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"E" is for...

Margaret I. Carr

Rejection

One definition of a beginner in writing is someone who has never received a rejection. (Paraphrasing Jacqueline Lichtenberg.)

You write and edit and write some more. Words come slowly or tumble out but slowly or quickly the pages fill. Then you revise and revise again but somehow you never get to the point of submitting. Why? Fear of failure? Fear of success? Is it the often-quoted advice that most writers collect a hundred or more rejections before the first acceptance?

Thinking back over rejections I have received and the first acceptance, I can see many things that I did wrong (which I'm not going to tell you about, at least not in this editorial) and others that I did right. Although I didn't have an actual plan worked out then, much of what I did looks like a plan. Perhaps my unconscious had a plan I didn't know about. Now, looking at what I have done and what I hope to do in the future, I'm working on getting that plan into my conscious mind and following it.

Whether something like it might work for you, only you can decide.

First, figure out what you want to write. Well, that's simple, isn't it? Maybe. I thought I only wanted to write fiction and specifically science fiction. Since then I have discovered there are other genres and, in particular, nonfiction that I enjoy writing.

Second, figure out what you can write. When I ran into a major roadblock in what I knew I wanted to write, it held me back for quite a while. Discovering that I could write nonfiction got me started again.

Third, check out the markets. Don't lock yourself into too narrow a perspective. If you limit yourself too much, to only paper print markets or only paying markets,for example, you also limit not only your chances of being published but also your chances of learning. Do use resources such as our new column on markets but follow up by reading several issues of any interesting markets. Evaluate them carefully. Did you enjoy reading them? Does the material seem well-edited? (If spelling, grammar and so forth are sloppy, do you really want your story or article in their company?) Is there a regular publication schedule? Do their guidelines seem like something you can follow?

Fourth, make a list of a dozen or so publications that favorably impress you and that are reasonably close to your present skill level. I like to choose ones that will require me to stretch a bit to meet their standards.

Fifth, no more hesitating. Choose something you've written and submit it to the market you've decided is most appropriate. Choose something else and submit it to a different market. Repeat until you've either used up all the material you have ready or all the potential markets. Take a few minutes to record what you send, where, and when you send it.

Sixth, keep writing.

Seventh, when rejections come in, either make a note and submit it to a different market or, if there have been suggestions that you feel are appropriate, revise. Unless the suggestions include a request for resubmission after revision, do not send back to the same market. Choose a new one and submit.

Eighth, repeat as often as necessary.

What do you do when you get that first acceptance? We'll explore that question later. For now write and submit and the best of luck to you.


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

An 'R' in the Month

AS WITH THE REAPING OF SHELLFISH, for instance oysters and clams, which require an 'R' in the month, the same applies to sea urchins, or known in the Caribbean as "sea eggs." They are also called "sea hedgehogs."

We have two different kinds of sea eggs in Barbados, the black and the white. The white sea eggs are easier to harvest and therefore are the ones that are eaten. (Does that sound cannibalistic or what?) They have round white shells with short spikes and can be picked fairly easily. If you put them on the palm of your hand they will move across it without doing any injury. If the shells are kept intact, they can be filled with plaster of Paris and used as paper weights.

On the other hand the black sea eggs are difficult to harvest as they have very long and dangerous spikes, and so are avoided as they can do bodily harm especially if you step on them. I think most of us have had a dose of 'sea egg prickles' at some time. There are many 'cures' to get them out, some say to melt candle grease on them to draw them out, others say squeeze lime juice. We actually used the candle grease and I can't remember that they ever got infected. I know from working in a medical practice that people (usually tourists) would come in with a bad dose of sea egg prickles, after having followed all sorts of advice, all wrong, including picking at them, and they had got badly infected.

We have an abundance of black sea eggs, but unfortunately the white sea eggs have been fished out and there is now a ban on harvesting, even though it might still be done illegally. I'm not quite sure why no one has tried harvesting the black sea eggs here, as I know they are used in the French Islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe and other places in the world. I suppose it is just habit and taboo. Maybe I'll approach a diver and see what happens!

The sea egg consists of a round hard shell covered with prickles. The inner shell when ripe,contains thick dark yellow roe, which are scraped from the inside of the shell after the shell is broken in half. The roe is then picked to remove any broken shell.

Years ago, when we were growing up, especially here at 'Faraway' for the summer holidays, breakfast was sea eggs, in any shape or fashion, left to my father, raw with biscuits.

It was a bit different then as the sea eggs were shelled and then packed in a grape leaf which had been shaped into a cone and tied with a twig and then put back onto the shell itself. Imagine a round sea egg on the bottom packed back with roe supported with a grape leaf cone. They were neat and looked good, also easy to steam as the shell acted as a steamer. They also only cost 50 cents a shell and that was a lot of sea eggs. We would have our order in from the night before and have them delivered early o'clock the next morning. I remember getting out of bed at sunrise and finding half the household already sitting on the gallery wall indulging in:

Raw sea eggs and biscuits

Clean sea eggs, removing any shell. If they have been washed properly, there should not be any sand.

To the raw sea eggs, add chopped onion, salt, lime and hot pepper sauce to taste. Eat with crackers.

Scrambled sea eggs

  • Sea Eggs
  • Onions
  • Sweet pepper
  • Butter
  • Salt & Pepper

Quantities are left to the cook!

Prepare raw sea eggs. Fry chopped onions and sweet pepper until golden brown, add sea eggs and season, stirring thoroughly over a low heat for about three minutes. Treat like scrambled eggs and serve on toast.

My mouth is watering here, as I'm in the right place but the wrong time, haven't tasted sea eggs since the ban four years ago! Probably just as well, as when they were available before the ban, the roe were small and watery and a two-litre container cost $80! What's past is past, I see them imported every now and then, but I don't buy them. Not the same thing! Hopefully we will be allowed to harvest soon again.

Another 'R' in the month

This time, fruit, not shellfish.

GUAVAS are usually harvested between September and November, depending on the rain. We use them for making guava jelly, jam or stewed guava. The most popular being stewed guava or jelly. We get the pink guavas or the white, that is to say the insides are either pink or white. We also eat them raw, of course, seeds and all, as do the monkeys, it's a matter of who gets there first! The NEW LAROUSSE GASTRONOMIQUE describes Guavas as 'insipid'; not quite sure whose guavas they have eaten!

Guava Jelly

Wash, top and tail and chop guavas. Put in saucepan and barely cover with water and cinnamon stick. Simmer till guavas are very tender. Strain through muslin (I am not above forcing it through). To every nine cups of liquid add six cups of granulated sugar and the juice of one juicy lime, and bring to boiling point (220C).

Have jars and caps clean and sterilised, and bottle jelly. If using the whole guava, there should be no necessity to use pectin, but I have found that if only using the seeds, pectin is required.

Deadline is here, so I'll chat next month. If there are any queries, please e-mail me. Thanks!

Bon Appetit,
Cath


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Fiction Short Story

Dave Laird

Dave Laird is a systems administrator/software designer in Spokane, Washington who has spent most of his life wandering, including a short stint with a small family-owned circus in the early 70's. He has cumulatively lived in over twenty states in thirty-five years, and has also worked as a heavy mechanic, musician, professional fisherman, newspaper journalist, investigative journalist and is an illustrious gadabout by trade.

