DIALOGUE and other things.
Ruben D. Gonzales

Are your characters getting lost in your dialogue? Is your prose over populated and slowed by tags? In a masters class I took we spent a good deal of time deleting tags from our works in progress. The challenge of course is if you’re not careful your reader may lose track of who is talking and responding. Well written dialogue is a powerful tool for showing conflict. Conflict makes are our characters come alive.

May stood behind the dessert case like a guard outside a jail cell.
    “What can I get you?”
    “I’ll have one of those bear claws.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Well, I’d also like a cinnamon bun.”
    “What else?”
    “I thought I’d get a large de-café too.”
    “Thought or are you sure?”
    “Look, May Watkins, I’m sure.”
    “Are you? Tell me, Emma, are you always so sure?”

The missing tags above are the – “he said/she said”.

Content dialogue demonstrates what a character says that no other character knows or says without the tag: he said - she said. Content dialogue can stand on its own, without adding verbs and adverbs. Good dialogue will show readers who your speakers are and how they feel. Look for the best verb. Stephen King is famous for the quote, “I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs.”

There’s also form in dialogue. Most people speak in short fragment sentences with only an occasional complete sentence thrown in. In conversations between characters there should be a good deal of interrupting going on, especially during an argument. Long “discourses” should be broken up by the opposing characters reaction to the speech. The reaction could be a verbal utterance or a silent gesture. The phrase, “Laura raised her left eye brow at least an inch”, is a beat not a tag.

“Beats” are different than “tags”. Using a beat instead of a tag can serve the same purpose but in a different form.

            Tag: “We’re going to need more than one horse,” Layla said as she grabbed another lead.

            Beat: “We’re going to need more than one horse.” Layla snatched another lead from the tack cabinet.

Shortening your long speeches can make your passages sharper and less oratory. If the topic of a section does drag on for more than a paragraph then interrupt it with a beat. If the content is strong your readers should continue to understand who is speaking.

Review all the tags you used in your work in progress. Evaluate which you can eliminate. If they don’t contribute to “clarity” then delete them. Rewrite dialogue to expose a character’s feelings, (unless they are hiding something). Dialogue should be specific to each character. Even in a crowded room the dialogue in your scene should only be between the two main characters that are responsible for moving the story along.

Something I don’t do enough – read your dialogue aloud and listen for the flow. Is it smooth and are the transitions between characters smooth? Even better – read aloud to someone. See if they can follow the conversation without getting lost. Reading groups and open mic sessions are good for feedback on whether your writing is clear. Don’t be afraid of a constructive critique. Dialogue should follow the norms of everyday speech – the speech of the everyday in your story.

www.rubendgonzales.com

TO DO

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Those pesky To-Do lists—

I have them everywhere. There is a notebook on my phone and a file on my computer. There are multiple written lists in diaries and spiral binders, on notepads with kitty themes, and we can’t forget those little scraps of paper. I have a list titled Old Stuff To Do that I never look at; another To Do Eventually; yet another To Do Sooner; and a current list with no title which is the one I work from most often. Then there’s the list of things to do TODAY! It’s usually an improvised jot meant only for those imminent things I really must do, though it often grows out of all proportion, getting longer instead of shorter the way it’s supposed to.

Needless to say, I have a list specifically for writing tasks such as blog ideas, interviews, and deadlines. Since it’s summer, there’s a gardening list as well, though some of it—the big stuff like digging out the peony bed—carries over from year to year. “Fix the deck” had been on that list for a decade until just recently when my husband finally put in a patio. Next: the Catio!

Sometimes when I don’t look at a list for a while, the items go away of their own accord. Other times, I can’t remember what they mean, as with this one:

Multi Pass random (or radon?) rewrite X 5 (S?) passes

incinerate

If you have any idea what I was trying to tell myself, please let me know. Otherwise, this scrap is going into the recycle.

 

But at the end of the day, 

does all this list-making improve my quality of life? In a way, it’s necessary. I’m a bit obsessive and have a less than perfect memory, so unless I write things down, I’m either a) constantly going over them in my head, or b) trying to remember what they were so I can go over them in my head.

What would it be like to let go, to have no need of lists? To be free from obligation and chores? To live in the moment? I do that when I’m writing, though I suppose that’s not exactly living. 

