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

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The Business of Writing

Diana K. Serquina

Setting Up A Home Office On A Budget

If you’re just starting to freelance, you need to set up a home office. If you’re like most newly self-employed workers, however, you don’t have a lot of money to spend on furniture and other office equipment. Even if you are lucky enough (or have planned your exit from Corporate America well enough) to have a significant amount in your savings account, it’s best to leave most of it there for the inevitable “rainy day” when assignments aren’t what you hoped for, or when publishers are slow to cut you a check for work you’ve done. Fortunately, you can set up a basic home office without going to too much expense.
 
Where Should The Office Be?
First of all, you don’t absolutely need to have a separate room for your office. It’s nice if you do—and if you use it only for your work, it also can be a nice tax break. Many of us, however, don’t have the space to dedicate an entire room to our home office.
 
As I type this, I’m at a desk in the dining room of a two-bedroom apartment. My son having his own bedroom is more important than my office having a door that closes it off from the rest of the house. By this time next week, however, my office will be in a room of its own in the four-bedroom house my family is moving into. Don’t buy a new house or rent a bigger apartment just because you’ve started a freelance career. But the next time you move (whether because your spouse’s job is requiring a cross-country relocation, or because you’ve finally decided your budget can sustain a higher rent or mortgage payment and you want more room), see if you can find a place that has a separate room available for your office.
 
What Do You Really Need?
Once you’ve decided what space you’re going to use, there are some things that are obvious must-haves to put in that space. You need a desk, a chair, and a computer. Yes, in a pinch you can set up a laptop on the dining room table, but I wouldn’t recommend it. If you have to move that laptop and your work-related papers for every meal, it’s too easy to postpone setting them back up and getting back to work. Similarly, if the desk and computer you use is also where your kids do their homework assignments, you’ve got built-in excuses for not getting work done. Therefore, priority one is getting your own desk, chair, and computer.
 
The desk can be fairly simple—all it really needs to do is house your computer and other work essentials. You may already have a desk that will fit those needs. It should, however, be a desk with a keyboard tray so that the keyboard is at the right height. If it has a drawer that can hold hanging files, so much the better.
 
Do not use a folding chair or dining room chair at your desk. When it comes to this essential item, don’t put price ahead of comfort in your priority list. Make sure the chair is ergonomically correct for you. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that if when you sit in a chair your feet are flat on the floor that’s the only height consideration. It’s more important that the chair adjusts to the right height relative to your desk, so that your arms are level or slanting slightly downward as you type. If you’re short, like I am, this means using a footrest. The chair should also provide proper back support; if there are armrests, they, too, should be adjustable. While this may sound picky and not like a good use of your initial home office dollars, trust me—it’s far better than spending money later to treat a repetitive stress injury such as tendonitis or carpal tunnel syndrome.
 
In terms of the computer, you don’t need the top-of-the-line (and, thus, most expensive) model. You mostly need a machine that is good for word processing and e-mail, unless you work a lot with graphics. Any new computer should be more than adequate for your needs. In my opinion, the most important “accessory” for your computer is an ergonomic keyboard. You’re going to spend a lot of hours at that computer, and the right keyboard can make the difference between those hours being comfortable, or increasingly painful as your wrists and hands object to spending hours in the unnatural position required by a straight keyboard.
 
Make sure you have a phone on your desk. You don’t want to have to go in another room every time you need to make a phone call, or every time the phone rings. Have either an answering machine or voicemail so you don’t miss important calls—and have Caller ID so you can screen out the less important ones during your work hours.
 
You’ll need some kind of filing system to keep your paperwork organized. Initially, a single hanging-file drawer in your desk or filing cabinet will suffice; eventually you will need a whole filing cabinet. You’ll also need some shelves to house reference books, magazines, and the copies of magazines containing your work. Simple (and inexpensive) bookshelves that you buy at discount stores and assemble yourself work just fine for this purpose.
 
What Can Wait?
It’s easy for many of us to walk into an office supply store, see things we are sure we will need, and walk out having spent thousands on equipment we don’t really need at this point. For example, while having your own fax machine right there in your home office is convenient, many freelancers (myself included, even after more than a decade of freelance work) send only a few faxes a year. If that’s true of you, your money is better spent on other items. You can go to a nearby copy shop (or even some grocery stores) to send those occasional faxes.
 
Another item I wouldn’t splurge on right away is a multifunction printer. Again, they look tempting—you can use them to print, scan, copy, and in some cases, fax paperwork related to your business. We’ve already covered the fax issue. Scanning and copying may be similarly overrated and underused features. There are copy machines almost anywhere—I can find them at the branch library, the grocery store, and a mailing center, which are all less than a mile from my home. I use one of those when I need to make new copies of clips to send out. If you already have a decent printer, stick with it. If you find that you really need the scanning capability (which also means you can copy—either by scanning directly to your printer or by scanning a document to your hard drive and then printing it), you can get a scanner without the much greater expense of a multifunction printer.
 
You Don’t Have To Spend Thousands
Other than the computer equipment, which I recommend getting new because it will (a) be under warranty, and (b) not already be halfway to obsolete, you can save money on your home office setup by looking for used furniture and equipment. Check out used furniture stores. Where I live, we even have one specifically for used office furniture. If you’re lucky (and perhaps willing to put a little work into refinishing furniture) you might even be able to find a desk at Goodwill or a similar thrift store for very little expense. Used office furniture that’s still in good condition will cost a bit more, but still save you money over new items. Again, be sure you get a chair that’s a good fit—if that requires buying it new, it is still well worth it.
 
Now that you know what you need and where to start looking, setting up your home office should be fairly easy. Happy shopping!


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.  Just recently, she moved into a new home where she's been able to set up her best home office yet.


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Craft of Writing

Nannette Croce

The Objective Reader
Making The Most Of A Critique

All of us benefit from getting feedback on our work. Some are lucky enough to have a mentor or a trusted friend who can provide valuable insights. If not, there are people who offer the service for a fee.

I recently interviewed David Ebenbach, an award-winning writer and writing instructor who also has his own critiquing service. In last month's issue, we discussed the value of having your work critiqued, what services are available, and how you can choose the service that is right for you. This month, David and I discuss how to overcome the reluctance to have your work critiqued, what you can and can’t expect a critique to do for your writing, and how you should use the feedback once you get it.

T-Zero: In our last discussion you said that you believe all writers, whether beginner or expert, need to get some feedback on their work, yet many new writers are apprehensive about submitting their work for critique. Why do you think that is?

Ebenbach: I have definitely worked with people who were nervous about their first critiques. It’s a scary thing, because a piece of creative writing is not a grocery list—a writer can’t help but feel passionately invested in it; to turn it over to someone who might turn out to be vicious or misguided or a con artist can be terrifying. However, it doesn’t take much, usually, to convince the client that you’re not vicious, misguided, or a con artist; the bigger fear that many writers have is that the editor might in fact be excellent, and yet not adore the writer’s work. But that, of course, is the chance every writer has to take. You hand your stuff over to some trusted person not to have your ego stroked but because you need honest, smart feedback—and you have to be prepared to hear feedback that’s less than glowing. You have to be prepared to go back to the drawing board. All writing needs revision.

T-Zero: Does the service you provide vary with the experience and /or ability of the writer?

Ebenbach: Absolutely. If a client is at an early stage, struggling at structuring a plot or creating believable characters, I have to focus on those things before worrying about nuances of tone and style. If, on the other hand, the writer has all the fundamentals of fiction down pat, we can move on to any number of subtler issues in the work. I often find that very experienced or talented writers need much more from me than writers who are just beginning—their difficulties are more complicated. 

T-Zero: Overall, then, what can a writer expect to learn from a critique?

Ebenbach: I think the most important thing a writer should expect is a sense of what to do next with the piece. You send a story out for feedback because you know it’s not done, and you’re not sure what to do with it.  The critique should tell you what’s working and what’s not, and give you an idea of how to, in a very immediate way, make it better. If the immediate problem for the story is that it lacks a convincing ending, you should know that after the critique. If, on the other hand, it only needs a few sentences tightened up, the critique should let you know that. Once you’ve read through the feedback, and given yourself time to adjust to it, you should feel you have a plan of action ready to go.

T-Zero: What should writers not expect?

Ebenbach: The writer should not expect the advice, even if followed exactly, to lead to a piece that will immediately be published somewhere. The publishing world is a mysterious one, and while a lot of good writing makes it into print, quality and marketability are not the same thing, and many professional editors—including me—do not especially focus on the publishing aspect when giving a critique.

T-Zero: What do you mean when you talk about taking time to “adjust” to a critique?

Ebenbach: I think that feedback can be a real shock to a writer’s system. What we often experience as we finish first drafts is a rush of exhilaration, a well-deserved feeling of all-is-right-with-the-world. We’ve made something; it’s got a beginning, a middle and an end, and it’s beautiful. This can feel so good it’s almost like a mania. And, so, when we share the work with someone and hear that it could be improved—something true of all early drafts—it can really sting. Many writers are prone to enormous mood swings in these early vulnerable stages, and can go from elation to abject depression upon encountering just a few words of critical feedback. This doesn’t happen to everyone, but it happens to a lot of us.

