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Margaret I. Carr

Editing, e-publishing and extras

Finding a publisher should be easier now, right? Many paper publishers have websites and, I assume, all electronic publishers do. For print or paper publishers, if you've 'done your homework' by checking the current books in the bookstores that are similar to yours to find out who published them, you can log on and check out the publisher's website for information that is bound to be more current than anything in print.

But what if you can't find anything that is similar to your book or what if you are more interested in e-publishing than paper? Before you start searching, I suggest you make a list of what you want to find. Figure out what is essential and what is desirable but could be waived in order to get something else.

My list of essentials included:

  • They don't charge for anything. (I'll pay for registering my own copyright, but everything else should be paid for by the publisher.)

  • They are selective and they edit.

  • They buy only appropriate rights and have a reasonable time limit after which everything reverts to me.

  • They pay reasonable royalties and in a reasonable time.

Looking at my list tells me I probably should be looking for an e-publisher. Most paper publishers want more rights than I consider appropriate and take quite a while to pay royalties. True, they usually pay advances but that is on my 'would be nice' list, not my essentials list. Also the time factor is important to me. I don't want to wait a year or two or three to see my book published!

There are a number of lists of URLs for e-publishers that can get you started. My favorite is on Piers Anthony's website. His newsletters onsite also give some interesting information about his involvement with e-publishing. Unfortunately, after looking at the e-publisher he has invested in, I decided it doesn't meet my list of essentials but there are lots more on his list.

I quickly found that I formed strong opinions about whether I was interested in an e-publisher just looking at the website.

If it is loaded with typos, grammatical mistakes, spelling errors, words that are the right size but have a meaning different from that implied by the context or diatribes about greedy print publishers, I lose interest fast! Even if they say that they scrupulously edit all the works they publish, I find myself wondering what they mean by editing. Sure, there's more to editing than spelling, punctuation and grammar but if they can't see those errors on their website how can they see errors, simple or otherwise, in the material they are going to publish? Others look very good but specialize in a category I am not interested in writing. This site would be great for many romance writers. I also looked a little further at some of the Print-on-Demand sites and recently followed a link a friend said looked interesting to this site They don't do ebooks. They do paperbacks and may do hardcover for ones that sell well. The site looks good. There was only one section where I noticed typos and they were obviously typos, not complete carelessness or ignorance. I still found myself feeling rather skeptical about their approach. Only three books available, not available anywhere else, all by the same author and not a genre I have any interest in.

So why even mention it? Simple! Under 'For Authors', the section on Plot, 'Commonly Made Mistakes' is worth a visit. It reminded me strongly of the advice in Jack M. Bickham's 'The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (And How To Avoid Them)' but is written in more colloquial English. I highly recommend visiting this site and reading the material in their 'For Authors' section. (You will also note the absence of any sample contract or what rights they buy.)

I haven't found the publisher I'm looking for yet, but I have learned a lot in the search and much of it from sites I wouldn't have thought could have anything.

More on e-publishing in the July Mid-Month Bonus.


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Mid-Month Bonus

Craft Feature:
What's In A Name?
Betty Kreier-Lubinski
Names tell more than we realize!

E-publishing - ISBN
Margaret I. Carr
ISBN correction and more!

Fiction short story:
Home Sweet Home
Judy Hunt
Extended family members you never knew you had!

 

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T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Catherine's Kitchen The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Catherine's Kitchen

Catherine Manning

I AM SUFFERING from a bad case of not knowing what to write. The column was due three days ago and I have been wracking the grey matter with little result. No doubt Margaret is getting impatient.

I spend most of my time cooking as I cater for group lunches here at "Faraway." Now that I live here permanently, people who would normally rent the house are prevented from doing so. I decided that to give others the chance of continuing to enjoy its peace and beauty and to allow me to work from home, I would cater lunches. It has worked well so far, though I would do better if I marketed myself instead of relying on word of mouth. In between times, I do preserves for the supermarkets: jams, jellies,marmalade, chutneys, Pepper Wine(not to be drunk!) and Pepper Jelly, also to be handled with care.

Despite the salty air, high winds and lack of soil, I have managed to establish a kitchen garden behind the kitchen. A sea grape hedge gives some degree of protection, but not much, as I trimmed it back rather heavily because of blight. It's more of a pot garden really because of lack of soil, also crab and tortoise damage. The tortoises are pets and wander around; the crabs are not and they can get very large and do a lot of damage, not to mention my eleven dogs! Also I can move the pots in case of bad weather. Still, I have a prolific amount of basil, which is good, as my daughter likes to make Pesto Pizza.

PESTO

  • 4 cups basil leaves
  • Salt to taste
  • 3-4 cloves garlic
  • Handful of Pine nuts
  • Olive or vegetable oil, enough to make a loose but not runny pesto.
  • 2 TBS. Parmesan (add last)

Put basil, salt, garlic and pine nuts into food processor and beat on high, scraping sides. Add enough oil to make the pesto loose but not too oily. Add parmesan and beat well.

Check taste for salt, etc. Freezes well. May need to add a touch of water that pasta is cooked in, if using with pasta.

Also doing well and bearing fruit are plum tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, sweet peppers, pawpaws, Bonnie Peppers (as we call them) or to give them their correct name, Scotch Bonnet. We have coconuts by the hundreds and then the herbs: chives, shallots, marjoram, parsley, thyme, rosemary, coriander and not to forget the spinach. So it's satisfying to know that the sea air isn't as devastating as it could be (except on my computer). Maybe the tomatoes will be salty!

HOT PEPPER JELLY

  • 1 cup hot peppers minced (Scotch Bonnet or similar)
  • 1 sweet pepper minced
  • 6 cups granulated sugar
  • 1 1/2 cups white vinegar
  • 2 envelopes Certo

Put sugar, vinegar and peppers in saucepan, bring to a rapid boil and boil for 5 minutes. Cool 10 minutes; add Certo, stir well, leave for 5 minutes and bottle. Have your jars prepared in advance as this sets fairly quickly.