I wrote a poem…

Esther Morris, First Woman Judge in the United States by Sarah McNeal

 

Statue of Esther Morris in Cheyenne, Wyoming

Quite naturally, Esther Morris was a judge in the beautiful state of Wyoming back in 1870. But hers is not the story of a female looking to make a name for herself as an advocate for women’s suffrage. Nope, Esther spent 55 years of her life living the tame life in New York state and then Illinois as a milliner and a housewife. I know. It’s just not what one might think a woman who will be judge would be doing with her life, but these are the facts, ma’am. She and her second husband (don’t know what happened to the first one) moved to Wyoming Territory where her husband opened up a saloon in a gold mining camp in South Pass City in 1869. Doesn’t seem like the expected beginnings of a lady judge, does it? Well, hang on because I’m about to tell you the way it all came about.

Just so happens, that year a territorial representative from South Pass introduced a bill giving women the right to vote and hold public office. Now there’s a little hidden agenda in this move due to the fact that Wyoming needed some women. The Wyoming’s all male legislature approved the bill to attract women to the state. It was like putting out sugar water to attract humming birds. Wyoming was the first territory (eventually, state) in American history to empower women. The territorial governor, John Campbell, was one of the strongest backer of the new law. He was eager to take more actions toward the political power of women, so in 1870, Campbell began to search for women qualified and willing to be appointed as justices of the peace. Low and behold, Esther Morris became Campbell’s first and only successful appointment.

Esther Hobart Morris

Though hailed by American suffragists because of her appointment as the first female judge, not only in America, but in the world, Esther didn’t seem to have been all that dedicated as an activist for women’s rights. She just happened to be in the right place at the right time, or so it seems. She was appointed to serve out the term of a man who resigned, and served only nine months as justice of the peace. She tried 26 cases with competence during her time as judge, but retired from her post in November 1870 and never sought public office again.

Later, when asked about the issue of women’s suffrage, Esther replied that women would do well to leave the matter in the hands of men. Though she supported women’s rights, she advocated a more gradual approach would be more successful. Like some of you, I was stunned to learn this little tidbit about her. You’d think she would’ve stood on a soap box after such an accomplishment encouraging other women to seek office. Disappointing, to say the least.

Even so, regardless of her reluctance to be revered as an activist, Esther Morris has often been celebrated as an important symbol of women’s rights. I guess you have to start somewhere. In 1890, one of her sons began calling her the “mother of woman suffrage” in his Cheyenne newspaper. That just goes to show you the power of the pen—and suggestion. About twenty years after her death in 1902, a witness claimed that Morris had pushed for the introduction of the original bill granting women the right to vote, but of course, that was not what the evidence supports. But in the twists and turns of historical fact, the title of “first woman judge” has continued to be a symbol in the long battle of women’s rights in America. It’s a near fact anyway. Bronze statues at the United States Capitol and in Cheyenne still honor her memory. 

So if anyone ever asks you to take a position that would be a first in history, just say “yes.” And that’s the end of my lesson on how to make a political statement. Stay tuned for more adventures and historical markers.

For further reading:

 Commercial Break:

THE WILDINGS: A FAMILY SAGA (BOXED SET) only 99 cents

Prairie Rose Publications

BY SARAH MCNEAL

Buy Link:  THE WILDINGS

THE WILDINGS is a wonderful collection of western romance stories that follow the Wilding family through generations of love and loss, joy and sorrow, and wins and losses in life. Get lost in this exciting boxed set of full-length books and novellas that trace the adventures of the descendants of the Wilding family. From the lawless old west days of the early 1900’s in ruthless Hazard, Wyoming, through the generations forward, the action, romance, and suspense is nonstop.

Follow the saga of the Wilding family from the early days that begin with a haunted house, a trunk, and a date with destiny in Harmonica Joe’s Reluctant Bride. Can Joe and Lola’s unlikely romance last? Next, the dangers of World War 1 in For Love of Banjo, and a Prohibition-era kidnapping with Fly Away Heart will have you on the edge of your seat. Hollow Heart is a post WWII short story with a surprise twist, and The Beast of Hazard will touch you with its romance between a veterinarian and a beautiful circus performer facing danger. In Unexpected Blessings, a couple overcomes a seemingly insurmountable problem, and in Home For the Heart, a determined young woman must find a way into a confirmed bachelor’s heart. A conversation at a wedding spoils everything in It’s Only Make Believe, and in I Dream of You, a recurring dream, a kiss, and deadly secrets could unlock not only love but a very dangerous outcome for everyone. Three Christmas novellas, A Husband for Christmas, When Love Comes Knocking, and A Christmas Visitor are also included to round out the series and bring it to a very satisfying conclusion.