"The Lion's Tale"
"A Tale for Children"

by

Dave Laird

Don't ask me where or how this tale comes about. It is possible that Dexter Amend, in a moment of mischief, crept into my study and, seizing the opportunity to expound on his considerable prosaic wit, started hammering on the keyboard. It is a tale that perhaps your children or someone else's children might enjoy. Feel free to share it with them...

The circus started arriving in town long before anyone was awake, for it was scarcely three-thirty in the morning when the first huge truck bearing a pair of tigers and one travel-weary lion pulled to a halt inside the county fairgrounds. Within minutes sleepy men and women started emerging, while still others continued to arrive in pickup trucks. The people, despite their obvious fatigue, quickly started laying out the ropes, poles and huge canvas tents that would eventually become the Big Top.

Although, here and there, bits of metal invisibly clanked together, the people all worked quietly as a team, with only an occasional word to one another. One of the first tents to actually reach up toward the sky became the canteen, and within less than half an hour, the smell of fresh coffee wafted gently over the muddy fairgrounds that was to be their home for the next six days.

Meanwhile, the big cats, Allorah, Maachlen and Dunbar, were discussing matters among themselves, as cats often do. Although they were very tired from their long trip, they could not sleep with all the activity going on around them.

"WHERE are we?" Allorah asked, impatiently pacing back and forth across the front of her cage. "This place looks so muddy and...desolate. And it's cold, too." She sighed deeply, peering out through the bars of her cage at the early morning mist just beginning to rise. "I did so like our last stop...where was it?"

"Alabama." Maachlen stated calmly from one corner of the cage where he sat his head cradled on his massive paws. "We were in Alabama."

"It certainly looked much more comfortable than this gray, muddy field," Dunbar commented dryly, rising to his feet and peering out into the darkness. "There is hardly a tree to be seen. If this place gets warm and sunny, we'll have no place to get out of the heat."

"Oh, hush! Both of you!" Maachlen briefly raising his head up and peering at both of his companions. "The other animals will be here soon enough, and it is almost time for the trainers to feed us." He rose to his feet slowly, and stretched, grimacing with the effort, for Maachlen was much older than any of the other circus animals, with the exception of the elephants, who were older than anyone could calculate. "Look! Here come some more of the animal trucks. Allorah, can you make out who is arriving?"

Allorah stood at one corner of their cage and, twitching her whiskers in great concentration, peered off into the darkness a moment.

"Why it's the elephants, Juniper and Cossack in front, followed by Jacob the Eldest and Queen Sacha right behind them. Perhaps they will park the trucks over here, close enough for us to find out what place this is, no?" Allorah murmured to herself.

This was true, for as much as his advanced age gave Maachlen great wisdom and insight, no animal in the circus knew more than Queen Sacha. She had lived a thousand cat-lives, according to some, and she knew a great deal about everything that had happened, was happening or would happen in the future of their tiny circus kingdom.

Almost as if the drivers of the two arriving trucks had overheard their conversation, the trucks pulled in, one on each side of the cages where the cats waited. As soon as the hiss of the air brakes and the roar of the giant diesel engines died out, and as soon as the humans were out of hearing, Allorah hissed out the side of the cage, attempting to catch the attention of either Jacob or Queen Sacha inside the long truck trailer.

"Hsst!"

"Who calls us?" Jacob the Elder responded in his deep, well-measured voice. "Who calls?"

"It is I, Allorah. I am with Maachlen and Dunbar, parked here next to you. Do you know where we are?"

"It is a place called Oregon. Why do you ask?"

"It is so empty, not at all like the sumptuous fairgrounds at our last stop. There are no trees as far as I can see, and it is chilly and dark."

"We are in Oregon, and will be here for about a week, I gather. Although it has been raining here for the last week, good weather is predicted for the next six days, so at least lots of people will come."

"Something is wrong with our truck, I believe," Queen Sacha suddenly interrupted. "Just in the short time we have been here, I sense the truck is starting to lean more and more. It is not unlike when one of the tires on the truck has lost its shape, only happening much quicker. Can you see what is wrong from where you are?"

Allorah quietly walked from one end of her cage to the other, carefully examining the elephant's truck from every possible angle.

"No, I cannot see...oh no! I do see. One side of your truck is sinking into the earth. The higgleybeasts are pulling you into the earth and you'll be lost to us forever..."

"Silence!" Angrily Maachlen shouldered Allorah aside with one neat twist of his torso and examined the elephant's truck which, by now, was visibly listing more and more with each passing second. "Allorah, you stop that nonsense about your imaginary higgleybeasts. Your persistence in telling those old cat fables does you no honor, nor does it help anyone." Maachlen cleared his throat a bit, and spoke up, "Queen Sacha, it appears that your truck is sinking into the ground, though from what means I cannot tell. I will attempt to summon the trainers here and perhaps they can see what this is about."

With a mighty deafening roar, Maachlen attempted to summon their human trainers, but despite repeated attempts that echoed from truck to truck, no one came, for all the trainers were all in the warm canteen tent eating their breakfast, in preparation for the opening day in a new location.

In every animal cage in the circus, it was known by one and all that the most responsible members of the animal kingdom had methods and ways of getting out of every cage in the circus without human intervention. The humans didn't know this, of course, but it was common knowledge that any of the older members of the circus could open any gate at will. Maachlen now turned, and with a deft toss of his noble head, managed to unlatch the gate at the end of the cage, thus releasing himself.

"You stay put." He growled menacingly at Allorah, who was about to follow him, a little too quickly for Maachlen's own comfort. Carefully closing the door behind himself, and padding over the moist turf, he reached the back of the elephant's truck in a few short paces of his great legs, and peered in uncertainty at the strange arrangement of latches in front of him.

"Do you know how to open this gate?" he asked Queen Sacha, inside.

"Lift up the latch, to where it points toward the sun, and it will fall down the other side. That opens the gate." Sacha said very patiently. "Be careful, as it may have some sharp edges."

In the time it took for Maachlen to move the latch with his nose, he could see that the truck was continuing to sink further and further into the muddy soil, and now it leaned even further to the right.

"There!" he finally growled softly to himself in frustration. "It is done."

First, Queen Sacha and then Jacob the Elder backed awkwardly out of the rear of their truck, by now which was leaning to the right rather severely. Jacob reached up with his massive trunk and even gave the truck a considerable shove, as if to see whether or not he could return matters to their normal state of affairs, but to no avail.

"I believe our driver parked the truck on quicksand," Queen Sacha murmured softly as if speaking to herself in the dreamlike state elephants often enter when they are sleeping." I have heard from my ancestors about such things, but I have never witnessed such myself." Turning to Maachlen, she nodded gravely. "To you, Maachlen, many thanks for saving us from an uncertain fate. It would be best if you were back safely inside your cage by the time the trainers arrive, as you know how frightened they become when one of your family gets out of the cage unannounced."

