Richard Schiver

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  • Friday’ 5 with Graham Masterton

    Friday’ 5 with Graham Masterton

    1 When did you first consider yourself a writer?

    A When I came back from watching Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea when I was about nine and wrote my own book about a harpoonist like Kirk Douglas fighting a giant squid. I bound my story in cardboard, illustrated the cover, and sold it to my best friend for a penny. That was my first royalty!

    2 What is the hardest part of writing?

    A Continuously thinking about plot developments night and day. The world inside a writer’s head is just as real as the world outside it.

    3 How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?

    A I was a newspaper reporter before my first book was published and so loads of articles and features had been published with my byline every week for years, so not particularly thrilled.

    4 In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?

    A Poland. I didn’t find out until I was married to a Polish woman that my great-great-grandfather was Polish, and when we first travelled there (before the end of Communism) I felt an affinity with the country that I feel even more strongly now. I have travelled all over Poland and five years ago I started to organise an annual short story writing contest for Polish prisoners, in order to help their rehabilitation.

    5 If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?

    A James Herbert: Why did you hate my dining-room wallpaper so much?

    GRAHAM MASTERTON was born in Edinburgh in 1946, and at the age of 17 he joined his local newspaper as a junior reporter. He was appointed deputy editor of Mayfair at the age of 21, and at 24 he became executive editor of Penthouse. After leaving Penthouse, he wrote The Manitou, a horror novel that became his first bestseller and was adapted into a film starring Tony Curtis.

    Graham spent twenty-five years as one of the world’s bestselling horror authors before he turned his talent to crimewriting. Inspired by the five years in which he and his late wife lived in Cork, he created a series of novels featuring Katie Maguire, the first female superintendent in the Irish police force. The first book in the Katie Maguire series, White Bones, was published by Head of Zeus in 2012 and became a top-ten bestseller. Graham continues to write thrillers and horror novels alongside the Katie Maguire crime series, which has now sold over a million copies worldwide.

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 09/24/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 09/24/2025

    As I stated in my last post the opening for this story has changed. The original opening will remain, it will be moved into the body of the story following the new opening I will reveal when the story reaches it conclusion.

    God’s Chosen contd.

    A shadowy figure emerged from the dry goods store, it could have been Randall who owned the place with his wife, but it was too hard to tell even with the light cast by the burning saloon. Several of those staggering down the street turned towards the new arrival who tried to push through them and failed. The man fired several times into the crowd surrounding him, his bullets whistling harmlessly through the air as the group closed around him and his screams competed with the crackling roar of the fire. Whoever it had been was driven to the ground where the group knelt down around him and tore at his body while his screams dwindled to incoherent whimpers that finally fell silent.

    Reverend Wickes fell back from the window crawling across the floor to vanish into the deeper shadows where the voices once confronted him. They were silent now, leaving him alone with his terror, the image of the man’s death replaying itself in his mind while the roar of the raging fire crackled into the night.

    The call of a lonely bird pulled him from the restless sleep he’d fallen into and he rolled over onto his back, the stained and cracked ceiling of his bedroom shrouded by shadows as the false light of a new dawn painted the floor an effervescent gray.

    Cautiously he crawled to the window, the flames from the saloon having died down and he looked down upon the deserted main street. Smoke drifted across the small town, casting its shadows on the street that appeared devoid of life. Here and there he spotted dark splotches in the dirt that marked the location of someone’s death.

    Where did they go?

    He pulled himself to his feet and left the bedroom, carefully moving down the stairs as other birds responded to that initial cry and the day was filled with the promise of new life as the bloodied street beyond came into view as he came down the last few stairs onto the first floor. At the door he hesitated, not entirely sure if it was safe for him to leave but leave he must. He couldn’t stay here. This was a dead town, and as he moved across the front porch of the hotel he spied his church sitting at the opposite end of main street. White and pristine amid all the chaos the spire rose towards a bright blue sky that carried the promise of a new day. It was a refuge among the insanity of everything that had transpired.

    He raced down the steps, the church the only thing he was focused on, unaware of the multiple piles of what looked like discarded clothing littering the side street between the dry goods store and the hotel. As he moved down the street he became aware of movement to his right and swiveled his head to see these piles of clothing moving as the bodies they draped slowly climbed to their feet and turn to him.

    They all appeared to have died and he hurried down the street, towards the imagined safety of the church while more piles of discarded clothing slowly stirred to life.

    To be continued!

    Read the entire story to this point here. https://richardschiver.com/weekly-writing-challenge/

  • Overcoming Self-Doubt in Writing

    Overcoming Self-Doubt in Writing

    Anyone who is seriously perusing a career as a writer is familiar with the ups and downs that is the writer’s life. Some days you’re riding the top of that emotional wave as the words just flow from your fingers. Hanging ten from that proverbial surfboard of creation as the ocean of ideas washing through your mind batters itself against white beach of the blank page leaving in its wake the basis of what will become a powerful story.

    For every peak in the creative process, where it seems nothing can stand in your way, behind or beyond lies a shadowy valley of self doubt. When that creative wave dashes you against the unyielding stone of cold reality, you tumble from that peak to land in the valley of the shadow of death for the creative process.

    Suddenly the words that had flowed so freely dry up and one is left staring at the blank page as blood begins to form upon their forehead. Who wants to read anything I write? Why do I waste my time doing this? Who really cares anymore?

    Self doubt has silenced the muse. It has thrown a monkey wrench into the machinery of creation, clogging the gears, and stopping them dead in their tracks. Everyone who dares to believe they can create something another person wants to read faces these moments from time to time.

