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 The Writer's E-Zine

 

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

Elaine Shelton

What’s in a Name?

Pen names are a personal choice. What makes one author write under an assumed name, while another proclaims his work from the highest mountain? And just how, exactly, do you choose a name to write under?

Why write under an assumed name? There are many reasons, and they are as varied as the writers who use them. Stephen King used the pseudonym, Richard Bachman. Although the books written under the name Bachman have been reissued with King’s name as he became a household name, the market, at the time, could not withstand King’s tendency to be prolific.

Another reason that an author may use a pen name is that he is switching genres, or types of books within a genre. Your name when you write acts as branding—just like Pepsi® and Coca-Cola® are brand names. An author who is known for writing Christian romances would probably want to use a different name to publish a steamy romance. Her core audience would be offended, which would lead to decreased sales. Even if they were not offended by the content, they may not like the new style the author is using. Romance writer Nora Roberts writes mysteries under the name JD Robb. This keeps her romance fans from becoming frustrated at buying a book that is a mystery. At the time, it also helped her break into the mystery market—she broke in at a time when female mystery writers were rare.

Choosing a pen name is a very personal task. You are renaming yourself, giving “life” to a fictitious entity. Some points you may want to consider:

1. Avoid using the full, legal name of a person you know. It creates confusion.
2. Feel free to mix things up: your favorite aunt’s first name, your mother’s maiden name.
3. Don’t count on a pen name to keep your anonymity. There are too many variables, including promoting your book, pictures either with your by-line or on the back of a book jacket.

Finally, if you are going to use a pen name, keep it simple. Use a name that you can remember and that will resonate with your audience.


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Craft of Writing

Ann Armstrong

Back to Basics

As with any occupation, writing has its own jargon. Some terms are easy to decipher while others confuse the new writer. In this article, we will be looking at some of the basic terminology and how it applies to the writer.

FNASR: First North American Serial Rights. When you sell these rights, you are selling the right to a magazine (or serial publication) to be the first place where your article or story can be read. While it is permissible to resell the article, it is not okay to sell it to a market where it will be published before it appears in the first magazine or to post it in its entirety to your website.

Reprint Rights: These are the rights that you sell after you have sold FNASR. Congratulations!

SASE: Self-Addressed, Stamped Envelope. Editors will use this to respond to your request. Often a #10, business-sized envelope is used (see below).

Disposable Manuscript:  The manuscript can be thrown away instead of returned. This saves the writer an enormous amount on postage as a #10 envelope can be used with only one stamp (in the United States). In the age of home computers and laser printers, this is often more cost effective.

IRC: International Reply Coupon. If submitting to a foreign country, supply the editor/agent with IRCs in place of an SASE.

Unsolicited Manuscripts: complete manuscripts (short story, article or book) that have not been requested in their entirety by the editor/agent.

Slush Pile: Where all the unsolicited manuscripts languish. Don’t despair; many books have been picked from obscurity in the pile and made it to a bookstore near you.

Left Justify: A word processing function, this lines up everything on the left margin, leaving the right margin jagged. A good example of left justify is the format of this article.

Genre: What type of story you are telling. Some standard genres include: inspiration, romance, fantasy, science fiction, horror, mystery, military.

Query: What the writer uses to sell his/her novel idea to an editor or agent. Comprised of a cover letter, outline, synopsis and sample chapters.

Cover Letter: Short introduction of who you are and what you write. Include any publishing credits if you have them.

Outline: Often written in the present tense, it tells what happens in your story and why. Note: This is not the sort of outline you were required to write in school. It is often told in prose form.

Synopsis: About three paragraphs of what the story is about. Think of what is on the back cover of your favorite novel, and you’ll have an idea of what the editor is looking for.

Sample Chapters: Most often the first three chapters or a predefined number of pages. Check the writer guidelines to see which is preferred. Sample chapters must always start with chapter one and go consecutively.

Simultaneous Submissions: When you send out a query or manuscript to more than one publisher or agent at a time. While some do not mind this, others do. Make sure to check the guidelines where you are submitting.


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Fiction Short Story

by Charlene Kesee

Butterfly

Mavis buttoned the back of her skirt and twisted it so that the seams were straight along the sides. Turning sideways, she checked her appearance one final time in the full-length mirror. There was no denying it. She was fifty-five years old. She felt fifty-five, at least this was the way she imagined a fifty-five-year-old woman would feel. And according to the reflection she saw before her, she looked fifty-five.

With each birthday came another year’s acceptance of still being a widow—this birthday, a widow six years after her husband’s death. It meant her kids were getting older and less dependent on her with each passing day. It meant she, too, was getting old.

Mavis grabbed her purse and headed out the front door. As she drove onto the freeway entrance ramp, she noticed the sluggish feel of her car.

“Not again,” she told herself, trying to shrug off the reality that she might be stranded. She guided her car to the shoulder of the road and rubbed her forehead in aggravation, staring at the white smoke spewing from the hood of her car. This was the third time in two weeks her car had given her trouble. Sighing, she got out and lifted the hood. “I can’t believe this is happening again,” she said to herself. She had put so much money into auto repairs over a six-month period that it would have probably made more sense to just buy a new vehicle.

Mavis had debated over whether or not it would be practical to buy a new car at this point in her life. She had just paid off a stack of credit cards and vowed to cut them into tiny pieces. Her bank account wasn’t exactly impressive and she had a mortgage to consider.

Just as she was about to whip out the phone number of the wrecker service that had been towing her on a regular basis lately, a tow truck pulled up behind her and parked on the shoulder.

The tall man stepped out of the truck and walked toward Mavis. As he got closer, he removed his sunglasses and she could see his brown eyes beneath the bill of the baseball cap.

”I see you got a little radiator problem,” he announced in a boyish voice. He pulled a dirty rag from his back pocket and used it to remove the radiator cap, causing even more steam and smoke to shoot out of it.

”I guess so. I had it repaired a few weeks ago. I don’t think they did a good job.”

”Obviously.” He continued to dig around under her hood. “You’re gonna need a new radiator.”

That was not what she wanted to hear. “Great. How much is that going to cost me?”

“For this car, about six hundred dollars. I can tow you to my shop and have our mechanics put the new radiator in for you by the end of the day.”