Yet usually there’s no real cause for depression. The writer who’s sent into a state of panic or defensiveness on receiving a critique probably just needs some time off from the piece in question. Working on something else is a great idea. Going out to dinner and a movie might work, too. The point is to come back to the work when the writer is capable of doing so calmly, and open to seeing the piece in new ways.

Then the writer should look carefully at the feedback—it is almost certainly not saying, as many writers fear, that the piece is worthless. The feedback probably includes comments on things that are working about the piece, as long as you’re getting advice from someone with a heart; following it is only going to make the work better, as long as you’re getting advice from someone who’s competent. In this way, with time and a good attitude, we adjust to hearing the news—possibly painful but also completely normal—that our early drafts, like all early drafts, aren’t 100% perfect.

T-Zero: Finally, David, after reading through the critique and taking the time to adjust, what’s the next step? Should the writer feel compelled to make all the recommended changes?

Ebenbach: The writer must always be the final judge of the work and must be completely in charge of the revision process. What this means is that one should never accept an editor’s suggestions automatically—each one should be run through your own filter, the filter telling you when you are hearing good advice and when you’re not. Often you can feel that, deep down. It’s an instinct a writer absolutely needs to have, and it will usually develop over time, after sharing work with many people—if it isn’t there to begin with. Sooner or later, you learn to evaluate suggestions seriously and openly, and to trust your own reactions to the critique.

The only problem is that some folks, especially early on in their careers, have their filters set wrong—set to automatically accept all or most feedback, regardless of its quality, or to reject all or most feedback, regardless of its quality. Both orientations can hurt you. What I advise all writers, just in case, is to create multiple versions of your work. In some versions, experiment by implementing even more of the critique than might feel natural, and, in others, less—and always save your first drafts, so that no change becomes irreversible. This approach gives you the opportunity to test your instincts under even better conditions—not just in reaction to the feedback, but in reaction to how it plays out on the page. Sometimes you’ll be surprised by what works and what doesn’t. Allow yourself to be surprised. Allow your instincts to be honed by experimenting with how you respond to a critique.

The bottom line: Every writer needs a trustworthy outside opinion, and, at the same time, we also each need a trustworthy inside opinion.


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. 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, www.davidebenbach.com.


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Craft of Writing

George W. Bateson

Writing For The Ear
Crafting Short Stories for Radio

While in the United States and many other countries news, news-related talk shows, or music are the mainstay of radio, in other countries (in particular, the United Kingdom) radio broadcasts include stories, plays, and dramas as well as the “other stuff.” In fact, each afternoon at 3.30 (U.K. time), some 340,000 listeners tune into British Broadcasting Company (BBC) Radio 4 to hear Afternoon Reading, a fifteen-minute programme devoted to the short story.

The Reading Unit of the BBC accepts English language submissions for this programme from anywhere in the world, and all receive equal consideration. But before you grab that mouse to check the BBC Web site for guidelines (see details below), you should be aware that the standards are very high, so a word or two about writing specifically for this medium might be in order. Especially as many of the same rules could apply to any piece of  “very short fiction.”

Tips On Writing Short Stories For Radio

  • Write for the ear
  • Keep plots uncomplicated
  • Descriptions should be short and accurate
  • Dialogue must be crisp and relevant
  • Above all, remember to write for the listener and not the reader
Write For The Ear
I started writing stories for the radio simply by sending off some I had written for magazines, only to be told (quickly and politely) that writing for radio is to hear what has been written and not see it.

Writing for radio does not mean learning new rules of grammar or changing the basic methods used when writing short stories, plays, or general/news items. What it does entail is a re-evaluation of those rules to suit the medium. Stories produced for the printed page are meant for the eye, whereas stories produced for radio are meant for the ear.

Short stories written for radio are meant to be whispered directly into the ear of the listener. Even though it may be listened to by many, it is still a very personal affair. For this reason, stories in the first person are particularly appealing. They heighten this intimacy between the storyteller and the listener. They should be written as a letter meant for that one person alone to savor. You want to have each listener believe you wrote the story just for him or her.

Plot
Plot, of course, is the most important part of any story. Due to the small time slot, the BBC suggests stories of 1900 to 2000 words. So, as with any piece of very short fiction, the plot should be simple. There just isn’t the time to go for a "War and Peace" with all its complications and a cast of thousands.

Also, when listening, rather than reading, an uncomplicated plot is much easier to follow. A plot that is complicated will probably cause the listener to miss parts, lose track of what is happening, and then become agitated and switch off. The simpler the plot, and the fewer characters to keep track of, the easier it will be for the listener to sit back, relax, and enjoy it.

Descriptions
As with any piece of very limited word count, descriptions should be concise but accurate. You want the listener to “see” the story, to close their eyes as they listen and follow the mental movie you have created for them. But to do this, you must make sure they see the right things. It is simply not enough to say, for example, “That tree over there.” Better to say “That oak tree over there," so that the listener gets a better picture.

True, your story will be read by a professional, and it is he or she who will, by tone of voice and pauses, pump the life blood into your work, making it believable and, most of all, enjoyable to the listener. But they will only be able to read what you have written and no amount of talent by the reader can substitute for vague descriptions.

Dialogue
Dialogue is important to any story but when writing for radio, or any very short piece, it is vital. The BBC short story slot has an emphasis on narrative-based material, so dialogue has to be kept to the minimum required to move the action forward.

When dialogue is on the written page, the start of a new paragraph normally means one speaker has stopped and another started. This, however, is not so clear when broadcast. However, a monotonous “he said, she said” or “said Julie, said Jim” will no doubt have any listener sighing with impatience and flicking to another channel. So try to give clues within the dialogue as to who is speaking.

        “Please, Jim, don’t do that.”

        “But, Julie, I must.”

Put It To The Test
Remember—your audience will hear what you have written, not see it. When you have finished your piece, try reading it into a tape recorder. When you play it back, close your eyes and see if a movie unfolds in your mind’s eye. If you can see it that way, then get it dispatched to the radio station, and hopefully let everyone else "see" what you have written.

Additional Reading
  • Guidelines for the BBC’s Afternoon Reading and other programmes can be found at http://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/writing/.  On the menu for Radio Guidelines, click Entertainment, then click The Readings Unit for Short Stories.
  • Shaun MacLoughlin. Writing For Radio: How to Write Plays, Features, and Short Stories That Get You on Air. Oxford: How To Books, Limited, 1998. Available at Amazon.com for $19.95


About the Author
George W. Bateson was born in England, where he still lives with his wife Marjorie. He has had articles and short stories published in various magazines and newspapers and has had material broadcast on BBC local radio. He contributes a regular feature in a U.K. quarterly magazine and, at the moment, is working on a crime genre novel.


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Remnants

Gretchen Stahlman

Looking in Another Direction

When I first started working on a book-length memoir about four generations of my family, it worried me when I discovered I could no longer picture my Granny and Grandad—the first generation in my story. Growing up, I had spent two weeks every summer with them in Sparta, a small town in southern Illinois. I could see the breezeway where we read comic books, laying on our bellies on the cool floor like puppies. I remember clearly the tree swing where we grandkids pumped high up to the leaves and tricked each other out of turns. I could smell Granny’s biscuits baking and taste the milk sausage gravy that never seemed to run out.

But I couldn’t picture Granny’s face, although I knew I would recognize her immediately if it were possible to ever see her again. I knew that Grandad’s face was long and angular and I remembered that he was often stern yet occasionally broke out into laughter, but I couldn’t see his face either, not with joy or solemnity, not at all. I looked at photographs, glossy snapshots, and while I understood that these were how the camera captured Granny and Grandad, it wasn’t how I saw them or how I remembered them best. I anguished to think that the faces of those who figured so prominently in my life, and in my writing, had vanished so easily.

Despite my impaired vision, I began to write the story of our lives. I thought if I could write about our circumstances, the places we’ve lived, our work, the extraordinary ordinariness of our quiet lives, I could disguise the fact I couldn’t see my grandparents’ faces. I listened to the stories my father and uncle told me about their lives and those of Granny and Grandad, events that occurred in the half century before my life began. I turned these stories into my own, using my words and perspective to detail and color them. I commingled stories of the fourth generation—my two sons, finding the similarities and differences. And I used stories from my own life as a bridge between the first and fourth generations who never met.

As I worked through this process, an amazing thing happened. I was writing about early morning, sitting bleary-eyed at the kitchen table in Sparta, about a basket of warm, tanned biscuits in front of me, and about splitting a biscuit onto my plate. From the stove where the milk sausage gravy bubbled endlessly, Granny appeared to ladle gravy onto my open biscuit. She was wearing her floured apron and her hair was silver with gentle, permanent waves. One hand held my plate and I saw her hands covered in a web of wrinkles, as mine are, and on her finger, her ring that I now wear. She poured the gravy across the biscuit, leaving no crumb uncoated. As she handed the plate back to me, her face came into view—the abundant laugh lines, her quick smile, blue eyes that blazed into crescents as she told me, “You have all you like, sugar.” I could see it all, every detail, a close-up better than any flat photograph. I saw her with the clarity of a young, summer Sparta day.

Sometimes I find that it’s when I look away that I can see the most clearly.