    The greats have carried on their own personal battles with self doubt. Struggling in the years of anonymity before they became an overnight success. Stephen King threw away the original manuscript for Carrie believing no one would want to read it. His wife rescued it from the trash and convinced him to carry on. Great writers from the past were known to agonize over the placement of every word, never really believing that what they were doing would ever be widely accepted.

    How many unknown greats have given up entirely, trashing their greatest works, and turning their backs on their dreams to accept second best? How many Lovecraft’s, Shelly’s, or Stokers have given up even before they started?

    More than we will ever know. One thing we’ve all learned when embarking upon our writing career is that we are our own worst critic. In my opinion what happens when we turn our mind to writing is that we begin to read as writers. We forget how to read as readers. We dissect every story, searching for clues to how the writer put the tale together. In doing so we forget the one thing that drew us to reading in the first place, the excitement of discovering a brand new world living between the covers of a book.

    Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
    – E. L. Doctorow

    If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you write.
    – Somerset Maugham

    Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer.
    – Ray Bradbury

  • Fridays 5 with Tina S Transformation

    Fridays 5 with Tina S Transformation

    1: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

    A: I considered myself a writer the moment I realized my words had the power to connect with others on a deep, emotional level. That was long before publication, I was 12 when storytelling became not just an outlet, but a calling.

    2. What is the hardest part of writing?

    A: The hardest part is balancing vulnerability with strength, digging into the darkest places of the mind and heart while still shaping those emotions into stories that empower readers rather than weigh them down.

    3: How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?

    A: It was a mixture of pride, disbelief, and gratitude. Holding my book in my hands for the first time was proof that pain could be transformed into something meaningful, that my words could reach others and perhaps even save them. More than that, I felt a deep sense of legacy, knowing my words would be forever immortalized on pages for my children, grandchildren, and generations to come.

    4: In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?

    A: I am deeply passionate about forensic psychology, victim advocacy, and raising awareness around mental health and trauma. Beyond that, I dedicate time to community causes, especially anti-bullying efforts and supporting survivors through storytelling, my passion is fitness and nutrition and adventures.

    Q: If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?

    A: I would ask: How did you stay true to your authentic voice when the world tried to change your story? Because staying true to who you are as a storyteller is the greatest challenge and the greatest triumph. I love Nicholas Sparks he has been a inspiration of mine since I was a child.

    Tina S. Transformation is a compelling voice in psychological thrillers and suspense, known for crafting dark, haunting stories that explore the fragile line between trauma and resilience. With a background in the criminal justice field and forensic psychology, she brings raw authenticity to her work, using fiction to shine light on the hidden corners of the human mind.

    Tina’s Amazon Authors page is here:

    https://www.amazon.com/author/tinastransformation

    If you’re an author working in the speculative fiction field and would like to participate in my weekly Friday’s 5, answer the five questions above and send them to me at rschiver@gmail.com along with an author photo approximately 200px by 200px.

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 09/17/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 09/17/2025

    My apologies for missing last week. Was working on my house when I threw out my back, and have spent the past week on a heating pad. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. Anyway without further adieu let’s get into it. One last thing before we start, many times while writing a story the ending tends to develop beyond what the writer first saw. In the case of this story, not only has the ending changed, but the beginning as well. When the story is done, I’ll share more details, and let everyone get a good look at the updated story.

    Continued!

    Is it the end? Reverend Wickes wondered as he stumbled back from the window. He was filled with a need to hide in the shadows he knew offered little comfort. Bad things hid in the shadows, this he had learned as a child. Wicked things lived in the shadowed places of our world. As the night closed around him, the faint light coming through the window offered little comfort. It revealed a world that had suddenly been turned upon its head. More shouts and gunshots came from outside as he pushed himself back into the corner of the room, his knees growing weak, forcing him to settle to the floor. He pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of a world teetering on the brink of insanity. But all he accomplished was to awaken the inner voice that had been a constant companion his entire life.

    A voice filled with all of the doubts he’d grown familiar with as he moved from childhood through puberty into adolescence before finally emerging into adulthood. Doubts that plagued his nights, keeping sleep at bay as he battled through every imagined slight and insult he believed had been directed at him. He had not felt like this in years, not since graduating from the seminary filled with the righteousness of a man of God.

    It was this virtue that enabled him to carry out his sermons, that enabled him to lock away the voices that questioned every aspect of his life. Every decision, every word he had ever spoken in response to a question, or while just passing the time of the day. Every waking moment was scrutinized and replayed in his mind while he struggled to slip into a dreamless sleep.

    Are they the chosen? Have the dead been called home?

    Am I now immortal? If this was the first resurrection as spoken of in the bible, priests and the righteous followers of God would be granted immortality. The thought came without warning, and he cringed from its presumptive nature. It was not his place to say. He had led a virtuous life save for his constant worry, his never ending doubts about his own worth. Would these doubts be the one thing to keep him from the kingdom of heaven?

    You are not worthy. The thought came in the form of a sweetly sinister voice whispering in his ear. It took him a moment to realize the shadows were indeed speaking to him in a voice he imagined as belonging to the defeated one, the archangel who had been cast down from heaven.

    “I will not be deceived,” he whispered as that voice continued to speak to him with the soft hissing sound of a snake gliding through grass.

    “I will not be deceived,” he said, louder this time, and the voice that had been teasing him softened even more.

    “I will not be deceived!” He shouted as loud as he could and silenced the voice once and for all.

    With this silence came the roar of a raging fire, and he looked at the window where reflected firelight danced across the glass. He crawled across the floor to see what was happening outside. Barrows Saloon was engulfed in towering flames that bathed main street in the light of day. Several people ran down the street, fleeing from a larger group of people who moved in a random, staggering, gait. They moved like a bunch of drunkards celebrating in slow motion.

    To be continued!

    Follow the link to read the whole story up to this point. Weekly Writing Challenge