T-zero Xpandizine
 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
07 January 2009
E IS FOR... The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

E IS FOR...

Margaret Carr

Writer's Block

What is it?

Some say it doesn't exist. They haven't been there.

Some think it is just a lack of ideas and try to help by suggesting approaches or sources for coming up with ideas. This probably does help some writers but ignores those who don't fit in that category.

Some say it is just lack of skill in developing plot or character or whatever and advise taking classes or otherwise studying the craft. Learning more about the craft and practicing the skills is good strategy but even highly skilled authors have hit blocks.

Some blame lack of confidence or low self-esteem and recommend esteem raising exercises such as visualizing yourself with your best-seller or receiving a high award.

Some think it is just being over-critical. They suggest just getting the words down and leaving the editing until later. Not much help if the words evaporate before you can "get them down."

Some think it is just fear, either fear of failure or fear of success, and if you just face it down you can overcome it.

Some have licked one form of it and are sure that their solution will work for everyone. It doesn't.

What is it, really?

First, it is real. It isn't laziness, or lack of self-esteem or any other single factor that can be magically cured simply by following someone else's advice. It is more than just being "stuck."

It is almost always a combination of stresses that interferes with your ability to write. It may hit at any point in the writing process, from the beginning of idea formation through development or at the point of revising.

It keeps you from writing no matter how much you want to write or how much you need to write.

It gets worse.

I have been there. More accurately, I am still there although the last three years have helped considerably.

What can you do?

Since I don't know you, don't know what you are struggling with, the only honest answer to this question is that I don't know. I only know what has helped me and what hasn't. But, since what helped me might be helpful, in part at least, I'm going to go ahead and give advice anyway. I'm also going to try to present it nicely organized and sequential. I didn't do these things in a well-organized or sequential manner. I floundered around and grabbed at possible lifelines, most of which broke as soon as I grasped them, and often went off in hindsight-verified wrong directions.

Determining that there was no physical cause was the first step that really helped. If there had been a physical cause, well, I have almost a lifetime's worth of figuring out work-arounds to some physical limitations, so I would have started concentrating on that.

The next helpful step, which took a long time and following many false (for me) trails was realizing that there was a difference between being stuck and being blocked.

Stuck usually only affects one story or article or whatever you are writing. You write yourself into a corner with no way out or get to a point where you are unsure of facts that you know you have to get right. Sometimes it is just that you would rather be writing something else but have committed to writing this, even though you don't want to. Once you figure out why you are stuck, the solution is usually a simple one. You backtrack to where you went astray or research the facts or just grit your teeth and get it done so you can have time for what you really want to do. At the very worst you can file the problem and go on to something else.

Blocked is worse, much worse. For me it was progressive. File and switch didn't work because I'd just hit the block again in the new piece. Stories bright and alive in my head would just lie down and die on paper. The more I fought it, the earlier it hit until I couldn't even get the first words down before the entire story vanished.

So I gave up. Writing wasn't fun any more. I really didn't need to write fiction anyway. Besides, there was too much other stress in my life to be adding to it. This was not a wise choice. Something in me does need to write, needs to share the stories I dream up.

Stopping trying to write down the stories didn't keep my mind from thinking them up. Even worse, they would interfere with my concentration on other writing I needed to do. Then I started blocking on the other writing. For work I needed to type minutes. It would take days to finish. A simple business letter could take a week to compose and get on paper. Finally the last straw and the one that started me worrying that there might be a physical cause, I started having trouble speaking. I would know what I needed and wanted to say, and go blank in the middle of a sentence.

Once the physical was eliminated and I knew that the block was real and not the same as being stuck, I looked for help.

There are many books and even courses that help develop creativity, increase motivation and inspire. I enjoyed them but they weren't what I needed. Fortunately I concluded that I needed to look in many directions and try different combinations.

I'm reasonably strong with the basic mechanics of writing, grammar and spelling but knew from rejection slips before the block that I needed more practice in plotting and continuity in particular. The peer basis classes at WVU got me away from the teacher-knows-best frame of mind and the assumption that there is a best way. I could try different, even opposing approaches and keep what worked for me.

Finding others who shared my dreams and some of my problems and others who I could help was another major benefit. The block is biggest and meanest when you face it alone.

I found that the block had cracks that I could work through. If I couldn't write what I wanted to write, well, I decided to write what I could write. Every word I get on paper or screen is a victory and makes the next word a little easier. I still have a long way to go before I will be submitting fiction again, but I will!

So, if you are blocked:
Don't give up!
Find out what areas the block affects.
Work around them or find ways through them.
Keep writing even if one word at a time. You'll make it!


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Book Review

Margaret Carr

Craft Model Author

Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold
Eos; ISBN: 0380979012; Hardcover; Released On: 07/12/01;
Pages: 448; $25.00; $37.95(CAN)

The publisher's site also lists several electronic versions to be released on 08/01/01; $19.95; $30.95(CAN)

Most writing craft books tell you how to do something. Some include examples and explanations of how the author achieved the results desired, or missed the target. If you are lucky the focus will be on what you want to learn and the explanation won't confuse you too much.

Another approach is to read authors who do what you want to do, and do it supremely well. While the explanations may be lacking the reading pleasure involved is ample compensation. Any book by Lois McMaster Bujold (Four Hugos, two Nebulas) is a good choice for that approach. Character, plot, description and theme are all strong points.

Curse of Chalion follows Cazaril, a former courtier, former soldier freed from Galleys slavery broken in body and mind with little hope for the future except a menial place in his boyhood home. He has been gone for years and presumes he is forgotten.

They stared down their noses at him as though they could smell him from there. He was not a person they wished to impress, no lord or lady who might hand down largesse to them as they might to him; still, he would do for them to practice their aristocratic airs upon. They mistook his returning stare for admiration, perhaps, or maybe just for half-wittedness.
(Chapter One)

There is more in store for Cazaril than his modest hopes. There are those who do remember the boy he was and will help. Soon he has much to lose and must make choices that will endanger his gains.

Choices and consequences are tightly tied in all of Bujold's books. She is a master of the art of allowing her characters to forge themselves. She is also master of ignoring pre-conceptions. Critics may insist that genre literature is plot based in contrast to main-stream or literary which is character based but they miss the hunger many readers have for characters who do and struggle and win. (Of course, what they win may not be what they expected. In Cetaganda, one of Bujold's Vorkosigan books, Miles 'saves the Empire' but not the Empire he dreamed of saving in boyhood dreams!)

Officially, Curse of Chalion is fantasy. There is, limited, magic and there are gods who can intervene in the mortal world but it is the characters who determine the story.

Eos has been posting sample chapters, starting on March 1st, at three week intervals. Click on Features to get to the sample chapters portal.