 

This wonderful collection will keep you entertained with richly-woven stories filled with real-life excitement, danger, and love from the heart of romance author Sarah J. McNeal. THE WILDINGS will enthrall you and keep you turning pages as you follow the multi-faceted characters and the stories of their lives! Don’t miss it!

 

Sarah J. McNeal is a multi-published author of several genres including time travel, paranormal, western and historical fiction. She is a retired ER and Critical Care nurse who lives in North Carolina with her four-legged children, Lily, the Golden Retriever. Besides her devotion to writing, she also has a great love of music and plays several instruments including violin, bagpipes, guitar and harmonica. Her books and short stories may be found at Prairie Rose Publications and its imprints Painted Pony Books, and Fire Star Press. She welcomes you to her website and social media:

 

Website 

My Amazon Author’s Page

Facebook

Twitter

The Wildings

Fantasy and Dreams Blog

Prairie Rose Publications Blog

 

 

Dear Interwebs

Wow. Where did June go? July is starting off just as hectic so this month I'm cheating and sharing a previously published post from my blog.

Dear Interwebs,

We need to talk. This has been building for a while and no, it’s not me. It’s you. What? You don’t understand? You thought everything was fine? Well, let me see if I can spell it out for you.

• No, I do not want to stay logged in.
• No, I do not want you to send me notifications.
• No, I do not want you to remember my  password.
• No, I do not want to chat. Please stop asking every few seconds. If by some chance I change my mind, I know where to find you.
• No, I do not want to log in using Facebook or Google or any other third party.
• Yes, I know your site uses cookies. Everyone’s site uses cookies. Yes, I know it's a legal thing; it's still annoying.
• No, I don’t want to sign up for “email deals” just because I visited your site. Once again, if I change my mind, I know where to find you.
• Stop with the snarky “No, I don’t want to save money, etc.” messages when I don’t want to give you my email address. It’s not a good look for you.
• No, I’m not a robot but please stop with the “chose the pictures that show whatever” collages; they’re unnecessarily stressful.
• I don’t want to have to close several pop-ups and scroll past videos just to read an article on your site. You’re not that special.
• Auto-play videos will immediately put you on my “never visit this site again” list. Seriously. Why do you think I need to be forced to watch a video on how Himalayan Pink Salt is “made”? It’s salt; it already exists, it’s not being made. On another note, I simply don’t care.

Thanks for listening. I would like to think that you will take my words to heart and change. However, I’m not going to hold my breath.

Signed,

Me

What drives you crazy when you're online?

The Book Tour: An Author Looking for a Story

 

I walk across the bridge between the USA and Canada. I’m returning to my starting point, Toronto. Naturally, I’m dragging my feet and feeling dreary because my book tour is over. It would be nice, I think, to have it end, not with a dribble, but with a bang, with a good story of some sort. But on this sunny day, there doesn’t seem to be one in the offing.

 

What most have forgotten, or never known, is that this bustling area of Niagara Falls was once a battlefield, and that, in 1812, Canada and the USA were at war. The war was started by the Americans who were understandably annoyed that the British kept kidnapping American sailors and forcing them to serve in the Royal Navy: in a nineteen year period, from 1793 to 1812, some 15,000 Americans were forced into British service in this way.

 

In May 1813, after a fierce battle and two-days of cannon bombardment, Fort George, on the Canadian side, was taken by the Americans who razed the settlement of Niagara, then burnt what was left to the ground. It was a short-lived victory. Seven months later, Fort George was retaken by the British who marched on to Washington D.C., invaded and burnt the city. The war ended in 1815, but not before 15,000 Americans and 8,600 Brits and Canadians had lost their lives.

 

            In 1885, New York began purchasing the lands around Niagara Falls from developers in order to preserve the scenic beauty and create the state’s first park. In the same year, the province of Ontario established the Queen Victoria Niagara Falls Park for the same purpose. Way back in the 1950s, when I used to come here as a child, this really was pleasant parkland, but things have changed — don’t they always?