There are times in my writing, whether working on the memoir or on the technical instructions that I write for clients, that I get stuck and can’t see my way forward. I’m a strict taskmaster and so I order myself to Focus! Work harder! Shoulder to the wheel! Nose to the grindstone! But these admonitions are rarely fruitful. What I find most helpful is to do the opposite of what I should. I ignore my orders and write a short story or a scene in a play or a bawdy limerick. I tune out the taskmaster’s accusations that it’s a waste of time, that I’m really just a terrible procrastinator and will never get anything accomplished, and I let myself drift into another place and time and play with the emerging words to create what dares to come forth.

When I return to my work, I feel better, more relaxed, and I often know what to do where I didn’t before. I find I accomplish more by looking in another direction, by not facing the task head-on. Not procrastination but diversion can be the most productive way.

Besides, sometimes when you take time out for biscuits and gravy, you’re served what you’re truly hungry for.


About the Author
Gretchen Stahlman is the owner of The Write Angle, purveyors of fine technical prose since 1987. Visit her Web site at www.WriteAngleOnline.com or e-mail her at Gretchen@WriteAngleOnline.com.

© 2004 Gretchen Stahlman
All rights reserved.


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Under The Hood

Thomas Neuburger

Introduction To Controlling Emphasis

The consumer (buyer or user) of cars and trucks usually sees a vehicle's externals as its defining characteristics. It's not a car, he or she says, it's a flashy red Porsche, a dependable army jeep, a powerful (and intimidating) three-stage monster truck. The consumer, in other words, sees vehicles as essentially different from each other. The builder of cars and trucks knows better. Under the hood—that is, beneath the externals—these machines are almost identical.

In the same way, the consumer (reader) of writing—and sadly, the occasional writer as well—sees great differences between the syntax-crushing prose of a Henry Miller and the measured sentences of a Gore Vidal, between the tight "modern" verse of a William Carlos Williams and the graceful sonnets of an Edna St. Vincent Millay (or "Edna St. Louis Missouri," as Stan Freberg once jokingly called her).

And if styles of writing are different, genres must be wholly different, says that consumer, that writer. Poetry, for example, must be very different to produce than a software manual. (Note the added presumption that good poetry is more difficult to create than good technical writing.)

It’s All Just Cloth & Thread
Here another metaphor is helpful. Saying that writing verse is different than writing prose is like saying that sewing silk dresses is different than sewing tastelessly spangled (but perfectly fitted) denim skirts. Every good seamstress, of course, knows otherwise. If asked, she might reply, "Honey, if you can sew, you can sew. If it fits, it fits. It's all just cloth and thread to the good ones."

Clearly she's right. And what's so true of the craft of sewing is also true of the craft of writing. Technique is independent of style or "genre" and fully transportable across styles.

To a seamstress, denim is heavy, silk is light, and that's about all the difference. It doesn't matter whether the final outfit is high style or knockabout, a swimsuit or a dress shirt. You assemble fabric well or you don't; your clothes fit well to the body, or they don't.

It's the same with writing. Under the hood, all writing is just words, assembled to convey a meaning and create an effect. The rest is technique; and it's a prejudice—for a writer, a debilitating one—to believe that techniques are not in the same way transportable. If, as a writer, you have this belief (that techniques are not transportable), you will surely struggle.

Controlling The Spotlight
Let's take a quick look at just one of those techniques—controlling emphasis—to illustrate the point.

Emphasis in writing always exists—you don't have to create it. Because of the ways that language works (and the special ways that each specific language works), some words, phrases, and ideas will always appear in the foreground, relative to other words, phrases, and ideas.

So you don't have to create emphasis, but you do have to control it—usually in the revision stage—or the default emphasis that showed up in your early drafts will create effects you don't desire.

What confers emphasis in writing? Here's a good starting list—physical position, logical position, syntactical position, relative length, accentual rhythm, repetition, and sound. All of these can place little spotlights on phrases, sentences, sections, and ideas.

As a simple example, consider physical position. Any element that comes first, whether in a sentence or a whole work, automatically acquires emphasis based on that special position. Likewise for elements that come last.

In addition to physical position, logical position confers emphasis. The "climactic moment" is one such logical position; there are others. Ideas, characters, sounds, metaphors, or phrases that appear, even offhandedly, at climactic moments acquire natural emphasis. (This is also true in our lives, by the way; sounds or smells encountered during traumatic moments will always carry the emotional power of that moment.)

Note that most work, even non-fiction, has the equivalent of a climactic moment. This essay has a climactic moment.

Syntax confers emphasis. Ideas in the main clause of a sentence have a syntactic predominance over ideas in a subordinate clause. This is one reason you were advised never to write, "My main point is that XYZ is true." You just put the main point in a subordinate clause.

Emphasis also exists within phrases. Each strongly accented syllable—and the word that contains it—has emphasis relative to the syllables and words around it. This is the reason "I love you" is stronger on the page than "I love you very much." In the second sentence, the accent on "very" steals the emphasis (the accent) from "love".

A First Sentence That Works
Emphasis exists in all speech and writing. Better writers control where emphasis falls, by consciously editing to create stronger effects and eliminating weaker ones. For example, anyone who has read the first words of Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" remembers it.
I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
hysterical, naked ...
That opening didn't become strong—those words didn't achieve that position—by accident. Ginsberg worked on it until it was "right."

What makes the opening strong? For a clue, ask yourself if the sentence is improved by substituting "saw" for "have seen". If you're like most people, you responded "no"—but why?

The answer is in the way the accents fall and the effect those accents create. The passage opens with six one-syllable words. In the most common “reading” of this line, five of these words are strongly accented:
' ' ' - ' '  
I have seen the best minds ...
Substituting "saw" for "have seen" kills that powerful series of accents, in part because it reduces the initial "I" to a relatively unaccented word.
- ' - ' '  
I saw the best minds ...
This is great writing. Note that this sentence could appear anywhere, in e-mail for instance. The passage isn't "verse" per se. Genre is about where the words are used, not what makes them good. Decisions about rhythm should be made when editing all writing, not just "poetry."

The Bard Starts A Play
For another example of positional emphasis, consider the opening of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night," usually considered a "problem play." Here is the play's first line, spoken by Antonio, the merchant of the title:
In sooth I know not why I am so sad ...
The information in that line is the key to understanding Antonio, so the author kindly places it first. (In fact, the initial words spoken by both of the play's central characters, Antonio and Portia, are remarkably revealing. I'll leave it to the bardistos and -istas among you to look up that second quote. Have fun.)

Taking Control
We could go on for a while, but today's point is more general. Controlling emphasis is just one of many powerful techniques good writers use to improve their work. Those techniques work across styles and genres—from verse to e-mail, from essays to letters home.

Good writers take control of these techniques. They don't let the first-draft defaults stand unexamined, but make those early decisions defend themselves. It's all part of the art of writing, under the hood.


About the Author
Thomas Neuburger is a writer and consultant living on the West Coast. He has published poems, short stories, political and sports essays, college English textbooks, and a series of books on the desktop publishing program FrameMaker. He can be reached at writers_ezine@twelfthnight.com.

© 2004 Thomas Neuburger
All rights reserved.


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Fiction Short Story

by Linda Williams

Auntie Red

The phone shrilled.

"Hello, Vickie's Beauty Shop. This here's Vickie speakin'." She expertly balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder. She continued to tease her customer's hair into a huge fluff ball, pumping the chair another couple of inches higher with the foot pedal as she multi-tasked.

"Vickie, this is Marion Beals; I'm Auntie Red's niece. I don't know if you remember me or not ..."

"Why, shore! I remember you; honey. What can I do for ya?" Vickie drawled in her thick-as-cream Kentucky accent.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news. Auntie Red passed away in her sleep last night; she had a massive coronary."

Vickie's voice immediately dropped a few octaves from lively to reverent.

"Aw, I'm so sorry to hear that. Auntie Red came in every Thursday. She's had a standin' appointment with me for years."

"That's why I'm calling you. I know she would have wanted you to do her hair for the viewing at the funeral home. She always loved the way you took care of her. She spoke very highly of you."

"Well, I don't know. I'm probably not the best person for this type of work." Vickie's skin crawled.

"I know it's a lot to ask, but if anyone else does it, she's just not going to look natural. The family would be willing to pay you much more than your usual fee, if you could find it in your heart to take care of poor old Auntie Red just this one last time."

Vickie heard a sob and a sniff.

"I don't know..."

"Please, I know she would be eternally grateful..." Stifled sobs and the sound of nose blowing.

Eternally?

"How much more?" She asked.

"How about $200.00?"

"And all I have to do is fix her hair?"

"Well, we were hoping you could do her makeup and put her jewelry on, too? If it's not too much trouble." Little hiccups and sniffles.

"Ouch! You're hurting me!" Fluff ball yelped from the chair.

Shut up you old bat; I'm makin' a business deal here.

"Sorry about that," Vickie said, easing up a bit with the rat-tailed comb.

Marion sniffed again, "You mean, sorry you can't do it?"

"No, no, I wasn't talkin' to you. I guess I can work it in. When do you want it done?"

"Tonight at eight o'clock. The funeral director said that would be the best time, since no clients will be around at that hour. He stays late. The viewing begins tomorrow at noon. I'll have my niece drop off the makeup and jewelry this afternoon at your shop. The body's over at White's Funeral Home. Do you know where that is?"