For more about Lois McMaster Bujold, The Bujold Nexus has FAQs, covers and a link to her very active mailing list.

Note: the date of July 12th for release is from the Eos site. Earlier dates given were the first part of August.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Catherine's Kitchen

Catherine Manning

Wondering

Well, I'm sitting here wondering what to write, before Margaret sends me a polite 'Do we have a column this month' letter!

The dogs are outside barking protecting the fence; two of them can jump the four feet to the top of the wall and run along inside the picket fence on the top of the wall; they can also jump over and go behind the monkeys, who do their best to irritate. There are a group of them. I have photos of the four youngest monkeys, who posed for me, though there is only one around now of the young ones. I call him Mr. Cheeky as that is what he is; he has no fear of dog or human. He is getting a little too brave and I'm scared that the dogs will catch him as he will jump over the fence and run from one end of the lawn to the other, with ten dogs in pursuit, which is pushing his luck. He sits on the lowest branch of the trees with his tail hanging just out of the dogs' reach, which drives them bananas. I have a rain gauge on the fence and one of his favourite pranks is to take it off the fence and throw it on the ground; so I can't measure what little rain we're getting at the moment, though I can always tell from the amount in the water pan I have for the turtles. It's usually none, as we are in a drought.

Mr. Cheeky has found my paw-paw tree growing behind the house, which is full of fruit, about thirty or more lovely paw-paws, round ones with very thick orange flesh, which are the best. (I threw out seeds and this appeared). I have been trying to leave them on the tree as long as possible for the best flavour and had picked two almost ripe ones and left the others which were just beginning to turn. Then I went out one morning to find a bite in one very small one which was obviously what we call "force ripe," so I decided it was time to save some of the others. Monkeys can be very destructive; they don't just eat one fruit, but will bite several and spoil them, or pick them and throw them on the ground to spoil, so I have to be ahead of the game. For several years we have had a problem with paw-paw here, the trees developing what is called "bunchy top" a disease which kills the trees; however, I think I have a throwback here from the old stock, hope so.

Paw-paw is mainly a carbohydrate with a small amount of protein and fibre. It's also a good source of vitamin A and contains vitamins B, C, calcium, phosphorus and iron. Paw-paw also contains the enzyme papain which acts as a tenderizing agent and the immature fruit can be used in stews, etc. I have also used the leaves to wrap meat for an hour or so to tenderize it. Underripe fruit can also be preserved and used as a dessert, though I prefer a ripe paw-paw with a squeeze of lime and, if necessary, a sprinkle of sugar. There are many other uses for the pawpaw. The turtles love the skins. I have thirty of them: land turtles or tortoises, babies, youngsters and others of all ages and I have eggs that I saved from the dogs, which I hope will hatch. I was going to give you a recipe for Preserved Paw-paw, but instead I'll do the Preserved Melon Rind, which came out really well. I'm getting free water melons just to do the rind.

PRESERVED MELON RIND

Take one watermelon, cut out fruit for eating and save rind. Peel rind and cut remnants into strips of about 2" x 1". Cover in water, bring slowly to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Drain and cover with cold water for two hours. I put the bowl in the freezer. Drain and squeeze dry between towels. For every pound of fruit, have a pound of sugar and to every pound of sugar have a cup of water. Make a syrup of the sugar and water and boil for ten minutes or so, add fruit and simmer till done. Bottle in sterilized bottles and use on ice cream or as you would preserved fruit.

TALKING ABOUT the four-legged monkeys brings me back to the two-legged species; the grey matter might not be too much different.

One Sunday, we went to church. I don't want that to sound as if we never went to church; we did as my mother made us. My father had his own ideas and was religious in his own way and supported the church always. Every harvest day truckloads of produce went free to the church and the church made the money selling it. But this Sunday in question might not have been the right time, though I think the congregation had fun as usual as they used to look forward to seeing us children in church. Like the police. We discovered this afterwards; we never thought about it at the time.

My mother gathered us together and managed to get us in the car and our father waved us off as usual. We had a pew in church which was ours only, right up front under the pulpit, but when we were all there, my mother sat at the back of the front section, if you get my drift! This Sunday in question, my mother's attention must have drifted for a bit, as all I remember seeing is my three brothers' backsides crawling over the pews and under the pews, over and under the pews, till they got to the pulpit. The Reverend Johnson, whom we knew well, was silent for quite a while after they said 'Good Morning Reverend Johnson' and made their way back down. My mother was livid. She stopped on the way back home and made the boys go and pick the whips she was going to beat them with; she did too but hadn't gotten far when my father had a hearty laugh, as did we girls! A few years later, one of the regulars told my mother how much they looked forward to seeing us in church. It made their day! My poor mother said to me not long ago that she's not sure why she's still here. Because she's strong, I guess, and has her place with the great grandchildren now, who adore their "Nan." She spoils them silly. The youngest is Brandon, who is one year old on Wednesday and I have to make his birthday cake which is going to be chocolate at the request of his older brother Jake. So I'm going to make a:

DEVILS FOOD CAKE

  • 6 ozs. flour
  • 1/2 tsp. baking powder
  • 1 tsp. baking soda
  • Pinch of salt
  • 2 oz. cocoa
  • 7-1/2 fl. oz. water
  • 4 oz. margarine
  • 10 oz. castor sugar
  • 2 eggs

Oven 350F.

Sift dry ingredients, flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Blend cocoa with water and set aside. Beat margarine and sugar till light and fluffy. Whisk eggs till frothy and add to sugar mixture a little at a time and beat well. Stir in the flour alternately with the cocoa mixture. Divide the mixture between two greased and floured 8" cake pans and bake for 30-35 minutes until skewer comes away clean. Leave to cool and then sandwich halves together and cover cake with your favourite frosting.

Bon Appetit
Cath


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

These pieces all fit our theme of the month, Metaphor, so well that I'm choosing all of them for this month. I'm very happy to have the chance to see and to feel the engagement of minds, hearts, and souls reflected here.

The Journey
by Tracy Simmons

I know where I want to get to, but I am not sure how to get there. There are many routes on offer, but apparently only one of them is correct. I have been given a map, written by others who have travelled the journey before me, but I am not sure how to read it. I can ask for directions, but I am not sure that I am hearing the answers. I can follow the signs, but I must understand them as well, and I must beware of the signs that point down the wrong roads. There are lots of people on the side of the road, cheering me on, but I feel like there is no one in the car with me. They tell me that there is someone in the back, but I can not see him yet. I do not know how long the trip will take, and I do not know when I will arrive, but I believe I will get there someday. Some people arrive very quickly, some are born there, and others, like me, will take a while. For some it may take all their lives. This is my journey to find God.

