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 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
04 December 2008
The Business of Writing The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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The Business of Writing

Darlene Duncan

The Benefits Of Self-Publishing

Are you tired of form rejection letters? Tired of wondering if they even read your manuscript before rejecting it? Do you have faith in your book? Are you certain that if you could just get it in print, it would sell? If you answered "yes" to those four questions, perhaps you should consider self-publishing.
 
Self-publishing gives you maximum control over your book, everything from the content to the cover. Best of all, you get to keep all the profits. But before you jump into the deep end, you should learn about what's lurking under the water.

Manuscript Editing
The truth is that whether you self-publish or submit your manuscript to a publisher, you're going to have to contend with this one. Rumor has it that if you submit a manuscript that needs major editing to a traditional publisher, it will probably be rejected. If you publish a manuscript that needs major editing, you may sell your first book but you better believe your reputation for poor quality will keep your second book from moving.

Hiring a professional editor can be expensive, though. However, there are other options available. If you  live near a college, look into having a journalism or English student edit your work. Or find a fellow writer whose work you admire and ask if they would be interested in a swap: They edit your book and, when their book is ready for editing, you do the job. There's also the possibility of finding a freelance book editor who's just getting started. They might be willing to do your editing for free or at a huge discount just to get their foot in the door. If you have the money and want to hire a pro, I recommend you do one of the following:

Book Cover
Do you have a design in mind? If so, ask around your community for a graphic artist and/or photographer who might be able to bring your vision to life. Meet with them and explain your idea. Whoever you choose needs to be someone capable and someone you feel you can work with. If you don't have any idea what you want your cover to look like, then hire a professional cover designer.
 
ISBNs
You can order these in blocks of 10 from R.R. Bowker for $225, plus a $14.95 registration fee. (These prices change regularly. When I ordered my ISBNs, there was no registration fee.) You might ask why you should go to the expense of getting an International Standard Book Number (ISBN) for your book. The answer is simple. Without an ISBN, you will be lacking a necessary sales tool. This ten-digit number is your book's equivalent of your Social Security number. Bookstores, wholesalers, and distributors use ISBNs to keep track of books. Without that magic number, they have no way of entering your book into their system. If they can't enter and track a book, they just don't deal with the book. Also, if you don't have an ISBN, you run the risk of your book being dismissed as amateurish.
 
Bookland EAN Bar Code
This will probably be the least expensive thing you have to purchase. It can be done online for about $10. The graphic artist who creates your cover will place it in the cover. I'm sure some of you are saying, "Well, there's $10 I can save, I don't know what it is, so I probably don't have to have it." Wrong! Like the ISBN, the Bookland Ean Bar Code is necessary. It's the publishing industry's equivalent of the UPC code you find on everything you buy.

Run Size
Before you can even request price quotes from a printer, you need to have some idea of how  many books you want printed. Your page count will need to be divisible by 8 or 16 to get the best price. Some printers will quote for different-sized runs on one Request For Quote (RFQ) form. Other printers will require you submit an RFQ for each size run.

Printer
You'll need to get quotes from several printers. This will include picking the paper for the text and for the cover. Also, make sure the printer you choose knows what your book is about. I chose a printer, sent the manuscript to them, and then was informed they would not print my book. Why? Because they found the subject matter objectionable. The book in question is a lesbian mystery romance (which didn't contain graphic sexual content). I scrambled to find another printer who could do the job in time to meet my release date. So make sure your printer doesn't object to your subject matter.

Program
If your manuscript is still in a word processing program, you will need to find out what program the printer you've chosen prefers to work with. The two most common are Adobe PageMaker and Quark Xpress. You can go one of two ways with this. You can pay a professional to put your manuscript in the appropriate program and do the layout and formatting. I was quoted  somewhere between $200 and $300 to have a professional do the work. Of course, this means you will have to pay $200 to $300 to have your future books formatted, too. Or you can buy the software, learn to use it, and do the work yourself. I purchased Adobe PageMaker for about $600. If you have more than one book you plan to self-publish, the long-term picture says it's more cost-effective to buy the software. Also, once you know how to do layout and formatting you can offer your skills to other writers for a fee.

Shipping & Storage
You're going to have to get RFQ's for this, too. I was quoted prices ranging from $600 to $1200 for the same shipment. When submitting your RFQ to a freight company, make sure they know whether you have a loading dock. It will affect the price. Where are you going to keep all those books you had printed until you sell them? If you live in a dry climate, your garage might be acceptable. However, for those living in humid regions, you will want to keep all that paper in a climate-controlled environment if you want it to be worth anything.
 
What I have touched on here are just some of the basics involved. While you're doing all of the above, you must also consider how you're going to market your book, how to list with a major distributor so the big chain bookstores can order your book, what independent bookstores might be interested in your topic, what non-traditional retail outlets might carry your book, and the list goes on. (Editor's Note: Darlene will be following up this article in the New Year with another one that focuses on marketing your own books.)
 
There is a lot you need to learn in order to self-publish a quality book. But it can be a very rewarding experience. There are some wonderful organizations and a great many books out there to help you through the process of self-publishing. I examined as many of them as I could before purchasing The Complete Guide to Self-Publishing by Tom & Marilyn Ross. This book has become my bible. I refer to it often and learn something new every time. I also joined the Small Publishers Association of North America (SPAN). In addition to that, I read anything I can find on the topic of self-publishing from magazine articles to news blurbs on Web sites.

Many well-known successful writers have made their self-published books into such huge successes that major publishing houses bid against one another for the rights. If you have the time, the money, and the desire to self-publish, you can join the ranks of Edgar Rice Burroughs who self-published Tarzan and James Redfield who self-published The Celestine Prophecy, just to name two.
 
When that truck pulls up in front of your house and unloads the shipment of your book from the printer, you'll experience a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. You did it! You wrote it! You published it! Pat yourself on the back and then get back to work. You've got books to sell!


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Craft of Writing The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Craft of Writing

Marcia Kiser

Coloring Outside The Lines
How To Add Depth & Texture To Murder Mysteries -- Part II - Setting

Editor's Note: In her last article, Marcia Kiser discussed how mystery writers can color "outside the lines" by going beyond standard character descriptions. In this installment of her three-part series, Marcia looks at adding texture and depth to mysteries through setting.

My artistic endeavors as a child centered around a coloring book and a new box of Crayola Crayons. As a teen, I discovered oil painting. Forget that box of 128 colors! I could create any color I could imagine. Bright, vivid, reach-out-and-touch-someone color. And, best of all, the only lines in the painting were the ones I created.

But there is more to a painting than the paint. There are brushes — fat, thick, thin, stiff, and pliable. There are palette knives. There are brush strokes, techniques, lighting, and composition. Just as no two painters sitting side by side with identical brushes, colors, and scenery will create an identical painting, neither will two writers describe a scene, or setting, identically.

Words are a writer's paint and the way in which the writer uses them are the brush strokes. Words give color to a scene, but the way words are structured to describe a scene gives the scene texture. The difference between a blue sky or a sun-washed sky, or a sky the blue of cornflowers after a spring rain, shows how words add texture. A setting, or scene, textured properly can become a character in your mystery, adding another dimension to your writing.