You can cut back on the peppers to suit your taste. Treat with respect and use with meat, fish etc. Also can be mixed with cream cheese as a dip or spread on cheese sandwiches.

Coconuts have many uses, but one unusual one which I find very popular is:

COCONUT PICKLE
(Makes about 1 1/2lbs.)

  • 1 coconut
  • 225gr/8ozs. onions chopped
  • 3 cloves garlic, crushed
  • 2 cinnamon sticks
  • 1 tsp. salt
  • 1 tsp. fresh ginger, grated
  • 1/2 tsp. chili powder
  • Pinch paprika
  • 300ml or 1/2 pint (English pint) cider vinegar
  • 8 ozs. brown sugar

Husk coconut in the usual manner, saving water; no need to peel. Grate and add coconut, water and other ingredients to saucepan. Bring to a boil and simmer for 30 minutes covered, stirring occasionally. Remove lid and simmer a further 15 minutes. Don't dry out, leave a little liquid. Have bottles prepared, bottle pickle and cover with airtight lids. Allow to mature if you can. May be stored for 3-4 months.

Note: When buying a coconut, make sure that it contains water as otherwise it will likely be bad.

Good luck!
Cath


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Dennis (Bruno) Phillips

How to Show and not Tell

Dennis Phillips, a.k.a Bruno, commutes from his home in Toronto, Canada to his job in Mexico City. He is currently working on a mystery novel set in those two locales. Although his published efforts so far have been limited to newsletters, letters to the editor, and in-house manuals, he dreams of publishing the Great Canadian Novel. He credits WVU more than any other factor for giving that dream a base in reality.

Tell the Fire: Show the Heat

If you get feedback asking you to show more, or if you're not sure when you're telling, then take Eliza Doolittle's advice.

"Tell me no dreams filled with desire. If you're on fire, show me."

Ms. Doolittle gave this advice to her failing suitor, Freddie, in Lerner and Loewe's "My Fair Lady." Freddie failed to reach intimacy with Eliza because he talked of his fire, but never showed Eliza the heat of his emotion. We should learn to be intimate with our readers by following Eliza's advice and showing that heat. Perhaps we can succeed where Freddie failed.

Show, don't tell.

Telling has its uses. One can summarize data quickly but simply telling it. But imagine your best friend is showing you pictures of her summer holiday and telling you about her experience. "This is Charlie and me in Ocho Rios. It was really nice there." She points to the blue Caribbean and you notice the white sandy beach has coconut palms that go down to the sea. Not too exciting. Now imagine the same conversation, but she doesn't show you the pictures. Is there a word beyond dull that could describe such an experience? And this is your best friend! Suppose it were an unknown writer who didn't show you the pictures.

Telling a picture-less story results in flat, lifeless prose that bores readers. It makes our writing sound like a lecture. Much better that we show the significant details so the readers can paint a picture in their minds. Draw readers in by showing events as they unfold and characters as they develop. Readers will experience our fictitious world not as abstract concepts but as physical details.

How can we spot telling in our stories? And once spotted, how can we convert telling into showing?

How To Spot Telling

Telling involves concepts rather than reactions, generalities rather than details, zooming out rather than zooming in. It's possible to recognize the indicators of telling because telling involves abstraction.

Consider:

  1. An abstraction has virtually no pictorial representation. The word "beautiful" is an abstraction because it gives no pictorial representation. We give the reader no specific characteristics to support our contention that something is "beautiful". The reader cannot picture a "beautiful" sunset unless we give her some picture words so she can sense the colour, the luminosity, the touch of the wind, the smell of the air.

  2. An abstraction is factually insufficient. "The town was quiet most of the time." That sentence doesn't tell us how quiet or for how long a time. If the reader has no significant details, the reader is left with vague impressions. Vague writing will lose your reader's interest.

  3. An abstraction expresses a quality apart from an object. The word "poem" is concrete. It is a piece of structured writing that uses terse wording and sometimes rhyming to evoke an emotion. "Poetry" on the other hand, is an abstract concept when it describes the qualities evoked by eloquent poems. One writes a poem (concrete) and hopes it becomes poetry (quality).

  4. Opinions or conclusions can be "telling" if the writer forces the reader to accept that opinion or conclusion without providing any supporting evidence. Readers prefer to be shown the evidence and drawn their own conclusions. If, as writers, we describe someone as pompous, we are presenting our own opinions and conclusions. It is much better if we describe the actual conduct of the character that led us to conclude the character was pompous. The reader may well reach the same conclusion, but we have forced the reader to become involved in the incident in order to render their own verdict. Reader involvement should be our watchword.

Telling can be converted to showing by using three tools.

  • The Tools of Showing
  • Quoted Conversation
  • Quoting direct speech or internal thoughts allows the reader to form her own conclusion rather than accept the author's.

The Significant Detail

Find the significant detail that conveys the meaning you wish to convey. The reader will fill in the rest of the picture from her own experience, making your story into hers. Details anchor your story in concrete reality and convince your readers you know what you're talking about. Significant details can be found in gestures or body language, in the action you choose to show the reader, or in the setting.

Grady (from the Colin R. Onstad Room) has kindly provided me with an excellent example of moving from telling, to showing by finding and using the significant detail.

Omaha [Georgia] was a quiet place most of the time. [Telling] The jail over at the courthouse was empty year round, and the parking meters gave you 30 minutes for a penny, not that it mattered. No one in Omaha was issued a parking ticket in 25 years. [Showing through significant detail]

Sensory Appeal

What we know of the world comes through our senses. Provide your reader with access to your fictitious world through a direct appeal to your reader's senses.

It was a dark and stormy night. How dark? How stormy? Try and recall the storm. Could you smell the ozone from the lightning? How did the air taste? Did your tongue feel thicker? Was your skin itchy from the change in atmospheric pressure? Did colours change? Which colours changed most? Present the reader with those sensory details.

