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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

Audrey Higgans

I Dare You

This article is not meant for those who can churn out hundreds or thousands of words everyday, whether the muse hits them or not. No Siree. My hat off to them, as well as an honest, generous dose of good-natured envy. My words are aimed at people who, like me, tremble at the mere thought of putting pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, ink to blank page—you name the phobia, I have it.

Here's my take on the subject. If we want to write a novel, we must gear up for sweat and tears. If, in our fantasies about the writing life, we have imagined ourselves with a sharpened pencil stuck behind our ear, the stem of a red rose between our teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration while our hands fly over the keyboard, we have another thing coming.

Writing is hard, writing is agony. Writing is virtually impossible at times.

Therefore, we procrastinate. We wail and moan into our journal, spin our tales of woe to long-suffering critique partners, badger our better half, (if we have one), with a long-winded monologue about our plot and the message we mean to deliver to our unsuspecting, hypothetical readers.

Our masochistic mind drives us to trillions of how-to articles. We read about grammar and punctuation pitfalls, characterization, backstory, dialogue, hooks, sagging middles, satisfying endings, editing, rewriting...until our head spins. At this point, we're convinced we'll never live up to all that sound advice—if we ever get down to writing, that is.

Then, of course we turn to books by our favorite authors. Doesn't part of that wonderful advice out there say we must read, read, read? We gobble up those new stories waiting on our bookshelf. Once we're finished, we proceed to read some of the old ones. Books we had forgotten about that can still tickle our spine with a special thrill. Alas, too late, we realize they're all bloody geniuses.

We're never going to write anything even close to what they achieved.

Sound familiar? If so, why do it? Why finish the novel, plod through the rewrite like a dead man walking and send queries and synopses to a bevy of agents? If we're lucky, only a good number of them will send a rejection. The others will send a request for a partial. Meanwhile we're left with our tongue hanging out, like a dog beneath a food-laden table. That dog knows the likes of him will probably never taste the mouth-watering savories meant exclusively for the elite group on Mount Olympus. So why bother?

Beats me, but I still do it. In my case, what drives me is probably the urgency, deep in my soul, for someone to pay attention. To point their finger at me in a class of swots and say, "You, I like your style, there's something good here."

Recognition, acceptance—we all need it, crave it, desire it with harrowing intensity. Not so much for the money as for the simple need to hear someone admit that we're special, that we write stuff dreams are made of, that we can touch people where it counts.

In the end, what it really boils down to is guts. We have to put everything, all of ourselves on the line. All our eggs in one basket, so to speak. I admit, it's pretty scary—we either make it or we don't, but isn't courage a matter of acting despite the fear? If this is true, I do have courage. Enough to make it worth my while. With every word I put on paper I'm daring to dream the impossible dream, pushing myself to the limit. I for one could never stop trying. If you're a writer, neither can you.


About the Author
Audrey Higgans is a professional freelance translator residing in Sicily with her husband. She is Maltese by birth and her passion is writing novel-length fiction and poetry in English. Her poem "Antidote" was published in the August 2004 issue of T-Zero. She has been a member of the Writers' Village for the past two years and is well on her way to finishing her first novel. She's currently taking the Synopsis and Query Letter course and finds her inspiration in everyday life.


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Craft of Writing

Barbara L. Cairns

"B" is for "Block"

They're easy to spot. Their eyes are glazed over. They're staring off into space. Their bodies are almost statuesque. Who are they, you ask? Why, writers of course, with that dreaded writer's affliction, Writer's Block. You can almost see their minds mulling over ideas as they strain to grasp some unknown, unthought-up concept that can be woven into a story.

If you have never stared into the horizon for long periods of time, never been in a daze while life is going on around you, or never felt the uneven flow of creativity struggling to come forward in your brain, perhaps you're not a writer after all. Or just maybe, you're one of those lucky ones, someone who is so prolific and successful that this article holds no meaning for you at all.

As for me, I'm one of the afflicted at times. But luckily, I own or subscribe to many helpful books and magazines that offer me solutions. Some of them provide advice with the B.L.O.C.K. itself.

"B" is for "Begin with I remember." It helps to jog the mind with past memories.

"L" is for "Letter writing." Send out letters to folks who haven't heard from you for awhile, especially to those who don't know you're a dedicated writer who is just having a bad day.

"O" is for "Originality." This is the key to being true to yourself. Spend time reading the works of others, either to inspire you or to realize you can write better than what you've just read. Be original!

"C" is for "Control your fate." Forget the rule that you have to write every single day. Check out markets instead. Work on something completely different than your norm. Take charge of yourself and your day!

"K" is for "Keep nurturing the artist inside you." When ideas are struggling to be born, trust in yourself. And don't forget to reward yourself for your efforts. (Chocolate ice cream does it for me.)

Surviving as a writer during the "down days" can be as easy as A B C. Always Be Confident! Tomorrow is another day. Take today off and don't feel guilty. (What other profession or blue collar job do you know where the worker never gets a day off?)

Despite all the books that tell us we must write every day to call ourselves writers, there is really no "one size fits all" schedule for writers. We must each find our muse, wherever she may be, and when she's through playing hide and seek, we can say "Gotcha!" and begin our writing day again with confidence.

Rather than dwelling on rejections and negative thoughts when the muse is hiding, realize that it's just another cycle in life, kind of like the weather. Just as there are droughts in the weather, so too there are dry spells in our creative lives. But then comes the magic, that rain of thoughts and ideas, flooding our creative plains, washing out a word, a suggestion, a scene, and a character which, when put together, forecasts success in a new manuscript.

We see the glazed look again, only this time, it's the muse, blocking out all interruptions. As she focuses us to write our masterpiece, the muse is clever enough to know, that even BLOCKS can be helpful if we approach them the right way.


About the Author
Originally from Connecticut, Barbara L. Cairns has lived in Seattle, Washington, Labrador, Germany, and Panama. As a retired elementary school principal, she now lives in Florida where she continues to write stories, articles and books. Barbara's most recent contract is with McGraw-Hill for a language book due for release in February, 2005.


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Craft of Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

How To Make Your Poems More Saleable

Have you tried to sell your poems, only to receive those most unwelcome rejections? Here's a way you can turn those poems into acceptances. It has helped me to increase my acceptance rate quite a bit. I found attaching these rules to my computer really helps me to remember them. It's too easy to slip into an old rut of not stretching one's imagination.

l. Take out weak words such as and, but, if, etc., especially at the beginning of the line. These words don't enhance your poem and may make them appear less professional. Even if you are a beginner, you don't have to show the editor that.

2. Don't rhyme just for rhyme's sake. Old clichés such as a moon/June rhyme will only make an editor see you as an amateur. Strive to be creative and original.

3. Use dashes, where appropriate, at the ends of certain lines. This makes the poem more dramatic. It will make the editor and reader stop and think about it.

4. Repeat one outstanding line (toward the end) in the poem. I usually use the first line to make the poem more special. I found this will bring out the theme right away and make it more memorable.