Settings Heighten Emotions
Nevada Barr, author of the Anna Pigeon series, sets her mysteries in different national parks around the country. Hunting Season is set in the Mississippi Delta during the rainy season. "On either side of the two-lane asphalt road, land melted away in a soggy field of stubble rising and falling as gently as the chest of a breathing child, the 'hills' of Mississippi. Ditches ran full and creeks were beginning to back up at the culvert under the road. Leaves blew and fell, stuck and slid with the rain till there was little difference between earth and sky" (Hunting Season, page 172). This scene lets you feel the cold and the dreary rain as Anna drives down the highway. Barr deftly crafts the scene to add to the hopelessness and bleakness Anna Pigeon is feeling while attempting to unravel a murder.

In Blind Descent, the same author creates the setting so well that one begins to feel the chill and claustrophobia associated with caves. "As she sat in the deep puddle, the darkness began to harden around her. It was not a mere absence of light, it was a substance, an element, a suffocating miasma that filled her ears, clogged her nostrils, bore down on her shoulders and chest. When the pressure on her eyelids became such that she could feel the black leaking like raw concrete into her brain, she reached up and switched on her lamp" (Blind Descent, page 19). The reader begins to have trouble breathing reading a passage like that. Again, Barr creates a scene so bleak that the reader feels the chill along with Anna Pigeon and begins to wonder if all the light has been drained from the world, along with all hope of affecting a subterranean rescue of Anna's friend in Lechuguilla Cavern.

And finally, Barr describes the surprises the cavern holds in store, which almost makes up for the claustrophobia she's evoked. "The cavern extended four or five hundred feet. Aragonite chandeliers had hung in defiant profusion from a ceiling of gold. The meandering stream had curved through formations looking more like clouds than solid earth. The end of the room had been cloaked in draperies of such delicacy it would have taken little imagination to see them moving in a non-existent breeze. At their base, filled by a waterfall from the creek, was what had been the room's crowning jewel, a clear blue lake, garnished with lily pads of ruby-colored stone" (Blind Descent, page 236). Through her word choice and structure, Barr builds scenes so engrossing, the reader becomes part of the action, feeling the same emotions, frustrations, tears, and joys Anna Pigeon feels.

Unique Settings Create Texture
A unique or unusual setting will add texture to the mystery, and, crafted correctly, can increase the pace and tension. Nevada Barr and Dana Stabenow both use unusual locations in their mysteries.

In Firestorm, Nevada Barr's protagonist, Anna Pigeon, is on temporary duty to help with a wildfire. "Light was draining from the sky, taking the day's heat with it. ... To the west and southwest the trees breathed up black smoke. As the day faded, pin pricks of orange blossomed. A garish blood-red sunset fired the sky, the last rays bending through smoke so thick the neck bones of Lassen Peak were obscure. Near the horizon the smoky pall blotted out the sun. Higher up, smoke sucked fire from the sun and burned the heavens as the fire burned on earth" (Firestorm, page 6). At this point in the novel, Anna has spent the day fighting a raging forest fire and providing medical attention to team members. The scene is designed specifically to slow the action to give Anna, and the reader, a small respite before the grim realties of fighting the fire begin again. But while Anna is allowed a much deserved deep breath, Barr never lets the focus of the storyline stray from the immenseness of the fire.

During a chase across a mountain in A Fatal Thaw, Kate Shugak, created by Dana Stabenow, is caught by an avalanche. In a few words, Stabenow conveys its awesome power: "the broken, icy floor of the glacier undulated in the sinuous deadly fashion of a serpent. The cornices of the glacier walls cracked, slipped and crashed to the bottom. The walls themselves broke apart and tumbled down in house-size chunks. Huge clouds of pulverized crystal billowed up in the still air, as if in a frenzy of spring cleaning, a Titan had laid hold to the edge of the earth and with one snap of his wrists was shaking it free of winter's accumulation of dust and debris" (A Fatal Thaw, page 185). Stabenow deftly structures her scene to involve the reader in the heavy, shifting earth-creating tension and suspense about whether Kate will survive what Mother Nature has thrown against her.

Location, Location, Location
One adage beginning writers learn is to write what you know. There is no area of writing where this is so important as with setting. Writers need to research the setting so that they could walk the streets in their sleep. Nothing is so embarrassing to an author, and irritating to the reader, than to have inaccuracies in the setting, like a north-south street going east-west.

Some authors limit their sleuth's setting to their homes. For example, anyone reading the entire Nero Wolfe series would be able to describe Wolfe's home in great detail from the orchids on the roof to the pool table/shooting range in the basement. Because Rex Stout created Wolfe to be an armchair detective, Stout devoted extra effort to creating the brownstone so everyone reading the novels would "see" it. Thus, the brownstone becomes a part of the ensemble cast. Further, when Wolfe chooses, or is forced, to leave his beloved brownstone, the tension immediately picks up because it is such an extraordinary occurrence and no one knows what might happen.

Many authors use real cities for their sleuths' stomping grounds, like New York and Las Vegas, each of which evokes an immediate response from the reader. Each author, however, adds unique touches. Tony Hillerman has so successfully interwoven the Southwest into his Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn mysteries that they cannot take place anywhere else. The Thurlos' and Michael McGarrity have also captured the American Southwest for their protagonists. Margaret Coel has set her series in Wyoming. Margaret Maron sets her Judge Deborah Knott series in North Carolina and James D. Doss uses southwest Colorado. Each of these authors use their locations not only as a backdrop, but as a device to create settings unique to their protagonists, providing descriptions and examples of the local flora and fauna to add to the enjoyment of the reader, and add layers to their mysteries and texture to unraveling the crime.

Other authors like Nancy Herndon and Sue Grafton used real places, but re-named them. Herndon renamed El Paso as Los Santos, Texas, and Grafton renamed Santa Barbara as Santa Teresa, California. Still other authors create whole towns and cities in which to set their murders. Joan Hess created Faberville, Arkansas, Susan Rogers Cooper created Black Cat Ridge, Texas, Charlaine Harris created Shakespeare, Arkansas, and Penny Warner created Flat Skunk, California. The advantage to this is that there's no way to get a street wrong. One piece of advice if you decide to make up your location: develop a detailed map of the invented city. Even fabricated locations must remain accurate during the series.

Where's The Body?
As important as the setting for the mystery, or the sleuth's neighborhood, is the site where the body is discovered. Gone are the days when bodies were found simply in the bedroom or bathroom, or in a car in a closed garage. In Hunting Grounds, Nevada Barr has a dead body in a bed in a historical site. Margaret Coel in The Eagle Catcher sets the body in a sleeping bag in a tipi, and in The Ghost Walker the body is wrapped in a blanket tossed in a roadside ditch during a snowstorm. Claudia Bishop uses some unique settings as in Murder Well Done when the body is discovered under a traffic light — in the middle of an intersection, while A. Jance, another Southwest author, in Outlaw Mountain has a drugged body impaled on cholla cactus in the desert.

Kathleen O'Neal Gear with her husband, W. Michael Gear, has created a unique series which alternates between First Americans and a contemporary group of archeologists in The Visitant, The Summoning God, and Bone Walker. "...At first the oddity didn't register as she lowered her eyes to the crumbled stone pile on the ridgetop. It was the color rather than the shape that caught her eye. Dark red, wine color rather than bluff. Like two juniper stumps, except...then her stumbling mind put it together. Two bloody feet atop legs stuck out of the dirt" (Bone Walker, page 82).