"I know where it is. I'll be there at eight," Vickie said. Am I really this hard up for money?

"All right then, Mr. White will be there to let you in; just knock on the side door and he'll take care of you when you get there." Marion said.

"I'll be there."

"Thanks a million, Vickie. Good-bye."

Vickie arrived at the funeral home at eight o'clock as promised. She knocked at the side door as Marion had instructed and Mr. White showed her to the refrigerated room where the body lay. Auntie Red was trussed up like a Christmas goose; her face was a pallid gray and she didn't have a stitch on.

So much for dignity.

"Here are all the items you'll need to get her dressed, Vickie. The family dropped off the clothing earlier today. I'll be in the embalming room downstairs. When you're finished you can let yourself out the same door you came in. It locks from the inside when you close it."

Get her dressed?

"Now, just wait a pea pickin' minute here. No one said a word about me dressin' a corpse!"

"Well, you're just going to have to take that up with them. We charge extra for makeup and hair styling, as Marion well knows. Dressing a corpse is a two-person job. I was told you were taking care of all this. I hope you have someone coming to help you." The funeral director's tone was worse than snotty. He felt sure that Marion had struck a much cheaper deal for these services with this amateur standing before him and was miffed at the loss of revenue.

Vickie thought, Pricklet! You don't even deserve to be called a full-fledged prick . . .

"Wait up! Hey!" Vickie's voice echoed back toward her as the metal door snapped shut behind him. Now she was all alone with Auntie Red. Dead, naked, gray-skinned, flabby, old Auntie Red.

She must weigh three hundred freakin' pounds!

Vickie took out her cellular phone and punched in Marion Beals' number. She picked up on the third ring.

"Marion, this is Vickie. What's the deal here? The funeral director just showed me a pile of clothing and said I'm to be the one to dress Auntie Red..."

"That's what you agreed to during our phone conversation." Marion didn't sound nearly as bereaved as she had earlier.

" I said hair, makeup and some jewelry; that was all!"

"Well, I'm sorry if you misunderstood..."

"I didn't misunderstand a damned thing! I don't know how to dress a corpse! The funeral director said it took two people to do it."

"Oh, now dear, I'm sure you'll figure it out. How hard can it be? How about I give you an extra fifty dollars? Poor Auntie Red would be mortified if she knew we were having this conversation."

Mortified? That ain't the half of it.

"Fifty bucks?" Vickie echoed.

"All right, I'll make it seventy-five."

I wasn't aware we were negotiatin'. Maybe she's right, how hard could it be? I really do need the money.

They finally came to an agreement and ended their phone conversation.

Vickie opened the bag that had been dropped off earlier that day at her shop. She set the cosmetics and jewelry on a stainless steel table adjacent to Auntie Red's gurney. There were several matching sets of costume jewelry for her to choose from and plenty of eye shadows, blush and other makeup. She hung the clothes over a chair, taking inventory. There was a blue dress, an enormous bra, panties that looked big enough to be used as a bed sheet, a pair of support hose, two garters and a pair of shoes.

You've got to be shittin' me! Like she really needs a pair of shoes?

At first, she was tempted to omit what she deemed unnecessary clothing but decided against it. No need for her to supply them with an excuse to screw her out of the money she was to earn in case they found out. Where do I begin? Should I dress her first or put on the makeup or do her hair?

Rigor mortis had come and gone. Auntie Red was flaccid as boiled pasta; since she was to be cremated immediately after the viewing, she wasn't embalmed. Vickie shivered as she picked up one of her cold, floppy hands; she dropped it quicker than if it had bitten her.

She decided to try dressing her first. She mustered as much courage as she could and put the bra over the front of the old woman's chest, imprisoning her boobs. She worked the strap under Auntie Red's back and tried to roll her over so she could fasten the hooks. Vickie barely managed to shift her enough to get one of the six hooks fastened. She was sweating in spite of the cold room as she wrestled with the corpse.

Good enough...to hell with the rest of 'em!

It took four hours to dress her, put on the makeup and style the flaming red hair. She'd been born a redhead and her skin was rife with freckles from toes to forehead.

Vickie chose a pair of blue earrings and a matching necklace, which complimented the dress perfectly. She fastened the necklace and then tried to insert the posts into the corpse's ears. There was a tiny dot on each ear and Vickie assumed that the holes had grown together.

What the hell, she can't feel anything.

She forced the earrings through both ear lobes; this completed the last of her duties and she was finally free to leave the mortuary. She couldn't get away from Auntie Red fast enough and vowed all the way home to never repeat the experience.

The next morning, she received a phone call from Marion.

"Well, how did it go?"

"It was real," Vickie replied sourly. Flashbacks of Auntie Red on the gurney had allowed her zero sleep.

"By the way, which jewelry did you select for Auntie Red?"

"I used the blue posts with the matching blue necklace. They worked well with the color of her dress."

"The blue ones? What blue ones?"

Vickie described the jewelry in detail to Marion.

"Wait a minute! That's my jewelry! I must have left it there the last time I visited her. Besides, those are for pierced ears. Auntie Red never had her ears pierced!"

"Well, they are now."

Copyright © 2004 Linda Williams


About the Author
Linda Williams is a long time resident of Southern California. She runs a home based business which allows her the time to pursue a career in writing. She has lived in many parts of the United States and spent 15 years on the island of Guam working as a real estate broker.

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Fiction Short Story

by Rod McNulty

FamilyMatters

Again, I can't find the words to express my gratitude toward you, Mr. Ryan. The services you provide at FamilyMatters are priceless.

Unendingly Grateful Yours,
Mary Richards.
Nathaniel Ryan read the last line of the e-mail again. He allowed himself a small smile. In the three and a half years since he started his not-for-profit website, he had helped reunite over 100 adoptees with their birth parents.

It was two a.m. and Nathaniel was exhausted. He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and let his mind drift back three years.

"Hello, can I please speak with Mrs. Emory?" he inquired.

"Who's calling, please," asked an elderly voice on the other end of the phone.

"My name is Nathaniel Ryan and I think Mrs. Emory might be able to help locate my mother," he replied. The tension in his voice felt strong enough to melt the phone in his hand.

"This is she, dear, but I'm afraid I don't know any Ryans," Mrs. Emory replied.

"No ma'am." Nathaniel said, "My mother's name was Martha Young and I think she used to be your neighbor."

"Oh sure, she lived next door to me her entire life. I'm sorry to say that she passed several years ago, not long after her husband Richard was killed in car accident. It's just horrible to have two nice people taken so early."

Nathaniel's heart sank. He had been searching for his birth parents for over two years and now it looked like his search had come to devastating end. A lump rose in his throat and he sat in silence for what seemed an eternity. When he was finally able to speak, Nathaniel apologized and explained that Martha had given him up for adoption at birth 35 years before. For the next three hours, Mrs. Emory told Nathaniel everything she knew about his mother. He learned that Martha had lived her entire life in the same small town and married her high school sweetheart, Richard, after he returned home from Vietnam. Both of them were only children and their parents had also passed away. Martha was diagnosed with cancer about three years ago. Tragically, Richard was killed in an auto accident about three months before Martha died of her cancer. Unfortunately, they never had any other children.

"Nate, it's after two, aren't you coming to bed?" he heard his wife ask from the bedroom, and the memory of that day faded.

"I'm sorry babe," he said. "I'm almost done. Try to get some sleep and I'll be there soon. Remember, you've got an exam in the morning."

Even though Nathaniel was tired and longed to join his wife, he continued researching a tough case. To call his small space a den was generous, to say the least. His home office was little bigger than a closet tucked into a nook of his modest apartment. The nook was surrounded by windows, which flooded the space with light by day, and provided an excellent view of the park across the street. A light rain began to tap on the windows and Nathaniel found his own typing keeping time with the rain.
Dear Mr. Gibson,

I am afraid that I have nothing new to report. I can find no record of Abby whatsoever. Unfortunately, an exhaustive search of hospital and school records turned up nothing. In fact, I have been unable to find any record containing the name Abby. I will continue my efforts but I am concerned that we are running out of search avenues. Any additional information you may provide could help.

Sincerely,
Nathaniel Ryan,
FamilyMatters
Nathaniel pressed send and shut his computer down.

John Gibson had contacted Nathaniel several months before in hopes of locating an old girlfriend named Abby. Nathaniel learned that Abby had given birth to a baby that was given up for adoption about eight months after John's family moved away. John had happened upon an old friend who relayed what he remembered about Abby. Unfortunately, John was unable to find any additional information concerning the girl or the baby and so he turned to FamilyMatters for help.

Nathaniel had taken an instant liking to John and wanted to find his lost family almost as much as John. Perhaps it was fact that most of the people that turned to FamilyMatters were children searching for their birthparents. A large number of people that gave their children up for adoption often felt very guilty. They were also afraid they would find unwelcoming castoffs that held only animosity for them. John was different. His e-mail to Nathaniel's organization was very heart wrenching. He explained how he met Abby one summer and had instantly fallen in love with her. She did not want to become involved with John but his dogged determination and patience with her had paid off.