5. Make sure the title pertains exactly to what you are trying to convey. Be specific with it, but don't use the same words in the poem. Using "Untitled" isn't a good idea as it just shows a lack of creativity. A title can make or break a poem.

6. Look for paying markets in Writer's Digest or other sources in the library. Being paid for your work makes the acceptance more meaningful. Even if you receive $1.00, it still means that your poem had merit and an editor thought it worthy of payment.

7. Read your poem out loud to someone whose opinion you respect. Don't just read it to your favorite aunt or cousin who will only give you praise. You want to get a critique to improve your poetry. Of course, if someone is panning your poem, without giving you constructive criticism that is something you shouldn't listen to.

8. Make sure your poem is typed and follow their guidelines as to whether they want your submission to be double-spaced or single-spaced. Editors have different ideas of what they want in the manuscripts submitted, so pay careful attention to them.

If your poem should be rejected, don't be dejected. Instead, see if the editor wrote a personal note and whether they want you to revise it. If he/she does ask for a revision, go ahead and do it. Then retype it and send it in again to that particular editor, saying it is a revision. This will let the editor know you are a serious poet and he/she will take notice.

9. Writing poetry can be lonely, so if you can join a poetry critique group, do so. The members can help you to improve your poem to the point of it being saleable. Make sure, though, members in the group are published poets and are willing to give you positive feedback.

10. Before submitting your poem(s), make sure to read the publication you wish to submit to. Sending it in blindly, without looking at what the editor uses, isn't a good idea. He/she will see right away that you haven't done your homework.

Following the above tips should help your poetry get the sparkle and richness editors are looking for and buying.


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

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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Those Who Can....

We often hear the statement "Those who can do. Those who can’t teach." Fortunately this former perceived truism is now seen as the fallacy it is. Many published fiction authors now teach, not only at prestigious universities but in the proliferation of "How To" books, particularly the series "Elements of Fiction Writing." We no longer need to reinvent the wheel. The writing community provides us with "cheat sheets" that simplify the writing process so long as we continue to write.

One of my favorite authors is Orson Scott Card, although I’ve only read two of his novels, Ender’s Game and Speaker for the Dead. Card was the literary equivalent of the guitarists Roy Buchanon, found dead hanging in his jail cell, and Danny Gatton, found dead with half a head after trying to clean his 9mm Glock with his tongue. Both guitarists were so talented that many promising guitarists traded in their Fenders for kazoos after hearing them perform. How many promising writers returned to writing greeting cards after reading Card’s novels we can only guess. I didn’t want to fall into that category.

However, Orson Scott Card is a kind author and shared his skills in "Characters & Viewpoint." He briefly addressed comedic character and noted that, "Comic characters cannot be believable in the same way that other characters are. They can’t be unbelievable, either. But comedy almost always deals with pain, and comic characters almost always suffer. If we believed in them with the same intensity we bring to straight characters, their pain would be unbearable. Instead, the author gives the audience clues that the character is not to be taken seriously. Something is made deliberately ‘wrong’ about the character, so that we know we aren’t supposed to react with sympathy. Instead we’re supposed to laugh."

I find Card’s characterization of the comedic character perfect for the writer who has determined well in advance which of his characters will be comedic. I believe it would be a perfect tool for those who draft detailed outlines before beginning to write. However, the only "outlines" with which I am familiar are the fault lines in tennis, the foul lines in baseball and the out-of-bounds line in many games. Try as I did I could never draft an outline even for complex theses and legal briefs. When writing fiction the problem is more complex, as I do not recognize the heroes, villains, comedic characters and bit players until the final rewrite. A character who begins as a serious character may evolve into a comedic character or no character at all. Since this column is ostensibly a humor column, although the numerous death threats often make me wonder, I shall attempt to write two portrayals of an identical character, with one character serious and the other humorous. Feel free to verbally destroy these passages, sans death threats, please.
 
Serious Character

It began as an accident. Oz was walking down his stairs and failed to notice his newest kitten lying on an upper step, his gray fur blending perfectly with the coal colored rug, rendering him invisible. Oz tripped on the soon to be yelping kitten, Little Gray, and plummeted down the stairs, his left shoulder and head smashing into the rock hard door frame, shattering his left shoulder. He screamed and writhed in pain but no one was home to hear him. Somehow he managed to stumble to the phone, unsuccessfully tried to dial 911 and stumbled to the front door, opening it in the hope that someone would come to the door. He once again screamed before passing out from the excruciating pain.

His next memory was awakening in the hospital watching a nurse injecting a viscous substance into a shunt inserted into a vein on his right wrist.

"Whazzat?" mumbled Oz, the injection producing its desired effect.

"Dilaudid," the nurse replied.

Oz stared at his left arm. He felt no cast, no sling, seeing only a sheet and blanket visible. At that moment the Doctor appeared.

"How are we feeling, Mr. Bennet?"

Oz laughed and simultaneously screamed before responding.

"I don’t know how we feel, Doctor.  I, on the other hand, feel as though my left arm has been ripped off."

The doctor and nurse stared at each other, grimacing, a silent exchange that sent Oz’s blood pressure climbing and his heart racing.

"Mr. Bennet. Do you know how long you’ve been here?" asked the Doctor.

"Two hours or so."

"Over two weeks. We performed surgery on your left arm. Unfortunately it was three days before anybody found your unconscious body on the floor of your living rooms."

"Three days? It couldn’t have been that long!"

"You had a severe head injury, Mr. Bennet. We were fortunate enough to deal successfully with that. However, the time that elapsed between your injuries and our treatment left us no alternative but to amputate your left arm."

Oz screamed yet again before falling into blissful unconsciousness.

Thus concludes the description and tale of the serious character with specific character traits.. Can we make him and his predicament humorous? Not completely. The loss of an arm has serious repercussions. But another character’s personality and world view may indeed add a touch of humor.

Humorous Character

Oz dragged his 6' 7" body into the already running shower and immediately found his legs hovering well above his torso. He laughed hysterically as he realized he had broken his record. Six backward flips in the shower in six days. He inched his way upward and saw his four cats snickering at him. He knew that if these feline felons could speak, they’d say, "Damned fool! He fell for the soap bar routine six days in a row. Why are we endowed with such an imbecilic pet? We’d run away but he keeps our litter boxes clean, feeds us well and is always good for a chuckle." They ran out of the bathroom to prepare their next trick.

Oz managed to stand, grabbed the removable shower head and sat back down, finishing his shower from the safety of the bath tub floor.

When he had finished, Oz walked on all fours to his room. He dressed in his usual fashion, underwear on backwards, different shades of socks and a Versace shirt bought at a thrift shop for three bucks, probably because it was three buttons short of a full set and had a cigarette burn on its collar.

While struggling with a clip-on tie, he began thinking of Arlo Gurthrie’s classic song, "The Last Man." Whenever feeling down and out, a buddy would point to some homeless drunken man and say, "Look, man, things could be worse. Take a look at that guy!"