Six hundred dollars was a stretch but she nodded in agreement, knowing she needed her car to be operational so she could get to and from work. Mavis grabbed her lab coat and other belongings from inside the car while he hooked her car up to the back of his wrecker. What a perfect day for this to be happening. If there was anything to make her birthday any brighter, it was this.

Once the car was lifted onto the truck, the young man jumped in the driver’s seat and instructed her to take a seat on the passenger side. Not too thrilled about having to sit in the dirty truck, she hesitantly got in. The seats were not immaculate like the interior of her car.

He pulled onto the road at full speed, causing Mavis to jerk.

“So, you are a doctor?” he asked noticing her lab coat draped over her lap.

“Medical assistant,” she corrected.

“What are you doing driving a piece of junk like this?” Her non-response was a sign that she didn’t have much a sense of humor. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She frowned and shook her head.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Please don’t call me ma’am,” she snapped. “I’m not that old.”

“Sorry, Mrs.”

“Mavis Singleton.”

“Nice to meet you Mrs. Singleton. I’m Reginald.” He extended his hand for her to shake and she noticed the oil and grease beneath his fingernails. Slowly she shook his hand, feeling the rough calluses, a sign that he was a hard worker. She didn’t see that much in young men these days.

The radio was playing in the truck and Reginald sang along with the song that played, at times whistling with the music. He was much different from the previous drivers that had towed her car. None of them had been too cheerful with her.

“So, where do you work?”

“I work in a physical therapy clinic.”

His eyes widened and he flashed her a dimpled grin. “I need to come see you,” he laughed. “I hurt my leg just the other day.”

Mavis laughed and he smiled back at her. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously. I’ve got pains here and here.” He pointed to random spots on his leg, bringing a smile to her face.

“Well, here’s my card and you can call my office for an appointment.” She handed him a business card she’d made on her computer and he tucked it in his front pocket and patted his chest.

“I’ll do that.” He looked over at her and noticed the preoccupied disturbed expression on her face. “It’s not that bad, you know.”

She looked over at him. “What?”

“We may be able to fix your car for cheaper than six hundred dollars, if you’re worried about money.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then why the long face?”

Taking a deep breath, she suddenly felt overwhelmed and fought back the feeling of doom she was experiencing. “Today’s my birthday.”

“Really?” He broke into a playful rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ and Mavis couldn’t help blushing. “You don’t look like someone celebrating a birthday.”

“I’m not really in a celebrating mood,” she answered.

“C’mon, why not? You’re not letting a little car problem ruin your spirits, are you?”

She shook her head. “The car problem just proved to me that I’m too old to deal with this kind of stress.” She felt the tears in her eyes and couldn’t figure out why she was so emotional.

“How old are you today?”

“I’m not telling! How old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” he announced, and she burst out laughing.

“Well, I don’t want to sound like a pervert but I would be honored to have a beautiful and mature woman like you by my side.” He leaned over and stroked the top of her hand.

“Young man, I’m old enough to be your mother!” she laughed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“I think you’re looking at getting older as a bad thing.” Reginald pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the truck. “Can I call you Mavis?”

“Sure, it’s better than ma’am.”

“Mavis, aging is beauty in progress. When you’re young, you’re in the cocoon stage of your life. You wait to mature and the world waits for you to emerge. When you do make your appearance, you become this gorgeous butterfly. That’s what you are right now, a butterfly that has emerged from its cocoon.”

Mavis couldn’t believe that such beautiful words had come from this young man. He gave her a new outlook on her life and her age.

When they pulled up to the garage, Reginald lowered Mavis’ car from its secured spot on the back of his truck. “If you hang on a minute, I’ll drive you to your office.”

“What time do you think my car will be ready?”

“Around five. We should have the parts from the distribution center by then. Will you need me to pick you up this afternoon?”

“Is that an additional cost?”

He shook his head. “Let’s just say you qualify for our discounted service today. So, transportation, if needed, is free,” he said, winking at her.

“How nice of you to offer such good service to your customers.”

He turned the bill of his cap around backwards and she could really see his eyes. “I don’t do this for everyone, only birthday girls.”

She felt her cheeks grow red from blushing. “Well, I guess we will become friends after all.” She realized she was flirting with this young man and it felt good.

“Real good friends,” he whispered, winking at her again. “That’s if you’re willing to get me an appointment at your clinic.”

“I think we have room for one more patient,” she teased.

When Reginald dropped Mavis off at her clinic, he blew his horn at her as he drove off and she waved back. It felt good to be fifty-five.

Copyright © 2004 Charlene Kesee


About the Author
Charlene has been writing both fiction and nonfictions for over thirteen years. Her fiction has appeared in the Houston Chronicle's Texas Magazine and in various smaller print and online publications. She has freelanced for several local area newspapers and is currently working on her first romance novel.


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Fiction Short Story

by Barry Portney

My Poppa

In 1913 my grandfather worked as a doctor in a tiny Jewish shtetl.

In 1914 he was a tailor. As a widower he crossed the ocean to America with all five of his living children, my dad among them. He guided them away from their small unpronounceable town in Poland or Russia because both countries dipped their flags in his people’s blood.

The Jews didn’t care and couldn’t tell much difference between the shifting rulers. Each kept them separate but also had a peculiar penchant for using their circumcised bodies as fodder on the front lines. "For gut lok!" Poppa joked sarcastically. We called him Poppa, but his real name was Abe.

"Poppa, how come you’re not married?" I asked him when I was eight years old. By then, the white of his whiskers overtook his thick beard.

"You doan vanta kno," and he’d wink at me through the rising steam from his iron, "plus, boychik," his favorite name for me, "I’m havink too much a good time!"

It was true. The women adored Abe. He lived above his small shop in the center of the city. When my dad wanted to do some errands, he dropped me there to visit, in my Poppa’s care. In the course of an afternoon, three or four elderly women came into the shop carrying their husband’s pants and coats to be altered.

With each one he’d stop his sewing or pressing and pull up a few chairs to sit with them. Pound cakes, cookies, tongue sandwiches, you name it; these women kept us well fed.

He grabbed me as I reached for an extra cookie, "Lottie, dis boy is schmart! Come on, dell me," his voice formal like a teacher’s, "what does ANI ROAH mean?"