Try sensing your world from the perspective of a baby or of an alien visitor so you can see it anew. Allow yourself to break free of mediocrity. Find the twist on the ordinary that converts it into your own original vision. Then convey that vision to your reader.

Examples

It's always easier to examine a process through an example. Let's look at three short sentences to see if we can get to the bottom of the show-and-tell mystery and maybe even figure out a shortcut way to discover if we are telling, not showing.

Example 1
The little bear was upset when he discovered someone had not only tasted his porridge, but had eaten the whole thing up.

Example 2
"Somebody's been tasting my porridge," said Baby Bear. He sniffled and added, "They must have been hungry because they ate it up."

Example 3
"I'm gonna take the dude who ate my porridge, dip him in honey, and hang him in front of Pooh Bear's house," said the Baby Bear, and clicked open his switchblade.

Example 1 tells us what's happening. How do we know that? Because it leaves no room for interpretation or doubt. It tells us precisely what to think. The bear was upset. We have to believe the author because the author hasn't shown us the actual events. We don't have any facts upon which to draw our own conclusions. One result of being force-fed the conclusion is that the reader remains aloof from the piece. Like Eliza with Freddie.

Example 2 contains the same number of words as example 1, but this time the author has shown us the evidence and left us to draw our own conclusions. By quoting the direct speech, the author has allowed the reader to pick up on a number of subtle signals. Now we know the bear was upset, but maybe more because he was hungry than angry. This nuance in interpretation comes from showing, from giving the reader the first-hand evidence so that the reader can draw her own conclusions.

Example 3 reports on the same incident as example 1, but what a different bear from the one in example 2. It still fits the reported facts of example 1, but because the author has given us the first-hand evidence, the actual words the bear spoke, we know this bear isn't just hungry - he's angry and mean.

Shortcut Method to Recognizing Telling

Let's use the above examples to develop a tool for recognizing telling.

The "telling" word in example 1 is "upset." "Upset" gives us no pictorial representation - no sniffling or knife-playing bear. It's insufficiently factual - we have no indicator of the degree of upset. It expresses a quality apart from an object, and it is an opinion without supporting facts. No significant details. No direct conversation. No sensory appeal.

Is there a way to wrap up all those telltale characteristics into one easy tool?

Suppose we ask ourselves how we came to know the bear was upset. If we need to go into a deeper level of detail to answer that question, then we ought to be presenting the reader with that deeper level of detail. The bear was sniffling or the bear was playing with a knife. Let's present the reader with that deeper level of detail and let the reader draw her own conclusions about whether the bear was upset.

So asking yourself "How do we know that?" can be the litmus test for telling. If you can apply the question to a phrase and come up with a more detailed answer, it's likely the phrase isn't giving enough concrete details.

There is a limit to this questioning tool. If the answer to how do we know that requires a scientific or legal explanation - for example, how do we know an apple is "red" - then we've probably reached a sufficiently useful level of detail and needn't go any deeper. It's not particularly helpful to tell the reader that the apple is reflecting a particular wavelength in the visible spectrum of electromagnetic radiation.

A caution: don't concern yourself with telling vs. showing during the creative flow of a first draft. But when you are ready to edit your work, engage your internal Hostile Attorney (HA) or Belligerent Barrister and have them interrogate you with the question "How do we know that."

Writer: That mutant bear is dangerous.
HA: How do we know that?
Writer: He is carrying a knife.
HA: I carry a knife. How do we know the bear's intentions were hostile?
Writer: He kept flicking the blade in and out.
HA: Maybe he was nervous. How do we know he was hostile?
Writer: Because the blade was flicking in and out of my front tire.

Giving evidence doesn't mean it has to be courtroom-sterile. Readers expect writers to help guide them toward an interpretation. The sky needn't be just blue. It can be the comfortable washed-out blue of an old pair of blue jeans. Or it can be the unblinking blue of a disinterested lover's eyes.

Another Shortcut Device

If you aren't comfortable using an internal Hostile Attorney, try a different device. How about thinking of the reader as someone you wish to put into a trance, the trance of believing your story. How would a hypnotist put a subject into a trance? With suggestions. "Imagine you are walking by a quiet stream on a warm day. The scent from apple blossoms drifts on the light breeze that caresses your hair. You hear the splash of a small fish jumping in the water." Use the same tools as the hypnotist. The more concrete the details, the more likely the subject will be drawn into accepting our hypnotic suggestions.

Exercises

  1. Go to a familiar place and describe it afresh by looking for a significant detail that indicates the feelings the place evokes in you. Then do the same in an unfamiliar place.

  2. Write down a word that describes a strong emotion (e.g. fear, anger, lust, etc.). This is your trigger word. Now write a 250-word conversation between two people in which you demonstrate that emotion. Do not use the trigger word in the conversation.

The Final Word

We should never be afraid to be intimate with our readers. It's the anticipation of that intimacy that causes readers to fork over $10.95 for a paperback. Besides, until the book-signing, we're not likely to meet any of them personally.

Eliza wanted the intimacy of Freddie's arms around her. Let's give our readers that same intimacy through supportive detail. Perhaps we'll convince them to fall in love with our work.

Dennis (Bruno) Phillips


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F2K Content Winner

Rie Sheridan was a student in the March session of our free F2K course. After taking F2K in March, she went on to volunteer as a F401 facilitator.

The story presented here was entered in the F2K Writing Contest open to all students in the March session. It not only won best in her study group, but continued on to the final round of judging conducted through interactive poll and won 1st prize. We're proud to have had Rie in the March session and hope you enjoy her winning entry.

Visit Rie's webpage to learn more about her.

Nothing Left to Lose

The little girl sniffed, dragging her hand under her dripping nose as she cowered against the damp wood of her pen, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Greasy blonde hair hung about her thin shoulders. Her torn dress was spattered with filth. She had lost her shoes on the forced march from the village. Now she drew her scabbed knees up under the ruins of her skirt, trying not to shiver. It would be another cold night.