Even burials can add an interesting layer to your mystery. In Open Season, C. J. Box's debut novel, the description of the funeral adds color to his unique mystery. "The three mahogany stained pine caskets were in the bed of the pickup, two side-by-side across the bottom and the third laid across them on top" (Open Season, page 90). "Then the Reverend Cobb started up the pickup, eased it into drive, and leaped from the cab. Joe watched, as did the rest of the small crowd and the families, as the Ford inched forward and descended into a massive hole. It settled to the bottom with a solid thump, and no one wanted to look down to see if the caskets had jarred loose and broken open." (Open Season, page 92).

Create settings with the same care as an oil painter uses paints. Use words to create, not just an image, but to add depth and texture to your work. By doing so, the fine line between too much description and too little will be mastered and the setting will join the ensemble cast of your mystery.


About The Author
Marcia Kiser writes, works, and lives in Lubbock, TX. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and her short stories have appeared in Nefarious, The Thrilling Detective, Dusty Cowboy, Novel Advice Mysterical-E, FUTURES, and the recently released Novel Advice Anthology. She can be contacted at Mek357@sbcglobal.net.


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Such a Cute Couple
by Michelle Swisz

Their eyes met for an instant, and again for another. She winked; he blushed and then grinned. “Are you married?” she asked, removing her sunglasses. “Uh-huh.” “Where’s your ring, then?” He had no words now. He’d become mesmerized by her long, glossy reddish blond hair, and reached out to touch it. She moved a step back, but kept her eyes locked onto his. He gurgled in delight. Suddenly there was a funny smell – she tried not to let it show that she had noticed. “Time for a rest break,” said his mother, “Bye,” and whisked him away in his carriage.

Happiness Two

Everyone left it up to me to try to capture the essence of happiness in 100 words exactly. And I can see why.

What bothers me still is that we only seem to connect if we’re unhappy. Many years ago, someone complained to me that every day when they saw me after work, I was too cheerful. I was too happy for them to connect with. If we need to connect to be happy, but we can’t connect unless we’re unhappy, then I wonder how we can be happy.

The only familiar exception that I can think of is a couple’s love. The sexuality of a couple’s love, though, it seems to me, can be so intense in itself that it distracts from the happiness that it comes from and that it brings. Can there be a happiness story without the sex, or promise of it? That’s our theme, again – happiness (without sex). (And I promise I’ll go on to something else if I have to write the Drabble again myself next month!)

See everyone again next time.

Here are the Guidelines again. In summary—100 words exactly, excluding title, and submitted to Drabble@wvu.org by December 10 for January.



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E is for... The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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E is for...

Margaret I. Carr

Before considering the publishing aspects we really need to think about e-reading. E-reading is the start and the end result of e-publishing.

What exactly is e-reading? Well, right now, unless you are one of the few who still print out all e-mail messages and/or web pages to read, you are e-reading. When you use a Search Engine you are e-reading. When you surf the web you are e-reading. When you participate in a chat you are e-reading. You are not reading from ink spots on paper, you are reading pixels on a screen.

You probably don't even remember now the adjustments you had to make when you first started exploring computers and the Internet but you did have to adjust. Reading pixels is different. The field of view is different. You are seeing transmitted light rather than reflected. It simply isn't the same. But different doesn't mean inferior, it is just different, and you have adjusted or you wouldn't be reading this.

Young people seem, on the average, to adjust faster and with fewer problems. This may be partly because they have grown up with television. Sure, tv is a visual medium but titles are still made up of letters and words. The viewing area is a rectangle with side to side greater than top to bottom. This gives them ready-made adaptability. They aren't frozen in the "books are taller than wide, therefore anything I read must be in the same format" mode that some older people suffer from.

There are other differences, of course. I'm sure you've heard the arguments about how it wouldn't be the same without that delightful smell of fresh glue a new book has. Recently, riding the bus, a 'gentleman' took exception to my using a PDA to read. He went on and on about smelling the new book smell, feeling the heft of the book and the nice shiny covers. I noticed he wasn't carrying any books with him and managed to repress my impulse to ask him if, after all the sniffing and hefting and such, he ever got around to READING the books. After that, my mental question would have been, if the new book smell and all was so important, did he toss the books once it faded?

If I like a book, and that is based on what is in it, not the cover or smell or heft, I want to keep it for re-reading. Not all readers feel that way and that's fine with me. I pick up a lot of their discards at the used bookstore.

Here in the United States we are really lucky. We have relatively easy access to a wide variety of books, lots of free public libraries and lots of bookstores both new and used. We may complain about the deficiencies of the system, and there are many, but it does give most of us most of what we need and want.

Elsewhere, it can be more difficult. Shipping, currency conversion problems, customs delays are all factors that can add up to months of waiting for a wanted book.

People needing accessibility adjustments also face long waits for desired books.

Some people cannot adjust. It may be their eyes or their mindset but whatever it is they will lose out on the benefits we hardly even realize we've gained.

Others, who may have had difficulty with reading all their lives may just find e-reading more to their needs. This aspect was illustrated vividly for me while waiting for the bus a few weeks ago.

A young woman came up to me and announced "Miss Carr, I can read now!"

Her excitement and manner of address clued me in that she must be one of the special education students from a class I'd substituted in so I instinctively responded with a "Wonderful. You should be very proud of your achievement!" She sat beside me and pulled out a handheld and began to read aloud from it. Good job, too, and I made appropriate approving noises.

"This is the most wonderful thing ever" she informed me. "Do you have one?"

"Yes," I said and hesitantly showed her. It seemed a bit shabby and dated compared to her shiny new model, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Do you have any books on it?"

"Lots." I opened the reader and showed her the list. She wanted to know if I had any people stories, those were her favorites, and I jumped to a bookmark in the e-book I'm copy editing (Other People's Lives by Betty Kreier-Lubinski, due out from ePress early 2004.)

She loved the story and wanted to know where to get the book. I told her after the first of the year and got out a piece of paper to write down the url for ePress. She looked at it in obvious dismay and finally mumbled a request that I enter it on her pda. In a barely audible whisper she confided that she still couldn't read on paper, just on screen. "Reading is reading!" I told her and tapped out the url on her pda.

This young lady, according to every test they gave her, has normal vision but for some reason it doesn't give her access to the printed page. There are thousands and thousands of others who do not have vision or who have problems holding a full size book or turning pages who desperately need e-books.

And then there are those of us who are fortunate enough to have multiple access. We can read on paper or on screen. E-books expand our range of options.

Stay tuned for the next installment: Hacking through the hype about e-books and e-publishing.



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

Recognitions The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

Welcome to Recognitions, a column dedicated to proclaim the writing successes of Writers' Village University members!

Gevera Bert Piedmont is ecstatic that her poem, Ghouls Feeding, appeared in the Long Story Short's e-zine's October edition (A Boo Fest). "I can't believe they took it! And then I e-mailed everyone I know." Gevera joined WVU this year and dwells in the dark corners of Shadow Land study group with her imp. She took F2K, a free writer's workshop offered by WVU, in September.

When asked if WVU has benefited her and her writing career, she gave this answer: “Yes, it's gotten me more focused and I've been sending work out for publication. I am also going for the writing certificate which WVU offers which is making me take classes I might not have taken otherwise." Gevera's personal web site is www.obsidianbutterfly.com where you can subscribe to the online Circle of Light via e-mail: CT_Circle_of_Light-subscribe@yahoogroups.com. 

Cynthia Borris, known as Cindi to her fellow writers at WVU, wrote the sexy, complex and satisfying misadventure, No More Bobs, which hit cyberspace this month at 1st Books.com. "Getting this book published gave me an extraordinary sense of a job well done."

