The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine since 1998

 

T-zero Xpandizine
The Writer's E-Zine

 

Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
01 December 2008
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Craft of Writing

Nannette Croce

The Objective Reader
How Outside Help Can Give You A New Perspective On Your Writing

Maybe you are a new writer receiving one rejection after another, or an experienced writer hitting a block. In either case, you need some feedback on your work, and if you are not one of the lucky few with a mentor to turn to, then you might be considering those ads in the writing magazines for editing/critiquing services. But how do you know which service is right for you? How much should you pay? And what can you expect to gain in the end?

David Ebenbach is an award-winning writer and writing instructor who also has his own critiquing service. He recently answered some questions about the services he provides and editing/critiquing services in general.

In this first part of a two-part series, we discuss the value of having your work critiqued, the different services available, and how you can choose a service that is right for you.


T-Zero: Many famous writers had a trusted person who reviewed their work and made comments. What are the benefits of having your work reviewed by another person before submitting for publication? Do you think all writers need to do this?

Ebenbach: I believe all writers, no matter how famous or brilliant, need, at some point, to turn their work over to people they trust, to get some critical feedback. It’s not a matter of being a beginner or an expert—all writers eventually look so long at their own words that they can no longer see them objectively. It’s as simple as that—you become so intimate with the writing that other people are in a better position than you to say what’s successful—and what isn’t successful—in the piece.

T-Zero: Who are your clients—mostly new writers, a mix of new and experienced?

Ebenbach: I’m amazed at the diversity of people who send me their writing. I have had clients who were putting words to the page for nearly the first time, or taking themselves seriously as writers for the first time. And I have had clients come to me with full-blown, highly accomplished novels, just needing one more pair of eyes before declaring a final draft. Each person comes with different experiences, different questions, and different needs. Of course, that’s what makes it interesting.

T-Zero: If I were a prospective client, what would you tell me about the services you offer?

Ebenbach: What I offer is a careful, close reading of a person’s writing—usually this involves several readings, actually—and my analysis of what’s working in the piece, and why, and what isn’t, yet, and why. I look at the grand scale of, for example, plot, character development, voice, and tone, throughout the piece, and the smaller scale of the paragraph and sentence, including grammar and word choice, and everything in between.

Sending your fiction to an editor/critiquer/professional book doctor is a very different experience than the experience of sending your fiction to a literary magazine, where the vast majority of the time they’ll just say yes or no, without any explanation. Most of the time that my writing has been accepted for publication, I haven’t been told why—and that goes 1000 times for rejections. The publishing world is not there to teach you.  Critiquing, on the other hand, is about making the particular piece work, and about learning more generally what makes fiction work. The person who critiques your writing is there to teach.

T-Zero: Are there people who offer other types of editing/critiquing than you offer, or a different approach? If and when might a different approach be more beneficial to a writer?

Ebenbach: To some extent, all professional critiquers have the same goal—making the writer’s work “better,” on every level—but “better” is an incredibly subjective word. Each person has a different idea of what that means, and a different path to get there. Some will ask lots of questions of the author, to try to spark revelations on the author’s part as to how the piece ought to be rewritten; others will be quite directive about what they believe ought to be done, and how. People will vary in the particular techniques they’ll describe. Some will even be generally biased in favor of or against certain kinds of writing, like mysteries or historical novels or novels with birds in them.

Each person inevitably brings his or her individual personality to bear on the task of offering critical feedback. That’s why it’s often a good—if not always economical—idea for a writer to get a second opinion on work, especially when an editor’s advice feels wrong. Most likely, going to two editors will leave the writer with two sets of feedback that in some ways agree and in other ways disagree—and that points to the inescapable truth that, in the end, the writer is the one who must be the final judge. Both things are crucial: turning to others for objective advice, and making the final decisions yourself.

T-Zero: Is it possible to have a bad “fit” with someone who is critiquing your work? If so, how can a writer evaluate whether the person they are dealing with is the right “fit”? Alternately, what might be some signs that the writer is not getting her money’s worth?

Ebenbach: Absolutely.  A writer may find a particular critiquer too blunt, too directive, not directive enough, difficult to understand, or any number of problematic things. In these cases, it might help to tell the person that you’d like a different style of feedback, and see if that changes the situation. If not, it might be time to switch to someone else; it’s hard to have a successful relationship around one’s writing when there’s a serious personality conflict.

Writers also sometimes bristle when they are told that their work needs a lot of changes.  On the one hand, it’s possible that the editor has different goals for your writing than you do—wants your novel about inner torment to have a car chase scene, for example, just because she likes car chase scenes—and that’s a problem. The editor should adopt your goals for the work, whatever they are. On the other hand, the editor might be uncovering real problems, and, as hard as it is, the writer has to be willing to hear and accept painful truths about the writing, if the writing is to improve.

As to the money, this is a largely unstandardized business; critiquers generally try to charge some approximate average of (a) what they believe people can afford, (b) what they believe they can get for their services, and (c) what will make it worth it to put in the time required to give a good critique. Clients will usually agree to pay if they can afford it and if it feels like they’re getting what they want out of the situation. Either one is free at any time to end the relationship, and, of course, a client might want to shop around for a sense of prices before getting started with anyone.


Next month we'll discuss what a writer can and can’t expect to get from a critique and how to use the feedback you receive.


About The Author
Nannette Croce is an Assistant Editor at T-zero, and writes both short stories and articles from her home in Chester Springs, Pennsylvania. Visit her Web site at homepage.mac.com/nannettecroce.

About the Interviewee
David Ebenbach has an MFA in writing from Vermont College, and is currently teaching at Gotham Writers Workshops. His work has appeared in numerous publications including The Denver Quarterly and Crazyhorse. His novel, My Brother, the Prophet was a finalist in the Mid-List First Series Awards. He also recently contributed a chapter for the Gotham Writers Workshops’ Books, Writing Fiction. Contact him at ebenbach@world.oberlin.edu or visit his Web site at www.davidebenbach.com.


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Craft of Writing

Diana K. Serquina

Working From Home Despite Distractions

As a freelance writer, my office is in my home. In fact, until my husband and I move to a bigger place, it is in our dining room…hardly a “work-only” zone. At any given time, I have to split my attention and energy between work, housework, my toddler, the telephone, and the doorbell. I occasionally long for the days when I lived alone and could work uninterrupted. Then I remember that I still had more than enough distractions to keep me from staying on task, and that I still ended up pulling plenty of late-night deadline crunches.

Whether or not you live alone, working at home comes with built-in distractions. For those of us who don’t live alone, the distractions multiply by the number of people in our households. To be a successful freelancer or telecommuter, you must learn to reduce or ignore those interruptions to your work.

The Telephone
Ahh, the telephone. It is both a vitally important tool for our work, and a potential time-wasting procrastination aid. In fact, the telephone may be the biggest distraction in your home. There are two kinds of telephone-related problems…incoming calls and outgoing calls.

