I love adverbs—in my first draft. (And by the way, I am also a fan of the “—” when writing dramatic passages or scenes. But, that’s for another day.)

Back to the adverbs. Anyone who read (or listened to) Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing, knows he is an adverb basher. SHOW. Don’t TELL. How many times have we heard that?

Let me set the stage for my use of adverbs. It begins with the fuzzy idea of a story or plotline in my head. You close your eyes and see the characters—they are fuzzy too—acting out a scene. They are almost ready to speak, to create a bit of dialogue you can commit to paper or to the screen, and a rush of creativity hits you like a time bomb.

I can’t type or write as fast as the mental snippet unfolds, but I do my best.

“Where were you?” he asked, accusingly.

“I was out with friends,” she said quietly.

That’s a TELL if ever there was one. Sometimes that’s all we get when we first try to crystallize our fuzzy thoughts. It’s a start, but it’s too general and too generic. In other words, it’s flat.

I leave them right there on the page (or screen), and I keep writing. Why?

First, when the story is flowing like a river current, I don’t dare slow down. I need to get my thoughts (and the story, such as it is) committed to paper, adverbs and all.

Here’s where those dang adverbs come in handy. They don’t slow down the flow when writing that first, first draft. You know it isn’t going to be perfect. It may not even make it to the final cut, but it is a starting point. The adverbs let you TELL the story.

When I have written all I can for one sitting, sometimes I read it straightaway. Sometimes I wait until later. On the first read, between cringes, I highlight all the adverbs, usually with a bright yellow marker.

When the mood hits I go back to those adverbs and flesh out my characters or my descriptions.

“Where were you?” His eyes bore into her, anger rising in his voice.“

“I was out with friends,” she said, her voice a whisper as she stepped back, away from him.

Perhaps my example is overwritten, but you get the idea. The second draft SHOWS. There is action. There is emotion. The last example lets the reader know “she” may be expecting more than words—the step away, the whisper.

Adverbs can be wonderful tools as placemarkers. Each one converts into an action that moves the story forward.

That’s my take on adverbs. Agree or disagree?

When I needed a bit of knowledge about weapons and operations, I discovered Josh Creel, the Assistant Police Chief in East Ridge, TN, who became my consultant. He is a wealth of knowledge, beyond weaponry.

Today we got together on his day off to celebrate the publication of The Munich Deception.

Chatting with Josh over the past year or two, I learned so much—more than may be evident to the reader, but little things about weapons… A Nagant M1895, for example... that add depth to the story

The Munich Deception excerpts:

At the end of Chapter 13

A single lamp burned above the entrance to a warehouse, its light yellow and insufficient, casting long shadows across the ground.

When she looked up again, Kolanov stood before her holding an antique revolver, the barrel steady, unwavering.

“Up,” he said.

She pushed herself to her feet, legs shaking.

He stepped aside and gestured with the gun.

“Inside.”

The warehouse door groaned as he pulled it open.

Near the end of Chapter 14

“You will answer me,” he said, the first edge of anger entering his voice.

She said nothing.

The revolver rose, this time aligning with her head.

Kolanov’s finger tightened around the trigger.

A sound broke the silence.

Soft. Almost delicate. Not a crack—an impact.

Kolanov’s body jerked sideways as if yanked by an invisible line. The revolver slipped from his hand and skidded across the concrete.

Alex moved before she had time to think.

Her fingers closed around the grip. It was heavier than she expected, cold and slick. She lifted it with both hands and fired.

The recoil slammed through her arms, jolting her shoulders. She fired again, and again, each shot louder than the last in the enclosed space, each one blurring into the next.

The hammer fell on empty metal with a hollow click.

Seven shots.

Only Later, in Chapter 15

In Chapter 15, the antique Russian revolver that fires seven shots is named… the Nagant.

These descriptions and actions may seem like small things to the reader, but as a writer, I know they are 100% accurate, and they add depth. I have held a Nagant M1895. I know the weight in my hand, the feel of the metal, and how it feels to pull the trigger. The seven shots.

Only when I began to write did I realize the true value of experiences—whether they be travel, tasting foods, or even holding a revolver.

Thanks to Josh Creel, I can describe the use of weapons in the novel with greater accuracy and perhaps a bit more intention. He is definitely a SHOW, don’t just TELL consultant.

He has promised to stay with me through the second book, the follow-up to The Munich Deception.