 

Commercial interests have managed to chew up great parcels of land and spew out modern developments and completely charm-less tall buildings (most of them hotels) on the Canadian side. On the American side, heavy-handed urban renewal and the destruction of the city center in the 1960s put paid to any local charm.

 

Both sides offer casinos, but the Canadian side is most popular. Its view of the falls is more spectacular, but more alluring still is the legal drinking age of 19; in New York State it’s 21. Also, with its observation towers, high-rise hotels, souvenir shops, museums, indoor water parks, casinos, theatres, neon billboards, golf courses, and fancied-up historic sites, the Canadian side is noisier, livelier, and uglier, therefore more attractive to tourists.

 

Even though it’s still winter and icy cold, those tourists are glued onto slot machines in the casinos, or standing in long lines waiting to change their money and lose it as quickly as possible. Although there are some who haven’t cottoned on to the fact that they can’t win in the long run, others prefer to ignore the fact. Casinos want you to think that the slot machines are “hot” or “cold” but, in reality, each spin is completely independent of the previous one. If you were to win the jackpot on one spin, then the likelihood of winning the jackpot on the next spin is exactly the same. No previous events impact future events.

 

Another thing visitors to the city don’t know is that, in 1950, a treaty limiting water usage by power plants was signed by the United States and Canada, and it allows more water to be diverted at night and during the winter months when there are fewer tourists around. In 1969, the American falls stopped altogether when the Army Corps of Engineers diverted the waters to the Canadian side so they could assess erosion. Which is when they found two bodies, one of a woman, and the second of a man who had been seen jumping over the falls. They also found millions of coins. Half a century has passed since then, and with the increase in tourism and consumerism many other things have been dropped into the falls: more coins, cell phones, cameras, baby strollers, drones, toys, keys, motorbikes, a car or two, and possibly a few more bodies or body parts.

 

            Following the Niagara River, I head out of the town center, leaving the slots, the noise, the bright lights behind, and aim for the area of cheap motels. A few look closed down, perhaps because it’s winter, but I do find a room in one that is run by a woman in a frumpy housecoat who should be called Mamie or Sal. She talks out of one corner of her mouth like an old-fashioned gun moll, has a cigarette planted firmly in the other, keeps her head tipped back to avoid the smoke, and keeps her dyed hair imprisoned in rollers (I never knew people still used those).

 

Hers is one of those classic two story open court motels. I take the top floor thinking it will be calmer without someone walking overhead. Of course, the place seems pretty deserted anyway, so why am I worrying? Except, I’m no sooner settled in and reading comfortably in bed, then a rumbling vroom shakes the whole building. I wait for a while, but the vroom keeps on vrooming, and the noxious odor of exhaust fumes seeps in steadily from around the window frames. Peeking outside, I see there is a pickup truck downstairs and just under my window; its motor is chugging away full force. Abandoning tolerance, I get dressed, furiously charge downstairs and bang on the door of the room below mine.

 

It’s answered by a mild stocky slob of a guy wearing glasses and a baseball cap. He looks surprised as I rave, then apologizes profusely.

            “I didn’t know anyone else was staying here. This is the slow season.” (Does this place really have a busy season?)

            I storm back upstairs mollified and even faintly ashamed. He was so nice about it.

 

Five minutes later there’s a knock at my door. It’s the slobby guy from downstairs.

“Look,” he says, “I want to apologize. I didn’t know I was driving you nuts.”

“You already apologized.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to make up for it. Would you agree to go out for a drink and some dinner? I know a simple but really good restaurant just around five minutes away.”

“No, thanks. I have to have an early night.”

“Aw, come on. It’s early and this place I’m taking you to has great food.”

I let him (his name is Rick) convince me. Of course I do. I have very little survival instinct, he seems a nice enough man, and now I’m feeling very hungry.

 

We drive to the “really good restaurant” in his pickup (isn’t it raring to go?) and the joint turns out to be a neon-lit storefront dive with two tables and a cluster of fat men slugging back beer. The food is the usual fast food glop I never eat, but the salad sandwich is decent and the beer is cold. Everyone is pretty friendly, and Rick obviously knows them all.