There was a steady wind blowing in off the sea, carrying with it the odor of salt and dead fish. The stench turned her stomach. Her last meal had been a raw potato two days ago. The slavers were not punctual with feeding times. The raid was three weeks gone now. The pen was almost full. It would not be long.

A loud scuffle broke out beyond the sturdy gate of the pen, and the flare of torches drove back the darkness. She shaded her eyes against the sudden glare. There were guttural shouts in the harsh tongue of the slaver beasts, and the sound of a blow on flesh. A grunt of pain was followed by a burst of musical language she had never heard before, and a strangled cry as a whip snapped. Someone stumbled into the pen, and she scrambled out of the way as the newcomer fell into the spot where she had been sitting.

Coarse laughter rang in the night, and the gate slammed shut with a hollow clang. She heard the snick of the lock snapping shut, and sighed. One step closer to the ship.

The prone figure in the muddy slime groaned, and she crept forward, ready to bolt. Sometimes a new one had a morsel of food they were willing to share or a bit of news. Besides, he looked hurt, and a few men were still strong enough to bully the weaker captives.

"Sir..." she whispered. "Sir, are ye dead?"

There was a weary chuckle from the figure, followed by a cough and another groan. "Not yet, my lady." He caught his breath with a gasp. "Damn their eyes. They will rue this day!" He pushed himself to a sitting position, back braced against the pen's sodden planks. "Curse it, what a nasty place this is."

"Ye'll get no disagreement there. Are ye bad hurt, sir?"

Even in the dim light shadowing his face, she saw the flash of his dazzling smile. "Not so badly I can't heal it, child. I will be fine."

"Ye're a healer, sir?" Her voice bloomed with hope.

"Some say so. Some whisper other things. My name is Ravenwing, lady. And what might yours be?"

"I ain't no lady. Just the miller's girl. Me name is Daerci. Me da was kilt defending the village, and me mum is terrible sick. D'ya think ye could help her, sir?" Daerci gulped. "I-I got no money, but I-I could give ye other things," she mumbled, glad that the darkness hid her face. She could feel the blood staining her cheeks with crimson fire.

"How old are you, Daerci?" the stranger asked, an odd tone to his voice.

"I be just gone eleven, sir...but I'm strong..." She could not go on. She felt her lip trembling, and she did not want to blubber like a babe. She knew what the slavers meant for her. Her mum had told her to do whatever it took to stay alive, but she could not bear the thought of that future. At least this way she would have her own choice in the matter. And it would be for a decent reason. She swiped again at her dirty face, smearing the tears through the grime. The restless shuffling sounds of her fellow prisoners only made the situation worse, and she was painfully aware how much she needed a bath.

"Come here, child," commanded Ravenwing, his voice gentle.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Daerci knelt beside him. Biting her lip until she tasted blood, she raised a trembling hand to the lacing of her bodice, and Ravenwing caught her hand in his.

"No, Daerci."

"But 'tis all I have, my lord," she moaned, her words a broken whisper.

He folded her into his arms, pulling the ragged remains of a cloak about them both. "And you shall keep it, my dear. Save that coin to spend on one you love."

Daerci sobbed against his chest, clinging to him tightly. "But me mum...she says. She says...."

Ravenwing held her close. "Hush, lamb. All will be well. Sleep now." He murmured something she didn't understand, and her eyes fell shut of their own accord.

But all was not well.

When Daerci awoke with the sunrise, she smelled oranges. She lay wrapped in Ravenwing's cloak, her back against the sturdy wall of the pen. The stranger was gone, but a peeled fruit was tucked in the crook of her arm.

Yawning, she rubbed her eyes, clambering to her feet. She had left her mother alone all night. What if the fever had soared high again, making her cry out for relief? Who would have bathed her temples with moisture coaxed from the wood of the wall? Who would have sung her back to sleep?

Daerci bolted down half the orange, and bundled the rest into the stranger's cloak for her mother. She wove her way through the huddled prisoners to the corner that she had kicked and clawed for possession of. Its relative safety made it a prime location, and she had defended it daily. Only a vain search for food had sent her from her mother's side the previous evening. Hunger made her do strange things, but she prayed that it would not prove costly.

As she neared their spot, Daerci stopped dead in her tracks. A man bent over her defenseless mother.

"Leave her alone!" Daerci screamed, scooping up a stone from the noxious slime of the pen and flinging it at the stranger.

He turned, and caught it in one hand. In the growing sunlight, she saw a tall, graceful figure clad in mud-spattered black breeches and a flowing white shirt. His dark hair fell across his brow, and brushed the top of his collar. And when he flashed her a grin, she knew him at once.

"Oh, sir!" she squeaked, covering her mouth with her muddy hand. "I beg yer pardon, sir!"

Ravenwing dropped the stone, brushing the slime from his hand with a grimace of distaste. "No offense taken, my dear child. You did well." His face grew somber, and he held out his hand to her. "Come here, Daerci."

She went toward him reluctantly, knowing in her heart what he was about to tell her. She ignored the proffered hand, and dropped to her knees beside the still form. "She's dead, ain't she?" she asked flatly, but was really seeking only confirmation. One look at her mother's twisted features, with their frozen rictus of pain was enough answer.

Ravenwing hunkered down beside her, draping an arm around her. "I am sorry. I got here too late. I couldn't help her."

"'Tis probably better this way. She were too weak for the sea, and three months gone with child. The slavers would probably have kilt her anyway."

She felt his arm tighten across her shoulders, but dare not look at him. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes...the eyes her mum had always told her were like two sunlit emeralds...she'd never even seen an emerald...oh, by the Flames, what was she to do? The tears spilled over the dam of her willpower, and cut their way through the dirt on her cheeks.

Ravenwing gathered her to him once more, holding her until the floodgates had closed. When her tears were reduced to hiccuping gasps, he dried her face with the hem of his cloak. "Would you like to be free of this place, Daerci?"

"Anything is better than what them beasts want me to do. But what would I have to do fer you?" she asked.

