Author Archives
Jamie K. Wilson
Writing Stealthcon 101: Plots That Don’t Preach
Part 5 In a New Weekly Column With Advice for Conservative Creative Writers
Welcome to this series on how to write fiction from a conservative point of view. These posts can simply be read, or you are invited to join a guided writer’s workshop to practice and critique with other writers. To join the workshop, please email me, Jamie, at kywrite at gmail.com and request an invitation.
Political Writing 101: Creating Compelling Epic Heroes
Part 4 In a New Weekly Column With Advice for Conservative Creative Writers
Welcome to this series on how to write fiction from a conservative point of view. These posts can simply be read, or you are invited to join a guided writer’s workshop to practice and critique with other writers. To join the workshop, please email me, Jamie, at kywrite at gmail.com and request an invitation.
New Fiction: Guardian Angel
Charlie saw her coming in before she saw him at the desk, and he buried his head behind his security monitors. Her electric wheelchair’s motor echoed throughout the atrium, a smooth hum interrupted a couple of times by higher-pitched whines – playful figure eights, her father laughing gently with her. It was a game he’d seen a hundred times now. “Where’s Charlie?” she chirped. “I don’t see my friend.”
“Perhaps, little flower, you should look behind the pillars.” Charlie could hear the hidden laughter in his voice.
Her voice, more distant now: “No – but Charlie’s too big to hide behind these little things!”
“Is he in the bathroom?”
“Baba, I can’t go in there!”
“Well, then, I guess you’d better look behind the desk.”
Charlie heard her little chair drive close and turned, his mouth a surprised o.
Political Writing 101: Start With Theme
Part 3 In a New Weekly Column With Advice for Conservative Creative Writers
Welcome to this series on how to write fiction from a conservative point of view. These posts can simply be read, or you are invited to join a guided writer’s workshop to practice and critique with other writers. To join the workshop, please email me, Jamie, at kywrite at gmail.com and request an invitation.
Healing Wordiness and Making Yourself Clear
Part 2 In a New Weekly Column With Advice for Conservative Creative Writers
Welcome to this series on how to write fiction from a conservative point of view. These posts can simply be read, or you are invited to join a guided writer’s workshop to practice and critique with other writers. To join the workshop, please email me, Jamie, at kywrite at gmail.com and request an invitation.
Point of View: Whose Story Is It?
The Launch of a New Weekly Column With Advice for Conservative Creative Writers
Welcome to this series on how to write fiction from a conservative point of view. These posts can simply be read, or you are invited to join a guided writer’s workshop to practice and critique with other writers. To join the workshop, please email me, Jamie, at kywrite at gmail.com and request an invitation.
New Fantasy Fiction: Innocence and Experience
An origin story for a hero of an epic-in-progress…
Across the green, a scream shattered the morning stillness. Bayliss’s hand slipped, his blade neatly severing the delicate swan’s leg he had carved out of an oak bole, cutting deep into the meaty part of his left hand.
It was Lysele. She screamed again, a high sobbing sound. Bayliss dropped the wood, jammed his bleeding hand into his rough woolen apron pocket, and ran, across the green, past the blacksmith’s, the well, the taverna.
By the time he arrived, half the village was there, elderly Fran holding Lysele as she sobbed. Lysele’s husband Artos stared blankly at the south-facing window, the cheerful flowers below it trampled and fouled. Bayliss gazed at the line of slime from the garden’s edge down to the undefined beginnings of the swamp a hundred yards or more to the south, where ancient cypress trees draped black branches into the murky waters. For a moment, he did not understand.
New Fiction: In Jerusalem
It was late fall, and for this place it was the end of the world. Rockets fell daily, bombings happened hourly, and it was only a matter of time before a new pillar of fire and smoke was raised over the land. Military transports patrolled the ancient narrow streets, helping people leave and protecting the homes of those who were gone. It didn’t really matter; the bombs rendered both looted and intact homes into rubble. Still, it was a matter of duty for the soldiers and of civic order for their commanders.
I had not yet left. The skeleton staff of the U.S embassy would remain until the last minute. There was little to do. American citizens were long gone, files and papers had been shipped, and my inbox was empty save for occasional emergency orders. Each midday I wandered the streets of the city. I had grown to love it, walking the cobbled streets in the old quarters and lamenting their emptiness. I bore witness as, one by one, the cafes and food stands disappeared, their owners and employees fled to more peaceful lands.
