken worked for.

The job was to dig out one of the foundation holes for a pair of reinforced concrete towers that would be office buildings. The towers had to be ready for the Bicentennial 4th of July fanfare, and the job foreman said there was pressure from up top to finish the dirt work ahead of schedule.

Darrell told how he’d run the only backhoe on a big job up in Sheboygan, and he had a reference on official company stationery.

We got to go hard or go to hell, the foreman said.

That don’t bother me, Darrell said.

They shook hands and the next morning Darrell walked onto the dig site.

City lets us make noise between eight and four, Slim told Darrell.

Slim was the other backhoe driver.

Lunch is whenever the puke wagon shows up.

Sounds pretty standard, Darrell said.

They went over to the Poclain that Darrell would be running.

Slim picked at his ear. I’m gonna have you start digging on the south hole, he said, as if he’d been the one to decide and they both knew otherwise. Darrell kept a poker face when the foreman walked up and Slim had to quit pretending.

Darrell climbed into the cab of the Poclain, which he’d found out from Slim was a European rig the foreman had picked up on a trade. The bucket was wider than usual but otherwise it had a slick setup. The foreman had marked out where he wanted the south ramp going into the hole and Darrell got to it, setting a pace that had the dirt haulers moving. Altogether noisy as hell, not to mention hotter than hell inside the cab, but Darrell liked the power of the big trackhoe. How he could guide the shovel to knock away the packed earth and then scoop it up and plunk it right into the back of the waiting truck, just as smooth as if he was dropping in handfuls of dirt, but with massive each shovel-full he could see a difference in the deepening hole. The trackhoe left its mark. Just like the tower going into the hole would leave its mark, growing up out of the ground like a tree putting down its roots.

At break time, Darrell got in line at the puke truck. He bought a roast beef sandwich and a bag of peanuts, smiled at the chunky gal working the window. She reminded him of this nurse he’d met in Nam. Over in the shit, as he thought of it. The one time he got shot was in the shoulder and the doctors decided to leave the bullet in. The nurses, the one gal in particular, had been real sweet to him. A helluva gal, wide end and all—if he’d been telling someone he would’ve held his hands apart to show just how wide, but meant it in a nice way, because when it was all said and done she’d been the settle-down type a guy might’ve put down roots for if he could.

On his day off, Darrell worked on the Chevy. He spent the morning replacing the timing chain and got the engine running pretty smooth. For inside he used scrap wood to build a box bench that would be good for storage and sleeping. Then he wanted a shower, which Ken had been letting him use while Dot was out getting her hair done. Erecting the beehive, Ken called it, but in a way that let on he was still sweet on her after ten years. This time she got home a little early and accidentally walked in on Darrell lathering up. To say the least, she was not happy about it.

To get back on her good side, Darrell offered to help Ken redo the bathroom, which Dot had been wanting. They pulled the old shower and put in a fancy one delivered by the Dakota. Pulling a contact on a day job he’d worked, Darrell got Ken a good deal on some tile so there was enough left in the budget for the oak sink cabinet Dot had her eye on at the home supply. She warmed up quite a bit over that. When the bathroom was done, she said Darrell could use the shower again and also got in her head to sew him curtains for the Chevy. At first it was funny, but Darrell had to admit they made things look homey. Dot still didn’t like the Chevy in the driveway, so Darrell parked at the end of the block when he visited and they all got along fine after that.

Take a Komatsu, for instance, Ken was saying. Some might say they build shit, but they build a good excavator, even if you might say under-powered.

It was after work and a few of the crew were at the A-Frame, a couple blocks from the work site. Poor excuse for a bar with only outdoor tables and the one homely bar gal, but the beers were cold. Darrell set his empty beer mug down on the wooden picnic table and held up three fingers until the gal nodded. He and the boys had been talking about the job—their other main topic aside from gals and government.

A lot of it’s economically driven and all that, how they build the new equipment, Ramon said.

Ramon had a way of talking real slow that could get a guy tapping his foot, but Darrell had to admit junior knew how to hustle. Ramon now worked under Ken, who’d got promoted to lead mechanic last week.

They all thought Slim was a rough operator.

Point is, you might say Slim is a mule in the kitchen, Ken said. He’s gonna rip that Case apart he ain’t careful.