After taking Fiction 99, Cynthia joined WVU in October 1999. "I am the catalyst behind the birth of Creative Energy Unlimited. The goal was to create a safe place for writers of all genres and levels. As moderator and member of the group, I can say we exceeded the goal. CEU is a terrific group of writers. Not only are we supportive and motivated, we are friends beyond the pages of commas, adjectives and POVs. At WVU I learned the tools of the trade, discovered camaraderie and above all, realized it is okay to be me.”

Betsy Gallup’s new serialized fiction novel, Stones of Azara, hit cyberspace at KeepItComing.net in November. “I was surprised and motivated when I heard the news. It seems the more I have to do, the more motivated I become to excel.” A member of WVU for two years, Betsy picked Writers 911 as her study group of choice.   “When I started with WVU, I was a fledgling writer, unsure if I had what it took to do it for anything more than my amusement.  Through the encouragement I receive here, I gain the skills, support, and confidence I need to move forward as a writer.”

After giving birth to twins a little over a year ago, Betsy’s writing slowed down but did not stop. She still finds time for writing, promoting her work, keeping up her accounting business, and updating Whim's Place. “If I can find time for writing with my schedule, so can you.”

Congratulations, Gevera, Cynthia and Betsy. We wish you continued success in all your writing endeavors.

We look forward to reading about your writing accomplishments in this column. If you or someone you know received recognition for writing, please send the information to recognitions@wvu.org. Let us know!


About the Author
Joan McNulty Pulver was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. After moving to Florida 30 years ago, she decided to stay. Joan has four children (two girls and two boys) and four grandchildren (three boys and one girl). Working as an Administrative Secretary for the State of Florida, she plans to retire in six years. That's when Joan plans to start her real career, writing. She hopes to have at least one novel published by then. As a WVU volunteer, Joan enjoys this community of writers. She tells us she has learned a lot at WVU; she likes helping others learn along with her and appreciates the opportunity to recognize her peers' accomplishments in this column.

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Signs of Life The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

A Wrinkle in Time

A year-and-a-half ago I hit the dreadful age of 40, so I've suddenly become interested in current developments in wrinkle prevention and the world of plastic surgery in order to preserve what little I've got in the looks department. The news is good. A recent journal article about wrinkle-removal options described petroleum jelly as the safest and most effective treatment. Until someone manages to figure out how to turn the clock backwards so that we don't wrinkle at all, that seems like an excellent option to me.

I read the article to my husband, followed by a physician's column in which mention was made that petrolatum-based products can cause a serious type of pneumonia called lipoid pneumonia if inhaled. My conclusion: smear petroleum jelly on the wrinkles and don't breathe it in. I can handle that.

In spite of the doom of impending wrinkles, there's a lot to be grateful for when you hit the age of 40. I'm told I should be very thankful that I haven't yet reached 50, 60, or beyond, for one thing. "Just wait," friends have told me. "You'll remember being 40 fondly in ten years." On the other hand, as my dentist said, "Get used to aches and pains. It's all downhill from here."

By the time you reach my age, you can probably be thankful that you've successfully mastered the ability to nod politely when given unwanted advice, do your own thing, and not feel swamped with guilt for not listening to, for example, your mother. If you mess up, you realize your screw-ups are your own and you can handle them. On the other hand, by 40 you definitely know your elders have gained some wisdom and knowledge by virtue of having merely been around to experience life for so many decades. So, you know it's okay to call your mother out of desperation when you can't figure out how to get that mysterious stain out of your husband's shirt. That's provided, of course, that you're lucky enough to still have a living mother.

One major downfall of aging seems to be the fact that various body parts decide not to function the way they used to and the only options to keep things running are often pharmaceutical, if not worse. I had an interesting exchange with a Barnes & Noble clerk, one day, when I hadn't cleaned my purse for a while and had to remove my little bag of emergency medicine to locate the checkbook.

I told the clerk it was often hard to locate my money, these days, since it sometimes ended up buried beneath the fat little pouch.

"Oh, I've got one of those," the clerk said. We laughed about the fact that we both had emergency medicine for allergies and headaches, plus a supplement for whacked-up electrolytes. "I don't have to carry the emergency dizzy medicine anymore, though," she said with obvious relief.

"My sister has a fancy little contraption to keep her medications sorted out by the time of day and days of the week," she went on to say. "I think that's just silly. I keep mine in a Ziploc bag."

I nodded and smiled. "You think like I do," I told her. "I just dug in my cabinet till I found something that worked."

"It's a shame we have to drag all that stuff around," she said with a sigh.

"Aging sucks, doesn't it?"

"You bet," she said, handing me my books.

As I was applying generic petroleum jelly to the three major wrinkles I've earned, a few days later, my husband called out from the bedroom.

"What are you doing?" he asked. As usual, he was waiting for me to finish my lengthy bedtime routine, although this time he hadn't moved on to the "give up and snore" phase.

"I'm performing plastic surgery on myself," I told him.

""Be careful," he said, "not to inhale."

No problem, I thought. I survived college without inhaling. Honest.



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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver

Challenge the Writer Within

As writers, we often challenge ourselves: write so many words in a day, write in a different style, genre, or perspective. The challenge is one of the ways in which we trick our muse to bid our heeding. There are other times, though, when as writers we challenge each other.

A few months ago, my study group had a writing challenge. Write a scene with a drunken elf, a broken sword and a dragon. My version of that challenge became the short story, Dragon Breath, (published in the October 2003 issue of T-Zero). This month, many in my group are involved in a challenge that could be called mass insanity.

We have decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. The challenge is to write a 50,000-word novel in one month. Specifically, the month of November. As I write this column, it is November 16, 2003 and I am at 21,157 words. I wanted to be at a greater word count. Some of my compatriots in the mass insanity have far out-stripped me. Others are plodding along, getting their words in as they can. The point of the exercise is to write the novel in 30 days, but the greater lesson is in how to get the words down every day.

And I haven't been. Some days I can't: work and family conspire to keep me from the computer. My entire family, both those who raised me and those who became mine through marriage, are behind me 100%. They have always supported my writing, allowing me time and indulgence in letting chores slip, dinner being late, and waving their pom-poms in my corner.

But things change.

I took on a new responsibility at the same time as taking on the challenge of NaNoWriMo. My sister, who is recovering from having 12 discs in her spine fused together and held upright by titanium rods protecting those discs, has moved in with my husband and me. Apart from getting used to having a third in our midst, I am also coming to terms with the amount of care she requires. It's more than just dishes and laundry and cooking. She cannot bend, and so it is also cleaning and helping her walk through the store and making her bed and making sure she doesn't slip further into depression.

And yet, still, I write. Am writing. I've written 21,157 words this month. More importantly, the words set down are words that matter. They are in the style of those that I admire, because when you are trying to make a large word count, those descriptions matter.

Challenges come in many shapes and forms. You never know when the one will come along to spark a short story, or to light fire to your prose. Try them out, they're fairly painless. Here's one to start you off. Write a scene with the following items: a pick-up truck, a broken earring, a woman in an evening gown. Go forth, have fun.

But most of all, write!
 