"Oh Abe," the women said, "he’s only eight, he doesn’t undershtand Hebrew!"

Poppa waited for an answer as drops of perspiration dripped from his face.

" It means...I - I...umm...I see?" and with a slight cock of his head only I could detect, "No, no, I mean I saw...I saw!" I yelled above the sounds of the honking cars outside.

Abe’s fingers grabbed the entire side of my face and squeezed it before hugging me into his chest. I heard the thumping of his proud heart. "You see Lottie (or Rose or Jenny), you see, now dat’s schmart!"

"Poppa how come you don’t speak right?" I asked him when I was 10. Oh, how he must have put up with me.

"Vell, to tell you da trute, I had vun Inglish buk ven I vas your age. "Gullible’s Travels", ever hoid of it?"

I shook my head.

"It’s dis shtory about a mon who travels to a strange voild vhere he’s enormous!" At this, he pointed all the way up to the ceiling and my eyes followed. " I alvays taut America vould be like dis for me. So if I shpeak wrong I blame it on Gullible!" His foot pressed on the steam peddle for emphasis.

One day we were having our lunch in the shop and a well-dressed man walked in. His tall black hat was fancier than I had ever seen. Poppa put down his sandwich and rose to face this big man across the counter. "Meester Trope vat can I do for you?"

Without a hello, he handed over his bag of clothes. "Alter them a bit tighter, press them and I’ll come back on Saturday."

Poppa took the bag. "Oh no Meester Trope, I’m not hopen on the Sabbath."

The man’s eyes narrowed and he muttered, "you Jews." He said it loud enough so I knew he wasn’t happy about us in general, and definitely not my grandfather in particular.

"Sunday morning eight A.M., no later. I need them for church," and with this he walked out, brushing the encounter off of his linen suit. I ran to the window and watched him get back into his large car and drive off.

Poppa shook his head as he came back to his seat. "Dat man. Tventy years I haf been mendink his clothes!" Opening the bag he pulled out a pair of old pants and smiled. "See dese? I betcha dey are scrumptious." He turned the pockets inside out as all sorts of small white pills and food crumbs fell onto the floor. "See all dese scrums?"

For some reason that I can’t remember now, I was at his shop on Sunday morning, or I just heard the story so many times from him that I may as well have been there.

At eight sharp, the man returned as promised. No sooner had Abe handed over the clothes all cleaned and pressed on wooden hangers when the man swatted his chest. His face turned from red to white to blue as he collapsed onto the old floor.

Poppa jumped over the counter, at least as he still tells it and started yelling the man’s name, "Tom, TOM," but Mister Trope clutched hard at his chest.

Poppa told me to run into the back and bring the glass jar that sat next to the press. "Hurry!" He screamed.

"Tom, you’re not goink anyvere, you shtay here vid me!" I could hear Tom moaning something awful.

Poppa quickly unscrewed the jar I brought, reached in for one of the small white pills and blew the dust off of it. He looked over at me and then gazed up, which is about as close to praying as I’d ever seen him come. Working Mister Trope’s mouth open, he slipped the nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue.

I looked into the jar. At least one hundred more of them sat among buttons and clips. "The scrums!" My eyes opened wide.

Poppa tells my kids this story to this day. It was the one time in America he could be a doctor again.

Copyright © 2004 Barry Portney


About the Author
Barry Portney is taming a mid life through writing. He’s been a member of WVU since 2003 and tries not to leave his computer very often except to eat and maybe nap a bit.


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Fiction Short Story

by Les Combs

Pants on Fire

I was in high spirits that spring morning. Sun so bright it nearly blinded me, fields green with lush grass. Texas Panhandle after April rains. I’d been walking an hour or more, rides being scarce in these parts. Hitchhiking is a poor man’s transportation and tiresome, but that day I didn’t mind. I whistled a nameless tune while I walked.

Up ahead a man sat on a low bridge rail. He lifted an apple to his mouth and took a bite. When I came closer I saw it wasn’t a man but a boy. And he wasn’t eating an apple. It was a big onion. I stopped a few feet away, staring, before he looked at me for the first time.

“What? You never seen no onion before?” Mouthy kid. I’d guess him at no more than twelve or maybe thirteen. Barefoot. Dirty jeans and blue shirt with the tail hanging out. Hair the color of dried foxtail stuck out under a frayed straw hat. He’d shoved the hat to the back of his head, cocky like.

I sat down on the rail leaving a yard of space between us. “I’ve seen onions before, but I don’t make a habit of eating them like apples. Is that all you have to eat?”

He swallowed and gave me a hard glance. “Why? You writin’ a book?”

I sighed and shook my head. “Don’t act so tough. There’s a town a couple of miles ahead—thought I’d offer to buy you a meal if you’re hungry.”

He scooted away from me a foot or so. “You ain’t one of them pre-verts are you? ‘Cause if you are I don’t want nothin’ to do with you.”

I laughed. “No, I’m not a ‘pre-vert’. What’s your name, tough guy?”

He hesitated, eyed me over good before he answered. “Name’s Durwood, if it’s anything to you.”

I stood and headed up the highway. “I’m going to have me some ham and eggs, Durwood,” I called over my shoulder. “If you want some you can come with me.” I heard his bare feet slapping the pavement as he trotted to catch up with me. He reeked with onion.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Custis,” I told him, “if it’s anything to you.” He didn’t respond. “Where you from, Durwood?”

“Oh, uh, from Dallas. I live in Dallas.” He barely came up to my shoulder, and he had to stretch his legs to keep up the pace.

“You’re a long way from home. What brings you out this way?"

“Well, I’ll tell you. See, my daddy’s a rich man, richer than Ross Perot. We live in a great big old house, so big it hangs over the lot lines all around. Has a twelve-car garage to hold all the automobiles my daddy owns. Maids and butlers and such all over the place. I just wanted to get away from all that for a while. You know what I mean?”

He looked serious, like he expected me to believe him. “Yeah, I know what you mean, Durwood. Wealth can be a real burden on a fella.” I couldn’t help laughing at the little liar. “If your daddy’s so rich how come you don’t have money for food?”