A jackass is cute when it’s young, Ramon said in his same drawl.

That busted all three of them up. They laughed harder when Slim and his buddies showed up and took over the end of their table.

What’s so funny, Slim said.

You had to be there, Darrell told him.

Slim tossed a small bag on the table.

What’s that? Darrell said to go along.

Genuine Indian arrowheads, Slim said, only he said ‘Injun.’

You got those here?

Slim picked his ear.

Hell, I dug up Cochise for all I know, he said.

On a Saturday, Jake came in from Whitewater, where he’d been framing tract houses. Darrell was glad to see him. He liked Ken and the boys at work just fine, but when it came down to it, Jake was his best friend. They’d been together in Nam and that bond stays. Jake wanted to go get his kid, who wanted to go to the zoo again.

Been here so many times they should let us in for free, Darrell said.

They got hotdogs at the concession, then the kid tore off running for the zebra pen.

Jake said, as if it’d been a long while since they’d seen her, but it was just last week, Can you believe that little tyke? Looks more and more like Celia, right down to that hair.

Any luck with the sister? Darrell asked.

Jake shook his head no.

The sister—the kid’s aunt on her mother’s side—had custody. Never mind the kid pitched a fit every time Jake had to leave her. The deal was, the kid wasn’t Jake’s blood. He and the kid’s mother had never outright married, so when Celia died—weak heart—the kid went to her older sister by law. When the sister brought the kid from California out to Wisconsin, Jake up and followed, and he and Darrell of course got in touch. Darrell considered it luck in some respects.

He told Jake about finding Indian bones in the foundation holes, how he didn’t think it was so right to just dig them up but what could you do?

Cochise and them had been soldiers. They’d been in the shit, too, just over here, he said.

Jake of course got what he meant.

The kid wanted to ride one of the stripy horses.

Might buck you off, Darrell told her.

She didn’t think so but settled for a ride on Jake’s shoulders. He hopped around and she spit up hotdog on his head.

Oh shit, Jake said. Don’t tell your aunt.

Oh shit, the kid said.

You don’t say that, sweetie. Jake told her. He used his tee shirt to clean off her face.

One morning Darrell got to work and heard Slim talking about how there was a new office gal. Red-haired. When Darrell went by the trailer to pick up his paycheck, there she was on a step-stool putting papers in a filing box. Darrell said he didn’t mind waiting for her to finish. Her name was Mona.

How about you and me go out sometime, he said. Continue reading

WRITE LIKE WATER: How to Find and Follow the Natural Path of Your Story

Dear Writers:

I’m really happy to be collaborating with the The Narrative Project and the wonderful writer/coach Cami Ostman for a conversation we are calling WRITE LIKE WATER: How to Find and Follow the Natural Path of Your Story, on January 14, 2020, at 6 p.m. Pacific time. This two-hour virtual class taught by Yours Truly will be offered FREE through The Narrative Project. The focus is your story’s structure: how to find it, and how to fix it.

Over the years, a lot of the requests I get for help with memoirs and novels pertain to structure. As we all know, establishing the architecture of a story can be tricky because the story’s structural design is both a writing tool and a container for the action line, but the structure should not upstage nor inhibit the unfolding action of the narrative, and neither should it be confused with the plot. One issue we all face is that despite everything we know about story and structure, every story is ultimately unique, so we have to somehow apply everything we know and simultaneously forget everything we know each time we conceive, refine, diagnose, and maximize a story’s structure. I have some techniques I use in my editing that authors and publishers have appreciated, so I’ll share those as a type of To Do list I hope you will find helpful.

If you want to spend a couple hours talking structure with Cami and me, here’s the link to register:…/regist…/u5Qqf-iqrjMjmiX38_c3VtGYp9KQrQcZQw.

After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the Zoom meeting.

XO Laurel Leigh

A Light in the Darkness (Or, Watching the Fireflies)

Dear Writers: I really appreciated the imagery and insight into writing in this post from The Eye-Dancers. I had to share it!


It’s night–a warm, muggy summer night in the hills of east-central Vermont.  It’s late.  I’ve always been a night person.  Even though I arise by five thirty most mornings, I still shake hands with midnight from time to time.  Tonight is one of those nights.