But what about the last man? Nobody had it worse than him. He couldn’t even find train tracks to lie across, waiting for a train to crush him. Oz was certain he was that last man. Nobody could have a more miserable life. Yet it was amusing so Oz pushed forward.

His cats came close to proving him right. Forming a mini-pyramid at the top of the stairs that his 6' 7" body failed to see, he went tumbling down the stairs, smashing his left shoulder and head into the rock hard frame of the doorway. When he awakened in the hospital over two weeks later to discover he no longer had a left arm, he smiled, assured he was not Guthrie’s "The Last Man." Oz was right handed and would have no difficulty in picking his nose.

Not a work of art but it does demonstrate a point. The same character can be either serious or humorous depending upon the author’s mood and intention that inform the character. Humor does derive from pain.

All comments, criticisms and verbal executions are welcome. Please send to Ed@wvu.org.  To make my life a bit easier, please place "Humor Column" in the subject line with a cyber toke. 
 

About the Author
Ed was born in 1950. He entered the world butt-first and has since viewed the world primarily through this vertical eye. As most of those who survived the turbulent sixties, he faced several choices: death, prison, insanity or law. He chose both law and insanity. He graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 1984 after touring the world’s asylums..

He was a well-established and recognized practitioner when diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He continued to actively practice law until 1998, when his physical and mental condition said, "Screw this," and he returned to Maryland. In Maryland he vegetated until he came upon WVU and attempted to write fiction.

Ed has published hundreds if not thousands of his writings. That's only because every document he has ever filed with the courts is considered published. Thus far, publishers have been kind and printed one of his 300 story submissions. He's waiting anxiously to see what will happen with number 301, hoping it might bring him wealth and fame like Stephen King, or at the very least, a cookie.


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Literary Lights The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Literary Lights

Priscilla Fagan

Part IV The Elements of Fiction – Style

What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure. Samuel Johnson

A good style should show no sign of effort. What is written should seem a happy accident. W. Somerset Maugham

What? Two accomplished Literary Lights at odds? Not at all. Writing without putting effort into the story and a story, seemingly written without effort, is as different as night and day. The difference is ‘style’. Style is the way YOU choose to show and see your story. Style is the way YOU choose the words to give life to your story.  This is your very own ‘style’. Your ‘style’ is made up of all the basics: active voice, the way you show and don’t tell, the way you appeal to the senses, the way you place your words.

Your ‘style’ will emerge with experience and skill. Don't worry about it, let it evolve.

Katherine Anne Porter tells us, You do not create a style. You work and develop yourself; your style is an emanation from your own being.

William Zinsser also says, Don’t say you were a bit confused and sort of tired and a little depressed and somewhat annoyed. Be tired. Be confused. Be depressed. Be annoyed, Don’t hedge your prose with little timidities. Good writing is lean and confident. Remember back to when you first learned to write as a child. You said what you saw and felt. You didn’t, and weren’t able yet, to fill up the page with adjectives and adverbs which hide the original meaning.

The best advice on writing I’ve ever received was from William Zinsser: “Be grateful for every word you can cut.” Christopher Buckley

As I said before, your ‘style’ will emerge with experience. You can’t force it. Jonathan Swift says, Proper words in proper places, make the true definition of a style. Style cannot be learned. The great writer finds style as the mystic finds God, in his own soul. Havelock Ellis

An author arrives at a good style when his language performs what is required of it without shyness. Cyril Connolly

Be proud and confident. Listen to your soul. You have your own style, and it will emerge. Keep writing. You’re well on your way.

Priscilla, the eternal optimist


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Tips to Jumpstart Your Writing The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Tips to Jumpstart Your Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

How To Use Rejections as Free Editorial Opinions

Have you wondered what to write, but couldn't decide what type of writing you wanted to do? I had that problem when I first started freelancing. I wasn't sure what I wanted to write about. I was able to compose poetry, children's and inspirational stories and anecdotes, but found it hard to decide what I should concentrate on. I felt I wasn't succeeding because of the number of rejections I was receiving. That's when I decided to make those rejections work for me, instead of just sulking. Editors were telling me what they preferred. When I took that into account, my acceptances increased. How? In other words, seeing what editors reject is almost as important as what they accept.

By looking at and studying the work they didn't like, I was able to figure out what they did like and what I should submit. Editors weren't interested in my children's stories, but they did like my inspirational stories. I was submitting serious poetry, but it wasn't being accepted, so I tried my hand at romantic poetry, and it sold. Now, editors buy many of my poems and I've become published on a regular basis.

By their responses, editors tell me what they think of my work and I don't have to pay large sums of money to get critiqued. It's strange too, because I find that what editors like best is what I like writing the most. This makes freelancing even more enjoyable.

So, while those rejections hurt, don't sulk. If you use them properly you'll find they will be of considerable help to telling you what changes you can make to become published. Even without an editor writing a personal note, they are in effect saying what you need to know.

Remember, rejections just may lead you onto the path of success.


About the Author
Suzan L. Wiener has had numerous poems, stories, writing articles and fillers published in national publications such as T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine, Canadian Writer's Journal, Riverrun, Impetus, Saturday Evening Post, Poetry Press, Verses.


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Fiction Short Story The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Fiction Short Story

by George J. Bryjak

The Big Game

Kenny Morrison jogged down the tunnel at the south end of the stadium, the sound of cleats on cement bouncing off the walls. This was the biggest weekend of his life. The championship game was less than an hour away, and tomorrow night he had a date with Meagan, the hottest girl in the senior class, the coach's daughter. He wasn't sure which prospect excited him more.

That's what this last minute meeting is about, he thought. Man, he must know she's ripe, that every guy on the team is hot for her. She's ready. All a guy would have to do is push a little and he'd score. But he must know that I respect Meagan too much to take advantage of her, maybe get her some ecstasy she's been wantin' to try. I would never get her high and screw her just because I could. He's gonna warn me what'll happen if I don't keep it in my pants. If that's what's buggin him, I'll let'm know everything's cool.

Kenny removed his helmet, knocked on the door and walked in. The room smelled of cigar smoke and too many years of sweat-soaked clothing. Drab gray walls were covered with photos of past glory.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" he said to the big man whose once powerful physique now spilled over his belt.

"Sit down, Kenny," the coach said as he stepped with a noticeable limp around a cluttered desk. "Well this is it, what we've been workin' for all year. Winner takes the conference title and moves on to the state playoffs. And the losers..." He paused for effect, one of his favorite motivational techniques, "Well, they're just losers."

"We're not gonna lose, Coach," the boy said, crossing heavily taped forearms across the crimson 56 on his jersey. "We're better than they are—you been tellin' us that all week."

"No, we're not going to lose, but we can't take no chances."

The young linebacker cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes narrowing. "I don't get it."

"Their quarterback is a damned good player and we can't let him get on a roll."