He didn’t bat an eye. “A gang of thieves jumped me. Took everything I own, even my shoes. I tried to fight ‘em off, but there was just too many of ‘em.” He glanced at me to see if I was paying attention. “That’s why I’m wearin’ these here old clothes. At home I don’t wear nothin’ but silk suits.”

The town of Grateful spread like impetigo on the face of the prairie, its development arrested decades ago. Several pickups occupied the hard-packed dirt parking area in front of Sip and Ovella’s Café. “How about we wash-up first, Durwood?” I suggested. He cast a withering glance at me like the concept was foreign to him. But he followed me into the men’s room and reluctantly dashed water over his face and arms.

We claimed a booth by the front window and ordered breakfast from a plump and chirpy waitress. Nametag read, Polly. “Here you go, gents,” she gushed a few minutes later. “Enjoy yourselfs.”

Durwood’s hands shook, could hardly find his mouth with his fork. Never lifted his face from the plate for five minutes. He gorged himself, egg-yolk trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Um-um, that sure was good,” he said while mopping up the last traces with a biscuit.

I couldn’t resist prodding him a bit. “Better than onion, I’ll bet.”

“You got that right.” He sat back against the booth. “A man hadn’t ought to face the day without a little hog grease in him.”

I finished eating and paid the check. “Well, Durwood, I guess this is where you and me part company.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Alarm, like an animal startled, widened his eyes.

I gave him my most serious look. “I can’t afford to take care of you, Durwood. You need to go home.” I laid a dollar bill in front of him. “Here’s money for a phone call. Ring up your daddy and have him send the chauffeur for you.” His gaze dropped and his body slumped, defeated.

I stepped out of the booth. “It’s been nice meeting you, Durwood. Take care.” I went out the door and headed for the highway.

Thirty minutes later the slap-slap of bare feet sounded behind me. He came even with me, matched my gait and walked in silence. I was tempted to throw rocks and chase him off like a stray dog, but I didn’t.

Before noon the sky darkened. Thunder growled, and lightning flashed to the west of us. “We’re about to get wet if we don’t find shelter somewhere.” A few big drops made dark spatters on the blacktop.

Somebody up there must have liked us, because right about then I spotted a vacant barn in a field up ahead. The rain came down, serious like. “Let’s go.” The two of us ran like the devil himself was after us and entered the barn just partly wet. We lay on musty straw and listened to hail and rain rattle the sheet metal roof.

Durwood moved closer to me. “This here old barn won’t last a minute in a tornado,” he said, eyes wide and face pale. “My family has a history with tornados, they’re always looking for us.” He sat upright. “One hit our house one time and left Mama setting on a tree limb with a 40-pound shoat in her lap. We never did figure where the pig came from, but he followed Mama around like a pup after that.” Talking, lying, seemed to defeat his fear. He continued. “One hit our chicken house, and it snowed feathers for a week after.” He grew quiet as the storm lessened and became a steady rain.

He turned to face me. “Custis.” It was the first time he’d spoke my name. “Custis, I ain’t been altogether truthful with you.” No kidding. “I don’t really live in Dallas and my daddy ain’t rich. I don’t even have a daddy.” His hands fidgeted like the truth was hard for him to deal with. “I run away from home day before yesterday. Now I’m on my way back. I live in Stokes, the next town up the road. My mama’s going to be worried about me.”

Stokes, Texas looked a lot like Grateful, Texas, forlorn under the vast expanse of sky. We walked together down a muddy street to a modest house with flower boxes full of geranium blooms. A woman with disheveled hair and drawn face rushed out to meet us. She cuffed Durwood’s head affectionately before embracing him. I stood awkwardly as silent tears wet her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with her apron before asking me, “Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I need to be on my way.” I turned toward the highway.

I heard Durwood excitedly tell her, “Mama, me and Custis was caught in a tornado, right in the middle of it. You should’ve seen it. Limbs flyin’ everywhere, lightnin’ hittin’ all around us, it was a sight.”

The truth shall set you free.

Copyright © 2004 Les Combs


About the Author
A retiree living in Arkansas, Les grew up in California during the Great Depression. His experiences with farm workers of the time inspired him to write about have-not people in rural settings.


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

by Elise Stone

Summer’s Song

I walked out on stage after the intermission and bent my lanky form to scoop up the slips of paper from the floor. I always asked for requests that way because it gave the shy people a chance. It also allowed me to shuffle several of them to the bottom of the stack. Those were the ones that had Summer’s Song written on them.

I first saw Summer at a sidewalk cafe. I had just bought a low-fat latte and stood with coffee in one hand, guitar in the other, and a newspaper shoved under my arm, looking for a place to sit. Being lunchtime, all the tables were full of laughing, talking diners. At one table, however, a woman sat alone, a small, decorative box in front of her.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked. She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. I watched her staring at the box as if waiting for it to tell her something. A little silver key, the perfect size for the keyhole on the front, sat beside it. "Pretty box," I said, trying to make conversation. And it was. The marquetry top, constructed of pieces of light and dark wood, was a picture of a lighthouse with seagulls floating between clouds.

"It might be pretty," she said. "I can't decide." She ran her fingers around the edges of the box, making motions as if to lift the lid that was slightly raised, but never doing it.

"Well, I think it’s beautiful," I said. "Where did you get it?"

"It was a present." She looked up from the box into my eyes. Lightning passed between us in that look. She had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen. A man could drown in those eyes.

"Are you a musician?"

"Trying to be." I grinned like an idiot, noticing the curve of her cheek, the tender mouth. "I'm due in Cambridge for a concert in an hour. Had to get up early today."

"Early?" She continued to toy with the box and I watched her delicate fingers feathering along the patterns in the wood.

"For a musician, this is early. We work at night. Afterwards we hang out with one another, swapping songs. Long about the time the sun comes up, it's time to go to bed."

As if suddenly remembering something, she leaped to her feet, swept up the box in one hand and the silver key in the other. I heard the snap of the lid shutting; she pressed the box into my hand. "Will you hold this for me? Until tomorrow?" She didn't wait for an answer. Her shoulder length hair flared out in a parasol of spun gold as she turned and walked away. I watched every movement—the sway of her hips, the swing of her arms, her head as she turned it first one way, then the other before crossing the street—until she turned a corner and passed out of sight.