As Seen By A Woman In Love
by Terri Mudd

Yesterday her room was dingy, her clothes out of date. But in her dream he kissed her, a metaphor for the impossible. This morning she dressed for him. Maybe today... she rushed, heedless of the fall chill, on time, almost, for her, a wonderful, electric day. Maybe he will see her. He kissed her in her dream. Up the stairs, around the corner. Whoops. A clatter, books and papers fly. There she was, clumsy, awkward, fashionless, the dream gone. There he was, their things mingled on the floor. He said, "I dreamed about you."

Last of the Spring Cleaning
by Kaye Pierce

Sifting through the mail, stacked for consumption when no more would fit without falling, some advertisements catch my eye. Several unopened envelopes compete for attention, offering low interest introductory rates. I smirk at their redundancy. Hasty plastic purchases collected dust on shelves and yellowed price tags hung unclipped in the closet. Until I gave away the stuff and cut up the tempting cards. Useless things no longer crowd my home. Little poems fill spaces left empty in my wallet. My interest is lower than any rate promised on the envelopes. Introducing them to the waste can unopened, I am free.

Sometimes, we can be in a place where almost everything does seem metaphorical--meaningful and connected, symbolic in some way of a higher or more encompassing version of the same entity. But when in confusion, our experience can feel more like tunnel vision. There may be the same people in our lives as before, maybe even the same feelings for those people, as ever. If seen through eyes that see metaphorically, connections between, for instance, the current people and other people we've known, between the current feelings and other feelings we've had, would probably seem very clear to us, and maybe very comforting, as well. But in our confusion, those sorts of connections can fade away very quickly from our narrowed sight. Things and people may seem isolated from each other, or if they do seem connected, then it's possibly in some mysterious and not necessarily benign way. We see, but only partially, and in the dark. Then, we may mistake our partial vision for a truer perspective, further fueling the confusion. . . Although, if we ever got to where we saw enough in our lives in isolation from everything else, would we then be led to start looking for connections again? Is confusion sometimes self-limiting?

Confusion, seeing in the dark: our theme for September. Check out the guidelines again. Your thoughts and comments are welcome, either included with your submission or in a separate message.

August is already set for "Ready or Not."
Until next month,

Michelle

Email your drabbles to me at drabble@wvu.org.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Corner

Alison Hawke

Never throw anything away

Before you take my subject this month as an excuse to hang on to that three-year supply of outdated magazines, I'm talking about ideas. Things we can use in stories are everywhere. The hard part is remembering them long enough to use them. This is where the Raw Material Mine comes in handy.

I've got a folder on my computer called Raw Material, where I store stuff that might come in handy later. Right now there are six different sections:

  • Characters
  • Song Lyrics
  • Quotes from people
  • Quotes from television and film
  • Metaphors and Similes
  • Words and phrases
There's some overlap between sections, and I've had to add new ones as time goes on.

In my characters section I have an archaeologist. He used to be on the payroll of a big company, excavating sites before they got built on. He was downsized when they wanted to save money and these days he works in my local mall bookstore. I couldn't have made that one up, and I swear he's a real person. He's also a Doctor Who addict like me, which comes in handy when I want to get the latest book in the series. I don't know where I'll use him yet, but he's way too good to forget.

Have you ever been in the car thundering along the interstate with the radio on when you hear something so perfect it begs to be captured? This happens to me a lot, and my lyrics file contains words from bands as diverse as Eve6, Barenaked Ladies, Caedmon's Call, Bon Jovi and Nelly Furtado. Places like Lyrics.com are great for tracking down where that perfect line came from. Search engines like Google work well if you search for the exact phrase (put the phrase inside quote marks).

What's a good place to find excellent quotations? Email signatures. Another is Bartleby.com, which lets you search through collections of quotations. Good old eavesdropping works nicely too, that's where I got one of mine below. My Quotes from people file has some real gems such as:

Never ascribe to malice that which is adequately explained by incompetence.
Napoleon Bonaparte

Can I get you ladies some caffeine?
Waiter in Denny's

The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not "Eureka!" (I found it!) But "That's funny..."
Isaac Asimov

Other good places to look for quotes are The Quoteaholic and Quote Geek

My quotes from television and film file is one I started as I was writing this and looking for where to put a Red Dwarf quote. I couldn't let this one go:

Holly (ships' computer): Rude alert! Rude alert! An electrical fire has knocked out my voice recognition unicycle! Many Wurlitzers are missing from my database! Abandon shop! This is not a daffodil. Repeat: This is not a daffodil!
Rimmer: Well, thankfully Holly's unaffected.
Red Dwarf season V: Demons and Angels

My metaphors and similes file only has a few entries in it so far. The best one I found on a chalkboard in the café at Borders: cool as the other side of the pillow.

The last file is where everything else ends up. Rational Rose is the name of a visual modelling tool (no, I don't know what that means). I liked the sound of it and stuck it in my words and phrases file. It'll come in handy somewhere in the future, along with "retail therapy," something I picked out of a magazine. Ideas, words and quotes are everywhere. All we need to do is pick them up and store them for later. Have fun!


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

Judith Lautner

Judith Lautner is a middle-aged woman with two grown children and one grandchild. She first started writing in first grade (poetry), but for most of her life simply wrote letters (and reports for work). She had a compulsion to express herself in writing and used it to describe personal experiences and feelings, many of which now are on her web pages. She worked as a city planner for about twenty years, where she learned how to write concisely and clearly, and where she got some sense of what it takes to learn different types of writing. In 1998 she set out to find her "fiction" voice. After a lot of stumbling around, wasting time and giving up, she found some resources that began to make a difference. One of these is the Writers Village University, where she finds the study groups ideal for the kind of help she needs.

The Chain

They were lovers. They had agreed that the relationship didn't mean anything, that it was casual and limited. They made no promises of fidelity, met when it suited them both and otherwise stayed out of each other's way.

There were times when she went to his house. They sat on his red couch watching rented movies, edging closer to each other, touching each other, he fondling her small breasts, her fine long black hair, she feeling the bushiness of his dark heavy eyebrows and beard, both exploring the places that made the other react, until the movie became a wash of sound and flickering light.

There were times they met at a restaurant. They talked of their lives over bowls of pasta and a salad, focusing on the work they did, making vague allusions to friends and family, deftly skirting any discussion that hinted of complications, needs, desires that their uncomplicated pairing could not address.

Sometimes they took a brief trip out of town. They stayed in a motel room, hungry for each other, grateful that they were still young enough to exhilarate in the flush of mutual attraction.

It was casual, though. No strings, no commitment, and they both liked it that way.