Our friends and family members who work in traditional offices may forget that just because we are at home doesn’t mean we’re available to chat. While we would probably not call and interrupt their workdays at the office, they can call us at home without worrying that they will get us in trouble with a supervisor who overhears a personal call. Even if they know intellectually that we are working, they may assume that we can take time to talk since we are not on a rigid schedule. In the evenings and weekends, when they are not at the office, they assume we are also “off duty”…and for many of us, that’s simply not true. (In fact, those of us working at home with small children are more likely to get work done in the evenings and weekends, when spouses or other family members can take care of the kids. My best work hours are actually after everyone else is asleep.)

What can you do to reduce the number of incoming calls in your day without reducing the number of friends in your life? First, try explaining to them that during certain hours, you will be working and will have to return personal calls at another time. This is more effective for those who have set work hours even when working at home; then you can simply say that during those hours you won’t be answering any personal calls. Even if you work irregular hours at home, though, you can tell your friends and family that when you are working, you will have to call them back later.

If that doesn’t work (or if you are getting enough calls that even a short “I’ll have to call you later” gets you off track), use voicemail or an answering machine. If it makes you feel better, change your outgoing message to include something like, “I am either working or not at home. I will return your call as soon as possible.” Just don’t pick up calls during work hours! If you can’t do that because you’re worried that you might miss something crucial (or because you’re expecting a call from a client or source), use Caller ID to screen your calls. Only answer those calls that are business-related or are likely to be a true emergency, like your child’s school calling to say he or she is sick and needs to be picked up.

Now, about those outgoing calls. If you’re facing a blank computer screen and having trouble getting settled down to work, it can seem like a really good idea to catch up on some “important” phone calls. Suddenly you remember that you need to place an order from your favorite catalog, or that your mother wanted you to call today to tell her how your weekend was. Resist the temptation—at least until it’s time for a break or for the end of your workday. Of course, if the calls are truly work-related (interviews, fact-checking, maybe even placing an order for office supplies or reference books), that’s different.

Family Members
If you have a spouse or children, Caller ID and voicemail aren’t going to keep them at bay. They’re right there in the house with you.

Ideally, you’ll probably want an office with a door on it (and maybe a lock). Then you can shut the door, perhaps hanging a sign on it that says, “Do Not Disturb Except In Case of Fire, Flood, Or Injury Requiring Hospitalization.” If the noise from your family is distracting even when the door is shut, try using a white noise machine or some soft music to drown it out.

If you don’t have the luxury of a separate office, you’ll have to convince your family to cooperate. If your kids are old enough to play unsupervised, let them know what kinds of problems justify interrupting you. If they aren’t, you’ll have to work when they are at school, napping, or being watched by your spouse or a babysitter.

Other Distractions
When I’m on a roll with something I’m writing, almost nothing penetrates the bubble of concentration that surrounds me. I’ll fail to hear the oven timer, the doorbell, and sometimes even my husband. But when I’m stuck for words, or am lacking the enthusiasm to get a new project started, everything around me is a potential distraction. There’s the television, the many shelves of books, the cat, and even the possibility of a nap.

And let’s not forget the computer…I don’t even have to look like I’ve stopped working to give in to a distraction. I admit it, I’m addicted to Spider Solitaire, one of the card games on my computer. I can literally waste hours playing it without realizing how much time has passed. While I’d never have “cheated” my employers in the corporate world with that kind of behavior in the office, I know I’m not the only one who cheats myself that way now that I’m my own boss.

So what’s the answer when you are distracting you from your work? Discipline. Set the VCR if there’s a show you “can’t” miss. Tell yourself you can read a book, pet the cat, take a nap, or play a computer game after you finish your day’s work assignments, whether it’s an article, a set number of queries, or a chapter in a book you’re editing.

You can also use your judgment. If you give in to distractions, make up for it by spending some of your “off-duty” time doing the work you skipped in favor of the distractions. As long as you do that on a daily basis instead of putting all the work off until the night before a deadline, it should balance out.

Working at home isn’t for everyone. Some people will find themselves utterly unable to resist some or all of the distractions discussed in this article. Most of us will have to fight the urge to procrastinate instead of working. For those of us who manage to get enough work done, however, working at home is well worth the discipline it requires.


About The Author
Diana K. Serquina is a freelance writer living in Spokane, Washington. She has written for a variety of magazines and newspapers, and is currently a columnist for the Great Falls (Montana) Tribune.  And very shortly, she and the husband and the toddler and the cat will be moving to a bigger space where she will, indeed, have her own office.


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Fiction Short Story

by C.A. Robert

Get Out The Whips

"Get out the whips and take five," Kyle ordered.

As a general rule, he didn't usually break into the supplies until they were closer to the ridge. But Kyle Lang had been at this long enough to know when the rules needed bending. A good leader knew that you could only push the troops so far.

Troops? This lot wasn't much more than a bunch of green kids, babies really. He should have listened to his gut and never agreed to take this mission. He took a swallow from his canteen and surveyed the motley group.

There were only five of them left, himself included. They had started out with double that number. He couldn't help but wonder how many would be there at the end. And of them, how many would no longer be boys, but instead have become men.

Kyle smirked. He knew at least one who would never grow into manhood—Sally Keane. He couldn't help but miss the old days when girls weren't allowed. Not that he could find fault with Sally. Not only could she keep up, but she could run rings around most of her comrades. Still, he had yet to be convinced that this was any place for a girl.

Capping his canteen, he looked over at Peter Wellington, better known as Peewee. Short on stature, long on grit. With the exception of Sam, Peewee was the only one that Kyle had really logged in any time with. When Peewee got hurt early on, Kyle felt his pain. His first inclination was to send him back and have his leg taken care of. He'd even have Sally or the other newbie, Johnny Boy, escort him. Peewee declined the offer, protesting that he could go on. Kyle should have insisted, he was slowing them down. But, he knew that this would be the kids' last trip out, he had been giving the word. He was moving out at the end of the month.

A loud, comical sniffle drew everyone's attention to the outer perimeters of their makeshift camp. Johnny Boy dragged his nose over his shirt sleeve, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. "What? I told you I was coming down with a cold."

None challenged that the moisture in his eyes were really tears.

Maybe it wasn't too late to turn back.

"Ready," Sam said, coming up behind Kyle.

Kyle almost couldn't conceal his smile. Sam already had his backpack secured and was ready to go. Samuel had been with him from the beginning of these little jaunts. He had been an eager pupil and soaked up whatever Kyle had to teach him. There wasn't another that Kyle trusted more to be by his side. Maybe it was time to turn over the reins of command. It was no secret that he was getting too old for this.

"I'm ready too," Johnny Boy said, with as much conviction as a sniffle would allow.

"Times a-wasting," added Peewee trying to hoist himself up on one leg.

"Forward Ho!" Sally joined in reaching a hand out to Peewee.

Kyle swallowed the rock that had lodged in his throat and purposely marched off ahead. Johnny Boy might get away with explaining that his tears were brought on from sneezing, but Kyle couldn't.

***

They reached their destination amid whoops and war cries. Precious water spilled from the canteens, not into parched throats but unto Kyle's head instead. The coach had led his team to victory! They laughed, knowing that they could not be heard.

