P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Verbing nouns armadillos my writing

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There’s no telling when an epiphany about writing might strike. Well, maybe not an epiphany. But certainly an important consideration.

I was listening to a radio broadcast of a Denver Broncos football game when I realized there’s yet another thing about the English language for which writers should be grateful. Words that work perfectly well as nouns serve double duty as verbs. What’s more, they’re often good verbs. Strong, action verbs that conjure vibrant imagery.

The technical term for transforming a word into a new grammatical form is anthimeria. But you don’t have to be a writer, linguist or teacher to understand the concept. Take, for a mundane example, the word ship. As a noun, it’s a boat or other craft constructed to travel across water. As a verb, it means to transport items from one place to another. Not just over water anymore, but also across land and through the air.

Even the word verb can serve as a verb. In fact, verbing has become an increasingly popular pursuit for modern English speakers who are apparently an impatient lot. You don’t send an email, you email. You don’t invite someone to be your social media friend, you friend. And there’s no way in hell you use computer search engines and communication platforms. You Google and Zoom.

But I digress. During that radio broadcast, I listened in slack-jawed amazement as the play-by-play announcer transformed noun after noun into verb after verb. The quarterback didn’t just complete a pass, he drilled the ball into the open receiver. Then a defender didn’t merely make a tackle, he pancaked the ball carrier.

But here’s my favorite. And I swear I’m not making this up. The running back didn’t just advance past the line of scrimmage. He armadilloed through the defense. I have no idea what that means, but it sounded dramatic. Was he burrowing? Did he curl his body into a ball beneath his pads? Or was he run over trying to cross the field?

All kidding aside, good sports announcers use action verbs to inject excitement into descriptions best kept brief. That seems to me a lot like what good writers do, too. Action verbs not only bring clarity and conciseness to writing, but also evoke vivid imagery. Action verbs show. They don’t tell. They paint a scene, then pull readers onto the canvas to experience it with their own senses.

Characters don’t walk. Not when there are a hundred better verbs to not only describe their movements, but also indicate their intentions and motivations. Do they tiptoe or march? Perhaps they saunter, shuffle or even sashay. Characters don’t frown. Not when they can glower, glare or grimace.

Turning nouns into action verbs lifts the process to another level. In “Something Wicked This Way Comes,” my favorite Ray Bradbury novel, the author describes how a character storked his legs and turkeyed his arms. Jane Austen transforms the name of a titular character, Emma Woodhouse, into a verb synonymous with meddling. Not surprisingly, William Shakespeare was a master at verbing nouns. The lengthy list includes everything from animals and people to clothing and objects. In “Antony and Cleopatra,” Mark Antony laments how followers who once fawned over him now flatter Octavius Caesar. “The hearts that spanieled me at heels, to whom I gave their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets on blossoming Caesar.”

I’m no Bradbury or Austen. And definitely no Bard of Avon. But I’ll remember that sports announcer the next time I need to verb a noun to improve my writing.

Make that armadillo my writing.

When plotters and pantsers marry, love conquers gall

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I’m blessed the issues that trouble other marriages don’t arise in mine. My beloved wife and I have yet to argue about money. We savor long and unfettered conversations about the myriad subjects in which we share interest. Rather than stray apart along this remarkable journey upon which we’ve embarked, we’ve grown closer.

Then there’s this. In a world where there are two kinds of people — those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t — we both adore the man who wrote “Sweet Caroline.”

While far more unites us than divides us, there’s still one difference that produces considerable consternation for my wife. She’s a plotter. I’m a pantser.

For those unfamiliar with those creative writing terms, a plotter researches, plans and structures a story in scrupulous detail before even thinking about typing the first word of a manuscript. A pantser writes by the seat of his pants, figuring things out as he proceeds and making decisions based on gut feelings.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m amazed by the legions of plotters who march forth with their index cards, whiteboards and 60-page outlines. That’s not to mention the good book — the story bibles that contain within their sacred pages the timelines, plot threads and character profiles that might or might not go into their completed works.

I realize there are advantages to this systematic approach. There’s less threat of turning a corner and encountering writer’s block when the path is mapped out from beginning to end. It’s easier, too, to avoid plot holes and dead ends. If Chekov’s gun is required in the next-to-last chapter to kill the bad guy, plotters mention the weapon near the first chapter. For those who prefer a movie reference to illustrate the concept, consider the rock hammer Andy Dufrene buys at the beginning of “Shawshank Redemption.” Yeah. The same one he uses to dig out of prison before the end of the film. A pantser might have forgotten that detail.

But what plotters deem meticulous preparation, I consider ridiculous preparation. Why waste all that time when there are actual words to herd into sentences, paragraphs and chapters? I’ve got characters to introduce, settings into which to thrust them and obstacles to place in the way of fulfilling their aspirations.