He invited her to see a play with him. He knew some of the actors. She gladly came along, curious. They enjoyed the play and spoke with his friends afterward. She saw how his eyes lit up when he talked of acting and directing. She saw the pain when he spoke of how he could no longer fit in these kinds of activities because of the pressures of his work. She heard the warmth in the voices of his friends.

They went to her house for coffee later. She played a Beethoven sonata on her piano, closing her eyes and focusing, her breathing slow and careful. He watched her, wondering for just a minute who she was.

The next day he stopped by her house after work. He said he wanted her to remember him when they were apart. He slipped a small thin gold chain around her neck and fastened it with a tiny padlock. He showed her the key and pocketed it, asking for her concurrence with his eyes. She fingered the chain, her mouth slightly open, not certain what to say.

He continued to date other people. She said she wanted more time to herself, and left off dating others. If she asked, he mentioned who he'd been with the night before. It started to bother her. The day came when she wanted the necklace gone.

She met him at his house and asked him to unlock it. He searched through his many keys and could not find the little one. He searched again, desperate to unlock the feeling that had him by the throat. The key wasn't there. They both searched their memories but could not remember when they'd last seen it.

She later found the key in her drawer, tucked beneath her underwear. She then remembered she had slipped it off his key ring shortly after he had locked the chain on her, just in case. She held it in her hand, then slipped it back where she'd found it.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

Anthony Soltis

There he was, an eight-year old boy in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania celebrating his little sister's second birthday when the "we interrupt this program..." came on the TV during an episode of Bewitched (the one where Sam gives Darren a dream that they tell the world she's really a witch) to announce Martin Luther King had been assassinated at a motel. For the next few days, riots went down. Looting and fires. White people were scared because black people were angry. Anthony Soltis wrote this story remembering , trying to see two clashing perspectives, a conflict within a larger fight.

These days with his wife and daughter, he lives in Studio City, a village of Los Angeles, where just a few years ago the not-guilty-police-beating-Rodney King-verdict caused riots, looting, fires, and once again, white people were scared because black people were angry.

As a former "Saved by the Bell" writer-producer, he's received nominations for an Emmy and a Humanitas.

April Fifth

"What's President Johnson saying now? Keep calm? I'll keep my shot gun loaded, that'll keep me calm," Bo shouted as smoke from his cigar burned his eyes.

"Trouble's already started," said the Preacher in his shiny Dodge Dart.

"Listen to that fire whistle. Rioting and looting won't bring the man back."

"Some people saying we're gonna have a revolution."

The Preacher nodded, paid, and eagerly took his Tiger Gas contest ticket. Lifting his grease-stained pants which sank under the weight of the wrenches he liked to carry, Bo turned to his German Shepherd. "No darkies get past you, right, Sarge?"

His wife called. She heard there'd been some looting.

Sarge raised his pointed ears and growled as a station wagon pulled in and rang the bells. Bo told his wife not to worry, just to lock the windows and doors. He didn't mention anything about riots in Olson where her parents lived.

"I was watching television when I heard," Mrs. May chirped, extending her frail neck out the Buick.

"Me, too," Bo called back. "I couldn't believe they interrupted Bewitched to announce the King of the Apes got his."

"Oh, Mr. Foster, one shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

"I know, but I get all kinds of steamed when I think about the trouble that man caused, rousin' up the dopes. Heck, look'it me. I do all right in this country 'cause I'm willing to work hard and they ain't."

Mrs. May searched through tissues in her purse for her money. She said, "Well, I told everyone ten years ago when they built those housing projects we'd just be inviting trouble."

"And them animals, and them hippies, they come along and... Heck, I swear to God I'll shoot to kill the first looter who tries to take from me or mine."

"Dear goodness, my money! I must've left it at home." Mrs. May often forgot her money since last winter when her son died in Viet Nam.

"That's okay, Mrs. May. You pay me next time. Here, don't forget your Tiger Gas ticket." He explained once again to Mrs. May that a Tiger Gas contest ticket revealed half of a prize when cracked open and unfolded. Collect both halves and win the object in the picture, like a new car or a jackpot of money.

Derekson from the flower shop pulled in. "Hey, Bo. Hear about the fire the niggers started in Olson?"

"I got in-laws in Olson."

Bo Foster removed his big foot from the heavy work boot and rubbed the corn on his toe. He hated "fillin' out the bills" and welcomed any distraction. He'd worked for years to save enough for a down payment on his own Tiger Gas franchise, but "not havin' the stomach to work for someone else" meant dutiful responsibility and a litany of ever-increasing overhead and paperwork. He reached down and stroked Sarge. Sarge wore a permanent grease stain in his fur from Bo's oil-slicked hands. Suddenly, the dog growled, baring his fangs. Bo put his glasses back on and pulled Sarge's collar.

A cocoa-skinned girl wearing cut-off shorts, sandals, and a simple white t-shirt held out two Tiger Gas contest tickets in her skinny hand. "I'd like to collect my money please," she squeaked.

"What you got there?" Bo took the two halves and put them together: it was a thousand dollar winner. It was the first big winner of the game Bo had seen -- had ever seen in nineteen years!

"Well, lookie here. Little girl's a winner." He almost started to ask where she stole it from, but instead he looked around and asked where her car was.

"Husband's got it. He's at work."

"Little thing like you married?" Bo glanced down at her ringless finger.

She glanced away. "Well, we're getting married soon as the job at the plant comes through."

"Uh-huh," Bo sighed, unconvinced. He looked through his desk, through the dragster magazines, oil-marked cigar girl pinups, until he found the forms the girl needed to fill out. He explained the process.

"... And then the Tiger Gas company will mail you your money."

The girl stared at the forms and Bo doubted she could read them. He reached down to calm Sarge, who maintained a low grumble.

"Say, Mister, how long you say this all takes?"

"Don't know. Guess a couple weeks. Probably says somewhere on the ticket there."

"See, I got a problem," she said trying to smile, but looking more scared.

Outside the little glass office, a sheriff's car screamed by, lights flashing. Everything was extra loud.

"I can't be waiting no month or two for a check, you know what I mean? I need this now."

Bo sensed despair, and felt how easy it'd be simply to take the tickets away from her. Just her word, a Negro girl's, against his, a shop owner, a member of the Chamber of Commerce. And without realizing quite why, Bo was becoming sexually excited. It felt good.

"How old are you, girl?"

She patted her small afro and did not smile. "My name's not girl, it's Roberta. And I'm old enough."

"Lookie here, Roberta. Good things come to those who wait. You fill out that form there, best you can, and the company'll send you your money. That's what's wrong with you young Negroes today, and you're old enough to hear this... You want everything to change all at once. Oh, you'll get yours, but not in one day."