I awoke from my trance, downed the latte, and put the box in my coat pocket.

After I returned home, I took the box out and put it on the coffee table. Her image haunted me as I took out my guitar. My fingers began strumming a melody to accompany the words I was struggling to put together. Curiosity got the better of me. I put the guitar down and picked up the box. Gently I tried to pry it open, but the lock held. Embarrassed by my attempt to betray her trust, I put it down again and went back to my nascent song.

The next day I was back at the café, the box on the table, newspaper in front of me, but hardly read. I kept glancing up, looking for her to return. The bright sun made it hard to see, but I knew I'd recognize her. After what seemed like hours, she was standing over me, a tentative smile on her face.

"You came back," she said.

"Of course I did. I had to return your box," I said, pushing it towards her with a smile.

"Not right away," she said. "How did your concert go?"

"It went fine. How did your day go?

She told me of her job in a nursing home and the elderly patients she so obviously cared about. She worked the afternoon shift, serving them dinner, bathing them and making sure they were comfortable for the night. She had funny stories about Mr. Abramowitz, who was convinced that aliens were going to come and get him, and poignant ones about Mrs. Levine, whose children dutifully visited each Sunday to make sure she kept them in her will. As the sun shifted from overhead, she said she had to go.

"What about your box?" I asked, picking it up from the table and holding it out to her.

"You keep it another day," she said.

"What's your name?" I called as she started to leave.

She paused a moment, then said, "Summer," and was gone.

We continued to meet each weekday for lunch. Thursdays were her day off and she surprised me on the first one by suggesting a walk at the Public Gardens. Like a puppy, I would have followed her anywhere. I went. We laughed and marvelled at the flowers and rode the swan boats. Her smile was a sunbeam that lit up my world. When the day was done, I again tried to give her the box.

"You keep it another day," she said.

It went on like that through July and into August. There were a few things that didn't make sense to me. She wouldn't go out on a 'date'. I never picked her up at her house and took her to the movies. And there was the day that I found her at our table, hiding behind her hair, tears spilling onto her cheeks. I remember noticing how they left streaks through her make-up, then noticing the makeup, so strange on her usually natural skin. But she stopped crying almost immediately and gave me that sunny smile. Soon we were laughing and off to the Museum of Fine Arts. Every day ended the same. I tried to give her the wooden box.

"You keep it another day," she'd say.

Towards the end of August I knew I had to tell her. "Summer," I began. "I have to go away. Last spring, I signed on to do a song writing workshop at a music camp."

"Do you have to go?" Her face clouded over and I was afraid the tears would start.

"It's a commitment I have to keep. Why don't you come with me?"

"I can't," she said.

I waited for some explanation, but I'd learned that explanations were rarely forthcoming. I took the wooden box out and put it on the table.

"You'd better take this back. I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving it at home when I'm not there and I don't think it would be safe at the camp."

She hesitated, and then took the box. We talked for a little bit, but the pending separation stood like a wall between us. It wasn't much longer before she said she had to go.

"I'll be back here in a week," I said as she walked away. She turned and attempted a smile.

A week later, I sat at our table, latte and newspaper just like the first time. Again I wasn't paying attention to the printed word. I looked up every few seconds to see if she were coming. An hour passed. I turned the page and my heart stopped. Even with the poor quality of the photo, there was no doubt that it was Summer's face beneath the headline.
Death in Dorchester

Police have confirmed that the Lundstrom family died of arsenic poisoning. Neighbors said they'd heard rumors of the father and son abusing Inga Lundstrom and the police believe she poisoned the evening meal. The arsenic appears to have been stored in a small, wooden box found at the scene.


I shuffled through the slips of paper, but I didn't need to read what was on them. My heart knew what to sing.

Sun gold hair and sea blue eyes
Memories of you still come on strong
Finding love to my surprise
Feeling how my heart could rise
You will always be my Summer song.

Carousels and ocean swells
Boston Common, picnics on the lawn
Mussel shells and seaside smells
Surely you were casting spells
You will always be my Summer song.

Thunderclaps and lightning bright
Tears you cried, not saying what was wrong
If I'd known your darkest plight
Could I ever make it right?
You will always be my Summer song.

Sun gold hair and sea blue eyes
Memories of you still come on strong
Finding love to my surprise
Feeling how my heart could rise
You will always be my Summer song.

Copyright © 2004 Elise Stone


About the Author
Elise Stone has recently revived her childhood dream of being a writer. She lives in a seaside town south of Boston where she can pursue her favorite activity of walking on the beach while trying to resolve plot points. When she is not working at her job as a computer programmer, she usually can be found reading or writing mystery stories. She was a finalist in the F2K competition and is an active participant in the Mystery Writers group at WVU. A member of Sisters in Crime, she loves attending meetings where they discuss such things as how long a body is preserved in a bog and if you can tell whether someone was killed before or after they fell down the stairs. Elise is currently working on a novel.


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Poetics Presents

Audrey Higgans

Audrey Higgans is a professional freelance translator residing in Vittoria (RG), Sicily with her husband. She has been a member of the Writers' Village for the past two years and is currently taking the Mythic Structure course. Her passion is writing novel-length fiction, haiku and free verse. She finds her inspiration in everyday life.

ANTIDOTE

The antidote to fear
is closer
than you think, there
within your grasp
in your reality.

Immerse yourself,
awaken your senses.
Perceive the bustle of the city
mingled with nature’s resilient song
amidst the tree-lined traffic.

Tear your gaze
from mortar prisons.
Let blue skies and wisps of cloud
drench your soul.

Clasp the hand
of whom you love.
Unshackle your heart,
accept the warmth
of those who love you.

Take pride in your work,
your talents.

Surrender
to the gentle caress rippling
the surface of your subconscious,
whispering – you are worthy
of God’s love.

Slowly,
imperceptibly,
the rose of peace will take root,
its petals unfurling to full magnificence,
its healing perfume
pervading the farthest corners
of your mind.

Yield to the antidote.
Give in
to life.