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Fiction Short Story

by Bruce A. Gaughran

The Age of Innocence

From the early days of his life, Mikey remembered lying in the door of their tree-den looking out at the magical world below him, the world he wanted more than anything to explore. He also remembered the many warnings that his father gave him about humans and dogs—a raccoon's worst enemies. When he challenged his father by asking why they were so bad, his father would say, "Listen to me, Mikey, if you let down your guard just once out there, they will kill you." But, Mikey didn't really believe him.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the day finally came. Their mother announced that Mikey and his sister, Theona, could go foraging for food with her that evening. Mikey could hardly believe the great news. Although the only food Mikey cared about was under his mother's belly, the idea of venturing out into this unknown world was almost too good to believe.

Mikey waited impatiently for the evening to come. While his mother and sister slept, he sat in the den opening with his chin on his paws just dreaming about the upcoming adventure. When Mother finally awoke at dusk, she sat Mikey and Theona down and gave them strict instructions on what she expected of them. "First, you must always stay at my side. Do not wander off for any reason. Second, if I give the alarm, don't ask any questions; just climb the nearest tree, climb up as far as you can, and wait for my return. Finally, when I say it is time to go home, it is time to go home." Mikey saw his mother look squarely into his eyes. "Agreed?"

Mikey at once nodded his head, but Theona fidgeted a little, walked back to the corner of the den, and sat down. "What's wrong, dear?" asked her mother. "Don't you want to go out this evening?"

"No, Momma, can't we just stay here and suckle a little longer?"

"Theona, you have known this day was coming for weeks. Soon you will have to leave the comfort of our little home and venture out into that world. You have to be prepared for that day."

Mikey head-butted his sister and whispered, "Sissy—sissy —sissy, what's the matter, Theona? Are you afraid?"

Mikey found himself lifted up by the scruff of his neck and placed into another corner of the den. Mother glared at him and warned, "What did I tell you about teasing your sister? I want you to apologize to her right now."

"Yes, Mother." Mikey turned toward his sister and groaned, "I'm sorry, Theona."

Mother then said it was time to go. She popped out of the tree-hole and explained how they should climb down the tree. Mother said to descend butt first so they could quickly reverse directions if danger approached. As the three climbed down, Mother kept stopping every so often to look around and sniff the air. Forgetting everything his mother had told him earlier, Mikey decided to crawl past her, but a little nip on the backside warned him to let Mother take the lead.

When they finally were on the ground, Mother sniffed the air and the area around the tree, often stopping and going back to a spot she had earlier checked out. Mikey, ignoring his mother's actions, flipped and flopped around on the ground, yipping and yelling for Theona to come join him. Instead, Theona just clung to the tree about three feet off the ground begging her mother to let her go back to the den. Mother ignored both of them, being more intent on checking out any strange smells in the air.

Mikey jumped on his mother's back and yelled, "How about a ride, Mom?" However, he instantly sensed the tension in his mother's back—something he hadn't felt before. When his mother snarled at him, he took the hint and climbed down.

Mikey became more frustrated with all the delays, but decided to play along with his mother. He began to sniff the ground around him and stand up on his hind legs to smell the air. "Wow, what are all these smells, Mom? I like this one over here. YUK, I don't like this one at all." A moment later, "Hey, this one smells like dad. Theona, come over here and check this out."

Theona just shook her head and stayed fastened to the tree trunk. Mother finally coaxed her down and she became glued to her mother's side. Mikey gave up on his sister and moved further away from the tree, following his dad's scent. "MIKEY," his mother yelled, "what did I tell you about wandering off? If I have to tell you again, you won't be venturing out of the den for a week."

"Ah, Mom," Mikey started to say, but saw the expression on her face. "Yes, Mother. I am sorry, Mother." He then ran up against her left side and rubbed his shoulders into her fur to let her know he was sorry. She turned to her side and licked his forehead letting him know she forgave him. Mikey loved that lick. "Can we follow dad's scent now, Mom?"

Mother walked over to where Mikey had smelled the ground. "Very good, Mikey, you are right; this is your dad's scent." Another wonderful lick and Mikey looked over at Theona to see if she was jealous. Mother looked at her daughter and asked, "Theona, do you smell your father?

"No, Mother, and I don't like any of these smells," Theona wined. The only smells she wanted were the ones in her tree-den.

"Can we NOW follow dad's trail? Can we, please? Can I lead, Mom?" begged Mikey as he gave her that special look—the one that his mother could never say 'no' to when he asked for something.

"Okay, you can lead. Theona, my dear, just stay by my side and everything will be fine."

Theona slid further into her mother's fur. "Why can't you two go, Momma? Mikey likes this stuff. I'll just go back to the den."

Mother turned to her daughter, licked her forehead and ears several times, and Theona calmed down. "Theona, remember what we talked about earlier today. You need to be ready for this. Do you understand, dear?"

"But, I don't want to leave you—ever, Mom. I like our home. I like living with you."

"Sissy—sissy—sissy, Theona is a sissy," teased her brother.

"Be quiet, Mikey, or we will all go home right now," warned his mother. "Now, apologize to your sister."

Mikey knew his mother meant business by the look on her face. He glanced down at the ground in front of him, "I'm sorry, Theona." He then walked over to his sister and began to lick her ears.

"Cut that out—that tickles," Theona giggled, and Mikey knew she was okay.

"Okay, Mikey, take the lead, but don't go too fast," his mother instructed.

Mikey picked up his dad's scent and scampered off through the woods. This was the most fun he had ever had in his whole life. He couldn't wait to go exploring alone.

"Mikey, stop right there."

"Why, Mom? What did I do now?"

"Mikey, you need to always be cautious when you travel through the woods. Remember all those things that your father warned you about? He wasn't exaggerating. Now, stop every ten feet or so and smell the air. Use all your senses to decide whether it is safe."

Mikey followed his mother's example, but didn't smell anything unusual—nothing that smelled of danger anyway. It was then he noticed his mother was flaring her teeth as she pranced around the air on her two hind legs. "Something is wrong, son. We had better go back now."

"No," Mikey snapped back. "I am going to find Dad." He then turned and ran off following his father's trail. As he ran, he tried to ignore his mother's threatening calls and Theona's pleadings, for there was no turning back now. He knew he was in trouble either way, so he might as well find his dad. Maybe Dad would be so proud of his son's abilities that he wouldn't be mad at him. Besides, this was fun.

Mikey knew he was close; his dad's scent was now strong in the air. There was also another scent, but he didn't recognize it. As he rounded a small ridge and ran into the knoll, he stopped dead in his tracks. Less than five feet in front of him was his father, but Mikey could see there was something different about him. He pushed the feelings aside and yelled, "Dad, guess what? I was able to track you all the way from our den."

When his father didn't respond, Mikey took a tentative step forward. "Dad, are you sleeping?" he asked, but this time without the same self-assuredness. Why was his dad just lying on the ground? And, what was that red stuff all over his fur?

Right then his mother and Theona caught up to him. "Mikey, don't go any closer," she warned. "Come over here right now."

He turned and looked at her, but then turned back to his dad. "What's wrong with Dad? He looks like he is sleeping. And, what's that red, gooey stuff all over his body?" He took another step forward and at once knew something was seriously wrong. Mikey felt a shiver run down the entire length of his body—a sensation he had never experienced before, and something he didn't like at all.

Mikey almost jumped out of his skin when his mother rubbed up against his side. In a slow, controlled voice, she explained, "You're right, son, your father has gone to sleep. Come along now, Mikey. We need to take Theona home."

Theona then cried out, "Mom, what is wrong with Dad? Isn't he coming home with us?"

Mom took a moment to lick Mikey and Theona while chittering the way only moms can do when they want to calm their children. As they began to walk back through the woods, Mom kept on reassuring them that everything would be fine in the morning.