There are advantages to my improvisational approach. My characters take on lives of their own as the story unfolds. I’m not kidding in the least in asserting they do things I never anticipate. And when they do, I’ve got the flexibility to change directions and follow a path that leads to a better destination. Screw the map.

I suspect plotters and pantsers develop their dissimilar preferences for writing outside of writing. My wife brings her methodical modus to nearly every operandi. The reminders she jots down and alarms she sets so she won’t miss important emails, phone calls and meetings. The detailed schedules she drafts and then follows to the minute. Most especially the tasks she bundles, choreographing stops at the gym, post office and Trader Joe’s as though she were an Amazon driver planning deliveries. She’s not about to kill one or even two birds when she can take out a whole damn flock with a single stone.

Me? I’m the guy who stuffs two shirts, a pair of shorts and mismatched socks into a trash bag for an extended trip. I’ll buy a toothbrush and toothpaste when I get there. I’m the man who assembles the new office chair without instructions. The more leftover bolts the better. And I never, ever, compile a grocery list and make one trip to the store. Not when I can make five trips to buy the necessary ingredients for dinner. One. Ingredient. At. A. Time.

Plotters glide through life efficient and effective. They celebrate well-earned successes for a few moments, then spring back to work to ensure everything falls into place for their next efforts.

Pantsers bumble and stumble about. When at first they don’t succeed, they try and try again. If it occurs at all, success sneaks up on little cat feet and surprises them like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky.

But here’s my point. The mystery about what lies ahead and the uncertainty of success makes exploration more exciting and discovery all the more rewarding.

My long-suffering wife doesn’t agree with my approach to writing. Or understand why I can’t summon the fortitude to break my bad habits. I don’t blame her. But she endures my complaints when I’m mired in the sagging middle of a novel and can’t find my way out. Moreover, she remains willing to review every word I write and offer without hesitation her insights and suggestions. She’s at once my alpha reader and developmental editor. She’s my muse.

Love really must conquer all. Even when plotters and pantsers marry.

When dimes sell for millions, there’s a story to tell

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I take considerable pleasure as a novelist in creating what I hope are captivating characters with audacious goals, plopping them smack down in the middle of engrossing settings and then placing perilous challenges in their way. That’s the essence of good fiction, isn’t it?

I’m doubly blessed, though, to write stories blending fiction with facts. It’s an opportunity to make stories not only more compelling, but also more believable. To make the impossible seem plausible.

As it turns out, life often imitates this kind of art.

The latest example surfaced in news coverage of a recent auction at which a single dime sold for $1.25 million. One of the protagonists of my mystery series risks her life to recover two dimes manufactured the same year at the same mint. Spoiler alert: Before the novel ends, she auctions off one of the dimes for even more money.

By way of explanation, let me introduce Billie Brownwell. She’s a brilliant and beautiful history professor obsessed with finding a cache of stolen loot buried by the outlaw Butch Cassidy more than a century ago in the rugged northwest corner of Colorado. She’s convinced the cache includes two dimes minted in 1894 in San Francisco — among the rarest and most valuable coins in existence.

There’s a mystery within the mystery involving the manufacture of dimes in San Francisco. Only 24 dimes were minted there in 1894, an infinitesimal number compared the nearly 2.5 million dimes minted a year earlier. Why so few? In part because a depression dubbed the Panic of 1893 slashed demand for coinage. Some numismatic sleuths believe the 24 dimes were minted as presentation pieces. Others believe mint employees struck 24 dimes to round end-of-fiscal-year records to an even amount, never imagining they wouldn’t make more. One way or the other, they realized they had a rarity on their hands.

John Daggett, superintendent of the San Francisco Mint at the time, supposedly gave three of the dimes to his daughter, Hallie, and told her to put them away until she was older, when she could sell them for a good price. She followed her father’s advice and nearly 60 years later sold two of the dimes to a California coin dealer. One of the so-called Daggett specimens subsequently sold again for more than $1 million. Hallie admitted she spent the third dime her father gave her — on a dish of ice cream.

Today, only nine examples of the 1894-S dime are known to exist — most of them held by wealthy collectors for decades at a time.

All that’s factual, as are the accounts of Butch Cassidy and his gang robbing trains in Wyoming. Not to mention Cassidy hiding his loot in northwest Colorado and nailing horseshoes on trees to mark the spots.

But what if? That question constitutes the mother of fiction, doesn’t it?

What if two 1894-S dimes were mailed to Philadelphia — purportedly for assay testing to ensure they met manufacturing standards, but more likely to surreptitiously send valuable coins to the mint superintendent? What if Cassidy stole the express mail shipment in the train robbery and stashed the dimes with the rest of his share, unaware of their value? Most important, what if an ambitious history professor deduced that outcome from her painstaking research of the post-Civil War West?