"No problem—I'll be in his face all night."

"First chance you get, you slam your helmet into his knees. I want to see him carried off the field ... done for it."

"You want me to hurt him on purpose?" Kenny asked, springing from his seat. "Geez coach, I can't do that."

The big man stepped in front of the youth, grabbed the underside of his shoulder pads through the jersey, spun him to his left and shoved Kenny into a rusting wall locker. "Now you listen to me, boy," the coach's voice was controlled but angry, "This is a big game, biggern' you know. There are people out there lookin' at how you play ... how I coach."

"But Coach, don't ask me ..."

"I'm not askin' I'm tellin'. You keep your mouth shut and do what I say."

He took a step backward, relaxed his knotted shoulders and sat on the edge of a dingy metal desk. His tone softened. "You're almost eighteen years old. Next fall you'll be playin' college ball. You gotta learn to do what you gotta do. This is a good time to start." He turned around, took a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

Kenny looked down at the logo on the side of his helmet. Deliberately chopping somebody at the knees. It didn't seem right.

“Come on boy, injuries are part of the game, everybody knows that. And what d'ya think their coach is telling his offensive lineman?" He didn't wait for an answer. “ ‘Get Morrison out of the game and we win.’ That's what he's sayin’.” He removed the cigar, took a deep breath and tried another approach. "Listen Kenny. I'm not tellin' you to do nothin' that ain't been done before." He began massaging his stiff right knee. "Hell, if you don't go after their quarterback, you'll be letting your teammates down. And me. You wanna do that?"

Kenny hesitated, then shook his head. "No, I guess not."

The coach slid off of the desk and limped toward the door. The meeting was over. The young athlete stood up and the big man put his arm around the boy's shoulder in a fatherly manner.

"Life's not easy, Kenny, and it sure ain't fair. Remember that." He ripped the helmet from Kenny's hand then jammed it into the boy's chest.

"You really want something you go out and take it. Don't let anybody or anything stand in your way. Understand?" Kenny nodded. The big man slapped his star player on the back, gave him one of those 'You just listen to the coach' smiles and said, "Now go out there and have a great game."

Kenny walked down the tunnel to join his teammates for pre-game warm-ups. He could hear the band break into the school fight song as he caught a glimpse of tumbling cheerleaders in the harsh glare of the stadium lights. It was starting to make sense. Yeah, he thought, Coach was right, he's always right. A thin smile turned into a wicked grin as his pace quickened. He could barely contain his excitement.

Kenny saw her sitting in the stands behind the player's bench talking and laughing with friends. Just the thought of them together sent a shiver of delight through his body. He wanted Meagan bad, real bad, and after the game he was going to see a man about some ecstasy.

Copyright © 2004 George J. Bryjak


About the Author
George J. Bryjak taught sociology at the University of San Diego for 24 years. He is the co-author of three textbooks and his op-ed pieces appear regularly in the San Diego Union-Tribune. His stories have appeared in Beginnings, Short Stuff, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, The Dana Literary Society Online Journal, Dark Moon Rising (forthcoming) among others. He resides in the Adirondack Park region of New York State with his wife, Diane.


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Fiction Short Story

by Susanne Shaphren

Thanksgiving Miracle

Juji and Talisa are happily settled in front of the TV, watching one of the stack of bargain movies we rented just after Mr. Reliable called.

My fingers fly over the computer keyboard, but I haven't even made a dent in the seemingly endless stack of dictation tapes.

All this extra work seemed like a blessing when I thought Talisa and Juji would be spending Thanksgiving with Mr. Reliable and his newest girlfriend. I'd be much too busy to even think about missing them. Thanks to the triple holiday bonus pay, Santa would come right on time even if the child support check got "lost" in the mail AGAIN.

Whatever was I thinking? If Mr. Reliable had ever been that, I'd still be Mrs. Reliable and there would be a turkey and all the trimmings in the fridge instead of one lonely TV dinner in the freezer.

Three dictation tapes later, Marmalade, the cat, and I do our stretching and head for the kitchen. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, milk and carrot sticks for Juji and Talisa. A piece of petrified pizza for me. I reach for Marmalade's favorite food, the last can on the shelf.

"Who wants to take the bus to the grocery store?"

"Me!" "Me!!" Not me. But there's no choice. If we don't make the trip, there will be nothing to be thankful for tomorrow.

No wonder my mother did most of her shopping the Saturday before Thanksgiving. She was smart to stock up on fresh cranberries, sweet potatoes, russets, celery, and marshmallows. No wonder she ordered the perfect fresh turkey to pick up at the last possible minute. There's nothing left!

I do my best to sound excited about chicken drumsticks and stuffing mix. I'll make something special for dessert.

"Remember last year when Dorothy had Thanksgiving dinner with us?"

"I remember." Dorothy was the lost soul we saw on our daily trips to and from the bus stop. Talisa made an extra sandwich every morning for Dorothy. Juji suggested giving her the old blanket we cuddled under while watching TV.

"I used to live here." Weeks after we met, Dorothy walked us blocks out of our way to show us the grey frame house with periwinkle shutters and boarded up windows.

Dorothy agreed to think about going to the soup kitchen at our church, but refused the list of women's shelters. "Too many rules."

I swallowed hard, casually let it slip that our apartment building maintenance man often left the back door ajar. "The basement is always warm and fairly dry if you need a safe place to sleep."

My mother's voice echoed a warning when I invited Dorothy to Thanksgiving dinner, but I reassured the figment of my imagination and myself that Dorothy was harmless.

Santa brought Dorothy an early Christmas present, a bright red heavy coat from the thrift store. We looked for that coat at the bus stop every day. Talisa and Juji always had a piece of fresh fruit or candy or a cookie tucked in their pockets for their special friend. When I could spare it, I'd tuck a few dollars in the pocket of her coat as we hugged good-bye. I knew Dorothy was too proud to take it from me any other way.

Just before Christmas, Dorothy disappeared. I described her to the volunteers at the soup kitchen, asked if anybody remembered her.

"She came almost every night for a while, insisted on helping clean up after dinner. Haven't seen her in the past couple of weeks though. Maybe she hitched a ride to someplace warmer for the winter."

"Maybe."

I pray Dorothy is someplace safe and warm this Thanksgiving with plenty of food on her plate.

The bus lurches to a stop. I put a protective arm around Juji, Talisa, and the groceries, brace for the gust of icy air as we get off.

A flash of ever so familiar red and Dorothy's sweet as molasses Southern voice. "I've been waiting to invite you to Thanksgiving tomorrow. My house."

"Are you sure, Dorothy? It's much too cold for a picnic."

"You won't recognize the place all fixed up like when my daughter was Talisa's age."

"What can I bring?"

"Spice cake would be nice ... with apples and raisins."

"Of course." I'll have to ask a neighbor to watch Juji and Talisa, trek back to the store for apples ... and for the cat food I suddenly realize I forgot.