I’m at the window, the breeze wafting in, carrying with it the sound of crickets as they play their fiddles, unseen, in the grass that needs mowing.  Out there, beyond the house, is the meadow–five acres’ worth, surrounded on all sides by woodlands.  It’s a private spot, down a dirt road.  There is no neighbor within a half-mile.  And while sometimes, the distant sound of a car engine or chainsaw can be heard, for the most part, it is quiet here–except for the crickets and the hoot owls and the creatures of the night who crawl and run and slither through the grass.

I’m not…

View original post 610 more words


Dear Writers:

Who can resist Scampers?!?!

Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

It’s time to win a signed, hardcover copy my new picture book: Scampers Thinks Like A Scientist!

Scampers Thinks Like a Scientist is the book that received a five-star review from Foreward Reviews. It’s the book that nabbed a glowing notice from the difficult-to-please Kirkus. And it’s the book that stars the cutest mouse in the history of ever.

Oh. My. God. Just look at that widdle face!

So let’s get started!

How To Enter

To enter the Scampers drawing, all you need to do is leave a comment below that answers this question:

Which fictional character would you most want to have as a next-door neighbor?

That’s it! Leave a comment and you’ll be entered in the random drawing for Scampers!

But Wait!

Do you already have a copy of Scampers? That’s great! Thank you!

Enter the contest anyway.

After all, if you win, you can…

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There Are Many Kinds of Scars

Dear Writers:
I’m fortunate to be able to say that the very first writing group I was in is still going strong eighteen years later. Our group has been a wonderful constant in my writing life, and I’m amazed at the insights I get from my mates at Dogpatch Writers Collective. As usual, they had much to say about my last piece of writing, and I’m now inspired to finish revising my essay.

Thanks, Dogpatch!

XO Laurel Leigh

Dogpatch Writers Collective

Dogpatch writer Laurel Leigh’s essay explores how as a child she experienced the scars of her mother’s mastectomy and how those issues of image and identity carried into her adult life. Here’s an excerpt of “Scars” and our comments about this deeply honest piece of writing.

The author’s mother on her wedding day.

The wound in my chest was open and wide, and I could see the layers of my skin disappearing into the circular black hole. As a kid growing up in the country and later an acrobat, I’d had plenty of scrapes and bruises, but I’d never had a cut that deep. I was engrossed by how deep the hole was—about an inch.

The doc came back to the table and explained that the wound leakage had just been fluid, but it likely would re-occur if he used liquid anesthesia. If I was tough enough to look at…

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Win a Doodle! Hooray and Huzzah!

Dear Writers:

If there possibly is anyone who knows me who doesn’t know my rather shady past as self-appointed fan club prez (some rude people have brought up the “S” word, but I think that’s totally uncalled for, and part of the proof is that a recent post of his linked to a post of mine, which means we’re sort of friends, so there) of that Writer Fellow Mike Allegra’s doodles . . .

I kind of lost track of that last sentence. Anyhoo, the esteemed doodler is after a long hiatus hosting another doodle contest with fabulous incentives. Plus you don’t have to do much at all to enter. Go on his blog and talk about yourself. Who doesn’t love doing that? Hit a couple share buttons or write a book review if you are a readerly sort. And in return, you get to be in a drawing to win a super-amazing doodle, which if you want could be a doodle of a pal for a certain salamander I know. Head over to Writer Fellow’s site to get the details!

XO Laurel Leigh

Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

I really like hosting blog contests!

And I really, really like doodling!

And I really, really, really like the fact that some people like my doodles!

So it is time once again for my semi-annual


Who will be the lucky winner? Will it be YOU?

The grand (and only) prize will be a custom made, one-of-a-kind, Mike Allegra doodle of ANYTHING YOU WANT!

“Anything?” you ask.

Yes, anything—provided that “anything you want” isn’t perverted. I’m a children’s book author, so get your mind out of the gutter!

Otherwise, yes. ANYTHING YOU WANT!

Past contest winners have asked for all kinds of doodles. Like exotic birds…

(Click to enlarge.)

A caffeine gnome…

(Click to enlarge.)

A raven shapeshifter (whatever that is)…

(Click to enlarge.)

A woman doing yoga and holding a pen as the ghost of her dearly departed dog looks on…

(Click to enlarge.)