Trying to maintain his stern demeanor and keep some semblance of control, Kyle barked, "Bazookas for everyone, Sam."

As Sam scrambled to do his bidding, Kyle looked over the rough terrain they had traveled to get here. It had been worth it. From his vantage point he could see the whole town nestled below.

"Bazooka, sir?"

Kyle accepted his. Everyone else was cradling theirs, awaiting his command. Savoring their impatience, Kyle took his time. He looked each one in the eye.

Then finally he spoke.

"Chew!"

Wrappers were ripped off, tiny comics extracted and gum popped into eager mouths.

"Sir, just thought you'd like to know we have half a box of red hots, a dozen tootsie rolls and four of the red licorice whips left for the trip back. Peewee's knee is already starting to scab up, that's a good sign, isn't it? He says it hardly hurts, but boy, when his mom sees that he ripped another pair of new jeans... Oh, and Johnny Boy wants to know if he can come with us again next time. I think he's just trying to impress Sally...".

"Sam," Kyle interrupted. "We can talk about it all later. Why don't you go play? It looks like they're starting up a game. We can't stay more than an hour or so if we're going to make it home for supper. And quit calling me sir! You know Mom hates it."

The last fell upon deaf ears as Sam ran off to join the others. Kyle plopped down on the ground. He carefully pulled the comic from the hard, pink, square of gum. Hearing the screams of "You're it" and "Can't catch me" made him mutter, "Kids." Unfolding the tiny piece of paper, he read the adventures of Bazooka Joe and allowed himself a smile.

Copyright © 2004 C.A. Robert

About the Author
C.A. Robert lives in Florida with her husband, three children, and a variety of animals. When not spending time with her family or writing, she spends her free time battling weeds in what she likes to think of as her garden.


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

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Fiction Short Story

by Marcia Kiser

Miss Agnes

They call me Miss Agnes. The young ones out of respect; the old ones out of fear. I've lived in this county all my life, and my memory is longer than a drought. Most of the folks 'round here remember my family. And just about everybody remembers my hickory stick. I taught their mamas and their papas, and their grandmas and grandpas. 'Course that was after the county built the big school here in town. Before that, I rode the circuit—a week at six different schools for seven months. Another reason for folks to fear and respect me.

At 18, I was riding alone to each of those schools. Mighty unusual in the 1890s for a well-brought-up young woman to be out along like that, but Father convinced the school board, and that was that. Father could be very convincing.

He started the building fund for the school here, so I wouldn't have to ride the circuit anymore. About a month after the school was built, Father died. He left me a note saying take care of Mama, which I tried to do. God knows, I tried to be a good and obedient daughter, but I'd always been a bit headstrong. Father had always taken my side, and would convince Mama, but I suspect she gave in because, well, the kindest way to put it would be to say I wasn't a late bloomer, I never bloomed at all. I've always been too tall, too thin and too smart.

Despite being as plain as a mud fence, I fell in love. And even more surprising, the young man seemed to reciprocate my feelings.

He was a teacher at the school. More like the principal, janitor, coach and handyman rolled into one. He wasn't at all put off by my height and he seemed to appreciate my intelligence.

The Sunday he came to call after church was a beautiful spring day, the sky clear blue and the sun warm with a soft breeze. I peeked through the lace curtains in the living room as he turned into the lane. He'd rented the best buggy from the stable—shiny black with bright yellow wheels—and a spirited mare. That horse fairly danced up the road.

As he slowed in front of the house, Mama came around the corner. I hadn't told Mama about my young man. Mama's tongue had gotten sharper every month Father was gone, and I hadn't seen the point of giving her a reason to sharpen it more. I rushed out of the house and down the sidewalk.

I introduced him to Mama explaining he'd come to call. Mama looked at me. As my young man started out of the buggy, Mama grabbed the buggy whip and slashed at him. He stumbled and fell back in the buggy. Mama whipped the horse and chased that poor mare up the lane.

She walked back to where I stood gawking at her. She slapped me once with the whip—across the face—then broke it in half and threw the pieces at my feet. In a voice I had never heard her use, she told me, "You promised your father to take care of me."

And I did.

After Father died, Mama started getting strange. Not just sharp-tongued, she'd always had that. But, she started worrying about being poor, even though we owned a good size farm and a large herd of cattle. She started saving everything—refusing to allow anything to go to waste. If I cooked too much, she'd eat everything left after the kids and I had our fill.

About a year after Mama ran my beau off, our garden was overly bountiful. The cantaloupes were especially good. And I dearly love a good cantaloupe. I left half of one on the table one morning for Mama. I knew she wouldn't be able to pass it by—not with her policy of waste not, want not.

Mama ate every bite and never complained about the taste. Arsenic, I'm told, has a very bitter taste.

Of course, I didn't mention that to Doc Robbins, who got there too late. In fact, I believe Doc Robbins was the first one to call me Miss Agnes.

Copyright © 2004 Marcia Kiser

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.


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Fiction Short Story

by Ken Peterson

My Darlin' Mae

I remember the day Mae adopted us. My wife, Susan, and I were wandering through the local pet store looking for nothing in particular. Moving upstairs, we saw her sitting in front of the cage looking forlornly into space. Mae was the tiniest of kittens, so small she could easily fit in the palm of my hand. There was no way she could be over three weeks old. Behind her, two older kittens were swatting her like a bobble head toy. We were sure she wouldn't survive the night if we didn't take her home.

Later…while trying to sleep, we heard this little scratching noise and felt a tug at the foot of the bed. Mae climbed onboard. She hopped across the covers and nestled under my chin. Half asleep, Susan mumbled something about Mae being my cat now and to go change the litter box. She felt so small and fragile that I was afraid to stroke her thinking that I might break something. As I slowly moved one finger on the top of her head in a circular motion, Mae began to purr like a little motorboat. From then, a tickle on the top of her head was her favorite form of affection.

It's hard to believe that was over seventeen years ago.

"We’re ready when you feel it’s time," Doctor John said. "Would you like a few more minutes alone with her?"

"Yes doctor…please. Just five more minutes if you don't mind," I whispered. Susan squeezed my hand in silence as the doctor left the room.

I looked down at Mae and thought about how she loved to go outside and wander through the woods. I soon realized we were taking walks together. People would stop and stare at the two of us and I smiled at their disbelief.

"Imagine that," they'd say, "Walking a cat without a leash. Only Lord knows what comes next!" Yet, she never ran away.

Once we got to the meadow, she would bound through the air chasing butterflies, swat at grasshoppers near the pond, hop along the bank with the frogs and smell sweet flowers in the pasture. Daffodils were her favorite. Sometimes, when she knew I wasn't looking, she would stalk and catch a quail. Carefully, she would bring me her prey and I would gently coerce her to let it fly away. She always did as I tickled her for a job well done.