Although they only had a few short months together, John never forgot Abby. He still loved her today as much as his teenage self did those many years before. Even though he was happily married to a wonderful woman, Abby always held a special place in his heart. He went on to explain how horrified he was to learn about his baby. Unfortunately, his wife Trish was never able to have children and the thought of his own son or daughter somewhere out in the world without him was almost too much to bear. He began to search for Abby and the baby but was never able to learn very much more than his old friend was able to tell him. He was haunted by nightmares of a lost child wandering alone and afraid.

Several weeks after his last e-mail to John, Nathaniel found himself just about out of options. Extensive searches of birth, marriage, and death records turned up no one by the name of Abby in the small town of Lincoln. No adoption records could be found either and he was dreading the call to John. Nathaniel reached for the phone and it suddenly rang, startling him. Picking up the phone, he was glad for the distraction as it meant that his call to John could be delayed just a while longer.

"Hello," Nathaniel said.

"Hi, Nathaniel," said a familiar voice.

Nathaniel's heart sank. "Hi, John. I was just about to call you. I'm afraid I don't have very good news for you,” he said. He realized that John's voice seemed a little more upbeat than usual.

"Nathaniel, I found a bit of information that might help us. When I met Abby, she was spending the summer with her aunt and uncle. I don't ever remember her telling me where she lived," John said, barely pausing to breathe. "I didn't even get to tell her goodbye when my father was shipped out to Germany. Remember I told you I was a military brat. Well, anyway, I met someone online that thought they knew Abby from Lincoln and she said that her friend lived in Franklin and would sometimes visit her aunt and uncle in Lincoln," he went on to explain.

Nathaniel almost laughed. The image of John with the phone pressed to his ear, blue in the face from talking without breathing, and biggest grin on his face flashed before him.

"John, that's great news. Let me get to work and see what I can come up with," he said. "I'll call you back in a few days." Feeding off John's excitement, Nathaniel almost hung up without saying goodbye.

For the next few days, Nathaniel Ryan threw his self into his work for FamilyMatters. He was so excited that he took a couple of days vacation to work on John's case. After four full days of work, that sinking feeling set in again. All the usual records failed to turn up any Abbys in Franklin. Nathaniel was about to throw in the towel when he remembered a contact in Franklin from another case he worked a few years ago. It was a long shot but what the hell, nothing else worked. He picked up the phone.

"Hi, Mrs. Emory, this is Nathaniel Ryan. We spoke a few years ago..."

"Oh sure, I remember you, honey," she said, cutting him off. "How have you been?"

"Fine, listen if it's not too much trouble I wondered if you might remember a young lady that lived in Lincoln. Her name was Abby and she may have even been a friend of my mother’s," he explained.

"Well dear, the only Abby that I ever remember living here was your mom. By the way, after we spoke..."

Now it was Nathaniel's turn to cut Mrs. Emory off. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Emory, but my mother's name was Martha," he said.

"Oh sure, dear, but her middle name was Abigail. She hated the name Martha. Said it sounded too old. You know after we spoke, I remembered something but did not know how to contact you." Mrs. Emory went on. "Your father, Rich, was sent away to the war about a year and half before you were born. So you see, your father can't be your father," she said.

Nathaniel dropped the phone! With a trembling hand, he somehow managed the strength to pick it up again. "Mrs. Emory," he said with a trembling voice. "I need to call you back." And with that, Nathaniel hung up the phone.

For a long time Nathaniel sat in silence. He could not bring himself to believe what he had just learned. Even though a well of emotions were springing up inside he sat stone-faced, almost paralyzed. When he was finally able to move, he reached for the phone. He dialed the number and had to wait three rings before it was answered.

"John, it’s Nate. I've found your son"...

Copyright © 2004 Rod McNulty


About the Author
Rod McNulty lives in the Tampa Bay area with his wife of five years. He has a degree in Web Management and currently works as a Multi Media Developer for a large pharmacy benefit manager. He spends most of his time with his beautiful bride and his loving family. He has a life long love of writing. He plans to begin a novel soon.

T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Fiction Short Story

by Joseph Arechavala

Last Request

Benny sat on the bed, drawing in his ever-present notebook when I walked into his room. At fifteen, Benny had a grasp on real life that kids his age, and even most adults, didn't come close to. Benny was a slight kid, thin of frame, short for his age, and looked like he'd blow away in a good wind. His light brown hair was cut short, and his crystal clear blue eyes sparkled with a joy of life. Like a lot of seriously ill kids, he had a really positive outlook on life, and his smile was the sweetest I've ever seen. It lit up his face every time I walked into his room.

Benny had made the room his, decorating it with his artwork. His pencil sketches were a remarkable display of talent, and so realistic. There were many of me, all drawn from his memory, more flattering than I thought I really looked, and the cause of many comments from other staff members. I knew how Benny felt about me.

Benny, in short, was dying and knew it. Cystic fibrosis is a horrible disease, robbing young lives before they have a chance to begin, and making them suffer so before it closes its icy hand of death. I was Benny's respiratory therapist, an exercise in futility, fighting his body's destruction of its lungs to try to get them to function, so he could maybe live another few weeks. We did his therapy three times a day, fighting our losing battle. It was going through the motions, really. We all knew Benny would not be with us much longer.

The usual smile greeted me. "Hi, Gina."

"Hi Benny," I cheerfully replied, feeling none of the rehearsed cheer I put in my voice.

He looked at me with just a hint of anger in those eyes, a bit of a pout and put down his pad.

"Stop it."

I feigned ignorance as I halted my approach. "What?"

"You know what."

"I don't, Benny. I really don't."

He flopped down onto the bed and pulled his sheet up to his chest. "Yes you do, Gina. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

I sighed and hung my head. No matter how hard I tried, I could never hide my true feelings from Benny. He possessed this ability to look through my veneer and see into my heart and mind. I slowly walked to his bedside, put my supply box on the blanket and sat down.

"Benny, I'm sorry."

Benny rolled over to face away from me. "You don't mean it. Say it like you mean it." He coughed two or three times weakly; the sheets barely wavered.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "I mean it, Benny. I'm really sorry. I just—"

I gulped hard as I faltered. Tears brimmed in my eyes.

"I'm dying, Gina. Say it."

"I don't want to say it, Benny."

"You have to." He turned to face me, earnest concern on his face. Not for himself—his was concern for me.

I began to really cry and managed to croak out, "You're...dying."

He sat up and hugged me to him, comforting me. I didn't care if anyone saw us. I didn't care if it was unprofessional. I just wanted to hug him and stay that way forever. Benny was dying and I hated the fact. I hated that he was so young, so talented. I hated the unfairness. And most of all, I hated the fact that there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do.

I sat there holding him, never wanting to let go. But after a while, Benny did let me go. His lips curled with a faintly mischievous expression, showing his dimples.

"You know," he began, "There is one thing you could do to make me feel better..."

I faked anger through my tears. "Benny..."

Now it was his turn to play the innocent. "What?"

"I thought we settled this."

He turned away, and I saw it. For one split second, I saw the fear. Then it vanished. He coughed for a full minute. I repeatedly smacked him on the back to help him clear it.

After he stopped, I put my hand on his shoulder. "Benny, I know you're afraid. It's okay to be afraid."

"I'm not."

"Not even a little? C'mon Benny, you always want me to be honest with you. How about reciprocating a little, huh?"

He looked up at me and smiled again with uncertainty written all over his face. "Okay, maybe a little. But deep down, I know it's gonna be okay." He paused to catch his breath and looked at me again.

"Please?"

I sighed again. But there was something different about his usual request today. Something compelled me, pushing me forward. Benny responded, closing his eyes and leaning towards me. My lips met his, and my arms came up to hug him to me. He opened his mouth slightly, and my tongue, without my resistance, pushed into his willing mouth. Our tongues intertwined and lingered. Benny wrapped his arms around me and stroked my back as I was doing to his.

Our kiss seemed an eternity. An eternity of a little piece of heaven. The world stopped. Nothing else existed, except for us kissing. It was, without any question, the most passionate, loving kiss I had ever received in my twenty-nine years.

Reluctantly, I broke our embrace and looked at Benny. His eyes stayed closed as he remained completely motionless, a smile of bliss on his pale face.

I waited and he opened his eyes after a moment or two. "I love you, Gina."

I couldn't believe I was hearing this. Benny loved me. And I was absolutely positive that this was not some schoolboy crush.

I sat motionless, and he smiled even more broadly. "It's okay. I know you don't love me, Gina," he said softly, "but I do love you."

I jumped up and my box of supplies tumbled to the floor. I gasped and fell to my knees to hurriedly pick them up. "I... I have to go, Benny."

I finished gathering up the last handful and threw it in. I looked up at Benny and froze, like a rabbit in a panic.

He gazed down at me, the sunlight flowing through his window, backlighting him like an angel. "I'll always love you, Gina."

Benny lay back on the bed and sighed. I got up and slowly moved to the bed. I looked down to see the serene expression on his face.

"You need to rest, Benny. I'll send Louise up to do your therapy later, okay? I'll see you tomorrow." I turned to walk out, but stopped when Benny quietly said, "No, you won't. Goodbye, Gina." I stood rock still and repeated without looking back, "I'll see you tomorrow."