And thus it was, when the trainers stumbled back to their animal charges, having feasted on huge stacks of pancakes with big slabs of butter and maple syrup, and having drunk several huge tureens of coffee, that they found the elephant's truck now was nearly lying on its side, the victim of a sinkhole. They were somewhat startled at finding the elephants calmly standing beside the fallen truck, picking half-heartedly at what little grass there was on the flat muddy field.

In the hue and cry of gathering up the tethers of Queen Sacha and Jacob the Elder and tying them to the bumper of the fallen truck, hardly anyone paid attention to the tightly-latched cage where the great cats lay, their heads all cradled on their paws, their eyes twinkling with what appeared to be amusement as the first gray of dawn began to touch the barren landscape.

Little did the trainers know that Maachlen had become a hero, or that his name is still mentioned today, whenever the greatest and wisest of all the animals in gods animal kingdom, the elephants, gather together to discuss matters of state and recite the history of their breed back to the beginning of time.

Copyright © 1992 by Dave Laird
Copyright © 1994 by Celentia Press, Inc.
Copyright © 1998 by Hesperian


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Fiction Short Story

Greg Lilly

Greg Lilly is an author and computer technologist in Charlotte, NC. After being warned that technical writing shouldn't involve characters and plots, he decided to take up fiction. He is a member of the Great Charlotte Writers Group, an eleven-year-old critique group of diverse writers who enjoy the process of writing as much as the finished product. Greg has written over sixteen short stories and is currently working on his second novel.

"SpringFest Encounter"

by

Greg Lilly

I saw her looking at an art nouveau vase. Her delicate hands glided across the smooth ceramic, tracing the etched pink arches on the sides of a lime rectangle. I swear I heard angels sing when she glanced in my direction and smiled.

The downtown streets of Charlotte had been filled with people in shorts, t-shirts, and sunglasses; a big change from the dark suits and starched white shirts of most Friday afternoons. SpringFest, an annual rite of the season, had started. Artist exhibits and vendor tents displaying everything from pottery to funnel cakes lined Tryon Street.

I cut out of the bank early to meet some friends at street level for a few beers and some people watching. Changing clothes in the bathroom and taking the elevator down to the lobby, I emerged into the bright sunshine and saw Mickey, Clyde, and Austin waiting at the corner of Trade and Tryon. Clyde, still wearing his dark blue business suit, looked like a teddybear ready for a meeting , all business, no fun, until the beer started flowing and he turned into Mr. Personality.

He's a fun drunk. Too bad that can't be said about Mickey, all gloom and doom, crying about his wife leaving. At least he changed into appropriate clothes: shorts and a tee shirt, like me. Maybe he was on the upswing. As for Austin, he's our "babe bait." Good looking kid, but gay as they come and proud of it. Women are attracted to his innocent look : doe eyed and prettier than a lot of girls I've dated. Austin will strike up a conversation with a woman and then introduce us to her. He hooks her; all we have to do is reel her in. So, there they stood like the Three Stooges waiting for something to happen.

"Let's get a beer, boys." I yelled as I walked past their stag line and punched Clyde in his starched cotton covered gut. They followed me tot he nearest beer truck that I found easily by the tangy smell of cold beer spilled on hot concrete. The girl taking money at the truck flirted with Austin as we waited in line. I turned to Mickey and winked; I knew it was going to be a babe bonanza. Personally, I've never had a hard time meeting women; it's the other two guys who need the help.

After some discussion on what to do next, we decided to split up. Clyde and Austin, lured by the hickory smoke billowing from the grills at the "Taste of Charlotte" tents, left to get something to eat. Mickey and I decided to check out the artists' displays and walk up to the stage where beach music echoed off the surrounding buildings. That's when I saw her looking at some pottery. Had she really smiled at me?

The streets had begun to fill up as 5 o'clock approached. A group of laughing teenage girls cut me off as I tried to make my way to the pottery tent. By the time I was there, she was gone. She was blonde and blue-eyed like the ideal woman of my childhood: Olivia Newton-John. The faint scent of a floral perfume lingered. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to burn this fragrance into my memory.

Mickey had kept on walking, so I yelled that I'd catch up with him at the stage. I had to find this woman. I couldn't see her in any direction. She was tall with blonde gossamer hair and the face of an angel . I knew that much. I saw a heavyset woman hoist herself off a nearby bench, so I pushed my way over and stepped up on the creaky wood slats to see over the crowd. No Olivia. If she was looking at art, she might be in one of the tents and hidden from my vantage point.

Now the problem was in which direction to start looking. I was at Fifth Street and the artist tents stretched up and down Tryon. If I went in the wrong direction, I would be moving away from her and might never see her again. In my mind, we had already had our first date. It had been a great success and she couldn't wait to see me again. Of course, I hadn't tried anything sexual with her, she was too pure.

I frantically searched each tent one after the other. Couples with strollers slowed me down. Didn't they understand they impeded my chance to come to SpringFest with a stroller?

I thought I saw her in a craft tent, the kind of tent where you can buy a wooden, goose-shaped coat rack with a blue ribbon tied around the goose's neck; this I consider a craft and not art. Would I really want a woman who liked this type of stuff? What if her idea of a wonderful vacation was Myrtle Beach? What if she was a Republican? What would she teach our kids?

Would she wear Laura Ashley clothes and get frumpy after the wedding? I wanted her to make heads turn when we walked by; to be a virgin when I finally convince her I'm Mr. Right and we spend the weekend in a mountain cabin; to know how to please me like no woman ever has in spite of being a virgin; to love my friends; to like football, fishing, theater, pasta, and my dog Ralph; to have her own career (making slightly less than me); to be my best friend. Basically, I wanted her to be a female version of me.

A sudden cool breeze swirled the scent of lavender around me. Olivia had to be close, that was her perfume. A glimpse of sparkling gold shimmered in the tree filtered sunlight near the sidewalk. There she was, scraping the remnants of a chili dog off the bottom of her sandal onto the curb. How dainty she looked. Her face was filled with cool determination for the task at hand.

I approached. My heart beat faster. What would I say? These next few moments would determine my happiness for the rest of my life. I decided to offer my help with her current dilemma. She had one hand on a Bradford Pear and the other held her lovely hair out of those Carolina blue eyes as she raked her sandal on the curb. My head began to spin. I managed to say: "Can I help you with that?" I gestured toward the problem sandal.

"Them goddamn kids," she huffed "just throw their trash down here anywhere. I just bought these shoes at the Walmart. You didn't see who did this, did you? I'd like to rub his nose in this shit. Damn, damn, damn." She searched the surrounding crowd for the culprit, scratched her ass, and then continued to scrape the sandal.

I noticed she had tiny light hairs on her thighs; she must only shave to the knee.

Her wide feet, highlighted by chipped pink nail polish, were crammed into cherry red sandals. Now my head was spinning so fast I almost lost my balance. My gaze went back up, looking for something stable and soothing to steady my mind. Somehow during her struggle with the offending chili dog, she had become partially free of her strapless bra. Her sundress now had one free wheeling breast and one constrained. The situation reminded me of a Georgia O'Keeffe painting: I wanted to look away, but the unexpected eroticism spellbound me.