From that moment on, however, life was never the same for Mikey and Theona.

© Copyright 2003 Bruce A. Gaughran


About the Author
Bruce Gaughran was born and raised in Austin, Minnesota. He recently retired from an executive position with a Fortune 100 forest products company and moved to Ringgold, Georgia. Bruce has written a fantasy novel, The Wizards of the Word - Right of Passage and is now working on the sequel, The Dragon's Head. Several of his short stories, including The Age of Innocence, are inspired from his experiences and observations related to his love of the great outdoors.



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Fiction Short Story

by Renee Holland Davidson

Her Lover's Hands

It was their hands, always the hands that captured her—her body, her spirit. Dolts were they who believed eyes were the windows to the soul. Eyes lie; hands cannot.

Eliza wore a turquoise band around the pinkie of her left hand, a reminder that she never bowed to convention. It was long and straight, leaning away from the ring finger, an indication of a free thinker.

She had dated many men, princes and toads alike. She didn't care about handsome faces, bulging muscles or flashy cars—only the beauty of their hands, the hands that would hold her, would love her.

"Fair lady, let Omar reveal your future."

Startled, Eliza looked up, then sneered. This man was nothing but a carnival clown dressed in a purple silk shirt with billowing sleeves, a gold hoop piercing one ear.

What did she expect at a psychic's convention? This wasn't a place for real purveyors of truth to revel in spiritual wisdom. This was a freak fest for the money-hungry who preyed on desperate souls.

Today's outing had been Serena's idea. Eliza had been meditating in the quiet darkness of her living room when her sister strode in and unceremoniously yanked open the velvet drapes. "It's time for you to forget about Paul."

Eliza clenched her eyes against the assault of light, but otherwise ignored Serena. Her sister would never understand her.

Paul hadn't understood her either.

At first she'd thought him sincere; aware of the truth held in his palm, the perfect grooves that foretold his passion. But one morning she awoke snuggled in his arms, felt the cold clamminess of his skin, and knew she had lost him.

"He was a jerk, forget about him. What kind of pig disappears without a word?" Serena stalked over to Eliza and yanked her out of the chair. "Come on, get dressed. You need to get out of this house before you become the neighborhood's mysterious witchy woman."

She had grudgingly followed Serena, and now found herself in front of this huckster's table, inexplicably drawn to the man with the bushy mustache. She sat down and held out her palm to him, then flinched when he took it. At once, Eliza saw the orange-red aura that surrounded him in shimmering waves, gasping when she realized how similar this man's aura was to Paul's.

This man didn't belong there anymore than she did.

Omar took her hand in his, traced the heart line across her palm, and stroked the tender flesh at the base of each finger. He spoke with an odd accent that she couldn't place, a voice that belonged to crackling fires and moonless nights. "This shows me you are a woman who thrives on sensual pleasures."

Shocked, she pulled her hand away. Disturbed not only by the words, but the truth behind them.

Undeterred, Omar reached for her hand again. But this time, he placed his right hand in hers, palm up. He pointed to the long line that began mid-palm beneath his pinkie and curved to end between his second and third finger. "And this tells you that I am the man to give you that pleasure."

Eliza rubbed a finger over the vertical lines carved into the thick, soft mound of flesh below his thumb. She felt his heart, his spirit opening to her.

She took him home to her bed. They spent three luxurious days exploring their newfound love.

On the third night, they were lying in bed, Omar with one arm underneath Eliza, each hand gently cupping a breast. Eliza picked up his right hand, once again tracing the heart line in his palm, kissing the place underneath his finger where it ended. "Eternal love," she whispered.

Omar kissed the top of her head and laughed. "Come on, you don't really believe that crap, do you?"

Eliza closed her eyes then froze for an instant, her body stiffening within Omar's embrace.

"Eliza?"

She opened her eyes, gave her head a small shake then kissed the tips of Omar's fingers. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her black satin robe. "I'll just be a moment."

Eliza walked slowly into the kitchen, as if in a trance; her mind barely registered the cold tile beneath her bare feet, or the glare of the fluorescent light. She continued to the pantry, to the far corner shelf where she shoved aside jars of preserves and pickled cabbage.

Her fingers crawled across the papered shelves, finally coming to rest on the smooth wooden handle that poked out between two large jars. Eliza gently moved the jars aside, then grasped the axe with both hands, and drew it from its hiding place.

She laid the axe on the floor, then replaced the jars, ignoring the hands that undulated in the amber liquid, almost as though they were waving.

© Copyright 2003 Renee Holland Davidson



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Fiction Short Story

by N.N. Nobes

The Lottery Ticket

"D'ja get what we needed?"

Ida Mae's voice pierced the tranquility of the hills. She dominated the front porch, hands on her hips, chest thrust out like a ship in full sail. Festus approached and held out the grocery bag as if offering a sacrifice to the gods.

"Yep. All you asked for, Sweet Pea."

He shifted from one foot to the other as she rifled through the bag.

"You forgot my movie magazine."

"Nope. Not really."

She gave him a withering stare. "You did too."

"Got us a lottery ticket instead."

Ida Mae glared. Festus lowered his head and drew the toe of his boot through the dirt.

"Humph." She thrust the bag back at him and marched back into the cabin.

Festus hesitated, then with a heavy sigh and heavier step dutifully followed her and caught the screen door with his foot before it slammed in his face.

"Ten million dollar jackpot, dearest." He gave her a placating smile and placed the bag on the kitchen table.

She whipped around, face dark with anger. "Why? Why waste our money?"

"Wanted to get you everything you've ever wished for."

"What I wanted was my magazine. What I wish for is to get away from you and these god-forsaken hills."

"You can't really mean that?" Festus's voice trembled.

He had loved Ida Mae from the first time he had set eyes on her. He had been standing with his friends on the porch of Trussler's Drug Store, chewing tobacco and the fat. She had sashayed by, her red-gold hair glinting in the sunlight, with her daddy, Pine Holler's new preacher. Without breaking her stride, she had given him a dazzling smile and a sly wink. He fell hard, and he didn't even know this angelic creature's name.

Town folk had been surprised when Festus, a lanky, plain-speaking man had married Ida Mae, the prettiest gal in Boone County, and took her to live with him in the hills. No one was more surprised than Festus himself, who couldn't believe his stroke of luck when she had proposed to him. What they didn't know was that Ida Mae had let a traveling salesman sample her own wares one night, and was convinced she was pregnant.

She couldn't bear to face her father's condemnations and saw Festus as her salvation from that hell and damnation. To her lasting regret, she discovered that, not only was she was not pregnant, she was now trapped in the hills, living with the dullest man she knew, one who worshipped the ground she walked on. She had always threatened to leave, but first lack of money, then lack of ambition, kept her in the Kentucky hills.

"Please Ida Mae, don't talk like that. You know how I care for you."

"Festus, if you cared, you'd have gotten us enough money so that we could be livin' in a big city like Evansville. At least we could have the good life there. They got stores and movie houses. Trouble is, you just don't have the brains or the heart to want something better."

He watched in mute despair as she began putting away the groceries with a vengeance. With a sigh, he went over to the fireplace and took his pipe and pouch of tobacco from the mantel. He scraped a match on the stone.

"Festus! Not smoking in here, are you?"

He quickly bent down and opened the damper. He held the glowing match to the kindling and watched the dry tinder burst into flame. "Just lighting the fire. Looks like it could get a might nippy tonight."