I rushed out of the room as fast as I could manage. I went through the motions of doing my job for the rest of the day. All I could think about was that kiss. Finally, my shift was over and I rushed home to sit in the dark the entire evening, crying until I fell asleep on the sofa.

The next morning I went in puffy eyes and all and immediately headed to Benny's room. The housekeeping woman—Betty, I think her name was, oh so carefully pulled Benny's drawings off the wall. She heard me and turned around, sadness in her eyes.

We stood like there like we were waiting for a bus or something. Betty finally said, "He's gone."

"I know."

"He told the nurse he wanted you to have these."

She handed me his drawings of me. I mumbled a 'thank you' and walked out of the room. I made my way to the bathroom and broke down.

That was five years ago. I've lost patients since then, including children, but no one has ever affected me the way Benny did. I loved him. I miss him. I still occasionally pull out those drawings and spend hours looking at them. And when I do, I can feel him put his arm around me and whisper. "It's all right. I love you, Gina."

And I always whisper back, "I love you, too, Benny."

Copyright © 2004 Joseph Arechavala


About the Author
Joseph Arechavala is a semi-happily married father of two boys living in NJ, and dreaming of fame and fortune as a writer—or at least, winning the lottery. He is a member of WVU and hangs out in the Trail Mix and Flash Fiction groups.

T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Fiction Short Story

by Matthew L.M. Fletcher

Ten-Year Visit

Mom’s house on Christmas Day. Seems like 50 relatives over. I remember some of the older ones but anyone under ten wouldn’t have been born when I left. My eyes are blurry from fatigue after the 24-hour trip home. I don’t really know any of the people in the room now. They’re all ten years older than they were when I knew them. I find it best to sit and not attract attention. Aunt Maggie is the nosiest. She wants to know where I’ve been since 1993. She still talks too loud. I don’t recognize her at first because she has gained 100 pounds. Her husband, my mother’s brother, Uncle Charles, tells her to leave me alone. It is the kindest act of my holiday.

Phone rings in the morning. A man who was my friend nearly 20 years ago says he wants to have coffee at Bell’s, the diner, like the old days. They called him Elder, the oldest son. We don’t recognize each other anymore. He could be an imposter. The first thing he tells me is that all of our old friends from Wayland High school are gone. He says it’s just him and me now. I want a glass of wine and hashish. I tell him that, in Wayland, it’s still just him. I leave tomorrow. He says we should go out tonight then. He’s 35 and balding. He’s overweight, more so than he was in high school after he quit the track team to focus on his writing. He works at the gas station, changing oil. I say it would be okay if he calls me later and I leave the diner.

Kathy Spellings kissed me at Bell’s when I was sixteen. She had a round belly and strong wrists. She was a brown Indian like me, a part of an Indian tribe that didn’t exist in the eyes of the government. She had long, black hair she tied into a ponytail when she played tennis. Like me, she ate too much cheese pizza and strawberry ice cream to be thin, but, unlike me, she was quick as a cat. Elder was her first boyfriend. I tried to forgive him then, but I gave up.

Kathy was my first girlfriend. In tenth grade, if I could have, I would have killed Elder. Elder is gay now. I suppose he was gay then, too, but back then he was a poet. That’s what he told everyone. He talked about the pain in his life. His mother’s death. His father’s failing garage. His alcoholic younger brother. He only wrote down one poem that I know of. And I know he didn’t write it. He copied it out of an old edition of Norton’s anthology, a book I bought him at a yard sale for a quarter. It was something by the guy who wrote, Death Be Not Proud.

In high school, Elder was a whore. With that one poem, a big cheesy smile, and his sad family stories, he seduced girls all over west Michigan. Now that I think about it, I hate Elder. Now Elder has grease stuck in his fingertips and under his nails. Permanent grease.

Since I’ve been home, I bet I’ve spoken less than one hundred words. In high school, I would sometimes go days without speaking. Everyone I knew was used to it so they didn’t bother me about it. When I go home to Amsterdam to my wife Carol, I will speak thousands of words a day. I will speak English, a little Dutch, a little Italian, and my wife’s language, Brazilian Portuguese. In Europe, I talk all the time. Sometimes, my friends ask me to be quiet.

Tonight I will visit my sister Elizabeth and her family. Elizabeth was the last family member I spoke to before leaving ten years ago. She dropped me off at the airport in Chicago at the International Terminal. Now she has a husband and triplets.

I watch movies with my mom all afternoon. She doesn’t move around much anymore. She likes spy movies. I don’t understand why. She tries to talk me into staying longer. She needs help around the house and with the yard. She says she’s lonely since my father died in a plane crash last year. He wasn’t really my dad. He was my step-dad. I never met him in person but I talked to him on the phone once.

Elder calls again and tells me he’ll be at Jolly Bar around nine. I say that’s fine and hang up. He expects to see me there.

We have dinner at Elizabeth’s house. Her husband is a nice man, but he’s too confident in the stability of his life. He doesn’t acknowledge that his job or family could collapse at any moment. I sometimes tell people that civilization is an anomaly and impermanent. Indians know these things. At dinner, I talk little. Elizabeth’s husband is named Tom and he has a bad goatee. He wears polo shirts and slacks. He looks like a lawyer, one who takes a laptop and a fax machine on vacation. My nieces are beautiful. They are named after my grandmother and her two sisters. I would have named them after men to confuse people.

Elizabeth and Tom cook a vegetarian meal. I keep forgetting to tell my family that I started eating meat again a few years ago. I missed the taste, so I began to eat it again. We eat vegetarian lentil soup, vegetarian pasta, and vegetarian ice cream. My sister tells me she wants me to stay home and bring whatshername over here. She misses me and loves me so I forgive her for being so selfish and insulting to my wife. Tom says nothing. I can’t tell if he disagrees with Elizabeth or if he says nothing because he isn’t a blood relative.

After dinner, we have Christmas. Elizabeth gives me a book signed by her friend who attended Harvard with her. It’s a screenplay with a picture of famous actors on the cover. I tell Elizabeth that I will read it on the plane tomorrow. I’ve already seen the film. She starts to cry. I feel bad and ask her permission to take a short walk.

Tom and my sister live near the state police station on Forrest. They live across the street from our childhood home at 524 Forrest. I go and look at our old house. It’s small and ugly compared to other houses on the street. I walk south up the street toward downtown Wayland. We lived on this street for nine years. Here, I broke Steve Polson’s nose. Here, I scraped most of the skin off my knee when I jumped off my bike. Here, I turned left on my way to school at Steeby Elementary. Here, through an open window, I watched a drunk lady undress and crumple into her bed. Here, I saw Denver, Markie Alexander’s dog, crushed to death by a garbage truck driver.

Before long, I’m standing in front of Jolly Bar. I check my watch. It’s only seven thirty. I look inside to see if I recognize anyone from my childhood. I see Elder. He’s early. I go inside. Elder claps me on the back and orders me a drink. I prefer Grey Goose vodka in my martinis but all they have is Stoli. The bartender serves my drink in a plastic cup, the kind we used at house parties on Greenwood in Ann Arbor.

Elder is already drunk. He talks to me about Kathy and the others he slept with when we were teenagers. It’s a weekday and only the regular drunks are there. They’re much older than we are. Everyone in the bar knows Elder.

I want to hurt Elder somehow so I challenge him to a game of pool. I’m an exceptional pool player. I defeat Elder quickly. He doesn’t even sink one ball. We play again and again until Elder tires of losing every game. I can tell he’s angry with me, that I won’t let him even compete with me. He stops talking about teenaged women he knew and starts talking about his job—from good memories to bad reality.

The last time I was in a fight was in Tucson, Arizona. I was there to interview for a job as a law clerk for a federal judge. The fight was over a game of pool at a bar on Congress Street. I broke a chair over my adversary’s head. I then broke a cue stick over his prostrate body. I would’ve stabbed him dead with the broken cue stick but several large men pulled me away. I didn’t get the clerkship.

I’ve seen many amazing things since that day. A bus explosion in Bogotá. Bloody corpses lined up for identification in South Africa. Burned corpses of smoke jumpers in Guatemala. The execution by hanging of a brutal military leader in Pakistan. I’ve been in hundreds, maybe thousands, of bars and dance clubs. I’ve witnessed dozens of fistfights and a couple of knife fights. All that and I haven’t fought for over ten years.

Tonight, I will fight Elder. I will fight him until he’s dead.

We go out the back door of the bar around ten. Elder is so drunk that he can barely stand. It’ll be easy for me to fight and defeat him. He directs me around the corner to his father’s garage on Main Street. The street is empty. I look around for something with which to beat Elder. A blunt instrument, as they say in the movies. I see nothing until we reach the garage. Elder has trouble with the keys because his hands are unsteady but I’m smart enough to let him open the door on his own. Inside, we walk through the garage to the back stairs. I see a pair of greasy work gloves. I also see a large wrench, almost as large as an axe.

Upstairs, Elder talks incessantly. His speech is slurred and he staggers almost comically around the studio apartment. I calmly put on the gloves and take up the wrench, wiping it down to obscure any of my fingerprints. Elder ignores me. I turn and look at myself in his mirror over the dresser near his bed. I look strong and dangerous. I turn to face Elder, to beat him to death. It won’t take long.