There’s more to my novel in my other protagonist. Meet Tucker Preston, a newspaper journalist who settles for a job as editor of a small town weekly in northwest Colorado after layoffs at the Denver daily where he worked. He seizes an opportunity to resurrect his career in investigating the disappearances of both an environmental lawyer and elderly cattle rancher. He uncovers a plot involving betrayal, murder and plans to dam a scenic river and sell the water to downstream interests.

Billie and Tucker meet, of course, and join forces. They soon face a series of threats first to their livelihoods, then their lives. In the midst of the desperate search for treasure and truth that ensues, they discover newfound love.

I’ve combined in my novel elements of a treasure hunt, murder mystery and romance. But don’t forget the facts. Like those rare dimes minted in 1894 in San Francisco.

If it turns out you can’t dig up one from a buried cache of outlaw loot, you can always buy one at auction.

 

Why so creepy, doll?

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What makes dolls so creepy? To the point, in fact, cherished childhood playthings have become a staple of so many horror movies?

Consider the who’s who of frightening dolls that come to life on the big screen. We’re talking Chucky, Annabelle and, more recently, the technologically advanced M3GAN. That’s not to mention the dolls that appeared on the small screen. Remember Talky Tina on “The Twilight Zone?” The doll that does everything really does. Including warning an abusive stepfather she’s going to kill him and then making good on the promise.

As a writer who dabbles in what I’d like to believe are scary stories, I’m always looking for ways to twist my tales. I’ve already written about the ghostly crew of a doomed locomotive, a vengeful chef who makes killer pizzas and an automobile navigation system with the ability to peer into the future. What’s next? I remain equally vigilant for monsters that terrify not only the protagonists of my stories, but also the readers. Hopefully, at least a little. Preferably, a whole lot.

I found some inspiration on a recent Saturday night while watching the rerun of an old, made-for-TV movie titled “Trilogy of Terror.” For those unfamiliar with the movie, the 1975 production stars Karen Black in the leading roles in each of three segments. In the final segment, she portrays Amelia, a young woman who lives alone in a high-rise apartment building. The segment begins with her admiring the birthday gift she just purchased for her anthropologist boyfriend — a wooden fetish doll depicting a fierce warrior with long black hair, pointy white teeth and a spear. A scroll warns the doll contains the evil spirit of a Zuni hunter, but a gold chain encircling the doll keeps the spirit trapped within. It’s not long before the chain falls off, of course.

What ensues has been described as the scariest 25 minutes of TV as a 13-inch-tall fetish doll grabs a kitchen knife and attacks Amelia despite her best efforts to drown the doll in a bathtub, trap it in a suitcase and stab it with a screwdriver. Amelia believes she’s finally safe after tossing the doll into an oven and watching it burn. Spoiler alert: she’s wrong.

Another doll. Another blood-curdling confrontation.

Maybe dolls become so frightening when playthings intended to foster joy and security instead turn malicious, shattering the expectations of safety. Perhaps a vestige of superstition lingers from a time when dolls were used in rituals and believed to offer links to the supernatural.

There’s also that unsettling foray into the uncanny valley. That’s the term for the psychological reaction to an object that looks almost human, but its lack of life makes us feel uneasy. In graphing the response to objects that appear human, comfort initially rises with realism, but then plunges as brains detect mismatches that trigger apprehension. One study found people were particularly unnerved by objects they believed had the ability to sense and experience things.

That explains why millions of moviegoers and TV viewers react the way they do to dolls that come to life. As well as the widespread fear of dolls, puppets and mannequins. That sweating, shortness of breath and sense of dread you experience could be pediophobia.

More than 50 years after the fact, I still recall the ambivalence I felt about the doll in my grandparents’ mountain cabin.

Ella was ancient even then, attired in a long green dress and matching bonnet. She perched on a swing suspended from one end of the ridge beam that ran the length of the one-room log cabin. In the bright light of day, Ella’s hand-drawn face peered out from under her bonnet, her eyes and smile warm and genial. Illuminated at night by the amber glow of a kerosene lantern, she looked different. Less friendly and more ominous. Were those shadows flickering across her face? Or did her innocent smile suddenly turn into a knowing leer?

I swear there were times I’d wake up to a creak, creak, creak that kept pace with the old clock that ticked away the small hours of the night. I’d look up from my bed and watch Ella swing.

I’m sure it was the wind that blew through holes in the chinking between logs or slipped through the gaps around the single-pane windows that pushed Ella on her swing. Surely Ella couldn’t swing on her own. Could she?

If it ain’t true, it oughta be

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The fabulous editors of the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers anthology revealed the cover for the 2026 collection of short stories. I’m thrilled my story “Pizza Girl” will be among them. The anthology centers on the theme true story and features fiction blending real events, local legends and historical figures with original storytelling. The book is scheduled for publication Sept. 15. It’s an honor to be included among such talented contributors. And I’m grateful anew for all RMFW does to nurture the craft of writers along all stages of their creative journeys.