"Mister, sir, I can't be waiting. My baby's at home throwing up. She's real sick and I gotta buy medicine."

"Thought you said you wan't married?"

She shook her head and saw Bo's bare foot.

Bo looked down at his toes, too, then he looked at Roberta's foot, so revealed in her cheap sandals. It reminded him of Easter chocolate. Roberta stepped nearer and said in a different voice, a lower hushed tone: "What if I sold you these two tickets? Then you could file this here form yourself and collect the money. I'd let you have them for just... seven hundred dollars. You come out way ahead."

Bo picked up one of his cigar butts from the Tiger Gas ashtray and searched for a match to relight it. He smirked at Roberta and told her he couldn't get his hands on that much money.

"I need this money, mister, I really do." Then Roberta swallowed and said, "I'll split it with you. Give me five hundred now and you'll get double your money. Ain't that fair?"

"I wouldn't be allowed to claim it. Me and mine's excluded as franchise owners."

"So? Don't you got a friend?"

"Oh, I got lots of friends. You wanna be my friend, too?"

She paused. "Yeah."

"Well, then, tell you what. Seeing how your baby's sick and you're planned to get married soon... I'll give you two hundred dollars."

Roberta's eyes loomed wide, kind of panicked. She swallowed and said, "Well, if you can't do no better..."

Bo bounced over to the cash register. He counted out some bills into his own hand and sensed he wasn't done. "I've only got so much here." He smiled, then spat out, "I can give you a hundred."

"A hundred?"

"Take it... if you gotta have it now."

Roberta looked at her two Tiger Gas contest winners and the big orange and brown One-zero-zero-zero jackpot. She shut her big eyes and nodded.

By closing time that evening, Bo had seen little business. But he whistled as he locked the pumps. A car screeched by and someone yelled cuss words. Everything seemed louder still in the darkness. Bo's mind kept to his plan to cash in the tickets. He giggled, thinking maybe the wife didn't need to know about this little windfall.

"You see, Sarge, I just look out for number one, yes sir, that's what it's all about," he told his dog as they locked the bathrooms.

Bo's pay phone rang. It was Hank Miller, regional director for Tiger Gas. Although he and Bo had both gone to South County High School and even bowled in the same league, Hank was a Jew, and Bo pretty much hated him.

"No, I ain't had no trouble with the hippies or the niggers," Bo bragged. "But 'course, I got Sarge here and my shotgun."

"Good," Hank told him. "Station up in Olson was looted this morning."

"Goddamn monkeys."

"They broke some windows and took a whole box of contest tickets. But we got the numbers, so we don't have to pay on those -- they got nothing. A few tools, tires..."

Bo interrupted: "Ya' got the numbers, you say?"

"Yeah," Hank laughed. "So don't be giving away any purple Cadillacs, ya' hear, Bo?"

Bo did not respond. He felt old and fat and unable to move. In the dark street, young men and women ran by, screaming in rage. Another siren wailed.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

Visions

Silence drifted across America this day. Many hundreds gathered behind a window to watch what might have been one of the most important events in my time. Some called it justice, others called it sad. I call it an opportunity to look within ourselves as a nation and see what we all can do so that tragedies like this never happen again.

I far from admired this man, Tim McVeigh. He was arrogant, manipulative and heartless in many ways. Though a part of me agreed that the way things were handled in the Waco Texas crisis was slaughter to say the least, I did not applaud McVeigh's attempt at retaliation. He saw himself as a one-man jury casting punishment over hundreds.

Like many others, I watched the news coverage of this final event unfolding. I listened as one man pleaded that it was the divorce of McVeigh's parents that made him go to such lengths; yet, in the same program, I heard what a bright, happy child he had been. But somewhere things changed.

Whatever reason we might find for such severe actions, Timothy McVeigh succeeded in one thing that I feel was very important to him. He would NEVER be forgotten. My emotions have shifted from many forms and altitudes since the day of the bombing. Things became quiet and I suppose my mind grew quiet with it, for moments forgetting those people who lost their lives as well as the loved ones who miss them. Only when the news focused on McVeigh was I reminded of all those lost.

But the news always seemed to focus more on McVeigh, didn't it? What does that say about our society? We seem to set our minds more on the criminal then we do the victim. Even as the moments ticked before his death, McVeigh gave no indication of remorse for what he'd done. His only response was a poem he had transcribed from another author, which he felt reflected his own beliefs. He never admitted regret for those lost.

I suppose I should feel hate or at least anger for a man with such an uncaring character, but that isn't within me. All I feel is sorrow. Sorrow that he never really saw the beauty in life as it comes if you look past the wrong in it. The peace that comes from holding on to a God who will carry you over the rocky roads and hold you when tears stream down your face. But, then, one must wonder: do people like McVeigh ever cry? Here's to a tomorrow where the Tim McVeighs of the world have grown silent. Where death comes as a natural aspect of life and not a forced affliction by someone else's hand. Where children are safe in their schools, playgrounds and homes. Here's to a tomorrow of pleasant horizons.

Still, let us not blind ourselves to Tim McVeigh's way of thinking. The poem which he used so defiantly was anything but an arrogant description of one's triumph. Invictus is a poem about maintaining your own spirit and identity. It is about the courageous survival of one man, William Ernest Henley. William Ernest Henley didn't write with rage. He wrote with spirit. So let us not let Timothy McVeigh take that from him. In our lives we all come to a point where Invictus could be nurturing to our souls. We may become lost and these words will fill us with self-determination and persistence. Weep, but hear the true song, the song of a brighter tomorrow.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Inclinations

Priscilla Fagan

Baltasar Gracian: Some Worldly Wisdom

Some of you might ask, who the heck is Baltasar Gracian? I wondered that myself, once I found I was using many of his quotations. As I scanned through The Art of Worldly Wisdom looking for a topic, I realized this small book, translated by Martin Fischer, is a collection of aphorisms from the work of Baltasar Gracian.

The aphorism that caught my eye begins, To jog the understanding is a greater feat, than to jog the memory: But I'll get back to this in a moment. So who is Baltasar Gracian? He emerged near the end of the 16th Century. His birthplace was Calatayud. At the age of eighteen he studied in preparation to teach the humanities, scripture, theology and philosophy. A description of him reads: "The estimates of Gracian as man or philosopher or writer run from the extremes of praise to the extremes of condemnations..." Sounds good to me and it is from this man I have chosen this month's Inclinations, so bear with me.