And (of…

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Dear Writers:

Nope, we simply can’t get enough of Sully the Salamander! Now that Writer Fellow has gone and started a writing contest in the name of the one and only Sully. It’s just about open season for topics and style, and you can read the details on his post:

Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

Will YOU be the lucky winner?

Last week on this blog I asked you a question: “Should I start a writing contest?”

I followed up my question with a promise: “If there is enough enthusiasm for a writing contest, I will start a writing contest.”

So. Was there enough enthusiasm for a writing contest?

Sort of!

And that’s good enough for me.

Welcome to the First Annual
Sully Award for Excellence in Writerishness!

The (one and only) winner will receive a bunch of valuable prizes!

A $20 gift card to Starbucks, because writers need to wake up before writing.
A $10 gift card to iTunes, because writers need to be in the right mood while writing.
A $20 Gift card to Barnes & Noble so you can read after writing.
And, best of all, a beautiful SULLY AWARD CERTIFICATE, because great writers deserve great accolades. The certificate will look something like…

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Happy Polyp to Me

Dear Writers:

My birthday is on Halloween. This year to celebrate being 53 years old, me and my cervix, whom I call Fred, headed to the OB-GYN clinic at 7:45 in the morning to get our polyp removed.

For my special day, the team at OB-GYN is dressed up like characters from The Wizard of Oz. An affable Cowardly Lion checks me in at reception. Then a smiling nurse in a pink-and-white tutu takes me back to one of those little rooms and writes down stuff that’s wrong with me and what vitamins I take.

“Have you seen The Wizard of Oz?” she asks me.

“About a thousand times,” I say, not much of an exaggeration since I had the movie soundtrack on 33 LP when I was a kid. I knew right off that her costume was one of the Lullaby League ballerinas that welcomed Dorothy Gale to Munchkinland, and I can sing you the song on our next road trip.

“It was kind of hard to make a tutu,” she says, strapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Everybody said a tutu would be easy, but it wasn’t.”


I stop myself from saying that she just needed to lightly tack the muslin to the lining waist before gathering the ruffles to get them straight. I stop myself from saying this not because I’m being polite but because I have a damn polyp on my cervix and the contrast with a nurse in a tutu is a little much to take at 8:08 in the morning sans caffeine.

My mom was a wicked-good seamstress and made me the most amazing Halloween costumes. Being in a stuffy little room with a nurse wearing a droopy tutu and knowing the gist of the medical procedure that is coming my way makes me all of a sudden miss my mommy. A lot.

Nurse Lullaby takes my blood pressure: 116/74 with no caffeine in my system. Who in hell has time to do the pre-how embarrassing if the OB-GYN sees how much hair grows behind my knee caps type of shower, feed dog who takes forever to eat, walk dog who takes forever to pee, find the damn medical referral slip, forget to get gas AND make coffee and still get over to the clinic on what street is it on again? at this ungodly hour?

In a few minutes, in comes the doc, who is dressed in normal clothing. Although she looks quite a lot like my college biology teacher, so it does seem befitting that she is an OB-GYN.

“It’s going to be OK,” I whisper to Fred.


Fred is my cervix, in case you forgot. Fred is a girl, and this isn’t a piece about gender identity unless you decide it is, which is your prerogative as its reader.

The doc wants to know if I’m sexually active.

“No, I abstain when I’m not in a relationship,” I reply. That’s Latin for No man will talk to me unless he’s trying to sell me electronics or a car, and I’m fairly sure the mannequin in the Macy’s window is getting more action than I am this decade.

“About how long has it been?” asks the doc, reminding me that lots of medical terms have Latin root words, i.e., I am so busted.

“End of 2012,” I confess.

“Ohhhh, it’s been a really long time.”


Thanks, doc. Yes, Obama was just starting his second term the last time my hoohaw saw any hoopla.

She stares at me, and I think she’s wondering how on earth Fred grew a polyp in my sensory deprivation chamber, but she explains that sometimes polyps bleed during intercourse (that’s Latin for GETTING IT ON, in case I forgot), but “we can’t know that in your case,” she says.

She shrugs, perhaps a little disappointed at the not knowing. I get that. In order for a scientific experiment to work, there needs to be both a control group and a test group, and I’m a boring control group. It’s like a thin plot line without any dramatic climax, and believe you me. Continue reading