"Be my companion. Share my road." He quirked an eyebrow. "Perhaps learn a new trade."

Her green eyes narrowed. "What kind of trade?"

"How are you at picking locks?"

"I ain't never tried."

"Then it is time you learned." He took her hand and led her back to the gate, producing a sturdy lockpick from somewhere within his clothing.

"Why ain't you doing it?" she asked suspiciously.

"The lock is iron. I cannot touch it."

"Why not?"

"I'll tell you all in time," he replied, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Daerci flinched. She knew that tone well. It had usually preceded a cuff from her father before he died.

Ravenwing hastened to reassure her. "I'm sorry, child. I haven't time for stories now. When we are well away, I will tell you all." He handed her the lockpick. "Will you try?"

And so Daerci began her education.


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Fiction Corner

Alison Hawke

Drabble of the Month

Thank you to all who sent in drabbles about incompatibility. This month's winners are newcomers Emily Gordts and Gerald Ealy. Congratulations!

The Power of Words
by Emily Gordts

Surprising that such a strong, emancipated woman could rely on online love tests before she considered dating any guy. Surprising, yet she had taken the test every single time. Now it was totally different. She was in love. Big time. The sound of his footsteps outside her office made her go crazy. He didn't even know her.
Yet.
She was slightly nervous when she pressed 'enter.' She had always gotten a fifty-nine percent compatibility rate. The screen flickered. The footsteps outside her office suddenly sounded threatening. One word and all her hope had vanished. He seemed unreachable. One word.
Incompatible.

The Missing Piece
by Gerald Ealy

Each time he tried to match the parts, they wouldn't fit. He couldn't figure it out. He rechecked the bins to see if he missed anything, but to no avail. If he went out for a replacement now, his masterpiece might spoil and nothing's open at this hour. He relived the night and as he recalled the acquisition, he saw the mistake. He'd swung the ax too wide, missing the critical target. Now he had no choice. He was forced to get a replacement and it had to match the others.
"Maybe there's a late crowd at the opera café?"

The theme for August is observers (due July 10th), the theme for September is waiting for...(due August 10th), suggested by Peter Keane, and the theme for October is obscure (due September 10th), from Dawn Arkin. If you have any ideas for Drabble themes, please email me.

PLEASE read the drabble submission guidelines before sending in your entry. Only one entry per person per month.

Email your drabbles and themes to me at drabble@technologist.com.


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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

Something To Talk About

There come times in my life when I have to question what it is I have accomplished? What is my purpose? Quite often I feel like such an illiterate failure that I wonder if it is sensible to go on. I never have used my column as a means of venting, but I have to wonder if there are not others who find themselves in the same relative position as I.

I fail to see the humor at times in being a parent. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm stems from the fact that I parent six children primarily alone. Yes, I did say six. Three are his and three are mine. As if that isn't enough of an aggravation I have a teen who has decided that he is invincible to a system that would have no sorrow in locking him away. I'm sure as writers, you can create the attitude of this child without my saying more.

I have gone to the heights of the Mayor for this child but everything I have built for him he has torn down. Yet, I feel as though I am the guilty one. Maybe I tried too hard or not hard enough. Maybe I was just as influenced by his charm as anyone who supported him. I don't have the answers or perhaps it is simply that I don't want to acknowledge them. He is old enough to know right from wrong; he has been taught as much, therefore the choices he has made were his own, whether they were good or undesirable choices.

Yet, you can imagine the impact this has had on my life, given that I already have so much on my plate to deal with. As you, my readers know, I suffer with multiple mood disorders and functioning life in a normal sense is difficult enough. But with such a chatic setting it is mind-boggling.

Where do I turn when I feel drained and hopeless? Well, I believe it is foreseen that I turn to my writing and to those who take the time to read it. When I write a story, emotions and energies I have at that particular moment in time go into what I am writing. Of course, outside of my columns I primarily write fiction, but even then some amount of truth is borne into whatever I'm creating.

My characters might have the personalities of someone close to me or they might be pictures of people I'd like to know. They could express pieces of my life that may not have been the most comfortable for me, or they might be fantasies of the life I wish I'd had. My characters at times can be childlike and I find myself connecting somehow with those children or they might be cocky detectives who have a know-it-all attitude. I can flex my creative muscles in various directions and communicate a progressive tale.

One thing we get in writing that we unfortunately don't get in life is "control." We can decide where we want to go with our characters, how the stories will progress and what will be the endings, but in life we cannot control the choices of others. Should my son continue to break the rules and be sent away again, I will reflect on what I have written here and know, logically, that I had no "control."

Til next time keep reaching for those Healthy Horizons.

Thanks so much for allowing me to share my life with you. If there is ever anything you'd like to suggest as a column idea or you simply want to comment or get something off your shoulders, please feel free to write me.

Laurie


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Living History

Mike West

A Pound of Fruit

My name is Michael David West, and I've been writing about four years. When I first started, I thought it would be an easy thing to do. Well, it took me about three weeks into this learning process, and I started thinking "Boy, what in the world have you got yourself into?" I've never in my life done anything with so many ups and downs in it. I've joined this page to learn from writers better than me in the hope of bettering myself. I consider myself a simple storyteller no more. I try my best to tell a story which has some type of meaning in it. Grammar is my biggest adversary, but even he will be beat one day, maybe not killed, but held a bay at least.

A Pound of Fruit

We lived in what Pa called a Depression. What that meant I didn’t really know at that time. I did know this though: some nights I’d go to bed hungry. Ma cried a lot in those days, but she never told us why. Some nights when my hunger kept me awake, I could hear my parents talking.

Ma would ask, "What are we going to do?"

Pa said, "All we can do, honey, is our best."

Ma cried and said, "We are sending our children to bed hungry.

Pa didn't say anything for a while. Then he told her, "I’m sorry." They'd stop talking and I would fall asleep.