She interrupted my thoughts. "God, I need a beer. If you want to help, stop gawking and get me a beer." She was now picking the last stubborn scraps off with a twig. "Damn, I need a cigarette, got one?"

What had I been thinking? Quick exit.

"You stay right there. I'll get you a beer and a napkin for that sandal." I almost ran from her.

I saw Clyde and Austin walking down the street and I jogged up to them. "The Antichrist is here disguised as a woman in sandals." I made Austin change shirts with me so if she saw me again, she might not recognize me. We meet up with Mickey and headed back into the crowd for more babe-cruising. This time, I would be more careful.

That's when I saw her...

Copyright © 2000 by Greg Lilly


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Fiction Short Story

Wynelda-Ann Shelton

Wynelda-Ann Shelton is an Executive Assistant in Northern California. She has also worked as a teacher’s assistant, an assistant manager for various bookstores, and as a nanny.

She is currently enrolled in Fiction 510 at WVU, where she is better known as Wyndie.

"The Cobweb Inn"

by

Wynelda-Ann Shelton

Alexandria Draconia, Mistress of the Dragons, strode into the Cobweb Inn and called out her order for a pitcher of ale. She didn’t stop to make sure she had been heard, wending her way instead through the rough wooden tables full of minor characters and back to the Main Character Room.

Beyond the heavy door, the polished wooden planks gave way to soft carpeting that Alex’s feet sank into. If nothing else, she had to give credit to The One, who had made the inn possible. Never lacking in imagination, The One had furnished the Inn for Alex and the others to relax in. The Main Character Room was opulently furnished. Sighing, Alex flopped into a padded chair and rolled her neck. She stretched luxuriously, propping her feet on an ottoman placed just right for her long legs. A waiter appeared, placing a crystal goblet and pitcher on the small golden table next to her.

Too bad Alex had spent entirely too much time in the inn lately. She had things to do, armies to conquer. If only The One would get off her high horse and come back to Yandara. True, "If There Be Dragons" was now completed, but there were so many other things that needed to be done. So many stories to be told.

Even the dragons were pining for The One.

Alex sighed and took a gulp of ale as Theonelly, the current Main One, walked into the room. Dressed in a set of wizard’s robes, the girl looked like a child playing dress-up.

Maybe she wouldn’t come over. Maybe she wouldn’t want to talk.

And maybe pigs would fly in The One’s next work.

Of course, with Theonelly as the Main One, it was entirely possible. Alex grinned at the thought.

"Alex, I need help." Theonelly made it a statement, so Alex merely nodded her head. Yes, the girl did need help. "She’s left me screaming at the castle gates for over 2 weeks. The poor guard is ready to slit his throat, and I swear…"

Alex looked at the heavy brass and wood door, praying for someone, anyone to walk through it. Shane, her husband and a master assassin, would be great. Z’Hara, God of Chaos and her grandsire, would create a nice diversion. At this point Alex would settle for Walker, the boy from The One’s "real-world" experiments.

No such luck.

"Theo, you have to have patience with The One. She knows what she’s doing." Hopefully that would quiet Theo down. The girl hadn’t fully gone through her transformation from insecure princess to self-confident young wizard yet, and was hard to handle.

Maybe Alex should pray for patience herself.

"Why is she even writing my story if I can’t hold her attention? She wrote Walker while I was still in my second chapter." Alex raised an eyebrow as Theo conjured herself a glass of ale. She actually got it right the first time.

"She hasn’t even given my story a title yet," Theo whispered, twirling a strand of blonde hair around one finger.

Alex shook her head. When would the new ones understand? "Look, The One took her time with my story, too. But it’s worth it. I promise."

"Why can’t it go faster?"

Alex drummed her fingers on the table top, annoyed. Didn’t this young upstart know what The One and Alex had been through? A coma. First love. Betrayal. Death. "Can you maybe…"

Alex took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Along with red-hair, The One had given her a temper to match. It would do The One no good for Alex to reduce this Main one into a pile of quivering fear. But, oh, if only she had a sword in her hand…

The One would come back to Yandara and be among her comrades.

Maybe.

Alex continued to ignore the new one as best she could. She looked deep into the marble fireplace, watched the logs on the fire. At first they were glowing, with only small flames to show that The One still thought of writing.

But as Theo chattered on like a magpie on drugs, a wondrous thing happened. The logs burst, the flames shooting up into the chimney and sparks flying against the grating.

She didn’t need to look at Theo to know that the girl hadn’t seen them. They burned solely for Alex.

The One was coming for a visit.

Smiling, Alex stood. "Theo, if you want to interest The One you really need to work on not being so annoying." Alex leaned down and whispered in Theo’s ear "Because, you know, she lets me kill the really annoying ones."

Laughing, Alex left the Cobweb Inn and headed home towards Yandara and The One.

Copyright © 2000 by Wynelda-Ann Shelton


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Fiction Corner

Alison Hawke

Warts and all

No-one's perfect and some of us are downright odd. The most interesting characters I've met are ones that are not 100% black or white but shades of grey, with some interesting quirks thrown in. When I'm designing characters I try to give them some depth and colour with strange habits, attitudes or obsessions. It makes writing them much more fun.

Rob Fleming, the main character from the novel "High Fidelity" by Nick Hornby, lives his life in Top Five lists, such as his top five worst break-ups, top five songs he wants played at his funeral, top five bands or musicians that will have to be shot come the musical revolution, and top five floor fillers at a nightclub where Rob used to be DJ. Periodically he reorders his vast record collection into alphabetical or chronological order, or purchase order.

Arthur Dent, hero of Douglas Adam's Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy, ends up travelling through space in his dressing gown, looking for a decent cup of tea.

Superman had two weaknesses, kryptonite and Lois Lane. Without those, he would have been untouchable, he would have won every fight easily, and we would have been bored. Arnold Schwarzenegger's character in the 1984 film The Terminator didn't have any weaknesses or quirks. He was an unadulterated bad guy and everyone cheered when he got crushed at the end of the film, because there was nothing to like in the character.

In the film Gone in Sixty Seconds the main character is Randall "Memphis" Raines (played by Nicolas Cage), an expert car thief who gave up crime. To save his brother's life, he must steal fifty cars in one night. But before he starts planning the thefts, he goes to see his mother. Why? Because he promised her not to steal cars again. Raines has to get his mother's permission.

Take a look at one of your favourite characters and look for what makes them memorable. Is it clothing? Speech? The fact that they cook steak every Friday for their Rottweiler? Their quietly obsessive figurine-collecting habit? The black walls in their bedroom, festooned with chalk drawings? How about someone who has their funeral service planned out by their twenty-second birthday? Perhaps your character has a scar from the time he was attacked by a poodle when he was trying to deliver the newspaper.

When you create characters, try giving them some quirks and weaknesses. Next month's column will be an interview with Australian author Kate Orman. See you then.

For every problem there is one solution which is simple, neat, and wrong.
H. L. Mencken

Drabble of the Month

Thanks to all who sent in drabbles about waiting. This month's winners are Ferna Mills and Darcy Love.