But I don’t beat Elder to death or even raise one hand against him. In fact, I drop the large wrench onto Elder’s unkempt bed and raise my gloved hands. Elder is very, very drunk. His eyes are almost closed. He can barely keep his head up off his own chest. He’s sitting on his sole kitchen chair pointing a shotgun at me. The shotgun wavers a bit, but the aim is good enough to change my life forever if he fires it.

I ask him what he’s doing. His voice is so fuzzy I can’t understand. I ask again. He says he wants my wallet.

I say okay but I don’t move.

Elder tells me that his life is a sack of shit, that he is poor, and he is lonely. He tells me he deserves more and that I deserve less. He says something about Kathy but I can’t understand him anymore. He slowly slumps forward and drops his gun. He slides to the floor next to his bed. While I hope Elder dies of blood poisoning or asphyxiates on his own vomit, I do nothing to injure him. I replace the gloves and the wrench on my way out.

As my plane accelerates down the runway at the Gerald R. Ford (formerly Kent County) airport in the morning, I think that beating Elder to death would’ve been the perfect crime. By the time anyone found his pathetic corpse, I’d be in Amsterdam. I have no record and there’d be no way for the local police to trace me. The drunks in the bar didn’t know me. I would’ve gotten away scot-free.

Before I said good-bye this morning, I gave my mom ten thousand dollars. I told her that she could use the money for anything she wanted. I suggested that there was enough for her and Elizabeth’s entire family to visit me in Amsterdam. Carol and I have a large house, for Amsterdam. I told my mother that in Amsterdam I am a different person. I’ll tell her anything she wants to know. I’ll entertain her and tell jokes. I’ll laugh and have fun. I’ll be normal.

Copyright © 2004 Matthew L.M. Fletcher


About the Author
Matthew is a Grand Traverse Band Ottawa and lives in Peshawbestown, Michigan. He has published fiction in Punk Planet, Outsider Ink, The Dunes Review, The Vermont Law Review, Sabella, and Snow Monkey.

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A Celebration of 21st Century Poets


Writers' Village University is please to present "A Celebration of 21st Century Poets," in honor of National Poetry Month.

This online exhibit was put together to highlight the legacy and ongoing achievement of poets everywhere, to introduce a larger audience to the pleasures of reading poetry and to bring poets and poetry to public attention.

The exhibit features the work of eight poets from four countries: the United States, Canada, the Philippines and Australia. The poets whose work will be exhibited are Gwen Austin, Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs), Jeanette (Janice) Oestermyer, Rolly delos Santos, Kathy Kubik, Kathleen Therriault, Lori Romero, and Dave Nourse. These poets are members of the Senior Poets’ Workshop at WVU.

The poetry features a cross section of work including form poems such as haiban, vilanelles and sestinas. The poems cover a variety of topics from physical abuse, nature, Mount St. Helens, nostalgia, humour, persons in photographs to cats. The reader will also have a chance to find out the stories behind the poems and gain a glimpse into the poets themselves

The exhibit can be viewed here during the month of April and is accessible to everyone.


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Poetics Presents

Emma

Emma was born and raised in New England. She and her husband Sam recently moved to Connecticut to be near their daughters and their families. She is a full time homemaker, but for a couple of decades has served parishes as an ordained minister and prior to that worked as a registered nurse. She loves puttering in her garden and has various and sundry pets who help keep her on her toes.

Dying Man Blues

He came on the driveway
just stomping his feet,
turned up the music
and turned up the heat.

A skeleton man
with an ugly face,
storming and slamming
and setting the pace.

Got the angry man blues.

She asked for some quiet
in manners so sweet,
but he swore and he bellowed
and stomped to the beat.

Doing life my way,
there's nothing to lose.
I'm sick and I'm bitter
and fed up with you.

Got the nasty man blues.

He slammed the car door shut
pushed gas to the floor.
Stones on the driveway
spun up with the roar.

Then he screeched to a halt
put it all in reverse,
rolled down the window,
she awaited the curse.

But he dropped his head low
his face scarred with worry,
said I'm sick and alone
and I'm really so sorry.

Got the dying man blues.

Copyright ©2004 by Emma



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Poetics Presents

Lenny Everson

Lenny Everson is a lifelong canoeist and poet living in Ontario, Canada. He's written many poems about canoeing and is working on his second canoeing mystery novel.

It’s all Water

It's all water, this falling snow
However still it looks
This glacial mortuary
Is springtime's dancing brooks

The January hills recharge
The waters I canoe
The shadows of the snowbound hills
Are deep and secret blue

There hides, in every mounding drift
In every diamond flake
The sparkle on some summer stream
The surge upon some lake

Copyright ©2004 by Lenny Everson



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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Here's April's Drabble, written on the theme of Distraction.

The Wish
by Betty Wilkie

Bucky and I explore the deserted beach on my first night back home.

"Mamma, look up at Heaven!"

Light years away a billion sparkles beckon. My burdens rocket to stellar junctions far away. Only a feathery contrail remains: The vestige of my recent challenges.

An eerie wind batters me, folds me onto my knees and I must clasp his tiny hand for balance.

"Which one's ours tonight, Bucky?"

"That biggest one, see, Mamma." He points skyward. "Wanna wish together?"

"Positively!" I fidget with my newly acquired wig, still making peace with it, tilt my face toward the Cosmos, and wish!

This month I've got illusions on my mind. My life seems to be full of them—everything will be better when (or is that a delusion?), my finances are none of my business, I don't really need a new refrigerator. It wasn't the duct tape that made me change my mind on that last one, it was the leaking onto my new hardwood floor. The new fridge is being delivered tomorrow.

What are illusions good for? They lead us merrily in some direction we think we want to go, then they pop like a bubble, leaving us destitute and forlorn, until they're replaced by another, prettier one . . . I can afford the new fridge, that wasn't the beginning of a big earthquake just now, it's possible to be independent of illusion.

Whether we could take the truth or not, I think it's true that as a friend has recently said, it's too hard to see. So, maybe, I'm thinking, illusions help us to get to the truest thing that we can see specifically by their very habit of bursting, leaving us to look to something that works better for us. Duct tape is good for a lot of things, but even it can't hide the truth forever.

Our theme for May's Drabble will be Illusions. Questions, comments, and submissions should be sent to drabble@wvu.org. Here are the Guidelines to read before writing a Drabble. In summary, a Drabble is 100 words exactly, excluding title, and due the 10th day of the month before the column is published (so May Drabble submissions are due by April 10th.)

See you next month!

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E is for...

Margaret I. Carr

That Dreaded Intro

For all but a lucky few, the words "Introduce yourself," or "Give a brief bio," or variations on those two phrases, bring on sweaty palms, dry mouth and throat, and turn normally stable knees to quivering cartilage. It doesn't matter whether it is at a PTA meeting, a writers' conference or a workshop or being asked to write a bio for your first book. It's awful!

"Come on," you tell yourself. "You're a writer. This is just writing, right?"

Yourself answers, "Not about me! I can't write about me! I'm so un-interesting!"

Well, no, but convincing yourself is difficult. You are just too close to the subject. If you've lived in the same small town all your life, you think of the well-traveled authors and sigh in envy. If you've practically lived out of suitcases, you yearn for stability and someplace to call your own. Either way, you can't see how anyone would be interested in you.

But, you have to do it. You have to write it. Now! Stress. Stress. Stress.

There are ways to reduce the stress.

Displacement, preparation and practice are tools you can use.

Displacement? How can you do that?

One way is to find a partner, preferably someone who doesn't know you well, and agree to swap. You'll write the partner's bio and he or she will write yours.

"But how can someone who doesn't know me well write about me?"

Easy. Ask questions. Do a mini-interview.

A while back I represented a small non-profit in a series of workshops. The group was supposed to come up with a county-wide action plan and they wanted people of all types involved. As a substitute teacher and a board member of a non-profit oriented towards education, I expected to be put in the education group. I was rather apprehensive, after all I was 'just a sub', but figured at least I knew what to expect.

Instead, I was assigned to the social services group. Ouch. Let's just say that both as a 'sub' and through my non-profit, my contacts with social service people had not been positive. Okay, downright adversarial.

I chose a seat in back and hoped nobody would notice me. Didn't work. The facilitator had us move our chairs into a circle and gave a brief talk about our objectives. Then came the dreaded intro word.

Panic time! I almost missed what she said next. We weren't going to introduce ourselves; we were going to introduce each other. Huh? How could I introduce a stranger?

Easy. She gave us our instructions. We were paired off and were to spend the first few minutes with the person with the odd number asking questions of the person with the even number and then were to reverse the process. She gave us time signals and it all worked out pretty well.

There were some hitches. Thinking up questions on demand wasn't easy. Answers were sometimes rather surprising. But, it worked. I also, over the six months we met, made some friends and gained a much better understanding of social services.

In writing a bio, you have the advantage of being able to think about what questions you would like to ask or be asked in advance. You can imagine yourself sitting next to an unknown writer and think about what you would like to know about that person. You can test out questions with a partner. Even without a partner you can play odd and even by yourself. Isn't that similar to what you do developing a character?

Try it. I bet you'll be surprised at how interesting you actually are.