When we get inside, there are surprises to unpack. Four Granny Smith apples and three tins of Marmalade's favorite food. None of it on the receipt.

"Must have been our guardian angel making sure you didn't have to go out again in the cold." Talisa explains as she carefully washes and dries our thrift store treasure, a hand-painted angel plate.

I'm much too old to believe in guardian angels. There's a perfectly logical explanation for what happened. "We probably just got part of the order ahead of ours. We'll pay for it next time we go shopping." Still, it does seem like magic that we accidentally got exactly what we needed.

No buses running on Thanksgiving. We bundle up until we can barely move, ever so carefully follow Dorothy's instructions. Much too cold to risk getting lost.

Dorothy looks so different, somehow younger and absolutely beautiful in the simple grey dress with a white lace collar. Like a mother hen, she makes sure we sit in front of the roaring fireplace while she takes care of last minute details in the kitchen.

There's an exquisite linen tablecloth on the dining room table. I whisper a gentle warning to Talisa and Juji to be extra careful not to spill anything.

"We give thanks for special blessings on this special day ... good food and good friends. Amen." Juji's prayer is shorter than the blessing he practiced so carefully at home. I think the steaming platters are just too tempting for him to wait one minute longer.

Dorothy's stuffing is exactly like my mother's, full of celery, carrots and slivered almonds. There's a crystal dish of freshly ground cranberries with orange rind and sugar just like my Aunt Fran always made. Sweet potatoes mashed with orange juice, brown sugar and just a touch of cinnamon under perfectly melted marshmallows. A picture perfect turkey with three drumsticks. How on earth did Dorothy guess how much that would mean to me? I always give my favorite piece of the turkey to Talisa and Juji, pretend I want a wing or slices of the thigh.

We eat until we're ready to burst, rest a bit and then attack the cake.

"Best I ever had," Dorothy proclaims.

"You can keep the rest, but you have to wrap up one piece for Mom's breakfast." Juji kisses Dorothy on the cheek.

Plenty of time to work on the computer after I tuck my happily stuffed children into bed.

Barely dawn when Juji and Talisa wake up and insist we invite Dorothy for Christmas. We walk briskly to stay warm, carefully retrace our steps from yesterday, can't find the house.

Only a vacant lot where we're positive Dorothy's house should be. A vacant lot with a shiny black car parked out front. A young woman with Dorothy's smile greets us like family.

"Mama painted such vivid word pictures of you in her letters that I feel like I've known you forever."

"We came to invite Dorothy for Christmas."

"I assumed you knew. My mother died last December."

"That's impossible! We ate Thanksgiving dinner with her. The house was all fixed up ..."

"The house was bulldozed last month. I didn't know until after she died that Mama could barely afford to pay the property taxes out of her Social Security check. She sent me beautiful letters every single week, told me all about her special friends. I never dreamed she was living on the street. We finally got the property rezoned for apartments; the developer is meeting me here to sign the final papers."

"Mom, look!" Talisa points toward the center of the lot, right where Dorothy's dining room used to be. A grey and white cat happily polishes off the last crumb of spice cake, daintily licks the one-of-a-kind angel plate.

My mind is a jumble of confusing thoughts. The plate and the cake are tangible proof that we were here yesterday. If there was no house and no Dorothy, what happened? What possible explanation can there be for the wonderful meal and the love we shared? Surely Talisa, Juji and I couldn't have had exactly the same dream. And if it was just a dream, how do I explain the plate?

"Can we keep her, Mom?" Juji picks up the cat before I can warn him she might scratch or bite. My heart skips a beat when I see the cat has deep blue eyes just like Dorothy's. It doesn't take much imagination to transform the pattern of grey and white fur into the dress our hostess wore yesterday.

So many questions, but the first one I have to answer is my son's. There's enough money in the emergency budget envelope for the vet to examine the stray and vaccinate her. Marmalade loves other cats. I'm just not sure I'm ready to take on another mouth to feed.

"Her name is Dorothy, Mom, just like our guardian angel." Little Juji has all the answers.

Copyright © 2004 Susanne Shaphren


About the Author
The author is a native of Phoenix, Arizona. Susanne's articles and fiction have appeared in an eclectic alphabet soup of print and online venues including: Authorship, Adventure Fiction Online, Better Communication, Children's Playmate, Dana Literary Society Online Journal, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, Monthly Short Stories and The Writer. Her short story, "Arrangements," is included in Mystery Writers of America Presents Show Business is Murder.


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Fiction Short Story

by Sam Douglas

There'll Always Be A Gnat

"Honey, telephone. It's Mr. Jameson."

He'd just gotten the lawn mower started after about 96 pulls on the cord, or at least five or six. "What's he want?" he asked his wife.

"I'm pretty sure you don't want me to ask the people who call you from the office what they want," she said.

"Yeah, you're right. But you don't have to be so bleeping smug about it. Besides, I might make an exception for Jameson."

"Doesn't he know it's your day off?"

"Yeah, otherwise he'd be bugging me in the office." He picked up the phone, "Hi, Paul. What's up?"

"I hate to bother you, Richard, but Mr. Matthews called and asked me about the Sinclair Project. I told him I'd call him back."

"Paul, I told you yesterday that if anybody asked about Sinclair to tell them it was on schedule and I'd take care of it when I get back."

"Yeah, I know you did, but I didn't know if that applied to Mr. Matthews or not."

"Yeah, Paul, it applies to anybody who asks about the Sinclair Project."

"Okay, I'll call him back and tell him that."

"Fine, Paul."

At least the mower started on the first pull this time. He hated summer, especially in the south, where he was now. It was too hot, too sticky, too sweaty. Sweat rolled down your back into your waistband. Sweat rolled down your face into your eyes. Sweat rolled down your whole body into your soul. He hated summer.

"Ouch!" A pebble sprang up from the lawn mower and hit his shin. "How'd that get past the guard?" he asked himself as he stared down at the tiny trickle of blood running down his leg. He hated mowing the lawn. The only thing he hated worse than summer was mowing the lawn in summer. In addition to being too hot and too sticky and too sweaty, it was too dusty and too painful. The mower blew the dirt and dust into your eyes and your mouth and your nose, and it blew the rocks and the sticks into your shins. He hated mowing the lawn in summer.

"Bzzzz." Smack. "Ouch!" His ears were ringing. A pesky gnat was buzzing around his head, around his ear. It was really annoying. To make it worse, when he tried to swat the gnat, he hit his own ear instead. That stung. And it started his ears ringing. He hated gnats. They drove you nuts, buzzing around your head and into your eyes and ears. They were downright annoying. The only thing he hated worse than mowing the lawn in summer was mowing the lawn in summer with gnats around. In addition to being too hot and too sticky and too sweaty and too dusty and too painful, it was downright annoying.

"Bzzzz." Smack. "Missed me," a tiny voice said right outside his ringing ear.

"What?" he said out loud, not expecting a reply.

"Missed me," said the tiny voice again.