The Waiting Game
by Ferna Mills

Glancing at my watch again for the fourth time in the last thirty seconds, I felt my anger growing. He said he would be here by now. I believed he was coming. As usual, I was wrong. Every moment spent waiting seemed like a lifetime. Where is he? My mother warned me about guys like him. Full of empty promises. I finally decided he was one man I could live without. The waiting game is over. Reaching down behind the commode, I turned the valve. To my surprise, the water stopped! The services of the plumber are no longer required.


Waiting For...
by Darcy Love

Erupting from the gate, like a wayward comet, an explosion of enraged bold energy. My knees are tight against the force, body tense, muscles taught like steel cable. Surge skyward and then wrench left. The earth comes crashing towards me. The roaring in my ears is my own heart screaming the beats. Again skyward, twisting right and down again. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Tension grips me harder as my head snaps back. My feet thrust forward, then back in rhythm with the force. It seems like an hour passes waiting for the eight-second buzzer. Who will win, the bull or me?

The theme for October is obscure (due September 10th), from Dawn Arkin. The theme for November is "when?" (due October 10th), suggested by Judy Skapik, and the theme for December is unpredictable (due November 10th), suggested by Judy Bagshaw. If you have any ideas for drabble themes, please email me.

PLEASE read the drabble submission guidelines and use the spell checker before sending in your entry. Also state which month the drabble is for. Only one entry per person per month.

Email your drabbles and themes to me at alison@4-writers.com.


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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

The outpour of support I recieved after last month’s column was heartwarming. I never realized that so many of you took an interest in my writings each month. For this I am grateful. I’d like to dedicate this column to you for all your care and support as I was going through such difficulties. Thank you sincerely!

Across the Great Divide

Nothing ever prepared us for the world that would open up to us at a click of the mouse. No instruction manual was ever written that would, or could for that matter, ever explain the effect our cyber journey would have on our lives. It has been argued by many that the relationships we find ourselves building each day, are not real but merely figments of our imagination. They hold no bearing in reality and thus should be held as nothing more than a source of amusement.

I, for one, would have to argue this point. Some of the dearest people I have met in my life, I have met through the Internet. Some, I’ve been fortunate enough to put a face with and there have been those whose voices I heard in exchange of conversation but ALL have had important value in my life.

Some of them I know professionally. Even in cyberspace a positive work environment is important. I have been blessed with some of the most supportive and compassionate people instructing me as I grow in different areas. I can’t recall one single time that I have ever felt intimidated or underminded by my mentors. Certainly, there have been a few times when I have needed that little extra ounce of guidance or reassurance and I was never turned away. My colleagues are not ashamed to admit that we are all continually learning and that we can best gain success by always allowing ourselves to be accessible to knowledge. I am grateful to be part of two equally remarkable teams.

Along with the amazing professional teams I have had the pleasure of working with, I have also made a tremendous number of friends. Many I have accumulated through the numerous areas of human services I take part in online and others I’ve been blessed to meet by chance. I’m so amazed by all I have learned from them and the continuous bond we share. So many of them are so dear to my heart and have become such a part of my personal life that sometimes I wonder if they might know me better than I know myself.

I understand the quirks I hear about one’s sincerity online but are these not the same things we face on a day to day basis offline? That is reality whether it is at face value or otherwise. Personally I feel that I have met the most openhearted, sincere people anyone could ever hope to know. Some of those sent me letters of support after reading my last two columns. I deeply appreciate that. Others, I’ve yet to meet but you continually and faithfully read each month so you are a part of me. Without you I’d have no reason to write. I’m honored.

Gratefully yours, Laurie


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Fiction Short Story
"The Widow and the Thief"
Carol Malley
"A lesson to teach..."


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Inclinations

Priscilla Fagan

BEWARE the Ease of Publication

Who said it's not easy becoming a published writer? What with 500,000 manuscripts being sent to publishers yearly and only about five thousand of them actually making it to the bookshelves, wouldn't you agree?

However, today we have the Internet: it offers us e-zines, ebooks, and even dot-coms. We can submit a story or poem to an e-zine, we can be coerced into paying some big bucks to have our novel put into an e-book, or we can just click on a site, post our work and receive a pittance for it. What's wrong here?

I'll tell you what's wrong, in my opinion. Except for a few select e-zines such as T-Zero and a very few select e-presses, there is no editing staff, there is no panel saying this person needs to hone their skills, there are no guidelines to what gets printed. Where is the craft of writing?

To quote Leon Trotsky, "Technique is noticed most markedly in the case of those who have not mastered it." We, as writers know this. I can't read a book without noticing technique, grammar, POV, characterization, and oh yes, editing goofs. (I'm not talking about the occasional misspelled word either.) "The grate art in writing well, iz tew know when tew stop." Josh Billings, 1867.

Using this quote, which is true in its nature, as an example, I've seen work like this published in e-zines. Need I say BEWARE? Writing is an art form, but if we don't keep that in mind, then our chances may be doomed to ever get on the shelves as a viable author.

You never know who's reading your submission or column in one of the hundreds of online zines, so it's in your best interest to make sure that you are publishing the best piece you possibly can. Truman Capote said it simply: "Good writing is rewriting." I don't know about others, but boy, when I write a column or send a story for publication, I want it reviewed and sent back if it needs rewriting. T-Zero does this. It has an excellent editing staff and now a fiction panel. So, if you're asked to rewrite something, do it with a smile. It's in your best interest. If an e-zine can't take the time to do this, then I don't want to be associated with it. For these very reasons, I have resigned from one of these e-zines; perhaps that's why I'm so vocal at this time.

Yes, becoming a published novelist is my goal, but that means more than just seeing my name and words in print. I will choose wisely, until then. So beware, the ease of publication. Choose carefully. The Army doesn't have sole rights to the phrase, "Be the best that you can be."

I will leave you with this thought-provoking Inclination: "Writing came easy. It would only get hard when I got better at it." Garry Wills.

Priscilla
the eternal optimist


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Interview

Priscilla Fagan

Tad Williams

Tad Williams is not just a room name at F2K. No, he's a flesh and blood real honest-to-goodness writer. Author of several books, including his first, Tailchaser's Song. His protagonist? A cat! (And they said it couldn't be done.) You can read more about Tailchaser and Tad's other books by going to his site

Tad and his wife live in London and the San Francisco Bay Area. He is cofounder of an interactive television company, and is currently writing comic books and film and television scripts as well as novels. Always on the go, but you can track him down through a schedule of his personal appearances and booksignings, as well as at the above link.

I am grateful Tad has agreed to take time out of his busy life and answer some of my obtrusive questions.

Priscilla

T-zero: How did you get into writing and do you have any particular background or creative writing courses that you draw from? I know you've had lots of jobs and music was a big part of your life.

Tad Williams: As a writer, I'm largely self-taught, which actually means I've been in love with books and storytelling since I was a small child, and have been telling stories in one fashion or another as long as I can remember. But my main guide for writing has always been to write something I would want to read. I don't know if there's a better teacher, actually, although it helps if you develop a pretty good nose for whether your own work measures up to a professional standard. Then you just have to hope you're representative of at least a decent-sized audience.