As I was quoting, To jog the understanding is a greater feat, than to jog the memory: for it takes more to make a man think, than to make him remember. Some fail to strike, when the iron is hot, because they fail to see the opportunity, wherefore let a bit of friendly advice help them to see their chance. One of the great attributes of the mind is its power to know when opportunity offers: but where such mind is lacking, many things fail to be done which might have been: on which account let him give light who has it, and let him seek it who needs to, the former with reserve, the latter, with ardor but let it not be more than mere suggestion, such reticence is necessary, and in proportion to the stake involved of him who makes it: show your interest, and go beyond it but not too far: if you receive a No, go in search of a Yes, but with art, for in most instances nothing is on, because nothing was ventured.

Are you still with me? We find ourselves all the way back in the 16th Century where some current day cliches were spawned. What I'm trying to get at here is the essence of this worldly wisdom. As writers we will receive many No's and Gracian tells us not to stop at the No, but to go in search of the Yes. Here's a familiar cliche... nothing ventured, nothing gained, and yet another, strike when the iron is hot. A rejection letter is not the cue to stop, it's the iron to spurn us on with ardor and fire in our eyes. Someone once said, "Go west young man, go west." Take a chance, a risk; after all, what do you have to lose?

You will hear more from Baltasar Gracian in the coming months such as Accustom yourself to the defects of those about you... But alas, this will have to keep for another time.

Hope your summer is going well, I remain,
Priscilla, the eternal optimist.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Insights

Jeff Stimpson

Dig Deeper

I'm finally reading All the President's Men. I found the paperback in the laundry room and have always meant to read it.

I was struck first by the photos: the exact ones my father once looked at every day as he rattled his newspaper. Twenty-nine earnest political men, many at microphones, many lying even as the flashbulbs went off, all with hairstyles that take me back. For those too young to remember, the book tells the story of how Washington Post reporters Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman (played by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward) cracked the story of the Watergate break-in and eventually forced President Nixon to resign. Photos aside, the book is a meticulously-assembled history of how you pin a President to the mat.

My father flew into Watergate. He thought Sam Ervin was a homespun god, and he despised such personages as John and Martha Mitchell, John Ehrlichman, H.R. Haldeman, and Bebe Rebozo. I was twelve. My journalistic interests extended only to grabbing "Peanuts" after my father was done with the B section. I thought Bebe Rebozo was a cartoon character; I also kept confusing Ehrlichman and Haldeman with Huntley and Brinkley. The senate hearings were on every afternoon that spring of 1974, pre-empting "Star Trek," and my father and I watched.

I think my father would have love to have seen Nixon crushed. My father died that July. Nixon resigned in August.

Now with a semi-professional's viewpoint, I can look at what Woodward and Bernstein (both were younger during Watergate than I am now) went through. I could never have done what they did. I like to sleep too much.

I remember in the movie Jason Robards, who played the gruff but brilliant editor Ben Bradlee, stood in front of Redford and Hoffman during a slow moment and teased them about being able to go home and take a shower. Turns out that Redford and Hoffman had it easy compared with Woodward and Bernstein.

A normal round of phone calls for the two investigators took hours. They judged success with a source on how many steps they could take into the person's apartment. They got calls at home and got tailed on lunches. They kept every sheet of paper and every note. They took no days off. They tricked their way into hotel rooms; an irony, considering what they were investigating, that I'm sure they were too weary to notice. Though often anonymous, their sources were triple-checked. This process has been documented so long that it's the kind of history you find in a dog-eared paperback in a laundry room, but still I can't figure out how they did it.

Not that I've never been exhausted in the line of duty. My first month on a daily in Ithaca, N.Y., for example, I helped cover a fire that killed five children. Later the paper sent me to interview the aunt of an arrested murderer, and I felt like Hoffman/Bernstein as I sat on her couch, my notebook tucked away, as she rose again and again to answer reporters' phone calls. I offered to go to the store for her so she wouldn't have to face her neighbors.

Eventually, I lost even that edge. When I covered cops in Baltimore, a woman got her throat cut and everyone started whispering "Russian mob." I guess I could have spent all night in some place full of triple-checkable, anonymous Russians, and maybe cracked the case. Instead I just digested the police press releases. (They never caught the killer.) When a depressed man shot his wife and then himself a year later, I again was motivated to visit the relatives' house. I never got as far as their couch, however, and they sure didn't want me to go to any store for them.

My pinnacle as a reporter of human catastrophe did come in Baltimore, when a 14-year-old boy swiped his mother's Chevrolet one spring night and killed himself by driving into a tree. I was re-typing police reports when my editor egged me to dig deeper.

I went to the crash site and studied the skid marks and the gouged bark; I knelt in the roadside gravel. Later, I sat down with the kid's mom and his friends. The mom got us all together; she was looking to sue the boy's one-time mental hospital, and wanted coverage. I played the sensitive reporter while they replayed the boy's life. Turned out his father had also died when the boy was little.

I wrote the story and put the family's old snapshots in the paper, and I won an award and a gift certificate to a restaurant. "And see, you didn't want to do the story, did you?" my editor said.

No, much as my father would have been pleased, much as I wanted Redford to play me in the movie.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Nonfiction

Valerie Ackroyd

Wind Beneath Her Wings

I always believed that "empty nest syndrome" only afflicted those mothers who had made mothering a full-time effort. Whose days had revolved around play groups and excursions to the park. Who had spent years ferrying their multiple offspring to sports events, dance lessons and had served on PTA committees and had been Brownie leaders. And who now looked at empty sewing tables and empty place settings and wondered what their life now meant.

Please don't get me wrong; I salute these women. I never considered myself a full-time mother. For eighteen of the past twenty-one years, I juggled single parenthood and career. Often in my exhaustion, I looked forward to the day that my offspring took off on her own life's journey and I could get back to focusing on my life again. But, as sometimes weeks go by without hearing my daughter's bubbly voice, asking for advice and help, I have felt a sort of creeping sadness which at first I could not identify. I wander around the apartment, projects of all sorts lying abandoned on my desk. I realize, quite ruefully, that I packed more "living" into my life three years ago than I do now. What is nagging at me? Our ever-helpful society tells me that it's probably menopause; and yet... and yet, my mind keeps slipping back to those three words, "empty nest syndrome" (E.N.S.). Could it be?

Apart from my early years of playing with dolls, I had never much thought of becoming a mother. I suppose I assumed that it would happen in the course of time, just as marriage would happen. For so many of us women born in the early 50s, life either happened or it didn't; it didn't seem as if we had much control over it. And, as I passed my mid-twenties and prospects for marriage began to look rather dim (one can only handle so many failed love affairs before one decides that one better cash in one's dowry and get on with other things), motherhood looked to be something else that I probably wouldn't experience. Which was fine by me. I focused on travel and flitting from job to job. Life, to paraphrase Hemingway, was a moveable feast and I kept my affairs as moveable as possible. Until, one day, the unthinkable happened. I found that I was pregnant and, although other choices were available to me, I knew that I would not only have the baby, but keep it. Those who have had the finger of God thump them squarely on the head will understand when I say that, from the moment that I saw that little circle of blue at the bottom of the test bottle, I knew my life would change completely and that it was meant for me to accept that change.