Copyright ©2004 by Audrey Higgans




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Poetics Presents

Philip Madden

Philip Madden, although a native of England, lives and works in Turkey. His poems, stories, articles, essays and interviews have appeared in Turkish Daily News, Skyline, Poetry Depth Quarterly, The Journal, Taproot Literary Review, Dark Moon Rising as well as online at www.strangehorizons.com.

HOSPITAL WARDS

Sorrow secretly stains the air
In the butter light.

Glimpses of faces unknown pass by
In the pale glass.

While a pile of blankets hide a dead man
In the bare corridor.

Slippers flip flop
On the bleached floor.

The mouth of time hangs open
In the looseness of old age.

While in the white walls grief weeps
In the cracks of broken hearts.

Copyright ©2004 by Philip Madden




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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Here is our August Drabble, by Jessica Michaan, on the topic of what draws you forward into life.

This Is Life

The dark, familiar surroundings made her feel at ease as soon as she went in. She spotted her friends at their usual corner and took a seat on her favorite leather couch. Conversation continued to flow as the waiter brought her a glass of wine without her ordering it. As she smoked banana flavored tobacco from the water pipe her mind wandered from the topic on the table to the good music that was playing. She glanced over at the DJ and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Then, she felt her boyfriend squeezing her hand and thought, “this is life!”

Sometimes in life we have one vision, and sometimes that vision changes, big time. This past month has been particularly internal for me, even in this idyllic summer weather. Especially in this weather, I think—the sun has been warmly nurturing, and not blasting hot, and the air is sweet and salty with jasmine and seaweed. It's been perfect for contemplation.

What I came up with during and after my daily contemplative walks both did and didn't surprise me. I found out that I don't want many of the sorts of things in life that I've thought for so long I surely did want. One thing I've found is that I'm braver than I thought. I'll start all over again somewhere new, thousands of miles away, if that will let me have the life my heart wants. 

For me, being single and right now more open to suggestions from the universe than usual, it's been a perfect time to go in—to go inside myself and discover what it was that I've been hiding from myself out of fear that the discovery would mess up what I had going. Going in is much more than a reassessment for me. It's getting deep enough into what I want out of life and myself that what comes up is surprising, but at the same time recognizable as myself, even more so than before, in fact, because after all, it's from the heart. It's a dialog with the heart. It's a little bit like the transition from point A—wanting to be a ballerina or fireman until that vision just doesn't match anymore with what you've grown into being—to point B, asking yourself, now, what is it that I do really want? It doesn't mean rejection of the things and people you've loved, but instead a more informed and mature vision of what really suits you, and of what you can do and are willing to do.
 
The question of what your heart wants, unasked, I think, can burn a hole in it. So if you'd like, ask your heart what it is that it wants. That's going in—and that's our theme for September's Drabble, Going In. Remember to check the Guidelines. In brief, a Drabble is 100 words exactly, excluding the title, and is due by the 10th of the month before the column comes out. So, Drabbles for September are due by August 10th. Send them to drabble@wvu.org. See you next time.


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Humor: The Torment Behind the Art The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Humor: The Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

What is humor? A rather ridiculous question, you think, as you're about to skip to the next article. Humor is anything that makes us laugh. A comedic play, a humorous article or book, the routine of a stand-up comic, events that occur in everyday life, ad infinitum.

However, we have changed the rules. Laughter is indeed the response to humor. But the playwright, the comedian, the humor inherent in all forms of art, is now politically defined. Political correctness dictates the course that humor must take, at least publicly, to be legitimate. Long gone are the Polack, Jewish, Catholic, Black, again endless jokes, that caused us to laugh. Such jokes are not "politically correct" unless performed by a member of the ethnic group the subject of such jokes. Thank God for lawyers. We’re free to target them as this group transcends all ethnic groups and contains all ethnic groups. Lawyers are fair game.

Spontaneous humor differs. It is uncontrollable. Recently my neurologist referred me to another physician within his office for an EMG. If you are not familiar with an EMG and your physician refers you to one qualified to perform this test, run, don’t walk, to the nearest door. Change your identity and never return to that office again. Sadly, I’m good at giving advice but not taking it. So, like the clones we all become when dealing with physicians, I stood in line to schedule my EMG.

Ironically, the man ahead of me was also waiting to schedule an EMG. I thought of the last EMG I had in 1982 and advised him to bring a pacifier to chomp on while being slowly and painfully executed. He and the scheduling nurse laughed and the banter began. By the time it ended, all three of us were laughing hysterically. The scheduling nurse, continuing to laugh, said, "Mr. Flaim, we have to get you out of here! Everyone’s leaving the waiting room!"

Spontaneous humor is generally acceptable. But a slight change in circumstances raises doubt as to even its political correctness.

I feel safe in relating this story because I am an attorney and the target of all politically correct jokes. My partner and I met with a man who wished to file suit against the Minneapolis police department. Civil rights suits were our specialty and we looked forward to once again suing the government.

The client arrived and we began the preliminary interview. He claimed that the police were constantly harassing him, following him wherever he went. I asked him what caused him to believe that the police were following him. His response? Wherever he went he heard sirens. Additionally, he had committed no criminal acts and there was nothing wrong with him except a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. Sorry to say but I lost it. I left the office, leaving my partner to cope with this situation, ran to the lobby and laughed hysterically for at least half an hour. I could see our receptionist presumably wondering whether she should dial 911.

In retrospect, was this situation humorous? We were obviously dealing with a very sick man. I could only laugh. The laughter, though, was spontaneous and uncontrollable. Was this a humorous incident? I cannot answer that. I ask only that you ponder it and arrive at your own conclusion.

However, the movement towards political correctness has led us to trivialize and denigrate some of the best humor that ever emerged in this nation. Amos and Andy will never again be seen on television because of its racist portrayal of blacks. We’ve lost the comedic genius of Amos, Andy and "The Kingfish" because it is not politically correct. It is so politically incorrect that I only know the names of the characters, not the people who portrayed them

Step ‘n Fetchit was another black comedic genius, as was Bojangles, also one of the finest dancers who ever graced this planet. The only reason we recognize these names is they appeared with that cute little white girl, Shirley Temple. No one would dare ban Shirley from television.