T-zero: Has fantasy always been your genre and would you consider OTHERLAND to fit into science fiction more than fantasy?

TW: OTHERLAND is definitely science-fiction, in that the mysteries and seemingly magical events in the book all have to have at least a pseudo-scientific explanation. That said, I'm willing to stretch the bounds of known physics a bit. After all, I'm not a fanatic, I'm a storyteller.

T-zero: Seeing some of the obstacles you put in your hero's way, do you use the Mythic Structure of Jung and Campbell in your writing?

TW: No, nothing so formal, although anyone who writes the kind of thing I do and is familiar with Jung and Joseph Campbell can't help but see that there are many areas of overlap. But in my case, that's largely because I'm reaching back to old stories and myths anyway, so if there's a pre-existing congruity of structure in such things, then it's bound to show up in my work.

T-zero: Reading some of OTHERLAND I can't help but think of the old TV show 'Quantum Leap'. You must have to do a tremendous amount of research even though you are writing fantasy. How much time do you spend on research? And how important is research in fantasy or science fiction compared to other genres?

TW: Speaking of quantum leaps, OTHERLAND has been that for me as far as research goes. Not only is there the quasi-scientific aspect of it, there's all the real-world settings (which are only a generation or so removed from now, so they have to be researched just as though the novel was using contemporary settings), not to mention all the virtual simulations, many of which are supposed to represent multi-billion dollar attempts to create perfect versions of real historical settings. I must have read more than a dozen books just to do the chapter and a half set in World War One.

T-zero: We at T-Zero and WVU are learning the craft of writing and honing our skills. How do you prepare to write a novel? Do you use an outline in preparation or do you sit and begin to write?

TW: Books like mine couldn't be written without some kind of outline -- they're just too big and too complex, not to mention that the foreshadowing I'm doing in the first part of the story is going to be published (and thus beyond re-editing) long before the foreshadowed events actually get written, so I have to have a decent idea of what I want to have happen. That said, I also like to keep some freshness and discovery in the process, so I'm not a puritan about sticking to my outline. A story like OTHERLAND takes years to write, and I make lots of discoveries and change as a person and a writer in the process. It would be sad if that weren't reflected somehow in the story.

T-zero: You mentioned your mother being a driving force behind your creativity. Was there anyone else who influenced you?

TW: Certainly some teachers -- I was introduced to Shakespeare in a big way by a high school English teacher, and a junior high social studies teacher first sparked my interest in the Kalahari Bushmen, who play an important part in the OTHERLAND books. Most of my other influences are writers, especially those who grabbed me when I was young: Tolkien, Bradbury, Moorcock, Leiber, Sturgeon, and P.K. Dick, just to name a very few. Some others, like Thomas Pynchon and Russell Hoban, have even influenced me as an adult writer.

T-zero: What type of books do you like to read when you find the time after "engineering world peace?"

TW: A little bit of everything. At the moment, as a father of two young children, who also has to read a lot of non-fiction for research, I find myself re-reading old favorites in the few minutes I get per day for sport-reading. Just in the last week or so I've gone through BRIDESHEAD REVISITED, GULLIVER'S TRAVELS, some T.H. White short stories, and RED SQUARE (third book in the Arkady Renko books by Martin Cruz Smith), all for at least the second time. I read some new stuff too, but I'll be able to do that more easily when the kids aren't quite such a 24-hour job.

T-zero: What advice would you give first-time authors?

TW: Write regularly and often. If you want to write genre fiction, don't read too much in the genre -- it will make your ideas small and derivative. And don't keep writing the beginning of something over and over, trying to get it perfect. Finishing is much more important than a perfect beginning, if such a thing even exists, and it's a lot easier to rewrite when you know the shape of the whole piece.

T-zero: You have one book left to write in the series "OTHERLAND." What will come next for Tad Williams?

TW: I'm doing a couple of stand-alone books (notable because I'm fairly known for huge multi-volume stories), one a sort of modern dark fantasy, the other a bunch of linked short stories set in my fantasy universe.

T-zero: I always like to end an interview using some of James Lipton's questions for fun. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule.

What is your favorite word?
Don't know, but a reader pointed out that I use "vast" a bit too much.

What is your least favorite word?
"Had" after "had", as in, "He had had one too many."

What turns you on?
Making things. Finding out that people like the things I make. My wife and kids. Basketball. Anything that makes me laugh.

What turns you off?
Cruelty, bullying, failures of responsibility and empathy.

What sound or noise do you love?
Cellos and other stringed instruments. My kids laughing. Good singing voices.

What sound or noise do you hate?
People honking car horns for no useful reason.

What profession would you be in if not this?
Teacher, film director, musician, carnie.

What profession would you hate to be in?
Anything where I have to show up on time or wear a suit, and I can't stare into space, thinking.

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?
"We're a little overcrowded. Why don't you go back and have fun for another couple of centuries and we'll find a spot for you later."


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Living History

Rita Y. Toews is a Canadian writer who took up the challenge to write seriously at the age of 50. Several of her children's stories will be available at CrossroadsPub.Com later this year as well as two novels which she has co-authored. She has been published in Zygote, Western People, Mysterical-E and Coming Home magazines. As well, one of her stories has appeared on the Winnipeg Free Press web site.

Rita is currently working on a mystery novel set in her hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba, with Hungarian author, Alex Domokos.

"The Problems of "IT""

by

Rita Y. Toews

George was a guy with a problem. As I entered the room I found him slumped at his desk, his hands toying with a ragged eraser, a look of misery on his face. Who could he turn to for advice? All knowledgeable sources of information seemed closed to him. George's problem, he confessed to me, had started earlier in the day when we had arrived at school.

School was quite naturally the center of the universe for the children of Taylor, a small town in the Peace River District of British Columbia. Taylor's main claim to fame in the early 1960's was the oil processing plant which employed most of the men of the town. George's family was different because his father worked on the railway.

There was another odd thing about George's family: all the clocks in the house were set with a one-hour time difference from the rest of the community. The first time I had ever visited at his house I had been warned to be home at 4:00 o'clock. Later in the day when I had checked the time I was stunned to see that the clock showed 5:00 o'clock, indicating that I was in trouble at home. It had come as a big relief to learn that because his father worked on the railway the entire household ran on "railway time."

Although his family was different, George himself was just one of us kids. And now my friend had a problem.

George and I had arrived at school that morning just as the bell rang. Our teacher, Mrs. Dubois, who was also the principal of our tiny school, lived in a neat little bungalow right beside the school grounds. Most mornings she would walk over at 9:00 to escort the pupils into the school. This morning we had watched as she rushed out her door pulling on her sweater. Trailing close behind was her fat black and white spaniel, Molly. Now Molly was a mystery to both George and me. She had been fat, like she was going to have babies, for a long time now. Getting up my courage, I asked Mrs. Dubois if Molly was going to have her babies soon. She had told us that no, Molly wasn't going to have babies.

"Well, why is she so fat then?"

"Molly can't have puppies anymore," she told us with a touch of sadness in her voice, "Molly is an 'it' now. Poor Molly." She stooped to stroke the little butterball's head.