One of my saddest times was when my mother died. Soon after her funeral, I was sitting in my chair feeling so alone and crying. Mae jumped up on my lap and gave me such an understanding look. Slowly, she reached up her paw to touch my eyes, wiping away the tears running down my cheek as if to say, "Don't worry...everything is going to be all right." My heart melted. Immediately, I felt better and hugged and kissed my Mae, thanking her for the life she made me feel. Now, many years later, her body has betrayed her.

“Things just don't work the way they used to,” said the doc. “It’s old age.”

But, I wasn't ready to let her go. Well, not until last week when I noticed she couldn't get out of bed. I asked her what was the matter; somehow expecting a reply. But she just looked back at me...so tired…so weak.

"You have to let her go, Steven," Susan said as she placed her hand on my shoulder and brought me back to the moment. "She is tired and needs her rest."

"I know," I said in a choked voice, "but I don't know how to say goodbye".

"Then don't," she smiled lovingly. Knowing I needed to be alone, she left to get the doctor.

Mae lay motionless on that cold, steel table as I thanked her for being such a good friend. I leaned down to kiss her head and felt my cheeks burning. Mae opened her eyes and looked up at me. Slowly, she brought up her paw and tenderly touched my tears.

Tickling her head with my finger, I whispered, "Don't worry...everything is going to be all right...it's gonna be all right...my darlin’ Mae."

Peacefully, she laid her head on the table for the last time.

Many people say that a dog is man's best friend. Obviously, they had never met Mae.

Copyright © 2004 Ken Peterson

About the Author
Ken works at the American Embassy in Manama, Bahrain as a Communication's Officer. He does quite a bit of technical writing and has just finished F2K. He was inspired by his own cat for this story, although she is not quite as obedient as he would like to believe.


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

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Fiction Short Story

by Diane Stallings

Saying It

Tuesday afternoon Harold Gowan wore a hospital johnnie for the first time ever. He peered from beneath his ten-gallon hat as he clenched his teeth. The nurse had said chest pain might be indigestion. Shouldn't have crammed in the whole plate of chorizo and eggs, he thought. She was a pretty nurse but no friend of his after she confiscated his tobacco and rolling papers.

Harold's son, Rob, hurried from his Mustang convertible to the hospital lobby, smoothing down his hair. He punched the elevator button, swallowed the last of his latte and scratched his beard impatiently. He'd dropped everything, canceled the managerial meeting of his coffee bar franchise. He couldn’t imagine his father in a position of weakness. Not ever. Not now. Even when Mom died, Harold remained a tower of strength. Rob shoved his hands tight in his pockets and stepped onto the elevator alone.

Harold's covers stretched diagonally across his middle so he could keep his feet in cowboy boots propped atop the blanket. His eyes grew wide when Rob walked into the room. He hadn't seen his son in months. The doctor must be worried, or Rob, he figured.

"Take your hat off and stay a spell, Dad." Rob grinned, suddenly reassured at the sight of his father.

"I'll keep it on. Too much glare from that light." Harold waved at the florescent bar overhead.

"Can I help you take your boots off?"

"Nope. I have to get up and pee every ten minutes. They gave me some kind of medicine. Wringing me dry as a dishrag."

"I'll get you some slippers."

"Ain't wearing no sissy slippers." His eyelids lowered.

"They said you had chest pain today."

"Real bad. Almost knocked me off ol' Blue. I was out checking the fences. Took Blue fifteen minutes to get me back to the house. Thought I was a goner."

Rob sat in the chair and squeezed his father's hand, which surprised both of them. Touching was not something they did.

Harold pulled his hand away and scratched under his hatband. "The ambulance guys fixed me up. I'm okay now."

Rob hoped so. The tension in Harold's crow's-feet added ten years to his age. The pale hospital gown rendered him powerless. He’d always been vigorous enough to tie down a cow and brand it.

Harold drummed his fingers. "They took my cigarettes away."

Rob shrugged. "Maybe it's time to quit."

Harold’s neck stiffened. "I don’t think so." His steely eyes met Rob’s.

Rob crossed his ankle over his knee and tapped his loafer.

He’s still a kid, Harold thought. "I’ll get out of here tomorrow. Johnson said he'd water the cattle. Feed them." He hated like hell to depend on anybody, but Johnson was a good neighbor.

"Don't worry about the ranch," said Rob.

"Easy for you to say."

"You just relax and heal up, Dad. That's all you need to do." Rob tried to sound calm, but doubt itched at the back of his mind. The doctor couldn't say if it was a heart attack. They wanted to test his blood every eight hours until tomorrow. Then they might know something.

Rob didn't like dangling in ignorance. That night he couldn't sleep. He hit the hospital early the next morning. Cinnamon disinfectant wafted through the corridors. He found his father's room empty. The sheets drooped off the mattress. Dad's scuffed boots stood tall under the bed. His hat was gone.

Queasiness spread through Rob's stomach. He stroked his beard and walked to the nurses' station.

"Are you related?" the weary night nurse asked. "I'm sorry we didn't have time to call you."

Rob's mouth dried up like desert sand.

"At four this morning he showered and fainted," she explained. "His blood pressure bottomed out, and I couldn't get it back. We shipped him to Intensive Care, and they're doing some tests."

Rob placed his sweaty palms on the countertop. "Was it a heart attack?"

"I'm not sure." She averted her eyes. "The doctor might be able to tell you. If you're going to ICU, do you mind taking his clothes? I am so far behind." She gave him a bag and Harold's stetson.

Rob didn't tell her she'd missed the boots. He fetched them and followed the signs to Intensive Care.

Beyond the double doors lay a large circular area. Rob forced his feet onto the forbidding stretch of thin carpet and moved toward the nurses' desk.

Mechanical tones dinged like fire bells at the desk. Paper tape reeled out from a monitor. A young nurse whose name tag read "Kitty" tore off the strip and bit her bottom lip.

"He's doing it again, girls. V-tach. He slips in, he slips out."

She glanced up at Rob. "You're supposed to call before you come in."

"Oh," said Rob. "I'm looking for Harold Gowan?"

Kitty touched her forehead and winced. "I'm taking care of him. You can come with me."

"How's he doing?" Rob followed her toward one of the rooms.

"Not good."

"He was fine yesterday." Rob's voice caught and lifted.

Kitty stopped at the foot of Harold's bed and faced Rob. "Did they tell you he had a heart attack?"

"Oh, geez, I knew it." He felt sick. His arms squeezed tighter around his father’s belongings.

"He had a heart attack yesterday and a much bigger one today," Kitty explained slow and clear.

From Harold's neck down, the blanket lay nearly flat, as if he’d shriveled into the bed. It took a moment for Rob to see that the pillows on each side of him caused this illusion.

"I don't -" Rob stammered. "How could this happen? He—"

Kitty moistened her lips and glanced at the heart monitor above the bed. "He discussed his living will with the ER doctor yesterday. That was a good thing, because his condition has deteriorated so much." She looked at Rob. "It would probably be impossible to resuscitate him."

"What? You're saying this is it? Yesterday he was fine." Rob blinked rapidly to clear his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Kitty rubbed her temple and leafed through her clipboard notes. She showed him the recent heart rhythm strip: a saw-tooth pattern. "This is a life-threatening arrhythmia. He’s done it several times. His heart is very weak. Look how low his blood pressure is." She nodded grimly at the monitor.