By the way, today I learned to field strip a Sig Sauer P320, the ideal weapon for Alexandra Adams in the upcoming book.

Research is fun. Stay curious.

PROLOGUE

December 26, 2016

Newark Liberty International Airport

Alex had boarded the flight from Wilmington with her mother’s assurance that Leon Michaels would meet her in Newark with her passport and visa.

“Everything’s taken care of, so stop worrying. Leon is always last minute, but he gets the job done. If he says he will be there, he will be there.” Cassie Adams hugged her daughter. “Now get on that plane and start a new adventure.”

That was how it started. Sure enough, Leon Michaels met Alexandra Adams at the gate and handed her the documents.

Alex opened the passport to see the name Abigail Pelletier.

“What’s this? Where’s my name?”

“Don’t worry. This will work just fine,” Leon said. “You said you didn’t want to live in your mother’s shadow. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“But, I’m not Abigail Pelletier. My name is Alexandra Abigail Adams.” She looked him in the eyes. “I didn’t take his name when we got married. You know that.”

“Well, it’s too late to change it now, if you want to catch the flight to Munich and start at the university in a few days. Pelletier is still on record from the marriage. It was the easiest way to move things through quickly. No one will question it. It’s only for one semester—five months. By summer your divorce will be final and we’ll fix the passport.” He tilted his head with a small shrug.

“But…”

“Or, you can fly back home and be Alex. It’s up to you.” He handed her the boarding pass.

She studied the name, trying to imagine answering to it, signing it.

“You’re going to have to hurry if you are going to catch the flight.”

She hesitated.

“It’s up to you.”

“Okay. I guess,” she said quietly.

Leon smiled as the ticket agent examined the passport and the printed boarding pass.

“Look, Alex,” Leon said, lowering his voice. “I pulled a lot of strings to get you into that doctoral program on such short notice. I secured an apartment for you. I handled everything so you could get a fresh start.”

“I’m not running away.”

“I didn’t say you were.” His smile was quick and placating. “This actually works to your advantage if you don’t want to be known as Cassandra Adams’ daughter in Europe.”

“What’s wrong with being her daughter?”

“Nothing, but you don’t realize how well known your mother is in some circles in Europe—first as a physicist, and now as Andrea Bartolucci’s…” He hesitated, as if his mouth had tasted something sour. “As his future wife, I suppose.”

Her mother’s life—at least part of it—remained unexplained.

“One day when you’re older,” her mother would say.

“I’m only trying to make your new life in Germany easier,” Leon continued. “Working at the State Department has its perks, Alex, and I’ve used quite a few of them to get you where you want to go. Don’t forget that. ”

You won’t let me forget it, she thought, but only said, “Thank you for the letter of recommendation.”

In the background, “Last call for flight 2481 from Newark to Munich, Germany. Everyone should board now.”

Alex turned toward the departure gate, but Leon stopped her.

“There is one small thing I need you to do for me. Since Dr. Vladimir Kolanov will be your thesis adviser—and you have heard the rumors—keep your ears open in the lab. Nothing obvious.”

He leaned a little closer. “I’ll call you when you land in Germany, but for now, speak only English. No one needs to know you speak other languages. It will make things simpler.”

For a moment, Alex had the irrational urge to walk out of the international terminal, find a gate for domestic flights, and go back to the humid Carolina air. Instead, she stood where she was.

Leon kissed her on the cheek and pushed her toward the gate. “I’ll call you before New Year’s.”

Alex turned to wave goodbye, but he had turned away, already done.

She walked through the departure gate before she could change her mind.

At the scanner, she handed over her boarding pass. The agent tore it cleanly in half and returned the smaller portion without looking up.

The jet bridge smelled faintly of fuel and cold metal in sharp contrast to the salt air she had left behind.

Once she stepped on the plane, the passport would answer for her.

Halfway down the narrow corridor, she paused—not long enough for anyone to notice, just long enough to rub her thumb against the passport cover in her hand, feeling the raised edge of the seal beneath her skin.

She lowered her head and kept walking.

At the window seat, she watched baggage carts rattle past beneath the wing. Somewhere below, her suitcase was already loaded.

Committed.

The aircraft shuddered as it pushed back from the gate. The terminal began to slide away, inch by inch.

Alex did not look back.

For the next five months, she would answer to Abigail Pelletier.

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