George and I had looked at each other and had wisely kept silent. After all, Mrs. Dubois gave us our report cards and it wouldn't be wise to have her think we were so dumb that we didn't know what an "it" was. As far as I was concerned dogs came like people did: some were he's and some were she's. Where did an "it" enter the picture?

As we slipped into our respective seats in the classroom, one behind the other, George and I had decided that Edward Reilly had to be an "it" because he was fat and also the weirdest boy in the classroom, even if his parents did run the only movie theatre in town. The dumb movies they usually showed and the fact that the movies only ran on weekends proved that they were a whole family of "its."

Unbeknownst to me, George had a major problem with the conversation about Molly being an "it." It was easy for me to laugh and tease when there was no stake in actually knowing just what an "it" was, but it soon dawned on George that he had a very good reason to know exactly what an "it" was.

The previous week the grade fives had learned how to administer CPR. At least we had learned the basics of the technique, and had been instructed to practise on a family member at home. There was no way George was going to do mouth-to-mouth with his snotty little sister so he had been practising CPR on his black lab, Lucy, by clamping her muzzle shut and blowing into her nose.

George's reasoning was that if being an "it" was something that was contagious in dogs and his dog Lucy had it, then maybe he also had a problem after administering "the breath of life" to her.

Now just who did George go to with this problem? Not to his mother or father, that's for sure. His mother had screamed like a banshee when she caught him kneeling beside the dog, its snout in his mouth, practising his technique. Lucy had bolted in terror, her nails leaving long gashes down George's arms. His mother had given him one of her just-what-do-you-think-you're-up-to-young-man lectures and had threatened to bring it to his father's attention. Luckily the antics of his sister had later driven it from her mind.

He couldn't bring it up with Mrs. Dubois because she was our teacher and would think he was dumb if he didn't know what an "it" was. After all, she had talked to us as if we already knew, which meant that we should know. I had to confess to him that I didn't really know exactly what it was, although it sure sounded like something that Edward Reilly could be. That only made matters worse for George, because to resemble Edward Reilly was like the end of the world.

I hit upon the idea that we could look it up in the dictionary, so we delved into the huge classroom tome. Unfortunately after the first line of "it (it), pro., nom. it, poss, its or (Obs. or Dial.)" we knew we were in way over our heads and gave up. There was only one source of wisdom left: Mr. Konofsky, the janitor.

Mr. Konofsky was a gray, stooped little man who talked out of the side of his mouth because of the roll-your-own cigarette that was perpetually wedged in the other side. We found him trailing after his wide mop as he worked his way back and forth across the scuff-marked gym floor, his eyes squinting against the cigarette smoke.

Strictly speaking, no children were supposed to be in the school over the lunch hour but Mr. Konofsky didn't always play by the rules. As long as we didn't tear the place apart, the kids who stayed at school for lunch usually had free rein when Mrs. Dubois went home for her lunch.

We kept pace beside the janitor and George got the conversation going. He decided to approach the subject rather obliquely.

"So, Mr. Konofsky. Did you know Molly's an "it?"

"Yup," was the reply as he sucked wetly at the glowing cigarette. We continued our slow journey across the gym in silence.

"That's kind of weird, huh?" George continued, desperate to get to the bottom of the matter. "How'd that happen, I wonder?"

"Had a horse once that did himself in." Did I see a hint of a smile as he talked? "Misjudged the height of the barbed wire fence, I guess. Gotta be careful going over fences."

George stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my gosh!" he blurted as his face turned red. Obviously everything had become crystal clear to him, but I was still in the dark. No amount of badgering could pry any information out of my friend. "Ask your mom," was all that he would say.

Forty years later when I hear of a dog being an "it" I am still reminded of a young boy practising CPR on a patient black lab named Lucy.

Copyright © 2000 by Rita Y. Toews


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Market Watch

Nancy B. Leake

Market Watch is not another stock quote line, but a listing of what is best and what is not, in markets for writers. I will be asking for your experiences with printed and web markets. Each issue will cover where to send your submissions and suggest ones you should avoid. Enclosed in this column will be a spot for Best Web Markets, Best Print Markets, Late, or Poor Payers (for those markets you have had problems with), and Don’t Bother (for markets that consistently provide a bad experience for the writer.

When you send your suggestions to me enclose: The name and type of the market, What type of writing they publish and the word count, The guidelines for submission or how to get the guidelines, How to contact the company, and who to contact, What they pay, and If they accept submission from new writers, if noted.

I would also like to hear about your experience with these companies. Why you liked the company or why you had a poor experience with them. This week I will start you off with a few markets that I have submitted to or researched. I will not be rating the markets today, since ratings will be based upon your opinions. Instead, the market will be listed by type, not quality.

Remember when you submit your writing to always enclose a query letter that looks professional and enclose a self addressed stamped envelope (SASE), if you want a response or want your manuscript returned.

When you submit your work, remember that to be published, some heartache may occur; expect rejection. Sometimes the market may not be suitable for your work. A rejection does not mean it is poor work; just that it did not meet the requirements of the market you chose. Do not give up. Pick another company. Try making a deal with yourself: send work out regularly on a specific day of the month or week. Persistence pays off. Do not procrastinate.

I look forward to viewing your Best and Worst choices for Writing Markets. Email your markets to me at nancyleake@wvu.org.

Print Markets:

Brutarian Quarterly is a magazine whose goal is to entertain, inform, and strive "never to care what you (the writer) thinks." They accept fiction, poetry, or reviews of books eldritch or unusual subject matter, and feature pieces. Limitations: for fiction is one story of less than 10,000 words; Poetry up to five pieces of one page each. Fiction and poetry pay $.05-.07 per word, or $.10 if they are impressed. Review limits are 50-300 words at $.05/word. Feature articles can be any length and pay $100-300. Mail to: Dominick J. Salemi, Editor/Publisher, Brutarian Quarterly, PO Box 25222, Arlington, VA 22202-9222. A sample magazine can be purchased for $6.

Breathe is a UK poetry magazine that accepts any style poetry, 3-6 poems. More guidelines can be obtained here . Submissions should be sent to Sharon Sweet, the editor at breathemag@email.com with your name, location, email, and a brief biography. Payment is a copy of the magazine. Copyrights remain with the poet. Response is almost overnight. A magazine may be purchased for 2.00 pounds UK, 2.60 Europe, 3.00 international or $3 U.S. dollars by contacting the editor. They accept new writers.

55 Fiction is Steve Moss’s site for short fiction, fifty-five words or less. In-depth guidelines for story suggestions and how to figure word count can be found here. Submissions should be sent to Fifty-Five Fiction, Dept. 55, 197 Santa Rosa St., San Luis Obispo, CA 93405 for the November contest and consideration in the sequel to The World’s Shortest Stories. Postcard acknowledgment of receipt is sent in about 4 weeks. No exact date of contest or payment is listed.