Rob didn't know which number she meant. Carefully he placed his father's hat and clothes on the countertop. The notch of Harold's boot heel held the dried remnants of a cow pie. Rob put the boots on the floor. His hand shook and knocked them over. He righted them.

Kitty said, "He's not responding, but he may still be able to hear you."

She pulled Harold's left hand out from under the sheet. "You can hold his hand and talk to him."

Rob rested his arms on the bedrail. They felt too heavy to move. He had more questions, but he didn't know where to begin.

Kitty nervously scribbled a note and checked the intravenous.

Harold's leathery tan ended at an abrupt line across his forehead. He didn’t look like Dad without his hat to protect the pale top of his head. His thin hair smeared against his scalp in every direction, like wet feathers on a chicken.

Rob wrapped his hands around his father's cold fingers, knowing he wouldn't pull away this time. "I'm here, Dad," he said loudly.

Harold's eyelids quivered and opened. He wondered why Rob was back already. His mouth felt parched.

"Hey!" Rob called. "He's awake!"

"That's amazing," Kitty said. "Most people don't wake up when their blood pressure is this low."

"Can you hear me, Dad?"

"'Course I can hear you. Don't have to shout." Harold smiled weakly.

"You're okay, Dad." Rob swallowed against his tight throat, thankful for this lucid moment. "You're okay."

"Good," said Harold.

Kitty drew her brows together. "You're not exactly okay."

"Dad?" Rob hesitated. He had to say the most important thing, the only thing that mattered, but the word love felt too mushy for Harold.

"What are you doing here?" Harold frowned.

"I'm here to be with you." Better words rose in his head. You mean a lot to me. You built my world. You’re my Dad.

"Aren't you going to work today?"

"I'm not going anywhere, just right here."

"I can't feel my feet." Harold pushed the fog from his mind. His flesh sank into the soft bed, yet he'd swear he floated above it. "You sure I'm okay?"

"Uh. No." Rob scratched his ear. "You had a heart attack."

"I feel fine."

"No pain?" Rob wondered how to tell him his life was gone.

"Nope. I'm groggy."

"It's great that you can wake up and talk," said Kitty.

"Is it?" Harold asked politely, thinking he might stay awake to watch this nurse. She loomed, all lipstick and breasts, above him. Then again he might go back to sleep.

When the nurse grasped his free hand, Harold gathered a dim suspicion of what this was all about. She and Rob leaned in on either side of him like a couple of bridesmaids. He guessed he was the bride, damn it all.

"You had a heart attack yesterday." Kitty gazed into his eyes. "When you showered this morning, you had a bigger heart attack. It was so big it blew out the septum—the wall in the middle of your heart." She drew a split down the center of her chest with the side of her hand.

Harold tilted his head, absorbing this news.

Rob's face crumpled. He bent his head, wiped his eyes on his shoulder.

"So the inner wall is gone," Kitty explained. "Your heart can hardly pump anything without it."

"Can ya'll fix a thing like that?"

"No. We can't." She looked right at him and squeezed his hand. "It's not going to get better."

"It's not," Harold repeated.

"No, it's not," Rob said hoarsely.

"You don't have much time," Kitty said. "It's hard to predict. Every so often your heart skips its rhythm, and that—that could do it."

"Hmm." Harold pushed his chin up.

"You're mighty tough, though," she said. "It's surprising you're awake right now, with a blood pressure of sixty over thirty." She patted his leg, turned away and dabbed her eyes.

"Yeah, Dad's a tough nut." Rob massaged his father's grizzly hand. "Never seen anybody tougher."

Kitty took her paperwork out to the desk.

Rob chewed the insides of his cheeks to keep control. He wondered how life could vanish so quickly. Even seventy-eight years was too short. How could you cram anything into the last few minutes, here now? He swallowed again. "Dad, I want to tell you—"

"Easy on that hand, Son. You're wearing it out."

"Sorry." Rob was glad his father didn't pull away. "I should have visited you more often at the ranch."

"Hell, you're busy. I'm busy. I wasn't waiting around for you."

"I wish I'd—I don't know." If only he'd paid attention, spent more time, invested more of his heart. He wished for something he couldn't name.

"No good, wishing," said Harold. "The jig's up."

"I'm sorry."

"What for? I had a good life. Maybe I'll see your mom today."

"I know I disappointed you sometimes, and I'm sorry."

"I disappointed you a time or two, so we're even." Sleep tugged at Harold.

"When I ran out from under the draft—"

"Hell, your mom was happy about that. Relieved. Costa Rica was the best place for you." Dizziness sputtered through Harold's head. He tried to stay clear for Rob's sake.

"I'm sorry I didn't work the ranch."

"No big deal. Not your cup of tea. I knew it when you were still in short pants. You hid out every time we butchered a barnyard chicken, never mind a bull."

Rob smiled. "You're the real thing, Dad." A tear ran off his nose and landed on his forearm. "I'm proud of you."

"You ain't half bad yourself." Harold's eyes glistened. "You and your cafés. You done all right."

"I wish I'd given you some grandkids."

"Never too late. You oughta settle down."

"I doubt that will happen. I'll keep the ranch going."

"Naw." Harold's eyelids eased down.

"I will."

The mattress enveloped Harold, pulling him toward sleep. Rob's voice nagged in that tone from decades ago, when he would ask to play catch after a hard day's work. The boy would drag him from his nap so they could toss a ball. Play games. Suddenly now his life's work looked like nothing but a game. In his mind the ranch folded up and tucked itself into a box, like Monopoly. Tiny brass cows.

"Dad?"

"Hmm." He felt Rob milking his hand again.

"Dad, I—." Rob's tongue thickened. "I love you."

Harold blinked. "Well," he mumbled. "You're my son."

He hoped that explained everything, but wasn't sure it did. Rob had no children, so how could he understand? When his son was born, Harold's heart grew tenfold and kept on growing, doubling, expanding despite anything the boy did or didn't do. His love ran deeper than Harold himself could fathom, much less describe to Rob. His mouth felt pasted shut. He pressed his son's hand and let himself float.

Copyright © 2004 Diane Stallings

About the Author
Diane Stallings lives in Fountain Hills, Arizona, with her husband and kids. "Saying It" was inspired by several sources in her work and family.


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Poetics

Jeanette Oestermyer

National Poetry Month - Get Children Involved

National Poetry Month (NPM) was launched by the Academy of American Poets in April 1996. Since that date, April brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events. For National Poetry Month 2004, the Academy of American Poets will launch a National Poetry Almanac, a year-long promotion which will be available online at the Academy's award-winning website, www.poets.org, beginning April 1, 2004. The National Poetry Almanac will feature twelve different monthly themes highlighting activities, ideas, and history for individual exploration and classroom use. We'll kick off the Almanac with "30 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month" in April. Other themes include: Poetic Schools & Movements; Great Poetry Anthologies; Great Poetry Debates, Manifestos & Criticism; Cross-Pollination: Poetry & Art; I Hear America Singing: Poetry & Music; Poetic Forms & Techniques; Poetry Landmarks; Poetry & Popcorn: Poetry on the Radio, Television & Movie screen.