"Who's that? Who said that?" he asked, spinning his head from side to side, looking for the source of the voice.

"Bzzzz. I did," the voice seemed to come from inside his ear now. Smack. "Missed me again. I'll bet your ear is really ringing now, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, it is. But where are you?"

"Right here. Bzzzz." A gnat buzzed right in front of his face, almost going up his nose, and nearly getting caught between his eyelids.

"You said that? But you're a gnat."

"Yeah, and you're a klutz. You missed me."

"Man, you shouldn't be out here buzzing around people's heads when they're mowing their lawns. You could get hurt."

"Yeah, maybe I could; but whose ear is ringing now?"

"Well, mine is. That's annoying, too, but you could be killed. I could kill you with a reflex action."

"I guess that depends on whose reflexes are faster. You could just end up with another ear ringing."

"But the tradeoff just isn't worth it, man. You've got too much to lose. The risk is too great, and you've got nothing to gain. Why do you want to do it, just to be annoying?"

"Well, you know, that's what gnats do," the gnat's voice ended on a rise, like he was going to say something else.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don't tell me you're going to bring up that sad old story about the scorpion and the frog."

"Well, yes, I was. Don't you think it's appropriate?"

"Yeah, I guess so; but it's still a sad old story."

"Well, yeah, but beyond this just being our nature, maybe I was put here to bring a little variety into your life. Maybe I'm here to enhance the challenge. I mean without me, how boring would it be pushing that mower back and forth for hours in the summer sun?"

"Yeah, I hate mowing my lawn in the summer. But I hate gnats buzzing around my head even more."

"You see, we add to the experience."

"Yeah, some experience. But you could still get killed. What about that?"

"Somebody would just replace me. There'll always be a gnat buzzing around your head."

"Honey, telephone again. Mr. Jameson again."

"Yeah, Paul, what is it now?"

"I just wanted you to know I called Mr. Matthews back and he said he'd talk to you later about the Sinclair Project. I didn't want you to worry about it."

"Fine, Paul, I really wasn't worried."

"Okay, good. Enjoy your day off."

And back to the lawn. "Bzzzz." Smack. Silence.

"Are you there? Where are you? Come on, man, that was just a reflex. I didn't mean anything by it. Where are you?" He looked around, up and down, tried to focus his eyes close to his body. He didn't see anything. He didn't hear anything either. He looked down at his hands, concentrating on the right hand that he'd just swatted at the gnat. There, about halfway up his lifeline, was a small, black smudge. He picked at it with the nail on his left index finger. It was little, but it was also gooey and sticky.

"Aw, man," he said, "Why didn't you listen to me? I really didn't want to hurt you. Look what you made me do." His eyes misted up and a depleting sense of futility came over him. "Aw, man," he said again.

"Honey, telephone again. Mr. Jameson again."

Copyright © 2004 Sam Douglas


About the Author
Sam Douglas is a retired military man, serving in Intelligence assignments all over the world, including Vietnam during the war. He has a BS from the University of Maryland and an MS from Webster University. He has been married for over 45 years and has two sons, one in Law Enforcement in the Baltimore area and the other a writer with a New York magazine. He now lives and writes in South Carolina. His works have appeared in a number of university, small press and online publications.


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Fiction Short Story

by Helen Courtney Lewis

Willie's Donkey

Nobody really knew who he was, from where he came, or for that matter how long he had lived in the village. He was known as affectionately as "Kirios Willie" or "Pappous" (the old one) He lived in a ramshackle old house at the top end of the village under the ruins of a windmill, overlooking the port. The police no longer worried about renewing his residence permit; after all, he bothered no one, paid his bills and all the children loved him. No one thought of him as "O Xenos" (the foreigner).

Every Friday, Willie could be seen winding his way down the thousand steep steps that threaded their way through the village to the port. You could set your watch by the regularity of his appearance at the post office to collect the letter that always awaited him. After stuffing the envelope into the pocket of his threadbare jacket unread, Willie would trot on spindly legs over to the village store to make the purchases which never varied: olive oil, bread, a dozen eggs, a litre of milk, salt cod, olives, two tins of beans, a packet of soap powder, a kilo of fruit (oranges in winter, cherries in summer) and a kilo of sweets.

From there, he crossed the little "platea" to the school where he would sit under the shade of an old olive tree and wait patiently for the school bell to ring and the children to come tumbling out.

Carefully, he’d hand a sweet to each child, and when they were all gone, without his bidding they’d all sit cross-legged on the ground in a semi-circle round him and "O Kirios Willie" in a slow and gentle voice would tell them one of his fables. Wide-eyed and silent, they'd listen—totally absorbed in Willie's story. They never tired of hearing the opening lines. "Once upon a time."

If an adult should stop to listen, he' fall silent, waiting for the shame-faced stranger to move away before continuing his narrative. His Greek was faultless and his strange foreign accent further enchanted the children—they had long ago ceased to ask the old man any questions about himself.

When the story ended and weather permitting, Willie would then go fishing, sometimes he caught octopus, sometimes "barbounia," and, on rare occasions, a lobster.

With his day's shopping stowed away in an old rucksack, Willie would be ready to start on his round of the bars, where he’d proceed with solemnity and great dignity to get thoroughly drunk. He talked to no one, only responding to their words of greeting with a slight nod of the head and a whisper of a smile.

Willie's evenings always finished the same way—somewhere, in one of his ports of call, Willie would pass out—cold. With his arms crossed over his chest, his legs extended in front of him and his head dropped forward on his chest, his face took on an expression of child-like innocence. His deep even breathing was a sign to all who knew him that it was time to "take care of Willie."

A few willing hands would gently lift the slumbering figure and carry him outside where he was left to his dreams on whichever bench was nearest. In the morning, at the first light of dawn, Willie was gone.

And so it went on year after year, and with every year that passed, Willie became a little thinner, a little more frail; his wispy hair a little sparser. As the children grew up and were replaced by younger ones, he ceased to speak to those who had reached the age of twelve. Everyone accepted, no one questioned Willie's eccentricities anymore.

Then one day, he became the owner of a donkey as old and as decrepit as himself. It must have been one of those unhappy creatures that, no longer able to work and earn its keep, was thrown over a cliff side or abandoned on the rough hillside to fend for itself, dying of slow starvation.

With the aid of some of the older children, Willie acquired a handsome new saddle, a battered straw hat to protect the donkey from the blinding sun and an outsize string of "worry beads," which he placed round its neck. Days of feverish activity followed, with the children scampering up and down the hill carrying pieces of wood, sacking, tarpaulin, straw and bundles of hay. Willie was building a shelter for his donkey.

The metamorphosis in man and beast was amazing; slowly both took on a new lease of life. The donkey's ribs filled out and his weary old head was held proudly erect now, almost as if he were conscious of the figure he cut with his master seated side saddle and dressed in a gaily-coloured shirt and new pair of pants, riding on his back.