 

When we leave, Rick drives past a huge parking lot filled with trucks.

“That’s my place,” he says.

“Your place? The place where you work?”

“My own company.”

“You own the truck company?”

“Yup. I started out thirty years ago as a driver and put my money to the side, worked long hours, did international travel, scrimped and saved, did two jobs instead of one, but it paid off.”

“Obviously.”

“You know Niagara-on-the Lake.”

“What’s that?”

            “It’s a gorgeous town just down the road. We can drive there now. I’ll show it to you. I used to live there. Still own a house there, too, but I’ve put the place up for sale.”

 

I have no way of knowing that Niagara-on-the-Lake isn’t just down the road. That it’s some twenty kilometers away, but what the hell. I’m not going to leap out of the truck because it’s dark, cold, and lonely out there. Besides, what’s there to worry about? Rick is a mild sort of guy, not a serial killer (how many murdered women have said the same thing?) He owns a big company, seems like responsible sort of guy. Besides, wasn’t I looking for something interesting to do on my last night on the book tour? Okay, driving someplace isn’t wildly interesting, but at least it’s something.

 

We drive through the quiet streets of Niagara on the Lake. Yes, it’s a pretty town. Then Rick takes some back country roads. “I’ll show you my house.”

The place he calls home is a huge sprawling thing set back from the road, just the sort of newish pretentious place the owner of a trucking company would own.

“Why are you sleeping in a motel?” I ask. It does strike me, quite suddenly, as being a rather odd thing to do. The dark country roads we’re rolling down aren’t comforting places either. I’m wondering if being here with this guy is a smart move.

“Because I can’t sleep in the house anymore,” says Rick. “My wife died a year ago, and I can’t stand being there alone. I really miss her, and that big place just gives me the creeps.”

Which sounds reasonable enough.

 

Soon enough we’re back on the main road again, roaring along the Niagara River and heading towards the falls and our motel, which is a comfort. Of course, the conversation isn’t exactly cheery. Rick tells me about the two bodies they found back in ’69, about other bodies they’ve found since. “Guys always murdering people, dumping bodies here in the river. It’s a pretty lonely place and they think they won’t get caught.”

 

Yes, this is a pretty lonely place, and with the little elements of gore he tacks on to the conversation, I can tell he’s enjoying himself. Things are definitely strange, but I have the sneaking suspicion things could get even stranger, so I keep asking him questions about the falls, about the tourists, about life here. Good neutral subjects that won’t bring up strangling, shooting, knifing, disemboweling, and hacked up bodies. He answers politely, but I sense he’d rather go back to horror and fear.

 

We reach the motel, finally. I wish Rick goodnight. He asks me if I’d like to meet him for breakfast at eight—there’s a crazy place just down the road that I have to see. I say I’ll be leaving way before that. One evening of Rick is about all I can handle.

 

In the morning I make sure Rick’s pickup is gone, then I go knock on Mamie/Sal’s door to pay for the room. When she opens up, I see all is still in place, the hair rollers, the cigarette, the frumpy housecoat.

“Didja have a good quiet night?” she asks.

“Well, after Rick turned off his motor, I did. But he was nice about it.”

“Yeah, him. He’s a strange character. He always stays here.”

“Always?”

“Yeah, he don’t got nowheres else to live, I guess.”

“He told me he used to live in Niagara–on-the-Lake?”

Mamie/Sal snorts with derision. “Oh sure, dream on. Guy’s been staying here in this motel for years. A real loner.”

“Told me his wife died around a year ago.”

“What wife is that? Guy’s never been married in his life. Drives a truck, doesn’t have much of a life.”

“He doesn’t own a truck company?”

“What truck company is that then?” Mamie/Sal shrugs, takes a deep drag of her cigarette, has a long phlegmy coughing spell, then stabs out the fag in the ashtray she is clutching in one hand.

“That Rick? You ask me, he’s sort of a weirdo. You never know, these days, what with…” The incomplete sentence hints at depredation, blood, and darkness.

 

And so my book does tour end with a story. And a happy end…for me, at least.

 

 

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.jill-culiner.com

http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

 

New Release - Never Trifle with Murder by Livia J. Washburn

It’s early summer in Weatherford, Texas, and retired teacher/amateur sleuth Phyllis Newsom and fellow retiree Carolyn Wilbarger are taking British cooking classes at the local senior center in this suspenseful Fresh-Baked mystery.