During that year we all worked harder, but yielded less. Pa lost his job at the feed mill in January of that year. Mr. Jenkins, his boss, told him when things got better he could come back to work. Things got worse, not better, so we all had to work the farm just to get by.

Every year on June 1, for as long as I could remember there had been a Pound of Fruit Party held down by the river. The banquet of fruit was to celebrate the coming of spring. The party was also held for fellowship, but most of all the joy of eating fruits we rarely got. Everybody who came to the occasion brought a pound of fruit, and we all shared it. One time Bruce Long actually brought a pineapple. Most of us had never seen one before. When I first saw it, I didn’t know how we could eat it. To me it looked like an over grown pine cone. There were these sharp thorns all over its outside, and what appeared to be a young corn plant coming out of the top. We Mississippians in 1930 rarely got to see such exotic fruits. Most people brought apples, oranges, grapes, plums, peaches, and the like to the party.

My Ma was worried about the party not being held this year, because of the Depression. We were sitting at the dinner table and Ma asked Pa,

"Jim, do you think we’ll have the fruit party this year?"

"I think so even if we only have apples." Pa said looking at me and my brother Tim with a smile.

"You boys like apples don’t you?"

"Yes sir I love them, especially in pies." Tim said with a beaming grin.

"Yeah, I like apple dumplings." I said with a look at Ma.

She smiled and said, "Joe, when this Depression is over I’ll make you a pot full, and it will be all for you. Tim, you’ll have a pie all to yourself too." We all laughed and ate our supper.

We were having a bowl of mustard greens, and a slice of cornbread. We had to drink water, because May, our cow, had gone nearly dry. Pa said it was the lack of grain. Her grazing in the pasture wasn’t enough for her to produce milk every day. She was giving a bucket every two days. Most of the milk was churned for butter so Ma could use it in her cooking. We hadn’t had any milk to drink for a week. Pa said we could have the next bucket. I really didn’t like the taste of milk, but it filled my belly and that felt good. I never said anything to Ma and Pa about how hungry I was, because I knew they worried about Tim and me.

We talked to other kids at school, and they were having the same problem of not getting enough to eat. We tried to make sense of the Depression, and the only thing we could make out about it was that as long as it was around, we’d be hungry. Our teacher told us one day when we asked him about it, that it was to do with "the banks not having any money." For a ten-year-old it didn’t make any sense. I’ve heard Pa talk about the banks, from what I could understand they have all the money in the world behind their doors. I couldn’t think why they wouldn’t let us poor hungry people have some of it. I guess they just had enough to feed their kids, and nobody else.

The day before the Pound of Fruit party Pa brought in a bag of apples for the banquet. "I bet there’ll be a lot of apples at the party tomorrow," he said laughing and holding the bag over his head as if he weren’t going to give us one. He gave each of us an apple to eat. We all laughed with Pa, and each of us ate his apple. They were large, red and juicy.

"Pa, these are the best apples I’ve ever had." I said smiling with apple skin sticking to me teeth. Everybody pointed and laughed at me, that is, except Ma.

"Joe, don’t talk with your mouth full. It makes you look so silly." She said with a slight smile. Seeing her smile was so wonderful, because she has been sad forever, it seemed. Ma was beautiful when she smiled and laughed. I didn’t know until then how much I’d missed her being happy.

Ma started for the kitchen saying, "I better start supper before it gets dark. We don’t want to waste the kerosene." There were many people in Mississippi who didn’t have electricity in their houses. We did, but our power had been cut off three months ago, because Pa said we couldn’t afford it anymore.

After supper I helped Ma wash the dishes. Tim went to the well to fetch water for our baths. We didn’t have indoor plumbing like the rich did. The first time I saw an inside outhouse was at the Sims home. Tim and I were doing yard work to make extra money helping Ma and Pa. Mrs. Sims invited us in for lunch. After eating I had to use the outhouse and asked Mrs. Sims where theirs was, because I hadn’t seen it anywhere outside while we were cutting her grass. She pointed down the hallway saying, "Second door to the right." I thought she misunderstood what I’d said so I asked her again. She smiled and understood I’d never seen an inside bathroom.

"Come along, Joe, I’ll show you how it works." We went down the hallway and she opened the door. The floor was all white, made out of some kind of smooth rock. The walls were covered with the same rock as the floor. Hanging on the wall was a kind of face bowl I’d never seen before. Mrs. Sims saw me looking at the bowl, and asked,

"What you think of it, Joe?"

"It’s a wonder, Mrs. Sims."

She had the biggest bath tub I’d ever seen. You could actually put your whole body under water. It had some kind of silver handles on one edge. I walked to the tub looking at the beautiful silver-handled whatever-it-was. Mrs. Sims came to the tub.

"This is how it works, Joe." She grabbed one of the handles and to my surprise, water came out. When it did, I jumped back, because I never expected water to come out of the this silver wonder.

"It’s ok, Joe. That’s how it works," Mrs. Sims said smiling.

"You don’t have to bring water from the well?" I asked, overwhelmed.

"No, Joe, all we have to do is turn the handle. This is the water closet." She said pointing to a bowl on the floor. "This is where you...well, you know."

I looked at her then it came to me what she was talking about.

"I’ll leave you so you can do your business." She said smiling again. I think she was enjoying me seeing her bathroom as much as I was.

"When you finish, just pull this handle." She said pointing at a wooden handle hanging by a chain next to the wall.

"Ok." I said watching her leave the room. When I’d finished, I pulled the handle and the bowl started the water swirling. Then the bowl emptied with a sucking sound. At first I thought I’d broken it, but then it filled back up. It was a real marvel to see water running inside a house. When I got back to the kitchen Mrs. Sims asked if everything went all right. I could feel my face getting red when I answered,

"Yes ma’am, just fine."

"Tim, do you need to use the bathroom?" Mrs. Sims asked. Tim said no, he was ok. When Tim and I got home, I told him about the bathroom and the running water. He thought I was lying until Pa told him that he’d helped put the bathroom in. The Sims house was the only one in Eupora with an inside outhouse.