When the hour arrived for Willie's carousing to begin, the donkey was tethered to a post and Willy would start his round of the bars.

Later, when "taking care" of Willie became necessary, the donkey could always found waiting patiently outside. He had become adept at loosening his tether and knew all the bars on Willie's route. Come the dawn, Willie was gone.

Several years went by with Willie's routine visit to the village unchanged: only now Willie and his donkey were seen every day wandering in the hills of the island. At dusk, their figures, silhouetted by the setting sun, could be seen returning home.

Then, one Friday, Willie was missing from his weekly visit. The word spread swiftly through the village and a party of children was dispatched to Willie's house.

The children, Spiros, Costas and Maria tapped gently on the weather-beaten door. They tapped again slightly more loudly, but received no reply.

"Should we open the door"? asked Maria. She was the boldest of the children.

"I suppose so," said Spiros, "but be ever so quiet, we don’t want to wake him if he's a sleep."

"Perhaps he's ill," said Costas. His voice trembled slightly.

The children gently pushed open the creaking door. Willie was lying on the bed, a pile of letters tied neatly with blue ribbon by his side and the donkey stood silently at the foot of the bed, his head resting on the bedpost.

They waited minutes, and then Maria touched his arm gently and whispered in his ear but Willie didn't answer.

The children came tumbling down the hill, their little faces contorted with fear.

"O Pappous was lying on his bed fully dressed," they said, "his hands were folded on his chest and he was smiling, but we couldn't wake him up."

They told how the donkey was standing at the foot of the bed.

The whole village attended the funeral; shops were shut and Willie's open coffin, made by the local craftsmen was carried on the shoulders of the bar keepers on his last "walk about"—past the village shop, the school and finally past the bars he had frequented, on its way to the little cemetery where the Bishop had decreed that Willie should be buried as one of them—as a Greek.

Behind the simple coffin Willie's donkey walked alone, followed by the silent children, the chief of Police, the Town Mayor and the villagers.

As the coffin was lowered into the earth, the old donkey raised its head and a loud a mournful braying broke the silence. Slowly, the old beast turned away from the graveside and started to move in the direction of the steep steps that led home. The villagers watched as it disappeared in the narrow streets. Nobody ever saw it again.

With Willie's passing, the question of his identity arose. A committee of the schoolmaster, the Mayor, the Chief of Police and the postmaster conferred, "I suppose he must have some relatives," said the Chief of Police, "someone will have to be informed."

"I think we should open one of his letters, perhaps that will help us to find someone who knows him," said the schoolmaster. They all decided it was in order to open Willie's letter, which arrived with such regularity on Fridays.

The postmaster handed the Mayor the last letter addressed to Willie; it had a London postmark. The schoolmaster opened the envelope with great care, and read the letter slowly to himself: then he translated it to the waiting Committee.

"It comes from the firm of Solicitors, 'Merryweather Gates and Sons'," he said.

Dear Sir,

The letters you wrote to be addressed to yourself at weekly intervals forty years ago are terminated together with the funds you left in trust.

We are at your disposal at all times and await your further instructions,

We remain, your obedient servants,

Yours faithfully,

JOHN WILLIAMS (for and on behalf of: MERRYWEATHER GATES and SONS).

The contents of Willie's letters to himself were never known, nor were his reasons for refusing to talk to adults.

To this day, Willie's fables are legend on the island of Hydra among the old folk who retell them to their grandchildren. There are many who say they have seen an old man riding on a donkey in the hills at dusk—the donkey wears a string of worry beads and a battered old hat. The sightings are always on a Friday.

How do I know? I was one of those children.

Copyright © 2004 Helen Courtney Lewis


About the Author
"Willy's Donkey" is partly true. The idea came to me while living on the island of Hydra in Greece. A young German man owned a donkey and lived at the top of a hill, while an old man lived near the port in an ramshackle whare house. When the story was reaching its conclusion, I could not think of a convincing reason for the old man refusing to speak to adults, so I left it a blank, so that every reader could reach his or her conclusion.

I am a complete split personality, having spent my creative work all my nearly 80 years between the theatre. Having appeared on the London stage for the first time at the age of five in a performance attended by the Royal family. Graduating to performing at the Old Globe in San Diego, where I was delighted to receive the Atlas award for the best performance of the year. While living in Italy where I met my Italian husband I attended the Accademia de Belli Arti in Venice and after his tragic death, divided my life between painting, writing and acting.


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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

It's a pleasure to present this month's Drabble by Ralph Wahlstrom on Loving Well.

Loving Well

He glanced up at her, caught his breath, and let it out in uneven hisses. “It’s your turn.”

She looked away, paused a moment and coughed.

“Come on,” he insisted, “I did it last time.”

She sighed, still looking away, her eyes studying green crayon marks on the counter. “It’s hard,” she whispered.

“I know it is, but we agreed, and I did it last time.”

She raised her head. Her eyes looking past him to the living room. “It’s just hard.”

“I know.”

She sighed slowly, a long deep breath, turned her eyes to his, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

On September 30, a couple of weeks ago as I write this, my mother died unexpectedly. It had been a difficult relationship for us, yet I remember now her intimate caring during one of my early adult episodes of angst—"Mom, we've decided to move in together." That was a lunch-hour long conversation years ago, when I was 23, in which she reassured me that I surely wouldn't be disowned by anyone. Sometime since then, the best I can tell about five years later, something happened that she wouldn't talk about or acknowledge that progressively took her away emotionally from all three of her kids. When she died, there had been very little contact, only brief phone conversations and, sometimes, birthday cards, from her to any of her children for over 15 years. I'm the oldest, and the only one who remembers her involvement in any of our lives. My grieving involves old memories more than newer ones, and wishes for what might have been, if only whatever was wrong, wasn't.

I had a different kind of grief years ago over the death of my maternal grandmother, who was very much a mother to me. My mother, the one who bore me, had by the time of her own death pulled or been pulled so far away that the feeling of connection seemed to be wishes and memories, colored and clouded by unfortunate events seen through young eyes, and by years of misunderstanding, ongoing life, and the intervening deaths of extended family. Yet I do grieve for her. My difficulty in understanding this particular grief is similar to my difficulty in understanding the connection itself. Maybe it will be clearer what this grief is, if I come to understand the connection with my mother better.

Our Drabble for November is a 100-word story illustrating human connection. What is it? Here are the Guidelines, and here is the link to where to send your submission, drabble@wvu.org. which is due by November 10.

See you next time.


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Poetics

Compiled by Glennis Hobbs

How We Write Poetry

This is the first of a three-part article featuring the Senior Poets Workshop at Writers' Village University and will feature some of the ways that the Senior Poets work with poetry.

The Senior Poets Workshop, also known as P123, is an open workshop for experienced poets at Writers' Village University. Here writers hone their skills as advanced poets, study recognized poets, discuss matters of joint interest, practice prosody, expand their knowledge of poetic forms, participate in the development of group exercises and course facilitation, have a place to pursue literary critiques of poems and poets and work with some of the master poets at WVU.