What We Are Doing LocallySomething For The Children
It is that time of year again when poetry groups, schools and everyone who loves poetry begin to think of ways to show their support and dedication to this literary art.

Our local poetry group, a chapter of the New Mexico State Poetry Society (NMSPS), usually holds readings, or are invited to read at the local library, assisted living establishments, nursing homes and other sites that are open to the public. We are now at work on a poetry contest for students from elementary grades, middle school and high school. The grades have been divided into groups of three, i.e., first through third, fourth through sixth, seventh through ninth and tenth through twelfth. Each group will receive a monetary prize for first, second and third place, plus several honorable mentions. Students will compete only with other students in their respective groups. In addition to the prizes, each student who places, (including honorable mentions), will receive a copy of an anthology of all the winning poems that will be published by our poetry group. There will also be a reading sometime during April, when all winners will be invited to read their winning poems. This reading will be sponsored by our poetry chapter. We are also planning to begin a poetry chapter for children as part of our state society.

Teachers, librarians and booksellers do much to support and promote children's poetry all year long, and especially during poetry month. Below are some great ideas for celebrating National Poetry Month every month of the year.

Find other ideas at Kristine O'Connell George's web site, www.kristinegeorge.com. George is a great advocate of poetry in schools. She is a children's poet who has published many books, including: Hummingbird Nest: A Journal of Poetry; Swimming Upstream: Middle Grade Poems; The Great Frog Race and others.

Celebrate National Poetry Month All Year Long With These Great Ideas:

After-School Poetry Clubs: Help students organize a club that meets regularly to share and write poetry. Great sites to host poetry clubs: school libraries, community libraries, and bookstores.

Anthologize: Explain to students that the original definition of anthology is "a gathering of flowers." Have students compile either classroom or individual anthologies of favorite poems. This project will be even more meaningful if students write a personal introduction explaining their theme and why they chose particular poems.

Around the World with Poetry: Use push pins on a world map to locate the origin of poets students have read or studied.

Balloon Poems: Read and write poems about balloons. Send students home with a poem inside a balloon to share with family members.

Billboard Poetry: Several years ago, sixty billboards in the Los Angeles area feature something new—lines of poetry instead of advertising! Students could adapt this idea and place "poetry billboards" (anonymously, of course—that would be half the fun!) around the school, library or bookstore.

Cookie Poems: Wrap a cookie up with a copy of Vachel Lindsay's poem, "The Moon is the North Wind's Cookie." Invite students to write their own poems about the moon, or cookies!

Gift Wrap Poems: Wrap individual poems as gifts and have a gift exchange.

Basket-of-Poems: Keep a basket of poems handy in classrooms, libraries, or bookstores for quiet times.

Coffee House Poetry: Organize a poetry reading complete with microphone and hot cocoa. Great sites for poetry readings: schools, libraries, and bookstores.

Flashlight Poetry: There's something special about listening to poetry in the dark. Dim the lights then read poems about candles, flashlights, stars, or even that crack of light beneath the bedroom door.

Hats! Hats! Hats!: Fill a shopping bag full of old hats. Let every child choose a hat. Read "A Flower Pot is Not a Hat," by Martha Moffett, "Ho for a Hat," by William Jay Smith, and "The Quangle Wangle's Hat," by Edward Lear. Use rain hats, fur hats, sports caps, straw sun hats, etc. as props. Students love it!

Loan-a-Poem: Favorite poems are laminated and posted with VelcroT at a "child's-eye" level outside Shoshy Starr's Lilja School classroom in Natick, MA. Students from other classes stop to read and are welcome to "borrow" poems to share with friends and classmates.

Pocket Poems: Have students carry (and be prepared to share) a poem on a specific day. Students visiting a library or bookstore who have a "poem in their pocket" could be presented with a small gift such as a bookmark.

Young People's Poetry Week April 12-18, 2004
Young People's Poetry Week is your chance to encourage everyone to celebrate poetry—read it, enjoy it, write it—in their homes, childcare centers, classrooms, libraries, and bookstores. During the third week of April, The Children's Book Council (CBC) sponsors Young People's Poetry Week, in collaboration with the American Academy of Poets, sponsor of National Poetry Month, and the Center for the Book in the Library of Congress.

The CBC produces Young People's Poetry Week materials to help teachers, librarians, bookstores, and others celebrate the event.

The CBC also provides an extensive list of online resources for celebrating Young People's Poetry Week with party ideas, (including information on how to host your own "Bad Poetry Reading"), poetry starters, crossword puzzles, award certificates, lists of new poetry books for kids, articles on sharing poetry with young people, and a very special Q&A with Jane Yolen, children's author.

Perhaps you may want to get your children or your preschoolers involved in poetry. Make a library visit with your toddler and introduce him to the wonderful world of poetry. It is never too early to help him explore this fascinating literary experience.


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Poetics Presents

Nick Andreychuk

Nick Andreychuk is a Derringer Award-winning author. His stories can be found in Crimestalker Casebook, Down These Dark Streets, Fedora, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, Hardbroiled, Murder by Six and Shred of Evidence, amongst others. More of Nick’s work, including a Pushcart Prize nominated poem, can be found in Bullet Points, an anthology of short-short crime fiction that he co-edited.

FIRST DRAFT

It begins with a notion,
an idea so bright;
Literary greatness,
unrivaled prose,
I dare to think.

Somehow on re-reading,
it doesn't sound right;
What at first seemed profound,
now screams, "Oh wow!
Does this ever stink."

Copyright © 2004 by Nick Andreychuk



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Poetics Presents

Gwen Austin

Gwen Austin, retired therapeutic recreation specialist, lives and writes in Washington state in a woodsy spot near Mt. Rainier. Her first book of poetry, Through a Dusty Lens, is about a year in Vietnam. Gwen is also the author of two novels Twilight Manor and Fateful Days. Currently, Gwen is co-facilitator for the Senior Poets Workshop at the on-line Writers' University Village.

WAITING

Comfortable
complaisant
yet niggled
by nebulous nothing
—something

Morning mist
hints—
something
nothing

Blackberries droop
on prickled vines
ooze red
something

Mt. Rainier ghosts
in rain's nursery
nothing—
yet

One russet fern frond
trembles—
something
nothing

Chickadees scour
tree-tips for tidbits—
something

Slugs glisten
night trails—
now nothing

Crisp breeze
ruffles and flourishes

summer's wan song

Copyright © 2004 Gwen Austin



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Poetics Presents

Emily Crichton

Emily is a recent graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She works in the financial district of San Francisco, but hopes to pursue a career in Psychology (and of course, writing).    T-Zero is pleased to be able to publish Emily’s first work.