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Literary Lights

Priscilla Fagan

The Writing Process

You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. Jack London
 
Jack London’s ‘writing process’ unfortunately doesn’t seem to be mine. I find myself too often waiting for the inspiration. However, I must admit I did have to do some searching, maybe with a club, to come up with this month’s column. Ah, the deadline, how I love it. Perhaps I need to take heed from Jack; he might have stumbled onto something.
 
Then again, Rudyard Kipling warns us, When your Daemon is in charge, do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait and obey. Our inner demons hate it when we don’t listen to them. They thrive on our conscious mind which stills our creative child.
 
So, what is the writing process? We start out with two viewpoints from opposite ends. London goes after the inspiration, Kipling drifts and waits.
 
Doris Lessing says, In the writing process, the more a thing cooks, the better. I totally agree, however, I think she’s well into the process by this time. Either that or she’s using cooking as an excuse while she waits for inspiration.
 
All in all I believe the writing process is whatever works for you. William Gass tells us, The real writing process is simply sitting there and typing the same old lines over and over and over and over and sheet after sheet after sheet gets filled with the same sh**. I think this man needs to take a break.

The more I research this writing process, it appears more writers sit and wait.  You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet. Franz Kafka
 
My writing style changes like the weather, at least the weather in New England. I don’t find myself sitting and waiting very often, however, I do tend to wait for ecstatic inspiration. Saul Bellow confides, You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write. I find this to be true, as long as I can get myself up and not wait until the morning when the idea has faded like the memory of warm weather.

Peter Elbow suggests the easiest way to get words on paper is freewriting, however, he does end by saying. . .The goal of freewriting is in the process, not the product.
 
I don’t know if I’ve found the process, but I have found a great ending to this column in the process. Pay special attention to the last six words for in them might just lie the real secret to the writing process. Jack Kerouac, —Let the writer open his mouth & yap it like Shakespeare and get said what is only irrecoverably said once in time the way it comes, for time is of the essence
 
Remaining optimistic,   Priscilla


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Carole Lyden's short story, "I'd like to bin Christmas," appeared in the December 2003 issue of  The Dawn. She lives in Perth, Western Australia with her precious Shih tzu, Sushi, and thought writing a solitary pursuit until she found WVU. A member of the Word Weavers study group, Carole says she is going to try her hand at a few non-fiction classes to push her a little further along the track to success.

“I had no idea that this had been published until I received a complimentary magazine as payment. I submitted this article for Christmas 2002 and had long given up on an answer! I was absolutely stunned and very happy at this news as it was my first article that I have ever submitted. I mostly write poetry and WVU has some excellent help for budding poets.”

Amber Lynn Savoie wrote a skit for Odyssey of the Mind, an international educational program where students from kindergarten through college compete on the local, state, and international level. They must solve a mechanical problem and incorporate it into a skit. Amber, with a group of other 8th graders from Young Middle School in Florida, entered the competition, won 2nd place for their region and will go on to the State finals this month in Orlando. Her classmates helped edit and enhance the skit.

“I was excited, to say the least, when they announced that we would be going to state competition and proudly wear my silver medal.”

Amber’s hobbies include music, poetry and writing short stories. She will be attending a performing arts high school next year where she hopes to hone her writing skills. Amber took F2K twice and loved it. Her grandmother gave her a year’s membership at WVU for her birthday in December.

“I enjoy the chats and friendliness of the other members at WVU. I am looking forward to posting in the study groups and learning from the other members.”

Ruby Osburn, known as Flame to her WVU buddies, received the plum assignment of a regular column in Keynotes, the National Concierges Association's newsletter. A member of the board for the national organization, she was offered the position of Philanthropy Chairperson and asked to write the monthly column entitled, "NCA Chapter Philanthropy Update."

A member of WVU for almost three years, Ruby said, "The classes have helped me gain confidence with my writing ability. WVU has been one of the best things in my life."

Ruby lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and is the Head Concierge for the Aladdin and the Palms Resort and Casinos. "I have four cats that are the joy of my life and give me great ideas for children's stories."

Congratulations, Carole, Amber and Ruby. 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

To Tell the Truth

Our eldest son, Daniel, was home from the University of Mississippi for Thanksgiving break. Unfortunately for him, nearly the entire week’s agenda revolved around the extraction of his wisdom teeth, which were both severely impacted and required surgical removal. We sent him off to get his teeth cleaned and x-rayed on Monday, followed by a consultation with the oral surgeon on Tuesday. On Wednesday morning, a very nervous Daniel headed to the surgeon’s office with his father.

About two hours after they set out, the phone rang at home.

“Well,” said my husband, “I know one thing for sure about Daniel. He’ll never be a spy.”

In the background, I could hear my mildly-anesthetized son singing tunelessly.

“A spy?” I had no idea what he meant.

“Just ask him anything. This may be the only time you’ll ever be guaranteed a completely honest answer.”

I could tell my husband was smiling.

“Gee, I can think of a couple things off the top of my head,” I told him.

“Well, we’re almost home. Open the door for us; he’s pretty dopey.”

Minutes later, my drowsy teenager arrived with gauze-stuffed cheeks. His father held one arm to keep him from stumbling into the wall.

The moment Daniel walked in the door, he wrapped me up in a huge bear-hug and said, “I love you, Mom!”

The words came out “I yuv oo Mome.” There was no disputing the fact that he’d been thoroughly numbed.

“Well, thank you, dear. I love you, too.” I tried not to laugh at him as I realized that if my son ever drank to excess, at least he’d be a friendly drunk rather than a violent one. It was a nice thought, if a bit strange.

After we’d safely steered Daniel to his bed to sleep off the remaining anesthetic, David filled me in on what I’d missed at the doctor’s office.

“Well, I found out what’s important to Daniel,” he said. “When he woke up, he reached for his ankle. I thought that was strange, so I looked to see what he was reaching for and he had his watch around his ankle for some reason. So, I took it off and put it in my pocket. When we got to the car, he reached for his ankle and I told him not to worry, I had his watch. A few minutes later, he reached for his ankle, again. I think he did that at least five times. He must really like that watch.”

“But why was it around his ankle?”

“No idea,” David said. “But, I haven’t told you the best part.”

I nodded for him to continue.

“When we walked out of the room, Daniel said, ‘I’ve felt worse than this at a frat party.’” David imitated Daniel with the sound of a numb face packed with gauze. “The nurse told him he’d better shut his mouth before he dug himself in any further.”

“So Daniel should try real hard to avoid anesthesia if he has any secrets,” I said.

“I’ll say. He babbled all the way home. I probably would have learned all sorts of great information if I could have understood what he was saying.”

The next day, a chipmunk-cheeked but coherent Daniel moaned at the table while we ate Thanksgiving dinner. His meal consisted mostly of mashed potatoes and other similarly mushy food.

Daniel longingly ogled juicy-looking slices of ham. “Why did you have to cook ham instead of a dry, old turkey the year I can’t chew meat?” he asked. He played with his potatoes to show that he was displeased.

I asked Daniel if he remembered what he told the nurse or the big hug he’d given me as he walked in the door.

His looked up. “I remember . . . singing,” he said. “And, I couldn’t find my watch.”

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked Daniel as he stopped twiddling with his potatoes, “Why did you have your watch strapped to your ankle, yesterday?”

“Thought it’d get in the way of the IV,” he said.

Well, that was one mystery solved. We told him that in the future he should leave his watch at home if he knew he’d be put to sleep.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Dad says you’d make a terrible spy,” I told him. His eyes widened as I filled him in; and sheer horror crossed his face when I mentioned the fact that his antics would make excellent column material.

“I know what you should say in your column,” his little brother William chimed in. “The wisdom went with the wisdom teeth.”

He had a good point. There’s certainly one thing we all found out from Daniel’s experience. If you know you’re going to have no choice but to be injected with mind-altering drugs for a medical procedure, better do your best to keep your mouth shut. You just never know what you might end up saying.

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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver

Under the Duvet: Shoes, Reviews, Having the Blues, Builders, Babies, Families & Other Calamities
By Marion Keyes
Publisher: Perennial
ISBN: 0-06-056208-0
US: $12.95
Trade Paperback

I picked up Under the Duvet by Marion Keyes, not knowing what to expect. I had heard it was a hilarious account of the writing life by a well known author. I am here to report that it is… and it isn't.

Under the Duvet is actually a collection of essays, both published and unpublished, that Keyes wrote. Some of them talk about the writing life, about going on tour, book signings and such. Others revolve around family life, holidays, and travel. The question remains… Is it required reading for writers?

This is not Stephen King's On Writing, or Lamott's Bird By Bird. While there are a few glimpses into the writing life, this book is not full of advice or helpful hints to navigate through the publishing industry. Instead, this is a witty account of everyday life as seen through the eyes of one writer.

The collection is grouped together by topic: Oh, the Glamour, Mind, Body, Spirit…and Shoes, Friends and Family, All Grown-Up, Twelve Months, Both Sides of the Irish Sea and That's Me Away! While anecdotes about the writing life abound throughout the book, it is in the first section where Keyes has placed essays on the writing life.

To kick off Under the Duvet, the first essay is "Paperback Writher." I love a writer who can admit:

So now, muse or no muse, I work eight hours a day,
Monday to Friday, just like I did wh