We all woke early on the day of the party. Ma was in the kitchen making breakfast, which would be oatmeal. We’ve had oatmeal every morning now for three weeks. Pa had done some work for Mr. Williams down the road and he paid him in food. Most people couldn’t pay with money so they had to trade. Pa called it a barter system. I think the word barter means swapping.

"Morning, Joe, ready to eat?" Ma said with a smile. I think she was looking forward to the party.

"Is Tim up yet?"

"Yes ma’am, he’s getting dressed."

"Good, because the oatmeal is ready."

"Where’s Pa?"

"He’s out getting the mule ready for the trip to town. Eager for the party Joe?"

"Yes ma’am, I am." I always enjoyed the Pound of Fruit parties, because of the fruit, but more than that I loved the games we played. I mostly enjoyed the baseball game. There weren’t enough boys to make up the teams so we had to let girls play with us. I didn’t like girls, but they really could play baseball pretty good. There was a girl named Mary Ann Wise, and she was always the first one picked when we chose teams. There wasn’t a boy in town who could hit the ball as good as she did.

"Gee, Stomper," Pa said, trying to get our young mule to speed up. When we first got the mule, we tried to think of a good name for him. We just couldn’t think of one until Pa came in from the fields one day. Pa came into the house just a-laughing. We asked him what was so funny. He told us about what the young mule did in the fields. Every time Pa got to the end of a row, and turned around to plow another row, the mule would prance for three or four steps. Pa said when the mule did it the first time he thought that there might have been something under the his hooves. That wasn’t what it was; Pa found out on the next turn the mule did the same thing. I asked Pa,

"Why would he do that?"

"Every mule is a little different. I think he’s getting his step right with me. He might stop it after we work together a little longer."

Stomper never did; every time Pa turned to plow another row Stomper would prance. Tim wanted to call him Prancer. We all thought it made him sound like Pa was plowing with one of Santa’s deer. Ma wanted to call him Dancer. Pa said if it had been a female that would be a good name. Pa was the one who came up with Stomper. He said, "I thought about it all day and he looks like he’s stomping something more than dancing. So Stomper it was, and we loved that young crazy mule.

We were surprised to see that the fruit table was cover with all kinds of delights. Bruce Long even brought another pineapple. The whole town turned out, and that hadn’t happened in many years, according to what Ma said. We had so much fun that day, June 1, 1930, and I have never forgotten it. The fruits that day tasted better than they ever had. I did notice one thing, though. None of the grown ups ate any fruit. That night I was happy and full. I heard Ma and Pa laughing; there was no crying that night.

The hard times only lasted two more years. Pa went back to the feed mill, and in 1936 became a partner and had to stop farming. Tim was killed in 1944 on a beach called Omaha. I served in the Pacific fighting the Japanese.

My mind has gone back to that Pound of Fruit party many times. It helped me get through the war with my mind intact. There were so many things I witnessed. I needed something to hold me together. June 1, 1930 on the banks of the Big Black River did the job. I thanked God for that day many times.

Copyright © 2000 by Mike West


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Non-Fiction Nature Writing

Dee Walmsley

Semiahmoo Sunset

Dee Walmsley - Chunky middle-aged broad who wants to leave her mark as a writer. Wife to a grumpy husband, Mother of two grown children, and two male cats.

Dee has written and produced a number of videos for cablevision TV on nature. She's working on a children's picture book and collaborating with an artist on a book of animal cartoons with a message. In fact most of her nature writing has a message.

She fell in love with raccoons while fostering orphaned kits and is writing a novel of those experiences. In her spare time she adds another chapter to a fiction novel, "The Hunter and the Rehabber" a Golden Pond type saga.

She has been a member of WVU for 3 years, and a contributor to Writers in Nature and the Environment, an online list for nature writers. Her work may be read at The Inditer, and Writer's Choice In house Newsletter, and a couple of other e-zines. She also writes a monthly nature column for The Inditer and a local newsletter.

The one thing she doesn't like to write about, is herself!

Semiahmoo Sunset

Tonight as I sit looking out to sea, the sky reminds me of cotton candy. Pink pollution comes to my mind as I gaze in awe at the scene before me. A massive fireball descends into the ocean, lighting up the sky, mountains and water. Giant rays shoot out from this orb reminiscent of a Japanese flag, and for the first time I understand their symbol.

We are experiencing a heat wave, a rather uncommon event here in BC. This has caused an inversion. While it may be harmful to one's health, the setting sun's rays piercing through the mist are breathtaking. Pink and blue clouds etched in gold greet the sun on her journey home. Coastal mountains offer their protection to the Sun Goddess, jagged peaks penetrate the haze waiting to encompass her light.

The dead calm water mirrors the glowing sky while absorbing its mixture of pinks and blues. A small boat passes sending the colors rippling towards shore. A curious seal pokes its domed head through the surface into the seaweed-scented air; its bright eyes look at me, looking at it. I smile, send it silent thanks for sharing its presence, and it descends into the deep and is gone. The waves beat a steady rhythm. They are the heartbeat of the sea.

A man walks by, pebbles crunching under his sandaled feet. The spell is broken. I leave, knowing that tomorrow another masterpiece will greet me in my canvas in the sky.

Copyright © 2000 by Dee Walmsley


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Poetics Presents

Owen Clayton

Rochelle Hope Mehr


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Poetics Presents

Owen Clayton

"Real are the Dreams of Gods"
(John Keats, 'Lamia')

The deep darkness reigned for so long
That when light appeared it just seemed wrong,
Then the creatures came up from the deep
And apes dropped to the ground to sow and to reap.

It started with an apple in the garden of fate
An exile that planted the dead seed of hate,
It was downhill from there and now we know
What it's like to lie bleeding facedown in the snow.

Past pain flashes in front of His face
And across and around the whole human race,
So hatred growing like an unchecked weed
Is surpassed only by the first tree of greed.