We became politically correct with the appearance of "All In The Family," which ridiculed bigotry and placed us on the right moral compass. Or so we liberals thought. Extensive research established that the overwhelming majority of its viewers were not laughing "at" Archie but "with" him. We were a nation of Archie Bunkers. Americans overwhelmingly agreed that Archie’s televised op-ed, which advocated that all airline passengers be given guns to prevent hijackings, was not such a bad idea.

Humor? We find true humor only in small clubs and books that only the brave will publish. And on Internet sites such as Writers’ Village University.


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Literary Lights

Priscilla Fagan

Part I The Elements of Fiction: Plot

Let us define a plot. We have defined a story as a narrative of events arranged in their time-sequence. A plot is also a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality. ‘The king died and then the queen died,’ is a story. ‘The king died, and then the queen died of grief,’ is a plot. E.M. Forster

Plots are driven by characters, situations, and conflict. One thing leads to another and another and in the end… John Gardner says it best, In nearly all good fiction, the basic—all but inescapable—plot form is: A central character wants something, goes after it despite opposition (perhaps including his own doubts), and so arrives at a win, lose, or draw.

Without plot, there is no ‘what, how and why’. Plot is the design of your story. Josip Novakovitch simply states it, Plot depends on passions –on how characters struggle to fulfill them.

There are several types of plots: Character conflict plots. These conflicts usually take place between a protagonist (the one we root for) and an antagonist (opponent). The second type is nonconfrontational plots such as a slice of life, an epiphany, journeys.  The third type is combination plots which are situational story or story of predicament.

Whatever type of plot you choose, the time sequence is all important. How you organize your story depends on the sequence of events. William Zinsser tells us, Writing is the logical arrangement of thought. I’ve read too many books where this simple statement by Zinsser is lost, thus losing me, the reader. Some writers either get bogged down with wordiness or just plain information that doesn’t move the story forward.

Plots drive our stories. Too many times we are driven off track. Keeping your plot in mind, and using it as an outline for your story, will guide you to a logical conclusion.

Anton Chekhov sums it up for us, If, in the first chapter, you say there is a gun hanging on the wall, you should make quite sure that it is going to be used further on in the story.

Priscilla, the eternal optimist


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Lori Romero wrote a chapbook of poetry titled, Wall to Wall, published by Finishing Line Press. "Feast of the Seven Fishes" won 2nd prize from Confluence and "Sunflowers, Wheelbarrows and Rhubarb" won 1st prize from Quercus Review. Most of the other poems in the book have been published in various journals.

“I was not expecting this chapbook to be selected, so I was stunned—but very happy. It's a wonderful feeling of accomplishment when your work reaches another person. A lot of the poems are based on my family but like everything, there's a bit of poetic license. I didn't start out writing a chapbook about my family, but slowly the poems seemed to settle around this theme. I grew up in a very traditional family (three girls raised on Dr. Spock's baby book), but found a rich vein in my writing from my Italian ancestry on my mother's side.”

Lori joined WVU about three years ago and became a member of the study group Persist and Publish (novel writing) as well as the Senior Poets Workshop. “WVU has been extremely beneficial to my writing career—there is an incredible support group of talented writers here. The courses and focus groups keep me disciplined, keep me writing.”

Currently in the process of writing a chapbook about her exploits as a storm chaser, this multi-talented writer puts pen to paper, not only in the field of poetry but also with plays and short stories. Several of her plays, produced by various theater groups, won awards. Her short stories, published in an assortment of print magazines and e-zines, can be found at her website.

Stephen J Fernbach writes poetry, lyrics and haiku. A collection of his work entitled, A Man of Verse for Better or Worse, will be released within a year by Publish America. Several of his poems can be read at We Love Writers.

“When I was contacted by the publisher, I was very happy. My mother had a feeling of guarded optimism in light of all the publishers who had asked for money upfront that I had dealt with in the past. Publish America did not charge me any fees for the privilege of being published.”

Stephen’s favorite poets include Longfellow, Yeats, Maya Angelou and Allen Ginsberg. He also likes the lyrics of Hal David, Bernie Taupin, Sheila Davis and Jason Blume. “The latter two lyricists were my instructors. Of course, the songs of the Beatles and their solo works were a big influence on me. Also, Bob Dylan was the first poet/lyricist and singer who caught my attention.”

Stephen said that ever since he was a child, he wanted to write a book. He likes writing songs and hanging out at Barnes and Nobles where he browses the bookshelves and finds his leads. “WVU is helpful by allowing me to browse through the courses when my schedule permits.

“My advice to people who work in civil or public service is don't be afraid to write and speak your mind. I am also influenced and inspired by Thomas Jefferson who also was a big bookstore browser and collector as well as a legendary statesman.”

Congratulations, Lori and Stephen. We wish you continued success in all of your writing endeavors and thank you for sharing your information with us.

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

One Morning in Maine

The weather was perfect: sunny, dry, in the upper 60’s with lovely little puffy clouds speckling a cerulean sky, a mild breeze tossing our hair. After a minor spit of rain in the morning, it looked like our morning ”walk-on discovery adventure”—a beginning lesson in kayaking—would be unmarred by even the vaguest hint of bad weather. We signed up at L.L. Bean's gigantic store in Freeport, Maine and climbed into their mini-bus, a vehicle that the driver noted was powered on their own blend of soy oil and diesel. "It's noisy," she said, "but environmentally friendly."

Roughly ten minutes of driving through Maine countryside and we arrived at our destination. Our trip leaders were Ken and Megan. Ken gave us a quick lesson in Personal Flotation Device (PFD) adjustment and warned all that we'd be hiking through a pasture with cows, mud, and perhaps some fresh, warm manure, "So watch your step; you have been warned." He also told us to hold our paddles vertically because "You won't stay friends with the closest person for long if you don't." Ken obviously had a decent sense of humor.

We introduced ourselves, then slipped into water shoes and PFDs, grabbed our paddles and hiked past cows to an open area, where we formed a circle and listened to basic instruction on paddling. Then, down to the bay we marched, to a row of kayaks tied against a narrow dock.

After learning how to board a kayak without spilling into the bay, we were loaded into kayaks by Ken, Megan, and a couple of other people who were already on-hand when we reached the dock. We gathered together before heading out into the bay.