Static

To stand is so tedious
To sit is a bore
I came not to lie down
I want something more
It’s movement I want
I need more to do!
There is nothing more splendid
Than "marcher dans la rue"
Please come to your senses
Try not to be rash
I’d like to concur
But instead I must clash
The sun is outstanding
The Bay blue and bright
Why must I be made
To breathe only at night?
Don’t keep me inside here
Let me roam free
A whole city and country
A world awaits me
What must I say
To convince, to compel
Or does my fate rest
In this static hell?

Copyright © 2004 by Emily Crichton



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Special Poetry Exhibit At Writers’ Village University


April is National Poetry Month and a time to celebrate poetry. One of the objectives of National Poetry Month is to "to bring poets and poetry to the public in immediate and innovative ways."

Writers' Village University will again be holding a special online exhibit of poetry. This will be the second time that WVU has hosted a special exhibit of twenty-first century poets in honour of National Poetry Month.

The Exhibit will feature the work of the poets of the Senior Poets’ Workshop (P123), an open workshop for experienced poets where members follow WVU’s philosophy of writers helping writers. In this workshop, members hone their skills as advanced poets, expand their knowledge of poetic forms, discuss poets and poetic issues, as well as participate in the development of group exercises and course facilitation, have a place to pursue literary critiques of poems and poets and work with some of the master poets at WVU.

The Exhibit will run throughout the month of April and is open not just to WVU members and the readers of T-Zero but to all in cyberspace.

The actual site is currently under development . The URL will be announced in the April issue of T-Zero and in the WVU newsletters.


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Our Drabble for March, on the theme of Invisible Accomplishments, is entitled First Day of School, by Jessica Michaan.

First Day of School
by Jessica Michaan

The classroom sounded like a zoo. Desks were moved, books were dropped, new shoes squeaked on polished floors, but above all, eight-years-olds squealed, giggled, laughed, talked. Most of them hadn’t seen each other during the whole summer vacation and they found they had a lot to share. The teacher had a hard task in getting them to quiet down.

But in the front row, with her pencil out and textbook open, Orly sat quietly, looking forward and biting her tongue, fulfilling her promise to her mother to be a good girl this year. Whew! Only 165 more days to go…

In a couple of days, I'm getting new carpet put in, and in preparation, all my books are in boxes so the installers can move the bookcases. One of my kitties is jumping from one box to another to another—very distracting, but very predictable. Crash, thump. He's OK.

Now I know what our theme is—distraction. The distraction from writing, or from keeping our attention (or at least our eyes) on our date when someone with a pretty or handsome face or body walks by, or from attending to our lives, our health, when there's very often a brownie or some Haagen Dazs vanilla ice cream only a few feet away. Distraction is not the same as temptation, though—temptation, I'm thinking, is when you have to fight actually doing something about the distraction, and distraction is when you just can't think of anything else, even if you'd never really do it, whatever it might be.

Distraction can keep us from connecting, and if that happens for long enough, from remembering the connection at all. A lot of things can distract—hurt, being in love (the "love is blind" thing), falling in love with someone else. It may sometimes, or evermore, feel that the old thing was the distraction, and the new thing is what's best. How do we know which is which? Never mind, that's one for another time. Here's another question for another time: Are our bodies distracting our souls from their journeys, or are our bodies having the journeys our souls need for their perfection?

Our theme for April, then, is Distraction. And here are our Guidelines once again, for Drabbles— in summary, 100 words exactly, excluding the title, and due in by the 10th. (so Distraction Drabbles would be due in by March 15). One more thing—if there is any trouble with sending an email with a question, comment, or submission, please do try until the email goes through. See you next time!


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Literary Lights

Priscilla Fagan

All in the Family

“I think the family is the place where the most ridiculous and least respectable things in the world go on.” Ugo Betti Since Betti’s time, the definition of family has changed, although this quote has standing power today. Extended families, thanks to the Internet today, reach all corners of the world. An outstanding example of that is Writers' Village, a family of writers working toward similar goals.
 
I believe you’ll be hard pressed to find a closer family of strangers anywhere on the Internet. Sounds rather contradictory, doesn’t it? But we could pass each other on the street and never know it. We come from different backgrounds; some of us are nurses, some of us teachers, some engineers, others homemakers, yet we all congregate because of that one desire we have to sate. Our desire to write.
 
One of the questions that arises continuously is how can you learn to write if there are no instructors. First and foremost, as Kurt Vonnegut says so eloquently, “You can’t teach people to write well. Writing well is something God lets you do or declines to let you do.” Second, the reader can see things from fresh eyes that you as the writer cannot. To put it another way, “You must be aware that the reader is at least as bright as you are.” William Maxwell tells it like it is. We are all readers with the added benefit of honing our writing skills. What better way to learn than from our peers?
 
Robert Graves and Alan Hodge suggest . . . “that whenever anyone sits down to write he should imagine a crowd of his prospective readers (rather than a grammarian in cap and gown) looking over his shoulder. They will be asking such questions as: ‘What does this sentence mean?’ ‘Why do you trouble to tell me that again?’ ‘Why have you chosen such a ridiculous metaphor?’ ‘Must I really read this long, limping sentence?’ ‘Haven’t you got your ideas muddled here?’ . . .” Sound familiar? The answer is yes, but probably in a gentler way at the Writers' Village because many of your peers have been there and done that.
 
It’s all in the family, and as with all families, we laugh, argue, agree, and disagree and often participate in some ridiculous conversations. In the end we continue to write. I’m going to leave you with a gem from Longfellow, and a reminder that we don’t know who is on the other side of our computers. “A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years’ mere study of books.”


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Judy Karbritz, known at Writers’ Village University as “Toffee,” wrote a poem entitled “Job Lot.” A few months after she sent it to the Daily Mail (the United Kingdom’s daily newspaper), Judy was surprised to see it in print. “When I didn't receive acknowledgement, I thought they hadn't liked it. I was drinking a coffee and browsing through the paper when I saw a couple of familiar lines. It took me a moment or two to work out why it was familiar!” The day after her poem was published, Judy received a check for the article, “The Becker Murder Of 1922,” which she submitted in April 2001 to Family Tree Magazine. It appeared in the January issue.

Judy lives in London, where she is a regular columnist for Healing Today, a UK magazine. “Fortunately it only comes out every three months so I'm hardly overworked.”

Only a couple of months ago, Judy joined WVU and became a member of the Word Weavers study group. “The other members of this group are such a talented and friendly bunch. Since joining WVU, I've almost been frogmarched into writing poetry. My main love is stand-up poetry. The standing up is the easy bit, and thanks to WVU, I've now written the poetry!”

Niki Leigh entered a short-short story contest on the subject of love at Writers Crossing. The piece entitled, "Our Afternoon Walk," is an excerpt from her novel, Stormy View. The story was published in its February newsletter and then posted on its website. “I tied for first place and am thrilled. This is only the second contest I've entered. I like the odds thus far. A friend from WVU won the other contest I entered, so that was alright.”