Web Markets:

Strange Horizons is a new online magazine searching for fiction, dark fiction, or magic realism. Short stories, poetry, or articles written about human and non-human experiences, about dreams and reality, about the past and the future, about the here-and-now, and the otherwhere-and-elsewhen, in less than 5000 words, (will consider longer pieces). Guidelines can be obtained here. Submissions should be sent e-mail to fiction@strangehorizons.com. in plain text with double spacing to indicate paragraph breaks. Type "FICTION SUB: Your story title" in the subject line; or contact Mary Anne Mohanraj, Editor-in-Chief at editor@strangehorizons.com They pay $.03/word and purchase first-printing world exclusive rights for two months. They respond by email in about four weeks.

Nancy B. Leake, ARNP, CS-FNP, MSN is a Fort Lauderdale-based freelance business writer who has been published in The Nurse Practitioner August 1996, and contributed to the Management Guidelines for Adult Nurse Practitioners 1999, by Lynne M. Hektor, and will be published in the magazine Breathe in the December/January issue.


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Sparks

Karen (Karenika) Grunberg

Secret Lives

This month we're going to concentrate on character development. Regardless of whether it's plot-driven or character-driven, each story has characters. In some stories they are more important than others. My favorite kinds of stories involve characters that stay with me long after I've stopped reading.

To create such three-dimensional characters, you need to delve into their lives and walk in their shoes. You must discover their fears, create their pasts; think of their clothing, their mimics and many other details. This time, we will concentrate on their secret lives and their deep desires.

Everyone has secrets. We all keep things from other people, sometimes even from ourselves. There are reasons for this privacy. Sometimes we're worried people will make fun of us; other times we're worried they won't like us if they know we've made a mistake in the past. Realistic characters should have the same lack of honesty.

For this exercise, you can either use a character from an ongoing novel or one from a work you're planning. Just pick one specific character for a specific story. Got it? Okay, let's begin.

Make a list of three secrets this character is keeping from everyone. Here's the list for a character, Angie, from my novel.

  • I've always wanted to be drawn in the nude.
  • I blame Mother for Daddy's death.
  • I've fantasized about being famous.

Once you have your secrets, try to expand on them and tell us why your character is keeping this matter a secret. Here's my updated list:

  • I feel uncomfortable with my body and I've always been jealous of the models who have no problem with posing nude. I figured if I could get the courage to do that, I might be more at peace with my body.

  • Daddy was such a loving and giving man and Mother never showed enough attention to him. I don't understand how they ever ended up together. I think that when Daddy was so stressed about his job and making sure we were happy, Mother didn't help at all with her constant bickering about how imperfect everything was. She never gave him the love he deserved. When he got sick, she didn't care for him. If it weren't for her lack of emotion, he'd still be alive now.

  • I wish I were famous. Then I could draw or paint whenever I wanted. I'd like people to have that much respect for me, and I like the idea of being considered at the height of my field. People look up to famous people, and I wouldn't have to manage anyone if I were famous.

These secrets might not mean much to you, but they are closely related to my character and my story. If you want to take this idea even further, you can tell us why your character is hiding these secrets from everyone else. Does she think they'd make fun of her? Is she superstitious? Is she worried about damaging her reputation? Does she not want to hurt someone else's feelings?

Discovering the secrets of your characters will bring you closer to understanding them and will make your stories more realistic. Some of these secrets might even turn out to be ideas for other stories or even novels.

As always, make sure to have fun, fun, fun!

Sparkling ideas:

We don't get any for months and this month we get three! Here are some fantastic ideas:

Darcy Richards from Las Vegas, Nevada gives the idea of writing 'the minute details. As in, the smallest, tiniest, easily overlooked details.' Try this in your descriptions and see how much life it adds to your stories.

Margaret May says, "One thing that definitely takes me into a story is the sensuous: the smell/perfume and touch/feel of things, as well as colour and movement." Try using her amazing advice in your next story. Activate your senses as you write.

Cheryl Rhyspan wrote an amazing ThemeStream article about how to come up with vivid descriptions. She suggests a great way of learning and keeping track of different subjects to make your descriptions come to life. You can read her article here.

Thanks so much to Darcy, Margaret and Cheryl. If you have any sparkling ideas, please send them to me at karenika@wvu.org.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
http://TheWritersEzine.com
Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved
Submissions Guidelines The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
NO ATTACHMENTS.

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.

Craft Features: Queries about Craft features should be sent to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

Original short fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, particularly non-fiction related to the craft of writing and interviews.

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.

Non-fiction should be related to the craft of writing or be good resource material for writers. Accuracy and originality are vital. No reprints. If it has already been published somewhere else, our readers will spot it and let us know.

What We Won't Publish

Anything that inspires "hate," is defamatory or is pornographic.

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

Seasonal material submitted during the same month (i.e., a Christmas story in December). Our lead time is short compared to print publications, but we do need time to edit, html and proof submission. A good guideline is to submit the manuscript by the first of the preceding month (i.e., submit a Christmas story before November 1st).

Length Recommendations

  • For Fiction, under 1500 words is preferred. We will consider excerpts from longer works.

  • Poetry should fit on one printed page if possible. A maximum of five poems may be submitted at one time (when the hold is lifted).

  • Non-fiction or Craft features have the most leeway in word count. In general these manuscripts should be 750 to 2,000 words. We like to take advantage of the hypertext capabilities we have available and link to charts, graphs, lists and so forth. Thumbnail versions may be included in the body of the article.

Rights

All rights other than first electronic, non-exclusive 'anthology' (for collections of T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine works only), and non-exclusive archival rights (we keep back issues online) are and remain the sole and exclusive property of the author.

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine is an HTML publication. This gives us access to a variety of options but it is also a limiting factor.

  • Underlining is used exclusively for links in HTML. Please do not underline in your manuscript. It you are including a link to a webpage for reference, please mark the link the following way: (WEB LINK) http://thewritersezine.com (END WEB LINK).
  • The less than (<) and greater than (>) signs are used to enclose HTML encoding. If you need to use brackets, please use the square [ ] ones instead.
  • Paragraph indentation requires time consuming insertion of multiple HTML symbols. Please separate paragraphs by inserting a hard, blank line between them.
  • Fonts need to be simple. No multiple fonts. We prefer standard fonts such as Times New Roman, Courier or Arial set at 12 point. If your subject matter requires something else, ask us first.
  • The curly (smart) quotes, apostrophes, the em dash (two hyphens together) and ellipsis … (three periods) become strange and exotic characters when copied from your word processor into email. Check your preferences or options to see if you can use straight quotes. 
  • Text formatting such as bold, italic, centering, bullet list, etc., should be noted in the text by using all caps in parentheses. For example, if you wanted to italicize the word submission, you would type: (ITALICS) submission (END ITALICS).

Editing

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.

Getting to Know You

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.

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

Include the type of submission (fiction, non-fiction) in the subject line.

Be sure to include your name and email address in the body of the email.

If you do not receive an acknowledgement that your submission or query was received within a week, please send a follow-up query with “Did you Receive?” in the subject line. In the body of the email, please include your name and email address, the title of the work submitted, and if different, the email address sent from. Do not resend the submission unless we request it.

Good luck!


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
http://TheWritersEzine.com
Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

 

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