"First rule of thumb," Ken told us, "regarding right-of-way: the higher-tonnage boat wins." For that reason, he said, we would wait till two approaching motorized boats passed before quickly crossing an open expanse of water, where unmanned sailboats bobbed in gentle swells.

Shortly after crossing the open channel, we gathered together to wait for a lobsterman to pull the last of his traps before proceeding. Ken explained that the stripes on lobster boats matched the color of the floats attached to their traps. "That's really helpful when you're trying to see how much more work they have to do," he said. "I don't want to get in the way of the working people." This particular boat only had one trap remaining, so our wait was brief.

On the way to our next gathering spot, I managed to get myself hung up on a sizeable boulder just inches below the water's surface. There's some cosmic rule similar to Murphy's Law that states, "If there is a place one can get wedged while boating, Nancy will find it." I looked around as I tried to use my paddle to shove myself off the rock. All of my family members had paddled away happily, totally oblivious to my plight. The period during which I fruitlessly attempted to remove myself from the rock was the only time I felt likely to tip over and end up getting fished out of the bay. Fortunately, a fresh-faced teenager by the name of Ben came to my rescue. A few helpful pushes from Ben added to my own and I was back under way. I thanked him and he replied with a gentle smile and a nod. Like most Maine natives we encountered on our vacation, he was incredibly polite and relaxed.

The next challenge I encountered involved another teenager, this time female.

"I chipped my nails!" she said. "One, two, three—oh no, five of them!"

While this young lass was counting her fingernail chips and prattling on about how she was going to have to fix them, she paddled aimlessly with one hand or simply allowed herself to drift into other kayakers. After aiming several different directions and repeatedly getting bashed or blocked, I finally maneuvered my way around her. I studied her a bit—brown hair pulled into a ponytail, perky nose, red kayak—and resolved to carefully avoid going anywhere near her in the future.

Eventually, the same girl became so rowdy—splashing her friends and deliberately bumping them—that Ken warned her she'd better stop, "because I'd really prefer not to do a rescue."

After an hour-and-a-half of paddling around in the bay we returned to the dock, soaked and happy. Once more, we hiked the rugged path through cow fields. In front of me, two girls chatted away.

"A squirrel bites you. What do you do?" the girl in front of me said to her companion as we neared the barn.

Megan turned around. "What is this, some kind of survival game you're playing?"

"I have a scarf that has all sorts of 'what if' questions all over it and it tells you what to do, like if someone faints or something and you have to help them," one of the girls replied. "It shows how to do CPR and everything."

"What about the squirrel?" the other girl asked. "Is a squirrel bite bad?"

"I had a friend who got bit by a chipmunk and it wasn't bad or anything, but that was a pet."

"Chipmunks aren't as big as squirrels."

I was enjoying the conversation, but talk ceased as we reached the barn and dispersed. "Changing rooms are inside; however, remember this is a working barn," Ken told us. "It's not advisable to walk into it with bare feet. You will encounter splinters and other hazards you don't want to subject your feet to."

My entire family made the mistake of not bringing along a change of clothes, so the four of us hauled our soaked selves into the barn to change shoes and fetch our belongings before climbing into the van. An hour later we realized our jeans were nearly dry. Coupled with the fact that I hadn't broken a sweat while vigorously paddling around a bay with a fat plastic thing around my chest, the realization was probably a greater shock than I could have acquired by sticking my finger into a light socket. Maybe I've lived in the hot, humid South for too long.

After a warm lunch, we climbed into our car. Immediately, little splats of rain began to hit the windshield, followed by a good, outright pouring. Full of clam chowder, kayaking stories, and with happy thoughts of paddling in the bay, there was nothing Mother Nature could do to get us down. We had definitely had a perfect morning in Maine.


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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver

Music Library

Studies suggest that listening to music can help improve grades. This is wonderful news for those still in school…but can music help the writer? Some writers swear that “white noise” helps them to concentrate, and for them music is a viable option. It is an option for other writers as well.

Music has a unique ability to alter moods. How many times have you bobbed your head or tapped your foot in time to music? Or let the smooth, sexy rhythm of a blues master take you away? A rousing rock anthem can fire up the blood, a minuet calm the savage beast. Choosing the right music can help the writer to set the right mood for their work in progress, thereby making it easier to slip back into the story.

Listening to the right sort of music can also help with setting a rhythm to your writing. As your ear is trained to the beat of the songs that are playing, your writing will surely follow. Imagine writing a piece on a modern day cowboy. What are the rhythms of his life, and how does it reflect in the words you commit to the page? How is it reflected in the music he would listen to? Will listening to that music help you find the rhythm? It does for me.

There are several ways to go about listening to music as you write. You could just turn on the radio, listening to music and commercials both. If you own a computer running Windows with a CD-ROM, as well as Windows Media Player and speakers, you have other options.

One of those options is to pop a compact disc by your favorite artist into the computer and let it play while you're writing. This works especially well for classical music, where the songs are mellow and lead one into another. It also works when you like all the songs on a particular compact disc.

But what if you only like one or two songs? What if you want to compile a soundtrack to your masterpiece, one that includes several different artists? You could either burn a CD on your computer, or make use of the Playlist feature in Windows Media Player.

I personally like the Playlist feature. It’s quick and fairly simple to use. I name my playlists by the same title as my work in progress to make it easy to find the right one. The current one is named Dominion. I can add, delete, rearrange any of the songs that I have chosen to listen to. I have a few songs that pop up three and four times in Dominion because the mood that they invoke is perfect for my novel. Why? Because they invoke the right mood and the rhythms are fluid, something I want to echo in my writing.

There is another, unexpected, aspect to writing to music. As soon as I sit down to the computer and open Dominion, I know that it is time to settle down and get to business. Even better, my muse follows me and dances to the music.


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

Submissions Guidelines The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

Fiction and Craft features published in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine include brief third person biographical notes on the writers. For all submissions, please compose your own bio and include it to save our editors and yourself time later if/when your piece is accepted for publication. We suggest sharing a little about your background, occupation, geographical location and what inspired your story.

How and Where to Submit

We do not accept submissions via US mail. Email submissions only, to the appropriate department, in the body of the email. No attachments accepted.

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

Craft Non-fiction should be queried first. Send query to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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

 

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