Shoving the tobacco pouch into his pocket, he went to the front door. He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Did you really mean what you said about living in Evansville?" He opened the door and looked out at the blue hills. "Mean, nothing's as beautiful as them hills, Ida...except maybe you." Festus still saw in Ida Mae's bloated face and wide hips, the slip of a girl he had married.

The bustling in the kitchen stopped. Ida Mae's voice softened with a sigh. "Festus, you're a good man, but I've always wanted more. Much more. I want to go to the honky-tonk, I want laughs...have a good time. You can understand that. Can't you?"

Festus hesitated, and without turning around said, "The lotto draw's in a few minutes. Maybe we could listen to it on the radio? What if we did win, Ida? What if we did? We'd have a good life then, wouldn't we?"

From the length of time it took her to answer, he knew in his heart that in spite of everything he had tried to do for her, she would bolt at the first opportunity and it frightened him. What would he do without her?

"Sure. 'Course I'd want to get me a facelift and some of that liposuction. My, oh my, I could be a real looker again. Be the belle of the ball." She continued on dreamily as he stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him.

Settling down in the rocker, Festus filled his pipe and sniffed the fragrant aroma as he lit the tobacco. He reached into the front pocket of his overalls and pulled out the lottery ticket. Five numbers—five numbers for ten million dreams. He gently rubbed the ticket between his fingers. Five million dollars was still a lot of money if Ida Mae decided to take her half and leave. Five million could buy him a lot of happiness.

"Festus! Draw's on! Aren't you coming in?"

"Just going to finish my pipe, Sweet Pea." He took a long puff as he watched the sun begin to set behind the blue hills.

"Seven. First number's a seven." Ida Mae shouted from the cabin.

Festus looked at the ticket. Number seven.

"Four, it's a four. D'ja hear me?"

Festus looked again. Number four.

"Well, did we get any?"

"A couple, Ida Mae," he shouted back.

"Three!"

He squirmed in the rocker as he looked at the ticket.

"Eight!" Ida Mae gleefully called out.

Festus looked at the numbers, then gazed up at the hills with a sense of wonder, as the last rays of the sun washed the sky with crimson. His heart was full of love for this place, and he knew that he could never leave these hills anymore than he could live without Ida Mae.

He pulled out a match and scraped it on the bottom of his boot. The flame ignited the ticket and he watched it flare up, a tiny wisp of smoke curling above it.

"Nine! Did we get the number? Did we?" Ida Mae's voice was fairly bursting with anticipation at what the winnings would mean to her.

"You hear me?" She was at the door.

He dropped the paper as the fire singed his fingers, and ground what was left of the paper under the heel of his boot.

"Festus?" It was more a plea than a question.

Leaning back, he took a deep breath and blew out the match.

"Sorry, Ida Mae, we only got two numbers."

The door slammed shut.

Festus rocked, and smoked his pipe, and smiled.

© Copyright 2003 N.N. Nobes



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Fiction Short Story

by Barbara A. Tyler

The Voyeur

She meanders down the street. Boredom in the air, no hurry to be anyplace. Her foot kicks something, sends it skittering down the sidewalk. She stops to pick it up. It's a disposable camera someone has dropped on the sidewalk. All used up. Full of pictures nobody will see.

What the hell, she decides. Why not get them developed? See what there is to see. What could it hurt? She's got nothing better to do.

Maybe they're pictures of a birthday party, she thinks. Kids and cake. Make a wish! She can almost hear the shutter—Click!

Or they could be Christmas photos, long overdue for developing. Ho! Ho! Ho!—Click.

A wedding reception. Kiss the bride!—Click.

Or, a steamy honeymoon. She grins at the thought.

An hour later, she sits on a park bench, thumbing through twenty-four snapshots of an anonymous coed with long chestnut hair. She assigns them captions as she looks. "Co-ed walks in park." "Coed kicks through leaves." "Coed pets dog."

Monotonous.

She cuts the stack like a deck of cards, hoping she'll find "Coed's Half-Naked Boyfriend" or maybe "Coed's Hot Brother."

These photos snatch her breath and make her cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Then she looks the other direction. No one.

She fishes her cell phone from her purse, scattering change and wadded tissues in her haste. She punches the buttons in the wrong order, hangs up and tries again.

"Police. This is Officer Canberra. Please state the nature of your emergency," says a female voice.

She tries to stay calm. Tries to explain, but the hysteria is rising.

"...in the park. I'm in danger."

"Ma'am," Officer Canberra says, "stay on the line. I want you to start walking toward someplace where there are a lot of people, okay? Just keep talking to me and start walking like nothing is wrong. Stay calm."

She rises from the bench and starts walking. Calm. Stay calm, she repeats. Officer Canberra is talking to her, but the voice seems far away. She is busy listening for signs that she is being followed. Walk like nothing is wrong, she thinks. Toward the park entrance. Cars. People. Safety.

She thinks she hears his footsteps now. Quiet and unhurried.

She quickens her pace, no longer pretending that nothing is wrong. The photos fall from a hand that has become nerveless with fear..."Coed Picking Camera from the Sidewalk," "Coed Browsing Photos," "Coed Running," "Coed Looking Back in Fear," "Coed Bloodied and Crumpled Face-Down in Alley" ...land on the sidewalk unnoticed.

Behind her, the leaves rustle. He is no longer trying to stay hidden. She looks over her shoulder and stumbles, the phone flying from her hand to spin across the sidewalk and into a pile of leaves. She seems to be falling forever...

"Ma'am?" Officer Canberra sounds tinny from a distance. "Ma'am, are you still there?"

*****

He pays no attention to the voice coming from the cell phone on the ground. He is totally focused on his work.

He calmly lifts the camera to his eye. This one is prettier than his last model. A work of art in progress. He will make her immortal.

—Click.

© Copyright 2003 Barbara A. Tyler


About the Author
Barbara A. Tyler lives (barely) and writes (shamefully copious amounts) in a small town in southern Indiana. Her fiction, humor and other odd bits have been published in numerous places from Planet Relish to Family Circle.


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Poetics

Linda J. Austin

Found Poetry

If something isn't lost, can you find it? Of course you can if you are writing found poetry. In its purest form, found poetry is poetry assembled from non-literary sources—can labels, road signs, clothing tags, picture titles, advertisements, etc. At some point it became acceptable to lift an entire section of text and arrange it using poetic devices. All of the text had to be used, nothing could be deleted and nothing could be added. I assume the poet could put a title on the piece.

Pulitzer Prize winning author, Annie Dillard, published a book of found poems—"Mornings Like This," and she changed the rules. She lifted lines of text from various books (one book per poem), discarded the original intent, arranged the lines into a poem. Dillard dropped words from the text. She did not add any words of her own, except for the title. She always credited the source.

When I began writing found poems I used Dillard's technique, and added the option of changing the tense of words.

There are a couple of ways to write a found poem. Pick up a book, find a line you like, write it down—find the second line—create the poem as you go. This works well for free verse or haiku. If you are creating a form poem, such as a villanelle, sestina, cinquain, etc., you will need to gather lines you like and then see if you can arrange them to fit the chosen form. Rhyme is difficult but it can be done.