Niki joined WVU over the July 4th weekend in 2002. She is a participant in the Crime and Punishment study group. “I did a Google search for a reasonable and flexible website that provided writing classes. I made myself a promise that I would give up on the idea of writing once and for all if I couldn't find something I could afford. Within five minutes I found WVU. Without the classes and camaraderie, my first novel would not be complete, and my second would not be underway. Those are only some of the reasons I gave myself a lifetime membership. It seemed like a wonderful gift to myself.”

Congratulations, Judy and Niki. 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
Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, Joan McNulty Pulver moved to Florida about 30 years ago and decided to stay. She has five children (two girls and three boys) and five grandchildren (four boys and one girl). An Administrative Secretary for the State of Florida, she plans to retire in about seven years and then start her real career, writing. Joan hopes to have at least one novel finished and published by that time. She does a little volunteer work here at WVU and enjoys this community of writers. "I have learned so much here and like helping others learn along with me."


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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

The Laundry Game

The house is quiet, husband and child out for a swim while I run load after load of laundry, creating a giant mountain of unfolded clothing primarily so that I can have an excuse to plunk myself on the floor and watch a movie.

Things that need to be hung immediately are in the closet, the laundry mountain sports an ever-increasing peak, and I'm certain that if I don't start up a movie and begin folding soon the cat will discover the fresh, warm clothing and towels, curl up in the middle, and get black fur all over everything. It's a cold winter evening and cats are seemingly drawn to warm laundry magnetically.

I fetch Remains of the Day from my movie stash. After loading the disc into the DVD player, I turn on the TV and dash off to fix myself a coffee.

I set the coffee on the counter, check my latest dryer load and set it to toss a while longer because it's not quite finished. As I turn on the TV and alter the set-up to include English captions, I realize it's going to be darned cold on the floor and my feet already feel like ice cubes.

My microwavable booties—a gift from the incredibly patient husband who has felt icy toes on the small of his back for over twenty winters—will do the trick. I fetch the booties and toss them in the microwave but I can't remember just how long I'm supposed to "cook" them. I recall thinking that the length of zapping time seemed bizarrely long, but how long? I settle on five minutes, press start and take a sip of coffee.

Since it's going to be a few minutes before my foot-warmers are ready, I busy myself with other chores for a short time, passing through the kitchen to pull out a load of red and pink items.

As I walk through the kitchen, I smell something burning and hear a strange crackling sound. I distinctly recall that my microwavable socks heated up without making any crackling noises in the past.. Uh-oh. There's smoke rising from the fuzzy, lilac booties. I quickly dump my load on top of the laundry mountain and return to push the "stop" button on the microwave. Yep, that's smoke, all right. Maybe it was two minutes of cooking time rather than five.

Where there's smoke there must be fire, so I look around for something with which to smother the sizzling socks. A cake pan will do the trick. I carefully pull a smoking sock out of the microwave, noting the brown spot from which the smoke is rising, and cover the fuzzy fabric with the round cake pan, holding it down firmly against a smooth, glass stovetop until I no longer see smoke when I peer under the pan. On to the second sock.

Finally, the socks are no longer smoking but the coffee is cold and the house smells distinctly liked burned booties. I warm the coffee, light a scented candle and head to the living room to fold. Sure enough, there's a black cat on top of the laundry mountain, paws tucked beneath her white fur bib. She blinks emerald eyes at me contentedly.

"Okay, cat," I say. "You asked for it. Ready to play the laundry game?" I sit on the floor and press "play" to start the movie. She blinks at me, again. In spite of my lengthy delay, the red fleece jacket on the top of the pile is still warm beneath her, as are the other red and pink items. I slide my feet under the warm pile, since I no longer have booties to warm my toes.

The rules of the laundry game are simple. I carefully pull laundry out of the pile around the cat and out from under her, folding as I go. If I manage to lower her all the way to the floor with just the topmost laundry item still beneath her, I win. If she abandons the pile in disgust or is feisty enough to snatch the laundry back from me with her claws (which is, of course, very bad news for sweaters), she wins.

While Emma Thompson's character, Miss Kenton, reflects upon her years in service at the home of Lord Darlington, I slowly fold more clothing and towels than any reasonable person would likely save to conquer in one sitting. The cat seems totally innocuous, first sleeping as I pull things from the outer edge and later gazing at me through hooded eyes, oblivious to the fact that she's slowly moving closer to the carpet.

By the time Anthony Hopkins' character Stevens has carelessly admitted he'd be lost without Miss Kenton, I've reached the last item and the cat is now resting on the red fleece jacket with nothing but carpet beneath. I've won the laundry game! I don't think I've ever actually won this game in the past—maybe once. The cat's green eyes suddenly open wide and she rises, walking off in a feline huff.

"Wait!" I say. I grab the cat and place her back on the red fleece. "I've already won, so there's no point to leaving. You can stay in your warm spot while I finish my movie." I give her a gentle shove and she folds up in place.

The laundry game complete, I watch the rest of my movie with my furry companion, confident that the battle has been won but the war is far from over. We'll duke it out over a new pile of laundry next week, same time, same place.


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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver

Room to Write: Daily Invitations to a Writer's Live
By Bonni Goldberg
Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam
ISBN: 0-87477-825-5
$12.95 US/ $18.99 CAN

Bonni Goldberg's Room to Write is a small book filled with writing prompts to get you going every day, or whenever you need a pick-me-up. I have to admit that when I first saw the book, I was looking for another title. This one seemed charming, if a little different from what I normally read. 201 pages filled with writing prompts, the small volume has been called "…Funny, eye-popping, and wise."

I picked it up, not knowing how much use I would get out of it. I tend to not "do" many writing books (in case you haven't noticed). This one, I thought to myself, might be different. I might actually get some use out of Room to Write. If nothing else, I could use it to do guided journal entries.

It is a good place to stretch your writing muscles. The prompts are good for any sort of creative writing—be it fiction, essay, non-fiction or poetry. The prompts that I have used so far have come up with astonishing results. Some of them have been rather bad, but others have had nuggets in them that can be mined for other uses. Just as a Stair Master™ can help get those muscles ready for a nice hike, Room to Write can get the juices flowing again.

The following is from the exercise on fire. The instructions are to: "Explore a personal story, memory or belief about fire. Or, start by writing the word fire on top of the page and write without stopping for two pages." (Room to Write, pg 30).

Campfires, to me, are the only reason to brave the big outdoors. Since my first sleep-away camp in the 4th grade, flames licking the night sky have fascinated me. At camp, we were wild things around the fire. Heathens dancing and singing and wondering who brought the marshmallows (no one had). As I grew older, it was around the campfire that we sat and talked into the night. The flames still licked at the night sky, sparkling like a forgotten god. Crackles, followed by a soft hiss, punctuated our conversations. We would roast our marshmallows, grinning like loons as the sugar puffs caught the essence of the fire and lit. Quick, blow it out! Crunchy outsides with melting insides, bitter surrounding the manna enclosed, slid burning hot down throats cooled by the night air.

Rough—yes. But some of the images are ones that I like—the fire as a forgotten god. Where I'll use it is something I do not know at this point. But inside, I am still glowing by the light of remembered campfires past.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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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