The responses come as part of a course that Gwen Austin and Linda J. Austin are developing called Lead And Silver. This is a course on working with poems from one’s slush pile of unfinished poems and revising them rather than starting new poems.

Question: How do you write poetry? (on impulse, when the muse moves you, with a plan)

Gwen:
My most fun and easy to write poems come when the spirit moves me—such as when I see something so special out my window or on one of my walks through our woods. Nature is my highest inspiration. When I’m given a topic or form on which to create a poem, I have to work a lot harder, and I find that so often the results are not quite right—the poem isn’t one I’m excited about.

Chris:
I have to mull it over for a while and agonize over my lack of ideas before I sit down and write. Then it usually comes pretty easily. Often I just have to start writing in a stream of consciousness style until I hit on something. Then I go off on a tangent and find something completely different than when I started. I don't keep notebooks around to jot down ideas. That is something I should probably try to do. I hate sitting down in one place to write.

Rolando:
I guess it's a little of the three. More on impulse, though.

I don’t have a formula when writing poetry. It’s always hit or miss with me. Hence, you must be thinking with that kind of a game plan, it must be more misses than hits and you wouldn’t be far from the truth. I have about a hundred poems either to be totally thrown away or begging for a rewrite. At any rate, I usually start with an idea, an image and from there formulate an expression of some sort. I work from there.

Janice:
I tend to write most poetry when the muse moves me, although I also like to write with a plan, such as contests and challenges that present a subject or form. I like to be inspired by something, someone or a thought.

Sarah:
I usually start with words, i.e., a phrase or word comes to mind that appeals to me somehow and I try to make a poem from it. Sometimes the word will easily associate itself with something. Last week I put the words “musk crush” together and got a poem about sitting on my grandfather’s lap out of it. I also write when the muse moves me, and keep a pen and paper around at all times. Reading poetry always gives me ideas. I can also write with a plan like we do in trigger classes but I can’t start with an exact plan like “write a poem about your neighbor showing what an incredible pain in the neck she is.” It has to be general. I also don’t really like assignments like “write a sonnet.” I feel I’m in a vacuum until I have a topic.

Mo:
Poetry seemed rather distant to me when I studied some eighteenth century poets in school. The best way to understand poetry is to write a poem. I needed to write one to discover the magic of it. It starts with a thought in my head. A picture in my mind. Two or three words. Something I've seen on a walk like a one-legged gull or writing in the sand. Emotion has a lot to do with writing to me. The feeling won't let go of me until I write it down.

Glennis:
I write poetry a variety of ways. Sometimes a poem occurs when I listen to music. Other times it happens when I read a story or article or watch a documentary that impacts on me. Most often I get an idea for a poem by listening to words or hear a phrase. For example, many of my spiritual poems have come from listening to sermons that our minister delivers. I frequently find I make notes on the church bulletin and when I go home I have the makings of a poem.

Sometimes an idea strikes me and I’m able to capture that idea in a few minutes. For the most part, the idea for a poem goes into the back of my mind and simmers there for a while. When the time to write comes, there may be one poem or several.

Ideas for poems go into my poetry journal and remain there until I look for an idea for a poem.

I plan for poems in that I write down what I want to try to say. For example, when I do a persona poem, I may make notes for things I want to describe in the poem. I list these ideas either by writing them by hand or by making notes on the computer.

Right now for a series of poems about my home town, I have listed several poems I want to try writing and I have made notes for what I want to try to write. Eventually these will go into a poem.

For the most part, I write my poems with varying methods.


Presenting The P123 Poets

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

Christine Bloom is a special educator and mother of two who resides in La Verne, California with her husband. She has been active in the Writers' Village University program for the past two years through the advanced poetry classes. She is a member of the Senior Poetry Workshop. Christine holds a Master's degree in the education of learning handicapped children, a counseling credential and several other teaching credentials. Her undergraduate degrees are in History and in English.

Rolly delos Santos is an Art teacher of De La Salle Zobel School, a school on the outskirts of Manila. He has been writing poetry for about two years now, thinking it will help enhance his third eye which he uses for his paintings. Rolly has been a member of WVU for three years and is presently a member of the advanced poetry group (P123).

Janice Oestermyer received her A.S. from St. Mary-of-the-Woods, near Terre Haute, Indiana, in 1984. She also studied poetry at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville and children's writing via the Institute of Children's Literature. She has had several articles on writing poetry published; the first at The Christian Communicator, four articles in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine, and one published at Fellowscript, Canada. Her poetry has been widely published and has placed in contests.

Lori Romero is a published poet and fiction writer. She served as Artistic Director of Friends & Artists Theatre Ensemble in Los Angeles. She currently resides in New Mexico. Her poetry and short stories have been published in Onset Review, Lotus Blooms Journal and several other journals. She recently published a book of poetry entitled Wall to Wall. She is a co-facilitator of the Senior Poets Workshop at WVU.

Sarah Sloat was born in the 60s in New Jersey, where she attended university. She lives with her husband, daughter and son in Frankfurt, Germany, where she works for a news agency.

Maureen (Mo) Swanson has been teaching in elementary school for nineteen years. She is a member of Word Weavers and Senior Poets Workshop.

Glennis Hobbs is a Canadian poet-writer. She has published two other poetry books, The Waldron Wild Cats and City on the Rocks and most recently In and Out of the Shadows. She is currently working on a novel plus three other poetry books as well as a novel. She is a co-facilitator of the Senior Poets Workshop and as well co-facilitates two online poetry courses at Writers’ Village University. She is a contributing editor for T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine.


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

Poetics Presents The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

The Writer's E-Zine Home

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

Poetics Presents

Melanie McConnell

Melanie McConnell lives in a small, beachside, Florida town with my wild girl cat, Mystery. She has had reviews, editorials, and poetry published in the Gallery, Tryst, Alsop Review, Crescent Moon Journal, Lotus Bloom's Journal, Poor Mojo's Almanac, Verse Libre Quarterly, and Worm.

Oma Goes Fishing

While sun slept
Oma stealthily crept

through the front door—
a sly smile sparkling

in blued eyes.
On the way to her favorite river,

inappropriately dressed for the chill
the elderly woman stopped to visit new-found friends.

Surprised by her unexpected
arrival at that wee hour,

the concerned couple sat her down
on their plush sofa

and made a call to tell
of her nightgown

and houseshoes,
unstandard fishing garb.

The uniformed duo arrived,
searched the navy leather tackle box.

Among an old lady's precious lures
was a scrap of paper

with a daughter's phone number.
Escorted home

Oma was delighted to show off
the fresh lawful catch of the day,

one displayed on each arm.
Back in bed, she dreamt

of her latest trophies,
for she knew she was a prized fisherwoman.

Copyright ©2004 by Melanie McConnell




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

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

Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

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Formats We Will Accept

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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.

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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