Writing found poetry can help you grow as a poet. You'll see new word relationships, new ways of developing thoughts. You'll put lines together that you may have never thought of yourself. You will hear sounds and you'll find fresh imagery. Some sources urge poets to start with "found" lines and then add to them. That is using "found" lines as a trigger. Adding your own words is not creating found poetry. Found poetry is all about being a good editor, having a good ear, learning how to "shape" a poem. It will push your poetry to another dimension as long as you are "crafting," not merely presenting a "list" of lines. Found poetry is not a poetry-generating machine. Good found poetry takes work.

It is difficult to get found poetry published. Many magazines and journals are concerned about copyright issues. Some may require you to obtain a release from your source before they will publish your work, some don't. According to copyright law, you are allowed to create new works from existing works. Crediting the source is what keeps your found poetry from being plagiarism. I always place the source information with the title—it immediately tells a reader, "This is a found poem."

Ready to get to work? Here are the details:

ALWAYS, always, always list the source information BEFORE you start recording phrases. Once you get involved with found poetry, you will find yourself jotting lines on whatever is handy, thinking you will remember the source. You won't.

Use only the words, phrases, sentences from your source.
Don't add any words.
You can delete words.
You can change the tense of a word.
You can repeat words, phrases, sentences.
You must credit your source.
You can add an epigram from another source, or create your own with words from your source.

Cento—another form of found poetry. The only lines you can use to create a cento are lines from other poems. The lines you choose must stay just as they are written—you cannot make any changes or drop any words. All the poems can be by the same poet. Look at an index of first lines—this is a great source for writing a cento. You can repeat a line if you wish. After your cento is complete, at the end of it list the poem and poet for each line—the source information will be as long as the poem.

Be sure to read the found poems in this month's T-Zero. You can submit questions about found poetry to me, and I'd also enjoy seeing your found poetry. Send them to: Jane_Austin_too@hotmail.com.

Dying, a Cento from poems by Charles Wright

Noon in the early September rain,
beyond wisdom, beyond denial,
a little aura between the slats of Venetian blinds,
ways immense and without names.

Waiting for darkness and a place to shine
east of me, west of me, full of summer.
Last night's stars and last night's winds
roll the darkness aside as they rise to enter the real world.

The point of the mask is not the mask but the face underneath.
The watchers, the holy ones know this, no shortcut to the sky,
tweaking the beaches with their tremulous sighs -
neither of which we know, and neither of which knows us.

As one who has never understood the void, should I?
One "the" in a world of "a"
yellowing elsewhere, in somebody else's album,
my life, this shirt, which I want to take off.

Words caught in a sweet light endurable,
unlike the one they lead to
unlike our suffering, so easy, so difficult.
When we die we die. The wind blows away our footprints.

(Sources: Cicada / Easter 1989 / Reading Rorty and Paul Celan One Morning in Early June / Cicada / Looking Outside the Cabin Window, I Remember a Line by Li Po / After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard / Under the Nine Trees in January / Easter 1989 / Chickamauga / Still Life on a Matchbox Lid / Sprung Narratives / Blaise Pascal Lip-syncs the Void / Under the Nine Trees in January / Broken English / Tennessee Line / Reading Lao Tzu Again in the New Year / An Ordinary Afternoon in Charlottesville / An Ordinary Afternoon in Charlottesville / Miles Davis and Elizabeth Bishop Fake the Break / The Silent Generation)


Cinquain - Pale Blue Egg Within
(Source: Coldwater Creek Catalog # HWJ 1228)

Feathers
drift down to nest.
Purpled storm clouds thunder
in a hammered silver circle
ghosts dance.

Catch them
by the armful
reclaim their way of life.
Stroke the blazing sun as it sets.
See them

spin in
a whoosh of wind -
new life it promises.
Fireflies flicker in waning light
as if

beneath
branching pathways
the tree that holds them both
orange and terra cotta red
preserves

the next
solar eclipse -
magenta striations
that took eons to make this rock
desert.

Songbirds
rise with the dawn
plucked from an old river
life sets into the Mojave
alone.


Blurred
(Source: Wright Morris, Earthly Delights, Unearthly Adornments, 1978)

On a bench of planks, facing the sea
I share the view with a person unknown to me.
This is a tiresome but durable dilemma...

I soon turn away rather than admit to what I see.

My imagination falters when confronted
with the elderly grey face of the teacher,
my father's clenched-teeth smile,
my compelling need to see what is invisible...

the somber stillness of the day
made ominous by the sea's ignorance,
a slave ship becalmed in the bay.
Human nature, customs
fed on honeydew
burn with beginnings.
A violet, orange prismatic aurora
fastened in the far horizon
drizzles in men's souls.

I soon turn away rather than admit to what I see.

Come for a stroll with me
the voice whispers.
He wants to see clearly.
One thing is almost like another
ego satisfactions and evasions.

The tribe opens the door, teeters toward
the beast of war
bleeds extravagantly.
The gift of hope
dissolves
in the acid primal ooze.

I soon turn away rather than admit to what I see.


Study of Morning
(Source: David Weitzman, Pouring Iron, 1988)

Deft,
morn
swoops in
windows high,
rapping on cordwood,
swimming in gold grassy waters.
A trickle, then a torrent streams down dancing with dust.

About the Author
Linda J. Austin's found poem Not An Elegy was published in the journal Diner. She continues to work on her collection of found poetry, titled Hammered Silver. Linda can sometimes be found facilitating poetry classes at WVU. She writes a Caregiving/Terminal Illness newsletter and is studying thanatology.


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Poetics Presents The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Poetics Presents

Gwen Austin

Gwen Austin is a retired therapeutic recreation specialist, and lives and writes in Washington state.  She recently published her first book of poetry, Through a Dusty Lens, about her experiences as a hospital recreation worker during a year in Vietnam. She has also written two novels, Twilight Manor and Fateful Days.  Currently, Gwen is a co-facilitator for the Senior Poets Workshop at the online Writers' University Village.

THE GIFT
(Found poem,
"Masai Village learns of Sept. 11....,"
by Marc Lacey,
The New York Times,
June 3, 2002)

In his tiny Kenyan village
where only recently electricity arrived,
where the tallest things are acacia trees
and the giraffes that feed on them,
Kimeli Naiyomah sat among
his fellow Masai.

Recently returned from premed studies
in the United States, Naiyomah told stories
of faraway New York
and September 11th.

Many villagers felt stunned.
To some occurred vague understanding.
Said the chief of the morans (young warriors),
"I just never heard about it."

All felt relief that Naiyomah was unscathed.
They wanted to do something
for the people of the United States.

From their most cherished things—
children, land, cows—
they selected their offering.

In a grassy clearing,
in a solemn blessing ceremony,
they walked in a circle
around their gift—

fourteen cows.


Copyright © 2003 by Gwen Austin



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

Arlene Lawson

Arlene Lawson is retired and presently lives in Richmond, B.C. (Canada). She holds a degree in Speech and Hearing from, the University of Washington. Her poetry has been published in as JAMA, Clever Magazine, Ric Masten's: "My Cup of Tea," T-Zero, and The Writer's Choice Literary Journal. She's the former editor of Suite 101's movie column.

Running Wild
(Found poem from
House and Garden Magazine,
December, 2002)

let your inner child
so well behaved,
for the previous
eleven months,
run wild

don't think of
confining yourself
resonate
like a theatrical production

bring something beautiful
to the party with a red
intense enough
to climb into

believe in miracles
catch the cunning
dusty light

dance in the courtyard
of the museum

dream of Sub-Zero
refrigerators grazing
in open pastures

stop before putting
the key in the lock

consider a New Year.


Copyright © 2003  by  Arlene Lawson



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

 

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