The world turns red before His blind eyes
With its world war bombs and its cold war spies,
And our frozen fingers crack and splinter
With Hiroshima, Aids, Stalin, and Hitler.

The millions are born and the millions then die
As sure as the seasons, the earth and the sky,
Some say it's chance and others say fate
But which it is will just have to wait.

Because beyond the sun and under the moon
The rivers run red (and the seas will soon),
The grass turns black and all the men say
"There's nothing as healthy as good old decay!"

Our temples crumble and fall to the floor
Mother Nature will simply stand it no more,
She knows what's needed and She won't mind
When the earth rids itself of the plague of mankind.

Then God wakes up in a sweat with a scream:
Thank Heaven that's over -- It was only a dream!
And He goes about his business and He does not care
What became of the people from His latest nightmare.

False Idol

You spit and stamp on His grave
Without a care. You warp and make
The artful believe that you can save
Them. But you can't. You fake.

You false idol.

Who wise men digest through the day
Upstairs in their padded rooms,
Who the fools dismiss as useless or gay
In the vacuum silence of their tombs.

You false idol!

Who appears to others in drag or disguise,
Your truths are anywhere, your focus is blurred
Like the distant city to short-sighted eyes,
Except to those who have already been there.

You. False idol?

Whose inner rules are ignored by them,
The starving masses, as is the power
Of a root over its prodigal stem.
Yet, can't they still love the flower?

You -- saviour!

 

Copyright © Owen Clayton 2000


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Poetics Presents

Rochelle Hope Mehr

EXPLOSIVE

I read the horoscopes every day
and they heighten my expectancies.

I must have an alter ego
leading a very glamorous life.

Today she is being told
that she should exercise her prerogative to wait

before she makes her move,
that more information may be forthcoming.

I feel like springing into action,
a coiled cat

sprinting out of its cage

THE EXPERIMENT

I'm like the lab rat
scurrying for a way
out of the maze

nosing out dead end
after dead end

missing the gestalt

Maybe I, too, can sniff
my way out
of the labyrinth

but will my reprieve
be revelation --

or cheese?

 

Copyright © Rochelle Hope Mehr 2000


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Sparks

Karen (Karenika) Grunberg

Dressing it up!

Some of us plan the night before, while others leave it to be a last-minute decision. But when it's time to go out, all of us have at least one thing in common -- we're dressed. :)

Lots of factors contribute to the dressing game. Imagine the time you spend getting prepared on the morning of your daughter's graduation. You try to look presentable and professional; but, if you're wise, you wear the most comfortable shoes possible. Now imagine the day after an all-nighter. How about a day when you're going to work in the garden? What would you wear to your son's wedding?

The list goes on and on. Everyone dresses to the occasion, but that's not all. A character living in 1700s would obviously not wear the same thing as a woman from the 21st century. So the date matters and the planned events of the day matter. What else?

How about age? Does a twenty-year-old wear the same thing as a sixty-year-old, or a five-year-old? Nope. Age matters. Imagine two teenage girls living in the same period, with the same plans. Do they wear the same thing? Maybe. What if one of them spent the night fighting with her boyfriend while the other got engaged? Oops, there go the identical outfits. So, mood can change an outfit.

Now, let's imagine the two girls are the same age, of the same period and are in the same mood. Let's think of other things that might affect their clothing. How about background? What if one is Hispanic and the other an Orthodox Jew? Body shape comes into play as well. What if one's really tall and the other is really thin? One is poor and the other is rich. These are just a few of a million things that go into the decision-making process that we take so lightly.

Let's make these two girls exactly the same on all counts - same background, age, body shape, era, income, and everything else. What would keep them from wearing the same thing? Probably one of the most important factors is personality. Look at yourself and your siblings. You can even take a pair of identical twins and find that they often dress completely differently. Their clothes reflect their identity. Clothes are a mirror into a character's soul.

Now that we know how crucial clothing is, go back to your previous works and dress up your people! Each time you write a scene, know exactly what your characters are wearing. Even if the reader never gets to see them, it's crucial for you, the writer, to know.

Most importantly, make sure to have fun, fun, fun!
Karenika

This month I received no sparkling ideas. If you have any, please email me so we can all use them to help our writing!


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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
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What We Pay For

Fiction: Stories should be of interest to writers in general, not just a narrow group.

Fiction should be submitted to fiction@thewritersezine.com. Payment starts at $15.00.

If considered for publication, you will be asked to return an email agreement including your name and address.

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Payment starts at $15.00, and, if considered, you will be sent an email agreement to fill out and return.

Poetry: Due to the large number of recent poetry submissions, a temporary hold on further poetry submissions is in place until early 2008.

Please do not email us to ask what we pay for in other categories. When we can add to our list, we will include it in these guidelines.

What We Publish

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For fiction we prefer something with a plot and resolution. If we like the main character, we are more likely to accept the story. If the main character has a problem to resolve or has to make a choice, that's conflict, and we love conflict! Too many writers confuse conflict with fight scenes. Don't be one of them. Give us a protagonist who acts, makes choices no matter how hard they are to solve his or her dilemma, not a wimp who drifts along and has to be rescued.

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We expect you to run spell-check and to check your grammar and punctuation before submitting. We will not reject a submission for a few typos or errors, but will if there are an excessive number of errors.

Note: Since our reading audience is international, we do not require a specific version of English. Use the spelling appropriate to your region.

We will automatically correct obvious typos such as “ton” for “not” and may correct simple agreement problems. For anything beyond that, time permitting, we will return the submission to you with a request for corrections.

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Fiction and Craft features published in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine include brief third person biographical notes on the writers. For all submissions, please compose your own bio and include it to save our editors and yourself time later if/when your piece is accepted for publication. We suggest sharing a little about your background, occupation, geographical location and what inspired your story.

How and Where to Submit

We do not accept submissions via US mail. Email submissions only, to the appropriate department, in the body of the email. No attachments accepted.

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

Craft Non-fiction should be queried first. Send query to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

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Good luck!


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© Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All rights reserved