And how it changed! I realize now, all the while that I thought I was being stretched to the limit and wished for a little slack on that elastic band, what made the whole thing so worthwhile was when I would go home at night and Laurie would be there, waiting to tell me about her latest triumph or tragedy. When I would relate to her something exciting at work or read a favorite story with her and watch her eyes grow round with wonder. Knowing that she depended on me, was counting on me to be her mentor, her role model, I walked a little taller, hung in a little longer, sacrificed in a way that I never had before. To put it quite tritely, she gave me my "place"; for her I nested where I had not for so many years.

Having lost my own mother at sixteen, however, and remembering the terror of being suddenly thrust out into the world unprepared, I made it my goal not to keep her by my side as long as I could, but to encourage her to follow her dreams, however far they might take her. To challenge her to think for herself, to learn how to fend for herself, with me cheering her on from increasingly longer distances.

Currently, that means she spends most of the year in Scotland, while I live thousands of miles away in the Pacific Northwest. She is pursuing her dream of a career with horses while I struggle with a career that suddenly has lost its allure. Life is a little staler, it's lost a little of its wonder. Is it menopause? Is it mid-life crisis? Or is it, indeed, a form of E.N.S.? Truthfully, I don't know. But I DO think that it may be time that I "mothered" myself and gave myself a dose of my own good advice. And that is to hop to the edge of my nest and take a good, long look around at the valleys and peaks that lie around and ahead of me. What green field now attracts me? What dark valley needs to be faced and traversed? Toward what new heights can I now soar? And, once I have set my sights, stretched my wings and taken flight, I need to remember that mother eagles don't stop flying when the fledgling leaves the nest.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Poetics Presents

Korie Beth Brown

Korie Beth Brown has written poetry for most of her life. She has been published in Lynx magazine and on the Yahoo Poetry Webzine. She is currently working on putting together a chapbook. Korie Beth is a member of WVU and is facilitating Poetry 105f .- Japanese Poetic Forms.

Writers' Village members look forward to reading more of Korie Beth's work.

The Lake at Sunset -- a Villanelle

How different from a different place
The quiet rhythm of the lake
Gives water a much different face

In Los Angeles, light patterns are traced
By light rainfall on dry lake beds
How different from a different place

The ocean here sprays drops of lace
Undrinkable, saline, polluted stuff
The water wears a much different face.

Back east, I see, the earth is graced
With deep pockets filled and overflowing
How different from my different place!

When I visit, I think I'll chase
The lakes and streams so filled and flowing
Giving water a much different face

To a westerner, I am amazed
At the decadence of such a waste
Each coast wears a much singular face
How different from a different place!

Copyright © 2001 Korie Beth Brown

An Alzheimer's Pantoum

First the lapses. Then the loss of keys,
A ten-dollar bill, the way to the store
It became too difficult to drive across town
So we parked our car and took a nap right there.

A ten-dollar bill on the way to the store
Becomes a telephone payment held together with Band-Aids.
We parked our car and took a nap right there
And then forgot: what city? Where were we?

A telephone payment held together with Band-Aids
Returns to the house. We left it on the counter.
And then forgot: what city? Where were we?
Why are we in Vegas when we live in Orange County?

Returned to the house and left on the counter
Our dinner rotted and we went hungry.
Why are we in Vegas when we live in Orange County?
I don't like this! I want to go home!

Our dinner rotted and we went hungry.
We fell in the shower and lay on the floor.
I don't like this! I want to go home!
Repeat, repeat no one is listening

We fell in the shower and lay on the floor
It became too difficult to drive across town
Repeat, repeat no one home
First the lapses. Then the losses are key.

Copyright © 2001 Korie Beth Brown


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Poetics Presents

Nancy L. Conner

Nancy L. Conner lives in western Massachusetts. She teaches English and works as a freelance copy editor.

Writers' Village members look forward to reading more of Nancy's work.

Watermelon Children

My sister and I admired it
in its galvanized tub--
a grape for a giant,
great green whale
in an ocean of ice.
The only fruit we'd accept as dessert.

It took both of us
to wrestle it up to the table--
unwieldy dinosaur,
green-striped blimp--
my mother's "Be careful!"
lost behind our laughter.

My father, adept surgeon,
handed us each a half-moon--
rind smooth and green as frog skin,
pink flesh sweet as imagined kisses.
Juice made a sticky cascade,
from cheek to chin
from fingers to elbow--
bathed in fountains of nectar,
we were mermaids emerged
from a faraway pink-and-green sea.

Squeezed together in the lawn chair,
sunlight burning bony knees, we'd
both spit pips beyond the bushes,
then often at each other.
My sister insisted
if you swallowed even one,
the seed would take root,
growing melons in your tummy.
We'd flick out with our fingernails
the thin papery white ones,
check each pulpy mouthful
for the slippery disks with our tongues.
And so we'd feast,
right down to the grin.

Now, sometimes I think I must
have swallowed just one seed--
as I heave my heft out of a chair
or struggle like a turned-over turtle
just to get out of bed.

Big-bellied watermelon mama,
I sense the sprout inside me.
Watermelon child--
I conjure your pink flesh,
I feel your tentative tendrils uncurl.
May you grow as ripe as summer,
as succulent as love.

Copyright © 2001 Nancy L. Conner


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Recognitions

Judy Hunt

T-zero Xpandizine is proud to announce these WVU members who have gained recognition in their writing achievements.

Christine Henderson received third place honors for her short story, "Fed Up," in the contest sponsored by Fiction Writers of Central Arkansas at the Arkansas Writers' Conference in Little Rock on June 1 and 2, 2001. Christine has been a member since November, 2000.

Jim Hall's poem, "Do You Know the Way to Dharma, Mon?" is published in the current issue of NetAuthor's E2K. He also has a short story and another poem that will appear in the Online Journal of The Dana Literary Society, the story in October and the poem in November of this year. Jim is active in many of WVU's poetry classes, and he facilitates facilitates the Poetry 450F Course. He joined WVU a year ago and is now a Lifetime Member.

"Nature's Way," a poem written by Mary Bohm, has been published in miller's pond poetry magazine. Mary joined WVU last month and is starting out by taking the Advanced Poetry - Free Form course.

Cindi Borris' story, "Bunnies in the Backfield," has been accepted for publication in the Healthy Families magazine. It will be hitting the stands this fall. Cindi, a member since 1999, participates in the Creative Energy Unlimited study group and facilitates WVU's Story Structures course.