In the latest from Livia J. Washburn, the nationally bestselling author of the Fresh Baked Mystery Series, Phyllis Newsom learns to make a trifle that’s to die for…

While Sam Fletcher is playing dominoes with the guys, Eve Turner is busy flirting with the English chef since she has a fascination for English accents and handsome men who can cook. This puts her in competition with a couple of other ladies from the senior center, who also have their caps set for Chef Alfred Dorrington.

The third and final class features desserts, and more than the stove heats up when the trifle is poisoned! Once again Phyllis finds herself involved in a murder case filled with hidden motives and colorful characters.

Includes recipes!

Trade Paperback contains the short story, "The Coconut Bunny Butt Caper".

EXCERPT:

Phyllis Newsom watched as her friend Sam Fletcher intently studied the dominoes arrayed in front of him. He frowned in thought, put the tip of his index finger on one of them, then moved it to another. After a couple of seconds, he picked up that domino and placed it with the other two that had already been played in the center of the table.

The man to Sam’s left slid one of his dominoes out to join the others. Sam’s partner, seated across the table from him, sighed and turned all six of his dominoes face down, then began shoving them to the center. Sam and the other two players did likewise. The sound of the dominoes hitting the table and then clicking together was almost musical.

“That was the first play in that hand,” Phyllis said. “And it’s over?”

“Well, we were set,” Sam said.

His partner, former hardware store owner Ansel Hovey, shook his head and said, “I shouldn’t’a bid on sixes. I knew better.” He gave Sam a mock glare. “I figured you’d have somethin’ better than what you threw out there.”

The man to Sam’s left, who had played the decisive domino, grinned and said, “Now, don’t give Sam a hard time, Ansel. You can only play the dominoes you’re dealt.”

“Thanks, Patrick,” Sam said. He turned his head to look up at Phyllis, who stood behind his left shoulder. “You see, once Patrick took that trick, there was no way we could make what Ansel bid. There wasn’t enough count left.”

Carolyn Wilbarger, who stood behind Sam to the right, said, “You don’t have to mansplain the game of Forty-Two to us. We’re all from Texas, you know.”

“And I’ve been playing Forty-Two for as far back as I can remember,” Phyllis added. “I understand the concept of what you’re saying, Sam. My brain’s just never been able to work fast enough to see how the whole rest of the hand is going to play out based on the first one or two tricks.”

“Your brain works plenty fast,” Sam told her. “If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to solve all those murders.”

     

 

The Show of “Show don’t Tell”…Ruben D. Gonzales

Showing not telling takes many forms in good writing. We’ve all read about the show don’t tell dictum of good writing so that’s not new to us and we are constantly on the lookout for it as we edit our manuscripts. Not too long ago I got a manuscript rejection after a query acceptance and a chapter review. The manuscript as a whole didn’t make the cut. I was certainly disappointed but at least the rejection came along with a few encouraging words and a few disappointing words as well. The disappointing ones amounted to … the show don’t tell problem. Of course having gone through the manuscript many times to eliminate any glaring examples of this amateur writing problem, I must have missed some since it was identified as a concern with my book.

Show don’t tell also can be a case of your characters physical actions. For instance:

“The cop looked like he didn’t believe me.”

That’s telling.

“The cop turned to me, his eyes wide, an eyebrow arched.

This is showing.

The difference can be subtle to an inexperienced writer, even after a couple of published books, and it takes some creative effort to work your way through your manuscript line after line looking for “tell” and replacing it with “show”. But if it was easy everyone would be a successful writer.

Using appropriate body language to show character motives improves your writing. Your character’s body language let’s your readers interpret your character’s motives without having to tell them what your character is all about.

But don’t overdo it. Don’t use a succession of meaningless mannerisms, especially if they don’t  move the story forward or provide foundation for the future story. If in chapter one you spend some time describing your main character as left handed, then in the end the dead body should have a fatal wound on the right side of his face.

In the end make sure all your characters gestures serve a purpose. Use your characters body language to communicate attitude. Let your characters body language show clues to their emotions.

How?

Let’s sharpen our people-watching skills.

www.rubendgonzales.com