Kokab Rahman had her article, "Beating Writers Block," published in the Kansas Writer's Association newsletter. Kokab has been a member since August, 2000.

T-zero congratulates Christine Henderson, Jim Hall, Mary Bohm, Cindi Borris and Kokab Rahman for their writing accomplishments, and we wish them the best for future publishing successes.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Writer to Writer

Rie Sheridan

The Pleasures and Pitfalls of E-Publishing

There is a tidal-wave coming. Even though some might say it is already here, the wave is only brushing the shore. E-publishing is revolutionizing the writing industry. It has already changed the way that writers and editors interact by making it possible to query, submit, edit, revise, and resubmit a piece to a publication halfway around the world within hours. For example, my editor-in-chief and I have never met, though we have worked side-by-side on publication of Verge Magazine since August 2000. We send dozens of messages a week back and forth perfecting edits. This type of instant access, whether by e-mail or one of the electronic messaging systems is a great tool for writers and editors.

But there are also downsides to the e-publishing world. Far too many e-publishers are amateurs with websites and dreams of becoming editors, who will accept almost anything for publication. Writers desperate for publication and lured by promises of payment will submit their work, only to be disappointed when they realize the unprofessional manner with which their work is handled. Working with one of these e-publishers can taint the writer’s professional credibility and reputation.

It behooves writers to research their prospective e-market as closely as they would a print publisher before submitting their manuscript to an e-publishing house. I submitted a fantasy to a certain house and was ecstatic to have the piece accepted. It would only cost me $300 to be a published author.

First of all, you shouldn’t have to pay anybody to publish your work unless you are consciously setting out to publish it yourself and are paying them for the set-up services.

There are several legitimate publishers that fall into this category. Look at the list on the Electronic Publishing corner of About to see a few of the choices in both the pay and non-pay publishing markets.

While I was trying to make up my mind whether or not I wanted to make that financial commitment, I read the sample chapters for all the works that the company posted for sale on their site. There was not one of them—including the one written by the editor-in-chief of the operation—that would not have benefitted from a spelling and grammar check. Some of them were almost unreadable.

You must be just as cautious in your research of potential e-publishing markets as you are in print publications. Don’t let the ease of access lull you into a false sense of security. Unless you are personally familiar with the staff or know people who have had experience with a company, don’t go in blind. Read what your potential market offers in its stable before you submit your work. Make sure that you want to be associated with the publishing house before you accept a contract.

As I say, you shouldn’t have to pay anybody to publish your work unless you are consciously setting out to publish it yourself and are paying them for the set-up services. In this case, you are venturing into another realm altogether, which is perfectly acceptable, if that is what you are setting out to do, but make the choice intelligently.

Two main types of publishing require author capital and both exist in the e-publishing marketplace as well as the traditional print world. These are the "vanity press" and subsidy publishing.

Basically, vanity press is a rather derogatory name for self-publishing that reflects the way many people look at self-published books. When authors self-publish their work, they are responsible for all expenses. They apply for copyright and ISBN numbers. They handle all marketing and publicity themselves. In other words, it is strictly their baby. The bad news is, this requires considerable up-front capital to produce a piece that will be saleable. The good news is, you get to keep all the profits you do make. The bad news is that many people have pre-conceived biases against buying a self-published book. The good news is many professional authors, as diverse as Henry David Thoreau and John Grisham, have self-published at some point in their careers.

Subsidy publishers, on the other hand, share the costs with the author. For a fee, they take care of getting your book online. However, many of these services do not include editorial proofing or content suggestions; they print what you send them. Unless, of course, you want to pay extra. They do not market your work, they just make it available to the electronic bookstores. Usually, they do pay royalty for sales, but in some cases they split it with the author.

For those wanting to do their own thing, plenty of resources exist. A search on Altavista for "e-publishing" turned up almost 36 thousand sites. Of course, not all of these hits relate directly to the publication of your own work—or publishing at all, for that matter—but several of them look interesting. For example, E-ditorial offers professional e-publishing software and tips. Free-ebooks offers an e-publishing guide. For a mere $49.95 (current price at least) you can upload a Word file to Ebookomatic, and be selling your book within minutes. And X-libris, a site endorsed by Piers Anthony in an online chat I attended, offers several levels of editorial services to a prospective self-publisher.

Look at what other people have to say about a publisher. Ask fellow writers who have submitted to e-publishers what their experiences have been. For example, a fellow writer here at WVU had accepted a contract with one publisher, which included specific promises. When they failed to deliver, she stopped her deal and went with another publisher whom she highly recommends. When asked about her experiences, she replied with the following:

"NBI [NovelBooks, Inc.] charges nothing for any of the work they do on your book. (In all truth neither did the other company, but I couldn't trust them past that.) I am not interested in subsidy publishing. I would only go with a reputable company, who charge nothing for their participation. They do the covers, the editing, some advertising (although if you want to sell bigger, you have to do some on your own), promoting of the site and your book, all electronic formatting costs and the printing of your book. All you have to do is make the corrections on your manuscript in a timely fashion, approve of the cover for your book and advertise however much you wish to do.

"Penny Hussey, the President and CEO of NBI, was once a vice-president of my former company (RFI). I've known her for quite some time and respect and admire her greatly. When she left RFI, I knew something was wrong. From that time on, RFI took away all advertising and publicizing in any bookstores, stopped making CDs and diskettes (both a part of the contract). You could only buy downloads at their site and their site only. They promised POD but never delivered."

This is the kind of advice that is invaluable to writers looking for a home for their manuscripts. In fact, based on her recommendation, I queried NBI. As a direct result of that query, I now have two book contracts with NovelBooks. One of them is for the novel that I almost paid to have printed.

Keep in mind that e-publishers are not places to submit your work if it has been turned down several times by traditional houses and you simply don’t want to have to revise it before sending it out again. Also, if you think that your work is not "good enough" for print publication then it probably isn’t good enough for e-publishing either. Remember, if e-publishers accept work that isn’t fit to be printed, then the industry will become a minefield of vanity presses and work that isn’t worth reading; and being published electronically will become a liability rather than the asset a writer is looking for.

If you have a book that you think is ready to go, take the time to have someone with editing experience look it over. It is probably worth the expense (it has proved so in my personal experience) to consult a "book doctor" for an initial edit before submitting it to a publisher—electronic or otherwise.

To summarize: research before you submit anything, anywhere. Don’t be so desperate to publish that you compromise your standards or denigrate your work. Be sure that your work is the best it can be before submitting it anywhere. Take advantage of all the wonderful new resources that the electronic age is offering writers to query, submit, edit, and network with others in the field.


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

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

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